The new recruit grimaced at himself in the mirror. Six weeks ago he had been the image of Seattle grunge youth. Now, recruited because he'd actually managed to hack into their network, they'd strapped him into a chair, given him a really bad early 70s haircut and clad him in crimplene. Whoever had originally designed the uniform had been seriously aesthetically challenged. You'd think, with a megatrillion buck organisation like this, that they could afford to update the uniforms at least once a decade. Nah. Whoever was in charge of uniform design and management must have been recruited from the New South Wales State Government Education Department.

Paul Foster stretched like a cat along the length of his orange sofa. Ah, the life of a TV Mini-series producer was for him. Very little creative or administrative input required, and the babes, oh, the endless stream of young starlets, willing to do almost anything to guarantee a flattering camera angle. Reinforcing his cover was almost R&R for him. Which was a good thing, because it was the closest to R&R that he got. Straker, the little martinet, would only let him on Earth and up on top to be seen in his role as studio executive. Never just Paul Foster, the man, just himself, to do as he pleases. SHADO security was too tight for that. It was like belonging to a secret order. No wonder SHADO personnel burned out so fast. Straker had sacrificed his family for SHADO, and expected no less from anyone else.

The little minx that was with him knelt on the floor beside him, leaning over him, her long hair brushing his face exquisitely. With delicate expertise she slid his skivvy up to reveal a darkly furred chest. She bent her head to kiss the dark pink nipples, sucking and nipping, the graze of her small teeth eliciting deep moans from Foster. Her hand slid down, across his stomach, along his thigh, caressing the inside of his leg, teasing, coaxing. Foster moaned again, arching back, eyes closed, relaxed and awaiting her next move.

He was barely aware of the attack when it came, it felt like no more than tiny pin pricks, the tiny stiletto knife sliding between his ribs, over and over. He felt tired, unable to move his arms to push her away. He felt wet, a warm wetness, running down his throat. He could not even open his eyes, to see again her cold vicious little face, leaning over him. He felt cold, but calm, just drifting off to sleep.

A silent alarm went off as his heart beat slowed.



Straker snatched up his officer's hand. It was cold to the touch. He let it drop again as the medical team pushed him away from the couch, working frantically.

They pulled Foster onto the ground, pressing the electrodes to his chest. Straker watched with cold detachment as Foster's body arched under the current, muscles contracting, they pushed long needles into his heart, unable to get anymore than a weak, irregular heart beat from him, they eventually slid him onto a stretcher and wheeled him out. Straker did not expect him to survive the journey back to SHADO.

He scowled as he paced Foster's apartment, frowning at the deep rust coloured stains over the vinyl couch and shag pile carpet, betraying no other emotion than severe irritation. Someone had slipped through the SHADO security net, and it irked him. He'd allow the forensics team to pick over the crime scene, yet he expected very little to be found. They only knew that it had been a woman from the hidden security cameras within the flat that not even Foster had known about.



Paul Foster was still alive at 6.15 am, sunrise, not that you'd know it deep in the concrete bowels of SHADO HQ. The surgeons, just barely adequate, as far as Straker was concerned, had sewn Foster's flesh back together and pumped his veins full of blood. There was just a chance now that the Colonel wouldn't die.

Straker leant against the cold white painted walls, watching the mechanical respirator force air into Foster's sliced up lungs. If Straker allowed himself to feel anything, the principal emotion would probably be guilt. Guilt that his security measures hadn't been up to scratch, that somehow that little bitch of an assassin had slipped through. Sure, she could be either working for the aliens, or controlled by them, but he couldn't be 100% sure. And he hated that. There was another, second guilt ridden train of thought that clamoured for attention, one that he tried angrily to push away. The one that reminded him that he had personally recruited the test pilot, and that he would be personally responsible for the young man's death. He hated it. In his office, it was all numbers and percentages, he could be as hard and cold as he had to be. But now, here, lay a young man in his prime, weak, struggling for life, a man he could have almost called a friend.

The heart monitor faltered, and then went flat, alarms screaming.

They managed to start Foster's heart again. That had been his third arrest, the third time they had lost him. Even if he ever regained consciousness now, Straker doubted if he would ever recover enough to be of use to SHADO ever again.


The damage to his heart, lungs and brain must be too great, the severed nerves, sliced through by what appeared to have been a small scapel, like the ones they had used in the surgery to put Foster back together again. Damn it all to hell, thought Straker angrily, biting down hard on his cigar, oblivious to SHADO's smoke free work place policy.



Straker sat alone in his office, refusing to see anyone, even Alec, staring solidly at the walls, yet ignoring the bottle of scotch on the shelf which Alec had carelessly left behind on one of his visits.

The Forensics report had turned up very little, just as he'd expected. The woman had not been a natural red head. Some reside skin flakes had revealed a slightly irregular DNA structure. The report was coy, they had so little to go one, they weren't sure if they'd made a mistake or if they really had something. An alien, perhaps, altered to look like a human? He knew they used humans for spare parts, so they must be similar enough to be compatible. All he knew, from watching the video over and over, that she'd disabled Foster and then had tried to decapitate him with a scalpel before fleeing, as if she heard the silent alarm,. Impossible, but maybe not, for an alien. He just didn't know.

He flicked the monitor switch on his desk and stared hard at the camera eye view of the intensive care ward. Foster. Oh, god, Paul, I'm sorry., he thought bitterly, covering his face with his hands.

Security had managed to trace the young actress to a Jane Doe brought into the morgue. Her ID and history had not been faked, just assumed upon the murder of the real actress. The imposter had made herself into an exact likeness, not that the young actress had had any real close friends to notice or raise the alarm. Oh, this had been an expert job, all right, Straker mused bitterly.



Straker found himself unable to sleep. Instead, spending the quiet hours of the morning prowling the corridors off SHADO, scaring the night shift, and sitting by the bedside of his stricken first officer. He remembered watching, before, when they'd rescued Paul from the aliens, Paul, lying on the floor coughing up vile green fluid from his lungs. Johnson had brainwashed Paul into believing it was all a dream, Ed knew that the poor man still had nightmares. There were some things you just couldn't repress.

Paul, he reached out to touch the young man's hand, the flesh still cold. He slid the fingers between his, trying to warm the hand, bringing the fingertips softly to his lips, and then letting them fall again. No, he mused, there were some things you just couldn't repress.


Nearly a week passed. Their investigations had reached the proverbial dead end. The DNA though, had proved a mystery, from the hair and skin samples. it had grown easily in the lab, reproducing with frightening speed. It wasn't human DNA. Or if it was, somebody or something had messed with it. There were odd strings of enzymes, nobody knew what they did. That clinched for Ed. Paul's killer had not been human, at least, not in the conventional sense. Alien, mutant, or hybrid GELF, he just wasn't sure.

His phone beeped. He snatched it up angrily and barked down the line.

"yes?!"

