TITLE: SIEG UND VERLUST (includes So This is Agent Mulder)
AUTHOR: CindyET
E-MAIL ADDRESS: cindyet@tdstelme.net
DISTRIBUTION: Anywhere is fine -- I write 'em to be read.
SPOILER WARNING: Big ones for Season 8, mytharc eps
RATING: NC-17 (Language, Violence, Sexual Content)
CLASSIFICATION: X, MSR
KEYWORDS: Mytharc, Character Death
SUMMARY: The Apocalypse is at hand and G-Men Mulder, Skinner
and Doggett bust their asses to fight for the future of
mankind. They face life and death, good and evil, courageous
heroes and dastardly villains. Redolent with testosterone, the
language is harsh and the men are manly. And of course, there
is a damsel in distress.
"So what's next, Agent Mulder?"
"The shit-storm of all time, Agent Doggett. You ready for it?"
Disclaimer: Fox Mulder, Dana Scully, Walter Skinner, John
Doggett, the Lone Gunmen, Margaret Scully, Director Kersch, CGB
Spender, Alex Krycek, Marita Covarrubias, Diana Fowley,
Cassandra Spender, Gibson Praise, Conrad Strughold: do these
characters really all belong to Chris Carter, FOX and 1013
Productions? If so, no copyright infringement intended.
Entertainment, yes. Profit, no.
Author's notes: This story is complete. The vignette "So This
Is Agent Mulder" (from which this epic sprang) is included at
the beginning. Thank you to all who asked for an extended
version of the original short story. You honor me with your
requests. Special thanks to Marybeth for her super fast beta. I
take full responsibility for all errors herein. It's not MB's
fault I can't leave well enough alone.
SIEG UND VERLUST (Victory and Sacrifice) (1/5)
By CindyET
PROLOGUE (So This is Agent Mulder)
FBI Headquarters
8:27 A.M.
So this is Agent Mulder. Dana's long lost partner. The real
deal. Not the man I saw on an Arizona cliff, the guy who
'looked like Mulder but wasn't Mulder,' kidnapping Gibson
Praise, evading capture. Not a shape-shifting, bounty-hunting
doppelganger from outer space...if you believe in that sort of
B.S. This is *the* Agent Mulder. The man who exposes
government plots, hunts alien invaders, makes theoretical
leaps in a single bound. I'm surprised he isn't wearing an "S"
on his chest...or a little tinfoil cap on his head. Golden Boy
or lunatic, he's dressed in ordinary jeans and a T-shirt --
much like his imposter in Arizona.
Although he's freshly scrubbed, dressed in clean clothes, hair
combed, nails clipped and probably ass wiped, Agent Mulder
smells...bad. The odor reminds me of a place I visited years
ago, back when I was serving warrants -- a torched animal
shelter. You don't forget a stench like that. Burnt hair.
Cooked flesh. Animal excrement. The whole building reeked. The
same terrible air of death clings to Mulder now and the stink
sets my teeth on edge.
Jesus. Agent Mulder's been fucked over with a capital "F."
Black-and-blues cover his neck and head. The cuts on his face
look like roadmaps to Hell. His hands are crisscrossed with
scratches, although the split knuckles indicate he didn't go
down without a fight. Both his wrists are bandaged and I can't
help but wonder if the hidden wounds are self-inflicted.
Mulder's eyes dart around the room as if he's keeping tabs on
ghosts. Being abducted by EBEs must take a sizable chunk out
of a man's sanity. That's where he claims he's been, by the
way. On a ship of extraterrestrial origin. I don't know if I
should laugh or believe him. Dana believes him and I've come
to trust her instincts, so if she accepts what he says is
true, I guess I have to, too. At least until proven otherwise.
AD Skinner is here backing them both and he's about as
straight-laced as they come, so who am I to argue? Sitting
behind his desk, the AD is strung tighter than usual today.
Jaw set. Shoulders back. Ready to rush the next hill and
conquer the universe. His scowl could singe the devil himself.
Glad I'm on his side. At least, I think I'm on his side.
Mulder stands in front of Skinner's desk, scarcely able to
keep himself upright. Dana paces the room. Her eyes never
leave her swaying partner and she stays within arm's reach as
she walks around him. She's prepared to catch him if he drops.
For the time being, he's holding his own. Barely.
After an unscheduled eight-week absence, Mulder resurfaced
early this morning. I didn't hear the news through official
channels, unless you consider the bullpen "official." My
exclusion from the loop wasn't worth taking personally
however. Christ, Dana's had plenty on her mind. And let's be
honest, I never did make it onto her speed dial. Hell, I was
satisfied when she started to call me John instead of Agent
Doggett.
As soon as I'd learned Mulder was back among the earthbound, I
phoned Skinner and bullied my way into his unofficial, pre-
Kersch debriefing. It wasn't an easy boxing match. I had to
remind the AD how I'd risked my ass filling in for our wayward
agent over the past several weeks. It wasn't until I mentioned
the disgusting creature I sliced outta Dana's back in Juab
County, Utah, that Skinner relented and allowed me access.
Holy Mother of Christ, the glare Dana shoots at me when I
crash their private party could frost Mercury. I've seen
Lebanese sandstorms that look friendlier than the "no
trespassing" signs flashing in her eyes. Message received loud
and clear, Agent Scully: no intrusions on Mulder's homecoming
speech. I close my mouth and slide into the back of the room
as inconspicuously as possible.
No one makes any introductions, but the way Mulder eyeballs
me, I get the impression he already knows who I am. And he
doesn't seem at all pleased I've been keeping his seat warm
while he's been away. It's clear he doesn't trust me as far as
he can throw me, and considering the shape he's in right now,
that wouldn't be very far.
The feeling's mutual. I don't trust him either. Dana may think
the guy's a Boy Scout but I gotta go with the facts. And the
facts include car rental receipts on Agent Mulder's Visa, four
consecutive weekends in May, same mileage each trip. A debit to
a Raleigh, North Carolina, mortuary. A headstone in the Mulder
family plot with Fox Mulder's name engraved at the bottom. Then
there are his medical records -- recent stuff, from the past
year. Clear documentation of physical decline -- Dana saw the
documents herself and vouched for their apparent authenticity.
And let's not forget the kidnapping of Gibson Praise and our
merry chase through the Arizona desert. I get Mulder, I really
do. I understand obsession. So I gotta ask how far would he go?
I mean, would he stage his own disappearance to buy himself
time to gather the proof he thinks he needs? I'm told Agent
Mulder is only after the truth. Well, so am I and I worked in
the NYPD's Fugitive Department long enough to smell a red
herring. The question now is who's responsible for this
smokescreen? Mulder? Or, as Dana suggests, is he just being
used?
I stare right back at him. What the hell else can I do?
"Their timetable?" Skinner asks his returned agent, not the
least interested in the private face-off between Mulder and
myself. After all, a planned alien invasion usurps almost
anything else you can think of. And Deputy Director Kersch has
scheduled a little inquisition of his own at 0900 -- a half-
hour from right now.
"Not sure. Soon," Mulder says, his voice sounding raw. He
shakes when he speaks. Exhaustion threatens to drop him where
he stands. "Busy...getting ready."
"How many are there?"
"Lots." He chuckles at this, although I can't imagine why.
"They know about...about the vaccine. They're prepared this
time."
"Prepared? How?"
"Blood. Mine. Provided the necessary ingredients for their
secret recipe."
"What about the Faceless Rebels? Can we expect help?"
Mulder nods and the effort causes a spasm of pain that nearly
topples him.
"What are 'faceless rebels'?" I chance a question and earn
three sets of angry eyes. "If it's any of my business."
"An extraterrestrial resistance group," Skinner says, although
it's clear he doesn't want to waste precious time bringing me
up to speed. "They're interested in preventing the alien
invasion."
"Why?"
From everyone's expression, I'd have to guess this is a new
question.
"A lot of the details remain sketchy, Agent Doggett," Dana
says. At some point in the last few hours she's decided to
drop our hard-won informality. "We don't have all the
answers."
"Do we have any?"
"We know they have a lethal virus." Dana continues her pacing,
hands on her hips, eyes still fastened on Mulder although she
speaks to me. "Held within the pollen of genetically altered
corn, the virus is to be distributed by bees whose sting
transmits the pathogen, causing--"
"Causing the growth of an extraterrestrial biological entity
inside its human host," Mulder finishes for her.
I try to picture it, but I can't make the image come.
"Inside...?"
"Infection is always lethal unless the vaccine can be
administered within ninety-six hours."
Jesus Christ. The scope of this nightmare makes Anthony
Tippet's bad dreams seem like kid stuff. I can't accept it. I
just can't. Viruses and aliens and planned invasions...it's too
much. Maybe Mulder's been sitting with this long enough to
believe it, but my brain is shouting for a time out. "Dana, do
you...do you really believe all this? You've actually seen it?"
"Two and a half years ago...I was infected. I would have died
if..." She stops, struggling to control her emotions. This is
hard for her. Obviously, it's personal. But I suspect the
intangibility of the circumstances frustrates her, too. She has
no evidence to hang her hat on. Dana's background is in science
and I've worked with her long enough to know that's where she
looks first for answers. I've also worked with her long enough
to know she's willing to open her mind to more extreme
possibilities when science doesn't provide any answers. But
aliens from outer space? How can she accept such an
impossibility? She clears her throat, steadying her voice. "Our
only defense is a weak vaccine."
