PhaHks Series
by GenieVB



TITLE: "PhaHks" (An X-Files/Star Trek Universe Crossover)- Prologue. 

AUTHOR: "GenieVB" plus contributions by my husband, Ade'.(Author's notes appear 
at end of Part III) 

RATING: NC-17. Language, violence, sexually explicit scenes, hmmmm,... what 
else? oh, yes!: slash (a wee bit), rape, adult situations). 

SPOILERS: Folie A Deux, The End 

THANK-YOU'S: I thank this Mulder/Torture Site maintained by SMILEY! (everything 
else I did on my own). This story is free for archiving anywhere with my full 
permission and gratitude. 

SUMMARY: MT/MSR. Mulder is abducted - for real - and returned eight years later. 


DISCLAIMER: The X-Files series, movie, characters, and related props: guns, ugly 
ties and sunflower seeds are all the property of Chris Carter, Ten Thirteen 
Product- ions and the Fox Network. I don't want any credit, fame or fortune from 
X-Files, I only want to write about your show and characters to entertain myself 
and others. Also, Star Trek and its Universe are owned by Gene Roddenberry and 
his heirs and Paramount and not me, I don't want any fame or fortune from any of 
YOUR stuff either. 

*This will be a continuing series. This is my first posting! I salivate for 
feedback. (Slash and burn critics please remember that YOU were green once too). 


***** 

"PhaHks" - Prologue.









"Impounded." 

Startled, "What?" she asked. 

"His vehicle wasn't at his apartment because it was impounded Friday night, 
Agent Scully." 

It was Sunday. 

"Why? What's happened, sir?" 

"Sit down." F.B.I Assistant Director Walter Skinner directed her to a chair 
opposite his desk with a wave of his hand. "That's the question of the day." 

In other words, he thought, nothing new. "It's why I'm here so early in here on 
a Sunday, Agent Scully." He leaned forward, slumping, as if his head had 
suddenly grown very heavy. It was an unusual posture for him and she noted it. 
"And now that you're here-" 

"-Sir, what is going on? I wasn't able to reach Mulder all weekend - " 

"I tried to contact you about this late Friday." Skinner interrupted. "Where 
were you?" 

"Oh. I'm sorry, sir. I was...at my godson's until today. I, uh, I didn't have my 
Cell' with me, I'm..." she twitched her eyebrows, an ironic, facial shrug, "I've 
been leaving it at home so Mulder,...I mean, when we have no current case,...so 
my weekends off are weekends off." 

Skinner nodded. There was no accusation in his tone, "You couldn't have known, 
Agent Scully. But something has happened. We don't yet know what." He handed her 
a thin manila folder. "The investigation began Friday night." 

Pulling a lock of her red hair back behind one ear, Agent Scully read the police 
report contained within. There wasn't much and she was aware that Skinner, of 
course, knew it contents but she read aloud anyway: 

""Vehicle registered to Fox Mulder found abandoned just off "I-90" approximately 
four A.M. this morning..." She closed her sky-blue eyes and opened them again. 
"No signs of forced entry, but passenger-side door ajar. Identification, 
cellular and weapon discovered in glove compartment. Exterior and interior 
dusted, no prints found other than owners. Overnight bag in trunk.."." 

She looked back to her boss. "There's nothing here indicating robbery? No blood 
found, no trace evidence, nothing indicating that anything of a violent nature 
occurred?" 

"No." He shook his head. "But his car was found with the engine running. No 
witnesses to his prior activities," he finished paraphrasing the report for her. 
"No other tire tracks on the shoulder, no "suspicious activities" seen by anyone 
on the road that night. No calls made from his cellular since Friday evening, 
and that one was to his mother in Chilmark." 

"She knows he's missing?" 

"Yes but she can't tell us anything. From his call to her, he was on his way 
there. She expected him around ten P.M., only he didn't arrive." 

"And knowing his mother, she wouldn't worry right away. Um,...Mulder's been 
known not to keep appointments." 

Skinner sniffed in agreement, having himself butted heads with the Agent in 
question. Mulder was the most talented, most risk-taking, most bullet-prone and 
altogether most frustrating agent in his department. Had he been a road sign, it 
would have said: "WARNING! HAZARD!" 

"As far as local police and the Department are able to determine, Mulder went 
straight from work to home and then we assume on to his mothers. If you can 
offer us any insight into this, Agent Scully, anywhere he might have gone, his 
habits outside of work, the Bureau is all ears. They have the official 
investigation and I myself will do everything possible but I'm leaving the 
un-official inquiries up to you. You'll have full access to the case." 

Scully winced. Mulder had been reduced from valued partner to "the case". 

Skinner was still speaking. "You know more about him than anyone." 

Scully peered across the desk of her boss. What he meant was that he knew she 
was worried and that she had leave to do what was necessary to find him, but not 
necessarily the obligation to let him in on the details. 

She was grateful for his between-the-lines encouragement. Walter Skinner 
sometimes - often - came across as a stern and uncompromising man in his glasses 
and starched, white shirts stretched tight over military shoulders. 

But where strangers might see only a stiff disciplinarian, she saw much more. 
*Had* seen it, often. Firmness and by the book attitude - yes - Skinner was a 
master at that. But A.D. Skinner, behind his gold-rimmed glasses and pursed 
lips, showed genuine concern and consideration for those under his orders. He 
worried about his agents, he cared about them. And for that, almost to a man, he 
inspired loyalty. His agents respected him. More than that, they liked him. 

"Yes, sir, thank-you. I'll do my best. I think I'd like to start by visiting the 
spot where his car was discovered." 

Skinner dropped his official face for a moment and rubbed the bridge of his 
nose, nodding. "I am sorry Agent Scully. I'm sure something will turn up soon." 
He thought *Sometimes Mulder's a thorn in my ass but he's MY thorn and it's MY 
ass!*, but what he said was: "I hope Mulder's all right." 

"Yes, sir, so do I."







But the spot was just a spot on a gravel road about two hundred feet off the 
highway. Just a road by a hill where bushes quivered in the afternoon breeze. 

Later, checking out the forensic team's results on his car, she learned they had 
found nothing further, no clue to his whereabouts or why he'd left his car 
behind. Or (another idea and the more likely hypotheses, she'd decided) why 
"they" had taken him, leaving the car. 

Disappearing without a trace was not scientific but, thus far, it applied. 

Scully kept up the investigative inquiries, pursuing all angles, every 
possibility, anything. She even enlisted the talents of Byers, Langly and 
Frohike, Mulder's weird but endearing friends and publishers of The Magic 
Bullet, a little back-alley rag that spouted the latest C.I.A. conspiracies, 
U.F.O hot-spots and what-not. 

Their inspirations turned up nothing. 

Trouble had always hung around Mulder like a bad odor, yet, even their forays 
into danger she began to miss. A good, frustrating, convoluted case had with few 
exceptions brought out the best in both of them. A few adrenaline pumping 
almost-being-killed's thrown in? Even better. 

Death, faced together, they conquered. 

Disaster had been their best friend and their worst enemy. 



But now the enemy was unknown. Days added up into weeks and then months. 

Two enemies: the UNSUBS 

And time. 

As one of her colleagues assigned to "the Mulder case" had elaborated, "Time's a 
killer," then, callously disregarding that she was within earshot, "the longer 
Spooky's missing, the more likely it is he's dead." 





Before long, summer had left. 

Fall came and went. 

Then winter with its inevitable drizzle drifted in, depressing her in its 
insistence on smearing everything in grey. She loathed its proclamation because 
it matched her spirits.





When another new Spring arrived the fresh growth mocked her because she could 
not share the beauty of it with him. Could not, while on a case with him, stop 
the car and enjoy a few moments smelling the breeze beside the road as they 
stretched their cramped legs. 

They could no longer park at a roadside gas-station restaurant, sip bitter 
coffee and watch each other eat. She especially missed seeing him struggle with 
the white powdered sugar that coated his chin after he wolfed down two or three 
donuts. 



Could no longer fall asleep in a seedy motor-Inn, knowing he was just a door 
away. Couldn't look forward to breakfast and his morning highs, his mouth moving 
too fast for her to follow as he summed up what he'd been thinking about all 
night over their current case. 

Couldn't watch him spill coffee on his tie. 

The good stuff. 





Summer came around again but to her it was ugly and infuriating. She didn't 
think anything should be colorful or pretty or alive because it was like a 
betrayal. The world didn't miss him and it should have. 

She missed him. 

Missed almost everything about him. 

Had never told him. 

They had each, rarely, ever broached the subject of their mutual respect and, 
even less so, their trusted partnership. Their valued friendship, jointly 
cherished, had not once been spoken of openly. They had sort of taken each other 
matter-of-factly. He was her partner and she was his. They fought for each 
other, protected each other, cared about each other. Nothing had needed to be 
said. 

Certainly not the unspoken, stronger feelings because that was an un-chartered 
deeply running current. At least in her. 

It had remained, in the end, untouched. 

He had given her signals, more than once. She had chosen not to respond. So as 
not to, she had thought, endanger the working bond they shared, the professional 
chemistry that had made them a superb team. Not responded to his small sometimes 
two-meanings touches with any of her own however much she'd wanted to. 

In fact, sometimes she'd played cool and amused. Always he had laughed it all 
off as part of their little clown act. 

It even sounded like they belonged in a troupe. "Scully N' Mulder". 

Jokes. 

Sometimes his eyes, though, would be thoughtful afterward. Unsteady. Puzzled. 
Worried. 

Hurt. 

Scully thought, not for the first time since he'd vanished, that Regret was a 
living, stabbing bitch and she was sticking it to Dana Scully but good. 

She remained with the X-Files with regular forays into pathology at Quantico. 

Eventually, most of her week was spent there. But she made sure that at least 
one full day and several evenings were taken up with the X-Files. Not that there 
was much to do there. Fewer and fewer cases of the paranormal flavor came across 
her desk. 

A few she solved. None about abductions. 

Mostly missing persons where the circumstances seemed unusual. She requested 
302's and usually got them. Traveled a little but not like before. Kept expenses 
to a minimum and generally pursued her cases as she saw fit. 

Nobody bitched. 

Certainly the tiny basement office was no expenditure to the Bureau since she 
was already on the Quantico payroll. 

Spooky's old domain wasn't exactly up for grabs. 

Days became routine. 

She kept the X-Files department active but she suspected Skinner allowed it out 
of indulgence to her and her value as a versatile agent and not because he 
believed, as she did, that Mulder would be returning. 

After the fire, the place had been redecorated. Whatever had been salvageable 
had been rescued and re-filed, re-stacked, repainted. 

New desk. 

New department head.





It was lunch hour and she seated herself at her usual spot. A table by the 
window at a quaint little bagel nosher (not where she and Mulder used to go), 
within walking distance to work. It was where she occasionally met her mother on 
weekends unless she was away on a case which was happening less and less.





The waiter (the place employed waiters in cute little bow ties and shiny shoes) 
brought coffee. 

Scully's thanked him absentmindedly, her thoughts on a case just weeks prior to 
Mulder's disappearance. 





<*"Scully, you're my one in five billion."*> 

Mulder had said that to her. Lying in a psyche ward, strapped down, at the mercy 
of an unknown, unseen killer. Some monster that had terrified him. Frightened 
him enough that he began to pursue it. Believed it enough that he had risked 
chasing that belief as far as right into the A.D.'s office, screaming out his 
accusations of "It" hiding in the light and infecting the innocent. 