It was Jackson. Foster had regained consciousness. Damn it. Ed had wanted to be there when the young man had opened his eyes, not stuck in his office reading reports.

"I'll be right down," he answered coldly, slamming the phone down on the receiver.

Young SHADO personnel scattered as the Commander stalked down the corridor towards the infirmary.



Foster was asleep again by the time he got there. They'd exhausted him with tests, cat scans, ecgs, shining torches in his eyes. Jackson would say nothing to him, muttering only to himself over the test results. Eventually, Straker was left alone with the young man. He smoothed Foster's hair back softly, noting with distaste the patches they had crudely shaved for the electrodes.

Paul's eyes fluttered open, for a moment.

"Ed," he sighed, breathily, before sinking back into Morpheus' realm.

Straker leant over the bars of the hospital bed, almost smiling. Jackson had said in all probability Foster would not recognise him, or even remeber anything. Jackson had been wrong.

"You're going to be alright, Paul," Ed encouraged softly.



"Ah, Sir," a young ensign cleared his throat awkwardly. Straker scanned him for a moment, and then stared, hard and mean.

"well?" he snapped.

The ensign gulped, realising only now how close he'd come between a bullet and a job offer.

"One of the Colonel's credit cards, Sir, it's been used, in New York".

Straker frowned. Now that was damn sloppy. Petty theft? Not likely. These people, if it had been more than one, were experts. Perhaps they'd dumped the papers they'd stolen from Foster, realising they were useless, and someone else had picked up the cards.



Straker sat alone again in his office, past midnight, watching the tape of Foster again. Paul's sulky, comehither bedroom eyes closed, his mouth parted open invitingly, he arched back in pleasure, at the very moment of the first cut. Ed switched off the tape, unable to watch anymore, unable to deal with the stirrings within him.



It was several days again before Ed had the time and excuse to see Foster again.

Paul was sitting up in his bed by this time, looking pale and tired, though cheerful. Did nothing ever sop him. He'd died three times that night. Impossibly, it looked like the young Colonel would recover, perhaps fully. Maybe he'd end up as a desk jockey, but at least SHADO wouldn't have to lose him. At least he wouldn't have to lose him. Stop it, man, what are you thinking, he scolded himself.

Paul still tired easily, even under Ed's restrained, almost gentle questioning. Foster cursed himself for a fool, but the girl had offered herself to him, and he was a man, afterall. He'd taken it for granted that everyone, even the lowest stage hand, were run through a security check before being allowed on the Straker-Harlington lot.

Straker couldn't sleep. Whenever he shut his eyes, all he could see was Paul, arching back like he had in the video, under his own touch, his own lips tasting Paul's skin, running his fingers through that tangled matt of hair across Foster's chest.



Another report landed on Straker's desk. The cell samples did not match any other tissue samples they'd taken from the aliens. The assassin was either a genetic freak - possibly a GELF, or - they were looking at another breed of alien entirely. Either way, Straker didn't like the assumptions.


Paul woke under Ed's touch. He smiled wanly. He was sweating, vaguely delirious.

"Things I have to do, to get a lie in," he joked, weakly.

He didn't look at all well. Ed, biting his lip, pressed his hand to Paul's skin again.

"Dammit, Paul, you're burning up," he hissed between clenched teeth

"Nurse! Nurse!" Ed cried desperately.

Paul had peritonitis. Would it never end. Ed watched as they opened Paul up again, unable to look away. He was afraid, really afraid that he would lose Paul afterall. God, what animal had done this to him, and why? He'd been sliced up, almost systematically. Had the girl's purpose been murder, or vivisection? Why, again, why? They'd done every test conceivable on Foster himself, nothing abnormal, except for his recovery. Where his heart should have been permanently damaged from the stab wounds and subsequent heart attacks, it was, incredibly, actually healing, the cells growing almost like a benign cancer. And there was a slightly higher than normal level of oxygen in his blood. And a few unusual spikes in his brain wave patterns. But after what Foster had been through, the alien kidnapping, what they had done to him, who could tell.



Straker left administration in the capable hands of Alec Freeman, while he himself sat by Foster's bed in the ICU. Everytime he'd come close to losing Foster in the last two weeks, the harder he found it to ignore the feelings for Foster he could no longer contain, that threatened to overwhelm him, the love that dare not say it's name.


Straker felt a gentle hand squeeze his shoulder. It was Alec.

"How is he?" asked Freeman quietly. It didn't take a genius to see the concern etched on the man's face. Foster was a good friend of his.

Ed shrugged moodily.

"Alive. That's all I know. Don't know how. I can't help but think that the aliens got to him again. Some of his test results are a little - odd."

"Well, he nearly drowned when we got him back the last time. He went into shock, stopped breathing. We thought we'd lost him then, too. Paul's a survivor, Ed. That's why you hired him"

Straker said nothing.

Freeman could only guess at what was going on behind those ice blue eyes. He knew Straker was grooming Foster for higher command. But it was more than that. He'd never seen Ed harder or more protective of anyone else, himself included. It was almost paternal, perhaps that was just it. Straker had never really faced the death of his son. He'd been compensating with Paul, and now this.



Jackson was watching him like a hawk, but Straker was used to hiding behind his stony, Easter Island like expression. Foster was still in intensive care. They were running the tape again. Straker concentrated on the time scrolling at the bottom, blocking his mind to the sound of Paul's recorded moans.

"See this," Jackson pointed with a pen, as the woman eased away Paul's skivvy. "Eyes closed, relaxed. He almost looks drugged, yet we found no traces of anything in his blood. Only an elevated amount of endorphines. Watch now, as the blade goes in, Foster appears to barely feel it. The pain is ecasty to him." Jackson's voice rose to a disturbing pitch. "Something was stimulating all the pleasure centres in his brain-"

And elsewhere, noted Ed, as he watched the woman's hand curve expertly around Paul's more than adequate manhood, coaxing forth a few glistening drops.

"Foster recorded that he was in a very relaxed state. And he smelt honey, she smelt of honey. Some sort of chemical stimulant perhaps? Pheromones?" Jackson shrugged. He rewound the tape for a moment.

"watch this," he demanded. "See how she cuts. That is not assassination," he hissed in his sibilant sinister Eastern European tones. "That is vivisection!" he declared, in almost Peter Lorre like euphoria. "She is taking a tissue sample."

Straker sat back in his norgahyde chair, steepling his fingers thoughtfully, pursing his lips. The psycho-colours swirled luridly behind him.

"But why? Why colonel Foster" Straker asked the obvious, mainly because he could see Jackson fair nearly squirming to tell him his pet theory.

"Foster is one of the few people alive to have survived alien experimentation. We should have examined him more thoroughly when we got him back, down to the minutiae. There were," he paused for dramatic effect, "Subtle changes within his physiology. The oxygen content within his blood. Not abnormal in itself, but taken under consideration, it is," he paused again, drawing out the word like a long savoured puff on a Cuban cigar, "Curious." he breathed.

