Disclaimer: I do not own any of these characters or institutions. They belong to Christ Carter and 1013 productions.

Marita hadn't ever ridden a train until she came to work in Russia. Soot speckled the window. Grazing the pads of her fingers on the tarnished frame, she wished again they could have taken a plane to Krasnoyarsk. The train car swayed on the rails. The incessant clacking and chug beat into her skull. She felt a swoon of nausea drip from her nose to her stomach. The Trans-Siberian Railroad was a rough and forgotten line.

But if Marita felt sick, it was nothing compared to her companion's illness. Katya Vaginov seemed to both clutch and push away the bulky expanse of her belly. Her black hair made her skin seem even paler, nearly blue with veins and discomfort. Marita awkwardly patted Katya's frail hand. But her companion jerked it away and leaned closer to the wall next to the door. Marita sighed, but didn't speak. She resumed her watch out the window; noted the cluster of army trucks and tanks beside the tracks. But the train passed too quickly to see the soldier's faces. The world was painfully grey with old snow grown dirty from motor exhaust.

The train slowed for miles, creeping into the edges of civilization. Although the graffiti should have made her wary, the lurid colors and shapes on the station's walls were cheerful and bright against the low sky and the squatting buildings. Marita's Cyrillic wasn't impeccable, but she could read the messages reasonably well. In blood red were the words: "Fuck you, Gorbachev." Marita deciphered another group of letters as: "Down with the Union."

The fact that there was any graffiti at all on the train station was a testament to the inevitability to the messages. The Soviet Union was days from collapse. It was an unfortunate place and time to be, but Marita had a job to do. The Consortium sent her months ago to Russia, to oversee a project. It had to be brought to completion.

She wound her scarf tightly around her face and pulled the brim of her cap to her nose. Katya rubbed the lowest ridge of her spine. Her rotund stomach stuck out like a large ball hidden beneath her coat. She whined wordlessly, just loud enough for Marita to hear. Marita grabbed her suitcase, an old fashioned hard backed valise that her father had used during the War. It now carried all of her belongings she could claim during the past nine months.

"Let's go, the truck will be waiting," she said. Her Russian was slow. She had to choose every word carefully. She tried to let the language slip out harshly, but it always came out sounding apologetic. Katya rolled her eyes and walked out the car without picking up her own bag. Marita slung the backpack over her shoulder. It was very light.

A man with a thick beard drove the truck. Katya sat in the middle, which forced her to straddle the shift with a leg on either side. The driver, who didn't bother to introduce himself, shifted the gears tentatively with his hand between her legs. Katya frowned the whole ride and occasionally farted loudly. She didn't apologize for her body, but rather glared at Marita from the corner of her eye. Marita ignored her, as she had done for nine months. She enjoyed what seemed to be the sole privilege of her position: sitting by the window.

"Where are we going?" asked Katya three hours into the ride. She shifted in her seat, twisting her back and stretching out her legs. Snow crunched under the tires. Flakes fell from the sky. It looked like a cloud of dust.

Marita didn't answer. She picked at a hangnail on her thumb. It ripped off, accompanied by a bloom of blood on her fair skin.

"To the old Palace," the driver answered eventually. The rumble of the diesel engine was the only noise for the remaining hour of the trip. The ground turned whiter and cleaner as the snow increased.

The old Palace. The letter had arrived a week ago in her small office in Kamchotkan. She almost didn't receive it. She was too busy watching the portable television on her desk. For days, the reports had been getting more alarming. Factories were closing. Armies were patrolling, though no official orders from the Kremlin had been issued. People crushed themselves into endless lines winding for blocks, eventually leading into the state banks. The airports weren't running, all flights officially canceled.

She had called her superior, but he had little advice for her. "Just stay where you are. Make sure Ms. Vaginov brings the baby to term. Then wait for further orders."

The post hadn't been delivered for weeks, so for some time she had given up checking her mailbox on the outside of her decrepit building. But on a whim, last Tuesday, she opened the tin box. A crisp, unmarked envelope stood out starkly in the dark shadows.