"*Was* a weak vaccine," Mulder corrects her. "Now that's
useless, too. They've developed an uber-virus...thanks to me."
"Can't we develop a stronger vaccine to counteract their new
virus?" I suggest.
"Not with our current technology and the given timetable."
Mulder shuffles to one of the chairs facing Skinner's desk. He
walks like an inmate who's been wearing shackles for half a
century. When he eases himself into the chair, he exposes a
line of fresh blood running across the back of his right hand,
originating from somewhere beneath his bandage.
"It took more than fifty years to develop the last vaccine,"
Dana tells me. She notices the blood, too.
"My fault," Mulder mutters. "Shouldn't have gone to
Bellefleur."
Christ, I'd hate to carry the guilt this guy must be feeling.
I'm guessing he expected to be the hero in all this,
infiltrating the enemy camp and bringing back Lord-knows-what
to stop Armageddon and save the day. Instead, he's unwittingly
aided and abetted the bad guys, whoever the hell they are. I'm
not yet willing to concede the black hats are from any world
other than our own, but somebody's responsible for beating the
crap out of Mulder. And that same somebody scares the hell out
of Dana and Skinner.
"They would have found you wherever you went," Skinner tells
Mulder.
"Maybe they didn't know...didn't know I was immune...until
they did the tests."
"Stop blaming yourself." Skinner's lips purse with impatience.
"They know everything."
Skinner, Mulder, Dana -- they look beaten down. Not hopeless
exactly, but bone tired.
"Nobody knows everything," I say, "And everyone's got a
weakness. You just need to find it. What other weapons do they
have? Is the virus their only means of attack?"
They stare at me as if I'd morphed into a green-skinned alien
myself.
"I'm going back," Mulder announces, struggling to his feet.
Dana is immediately at his side, steadying him. "You're in no
condition to go anywhere, Mulder," she whispers.
"No choice. My day pass is running out."
"What the hell are you talking about?" Skinner's on his feet
now, too.
"When the Rebels attacked the ship, they set fire to
everything on board." Well that explains the smell I noticed
when I first walked in. "They freed me, but only for a few
hours. They want me back. They're waiting now."
"No. They can take me instead," Skinner volunteers, adamant.
"Sorry, sir, wrong blood type. The Rebels were too late to
destroy the new virus. The Alien Invaders had already FedExed
it to their buddies back home. So the Rebels took the next
best thing -- me. They want to use me to recreate the new
virus...and then develop an antidote. And I plan to help them.
Sir, you're the only one I trust to watch Scully's back while
I'm away."
If that's an insult aimed in my direction, I take no offense.
Hell, Mulder doesn't know me any more than I know him. He
hasn't any idea I've been playing white knight to his partner
while he's been fighting for the future of mankind.
With a quick glance at Skinner, Dana laces her fingers through
Mulder's, hiding the blood on his hand with her palm. "No. You
can't go back. Not now. I-I need you here."
"Scully..."
"I won't let you go. Not alone. Not again. I'm going to go
with you this time."
Both Skinner and Mulder object to this and then it hits me.
All the clues fall into place. The doctor's appointments and
the hospital stays, the way Skinner covers for her...she's
pregnant, for chrissake. My eyes go straight to her stomach
and I feel like such a fucking idiot. She and Mulder are not
just partners; they're lovers and she's carrying his child. I
feel like the world's dumbest detective.
Dana's pregnancy, Skinner's concern, Mulder's injuries all add
up to the same thing: Mulder never staged his own
disappearance. There are no selfish motives here. What they've
been saying about an alien invasion is grounded in truth, no
matter how bizarre it sounds. To top it off, Mulder expects to
walk right back into the middle of it.
Wrapping his arms around Dana, Mulder plants a kiss on the top
of her head. "Don't worry, Scully. They promised to let me out
for good behavior."
"I don't trust their promises," she mumbles into his shirt.
"Then trust mine. I promise I'll be back before he's born." He
holds her more tightly and aims a lopsided grin at Skinner.
"Besides, Uncle Walt will be here if you need anything."
"Believe it," Skinner assures.
I'm reluctant to intrude on their sentimental scene, but I've
still got questions. "Agent Mulder, why let you go at all? Why
let you return here today?"
Mulder draws back from Dana to study me. He's taking stock,
judging my trustworthiness, my loyalty, my beliefs.
"To enlist reinforcements. The Rebels need a little help
organizing an effective human resistance. Staging a few well-
placed diversions. Infiltrating a couple of strategic
strongholds." He squints at me. "The chances of success are
kinda slim, but the cause is just."
Well, what do you know? It's an invitation. So this is Agent
Mulder. Not a kidnapper. Not a crackpot. He's a man of
courage. A good and brave man, throwing himself at an inhuman
threat from the stars, ready to risk his life for a greater
good. And willing to trust me to help him. The guy's a damn
hero. Hell, maybe we'll both be heroes before it's all over.
"I'm in, if you'll have me," I tell him and when he extends
his hand, I shake it, sealing the deal with a smear of his
blood across my palm.
Dana and Skinner merely blink at us, unable to believe what
just happened. The Lebanese sandstorm expression has vanished
from Dana's eyes and Skinner looks downright envious. Mulder
doesn't give either of them the opportunity to speak.
"Any partner of Scully's is welcome to tag along with me."
I nod, hoping I haven't just made the biggest mistake of my
life. "So what's next, Agent Mulder?"
"The shit-storm of all time, Agent Doggett. You ready for it?"
Strangely, I find that I am. Not quite what I was expecting
when I got out of bed this morning, but I'm an optimistic man.
Despite the odds, I'm in this game now, and Mulder and I are
about to take our best shot for the home team. Besides, I'd
rather face an army of little green men than try to explain to
Deputy Director Kersch how Agent Fox Mulder slipped through
the FBI's fingers a second time.
- - - - - - -
PART I
El Rico Air Force Base
Agent Doggett. Scully's new partner. My replacement. Visions
of Peyton Ritter dance in my head. Umpteen visits to the NYU
Medical Center in January of '99 -- Hap-pee New Year. And now,
I have this mental image of my unborn child somersaulting
behind a battle scar left by Peyton's bullet -- a bullet that
managed to bulls-eye right through Scully's abdomen. Did I
mention she almost died because of that idiot's wet-behind-
the-ears, irresponsible, reckless, no-excuse lapse in rational
judgment? So, yes, my first instinct is to hate this squinty-
eyed, Peytonesque bastard who's been trying to fill my shoes
while I've been off having my molars drilled and my ass
probed.
Eight weeks lost in space with gray-skinned, Josef Mengele
wannabees gives a guy a bit of an attitude, so sue me if I
don't warm up to the man who's been smelling Scully's perfume
for the last two months. I missed her. I missed her so much I
ached from the inside out. The holes I had drilled in my teeth
were nothing compared to the one I felt in my chest after I
said goodbye to Scully in D.C.
You shoulda seen her face when I showed up at her apartment
earlier today. Hooooo! Definite Kodak moment. Two A.M., pitch
dark, not a creature stirring. I picked her lock to get in --
had to, since I lost my copy of her key, along with everything
else after boarding the ship in Bellefleur. I managed to sneak
all the way down the hall to her bedroom without falling on my
ass and spoiling my grand entrance. Then there she was. The
love of my life, snoozing like Sleeping Beauty...with a loaded
Sig Sauer on her nightstand. I sat down on the edge of the bed
and Scully's beautiful baby blues flew open at the first creak
of the bedsprings. With her weapon aimed point-blank at my
chest, all I could think to say was "Hi, honey, I'm home." She
threw the gun at me. Damned if the grip didn't catch me in the
left eye, adding another black and blue to my camouflage of
contusions.
Scully was beside herself with apologies, hurrying to the
kitchen to get ice and then running back to kiss me. Questions
poured out of her. Where had I been? What had I been doing?
Why the hell had I gone and left her alone and pregnant?
Pregnant?
This bit of news wasn't as welcome as one might suppose. My
first thoughts were of alien-human hybrids, nefarious medical
experiments, CGB. But Scully assured me all was well. The
baby's fine, normal...mine.
Mine?
My panic was swept away by genuine, heartfelt, manly pride.
I'd knocked up my partner! Imagine what the guys in the
bullpen must be saying!
Of course I was happy for other reasons, too. Lots of other
reasons. Lots and lots of other reasons.
I kissed her.
I kissed her the way I'd been dreaming of kissing her for the
last sixty-one days, seven hours and twenty-six minutes, give
or take a second or two. I wrapped my arms around her nicely
padded figure -- not that I didn't appreciate Scully's former
slim-and-trim shape, but her new softness made me want to...
Anyway...back to Doggett.
He stands beside me outside a hanger at El Rico Air Force
Base, waiting for our ride. We won't be taking your standard
747 this morning -- the fare, like the ride, would be out of
this world. Instead, our hosts are providing private
transportation, which is kinda too bad -- it's a bitch to lose
all those frequent flyer miles. Our final destination is
somewhere beyond Earth's atmosphere, on an alien Rebel ship.
