Will this chapter make you more or less confused..? I wonder. If less, all will become clear later, I promise.

Chapter 14. Who am I?

The floor of the lab was cool to the touch, and the slight bubble-like texture of its surface, soft and grainy rather than smooth, reminded her somewhat of expensive linoleum. It was an off-white, perhaps ivory was the best word for it. And cushiony. Why this was she didn't know, but it absorbed every footstep placed on it and muffled even the heaviest pounding of those boots.

Whose boots? Oh yeah, that's right. The guards'. It didn't wear boots. In fact for all she knew it might not even have feet.

Maybe that's what the tile was for. If it didn't have footwear, and if the ends of its legs weren't made for hard surfaces... it would make sense. They couldn't have it too soft or else the machines wouldn't be level, and the trolleys wouldn't be able to be wheeled around on it.

Whatever the reason, her naked soles appreciated it.

She didn't even remember taking her own shoes off. There was a gap, somewhere between the code being punched into the last door and getting off the table.

Normally the last thing in her memory was the pale-face looking down at her as it attached the goggles to her eyes. And then that strange feeling. It kind of hurt. A pressure, a sting, a jolt of electricity perhaps. As she couldn't see what was going on she couldn't really be sure, but that's what it felt like.

She should have been in her bed now, waking up, her eyes watering in the afternoon light, her ears buzzing as they adjusted to the silence. Or not. Sometimes he would be talking, but lately even that had become a rarity. The most she might get was a grunt of recognition. Not that she begrudged him his silence. He was in so much pain nearly all the time now he could barely speak. No, she was getting used to the quiet. Six months ago she might have welcomed it, but now the emptiness only added to her unease.

Why am I still here... shouldn't I be sleeping?

Maybe she was sleeping, she thought. This must be a dream. One of those dreams. The important ones. She had to pay attention, but she couldn't help the distraction coming from her lower extremities. That flooring really did feel marvellous to her skin. She almost wanted to lay down on it and let it caress her entire body. It wouldn't bother her to abandon her clothing – she wasn't wearing much anyway.

Another thing she couldn't remember doing. They didn't normally strip her for these procedures. But here she was, in nothing but a gown, and with the slight air current causing her body hair to tingle, she was sure it wasn't even done up on the back.

Oh great... let's hope this guy ain't a perv.

She knew the guards wouldn't be interested in her, but this mute creature playing with his instruments whilst she stood there with her butt hanging out... who knew? And she was only assuming he was a he.

It. That was a better word. It was coming towards her, and for some reason her legs refused to move her. Her mind said run, her body said why bother?

Her mind argued that it might have other plans for her. Her body said yes, isn't that what you want? You want to know, right?

Oh crap. You're right. I'm right. Wait... am I talking to myself?

Charley stood there whilst this discussion played out in her mind. Meanwhile her body was being stripped again, and her arms were being lifted. There were several sharp scratches, and they managed to break through the rant her mind was having, jolting it once more back to reality.

Ouch. What the h-?

The alien must have used some kind of drug on her, some sort of sedative... paralytic... or something else. She could feel what was being done, but she had no free will over what her body was doing. It did. It was moving her around, raising her arms, lowering them again, lifting her left foot, then her right, then her chin. Opening and shutting her eyes for her (it must have known that blinking was important), then her mouth, then her eyes again. And all the while there was this sensation of sharp objects poking her. It was a mystery what it was doing. She half expected to look vaguely like a Christmas tree, adorned with wires and lights. But her sensitive skin said otherwise. Whatever it was doing, there was no external evidence whatsoever.

After that she was being re-dressed. But not with her own clothes. Not with the gown either. Not with Plutarkian dress robes, nor even vaguely civilian style attire. No. This uniform was distinctly military.

She only knew this because she caught sight of her reflection for a moment as they exited the lab. The set of sliding glass doors separating this part from the de-con chamber acted as a perfect mirror.

Now where are we going? Back to my cell... or to that other place?

Neither. Once out the lab the guards led her down another narrow corridor – not the one she had come in by. The alien stayed behind. Its domain was the lab, and only the lab, it seemed. This corridor didn't go on forever like the one leading in appeared to, but terminated in another chamber. There were several more doors, and several more anti-chambers. There was little of note in the first few, but the last two really did make an impression.