"Dear Ms. Covarrubias," it began. It had been written on a typewriter. "I'm fortunate to know of your position. Although our friends around the world may be ignorant of the Soviet Union's unrest, I know that it's a bad time and place for two young women, such as yourself and Ms. Vaginov to be. I'm particularly concerned for your companion. If it's a bad time for women, then it's an even worse time for a pregnant one. I've recently come into a position of power in the Russian state of Krasnoyarsk Krai. Allow me to extend an invitation of protection for you and Ms. Vaginov. I can assure you that you will be safer here than Kamchotkan. On December 1, at the Podkamennya station in Krasnoyarsk, there will be a driver waiting on the platform to take you to the old Palace where I am temporarily residing. He will recognize you. Arrive any time, he will be there all day.

Sincerely yours,

Comrade Krycek"

And now the old Palace, trimmed in gold and burgundy, glimmered through the snow storm. Marita slid out the truck door, slowing her descent by clutching at the frame with her gloved hands. She sunk up to her knees in the snow. Her coat grazed a trail in the drifts. She extended a hand to help Katya, but the sullen woman had already jumped out on the driver's side.

A few men, clad in the heavy, body-length coats of the Soviet military uniform, scrambled through the snow. They took Marita's two bags silently and gestured for her to walk to the Palace before them. They cradled automatic rifles on their hips, slung from leather straps of their shoulders.

The Palace was unheated. Marita's breath clouded like smoke. The foyer had the dark look of an unlit house in the daytime. Only dim, winter light filtered through the dirty windows. There was a broken gilt chair lying on the hardwood floor. A twisted staircase, covered in a mud-stained red carpet, wound up the center to the floors above. Marita didn't take off her coat or her gloves.

Katya wandered. Her steps echoed hollowly. She left fingerprints on a mirror that was as tall as herself. She scowled at the bloated reflection. Marita's own reflection looked shadowy and vague. Her shock of silver, blonde hair jutted out from under her hat. The little red star above the brim looked dull against the grey wool. Her shoulders hunched from fatigue in her black, wool coat. She tried to smooth her hair, but her gloved hands just made it tangle more from static.

A low voice made her jump and forget her reflection. "Ms. Covarrubias."

A man stood in the corner of the room. His face hidden by his own military cap. His hair was buzzed short, in the fashion of many of the Soviets, but his accent was distinctly American. Though this should have made Marita feel safer, it only made her more wary of this dark gentleman.

"Glad you made it. Follow me," he ordered. Marita didn't move even as he took a step towards the door out the foyer. He paused; cleared his throat, and tapped his thighs with his fists awkwardly. He changed direction. Marita found his hand pushing against her back, firmly forcing her out of the room. She felt a horrible quaver descend to her toes, as if every nerve in her body shivered. It all seemed like a horrible mistake now. She didn't even know who this man was. The letter crushed in her pocket seemed so pitiful now.

"What about…?" she asked weakly, looking over her shoulder at Katya.

"She'll be taken care of. Don't worry, she's very precious to me."

Marita tried to stop, but his firm push turned into a vice-like grip on her arm. He pulled her through room after room of decaying books, broken bottles, carpets damp from melted snow tracked in by too many boots, and forgotten portraits of Czarist nobles hanging on the walls.

He forced her up a side set of stairs. Her feet barely touched the steps as he carried her up by her hips. She felt completely out of the control of the situation.

"Stop!" she cried. She jabbed an elbow back into his chest, but it repelled her. He snatched her wrist and twisted in behind her back without stopping his pace through the Palace.

They ended in a bedroom, set in the far corner of the house. Windows made of crossed hatched iron cut weak beams of checkered light into the dim room. An unmade four-poster bed dominated the room. There was a tin basin on a small table against the wall. Papers and unfolded maps littered the floor. The man dropped her wrist and shoved her forward.

Marita fell onto her hands. The floor felt icy even through her gloves. She stood up quickly and faced him.

"What is the meaning of this? Who are you? I was promised protection," she said smoothly. She covered her fear with the usual cool façade in which the Consortium had trained her.

He smiled wickedly, showing his almost cat-like teeth. His eyes were unusually sharp and calculating. He didn't have the depressed look of the usual Soviet soldier, though he was dressed as one. Looking back, Marita would only say that he looked…intelligent. It was not that the men of the Soviet Union weren't smart or clever. But he had the look of a man who made his own orders.

"You look tired, Marita."

She snorted though it was true. She had been traveling since four a.m. The waning light from the windows made her think it was probably around six o'clock in the evening.

She glanced around the room, taking in all details, looking for anything that could help her. But during her fast perusal, she noticed him watching her, taking equal note of her subtle actions, her defensive body-language, and her uneven breath. He licked the side of his lips and took off his hat. He tossed it like a Frisbee onto the bed.