Curiouser and curioser, thought Ed, quoting Alice.

"There's something else." Jackson's eyes were coldly bright. Ed didn't like it. Not one bit.

"That car accident Foster had when he was 17. The private hospital he was taken to no longer exists. In fact, it closed less than six months after the incident. There are no official records of what treatment Foster received there. He was there for over six weeks, yet Foster himself describes his injuries as not very serious. There are no police or ambulance reports. His car never made it to the wrecking yard."

"Damn it - why hasn't anyone discovered this before."

"Nobody looked much into his adolescence, just routine. It was his military and later civilian career that came under scrutiny."

Straker Scowled. "You're thinking someone got at him, when he was 17?"

Jackson shrugged. "All those UFO sightings on his record. Perhaps he was bringing himself to our attention, over and over again. The refusal to leave the area of the UFO's flight path - " Jackson left his sentence unfinished, the conclusion hanging like the vapours from a rotted corpse in the air about them.

"who." demanded Straker at last. "Just tell me who."

Jackson played absently with his papermate pen. "It's hard to tell. An organisation, more sophisticated, more tightly structured than ours, perhaps. I do not believe they are working with the aliens. In fact, I believe their target is not SHADO, but the aliens themselves.

Ed rolled his crystal ball in his fingers, his mind positively reeling.



Paul's egg-shell blue eyes opened slightly, precious eyelids fluttering.

The face crowned with blonde hair slowly swam into focus, and a faint smile touched his pouting lips.

"Ginnie," he breathed, weakly.

"I'm here, Paul," smiled Virginia Lake brittlely, trying to hide the concern for her one time virile lover, now stricken, and not succeeding very convincingly.


She was angry, too. She tried to pick strong men, survivors, and yet, somehow, they always managed to fail her.

Paul, who had always prided himself on his superb physique, had now begun to take on the appearance of a concentration camp survivor; his skin pale, gaunt, his eyes dark with shadows. They fed him with tubes. He was a trapped poor creature swaddled in tubes and wires. Jackson and his team had turned him from patient to research project, dehumanising Paul to a listless test subject. She hated to see him like this, which was why she visited so infrequently.

His eyes studied her face, as if trying to remember something.

"Paul?" she asked. "If you're tired, I'll go."

He shook his head, just the slightest tilt. "Stay," he rasped.

She turned the page and began reading to him again, her voice barely heard over the hissing and beeping of the machines that both monitored and maintained him. Behind the cover of the book, and away from his view, a single tear fell, and she cursed it.

Throughout SHADO HQ it was business as usual. Computers of various makes, models and vintages hummed, throbbed and chattered to each other over the net under the inaudible roar of the air conditioning. The concrete walls of the bunker like building were always cold to the touch, even in Summer.



Foster looked awful, jaundiced coloured from the dyes they'd put in him for more tests.

Straker wanted to scream for them to stop it. Can't you see that you're killing him?! Except he couldn't. What reason could he give other than wanting to run his hands over that body, to taste that skin, feel the hard flesh pressed against him.

He balled his hands into fists, suppressing the feelings. He'd pushed them down so well not even Jackson had discovered them in his endless security tests. Or maybe not. What was that new policy these days - don't ask, don't tell?

SHADO had not been entirely to blame for the miserable failure that had been his marriage. Even the military allowed compassionate leave for things like weddings and honeymoons. No. Realising his mistake, he'd channelled his energies elsewhere, into SHADO.



Somehow, in the midst of a minor UFO alert, Straker had the presence of mind to order Jackson's tests on Foster to cease at once.

Jackson had not yet disclosed his findings to Straker. When they had realised that the aliens were not humanoid, but rather commandeered human bodies for their own purposes, with those humans with developed ESP particularly susceptible, all personnel within SHADO had been put through rigorous psi-scans, testing for any latent psychic ability. The results had been surprising, to say the least. Even Straker had shown a positive result, but Foster, he'd tested right off the scale. The ability was there, deep within him, and it had made him an easy target for the aliens. First he was kidnapped, and then brainwashed by the aliens. They wanted to use Foster's body as a vessel, and badly. Unwilling to give up his test subject, each time Jackson had been called upon by Straker to put Foster's mind back together, first convincing him the ordeal had been a dream, and then that he wasn't a killer, Jackson had inserted stronger and stronger blocks in Foster's mind, sealing off that mysterious part of his brain which registered so highly on the scanners. Foster himself was completely unaware of his psychic talent, aside from suffering a much higher than usual incidence of de ja vu than most other people, which he had never given much thought to. The ability had lain latently within him, only beginning to break out as the aliens reached out of him within SHADO, before Jackson had effectively shut him down.

The aliens had made another attempt to entrap Foster, of that much Jackson was certain.

Each time Foster came close to, or in contact with, an alien presence, a piece of Jackson's programming was eroded. This latest attack had brought down several barriers. Foster was breaking out again, literally frying some of the sensitive machinery he was hooked up to during his delirium.

Foster, for his own part, rallied once removed from his tormentor. Placed in a secure apartment within SHADO HQ, Paul was left relatively alone for once, to rest and recuperate.



Fearfully, the young ensign proffered his first ever plastic bound report to their commander in chief.

Straker's eyes watched him coldly, playing icicles up and down his spine.

"And you did this in your spare time?" Straker questioned again.

"yes. I was playing around with how Colonel Foster's attacker would have really looked, without the disguise, on the image program. I came up with this." He flipped open the file to show a picture of a young, dark haired woman. "Then I ran a cross index, you know, to see if she matched any mug shots. And I got a match."

"well, What?!" demanded Straker.

"sir, it wasn't a match to any mug shot. The program was originally used to plot out art history, archaeological restorations. It still has an extensive file buried deep within it. The match came from there." He flicked open to a new page. There was the woman again, her likeness, there could be no other. "That's a detail from a painted wall, in Pompeii. Painted 15 000 years ago."

Straker looked sharply at the man.

"You're sure"

"See for yourself, Sir. And I checked with the lab boys. There are whole strings of enzymes in the DNA they've never seen before. All the other aliens we've recovered had been surgically altered humans. Do you think they could have used genetic engineering as well, and have been coming all those years?"

Straker sat back, scowling.

"It's possible," he admitted at last. "St Columbus was reported as seeing something in the sky in the 4th century AD. it was either a comet, meteorite, or UFO. There is one other possibility, that we're dealing with a new invasion, another breed of alien entirely."

"But why would they attack Colonel Foster, Sir? To get at SHADO?"

"That's what I'd like to know." Straker leant over to press on his intercom. "Get Jackson up here," he barked, then turned to the ensign and dismissed him curtly.



Jackson hedged nervously, not wanting to lay all his cards on the table, not just yet. Foster was an interesting test subject. A vast latent psi ability, awakened and pushed to the fore, he believed, by alien intervention.

"Why Foster?" Straker asked directly, the question he should have asked weeks ago.

