TITLE: World Without End,
Book Three (6/?)
AUTHOR: Rachel Anton
E-MAIL: RAnton1013@aol.com
My brother Bill was one of the meanest people I've ever known. In adulthood he matured into a mildly irritating blow-hard, but as a youth- well, let's just say he was the butterfly-wing-pulling, cat-kicking, sister-abusing, teasing, bullying and generally terrorizing type. Basically, a bastard.
Charlie, on the other hand, was a gentle and sweet child who showed an early interest in artistic endeavors and spent more time reading and drawing in his room than he did playing ball and abusing other children. He made up stories about talking to ghosts and flying like a bird. He was the only one who cried when Mister Bubbles, our pet gerbil, died. He was "the sensitive one."
Melissa was "the wild one," running off with some aged hippie in a VW van her senior year of high school, calling my mother to tell her she couldn't come back until our family "worked out its issues." She was the unpredictable one. At least to my parents. I always knew how she'd react to any given situation.
I suppose I was "the sensible one," quiet, stubborn, book-smart, Earth-bound. I had my rebellions, but they went largely unnoticed. They were understated and personal rather than loud and grand, like Melissa's.
I don't think you could find four more different kids if you picked them at random out of a bus terminal. Yet we were all raised by the same parents, in the same household, at the same time. Is birth order really that important? Or is personality more a matter of nature than nurture?
Alex's childhood was bloody, violent and complicated. He is bloody, violent, and complicated. Mulder's was confused, sad, and guilt-ridden. Mulder is, well, all of those things a lot of the time.
What is the moral of the story?
I don't know. Does every story have to have a goddamn moral? The moral is that I suck at being pregnant.
The moral is that instead of focusing on what I should be focusing on, I'm thinking about the past. This is how I am now. Distracted, irritable, introspective and moody.
This meeting couldn't have fallen at a more inconvenient time. The Brit has been here for a couple of days now, but for some reason he had to choose today to meet with me and Alex. Two hours from now I'm going in for a series of tests which will tell me if my baby is healthy, if this peculiar life growing inside me, making me insane, is human or…other, if he or she will have a complicated or guilt-ridden father to learn from, if he or she is a he or a she. How am I supposed to concentrate?
Introductions seemed odd and perfunctory. Of course I know him already. What am I supposed to say, shaking the hand of the man who'd supposedly died giving Mulder the information that saved my life? Thanks? Does anybody ever really die?
When he told me his name was Robert Smith, it reminded me of college, going to see the Cure play in concert when I was supposed to be studying for my entrance exams. Another silent rebellion, I suppose. Guess that particular Robert Smith must be dead now. Or perhaps he was chosen, like Mulder. Being converted would probably offer some great material for an angst-ridden tune or two.
Robert Smith. How ordinary. How extraordinary.
He has a cane now and his wrinkles have deepened and spread. Looks like he's not long for this world. I find it difficult to care.
Once we're all seated, Alex behind the safety of his desk, me right next to the crotchety bastard, what Alex says is that he's sorry.
"I'm sorry about your daughter."
Well, I know that's not true and the old man seems to know it, too. He smirks in that special, British fashion and says, "Yes, I understand that you killed her."
All three of us fall into shocked silence for a moment and I watch Alex, waiting for a response, but of course he has none. Not a visible one anyway. I'm glad we never play poker.
"She betrayed-" Alex starts, but Smith holds up his hand, cutting him off.
He tells Alex that it doesn't matter. "I always knew that it would end that way for the two of you, the way you were."
How were they, I wonder. I sort of know, but not really. I don't know it from Marita's perspective and, for the first time really, I'd sort of like to. More so, though, I wonder how Smith can sit there calmly discussing his daughter's death with her killer. There isn't even a trace of sadness in his demeanor and I find my hand twitching towards my abdomen in response to the coldness. Maybe when you've been a party to as much death as he has, it all starts to blur and even your own children seem disposable.