"I'll get to it then. My name is Alex Krycek. I sent you the letter that brought you here," he said, almost casually, as if they were only meeting in a bar.

"Obviously," Marita snapped. He shrugged out of his coat and folded it over the edge of a chair. "But what does that mean? What's your authority here?"

Alex smiled. "I've just taken control of this state. Transitional government of Krasnoyarsk," he answered coolly. He tugged his gloves off each finger before dropping them onto the water basin table. Marita noticed the water was frozen.

"You must be joking, you're American."

He locked the deadbolt on the door, though Marita doubted anyone in this place would disturb them anyway. The Palace sounded empty. Alex brushed past her and knelt in front of the fireplace. Using the poker, he scraped off ash that covered a few glowing embers. He grabbed a handful of papers indiscriminately from the floor and balled them up. He fed these into the fire, which caught quickly.

While he fussed with the small pile of sticks and logs on the hearth, Marita considered escaping from the room. There was nothing locking her in with him, but she decided against this. They were on the fringes of an endless steppe and the Siberian forest. Even if his men let her leave the house, there was no where to go but frozen wilderness. Besides, she couldn't leave Katya and the unborn baby, no matter how much the woman wanted to be left alone.

"I am American. But, I was born Russian. KGB."

The pieces began to make sense. "You're answer to the Consortium then. A KGB operative." He didn't answer her, just poked at the fire. Marita could feel no warmth on her side of the room.

"I do, but not to your superior. I work for Spender."

"That shit?" Marita asked harshly. Alex looked over his shoulder and smiled appreciatively at her, looking her over from her heavy boots to her ruffled head. Marita refused to recognize his appraisal. He stood up and strode across the room. She had to take a step back to avoid the collision he wanted to make with her body. He stared down at her, breathing a little heavily. Marita wanted to move away and button her coat the top of her neck. He grabbed her chin suddenly with his thumb and forefinger. His strength in just those digits was frightening. He shook her face hard with this pinch.

"You're boss and my boss don't like each other, which means that we can't like each other. But I can use you right now, and I can especially use the little whelp your Katya's about to spawn. So I offer you this, and know that this is more of an order than an offer because I won't let you refuse: stay with me here while I hand over the state when the Union officially dissolves. You'll live, but I get the baby. Clear?"

"What do I get?" Marita choked.

Alex grinned. "The pleasure of my company. And I did say you get to live, which has to be something." He paused for a moment before continuing, as if considering whether or not to reveal his next statement. "I invited you here after receiving intelligence that Katya was in danger. You're too young to protect her," he said, looking down at Marita's thin body. "The Project is too valuable to lose."

Marita swatted Alex's grip away with her hand, but she had the impression that he simply chose to let her loose. Her slap had been totally ineffectual.

"I'm twenty-one. I'm completely qualified. Besides, you can't be much older than me," she said. Alex watched her silently for a moment.

"It's surprising that they sent a woman to protect the project," he answered finally. He walked towards the bed with his hands in his pockets. Marita rubbed her chin.

"They thought a woman would be better at managing a pregnancy," she answered. Alex laughed derisively.

"Well, she'll be safe here. I have an army lodged behind the Palace," he said quietly in Russian. He flopped down onto the bed and rolled onto his back. He stared at the cracked plaster of the ceiling with one hand tucked behind his head. "Come here, Marita."

At first, she didn't move. But Marita understood that she was more or less his prisoner. She walked slowly to the edge of the bed until her thighs brushed the edge of the sheets. His arm shot out and grabbed her around the waist, giving her butt a firm squeeze and a sharp slap. Marita protested, clawing at his hand, but his muscles were hard and unmoving. He dragged her on top of him. She struggled to sit up, but his arms locked around her.

"Well, you don't get to stay here for free you know," he said in a low tone. He kissed her roughly though her lips were hard and snarling. She tried to claw at his face but his caught her wrists easily. He flipped her over so his weight pinned her down.

"Isn't the baby payment enough? You've given me no choice in that matter."

"You had lots of choice, Marita. You could have chosen to not come at all. But you thought this would be your best bet. In Krasnoyarsk, I'm Comrade Krycek, dictator for the week. You're in no position to make demands of me."

Marita struggled to get free. Her back arched to push him off, but he only took this as an opportunity to press his hard groin against her soft body. She tired quickly, completely out of breath. Alex looked unfazed and amused.

