MY TRAVELS WITH CHARLEY CH03: STOCKHOME (1/1)

DATE: 8/23/00
AUTHOR: Sue Esty
CONTACT: Windsinger@AOL.com
RATING: PG
CLASSIFICATION: XA series
SPOILERS: REQUIEM, 7th season.
KEYWORDS: Mulderangst
SUMMARY: Finally recovering from his nearly fatal first few
minutes aboard the alien ship, a lonely Mulder talks to an
absent Scully of his surroundings and his fellow prisoners.
ARCHIVING: Gossamer, Emphereal, ATXC, and anywhere with
permission and as long as the author's name is retained.

DISCLAIMER: Where do I start? No, the X-Files and the characters
of Fox Mulder and Dana Scully do not belong to me. Chris and
David, thank you, thank you for giving us a great season finale
and only a Mulder-light Eighth Season.

Author's Notes: This is third is a series of short stories
chronically Mulder's confusing, agonizing, torturous, lonely and
wondrous adventures with the 'Grays'.

My older work can be found on Gossamer under 'Esty, Sue' with
the newer pieces at http://members.aol.com/windsinger.

MY TRAVELS WITH CHARLEY CH03: STOCKHOME (1/1)

     "Mulder..."

     Sleep's gentle arms slowly release me. The smell of coffee,
rich and thick and hot, wafts through the air. Someone has taken
the trouble to cook bacon, too, as well as toast and eggs. My
stomach rumbles in happy anticipation even as my arms reach up
to embrace the slender form in the flame-red hair who hovers
above me, smiling.

     "Scully, you shouldn't have."

     "You're right, I shouldn't have. All that cholesterol is
just going to lay down and die in your arteries. But then I
thought -- for my handsome traveler, just this once. Why not?"

     She is warm in my arms, skin truly as soft as silk. She
snuggles into me, lowering her head to bite down playfully on
the side of my neck. A thrill of anticipation and pleasure flows
through my singing body. Slowly, she begins to undress for me,
sliding the white film over first one creamy shoulder, than the
other --

     The buzzer that reaches my ear doesn't just intrude on the
mood, it shatters it. I tell myself that it's the timer on the
stove, but I know that isn't true. My right hand falls limply to
my side.

     I'm hiding in my 'cubby' -- short for cubbyhole as you
probably know --  where I seem to be spending most of my time
lately. Roughly two meters long and less than a meter wide and
a meter high, this coffin-shaped and lightless hole is the only
place in this alien prison that is all mine. We all have them.
They line the walls like quadruple-high bunk beds except that
each is completely enclosed, even down to the hinged door that
opens up across one long end. Mine is on the bottom of one
stack. In fact, it's actually on the floor, so much so that I
have to get down on my hands and knees to creep inside. But it's
all mine. It's home now. The only home I have.

     I must admit, the accommodations are a bit sparse. Have you
read about those little 'hotel' rooms they have in Japan? Like
overgrown bus station lockers, you can whip out your credit card
and for the night have a more or less comfortable single bed. As
you might expect from the Japanese love of gadgets, all the
electronics you could ask for are tucked into the walls a few
inches from your face: TV, video player, internet access, CD
player, razor, hair dryer. My box on the alien ship is a bit
more spare. It's furnished with a thin pad to protect my bones
from the floor. That's it. No sheets, no pillow, no blanket.
Instead, we huddle into balls when we sleep. At least I do. It's
the only way I've found to even begin to stay warm and I still
dream of cold winter winds more often than anything else. Of
course, I stretch out when I attempt to engage in one of my
fantasies. Haven't had any success yet, but then it hasn't been
very long since I've been able to manage the physical activity
required or been able to concentrate long enough without falling
asleep. This morning was my best attempt yet. Such rich visions.
I even had the smells down right.

     Don't scold, Scully. I know that this isn't good for me. It
hurts too much when I come down. I grieve all over again for
what I have lost - what we both have lost. I should learn to
accept this curve ball Fate has sent my way. Embrace the
challenge! Sorry, I'm not that much of a masochist. Besides,
what else do I have to do?

     Actually, at the moment I do have something else to do. I
have to roll out of here and get in line for breakfast.

     I flip up the door to my combination living room, bedroom
and garage. Ironically, the door is exactly like the one on
those flipper cabinets that you find in all modular office
furniture. The trick is to get to my feet without clipping an
elbow. At least I don't have to dress. Now you're probably
thinking that I'm naked. Maybe it would be best if I started
from the beginning.