"Well, he is a colonel in SHADO. He is important to the organisation and knows a great deal. That makes him a priority target. And," he paused, thinking through his words. "Foster has some limited psi ability which makes him an easy target for the aliens, as you have seen."

"But he fought it" insisted Ed.

"Indeed," hissed Jackson. "He is a very stubborn man."



Straker eventually dismissed Jackson with a wave of his hand, to sit down and brood. Paul was psychic? Why hadn't Jackson told him before - it was important. They knew the aliens enhanced and controlled psychics. And Paul, Ed had been grooming Paul as his protege. The susceptibility to alien influence would make him a dangerous liability, unless they could control it.

Ed gripped his glass paperweight like steel. He would hate to lose Foster, but if it came down to it. that would be what it had to be.

They'd all been attacked by the aliens. Somehow, like an old cold war game, the aliens knew key personnel, their habits and habitats. The last attempted assassination of SHADO's commander in chief had resulted in Straker now living as a virtual prisoner in a furnished apartment deep underground. He only ever saw sunlight with a fleet of armed body guards. He felt like the President of the United States, only more confined, more vital.



Straker heard only gunshots and screams before he was virtually lifted bodily by his personal guards and hustled away like so much contraband.

Foster had suddenly gone berserk. The computers around him had exploded in a shower of sparks. He'd disabled the first two guards with surprising, almost impossible strength. He was now armed.

Ed watched, painfully, Foster's stumbling progress through the SHADO corridors on the video. Security moved in, penning him. The orders were shoot to kill, and Straker could do nothing, his hands were tied. He watched, helplessly, as again Foster seemed to grow faint, almost collapsing, before drawing himself up again and running. He had a balled fist pressed against his temple. He was bleeding profusely from the nose and ears, he seemed in terrible pain. He shouted incoherently, his eyes like those of a wildman. Alien intervention again, thought Ed. This deep down, through all that steel, lead and concrete, they had got to him.

~
Yet Foster seemed to be fighting it. He backed up along another corridor. Straker could see the security team waiting for him. He dug his nails so hard into his palms as to draw blood.

"Foster!" screamed Kincaid, stepping out and firing.

The bullet tore through his left side, but Foster didn't stop running, now trailing large drops of precious red fluid onto the white tiled floors.

Straker knew where Foster was heading. Security should have known, too, but seemed too excited by the chase. The camera suddenly failed and went black as Foster passed below it.

Straker leant back against the cold wall, waiting. He heard the alarms scream louder, and allowed himself to breath for the first time. Foster had found the second secret exit Straker had installed. He didn't know how. Only Straker knew of its existence. Like the pharaohs of old, all the workmen involved had been made incapable of talking, though with amnesia drugs rather than the removal of their tongues.

"Sir," broke in the security Chief over the intercom.

"I know." snapped Straker. "Get after him. He cannot be allowed to escape. He knows too much. Now!"

SHADO must come first. If Foster could not be contained, he must be eliminated.

But deep down, Ed's heart was breaking.



Foster leant wearily against the damp brick wall, deep in the shadows, examining the blood that covered his hand and soaked his shirt, but not wanting to probe further. It was bad, hurt like hell, and probably eventually mortal. He could not go to a hospital, or even a doctor, or they would find him.

He had lost the main pack quickly, he'd seen them in his head and been able to dodge them, but he knew the surface was still crawling with undercover SHADO operatives - and he was a wanted man.

The burning fire within his brain had eased, almost the same instant he had felt the fresh air of the surface, the red hot knife blades that had cut deep into him, demanding that he must kill and destroy. They moved his arms and legs like a puppet. He'd fought, pulling something deep within him to hurl at them, and felt them recoil.

He slid down behind the garbage, breathing raggedly, pressing his hands to his temples once more. Everywhere, he could hear voices, emotions, pressing in on him.



He heard one voice above all the other rambled thoughts, emotions and impulses. A voice clear and loud in his head. A female's voice. She was calling his name, Paul, Paul, over and over again, and telling him not to be afraid.

He was afraid. He was on the run from SHADO, an organisation that did not take its security matters lightly. He was on the run from the aliens. And he was wounded, pretty badly. He'd probably even die if he didn't get some medical treatment soon, but he didn't dare. They'd find him, instantly, if he tried. He had to get out of here, travel low, and at night, keeping off the roads and moving as fast as he could. And he had to find a place where they wouldn't look for him.



It was dusk, and his head was dizzy with blood loss. The house was in the distance. Deserted, no lights on, nor could he sense anyone within.

The aliens had left him alone for the last few days, obviously having discarded him as useless now. He was beginning to feel bold enough to reach out with his mind, exploring. Then he'd hear the voice again, calling his name, and he'd retreat hastily again, throwing up all the barriers.

Closer than the house though, hidden behind some bushes, was the hatch way opening to a secret bunker, that only one man knew about. And no one would look for him in the lion's den, he hoped.



The lid was stuck. He had to use up all his remaining strength to wrench it open, tearing at his already festering bullet wound. He collapsed, blacking out for a few moments, then, recovering a little, heaved it open and pushed himself weakly, half climbing, half falling down the ladder.

The fluorescent light flickered on. He could see supplies, equipment, bed. He made for the bed, falling into it with an exhausted sigh., stretching out his long limbs. Then he froze. He'd heard a sound. Someone else was climbing down the metal ladder.

Slowly, he slid the SHADO gun out from where he had hidden it under his shirt. He pulled himself unsteadily to his feet, aiming the gun, though his hand trembled. He heard the steps onto concrete, then the blurred figure moved into the light. He tried to focus, but couldn't, as he fell forward, dropping the gun.



There was a hand, brushing his forehead with a cool cloth. He pushed it away deliriously, and then come to his senses with a short. His clear blue eyes opened and focused.

"Who are you." he accused.

Her face crumpled with disappointment, then she gathered herself and held it well.

"You really don't remember me, do you, Paul? What did they do to you?"

"The aliens?"

"No, the Government. Oh, Paul. We met at university, in our first year. We were lovers, we were going to marry once we graduated. For a joke we enrolled in some tests the Psych department were running, for ESP. They never told us the results. A couple of days later, some men from the Government came for us. we tried to escape, in your car. But they ran us off the road, and we crashed. I was all right, but you were all broken up. I was so scared, but you told me to run."

a memory burnt across his brain, doubled over the steering wheel of a red sports car; ribs, leg broken, screaming run, run, run..."

"Etiene," he whispered.

"Yes," she cried happily.

He sat up a little more, pressing a hand to his temple.

"I remember, pieces, now. Not much."

"They must have brainwashed you on something."

"Probably the first time, wasn't the last," he muttered darkly. "I remember a grey painted room, Government looking, you know, sort of shabby, metal bed. wires stuck to me, all over, and pain. a lot of pain. Headaches."

