TITLE: MY TRAVELS WITH CHARLEY 08: Not Kansas DATE: 02/20/02 AUTHOR: Sue Esty CONTACT: Windsinger@AOL.com RATING: PG (sex but not graphic) CLASSIFICATION: TA - Adventure/Angst SPOILERS: REQUIEM, 7th season, Final Extinction, Genderblender, Little Green Men, Within, and others KEYWORDS: Slash, Rape (neither explicit) SUMMARY: Mulder has survived his first days on the ship (at least the ones he's been conscious enough to remember) and the boredom of his life within the mindspeaker colony. Less than intact, he survives testing, which for the first time reveals to Charley that Mulder's 'speaker' talent has been destroyed. While Charley decides what to do with his damaged prisoner, Mulder is allowed to recover in the company of a young woman whose ancestors were taken from Earth four generations before to live out a barren existence in a few rooms on a huge alien space station. From here he is taken by the Hunter and put into training to pilot a small spacecraft, training that taxes the endurance of both body and mind. Mulder's rebellious spirit eventually exceeds even Charley's patience and he is literally dropped onto the surface of an unknown planet to survive as best he can. This will be the last home Mulder will ever know if he does not appear at the rendezvous point when Charley's returns and is willing to submit to Charley's plans. ARCHIVING: Gossamer, Emphereal, ATXC, and anywhere with permission and as long as the author's name is retained. DISCLAIMER: No, the X-Files and the characters of Fox Mulder and Dana Scully do not belong to me, I would have treated them better. AUTHOR'S NOTES: This is eighth in a series of 'short' stories chronically Mulder's confusing, agonizing, torturous, lonely and wondrous adventures following his collection in Oregon. One more to go. CC never explained those missing months so I might as well. My older work can be found on Gossamer under 'Esty, Sue' with the newer pieces at . MY TRAVELS WITH CHARLEY 08: Not Kansas BENJAMIN: Year 30, Week 17.1 Dale Reckoning My name's Benjamin, Dana. Excuse my use of your first name, but Mulder has talked about you so often that I feel like I know you and 'Scully, after all, is his name for you. Mulder has asked me to start this segment of his story. Please don't worry, it's not that he can't, but because he wants you to get to know me. I don't know why but I'm sure he'll get around to filling me in on that in time. I had mixed feeling that rainy morning when I first met Mulder. I was just bartering for some seed at the Grange when six of my genpack came running into the store and rushed up to me all talking at once. Finally, Nate's big bass voice cuts through. "You're BoB's here, Benji! Your BoB!" I don't think I said anything in response. I just stood there. What do you say when you've long given up ever hearing those words. In a daze, I allowed the rambunctious group to drag me along through the street of rutted mud towards Government House. Just as well that I didn't have anything to say, as I couldn't have gotten a word in edgewise. Not that I blame them for their high spirits. This was, after all, their celebration as well as mine. If good luck could finally get around to pointing at me, the eldest of our generation who had never been assigned a newcomer, then their turn by the order of their birth may come yet. And we had all about given up hope. Ten years! It had been ten years since the last arrival. The general consensus around the Grange was that there weren't going to be any more and so most of the landholders of my age and younger would just be out of luck. Sadly, I had gotten use to the idea, but then here out of the blue -- or perhaps I should say the gray because of the rain -- fell my own miracle. We didn't knock at the door to Government House. I found this suspicious but then I remembered that the mayor was receiving a delegation of southerners from South Cove and that was weird business so perhaps the intent was to keep the ceremony low key. My escort didn't knock at the back entrance either but instead headed for the barn. Now I began to worry. The mayor's headman, Jason, stepped aside as we entered. Silence fell instantly. To say that I was not impressed by my first look would be an understatement. All I saw was a muddy mass shivering in front of a tiny brassier. So intent was the creature at trying to soak up a few more fingerwidths of heat from the clots of peat that he didn't respond at all when we entered. "Came stumbling into Jeremiah's farm at daybreak," the mayor's headman explained as I stood and stared. "Must have tried to sleep in a tickle bush nest. We found some in his hair." Yeah, that I could believe. His skin, of which a lot showed, was swollen with hundreds of bright red blisters. He must have also fallen into every mud puddle between here and wherever the devils let him out. He was a mess. As if he were freezing, he clutched a bundle of mismatched rags someone must have given him. It was fortunate that the weather was actually mild for that time of year. Still, I felt alarmed for the poor man's sake. He should have been taken some place warmer, though as filthy dirty as he was I could see why they hadn't let him in the house or given him anything better to wrap his near nakedness in. I guess that that was my job now. For the first time I crouched down and tried to get a look at his face. His muddy hair hung over his eyes and even through the dirt and the tickle bush blisters I saw the terrible trio of scars down each cheek. Whatever had the monsters done to him? There was nothing on record like this. I looked more closely under the dirt through the rents in what remained of his clothes. There were terrible wounds above each wrist and ankle and a long older scar down the center of his chest. Here and there through the mud I could see the yellow and purple of old bruises as well as more ugly punctures. Years before I had been trained on the proper attitude of a landholder towards his newcomer and I knew that distance was critical, but I couldn't remain aloof, not after seeing this. Automatically, I placed my hand on his forehead. No response, not that I expected any. What did surprise me was how hot his skin was. "I assume that's Newcomer fever," the mayor's headman said. I nodded. "They say that they all get it, but this is worse than I expected." I didn't add that Dale history also records that not a few newcomers had died from this fever in the past. Meaning mine could die. I looked at him again, at his clothes or lack thereof, at the slumped posture and bowed head and how he barely seemed able to sit without falling over. My eyes fell on his terribly damaged bare feet. "Is this all he came with? Not even any shoes?" The 'pack' just stood there, much sobered by all these depressing revelations. "Tough luck, Benji," Talon said soberly. Talon is six months my junior. Only a few minutes earlier he had been practically green with envy. "Looks like you got a dud. You could at least have gotten some shoes out of the deal." "Like a bride without a dowry, " the Mayor's man said, shaking his head. "Well, you take what's dished out to you. He's all yours." So much to do, but what to do first. Lamely, I asked. "What about the ceremony?" As