Disclaimer in Part 1
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Thrown Back - 11/18



3:45 P.M.


Max barrelled up to Margot, knocking the cell
phone out of her hand, sending it skittering
across the grimy bathroom floor with Langly's
mewling voice echoing along with it.  Trying
to fend off the half-man, half-alien was futile,
as he slammed her hard into the cinder block
floor, she landed on all fours, panting.

With his exceptional hearing, Max had been
listening to her entire conversation.  Hearing
them speaking so tenderly, and her betrayal,
enraged him.  Initially, he'd conceded her some
privacy, a measure of dignity while she relieved
herself.  He'd only begun watching, then listening
to her after she emerged from the stall.

He was curious who she'd call, and once he found
out, he knew he should have killed Langly; was
seething for sparing him.  He was galled well past
lividity.

The mother and her whimpering daughters, as well
as a Norse-goddess looking hiker, looked on in
horror.

"Gustin, please!"

"Shut-up, bitch.  You're the sluttiest excuse
for a whore I ever screwed."  Max hauled her up,
clamping his hand beneath her armpit, making her
stand, and shook her from limb to limb.  He began
dragging her behind him, satisfied he had won
forcing her into submission.  He gripped her face
roughly, and then propelled her against the door,
ordering her to open it.

Every inch of a cringing Langly died to squeeze
into the cell phone to be there.  She'd be
bearing fresher black and blues, many more of
them, and reflexively, Langly's left hand balled
into a tight fist.  As though rattling off a
mantra, he repeated, "I'm gonna kill you, asswipe,
I'm gonna kill you."  In the uglier recesses of his
mind, he saw his father beating his mother to pulp
whenever he felt like it.

Mrs. Guthrie, the mother of two, shaking badly
herself, scurried to retrieve her property after
they'd gone.  She hit a speed dial number, waited,
then threw into the phone, "Hello, Sheriff...  Oh,
Deputy."  She shook the drawback off.  "I'd like
to report an incident of domestic violence.  The
rest area along route seventeen, not far from Sky
Meadow State Park."

"Mommy, Mommy?  Will the pretty lady be all right?"
Gloria, her oldest, asked, her pewter-colored eyes
overflowing with concern.  She hugged her mother's
thighs.  The shaken mother, half-hearing her child,
nodded absently, then gave the local lawman loose
descriptions of Margot and Max.  She paused at
length.

"Yes, I *know*.  That's irrelevant.  He probably uses
her as a punching bag, whenever he sees fit; wherever.
The venue isn't what's important."  Her other
trembling child molded herself to her mother's legs
more snugly than the eldest.  "Assault, then.  Yes,
that's the correct route.  Hurry, please.  By the
look in his eyes, he might very well kill her."


||oo||

Route 216, Amoco
3:50 P.M.


"Margot!--c'mon, be there..."  Shaking his head,
Langly gave up, and hit 'end.'  He rammed his
fist into the steering wheel, revulsion and anger
mired in his face, and reminded himself that this
time, the Vegas momento was loaded with real ammo.

What difference did it make what 'Nairn' had said
before about a conventional weapon's uselessness
against the freak.  Langly shrugged, the decision
his mind had made a done deal.  After he got
through shooting its head clean off its inhuman
body, that'd be the end of that.

The unyielding knots in the pit of his upset
stomach tightened several notches more.

He cracked the door, and tumbled out of the
Cherokee.  He walked over to the garbage drum
like a zombie.  He held his hair away from his
face, and heaved, bringing up what was setting
his stomach off.  He pitched the King Cobra into
the smelly receptacle neck first.  Over the soft
thud the bottle made when it impacted with the
varied assortment of paper trash, he stared down
into the squalor and puke for a couple of moments,
then veered away from the garbage.  "I love her,"
he whispered softly, "no way I'm losing her..."

He skulked back to the Cherokee, wiping away his
tears, and traces of vomit from his mouth and chin,
as he went.  After settling himself back in the
car, he turned to the unoccupied laptop, and said
as though he were casting a spell, "Esther..."


||oo||


Long.:  100.2 degrees N
Lat. :  50.3 degrees W
4:11 P.M.


The vessel was a phantasm, the invisible brush
of a brief shadow, where none was cast.  It
was an enormous craft, larger than any major
league sports stadium, cloaked in invisibility,
and powered by energy as ageless as grace.
Its guidance system empowered by impulse alone,
and driven by a presence as old as the grains of
sands on countless beaches of most worlds.
It radiated tendrils of tremendous impetus which
scored the ground below, its passage marked only
by the loss of time its movement displaced.