"They must have tested you, experimented. I read reports later about them trying to use people like us, telepaths, for espionage. You were gone for almost a year. I thought you were dead. Then I heard you'd transferred, got a scholarship with the airforce. I tried to see you, but you didn't know me. I was scared. I've pretty well been on the run ever since. Never staying in the one place or job too long. I even had a bit part in one of your movies once, right under your nose. Oh, " her eyes widened. "But you're not really a movie producer, are you. You're a Colonel, in SHADO."

"How do you know that," he demanded.

"Its right there, in your mind. I'm sorry, Paul. I could always read you like a book, before they took you away from me."

He ran a hand across his forehead irritably.

"Why can't I remember what they did to me ..."

She shrugged. "Maybe you will. Maybe its best if you don't."

"Is that how you found me, by reading my mind."

"Yes. After all these years, I suddenly felt you again, scared and hurt. I had to come to you."

He put his hand to his side, suddenly realising the pain was no longer there.

She rested her hand on his, gently.

" I healed that."

"How," he stared at her.

"people call it faith healing, but I don't have much faith in anything, these days."

Paul found himself smiling with her.

He pulled up his shirt. All his scars were gone.

"The alien..."

"Yes, but not the ones you think."

"There are more?"

"Oh, yes. "

"What did they want with me?"

"Oh, nothing malicious. They're zoologists. You were just a specimen to them. They didn't really think about hurting you, or killing you. It was all just scientific curiosity. They do that a lot you know, vivisect things."

"Oh, great, that makes me feel a whole lot better," he sulked.

she laughed, softly, leaning foreword and touching his hair. She was the most beautiful woman Foster had ever seen, it was no wonder they had been lovers once. He drew her close, and kissed her, just lightly, on the lips. He was surprised when she opened her lips under his, allowing him trespass. He felt her mind, touching his, with a feather light caress, snatches of memory, their lovemaking, young and playful.

"Paul," she pulled back for a moment. "What if someone should come?"

"They won't come," he smiled slyly," at least, not for a while," he assured her, drawing her down on top of him again.




She jumped down the last few steps, spinning as Paul plucked the bag of groceries out of her arms, slipping her empty arms around his waist.

"Hey, you're feeling better today," she laughed.


"Well," he sighed. "A good night's sleep helps." he smiled.

"Sleep?" she teased, and his lips closed on hers again.

"I love you, Paul," she whispered breathlessly, as he released her for a moment. "I never stopped loving you."

"I know. I'm sorry..."

"It wasn't your fault."

He fell silent, and began unpacking the supplies she'd brought.

"Not much food."

"We'll eat on the run."

"What's this?" he asked, holding up a box.

"Hair dye. You've got to look like this picture." She held out a passport. A hard looking, auburn haired version of himself stared up at him. The picture had been computer generated. It was a fake, but a good fake.

"Etiene, where'd you get this?"

"Ask no questions and I'll tell you no lies," she replied flippantly. But he already knew. Her brother, and his friends in Ireland.

"Go and do it now, Paul. We've got to get out of here."

"where are we going?"

"We're being smuggled out to Ireland, and then North America. New York, Boston, I'm not sure. I think someone was watching the house. I was careful, but they've got to have a scanner in here, or something."

~
Paul watched the ocean below through the 747 window, working out in his mind where the skydivers would be right now on regular patrol in the North Atlantic.

Etiene covered his hand with hers, squeezing slightly.

"Let it go, Paul," she whispered. "You're not a pilot anymore."

He acknowledged her with a slight, resigned nod, and settled back to think of his future, if he had one.

"We could go to LA - I could direct films again."

She laughed, softly, but there was a cruel edge to it.

"That's hardly being discreet, Paul. The idea is to lay low, play Mr and Mrs Average. To take lousy jobs stacking shelves and such until the heat is off. You do what you have to, to survive on the run, I've done it before. Though my real expertise is in demolitions, to get a job in that area would draw unnecessary attention to ourselves. Maybe, in a few years, you can get a job crop dusting or fire fighting. But that's it. Your career is over, Paul. I'm sorry."

He said nothing, and returned to staring quickly out of the window. She knew it was hard for him, he'd been such a driven career man, but at least he was alive. He'd left her on the run since a teenager, and she could not help resenting his self pity.

A man with the same pale green eyes as Etiene met them at the airport and took them to an old Ford that was to be theirs. The boot was already packed with two back packs of food, clothing and ammunition. He was gruff, and spoke little, clearly annoyed at having been put upon so suddenly. He was surprised when the man drew Eteine aside and silently pressed several hundreds worth of dollar bills into her hand.

"Padraig, no," she pleaded.

"Take it," he snarled fondly. "I'd only spend it on booze and fags."

She threw her arms around him and kissed him upon the cheek. Paul realised he must be her elder brother, the one he never saw or heard much about, other than always being in trouble with the police in their home town of Belfast.

Padraig released his sister and shot Foster an absolutely filthy look, blaming him for all that had happened and daring him to let anything worse happen to his sister.

~
The roaring filled his ear. Paul pressed his fists against them to try and block out the noise, he could feel the ice hot tendrils of alien consciousness begin to tear and claw at his mind.

"No," he hissed, down on his knees.

Etiene held him tight, listening desperately to the odd sound of some aircraft above them. She knew it was them. The sky outside was lighter than it should have been with just the moon. The humming drew closer. She pressed Paul to be quiet, but he was trembling. It sounded like it was directly above them, then moved away slightly.

Silently, she crawled over to look out from the small crack in the side of the old barn. She saw it, floating in the sky like a second silver moon, sinking behind the nearby trees as it landed. It didn't scare her, but instead filled her with a strangely calm resolve. A laser beam lashed out towards the barn, striking their car parked in front, ripping it open in a large orange ball of flame as the petrol tank exploded.

Paul gave a small, strangled cry, and fell backwards, and began convulsing violently amongst the old hay litter on the barn floor. She slipped back to him, covering him with her body, trying to silence his moans and still his erratic trembling. He was insensible to her softly whispering his name. She heard movement outside, someone crushing grass underfoot, rattling the old door. She rolled off Paul, and slowly and as quickly as she could, reached into her back pack to wrap her hand around the long, hard, cold metal that she knew was in there.

The huge barn door cracked open. A red covered hand curled around the door. She waited a moment more, as the door swung open. There was a small sound of metal sliding into place, and, she opened fire.

The two aliens staggered back as their red suits were torn open, spraying the air with bright red blood, their helmets shattering, spurting viscous green fluid in puddles over the straw as they collapsed. Etiene didn't take any chances, standing over them and firing into the silver helmets until there was nothing but greenish brown pulp inside.

No more than three occupants in any one craft, that was what Paul had said, she reassured herself before clicking the safety back on the us, the metal now hot in her hands.

She swung back, grimly.

"Nothing can beat a good old reliable uzi - Paul - Paul!"

He was still now, not moving, not moving at all.

