Chapter II: There's Something...Different About You
Surfacing.
Francis Mulcahy fought against it at first, as if reluctant to wake up and find himself a prisoner of war, but consciousness won out in the end. He quickly figured out that he was lying on a cot of some sort, but it was impossible to discern much else in the near-total darkness. Only one other fact was unassailable: while he was out cold, someone must have lanced each of his temples with an ice pick. The resulting headache was one of the worst he'd ever suffered.
Discomfort aside, his first concern was for Major Houlihan. He was well aware of the major's longstanding -- and reasonable -- fear of falling into enemy hands, and it had been painful to watch one of the strongest people he knew lose hope as their captors closed in. He recalled his heartfelt resolution, made then and there, to do whatever he could to protect her, no matter the risk to himself.
Of course, Mulcahy thought ruefully, getting clocked on the back of the head hadn't been a very good start. Reaching up to feel for the lump he knew must be there, he was surprised to discover more than he'd bargained for. There was a sore knot on his head, yes...but also hair. Shoulder-length hair. Far more than he'd left camp with, surely.
He sat up fast, trying to ignore the nauseating wave of dizziness that followed. Further exploration of the unfamiliar planes of his face did nothing to ease his disquiet, nor did a cursory pat-down of the rest of his body. Somehow, he was no longer quite himself.
A woman. He had woken up as a woman.
Holy Mary, Mother of God. There had to be some mistake. He was dreaming...or this was a concussion-inspired hallucination. But a smartly pinched arm had no effect on his perception of reality.
While Mulcahy was puzzling over this development, a noise from somewhere nearby breached the darkness, sending a chill of fright down his spine. It appeared that he was not alone in his nightmare.
"Hello?" he called, wincing at the sound of his altered voice. There was no reply. "Major?"
Recognizing that the time had come for more decisive action, Mulcahy swung his legs out of bed and stood up. He swayed slightly, unaccustomed to a female center of gravity, but managed to shuffle to the nearest wall and feel his way from there to a light switch.
It was a small, windowless room, sparsely furnished. A single door, two cots and a chair, an office desk stacked with folders and loose papers, and shelves of twisted and broken mechanical odds and ends, none of which resembled anything functional. As he had discovered on his journey toward the light switch, a great many of the papers and metallic objects had found their way to the floor, hinting at either sloppy housekeeping or recent shelling activity in the area.
The probable source of the noise, the occupant of the second cot, was curled up on his side, back facing outward. It was with understandable trepidation, given the state in which he had awakened, that Mulcahy circled around to the other side of the bed.
Like looking into a trick mirror, he found himself confronting his own reflection -- a reflection distressingly unresponsive to his control. Based on the scant facts available, he could only conclude that, although the body lying there appeared to be his own, this individual had to be Major Houlihan. Ipso facto, the feminine figure he was now presenting to the world must belong to the major.
He reached without thought for the silver crucifix that normally hung around his neck, but of course it wasn't there.
--o00o--
"Major? Margaret?"
A hushed, beckoning voice roused Houlihan, helping her shake free of the nightmares that had been tormenting her. The voice sounded so familiar.... Was she back at the 4077th? Had they been rescued?
Entertaining such optimistic thoughts, she was unprepared for the shock when her surroundings came into focus -- kneeling beside the bed, regarding her with an expression of concern, was a woman who could have been her identical twin, right down to the clothes on her back.
Nerves already stretched thin achieved snapping tension, and Houlihan flung herself out of bed, away from her doppelganger, only to lose her balance and sprawl headlong on the debris-littered floor. Her howl of pain and confusion was abruptly cut short -- that was not her voice!
The other woman was at her side in an instant, observing her for signs of injury while keeping a cautious distance. Half-dazed, Houlihan regained her feet and stood gawking in mute disbelief at her twin.
The woman returned her gaze for a moment and then bent over to pick something up off the floor. "You may want to sit down for this," advised the twin, shepherding Houlihan back to the cot.
She sat, suspicion warring with curiosity. This mystery woman, despite appearances, might be either friend or foe, and considering the nature of Houlihan's most recent memories, "friend" seemed unlikely. The fact that she had as yet made no threatening moves proved nothing.
The stranger crouched down in front of Houlihan and asked, not unkindly, "Who are you?"
"Major Margaret Houlihan, RA31619185." Though not her own, the voice in which she blurted out her name, rank, and serial number was maddeningly familiar. Soft and high-pitched, but not female. If she could just place it....
The woman nodded as if Houlihan had confirmed something she already knew. Then she held up the flat piece of scrap metal she had retrieved from the floor. "Now tell me, who am I?"
Despite her wariness, Houlihan felt compelled to look. To her dismay, the polished surface of the metal showed her a blurry but unmistakable reflection of her new persona, at the same time answering a great many questions.
When the makeshift mirror was lowered, she searched the face -- her own face -- looking up at her with such profound empathy. "F-father Mulcahy?"
"I'm afraid so," he said quietly. In her voice.
Though it was a relief to know that her companion was an ally and not an adversary, Houlihan couldn't remember ever feeling so helpless, even in the chaos of a fourteen-hour surgery session with casualties stacked up in the compound like firewood. Blood and guts and death she could at least understand, but this? "How...?"
"I have no idea how this could have happened. Or why."
For a time, they simply stared at each other. Like looking into a mirror, Houlihan thought, still trying to absorb the concept. It was strange to see her body mimicking someone else's gestures; she couldn't help but notice when Mulcahy's hand strayed to where the crucifix would have rested on his chest. In unspoken compassion, she pulled the silver chain up over her head and held it out to him.
