TITLE: STRANGERS AND PILGRIMS (PART ONE)

AUTHOR: DAVID HEARNE

CLASSIFICATION: X

RATING: PG-13

SUMMARY: The Gotterdammerung. The Final Conflict. The Armageddon. The End.

SPOILERS: Only read this if you have seen lots and lots of "X-Files"
episodes. There are bound to be a ton of spoilers here.

DISCLAIMERS: "The X-Files" came from the mind of Chris Carter who thought it
up after a surfboard fell on his head.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Ambition may be another term for "blind stupidity." However,
what I plan to do here is wrap everything up. This story will resolve all
that is possible about the mythology and the characters. It will be lengthy.
It will be complicated. It may not be satisfying, but I'm gonna try it
anyway. Any feedback, commentary, advice or gross insults must be sent to
ottercrk@sover.net


I don't know how many parts there will be exactly. Thirty-five to forty is
my guess. But there IS an ending and I'll let you know when that is coming.

Take a deep breath...

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PART ONE
HITCH-HIKER


XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"In my beginning is my end."---T.S. Eliot

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"What I can't understand is why somebody always has to be dead before the
credits roll. I mean, here's this family that's singing 'B-I-N-G-O' in their
car and you just know they're gonna get it right between the eyes. Or it's
always the guy who steps away from the group for one minute and---bam!---a
vampire or a parasite gets him. Or it's the one guy who's so obnoxious that
you don't feel bad about him getting sliced up. And the camera is always
looking at something else while you hear the poor sucker's screams as he
gets ripped apart. Why do so many of their episodes start out like that?"

The man sitting besides Jeff Kingston took out a notebook. He wrote in it,
then tore off a page and handed it to Jeff. Jeff quickly glanced between the
note and the road that flowed continually under the heavy wheels of his
truck. Despite the darkness outside, he was able to read it in the dashboard
light.

The note said, "DEATH IS USUALLY THE END, BUT, IN STORIES, IT IS THE
BEGINNING."

"Yeah. That's right. It's like...we want our deaths to be the start of
something, not the end. We want to know what happens afterwards to our
bodies. Like a murder investigation or a funeral." Jeff smiled. "We want to
know that we can still cause trouble."

Jeff's passenger nodded.

"I mean, I believe in God. I believe that there's a life after this one.
Still, you don't want your death to be the end of your involvement in this
world. You want to stretch it out anyway you can. If a corpse can be an
important character in a story, then you think...maybe I'll still be
important after I'm dead. Maybe even more important than when I was alive."

The man wrote a new note. Jeff took it and read, "A STORY IS A WAY OF
CHEATING DEATH."

"That's it. That's it, exactly. What about you, though? Do you believe in
God?"

The passenger was silent. Or, rather, it was a different kind of silence.
When the man first approached Jeff at the truck stop, he pointed out that he
was unable to speak. Jeff usually preferred a driving companion whom he
could talk with, but his passenger's muteness didn't seem to matter. What
mattered is that the passenger listened completely, his pale face open and
attentive as he absorbed every syllable that left your mouth. Without saying
a word, he almost compelled you to talk. Throughout the trip, Jeff had been
rambling about truck driving, politics, sports, his family, television and
now God. Occasionally, the passenger would write down a comment which
would inspire Jeff to elaborate even more. It was as if his passenger was
digging deeper into his words and pulling out their central meanings.

Now, the passenger had an introspective expression, almost brooding. His
grey eyes looked out at the shapes passing faintly on the road. Jeff
wondered if his question had been too personal.

Then the passenger wrote in his notebook and tore off the scribbled-on paper
for Jeff.

"I DON'T THINK WE WERE ALL MADE BY THE SAME GOD."

Jeff decided to change the subject.

"Say, uh...do you mind if I put on some music here?"

The passenger motioned for him to go ahead.

"Hope you like country. That figures, huh? A truck driver listening to
country music."

The passenger indicated that he didn't mind.

"Of course, this is real country, mind you. Not that Shania Twain-Garth
Brooks shit you hear on the radio nowadays. I don't know what's happened,
but country music has just gone downhill nowadays. At least, the stuff
that's in the mainstream..."

Jeff went on about the current deficiencies of country music as he played
his tapes for the passenger. They listened to Jimmie Dale Gilmore tell a
woman that she could treat him like a Saturday night and Billy Joe Shaver
tell another woman that he had a sixth grade education and a good Christian
raising as Butch Hancock watched lonesome boxcars roll, Merle Haggard
contemplated the bottle that let him down, Johnny Cash killed a man in Reno,
Joe Ely kept his hopes up high, Junior Brown read them and wept and Iris
Dement reminded herself that she had no time to cry.

The passenger seemed to enjoy it all. He nodded his head and tapped his feet
to the beat.

After driving for some time, Jeff said, "We're getting close. You're sure
you want me to drop you off up there?"

The passenger nodded, apparently undisturbed at being left alone in the
middle of a black night. Jeff took another look at him, the dirt over his
sneakers, the sewed patches on his backpack, the wrinkles burrowed into his
blue jacket, the dust settled on his brimmed hat. For an unexplained reason,
he couldn't determine the passenger's age. Physically, he looked to be in
his late twenties yet...

Some people just have a look. As if they knew the kind of things that only a
long, long life could give them.

"How long have you been hitchhiking?"

The passenger held up six fingers.

"Weeks?"

The passenger shook his head.

"Months?"

Again, the passenger shook his head. Jeff hesitated before saying "Years?"

The passenger finally nodded.

"Jesus, man...that's a long time to be out there on the road."

The passenger nodded again.

"You know, I usually pick up hitchers, if I believe they're safe to ride
with. But I always tell them the same thing...get off the road if you can.
They're a lot of dangerous people out there, including truckers."

The passenger wrote another note.

"I'VE HAD TROUBLE BEFORE."

"Well, then, you know what..."

Then Jeff saw a smile on his passenger's face. Jeff could usually tell the
difference between people who thought they were bad-asses and people who
were the real thing. That smile told him that anybody who messed with the
passenger did so at their own peril.

Jeff could also tell that his passenger meant him no harm. Even so, he felt
a sudden urge to get him out of his truck as soon as possible.

Eventually, they pulled into another stop. Nearby a green sign announced
that Washington, D.C. was only a few miles away.

They stepped down onto the gray asphalt. Jeff's movements were jumpy and he
had trouble looking at the passenger. "Well, I'm going to get a cup of
coffee," he said quickly. "I guess we'll part ways here."

The passenger nodded, his face thoughtful. He seemed like a man who was
always jumping from one point to another in life, but regretted leaving any
friendly person he met. Jeff found himself a bit ashamed of his fear.

"You take care of yourself now," Jeff said and held out his hand. The
passenger shook the hand and Jeff felt strong, lengthy fingers. He also felt
a thin paper.

When he pulled his hand away, he saw a hundred-dollar bill in it. He stared
at the passenger.

"Now, wait a minute..."

The passenger held up a hand, cutting off any possibility of the money's
return. Then he tipped his hat to Jeff, turned and headed away from the
lights of the truck stop.

"Hey!"

The passenger looked back. Jeff felt a hundred questions wanting to be asked
at once, but the only one that left his mouth was---

"Why are you here?"

The passsenger kept his distance at first, then he walked over to Jeff,
writing one last note. He handed it to the trucker, then walked away and
nothing would make him look back.

Jeff watched the highway take the passenger back into the darkness. He
realized that he hadn't even known his companion's name. Then he read
the note.

It said, "TO SAVE THE WORLD AGAIN."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

PART TWO
PSYCHOLOGICALLY OVERCAST

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"I truly wish to be able to describe clouds"---Mitchell Feigenbaum

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Insanity wouldn't be so bad if he could just get this song out of his head.

...You ask me if I'm unhappy...
...well, no, I'm not fine...

At first, he had used it as a way of grounding himself. The memory of the
song's sharp rhythms had been a countermeasure to the assault of sound
against his mind. Whenever the pain got too intense, he had turned up the
volume on his inner jukebox. Against the campaign underway to render him
a cracked nonentity, the song was a reminder that he was still Fox
Mulder, agent of the FBI and a man who likes to rock 'n roll.

...I ask you the same question...
...and now it's trivia time...

The song had an extra layer of meaning for him. It usually popped into his
head everytime that a certain red-haired woman and him got into an agurment.
Like a lot of people nowadays, Mulder kept his own little soundtrack in his
head. Whenever he heard "Mulder, there is no scientific basis..." or "You're
not going to tell Skinner...", he could also hear...

...we travelled some rough seas to get to the shore of sunshine...

Only now, the song had lost all the comfort of familiarity. It had now
joined the noise relentlessly banging on his skull. The static filling his
brain had acquired the music, twisted it and made it one with the murderous
cacophony.

...but the sun shines a brief time...
...cause the clouds are in your mind...

Besides, the band that made that song...didn't their lead guitarist go nuts?

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Dana Scully sat down by the spaceship and whistled.

She whistled a tune that she had heard Mulder hum a few times. Curious at to
what it was, she had tracked it down to Fishbone's "Chim Chim's Badass
Revenge" album. (Not the best Fishbone album. That distinction probably goes
to "Truth and Soul" or "The Reality of My Surroundings.") She had been
amused by the lyrics of the song.

...You've got your own concepts...
...Well, baby, I've got mine...

Oh, for sure, Mulder. I prefer to draw between the lines, keeping my
imagination in check by the accepted knowledge that has been accumulated by
great thinkers and scientists. In contrast, you give those thinkers and
scientists the bird and let your crayons run wildly over the page. I used to
look at your art with embarrassment, seeing nothing but a chaotic hodgepodge
of mysticism, quasi-science and blind faith. However, as I watched more and
more, the design became clearer and clearer. In what was once a shape as
amorphous as the clouds, a pattern has burst forth, hard and immutable. I
have my hands on the very thing that you have long yearned for---proof that
is solid and real and undeniable.

The trouble is that the thing is too damn big.

I can copy the markings on it. I can press my hand against its gleaming
surface. What I can't do is put it in my pocket
and hide it away.

I could call out a massive effort to haul it away from this shore. However,
that would call the attention of certain people who can move much faster
than I can. Speed and precision are their hallmarks and both would be in
evidence as they crate this baby up before I could even get a crew together.

Of course, they're already coming this way, aren't they? I've always been
able to stay only one step ahead of them, if that. Undoubtedly, they have
tracked down my location and are coming to rob me.

That's why I'm going to sit here in the sand, whistle and wait for...

...the sound of helicopters.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

This man can't wait for his shift to end. This woman is dreading being
dragged to the new "Star Wars" movie with her children. This man is giving
this woman the once-over even though she is married. This man is feeling
unappreciated for his janitorial work. This man struts like a peacock
because he has a medical degree.

And on this side...

This woman looks for disease in every corner. This man feels a rage that
must be translated into wounds on his flesh. This man feels his mind caught
in a loop of words that renders him unable to move.

And in the middle of them...

This man has a guilt that's as heavy as iron. He has always prided himself
on his loyalty. Now, it's been taken away from him and all he can do is
stare at the sword above his head.

This woman has less guilt. Much less. A belief has snatched her up and taken
her to places that she can no longer leave. Nor does she want to leave. She
has made her own little church there and steadfastly worships the belief.
Doubt and uncertainity may touch her occasionally, but they are burnt up in
the intense light of her faith.

And then there's me. I'm the poor fool who gets to hear it all. The doctors,
the nurses, the janitorial staff, the other patients, Skinner, Diana...their
souls are all crowding into my mind, demanding my attention, overloading me
with details. I am no longer me. I am all of them.

That's not what really scares me, though.

There's somebody else here.

I can't see him exactly. He's like a shadow seen briefly in the corner of
your eye. He's smoke from a fire you can't locate. He's the man you go
looking for when you walk in your sleep. I can no more give him a name
than I can give names to the clouds.

I don't know whether he sees me yet or just won't acknowledge me. In either
case, I will do nothing to get his attention. Because he is the one thing
that I never thought I would fear.

A secret.

I have finally found a truth that I don't want to see.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Scully wished that she could work up some kind of indignation. Yet the sight
that she was witnessing was too familiar to her eyes---the men securing the
area with their long black guns, the helicopters landed nearby, the herding
of any eyewitnesses. She could only feel a certain numbness as the men began
to string out long metal cables. The cables stretched out from a flotilla of
boats ready to drag the large round object buried against the shore. They
would soon take it away and then leave after a final warning to the natives.

She looked over at the Africans who were being kept at a distance from the
spacecraft. Of course, they weren't eager to get close to it. They
instinctively knew that there was something dangerous about it---maybe not
to their bodies but to their minds. The symbols carved into it had a meaning
that they didn't want to know.

Scully couldn't really blame them.

Strangely enough, nobody was keeping her away. The men hustled around her,
but nobody was touching her. Of course, the moment that she interfered,
strong hands would grab her. For now, though, the look in her eyes kept them
away. She looked dreamy and hard at the same time.

"It's a shame what gets tossed into the ocean, isn't it?"

She turned. He was standing there, looking quite handsome in his brown
leather jacket. When she had first met him---what was it?---four years
back?---he had a naive appearance about him. Despite the fact that he had
been deceiving her and Mulder, that naivety was probably not a complete act.
Back then, he was still just innocent enough to have faith in the goodness
of his actions.

Now, over his smirk were eyes that had seen what lived under the world's
politics. The "game" had him now and its ugly rules of survival controlled
his life.

"I'm just dying to hear your scientific explaination for this."

She looked away from him and back to the (yes, it was, it just had to be)
spacecraft.

"Didn't expect to find this, did you? If you had, you would have come with
the resources to secure it. Of course, you didn't come with the mental
resources for it, either."

Scully replied with silence.

"You want to know what that thing means, Agent Scully? It means that it's
all been one big lie. Everything. The whole of human existence. We can't
control our fate, it's been designed for us. The only thing that we can do
is fix things just enough so we can survive. That's all it means. Don't try
to put into the context of any language or any belief or any faith. It will
chew them up and spit them out. That's why the world needs people like me. I
may be a rat bastard, but I'm a rat bastard who knows what needs to be
done."

One of the men strode up to Krycek across the sand. "We're ready," he said
in an accented voice.

"All right. It's yours then."

The other man turned to his cohorts and shouted out in Italian.

Now, this was different, Scully thought. Why bring in an Italian squad of
troops? And what did Krycek mean by "It's yours, then"?

Krycek could see her puzzlement in her face. His smirk got even more
flippant. "My side has a new ally now. Apparently, Professor Barnes is part
of a group that has its own interests. I could tell you about them but...I
don't think you could take it. It cuts a little close to home for you. And
because I pity you that much. You're not ready for the whole truth, Scully.
You are just not able to..."

"Krycek?"

"What?"

"Two things I want to tell you. Number one...this is the last time that
anything gets taken away from me."

Her eyes were firm and unblinking. Krycek wasn't nervous but he was
cautious. "And the second thing?" he asked.

She gave him the finger and walked away.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

She walked away and she didn't look back. She didn't look back at the life
that she had before. The beliefs that she had, the concepts that had shaped
her life, the order of her soul...they were all in suspension, ready to be
dropped to the ground if needed.

One of the Africans neaby would see the look in her eyes and would always
remember it. He would tell his grandchildren about the white woman with the
face of a warrior. "I do not know of the battles she would fight," he would
say. "Nor do I want to know. There are some stories that would drive a man
mad to hear. Yet I know that her heart was strong and her cause was
righteous. She would fight whatever the cost to herself.

"She would fight for us all."


XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

PART THREE
ALLIES PAST, PRESENT AND FUTURE


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"And I don't know how you're gonna reason
"But somehow treason is treason."
                                                ---Richard Thompson

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

I am now in the corner of the room, sitting down and finally close to
exhaustion. The drugs have managed to have an effect on me. Voices still
lance themselves into my mind, but I no longer try to fight them. I've
almost gotten used to them like the sound of gunfire to a trench soldier.
"Almost" is as far as it goes, however. Soon the terror and pain will
return.

For now, however, I will sleep. I can't imagine what my dreams will be like.
Who and what will be in them? Will I see our ancestors watching the lights
in the skies and giving them names? Or will I see them being told the names?
Will I watch great buildings be constructed, smell the bodies of young men
fallen on the battlefield and hear prayers being said? That would be
history, I guess, one supposedly made out of the policy declared from the
balconies of palaces and the messages that live in our television sets.
However, there's more to it than that. Much more. There are secret promises
and alliances---processes as mysterious as the forces that create life
itself.

I could dream about that.

I could also dream about the people that have touched me. Friends, enemies,
comrades, traitors, victims, criminals. Family. They circle around me,
creating memories that surface through the havoc of my tortured mind. I see
them, recognize them briefly and then they slip away.

I could dream about that, too.

Then there's him. The one that is becoming more visible if ever so slowly.

I don't want to dream about him.

Then there is the woman, the woman with her own faith, the woman who has
taught me the value of doubt, the woman with the rare yet wonderful smiles,
the woman whom I can't let go of, the woman that has given me everything.

Please, God, let me dream about her.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Dana Scully had a certain look. It appeared when you had betrayed her in
some way. It wasn't an angry look---not an anger in terms of heat and rage,
anyway. Her eyes would become cold and blunt as if she was measuring the
size of your conscience and discovering that it was no bigger than a walnut.

When Walter Skinner stopped her in the middle of a hallway, he got that same
look.

It had been the first that he had seen her since her sudden trip to Africa.
He knew that she had been looking into the archaeological digs of Doctor
Merkmallen. However, she had given no indication of what she had found, if
anything. In fact, she had even let him known that she was back at the FBI
Headquarters. If she had seen him before he stopped her, she didn't give any
indication. That's why he placed one of his big hands on her shoulder and
said, "Agent Scully?"

And that's how he got the look which immediately made him move his hand. He
wasn't going to slink off anywhere, though. "Where have you been?"

She looked him over and said, "It's the nanotechnology, isn't it?"

His lips pressed firmly together.

"That's how they turned you against us. They have you by the marbles."

"Whatever I may have done..."

"Sir, I don't care what you have done. You do not matter anymore. I can't
depend on you. I'm sorry that it's that way but I obviously can't do
anything about it. I have no time to waste with you."

Skinner could only stand and stare at her. He had butted heads with Agent
Scully before. Hell, they had ever pointed guns at each other. Still, to be
dismissed with such finality...

"I'm going to see A.D. Kersh now. He wants to talk with me. I don't know
what about. I don't care either. Something very important has happened to
me, something that has made my standing at the FBI completely irrelevant..."

"That's not true," Skinner said, finally opening his tight throat. "Your
career here is important to you. It's important to me as..."

"You have no idea, Mister Skinner. You have no idea at all."

With that, she turned and walked away from him.

Skinner watched her go and felt angry. Not at her, but himself. He had been
readying himself for this---the moment when Mulder and Scully would need him
for one big battle. He knew that there would come a day when the final hand
would be dealt. Now the day was here. He could tell by the look in Scully's
eyes. He knew that she needed all the allies that she could get.

All he could do now, though, was watch with clenched fists as the poison
circulated in his veins.

It would have been a very, very bad idea to make Walter Skinner mad at this
moment.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Alvin Kersh could tell that Agent Scully wasn't going to give a damn about
anything he said to her. He could reprimand her for her unrespectful ways as
well as her expensive impromptu plane trips. She didn't care. She came into
his office, unafraid of his authority, ready to fling his crap back into his
face.

That's why she looked surprised when he stood up and told her kindly, "Agent
Scully, please have a seat."

She did so with a wary expression.

"How is Agent Mulder?" he asked her.

"Still in a bad condition, sir," she replied, her eyes trying to get past
that considerate expression on his face. He looked back at her suspicious
face and sighed.

"I have been a hard-ass to you and Agent Mulder," he said. "I make no
apologies for that. From my position, I saw two agents charging wildly over
rules that have been created out of years of tradition and experience, all
for a very questionable cause."

He looked a few inches away from her. "However, since the incident with
Agent Ritter, I have been questioning my judgment."

"You weren't responsible for that, sir," Scully said to her surprise.

"I partnered you with a careless fool. That makes it my responsibility." He
turned his eyes back to Scully. "There is also much that has to be answered.
The deaths at the El Rico air base, the murder of Agent Spender within this
very building. Not to mention the fact that I have been unable to contact a
certain gentlemen whose ambiguous position in the hierarcy of command I
didn't question enough."

Kersh walked around the desk. He sat in a chair next to Scully. His gaze was
firm yet not unfriendly.

"You were assigned years ago to debunk Agent Mulder's work. However, you
obviously have found evidence of...well, what have you found?"

Scully looked at the man for a long time. What could she tell him? How could
she tell him?

Finally, she said, "What I have found, sir...is nothing that I can prove. If
it is true, then it would change everything for you. Everything."

Kersh leaned back from her, then he stood up and went over to a window. He
stared at the sunlight, then turned back to Scully.

"If you need me for anything, then tell me. You understand, Agent?"

Scully nodded. "Yes, sir. And thank you."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The dreams haven't come yet. I can feel my mind wanting to throw off the
burdens of consciousness, but voices continue to scurry around in there.
This time, sleep will come but I know that it will be an impossibility in
the future.
Soon, I will be lost in a haze of other people's minds, unable to return to
the comfort of my closed eyes.

He is still lurking around my dreams. He will not show himself yet. When
that happens, he will devour me in one gulp. Then I will be Fox Mulder no
more. I'll just be another person crushed under the weight of history.

Let me have this one hour of rest, please. If I can have nothing else, let
me forget everything in the darkness of my dreams. Let me...

Someone is here.

Someone different.

He is...

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The male nurse looked at the television screen and sighed in relief. Fox
Mulder was finally asleep, laid out on the floor of his cell. It was amazing
that the poor fool had managed this long. The drugs and the exhaustion
should have beaten him down many hours ago.

The nurse looked away from the screen to the newspaper. He was reading a
story about a fire out in Russia. It had ran hell-bent through a forest and
a mining camp, killing many. As a side note, the story noted that the fire
occured near the site of one of the largest meteor strikes in Earth's
history.

So? the nurse thought. Why do they always add these useless tidbits in news
stories?

Out of habit, he glanced up from the newspaper to quickly scan his eyes over
the array of television screens.

That's when he saw the man standing outside of Mulder's cell. He was dressed
in a worn-out jacket and blue jeans, his face obscured by a brimmed hat. He
had one of his long hands pressed against the door.

Just standing there as if in silent conversation.

With his truncheon at his side, the nurse left the room. All it took was to
turn two corners and he was outside Mulder's cell. He found nobody there. He
called security and they were unable to find any stranger on the premise.

The male nurse returned to the surveillance room, puzzled and a little
spooked.

"You'll never find him."

He stared at the screen showing Mulder's cell. The patient was muttering in
his sleep.

"Never."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

PART FOUR
EARTHLINGS ON FIRE

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"'You wanted to enter history...What you really want is out.'"---Don Delillo

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

If you had known Conrad Strunghold, you might have called him an evil man.
He didn't think that he was. At least, he didn't think that he was the man
of his youth. He wasn't the man who had helped oversee new usages for human
flesh---flesh as experimental meat, flesh as sanitary products, flesh as
decoration, flesh as kindling for fire. He wasn't that proud officer who
wholly believed in the glory of racial purity. Back then, his leader's plan
for the future was an uncontestable fact. History had been marching right
beside him to the tempo of stomping boots.

Maybe he had been evil back then. He just knew that he was happier then as
well.

This was before that he learned that history had him in control and not the
other way around. This was before he saw the black thread that ran through
the course of human events. He couldn't cut this thread, merely try to sew
it into a slightly different pattern.

He had done his best to be a pattern-maker as well as a concealer of the
thread. He supposed that he was participating in an even larger crime than
what he had committed in the 1940's. Yet he felt no guilt. Only weariness.
He felt the same way when he looked at the photos of gaunt bodies dressed in
prison robes marked by golden stars. The glorious hatred for these people
had left him, but he didn't feel regret in its place. He merely regarded his
past activities as just one more of the world's needless dramas. It had been
a distraction from the real work that needed to be done.

Nowadays, that was difficult. The alien rebels had nearly decimated the
command structure of the conspiracy that he had put together. A plane had
been delivering him from Tunisia to West Virginia when he had received news
of his collaborators' immolation. Now there was only him and a certain
nicotine-addicted fellow. The two of them alone couldn't keep control over
all the subordinates and agents. This new group that Krycek had discovered
would help, but it would take time to reshape the whole system.

And when did they ever have the luxury of time?

Furthermore, there was troubling news from Russia. That country had lost its
whole facility in Tunguska. That was a shame since they had been closer than
anyone to perfecting a vaccine for the alien virus. Unfortunately, when
alliances had first been designed decades ago, the Russians had refused to
get into bed with the hated capitalist superpower. Considering that they had
free access to the virus, their refusal had been a serious loss.

Strunghold sighed. So many setbacks and failures...

He stepped out of his tent and stood under the night sky. The desert was
achingly beautiful with its curves of sand like black silk. Long rows of
corn stalks jutted up from the ground, an improbable sight. Two domes sat
nearby. They were filled with a white light as cold as the moon.

He was standing still and quiet when he heard the screams.

The darkness was invaded by a light---a hungry light that shook like a
madman. More lights appeared behind the cornstalks and domes. The soft night
became a war of violent shadows.

A man ran towards Strunghold, his hands held up into the air, his robes on
fire. He stumbled to the ground as if the flames were pinning him down.

The screams...the smell of cooked bodies...Strunghold mind was hurling
itself back through memory to the concentration camps...

And then there was the men coming towards him. They had already surrounded
Strunghold. At first, their rhythmic march also reminded him of the past as
he thought of his fellow soldiers striding proudly in front of grandiose
buildings. This was different, though. There was no human vanity in these
men, only pure relentlessness.
They held their rods as if they were just ordinary tools and there was
certainly no emotion in their scarred faces.

Strunghold supposed that he should have been afraid. Instead, he felt oddly
at peace. He was almost smiling.

History had let him go at last.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

PART FIVE
KNOCK, KNOCK

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"We're gonna break out all the windows.
We're gonna kick down all the doors..."
                                                           ---Willie Dixon

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The man looked at the photos. He was sitting in a room with simple yet
tasteful decorations. One of those decorations was a small cross carved out
of wood.

As he studied the photos, the twisting, metallic lines in their images were
reflected in his glasses. Eventually, he put them aside onto a table. He
turned his eyes to the cross, his finger tapping on the photos.

Then he picked up a phone and dialed a long number. He waited for an answer.

"Hello?"

"This is Salvatore Dolci."

The man on the other end said something cordial in Italian. Dolci did
likewise, then said in English, "Our people have been examining the craft."

"And?"

"Apparently, a hurricane had unearthed it. Our tests have shown it to be
thousands of years old, at least."

"So, it must have been one of the first ships to come here."

"Yes. But there is something else."

"M-hm?" The other voice was mild yet aware of the tension in Dolci's voice.

"This craft is...different."

"How so?"

"The technology, the design...it's not like what we have found in other
craft we have retrieved. I suspect that a comparison with your retrievals
would show discrepancies as well."

"Why shouldn't it be different? Technology always changes after time. Their
current ships are bound to look different than those of the past."

Dolci took a breath, then said, "Our people don't believe that it was
piloted by a biological entity."

He waited for a response. At first, he heard the click of a lighter, then an
exhalation of breath. Then the other man asked, "What then?"

"They don't know."

"I see."

"I don't know what this might mean to my group. I certainly don't know what
it might mean to you since I'm unaware of your own objectives."

"No. You don't know."

The blunt tone of the other man might have angered Dolci, but he knew that
he couldn't risk an antagonism. The chance encounter between Doctor
Barnes and Alex Krycek had led to a new alliance. It was the first time that
their two groups had ever met. They both knew that they needed the other's
help. However, Dolci had already revealed his own aims and goals. He
wished that he could be as knowledgable about the man he was talking with.

Still, it wouldn't be the first time that he had made deals with the devil.

"It's not a major concern of ours right now," the other man continued.
"Right now we are confronted with a more direct threat."

"Would it have something to do with these unexplained fires?"

The other man was silent for a moment, then said, "What do you know about
that?"

"Merely that this past week has seen small yet deadly conflagrations
occuring in several places over the world. Nobody can account for them. Is
this the threat that you are talking about?"

"We will handle it by ourselves."

"If you wish. But La Concordia is ready to assist you."

"I thank you."

"God be with you, my friend."

"Yes."

With that, the conversation ended.

"God be with you," Dolci murmured after hanging up. "Or any other God that
is watching."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

When Scully had first met the Lone Gunmen, her initial impression was that
they were Mulder's gangly dopplegangers---fellow paranoids with less irony
and homelier looks. Byers? A whacked-out civil servant. Langly? A pot-head
computer nerd. Frohike? Don't get her started.

She didn't know when exactly she began to see them in a better light. Maybe
it was when Frohike brought her flowers when she was in a coma. Maybe it was
when they supported her and Mulder during the crisis over the digital tape.
In any case, they had proven to be among the few truly trustworthy people
that Scully knew. Granted that there had been a few rough patches like the
Las Vegas adventure for which she had enacted a holy and righteous
vengeance. (That is another story.) Overall, though, they had proven to be a
collective rock in times of trouble, albeit a rock painted and carved with
grafitti.

That's why she asked them to find anything they could about Doctor Barnes.
The college administrator had recently vanished, right after his colleague
Steven Sandoz had been found lying on a Navajo reservation with his brains
leaking out. That night, they discretely summoned her to the office of their
newsletter.

"We've gone through Doctor Barnes' background thoroughly," Byers told her.
"I'm afraid that there's not much except this."

Scully was shown a photo. She saw three men in the foreground, apparently in
the middle of a social function. Barnes was doing the talking. One of the
other men was short, his clothing simple and tasteful. His eyes thoughtfully
regarded Barnes behind his glasses. The other man was wearing a suit that
was bluntly expensive. He seemed uncomfortable with not being the center of
attention.

"This was taken at a Vatican-sponsored seminar about supernatural
phenomena," Byers explained. "Barnes was one of the key speakers. We haven't
been able to identify the short man, but you might be able to recognize the
other one."

Scully looked at the well-dressed individual for a few moments. Then she
remembered.

"Roberto Calvi," she said. "The chairman of Banco Ambrosiano."

"The dead chairman," Langly amended. "Dead under questionable circumstances.
Hanging yourself from under a bridge is a really screwy kind of suicide."

"The Banco Ambrosiano was being investigated for corruption at the time,"
Byers noted. "Calvi was also in cahoots with P2, a Masonic lodge of equally
questionable morality. He is also..."

"...a suspected player in the possible assassination of Pope John Paul I,"
Scully said.

The Lone Gunmen looked at her.

"I've kept myself educated on all the favorite conspiracy theories," she
explained in a dry tone. "Are you saying that Barnes was a player in that,
too? Because I can only keep track of one plot at a time."

"We don't know what this means exactly," Langly said with a shrug.

Scully took another look at the photo. "Well," she said. "it does draw a
line between Barnes and what I saw in Africa. A rather shaky line, though."

"How so?"

"Krycek was there with a group of Italian henchmen."

"The rat bastard resurfaces," Frohike growled.

Scully smiled a little. "Yes. Too bad you weren't there to whip his ass."

"Don't you know it."

"What was Krycek doing there?" Byers asked.

"He was retrieving a spacecraft."

Scully got three very blank and stiff looks.

"Uh...I should have mentioned that first, shouldn't I?"

It took awhile for anybody to make a response. Finally, Frohike spoke up.

"Oh, mama."

Scully noticed that nobody was asking if she was sure about what she saw.
'Cause if Agent Dana Katherine Scully said that she saw a flying saucer,
then it damn well was a flying saucer. She had to admit that their
confidence warmed her heart.

Byers cleared his throat. "What, uh...who were the other men with Krycek?"

"I'm not sure. He implied that they were part of a different group than his.
I suspect that Doctor Barnes is a member of it. Apparently, Krycek's side
has found someone else whose interests coincide with theirs. Who and why are
questions yet to be answered."

Then Scully looked at the other three men and they all felt an impulse to
step back. Scully had always had her share of determination, but this was
different. Her face...it must have been the way Joan of Arc looked on the
battlefield.

"I want those answers. I want to find out where they put that ship. And then
we're going to get it back. Understand me?"

They all spoke up. "Oh, sure. Yeah. You bet."

"We need it for obvious reasons. To undercover the truth and to help..."

Suddenly, Scully bent over and placed her hands on a table. She closed her
eyes, looking ready to fall over.

Byers gently went up to her and placed a hand on her shoulder. "Are you all
right?"

She let out a breath. "I'll be fine. I'm just tired. It's Mulder's condition
that questionable." She straightened herself up. The weariness that they had
seen was being shoved aside. "What have you heard?"

"Well," Langly said. "from what we understand, he's finally getting some
sleep. His brain functions are still..."

The doorbell rang. Or, rather, it buzzed sharply like an angered insect.
Frohike went up to a tv screen.

Outside, a camera peered down at a man in his late twenties wearing clothes
that looked slept in. "What do you want?" Frohike asked over the intercom.

The man gazed back at the camera. His eyes held a strange expression, calm
and firm at the same time. He held up a piece of paper to the camera.

It read, "I NEED TO TALK TO AGENT SCULLY."

Frohike examined the man, then he glanced at Agent Scully.

"She's not here," he replied over the intercom.

The man's face didn't change. Instead, he regarded the camera for a second
more, then turned and left.

"Who was that?" Scully asked.

"I don't know. Some creep. I didn't like the look of him so I..."

The door shook.

This was a thick door, many inches of iron held in place by several locks
and bolts. It was designed to withstand battering rams and bombs.

Right now, however, it was being tested. It trembled like a dropped trash
can. The bolts squeaked.

Everybody rushed over to the tv screen. They saw the man backing himself up,
then charging forward to land one of his feet right in the middle of the
door. He repeated this over and over again with no signs of getting injured
or tired.

"I think you better let him in," Scully said.

Byers said, "No, wait, we have a back exit..."

"Let him in."

The Lone Gunmen looked at each other, then Frohike hit the intercom button.
"Okay, okay! Stand down! We'll let you in!"

The door-assaulter backed off, his expression still calm.

Frohike swallowed, then undid all the bolts and opened the door. He quickly
backed away.

The man stepped into the office. He took a moment to survey the room, then
he reached into his jacket.

Everybody held their breath.

A notebook came out of his pocket. He wrote in it, tore off a page and
extended it towards Frohike.

The little man carefully took it from the visitor. It read---

"YOU SHOULD BE NICER TO YOUR SUBSCRIBERS."

"Huh?" Frohike commented.

"Who are..." Scully began, but the visitor pulled out another note from his
pocket. It was already written on. The two of them looked at each other and
he raised his eyebrows slightly.