     "Oh, good. Just what I could use right now... a tour." Your
voice in my head is so sweet, despite the irony, that it hurts.
Very well, this will be today's chapter of the travelogue. I
guess I'll start to make these regular now that I'm no longer in
danger of dying anytime soon.

STOCKHOME:

     The >Yei< -- I still do not know where this word comes from
but it refers to the group or the sub-race that runs this ship -
- must have spent years studying old World War II training films
on how to inflict psychological torture. Considering that the
Consortia was deeply in bed with the inventive Dr. Shiro Zama
and other Axis ex-patriots from that infamous time in the Human
race's recent past, I wouldn't be surprised if the aliens
weren't equally as acquainted.

     First, the male and female abductees are separated for all
but a few minutes of each day. Who would have thought that we
would end up with prudish aliens! I'm of the opinion, however,
that the arrangement is intended just to irritate us. I've not
seen women's accommodations, but since they wear the same
clothes and the same vacant expressions as the men, I'd say they
were treated pretty much the same.

     Now about Stockhome. First, that's only my name for it.
Cattle images... Home.... Get it? Anyway, it's one large room.
Three of the walls are lined with our private boxes like so many
shelves in a crypt. There are forty-four cabinets -- four rows
of four high on each side and three rows of four high on the end
that doesn't have any doors. At six feet six inches length per
box that leaves a central open space of twenty-six feet by
slightly less than twenty feet. And an open space is all it is.
No furniture. Not even carpet or padding. Just a resin-like
floor. At least we are running at only half capacity or we'd be
on top of each other during the day. I've counted a maximum of
twenty men at one time. This should leave empty cabinets, but no
one opens the unclaimed ones on the opposite wall and so neither
do I.

     I don't think I'm ready to know what's inside.

     As far as decoration goes, it's all sort of greenish brown,
like the cargo hold. It's not army green, not that bad. There's
some mottling, rather like creeping mold, but not really enough
to be interesting.

     In contrast to what we have always heard about the abductee
experience, there is not much light here. In fact, much of the
time you feel like you're sleepwalking in a brown haze. Not
dark, but not light enough to read a book with fine print for
long.

     If I only had a book.

     They keep this half-light on all the time and, of course,
there are no windows, so there's no night and day. Since the
others all tend to sleep at the same time, I've come to think of
that time as night under the assumption that, at least this
early in our confinement, their biorhythms have got to be more
normal than mine.

     In one corner there is what can only be called a pit
toilet. There's no flush. Everything just goes down, down, down
somewhere. At least there is minimal smell. Oh, and they do
provide a few sheets of toilet paper that I swear were last seen
on a cactus. Not that we need to make use of them much. Most of
the bacteria in and on our bodies were destroyed in the
sanitation process when we came through the shower room and
we're not given much solid food.

     I'll get to the topic of food in a bit. For privacy around
this privy, someone has hung a couple of shirts, which have been
decoratively shredded into strips and fastened to the relatively
low ceiling that is no more than ten feet high.

CLOTHES:

     This will be a quick topic. Loose drawstring pants and a
loose short sleeve pullover shirt. All gray. When new, the
fabric would have been rough, but it's rubbed smooth now from
long use. We have one set.

     I've only been up and about on my own a couple of days so
I haven't asked yet about washing or changes of clothes. There
is little smell here, however, unless we just become use to our
own stink. I think, however, that there is less because, as I
mentioned before, the sanitation process kills off most of the
surface bacteria and that takes a while to grow back. It's only
a matter of time however before things begin to get pretty rank
in here.

     At least there's no laundry do.

ACTIVITIES:

     Which brings me to my next topic -- activities. This topic
will be even shorter than that on clothing.

     There are no activities.

     Oh, there's feeding time, but I'll cover that under food,
and from time to time -- very irregular times -- the door to the
'outside' will slide open and one of the inmates will get up
from the floor or roll off their slab and without a word will
walk out. It's creepy. Why does this one go and not that one?
More importantly, none have come back yet. That may not mean
very much because, as I've said, I've only been up and about for
a short time and I still sleep the majority of the time. Some of
them could have come back and how would I know? I'm not even
familiar with all their faces yet. It's amazing how hard it is
to tell one of us from the other when we are all dressed alike
as we are. Interestingly, we also all tend to be of a similar
body type -- lean and fairly tall.