"Hope you ate before you left," I tell Doggett. "There won't
be an in-flight meal. Not even peanuts."
"I'm not hungry."
That's all he says. He asks no questions. He just eyeballs our
cold, empty surroundings.
"You realize where we're going, don't you?"
"I'm pretty sure I'm having a nightmare and I'll wake up any
minute."
Hold on to that fantasy if it helps, pal.
Scully told me Doggett is an ex-cop. NYPD. Fugitives.
Warrants. Guess he's been in a few risky situations before,
although I doubt he's encountered anything quite like this
little adventure. Chasing America's Most Wanted is a cupcake-
walk when compared to running after extraterrestrial
biological entities.
To be honest, I was surprised when Doggett threw in with me
back in Skinner's office. It's obvious he's a skeptic and I
doubt he trusts me any more than I trust him. Why should he?
EBEs, spaceships, Faceless Rebels, deadly viruses. I sound
like a damn lunatic.
If Doggett thinks I'm off my nut he hides it pretty well --
better than most of the naysayers I've encountered over the
last couple of decades. Usually I get rolling eyes, derisive
laughs, patronizing jokes. Not to mention the nickname
"Spooky." But Doggett remains pokerfaced.
Skeptic or not, he's here and I'm grateful for his help.
Skinner's, too. It took some talking, but I convinced Skinner
to take Scully away. Hide her. The aliens spent eight weeks
digging at my flesh like 49ers at Sutter's Mill. They drilled
holes into my head as if my brain held the answers to all the
questions of the universe -- a goddamn Rosetta Stone of life.
I'm not sure what mitochondrial mutation they were mining for,
but if Baby Mulder's a chip off this ol' block, he's a target
just like his old man.
A car pulls up in front of the hanger and a faceless man exits
the passenger seat. When I say faceless, I don't mean the guy
could blend into a crowd, go unnoticed. He's not ordinary by
any stretch of the imagination. Puckered scars blur his
features, sealing his mouth, eyes, nose and ears.
"Meet Frank," I say to Doggett.
"Frank?" Doggett stares at the Rebel's scarred face.
"He was 'Dr. N. Stein' until he put us on a first name basis
by sticking something long and slender up my ass. Lemme tell
you, these guys know how to conduct a proper strip search.
It's the biggest thrill you'll get for a while." I give
Doggett a smile, enjoying the dent I've made in his mask of
calm. A priceless expression of discomfort washes across his
face.
The Rebel gestures us toward the car.
"Last chance to opt out, Agent Doggett."
"I'm already here. Might as well see it through."
I shrug and head for the car. Doggett's a big boy. He's been
warned. I climb into the back seat and Doggett slides in
beside me. The Rebel shuts the door behind us and joins his
twin up front. Our two hosts don stylin' shades -- an attempt
to hide their disfigurement from prying eyes. The dust on the
windshield will conceal the rest. We drive north.
"They're not going to blindfold us?" Doggett asks.
The idea makes me laugh. "Doesn't matter if we see where we're
going or not. We can't get back without them."
He nods, but stays alert. Once a cop, always a cop.
Traffic picks up as soon as we leave the base and I watch car
after car whiz by. Businessmen, families. Ordinary people on
their way to ordinary places. I remember not too long ago
Scully asked me, "Don't you ever just want to stop? Get out of
the damn car? Settle down and live something approaching a
normal life?" At the time, I wasn't paying much attention,
bent on finding the proof I'd always believed was out there
but never held in my hands. I thought I wanted the truth more
than anything else. I learned the hard way, you need to be
damn careful what you wish for because some sadistic fairy
godmother might just grant your heart's desire and you'll wind
up wishing like hell for another wish.
"What happened to you, Agent Mulder? Over the past eight
weeks?" Doggett asks, keeping his voice unnecessarily low.
Should I tell him about my visit with the aliens or would it
be more humane to spare him the gory details? Their chair of
horrors, for instance -- a cross between a Barcalounger and an
iron maiden -- how the hell do I describe that monstrosity? I
decide he doesn't need a blow-by-blow. And neither do I. A
more varnished version of the truth is enough for us both.
"Despite the countless testimonials to the contrary, Agent
Doggett, spaceships are not silvery-white, bright, smooth, and
clean. They're organic. Muggy. They overload the senses.
Breathing is nearly impossible, not because the air is so
goddamn thick it feels like molasses pouring down your gullet,
but because to think about such a god-awful place stalls your
lungs. Probably a good thing, or you'd go mad listening to
yourself scream."
I let him chew on that for a minute while I arrange myself more
comfortably in my seat.
"These..." -- he points to our hosts -- "are aliens?"
"Yes. They're Faceless Rebels."
"Meaning?"
"It means they have no faces, Agent Doggett."
"I get that. Can you tell me how these aliens differ
from...other aliens?"
Where do I begin? It's taken me a lifetime to tease a few
teensy-weensy factoids out of this bizarre drama and I still
feel in the dark most of the time. I know more about vampires,
flukemen or OBEs than I know about EBEs. Especially the
faceless variety.
Years ago, Cassandra Spender told me that the different alien
races were in upheaval. Krycek warned me about a planned alien
invasion. Diana hinted that my role in the coming apocalypse
had been known for a long time. And Cancer Man -- Jesus Christ
-- his claims were the most unlikely of all. Am I really to
believe I'm his son, mankind's knight-in-shining-armor, savior
of the entire universe? And what the hell does that make him?
God?
The idea is fucking preposterous.
True or false, their hearsay tells me nothing. I can't draw one
single solid conclusion from such vague commentary. Scully
would laugh her ass off if she could hear me say this, but I'm
at a point where I need some hard evidence. So assuming I'm
sober and sane, let's tally up the things ol' Spooky Mulder's
seen with his own eyes: 1) I was taken aboard an alien craft by
a man who can shape-shift, changing his appearance at will; 2)
I was tortured for eight weeks until the Faceless Rebels
arrived and set fire to the Colonists' ship, rescuing me; and
3) I was allowed to return home to gather reinforcements. But
for what? What's the Rebels' true cause? I agreed to help them
only because they fight the same enemy I fight. In reality, I'm
clueless about their ultimate agenda. It's possible I'm heading
for my own end zone.
Story of my life.
"I'm tired, Agent Doggett," I tell him, deciding he can pick
up what he needs to know later. "I'm going to sleep now. It
may be my last chance for a while."
He starts to object. I close my eyes anyway, shutting him out
while I try to picture Scully. Not the way she looked when I
left her this morning, but the way she looked on the night our
child was conceived. The best moment of my life. Bar none.
However, hard as I try, the images won't rise to the surface,
not even with my photographic memory. Instead, I see Scully
crying in Skinner's office while I walk out of her life one
more time.
- - - - - - -
Scully's Apartment
"Sir, I don't need to--"
"Pack, Agent Scully. That's an order."
Whether she wants to or not, she's going to a safehouse. I try
to look imposing. I feel scared shitless. Not of her, but of
her enemies, Mulder's enemies. My enemies. Scully's eyes
threaten bodily harm, but I'm not budging. Not without her. I
have no intention of losing her the way I lost Mulder in
Oregon. Agent Mulder asked me to hide her, keep her safe. He's
counting on me and I won't let him down again. I won't let
either of them down.
There have been far too many times when these two agents have
turned to me, trusted me, and I've failed them. Times when I
could have helped, but didn't. It may be impossible to make up
for that now, but I promise to do whatever it takes to protect
Scully and her baby. Nothing, *nothing* will stop me -- not
Krycek, not my superiors, and certainly not my own cowardice.
I'm taking Scully outta here, even if I have to carry her.
She's pissed, of course. She spins on her heel and heads for
the back of the apartment, leaving me to suck in a big, fat
sigh of relief.
I don't want to fight her; I only want to keep her safe.
"This isn't necessary." Her voice fires like a Tomahawk down
the hall. I'm ground zero. "I don't want to be hidden away for
the next five and a half months. I want to help."
"You need to stay alive." I cross to a window and scan the
street. A delivery truck raises my suspicions. Are we being
surveilled?
"What if I need a doctor?" Scully challenges from the bedroom.
Good question and I don't have an adequate answer. Scully's
already been admitted twice to Washington National Hospital
for "tests" -- the nature of which she refuses to discuss.
"We'll cross that bridge when we come to it."
A drawer slams shut.
"What am I supposed to tell my family? My mother?" she yells,
her voice ricocheting through the apartment.
"Nothing."
More drawers crash and bang.
She returns to the livingroom, bag in hand, her expression as
dark as a thundercloud. "Where are you taking me?"
I shake my head, letting her know I won't talk about it here.
There's no doubt in my mind her apartment is bugged.
"My mother will worry. I won't have her thinking I've been
abducted. I won't put her through that again."
"There's no choice, Agent Scully. The knowledge of your
whereabouts puts your mother's life in danger." I decide to
make a point by placing my hand on her abdomen. She flinches
from the intimacy of my unexpected touch. "Don't risk the
lives of your family."
