The Children's Teeth: Sister's Blood (prequel) 
1/16 by Erin McCole Cupp (CathyLex@aol.com)

CATEGORY:  alternative universe (point of 
attack is about fifteen-plus years or so from 
the present), deep dark nasty angst, MSR

RATING:  Probably PG-13, to be safe; very 
mature situations but no graphic descriptions.

ARCHIVING: Please, Gossamer, yes -- THIS 
VERSION.  All others, email for permission.

SPOILERS:  Yes.  To be specific, all up to & 
including US5 & XFFTF. Especially "Emily"/
"All Souls", and "The Red and the Black"

SUMMARY:  "If the fiercest conglomerate 
monsters had souls, with all that implied, 
who could condemn them as evil?" 
-- Piers Anthony

TO READ OTHER STORIES IN "THE CHILDREN'S 
TEETH" UNIVERSE: Visit your local library!
No, not really.  Actually, please visit my 
webpage, graciously admin'd by Galia, at 
http://members.xoom.com/galias/erin.htm
Click on "The Children's Teeth" Universe.
AND SIGN THE GUESTBOOK TOO, DURNIT!!!!

DISCLAIMERS:  None of these characters belong 
to me, with the exception of Meg Mulder, Kevin 
Declan (both of whom I am proud to own), Gerald 
Cho (a.k.a. "Pleather Boy") and the Wexfords 
(whom I am ashamed to own).  Everyone else 
(even Emily C. Wexford) in some way belongs to 
Chris Carter, 1013 Productions and the Fox 
Network.  No commercial gain or other harm is 
intended in the writing of this piece.  

Further, I do not own //Star Wars//, The Force, 
or //A Spell for Chameleon// by Piers Anthony, 
the first book of his Xanth series.  No 
commercial gain or other harm is intended in 
these mentionings. 

THANKS:  to Joy, Mara, Jo, Sally, Galia, and 
all the good folks in XPFC.  Each of you has
a fingerprint in this story.

DEDICATION:  To JC, for making me work hard : )

FEEDBACK:  Now why would I want that?  
<Ahem>  Graciously accepted and answered at
CathyLex@aol.com  

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"The LORD then said: 
'What have you done?
Listen; your brother's blood
cries out to me from the soil!'"

Genesis 4: 10
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Now I am called Wexford. 

I would like to say, "I was born Emily Camille 
Wexford," but I cannot.  I was not.  Even the 
most pathetic of Dickens' characters started 
out with more than I.  I cannot begin by 
saying, "I am born."  They even took that from 
me, along with everything else.  

Because They gave me my existence.

Existence.  I cannot even say "life."  Truly, I 
should not even say that my existence was 
given; it was not a gift.  I was... created.  
Brought forth. Engineered. 

Initially, I was the third of five.  Emily A 
through Emily E.  I am Emily C. Emily Camille.  
The middle child, oddly enough.  I was 
adopted by the Wexfords, who gave me my last 
name and so much more.  Now, years later in the 
awareness of young adulthood, that 
understanding fills me with bitterness -- a 
bitterness I have chosen to fight, and a fight 
I will have always.

Occasionally, I wonder why They picked 
"Camille" for me.  Why not "Christine", or 
"Claire," or "Catherine"?  Perhaps it was some 
sick joke, because "Camille" is so close to 
"chameleon."  But I doubt They have a sense of 
humor, because They gave me none.

I wonder... would I have had a sense of humor 
under different circumstances?  Would I, had I 
been born, coddled, raised in love, the darling 
girl among a passle of grandsons?  Perhaps.  

For I have seen what I could have been.  What I 
am not.  What I can never be.  Because, 
instead, I am Wexford.  

The extent of the engineering that went into my 
existence astounds even me, even now. Not only 
my physical shape, my gender, my blond hair and 
pert nose, but the environmental factors that 
shaped who I am, who They wanted me to become.  

But some things even They could not have 
predicted or engineered Their way around.  

From the time I was adopted up until I was 
eleven years old, I was raised on a farm in 
Ohio.  A corn farm, isolated from any major 
roads.  Unlike most farm girls, I did not grow 
up picking corn and baling hay.  I was sickly, 
or so I was told.  I was able to pronounce 
"autoimmune hemolytic anemia" perfectly by the 
age of six.  Daily injections, weekly visits to 
The Clinic, of which I can only remember the 
car rides back and forth, were my way of life.  
Weeks at a time have blanked themselves out, 
and only recently have some of those 
memories started to resurface in any 
identifiable way.  

I would wake up in my bed, weak.  My adoptive 
mother would come into my bedroom and ask me 
how I was feeling, saying that I had fallen ill 
again.  Then she would hand me another box of 
books to read.  She would not feel my forehead 
or my cheek to see if I was running a fever.  
She would not fluff my pillows or sing songs to 
me.  Sometimes she would bring me a glass of 
water.  Sometimes not.  

Then she would leave me with my books and my 
solitude.  My isolation.  And I would start to 
read again.  

My parents, the people I called my mother and 
father, never touched me.  Not even once.  Not 
that I can remember.  Even when they gave me my 
injections, they wore gloves.

I killed them when I was eleven.  


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


This is what I remember of that day.  It was a 
Sunday, but I'm not sure how I know that.  We 
hadn't gone to church that morning, nor had we gone 
to synagogue the day before.  Somehow, the flow 
of time just let me know it was a Sunday.

Another box of books sat at the foot of my bed.  
A battered paperback from the used bookstore 
sat on top of the pile, on the cover a picture 
of a knight or something talking with some 
fantastic creature possessed of wings and a 
lion's mane.  Interesting.  

//A Spell for Chameleon// by Piers Anthony.  I 
opened and read ravenously, finishing the story 
mere hours after setting eyes on the first 
page.  

Two of the women in the story had magical 
powers; they could change their faces.

The Sorceress Iris could make everyone who saw 
her think she was devastatingly beautiful, even 
if she was just wearing her housedress and 
hadn't showered in two weeks.  Iris was all 
about the illusory.  Seeing is believing, even 
if what is seen is not the truth.  

The other character, a girl named Chameleon, 
was doomed to a cycle of magic: she varied from 
beautiful and stupid to dog-ugly and brilliant, 
hitting average on both traits somewhere in the 
middle of her cycle.  Chameleon wanted to find 
a spell that would make her like everyone else.  

I understand now that my imagination was a 
defense mechanism; it inoculated me against the 
effects of my long-standing isolation.  With no 
playmates, not even parents' love, I found 
faithful friends in my books.  These friends 
challenged me, taught me right from wrong, and 
were always there for me whenever I needed 
them.  I did not need to call their names in 
the dark and hope they might not ignore me this 
time.  These friends were with me always, on 
demand.  

Faced with such possibilities as those 
presented by Iris and Chameleon, my fertile 
imagination itched.  Wouldn't it be neat if I 
could be like Iris, be like Chameleon, and 
change...

Just as I had tried unsuccessfully to use The 
Force to move my bed after reading //Star 
Wars// books, I now tried to change my face.  I 
imagined myself beautiful, like Iris, with 
long, flowing hair, a bewitching mouth, and 
with Chameleon's long-lashed violet eyes... 

Something strange was going on.  My face 
felt... weird.  I pressed my fingers to my 
cheekbones, and the skin beneath rippled and 
shifted.  When hair longer than my own and of a 
different color tickled my forearms, I jumped 
up and ran for my vanity mirror as quickly as I 
could, considering I still felt sick enough to 
stay in bed.  

I was never a screamer, not much of a crier 
either.  I simply stared at the mirror and 
rubbed my eyes.  When I reopened my eyes, 
nothing had changed. Everything had changed.  I 
ran for the kitchen.  

That was a Sunday morning, so my parents were 
sitting at the kitchen table drinking coffee 
and reading their newspapers when I reached the 
bottom of the steps on shaky legs.  

"Dad?"  I asked.  "Mom? What's happening to 
me?"

My father looked up from his paper.  "My 
God..."  

My mother, who had her back to me, looked up at 
my father and then turned to face me.

"What's happening to me?"  I repeated on a 
half-sob.  

My mother dropped her coffee cup, splattering 
hot coffee and shards of ceramic all over the 
kitchen.  

The coffee was fresh, because it scalded the 
skin around my ankles terribly.  I bent to pick 
up the chunk of mug that had landed nearest me, 
but it was hot and slick with coffee.  My 
fingers fumbled and the sharp, broken edge 
cut deep into my palm.  

That was the first time I saw my own blood.  

"No!  Don't--" my mother cried, but it was too 
late.  

That was also the first time I touched the 
people who called themselves my parents.  

They began to cough and choke.  I ran to them, 
ignoring the slice in my hand and the green 
fluid pouring forth from it.  My father tried 
to push me away, but already he was too weak.

"I'll call 911," I assured them, but already 
they were unconscious.  Their faces swelled 
beyond recognition.  Their breathing was 
uniformly shallow.  I had no idea what was 
happening.  

I had even less of an idea what was happening 
when the ambulance I called failed to 
materialize, and in its place arrived several 
helicopters, brimming with men in white hooded 
suits.  

They called me "biohazard."

I remember next to nothing of what happened 
after that.

Until I was given my first assignment. 


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


No.  I have oversimplified.  My assignment was 
not given to me one morning as I sat in an 
office chair, not handed to me in a manila 
folder.  This assignment was melted into me 
over time, over the years I was in Their 
tutelage.  

Each of us, all five Emilys, had been created 
for a specific purpose.  For Their specific 
purpose.  Our common "nature" was thrust into 
five different "nurtures," with the hopes of 
five separate outcomes.  One, the organizer.  
Another, the investigator.  The communicator.  
The healer.  

And me.  The cold-blooded killer.  That had 
taken some doing.  

You're probably wondering when They told me all 
of this.  They didn't. I just knew.  


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


I don't remember when Lynch came onto the 
scene.  It must have been some time before I 
was fourteen or fifteen.  She was Emily E, 
Emily Elizabeth Lynch.  She was the first of 
the other Emilys I ever saw.  I suppose she was 
"orphaned" in some way similar to mine.  She 
may have told me about it, and I forgot, or 
perhaps she never told me at all.  My memory is 
utterly unreliable, as I am sure you have 
figured out by now.  Regardless, somewhere in 
our preteen years we were put together:  An odd 
combination.  The Investigator and The 
Murderer.  

Somewhere They rustled up a dog for us that 
day.  A little nasty thing.  Pekinese, I think.  
Tan with a black face, like it had been 
nuzzling a bag of charcoal and no one had 
bothered to wash it clean.  This dog was our 
alibi.  Anyone seeing us wandering that 
suburban DC neighborhood would have thought us 
twin sisters out walking their dog.  Just about 
anyone, that is.  

They dropped us off on the other side of the 
block and told us the house number we were to 
observe.  Another lazy Sunday.  Automatically 
some part of me, which had long since been shut 
down, handed the dog leash to Lynch.  I did not 
want that dog to bite me.  I did not fear the 
pain.  I feared my own blood.

We began our walk.  The sun shone on front 
garden patches, on swing sets made of pressure-
treated wood, on mailboxes that looked like 
little country barns.  People mowed their 
lawns.  Teenage boys washed their cars and 
looked up at Lynch and I appreciatively.  
Children in sturdy helmets rode their bikes.  

We walked Their dog.

After the second corner we rounded, we crossed 
the street per Their orders, to keep the 
requisite distance from the subject of our 
surveillance.  

"The girl," my tutor had told us both.  "The 
one you will have to watch from now on."

We understood.  They had informed us.  We 
simply never had seen her before now -- thus, 
the purpose of this whole excursion.  

We were supposed to be talking, as sisters do, 
in order to look ever so natural.  I could not 
think of a topic of conversation to save my 
life, however.  I suppose Lynch was at a loss 
as well, because she remained silent. The 
panting of that stupid dog was the only sound 
between us.

The voices ahead of us and across the street 
were quite active, however.  We were about four 
doors across and away from a rather lively 
basketball game.  A quick calculation of the 
house numbers told me that the game was in the 
driveway of the house we'd been sent to observe.  
That would make our job easier.  

"Time out!"  We heard a man's voice call.

"We're not falling for that again," laughed a 
girl, younger than us. It must have been her.  
"Right, Mom?"

"Yeah, Mulder," said the woman, passing the 
basketball to the girl who had just spoken.  
"No more cheating.  We're on to you."

"Yeah, *Mulder*," teased the girl.  She had her 
back to us.  As she stood in place and dribbled 
the ball her sandy gold curls bounced with each 
movement.  "You have to cheat because you know 
we're gonna kick your ass!"

Suddenly, he pulled the girl into a playful 
headlock.  "Hey, *Mulder*. That's no language 
for a nine year old to use."

She dropped the basketball and giggled.  "Phew!  
Deodorant, Dad!  Puhleeeze!"

The man released her and she scrambled down the 
driveway to retrieve the basketball.  That was 
when we saw her face.  Lynch drew in a sharp 
breath.  I made no change in my outward 
demeanor.  

In so many ways, that girl's face was like 
ours.  

The girl dribbled the ball a few more times and 
tried passing it to her mother.  The woman made 
no move to catch, so the ball hit her in the 
shoulder and "thud-thud-thud"-ed against the 
asphalt driveway.  

"Mom!  Wake up!"

"Scully?"  The man asked as we passed out of 
visual range and prepared to turn another 
corner.  "What's wrong?"

We rounded the corner and did not hear her 
answer.  

"That's our mother," Lynch whispered to me.  
She had reached the conclusion They had 
designed her to reach.  Which made that girl 
our sister.  

Which made my target my sister.

And for myself, I was experiencing exactly what 
They had engineered me to experience: the first 
clear emotion I ever can recall having.  Heart-
rending, blood-boiling, rampaging jealousy.  


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


When we were returned to the house (not "home"; 
I can only call it a "house"), my burly tutor 
took me into a dark room that held a graying 
old man strapped to a chair.  This was another 
lesson, another test for me.

"He's one of us," my tutor told me, "and he's 
one of the traitors to The Project.  One of 
those who've been plotting against us."

Never mind the fact that I did not know 
anything about The Project this traitor might 
have been betraying.  I had always been told 
*what* to do, not *why.*  I looked up at my 
tutor's flattened hair, his bloated, scarred 
face and knew it was all an illusion, just 
like the Sorceress Iris.  The tree-trunk neck 
and the acne-pocked cheeks made him look the 
textbook definition of "intimidating."  I was 
intimidated as well; not by just his face, but 
by his history with me.  This was yet another 
tutoring session.  And I knew how all of my 
tutoring sessions with him ended.  After all, 
this had been going on since I was eleven.  

He pulled forth the silver weapon I had been 
taught to use in theory, but never in practice.  
He took my hand in his and placed the weapon in 
my palm.  My skin burned and crawled at his 
all-too-familiar touch.  

"What do you want me to do with this?"  I was
stalling.  I knew the answer.  

And he knew I was stalling.  "Someday," he told 
me, "you will use it on her."

Her.  My sister.  The girl Lynch and I were 
assigned to watch for the rest of our days.  I 
was to kill her with *this*?  

"Is she one of us?"

"No," he replied, walking to the door.  "But 
it's just as effective on them."

The door clicked shut behind him.  I turned to 
the prisoner, the traitor.  

Unbelievably, the prisoner smiled at me.  His 
eyes were soft and compassionate as he looked 
at me carefully.  I froze under the warmth of 
his gaze.  

"You don't have to do this," he informed me in 
his calm and kindly voice.  "You have a 
choice."

Did I?  His gentle smile was of the same tone 
as the smile that man had given my sister 
before hugging her in a fatherly headlock.  No 
one ever smiled at me like that.  

And no one would ever smile at me like that 
again.

Blood-boiling, rampaging jealousy.

I completed my assignment.  I opened the door, 
left the room, and the door clicked shut behind
me.  

My tutor was standing there, waiting for me.  I 
stood waiting for him, for what had become the
inevitable ever since I came under his guidance
at the age of eleven.  

As always, he reached first for my belt-loops, 
as if I were a mug with handles so he could 
raise me to his lips and drink me empty.  Then, 
one of his hands slid under my hair and pressed 
the downy skin at the back of my neck.  The 
other hand slid from a belt-loop to the buckle 
of the belt itself.  My skin craved this 
thirsty contact, starved for touch as I had 
been for all of those desert years with the 
Wexfords.  My consciousness, however, rebelled 
and shut down until I had been drained to the 
dregs and once more there was nothing left of 
me.  Nothing left but the shell, and the shell 
was all They ever wanted anyway.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


Now, as the person I have become, this is very 
difficult to write.  Someone once told me, "The 
mind is kind." Did I read that somewhere? Or 
was it you, when you suggested I write all of 
this down, since I so obviously could not speak 
any of it out loud? 

I still cannot speak it.  I'm finding it 
difficult enough to write.  As if remembering 
it alone wasn't painful enough.  

But no, I understand.  It is like you said.  If 
I'm ever to put any of this behind me, I need 
to face it.  And I so very much want to put it 
all behind me.

I take comfort and courage knowing that you 
understand, that my biological mother 
understands as well.  I appreciate your 
understanding that I cannot bear to be touched, 
even in just a simple handshake or a non-
threatening, friendly hug.  Someday, I hope I 
will be able to.  Just not yet.  But I am 
working on it.

And I especially appreciate your taking the 
time to help me out, sharing your expertise 
with me as I fight against what They wanted me 
to become. Especially considering that your 
background isn't so much in this one-on-one 
counseling psychology.  Your kindness means 
even more, under the circumstances.  If I ever 
seem ungrateful, I apologize in advance.

Thank you, Agent Mulder.  



END 1/16 


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"... a book should serve as the ax for the 
frozen sea within us. "

- from a letter of Franz Kafka to Oskar Pollak
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


They do make mistakes, you know.  

They never make the mistakes They intend to 
avoid, of course.  They make entirely different 
mistakes.  It's called "hubris:" the blinding 
pride of which you and Agent Scully and I and 
select others are living proof.  

Someone once told me God herds camels through 
the micron-holes in Their plans.  Not in so 
many words, but his message was crystal clear.  

That someone's name was Joseph.  Joseph was a 
librarian; a librarian I never would have met 
had They not so engineered my psyche to Their 
own ends.  

They put me with the Wexfords and made me into 
a murderer.  As part of that process, They also 
made me into a bookworm.  Their theory: my 
compulsive reading would forge the proper 
neural pathways conducive to morphing -- an 
imagination strong enough to change not only 
the imaginer, but also the perceptions of those 
around her.  

Around me.  I know, I know.  You told me to use 
first person when I'm writing this.  I'm 
trying.

They made me imagine that I *could* be the girl 
of a billion faces. This would give me the 
flexibility I would need to be one of the most 
efficient tools in Their arsenal.  Wherever I 
would go, whatever I would do, I could slip 
away and vanish without a trace. 

They did not ever stop to think that my "human" 
nature might rebel against Their plans and seek 
shelter from Their manipulations.  They did not 
ever stop to dream that my imagination might 
seek to free me from Their ever-sure grip.  

And so They were unconcerned when I found my 
solace in books.  

They had books for me at the house (not "home," 
"house") at first.  After each lesson from... 
*him*... I would find a book -- any book would 
do -- and lose myself in it.  That way, I would 
not have to think my own thoughts or feel my 
own feelings.  The fictional characters could 
do that for me.  Some time before I turned 
twelve, I already had devoured every book in 
reach.  I was allowed the long walk, and after 
turning sixteen the short drive, to a little 
local public library, by myself -- a rare 
treat.  That little glass-and-red brick 
building became my sanctuary.  They never 
stopped me from going there.  I suppose They 
assumed my reading would only cement Their 
plans for me, develop my morphing abilities to 
needle-sharp precision.

They did not anticipate Joseph.  

Soon enough, I was eighteen.  By then, the 
check-out librarian, a middle-aged woman whose 
nametag read "Rachel," knew my face and always 
gave me a smile and a nod when I walked by her 
desk.  She never knew my name.  I never offered 
it, and I made sure my demeanor did not invite 
her to ask.  I never checked out any books, so 
they could not have found my name on a library 
card.  I'm sure the staff of that small library 
thought I was beyond strange, hovering around 
all alone the way I did, but my behavior was 
compulsive.  Nothing could have mattered to me 
less than the opinons of a bunch of old ladies 
who had no idea what I was.  

I did not anticipate Joseph. 

The first time I saw him, I had to run into the 
bathroom, all but ready to throw up.  I did not 
permit myself the luxury of vomiting; I was not 
sure if my bodily fluids might kill everyone in 
the whole poorly-ventilated building.  I merely 
clutched at the rim of the toilet bowl, 
retching on dry heaves.  

He was so beautiful.  He couldn't have been 
older than twenty.  Curly blond hair -- not 
straight and pale like mine, but golden.  
Crinkly blue eyes and a merry upturned mouth.  
He looked like he had just stepped out of 
//Narcissus and Goldmund// into my little 
library, pushing around a cart loaded with 
books in need of reshelving.  

He stopped and looked at me.  He smiled at me 
as if he knew me.  His smile did something to 
me, made me want things I had dreaded before, 
things I had willed and had hoped to forget.  
There is no other way I can explain it.  

Which is why I ran to the bathroom, sick to my 
stomach that I could not smile back at him.  
Any normal eighteen year old girl would have.  
And for the first time, I fully realized that I 
was not a normal eighteen year old girl.  