if that mattered. He may not survive the night. The Mayor's man shrugged. "The Mayor sends his regrets. He's in conference and can't be disturbed. He's been told that we have a newcomer and what his condition is. He's the one who looked it up in the book to confirm that you were the next on the list. He says you should just take him along and see to the formalities later." His eyes indicated that the Mayor seemed to feel, as I feared, that the ceremony to formally assign this particular newcomer to my care might not be necessary. I thought for a moment about the long road back to the farm and considered trying to find a place in town to take him. All at once, however, I was aware of all the eyes. How I wanted out of there and away from people like these who could stare at a sick man and do nothing just because he was a BoB. Home then. Clearly, he wasn't going to walk the twelve miles. Luckily, I'd brought my handcart because of the seed so at least I had transportation. With help I poured the limp, muddy form into the back. There continued to be no response except that his eyes fluttered a bit when the young men who held his feet dropped him more roughly than they needed to. At least some of the Old Ones had feelings. Peter Ruft who runs the Grange let me borrow a whole armload of seed bags so that at least my newcomer wouldn't catch the 'grip' before I got him home. Saint that he was, the old surgeon, Mac MacIntyre, shuffled out of the apothecary and, unasked, thrust a whole bag of salves and assorted remedies into my arms. He didn't even make me sign for them. By his hand on my shoulder I knew that he wished me luck. As I reached for the handles of the cart, my so-called friends, whose spirits had brightened again with the preparations, began to hoot and holler from the porch of the Grange where they stood out of the drizzle. "Yeah, Benji, that's the way. You tell him who's boss!" "Why don't you guys go stick your heads in a post hole," I called back but without rancor. After all, why should I be angry? I'd probably be just an insensitive if I were in their place. "There'll be time enough for him to pull his weight." Like the Mayor's man I hadn't added, 'If he lives.' The trip was uneventful except that my burden was heavier than six of the large sacks of grain. I heard a moan or two as the wheels dipped into deep ruts but otherwise no complaints. At least it had stopped raining. I spoke too soon. The rain resumed as gray and chill as the lowering sky before we were half way to the homestead. The slight rise in the road between the flat plane of the fields and the knoll where old William's cabin perched had never seemed so steep, but finally I was able to pull into the yard. I went directly to the barn and maneuvered the cart to just inside the doorway where it usually sat, grateful not to feel the rain pounding on my head any longer. It was better to listen to its muffled hammering away on the sod roof above. Now that all my attention was not fixed on the physical effort of just getting the cart to the farm, I realized that I didn't know what I was going to do with my new responsibility. I certainly saw the dark, dank barn in a different light than during the workday when it was used for storing seed and rope, plow and tools. In the fall it stored harvest as well, but it being spring there was not much harvest left. "Now what do I do with you?" I asked the wet and silent wretch in the back of my handcart. I didn't really expect an answer. Without enthusiasm I gave the south corner a long look. Its clutter was no different than that in the rest of the barn. I had never set up a room there as a landholder should. Oh, I had made plans for this day once but when it looked like it was never going to happen the plans had lain as fallow as a off year field. "Not fit for man nor beast," I murmured out loud to myself, not even heartened by my little joke. "I guess it will have to be the house then. Just don't tell anyone." Slinging his long body over my shoulder I carried my temporary housemate across the muddy yard and into the cabin that still held an echo of heat from the fire of the night before. MULDER: Year 30, Week 17.4 Dale Reckoning (or so I'm told) My turn, Scully. I certainly seem to be spending an unusual amount of time on this tour of the galaxy not remembering things. Benjamin has told you all you need to know about how I stumbled upon the humans on this planet or at least it was as much as anyone knows. As we go along a lot of what you don't understand yet will be made clear. At this time in the story, however, we'll just assume that you know a lot more than I do. I woke itching. Oh, I was in pain, too, from the mess I made of my feet walking for miles barefoot, and I was dripping with sweat and had about as much strength as a kitten, so I knew that I had been seriously ill, but the itching was by far the worse. "Try not to scratch," suggested a hesitant male voice above me. "It will only make it worse." I didn't scratch. I didn't move. "I won't hurt you," the low voice assured me. Actually, his hurting me hadn't been on my mind. Since Oregon, I have almost gotten use to being hurt. What had left me momentarily speechless was the sound of a voice which was not only not hostile but wasn't Ness's and wasn't Charley's. I opened my eyes and there he was. A bear. Well, not really a bear, but a strong-looking, youngish man with a thick, black beard, long hair pulled back and eyes so blue I could see their color even in the dimness of the room. "Took a nap in a tickle bush, did you?" He didn't wait for an answer. "Can you sit up? I have this salve that will take away the worst of the sting." Again without waiting for me to answer, he helped me to sit. I tried to help but the dim room went spinning. I just sat for a while letting the spin slow, taking in where I was and trying to remember where I'd been. It was hard to think though when some total stranger was crouched in front of me and smearing awful-smelling, black gunk briskly over all the places on my arms where the blisters were. Where it was applied, however, the itching did relent so I didn't complain. "Where am I?" I croaked. Now I know that I didn't sound so good, but I didn't see any reason why my benefactor should start so violently. Fumbling with the jar he held, he lost his balance and fell backwards. "Sorry," I told him. "I'm fresh out of original opening lines." Owl eyes not leaving my face, he scrambled into a somewhat more dignified position but a noticeable distance farther from me even with the limitations of the room. "Y-You're home. What I mean is, this is my home." My eyes were becoming accustomed to the dark. It was a snug, little hobbit hole less than twelve feet square. Dirt floor, dirt walls, and a dirt ceiling with wooden support thrusts. From a small stone fireplace a little, red fire glowed. There wasn't a lot of light but the heat was delicious at least on the side of my body that faced the fire. In the way of fires my opposite side was cold. It didn't smell like a fire, though. The scent was more pungent, like a swamp. For furniture I made out a solid chair, a rough table and lots of shelves filled with earthenware crocks, bits of this and that and