The first of these, and the larger, had a large control panel and several view screens. The lights blinking on the panel showed that it was active, but the monitors on the wall were blank.

There was another Plutarkian in the room, and he was sat at the desk in front of the panel, pressing buttons and tweaking levers. He said something to the guards, but she didn't understand it.

Probably spoke in their native tongue. I don't know why they use English at all.

She was briefly reminded of sci-fi TV shows back on Earth. No matter where humans travelled, everyone always seemed to speak English. With an American accent too. It had always amused her, until she realised a lot of alien life did converse in her own language.

The mice had explained that Earth fascinated other sentient beings, mainly because the variety of inventions and technological innovations there were so astounding, and so very interesting. And yet space travel was the one thing humans really hadn't gotten to grips with yet. Other species indulged themselves in monitoring human communications, but tended to largely keep away because they weren't yet seen as any kind of threat.

If the satellite broadcasters knew their shows were being watched in space, they would probably be demanding the revenue.

The aliens also quickly realised that English seemed to the language of multinational relations on the planet, and decided that, for future use, it might be a good idea to indulge in that too.

I guess first contact is going to be easier than even Hollywood imagines. Except they don't know it's already happened.

Lost in her musings the woman hadn't noticed she wasn't in the control room anymore, but had been led into the final chamber. In here there was only one thing, but it dominated the tiny room in the same kind of manner a Martian mouse did in her garage bathroom. Except the thing in front of her was more like her shower cubicle, and she was the one stepping into it.

I hope this isn't some kind of wash room. These clothes actually feel quite clean. Better than my own.

Being stuck inside the same clothes for months on end made her appreciate the luxuries of her home life all the more. She often wondered if the Plutarkians wanted her to smell as bad as they did, because if they did then they were onto a winner. Even Limburger suggested she give herself a more thorough wash from time to time.

Might be easier if they gave me more than just a pathetic lump of rock for soap.

There we go again, she thought. She was meant to be concentrating, and yet her mind was going off on a tangent. This thing clearly wasn't a bathing facility. But she was being put inside it, and the door was sliding shut behind her. They left her facing away, inside, so she shouldn't see what was happening, but it was a given the door was made of Plutarkian glass. Even if she could move she wasn't getting out.

Then there came a strange feeling again. A bit like the one on the table. The pressure, the sting. The electric current coursing through her. Only this time her eyes were open, and they detected a whole series of changes around her, so much so she actually felt kind of sick. Like being on an out-of-control merry-go-round. Lights flashing and whirling. A spinning of the world around her.

Whilst wishing dearly she could close her eyes, fearing losing the food she had struggled in vain to keep down her gullet, the sensation went on and on relentlessly until finally everything went black.

Thank goodness for that. What next..?

What next indeed. The next thing she was aware of was standing in a sort of storeroom, one she had seen dozens and dozens of times before but never really been able to focus on. This time was different, the image of the place was very clear. In fact, she couldn't just see more clearly, she could think more clearly. Or at least a part of her could. There was another part, a bigger one, and she had no control over what it was doing at all.

It had control over her.

It was making her pick up something from a rack on the wall. A weapon. Several weapons. Knife-like objects slipping into the sheath on her thigh and the belt around her waist. A large rifle slung over her back. Several laser pistols tucking into her holsters.

Then she was turning to something that looked oddly like a human's bedroom dresser. She was picking up a small object, a badge of sorts, and pinning it to her lapel.

Her feet were moving again, this time out of the room. There was another long corridor, but it was empty, and at the end there was a door. She was punching a code into it, but she had no idea how she knew what numbers to press. Whatever was controlling her did though. The door slid back, and there it was. The room she had seen in her dreams. The war room, she called it.

Her presence had a marked effect on the other occupants. Several gave an peculiar sort of salute. Others a nod. The odd one snorted in contempt and turned their back on her.

Clearly they had mixed feelings about her.

Maybe they're wondering what a simple earthling could have to offer. But then if I am the one in command...somehow... and ordering places to be blown up. Maybe they don't like the decisions I am making.

Their voices, for the first time ever, were not distorted. There was a lot of chatter, though most of it still made no sense to her. All military style vocab. Technical terms. Jargon. Stuff that the mice sometimes came out with when they were deciding on tactics. Stuff that she never had any real interest in.

It was a good job that whatever, or whoever, was controlling her body did have an interest, or at least knowledge. Words were coming out of her mouth she never imagined, not in a million years, that she would be saying.

