Roswell Fanatics

Great part! Two weeks for an update? You're killing me! Lol! I know real life. Hurry back!

Glad to see the board back! That was scary when it looked like it had disappeared.

keepsmiling7: If you're not fond of Tess, pretty much any chapter could be a blood pressure point because she figures prominently in Season 2. Maybe I should just put a warning on Season 2?

emerald123: Dee is nothing if not blunt!

Roswelllostcause: RL definitely interferes with writing. (Bad, bad RL!)


Thank you all for reading, and many thanks for the feedback!









CHAPTER THREE



August 31, 2000, 1 p.m.

Banks residence




Courtney sighed heavily as an awkward silence hung in the living room and Dee's question hung in the air. Of course she'd seen. It had been too much to ask to expect that she hadn't. Seeing Dee looking so much older was still odd, but the fact remained that Dee was still Dee, still sounded and acted like her old self even if she didn't look like her old self. Sometimes she forgot that, like now, for example, when she hadn't closed the cabinet doors fast enough. The Dee2000 model was no less persistent than the 1959 model, maybe more so.

"Courtney?" Dee prompted. "I asked you why you have pictures of Michael in your living room. Please tell me you aren't planning to tell me I'm seeing things."

"I thought older humans were supposed to have slower reaction times?" Courtney said. "And failing eyesight. Where's decrepitude when I need it?"

"Very funny," Dee said tartly, marching past her and throwing open the cabinet doors. "What's all this? It looks like a high school kid's locker, and you and I both know you're no kid."

"It's...pictures."

"I can see that," Dee said in exasperation. "It's not just pictures, it's a vertical scrapbook. Why are you scrapbooking Michael?"

Courtney shrugged slightly. "Don't you already know the answer to that?"

"Should I?"

"Well, you know why we came here. In the first place, I mean."

Dee stared at her. "What, you mean you've changed your mind? Now you want Michael on the throne?"

"We never 'changed our minds'," Courtney noted. "We just agreed to support Zan because we knew he'd be better accepted after Khivar. Doesn't mean we thought he'd be better at it, just that he had better PR."

Dee's eyes swept the display, and Courtney knew that explanation wouldn't be enough. "This is more than that," Dee announced. "Much more than that. What are you not telling me? And what's so funny?"

"You," Courtney chuckled. "Never could put one past you."

"Then stop trying," Dee ordered.

"I'm not," Courtney protested. "I'm not dodging, just...delaying."

"Fine," Dee said crisply, closing the cabinet doors. "I'll just ask Brivari what's going on."

"No!" Courtney said quickly. "He...doesn't know."

Dee's eyebrows rose. " 'Doesn't know'? 'Doesn't know' what? That you're angling to get Rath on the throne?"

"Oh, for Christ's sake," Courtney said crossly. "I'd take just about anyone on the throne besides Khivar. I'd take Casper the Friendly Ghost, or Bozo the Clown, or hell, I'd take you."

"Nice to know I'm outranked by cartoon characters and clowns," Dee said dryly. "Put it this way: Either you tell me, or I go to Brivari. Take your pick."

"Okay, okay," Courtney sighed, plopping down on the couch. "Remember when my father talked Jaddo into giving him two sets of hybrids to hide? The big argument about the danger of keeping them all in one place, and only the Warders knowing where they were?"

"Vividly," Dee answered. "One set was destroyed, the other lost. And?"

"And...in order to get Jaddo to give him those sets, my father had to promise something in return."

Dee's eyes narrowed. "You never mentioned this."

"I thought it might never happen," Courtney said. "I thought it probably wouldn't. And now that I'm here...God, I can hardly believe I'm saying this, but now that I'm here...I'm wishing it would. Or at least that it could. But it can't, and it won't. I guess that's what your 'scrapbook' is about."

"Gracious," Dee muttered. "Spit it out, would you? What on earth are you talking about?"

Courtney hesitated. She'd never told Dee the details of her father's agreement with Jaddo. It had hardly seemed necessary given that it would likely never happen, and Dee would have been aghast, as she was probably about to be now. "In order to gain possession of those two sets of hybrids, my father promised Jaddo...me."

"You?" Dee echoed. "He gave you to Jaddo? For what? A pool girl?"

"No," Courtney said patiently. "He gave me to Jaddo for Rath."

"For R—Michael? But why? What were you supposed to be? His secretary? His Argilian ambassador?"

"Neither," Courtney said. "I was supposed to be his wife."





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





Roswell International Airport




She was his wife.

Liz Parker stood in front of the terminal window, marveling that even after ten weeks, it still wasn't over. And not just any ten weeks—ten weeks in Florida, home of a humidity so oppressive, you could see how it had earned the nickname "armpit of the nation". Ten weeks at the home of a great aunt whose life was so boring, she could market it as a cure for insomnia. Ten weeks without a car chase, a rattling midnight phone call, or so much as a whisper of the world "alien". Ten weeks of Mickey Mouse, Gatorland, and orange groves. Ten weeks of retirement community bingo, golf, and sing-alongs. Ten weeks in a place like that should have taken her mind off things, yet not a day had gone by when she hadn't thought exactly what she was thinking now as she gazed out toward the desert. Somewhere out there, inside a huge rock formation, there was an alien chamber where she'd learned that the boy she loved was a married man. A chamber she'd been dismissed from, then allowed to stay, then wished she hadn't. A chamber his wife could access, but she could not. That's where she'd really been these past ten weeks, not in Florida, but inside that chamber with Nasedo's announcement, She doesn't belong here, ringing in her ears, followed by that message playing over and over again like a tape stuck on a perpetual loop. Lather, rinse, repeat.

"Liz! Liz, over here!"

Five seconds later, Liz was engulfed in the fiercest hug of her life as both parents nearly squeezed the stuffing out of her. "You're back!" her dad cried, always a fan of the obvious. "It's been so quiet without you!"

"Yeah, because I'm usually so loud," Liz quipped.

"We just weren't quite ready for 'empty nest syndrome'," her mother admitted. "Did you have a good time? What's Florida like?"

"Hot," Liz answered. "Really hot."

"So it's like here," Jeff said as they headed down the escalator.

"No, not like here. It's so humid, you can barely breathe. And it rains—no, thunderstorms, every single day like clockwork in the mid to late afternoon. After that it's even more humid. I've decided I like deserts over swamps."

"So we won't lose you to Florida any time soon," Jeff said, sounding relieved. "Unless you fell in love with Mickey Mouse."

"Disneyworld was fun," Liz allowed. "Gatorland not so much. I'm not much of reptile girl."