Will Alex be this kind of father? I can't imagine it, but at the same time I can. I can see him taking the pain and the anger and stuffing it deep down inside where it would fester and grow and eventually kill him, but to never let it show. Especially not to an enemy. Is Smith an enemy? Does he think of Alex as one?
"What do you mean, the way we were?" Alex asks.
"Duplicitous, complicated, never content to stick to one side for very long. She was always very jealous of you, Alex. Because you were so much better at it than she was. Because you were more my son than she was my daughter."
Alex nods, as if this is some sort of answer. It tells me why Marita might have done what she did, but none of it really makes any sense to me. How was Alex like a son to Smith? How was Marita not a daughter? How much of who Marita was had anything to do with either of them? Did she have her own agenda that neither of them could ever guess or understand? Will my child be duplicitous? Would that be a bad thing to be in this world?
I really do not like being pregnant. Sometimes the doubt is so overwhelming that I can barely focus on anything else at all. I wonder if I'll ever be certain that I made the right decision, if I'll ever develop that maternal instinct and stop feeling as though my body is being invaded. It's been almost three months now. Surely I should be feeling more like a mother than I am.
The Marita issue seemingly dealt with, I expect the old man to offer some sort of apology himself, some offer of assistance. That is why he's here after all, isn't it? It's because of him, him and his misbegotten plans, that we've come to be in such a sad state of disarray. But the next thing he tells us is the opposite of what we were hoping for, what we need. He tells us that he can't offer us much of anything at all, that his resources are as depleted as ours.
"The colonists have moved into Phase Three," he explains, looking at Alex- never at me. Alex nods like he knows what "Phase Three" means even though I'm sure that he doesn't. He's never mentioned any Phase Three to me, but that's Alex. Act like you know everything until you do.
"What the hell is Phase Three?" I ask, knowing Alex never will.
It's the first thing I've said since this meeting started and both of them turn towards me with typically understated surprise. Or maybe that's annoyance I see in Alex. Perhaps I've ruined his bluff. I don't care. I want to know exactly what's going on here and why Smith suddenly feels as though he can't help us.
"Phase Three, my dear girl, is the end of the line."
Could this guy be any more pretentious and condescending?
"And what does that mean exactly? What were Phases One and Two?"
"Phase One was contact and preparation. Phase Two, colonization and restructuring. Phase Three, total extermination of the human species and repopulation of the planet by the colonists."
I'm starting to see why Alex didn't want to ask. The twisted pleasure Smith seems to receive in being the one to deliver this news is quite revolting.
The thing I don't understand is how this is news in the first place.
"Total extermination and repopulation seems to have been the plan all along. How is this a change?"
"They've needed our help until this point. The continued existence of a few, select groups of humans was beneficial to them in the initial stages. But now their work is done. The planet is ready for harvesting and they've no use for us any longer."
I don't see how that's significant to us. They kept humans alive as slaves or workers in their drone colonies. Our group has never been any use to them. We've only managed to survive this long because they couldn't find us. Right?
"It's already begun," Smith intones direly. "I know of at least two colonies like this one that have been burnt to the ground, all the people murdered, buildings turned to ash. It's only a matter of time before they come after both our groups."
I've been dreaming about fires lately. Alex thinks it's hormonal. Hormonal or not, his words send a chill through my bones.
"Why did you come here if you can't help us?" I finally decide to ask. If all he wanted to do was frighten us with what may well be unfounded prognostications of doom, then mission accomplished. He can go now.
"I came to warn you of what's to come. And to tell you in person why I cannot be of any further assistance to your group."
"And to gather more bodies. Isn't that right?" Alex interrupts strangely. The two men stare each other down in some sort of inexplicable face off.
"Bodies? Alex, what are you talking about?" I ask, continuing to be more interested in the facts than I am in perpetuating their mind games.
"He's been talking to Laurie and Walker," Alex tells me and then turns to Smith. "Haven't you?"
Laurie and Walker have been attempting to lead what they seem to believe is an underground movement to overthrow the "tyrannical Krycek regime," of which I am apparently a "pampered and indifferent accessory." Or something. Of course, it's extremely difficult for anything to be underground in a community of three hundred. Everyone knows what they're trying to do.
