Title: Sam Lloyd (3/?)
Author:  Drovar
Email address: drovar@ix.netcom.com 
Rating: PG
Date: 5/6/99
Website/archive: The Ferret Cage
URL: http://www.geocities.com/area51/hollow/3190/ferret2.htm
Summary: Chapter three. Sam and Jeff make some unlikely allies. 


Melvin Frohike cinched his robe tight as he stumbled past 
Langly's bed and staggered sleepily across the cluttered main 
room. The buzzer shrieked again. He checked his watch as he 
approached the door, 2:30am.

"This better be good Mulder," Frohike muttered as he stepped up 
to the door and peered through the peephole.

He heard the low rustle of sheets as Langly untangled himself 
from his bed. "Who is it? Langly asked, his voice still slurred 
and thick with sleep.

Frohike turned on the lights and squinted at the sudden 
brightness. He hesitated, and looked at Langly, weighing his 
options. He turned back to the peephole, checking again just to 
be sure he wasn't imagining things. Nope, it was him all right.

"It's Spender," Frohike said finally.

"Spender?" Langly paused, "Rat-droid?"

"Uh-huh, and he looks peeved." Frohike said looking back 
through the peephole. 

"He always looks peeved," Frohike heard Byers say from the back 
of the room.

The buzzer rang again.

"Better see what he wants before he breaks something," Langly 
said. "Rat-droids never give up, it's not in their 
programming."

Frohike, smiled grimly, nodded, unlatched and opened the door. 
This had better be good, real good. 

*	*	*
Jeffrey Spender glanced back to where Sam was standing deep in 
the shadows, remaining hidden for now. He was their ticket to 
gaining the Gunmen's assistance. It wouldn't do to give the 
surprise away before the game had even begun.

He turned back to the door and reached for buzzer again. The 
Gunmen were here; he knew their patterns, what they did, who 
they knew, where they went and why, it was part of his job, his 
real job. It was one of the smoking bastard's many tasks.

Spender stepped back as he heard the various deadbolts, 
latches, and locks snapping open. He mentally counted off each 
latch, matching the sound to his memory. Top deadbolt, slide 
bolt, chain, fortified bar with floor brace, and the two 
ordinary key locks.

He heard Sam step further into the shadows as the door opened 
to reveal a disheveled Melvin Frohike. An even more 
disreputable looking Ringo Langly stood in the center of the 
room, staring sleepily, a look of feral disgust on his face. 
Both men on edge, tense. Spender couldn't say he blamed them. 
He'd spent the last nine hours resisting the urge to run 
screaming into the darkness himself.

"What do you want Spender?" Frohike demanded. He was clutching 
the edge of the door, holding it between them almost like a 
shield. Spender heard Langly mutter 'rat-droid' under his 
breath and winced. He deserved that he supposed. They were 
Mulder's friends, had been for years, and he and Mulder . . . 
they were something else, closer than friends, more distant 
than enemies.

"We need to talk," Spender said. He stepped forward; Frohike 
nearly hopped back an equal step. "It's important," he added, 
"We don't have time for paranoid games."

 "And why should we trust you?" Frohike demanded. "How the hell 
did you find us anyway?"

"Find you?" Spender asked as he stepped fully into the room, 
"I've never lost track of you."

Spender closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. He 
had a sudden and powerful sense of duality; he'd seen Sam 
posture in exactly the same way no more than an hour ago. 
Common gestures, common reactions, what the hell were they? 
Spender pushed aside his doubts and focused on why they were 
here. It would take a lot to gain the Lone Gunmen's trust, and 
that was something he and Sam needed very badly right now.

"The current issue of 'The Lone Gunmen' is two days past-due. 
Your subscription list is down 10% from last year." Spender 
said. He paused for a moment to let the realization sink in and 
then continued. 

"Byers' Volvo has an engine-tick he can't seem to find, Langly 
is still having nightmares over his 'Mandroid' theory probably 
turning up bogus, and Frohike here can't make a decent blintz 
to save his life, at least according his fellow gunmen." 

Three blank stares answered back.

Frohike seemed to be the first to break out of his shock. 

"I thought you guys liked my blintzes," he said. His eyes were 
wide as he tried to look back at the other gunmen and still 
keep an eye on Spender. The others were speechless, even the 
usually acerbic Langly had no comment. Byers had actually gone 
pale. He seemed to realize the implications before the others.

Spender grinned slightly, stifling a broader smirk. He had no 
doubt that he was about to burn some very large and dangerous 
bridges. He wasn't the only one who monitored the gunmen, there 
would be some very interesting reports being made to a certain 
smoker very shortly.

Closing his eyes Spender pointed across the room to where he 
knew a small vent sat high in the wall. He knew this room 
better than the gunmen themselves did. 

"Check the vent," he said. "You'll find a fiber optic link that 
runs to a data collection point hidden beneath the street." 
Spender looked up; the gunmen remained unmoving. "Or you can 
check the crack in the floor beneath Langly's bed for an audio 
transmitter."