"Oh, god, no, Paul, don't do this," she gathered him in her arms, desperately. "Come back to me, Paul. Come back, now!" she demanded. She pressed one hand to his temple, the other one over his heart. He'd had some sort of stroke, trying to fight the alien's control, and had gone into severe shock. "Come on, Paul, don't leave me now." She pleaded. "I love you." She drew up the strength within her and let it pass through her hands into his body, filling it.

After a terrible long moment, she felt him take a small ragged breath, his heart start beating under her fingers. She poured more of her strength into him, to the point of exhaustion. She held him closer to her, like a child. She was stranded in a derelict barn, with three dead aliens, no transport, and a critically ill lover. Well, she'd been in worse situations, but not much worse.

~
The box car rocked back and forth, none too gently. Paul slept in her arms, still poorly from his ordeal. They'd made it to the highway, and hitched. It hadn't been easy. Paul had looked drunk at first, then mad. At last they had snuck onto a train heading west.

Paul was waking. His hand began to stroke her jeans, below where the zipper ended. She was enjoying it. A few minutes later he eased himself up on his elbows, unzipping her jeans and easing them away.

"Feeling better," she teased. He parted her legs and kissed her. She arched back in escasty.

"Paul," she sighed raggedly. His tongue flicked along her clitoris, then he moved up to suckle and tease her breasts. She begged him, ready and hot when he slid into her silky wetness. She held him, her muscles rippling gently. He began stroking, slowly, then faster, and faster, until she bit down hard on his shoulder to stifle her cry as the orgasm thudded through her. He lay on her, his heart racing, still inside her. He began to withdraw, but she held him. Moments later, he began stroking again.

~
Foster stepped off the greyhound bus, shielding his eyes from the garishness of the gambling strip of Las Vegas.

"Paul," Etiene tugged at his arm irritably again. "Why here."

"Money. Trust me. Just a night. I can win enough to last us a few months. Come on."

He put a few bets down in several hotels, amassing a small but considerable sums in each. Enough to pay for a fancy hotel room.

"And there's more," he grinned, tossing her the shiny new keys of a Nissan bluebird.

"Paul!"

"I paid cash. No records." he shrugged. "Beats hitching. And there's more -" he tossed her a tiny felt box. She opened it, and found a small gold band within.

"Paul?!" she all but screamed.

"Shower and change, there's a dress for you in the closet. We've got an appointment at 10."

They were married in the Chapel-O-Love, by a minister who looked like Elvis just before the end, giving their false names. It wasn't perfect, but it was a wedding, and it was theirs.

~
Paul slept fitfully in the passenger seat as she headed their brand new car north.

They'd gone back to their suite after the wedding, drinking champagne in the spa. From the spa to the bed and the floor, their love making had been erotic and violent, rough and exciting. They'd almost fought with each other, wrestling for pleasure. Then she'd ruined it. Dragging Paul to a dance club, the flashing coloured lights had induced a small seizure. She had stupidly forgotten that the aliens had used light sources to re-program him. She'd carried him out like a drunk, loaded him in the car, thrown the suitcases in after him and hit the road out of Vegas. She didn't know where she was going. She didn't much care. Montana, Idaho, maybe across the border.

~
Montana. Paul walked along the foot of an ancient ridge at dusk, lost in the dusty pinks, browns and purples of the land as the sun set. Hands deep in his pocket wistfully, he stared up towards the clear night sky. You could always see the stars clearer out in the country than the city. They looked right out here. On the moon, they were all wrong, it was unnerving. These were the stars a millennia of men had gazed upon, from this aspect.

One star streaked across the heavens close by, too low for a satellite and no flight paths out here. Ice started to creep through his veins. Get with it, man. You never seen a UFO on a landing course before. He scanned the skies for Sky 3 or 4, maybe 5, up there. What was with Moonbase, letting so many through, or were they really being invaded. Damn Henderson and his budget cuts. How could they possibly fight a war with so few interceptors.

He trudged back to camp and stamped out the fire with his boot.

"Come on," was all he said gruffly, sliding behind the wheel of the car and turning the engine over. Their gear thrown in the back, he drove off, following the trail of the shooting star, though he couldn't tell himself why.

Etiene let the car roll silently into the trees. She put on the hand brake and reached under the seat and foisted an uzi on him.

"What the? We should get away from here. They're here. I can feel it."

"I know. Time to even the score. Let's go kick some alien butt."

"With an uzi? I've seen them destroy a mobile in an instant - Etiene - wait!" he hissed, chasing after her into the bushes.



"Over here, Paul, I can see it quite clearly through the trees," She took his hand, urging him to follow her.

Suddenly a light was flashed in their faces.

"Stop - Colonel Foster?" The Corporal's voice betrayed his surprise and confusion. "Hold it right there, Sir."

Out of nowhere, Etiene pulled a gun and shot him, the young Corporal fell back, clutching at the hole in his throat.

"Run, Paul," she snagged his hand and dragged him after her. "Damn. I should have known this place would be crawling with SHADO." she cursed.

Bullets ripped through the foliage about them. Etiene suddenly pulled hard on his arm. He turned around to see her lying down on the ground, the back of her head split open, matted hair, bone, brain and blood messed up in the moonlight.

"Etiene!" he cried. A bullet slammed into his shoulder, knocking him backwards. Oh, shit. He pulled himself to his feet, clutching his bleeding shoulder, scrambling through the undergrowth, to get away from SHADO, the UFO, and the body of his dead wife.

~
Foster stared over his coffee, watching the two men at the other end of the truck stop. One man, in his mid to late 30s, the other, in his late teens. He glanced up again, and found them staring at him.

Picking up his cup, he walked over to where they were sitting.

"Can I join you?" he asked.

"Free country," shrugged the older man, an undisguised tone of sarcasm in his voice. Paul couldn't read him, that's what had drawn the man to his attention.

"Paul Foster," he offered.

"No, Forrester. Do I know you?"

"Dad - he's Foster," explained the younger man.

The elder man grinned.

"Well, that's a coincidence. Our names are so close."

Paul merely nodded, sliding into the hard plastic seat.

Scott's eyes narrowed, watching him suspiciously.

Foster smiled warily.

"You son's right. I used to be one of the hunters. Now I'm one of the hunted, like you."

Forrester frowned. "Explain."

"I worked for the military organisation that's hunting you. We've had a falling out. Now they want me, too."

He lifted his coffee and winced.

"That's a bad bullet wound," observed Forrester, his dark eyes enigmatic.

"Got it when they killed my wife."

"Dad..." hissed Scott. But Forrester's mind was made up. He would trust this man.

"Can we give you a lift? we have a car."

Foster shrugged. "Any where's fine."



Forrester watched over both Foster, and his son, as he drove. Foster's words came back to him again, 'when they shot my wife'. It brought to mind again something that he did not like to consider, that if they caught him, they would kill his son. He'd been in possession of human emotions for enough years now to be devastated by the thought, as devastated as he was by the loss of Jenny. He did not know if she were alive or dead, only that he could not find her.