He put it on with a shy, grateful smile. "Thank you, Major." After a pause, he continued, "If I may ask, are all of your headaches this bad?"
Damn. The transformation they had undergone was so absolute that Mulcahy even had to bear the brunt of the migraine that was rightfully hers. What the hell kind of technology could do something like this, anyway? "The bad ones are rare, Father. There should be some aspirin in my right pants pocket, and I'd take four of 'em if I were you."
"Bless you," he sighed. "Four it shall be."
While he dug out the aspirin and did his best to choke them down without water, Houlihan tried to pull herself together by focusing on something straightforward -- reconnaissance. The door, helpfully left unlocked, opened to reveal that the room in which they had awoken was a freestanding shed, one of almost a dozen buildings of various sizes and configurations that ringed a dusty central courtyard. She walked the perimeter of the compound, looking cautiously into windows, but there was no sign of guards, enemy soldiers, or vehicles. Strange...what could have caused them to bug out in such a hurry that they left their prisoners behind?
The creepy atmosphere of the place was only enhanced by what Houlihan found in the last and largest building, adjacent to the shed. Through the window she could see rows of wire cages, dozens of them, stacked floor to ceiling as in an animal research lab. A knot of disgust formed in her gut when she realized that that was exactly what it was -- and that she and Mulcahy must be the latest in a series of experimental subjects. As to the purpose of the research, she couldn't guess. What strategic advantage could be gained by figuring out how to mix and match people's bodies? Unless it was meant to be a form of psychological warfare: its practical application had certainly thrown her for a loop.
Houlihan considered going inside to poke around but decided against it. She got enough exposure to free-range rodents at the 4077th; without a damn good reason, she didn't care to inspect a bunch of lab rats up close, caged or not.
Recon tour complete, she turned to walk back to the shed just in time to see Mulcahy come barreling out of it, an armload of papers clutched to his chest. As he shot past her, heading for the brush at the edge of the compound, he shouted, "Run, Major! Get clear!"
Though she knew intellectually that it was Mulcahy, the sight of "herself" in such a panic stopped her in her tracks for a split second, but she recovered quickly and took off after him. There could be no doubt that it was a matter of life and death -- she'd never seen him more terrified.
They made it only fifty yards beyond the camp before a concussive blast knocked them both off their feet. Houlihan started to crawl toward the chaplain, every instinct impelling her to shield him, but when fallout began to rain down, she was forced to stop and protect herself first, body tucked into a ball, hands locked behind her uncovered head.
Just as the fallout began to taper off, a second, more powerful explosion shook the ground beneath them. For endless seconds they were pelted with shards of rubble and smoking debris. It wasn't pleasant, but Houlihan found it infinitely preferable to being part of the smoking debris. Under her breath she thanked her lucky stars that Mulcahy had discovered whatever he'd discovered in the nick of time, though he would no doubt attribute it to something more profound than luck.
At last all was quiet, and nothing further fell from above, so Houlihan decided it was safe to sit up and check for injuries. She found nothing more serious than minor bruises and scrapes, though there was a brief moment of concern before she figured out that her vision was blurry only because Mulcahy's glasses had fallen off her face. They were lying on the ground nearby, the lenses filthy but thankfully intact.
Mulcahy himself was sitting up by that time, reassembling his collection of salvaged papers. "You all right, Father?" she asked.
"Yes, I think so. And you?"
"I'll be fine."
Mulcahy nodded and, crossing himself, bowed his head for a moment. Then he got to his feet, rolled the sheaf of documents into a tube, and, presumably convinced they would turn out to be relevant, stuffed them down the back of his pants under his untucked shirt.
There was an interval of silence while Houlihan stood up and dusted herself off.
When Mulcahy finally spoke, he was unable to hide the tremor in his voice. "I-it was underneath the desk. The bomb. I must have tripped a wire when I went looking through the drawers. I should have waited for you...should've realized there might be booby traps. Dear Lord, I almost got us both killed...."
"Don't you dare blame yourself," she countered. "I would've looked in the drawers, too. And even if neither one of us looked, you can bet those bastards tried to fix it so we'd end up dead one way or another." On the short walk back to the compound he listened intently as she described the animal lab and speculated as to why the departing Reds would want to ensure that no evidence of their research ever fell into enemy hands.
Their first glimpse of the blast damage was sobering. Many of the outlying buildings still stood, but the shed, at ground zero, had been obliterated and the former lab building was now a shallow crater.
"Perhaps we shouldn't stay," Mulcahy ventured. "That may not be the only surprise they arranged for us."
She shook her head. "I think that one was meant to do the whole job. It would have, too, if you hadn't saved our necks."
"I can't take the credit, Major." A half-smile as he cast a glance upward. "Someone must have been watching over us."
She chuckled, letting go of some of the accumulated tension. Hell, maybe he was right, considering the zero percent chance they would have had of surviving the carnage standing anywhere near that shed.
As they pondered their next course of action, Houlihan became aware of a low rumble in the distance, getting louder by the second. It sounded like a convoy of vehicles approaching...maybe military trucks?
But there was no way to know who was driving those trucks, and she didn't intend to get caught flat-footed again if she could help it. Motioning for the chaplain to follow, she hustled to get behind the building farthest away from the main entrance to the compound. From that vantage point, they would have the best chance to identify whoever was coming before being seen themselves.
They stood watch in apprehensive silence, each peering around a corner of the building. Houlihan had to remind herself to breathe at regular intervals. Which would it be, captors or rescuers? To steady her nerves, she recalled what Mulcahy had said to her beside the Jeep -- at this point, it was all up to God.