Langly finally moved. He cast a long sour look at Spender as he 
approached the bed. His expression was classic Langly, halfway 
between a smirk and a snarl. The man was badly spooked, they 
all were. Langly pushed the bed aside with a half-muttered 
grunt, revealing a large crack in the floor. He ran his fingers 
through the crack, stopping at its widest point. He grimaced, 
turned his hand, and forced his fingers further in, finally 
pulling out a small electronic device, festooned with wire.

"Jesus," Langly said staring at the bug, he flushed red "they 
heard everything?" By that time Byers had removed the vent and 
was pulling out a long line of fiber-optic cable. He pulled 
hard, Spender heard the small snap of the line breaking, and 
wondered if the old man had seen Byer's bearded mug looming 
over the input before the sensor went dark.

Ten minutes of foraging at Spender's direction turned up a 
half-dozen assorted devices. Frohike quickly disassembled each 
one looking for identifying technology. He held up his hand 
when Frohike finally started to ask questions.

Spender pulled a small device from his pocket, about the size 
and shape of a pager. He flipped a small switch and began 
walking around the room. Three times the device beeped and each 
time Spender retrieved yet another bug from some hidden 
location. Finally satisfied he shut the device off and dropped 
it back into his pocket.

"We're clear," he said finally.

"So exactly what in the Sam hell is going on?" Frohike 
demanded.

"I don't recognize this tech," Langly interrupted before 
Spender had a chance to answer. He had one of the devices 
Spender had retrieved in his hands, turning it this way and 
that, as if a new view would divine its secrets.

"It's not syndicate, though it's about the same level." Langly 
spun the bug in his hands again, worrying at it with a 
jeweler's screwdriver, poking and prodding at the device, 
eagerly.

"They're from the Praetorian Guard." Spender said flatly. He 
stepped up to the still partially opened door and motioned for 
Sam.

Byers looked at him quizzically, his attention on Spender 
rather than the hardware. "What do you know about the 
Praetorians?"

"A bit," Spender said as he turned back to face the men sitting 
at the table. "However, I'd like you to meet someone who knows 
a good deal more."

Spender turned slightly and watched as Sam entered the room, 
closed the door, and took up a place beside him. The effect on 
the gunmen was instant and electric.

"Holy Jumping Jesus," Frohike said as the bug he was examining 
slipped through his fingers and clattered to the table.

"There's two of him?" Langly exclaimed. "Like one rat-droid 
isn't enough to go around?" 

Byers remained silent, pipe clenched in his teeth, his eyes 
darting from one lookalike to the other. He stepped closer, 
removed his pipe and stared intently first at one man then the 
other.

"You're not twins," Byers said as he stepped close bringing his 
face near Spender's, looking him over with a vaguely predacious 
look. Spender could smell the sour odor of sleep on his breath 
beneath the stronger taint of expensive tobacco and cheap 
scotch.

"You're not clones." He stepped around Spender and stood 
between the two men, looking closely, his hands worrying 
unconsciously at his pipe. "Your physical features are too 
similar."

"We aren't similar," Spender said. He stepped around Byers and 
stood next to Sam, bringing their faces side by side. "We're 
the same. . . "

". . . exactly the same," Lloyd said, finishing the thought. 
Spender looked at him only vaguely surprised. Their eyes locked 
for an instant. Something seemed to pass between them in that 
moment. Something unseen but very real and important. For just 
an instant Spender felt a connection to Lloyd, a connection 
that grew deeper and more expansive. For that instant, as deep 
chocolate eyes stared into each other across a gulf of inches, 
they seemed to be intertwined at an ethereal level. And then as 
suddenly and as quickly as it appeared the feeling was gone.

Spender could see Byers, at the edge of his vision, watching 
the exchange intently. The man might not be the extreme tech-
head the others were, but he was observant and insightful. He 
was one of the few people in this whole consortium nightmare 
with his head on his shoulders rather then up his ass.

Langly's strident voice broke above the general electronic 
miasma. 

"Hickie you're cracked," Langly said, his voice near shouting. 
Lloyd looked over at Spender, raising one eyebrow in question. 
Spender grinned and shrugged slightly. He'd seen this scene a 
hundred times. Its outlines were as fixed and certain as a 
mediaeval morality play. He could practically choreograph it. 
Lloyd seemed to accept his silent message and turned back to 
the rising fray.

"Well it's better than your theory," Frohike yelled. His 
smaller voice even louder than Langly's, edging towards shrill.

"A wrinkle in space time spitting out exact duplicates of 
people?" Langly yelled back. "That's not a theory, that's not 
even good Twilight Zone."

"Look mandroid-boy . . ."

On Que. Byers the peacekeeper, the clear thinker, stepped 
forward.

"Look this isn't important," Byers said sweeping the table 
between the two men clear of tools and electronics. He placed 
both hands on the table and stared down one man then the other. 
"What matters gentlemen is that we have a unique situation."  
Byers paused and turn to look over his shoulder at Spender and 
Lloyd. "There are two of you here, how many more might there be 
out there?"

Spender looked at Lloyd; his face was a familiar mask of 
stoicism and inscurtiblness.

"That's what we're here to find out."