- - - - - - -
Location Unknown
"Agent Mulder, wake up." I elbow Mulder and he groans. I doubt
there's a spot on his body that isn't bruised.
"We there?" He yawns, stretches until his knuckles graze the
car roof and his legs meet the seatback in front of him.
"You tell me. I have no idea what I'm looking at here." The
air shimmers beyond the hood of our parked car. I see nothing
but an empty field, distant trees and an unpaved road
overgrown with weeds. Our mysterious drivers wait for us
outside.
Mulder blinks the sleep from his eyes. "You a Star Trek fan,
Agent Doggett?"
"No. Never watched the show."
"Never watched...? Then I guess you don't know what a Romulan
cloaking device is." He opens his door and steps out.
I climb out after him and follow him toward...nothing. I feel
a bit like one of the Pied Piper's rats. We stand in the
middle of a hayfield, killing time for god-only-knows what.
Then the air ripples, buckles like an accordion.
"Hold on to your hat, Agent Doggett, 'cause you're gonna love
this." He points at...
Holy Mother of...
A wall flickers into view. A fucking huge wall that blocks out
the field, the trees, the sky. It's several stories high. I-I
can't believe what I'm seeing. It's a ship. A goddamn enormous
aircraft or spaceship or whatever-the-hell. Dana's always
telling me to keep an open mind, but I swear to God, there was
nothing there a--
"They make Siegfried and Roy look like amateurs, don't they?"
Mulder chuckles and heads toward an entrance, a tall vertical
slit in the smooth, black hull. I can't make my friggin' legs
move. Mulder yells to me without turning around, "Come on,
Toto. The Emerald City is this way."
Two more faceless men stand at the entrance. They wear
uniforms without markings and I can't tell if they're soldiers
or a maintenance crew. One of the men takes my gun. Then he
ushers us into a small antechamber about the size of an
elevator, where three identical doors line the back.
"Eeny, meany, miney," Mulder says, but the faceless man has a
suggestion of his own and he directs us toward the center
door. It opens with a sucking thud that sounds like a bullet
piercing a Kevlar vest. We pass through it and enter a narrow
corridor. The faceless man remains behind, closing us in.
"What's this?" I try to make sense of a group of symbols
marking the corridor's walls.
"DeCon. It's bath time, Agent Doggett."
Chriminy. Mulder starts to strip, dropping his jacket and T-
shirt inside out on the deck. I follow suit but don't get much
further than pulling my tie from my collar. I'm stopped short
by the sight of Mulder's injuries.
Jesus. Puncture wounds pepper his arms and chest. Welts swell
the skin of his neck, biceps, ribs. The thinnest, straightest
scar I've ever seen runs from his throat down to his abdomen,
disappearing into the waistband of his pants.
"Come on, Doggett. No need to be shy. It's just us guys." He
unfastens his fly and pushes his pants to the floor.
Christ Almighty. Purple-black bruises cover his hips, thighs,
knees. The scar on his chest continues right to his pubic bone.
Two more stripe his legs from groin to bandaged ankles.
Whatever the motive -- to extract classified information or, as
Mulder suggested in Skinner's office, to gather genetic
material -- his captors tortured the bejesus out of him. Some
of his scars are nearly healed, indicating his mistreatment
began weeks ago. Other injuries make it obvious his suffering
continued uninterrupted until only very recently. He unwraps
one bloodied bandage from his wrist and a circular scab oozes
beneath it.
"Were you shot?"
"No." He unwinds the dressing from his other arm, revealing an
identical wound. "I was pinned like drosophilae under a
geneticist's microscope."
Removing the bandages from his ankles one at a time, he exposes
injuries similar to the ones on his wrists. The holes go
straight through to the other side and the raw lesions remind
me of Christ, of the stigmata. Agent Mulder's had a helluva
cross to bear.
I tear off my jacket, angry as hell. Not at Mulder for leading
me into this trap, but at the bastards who did this to him. I
pop two buttons in my furious rush to remove my shirt.
"It only hurts when I laugh, Agent Doggett."
"I don't see you laughing."
"I'm saving it up. I plan to laugh my ass off when I wave
goodbye to the Aliens." He nudges his clothes aside with one
bare foot.
I kick off my shoes, yank my socks from my feet and then drop
my trousers.
The moment I step out of my pants, a cold, sticky substance
sprays down on us from the ceiling. An antiseptic -- or maybe
it's a pesticide -- burns my sinuses and stings my eyes. I
can't imagine how it must be hurting Mulder's open wounds. The
stuff stinks like a roach bomb and tastes even worse than it
smells. It sets us both coughing.
"Don't breathe," Mulder gasps.
"Now you tell me. What the hell is this stuff?"
"Don't ask me, I flunked the Pepsi Challenge." He blinks,
trying to clear his eyes, which redden and run. "It tastes
better than anything they'll give us to eat though."
The mist stops and we spit traces of bitter decontaminant from
our tongues, wipe its sting from our eyes, and sniff the air
before we suck in a lungful of much-needed oxygen. I grab for
my pants.
"Leave them," Mulder warns as the door at the end of the hall
opens. "They'll give you something clean to wear."
"I want my wallet."
"You plan to do some shopping, Agent Doggett? The import tax'll
kill you."
"No, it's...a photo. I don't want to leave it behind."
"Sorry. They don't let you keep anything."
"But--"
"It's not worth the fight, Agent Doggett." His voice leaves no
room for argument. "Let's go." He crosses the threshold,
accepting a meager stack of folded clothing from another
faceless man in the next room.
- - - - - - -
Location and Time Unknown
I'm guessing it's been about an hour since Doggett and I were
dusted for fleas. The chemical sticks to our skin, our hair;
it gives off the same rancid, bad-apple smell that lingers on
everything here. With each breath, I'm reminded I'm not in
Kansas anymore.
They gave us clean jeans and T-shirts. Nothing more. Tugging
the clothes on over our sticky skin was a tad awkward -- felt
like ripping off Band-Aids. Pulled every damn hair. Still
feels like my crotch is caught in my zipper.
Because the aliens like their surroundings toasty warm, it's
hotter than Hell in here. Fine with me, since I'm sans
footwear. I already miss the open air though, and wish I'd
stopped to smell the hayfield when I'd had the chance. I also
wish I'd kissed Scully one more time. And eaten a Grand Slam
breakfast with an extra side of homefries. Shoulda, coulda,
yada, yada.
Doggett and I wait for an audience with the Grand Poobah,
cooling our heels in a dismal little room with nothing to
entertain us but each other. Doggett's taken the opportunity
to grill me with questions, pacing back and forth while I sit
on one of the room's two uncomfortable benches. There are no
windows, so I close my eyes and let my ears follow Doggett's
slapping footsteps from one side of the room to the other.
"They communicate with their minds? Like ESP?"
"That's my best guess. I already told you that."
"Why do they seal their eyes, their mouths?"
"To protect themselves against infection by the black oil. The
oil contains the virus."
"The virus that causes an alien to...uh...?"
"Gestate inside its host. That would be the one."
"I thought you said the virus was found in genetically altered
corn pollen?"
"It is." I shift in my seat in an unsuccessful attempt to get
comfortable -- the bench feels like concrete and my skin is as
sensitive as the Princess with the pea under her mattress.
"The original vehicle for the virus was the oil. It's
millions, maybe billions, of years old. The corn pollen is a
more recent development."
"Didn't you say the black oil is absorbed through the skin?"
I open one eye to look at him. "And your point is...?"
"Why seal the eyes, mouth, et cetera, if the oil can enter the
body through the skin?"
I glance at his bare feet and, for the first time, I notice
how vulnerable he is...I am...we are.
"Maybe their skin is different from ours, Doggett. Maybe it's
impervious. Maybe...maybe the only way the oil can infect them
is through the orifices."
"How do they see with their eyes sealed? How do they eat?"
"I have no idea."
"Do they piss, shit, screw in the usual--"
"Jesus, Doggett."
"It's a valid question."
"To which I have no answer."
"From where I stand, Agent Mulder, you have very few answers."
Fuck you, John Doggett. I'd punch him, if I could make a fist.
"Dana told me about men...aliens...who could change their
appearance, disguise themselves to look like somebody else."
"Oh, 'Dana' told you that, did she?"
"She claims I saw one. It looked like you."
I hadn't considered they might try to impersonate me. "What
was I doing?"
"Kidnapping and resisting arrest."
"Kidnapping? Who?"
"A boy named Gibson Praise."
That figures. "Did I succeed?"
"No. Can these..." -- he gestures at the walls around us --
"Can these faceless aliens change their form?"
"Not as far as I know. However, they are masters of disguise.
They put Jim Phelps to shame."
"Jim Phelps?"
"Secret Agent. Mission Impossible?"
"You watched a lot of TV as a kid, didn't you, Agent Mulder?"
Well, you'd anesthetize yourself with television, too, buddy,
if your sister had been abducted by aliens, your father had
conspired with assassins and your mother had zoned out every
damn day on Valium. Life in the Mulder household wasn't
exactly like living with June, Ward and the Beav.
I decide it's my turn to ask questions.
"Doggett, how long have you been assigned to the X-Files?"