Then she read it.

"MY NAME IS RICHARD ERICKSON. I'M AN ALIEN. HOW ARE YOU?"

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

PART SIX
OLD PLAYERS, NEW GAME

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"Men may keep a sort of level of good, but no man has ever been able to keep
on one level of evil. That road goes down and down."---G.K. Chesterton

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

When people hear the word "conspiracy," they think of men gathered in rooms
with stainless steel walls, electronic maps and buttons that can trigger
world events. More likely, however, secret histories are constructed in
cheap hotel rooms and at the tables of a sandwich deli.

Diana Fowley found the smoking man sitting at the back of The Marble
Restaurant. A half-eaten turkey sandwich was on his paper plate. He didn't
look like he was interested in the rest of it.

"Are you hungry?" he asked as she sat down.

"I've already ate. Why did you call me here?"

The smoking man snubbed out his cigarette and lit another one. "The rebels
have taken over our facilities," he told her in a mild voice.

Fowley took a few moments to absorb that, then replied, "I surmise that
Strunghold is dead now."

"He is."

"So, now it's really over," she said, her voice oddly cool. "Decades of work
and all of it for nothing."

"Not exactly. The work continues."

"How?"

"Apparently...we have misinterpreted the rebels' intentions. Or they have changed their plans. From what we can
tell, the captured facilities are still active."

"I see." She tapped one of her fingernails on the table.

"You know what that means?"

"They don't want to stop the colonization. They just want to control it."

"Again, that may not have been their original intention. Richard Erickson,
the Jeremiah Smiths, the Kurt Crawfords...they seemed to have genuinely
wanted our survival. By siding against them, we may have...pushed the rebels
towards more extreme actions."

There was a long, thick moment of silence.

Finally, Fowley said, "Well."

"Yes. Well. As I've said before, regret is an inevitable consequence of
life. The question now is...how do we respond to the present situation and
how do we insure our survival?"

"I'm not sure."

"Neither am I. Of course, it would help to know if we are all working from
the same playbook."

Fowley tilted her head slightly. "Excuse me?"

"I have never been certain of your dedication to the project."

"Might I remind you," Fowley said, making an obvious effort at controlling
herself. "that it was me who helped you when you were shot. For which you
paid me back by arranging to have me shot."

"I was in much more danger than you," the smoking man replied, unruffled.
"Unlike my wounds, yours received the best medical care, thanks to my
arrangements."

Fowley couldn't disagree with that. The first thing that she saw when she
woke up in the hospital was the face of a large man with sharp cheeks. The
man pulled his hand away from her chest and said, "She will be safe now."
She turned her head to see the smoking man at her side, giving her a tight
smile.

"You told me that you understood why it was done," he continued. "Gibson
Praise would have known if you were in on my plan."

"I wasn't lying. I understand that it's all part of the game."

Fowley reached over and touched his hand. "So why are you questioning my
loyalty?"

He looked down at her hand, then back at her. "I'm just wondering what you
really want."

"Does it matter?"

The smoking man took another puff off his cigarette, then he said, "I guess
it doesn't."

She smiled. "So...what should we do now?"

"First of all, we should clean up everything, throw out all that we don't
need. I've already got Krycek on that. After that...we wait...and we watch."

"What about Agent..."

Fowley's cellular phone rang. With one hand still touching the smoking man,
she took out the phone and thumbed it on.

"Hello?...I see...Do you think that she has the authority?...All right. I'll
be there in a minute."

She turned the phone off. "Speak of the devil," she said.

"Something about Mulder?"

"Yes. And about Agent Scully. She's trying to get him out of the psyche
ward." She squeezed his hand and then stood up. "I'll tend to this."

She left the deli.

The smoking man was left with his thoughts. He had a couple more cigarettes.
He arrived at these conclusions---

1) Agent Mulder was not presently a threat. In fact, he may have been broken
for good this time.

2) Agent Scully was a threat, however. Maybe a bigger threat than ever
before. From what Krycek had said, she now apparently shared her partner's
beliefs. It had galvanized her, making her a force to be reckoned with.

In fact, she had always been, hadn't she? In the beginning, she had been
just one more tool to use against Mulder. She was there to frustrate him,
both philosophically and sexually. Dangling in front of his face, she
symbolized everything that he didn't have---respectability, caution,
intimacy.

That plan turned into another regret.

Instead of conflicting, their passions united. He had to regroup and use
their relationship against them. That failed as well.

Now she was out there, very dangerous.

Or very useful.

The smoking man made a call on his own cellular phone.

"What is the current condition on Firstborn 6?...I want it moved to another
location. I don't want to know where, but keep in contact with me...You
don't have to ask why. Just follow orders."

You want to play, Agent Scully? Then let's play.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

PART SEVEN
MULDER AND NON-MULDER

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"Just give 'em hell!"---the last words of John Huston

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"You two are really...really pushing it."

Walter Skinner remembered saying that or a variation on it to Mulder and
Scully on a number of occasions. Only now Scully was saying it to him and
Diana Fowley. It might his stomach tighten up one more notch.

"Agent Scully, if you just think this clearly..." Fowley began.

"I have. It is my conclusion that it would be best for Agent Mulder to be
under my care. Not only do I have the moral obligation, but I have the legal
authority. You'll find that he and I have previously signed agreements that
allow me to make..."

"We already know about that..."

"...this decision. I have also received the consensus of Agent Mulder's
mother."

Fowley looked at Scully for a moment, then she walked over to an array of
video screens.

"Do you honestly believe..."

She pointed at the screen showing Mulder in his cell. He was sitting in a
corner, motionless but with wide, frightened eyes.

"...that he belongs on the outside?"

"I know that he doesn't belong here." Under your thumb, Scully added
silently.

Fowley shook her head and looked at Skinner. "You're not going to let this
happen, are you?"

Skinner looked at a spot on a wall. "The doctors have already okayed it.
Albeit reluctantly, but they said that their hands are tied."

"You're still not without authority in this matter, Mister Skinner."

The big ex-marine looked at Fowley who quietly cleared her throat. "I have
authority?" he asked archly. "That comes as a surprise."

He stared at Fowley until she looked away. Then he turned to Scully and
opened his mouth.

"Nothing you say can change my mind, sir," she told him.

"I was going to say...he may not want to leave."

"He will."

Skinner turned to the screen. He watched Mulder for a few moments.

Then he said, "If you can get him to leave on his own two feet...I'll make
no more objections."

He kept his eyes off Scully as she studied him and wondered. She left the
room without saying a word. Nothing was said at all in the room for a long
time.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

They are warning her now. Don't go in there. He's got a head full of bats,
that one. The next explosion could happen any second. Stay away.

Not a bad piece of advice.

The panic is returning. In a few moments, it will have control over my body
as my mind implodes. I can't guarantee the safety of anybody around me. (And
there's him, always him behind me.) I can almost hear the ticking of a bomb.

She won't be turned away, though. She plows through their objections like an
iron-plated ship. She just had a life-changing experience. A transformation.
An epiphany. Whatever. In any case, she will not let meaningless things like
doctors, Diana Fowley or a door stop her. She wants to be in my cell now...

No.

Don't come in here. I'll keep you in my final dreams but I don't want you in
here. I don't care what you have found. I don't care what cause you have
acquired. There is no Fox Mulder in here. What awaits you is a puppet whose
heavy limbs swing in all direction. I'm one-hundred-and-seventy pounds of
flesh and bone ready to pounce on anything. If our friendship ever met
anything...

She's in.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

In black-and-white, she was seen slowly walking into the cell. She didn't
walk directly towards Mulder. She followed a circular path that curved
towards the wall and then up to the man sitting in the corner. His face was
a blank expression that could mean anything. It could have been the look of
a man unable to move or an animal ready to bite.

She knelt down on the floor next to him, her hands intertwined together on
her knees. He turned away from her gaze.

Then she turned her eyes up to the camera, seeing the red light under its
lens.

"Turn that thing off," she ordered.

Fowley looked a firm "no" at Skinner.

"I said, turn it off."

Skinner held his breath.

"Turn it off or I'll..."

He strode over to the set and clicked it off. He turned to Fowley, matching
her disapproval with his defiance.

He said, "So sue me."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

PART EIGHT
SCULLY'S MONOLOGUE

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"Love is a madness, but what is the madness looking for?"---James Hillman

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"Mulder, look at me.

"Look at me.

"I'm going to tell you why you should leave this cell with me.

"I know what's wrong with you. I know what's causing these voices in your
head. I don't know how to stop them, but there's a way of dealing with the
pain.

"I've also met someone. He can give everything you want, Mulder. He knows
the whole truth. He knows what the future is going to be. And he might just
have a way of stopping it.

"I know it sounds all too familiar. I know we have often felt that we have
reached the point of clarity, only to get mired in lies. This is different,
though. I can feel it.

"You also need to leave this place. If you stay here...

"Look at me, Mulder.

"I said...look...at...me.

"It's dangerous to be here. I don't know what they have planned for you.
They could leave you here in your misery. Or they could start their own
tests. For your sake, you have to come with me.

"Do you understand?

"Is any of this getting through?

"I know you're not crazy, Mulder. You may feel like you're going mad, but
you're just in pain. However, you will go mad if you stay here. I need you
to...

"I...

"Oh, God...

"Mulder, am I being selfish? Should I just leave you here? I can't promise
that the hurting will stop if you come with me. We can help you, but there's
no guarantee. Are you better off...

"No, I can't believe that. I can't accept it.

"You know why?

"I need you with me.

"Something fantastic has happened. I saw something that changed the way I
look at the world.

"Or, at least, I don't know how to look at the world anymore.

"You told me that life itself on this world may have been a part of a
design. Nothing religious or holy. We were just planted here for some damned
reason.

"You can say something like that so easily. You can believe it and face the
consequences of that belief. But if it's true, I don't know if I can handle
it.

"I certainly can't handle it alone.

"You always had the strength to accept facts that could turn reality upside
down. If you still have that strength, give it to me.

"Mulder?

"Can't you say anything?

"I don't know if you believe what I'm telling you.

"Believe it, Mulder. Believe it.

"You once told me that I completed you. Well, you complete me, too, Mulder.
You've taught me what it means to be truly unafraid. You've given me a new
way of looking at things. I see a world that frightens me, but it's still a
beautiful place.

"Only that world won't be right without you.

"And, you know...

"That frightens me most of all. I never thought that it would get to this
point. I've never been the best person in the world about getting close to
others. I've always wanted to be completely independent. You can chalk that
up to a lot of things---being a woman in a man's world, stubbornness, my
father.

"Fear of loss.

"Well, now I'm close to losing you.

"And it scares me to think of my life without you. I almost wish that it
wasn't that way, but I can't change it.

"If you leave with me for no other reason, do it out of mercy. Because if
you stay here, you'll hurt me deeper than I have ever been. And you know how
I've been hurt.

"Please.

"Take my hand.

"Please.

"Just take it.

"...and let's go."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

PART NINE
NOSTALGIA

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"He was sentimental. He was evil and sentimental."---Fyodor Dostoevski

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Alex Krycek could remember when this used to be fun.

They had first approached him back in 1988. He was still a young man in the
army then and still ready to go kick commie butt. He didn't trust Gorbachev
anymore than the past Russian premiers. His parents had raised him with a
deep suspicion of the government they had fled as well as an overwhelming
love of his adopted land.

Then a black man who never spoke his name told Krycek that he could kick
butt in subtler, sneakier ways. The romance of secrets was introduced. He
could now run underground like a child through a maze. It was all about
excitement, intrigue and the American way.

What a patsy he was. And if there was one thing that his new employers
excelled at, it was finding patsies.

At first, his new job was a blast. He played with his new identies,
skillfully shifting between each mask that he held up to others. To his
parents, he was their army boy who kept moaning about his boring new job in
Adminstration. To the people in Administration, he was just another guy who
liked beer and women. To the Russians, he was their own agent, a man
disgusted with the decadence of capitalism. To the black man and others like
him, he was part of the brotherhood that kept nightmares from leaking into
the innocent American mind. To himself, he was...

That became a question. He didn't mind, though. He was having too much fun,
not to mention getting laid. For what was espionage without sex?

Into his own little drama came the curvy UN representative. In between
keeping the free world safe, they would hump their merry hearts out. It
rounded out his fantasy world, one that still maintained itself ever after
the Soviet Union bit the dust. Danger and malice would always roam the land,
but pure-hearted Alex Krycek would be there to protect it.

He wondered where exactly it went wrong.

Maybe it was when the black man killed someone right in front of him. After
firing the gun, he looked at Krycek with eyes that seemed to grab him as if
he were a worm. He never found out why the man had been assassinated. "It's
all right," his UN squeeze told him. "It's all for the common good." That
night, he would lie awake in bed, telling himself that he was strong enough
for this.

Then he got to see another dead body, only this one wasn't human. As they
stood next to a grey-skinned corpse lying on a steel slab, the black man
informed Krycek that he had a new superior. His new superior looked at him
through smoke and said, "It's for the common good that this never see the
light of day."

I am strong, he kept repeating. I am strong, I am strong...

By the time he had killed his first man, it was too late to turn back. He
hadn't killed him because the man was a danger to national security or a
criminal or even a personal threat to his well-being. He killed him to delay
a FBI agent from rescuing his partner. He killed him because he had been at
the wrong place at the wrong time.

No one bothered to tell him that it was for the common good.

That's when he knew what it was all about. It wasn't about your country. It
wasn't about your ideology. It had nothing to do with whether you were good
or bad. God, the truth and your fellow citizens were not factors.

It was about saving your ass. And getting out of Dodge when you had to.

He did just that when his smoking boss attempted to punish him for a botched
job. For awhile, he was performing well at hiding in the darker places of
the underground.

Next thing he knew, though, he was trapped in a locked missile silo after
his own body had been used against him. He spent a couple of days there,
screaming, cursing, crying, pounding on the door. Then he fell to the floor,
exhausted and ready to die. He thought about the decision that he had made
years back---when he had said "yes" to the black man. He didn't exactly feel
regret. If nothing else, he had gotten a look at what the world was really
like. He decided that everybody was destined to die like this.

Like a dog.

Like a rat in a poisoned hole.

Like a man who had been used by the human and the inhuman, by the forces of
history, by his own gullibility.

Then the door was opened. He could smell tobacco.

"Well, Alex, are you ready to be a team player again?"

Why not?

Soon, he was putting on one of his old disguises---the American agent who
was secretly working for the Russians. With the smoking man and his UN babe
(still as good in bed as ever), they carefully plotted his infiltration into
the Russian's own secret lairs. You see, Krycek's ancestor nation had an
edge in a silent war, enabling them to create a vaccine that soon the whole
world would need. Without telling his own group, the smoking man was trying
to acquire that vaccine. Carefully, Krycek got into the Russians' good
graces, playing good ol' Mulder and good ol' Scully in the process. Granted
that he had lost a limb as well, but he had accepted loss as just part of
doing business.

Over that period of time, a few people died. The black man turned out to
have a bit of conscience in him after all. He paid for it with his blood.
And the smoking man was also assassinated for his transgressions.

Krycek's parents died, too. He never went to their funerals. Wasn't able to.
Nor did he want to.

Krycek and Miss UN were now left alone on the field. Just fine with him.
When the time was right, he took a sample of the Russian vaccine. Then he
tried to blackmail the other side into giving him the benefit of their own
research. With their data, he would be able to perfect the vaccine and
then...well, look who would be on top, then.

Once again, everything got screwed up.

He should have expected this.

He should have expected that his babe had her own agenda going. He should
have known that his former employers would have him in their grasp again.
Hell, he should have known that black-lunged bastard was still alive.

It was different this time, though. He had a new boss, one who had grown to
hate the lies, the plans, the ideology of mere survival.

"I don't care what you want," Krycek had told him. "If you'll protect me,
I'll stand by you."

"Really?" the Englishman said with raised eyebrows. "You must be more
pathetic than I thought."

Krycek didn't reply to that, but, for the first time in years, he saw a new
possibility in life. He tried to look away. Yet hope had a nasty habit of
reasserting itself.

The smoking man could see his ambivalence. "Don't let that man fool you," he
warned. "There is no way out of this game."

"At least, he actually believes in something."

The smoking man smiled and said, "Believe it or not, Alex, but I bear no
grudge against you. After our English comrade is dead, come see me."

"Don't you dare..."

"I won't do a thing to him. He'll do it all himself."

Guess what?

One car explosion later, Alex found himself once again with a new superior,
someone he found himself calling "a great man." Great not in the sense he
was good. Great in the sense that he was inevitable like avalanches or
hurricanes.

Or dying.

Or the end of the world.

Now the great man was telling him to shed the past for good. Krycek walked
down the corridors of a containment facility at Fort Marlene with an armed
man. He was trying to decide which one of them should do the shooting.

She was lying on a cot in her cell. As he entered the cell, her pale face
looked up at him. She knew that it was her time. Her feelings were caught
between wanting to get it over with and the unstoppable desire to live.

His history was in her eyes, one that would die with her. She silently
begged him not for mercy, but for some acknowledgement of their shared past.

What would be appropriate? To watch as another man shot her? Or to carve out his own capstone to years gone by? The armed man waited silently for his command.

He took a breath, then opened his mouth to speak.

Then he saw the look in her eyes. It was surprise, surprise at something
behind him.

He heard the sound ever before he turned, just in time to see his armed
companion slide down one of the walls. He had been flung against it, the
wall striking his head like a baseball bat.

There was another man in the room, one of the other armed men who protected
the facility. He had that man's face, anyway. He was looking at Krycek.

Krycek went for his gun.

The newcomer lifted up a finger. He wagged it at him. There was a little
smile on his face.

Krycek got the message. Shooting this man would only do himself harm. He
held up his hands in the air.

The other man nodded his approval. Then he hit Krycek in the face.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

She didn't think that her rescuer would get her out of that place, but he
did. After knocking out Krycek, he just scooped her up in his arms and took
off with her. Her memory of their escape was cloudy. She had been barely
conscious of anything. She could vaguely remember his tireless steps, the
opening of doors and the sound of a car engine.

Sight and sound became more distinct later. She became aware that she was in
a basement. She was lying on a mattress that touched the cement floor. There
were a few portable lamps turned on. The cracked walls and gray colors
weren't the most attractive sight, but the room was clean and it was better
than her prison.

She also saw a ice cooler and knew that there was food inside it. There was
also a portable computer, a radio and bits of equipment used for more
secretive purposes.

And she saw him.

He was standing in the corner at the very edge of the light. His back was
turned to her and his hands were pressed against the walls. His shoulders
were heaving as he let out long breaths.

There was also this strange, unnatural sound---it squished, cracked,
groaned. She could also see bulges under the man's guard uniform that would
expand and then smooth out. His ribs twisted themselves around. She watched
and listened, despite the queasiness in her stomach.

The man's body finally settled down. He took one more breath, stood up
straight and turned around.

"Who are you?" she whispered.

He stepped into the light. His blue eyes looked back at her. They were
relieved and they were uncertain and they were sad.

Her body felt near-dead, but Marita Covarrubias stood up from the mattress.
She walked on her trembling legs towards him as if she wanted to make sure
of his identity.

"Richard...Erickson."

The man nodded.

She stared at him for one more moment.

Then she began to hit him. She pounded her fists on his chest with her last
bits of strength. "You bastard!" she yelled. "You bastard! Why didn't
you...why didn't you come for me before? Why did you wait so long? How could
you leave me there with...why..."

He just stood there, taking both the screams and the poundings. Finally, she
gave him one last half-hearted blow and fell against him. She cried like a
child.

His arms embraced her as her wails subsided into whimpers and into quiet. He
held her for a long time.

Sometimes, the past burdens us. Sometimes, it saves us.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

PART TEN
THE SHORE OF SUNSHINE

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"Twas in another lifetime, one of toil and blood
 When blackness was a viture and the road was full of mud.
 I came in from the wilderness, a creature void of form.
 'Come in,' she said,
 'I'll give you shelter from the storm.'"
                                                        ---Bob Dylan

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Mist.

Bright flash of light.

Words drained of meaning, words as mere sounds.

Always behind me, always after me.

Hung suspended between two worlds. Can no longer define either.

"A dream is an answer..."

"Mulder?"

A long path. Hard on the feet. The moon is fading away.

I am quite possibly happy now.

"Can you hear me?"

Two people on the path with me.

He has come with knowledge, with God's own playbook, with the information
collected at the binding of molecules.

"Is there something I should be doing?"

She has come with only her caring. Who is more valuable?

"...to a question we haven't asked."

Father.

The mist again.

It falls out of my hands like sand.

Just like the way you have lost so much.

Father.

Your father. Your father died without telling you the secret of his heart.
So did mine. That's how you understand.

A wind sneaks through the mist.

"Mulder, please let me know if you can hear me."

I want to touch you and the man nods his approval.

But someone else is always after me, dragging not the smell of cigarettes
but the smell of oceans.

Pay him no mind. Just take my hand.

The mist is fading away.

Always after me.

But my hand is being held.

Always.

Scully?

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

He had painfully opened his eyes and turned his head, turned his head to the
person holding his hand. She drifted into his vision, her expression at
first wary, wanting to see if he was really awake. When she saw that he was,
she smiled at him. How often had she ever done that? How often had he seen
those soft lips curve and those blue eyes show happiness?

This was the past, of course. This was a memory that had been scooped up by
a dream. This was from the time that he had been exposed to...

No, it wasn't. It was happening right now.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"Hm. That's nice."

"What's nice, Mulder?"

"Knowing if I wake up anywhere, I can usually count on you to be there next
to me."

"Careful, Mulder. We have company and they might take that the wrong way."

He was about to ask who was the company when he noticed that hands were
pressed gently against his temples. He looked up and saw a man's pale face
looking down at him.

"Our minds...are one," Mulder intoned in a deep voice.

The man rolled his eyes and pulled his hands away.

"You must be feeling better," Scully said.

"Yeah. The...the voices have stopped."

"It was Richard who did that."

"He couldn't have done it alone."

"No. I just held your..."

The man touched Scully on the shoulder and gave her a look. You helped, he
silently told her. You helped more than you believe.

Then the man stood up and went away somewhere.

Mulder looked up at Scully.

This woman.

This person.

This undeniable fact of his life.

"I knew you would get me through," he told her.

She said nothing, only kept him giving that smile he wanted to last forever.
He couldn't imagine anything better than the two of them holding hands.
Nothing else had this perfection. Nothing else could be free of pain.

How about it? he thought. Just let us stay inside this moment for good. Let
the world vanish and leave us here.

No such luck.

So...

"All right," he said. "On to the obvious questions...where are we? What time
is it? Who is that man? You don't have to answer this in any particular
order."

Scully took a breath, then gently laid his hand down. "We are in the
basement of an abandoned building on the outskirts of D.C. It is
nine-forty-five P.M."

"I remember..." He sighed. "Well, not a whole lot. I remember leaving the
cell with you. Did you take me straight here?"

"No. You've been in and out of consciousness for awhile. And I couldn't just
take you here. I had to make sure we weren't followed."

Mulder carefully propped himself on his elbows. "It's a fixer-upper," he
observed as he looked around. He saw the man working on a computer that was
hooked up to a familiar device. He noticed that there were two mattresses in
the basement. He was on one. Marita Covarrubias was sleeping on another.

"What's she doing here?" he asked.

"Richard hasn't explained that yet. But I trust that he will explain it and
much else."

Mulder wagged his fingers at the man. "Hey, Richard."

The man wagged his fingers back.

"Richard who?" he asked Scully.

"Richard Erickson."

Mulder took another look at Erickson, then motioned to Scully to come
closer.

"I know you probably don't want to get started on this..." he said in a low
voice.

"On what?"

"But I can't shake the feeling that our friend over there is not human."

I'M NOT.

Mulder sat straight up, almost jumped off the mattress. Now he remembered
where he saw that device before. It was the Lone Gunmen's voice synthesizer,
the one they used to fake his voice to Scully at one time. (Ah, what a tale
that was.)

Only now it wasn't speaking with his voice.

It was speaking with the voice of a dead woman.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" he shouted. "How dare you use
that..."

"Mulder," Scully interjected. "it's all right."

He looked at her calm yet sad look. Then he turned to Erickson and it
snapped together for him.

"It was you, wasn't it? It was you who told Scully about Emily."

Erickson quickly typed.

YES. I HAD ACQUIRED MELISSA'S VOICE FROM A TAPED SPEECH SHE GAVE AT A NEW
AGE WORKSHOP. I ALSO DIRECTED SCULLY'S PHONE TRACE TO THE SIM FAMILY.

Mulder looked again at Scully. She was doing well but this was hard
territory for her.

"Why are you using that voice?" Mulder asked Erickson.

I CAN'T TALK.

"But why that voice?"

"I prefer it this way, Mulder," Scully said.

Mulder untightened his shoulders, but the caution was still in his eyes. He
touched Scully's hand briefly and, just as briefly, he saw her smile again.

Then he said to Erickson---

"You have a story to share with the class?"

YES. I DO.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

PART ELEVEN
A STORY OF HOW IT BEGAN

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Mulder: Ever read the Ten Commandments, Scully?

Scully: You want me to recite them?

Mulder: No, just the fourth. You know, the one where God made heaven and
earth, but didn't bother to tell anybody about his side projects?

Scully: What are you talking about?

Mulder: The biggest lie of them all.

                                ---"Anasazi," written by Chris Carter


XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The gods kill us for their sport. That's because they get bored easily.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

It was wide and fertile. Every kind of ecosystem imaginable was available
from barren deserts to lush forests to towering mountains to deep seas. It
was ready to give birth. They decided to assist with the delivery.

So they planted a bit of their own seed and watched it grow.

A new kind of animal took over the lands, smarter than others and capable of
adaptation. They watched as it figured out how to organize in groups, lived
off what it grew and kill, raised a next generation, scrawled what it knew
on cave walls.

They watched.

Then they decided to have some fun.

They showed themselves and the animals cowered in fear at the sounds they
made and the lights in the sky. They gave the animals laws to follow and
stories to read. They played out different roles in different places. To
some, they took on the form of a monolithic entity. For others, they put on
the dramas of warring dieties who each controlled their own turf.

It was amusing for awhile. The awe and the fear they received was a drug
they couldn't resist.

However, like most drugs, the initial euphoria faded away to be replaced by
moodiness and a need for a change.

So they decided to leave, letting the animals sort our their own existence.

They never played the role of gods again. Instead, they settled for
observing other worlds and the occasional interaction with a race as
advanced as they were. Mostly, however, they were nomads, living and dying
within the confines of their ships.

Then the problem started.

Diseases had a hard time against their resistant biology. They were immune
to almost all forms of bodily harm. Their life expectancy should have been
in the hundreds of years.

Yet it started to dwindle from hundreds to under a hundred. Then to under
eighty. Then to under fifty and further and further downward. They studied
the problem with terror and fascination. A biological flaw was discovered,
one that couldn't be removed from future generations. Their progeny were
doomed to life spans that would eventually shorten themselves to mere
seconds.

The work continued, a desperate, hopeless fight against the biological flaw.
Then someone remembered that planet from long ago. The one they had seeded.

An examination of the planet discovered that the animals had advanced in
their technology. They sardonically noted that their games of millennia past
had evolved into hopelessly serious beliefs.

Most importantly, however, they noted that their creation lacked the
biological flaw that they were cursed with. Their lives rarely got past one
hundred, but there was no impending endgame in their future.

That's when they made their plans.

They didn't even debate the morality of it.

Their future's security would be bought with the lives of another race.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

After the final synthesized words left the computer's speakers, the basement
kept itself silent for awhile.

"Is this what it's about?" Mulder finally said. "Just survival of one
species over another?"

WHAT ELSE IS THE HISTORY OF THE UNIVERSE ABOUT?

"I was told differently. I was told that the aliens are a race of
conquerers."

WHO TOLD YOU THAT?

"Cassandra Spender. She's..."

Erickson held up a hand and typed---

I KNOW WHO SHE IS. SHE TOLD YOU THIS AFTER
HER CONTACT WITH THE REBELS, CORRECT?

"Yes."

THEY MUST HAVE PUT THAT IDEA IN HER HEAD
THROUGH SUBLIMINAL SUGGESTION. JUST AS
THE COLONISTS TOLD HER THAT THEY WERE A
BAND OF ENLIGHTENED COSMIC GURUS.

"I don't understand. Who are the rebels then?"

THE COLONISTS HAVE DEVELOPED A RACE OF
WORKERS. THEY ARE BRED TO DO THE DIRTY JOBS.


"Including assassination?"

YES. THE BOUNTY HUNTER WAS SPECIALLY
DESIGNED FOR THAT JOB. HE'S EVEN BEEN
BRED TO LACK ONE OF THE ALIENS' FEW
WEAKNESSES.

"Being wounded at the back of the neck. I know. I tried that. So, the rebels
are trying to deny their masters a chance for a future?"

THAT'S WHY THEY'RE TRYING TO USURP
COLONIZATION. AT LEAST, I ASSUME THEY
ARE.

"Assume?"

THERE HAVE BEEN STORIES. I'M NOT SURE
WHAT THEY MEAN, BUT

Erickson stopped typing. He looked at Scully.

Mulder turned to her.

She was trying her best to hide her feelings, but he knew...

He knew what was going under that still, pale face. She had just learned
that her faith was the product of haughty extraterrestrial aristocrats. It
was a belief that she had lost and then regained again. It had been one of
the few things that she could rely on.

Mulder felt a hatred like nothing before. In the past, the aliens had been
his own private gods. Not to be worshipped so much, but to be awed by and to
provide a rationale for his life. Now, when he thought about them, he saw
nothing
more than a despicable bunch of manipulators. He wanted nothing more than to
charge into their heaven and kick them off their holy thrones.

The hatred had always been there. How could he not hate them after what they
had done to Samantha, to Scully, to the world? Yet that hatred had been
tempered by a need to share their secrets. He would ask questions first,
then shoot.

He had answers now.

If Scully felt the same way...if the same hatred boiled inside her...she
didn't show it. She just said quietly, "Where do you fit in this?"

Erickson looked at Scully for a moment more, then he typed---

THE ALIENS RETURNED TO THIS PLANET DURING THE
LATE NINETEENTH CENTURY. THEY FOUND A WORLD
THAT WAS DEEPLY UNSTABLE IN ITS POLITICS, CULTURE
AND INTERNATIONAL RELATIONS, NOT TO MENTION
DEVELOPING A HIGHER LEVEL OF MILITARY TECHNOLOGY.
IT WAS QUITE POSSIBLE THAT THE HUMAN RACE WOULD
ANNIHILATE ITSELF BEFORE THE PROCESS COULD BEGIN.
THEY NEEDED TO KEEP THE WORLD INTACT SO THEY COULD
HARVEST IT.

THAT'S WHERE I STEPPED IN.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

PART TWELVE
A BRIEF HISTORY OF RICHARD ERICKSON

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"Ain't nothing but a stranger in this world."---Van Morrison

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

He had spent a lot of time in France during the early part of the twentieth
century. As the one who had to oversee the safety of this planet, he had to
understand all of its aspects. That included its culture. That period of
time in that country had been the testing ground for many of the most
influential trends in ideas, expression, and art. He witnessed much of it up
close. He had been in La Maison des Amis des Livres to hear the reading of a
novel written by a half-blind Irishman. He had watched the tears pour down
the face of a woman playing Joan of Arc. He saw a Russian dancer dress up
like a faun. He witnessed a crowd beating itself up as it listened to the
music composed by another Russian.

One moment was prominent in his mind, though. It had been in 1896. He had
made friends with an Irish poet named William and had gone with him to see a
play. Unfortunately, it became difficult to watch. The play opened up with
an actor shouting a slang term for feces and the crowd responded with a
loud, lengthy display of outrage.

He watched this with his usual detachment. William was trying to calm the
audience down. He was one of the few who applauded the play. Afterwards,
however, he confessed that the play had disturbed him as well.

"Why?" he asked.

"It's an important work," William explained as they sat at a cafe table,
drinking coffee. "Yet it's a brutal one. It makes me uneasy to think of the
kind of world that it reflects. Or the world that is coming."

William looked down at his cup. His expression was tense and solemn. "After
us, the savage god," he muttered.

"Excuse me?"

"Oh, sorry. That's a habit of many writers, speaking aloud their thoughts.
It was just something that I wrote last night in my journal. The savage
god."

William shrugged.

The savage god.

Down through the twentieth century, Richard Erickson was the ghost of
history. He was a counselor to rulers and generals as well as a presence in
every lowly cult of terrorists and fanatics. He steered them away from any
direction that could lead to global destruction. His methods could be both
blunt and subtle. When he spoke, he mixed hard truths with complete lies. He
appealed to logic as well as their deepest prejudices.

Brief moments---

A member of a British code cracking team is approached by another man in a
pub. The Englishman usually tries to hide his homosexuality, but the other
man is so free and open with his friendliness that he relaxes. When he wakes
up the next morning, he finds that he remembers nothing about last night but
he has just figured out a new way of tackling the German code.

The Russian premier has just ordered the Russian fleet to ram the American
blockade around Cuba. Abruptly, a man barges into his office and demands to
speak with him. A few hours, the order is rescinded.

A scientist keeps receiving letters from an unknown person. He never learns
the sender's identity but he gets valuable advice on his research into
polio.

And there are moments like this---

A President bound to his wheelchair has just found out that the Japanese
plan to attack an American naval base. A close adviser convinces him to let
the attack go ahead.

Years later, the leader of Germany decides to invade Russia. His generals
are baffled by this decision since they are trying to fight a war with the
rest of Europe. Nor can they understand why their leader diverts so much
manpower on the "Final Solution."

If Richard Erickson was not quite a savage god, then he was a sneaky one. He
didn't control the world. He just gave it a nudge now and then.

Not towards survival, though. Just towards a final harvest.

The irony was not lost on him.

The irony eventually became doubt. Doubt led to a new perspective. Is this
truly right? he wondered. Does one species have the right to use another
like this?

Eventually, he answered his question. He wondered if the answer arrived out
of sentimentality. You can't spend decades protecting a whole race without
getting a little protective towards them.

He had an answer, nevertheless.

He couldn't just walk up to the other aliens and say "You know, fellas,
maybe we shouldn't be doing this..." There was a small possibility that he
could talk them into finding an alternative. Or he could put a few doubts in
somebody's else head. Nevertheless, he had to have a backup plan.

Over the period of the twentieth century, the aliens had gradually made
contact with a human consoritorium. They informed the humans that
colonization would go on with or without their help. However, the aliens
would prefer that the process occur with stealth and silence. If their ships
just landed and the herding began, then war would happen. The humans were a
notoriously scrappy bunch. They would fight even if the aliens' superior
technology would ensure their victory. However, a war would also risk
inflicting too much damage on the race that the aliens needed in good
health. So, what's it gonna be?