"And how was my Aunt Pat?" Nancy asked. "I haven't seen her in ages."

"She was...great," Liz said diplomatically. "Just great."

"But she's no Grandma Claudia," Nancy said gently.

Liz's eyes dropped. "No."

" 'Course not," Jeff agreed. "My mother was one of a kind."

A squawk followed by a flashing rotary beacon announced the arrival of luggage. "Jeff, why don't you go get Lizzie's suitcase," Nancy suggested.

"What, now?" Jeff said. "There's a scrum up there. Looks like the entire state of Florida came back with you. I'll wait until the crowd thins out—"

"Jeff?" Nancy broke in. "Please. I'm sure Liz wants to get home as soon as possible and catch up with her friends."

No need, Liz thought as her father took the hint and edged toward the mob at the baggage carousel. Maria had left voicemails almost daily, mostly whinging that Michael still insisted they couldn't be together. Max, on the other hand, had respected her request for privacy and hadn't called her once. She wasn't certain whether that made her glad or sad.

"So," Nancy said once her father had disappeared into the crowd of sweaty tourists. "Did it work?"

Liz blinked. "What?"

"Oh please, Liz, don't play dumb with me," Nancy sighed. "You up and leave for an ancient aunt of mine in another state? Really? Come on. This isn't about you developing a sudden hankering to play bingo in church halls. This is about Max, who's been moping around the diner for the entire summer. You and I both know something happened, and you left to put some distance between the two of you. So...did it work?"

Liz closed her eyes briefly, cursing her mother and her damnable radar. "No," she admitted. "It didn't."

"Mmm," Nancy murmured. "Then it's serious. Really serious."

"It always was," Liz answered.

"So what are you going to do?"

"Not much I can do," Liz said sadly.

"Nonsense," Nancy said. "There's always something you can do."

"Not when his life is all laid out for him," Liz said.

"By whom?" Nancy asked. "Max's life is his own, Liz. Unless he's some kind of royalty and next in line for the throne."

Try on the throne, Liz thought, shaking her head at her mother's uncanny way of putting her finger on it even when there seemed no way she could. Then again, she would never have guessed she'd wind up dating a married man before finishing high school. Life was just full of surprises.

"Here you go!" Jeff said cheerfully, emerging relatively intact with her red suitcase. "Did you tell her?"

"Tell her what?" Nancy asked.

"Tell me what?" Liz echoed.

"I assumed that's why you wanted me gone, so you could tell her," Jeff said. "About the job."

"What job?" Liz said.

Nancy put an arm around her. "School called. There's a job opportunity opening up, and you're on a short list of honor students being considered. We thought you might want to expand your working horizons beyond diner food."

"What kind of job?" Liz asked warily.

Jeff broke into a wide smile. "How would you like to work for a United States Congresswoman?"





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




Washington, D.C.





"I'm sorry, sir, but there's nothing I can tell you," Agent Samuels said. "That's classified information, and I haven't been given permission to answer."

"Agent Samuels," Senator Belfrey said with a heavy sigh, "you've given that same response to every single question we've put to you, be it about personnel, expenditures, or missions. Is there anything you can tell us? Anything at all?"

"You're kidding, right?" Senator Batz chuckled. "The way this kid's going, he can't even tell us if he needs to use the little boy's room. How's about it, Agent Samuels? Need a wee-wee? Need a tinkle? Or is that 'classified' too?"

Titters sounded around the table as Agent Samuels flushed and Vanessa Whitaker suppressed a smile. Daniel's right-hand man was doing a fine job of obstruction, refusing to answer even the simplest queries put to him by the committee convened to examine the FBI's Special Unit, the existence of which was just about the only thing Samuels had tacitly admitted, if only by omission. The committee was perilously close to canceling the public hearings on the Unit, and the FBI, of course, wanted nothing more; the last thing Director Freeh wanted was for the Bureau's business to be blared through everyone's television. No, Freeh wanted to make Daniel and his Unit go away in private, away from prying eyes, and she had no intention of letting that happen. They needed that Unit and the intelligence it collected to find that wretched king and his wretched family so they could get back into Khivar's good graces and go home. The Unit would survive if she had to personally tackle every single one of the apes on Capitol Hill.

"I say we just shut the thing down," Belfrey declared. "Why waste more time asking questions if no one's going to answer them?"

"Not to mention that TV time costs money," Batz agreed.

Murmurs of agreement sounded around the table. Agent Samuels looked relieved. Vanessa held her tongue. "All in favor, say 'aye'," Belfrey announced. "All opposed—"

"Nay," Vanessa said loudly.

Every head turned her way. "Congresswoman Whitaker?" Belfrey said. "I take it you're bored and want some drama?"

"Typical woman," Batz muttered.

"What I want, gentlemen, is the truth," Vanessa replied, resisting the urge to strangle yet another human male who had a problem with females in power. "I have proof that aliens exist. I wish to present this before the committee when the hearings go live."

Eight pairs of startled eyes greeted this announcement, nine including Agent Samuels. " 'Proof'," Belfrey repeated, "that 'aliens exist'. And where, exactly, did you come by this 'proof'?"

"She's probably got a landing strip in her backyard," Batz joked. "Either that or that boyfriend of hers gave it to her. Maybe that's why we're not learning anything from Agent Samuels. We haven't tried sleeping with him."

"You may be onto something there," Vanessa said smoothly as Samuels flushed. "After all, you've learned so much from sleeping with Senator Belfrey's wife, haven't you? My point," she continued as Batz froze and Belfrey's eyes widened, "is that a unanimous vote is needed to cancel the public hearings. You don't have one, so we're done here. I'll present my proof at the hearings. Do have yourselves a nice day."

The room exploded as Vanessa rose serenely from her seat and left the room, leaving Batz and Belfrey nearly tearing each other apart and the rest of the committee trying to prevent bloodshed. She was halfway down the hall when someone called her name.

"Congresswoman Whitaker," Agent Samuels said, puffing up behind her. "My, but you walk fast."

"Agent Samuels," Vanessa said. "My, but you dodge questions fast. Did you want something?"

Samuels leaned in closer. "Look, I don't know what Danny told you, but whatever it was, he shouldn't have. Everything the Unit does is—"

"Classified," Vanessa finished. "So you keep saying. Now, shut the hell up and take a good look around," she continued sharply. "It's not classified any more, you idiot! They're about to do public hearings which will be beamed around the planet! Your Unit is about to be eviscerated, and knowing that aliens are real is the only thing that will stop that! Capisce?"