No one else had believed him. 

Certainly not the Assistant Director, bruised from having to have pinned Mulder 
to his desk. Certainly not the EMT's who were summoned to come and strap Mulder 
down on their roll-away, plastic sheets gurney. 

Certainly not his partner, Scully thought. But it, Mulder, the whole thing, had 
sounded so totally OUT THERE. His claims, the ravings of a genius mind finally 
spiraling down into madness. SHE hadn't believed him. Not for a minute. 

*Not this!* she had thought and, later, was forced to ask herself: why not? 

All those other cases with Mulder threading together some bizarre theory of 
human sized sucker worms, 				moth-men, vampires, 
pituitary gland sucking voo-doo spirits...Scully had a quite a list tucked away 
in her brain. Some of the strange she'd seen with her own eyes and had no better 
theories to account for them. No way to validate their existance yet no evidence 
to invalidate Mulder's conclusions. 

But a zombie-making, mind-controlling monster-man right out of Stephen Kings 
closet of BOO's? 

But along "It" had come. 

A monster, (disguised as a man of course), working for - of all things - a vinyl 
siding company. A monster that "hid in the light", chomping on its employees 
necks, turning them into zombie slaves and mastering them through mental 
telepathy. 

*Whoa-whoaWHOA! Mulder???*, had been her first thought. 

In the face of his Mulder-normal voice and paper-thin circumstantial evidence, 
he had scared the shit out of her. 

So, *Holy shit! is he kidding or is he (my god) losing it?*, had been her second 
thought. 

Didn't believe him. At first, didn't even consider it. 

Her partner of five years, labeled as a delusional schizophrenic, had been held 
down, sedated, and transported away in a quiet ambulance while half of his peers 
had watched, shaking their heads and whispering among themselves "See? I told 
you so.", "I knew he was NUTS, but geez....", "Didja hear? Ol' "Spooky" just did 
a swan dive off the deep end.". 

Days prior to his undignified exit from Skinner's office, Mulder had come to 
her, his partner, for assistance, for her medical expertise. His request, said 
calmly, rationally, even nicely. <"If this is, as you say, all in my mind, I 
would really appreciate you helping me prove that."> 

Spoken quietly or not, it had been a plea. 

And what had she said or done? 

Nothing. 

Well, not NOTHING... 

She had dismissed his claims as the work of an overworked mind, one that had 
fallen under the empathic spell and insistence of a lunatic. 

The other nothing she had done was to adamantly refuse to help him prove or even 
disprove the claims of his own eyes by performing a simple autopsy, even when, 
two days previous, he had in their shared office, so calmly, begged her to help 
him. 

Begged her. 

<"If this is all in my mind,..."> 

Later staring down at him in a psyche ward, seeing firsthand his desperation, 
she had mouthed some patronizing garbage, expressing her hope that he'd "come 
out of it". 

Helpless to help himself, laying there, restrained and drugged, he'd pleaded for 
her help again. After five years together, she had stood there with her arms 
crossed, knee-deep in his humiliation...



...and then had said NO! 

"I'm ashamed." Scully said to the room, empty of her partner but still full of 
his life. She'd driven all the way to work on a Saturday. And this room had him 
written all over it. 

But there was no absolution here. 

But, of course, he had forgiven her immediately. Hadn't even mentioned it. 

At least she could take some comfort in that she had come through for him in the 
end. 

Just short of too late. 

Even that day when she'd refused him, his eyes had not accused. 

She missed those eyes, whether wide-eyed at a light in the sky or still and 
sleeping. Eyes that could be so terribly sad and then, in seconds, playful. 

She missed it all. 

His chewed up pencils still littered the office. If she used her imagination, 
she could picture him sitting at his desk, reading, chewing his lip with his 
gleaming white, slightly crooked incisors inside that long angle of jaw. 

Nature was frivolous. 

She knew of male agents, some with whom she occasionally consulted, who spent 
hours in the gym, on the track and in front of the mirror trying vainly to 
achieve what her partner had been given by genetics. 

Ironically, Mulder had on occasion used his various charms to woo a difficult 
witness of the female persuasion when it suited his ends. 

Or use those same good looks and charm to piss them royally off if THAT suited 
his purpose; if it meant getting at the truth. 

And he was good at it. 

Nothing like a sexy, handsome man staring down at you and speaking to you in a 
tone of voice that said you were beneath him. Like you were nothing special. 

Like your tits were too small and your hole too loose. 

Like, under any other circumstances, he wouldn't have given you the time of day 
never mind a roll in the dark. It almost never failed to make the woman hiss and 
bare her claws. 

And sometimes such tactics brought out the truth. 

Mulder was a psychologist, after all. Anger often made people say exactly what 
was on their mind. 

But it depended on the witness and what he needed from them. 

If you were a victim, he was gentleness itself. Sometimes he didn't want 
anything except to ease their hurt. 



Scully's thoughts left the psychological for the physical. 

She realized that now and then he must have given in to his bodies biological 
urges and had company overnight in his infrequently slept-in bed or spent a 
night away from home in someone else's. When, where, how often or with who she 
had not known nor had she wanted to, private speculations aside. (Bar pick-ups 
perhaps?) But to her knowledge Mulder had never resorted to prowling for a 
streetwalker in order to satisfy whatever were his sexual aches. It hadn't fit 
the Mulder she knew. 

He simply would NOT HAVE DONE. 

Mulder, with his "Yes Ma'am"'s, and "No Ma'am"'s, his "Yes, please"'s and 
"thank-you"'s, and his, in that unaffected, natural grace, standing whenever a 
lady, young or old, entered a room all bespoke breeding and manners not 
customarily found among the fruit of his generation. Mulder had picked up some 
of his male graces during his Oxford days, but Scully knew that was not the 
whole story. And good manners could certainly not have been beaten into him, no 
matter how hard his father had tried. 

Part of his tenderness must have come from endurance. Abused kids often grow up 
to be abusers themselves. Not so in Mulder's case. Quite the opposite. She'd 
known him as a gentle spirit though Scully suspected that underneath had existed 
a steel core, forged under fists and angry words, which had finally emerged with 
a determination to be anything BUT hard and impenetrable. NOT like father, like 
son. 

No. Mulder was a born gentleman. And a humanitarian. People always came first. 
Innocents were cleared, victims comforted, THEN justice met out upon the 
evil-doers. 

All that and good looks too despite a nose rather too large, teeth a little bit 
over bitten, chin a wee bit receding, hair the slightest bit unruly, forehead a 
touch too high. Somehow out of that cauldron of slight imperfections, nature had 
cooked up a face that stopped women in their tracks in order to take a second 
and then a *third* look. 

Then, just to top it off, it had dolled him six feet-one inch of lithely molded, 
tight masculinity that just made women gooey.



Drop-dead gorgeous had sprung from mish-mash. 

He'd known of his affect on women and even of the jealousy his looks had incited 
among his male peers. She knew he had been well aware of it, in fact. But the 
thing was, he just hadn't cared. He'd been far too mind-focused and driven by 
his perpetual work to have taken any of it seriously. Of what he had not been 
aware, she mused, were the hungry looks from certain male associates who'd 
stared after him, their eyes resting upon his back a trifle too long to have 
accounted for mere "Spooky" curiosity. Wistful visual touches that spoke their 
disappointment in the common knowledge of Mulder's heterosexual preferences. 

No, Mulder would never have had to resort to a prostitute. There had been plenty 
of available sex-partners at the Bureau all too happy to have accommodated him. 
Women, at least, who'd had no reservations about making their interests crystal 
clear. But beyond a tolerant wink, Mulder had never shown the slightest 
inclination to accept. 

Scully disciplined her thoughts. They kept drifting into past tenses. 

Despite his video collection of unspeakables, Mulder was old-fashioned. 

Consumed by his work. 

And, despite persistent gossip to the contrary, too much of a professional to 
romantically entangled himself with a workmate. Too risky in his view. Such 
liaisons could interfere with his time sucking workload and his personal quests, 
the sole focus of his life. 

Each partner with no entanglements. Each busy with work. 

With each other. 

But one warm evening, on their last case together before his disappearance, all 
her set assumptions regarding her deep water partner had been dashed to little 
pieces. 

Before the vision of his hand been held in the tenderness of another's, she had 
stood stunned. For a second only but long enough to have tipped her from her 
foundations.



Her mental Mulder files had lay scattered at her feet all because of one moment 
and a name from the past: 

Diana Fowley. 

What had she been to him? And what was he becoming to her now? 

Mulder, who wore his heart out in the open for all to see, who had shown 
tolerance even to those who had hurt him, who so endearingly wanted things to be 
right in the world, had suddenly been captured by an old love out to rekindle 
his old flame, which fire was not burning for Scully. 

In a split second, the length of time it had taken her to keep walking down that 
cool hallway and not disturb them, Scully had felt like she was losing the part 
of her life that suddenly was too precious to lose. The part she'd had, up to 
that point, taken for granted. 

Except for those atrocious ties. 

****************





Margaret Scully was worried. 

"Dana, I want you to talk someone." 

It was Sunday. 

Bagel Bistro Brunch day. It was their interpretation of "New England". 

Dana Scully played with her half-eaten peach crepe. Kippers were gross. 

"Mom, don't." 

Margaret leaned across the table, forcing her only daughter to look at her. "I 
know how things were. I'm not blind. I wasn't to Fox and certainly not to you. 
This isn't healthy. What if-" 

"There are no what-if's yet. We don't know anything." 

"I know. Dana, I know." 

Dana sighed heavily at her mother's worried expression. "Mom, why couldn't 
things have been simpler than this?" 

Why couldn't she be out in the world and feeling all of it? Instead of inside 
this transparent bubble that went everywhere she did. It kept out the freshness 
of life. 

If she tried...if she stretched out her arm, her finger-tips almost brushed the 
inner edge of it. Almost. Not quite. 

Like being with her mother. Just so far. No farther. 

"What did you mean, Mom?" 

"About...?" 

"About being not blind to him?" 

"You're so smart, Dana, but somehow it escaped you. It was there on his face 
every time I saw him look at you, and in his voice. I knew the day you 
disappeared." 

"Mom, Mulder cared about so much. He fought for everyone who was close to him. 
It only makes sense he would fight for me and-" 

"Dana," she took her hand, "he was *insane* with grief." She slipped a cardboard 
business card across the table to her daughter. "I want you to promise me you'll 
go." 

Dana understood the unspoken message. Margaret didn't want her daughter going 
that same road. 

She took the card and read the name. Another therapist. She had half a dozen 
others just like it in her purse. Concerned colleagues, sincere friends, all 
trying to help. 

She didn't want help. She wanted to keep her own counsel and if that meant 
crying every night in the shower and eye drops afterward, well then, leave her 
the fuck alone. 

But this was her mother, who had cared for and respected her partner. Who cared 
for her. 

"Okay. But I won't promise to continue." 

At least the shrink was one not connected to the Bureau. 

What the hell. 

He record would be remain spic' and span.





******





"I see by your file that during your time assisting Agent Mulder in the X-Files 
Division, you've been through a great deal. The loss of family members, your 
life threatened on more than one occasion...." 

"Yes." 

"And now Agent Mulder has disappeared." 

"Yes." Scully shifted as her private therapist adjusted her bifocals. 

"Do you think Dana?...is it possible that you're feeling anger towards your 
partner?" 

"Anger? No, why would I be?" 