And the humans said, it'll be your way.

There was still dissension in the ranks, however. Erickson found an ally in
William Mulder, a man tore apart by the sacrifice of a child. Erickson gave
William a piece of himself, a biological sample that encoded his own
memories as well as his DNA. If something happens to me, he explained, then
you must create a new Richard Erickson.

"How?" William Mulder asked, his eyes bleary with alcohol. "If I attempt to
use any of our facilities..."

You don't need technology. A female womb would do just as well.

They carefully looked for a volunteer. They found one working at the UN,
another quiet subversive.

Then Richard Erickson spoke up in a council of his fellow alien leaders. He
was quickly terminated.

When Marita Covarrubias told her boyfriend that she was pregnant, he turned
pale. It's all right, she told him. After it's born, I will put it up for
adoption. Alex Krycek nodded in relief.

The original plan was to quietly acquire the baby through an orphanage.
However, the fetus developed quickly. In its fifth month, Covarrubias had to
deliver. Officially, the baby was declared dead at birth. In fact, it came
out looking quite big and healthy despite a greenish color that would go
away. The new Richard Erickson didn't cry. He couldn't. The fusion of
Erickson's cells and Covarrubias' womb had resulted in a few defects
including the absence of vocal chords.

The baby Erickson was spirited away where it was looked after by a black man
with cold eyes. He didn't have to look after it for long. Within a few
months, the baby had grown into a man and stopped aging there. He had all
the thoughts and feelings of its predecessor. He shared the same objective.

He became another ghost, only of the highways and back alleys. He would
travel by hitch-hiking, stowaway, any method of passage along the secret
routes. A underground was carefully built up. He had safe-houses not just in
the United States but all over the world. He travelled from one to the
other, picking up information from rumors and tales of the marginalized. The
outcasts of society became his new people.

He also made his plans, performing acts of subversion on the way to the
final goal. He did nothing that could break the project but he certainly
left a few dents. There were accidents that no one could explain.

He waited for the right time.

The time in which the final battle would be fought.

The time in which all the ghosts will rise up to haunt the sinners.

The time in which he would give his own ultimatum to history.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

PART THIRTEEN
THE EXPLAINATION OF EVERYTHING...ALMOST

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"Surpise, surprise, surprise!"---Jim Nabors

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Mulder stared at the sleeping body of Marita Covarrubias. "She's your
mother."

NOT MY ORIGINAL ONE, BUT YES.

"And my father..." Mulder looked down at the floor. "He helped create you."

BILL MULDER NEVER QUITE KNEW WHERE HE STOOD.
SOMETIMES, HE COULD BE A COLLABORATOR. SOMETIMES,
HE COULD BE A SUBVERSIVE. AT THE LEAST, HE WANTED
TO KEEP ME IN THE GAME.

"He could have told me about you. If I had only known..." Mulder quickly
lifted his head. "Why didn't you come to me sooner?"

Erickson hesitated, then returned to typing.

THE MOST OBVIOUS REASON IS THAT I NEEDED TO
BE AS LOW-PROFILE AS POSSIBLE. WHEN THE HUMAN
CONSPIRATORS DIED, I COULD RISK STICKING MY NECK OUT.

"But that's not all."

NO.

I DIDN'T TRUST YOU.

Mulder blinked. "You...didn't?"

THAT'S RIGHT.

"But why..."

(They were arguing. If you can call his father shouting and Erickson
furiously scribbling notes in return an argument...)

"Mulder, are you all right?"

Scully was at his side, touching the back of his neck. "Were you hearing the
voices?" she asked.

"Something like that." He shook his head. "So, you didn't trust me."

FOR THE SON OF ONE OF THE CONSPIRATORS TO
BE IN CHARGE OF THE X-FILES...IT WAS TOO
SUSPICIOUS. I WASN'T SURE WHAT SIDE YOU WERE
ON. AND I DIDN'T KNOW HOW YOU WOULD REACT TO
THE TRUTH.

Mulder opened his mouth for a bitter reply, but nothing came out. He was
remembering the story told by the smoking man, all about how the
conspirators were planning their survival and the survival of their own
families. Whether he liked it or not, Mulder had his own stake in their
work. The news had left him stunned, almost demoralized. He hadn't known how
to respond to it.

"Maybe you were right to be suspicious," he said. "What changed your mind?"

Mulder saw Erickson's eyes turn to the side. He was looking at Scully.

Mulder let out a long breath. "Scully's cancer," he said.

"What do you mean?" she asked.

"He must have been watching us then. He must have seen..." Mulder stopped
himself.

I KNEW THEN. AT FIRST, I WONDERED IF MULDER
WAS USING YOU AS WELL. MAYBE HE HAD YOU ABDUCTED
AND WAS OBSERVING THE RESULTS. I KNEW I WAS
WRONG WHEN I SAW THAT HE TRULY CARED ABOUT YOU.

Mulder gave Scully a little smile.

She looked at Mulder, then at the alien. "Maybe you're not the best judge of
character, Mister Erickson."

I'VE MADE MISTAKES. THERE'S NO DENYING THAT.
THE QUESTION IS...WHERE DO WE GO FROM HERE?

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Mulder and Scully were talking quietly in the corner. Marita was still
asleep. Erickson was listening to a radio through headphones, leaving the
two agents to confer.

"Are you sure you're all right?" she asked.

"I guess...I don't know. You tell me."

"Well, Erickson has some mild telepathic powers. Not as strong as a normal
alien, but enough to help you."

"Has he told you what's causing this?"

"It has to do with the symbols you saw. I'm not sure I understand this, but
he says that you are willing yourself into this."

"Willing? I don't exactly feel willing, Scully."

"No. You're not. What's happening is that your instincts are enabling you to
read deeper things into the artifacts."

"You mean, I'm profiling them?"

"I guess so. Those symbols are at the very root of human consciousness,
Mulder. They're a genetic memory in every human. It links us all together.
Right now, you are touching that link."

"Like Gibson Praise?"

"No. Praise was a trick of biology. This is more of a skill that you have
been developing for years."

"You mean, I hear these things...because I want to hear them."

Scully nodded.

"Great. I'm being screwed by own subconsciousness. How long is this going to
last?"

"Erickson can't say. And there's a danger that it will become too much to
bear again."

"All right. At least, I know where I stand." Mulder's eyes fixed on Scully.
"What about you?"

"Me?"

"Where do you stand on all this?"

"I'm here to help you, Mulder, if I can."

"That's not what I mean."

And her eyes said---

Of course, Mulder. I know what you mean. I know you want to talk about this.
You want to know how I feel about my faith being a lie. Your faith has been
justified, but mine is crumbling away. Well, I can't talk about it. Not now.
Not when we're in so much danger.

And his eyes said---

When, Scully? When will you talk about it? I know what's it like to lose
your faith. I know how it hurts. I want to help you. If I can, let me.

Their eyes said much, but their mouths didn't get a chance to speak.

LISTEN TO THIS.

They both turned to Erickson as he switched on the radio's speakers.

"...word yet on where the bees might have come from or what disease they
might be carrying. For now, the village of Hidalgo, Mexico is under
quarantine until a medical team can determine..."

"It's happening," Mulder whispered. "The bees are spreading the virus."

NO. NOT YET.

"What do you mean?"

REMEMBER THE SCHOOLYARD THAT GOT ATTACKED
BY BEES? THOSE CHILDREN WERE INFECTED WITH
A NEW STRAIN OF SMALLPOX. THIS BEE ATTACK
IS SPREADING THE SAME THING.

"But why..."

"It's a ruse," Scully said. "A set-up for the real viral holocaust."

Erickson nodded.

THERE WILL BE MORE OF THESE IN THE FUTURE.
WHEN THERE IS ENOUGH DEAD PEOPLE, FEMA WILL
DECLARE AN EMERGENCY UNDER THE PRETENSE OF
FIGHTING THIS DISEASE.

"Instead, they'll just herd people up to ready them for the new infection,"
Mulder said. "One that we're supposed to think is the smallpox."

BY THE TIME PEOPLE REALIZE THAT IT ISN'T,
IT WILL BE TOO LATE.

"That's when the virus will gestate."

There was a long pause.

Then Mulder and Scully saw the strangest look on Erickson's face. "What is
it?" Scully asked.

WHEN WHAT GESTATES?

"The virus," Mulder told him. "When it mutates and becomes a new biological
entity."

Erickson stared at Mulder. ARE YOU SURE? he typed.

"I've seen this happen." Mulder was feeling more and more uneasy. "That's
the plot, isn't it? The aliens are trying to repopulate their own species
with..."

Erickson waved at Mulder to be silent. Then he stood up and began to pace.
He did this for awhile while the two agents watched him and the radio news
continued.

Finally, he turned off the radio, sat down and typed---

THIS CHANGES EVERYTHING.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

PART FOURTEEN
A NAME

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"Death is never convenient. The timing or the need for a reason...sometimes,
it's as simple as 'our time is up.'"
                                                                            
                                          ---Glen Morgan and James Wong

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Albert Hosteen did not hate the white people, but he feared for them.

He did not hate them despite the injustices of the past. He wanted those
crimes to be acknowledged, but he also knew that the white people did not
invent hatred. Long before their explorers found his people, the different
tribes of Native Americans had already had more than their share of wars.
The reasons why had often been hollow and pointless. The white people had
took over the land due to circumstance, not because they were inherently
evil.

He feared for them because they did not believe in time. The white people's
history was one of constant upheaval. They were nomads, wandering not just
from place to place but from belief to belief and one identity to another.
To them, the past was not immutable. It could be denied. The present could
be remolded in any shape they wished, regardless of the changes already
wrought. They wished to float outside of time itself where they could
reinvent themselves over and over again.

Hosteen knew that this was the way to madness. You could never exorcise the
past. You could only add on to it. Every second built on the next and led to
the inevitable.

The inevitable was death, of course. That's why the white people feared and
hated time so much.

Hosteen had accepted both the past and the present. That's why he was ready
to die. The healing ceremonies were not curing his sickness. They were only
adding a few extra moments to his life. He saw no point in prolonging it any
further.

He lifted a hand slightly. The chanting around him stopped. He waited for
the silence of the hut to fade into the silence of death. Soon, his
ancestors would arrive and take him towards the final truth.

However, a faint doubt stirred in him. Wasn't there something left undone?

The two FBI agents.

Yes.

They had to confront the past as well. Unlike other white people, they were
willing to read the history of the world and accept its meaning. However,
the book of the past needed to be turned to the next page.

Hosteen's body was too weak to handle this task, but the soul was always
ready. All it needed was to be asked.

As one last breath left his body, a name was spoken in his mind and its
sound echoed to anyone who could hear.

Then he left, himself one more name added to the book.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

PART FIFTEEN
OKAY, THEN

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"I'm looking for me.
"You're looking for you.
"We're looking for each other
"And we don't know what to do."
                                        ---Pete Townshend

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"Nigeb Rifada."

Scully glanced to her side. "What?"

Mulder shook his head. He had just come out of a deep slumber. When he had
woke up, that name was on his lips.

"Nigeb Rifada," he repeated.

"Who's that?"

Mulder rubbed his eyes. "I don't know. It just came to me."

Scully hesitated, then said, "Do you think it was a message?"

He slowly nodded. "Yes. Yes, it was." He turned to Scully. "It was from
Albert Hosteen. He's dead."

Scully's hands tightened on the steering wheel.

"I think he was trying to tell me something," Mulder continued. "I think we
should find this man."

He watched Scully nod and heard her say, "All right."

"How about that?" he commented.

"How about what?"

"Did you ever think that it would get to this point? You believing in me
having psychic messages?"

Scully said nothing. She concentrated on the road ahead as she drove.

"Come on, Scully. It's just the two of us now. Tell me what's on your mind."

It was almost a minute before she responded.

"Doesn't it bother you at all, Mulder?"

"What we've learned? Of course, it does."

"I mean, on a spiritual level. Not in terms of a physical threat. What does
it mean to us that religion was created as somebody's idea of a hobby?"

"What does it mean to you?"

Scully smiled in a bitter way. "I asked you first."

Mulder grimaced.

"No. I'm sorry. I shouldn't..."

"Don't be sorry." He sighed. "My parents were both atheists. I was raised
that way so I guess that...it just doesn't affect me the way that it does
you."

"But you have some kind of spiritual life. In fact, your spiritual life is
your life. Your work, even."

"No. 'The X-Files' is an obsession. That's not quite the same thing as a
religion. It's certainly not the same thing as your beliefs."

"Is that a compliment, Mulder?"

"Oh, yeah." He smiled a little. "You have always been more spiritual than
you think, Scully. A lot more than I ever been."

Scully thought about it, then said, "I've seen things in the past that might
have confirmed my faith. But after what Erickson told me..."

"Scully, listen. Don't give up on your beliefs so easily."

"In despite of what the facts might say?"

"Yeah. Remind you of somebody?"

His smile expanded into a grin, that goofy look which should have belonged
to a ten-year-old boy. You couldn't resist smiling back at it and Scully was
no exception.

The grin went away and Mulder looked at her solemnly. "Don't give up yet,
Scully."

"I won't."

"Promise me."

She nodded.

"Okay, then," Mulder said and closed his eyes.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

When he opened his eyes again, the car was pulling up to the house of
Margaret Scully. She greeted them both at the door.

"Fox, you look tired."

"It's a weary ol' world, Mrs. Scully," he said as he accepted her embrace.

Obviously, it made Scully feel good to see her partner and her mother get
along so well. Yet it made her a little uneasy, too. Should a man be closer
to somebody else's mother than his own?

Her thoughts were broken off when two arms grabbed her. She felt a brief
terror as images of cold-faced government agents came to mind. Then the
touch of the arms became as familiar as the voice she heard.

"Hey there, short stuff."

She turned to hug the tall, big-chested man with the silly grin.

"Charles!"

"Heavens above, she remembers my name."

"When did you get in?"

"Just yesterday. I decided to come see mom. I'm glad to get you in the
bargain as well."

Charles Scully looked over at Mulder. His smile was more ironic now, the
expression of a naughty boy waiting to play a trick.

"Hey," he said and held out a hands that looked more muscular than Mulder's
whole body.

"Hey," Mulder said, accepting the hand. "You must be the missing Scully
brother."

"And you must be Nutboy. Care to have a cup of coffee?"

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"Yeah, it's been awhile since I've seen Dana. The navy is always jerking me
across one ocean or another. When I'm ashore, Julia and the kids are
priority one. And when I do have time to see Dana, I find out that she's out
chasing werewolves out somewhere." Charles turned to Mulder. "That is what
you do, right? Chase after werewolves, ghosts, zombies, etc., etc.?"

"Yeah. But what I really want to do is direct."

Scully sighed. "I was dreading the day that the two of you would get in the
same room. Two would-be wits is more than anybody can bear."

"Dana," Charles said. "the only difference between you and me is subtlety.
You like to cut a man's legs out from under him so quietly that he only
knows about it when he tries to stand up."

Mulder said, "I got to write that down."

"You do that," Scully said. "I need to make a call."

"Oh, come on," Charles admonished. "Don't go off mad..."

"I'm not, Charles. This is something that I have to do now."

The two agents looked at each other. He nodded at her slightly. It was not
lost on Margaret or Charles.

After Scully left the kitchen, Margaret asked, "So what brings you two up
here?"

Mulder cleared his throat, took a sip of coffee and told her, "It's kind of
complicated."

"I bet," Charles said. "Would it have anything to do with the fact that you
like somebody has been stomping up and down on your brain?"

"Actually...Scully and I were wondering if we could stay here for awhile."

Charles and Margaret looked at each other, then back at Mulder. "I don't
want to put you to any inconvenience," he quickly said.

"Oh, no, it's no inconvenience," Margaret replied. "I just would like to
know why."

"And don't say 'It's kind of complicated.'" Charles said with just a bit of
warning.

"I've recently become...sick. I don't know what else to call it. Right now,
I need somebody to keep watch over me. I wish that I could check myself in
somewhere, but...in any case..."

Mulder couldn't say anything else. What he had already said sounded so
unconvincing.

Margaret went up to him and touched him on the shoulder. "You're perfectly
welcome here, Fox," she told him.

He looked at this woman who had been asked to give so much and gave it all.
Most of all, she gave him her trust. What could he do for her in return?

Charles didn't quite look convinced. "Why can't you stay with your mother?"
he said. Then he added "oops" when he saw the pained look on Mulder's face.

"If you don't feel comfortable with this..." Mulder began.

Charles held up his hands. "What I feel isn't imporant. If Mom is okay with
it...if Dana is okay with it...then I should butt out. However, if you stay
here, you should remember one very important thing."

"What's that?"

"Keep the seat down. They'll kill you over that, man."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Later on, Scully and her brother went for a walk outside.

"What do you think of him?" she asked.

"Honestly?"

"No. Tell me sweet little lies."

"Well. I'm not sure what to make of him, to tell you the truth."

"How's that?"

"He seems fairly normal, but...from what I've heard..."

"From what you've heard from Bill?"

Charles made a face. "No. What I mean is when I hear that some guy is
getting paid federal dollars to be a ghostbuster..."

"That's not what Mulder is."

"Okay. Fine. You asked me."

"And you said that you weren't sure."

"Look...ignore me, okay? If he means that much to you, I'll withhold
criticism. I trust your judgment. After all, you've always been the smartest
of the Scully brood."

"Yes. I know."

They looked at each other, then laughed briefly.

"So, what has Bill told you?" she asked.

"Nothing you should worry about. You know Bill. The self-elected protector
of the family name."

Scully said nothing.

"Of course, part of the problem is that he's always been jealous of you."

"Excuse me?"

"You were Dad's favorite."

"I was not Dad's favorite!"

"Well...okay, you weren't. But there was always the sense around the house
that you would be the most successful of the Scully children. The most
famous. The most accomplished and on and on."

Scully took that in, then replied, "Well, Dad did want me to be a doctor."

"Doctor, nothing. You were destined to find a cure for cancer."

"Oh, Charles..."

"Don't tell me that you didn't catch on to that."

"I suppose...oh, this is silly."

"Sure it is. And it got sillier when you decided to be a FBI agent. Bill was
offended that you would defy Dad's wishes. But he was also jealous. You had
the cajones to go out on your own, be your own man if you'll pardon my lack
of p.c."

"What about Melissa?"

"Oh, nobody was surprised when Melissa decided to go dancing naked in the
woods or whatever New Agers do. You were unexpected."

Scully let out a sigh. A long, long sigh. Here she was---a participant in an
impending apocalyptic event, one that involved aliens and the secret of
creation. And she was still immersed in her family's little squabbles.

"It's not to say we don't love each other, you know," Charles reminded her.

"I know."

"In fact, that love kind of exacerbates things." He looked at her. "Of
course, it also exacerbates the situation when somebody isn't being totally
forthcoming."

When she made no reply, Charles gently laid a hand on her shoulder and the
two of them stopped on the sidewalk.

"Don't keep me guessing about what's going on between you and your partner."
He hesitated. "Is it of...how should I say this?...a conjugal nature?"

"I wish it was that simple."

"Well, I'm sorry but that's about as far as my imagination goes."

"Charles...you're asking me to explain something that almost defies
explaination. I don't know how to tell you or mom or Charles or...or God."

Charles looked away, scratching his nose. Then he turned to her and said, "I
haven't been the best brother."

"No, Charles..."

"When your sister is dying, you should be there."

"You couldn't help that..."

"Whenever you needed me over the past six years, I've been off in the middle
of some damn ocean."

He took one of her hands. "You have to promise me that I'll be in the loop
this time. This time, I've got to be involved. If you need anything, then I
want to be the first person you tell, right?"

She squeezed his hand, then wrapped his arms around him.

"Okay, then," he said.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

PART SIXTEEN
FACES

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"Sometimes, I feel like a motherless child, a long, long way from
home..."---Traditional gospel song

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

This is how a boy becomes a killer.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

(He still has me in mind, he's still wondering about me, occasionally taking
a glance at the back of the store to wonder about the kid who looks like he
hasn't taken a bath in awhile, nobody else has taken notice of me, there's
the trucker waiting to get his cup of coffee, the teenager looking over the
small collection of rentable videos, the lady who is telling her son that he
can't get a snack, none of them take any notice of me, but the guy behind
the register is still thinking...)

(Another lady has walked up to the cashier with a six-pack of beer and she
also wants to buy cigarettes and a lotto ticket and the cashier is thinking
what a pathetic women this is with her growing weight and her cracked voice
and her weak eyes...)

(That's when it's time to leave.)

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

As Gibson Praise walked away from the convenience store and nibbled on his
twinkie, he found himself thinking about his parents. He didn't do this too
often and he wondered why he was doing it now. Maybe the sweetness of the
twinkie reminded him that he had been living on junk food for several months
now. He knew that his mother wouldn't have approved of that. (His friend
didn't approve of it, either.)

His parents had loved him, he guessed. They had taken care of him and
encouraged his chess career without really pushing it.

They had been afraid of him, though. When he had looked at them, his eyes
had been too knowing. He had an understanding of others that was too blunt
and unsentimental. Young boys were supposed to regard the world as a
mystery. Gibson regarded the world with a cool aloofness.

Did he miss them? He wasn't sure. The life that he had before was more
comfortable. Having your dinner made for you was better than stealing it
from stores. He would prefer a bed over sleeping in streets, abandoned gas
stations and rest stops. He wished that they could find a spot to stay in
instead of wandering from one small Southwestern town to the other.

On the other hand, he never related to his parents the way he did to his
friend.

His new friend, however, was being a bit of a pain in the butt right now.
Instead of going into town with Gibson, he had decided to wait in the park.
The two of them had arrived at Joshua Tree National Park a couple of days
ago. A small town called Twentynine Palms was located on the park's edge,
but it was still a long walk from their camping spot to the store. Gibson
had asked for a place closer to town, but his friend insisted on staying in
a place that was a mile within the park.

So, Gibson had to lug his stolen goods in his backpack across the attractive
but hot landscape as the sun baked his skin. When he got near enough to his
destination, his friend could sense his discontent.

\Have to be here. Can listen here.\

(Listen to what?)

\Words. Thoughts. Flowing from one to one.\

(Can you hear the aliens?)

\No.\

(Well, why not?)

\Don't know.\

(Yeah, yeah.)

\You bring what?\

(Some cookies, a couple of cans of soda which are warm now, thank you very
much.)

\Not healthy.\

(Shut up.)

Gibson knew that it wasn't just that his friend had found a spot he didn't
want to leave. He was still reluctant to make contact with humans. Even
after learning how to assume their form, Gibson's kind made him anxious.

His unease wasn't completely without basis. When they had been sleeping in a
rest stop once, they were attacked by two men whose minds lived on the heat
of their groins and the touch of steel. Gibson felt guilty about letting
those two men get close. Even in his dreams, he could have sensed the
impending danger, but he had been too weary to notice it. His friend had
sensed it as well, but was too naive back then to recognize it for what it
was.

Of course, it had been the two men who had gotten the worse of it, but
incidents like that had to be avoided. The key phrase here was
"low-profile."

His friend was doing the exact thing that Gibson left him doing---hunching
under the shade of a giant rock and looking up at the sky. Occasionally, his
head would twitch towards a slightly different angle. Currently, he looked
like a sixteen-year-old male. If you had carefully studied him and Gibson,
you would have noted that the older boy resembled the younger.

Gibson had a deep sense of irony for his age. The first person that he had
completely trusted was a creature who could change his own face. His friend
could disguise himself but he never disguised his feelings. Humans, however,
did more hiding with their one face than his friend did with his myraid
choices. That's why Gibson had gone into hiding with him. Not just to
protect him and be protected, but to be with the one person he trusted.

Gibson didn't know it then, but he soon would need a lot more people to
trust.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

They had acquired a few necessities on their journey along the highways. One
of them was a blanket. Both Gibson and his friend were using it to keep away
the cold of the desert's night. They were sleeping when...

(Drifting now, the images and sounds flow by, don't know which ones are from
other people or from my own imagination, don't know if they are from the
past, present and future...)

(Cries of pain and the hum of insects, his friend looking up at the stars, a
sudden blast of a low, pulsing sound, Mulder appearing briefly like a flash
of light, symbols written across a smooth steel surface, fire, the sound
again, now Mulder and Scully are walking down a long wooden corridor, a man
waits for them in a room, his friend stirs in his sleep, the sound repeating
itself and getting louder and repeating and repeating and overcoming
everything else...)

...Gibson felt his friend suddenly awake and jerk his leg upward. Gibson
opened his eyes in time to see the leg kick a steel rod from a man's hand.
The man was dressed casually for weekend camping, but there was nothing
casual in his flat, unfriendly expression. The low, pulsing sound was the
music of his own thoughts.

Gibson's friend leapt at the man, one hand grabbing his arm and the other
going for his face. The darkness made it hard to see, but the young boy
could hear something tear from the attacker's face.

The attacker grabbed the hand tearing at his face and yanked it away. He
then tried to push Gibson's friend aside. They both lost their balance and
fell to the ground, each other in the grasp of their inhuman strength.

However, the attacker was the stronger. He rolled the two of them towards
the rod lying on the ground. Then he forced himself on top of Gibson's
friend while reaching for the rod. His opponent tried to pull the hand back
but it steadily got closer.

Gibson tore open his backpack. His hand dove inside, trying to find
something.

The attacker's fingers were touching the rod. Gibson's friend looked up at
those closed eyelids peeking past the dangling skin flap.

Then the attacker shuddered. His trembling hands lost all strength and he
was pushed away. Gibson's friend backed off and watched the attacker give
one last violent shake before lying still.

Imbedded in the back of his neck was an ice pick. Gibson had felt dumb when
he had stolen it from a hardware store. He had only taken it because of
information that he had seen in the smoking man's mind. At the time, he
didn't think that he would need it, but just in case...

The boy and his friend watched as the attacker began to dissolve with a
hiss. The ice pick was melting with it, soon to be useless.

They looked at each other and knew something to be true.

This was going to happen again.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

PART SEVENTEEN
THE NAME HAS A FACE

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"Plans, all those funny little plans that never could go
right..."---Mercury Rev

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Margaret Scully was washing dishes in the kitchen when she heard an annoying
sound---a shrill little chirp. She  looked around for its source. She
located it in a jacket hanging from a peg. She quickly dried off her hands
and reached inside the jacket's pocket to find her daughter's cellular
phone.

She looked at it and then at the upstairs. Dana didn't go anywhere without
her cellular phone. In fact, Margaret humorously regarded it as her
daughter's personal fetish. Yet she left the phone behind her. And she was
up there. In the guest bedroom. With Fox Mulder.

She pressed the right button. "Hello?"

"Uh, hi. I'm looking for Agent Scully." The voice on the other end sounded
like Peter Lorre without the accent.

"Well, this is her mother."

"Oh! Oh, yeah. Is she around?"

"Yes, she is. Who may I say is calling?

"It's Frohike. Tell her we got a few juicy tidbits for her."

"I...see. I'll go get her."

As Margaret walked up to the stairs, Frohike put his hand over the telephone
and turned to Byers and Langly. "I got Scully's mama. Nice voice. Bet she's
a hottie, too."

"Don't even go there, man," Langly warned.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"You surprise me, Mulder."

"How's that?"

"When I woke up this morning, I had expected to find out that you ran out of
the house in the middle of the night."

"Ah. Well."

"I know you want to get involved, Mulder. You want to rush down to Mexico or
to Washington and ring the alarm."

"That wouldn't do any good."

"I'm glad you see it that way."

"In fact, I may be doing the most good right here."

"What do you mean?"

Mulder looked up at the ceiling from the bed. He was stretched out across
the soft blanket with Scully sitting on the corner of the mattress.

"I've been trying to hear the voices again."

"Mulder..."

"I've been careful. Trust me."

"But why?"

"During my first experience, I gradually became aware that there was
somebody else there."

"In where?"

Mulder waved a hand through the air. "Just...there. What did you call it?
The link. Somebody is..."

(He is walking down a hallway with wooden walls.)

"...living in the link. I don't know who or what it is, but I have to know."

He looked at Scully's disquieted face and said, "You don't think this person
is real, do you?"

"No, you're probably right. But...a living entity?"

"In our own minds. In our collective unconsciousness."

Scully's lips tightened together.

"Scully?"

When she spoke, her voice was bitter. "What's next, Mulder? What is your
next big revelation? Are you going to tell me that the aliens grew Jesus out
of a cabbage leaf? Or that the world is controlled by the Teletubbies? Maybe
our whole galaxy is inside one big marble, just like in 'Men in Black!'"

"I still haven't seen that movie yet," Mulder quietly said.

Scully closed her eyes. "I'm sorry," she said. "This is all...very new to
me."

"It's new to me, too."

She opened her eyes. "Let's say this man exists. Why do you wish to contact
him?"

Mulder propped himself up on his elbows, raising his eyes level with
Scully's. "We know what the situation is. These are our options for dealing
with it. We can try to reveal what's happening. We haven't much luck in that
area. Second option---we can focus on creating a vaccine."

"I think that's our best choice. We know that it's possible to make one."

"The people who made the vaccine that had been used on you and me had been
working on it for decades. They had a vast amount of resources to use. But,
from what that Englisman told me, the antidote has an unpredictable
effectiveness. We were lucky that it worked on us."

"We can try to perfect it."

"How? Even if we could obtain a sample, do we have the time and resources to
work on it?"

"I would prefer a weak vaccine over none."

"And how many could we save then, Scully? Thousands out of billions? And
what happens during the next outbreak? Will the vaccine work again? From
what Erickson has told us and from what the news reports say, we don't have
this option anymore."

Scully considered what he said, then slowly nodded.

"I know this goes against a doctor's instinct," he gently told her.

"Maybe. But I'm open to a third option."

Mulder tapped his forehead. "Here. The third option can be found inside our
minds. This man...this entity, whatever he is...he's a player in this. I
don't know how, but I can feel it. And from what Erickson has told us,
there's something more to this colonization than anybody ever thought, even
the ones who put it together."

"Do you believe him?"

"He sure as hell seemed shocked when we told him that the virus had mutated.
And that there was a whole cargo of humans in the arctic who were being used
as incubators for new life forms."

"Well, if that didn't represent the final stage of the colonization, then
what was it?"

Mulder was silent for a few moments, then he said, "Maybe it was something
that the alien leaders were covering up."

"You mean...a conspiracy of silence against their own race?"

Mulder smiled and said, "Everybody's got something to hide except for me and
my monkey."

"Again, we're basing this on what Erickson told us."

"Why would he lie about that?"

Before Scully could answer, there was a knocking on the door. "Come in," she
said. Her mother came inside, holding out a cellular phone. "It's, uh...I
forget the name. Frohockey?"

Scully smiled. "Frohike. Thanks, mom."

Margaret handed her daughter the phone and quietly left.

"Yes, Frohike?"

Scully listened, then picked up a pen and paper pad lying next to Mulder's
bed. "Go ahead."

She wrote as she listened. After she was done, she said, "Okay. Keep on it.
Good-bye."

"What's up?" Mulder asked.

"Your Nigeb Rifada does exist. When the Ayatollah Khomeini overthrew the
Shah, Rifada was one of Khomeini's advisors. His official position in the
Iranian government of that time is unclear and that may be intentional."

"What's the connection with Albert Hosteen?"

"During the revolution against the Shah, Rifada took a trip to the United
States, an unusual act on his part considering the pressing events in his
own country. His destination was New Mexico."

Mulder eased himself back down on the bed. He looked away from Scully for a
few seconds, then he looked back at her.

"I think of only one situation in which Hosteen could have known Rifada.
Rifada needed something translated."

Scully nodded. "Another artifact."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

When Erickson checked one of his secret e-mail accounts, he found a message
from Agent Scully. She wanted to meet him. A time and place was arranged.

That night, Scully drove out to a diner thirty miles away from her mother's
house. She wasn't sure how Erickson was going to get there in time,
considering that he didn't have any transportation of his own and had a
physically weak woman to look after.

Yet he was there, waiting for her and sitting at a booth located in the rear
of the Back Roads Diner. Marita was next to him. Her hands were slowly
raising a spoon from a bowl of soup to her mouth. He watched her intently.

He saw Scully coming towards them and nodded to her. As she sat down across
from them, he slid a note across the table to her.

"HOW'S MULDER?"

"Doing well," she said, then she recounted her conversation with her
partner. After she was done, Erickson turned to Marita with a question in
his eyes.

"I...I don't know anything about Rifada," she said in her tired voice.
"Around the time of the Ayatollah's revolution, my level of knowledge hadn't
gotten that high yet."

Erickson wrote to Scully, "DO YOU KNOW THE CURRENT
WHEREABOUTS OF RIFADA?"

"Yes. He's still living in Iran."

"THEN I'LL GO THERE."

"First of all, how? And second of all, shouldn't that be 'we?'"

Erickson looked at Scully, then scribbled, "1) I HAVE MY WAYS.
2) VERY WELL. IF YOU WANT TO COME, THAT'S ALL AND
GOOD. MULDER IS NO SHAPE FOR TRAVEL, THOUGH."

"I'm aware of that. I want to come with you."

Erickson nodded, but he also wrote---

"WHAT ABOUT MARITA? WHO WILL LOOK AFTER HER,
IF NOT YOU?"

"I know somebody to go to."

"DO YOU TRUST HIM?"

"I do now."

Erickson looked at Marita.

"I trust her judgment," she said quietly.

"VERY WELL."

"I have another question," Scully said. "Is it really too late for a
vaccine?"

"YES. THE REBELS HAVE STEPPED UP THE SCHEDULE."

"But why?"

"IF THE REBELS CONTROL THE MEANS OF  COLONIZATION,
THEN THEY GET TO DECIDE  WHICH OF THE COLONISTS
WILL SURVIVE.  AT THIS POINT, THE COLONISTS HAVE NO
CHOICE BUT TO DEAL WITH THE REBELS."

"But you're now saying that the virus will have another effect. And that the
leaders of the colonists know this."

"I SUSPECT IT. THAT SHIP YOU FOUND IN  ANTARTICA---
THEY MUST HAVE BEEN USING  IT TO HIDE HUMANS
INFECTED WITH THE  MUTATED VIRUS."

"But why?"

"THE SURVIVAL OF THEIR RACE HAS BEEN FOCUSED ON
THIS WHOLE PLAN. MAYBE  THEY'VE CONVINCED
THEMSELVES THAT THIS MUTATION IS  RARE AND ARE
WILLING TO CROSS THEIR FINGERS."

"You don't think it's rare."

Erickson shook his head.

"Maybe we can let the other aliens know."

"DIFFICULT TO DO WITHOUT GETTING A STILLETTO IN
THE BACK OF MY NECK."

"Couldn't you risk it?"