"I...didn't know you were Italian," Samuels stammered.

"Oh, sweetheart," Vanessa said sadly, "you have no idea what I am. Now you toddle along and do your duty, which seems to be not doing your duty, and let me do the hard work of keeping your Unit alive."

"What did he tell you?" Samuels demanded when she started to walk away. "Was it about the Parker girl? Because that is the only example of a silver handprint healing anyone. It's not the least bit representative because every single other handprint has killed. So if you've got it in your head that we're going to make peace with these things, or forge an alliance, or—"

"Where on earth did you get that idea?" Vanessa interrupted.

"You're a woman," Samuels said. "Don't women usually try to do that sort of thing?"

Vanessa smiled faintly and stepped closer, so close that Samuels tried to back up and failed, the wall behind him impeding his progress. "Agent Samuels, I can assure you that I am completely unlike any woman you have ever met or will likely ever meet. I'm not forging alliances. I'm not making peace. I want those aliens dead, every last one of them. I want their cold corpses to rot in unmarked graves. I want them erased from existence, and I want your Unit to help me do that, which is why I'm unwilling to let it commit suicide. And if you ever reference my gender again, I'll cut your dick off and feed it to my cats. Are we clear?"

Samuels' eyes were bulging. "Clear."

"Excellent," Vanessa purred. "See you at the hearings."

She left him there against the wall, breathing heavily and clutching his family jewels. Parker. Handprints. Healing. Interesting. Very interesting indeed.




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




Banks residence




The silence in the room was deafening. Courtney waited while Dee stood stock still, silent and flabbergasted, for a very long time. When she finally moved, it was only to sink down on the opposite side of the couch, her mouth a big round "O".

"Wow," Courtney said. "I don't believe...wait, let me think...no. Nope. Never seen you speechless. Must be a cold day somewhere."

"His...his 'wife'," Dee said slowly. "His wife. His...wife?"

"Definitely a cold day somewhere," Courtney decided. "Downright freezing if you need a definition for something you already are."

"But...but..."

"Can I get you something?" Courtney suggested. "Glass of water? Hot tea? Stiff drink? No? Okay, now I'm starting to get pissed," she announced when even sarcasm failed to breach Dee's shock. "Why is it so unthinkable that I'd be his wife? Am I that awful?"

"No!" Dee exclaimed, coming to at last. "No, I...I just...did you...did you agree to this?"

"Of course not," Courtney said. "I didn't find out until after the ink was dry. Oh, don't look so shocked," she added when Dee did just that. "I know enough of your history to know that Earth cultures practice arranged marriage."

"Used to practice arranged marriage," Dee corrected. "Used to. It's rare now, and considered..."

"Old-fashioned?" Courtney suggested.

"Medieval," Dee said.

"Sorry, I'm not up on every single period of Earth history," Courtney said. "But I do know that political marriages exist everywhere there's politics, and politics exist everywhere there's people. Besides, do you really think Vilandra was consulted before she was engaged to Rath? Hell, no! Rath wanted her, and her brother thought it was a peachy idea, so her opinion didn't count. Until it did, that is, and trashed the planet."

"Further proof this is a very bad idea," Dee noted.

"Only when you don't have buy-in," Courtney said. "And I bought in, partly because I figured it would never happen and partly because even if it did, it wasn't a bad idea."

"And what was that 'idea'?" Dee demanded. "What was Jaddo trying to accomplish? Besides removing Isabel from the equation, that is. I know he hates her."

"He was trying to broker peace," Courtney said. "If the King's second married the daughter of the Argilian Resistance leader, that would—"

"Do what, exactly?" Dee interrupted. "That might impact the resistance, but the rest of your people would just see it as selling out, and there are a lot more of them than there are of you."

Courtney shook her head. "You know us as this tiny little band of rebels amongst a much larger group of enemies, but that's not what it's like at home. It was really hard to worm our way into Nicholas's expedition here, which is why there are so few of us Earthside. But back home, we're a much bigger group composed largely of moderates who would respond to seeing one of their own so close to the throne."

"Then how did Khivar seize power?" Dee asked. "Where were all these 'moderates' when that happened?"

"Blind-sided," Courtney said sadly. "The zealots may be a smaller group, but they were smart enough to keep their plans from the larger group they knew wouldn't approve. And they moved fast; it was over before anyone who felt differently could do anything about it. But the Resistance grew even larger after Khivar's stunt, and it's bigger now than ever because the longer he stays in power, the worse he gets. If Zan showed up tomorrow, the vast majority of Argilians would fall at his feet. Initially, anyway."

Dee shook her head slowly. "Wow. Just...wow. Does Michael have anything to say about this?"

"Of course he does," Courtney answered. "He's the King's Second, so he could veto the whole thing, which was another reason I thought it would never happen. Even Vilandra's monumental stupidity might not be enough to stop that train, although I imagine she'll have something to say about it this time around. I can't wait to see Zan's face when he realizes it was his sister who caused all this."

"Then you may have a very long wait," Dee said. "They're not who they were, Courtney, and not just because their memories were compromised. Even if they eventually remember, they've spent so long as other people that the end result will be different."

"Yeah," Courtney sighed, "I noticed. Which is why I've changed my mind. From what I can see, Rath would make the better king."

"What you think you 'see' is highly suspect," Dee said. "They're not even adults yet. And given how hot-headed and knee-jerk Michael is, I fail to see how that makes a better king. Those traits wouldn't be appreciated even in a soldier."

"Rath is focused," Courtney argued. "He wants to go home. He's serious about defending them if and when it comes to that. Zan spent the whole summer ignoring his queen and mooning over his girlfriend."

"No, Max spend the whole summer recovering from being tortured," Dee said. "And he has no concept of Tess as his wife because that's not how it is here, Mom-o-gram's notwithstanding."

" 'Mom-o-gram'?" Courtney chuckled. "I'm sure the Queen Mother will be thrilled to know her message to her lost children has been reduced to a balloon-o-gram. But you're missing the point. You don't live in a monarchy; I do. I know what makes a king and what doesn't."

" 'King' is just another word for 'leader', and I'm well aware what makes a leader," Dee argued. "I've watched Max and Michael grow up, and Max is the better leader. I should know; he's my grandson."

"And he's my king," Courtney countered.

"Was your king," Dee corrected. "The person you knew is gone, replaced by a hybrid who shares some of that other person's characteristics, but not all. I have this argument with the Warders all the time. All the time."