FOOD:

     Okay, I know you've been waiting for this one. As I've
mentioned, I've been on my feet only a few times since Charley
the Hunter left what was almost my deathbed. A growling stomach
got me up the first time. I was lying on my side with my flipper
door open and staring at nothing -- since nothing is all there
is to stare at -- when a very faint buzzer sounded. The next
thing I knew, many pairs of legs were shuffling past on their
way to the front of the room. Finally admitting that my stomach
was thinking seriously about digesting my backbone, I decided
that this was as good a time as any to assume verticality. I
rolled out carefully -- my ribs are still astoundingly painful -
- and crawled about for a while on my hands and knees until the
shakes had subsided sufficiently for me to attempt to stand. It
was an iffy thing and I had to claw my way up a stack of
cabinets. That was when I grasped the logic of my being assigned
a floor-level bunk; less far to fall.

     Having obtained uprightness, more or less, I stood for a
good two minutes, cradling my aching ribs, while I waited for
the room to stop revolving slowly on its axis. I was so weak
that it took at least five more minutes -- with some on and off
graying-out time -- for me to make it to where the others had
gathered. There was a slot near the door, a shadow, and from
this shadow they were pulling grayish bowels. I will say this:
they are a well-mannered lot; no pushing or shoving. I was soon
to find out why. But first I got in line -- I was the last --
and when it was my turn, I reached in for a bowl as I'd seen the
others do. Nothing. I wondered if this was some cruel version of
musical chairs and I was now 'out'. Billy reached around me,
however, and pressed a thumb on a depression in the hole that I
hadn't seen. A bowl appeared. I took it and wished I hadn't.

     Just in case you're eating, and because I have to eat it,
I won't say what it reminded me of. Let's just say that it was
the thickness of gravy and brown and a little lumpy.

     This is what I received two days ago on my first morning
up. This is what I've received ever since. This is what I was
spoon fed during my convalescence. We are fed twice a day.

     Enough said.

MY FELLOW INMATES:

     Let's go back to that first meal. Billy must have seen my
pallor when I got my first look at the food, for he took my bowl
from me and with his free arm led me over to the section of the
room where the stacks of cabinets are that I haven't seen anyone
open yet. He helped me to sit on the floor. I can see that at
least I'm going to keep limber living here. He handed me my
breakfast and sat down beside me with his own. There was no
spoon. He lifted the bowl to his lips and sipped. He watched me
from over the rim of the bowl, urging me silently to try it.
There was no discussion. Not a word. That's the way it was.
That's the way it's been since I got here.

     I took a sip from my own bowl and gagged. It's slimy and
cold and tasteless stuff. It's also a little gritty. For fiber,
I assume. The dirty water with the bug they gave me in that
Russian gulag tasted better.

     I put my bowl down. I was not that hungry any more.

     I became aware of Billy studying me. His brow was deeply
creased, he was concentrating so hard. But, as always, he said
nothing.

     "Is this all there is?" I asked. "Ever?"

     Billy frowned and there was such sadness in his face.

     "What's wrong?" I asked.

     His sorrow, if anything, increased.

     Sensing a problem, I whispered, "Can't you tell me what's
going on around here? The Hunter is the only one who has ever
said a word to me. Are we forbidden to talk?"

     Billy's mouth actually moved and with eyes closed he
managed a "Yes", though the worded sound odd. It was what you
might hear from someone who hasn't spoken for a long time. It
was as if he had nearly forgotten how.

     Billy carefully placed his bowl on the floor and then
shifted his position so we were facing each other. All at once
he placed his right hand on the side of my head. I flinched even
though it didn't hurt because it reminded me of the two times
Charley has touched me in that same spot. I did not want to go
through that again. This time, however, I felt nothing, though
from Billy's expression - distress - he wished that I had.

     "I'm sorry. I don't know what you want."

     I became suddenly aware that we were surrounded, not only
by the men, but also by the women who are allowed to visit only
on an irregular basis. Everyone from my abduction group seemed
to be there. Since I was still sitting on the floor and they
were standing, they made an intimidating group even though they
clearly didn't mean me harm. These are my bother and my sister
prisoners, I reminded myself, but they continued to be, as ever,
frighteningly silent. And people call me Spooky.

     Teresa came forward. I am certain that I remember her
speaking to the Hunter though I was injured near to death at the
time. She doesn't now. Instead, she placed her hand firmly on
the top of my head. Her eyes hold me still. So anxious. Other
hands raised me to my feet and I found myself not only ringed by
them, but now they were all trying to make physical contact one
way or the other. When they couldn't get close enough to latch
onto some part of my head or face, they settled for whatever
part of my body they could reach.

     Now you know that I don't like close spaces, Scully. And
you know that I don't like to be touched except by you and then
I need some warning, so you can imagine the panic attack that
started to brew.