baskets that were mostly empty, all in a similar shade of brown. There was a drying rack on which on a few dry sprigs of some kind of plant material hung. "Comfy." What else can you say to Johnny Appleseed who has taken you into his home and is helpfully smearing pond scum on your itches. "Peat fire?" "Y-Yes," he confirmed, still staring. We just sat that way for a while. For some unknown reason, he seeming astonishingly perplexed to find me there. "Is anything wrong?" I asked. "Uh, n-no." I gestured to the pot of salve he still clutched. "That seems to help, awful as it smells. If you let me have it, I can put the rest of it on for myself." After a moment's hesitation, he numbly held it out. "H-How do you feel?" he stammered, as I worked at applying the salve to my chest. "Shaky," I admitted, which I was. "I was afraid for a while that you were going to die on me." He seemed genuinely upset about that. "What made me sick?" I asked. "I started getting hot and cold flashes after only a few hours in the rain. Couldn't have been the flu, not that fast." "Newcomer fever. Something in the water. Everyone dropped off gets it eventually. A few have died from it." "And those who don't wish for a while that they would." I remembered crouching against the bank of a muddy hill and shaking so violently I was afraid that I would rattle out all my teeth. I had been burning on the inside and freezing on the outside. More silence. I had worked down to my waist and was trying to get around to my back when my host moved to kneel behind me. "I'll get that for you," he offered. As even the little effort I'd put out had tired me and made the room tilt alarmingly, I handed him the jar and leaned forward. There was some considerable pause before he began spreading the noxious stuff and then he seemed very hesitant, which seemed odd considering how aggressively he'd applied it to my arms. "Thank you for all your trouble, " I said when the silence had stretched for longer than I felt comfortable. Still he worked on. When it seemed that he had covered every inch of my back twice and was working his way south, I interrupted with, "That's much better. I'll do the rest," and held my hand out to the side for the salve. After another awkward pause, he handed it over then rocked back on his heels. With my host so close and obviously watching, I was the one who hesitated to lift the blanket that covered me from the waist down. As if suddenly aware of how uncomfortable he was making me, my young host jumped to his feet. He obviously knew where the ceiling was because he didn't hesitate to stand even though his head nearly brushed one rough log beam. I would have to be careful for if he was taller than I, it wasn't by much. "You were unconscious for days," he murmured. "You must be hungry and thirsty." Food is not usually my first concern, but it seemed a safe subject. "If it wouldn't be any trouble." His next series of rapid, nervous movements around the room brought the dizziness back. Until it eased, I studied the furnishings in the section of the room where he wasn't busying himself. When he had been talking to me before he had been sitting on a chest whose top was covered with a lumpy pad with a covering like burlap. This was clearly his bed and a single one, so he lived here alone. I was sitting on an identical pad laid out before the fire. The guest room. The rough material -- to which real burlap felt like velvet in comparison -- was filled with what felt like old straw. It probably was. A blanket that had fallen down around my loins when I sat up was of the same material as the bed pad covering. I had hesitated applying the rest of the salve because I was all too aware that under the blanket I was naked -- again. I could feel the scratchiness of the burlap on my ass. I looked around for my clothes before remembering that, as usual, I didn't have any of those to speak of either. There hadn't been much left of the coveralls, which Charley had torn, what with walking in the rain, falling into sink holes, and blundering through nests of thorns. I bunched the burlap up around my hips so I could get to my legs and began adding the salve. By some bending and twisting under the blanket in ways my body wasn't really ready for yet, the salve eventually got to all the other places it needed to. As if aware of the moment when my gyrations under the blanket ceased, my host placed a clay bowl and jug down on the rough table. "You can eat now." When I made no immediate move to rise, he rushed forward to take hold of my arm. "Sorry. Do you need some help?" "Uh -- maybe -- but first I'm afraid that I'll need to ask if I can borrow some clothes." Absently, he raised a hand, murmured "Right" as if to himself, and within seconds produced a bundle. "These are my best. We'll have to find you some of your own but these will do for now." He watched me as I held up drawstring pants, eyeing them dubiously. "We're lucky we're the same size." That must mean that the shapeless things were going to fit me as badly as they fit my host. Swiftly, he came forward as if he were now going to help me dress. Hastily, I waved him away. "No thank you, I can manage this part." The young man backed away, but only as far as his bench bed where he sat, obviously intending to watch me dress as if this were the most fascinating activity in the world. As there wasn't any place else either of us could go, I hurried. I tried to draw on the pants while keeping the blanket in place, all in all not succeeding very well. "You appear to know a lot more about me than I do about you," I said, uncomfortably. "I wouldn't be so sure about that," my host said, slowly. "You called me a newcomer. This indicates to me that strangers being dropped practically naked on your doorstep is not so unusual." "Twenty years ago not so unusual, now very unusual. And you're..." His brow furrowed. "I'm what? Should I have two heads?" "We thought..." He sighed. I tried to stand then, the better to get the awkward, long-sleeved shirt on, but swayed on my feet. Before I could reach out towards a handy rafter for support, my bearded companion was at my side, supporting my arm. I didn't shake him off for the room was listing south again. In addition to the shirt there was a thick vest and both were made of pretty much the same rough material as the bed covering and the blanket. I cringed as it slid over skin that was still sensitive from the tickle bush blisters. My back-to-the-land friend may have the hide of a rhinoceros but I didn't. "Is it true that you were just dropped here?" he blurted out. "Where is here?" "On this planet." "Let's just say that I didn't come for the climate." He opened his mouth as if to say something, then closed it again. My host was nothing if not infuriating. He had something to say, but damned if I knew what it was. One minute he seemed easy in my presence, the next extremely uncomfortable, and yet he remained fixated on my every move with distressing intensity. I assumed that all would be made clear in time. At the moment, though, I craved information even more than food. "These other strangers. Who was responsible for bringing them here?" "I've never seen one. It's said that they're small, with big bald heads