"See, this is the problem," Courtney said, sidestepping the incredible notion of anyone arguing with a Royal Warder and living to tell of it. "To you, he's family. Not a king, but your grandson. That will always color your opinion. You can't be objective."

"And you can?" Dee said. "You're stuck on who he used to be, someone who doesn't exist any more. How is that 'objective'?"

Courtney folded her arms. "So you're saying I'm wrong."

"I'm saying we're both wrong," Dee said. "And we're both right. You knew Zan, I know Max...the current version is somewhere between the two. Defining that version requires both of us because we're both looking at this from different angles. But I can tell you this much with complete confidence," she went on, glancing at the cabinet. "I know Michael, and he's not going to go for this, not this way. He doesn't like being told what to do."

Courtney smiled faintly. "No kidding. We have that in common, not that it matters. He'll never find out about this. I won't live long enough; none of my people will. You'd better hope the Warders survive, because pretty soon they'll be the only ones left who remember how it used to be."




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





10 p.m.,

Roswell UFO Museum





"Receipt's comin' up," the cab driver said, producing a clipboard and a well-chewed pencil. "Sign here."

Brody Davis gingerly accepted the pencil, trying to find an unchewed spot to hang onto while he signed his name. "Thanks," he said, wiping a hand on his pants as he handed it back.

"Sure thing," the driver grinned, popping the pencil back in his mouth. "Have a good night! Hey," he added, leaning in confidentially. "You okay here, buddy? I mean, it's dark out, and you're all alone in a museum about aliens. Aren't you afraid they'll come get you?"

"They already have," Brody answered.

The driver, busy laughing at his own joke, laughed even harder until he realized Brody wasn't smiling. "What, you mean...you mean you...I mean they..."

"Yeah," Brody said. "They did."

The driver's eyes popped. "Wow! No kiddin'! Say, what'd they do to you? Did they, you know, stick those probes up your..." He stopped, beet red even in the dim glow of the street lights.

"That's a rather personal question," Brody allowed. "But I will tell you this—they listen very carefully to my recommendations about who to take next. Very carefully."

Brody kept his expression neutral as the driver's eyes widened in terror and he stumbled backward, backing up all the way to his cab and literally falling into the driver's seat. The cab roared to life and careened onto the road, leaving Brody alone with a suitcase, a set of keys, and a locked door. He glanced up and down Roswell's little main street, surprised at how quiet and dumpy it was. So this was the alien Mecca? Then again, maybe aliens had liked it because it was quiet and dumpy.

Turning around, he studied the doors to his new business venture. He'd bought the place sight unseen, having never crossed the threshold. Now he slid the key into the lock and opened the door into a dank front hallway, flipped on the lights, and dropped his suitcase at the top of a set of stairs. A fallout shelter, he recalled from one of his few conversations with the previous owner. An alien museum in a fallout shelter, a delicious irony if ever there was one.

Ten minutes later he'd completed a whirlwind self-guided tour of his new acquisition, one he didn't quite remember deciding to buy. He recalled being intrigued by Milton's website and the Easter eggs he'd buried there, and he recalled beginning an exploratory e-mail about the possibility of buying this place, but that was it. Imagine his surprise the next morning when he awakened from a surprisingly refreshing night's sleep to find a flood of e-mails accepting his seven figure offer to buy the museum. Initially flabbergasted when he'd pulled up the e-mail where he'd made the offer, one he didn't remember completing, never mind sending, he'd warmed to the idea when Milton had agreed to sell the entire place, lock, stock, and barrel, including his library and research. "I'll even throw in the toilet paper!" he'd said enthusiastically. "You won't need to buy any for at least a year!" Queried about why he was so eager to give up his life's work, he'd claimed he had copies of everything. "And copies of the copies, and copies of the copies of the copies," he'd added. "Have to. I never know when they'll come for me."

Further conversation revealed that "they" never had come for him, but Milton remained undeterred. And tired, he said, of the hordes of tourists, the children with their grubby little hands which messed up his exhibits, the teenagers who played with the alien dolls, the moms who left soggy diapers in his restrooms, the unbelievers who dogged his every step. He'd be delighted to chuck the whole thing and do real research with no one to answer to but himself. The sale had proceeded with lightning speed, the only reason he was arriving now being that he'd waited until his daughter was back in school. They were still in the process of revising the custody agreement, and Sharon wasn't cooperating, but there was a silver lining in that cloud: When he had Sydney now, he'd hopefully have her all to himself for a chunk of time with no ex-wife hovering in the wings.

The door in front of him was locked. Ah, yes, Brody thought, thumbing through the huge key ring Milton had bequeathed. The inner sanctum. The whole reason he'd bought the place, and it didn't disappoint when the door swung open to reveal shelves of books, computers, charts, you name it. Milton really had just up and left, and Brody wandered the room, delighted; maybe he'd finally get some answers about what had been happening to him for the past several years. But right now he was exhausted, and even more so when he spied a futon. As luck would have it, he wouldn't close on his new house for another few days, so until then, this was home. Milton had slept here, so why shouldn't he? Stretching out with a contented sigh, he closed his eyes. There'd be time to go through his new horde tomorrow.


::::::::::::::::::::


Larak opened his eyes. He was in unfamiliar territory with only a tenuous hold on his host, so he had to keep this short. Grabbing an envelope off a nearby desk, he eagerly scanned the address.

Roswell UFO Museum.

Breaking into a wide smile, Larak lay back down. His host was not deeply asleep, not yet. But he would be, and when he was, Larak would be ready.

Time to find some Warders.



~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~



I'll Post Chapter 4 on Sunday, April 13.

Interesting explanation of Courtney's desire for Michael.......arrangements to be Rath's wife.....
And the two sets of hybrids.....
Poor Liz with the retirement community......guess that activity was a little too tame considering her everyday life previously.
LOL.....Batz/Belfrey.........
Great part,
Carolyn

Courtney as Michael's wife? Isn't that a little creepy? I mean she has to be almost old enough to be his grandmother! Gotta love Dee! She knows that they aren't who they use to be. I would have gone insane hanging with a bunch of retirees all summer. Let me tell ya Michigan in summer is hot and humid! Don't know what is worse the summer or winter in Michigan.

Nancy & Liz: Wow! This conversation really shocked me. I guess I had been thinking of the TV show and too many FF stories, where Nancy is comparatively clueless about Liz & Max.

Brody/Larek: So Brody didn't know he bought the UFO Center? I always wondered why Milton sold the
Center. So Larek did this so he could get in touch with Warders? This is really interesting.

Great chapter. We're waiting for more. Can't wait for the next chapter.