Erickson sat there with a flat expression. Marita looked nervously between
him and Scully's piercing eyes.

Finally, he wrote, "EVEN IF I COULD GET THE MESSAGE OUT,
WHO WOULD BELIEVE ME? I HAVE NO PROOF. AND HUMANS
ARE NOT THE ONLY ONES WHO HAVE TROUBLE FACING UP
TO EXTREME POSSIBILITIES."

Or maybe you're just protecting your posterior, Scully thought, but she
said---

"All right. So we concentrate on the artifact. Do you think that it could
help us?"

"IT MIGHT BE OUR LAST CHANCE. WHAT DO YOU THINK ABOUT
MULDER'S  IDEA? THAT THERE  IS AN ENTITY LIVING IN ALL OUR
MINDS?"

"I have never known what to think about Mulder's ideas. What is your
response?"

Erickson thought about it, then wrote, "I THINK EVERYBODY'S FAITH IS
GOING TO BE TESTED NOW."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

PART EIGHTEEN
A NEAT IDEA

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"I have been as a portent to many..."---Psalms 71:7

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Krycek and the smoking man walked down the sidewalk.

"There's been a bee attack in Florida," Krycek said.

"I've heard."

"The process is accelerating. Colonization will start within two months."

"Most likely."

"So, what do we do?"

The smoking man made no reply.

Krycek looked away from him to the people around them. An old man sitting on
a bus bench, a woman trying to quiet her crying baby in its stroller, two
men in business suits having a heated discussion, a man painting the front
of the store, teenage lovers walking hand-in-hand...

All of them, gone. Imagine that---their existence tossed into the future's
void.

It had been bad enough when they were facing the possibility of being a
slave race, each person with two souls inside of them, one dominating the
other. Krycek remembered his own experience with this possession. It was
like knowing that you were dreaming and knowing that you couldn't end the
dream. You became a spectator to your own actions and an eavesdropper on
your own voice.

At least, he had been still inside there, screaming at the darkness and
begging for it to go away. Now, infection simply meant being wiped out. Not
just dead, but boiled down into the base elements for a new race.

"I bet you knew."

"Excuse me?" the smoking man said.

"You were in charge of that base in the Antarctic. You knew what was being
kept in the ship."

The smoking man smiled. "Actually, no. We were told at the time that it was
being used to hospitalize ailing members of their race. We were never
allowed in the ship itself. Not until the infection in Texas. We found a
mutation before they could snatch it away. Only then were we allowed to see
inside. It was...quite a surprise."

"What was the colonists' excuse for not telling you about it?"

"They don't have to give excuses, Alex." The smoking let out a long cloud of
smoke. "In fact, what's really strange is that they felt a need to cover it
up. They never cared much for our unease before. Why should they worry about
our reaction to this?"

"What are you saying?"

"I'm not saying anything. I'm just asking questions. And I have a few for
you. Where's Agent Scully now?"

Alex gave the smoking man a brief look, then said in a neutral voice, "We
lost track of her. All we know is that she's left the country and she's
heading east."

"Very slippery of her. Do you think she has help?"

"I know Kersh is helping her. He's been very uncooperative with us. And,
recently, he's put somebody in a witness protection program. We don't know
who he's hiding, but he's got this person locked up tight."

The smoking man nodded. "Kersh has always been a honorable man. That's why
he was a good weapon to use against Scully. Not anymore, apparently."

"I noticed that you like to do that. Use honorable people like Scully and
Kersh. Twist the best intentions of people to your own purposes."

The smoking man looked at Krycek. "And sometimes it works."

Krycek held back an urge to ram a fist into that smug face.

"What about Skinner?" the smoking man asked. "From what Fowley told me, he
wants to throw off his reins."

"I got him where I want him. I'm more worried about Fowley."

The smoking man hesitated, then said, "You may be right. But she's mine to
take care of. Next question---any leads on Marita's rescuer?"

Krycek touched his bandaged nose. "No. I'm inclined to think that it was one
of the rebels who took her, but only because I can't think of anybody else."

"It doesn't sound like one of them. From what you described, this rescuer ha
d a sense of humor and I've never known an alien that had a..."

The smoking man suddenly came to a halt. "What?" Krycek said.

The smoking man was silent and thoughtful for a long moment, then he said,
"Marita was pregnant once, wasn't she?"

That was a memory Krycek could have done without. "Yes," he replied,
shifting on his feet. "She was."

"You never actually saw the baby, did you?"

"It died at birth. I, um...I didn't see any need to look at it. Why are you
asking this?"

"I just have questions, Alex." The smoking man dropped his cigarette to the
sidewalk and stepped on it. "I hate being a man with questions."

He looked back up. "That will be all for now. I'll call you when I need
you."

The smoking man walked away from Krycek. The younger man stood there on the
sidewalk, wondering about his superior. He knew that his nicotine-addicted
boss was a schemer by nature. Chances were that he had more than a few
things up his sleeve.

At least, he assumed that was the case.

But what if that was the case no more? The smoking man seemed oddly passive
in the face of current events. With the rebels running colonization, there
was no longer even the hope of survival through hybridization. If ever there
was a time for a plan, this was it.

Maybe the smoking man had finally given up.

If he had, then the question Krycek had to ask himself was---had he given
up, too?

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

He sat in his apartment, a bottle of beer and a dirty ashtray at his side.
He thought about Scully.

Why would she be going out east? What could be out there for her?

Then he remembered...

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

It had been 1979 and he had found the hotel room where Bill and Ollie were
having a meeting. It had been Ollie who had answered the knocking. He had
taken an instant dislike to that earnest expression.

"May I help you?" Ollie asked.

He looked past him towards Bill who looked back at him warily through
black-rimmed glasses.

"Actually, I could help you," he replied. "That is, if you really want it."

Ollie said, "Excuse me, but who..."

"It's okay, Ollie. Let him in. He knows about us."

He stepped in and pulled out his pack of cigarettes.

"This is a no-smoking room," Ollie told him.

He gave Ollie a look, then lit up a cigarette. Ollie made a face and opened
one of the windows.

"I heard that the deal didn't work out," he said. "The Ayatollah plans to
release the hostages before the election."

Casey mumbled something.

"I'm afraid so," Ollie said glumly, then he looked embarrassed. "Not that
it's a bad thing. I'm glad they'll be out soon. It's just that...well..."

"It would be in everybody's best interest if we had a change of government
in this country."

"Yes. That's it. Exactly."

"So, why doesn't Khomeini want to deal?"

Bill smiled weakly. "He thinks we're all Satan. One American president is no
less unholy than the other."

"I see. Well, then, if we're Satan, we have to ask---what would Satan do in
a situation like this?"

Ollie frowned. "I would prefer to ask what Jesus would do."

He gave Ollie another look.

"What would Satan do?" Bill asked quietly.

"He would use one of their secrets against them. A secret that could rock
the foundations of the Islamic world."

Bill stared at him with realization. "What do you mean?" Ollie asked. "Do
you know something? If you do, it's your patriotic duty to..."

Casey mumbled.

"What?"

"I said, please leave the room, Ollie."

Ollie looked at Bill.

"Please."

Looking hurt, Ollie stepped outside.

"What kidnergarten did you get him from?" he asked Bill.

Bill ignored the jest. "What do they have exactly? A craft? The remains of a
biological entity?"

"No. Just an artifact. A close advisor to Khomeini acquired it. He wants to
keep it secret from Khomeini. He's worried about what it might to do to the
Ayatollah's faith."

Bill nodded. "Yes. I see. If we threaten to tell Khomeini about it..."

"...then I'm sure this advisor could arrange for the hostages to stay in
Iran until Ron gets into office."

Bill thought about it, then said, "I don't know."

"What do you mean? This is what you want, isn't it?"

"There is something...so strange about using this knowledge to this end.
It's bad enough that we're covering it up to begin with. And I still don't
like being kept in the dark about what your end is doing."

"It's not your concern. Ron is yours."

"Well, I'm not even sure that I want him in the White House that badly.
Frankly, he's a little weird."

"How badly do you want to be Director of the CIA?"

Bill looked up at him. "Not Secretary of State?"

"Come on, Bill. We know where your talents lie."

Bill mumbled again.

"It's your decision, Bill. I would like to have you and Ron in charge, but
we can work with Carter if we have to. In any case, I have to leave this
room with 'yes' or 'no.' What's it going to be?"

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The smoking man sent out a message. That night, he was visited by the Bounty
Hunter.

"You should not use the transmitter any more," he was informed. "Our
arrangement with you is through."

"Maybe. But I thought you should know that it's possible that Mulder and
Scully have a new ally."

"And this ally is...?"

When the smoking man told him, a deep frown tightened the Bounty Hunter's
face. "That's impossible. He was exterminated. I did it myself."

"He may have found a way to propagate himself. It's just a suspicion, but I
thought you should know."

The Bounty Hunter regarded the smoking man and asked, "Why are you telling
me this?"

"Just wondering if you still needed me after all," the smoking man answered
with a deadpan expression.

The alien slowly nodded. "Do you know where Erickson might be now?"

"With Agent Scully. She's involved in a matter that I was going to let
another group handle."

"I will handle it."

"Tell you what...how about a joint effort?"

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

PART NINETEEN
A FEW MORE ANSWERS, A LOT MORE FEAR

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"Motive is never easy. Sometimes, it comes to one later."---Phillip Padgett

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

From hotels, all cities look the same.

Scully stood next to the window and looked out over the streets of Tehran.
She noticed the signs of creeping Westernization---billboard ads for movies
starring Tom Hanks and Julia Roberts, a McDonald's arches, rock music
singing out of car radios. If she had turned on the television, she would
have found talk-show hosts behaving like Jay Leno speaking Arabic.

As an American, she supposed that she should felt smug about it. Instead,
she felt sad. Farther away, she saw the curved tops of a mosque. As people
sipped Coke and used Microsoft programs, a millennia-old faith was under
their feet. It would be easy to forget it for a consumer's obsession with
the present. America was teaching the world to forget the past.

The past will not be ignored for long, though. Eventually, it bursts into
your room, vicious and spiteful at your neglect.

Or it calls you up on the phone.

Right now, it was in the bathroom, making bizarre liquid noises. Richard
Erickson was altering himself back into his original form. Thanks to his
unique birth, Erickson couldn't change shape within a instant like other
aliens. For him, it was a slower, more painful process.

He and Scully had arrived in Iran as husband and wife. He was an Arab
dressed in a sleek business suit. Scully was dressed in a traditional cloak
and veil with only her eyes showing. It could be seen that she was
Occidental, but judging from the sneering looks of a few Muslim women, she
had been judged to be a trophy Western wife of a wealthy Iranian. Erickson
avoided talking with customs by arrogantly displaying his passport and
affecting disdain for everyone.

When they had arrived at the hotel room, he informed Scully that he was
going to lose his present form.

"Why? Why not just stay like this?"

BECAUSE, his note said. THE LONGER I STAY LIKE THIS, THE
HARDER IT GETS TO CHANGE BACK. I DON'T WANT TO LOSE
MY ORIGINAL FACE.

Is it your real face? she thought. Or is it just the one you show to others?

He finally stepped out of the bathroom, his expensive clothes on a hanger
and his worn-out clothes back on his body.

"You seemed to have a lot of money and resources at your disposal," she
observed.

He smiled and wrote, "I'VE GOT A LOT STASHED AWAY HERE
AND THERE. SO I GUESS WE'LL PART WAYS NOW."

"Wait a minute. I thought..."

He held up a hand, then did another note.

"DON'T WORRY. I"LL BE NEARBY AND WATCHING."

"Apparently, you've been watching me for some time."

Erickson looked at the tension in her eyes, so he wrote---

"WHY DO YOU DISTRUST ME?"

She gave no reply.

"IS IT BECAUSE OF EMILY?"

Scully read the note, then she carefully folded it in two. Then she crumbled
it up and tossed into the trashcan.

Erickson handed a new one to her. She hesistated before taking it.

"YOU HAD TO KNOW. YOU HAD TO UNDERSTAND
WHAT THEY DID TO YOU."

"But why?" she finally asked. "Why create Emily and then let her get
adopted?"

"ONE OF THE GOALS OF THE CONSPIRATORS WAS TO
INFILTRATE THE HUMAN POPULATION WITH
ALIEN-HUMAN HYBRIDS. DURING COLONIZATION, THEY
WOULD BE ASSISTANTS TO THE PROCESS."

"So, that was what Emily was going to grow up to be. A worker for..."

Scully looked at Erickson sharply. "There are other children as well, aren't
there? Other children created from the ova of female abductees."

Erickson nodded.

"Are any of them sick like Emily was?"

"I HAVE HEARD OF A FEW SICK ONES, BUT MOST ARE HEALTHY."

Scully sat down on the edge of the bed. She studied the carpet, then looked
at Erickson.

"Mulder met a woman. She claimed that she was Samantha. But she was another
hybrid, wasn't she?"

"SOME HYBRIDS HAVE BEEN ACCELERATED IN THEIR
GROWTH TO ADULTHOOD."

"She said that she had a family of her own."

"THEY ARE PROBABLY CLONES THEMSELVES OR A PHOHY
FAMILY SET UP BY THE CONSPIRATORS. HER MEMORIES OF
THE PAST ARE LIES, TOO. THEY HAVE BEEN PROGRAMMED
INTO HER MIND."

"But one medical check-up could reveal the truth."

"HER OWN DOCTOR IS ONE OF THOSE WHO HAVE BEEN
ASSIGNED TO HIDE THE TRUTH FROM HER."

"Do you know where she lives?

Erickson made no reaction.

Scully stood up. "Do...you...know?"

He finally nodded.

"She has to know what she is."

"YOU WOULD DESTROY HER LIKE THAT? YOU WOULD
TEAR APART HER WORLD SO READILY?"

"No. I guess that's your job."

Erickson slowly turned away from her. He sat down in a chair, his hands
folded together ontop of the desk. Then he wrote another note and pushed it
to the side.

Scully stepped up to the desk and read the note.

"THIS IS A WAR. I'M SORRY THAT YOU GOT INVOLVED IN
IT, BUT A WAR MEANS PAIN."

"Why are you fighting it then? Why are we so important to you?"

Erickson stayed motionless in the chair, the pen away from his hand.

Then he abruptly got up and walked out of the hotel room.

Scully returned to the window.

She wondered if she had a right or luxury to question Erickson's intentions.
However, she was too weary to maintain a complete trust. Over the past six
years, she had not only been raped in her body, but her very beliefs had
been ravaged. Wherever she looked for comfort, she had found lies and doom.
She had been betrayed by those responsible for her well-being. Science had
only confirmed the situation's inevitable decay. Even when she looked up to
God, she found the face of an alien looking back at her.

Maybe she had the right to mistrust, after all.

But she still had to trust somebody.

She trusted her family, despite the tension there. And, of course...

Here she was, after all. She was hanging everything on another one of
Mulder's whims. He was convinced that this artifact (if Rifada really had
one) could provide them with the solution to their problem.

To her problem.

She touched the back of her neck.

Erickson had told her what the final purpose of the implant was. It went a
little something like this---

The virus also served as a carrier and a receiver. At the time of
colonization, the infected humans would be immobilized and the virus would
wait for a transmission.

The transmission of a new consciousness.

Now, the storage capacity of the human mind is actually very remarkable. You
could store tons and tons of information on it. All you needed was a direct
path to send the information.

The abductees with implants would be the storage units. They would receive a
strong message to come to various spots around the world called
"lighthouses." It would be there that the aliens would perform the biggest
download in history.

Their thoughts and memories and everything else that made up their minds
would be crammed into the brains of the human abductees. Then the abductees
would go forth and visit every infected human, dropping an alien
consciousness onto each of them where it would nestle inside the virus,
taking control of the host.

What will happen to the abductees?

DIFFICULT TO SAY. YOU'RE TALKING HUNDREDS AND
HUNDREDS OF MINDS ALL HOUSED IN ONE HUMAN
BRAIN. THE STRAIN MIGHT BE TOO MUCH FOR SOME.
THEY MIGHT DIE OR GO MAD AFTER THE PROCESS IS
DONE.

And if the virus does mutate into another lifeform?

THEN THOSE MINDS WILL HAVE NOWHERE TO GO.
AND MADNESS AND DEATH WILL BE INEVITABLE.

Can the abductees resist the implant's control?

YOU CAN TRY.

Scully knew what the chip was capable of. Death was the price of removing
it. When she had been summoned by the rebels, the urge to comply was
overwhelming. If she struggled against the implant's orders, who knew what
measures it would take?

Mulder didn't know about this. Erickson had explained it to her on the way
to Iran. Perhaps, he already had a vague idea of what would happen, but he
didn't dare ask.

She was hanging it all on his cloudy memories of his telepathic experiences.
She was working from the assumption that this artifact could open that final
door and reveal the truth in all of its bloody glory. She was reaching for
that door with the belief that her salvation was behind it.

It was a perfectly sensible thing to do.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

PART TWENTY
REUNIONS

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"Happy families are all alike..." --- Leo Tolstoy

"Not really." --- David Hearne

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Whenever he spoke, there was both truth and falsehood in his words. For
instance, he once said to a man, "Look at me. No wife, no family."

That wasn't quite true. He did have a wife. He also had a son. At the time,
they had been placed far away from him. The wife was returned and he had
attempted a reconcilation with the son. Now they were both dead, the former
killed by the conspiring of others and the latter by his own hand.

He also had someone that he called a daughter. She wasn't. She didn't even
have a father in the strictest sense of the word.

Yet she was all that he had left. That's why he went to see her.

"Dad!" she greeted him after he knocked on her house's front door.

"Hello, Samantha."

After hugging her, he followed her to the living room.

"What brings you here?" she asked him.

"Well, I've just gotten some time off from work and I wanted to come see you
and everybody else."

"I haven't seen you since..." Samantha stopped herself. The smoking man
touched her on the hand.

"How is he?" she asked.

"Doing well."

She looked at his smiling features. "He told me that you lied. That you had
known where he had been for years."

The smoking man sighed.

"Is it true?"

"I'm afraid it is."

"Why? Why lie to me?"

"Because I knew that seeing him would be difficult for you. He was part of a
life that you had left so long ago."

She was silent for a few seconds, then she said, "You were right. I can't go
back. And he has to live his life without me."

"And you have to live yours."

She squeezed his hand. "I'm so glad that you're here."

"So am I."

"George and Miriam will be glad to see you. They don't get to see their
grandfather often."

Soon, they won't get to see me at all, the smoking man thought. Soon, your
children and your husband and yourself will be called upon to serve a new
master. Your life is a dream that's about to get smashed into the ground.

I'm here because I want to share in that dream before its death. I want to
know what's it like to live in blissful ignorance. I want to spend these
final days in your illusion.

A good liar can believe in his own lies.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"Yo, Nutboy!"

"What is it, Navyboy?"

"You feeling hungry?"

"No. Not right now. Thank you."

Charles Scully looked at Fox Mulder's back. Even since he had gotten here,
Mulder had spent most of his time in the guest bedroom. Sometimes, he would
lie in his bed and focus on the ceiling. Other times, he would sit quietly
in a chair. Now, he was staring out the window.

Charles walked up to him. "Worried about her?"

"That goes without saying. But I suppose that it's my just desserts."

"I take it you've gone off to faraway places and left her to worry."

"Sometimes, I wouldn't even tell her that I was leaving."

"Idiot."

"Yep."

Both men looked at the leaves hanging from the branches outside.

"There's lots of things that you haven't told me," Charles observed.

"Lots and lots of things."

"Does it have something to do with the X-Files?"

"Yes."

"So...what? Are we going to get invaded by aliens or something?"

Mulder swallowed and rolled his shoulders.

"Hello? You listening?"

"I am."

"So, talk to me."

"I really don't know where to..."

"Fox?"

Her steps had been so soft that they hadn't heard her coming. Mulder quickly
turned to see his mother standing in the doorway.

"Who are..." Charles began, but then he saw the tight look on Mulder's face
and the frightened one on the old woman.

"Oh," he said. "Hello, Mrs. Mulder. I'm Charles. Dana's brother."

Teena Mulder nodded, her eyes still on her son.

"Well..." Charles added.

Mulder finally spoke. "Charles, could you..."

"Sure, sure." Charles got out of the room with equal parts decorum and
quickness.

The door was closed.

"Are you feeling..." Teena started.

"Mom, sit down."

Teena took a chair. Mulder remaining standing. He watched that old woman for
awhile, noting her rigid back, her hands clasped in her lap and an attitude
that expected the worst.

Then he said, "Thank you for helping Scully get me out of the looney bin."

She took a tiny breath before replying, "You're welcome."

"But there's..." He crossed his arms over his chest in a protective gesture.
"There's a lot that has to be said. A lot to be answered."

"Yes."

"Are you going to give me answers?"

She took another breath, then said, "I will."

"Okay. For starters...I've learned his name. The smoking man's name. C.B.G.
Spender."

"That isn't his real name."

"I thought so. What is his name, then?"

"I never knew. I doubt anybody remembers it. Whatever identity he had
before, he dropped it when he got involved in your father's line of work."

"Is that how you knew him? Through Dad?"

"No. I knew him before I met your father."

Mulder looked away for a moment, then he motioned for her to continue.

"I was working as a secretary at the Pentagon then. Spender was...he was..."
She shook her head. "Every reason I can give you will sound foolish. But
there was a certain danger, a certain mysteriousness about him that I found
arousing."

She waited for his recriminations, his bitter comments, his anger.

Instead, he just said, "How long did it go on?"

"About a year. Then I came to realize that darkness is just darkness.
There's nothing else to it. I had seen his cold heart. It's one of the
reasons that I married your father. I wanted to get away from that coldness
as far as I could."

"So Dad was different?" Mulder said, his voice sour.

"I know that it's hard to see. It's hard for me to see. He did the same work
as Spender, but Bill...he had goodness in him. He had doubts and
uncertainties about what he did."

"Not enough, apparently."

Silence took over the room again.

Then, Teena said, "It's easy to hate your father. I know I have. I hated him
because I expected him to do better. He should have found a way to make us
all safe."

For the first time, her eyes were hard. "But can you never say that you had
an impossible choice, Fox? That you choose something over another even if it
meant hurting another person?"

Mulder felt his head become weighty. His shoulders dropped down. He sat down
on the bed, his eyes elsewhere from his mother.

"I can't say I haven't," he said quietly.

"Maybe Bill should have found another choice. But I honestly don't know
how."

"But why me?" He looked up at her. "Why did he choose me over her?"

"I don't know. He never told me his reasons. Maybe he had none to give. I
know that...that they wanted you at first."

"The aliens?"

Teena let out a long sigh. "Yes. The aliens. They wanted you because you had
certain abilities."

"What do you mean?"

"They called you a 'sensitive.' You could pick up the feelings of others and
understand what they're thinking."

Mulder closed his eyes.

It had been staring him right in the face. That was the connection between
all abductees.

Telepathy. Psychic sensitivity. Whatever you want to call it.

It was a latent trait in humans, one that could be activated if the
individual biology was right. Most of the 'lucky ones' had this ability and
they didn't even know it. They could sense things that other people
couldn't, but they just regarded  it as a sharper kind of instinct. It had
been the trait that had made him a great profiler.

And there was Scully...

"I told your mother that you would be all right," she had once told him.

"How did you know?"

"I just knew."

And there was her mother with the dreams that came true. She must have
passed her abilities down to her daughter.

God, Margaret Scully could have been an abductee herself. The aliens must
have missed her and people like Gibson Praise through sheer fortune.

Because the aliens needed their subjects to have some kind of telepathy for
the implants to work. It was how they developed a pathway to the human mind.

He could have been one of them, one of their drones.

He opened his eyes. "Somehow, he must convinced them otherwise," he said in
a flat tone.

Margaret nodded.

"Spender allowed them to take his wife, you know."

"Yes. When he lost her, that was the only time that he ever showed any real
feeling towards her. He had married her just to avoid being alone. He never
loved her."

"But he loved you."

"I don't know if he's capable of it. I was just something that got away from
him."

Mulder thought, But he got a bit of it back. He wanted to tell her about the
woman who claimed to be Samantha. Spender...the smoking man...the
black-lunged bastard...whatever you wanted to call him, he was living out a
facsimile of the life that he could have had with Teena Mulder.

He was faced with a choice right then. He could be as truthful with her as
she was finally being with him. Or he could spare her this extra pain.

He decided to choose the latter. For now.

"I know I should have done more," she said.

"What?"

"I should have gone for help. I should have told somebody about what they
were doing. I shouldn't have stood by..."

With one swift movement, Mulder left the bed, knelt down by her mother and
held her hand.

"And what then?" he asked. "Who would have believed you? You could have just
gotten yourself killed."

Tears were leaving her eyes. "I was her mother..."

"Mom, listen to me. For many nights, I've been telling myself, 'If I had
only done this or that, she would be here right now.' You hold onto this
guilt because it's better than feeling helpless. But can either one of us
honestly say that we could have done more?"

She looked down, the tears spilling down her chin. Her wrinkled hands
tightened around Mulder's hand.

"There's one more question that I have to ask," he said quietly.

She made a tiny murmur in her throat that sounded like a 'yes.'

"When we last met...I asked you who my father was and you told me, 'Why do
you want to know? So you can kill him again?'"

Her head lifted up, horrified at the memory.

"Is that what you think, mom? Do you think that I shot dad?"

"Did you?" she whispered.

"No. It was..."

("He has to know! He has to know everything!")

"Fox?"

Mulder closed his eyes and touched his temples.

"Fox, what's wrong?"

"Nothing." He shook his head, then opened his eyes. "I'm fine."

He took a breath, then said, "It was one of Spender's men who did the job. I
know who this man is and I will bring him to justice."

"That's what your father hoped. He thought that this whole mess could be
boiled down to something that a court of law could digest. But it's an
impossible quest. I don't want to lose you to it."

He gave her a smile, the first that he had given her in years. "You haven't
lost me. I'm right here."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

After he had gone downstairs, Charles had found his mother sitting on the
back porch. He took a seat next to her.

"Nice of you to invite her up here," he commented.

"I thought they should talk."

"You like him, don't you?"

"Don't you?"

"I would have to understand him first."

"Then he should know this. When Dana was in a coma, he was the only one who
wouldn't give up on her. I think...I know that he helped pull her through."

Charles slowly nodded, "Obviously more than partners."

"Obviously."

The mother and her youngest son were quiet for a few moments.

"I just heard on the radio about another bee attack," she finally said.

"Where?"

"On the coast of Louisiana. They said that thirty people have died so far."

"Jesus." Charles looked up at the bedroom window. "You know, I get the
strangest feeling that he knows something more about these attacks."

Margaret's face was blank.

"Okay, it sounds paranoid but you can't hang around Nutboy for long
without..."

"I had one of those dreams last night."

Charles watched her, not daring to speak until she told him about it.

"There's a large field of corn next to white domes and it's all in the
middle of this desert. A fire is destroying everything. I can hear this
sound like a great engine. Fox and Dana are lying in the sand just on the
edge of the fire. They're safe, but they look so...anguished. Then this
large man walks up to them. I wake up before he speaks."

She turned to Charles with her scared eyes.

"Mom, you know how I feel about..."

"Help me!"

They both turned to see a panic-stricken Teena Mulder at the back door.

"Something's wrong with Fox!"

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

It had pulled him down as easily as gravity. There was none of the pain of
before. This time, the voices glided over the surface of his mind instead of
crashing there. He was becoming more adjusted to the noise, finding the
patterns inside of it. Succumbing to it was just like falling asleep.

He found this new ease more frightening than pain, but the fear was as
distant to him as the strong hands that were examining him and the voice
that said, "I don't know what's wrong with him. We better get him to a
hospital."

He rode through the tunnels of other people's minds, leapt from one
consciousness to other, getting closer and closer to the voice that was
calling him. The voice's echo had struck him while he was talking to his
mother and the sound was now bouncing him back towards...

(Help me.)

A desert.

(Help me.)

A young boy.

(Help me.)

Faceless men.

(Help me or they'll kill me.)

He felt himself being picked up so he snapped back to his body. Charles was
dragging him out of the bedroom.
He spoke up.

"He needs help."

"What?" Charles said.

"Fox?" his mother whispered.

On perfectly steady legs, Mulder stood up and gently pulled himself away
from Charles. He looked at them with cool eyes.

He said, "Gibson Praise needs help."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

PART TWENTY-ONE
SCULLY'S ACT OF FAITH

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"It is He who has revealed to you the Book. Some of its verses are precise
in meaning---they are the foundation of the Book---and others ambiguous.
Those whose hearts are infected with disbelief follow the ambiguous part, so
as to create dissension by seeking to explain it. But no one knows its
meaning except God."---The Koran

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

When she had looked out the window of her hotel room, she had seen the
Westernized part of the city. Now, as she walked through its streets at
night, the past was sneaking up on her. She could hear it in a woman's
keening song through an open window. She could see it in the simple yet
evocative patterns carved onto a mosque. She could smell it in the air that
blew in from the desert.

She had to be careful. Even though some restrictions had been lifted on
women in Iran (she noticed that she was one of the few other women around
who still wore a veil), it was still a bit unseemly for a woman to be
walking alone at night. Occasionally, a passing motorist or a street beggar
would give her a curious look.

Of course, there was another reason to be careful.

Then, again, she had backup, didn't she? Erickson had said that he would be
close-by. She glanced around her at the smooth white buildings and the dark
alleys.

There wasn't a sign of him anywhere. She seemed to be completely alone.
Luckily, she had smuggled something through customs.

She walked on until she reached the house of Nigeb Rifada.

She knocked on the door.

She waited.

The door was opened up by a tall, thin man in his late fifties. "Yes?" he
said politely yet carefully.

She removed her veil and said, "Mister Rifada, I'm Special Agent..."

"I must say, Agent Scully, you look positively fetching in those clothes."

She blinked. "You know who I am?"

Rifada smiled. "I've been expecting to see you or Agent Mulder for years.
Please come inside."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

They were sitting in the center of his house. A square hole had been cut
into his roof, allowing moonlight to drop onto a shallow pool. Their chairs
were next to the pool.

"How do you know about me?" she asked.

"I've taken quite an interest in how governments deal with the supernatural.
Your own government didn't have much of anything in that line ever since
Project Blue Book shut down. That is, until Mulder opened up the X-Files."

He looked at her and asked, "So, what brings you here?"

"You have an artifact."

"Oh? What kind?"

"An artifact from an extraterrestrial source."

He turned away from her, his thumbs rubbing against each other. "I thought
you were the skeptic of your partnership. I supposed that has changed."

"A lot has changed."

"Oh, everything changes. Sometimes, we force the change. That's what we did
two decades ago. We had enough of the Shah and his Western masters. Back
then, Khomeini seemed to promise a new world, one in which Islam would be
great and powerful." He turned to Scully. "It's probably hard for you to
understand how we felt."

"I'm not here to judge."

"Well...in any case, I was a fervent believer. Eventually, though, my faith
became a role that I merely played. I only performed the customs of religion
because I was terrified of looking at the world through the prism of a new
knowledge."

"And now?"

"Now, I am too old or too tired or just indifferent. I look into the hole
where my faith was and I accept it. I do it sadly, but I can't take refuge
in a lie anymore."

Scully hesitated, then asked another question.

"It said," Rifada answered. "'This book is not to be doubted. It is a guide
for the righteous, who have faith in the unseen...' It's the opening passage
of the Koran. There it was, written on a centuries-old artifact in Navajo
and touched with the radiation of a faraway star."

"What did you do with it?"

"Do with it? Isn't that perfectly obvious?"

Scully closed her eyes. "You destroyed it."

Rifada burst out laughing. "No, no."

He left his chair and knelt down to the floor. He removed a loose tile from
the floor.

Scully quickly rushed to his side, almost tripping over her gown. She had to
keep herself from snatching the metal box that Rifada lifted out of the
ground. The box was opened to reveal brown cloth wrapped around an object.
Rifada removed the cloth.

There it was, long as a paperback book and jagged around one edge.

"So," Rifada said. "what do you want with it?"

The firmness in his voice told Scully that she was walking on thin ice now.
Rifada had been keeping this artifact in secret for years. There was no
guarantee that he would give it to her. She could steal it, but his
government contacts would make sure that she never got away.

"I have a friend who needs it. It could be the clue needed to solve a great
mystery."

"And what then?  You know why I've kept this artifact to myself, Agent
Scully."

"Because you have no wish to destroy the faith of others."

"Would you reveal your great solution to your great mystery if that would
mean shattering the lives of millions and millions of people?"

Scully looked at the moon's reflection in the water. The moon's old face
stared back at her.

"There was another artifact that I saw," she said. "On it was written the
Book of Genesis."

Rifada's head moved back an inch, then he nodded. "Are you a believer?"

She reached under her gown and pulled out the crucifix that hung from her
neck. Rifada looked at it and said, "I guess the real question is---are you
still a believer?"

"I don't know. And I wouldn't want to inflict my doubt onto anyone. But I
need this artifact. It's part of something much important than my doubt. I'm
fighting a war, Mister Rifada. I will take the burden of this artifact's
meaning if it means winning that war. And I'm willing to take the burden
alone."

Rifada examined her milk-white face for a long time.

Then he wrapped up the artifact and placed it back into the box. He closed
the box. He kept his fingers on its lid for several moments.

He pushed the box over to her.

"'Be patient, then,'" he said. "'God will grant you patience. Do not grieve
for the unbelievers, nor distress yourself at their intrigues. God is with
those who keep from evil and do good works.'"

"Thank you. What part of the Koran is that from?"

"The book called 'The Bee.'"

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

She was being followed.

No, she wasn't.

She walked down the streets of Tehran, trying not to move too briskly and
wondering if the shadows were just shadows. The box was clutched tightly to
her side. Underneath her gown, a piece of metal was growing hot.

There was the sound of footsteps other than her own. They came from other
streets, echoing against the buildings. She focused on them, filtering them
out from the voices talking from doorways and the television sets humming
from inside houses.

She listened to the footsteps behind her, the footsteps of the person who
was following her.

No, he wasn't following her.

Listen to the sound of those steps, though. Don't they sound familiar as if
they've been there for some time? Don't they seem to be getting louder?

No, they're not. Don't be so...

...paranoid.

She took a turn into an alley. A few seconds later, another man went into
that alley and met up with a gun being pointed in his face.

"Up against the wall."

He quickly complied to her order as well as with her search of his clothes.
A gun was removed from inside his jacket.

"Turn around."

His olive-skinned face was looking at her now.

"Who are you?" she asked him. "Or should I say...Chi sono tu?"

The man made no response.

"Who do you work for? What do you want?"

"We want what you're carrying."