and huge black eyes." "Close enough," I confirmed with a sigh. "At least we have friends in common." I ignored my host's confused expression to bask in the knowledge that I had not stumbled into some lost civilization of barbarians. These people knew that they were on a planet and it was a relief to find that no new villains had been added to the picture. By now I had finished dressing and my host was still staring. Seeing that I was dressed, he decided to help me, willing or not, to the table although the distance was no more than three feet. "Is there a problem?" I asked, more abruptly than I'd intended, for his fawning was becoming damned irritating. Three different expressions of confusion and embarrassment showed on his face at once. "It's just that the other newcomers have all been..." He pointed to his right temple. "... not all there in the head. Most don't say much even after many years. I was just surprised. You seem...all right. Maybe you aren't a newcomer after all." So why did my state of lucidity and the fact that I may not be a 'newcomer' depress him totally? I was ruminating over his unease as I gingerly sat in the splintery chair in my more-than-rough homespun pants and looked down at what he had provided for me. There was a rough clay crock beside a cup of the same material. The food itself was also brown but its smell was far from unpleasant. On the contrary, my stomach instantly reminded me of how hollow it was and of how long it had been since I had had anything to eat which didn't come up almost immediately. The first bite of the cold stew was even more pleasant. It was good vegetarian fare made up of grains and beans and roots, nicely flavored with herbs and dried fruit. Too bad that its color made my heart ache in sympathetic memory of those left behind in that room on the Portjam. "This is good!" I murmured around the bite. My words and obvious surprise brought a shy smile to my host's lips, a fact that was amazingly easy to see despite the heavy beard. "Thank you. That's my spring specialty. Won first prize at the winter fair." He watched me eat with the same fascination with which he had watched me dress and didn't speak until I began to slow down which, due to my shrunken stomach, wasn't long. "What did you do to get sent here?" he asked. Now that's a long story. I decided on the simple version. "I flunked pilot school." When he looked at me strangely I revised it to, "I pissed off a shapeshifter." His face registered instant understanding. "One of them? I've heard stories. Don't worry. They never come here." "How would you know if one did or not?" He looked thoughtful at that. "I see your point." It struck me just then, Scully, how absolutely refreshing it was -- weird, but refreshing -- to be able to talk about alien races and shapeshifters and abductions and be instantly believed. I kept feeling like I should be pinching myself to see if I was awake and I would have if the itching weren't doing that job all on its own. "Our history records that this colony," my host was saying, "was started thirty years ago, Earth time, with fifty-two rejected mindspeakers and a dozen others whose talents didn't mature." Something about my jaw dropping open -- I hope there wasn't any food in my mouth -- must have caught his attention. "You know what a mindspeaker is?" "Failed at that, too," I muttered my mouth half full again. His eyes widened with respect. "You've been around." Remembering the flights of the Beast a shiver walked up my spine. "You should feel at home then. All the other BoB's are deadheads, too. At least now they are." That was an odd statement. "To my knowledge, being named 'Bob' was not a requirement of the mindspeakers I was with." No, they were Billy and Theresa and Roy. I wondered not for the first time how they were. "No, 'B-BoB' is not their name, just short for --" The light was dim, just the firelight augmented by a couple of oil lamps, but I thought that the inch of skin between my host's beard and eyes flushed. Abruptly, he turned away to pluck a jar off a shelf an arm's length away. "Try these dried applecorns; they're special." That numbness I get between my shoulders when something is 'up' was suddenly buzzing big time. "For newcomer?" I asked, hoping it sounded like an innocent question. "'Bob' is short for newcomer?" My host shrugged, noncommittally. Seeing that I wasn't going to get anymore on that subject at least at the moment, I reached my hand across the table in greeting. "My name isn't Bob, though there are times I certainly wish it were. Call me Mulder." MULDER Year 30, week 17.4 (continued) Considering all the touching he'd been doing so casually before, my host just stared at my proffered hand. After a moment he took it but only for the briefest handshake. "Excuse me, I'm Ben, Benjamin, Holder Benjamin, and this," he gestured at the tiny cabin and surrounding land, his face lightening with pride, "is my holding." "Does that mean you're holding it for someone?" Benjamin hesitated. "It's an old term, left over from when the colony first started. Officially, I guess you'd say that I work the land for the colony. I inherited it from my foster father when I was eighteen." This last was also said proudly. Quite an accomplishment, I assumed, though looking around at the accommodations, it didn't look like much. "It's very nice, Ben. Thank you again for all your help." The bearded man shuffled uncomfortably. "You'd - ah - better call me Benjamin or Holder Benjamin. It wouldn't do for you to call me by my genpack name." "Genpack name?" "The name I'm called by the men of my generation." "Ah." I didn't mention at this time that I was probably of his generation, unless the beard and his outdoor life made him appear a lot older than he was. Though still weak and disoriented, I felt my investigative feelers extend. Clearly, this was an isolated human colony that had been left to develop its own idiosyncrasies over the years. With or without an itchy butt, I could get interested in this. The drink in the clay flask was even palatable as well as being mildly alcoholic. Yes, I could get use to this. Behavioral Science had been my undergraduate major after all. I looked around the tiny, one-room cabin. Well, maybe not for too long. Too many days in here and I'd come down with a serious case of claustrophobia. But academia for later. As usual when a member of the human species finds himself in a new place, his first thoughts are always on locating the basics of life -- food, water, shelter, and where it was permissible to take a shit. "Benjamin, I think I need to know where the -- outhouse -- is? Toilet? Latrine?" Ben jerked upright with an apologetic, "Ah, sorry... yes." Rising hastily from his seat on his bench bed, he went to the room's only door and threw open the massive sheet of rough-hewn planks. Blinding sunlight flooded in. "Ow!" I cringed, shielding my eyes. The cabin was so dark that I had assumed that it was night. For the first time I noticed that there were no windows. Considering the level of technology I'd seen so far there was probably no glass in this society or, if there were, it would be prohibitively expensive. Still, light and air were important so to do without the weather