Hello, everyone!

keepsmiling7 wrote:LOL.....Batz/Belfrey.........

Cheesy, I know, but it made me smile every time I (re)read it.

roswelllostcause wrote:Courtney as Michael's wife? Isn't that a little creepy? I mean she has to be almost old enough to be his grandmother!

Jaddo's thinking Rath (who would be much older), not Michael; a bit of a problem, that, because Michael is the one alive now. As you noted, Dee has figured out that the hybrids are new people, but the Warders still can't get that through their heads.

emerald123 wrote:Nancy & Liz: Wow! This conversation really shocked me. I guess I had been thinking of the TV show and too many FF stories, where Nancy is comparatively clueless about Liz & Max.

And that cluelessness (of many adults, not just Nancy) always bothered me, so this is my spin!

Brody/Larek: So Brody didn't know he bought the UFO Center?

The show set up how Brody came into his money and that he bought out Milt, but not exactly how. In my little corner of the universe, it was Brody's idea, but he only began an exploratory e-mail on the subject which Larak finished and sent.


Thanks so much for reading and leaving feedback! Back in a bit.

CHAPTER FOUR



September 1, 2000, 1:30 a.m.

Roswell UFO Museum





It was the middle of an Earth night when Larak tried again, this time securing full control of his host's body. His host was tired, making re-entry easier, so it took little time before he was up and about his new stomping grounds. He'd taken the precaution of making his host's new dwelling available several weeks after his arrival in Roswell, so for the time being his host would be staying here, right where he needed him. If he was going to locate the Royal Four and the Warders, this would be the best place to do so.

So this is a 'museum', Larak thought, snapping on some lights. Looked more like a library with all the books and computers, or so he suspected. For all the time he'd spent in this body, he'd done precious little sightseeing; there hadn't been time, especially with the need to be careful with his extremely receptive and valuable host. It wasn't until he left the room and reached the first exhibit that he truly understood the meaning of the term "museum". Not bad, Larak allowed, examining the first of several dioramas depicting the 1947 crash, famous on five worlds because everyone knew the victims and on this one because no one did. The likeness was close enough, unsurprising given that there was an entire subculture on this distant planet based on the famous—or perhaps he should say "infamous"—Antarian medical experiments, the results of which had been used to disturbing effect on the Royal Warders and allegedly spectacular effect on the Royal Four. They would see.

Several dioramas later, Larak managed to find an exterior door, stepping from the cool interior into surprising heat even at this late hour. The street outside was obviously an important one given the number of commercial establishments represented, but was dark, quiet, and empty, surprising for a place which was technically listed as a city. He was just about to go back inside when a vehicle rounded the corner and came to a halt in front of him.

"Somethin' wrong, sir?" asked a man in a uniform.

Law enforcement, Larak thought, noting the markings on the car. "No, thank you, officer," he replied. "I was just...getting some air."

"I'm a sheriff's deputy, not a police officer," the man informed him. "Name's Hanson. Yours?"

"Brody," Larak answered. "Brody Davis."

"So Mr. Davis, you're 'getting some air' past midnight?" Hanson asked skeptically. "Haven't seen you around these parts. You new?"

Larak smiled faintly as Hanson looked him up and down, no doubt searching for evidence of some kind of intoxication. "Brand new. I bought this museum from Milton, and I just arrived tonight."

"Must be some kind of magician if you got Milt to sell," Hanson chuckled. "How'd you do that?"

"Wasn't hard," Larak shrugged. "Lots of zeros."

"Really? Gee whiz," Hanson said wonderingly. "Never thought ol' Milt would sell, even for a bunch of zeros. He was a true believer. Spent plenty of time in our cells after we picked him up for trespassing here or there, and never seemed to mind a bit."

"Rest assured, I won't be emulating him," Larak promised.

"So you're not a true believer?"

"Oh, I'm a believer," Larak assured him. "Just not one who likes spending time in custody."

"Glad to hear that," Hanson replied. "Well...welcome to Roswell, Mr. Davis. Can't wait to see what you do with the place."

"The sale hasn't gone public," Larak noted, "so I'd appreciate it if you kept this our little secret until it does. And thank you, deputy, for stopping to check on me. It's reassuring to know you're keeping an eye on things."

Hanson beamed the way people in power always did when complimented, waved, and drove off, leaving Larak with a conundrum. He'd prodded his host toward Roswell so that he could have direct access to the Royal Four and their Warders, but he'd neglected to factor in one roadblock, that being the townspeople would know, or come to know, his host. Their previous city had been large and impersonal, but that would not be the case here; if his host was seen wandering at odd hours, questions would be asked. This called for a reassessment—he would need to find a way to bring the Warders to him.

A short while later, he was back inside. It was reasonable to assume the Warders kept up with the local news. Hopefully their eyes were as sharp as ever.




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




9 a.m.

Evans residence




The smell wafted down the hallway, under the bathroom door and all the way into the shower. Max turned off the water and sighed as the unmistakable scent of bacon and eggs filled the room. Water no longer terrified him, but his stomach was still a bit on the dodgy side when he got tense, and he was tense now. He always was on Fridays, at least until they'd gotten through the weekly charade. Hadn't she figured that out yet?

Five minutes later, Isabel looked up as he entered the kitchen and smiled. "It's only a little burned," she said quickly, arranging blackened strips of bacon on a plate in a vain effort to make them look more attractive. "And the eggs came out great this time, see? No plastic. Practice makes perfect!"

"They...look better," Max allowed, noting the absence of the lacy, plastic-looking, overcooked edges which were usually a prominent feature of Isabel's fried eggs. "But you know I'm not hungry on Fridays. Ever."

"But you need to eat today," Isabel said earnestly. "You can't have an empty stomach distracting you. Today's the eighth session. Dad only agreed to eight, so that makes this the last day, and it needs to be the last day. The very last day."

"I'm not sure I can pull that off," Max admitted.

"You have to," Isabel said firmly. "This is killing you, Max. You're not stressing about...that...any more, you're stressing about this. It's not fair. It has to stop."

Love it to, Max thought wearily, but how? His parents had noticed the changes in him since his capture by the Unit, and being conscientious parents, they'd sent him to a psychologist. These weekly sessions had become the bane of his existence as he geared himself up each week to not say anything he shouldn't. Actually he hadn't said much of anything at all, good news for them as he'd managed not to give anything away, bad news for him as the psychologist was clearly frustrated. And a frustrated psychologist wasn't likely to discharge him, so the likelihood that this would be the "last" day was very small indeed.