"What do you want?" she asked breathlessly.

"I'd think that was pretty obvious. I want you for the next seven nights. And when the baby is born, which should be any day now, I want that as well. And when the Union officially dissolves, I promise to get you back to the States."

The last resolve made her stop and think. The truth was, the Consortium had provided her no way to leave Russia. The baby would be an added difficulty. It occurred to her that perhaps the child was not meant to return to the United States with her. It was important, but not important enough to expose the Consortium. The thought of taking care of a stranger's baby in a strange land for an unspecified amount of time made her feel sick to her stomach. She didn't want the hateful job of policing Katya. The woman had already tried two self-abortions: once with a clothes hanger, and once by throwing herself down a flight of stairs.

Alex's final offer was tempting. All she wanted was to get out of this dead place and return to her comfortable apartment in New York. Her superiors seemed willing to let her rot where she stood.

"Deal," Marita said quietly and looked him straight in the eye as she uttered this simple agreement. Alex gave her a crooked smile and buried himself into her neck, kissing hungrily at the soft skin. But he left without undressing her. He stoked the fire and put on his coat, gloves and hat. He gripped the hard bulge in his pants, tried to press it down before he left the room.

Marita sighed in bed but didn't sit up. She felt the unbearable waves of sleep press on her eyes. Her place and Katya's secured at the Palace, she felt comfortable to let her exhaustion consume her. She decided to deal with the sex later. She would give him cold kisses, if that's what he wanted, but she doubted if he could really force her to do anything. He was intelligent and scheming, forceful and aggressive, but he didn't seem like a rapist. No, Alex Krycek would have to be happy with a kiss and conversation. She wouldn't relent on that. She wasn't a prostitute, though she was desperate enough to do almost anything to go home.

She didn't bother to remove her coat. The bed felt exquisitely soft. The sheets smelt only slightly stale. She sank her head into the goose-down pillow and let herself drift to sleep.

When Marita woke, she felt a flash of fear and disorientation that shook her. The room was dark except for the light from the dying fire and a small lantern on the floor. A man sat cross-legged on the thin rug, poring over a collection of papers. It took her a few seconds to remember that it was Alex. She was in the Palace: her prison for the final week of the Soviet Union.

Alex looked up when she startled awake. His face was passive. The steady glow of the kerosene lamp made him look older and more tired than he had appeared earlier. He observed her for a moment, and then returned back to his reading.

Marita didn't know what to do. She didn't want to sit in the bed of the man who had bartered her passage out of Russia for sex only hours earlier. But she didn't feel welcome to investigate his room, especially not while he stood sentry on the floor. As she sat, considering her next move, she noticed that the room felt warmer, that she felt softer.

Her coat was gone. Her heavy sweaters and trousers had disappeared off her body as well.

"Where are my clothes?" Marita asked in a high pitched, disbelieving voice. Alex didn't bother to look up, nor did he answer her. A smooth nightgown had replaced her traveling clothes. "What is this?"

"Those clothes were fine for traveling. It's not safe to look too feminine when law and order is going down the shit hole. But I prefer my whores to be a little softer when I fuck them," Alex answered blandly without looking up. He made a note in the margins of a page. Marita gathered the covers to her chest.

"I'm not your whore." This reply made Alex smile. He set down his work and leaned back on his elbows. He stretched out his long legs and crossed his bare feet. "I'm a special representative for the United Nations," Marita continued. "I'm not an idiot. I don't need to sell myself," she said, her voice rising ever so slightly. Alex looked entertained with his head half-cocked to one side as he watched her. Marita cleared her throat and tried to quell her trembling. The room was silent except for the gentle popping of the last piece of wood in the fire. Finally, Alex broke the tension.

"Except you did," he said. "I know you're smart, Marita. I've had you watched for sometime." Marita wanted to bury underneath the comforting pillows, but she knew rationally that this wouldn't escape him. Rather, it would affirm his control.

"Why were you spying on me?"

"I keep tabs on most people in the Consortium at a certain level. I have to know my competition."

"Competition for what?"

"To eventually replace our superiors. To continue the conspiracy."

"So you want to continue it just for the sake of conspiracy?" Marita asked. This made Alex frown. He pushed himself off the floor. He crossed the room to an antique bureau that must have been too heavy for looters to carry off during the revolution decades ago. He opened the top drawer, which became stuck, and pulled out a handful of photographs. He climbed into bed. Marita scooted away to the other side, but Alex rolled next to her. He passed her the pictures, then sank into the pillows.