I began to realize that something was wrong.  
Terribly wrong.  

I ran out of that building and back into the 
car I was allowed to drive.  When I arrived 
back at the house, I ran back up to my room and 
was greeted in the hallway by Merchant.  Emily 
Denise Merchant.  The Communicator.  

Merchant had come to us a while before that -- 
I don't remember exactly when or how.  Quickly 
enough, Lynch and I had just accepted her 
presence, as in the year before *that* we had 
accepted the presence of Emily Ann Abbot.  The 
Organizer.  

It hadn't taken Lynch, The Investigator, long 
to figure out the significance of our four 
middle names, and that Emily B was missing.  It 
had taken Lynch even less time to figure out 
what had happened to Emily B; Lynch just used 
her special access privileges to the database 
in the study.  Their database, Their study.  
Lynch told the rest of us what had happened.  I 
don't remember feeling anything when she told 
us, except a distant jealousy that Emily B had 
been given to parents who had loved her enough 
that their love for her had become a threat to 
Them.  

Distant, blood-boiling, rampaging jealousy.  

I'm sorry.  Again, I digress.  

You told me this would be difficult to write, 
but you never said how much.  I guess if you 
had, I never would have started.  Now that I 
have started, I know I must continue.

That day, the day I first saw Joseph, Merchant 
caught me in the hallway.  She reached out and 
gripped my shoulders in her hands, and she 
weaseled her way into my mind, reading my 
thoughts and my life as she had been trained to 
do, much in the same way I had been trained to 
kill in cold blood.  My morphing could not hide 
me from her.  She knew more about me than I 
did, thanks to her talent -- the "gift" They 
had given her.  

Merchant locked her eyes on mine, and I knew 
there was no sense in looking away.  It was 
like looking into a mirror, except my mirror 
image was wearing different clothes.  I made my 
face blank anyway.  

She had emotions.  She'd lose them soon enough; 
They would see to that.  Her brow furrowed.  
Her fingers dug into my shoulders and I froze 
at her touch.  "Wexford," she murmured to me 
without moving her lips or pushing air through 
her vocal cords -- another part of Their gift 
to her.  "Don't think you can change.  You can 
never change."

There was no point in my talking.  I merely 
shrugged out of Merchant's grasp and walked 
back into the room I shared with Lynch.  It was 
my turn to stay inside anyway.  With the four 
of us there, only two of us were ever allowed 
out at any one time.  Identical twins could be 
explained, but not identical quadruplets.  

I needed more anesthesia.  I picked up a 
magazine and started to read mindlessly.  

I don't know how long it was before the door 
opened without a warning knock.  It was him.  
His eyes danced at me over his pitted, puffy 
cheeks.  Shadows defined his silhouette.

By then, I was eighteen.  I should have known 
to stop him.  I should have known I *could* 
have stopped him.  After seven years...

I should have, but I did not, and he reached 
for my belt loops again.  

I did not know how to stop him.  

That knowledge came the next day.

I needed the comfort of my books, but I was 
terrified I would see that boy again.  I wanted 
more than anything to see that boy again.  
First thing in the morning, I drove back to the 
library.

As I walked in the glass doors, I scanned the 
room carefully.  I was concentrating so hard I 
did not hear Rachel the librarian calling over 
to me.

"Miss?  Excuse me, Miss?"

No one had ever called me "Miss" before.  I 
turned to her slowly and looked at her.  

She looked frightened.  The crows' feet around 
her eyes quivered.  "Joseph left these for 
you." 

She pushed a small stack of books at me across 
the countertop.

I was confused.  "Who?"

"Joseph," Rachel nodded, her glasses sliding 
down her nose a notch, "the young man about 
your age who just started working here.  He 
said that if I saw you come in here, that I 
should give these to you.  He said he thought 
they'd be good for you to read."

*Joseph.*  My stomach churned involuntarily 
even as I promised never to forget that name.  
I took the books in my hands and nodded 
wordlessly to the woman.  She bobbed an 
uncomfortable nod back at me and resumed 
cleaning the barcode reader.  

I did not even look down at the books in my 
hands until I had reached "my spot": a secluded 
little desk in the reference section with 
miscellaneous graffitti scraped into the veneer 
of the desktop.  When I sat and finally did 
look down at the books Joseph had left me, I 
began to tremble.  

//A Spell for Chameleon// by Piers Anthony.  

I jerked my head up and looked around, as if 
Merchant had been prying into my thoughts again 
and I had just begun to sense it.  

//How did he know?//

My shaking hands put the book aside so I could 
see the title underneath: //I Know Why the 
Caged Bird Sings// by Maya Angelou.  This one I 
had never read.  I dove in immediately, 
drinking in the words.  As I read, becoming 
immersed in the story of the little girl 
abused, I began to realize even more fully...

Something was wrong.  Terribly, terribly wrong.  

The book underneath *that* was a thick book of 
poetry.  //The Collected Works of Anne 
Sexton.//  Confessional poetry of the late 
twentieth century.  A woman gone mad, trapped 
by the pain of the past.  Eventually, a 
suicide.

I read.  The hour hand swung around the 
clockface.  

The more I read, the sharper the realization 
became, sharper than the pain of that ceramic 
shard slicing into my upturned palm.  Something 
was terribly, terribly wrong.  With me.  With 
what had been done to me. With what I always 
had wanted to stop.  With what I never had been 
able to stop. With what I had been asked to do 
and made to do.  With what I had been told time 
and again I was powerless to change.  

*Wexford.  Don't think you can change.  You can 
never change.*

I pushed Anne Sexton aside, unable to read more 
than halfway through, the pain was so intense.  
Instinctively, my fingers sought a spot 
somewhere in the middle of //A Spell for 
Chameleon// for the scene played out on the 
cover of the book: Bink the wanderer talking 
with a monster, the Manticora, who guarded the 
Magician Humphrey's castle gate.

The Manticora had come to ask if he, a monster, 
had a soul.  The Magician Humphrey had answered 
him: "Only those who posses souls are concerned 
about them."  I began to shake again.  

The pain was stubborn.  It would not go away.  
I was wandering through the sandstorm of a 
barren desert, too tired to continue but still 
needing to search for fresh, clean water.  I 
forced myself to read on.

Then, my eyes froze on the sentence that 
finished the page:

"If the fiercest conglomerate monsters had 
souls, with all that implied, who could condemn 
them as evil?"

Somehow, I had missed that sentence when I was 
eleven.

A gentle voice spoke from the stirring of long-
dormant memories:  *You don't have to do this.  
You have a choice.*

Did I?  Did I have a choice?  I who was not 
permitted human emotions or human dreams?  How 
could I have a choice?  

How could I have a soul?

"I knew you would read all that."

The voice spoke in the present.  I nearly 
jumped to my feet and bolted when I saw him, 
*Joseph*, looking over my shoulder.  I took 
several deep breaths to keep myself from 
running to the bathroom again.

I looked up at him, forced myself to meet those 
disarming blue eyes.  I tried to speak, but did 
not know what to say.

Finally, I managed a weak, "How?"

He smiled softly at me.  "I think you know."

I could only shake my head.

He bent and looked into my eyes more closely.  
"You know what Emily Merchant can do," he 
whispered.

He knew about Merchant?  

"You can do it too," he urged, "They just never 
wanted you to know how."

I shook my head again.  

"Here," Joseph said, taking my hands in his.  I 
was too frightened to pull away.  "Close your 
eyes and focus."

I hesitated, but followed anyway.  Was I 
imagining things?  Just like I could *hear* 
Bink and the Manticora talking when I read, I 
could *hear* Joseph.

He was saying, "You have a choice."

I gasped and broke the contact.  My stomach 
contracted once more, but I willed it into 
peace.  

Joseph's eyes twinkled at me with soft 
intensity.  "See?"

I stammered.  "I-I was imagining things."

Now he shook his head.  "You have a choice," he 
said out loud, by way of confirmation.  

I wasn't imagining things.  Or was I?  "How?"  
I asked again.

"Don't ask," he answered me, holding his hands 
out again to help me focus.  "Find out for 
yourself."

I placed my hands in his, and the first thing I 
*heard* him saying was, "Someday you'll be able 
to do this without needing to hold anyone's 
hand, once you've learned enough."

Then, Joseph told me about the plans for 
colonization -- the parts of Their Plan They 
had not deemed necessary to tell me.  The 
virus.  My place in Their police force.  My 
ability to kill, and our ability to heal.  How 
my alien blood conflicted with my human shell.  
How my daily injections of "medicine" kept my 
blood from eating me alive.  So much death 
devouring everything.  And why?  Why?  

Joseph did not have an answer.  All he had were 
choices.  "You don't have to do this.  You have 
a choice."

People passing by us must have thought we were 
a typical young couple, holding hands and 
looking deeply into each others' eyes.  Had 
they but known... 

"Why did you give me these books?" I asked him.

He answered, "What better way could I have told 
you that what They are doing to you is wrong?"

My newly-opened mind began making the sort of 
connections Lynch could make.  Joseph was 
right.  I would not have listened to spoken 
words.  These books were the only way to reach 
me.  

But why would this stranger, this one of us, 
want to reach out to me and tell me all these 
things?  "Why?"

His blue eyes hardened.  "Because They made us 
for wrong, but some of us want to put it 
right."

Right and wrong.  I swallowed hard.  "What do I 
do?"

Joseph shrugged.  "What do you want to do?'

Never before had anyone asked me that question.  

"I don't know," I answered truthfully.  "I need 
to think about it."  

Joseph nodded.  "Will you be here tomorrow?"

"I don't know," I repeated, getting up to 
leave.

"Emily," Joseph whispered as I pushed my chair 
away from the desk.  I could not remember the 
last time anyone had called me by that name.  

"Remember," he murmured, reaching out to grasp 
my hand, "there are some of us, the ones who 
want to put Their wrongs right.  We are 
resisting.  You have a choice..."

Resisting.  Finally, it all slipped into place.  
Joseph was a traitor, too.  Or was I the 
traitor?  What was "right"?  Their Project, or 
Joseph's loyalty to a beautiful and flawed 
planet?  What did it mean, to resist?  Did that 
make me a traitor, for wanting to believe him?  
Would They ask me to kill him once They found 
him? 

I dropped his hand and backed away from him.  
He seemed hurt.  Then, across the space I had 
put between us, I felt his fear -- not for 
himself, but for me.

No one had ever been afraid for me before.

I turned on my heel and fled the library once 
again.

Merchant must have said something about our 
encounter from the day before, because when I 
stepped outside, *he* was waiting for me.  A 
bulky silhouette stood patiently by the car 
that had brought me here.  


END 2/16

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"If you do well, you can hold up your head; 
But if not, sin is a demon lurking at the door:  
His urge is toward you, 
Yet you can be his master."
--Genesis 4:7
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Seven years' worth of habits and conditioning 
die hard, so I automatically walked over to the 
car.  My tutor's eyes were cold on me.  I could 
not see, because I was too shaken to meet his 
glare, but I could feel the usual chill.  Could 
he read my thoughts as well?  I never had 
thought of that possibility, not until that 
moment. 

Merchant had told him.

"You're not supposed to be out today," was all 
he said.  Today was Merchant's and Abbot's 
turn.  Not Lynch's, not mine.

"Emily!"  

I turned to see Joseph pushing open the 
library's glass doors and running after me.  
When he saw the man with me, his pace 
slowed.  His steps became more calculated as he 
continued coming over to us.

He had also come looking for Joseph.  How had 
he known?  

*Joseph,* I imagined, willing him to hear me, 
*get away.*  

Joseph must have heard or somehow sensed what I 
said.  My tutor began walking to Joseph, 
narrowing the gap between them.  

"If you touch him," I hissed, "so help me, I 
will kill you."

My tutor turned his mocking gaze at me.  He 
obviously didn't believe my warning.  He should 
have.  He continued walking to Joseph, and 
Joseph continued walking toward him.  

As the gap between them closed, I saw my tutor 
pull forth something silver.   I reached into 
my own pocket and pulled forth the weapon that 
had been given me as well.  I stepped behind 
him as stealthily as he had taught me to do.  
He was focused on Joseph, so he did not know 
what I was doing behind his back.  

Joseph however saw what I was doing.  "Emily, 
don't.  There's another way."

Joseph's words were not spoken out loud, but 
*he* heard them.  He turned and saw the silver 
length in my hand, trained on him.  With his 
free hand he grabbed my free hand and pulled 
me to him.  His grip crushed my wrist.

I changed my warning.  "If you ever touch me 
again, I will kill you."

He did not let me go.  I may have been created 
smaller than he, but I finally was beginning to 
realize the scope of the strength They had 
given me so that I could meet Their ends. *He* 
still must have thought that I believed myself 
weak, for when I shoved him to the ground with 
every ounce of my angry energy, he actually 
looked shocked.  

I was afraid again when he got back up and 
lunged for me.  I danced just out of his reach, 
but They had given him the longer legs and 
arms, and I didn't think fast enough to imagine 
myself longer ones. 

His fingers dug into my belt-loops and he 
crushed me to him.  I pushed against him, 
trying to break free, but every physics student 
knows that two equal forces pushing against 
each other cancel out.  In the struggle, his 
breath was hot in my ear, giving rise to fresh 
rage within me.  I shifted and tried to slide 
sideways out of his grip, but I only managed to 
get myself face to face with him.  His arms 
looped around me only tightened.  

His lips, so close to mine... his leering 
expression... his scent in my head like I 
imagined a knife wound to the stomach would 
be...

Blood-boiling, rampaging fury.  

That alone gave me the advantage over him.  I 
twisted my arm free and plunged the gimlet into 
the base of his neck.  His eyes widened.

"I warned you."

I stabbed again. His grip on me loosened

"Don't you ever--"

Another stab.

"--ever--"

And another.

"--touch me--"

And a last.

"--again."

The body slid from my arms, and the devouring 
began.  I watched in fascinated horror.  

So that's what would happen to me.

"Emily Camille," Joseph spoke up.  His eyes 
were full of horror as well.  

He was one of us.  This is what would happen to 
*him.*  This was what I could do to him.  

Not if I could help it.  

"No!"  I shouted at him, brandishing the 
stiletto in front of me.  "Stay away from me!"  

I could do this to him.  That last thing I 
wanted was to do this to him.

"No, Emily."  His voice was soft.  Sympathetic?  
Did it matter?  

*You have a choice...*

No.  Joseph and the old man were both wrong 
about me.  I had killed the Wexfords.  I had 
killed the old man.  I had killed my tutor.  I 
had killed everyone who ever had taught me 
anything.

Except for Joseph, who in this short time had 
taught me the most of all.

I had a choice, and I would not -- *ever* -- 
hurt Joseph.  I would never hurt anyone again.  
I grabbed the car keys and jumped behind the 
wheel.  I refused to look back at Joseph, to 
see my heartbreak on his face.  I had to get 
away to do what I needed to do.

They would come looking for me for killing 
*him,* and Their justice would be swift.  

Or would it?  Did They have other plans for me?  
Or, worse: was this all part of Their plan?

I had a choice.  I would never hurt anyone 
again, regardless of Their plans.


End 3/16

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"I have ridden in your cart, driver,
waved my nude arms at villages going by,
learning the last bright routes, suvivor
where your flames still bite my thigh
and my ribs crack where your wheels wind.
A woman like that is not ashamed to die.
I have been her kind."
--Anne Sexton
final stanza of "Her Kind" 
from //To Bedlam and Part Way Back//
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


I disappeared.  

I changed my face.  I drove until I no longer 
knew where I was, and then I found a thrift 
store.  I bought one new outfit because I did 
not anticipate needing more than one.  Blue 
jeans and a white t-shirt.  Nondescript.  
Indistinguishable.  I paid in cash.

I changed my face again.  I drove further until 
I saw another mall.  I parked in the farthest 
reaches of the lot.  I threw the car keys into 
one trash dumpster and my old clothes into 
another.  I mingled with the crowds of 
shoppers.  

I imagined myself another new face.  Each hour, 
I went through another transformation, so that 
whoever might try to track me would fail.  
They had taught me every trick I knew.  They 
had taught me invisibility.  Now I would become 
invisible to Them.  

I left when the mall closed.  The double-door 
slammed behind me and I stepped out onto the 
sidewalk.  I began to walk.  Soon enough, 
someone would come along...

A car slowed beside me.  A window rolled down.  
A man leered out at me.

"Hey!"

My hair was long and dark now.  My eyes were 
violet.  I batted my thick lashes at the 
driver.  "Hey," I purred.  

He licked his lips in satisfaction at my 
response.  "Lookin' for a ride?"

I did not smile, but I nodded and opened the 
unlocked passenger door.  He wore an old t-
shirt with a faded picture proclaiming the 
delights of the "Baltimore Summer Crab Feast 
'09".  He smelled of sweat and motor oil, beer 
and cheap cigarettes.  Not at all what I was 
used to.

Except for his burliness.  I fought back 
another wave of nausea.

"Just drive," I ordered in my new voice.  

He complied.  After a few minutes of silence, 
he asked, "So, what's your name?"

He looked back to catch my eye seductively and 
saw my icy stare.  His emotions were raw enough 
for even my untrained mind to sense.  He was 
confused by me.  

I kept my voice cold.  "Biohazard."

Now, he was frightened.  I had just guaranteed 
he would not touch me.  

He drove several miles then pulled into the 
parking lot of "Jesse's Motel."  I opened my 
door, stepped out and began walking away from 
the car.

"Hey!"  The rough voice behind me called.  
"Where you going?"

I kept walking.  I braced myself to use my 
newfound strength.

But I did not need it.  He was too frightened 
by me to follow.

Success.  Success all my own.

I needed to keep moving, to keep changing.  
I needed to die.  

I could not slit my wrists.  I could not drown 
myself.  I could not suffocate or shoot myself.  
They had created me to be virtually 
indestructible.  Except for one of two ways.  

I could waste away -- my only remaining option.  
By the time They might find me, I would already 
be dead and gone.  A strange sort of suicide.  

I walked through the sparse patch of woods 
behind the motel.  I walked and walked and 
found another highway.  I clung to the 
shoulder.  Another car slowed beside me.  
Another window rolled down.  Another man leered 
out at me.

"Hey..."

"Just drive," I said, seating myself in the 
passenger seat.  

"Where you going?"

"Away," was my answer.  

This pattern went on for days and nights.  How 
many, you're probably wondering?  I can't begin 
to guess.  Time was not important.  With each 
new driver, I grew weaker and weaker.  
I was sweating through my t-shirt, even my jeans.  
With each new man, the painful cyst at the back 
of my neck grew.  The fever had started, and my 
blood grew sluggish in my veins.  There were no 
more shots.  There was no more medicine to keep 
me alive for Their plans any more.  

Success.  Success all my own.

At first, I watched the landscapes slip by: the 
crowded buildings and crunched people of 
cities, the cookie-cutter houses of the 
suburbs, the rolling fields and farms and 
wildflowers of the abundant, incessant 
highways.  Soon enough, though, I was no longer 
strong enough to keep my head up.  I hoarded my 
draining vitality and spent it only on shifting 
my shape and walking from one driver to 
another.  

"Hey..."

"Just drive..."

Some wore business suits and had briefcases in 
their backseats.  Some had obviously been 
drinking.  Some were boys on their way home 
from college with hatchbacks full of fragrant 
laundry.  

They asked for my name.  I picked names and 
faces from my favorite childhood books.

"Dicey."

"Sara Louise."

"Laura."

Once, "Anne," when I had red hair.

Eventually, I chose not to answer the question.  
I needed to save my energy until I was far 
enough away.  

"Just drive."

But could I ever get far enough away?

Three times they, my drivers, tried to rape me.  
The first two times were early in my journey; I 
was still strong enough to push them down with 
the inhuman strength They had given me. 

Inhuman strength.  I heard their bones crunch.  
I felt their blood, slick and hot and red, 
against my palms clenched into fists.  Then I 
ran.  I changed my face.  I changed direction.  
And it would begin again.

"Hey..."

"Just drive..."

The third time was different.  He must have 
sensed my weakness.  

I could sense his intent even as I fell into 
his car.  I thought myself still strong enough, 
though.  I even let go of my faces, letting the 
face They gave me show through.  The face 
called Emily Camille Wexford.  

I was trying to save energy.  I was running out 
of energy to save.  

// And miles to go before I sleep. And miles to 
go before I sleep.//

Before I could even think of sleep.

He had brown hair and brown eyes, and he wore 
khakis and a sweater and a pair of brown 
loafers.  I remember watching those loafers 
push the gas pedal, the brake, the clutch.  
Standard transmission.

"What's your name?"

"Chameleon," I answered that time.  I was so 
tired and weak.

We were in a city at that point, but I did not 
know which one.  Night had fallen hours before. 
He pulled the car into an empty parking lot.  I 
reached for the door quickly, but not quickly 
enough.  With one arm he pinned both my arms 
behind my back and turned me to face him.  He 
pressed me to the seat, my arms still behind 
me.  His pulse throbbed in a vein at his temple

I was still not afraid.  I was stronger than he 
could have been.  They had made me stronger.

But why couldn't I move my arms?

That was when I saw the knife, its silver blade 
leaning up against my cheek.  Then I was 
afraid, but not for myself.