on this planet must be every bit as inclement as the night of my arrival had led me to believe. Squinting and stooping as he did, I followed my host to exit the low door. First, we took care of the necessities --and I do mean we. Ben had to come to show me the proper method of managing bodily waste which, if left to decompose sufficiently, makes great fertilizer, don't ya' know. Clearly, this society lets nothing go to waste -- pun intended -- but they don't know much about privacy. There is something to be said about taking care of business in the sunshine, however. For there was sunshine. Warm, low morning sunshine touched my face and warmed through my badly fitting clothes even though there was a chill bite to the slight wind. Ben had talked about the stew being his spring specialty. In an agrarian society 'spring' must refer to whatever foodstuff is left over after the winter. Standing before the door to his cabin and looking down across the rolling land to a small river, I could believe it was spring. New, green shoots sprinkled the ground that was generally covered with dry, flattened grass. The few trees close by had that fuzzy appearance deciduous trees get after winter just before the new leaves burst out. A smile tugged at my lips. If you were standing by my side, Scully, and we were looking for the first time over some alien landscape, I would interject at some point that we weren't in Kansas any more. In the case of Dale, however, I couldn't really say that with absolute certainty. There may actually be places in Kansas with this many trees, and where the land rolls as this does, and where a small river passes by the foot of a far cultivated field. And yet I remember two moons and I know that this is not Kansas, nor is it Pennsylvania. It's also a good deal farther from you than Africa or Australia or even Frostbite Falls. As pleasantly bucolic as the scene was, my heart lay heavy and desolate in my chest. Harvest, Charley had said. He would return at harvest time. That would be months away. I appreciated the fact that this poor, young farmer had taken a stranger in, cared for me in my illness, fed me and clothed me, but I couldn't expect to depend on the hospitality of strangers indefinitely. I was going to need a permanent place to live and what passed for a job here and neither behavioral scientists, FBI agents, nor windmill tilters were likely to be much in demand. Looking over my shoulder, I took in the cabin for the first time. >From outside its resemblance to a hobbit hole was even greater. It had been carved into a hillside. Walls and roof were sod. Its front door faced their equivalent of south while the hill behind rose up to block the north winds. "No wonder you're happy to see the spring. Your winters must be hard." And damned lonely for a man by himself. "Bad enough." My host looked my way from under a lock of black hair that fell over his forehead and murmured, "It will be easier now." Making his little embarrassed shuffle again, he stooped suddenly and took a small handful of damp soil in his hand and rubbed it between his fingers. I've seen farmers do that in movies. In an attempt to show I was 'one of the people' I did the same. Now dirt is not just dirt to me. I can tell you approximately how long it has been since the last rainfall, how much clay there is so what the chances are that it will hold a print or a tire track or stand up to a plaster cast. I can even track as long as the UNSUB is moving like a locomotive and about as interested as one in covering his trail, but I know nothing about what grows in the stuff or how to convince it to do so. "First quality, isn't it?" Ben said about the soil, his pride showing again as he looked off happily down the slope towards where several fields had already been plowed. At this point be began to talk in expansive and energetic detail, not only about the crops he'd planted, but also about the lineage of each type of seed. Most of the genealogists I've met would have been put to shame. The change in the man was remarkable, and I realized that he really was younger than I had thought at first. On this topic, with his feet in the soil, he was a different person entirely. I'm afraid that I didn't have much to add to the conversation. "About all I was ever able to grow were smooth seed bean plants and rough seed bean plants for a science experiment when I was fourteen. I regret that I don't really know anything about farming." Ben was not dismayed. In fact he beamed. "You'll learn, I'll teach you. Less to unlearn." Is there something going on here that I don't know about? "See those three fields." Ben was pointing to our right at three weed-choked expanses the size of football fields. "I think we can get those under seed within a week and then there are two new ones we can begin clearing." What do you mean 'we', white eyes? Very carefully, I began addressing the grinning idiot at my side. "Benjamin -- Holder Benjamin --" I revised, trying to sound respectful despite the alarm growing in the pit of my stomach, "I'm a newcomer, remember? Emphasis on the 'new'. I really don't know what's going on here. Why am I here with you? I vaguely remember a kind of village. And what the hell is a BoB which is what I'm suppose to be?" Ben does a very good imitation of a deer caught in headlights. This, I thought, is a pleasant, competent farm boy who, as a manager, is way out of his depth. Could be worse. He could know what he was doing. Suddenly, my host uttered an expletive, or I assume that 'Rains!' uttered that way is an expletive in this place. Considering what I remember of the night of my arrival, I would agree with him. At the moment Ben was looking left towards a low ridge. On the thin ribbon of a narrow dirt track was the tiny shape of a running man. "We're going to have visitors," my host announced with dread. * * * * * * * * * * * * BENJAMIN: Year 30, Week 17.4 Dale Reckoning (continued) The last thing I wanted at that moment was to see Jonathan Ironlegs coming down the road. My B-Bob caught on right away that something was wrong. Hell, I can't even think the word without stuttering, he's so un-Bob-like I guess I'll have to call him Mulder, after all, if that's his name. "What's wrong? Trouble?" Mulder asked and he seemed to perk up at the thought as if responding to trouble was something he did every day. "A runner from Stony River, our town. Johnny is the runner for the Mayor. He probably wants an update."' "On what?" "On you." "Such as am I alive?" "That and how you're settling in." Mulder's relaxed manner had turned to something harder than even when he had asked what a BoB was. He was going to want explanations and I had never expected that I would need any. "'Settling in' has a very permanent sound which I don't remember being consulted about. In that respect I guess you could say that I'm not settling in very well." His gaze was so direct, so -- masterful -- that I felt the cliff that I had heard crumbling around me ever since he spoke his first coherent words come crashing down. "It's all wrong," I found myself jabbering. "It's not like they said, not like it should be." He just kept studying me with these intense eyes. What the freeze was I suppose to do? Where