"From things you said to me on your first visit. Because he's gone. Whatever the 
circumstances, he's effectively exited from your life. Very suddenly. It can be 
like a death, Dana. Sometimes, it can be harder, the not knowing." 

"I understand what you're saying, but I'm not feeling anger towards him. Not at 
all." 

"Tell me what you are feeling. What brought you to me today?" 

"I'm feeling...um, I think it's f-fear." 

"Why?" 

"I don't mean fright but,.. I don't blame Mulder. I don't blame him at all, 
whatever's happened to him, it wasn't his choice, I know that for a fact." She 
avoided a direct answer. 

"How can you be sure?" 

"Because I know him, Doctor Bryant. We worked together for five years. He has 
occasionally gone off without a word, but not for this long and...and never like 
this. There was no message from him on my computer." 

"Is that what he usually did when he knew he would be away for an unusual time?" 


She nodded. "Or when he was embarking on something a bit dangerous and wanted to 
protect me, which he sometimes did." 

"I see." 

Scully thought that she did not see. Not really. 

"Describe this fear. What do you mean by that? What kind of fear?" 

Scully swallowed and took a breath, steeling herself. 

"Mulder helped me through...things. We supported each other. I've made my own 
choices and have lived with the consequences of those choices, but...I - he, 
now, I don't - ." she wavered, halted. 

"It sounds like you had an especially close partnership. >From what you've 
described, am I correct in saying you were more like family than workmates?" 

"Yes. I feel like I've lost another member of my family and the fear is...that I 
won't be able to handle it. I feel," she tried to find the right word, 
"unstable, somehow and not just because he's missing. I'm a strong person, 
doctor, but, I suppose I just learned to rely on him." She looked at her folded 
hands. "More than anyone." 

"Now you feel...?" 

"I don't know. I am angry that, after a year of intensive investigation, we 
still know nothing." 

"How would you describe your relationship with Agent Mulder, other than in the 
work environment?" 

The doctor listened to the half answer. 

"Friends. Mulder - whenever my ship was sinking, he was my life-boat, helping me 
to...back to shore so, for me, the missing is easier than the knowing." 

Liar. 

"Are you sure about that?" 

No! It was harder. God - how hard it was! to wait and know nothing. So this is 
what it's like. 

Twenty-five years. That's how long Mulder (before he became among the missing 
yet hoped for himself) had waited for Samantha; how long he'd kept the candle 
for her burning in his heart; the lantern to his road. 

The hope. 

Hope was being a prisoner. It was chains to the past and one tiny window to the 
future. It was everything in ones world reduced to Someday. 

And it was so cold. 

That was the hardest of all, the most painful, keeping the hope warm and the 
heart from turning into a tiny, painful block of ice. 

She'd always thought that, though he'd been brave to have continued waiting and 
hoping, he'd also been unwise. Better to put it behind oneself and move on, 
she'd always silently believed. 

Presumptuousness. Now she understood all too well what it was like to have a 
treasure - a loved human being - taken from ones life; vanish without words or 
warning. 

Samantha had been missing for twenty-five years and he had still believed. 

Things like these, she realized, cannot be left behind. They are precious cargo, 
carried forward, willingly, desperately, under bowed shoulders and aching back. 
Though they become heavier, they are kept close, perpetually embraced while 
hurting like fucking hell. 

Melissa, her own murdered sister, had been dead for three years. But at least 
she could go and place flowers at Melissa's grave and weed around the head- 
stone. Scully had had an ending. She'd had anger and acceptance. Grief then 
closure. All those things in which she'd been able to indulge, those movements 
that enable the survivor to live on and find equilibrium again. A struggle, yes. 
But mostly good memories now. 

Mulder had been less fortunate. His sister, at the time of his own 
disappearance, had still been just a hope for him. A twenty-five year old ache. 
He'd been much stronger than she had given him credit for. So very, very strong 
to have carried the pain all that time. Despite all the promises she'd made to 
herself in that regard, she felt unequal to the burden. 



Scully came back to the doctor's office and realized she hadn't answered. Put 
her hand to her mouth, spoke through it. "I don't know if I can stand to lose 
him too,..." Her fingers trembled. Very softly, "...especially him." 

The grand-mother-turned-doctor nodded her white head. Said kindly, "It's been 
over a year. Have you considered the possibility that he might be - " 

"- Dead?" I can't believe that. Not yet. I still have hope, of a form." 

"I wonder: have you gone on with other aspects of your life?" 

"I'm not sure what you mean. I have the work." 

"The X-Files?" 

"Yes." 

"But what about your personal life?" 

Had things turned out differently, she might have enjoyed that. But a woman 
named Diana Fowley had suddenly, without warning, been shot like an arrow back 
into her partner's life, passing through her like she wasn't even there, 
metaphorically ripping her heart to pieces. 

After the first day, after the first shock of learning about their previous 
relationship and after seeing them working in tangent sans any sign of renewed 
spark, her worry had almost faded right away. Almost. 

But it had bothered her to find out that Mulder had a past; one other than 
College days Phoebe Green. She felt stupid that she had thought that way. *Of 
course he has a past, she'd mused, you've been with him only five years. Prior 
to that the man had lived most of his life without knowledge of your existence.* 


Then another shock. 

The sight of Agent Diana Fowley holding Mulder's hand in both of hers so 
tenderly, so much as if she had a right to do that, as if he somehow still 
belonged there, had left her in a kind of limbo. The "I'm angry, scared and hurt 
and I don't know why" kind of paralysis. 

But she'd quite quickly figured out why. Quite thoroughly why. And that had been 
another kind of shock. 

Somewhere along the line, unconsciously maybe and un-acknowledged, where before 
had lived in her respect, friendship, admiration, caring and professionalism, 
now dwelled contentment, comfortable possession, emotional intimacy, desire. 

Tender feelings. 

Love. 

Deep inside her. 

The sudden surfacing of those intense feelings had left her confused. 

Until that day, she'd been cuddled inside the complacency of what they had, 
forgetting that he was a separate being who had a past and future and both might 
not include her. The stark sight of Mulder with someone else, someone who just 
could, eventually, replace her in his life center, which is where she'd always 
assumed she sat, had left her mute. In mental shock. Not only from seeing his 
one hand buried inside Diana Flowley's two, but by her own overwhelming 
emotions. 

None of this she could articulate to the soft spoken doctor across from her. 
Because she still had never spoken of it openly. And she wanted it to be him who 
heard it first. Only it was too late. Maybe. 

"It's become the same." she finally offered. 

"How so?" 

"When I first joined his Division, I came because it was my assignment and I 
stayed out of duty. I was still somewhat "green" in the Bureau and I stayed 
because I was determined to do the job I was given and to do it to the best of 
my ability. Soon, I stayed because I found the work fascinating," She smiled at 
memories too impossible to share with the psychologist sitting opposite her, 
"albeit a little out-of-the-ordinary. We worked well together and the work 
became ours." 

Scully paused. 

The doctor could see the hesitation. "Everything you say here is strictly 
confidential, it stays in this room." 

Scully nodded, hesitated, then decided and continued. "Then I stayed because of 
him." 

"But now? *Now* - why do you stay?" 

Scully was glad the doctor had blipped over that last bit of confession. "If I 
didn't, it would be like giving up on him. I can't do that. I won't." 

"You're keeping the X-Files alive for the day he comes back, is that it?" 

"I suppose so. It sounds irrational, but I've exhausted every lead, there's been 
no word - it's all I can think of to do now. I owe him that." 

"It's not irrational." The doc scribbled on the notepad on her lap. "The 
official investigation is closed, is that right?" 

"Yes, but I've continued unofficially since then." 

"Were you and your partner intimate?" 

So the doc hadn't blipped over it. From her first session with Doctor Bryant, 
Scully had learned that the doc liked to spring tough questions when she wasn't 
looking, to catch her off guard and get at the truth. Scully's heart beat 
loudly. She was sure Bryant could hear it. 

"No." 

"Were - *are* - your feelings for him still strictly professional?" 

"He's my partner." 

Where Scully had said "partner", the doctor had heard something else, something 
that spoke of desperate hope and terrible regret. 

"If Agent Mulder had not gone missing, do you think it would have become 
something more than that?" 

Scully looked down at her hands clasped in her lap. "No. Um - I don't know, I 
can only speak for myself,...I, I can't answer that." 

"That's all right. I was wondering because of the depth of your mourning." She 
held up a hand at her patient's start. "*Even* if he is merely missing, you are 
displaying textbook mourning processes and its intensity indicates to me that 
you were *extremely* close to each other. A depth of feeling that you haven't 
spoken of, at least to me. So close, Dana, that it has left you in a very 
vulnerable state. My concern is how you are coping and will cope should Agent 
Mulder not return or should the worst occur and it's discovered that he has 
died." 

Scully paled at the suggestion. "He's not dead." Saying it to re-enforce her own 
belief. To make it real. 

"Here's why I'm concerned Dana. What will you do if he, indeed, never returns? 
It is something you might have to face. Have you even considered the 
possibility?" Her patients answer would determine if the Agent Scully would 
require short or long term therapy. 

Licking her lips, "I plan to..." Scully looked out the window. Yellow afternoon 
sun stopped at the pane and refused to warm her or obey the doctors desire to 
color her spirit with anything other than greyness. Inside her, cold black and 
white remained. 

"...for now I plan to keep faith." 



Doctor Bryant nodded to herself. Long-term. *****







One year became two, three, then four, speeding by faster and faster. 

And before Special Agent Dana Katherine Scully MD., could count them off: 

Eight years.



She had tried to be practical about it but then realized that was just another 
kind of weakness. What did her partners disappearance have to do with practical? 
For that matter, what did Mulder? 

She tried to grieve and couldn't. He was not dead, she told herself. But her 
resolve was weakening whether she would ever discover what happened or where he 
was. 

If she would ever see him again. 

But she did keep her faith those first years that something would materialize to 
show her the way to a discovery and, finally, to bringing him home. 

Something that would rewind time so his absence and her heart-sickening failure 
would all reverse, traveling backwards and backwards until it all the years of 
no Mulder ceased to be. Until she could laugh at his stupid jokes again in while 
he propped his big feet up on the desk. 

She kept the faith but no dark, handsome partner appeared in answer to her call 
to God. No new information jumped out at her from her e-mail, no anonymous phone 
calls woke her from slumber with a mysterious tip to lead her to him. No one had 
stumbled upon any remains or bones that proved to be his. As terrible an end as 
that would be, at least she could feel like she'd done something other than fail 
him. At least she - they - could lay him to rest, cry for a last time and get on 
with the guilty business of living. 

No trace. 

Faith, being the assured expectations of things hoped for though unseen, was a 
fragile thing. 

Both Mulder children were gone now, disappearing twenty- nine years apart. The 
sudden tearing away of them had left aching, frayed holes in the lives of some. 

"Presumed dead" began to be uttered during the seventh year of his absence, each 
time cutting another wedge out of her heart. But, once spoken, it had 
accelerated the weakening of her faith, fading it throughout that eighth year 
until it, too, disappeared. Quietly. Until it died. 



That year, though faith was forsaken, she hoped that maybe brother and sister 
had been rejoined, somehow, somewhere in life. 

Or in death. 

She hoped they were happy. 



***** 





"PhaHks" - Part I.





He dreamed of light. Just for a second. 

He dreamed it, but not as a blind man would dream. Not as something that could 
only be, through the mind-sight of perpetual black, imagined. 