Scully's head spun towards the side and she saw (Dana, you idiot, it was a
trap) three other men. Two of them were pointing guns at her. The third was
standing at a distance, watching carefully.

Her ex-captive took back his own gun as well as hers.

"Now...the box."

Scully held onto her possession, the futility of her defiance absurdly
apparent to her.

The man at her side ripped it from her. Then the four men looked at each
her, wondering what they should do next. She looked back at them, her breath
coming out loud and her eyes wide and furious.

With an almost contemplative air, the man next to her lifted a gun and
pressed it against her temple. He waited for something---an order, a sound,
the right feeling. He may shoot her. He may not.

It stayed quiet for a second.

Then the sky fell down.

Actually, it was just one person, but for the two men that he landed on, it
might as well as been the sky. The man pointing the gun at Scully stared as
a stranger jumped from a building's roof, knocked his comrades to the
ground, picked them up again and knocked their heads together.

He stared, not looking at Scully.

She didn't kick him in the groin.

First, he punched him in the throat.

Then she kneed him in the stomach as she snatched his guns away.

She followed that up with a blow to the kidneys.

When he was down on his knees, she took back the box and told him, "I have
some aggression issues."

That's when she kicked him in the groin. The man curled up into a ball and
groaned. She looked back up at Erickson, expecting him to be clobbering the
fourth man.

Instead, she saw him and the fourth man staring at each other. That's when
she saw the look in the fourth man's eyes. It was cold and unforgiving. She
had met serial killers who didn't have that same lack of mercy in their
face. You would have to be inhuman to look that way.

The fourth man melted and changed.

"This time, my task will be completed," the Bounty Hunter told Erickson. He
stepped forward.

Erickson held up his hands in the air. The Bounty Hunter abruptly halted. He
looked at Erickson in puzzlement.

Scully realized that the two of them were communicating, their minds
speaking silently. She also realized that she could take this opportunity to
run like hell.

Yet she stayed. Why? Because you don't leave an ally behind. Because it was
against her principles. Because her instinct told her that Erickson needed
her help.

The Bounty Hunter shook his head. "You're lying," he replied to Erickson's
silent message.

Erickson gave him a look that said otherwise. Scully saw an emotion that she
never expected to see on the alien assassin's face.

Confusion. And maybe a little fear.

However, it lasted for only a moment. The Bounty Hunter's face turned firm.
"I have my task. You will not leave."

Silver-colored metal caught the moonlight and there was a hiss.

And then another hiss.

Of course, thought Scully. Erickson would have one of those, wouldn't he?
One of those stilettos whose metal resisted the corrosive effects of alien
blood so they could be used over and over.

Or just once, if necessary.

The two aliens faced each other, stilettos in hand. They slowly started to
circle each other, their eyes not missing a single twitch from their
opponent. Scully looked at each them and evaluated their evident strength
and speed before coming to this conclusion.

The Bounty Hunter was going to win.

She still had the option to run. Yet she made another choice. She made it
within the space of a second, the consequences already considered and
accepted.

"Hey!" she yelled out.

Both aliens turned. She fired at the Bounty Hunter's face, twice, one for
each eye.

The Bounty Hunter stumbled, his hands waving around as green liquid poured
from his eye sockets. Like his fellow aliens, he didn't need eyes to see,
but the shots had disoriented him. It gave Erickson the perfect opportunity.

Scully watched as Erickson grabbed the Bounty Hunter by the shirt, bent him
forward and plunged the stilletto into his neck.

Then she saw red and black spots. They covered her vision like insects
crawling over her eyes. A noxious taste filled her mouth and her throat
closed up. She fell to her knees, clawing at her eyes and trying to cough.
She could hear the same things happening to the man that she had beaten up.

It felt like her brain was swelling. Any moment, it would explode. Her last
conscious thought was, Mulder, forgive me.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Communion was taking place. The congregation members were leaving their pews
to taste the wine and eat the wafers. Her father was besides her in the
line, holding her by the hand as they waited to receive the sacrement of
Christ.

As they headed for the altar, she noticed a few things. The wine was not its
usual rose color. It was now a thick green. Instead of getting wafers, the
priest would press a small piece of metal into the back of everybody's neck.

The priest didn't even look human. He had grey skin, long fingers, huge
black eyes.

She seemed to be the only one who noticed it. Everybody acted as if nothing
was wrong, including her father.

"Daddy!"

"Shhh."

"Daddy, listen to me!"

He bent down to her. "Starbuck, this is not the time..."

"It's all a lie!"

He frowned. "What?"

"Look at them! It's a lie!"

Her father looked very displeased. "I thought that I raised you better than
that."

"Daddy, look!"

He sighed and looked at the altar. He examined the priests and the wine,
searching for something strange. He wasn't finding it. Meanwhile, they were
getting closer and closer to those long fingers. She wanted to break free
and run out of the church, but her father's grip was too strong.

He shook his head and looked back down at her. "There's nothing to be..." he
began, but then he saw the terror in her face. He examined the priests
again, more doubtful this time.

He still couldn't see anything.

There were just a few people away from the altar. The priest spoke each
blessing in a buzz of words not found in the dictionary.

The father realized that he had to trust his daughter for the simple reason
that she was his daughter.

"Are you sure?" he asked her.

"Yes!"

He took a breath, then said, "For every lie, there is a truth. Go find it."

He let go of her hand and she ran, far away from the buzzing litany of the
priests and the organ music. She headed towards another music. She heard a
trumpet and congas and an electric guitar. There was a rough male voice and
the sweeter tones of a woman singing in unison.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

...When you made your move...
...You made a grave mistake...
...Since you nailed me to the cross...
...I was the only thing that you couldn't take...

Scully became aware of several things. First of all, obviously, she wasn't
dead. Her head felt a bit thick, but she seemed to be well.

She was also in the backseat of a jeep. The driver was an Arab listening to
country music on his tape player. Her head was in the lap of Richard
Erickson. He smiled down at her open eyes.

She slowly sat up and looked around her. They were on a highway that had
been built on the length of a desert. The time was in the late morning.

"Where are we?"

He already had a few notes written for her.

"WE'RE HEADED FOR A SAUDI ARABIAN AIRPORT.
I'VE GOT A PRIVATE PLANE LINED UP. THIS IS FEISAL,
ONE OF MY CONTACTS HERE AND, I'VE JUST LEARNED,
A COUNTRY MUSIC FAN."

"Thank you, Feisal," she said.

Feisal nodded.

"YOU'RE LUCKY THAT MY BIRTH DEFECTS DIDN'T
INCLUDE A LACK OF MY HEALING POWERS. I WAS
ABLE TO CURE YOU OF THE EFFECTS OF THE ALIEN
BLOOD."

"Oh. Oh, yes. I forgot aliens could do that."

Erickson gave her a long look, then he wrote a new note.

"YOU DIDN'T KNOW?"

"Like I said, I forgot."

"YOU WOULD HAVE DIED."

"I imagine."

Erickson looked at her again.

"WHY DID YOU DO IT?"

"Because...I decided to finally take you on faith. If you are really working
on our side, then you're the best chance that this planet has now. If the
choice has to come between you and me, then it has to be you who lives."

Erickson turned away. He stared at the dry land outside.

Then he tried to write something. He found that he couldn't. He could only
stare at Scully with a bit of wonder.

"Don't tell Mulder that I did this."

He nodded.

"What about the other men? They were infected, too. Did you use your powers
on them as well?"

Erickson turned his head back to the window.

Of course not. The stiletto in the Bounty Hunter's neck would only
temporarily incapacitate him. Erickson couldn't waste time with healing
everybody.

So, by shooting the Bountry Hunter, she had killed those three men.

She had killed people before. And those men had been likely going to execute
her. Yet she had to wonder what was worth three men's lives.

She noticed the metal box on the floor. She picked it up and looked at it.

...I learned more about ashes...
...And even more about dust...
...It came to me in hot flashes...
...The only truth I could trust...

She held it in her hand and dared to wonder if this was it. Had she and
Mulder finally come to the end? Could everything they wanted be right in
there? Could things finally be looking up?

Of course not. When she got back to the U.S.A., she found out that Mulder
and Charles had ditched her to go to California.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

PART TWENTY-TWO
MURPHY'S LAW

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"On open ground, do not try to block the enemy's way." --- Sun Tzu

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Charles Scully drove a rental car through Joshua Tree National Park,
wondering what exactly brought him out here.

It went a little something like this---

Mulder insisted that he needed to go to California immediately. Charles
responded with a big fat negative. Not only was he concerned for Mulder's
well-being, but he was also worried what Dana might do to him if he let
Mulder go prancing off.

Mulder answered that a boy's life was in danger.

"How do you know?" he asked.

"Because I've recently acquired telepathic powers," Mulder told him quietly.

Charles stared at the FBI agent, then said, "I must admit that I didn't see
that one coming."

"He's probably telling the truth."

Charles and his mother turned to look at Teena Mulder. She looked back at
them as if she was sad that they were founding out what a strange world they
lived in.

"How I've come to have these powers is a very long story," Mulder said. "But
I have to leave. Now. I'm the only one who can find Gibson in time."

Charles turned to his mother. She was bewildered as he was. Yet, there was
something else in her expression. She trusted Mulder. For that matter, Dana
trusted Mulder.

Maybe it was his turn to trust.

Still, he couldn't let Mulder go out there alone.

"Okay. You can go. But only if I come with you."

"Charles, I can't let you..."

He held up one of his big fingers and said, "Nutboy...the discussion is
over."

So, that's why he was out here in California.

It made sense at the time.

He glanced at Mulder who was coming across as particularly flaky at the
moment. As the car journeyed slowly down the road that ran through the park,
Mulder seemed to be watching what passed by. At least, his eyes were
pointing towards the outside. There wasn't much to see under the cover of
night. Any visible shape was rendered grey and flat. The headlights would
briefly pluck out a brush, a rabbit or a tree with limbs spread upward like
a cupped hand, then toss it back into the darkness. Beyond that, there was
no way of seeing the miles of landscape.

Mulder's eyes had a blank quality as if no light could touch them. His head
was turning very slowly, absorbing some unheard signal.

It was making Charles feel very uncomfortable. It didn't help that Mulder
had told him the whole story on their plane trip here. Charles had insisted
on Mulder telling him everything.

He found out that "everything" did, in fact, cover aliens. It also included
a conspiracy that stretched over all the whole planet, implants, living
black oil, a group of self-multilated rebels, secretive fathers and the
possibility that God himself was an extraterrestrial.

Charles hadn't said a word to Mulder since then.

After landing at the airport, they rented a car and Charles drove the car in
whatever direction the FBI agent told him to go. Eventually, they had
reached the park and Charles had, well, built up a few doubts. If Mulder was
aware of his suspicion, then that glazed-over expression gave away nothing.

Charles was becoming convinced that he had done something very foolish. He
was already convinced that Dana was going to inflict bodily harm on him.

"Ah, Mulder?"

No response.

"Mulder, if...Christ, I never thought I would say this...if you really are
telepathic, then you must know that I'm feeling pretty stupid right now."

Mulder continued to stare in silence at the outside.

"I mean, does Dana really believe this story? If she does, then...then there
must be some truth in it somewhere. But I still don't see any reason why we
should be out there."

Mulder stopped turning his head. He fixed on one particular point.

"Yeah, yeah, I know. It's a little late to be bitching about it. But you
have to see it from my..."

"STOP THE CAR!"

The brake pedal was squashed under Charles's shoe. A nauseating shriek could
be heard from the tires.

"Keep the engine on!" Mulder ordered him. Mulder ran out of the car,
flashlight in hand, letting the darkness swallow him whole.

Charles watched him leave. He rolled his tongue around his cheek and said,
"Why Dana doesn't kick your ass on a regular basis, I don't know."

Yet he waited. Eventually, he would get a big surprise.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

(Help us!)

I'm coming.

(Help us!)

I'm over here, this way, there's help this way...

He plunged further ahead, the ground clapping under his feet, trying to zero
in on that voice in this huge, terribly open space around him. His
flashlight could only find more trees, more rocks, more nothing.

Eventually, he came upon a boulder as large as a house. It was smooth and
flat enough on one side for you to climb quickly to the top. He did that to
get a better view.

That's how they saw them.

It was difficult to see their faces, but he could tell that Gibson was being
carried by a fast-moving male teenager. He could also tell who was chasing
them. He immediately knew who were the three men wearing dark jumpsuits and
carrying rods.

The man carrying Gibson (no, not a man, something more) moved with great
speed, but his pursuers were just a little faster. Soon, they would catch
Gibson and his companion. Something was needed to delay them.

Mulder turned off his flashlight.

Then he concentrated, sending out a message to the chased.

Gibson and his friend caught it. Their direction was changed so that they
would pass by the rock. Mulder hunched down, his legs tense. He carefully
let his mind track the position of the chasers, making sure that they
couldn't detect him in return. The relentlessly pulsing sound of their minds
was like an approaching siren.

Gibson's friend passed the rock. In a few seconds, his pursuers were going
to pass by as well.

Forgive me, Scully, Mulder thought.

Then he jumped.

He landed right on the alien rebels, knocking them to the ground.

No, only two of them. The third, however, stopped and turned to see his
companions under the weight of some human. He received a signal to continue
the pursuit. He did so.

Pain was touching several parts of Mulder's body, but nothing appeared to be
broken. He started to get up.

Then he was grabbed and flung against the boulder. Both rebels had him by
the shirt. They both held up their rods. They both stared at him with their
scarred faces.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

First, Charles saw the young boy and the teenager. Then he saw their
pursuer. Without hesitating, he yelled, "Get in!"

The teenager stopped before the open passenger door, tossed Gibson inside
and then jumped in himself. Charles hit the gas as hard as he could with the
door still hanging open.

Right as the car took off, someone else jumped on it.

Charles turned his head and...well, what do you do when you see a man with
no eyes and no mouth and holding something that you just know is a deadly
weapon? What do you do when the man is holding onto your car, both feet in
an open door, one hand clamped onto the roof and the other extending the rod
towards you?

Luckily, the teenager knew what to do. He punched the man right in his
'face,' sending him tumbling by the roadside.
Then he closed the door.

Charles turned his head back to the road and thought, oh, shit, it's real,
Mulder's crazy story is real, oh, shit, that was a real goddamn alien, oh,
shit, Mulder was right, where is Mulder, oh, SHIT, he's still back there...

"They won't kill him."

"Wh-what?"

"They won't kill him," the boy said.

Charles allowed himself a moment of relief. Then he saw the haunted look on
the boy.

"What?" he asked.

"They've got what they need now."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

They were touching his mind. They saw the pathways that had been opened up
to it. Its possibilities were being examined.

Mulder stood helplessly as they examined him. He wanted to keep them out,
but they were too skilled. They did not have the same level of ability as
their creators, but they knew better than Mulder on how to use their own
powers.
The cold scapel of their minds were cutting him open. The violation was
sickening, worse than any physical examination.

Then they stopped. The sound of their minds became different. It now had the
tone of cold satisfaction.

That's when Mulder realized that he had just given the rebels exactly what
they wanted.

Oh, good one.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

She had arrived at her mother's house a couple of hours ago. She had spent
the next two hours trying very hard not to scream. Margaret Scully and Teena
Mulder watched her in guilt as Scully paced the room with clenched fists.
They listened to a rambling monologue as she wondered out loud whether to go
out to California or whether to stay here for news, why Mulder wasn't
answering his cellular phone, and what level of hell did her brother and her
partner belong on.

Then the phone rang. Scully immediately picked it up.

"Yes?"

"Dana, it's Charles."

"Okay, listen to me. You and Mulder get back here right now..."

"Dana, wait..."

"No. No discussion. You get back here..."

"Dana, I don't have time for this! I'm in a situation right now..."

"If you're in California, you definitely are in a situation. There's a..."

"Enough! Just listen! Then, yell all you want! All right? But, listen!"

Scully took a breath, then said, "Listen to what?"

"I'm at a pay phone right now. We just outran a bunch of...well, we just had
a confrontation with the alien rebels..."

Scully almost jumped. "You know about them?"

"Oh, I sure know about them now. Not only did I meet one, but I'm standing
here right now with a telepathic kid and someone else that I've been told is
an alien."

Scully closed her eyes for a second. Then she said, "I'm sorry you had to
find out this way, Charlies."

"Yeah, well, this is 'see-it-before-you-believe-it' situation."

"What about Mulder?"

There was a period of silence at the other end. In that empty space, Scully
found herself projecting nightmares, waiting for any one of them to manifest
themselves.

Then she heard, "They got him."

And a nightmare did take shape. She saw Mulder's body as a black skeleton,
the flesh charred off...

"He's alive. They're holding him prisoner."

Her imagination turned to other possibilities, terrible ones but not quite
as horrid as before. Her voice was calm yet quietly threatening panic as she
asked "How do you know?"

"Gibson knows. He says that the rebels need Mulder for the same reason they
needed him. Do you know what that means?"

"No. But I know who might know."

"I suppose this means we three here are safe..."

"No. You still need to get out of there."

"Why?"

"One of my contacts had a message for me when I got back. Satellites have
picked up something large coming up the west coast of Central America,
heading straight for California."

She could almost hear the realization in her brother's mind before he said,
"A bee swarm."

"Yes."

"My God...Tara and Bill..."

"I know," Scully said quietly. "I know."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

PART TWENTY-THREE
LEADERS

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"Pay no attention to Caesar. Caesar doesn't have the slighest idea what's
really going on."---Kurt Vonnegut

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The alien rebel hoped that this conversation would end soon. He disliked
wearing the layer of synthetic skin needed to perform a shape change. It
made him uncomfortable. This whiny human that he was with didn't make
matters easier.

"Mister Strunghold, please," the human pleaded. "You can't honestly expect
me to implement these measures."

"Would I be standing here in your office if I didn't?" he replied in a
perfect simulation of the late Conrad Strunghold's voice.

"You're asking me to let FEMA..."

"Pardon me, Mister President, but I'm not asking."

The human bit his lip, his eyes wide and hurt. It was such a strained
caricature of pain that the rebel had to resist slapping him.

"How am I supposed to explain this to the American people? How am I supposed
to tell them that FEMA will now be in sole charge of this country?"

"First of all, you have a plague facing your land. Steps need to be taken.
What is going to happen in California will only be the beginning."

"How do you know?"

"We have done our research. Second of all, you will make the announcement on
a holiday. July the Fourth, to be exact. The transfer will happen without
much attention. By the time people understand everything, they will have to
accept it. Third, you have had to explain other things to the nation
before."

The man's voice rose gratingly in octaves. "This is a lot different than
explaining that I had an affair..."

"Finally, there is a lot that you haven't told them, much less 'explained.'
Would you like them to know the real reason why your lawyer killed himself?"

The human's teeth sunk further into his lip.

"We've made sure that you've been protected. We had Mister Scairfe spread a
lot of ridiculous stories that distract others. We've given you enemies that
look more repulsive than you. That can all change."

He watched the human squirm. He was amused that this leader was frightened
of exercising real power. The attraction of authority had never been what
had led him to this high office. It had been a need for adulation and
celebrity. For him, leadership was a means of transcending the mundaneness
of life and the complexity of the world. He even thought that it could rise
him above the corruption that had soiled him.

"Are you sure it's necessary?" the human pleaded.

"Don't ask me another silly question, Mister President. Just do it."

The human closed his eyes and nodded.

The rebel left the large round room, glad to be away. At least, his old
masters had pride. At least, they accepted what power really means.

They also knew when they were beat. His fellow rebels had their future in
their hands. If the colonists wanted to survive, they would acknowledge
their dominance.

And now the plan was completed. This human they had found---the son of one
of the human collaborators, actually---he would insure that they could go
ahead.

The report of the team assigned to find Gibson Praise was a bit curious,
though. There was mention of this other human, one imbued with remarkable
strength and speed. In fact, it wasn't sure that he was even human. You had
to wonder...

No. There was nothing to wonder about.

Tomorrow belongs to them.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

PART TWENTY-FOUR
HOPE


XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"Mother, mother, o help me, someone's trying to hurt me..."---Anna and Kate
McGarrigle

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Marita became aware of a man standing next to her bed. She forced her eyes
open and saw Richard Erickson looking down at her. He had a slight smile on
his face.

He held up a note close to her eyes. "HOW ARE YOU FEELING?"

"Tired. But I'm all right. Were you successful?"

Erickson nodded.

"Good."

The hospital room was silent for a few moments. The silence was broken by
the scribbling of Erickson's pen.

"DO YOU STILL HATE ME?"

Marita thought about that, then said, "I guess I don't. Lord knows that I
have made my own tough...decisions and...had to leave others behind me...it
was part of...part of..."

She closed her eyes. "I'm sorry. I'm so tired..."

He nodded and rubbed her gently on her forehead, soothing her back into
sleep. He wondered if she understood her condition. She didn't have many
days left. The doctors were at a loss to understand what was happening to
her, much less knowledgable on how to help her.

He wasn't sure how this made him feel. He was grateful towards the woman who
provided the womb that had given him a second life. Yet there was nothing
deep beyond that. When she had been subjected to the tests, he had wanted to
help her, but felt no guilt about being caught up in a larger effort.
Everybody had to make sacrifices for the war.

Sometimes, he forced people into making those sacrifices.

The survival of a whole species was at stake, after all. Its future had to
be maintained.

But why? Why was he attempting to save humanity? What was humanity to him
and him to humanity? Scully had asked the question. He had no answer to
give.

Scully...she was hard to figure out. It would be to her advantage to discard
her religion yet she was still reluctant to let it go. She had stood by a
man whose beliefs ran contrary to her own. She continued to sacrifice long
after she had made more than her share of sacrifices.

What faith kept her going?

And what faith did he have?

He pushed aside these questions. He didn't have the luxury of philosophical
inquiry.

As Marita slept, he hooked up his portable computer and checked his e-mail
account. He found a message from Scully.

He read the first part of it, then closed his eyes and slapped his forehead.

How could he be so stupid? The rebels had an obvious weakness and he never
moved to exploit it. Now that weakness was gone. Colonization was
inevitable.

He paced around the hospital room. His pace got slower as a weariness
settled in.

Why? he asked himself. Why fight at all?

Then he stopped and looked at Marita for awhile.

He read the rest of the e-mail. What he read made him close his eyes and
smile. The message had come bearing both a problem and a solution.

The solution to everything.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Scully was waiting again. Her portable computer sat on a kitchen table as
she sipped a cup of coffee. The heady caffeine taste was barely penetrating
her numbness.

Finally, the computer chirped to announce a new e-mail.

"SCULLY---

"MULDER IS SAFE FOR THE TIME BEING. THEY WON'T
KILL HIM.

"BRING GIBSON'S ALIEN TO ME IMMEDIATELY. HE IS
THE KEY TO EVERYTHING.

"---ERICKSON"

She wanted to send a screaming message back. How?! And what are you going to
do to help Mulder?!

However, she had made a decision to trust Erickson. So, now she had to get
Charles, Gibson and the alien out of California.

Not the easiest thing to do. Right now, the air traffic out of California
was swamped from people trying to get off the West Coast as soon as
possible. She could only imagine what it would like over the whole country
in the next few months.

She made a call.

"Kersh."

"Sir, it's Agent Scully."

"Oh. I see." A brief pause. "Three-thirty in the morning, Agent. You're up
early. I take it you just got back from...wherever."

"Sir, I need your help again."

Another pause. "What is it?"

"I need you to get three people out of California as soon as possible."

"What for?"

"It's..." She sighed. "Sir, if you do this, I promise to tell you
everything."

"You're supposed to do that anyway."

She made no response, only waited for a response.

"Where are these people?"

After they made the necessary arrangements, she hung up the phone and
covered her face.

"Dana?"

She dropped her hands to see her mother, dressed in a bathrobe.

"You need sleep."

Scully nodded. "Any word from Bill?" she asked.

"No. Dana, please. Get some sleep.

Scully stood up, then leaned against the table. She murmured something.

"What?"

"I don't have my faith anymore," she said clearly and looked up at her
mother with her exhausted eyes. "When I look at the world, I don't see God
anywhere."

Margaret looked at her daughter and tried to find something to say. Then she
walked over to her.

"You've seen more of the world than I have," she told Scully. "You
understand better what...what makes it evil. I only know what I see right in
front of me."

"What do you see?"

"I see a woman who is brave and good..."

"Mom."

"Let me finish. I see someone who is willing to give everything she has for
others. I see someone who will do all she can for a friend." He touched
Scully on the shoulder. "I know that God had something to do with that."

"Well...if there's anything good, then you and Dad had something to do with
it as well."

Margaret smiled. "You'll get your faith back, Dana. But, for now...sleep."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

There was a party in his mind and the guests were breaking the furniture.

He had been unconscious for a long time. Then he found himself immersed in a
violent storm of sound and color. He felt like he was dropping through an
endless tower of plate glass windows. The overwhelming fact of his life
suddenly became the pain.

A process was undergoing in his consciousness. Fox Mulder was going to be
recreated. He would no longer be a person, but a conduit. The pathways in
his mind were being widened into four-lane highways.

He participated in the endeavor by screaming.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"Why are you packing?"

Frohike looked up from a suitcase stuffed with clothes and porno magazines.
"Why? Because it's time to get the hell out of Dodge, that's why. I've got a
little place that I've been preparing for just such an occasion."

"You're running out on us?"

Frohike sighed and looked at Byers. "I'm facing reality, that's what I'm
doing."

"Looks like to me that the rats are deserting the ship," Langly sneered.

"Yeah, well, maybe they can take refuge in your hair!" Frohike shot back.

"ENOUGH!" Byers snapped.

Both Langly and Frohike jumped. They had never seen their compatriot yell
like that.

"God, you two! It's like living next door to some bickering married couple!"

Byers took a few breaths, then said in a calmer voice, "We can't abandon our
posts. Scully is going to need us."

Frohike shook his head, but his face was not unkind. "Scully doesn't need
us, Byers. No one needs us. No one has a use for us. No one ever did."

"That's not true."

"In all the years that we have been doing this racket, what have we really
accomplished? Nothing. We've been pissing on a forest fire."

"We've gotten closer and closer to the truth.."

"So we know what's going to happen. So what? No one has ever believed us and
no one ever will. It's going to take a greater effort than we can muscle up
to fight the future. It's time that we closed up shop. It's time that we
looked out for ourselves."

Byers looked at Frohike, then at Langly. The long-haired man had an
uncertain expression.

Byers lifted his hands, then dropped them to his sides. "Maybe you're right.
I mean...look at us. You're a sexually-maladjusted outcast with a severe
lack of self-perspective." He turned to Langly. "And you're a petty criminal
who imagines himself to be a daring anarchist."

"Come on, man..." Langly muttered.

"And I'm probably the worst of you. I'm an ex-government employee who wastes
his time following impossible ideals and pining for a woman I'll never see
again. We all make one hell of a bunch to set against the forces of
history."

Byers turned his back on them. "So, you can leave. By all rights, I
shouldn't be too sorry to see you go." He paused. "But I will be. Because,
despite all your flaws, you're both good people. And good allies. And good
friends."

The office of the Lone Gunmen kept itself silent for awhile.

Then Frohike put down his suitcase and put his hand on Byers' shoulder.

"You, too, amigo. You're the best."

"Same here," Langly added.

Byers turned to them. He smiled, then started to say something when the
phone rang.

"I'll get it." He went over to the phone.

"Going to apologize for the hair comment?" Byers asked.

"Not a chance, hippie," Frohike replied.

Byers picked up the receiver and said, "Lone Gunman."

"Byers, it's me."

He became difficult for Byers to speak, but he managed to do it.

"Suzanne?"

Both Frohike and Langly turned still.

"I've been hearing the news reports. I didn't understand what they meant
before, but I've figured out..."

"Suzanne, you know you're not supposed to contact..."

"Nevermind that. I know what those bees are spreading."

"We know already. It's a new form of smallpox."

"Then you should know that I have information about the project that created
this disease. I was never directly involved, but I've seen the basic
outlines. It was manufactured to be a biological weapon. I should have known
that it would be used like this."

It's being used for something much bigger than you imagine, Byers thought.
"What can you tell us about it?"

"Enough. Enough to create a cure."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

PART TWENTY-FIVE
THE DRAWING OF BATTLELINES

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"The warning of the word goes out to all the above, all the below and all
who have been cast aside, for everyone who is re-energized, criticized or
disguised, from the roof of the powerhouses to the ground floor
of your soul..."---John Nelson

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The following day, a lot of decisions were made.

The first was made by Senator Richard Matheson. He received a call in his
office on one of his private lines. He was surprised to hear Agent Scully's
voice.

"How did you get this number?" he asked.

"A little birdie told me. Senator, I need your help."

He leaned slowly back in his chair. "What kind of..."

"I mean it this time, Senator. No bullshit this time. Thousands of lives are
at stake."

Matheson cleared his throat. "Okay. I'm listening."

"The bees heading for California are carrying a new strain of smallpox
created by our own government. I've made contact with a woman who has the
cure for this disease."

"I see. If that's the case, then she go to the FEMA..."

"FEMA is under the control of others and you know it, Senator. They'll bury
her if they can. You need to create your own task force and implement a
vaccination project separate from FEMA."

The senator made no reply.

"The last time our paths crossed, you left us all out to dry. I don't know
what they've got on you. I guess if you give me help on this, it would mean
the end of your political career."

"At the very least," he quietly said.

"But if there was any time to risk it all, this is it. All of us will have
to do that now. In fact, this will probably be the last time you'll ever
hear my voice. Just remember---that swarm will reach the major population
centers by tomorrow. Their safety is now in your hands."

Scully then gave him a number to call and her line clicked off. Matheson
carefully put the receiver back down.

He paused for six full seconds.

Then he picked up the receiver again.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Scully had called Matheson from her car. She was on her way to a
federally-run airport. Kersh was waiting for her in an empty hanger.

"The plane will be here in a half-hour," he said. "Why don't you catch me up
here?"

She took a breath and told him everything.

After she was done, you could have smashed a rock on Kersh's head without
him noticing it. He only said one thing.

"Uh...huh."

Then the plane landed. The pilot and his three passengers joined them in the
hanger. Kersh thanked the pilot and asked him to discreetly leave.

Scully rushed to her brother.

"You're not going to hurt me now, are you?" he said.

She squeezed his arm for a moment, then smiled. She turned to the other two
passengers.

"Hi, Gibson." She bent down to the solemn-faced boy. "I'm sorry you had to
go through all this."

"I'm sorry about Agent Mulder."

She took a moment to hug him.

"What happened to Agent Mulder?" Kersh asked.

"You ain't gonna believe it," Charles said.

"Try me. And who is this?" He pointed at the teenager.

"Well, you ain't gonna believe that, either."

Suddenly, Gibson and the teenager looked like dogs who had caught a strange
scent.

"What is it?" Scully asked.

Gibson pointed and they all turned to see a man walking towards them, his
steps echoing in the hanger.

"This is a restricted area, sir," Kersh warned.

"It's all right," Scully quietly said.

Without looking at anyone else, Richard Erickson walked right up to the
teenager. The two of them stared at each other for a long time.

Then Erickson nodded and wrote a note for Scully. "I'LL TAKE HIM NOW."

"Why? Where are you going?"

"THIS IS PROOF. THIS IS PROOF OF THE MUTATION.
I NEED HIM. I NEED TO GO NOW."

Erickson reached out for the teenager's hand, but Scully batted it down.
"Hold on!" she yelled. "What about Agent Mulder? Why did the rebels take
him?"

Erickson shook his head impatiently, then quickly wrote another note.

"THE REBELS LACKED ONE THING IN THE PAST---THE
TECHNOLOGY TO IMPLEMENT THE DOWNLOADING OF
THE ALIEN MINDS. THEY NEEDED SOMETHING THAT
THEY COULD TRANSFORM INTO SUCH TECHNOLOGY.
SOMETHING BIOLOGICAL."

Scully looked at the note, then at Gibson, then at Erickson. "They needed a
human telepath."

Erickson nodded.

"And that's what they have with Mulder."

"THEY WILL MOLD HIM INTO A TELEPATHIC CONDUIT."

"What will happen to him?"

"AFTER THEY'RE DONE, DEATH. OR A COMA FOR LIFE.
THAT'S WHY I HAVE TO LEAVE NOW. I CAN FINALLY
STOP COLONIZATION."

"In time for Mulder?"

Erickson gave Scully a look that spoke blunt volumes. She closed her eyes
and nodded.

Then Erickson turned to the teenager, motioning for him to come. The
teenager knelt down to Gibson and looked at him sadly.

"It's okay," Gibson said. "You have to go."

The teenager nodded, then did something completely unexpected. He kissed
Gibson lightly on the forehead. Erickson looked more surprised than anyone.

As the teenager stood up, Kersh said, "Wait."

Erickson lifted up his arms in exasperation.

"No one is leaving until I'm clear on everything. Agent Scully has just told
me the single craziest story I've ever heard. Right now, I want proof that
this is real."

Erickson looked at the teenager.

The teenager turned to Kersh.

The teenager's skin darkened and aged. Kersh's wide eyes were now seeing
himself standing in front of himself.

"Well?" Charles asked him.

"That...that will do very nicely."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

It had been a long time since Byers had been in the comfy embrace of a
government agency. He had never thought that he would breathe in
bureaucratic air again.

Yet he was now looking at a whole team of advisors, coordinators and
military types, courtesy of Senator Richard Matheson. They all looked
brutally efficient and they were all asking the same thing, "What do you
want us to do?"

As Langly observed, it was weird. Weird but freakin' awesome.

The first order was to find Susanne Modeski and built a tight wall of
security around her.

Before suppertime, the Lone Gunmen were out in Los Angeles. They were taken
to Susanne who was being kept in a government safehouse.

Not giving a damn about what anybody thought, Byers took her by the hand.
"Hey," he softly said.

"Hey. I never thought we would met again, much like this."

"This is just how I wanted us to meet."

She gave him a puzzled look.

"No more running away, Susanne. This time, we'll hold our ground. And if we
go down, we go down swinging."

She slowly nodded, then turned to everyone else.

"Here's what we have to do..."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Michael Kritschgau answered the doorbell. He found Agent Dana Scully there.

"I need your help, Mister Kritschgau. I've been saying that a lot today. So
far, no one has turned me down. I hope you'll do the same."

Kritschgau's impassive face nodded, then he let her inside his apartment.

In the living room, she saw photos of Kritschgau and a younger man in
various stages of his life---as a boy in a junior football uniform, a
teenager on a hunting trip, a young man on graduation day at West Point.

"What do you want from me?"

"You're a qualified pilot. I can arrange for you to have an army reserve
helicopter. I would like you to fly me and as many other people you can to
Tunisia."

Kritschgau took a moment to take that in. "For what reason?"

"To rescue Agent Mulder."

"From who?"