He slows his pacing, squints at me.
"What you really want to know, Agent Mulder, is how long I've
been working with Dana."
Dana. There it is again. I find I can make those fists after
all.
"Whatever."
He doesn't speak. He wants me to say what's really on my mind;
he wants me to be honest with him.
"All right, Agent Doggett. How long have you been working with
*Agent Scully*?"
"Couple of months. But I think you knew that already. Why
don't you ask me the one question you really want answered?"
"And that would be...?"
"Was she angry at you for leaving? Did she ever give up on
you?"
"Those are two questions, Doggett, and I already know the
answers."
"Then ask me something you don't know."
Right. Where do I begin? Eight weeks feels like a lifetime.
I've missed so much. I want to know it all. I want to know
when Scully found out she was pregnant. I want to know how she
took the news. Was she glad? Did she tell anyone? And who was
the lucky bastard who got to hear it first? Doggett?
"How...how's she been?"
"Fine. She's a good agent. Thorough. Tough." He faces me, sees
this isn't what I want to hear. "We solved quite a few cases -
- mostly her doing. She's intuitive. Able to make some pretty
impressive leaps. She threw water in my face the first time we
met."
"Really?" Now we're talkin'. I picture Scully dumping a whole
pitcher over Doggett's head.
"Yep. I don't think she liked me much. But we worked it out."
The picture in my head changes. I see Skinner sending them to
a team-building seminar in Florida where they construct a
tower of furniture. I see Scully standing on Doggett's
shoulders with a pencil sharpener clutched in her little hand.
I see her telling him that maybe he'll get lucky and it'll
start raining sleeping bags. Then I see it raining sleeping
bags.
"Agent Doggett, I didn't know Scully was pregnant when I went
to Bellefleur."
"It's none of my business."
"I wouldn't have gone. I wouldn't have left her."
"I'm not judging you."
"I love her." I stare him to a standstill; I practically climb
into those little pinpoint pupils of his.
"I believe you." He steps closer and squats in front of me so
we're eye to eye. "Agent Mulder, she never gave up on you.
Never."
- - - - - - -
Lone Gunman Publishers
"Come on, boys. Open up," Scully speaks to the surveillance
camera and rings the buzzer again. "Frohike! Byers!"
"Coming," we hear over the intercom. Locks click and bolts
slide on the opposite side of the door until Melvin Frohike's
gnome-like face peeks out at us. "Mr. Skinner and the lovely
Agent Scully. To what do we owe this unexpected pleasure?" He
steps back, sweeping us in with a flourish of a gloved hand.
His admiration for Scully is obvious -- he rakes her from head
to toe with the most lascivious eyeballing I've ever seen. I
guess the fact that she carries another man's child isn't
enough to cool his steaming gonads.
"I need a place to stay," she says and the lust in his eyes
morphs into hope. He's thinking she wants to move in here.
"Somewhere discreet," I add. "I was told to mention
Nikpartok."
"Shhhh!" Frohike hisses. He slams the door behind us and
fastens every deadbolt and chain. "Keep it down. You weren't
followed, were you?"
"No, we weren't followed. Can you help?" Scully asks, making
herself at home in the middle of their motherboards and
headsets, tape recorders and newspapers. I feel like the
proverbial bull in a china shop. Computer parts, diskettes and
watchmaker's tools lay scattered everywhere and I'm afraid I'm
going to break something just by looking at it.
"Who told you about Nikpartok?" Byers asks.
"Mulder."
"Mulder's back?" Langley's eyes widen behind his thick lenses.
"When did he return? How?" Byers asks.
"He showed up this morning." Scully settles onto a high stool
beside the workbench.
"Is he okay? Why didn't he come with you?"
"He couldn't stay," I break the bad news.
Mulder's friends exchange glances, check Scully's reaction.
"Major bummer."
"Life ain't fair."
"We're on a tight schedule, boys." I'm in no mood to discuss
life's inequities. "Can you help us or not?"
Another quick look and they reach a unanimous decision.
"Yes, of course we'll help," Byers says. "We'll give you
Nikpartok."
"What the hell is Nikpartok?"
"It's not a 'what' but a 'where.' It's..." Byers waits for a
nod from Frohike. "It's our emergency hideout."
"Emergency hideout?"
"Yeah, you know, in case they drop the big one," Langley
explains. "Or disco comes back."
Frohike points to the frontpage headlines on several of the
newspapers that clutter the countertops. "Governments have
been known to mess up," he reminds me. "A concerned person
needs a safe place to go."
"Where is this emergency hideout?"
Frohike shushes us again and signals Langley to switch on a
very loud recording of CCR performing Bad Moon Rising. "Even
*our* walls have ears," Frohike whispers.
"Well, *we* won't have ears if you don't turn down the
volume," I shout. "Is the noise necessary?"
Frohike scowls at me like I'm an idiot. The Gunmen huddle
around Scully and I have no choice but to join their circle,
or miss everything that's said.
"Nikpartok is Eskimo for 'waits quietly.'" Byers explains.
"Several years ago, we built and stocked a hideout...just in
case."
"Where exactly is it?" I don't like the Eskimo reference -- it
sounds cold and remote, which is great for a hideout, but not
so great for Scully's pregnancy.
"Yukon. Peel River, just east of the Continental Divide--"
"And south of the Arctic Circle."
"I don't think so, boys. Scully's baby--"
"Not to worry, Mr. Skinner. It's secluded, but it's quite
comfortable," Byers explains.
"It's got food, water, heat, computer access. Everything but
cable," Frohike brags.
"And we can arrange to pull down programming from one of the
broadcast satellites, if you like," Langley says with pride.
"Completely unnoticed, of course."
"Mi casa es su casa. Beats anything you've got in the Witness
Protection Program," Frohike insists.
"How do we get there?"
"A series of drop-off/pick-up points that'll confuse even the
most experienced tail. The last leg is by snowmobile."
So much for that idea. "Sorry, boys--"
"We'll take it," Scully interrupts. "Sir, if I need emergency
medical attention, we can call in a helicopter."
"Scully--"
"You said it yourself, sir -- I'm a risk to my family, to my
baby. Mulder suggested Nikpartok. He must think it's safe."
"No one will find you there, Mr. Skinner, unless you want them
to," Byers adds.
I'm not liking it, but I'm fresh out of other ideas.
"Fine," I concede, "Get out your maps, boys."
- - - - - - -
Location and Time Unknown
A pair of faceless men steer Mulder and I down a series of
halls to a conference room of sorts. Mulder was right -- this
isn't at all the way I pictured alien spaceships. Not that I
thought much about them before I was assigned to the X-Files,
but after reading the testimonies of several hundred purported
alien abductees, I had the impression alien ships would be
bathed in white light, all metal, barren and spotless. No one
ever mentioned the smell or the way the air sticks to the back
of your throat, the inside of your nose, the tips of your
fingers. This place reminds me of the Southside Salvage Yard -
- congested, filthy and outwardly disorganized.
These "Faceless Rebels," as Mulder calls them, give me the
heebie-jeebies. I wish they'd say something. Or think
something, whatever. If they're communicating at all, they
must be able to control the volume. So far, I haven't heard so
much as a peep out of them. Their scarred faces make the Idaho
bat creature look like a cherub-faced kid next door. Sneaking
about their business without so much as a grunt or a nod, I'm
never quite sure if they're looking at me or at something
behind my back. The confusion keeps my head swiveling and my
nerves on edge.
Mulder sits on one of their backless chairs, elbows on his
knees, face hidden in his hands. The guy's understandably
exhausted. I sit beside him, hoping for something to happen.
Answers or orders, I don't care. I didn't come all this way to
dick around twiddling my thumbs. I wanna get the damn show on
the road.
Uniformed aliens file in, fill up the room. Couple dozen.
Dressed in identical, unmarked uniforms. This is more like it.
I'm surprised when an old man in a wheelchair is pushed into
the room. His eyes and mouth aren't sealed shut like the
faceless aliens. He's human. Not in the best of health, but
he's smiling. He pulls a pack of cigarettes from his pocket,
taps one loose and lights it with a gold lighter. A curl of
smoke screens his face for a moment before it spreads across
the room.
The smell of burning tobacco straightens Mulder's spine. He
lifts his head from his hands to focus on the smoking man.
"Well if it isn't the fucking Energizer Bunny."
"Life is a never-ending surprise." The smoking man sucks on his
cigarette. "Wouldn't you agree, Fox?"
"Rumor had it you were dead."
"Can't believe everything you hear. As you can see, I'm very
much alive." The smoking man signals his guard and the faceless
alien wheels the old man closer to us. Mulder's fists clench,
pumping fresh blood from the wounds in his wrists.
"I guess it's true what they say, Spender -- you should never
send a boy to do a man's job."
"To be fair, Alex did manage to finish what he started this
time. I was, for all intents and purposes, dead."
"Then who opened the crypt and pulled the stake back outta your
heart?"
The smoking man's smile is tolerant. "You misjudge me, Fox.
You've always misjudged me."
"Tell me you're not a murdering son-of-a-bitch."
"I've protected you. I've protected you for years."