No, with his open seeing eyes, he saw it. This light had form, controlled motion 
and heat. 

And it had given him pain and then. 

Fear. 

But first the dream had allowed him one quick lung full of mountain air. 

Later when he awoke that crisp, pine-scented coolness that had filled him was 
all he thought about. 

Just getting it back. 





When he awoke, he dreamed other things. 

Stink. 



He smelled it but was afraid to open his eyes because the last time he did, he 
was still in the dream but the dream had changed. It was a nightmare now and he 
couldn't move. And he couldn't rid his nostrils of the terrible stench that 
assaulted them with every breath. Now and then he gagged from it and bits of 
drying puke dotted his naked abdomen. Sweat and feces, pungent damp fur, rotting 
teeth. Smells upon smells, a thick quilt of reek that draped over him no matter 
where he turned his face.





When he awoke, he could smell his own urine and body odor. He'd peed himself 
more than once since the dream had ended and the nightmare begun. Soon, because 
he'd been holding back for hours, he would again be adding his own bowel 
excretions to the slickness under his legs and buttocks and the purifying stench 
would grow worse. 

Still he did not open his eyes. But his teeth chattered and gooseflesh covered 
him. And the pain in his empty belly and the sticky dryness of his throat kept 
reminding him that he was real. 

And that maybe, even though he'd kept his eyes shut because he must be dreaming, 
this was too. 





***** 

"Commander Veexow." 

The Junior Navigator swivelled in his seat and straightened, holding himself at 
strict attention. 

The female Commander, seated in the center of the her enormous ship's bridge, 
indicated for him to speak with a single nod, not looking at him. 

"We have the wayward vessel, Commander. Three light years ahead, directly on our 
course." he reported 

"Excellent. We shall have to teach these "traders"" - the word was laced with 
bemused contempt - "a little lesson in the decorum and proper respect befitting 
their liberators. Bring us along side them and prepare an armed infiltration 
unit. I want to see what sort of cargo they're trying to smuggle this time." 

The Junior Navigator turned back to his instruments. "Yes, M'Lady." 

He knew he was awake because, when he turned his head, he was certain he felt 
wall against his cheek. Perfectly smooth and cold. But he wanted to know so he 
opened his eyes to see and started to pant in terror when everything remained as 
dark as it had been behind closed lids. He clenched his teeth and squeezed fists 
to his temples, hoping to force himself elsewhere through pain and pressure. A 
whine of terror escaped his lips and was answered with a sharp blow to his face. 


He knew he was awake because it had hurt and he could taste his own blood. Then 
he felt something else between two of his bottom teeth, managing to unclench a 
fist in order to pull it out. 

A long, coarse hair. 

He retched again, covering himself in his own foul-smelling bile. 

He knew he was awake when he tucked his freezing, cramped legs under him, 
leaning slowly forward and down until his forehead rested on the floor, slimy 
with all manner of fluids. The muscles throughout his body screamed to stretch. 
But he wanted to burrow into himself and so bury what was happening, whatever 
that was. A tiny, shivering ball was as far as he wanted to venture into this 
reality-cum-nightmare.





*****





"Take this creature and execute him!" The Commander released her hold on the 
throat of the ugly little alien, ignoring his protests and pleas for mercy as he 
was dragged away between the bulk of two of her guards. 

The Commander waved an arm to three other guards waiting nearby. "Deliver them 
all to the nearest penal colony and let them figure out what to do with them, 
except for that one." 

The tallest guard followed her pointing finger to the white, hair-less creature 
huddled at the far end of the Trader ship's cargo hold. 

Seeing his puzzled frown, she dared him to speak. 

He didn't. 

"Have my doctor clean him up. Put something warm on him first." Was her last 
order as she strode away. "Yes, M'Lady" she heard as she marched down the 
corridor. 

She didn't have to tell them what to do with the rest of the Trader ship's crew 
nor with the ship itself. The captured smugglers would also be left at the penal 
colony and a skeleton crew of her own kind put on the vessel who would deliver 
it to her home world. She needn't concern herself with such details for she had 
a well trained and loyal crew including a wide variety of personal staff there 
solely to provide for her every need. 

She knew she was taking some risk, keeping this one being behind, but he would 
surely have died if left any longer with the other hapless creatures. And, she 
felt some excitement at the thought for he was a rare find. No, not a rare find, 
an impossible one. Although she'd been against the Extermination Judgment, she 
realized the necessity - even the logic - of it. 

Her people had once before underestimated this species and had almost become 
subservient to them because of it. And her people would have died in such a 
position. No, the Extermination Judgment had been the perfect answer. 

The Commander transported herself directly to the bridge of her own ship and 
spent some time taking care of ship's business and communiques with the Home 
world as well as making some special arraignments regarding her personal 
quarters. Then, duties completed for the time being, she exited and made her way 
through extensive corridors and companionways to the other end of the ship. 

That her large and lavish quarters were on the opposite end of her vessel was by 
design. The bridge was most often the preferred target in a battle and if by 
chance the ship was taken by surprise with her off the bridge, then she would 
have a better chance to survive and battle again. Commanders of her caliber and 
experience were highly valued. Besides, she relished the privacy. 

Now that she'd made the decision about her find, questions would have to be 
answered. Where did he come from? 

She smiled. Perhaps she'd made a miscalculation. After all she'd only been able 
to make a quick visual inspection, perhaps this wasn't the genuine thing. 

She pressed a crystal stud on her thick, jewel encrusted bracelet and spoke into 
it for a moment. She didn't wait for a response from her physician. He would do 
as she asked immediately and bring her his results when he was done. "And", 
speaking aloud to herself, her mouth twisted in annoyed fondness, "he'll wish to 
give me all the usual cautions and warnings but, in the end, keep his mouth 
shut." 

She was fond of her doctor. He was intelligent, insightful and could read her 
with a glance. Yet 					he was also fiercely 
devoted to her. He'd never contradicted her among the crew nor displayed the 
slightest ambition other than remaining her physician, of which privileged 
position his attitude bordered on obsession. He was exactly what she required in 
a personal therapist. In no other duties among the crew could one get as close 
to the ship's commander. So, to none other than the physician was the commander 
of a ship more vulnerable. How simple it would be to eliminate a dissatisfactory 
leader than to have her doctor slip her something lethal. But she didn't have to 
worry. She was rich, powerful and generous to all who proved loyal. 

She frowned as she ordered and was delivered some soothing tea mixture, her 
favorite. It reminded her of home. 

She had been born, of rich parents, near the shores of Rehmu Plain, not a true 
plain but an inland ocean so-called because of its eerie stillness that spoke of 
its extreme depths, shortage of inlets and outlets and that it was surrounded by 
mountain vistas the awesome beauty of which would suck the breath away of any 
planetary traveler. 

She shook her head. She could be so sentimental. Six more tours of duty and she 
could retire at the reasonable age of one hundred, nine years old. Middle age 
for her species. 

She lay back on her many cushioned divan and stretched out, but she was not 
relaxed as her mind turned back again to her most recent problem. Really, what 
possessed me? she thought. What am I to do with him? 

At the sounding of her door, she knew who it was and sat up quickly. "Enter 
Rhengar." 

Her physician entered, carrying a small device she recognized as his portable 
medical unit. 

"Dear M'Lady." 

She smiled at him, about the only crew member she 			ever 
did, at his handsome youth and at his usage of "Dear". 

He is fond of me, (she thought), and I must be of him or I would never allow it! 


He was about to speak further when she held up one bejewelled finger. "Wait." 
She stood next to him. 

"He's pure, isn't he?" 							

His nodded his head once. "Yes, M'Lady, no physical indications what-so-ever of 
intermix." 

"I knew it." Suddenly she was highly excited but managed to control her emotions 
and kept her features smooth. She turned from the doctor and paced before him. 

He cleared his throat. 

"Speak." she said. 

"I have him sedated, M'Lady. What do you wish me to do with him?" 

"Clothe him. Then bring him here." What was she doing? she wondered. As yet, she 
was uncertain. 

Rhengar raised one eyebrow but left to carry out her instructions. 

Though he wouldn't have said so, she knew he didn't agree with the idea but she 
didn't care about decorum, she wanted to see this creature up close. How many of 
her generation had? Few. Probably none. 

She was excited. It wasn't often she indulged herself but this was too great a 
find to just toss aside. Thank gods she had inspected that fifthly cargo hold 
herself. Most commanders would have left it to underlings to do so, such tasks 
being delegated to the lowest classes. But she had never been one to follow 
stuffy tradition, or even orders from the High Command if they didn't completely 
suit her. She had enough power and influence to do almost as she pleased. 





But then, though battle ready at all times, her ship was, strictly speaking, not 
a war ship. It was one used for patrolling, inspecting, surveying, generally 
keeping things in order in their now vast realm of the galaxy. It was the kind 
of ship she'd wanted: clean, well-staffed, luxurious. 

Might as well have as many amenities as home if one was to spend years away from 
it. 

Her mind quickened at the thought of her new found curiosity. What did she 
really know of these creatures? Only what she'd read and learned through old 
texts, gossip and propaganda. 





She couldn't wait to see him up close. She was certain that none of her 
generation, other than Council appointed scientists who kept cloned whole and 
partial specimens for research purposes, had ever seen a whole pure-strain 
human. Much less a living example! 

Her door chime sounded once and the door opened. 

Rhengar pushed the creature ahead of him and through the entryway of M'Lady. He 
waited for instructions, somewhat anxiously. She caught his expression. "Don't 
worry Rhengar, I could kill this creature with a single blow if the need should 
arise. You may leave." 

He bowed and left. 

She turned to take her first close look. 

And was disappointed. 

The creature seemed catatonic as he stood there, swaying ever so slightly, not 
looking at her, not speaking, not moving, not doing anything but staring at the 
floor. Rhengar had had the foresight to dress him, not in rags, but in something 
befitting one who was to meet his liberator, loose fitting but clean white shirt 
and leggings. There were no fasteners or strings on any of the material. 

Nothing the creature could use as a weapon. 

She approached slowly, but kept her distance. 

The creature's eyes widened slightly at her approach and his respirations 
quickened. She could see the pupils of his eyes dilate in terror. Well, she 
asked herself, what did you expect? That he would get down on his knees and 
bestow his eternal thanks and devotion? 

As she approached the creature shut his eyes which annoyed her, she'd wanted to 
see them up close. But he's afraid of you, she thought, he wants to block you 
out. 

"You should be a-fraid." She said, speaking - a bit stiltedly - the now little 
used common tongue of his to all intents and purposes extinct species. He didn't 
respond but he opened his eyes and looked straight at her, at her eyes, 
something she never allowed but from her own doctor. 

She drew in a breath at his insolence but then reminded herself that he probably 
knew nothing of her or her rules, or anything else for that matter. 

She stepped closer and though his gaze never wavered, she could see he was still 
terrified. 

"You should be afraid." she repeated. "I am Romulan High Commander Veexow but, 
unless you give me a reason to do so, I will not harm you." I certainly didn't 
go to all this trouble just to kill you myself, she mused. 

His eyes - what was it? - yes! She saw it. 

Distrust! 

Absolute naked distrust mixed in with that ever present terror. She put a hand 
to his face and he flinched at her touch, actually backed up a step. His 
respirations increased until he was almost gasping for air. Alarmed at his 
reaction, she stepped closer. He seemed more terrified than reasonable. 