     Billy stopped this gentle assault. He either felt my
muscles hardening, or he caught the wild fear of a cornered
animal in my eyes. At least no one in the crowd seemed
particularly upset about being sent away. Instead, their
expressions were all similar to Billy's, a sadness like that in
a child's eyes when he finds his pet mouse dead and cold in its
cage.

     It was the manner in which they all stepped away and began
to move into far corners of the room without a word being spoken
that finally broke though my blindness.

     Only the issue is not that I'm blind. What I am is deaf and
dumb, at least compared to everyone else here.

     "You're telepathic," I whispered. "You all are. Like I
was."

     A tear rolled down Teresa's pale cheek.

     "No, not like you."

     I spun around because those four thickly accented words
definitely didn't come from Billy. Charley Hunter's smile was as
irritatingly patronizing as ever. Teresa and Billy hung their
heads as if in defeat and began to inch away.

     "I should have known. It was you who stopped them and not
Billy. You're such a popular guy around here."

     "They are ashamed. They are like babies, or like the stoke
victim, restricted to communicating the wonders of the world in
half a dozen of the simplest words. I intervened because they
might have hurt you. Not intentionally, but, in their
frustration and by their sheer numbers, they may have."

     "Frustration over what? What did they expect to get from
me?"

     His eyes are like flint. "You know. You said it."

     "Telepathy? I don't know how they can expect me to
understand."

     "Don't you?" Without taking those eyes from me, he called
over his shoulder, "Teresa, tell Mooncalf what it was like
before."

     And then he did something with his hand, and a veil seemed
to drop from her eyes. It was like the whole woman stood before
me for the first time since we met in her home that day now so
long ago.

     "Having you with us was like being in the middle of a
symphony -- a symphony of words and music. It was like the works
of Shakespeare and Mozart and Beethoven and the Brownings and
Tolkien and Webber and Wagner and Robert Frost - all being
performed at once and in the most marvelous combinations. And
all of us in the same skin." The shadow returned to her eyes.
"Not like this. Not this aloneness. Not this stone against
stone, chalk squeaking on a blackboard the way it is when you're
not here. Or like now."

     "I think that's enough." Hunter waved his hand again and
the veil descended once more.

     "Does she want me to believe that I once could do all
that?"

     "Is that a formal question? A part of our bargain?" asked
my own personal Satan.

     "You owe me. I passed your test."

     A shrug from those massive shoulders. "I would not call
mere survival a test."

     "I didn't have to."

     "True."

     "Then give. Could I? What she said?"

     "If you ignore the excessive imagery, she was essentially
correct, only we have only their word for the content."

     It took a while, but the light finally brightened a little
more and he waited, knowing that it would. "You have only their
word," I ventured, "because your little lab rats may be able to
think to each other... but not to you or your people. That's why
Billy and Teresa and the others have to make actual sounds when
they want to communicate with you." Something in his eyes
confirmed everything I was saying. "What I don't understand is -
- if you people can't hear anyway, why are you forcing them to
try, especially since their telepathy is so limited."

      "But we can hear, we just can't understand. Before it was
like a roar, like your sea. There was some chance of eventually
translating. Now it's rather like... the scratching of a very
small rodent."

     How I wish looks could kill. How I wish you were here to
give Mr. Acromegalic Jaw one of yours.

     I came closer than I cared to in order to keep my voice low
as there was nothing wrong with my fellow abductees' hearing.
"So they don't live up to your expectations, so they're not
allowed to talk!" I demanded. "That's senselessly cruel even for
you. What's the point? Oh, of course, why do I bother to ask.
Another test."

     A shrug. "It's only part of a test -- or you would more
accurately call it a breeding program -- one that has been on-
going for centuries. But it's true that they can barely
understand each other any longer. Without your presence as a
catalyst, it all falls apart. By forbidding speech between them,
we hope to jump start their latent abilities, but that may take
months, if not years. It's no wonder they are confused. What
both your people and mine are anxious to know, however, is why
with you here -- even before your accident -- all was still so
silent."

     Could it be that they don't know about the events of a year
ago, when a dizzying trickle of voices in my head became
suddenly an overwhelming flood? Could it be they don't know how
I lost it? It's possible. Except for Smokie Spender, the
Consortia has been executed to the last man.

     "What happened?" he asked. "I see it in your eyes.
Something. I suspected before, but thought the problem was
related to your injuries and would return in time. But it's more
than that. What did they do to you?"

     I am the silent one now. The Hunter is right -- knowledge
is power and here's something that I seem to know which they
don't. What else do I know that they don't? The Air Force's
tests with stolen alien aircraft at Ellens? Some aspects of the
Gregor experiments? Whatever Krychek is into? The Russian's
successful vaccine against the Black Oil?