"You're a liar." Mulder's anger hangs in the air as thick as
the smoke. "You've done nothing for me that didn't serve your
own best interests."
"Really?"
"You killed my sister, you black-lunged son-of-a-bitch!"
"I saved your sister."
"You experimented on her. You treated her like a lab rat. She
was just a little girl!"
"She was part of something bigger than herself," the old man
inhales another puff of smoke. "As are you."
"Quit with the vague Revelations crap. You tell me what I am.
Tell me -- what is my role?"
"You're going to save us, Fox. You're going to save us all."
"You're full of shit."
"Am I? Why do you think you were brought here? Your immunity to
the virus? Don't be naive. Neither the Colonists nor the Rebels
need a vaccine. Why would they want to eliminate a virus that
kills us while procreating their own species? So ask yourself,
what is it you can offer these aliens, Fox? What could they
want from you?" The smoker finishes his cigarette, crushing it
on the arm of his wheelchair.
"The God Module."
"Now you're catching on."
"My ability to read minds, answer questions before they're
asked -- that power came from them. That's how they walk around
with their eyes closed."
"And you carry their genetic remnants."
"But I don't have those powers anymore. You saw to that."
"All is not lost. I simply turned off your overactive brain
activity -- before it killed you."
"Billy Miles," I say and the smoking man turns to face me for
the first time. "And the other abductees in Bellefleur. They
all experienced anomalous brain activity. I saw their medical
records."
"Your replacement's been paying attention, Fox."
"Dana called it...uh, electro-encephalitic trauma--"
Mulder is out of his chair, hands around the old man's throat.
His move surprises the smoker. The old man's eyes bulge as
fingers tighten around his neck. Rebel guards move in and
overpower Mulder, pull him away, force him back into his seat.
They hold him there.
"You son of a bitch!" Mulder struggles against his captors.
"You sent me to Bellefleur because you knew I'd be taken, along
with the others! You orchestrated the whole thing!"
"You give me far too much credit." The smoker clears his
throat, straightens his clothes. "Yes, I knew the value of your
gift. I've known it for a long time. But I had no idea you'd be
fool enough to get yourself captured."
"You expect me to believe that?"
"I expect you to believe that I had plans of my own for you."
"Thanks to Diana, your grand scheme failed."
"Not entirely. I learned from my mistake. Your gift was never
meant to be mine. Not directly. My body rejected the
transplant. It would have killed me, if Alex hadn't pushed me
down the stairs first."
"Why aren't you dead?"
"Salvation arrived at my doorstep." He gestures at the Rebels
before lighting another cigarette. "They have great healing
powers. You've seen it yourself."
He must be talking about Jeremiah Smith. I read Mulder's file
on the guy. A shooter named Muntz, injured in a fast food
restaurant in Arlington, Virginia, claimed his terminal wound
was healed by a Holy Man. It's Mulder's opinion the guy's
guardian angel was alien. An alien, or alien/human hybrid,
named Jeremiah Smith.
"Aliens also have an ability known as Remote Viewing," the
smoker continues, "that allows them to see beyond their own
sealed eyes. They're rather accomplished prognosticators, too.
But their sight into the future has limits, very much as does
our own eyesight. You and I can't see through walls and they
can't see to the end of time. But they can anticipate events.
Their powers are substantial. For example, they're able to see
far enough into the future to know that the Colonists'
experiments are doomed to fail."
"Fail how?"
"We all die, Fox. Humans. Colonists. Rebels. You see, when all
things are equal in war, no one has the power to win. We end up
destroying each other."
"So what's my role?" Mulder asks. "I don't have the ability to
read minds or predict the future. Not any more."
The smoking man grins; excitement and pride light his eyes.
"The aliens have been trying to stimulate the God Module in
humans for decades by transplanting their own brain tissue
into human subjects. Unsuccessful, they resorted to creating
alien/human hybrids with the hope of transplanting the enhanced
brain tissue into them and circumventing its rejection. The
hybridization program never had anything to do with the virus.
That was just a ruse, a lie to keep the Consortium from
discovering the real plan. As it turned out, the genetically
engineered God Module didn't work, not even when transplanted
into hybrids." The old man turns his face to the ceiling and
laughs. "Then an amazing thing happened. A natural human donor
appeared. The boy, Gibson Praise."
"He's out of your reach," I tell the smoker.
"Nothing's out of my reach, Agent Doggett," he snaps at me,
then cools his annoyance by drawing on his cigarette.
"Preliminary tests were done on the boy before he slipped
through my fingers. We discovered his enhanced brain tissue
worked no better in the hybrids than the alien tissue we'd
tried."
"So what good is it?"
"Its value is beyond estimation. You see, although the boy's
tissue was rejected by the hybrids, it was not rejected by our
human subjects. The transplant succeeded -- the boy's abilities
were transferred."
Mulder hisses, condemning the old man's scheme. "You plan to
create an army -- a human army with precognitive abilities."
"Tipping the scale."
"In whose favor?"
"Ours, of course. You, Fox, will lead the army to victory.
After you've undergone surgery to restore your abilities."
"The experience nearly killed me the last time."
"We know how to control it now. Slow the activity in the
temporal lobe. Stop the aggressive behavior, the agitation. We
can repair the damage, rekindle your proficiency. You won't be
harmed."
"No, fight your own damn war -- without me."
"You don't understand. This war isn't mine alone. It's yours,
too." The old man studies Mulder through a veil of smoke.
"You're not the only one who's been hearing rumors, Fox. I
believe congratulations are in order, are they not? You have a
new family member on the way."
"You fucker!" Mulder lunges at the old man again. The guards
hold his arms. I stand to help, but I'm shoved down into my
seat before the idea has barely formed in my head. "Tell me you
didn't have anything to do with Scully's pregnancy! Tell me!"
"I was dying, Fox," the old man says when we're securely
pinned. "I wanted to leave something behind...a legacy. Perhaps
not the one I described to her, but certainly a more reasonable
one. The aliens had the ability to heal her infertility and I
wanted a grandchild."
"Damn you!"
"I did you both a favor. I saw to it Agent Scully's barren
condition was reversed. And then, thanks to you, nature took
its course."
"You god damn...I should've killed you years ago when I had the
chance!"
"Why? Because I wanted what was best for my son and his
partner?" The smoker snubs out his cigarette and smiles.
"Here's what's going to happen, Agents. You're both going to
undergo surgery. Fox's anomalous brain tissue will be
stimulated, then divided. Agent Doggett will receive a small
sample. Then, you'll both use your new extrasensory talents to
help win this war. If you don't, I'm certain my unborn
grandchild carries the necessary raw material for us to proceed
without you." He leans closer to Mulder. "Agent Scully can't
hide from me, Fox. Not as long as the chip remains in her
neck."
- - - - - - -
- - - - - - -
Location Unknown
God damn that fucking bastard! He's used Scully and he's used
me and he's willing to sacrifice his own grandchild. I knew he
lied to Scully last spring. The cure-all he promised was never
meant to treat cancer, all human disease. Its benefits were
self-serving. He reversed Scully's infertility for the same
reasons he reversed Cassandra's paralysis -- to save his own
miserable sorry ass.
And now, the black-lunged son-of-a-bitch plans to exploit me
and Doggett. He has us strapped to twin operating tables while
his henchmen sharpen their scalpels. Doggett's already out
cold -- they injected him with something back in the
conference room after he flew at CGB and landed a hard left on
Old Smokey's jaw. Way to go, Dog Man! Put an end to Spender's
speechmaking for a while.
I threw a few punches myself, and shouted obscenities until
the aliens got tired of listening to me rant. The drugs they
shot into my neck are just now beginning to take effect. The
fat lady'll be singing Brahms' lullaby any minute.
An alien dressed like a doctor shaves my head. Moves on to
shave Doggett. Someone paints antiseptic across my bare scalp.
It's cold. Drips on the floor.
Can't believe my life's come down to this. Donating gray
matter to CGB's cause. Shit. Why didn't I kill the bastard
years ago? Biggest mistake...walking outta his apartment...not
pulling the damn trigger.
They're...I feel them...crawling into my head. Rooting around
like a plumber's snake. Searching for...
Scully. Oooh, she's...so pretty. She holds open the door,
inviting me into her apartment to--
The faceless doctors pick at my brain, snipping and slicing.
Snips...and snails...and puppy dogs' tails.
Holy flying flukeman -- they gave me some great shit.
Sugar and spice...
Scully's neck smells like fresh-baked ginger cookies, did you
know that?
Everything nice...
Her skin--
The aliens prick me again. Drill more holes in my head. I can
see the faceless sons-of-bitches when I open my eyes. Masked.
Rubber-gloved. Aprons smeared with my blood.
Do they read my mind as they steal it? Do the bits and pieces
they collect for their microscopes and their test tubes and
their endless, endless experiments contain my memories?
Am I losing my past...losing Scully? Please...don't take...
Scully...
Scully's skin is as soft as the cottonwood seed sliding across
the hood of our car. We drive home together from Quantico, our
windows rolled down because it's warm and the fresh air smells
brand new. A strand of Scully's hair catches in her lipstick,
her one concession to vanity. Her tongue teases the strand
loose; the act is unconscious. Her eyes are on the seed-filled
sky. She doesn't see the spiraling dervishes we create in our
wake. She doesn't see the whirlwind that blows around my heart
when I'm beside her.