~
Evan waited, a little nervously with his report.

"Colonel Freeman, Sir,"

Alec, looking weary and pressed, almost snapped at the young recruit.

"What!"

"The Hayden file, Sir. Someone broke into it."

"Damn." Alec swore. "Security - what next."

"They, ah, used Colonel Foster's access codes."

That stopped Freeman in his tracks.

"Colonel Foster? Can you trace where they came from?"

"Trying, Sir. AT&T line. Phoned the studio. Got through the Secretary's connection. Came through several countries, but I think it came from the States. "

"It must have been Foster. He was sighted near an incident several weeks ago. Okay, son, leave it with me."

Evan dropped the file down on his supervisor's desk.

"And good work," Alec smiled encouragingly.

~
Slashes of light lashed out from the alien craft, striking the ground on either side of the car as it swerved wildly along the highway, throwing up explosions of tar and dirt.

Foster drove defensively, putting the pedal to the metal, trying to anticipate the UFO's next strike, and avoid it. In the back seat, Forrester watched anxiously by his son, hunched over a glowing blue sphere. The luminescence increased exponetionally, requiring Foster to twist around the rear-view mirror and squint at the now cratered highway in front.

At last, Forrester leant out of the car, the sphere held in his hand now near blinding intensity. The eerie blue glow reached up into the sky and enveloped the UFO, and seemed to pull the craft out of its trajectory like a tractor beam, brining it to a rough but deliberately gentle landing beside the road. However, a moment later, the UFO went up in a fire ball.

Forrester fell back against the vinyl back seat, exhausted.

"They must have self destructed," he reasoned, saddened by their response to his interference.

Foster, meanwhile, reflexively hunched over the wheel as he heard the sonic scream of a high powered jet fly low over them. They weren't in the clear yet. A quick glance at the rapidly receding aircraft confirmed his worst fears: Sky 4.

"What!" demanded Scott, leaning over the front passenger seat.

"The military, come to engage the enemy. Damn, we should have left that thing, let it take its chances with SHADO. Now they'll be curious."

"We can out run them, can't we, or hide?" Scott almost pleaded.

"This is an open high way, kid. And they've got infrared and heat sensors that could track a firefly from 25 000 feet up."

Scott slumped against his seat, feeling doomed.

Foster shifted the gears angrily, damned if he was going to let Jackson get his hands on the kid. Hybrid or not, Scott was just a kid.

Sky 4 over passed them again, lower, slower this time, sweeping over the UFO wreckage and the erratically weaving car heading away at the top speed.

"Tune in the radio," commanded Foster, snapping the order out of old military habit. Scott let his sphere roll into his hand, and the radio dial, as if operated by a poltergeist, sped up and down the frequencies until the coded SHADO frequency, decoded by the alien power source the boy held, crackled over the car radio.

"Repeat - UFO broke off attack and landed, then self destructed. Perhaps something malfunctioned. Civilian car headed Southwest along Route 66 at approximately 160 kph."

Foster glanced back at Forrester in the back seat.

"Can you wipe out the radio, sensors, radar on that jet? Perkins is a good enough pilot to fly it blind and land by the seat of his pants, but he won't be able to follow us by air."

Forrester nodded, unfolding his hand to reveal the sphere which began to glow again.

The radio broke up with static, and Foster heard Sky 4's turbines whine as Perkins banked left, back along the highway trying to bring the jet down on the tarmac.

Foster swung the wheel and the car lurched off into the stubbly desert, bumping over rocks and small ditches. With no headlights, it was nearly impossible to see, yet he dare not turn them on. He had to rely on his instincts and driving ability.

"The military trucks will be on their way here. Our only escape is across country as far as we can go. He grinned, maniacally. "The more lost we get the better. They'll be expecting us to travel in a straight line." He was confident he could out fox SHADO, hell, he had so far. The aliens hadn't tried to wrest control of his mind away from him that time, or maybe the presence of the alien in the backseat and his hybrid son had somehow protected him. Maybe the aliens hadn't been after him, but Forrester. Either way, none of the occupants in the car had any desire to run into SHADO military manoeuvres.



They puled into a tiny town in the south of the Navaho reservation. Forrester came back to the car with an armful of groceries, and registered surprise to see Foster leaning against the car, back pack slung over his shoulder.

"Leaving?" he asked.

Foster folded his arms and shrugged. "Best way. I don't want you caught up in my mess. You've got enough trouble, trying to raise Scott, like this."

"At least we've seen a lot of America," Forrester replied, looking on the bright side. "Take care, Paul Foster," he added, thoughtfully.

"Yeah." Foster ducked his head. He fished something out of his pocket, and handed it over.

Forrester turned the small blue disk over in his hands.

"What's this?"

"Your file. I downloaded it, with Scott's help. Curiosity, I guess. Probably what brought SHADO and the aliens down on us. Sorry."

Forrester smiled. "You meant well. And this will be interesting reading."

Foster waved once as he watched the old car pull out onto dusty road, heading west, to New Mexico. Himself, he'd head further south, to Chihuahua.



~
Paul leant on the white metal rail, letting the sea breeze tousled his hair, kiss his face. He stared up at the Mexican Moon as it shone there, remembering, sadly. He bowed his head. He was tired, so very tired. Not only from all his muscles aching, the lack of food, though a few simple tricks in the local casino had earned him enough for food and a hotel room for a few nights, for some sleep.

He was tired of running. He'd not even had time to mourn her. Not properly. He missed her. She'd had all the answers, to all the questions in his life, and her smell, her laugh, the feel of her flesh pressed against his. The secret knowledge - "Paul, I'm going to have a baby, our baby." He shut his eyes tightly, banishing her from his thoughts, and then opened them again. He found himself staring up at the moon again. He didn't even have that comfort. How could you wish upon a star, when you knew what he knew?

He shouldered his decision. With her gone, the running, served no purpose. Time to end it, now, one way or the other. He shuddered to think of himself, trapped again in the grey government room, wires taped to his skull. He fingered the small gun in his pocket. Maybe he didn't have the guts to put the bullet in his own brain, but someone else would.

Sighing deeply, he turned back towards the small hotel, quiet and shabby, off tourist season. He picked up the old bacolite phone in the front desk and dialled, an old rotary dial.



London. The phone's sudden ring startled Straker. He snatched it off the hook.

"Foster - how the hell did you get this number - no - never mind - what the hell?"

"You heard me, Straker," said Foster coldly, and then hung up, before the tracer could find him.



He waited alone, his back to everything, watching the moon's reflection playing over the sea. He knew Straker would come alone, that Straker wouldn't risk what Foster had to say being overheard.

At last he felt the man's approach. He turned, without smiling.

"Foster - what -"

"The deal is..." Foster repeated coldly. "I surrender myself to you, only if you can guarantee my safety, and my freedom. Or else kill me, kill me here and now."