Surely he finds my quarters preferable to where he was, she thought. She could 
not understand his thick fright that emanate from him in vibrations she could 
almost feel on the surface of her skin. She could smell his fear over and above 
his other not unpleasant scent as she stepped close to him and as he backed 
away. This series of small movements continued until his back was against a 
wall, one which hung with the woven mural of the shores of her families land. 

Now she was inches from him and he stopped breathing for a few seconds, which 
startled her a little. Then he started again and she relaxed. For some reason, 
she wanted to understand his eyes, not just the color, which she couldn't place 
but what they were saying because for the present at least he either wouldn't or 
couldn't speak. 

Perhaps he can't? she wondered. Perhaps he is brain damaged. Perhaps mute by 
birth? 

But she peered at his other-worldly colored irises with her own black ones and 
knew there was intelligence behind them. 

She smelled him again. Her doctor had had him thoroughly scrubbed but not 
perfumed. She smiled inwardly at that. Rhengar knew exactly what she wanted, 
always. What a treasure he was! If their classes had been the same, she would 
have taken him as mate in a single heartbeat. But - she sighed and moved away 
from the uncooperative human. 

"So, you won't speak, is that it?" she turned to look back at him, his scent 
lingered on her, still filled her nostrils. It had an alien taste. 

But she kept her back to him, showed him that he was inferior and property 
through indirect address. She was pleased to hear him continue to gasp in fear 
as he listened to her speak. She heard his unshod feet shuffle as he moved 
slowly along the wall behind her. She was not alarmed by it, there was nowhere 
for him to go. 

"Well, if I was in your position, I would certainly have questions." 

No response. 

"Shall I ask them for you?" she asked after a pause. 

"Shall I voice your question?" she asked again, and turned to watch him. He 
walked sideways, around and behind her desk but always facing her, watching her. 


He moved well, she decided, approving the easy grace of his step. He was tall, 
as tall as she but not thickly muscled, rather delicate in fact. The texts had 
stated that such was the norm for his species and though this male's form was 
long and well proportioned, he was over thin. 

Too thin for health. His ordeal on the Ferengi ship no doubt the cause for his 
gaunt appearance. He needed fattening up and she would have to arrange for some 
appropriately nutritious meals for him if she ever wanted to see him as he ought 
to look. 

She weighed matters in her mind as she followed his movements and those matters 
were serious. There were risks in what she was doing. How was she too keep him? 
At least long enough to learn something of him and his kind, their most infamous 
enemy and greatest conquest? How keep him hidden and safe while she did so? 

Only too soon, she knew the rumors would fly. No matter how loyal her crew and 
staff, there would be talk and the news of him would reach the ears of those who 
would not merely frown but seek his extermination as a risk to the Romulan 
State. 

She was excited by this incredible find and puzzled by it too. 

Where had the Ferengi's found him? 

She must arrange for the imprisoned Ferengi crew to be interrogated on that 
point. 

They had been delivering this human to someone. A pure-strain that was to have 
become someone's property, a human that had no business being alive. 

The last known specimen had been put down in a Romulan Laboratory more than 
fifty years ago, yet this one was relatively young. She estimated no more than 
thirty earth years. 

She remembered learning of their short life spans from what little knowledge 
remained of their species, creatures she had always been curious about, and if 
her estimate on this ones age was accurate, it meant he had already lived an 
entire third of his life! 

By comparison some Romulans had reached the three hundred mark. 

*Yet at one time the humans thrived while we nearly became an afterthought.* 

She contemplated her people and how they had won their greatest power. Pondered 
the implications of what they had done to achieve it. There were always 
unforseen consequences, sometimes millennia away, but consequences that would 
eventually be played out. 

What will be price for what we have done? 

But for the present she ignored the thought of it. Uncharacteristic of her, she 
knew, but non-the-less. 

*I want to learn about the extinct humans. I want to learn of this human.* She 
smiled at herself. *I always get what I want.* 

"I believe my first question would be," she continued, ""Where am I?"." 

His strange orbs glanced at her but he said nothing. 

"I know you can understand me. I see it in your eyes. What is that color - your 
eyes? What do you call it?" 

He stopped, rested against the bulkhead, leaning forward with his hands on this 
thighs, slumping, as if his short walk around the room had sapped all strength 
from him. As though he were ill. 

She rose and approached him. Not too close. "Is it your breathing?" 

He shut his eyes and breathed slowly in and out. It seemed to be great effort 
for him, that one involuntary physical action. 

"I cannot help you if you will not speak." 

He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes as a spasm traveled over his 
body from bottom to top. 

She quickly retrieved the medicine the doctor had left and set the instrument to 
deliver a small dose. But when she approached, he deftly avoided her touch by 
moving to other side of the room, all but stumbling to remain at a distance. 

It made her angry and unsure. Flustered. What was she to do? "This will not 
harm. It will calm you." 

Her patient inquiries resulted in his gasping and falling to his knees. He 
seemed to be shaking all over, burying his face in his hands. 

Then, to her amazement, she realized he was not having some sort of fit, but was 
laughing. 

Not from joy. 

His expression seemed to her to be one of hysteria. When his hands came away 
from his face, she actually stepped back. Though unafraid she thought it 
possible he might be infected with some sort of viral agent and she had no wish 
to contract it. 

His brows were drawn together over rounded eyes that held that same unreasoning 
fear she'd seen before. 

And then, they shut and from between the lids, wetness appeared and flowed. 



She watched, fascinated. The Texts also contained information regarding this 
phenomena; that, when a human experiences fear or sadness or pain, their eyes 
actually shed water. Extraordinary to see! 

He was on his knees now, slumped over, cradling his head in his arms. 

She wondered which it was: fear? Sadness? But he looked like he was in pain. 

She moved closer again, determined to administer the dose without having to 
summon Rhengar again. She was becoming more than a little concerned regarding 
this human's state of mind. 

This time, however, he didn't run. He didn't move from his spot on the floor. 

She had not considered, as her arm reached to touch the instrument to his 
exposed forearm, that her rare zoological specimen might be tainted. If that 
were the case, she would have no choice but to destroy him. She was taking risk 
enough as it was but an uncontrollable study would be too much. 

When she was a centimeter away, he raised his head and with red-rimmed eyes, 
whispered hoarsely: "Why are you doing this?" 

Shocked, she didn't answer for a few seconds. Then, "You are ill." 

He shook his head. "No. Where am - is...is this hell?" 

Not understanding the reference. "Hhell? Is that a planet?" 

He slammed his fists on the carpet. "STOP IT!" It came out as voiceless, 
high-pitched croaks. Suddenly, he was up and charging her, hands clasping around 
her throat. 

She'd been unprepared for the burst of violence and his thin frame had 
sufficient velocity behind it to throw her off balance. 

But not for long. 

Deftly, she wrenched his hands from her neck, twisting his arms, first one then 
the other, around and behind him, far up his back. Then, with a vise-like grip 
and sheer brute strength, she forced him slowly to his knees. 

But she didn't stop there. She pushed him forward until his right cheek was flat 
against the deck. There she held him, his legs bent underneath, knees spread far 
apart, immobile until he stopped struggling. 

She held him longer, until he stopped gasping in rage. 

Longer, until his breathing slowly returned to normal. 

Longer. 

Until she felt the tension leak out of his back muscles. 

And longer. 

Until she felt him relax completely. Until she knew he had given up. 

And then to defeat him further, she held him there to prove to him that she was 
the more powerful. It was necessary to remove all doubt on that point. 

When she saw the wetness appear at his eyes once more, she leaned in and spoke 
into his ear. 

"Now you see how it is? Now you comprehend, human? What I wish is what happens 
to you. What I desire for *you*. You understand, so hear me very clearly: If you 
ever raise a hand to me again, if you ever look me in the eye without my 
permission, if you ever again raise you voice above a respectful monotone, I 
will have my Centurion Guards execute you the next minute." 

She put her mouth right next to his ear so he could feel her breath. "Do you 
understand?" 

The man under her made small wheezing, coughing noises, she was hurting him. But 
he said nothing. 

"If you do not answer me, I will kill you right here, right now." And to prove 
she was serious she forced his left arm higher up his back, unnaturally high, in 
one lightening quick motion, until she heard it snap. 

He cried out. 

She whispered very, very softly, "Do you understand me now?", her lips touching 
his earlobe. 

His mouth opened. A faint and scratchy "Yes.". 

She realized she was restricting his breathing and eased up on her hold, then 
let him go completely, stepping up and back. 

He lay unmoving. After a moment or so, he let his still functioning right arm, 
which she knew would even be sore, slide off his back. Then he moved his other 
arm, now appearing to have an extra joint in between wrist and elbow, his face 
twisted in pain. Moved it more slowly, groaning. But he forced it down to rest 
on the floor. It took him longer to get his feet under him, and cradling his 
broken arm with his good one, he moved to sit on the divan. 

"No!" She ordered. "You have lost that privilege." She pointed to a spot on the 
floor by a wall where several large tawny colored cushions were placed. "You may 
only sit there now." 

He moved without protest, and seated himself, resting his forehead on one knee, 
with his injured arm laying on the inside thigh of his other leg. He panted. 

She knew he would be in considerable pain, but he needed to learn and the sooner 
the better. "I will call my doctor and he will repair it, and you will behave 
for him." 

He nodded his cooperation and lapsed into silence but for his accelerated 
respirations. 

When Rhengar arrived, he repaired the human's injured limb with practiced skill. 


Afterward, the human seemed quietly astonished at the doctors handiwork, his arm 
being fully mobile again though quite swollen. He bent and flexed it, testing 
its range of movement and threw a grudging look of gratitude to the physician, 
nodding once. 

The doctor coldly ignored him. He did, however, seem annoyed to be making his 
third trip to his Leader's quarters as a healer inside of a few short hours. He 
gave a respectful nod of his head to her before departing, one eyebrow on the 
rise indicating his unspoken opinion of her questionable choice of company.

The Commander's attention during the doctor's healing visit rarely strayed from 
her human charge who, after the doctor's departure, wrapped his arms around his 
legs, still favoring his left one, and seemed to fall into a doze. 

It was just as well as she wanted quiet time to seek out some information on 
him. 

Seating herself at her work station, she called up from her computer any data on 
the human species. There she found little on the species itself, a few facts on 
physical characteristics, brain capacity, average mental ability (not 
impressive). But almost nothing on their culture, religious beliefs or natures 
in general. 

Politically, she found a bit more. They were instinctly territorial, yet charged 
with an almost fanatical need to explore, colonize and infiltrate every small 
corner of the galaxy. And to insinuate themselves into almost every culture they 
encountered, doing so almost effortlessly. 

She re-read some of the history. 

Incredibly, once a planet had agreed to the presence of the Federation, before 
they knew it (despite the Federation's so-called Prime directive), they were 
blending with them, having babies with them and, soon after, thinking like them. 


Human/alien hybrid colonies had sprung up one after another until they were too 
numerous to count. 

No wonder the Romulan Old council had become alarmed! 

And the humans seemed to accomplish it all casually, without war or threats or 
promise of wealth. Species seemed to, with few exceptions, embrace them as long 
lost family. Then had come marriages and children in the millions. 

Then billions. 

And the human birth-rate! A single healthy female, capable of pregnancy as young 
as twelve earth years, could produce in a normal life span forty to sixty 
offspring. 

Ten times the birth rate than that of Romulans. 

Short life span or no, these humans had been on their way to filling the galaxy 
with their kind and with their hybrid offshoots. 