"You don't want to do that," I warned him.

"If you say another word," he breathed at me.  
He did not finish his warning.  His mind was 
elsewhere.

I fought.  I tried to sit up to free my arms.  
I kicked.  But my limbs were not inflicting the 
damage I had come to expect.  I was now too 
weak.  The end was near.  

His left hand held the knife.  His right hand 
fought with my jeans.  

"You don't want to touch me," I cried, my voice 
so weak and pathetic.  "You don't want to touch 
me."

"WHAT DID I TELL YOU?"  His voice was a 
shouting whisper as he pulled the blade down my 
cheek in what was meant to be a warning cut.  

And the green poured fourth.  

For a brief second his face registered 
surprise, then disgust, then surprise again.  
Then he began to cough and his brown eyes 
swelled shut.  He clawed at himself, trying to 
escape what my blood was doing to his body.  

His coughing became a strangled wheeze.  Then 
he stopped breathing all together.  His 
throbbing temple slowed to an intermittent 
bump, and then was completely still.  

For long moments the lifeless body weighed me 
down.  I could not escape his weight.  I needed 
to keep moving.  I could not die here.  I 
needed to run.  

I touched my finger to my cheek.  A crust was 
growing over the wound.  I pressed my hand to 
my cheek and tried to imagine the wound gone.

It worked.  The crust dissolved into my skin 
and was suddenly... not.  Still, I must have 
done something wrong, because my cheek still 
hurt.  So Joseph was right.  I could heal as 
well.  At least, to outward appearances.

But not for long.  Soon, I told myself, I would 
be gone.  

Dawn was peeking over the buildings by the time 
I had freed myself completely.  I could walk 
only if I clung to walls, telephone poles, 
mailboxes, newspaper vending machines.  

Cars passed me by.  I must have looked as weak 
as I felt, and I didn't have the energy to 
change my appearance.  My sickness frightened 
them away.  Good.  The end was close anyway.  

My limbs were lead.  I could hear my heart 
working overtime to push the blood through my 
corroding veins and arteries and capillaries.  
My breathing grew shallower and shallower with 
each step I took.  Sweat rolled off of me, and 
my mouth was a desert so dry I could no longer 
swallow.  Often, I would turn a corner and see 
the morning sun glaring off of a long, wide 
strand of water.  A river.  Or was it two 
rivers?  Three?  I thirsted.  

Occasionally, I lifted my head to search for an 
alley in which to die.  Too many people.  
People everywhere.  I needed to be alone for 
this.  I would wait until I was alone.  Could I 
imagine myself dead?  I did not know.  It would 
be worth a try, though.  But first I needed to 
find the right place.  

People on their way to their jobs hurried past 
me, stopping only to stare briefly as I made my 
stumbling, halting way down the street.  

I could no longer walk, so I fell to my hands 
and knees and crawled.  My hands scraped along, 
raw against the concrete sidewalk.  No blood, 
though.  I watched carefully for chunks of 
glass or metal so I could avoid them.  

I could not move fast enough.  I could not find 
a totally empty alley.  I could not breathe 
enough to move on.  I would die here on a 
sidewalk in an unknown city, my dissolving body 
a freakshow for the clueless passersby.  

Perhaps, irony or ironies, the parents of my 
sister, my target, would be called out to 
investigate my death, I thought as my arms and 
legs gave out underneath me and my still-aching 
cheek met the pavement.  

Perhaps my mother indeed would find me.  If 
They didn't find me first.  


END 4/16

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"The lost I will seek out, 
the strayed I will bring back, 
the injured I will bind up, 
the sick I will heal 
[but the sleek and the strong I will destroy], 
shepherding them rightly."
--Ezekiel 34: 16
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


I collapsed in front of a coffee shop.  From 
what I've been able to piece together, the 
shop's owner was not pleased with the way my 
unconscious, discolored body turned away his 
customers.  He must have called the police who 
came to pick me up.

"Jeez!  What the hell is?"  One of the officers 
squatted beside me and touched the lump on the 
back of my neck.

I remember calling out, "Don't touch me," as 
the arms of the two police officers went around 
me. 

"What is this?  Some weird rash?"  Said one, 
sliding dark blue sleeves underneath me, trying 
to lift me off the ground. "We need to get this 
one to a hospital."

"No," I was able to say aloud.  "No treatment.  
I'm eighteen.  No treatment."

"We can't just leave you in the street, 
sweetheart."

"Don't touch me," was my reply.  It was 
becoming my litany.  "No treatment.  I'm 
eighteen."

The officer grabbing my feet said, "I know 
where we could take her."

"The Cov?"  Asked the other.

I was raised from the sidewalk in one motion.  

"When we get in the car, radio ahead to Sister 
Shan.  Let her know we got another one for 
'er."

I was carried into a waiting police car.  The 
car drove.  The lights did not flash; the siren 
did not blare.  Information about me was issued 
over the radio.  I sensed the officer in the 
passenger seat looking back at me every minute 
or so, with a mixture of concern and curiosity.  

The police car stopped.  The door opened, and I 
was carried up a shallow ramp to a metal door.  
One of the officers clumsily bent to press a 
button on an intercom while still trying to 
balance half of my weight.  Moments later, the 
door beeped and I was carried over the 
threshold.  

"Hey, Sister" both officers grunted.

"Officer Coleman, Officer Ravitsky," spoke the 
woman who was now looking at me with worry.  
"You know where to find the Intake Office."

I was carried down a brightly-lit hallway while 
the policemen gave the woman some information.

"Found her collapsed on the sidewalk."

"Where?"

"In front of CuppaJoe's, on Cherry near 
Seventh."

"How long has she been like this?"

"Dunno, S'ter."

The woman opened a door to a small but 
comfortable office and ushered all of us 
through.  She looked at me and smiled.  

"Do you feel well enough to sit up, honey?"

I shrugged with all the energy I could muster.  

"Okay, guys, sit her in that chair.  Gently, 
now.  No shoving."

I was placed in a cushioned chair facing a neat 
desk with a rather old computer.  I leaned my 
head against the chair's high back so I could 
watch the three around me.

No one was touching me.  I felt desolately 
better.  

The woman took a seat in the desk chair and 
swiveled it around to face me.  The policemen 
remained standing, watching.

"My name is Sister Shannon King," the woman 
said, her warm eyes trying to meet mine.  I had 
to look away.  "But everyone calls me Sister 
Shan.  I'm the intake counselor here at 
Covenant House.  What's your name?"  

My head dropped and my eyes fell closed.  
"Biohazard," I replied.

I could feel the policemen looking at me 
strangely, but Sister Shan seemed unaffected.  
She reached out to put her hand on mine.

I pushed myself hard against the back of the 
chair, trying to inch out of her reach.  

"DON'T TOUCH ME!"

The officers jumped at my scream.  Sister Shan 
still remained calm, however she did put her 
hand back in her own lap.  "Okay, I won't touch 
you.  Don't worry.  You'll be safe here."

I would have laughed if They had given me a 
sense of humor.  

"Do you want us to call anyone?"  Sister Shan 
continued.  "Do you have any parents or 
relatives who might be looking for you?"

Even without a sense of humor, I could 
recognize the irony of her question.  No one 
would believe who might be looking for me.

"My parents are dead," I told her.  

She nodded with sympathy.  "How long ago did 
they die?"

I closed my eyes again.  

"It's okay," she reassured.  "You don't have to 
talk about anything yet if you don't want to."

My eyes remained closed. 

"Are you sick?"  She asked me.  

I nodded.  "I'm going to die."

"Don't worry," she said again, "we can get you 
to a hospital.  We'll--"

"No!"  I whimpered.  "No hospital.  No 
treatment.  I want to die."  

Sister leaned closer, a look of concern on her 
face.  "Why do you want to die?"

I paused.  I didn't want to answer her, but 
time was running out, and soon enough my answer 
wouldn't matter anyway.  "They can't use me 
anymore if I'm dead."

"Who's 'they?'"

The way she said "they" was clearly lower-case.  
I tried to swallow, but my throat was 
solidifying as the moments passed.  

"Honey?  Who's 'they'?"

"They..." was the last thing I was able to say.  
My throat dried up.  I could no longer speak.  

"What are they using you for?"  

I could not answer her.  

She sighed, "Okay, let's get her up to one of 
the rooms in the infirmary.  If she won't let 
us take her to the hospital, all we can do is 
keep an eye on her.  And pray she'll change her 
mind."

The policemen carried me once more, and soon I 
was in a bed with white sheets and had a very 
young, clearly confused doctor looking over me.  
The police officers left me and with the 
exception of the doctor, I was on my own.  

"Don't touch me," I wanted to warn the doctor.  
My lips would not respond.

Luckily, Sister Shan told him I didn't want to 
be touched or treated, but she did want him to 
keep a close eye on me.  So he did.  

Would no one let me die alone?  

Sister Shannon looked at me gravely and made 
the sign of the cross just before pulling a 
string of rosary beads out of her skirt pocket.  

It was some time later that afternoon when you 
and Agent Scully found me, after the Pittsburgh 
PD called you out to investigate the strange 
death of one Anthony Lorenzo, aged tweny-three, 
found dead in his car in a downtown parking 
lot.  


END 5/16

PART 6 DISCLAIMER: I'm pretty sure he's out of 
copyright as well, but none of the poetry of 
Gerard Manley Hopkins belongs to me either.  


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Thus says the Lord God:  
Because they have said of you,
'You are a land that devours men, 
and you rob your people of their children'; 
therefore, never again shall you devour men 
or rob your people of their children, 
says the Lord God.  "
--Ezekiel 36: 13-15
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hours passed.  Sister Shannon and the doctor 
stayed by my bedside.  I wished with all the 
world that I could have spoken and told them to 
get away from me for their own safety.  But I 
could not, and so they did not.  

Sister was called away from my bedside for a 
brief moment, only to return with the news I 
had dreaded.

"Honey," she said softly, "your twin sister is 
here."

So They had found me.  

//Which one?// I thought, but luckily I could 
not speak my thoughts.

"She says she has your medicine with her.  She 
says you can come home and no one will be mad 
at you.  She just needs to give you your 
medicine."

I dug deep within myself to find some energy; I 
only needed enough to shout "NO!" or at the 
very least shake my head.  But I could do 
neither.

Sister Shan frowned sadly at my silence.  
"Honey, we want to help you, but you have to 
want to help yourself.  Do you want me to let 
your sister in?"

I blinked at her, willing her to understand me 
the way Merchant could have.  My blinking must 
have given her an idea.

"Honey --" She had renamed me.  "Honey, blink 
once if you want to say 'yes,' and blink twice 
if you want to say 'no'.  Can you do that for 
me?  Do you want us to let your sister in the 
building to help you?"

So whichever of my "twins" had come to "rescue" 
me was not even allowed into the building yet.  
I was safe, and my caretakers were just that 
little bit safer.  

I blinked twice just before I slipped into the 
coma.

For all intents and purposes, I never should 
have woken again.  Once I had slipped into that 
coma, I could have been only hours, days at 
best, from the ultimate end.

Later, I remember hearing Sister Shannon mutter 
something about "the grace of God" that woke me 
up.  But nuns are always saying stuff like that.  
I know that now from experience, but more on
that later.

Joseph said that it was hearing my biological 
mother's voice reading those words that woke 
me.  Or perhaps it was the words alone that 
woke me.

Because, again, I did not anticipate Joseph.

When I woke, both of you were there.

In the cold dark place I called my own at that 
time, I could hear a woman's voice, trembling
a bit, clumsy with the meter at first, but 
growing more sure as the words pressed on:

"Not, I'll not, carrion comfort, Despair, not 
feast on thee; 

"Not untwist -- slack they may be -- these last 
strands of man 

"In me or, most weary, cry I can no more. I can; 

"Can something, hope, wish day come, not choose 
not to be..."

The voice trailed off and my eyes opened.  

I saw her.  The mother of my target.  The 
mother of my sister.  The mother of my own 
sorry self, and she was sitting by my deathbed.  

Did she know who I was?  Did she know *what* I 
was?

//Not untwist -- slack they may be -- these 
last strands of man/ In me...//

She saw my eyes open and she stopped reading.  
Our eyes met and something inside of me wanted 
to panic.  Something inside of me crumbled and 
wanted to cry.

//...or, most weary, cry I can no more....//

She tried to say something to me, but her voice 
shriveled in her throat.  

It was like looking into a mirror, only my 
image was red-haired and in her forties.  

I saw your partner swallow.  I saw her eyes, 
the blue eyes she had given me and Lynch and 
Sim and Abbot and Merchant.  I watched the 
water puddle and gather, the bottom rims of her 
eyelids levees refusing to let the tears break 
free.

No one had ever cried for me before.

Her eyelids shut and swallowed those tears.  
Your partner spoke to me, looking not at the 
worn poetry book in her hand, but directly into 
my eyes, the eyes They had taken from her and 
given to me.

Her eyes returned to the slim volume, and she 
continued to read.

"But ah, but O thou terrible, why wouldst thou 
rude on me 

"Thy wring-world right foot rock? lay a lionlimb 
against me? scan 

"With darksome devouring eyes my bruised bones? 
and fan, 

"O in turns of tempest, me heaped there; me 
frantic to avoid thee and flee?"

I was bruised, a heap of the shell They had 
designed.  I was frantic to flee, for 
the safety of others, but to flee whom?  Them?  
Or myself, what They wanted me to be?  

*You have a choice.*

A choice?  From whom?  And how?  And why?

Your partner continued reading to me.  But you 
know this, Agent Mulder.  You were there, in 
the background, listening as well.

"Why? That my chaff might fly; my grain lie, 
sheer and clear. 

"Nay in all that toil, that coil, since (seems)
I kissed the rod, 

"Hand rather, my heart lo! lapped strength, stole 
joy, would laugh, cheer. 

"Cheer whom though? The hero whose heaven-
handling flung me, foot trod 

"Me? or me that fought him? O which one? is it 
each one? 

"That night, that year of now done darkness 

"I wretch lay wrestling with 
(my God!) my God."

Whom was I wrestling?  Them or me, Emily 
Camille?  Who was my opponent?  What was I 
resisting?  Questions I was too tired to 
ponder.  Or so I thought, until Agent Scully 
closed the book of poetry and held a vial up so 
I could see its contents, as if she held a 
jewel in her fingers -- a jewel with sharp 
edges that both sparkled and cut.

"There's a young man outside," she almost 
whispered, "who asked me to read that poem to 
you.  He also asked me to give you this.  I 
*know* it will make you well, if you want it."

*Joseph.*  So he had found me.  How?  Why?  I 
closed my eyes, and the dark place beckoned me 
to return.

My ears were still accepting sounds, and the 
sound was your partner's, my mother's voice.

"He asked me to tell you that you have a 
choice."

I had a choice.

I had a choice, and the darkess called to me, 
the most enticing sound I'd ever heard.

I had a choice, and They had sent one of my 
sisters to steal that choice and make it for 
me. 

I had a choice, and Joseph had tracked me down 
somehow to remind me.  But if I chose to "not 
choose not to be," didn't he realize that They 
would still use me?  I would be alive, but I 
would be Death.

I had a choice, and my mother held it in her 
hands, and if I didn't make that choice, I 
may bring her with me into death, because I 
knew with the deepest certainty that she would 
not leave my side.

I could accept this relief, just this once.  I 
could take just enough shots so I could get my 
energy back.  With my energy back, I could 
disappear again, run out to the solitude of the 
country, and no one would find me or stop me 
then.  My body would devour itself, like that 
oerboros, that Greek snake that swallows itself 
and becomes a symbol of life for others.

That would be my success.  Success all my own.

Wouldn't it?

I opened my eyes and blinked.  Once.  

When my mother gave me the injection, she did 
not wear gloves.  


END 6/16

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"I call heaven and earth today 
to witness against you:
I have set before you life and death, 
the blessing and the curse.  
Choose life, then, 
that you and your descendants may live."
--Deuteronomy 30: 19
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


The effect of the medicine was not immediate.  
I was lying on that infirmary cot for hours, 
still unable to talk.  Agent Scully refused to 
leave my bedside.  After she had administered 
the first saving injection, she took hold of my 
hand and would not let go.

That frightened me.  I kept trying to talk or 
to move my hand out of hers.  I did not want 
her touching me.  Not because I was afraid that 
she would hurt me.  I wasn't, surprisingly 
enough.  I was afraid of what was inside of me 
that might hurt her.  I only wanted to protect 
her from what I was -- what They had made me.  

Eventually, I was able to see you, Agent 
Mulder.  You kept coming and going, bringing 
Agent Scully cups of water and asking how I was 
doing.  I could tell you were concerned, eyeing 
me carefully.  I especially remember how you 
kept a respectful distance.  I only wished your 
partner would do the same.

When I finally had my voice again, my first 
words were spent on trying to warn Agent 
Scully.  

"Please let me go..."

My voice faded with the effort.

The effect on her was similar to what might 
have happened if I had jabbed a blunt and rusty 
shovel into her stomach and started digging up 
the most painful memories of her life.  The 
levees that were her eyelids still clung to the 
tears, but my senses were returning, stronger 
than ever before, and I felt her pain at my 
command.  She withdrew her hand, however, even 
as her face twisted in hurt at being pushed 
away.

You must know I only said that to protect her.  
I hope she'll understand that.  You can 
understand, though, can't you, Agent Mulder?  

I felt abandoned, but I felt better as well.  I 
tried willing myself to get up and walk away, 
but my body was not yet back in line with my 
imagination, regardless of that imagination's 
potency.

I think that was when Agent Scully's cell phone 
first rang.  Or perhaps I slipped back into 
unconsciousness and the ringing woke me.  
Regardless, the next thing I remember is Agent 
Scully pulling out her cell phone, turning it 
off, and then returning her eyes to me.  

And then another phone began to ring.  It was 
yours, Agent Mulder.  Do you remember?

As you left the room to answer it, I remember 
hearing you say, "Oh, hi, Meg."

My mother's face twitched and blanched.  She 
had just chosen me, the child of her flesh and 
yet still a stranger, over her daughter, the 
child of her love and her long-awaited miracle.  

She was stewing in guilt.  So was I.

When you returned, I looked up at you and found 
my voice once more.

"My sister?"

Sister Shannon was still in the room, and she 
did not understand.  "Do you want me to bring 
your sister in from outside now, honey?"

Both of you tensed at the prospect.  You 
needn't have worried.  I was out only to 
protect you both.  I whispered to Sister, "No."  

And then, to my mother, "My little sister?"

You and my mother passed information between 
yourselves with a wordlessness even Merchant 
could envy.  

Merchant.  Was she the one outside waiting for 
me?  Or was it Abbott?  Or Lynch?  I strained 
with every last strand of whatever-I-am in me 
on the off chance that I could have sensed 
which one was out there.  My efforts were 
fruitless and only resulted in my passing out 
yet again.

And I woke again, feeling much stronger.  In 
the meantime, night had come and the room was 
dim, lit only by a small lamp in the far 
corner.  The young and confused doctor had long 
since gone, his vigilance replaced with Agent 
Scully's.  You, in your turn, kept 
vigil over Agent Scully, and Sister Shannon 
kept vigil over the whole scene like some sort 
of referee.  I sat up and all three of you 
jolted and looked at me.  

I wanted to tell all of you that I was fine, 
that I didn't need anyone, that all I needed 
was to leave this place and to be left alone. I 
tried to talk, but found the words were not 
coming.  My jaw hinged up and down, but the 
speech refused to go past my vocal cords.

"What is it?"  Agent Scully asked me.  

Why couldn't I say the words?

That's when you came over to the bedside and 
hunkered down beside Scully.  "Can you talk?"

I shook my head and closed my eyes, resigned to 
my muteness.

You frowned, deep in thought.  "I think she 
wants something to write on."

Scully's head swung around and she looked at 
you with a mixture of relief and gratitude.  

Suddenly, the words flew from my mouth 
unbidden.  "I want something to read."

Apparently, no one in that room was expecting 
me to say that.  

After a stunned moment, Agent Scully must have 
realized she was still holding Joseph 's slim 
book of poetry.  With a nod, she handed it to 
me, and I took the potential painkiller from 
her, sure to keep my hands on the side of the 
book opposite hers. 

Our fingers didn't even touch.  Success all my 
own.

The book was worn and dogeared in several 
places.  A bright piece of purple ribbon stuck 
out of one page as a bookmark, and I 
automatically opened to that page.  And, of 
course, the bookmark had been guarding the poem 
"Carrion Comfort" by Gerard Manley Hopkins.

//Not untwist -- slack they may be -- these 
last strands of man//

//In me or, most weary, cry I can no more. I 
can; //

//Can something, hope, wish day come, not 
choose not to be...//

The words hounded me.  I could not escape this 
time, not even in the written word.  I pressed 
my hands to my face to keep it from changing 
into another form, something that was from Them 
and not my own.  But even I was Theirs.  

I did not want to be Theirs any more.  I did 
not want to be Their new bounty hunter, 
replacing the one I had just killed out of 
green-bloody vengeance.  Human tears 
threatened, and with a choking cry I reached 
into my pocket and pulled forth the stiletto.  
I expended my every last ounce of energy 
flinging it across the room at a window, but 
the window was chicken-wired and shatterproof, 
because the silver length merely bounced off 
and clattered to the ground.  