Its plotted destination was a familiar one, its
path immutable, and its objective manifold, yet
simple.  The contention for planetary ascendency,
the next link in the chain of sequencing about to
be forged, as it hurtled nearer to the predeter-
mined jump off point, with Earth's inhabitants
living in a season of conflict about which they
knew nothing.

They, not the hybridal greys, were going to win...
inventive implementation of Cetacean DNA was the
embodiment of their future...thalassic manifest
destiny, after a unique expansionest fashion.


||oo||

Paris, VA
4:58 P.M.


Byers was emerging from the automotive repair
shop, with Frohike watching him tuck his
utilitary billfold back where it belonged on
his person.  The older man erased the rancid
look off his face, because it looked as if
they'd be getting out of here at last.  As
Byers approached him, he asked conversationally,
"Everything squared?"

Byers didn't say until he got comfy behind the
wheel again, and then just nodded.  Frohike
could tell by the look on his face that whatever
it was that had him preoccupied at the moment
would pass.  It would pass with grumbling, but
it would pass.  Hell, Frohike thought, we all
put our two cents worth in when it comes to
grumbling.  But, Byers was good that way, he
wasn't a chronic 'harper.'

Not like somebody blond and caustic Frohike knew.

"Something wrong, John?" Frohike asked finally,
sounding circumspect, but not so much so to
give it away how much he was amused.  Counting
out a beat in his head, he turned slightly to
face his reflecting friend.

"Remind me never to leave home without my Visa."

"Maxxed out?" Frohike rolled the window back up
halfway, even more amused by the tone of Byers'
request.  It wasn't exactly contrite, more like
defiant.

"With American Express?  That's not even funny."

"Hey, wha'do I know from plastic or flexible
spending accounts?  Never was the expense account
type.  That was more your speed back in your old
FCC days."

Byers grimaced, recalling all the trouble he used
to have trying to juggle his frustratingly
inflexible account, staying up half the night
going over expenses he never remembered tallying.  

"In other words, make sure you *do* leave home
without it."

Before turning the engine over, Byers nodded.
"Yes.  The tires this antique requires run high."

Frohike agreed.  "Yeah, when you figure in their
having to be expressed-out way out here, they do.
But, John," his friend cajoled, "who said you had
to go order two?"

"Safer than sorry, I always say."

Frohike sniffed, scratching near his right eyebrow.
"And say, an' say, an say, man."

Byers turned the key in the ignition.  "You'll
have *me* to thank if we get another flat between
here, getting to the meet location, and when we
start for home."

Frohike regarded him, wearing a comic look.  "But
best of all, we won't have to spend the night
here, depending on Langly to come through.  That's
a tall order, considering how big this could turn
out to be.  He might easily choke in the clutch
and blow the biggest story we've had all year so
far."

"Second biggest."

"Second?"

"Exposing the DOD's seemy role in Black Ops to the
tune of mind control.  Vegas?  Susanne?"  Byers
had the VW Microbus tooling down the deserted Main
Street as he was refreshing Frohike's memory, with
Frohike's untamed grin mauling him.

"Oh, yeah.  The losing battle for Mata Hari's
cause.  Just what *is* her cause?"  He knew he
wouldn't get any answer from a quixotic Byers.
Growing more thoughtful then, Frohike noted,
"Seems our young blond has your impressionable
instincts."  Frohike folded his arms across his
chest, but not before locating a radio station
with air play they'd both enjoy.  Well, at least
until Byers grew bored, would suggest they opt
for classical music, and begin foraging.  Frohike
settled back into the saggy seat as collectively,
they bid the sleepy little town adieu.

"Impressionable instincts for what?" Byers asked,
as though he had no idea what Frohike could be
referring to, already moving his right hand for
the radio dial.

"Helping hot ladies in distress," Frohike returned
wistfully suggestive.  "Man, why don't fillies
like Langly's babe go for the older, wiser, more
experienced guy...like me?"  Byers answered him
with silence for starters, wondering if he'd just
been insulted.

"Maybe she likes long-haired guys."

"With thick frames, a whine that won't quit,
impeccable lack of taste in crappy clothes.  Yeah,
just my luck.  When is it gonna be *my* turn?"
The imp snorted, relishing how quick he could put
a spin on things when he warbled along with Buddy
Holly, and put a stop to Byers' station change.
"That'll be the day, when pigs fly..."

"Stop making Buddy roll over," Byers said crossly,
and Frohike knew his crack about Mata Hari hadn't
sat well.

"You mean like Beethoven?"