"From what, actually. Mulder is being help captive by aliens."

Kritschgau closed his eyes, sighed and sat heavily down in a chair. "I was
disappointed to hear that Agent Mulder has fallen again for government lies.
I'm even more disappointed to see you've fallen as well."

"It's not a lie, sir. Aliens exist and they are here."

"Agent Scully, I was at the center of this conspiracy for years. I've seen
the truth."

"You saw what they wanted you to see."

He shook his head. "Someone has fooled you badly. I don't know how you've
gotten to this point..."

"They showed you only parts of the whole. They knew you would rebel if you
saw the complete truth." She paused. "That's not to say you're not
responsible."

Kritschgau looked up at her.

"You helped create the culture of deceit. When secrecy began to be
maintained for its own sake, you contributed to a grotesque chain of events.
And you...you would have stood by and watched me die."

Kritschgau studied his hands.

"If you really want redemption for what you did, then you'll help me."

The man got to his feet. He went over to the photos.

"His mother died when he was five. It brought us closer together. Mike...he
wanted to be just like me. Maybe that's something every father wants. In
this case, however, I can't imagine a worse thing to be."

Michael turned to Scully. "I think you're in for a bad surprise, Agent
Scully. But the man that my son thought that I was...that man would offer
you help, no matter what he believed."

He took a breath. "It's time that I started being that man."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

In Tunisia, a meeting was held.

The process with the human was going well. However, it was proving to be a
very difficult one for him. Perhaps if he had someone to comfort him?

They agreed to that. They decided to let the other human see the prisoner.

Then, they moved to a more pressing difficulty. A vaccination program was
being conducted against the smallpox. It needed to be analyzed, infilitrated
and then terminated.

They agreed about how to do that.

Nice to see so many like-minded people.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

There was another lull in the storm. Only this was different. Instead of
being left alone to suffer, he could feel his hand being held gently.

"Scully..." he whispered.

"I'm sorry, no."

His eyes managed to open fully and Mulder saw Cassandra Spender standing
next to him.

"Surprise, surprise," he muttered.

"I know."

"They must...must have cloned you. Left that body at the hanger."

"A crude clone by the best standards, but enough to fool others. They've
been keeping me here. They're planning to use me to create their own slave
race." Her face tightened in bitterness. "Same old story, huh? The oppressed
turn into oppressors."

"Have they been hurting you?"

"No. Not yet. But they've been obviously hurting you."

He said nothing and just tried to savor this moment. For now, he had a
friend at his side.

Then Cassandra ruined it by asking the one question that he didn't want to
answer. He made no reply at first.

"Agent Mulder? Can you hear me?"

He nodded.

"Did something happen to Jeffrey?"

"I'm sorry, Cassandra."

She stood there a long time, her hand tight around Mulder's.

"That bastard killed him, didn't he?"

"Looks like it."

She said nothing more, but in her mind...

(Kill him, kill the bastard, send him to hell, kill him.)

They were feelings that Mulder understood so well. What if he had shot the
smoking man years ago? Would his father still be alive?

("We didn't have anything to do with that," the smoking man said.)

("I didn't kill your father," Krycek said.)

(His father is arguing with Erickson.)

"Mulder!" Cassandra screamed as his body tensed like a wire. It happened for
just a moment and then he settled down.

"Mulder?"

"I'm fine. Don't..."

"You are not fine. You can't take this treatment for much longer."

"I won't have to. It will end soon."

"What do you mean?"

Mulder looked straight in Cassandra's eyes, one battered survivor to
another. "One way or another, this whole shitty mess comes to an end. Soon."

"How do you know?"

"I just know."

Cassandra swallowed and asked, "Will we be around to see the end?"

"That I don't know."

They held each other by the hands until the rebels took her away.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

More decisions were made that night.

Walter Skinner was sitting in his office. He had been sitting there for some
time. Ever since he had heard about the bee swarm, he had cancelled all his
appointments and denied all phone calls.

And he just sat there until someone knocked on his door.

He ignored it until he heard, "Walter, it's me."

"Come in," he sighed.

Alvin Kersh entered the office. The two men looked at each other.

Then Kersh said, "You think highly of Mulder and Scully, don't you?"

"I think they're among the best and bravest that I have known."

"I'm starting to agree with that assessment."

Skinner was surprised, then he had an unpleasantly guilty feeling.

"They've usually depended on you for help," Kersh continued. "They actually
could use some right now."

Skinner turned slightly away in his chair.

"I guess you're in your own jam, huh? Well..."

Kersh placed a piece of paper on the desk. "If you change your mind, here's
where you should go." As he left the room, he said, "We'll be kind of
disappointed if you don't show up."

Skinner was left sitting.

Then he reached over, picked up the piece of paper and read it.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

By the side of a long empty road, another decision was about to be made.

Erickson waited there with the mutated alien. Erickson had used a device
that he thought he would never use again---a transmitter. He had sent out a
message to the Bounty Hunter. Not that it was needed. The Hunter would have
tracked him down eventually, but there was no time to waste.

Eventually, he came. He stepped out of the shadows and marched towards
Erickson. "I don't know what you're planning," the Hunter told him. "But
it's pointless. I am here and I will now kill you."

Erickson's eyes slowly shifted to the side. The Hunter followed them.

He saw the teenage human...

No, not a human. A ghost of his true face drifted towards the Hunter's eyes.

He stared at this new alien in bewilderment. He took a few steps towards
him.

Then he stopped and turned to Erickson. No, he thought. I have an
assignment. I must complete...

He turned back to the alien.

(From the other end of a hot wooden hallway, a voice was telling him to
ignore the alien.)

How could he? The Bounty Hunter had the entire population of his race stored
in his memory. Yet he never saw this one before. Where did he...

(He is not important. Obey your orders.)

The voice filled up his mind, but his will was stronger than other drone
workers. That's why Erickson had arranged this meeting with him.

Who are you? he asked.

The alien told him.

The information hit him like a tidal wave. A barrier inside him wanted to
resist it...

(Ignore. Obey. Kill.)

...yet he could not forget what he just heard.

The barrier snapped.

Erickson and his companion watched the Bounty Hunter shake his head and
stumble on his feet.

Then the Hunter stood up straight. His eyes were different than before. They
were not longer cold.

They were hot. Hot and angry.

"The others should know about this," he growled.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Skinner was walking down a hallway of the FBI Headquarters, heading for an
elevator. Then he heard...

"Taking a trip?"

He stopped and slowly turned to see Alex Krycek.

"Lots of things are going on," Krycek observed. "Kersh and Scully are
mobilizing something. So is Senator Matheson. I don't know what they're up
to, but...I think you should stay out of it. Not until I'm sure what's
what."

"Go to hell," Skinner spat. He turned to leave.

"I'm holding it right now, Skinner."

Skinner didn't go forward, but he didn't turn around, either. Krycek walked
up to him, holding a small device in his hand.

"One adjustment and you'll be hurting very badly. I'm the one who's in
charge..."

Skinner spun around, grabbed Krycek and pushed him against the wall, holding
his jacket lapels tight.

"If you're going to do something, punk, do it," he snarled. "Because I can't
live like this anymore."

Krycek was stunned, but he held the controlling device tight and said, "It's
the way we all have to live. We're not given any other option."

"That's what you think, huh?"

Skinner slowly pulled his fingers off Krycek, but stayed close to the
younger man's face. "I want you to watch me make a choice. It's one that's
been facing you for some time but you've never had the guts to make it. And
while you're watching me, I want you to think...how did I get to this point?
Why am I such a coward? Think about that...and you'll know why you have no
power over me."

With that, Skinner continued on his walk to the elevator. There was no
hesitation in his stride.

Krycek looked at Skinner. Then he looked down at the device. He took out a
rod and held it over the device.

Skinner had reached the elevator. He pressed the down button. He waited. He
still didn't look back.

The rod hovered over the control point.

Krycek looked up. The lights above the elevator moved to the right and
stopped at Skinner's floor. The doors opened.

Skinner took a step forward.

Then Krycek yelled out his name.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

In the hanger, preparations were being made as Scully talked on the phone.

"We've got the vaccine manufactured," Byers was telling her. "We're now in
the process of distributing it."

"Tell your people to watch their back. Someone is bound to make trouble for
them."

"Understood. Anything else?"

"Yes." She sighed. "I know you've got an ungodly task ahead of you, Byers,
but if you have a moment to spare..."

"I've already contacted your brother. His family has taken shelter in their
house."

"Thank you, Byers. Good luck."

"Good luck to us all."

She turned off her cellular phone. She went up to Kersh and Kritschgau who
were evaulating the equipment on a table---guns, explosives, decontamination
suits.

"Everything looks up to speed," Kersh told her.

"Dana?"

Scully turned to Charles. "I just finished talking with the base in
Algeria," he told her. "The copter is ready for us when we get there. Of
course, how you managed to arrange this is beyond me."

"I have friends who are good with computers."

"Ah. Sneaky."

There was a brief pause.

Then she said, "I have to do this..."

"Then so do I."

He smiled. She looked away, telling herself not to cry.

A car was heard pulling up outside. They all stopped what they were doing.

"Was anybody expecting someone?" Scully asked.

"Maybe," Kersh said.

Outside, doors were opened and closed while the people inside made sure that
they had guns ready.

Skinner and Krycek entered the hanger. "Got room for two more?" Skinner
asked.

Scully took a hard look at Skinner. She took an even harder one at Krycek.
Skinner met her eyes with a slight nod. Krycek squirmed, but there was
something else in his face. He didn't seem to really believe that he was
here, but he wasn't leaving.

Finally, Scully said, "Yeah. We can fit two more in."

She looked at all the men around her. Five in all. One was family, one was a
recently-acquired ally, another was an ally from longer back but had fallen
temporarily, a fourth was a defector from the other side and the fifth was a
rat bastard who was present nevertheless.

"I wish we could have more people to do this," she said. "A lot more people
and a lot more ammo to back it up. We don't have time, though. And I doubt
that I could convince any battalion to follow me. So, it's just the six of
us.

"Some of you may not understand what's going on. Some of you can't accept
it. And there's one of you---" She glanced at Krycek. "Well, this is not the
time to dwell on personal history, however questionable.

"For myself, I never thought that I would be in this position. I wish that I
could be back in a lab, using reason and science. I wish that I could be in
a church, praying for guidance. But I can't use either science or faith now.
There is only one option left.

"Brute force. A straightfoward military attack.

"I'm uncertain about this. I'm scared.

"But, for a long time, I've been dealing with an enemy that has always been
as intangible as smoke. Tomorrow night, we have a clear, unambiguous
battlefield.

"I could tell you that we are doing this for the future and that would be
true. However, I'm also here for more personal reasons. The enemy has a
prisoner. We're going to rescue him. This man has touched us all in some
way. We may not have always liked his presence. He symbolized something that
was hard to confront. But we are the better for our knowing him.

"We're doing this for him. And we're doing this for us.

"Let's go."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


PART TWENTY-SIX
DANA SCULLY'S BADASS REVENGE

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"This is no time to count your blessings.
"This is no time for private gain.
"This is the time to put up or shut up.
"It won't come back this way again."
                                                ---Lou Reed

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

War consists of a great deal of waiting. There are long stretches of
inactivity between moments of combat. Sometimes, these stretches are
overwhelmingly boring.

Other times, it can be as scary as the combat itself.

No one had said much on the plane trip to Algeria. They spent most of the
time sleeping or trying to sleep. The helicopter ride to Tunisia was also
marked by a lack of conversation.

Scully had done the most talking on the trip. She was explaining what
Erickson had previously told her about the rebels. For one thing, she
explained that their self-healing abilities was less advanced than their
creators. A prolonged burst of gunfire or an explosion could damage them
permanently. The results would not be immediate, though.

Furthermore, their blood was acidic. The decontamination suits would protect
them from infection and the extra lining could hold away acid and fire. But
when the green stuff starts flying, back off if you can. The suits could
only take so much.

Finally, don't count on the other side getting afraid.

The helicopter landed a mile away from the targeted base. They suited up and
armed themselves. They crossed the rest of way over the thick dunes on foot,
carrying guns and other equipment in satchels. Naturally, there was a lot of
sweat accumulated in those suits before they saw the rows of corn.

Then they began to crawl.

The ground that dirtied their suits was surprisingly rich and fertile. They
moved very slowly as if the cornstalks rising stiffly above them were
sentries. Every brush of dirt, every small snap of a bent stalk and every
breath that they could hear over their headset radios now sounded very loud.

This was the longest part of their attack, this slow crawl through the corn
field. The white lights of the domes seemed too distant to ever reach.

In that time, each person was given the opportunity of reflection and
meditation.

Dana Scully: Nobody has questioned me yet on how I know Mulder is here. I'm
glad they haven't. What can I tell them? That I had a dream? Even if Mulder
did send me a message, how do I know anything that he told me in his state
is reliable? This is just an act of faith. In the end, though, acts of faith
are all I can do.

Walter Skinner: This brings back some unpleasant memories. Slowly crawling
across a long stretch of land, knowing that the enemy can come at you from
any direction...just like old times. Still, I can't imagine any other place
that I would rather be.

Alex Krycek: What the hell am I doing here? I thought my conscience was dead
and buried. Am I actually trying to prove something to Skinner? Or to
myself?

Alvin Kersh: You have to admit, Alvin. A few days ago, this is the last
thing that you expected to be doing. You must have an over-developed sense
of duty.

Charles Scully: If any one of those faceless assholes touches Dana, I will
blast his green-blooded butt all the way back to Mars or wherever he came
from.

Michael Kritschgau: Something obviously is up. A corn field growing out in
the middle of the desert is suspicious, to say the least. Yet, Scully
couldn't possibly believe that aliens are...

Then they reached the end of the field and Kritschgau saw them. There were
four of them standing in front of the domes with rods and scarred faces.

It's true, he thought. It's absolutely true, my God...

He glanced over at Scully. She looked back at his amazement with a grim expr
ession.

Then his shock gave away to a stoic acceptance. He nodded to Scully and
said, "What are your orders?"

The six of them were still huddled down in the shadows of the cornfield,
lined up at the edge and spaced a few feet from each other.

"Okay, everybody," she said. "On the count of three. One..."

Charles Scully couldn't say what made him look behind him. One of the
disadvantages of wearing the suit and headset radio was that it cut down on
your radius of hearing. You weren't as aware of your back as you should be.

"Two..."

Maybe a suspicious noise had reached his ears. Maybe he just thought that it
was a good idea to look.

"Thr..."

"DANA, BEHIND YOU!"

Scully hear the roar of Charles's machine gun before she turned. Then she
saw a maelstorm of green blood and tearing corn stalks. She saw a man lose
an arm and parts of his chest, yet still take a few clumsy steps before her.
She joined Charles in his gunfire and the man finally fell down, a hissing,
sticky mess.

She saw the other four rebel aliens in the cornfield, striding towards them,
heedless of their fallen comrade.

"EVERYBODY OUT!" she yelled and they stumbled out of the field. The aliens
by the dome were rushing to meet them, rods held out.

"Skinner, Krycek, take those up front! Everybody else, watch the back!"

They formed a quick circle and let loose with a volley of bullets that
echoed to far-off points of the desert. The eight rebels trembled and burst,
but it took a lot of shots before they dropped.

"Kersh, Kritschgau, get ready to..." Scully started to say.

Then...

...alley-alley oxen-free...

...more of the rebels came. A lot more. From inside and behind the domes.
From out of the cornfield.

No one needed an order then.

Scully didn't count the number of rebels around them. She was too busy
cursing her small size. The machine gun in her hands was the most compact
one to be found, but it felt like it was going to knock her all the way back
to America.

At least, she could use both hands, though. Krycek had to rely on a handgun,
picking his targets carefully, trying to inflict the most damage with the
fewest shots. He was actually quite good at that.

For twenty seconds, they shot away. More than one of them had to reload. The
hissing of the fallen rebels was as loud as a waterfall. The ones still on
their feet strode forward through the green river forming around the humans.

"Kersh, Kritschgau!" Scully yelled. "Whenever you can!"

A window of opportunity opened. The aliens who had came from the field were
all down, even though another wave could be seen charging through the
stalks. Kersh and Kritschgau stopped firing, reached into their satchel
bags, pulled out a grenade each, thumbed off the pins and hurled them.

The two men had been carefully planting the explosives as they had crawled
through the field. (Kersh had worked on a bomb squad and Kritschgau had been
in demolitions before joining the Pentagon.) There was a strong possibility
that the rebels had found the explosives and removed them.

They hadn't.

First there was an explosion at the front, then another and another,
cascading all the way through the rows. A fire climbed up the stalks,
creating a red twisting crown on top. The aliens who hadn't been shredded
into slimy pieces were being cremated.

With their backs secure, everybody turned their attention to the domes. It
only took a few more seconds before the last alien was felled.

They waited for more, breathing like sick children, their bodies unable to
move. They were just glad that they couldn't smell the vivisected aliens.

No one else came.

"All right," Scully said. "All right. Charles, Kersh...you come with me. The
rest of you stay out here."

"Where is Mulder exactly?" Kersh asked.

The question had been finally asked. All the men noticed that Scully wasn't
answering.

(Mulder, if you can hear me, speak. I need to know. I need to know now.)

She heard the crackling of flames, the hissing of alien blood and the heavy
breathing over the radio.

Then she heard something else and she said---

"Follow me."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

They could hear the bees outside.

It was an ever-present sound. Sometimes, it would be low and distant. Other
times, it would grow in volume until it was like a thunderstorm. The
safehouse had been sealed up tight, keeping the bees out. Hopefully.

They kept grim possibilities out of their minds by focusing on their work.
There was a lot to do---calls to make, reports to quickly evaluate,
decisions to be made. It was borderline chaos, a hubbub of voices and
ringing phones. Much coffee was being drunk.

In the middle of this, Byers took one moment to look at Susanne, Langly, and
Frohike.

"Tell the Red Cross to bring in out-of-state workers if they have to,"
Susanne was telling one of Matheson's men.

"I've got space cleared open in the NBC studio in Burbank!" Langly shouted
out. "We can use that as a shelter!"

"Look, buddy, it's very simple," Frohike was growling into a phone. "Give
out the vaccine and those kids will live. Don't and they'll die. So, save
the crap for someone who wants to hear it!"

Byers allowed himself to briefly savor his pride. Then he got back to work.

He didn't see the man enter the room. No one else took notice, either. After
all, it was only Victor, one of the security guards assigned to protect
Susanne. Victor had gone to take a few hours of sleep on a cot in the
basement. Obviously, he must have returned to take his next shift.

No one knew that the real Victor was a blackened corpse downstairs.

No one saw this man walk towards Susanne.

No one saw him pull the long rod out of his coat.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

When they had entered the dome, Scully saw the same closed vents and high
white walls that she had seen before in the Texas dome. She also heard the
same buzzing.

She led Kersh and Charles to the other side of the dome. A steel door was
waiting for them there. It was unlocked. When it was opened, the buzz got
louder. Iron steps led downward to an underground area. Wires ran through a
long string of pale lights on the stone walls.

They went down the steps, trying to be not too quick but not too slow.  An
interesection was waiting for them at the bottom, giving them the choice of
left or right.

(Which way, Mulder?)

"Right," she said. They turned and encounted another corridor with a long
glass wall on one side.

"Jesus," Kersh muttered. On the other side of the glass were yards and yards
of honeycomb. Bees swirled inside, popping in and out of holes and bouncing
off the glass window. Collectively, they were like some great beast waiting
to be unleashed.

They passed the glass cage and reached another intersection.

"Which way now?" Charles asked.

"We go..."

(Right, Cassandra is here, she's to the right, go to the right...)

"Scully?"

She shook off her dazed look and said, "Cassandra Spender is here."

"Who?"

Kersh said, "But she's...oh, never mind. Where is she?"

"All the way down to the right. You two go get her. Make sure she gets
suited up."

"Wait a minute," Charles said. "Where are you...?"

His sister had already taken off down the left-hand corridor.

"Ah, the famous Scully stubbornness," Charles muttered. "Let's go, Kersh."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The three men stood ready while the cornfield burned and the liquidified
aliens dissolved into the desert air.

"You may shoot me for saying this," Krycek said. "But it's a little too
quiet now."

Skinner wanted to shoot Krycek anyway, but he had to agree. He would like to
think that the whole lot of the rebel aliens had been taken of, but he
doubted it.

They would attack again, but from where?

And where were Scully and the rest? It shouldn't take them so long to find
Mulder in that dome. Of course, the dome was probably the top of a very
large underground structure.

Underground...

Skinner suddenly thought of the VC and their network of tunnels where they
waited for you to pass by.

He looked down.

And he saw the sand shifting under Kritschgau's feet.

He opened his mouth to shout a warning, but not before a great hole opened
under Kritschgau. He fell right through, his yell screeching over their
radios.

Skinner rushed to the hole while another sound crackled in his ears. It was
the sound of ripping fabric, followed by a sudden snap.

Then Kritschgau really began to scream. A red light shined from the hole.

Skinner reached the hole and fired all around Kritschgau, watching the heads
of rebels splatter open.

He saw Kritschgau fall to the ground, flames lifting upward from him like
feathers in a wind. He had stopped screaming.

Skinner turned away, angry and sickened.

Then Krycek saw the sand shift under his own feet. He moved, but not quite
fast enough. He stumbled as the ground cracked open. He landed with his rear
end on solid ground and his legs dangling in space. He dropped his gun and
it bounced out of his reach.

Hands grabbed his legs. He tried to find a hold anywhere in the sand.

"Help me!" he cried.

Skinner looked at him.

Just looked at him for one second.

Then he sped over to Krycek who was sliding out of sight. He fired down into
the hole with one hand and grabbed Krycek with the other. Krycek yanked
himself back from the hole, a sliced arm clutched around his ankle. He shook
it off and rolled in the sand to smear off the acidic blood. Skinner fired
some more into the hole to chase others away.

Krycek laid there, panting. Then he lifted his head towards Skinner.

The big man stood over him, watching with his stern eyes.

Then he held out a hand to Krycek and he picked him up to his feet.

Krycek said, "I suppose there's no point in telling you that we should get
off this spot?"

"Not as long as Scully needs us here."

"That's what I thought you would say."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

She kept waiting to pull the trigger. She had expected having to shoot her
way through a whole mile of rebels. Instead, the tunnels were empty except
for her. Maybe the aliens were trying to keep the fighting away from Mulder.
Maybe they were planning another kind of offensive.

She continued on at a steady pace, Mulder's voice tapping at her mind. It
was getting weaker, though. He had exerted himself too much in calling her.
Eventually, it faded out for good.

By then, she had found him.

He was strapped to a table. Behind his head was an arrangement of stiff
wires that looked like the design of some mad building. His skin was pale
and sweat slithered over it. A gray slime covered his scalp.

She quickly undid his straps, keeping an eye on the entrance. "Mulder?" she
said to his closed eyes. "I know you can hear me. Can you get up?"

Mulder made no motion. She touched his face.

"Come on, Mulder. Snap out of it."

She shook his head lightly by the jaw, trying to get a response. She tried
to hear his voice inside his mind, but got nothing.

"Please. I need you to..."

She heard gunfire from far off. She looked up, trying to find its source.

It was coming from the direction of Cassandra's holding place.

She looked down at Mulder furiously. "Dammit, Mulder, wake up NOW!"

She slapped him hard on the face.

His eyelids slowly lifted open.

"You know," he said in a mush-mouthed voice. "I don't slap you when you're
the one captured by aliens."

"Shut up and get into this." She pulled out an extra decontamination suit
from her satchel.

"Help me up."

Scully pulled him up into a sitting position and help shove his legs into
the suit. As she did this, she used her headset radio. "Charles, what's
going on?"

Despite the static, she was able to hear her brother. "We've got Cassandra,
but we've also got company!"

"Head for the exit! I'll be right behind you!"

"No," Mulder muttered.

She looked up at him.

"They've locked the dome entrance."

"Charles, hold position!" she yelled. "The exit has been blocked!"

Then she asked Mulder, "Is there another way out?"

He nodded. "We need to leave quickly."

"I know."

"No, I mean now. Something is coming."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"Can you hear that?" Skinner asked.

Krycek nodded. The hum was distant but strong enough to hear as it slowly
overcame the silence of the desert.

"Do you know what it is?"

"I'm afraid so."

Krycek looked to the sky. Skinner followed his eyes.

It was descending from the clouds. At first, they only saw a bright light
hanging in the sky. Then there was an abrupt flash and it was now only a
hundred feet above them. It looked like the head of a great arrow. The
lights of its triangular underbelly shined down on them.

In a flat voice, Krycek said, "Here come the big guns."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

PART TWENTY-SEVEN
SOMEONE ELSE'S VICTORY

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"I see the hand of the gods; some men they raise from nothingness to
towering heights, others they humiliate and destroy."---Euripides

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Charles was really getting tired of these buggers. After he had shot the
lock off Cassandra's cell and got her into a decontamination suit, he
thought that they were home free. Then the faceless jerks came out of
nowhere, a whole platoon of them. He and Kersh had shot their way through to
an open corridor, but now they had to stand their ground until Dana called
back with an alternative escape route. She better do it quick, Charles
thought as he loaded one of his last two clips into his gun and wasted more
bullets into an alien's sticky hide.

Behind him, Cassandra pressed her hands over her ears. The roar of the guns
was being amplified by the tunnel's cramped spaces. It was so loud that
Kersh and Charles almost missed hearing Scully's voice.

"What?" Kersh yelled.

Scully yelled back with a set of directions to take.

"All right, let's go!" Kersh ordered.

"You two go on ahead," Charles said. "I'm going to hold them back for a bit,
try to give us some breathing space."

Kersh looked at Charles, then nodded. He tossed one of his last clips into
Charles' satchel, then motioned Cassandra to move. She didn't need much
encouragement.

An alien marched toward Charles, unafraid of destruction.

"Come here, boy," Charles said and aimed his gun.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

It was Langly who saw it coming.

"Susanne, look out!" he shouted.

Susanne turned her head, but it was too late. The rod was a few inches away
from her chest.

Then there was a flash of silver in the air. The man who looked like Victor
went into a spasm. Susanne backed up fast. So did everybody.

Except for one person. That would be the man who had suddenly appeared at
the doorway and thrown the steel stiletto into the phony Victor's neck. The
stiletto hadn't gone all the way in. He ran forward and pressed it in
further. The phony Victor collapsed onto the desk.

A horrid smell came from the dead man as he melted into a layer of slime.
Susanne's desk began to dissolve.

Richard Erickson tipped his hat to Susanne and said in a clear voice, "Guess
you need a new desk."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

I'm sorry, Scully, Mulder thought. I'm sorry that you ever met me. I'm sorry
that I got you into this mess. I'm sorry that I'm so heavy and I'm sorry
that I have to lean on you to walk...

Once again, Mulder...shut up.

He blinked. Was it Scully who said that? Was that Scully who spoke into
his...?

"There it is!" she cried out.

Up ahead, moonlight was falling through an open hole. They saw the remains
of destroyed aliens fading into green smoke. They also saw a charred body.
Scully swallowed and wondered who it was.

"It's Kritschgau," Mulder said quietly. "I can sense Skinner and Krycek up
there."

She looked at the body for one moment. Then she said, "What's that sound?"

Mulder stared grimly at the open hole. "Scully," he said. "we better stay
down here."

"Why? We need to..."

"Someone else is up there."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

It was a flat-out hopeless situation. Where was there to run and where was
there to hide from this machine hovering over their heads?

"Never thought you would die next to me, did you, Skinner?"

Skinner looked at Krycek and said, "I never thought you would die an
honorable death."

"Yeah. Boy, life is weird."

The two men looked up at the ship and waited.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Mulder twitched.

"What?" Scully whispered.

"There's something else coming."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Krycek and Skinner didn't hear it at first. The ship above them was that
loud. However, what was coming was louder.

They turned their heads towards the burning field. The ship also turned in
the air to look.

Floating above the desert was another spacecraft. A much bigger spacecraft.
The rebel ship was as big as a garage. This new one was the size of a whole
house.

"I can't believe it," Krycek said.

"What is it?"

"I...can't...believe it." He took a few steps towards the field, staring at
the new ship.

"What?"

Krycek burst out laughing. "It's the goddamn calvary!"

And the rebel ship turned tail and ran, a light fading into the sky.

"The colonists! We've just been saved by the colonists!" Krycek laughed
crazily and gave a finger to the departing ship. "That's right. Run, you
bastards!"

Skinner was just standing there in disbelief when he heard his name called
out. He bent down to the hole.

"Agent Scully, is that you?"

"That's right and baby makes three," the oh-so-sardonic voice of Agent Fox
Mulder said. "What's going on up there?"

Skinner sighed and said, "Apparently, our bacon has been saved."

"Great. Now give us a hand."

Skinner stretched his arm down into the hole. Carefully avoiding the alien
remains, Mulder reached up and took Skinner's hand. With help from Scully
("Christ, you are heavy, Mulder," Scully muttered), he was pulled out.

Mulder laid on the sand, his weariness really starting to sink in. He saw
Krycek jumping around and shaking a fist in the air.

"Hey, monkey boy, how about helping the others get out?" he yelled.

Krycek laughed at Mulder. "Sure, Mulder, whatever you..."

Boom.

Everybody turned.

The underbelly of the spacecraft was emitting these rapidly flashing lights.
It made sounds like the gods beating kettle drums.

Boom. Boom.

The lights hit the ground. A wide fountain of dirt burst upwards as the
lights pounded out a deep hole. The fire grew larger.

Then the ship moved slowly forward, leaving a long, burning crater behind
it.

"Oh, shit," Krycek said. "They're destroying the base."

Scully felt the rumbling and yelled, "What's going on up there?"

"Scully, give me your hand now!" Skinner barked. "Krycek, help me!"

Krycek stood there, wanting to run away but trapped by his briefly revived
conscience.

"Krycek, NOW!"

In the next moment, he was helping Skinner pull Scully out of the hole. She
took one look at the spacecraft heading their way and began to stammer,
"Th-they're still down there, they're still...Charles and Cassandra,
they're..."

"Are they coming this way?"

Scully nodded quickly.

"Then take Mulder and leave the area."

She stared at Skinner, her mind gone blank. The thunder of the spacecraft
had become murderously loud. Cracks in the ground were rushing towards the
humans. The ship was now sixty feet away.

"Scully, for once in your life, obey my order! Now, go!"

With her body working on automatic pilot, Scully helped Mulder back onto his
feet and they stumbled away.

"Want to join them?" Skinner asked.

Krycek said nothing and did nothing.

"Guess you're right, Krycek. Life is strange."

Boom.

Boom.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Charles was about to finish one last alien when the rumbling came. He
stopped firing. The alien stopped marching ahead. Charles saw something
different about the enemy.

The alien was tense, his arms held out against the walls.

He was scared.

Charles decided that this would be a good time to cut and run.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

As Cassandra and Kersh ran towards the exit hole, he knew that the trembling
in the ground and the roar echoing down the tunnels meant something worse
than he could imagine. Cassandra, however, could imagine it exactly.

When they reached the hole, Skinner held out his two hands and Krycek held
out one. Both were yelling with loud urgency. Kersh quickly boosted
Cassandra through the hole, then allowed himself to be pulled out.

He was right. It was worse than he imagined.

An enormous spacecraft (damn right, a spacecraft) was blocking out the sky
above the cornfield. The earth beneath it was falling apart into a cloud of
dust and a ball of fire.

The lights were only thirty feet away.

"Where's Charles?" Skinner yelled.

"Charles is still down there!" Kersh shouted back.

Skinner looked down at the hole, begging for Dana's brother to appear.

Boom, boom, boom...

"We don't have time!" Krycek called out to Skinner.

"We can't leave him here!"

"We...don't...have...time."

Skinner turned to the ship, the dust cloud touching his plastic faceplate.
The roar was like being on top of a volcano.

No. They didn't have time.

"Let's move!" he ordered.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

From just enough distance to be safe, Scully and Mulder watched the lights
of the spacecraft create a wasteland. "Get out of there," Mulder repeated
over and over as Scully prayed to a God that she hoped was there.

Then they saw four people fleeing the base with just seconds to make it out
alive.

Four people.

Scully took a step forward. Lying down on the ground, Mulder grabbed her leg
and gave her a desperate look.

The four people finally reached them and collapsed onto the sand. Scully
looked at Skinner with a mix of horror and weak hope.

He looked like a man who could say nothing.

She turned back to the base. She watched.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Charles finally reached the hole in the tunnel, but only in time to see a
light burst through and cut towards him.

He spent his last second in absolute disbelief.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The ground around the hole caved in. Scully was knocked flat on her back.
Then the spacecraft reached the domes. Glass and steel were rendered into
dust as fire sprung out in a thick tower. Escaping bees enjoyed brief
moments of freedom before being burned or disintergrated. They looked like
sand vanishing into a river.

The spacecraft continued its attack for a few more seconds. Then it just
stopped.

Just like that, it stopped.

Five people sat before the wreckage, the flames heating their bodies and a
crater sloping down from their feet. The spacecraft was as oblivious of them
as before.

Then they became aware of a man walking towards them. They turned to see the
Bounty Hunter, his face as impassive as always.

He stopped and looked down at them. "We wish for you to know that
colonization has been terminated. Our leaders have been executed for their
lies to us. We will remove all remnants of our presence and leave you be."

With that, the Hunter turned away.

"That's it?" Mulder said.

The Hunter stopped in his tracks.

"You create all this destruction. You cause all this misery. And now that we
no longer suit your purpose, you just walk away?"

The Hunter looked back. "Yes," he said, then left them there. The spacecraft
then left, too.

Mulder slowly turned to Scully. She was staring at the destroyed base.

He wanted to say something. He couldn't. He wanted her to say something. She
didn't. She didn't even look at him.

He tried to open his mind to her. He forced his thoughts to reach out to
her.

Nothing happened. She could no longer touch his mind. He could no longer
make contact. The only thing that he could hear inside was his own guilt
stranded alone in the silence.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

PART TWENTY-EIGHT
SURVIVORS

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"All around you people are killed...but not you. They have been killed
instead of you. This observation is unavoidable. So, in time, is the
corollary, implicit in the word 'instead': in place of. They have been
killed in place of you---in your place."---Tobias Wolff

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

He watched the television. He listened to a news report about the bee attack
in California. He learned about a vaccination program that had been
implemented there. The death toll had been seventy-nine, but everybody
agreed that it would have been a hundred times worse without the vaccine.

When he had heard enough, he turned off the television. Then he sat still in
the living room for awhile.

Finally, he got up and went to the kitchen. There he found Samantha making
breakfast for herself while George and Miriam---eight and six years old
respectively---ate their cereal.

"Morning, dad," she said.

"Morning, grandpa!" George and Miriam called out.