was my tractable, obedient field hand ever grateful for the food on his plate and the guiding touch of my hand? Helplessly, I gestured towards the house, then the barn. "What's wrong?" he asked. "Well, for one you aren't suppose to be sleeping in the house." "I'm not?" "You're suppose to be sleeping in the barn. BoB's sleep in the barn. They're just... That's just what they're suppose to do." I found myself running into the barn where I'd maybe moved around a few bales of sleeping straw since his arrival. I had had three days while Mulder lay in fever to get ready and I hadn't done more than that. I had spent all my time sitting and staring at the newcomer -- MY newcomer, my pleasant, child-like companion -- as he tossed and turned and sweated. Part of me had been busy being terrified that he would die, but the rest had jumped far ahead to all we could do together in the future. They have a precautionary tale on Dale about the man who 'counts his bushels' before the harvest. That's a bad thing to do, especially foolish when only half your fields are under seed. In my panic it took me a while to realize that he had wandered in behind me and was standing there, cool-like, watching as I frantically pushed bales and boxes and bundles about. "Now this is definitely wrong!" I yelled at him. "What?" "You're suppose to be doing this." He frowned, the lips compressing to a pouting, stubborn line. "Please?" Rains, I shouldn't beg, but I was desperate. The hard line of those lips softened. "Give me an explanation later and I'll help. Only what is it that you're trying to do?" He had a point. I was doing this all ass backwards. I felt tears come to my eyes. I thought I'd find him laughing at me but he was, if anything, far more willing than before. "Tell me how I can help." "Go into the house and get your mat and the blanket and an oil lamp and bring them back here." He hesitated as if there was something he wanted very much to ask. "Look, we don't have much time. It will take Johnny a quarter hour to reach here from where we saw him." To that he gave no argument but headed for the house as fast as he could go on his sore feet, which wasn't too fast but fast enough. Even though he was clearly intelligent, I was surprised when he came back quickly with everything I asked for on the first trip. The stories I'd heard about some of the other newcomers had led me to expect far less. I don't know how it was managed, certainly not all of it was my doing, but I was outside on the step before the cabin braiding rope when Johnny came trotting up the slope. With hand outstretched to shake his, I rose and asked coolly what brought him around to visit. Although it was twelve miles from the town to my door, his palm was barely damp, but then Johnny Ironlegs is in great shape. Acting far calmer than I felt, I went back to braiding while my visitor got himself a mug of cool water from the well. I hoped that he wouldn't notice that the last half-inch of braid was far looser and more uneven than the ten feet before it and that my hands shook. After trading the pleasantries about the weather and his praising my land and my asking what stops he had made that day -- two before mine -- he finally blurted out with what he had been bursting to ask every since he ran up. "So, Ben, where is he, this Bensman of yours. Hey! Come on bring him out and let's get a look at him!" "Slow down. His fever just broke last night. Can't this wait?" "Ben, come on. I have to see him. I've got to report." After a pause as if I had to think about it first, I called out, "Mulder!" as languidly as I could manage and with, hopefully, none of the hysteria that I felt inside. Would he come when I called? I found Johnny staring at me with mouth agape. "What was that? 'Mulder'?" "That's his name. Unlike most of the newcomers," I drawled with a kind of casual pride, "he remembers his name." Much to my relief, Mulder came out of the barn on his own, eyes shadowed with irritation, but John didn't seem to notice. "Snow but he's tall. No one saw him upright the other night. He's as tall as you." As if he were sizing up someone's new cabin or a new method of storing ropeweed, the runner just stalked up to Mulder to stare without apology into his face. I don't know how he missed the flaring of the man's nostrils, but I did and hurried to join them. "Too bad about the scars, though," John said. "Once he doesn't have to use the black tickle grease any more, he'd be fine, really fine, if it weren't for the scars." I didn't think the scars detracted all that much from Mulder's looks and from the interest in John's eyes I don't think he truly thought so either. I know his hunger was not to my liking and clearly was not to Mulder's either. Neither did Mulder care for being talked about as if he wasn't there. Even though I'd treated BoBs in very much this same way ever since I can remember, a surprising anger rose up in me that John should insult mine so. As was the custom, I took the runner into the house for food and a drink and a bit of gossip and a rest, leaving Mulder outside to 'finish the barn'. His answering gaze at my limp command was black but he wandered back to what he had been doing. I was glad later that I took John into the house as quickly as I did because what he proceeded to talk about was not anything that my visitor was ready to hear. Visitor? houseguest? companion? Field hand? Again, maybe I'll better just stick to 'Mulder'. When it was time for Johnny to head back to town, he detoured by the barn for another look. Some work had been done since we left but not much. Instead, Mulder was sitting on a bale in the sun, head bowed over elbows on knees. To tell you the truth he didn't look so good. "What's he doing sitting down?" John exclaimed. "Ben, you can beat him for that!" There was such a note of glee in his voice that I sensed that he'd love to see me do so right then and there. "And what do you know about it, John Ironlegs, you who practically has a fit at the sight of a field ready for plowing? No one will ever assign a BoB to you. I told you, the man just rose from his sick bed a few hours ago." The runner shrugged. "I guess he does look a little poorly. Well, all right then. This time." Thankfully, he let the matter drop, though I knew that my 'lazy' newcomer and lackluster discipline would be the main topic of conversation around the supper tables of the colony for the rest of the week. Reluctantly, John turned towards the road. "Got to run up to Caymon's before I head back, any messages? Oh, wait, the mayor says that you're to bring him to town next Tensday to finish the adoption." "That's a long trip for a five-minute blessing'" I grumbled, not interested in taking Mulder to town any earlier than I had to. "Tell Daniel that we'll come the first Tensday we're free after plowing. I've got two mouths to feed now which means more fields." Finally John left, sprinting up the drive as if his legs were made of iron. Mulder didn't watch the runner leave; he only stared at me with those hooded, hazel cat eyes of his. I fled into the house and even though it wasn't supper time yet, came out with ale, bread, and a bag of nuts, spiced grains and dried fruit. We ate and drank in silence. Mulder