Then, I fell into a feverish, frantic heap on 
the cot.

I heard a few uncertain footsteps, which 
stopped.  I heard the silver gimlet being 
picked up off of the infirmary floor, and then 
I heard you speak.

Your voice was a shock to me.  "You don't want 
to stop living," you said.  

Next to me, my mother's voice was heavy with 
hurt and fury.  Blood-boiling, rampaging hurt.  
Blood-boiling, rampaging fury.

Hurt for me, fury for what They had done to 
both of us.  "You just want to stop killing,"
she said.  

I opened my eyes and looked up at you, you 
standing there and holding the weapon in an 
angry, knowing hand.  Then I turned my eyes to 
my mother.  Her expression of awe and shocked 
understanding must have been mirrored by my 
own, so similar to hers.  

How had she understood so well?  Because she is 
my mother?  Because I am flesh of her flesh, 
the child of her pain?  Was that enough and 
nothing else?  

How had you known?  Because of your love for 
her?  I guess it was inevitable that you would 
know.  In a way, you are Their child, too.  

Perhaps all of that gave me that tiny sliver of 
hope I needed.  

//Can something, hope, wish day come, not 
choose not to be...//

Agent Scully's eyes flew to my own.  She 
actually smiled at me, almost with... pride.  

Proud?  Of me?  A half-human, half-monster 
*thing,* of which she should have been so 
ashamed?

"If that's what you want," she whispered, still 
smiling, "we can find a way."

The uncertainty within ruled me still.  I shook 
my head at her, even as the hope continued to 
dawn.

"Emily," her voice ached, and the levees broke 
and the tears rolled down her cheeks silently, 
one right after the other.  "I will do all I 
can.  There has to be another way.  There has 
to be another way this time--"

Her voice caught and froze.  *This time.*  Why 
was she fighting for me like this, after what 
had happened with Emily Beatrice Sim?  What was 
she feeling?  What made this time any different 
than the last? 

"Emily," she repeated, regaining her voice, 
"you have a choice..."

As she said those words, *Joseph's* words, I 
understood her fight for me.  She wasn't 
naive; she knew what They had created me to 
become.  But she also believed, impossibly, in 
my humanity.  She believed I had I choice in 
spite of Them.

My mother believed in me.

So finally, I could believe as well.

In that dim room, that night, day came.

I nodded my assent.  One more word came from my 
lips.  

"How?"


END 7/16

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"I do not ask you 
to take them out of the world,
But to guard them from the evil one.
They are not of the world,
Any more than I belong to the world.
Consecrate them by means of truth--
'Your word is truth.'"

John 17: 15-17
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Wait a minute," interrupted Sister Shannon.

I have to admit.  I had forgotten that anyone 
else was in the room.  The way Agent Scully 
started at Sister's sharp words, I think she 
had forgotten as well.

"Would someone mind terribly telling me exactly 
what the *hell* is going on here?"

I hadn't know nuns could curse.  I guess 
they're human, too.  Sister Shannon looked 
very, very frazzled.  

"At this moment," Sister continued, "I am at 
least partially responsible for what happens to 
this young woman, eighteen or not.  There are 
words being said here which seem to be 
affecting her very deeply when she is *clearly* 
in a very anxious state.  

"Agent Scully, I *allowed* you and your partner 
to come in here, thanks mostly to your 
*government* credentials and your claim to be 
investigating a murder-- and now I'm hearing 
all this talk of -- this talk -- of *what,* 
I don't know.  Now unless someone in this room 
can give me some clear explanation -- Agents, 
I am going to have to call my hospitality short 
and ask you both to leave until you can get a 
warrant for this young woman's arrest." 

My mother rose from my side and stood to face 
Sister Shannon head on.  I watched, wordless.  
Steel versus steel.  

My mother's voice hardened like a shield about 
me.  "This young woman's name is Emily.  Emily 
Camille Wexford.  She is fleeing from medical 
experimentation."

How clever of her.  She told the truth.  Not 
the whole truth, but enough of it.

Sister Shan let her crossed arms drop slowly to 
her sides.  She turned her head slightly and 
bored her eyes into Agent Scully's.  "On 
humans?"

Her voice even, Agent Scully confirmed, "On 
humans."

Again, not the whole truth, but enough.  

"What kind of experiments?"

I could tell Sister Shannon still was uncertain 
whether or not she should accept this 
information.

"Genetic engineering.  Cloning."

Sister blinked twice, trying diligently to hide 
her dismay.  She looked at me briefly, and my 
silence did not deny what she had just heard. 

"Sister," my mother continued, "I am Catholic 
as well.  I imagine that we feel the same way 
about such disrespect for human life."

I think only I could have detected the way my 
mother's voice leaned so lightly but so 
certainly on the word "human."  

Sister Shan frowned deeply and refolded her 
arms over her chest.  She looked to you, and 
then to my mother, and finally she turned her 
critical eyes on me.  

"Is this true?  Emily Camille Wexford?"

I raised my eyes to Sister Shannon's and took a 
deep breath.  "Yes," I answered her, my own 
voice sounding stronger than I thought it 
should have.

Sister Shannon pursed her lips, deep in 
thought.  Your partner looked to me again.

I know, I know.  First person.  My mother. 

At length, Sister sighed.  "I see.  So, what 
happens now?"

My mother turned back to me and resumed her 
seat by my bedside.  

"Emily," she said, "what do you want to do?"

That question again.  The power of my mother's 
belief lent me the strength not only to choose 
but to voice that choice aloud.  

"I want to see Joseph."


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


When Joseph came running into the room, over to 
my bedside, Sister Shannon and you and my 
mother all stepped aside on some sort of 
instinct.  Joseph reached his arms out to hold 
me.  I put my hands out to ward him off.

"Don't touch me," I whispered.  

He stopped, confused at first, but then he 
reached out to me with his mind and understood.

"Emily," he said softly, "don't worry.  You 
won't." 

I trusted him.  Still, I did not trust myself, 
even with the weapon out of my possession.  So 
I insisted, "Don't touch me."

He nodded in respect.  

I had chosen to live, but I still did not know 
how that choice would be carried out.

"How?" I asked him, somehow knowing he would 
have an answer.

"There are hiding places for us," he told me, 
"I can get you to one of them not far from 
here.  You'll be safe there."

Safe.  *Safe.*  The concept was alien to me, 
but newborn hope let me hunger for it.  I was 
still shaky and weak, but growing stronger by 
the minute.  

And my mother believed in me.  

"I am ready to go now," I told him.

His face clouded over.  "Emily Lynch is out 
there."

So it was Lynch, The Investigator, who had 
found me.  My mother looked at me with a 
mixture of longing and dread.  Another part of 
her, another child who could call her "mother" 
was waiting to return me to the purpose for
which They had created me.

Joseph added, "She is waiting for them to 
leave."

He looked up and indicated the both of you.  

"And then?"  My mother asked Joseph.  

He sighed, anxious.  "I think you know."

Four out of the five of us in that room visibly 
shuddered.  

Turning to look specifically at Agent Scully, 
Joseph spoke again.  "I have an idea of how 
Wexford and I can get out of here, and I can 
get her to safety, but I'm going to need your 
help.  Both of you."

I think I remember you uncomfortably shifting 
on your feet.

Now it was your collective turn to ask, "How?"

The two of you spoke the word with one voice.  
Sister Shannon seemed surprised at the 
synchronization.  That was to be the least of 
her surprises from that minute on.  

Joseph turned back to me and asked, "Are you 
strong enough to morph yet?"

I strained to anticipate what form he was 
suggesting I take.  When I grasped his thought, 
I nodded and focused on my mother's face, 
seeking her approval.  

Without waiting for word from you, her eyebrows 
straightened and she nodded with intensity.  
"We'll protect you."

When she turned and looked at you to urge your 
own assent, her urging was redundant.  

"We will," you agreed.

For my part, the effort was minimal.  So few 
changes needed to be made.  Add a few lines 
here and there, darken the hair to auburn.  I 
could have held this form indefinitely, if the
need had pressed.

Joseph, however, had many more changes to make 
for himself.  And on top of that, there were 
clothes to be exchanged yet...

"My God," Sister Shan muttered when she saw the 
undeniable transformations taking place right 
before her eyes.  


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


I suppose it was dumb luck that sent me to a 
shelter for homeless teenagers, which collected 
used clothing for the residents of the shelter.  
Otherwise, what would the two of you worn?  
Sister Shannon had been stunned into quietude, 
but she did not hesitate to bring changes of 
clothes for you and my mother when she realized 
they were needed.

My mother's suit hung loosely on me, and I 
worked a bit harder to make myself fit.  The 
wool and silk smelled of citrus and soap.  What 
did Scarlett O'Hara's mother smell of?  Was it 
lemon verbena?  Suddenly I can't remember.
It will come back to me.

Then, the four of us stood staring at each 
other uncomfortably.  You gave Joseph the keys 
to your rental car and directions to the hotel 
where the three of you would meet up again once 
I had been safely hidden away.  

Then my mother reached out to return something 
to me.  The silver stiletto.  

I shook my head.  "No.  I want you to have it."

"Emily--"

"Please," I begged.  "You're going to need it."

She held out her hand, frozen with indecision, 
then to my relief she put the weapon into the 
pocket of the secondhand jeans she wore -- the 
jeans she wore so that I could escape from Them 
with her face.

The indecision vanished from her face and she 
reached up behind her neck.  Her fingers worked 
at a clasp, and a tiny flash of gold responded 
to the flash of silver I had just asked her to 
take from me.

"Please," she begged in return, holding out to 
me a gold cross dangling at the bottom of a 
thin, sparkling chain.  "I want you to have 
it."

Tears threatened us both as she fastened the 
chain about my neck.  A word, a word I had never
before spoken, threatened to leap from my 
mouth unbidden.  I pressed my lips together to
keep myself from saying the one word I'd always
wanted, always needed to say, but had never been 
given the opportunity.

*Mommy...*

But I remained silent.  I could not say the word
out loud, even in my need.  I had never even called 
my adoptive mother by that name.  

She tapped at the cross without touching me.  
"You're going to need it," she said.

I pinched my eyelids shut and turned to the 
door, whispering, "I'll see you again soon."

She nodded.

She would still care for me.  Because of her, I 
would live.  Because of both of you, risking 
your lives for my monstrous self, I would live.  
Right then and there, I made myself a promise.  
Somehow, I would live to justify that 
sacrifice.  I would prove my mother's belief in 
me -- in this one of five creatures formed from 
her unwilling flesh in a cruel and greedy 
universe.  Maybe that sacrifice would free the 
other three of me who now lived on also.  
Maybe, someday.

Joseph was looking to me expectantly.  I followed
him to the door.

"You're gonna show Them," Joseph whispered to 
me, reaching for my hand.

I pulled away from his reach, pleading wordlessly 
for his understanding.  Which was given, I could 
tell, with one look from him.  

With a conviction even my fear and uncertainty 
could not defeat, he repeated, "You're gonna 
show Them."

Joseph and I left the building and drove into 
the early dawn.  


END 8/16

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"We do indeed live in the body
but we do not wage war 
with human resources.

2 Corinthians 10: 3

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


The sun was just clearing the horizon when I 
saw the sign along the roadside.  

"WEXFORD 5 MILES."

My pulse jumped.

"That's where we're going," Joseph told me, 
pointing with one hand.  

I looked at his face, so different from the 
face I had seen on him before.  His expression 
at the irony of our destination seemed entirely
at home on that borrowed face.

"What's in Wexford?"  I asked in the voice I 
had borrowed from my biological mother.

"Home," he answered with the voice he had 
borrowed from you.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


We passed a gatehouse at the entrance to a long, 
twisting, tree-lined driveway.  When we reached 
the drive's end, Joseph parked your rental car 
in an asphalt crescent drawn in front of a large 
house of gray stone.  The house was banked by 
fallow fields of grass and wildflowers on the 
left, and an apple orchard stretched behind the 
house on the right.  The birds in the orchard 
had just begun to wake each other with song.

Joseph got out of the car and I did the same, 
following him up to the heavy, carved oak front 
door.  He rang a bell and smoothed your tie.  I 
fidgeted in my mother's shoes, looking 
behind us to see that we hadn't been followed.

After a time, the door opened.  A large, stern-
looking woman in a plain brown dress stiffened 
at the sight of these two strangers at her door 
at such an ungodly hour.  "Can I help you?"

Joseph underwent yet another transformation.  
His face rippled and shifted, and he was once again 
the golden librarian who had come to rescue me.  

The keeper of the door sighed with relief and 
pulled the door open further.  "Mr. 
Fauchelevent!"  

The last name picked at my memory despite its 
flat American pronunciation.  "You've read 
//Les Miserables//?" I asked Joseph.

His blue eyes twinkled at me.  "Unabridged," 
he whispered back, explaining, "I'm their 
gardener."

I nodded, still too stunned and weak to inquire 
further. 

"You're safe here," he assured me.  "You can 
let go."

He meant I could let go of my mother's form.  I 
did so, too tired from the effort to protest or 
to afford mistrust.  The wool suit was baggy on 
me once more.  

"Oh, dear," the woman muttered.

"Mother Prioress," Joseph said warmly, "I need 
you to hide someone for me."

The Mother Prioress began chuckling softly.

"What is it?" Joseph asked.

She shook her white-gray, veiled head.  "Twenty-
five years ago when I first took vows, we prayed 
that the dwindling numbers of religious vocations
would be filled once again.  I just never 
anticipated the Lord would fill our Cloister in 
*this* way!"

"Well," Joseph sighed in a tired voice, "you're 
the one always saying that the Lord works in 
mysterious ways."

She chuckled again, and I sensed an old 
bitterness in the dry laugh.  "Yes, but every 
day is a new surprise.  My dear," she said, 
turning to me, "welcome to the Discalced 
Carmelite Cloister of Wexford, Pennsylvania."

"She's still very tired and weak," Joseph 
reported to the Mother Prioress, who nodded 
briskly as I stepped inside.

"I'll be back soon," Joseph reassured me.  I 
didn't need to ask where he was going.  I 
nodded as he shut the door behind him.  A 
moment later, I heard the rental car pull 
away.  

"Come, dear," the elder woman beckoned with 
an even sigh, "I'll show you to your room."


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


Well, truthfully speaking, it was not quite a 
room.  More of a closet, to be honest.  A metal 
frame held a single-thickness mattress covered 
with plain but clean sheets, blankets and 
a pillow.  A nightstand with a single electric 
lamp was to the right of the bed.  A few pegs 
stuck out of one wall for hanging clothes; a 
brown dress hung on one peg, a plain white 
blouse hung from the next peg, and a white 
nightgown hung on another.  An old wooden 
crucifix decorated an otherwise blank wall.  
A rickety washstand with a small, expedient 
mirror was the only other furnishing.  

I sat tentatively on the bed.  It was 
comfortable enough.  My body was recovering, 
but I was still very, very tired.

"What time was your last injection?" The Mother 
Prioress asked, in the same casual tone of voice 
I might have expected her to use when asking me 
when was the last time I had eaten, and would I 
like some milk and cookies before bedtime?

I blinked at her.  "I don't remember."

She nodded.  "Don't worry, then.  We'll figure 
it out.  I'll let you sleep now."

With a grandmotherly smile, she made ready to 
depart.

But there was still one question not yet
answered which she could probably answer for me.  
"Why are you taking care of me?"

Her hand stilled on the door.  Her white brows
knit together.  In a halting, strained voice, 
at length she answered me.  "I have a . . . a 
personal stake."

My heart began to hammer.  "Are you one of us?"

The crows feet about her eyes quivered.  "No.  
I am not."  

I raised my eyes to look at hers more closely.  
Blue.  Very, very blue.  Startlingly blue.  I 
searched her hair for a sign of now gone darkness.  
If my guess was correct, she had once been blond.  
The angle of her cheekbones through her sagging 
skin, the tilt of her chin was so similar...

Absently, she raised a hand and rubbed at 
something on the back of her neck.

She was Joseph's mother.

"Am I the only one--"  I stopped.  The only one of 
what? "The only one like me here?"  I finished.

"Right now you are," she replied, her voice tight 
with checked emotion.  "Don't worry, dear.  They 
never would think to look here.  The hospitals and 
clinics, maybe, but not here.  They think that 
people of faith are no threat to Them."

The way she said "They" was clearly upper case.  
Implicit in her words:  people of faith were 
Their greatest threat of all.  

Still, how could that be?  "Aren't They tracking 
you?"

Her stern eyes momentarily shining with 
complicity, she answered, "Not anymore."

I was shocked.  That was impossible.  Their 
Project had made it so.  "How?"

Her hand moved back down to the doorknob.  "Later, 
my dear.  There is nothing concealed that will not 
be revealed, no secret that will not be made known.  
Now, I should let you get some sleep."

She shut the door and I was alone.

As her footsteps echoed down the hall outside 
my new room, I looked around some more.  
Finally, I chose to change into the 
nightgown before crawling into the bed.

I began to unbutton the shirt my mother had 
lent me, and the mirror caught my eye.  I stepped 
closer and inspected my reflection.  The dark 
streaks of the fever were gone from my skin.  I 
also noticed the small, gold cross gleaming at 
my throat.  A symbol of my mother's faith.  

My biological mother, who believed in me.

I cleared my throat, and the sound echoed 
quickly off the close walls of the room.  
Alone.  I was finally alone.  So of course for 
the first time since I was a little, frightened 
child, I did not want to be alone.  I did not
want to be touched, but neither did I want 
this desolation, this barrenness.

I looked back into the mirror and conjured my 
biological mother, Agent Scully, back onto my 
face.  The soft, light wrinkles of impending 
middle age intensified around the expressive 
eyes and eyebrows.  I tried to summon her 
proud smile onto my transformed lips.

I tried.

I failed.  

My lips retained their cold, straight line.  
My appearance could change, but I was still 
the same on the inside.  Half human, half 
monster.  Everything had changed, but nothing
had changed.

No wonder my parents had never wanted to touch 
me -- my parents the Wexfords.  How much my 
straight-line mouth resembled that of the woman 
I had called "Mom" up until I was eleven.  My 
biology was not from them, but nevertheless the 
Wexfords had helped make me what I had become.  

The Wexfords whom I had killed.  The Wexfords who 
had not loved me as much as the Sims had loved 
Emily Beatrice.

Why hadn't they?  Was I any less loveable than 
she had been?  I must have been.  I must have 
been more the monster.  Why else had They chosen 
me, Emily clone C, out of all the other five to 
be Their future bounty hunter?

"Mommy," I choked involuntarily, and my face 
changed.  My hair deepened into a dark brown bob, 
and I was Joyce Wexford, the woman who had called 
me "daughter" but had never touched me.

"Mommy," I let myself sob, clawing at the 
mirror, imagining that if I got through the 
looking glass I could have crawled into her lap 
and pressed my cheek into her warm palm and found
it comforting.  If I imagined hard enough, she 
would have felt my cheek and my forehead to see 
if I had a fever.  She would have read to me and 
sung songs to me and fluffed my pillows.  

She would have loved me.  I could have made her 
love me.

She would have loved me.  She would have been my 
Mommy.  She would have come when I called for her 
in the darkness.  She would have been worthy of 
the name...

"...Mommy..."  

If I had known I could have killed her by 
picking up that shard of broken cup, I wouldn't 
have done it.  I had it in me to choose to be 
good, to do right.  I only had been trying to help.
And I had shown that to my mother, the woman 
who had given me the name Wexford, by trying 
to clean up after her broken mug.  

The first lesson of adulthood came to me in that 
mirror: some things about my parents I could not 
have changed.  Joyce Wexford still would not have 
loved me even had my 911 call gone through, even 
had I saved her from my poisonous blood.  

I could not have made her love me.

I did not belong to Joyce Wexford because of her 
own indifference.  However, neither did I belong 
to Agent Scully, because They had taken me from 
her before she had a chance to truly become my 
mother.  

And I did not belong to Them because I had chosen 
not to.

So whose was I?  Where did I belong?

For the moment, there was no answer to that 
question.

My sobbing softened.  I stopped scratching at the 
glass.  My face faded into the first face I had 
ever called my own: Emily Camille Wexford.

If I had chosen to live, I would have to learn 
to live with this face.  I would have to learn 
to live with myself.  



~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The weapons of our warfare 
are not merely human.
They possess God's power 
for the destruction of strongholds."

2 Corinthians 10: 4
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

And so began the only time of my life I can
almost call "peaceful."  Five years of such 
peace, actually, give or take a few months.  
The rigorous routine of the Discalced 
Carmelites was not a burden to me but a relief.  
I never was forced to participate in their 
rituals, but I was included and treated with 
respect nonetheless.  As for my name... well, 
all the other sisters knew *what* I was, and 
I heard from time to time that one or the 
other of them was fasting for my spiritual
edification, for the good of my soul.

My soul.  I would have laughed had They given
me a sense of humor.

But at the cloister I was given a new name.  
I wore the brown habit jumper and white blouse 
of a novice.  They called me simply, "Sister."  
I found that appropriate, for "Sister" is the 
one thing I have always been.  