"Uh, morning. I have to leave."

Samantha turned away from the oven. "Leave?"

"Yes. Something pressing just came up. I have to go now."

"Ah, come on, grandpa!" George complained.

"I'm sorry. But I have to."

Samantha said, "Well...if you're sure."

He shrugged and held out his arms. Samantha hugged him. Then he hugged
George and Miriam, told them that he loved them and left the house, knowing
that he would never see them again.

As he drove away from Samantha's house, he made a phone call. "They're going
to come for Firstborn 6 soon," he said. "Tell them that it died. Considering
how sick the others were, they'll believe it."

Too bad that I can't make the same excuse for them, he thought, looking at
the house as it receded in his mirror. He also wondered if he should feel
depressed right now.

He decided that he didn't. Yes, these past decades of work had been wasted
on an event that had cancelled itself out. However, that could also mean
that new opportunities had presented themselves. If they were to be found,
he knew just the people who would lead him in the right direction.

He lit a cigarette.

A half hour later, a very large man burst into Samantha's house. She and the
children wanted to run, but they found themselves held still by those cold
eyes.

"You will come with me," the man said. "It's time to leave."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Byers was sitting in the headquarters of the vaccination program. He was the
only one there and watching television. Around him were silent phones,
discarded paper cups and wrinkled maps.

Senator Richard Matheson was holding a press conference. "I regret having to
exceed my authority on this one," he told the reporters. "I know that this
sort of emergency is usually handled by the FEMA. However, I saw a need for
action. I believe that the results speak for themselves."

Byers smiled. The senator had the next election in the bag for sure. Who
would vote against the man who had saved the West Coast? The forces that
would have punished him for his transgression were now too weak to hurt him.
However, they were not too weak to hurt Susanne Modeski. That's why no one
would know of her involvement. No one would know the deeper meaning of the
plague that hit California.

Of course, there were certain stories running around. There were rumors of
men attacking the vaccination workers with rods and then getting killed
themselves by other men with stilettos. Those were dismissed as
panic-created fantasies.

He glanced at the half-eaten desk. Everybody who had witnessed the incident
in here today had promised Matheson that they would be silent about it.
Years ago, such a promise would have gnawed onto Byers's gut.

Now, he found out that he didn't mind. Why was that? Why did he feel so
content right now?

He went downstairs and found Susanne sleeping on a cot. He laid next to her
on the cot and cuddled up against her body.

"What?" Susanne muttered, coming awake.

"Shhh. Go back to sleep."

"Where's everybody? Where's Langly and Frohike?"

"They're getting drunk. Now go to sleep."

Susanne nodded. In a few moments, they were both happily unaware of
anything.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Meanwhile, Mulder was still alone in his apartment.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

As usual, the meeting was held in a garage. What was it with garages?
Skinner wondered.

He found Krycek waiting for him. Krycek looked at the other man for a long
moment. Then he got out the controlling device. He made a slight adjustment
and Skinner felt a brief tingle in his body.

"There," Krycek said. "The nano probes have been rendered inactive. Your
excrement will be a funny color for awhile, but you'll be fine."

Skinner made no reply.

"Aren't you going to thank me?"

He was still silent.

"Whatever," Krycek said and turned to go.

"What are you going to do now?"

Krycek looked back. "Me?" He thought about it, then laughed. "I have
absolutely no idea."

With that, Krycek took his leave. Skinner, Mulder or Scully never saw him
again.

After his meeting with Krycek, Skinner went to see Alvin Kersh in his
office. He was surprised to see Kersh was cleaning out his desk.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

Kersh looked up at Skinner, then he sighed. "When I told Agent Scully that I
would help her...I didn't expect to end up seeing the things I just saw. I
really got sucker-punched."

"I still don't understand. Are you quitting because of this?"

"Yes. I'm afraid so."

Skinner studied Kersh, then said, "You can't put this knowledge into the
context of the life you had before."

Kersh nodded. "Going back to this job...being a FBI assistant
director...dealing with the bureaucracy on one hand and the ordinary
criminals of the world on the other...I just can't see me doing that
anymore. And I can't believe you don't feel the same way."

"Actually...this is the only place where I can find the right context. But I
certainly respect your decision. What will you tell the higher-ups?"

"Oh, I can tell them any old excuse. But what can we say to Charles Scully's
family? Or to Kritschgau's? Do we explain what happened to them? Or are we
just going to stick by the official story?" Kersh shook his head. "What was
that one again? They died in a fire?"

"No, their families should know the truth."

"Maybe more people should know. Maybe the whole world should know."

"We've already talked about this. The aliens are leaving and they want to do
it silently. I don't want to risk getting them angry. Just as long as they
leave, it's fine with me."

"Amen."

It was silent for a moment. Then Skinner asked Kersh what he planned to do.

"I have absolutely no idea."

"You know, you're the second person to tell me that tonight."

"Well, if you know exactly what you're going to do, Mister Skinner, you're
one up on the rest of us."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Meanwhile, Scully was still alone in her apartment.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The next day, Richard Erickson showed up at the door to Mulder's apartment.
He knocked several times.

"Agent Mulder, it's me. Richard Erickson." Knock, knock, knock...

Mulder finally opened the door. Erickson saw his unshaved face and his
mangled clothes.

Mulder looked Erickson over and said, "I see they fixed you up."

"Uh, yes. I can speak now."

"I'm overjoyed."

"Yes, well...could I come inside?"

Mulder hesitated, then stepped out of the way.

"I went to see Agent Scully," Erickson said. "She didn't want to talk."

"She doesn't want to talk to anyone. Especially not you."

Erickson took off his hat and ran a hand through his hair. "Look...I know
that you both feel guilty about Charles..."

"He died in my place. He died so I can live. But if I hadn't gone to
California in the first place..."

"If you hadn't, you wouldn't have found the mutated alien. And we wouldn't
have the proof needed to stop colonization. I understand how you feel..."

"No. You don't. You couldn't possibly know."

Mulder walked right up to Erickson's face.

"You don't know because nothing touches you. Throughout this whole affair,
you have sacrificed less than anybody. So, how could you know what I feel?
Do you know what's it like to see everybody die around you? Do you know what
it's like to see your father..."

Inside Mulder's brain, pieces suddenly snapped together. Realization lit up
his eyes.

Erickson slowly looked down to the floor.

"You," Mulder said.

Erickson made no reply.

A dizziness settled onto Mulder. "I thought...I had assumed...it was
Krycek..."

"You were half-right," Erickson quietly said. "Had you got up to the
bathroom in the time, you would have seen someone who looked just like him."

Mulder had to sit down. He stumbled over to his couch.

"It was me who helped Kenneth Soonan get the secret files," Erickson
continued. "I did a little programming on his computer without his knowledge
and made sure that it could penetrate the DOD's security."

Mulder almost laughed. Perfect, he thought. Just perfect.

"I assumed that he would take the information to the right person. Imagine
my surprise when he took it to you. Of course, you were the right person,
but...well..."

"My father was going to tell me everything," Mulder said in a hollow voice.
"He was going to tell me about you."

"Yes."

"But you didn't trust me."

Erickson swallowed and looked away.

"Guess it was just another one of your mistakes, wasn't it?"

Erickson made no reply. Mulder ran his tongue over his lips, then closed his
eyes.

"Get out," he said.

"Mulder, you have to hear me..."

"No."

"I need to tell you about your sister."

"I don't care. I don't care about any of it. Just get out."

So Erickson left.

Mulder sat still on the couch, eyes closed. He stayed like that for almost a
hour.

Then he suddenly stood up. He got a shave, dressed in clean clothes and went
out.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Martia Covarrubias laid inert in her bed. Her breathing was a tiny whisper.
You could only hear it if you were right next to her.

"Martia? Can you hear me?"

Her eyes remained closed and her tongue silent.

"I want you to know that it's all over," Richard Erickson said. "We've won.
Colonization has been terminated. Your efforts have not been..."

Erickson stopped himself. He looked down at her with an expression that was
confused and disturbed.

"I still don't know why, Marita. Why did I choose this side? Is it because I
have a conscience? Judging from what I've done, I doubt it. What was it
then? An act of charity on my part? A favor dispensed by a would-be god?"

He touched her hand. "I'm no god. I know that, Marita. But I've been playing
one for decades. Was my arrogance justified by the end result?"

His grip about her hand become tighter. "I wish that you could hear me. I
need someone to..."

Marita let out one more shallow breath. Then a silence rested on her lips.

"Marita?"

He lifted her wrist and felt it. His mouth slowly opened. It stayed open. He
looked at Marita's body as if he had never seen anything like it before. He
tried to say the right thing---a good-bye or a prayer. He could only
whisper---

"Mother?"

Then he carefully placed her hand back down on the sheets. He turned to the
door and took a step forward. Then his leg buckled, landing him on the
floor. He sat there, looking just like a hurt child.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Mulder did a lot of driving before he reached the house of Margaret Scully.
When he got there, he saw two extra cars in the driveway.

He could guess whom they belonged to. He considered leaving.

Instead, he got out of the car and walked up to the front door. He knocked.
He waited, staring down at his shoe.

The door was answered by Bill Scully.

Great, Mulder thought and waited for the punch.

Bill stared at Mulder, but he didn't do it with his old loathing. Instead,
he just looked at Mulder as if the FBI agent was someone that he couldn't
understand as much as he tried.

"Come in, Mulder," he said.

Warily, Mulder entered the house. "This way," Bill told him and Mulder
follwed him to the living room.

Margaret Scully and another woman looked up as he entered. The woman was
pretty with brown curly hair.

"Julia," Bill said. "this is Fox Mulder."

Julia Scully looked at Mulder, then carefully got up. Mulder kept his hands
clutched inside his pockets as she walked towards him.

And then she hugged him. From the look of surprise on his face, you would
swear that she was squeezing the life out of him.

Her eyes lifted up to him and said, "I know everything. I know what's being
going on."

"H-how?"

"Your mother. She explained it to me."

"And...you believe it?"

"Should I not?"

"No. It's...it's the truth."

Mulder turned to Bill. The other man's face was tense, but Mulder could tell
that Bill Scully believed it, too.

Julia took a step back from Mulder, holding him by the hands. "I don't know
what exactly happened to you in Tunisia," she said. "But I can tell that
Charles gave his life for what he believed in. I will miss him, but I am
proud of him, too."

Julia touched Mulder's face. "And I know I will be proud of you, too."

Mulder just stood there, wondering why he deserved this.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Richard Erickson was sitting on top of a pile of skeletons. He reached down
and ripped off the skull of one.

"Alas, poor..."

He frowned, then threw it away. He ripped off another skull.

"Alas, poor..."

He shook his head and threw that skull away as well. He examined the pile of
skeletons and said, "I don't know any of these people."

"You have to remember," William Scully told him. He was standing at the
bottom of the pile, dressed in a navy uniform. "It will all mean nothing if
you don't."

Erickson's face pinched into a sour expression. He shrugged his shoulders.
"Some god you are," William muttered.

Then he turned to her. "You will have to remember then."

The words pounced upon her, the words and the names and the numbers swirled
into her eyes, demanding to be let in, history was being bled from the
planet and the wound needed a suture, calling the doctor, calling the
doctor, the blood of words was pouring over her, it was covering her mouth,
leaking into her mind...

Scully woke up with her heart beating painfully.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Charles and Mulder stood out on the front porch, looking up at the stars.

"How is your family doing?" Mulder asked.

"They're well." Charles shook his head. "It's impossible to describe what
happened to us. It was like witnessing the wrath of God. When you looked out
a window, you could barely see the sky."

Charles looked at Mulder. "I guess it's one of the reasons I believe you
now. What I saw was...was just too damn crazy. Your mother's story was the
only one that could make sense out of it."

"What are the other reasons?"

Charles took a breath. "You know...there are three people whose respect I've
always wanted---my dad's, my mom's and Dana's. And don't tell me that I have
her respect already. Because I don't have it the way that you have it."

"Look, Charles..."

"Let me finish. You might think that I don't see how close you two are, but
I saw it from the beginning. And I couldn't understand it for a long time.
You're supposed to be everything that her beliefs oppose, but you are still
her friend. When I saw your friendship...when I saw that she stood by you
even when she was dying...it just pissed me off. But it wasn't just that I
blamed you for her sickness. A lot of it was just pure envy."

Charles cleared his throat and turned away. "I was wrong. I just want you to
know that."

"So, I'm not a sorry son-of-a-bitch?"

Charles hesitated, then he slowly turned his head to Mulder. "Have you heard
from Dana?"

"No. Have you?"

"She's not answering any calls. I think you should go to her, Mulder. I
think you should go to her right now. If you don't...you're still a sorry
son-of-a-bitch."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Cassandra Spender was sitting by a grave. She ran her fingers over the name
on the tombstone.

She felt a hand on her shoulder. She quickly looked up to see a man in a hat
and battered clothes.

"Who are you?" she asked.

"Someone who also lost family. And I'm someone with a lot to learn."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

PART TWENTY-NINE
PROTECTION

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

''...yes I said yes I will Yes."---James Joyce

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The music ended. For several minutes, she had been listening to the
carefully woven compositions of Bach. Harpichord, cello and violin had
worked together in a harmony that was as lovingly precise as a scientific
equation. She had listened with her hands clutched together and her neck
bent down as the music told her that order was still possible in this world.

Only now the music was over. She grabbed a CD---any CD---so she could end
this silence. She couldn't listen to Bach again. His faith in the existence
of hope and the will of God made no sense to her now. She couldn't listen to
a promise that she couldn't believe in.

Her random choice let out a bass strong as wine from the speaker. A beat
rigorously snapped and cracked from the percussion. It was a faintly
threatening sound.

Then a guitar played a few notes over and over again, echoing over a
synthesizer that laid itself carefully over the sound of bass. The music
gently eased away from its menace. Or, at least, it promised that tenderness
would always be just a few feet away.

She heard the knocking on the door. She closed her eyes, willing it to go
away. The knocking continued, but she remained still.

(...please, Scully...)

Then something pushed her. She headed for the door. She opened it.

The percussion broke its relentless beat just for a moment to introduce a
new instrument---a female voice who sang as if she was talking to a man over
the phone in the darkest hour of night.

...This girl I know needs some shelter...
...She don't believe anyone can help her...

He stepped through the doorway. She backed up to allow him in. It was hard
to tell if he was forcing his way in or if she was doing favor to a silent
plea. He closed the door.

...She's doing so much harm, doing so much damage...
...But you don't want to get involved...
...You tell her she can manage...

One of his hands went up to her cheek. He gently touched her pale face and
the dark circles under her eyes. It trailed through strands of her hair as
she looked back at him. Her eyes were telling him to leave, not because she
hated him but because there was nothing here worthy of taking.

...And you can't change the way she feels...
...But you can put your arms around her...

When his chest pressed against her, she felt how thick it really was. Mulder
was a slim man to look at, but there was a lot of strength in his arms. That
strength was holding her as gently as it could but it also refused to let
go.

Now, his hands were slowly going up and down her back. They were trying to
reach that numbness inside her and soothe it. Her own hands, however, stayed
hanging down and limp.

(...please...)

She had to make him let go. As carefully as she could, she had to tell him
that you could build no city on the ruins of her soul. There was too much
loss for one man to cope with.

That's why she held him firmly by the shoulders and raised her head towards
him. His eyes were begging for her to let him in.

She would, just for a moment. Then he would see that there was no choice
other than to say good-bye.

Her lips parted.

...I know you want to live yourself...
...But could you forgive yourself...

(...his mouth is so warm, a mouth shouldn't be that warm and soft...)

...If you left her just the way you found her...

The second kiss was just meant to be a brief coda. It was supposed to be a
parting gesture. Instead, it ended up being longer than the first. His
breath mingled together with hers and their hands grabbed onto each other's
shirts like cats clawing on a rug. She stroked his leg with her knee,
knowing that he would never let her fall. They closed their eyes, leaving
sight behind them for the new-found pleasures of smelling and touching and
tasting.

Then she opened her eyes and saw him...saw Agent Fox William Mulder kissing
her. She grabbed his face harder than she should have and pushed his head
back. Shock streaked across his features that had been colored red by the
blood rushing under his skin.

She felt ashamed. This was the very thing that she had been avoiding for
years. She didn't want to tie herself to a man as desperate as she was. It
would have been so easy for her and Mulder to take refuge in each other's
pain. Yet she needed more than that. Mulder needed more than that. She
wanted something better for him than just a fellow sufferer. He deserved...

Mulder smiled.

(Everything I want is right here, Scully.)

I can hear him, she thought.

(Yes, you can. I can hear you, too. That's because I want to hear you. I
want you inside me.)

(Mulder...I...oh, God, yes...)

(...yes...)

...I stand in front of you...
...I'll take the force of the blow...
...Protection...

Clothes came off quickly. It didn't make them feel naked, though. The
exposure of every inch of skin only left them feeling invulnerable. The heat
being given and received was an armor that could hold back the whole world.
The female singer repeated the word "protection" like a mantra. Then she
added...

...You're a boy and I'm a girl...
...But you know you can lean on me...
...And I don't have no fear...
...I'll take on any man here..
...Who says that's not the way it should be...

(It's like I never made love before.)

What was it? Why were they so surprised that a mouth could do this? And that
a hand could do that? What was so amazing that this part of the human body
could be a source of so much pleasure?

Then something really surprising happened.

Mulder felt a part of himself become moist and open like a wet flower. Below
her waist, Scully had the sensation of herself pulling forward and turning
into something hard, ravenous, filled with blood.

(Do you feel that, Scully?)

(I do. What...what is it?)

(Oh, damn, it's...)

They jerked away from each other. Their eyes were wide and unbelieving. They
stared at each other, breathing at the same tempo.

Then he closed his eyes.

"Mulder?"

"Too late to stop now, Scully."

He really is going to let me in, Scully thought. More than any other man
could. Or would.

So she held onto Mulder's thighs and closed her eyes as well and the female
singer was saying I'm a boy and you're a girl over and over again and Scully
felt herself get hard (...I am getting hard, dear Lord almighty, I am
getting hard...) and Mulder was opening his (...her legs, but now they're my
legs...) legs to let Scully (...in my body...) enter in and it was a
terrible sensation at first, letting yourself be invaded, a living thing was
now inside him (...inside the most tender part of my body and it hurts,
please stop it...) while Scully had to handle this bizarre, uncontrollable
organ that was driving the rest of her (...his...) body into a frenzy (...we
joke, we sneer, we tell the men that it must have a mind of its own, but it
does, it really does, it's an animal that cannot be tamed...) and they were
both afraid that they had touched onto something that should never have been
thought of, much less done.

Then...

Scully learned how to cooperate with this body, accepting its strengths and
its needs. She came to enjoy thrusting forward, being the one who brought
the spark to this flame, loving the power of this muscle.

And Mulder was learning the joys of this penetration. Letting this flesh
enter him was not an act of vulnerability. It was an invitation to the other
for warmth and love.

(...Mulder...am I doing this right...)

(...you're doing fine...doing great...for a beginner...)

(...oh, really, wise guy...then what if I were to do...)

(...god, Scully...is this how it feels...god...)

When it was finally done, Mulder almost blacked out from the electric shock
that he felt. Scully collapsed upon his body (his body now returned to him),
never feeling so exhausted before. They must have laid there for a hour with
no touching and kissing. Her body rested there on his larger one, rising and
falling slightly with his heaving chest.

Finally, she spoke up.

"Mulder?"

"Yeah?"

"That was fantastic."

"Get no argument here."

"But, from now on...let's do it the old-fashioned way, okay?"

"Again, no argument here."

A few minutes later, they did do it the old-fashioned way. Repeatedly.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Mulder dreamed about the wooden corridor. He stood there, breathing in its
humid air. A door waited for him at the other end.

He was waiting for Mulder, too.

This time, however, Mulder was not afraid.

He heard the man say, "Really? Well, good for you."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

He woke up in Scully's bedroom, but she wasn't with him. He sat up and
looked around him. Then he looked further. His mind searched out for her.

She was found curled up and naked on the sofa. Her tears were leaving spots
on the cushions. He knelt down by her and stroked her side.

"I was so happy awhile ago," she whimpered.

"I know."

"How could I be happy? How is that possible? How could I forget about
Charles?"

"You haven't forgotten about him."

Scully shook her head furiously. "You don't understand, Mulder." She looked
at him with her red-lined eyes. "I want to forget about him. I want to
forget about him and Melissa and Emily and all of them. I want..."

She cut herself off.

"What do you want?" he asked.

"I want you, Mulder. I want you with me. I just want to stay with you and
make love to you forever and just let the last six years go away."

He said nothing, only continued to gently stroke her.

"But I can't do that, can I? The past doesn't go anywhere. It just stays at
your side and...hurts you more."

Mulder gathered her into the arms and they laid together on the couch. "What
can I do?" she whispered in his ear.

"You do what they would want to do. Live your life. Live and be happy."

"I'm happy with you, Mulder."

Mulder's throat tightened. She saw the apprehension in his eyes.

"What is it?" she asked.

"I'm not sure you can be happy with me."

"Why?"

"Because it's not over."

She pulled back an inch. "What do you mean? Of course, it's over. The
colonization is..."

"I know. And I wish that was the end of it. But there's one thing missing.
There's one last piece of the puzzle."

Scully could feel cold in her stomach. "You're going to go look for him,"
she said.

"I don't want to."

"Mulder..."

"No. I mean it. If I could stay here...right here with you...that would mean
everything to me."

To her amazement, she saw that he was telling the truth. "Then why go on?"
she asked.

"Because it's not about me. It's never been about me. It's about people like
your brother and your sister and...and my father. All the people who
sacrificed themselves or were victimized. That's a long, long list. I owe
something to all of them. For them, there should be one person who knows the
truth."

She didn't speak for a long time.

Finally, she said in a small voice, "Then I have to come with you. I owe
them the same thing. And you shouldn't do it alone."

"I shouldn't. And what's more..." He held her to his chest. "...I can't do
it alone. I never meant that as much as now."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

PART THIRTY
I JUST WANT TO SEE HIS FACE

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"I'm too high.
"I'm too high.
"But I ain't touched the sky."
                                    ---Stevie Wonder

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Frank Sinatra once said that he didn't care what got you through the night,
whether it be booze or religion.

Diana Fowley toasted the jukebox that was playing a Sinatra tune,
acknowledging the singer's excellent advice. Lately, her own personal
religion had received a kick in the pants. So, now she was indulging in
Sinatra's other alternative.

"It's been awhile since I seen anybody drink that much."

Her bleary eyes focused on the bartender, a woman with short blonde hair.
The bartender looked back at Fowley as if she expected her to fall off her
stool.

"What?" Fowley responded.

"There was this guy in her last summer. He was sitting up at the bar here
and drinking like it was the last day of the world."

"Oh."

"So is it?"

"Is it what?"

"The last day of the world."

Fowley picked up her glass and said, "Not anymore it ain't." She gulped down
the stinging contents of the glass.

"Uh...huh," the bartender replied slowly. "Well, that's a good thing, isn't
it?"

Fowley said nothing. The bartender decided to leave this one alone and went
back to counting receipts.

Fowley felt a hand on her shoulder and heard "Putting one on, aren't we?"
Without turning to look, she said, "Keep in mind that this is a no-smoking
bar."

The smoking man took a stool next to her. "Why do you look so glum?" he
asked.

Fowley shifted her head towards him. She saw something strange about his
face. At first, she didn't realized what it was.

Then she saw it. He was smiling.

"Why do you look so happy?" she shot back. "It's over. You've wasted years
of your life for nothing."

"If you're assuming that mere collaboration has been my main goal, then
you're mistaken."

"Then what was your goal?"

"The better question is---what is your goal? I think I know. I think I've
figured it out."

"Do tell."

He leaned forward and whispered in her ear.

She put down the glass and tensed her shoulders. He leaned back, waiting for
her response.

"Well," she said. "I can't have it now, can I?"

"Would I bring the matter up if obtaining it was no longer possible?"

She ran a finger along the rim of the glass. Sinatra was singing about
sharing a kiss the devil has known.

"What is it you are proposing?"

"Mulder and Scully are heading off to Italy. They're going to use Rifada's
artifact to deal with La Concordia."

"And you're letting this happen?"

"I told Dolci to greet them with open arms."

"What are they...what is Mulder up to?"

"I bet Mulder is going to find the very thing you desire. Would you like to
be there when he finds it?"

Fowley's head swayed back and forth slightly. "You know...you're an evil
man."

"Since when has that been relevant?"

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

They waited by a road. Stretching out from both sides of the road were
fields of tall yellow grass. There was no one else visible in this open
space, but that didn't mean that they were alone.

Clouds swam leisurely through the sky. A bird would occasionally land nearby
to pick at the ground and then fly away. A few cars passed. Mulder and
Scully walked in slow circles, occasionally giving the other a squeeze of
the hand or a smile.

Then Salvatore Dolci came, driving his simple-looking car. He pulled to the
side, turned off the engine and stepped out of the car.

"Agent Mulder," he said politely. "Agent Scully. I would like to have it
now."

"No," Mulder said.

Dolci's eyebrows lifted above his glasses.

"We don't have it with us. We'll only hand it over when you take us to the
right place."

Dolci looked over at Scully. She was no less resolute.

He asked, "Are you sure about this?"

"Absolutely."

Dolci scratched his cheek, then said, "Tell you what. I'll take you there.
Along the way, I'll tell you a story that might change your minds."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The man born Alberto Luciani and soon to be Pope John Paul I came across as
a quiet, cheerful, self-effacing man, but everybody who knew him closely had
learned of the strength under his smiling face. He had the kind of will that
a man has when he only wants to do the right thing.

This strength was a secret to many. That's why several people were shocked
when he started to look into the  irregularities of the Vatican's own
finances. Everybody had expected him to be an affable Pope and not a
boat-rocker.  Yet here he was, ordering an investigation into the Vatican's
connection with the Banco Ambrosiano.

The tension was felt in La Concordia Silente. What if John Paul followed the
money all the way to them? What if he learned of their secrets? In all of
the one-hundred-and-sixteen years of the group's covert existence, no Pope
had ever been informed about them. How would this one react to learning of
their existence?

Much to the group's shock, their leader said, "Why don't we go ahead and
find out?"

One night, the Pope was visited by a short man in glasses. "Don't worry
about Roberto Calvi," the Pope was told. "He will be taken care of."

"Who are you?"

"I'm Salvatore Dolci. I'm a holder of secrets. I also like to think that I'm
a good judge of character. I've come here to tell you things."

"What things?"

"Things regarding a group called La Concordia Silente. I believe...I hope
that you have the steel to hear about it."

The next day, the Pope was dead.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Scully looked away from Dolci. She had heard a lot of horrible things over
the past few years, but this wasn't something that she wanted to know.

"I guess John Paul wasn't going to be a team-player," Mulder said bitterly.

Dolci shook his head. "No, no. Don't be ridiculous. We didn't kill him. La
Concordia would never touch the Pope."

"Then what happened?"

"Don't you see? Luciani poisoned himself."

Scully's head spun towards Dolci. "That's impossible," she said.

"I would have thought so, too. But he did it. That was the secret of his
death. Not that it was a murder, but that it was a suicide."

"You expect us to believe that a Pope would kill himself...that he would go
against centuries of church teachings...just because of what you told him?"

Dolci glanced at Scully, giving her a glimpse of his sad eyes. Then he
turned back to the road.

"You're a believer, I see," he observed.

"I...I don't know if I still am. But if John Paul was the strong man that
you say he was..."

"You never know what could break a man. When I told him of what La Concordia
had been hiding, he snapped. Now, if the exposure of our secrets could drive
a Pope to suicide, what would it do to the rest of the Church? What would it
do to the world?"

Scully touched the cross on her neck. Mulder watched her as she stared at
the countryside rolling by. He was remembering the things that he had said
about religion, the jokes that had practically mocked her beliefs. Maybe he
had been getting her back for her own jabs, but now those words seemed so
cruddy and spiteful. He wanted to interject something. He wanted to stand up
for a belief that he didn't hold...

"Maybe it wasn't what you said, but how you said it."

Dolci briefly looked at Mulder. "Excuse me?"

"I don't know what exactly you have. But maybe you have interpreted it
wrong. Maybe there's an explaination for it that you haven't considered."

Dolci was silent for a long time.

Then he said, "That would be nice, wouldn't it?"

He said nothing more. Scully was silent, too, but she turned to Mulder with
her tense, sad face. She wondered if he meant what he had just said.

(Yes, Scully. I do.)

She smiled.

(Thank you.)

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The warehouse was exceedingly well-guarded as was to be expected. To reach
it, you had to get past an electrified fence. Then you had to cross a
compound patrolled by guards, be checked out at the front door and tap a
security code into the lock before you could even enter the building.

Dolci led the two FBI agents through grey hallways and past sealed doors. He
took them to one particular door.

"We have acquired numerous items and artifacts over the years," he said,
then he pointed at the door. "Here is where we keep our most recent
acquisition."

Mulder could feel a slight buzzing in his head.

"Are you sure you want to do this?"

"We are," Mulder said, trying to hide the pain slowly building in his skull.

Dolci looked at Scully. She nodded.

Then he punched in the security code and the door unlocked.

There was a heavy darkness behind the door. The only light in the room was
the one coming from the hallway. Mulder and Scully carefully stepped inside.

Dolci flicked on a light switch.

The first thing that they noticed was that the room was very big. Then he
saw the object on the floor, locked down by chains. It was wide and grey and
metallic.

"I'll leave you alone now," Dolci said and he slammed the door behind them.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Dolci went to another room with television screens. He found the smoking man
standing at a distance from them. He seemed more interested in his cigarette
than what they showed.

The woman, however, was close to them like an attentive child. She watched
with her arms crossed over her chest.

"What are you hoping to accomplish here?" Dolci asked.

"For once, I'm on Mulder's side. I want the truth, too."

Dolci lowered his voice to a whisper. "And what does she want?"

The smoking man smiled. "She wants the truth as well. It's good to see so
many cooperative people, isn't it?"

The woman let out a little gasp. Not one of shock, but of expectancy. On the
video screens, Mulder could be seen. He had collapsed to the ground.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The writing was screaming at him. It had opened its mouth and it was
screeching history into his ears. No longer would he be subjected to just
the voices of the minds around him. He would now hear the thoughts of the
dead and all those who had walked the earth and all those who lived in the
stars. The hands of God were now pressing on both sides of his skull and
slowly crushing it.

He wanted to push away the object in front of him, throw a cloth over its
face, run away. Yet it sat there with the stories of the world inscribed
onto it, torturing him with the past.

("You see, Mulder? You should have been afraid.")

I have been blown apart, he thought. I have been flayed and stripped into
pieces of meat. (...Mulder...) There is only a hole now, a black hole. Throw
all your thoughts down it and they'll be stretched till they break. I have
to be a hole because that's the only means of absorbing all these voices.
(...Mulder, take my hand...) I must become as blank and indifferent as
history itself. (...Mulder, please...) I am history. I am God. There is no
void in God's place. God is not dead. God is the void. God is death. God
knows nothing of love and forgiveness because if He did, (...Mulder, let me
in...) then he would break down crying from all that he sees. I will be like
unto God. I will be alone.

I'm not alone.

How can that be? How can God have a companion? Or a mate? No one could get
close to God.

Unless I'm not God.

Then who am I then?

I'm Fox Mulder. And this is Dana Scully. We are both tumbling back through
the past, breaking apart in the process, holding onto each other. We don't
scream. We keep a silence, a deliberate counterpoint to the sound that wants
to smash us into bits. We do this out of fear. We also do it out of
defiance. "Look at this!" we shout back. "One thing can survive history! One
thing can live under the weight of your secrets!"

We fall, waiting to hit bottom.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The door to the storage room opened. Diana Fowley walked in on careful feet.
She watched Mulder and Scully. His head was resting in her lap. She was
holding one of his hands. Their eyes were wide open, but without seeing anyt
hing in front of them. They were both trembling.

She stepped up to them as if they were land mines. She knelt down. With
fingers slightly shaking, she touched Mulder on his other hand.

Dolci and the smoking man watched from the door.

Dolci whispered, "I still don't understand. What is she doing?"

"It's a question of will power, you see. Mulder is in this state because he
wants to be in it. Well, Fowley wants to be along for the ride. Her desire
is intense enough to achieve a bond with him."

"But why does she want this?"

"So she can know everything. That's all she really wanted." The smoking man
smiled slightly. "She wants to meet God."

Dolci looked horrified, but he didn't run away. He stood there, watching the
three people who were in danger of losing their minds.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

They didn't know that she was watching them. She wasn't even visible. She
was a ghost lurking behind them as they walked down the wooden hallway,
their steps thumping on the floor. Unlike them, she didn't feel the
uncomfortably humid air.

She saw that they were holding hands. She smiled. Poor Dana, she thought.
You probably thought that I wanted to steal Fox away from you because I
wanted to share his bed. Nothing of the sort. You can have that measly
pleasure. I wanted to take him away from you because I thought you were
holding him back. When I first met Fox, I knew that he would take me to this
place one day. I knew that his pain and obsession would lead me here.

Then I had my period of doubt. That's why I left him. That's why I went into
the arms of the smoking man, hoping that he could take me here. The smoking
man only had power, though. You, Mulder, on the other hand... you had your
dreams,

And I thought that Dana was a pollutant in your dreams. I realize that I was
wrong. If I had known my mistake at the time, I would have done all I could
to bring you closer together. You need her. You need the way that she
anchors you down. You wouldn't have been able to reach this place if it
weren't for her.

So, I guess I should thank you both.

Now, you've reached the end of the hallway. Neither one of you wants to open
the door.

But Mulder does open it.

And God is waiting.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

An old man is sitting at a table. On the table are these small wooden
squares and triangles. Each one of them has been carved with Navajo writing
(or what became Navajo writing.) The old man is shifting them around,
forming shapes and words. He seems to playing some kind of game, but the
rules are known only to him. He does it with an air of boredom.

The old man is pale and repulsively thin. You can tell how skinny he is
because he's naked. Long white hair falls from the back of his head to his
shoulders.

Apparently, he's a man. He does have genitalia and a normal-sized mouth. His
fingers have, however, an extra two inches to them. There are also
protrusions along his cheeks and forehead. His eyes look too big for his
head. While it's hot in the room and sweat dampens his chest, he seems
unaware of the heat.

He pays no attention to them at first. He continues with his little game as
they slowly walk around him, their own bodies turning moist.

Finally, he sighs and looks up at them.

"Sit down."

Two chairs appear out of nowhere.