They were pictures of her: helping Katya out of a taxi, carrying groceries in a brown paper bag, reading her mail at the steps of her office. There was even a picture taken through the window of her apartment. She was clad only in a towel, brushing her wet hair. Luckily, the curtain obscured most of her body.

"You had me followed," Marita said with no emotion in her voice. Though secretly, she felt violated and used. But to what purpose? The photos were very innocent looking.

"Yes I did. I needed to know what you were doing with Katya."

"Well these don't look very useful for that."

"No, I had one of my men go through your office for the more useful information. The amniocentesis results were really what I was looking for. Medical reports. That sort of thing," Alex mumbled into her back. He gently kissed her through the nightgown at the skin just below her shoulder blade. She shivered, partly from disgust, and partly from the unexpected pleasure of the caress that made her flush.

"Let him," she thought to herself. It meant nothing to her. "So why did you need these photographs," she asked aloud. She dropped the pile into her lap. Alex sat up and spread the photos across the covers.

"Have you ever been to a whore house?"

"I have not," Marita answered coldly.

"Then you wouldn't know they don't just display the girls for you. They give you a book with all the whore's photographs. You point at the one you want. I had the photos taken for intelligence purposes originally, but I ended up using them to choose the prostitute I needed."

"You're a sicko."

"No," he laughed almost inanely. "I'm just tired, and stressed. Ever tried to take over a state?"

"No," Marita said, though it had been a rhetorical question.

"Well, it's fucking hard work. I need a lay." As he spoke these words, his hands began to creep up her legs and under her nightgown. Marita struggled away and jumped out of bed. Alex followed her. He tore off his shirt. The room felt thick, like a sauna. But the floor was still cold against Marita's feet.

"I'll catch you, Marita," he said stubbornly.

She ran to the door, panicked. But it was locked. So he did have a key to keep her trapped.

"Don't come any closer," she said, her voice shaking. Alex's eyes were dark. The gaunt planes of his face looked sharper in the shadows. His defined chest and lean ribs heaved.

"Come here," he ordered. He rushed forward before she could dart away and caught her in his arms. He easily hoisted her onto one shoulder. Marita found herself tossed into bed and flipped onto her stomach. Her teeth chattered from the force of the throw.

He grabbed her nightgown and pushed it up her back, exposing her round ass.

"Oh Jesus," he whispered. He fingered her softly. Marita tried to climb away, but he shoved her head into the sheets. "Don't move, you bitch."

Marita had been wrong. She had miscalculated horribly. He was a cruel man. He would rape. He would do anything if it benefited himself.

"God, you have a nice, big ass," he said in a raspy voice. This mortified her further.

But as he held her head down on the bed, and alternated between stroking and slapping her clit, she couldn't help but become wet. She couldn't stop herself from grinding against his hand. And this made him moan and urge her on. He called her a dirty whore. And she discovered that not only was Alex Krycek a cruel man, but that she couldn't stop herself from enjoying the domination. It wasn't rational. But she came for the first time that night. Her few lovers from the past seemed pitiful in comparison. They collapsed together, shuddering. She cried into the pillows afterwards. He slept as if he had passed out.

She closed her eyes determined to never let him see both how badly he had hurt her pride, and how much she had enjoyed it. She had to learn how to control this twisted relationship.

The next morning, Marita accompanied Alex into the ceremonies room of the Palace. The towering windows lining the southern wall showed her the extent of his army. There were only about twenty tents, and five tanks.

"This is it?" she asked incredulously. Alex straightened his hat, before taking it off once again to rub at the tarnish on the gold pin of the sword and the shield emblem.

"Don't question me like that when they get here. It's essential they understand that I'm in control."

"Ok, it just seems like no one will be impressed when they see that army."

"They're all special-ops. KGB's best. I don't need a lot of people to get the job done. I just need to scare the population into letting me control them for a few days."

"Explain," Marita ordered. She smoothed the front of the dark red dress she was wearing. Alex had provided it for her that morning. "Belongs to one of the camp whores," Alex had explained when he threw it at her, though he didn't seem to mean it unkindly.

"Do you know what Stalin translates to?"

"No, what?"

"Man of steel. He could sustain control in Russia with little mind-fuck games like that."

"He also was a brutal dictator who had millions of his citizens killed or exiled for bogus ideological reasons," Marita said with venom. Alex down at his boots.