I followed the way of Carmel for five years, if
only in the motions but not in any belief of my 
own.  I woke at 5:30 each morning, washed up, 
and went to Chapel for Morning Prayer.  Then, 
Morning Prayer was followed by a sort of quiet 
time called "Mental Prayer."  At first, I wasn't 
entirely sure how to use this time.  Eventually, 
the Mother Prioress taught me all sorts of 
meditation tools.  They were easy for me 
to use with my sharpened imagination.  They didn't
give me any earth-changing mystical experience of 
the Sister's God, but they did give me an 
undeniable peace.  The peace helped.  I think the 
peace set the stage for future healing.

Then, it was time for Mass with Father Timothy,
who shared the gatehouse with Joseph.  Father Tim 
was a portly man who had an illness that had
disfigured his hands.  His voice as he chanted
the prayers of the Mass was a bit nasal, but he
always smiled at me kindly.  He never showed any
dismay that I did not take the sacraments.  He 
would wave a gesture of blessing in my direction,
nodding at me and whispering, "Sister."

There were at least two hours each day devoted
only to reading. When I first heard this -- I 
think that was when I held my first smile.  And
there were books to read -- new books I had never
seen before:  The Bible, //The Interior Castle//
by Therese of Lisieux, the writings of St. 
Teresa of Avila, foundress of the Discalced 
Carmelites.  Poetry.  The complete works of
Thomas Merton.  The ideas and ideals I now
received were novel, but I was not ready to 
accept them as my own.  They included so much 
talk of a loving, creative God.  I could not 
believe that a loving God could have allowed
the creation of a monster like me.  

Still, I began a collection.  The verses I 
liked I would write down on bits of paper 
and stash them in my pillowcase.  Sometimes,
I would bring those slips of paper to Chapel
with me and use them for Mental Prayer time.  
As the years passed, my pillow became too 
rustly with the scraps, so the Mother Prioress
gave me a notebook and I copied into there 
those bits of verbal nourishment.  

Our days were framed by something called "The
Liturgy of the Hours," which, according to 
the sisters, transformed the entire day's 
activities into a prayer: from the smallest
wiping of a dish to the hours spent in
adoring meditation before their Blessed 
Sacrament.  Morning prayer, mid-morning prayer,
mid-day prayer and examination of conscience, 
grace before a leisurely lunch, mid-afternoon 
prayer, Vespers at 4:15 on the button, and the 
Office of Readings and Night Prayer. Then bed 
and exhausted, dreamless sleep.

That frame was colored in with simple hard 
work.  In my first life, I learned how to 
morph other faces onto my own, how to become
other people and how to kill in cold blood.  
Now I learned how to do laundry, how to pick 
apples and make apple butter, how to sweep and 
wash dishes and bake bread and how to weave.  

I was especially good at weaving.  There was 
such an order to it -- the absorbing task of 
warping the loom, of winding the shuttles 
and pressing the treadles with my sandal-shod 
feet.  Sister Frances and Sister Mary Therese 
would complain about "drowning in a sea of brown 
thread."  I swam in that sea, blissfully, 
mindlessly lost.  

I grew stronger.  I learned how to give myself 
the injections I had always relied on others to 
administer.  I learned how the other sisters hid
vials of the serum among the styrofoam peanuts 
used in shipping crates of our Cloister's apple 
butter, so that the serum could be distributed 
without Their knowledge.  The Mother Prioress 
showed me the secret stash of the liquid hidden 
among the jars of apple butter behind a loose 
stone in the basement wall -- hidden just in the 
unlikely case They should ever find out just what 
was going on in that big stone house in Wexford, 
PA. 

I think those five years spent under the spell
of the Cloister weighted my loyalties for me.  
This planet began to woo me and win me.  The
flurry of the spring wind carrying apple 
blossoms to the ground, the kiss of snowflakes
melting on my cheeks as I lugged firewood to 
the hearth inside, the snap of fallen leaves 
beneath my sandals, the tickle of summer humidity 
sending the white puffs of milkweed pods sinking 
to the ground... there were times when the 
changing of the planet's seasons erased all pain 
from my mind and threatened to make me glad to 
be alive.  Those were the times I could almost 
forget what I was.  I could almost forget that 
I was in this world, but not of it.

The six women who called me their "Sister" seemed
to act like they had forgotten what I was, even 
if I couldn't. My weaving partners, Sisters 
Frances and Mary Therese, had taken their 
perpetual vows a few months before my arrival.  
Before that, they had worn the white blouse and 
brown jumper of the novice.  Sister Frances was 
short - about my height - ten years older than 
me, and much possessed of both a talent for 
drawing and a very dry wit.  Sister Mary Therese 
had a great shock of curly blond hair under her 
habit's veil, and she was always laughing about 
something. She could play the violin.  Before 
she took her vows her name had been "Heather."

"You changed your name?"  I asked her.

She laughed her broad, musical laugh.  "*I* 
didn't change it.  The Mother Prioress changed 
it for me."

"Why?" I asked her.  I had so much to learn.

She explained to me, "The taking of a new name 
symbolizes the change in our lives.  Now that I
belong in this world and not the world outside,
my identiy has changed, too.  Before the
Cloister, I was Heather.  Now, I am called
Mary Therese."

The Mother Prioress had not given me a name other
than "Sister," so that's what I was called.  I was
"Sister" to Mary Therese, Frances, Anne, Cecilia 
Bernadette, Helen Gabriel, and even to Mother 
Prioress.  Each in her own way taught me something 
new: herbals and cooking from Helen Gabriel, 
cleaning and fire-building from Anne, a little bit 
of sewing and calligraphy from Cecilia Bernadette.  

The Mother Prioress, however, taught me how she 
survived Them.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was so simple.  So simple, in fact, I am sure
They never feared anyone would have thought of
it.  But the Mother Prioress had, and it had worked.
Before joining the convent, she had earned herself 
a PhD in Optical Physics -- the study of light.  
The tool she discovered had little if anything to
do with light, but it had everything to do with
invisible force.

One afternoon, after I had finished my turn at
washing and drying the lunch dishes, the Mother
Prioress called me into her office.  When I sat in
the chair she indicated I should take, she held her
closed right fist out to me.  She was holding 
something.  With her eyes, she told me to open out
my hand and accept it.  She understood that I did
not want to be touched, and she always respected
that wish.

When something cool and solid dropped into my 
palm, all I could do was stare stupidly at it
for what seemed like a full minute.

"It's a magnet," I observed simply.

The Mother Prioress' eyes shone again.  She
shook her head.  "It's freedom."

"I don't understand," I told her honestly.

She sat down behind her tidy wooden desk, wincing
at the arthritis in her back as she did so.  

"The chips They use to track us," she began, 
"cannot be taken out."

I frowned, trying to remember what little I knew 
about the neck-chips.  "There's a self-destruct
process that begins if the chip is removed from 
the subject."

The Mother Prioress nodded.  "Chip removal 
triggers a terminal cancer."

I looked back down at the cool, dark metal in my
palm.  "What does a magnet have to do with it?"

Her cryptic smile grew; she noticed that I was
learning how to ask questions.  "How could the 
tracking mechanism of the chip be destroyed 
without removing it, do you think?"

So it was to be the Socratic Method.  I chewed
thoughtfully on my inner lip.  A magnet?  It 
looked absolutely harmless -- hardly the menacing
metal point to which I was accustomed.  What
could a magnet do?  Or, rather, what could a 
magnet do to a delicate little chip containing
both tracking equipment, biological information,
and neurochemichal commands?

A harmless magnet //could// destroy an electronic 
tracking device... 

"No," I almost laughed.  "Mother Prioress, that's 
too easy."

"Isn't it, though?"

"But how could you possibly know it works?"  I
leaned heavily on the word "know."

She nodded with respect at my skepticism.  "A
long time ago, when you were just a girl I 
think, there were attempts at mass abduction.
Many people who had these chips in their 
necks were... were 'called' to certain places.
Many were destroyed.  I was called as well,
but I was able to refuse the call.  That is how
I know this magnet works."

I looked disbelieving at the solid gray metal 
bar in my open palm.  "But Mother Prioress, 
how do you know the magnet was responsible for
that?  Maybe it was just you -- you were strong
enough to resist--"

"Sister," she interrupted me, "have you looked 
closely at the necks of your fellow sisters in 
this cloister?"
  
I nearly dropped the magnet.  Half-confused, but
half-stunned because I understood what she was
implying, I shook my head slowly.

"Everyone in this cloister has been able to 
resist Their calling, thanks to that magnet
that is too simple to do any damage.  That,
and the will of God, of course."

How could I not have noticed?  It was so 
obvious, but I had been so absorbed with my
own learning and my own safety that I had 
been oblivious.  So this was how my Cloister 
sisters resisted:  with the unseen power of 
prayers and magnets.  The unexpected threat 
is the greatest threat of all.  

The Mother Prioress leaned back thoughtfully
in her chair.  Her voice lilted with a yet to
be issued challenge.  "Now do you understand, 
Sister?"

I nodded and stretched out my arm to return 
the magnet, but the Mother Prioress held her 
hand up in a gesture of refusal.  

The magnet weighed heavily on my palm.  
"What do you want me to do with this?" I asked
her.

"What do you want to do?"  She asked me in 
return.  

I still did not yet have an answer.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


Joseph was around, but not often.  I've 
read enough fairy tales in my time to know 
what was *supposed* to have happened.  My 
savior and I were supposed to fall madly, 
daintily in love and live together happily 
ever after.  Well, that did not happen.  
During those peaceful five years, I hardly 
ever saw him, really.  He was usually off 
galavanting around God knows where, presumably 
seeking out others like ourselves, recruiting 
them away from Them, demagnetizing chips or 
some other heroics.  I was too busy falling in 
love with this earth and pondering my place in 
it to take either much notice or offense.

He did come home for holidays sometimes.  He sat
in the back of the Cloister chapel for every 
Easter Mass.  At holiday dinners, he and Father 
Tim sat around the table with the rest of the 
sisters, who showed a friendly reverence for 
their priest and a motherly affection for Joseph.  
The sisters listened intently to Father's words, 
nodding in loyal assent as he informed them about 
the further advances of Vatican II, the need for 
increased prayers for the Holy Father.  However,
the sisters also made sure Joseph finished his 
mashed potatoes and asked him, "Are you getting 
enough to eat out there, Mr. Fauchlevent?"  He 
was the son They had taken from the sisters, and 
the sisters fussed over him accordingly.

We did not talk much, Joseph and I.  Like
the other sisters, I called him "Mr. Fauchlevent"
those rare times I addressed him directly.  Those
rare times he addressed me directly, he called me
"Sister" and nothing more.  I suppose he was 
giving me time and space to find the peace I so 
desperately needed.  But as I learned in my 
readings of the sisters' Bible, "To everything 
there is a season...," and my time of peace came 
to its inevitable close.  


END 10/16

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
There is an appointed time for everything,
and a time for every affair under the heavens.
A time to scatter stones, 
and a time to gather them;
a time to embrace, 
and a time to be far from embraces.
A time to love, and a time to hate;
a time of war, and a time of peace."
--Ecclesiastes 3: 1, 5, 8

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was autumn.  November 25, actually.  I 
remember the date because that morning at Mass
we had celebrated the feast day of St. 
Catherine of Alexandria -- the patroness
of philosophers, students, of women divinely
appointed and sent by God to convert men... 

After five years, my head was brimming full 
with the sisters' knowledge.  

Thanksgiving was near, and Joseph usually 
came home for that, spending a few days 
at the Cloister raking leaves with us and 
preparing the kitchen and herb gardens for 
winter.  So as I swept the great hall leading 
to the entrance way, I was not surprised at 
the rattle of Joseph's war-weary car pulling 
into the Cloister driveway. 

The doorbell rang loudly in the otherwise silent
Cloister.  From her office near the front of the 
house, The Mother Prioress bustled as quickly as 
her arthritic knees allowed, and when she opened 
the front door, I froze, staring, disbelieving.  
I was surprised to see that Joseph Fauchlevent 
had brought someone to the Cloister with him -- 
Agent Scully, my mother.

My hands began to shake so badly I accidentally 
dropped the broom.  I picked it up from the floor, 
leaned it against the wall, and listened.  I was
at the far end of the hall, and their voices were
softened, so I could not hear them clearly.  For 
the seeming eternity they held their hushed 
conversation, I nervously fumbled with the small 
gold cross I always wore, not out of personal 
belief, but in the same way I wore my novice's 
habit:  because it had been given to me, and I 
didn't want *not* to wear it. 

"You're going to need it," had been my mother's 
words to me five years before.  At twenty-three
I still could not make sense of those words, nor
of the meaning behind the simple joining of a 
horizontal line with a vertical line.  Five years 
in a cloister taught me the *story* behind the 
cross, of course, but that's all it was -- just 
another story.

Down the hall, Agent Scully stepped just slightly 
to the left, peering around the broad shoulders
of the Mother Prioress.  My mother saw me and 
recognized me.  I chilled with irrational 
apprehension when I squinted and saw her lips 
form that same proud smile she had offered me 
on my deathbead.  

After five years of hearing nothing from me, she
still believed in me?  She could not take her
eyes off of me.  I looked down at my hands and
folded them before me.

Mother Prioress turned to look at me as well.
"Sister," she called to me across the entrance 
hall.

I looked up, meeting the Mother Prioress' eyes, 
if only to avoid Agent Scully's, which were so 
like my own.

"My office, if you please," she asked, her voice 
strong across the distance.

I nodded with sisterly obedience and followed them 
into the office of our prioress.  

Rarely did more than two people come in to talk to
the Mother Prioress at once, so there were only 
two chairs sitting opposite her desk.  The Mother
Prioress indicated for Agent Scully to take a seat,
which she did, but not without first looking at me
once more.  I shifted uncomfortably under her gaze.
I could tell she wanted to reach out to me, to hold
me like the firstborn baby girl They never let her
cradle in her arms.  I stiffened my back, 
willing her to understand my body language if 
nothing else.

Joseph looked at me and waved his hand toward 
the other empty chair, but I shook my head,
preferring to stand -- perhaps so I could run 
should instinct or some other urge dictate that 
I do so.  

The wrinkles in the Mother Prioress' face deepened
in an expression of pained worry.  She folded her 
hands in front of her.  

"First, we will pray," she commanded.

Joseph and Agent Scully bowed their heads along with
the Mother Prioress.  I did not, however.  I wanted 
to see what was happening.  For support, I leaned 
back against the wall.  I knew something was about 
to happen.

The Mother Prioress rattled off some spontaenous 
prayer of her own.  I don't remember the words she
used.  All I remember was my palms growing clammy,
my heart thumping painfully beneath the shell of
my ribs, the hum of that long-lost foe -- Sister 
Anxiety -- buzzing in my ears.  Something was
about to happen.

Something already was happening -- already 
had happened -- and the two visitors had 
come to let me know what that was.  

The Mother Prioress's prayer comcluded, closed 
by the three "Amens" spoken aloud.  I remained 
in anticipatory silence.  The Mother Prioress 
commanded Mr. Fauchelevent -- my Joseph --
to tell me what he had just told her in the
entrance hall.  

I don't remember the exact words he used, but I
remember the gist:  Their mass abductions were 
starting again full force.  Their Project, 
suddenly and unexpectedly thrown off track 
decades ago, was now back into play.  

Decades -- a mere blink of time in the cosmic
sense.

After giving me this information, all three were
silent.  I searched each face individually.  
Joseph's face was blank as he awaited my response.
The Mother Prioress knitted her brows together,
but her expression told me no details of the 
cause of her worry.  Agent Scully -- my mother --
was also worried.  I could feel her concern 
like static electricity: invisible on her 
blank-set face, but charging the distance I 
had put between us with an undeniable current.  

The room filled with my silence.  All three were
waiting for me to respond to this information.  

At last, I spoke.  I answered with a question.  
"Why are you telling me this?"

Joseph shifted in his chair and turned to face
me more fully.  He looked down briefly, then he
leveled his gaze directly at me, pinning me to the
wall with his eyes.  I never before had seen him 
so merciless.  I quickly wondered if it was really 
*my* Joseph, the Cloister's "Mr. Fauchelevent," but 
that worry fled when I saw the tiniest ghost of a 
smile tug at the corners of his mouth -- a small, 
reluctant, bittersweet smile, but a genuine smile 
nonetheless, softening his necessity-borne 
harshness.  

"I've come to ask you," he answered, "for your help."

I leaned more heavily on the wall.  *The Resistance.*

"There are only so many of us who can slip through 
the cracks in Their Project," he explained, 
thoughtful lines pinching the corners of his eyes.  
The way he said "They" was clearly upper-case.

"We need all the help we can get," he finished.  

"Why did you bring her?"  I asked him, my voice 
sounding cold with a distant defense.  

Joseph opened his mouth to speak, but he was 
interrupted.

"I came here, essentially," my mother answered, 
uaffected by my wariness, "to talk you into 
staying here, in the Cloister, in Wexford."  

If I hadn't already pressed my back to the wall,
I would have taken a step backwards.  I finally 
found the courage to look my mother in the eyes.  
Eyes so much like my own.  

"Why?"  My voice was a dry, apprehensive croak.

Her brow furrowed as she searched for the right 
words.  Finally, she said, "Because leaving is 
too dangerous."

Because I am her daughter, the child of her pain.  
Because I represent so much that has been lost,
so much that has been regained and returned at 
impossible odds against Their all-powerful plans.  

"Because," she continued, her voice growing raspy
with the tears she again would not release, "if you
were my daughter Meg, I would not let you go."

My sister, my target.  I had forgotten her name.  
A picture of that sunny Sunday sprang to my mind.
In my imagination, a nine year-old girl scrambled
down a driveway chasing a runaway basketball.  
A mess of curly golden hair framed a secure, 
well-loved smile.  A sense of humor.  All things 
I could never have, could never be.  Because of 
Them.  

And I had a choice.

I turned back to Joseph.  "What do you want me 
to do?"

He frowned slightly.  Once again, I was asked, 
"What do you want to do?"

I looked to the Mother Prioress, my eyes 
pleading for her guidance.  Her face read 
something akin to Agent Scully's worry.  Her 
voice was pained as she echoed, "Sister, you 
have a choice."

She wanted me to choose for myself.  

Again I looked to each face staring back at me 
waiting for my response.  I could not make a 
decision that quickly.  I hadn't had enough 
practice in such things.

"I need to think about it," I said, walking to 
the office door.  

No one stopped me.  They let me go.  As slowly 
and calmly as I could, I made my way over to the 
coat closet and wrapped myself up in the big, 
brown woolen coat I had made for myself my first 
winter at the Cloister.  The stitching was uneven, 
necessitating multiple repairs, but it was 
something I could almost call my own.  Its warmth 
was a comfort.

I began to walk out of the Cloister to the apple
orchard, the trees bare of leaves in preparation 
for the coming winter.  As I walked, I became 
acutely aware of Mother Prioress' magnet banging 
against my thigh through the pocket of my 
novice's habit.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


I wandered the barren orchard for the better
part of an hour, I think, pondering what to do.
It was a windy day, and bits of crushed dead
leaves kept flying up into my eyes.  The habit 
veil holding my hair down kept whipping around,
ready to fly off into the gusts at any minute
if I weren't careful.  My skirt slapped around 
my legs.  My fingers grew white with the cold, 
so I jammed my hands deep into my pockets.  I 
turned the smooth, solid magnet inside over and 
over in the fingers of my right hand.  I took 
my hands out of my pockets just once so I could 
pull my veil more tightly over my freezing ears.  

The cold was within and without, but it did not
chase me back into the shelter of the Cloister.  
Again, I had a choice.  The fireplaces and 
ever-present oil heat of the Cloister house
beckoned.  Still, I remained outside, studying
the gnarled, knotted trunks of the apple trees,
memorizing their patterns -- patterns I had seen
nearly every day for the past five years but 
never really took the time to notice.  

I would have loved to have had a book with me, 
to erase all choices from my my mind with the 
pains and adventures of some fictional character, 
but to get reading material would have 
necessitated a trip back inside to the Cloister 
library.  I feared that if I returned indoors I 
would never want to leave again.  So I stared 
through wind-watered eyes at the trees.  This 
mindless activity consumed me until I heard the 
back door leading from the Cloister to the 
orchard open and slam shut.  

My mother was walking towards me across the 
orchard.

I couldn't bear to watch her for long, the wind 
pulling her red hair in all directions despite 
its being not even chin-length.  I wondered if 
her hair had always been this shade.  I saw no
hint of gray.  She had to color it, to cover up 
the manifestations that this world was wearing 
even on her.  

Again, I studied the knots and twists of the tree 
trunks.

"Emily." Her voice carried on the wind, was not 
obliterated by it.  

I had not been called by that name in five years.

I did not look up.  "How do you know it's starting 
again?"  I asked.  I had to ask.  To make an 
informed decision, I needed all possible evidence.  
"Where's your proof?"

Something in her flinched at my questions, at my
mistrust, my skepticism.  "Because," she answered 
me, her even voice still riding steady on the wind, 
"I was there."

Only then did I look up.  I was genuinely startled.
Such a simple, obvious answer.  They were tracking
and calling her, too.  Still.  And in my habit 
skirt pocket I held the means of stopping that call.  
If only I would reach out, I could set my mother 
free.

"And this time," she said, looking at the tree that
previously had held all my attention, "I remember
what happened very clearly."