"I don't know how to stop it," Max said, pulling up a chair that wasn't in front of the eggs. "I can't tell him what happened, so I can't tell him anything. In his head that means I'm still screwed up."

"Of course you can tell him something," Isabel said, taking a seat across from him. "We've been saying this all summer: Make something up. Something, anything, just tell him what he wants to hear so Mom and Dad will make him go away."

"But if I lie, I have to keep up with the lie," Max said. "That's dangerous. What if I get the details mixed up? And as soon as I tell him something, he's going to want more. It's easier to just not give him anything at all."

"Maybe in the beginning, but not now," Isabel said. "You can't keep doing this, Max. It's too much. Every single week you have to tiptoe through the tulips, being so careful not to give us away. Every single week you wind up revisiting what you shouldn't be thinking about, remembering what you should be forgetting. And school is starting soon, meaning you'll be busier and even more distracted, so this just has to go. So," she continued briskly, "we've worked out a story for you. It's just an outline, so you can adjust the details as needed, but it'll give you what you need to make him shut up."

Max took the sheet of paper she pushed across the table and scanned it. "I...broke up with my girlfriend?"

"Well...you kind of did, didn't you? Or rather, she broke up with you, which is what that says, by the way. That's the classic reason for a teenager to be upset, so this is exactly what he'll expect, and voila! He'll be off your case in no time."

"Or on it even worse," Max said dryly. "He's a doctor, Isabel. He'll keep digging until he hits bedrock."

"And your strategy so far has been to make certain rock is all he ever hits," Isabel noted. "But that's why it's backfiring—he never got anything out of you. Throw him a bone, for God's sake! Something typical, something expected, something that will make him feel like a great doctor and everyone else breathe easier and go, 'Oh, it's just normal teenage stuff!' "

Already tried that, Max thought, fingering the paper which outlined a classic tale of woe which didn't hold a candle to the real one. He hadn't heard from Liz all summer, wouldn't even know if she was still alive except for the fact that Maria wasn't in mourning, which was as good an indicator as any. But maybe Iz had a point; maybe it was time to rethink things. After two months of painful weekly meetings, maybe it was time for a new approach.

"I'll think about it," Max promised, pushing the paper back toward her.

"Good," Isabel said. "Now eat."

"Not hungry."

"Max—"

"Iz, no," Max said firmly. "I'll barf. Then they'll have me seeing even more doctors."

"But—"

"I'm not going to blow our cover," Max interrupted. "I know that's what you're all worried about, but I won't. I know better than any of you what will happen if I'm not careful."

Isabel reached across the table and took his hand. "We're worried about you," she said gently. "Which is why I get up with you every single Friday—"

"—and make me a breakfast I won't eat."

"Okay, so it's also an excuse to practice cooking," Isabel said impatiently. "God knows I need it."

Max smiled faintly. "If nothing else comes of this, at least my sister has learned how to make semi-edible food. Sort of."

"Max, are you ready?" Diane called, coming into the kitchen just as Isabel swatted him. "Izzie! Why are you hitting your brother?"

"Don't worry, Mom," Isabel said sweetly. "Max is a big boy, and he can take care of himself." She paused. "Why are you in jeans? You never go to the doctor's office in jeans. You always wear a suit."

"Oh. Well, I...okay," Diane said, pulling up a chair. "Since you're both here, I might as well talk to both of you. Max, honey," she began as Max and Isabel exchanged fearful glances, "how would you feel if we didn't go to see the doctor any more?"

"Not...go," Max repeated slowly as Isabel's eyes widened. "Not go?"

"Right," Diane said. "You see, I was thinking...or actually it was Grandma Dee who was thinking that maybe you've gotten enough from your sessions. I mean, the doctor says you haven't really opened up to him about what was bothering you, but Grandma feels that's your private business and that the doctor has taught you valuable coping skills to deal with it, which is why you're feeling so much better. And the doctor agreed you're better, and agreed that all those coping skills are probably why, so...oh dear, I'm rambling. How would you feel about stopping? Do you feel confident enough to do that?"

"I...yes!" Max said quickly. "The...'coping skills' really helped. Really, really helped."

"Oh, good!" Diane exclaimed. "Honestly, that grandmother of yours is something, isn't she? I had no idea the doctor was doing that, so how did she know? But whatever," she continued. "Since we're up anyway, I thought we'd celebrate by going out to breakfast. Although it seems Izzie already made you some."

"No!" Isabel said quickly. "I mean, go ahead. This doesn't really count as breakfast. Or food, even."

"Gracious, sweetheart, it's not that bad," Diane chided. "The eggs look pretty good, and the bacon looks...crisp."

"Nice try, Mom," Isabel said dryly. "But I appreciate it."

"Say, why don't you come too?" Diane said. "We're all up anyway, so we'll make a real outing of it."

"Love to," Isabel smiled.

"Great!" Diane paused. "There is just one thing," she said to Max. "I don't want to pry, sweetheart, but...could you at least tell me if this is about Liz?"

Silence. Isabel looked at Diane, who looked at Max, who looked at the table, noting that while it had been easy to blow off the psychologist, it was a lot harder blowing off his mother. What to say? Yes, it was about Liz, and no, it was about so much more. So what to say that wouldn't bring a torrent of further unwanted questions?

"Max?" Diane pressed.

"Yes," Isabel blurted.

Max and Diane stared at her in surprise. "Well...it's not exactly a secret that she wasn't in town this summer," Isabel said.

"Which is exactly what I suspected," Diane said, sounding relieved. "Don't worry," she added when she saw the look on his face. "I'm not digging for details. This is your business, not mine. I just wanted to know it wasn't something...I mean, I know this must have been awful for you, but I'm glad it wasn't something..."

"Catastrophic?" Isabel suggested faintly.

"Yes," Diane agreed. "That." She rose from her seat. "Meet you in the car in 10 minutes."

"Max, don't," Isabel said severely after she'd left the kitchen. "Just don't."

"You're telling me 'don't'?" Max retorted. "I'm not the one who just ran off at the mouth!"

"Don't you get it?" Isabel demanded. "Your not saying anything is freaking people out! It's making them determined to find out, so just tell them something they expect to hear, and that'll be the end of it!"

"Until they want details," Max muttered. "And then I get lost in the weeds."

"She doesn't want details," Isabel argued. "You heard her."

"She doesn't want details now," Max corrected. "Just give her a few days, and that'll change."