"I'm not trying to kill anyone. My family is from this region. But it's an important place for the Consortium. They need to make sure that Krasnoyarsk moves smoothly into the right hands," Alex answered, sounding nearly apologetic. Marita shrugged and turned towards the window. She traced stars and sickles and hammers in the frosted glass.

"Stop that," Alex ordered, and wiped it all away with the cuff of his jacket. He looked very crisp and imposing in his uniform. He leaned on the glass and spoke into her wincing face. "I need you to look good, ok? Don't say anything. Your Russian is terrible," he said under his breath.

"Then let me go and visit Katya. I'm not useful to you here."

Alex smiled and for a second Marita thought he looked like any college boy at home: sweet but mischievous.

"You really have no idea how a pretty woman effects a man. You'll distract them and you'll make me look better for having someone like you around to fuck," he said. Marita took it all back. He could look so sweet, and yet be so vile.

"Fine, then let me make sure Katya's ok."

"You mean, let you make sure the baby's ok."

The harsh statement couldn't be refuted, so Marita didn't respond. There was no smart-ass comeback for the sins of her job.

She looked around at the nearly empty room as Alex bent to rub at a scuff on his boot with his thumb. It must have been a dance hall. The planks of the wood floor were arranged in an intricate pattern of diamonds. Chairs lined the walls, though there were gaps in this lineup, so it looked like the room was missing teeth. The whispery lines of the wall paper and the arched windows dated the room to the turn of the century, pre-Bolshevik of course. But she noticed two large cabinets at the two far corners of the room. She walked across the floor, her heels tapped loudly. Before she could reach either object, Alex said:

"They're speaker cabinets."

"But there's no power," Marita said softly. She wrinkled her nose in confusion. The speakers were nearly as tall as she was. They looked completely out of place in the dance hall.

"They should be turning on the generators pretty soon," Alex answered. As if his words were the voice of God, the cheap, electric chandeliers hanging from the ceiling turned on. The speakers began to hum with the zing of high voltage.

"Our guests must be here," Alex muttered. He pulled his hat lower over his eyes and crossed the room past Marita. He fiddled with the controls of the speakers, then adjusted the needle of a record player Marita hadn't noticed before sitting on the floor next to one of the speakers. He flipped a switch which sent the record spinning slowly.

Heavy metal music, deathly and ghoulish blasted out the speakers at level just above a comfortable volume. Alex jogged back across the room to Marita. He straightened next to her and smoothed his uniform. He propped one fist against his hip and faced the door. He waited like an actor on stage before the curtain has risen.

Two Soviet soldiers, of high rank according to their medals and stripes, entered the room. They looked surprised and shaken. The wood floor vibrated from the music. Alex greeted the men smoothly in his fluent Russian. Marita just looked bored.

But secretly, the display fascinated her. The two Soviets were in their fifties. But both of them were nearly a head shorter than Alex. And the music noticeably rattled them. They seemed confused, as if they couldn't entirely understand Alex's harsh orders and demands. It helped that the light from the windows backlit him, so he must have appeared dark and menacing to the Soviets, yet surrounded by a golden halo. Marita even considered that she too was playing a part in the power game, just as Alex had predicted. One of the two men couldn't stop looking at her.

The effect was real. Alex was young, dangerous looking and sounding. He was also apparently virile and dominant, if the gratuitous female was an indicator. The elder soldiers deferred quickly, offered their help and their loyalty. Alex accepted graciously, but he also managed to imply that he didn't need it. That he was above them. Within twenty minutes, the meeting was over.

Alex joined Marita who was looking out the window at nothing in particular besides the lovely new sheen of the fresh snow. The power shut off and the room fell silent again. Marita was glad. The music was giving her a headache.

"That went well," Marita said quietly. Alex's reflection in the window examined her with surprise. He looked taken aback. "But he shouldn't," Marita thought to herself. "Why shouldn't his game have as great effect on me as it had on those two men."

Alex swallowed audibly and regained his poise, his deathly cool.

"You can go see Katya now." He stalked out the room, already stripping himself of the oppressive uniform. Although she didn't want to, she needed to see the hateful woman. For all Marita knew, Katya could have begun her labor already.

"There are doctor's available?" Marita called out after Alex.

He stopped at the door, unbuttoning his shirt. "Of course," he said as if it was the stupidest question in the world. He left. Marita went to explore the palace, to find the Project.

12