made no move to get up and continue with his work and I didn't push him. As I watched him raise the heavy ale bottle to his mouth, I knew that I'd only told the truth to John. I wasn't sure that he could have lifted the bottle twice, he was that unsteady. "Sorry if I asked you to move around too fast. Do you want to lie down? Maybe take a nap? It's okay." "Oh, thanks," he replied with a bitter irony. Quickly, too quickly, he rose as if his body was ready to explode with some long- smoldering anger. He had to reach out for the doorpost to steady himself. "Do I need your permission to shit, too?" he growled. "To breathe? Do I sleep on the floor in front of the fire like your dog or in the barn with the other ani--" He paused, studied the barn and sniffed. "Where are your animals?" I shrugged. "Cows? Pigs? Chickens?" "Not on Dale. A few insects. The rare bird which no one can catch." His eyes fell on the plow looking more like posthole digger then the drawings I've seen of plows from old Earth. It was heavy and awkward. "How do you plow your fields?" "Slowly," I replied, "and with sweat. There's a big plow for the common town fields but that takes six Bo -- six men to manage. I'd rather take care of mine myself. Not that I couldn't ask for the team to come out, but then I'd have to barter for their time and trouble and feed them. That's expensive. A lot of teams eat more than they're worth." About half way through my explanation I had begun to doubt that Mulder was listening. His shoulder was against the roofing post now, and I think it was all that was keeping him upright. Even his eyes had closed. I touched the back of my hand against his damp brow. His head came up like a shot, eyes blazing, even as I leaped back. "Sorry, just checking. You've got a touch of the fever back. You really should lie down." "You're not going to order me to? I want to know what's going on and I want the truth. What have I been dropped into the middle of?" It felt as if that cliff was coming the rest of the way down. "This is not how it's suppose to work." "You've said that before. How's it suppose to work?" When I couldn't get the right words to start off with he did it for me. "When a newcomer gets dropped off I take it that they're assigned to one of the farmers? I thought at first that it was something like living with a host family, giving the newcomer a chance to get acclimated, but it's a more permanent relationship than that, isn't it?" I found that I was staring down at my dirt-stained fingers. "You got to understand how strange this is. You see, BoBs -- they're not expected to ask questions. Like I said, most can't even talk." Mulder's eyes were more interested than angry now. Very well, I told myself, this maybe wouldn't be so much different than storytelling. "From the beginning then. From the start the colony was left on its own. A lot of people died." Mulder nodded, not surprised. "Then they started dropping off the newcomers; only a few at first, but then fairly often. These newcomers were not like you, they were very..." I waved my hand in front of my unfocused eyes. "They just weren't all there." "From shock or actually brain-damaged?" my companion asked. I shrugged. "They could barely take care of themselves, that's all I know. Most had to be told when to go to bed and when to piss. A few couldn't even feed themselves and that's even after we gave them food. They certainly couldn't organize themselves to grow anything. We were a little community, dying ourselves when the crops were bad, and with no Earth animals like horses or oxen we had so much heavy work to do. What were we supposed to do with these people? At least they were physically healthy." "So they were assigned to a farmer who put them to work." His eyes were cold. "BoB..." his voice trailed off. "Beast --" "-- of Burden." I admitted sheepishly. "That's demeaning." "It started out as a joke. The program had a fancier name when it started but that was lost over the years. 'Social Responsibility' I think they called it." "Government-sponsored slavery," he sneered. "Listen, you weren't here. You don't know. At least everyone has a home, everyone has food -- most years anyway -- and some BoBs get better with time." "And what happens when they do? Are they given a choice then?" I opened my mouth but nothing came out at first. True, there were no laws that covered any kind of smooth transition, and there were some truly ugly stories. "There's Peter," I stammered, coming up with the one example everyone always used when the topic came up, "Old Theodore's BoB. He went on to inherit his Holder's farm since Theo had no son. That will happen more in the future since there are no children." Mulder's bright eyes had lost that accusatory look and showed interest again. "Why are there no children?" "Because there aren't many women. Half a dozen women and as many children but you won't find them on any farm. They are very precious. You don't see them. There are less every generation." I felt myself blushing. "I'm one of the lucky ones, second generation." He seemed to put a couple of ideas together. "I want to ask about your women and children but later. So you were born here, born to be a Holder one day, and that's where all the 'this is not the way it should be' stuff came from. And you've been expecting to be assigned a newcomer for years --" "--But there just weren't any. They stopped coming. Ten years and nothing. I never thought... and then you..." I blushed again though I don't think he noticed. "There were female mindspeakers where I was. Fairly equal numbers. Why did they send so few women here?" "They didn't. The numbers were pretty equal to start with." I felt the sadness sweep over me when I thought of what I've been taught about those years. "What happened to the women?" Mulder asked and the gentleness of his voice somehow made it worse. I struggled to hold the tears back. It was weird the way the man could pinpoint exactly where the critical point was. "R-Remember I said that a lot of us died at first? Most were women." "Why?" "Childbirth." My voice dropped to a whisper. "They bled horribly... something about this planet they say. My own mother..." "Thirty years," he mused, his concentration far off. "And fewer women and children every year. Where are the ones who are left?" "Oh, in the town. You see them sometimes on holidays, from afar. They have to be shielded. Protected." His hand was resting heavily on the barn support again. He looked down at me, his expression serious and weary. "I'm sorry about your mother, Ben. I'm sorry for your community, but I'm not one of your gifts of slave labor from heaven." This last he said with absolute finality. "I'm not a BoB in any of the ways your people mean by that, and from some of the things Runner John said I think you know what I'm referring to." I swallowed, disappointment flooding my belly. So he had listened and had heard. "I realize that -- now. But about you're not being like the others, how were we to know? You were just so sick from the fever. Even with John, you didn't actually say anything. So they still don't know." "What will happen when they find out?" "I don't know, but new ideas aren't welcome." I didn't have to say