     "I think that is enough for today," I replied. I am
surprised by the sound of my own voice. I could be some prince
announcing that the audience was over. I wish my nerves were
that confident.

     Surprisingly, he smiled. "Very well. As you are not
completely recovered, we will wait a little longer. We would not
want to undo what progress has been made."

     He turned to go and then changed his mind about leaving
just yet. "Something for you to think about. In addition to your
forgotten telepathic abilities, you do not seem to remember the
ship, or any of the previous tests. Very unusual."

     "Not unusual as all. Most abductees have only spotty
memories of their 'visits' with you and your people."

     "Because they are given what you would call a post-hypnotic
suggestion to forget. It remains in affect until they next see
the light. A thought or two may break through, but the process
works well enough. Not that it matters. 'Abductees' are never
believed except by the few who are thought equally mad." I
didn't like the laughter behind those cold eyes of his. I know
when I've been insulted.

     "Your response is unusual," he went on, "in that you do on
some level remember the light -- you were drawn to it -- but you
remember nothing more. And then there's the missing symphony, as
Teresa calls it. As I said, we need to know why and we will find
out why." His glance was as surgically precise and calculating
as that of a taxidermist evaluating the best way to mound a
prize fish. "Because of these drastic changes, little mooncalf,
my superiors want a new baseline to compare with your old one.
I'm told that our 'physicians' will perform the required tests
soon. Very soon. Until then..., " he grinned his wolf grin,
"sleep well."

     I was finally left alone. Billy and Teresa and the others
did not return but clustered in the corners. I understand their
distracted air now. They are thinking. Hard. They are trying
with all their might to awaken something in themselves... and in
me.

     Sorry, guys. The well has been tapped dry.

     Or I certainly hope so.

     That was, as I've said, two days ago. Even now, the men of
Stockhome keep their distance thinking their baby talk to each
other while I don't hear even that. Understanding more now, I
feel bad about the 'Stock' pun but the name has stuck in my mind
at this point. God, after all, did create Man to name things.

     I came out here this morning only to eat, but now as I look
down at yet another gray bowl of brown sludge, I find I have no
appetite. I don't feel like continuing this travelogue either.
Sorry, Scully. I think I will crawl back into my hole and close
the door and lie in the dark.

     But I don't believe that I will sleep.

     Epilogue: The retreat to my cave is interrupted by the
whispered opening of the main door. Four inmates stagger in. One
is limping and holding an arm, one is visibly shivering, one
walks as if he is even more in zombieland than usual, and the
fourth takes two steps and then falls and begins to convulse. I
stand as if frozen, but not my fellow inmates. They activate at
once in silent efficiency. Even without telepathy, I know what
I am seeing. Four were called away for testing over the last few
days and they are just returning; those who remained at home
have swung into action to pick up the pieces. They did this for
me. I remember marveling at how smoothly they moved and how
gentle their nursing. Now I know how that was possible; they've
had lots of practice.

     Being the son of loving and sensitive parents, I can't help
but note that each one of these people must be keenly aware that
he or she will be in a similar state of need sooner or later.

     "Mulder!"

     You're right, Scully. Even for me, cynical bastard that I
am, that was really shameful. In truth, it was only a passing
thought. At least I'm willing to admit when I'm wrong. Their
caring means far more than that, they mean far more than that to
each other. I know. It's just not an emotion I've felt from
anyone except you.

     Yet I felt it through their hands.

     They. I am still saying 'they'. It's 'we'. What I said to
you before, Scully, about my being one of them is even more true
now.

      My paralysis leaves me and I go to the head of the one who
is still convulsing. His arms and legs are drawn rigidly
together as he thrashes about. I know about convulsions -- that
helpless, out-of-control humiliation. I have seldom felt so
alone. It's almost as bad as trying to live elbow to elbow with
more than two dozen silent people whose eyes, when they turn my
way, are filled with both disappointment... and pity.

     I take the man's shoulders in my lap and force a wad of his
shirt into his mouth. I scarcely recognize him now, but he is
Roy, Teresa's young husband, who had, as she told us, been
tested too many times before.

     And I will go soon, Charley Hunter told me so. I'll be
taken for the Tests. Will I come back like one of these?

     I realize that I won't be going to huddle in my hole alone
again anytime soon, but then that no longer seems very
important. My place is here for the time being, for here, but
for the grace of God or the whim of Fate -- go I.

     Have I told you recently, Scully, how desperately I miss
you?

End of Stockhome, Third Chapter of 'My Travels With Charley'

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