"Okay, fine, but at least it's Mom," Isabel said. "You're off the hook with the doctor, which is all we really wanted. Why didn't you mention all those wonderful 'coping skills' earlier? They might have let you stop earlier."

"Because he hasn't taught me any 'coping skills'," Max answered, "or any kind of skills at all. All he does is ask me what's wrong, and all I do is tap dance around that while—"

"Wait," Isabel broke in. "He didn't do the coping skills thing? Then what's Grandma talking about? And why did the doctor agree with her if he hasn't done that?"

"How should I know?" Max said. "Maybe Grandma guilted him into it. It's Grandma; she could sell ice to Eskimos."

"But why would she even..." Isabel stopped, looking troubled. "Max," she said slowly, "do you think Grandma...knows?"

"Knows what?"

"I mean 'knows'," Isabel said. "As in...knows."

"What, you mean about...us?" Max said. "That we're..."

"Yeah," Isabel said. "That."

"But...how? How would she know?"

Isabel shook her head. "I don't know. It's just that...remember when Michael ran away? He ran into Grandma at that truck stop. What was Grandma doing at a truck stop? The very same truck stop Michael stopped at? And remember when she called me when were chasing Nasedo after he took Liz? Grandma rarely calls me; I usually call her."

"I thought she said it was something about borrowing a sweater."

"She did, but that's lame," Isabel said. "Why would she call me that late at night on a weekend about a sweater? How did she know?"

"Know what?" Max said. "So she called about a sweater; so what? So she was at a truck stop; so what?"

"Michael had this exact same thought when you were...you know," Isabel finished. "He thought maybe she knew, and—"

"If Michael started this, I know it's nuts," Max broke in. "It's coincidence, Iz. Or it had better be. One of the few things that went right when Pierce took me is that Mom and Dad didn't know. Can you imagine what he would have done to them if they did? He was here, in this house, because I told him where the orb was so he wouldn't hurt any of you, but he left Mom and Dad alone because he knows they don't know. I don't want them to know, any of them. It's not safe."

He stood up. "C'mon. Let's go celebrate another kind of safety—no more doctors."




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




5 p.m.

Proctor residence





"Hmm," Brivari murmured. "Not a bad idea."

Dee blinked. "Did you hear what I said? Jaddo arranged with Courtney's father to have her marry Michael. Marry him."

"I heard you," Brivari said. "And I repeat, not a bad idea. One of his better ones, actually."

" 'Not a bad idea'?" Dee repeated incredulously. "How is it not a bad idea to buy and sell people without consulting them?"

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but I don't believe any money changed hands," Brivari answered. "And to be specific, she was supposed to marry Rath, not 'Michael'. And Rath would certainly have veto power if he didn't agree."

"And Courtney?" Dee demanded. "What if she didn't agree?"

"Sounds like she did," Brivari shrugged.

"You're dodging," Dee said sharply. "Answer the question."

"No one could have forced her to marry," Brivari said. "Not technically. But there was no reason not to; it would be an incredibly good match for the daughter of the Argilian Resistance leader. To be that close to the throne—"

"Oh, good grief, now you sound like her," Dee grumbled. "And what about Michael? Do Warders typically act as matchmakers?"

"Sometimes," Brivari allowed. "And it's pretty clear his engagement with Vilandra didn't work out, and won't in the future. Which leaves him in need of a new mate, and I can't fault Jaddo's logic. Courtney would be far more suitable for Rath than the princess ever was."

"I don't believe this!" Dee exclaimed. "Don't people get to decide who they love for themselves?"

"This isn't about 'love'," Brivari said. "This is about marriage, or more specifically, a political partnership, which is what marriage is for the powerful."

Dee stared at him. "Okay, that's what I'd expect from Jaddo, not you. Which one are you again?"

Brivari smiled faintly. "I'm who I've always been. And for the record, Jaddo regards 'love' as a useless emotion which always leads one astray. I've never said that. I'm merely pointing out that marrying for love is all well and good for ordinary people, but we're not talking about ordinary people. Rath is the king's second; he would take the throne in the absence of an heir or act as regent in the presence of a young heir. Courtney is the daughter of the Argilian Resistance leader; who she marries would be closely watched. An alliance between the throne and the Resistance would be a massive statement and send a huge message—"

"Yes, yes, yes," Dee said impatiently. "That wasn't my point, and you know it."

"So what was your point?" Brivari said. "Because it sounds like Courtney's fine with it. It sounds like she even likes him. Given what I've seen at the Crashdown, I'm guessing he feels the same. So if they were to wind up approving, who cares whose idea it was?"

"It's just...medieval," Dee complained. "It's backwards. It's presumptuous. It's—"

"An alliance," Brivari finished. "The details vary from one system to another, but the chief goal of politics is to gain power, and making alliances is one way to do that."

"Whoop de doo," Dee muttered.

"There are other ways, certainly, but making alliances is a lot less messy than assassination or war," Brivari pointed out. "Marriage is one form of alliance. It's that simple."

"Not quite," Dee noted. "Courtney probably won't live long enough to see this 'wonderful idea' happen even if they do both agree."

"Oh, for heaven's sake, she's not going to die," Brivari sighed. "Do you really think I'd allow that? She's the reigning daughter of the Resistance, and she's essentially on our side. She's incredibly valuable, as are all the Resistance members."

"But...she thinks—"

"I know what she thinks," Brivari said. "I haven't discussed this with her because I want all the details in place before I present her with her meager list of options."

" 'Options'?"

"I can't grow her a new husk," Brivari said, "nor can I extend the lifespan of the one she now wears. But I can create a suitable environment for her. When I found Malik and Amar years ago, they had an Argilian scientist living in their basement in an artificial environment which mimicked Antar's atmosphere. I can replicate that, at least until we come up with something else."

" 'Artificial'...what kind of 'artificial environment' could they have had in their basement?" Dee asked.

"The kind which had an airlock," Brivari answered. "And it's own air intake. I had a good look at it when we chatted before I..."

"Killed him?" Dee suggested.

"Executed him," Brivari corrected. "As an active enemy of the crown."

"After you 'chatted'? Do you always chat up your executions? How terribly civilized."

"There was no need to be rude," Brivari said. "He was a loyal subject of the king before he became treasonous. And I granted his request for a quick and painless death."

"You take requests?" Dee said dryly. "Good to know. And no, I'm not turning this into a referendum on the need to dispose of enemies," she went on when he raised an eyebrow. "I knew Amar, and Orlon, and Marana. They chased me too, remember? So how large is this 'artificial environment' if it fit in a basement?"