"Talking to them about what?" I ask both of them. Alex is the one who answers me.
"They're leaving with him. Them and their whole group. That's what he's been doing for the past few days. Winning them over, plotting with them."
Alex sounds so calm, so dismissively blasé about it all. Is it another bluff? Sometimes I wish he'd let me in on his game plans.
I look to Smith for a denial, but none is forthcoming.
How could I have missed this happening right under my nose? Did Alex tell me about it and I forgot? Did I notice it myself and forget? Both are frighteningly possible. I've been retaining more water than information lately.
Well, fine. If those people want to go, let them. We're better off without that internal threat.
"How can we know you're telling us the truth?" I ask Smith. "How do we know you're not just trying to frighten us, to run us out so that you can take advantage of our resources?"
The bastard actually laughs, and I'm this close to throwing his decrepit body, cane and all, out the goddamn window.
"What resources?" he asks once he's through chuckling jovially. That just about does it for me, I'm afraid. Hormonal or not, I refuse to sit here and pretend to negotiate with this reprobate any longer.
I stand up, try to keep myself as composed as possible when I tell him, "Get out. If all you came here to do is steal from us and laugh in our faces, then I want you the hell out of here."
"Dana, calm down," I hear Alex say, but it doesn't make any sense to me. I am calm. Aren't I?
But I'm not really. My face is hot and I'm sure it must be red. My chest is constricting. It's probably best to just sit down and let Alex do the talking given my "condition" and the way it's causing me to react right now.
"What about the rebels?" Alex asks once I've taken my seat again. "Why haven't they come after us?"
Smith gives him a mysterious, quasi-ominous look and says, "There are no rebels anymore."
Even Alex can't hide his shock.
"None?"
"The rebels have been destroyed by the colonists as well. The colonists have always had the power to annihilate them. The rebels served a purpose for a time, just as we humans did, but now their usefulness has run out and they've been eliminated."
Despite the fact that the rebels had become our enemies, the concept of total elimination, genocide, is terrifically frightening. I'd rather spend the rest of my life fighting the rebels than accept that the colonists have that power. If they're capable of wiping an entire race off the face of the Earth, a race so much stronger than ours…
"And we're next," Alex gives voice to my fears.
"It would appear so," the old man nods, and I wonder if he's afraid to die. It seems like he's about due.
"I believe that we'd be more powerful, more likely to survive together than apart," he continues. "The invitation to join my group is open to the both of you as well."
So that's why he's really here. That's what he wants. He wants all of us, not just the malcontents. I'm not sure how to feel about that. It certainly betrays his desperation, which is frightening in itself.
"I thought you said our demise was inevitable," Alex points out. He never actually said that, but it was certainly intimated.
"It's planned. Nothing is inevitable."
Alex opens his mouth to speak, but I shoot him a desperate glance- please, Alex, please don't say anything until we've had a chance to talk about this-and he ends up not saying a word.
"Would you mind if we had some time alone?" I ask Smith.
"Certainly. Take all the time you need. I think we're through here."
He rises slowly, so slowly it's frustrating to watch, and creaks his way towards the door. I fight the urge to help him on his way.
As soon as he's out of sight, Alex is on his feet, pacing. His calm, stoic facade is turned on its head as soon as we're alone, and I'm a little relieved to see that he's as nervous as I am.
"We're not going with him," he announces authoritatively, decisively, immediately. How is he able to make decisions like this so quickly? Impulsively.
"Alex, what if he's right?"
"I don't trust him, I don't believe him, and I'm sure as hell not gonna walk away from everything we've built here because of something else he said!"
"Alex…"
"We lost hundreds of people the last time I listened to him, Dana. Hundreds."
What about my baby?
The thought pops, unbidden, into my brain. Perhaps those maternal instincts are kicking in after all. Or perhaps I'm just scared out of my mind.
"What if he's telling the truth, Alex?"
