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