"Not large," Brivari admitted. "I'd have to construct one large enough to include all Resistance members, and once erected it will be difficult, if not impossible, to move. I'll have to be very careful where I place it, and further careful that it not be discovered."

"So she'd be stuck there," Dee said. "She'd be a prisoner."

"She'd be alive," Brivari reminded her. "The alternative is to explode when her husk does. She'll agree. I just need more details, and I'll need the input of Resistance members to build it. Jaddo and I will have time for that after we put the Special Unit to bed. Assuming he doesn't get himself killed in the process, that is."

"What?" Dee said sharply. "I thought everything was going swimmingly in Washington?"

Brivari was quiet for a moment. "There's a wrinkle I haven't mentioned. Pierce's lover was an Argilian who got close to him in an effort to find the hybrids. When Jaddo took Pierce's place, he also acquired this...companion."

Dee closed her eyes for a moment at the thought of Jaddo being anyone's "lover". "And how does that work, exactly? Not the 'lover' part," she added quickly. "Spare me the details. Don't the Argilians have that pentagonal thingie that can identify a shapeshifter?"

"They did," Brivari answered. "They have few of them left, and Jaddo disabled that particular feature on hers. No doubt there's an Argilian tech somewhere who will be executed for that. At any rate, he's aiming to bring her down along with the Unit."

"Bring her down from where? How high up is she?"

"She's a congresswoman," Brivari answered. "Your congresswoman."

"Wait—my congresswoman is an alien? Good Lord," Dee groaned when he nodded. "Suddenly, all those Saturday serials about aliens infiltrating the government are coming to life."

"It makes sense," Brivari noted. "She wanted a position of power from which to search for the hybrids, and she knew Pierce could be of assistance, although he wasn't; discretion appears to have been his one redeeming value."

"But what if she finds out 'Pierce' isn't really Pierce?"

"Exactly my point," Brivari agreed. "Bring down the Unit, deal with her later, I told him. But you can never tell Jaddo anything."

Something hit the front door with a soft thunk. "The afternoon paper," Dee explained, heading for the front porch while trying to decide which was worse—an alien congresswoman or Courtney as a "bubble girl". Neither, she decided—"worse" was having her grandson held hostage. As long as they could avoid that, she'd deal with the rest. "So what's up on my planet?" she sighed, unfolding the top section and leafing through it. "President Clinton met with the British Prime Minister...the expressway is reduced to two lanes for repairs...a new 'healthier' potato salad recipe...and yet another article about how to deal with 'clutter'. Honestly, do we really need help with that? Is it so hard that we need 'organizational experts'? Sort through your junk, throw some of it away, and organize the rest—"

"What's that?" Brivari interrupted sharply.

Dee peered at the side of the paper facing Brivari, a solid wall of ads. "What's what? It's just a bunch of local ads—"

The rest of that sentence was cut off when Brivari leaned forward and plucked the page from her hands. "That's just the standard ad for the UFO Museum," she said when she saw what he was looking at. "It's in there every week, and it's always the same. Milton hasn't changed it in years."

"No," Brivari whispered, staring at the ad intently. "Not the same." A moment later he was on his feet and out the door without another word, taking the paper with him.

"What do you mean?" Dee called after him. "What's wrong? What's—"

But when she reached the porch, he was gone, of course, disappearing the way they always did. Shaking her head in disgust, she went back inside the house.

At least he hadn't snatched the comics.





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





September 2, 2000, 2 a.m.,

Roswell UFO Center




Larak paced the floor of his host's new workplace nervously, eyes peeled. Despite the hour, all the lights were on, a perk which came from being in a fallout shelter which lacked the usual windows. The lights should have calmed his nerves, but they didn't; he was waiting for a Royal Warder, a Covari, a shapeshifter who could look like anyone, sound like anyone. They were the unseen menace, always lurking in the background, ready to strike should their Wards be threatened. They moved silently, appearing seemingly out of nowhere and disappearing just as fast, enhanced with unusual abilities he'd heard of but rarely seen. Brivari he knew; being Zan's closest confidante meant he'd seen a good deal of the king's Warder, while Jaddo, on the other hand, was another matter entirely. Apart from a couple of conversations during their exile on Earth, he'd rarely seen Rath's Warder. He had no idea which Warder would appear, and while he desperately hoped it would be Brivari, he couldn't be choosy; his time in his host's body was limited, and his means of contacting the Warders even more so. He'd have to take what he could get and hope he lived long enough to prove he was who he said he was, possible with Brivari but a difficult task with Jaddo, renowned for his short temper and suspicious nature...

Larak's next thought evaporated when he turned around and found himself nose to nose with a relatively short, bald human with very, very black eyes. "Which one?" he blurted. "Brivari or Jaddo?"

Slam!

Gasping against the force which gripped him like a vise, Larak's eyes widened as his host's body began to rise, the feet clearing the floor, his host's shirt lifting behind him. "Interesting," the Warder murmured as he circled. "No seal, at least not in the usual place. How is it that a human could issue an invitation in Antarian? How is it that a human knows either of those names?"

"I'm not human!" Larak protested, his feet dangling above the floor, his chest constricting from the pressure holding him aloft. "I mean, the body is human, but I'm just using it."

The Warder gave him a pitying look. "Seriously? That's your story? Who are you working with?"

"I'm working with you!" Larak exclaimed. "I'm working with Zan!"

The Warder shook his head. "Sorry, I don't currently have any human UFO museum owners on the payroll. An interesting notion, perhaps, but I find they're a bit on the hysterical side."

Larak nearly collapsed with relief, or as much as he could given the fact that he was airborne; he knew that tone, that dry humor, that style of speech. "Brivari! Thank God it's you. I figured you were the more likely one to read the newspaper, but—"

Larak's throat constricted, cutting off the flow of words. "I assure you it's far too early to be conveying thanks to any deity you could name," the Warder said flatly. "Choose your next words very carefully. You may not have the opportunity to speak again."

The vise on his throat lifted. Larak hung in the air, debating which of his previous encounters with the King's Warder would be most likely to prove his identity, to save the lives of himself and his host. None, he finally decided. All took far too long to convey. Best to keep it simple.

"I'm Larak."



~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


I'll post Chapter 5 on Sunday, April 27. Happy Easter to all who celebrate it!

great part. loved the easter basket in the end. See you next week

Again, I love the background information.
Brody and the museum.....
In Max's case, would it have worked to throw the Dr. a bone??
They need Antar's environment for Courtney.... the Resistance must have been very important.
Thanks for the great new part,
Carolyn

Nice part. Happy Easter!