"I don't care if he is. I'd rather die here than with him."
"So you think it is inevitable?"
God, what about my baby? What if I've made a horrible mistake?
His pacing is making me nauseous.
"Alex, why don't we go for a walk and talk about this?"
He stops moving and gives me a confused look.
"Do you want to go with him, Dana?"
About damn time he asked. Unfortunately I don't have an answer.
*************************
The air outside is chilly. A reminder that winter is approaching quickly, which could either serve to protect or destroy us. If we've conserved enough food and energy, we'll make it, and the snow might keep the invaders away for a time.
We end up at the bench we once sat upon, debating the fate of a Rotweiller puppy. So many years ago that was. Almost another lifetime all over again.
We sit there again today, to talk about another fate. Ours.
"He doesn't have a plan, Dana. He doesn't know what he's doing any more than we do. He's desperate and he's given us no reason to believe we'll be safer with him than we'll be right here. And most importantly, I want us to stay with people we know we can trust rather than run away with the people who've been plotting against me for months."
Alex presents his case well, and it is a convincing one. But there's something he's not taking into account. Something he's forgotten.
"Alex, what about the baby?"
"What about the baby?"
"Well, if there's any chance that we'll be safer with him, that the baby will be safer, don't you think we should go?"
"Dana, I think the baby will be safest with people who care about her. People who don't want to use her as a human shield. Don't you want to raise her here, in our home?"
He takes my hand in his and, looking into his eyes, I think that this is home. He is home. It doesn't matter where we are.
But then I look a little past him, to the trees and the paths and the buildings, to the other benches we've sat upon and the grass we've made love in and I know that he's right.
I remember watching the news, back in the time before, seeing those old, kooky ladies who lived in trailers in places like Florida and rural Texas. Places that would get hit by tornadoes and hurricanes and floods over and over again, and the reporters would ask the women, why are you still here? Why don't you just move? The crazy old bitches would say something like, "I've been here since aught six and I ain't goin' nowhere! Tornado or no." I'd watch them from the comfort of my Georgetown duplex and I'd shake my head and laugh a little. Well, right now I know what they meant.
"Alex, do you think I made the right decision? About the baby?"
"You did, Dana."
His sincerity and faith, his absolute certainty and lack of hesitation are a great comfort to me, and I squeeze his hand a little tighter.
"We're gonna be okay, devotchka. Trust me."
"I do, Alex. I'm just…"
"Scared?"
"Yes."
"So am I. But I really think we'll be better off here."
He touches my stomach and kisses the side of my neck.
"All of us," he adds, and then kisses me full on the lips. The feel of his mouth on mine causes my breath to catch in my chest, reminds me of the fact that he hasn't touched me in a sexual way for a very long time. Not since I told him about the pregnancy. I'm not sure if it's lingering concerns over Mulder or a misguided fear of harming the baby that's keeping him at a distance, but either way, it's something we need to talk about. Soon.
Or maybe not.
His hand tangles in my hair and he pulls my head closer, fills my mouth with his tongue and this is suddenly very sexual. At least for me.
But just as I'm getting ready to suggest taking this somewhere private, he's pulling away from me, leaving me breathless and flushed and very frustrated.
"The test," he says, panting a little.
"What?"
"The test. It's time for the test. We've gotta go."
The test. I'd almost forgotten. There's nothing worse than forgetting something you're terrified of and then being suddenly reminded of it.
"Alex, we don't need to hurry. Why don't we finish this first," I suggest, nipping encouragingly at his ear.
"I'd like to get it over with. Wouldn't you?"
Maybe we don't need to do it at all. Maybe it doesn't matter who's baby it is or if it's human or alien. Maybe…
"Come on. We can finish later. I promise," he says, rising to his feet and holding out his hand for me to take. Reluctantly, I pull myself up. He drapes his arm over my shoulders and whispers to me that it's going to be all right. Everything's going to be fine.
I wonder if even he believes that anymore.
End Chapter Six
Continued in Chapter Seven
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