Deciding to take the bull by the horns, or in
this case, a wisecracking Frohike, Byers said,
"I'll never be ashamed for caring about Susanne.
Trying to help her the best I can.  Which..."  He
sighed heavily.  "Which has always been as best as
any of us could have done under the circumstances.
I only wish I..."

"Had had the balls to ride off into the glittery
night with her in the back of that cab?"  After
Byers shot him down with a heated look, Frohike
threw his hands up, looking the loophole of
innocence.  "Well?  Just callin' it as *I* see it."

Turning them down the road for the interstate,
Byers acknowledged, "I, I do-don't know, Frohike.
I wanted to.  God, how I wanted to, but, I kept
thinking how the timing wasn't right.  When it is--"

"If that ever is."  Don't hold your breath, Frohike
thought pragmatically.

"When it *is*, and *if* she still wants me, then...
well..."

Frohike adhered his eyes to the dimly-illuminated
roadway ahead, deciding he wasn't going to add
anything else to his forlorn-sounding friend's
inner turmoil.  In his mind he still sang the words
loud and clear...'That'll be the day...that'll be
the day...that'll be the day...'cos  that'll be the
day-ay-ay when I die.'  He asked John for his cell
phone, and Byers told him he'd put it in the glove
compartment.  "Once we're closer, I'll buzz the
young lovers, and let Blondie know we'll be where
we should be after all."

"Just a pretext for hearing her voice," Byers
arched, starting off again once the traffic light
which had been stuck way out here had changed.

"A real pretty voice it is too," Frohike said
slyly.  "Why should *he* have it all to himself?"

Byers found the radio station he'd been searching
for and contentedly settled in with a Chopin
sonata.  Frohike rested his head against the
headrest and closed his eyes with a deep sigh.
He wouldn't fuss over his chum's overblown music
which lacked appeal, just this once.


||oo||

Route 66, Somewhere near Vaucluse, VA
10:56 P.M.



"Yeah, Frohike, I'll tell her.  Soon as she gets
back from the can.  We made a pit stop.  See ya
there then..."  Langly hit 'end' and stared at the
device through which he'd just told some pretty
hefty lies over, fessing up still leaving a bad
taste in his mouth.

'...I'M BAA-ACK...'

Langly nearly jumped out of his skin.  "Where the
hell have you been?"

'...HEY HOW COME IT SMELLS LIKE CHEAP BOOZE IN
HERE...AND KIND OF PUKEY?...'

"None of your business."  Langly adjusted the
headlights, using the highbeams, wishing that
the nightvision goggles were with him.  He wasn't
the best see-er in the dark.  "Does not."

'...YEAH, WHATEVER YOU SAY, ONLY IT DOES.  YOU
HAVE A FEW?...'

"NO."

'...SURE?...'

"I said *NO*, dammit!"

'...OKAY, OKAY...  DON'T BITE MY HEAD OFF...'

"You ain't got a head," Langly nitpicked with
his usual peevish flair, "you lost it to
technology."  All alone on the highway, and
wanting to give 'Nairn' his undivided attention
with the lights on, he pulled over onto the soft
shoulder.  He killed the engine, and set the
laptop with its screen now all aglow on his boney
knees, wondering why it had taken the entity this
long to get back.  Sourly, he concluded her
tardiness meant that she had run into trouble, or
had made some.  He hoped the latter was the
explanation to give their side a fighting chance.

He switched on the overhead light in the Cherokee's
micro-holed cushioned ceiling, and repeated what
he'd asked her, only this time he tried it without
as much deridement.

After telling him what the problem had been; a
loose ancillary connector and a jux-binder had been
jarred loose, he demanded to know where Margot and
the menace were that very moment.

'...WELL, THEY WERE IN A REMOTE REGION OF SKY
MEADOWS STATE PARK...BRIEFLY...'

"Yeah I know that.  That was hours ago.  Where are
they *now*?" Langly bobbled.

'...ON SIXTY-SIX AGAIN...  LET'S NOT LOSE SIGHT OF
THE FACT THAT YOU'RE NOT GOING TO CATCH UP WITH
THEM...  YOU'RE GETTING TO THE FRONT ROYAL REGION
FIRST, AND WAIT FOR THEM IN THE CRS PARAMETER...'

Sounding faraway and haunted, Langly said, "He
treats her like shit.  I wanna off him so bad,
I can taste it."  While he'd been driving along,
hoping 'Nairn' would come back soon, the words
of a song he had embraced long ago had echoed in
his mind, although he'd swapped a few lyrics for
some of his own '...My heart stood still and
skipped a beat...Then he knocked her on the
floor...But he wanted just a little bit more...He
jumped down, he knocked her off her feet ...And
then I knew it was pure hell for her...He's gonna
change that girl...He's gonna change that girl...
he's gonna change that girl tonight...'