more. A good deal of my anxiety must have transmitted itself to him for he leaned against the post silently for a long time, his expression grave. "Damn you, Charley," he muttered under his breath, words not meant for me to hear. "You intended purgatory and purgatory I got." "You're very intelligent," I went on, "which means that just like now you are going to ask questions, and there are too many people on Dale who don't want to hear such questions, much less the answers." And less from a Bob than anyone, my thoughts continued. "There are lots of scared people who don't want things to change. Those would be the back-knife politicians who haggle for places on top in the town and most of the giant landholders who have many Bobs as well as landless men who work for them. Some nasty stuff goes around which is why I got myself adopted to old William so that I could live out here. He's been dead ten years and I still spend almost all my time here." Mulder was smiling softly. Nearly took my breath away that smile. "That's a very astute observation, Ben. Societies on the decline fall apart in more ways than one and staying out of the fighting is probably the wisest thing you can do. If you're willing to keep our secret, perhaps it would be best if they continue not to know about 'me' until I understand the lay of the land better." I was relieved that he could grasp the problem, but I knew that he didn't understand all the reasons for my fear, not the personal ones anyway. "I'll tell you what...," he said, stretching slowly. "Until we get this all sorted out, I'll help with the farm work. If it makes you feel more Holder-like you can even give me orders and I'll pretend to do what you say. When we're around other people you can even say that you beat me. When we're around other people I can even do my newcomer best to appear properly distracted." His eyes took on a far away look. "Actually, Scully would say that the distracted part would come naturally." It was as if the sun had come out from behind a cloud, that's how the lines in his face relaxed when he said that name. "Who's Scully?" His smile was back, gentle and sad. "A friend whom I think you would like very much. Correction, a friend whom I _ know _ you would like very much." MULDER: Year 30, Week 19.5 Dale Reckoning Farming... Farming is hard work, damn hard, sweaty, backbreaking work... but rewarding for all that. I saw the first shoots come out of the ground today. They were in the field Ben had planted before my arrival but our three additional fields are all planted and I'm checking the soil daily, walking down after breakfast with the sun on my face. It warms my back as I lean down. Kind of like watching the grass grow only this is life for these people. 'These' people. Notice that I don't say 'us'. I'm still apart, separate. I guess that I'm destined to never be part of any herd. You see, I haven't forgotten about Charley's promise... that he would be back after harvest. I have a way out. These people don't. That's what sets us apart. Does that mean I'll leave? Most of the time it's not even a question I need to ask. Of course, I will. But then the memories of the ship come back and the Beast on that ship and an uncontrollable terror squeezes my heart. At those times being a beast here doesn't seem so bad after all. When the frost is on the pumpkin, however, I know I will go. That's still months away, however. In the meantime I live here quietly with Ben and we work the land. The best part is waking in the morning in my little nest in the south corner of the barn. I like waking up alone. It's almost like old times though a lumpy mat of sleep straw is not nearly as comfortable as my old couch. And who needs coffee when you're greeted with cold dew between your toes as you scurry shivering to the latrine? It's after the first chilly shock wears off that I spread my arms to the sun and glory in the pure simple pleasure of being free. I have clean air to breathe and no walls except when I want them and no company except when I want that either. And the company? The company is Ben. We work in silence or we work and talk or -- God, help me -- we work and sing. Work songs. No wonder they put radios in cars early on. Ah, I hear you, Scully, and you are right. Though I have told Ben about Charley and the ship -- I thought his eyes would fall out his head -- I haven't told him that I have a way off this dirtball and that I intend to leave as soon as I possibly can. Two weeks and more of the same. Since their weeks are ten days long, that is twenty days our time. Just Ben and I and dirt. If only there were some metal tools but I haven't seen a one. Every chore takes a very long time, but at least I'm sleeping well. I fall asleep exhausted every night, but it's a good feeling to work with your muscles towards something that will be appreciated. Better than hitting your head against brick walls for ten years, which is how long that I lived and breathed the X-Files. Working in the fields keeps my mind off other matters as well. If Charley thought this was hell, he didn't know me very well. If he had wanted this to be hell, he would never have said he would come back. THAT would have been hell. As I've said, Ben is a good companion. He's cheerful and hard- working. He's also silent when I feel the need for silence, which is often. I found myself telling him much of what I told Ness about Earth. There is only one problem: he is like a puppy in his hero worship. It's when we get close physically that he is anything but puppy-like in the strength of his physical response. There's no way around that in a cabin as small as Ben's or when we work together in the fields harvesting rocks. Now I've known plenty of women who have had crushes on my person. They see the face and the form but not the whole package. They think they can 'save' me. I've learned to ignore that. There have even been a few men, gays who feel the exact same way. But with Ben this is much tougher. Though he envisions himself the hermit, he's actually dying for companionship. So what would you expect? Here he is, finally alone with another human being, he's never known a woman, doesn't expect to ever have the opportunity to know a woman, and as I understand it his society has totally accepted the man-man thing. I'm also fighting this fairy-tale he's been telling himself ever since he stepped in line to become a landholder at thirteen about the ideal relationship between the lordly Holder and his worshiping field hand. Let's just say that we have the makings for considerable tension here. The worst part is, I'm lonely, too, and here I have the possibility for a real friend, which is rare for me. I do feel an ache when I see that boy-man's back turned to me as he sleeps alone on his shelf bed. That's another reason why I sleep in the barn most of the time. The only time I sleep inside is when it's too cold at night, which it often is even though I'm told that it's nearly summer. When I'm forced inside, I stretch out under the table in the cabin, unwilling to sleep again in front of the fire at Ben's feet. He may be only ten years younger than I in age, but he's a century behind in life experience. Look who's talkin'? Mr. Sophisticate.