She was asking for reports. She was demanding to know more. She was reprimanding someone for doing a poor job. Praising someone else for a gem of valuable intel.

Then a light flashed, and someone's voice came on the radio.

"We're in range, but we don't have much time. What's the call, general?"

She was saying something, more jargon, more orders. But for a moment she lost concentration, her thoughts elsewhere.

General? I'm a general now?

When she focused again the radio was filled with static, interspersed with panicked shouts that filtered through to her and the others she was among. Everyone in the room was tense. Several were trying to get through to whoever was at the other end. They were in trouble. They were being attacked; whoever they were in range of must have spotted them first.

Someone else was speaking to her.

"That's the sixth time this week. How the hell do they know?" The source of the voice, a Martian... a rat of all things, was pulling her to one side. He lowered his voice. "I think we've got a leak, Sir."

"How many does that make it now...?" This was her speaking, but it didn't sound like it.

"This one makes it... nearly seventeen now. And they're being clever about it too. Not every mission. Just enough to really hurt us. We need to take action on this..."

The rat looked worried. She could tell from his expression, from the slight mournful look in his eyes, that he had lost people he cared for in these attacks.

"I know, Frost, I know. But who do we trust?"

"Let me do some digging. I will find us a few who wouldn't even let disloyalty cross their minds. When we have them on board, we can find the mole."

A mole... they have a leak in their unit. I wonder...

Another communicae was coming through. It was from the same person who had been on the radio earlier. Apparently only a handful made it out of the attack alive. Their ship was destroyed. They were requesting assistance, an evac. They were pleading. They knew it wasn't going to happen.

"Sir. We need a decision. We have delta team on standby... do we send them in?"

For the first time Charley could feel something more than just external stimuli. She could sense something inside too. It was... guilt? Sorrow? Whatever it was it wasn't nice, and she had a fair idea why. She was going to deny the request. And worse.

"No. We can't risk it. You know the protocol, and so do they."

The alien at the comms desk was back on the radio. He was vaguely humanoid, but his ears sat on top of his head. Like a chimp with cat ears. And purple fur. But the same kind of face as an ape. Expressive. He wasn't happy with the order.

"Operation protocol seventy-seven, commander." The rest was in another language, as was the reply. But the tone of voice told her everything she needed to know. It was a resignation to his fate. It was a goodbye. It was a 'tell my family and friends' his final message. After that the line went dead. Delta team had made sure there would be no prisoners, and nothing to trace them back to here. Wherever here was.

Charley's body was in turmoil. It had turned on its heels the moment the line went dead, and walked briskly back out of the room, down the corridor and into the store-room/closet/dressing room or whatever the hell it was. She didn't care much. She could feel her mouth tightening, her eyes squinting. She could feel her cheeks twitch, her stomach churn, the warm wetness on her face.

She could feel herself sitting on the little stool in front of the dresser. She could feel herself hugging her body as the emotion took over. She could feel her tail winding tighter and tighter around her legs, embracing her so hard it was if she thought she really would fall to pieces right there.

Wait a minute... my tail?

Her face was buried in her hands, her elbows resting on the dresser. There was something strange about what her palms were feeling. And it wasn't just the tears streaming down beneath them.

Dammit, take your hands away and let me get a look at you.

Maybe the other part of her heard the hidden voice. After a few minutes of her ranting at herself, trying to order herself to pull herself together for a second, wipe her eyes and take a look in that mirror she was sat in front of...

She was staring back at her reflection. Only it wasn't her reflection at all. It wasn't even human.

She was looking into the emerald green eyes of a Martian mouse.

The eyes look like mine... but she looks like...

The resemblance was uncanny, but she knew it couldn't be her... surely? She had the same rank. General. And the voice... well it could be distortion but it did sound similar.

Oh my god.

The questions were erupting in her buried subconscious like a badly-made disaster movie. Now she had absolutely no idea what was going on. What had seemed so clear cut in her earlier visions was now more foggy than her head had once been.

There's no way she would ever work for the Plutarkians. Heck, I don't honestly think any Martian mouse would.

But then why were there fish on this base at all? Could one of them be the leak? It didn't settle well with her at all.

The alternative was even more distasteful.

What the hell am I doing here? Why am I in her?