I sleep with Scully for the first time around Easter. A couple
of weeks after her field trip with Cancer Man. I was soooooo
damn angry with her for trusting him. And not trusting me.
**Mulder, I looked into his eyes. I swear what he told me was
true.**
No, no, no. He told you what you needed to hear in order to
make you believe. He used you, Scully. He's still using you.
After CGB, but before I sleep with Scully, I go to Bethany,
Vermont, where I cool off. Maybe I see my own rage in Ellen
Adderly's face, a face no longer human but distorted by
jealousy and hate. I return from the case and I watch Scully
finish her report on Mark Scott Egbert, sheep in wolf's
clothing. I pretend to be writing my own report, but I'm
actually working up the nerve to tell her how much I want to
make love to her.
The elevator. Going up. My hands cold. My pulse pounds so damn
loud in my ears I can't hear my own words, can't hear my
heart's desire spilling out into the stuffy air of the
elevator car. If Scully hadn't smiled, I would have killed
myself.
She says, come over at eight.
Eight's great, I won't be late. It's a date. I don't say that,
of course. It just runs through my head for the next couple of
hours until I get to her place. Like row, row, row your boat.
Round and round--
The aliens stir...something...in my skull.
Scully holds open the door, inviting me into her apartment. My
intention is to go slow. My intention is lost when I step
across her threshold and bend close enough to smell her.
Scully's skin smells like fresh-baked ginger cookies.
I grab her arm. It's both solid and soft at the same time.
Substantial for such a small woman. Her skin is...hot. I'm
probably hurting her, squeezing too tight. I can't loosen my
grip. I want her so badly, I haul her toward her bedroom, but
I get confused on the way so I shove her against a wall. Press
her. Press. Her. She's a little afraid, I think. Me, too. I
kiss her and she lets me. Put my tongue. Into her mouth. Taste
her. Taste her.
Scully holds open the door, inviting me in. Her breasts
flatten beneath my palms...her breasts...
Heat pours from between her thighs. My finger slides into her
wetness and I'm scalded by her trust.
I don't know...does she want this? Want me? When she sees how
much I want her, she murmurs against my lips, **beats
gratuitous virtual mayhem for getting your ya-yas, don't you
think, Mulder?** Scully, you do keep me guessing. You keep me
guessing.
She helps me...into her. I've wanted to be here for years.
Wanted her. It's...
Days after, I'm happy. I love Dana Katherine Scully. I plan an
impromptu trip -- someplace she'd enjoy this time. England.
Cambridge. To visit crop circles and make love. I picture us
naked in the middle of Mendelbrot Set. Is that beautiful or
what? Maybe I can convince her to marry me. It turns out to be
more complicated than that.
She doesn't go. She's not angry, I don't think. I think she's
disappointed. Maybe she prefers poetry and flowers to my
testosterone frenzy. Wouldn't be the first time I misread her.
Or looked past her needs to take care of my own first. I pack
and go without her.
Terrible time. Two days of self-recrimination. What if, what
if?
Mother-fucking aliens can take that memory and shove it up
their goddamn extraterrestrial asses! I don't...
I come home early because I miss her so much. I want to make
it right and apologize and start over and she's...she's
changed.
**What if there was only one choice and all the other ones
were wrong?** she asks me.
What if?
*I'm* her choice.
I'm her only one choice.
We make love again. That night...after she spoke to Buddha or
Buddha spoke to her or Fate stepped in and saved my sorry ass.
Other nights follow. Once during the day. Not too many times,
all things considered. I count them on my fingers...I don't
count the one time I came in my hand because I couldn't get
her damn pantyhose off her fast enough... Embarrass myself.
Like a kid who pees the bed, years after potty training.
She...she kisses me and makes it better.
Five billion people on this planet. I'm her only one choice.
Damn, those are some odds.
Early November. Tuesday. After Kansas. After Betty Templeton
and Lulu Pfeiffer. My jaw is healed. Scully's stitches are
removed.
**...balance in the universe, the attraction of opposites and
the repulsion of equivalents...**
Maybe everything does happen for a reason...whether we see it
or not.
Scully. She's...so pretty. She holds open the door, inviting
me in.
It's easy to wish for the jinniyah's freedom instead of
something for myself because I already have everything I want.
Beneath me. Scully wants me, too. Can you believe that? I want
to believe it. I want to believe. All these years, I thought
that meant something else.
She invites me in.
The personal costs are too high, I tell her in Oregon. There's
so much more you need to do with your life.
The leaves on the cottonwood trees are yellow. Their seeds are
long gone, dispersed by the wind, planted in the ground. They
wait for next year to start anew.
You're not going back out there, I warn her. I'm not going to
let you go back out there. I'm not going to risk you...lose
you.
So I go. I go and lose her anyway.
I'll find you, Scully...I have to.
She carries my child--
Don't you fuckers take that away.
^^^got|what|we|need^^^the|transfer|is^^^almost^^tie|off|the^^^
do|it^^your|orders^^shorten|the|timetable|before|we^^i'm|fine^
^^^six|ccs|of|phenytoin^^^sleep|scully^^^training|schedule^^^^
anticipating^^control|the|remote|viewing^ahead|of|the|images^^
^^stop|the|process^^^stop|it|now^^over^^agents^^^i|miss|him^^^
Scully?
^^^when|he|returns^^^worried|about^^^will|he|find^^^baby|is^^^
Scully?
^^^mulder|i|love|you^^^
- - - - - - -
PART II
Yukon, Canada
Five Months Later
Summer in the arctic, the days are long -- even when you're
not hiding from the world. Playing guard dog to Scully for the
last five months has me itching to join the front lines. Don't
get me wrong -- Scully's not to blame for my restlessness. She
stopped protesting our disappearance the minute we left her
apartment, despite the difficulty getting here. Three plane
changes, two rental cars, the last fifty miles on snowmobiles.
We followed a route that would confuse a homing pigeon. Scully
took it all on the chin. She's more patient than I would have
guessed. So, no, it's not her fault I feel ready to punch
holes in the walls. It's just I've never been very good at
sitting on the sidelines.
Scully's grown as big as my father's Buick, yet for some
reason, I'm the one who becomes clumsier with every pound she
gains. I have trouble talking to a regular-sized woman, let
alone a mother-to-be in her ninth month. Scully's protuberant
proportions leave me stammering. Calling her "agent" seemed
ludicrous at this point. She thought so, too, so she asked me
to call her Dana. That left me in the awkward position of
suggesting she address me as Walter. Now we're both
uncomfortable.
The Gunmen's little hideout turned out to be unexpectedly
comfortable. Their paranoia ensured a well-stocked pantry,
plenty of firewood and some of the best surveillance equipment
I've ever seen. Unauthorized donations to our cause, they say.
I try not to think about the source of their electronic stash.
Tucked into the mountains of the Continental Divide, Nikpartok
overlooks a steep eastern valley of fir trees and rocky
outcroppings. The house was constructed like a garrison on a
cliff as a means of protection. To the west, high peaks are
snowcapped even in midsummer. Wildflowers blossom beside the
front door and mosquitoes the size of Hueys gather in great,
buzzing clouds in the yard. Scully spends hours sitting on the
porch, staring east, waving off the bugs and her
uncertainties.
Although she rarely talks about Mulder and Doggett, I know she
thinks of little else.
We receive occasional reports of the Invasion. Encrypted
digital messages from Frohike and week-old newspapers from an
Indian named Aimerpok who hikes up from Bonnet Plume. The
Eskimo has no idea who we are but he's clever enough to
suppose we're hiding and discrete enough not to ask questions.
Maybe he's got a checkered past of his own. We pretend we're
Walt and Dana, husband and wife, expecting our first child
while we escape the alien threat and enjoy the elbowroom of
the Great White North. Pok -- nicknamed for the common Aleut
suffix that ends his name -- plays along with our unconvincing
charade. He's a shrewd man. Mid to late forties. Accomplished
game hunter. He tells us his full name means "Visits Expecting
to Receive Food" -- so we feed him. I clean whatever carcass
he brings and Scully cooks us a meal. We talk in general terms
about the changes taking place in the world, shaking our heads
at the iniquity of the alien menace and the naivete of our
earthbound brothers, all the while making believe our life is
normal.
"The paper says Kafa-Yarn fell to the Aliens." Pok swats
mosquitoes and eats fresh bearberry muffins. He and I keep
Scully company on the porch. Scully's fingers, stained from
picking the fruit, rub circles over her extended belly. She
sports a rash of itchy welts from countless insect bites on
the backs of her arms, but she refuses to be driven inside by
the bugs.
"That's the fifth attack on Gaza in as many days," Scully
says.
After decades of human conflict, Palestinians and Israelis no
longer bicker over Middle East turf. Alien Invaders control
the entire region. The first attacks came about six weeks ago
when the Invaders targeted Tehran. Thanks to a successful
campaign of misinformation, early raids were blamed on George
W. The ruse bought the aliens a couple of days to establish
themselves and corral the human population.