"Paul -"

"I mean it, Straker. I'll give you what you want, what you really want - in return for safe passage. Do we have a deal?" The eyes were ice cold. Foster had learnt a lot at SHADO.

Straker, reeling at the implications of what Foster was offering, merely nodded. "Yes, Paul, you have my word."

The two men remained silent for a moment, sizing each other up.

"Ah, I have a room, at a hotel a few miles up the road. WE can go there."

"No tricks."

"No tricks." Straker agreed.



Foster wanted to drive, and Straker let him, letting himself enjoy the excitement of the moment, the way Foster handled his car, like a race driver, the power he urged from the engine, his strong hands on the wheel and gear stick, the muscles in his thighs tightening as he stepped on the gas.

Almost nervously, like a kid on his first date, Straker led Foster up to his room, the penthouse suite. The large, silk sheeted bed dominated the room. Foster looked away, and gratefully accepted the glass of wine Straker offered him, swallowing it down without bothering to taste it. Straker refilled his glass, and Foster drank again. It was a bitter wine. Foster should have known Straker wouldn't know how to choose wine.

"Are we alone?" asked Paul.

"Yes, completely," Straker soothed him.

~
Straker lifted the wine glass gently from Foster's hand, caressing the now empty fingers. Placing the glass on the table behind him, his other hand brushed against Foster's thigh, then behind to cup over his buttocks, drawing him close, sliding up his spine to deftly massage his neck, guiding his head down, lower, so that Straker could seal his mouth on Pauls, forcing the lips apart, pushing his tongue inside. Oh, the sweet, hard, warmth of him. He drank of him deeply, the sharp taste of the wine on Paul's tongue sending pulsing fire through his loins. Expanding the kiss, his right hand squirmed between them, pulling down the zipper of Paul's top and his own. Ah, yes, he wanted to feel the man against him, hard flesh to flesh, to run his hand through the dark hair, teasing a nipple with his thumb.

Still in command, he pushed Foster back towards the bed, laying him down under him. He trailed kisses down Foster's throat, sucking hard where his throat met his chest, below the adam's apple, causing Foster to moan softly. Then he moved further down, biting and lapping at the small, hard nipples. He knew that excited Foster. Ah, yes, he could feel it, running his hand along the inside of Foster's muscular thighs, stroking the rising organ. it was hard, large and powerful. Oh, god, the sweetness of that thing plunging within him - he trembled. Foster's eyes were closed, his head tilted back, deliciously inviting. He wanted this. Straker's tongue stroked down across the stomach, the salty taste of the skin intoxicating. At last he came to the waistband of Paul's trousers. He began to fiddle with the buckle. Foster's eyes opened, his hand closing over the belt, cutting Straker off.

"We made a deal," Foster reminded him, coldly.

"Now, Paul," Ed sighed, his face inches above Paul's erection, straining at the fabric. "You know I can't promise you anything."

"Damn you!" Foster kicked him away savagely.

Ed rolled, snatching the gun from underneath the pillow and holding it at Foster.

Foster in a rage tried to snatch it away from him, at the same time swinging with his other fist. Straker slammed the gun across Foster's forehead. Paul cried out and reeled back off the bed, falling to his knees, clutching his profusely bleeding head in his hands.

"You bastard!" he snarled breathlessly, trying to stand, but failing and falling back down again. It was more than the blow. His limbs...felt odd. He snatched a glance at the wine on the table; his glass, drained for Dutch courage, Straker's standing untouched. The wine, drugged, damn, he'd been a fool. A fool to trust Straker, to think that Straker wouldn't sacrifice him as well. And worse.

"You bastard," he screamed at Straker, pressing his fists into his temples, trying to block the rising scream in his brain. "They'll come now. They'll come," he cried. He sank back, weakly against the pale beige carpeted floor, staring at it with red droplets of his blood. "Ed, please," he begged, before his eyelids fluttered closed.

Straker stood over him for a long minute, holding the gun down on him, not sure if Foster was faking or not. But he didn't move.

At last, Straker drew closer, still keeping gun ready.

"Paul," he asked, softly. "Paul?"

The younger man was unconscious.

Very carefully, Straker leant over him, bending down to touch his lips to Paul's in one, final kiss. He drew back, licking the metallic saltiness of Paul's blood from his lips.

Zipping up Paul's jacket, rearranging the bed sheets and disposing of the wine glasses, he made the call.

"Straker here. I've got Foster. He's down. Send the ground crew in and get an aircraft ready for immediate transport."

~
Foster's eyes snapped open, with a cold alien glare. Almost effortlessly, he snatched the gun away from Straker, spinning around to fire two shots into the pilot and co-pilot. They slumped across the controls.

"What now, Foster. We're 2 000 feet up," goaded Straker.

Paul aimed the gun directly at him.

"Now I'll fly the plane."

Straker stared up the barrel of the gun, and then into the eyes of the man who held it. For a moment, just a moment, he thought he caught a glimmer of light, a glimpse of Paul behind the alien in control.

The gun fired and everything exploded in a dark red haze.



Straker woke, lost for a moment, the white painted walls closing in a claustrophobic rush. He sat up with a start, and a sudden sharp intake of breath as the pain constricted tight across his chest.

"Hey, easy,"

Alex's worried face came into view.

"What happened," demanded Straker, straight down to business.

"Don't you know? Foster hijacked the plane, killed the flight crew. He managed to land on a small airstrip near Grover's Mill, New Jersey, and escaped. What's so funny?" Alex asked, confused and concerned by the uncharacteristic grin that had filtered across Straker's face.

"Grover's Mill," he mused. "Nice to see Foster's retained his sense of humour."

"He almost killed you! A few inches to the left, and you would have died, instantly."

"But I didn't," smirked Straker. "Foster's a crack shot. You know that. He had me dead in his sights. At the last moment, I'm sure he deliberately missed. That's twice he's successfully fought an alien directive to kill me."

"What about the flight crew?"

Straker shrugged, enigmatically.

Alec sat up straighter, realising what Straker was getting at.

"You think he's broken free of the alien's control, don't you."

"Yes. Either that, or he's learnt how to fight it. The drugs weakened him, let them take control of him again. It was my fault."

"Foster's still a hunted man, with orders to shoot to kill," reminded Alec.

"Change them. I want Foster alive, if at all possible. But we can't have him running about, Alec. He's a liability right now, a wild card, and I don't need any of those. And there's one more problem."

"Which is?"
"After this fiasco, Foster will never trust me again."

~
Foster hunched over in the back seat of his car, a battered relic that had cost a couple of hundred cash, no questions asked. His teenage years spent as a petrol head had enabled him to repair most of the major damage, coaxing a little more life and a few more miles out of the beast. He drew up his thin, scratchy grey blanket around his shoulders against the cold. He ritually cleaned his gun. Someday, he'd get near Straker again, and this time, he wouldn't fail. He would kill him.

~
Unknown to Straker, in a lab several floors below, lay a brain dead body, kept functioning by life support machines, so that the child within it might grow.

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