I did not want to know what happened.  I didn't 
need to know, so I did not ask.  Selfish of me,
I know, but those were my thoughts at the time.
I had problems of my own to be unraveled.

I tried to think of another question to ask.  
I guess I was stalling again.  "Where's your 
partner?"

She looked up at the overcast sky.  "He's
home," she answered simply.

"With my sister?"  I had to ask.

She raised surprised eyes to meet mine.  

"My little sister," I specified.

Her lips curled thoughtfully inward.  "Yes.
Mulder's home with Meg."

"Why?"

She breathed deeply in, then out, squinting
as another gust of wind pushed at us both.  
"Some things a woman needs to do on her own."

I fixed my eyes on a bulging knot in the 
nearest tree trunk.  "Does your daughter
know about..."

My voice cracked slightly on "your daughter," 
and I stopped myself.  I almost asked if my little 
sister knew about //me//, but to do so would mean 
asking if she also knew about Merchant and Abbot,
Lynch and Sim.

"Does she know about *us*?"  On the word "us" I
pointed to myself in the hopes that Agent Scully
might understand.

"There is a lot she doesn't know," she admitted. 
"Mulder and I agreed she's still too young to..."

And her voice faltered.  The wind filled the 
silence obligingly until Agent Scully, my mother, 
found the right words.  "She's still too
young to understand... certain things."

I did the math in my head quickly.  "She's 
sixteen."

"Sixteen," Agent Scully nodded.  "And you just
turned twenty-three."

She remembered.  In her voice, I sensed a 
fierce protectiveness borne of the knowledge 
of dreadful, extreme possibilities.  And, God 
only knew why, that protectiveness extended to 
me as well.  

She looked at me again, and I let her look 
into my eyes despite myself.  

"All grown up," she said, the proud smile 
returning.

What did she have to be proud of in me?  
I reminded myself of that promise I had made
to myself when I was eighteen, wearing her 
clothes and making my escape.  I had vowed to 
make myself *worthy* of her pride.  Had I 
done that yet?  I glanced down at my shabby,
handmade coat.  An accomplishment, but not 
a source of deep pride, when with what They
had inadvertently given me, I *could* be
doing so much more.  

"All grown up," Agent Scully repeated, "but
I don't -- I don't want you put yourself
at risk.  There are others who can do that."

But if there were so many others, why did 
Joseph come asking for me?

With shaking hands, I reached out to run my
fingertips against the bark of the apple tree.
The mythical Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil.
The tree where Man had made a choice.  In 
contrast, the tree the Sisters of the Cloister 
used to make good, sweet foods for many to enjoy.  
The tree of the sisters alibi for their serum-
shipping operation.  The Tree of both Good and
evil to be sure.

I stepped closer to the tree, and the movement
caused the magnet in my pocket to hit me in
the thigh with a reminder slap.

I raised my eyes and looked to my mother again.
"You were there?"

She winced, I guess at the memory of Their call.  
The same wince I've caught on my reflection in 
the mirror when I think of... *him*, my tutor.

She nodded.

Still shaking with fear at what I was about 
to do, I reached into my right pocket and 
brought forth the magnet, the tool of freedom
Mother Prioress had bequeathed to me.  I 
stepped closer to Agent Scully, confusing 
her when I craned to look at the back of her 
neck.  

Eyes trained well in another life found the 
tiny mark easily.  Hands trained to help in
this latest life of mine touched the magnet
to the spot on my mother's neck.  I held it 
there a moment, then pulled away, stepped 
back, and shoved my cold hands back into
my pockets.  

It was the closest I had come to willingly 
touching another person since that day 
I had taken the stiletto and plunged it into
*his* neck.  But if I were to return to this
world good for all the evil that had been
bred and nurtured into me, I would have to 
learn to touch and be touched.  Touch
is not always hurtful, and isolation is 
not always safety.

But those are easy thoughts to think, however
difficult to live after the lives I've led.  

My touching the magnet to my mother's neck:
it was a start.

"You're free," I told my mother.  Her eyes 
pulled smaller in disbelief.  "You'll see,"
I replied to her skepticism.  

"Can you find others for me to free?  I then 
asked.  "How many other lives can we save?"

My words upset my mother.  She shook her head,
her blue eyes clouding with more of her
instinctive protectiveness.  "Emily..."

And I responded with my my need -- instinctive 
or learned?  nature or nurture? -- to undo all 
They had done in the name of Their Project.  
To undo all of the crimes in which They had 
engineered me to take part.  I responded with 
a very human need:  the need for independence.

"Please let me go..."

That wasn't what I wanted to say.  I wanted
to say, "Mommy, please let me go," but I still
could not say that word.  At least, not 
out loud.

Pain and pride colored my mother's face, 
a combination I have never seen with such 
clarity on any other.  Again, I could tell 
she wanted to hold me... and I wanted to be 
held, to feel safe in the arms of my mother, 
but I still was not ready.  I took a small 
step backwards to let her know.  

Agent Scully looked back at the Cloister house.
She asked, "Are you ready to go back?"

She meant go back to the Cloister, but she also
meant back out to the real world, the world
They were working to conquer and subdue.  

My hands still shook, but not even my own
trepidation could stop me.  I could make 
a difference.  I could bring healing to a
weak world, freedom to those enslaved.  
I could distinguish myself from the three
others who shared my DNA and my first name.

"Some things," I said, nodding, "a woman
needs to do on her own."

Agent Scully and I, mother and oldest 
daughter, had reached an understanding.
We leaned into the wind and returned to
the Cloister so I could prepare to leave
it.


END 11/16

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Through the Spirit one receives faith;
by the same Spirit another is given
the gift of healing and still another
miraculous powers...  
But it is still one and the same Spirit
who produces all these gifts, distributing
them to each as he wills."
1 Corinthians 12: 9-11
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

As Agent Scully and I walked together
to the Mother Prioress' office to inform
her of my decision, the bell for Vespers
rang.  The life before me and the life I 
was living had their first clash, but 
Agent Scully thought quickly.

"You're going to need clothes," she said,
pointing to my novice garb.  

She was right.  I nodded, a bit embarassed
I hadn't thought of that fact.  There was
so much I hadn't thought of, even in my
desire to make an informed decision.

"I'll go," my mother said, "get some clothes
and things for you."

My mother was going shopping for me.  How
normal.  

"I don't know my size," I told her.  

She looked at me carefully.  "Don't worry.
I think I can handle it."

She was noticing that, were it not for her 
high-heeled shoes, we would have been the
exact same height, the exact same size. 

And, with nothing more than a parting smile,
she went off to find Joseph and his car keys.
I hurried to the chapel for Vespers -- 
for the last time.  
 
I kept silent through the chanting, the 
familiar call and response.  I did not 
even listen to the readings.  I wish I had
listened.  Perhaps I could have gleaned 
some courage and meaning from the 
words.  

My nerve began to wane, however, during 
Mental Prayer.  I stole looks around the 
chapel at the untroubled faces of the sisters, 
focused in prayer before their Blessed 
Sacrament.  The Body and Blood of Christ
were present as always in the golden 
tabernacle, and the sisters sat transfixed,
enraptured by what seemed to me little more
than skinny wafers and fermented grapes.
These women had sacrificed their entire
lives to pray before these things, to
offer their entire lives in simple faith
that their prayers made a difference 
"out there."  

My Mental Prayer was genuine that evening,
even if it wasn't directed at the Sisters'
God.  I wretch lay wrestling again, trying 
to justify instead my knee-jerk desire to
stay at the Cloister.  I *could* just take 
my vows and pray, just like the sisters, 
and thus achieve their same peace forever.  

"If the Church is the Body of Christ," 
the Mother Prioress had explained to me
once, "the Discalced Carmelites are the
heart -- unseen, but a vital part,
pumping blood to all the extremities.  
We see the work of the hands, we see 
where the feet take the body, but none 
of that can be done without the beating 
of the heart."

I looked up to the crucifix over the chapel
altar.  The wood-carved Christ had blood
pouring out of his hands; red blood pumped 
by his human heart, blood pouring out of the 
hands he used to heal.  

I looked down at my own hands, their works
fueled by green blood.  These same hands
had done murder. This same blood could kill
with a spilled drop.  

I looked back up at the representation of 
Christ above the altar.  I knew the stories.
He had lived in near anonymity until he was 
thirty.  And, according to the sisters' 
belief, his death and resurrection brought
life to all, conquered death forever.  
According to the sisters' beliefs, had he 
chosen to stay in the safety of his mother's 
house, the whole world would have been 
different.  The Cloister at Wexford would never
have existed.  

And he had a choice, too.  "Father, take 
this cup away," he had prayed -- or so the
story went -- the night before the nails 
had driven into his hands.  "But not my 
will, but Yours be done."

He had risked it all, lost it all, gained
it all, all out of hope for the human race, 
fictional character or not.  Hope demands
a sacrifice.

Time for individual Scripture Reading came,
and I randomly flipped open the Bible 
the sisters had given me my first full
day at the Cloister.  My eyes came to
rest on a passage:

"Through the Spirit one receives faith;
by the same Spirit another is given
the gift of healing and still another
miraculous powers..."

Paul's first letter to the Corinthians.
What coincidence I should just happen to
open to that reading.  I continued 
drinking in the words, as was my custom.

"But it is still one and the same Spirit
who produces all these gifts, distributing
them to each as he wills."

As who wills?  No God had given me these gifts,
They had.  God had not created me, They had.  
How could these words apply to me, especially
since I couldn't even be sure I had a soul?

I looked back at my hands.  These same hands
could heal, if I would only risk to learn
how. This blood gave me the chance to hide
in Their world and unravel Their tightly-
woven plans.  

My hands.  As the sisters would say, I was
"called":  called to be the hands.  My
praying had always been hollow and self-
centered, when it was supposed to be heaven-
bound, selfless, and other-centered.  I could 
only do real damage if I left this warm heart 
of prayer called The Carmel at Wexford and 
returned to the outside.  And what did I have 
to fear anyway?  The worst They could do was 
kill me.  Would that have been such a loss?

My resolve, once weakened, emerged stronger
than before Vespers had begun, and I 
walked into our dining room ready to 
share my decision with my sisters.  


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


Honestly I was surprised by their response.  
I always had kept them at arm's length -- 
literally.  But as I told them over dinner 
that I was going to leave, my announcement 
was met with silence.  Soup spoons lowered 
to bowls with devestating clatter.  Sharply 
indrawn breaths.  Sister Cecilia made a small, 
whimpering sound.  Mary Therese began blinking
her eyes fiercely.  

"Well," the Mother Prioress said, dabbing 
at the corners of her mouth with her napkin,
"sisters, we all saw this coming.  Though I 
must say I had hoped you would perhaps decide
to stay and take vows with us."

I bored my eyes into my soup bowl, my 
newfound courage still slow in coming. 
"I considered it, Mother Prioress.  However,
I can do the most good outside of the 
Cloister."

"But prayer and contemplation give the greatest
possible good," Mary Therese flared,
a curl escaping from her veil as she
turned her head.  "Sister, it's so
dangerous out there."

Mother Prioress shot Sister Mary Therese
the same reproving glance she always shot 
whenever Mary Therese let her passions get
away with her.  

"Sisters," the Mother Prioress sighed, "we
all know each of us is called to a different
work.  No one work is greater than the other,
and no one work is more dangerous than the
other.  Need I remind you God could call any 
of us to Him at any time?"

The rest of dinner was spent in an 
uncharacteristically heavy silence.  The sisters 
were going to miss me.  No one had ever missed 
me before.  

After Night Prayer, on the way to my last night 
in my Cloister bedroom, the Mother Prioress 
stopped me in the hall.

"Sister, I would like you to consider something 
before you go."

The fear spiked within me again.  There was 
already so much I hadn't considered.  Need I 
be reminded?  I nodded for her to continue.

"You have never been baptized, have you?"

Baptism.  The naming of a Christian. The 
choosing of patron saints who would presumably 
watch over that soul and interceed for her 
sake before God.  The claiming of a soul's 
identity for the life that is their loving, 
creative God.... 

My head was brimming full of the sisters' 
knowledge.

"No," I answered simply, "I have not."

The Mother Prioress spoke no more, but her 
age-softened eyes urged me to accept her 
invitation to give my soul and my life to 
her God.

My soul.  Somehow, the concept was no longer
even remotely funny.  

"Good night, Mother Prioress," was my only
response, as I bowed and walked slowly back 
to my tiny bedroom for the last time.

"Good night, Sister."

I stopped, considered.  "Please," I said,
turning to face her once more in the dim 
hall, "call me Wexford."


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


The following morning, Father Tim insisted 
that I stay long enough to share in a Mass 
for my safety before taking my leave.  
Joseph attended the Mass as well.

I came to the chapel that last time wearing 
my mother's clothes, the same I had worn on 
my original trip to the Cloister.  Without 
my even trying, this time around they fit 
well.  Five years, and I hadn't even noticed 
the weight I had gained.  I was still thin, 
but no longer bony.  I looked into the mirror 
on my washstand, and the face returning my 
scrutiny was rosy-cheeked and firm, not gaunt 
and fever-pale.  Still, fear danced in my eyes.  
I hadn't been "out there" in five years.  I 
hadn't faced Them in five years.

The final words of the Mass, Father Tim spoke 
directly to me:

"The Mass is ended.  Go in peace to love and
serve the Lord."

"Thanks be to God," I answered along with my 
sisters this time, still not sure for what
I was thankful, however, or what lord I would
be serving in the end.  

I turned to leave the chapel, and Agent Scully
was waiting for me right outside, a set of
luggage at her feet.  

"Your clothes are inside," she said, pointing
to the suitcases.  

"And here's some money for you as well,"
Joseph said from behind us.  

He handed me a purse.  I opened it up and
found a wallet stuffed with bills, credit
cards, a drivers license with someone 
else's name, face and signature, in addition
to several vials of my serum and a handful 
of syringes.  

Agent Scully looked over my shoulder.  "Agent
Mulder and I have some... some colleagues
who will secure identification credentials
for you as needed."

"How do I find the people I am going to
help?"

Joseph answered me, "We will be in contact
with you on a regular basis.  I can also
teach you some of the things you have 
not yet fully learned  -- to help you 
reach the full potential of your gifts."

I flinched involuntarily.  A picture of
*him,* my tutor from days long gone,
sprang to my mind.  The tutor I had murdered.

I had to be careful who taught me things.  
"We'll see," I answered him vaguely.  

As we went to leave, the sisters followed 
us to the door to bid me farewell.  Joseph
opened the door for my mother and me.  My 
mother stepped out into the eye-stinging 
light of the overcast November morning.  I 
took one step over the threshold and stopped.

I was leaving without saying goodbye.

I turned to see the Carmelite Sisters, who 
had taught me so very, very much.  They had 
taught me so much, and I... I had not killed 
them.  I had not hurt them.  They had survived 
me.  

A miracle, but not the greatest miracle 
they had done for me.  Without even
thinking, without even the slightest
trace of nausea, I fell forward into
their arms, which reached up reflexively
to catch me.  I reached for my sisters
and they held me tightly -- the first 
time I was able to reach for human
touch. 

Before it got too much for me, I stood up 
and disengaged myself from their arms,
from their tearful group embrace.  The
nausea had started against my will.  

"Will you be back for Thanksgiving?" 
Asked Sister Helen Gabriel, dabbing
at her eyes with the corner of her
apron.

"I might," I answered, "but I doubt it.
I will be back, though."

"When?" Asked the Mother Prioress.

"Soon," I answered, picking up my 
suitcases again.  

I followed Joseph and Agent Scully
out to the car.  I took a seat in the
back, and we drove for hours, silent.
Images of the Cloister behind me kept
springing to mind.  I needed something
to distract myself from what could
only have been described as homesickness.

I devoted my attention to the drivers
license picture in my purse:  Michelle
Kazuko Inoue, MD.  Single.  Brown hair,
brown eyes, five feet, four inches.  Date 
of birth July 3, 1972.

When we pulled up to the Lariat 
Rental lot so I could pick up a car
of my own -- for this assignment, at 
least -- I walked up to the rental
desk as Doctor Michelle K. Inoue.  

When I emerged from the building with
keys to a shiny new rental, Agent Scully 
gave me one last thing -- the one last 
thing I was hoping she'd forget to give 
me.  

"I think you should have this back," she
said, holding out to me the silver
weapon I had passed on to her when I
was eighteen.  

I shook my head in refusal, gaping at
the symbol of the life, of the death I'd 
chosen to leave behind me years ago.

//Wexford, don't think you can change.//

Merchant's words.

//You can never change.//

The hairs on the back of my neck prickled.

My mother, however,insisted, 
"Please, you're going to need it."

My fingers fumbled indecisively with the
small gold cross at my neck -- the symbol
of a noble faith in which I did not share.

"Then," I said, removing the necklace,
"you should have this back as well."

She was taken somewhat aback.  "Why?"

I tried to put it into words.  It felt
more right for me to have tools of 
destruction -- a magnet for destroying
Their plans in one pocket, a stiletto 
for destroying Them in the other --
than it did for me to have a symbol
of a faith not my own dangling 
beneath my head.

How would the sisters have put it?
The words of others so often worked better
than any words I could imagine on my own.

I paraphrased, "A woman cannot serve
two masters.  She must love one and
despise the other, or she must deny one
and serve the other."

Agent Scully -- my mother -- was not happy
with my words, but she agreed to the trade.
Silver and gold changed hands and returned
to their original owners.  

I gave both Joseph and my mother small
smiles of farewell over the nauseous
trepidation that they might want to hug
me as the sisters did, even though now
I held in my hands such a destructive
device.  

They both seemed to understand.  My smiles
were returned.  With that, I turned from
them to begin this new leg of my life
in a small white rental car.  Thank 
God driving is like... riding a bike.
I hadn't been behind the wheel in 
five years, but driving came back to
me almost miraculously.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


To go into great detail of my life after
leaving the Cloister would not really
be all that theraputic, I don't think.  
If you think I should, Agent Mulder,
tell me and I will go back and fix it
later, but it was all rather monotonous,
truth be told.

For over a year I ran around the country
in other women's skins.  I became doctors,
lawyers, trusted family friends, all
so I could sneak into other people's 
lives and unobtrusively slide my magnet 
against the chips in their necks.  The 
false credit cards you and my mother 
passed along to me provided me with no 
end of seedy hotel rooms and difficult
to track car rentals.  For over a year 
They could not find me, so They could
not stop me.  I remained safely anonymous.

I still could not call Agent Scully, 
"Mommy."  It just did not feel right.  
We were comrades-at-arms, not family --
not in any normal sense.  Besides, the
two of you had a family of which I could
never be a part.

Sometimes, I have to admit, I would think
of myself as Esau, the older brother whose
birthright was stolen by his conniving twin
Jacob, all according to God's will as 
written in the sisters' Bible.  But as the time
went by and the picture of my nine year-old
sister cemented itself in my mind, I realized
she and I were more like Ishmael and Isaac:
the older child born under circumstances of 
human greed and design, in contrast
to the true inheritor, born as an impossible
and miraculous gift from God.  Our fates
were formed for us, not by us.  

So as much as the old heart-rending envy
still rampaged within whenever I thought 
of my little sister, I could not hate her. 
Perhaps because I was learning not to hate 
myself. I would never be the older sibling 
killing the younger out of blood-boiling, 
rampaging jealousy.  

I had erased from my forehead the mark 
of Cain.  Success.  Success all my own.  
Or so I thought.  

In that year, I continued learning, albeit
independently.   I learned that I had opinions.
It may sound ridiculous that I had a great 
epiphany when I discovered that I prefer
Big Macs (TM) over regular cheeseburgers,
but that realization and others helped me 
think of myself as a true individual.  I 
was not Their Emily clone C, nor was I any 
of the thousand faces They had created me
to make.  I was, and I am Wexford.

I learned so much, but not enough.  I 
am still so angry at my refusal to keep
in contact close enough for Joseph to
teach me the finer points of our 
healing abilities.  Even more so, I 
am angry at myself for always going to
you and my mother for names of people 
to free.  I should have found other 
sources.  I should have covered my
tracks better.  

Hubris, I guess it was.  I guess I can 
never change.

If only I had, I would not have put your 
lives in such jeapordy, and you and my mother 
would still have your Meg, my little sister, 
with you.  

You have been taken from your family, and it 
is all my fault.



END 12/16

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"We know that God makes all things 
work together for the good of those 
who have been called according to
his decree."
--Romans 8:28
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Somehow, They found out where I was 
getting the names of Their subjects, 
and after all of the times the two 
of you cooperatively threw the wooden 
shoes into Their machine, I suppose 
They'd had enough.  I know in the past
They had orchestrated attempts on your 
careers and your sanity too numerous to 
mention, but never before had They made 
such a blatant strike at your very lives.  
At least, not that I know of.  And, after 
all, I am relatively uninformed.  

I still can't figure out how long
They'd been watching to corner
us the way They finally did.  They 
knew enough to wait for one of the
relatively rare times when I was 
meeting not only with you and my 
mother for new connections, but I
was meeting with Joseph as well; 
I was running low on my serum, and 
he was bringing me a fresh supply.  