The Humans had gone on increasing while the Romulans, stiff in their desire to 
remain pure, had begun a gradual decline. Until the danger of them fading to a 
black dwarf in the kaleidoscope of the galaxy had become all too real.



When the Romulan Old Council had learned of Romulan/Human hybrids (some even 
living on the home world!), they took to secret meetings to discuss what was to 
be done. 

Even as the politically pacifistic Romulan First Party at the time debated for 
peace with the Federation, The Old Council and other factions protested and 
plotted otherwise. Their Fleet was still a formidable one, and if they broke the 
treaty of non-aggression with the Federation and struck, they had at least as 
good a chance of winning as losing. Particularly with their cloaking technology 
and the kamikaze attitude of their forces, who were itching for a battle. 

It had depleted their war ships and bankrupted their economies but they had won 
that first and largest battle. And they won more than they lost of succeeding 
battles fought throughout the quadrant. 

Until the human forces had been decimated. 

And, like the Romulan Council had predicted, once those Federation associated 
worlds realized their Federation protectors had gone down in defeat, they 
withdrew their own ships and armies, unwilling to face the Romulan hordes for, 
if the powerful Federation of Earth could be taken, how could they prevail? 

The rest was history. 

The human home planet had been devastated, left bathed in radiation lethal to 
all but the most hardy of species. 

The hybrid colonies were allowed to exist only if strict obedience to travel 
restrictions were honored. And only if all laws regarding reproduction were 
followed. In other words, no more human or human/alien offspring allowed. That, 
coupled with germ warfare in the product of a swift acting and lethal virus 
engineered for pure-strain human DNA introduced into the atmosphere of all human 
or hybrid colonies, had taken care of the rest. 

It was then declared that to be human, marry one, breed with one, transport one 
or grow one in a laboratory was strictly prohibited on penalty of death. 

The Romulan Empire had risen and become the liberators of all the galaxy, 
declaring themselves as the New Law- givers. 



Veexow read the old texts and studied her sleeping example. 

He hardly looked like an insidious threat. Sick, weak, alone. His existence from 
moment to moment held in her hands, his welfare resting on a word from her 
mouth. 

In fact, he did not look well at all. 

She went to him, not touching. 

He appeared to be sleeping. A thin film of sweat coated his face. 

"Human." she wanted to rouse him. He needs to eat, she thought, a gap in the 
side of his thin tunic displaying the faint pattern of his rib-cage. 

He didn't wake, even when she placed two fingers on his forehead in order to 
lean his head back. His skin had a grey pallor. She speculated that was probably 
not a healthy sign. Neither the dark half-moons beneath his eye sockets. 

But she could only guess otherwise. Was he feverish? But to her naturally hot 
body temperature, he felt cool. 

Again she summoned Rhengar and he appeared momentarily. 

"Rhengar, I believe this creature is ill." 

Rhengar joined his Lady, crouching before the alien. He pressed his instrument 
to his patient's neck and Veexow heard the instrument hiss as the drug entered 
the human's bloodstream. 

"This is an instant anesthetic. It will keep him out for a few moments while I 
examine him. I would like to move him over there." Rhengar gathered the creature 
in his powerful arms and lifted him as if he weighed nothing, carrying him to 
the divan. 

Veexow followed closely. "What is wrong with him?" 

Rhengar passed his instrument over the prone being and studied the results. He 
sighed. "I don't know, M'Lady. I have no training in human physiology. But my 
instrument can detect no foreign agents nor any known" - he emphasized *known* - 
"infections. I am forced to conclude that it is simply exhaustion. Without a 
detailed autopsy on this creature, which I cannot do because he is alive, I can 
say no more. Whatever medical knowledge of the species that exists is archived 
and guarded under Romulan Purity Control. Other than perhaps rest and food, I am 
able to recommend nothing." 

"Do you think perhaps he has fever?" She asked. 

"That is possible, but again I am uncertain. I do not know what his normal body 
value is, but he does feel warmer than the last time I examined him." 

Veexow found his lack of knowledge, and her own, frustrating. For him to have 
survived this long, especially under the conditions in which she'd discovered 
him, only to watch him die now made her feel helpless, not something she was 
accustomed to feeling. 

*He could be dying right now and all we can do is sit here and watch!* 

"Well, leave me some more injections, then I have something to at least keep him 
calm if he becomes agitated again." 

"As you wish, Dear Lady." 

Rhengar put his instruments away and rose to leave, bowing to her. 

"Rhengar!" She called after him, standing to face him when he paused before the 
door. "Thank you." 

He blinked at this rare display of gratitude. His face was gentle. "Dear M'Lady, 
anything for you. Always." he bowed and left. 

Veexow became even more concerned over the creature's deterioration during the 
next several hours. His jaw was slack, his body suffered tremors and in 
conjunction with them tiny bumps on the surface of his skin would periodically 
appear and then disappear. She found it as alarming as she did fascinating, 
noting each little fact, storing them away in her excellent memory. 

Twice he opened his eyes and looked at nothing, or possibly at her but the gaze 
was unfocused. 

Veexow left him there, after preparing some makeshift straps to keep him down, 
and that night slept in her anti-chamber. 

At her habitual hour, she awoke and, after some quick attention to Romulan 
hygiene, she checked on him. 

He hadn't moved but her soft rustling in the room roused him and his eyes 
opened, blinking. They appeared clear and lucid. Whatever had been making him 
ill the previous night had now abated. 

She moved to stand over him. "You appear very much better." 

Then went to her work station, ordering up some food, enough for two. Then 
added, "I thought you were going to die, human." 

"Not quite ready for that yet." he answered weakly. 

She turned, surprised to finally have elicited a whole and reasonable sentence 
from him. 

His voice was cracked and strained. He coughed. 

"You sound worse, however." 

"Thirsty." he managed to get out. 

Frowning at her own lack of foresight in giving him no fluids at all during his 
fever, she obtained a cup-full and, one hand supporting his head, put it to his 
lips. He drank it all. 

She let his head fall back and he closed his eyes, that one action seeming to 
have sapped what strength he had. 

She noted the bruising that had developed overnight on his newly repaired limb. 
Angry looking, dark purple discolorations on his forearm. She felt the tiniest 
pang of regret over having to have done it. 

"You need to eat. " she said. "I've ordered food. If you remain docile, I will 
let you up and you can eat." 

He repeated it. ""Docile"?" He sounded annoyed but tried to sit up. "Yes, I'll 
remain "docile". Are you going to untie me?" 

"The food is not here yet." She reminded him, not about to allow him freedom 
simply because he asked for it. 

He sighed. "I need to get up for another reason." 

"What?" 

"I have to use the bathroom." 

"The bath-? Oh, yes." She unstrapped him. She hadn't thought of that before 
bringing him here and now she really had no choice but to let his use hers. She 
didn't like the idea. 





"It's through there." She said pointing. 

He managed to get up on shaky legs, swaying a little. 

"Are you able to walk?" 

"I'm fine." he answered. 

She knew it was a lie and understood the reason behind it. She was no fool. He 
was studying her as much as she was him. 

He was communicating now in order to learn of her and her weaknesses. Seeing 
when and how she would let down her guard. This was a territorial, 
kill-for-freedom human. He would not accept his captivity this easily. Also he 
wanted her to believe that he was fine, that he required no more close care or 
observation. Or drugs. 

No, he was not docile. He was a human. 

But she was a Romulan. 

When he came out, he looked puzzled. 

"What?" she asked when seeing his expression. 

He glanced at her, or rather, her feet, since he remembered her strong armed 
insistence that he not look her in the eye. 

"I've never seen a bathroom like that. It's...a little weird." 

When he offered no more explanation, she was disappointed. She wanted him to 
keep speaking, wanted to establish communication and begin to learn. But he fell 
silent again. 

He paced a little, looking at her murals and the few personal items in a locked 
display case (made of non-breakable polymer) that seemed to hold his interest. 

When the meal arrived, she placed a portion of it (the cultured meat) in a 
earthen cast bowl (nothing made of metal for him), saving the vegetables for 
herself. She placed it on the floor beside the cushions. It was a clear message 
that was his spot now. He was to expect no private room. He realized he was to 
have no privacy, in fact, other than trips to the Head. 

Sitting down cross legged, he began to eat. Ravenously she noted and thought, 
*Starvation does that. The Ferengi deserved his execution.* 

"The Ferengi's are not known for their generosity. I am surprised that any of 
you survived. I'm also curious how you came to among their contraband." He 
contemplated her words, looked at his empty bowl. Swallowed. 

Shook his head, eyes shut tight. 

He could feel a headache of immense power building deep in his brain. It was the 
hunger still gnawing at his insides, or the stress of what was happening or his 
own fear that he kept beating down into numbness. Probably all of it, he didn't 
care, only that he felt very tired and didn't want to acknowledge anything. 

He lay on his side and curled up, crossing his arms, wincing because his left 
arm ached. That he had a soft cushion was his world. 

Said to her, "I don't know what you're talking about." Sleepy. 

She wondered if he was perhaps imbecilic. "The ship you were on of course, where 
you were discovered." She tried again. 

"Lady, I don't know where I am right now much less where I was." 

"You must have lost your memory, Human." 

He looked longingly at his empty bowl, sitting on end like the rest of the room. 
It'd been tasty but it hadn't filled him. His stomach growled. He had no energy, 
however, to try and bargain for more. 

"I never forget anything except my postal code, *Whatever*." 

She didn't understand. "But you insist you do not know where you are." 

He wished she would just shut up, he was helpless to keep his eyes open. Felt 
the powerful pull of slumber. 

"I insist I'm either dead and Satan is a woman, which isn't much of a surprise 
when you think about it or I'm having this really twisted dream because I ate 
too much take-out before bed." 

She narrowed her eyes, trying to sort out his words. Most she understood, but 
there were references that seemed to have meaning to him but left her at a loss. 
She could see he was fast dropping into sleep, again denying her opportunity to 
learn of him. 

"You intrigue me, human." 

"Y'know, I've-*name*." He mumbled. 

"Tell me." 

"Mulder." 

She considered. "Very odd. Do you have another?." 

"I've been called Asshole now and then." 

"Sounds Andorian. Insufferable creatures." 

"Fox, then. Happy??" 

"PhaHks?" She hollowed out the short "o" sound, making it come out as a deep 
throated "awe", and lengthening the "s". on the end. *PhAWE-Kess*. 

"*Fox*." 

"PhaHks." She said again, with still the yawning vowel. "Klingon phonetics, I 
prefer it." 

"T'rific. Can I go to sleep now? I'm hoping that when I wake up, neither of 
us'll be here and that'll generally settle the name problem." 

"You may." 

He sighed heavily. "Thanks for the food." 

She blinked. Her intrigue for the human - for "PhaHks" - grew.



*****************





When he next opened his eyes he was disheartened to find that he was still 
sleeping on the floor of the mutant woman's house. Or that he was still in the 
dream of being in the mutant woman's house. 

Whichever. 

But his arm really ached badly for just a dream. And he still felt really bad. 

He rubbed under his shirt, found his ribs. Somewhere along the way he'd 
misplaced about twenty-five pounds. But at least Freak girl was nowhere to be 
found. 

He strolled casually around, walked through the six rooms. Found her bedroom. A 
large oval bed but, as far as he could tell, no cabinets or chest-of-drawers 
anywhere. The walls had a metallic sheen broken up by the few splashes of color 
from where she had pictures and the huge murals woven from some kind of cloth. 
He peeked into every cubbyhole, but there was little else to see. 