'...LANGLY, ARE YOU STILL WITH ME, OR ARE YOU ON
AUTO-PILOT?  LANGLY...'

Threads of datum were being run by him with his
patterns of thought all skewed.  "Huh?"  He
blinked a few times.  "Oh, yeah.  Yeah, I am.
Sorry..."

'...YOU'RE GOING TO HAVE TO BE LUCID IF YOU'RE
GOING TO BE OF ANY HELP...'

"I'm lucid, I'm lucid.  Okay?  That's my problem.
I'm too lucid.  The way she cried out over her
dinky phone like she did when her ex-bastard
nailed her.  I can't take it."

'...WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?...'

"She called me--a real short call.  The freak
got to her and put a quick end to it, but before
he did, he dished it out hard and heavy."

'...HE HURT HER?...'

"Yeah," Langly leaked brokenly, the acidity in
his voice, biting.

'...LET'S GO...WE MAKE THE ABUSE STOP FOR GOOD...'

"I'm like so ready.  What's the latest fix?"

'...EVEN AS YOU SIT HERE WASTING TIME I HAVE
THEM...'

Langly sliced off a pitiful look of desperation.
"I just hope we can get her back.  She said he's
gonna hand her over to the E.B.E's so they can
make her one of him."

The laptop went silent.

He started the Cherokee thinking that if he never
saw Margot again, her eyes would haunt him always.
Those zingy eyes, the color of 'sapphies,' the
coolest marbles there were, that had the power
to melt him down.  Her patient voice would invade
his dreams on a nightly basis.  What would mess
with his head worst would be her wanting him.
No woman ever had been so blatant about that
before her.  He found himself consumed by the
very idea.

True, he'd only known her less than a day, but
did that really matter?  His feelings goaded him
further, knowing deep down he knew what he knew.
She'd already told him too, in so many words.

'...I MAY HAVE COME UP WITH A WAY TO DESTROY
HIM...'

Langly dug into the grocery bag and extracted one
of the Slim Jims.  He peeled the tenacious clingy
wrapper off the filmy stick with his teeth and
shoved the meat which smelled like 20-year old
bologna into his mouth.  He chewed vigorously
to take out his frustration.  "Which is?"  He
put the laptop back on the seat, and got on Route
66 again, gnawing off another beefy chaw and
chewed harder, his teeth grinding away.

'...I'LL MAP IT OUT LATER...MEANTIME, YOU JUST
DRIVE...STAY SHARP FOR THE SHORTCUTS I GIVE...'

Langly bit off more Slim Jim, put off by 'Nairn'
sounding adamant about holding out on him.  "Map
it out now.  I've gotten smarter since last time
you saw me," he said, oozing sarcasm.

'...LATER, I SAID...OKAY--THERE'S A FIVE TO SEVEN
SECOND WINDOW OF DELAY...  I'LL COMPENSATE FOR
ALL VARIABLES BY GIVING EXACT CONVERGENCES AHEAD
OF TIME...'

"Wow, thanks," Langly replied stiffly.  She's
always thought I'm nothin' but dense, he thought.

'...HOLD YOUR SPEED TO SEVENTY AND THAT SHOULD PUT
US TANGENTLY AT VISCOSE CITY, SOUTHEAST CORNER...
FIFTEEN MINUTES BEFORE THEY DO, AND WE'LL GET TO
CHESTER GAP FIRST...'

"Fifteen?"  Langly sped up until the speedometer
read 80, heading for 95.  When he heard the nerve-
shredding growl of the State Trooper's siren, his
shoulders rose as he hunched over and cursed the
authoritarian powers that be silently.

'...GREAT...MORE TIME LOST...'

"I don't haveta stop," Langly slitted through
his lips as he watched the official car gaining
in the rearview and side view mirrors.

'...DON'T ADD FLEEING THE SCENE TO YOUR CRIME...'

"I can outrun any fuzz easy."

'...STOP THE CAR, LANGLY...'

"You didn't say please," he baited.

'...JUST *DO* IT!...'

"What are you?  A Nike commercial all of a sudden?"

'...I'M YOUR CONSCIENCE...  MARGOT NEEDS YOU FREE...
NOT LOCKED UP IN JAIL SOMEWHERE UNABLE TO HELP HER
ESCAPE THIS INCUBUS...'

