The Children's Teeth: Sister's Blood (prequel)

By Erin McCole Cupp
CathyLex@aol.com


Date: 27 Oct 1998
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.