"Terrible, terrible," Pok says, meaning the Invasion, not
Scully's muffins. He tosses an angry pebble off the porch and
it sails over the side of the cliff. We listen to the stone
skitter and ping down the steep rock cliff until it evaporates
somewhere in the valley below.
We don't parade the war's details. We know what it means for
the occupied territories. Mandatory registration. Selective
inoculation with the virus. Work camps or death.
Government leaders scramble for a solution as their numbers
dwindle and they're held hostage by a threat of worldwide,
uncontrolled viral contagion. They squabble with each other
rather than join forces against the common enemy. They're all
fools. And so fucking predictable.
Frohike's last message -- received two days ago -- hinted at a
gathering of Rebel strength. Six UFOs, showing up in the data
storage pulled from the JPL Topex Poseidon, are positioned
above the American northwest coast. Specifics of the
configuration indicate a variation from the Invader's normal
pattern. Are these Rebel ships, playing possum? Or have the
Aliens shifted their focus away from the Middle East?
Tactically, that makes no sense. But my gut tells me these
UFOs are buzzing our neighborhood for a reason. I can't help
but think Mulder and Doggett must be on board one of the six
ships.
Scully's baby is due at any time and Mulder promised he'd be
home before his child came into the world. If he plans to make
good on that promise, he'd better get his ass in gear.
- - - - - - -
186 Miles Above the American Northwest Coast
"We're ready *now*!" Mulder insists, hammering a fist against
the table that separates us. We sit across from each other in
a small conference room, while a handful of aliens look on.
They want us to practice our new skills one more time, proving
to them that we're ready to return to Earth and fight. "We
don't need to go through this again!"
More fidgety than usual, Mulder is impatient to end our
psychic gymnastics and put our mental capabilities to a
practical test. After five months of rigorous daily workouts -
- both mental and physical -- he's a changed man. Gone are the
black and blues, the oozing pockmarks and the fatigue-filled
eyes. His scars remain, but he's regained his physical
strength. And his mental abilities have soared. As have mine,
thanks to his little "donation."
God Almighty, what a difference a few months can make. Waking
up from surgery five months ago, my head pounded like the
entire 24th Marine Corps practiced marching drills inside my
skull. I was shocked to hear voices. Lots of voices. The
racket was so deafening, it made a Falcon's game at the
Georgia Dome sound like a fucking Quaker meeting.
Then the noise vanished. Just like that. I couldn't figure it
out. Blamed it on the anesthesia.
Mulder slept like a baby on a table across the room. A turban
of bandages swaddled his skull. I checked my own bean. Yep,
packaged in a virtual cocoon of gauze. Tubes snaked in and
outta my arms, my nose, my...I wasn't going anywhere soon.
I thought about the smoking man's claims. Would I really be
able to read minds? Predict the future? Did I want to? I may
not have been a superhero before the surgery, but I was pretty
satisfied with life. Even as a kid, I never wished for x-ray
vision, super strength or the ability to fly.
Okay, so I admit I was curious now. After going through the
surgery, I wanted to know. No harm in attempting a little
experiment.
I concentrated on Mulder, tried to read his dreams. Nothing. I
tried harder. Zip. Still a complete blank.
I figured the smoker's ravings were nothing but bullshit.
Dollars to donuts, surgery hadn't transformed me into the
Amazing Kresgin. I wouldn't be saving the world after all.
"Soooo, whadja think of the Vulcan Mind Meld, Doggett?" Mulder
asked, opening his eyes.
"Vulcan...?"
"Oh, sorry...forgot. You're not a Star Trek fan."
"No, I...I get what that means now."
"You do?" He struggled to sit; a wave of pain flattened him.
I smiled -- not at his pain but at his desire to believe.
"Mulder, how did a gullible guy like you get to be a federal
agent?"
"You're an asshole, Doggett."
"I knew you'd say that."
"Fuck you." Mulder says this now, not then, as we argue around
the conference table. He's balking at my suggestion to
cooperate with the Rebels. One more test. "We already know it
works, Doggett. We're wasting time."
An alien doctor places two small boxes on the table in front
of us. No bigger than a couple of inches square, these tiny
containers pack a helluva payload.
"Come on, Mulder. Pretend it's Christmas morning. Open your
present."
"I haven't been a very good boy this year, Doggett. I'm afraid
to see what Santa's dropped in my stocking." He snags one of
the boxes anyway and lifts the lid. His action releases a
chorus of voices. The individual thoughts of an entire planet
blast through our brains.
A talisman of sorts nestles inside Pandora's Box. The secret
to our enhanced mental powers. It doesn't look like much -- a
small shard of stone inscribed with a few ancient markings.
Text older than mankind. Potent words. They stimulate the God
Module, sparking to life our ability to read minds.
Innumerable thoughts bombard us, challenge us to filter
through the dross for gold nuggets.
Five months of training have helped us sort out the mess.
^^hurry|mulder^^there|isn't|much|time^^
Ah ha! A personal best, Agent Mulder. He always seeks her
voice first. She is his touchstone; his perception of her
calms him, despite the urgency of her message. She gives him
strength.
He focuses on her. Narrows the beam of his awareness to
illuminate only her. Resting on a porch, perched on the side
of a wind-worn cliff. I'm reminded of an eagle's nest. The
fragrance of pine and cedar sifts into my nostrils, our lungs.
Sun heats her skin, thaws his loneliness. I blink in the
morning light. Her eyes are as tender and faultless as the sky
overhead. Her hair, badgered by updrafts, floats like
dandelion seed and glistens like copper. I hear her breath.
Taste its rush across my own tongue. Feel it tear from my
throat, emptying three chests in unison. A cataract of fiery
blood surges beneath her skin, my skin, his, plunging like the
Peel River toward the Rocky Mountain valley below. A second
heartbeat taps inside her and Mulder smiles at the recognition
of his child. Satisfaction steadies his hands.
The talisman dangles from a thin chain and Mulder drapes it
around his neck. Its power affects us both. For now, I leave
my own amulet inside its protective box.
"That stone is more than four billion years old, gentlemen."
The smoking man joins us. His arrival is no surprise. Nothing
surprises us anymore. "The oldest known solid on Earth. Born
in a molten fury, not long after the formation of the planet
itself. Its facets contain hints of oceans and
continents...and the earliest life. The inscription was carved
by the hands of God."
"You don't believe in God," Mulder challenges.
"I believe in His miracles."
It's true, our abilities are nothing short of miraculous. We
hear thoughts hundreds, thousands of miles away. We glimpse
beyond the physical limits of space and time. The future
unrolls in front of our eyes and we discover its courses are
infinite. We have to pick and choose the path, play our next
move like a game of chess, always running several steps ahead
of our opponents. The Invaders challenge us the same way we
challenge them.
Mulder is more adept at this hocus-pocus than I am. Better
control, quicker response. The time he spent in a padded cell
in Georgetown Memorial gave him a head start and, without a
doubt, he's more naturally inclined. He carries the mother
lode in his head, dwarfing the tiny flake in mine.
Mulder's brain tissue didn't come with memories. No insight
into his psyche. No "spooky" intuition. I didn't wake up
knowing his past or understanding his passions. However, his
thoughts reach me loud and clear now. It's like tuning into a
radio station while standing right next to the broadcast
tower. Other voices are scratchy, indistinct. But his
brainwaves blast over me like a tsunami.
We can't hear the aliens' voices unless they allow us to. They
have some kind of inherent blocking device. Guess everybody
likes privacy. They don't share their grand scheme and we're
left guessing at their motives. I haven't yet figured out why
the Rebels fight the Colonists. They don't strike me as the
altruistic types, so their professed concern for Earth's
environment rings like a cracked bell. Responsible stewardship
is a convenient cover story, easy for us humans to swallow. In
reality, I suspect a more selfish brush paints their big
picture.
Another question nags me, too. Why do they need our help?
"Tell me what you see today, gentlemen," the smoking man
prods.
Mulder concentrates. A droning hum vibrates the room. Soft at
first, constant. Electricity? Machinery? The buzz intensifies.
Rattles my teeth while I wait for the images to surface.
Insects. Bees, to be exact. Jigging through hives,
communicating with each other by means of an instinctual
dance. Their dance is a map. They give directions. Realization
slices into us and Mulder retreats for a broader view. We fly
upward in his mind. His withdrawal is so rapid, I almost lose
my breakfast as I watch what he watches. Our new perspective
reveals the locations of several enormous bee colonies.
Tunisia. India. Western China. Mexico. Southern U.S. Manmade
structures surrounded by acres and acres of corn. The
facilities ring the planet at approximately 30 degrees north
latitude. The Colonists are planning to release the bees and
initiate the spread of the virus. But when?
Mulder's focus plummets downward, and I feel as if I'm trapped
with him in a runaway elevator or the front car of a roller
coaster. He's rushing toward a voice, picked out of five
billion others -- a voice that holds the planet's stopwatch. A
man named Conrad Strughold. The unsuspecting target speaks on
the phone to a colleague half a world away.
"I've got him," Mulder announces. "Washington. 1515
Massachusetts Avenue. North West. Tunisian Embassy."
The Rest