These meetings had become so ordinary
to me, even the danger had become
customary.  I guess I grew lazy, 
adolescently confident:  nothing had
happened so far.  I stopped looking 
over my shoulder quite as much.  I 
wasn't as hesitant to call Agent Scully 
on her cell phone as I had been in my 
early days out of the Cloister.  

Still, I did maintain the bare-minimum 
of cover; I walked into the abandoned 
steel mill as someone else -- a woman 
named Rebecca Zander. Height: five feet,
nine inches.  Eyes:  gray.  Hair:  Dk. 
Brown.  An organ donor.  She had a 
Fashion Bug credit card, maxed.  She 
was a Texan, from Houston, supposedly 
flown out to western Maryland to visit 
an old college roommate, one Mrs. 
Jennifer Witherspoon.  

Mrs. Jennifer Witherspoon had a chip 
in her neck, and Rebecca Zander had 
just casually destroyed that chip over 
lunch at an Italian restaurant.  Rebecca 
Zander had ordered fettucine chicken 
Florentine; Jennifer Witherspoon noticed 
aloud that her old friend Rebecca no longer 
hated spinach as she used to in the old days.  

Rebecca Zander smiled back sheepishly
and offered no explanation.  

Still as Rebecca Zander, I followed
the directions to the old Lehigh Steel 
Mill.  I remember how surprisingly heavy 
the traffic was, and how it was making me
late, especially once that trash truck
pulled out in front of me on the narrow
road leading to the mill. 

Their trash truck?  In retrospect, I can
only guess so.  The extent of the 
engineering They put into such things
amazes even me, even now.  At the time I 
was too irritated with the inconvenience 
even to consider such a possibility.

I pulled into the parking lot and noticed 
not two but three cars there, and still I 
did not suspect a thing.  It was a rare 
occasion that the four of us were meeting 
to begin with.  Equally rare but not unheard 
of were the times you and your partner had 
to drive in two separate cars by necessity 
of your investigations.  I just figured this
was one of those times.  

I did not know anything was wrong until
I trotted up the steps to the entrance,
made my way through the door, and followed 
the low murmur of voices to an office.  The 
door was ajar.  I entered and froze in shock.

You were already there.  Agent Scully was 
already there.  Joseph was already there, 
and I was already there.

My blond hair swung in an arc as I turned 
to face myself, myself as Rebecca Zander.  
A stunned time easily comparable to eternity 
passed over us all -- all of us except the one
who had come expressly to cause such a moment.  

My mother looked to me, then to her other 
daughter, my sister.  

"Emily?" she asked.  Her voice came out small, 
dry and cold.

I knew. I felt it in the pit of my stomach.  
They had discovered us.  

Even as I marveled at seeing my own face on 
someone else for the first time in over six 
years, my old training waged war on my new 
loyalties and sensibilities.  My fingers 
reached into my pocket for the old weapon my 
tutor had given me all those years ago, but 
I did not bring it forth into the light.  

Cain and Abel.  I was no longer a murderer.  
So I had made myself, and so I would stay.  
I had changed.

//You can never change.//  Merchant's silent 
words never left me completely.

"Wexford."  My voice came to me from my 
sister's mouth.  She had to speak the name 
out loud.  It was not Merchant.

I pulled the weapon out but did not push the 
button to release its deadly point.  I merely 
clutched at it meaningfully, as a warning.  

//Whatever you've got planned,// I willed her 
to hear me, //it's not going to work out.//

Abbot or Lynch? 

She pulled a gun.  A crude weapon, clumsy in 
the hands of someone who has not honed her 
skill for its use.  Lynch had been the one 
trained in the use of that weapon.

As she turned the gun on Joseph, I knew it was 
not Abbot who had come to this meeting in my 
place.  

"Lynch," I gasped.  My partner from my 
childhood -- our childhood.  

The four of you were standing so close to each 
other, an intimate little noose of a circle.  
I was too far away, all the way back at the 
door.  I could not move fast enough in my shock, 
so when Lynch pulled the trigger, the shot landed 
in Joseph's middle at point-blank range.  

So his blood spurted and landed on my mother and 
yourself, also at point-blank range.  

Joseph fell, clutching at his stomach.  My 
mother and you, her partner, both fell, clawing 
at the raw burns digging into your faces.  
Joseph's breath coughed out of him.  Both of
you struggled to breathe at all.  I remember
feeling my own throat close up as well.  Some
sympathetic response, or just the automatic
effect of panic?

Joseph's blue, blue eyes searched mine,
pleading for help.  I remembered a night when a 
knife slid down my cheek, and I was able to close 
the wound.  Would that be enough to heal?  I gave 
myself no choice but to try.  I would have to 
touch them.  They had no other help but me.  

I moved quickly, but a hand clamped on my arm 
and stopped me.

"Wexford," Lynch said, fixing her eyes -- *my 
eyes* on Rebecca Zander's dark ones.  "Come 
back with me..."

My old friend nausea hit me like a tidal wave.  
I wrested my arm from my sister's grip.  I 
hissed old ords at her, warning her of the blood-
boiling, rampaging fury filling my gut.  

"If you ever touch me again, I will kill you."

I did not wait to see what effect my warning had.  
I rushed blindly to the three who had been sprawled 
on the dusty floor with one gunshot from Lynch. 

What I saw there was... horrible.  All of you were 
unconscious by then, because I had not moved fast 
enough.  Joseph's blood had splattered your skins 
with acidic burns.  I summoned every ounce of 
courage it would take to touch, and placed all that 
courage first into the wound in Joseph's stomach, 
thinking that if my poor efforts would be enough to 
revive him, he could do the rest for yourself and 
my mother.  

I imagined the wound gone.  I imagined it closing 
up.  I imagined the green blood running its plotted 
course through Joseph's veins.

He blinked.  It was working.  His skin closed over 
where once a brief gaping hole had been.  

He groaned loudly.  He was in pain.  

"Joseph?"  I called.  

His eyes rolled back until all I could see was 
the white.  Seconds were vital.  He had to heal.  
//Had// to.  I could not do this myself.  I hadn't 
accepted enough training.

"Joseph!" I shrieked, "come on, you have to get 
better. You have to help me!"

His head lolled on his neck and his eyes closed 
once more.  I felt desperately for a pulse, and 
found only a weak one.  I imagined for him a 
strong heart beating fiercely, but imagination 
was not enough.  Joseph took in a deep breath, 
but when he coughed in exhalation, his lips were 
spattered with more flecks of green.  

I did not know anything at all about the inner 
workings of our bodies.  I could not imagine new 
parts for Joseph.  I could not imagine his pain 
away.  

Keeping one hand on Joseph's stomach, I
nevertheless reached over to my mother
willing her breathing to return to normal,
not the weak wheeze that had come over
her at the touch of Joseph's blood.  
Her breathing became less hindered, and I
crawled over to you to do the same.  
The same resulted, but none of you was
conscious yet.  I was making no headway.  

I looked up.  I had not noticed until then
that Lynch had gone.  Where, I don't know.
Why, I can't even begin to guess.

I looked back at the three of you.  I could
not figure out what to do.  When I was eleven
I had called 911, but the results had been 
tragic.  I am, after all, Biohazard.

The sisters of the Cloister would have called
on their God in such a situation.  But I
was no longer a sister of the Cloister.
I was, I am Wexford.

My identity, however, could not stop some
primeval mental twitch from tweaking my brain.  
Was it a prayer, or simply my staring down the 
face of despair?  I don't know, and I still have
not found the courage to ask.  

Whatever it was, some indefinable time later, 
I heard a thunder of multiple footsteps tramping 
up to the office where I now struggled with 
unschooled t0ouch to keep my three patrons alive.  

When the footsteps grew closer, then stilled 
themselves over the threshold to the office, I 
looked up and saw several silhouettes -- human 
shapes, but the uncovered presence of Joseph's
spilled blood had no effect on them.

"There he is," said one, "oh my God."

"Take them all to the vans," commanded another.  
"Hurry!"

I could not see their faces at all in the dim 
dusty air.  I was lifted off the floor by 
purposeful hands.  

"No!"  I shouted, wrestling, "Don't touch me!"

But their strength equalled if not surpassed my 
own.  I could not resist.

"You may find this hard to believe," answered my 
captor, "but we're here to rescue you."

Just then, I heard someone cough.  I think it was 
you, and Agent Scully's own coughing was not far 
behind.  I turned my head to see both of you 
breathing -- not well, but on your own -- and 
being dragged to your feet by some of the others 
who had just rushed into the office with my own 
captor.  

"Fauchelevent?"  my captor called over the din.

"Here," he hissed.  "Thanks, Scott."

"Joseph!" I shouted in relief.  

"It's okay, Emily," he called back, but weakly.  

Still distrusting, I did not go easily down the 
stairs as Scott my captor dragged me.  

"Where are we going?"  I demanded of him.

I received no answer, except being propelled 
outside the building and into a large van.  

"What is happening?" I shouted to him
as he took the driver's seat and roundly
ignored me.

Shortly thereafter, another man was helping
Joseph into the seat beside me.  Then we
were driven off.  I turned to look out the
back window just in time to see you and
Agent Scully being helped into another van.  

The man riding shotgun who had just helped 
Joseph leaned out the opend window and shouted 
to the people loading the van behind us, 
"GO!  GOGOGO!"  

Tires squealed.  Dust flew.  

I turned again and saw the other van pulling 
close behind us.  

"GET DOWN!"  Scott the driver shouted to
all of us. 

Joseph reached out and grasped my hand to
pull me down.  Before I could pull back
a great noise shook the air around us and
forced my face to the seat.

When I looked up again, the building from which
we had just been dragged was alive with
flames and billowing with choking gray smoke.

I stopped asking questions just then, for 
the time being.  

In numb silence, I watched the landscapes
roll by.  We were heading north.  The
gentle hills kept getting taller.  
We passed over the Pennsylvania border
by way of a non-toll bridge.  These 
people knew where they were going, where
they were taking me and Joseph, you
and my mother.

Hours later, I realized I knew where they
were taking us as well.  

White lettering on the green sign read,
"WEXFORD, 5 MILES."



END 13/16

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"In hope we were saved.  But hope
is not hope if its object is seen;
how is it possible for one to hope
for what he sees?  And hoping for
what we cannot see means awaiting
it with patient endurance."
--Romans 8: 24-25
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

In hope we were saved, but hope requires
risk.  Hope demands sacrifice.

Dusk had come by the time we reached the 
mouth of the Cloister's long driveway.  
I was ignored again in the flurry that 
ensued with our arrival.  Well, almost 
ignored.  

"Stay here, Wexford," Scott snapped as he
leapt out of the van and ran up the steps 
to the Cloister house.  

I rediscovered my voice.  "How do you know
who I am?"  

But Scott was already gone.  The man in the
passenger seat answered me instead with more
questions.  "How do we know who you are?  
Fauchelevent, didn't you tell her anything?"

Joseph smiled weakly.  "She didn't ask, 
Lenhart."  

The man Joseph had just called Lenhart turned
to face me with a wolfish but friendly smile.
"We're your family, Wexford."  Thick black
eyebrows danced at me over dark eyes.  

"Family?" I echoed, giving Joseph an uncertain
glance.

"You're one of us," Lenhart explained,
"The Resistance."  

"Joseph?"  I was asking for confirmation.

He nodded and closed his eyes, as if very, 
very tired.

"Is that how you found us?"  I asked Lenhart.

Lenhart shrugged and looked casually at his 
fingernails.  "We knew where Fauchelevent was 
going today, and then we got information that
They were on to us.  Simple, really, once you 
see how we work things."

Simple.  I almost laughed.  I actually felt the
giggle bubbling up in my throat.  So it hadn't 
been that mental twitch of mine that had 
summoned these people to drag us away in their 
vans.  

"Who?  Who gave you that information?"

Lenhart simply stared at me.  Perhaps some 
questions are best left unanswered.

"What happened to that steel mill?" I asked
nevertheless, looking out the window so as to 
leave the question open for either Joseph -- 
Fauchlevent -- or Lehnart.

Beside me, Joseph gave a shuddering breath.  

Lenhart answered with words, however.  "They 
went for overkill this time.  Just sending 
Lynch wasn't enough.  They think you're all 
dead now, or beyond saving."

The way he said "They" was clearly upper-case.

"So," Lenhart waxed loquacious, "we
decided to give Them what They wanted and
to make the best of it.  We play along like
the three of you are dead, see?"

"What do you mean, 'we'?"  I demanded, turning 
to face Lenhart.  "Who gives you the right to 
decide that for us?"

I pinned him with my gaze, with the icy gray
eyes of Rebecca Zander.  He fidgeted 
uncomfortably.

"We *haven't* decided that," Joseph whispered.
Then he insisted, "You have a choice."

Those same words, but this time I knew the 
choice was not just mine.  My mother and
her partner would have to make a choice as
well. 

Hope demands sacrifice.

Sighing with irritation -- irritation was
not nearly as painful as raw fear -- I 
asked one more question.  "Well, what are
we doing here, then?"

Jerking a thumb towards the van parked behind
ours, Lenhart answered.  "We need their help."

He used a lower-case "their."  He meant you
and my mother, but you know that.  

"For what?"  I forced some snappiness into my 
voice -- Rebecca Zander's voice.  

In a weak murmur, Joseph replied, "We need a
vaccine, and we're running out of time."

"But why did we have to come *here*?"

"We're not staying here," Lenhart grumbled.

Silent minutes later, I saw familiar faces
in familiar habits scrambling down the front
steps of the Cloister.  They were all carrying
boxes brimming with what I can only describe 
as... stuff.  Clothes, food, apple butter,
vials and hypodermic syringes.  Stuff.

Lenhart jumped out of the van and opened the 
back door.  Sister Helen Gabriel was the first 
one in, followed by three of the other five.  
Mother Prioress and Sister Mary Therese were 
climbing into the van behind ours.

"Sister!"  Helen Gabriel smiled, handing me the 
box she had been carrying.  "Are you ready for 
an adventure?"

I opened my mouth to speak, but the irony of 
the words I was about to say hit me.  Hit me
hard, actually.  That tiny giggle that had 
stirred inside of me a few minutes ago gained
momentum.  I began to snicker.  Then, I was 
not just giggling, but laughing.  Laughing out
loud, deep, body-shaking belly-laughs.  Was
I ready for an adventure?

"Do I have a choice?"  I asked Sister Helen
Gabriel, as tears of laughter streamed down
my cheeks and Scott put the car in gear, 
heading us off onto a night-dark highway.
I just barely heard Joseph's shallow-
breathing laughter over the growl of the
engine.  

Not only did I make a joke, but somebody
else got it.  Success.  Success all my own.

I hadn't even noticed that in my laughter I 
had reverted to the face I had originally 
called my own, that of Emily Camille Wexford.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I can only describe that whole night as 
surreal.  Morning brought us further 
upstate.  No green highway sign gave us 
warning of our destination, but I knew 
we were still heading north.  Faint gray 
light shone in the passenger side windows 
and fell upon the silhouette of a farm  
sprawling at the top of a long uphill
driveway.  I squinted and saw a light 
shining in one window.  Someone had
waited up for us.  

"There it is," Lenhart yawned.  Scott
turned the wheel and we were bumping
our way up the pothole-pocked drive.

"Like I said when we bought it," Lenhart
grumbled through grittted teeth, "the place
needs some major work."

"Small town," Scott said.  I could see
his knuckles whitening at his grip on
the steering wheel, even in the dark.
"Backward.  No surveilance cameras in any of 
the stores or gas stations.  It's the safest 
place around.  You know that just as well as 
I do.  Besides, the sisters' liked the name."

A wave of light laughter issued from the 
other passengers.

"And," Scott added, "it's got those 
underground passages.  The best deal we could've 
found.  Thank God for Erie's lake-affect
snow."

"We should've had more time to fix it up
before bringing them here," Lenhart 
complained to no one in particular.

Scott frowned.  "No point arguing it now.
They forced our hand." 

Joseph sat up next to me.  His gunshot wound
was gone, and other than looking exhausted,
he appeared none the worse for wear.  He 
turned and gave me what was meant to be a
reassuring smile.

"What is this place?" I asked him, knowing he
would have an answer.

"It's a farm we bought as a base of operations
and research," he explained, "in a little
town called Mount Carmel."

Then I understood the sisters' appreciation, 
being from the Discalced religious order of 
Our Lady of Mount Carmel.

Scott pulled us up to the driveway and the 
sisters filed out, carrying their boxes.
Lenhart took Sister Helen Gabriel's box,
since she was the oldest, even older than
Mother Prioress.  Then, Joseph crawled out 
of the van, and I followed him.  

An early morning breeze lightened the May 
heat and humidity.  I looked around, and 
apparently everyone else was doing the same.  
There was an ancient, paint-peeling hex 
sign over the barn doors, typical of old
Pennsylvania Dutch farms.  

The doors of the other van suddenly slammed
shut.  A woman a few years older than me was
leading my mother and her partner up the
front steps of the farm house.  I remember 
it clearly -- so clearly, I don't think even
my unreliable memory could ever lose that image.  
The two of you were clinging to each other, 
walking so slowly, as if each step hurt.  I 
wanted to stop you, to ask what was wrong.  
Were you still just in pain from Joseph's 
blood?  I thought our abductors had healed you.  
They had, hadn't they?  

I wanted to call out to my mother, but I did not
know how to address her.  The word "Mommy" was
not for me to say, and now that I know why
your posture spoke of such despair, I am
doubly glad I did not say that word; I am
sure I only would have twisted the nails in
the fresh wound of the sacrifice you had
decided to make.  

"Sister," a familiar voice called softly on 
the morning haze.

I turned and saw Mother Prioress, her brows
knit together in the same expression of 
worry I'd so often seen and caused.  She
was carrying a box, and either through nature
or old habit, I reached out to carry it 
for her.  She surrendered it gracefully. 

She must have noticed how I was watching the
two of you, because she offered me the 
explanation I could not demand out loud.

"They've made a choice," she sighed, her 
voice tired but heavy with compassion.  

I stopped walking, afraid of what Mother 
Prioress would say next, but still I had
to ask.  "And?"

The Mother Prioress waved her hand, inviting 
me to keep walking up the steps with her.  
"Do you remember the gospel of John, chapter 
fifteen, verse thirteen?"

I could actually feel myself blush.  I was no
longer under her care, but I did not want to
disappoint the Mother Prioress.  "I have not
kept up with my scripture reading," I admitted.

She did not respond with any condemnatory words.
She only nodded in acknowlegement.  

"It's from Our Lord's Last Supper, Sister.
Now do you recall?"

Surreal.  This whole experience was so surreal.
I tugged on my brain to determine Mother 
Prioress' reference.  The Last Supper discourse:  
Jesus' parting words.  Parting words.  He was 
about to be taken away from his friends and 
family.

Parting words.

I ventured a guess.  "'Man hath no greater love
than this...'?"

"... than to lay down one's life for one's 
friends."  The Mother Prioress nodded and 
finished for me.

I looked up the steps just in time to watch you
and my mother enter the house, our new home.

"They made a choice?"  I asked the Mother 
Prioress.

"Sister," she nodded and said in a voice more 
bitter than sweet, "I would like you to attend 
a funeral."

Hope demands sacrifice.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


It was more of a memorial service, actually.
The bodies had not been found, so a Mass of 
Christian Burial was not an option, and 
would have been inappropriate, given that only
one of you was Catholic.

I pulled out an old identity, one I had not
used in months.  An older woman named Joanne
Forte, birthdate 3/4/54.  Never married.  
Brown eyes.  She was my height:  five feet,
three inches.  A minimum of effort went into
becoming her, and I knew I was going to need
all the energy I could spare.

I decided to drive instead of taking a flight
out there.  It was an nine hour haul from
northwestern Pennsylvania back out to the
suburbs of DC.  Plenty of time to think.  
Plenty of time to prepare myself for seeing
my little sister again.  But nothing could
have prepared me for all I was about to 
encounter.  

According to the media, there had been a 
bombing of an abandoned steel mill in western 
Maryland.  No suspects had been named, but two 
federal agents had been presumed dead.  No one 
knew why they were there in the first place, 
not even their superior agents, but their rental 
car had been found at the scene of the bombing,
and the agents themselves were nowhere to be 
found.  

The investigation team was looking into various 
leads, the most promising of which pointed to
any one of thousands of local laid-off steel
mill workers and their families.  

I would have laughed when I read that, but I had
other things on my mind.  I was still trying to
find the obituaries.  Once I found them, I found
where the memorial service would be held,
and when.  

My little sister was much taller than I had 
expected her to be.  In my mind, Margaret 
Grace Mulder was still nine years old, playing 
basketball in her driveway, utterly innocent to 
the fact that her older sister was being trained 
up to kill her, much less that she even *had* an
older sister, or five...

It took me several minutes to figure out it 
was her.  She was standing at the head of a
relatively short line.  Her hair was pulled 
back into a French twist, which kept loosening 
as time went by.  An older woman stood next to 
my little sister, holding Meg's hand and softly
talking to her.  Actually, it was more like my 
sister was holding *her* hand, offering the
elder mourner strength.  

My grandmother.  

Since I was sixteen, I'd been aware that I had 
a little sister, outside of those who had been 
created just like me.  But the realization that 
I had a grandmother as well was... eerie.  I
had a grandmother, and uncles, and cousins.  
My little sister, born, coddled raised in love, 
the darling girl among a passle of grandsons, 
had just lost her family.  I, created, brought 
forth, engineered... had just found more family 
than I had ever imagined reading about in any 
of my books.