Other than a narrow couch and comfy cushions, the place was spartan. Her 
decorator must be impotent, he thought, just no "oomph". 

But within the jokes he told inside himself, the unwanted fear, craving 
attention, kicked at his guts. It kept shouting to be heard: If, IF this was 
real, he had no fucking idea where he was, who the Vampire-wanna-be was or how 
he was going to get out of it. 

He tried not to think that if THIS was real, how he got there must have been 
also. 

The thought passed through his mind, just for an instant, that maybe he'd gone 
nuts and Scully'd had him committed. That this was just a nice, soft cell and 
Ms. Forehead was his delusional dominatrix. A *green* dominatrix too. *Too many 
XXX Vid' nights, Mulder* 

But his arm sure looked bad and he did remember it being broken and he did 
remember Doctor Forehead fixing it by waving some kind of little magic wand to 
and fro. 

After trying the nearly seamless door and finding, not surprisingly, that it 
wouldn't budge, he stopped his circling at her desk, seating himself in her 
swivel chair. It molded to his buttocks. 

The computer screen, set flush onto the desk's top was black. He pushed one 
button after another, but nothing happened. 

"I have you locked out."



He looked up, his stomach turning to jelly. He quickly vacated her chair, 
walking away from her desk and her. 

She had entered the room silently and he wondered how long she'd been standing 
there watching him. 

"There's no need to flee. Besides, you've nowhere to go." 

"I'd rather decide that for myself." he muttered. 

Just the same, as she circled him and moved to her work station, he kept his 
front to her. Felt stupid that his heart was pounding. But then, she had broken 
his arm as easily as he opened a beer. 

The false feeling of bravado that he'd managed to summon while alone for those 
few minutes rapidly bled away, leaving him feeling hollow. 

But at her mention of him having nowhere to go, it was quickly being replaced by 
anger. 

Fuck it! "Who are you?" 

"I've told you, I'm High Commander-" 

"ENOUGH! with the alien-joke-on-Spooky crap! I want to know who you are why 
you're keeping me here." His tone was agitated but he was not yet shouting. 

"Mind how you speak to me." she warned. 

He walked to he desk, thrust out his good arm. 

"Here! Break the other one, but I'm fed to the teeth with this bullshit!" 

She sat down elegantly, felt how his body had slightly warmed the seat. 

"Be grateful that it was I who found you, because any other and you would be 
dead." 

"What the hell's that suppose to mean? Does talking in riddles give you people 
hard-ons? What the hell do you want from me? Where am I?" 

He could feel days of suppressed anger balloon like a lava dome. Any second now. 
Any second and he wouldn't give a shit if she broke his neck. 

"Stay calm, PhaHks. " she said steely. 

"Fuck calm!" he leaned over the desk, looked straight at her, eyes to eyes and 
all. "I want to know why you're keeping me here. I want to know what's going 
on." 

"PhaHks!" She stood, had something in her hand. 

He looked at it. Some kind of weapon. 

"What's that? Are you going to shoot me? Well, go ahead, DO IT! I don't care, 
a'right? I want to know why I'm being held here," He pounded the desk with his 
fist, "and I want to know RIGHT. NOW!" 

He didn't even see the beam of light burst from the object that sent him flying 
two meters beyond the desk, landing hard on his back. He was unconscious before 
he hit deck. 

She slammed the device, now deactivated and harmless, down on the desk. She 
hadn't wanted to but he'd left her no choice. 

Rhengar was right, he was human. He was too volatile, too difficult to control. 

*He is what I should have expected.* 

She went to him, leaned over. His breathing was shallow but regular. She would 
have no choice but to euthanize him now. That or keep him drugged or in a cell. 

She touched his neck just below his jaw line, felt the bristle of his several 
days growth of beard (another feature that Romulans did not share with humans: 
facial hair), suddenly feeling a tiny throb of movement beneath his skin. 

She started. *The human heartbeat can be felt almost throughout the human body. 
In the neck, the fingers, the pelvis, the feet.* 

She recalled the bit of trivia from what scattered knowledge still existed on 
the creatures. It must have something to do with the pressure under which the 
blood traveled, she theorized. Slow heartbeat but blood pumped under pressure. 

A pressure of equal force in a Romulan would cause multiple aneurism, 
hemorrhage, internal bleeds followed by a quick death. 

She touched his face, the temple. Paused. Well, if he was to be put down anyway, 
she may as well learn all she could, though this is not the way she'd 
envisioned. Not how she'd wanted it. 

She moved her fingers to the set-points and concentrated. Shook off the feeling 
that what she was doing was, technically, mind rape. A violation one Romulan 
would never perpetrate on another. 

But this was no Romulan. 

She sounded the depths of his subconscious easily enough, gently sidestepping 
the natural barriers. Located his memories of recent events as seen through his 
eyes. Felt his terror strewn with confusion mixed with anger dashed with 
curiosity, and all of it riding upon pain and hunger. And blankness where he'd 
been aboard the Ferengi vessel. A blankness that was fear of looking too 
closely. 

Deeper and that blankness became clear. 

She shuddered at the naked memory of his ordeal aboard that ship among the other 
violated creatures selected for sale into slavery, zoo's (which is what he must 
have been gathered for - a rare specimen), or research. 

That was a question she wanted answered: where had the Ferengi's obtained a 
living human being when they were suppose to be extinct? 

It was not inconceivable that, in the thousands of inhabited worlds within the 
broad domain of the Romulan Empire, a few scattered human remnants remained 
despite the Extermination procedures. If so, the Ferengi's knew the location of 
at least one colony. 

The next, deeper subconscious level might hold her answers and she probed. Met 
real resistance now. He stirred under her mind link and she applied a useful 
technique that fooled him into calmer brain waves. Deep sleep patterns that she 
could control. 

It would be easier now, she could explore as she wished, did so for a moment or 
two, those deeply protected archives. Learn of... 

Her eyes snapped open. 

She gasped, releasing her touch. 

Sat back, severing the connection to her unconscious prisoner. 

She was swimming through his memories, kicking her way through the unexpected 
that had surrounded her own independent thoughts and self. Reached the surface. 

Her mind was thick with his visions of home and life and people and times. 

She leaned back on her heels, hating what she had just done, but now satisfied 
that she had decided correctly. Knowing the answers, now, as well, meant more 
decisions. 

She felt ill. 

Pitiful. 

Even a Romulan commander could sympathize.



He knew nothing! 

This sick, perhaps dying human, was why the Ferengi ship had run. He was why 
their commander had so desperately tried to bargain with her. 

They knew. 

As now did she. 

Illegally obtained dangerous species. 

So illegal, so contrary to enforced law, so dangerous to all established code as 
it now existed that the sentence of death would have been declared upon the 
entire vessel's crew. 

Just carrying the knowledge of him was deadly. 

Their asking price for PhaHks must have been enormous. 

She knew everything. 

Why he had no knowledge of her or anything of her people. Why the terror, the 
confusion. The reasons he was so tormented. 

He was not to blame, did not realize. Could not. 

She would not kill him now, even though Romulan law stated she must. It would be 
immoral. *Father raised no fool but neither did he raise a murderer of the 
innocent.* 

No. Though it was a fools errand she was undertaking, she'd not deviate from it. 


*Should I be so sure of myself? Even with this? I would have been better off 
just sending him to the Penal Colony as well.* 

But she knew she could not have done. And she was glad she had not. 

He was just too rare, too unique. Innocent of any crime against her people. 

Veexow studied the pale face, oblivious to a fate that was being decided for him 
beyond his control and without his knowledge. 

But all he was guilty of was being human. Something he could hardly have 
prevented or changed. 

And not only being human, but one from another time where her ship, her power, 
her laws and life meant nothing at all. 

Staring at the stark reality of him, the Extermination came under question. It 
made no provision for procedures against ancient humanity. 

To condemn him to death for being born as he was, one from his own world and 
time, would be a crime against a Higher Law. 

But there were difficulties. Somehow she had to get him off the ship. Elsewhere. 
Anywhere where he'd be safe until she could figure out what to do with him. 
Until then, she was in as much danger as he. 

But there was really only one possible location. Her doctor would think her mad. 


******** 

"Rhengar." She ushered him in. 

He came and sat where she indicated with a wave of her hand. 

She seemed preoccupied but he waited patiently for her. Taking her time was 
M'Lady's privilege. 

"Rhengar," she began, "I have applied for early retirement. I've asked to be 
rotated to Romulas and serve my last few months there while I await the decision 
of the High Command." 				

Rhengar was thoughtful. They would agree. One of the most powerful families on 
the home world? To any reasonable request from her lips, the High Command would 
grant permission. Yes. They would certainly agree. 

"I see, M'Lady. How can I assist you?" 

She looked at him pointedly. "You can accompany me and remain in my service as 
my personal physician in my family home, on our land. Will you?" 

He was taken somewhat aback. "You are generous, M'Lady. You know nothing would 
please me more. What may I ask, is the condition?" 

She nodded, smiling at his astuteness. "One would think you were telepathic 
without the benefit of touch, Rhengar, but no matter. Yes, there is a condition. 
You must help me to transport PhaHks, the human, there undetected. I have a 
personal emergency transport pod. Together we could engineer a dampening field 
within to conceal his life signature." 

"May I ask why, M'Lady, you want this human kept alive? It is a great risk you 
take." 

"Yes, you may ask. My reasons are my own. But to be fair to you I will tell you 
that I have discovered certain knowledge of this human that prevents me carrying 
out his termination with a clear conscience." 

When Rhengar didn't answer immediately, she went on. "I know I am asking you to 
take risk with me. If he is discovered, I will take full responsibility. I doubt 
the punishment for me would be too severe,-" 

He nodded again. She knew of her families power in the High Command. 

"-I would possibly lose my ship, rank and position, but not my life and not my 
family wealth. But PhaHks would certainly be killed. I could not allow the same 
for you. You would be safe." 

His expression of polite attention wavered. Beneath his blonde eyebrows, passed 
a flicker of insult. "I would never undertake risk in your behalf and then deny 
my involvement, Dear M'Lady. I'm sure you know that." 

He paused. What would his life here be like without her to serve? He knew it 
would be very empty indeed. Curse affection! Curse his heart taken with an 
extraordinary woman. "But I will take the risk." 

"You are a great comfort to me, Rhengar. You always have been." 

He said sadly, "If that is all I can be to you, M'Lady, it will have to do." 

She fidgeted. "We will need to begin as soon as possible. Can you prepare an 
anesthetic that will be put him deeply under, so that his vitals are slowed. It 
would help conceal him from the import scanners." 

"I will begin work." 

"Two days." she said. 



*****************

ROMULAS. FIRST YEAR





The bed was hot and uncomfortable and he was sick. 

And tired. 

Sick of waking up in strange places with stranger people. Tired of feeling soft 
and heavy from drugs or weak with pain. 

It was getting mighty old. 

But PhaHks forced himself to move off the flat bed; an odd one, very low to the 
ground so he had to kind of roll off and push himself to his feet. 

Just managing to keep his balance, he glanced around at his newest cell. White 
marble, it looked like. One small ornate table. One padded chair. Both ordered 
out of "Really, REALLY Rich R Us" catalogue. Hand carved, he guessed. 

The only other stick of furniture was that delightfully functional floor mat, 
better suited for wrestling than sleeping. 