*	*	*

John Byers sniffed the milk carton doubtfully, decided not to 
check the date, and dumped the contents into his coffee with a 
resigned sigh. The sun was just about to hoist itself up over 
the horizon, long thin fingers of growing daylight were already 
grasping upwards at the morning sky. It was going to be a 
bright, cool crisp day. . . . Byers hated that.

Frohike was standing in the wide archway that separated the 
kitchen from the main room. He turned as Byers approached. 
Frohike looked haggard and worn. It had been a long night of 
strategizing, brain storming and just plain tech-yak for all of 
them.

They stood together in the archway in silent companionship; the 
long easy bonds of comrades at arm sufficing in a place and 
time where words would be an intrusion. Langly was asleep 
slumped over, asleep at the Linux terminal. Spender & Lloyd 
(Byers wondered at himself for a moment. He was already 
thinking of them as a unit) were asleep on he couch, rolled up 
at opposite ends in identical positions.

"What do you think John?" Frohike finally asked, his voice 
sounded oddly distracted. "What do you really think?"

"It's the end," Byers said. He drained his coffee cup. Or maybe 
the beginning.

"How's that?" Frohike asked.

Byers stood silently for a moment staring down into his cup. He 
looked back up at the two identical men asleep on the couch. 
"Watch this," 

Byers stepped around the couch, moving carefully to avoid 
disturbing either man. He stopped just behind Lloyd and tilted 
his cup over the man's face.  A thin drip of coffee dribbled 
out and splashed onto the sleeping man's face just above his 
lip.

Lloyd twitched and brought his hand up to his face swatting 
sleepily at some annoying presence that had entered his dream. 
Byers and Frohike watched fascinated as Spender mirrored Lloyd 
movements exactly. The two men moved in exact synchronization. 
Frohike let out a low slow whistle.

He was about to speak when the printer at Langly's station came 
to life. Langly slowly staggered to life as well and gathered 
the printouts. Spender and Lloyd stirred to wakefulness as 
Langly threw himself on the couch between them. Byers watched 
as the connection between Spender and Lloyd dissolved as each 
man came awake and normal conscious barriers fell back into 
place.

"What have you got?" Spender asked sleepily.

Langly looked at him, then at Frohike and then Byers, doubt 
lingering visibly on his face. Frohike then Byers nodded their 
ascent.

"It's a list of matching prints from the FBI database." Langly 
said. Byers could hear an unexpected undercurrent of defeat or 
profound resignation in his voice. 

"This isn't possible," Spender objected.

"We already did that search," Lloyd concluded.

"Right," Langly the familiar smirk appearing on his blond 
framed face. "You ran the standard search, looking for a simple 
match right?"

"Of course," Spender said, "I've done it a hundred times."

"Uh-huh," Langly grinned his psychological superiority, back in 
place. "Let me show you something," He added. Langly led all of 
them back to his station, and tapped at the keyboard with 
increasing flourish.

Byers tried not to smirk as Spender's jaw dropped on seeing the 
supposedly secure FBI database come up on Langly's system. 

"Don't let it bother you Jeff," Lloyd said, placing his hand on 
Spender's shoulder. "The Praetorians had a complete backup."

Spender gave a resigned sigh and turned back to the screen. 
"Why doesn't the syndicate know about this?"

"We can thank our departed comrade The Thinker." Frohike said. 
"His encryption was unbeatable. IP spoofing, secure byte 
tunneling, You name it, he did it."

Byers hid a grin beneath his hand as the increasingly flustered 
agent shook his head in amazement. Is there *anything* about me 
you guys don't know?"

"You play too much Solitaire on your office PC," Byers said.

"And you cheat at Minesweeper," Frohike chimed in.

Spender drew his hands to his face, as if trying to block the 
absurdity of the moment.

"And those websites . . . " Langly aid much to loudly for 
Spender's comfort.

"Okay," Spender said holding out one hand to stop Langly's 
diatribe. "Just tell me what's going on, how did you get these 
matches."

Back in his element the blond gunman slid into geek-speak that 
ran on for long minutes.  Lloyd seemed to be following the 
complex chatter shaking his head and nodding at seemingly 
appropriate points, even occasionally making observations or 
rebuttals of his own.  As he listened Spender almost began to 
think he could understand the chatter himself.  Somehow he 
seemed to be making some sense of it.  He could almost reach 
out and grab the understanding out of the air. He couldn't 
exactly follow the talk, but he got the gist.

Finally he interrupted the conversation which seemed to have 
moved into esoteric realms of geekdom far beyond any normal 
human comprehension.

"So what are you actually saying?" Spender demanded.

"Well basically we don't use the FBI software . . . someone 
geeked it specifically to avoid matching your prints.  We used 
our own algorithm to do the matches on the FBI data."

"And you found . . ." Spender let the question trail off, he 
knew the answer already.

"Matches . . . . lots of them. Absolute, identical, flawless 
matches . . . " Lloyd said, his voice trailing off to a 
whisper."

"Duplicates." Spender said, finishing the thought.

The group remained silent as page after page of faces scrolled 
by, each one a perfect copy of Sam Lloyd and Jeffrey Spender.

[End Chapter 3]