At first she had concluded she was merely a vessel of knowledge, providing intel to the fish-like aliens so that they could make progress against the resistance. And there was a lot of resistance. They had pissed a lot of people off in their quest for resources.

But now... now she had doubts. Seeing as it wasn't even her calling the shots. Or was it?

Maybe this is like what Karbunkle did to Vinnie. Create a robot, let my mind control it, only my mind isn't free. They are controlling me, and I am controlling her. It. Whatever... whoever.

If that was the case then there was only one very awful conclusion to be made from this.

I'm the leak.

And with that in mind it also meant something else. She was responsible for the seventeen sabotaged missions, and thus also for all the lives that had subsequently been lost. Including that distraught-sounding commander on the radio.

But then why do I feel so sad? I should be happy if I have just scuppered another one of their missions... shouldn't I?

But the feeling of desolation and remorse was fading. Even the image in the mirror was slowly vanishing. The last thing she saw before it went completely was a single tear beading in her startling green eyes, and it running down her grey-brown snout and over the tip of her little black nose.

"Urgh... someone turn off the lights. Its almost blinding in here."

Silence.

Charley opened her eyes and found herself on her bunk. It must have been that time again, in the afternoon, when the planet's giant star cast its light directly through her bars, the dirty atmosphere filtering out most of the spectrum and leaving only this orange hue. At least it carried some warmth, though for how much longer was anyone's guess. The planet was rapidly chilling since the Tug Transformer crashed into it; the rocky crust thrown up into the air with the force of the impact was blocking out much of the radiation from the sun.

But the woman had long since put that terrible image behind her. She was stuck on the dying planet, and there was little she could do to change what had happened to it.

For a moment she lay there whilst the headache took over. It was dreadful, and she desperately wanted a curtain for the window, and a bowl beside her. It was a huge effort to drag herself to the toilet every time she wanted to puke.

Eventually the nausea passed. She lay there in the silence. It had been a while now. It was obvious she was awake... why wasn't he speaking?

Maybe he is asleep. I won't wake him. He needs the rest.

But then she remembered why she wanted to speak to him. It was important. Very important. It could mean life or death... or salvation.

"LIMBURGER!"

She yelled so loud even the guard at her door jumped. Charley threw herself off her cot, staggered around for moment whilst she got her balance, and stumbled over to the cell next door.

For the last week there had been a door allowing her access to the neighbouring cell. They had installed it so she could go in to tend to the fish's needs. She had spent hours inside there, no longer just holding his hands when the agonising spasms came to him.

She had become his nursemaid.

He had gotten too big for the bunk, and so the guards had moved his filthy mattress onto the floor and lain him on it. And there he had stayed, unable to lift himself from it with the size of his enormous belly.

She had had to feed him, wash him (she insisted on that, he smelt so bad she couldn't bear to be that close for so long without doing something about it) and feed him some more. The mountain of food he had to get through was unbelievable. He had to graze all day long, picking at the plates of foul bug-like fare, unable to eat more than a few mouthfuls at a time. The pressure on his innards was tremendous.

And he was in so much pain. In between mouthfuls he would cry out, but she had to keep going. He had to eat or he would die. He wanted to die, too, but he knew they wouldn't let him. If he didn't eat willingly, he said, they would push a tube straight into his gut and put the food in directly... and wouldn't be so careful as they were about portion sizes.

The absence of his heavy breathing or his soft, pitiful moans made her positively panic.

Is he dead? Why isn't he answering?

The little doorway was locked. She was pulling on it, frantic, trying to get through to the cell to tend to the bed-ridden fish who needed her. He was so helpless he may as well have been a baby. A giant baby... who needed a diaper change.

"Limburger? Limburger wake up! It's me! I'm back... Uh..." She paused. She needed to get across the urgency of her message without alerting the guard. "I got something to tell you, about poker... I dreamt about poker again..."

Normally she should have had a grunt by now, but still there was nothing. She couldn't see his mattress from the little door – it was near the front of the cell, and the wall to her left blocked him from view. She went back around to the bars by his bunk to see him.

Only he wasn't there. Her eyes wandered around his cell for a moment, trying to confirm his absence. Above his mattress where he had lain were several scratches in the wall. The number of lines, and the large, crimson stain on the filthy bedding told her exactly why she couldn't find him.

The eggs had hatched. They had taken him away to give birth.