The door was flush against the jamb and no handle in sight. It, too, appeared 
hand-carved but shined like porcelain. He touched its surface. Wood. 

The next few seconds were series of blurred photographs in his mind. 

But the door opened while he was standing just to its side. Through proceeded 
two arms carrying a flat tray with a bowl of something he could only assume was 
edible. 

But he sure as hell wasn't going to stand there and ask. Never the easy way. 

He clasped together both fists and brought them down on the head of whoever was 
holding that tray. Didn't give a damn who, either, because the door was open and 
that sole exit meant escape. 

His Quantico training had taught him well. Find an opening and take it. 

The tray and its holder fell but didn't, unfortunately, stay down long. 

As his made his dash for freedom, a lightening fast hand grabbed his ankle and 
sent his timbering. Then two hands clamped around his upper arms and threw him 
around back in the direction of the room. 

His subdue-er hadn't counted on his countermove, however, and PhaHks used that 
momentum to continue his spin and finished by locking his own arms around his 
attackers neck. He got in one, controlled uppercut to a nose and felt blood 
spill over his fist. 

No time to relish the small win as his opponent drove his own hydraulic fist 
into PhaHks' side. 

It knocked the breath out of his lungs and his feet out from solid ground. He 
went down holding his cracked rib. Every breath was a knife. 

"Try that again and you will certainly die." 

Hellbitch's voice. Vampira. Gothic drag queen. 

PhaHks didn't bother looking up or even acknow- ledging her. His hand hurt like 
hell - *snapped bones usually hurt* - and he examined it critically. Tried to 
keep breathing. His fingers were not stained with red blood. 

The Bitch's blood wasn't blood. 

Blood isn't green. Unless... 

"JEZ-UZ!!" 

He was on his feet then, and across the room before his brain registered the 
movement. Dizzy, he looked at his fingers. Wiped them thoroughly on his 
pant-leg. 

Now he was staring at her. Her nose was bleeding though stopping quickly. She 
wiped at it with the back of one clawed hand. Long, painted, predatory nails. 

Veexow wiped and watched the human at the other end of the room. Why the sight 
of her blood, alien or no, would have caused such terror in him, she didn't 
know. But he had given up the fight early on. 

Across the room is where he stayed, covering his mouth and nose with his hands 
and staring at her as if her very essence was poison. 

She could punish him severely for attacking her. Should. But he was staring at 
her, pupils wide, and so she choose an alternative. 

"There are many creatures..." She spoke very softly, hoping to calm him, 
"...many varieties of life, everywhere, PhaHks." 

He stared, warily, sucking air through fingers. But at least he was listening. 

"Most of them bleed, including myself. I won't hurt you." 

PhaHks listened. The first time he had encountered green blood - a big-ass, 
ugly, alien, killer's green blood - it had choked and blinded him. The second 
time - another alien mercenary - it had almost killed him. 

Not *hurt*?? "You broke my fucking arm!" 

Veexow nodded in understanding. A broken arm. Drugged down. Locked up. So why 
trust? 

Reasonable, his attitude. But certain facts remained indisputable and those were 
that he was alone in her century and not entirely safe. And he would have died 
if not for her discovery of him in that filthy Ferengi cargo hold. 

So, somehow, trust must come. 

"Where am I?" He asked her. Eyes were still scared but he was calmer and 
listening. And angry too. She knew he had a right to be. 

"You're safe." 

"Who are you? Why are you keeping me here?" 

Again, reasonable questions. "Someone you can trust." 

He huffed at her, his expression absolute disbelief. "I can count on both hands 
the number of times I've heard that, and it turned out to be a lie." 

Veexow, at the time, had wondered if her punishment on his arm had been too 
forceful to bring home her point. Now she regretted it. 

Always with this human, there would be doubt, Rhengar privately had said to her. 
There would be the continuing question of how much would be too much? How far 
would be too far? They knew so little about them. Humans. Physically delicate, 
yes. Emotionally fragile? Possibly. 

Of one thing she was certain, they were more stubborn than Romulus' High winter. 


To have survived his abduction by the Ferengi's... 

"Please sit down, PhaHks. I can tell you some things. But I think you need to 
rest, too. And aren't you thirsty? Hungry?" Her voice was liquid honey and it 
had the desired effect. 

He moved to his mat and slumped but told himself it was only because he was 
groggy and weak. 

"Where am I?" he asked, calmer. 

"You are here in my home. Fighting me will not alter that and it was necessary 
to bring you here to keep you safe. You may not like it but you could be here 
for a little while. And despite what has happened to you, I cannot tolerate 
attacks upon my person." 

She moved toward him cautiously. "You need that hand looked at." And, ever so 
carefully, she touched it. She turned it over, palpitated the fingers, making 
him wince. 

"Definitely broken." Touched his injured side. Cool skin over ribs. He was 
underweight. "And this." 

"I had to give it the college try." He said. He was pale and shaky. 

"I will summon the doctor." 

PhaHks nodded, suddenly very sleepy. Shock. Experience 

"We all have enemies, PhaHks." She said. "I'd prefer it if you and I are not." 

He didn't bother responding. 

After Rhengar repaired his broken fingers, Veexow had food delivered to his 
room. He ate, used the Head. Slept. 

Later, when she returned, the gentle creature who had stroked his injured hand 
had been replaced by "Commander" again and she was all business. 

He asked her why he was locked in and				she told him 
quite bluntly that since he was not trustworthy to behave in a civilized way, 
neither was he trusted to walk free. 

Yet. 

His scope of freedom, she explained, within her "Family home" depended upon him 
alone and then she left him to think about it. 

For many days she let him consider her words before one day she simply unlocked 
the heavy doors, swinging them wide. 

He had almost been too afraid to move. She'd opened the doors but had not given 
him permission to leave. Was it a test? 

But it was only minutes before his inclination to step outside his little prison 
overcame his worry. 

PhaHks exited and found himself in a larger prison. Much larger. Prettier too, 
with rooms upon rooms, many like his, some different. 

So many rooms connected by cool corridors he nearly lost his way once, but he 
backtracked and found his direction. For some reason, as much as he hated them, 
he wanted to be sure that he could find his way back to his "bed" and his own 
bathroom. 

It was the only privacy he was allowed. It was the only spot in this place, 
wherever it was, that in theory, was his. 

That first day exploring (and finding no exits to outside which was his true 
objective), he was surprised to find an enormous circular hall. It looked like 
something out of the glory days of Rome or Greece. Polished, stone floor 
surrounding rows of pillars the girth of ten men and as tall as five stories. 

Later Bitch explained that each pillar represented a generation of her family, 
upon which was written the names of all in that generation and some of things 
they had done. 

But looking at it now, all he could think was that the Bitch must be richer than 
Bill Gates. 

On impulse, he started to run. 

That day, he ran the circle of that hall until everything hurt. All his pent up 
rage, fear, and frustration manifesting themselves as a primal need to vent 
physically. 

When his body told him to stop, he ignored it and ran harder, faster until he 
had no choice but to collapse against a low ledge by the outer wall and pant 
until his breathing calmed. 

It had made him feel slightly better, less strung like a piano wire. Less 
wanting to smash something to bits. Or kill something. 

After that, he ran every day, sometimes twice a day or more, depending how wired 
he was and depending how much he allowed his thoughts to stray into dangerous 
territory; like where in the world he was and how to escape. 

Weeks of exploring turned into months until he knew every corner and turn in her 
rich prison-castle. 

Vampire lady visited with him once per day in his rooms or came to watch him 
run. She spoke with him (he rarely answered), had meals delivered to him, but 
left him alone otherwise. 

He asked questions, she answered them halfway. He'd get angry and shout and 
sometimes attack. Try to hit. She'd hit back much harder. He never won those 
discussions. 

Occasionally, she had her doctor examine him, which he bore silently. Resentful 
of the indignity of being stripped naked in her presence while Doctor Ears 
checked his vitals with his little buzzing instruments, sometimes making 
comments about how much weight he had gained, muscle compared to fat tissue. 

They never seemed to think to ask him. He was nearly back to his regular 165 
pounds and leaner than when he was in college. Running so much now, he'd toned 
up, his shoulders now filling out the boring clothing she'd provided; the button 
less white loose shirt and fly-less "leggings". 

Okay, he considered, so he was a lab rat. Or a curiosity, or something to 
relieve her boredom. 

But just what the fuck was she? 

Running, however beneficial, and eating, however necessary, were not enough in 
themselves to constitute a "life". 

It grew harder each day to retain his tenuous hold on reality, especially *this* 
reality. 

His days did not go by in a blur but rather a series of stills. 

Dead lifeless hours with nothing else to relieve the routine of restless sleep 
filled with new and changing nightmares (or the mercifully drugged, dreamless 
stupor Doctor occasionally inflicted on him. He had ceased asking why). 

If they were brain sucking vampires and he food, what the hell did it matter? 
Nothing changed the staring and staring of the maidservant when she would bring 
his wake up meal. 

Nothing stopped Vampira's visits, which were becoming more and more like 
brain-picking sessions and less like conversation. 

What did they have to talk to each other about anyway? 

Questions and questions, every day the same fucked up questions. Or, when she 
received no answers, fucking new ones. 

Nothing could stop the bouts of depression that had been growing worse and 
worse, making him not rise from his bed as before, not look at the Bitch from 
Hell when she came with her questions. 

But he didn't speak to her. Didn't eat. 

Once, he even prayed to God to wake him up or, if he was awake, to send him 
home. Or at least kill him. God hadn't answered him of course. *It was the 
prayer of a unbeliever anyway,* he'd thought later. 

He was fucking terrified. 

Weeks - months - worth of fear, all settled into a painful fire in his stomach. 
Eating hurt. 

Each new day he wondered if it was the day he'd end up nuts. He fought insanity 
as it lapped at his reasoning, tickling him with how easy it could make 
everything if he would only let it. 

He didn't think he'd stepped over into real psychosis, not yet. But was walking 
the deadline for sure. Probably crazy. Maybe not quite ready to embark on a 
career of drooling in a straightjacket, but was fairly certain he'd tried it on. 
It would fit. 

No doubt about it. 

Seeing him dropping weight again and his lethargic attitude caused his Jailer to 
visit him more frequently, not the end he'd been trying for. 

But she was less talkative which suited him just fine. She brought him his food 
herself, which suited less but he said nothing. The maidservant a female youth, 
would set the tray down, stare for a few seconds and leave. She would leave him 
alone at least. 

Hellbitch would preach at him to eat, sometimes with a warning that if he 
didn't, she have him force fed. 

Those times when his appetite refused to cooperate, he'd pretend to eat, 
breaking the gross bread into bits, nibbling, pushing the chunks of whatever 
around until the whole mass would turn the stomach of a blowfly. 

Mostly he just blanked out and waited out the day. Too much thinking made his 
head ache and awakened the fear in his gut. 

The thought occurred to him once: 

What if, one day, you woke up and all the unbelievable things of the world - 
monsters, vampires, demons, UFO's, aliens - came true? 

And you were there, in it? 

Not willing to accept the answers, he'd put it out of his mind for good. It 
danced around his subconscious here and there but was never allowed center 
stage. 

All those years and now: Truth. Just. Terrified him. 

He'd do jerk-off surveillance 'till social security if it meant getting out of 
this. 

Hellbitch could shove her questions straight up her yellow ass. 

He hated and feared her. Mostly hated but too sick with paranoia to do anything 
about it. 

His weight dropped sharply.