I did not pass through the receiving line at 
first.  I just watched from the back of the crowd,
but that still did not put me at much of a 
distance from where my sister and my grandmother 
were shaking the hands and accepting the hugs 
and sympathies of their few fellow mourners.  
It seemed to be mostly family -- my family -- 
and a very few friends in attendance. 

Family.  My family.  I kept my distance and 
Joanne Forte's face.

A tall young man, African-American, gently
forced his way to the front of the receiving
line and bent to hug my grandmother.  Then,
he said something to my sister, something 
I could not hear, and he placed his dark
hand softly against my sister's ash-pale
cheek.  For the first time since I had 
seen her, she actually looked like she
was about to cry.  She did not, however.  She
just nodded and smiled.  

Who was he?  He must have been important to 
her if he could almost make her lose her 
composure like that.

I decided to get a closer look at my sister's
face.  I don't know why.  Curiosity, I suppose.  
I looked around carefully to see if anyone
had noticed me.  They  -- upper-case --
would surely be watching this event.  No one 
seemed to be paying particular attention
to my -- Joanne Forte's -- presence.  I joined 
the line, keeping my eyes fixed on my sister 
so I could continue wondering what kind of
person she was.

With each hand she shook, her face cemented
more deeply into a non-expression.  Her eyes 
were completely dry as I watched her, but the 
gray shadows coloring her eyelids spoke of hours 
of crying alone, perhaps into a pillow.  When her 
hands weren't busy with the business of being part 
of a receiving line, they were brushing back the 
wayward curls that kept escaping from the twist 
at the back of her head.  The the tilt of her 
cheeks, the angle of her chin -- so much of it 
was like looking into a mirror.  

She was eighteen now.  Eighteen.

*All grown up,* as my mother had said.  *Our*
mother.  

She looked so vulnerable, but so strong.  You 
would have been proud of her had you been there.

I'd forgotten to bring flowers.  To my own 
mother's funeral.  Yet another thing that
no one had ever thought to train into me.  
I had nothing to give my sister or my
grandmother.  Nothing.  I could not even
touch them for comfort.  Or couldn't I?  

Hope demands sacrifice.  

I shook my grandmother's hand.  Success.  
Success all my own.  She smiled, and it was
my mother's smile.  "Thank you for coming,"
she said.  Her voice was tired with weeping.

Then I was standing before my little sister.
I had to look up to see her eyes.  Her
eyes had the same shape as the eyes They
had given me, but hers were colored with 
flecks of green.  

She did not smile at me.  She gave no greeting.  
"How did you know them?"  She asked me.

I hadn't prepared an answer to that question.
I thought quickly for something that was
the truth -- maybe not all of it, but enough
of it.  

"We were comrades-at-arms," I explained in
Joanne Forte's sixty-something voice.  

Something in my sister's face twitched at
that strange phrase I chose, but she did not 
press. I could sense she was too busy trying 
to control her own grief.  

She did not reach for my hand.  She did 
not say "thank you."  In fact, she stepped
back from me.  

I made the greatest sacrifice I could
think of making at the time; I reached out
to another human being, my little sister.
I took her hand in mine, and imagined 
healing for her passing from my hand into
hers, from my green blood into her red
blood, from my heart into hers.  I did not 
know if my imaginings would make a difference.  
I just held her and let myself hope that 
my touch could actually give her some 
measure of peace.

Suddenly, tears sprang to her eyes 
unbidden.  She almost ripped her hand
out of mine.  

"I am so sorry," I said, because, after all,
it is all my fault.  Then I turned and left.  

I did not stay for the service.  On the 
drive back to Mount Carmel, I thought
about how I almost made my little sister
cry.  I had only wanted to heal her.  It
seemed I couldn't do anything right, not
even the sorts of things They had created
me to do.  Unless tears are a form of
healing, too.  

I stopped on the way home to get gas for
the car.  When I went to pay, I picked
up a newspaper.  

"SUSPECT CHARGED IN STEEL MILL BOMBING
FOUND DEAD IN CELL."

I read on.

"Son of a former mill employee, Mr.
Joseph Fauchlevent, age 28, who reportedly 
confessed to setting the bomb at the 
abandoned Lehigh Steel Mill last week,
was found dead in his cell shortly before
three AM.  Cause of death is still 
undetermined...."

So much death devouring everything.  I 
dropped the paper in the parking lot.
Hope demands sacrifice.  Tears are a form
of healing.  

One week ago, after I left your funeral, 
I arrived back here at this farm in Mount 
Carmel, Pennsylvania -- this farm the 
sisters are already calling "the new Cloister."  
I spent this past week after my return alone
in my room, coming out only for food and 
refills on serum.  I finally have decided to 
make amends for my guilt, to put right all
that I have put wrong, and that is why I came 
to you today, Agent Mulder, to ask for your help.  
Well, yesterday, at this point.  I need to put 
this all behind me and become a new person if I 
am ever going to learn to heal.  If I am ever 
going to uncover the full potential that is me, 
I need to learn these things.  

I will.  I must.  It is a difficult thing
for me to learn, but hope demands sacrifice.
This is the least I can do, in light of what
you and my mother and Joseph have given up.

So you told me to write it down, since I so
obviously could not talk about it.  So here 
it is.  After writing all through the night,
my hand hurts, I am more tired than I ever 
have been, and the sun is just starting
to rise, but here it is.  It was hard work
but I know it nothing compared to what is to
come.  There is no spell to make me just
like everyone else.  There is only this 
sacrifice.

It is a start.



END 14/16

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
You did not receive a spirit of slavery,
leading you back into fear, but a spirit
of adoption through which we cry out "Abba!"
(that is, "Father")
--Romans 8: 15
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


Two years.  I can't belive it.  Almost two 
years have passed since I have written in 
this notebook.  Two years, and I have learned 
so much, but it still was not enough.  So much 
has happened in just the past thirty-six hours, 
and even though I did all I could, I should 
have been able to do more.  I am so sorry,
but sorry is not enough.  Sorry cannot bring
your daughter out of her unconsciousness -- 
a state I could have prevented had I learned
enough.

For nearly two years I have designated myself
my sister's keeper; I have kept tabs on her
through other members of the Resistance:
namely, Scott, Lenhart and Keyte.  The
three of them watched over her and let us 
know that Meg Mulder was succeeding in the 
Foreign Languages program at Georgetown,
despite being the youngest junior on campus.  
She was easy to keep an eye on, Lenhart quipped,
because she was always studying.  She hardly
ever went out, but when she did it was either
to go home and visit her grandmother or to
take the Metro to Catholic University and
have pizza and watch movies with her friend 
Kevin -- the tall boy who had touched her 
cheek at your funeral.  

The tall boy I could not save last night.

A year ago, another death touched my little 
sister's life.  Was this death engineered by 
Them?  We can only guess.  I attended the funeral 
for our grandmother, Doctor Scully's mother.  At 
that funeral I did not approach my sister Meg at 
all.  I had too much to hide this time.  I wanted 
to tell her too much.  It was all I could do to 
maintain our deep cover for her protection.  Had 
I let myself get too close to her, I would have 
spilled it all, and I know that is not what you, 
her parents, wanted for her.  

For two years I have tried to learn the depths of
my healing capabilities, but my earlier learning
has left walls within me.  The skill to
murder left little room for my desire to heal,
but I have made some headway.  I memorized
what Scott, Lenhart and Keyte taught me about
removing the black oil.  That alone took two
years, and now I'm wondering if it was even worth
the effort.  Lenhart said that was the first
thing I should learn, but after last night
I have to wonder.

Last night.  Well, starting with two days ago,
really, when Scott, Lenhart and Keyte returned
to the new Cloister with information.

"Wexford," Keyte called to me across our 
Cloister basement lab as she pulled her
mouse brown hair into a ponytail.  Last name is 
customary form of address in this world of ours; 
so many of us, clones, share first names with 
others who are not part of our resistant, 
rebellious efforts.  Where last names tie humans 
together in families, they offer us one of the 
few indicators of our individualities.

I left the tools I was sterilizing and walked 
out to her.  Her face had an expression of
cocky annoyance, which meant she was worried.

"What is it?"

"The boys and I just got back from a serum run,"
she said, "the boys" meaning Scott and Lenhart,
"and along the way we got word that They have 
been watching your sister for the past couple 
days."

The way she said "They" was clearly upper-case.
*How* They were watching her, I didn't even
need to ask.  They had enough vehicles of
surveilance at Their disposal, even I knew that,
and Keyte never lied.  Never.  Not even 
white lies. 

I looked over at Doctor Scully, wearing 
the white lab coat I had bought for her last 
Christmas.  She had not heard our conversation.
She was hard at work directing the sisters in 
mass-production of our vaccine formula.  At 
least one success has come out of our exile 
so far.

"Which one?" I asked Keyte in a hushed 
voice, hoping Doctor Scully wouldn't hear 
and worry.  

"Your little sister," she explained, lowering
her own voice.  

I shook my head.  "Why?  Why now?"

All she did was shrug.  "You haven't been
out there with us in months.  Has there been 
a break in security around here?"

"Not that I can think of.  I mean, except
going out to get groceries at that
store without a surveilance camera,
nobody's come or gone besides the three
of you," I answered my fellow soldier.  

Keyte's face went pale at the implications.
"Scott and Lenhart -- they're not traitor
material."

"I didn't say they were.  Anyway, it doesn't
matter.  What are you going to do about it?"

Keyte snickered at me.  "What do you mean
'you'? More like what are *we* going to do
about it?"

So whatever they wanted to do, they wanted me
to be a part of it.  

"You're still the best morpher," Keyte
continued, "and if we need to be out there
keeping a physical eye on her, you're the 
best woman for the job."

So I went with them.  

How did I find your daughter the next day?  
So much of my life has been spent as other 
people. I may not have learned all there 
is to know about healing, but I know how 
to be other people.  All I had to do was 
think:  if I were Meg Mulder, darling girl 
raised in love but suddenly on my own as 
the result of multiple tragedies... where 
would I have gone?

When we got in the van, Scott looked to me
for direction.  I am the youngest, but
my brothers and sisters in the Resistance 
still treat me like an equal -- an honor
I often feel I do not deserve.

Nevertheless, when Lenhart asked me, "Where
to, Wexford?"  I had no trouble offering
a suggestion.

"Back to D. C."

Hours later, I had them drop me off at the
graveyard.  They drove around separately,
looking to protect your little girl.  I 
waited by your empty graves.  I didn't even 
change my face.  

I found a hiding spot among a small stand of
trees.  The unexpected threat is the greatest 
threat of all.  

When I saw Lynch arrive with Kevin Declan,
I was wearing the face They had given to
me and my sisters, Emily A through Emily E.  
In my hiding place, I was Wexford.

As Wexford, I watched my little sister place
small, plastic-wrapped bouquets before four
gravestones.  As Wexford, I watched Lynch
lead Kevin Declan out of her car, the car
They had given her, and I watched her aim her
gun through night's darkness at our little 
sister -- at my little sister.

"Emily," I whispered from my shadows.

Lynch, my sister, lowered her gun and
turned to me.  She was obviously shocked
to see me, to see herself there, calling
her by name.

I stepped closer to Lynch.  I could hear
our little sister yelling something to
her driver as Kevin, infected with the oil, 
pursued her.

"Emily," I pleaded, "come back with me."

Almost two years ago she had said the same
words to me.  She raised her gun again, but
kept looking at me, her face pained.

For those times They had sent Lynch after
me, I had to try to lure her away from
Them.  She was my sister, and I am my 
sisters' keeper.  Our fates had been chosen
for us, not by us.

How had Joseph lured me away?  It still
hurts to remember him, but I needed his 
memory to guide me in how to reach for my 
sister, Emily Elizabeth Lynch.  

"Emily," I told her, "you have a choice."

When the blue light of night fell on her 
eyes, eyes exactly like my own, I saw 
what she was feeling:  blood-boiling, 
heart-rending, rampaging jealousy.  
Nothing more.  There was no hope there, not 
even desire.  

And so I knew what her choice would be.

I tried to stop her the only way old
habits told me I could.  As fast as Lynch
re-aimed her gun at our little sister, 
I rushed her, pulled the gimlet out and 
drove it into her neck.  At the time it
was the only way I could think of to stop 
her.

I killed her.  I killed Lynch.  I killed
my partner from long ago.  I killed my sister,
just as Cain had killed Abel.  But I was 
still too late.  Lynch fell to the ground, 
and the devouring began just as Meg Mulder 
fell with a gunshot wound in her left shoulder.  

"What have you done?" God asked Cain.  "Listen; 
your brother's blood cries out to me from the 
soil!"

If I think too hard, I can still hear
Lynch's scream just before she was no 
more.  Was the choice hers to make, or
had I taken that choice from her?  I 
just can't figure it out.  

I saw that Lynch's erstwhile captive
had turned to watch what was happening
through oil-clouded eyes.  I had no time 
then to ponder over what I had done.  I 
ran over to Meg's friend and called upon 
what Scott and Lenhart and Keyte had made 
me memorize about removing the black oil.  
I knew it in theory, but had never tested
it in practice.

*That's the first thing you oughta learn,*
had been Lenhart's admonition.  I had wanted
them to teach me how to heal first, but they
had insisted.  

*There'll be time to teach you the rest,*
Keyte had assured me, but I could tell she 
was trying to assure herself as well.

I called upon my utterly unreliable memory,
and to my utter shock it worked.  The gruesome
black stuff came pouring out at my command,
but it only bought time for Kevin Declan.  I
could not help him and heal Meg at the same
time, and my little sister was sprawled in 
the grass, unmoving.  Death behind me, death
beside me, and death before me.  

I ran to Meg, knelt by her side.  If she dies
too, then what good have I done?

I put my palm on her back and tried to 
imagine her wound closed.  I knew it wouldn't
work, but I had to try.  Why hadn't I made
Keyte come with me to that graveyard?  Hubris,
I guess.  See?  I told you I could have done 
more.

Meg struggled.  I told her not to fight it.
I heard myself calling her my little sister.
She must have known what I was, because she
tried to get away from me, even with a bullet
in her back.  Even with death upon her she 
fought.  Thinking about that now, I think I
can say that I admire my little sister.  

At the moment, though, all I could think about
was this:  that I had to prove to her that I'm 
not like Them, that I am not one of Them, that 
I have chosen a different path.

I *have* chosen a different path.  My God.
Everything has changed.

When Meg's wound closed enough that she was no
longer losing as much blood, we had to move
her.  We had no time.  We still have to go back
and get her friend later.  I told her driver
to get your daughter out of there.  He helped
me lift her into the car.  I guess he only 
obeyed my command out of fear, because he had 
just witnessed what I had done to someone 
who looked exactly like me.  A strange sort
of suicide.

"I'll ride with you until you can get her to
a hospital," I told him, "but then you're on
your own."

He sort of waggled his head as if trying to 
shake himself out of a trance.  That was
when he asked that question.  "Do you know 
where her parents are?"

I was too stunned to answer.  

"I have a plane," he continued, in the 
obvious hope that he could persuade me
to tell him where the missing parents 
were.  

I could not heal her wound totally, but 
I made a choice:  a choice to trust that 
stranger and reunite my sister with her 
family.  And your partner is a doctor.  
I acted in the very human hope that
Mommy would make it all better.  

So Cho, the pilot, flew us here.  I kept
my palm on my little sister's shoulder 
the whole time, doing what little I could 
to keep her breathing even and to keep her 
blood from leaving her completely.  

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


Now, after our mother has sewn Meg up 
properly, using some of the medical supplies 
we have hoarded against the colonization days 
to come, the two of you sit with her, reunited 
at last with your miracle daughter, the child 
of your love.  She is still unconscious, and 
there is still much she does not know, but my 
choice, my risk has brought hope.  Hope for the 
three of you.  Perhaps I have it in me to heal 
after all.

And perhaps being human is not about 
being pure good.  Perhaps it is just about
reaching out to others in hopes of making
a difference.  It's about choice.  It's
about sacrifice and touch.  It's about
always changing and learning.  It's about 
having faith in others.  It's about having 
faith in myself.

You didn't have to thank me, you know.  I
am my sister's keeper.  I should have been 
able to do more.

It is morning again, and I have just reread 
what I have written here.  I just looked in
the mirror and nothing has changed, but as I
read my own story, everything has changed.

I think I need to find the Mother Prioress.  
And Father Tim.  There is something I want 
to do now.  I have sins to be forgiven, 
because I have murdered.  When I chose to 
take away those lives, I took away that 
precarious gift called choice.  And we all
deserve a choice, red blood or green blood.
We are all, at least partially, human.

But I have also done good, and I have to
acknowledge that.  Within me I have life and
death, blessing and curse, like all the human
race.  I have an identity to claim, and a 
family to call my own.  

Perhaps Doctor Scully can be persuaded to 
leave one daughter's bedside and help me 
just a little for just a few minutes.  I am
going to need a godmother.  

I will ask the Mother Prioress to give me
a name.  Now I am called Wexford, but 
I have changed.  I know this now.  


END 15/16

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"But if we are children, 
we are heirs as well:
heirs of God, heirs with Christ, 
if only we suffer with him 
so as to be glorified with him."
--Romans 8: 17
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I don't have much time.  I'm writing this 
quickly, as my little sister writes a note 
of her own, explaining where we are going.  
Meg thinks quickly, and doesn't give a second
thought to risking her own life to save 
another, even while she is in such great 
pain now.  Now, I am certain that I admire
her.  She is so much that I am not, so much
that I can never be.

While she still slept, I was baptized.  
Mother Prioress gave me names for my new
identity.  She whispered the names to
Father, who poured the water over my head.

"I baptize you, Michael Joan, in the name of
the Father, of the Son, and of the Holy 
Spirit."

As I was named, I looked to Mother Prioress,
who smiled at me with tears in her eyes.  

Michael for the Archangel, defender of souls,
warrior against evil.  And Joan for Joan of
Arc.  The Mother Prioress had chosen strong
patrons for me.  

Then, Father Tim touched me with the sacramental
oil, saying the words of anointing, "Go forth 
and live as Jesus has called you, as prophet,
priest and king."

"Wait," Doctor Scully said, just as Father 
Tim was about to say the closing prayer. 
"Doesn't she have to put on a white
garment?"

Mother Prioress nodded, "That is traditonally
part of the sacrament."

Then, my godmother helped me into the white
lab coat I had given her last Christmas.  
White -- the symbolic color of healing,
hope, and new life.  My christening gown.

"Thanks," I whispered.  Then, I pitched my 
voice low enough that she might not have
heard it.  "Mommy..."

She must have heard it.  She rested her hand
against my cheek.  At last, I did not need 
to pull away.

Hours later, when Meg finally woke up, Doctor
Scully called on me to explain to my sister
what had happened in the graveyard.  I
described it as best I could, but there is 
still much she does not know.  She is almost
twenty one.  Don't you think she is old enough
now?  But I suppose that is not my choice.

When she sent both you and her mother away,
Agent Mulder, she asked me to help her go
back and find Kevin.  I am helping her because
it's my fault he's not here with us now in
the first place.  I am only human, but I still 
must do all I can to right my wrongs.

So I will do all I can to make a deal.  I will
call on that house where I once was tutored,
the house where my sisters still live.  I will 
arrange a deal with Them.  Just in case, I will 
bring the stiletto They gave me, but I hope not 
to use it.  

I know the danger in facing my remaining two 
sisters.  I am not naive.  But what is the 
worst They can do, kill me?  I am more than
what They created me to be.  If They kill me,
They destroy only the shell, and the shell 
was all They ever wanted anyway.

I am taking some vaccine with me to cure 
Kevin for certain.  I already have some of 
my own syringes.  

I gave Meg freedom to go through my clothes
for something to wear on this journey of 
ours.  My little sister is borrowing my 
clothes.  How normal.  Soon I will close this 
book and go to help her get dressed.  She is 
still weak and in much pain.  She needs my help.  

Miracle of miracles, I can hold her and there
is no nausea.  

I do not have much more time to write, but I
wanted to leave my own note.  If I do not come
back from this journey, I want my little 
sister to read this notebook I've kept for 
the purpose of healing.  This might help her 
understand some of the things she has not yet
learned about what is out there, about Their 
Project, and about what has been hidden from 
her and why.  Perhaps she can see what kinds of 
sacrifices have been made out of hope for her 
future.  Perhaps this will help her understand
how much she is loved and needed.

Then again, perhaps I will return to this farm,
our new Cloister, to my family in all its shapes 
and forms.  In fact, I am pulling off our poorly
stocked library shelves two books I have always 
refused to read up until now.  Their titles were 
too damning for me, I used to think, their 
premises too much wishful thinking.  I don't 
think that anymore.  Everything has changed.

"The Story of a Soul," by Therese of Lisieux, a
Carmelite nun.  "Little Women," by Louisa May
Alcott.  I think I will be ready to read them 
when I come home.  Perhaps I will read them to my 
sister one day.  My little sister.  My family.


END 16/16

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Well, you hated it?  You liked it?  You don't know
what happens to Wexford?  Email me at 
CathyLex@aol.com