Gulping several times, Langly abruptly braked,
after having been soberingly chastened.  Unhampered,
he rendered his full cooperation, even saluting the
Trooper after being handed his ticket, and the
authority figure had gone back to his car.  He was
thankful that Byers had remembered supplying the
registration during the quick goodbye, and that
the Trooper hadn't run a check on him for prior
violations.  His record wasn't an enviable one.

"How'd I do?" Langly asked as he eased back onto
a thinly-traveled Route 66.

'...IT'S COMFORTING TO KNOW YOU ARE TRAINABLE...'

Shrugging off her barb, he accelerated after the
elusive Trooper shot out of sight, planning to take
it to eighty flat-out and then well beyond.  If he
got tagged again, this time he'd evade, and show
'Nairn' full cooopeation was catch as catch can.

'...STAY SHARP, LANGLY...'

"Like a hypodermic."  His foot flattened against
the accelerator pedal, and he grinned in the
nearly impenetrable darkness the countryside was
shrouded in, envisioning how he would snatch Margot
out of Max' inhuman grasp.  Their newborn of a
relationship depended on it.


||oo||

Ochoca National Forest, Oregon
8:30 P.M. (PCT)


Diana didn't know what would have become of them
if they hadn't stumbled upon the transient Boy
Scout Camp at the edge of the clearing which
was established on their side of the bank of the
swift moving stream.  They were the worst for
wear, perhaps Dankkes being a good deal worse off.
His feet were bloody, blistered and swollen, and
he had complained each step of the painful way.

It hadn't gotten through to him yet that being
in his present circumstance had nothing to do
with his guide taking a wrong turn at that fork
before the twin peaks.

Diana's legs, not her feet had given her the most
trouble.  They felt chronically bowed, as though
they would have collapsed out from under her back
in the wilds they'd traipsed through long before
sighting this pristine camp.

She thanked whatever mercy there was, and there
wasn't much, for small favors.  Her reflective
mood deepened as exhaustion ambulated in many sore
and inflamed joints.  At least they were no longer
subjects for exposure to the fickle elements, and
menacing wildlife.

Presently, they were resting, resting very
comfortably, as a matter of fact, in unbelieveably
downy sleeping bags.  Beneath the warmth, they
were more suitably-attired in scoutmasters'
uniforms.  Their half-naked bodies cried out for
this wonderful heat they were wrapped up in.

The fits of the clothing weren't perfect, but
they were close enough to make do, their attire
having been been donated by two veteran troop
leaders by the names of Rick Meadows, and Wally
'Spooky Tales Around The Campfire' Sprayton.
Both had many sterling, meritorious years of
dedicated scouting under their belts.

In all those years, they'd never seen the worn-
out likes of Fowley and Dankkes stumble into one
of their jamboree camps before.

Meadows had proven to be a mean cast-iron cooky
under the treetops, grilling up plump, juicy
hotdogs and spooning out those hearty Sloppy
Joe's barbecue beans.  For food not gourmet, it
never tasted so good, Dankkes had commented, and
Fowley had lent tacit approval scarfing down
every morsal of second helpings.

The young scouts had kept their furtive, curious
looks to a minimum, and when it was time for the
exhausted travelers' bedtime, many sleeping bags
had been volunteered for their guests' care and
comfort.

Diana's eyes outlined the roomy tent's interior.
Her stomach was full, and she sighed deeply,
reveling in the relaxation seeping into her
muscles.  Thoughts, complex in nature, and large
in scope, crisscrossed in her mind.

Trying to answer even one at this stage seemed
premature, pointless really.  Would she even be
allowed to have a 'normal' life ever again?  Not
that it had ever really been such.

The first egregious strike against her was that
the wizened, black-lunged toad had sold her out
with the insidious help of his rat-boy, Krycek.
She'd never forgive them for turning her over to
the greys on the cusp of falsehoods.  Falsehoods
they never failed to speak with such veracious
conviction.

Diana rolled onto her side, hearing the soft buzz
of Dankkes' snoring and the lulling serenade of
restless crickets, coming alive with the fall of
night, against the background sound of wind
wending through the trees.  She'd been elated when
the portly windbag had finally given up and had
stopped asking his useless questions.  Questions
she knew better to ask them of.  Someone whose
trust she'd lost, and now regretted.

The noisome smoking coot's wrinkled face, with
it's look of mockery, was eradicated by Fox's
pensive one.  Him, she wanted to see again.

Diana closed droopy eyes, feeling her essence
draining into the fabric of the sleeping bag
as she willingly joined her fellow abductee in
slumber, although her conscious mind knew hers
would be fitful.

Tomorrow...  The dawn of a new day would be time
enough to begin sorting out where to go from
here.


||oo||

End Part 11