"I suppose I should tell you everything."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
HOW IT ALL REALLY BEGAN

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"...[T]here is a third character, beyond my control, beyond my perception,
mocking me. The third man is the closeted man. The man of whom no one else
may speak....The third man is our madness whispering to us, 'Nothing is as
it seems. Everything you know is false.'...The third man is your real
father. You want him, you want him to come forward, and yet you fear if he
does you will learn things you do not wish to know."---Curtis White

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Our stories, myths, legends and religions are full of warring brothers.
Jacob and Esua, Thor and Loki...these are just a couple of examples.

The world started out with a war of brothers.

Think of two races, both sprung from the same strands of DNA that washed up
from the ocean. One has the greater strength, the other the more advanced
mind. The former can kill the other with a swipe of his arm. The latter has
to rely on guile and its ability to communicate without speech.

What if the two races had remained on the same planet forever? Would one
have exterminated the other? Or would they have learned to work together?
The possibilities of mutual existence were ended, however, when a vistor
came to their world.

To be more exact, he stumbled onto the world. Crashed. Fell out of the
heavens.

His ship landed on a continent's shoreline. The being inside was unhurt. He
couldn't be hurt. He didn't even have a body. Instead of a mind, his
thoughts existed inside a cloud of atoms swirling in the air.

However, that existence wouldn't go on for much longer. He still needed
technology to sustain his life. The necessary machines had been badly
damaged in the crash. So, he reached out for another place to live.

He found it in a whole race of grey-skinned telepathic creatures. His new
home would be inside their collective mind. They would never be aware of his
existence.

Unfortunately, they had an enemy which he couldn't use as a host. This other
race had telepathic abilities, but not strong enough and not in enough
numbers for him to create a sustainable environment for himself. Protection
needed to be provided for the gray-skinned race that hosted him.

Luckily, he was not just able to intertwine himself with the thoughts of the
grey-skins. Their very cell structure could be manipulated by him. He made
the grey-skins a tougher, stronger race as well as gave them the ability to
increase their numbers through a mutating virus. As for the other race,
while their telepathy was weaker, he was still able to manipulate them in
some fashion. He whispered stories and myths into their subconsciousness.
Legends were instilled into their minds that could civilize them or, at
least, tame them. Separate stories were given to different tribes as a way
of preventing coalitions between them.

For a long time, the grey skins were the dominant race on the planet.
However, the being living in their subconsciousness eventually felt
something unusual.

He felt bored. Restless.

That's why he taught the grey skins a new technology. Within a few decades,
they were able to build space crafts that could traverse galaxies while the
other race was still playing around with fire.

The grey-skins took their leave, never knowing that they were doing it at
the behest of someone else. For centuries and centuries and centuries, the
being journeyed the universe with them.

Then he got bored again.

He had finally gotten tired of his hosts. They had become an unbearably
arrogant bunch, particularly in the myths they had developed. They
attributed their advanced technological skills to good breeding. They
thought that they were the ones who had created their brother race, blithely
ignorant that they sprouted up from the same biological soil.

The being had enough of them. Once again, he manipulated their DNA, this
time shortening their life span. The cure for their defective cells was
always out of their grasp because he kept it from their minds. Eventually,
they turned to the direction that he wanted them to go into.

They returned to their home world (never knowing that it was their home
world.) Plans were made to replenish their race. The being, however, had his
own plans. The virus that they would infect the world with would mutate
again.  The grey-skins were doomed to die along with the slower, dumber
humans as a new species was created. Then...

He would start all over again. He would create a whole new set of stories
for them and play with their destiny. Maybe this new species would be more
amusing.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"That's it?"

The old man shrugged.

"That's...it?"

"Yes, Mulder, that's it," the old man snapped. "That's the big secret. That
has been the driving force behind the histories of two races. It was me all
along."

The old man formed a shape out of the runes and examined it with mild
interest. Mulder sat there in his chair, staring at him and trying to speak.

"You have manipulated...billions upon billions of people...just for your own
amusement?"

"Well, not just for my amusement. I need a race of telepaths to keep myself
alive."

"But you would wipe out both aliens and humans for..." Mulder jumped out of
the chair, grabbing the back of his own neck. His eyes looked wild as he
stomped around the room.

"That's just the way it is," the old man said without looking up. "I know
you were expecting something else. Something grander than me. But, like it
or not...I'm God. And as God, I can do as I will."

"Not anymore you can't," Mulder snarled. He went up to the table, planted
his hands on the edge and leaned towards the old man. "Colonization won't
happen."

"Yes. That was unfortunate. I've gotten quite rusty in my manipulations."
The old man looked up and there was a faint smile on his face. "I'll do
better next time."

Mulder's throat went dry. The heat in the room was weakening his body.

"I'll have to wait a couple hundred years," the old man continued. "But I've
got patience. After some time has passed, these events will have been
forgotten and I will start up a new plan. And guess what, Mulder?"

The old man leaned forward until he was an inch away from Mulder's face.
"You can't do jackshit about it. I could kill you right now, but I don't
have to. You can leave this place, knowing all the crazy things that I have
told you, but it will do you no good. You'll just have to accept...that you
can't fight my future."

The old man settled down onto his chair. Mulder dropped back onto his own
seat, feeling like a wet, useless piece of flesh.

(I shouldn't have come here.)

"No, Mulder, you shouldn't have. You would have been much happier." The old
man returned to his game of runes.

Nobody said anything for a whole minute.

Then Scully spoke up.

"May I say something?"

"Of course," the old man replied.

Scully's hand whipped across the table. The runes flew off and clattered
onto the floor.

The old man looked at her.

She looked straight back and said, "It ends here."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

PART THIRTY-TWO
GOD'S GOD

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"But Faith, like a jackal, feeds among the tombs and even from these dead
doubts, she gathers her most vital hope."---Herman Melville

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The three people on the floor hadn't moved for over ten minutes. Their eyes
were still open and unseeing, their bodies still trembling.

"We can't let this continue," Dolci said.

The smoking man let out a cloud of dirtied air.

"We have to help them."

"The Lord helps those who help themselves," the smoking man replied, then
walked over to Diana Fowley. He bent down to her and whispered in her ear.

She gave silence in return. He whispered something a little louder and a
little more threatening.

At first, her throat made choked sounds which then forced themselves into
words.

"I'm in...a room...with God..."

Dolci steadied himself against the doorway.

"And what is God doing?" the smoking man asked quietly.

"He..he...he's going to..h-h-hurt Sc-Scully..."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The old man looked down at the runes on the floor, then back to Scully. "You
should not anger me," he replied.

"I'm not afraid of you."

"Why? You have every reason in the world to be afraid."

"Because you're not God."

The old man smiled slightly. He slowly stood up, his legs shaking under his
tiny weight. "For all intents and purposes, I am." He pointed at the cross
hanging from Scully's neck. "That was my creation."

"No," Scully said, standing up herself. "It isn't."

"You are a stubborn woman, aren't you?" the old man chuckled. "Agent Scully,
I was there. I created those stories. Adam and Eve, Cain and Abel, Abraham,
the whole lot of them were my idea. So, you better learn to respect..."

Scully laughed in his face. The old man's own amusement vanished from his
expression. Mulder grabbed Scully's hand, wanting to rein her in.

She squeezed his hand back.

(I know what I'm doing, Mulder.)

No, you don't, Mulder wanted to say, but it was too late for that. He had
come too far with her on simple trust. He couldn't throw that trust away
now.

Not even in the face of God.

"Little girl, you are being very stupid..." the old man growled.

"No, you're the stupid one. That's why I don't believe you. I refuse to
believe that you..."

She poked him right in his chest. The old man's eyes widened. Mulder's body
turned rigid as he resisted his urge to pull Scully away.

"...could have thought up any of that. Those stories are responsible for a
lot of good in this world. You don't have that kind of goodness in you and
you certainly don't have that kind of imagination."

The old man stared at Scully with his wide eyes. You could almost see storm
clouds in them. Mulder expected the room to collapse any second.

Then, just like that, the old man's face turned blank and he sat down. His
long-fingered hands layed inert on the table.

He cleared his throat and said, "I had never thought..."

He stopped himself. He looked around the room as if he was seeing it for the
first time. Then he turned his eyes back to Mulder and Scully.

"If I didn't think up your religions...then where did they come from?"

Scully opened her mouth to answer that, but found no words to say. Her
defiance changed to a horrible doubt.

"Well?" the old man said.

Scully looked to Mulder. His own mind was whirling, trying to grasp any
possible solution.

And he found one.

"I don't know where they came from," Mulder said slowly. "But maybe they
were already here before you came. In the minds of early humans."

The old man frowned. "I don't understand."

"You said that you could establish a psychic connection with the humans..."

"A weak one."

"But strong enough to send messages to them. And maybe...strong enough for
you to receive them without you knowing it."

The old man reached up and scratched his chin.

"Don't you see?" Mulder said, standing up, an excitement growing inside of
him. "You didn't create our stories. You  pulled them out of our minds and
gave them a coherent form, but they were there already."

The old man considered that, but then shrugged. "It doesn't mean anything. I
was still the one who gave them shape. Doesn't that make me God?"

"Well, then..." Mulder started, but now it was his turn to hit a wall. He
turned to Scully, begging for her help.

She hesistated, then she slowly walked around the table to the old man. She
knelt down next to him.

"Who made you God?" she asked gently.

"Huh?"

"Who made you God?"

"Well...nobody made me. It was an accident, really..."

"Are you sure?"

The old man slowly turned his head towards her. "Are you saying...that I was
meant to crash on your planet?"

She just looked back at him.

The old man looked away, his head wobbling slighly on his neck. "It's...it's
an interesting possibility."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"No..." Fowley said, shaking her head.

"What is it?"

"They're confusing G-G-God. They're lying...saying lies to him. They, they
can't lie to...my God. I have to..."

"Don't do anything. Just watch."

"But I..."

"If you interfere, I will yank you away. Now, just watch and tell me what
you see."

A tear fell down Fowley's cheek.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"Do you have any faith of your own?" Scully asked.

The old man blinked. "Excuse me?"

"What is your religion? What unseen things do you believe in?"

The old man touched his white hair. "You know, I have never considered these
things before," he said.

Mulder knelt down on the other side of the old man. "Where did you come
from? Who were your people? What did they believe in?"

The old man now looked like...an old man. Tired and bewildered and falling
apart. "I don't remember any of those things," he whispered.

"I think," Mulder said. "you've been here too long."

The old man nodded.

"You know...I'm starting to think that Scully and I didn't come here on our
own. I'm thinking that you brought us here. I'm thinking that we're saying
things that have been at the back of your mind for a long time. You just
needed us to say them."

"You think so?"

"Yes. Deep down, you know that you're not God. You don't want to be God. I
think you want to quit."

The old man's eyes now looked distant.

"Yes," he said. "I believe you're right."

His eyelids fluttered and he slumped to one side. Mulder and Scully had to
catch him as he fell out of his chair. They laid his light body onto the
floor. He was hardly breathing.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"He's dying," Fowley weeped. "God is dying."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"There has to be something we can do," Scully said.

"No," Mulder quietly replied.

"We can't just let..."

"Always the doctor, aren't you?" the old man croaked. His eyes opened just
enough so he could see her.

"I want..." he wheezed.

"What?"

"I want...to believe..."

He lifted one hand with his last bit of strength. He motioned Scully to bend
forward. When she did, he touched her on the forehead. Scully's eyes
blinked.

"Now...you know..."

Mulder said, "Scully, what happened?"

She said, "I...I know how to cure the aliens' genetic defect."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The smoking man smiled.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The old man was also smiling. "They won't be able...to take it from you.
I've buried it too deep. You'll have to...have to tell them."

The old man closed his eyes. "Now...I get to find out. I get to find
out...who's really God. And if I don't...then I'll have fun just looking.

"Good-bye now."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

She could see the old man falling away as the humid air in the room
dissipated into a vacuum and the wooden walls cracked into bits. Mulder and
Scully were thrown backwards, returning to their own bodies. For just a
moment, Mulder saw her, startled at her presence. He reached out for her,
trying to grab ahold of her hand.

She didn't even try to reach back. Instead, she flung herself into the pit
after the old man, weeping for her lost god, trying to save him from his own
suicide.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The first thing that he saw was Scully. She had snapped back to reality (or
what they considered reality) at the same time as him. They stayed still for
a few moments, trying to calm their sweating, heaving bodies.

Then he quickly turned to the side.

Diana Fowley was lying on the ground, no longer holding his hand. Her face
was frozen into an expression of despair.

He stuttered Scully's name, pointing at Fowley's body. Scully turned,
briefly registered surprise at seeing the other woman, then carefully lifted
Mulder off her lap so she could check on Fowley.

Her body was already cold.

"Don't feel too sorry for her," a voice said. Mulder and Scully looked up to
see him (of course he was there, he was always there, always behind them).

"She followed a ridiculous faith," he said in a mild tone. "When she finally
found out how hollow her god was, she just wasn't strong enough to handle
it."

"You did this to her," Mulder shot back in a rough, choked voice.

"She did it to herself. I only gave her the opportunity to get what she
wanted. Just as I allowed you to get what you wanted."

The smoking man grinned at them. "And now...you're going to give me what I
want."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

PART THIRTY-THREE
PUNISHMENT AND REDEMPTION

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"Ring the bells that still can ring.
"Forget your perfect offering.
"There is a crack
"A crack in everything.
"That's how the light gets in."
                                    ---Leonard Cohen

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"I had Fowley describe what was happening," the smoking man said, his
cigarette burning in his hand. "I know, Agent Scully, about what you hold in
your brain now. I know that the aliens cannot reach it with their mind
scans. From now on, that information is in my control and it serves my
purpose."

Scully took a breath and said, "What is your purpose?"

The smoking man stared at her.

Then he began to laugh. No one in that room had ever heard him laugh before.
In fact, it had been a long, long time that he had ever laughed. He
certainly had never laughed that loud. It was a hysterical sound that echoed
from one wall of the storage room to another. That grey face was acquiring a
shade of pink.

The laugh lasted for over a minute before the smoking man settled down. When
he spoke, his voice was loud. "What do I want?! I want to hold those
grey-skinned bastards by their metaphorical balls, that's what I want! I
want them to squirm! I want them to suffer! Don't you realize how they've
warped my life?! Don't you know what they forced me to do?! Well, now, they
have to deal with me! On my terms! And only when they..."

With a shudder, he ended his tirade. He kept smiling, though. "Of course,
everybody will benefit. The aliens can teach us many things. Their knowledge
can be ours for the taking."

"But you'll be the go-between, right?" Scully said quietly.

"Who better than me?"

"This is monstrous," Dolci declared. "You're talking about holding an entire
race hostage! You can't in good conscience..."

"Shut up," the smoking man told him. "Spare me your moral indignation,
Dolci. You've done plenty in your life."

"Nothing like this. I'll have no part of it."

The smoking man sneered at him. "Who's asking you to join in? This is the
real game, Dolci. And there's no room here for amateurs."

"I'm not playing, either."

The smoking man slowly turned his head to Scully and her unwavering eyes.
Then he looked towards Mulder who was standing behind Scully.

"Mulder, explain it to her."

"She doesn't need any explaining," Mulder said in a low voice.

The smoking man looked back to Scully. "Then maybe she should be reminded of
what's been done to her," he said as if he was still talking to Mulder. "The
aliens are responsible for her near-death, her sterility, the general
miserable condition of her life. Can she look me in the eye and tell me that
she doesn't want revenge?"

Scully's head bent down to stare at the cement floor.

"Come on, Scully. Tell me. Tell me that there's no hatred in your soul,
too."

(Mulder...)

(Do what you know is right, Scully.)

She looked back up.

"First of all," she said in a barely controlled voice. "who the hell do you
think you are? Some kind of innocent bystander? If there's hatred in my
heart, then all of it is for you.

"Second of all, this is genocide that you're talking about. I will not
participate in it. I will not let an entire race die out, no matter what
they have done.

"So, I want you to go back to your hole before I beat the shit out of you."

The smoking man looked between the two agents. "Well," he said, then dropped
his cigarette to the floor where it was crushed under his shoe. "I thought
that you might say that. I was hoping you wouldn't, but...I always plan
ahead."

Scully felt a queasiness in her stomach. "What do you mean?"

"You really don't think that only one child was created with your ova?"

The wide room seemed to shrink down to the size of a closet. The smoking
man's face was pressing down on her.

"What is this?" Dolci gasped. "What have you been..."

"I said, shut up, Dolci!" the smoking man yelled.

Scully looked into the smoking man's hard eyes and whispered, "Emily?"

"You may call her that if you wish. She's the last child left. The rest of
them died out. These things have happened before. Some defective gene
surfaces during cloning. But this one is alive...for now. She's on
life-support that could be turned off with the push of a button."

The smoking man pulled out his cigarette pack and lighter. "So, what is it
going to..."

Mulder grabbed the smoking man by the coat. The lighter and pack fell to the
floor. With their noses almost touching, Mulder said, "If anything happens
to her...I will kill you."

"If I die," the smoking man responded calmly. "then Emily will certainly
die. The ones holding her are under the strictest orders."

Mulder concentrated. His mind rammed into the smoking man's thoughts.

"And reading my mind will do you no good, Mulder. I don't know where she
is."

To his dismay, Mulder saw that he was telling the truth.

"However, one phone call from me will end her life. In fact, if I don't call
within the next hour, her life support will be deactivated."

Mulder's fingers unclenched from the smoking man's jacket. He looked at
Scully, wishing that she could see something other than fear in his eyes.

She turned away, her hand pressed against her mouth, arms held against her
chest. She walked aimlessly away from everyone.

The smoking man continued talking. "Of course, it's all your decision. You
might decide that you are willing to sacrifice a child for your beliefs.
I've done it myself. I've been able to live with it. Can you?"

She stopped next to the spacecraft, staring at it as if the stories
inscribed onto it could give her a way out. Mulder watched her...

(I'm so sorry, Scully. I can't think of a way out of this. There are no
words that I can say. Please forgive me for ever bringing you here.
Please...)

...but he only heard the torment in her mind.

"So, what's it going to be?" the smoking man asked.

He received no answer. He shook his head slightly and bent down to the
floor, picking up the pack and lighter. He pulled out a cigarette and placed
it in his mouth. When he flicked the lighter, he heard---

"That's a disgusting habit, you know."

At first, he didn't move. The lighter's flame remained away from the
cigarette in his shocked face.

Then he looked behind him and saw his wife standing at the door.

She was pointing a gun at him.

Everybody turned to see her and were almost as shocked as he was.

"I used to think that habit was your worst trait." she said.

She stepped towards him. The cigarette slipped from his mouth to the floor.

"You might to want to pick that up," she snarled. "It's going to be your
last."

"Cassandra, wait!" Scully yelled. "If he dies..."

"It's all right, Dana," she said.

Another person stepped into the room, right behind Cassandra.

"Emily is safe," Cassandra explained. "Richard has taken care of that."

Richard Erickson tipped his hat to the smoking man. "Luckily, I suspected
that you might be holding another of Scully's children." He looked at
Scully. "Don't worry. She's safe under my care."

Scully closed her eyes and said, "Thank you." Her body trembled. Mulder
embraced her. She pressed her head against his chest, holding back the
tears.

Mulder looked at Erickson.

Richard Erickson, the person who killed his father.

He couldn't say "thank you" to the alien. He just nodded.

Erickson nodded back.

"And since your last card has been played," Cassandra told the smoking man.
"it's time to deal you out."

The smoking man kept his eyes on Cassandra as she walked towards him. She
pressed the gun against his chin.

"Go ahead, dear," she said. "Tell me you did it for a good reason. Tell me
that you killed our son for the welfare of us all."

He had nothing to say. This was the end of the road for him. No more tricks,
no more escape hatches, no more smooth words. It was just him, his wife and
all of his sins.

"Well? Aren't you going to say anything?"

The smoking man closed his eyes.

Scully and Mulder looked at each other, sharing their confused impulses.
This wasn't the fate they wanted for this man. They wanted something else
than a blunt execution. His justice should be better than that.

Yet who were they to stop this woman?

"Say something," Cassandra said as her finger inched back.

His tongue remained still. He merely waited for the brief thunder and then
darkness.

"Okay, then."

She pulled the trigger.

The smoking man jerked his head.

Then he realized that he hadn't heard a shot. He had only heard the snap of
a released hammer.

He opened his eyes to see Cassandra smiling at him from the other end of an
unloaded gun. "I've got more imagination than that," she sneered.

"Wh-what do you mean?" he stuttered.

"It means," Erickson said. "that it's time for you to leave the planet that
you have caused so much trouble on."

A shrill noise rose up from out of nowhere. Cassandra and the smoking man
were covered with a blinding white light. She just stood there, still
smiling. The smoking man stretched out his arms and opened his mouth to
scream.

He never got a chance. Within a heartbeat, he and his wife vanished.

The noise went away, leaving only silence for a moment.

Then Mulder said, "Damn, we never got a chance to say good-bye."

"You're one of them," Dolci said, almost whispering.

Erickson turned to him and nodded. Dolci straightened his back and said
grimly, "Am I to punished as well?"

"No. No, actually you've been kind of promoted. From now on---" Erickson
waved his hand at the spacecraft. "---the conspiracy is all yours. You are
in total charge of this secret. It will be yours to cover or expose."

Dolci looked at the spacecraft, then at Mulder and Scully. "In that case, I
must insist on having everything."

Scully pulled herself away from Mulder, but still held his hand. "You'll
have it," she said. "But you should know this...I've gotten my faith back."

Dolci held in his breath for a moment, then said, "How?"

"Find out for yourself. And one of these days, you should let others find
out as well."

Dolci said nothing. He did smile a little, however.

"Well," Erickson said. "now that's done with, why don't we go take a walk?"

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

A breeze of wind rustled through the tall grass and across their legs.
Erickson was fifteen feet ahead of them, his hands inside his pockets.
Mulder and Scully watched his back as they held hands.

They had been walking for some time, casually strolling over the
countryside. Erickson hadn't said a word and the two FBI agents were waiting
for him to speak.

Finally, he said, "You won't have to worry about my fellow aliens, Scully."

"What do you mean?"

"Even with that information safe in your mind, some will use means not
unlike our smoking friend's to get it."

"So why shouldn't I worry?"

"Because I won't tell them."

Scully stopped in the grassy field, halting Mulder at her side. They watched
Erickson as he continued to saunter away.

"It'll be your decision and your decision alone whether you want to save
us," Erickson said.

"I've already made my decision," Scully called out to him.

Erickson stopped. The breeze ran across his face.

Then he said, "Are you sure?"

Mulder and Scully looked at each other.

"Yes," she said. "I'm sure."

"Hm," he responded with his back still towards them. "You know, I need your
cure as well. I'll be dead within five years if I don't receive it."

He bent down and plucked out one of the long blades of grass. He ran his
fingers up and down it.

"I don't think that I will accept it."

Scully was about to speak, but Mulder interrupted her. "Scully, Erickson and
I need to speak alone."

She almost complained, but she nodded and let Mulder walk up to the alien.
He knelt down in the grass next to him.

"You think you should be punished for what you did?" Mulder asked.

"Possibly," Erickson answered, not looking up.

"Has something led you to think this way?"

"Let's just say...I understand now what it means to lose a loved one."

Mulder held his hands together, their tips pressed under his nose. "What
if," he said. "I said that I forgive you?"

Erickson lifted his eyes towards him. "Do you?"

"Actually...it's not my forgiveness that you should want."

"What should I want?"

"You should want to correct what's wrong."

Mulder gestured behind them, making Erickson turn and look at Scully
standing far away. He watched that woman, knowing everything that had been
done to her.

"Yes," Erickson said. "I should."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

PART THIRTY-FOUR
GOOD-BYE

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"And remember, I am with you always, to the end of the age."---Matthew 28:20

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Walls were present, but not entirely. He drifted through one room to
another. He might have used doors. He wasn't sure. Whether he had even been
walking wasn't something he would have vouched for, either. The colors,
however, were real.

The first room had been white, a pure white that seemed capable of devouring
all around it. She had been floating in that room. Her pale body had been
naked and her red hair had been lifting upwards as if she was underwater.
Below her, long hands were touching her legs and gently caressing them.
Black eyes looked upwards to her and tiny mouths opened and closed as if
they were being fed.

He found himself frightened for her, but she told him that it was all right.
She was a doctor, remember?

He moved onto the next room. The color green was all around. A dark,
diseased green. Metal girders jutted from the walls like the ribs of an
animal's carcass. His feet pressed into a black slime sprayed over the
floor. A man was encased in a block of ice, mouth always open for a scream
no one would hear.

He looked at the trapped man for awhile, then moved on to the next room.

Blue.

The blue of a summer sky, just before nightfall.

A metal cot was centered in the room. He found himself tired and he laid
down on the cot which proved to be as soft as air.

Did he fall asleep and then wake up? Or was it only in sleep that you could
find the real blue room? Whatever the explaination, he became aware of a
woman standing next to the cot. He recognized her as the wife of the man
trapped in ice.

The woman kissed him on the forehead. Then she left. (Through a door?
Through a wall? Through nothing? Did she go into another room? Were these
separate rooms even connected?)

Then two other women walked in. They both looked exactly alike.

One of them stopped herself before reaching his cot. She turned away as if
he was too painful to look at. She went into a corner to cry.

The second woman gave her twin a sad look, then knelt down next to him. She
held his hand and called him by his first name.

He said her own name in return, the one that truly belonged to her and not
to the other woman. He said the name slowly as if it was a strange word.

She smiled and stayed at his side for a long time, holding his hand. Neither
one of them spoke.

Then he left the room. Or, more likely, the blue room went away to be
replaced by a black room. The red-haired doctor was here as well. They stood
on a cliff's edge with nothing below to see.

The twin women were standing at the far end of the room and holding hands.
Behind them was a man wearing a hat. The woman who had been at his side
whispered into the ear of the one who had wept. The latter raised her eyes
to him. She waved good-bye with a hesistant gesture.

He waved back at her, equally hesitant.

Then he turned away and jumped over the edge with the doctor.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

It didn't seem like there should be that many stars in the sky, but there
were. Their number was so great that their light seemed capable of
obliterating the darkness. When Scully awoke, she saw the stars and Mulder
looking at them.

She wondered where she was, but it only took her a moment to recognize the
shape of the horizon and the treeline. She was back on Skyland Mountain.
This triggered a brief moment of anxiety, but it disappeared.

She lifted herself off the grass and went up to Mulder. When she spoke, she
did it carefully.

"Was that her?"

Mulder nodded.

"And that other woman...that was her clone? The one you met before?"

Mulder nodded.

"Is she going to stay with them?"

"It's the only life she knows. She grew up among them. She wants to stay
even though..." He swallowed. "...even though they hurt her."

"I'm sorry, Mulder."

"No. You don't understand. She's also staying because she wants to change
them. She and Richard are going to try to make them a better people."

"I'm still sorry."

Mulder began to sway. At first, Scully thought that he might be sick. Then
she saw the shaking in his lips and she put her arms around him.

He cried for a long time, his tears reflecting the stars.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

PART THIRTY-FIVE
TIME HAS TOLD ME

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"Who will not secretly rejoice when the hero puts his armour off...who will
blame him if he does homage to the beauty of the world?" --- Virginia Woolf

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

He was not in her bed.

She looked around her, shaking off the last remnants of sleep. She listened
for any sounds in her apartment. She listened for the music of his mind even
though she had stopped hearing that days ago.

He wasn't here. Then where? Where would he be at this early part of the
morning?

Of course.

He would be at work.

They hadn't stepped through the halls of the FBI Headquarters for several
days. Luckily, Skinner had covered for them, understanding their need for a
rest.

However, even though so much had changed for them, the world remained the
same. It still demanded that they perform the daily functions of life.

That's why she got out of bed, showered, dressed, put on her makeup, ate
breakfast and headed to work, purse under her arm.

She thought about the thousands of times that she had done this ritual. She
thought about the first time that she had done it.

("Agent Mulder, I'm Agent Scully. I've been assigned to work with you.")

How long did she expect that new assignment to last? Five, six months? And
what had been the worst that she had expected? Embarrassment and discomfort
over working with such an unorthodox partner?

Instead, the X-Files had become the context of her entire life, symbolizing
everything that was sorrowful and joyous in her existence. She realized that
the last thing she could imagine was never coming to this basement office
again. How could she not enter this cluttered domain of Fox Mulder and wait
for his latest attempt to make her life a little stranger? He was always
prepared with a bit of the unexpected.

This day, it came in the form of music.

Guitar notes faintly reached her as she stepped out of the elevator. A low
voice murmured the lyrics into almost a  wordless hum.

...Time has told me...
...You're a rare rare find...
...A troubled cure...
...For a troubled mind...

When she entered the office, she took a few seconds just to watch Mulder
sitting behind his desk, his face turned away from her. A tape player was
the source of the music that had his attention.

Then she said, "I never figured you for a Nick Drake fan."

He turned to her and smiled. "How could I not be? All that moodiness and
angst is right up my alley."

"I would say that your tastes more run to getting drunk at a Led Zepplin
concert."

"Color me eclectic."

She took a chair in front of his desk (not the same chair that she had sat
in for so long, that one had burned up in the fire, but this was the same
spot she always took). "Is this what you are going to do with your day? Just
sit here and listen to music?"

"Sounds okay to me."

"The people's tax dollars at work."

"Well, the people can fire me, then. I don't think that I would mind."

Her back went completely straight. "What are you saying?"

Mulder made no reply.

...And time has told me...
...Not to ask for more...
...Someday our ocean...
...Will find its shore...

"Mulder, talk to me. Are you thinking about quitting?"

He looked around him, the posters, the photos, the filing cabinets. "A lot
of my life is in this place. Maybe it's time to get some of it back."

Scully clenched her fists together and placed them on his desk's edge. "I
understand how you feel. It seems like it's all over. That there's nothing
more to do. But the X-Files has been more than about Samantha."

"Has it?"

"We've accomplished a lot. And there's more that we can do."

He turned in his chair towards her. "Wouldn't you like to move on?"

Now, it was her turn to lack for words.

...Time has told me...
...You came with the dawn...
...A soul with no footprint...
...A rose with no thorn...

Mulder came around the desk and he knelt down next to her. He held her hand
as he waited for her to speak.

"It's not just the work," she said, looking down at her lap. "My life has
become completely anchored here. I have seen so much because of the
X-Files."

She paused, then said, "I met the man I love because of the X-Files."

"Funny. I met the woman I love because of them, too. What a coincidence."

"So, what would happen if we left it behind? Without that between us, could
we..."

She looked up at him. "I don't want to lose you, Mulder."

He took her into his arms.

...Your tears they tell me...
...There's really no way...
...Of ending your troubles...
...With things you can say...

"You're asking me to guess the future," he said quietly. "I can't do that. I
only know that there can be a future. I know that there can be a future for
you..."

He touched her under her breasts.

"...right here. You've been healed. You've been given your choice back.
That's enough for me."

"I know. I have everything back now. Even my faith."

She saw the slight tension in his eyes.

"What is it?"

"Nothing."

"Now is not the time to keep things to yourself, Mulder."

He sighed. "Scully...you're just back on square one. You haven't been given
any real proof that there is a God. You only know who isn't God."

She gave him an askance look.

"I wish that God could be real, I do," he babbled. "I wish that I could give
you the proof..."

She pressed a finger to his lips. "I don't need it. Square one is where I
want to be. That's where faith starts."

He looked at her, then he smiled. They took a long minute to just hold each
other, silently reveling in each other's touch. Mulder found himself a
little regretful that they could no longer hear each other's thoughts. His
telepathic abilities had faded away after their encounter with the aliens.
He couldn't explain why.

Maybe because he didn't need them anymore.

...And time will tell you...
...To stay by my side...
...To keep on trying...
...Till there's no more to hide...

Then Mulder said, "I haven't come to any decision."

"I haven't, either."

"I like that, though. To be able to decide without the world pressing down
on me."

"Me, too."

"However...I have decided what to do with today."

"Got a case?"

"Nope. Got you. And I want you to go with me."

"Where?"

"I don't know. Somewhere. Let's extend our vacation a little longer."

She nodded. "I like that."

So, she picked up her purse and he put on his coat. They headed to the door.
Mulder flicked off the light switch.

He looked back behind him. The light from outside was falling on a poster.

"I WANT TO BELIEVE."

In what?

In us.

Good enough.

He closed the door.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Jeff Kingston was tired of driving trucks. He had been doing it for over
thirty years and the highways of the U.S.A. were becoming a little too
familiar to his eyes. His wife and family were getting less familiar. He had
saved up enough money to handle retirement so he had decided to give himself
a couple more months and then quit.

One thing hadn't changed about him, though. He still picked up hitch-hikers.

"I hope you don't mind doing this," his latest passenger told him.

"Not at all." In fact, he was glad that he had found her. A woman in her
late fifties shouldn't be walking out on the highway at this late hour.

"What were you doing out here?" he asked.

"Well, I was supposed to have been dropped off further on up, but a slight
miscalculation was made." She shrugged. "No big deal, but thanks for saving
me the walk."

"It's not just the walk that's inconvenient. It's not that safe out here."

She gave him a smile. There was a lot of confidence in that smile. Jeff
realized that this woman could handle herself through means he couldn't even
guess at.

He also remembered the last time that he saw a smile like that.

"I once picked up a strange fella along this very stretch of highway," he
said.

"Strange how?"

"Well, he couldn't talk, but what was really strange...well, I don't know.
It was just a feel to him. Of course, the fact that he gave me a hundred
dollar bill was weird, too."

"Hm. That is strange."

"So, why are headed up to D.C.?"

She looked down at her shoes, still smiling. "I have a brother there. I
haven't seen him for a long time."

"Well, it's good you're seeing him. Where have you been?"

"I've been involved in something very important. It's kept me away from him,
but...now..."

Her voice trailed away.

"There's nothing like coming home," Jeff told her.

She looked up at him in surprise. "Home?"

"Uh, yes. Home."

She turned her eyes to the outside, studying it for a long time. Then she
looked back at Jeff. "You're right. This is home." She grinned. "How about
that?"

Despite his confusion, Jeff grinned back.

"Say, Jeff, mind if I put on some music?"

"Not at all. As a matter of fact, if you don't mind country..."

"Well, got any Johnny Dale Gilmore?"

"A woman after my own heart."

In a few moments, the cab was full of bluesy guitars and wailing hamonicas
as Jimmie Dale Gilmore told you that the choice was now and it had to be
love or fear.

The choice never seemed easier.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

AUTHOR'S NOTE: "This is the end. I never thought that I would hear myself
say that after all these years."---CSM

Well, after all these days, anyway.

A few weeks back, I took a dive into the raging waters of the mythology.
Whether I drowned or made it to the shore is up to you. As always, feedback
should be directed to ottercrk@sover.net

There's not much else that I could say that wouldn't sound maudlin or forced
so I'll just say...

Good-bye for now.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX