Title: ABADDON'S REIGN
Author: aka "Jake"
Rating: NC-17 (language, violence, adult situations and 
graphic sexual descriptions)
Classification: Col/Post-Col, MSR, /O, Consensual and 
(implied) Non-Consensual Sex, Angst, Mytharc 
Spoilers: Seasons 1-9; picks up after "The Truth"
Summary: Mobilization of alien forces comes early.

Please, do not archive without permission.

Disclaimer: The characters Fox Mulder, Dana Scully, Alex 
Krycek, Walter Skinner, Cassandra Spender, Gibson Praise and 
William Mulder are the property of Chris Carter, FOX and 1013 
Productions.

WARNING: "Abaddon's Reign" is a grownup tale set in harsh 
times. A number of scenes contain graphic descriptions and 
portray adult situations that may offend some readers. Please, 
read with caution. 

Special thanks to betas mimic117 and xdksfan (Books I through 
the Epilogue), and Elizabeth Rowandale (Books I & II). Special 
thanks to my hubby, who serves as technical advisor of all 
things military. 


ABADDON'S REIGN 
by aka "Jake"

In appearance the locusts were like horses arrayed for battle; 
on their heads were what looked like crowns of gold; their 
faces were like human faces, their hair like women's hair, and 
their teeth like lions' teeth; they had scales like iron 
breastplates, and the noise of their wings was like the noise 
of many chariots with horses rushing into battle. They have 
tails like scorpions, and stings, and their power of hurting 
men for five months lies in their tails. They have as king 
over them the angel of the bottomless pit; his name in Hebrew 
is Abaddon...   -- REVELATION 9:7 - 9:11 

BOOK I: FROM THE SMOKE CAME LOCUSTS

I-40, WESTBOUND
NEW MEXICO
MAY 23, 2002
6:26 P.M.

"Agent Scully, isn't it true that you and Mulder were lovers, 
that you got pregnant and had his love child?" 

Kallenbrunner's allegation circled Mulder's brain like a dust 
devil across desert sands. The prosecutor had bulls-eyed his 
romantic relationship with Scully. But it was the only thing 
the asshole had gotten right. 

Not that it mattered now. Skinner's rescue had put an abrupt 
end to the military's bogus tribunal. And a mere forty-two 
hours later, after escaping the USMC brig and dodging a fleet 
of black ops helicopters, Mulder and Scully were skirting the 
Zuni Mountains, fugitives on their way to an uncertain future.

Mulder squinted against the glare of the setting sun and tried 
to coax a few more miles from the rusted Chevy's struggling 
engine. Rohrer's SUV had been more dependable, but too 
conspicuous, so they'd ditched it back in Artesia, where 
Mulder hotwired the pickup.

He wished he'd been a little choosier. The truck was falling 
apart. The rumble of its ancient engine rattled his spine and 
set his teeth on edge. The noise was a little too much like 
the clomp, clomp, clomp of approaching soldiers, or that 
sound, that god-awful drumming that beats deep within the 
bowels of an alien spacecraft.

He winced at the memory and tried to corral his unease. Dread 
seemed a constant companion these days.

Sliding his focus to the rearview mirror, he checked again for 
pursuers.

The road remained empty; no one was tailing them...at least 
for the time being. 

Scully sat on the opposite end of the pickup's bench seat, her 
back ramrod straight. Sunglasses masked swollen eyes, and 
Mulder knew without asking that she was thinking of William. 
Hell, he was thinking about him, too, wondering if their son 
would hover like a specter between them forever.

He longed to grieve outwardly for William, but didn't want to 
heap his sadness on Scully. The additional burden might be 
more than she could bear. She was plagued by guilt, he knew. 
She blamed herself for giving up William, for surrendering too 
soon. 

Trouble was he blamed her for those things, too. 

Back at Mount Weather, she had looked to him for forgiveness. 
At the time, he let her think he understood her reasons. "I 
know you had no choice," he'd lied.

In truth, he didn't understand. He wanted to believe she'd 
done the right thing. More than anything, he wanted to trust 
her instincts on this. God knew he loved her more than life 
itself. And yet, he couldn't help but think there was more she 
might have done...more *he* would have done, if only she'd 
called him home.

Don't go there, he warned himself, shoving his misgivings 
aside. Burying his resentment was preferable to risking what 
little was left to them: their relationship, her heart, his 
sanity.  

Static crackled on the radio, punctuating the opinions of a 
conservative talk show host. Grit clouded the cracked 
windshield and coated Mulder's tongue and throat. An incoming 
draft from the open windows rustled the roadmap that draped 
Scully's lap. Her index finger, positioned somewhere between 
Albuquerque and Gallup, pinned it precariously to her knee.

Her frown deepened. "Route 666?" 

"Appropriate, don't you think, considering the world's going 
to hell in a hand basket." 

The engine groaned as if it concurred. Mulder downshifted, 
hoping the transmission would make it as far as Shiprock. 

"Much further?" he asked. 

She studied the map and estimated the distance. "Forty miles, 
more or less. What's in Shiprock?"

Should he tell her? He doubted she would accept the truth. She 
had come a long way in the last nine years, but believing 
Krycek appeared to him as a ghost was probably too out there. 
The suggestion would most likely provoke a harangue of 
statistics linking hallucinations to insanity. He would rebut 
with details from past case files involving phantoms. Their 
difference of opinion would escalate into a debate about 
delusion versus apparition, and, given their current emotional 
vulnerability, neither would win.

It was better to say nothing. 

Krycek's most recent visitation had come last night, not five 
minutes after Mulder finished making love to Scully in the 
Frontier Motel in Roswell. While she slept, Krycek urged him 
to haul ass to Shiprock, said it was important, a matter of 
life or death. "The solution is there," he'd said cryptically. 
When pressed for details, he shook his head and faded into the 
woodwork.

Typical Krycek. Evasive even after death.

"Shiprock is a 1700-foot eroded volcanic plume, sacred to the 
Navajos," Mulder explained, glancing at Scully. A lock of her 
hair had escaped her ponytail and was lashing at her left 
cheek. He refrained from reaching over and tucking it behind 
her ear. "They call it Tse'Bit'a'i'. It means 'Rock with 
Wings.'"

"And it's important because...?"

"According to legend, it was once a giant bird that carried 
the ancestral people to their land."

"I suppose you're going to tell me this mythical bird was in 
fact a spaceship."

He bristled at her stubborn refusal to admit what they both 
knew to be true. "Do you have another opinion?"

She silenced the radio with a twist of the dial. "It's a 
metaphor--"

"Yes."

"Which likely refers to the religious significance of the 
location...the mountain's ability to lift the human spirit 
above the problems of daily existence."

He appreciated her explanation almost as much as his own and 
relaxed a little. "Either way, it's where we gotta be."

"If it's sacred, won't it be closed to climbers?"

He grinned at her. "Since when do we play by the rules?"

*   *   *

Scully didn't argue. She was tired of discussing government 
conspiracies and alien invasion theories with Mulder. She 
longed for their son and found it increasingly difficult to 
care about anything else. 

Regret stung her anew as she recalled William's inconsolable 
wail when she handed him over to Skinner in the nave of Our 
Lady of Hope Church in Dawn, Virginia.

"He'll be fine," Skinner had assured her, his jaw tight. He 
held the baby and the diaper bag in a clumsy fashion, looking 
more uncomfortable than she'd ever seen him. "They're good 
people."

"You trust them?" 

"Yes. I've known Artie since--"

"Don't, sir." She silenced him with a stern look, then glanced 
nervously down the aisle to the closed oak doors. Events had 
conspired to make her as paranoid as Mulder, and the less she 
knew about the people who were taking her child, the better.

"Mumma-mumma-mumma." William writhed in Skinner's arms, his 
face blotchy and streaked with tears. He reached for her, his 
tiny fingers grasping at the air, and when she didn't take 
him, he howled louder.

"You'd better go," she told Skinner.

"You're sure?"

No, she wasn't sure. How could she be? Caressing her son's 
fiery cheek one last time, she whispered, "Goodbye, sweet 
William. I love you so much."

The words seared her throat. Rage, guilt, bitterness, 
fear...they hammered her chest as Skinner carried her son 
away. As soon as she was alone, she sank into a pew and broke 
into sobs. Harsh, furious sounds. She cried for forty-five 
minutes, forehead pressed against the wooden back of the pew 
in front of her, hands clutching her car keys like a Rosary. 

"Forgive me, please. It's the only way. He'll never have to be 
afraid of anyone or anything," she mumbled through her tears, 
praying it was true.

She repeated the words in her thoughts now, hoping she'd made 
the right decision, sparing her son a lifetime of fear and 
danger. 

An insect hit the windshield and exploded on impact. Mulder 
flicked on the wipers, smearing its amber blood across the 
glass, obstructing her view.

"No washer fluid," he announced, rattling the controls.

She dismissed the stain with a frown and turned to stare out 
the side window, where the landscape was lifeless and dry 
despite last night's rain. Spheres of brittle sagebrush dotted 
the desert, looking fragile and hollow, as if the slightest 
breeze would reduce them to dust.

Her heart felt the same.

Clearly she wasn't as emotionally agile as Mulder, who seemed 
to have rebounded, already turning his back on the fate of 
their little boy to focus on the future of mankind. She had 
hoped he might mourn with her, if only for a short while. But, 
predictably, he was rushing headlong into the unknown, 
searching for answers to a cosmic dilemma of apocalyptic 
proportions. 

It was Bellefleur all over again, she thought dismally. Mulder 
had wanted to go there, despite the danger. He had put himself 
in harm's way because he wanted to find that ship, to prove 
the things he'd believed for so long were true.

Well, he'd proved it. And if it had ended differently he might 
have lauded his foresight over her. As it turned out, however, 
he'd returned subdued. Not defeated -- never defeated -- 
but...diminished. To say reality had outstripped his 
expectations was an understatement. 

Last night in Roswell he had admitted, "I've been chasing 
after monsters with a butterfly net. You heard the man -- the 
date's set. I can't change that." 

She responded by telling him she would not accept defeat. "You 
only fail if you give up."

She'd meant it, too, although she knew it would take courage, 
determination and resilience to wage this new battle, and she 
wasn't certain she possessed these. Not any more. God help 
her, giving up William had depleted her reserves. Recovery 
would take time. 

Unfortunately, Mulder seemed unwilling to wait.

"There it is," he announced, drawing her attention to his side 
window.

She followed his gaze to where a stone mountain rode the 
desert like a giant windjammer. Shiprock was black and 
monumental, a plug of lava that had once filled the throat of 
a volcano, fallen victim to erosion ages ago. Deep gouges 
striped it with vertical shadows as the sun sank behind the 
distant Colorado mountains. Gilded by the setting sun, 
Shiprock's rugged peaks speared a bruise-colored sky. Low 
dikes of solidified magma radiated out from it in several 
directions, like a sea monster's tentacles.

"My God," she gasped.

"Not your run of the mill igneous intrusion. Gives you 
goosebumps, huh?"

He steered the truck onto the shoulder and shut off the 
engine.

"What do we do now?" she asked.

"We have a look-see."

"Mulder..." she said, trying to slow him down, but already he 
was out of the truck. "What are you expecting to find?" she 
called after him.

"Hopefully I'll know when I see it."

*   *   *

Krycek waited up ahead, slouched against an eight-foot-high 
stone dike that snaked across the wasteland to the mountain a 
quarter of a mile away. Mulder bee-lined toward him, thankful 
for the wall's shadow. It would conceal them from prying eyes 
as they hiked to Shiprock. By the time they got there, the sun 
would be set, making it impossible for anyone to spot them 
from the road. 

"Mulder...slow down." Scully trailed by several paces, 
oblivious of Krycek.

Mulder wondered again why these ghosts -- Krycek, X, the 
Gunmen -- showed themselves only to him. Were they visible 
because he had died himself, permanently opening up some sort 
of nexus between this world and the hereafter? Or had the 
experience of dying heightened his extrasensory perception? 

"It's all there." Krycek targeted the mountain with glittering 
eyes. "The questions and the answers. You'll see."

Mulder fell into step behind him and refrained from asking 
what the hell he was talking about. Now was not the time to be 
defending his sanity to Scully.

"It's just a rock, Mulder," she was saying, hanging back. 
"Aside from being interesting in a geological sense, there's 
nothing to see here."

"Maybe." He noticed Krycek was leaving no footprints in the 
sandy soil. "But something tells me we need to check it out 
anyway."

Krycek glanced back at him. "Mind picking up the pace?" 

"What's your hurry?" Scully asked. "The mountain isn't going 
anywhere." 

For a split second Mulder thought she had heard Krycek, and 
his accompanying relief was profound. It was also short-lived. 
She was looking past Krycek, completely unaware of his 
presence. 

"If we wait until morning we could at least see where we're 
going," she said.

"And so could everyone else," he reminded her.

"There is no everyone else, Mulder. We're in the middle of 
nowhere."

"We're on sacred Navajo land."

"All the more reason to turn back."

"Would you two shut up?" Krycek growled. "They'll hear you."

Without thinking, Mulder asked, "Who?" 

"What?" Scully stopped walking. 

Realizing his blunder, Mulder turned to face her. 
"Who...uh...who said 'He who hesitates is lost'?" 

She eyed him suspiciously. Krycek snorted and kept going.

"No one," she said. "It's a misquotation."

"A misquotation?" He tried to sound genuinely interested.

"The original line is from Joseph Addison's play 'Cato.' It 
was 'The woman that deliberates is lost.'"

"Good advice. You should take it, Scully." He reached for her 
hand and tugged her toward the mountain.

She frowned, yet let him lead her without further comment.

Twenty minutes later, the sun had set and they were standing 
at the base of Shiprock. The mountain loomed ominously over 
them, an impenetrable mix of obsidian and fine-grained basalt, 
more ancient than the desert sands that surrounded it. Night 
winds scraped across its corrugated surface, hissing like air 
from a clogged bellows; its whistle melded with the distant 
howls of coyotes and carried the dusty odor of sage.  

"What now?" Scully asked.

What indeed. Mulder looked to Krycek for a hint.

"'Woe, woe, woe to those who dwell on the earth,'" Krycek 
recited, "'at the blasts of the other trumpets which the three 
angels are about to blow.'" He cocked an ear. "Listen, 
Mulder..." A smirk curled his upper lip and his eyes flashed. 
"The trumpet of the fifth angel is about to blow."

Recognizing Krycek's reference, Mulder released Scully's hand 
to run his fingers over Shiprock's cold, hard surface. 
"Revelation," he murmured.

"Excuse me?" Scully asked.

"The fifth angel...in Revelation." Mulder glanced at her. 
"What does his trumpet herald?"

"Locusts, if I remember correctly," she said. 

"Come on, Mulder, you know the story," Krycek said. "A star 
falls from Heaven, bringing with it the key to Hell." 

"They weren't ordinary locusts," Scully said. She tipped her 
head back to study the steep cliffs and Mulder did the same. 
Overhead, the silky black sky appeared perforated by the spark 
of stars. "John compared them to scorpions. He said they would 
torture mankind for five months." 

"'He opened the shaft of the bottomless pit," Krycek 
continued, strolling westward around the formation, "and from 
the shaft rose smoke like the smoke of a great furnace, and 
the sun and air were darkened...'" 

Mulder fought an urge to tackle and beat him into silence. 
Throwing a punch would be pointless, he imagined; it was 
likely his fists would connect with nothing but air. 

Krycek kept on talking, even as he vanished into the 
mountain's shadow. "'And in those days, men will seek death 
and will not find it. They will long to die...'" His 
disembodied voice caused a rash of gooseflesh to stipple 
Mulder's neck and shoulders.

The words conjured up unspeakable memories, blindsiding Mulder 
with fear and immobilizing him as effectively as the rods that 
once pinned his limbs to an alien examination platform. For 
one terrible instant he was back on the spaceship. Aliens 
surrounded him, bug-eyed and impassive, communicating 
telepathically, or with those foreign click-clacking sounds 
that never failed to set his muscles quaking. Saws, lances and 
drills dug into him, opened him, allowed icy, intense pain to 
coat his innards like hoarfrost.

"Mulder?" Scully's voice slipped through the recollection, 
extricating him from Their clutches.

He tried to steady his breathing and conquer his terror. His 
pulse was thundering in his ears, drowning out all common 
sense. He flinched violently when she touched his arm.

"Mulder?"

"I-I'm all right." He sagged against the rock, wishing he'd 
told her months ago about the torture and flashbacks, trying 
to remember again why he'd kept them a secret.

"Let's go back to the truck," she urged.

He was so tempted...

"No, not yet."

"Why not?"

"I'm not ready to give up, Scully. You convinced me of that 
last night."

"Great."

"No, you were right. We can't stop now. Not as long as 
William--" Their son's name lodged in his throat. He blinked 
against the sting of tears.

"Mulder...please..." Her eyes filled, too. "Don't use what I 
did as an excuse to--"

"I wasn't insinuating anything." He didn't want to blame her, 
God help him, he didn't. He wanted only to love her, to love 
William, to be a family again. He struggled to find something 
hopeful to say. "I'm going to get him back," he promised, 
meaning it.

"It isn't safe."

"Then I'll make it safe."

"How, Mulder? How will you--?"

"I don't know," he said through gritted teeth. "I just will. I 
want my son back. I want our family to be together."

"Do you think I don't wish that were possible?"

"Do you, Scully?" His bitterness boiled out unexpectedly, 
fiery hot and unstoppable, like the molten lava that had once 
created Shiprock so long ago. 

She drew back, eyes rounded and mouth gaping. His accusation 
had obviously stung her, but he refused to apologize. There 
had been alternatives -- like calling him out of hiding to 
help her -- but she'd chosen not to do that. She had made her 
decision without him. She'd done exactly what she wanted to do 
and had given him no opportunity to object.

"You gave him up, Scully. You sent him away without even 
asking if I minded."

"To protect him."

No, that was his father's damned excuse all over again. Bill 
Mulder gave away his own child, traded Sam's life for a few 
strands of alien DNA and a shit-load of hollow promises...as 
if she were a thing, a possession, not a helpless little girl. 
To save her, the Smoker had said. But it hadn't saved her. 
She'd suffered unimaginably and now she was dead...dead 
because Bill Mulder had been too cowardly to fight for her. 
He'd abandoned Sam to his enemies, relinquished his parental 
responsibilities, and Mulder could not forgive him for it.

And he couldn't seem to forgive Scully either, as much as he 
wanted to. 

"You did it for you," he challenged.

"How can you think that?"

"Because you sent me away, too."

"For the same reason! It's why I didn't contact you. It wasn't 
safe."

"Come on, Scully, admit it...you were relieved when I left," 
he said, fury overtaking him.

"I wasn't."

"Out of sight, out of--"

"No!"

"Yes, just like you're relieved William is gone now."

"I'm not...I'm...I'm..." Her eyes dodged his accusing stare. 
"Okay, yes, I am relieved, but only because he's better off." 

"Is he? Was *I* better off?" He tensed at the memory of the 
sergeant's raised baton. Its wallop could trigger a 
flashback...put him on board the alien spacecraft...restrained 
on the examination platform...with its saws and lasers. God, 
everything was running together, the alien's torture, the 
beatings at Mount Weather, months of exile, separated from his 
family... "You didn't want the responsibility, Scully. You 
still don't," he accused.

"That's not true."

"Then help me," he begged.

"Do what? There's nothing here!"

He bit back a retort. What was the point of arguing? She'd 
clearly given up. She was shutting her eyes to the threat 
against them, against William, against everyone. "Go back to 
the truck, Scully. I'll do this on my own."

"You aren't going to find anything, Mulder. The mountain is 
solid stone."

"At least I'm trying." History was repeating itself, he 
thought bitterly. His entire adult life had been consumed by 
his search for his sister and the hope of reuniting his broken 
family. Now he was about to embark on a similar quest...alone, 
if necessary.

Scully crossed her arms and shook her head, as if dismissing 
him, dismissing their son, dismissing the world's future. 
"Mulder--"

"Go," he ordered. "Wait for me in the truck...or, or take it, 
leave without me...do whatever you want. Live your life, 
Scully. You're absolved of all responsibility. You should like 
that." It was a cruel thing to say, but, God damn it, it was 
the truth. She'd given away their son for the sake of 
convenience and at that moment he despised her for it.

He spun on his heel and found himself face to face with 
Krycek. 

"Awww. Your little lovers' spat is breaking my heart," Krycek 
said. "It's also wasting time. I'm about to hand you the key 
to Hell, Mulder. Do you understand?" 

He didn't, but if Scully wasn't willing to fight for their 
son's future, he would do it without her. He wasn't going to 
give up...like her...like his father.

He bulldozed straight through Krycek and was only mildly 
surprised when he felt nothing. Scully remained where she was. 
She called out to him and he ignored her, marching around a 
stone outcropping. How could she care so little about their 
son? About the world?

Krycek appeared once again ahead of him, at the top of a 
short, gravelly slope. He was standing in the entrance of a 
ten-foot-high fissure. The indentation was wide enough for 
them to enter side-by-side, but, as Mulder soon discovered, it 
dead-ended six feet in. The uneven ground was littered with 
empty beer bottles. A used condom glowed lunar-white in a 
shaft of pale moonlight. 

"If I'd known this was what you had in mind, Krycek, I would 
have put on something a little sexier."

Krycek ignored his comment and pointed to a small, crescent-
shaped groove in the wall at about shoulder height. "Press 
there."

"What is it?"

"Press it and find out."

Mulder fitted his fingers into the indentation.

"Nothing's happening."

"Press harder," Krycek urged.

He did, and to his amazement a six-by-six-inch panel slid open 
beside the groove, exposing an illuminated keypad. The keys 
were labeled with symbols...symbols that looked very much like 
the ones he'd seen on Merkmallen's rubbing two years ago. 

Thankfully, these markings sparked no noisy onslaught of 
voices in his head.

"I assume this opens some sort of door."

Krycek nodded.  

"To where?"

"I told you -- to Hell."

"And you know the combination."

"I do."

"Then let's not keep the Devil waiting."

"You don't want Scully to come along?"

"She's made her decision."

"Okay." Krycek nodded at the keypad. "Third row center, top 
row right, second row right."  

Mulder punched the keys as directed. An unseen door hissed 
open at the back of the hollow, exposing an elevator-sized 
chamber. A sickly sweet odor wafted from the cavity. He 
recognized it from the alien ship in Antarctica. Syrupy. 
Cloying. It had stuck to his sinuses, sat like a stone in his 
gut. For weeks after his return he swore he could smell it on 
his hair and skin. No amount of scrubbing seemed to rid him of 
it. Only time had caused it to eventually fade.

"After you," Krycek said. 

Mulder held his breath against the stench, and stepped inside.

*   *   * 

"Mulder?" Scully called.

No answer. Nothing but the lonely howls of distant coyotes.

Irritated, she glared in the direction he had gone. She could 
accept his grief, but, damn it, not his resentment. She'd done 
what was best for William. The threat against him had been 
real and immediate. She'd had no choice. Mulder admitted as 
much back in his cell at Mount Weather. She'd thought he 
understood.

"Mulder!"

No reply.

Fine. He's hurting. He only recently learned about William, 
she reminded herself; he needs time to come to terms with it. 
Lord knew she was still trying to accept the loss herself. It 
was something of a relief, at least, to know Mulder was more 
deeply affected by the loss of their son than he'd been 
letting on.   

She decided to remain where she was and wait for him. He would 
return in a few minutes, they'd get back in the truck and move 
on. Eventually they would sort out their hurt feelings.

The sound of tires on pavement drew her eyes to the road. Two 
military vehicles slowed to a stop behind the parked pickup.

Dropping to a crouch, she watched as four soldiers emerged 
from the forward jeep. They edged cautiously toward the truck 
with rifles drawn. Finding it empty, they opened the driver's 
side door and searched the cab. They confiscated her roadmap 
and the plastic bag of supplies she had purchased at a 
convenience store earlier in the day. She mentally inventoried 
its contents: bottled water, breakfast bars, local newspaper 
and a box of condoms -- nothing that could be linked 
specifically to them.

The soldiers took a moment to confer. Their gravelly voices 
floated across the desert as they bent their heads over her 
drooping roadmap. One man pointed south, then turned to stare 
seemingly straight at her.    

Instinctively, she ducked to conceal her face, which no doubt 
was reflecting the rising moon as brightly as a damned beacon. 
She remained hunkered down until she heard the pickup's engine 
roar to life. Damn it! Mulder left the keys in the ignition 
and now they were taking it.

The driver steered the truck onto the highway and continued 
north. The forward jeep followed it. The second jeep pulled 
onto the road as well, then unexpectedly swerved from the 
pavement to head straight across the sand in her direction.

She scrambled to her feet and ran after Mulder.  

"Mulder?" she called, panic rising in her throat as the jeep's 
headlights jounced nearer. "Mulder, where are you?"

She followed his tracks by moonlight, around an outcropping 
and up an incline to a shadowed cleft in the rock. Stepping 
inside, she dead-ended. He wasn't there.

"Mulder?" 

Frantically she searched the dark cave with her hands, 
expecting to find a hidden tunnel at the back. She encountered 
only impenetrable stone. 

"Mulder? Mulder, where did you go?"

*   *   *

Mulder's stomach rocketed to his throat when the chamber's 
floor seemingly dropped out from under him.

He lurched and grabbed in vain for something solid to hang on 
to. "You could have warned me," he growled at Krycek.

Krycek chuckled. "And spoil the surprise?" 

Regaining his balance, Mulder said, "I feel like Alice down 
the rabbit hole."

"This ain't the way to Wonderland, my friend." 

"Mind telling me where we're going? And don't give me any more 
Revelation crap."

"Then I have nothing to say."

A sudden but cushioned stop unbalanced Mulder again, rocking 
him into a wall. He glared at Krycek. 

"Our floor," Krycek announced when the door hissed open.

"After you," Mulder insisted.

Krycek stepped out and led them down a winding corridor. The 
walls were rough-textured and slick with condensation, oozing 
a slimy, purple-black substance. It smelled foul and pooled in 
steaming puddles on the uneven floor. Misty air, imbued with 
microscopic phosphorescent particles, collected in the high, 
coffered ceiling. The glow provided scant illumination, yet 
created monstrous shadows in the doorways that pocked the 
walls every twenty yards or so. The doors were metallic and 
situated several inches above the floor, like in a submarine. 
All were shut.

"We're in a spaceship," Mulder guessed.

Abductee testimonials aside, he knew extraterrestrial crafts 
were not smooth, clean and bright. He had learned firsthand 
they were dismal places. Damp, organic. Alien in every sense 
of the word.

Krycek traipsed through a puddle without creating a ripple. 
"Not just any spaceship. This is Tse'Bit'a'i'."

"Rock with Wings."

It looked very much like the ships Mulder had seen in 
Antarctica and Bellefleur, except this one was retrofitted for 
human occupation. Exit signs pointed the way out -- in 
English. A water fountain gleamed in an alcove up ahead. 
Beside it was a clearly labeled restroom.

"Renovations look new," Mulder said.

"Relatively."

"It's not like them to be so accommodating."

"They can be cooperative when it suits their purpose."

"What is their purpose?"

"Global domination, annihilation of the human species...the 
usual."

Mulder frowned. He was tired of answers that told him nothing. 
"What are they doing in New Mexico *specifically*?"

"That's what I'm about to show you." Krycek paused in front of 
an unmarked door. "Go ahead. Open it. Greet the new world."      

Mulder tested the wheel-shaped handle and it turned easily 
beneath his hands. He swung the door inward, exposing a gaping 
black hole. It was impossible to make out what was beyond the 
dark threshold, but the hum of hidden machinery, combined with 
the trickle of water, was sickeningly familiar.

A frigid draft gusted into the hall. 

"Someone forgot to turn on the heat." Mulder's words fogged 
the chilled air.

"The cold slows the incubation process." 

"Incubation of what?"

"You already know the answer."

"I was afraid you'd say that." 

Mulder hesitated before entering the black room, trying to 
tamp down a wave of panic. His wrists and ankles tingled where 
they'd been pierced when he was held captive by the aliens.

"Problem?" Krycek asked.

"Just watch my back, Krycek." 

Mulder stepped over the raised doorframe, triggering the 
room's lights.

The interior space was vast; its remote edges vanished in a 
distant mist. A vaulted ceiling, several stories high, was 
cloaked in fog. The ground floor lay thirty feet below the 
broad, metal landing where Mulder was standing.

Yet it was the room's contents, not its size, that staggered 
him. Cryopods -- alien incubators. Row upon row, they throbbed 
with a green glow that set his pulse racing. 

"There must be hundreds," he said, swallowing hard. 

"Thousands," Krycek corrected, "here and all over the planet, 
in places just like this one -- ships, buried beneath the 
ground, ready to rise up when the time is right."

"It's too soon for mobilization," Mulder said. "The 
communication I intercepted set the date at December 22, 
2012."

"That is the plan."

"So...gestating aliens are being kept in stasis until the 
Colonists are ready," Mulder said, thinking aloud.

"It takes a lot of time to coordinate a planetary invasion." 

Mulder descended the stairs on numbed legs. The hard soles of 
his boots clanked on the metal treads, echoing through the 
chamber. He tried to walk quietly, but his feet felt leaden. 
Mist rolled across the floor, moved by some invisible 
ventilation system. It carried the aliens' saccharin stench, 
which grew more pungent the further down he descended. 

"Why did you bring me here?" he asked.

"To stop this."

"Why not do it yourself?"

"You overestimate my abilities."

Mulder tentatively stepped onto the shrouded floor. The ground 
felt pebbly beneath his feet, like hardened lava. The mist 
parted in roiling waves as he approached the nearest cryopod. 
Frost coated its glass front, making it impossible to see 
inside. He scrubbed it with his palm to clear a small window.

"Consider yourself warned," Krycek said.

"Warned about wh--?" Mulder peered into the pod, glimpsed the 
unborn alien's host, and blinked in astonishment. "It's you!"

"They say imitation is the sincerest form of flattery."

Mulder moved quickly to the next incubator and scraped away 
more frost. "This is you, too."

"They're all me."

"All of them?" Mulder asked, incredulous. He glanced down the 
seemingly endless row. 

"They're clones," Krycek said.

"I assumed as much, but...why you?"

"It's possible I pissed somebody off."

The Krycek behind the glass wore a distraught expression, 
giving him a look of vulnerability that Mulder had seldom 
witnessed in the original. Clearing more of the glass, he 
exposed the clone's distended torso. Translucent skin 
stretched tautly over a fully formed alien fetus.

"If you were a Butterball, your timer'd be popped," Mulder 
said. "This alien looks done."

"It is. They all are." 

Shit, tens of thousands of infant aliens, ready to be 
unleashed upon the world.

"What do you expect me to do?" Mulder asked.

"Destroy them."

"Now you're overestimating my abilities."

"There's a control room. Back there." Krycek tilted his head 
toward an open door. "You can end this, Mulder. Shut off their 
life support and postpone colonization."

Could it be that easy? 

Mulder headed cautiously for the small side room. 

As it turned out, there was no need for stealth; no one was 
inside the closet-sized room. A bright blue holographic 
display screen, approximately three feet across and seemingly 
without physical support dominated the small space. A wheeled 
chair, tucked beneath a low podium with a built-in keyboard, 
faced the display. Mulder was relieved to see the keys 
included the English alphabet, along with more of the foreign 
symbols.

He slid into the chair and tapped the Enter key.

An access window appeared on the display, complete with an 
empty textbox and a blinking cursor.    

"It's password protected," Krycek said, standing beside him.

"But you know the password, right?"

"Nnnot exactly."

"Then how are we supposed to get in?"

"I thought you might...you know..." Krycek shrugged.

"Guess?"

"Isn't that what you do best...Spooky?" 

"Shit, Krycek."

Mulder scanned the tiny room for clues, hoping against hope to 
find something like the Vegreville snow globe. When nothing 
presented itself, he considered some of the code words he'd 
encountered in the recent past. 

He typed FIGHT THE FUTURE.

//ACCESS DENIED//

END GAME

//ACCESS DENIED//

"Too easy," Krycek said. "They aren't stupid." He looked out 
at the warehouse of clones. "They do have an annoying sense of 
humor though."

"You want me to try NEENER, NEENER?"

Mulder studied the keys. The password wouldn't be something 
colloquial, he knew. It would be ancient, like the aliens 
themselves. Something like Tse'Bit'a'i' or...  

Scully said Merkmallen's rubbing contained a passage from 
Genesis. This password would be from a religious text, too. 

But which one?

Krycek's earlier warning echoed in his thoughts. Revelation. 
The herald of the Apocalypse.

Tentatively, he typed FIFTH ANGEL.

The access window cleared. It was replaced by an encrypted 
screen, filled with more alien symbols and a prompt for a code 
name.

"Damn it." Whose name? A real person? Another Biblical 
reference?

"Recite Revelation again," he ordered Krycek.

"Which passage?"

"Any one that mentions Satan."

"'In appearance the locusts were like horses arrayed for 
battle; on their heads were what looked like crowns of gold; 
their faces were like human faces, their hair like women's 
hair, and their teeth like lions' teeth; they had scales like 
iron breastplates, and the noise of their wings was like the 
noise of many chariots with horses rushing into battle.'"

The prompt began to blink. It must be timed, Mulder realized. 
If he didn't respond soon, it could shut him out permanently.

"Get to it, Krycek."

"'They have tails like scorpions, and stings, and their power 
of hurting men for five months lies in their tails.'"

The prompt turned yellow.

"Hurry up!" Mulder growled.

"'They have as king over them the angel of the bottomless pit; 
his name in Hebrew is Abaddon, and in Greek he--"

"That's it." Mulder quickly typed ABADDON into the text box.    

The prompt vanished. It was replaced by a schematic of the 
ship in wire-frame. An entire lower level flashed with red. 
Mulder guessed it designated the "nursery" next door.

Krycek's low whistle of appreciation was cut short by a loud 
hiss in the outer room. A tattoo of what sounded like the 
release of several thousand locks sent a chill up Mulder's 
spine.  

"Shit." He leapt from the chair, which teetered and crashed to 
the floor. Lunging toward the outer room, he stopped short 
when the front panels on the nearest row of pods sprang open. 
Steam blasted skyward. A klaxon began to blare, so loud that 
Mulder clapped his hands to his ears. "Damn it, Krycek," he 
shouted at the top of his lungs, "I thought you--"

He spun to confront Krycek, only to find he was alone in the 
control room.

Son of a bi--

*   *   *

"We have you, ma'am. Please, step out of the cave." 

Scully could see four solemn-faced soldiers from where she 
crouched in the shadows. Silvery in the moonlight, they took 
on a metallic appearance and she wondered if they were human 
or supersoldiers. Each aimed an M-16 into her hiding place.

"I'm not armed," she called to them. They didn't lower their 
weapons. "I'm coming out."

As soon as she was in the open, one of the soldiers -- a 
stocky man with pale eyes and jutting chin -- approached her 
and demanded, "Face the cliff, hands on your head, feet 
apart."

"I'm not--"

"Turn around! Now!"

Reluctantly she pivoted and interlocked her fingers over her 
head. He frisked her, brusquely patting her arms, torso and 
legs.

"Satisfied?" she asked over her shoulder when he was finished.

"You're not carrying ID," he challenged.

She almost said, "Why should I? I know who I am," but that was 
the sort of smart-alecky retort Mulder would give, a response 
that would land him in deeper trouble. She decided to answer 
with a simple "no" instead.

"What's your name, ma'am?"

"Is it okay to turn around?" she asked, avoiding his question.

He grabbed her raised elbow and roughly spun her. 

"What are you doing out here, Ms...?"

"Taking a walk," she said.

"Alone?"

"Do you see anyone else?"

"I see a man's footprints."

She shrugged, careful not to glance down. "There are beer 
bottles and a condom in that cave, too, but it doesn't mean 
there's a party going on." 

Jesus, she sounded like Mulder in spite of herself.

She thrust her chin at the empty highway. "Where did you take 
my truck?" 

"You're trespassing on Indian land."

"Bring back my truck and I'll be on my way."

"Can't do that, ma'am.  We--" The soldier was interrupted by a 
signal from his radio. He stepped away to answer it and the 
three others moved to surround her, rifles held high.

The seriousness of her situation hit her full force. If they 
discovered who she was, she would be arrested on the spot. And 
if they discovered Mulder was with her, they would hunt him 
down and kill him.  

The soldier on the radio kept an eye on her while he listened 
to the other end of his transmission. He ended his 
conversation with a clipped "Yes, sir!" before returning the 
radio to his belt. "There's trouble," he announced to the 
others. "We're being called back." 

"What about her?" one of the soldiers asked.

"Command says bring her." 

*   *   *

"God damn it, Krycek!" Mulder bellowed, furious at his own 
gullibility. In hindsight it seemed so obvious: Krycek had 
wanted to free the alien fetuses, not kill them. "You used me, 
you son of a bitch!" 

Out in the nursery all hell was breaking loose. Cryopod doors 
were bursting open one after the next, releasing rivers of 
yellow-green liquid onto the floor. As the pods drained, 
hundreds of naked Krycek look-alikes came into view. Immature 
aliens writhed inside their swollen, translucent hosts, 
snarling and clawing in an effort to birth themselves.

In minutes, the entire place would be crawling with them.

The staircase where Mulder first entered the nursery was fifty 
yards away. To reach it, he would need to run between two long 
rows of open cryopods. He saw no alternative, short of 
shutting himself into the control room, and he doubted he 
could hold out in there for very long. 

Gathering his courage, he took a deep breath, and then 
launched himself toward the stairs. The floor was slick with 
foul-smelling liquid and he skidded as he ran. When a cryopod 
ruptured beside him and spewed its amniotic fluid directly 
into his path, he lost his footing. 

He hit the floor hard. The impact knocked the air from his 
lungs. Cold oily liquid saturated his clothes. He struggled to 
inhale, to get his legs under him. 

Above him in the incubator, an unborn alien screeched inside 
its host. It slashed out, its sharp claws puncturing the 
gelatinous tissue of the host's abdomen. The Krycek clone's 
eyes glazed with obvious pain, and its expression, coupled 
with the sickening sound of tearing flesh, prompted Mulder's 
paralyzed limbs into action. Gulping air, he scrambled on 
hands and knees toward the stairs. 

He made it past three more pods when the door at the top of 
the stairs suddenly swung open and half a dozen armed soldiers 
rushed onto the landing. Mulder dropped onto his belly and 
slid backward. Concealed behind a cryopod, he watched the 
soldiers peer down into the nursery with startled expressions. 

"The tanks are open!" one man shouted over the wail of the 
klaxon. "The Infants are wakening!"

"It's too soon!" yelled another.

"Out of my way," ordered an officer, who shouldered onto the 
platform.

Mulder gaped at him. Jesus! It was like looking in a mirror. 
The officer was his identical twin!

What the hell was going on? 

*   *   *

Pinned between two guards in the back seat of the jeep, Scully 
craned to see where they were going. The men's shoulders 
pounded her with bruising force each time the vehicle jounced 
over a dune. The driver wasn't steering toward the paved road, 
she discovered when she peered past him. He was heading north, 
around Shiprock.

"Where are you taking me?" she demanded, putting as much steel 
into her voice as possible.

All four soldiers remained stone-faced and silent.

Beyond the windshield, the jeep's headlights illuminated tufts 
of dry weeds and occasional rock outcroppings. Dust billowed 
past the side windows, obscuring the view.

"Face front," ordered the man beside her, when she twisted to 
look out the back.

She eyed his rifle, which was propped loosely between his 
knees and aimed at the roof. He carried an automatic in a 
holster on his belt and wore a sheathed knife strapped to his 
calf. The man to her right was equipped with identical 
weapons.

She was jostled again when the driver made a sudden left turn 
and began speeding straight at the mountain. The men remained 
expressionless as the jeep careened toward solid rock.

Scully's stomach lurched when they hit a bump and were briefly 
airborne. The wheels hit the ground hard, jolting her spine. 

The distance to the mountain was shrinking at an alarming 
rate, yet the driver maintained his insane course. They were 
only fifty yards away and closing fast.

Scully gripped the seat in anticipation of impact. The 
mountain loomed closer -- forty yards, thirty.

"Stop!" she shouted, shocked by this inexplicable turn of 
events. Were they on a suicide mission? "What the hell are 
you--?"

With only a few feet to go, the rock wall suddenly evaporated, 
exposing a hangar-sized portal. The stone had been an 
illusion, concealing a cavernous, brightly lit antechamber. 

But an antechamber to what?

*   *   *

Mulder stared in disbelief at his doppelganger. A clone, he 
guessed, but created for what purpose? Certainly not to host 
an alien fetus, like the Krycek clones surrounding him. This 
man was dressed as a soldier and he appeared to be in charge 
of the others. 

Wearing a plain black uniform and spit-polished, knee high 
boots, Mulder's double surveyed the room with glittery eyes. 
An expression of disbelief -- or perhaps annoyance -- furrowed 
his brow. An odd tattoo darkened his right cheek. It resembled 
the alien symbols on the computer keyboard in the control 
room. 

"Open the western bay doors," his twin ordered, jabbing a 
finger toward the back of the room, pinpointing an exit that 
Mulder couldn't see from his lower vantage.

"Release the Infants, sir?" gasped one of the soldiers.

The officer scowled. "Do it. Now." 

"But, Commander Ca-Lo--"

"Do it!" he roared, before spinning on his heel and exiting 
into the hall. 

The soldiers took one last horrified look at the nursery, then 
followed "Ca-Lo." The door clanked with finality behind them. 

Mulder had avoided detection, but his relief was short-lived. 
All around him the aliens were coming to life, howling with 
high-pitched, inhuman voices, thrashing wildly to be free of 
their hosts. Their enormous, unblinking eyes targeted him as 
he rose on unsteady legs.

He glanced at the stairs and the door above. Should he try for 
it? It was probably locked. And if not, the soldiers were 
likely still on the other side.

He could see only two possible courses of action: make a dash 
for the control room or try to find the "western bay doors." 
He had no idea how far off that particular exit was or where 
it might lead him. 

The alien in the nearest cryopod made the decision for him 
when its claws penetrated its host's belly. The clone's 
translucent flesh split lengthwise and the alien thrust its 
head out. It hissed at Mulder, barring razor-sharp teeth. 
Greenish-yellow slime dripped from its fangs.

"Face only a mother could love." Mulder back-pedaled. 

The alien shrieked and snapped its jaws. It freed an arm.

Mulder broke into a run. 

*   *   *

Ca-Lo strode down the hall, his long legs carrying him quickly 
toward the elevator. Lieutenant Harris, a shorter, older human 
with gunmetal-gray hair and a battle scar that had left him 
blind in one eye, hurried to keep up.

"Contact the fleet immediately," Ca-Lo ordered Harris. "Tell 
them we're abbreviating the timeline."

"But, sir--"

Ca-Lo held out a hand, silencing the Lieutenant's objections. 
"I won't squander ten thousand Infants." Nor would he waste 
the advantage of a preemptive strike by tipping his hand to 
the terrestrial military.

He was taking a risk. The Society reviled him, he knew. They 
made no secret of it, even while they praised his valuable 
genes. Fucking hypocrites. They claimed he was a bona fide 
link to their Creators because he was born immune to their 
virus. The Derivation flowed in his veins they said, and yet 
they barely tolerated him. Truth be told, he scared the shit 
out of them. Especially the damn Refuters. There were many 
among that loathsome group who would kill him in his sleep, if 
they dared.

Let the whole stinking lot of them squawk, he decided. His 
position within the Armada was assured. The Nih-hi-cho 
commanders would follow his lead and anyone who questioned him 
would be executed. He was their best strategist, necessary for 
colonization, and they all knew it.    

He headed for the Bridge, where he would direct the Armada to 
an altitude of 30,000 meters. There he would initiate an 
electromagnetic pulse. Targeting and discharging the array of 
e-munitions was of paramount importance, to minimize both 
human casualties and collateral damage. The objective was to 
paralyze the planet, not destroy it. To that end, high-energy 
pulses would be aimed at government buildings housing 
strategic computer equipment, production facilities, military 
bases, known radar sites and communications nodes -- all 
previously identified through Nih-hi-cho reconnaissance 
operations and hired human spies. Successful deployment would 
take out the Earth's telecommunications systems, national 
power grids, finance and banking systems, transportation and 
mass media. Resulting ionized gases would produce an extended 
fireball blackout, blocking short wavelength radio and radar 
signals during the critical first wave. 

The world was about to be plunged into chaos. The Infants 
would be released -- a decade sooner than planned. Ca-Lo 
considered it an unexpected boon. The terrestrial military 
would be caught completely off guard. Humans around the globe 
would serve as a food source for the developing Infants, and 
by the time the newborns metamorphosed into adults, permanent 
breeding compounds would be up and running.

Ca-Lo felt a surge of confidence. He had been preparing for 
this moment his entire life, and his sacrifices were about to 
come to fruition. He would lead mobilization, win the war 
against humanity and then reign like a deity over Earth.     

Turning to Lieutenant Harris, he growled, "Relay my orders to 
all hands: prepare for launch."

*   *   *

The stocky soldier with the jutting chin jabbed Scully in the 
ribs with the butt of his rifle. "Out of the jeep!"

The lankier man on her right grabbed her arm and dragged her 
from her seat. He hustled her between two rows of parked 
military vehicles. She stumbled along, gaping at the 
strangeness of her surroundings. Buttresses rose rib-like, 
supporting a dome-shaped ceiling high over her head. Catwalks 
crisscrossed the chamber several stories up and barrel-shaped 
tunnels snaked away from the vaulted space like splayed 
fingers. The steamy air smelled of decaying fruit and the 
walls dripped with an oily substance, reminding her of a 
freshly gutted corpse.

"This way." The soldier tugged her forward.

All around them, people were scurrying from one place to the 
next, swift but silent. Their sheer numbers shocked her. 
Hundreds, maybe thousands, crowded the antechamber and its 
tiered mezzanines. Her eyes widened when she spotted what 
appeared to be aliens among the hordes. Delicate, hairless 
creatures, with large inky eyes and chilling expressions. 
Jesus, these were Mulder's "grays."

Her knees buckled and she would have fallen if not for the 
soldier's tight grip on her arm.

"Let me go," she protested weakly.

She wanted to run away, leave this incomprehensible place, 
find Mulder and escape to somewhere far, far away. Craning to 
see the exit door, she discovered it was closing, shutting her 
in.

She wrenched her arm free and bolted for the door. In fewer 
than three strides, she was tackled from behind and knocked to 
the ground. Muscular arms tightened around her ribs, crushing 
her, cutting short her breath. Panting, she struggled to roll 
out from under her attacker.

"No you don't," growled a male voice, his words steaming her 
ear.

"You have no right to keep me here against my will," she 
grunted.

He chuckled and then the world blurred as he hauled her 
roughly to her feet. She felt the cold barrel of his gun press 
against the back of her neck.

"You'll be here for a while, ma'am."

"Why? What do you want from me?"

"That's not for me to say." He prodded her forward.

She walked on numbed legs, watching crowds scuttle around her. 
She followed one of the grays with her eyes. It moved like a 
salmon upstream, weaving its way through the living current. 
When it reached a gathering of soldiers beneath an arched 
tunnel, it stopped and gave a slight bow to the group. It was 
only then that Scully noticed the small, human woman standing 
at the center of the gathering.

The woman was Cassandra Spender, Scully was sure of it, even 
at this distance. She was about to call out to her, when the 
ground began to shake.

The crowd paused for a moment, as if taking a collective 
breath before their urgency returned two-fold and they rushed 
ahead to whatever tasks they were bent on doing.

The tremor increased. A low rumble emanated from somewhere 
deep beneath the vibrating floor. Cassandra and her entourage 
vanished down a side tunnel.

"Is it an earthquake?" Scully asked her guard, surprised by 
the fear in her own voice.

"Hurry!" He shoved her toward one of the many tunnels. "We 
don't have much time."

"Time for what?"

"Just keep moving." 

*   *   *

Mulder raced for the control room. His pulse hammered in his 
ears as he pumped his arms and legs, pushing himself for all 
he was worth. The quaking floor threatened to unbalance him 
with each splashing stride. He willed himself not to fall...or 
panic when he realized the cause of the vibration. The ship 
was powering up. In a matter of minutes it would be soaring 
above the Earth's atmosphere. 

Ahead, a cryopod shuddered as the unborn alien within fought 
to birth itself. Biting and clawing, it gutted the terror-
stricken clone from the inside out. Internal organs spewed 
like confetti when the translucent shell finally ruptured and 
the newborn jumped free. It landed on powerful, stilted legs, 
then pivoted to face Mulder. Opening fanged jaws, it let loose 
a heart-stopping shriek. 

Mulder dodged it by sprinting down an adjoining row.

The alien gave chase. It moved with alarming speed, scrambling 
effortlessly over the slick floor. Looking like a cross 
between an insect and a man, it was lithe, swift and rippling 
with muscles. It lunged for Mulder, raking four-inch-long 
talons across the back of his shirt.  

At the sound of tearing fabric, Mulder changed course again, 
darting around a wobbling cryopod. Hoping to thwart the alien 
by knocking the pod into its path, he rammed it as he passed. 
The blow forced a grunt from his lungs. Pain shot through his 
arm, so intense he was certain he'd dislocated his shoulder. 
The cryopod teetered. He staggered out of its way as it 
toppled. It hit the ground with a deafening crash, shattering 
on impact and spewing broken glass and green liquid fifteen 
feet into the air. Mulder raised his uninjured arm to protect 
his head, but was too slow; a blizzard of glass ripped across 
his left ear and neck.

He howled and clapped a hand over his bleeding ear. The floor 
was shuddering violently now. Off to his right another pod 
collapsed and exploded. More debris missiled at him and he 
ducked to avoid being hit. Again he was too late -- several 
shards arrowed him in the side. Gritting his teeth against the 
sting, he lurched toward the control room.

An alien appeared several yards ahead, blocking his escape. 
Mulder skidded to a stop. His breath was coming in ragged 
gasps, his ear was bleeding down his shirt front, and his 
right arm hung uselessly at his side. The alien recognized his 
vulnerability. Tilting its head with malevolent curiosity, it 
watched him with bright, unblinking eyes. 

Mulder wasted no time; he spun on his heel and ran for the 
stairs. If there was a God in heaven, the door at the upper 
platform would be unlocked and the hall outside vacant.

The alien loped after him, its clattering talons announcing 
its approach. It was gaining fast. The stairs were still 
thirty feet away. Mulder glanced over his shoulder to gauge 
the alien's progress. His blood ran cold when he spotted a 
second alien joining the first. Then a third and fourth 
appeared from out of the mist. As unfathomable as it sounded, 
all four of them were fanning out like practiced hunters to 
surround and cut him off.

Mulder willed his teeth to stop chattering and raced across 
the final distance. Reaching the stairs, legs burning from 
exertion, he scaled them two at a time. The metal frame 
vibrated beneath his feet and he nearly stumbled when the 
steps yawed violently. Looking down, he saw the aliens were 
yanking on the support struts below, trying to shake him 
loose. He grabbed the railing and clambered up to the first of 
three landings.

The room was seething with newly hatched aliens. Several dozen 
swarmed the area beneath him, while ten times that number 
headed away, perhaps in search of the western exit mentioned 
by his mysterious twin. Led by instinct, or maybe by the smell 
of desert air, the majority were abandoning their frosty 
storeroom -- and him -- for freedom.

Several determined newborns rattled the stairs again. 
Fasteners snapped. Rivets popped from the wall and clattered 
over metal treads. Girders squealed when twisted out of 
alignment. Mulder staggered higher. The rail was wrenched from 
his hand. It swung out, then ricocheted back, hitting him hard 
in the ribs and knocking him to his knees.

He cried out from the crushing blow and his shout seemed to 
hearten the aliens. Their eyes burned with hunger as saliva 
drooled from their open jaws. Intensifying their efforts, they 
combined their brute strength to force him from his perch. 
They pulled at the metalwork and dislodged another crosspiece. 
Three of them separated from the horde to climb to the first 
landing. Mulder crawled higher, past the second landing to the 
uppermost platform. 

He lunged at the door, only to find it locked.

"Son of a bitch!" He pounded impotently against the handle.

The trio of aliens stared up at him from the lower landing. He 
was trapped and they knew it. Growling with eager 
anticipation, they climbed higher. Their added weight caused 
the broken stairway to bounce and creak. Mulder felt the upper 
platform tilt. Would it hold? Jesus, he was three stories up.

The aliens ignored the obvious danger and continued their 
ascent. An underpinning snapped when they reached the second 
landing. The stairway dipped and Mulder lost his footing. He 
hooked his one good arm through the wheel-shaped door handle 
just as the platform dropped out from under him. 

The stairs swung like a pendulum from its upper fastenings. 
The aliens shrieked as they spiraled to the ground. They 
landed with stomach-churning thuds, scattering the remaining 
aliens. 

Then the entire staircase let go. The crash was deafening. 
Metal struts squealed like train brakes as they collapsed; 
stair treads clattered across the room like canon shot. The 
aliens scurried out of the way, abandoning their prey to 
escape to the western exit.

Mulder dangled from the door handle by one arm. He felt 
himself slipping. Frantically, he searched for something to 
stand on...a bit of bent metal or a rivet...anything to take 
the weight off his aching arm.

It was useless. A tremor from the ship's engines shook him 
again. 

"Noooo!" 

He plummeted feet first into the pile of wreckage below. He 
heard the snap of bone and felt fire explode in his left thigh 
just before he lost consciousness.  

*   *   *

"I've got him." The voice sounded like...Frohike?

"Careful, he's hurt pretty bad." 

A set of hands snaked beneath Mulder's arms to support his 
upper body. He felt himself being lifted, jostled. Pain 
sizzled along his left leg, his right arm. He could see 
nothing but a burst of fireworks behind his closed lids.   

"Don't drop him." It was Langly, off to one side.

"Precious cargo, boys." Definitely Frohike.

Mulder blinked, fighting to see them, but something liquid and 
warm swamped his eyes, blinding him. 

"Hold still, big guy. You're in good hands." 

The cavalry, come to the rescue, he wanted to say, but 
couldn't suck in sufficient air to speak. 

It was enough to know they were there, although he wondered 
how they were able to carry him, when Krycek was as 
insubstantial as the wind. It occurred to Mulder he was dead 
now, too, killed by the fall.

"Gotta leave you here, buddy," Frohike said at last. "Don't 
worry. You'll be safe."

Pain rocketed through him when his back met the ground, 
convincing him he must be still alive...or in Hell.

"Real help is on the way," Byers assured.

"Hang in there."

"Wish we could stick around, but..." Langly patted his injured 
shoulder, causing him to gasp. 

"You idiot," Frohike growled.

"Sorry," Langly said, just before blackness claimed Mulder 
once more. 

*   *   *

"Let me out!" Scully's voice was growing hoarse from shouting. 
"Cassandra?" She pounded raw fists against the damp, pumicey 
walls of her prison cell. The sound was immediately swallowed 
up in womb-like quiet.

The cell was without windows or any apparent door. It was 
barely tall enough for her to stand in and was approximately 
three feet square, except it wasn't square -- it was sack-
like. How her guards had managed to get her inside it remained 
a mystery. One minute they were hurrying through a winding 
tunnel, and the next thing she knew, she was in this stuffy 
compartment, feeling groggy and bruised and short of breath.

Exhausted, she sank into a squatting position and stared at 
the sludge-covered walls. Her heart skipped a beat when she 
saw something move there. Lots of somethings. Insects. Minute 
centipede-like creatures, less than an inch long. Dozens of 
them wriggled through the oil that coated the chamber's inner 
surface. She shifted and hugged her legs when she saw them 
squirming around her feet.

How long were her captors planning to keep her here? And who 
exactly were they? The Grays were obviously alien. The others 
looked like military personnel, supersoldiers perhaps, or 
shape-shifting aliens disguised as humans.

Was Cassandra Spender who she appeared to be?

It had been four years since Scully had tried to rescue 
Cassandra from kidnappers at the Potomac Yards, driving her 
car onto the tracks in front of an oncoming train and emptying 
her gun at the engineer. For nothing, it had turned out. She 
hadn't saved Cassandra, who was later presumed dead, burned 
with the others at El Rico Air Base.

Yet it was possible Cassandra hadn't died that night. She 
might have been spirited away, her life spared while the 
others were incinerated. It had happened before. Scully's 
hypnotic regression tape suggested Cassandra was taken aboard 
an unidentified aircraft at Ruskin Dam. Cassandra had said as 
much when she reappeared a year later in a Virginia train 
yard, mysteriously healed from her paralysis.

Scully followed the steady progress of a centipede as it 
climbed toward the conical ceiling, where it eventually 
disappeared into a greasy crevice. Tentatively she touched the 
wall, then dug at it with a fingernail. The material wasn't 
metal or stone. It was more like reinforced paper. Its 
wavering striations reminded her of wasps' nests, made from a 
mixture of masticated wood and salivary secretions -- except 
this material was tough and elastic.    

The desire to be in her own apartment hit her like a punch to 
the gut. Mulder's fish needed feeding and her plants needed 
watering. Mail was filling her box and newspapers were piling 
up outside her door. The rent was due. She hadn't arranged for 
her mother to take care of these things. Not this time. She'd 
left for Mount Weather in a rush, hadn't told anyone outside 
the Bureau where she was going. Her mom would assume she was 
on another assignment, not running from the law, exiled from 
her former life forever.

God, she wanted to be sipping tea by her fireplace, or better 
yet, reading a novel, cocooned in her warm, clean bed. Tears 
stung her eyes at the thought of William's photograph on her 
nightstand. It was her favorite picture of him. He was smiling 
for the camera, toothless, but delightfully dimpled, his 
fleecy hat gripped tightly in his upraised fist and his pale 
hair standing all on end.  

Mulder's photo was propped beside the baby's, in a matching 
frame. He was also smiling for the camera -- a rare wide grin, 
laughter lighting his eyes, because he was holding their one-
day-old son in the crook of his arm. 

Where was Mulder? In a cell like this one? Had they found him, 
too?

"Please, God, keep him safe." 

She began to weep...for Mulder, for herself, but most of all 
for their lost son.

*   *   *

Crickets shrilled, hidden in weeds that needled Mulder like 
shards of glass. A predawn wind scraped across the flatland. 
Somewhere high overhead an engine thrummed. Or maybe it was 
only the roar of blood inside his ears. He was lying on his 
side, and his cheeks and palms felt scoured raw by the 
sandpaper earth. His neck, on the left, burned, from 
collarbone to jaw, and his leg...

He lifted his head to inspect his leg, and was stopped short 
when something liquid and warm flowed out of his left ear. 
Sparks of pain exploded behind his eyes. He clenched his jaw, 
waiting for the dizziness to subside.

When it did, he moved more carefully and tried again to peer 
at his leg. 

"Fuck..."

It was broken...badly. A spike of bone protruded from the 
blood-soaked denim of his jeans just above his knee. His foot 
was twisted at an impossible angle. Bile slid up his throat, 
tasting bitter as it rolled across the back of his tongue and 
he willed himself not to throw up. 

"Stay calm stay calm stay calm," he chanted, his eyes squeezed 
shut against the damage to his leg. His inclination was to 
slip into one of his favorite fantasies, one of those places 
he went in his mind whenever dread threatened to overwhelm 
him. The beach. His childhood bedroom. Scully's arms. These 
delusions brought comfort where there was none, helped him 
cope with saws...drills...Them.

No, not another flashback...please, not now. 

For a full minute he fought against his imagination and 
reality, not wanting to retreat to the former or face the 
latter. 

Scully, help me, he silently begged.

Was she nearby? Would she come if he called?

"Scully?" His voice came out unexpectedly high-pitched and 
thin. Too soft to carry any distance. He cleared his throat 
and tried again. "Sculleee!"

The crickets fell silent but the pounding in his head 
intensified. His stomach churned. Dizziness was eroding his 
vision and the world was disappearing behind a veil of gray 
static.

Damn it, he needed to stay alert. The situation was 
precarious, but not hopeless. He needed to determine where he 
was and what his options were.

With enormous effort he raised his head and blinked at the 
western horizon, away from the ruddy dawn.

Shiprock was gone.

In its place smoke and dust drifted skyward from a gaping hole 
in the Earth. Mulder was reminded of Antarctica, of lying on 
the frozen tundra, watching a spaceship grow small in the sky, 
while Scully lay unconscious beside him--

Where was Scully?

It took every ounce of his strength to turn toward the road. 
And when he did, his lungs stalled.

The truck was gone; Route 666 was vacant. Scully had done 
exactly as he'd suggested -- she'd gone away, left him, and 
now he was alone.

x-x-x-x-x

BOOK II: A CROWN OF TWELVE STARS

EARTH DATE: MAY 26, 2002
TSE'BIT'A'I
ASSESSMENT BAY 16

Four Nih-hi-cho entered the lab, moving and thinking as a 
single unit. They positioned themselves equidistantly around 
the terrestrial female. She was prepped for them, stripped of 
her garments and held immobile on the assessment platform by 
rods through her wrists and ankles.

Like most captive earthlings, this one was frightened. She 
watched the Quad with wet, blinking eyes, the muscles in her 
limbs quaking. Sweat slicked her pale skin. Her respiratory 
and circulatory rates were accelerated. The reaction was both 
expected and irrelevant. It didn't matter that she craned her 
neck or writhed on the table; this was going to be a brief 
memory probe, not a complete biological analysis.

Their objective was to insinuate a cognitive conduit into her 
memory center to determine why she had been outside the ship 
prior to launch. Had it been mere coincidence? Or was her 
arrival connected to the premature release of the Infants? 
Perhaps she had been a lookout, or a diversion, for the 
unidentified infiltrator.

That second trespasser had mysteriously eluded detection, and 
the consensus was he must have received help from the 
Incorporeals. It was the only possible explanation.

The Quad readied themselves for the probe. They quickly closed 
off their forebrains' extrasensory receptors, blocking out the 
thoughts of the 5,327 Nih-hi-cho and 15,716 Others who 
inhabited the ship. An abrupt but necessary silence followed; 
it was an unwelcome experience, similar, they imagined, to 
what humans described as loneliness.

There was some satisfaction in knowing their separation would 
be temporary and brief; the Quad would rejoin the Society in 
less than thirty Earth minutes and the unsettling sensation of 
isolation would dissipate.

When all external mind-chatter was effectively shut out, the 
Quad began their survey by channeling an array of telepathic 
links into the terrestrial female's brain, creating a complex 
transference network.  

Their first glimpse of the female's consciousness provided 
them with a distorted view of themselves through her eyes. 
Monsters. Hideous in appearance, terrifying in purpose. It was 
a predictable reaction. She was not in a position to 
appreciate that it was she, not they, who was monstrous.

Earthlings were disgusting creatures, simplistic half-beings 
who relied on pairing with other half-beings in order to 
procreate. Dimorphism and blatant sexual characteristics 
dominated their gender-specific physiques. They had alarming 
reproductive proclivities and seemed to strive for little 
beyond sensual gratification. 

Most despicable of all, however, was their unfathomable 
autonomy. Unable to establish any sort of communal 
consciousness, they were alone with their self-centered 
meditations, blocked off from each other and from the Divine 
Legion of Angels. Only upon death were they capable of 
experiencing a consciousness beyond themselves.

It was a mercy to kill them, really, because living humans 
were useful for only three things: serving as hosts for Nih-
hi-cho offspring, acting as spies to ensure the successful 
takeover of Earth and, in a few rare instances, possessing the 
genetic anomaly referred to as the Derivation. This female, 
like nearly all her kind, was incapable of comprehending the 
importance of these roles. Her thoughts were sheathed in human 
emotion. Terror, outrage and confusion camouflaged any 
rational judgment.

"We could suppress her fear response to facilitate our 
procedure," they considered simultaneously. "No," was their 
immediate and united answer. "Time is short."

Without further discussion, they proceeded to embed themselves 
deep into her psyche.

Aware of their invasion, she recoiled, mentally and 
physically.

"Get out...don't...oh, please, stop!"

She struggled for several minutes -- longer than most 
terrestrials.

"Strong willed," they agreed. They admired the trait, even as 
they restrained it.

When her objections ceased to dominate her thinking, the Quad 
converged on her most recent memories. Images flooded their 
collective mind: the ship's northwest entrance...Nih-hi-cho 
supersoldiers...

"She recognizes Cassandra Spender!" they said, surprised and 
slightly awed. It was unanticipated. The possibility that the 
female was an associate or friend of Cassandra's meant the 
Quad must cease their psychic exploration immediately. To pry 
further or chance permanent damage was unacceptable.     

"Summon Mrs. Spender," they decided in unison.

*   *   *

"How long has she been here?" Cassandra demanded, rushing 
toward the Assessment Bay. She hated those torture chambers 
and it made her blood run cold to think of Dana in one of 
them.

A Gray ran along behind her. By means of telepathy he 
explained, "We would have finished earlier, ma'am, but 
mobiliza--"

"I don't care about that. Just tell me how long!"

"Fifty-eight Earth hours."

"In Assessment?" Cassandra asked, incredulous. She stopped in 
front of Bay 16. 

"No, no, on the ship, ma'am. She's been in Assessment for only 
eighty-two minutes."

Over an hour -- there would be physical and emotional injury. 
"Open the damned door."

"Yes, ma'am."

The Gray used a mental command to disengage the high security 
lock, and the door slid open with a pneumatic hiss. Cassandra 
hurried inside and went straight to Dana, who was lying naked 
under a spotlight on one of the aliens' despicable examination 
platforms. Her wrists and ankles oozed blood from recent 
puncture wounds, but she was no longer restrained. Her eyes 
were closed. 

"Dana?"

Cassandra took hold of her icy hand. Gooseflesh stippled 
Dana's bruised skin.

"Fetch a blanket, for goodness sake," Cassandra snapped at the 
Gray. "And don't bring it yourself. Send my aide." 

The alien hurried to oblige, leaving the two women alone for a 
few precious minutes.

"Dana? Wake up, dear."

Cassandra smoothed sweat-dampened hair from the younger 
woman's forehead. Dana's face was pinched with pain and fear. 
Russet lashes fluttered as she opened her eyes. 

"Cassandra? Is it really you?" she mumbled. 

"Yes, it's me."

"Wh-where's Mulder?" She searched the room with dazed eyes.

"I have no idea. Was he with you?"

"He--" Dana gasped when Dibeh, Cassandra's personal aide, 
appeared in the doorway, holding a blanket and a plain gown in 
her gray arms.

Cassandra supposed the aide might look threatening to someone 
who wasn't used to seeing alien-human hybrids, but Dibeh, like 
all her breed, was a harmless, serene creature. She had alien 
eyes and skin, yet her mouth, ears and hair were essentially 
human. She was slight and willowy, but taller than most Grays. 
And like all hybrids, she was female. Infertile, but female 
nonetheless.  

Cassandra gave Dana's hand a reassuring squeeze. "It's all 
right. This is Dibeh, my aide. You can trust her."

Dana shook her head. "I'm not sure I can trust you."

"Of course you can. I'm here to help. There's no need to be 
afraid." Cassandra took the blanket from Dibeh and draped it 
over Dana, who hugged it to her chest with shivering hands. 
"You poor thing. Are you okay?"

"Th-they were inside my head."

"I know, it's dreadful." Cassandra helped her to sit up. "But 
it's over now."

"I want to leave this place."

"I'll take you to my quarters."

"No, I want to go home."

"That's not possible."

"Am I being held prisoner?"

"Of course not."

"Then let me go."

"Dana, we're airborne."

"We're on a plane?" She looked around, eyes blinking with 
confusion.

"We're on a ship. A spaceship."

Dana's darting gaze settled on Dibeh. "I...I guess I knew 
that."

Cassandra stroked her hunched shoulders. "Are you hungry...or 
thirsty?"

"I-I could use a drink of water."

"Can you walk?"

"I think so."

"In that case, let's go somewhere more comfortable."

*   *   *

Ca-Lo slouched in his favorite reading chair. His breakfast 
remained untouched on the table beside him. He was dressed in 
his uniform and boots, but his belt was undone and his fly 
open. A hybrid knelt on the floor between his splayed knees.

She had a talented tongue, this one. It swirled delightfully 
around him, pliant and hot, meting out sufficient friction to 
nudge him steadily toward ecstasy. She gazed up at him with 
liquid black eyes, large and unblinking like her Nih-hi-cho 
ancestors. Her alien features were framed by a luscious mane 
of human hair the color of amber. And her lips, oh her lips 
were warm, full and so seductive.

He groaned when she unexpectedly slowed her ministrations. 

"Don't stop, ha-gade," he commanded, using the endearment 
because he didn't know her real name. She was one of many 
hybrids who regularly satisfied his sexual appetite. All the 
half-human, half-alien females looked essentially the same and 
each performed splendidly. They were perfect companions 
because they were willing and adept, and, best of all, they 
were incapable of crawling inside his head to read his 
thoughts like their Nih-hi-cho cousins.

Plowing his fingers into her tresses, he thrust into her 
mouth, eager for his release, yet wanting to prolong this 
moment of pleasure -- an oasis of bliss in a lifetime of duty 
and disquiet. The Nih-hi-cho didn't understand his human 
sexual drive. They tolerated his use of the hybrids in 
deference to his rank, though they considered his proclivity 
disgusting.

"Don't stop...don't...stop..." he begged as he pumped into 
her. That lovely mouth. Heavenly. 

His orgasm arrived like a stealthy adversary; it was upon him, 
unstoppable, too soon. His hips bucked and his semen pulsed 
down the hybrid's compliant throat.  

She was still on her knees, wiping swollen lips, when the 
signal light flashed, letting him know someone was waiting 
outside the door. He palmed her amber head in appreciation 
before tucking himself into his pants and calling out, 
"Enter." 

His command automatically unlocked and opened his door. 
Cassandra Spender stood at the threshold, frowning at him.

"I need to speak with you," she said.

"Come in, Mother." He rose from his chair, crossed the room 
and, hiding his impatience at her unexpected arrival, offered 
his cheek for a kiss. 

Cassandra bestowed her kiss, then shooed the hybrid out of her 
way as she made herself at home in Ca-Lo's chair. The obedient 
hybrid bowed submissively before hurrying from the room. When 
the door closed behind her, Cassandra shot Ca-Lo another 
annoyed look. "Why do you waste yourself on those barren half-
breeds?" 

He remained standing, the sticky sensation in his pants making 
him uncomfortable in his mother's presence. "Because I'm not 
permitted the luxury of human companionship."

"Pish-posh. You're permitted whatever you like." 

It wasn't true. "They watch me constantly."

She plucked a ripe berry from his breakfast plate and popped 
it into her mouth. "So what?" 

"They watch you, too," he reminded her.

"I don't care. You know I want grandchildren...before I'm too 
old to enjoy them."

He wanted offspring, too, but not on this damned Nih-hi-cho 
vessel and certainly not during mobilization. "I have more 
pressing responsibilities at the moment."

"As soon as all the fuss is over then." She reached out a 
hand. Without hesitation, he stepped forward and took hold of 
it. "Promise me, Ashkii. Please?" 

"I've asked you not to call me that." His tone was stern, but 
he gave her fingers an affectionate squeeze. It was an old 
argument. "You make me feel like a child."

"Fine, fine...*Ca-Lo*. I didn't come here to quarrel."

"Good." He pulled gently away. He was overdue on the Bridge. 
Lieutenant Harris would be calling for him soon. "Why did you 
come?"

"Because of Dana." 

"Who?"

"Imagine, seeing her again after all this time!"

"Who are you talking about?"

"Dana Scully. She was picked up by one of your scouting teams 
just before we launched."

"Dana Scully is on this ship?" It couldn't be true. "You must 
be mistaken."

"I'm not mistaken, Ashkii." She picked up another piece of 
fruit. "I was just with her."

If Ca-Lo had been a religious man, he would have offered up a 
prayer of thanks to the Divine Legion. He could scarcely 
believe his good fortune: Dana Scully, delivered directly to 
his door!

"She was alone?" he asked.

"Evidently."

No Fox Mulder? That was disappointing. "What was she doing 
outside the ship?"

"I have no idea. Why don't you ask your 'interrogation team'?" 
she said with a sneer of disapproval. 

He would do one better -- he would ask her himself.

Cassandra suddenly tossed her fruit back onto the plate and 
glared at him. "You should be ashamed, Ashkii."

The rebuke startled him, but he hid his surprise behind a mask 
of practiced calm. Years of Nih-hi-cho punishments -- 
unspeakable beatings, deprivation, mind games, torture -- had 
taught him to conceal his vulnerabilities. "Ashamed of what, 
Mother?"

"You allow these horrible examinations to continue."

"Mother--"

"I mean it, Ashkii. Dana is an old friend and it breaks my 
heart to think of her suffer--"

"It's standard procedure. It's out of my hands."

"Nothing is out of your hands. You outrank everyone on this 
ship. They'll do whatever you tell them to do."

"Within reason."

"Is it reasonable to torture humans?"

"You tell me," he snapped, his anger overtaking him.

Tears sprang to her eyes and he was immediately sorry for his 
reproof.

"I would have stopped them if I could." She sniffled. "You 
must know that."

He did, truly. She had been helpless, too. As much a victim as 
he had been.

"Mother..." He steadied his voice. "Send Dana Scully. I want 
to talk to her as soon as I return from the Bridge."

She eyed him suspiciously. "No more alien interrogations?"

"No."

"You promise? I care about her, Ashkii. Please, don't hurt 
her."

"You have my word, Mother. I've been waiting a very long time 
to meet Ms. Scully. I only intend for us to become better 
acquainted." 

*   *   *

A tap on the shoulder woke Scully with a start. She hadn't 
intended to fall asleep, but the bed had been soft, the linens 
fresh, and the drink Cassandra had given her earlier warmed 
her belly in a most comforting way.

She rolled onto her back and was startled to find an alien-
human hybrid standing at the side of the bed, staring back at 
her with enormous ebony eyes.

"What do you want?" Scully asked, sitting up.

The creature's expression turned sad. 

Scully tossed back the covers and swung her feet to the floor. 
A wave of dizziness struck her, causing the room to spin. 

The hybrid put out a hand to steady her. It cooed 
sympathetically as it caressed her arm. 

"Don't touch me." Scully shrugged out from under its unwelcome 
petting. 

The creature retreated a step and its backward movement caused 
Scully's head to swim. She grabbed the mattress for support, 
blinked, tried to focus. 

What had Cassandra put in her drink? Her fingers felt numb, 
her movements sluggish. A too-sweet taste coated her tongue. 
She glanced at her watch to determine how long she'd been out, 
only to discover a snow-white bandage swathed her wrist in its 
place.

The previous day's events flooded back to her: the examination 
platform, those hideous aliens, their attack on her mind -- 

It's over, it's over...I'm okay, she told herself.

She glared at the hybrid. "Do you speak English?"

The creature wagged its head, then seemed to change its mind 
and nodded.

"Which is it, yes or no?"

It grunted softly.

"You understand what I'm saying, but...you aren't able to 
speak."

It smiled shyly, head bobbing.

"A mute mutant. Wonderful."

The hybrid reached out a thin, gray hand to tentatively pluck 
at the plain robe Scully was wearing. The garment's strange 
fabric was papery and it hung loosely on her frame, several 
sizes too big. The hybrid tilted its head toward a tidy pile 
of satiny green material on the foot of the bed. 

"You want me to change my clothes?"

The shy smile returned. 

The hybrid didn't appear threatening. Then again, Scully 
wasn't sure she could trust her instincts. The invasion of her 
mind and the drug from Cassandra's drink might still be 
affecting her judgment. She needed time to clear her head.

She also needed to wash. Her feet and hands were black with 
oily filth from the cell where she had been kept earlier. She 
could smell an unpleasant tang of dried sweat on her skin. 
More serious, however, was the state of her injuries. Blood 
encrusted her arms and legs around her bandages. The flesh was 
swollen and red, and throbbed with pain. If she didn't 
disinfect the wounds soon, she'd be facing serious infection.

She held out her arms for the hybrid to see. "Is there 
someplace I can clean up?"   

With a wave of its slender hand, the hybrid beckoned her 
toward a side room. Scully rose on unsteady legs to follow.

The adjoining room turned out to be a bathroom, equipped with 
tub, toilet and sink, all spotlessly clean. Faucets and 
mirrors gleamed beneath silvery sconces. A vase of what 
appeared to be real roses graced the vanity beside an 
alabaster soap dish. 

The hybrid located a towel on an upper storage shelf and 
placed it on the counter beside the sink. Then it crossed to 
the tub and began to draw a bath.  

While steamy water thundered from the tap, Scully carefully 
unwrapped the bandage on her left wrist. She was appalled to 
find the wound went straight through her arm. It was the same 
unusual injury she'd seen on Theresa Hoese and on Mulder after 
their return from Bellefleur. 

"Look at this." She thrust her arm under the hybrid's nose.

It hunched its shoulders as if ashamed...or afraid. 

"You've seen this before, haven't you?"

It kept its eyes focused on the streaming tap.

"Well, so have I. You--" 

"Dana?" Cassandra called from the outer room.

"In here." 

"Ah, good. Are you finding everything okay?" Cassandra swooped 
into the bathroom, displacing the hybrid, which backed out of 
her way. "You may go, Dibeh," she told it. 

The creature bowed its head and quickly left them. 

Cassandra gestured to an orderly row of lotions and assorted 
toiletries. "Feel free to use whatever you like. If there's 
anything you need, just ask."

"I want to leave."

Sympathy peaked Cassandra's pale brows. "That's not possible." 

"You're keeping me here against my will."

"You're a guest, Dana, not a prisoner. I explained that 
earlier."

"I wasn't invited here; I was abducted." It was a word she 
rarely used, preferring the terms "kidnapped," "captured," 
"taken hostage," anything that pointed toward human, not 
extraterrestrial, intentions. "What did you put in my drink?"

"Just something to help you sleep."

"You drugged me."

"Dana, I would never hurt you."

"Then let me go."

"I can't do that."

Scully straightened her shoulders and tried to sound stronger 
than she felt. "Who's in charge? I want to speak to them." 

"That's what I've come to tell you." Smiling, Cassandra shut 
off the taps, then poured a measure of scented oil into the 
bath. The smell of jasmine curled through the air. "My son 
wants to meet you."

Jeffrey? Scully had seen him a few days ago, at Mulder's 
trial. Disfigured beyond recognition and weakened by horrific 
tests, he'd barely had the strength to testify.

"Jeffrey's in charge of this spaceship?"

"No, no, not Jeffrey." Cassandra waved off the possibility, 
without a hint of sorrow. Perhaps she was unaware of her son's 
unfortunate circumstances. "I'm talking about Ashkii, my older 
son."

"I didn't know you had an older son."

"Oh, yes. He's a very important man." Pride tinged her voice. 
"He'll keep you safe from the Nih-hi-cho."

"The what?"

"The aliens. The gray ones. I know how they seem, and there's 
no denying they do have a cruel streak, but their ultimate 
purpose is worthy, I assure you."

"Worthy? How can you say that?" She extended her bloodied arm.

"I know, I know. I was in your place on more than one 
occasion. I understand what you're going through. But when you 
get to know them and learn the reasons they do what they do, 
then, well, you'll see the light, just like I did." Her eyes 
glittered with what Scully could only describe as euphoria.

"I want to go home, Cassandra."

"You will...eventually."

"Eventually?"

"As soon as it's safe."

"Why isn't it safe now? Tell me what's happened?"

"Ashkii will explain it all. My aide will take you to him 
after you've finished here." She patted Scully's shoulder. 
"You'll feel right at home when you meet him, I promise you."

*   *   *

"Who chose this ridiculous dress?" Scully demanded, irritated 
by the clinging floor-length gown. Its straight skirt 
constricted her legs. The form-fitting bodice was deeply cut, 
revealing too much cleavage. With the exception of two 
delicate straps that crossed between her shoulder blades, 
Scully's back was exposed from nape to buttocks.

"Was it Cassandra?" she asked, trying to keep pace with Dibeh 
as they navigated a dank, labyrinthine corridor. "Or 
this...this Ashkii person?"

The hybrid shrugged and guided her around another corner.

After several more minutes of dodging puddles and avoiding 
leaks in the ceiling, they arrived at a timeworn door, 
gunmetal gray in color and as solid looking as a bank vault. 
The hybrid used a small wireless transponder to unlock the 
entrance. The door slid into the wall with a pneumatic hiss 
and the hybrid ushered Scully across the threshold with a 
delicate wave of its hand.

When the hybrid turned to go, Scully asked, "Aren't you coming 
in?"

It shook its head and quickly vanished in the direction they had 
come, leaving the door open.

"Great. Thanks." 

Scully wandered into the middle of the sumptuous front room. 
She had been expecting an alien version of a conference room, 
but this was obviously Ashkii's -- or someone's -- personal 
apartment.

"Hello? Is anyone here?" she called.

When no one answered, she considered walking out. But with no 
way off the ship, there was nowhere for her to go, so she 
decided to investigate the apartment and learn something about
its occupant before he returned.

The room was oversized, opulent and decidedly masculine. A 
plush carpet, decorated with bold geometric patterns, 
cushioned her feet. A gleaming wooden desk filled an alcove to 
her left. It held a sleek computer, which was powered down. A 
substantial leather chair was pushed away from the desk to 
face a matching couch and an overstuffed wingback. These were 
flanked by cherry end tables. A toppled stack of ancient-
looking texts littered the floor around the wingback. 

The apartment's walls were straight, smooth and square, unlike 
the organic construction in the outer corridor. They were 
covered with a mossy-green damask fabric. Paintings of 
terrestrial landscapes, illuminated by recessed spotlights, 
hung in neat rows around the room. The air smelled pleasant, 
like sage, and the temperature was less humid than elsewhere 
on the ship.

A sliver of light and the soft twitter of birdsong beckoned 
her to an arched doorway at the room's back corner.  

"Hello?" she called again, crossing to the adjoining room.

It turned out to be a spacious bedchamber, furnished with a 
magnificently carved canopy bed and a large gilded birdcage. 
The domed cage was cylindrical and stood nearly eight feet 
high. Several colorful birds chattered and fluttered on its 
filigreed perches.

The bed's canopy was hung with heavy drapes, which were pulled 
aside to reveal bronze-colored linens and piles of satiny 
pillows. Not a wrinkle marred the sumptuous coverlet.

"Make yourself at home," Mulder's voice startled her from 
behind. 

"Mulder, where did you--" She spun to face him and blinked in 
disbelief. "Oh my God."

It was Mulder. And yet it wasn't. 

A strange brand marked his right cheek. And when he 
sidestepped around her, she saw that his dark hair hung nearly 
to his waist. Three silver clasps held it in a sleek ponytail, 
which swung hypnotically when he tossed a black military 
jacket onto the bed.

"I've been looking forward to meeting you, Ms. Scully," he 
said, turning to confront her. Lanky and graceful, genial yet 
imposing.

Just like Mulder. 

Stunned, she was at a loss for words. 

He loosened a brass fastening at the neck of his plain black 
uniform and watched her with cold amusement. His eyes were 
startlingly green, more so than Mulder's. The irises glittered 
like brilliant emeralds.

"Y-you're Cassandra's son?" she said when she finally found 
her voice.

"I am."

"But...but you're a...a shapeshifter...or a clone."

A look of disgust darkened his too-green eyes. He unstrapped a 
sheathed dagger from his thigh. "Hardly. I'm as human as you 
are." He set the knife and its sheath on the nightstand beside 
the bed.

"Then...how...?"

"How is it I look so much like him?" A slanting grin nudged 
his cheek and his expression was so like Mulder, it stole her 
breath.

"Yes," she managed to whisper.   

"You're gonna love this." He loomed closer. "Fox Mulder is my 
brother."

"I don't believe you."

"No?" He stepped around her to the birdcage, where he filled 
the food tray with fresh seed. The birds twittered with 
apparent appreciation. "You knew my father, Ms. Scully. CGB 
Spender was a dishonorable man. A cheat...in business and in 
marriage." He checked the latch on the cage before turning to 
face her. "He impregnated Teena Mulder six months before he 
impregnated my mother."

"You're a liar." Even as she said the words doubt washed 
through her.

A DNA analysis had proved Jeffrey Spender was Mulder's half 
brother. And Jeffrey testified at Mulder's trial, "His mother 
had an affair with my father," supporting the claim that CGB 
Spender, not Bill Mulder, was Mulder's biological father. 

The look-alike crossed the room to sit on the edge of the bed. 
His face appeared deceptively earnest. He toed off one leather 
boot. "I have no reason to lie to you, Ms. Scully." 

"I've known Cassandra Spender for four years. Why hasn't she 
mentioned you before?"

"Because she met me for the first time only last year." 

"What do you mean she met you for the first time? Is she your 
mother or isn't she?"

"She is, but you know how these things are. Weren't you the 
mother of a child you'd never met?" He tugged off the other 
boot and let it drop to the floor with a muted thud.

"That...that was different," she said.  

"Not so much. My mother was abducted during the first 
trimester of her first pregnancy. I was taken from her womb as 
a fetus." 

"Taken by whom? Aliens?"

"There are thieves and scoundrels all around us, Ms. Scully -- 
both alien and human." 

She wanted to bolt from the room, get as far away from this 
lying clone as possible, but his familiar gaze held her in 
place. "What you're suggesting is impossible. A twelve-week-
old fetus cannot survive outside the womb." 

"And a barren woman cannot become pregnant, isn't that so?" He 
peeled off his shirt, turning it inside out as he drew it up 
over his head. His long hair crackled with static electricity 
when he pulled free of the garment. She was relieved to see 
his left shoulder bore no trace of Mulder's old gunshot wound. 
It was a clear difference between the two men, a reminder to 
be wary of this stranger. The look-alike dropped the shirt to 
the floor, creating a black puddle of fabric beside his 
stocking-clad feet. "These beings work outside the constraints 
of your science, Ms. Scully. Their skill is nothing short of 
miraculous."

"If you're insinuating my son was a product of alien 
technology--"

"You have another explanation? Maybe you believe he was 
summoned into existence by the hand of God."

"Or maybe I believe his conception was proof that I was never 
barren in the first place."

"Interesting theory." 

He rose from the bed and approached her. She held her ground, 
even when he loomed so close she could smell the faint, musky 
odor of his skin...so familiar...so like Mulder. 

His gaze dropped to her low-cut gown. "Your pictures don't do 
you justice, you know." 

She felt her face flush. "You've seen pictures of me?"

"Lots of pictures." He raised a finger to her collarbone and 
traced it to the strap of her gown.

His stare was mesmerizing. His touch was feather-light, barely 
there, and yet it sent a spark sizzling through her. She knew 
she should push his hand away, step back from his uninvited 
caress, but she felt mysteriously paralyzed, even when he 
hooked his finger beneath the dress' strap. 

"Tell me, Ms. Scully, what were you doing outside the ship 
just before we launched?"

"Star gazing," she lied. Cassandra had claimed she didn't know 
Mulder's whereabouts; it was possible her "son" didn't either.

Doubt, and a hint of amusement, glistened in his emerald eyes. 
His finger changed course, taking a leisurely path from her 
shoulder to her cleavage. Gooseflesh sprouted across her chest 
and she felt her nipples harden.

"And the condoms in your shopping bag? Those were for what...a 
chance encounter?"

"That's none of your business."

"Oh, but it is. You see, while my soldiers were picking you 
up, we discovered an intruder on board."

Mulder. It had to be. Damn it. "An intruder?"

"Mm-hmm, a real troublemaker. You wouldn't happen to know 
someone like that, would you?" Grasping her arms, he drew her 
up on her toes and whispered insistently into her ear, "Where 
is he? Where's Mulder?"

"Let me go." She tried to pull away, but he tightened his 
grip. "You're hurting me. Stop it."

He surprised her by releasing her and taking a step back. What 
appeared to be genuine concern creased his brow.

"Sorry," he said, sounding sincerely contrite. He pointed to 
the bandages on her wrists. "I forgot about..." His words 
trailed off as he studied the bruises on her arms. 

After a moment, he said, "I can make the pain go away."

"That's probably the worst pick-up line I've ever heard."

A cheerless smile played across his lips. "Honestly, I can 
help."

"I have no reason to trust you."

"And you have no reason not to trust me."

"Other than the fact that I'm being held prisoner on your 
ship...in your bedroom."

"You're not a prisoner," he said.

"So everyone keeps telling me, yet here I am."

He gently captured her hands, curling his fingers loosely 
around her wrists. "Let me help." 

She stiffened. "How?"

"I told you, I can make your pain disappear."

"You're going to drug me again?" 

"No, no drugs."

"Then...what?"

"I want you to relax, clear your mind," he said. 

"I don't think that's possible."

"Try closing your eyes."

"No." She drew back.

He retained his light hold on her wrists. "All right then, 
look at me instead. Look into my eyes."

"You're going to hypnotize me?"

"No, not hypnosis. This is something different."

She huffed with disbelief and challenged his claim by looking 
directly into his eyes. 

"I don't feel anything," she said after only a few seconds.

"Shhhhh." His stare didn't waver. 

She waited, focusing on his strange-colored eyes, ultra aware 
of his bare chest only inches from her fingertips. Heat 
radiated off him, warming her upraised palms. 

Behind her, the birds twittered softly, a delicate sound, like 
the tinkle of bells. It melded with the rasp of her breath.

It was then she noticed something shift inside her. An odd 
sensation, hard to describe, like the soft brush of a sleeve 
from a passing stranger. It left her slightly disoriented and 
mystified, as if she'd entered her childhood bedroom to find 
her favorite doll had been moved an inch or two from its usual 
spot on the pillows.

"I think...something's happening."

"Good. Don't talk."

Thoughts began to shuffle like playing cards in her brain, yet 
she wasn't alarmed by the rearrangement. She was still in 
Ashkii's room, still held captive by his sea-glass eyes. 
Shards of emerald and jade shimmered around the midnight of 
his pupils, a flash of northern lights in a dark, December 
sky. 

"Can you feel it?" His voice was velvety smooth and infinitely 
intimate.    

She held her breath. His muted pulse tapped against the 
sensitive undersides of her wrists. No pain, just a gentle 
tap...tap...tap...

Unexpectedly, he released his hold on her.  

"How do you feel now?" he asked softly.

The pain had vanished.

"You lied," she said. "You're not human."

"I am. Truly. I just know a few tricks."

"I've seen this before. Shapeshifters who can heal even lethal 
injuries."

"I've seen them, too. But I'm not one of them. See? I didn't 
heal you." He indicated the bruises that still mottled her 
arms. "I just blocked your pain."

His smile broadened into a proud grin, making him appear 
boyish and innocent. 

"Then how did you...?" 

He leaned toward her, as if poised for a kiss. "Does it 
matter?" His lips were so close.

The room's walls wobbled. The floor buckled. He was doing 
something to her, affecting her perception. She watched in 
amazement as the sumptuous linens on his bed transformed into 
a rumpled comforter with a garish design, a kaleidoscope of 
blues, oranges and reds, exactly like the bedspread in the 
Frontier Motel in Roswell.

Muscular arms embraced her. Warm lips pressed against hers.

"Mulder..." She broke the kiss and buried her face in his 
neck, relieved to be with him.

Mulder lifted her off her feet and carried her to the bed.

From somewhere beyond the edges of her conscious mind came a 
whisper of flapping feathers and the trill of birdsong.  

*   *   *

Terrestrial defenses were floundering in the wake of the Nih-
hi-cho's e-munitions offensive. Telecommunications systems 
were inoperable and the world's power grids disabled. As 
anticipated, ionized gases blocked most radio and radar 
signals. The first strike had been a resounding success thanks 
to Ca-Lo's bold push for early mobilization. Yet he wasn't on 
the Bridge to bask in his victory. 

And his absence did not go unnoticed.

"Locate him and report back." The order came telepathically to 
Watcher VII from the Society's Overseers. "Proceed with utmost 
caution." 

Their addendum was unnecessary; the Watcher understood his 
responsibility. He had been surveilling Ca-Lo for the past 
three Earth years and was an expert at stealing into the 
officer's brain and quietly eavesdropping there. Ca-Lo had yet 
to detect his presence, and hopefully never would. VII had no 
intention of repeating Watcher VI's egregious blunder. VI had 
been caught spying and Ca-Lo responded by having him 
lobotomized, severing him permanently from the Society. A 
terrifying punishment, to be sure, but perhaps deserved in his 
case. Due to VI's incompetence, Ca-Lo was now alert to the 
Watchers, making VII's job all the more difficult.  

VII vacated his post on the Bridge to ride the elevator to 
Level 4. Alone in the car he morphed out of his human 
disguise. He observed the transformation in the car's 
reflective steel doors, blandly watching Lieutenant Harris' 
familiar craggy features churn and eddy until his eyes grew 
large, his nose all but disappeared, and his skin melted into 
a pool of smooth, hairless gray. The entire process took only 
a second or two.

Pleased to be back in his own skin, VII inhaled deeply, flexed 
his shoulders, and exited the elevator on 4.

He went directly to the Portal of Solitude, where he entered 
the Privation Chambers' upper hall. A dozen Nih-hi-cho 
squatted like chess pieces on the caldarium's semi-transparent 
decking, intent on their various tasks. The entire floor was 
incised with a faint honeycomb pattern, which delineated the 
sixteen-hundred hexagonal compartments below. Silvery haloes 
spotlighted the occupied cells. Empty chambers remained dark. 

The cells were used for a variety of purposes, ranging from 
enforced imprisonment to voluntary introspection. 
Approximately half were currently occupied by humans slated 
for genetic manipulation or virus testing. One-hundred and 
fifty-two held Nih-hi-cho enemies -- treasonous spies, 
malfunctioning Replacements, and inept personnel like VI, who 
were condemned to live out the remainder of their days in 
solitude, cut off physically and mentally from the Society. 

VII repressed a shiver. To think the Refuters voluntarily 
segregated themselves here. They claimed to use the chambers 
for religious meditation and prayer, preferring to connect 
individually with the Divine Legion. The practice riled the 
Council of Overseers, who considered any desire for autonomy 
immoral. The Council regularly challenged the Refuters, 
accusing them of plotting to overthrow the Society. They made 
little headway, however. The Refuters' self-inflicted 
isolation made identifying their true purposes difficult, if 
not impossible.

The Refuters' disloyalty was not VII's concern at the moment. 
Bent on locating Ca-Lo, he proceeded to an unlit hexagram and 
positioned himself with feet together atop the cell's 
constricted entrance. After a moment, the passage expanded and 
VII was swallowed into the chamber. 

The sphincter-like entrance closed automatically above his 
head, effectively filtering out the Society's mental chatter, 
allowing VII to home in on Ca-Lo's thoughts without a 
prolonged period of mental preparation. He settled back on his 
haunches and began to methodically probe each deck, alert to 
Ca-Lo's familiar thought patterns. 

"There you are," he murmured when he located the officer in 
his personal quarters.

Human emotions assailed his senses the moment he entered Ca-
Lo's psyche, and he recoiled from the onslaught. Ca-Lo was 
engaged in a sexual act. And through him, VII also suffered 
the repugnant physical desires of an adult human male.

Ravenous. Needy. Desperate to join physically with another, to 
dispel his emotional loneliness. 

Ca-Lo's purpose was focused, deliberate, his motivation 
intense. He was impatient. Reckless. Driven. He wanted to 
possess his lover. Control her. Gain her affection. Her 
loyalty. Her desire.

Her moans enthralled him. Her touch set him afire. He was 
spellbound by her scent, by the look of ecstasy in her pale 
blue eyes--

"Nooo!" Watcher VII bellowed upon discovering Ca-Lo was not 
with one of his barren hybrid companions, but was mating with 
a human woman.

It was blasphemy! Ca-Lo was not permitted human lovers. Ever. 

VII sprang to his feet. 

"Let me out!" he commanded.

The overhead passage expanded, opening the cell. He was 
expelled to the decking above and, ignoring the surprised 
stares of his fellow Nih-hi-cho, he bolted for the exit.  

"Divine Legion, help us," he prayed as he ran. 

*   *   *

The nightmare is always the same.

In it, Ashkii is seven Earth years old. He is exploring the 
ship, crawling through a ventilation duct on Deck 19, which 
leads him toward the outer hull. He isn't supposed to be 
there; he isn't supposed to be anywhere without supervision. 
But he manages to elude his Nih-hi-cho tutor after their 
morning lesson and it feels wonderful to be beyond the reach 
of Tkin's stinging Taser. 

Ashkii will pay for his disobedience later, he knows. But 
punishments are a daily occurrence, so it seems there is 
little to lose and plenty to gain by running away.

The duct opens into a tall narrow space with curving walls, a 
cavity between the inner and outer hulls. It is crowded with 
humming machinery and piles of knotted cables. Twenty meters 
up, wasps have made an enormous papery nest at the crook of a 
metal brace. The yellow-eyed insects dot the sweating 
bulkheads in search of moisture. Others swoop through the 
muggy half-dark with seeming purpose, unconcerned by Ashkii's 
intrusion.  

Ashkii slides feet first out of the vent onto a grated floor. 
Tipping his head back, he inspects the upper wall, where 
sunlight seeps through the outer hull like a specter's splayed 
fingers. Light puddles in the crevices of the heat exchange 
system; it reflects off the wastewater stack, highlighting its 
fasteners with silver. Attracted by the gleam, he starts to 
climb a network of thick, flexible tubing. He imagines the fat 
hoses are Tse'Bit'a'i's veins, carrying blood to its parts.

Ashkii has seen his own veins, countless times, exposed during 
his weekly physical assessments.

He tries not to cry when They cut into him. He hates the 
things They do. He hates Them.

Sticky with oil and dust, breathing hard, he works his way 
toward a pair of intake apertures, towering slits in the outer 
hull that allow the New Mexico air to flow into the ship. He 
intends to look out at the surrounding desert, glimpse the 
sun, feel the tickle of real wind upon his skin, maybe smell 
the Earth's hot, foreign odor...but he is distracted before he 
ever reaches the opening.

A small gray bird flounders in a shaft of sunlight. It beats 
its wings against a metallic plate, mistaking the shiny 
rectangle for a way out. 

It's an insect eater, a vireo; he recognizes it from his 
lessons. It must have come looking for food -- the wasps, 
maybe. He's never seen a live bird before and is curious about 
it. Wanting to touch it, he climbs closer.

It stops fluttering and perches crookedly on a coupling when 
he draws near. Its heart is hammering beneath its ruffled 
white breast. Its eyes, circled by thin, pale rings, have 
grown dull. 

"I can help you," he tells it softly.

He wants to ease its terror and confusion. He thinks he can 
manage it, too, because he's been practicing during his weekly 
assessments, concentrating hard on blocking out the most 
painful tests. It's just a matter of willpower, he believes. 
After all, the Nih-hi-cho are able to get inside his head. 
They can make him feel things, do things. When he's been very 
good, they sometimes take his fear away.  

He lifts the bird with great care and cradles it in his palm, 
intending to bring it back to his bedchamber, where he will 
revive it and then keep it as a companion. Its head lolls 
frightfully, however, and he realizes it is hurt worse than he 
first thought.

"Don't worry." He tucks the limp bird into his tunic and 
quickly returns to the ventilation duct.

When he emerges at the other end, Tkin is waiting for him. 

"Give it to us, Ashkii," the tutor demands telepathically, his 
hand held out. His Taser dangles menacingly from a strap 
around his wrist.

Lying is futile, but the words pop out before Ashkii can stop 
them. "I-I don't have anything."

"We want the bird now, without further falsehood or argument."

"But...it's hurt, Tkin. I want to make it better."

"You cannot."

"Maybe *you* can?"

"We are not interested in healing the bird."

"I want to keep it."

"That is not permitted."

Ashkii feels Tkin begin to tunnel into his mind. He is nudged 
toward compliance.

Unable to stop himself, he reaches beneath his tunic and 
withdraws the bird. Its heart beats faintly against his palm. 
Its papery eyelids are closed. 

"Wh-what are you g-going to do w-with it?" he asks, his voice 
thin with fear.

"Dispose of it." Tkin snatches the bird away.

"P-please, don't kill it!"

Tkin's fist closes tightly around the vireo. Blood drips from 
between his fingers, spotting the floor with crimson. "It is 
already done. Now we shall see to your punishment."    

No, please, no, no--

*   *   *

Ca-Lo was startled awake by a hiss from the outer room. 
Someone had opened the pneumatic door. A hybrid servant? He 
glanced at the timepiece on his nightstand.

2:22 a.m. 

"Too early for housekeeping," he mumbled beneath his breath. 
The interloper must be a high-ranking Nih-hi-cho to risk 
intruding at this hour.

He grabbed his dagger from the nightstand, then glanced at 
Dana Scully.

She was still asleep, curled on her side, her hair fanned 
across the pillow. Good. He hoped she stayed that way, at 
least until he could evict his midnight prowler.

He eased off the bed, careful not to wake her or alert the 
intruder.

Stealthy footsteps, hushed by the thick carpet, crossed the 
outer room, drawing near. From the sound of them, Ca-Lo 
guessed there were at least four men, maybe more in the hall. 
Sent by Watcher VII, no doubt.

Fucking little spy. Hope he likes the cell next to VI, Ca-Lo 
thought as he sidestepped his clothes. Edging toward the 
archway, he positioned himself to one side, where he could 
grab the first man who crossed the threshold. 

It turned out to be Lieutenant Harris.

Ca-Lo's arm shot out and hooked Harris around the neck. The 
Lieutenant choked with surprise.

His three comrades rushed to the rescue. Ca-Lo raised his 
knife to the older man's throat. "I wouldn't," he warned them, 
freezing the soldiers in their tracks. "Not unless you want to 
watch him bleed to death all over my nice carpet."

"Ca-Lo...don't," Harris rasped.

"What are you doing here, Lieutenant? Dirty work for the 
Refuters?" Ca-Lo tightened his grip.

"No...I...I was sent by the Overseers."

"Why?"

"You know why. Her." Harris' focus slid to Dana Scully. 

"She's my business, not the Overseers'."

"That's not true." Harris gulped for air. "They're going to 
take her from you. Even if you kill me."

The three soldiers stepped forward. Another dozen filed in 
from the hall, rifles drawn. Behind them came a contingent of 
Nih-hi-cho. Already Ca-Lo could feel them boring into his 
mind.

"It's over, Ca-Lo," Harris wheezed. "You can't win this."

*   *   *

"Poor Dana." Cassandra slumped in Ca-Lo's wingback chair. She 
felt chilly in her nightgown and bathrobe, but was too 
fatigued to return to her apartment to change her clothes. 

Ca-Lo paced around her, his feet bare, his unbound hair 
fluttering restlessly against his naked back. He wore only 
yesterday's wrinkled pants, recouped from the floor shortly 
after Cassandra had arrived to witness Lieutenant Harris and 
his minions dragging Dana Scully from the apartment.

That was an hour ago. 

"What were you thinking, Ashkii?" she scolded. "Did you really 
believe you could get away with it?"

He paused in front of her. "I want her back." 

"Don't be a fool."

"I *want* *her* *back*!" He brought his fist down on the table 
beside her chair. The wallop toppled her coffee cup. Oily 
black liquid rained to the floor. 

Turning away from the mess, he resumed his pacing.

She remained in her chair. One of the hybrid servants would 
clean up the spill later. 

"I asked you not to hurt her, Ashkii. You promised me."

He glanced over his shoulder to glare at her. "I didn't hurt 
her."

"You're saying she came to your bed voluntarily?"

"Is that so hard to believe?"

"Yes, Ashkii, it is. Dana loves Fox Mulder. They have a child 
together. She wouldn't have--" Her eyes widened with sudden 
understanding. "That's it, isn't it?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

"You wanted her because she's his. You're jealous of your 
brother."

He spun to confront her, his face flushed, his emerald eyes 
flashing. "Can you blame me? He has everything, Mother, 
*everything*. He lives *there*...*outside*...in the world of 
humans. He's free to do whatever he pleases. He grew up with a 
mother and a father. He has a family of his own, a son, a 
woman who loves him. Tell me, what do I have?"

"You should be proud of who you are." She plucked at a snag in 
her bathrobe. "You were chosen to serve the Divine Legion."

"You believe that crap?"

"It's written in the Prophesy," she admonished. 

"Three million years ago -- what the hell did they know?" His 
attention wandered to one of his paintings. In the picture, a 
terrestrial waterfall tumbled through a wooded glen.  

"Why didn't you ever search for me, Mother?"

"I didn't know where to look."

"You knew who took me."

"I never imagined this place."

"My father knew of it."

"He told me nothing."

"Did you ask him?" He looked back at her. "Or was it easier to 
forget me than fight for me?"

"I was in no position to fight. I couldn't save you, Ashkii. I 
couldn't even save myself." 

Suddenly the brutality of the past seemed too heavy a mantle 
and he sank to his knees beneath the painting. He plowed 
quaking fingers through his tangled hair. "What am I going to 
do?" 

She rose from her chair and went to him. Placing her palm on 
his head, she stroked his soft hair.

"You could try petitioning the Overseers -- ask them for her 
release."

"They'll never agree to it."

"They might, given your position--"

"My authority goes only so far. I direct the Armada, not the 
Society. The Overseers barely tolerate me." 

She leaned down and kissed his worried brow. She loved him, 
more than he realized. "My poor boy. I'm sorry..."

When she didn't say more, he asked, "Sorry for what, Mother?" 
His eyes gleamed with hope.

She traced the brand on his cheek. A permanent reminder, 
placed there when he was a small boy, so she'd been told, to 
mark him as the man he was meant to become -- "Ca-Lo," the 
Destroyer.

Now she must say the words he needed to hear, not those for 
which he yearned. "You refuse to accept your destiny."

His reply was sharp with disappointment. "I've refused 
nothing, Mother. I'm still here, aren't I?"

*   *   *

Twelve Overseers sat in their customary seats, a semicircle of 
onyx chairs -- the only furniture in their chambers. A central 
spotlight obscured the room's damp walls, giving an illusion 
of infinite space.

Ca-Lo stood at attention in front of them, his spit-polished 
boots gleaming in the spotlight's silvery beam. His features 
were molded into an expression of repentance. The regret was 
genuine -- they could read it in his mind as clearly as on his 
face. However, they also knew his regret was misplaced; it was 
not a response to his irreverent actions, but the result of 
being caught. 

"Release Dana Scully to me," he petitioned. 

The twelve councilors answered as one, verbalizing their 
response to emphasize their point. "No," they said.

Ca-Lo flinched at their use of audible language. He had heard 
their click-clacking speech since his boyhood and understood 
its nuances, yet his reaction revealed he still considered the 
sound alien and offensive. 

"She will remain a captive," Overseer One said, reverting to 
telepathy. "It is because of your contravention, Ca-Lo, she 
must be closely monitored now." 

"So tag her with an implant," Ca-Lo suggested. 

His voice was restrained, his manner outwardly calm. Yet his 
hypothalamus was releasing norepinephrine, causing his adrenal 
glands to produce adrenaline. His heart rate, pulse and 
respiration were rising. Blood sugar, lactic acid, and 
cortisol were readying his body to fight or run, neither of 
which was truly an option for him. Human emotions -- 
frustration, resentment, dread -- were beginning to overwhelm 
his psyche. At the moment, he perceived everything as a 
threat, everyone as an enemy.

He had good reason to be afraid of them.

"We have already installed a bio-monitor in the woman's sinus 
cavity," Overseer One said, "and a locator beneath the dermis 
of her lower back." 

Ca-Lo's thoughts registered surprise, yet his face showed no 
emotion at the Overseer's pronouncement. "Then she can be set 
free."

"No. Her implants will not ensure your cooperation," Overseer 
Six explained. "Her imprisonment will." 

"Then tag me, too." A muscle twitched along Ca-Lo's jaw, the 
first outward sign of desperation. His tone grew sharp. "Don't 
keep her in isolation. You know humans can't tolerate 
loneliness any better than you can."

"Do not attempt to compare your insignificant feelings to 
ours," said Overseer Six. "We are not here to bargain with 
you. Our intent is to curb your undesirable impulses by 
punishing your disobedience."

"What if I promise to be a good boy, forever and ever, amen."

"Your sarcasm does not amuse us. It never has."

"What does amuse you? Torturing an innocent woman?"

"You misjudge us, Ca-Lo. Torturing the terrestrial female 
elicits no emotion in us whatsoever."

Ca-Lo's fists tightened. "Please, don't do this. It was me...I 
forced her... The fault is mine. Imprison me instead."

"Yes, the fault was yours, but it is not practical to remove 
you from your duties at this time. Your tactical skills are 
required for colonization."

"And if I refuse to lead the Armada?"

"Then Dana Scully will spend the rest of her life in a 
Privation Chamber."

They waited for his response, listening to his internal 
struggle. His emotional connection to the Earth woman was 
strong, stronger than they would have predicted, given the 
scant amount of time the two had spent together.

"And if I cooperate in every imaginable way, how long will you 
keep her locked in your despicable bee hive?" he asked.

"Until we know whether or not she carries your child."

This time Ca-Lo didn't try to hide his surprise. "You think 
she could be pregnant? After only one...?"

"Why not? You took no precautions."

"Did the damned Watcher give you that detail, too?"

They saw no reason to lie. "Yes. He also reported the true 
motive for your sexual encounter with Dana Scully."

"I was feeling horny after a long day of world domination?"

"No, you intended to impregnate her--"

"That's not true."

"You took no precaution against such an eventuality."

Ca-Lo's mind was crowded with protests, but digging deeper 
they uncovered a buried desire. Ca-Lo dreamed of having a 
family.  

Unfortunately for him, his rare genetic configuration 
disallowed it. The Derivation flowed in his veins. He was the 
will of God, Heavenly Father of humankind. This made him an 
abomination in the eyes of the Nih-hi-cho, who followed the 
teachings of their own gods -- the Divine Legion of Angels and 
the Red Dragon, eternal enemies of God the Almighty. The Nih-
hi-cho reviled Ca-Lo, but they dared not kill him. To do so 
would result in severe retribution from his Creator. Better to 
hold him prisoner, control his actions, study his unusual 
genes and understand his special skills, all the while 
ensuring a natural end to his cursed bloodline by denying him 
a mate.     

It was paramount Ca-Lo never sire a child, an anomaly, like 
the four Earth children born last year, all believed to be 
miracle babies, future saviors of the human race.

Of these four, only young William Mulder remained alive, 
hidden from his enemies by a devious mother, Dana Scully, the 
very woman who was found in Ca-Lo's bed mere hours ago.

Ca-Lo cleared his throat. "And if there is a child?"

They would not terminate the pregnancy, as much as they might 
want to. The humans' God wielded great power over this matter 
and now was not the time to test Him.

"Will you release her to me then?" Ca-Lo asked.

"You do not seem to grasp the seriousness of your 
transgression. You will never see Dana Scully again."

Desperation rolled through him. "There must be 
something...something I can do in exchange for her return."

Another quick reading of his mind told them his plea was 
sincere. His desire for the woman was not a whim. As a matter 
of fact, the prospect of a child had solidified his resolve.

"Perhaps there is something..." Overseer One began. 

"Anything. Name it."

"Find her son William and bring him to us -- alive. Then and 
only then may you bargain for Dana Scully."

x-x-x-x-x

BOOK III: THE FIRST WOE

COCONINO NATIONAL FOREST, ARIZONA

Lightning flashed. Tremors rattled the earth. The mountain 
exploded in a fountain of fire, spewing ash and embers. The 
blast was heard for hundreds of miles. All through the night, 
the mountain glowed fiery red. Chunks of molten rock rained 
down, crushing homes, scorching farmland. The next day, and 
for weeks after, fires blazed. They consumed the forest; they 
choked the sky.

It was the birth of Sunset Crater...nine-hundred years ago.

The eruption buried the surrounding countryside. The displaced 
inhabitants relocated to the lower plateau, an arid scrub-
covered flatland, previously considered too dry and barren for 
farming. Over the next hundred years, they built more than 
eight-hundred pueblos across miles of open desert. They 
struggled to grow corn, beans and squash. They raised 
families. They prayed to the gods. 

Then suddenly, they vanished. 

Where did the Anasazi go?

Hunkered in the open air in front of a stone-cold fire pit, 
Gibson Praise popped the top off a can of peaches and fished 
the fruit out with dirty fingers. He was alone in the Coconino 
campground, surrounded by abandoned vehicles, tents and 
scattered gear. A thicket of spiny mountain pines guarded his 
back. Blood-red devil's weed, buffeted by an updraft, trembled 
at the edges of the bluff thirty feet in front of him. Half 
hidden in the matted grass lay the remains of twenty-three 
dead campers.

Cracked bones, ragged muscle, shredded organs. Tainted by the 
stench of extraterrestrials, the corpses were ignored by 
Earthly scavengers.

A storm was gathering in the east. The air prickled with 
electricity. Looming thunderclouds cast blue-black shadows 
across Sunset Crater's distant cinder cone. 

Gibson had first visited the crater in early May, shortly 
after his sixteenth birthday. He'd climbed Lenox and 
Strawberry, too, to study their geological and historical 
significance. He hoped to find answers to the future buried 
somewhere in the ashes of the past. At the time, he believed 
he had ten more years to learn what the world needed to know.

That was before. Before Mulder's trial. Before the Smoker's 
death. Before 100,000 immature aliens were let loose on the 
Earth. Cunning hunters, with a taste for human flesh. He 
listened again for them.

Nothing. Apparently they'd moved on, like a swarm of colossal 
army ants in search of their next meal.

Six miles down-slope on the lower park road were the mutilated 
remains of three more hapless humans, a father and two sons, 
strangers to Gibson before an hour ago when his keen mind 
detected their terror. He hadn't answered their screams or 
hurried to rescue them. To do so was pointless. He couldn't 
help them; he could only cower beneath the pines and listen as 
they suffered and died.

Guilt coated him like sweat, even though he knew his 
responsibility was to all humans, not one unfortunate family. 
He had a gift, a unique ability. Adept at deciphering the 
young aliens' primitive thoughts, he could communicate with 
them, in a rudimentary way. Yet even with his exceptional 
mental capacity, he couldn't bargain for individual human 
lives. The infants' intense hunger made them irrational and 
unyielding. They were interested only in sating their empty 
bellies. 

Gibson swallowed the last slice of peach. Cool, sweet and 
slippery. 

From his hilltop vantage, he had a bird's eye view of the 
lonely Arizona plateau. He could see for miles, all the way to 
the Painted Desert in the northeast.

He could "hear" even further. Testing the extreme range of his 
telepathy, he listened intently. What came back to him sounded 
like a stuttering radio signal -- a myriad of quarrels, pleas 
and cries, overlapping, creating a mind-numbing cacophony of 
dread and dissatisfaction, panic and grief. Years ago, in what 
seemed another life, he had wanted to turn off those voices. 
Now, without radio, telephone or other forms of communication, 
they were his only connection to humanity, his only glimpse at 
world events.

The peaches were gone. He raised the can to his lips and drank 
their thick syrup, then tossed the empty can beneath the 
trees.    

The storm would be overhead before nightfall. Thunder and 
lightning. Rain. High winds. His tent would take a beating. He 
would sleep in one of the abandoned cars.

Hugging his arms around drawn up knees, he closed his eyes and 
listened. 

//...is the baby asleep?...outta canned milk...killed everyone 
in...daylight...head north...sister in Montana...after 
dark...dear God... no-no-no...rain's coming...thirsty... 
water...//

Gibson focused on this last voice. Weak but familiar. 
Struggling to survive.

It was Mulder.

*   *   *

TWO GRAY HILLS MEDICAL CENTER
NAVAJO RESERVATION, NEW MEXICO 
JUNE 7, 2002
LATE AFTERNOON

"Water," Mulder rasped as he fought to escape the chaos of 
nightmares. His head ached and the sharp odor of bleach stung 
his sinuses. With effort, he opened his eyes.

Pale walls. Waning daylight. An I.V., pressure cuff, bed tray, 
empty visitor's chair. Damn, he was in a hospital. A man with 
Native American features stood watching him from the foot of 
his bed. A preschooler clung to the man's hand, dark-haired 
and curious like her caretaker. 

Mulder cleared his throat. "Nobody brought flowers?"

The child rose up on her toes to get a better look over the 
hill of Mulder's blanketed feet.

The Indian moved to fill a tumbler with water from a plastic 
pitcher on the bedside tray. He held the cup to Mulder's 
parched lips.

Mulder swallowed greedily, spilling tepid water down his chin, 
soaking the front of his thin hospital gown. A fit of coughing 
wracked his body when he accidentally sucked liquid into his 
lungs.

The Indian waited patiently for his coughing to subside. 

Finally Mulder was able to wheeze out a few words. "Are you a 
doctor?"

"No. I'm Eric...Eric Hosteen. We met seven years ago."

The boy with the motorcycle. Albert Hosteen's grandson. He'd 
given Mulder a ride to a buried boxcar full of dead aliens. 

"You've changed, grown up."

"Yes."

Mulder's focus dropped to the girl who was tugging on Eric 
Hosteen's pants leg.

She whispered loudly, "Is he gonna die?"

"No, he will live." Eric bent and lifted her into the crook of 
one muscled arm. "This is Jewel, my daughter," he said.

"No, Daddy. I'm *Butter Bean*," she corrected him. 

"My nickname for her," Eric explained. 

"I'm five," the girl told Mulder. "I have a loose tooth." She 
demonstrated.

"Ah." Mulder rubbed a palm over his own aching jaw. "I think I 
have one or two myself."  

"You were hurt pretty bad, Agent Mulder."

"Not 'Agent'...not anymore." He tried to sit up, but something 
beneath the blankets held his left leg immobile. "Where...uh, 
where am I exactly?"

"You've asked that question before, several times in fact 
since you were first brought here."

"My memory's not so good." Mulder indicated the I.V., where 
tubes snaked into his right arm, drugging him with who-knew-
what. He wished it would dull the throbbing in his head. "Tell 
me again."

"You're in Two Gray Hills Medical Center."

Two Gray Hills. Navajo Reservation, northwest of Los Alamos. 
Mulder had nearly died there once, from thirst, heat and a 
gunshot wound. Scully's gunshot wound.

He glanced again at the empty chair. Where was she? Surely she 
had come back for him after the ship left.

His eyes searched the hall beyond the open door. "I was at 
Shiprock. How...how did I get here?"

An image of the Gunmen hovered at the fringes of his memory.

"Some men from the tribe brought you." 

From the tribe? Maybe he'd been mistaken about the Gunmen. 

Maybe he'd been mistaken about the spaceship, too. And the 
aliens and that man who looked like him, his mysterious twin. 
Ca-Lo. 

Maybe he was having a delusion right now, had been 
hallucinating for days, or even weeks. Hell, maybe he was 
still in his Mount Weather prison cell...or on the alien 
spacecraft. 

Panic seized him. Eric Hosteen could be a figment of his 
imagination. The girl, too. He cringed, anticipating the crack 
of a soldier's baton or...or...or the slash of the aliens' 
fiery scalpel as it split him from gullet to groin, exposing 
pale viscera and slippery organs. Jesus, Jesus, you're not 
supposed to see your own intestines, your own pounding heart--

Like a drowning man caught in a riptide, he clung desperately 
to the life raft of his present reality, to the hospital room, 
to Eric's uneasy expression and the girl's startled eyes.

"D-did they find her? Scully? My partner?" he stammered.

"We were led only to you."

"Led?"

"By my grandfather."

"But...your grandfather is dead."

"Yes." Eric caressed Jewel's smooth cheek, bringing forth a 
shy smile. "The dead are not lost to us, Mr. Mulder. You know 
that."

Mulder nodded. He did know it. He'd known it for a long time.

"And the living?" His fear refused to recede. Where was 
Scully? "Are they lost?"

"We are all in danger, Mr. Mulder. You must rest, recover from 
your injuries. There is much to do."

*   *   *

DOUGLAS RESIDENCE
CACHE, WYOMING
SHORTLY AFTER DAWN

The sound of breaking glass woke 19-year-old Kenna from a 
nightmare about giant locusts with scorpion tails and razor-
sharp teeth. "Rick?"

"Shhh. Someone's in the house," her husband whispered. He rose 
from the bed and silently crossed to the closet where he kept 
his rifle. 

Kenna's hand went automatically to the collar of her cotton 
nightgown, securing it over the damaged skin on her neck and 
chest. It was a protective gesture, a habit since childhood, 
after a pot of boiling water had left her baby-smooth skin 
looking like melted candle wax. 

"Hide in the closet," Rick ordered, loading cartridges into 
the rifle. His new onyx wedding ring winked with each jerky 
movement. He looked boyish with his licorice-colored hair 
askew, matted on one side from sleep. He was shirtless and his 
pajama bottoms rode low on his hips; Kenna had intended to 
mend the elastic waistband before she'd folded them away in 
his dresser drawer. "Stay put 'til I come back for you," he 
insisted.

"Rick--"

"Don't argue." Three strides brought him to her side. He 
grabbed her arm and hauled her easily from the bed. At age 
twenty, he had the strength of a seasoned rancher. 
"Hide...*now*!" 

Dazed by what was happening, she loosened her clutch on her 
collar, intending to neaten his mussed hair, but when she 
reached for it he shoved her fingers aside and lifted her off 
her feet. He carried her to the closet. "Everything'll be 
fine," he promised, dumping her inside and shutting the door.

Blinking into the dark, she hunkered beneath the hanging 
clothes: wool coats, Rick's Sunday suit and her month-old 
wedding gown, sealed in its drycleaner bag. A lock of her long 
hair was tangled in a hanger above her head, but she let it 
be, intent on listening to the sounds beyond the door.

A crash came from the downstairs living room and she pictured 
the ceramic table lamp -- a wedding gift -- smashed to bits on 
the oak floor. Odd click-clacking noises echoed in the 
stairwell. Then a blast from Rick's rifle startled her so 
badly she hit her head against the wall. Another shot followed 
the first. Rick screamed, high-pitched and unfamiliar, full of 
panic. Rick never panicked. Never. Whatever was happening must 
be unbearable.

Oh, God, help him, please help him, she prayed.

Another godawful scream and her bladder emptied, soaking her 
nightgown.      

Kenna hugged her knees and shivered. Tears stung her eyes, 
burned wavering trails down her cheeks. Her throat tightened 
until she couldn't catch her breath. 

How long she waited like that, gulping for air, trying not to 
cry aloud, she wasn't sure, but her leg muscles were cramping 
and her wet nightgown had grown cold beneath her by the time 
she realized the noises downstairs had stopped. She remained 
still for several more minutes, hoping beyond hope that Rick 
was going to return soon, safe and sound. Then he would laugh 
at her for peeing herself. She would laugh, too, for letting 
her silly fears get the best of her. She'd wash and change her 
clothes, then make them both a big breakfast: bacon and fresh 
eggs, over easy, just the way Rick liked them. She'd slice 
potatoes for homefries, too, and open that jar of her mom's 
huckleberry jam for their toast. Rick ate as much as a man 
twice his size and she liked to spoil him with her cooking. 
Maybe she would bake him a custard pie later in the day. Or an 
angel food cake.

No, there would be no pie or cake -- the power was out. She'd 
forgotten that. It had gone off last Tuesday and had stayed 
off. Not a soul at Duffy's Market or the Post Office knew why, 
and there was no way to find out. Telephones, TV, radio, 
*nothing* was working. Rick's truck wouldn't start. Neither 
would her aging Pinto, although that wasn't out of the 
ordinary. But, Lord o' mercy, even their watches had stopped. 
It was so strange. People were scared. They said it was a 
terrorists' plot. The beginning of WWIII maybe. With no way to 
get reliable news, rumors were flying while people tried to 
make do, helping their neighbors as best they could. Rick gave 
Artie next door a cord of wood, to heat the house and boil 
water to wash the baby's things. In return, the van de Kamps 
lent them a portable kerosene cook stove. It was small, but 
serviceable enough to fry an egg...over easy...just the way 
Rick liked them. 

Oh, God. Rick was dead. She knew it in her heart. Killed by 
whoever was...out...there...    

Kenna rose on numbed legs. Hands shaking, she cracked open the 
closet door and peered into the bedroom. Sunlight spilled like 
whitewash across the unmade bed. Rick's worn blue jeans lay 
draped over the blanket chest at its foot. A buzzing housefly 
bounced desperately against the windowpane, trying to escape 
into the bright dawn.

She stepped into the room. Her damp nightgown clung to the 
back of her thighs as she searched Rick's pants for his 
pocketknife. When she found it, she opened its blade with 
trembling fingers. 

Knife in hand, she tiptoed into the hall, which was dimmer 
than the bedroom. Its wooden floor felt cold beneath her bare 
feet. She held her breath and avoided the squeaky board at the 
top of the stairs.

Blood, lots of it, glistened on the stair treads. Splashes of 
crimson marred the ivory wallpaper. Rick was nowhere to be 
seen, but a swathe of red striped the entry floor from the 
bottom step to the open front door.

"Rick!" she screamed and dropped the knife.

She hurried down the stairs, skidded across the blood, nearly 
slipped as she tracked it onto the porch. 

More blood mottled the dirt driveway in a trail that led to 
the east pasture. Kenna followed it, ducking beneath the wire 
fence. She raced along a path of matted, spattered grass, a 
jagged line that ran from her property to the van de Kamp's a 
quarter of a mile away.

She found the fence broken on the far side of the field, 
knocked down, its wires snarled into loose knots. Dodging 
them, she hurried toward the neighbor's farmhouse. Her feet 
sank into freshly tilled soil as she navigated Artie's 
vegetable patch. Inhuman footprints, shaped like no animal 
she'd ever seen, had crushed the fragile seedlings, upended 
the tomato cages. She sprinted along one ruined row and then 
out across the overgrown lawn toward the flagpole, where the 
flag's ghostly buffalo waved in seeming surrender against a 
too-perfect azure sky. Kenna flinched at its frantic slap-
slap-slap as she dashed past.

"Rick!" Her cry was as rough as the weather-beaten clapboards 
on the van de Kamp's sagging barn. Its doors gaped like a 
screaming mouth; its interior was as black as Death's shroud.

A thinning trail of blood led her up onto the neighbor's front 
porch, where she stopped, out of breath. Overexertion stabbed 
her ribs and she gasped for air. The morning breeze tugged at 
her hair, twisted her nightgown. The porch swing wobbled, set 
into motion by a gust of wind...or a passing devil.

Blood speckled the peeling porch floor. She tried to avoid 
stepping in it as she pushed through the unlocked front door. 
Splintered at the hinges, the frame squeaked. Deep curving 
gouges scored the wood around the handle.

"Artie? Joanne?" Her desperate call echoed inside the still 
house. 

The air in the front hall felt feverish and smelled sickly-
sweet, like molasses and fermenting fruit.

She glanced into the living room to her right, then opposite 
to the dining room. Straight ahead, the hall led past a 
central staircase. She'd been in the house before and knew the 
hall continued through to the kitchen in the back.

Cautiously, she entered the living room and then stifled a cry 
when she spotted Artie's head, torn off at the neck, leaning 
at an awkward angle beside the rocking chair's curved runner. 
His dead eyes bulged and a look of sheer terror curled his 
parted lips. The room's pine floor was slick with 
unidentifiable gore and its once blue-and-white braided rug 
was saturated with blood. Artie's body had been hollowed out. 
His stony ribs curved up like the fingers of a loose fist; his 
innards stretched from the loveseat to the television set. 

A whimper leached from Kenna's throat as she backed away from 
the carnage.

She discovered Joanne's body in the kitchen, its torso yawning 
and empty like Artie's, its legs stripped to the bone, yet 
with both feet still intact, one wearing a terrycloth slipper. 

"Oh God." Dazed, she bent to retrieve the lost slipper, 
stupidly intending to fit it over Joanne's bare foot, when a 
baby screeched upstairs. 

"William!" She raced for the staircase, weak no-no-no's 
puffing from her lungs as she took the steps two at a time. 

Guided by the baby's wails, she turned left at the upper 
landing and careened through the first open door.

She was stopped short at the threshold by an unbelievable 
sight. Five human-sized insect-beings, locusts with razor 
sharp teeth and glossy scales -- the monstrous creatures from 
her nightmare, somehow come to life. They leaned over the 
crib where the baby sat crying, his dimpled hands gripping a 
faded blanket. His face was blotchy and tear-streaked. 
Hiccoughing cries opened and closed his mouth like a 
suffocating bluegill.

The locusts watched him with oily, oversized eyes. They seemed 
unconcerned by Kenna's arrival. Their jaws jittered, making 
unearthly click-clacking noises. They were broad, tall and 
muscular. Long talons studded their oddly jointed toes and 
fingers.

One of them was gripping a human arm. Rick's onyx wedding ring 
gleamed on the severed limb's curled finger.

"Noooooo!"

Kenna rushed forward, not thinking what the creatures might 
do, not caring about the danger. She moved by instinct, 
knowing only that she must protect the baby, save him from 
these ungodly beasts. 

"Monsters! Go away!" she screamed.

To her astonishment, the creatures stepped aside and allowed 
her access to the child. She reached into the crib, elbowing 
the mobile, setting its four white buffalo rocking as she 
lifted William out. He clung to her, his blue-gray eyes wide 
and wet. His small fingers bit into the scarred flesh of her 
neck.

"Everything'll be okay," she murmured, repeating Rick's last 
words.

Legs trembling, she edged slowly from the room. For whatever 
reason, the locusts made no move to stop her. She bumped into 
the doorframe, stumbled around it, and then ran for all she 
was worth.  

*   *   *

THREE MONTHS LATER, SEPTEMBER 27, 2002
HOSTEEN RESIDENCE
TWO GRAY HILLS, NEW MEXICO

Jewel clambered onto a scuffed wooden chair, then up onto the 
kitchen table to get a better view out the window. A plastic 
saltshaker, bumped by her knee, rolled across the Formica 
tabletop and clattered to the floor. 

"Get down, honey," her mother warned, hands thrust in 
dishwater. "Eric, get her off there."

Eric deposited his empty coffee mug into the sink and crossed 
to his daughter.

"Stay away from the window, Butter Bean," he said, retrieving 
the saltshaker. "You know it's not safe."

"Then why is *he* out there?" Jewel pressed her nose against 
the glass. 

Eric could see Mulder beyond the dusty pane, limping toward 
Jewel's swing-set. Late afternoon sun glinted off his metal 
crutches as he hobbled between the empty clothesline and the 
sandbox. He navigated carefully around Jewel's overturned Big 
Wheel and a faded blue and red beach ball. Dark silhouettes 
resembling surreal cartoon creatures stretched across the 
bristling lawn: Mulder's shadow became a stilted circus clown, 
the swing set a crouching spider, the clothesline its enormous 
web.

Mulder paused at the foot of Jewel's slide, where he appeared 
to talk with someone, although no one else was in the yard.   

"Can I play, too, Daddy?"

"He isn't playing."

"What's he doing?" 

"Searching for a way home."

She twisted to peer skeptically back at him, brows drawn 
together. He was glad she questioned everything, even him. 

"Like the snake you found in the bath tub," he reminded her.

"Oh."

She returned her gaze to Mulder and thumped the windowpane 
with her small fist to get his attention.

Mulder ignored her...or, more likely, couldn't hear her. The 
"accident" at Shiprock had left him deaf in one ear. Dozens of 
razor thin scars stippled his neck and jaw on the one side, as 
if he'd sailed head first through a windshield or stumbled 
through a plate glass door. Eric wasn't sure what really 
happened because Mulder claimed he couldn't remember.

A lie, Eric was certain.  

Whatever the cause of Mulder's injuries, the worst damage was 
to his leg. Doctors had set and pinned his broken thighbone 
with a steel rod in an hours-long operation, which was 
interrupted by a sudden and evidently permanent power outage. 
Things got more complicated when the back-up generator 
wouldn't start. The team of surgeons worked frantically to 
stitch Mulder's leg by the light of kerosene lamps. He'd 
nearly bled to death on the operating table. 

After the surgery, Mulder was pumped full of antibiotics to 
stave off infection. For days it had been touch and go. 
Traditional prayer supplemented modern medicine. By the grace 
of God and the ancestral spirits, he'd managed to survive.

He was laid up for weeks, at first in the hospital and later 
in Eric's back bedroom. He worked hard to regain the use of 
his leg and now wore a removable cast made of plastic and 
Velcro straps. His prognosis was guardedly optimistic; given 
time and determination he would eventually be able to give up 
the crutches, but the doctors predicted he would always walk 
with a limp   

"How did the snake get in the bathtub?" Jewel asked, eyes 
still on Mulder.

"It came up through the pipes." Eric lifted her from the table 
onto his shoulders.

She gripped his hair like the reins of a pony.

"Where is it now, Daddy? Did you kill it?" 

"No. It returned to its den." 

Eric's grandfather used to say a snake could be an omen, the 
harbinger of misfortune. This one had appeared the day the 
power went out, the day everything went to hell. 

Eric carried Jewel out onto the slanted front porch. A smear 
of orange glowed like a branding iron above the desert's 
distant horizon.  

"Mulder," he called softly, eyes combing the yard for signs of 
danger. "Come inside."

"Watch this." Mulder half-turned, lifted both crutches from 
the ground and took several limping steps toward the setting 
sun.  

"You can practice in the living room just as easily as out 
here." Eric was reluctant to say more in front of Jewel, but 
felt pressed when Mulder continued to hobble away. "There's 
been trouble in Pintado," he warned, "and Fort Defiance."

"But not here." Mulder wobbled, working hard at staying upright.

"Not yet. Please come inside."

"Only if you tell me what's really going on." Mulder's voice 
scraped the late afternoon air like a buzzard's cry.

Jewel flinched at the sudden sternness of his tone. Her tiny 
fingers dug into Eric's hair and pricked his scalp like 
needles. He gave her legs a reassuring squeeze.

"I'll tell you everything I know," Eric bargained, "if you 
promise to do the same."

Mulder squinted against the setting sun and considered for a 
moment.

"Deal," he said at last. "The truth this time...from both of 
us."

Eric nodded, figuring Mulder was recovered enough to hear 
about the attacks, the mutilations, the rumors of murderous 
invaders. Terrorists, devils, even ghosts were being blamed 
for the power outages and killings. 

"Let's talk inside. Linda's made fresh coffee."

"Can't say no to that." 

Determined to walk on his own, Mulder let the crutches dangle 
as he shuffled back to the house. His jaw tightened whenever 
he put weight on his bad leg. By the time he reached the 
steps, sweat was beading on his forehead and upper lip. His 
skin had gone ghostly pale.

Eric reached out a helping hand, but instead of taking it, 
Mulder thrust the crutches at him. "Thanks," he growled before 
slowly mounting the steps and entering the house.

Inside wasn't much safer than out, not if the rumors about 
roving killers were true. And Eric had no reason to doubt the 
stories; he'd seen evidence himself, bodies out in Hunters 
Wash, gutted and stripped of flesh and muscles, the corpses 
ignored by coyotes and vultures alike. It was strange; not so 
much as a blowfly fed on the remains. 

Eric glanced at his rifle, oiled and loaded, locked beyond 
Jewel's reach in the gun cabinet beside the refrigerator.

"Lemme down, Daddy." Jewel squirmed atop his shoulders. 

He swung her to the floor one-handed. She immediately seized 
the crutches from him. The metal cuffs were set too high for 
her short arms, so she clumsily gripped the crutches halfway 
down and began clomping around as if she were lame.

"Those belong to Mulder," Eric reminded her gently.

"She can keep 'em," Mulder said. "I won't be using them any 
more." He lowered himself stiffly onto one of the kitchen 
chairs and accepted a mug of steaming coffee from Linda.

"We're out of propane," Linda informed Eric, removing the 
empty coffee pot from the flameless burner.

They were out of almost everything: kerosene, candles, bottled 
water, canned food.

"Danny and I'll go to Shonto's tomorrow, try to scrounge some 
supplies." Eric straddled the chair opposite Mulder.

"Think there's anything left there?" Linda asked. 

Probably not. The market had been ransacked and picked clean 
weeks ago. But it wasn't like he had a lot of options. 
Everyone was getting desperate. 

"I might need to go to Gallup or Albuquerque."

"That's too far, Eric," she said, her voice watery with 
concern. "It's a three day ride on horseback."

"Then I'll take the Scout." For whatever reason, the vintage 
motorcycle still ran, unlike the pickup. "I can be there and 
back in a day."

"I don't want you going all that way alone," she objected.   

"I'll go with you," Mulder volunteered.

"Sorry," Eric said, "I'll need the space behind the seat for 
supplies."

"I want to help. You've been babysitting me long enough."

"You can help by staying right here, keeping an eye on the 
place while I'm gone." He hooked a thumb at the gun cabinet. 
"Linda never learned how to shoot."

"I don't like guns," she said, sounding defensive. "They scare 
me."

"What's roaming around outside is a helluva lot scarier than 
my rifle, hon," Eric said.

"What is out there?" Mulder's weary expression indicated he 
might already know the answer.

Eric glanced at Jewel. She didn't appear to be listening. 
Using Mulder's crutches, she was hopping back and forth over 
the threshold between the kitchen and the living room, singing 
to herself as she played. "Soon you'll zooooom all 'round the 
room, all takes is faith an' trust..." -- she leapt through 
the doorframe -- "but th'thing thassa pos'tive must..." -- she 
pivoted and bounded back -- "izza li'l bitta pixie dust!"

Eric lowered his voice to explain, "They showed up the day we 
found you."

Linda stood at the sink, shoulders hunched. She scrubbed hard 
at the coffee pot. "That's when everything started."

"Such as?" Mulder asked.

"Power went out."

Mulder nodded. "Right. Watches stopped working, cars wouldn't 
start, yadda, yadda. What else?"

"A shit-load of lightning, but no rain," Eric said.

"Flames dancing in the sky," Mulder guessed. "Tree branches, 
leaves, blades of grass, even the horns of cattle glowed a 
ghostly blue, am I right?" 

"How did you know?"

"St. Elmo's Fire," he said, as if the mysterious phenomenon 
made perfect sense. "What else?"

"Birds went crazy, flying in circles, crashing into buildings, 
cliffs, road signs. My cousin Danny found twenty-eight 
pintails dead in the desert. Imagine -- ducks in this part of 
New Mexico."

"Their ability to navigate was affected by the EMP." 

"The what?"

"Electromagnetic pulse. That's what disabled the power grids, 
communications systems, cars, your wristwatch."

"But not my motorcycle?"

"No electronic ignition."

Eric still didn't understand. "Where did this electro-whatever 
come from?"

Mulder waved off the question. "First tell me about the 
creatures, the ones killing cattle, horses, people."

Eric shot another quick look at Jewel. She had stopped her 
singing and was now watching them intently.

"Linda, didn't you promise Butter Bean a story after dinner?"

"You're right, I did," Linda said, understanding the need to 
shelter their daughter from the worst rumors. She dried her 
hands on a towel. "What'll it be this time, sweetie? Lizzie 
Zipmouth or Glubbslyme?" She led the girl into the adjoining 
room.

As soon as they were out of earshot, Eric continued, "I don't 
believe they're terrorists. Then again, I don't believe 
they're devils or ghosts either."

"They're none of those."

"Then who?"

"You know who they are. You saw them yourself seven years 
ago." 

He had seen them. Alien bodies stacked floor to ceiling in a 
boxcar, inexplicably buried beneath the red desert sand.

"You think they've come back?"

Mulder's gaze dropped to the oily surface of his coffee. He 
stared into it as if he might divine the future there. "There 
are thousands of them, Eric, tens of thousands. I saw them."

"Where?"

"Shiprock, the day this happened." He patted his injured leg.

Tens of thousands. Was it really possible?  

"How bad is it gonna get?"

"Did you see what happened at Shiprock?"

"No, but I heard." The men who had rescued Mulder described a 
huge open pit where the sacred mountain once stood. "What do 
these...these aliens want?"

"To feast on an all-you-can-eat human buffet."

Eric thought again of the bodies in Hunters Wash. It was no 
wonder the mutilated corpses were left untouched by 
scavengers. The dead were tainted by something from beyond 
this world.

"Why now?" he asked.

Mulder's cheeks darkened and a look of disgust thinned his 
lips. "My fault."

"Yours?"

"Yes." He pushed his coffee away. "Eric, if I don't stop them 
soon, they'll be crawling all over this planet. No one will be 
safe."

"How do you plan to stop ten thousand aliens?"

"I don't know." A muscle twitched along his jaw. "I-I've got 
to find Scully."

"You sure she's still alive?"

Mulder's startled expression made Eric wish he hadn't asked.  

"She's alive," Mulder growled. "We were together at Shiprock. 
I... She--" His voice broke and tears suddenly filled his 
eyes. He turned to the window and the growing gloom beyond. 
After a moment he whispered, "I'm sorry."

Eric nodded, although he had the feeling Mulder's apology 
wasn't directed at him.

"There may be a way to get some information," he offered, 
"although it's a little unconventional."

"I'm okay with unconventional." Mulder locked eyes with him. 
"What did you have in mind?"

"There are stories about a boy in the west. The elders say 
Wind's Child whispers in his ear."

"Wind's Child?"

"A guardian spirit. The elders believe Wind's Child helps this 
boy talk to the devils...the aliens...whatever they are. They 
say the boy can read minds."

"I know a boy like that." Mulder leaned forward. "Where is 
he?"

"In Arizona, a place called Kits'iil. It means 'houses that 
have been left behind.' I can show you on a map." 

Eric went to the junk drawer and rustled through credit card 
receipts, takeout menus and last year's Christmas cards. 
Unearthing a roadmap of Arizona, he took it to the table, 
unfolded it and pinpointed Kits'iil with the tip of his 
finger.

"There."

"Mind if I take this with me?" Mulder pushed away from the 
table and stood.

"You're leaving? Right now?"

"Why not?"

"Your leg--"

"My leg is fine." As if to prove his point he took three 
determined, if uneven, steps toward the door.

"Wait...Mulder...it's getting dark."

"Good, these aliens come out only in the day."

"How do you know that?"

"They crave heat, need it to develop, to metamorphose into 
their adult form. The desert is too cold at night. They don't 
like freezing their alien asses off."

The explanation didn't make much sense to Eric, but Mulder 
seemed convinced.

"You can't walk all the way to Kits'iil, Mulder. For 
Chrissake, you won't make it as far as the next street with 
that bad leg."

"Maybe I know a guy who owns a horse." Mulder smiled.

"You think you can get on and off a horse? Jesus, Mulder, wait 
a few weeks. Give yourself time to heal."

"I don't have that kind of time, Eric. None of us does."

In the adjoining room Jewel laughed at something in her 
storybook. She sounded heartbreakingly carefree. Eric's chest 
tightened. 

He made a quick decision. "Take the Scout."

For the first time since his arrival, hope gleamed in Mulder's 
eyes. "Got any gas?"

"Tank's full." Eric folded the map and offered it to Mulder. 
"Let me see what I can find for supplies. If you're willing to 
wait, that is." 

Mulder tucked the map into his back pocket. "Just don't take 
too long."

*   *   *

SOMEWHERE NEAR THE NEW MEXICO/ARIZONA BORDER
MIDNIGHT

Moonlight frosted the body of a white male, indeterminate age, 
spread-eagle on the highway's centerline. Blood, dried and 
black as pine pitch, darkened the pavement around him like a 
reverse halo. He was missing his head. From the jagged wound 
at his neck, Mulder guessed it had been torn off. The gaping 
torso was split lengthwise, its organs plundered. Large 
muscles -- thighs, calves, buttocks -- had been ravaged, 
exposing bone, yet the dead man was still wearing a canvas 
coat, leather gloves and a pair of hiking boots.

Mulder swung stiffly off the motorcycle. His left thigh 
throbbed after only two hours of riding.

"Guess I got that peg leg after all, Scully," he muttered, 
limping to the corpse. 

He quickly rifled through the man's pockets, hoping to find 
anything he might use as a weapon -- a handgun or a knife, 
hell, even pepper spray would be welcome. He missed the weight 
and security of his FBI-issued Glock.

His hand closed around a pack of cigarettes. 

"Better than a kick in the nuts," he said when the urge to 
smoke struck him like a roundhouse punch. It had been twelve 
years since his last cigarette, if you didn't count that 
tobacco beetle debacle. He opened the pack and looked inside. 
It held four cigarettes and a disposable lighter.

"Those things'll kill you," X warned, appearing out of the 
dark. His eyes swept the surrounding terrain with the same 
nervous caution he'd shown in life.

Mulder waved the Morleys at the gore lumping the road. "There 
are worse ways to go." He slipped the cigarettes into the 
pocket of his windbreaker.

"You should take his gloves, too," X urged.

"No thanks."

"Why not? He won't be needing them and it can get damn cold in 
the desert, especially with autumn coming on."

"I said no."

"It's okay to smoke his cigarettes, but not take his gloves?"

"I draw the line at stealing clothes from a corpse." 

"Is that an ethical decision? Or are you just squeamish?"

Mulder waited out a wave of irritation. "Interesting you 
should ask."

"Why's that?"

"Scully told me something once...something a man told her."

"What would that be?"

"He said the dead speak to us from beyond the grave, that 
that's what conscience is." Mulder glared at X. "You aren't my 
conscience, are you?"

X laughed, a harsh, barking sound that echoed across sagebrush 
and sand. "Is that really what you think?"

"I see dead people. I don't know what I think any more." 

Mulder hobbled back to the motorcycle to hunt through the 
storage compartment behind the seat. Locating the water 
bottle, he popped the cap and took a swig. The water tasted 
gritty, but it cleared the tang of death from his throat.

Slouching against the bike, he adopted a genial tone. "You 
ever run into Krycek over there on your side of the Great 
Beyond?"

X circled the bike, his shoes soundless on the tar, his 
trenchcoat hanging limp despite the night wind. He cast no 
shadow on the moonlit highway. "No. Why?"

"Because I'd like to kick his ethereal ass from here to Hell 
for getting me into this mess...for getting everyone into it." 
Mulder recapped the bottle and tossed it into the storage 
compartment.

"Mobilization was going to happen with or without Alex 
Krycek." 

"Yeah, well later would've been a helluva lot better than 
sooner. The world might've had a chance to prepare."

"The world was never going to be prepared...not for this."

Mulder zipped his jacket against the chill and scanned the 
highway ahead. The road resembled a knife blade, splitting the 
badlands as far as the eye could see. 

Was he still on Highway 134? 

He yanked the map from his back pocket, unfolded it and angled 
it into the moonlight.   

"Krycek used me," he said.

"And they used him." 

"They cloned him. That should've appealed to an egocentric 
son-of-a-bitch like Krycek."  

"Playing host to the Apocalypse is hardly an honor." 

Mulder recalled the haunted expressions on the clones' faces. 

"You think he was trying to end the clones' suffering?"

"Sounds like something an egocentric son-of-a-bitch might do, 
doesn't it? They were part of him."

The wind rattled the map, folding it back on itself.

"Doesn't mean he was trying to stop the invasion, even if he 
believed the alien fetuses would die with the clones."

X wasn't listening. His attention was on the road behind them. 
"Better get moving."

"Why? What's back there? What's coming?"

"You don't want to find out."

*   *   *

HOSTEEN RESIDENCE
SOMETIME AFTER MIDNIGHT

Jewel was awake and calling for Eric. She wanted a drink of 
water. And a story.

Eric granted her both, trying to settle her down for the 
second time that night by recounting a favorite Navajo legend.

"Changing Woman's twin sons--"

"Born for Water and Monster Slayer," the girl interrupted, 
naming the twins. 

"That's right. They set out to visit their father."

"The Sun."

She'd heard the story before...many times.

"The trip was dangerous," Eric continued.

He sat on the edge of her bed, his weight sinking the small 
mattress. A kerosene lamp cast a blond circle of light on the 
nightstand beside him; it scented the air with its oily odor, 
reminding him again of the effortlessness of electricity and 
the serenity of earlier times. Jewel watched him through wide 
eyes, her blanket drawn up to her chin.

"Are you sure you want to hear this story, Butter Bean?" he 
asked, worried it might give her nightmares.

"I like Wind's Child," she said.

Wind's Child -- the twins' helper, placed in the folds of 
their ears to advise them when they were in danger. Eric 
understood the appeal of such a guardian.

"Okay then...the twins climbed a rainbow to get to the house 
of the Sun," he said. "They underwent many trials to prove 
they were truly his sons."

"And they proved it."

"Yes."

"And the Sun wanted to give them jewels and pretty flowers and 
rainbows, right?"

"He did, but Wind's Child told the twins to say, 'We did not 
come for those things, my father; that is not our purpose. We 
came for a pair of lightning arrows and flint shoes, clubs and 
leggings.'"

"On account of the monsters."

"Yes, on account of the monsters. The Sun answered slowly, 
telling them they were brothers to the monsters they wished to 
kill. But he placed agate in them, making them immune to 
injury, and then gave them the garments and weapons they had 
asked for. He also gave them prayersticks and told the younger 
of the two--"

"Born for Water."

"Yes, Born for Water. He told him he must sit and watch the 
prayersticks while his older brother--"

"Monster Slayer."

"Yes, while Monster Slayer went to kill the monsters."

"Monster Slayer was very brave."

Or crazy, Eric thought. Like Mulder.

"Monster Slayer left his father's house--"

A crash in the hall startled Eric and caused Jewel to gasp.

"What was that?" she whispered.

"Shh." 

He rose from the bed. Across the hall, Linda screamed.

"Momma!" Jewel kicked back the covers and scrambled to her 
knees in the middle of the mattress. "Mom--"

"Shhhh!" Eric hissed. His hand shot out to cover her mouth 
before she could shout again.

Footsteps thudded down the hall. Another crash. The sound of 
splintering wood.

Jewel was shaking. Small, frantic breaths hissed from her 
nose, steaming Eric's hand, which had grown ice cold. He 
couldn't leave her; he was certain she would chase after him, 
even if he told her not to. Yet he had to find a way to help 
Linda.

Glass shattered in the bathroom. It was followed by a gurgling 
howl, so inhuman Eric wasn't sure if it was Linda or one of 
her attackers.

Jewel whimpered behind Eric's hand and he realized he was 
gripping her mouth too tightly. 

"I'm going to take my hand away. Don't scream, okay?"

She nodded, knocking loose two fat tears.

He released his hold.

"I'm going to get you out of here, Butter Bean. You're gonna 
crawl through the window. Then you're gonna run as fast as you 
can to Uncle Dan's. Got that?"

"You come, t-too, D-daddy."

Thumps and clangs continued throughout the house.

"I'll be right behind you," he lied, lifting her from the bed. 
In truth he intended to run to the kitchen to get his rifle as 
soon as Jewel was safely on her way.

She clung to him with quaking arms as he carried her to the 
window. 

He shoved the drapes aside and froze at what he saw beyond the 
glass. His cousin's house was ablaze next door. Further down 
the street, the Attakai's and the Nells' were engulfed in 
flames, too. Columns of sparks spiraled skyward above the 
rooftops. Fiery fingers clawed desperately at the heavens, 
while a shroud of smoke dimmed the moon and stars. Dozens of 
tall insect-like creatures loped across the yards, backlit by 
the inferno.

They were Mulder's aliens. He had been right.

Rifle shots, muted by distance, popped like firecrackers 
somewhere across the village, while a chorus of human screams 
pressed against the glass like fog. 

Jewel screeched when an alien face suddenly appeared at the 
window, inches away. It had eyes the size of Eric's fists, 
black as tar and glossed with evil. Green scaly plates covered 
its hairless head. A row of fangs glittered in a lipless 
mouth. It hissed, splattering the window with a sludgy pus-
colored film.  

Eric stumbled back, two steps, three...

An unearthly stutter trilled in the hall outside the bedroom 
door, a click-clacking noise that brought bile to the back of 
his throat. 

They were trapped. 

The window burst, spraying glass across the floor. The alien's 
taloned hand reached into the room. 

Eric kissed the crown of his daughter's dark head and hugged 
her tightly. Resignation seized him; his thudding heart felt 
ready to burst. There was no Monster Slayer to save them 
tonight, no Wind's Child to steer them from evil. The ancient 
deities had fled the world of men and abandoned them to Hell's 
demons.

*   *   *

KITS'IIL, ARIZONA

Gibson longed to shut out the panicked screams at Two Gray 
Hills. It was suffocating, crushing, to bear witness to the 
death throes of an entire town.

"I can't help them," he sniffled, wiping sweat from his brow 
with his sleeve.

He was exhausted after hours of moving rocks, incrementally 
dismantling Kits'iil's crumbling walls in search of something 
he'd been promised was buried there -- a "key," Albert Hosteen 
had said, an answer to the world's dire condition. Gibson's 
arms and shoulders ached from his labor. His fingers bled, 
rubbed raw by the pumicey stone of the ancient ruins. 

"What you are doing will help many," Albert Hosteen assured. 
He sat cross-legged beside Gibson's oil lamp, arms draped over 
his knees. His eyes gleamed with infinite patience. 

"It's not enough."

"You cannot save everyone, but you can do this."

Gibson tossed another stone aside. It landed with a hollow 
thud on the hard sandy soil behind him. "You're certain it's 
here?"

"Yes, but you must dig deep. The Ancient Ones did not intend 
for it to be found easily." 

Gibson was unable to read the dead Indian's thoughts, so was 
forced to ask, "Do you know what's going on in Two Gray 
Hills?" 

"Yes. My grandson and great-granddaughter will join me soon. 
It will be a joyful reunion."

"They're suffering."

"Yes." Moonlight transformed the dead Indian's long, white 
hair into a silvery waterfall. "But it will be over quickly."

Not for me, Gibson thought.

Six para-aliens watched him from beyond the glow of his oil 
lamp. Their bellies craved fresh meat. They lifted their 
slotted nostrils to the night wind, attracted by his human 
scent. Yet for whatever reason they remained where they were. 
Maybe they understood he was like them, his genes a closer 
match to their ancestors than to his own.

Or maybe it was Albert Hosteen's ghost that kept them at bay.

Gibson worked another stone loose and reached into the dark 
hole behind it.

His hands encountered something smooth, cool and dome-shaped.

"Now you have what you need," Albert Hosteen said and 
vanished.

The aliens moved restlessly, chattering in their peculiar 
click-clacking language; their extraterrestrial interchange 
raised the fine hairs on the back of Gibson's neck. They knew 
he'd found what he'd come for, and he knew they intended to 
take it from him.

He carefully removed the item from its ancient hiding place. 
The lamp revealed gleaming teeth, deep eye sockets and the 
smooth crown of a humanoid skull. The jaw was delicate, the 
nubbin-like teeth as small as a preschooler's, yet the cranium 
was oversized even for an adult, and its massive brow ridges 
shadowed enormous eyeholes. 

Something rattled inside the hollow brain case.

Gibson struck the skull hard against a stone to break it open. 
It split into several brittle pieces and a slender metallic 
cylinder tumbled out.

He held it to the light. Three inches long and as thin as a 
PDA stylus, it had no movable parts and no apparent purpose, 
yet it was incised with miniature symbols. He ran his 
thumbnail over them and the artifact seemed to warm in his 
hand.

The aliens' chatter intensified. He sensed their desire for 
the thing he'd found. He wondered if they would kill him for 
it.

*   *   *

NORTHEASTERN ARIZONA

Dawn seeped across the sky like blood on silk, staining the 
clouds crimson and tinting the roadway pink. Mulder navigated 
a series of spine-jarring potholes. His injured leg burned 
with each jolt and he longed to get off the bike and stretch.

"Suck it up, G-Man," Krycek whispered into his ear, startling 
him so badly he swerved off the pavement.

He fought the drag of sand and wrestled the Scout back onto 
the road, then chanced a quick look behind him. 

Krycek was there, riding shotgun and grinning smugly. "Miss 
me?"

"Fuck you."

Krycek leaned closer. His tone was mockingly seductive. "They 
say absence makes the heart grow fonder." 

"Go to hell."

"Not ready to forgive and forget?"

"I'd kill you if you weren't already dead."

"Why are you mad at me? I was just trying to help."

"You've never helped anyone but yourself."

"Not true, my friend. Yes, I wanted those aliens dead. But you 
wanted them dead, too. I figured we could help each other."

Mulder chuffed in disgust.

"Hey, you saw what they were doing to my, uh, heirs," Krycek 
tried to defend his actions. "You think I should've just bent 
over and let them metaphorically fuck me up the ass?"

"I could live with that -- metaphorically or otherwise."

"Mulder, I swear you get meaner with every passing 
conspiracy."

"Yeah, well, daily beatings and lousy prison food tend to do 
that to a guy."

"You're singing to the choir, pal." Krycek leaned closer to 
Mulder's ear. "Remind me to cry you a river after they've 
chopped you up and turned you into ten thousand alien 
incubators."

"Now who's whining?" 

Mulder focused on the road ahead. Three-quarters of a mile 
away, the ruins of an ancient village dotted the flatland like 
broken teeth. 

"Kits'iil?" Krycek asked. 

"I hope so." Mulder was eager to be off the bike and rid of 
his ghostly passenger.

"Looks like trouble in River City," Krycek said.

Something was moving among the toppled adobes. 

Several somethings, Mulder corrected himself, counting seven 
distinct shapes.

Krycek began to bellow a verse from The Music Man. "'Heed the 
warning before it's too late! Watch for the tell-tale sign of 
corruption!'"

"Shut the fuck up."

Mulder could see them more clearly now, several stilt-legged 
aliens forming a loose circle within the crumbling walls of 
the ancient village, their greenish-black scales reflecting 
the early morning sun. At their center stood a lone human boy. 

"Shit, that's Gibson."

"Better hurry, Batman," Krycek warned. "Looks like the Boy 
Wonder is in danger." 

Mulder lowered his head and gave the bike more gas. 

The roar of the engine alerted the aliens to his approach. 
They closed ranks around Gibson, who pivoted like "it" in a 
game of dodge ball. The rising sun flashed off his glasses 
with each frantic turn of his head. 

"Time to kick a little alien ass," Mulder muttered, more to 
himself than to Krycek.

"Or die a fool," Krycek said. 

Without a weapon, Mulder wasn't sure what he would do once he 
reached Gibson. There were few realistic alternatives, but he 
refused to let impracticality stop him.

"At least I'll go down fighting." 

He steered the motorcycle off the pavement and bee-lined 
toward the ruins.

The Scout jounced over corrugated sand, ripping through scrub 
and sending a plume of dust skyward. He hit a ridge and became 
momentarily airborne. He braced for impact. It came, hard and 
excruciating. Pain shot from his knee to his hip. 

Biting back a yelp, he opened the throttle. He planned to ram 
the alien phalanx, take down as many as he could in the 
process.

With less than a hundred yards to go, Krycek shouted above the 
straining engine, "I don't like the odds, buddy. Gotta go."

Then he vanished from the seat behind Mulder. 

"Coward," Mulder growled behind clenched teeth. It was just 
like Krycek to turn tail and run the minute things got dicey.

The aliens began milling in a disorganized way. They kept a 
distance of a few feet between themselves and Gibson. Mulder 
knew the boy could communicate with them; he'd witnessed it at 
Rolling Hills Nuclear Power Plant. Maybe Gibson was pleading 
for his life right now. 

Mulder targeted three to Gibson's left. If he could wound or 
kill them --  

To his surprise, Krycek suddenly materialized inside the ring 
of aliens. They scattered, although not very far. Mulder was 
astounded they could see Krycek, let alone feared him, yet they 
kept their distance.

Krycek waved Mulder in.

"You owe me an apology," Krycek said when Mulder skidded to a 
stop beside him and the boy.

Mulder offered a hand to Gibson, who mounted the bike behind 
him.

The aliens pawed the air and hissed, their disappointment 
evident. One darted forward, trying to get to Gibson, but 
Krycek blocked it. It chattered angrily, but stayed back.   

"Apology for what?" Mulder asked, revving the engine.

"Misjudging me."

"I still don't trust you, Krycek." Mulder released the brake 
and rocketed across the sand. "But thanks."

*   *   *

BLUFF, UTAH
SEPTEMBER 30
SUNRISE

Twin Rocks Monument rose like two giant fists from the ruddy 
plateau. Tucked at their base was a sprawling restaurant/gift 
shop, a pit stop for busloads of tourists on their way to 
Canyon de Chelly or Arches National Park. 

The restaurant was deserted and had an eerie ghost town feel. 
The rising sun shot horizontal bands of pale light through its 
long front windows, casting prison bar patterns across the 
chilly interior's scuffed Linoleum floor. A fetid, rotting 
odor wrinkled Gibson's nose as he wandered the aisles of the 
gift shop. He kept his mind anchored to Mulder, who was 
rummaging through the kitchen for something to eat and drink.

Native American crafts, fossils, disposable cameras, and 
useless souvenirs were gathering dust on the shelves. Gibson 
selected a picture postcard from a circular rack. According to 
the description on the back, the Twin Rocks Monument 
represented mythical brothers -- Born for Water and Monster 
Slayer -- from a Navajo creation story.

"Bingo!" Mulder shouted from behind the breakfast counter.

He'd found drinks and Gibson read relief in his mind. He 
replaced the postcard and sauntered to the dining room, where 
Mulder was up-righting two vinyl-padded chairs, one a dirty 
yellow, the other a pale blue. 

"Coke's yours," Mulder said. He eased into the blue chair, 
stiff-legged and tired. He gripped a Shiner Bock in one hand.

"How come I don't get beer?" Gibson sat, too.

"Because you're underage."

"I don't see anyone checking IDs."

Mulder shook his head, dismissing the argument. "I need your 
mind clear, Gibson." //...to help me find Scully...//

Gibson ignored Mulder's unspoken hope and tilted his chin 
toward the kitchen. "There wasn't anything to eat back there?"

Mulder bristled at the change of subject. Gibson could hear 
Mulder's thoughts as clearly as his own. Among them, he found 
patterns of disquiet and desire. Mulder wasn't interested in 
food. He ached for Scully, who Gibson quickly learned had gone 
missing after an argument between the two of them. The cause 
of their quarrel had hurt Mulder profoundly. His need to find 
her and set things right was stronger than anything Gibson had 
ever experienced firsthand. It was physically powerful, with a 
sexual component, but more than that, too. Meandering doubts, 
unresolved anger, and so much guilt. Scully's absence caused a 
phantom pain in Mulder's psyche; it left a gaping hole in his 
heart.  

"You had a fight." Gibson said.

"What?"

"A fight. With Scully."

A string of uncharitable phrases thundered through Mulder's 
thoughts. "Stay out of my head, Gibson."

"It's not like I can turn it off."

Mulder chugged half his beer without taking a breath. Gibson 
could hear him wishing for something stronger, something that 
would cloud his mind and stymie Gibson's unwelcome intrusion. 

"Is it safe to assume you and I aren't the only two people 
left on the planet?" Mulder asked, setting his beer on the 
table. He kept his fingers curled tightly around the bottle's 
narrow neck.

"There are others."

"Then how 'bout eavesdropping on one of them?"

"I could try, but...you're right next to me, so it's kind of 
like your signal's the loudest."   

"Wonderful." 

"I'm not passing judgment."

"Excuse me?"

"On what you're thinking."

"Better not--" //prying punk-ass //

Gibson forced a smile. "Really? Is that how you think of me?"

Mulder turned his deaf ear to Gibson and absently scratched 
the roadmap of fine scars on his left cheek. "You'd think I'd 
be used to this mind-reading crap by now," he said, referring 
to their months together in New Mexico, when Mulder was in 
hiding. He sipped his beer more leisurely, trying hard to 
relax. "Tell me something I don't know. Like why--"

"Why was I with a bunch of aliens at Kits'iil?"

"Yeah, like that."

Gibson picked at the dirt and dried blood on his hands. "They 
didn't want to kill me, you know."

"No? Looked like it to me."

"They wanted this." Gibson dug into his pocket and pulled out 
the artifact.

Mulder took it, turned it over in his hand. His irritation was 
immediately displaced by curiosity. "What is it?"

Gibson shrugged. "I was hoping you might know."

"I recognize the markings." //...they match the ones on the 
spacecraft in Shiprock...//

"You were on board?" Gibson searched Mulder's mind, trying to 
fill in the blanks. 

"Yes, unfortunately." Mulder slipped the artifact into his 
pocket.

"What did you see?"

"Why not perform your Amazing Kreskin act and save us both 
some time?"

Gibson took a swallow of Coke, trying to appear inconspicuous 
as he probed Mulder's mind for details.

Krycek clones, alien fetuses, a uniformed man who looked like 
Mulder's twin.

The aliens' premature invasion was beginning to make sense.

"I've got some bad news," Gibson warned.

Although Mulder's expression held reservations, he cocked his 
good ear toward Gibson. //...go on...//

"They're dead."

"Who's dead?"

"The people in Two Gray Hills."

"Everyone?"

"Yes."

"Jesus. What happened?"

"You really want details?"

//...no, no, no...// "I've got to stop this."

"It's not your fault, Mulder."

//...if you can read my mind...// "You know what I did."

"I know colonization was going to happen with or without you." 

Mulder drained the remainder of his beer, then rose to get 
another. 

He was halfway to the kitchen when Gibson said, "I don't like 
knowing this stuff, you know." He was hoping Mulder would 
relent and bring him a beer, too, giving him the means to 
silence the miserable voices in his head, present company 
included.

Mulder turned to face him. "There's something I need you to 
do, Gibson." //...listen for Scully. Find her...//

"I can't hear her, Mulder. I'm sorry."

"Have you tried?"

"Yes." When Mulder's distress overtook him, Gibson added, "It 
doesn't mean she's dead."

"No?"

"She could just be...in a place I can't access."

"Like where? Jesus, she was with me at Shiprock. She can't be 
too--" Realization rolled through him. He swayed on unsteady 
legs. "She's with Them, isn't she?"

"It's possible."

"Oh, Christ." Mulder balled his fists. "Damn it. I blamed her-
-"

"I know, for putting William up for adoption."

Fear and anger warred within Mulder. "It wasn't just that. She 
quit, Gibson. She wouldn't fight for him. She put his life at 
risk for her own convenience. I couldn't forgive that." //...I 
still can't...//

His trust had been broken; he was deeply, maybe irrevocably 
wounded by a perceived betrayal.

A wave of panic rose in Mulder's mind. Gibson wanted to dodge 
the nightmarish images, but couldn't. Aliens. Human soldiers. 
The sting of deprivation. Gibson ducked reflexively when faced 
by a too-real memory of raised batons, cracked ribs, spraying 
blood. Terror knotted Mulder's belly and, in turn, Gibson's. 
Screams lodged in both their throats. They blinked back 
scalding tears. They shivered from the frigid damp of a prison 
cell, an examination platform, a closed coffin.

"M-maybe I can help you find William," Gibson blurted, wanting 
to end the godawful feeling of isolation, the appalling 
treachery. 

"Can you hear him?" A tide of hope stemmed Mulder's terror, 
relieving Gibson. "Do you know where he is?"

"I don't, but... I can try."

Gibson concentrated, spiraling out geographically, taking mere 
seconds to scan tens of thousands of individual thoughts. He 
searched for a pattern unique to young William Mulder. Voices 
rotated past his internal radar like stations on a radio dial. 
Locating a specific adult could be complicated, but 
pinpointing a baby might prove impossible. Without fully 
developed language skills, an infant's thoughts were abstract 
and generalized. One baby tended to sound much like another.

"Do you see him? Is he okay?" 

Mulder's impatience was distracting. Gibson held up a hand to 
quiet him.

"I haven't found him ye--"

And then suddenly there he was. William's thoughts were more 
distinct than Gibson would have predicted. The pattern bore a 
striking resemblance to Mulder's insightful mind.

"I've got him."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, he's...he's thinking about you." This surprised Gibson 
almost as much as it surprised Mulder.

"He doesn't even know me," Mulder said. "We were together for 
only a couple of days."

"I can't explain it, but it's true."

"Could...could William be like you? Can he hear my thoughts?" 
//...God, please no...//

Mulder's unspoken disappointment hurt Gibson; it made him feel 
monstrous, inhuman. "Maybe," he said meanly, then relented 
when Mulder's eyes widened and his mind recoiled. "Or it could 
be just a memory."

"That's not possible. He was only two days old when I left. 
There's no way he could remember me."

Gibson shrugged, unable to explain. "He's with a woman. 
She's..." Gibson shifted from William's immature impressions 
to the woman's more focused thoughts.

"She's what?" Mulder asked, exasperated.

"Afraid."

"Jesus, Gibson, who isn't?" Fighting to control his temper, 
Mulder began to pace, then stopped when he realized his noisy, 
lopsided stride might distract Gibson and break his link with 
William's caretaker.

There was no need for concern. Gibson's abilities were far 
from fragile. 

"Why is she afraid?" Mulder asked after only a moment.

Gibson waited for the woman's consciousness to voice a reason. 
"Rick's dead."

"Who the hell is Rick?"

"Husband. He was killed...by Them." Bits of a stranger's 
history blew past Gibson like autumn leaves in a windstorm. 
"She isn't William's mother."

"No shit."

"No, I mean, she isn't his adoptive mother."

"Then who is she? Is she...qualified to be taking care of a 
baby?"

Gibson listened for more details. "She's hungry. She's worried 
about him...the baby."

"Where are they?"

"I don't know."

"Come on, Gibson. There must be something in her thoughts 
that'll give us a clue."

"Not at the moment."

"What about William? Is he...is he looking at anything?"

"Mulder, it doesn't work that way. I can't *see* through their 
eyes. I hear their thoughts. Words, impressions, memories, 
feelings. It's not always easy to sort out and it's not like 
I'm watching a movie."

Mulder returned to the table, but didn't sit. "I'm sorry. It's 
okay. I'm just--"

"Worried. Yes, I know." Gibson listened again. "He's thinking 
of a toy."

"A toy?"

"He doesn't have a word for it. I think it's one of those 
things people hang on kids' cribs."

"A mobile?"

"Yeah, with animals on it."

"What kind of animals?"

"Does it matter?"

"Right now everything matters."

"Well, uh, they're, uh, I think they're light-colored...like 
clouds. He knows the word for clouds."

"Sheep?" Mulder pressed, hoping to glean some useful bit of 
information from Gibson's connection.

"Not sheep...uhh... He calls them 'buffs.'"

“Buffalo? White buffalo?” That was it -- the clue Mulder had 
been hoping for. “They’re in Wyoming. The state flag has a white 
buffalo on it.” Mulder limped to the cafe's front entrance. 

“We're leaving now?”  Gibson rose to hurry after him, leaving 
the Coke.

"My son's with a frightened woman who's not his adoptive 
mother in a place that's not his home." Mulder opened the door 
and held it. "There are ten thousand killer aliens roaming the 
planet. Yeah, we're going after him...right *now*."

x-x-x-x-x

BOOK IV: THE GREAT RED DRAGON

EARTH DATE: OCTOBER 12, 2002
TSE'BIT'A'I
CASSANDRA SPENDER'S QUARTERS

The honeyed scent of paste wax filled the tidy bedroom. Dibeh 
polished Cassandra's mahogany wardrobe, making it gleam 
brighter than an Overseer's onyx chair. She enjoyed this 
particular chore. The rhythmic motion created knots of warmth 
in her upper arms and between her shoulder blades. She felt a 
growing sense of accomplishment as she vanquished yesterday's 
dust from the deeply carved panels and moldings.

In her head, she sang as she worked. She didn't imagine the 
croaking grunts of her actual voice, but a clear and lilting 
timbre, like that of her mistress. Lady Cassandra's favorite 
song referred wistfully to a place called California -- a 
place Dibeh had never visited. Truth be told, Dibeh had never 
been anywhere other than the ship, and no further from her 
shared room on the servants' deck than the officers' 
residences four levels up. 

//All the leaves are brown and the sky is gray. I've been for 
a walk on a winter's day.// Dibeh wasn't fond of the song's 
gloomy lyrics, but the tune was pleasant. It looped through 
her head as she swirled wax around the dresser's ornate drawer 
pulls. //Stopped into a church, I passed along--//

A tap on her arm startled her. She spun to find her friend 
Ulso unexpectedly at her side.

"You scared me, you sneak!" she signed and smiled to show she 
was pleased to see the older servant. 

"Master Ca-Lo is demanding to see you," Ulso signaled in 
response. Her nimble fingers sliced the air, quickly and 
gracefully spelling out her message. She punctuated the 
Master's unexpected request with a hard-clenched fist to 
demonstrate its importance.

"Me?" Dibeh signaled back, surprised. She was Lady Cassandra's 
aide; she had never serviced Cassandra's son before. "What 
does he want with me?"

"He did not say, but he is in another of his dark moods. 
Servant Be-Gahi said he refused his midday meal -- threw his 
pot of tacheene against the wall."

"You can hardly blame him for that!" Dibeh scrunched her face 
and stuck out her tongue to demonstrate how little she liked 
the putrid stew-like dish.

"When Be-Gahi tried to clean up the spill, Master shouted to 
the Angels, hoisted her over his shoulder and carried her all 
the way down to the servants' kitchen, where he dumped her at 
the feet of Cook VI."

"I do not believe it." The kitchen was two decks below Master 
Ca-Lo's quarters. He would not have taken the trouble. He had 
more important things to attend to: the Infants were nearing 
maturation, new Breeding Compounds were under construction in 
Earth's largest cities, and the Armada was launching daily 
assaults against terrestrial uprisings. The number of dead and 
captured was awe inspiring, outstripping all expectations, yet 
there remained much to do. Mistress Cassandra talked 
incessantly about her son's various and significant 
responsibilities. "Rumors multiply faster than larder maggots 
in a sweet bin," Dibeh warned. 

"I was there. I saw it happen," Ulso insisted. "As did twenty 
other servants."

"Ca-Lo actually went into the kitchen?"

"I'm telling you, the Master dropped Be-Gahi on her fat old 
ass right next to the sanitation sink, then began shouting 
blasphemies. I feared the Red Dragon would strike him dead, 
and us along with him!"

Similar stories about Ca-Lo's foul temper had been circulating 
the servants' deck for weeks. Just yesterday the gossips 
recounted how Ca-Lo had forcibly evicted Companion XXI from 
his apartment and then ordered all thirty-six of his personal 
hybrid consorts to leave him alone...indefinitely. It was said 
he hadn't bedded a single one since the night the Earth woman 
was locked away in the Privation Chambers.

"Maybe he has grown weary of being at the center of the 
servants' gossip," Dibeh signed.

"Then he should give us less to talk about." Ulso prodded 
Dibeh's arm. "You better hurry, young one. The Master's mood 
is not likely to improve while you dawdle."

Dibeh thanked Ulso and abandoned her polishing to hurry to Ca-
Lo's quarters. 

On her way, she fretted over her appearance; furniture wax 
caked her nails and her coarsely woven dress was a simple 
uniform, brown in color, without adornment and stained at the 
pocket, not at all suitable attire for an audience with the 
Master. Her hair was tied into a knot at the back of her neck 
and held by a plain clip. She wore no burnished silicon 
bracelets to show her worth, no decorations at her ears, no 
jeweled stud in her small nose, nor paint on her face like a 
pretty consort. Truth be told, such devices did little to 
improve her appearance. She had been bred to serve a lady, not 
be attractive to men.

When she reached Ca-Lo's quarters, she smoothed her hair as 
best she could and then pressed the enter button on the keypad 
beside his door.

"Come in." Ca-Lo's voice crackled from the speaker.

At his command, the door opened with a pneumatic hiss and 
Dibeh stepped into his sumptuous apartment. The remains of his 
spilled tacheene lay at her feet, the carpet stained orange-
red. She stooped to gather the broken bowl and clean the mess.

"Leave it," Ca-Lo snapped, without looking up from his desk. 

His uniform was wrinkled and unfastened at the neck in a most 
unsoldierly fashion. His hair was unbound, snarled and in need 
of washing. A two-day stubble bristled his customarily smooth 
jaw and bluish-gray shadows smudged his cheeks beneath 
downcast eyes.

Spread out in front of him was a collection of feminine 
garments: a silky black blouse, twill slacks with a slender 
belt, and a pair of boots, quite small. 

He studied the items for a long time, smoothing the silk and 
fingering the boots' thin laces.

Dibeh stood straight as a sewing needle beside the door, 
awaiting his next order. 

Several long moments passed in silence before he finally 
lifted his eyes to acknowledge her.

Feeling awkward and not knowing the appropriate thing to say, 
she dipped her head and signaled politely, "How goes the 
Harmonious Settlement?"

He frowned and waved off her question. "Come here," he 
growled.

She obeyed, stepping carefully around the congealing tacheene, 
fearful that even the scuff of her slippers on the plush 
carpet might further irritate his already volatile 
disposition.

"Closer!" he demanded when she paused an arm's length away. 

She edged closer.

Apparently not satisfied, he grabbed her wrist and yanked her 
nearer still.

His hand was hot, almost feverish. He gripped her arm tightly. 
The tart odor of his sweat caused her to wrinkle her nose. His 
countenance was so severe she began to tremble.

When he noticed her fear, he loosened his hold a little, 
enough for her to withdraw her hand. An apology flitted across 
his face, then was gone.

"See this?" He retrieved a delicate gold necklace from the 
pile of garments.

Her head bobbed and she tried to smile.

"It belongs to Dana."

"The Earth woman?" she signaled.

He regarded her with grim eyes. "I want you to take it to 
her."

"But...she is in a Privation Chamber, is she not?"

"Yes."

"Sir, I do not have access to the Portal of Solitude."

He returned the necklace to the pile of clothes, then dug into 
his pants pocket and withdrew a slim transponder. It was 
unlike any she had ever seen, as slender as the Mistress' 
snuff tube and no longer than her smallest finger. Nih-hi-cho 
symbols, meticulously inscribed in the metal, spelled out an 
ancient prophecy along one side. 

"This will get you in," he said. "Don't lose it. It's the only 
one like it on the ship."

She hesitated, not wanting to take such an important key or 
accept his dangerous task. What if she were to get caught 
trespassing inside the sacred caldarium? She would be 
executed, certainly, or forced to live out the remainder of 
her days in a Privation Chamber.

"Please, sir, do not ask me."

"There's no one else." He rose from his chair. Tall and 
imposing, he leaned over her. "Dibeh, you are my mother's 
personal aide. She trusts you. She said you would do this for 
me."

Not wanting to contradict her mistress or Master Ca-Lo, she 
took the key with a trembling hand and tucked it into her 
sleeve. "What shall I tell the guards if they stop me?"

Impatience huffed from Ca-Lo's nose. "Dana is being kept in a 
stasis cell. You can pose as her Feeder. No one will stop 
you."

He plucked the necklace from the desk. "I would take it to her 
myself, if there was any way. But I'm denied access. The 
Overseers watch me whenever I'm outside these rooms. You, on 
the other hand, can walk right under their noses without being 
noticed."

It was true. Most Nih-hi-cho paid scant attention to hybrid 
servants. At times they seemed unable to discern a consort 
from a cook. One hybrid evidently looked much like any other 
to the purebloods, and their insignificant thoughts were not 
worth reading.

"You will collect Dana's meal in the kitchen," Ca-Lo said. 
"Deliver it as instructed. After you dispense her quota of na-
a-jah, give her this."

He dangled the cross in front of her. Its symmetric symbol 
meant nothing to Dibeh, but the pretty way it reflected the 
gleam of Ca-Lo's desk lamp was mesmerizing.

"Is there any message you would like me to convey to the Earth 
woman when I give her the necklace?"

His expression turned mournful. "I doubt she'll be conscious. 
At least I hope she's not." He took hold of Dibeh's hand and 
pressed the necklace into her palm. "You mustn't let anyone 
see you give this to her, do you understand? I can't protect 
you if you get caught."

She nodded, unnerved by the challenge ahead, yet afraid to 
disobey Ca-Lo -- or disappoint her mistress.

"Come back here after you leave the caldarium," Ca-Lo said, 
stroking her hair in a gesture of tender gratitude. "I want a 
report on Dana's well-being as soon as I return from the 
Overseers' Chambers."

*   *   *

THE NURSERY
DECK 72

Besh-Lo paced in front of the supply elevator, broken glass 
crunching beneath the heels of his polished military boots. He 
was in his human form, awaiting Cassandra Spender. She 
believed he was her secret confidant, a man named Sergeant 
Thompson. The Overseers, on the other hand, knew him as 
Watcher VIII, VII's replacement. In truth, he was both. Besh-
Lo was a Refuter spy, a double agent pretending to be 
Cassandra's ally while also posing as one of the Overseers' 
faithful Watchers. 

The Nursery was just as it had been after the preemptive 
release of the Infants: frigid, foggy and littered with 
overturned incubators. The birthing process had activated a 
rapid chemical reaction within the clones, transforming the 
Infant's amniotic fluid into a corrosive digestive enzyme. It 
quickly reduced the dying Kryceks to a shimmering soup of 
mineral byproducts. The liquefied remains then congealed and 
shriveled to a powdery residue. Almost five months later, the 
clones' distinctly human odor still hung in the air like mold 
spores, irritating Besh-Lo's sensitive nasal passages.

The elevator chimed, announcing Cassandra's arrival. Besh-Lo 
ceased his pacing and stood waiting for the silvery doors to 
open. His reflection stared back at him, a compact, sinewy 
man, forty-eight Earth years old, with walnut skin, 
corkscrewing hair cropped close to his skull, and whiskers the 
color of steel wool. Shrewd eyes gleamed like buckshot beneath 
his stern brows. A grim sneer exposed a flash of gold.

The doors slid open to reveal Cassandra, alone in the car, a 
scowl pinching her face.

"Why must we meet in this godawful dungeon?" She stepped out 
of the elevator and shouldered past Besh-Lo. Her nose wrinkled 
and she fanned the air. "My God, it stinks in here."

"Pod sediment, ma'am. Most unpleasant, I agree, but 
unavoidable."

"Then let's not waste time. Tell me what you've learned."

"There's a plot, ma'am."

Cassandra rolled her eyes with impatience. "There is *always* 
a plot, Sergeant. That's not news. I want to know about Dana. 
How is she?"

"She is in danger."

"Obviously. She's in a Privation Chamber, for goodness sake. I 
want to know if she's pregnant." Cassandra flapped her hands 
in a "get on with it" gesture. 

In order to make her think he was taking appropriate 
precautions to ensure their privacy, Besh-Lo captured her 
elbow and guided her away from the elevator. She believed he 
was completely loyal to her and her son, just as the Overseers 
believed he was devoted to them and the Society. Imagine their 
surprise if they should discover his true identity.

Not that such an eventuality was likely. He was far too 
cautious.

He steered her around several broken cryopods toward the 
room's center, away from the Nih-hi-cho's hidden bio-trackers.

Lowering his voice in a ruse of secrecy, he told her the 
Dragon's honest truth. "The Refuters intend to kill the Earth 
woman and her baby." 

There was no need to lie about the plan. If Cassandra were to 
repeat it to the Overseers, they would simply consider her 
ill-informed and dismiss her improbable claim as another of 
her many groundless ravings.   

"So there is a child?" She broke into a manic grin, more 
concerned about her status as a grandmother than the threat to 
the Earth woman. "I'd almost given up hope."

It had been five months since Dana Scully was locked away in a 
stasis cell. The Overseers had confirmed her pregnancy after 
the first week, but they kept that detail from Ca-Lo and his 
mother. Their intent was to use the information as leverage at 
an opportune time. That time had come. The Overseers were 
meeting with Ca-Lo at this very moment. As Watcher VIII, Besh-
Lo was given permission to share the information about the 
child with Cassandra, as a way of gaining her trust. 

"The pregnancy has been verified," Besh-Lo said. 

"Oh, this is wonderful news! I can't wait to tell Ashkii."

"No doubt he will be pleased."

"Yes, yes. But..." Her smile vanished. "What about Dana? 
Surely she'll be safe from the Refuters in a Privation 
Chamber. She's guarded there, isn't she?" Worry creased her 
brow. "My God, suppose one of the guards is a spy?"

Besh-Lo dismissed the idea with a cluck of his tongue. "Ma'am, 
how could a spy infiltrate the Society? The Nih-hi-cho are 
able to read minds, remember?" His voice cooed, trying to 
placate her. In truth, the Refuters were remarkably adept at 
disguising their thoughts and identities, even from the 
Overseers. They made excellent spies; they'd been practicing 
for generations. Besh-Lo was proof of their success. 

"I don't want anything to happen to Dana. Her baby is my 
grandchild. You understand its importance, don't you?"

Her unfounded pride caused him to bridle. If the child was 
like its demonic father, it was an Abomination, not a deity.

"The Refuters are purists, ma'am," he said, trying to sound 
repulsed. "Their distaste of human contamination is 
legendary."

"The Society is no better," she spat. "Just more cowardly."

There was no need to react to her insult; she believed him to 
be human like her. "They respect you and your son, ma'am." 

"Then they must respect my grandchild, too."

"Yes, ma'am."

"You must do whatever you can to protect my son's unborn 
child, do you understand?"

"Absolutely."

"And keep me informed of the plot against them."

"Of course." 

"If it comes down to it, I could serve as the baby's 
surrogate."

He recoiled inwardly at the notion, barely able to conceal his 
shock. "S-surrogate, ma'am?"

"Yes. Dana's fetus could be implanted in my womb. The Refuters 
wouldn't dare harm me."

Don't be so sure, he thought, appalled by her suggestion. The 
idea of her carrying her own grandchild sickened him, not 
because of its incestuous implications, but because human 
reproduction itself was disgusting.

"I sincerely hope such a drastic measure will prove 
unnecessary, ma'am."

*   *   *

Dressed in a filmy Feeder's veil, rubber gloves and sackcloth 
shift, Dibeh paused outside the Portal of Solitude to steady 
her nerves. She had never visited this part of the ship 
before. It was a holy place, off limits to infidels like her. 
Only hybrids who tended prisoners were allowed into the 
hallowed chamber.

Rising in front of her, the Portal's massive door was solidly 
constructed and intricately carved. It towered five meters 
above her head and if three servants were to join hands with 
arms extended, they could not span its substantial breadth. A 
bas-relief sculpture decorated its central bronze panel, 
depicting the Nih-hi-cho's most significant religious scene -- 
the Divination.

An image of the Holy Red Dragon filled the uppermost portion, 
his twelve heads radiating out from his torso like tongues of 
fire. His scaled, coiled body was draped upon the shoulders of 
the Divine Legion of Angels, serpents like himself with Nih-
hi-cho faces and benevolent eyes.

Beneath them were members of the Society, pious believers, 
purified by their collective prayers, destined to join the 
Dragon's Divine Kingdom after life. They were marked on the 
forehead by crystal diadems representing their supreme gift of 
telepathy. 

The Nih-hi-cho appeared to walk upon a sea of black oil, 
supported from below by the hunched shoulders of pathetic 
half-creatures, hybrids like herself, doomed to damnation by 
their detestable human attributes. These deformed half-breeds 
were portrayed without mouths or diadems because they could 
neither speak like humans, nor communicate telepathically like 
the blessed Nih-hi-cho.

At the very base of the Portal were the Terrestrials, crammed 
together like frog spawn in an abominable quagmire of stars 
and space gasses. They worshipped at the feet of their evil 
Lord God, a hideous chimera, winged like the Earth's buzzards 
and furred on his head and face like a goat. Malevolent laser 
beams shot outward from his too-small skull. 

Loyal minions were positioned near the deity. One, a female, 
wore a crown of twelve stars. She stood upon the Earth's moon, 
surrounded by a sinuous moat. Her belly was enormously 
pregnant, evidence of her sins.        

Dibeh suppressed a sudden, inexplicable urge to touch the 
woman's swollen belly. Even wearing her gloves, to do so would 
be sacrilege.

She shifted the bag of na-a-jah that hung heavily over her 
left shoulder and fished Ca-Lo's transponder from her sleeve. 

An electronic lock was mounted to the right of the door's 
deeply fluted frame. She inserted the transponder into its 
small round keyhole, wondering again if she would be arrested 
the moment she crossed the threshold. 

"Guide me, please, O Holy Dragon," she prayed, glancing up at 
the carving of the powerful god.

A green light blinked on the keypad. The lock clicked several 
times and the door swung silently inward, releasing a gust of 
humid air. The draft hissed past her ears and ruffled her 
veil, smelling sickly-sweet, like fermenting fruit. 

She tucked the transponder away, squared her shoulders and 
stepped inside.

The Chamber's magnificence stole her breath. The holy temple 
was enormous, drum-shaped, and paved with translucent amber, 
lit from below and incised with a repeating pattern of 
hexagons. It was capped by a dome, thirty meters high at its 
apex, decorated with luminous glass panels that illustrated 
sacred scenes like the creation of Ah-Toh, the Nih-hi-cho's 
home world, and the twenty miracles of the Red Dragon.

Priests came and went through dozens of narrow archways in the 
caldarium's bowed walls. They wore billowy green robes over 
starched white undercoats. Pale green sashes, the color of 
fresh onion shoots, circled their slender waists and draped 
nearly to the floor. Crimson caps hugged their bulbous, gray 
skulls. Silicon bangles tinkled at their wrists and ankles as 
they crisscrossed the deck, busy as ants in a melon barrel. 
Intent on their tasks, they took no notice of Dibeh.

Numerous guards stood at attention in niches around the room. 
Imposing in their black military uniforms, they were armed 
with rifles and stun sticks. They all had identical human 
faces -- beaky, square-jawed and fierce, with ashen eyes and 
prickly jowls. Their sternness caused Dibeh's racing heart to 
rise to her throat.  

A male Greeter materialized seemingly out of nowhere, 
startling Dibeh when he poked her arm with a long-nailed 
finger and asked in a disdainful tone, "Location?"

His glossy black hair was piled high in a topknot in the style 
of the Armada's Bliss Boys, consorts to the human soldiers who 
preferred masculine bedmates. He smelled of human sweat and 
his pursed lips were painted bright red. She handed him the 
numbered chip she'd received from Cook XII in the kitchen, and 
tried not to stare at his bright blue, claw-like nails.

"Cell X-G-2416," he read from the chip and smacked his crimson 
lips. He gave her a squinty-eyed stare. "Stasis Section. The 
Earth woman, hmm?"

Dibeh smiled and patted her leathery bag of na-a-jah to 
indicate her purpose.

"This way." He pivoted on glittery slippers and headed out 
across the honeycombed deck. "You're late, you know. The other 
Feeders have already come and gone."

She hung her head and signed an apology, to which he 
harrumphed and tipped his pointy nose skyward. 

Two-thirds of the way across the Chamber, he stopped to squat 
beside one of the lit hexagons. It looked exactly like all the 
others: two meters wide, glassy and golden, and outlined by a 
silvery, razor-thin border. The Greeter fitted her numbered 
chip into a small, shallow depression where two sides of the 
honeycomb pattern came to a point. Almost immediately an 
aperture opened at the center of the hexagon, yawning like a 
mouth, exposing the cell below -- a fleshy, damp, pocket 
tucked beneath the deck.

Curled at the bottom of this sticky cell was the Earth woman, 
Mistress Cassandra's friend Dana Scully, naked and pale, lying 
on her side in a gelatinous pudding of protein ointment. Her 
red hair was wet and matted. Her skin was stippled from cold 
and veined with blue. She bore no bruises or other obvious 
signs of mistreatment, but her eyes were squeezed shut and her 
brows drawn together as if she were suffering unbearable pain.  

"She is hungry because of your lingering," the Greeter 
accused. He removed the chip and rose to his feet. "You had 
better hurry," he ordered before leaving her on her own, 
taking the chip with him.

She slipped the bag of na-a-jah from her shoulder and knelt 
beside the gaping aperture. 

A thick umbilicus -- the feeder tube -- connected an organic 
funnel at the upper rim of the cell to the Earth woman's 
mouth, where it snaked presumably into her gullet, passing 
through her stretched, pale lips, bulging her throat.

Smaller hoses plugged her nostrils; Dibeh guessed they pumped 
oxygen into her lungs, because the air in the cell was damp 
and foul, like the servants' necessarium whenever the sewage 
conduits become clogged. A fourth hose sprouted from between 
her legs and a fifth from a reddened incision in her side 
below her ribs. Both of these tubes disappeared into the slush 
at the bottom of the cell. The woman's abdomen was noticeably 
rounded, like the winged woman on the caldarium's great, 
carved door.

So, the gossips' stories were true. Dana Scully was with 
child.

Dibeh tried and failed to imagine what it must be like to 
nurture a fetus within one's own body, then flushed with shame 
at such a wicked idea. Everyone knew that proper offspring 
were produced inside a disposable host. Even hybrids and 
clones were produced in ablution tanks, which thankfully bore 
no resemblance to the wombs of terrestrial females.

The Earth woman mewled and hugged her swollen belly.  

Believing she must be hungry, Dibeh lifted the bag of na-a-
jah, extended its rigid spout and fitted the nozzle into the 
upper end of the umbilicus. A gentle squeeze pushed gruel from 
the bag into the feeder tube, which expanded as it filled. 
Dibeh watched the sludgy na-a-jah ooze incrementally through 
the translucent umbilicus, into the Earth woman's gaping 
mouth.      

Dana Scully whimpered when the first dark lumps passed her 
lips. A wave of sympathy engulfed Dibeh. She reached into the 
cell to comfort her as best she could, gently wiping clots of 
buttery protein ointment from her closed lids, then swabbing 
out her ears and stroking her hunched shoulders. Sadly, the 
Earth woman didn't respond to her ministrations; the 
whimpering continued, punctuated by audible gulps as she 
swallowed her meal. 

After several minutes, the last of the na-a-jah finally 
drained from the tube. The Greeter would be returning soon to 
close the cell. Dibeh had scant time left to give Dana Scully 
the necklace. 

She peeled off her left glove and shook the necklace from its 
hiding place in the thumb. Her hands were trembling as she 
looped the delicate chain around the woman's neck and quickly 
fastened the tiny hook.

The Earth woman's hand flapped blindly to the gold cross. Her 
brow smoothed a little as she fingered it. Thin tears drizzled 
from her slitted eyes.

Dibeh smiled, relieved the necklace was providing some measure 
of solace, no matter how temporary. The next Feeder would 
certainly spot it and take it away, but for a short while Dana 
Scully could rest easier.

The slap of footsteps alerted Dibeh to the Greeter's approach.

She quickly arranged the Earth woman's hair to hide the 
necklace, then slipped her glove back on and disengaged the 
feeder bag. She was on her feet, ready to leave, by the time 
the Greeter reached her.

He crouched and inserted her numbered chip back into its 
groove. The cell's aperture squeezed shut.

"Well? What are you waiting for?" he snarled when she 
continued to stare at the shallow indentation at the hexagon's 
midpoint. "Get out of here."

She gave him her meanest scowl and extended her hand for the 
chip. She had been told to return it to the kitchen along with 
the empty feeder bag.

He dropped it in her palm, taking obvious care to avoid 
touching her ointment-slathered glove as he did so. "Now go," 
he ordered. 

She spun and retreated from the room. Countless hexagons 
blurred beneath her feet as she hurried toward the exit. How 
many of the cells held prisoners? Her stomach pitched at the 
thought of their bodies below her. Before today, she had 
assumed anyone locked inside a Privation Chamber must be a 
vicious criminal or a depraved sinner. Yet Dana Scully seemed 
neither. She was a hapless victim, abducted from her world and 
held here against her will.

Why did the Society allow such injustice? How could the 
blessed Nih-hi-cho be so cruel? 

Dibeh broke into a run, desperate to leave the loathsome place 
as far behind her as possible. 
 
*   *   *

CHAMBER OF THE COUNCIL OF OVERSEERS

Ca-Lo stood at attention in front of the twelve members of the 
Council. The Overseers remarked among themselves about his 
disheveled appearance. 

//...excessive preoccupation with the imprisoned Earth 
woman...she was his first human sexual partner...seems to have 
established an enduring bond...we can use his devotion to our 
advantage...//

"You are wondering, Ca-Lo, why we have summoned you here," 
Overseer One stated telepathically.

"You want a progress report, I assume," Ca-Lo said.

"Not at all; we have already been apprised of the Armada's 
successes," Overseer Two replied, leaving the human commander 
to ponder the identity of their unnamed sources. "You are here 
to receive new orders."

"New orders?"

//...apprehension...good...yes...//

"You will travel to Salt Lake City at dawn, local time, to 
tour our first operational breeding compound."

"I direct the conquest, not the reconstruction."

"You do whatever we tell you to do."

Ca-Lo's face remained a mask of calm, belying the resentment 
and trepidation they could read in his mind. "May I know the 
purpose of this tour?"

"To meet the settlement's supervisor and attend to his needs." 

"With due respect, I have more pressing responsibilities at 
the moment."

"Yes, the insurrection in Texas, the rebel uprisings in New 
Mexico and Utah. We know all about these inconveniences."

Incredulity rippled through Ca-Lo. "A sedition at Fort Weather 
can hardly be regarded as an 'inconvenience.'" 

"It will be dealt with in due course. Right now the Harmony 
settlements are pivotal to our colonization efforts and are 
therefore a top priority. You will meet with Lieutenant 
Harris--"

"Harris?" Ca-Lo's fists tightened. His next words ground from 
between clenched teeth. "That bastard was not to be released 
without my permission."

"Our orders always supersede yours. We freed him, as a reward 
for his exemplary behavior in the Privation Chamber. Five 
months is certainly long enough to hold a grudge, don't you 
think?"

Ca-Lo struggled to tamp down his rising resentment. "Send 
someone else."

"We are sending you."

"Why? Am I being punished?"

"Yes, you are." 

Ca-Lo's indignation transformed to rage. His eyes sparked as 
he roared, "I've done everything you have asked me to do. I've 
led your Armada to the brink of victory. I've given you this 
entire planet. In the name of the Red Dragon, what more do you 
want from me?"

//...he has referred to the Armada as ours, not his...loss of 
loyalty...the Earth woman's influence...//

Ca-Lo's slip came as a disconcerting surprise to the 
Overseers, but his other claims were accurate and his question 
not unexpected. Ca-Lo was, in large part, responsible for the 
Nih-hi-cho's recent successes. He was a superb strategist, 
maybe their best tactician. Adept at predicting the actions of 
the most proficient terrestrial military leaders, he had a 
natural aptitude for divining motivation and calculating 
behavior, honed no doubt by years of attempting to ascertain 
the unspoken intentions of his Nih-hi-cho masters.

By comparison, the Nih-hi-cho themselves were merely mediocre 
when it came to anticipating their enemies' trickery. It was 
an inescapable truth, one they accepted without rancor. The 
Society was accustomed to group consciousness. For countless 
generations their telepathic abilities had ensured they knew 
the thoughts of their members, so there was no need to guess, 
no cause for guile or cunning. Every thought, idea, plot or 
scheme was shared, completely out in the open. It was 
unnatural for Nih-hi-cho to be secretive. There wasn't even a 
word in their native language for "deception." They had never 
needed one, not until they met humans. 

Nih-hi-cho could, of course, react to a conspiracy once they 
detected it. But in battle, playing defensively was likely to 
lose the war. Which was precisely why they used humans like 
Ca-Lo to strategize for them. 

"It is not your military prowess that is in question, Ca-Lo. 
We are quite pleased with your performance in that regard."

"Then what's got you so damned pissed you're willing to make 
me errand-boy to Harris?"

"You have made no progress in your search for young William 
Mulder."

Ca-Lo latched onto their complaint and used it as opportunity 
to bargain. "I've tried, you know I have, but I need access to 
Dana Scully if I am to find her son."

He had made an honest attempt, they knew. Unfortunately he had 
come up empty handed.

As had they.

"Her mind has been probed, Ca-Lo. She doesn't know her son's 
current location," Overseer One admitted.

"Maybe not, but she could supply clues to his whereabouts. She 
gave the boy to someone, right? If I could get that person's 
name, I'd have a place to start, a trail to follow. It's what 
I'm good at. You know it. Give her to me and let me try."

This was exactly the response they had been hoping for. 

They conferred quickly. William Mulder must be found and Ca-
Lo's expertise in such matters would be invaluable. 

"We will allow you to question her," Overseer One said.

Ca-Lo's hopes rose. "I'll need time with her, to earn her 
trust."

"How much time?"

"I don't know. It might take a while."

"We will not give her to you indefinitely. Not without seeing 
significant progress in your search." They had no doubt that, 
if properly motivated, he could find the boy, so Overseer One 
delivered an additional impetus: "It has been confirmed she is 
pregnant." 

A peculiar sentiment arose in Ca-Lo, akin to the feelings of 
ecstasy the Nih-hi-cho shared when joined in communal prayer.

"You must release her then." When Ca-Lo saw their hesitation, 
he delivered an impetus of his own. "If the baby is what you 
fear he is, the human God will not be pleased to discover you 
have been torturing the mother."

Again the Overseers conferred and came to a unanimous 
decision. "You may have Dana Scully for as long as you need."

"I want her permanently."

"Only if you bring us the boy." 

Feeling confident, Ca-Lo said, "I'll bring you the boy. And 
when I do, I will take Dana Scully as my wife, my sole 
consort. I want to marry her." 

The notion was revolting. Marriage was a vulgar convention. 
Humans believed it sanctified their aberrant mating practices. 
To the Nih-hi-cho, however, all sexual unions were profane and 
no known ceremony could make them holy.

"We will consider it," Overseer One lied, "*after* you bring 
us the boy. But be warned, Ca-Lo, if you do not locate William 
Mulder before Dana Scully gives birth, then she will be 
returned to her cell and you will not be given a second 
opportunity to get her back."

Ca-Lo was no longer listening. His mind was already focused on 
his future success, just as the Overseers had hoped.  

*   *   *

Dibeh went directly from the Privation Chambers to Ca-Lo's 
quarters, exactly as he had asked her to do. Finding his door 
locked, she squatted with her back to the outer wall to wait 
for him.

Forty minutes later, she heard a jubilant voice reverberating 
through the serpentine corridor. It was Ca-Lo and he was 
singing!

He broke into a broad grin the moment he spotted her. "Dibeh! 
I have excellent news." 

"That is good, sir, because my news is not so excellent," she 
signed in response.

His smile sagged a little. He offered his hand and pulled her 
easily to her feet. At his verbal command, the door to his 
quarters unlocked and opened, and he steered her inside with 
his palm to her back.

"Sit," he said, as soon as the door had closed behind them. He 
gestured toward his wingback chair, but when she lingered 
beside the door, he let his hand drop. "You gave her the 
necklace?"

"Yes, sir," she signed.

"And? How was she?" Worry knotted his brow.

A rush of words flowed from her hands, uncensored and frantic. 
"She was unconscious, sir, and in pain, and the cell she is in 
is very foul. She cannot stretch her limbs. The shunt in her 
belly appears infected. Please, Master Ca-Lo, you must do 
whatever you can to get her out...as soon as possible. No one 
should be forced--"

"Be still. It's okay, it's okay." He snagged her fluttering 
hands and held them between his palms. "Dibeh, she is going to 
be let out. The Overseers are releasing her to me today."

Surprised by this news, Dibeh withdrew her hands to sign, 
"Thank the Divine Angels!"

His smile returned, brilliant and full of joy. His green eyes 
sparkled. "You want to know the best part? She's pregnant."

Dibeh's cheeks heated at this frank disclosure. Ca-Lo's 
liaison with the Earth woman and its obvious consequences were 
not appropriate topics of conversation for a master and 
servant.

Ca-Lo seemed not to notice her discomfort, which grew even 
more profound when he unexpectedly started to disrobe. He 
peeled off his jacket and then his shirt, baring his chest as 
if she were not in the room. He let the garments drop to the 
floor, then headed to the adjoining bedroom, continuing his 
jovial commentary as he went.

"There's a lot to do before she gets here. The apartment must 
be given a thorough cleaning," he said. 

Dibeh collected his clothes and trailed after him. She nearly 
tripped over his discarded boots when she entered the bedroom. 

He targeted her with the steady point of a finger. "I want you 
to oversee all the preparations, Dibeh. You can have three 
servants to help you. Ask First Cook to prepare something 
special for Dana's dinner. Bring the best wine on the ship. 
Oh, and I want fresh flowers in the outer room...and in here." 
He waved in the general direction of the nightstand before he 
disappeared into the bathroom.

She heard the tub start to fill. "I need a clean uniform," he 
shouted to her, but before she could fetch one, he returned to 
the bedroom, completely naked, and began rooting through the 
wardrobe. 

"Please, let me do that, sir," she signed, shocked by his 
nudity.

With his back to her, he missed her offer of help. 

Two, three, four clean shirts flew through the air and onto 
the carpet, tossed aside for perceived imperfections. Ca-Lo's 
unbound hair fanned loosely across his broad shoulders, the 
ends brushing the upper curve of his buttocks.

"Sir? Sir!" She went to him and tapped his arm.

He spun to face her and she found herself staring directly at 
his exposed male part. Immediately she shifted her focus, but 
it seemed no matter where she looked, it was still in view. 

Divine Angels, his physique was nothing like that of his 
mother, whom Dibeh had seen naked many times during her bath. 
Ca-Lo had a thick, purplish hose-like protuberance dangling 
between his legs. Beneath it was a wrinkled sac, swollen with 
two egg-shaped somethings. Dark, coiled hair furred the 
preposterous organ, so that it resembled the genitals of a 
terrestrial ram or steer...which was exactly how his Consorts 
described his parts whenever they gossiped about his sexual 
proclivities.

Dibeh felt another rush of blood rise to her cheeks.

"If...if you please, sir, go...go take your bath," she signed, 
her fingers stumbling on the words. "I...I will bring you some 
pants...clothes...a uniform."

He nodded in a distracted way, oblivious to his state of 
undress. He ran splayed fingers through his long hair, combing 
back the wayward locks. "Uh...yes, okay. My...my boots..." He 
glanced at the dull, scuffed boots.

"I will see to it they are polished," she promised. 
"Everything will be taken care of. Please, sir, do not trouble 
yourself with these details. Take your bath," she said, once 
again on the verge of glancing at his groin.

He reached for her and gave her shoulder a grateful squeeze. 
Kindness brightened his entire face. "Dibeh...I appreciate all 
you've done today...for me and for Dana."

"Thank you, sir."

"Would you consider undertaking another very important task?"

She hesitated, stunned that he would bother to ask her. It was 
his right to demand whatever he wished and it was her duty to 
obey. "Of course, sir. What is the task?"

"I want to assign you to Lady Dana, permanently."

"To...?" What was he saying? "You want me to be the Earth 
woman's personal aide?"

He chuckled. "Yes, except you'll have to stop calling her 'the 
Earth woman.' She's going to be my wife, Dibeh. Do you 
understand what that means?"

Dibeh had heard of the bizarre human practice called 
"marriage," thankfully in vague terms only. She tried to hide 
her distaste. 

"What...what about Madame Cassandra?" she asked. "Who will 
take care of her?" 

"She'll have a new aide," he said matter-of-factly.

Dibeh had been with Cassandra for several years. She didn't 
want to start again with someone she barely knew. And the 
Earth woman...Dana Scully...Lady Dana...whatever she was 
supposed to be called...she had been quite condescending 
toward Dibeh when she first arrived on the ship. 

In addition, there was the baby to consider. Would Dibeh be 
expected to tend it, too?

Ca-Lo must have sensed her doubts, because he stroked her hair 
in a reassuring way.

"It would honor me, Dibeh, if you would serve Dana with the 
same dedication you have shown to me and my mother.  

O Great Dragon, how could she object? Ca-Lo was leader of the 
Nih-hi-cho Armada. She was a mere aide.

"The honor would be mine, sir," she haltingly signed.

"Good." He appeared relieved and it was only then she realized 
he had expected she might actually say no to his request. 
"Your first official duty will be to escort Dana to my 
quarters as soon as the Appraisers have finished with her in 
Assessment Bay 12."

"Yes, sir." Her opportunity to object had passed. "As you 
wish."

*   *   *

Time is irrelevant, interminable here. You think you might be 
going crazy. Dreams, fantasies, hallucinations swirl over you 
like flotsam on a stormy sea.

Do you hear your mother calling? Can you smell the tart 
fragrance of fresh cut grass lingering in evening-cooled air?

Crickets sing after dark. The moon smiles upon eight 
neighborhood children of varying ages. You feel safe playing 
Kick the Can with the officers' children on a San Diego parade 
ground.

"Dana! Dana, come in now. It's late," Mom calls from your 
front porch, her voice urgent, but not angry.

"I gotta go," you tell the other kids and they groan.

"Fifteen more minutes," wheedles bristle-haired Sarah, 
scheming, always scheming. "You can pretend you didn't hear 
her."

"I can't fib to my mom." You've never been able to lie 
convincingly. Your tendency to blush precludes deception.

Inwardly you pledge to practice, because deceit may come in 
handy some day. 

You wave goodbye to your friends. Your skinned knees sting as 
you skip home. 

Your arms throb, too, you notice, and you try to stretch them 
high above your head to work out the prickles and kinks, but 
find you cannot.

It's dark where you are.

Confining.

Oh God.

Don't...don't think about that.

Think about how a warm bath and Mom's goodnight kiss will make 
your aches disappear.

Or, better yet, think about Mulder's tender caresses. 

Can you hear him whispering your name? His chuckle resonates 
like the quiet rumble of a DC subway train deep beneath the 
city's street, muffled by soil and concrete and the murmur of 
passersby. His laugh, like his smile, is both satisfying and 
heartbreaking because it is as genuine as it is rare.

You imagine him above you now, propped upon his elbows, making 
love to you. His scent, his touch, his contented moans are all 
delightfully familiar. Yet there is a strangeness about him 
that puts you on guard. His eyes flash, too green. Long locks 
of chestnut hair drape his shoulders and tickle your bare 
breasts. You comb your fingers through the glossy strands and 
wonder where this fantasy came from. You almost never read 
romance novels, preferring scientific journals to bodice 
rippers. Yet, like a Harlequin hero, Mulder is seducing you. 
You feel ravished as he controls your body and dominates your 
heart.

His open palm traces the inner curve of your thigh; his 
fingers stutter from your knee to your pelvis. They pause 
there to explore your curls, seek your entrance.

You arch toward him, allowing him to slide into you. You feel 
possessed in every sense of the word and at this very moment 
you like it. You love it. You love him. 

But your body goes numb when you notice the mark on his right 
cheek. A tattoo or brand. Sinister symbols that appear to reel 
through the shadowy stubble of his beard. You trace them with 
your thumb, remembering alien artifacts and submerged 
spacecrafts and a book about Anasazi Indians. 

The Sixth Extinction. 

The Apocalypse.

The end of the world.

"Stop," you protest and push firmly against his chest.

His heart hammers beneath your palms. He is panting, brow 
knotted, eyes squeezed shut; ecstasy hums in his throat.

Oh God, he isn't Mulder.

He dips his head and slips his tongue into your gasping mouth. 
He tastes like Mulder. You wouldn't mistake another man's 
flavor for his, would you? 

You try to convince yourself this is him, this is your lover. 
Who else could he possibly be? You wouldn't allow a stranger 
to do these things to you. And you need Mulder so very badly 
right now. To soothe your hurting arms, your cramped legs, 
your swollen throat and cracked lips. To warm your chilled, 
wet skin and lessen the panic that is rising within you like a 
spring tide, threatening to swamp you, drown you.

You want to be a carefree child again, safe in your parent's 
San Diego home...or, better still, beside Mulder on a rumpled 
bed in a cheap motel in Roswell. Before your argument. Before 
you were taken prisoner. Before you were sealed inside a 
small, damp prison with no way out...

Suddenly a blindingly bright light penetrates your closed 
lids. Balmy air cascades over your naked body and its 
unexpected warmth is almost painful. You force your eyes open.

Four pairs of elongated, gray hands are reaching for you. 
Wide, inky eyes stare down from above. You hear alien voices 
inside your head.

//...detach the feeding tube...lift her out...wrap her for 
assessment...//

You curl, trying to protect your belly, your baby. Tucked into 
a ball, you listen hard for your mother's voice.

"Dana! Dana, come home now. It's late."

I'm trying, Mom. 

*   *   *

ASSESSMENT BAY 12

Under the guise of Watcher VIII, Besh-Lo stood to one side of 
the assessment platform, where he had a clear view of the 
evaluation procedure. 

Six Appraisers positioned themselves around the Earth woman. 
She was nude, conscious, and confused. Pinned to the platform 
by metal rods through her wrists and ankles, she stared at 
them with eyes rounded by fear and pain. Thin trails of blood 
drizzled from her puncture wounds. A delicate gold chain 
glittered about her sweat-slicked neck. 

An array of overhead lights cast a silvery pattern of dots and 
hash marks across her distended abdomen, which bulged like a 
ripe melon. She struggled to fold her arms over herself in a 
futile effort to protect her unborn child. 

The Appraisers' purpose was threefold: to repair any physical 
debilitation incurred by the woman during her incarceration, 
to inspect her implants, and, most importantly, to determine 
the genetic constitution of her fetus. 

Besh-Lo listened telepathically for the fetus' rudimentary 
consciousness. He sensed the child rolling blithely within its 
mother's uterus, a distinct human being, intellectually 
separate from the woman, despite their physical attachment.

A simple chromosomal profile would show if this baby was Ca-
Lo's. It would also determine if the child had inherited its 
father's unique immunity to the Oil. If the Derivation flowed 
in its young veins, then it would be left to develop naturally 
inside its mother. If not, it would be aborted and destroyed.

Appraiser I scanned the woman's abdomen with a flat, handheld 
bio-comp to establish the fetus' exact position and to 
ascertain the extent of its development.

"25.76 centimeters. Middle ear structures are formed. 
Digestive system functioning. Weight 327 grams. Gender -- 
female," he reported telepathically.

He set the bio-comp aside. Appraiser III swabbed the woman's 
abdomen with disinfectant and then inserted an amnio needle 
just below her navel. She cried out when it pierced her skin 
and then held her breath, teeth clenched, as III guided the 
needle through the muscular tissue of her uterus into the 
amniotic sac.

He began to siphon fluid. "Removing 30 cc's." 

The liquid flowed through a tube into a portable DNA verifier 
held by VI. The verifier quickly configured the sample. In 
milliseconds the data was charted and compared with Ca-Lo's 
preexisting profile.

"Probability of paternity: 99.9994 percent. Combined Paternity 
Index: 158251.22," Appraiser VI read from the miniature 
display. "Ca-Lo is included as the biological father of this 
child."

There was another possibility, of course. 

Fox Mulder.

The Earth woman's memory scans had revealed she and Mulder 
engaged in a sexual encounter the night before she was brought 
aboard the ship.

This fact complicated the issue of paternity in a remarkable 
way: Fox Mulder was not simply the Earth woman's lover, he was 
also the original source of Ca-Lo's DNA. 

On March 4, 1961, a team of terrestrial scientists had been 
ordered to embark on one of Earth's earliest eugenics efforts, 
the New Destiny Project. Borrowing Nih-hi-cho techniques, they 
harvested cells from Teena Mulder's ten-week-old fetus, at the 
direction of the baby's alleged biological father, CGB 
Spender. 

Nuclei from the donor cells were injected into de-nucleated 
embryonic cells. The resulting embryos were implanted into a 
group of specially selected, geographically disparate human 
females. Spender's wife Cassandra was among them.

The Nih-hi-cho learned of Spender's unsanctioned experiments 
in early April and immediately set out to find and destroy the 
fetuses.

They discovered the majority of the women had miscarried 
within days of being implanted. Only twelve remained pregnant 
six weeks later. The Nih-hi-cho abducted these surrogates, 
intending to kill their babies. 

While performing the first abortion, they made a terrifying 
discovery: the dead fetus possessed the Derivation. Plans 
changed immediately. The remaining eleven fetuses were 
harvested alive and placed in cultivation tanks, the same type 
used for nurturing hybrids. 

Ten of the children subsequently died. Only Ca-Lo survived the 
tank's rigorous artificial environment. Six months after the 
natural birth of Fox Mulder -- Ca-Lo's biological twin and, 
technically speaking, his father -- Ca-Lo was removed from the 
tank, healthy and squalling, the irises of his eyes tinted 
permanently green by the chemicals.  

Ca-Lo was unaware of his true origins. He believed he was 
conceived naturally, the biological son of Cassandra and CGB 
Spender, removed at an early stage during an abduction. 
Cassandra believed this, too. Ca-Lo's sense of individuality 
and his intense desire to think of himself as a normal human 
being had become increasingly pronounced as he matured. The 
Nih-hi-cho realized early on it was to their advantage to keep 
him ignorant of the circumstances of his heritage. 

Because Ca-Lo and Fox Mulder were genetically identical, it 
was impossible to determine which of them had sired Dana 
Scully's baby. But precise identification of the child's 
father was of little consequence. It was the baby's blood that 
mattered. Did it carry the Derivation? Was it an Abomination? 

"The child's blood?" Besh-Lo asked, eager to know if the fetus 
carried the anomaly. 

"The Derivation is present," IV confirmed, disappointed. "The 
pregnancy cannot be terminated."

Besh-Lo was impatient to report the findings to his fellow 
Refuters, but he remained in attendance so as not to arouse 
suspicion.

Appraiser III proceeded to test the Earth woman's implants, 
once again using the bio-comp. "Systems monitor, model A-570, 
in the naso-pharynx, functioning. Locator, Type 2, sub-dermis, 
lower back. Also operational. As is the old EM-20 chip in her 
neck." The crude chip had been discovered when she was 
examined months ago. It was a terrestrial design, used for 
basic bio-manipulation. Non-detrimental to their purposes, it 
had been left in place. 

Repairing the Earth woman's debilitations took only a few 
seconds. She would be able to walk by the time a hybrid aide 
arrived to fetch her. Besh-Lo watched with growing disinterest 
as the Appraisers finished preparing her for release, his 
thoughts already on the plot to kill her and the Abomination. 
It would be an incomparable honor to be the Refuter who sent 
their despicable souls back to the realm of their Heavenly 
Father.

*   *   *

Scully trailed Dibeh, her gait unsteady. She wore a long-
sleeved gown of embroidered blue velvet. Its brocade bodice 
was ornately beaded and hugged her breasts, which plumped 
above the deeply scooped neckline. A voluminous skirt draped 
her rounded abdomen and its hem swept the ground, rustling at 
each step like wind before a storm. Gauging time by the swell 
of her belly, Scully estimated it had been five or six months 
since she last walked this serpentine corridor to Ca-Lo's 
quarters.

Her memory of that visit was vague. Elusive and alarming 
images -- emerald-green eyes, long, chestnut hair, an alien 
tattoo -- suggested she had slept with Cassandra's son on that 
long-ago evening. Yet in her mind it was Mulder, always 
Mulder, in the bed with her, making love, just as they had 
done in their motel room in Roswell.

She would have discounted her suspicions about Ca-Lo 
altogether if not for the results of the aliens' tests less 
than an hour ago. 

Probability of paternity: 99.9994 percent, they had said. 
Their words had come to her telepathically, as clearly as if 
they had spoken aloud. She wasn't drugged or under hypnotic 
suggestion. What was happening was real. 

The aliens are wrong, she tried to convince herself. They've 
made a mistake. My baby is Mulder's. It has to be.

She clutched her belly when she felt the child flutter, its 
tapping both remarkable and regretful. It reminded her of 
William, naturally. It also reminded her of those lingering, 
desolate months when she was searching for Mulder, desperate 
to be reunited with him.

A similar desperation gripped her now. Mulder was missing 
again. And just as before, she was uncertain about the origin 
of her baby.

"Deja vu," she murmured, causing Dibeh to glance back at her 
with inky eyes.

"I made love to Mulder in Roswell," she told the hybrid.

Dibeh nodded absently, pretending to understand. The hybrid 
didn't know Mulder. She had probably never heard of Roswell 
either.

"*Mulder* is the father of this child," Scully insisted, 
speaking to Dibeh's back. The baby fluttered again, bringing 
tears to her eyes. 

She reached instinctively for her cross. An old prayer formed 
in her mind as she fingered the tiny symbol of her faith: 
Please help me protect my baby, keep it safe and healthy.

Scully's own apparent health surprised her. Months of enforced 
inactivity should have resulted in debilitating circulatory 
problems and pronounced atrophy of the muscles. Yet here she 
was, keeping pace with the lithe hybrid.

The aliens had done something to her during their exam, 
something that healed the inevitable consequences of her 
incarceration, the same way they once healed Cassandra's 
spinal paralysis.

Arriving at Ca-Lo's door, Dibeh pressed the buzzer on the 
keypad.

Mulder's voice boomed from the intercom, bidding them to 
enter, his familiar timbre squeezing Scully's heart.   

The door slid open and she followed Dibeh inside. They found 
Ca-Lo sitting at his desk, dressed impeccably in a jet-black 
military uniform. His hair was neatly combed, fastened at the 
nape. He was clean-shaven and his smile appeared shy and 
hopeful. 

He rose awkwardly from his chair, nearly knocking it over when 
he took a clumsy step toward them. His resemblance to Mulder 
seared her soul; it left her feeling flushed, shaken and 
vulnerable, craving the man who wasn't truly there.

She shoved her nostalgia aside, marched up to Ca-Lo and 
delivered a hard-hitting roundhouse punch to his jaw. "You 
bastard!"

The wallop turned his head and split his lower lip, but failed 
to unbalance him. She expected him to retaliate, either to 
return her punch or shout or restrain her. She braced herself 
for an outburst, but none came.

"I-I deserved that," he said softly, sounding genuinely 
contrite.

Her shoulders sagged. God damn it. She had wanted him to deny 
everything, prove her elusive memories wrong.

"You deserve a lot worse, you son of a bitch."  

His tongue explored the rising welt on his lower lip. When he 
encountered fresh blood, he dabbed it with the back of his 
hand. "You're right. I do. I...I'm sorry."

"I don't want your damned apology. I want to *go* *home*."

He gestured expansively. "This is your home...now."

It dawned on her he wasn't talking about the ship in general; 
he was referring to this single apartment.

"You plan to keep me imprisoned in your quarters for the rest 
of my life?"

"I had hoped you might view it as a good thing." He attempted 
to smile, but managed only a grimace. "It's more comfortable 
than a stasis cell."

"So I should be grateful?"

"Well...I thought--"

"You thought what? I'd be so overwhelmed by your generosity, 
I'd fall into your arms--"

"No--"

"And back into your bed?"

"No, I--"

"Maybe you fantasized we would live together, happily ever 
after."

"Not exactly, but..." His gaze flitted to her abdomen, then to 
Dibeh, who was standing quietly beside the door. "You may go, 
Dibeh," he said.

"She stays," Scully said.

"Dana, we need to--"

"She stays!" 

He swayed on the balls of his feet with the same unrestrained 
energy that often plagued Mulder whenever he was nervous or 
excited. "All right. She can stay."

His glance dropped again to Scully's stomach. 

She recognized the look. It was identical to Mulder's, the day 
he had come to Washington Medical Center, placed his hand upon 
her stomach and, for the very first time, felt their child 
move. 

As if reading her mind, Ca-Lo reached out with splayed 
fingers. "May I?" He stopped just short of touching her.

It's not yours! she wanted to scream. But then he would know 
she'd slept with Mulder. How would he react if he learned she 
might be carrying another man's child? The way he was proudly 
ogling her mid-section clearly showed he was thrilled by the 
prospect of fatherhood. 

Scully felt suddenly short of breath. Her field of vision 
began to fray at the edges; silver-gray flecks sizzled between 
her and Ca-Lo. Her knees buckled. He reached for her, gripped 
her at the elbows to keep her from falling. Her stomach 
churned when he scooped her up in his arms and carried her 
into the adjoining bedroom. She protested with weak jabs to 
his chest, but her fists had gone numb and her muscles 
rubbery. Tears welled in her eyes, scalding, frustrating.

"Don't cry," he murmured against her temple, cradling her. 
"Please, don't cry."

He laid her carefully on the bed, which seemed to pitch and 
roll beneath her. She gripped the blankets. She was sliding, 
spinning. She was suffocating.

"Dibeh, fetch some water." His voice sounded far away, 
wavering and thick, like the desperate call of a drowning man 
as he sinks beneath the waves, deeper and deeper, all the way 
to the ocean's murky bottom.

Scully choked a moment later, certain it was she who was 
drowning when a mouthful of icy water flowed past her lips to 
the back of her throat. She opened her eyes to find Ca-Lo 
standing at her bedside, gripping a half-empty drinking glass 
in his hand.

Dibeh arranged a cool, wet cloth on her brow.

"You fainted," Ca-Lo said.

"Pregnant women do that sometimes."

"They do?"

"Yes." Was he really so ignorant? She tried to sit up, but a 
wave of dizziness knocked her back.

"I'm going to request a Healer," he said.

"Healer?" It sounded alien. "No. No, I'll be fine...I *am* 
fine."

He set the glass on the nightstand and wiped his palms 
nervously on his thighs. "Maybe you need food. Dibeh, would 
you go to the kitchen--"

"I'm not hungry. Please...just leave me alone." She snatched 
the cloth from her forehead and tossed it to the floor.

Ca-Lo's cheeks reddened. He retrieved the cloth, clearly 
struggling to keep his emotions in check. 

After a moment, he blurted, "It's a girl."

"Excuse me?"

"The baby. I was told the baby is a girl." He gripped the 
cloth so tightly his knuckles became bone-white. "I've wanted 
a family for a long time, Dana. A daughter. And sons. Lots of 
kids." He was babbling. He barely seemed to notice when Dibeh 
took the cloth from him. "And a wife, of course...a human 
wife."

"As opposed to what?"

His mouth opened and his jaw labored, but nothing came out. He 
gave up his search for words and crossed to the birdcage. The 
birds flitted and chattered at his approach. He hung his 
fingers through the brass lattice and waited, silent, 
motionless, until one daring, bright-colored bird fluttered to 
his thumb and perched there. It tilted its head, eyeing him, 
and warbled a sweet, earnest song. 

Dibeh fussed with Scully's pillows, fluffing and rearranging. 
Scully stilled her with an upraised palm.

The bird flew from Ca-Lo's hand. He turned to look over his 
shoulder at Scully, his gaze solemn. So like Mulder when 
disappointment threatened to crush his spirit. 

"I love you," he said simply, and his tentative declaration 
took her back to Mulder's hospital bedside, hours after he'd 
nearly drowned in the Bermuda Triangle.

"D-don't be ridiculous. You barely know me."

"You're carrying my child."

"You tricked me into having sex with you!"

"I wanted you."

"So that made it okay?" She raised herself on her elbows. 
"What about what I wanted?"

He shrugged apologetically. "You're the first human woman I've 
been with. I guess I made some mistakes."

The first human...? "Are you saying you usually have sex with 
aliens?" 

"No, no, the Nih-hi-cho don't have sex. My partners were 
hybrids." His tone was matter-of-fact, without a hint of 
shame.

"Hybrids?" Scully stared at Dibeh, who was watching them with 
worried eyes, listening intently to every word they said. She 
was slight, maybe five feet tall with the physique of a 
twelve-year-old. Her grayish-green skin was dry and coarse, 
like a lizard, although plumped by an underlying layer of fat 
that gave her a somewhat babyish appearance. Her fingers were 
oddly elongated, her nose almost nonexistent. A thick mane of 
amber hair capped her oversized head, looking incongruous with 
her alien features.

Had Ca-Lo slept with her? How many half-breed children did 
they have?

Scully lurched from the bed and staggered toward the door. 
"I'm getting out of here."

"Dana, you can't." Two strides brought him close enough to 
snag her arm.

"Let me go." She tried to shake him off, but he tightened his 
grip.

"Dana, there's nowhere to go. You're being monitored. They 
implanted a locator chip in you."

A chip. The word knocked the air from her lungs. 
Automatically, her hand clamped over the back of her neck, 
feeling for the familiar lump. Had they removed the old chip, 
her defense against cancer? "Where is it?"

"Does it matter?"

"Where is it?" she shouted.

The fingers of his free hand grazed the small of her back and 
for just an instant she swore she was with Mulder, outside any 
number of doors where he had guided her, comforted her, 
watched over her and kept her safe. Feeling displaced and 
queasy, she swayed on unsteady legs. If not for Ca-Lo's firm 
grasp on her arm, she surely would have collapsed to the 
floor. 

"They punish you when you don't cooperate," he warned.

"Cooperate? What does that mean? Sleep with you?" 

"No, but trust me on this. Don't fight them."

"Let me go."

"And don't fight me."

"*Fuck* *you*." She wrenched her arm free.

His hands dropped to his sides. "Dana, you can't win, believe 
me, I've tried. They'll hurt you...and the baby. They'll do 
things that are a thousand times worse than being kept in a 
stasis cell."

"Get out of my way."

"They'll cut you open while you watch. They'll take out your 
insides. No anesthesia. No drugs. Your heart, veins, muscles, 
bones -- everything is exposed. It's goddamn cold when your 
skin is peeled back--"

"Enough! If you're trying to scare me, you've succeeded."

Her hands were shaking. His hands were shaking, too. He was 
breathing too fast. Panic blazed in his eyes. 

"My God." Realization hit her. "They did those things to you, 
didn't they?"

He clamped his teeth together and admitted nothing, but the 
twitching muscle along his jaw told her all she needed to 
know.

She scrutinized the tattoo on his right cheek. "What do those 
symbols mean?"

His fingers brushed the marks, exploring them as if he'd 
forgotten they were there. "It's a...a label."

"They labeled you?"

"Yes. When I was a baby. I don't remember it."

"What does it say?"

"Ca-Lo."

"Ca-Lo is your name."

"No, it's a classification. Not a particularly nice one." He 
stared down at the glossy toes of his polished boots. "The 
literal translation means 'destroyer'...or demon...devil... 
abomination. Pick one. It doesn't much matter. The Nih-hi-cho 
consider me the spawn of Evil," he said wryly.

Branded a devil as an infant. Her hand covered her stomach. 
How could she possibly shield her baby from the aliens' 
cruelty? She had been unable to keep William safe, and his 
situation paled in comparison to this one.

"Your mother called you Ashkii," she said, grasping for some 
shred of normalcy in this inhuman universe. "Is that your real 
name?"

A humorless laugh chuffed in his throat. "Hardly. Ashkii 
means...'boy,'" he said. "I was Ashkii XII for a very long 
time. The Nih-hi-cho aren't big on individuality. They prefer 
to number everyone. My mother still uses it because she's 
under the mistaken impression it's an endearment."

Scully dreaded the answer to her next question. "What happened 
to the others -- one through eleven?"

"I don't know and I try like hell not to think about it."  

The uncertainty of her future loomed menacingly in her 
imagination. Fear howled in her ears. "They're not going to 
let me go, are they?"

"No. Not you, the baby, me." He reached out and traced the 
swell of her belly with his open hand. "It doesn't have to be 
so bad." 

Tears filled her eyes. She blinked them back, struggling 
against an urge to scream. "I'm not staying here. I'm going to 
find a way out."

"When you do, be sure to tell me where it is."

"You've given up."

"Me?" He shook his head. "I'm not easily discouraged." He 
lightly tagged her cross with the tip of his finger. A sad 
smile played on his lips. "Dana, there's somewhere I have to 
be right now, but I'll come back as soon as I can. Dibeh will 
bring you whatever you need while I'm gone. And I'll send my 
mother to check on you both later."

His tone was tender, brimming with affection. He sounded so 
like Mulder. If she were to close her eyes... 

She pushed his hand away. "You can't make me care about you."

He leaned close and planted a light kiss on her ear, at her 
temple, on the bridge of her nose. His head dipped until his 
mouth hovered millimeters from her lips. "I told you, I'm not 
easily discouraged."

She gave him a hard shove, rocking him back a step. Glaring up 
at him, she said, "Your name suits you, Ca-Lo. You are the 
Devil."

*   *   *

HARMONY I
SALT LAKE CITY, UTAH
10:15 PM

The runabout hovered at an altitude of 500 meters above 
Harmony I's luminous landing pad. Thrumming antigrav engines 
kept it airborne while the pilot awaited permission to land. 
Ca-Lo fidgeted in the co-pilot's seat, trying to keep his 
hands off the controls and his mind off Dana.

The latter proved impossible.

He must make her understand. The Nih-hi-cho were not a patient 
race. Failure to comply with their rules risked both her life 
and the life of her baby.

*My* baby, he reminded himself. 

He was going to be a father. The prospect conjured an 
unexpected reaction in him, an overwhelming desire to protect 
his little unborn daughter. It was illogical. Yet so powerful. 
He knew he would do whatever it took to safeguard her. He 
would trade his own life for hers...or Dana's...if it came to 
that. He had never felt this way before. Not about anyone or 
anything. It left him simultaneously delighted and afraid -- a 
disconcerting combination.   

Ground control issued their instructions and the pilot 
maneuvered into position. He was an 18-year-old airman 
assigned to the Armada's transport division. Human. His 
nametag said "BOYD, H.B." 

Ca-Lo watched their descent through his side screen. Harmony I 
stretched out below him, an immense stronghold that took up 
the northwestern-most sector of Salt Lake City, including the 
now defunct SLC International Airport. The settlement sparkled 
with electric lights, unlike the dark outer neighborhoods of 
Bennion City, West Jordan, Sandy, Cottonwood. A ten-meter-
high, five-meter-thick, and miles-long silico-steel bulwark 
encircled the compound. It was lit by an unbroken chain of 
mercury vapor lamps, positioned twenty meters apart, 
resembling a string of lustrous pearls from above. Off to the 
south, a mammoth silico extruder was currently pouring the 
rampart's remaining segments. Heavily guarded gates pocked the 
fortification at widespread intervals, providing access for 
ground transportation -- supply trailers, prisoner vans, 
peacekeeping patrols. A fleet of sub-space Stingers, armed 
with anti-aircraft artillery, lined an eastern runway, primed 
for an unlikely Terrestrial offensive. Electro-magnetic pulses 
had rendered the majority of Earth's military ineffective, but 
the humans were clever and determined; they periodically 
managed to power up and launch a missile or two.

Pockets of militant rebels, like the enclave in north Texas, 
presented the most serious threat to Nih-hi-cho occupation. 
Dogged human militia ran intermittent raids on Nih-hi-cho 
supply convoys, stealing goods and killing drivers before the 
trucks could reach their destinations. How the rebels learned 
the exact routes and schedules in advance remained a mystery. 
Even the most adept mole would have a tough time fooling the 
telepathic Nih-hi-cho for long. More likely, the guerrilla 
factions had crafty leaders to plot their raids. 

Ca-Lo fully expected to capture them eventually. In the 
meantime, he admired their cunning.

Watcher VII was in his human form and waiting on the tarmac 
when Ca-Lo deplaned. Ca-Lo noticed the former Lieutenant had 
been promoted to Major.

"Harris," Ca-Lo greeted him, suppressing an urge to throttle 
the weasely spy.

"Still pissed?" Harris' smirk deepened the scar below his 
fogged right eye.  

"You'd be dead if I had my way."

"Then it's good for me the Overseers are the ultimate 
authority." 

Harris was untouchable now, protected by his faithfulness to 
the Society.

"Let's get this over with," Ca-Lo said through gritted teeth. 
"Show me what I need to see, give me your fucking wish list, 
and I'll get the hell out."

"Nothing would please me more." Harris indicated a waiting 
jeep. "Our ride."  

The tour lasted six tedious hours and included stops in 
Harmony I's power plant, food services, and three factories. 
Human captives worked the assembly lines, manufacturing na-a-
jah, incubator parts, and silico-cloth, which were traded to 
sister settlements in the mid-west sector. Conditions in the 
factories were abysmal. The silico-cloth extrusion process 
produced noxious fumes and acidic byproducts that burned the 
workers' skin, eyes and lungs. When they became blind or 
otherwise incapacitated, they were "retired" to the salty 
depths of Farmington Bay. New prisoners were shuttled from 
Antelope Island to replace them. All humans were expendable, 
as far as the Nih-hi-cho were concerned, and demand for 
silico-cloth was high. It was used to make the army's form-
fitting uniforms. The durable black fabric was better 
protection than terrestrial anti-ballistic vests, yet 
lightweight, flexible and exceptionally comfortable. Worth the 
sacrifice of a few hundred human lives.

Dressed in one of these very uniforms, Ca-Lo trudged at 
Harris' heels through the military barracks, an immense human 
warehouse, and a brand-spanking new Nursery. The nursery 
currently lay empty, but plans were underway to stock it with 
hosts by mid-December, when a fresh batch of clones would 
arrive from Phoenix. Ca-Lo tried to focus on Harris's litany 
of logistics and complaints, but his thoughts kept returning 
to Dana. Was she resting okay? Had she eaten? How was the 
baby? Had his mother come to check on them yet? 

Finally, the tour ended and Harris drove Ca-Lo back to the 
landing pad. He parked beside the runabout, but remained 
seated behind the steering wheel. Both men kept their eyes 
trained on Airman Boyd, who was performing a routine exterior 
flight check.

"I need more soldiers, Ca-Lo," Harris said.

"You have the largest deputation in this sector."

"I need more. Harmony I is significantly more vulnerable than 
the other settlements. Its central location and large 
inventory make it a prime target for Terrestrial raids. Our 
forces are under daily attack from groups to the east and 
south. We lost twenty troops and five armed vehicles just this 
morning."

"So I should condemn more soldiers to their deaths by sending 
them to you?" 

"It's not my fault the rebels are devious. Their leader is a 
skilled strategist, an ex-Marine. He served in Viet Nam. He 
knows how to fight a guerrilla war."

"And you don't," Ca-Lo sneered. The Nih-hi-cho had put an 
idiot in charge of their premiere settlement facility. It was 
ludicrous. Harris' telepathy should have given him every 
advantage, but apparently his incompetence was insurmountable. 
"Who is this man, this great leader?"

"His name is Walter Skinner. Ex-FBI. He aided the escape of 
two prisoners from Fort Weather earlier this year, before 
organizing rebel forces in north Texas and New Mexico. He's 
currently camped in Wasatch-Cache National Forest."

"You know who he is and where he is, but you haven't captured 
him?"

"It's a big forest, Ca-Lo, and he doesn't sit still long 
enough for me to stop and chat." Harris appeared thoughtful as 
he stroked the old battle scar on his craggy cheek. "Look...I 
know you consider me incompetent, but the fact remains, I *am* 
in charge here and the Overseers will intervene on my behalf 
if you refuse to grant my requests."

Countermanding my orders, Ca-Lo thought, to keep me in my 
place. 

The Council would not tolerate acts they considered willful or 
petty. Especially not so soon after giving Dana over to him. 
He had to tread lightly, play their game, at least for the 
time being.  

"They released the Earth woman -- how lucky for you." Harris 
smiled, causing the scar on his cheek to pucker. 

Ca-Lo had felt his old Watcher dipping into his mind 
throughout the long night, but this was Harris's first direct 
response to the news of Dana's release. 

"It's not like them to be so generous," Harris noted.

"Generosity had nothing to do with it."

"I have no doubt. They want Dana Scully's son." Harris sounded 
almost bored. "Give me more troops, Ca-Lo, and I'll get him 
for you."

"You? How? You can't even get this man Skinner, and he's 
sitting in your own back yard. How the hell are you going to 
find William Mulder?"

"I've spent a good deal of time inside Skinner's head while 
tracking him."

"So...?"

"You're going to love this." Harris' sighted eye targeted Ca-
Lo. "Skinner is the man Dana Scully entrusted to hide her son. 
Isn't life a constant surprise?" 

This was startling news. "Where is the boy?"

"That information is negotiable."

"Damn you..." Ca-Lo struggled to keep his temper in check. "If 
you know where he is, why haven't you gone after him?"

"Ah, that brings us right back to the subject of soldiers, 
doesn't it? I've been telling you all along I'm short on 
manpower. Give me more troops, and I might be persuaded to 
hand the boy over to you instead of the Council."

"You cock-sucking son-of-a-- Why should I trust you?"

"Because, unlike you humans, we Nih-hi-cho don't hold grudges. 
We don't suck cocks either. That's another strictly human 
perversion." Harris's fogged eye rolled independently of the 
sighted one. "Don't be a fool, Ca-Lo. I need more men and you 
want the boy, so let's come to an agreement. Don't risk 
William Mulder -- and your precious Dana Scully -- to settle 
an old score with me."

Ca-Lo hated to admit Harris was right, but this was not the 
time to be seeking revenge. Swallowing his resentment, he 
capitulated. "All right, Major, I'll authorize your soldiers. 
But if the Divine Angels grant you the good fortune to find 
the boy before I do, you had better deliver him directly to 
me, because if you don't, I swear on the Red Dragon himself 
I'll come back here and rip your fucking Nih-hi-cho head off."

*   *   *

TSE'BIT'A'I', CA-LO'S QUARTERS
4:15 AM

The clock on the nightstand ticked another minute closer to 
morning. Dibeh lay curled in a ball on the far side of Ca-Lo's 
wide bed, her diminutive form all but lost beneath a snarl of 
blankets and linens. Her muted snore reminded Scully of a 
purring cat.

Scully folded back the covers and slipped quietly from the 
bed. The bathroom lights flicked on automatically when she 
crossed the threshold. There was no door, so she gave up the 
idea of privacy, lifted the hem of her long white nightgown, 
and squatted above the toilet to relieve her aching bladder.
She washed at the sink, a broad oval basin surrounded by 
masculine toiletries. The soap smelled like almonds. She 
squeezed an inch of toothpaste onto her finger and scrubbed at 
her teeth.

A mirror covered the wall above the sink from countertop to 
ceiling. Staring back at her from the glass was a gaunt woman 
she barely recognized. Her complexion was ashen. Blue veins 
mottled her neck and chest, disappearing into the lacey bib of 
her cotton nightgown. The gown was lovely, soft and decorated 
with satin trim.

She spat into the sink and wiped her mouth with a towel. "He 
can provide pretty sleepwear, but not a toothbrush," she 
grumbled.

Her hair was a mass of weedy tangles, several inches longer 
than she remembered. She tried to comb the snarls with her 
fingers. Failing miserably, she borrowed Ca-Lo's tortoise-
shell comb to work out the knots.

Several minutes of painful tugging tamed her unruly hair. She 
drew it back into a smooth ponytail and, lacking anything 
better, confiscated one of Ca-Lo's silver clasps to fasten it 
at her nape.

Curious about the changes in her body and the progress of her 
baby's development, she presented her profile to the mirror. 
The loose nightgown hid her form, so she gathered it tightly 
behind her back until the fabric hugged her torso and revealed 
the shape of her breasts and belly.

It was a girl this time. If she were to believe Ca-Lo and the
aliens.

She had to get out of this place, off the ship, away from Ca-
Lo and his henchmen. The door to his quarters was locked from 
the outside -- she'd tried it earlier, not five minutes after 
he left on his errand. Dibeh had done all she could to 
intervene, but Scully ignored the hybrid's frantic hand 
signals and shook her off whenever she grabbed hold of her 
arms. A hard slap on the face and a firm order to "Keep away 
from me!" finally did the trick. Dibeh retreated to a corner 
and watched with wet eyes as Scully rummaged through every 
drawer and cupboard in the apartment.

Unfortunately, her search turned up nothing, no key or 
combination to the lock, no alternate way out. Exhausted, she 
gave up, determined to renew her investigation after a couple 
of hours of sleep.

Although not exactly invigorated, she was ready to pick up 
where she'd left off. Checking Ca-Lo's computer files for a 
combination to the keypad was next on her agenda.

She tiptoed past Dibeh.

At the archway between the two rooms, she nearly ran into 
Cassandra.

"Jesus," she gasped, startled. "Cassandra, what are you doing 
here at this hour?"

"You're in terrible danger." Cassandra's eyes darted around 
the room. She was dressed in a black fleece jacket, gray 
quilted trousers and Thinsulate gloves. "They want to kill 
you. They're on their way."

"Who? Who wants to kill me?"

"The Refuters. They're the worst. They think your baby is 
evil, an Abomination. They believe their Legion of Angels 
wants it destroyed. I'm scared, Dana, for you...and for my 
future grandchild. You--"

Cassandra fell silent when Dibeh staggered from the bedroom. The 
hybrid blinked sleep from her eyes. Her hair was flattened on 
one side, her wrinkled shift askew. Her hands formed silent 
questions, which Scully was unable to decipher.

Cassandra ignored the aide and implored Scully, "We must 
leave...now."

"Where can we go?"

"I have access to a personal shuttle on the hangar deck. I can 
take you to Earth. But we must hurry."

"Let me get dressed." Scully took a step toward the wardrobe, 
but Cassandra grabbed her arm to stop her.

"There isn't time."

Dibeh rushed forward, making frantic hand signals.

"No, you stay here," Cassandra told the hybrid.

A desperate squeal hummed in Dibeh's throat.

"You're *not* coming," Cassandra said.

Dibeh's unintelligible whines grew more insistent. She latched 
onto Scully's arm with a vise-like grip.

"She seems determined to go," Scully said.

Cassandra glared at her aide. "Stop making such a fuss," she 
demanded.

Dibeh grunted and moaned. She repeatedly pointed toward Ca-
Lo's desk.

"Okay, okay," Cassandra relented, "you can come. But we must 
go now!"

With Dibeh still clinging to Scully's arm, Cassandra herded 
them out of Ca-Lo's apartment and down the damp corridor. For 
the first time in months, Scully felt a surge of genuine hope. 

She would soon be returning to Earth, to her home, and God 
willing, to Mulder.

*   *   *

OFFICER'S DECK
7:56 AM

Ca-Lo whistled a cheery tune as he approached his quarters. He 
was hugging a fat bouquet of fragrant stargazer lilies and 
three sacks of assorted gifts for Dana, everything from dental 
floss and nail clippers to satin undergarments and a striking, 
embroidered silk robe. Cassandra had supplied him with a list 
of personal items, female stuff that Ca-Lo understood nothing 
about. 

Breast cream? What the hell was that? Was it a beauty aid or a 
dairy product? 

The ship's Keeper of Stores had demanded an outrageous sum for 
the goods. Ca-Lo paid the greedy bastard without comment. In 
truth, he would have spent ten times as much to ease the 
melancholy in Dana's eyes.

At his spoken command, the door to his apartment slid open. He 
strode inside, eager to bestow his gifts. 

Two steps into the room and he smelled it.

Blood. Nih-hi-cho blood.

"Dana?" 

He dropped his armload of gifts. Flowers fanned across the 
carpet; toiletries spilled from the bags. A bottle of prenatal 
vitamins rolled several meters, rattling as it went. He 
lurched toward the bedroom, trampling blossoms in his haste. 

"Dana? Dib--"

The room was empty. The bed unmade.

"Dana!" His call startled the birds. They flew from their 
perches, rising up in an explosive flap of wings and high-
pitched chirps.

He loped past their cage to the bathroom.

A rumpled towel lay beside the sink. One of his hair clips was 
missing. And his comb was out of place. But there was no 
blood, no sign of a struggle.

Sniffing the air, he followed the citrusy tang of Nih-hi-cho 
blood back to the outer office.

Nothing appeared amiss, except...

A gummy puddle of phosphorescence frothed beneath his desk.
Ca-Lo crossed the room, accidentally kicking the fallen 
container of vitamins as he went. It skidded into the fizzing 
blood and stuck there.

Crouching on hands and knees, he peered under the desk.
That's when he saw what he feared most.

A woman's hand. Pale and small. Palm up, fingers loosely 
curled, slicked with green blood.

"D-Dana?"

He grabbed the limp arm and pulled her out.

"N-no..."

It wasn't Dana.

"No...no, no..."

It was Cassandra.

"Mother!"

Green blood matted her hair and her favorite blue robe. She 
was dead, her skin already growing cool, her eyes open and 
glazed with fear. There was no apparent injury, no splash of 
her own bright red blood.

What the hell had happened here?

He drew her into his arms to check her back for wounds. The 
collar of her robe was saturated with fresh green blood. Above 
it was a small puncture at the base of her neck. It foamed 
with phosphorescence.

Hands quaking, he gently prodded the tiny hole and felt the 
burn of noxious Nih-hi-cho blood on his fingertips, painful, 
but not lethal, not for him.

In his shock, he grasped for answers. This was a shapeshifter. 
Dana must have killed it and then escaped.

Except shapeshifters reverted to their natural state when they 
died.

Confusion twisted through him. Cassandra wasn't Nih-hi-cho. 
She was human. She was his mother. The only person who had 
ever cared about him. She didn't have alien blood...she 
couldn't because she wasn't alien...

Realization shattered his illusions and brought tears, 
scalding and hurtful. She had lied to him; she wasn't human. 
She was Nih-hi-cho.

What did that make him? 

There was no one to turn to for answers, no one he could 
trust. He rocked the dead woman, pawed her blood-soaked hair. 
Hot tears coursed down his cheeks. She had loved him once, no 
matter what she was.

What dastardly person would do this? And where was Dana? 
Kidnapped by the assassin?

He had to find her. Shoving the body aside, he rose to his 
feet. There was only one way off the ship. He reached across 
his desk and punched a call to the Hangar Deck.

"Transportation," an airman answered. "What can I do for you, 
sir?"

No need to identify himself; the airman had already seen his 
name on the intercom display. "I want a list of recent 
departures."

"How recent, sir?"

"Anything in the last...uh..." -- he glanced at the body -- 
"two hours."

"Yes, sir. There was one, about twenty minutes ago. Personal 
shuttle."

"Who signed for it?"

"Checking the log now, sir."

"Make it fast, Airman."

"Yes, sir. It was...it was your mother, sir."

"My mother?" So the assassin wasn't Dana. It was a 
shapeshifter, a Refuter, no doubt. And now the bastard was 
posing as Cassandra to escape the ship. "Was anyone with her?"

"Uh...yes, sir. One human female and an aide."

Ca-Lo's heart was pounding so hard he expected blood to pour 
from his ears. "Where were they headed?"

"Log says Harmony I, sir."

It was a ruse. They wouldn't go to the settlement.

"Prepare my runabout. I'm on my way."

*   *   *

SOMEWHERE OVER UTAH

"Where are we going?" Lady Dana asked. She was buckled into a 
curved, high-backed seat beside the woman who looked like 
Mistress Cassandra, but wasn't. 

Dibeh trembled in the seat behind her new mistress, her hands 
trying to warn Lady Dana of the imposter's deceit. "She is not 
Mistress Cassandra," Dibeh signaled over and over again, so 
many times her hands ached from making the signs. She did not 
know who the stranger was, but she most certainly was not 
Cassandra Spender. Dibeh knew her old Mistress's jerky 
mannerisms, the gravelly pitch of her voice, the apple peel 
scent of her skin.

This fraud moved too efficiently and her tone was too 
piercing. She reeked of something bitter, like rotting 
horseradish. 

Whoever she was, she steered the four-person shuttle above a 
sea of rutted clouds; her fingers danced over the controls 
with the skill of a seasoned pilot.

"We're going to Hill Air Force Base," she said, using soothing 
tones. "You'll be safe there. It's still controlled by the 
U.S. military. The Refuters won't follow us."

Lady Dana hugged her thin cotton nightgown across her chest 
and shivered against the cold. Her breath fogged the cockpit's 
frigid air. "What are Refuters?"

"They are purists. They believe that God, the human God, *our* 
God, is a scheming demon who is constantly testing the devout. 
They believe their Legion of Divine Angels are the true 
deities of the universe."

"What does any of that have to do with killing me?"

"The Refuters can't abide polluting their race by hybridizing 
themselves with humans." The imposter glared over her shoulder 
at Dibeh.

Her look was so fierce, Dibeh's hands froze in midair. She 
shrank into her seat, unable to suck in a breath; it was as if 
a nest of snuff spiders had hatched in her throat.

"I still don't see the connection." Lady Dana's teeth were 
chattering. From cold or fear, Dibeh didn't know.

"They also seek to destroy any human who possesses the 
Derivation," the imposter said.

"The Derivation?"

"An immunity to the Oil."

"They think I have this...this Derivation?"

"No, they believe your baby does."

The aircraft shuddered as it descended through the thick layer 
of clouds. Lightning flashed beyond the windscreen, briefly 
painting the interior silver. For that instant, Dibeh thought 
she saw a familiar face beneath the imposter's bone-white 
flesh.

Walnut-colored skin. Corkscrewing hair. Whiskers the color of 
silico-steel bracelets.

It was Sergeant Thompson, Cassandra's confidant, Dibeh was 
sure of it. She'd seen the two of them conferring on numerous 
occasions, their heads bent in private conversation, their 
whispers kept low so that no one could overhear. Mistress 
Cassandra had described her secretive companion as human, but 
clearly he was not, not if he could change his appearance this 
way.

He was Nih-hi-cho. A shapeshifter.

Dibeh sliced the air with her hands, trying to warn Lady Dana, 
"He is a Refuter! He is the spy! Lady Dana, he is going to 
kill us!"

She feared he had already committed murder, back in Ca-Lo's 
quarters. She had smelled blood the moment she stepped into 
the outer office from the bedroom. Saw it on the carpet 
beneath Ca-Lo's desk. The imposter must have hidden his victim 
there.

She looked now for signs of Nih-hi-cho blood on the spy's 
jacket and gloves. Sure enough, there were specks of green 
dotting his wrists.

Dibeh groaned to get Lady Dana's attention. She spelled out 
the impending danger with both hands.

"What is she saying?" Lady Dana finally asked.

"She's afraid of flying," the imposter lied.

Dibeh shook her head. "Ung, ung, ung," she grunted. Her hands 
waggled, "He is a murderer!"

"Settle down!" the imposter hissed. When he noticed Dana's 
shocked stare, he smiled sheepishly. "There's no need for 
panic. We're going to be on the ground in a few minutes."

Another bolt of lightning bathed the shuttle's interior. 
Sergeant Thompson's ebony features jittered once more beneath 
Cassandra's skin.

Dana gasped.

She'd seen it. Divine Angels be praised, she had seen the 
imposter's other face.

"Is something wrong?" The imposter feigned concern.

"No. No, it's just the storm. I'm a little afraid of flying 
myself. How much longer before we land?" Lady Dana glanced 
back at Dibeh.

Dibeh had spent her entire life reading the eyes and bodies of 
others: either mute hybrids like herself or secretive masters 
who said one thing while meaning another. Lady Dana's eyes 
were wide with understanding and her body, while superficially 
calm, was preparing for action, the muscles tight, feet set 
apart, ready to push her from her seat, hands positioned to 
strike.

The descending shuttle rocked and broke through the clouds. An 
enormous body of gray water, striped by ragged waves, rippled 
below them. It was ringed by dark, forested mountains.

"You're not going to Hill," Lady Dana stated without emotion.

"What makes you say that?"

"We're heading north over Salt Lake."

"To avoid a Nih-hi-cho outpost," the imposter claimed.
He flicked the controls and drew up on the steering column, 
increasing the angle of their descent. The engines growled. 
Shredded clouds twisted past the side windows. The shuttle was 
careening toward the lake at a frightful speed.

"You're not Cassandra." Lady Dana's hands clutched the 
armrests. "You're alien...a shapeshifter. You intend to kill 
me. That's what Dibeh's been trying to warn me about, isn't 
it?"

The imposter chuckled. His features began to roil, 
transforming from Cassandra's familiar face to Sergeant 
Thompson's dark countenance and then to his natural Nih-hi-cho 
form. He turned to snarl at Dibeh, "You should have stayed on 
Tse'Bit'a'i'. Now you will die, too."

The altimeter indicated they were less than 1000 meters above 
the surface of the lake, and the Refuter showed no signs of 
pulling up or slowing their heart-pounding descent.

"This is a suicide mission?" Lady Dana asked.

"Your baby must never be born." The imposter gripped the 
controls. "It carries the Derivation. It is an Abomination."

"Please...don't do this."

"I will be rewarded for my faithfulness. The Red Dragon will 
accept my soul into his Divine Legion where I will live for 
eternity in honor."

They were close enough to the lake for Dibeh to see foam 
cresting in the waves.

The imposter began to pray aloud to the Dragon. Lady Dana 
reached for the tiny gold cross that hung from her neck.

Dibeh did not want to die.

On impulse, or perhaps guided by the Dragon's will, she 
unbuckled her belt and lunged for the imposter. His prayer 
stopped and he yelped when she tightened her arms around his 
neck. Belted into his seat, he couldn't turn to fight her.
Choking, he released the controls to claw at her face. The 
shuttle wobbled and veered. Dibeh dodged the imposter's worst 
blows and hung on, squeezing his throat with all her might. 
Her arms were strong from years of polishing and lifting and 
carrying. The imposter could not dislodge her.

Lady Dana reached for the steering mechanism and tried to take 
control of the craft, but managed only to nudge its nose 
skyward before the shuttle hit, bounced, and skimmed across 
the lake's corrugated surface. It pounded over waves, yawed 
sickeningly to starboard, began to spin. Dibeh was thrown hard 
toward the control panel. Dana screamed.

Then the world went black.

x-x-x-x-x

BOOK V: INTO THE WILDERNESS
 

WASATCH-CACHE NATIONAL FOREST
OCTOBER 13, 2002
8:02 AM

It was cold. Freeze-your-fucking-ass-off cold. 

Royal Jackson hunkered beneath a stand of canyon maples at the 
bivouac's western periphery, his camouflage jacket zipped to 
his chin against the chill. He wasn't a back-to-nature kind of 
guy, but ever since the aliens had taken over the city, 
everyone was living like goddamned Daniel Boone. 

A festering insect bite drew Royal's dirty nails to the back 
of his neck as he studied Farmington Bay through his binoculars. 
Autumn leaves blazed like hellfire beneath a stone sky and the 
air carried the raw, damp odor of an approaching squall.

Royal had pulled morning shift; his assignment was to keep an 
eye on Route 89 and Great Salt Lake beyond, while Commander 
Skinner reviewed OFE maneuvers with the North Utah Infantry. 

OFE -- Operation Free Earth, or Operation Fuck ET, depending 
on who you asked -- was a coordinated military offensive. It 
represented months of painstaking preparation: espionage, 
surveillance, training and, most challenging of all, 
synchronization between more than four dozen far-flung North 
American divisions, an undertaking that had proven to be 
hazardous and nearly impossible without functioning 
telecommunications. At last, armed units across the continent 
were poised to attack alien settlements similar to the one in 
Salt Lake City at dusk tonight.

Some of the men were spooked by the inauspicious date -- 
unlucky thirteen. But Royal felt optimistic. After all, it was 
a Sunday, not a Friday. And he was eager to kick ET's ass any 
damned day of the week.  

At nineteen years old, Royal was lean and athletic, a fast 
runner, an accurate shot. He wore shoulder-length dreadlocks 
tucked beneath a green knit cap and, under his jacket, tribal-
style tattoos blackened his already dark arms, neck and torso. 
A row of small sterling hoops glittered along the outer curve 
of his ears, a heavy skull and crossbones dangled from his 
left lobe, and two thick barbells pierced his right brow.  

According to the uncle who raised him, Royal was a loser, a 
lost cause. Reckless. Irresponsible. Always stoned or 
tripping. 

Well, why the hell not? The world was a fucking shithole and 
ol' Uncle Louis objected to everything anyway: hair, clothes, 
friends, tattoos, earrings.

"Jesus, Roy, why the hell you wanna go an' poke a bunch of 
freakin' holes in your head?" Louis would ask, a look of 
disgust curling his broad lips.

Uncle Lou would have popped a goddamned vein if he had found 
out about the gleaming Prince Albert that looped through the 
tip of Royal's dick. Made him piss like a broken water 
fountain, but carpe fuckin' diem, Unc, the orgasms were sweet. 
Besides, straight-laced living hadn't helped anyone, had it? 
Especially Louis. He was as dead as all the other sons of 
bitches in South Salt Lake. 

Royal toyed with the sterling stud in his tongue, rolling it 
around in his mouth, taking pleasure in its smoothness and 
solidity as he scrutinized Antelope Island. The 28,000-acre 
shelf rose sharply out of the lake, seven miles off shore in 
Farmington Bay, its seemingly barren terrain looking like it 
belonged on another planet. Until recently, it had been a 
state park, home to mule deer, antelope, coyotes, bobcats, and 
a herd of six-hundred bison, give or take. Now it was the 
location of the aliens' human warehouse, a fortress-like 
prison that housed several thousand human captives. Poor 
bastards were ferried back and forth to the stronghold in Salt 
Lake City as needed, to work in the factories or be used as 
guinea pigs in the aliens' freaking experiments.

Commander Skinner was sending a team to Antelope to free the 
prisoners while the rest of the NUI attacked the aliens at the 
mainland settlement. Royal was looking forward to that battle. 
He had plenty of scores to settle. And he was never one to 
back down from a fight. 

Royal first met Commander Skinner two months ago, during one 
of the aliens' weekly Round Ups. ET troops were combing the 
city for prisoners, seizing anyone who had evaded capture 
since the invasion last May. Royal's eleven-year-old cousin 
Nicole was caught and thrown into a monster-sized transport 
car. Royal was frantic, hurling bottles and bricks at the 
troopers, yelling for Nicole. Not ten feet away, a laser-
toting, Martian-loving SOB decapitated Royal's best buddy Kaz. 
Blood sprayed everywhere. The stink of burning flesh was 
enough to gag a goddamn maggot. Just when the same damned 
fucker was about to blast Royal, too, Skinner's militia 
appeared seemingly out of nowhere, riding to the rescue in the 
nick of time, just like the cavalry in Uncle Louis' old John 
Wayne videos. Fifty or more horsemen, guns firing, grenades 
exploding. They took out four armored vehicles and at least 
two dozen alien conspirators, disabled the transport car and 
released its human cargo. Later that night, Nicole was sent 
with the other children to Safe Camp, near the Utah-Wyoming 
border. Royal stayed behind and volunteered to become a 
freedom fighter in Skinner's burgeoning infantry.  

Commander Walter Skinner was a bona fide hero, ten times over, 
as far as Royal was concerned. Royal would follow the old war 
horse to the ends of the Earth, if that's what it took to wipe 
out the goddamned, cock-sucking Martians. Not that he needed 
an excuse. He hated the stinking fuckers just on principal.  

He hoped to get his chance at killing a shit-load of them 
tonight, make the murdering bastards pay for the things they'd 
done. Almost everyone he had ever cared about was gone thanks 
to the aliens. Everyone except Nicole. And the NUI, his new 
family. He had plenty of brothers and sisters now. And 
Commander Skinner looked after the entire bunch of them like a 
stern father, insisting in no uncertain terms they watch each 
other's backs, fight like the devil and above all else, stay 
the fuck alive.

A shadow in the clouds caught Royal's eye and he aimed his 
binoculars skyward.

To his amazement, an alien shuttle punched through the 
overcast, the trajectory too steep to make a landing on 
Antelope. It careened toward the lake and, in a matter of 
seconds, plowed nose-first into the bay, sending up a plume of 
water. 

"Jesus--" Royal sprang to his feet.

The shuttle skidded and spun, gouged a ragged, miles-long wake 
across the gray, choppy water, all the way to the Farmington 
shore, where it lodged in the marsh and began to sink a couple 
of hundred yards out. Christ Almighty, as close as it was, 
they might actually have time to loot it before the aliens 
arrived on the scene. It was certain to be carrying supplies 
and munitions of some sort. Maybe alien communication devices, 
too. And it would be a goddamned pleasure to torture military 
secrets out of the fucking pilot and crew...if they had 
survived the crash.

Royal sprinted uphill to the camp to notify Skinner.

*   *   *

ARROWHEAD CREEK, WYOMING

Mulder siphoned gas into the Scout from the Get-N-Go's 
underground tank while Gibson searched for food and water 
inside the store. Melissa's ghost leaned against the 
motorcycle, arms crossed, a frown creasing her face. 

"You're still angry at her," she said.

"Yep."

"Let it go, Mulder."

An icy blast of wind ruffled his hair. "You were the one who 
once told me I should express my feelings. That's what I'm 
doing."

"That was different. Dana was dying."

"I'm being honest, Melissa. I'm angry."

"You're as much at fault as she is." Her eyes flashed with 
condemnation.

"I don't deny that. I wasn't around. My absence influenced her 
decision. Fine. But you and I and she all know I'd've come 
home if she'd contacted me. She never gave me the chance."

"She was afraid. For him and for you."

Mulder pressed his lips together, unwilling to say more. The 
last time he'd confessed the depth of his disappointment on 
this subject, things had ended disastrously.

Melissa lifted her gaze to the snow-capped mountains behind 
the station, as if unable to stand the sight of Mulder one 
second longer. "She regrets her decision, you know. She didn't 
want to give him up. It was the last thing she wanted." 

"Yeah...well...maybe she wanted it more than you think." It 
came out sounding bitter, more so than he had intended. He 
didn't hate Scully. He loved her, which was one of the reasons 
her decision hurt so damn much.

"You know why you're clinging so desperately to your anger?" 
she asked.

He didn't feel he was clinging to anything, at least not 
desperately. "Enlighten me."

"It keeps her close to you."

"That makes absolutely no sense." Actually it did, in a 
perverse way. As long as he held onto his anger, he could 
pretend their argument -- and, by extension, their separation 
-- was only minutes ago, instead of months.

Gasoline overflowed the tank and spilled onto his sleeve.

"Shit." He removed the hose and capped the tank. Where the 
hell was Gibson?

"She could use your sympathy, not your resentment," Melissa 
said.

"I'll work on that as soon as I find my son."

"She needs you, Mulder."

Guilt speared him. "Do you know where she is?"

"She's drowning."

"I hope you're speaking metaphorically."

"Mulder!" Gibson's shout echoed across the vacant lot from the 
door of the mini-mart. "Come here!"

"Just a sec--" Mulder turned to Melissa, only to find she had 
vanished. "Damn it."

Gibson waved him toward the building. "They're changing."

"What are you talking about?"

"You gotta see." 

Mulder limped to the store and with Gibson in the lead headed 
down an aisle to the back. According to the signs, the shelves 
had once been stocked with donuts, snack cakes, chips and 
crackers. Now everything edible or useful was gone, stripped 
by looters. 

Gibson stopped beside a rack of disposable cameras and pointed 
to the floor. 

Mulder crouched and pressed a finger into what appeared to be 
greasy, reptilian skin. "Is that what I think it is?"

"Yes." 

"They're metamorphosing into their adult form."

"What you call 'grays.'"

Mulder counted eleven castoff skins between the camera rack 
and the empty dairy case. "They all shed simultaneously? Is 
that... normal?" The word seemed ludicrous, given the 
circumstances.

"Their development could be genetically predetermined."

Five months had passed since the proto-aliens' "birth" at 
Shiprock. The number carried significance. It was the 
timetable specified in Revelation.

"Don't read too much into it," Gibson said, clearly listening 
in on Mulder's thoughts. "Revelation also said the locusts 
would only torture, not kill. We've seen plenty of dead 
bodies."

"So they skipped a day of Sunday school." Mulder stood, 
relieving the ache in his injured leg only a little. "The 
proto-alien at Rolling Hills matured into an adult in less 
than forty-eight hours. A real overachiever compared to these. 
I'm thinking the reactor was a contributing factor, 
accelerating its development."

Gibson shrugged. "We know they don't like the cold."

The aliens came out primarily during daylight, when 
temperatures were at their warmest. "Could we use the cold 
against them in some way?"

Again Gibson shrugged and his seeming disinterest frustrated 
Mulder. How could the kid possess the power of telepathy and 
not use it to find out all he could about the aliens?

"You don't know or you don't *want* to know?" Mulder asked. 

Gibson looked stung. "I learn what I can."

Mulder immediately regretted his anger. He had no right to 
judge Gibson. It must be living hell for him, overhearing 
whatever was going on inside the aliens' heads.  

"It's not so bad," Gibson answered without being asked. "No 
worse than what's in the minds of some people." His lips 
twitched with a rare smile. "Baywatch?"

The old reference eased the tension between them.

"Hey, I haven't watched that show for ages."

"You haven't watched any TV for ages."

Before the image of Mulder's prison cell could form fully in 
his mind and ignite a panic attack, he changed the subject by 
pointing to the castoff skins and asking, "Where did the 
aliens go?"

"To join the others, get introduced to the collective 
consciousness."

"Can you tap into their Group Think?"

"Yes. But they recognize me as being from outside their 
Society. I can get only so far before they shut me out."

"Too bad. We could use a trustworthy mole." Mulder scanned the 
store, half expecting to see Deep Throat or X lurking beside 
the cash register. Unfortunately, his old informants were 
nowhere to be found when he needed them most.

Gibson stared at him, his expression unreadable.

Knowing there was no point in trying to hide his thoughts from 
Gibson, Mulder asked outright, "Are they real -- the ghosts?"

"You see them, don't you?"

"I could be delusional."

"Am I delusional because I hear voices in my head?" 

"I hope not, since I'm counting on you to find William for 
me."

An unfocused look momentarily glazed Gibson's eyes, telling 
Mulder he was listening for the boy.

"He's near here," Gibson said at last.

"How near?"

"In Arrowhead...somewhere."

"You don't know where?"

"No, but it's a small town. Shouldn't take us long to find 
him."  

*   *   *

QUEALY RESIDENCE

Kenna abandoned her spade to plow her fingers into the 
garden's cold soil. She unearthed a lumpy turnip and tossed it 
with a loud thunk into her wheelbarrow, where it collided with 
four others.

Turnips, turnips and more turnips. William didn't like 
turnips. Not without lots of sugar sprinkled on top, and there 
was no more sugar in the canister. 

"Just as well." Sugar wasn't good for kids. Rotted their 
teeth. "No dentists in Arrowhead." No dentists anywhere. Not 
live ones anyway.

William played happily two rows over, squatting in the dirt, 
digging holes with a bent kitchen spoon. He was an energetic 
boy with wispy, reddish-blond hair and an inquisitive 
disposition. His plump, wind-chapped cheeks glowed bright 
pink. Snot drained from his small, reddened nose. He blinked 
against the brisk autumn wind, blue-gray eyes wide and 
shimmery.  

The weather had turned bitter earlier in the week and Kenna 
felt driven to harvest what little was left in the small 
vegetable patch. The garden wasn't hers. Neither was the 
house, a peeling two-bedroom ranch, a mile and a half west of 
"downtown" Arrowhead, population 78...before the locust-
monsters had come and killed everyone.

The name on the dented mailbox at the end of the dirt driveway 
said QUEALY. Every time Kenna looked at it, she misread it as 
QUEASY. She had peeked inside when they first arrived a few 
days ago, but found it empty. Mail delivery had slowed to a 
trickle soon after the power went out last May; eventually it 
had stopped altogether.

The Quealys' sloped yard was neglected and overgrown. Ancient 
cottonwoods and stubbly evergreens crowded the house. 
Chrysanthemums and sunflowers, dry as the straw bristles on a 
whiskbroom, spiked the perennial bed beside the front step; 
they rattled like chattering teeth every time the breeze blew. 

The house sat cattycorner to Buckboard Road. Kenna had chosen 
it over the others in Arrowhead because the front yard boasted 
a well with an old-fashioned hand pump, which, Lord be 
praised, actually worked. The water was cold, pure and sweet. 
No need to stock up on bottled.

If only that were the case with food and diapers. 

The Quealys' pantry was pathetically bare. Kenna mentally 
inventoried their meager provisions for the umpteenth time as 
she pawed another turnip from the ground. One small can of 
deviled ham, two of tuna and six of tomato paste. No fruit. An 
opened jar of pickled beans, which William hated. A crusting 
bottle of spicy mustard. Five packages of useless microwave 
popcorn.

"Thank goodness for powdered milk," she muttered to no one in 
particular.

The root cellar held a ten pound bag of wrinkled, sprouting 
potatoes, two softening butternut squashes, and enough turnips 
to feed an army. It also contained the bodies of the Quealy 
family: mom, dad and two small children, both boys. Kenna had 
dragged their corpses to the cellar from the kitchen to keep 
William away from them. He seemed drawn to every mutilated 
body they came across, especially the young kids.  

"Cawwot!" William squealed with delight. He held a thin, bent 
carrot out for her to see, then bit off the end, dirt and all.

"I thought I got all those yesterday. Are there more?" 

Kenna crossed the garden and knelt beside him. A few minutes 
of burrowing produced six spindly carrots.

"Mo'!" William demanded, his carrot eaten to the nub. Flecks 
of orange and smudges of garden dirt gave his wet smile a 
clown-like appearance. 

"'Mo' what?" she teased.

"Cawwot."

"Please."

"Peese."  

She handed him one. "The rest are for your dinner." 

She tossed them into her wheelbarrow and retrieved her spade. 
"Too bad you don't like onions," she said, eyeing the 
untouched row of pearly crowns and browning leaves.

William frowned and dismissed the idea. "Yuns 'ucky." 
     
At a year and a half, William was as smart as a whip and 
growing like a weed. Today he was bundled in one of the young 
Quealy boys' blue quilted jackets and faded bib overalls, 
rolled three times at the cuffs to keep him from tripping. His 
red rubber boots were a size too big. A child's cowboy hat 
rode on his back, dangling from a braided cord around his 
neck.

Kenna was wearing hand-me-downs, too: frayed jeans, gray 
turtleneck and a baggy hand-knit sweater, stolen from a bureau 
in the back bedroom. No point feeling guilty about taking a 
stranger's things; the dead owner wouldn't be using them 
again.

As far as Kenna knew, everyone in Arrowhead was dead. Same 
seemed to be true at Fort Rawlins, Tabernacle and Burnt Rock. 
Heading west on a shiny red mountain bike with an attached 
child seat, she and William had traveled from Cache to 
Arrowhead Creek -- sixty-some miles along Route 80 -- going 
from town to town, house to house, kitchen to kitchen, moving 
on as soon as food got low or she grew too scared to stay put, 
convinced the locust-monsters were coming for them.

Lord Almighty, every time she closed her eyes she saw those 
awful creatures...or Artie and Joanne's headless bodies...or 
Rick's severed arm--

Grief sliced through her. She missed her husband with a 
fierceness that refused to ebb. He had been gone five long 
months and yet she still expected him to appear each evening, 
half starved from working the ranch all day. Goodness 
gracious, he had been a handsome man, eyes the color of coffee 
beans, hair as black as licorice, and a smile that made her 
weak in the knees. Loving, too. And steady. A good provider 
for the short time they'd been married. If he were to show up 
right now, she'd ask him to take her someplace far from 
Wyoming. Someplace without dead bodies and locust-monsters. 
Maybe the Grand Canyon, where they had planned to go on their 
honeymoon...before the truck had needed a new transmission and 
they'd spent every last cent fixing it.

"Hell of a lot of good it did us."

Crossing to the row of beets, Kenna imagined standing on the 
rim of the vast Canyon, holding Rick's calloused hand, 
shouting "I love you, Rick Douglas!" and waiting for the echo 
to ricochet back. 

"Wha'zat?" William asked, bent at the waist, peering down at 
the ground, sturdy legs splayed for balance. He plucked a 
plump earthworm from the soil and held it out for her to see.

"Nightcrawler. Put it down. *Don't* eat it!" she warned just 
in time.

"Ni-call-uh. 'Ucky." He let it drop.

Lord, she had to watch him like a hawk every single minute of 
the day. Not that she minded. He was a good-natured boy. A bit 
clingy, but that was understandable given the circumstances. 
With at least three different "mamas" in the last year, it was 
no wonder he whimpered whenever he lost sight of her.

What in God's name would he have done if she hadn't found him? 
Not that she was overly experienced with babies, but she did 
manage to keep him fed, change his diaper and wash the worst 
of the dirt off his face and hands. And she was extra careful 
to keep an eye on him around the stove.

Her hand went automatically to her neck, feeling the old scars 
through the soft folds of her turtleneck. After all these 
years, she could still remember every detail of that awful 
accident, as if it had happened only that morning. Standing on 
tip-toe, reaching past her mama to grab the handle of the 
steaming pot, wanting to see what was bubbling noisily inside. 
Then there was the terrible shock of scalding water, 
splashing, burning the skin on her neck and chest. Her 
mother's horrified scream. The pain that wouldn't go away, not 
for days or even weeks.

It had been a hard lesson. But she'd learned to be careful, to 
always turn the pot handle away from the edge of the stove 
when she was cooking, especially when William was nearby.

"What don't kill you makes you stronger," she said, repeating 
her grandmother's favorite phrase. "You remember that, 
William."

"Ni-call-uh 'ucky."

She levered her spade into the soil and began digging beets. 
She disliked feeding them to William because they stained his 
poop bright red, which scared the bejesus out of her when she 
changed his diaper. First time, she thought the poor boy was 
bleeding to death.

"Nenna?" -- William's name for her when he remembered not to 
call her mama -- "Uh-oh." His voice quivered in a way that 
made the hair on her arms stand on end. 

"What is it, hon?"

"Ni-call-uh?" He pointed to a large, leathery heap beneath the 
dead tomato plants. 

"Don't move!" she shouted when he took a step toward the 
mysterious mound. 

It flapped like a piece of landscape fabric, rolled back on 
itself by the wind. Except the texture wasn't quite right. Too 
glossy. Rubbery looking. Scaly, like a snake.

Holding her spade like a baseball bat, she edged closer.

Oh God. It was a dead locust-monster.

Her legs went numb as she stood over it. Working up her 
courage, she poked it with her spade, half expecting it to 
spring to life. 

But it turned out to be just a skin. No bones, no muscle. 

"Wha'zat?" William asked again.

"Do not move!" Her scream was aimed at the locust-monster as 
much as at the boy. 

William's eyes filled with tears, but he stayed put.

Holding her breath, Kenna quickly shoveled the skin into her 
wheelbarrow. A pair of empty eye holes gaped at her from among 
the turnips as she pushed the barrow over the lumpy, frozen 
ground. William toddled after her to the open Bilco door at 
the side of the house, where a set of wooden steps, draped 
with cobwebs, led down to the cellar. Kenna shoved the 
wheelbarrow and its contents down the stairwell, then slammed 
the rusty, red door shut.

"Cawwot?" William asked. 

"No more carrots tonight, hon." She clapped dust from her 
hands and tried to smile at him.

He held his short arms aloft. "Up, mama."

"Kenna."

"Nenna."

"What's the magic word?"

"Peeeeeese!"

She lifted him to her hip and nuzzled his neck with her icy 
nose, making him giggle.

"Let's get you and me cleaned up, okay?" She carried him 
around the house to the small front porch. "Rick will be home 
soon and he'll be expecting dinner."

"Din."

"We got packing to do, too. Did I tell you we're going to the 
Grand Canyon? Gonna leave tomorrow. You want to see the Grand 
Canyon, William?"

"Cawwot?"

She gave him a hug and pushed through the front door.

*   *   *  

Water. Freezing cold. Salty and chest-deep. It gushed into the 
shuttle through a ragged, meter-long gap between the fuselage 
and the crushed canopy. The windshield was webbed with 
cracks; it bowed precariously inward. 

Dibeh pushed herself off the dead pilot, the Refuter who had 
kidnapped and tried to kill them. His face was gone, his head 
caved in by the steering column. 

She would be dead, too, she realized, if his body hadn't taken 
the brunt of the impact, cushioning her when they crashed.

She scanned the cabin for Lady Dana.

The co-pilot's seat was buried beneath a pile of fallen 
debris. The cockpit was filling with water at an alarming 
rate. It would be only a matter of minutes before the entire 
cabin was flooded.

And Dibeh couldn't swim. 

She shoved aside floating cushions, chunks of insulating foam 
and plastic components. A crumpled ceiling panel concealed the 
co-pilot's seat. She heaved it up and away, exposing Lady 
Dana, who sat slumped and unconscious in her seat, submerged 
up to her neck in swirling water. Blood trickled from her 
nose. Vapor puffed from her open mouth above the frigid water.

She was still alive. Praise the Great Dragon. 

Dibeh tried to locate the release on her seatbelt. Fingers 
numbed by cold, she followed the shoulder strap down to its 
buckle. 

Before she could unfasten the clasp, the shuttle tilted and a 
surge of current swept her back to the pilot's seat. She 
crashed headlong into the dead Refuter. His bloodied hand 
rocked upon the waves as if still alive. She became entangled 
beneath his limp arm. His fingers grazed her cheek. She batted 
away his ghostly caress and thrashed to stay afloat. Water 
filled her mouth and nose; panic rose in her chest as she 
struggled to keep her head above water. 

Another tremor shook the craft; the shuttle sank deeper. An 
angry wave dragged Dibeh under. 

Tossed through the murky depths, she held her breath and 
struggled to rise to the surface. Cargo tumbled past her as if 
weightless. Her nightgown billowed around her waist and her 
long hair floated like Feeder veils in the laundry vats on 
Tse'Bit'a'i'.

Lungs aching for air, she clenched her jaw against the urge to 
breathe. 

Great Dragon, please help me, she prayed as dizziness began to 
overtake her. 

The Divine Angel must have been listening because he sent a 
current that carried her to Lady Dana, where she popped to the 
surface. Spitting out a mouthful of bitter, salty water, she 
clutched the co-pilot's seat for support. 

Her mistress was conscious, sputtering and coughing, too, 
craning to keep her lips above the sloshing water.

"I can't...I can't unfasten the belt." Lady Dana struggled to 
get free.

Again Dibeh hunted blindly for the buckle, tracing the snug 
strap over the swell of her mistress's belly. Finding it, she 
tugged, but the clasp refused to budge.

She pulled again. And again.

It was no use. The belt remained firmly fastened. 

"Cut it," her mistress said. 

Dibeh scanned the wreckage, looking for something sharp enough 
to saw through the belt's tough fabric.

"The windshield," Lady Dana suggested. 

Dibeh waded to the cracked window. Breaking it would mean 
letting in more water, but it seemed the only choice. She 
searched for something to use as a club and finding nothing 
suitable, she balled her fist and punched the cracked pane 
with her bare knuckles.  

The window burst and water gushed in. Dibeh frantically worked 
a shard loose from the upper edge, ignoring the pain as it 
sliced into her hand. When she had it at last, she let the 
incoming current carry her back to the co-pilot's seat. 

"Hurry," Lady Dana pleaded, choking as water covered her lips.

Dibeh steeled herself for the task ahead. The roiling water 
frightened her more than anything she'd ever faced, even more 
than the Refuter. She would have to act quickly. Filling her 
lungs with air, she ducked beneath the surface. 

Barely able to see in the gloom, she felt for the strap with 
bleeding fingers. Lady Dana writhed frantically against her 
bonds. Dibeh sawed furiously, trying her best not to cut her 
mistress as she worked.

The belt split. Lady Dana pushed herself free of the seat. 

Dibeh surfaced seconds later to find the pocket of air had 
narrowed to mere inches. Lady Dana was treading water with her 
head tipped back, her nose bumping the ceiling.

"We don't have much time," her mistress said. "We have to get 
out. We can try to swim out the window."

Dibeh shook her head. The break was too narrow and edged with 
teeth of glass. Dibeh doubted Lady Dana could fit through, 
swollen as she was with her baby. They were trapped.

Water lapped the ceiling. Lady Dana coughed and spat. "It's 
our only chance. We're going. Now! Do you understand?" She 
grabbed Dibeh's hand and pulled her under.

*   *   *

FARMINGTON BAY

Skinner crouched inside the mouth of a large storm water 
culvert, flanked on one side by the new kid with the unlikely 
name of Royal, and on the other by a seasoned soldier 
nicknamed Flak. The culvert ran beneath Route 89 and provided 
a perfect underground passage between the Wasatch foothills 
and Great Salt Lake.  

"No sign of survivors," Royal said, binoculars trained on the 
shuttle's aft end, which protruded from Farmington Bay about a 
hundred meters offshore. With only a single pair of field 
glasses between them, he served as the team's eyes. "Bow and 
canopy are completely submerged."

"Bye, bye, ET," Flak said with a snicker. He reached for the 
inflated dinghy concealed in the culvert behind them. "Now, 
sir?"

"Hold your position." Skinner refused to risk their lives on 
what was turning out to be a mere salvage mission. It had only 
been the possibility of capturing and interrogating the 
shuttle's crew that had persuaded him to bring the small team 
down to the lake in the first place. He wanted details about 
weapons and manpower and the layout of the Harmony I 
stronghold. Any scrap of information might prove invaluable 
come dusk. Without survivors, however, it was beginning to 
look like they'd wasted their time.

Skinner scanned both the bay and the sky for rescue craft. 
"What's happening at the airport?" he asked.

Royal aimed his binoculars south toward SLC International. 
"Not a creature stirring, sir."

Flak grunted with disgust. "Sleeping on the job." 

"Heads up their asses, more like," Royal said.

"Quiet," Skinner ordered. The aliens would come. A crash this 
close to their settlement would not go unnoticed.

He and Flak would need to work fast. The plan was to paddle 
out to the wreck in the life raft before a search party 
arrived. The inflatable was large enough to haul cargo and a 
couple of prisoners back to shore, assuming anyone had 
survived the crash. Royal would wait on the mainland, hidden 
in the culvert. If the mission went to hell and Skinner and 
Flak were captured or killed, Royal was to return to camp with 
their horses and report to McInness, Skinner's second in 
command. 

Operation Free Earth was a go, no matter what happened out 
there on the bay this morning.      

Skinner listened for the rhythmic beat of helicopter rotors, 
the buzz of approaching watercraft, anything that might 
indicate the aliens were on their way. Satisfied by the 
stillness, he rose to his feet. "Ten minutes," he reminded 
Flak. "Not a second longer." 

"Yes, sir."

Skinner grabbed the dinghy's towrope. 

"Sir, wait!" Royal thrust the binoculars at him. "We've got a 
live one." 

A slight adjustment of the lenses brought a bobbing head into 
focus.

"It's a hybrid," Skinner said.

"Fuckin' half-breeds." Flak spat.

"It's in trouble." Skinner watched the alien flounder. 

"Good. Maybe it'll drown and save us the trouble of killing 
it." 

"There'll be no killing," Skinner growled. "Our objective is 
to take prisoners and interrogate them. You got that, 
soldier?"

"Yes, sir."

"Another one, sir!" Royal pointed to where a second head 
bobbled beside the first.

Skinner aimed the binoculars.

"I'll be damned," he whispered past a lump in his throat.

"Sir?"

"I know her." His heart beat double-time as he watched Dana 
Scully help the hybrid to the shuttle's exposed T-tail. "She's 
a friend. Let's go."

It took Skinner and Flak just under four minutes to launch the 
life raft and paddle out to the crash site. 

"Good to see you, Walter," Scully said through chattering 
teeth as they hauled her aboard. Her words were understated, 
as always, but her eyes shone with gratitude. 

Skinner's relief at finding her was enormous. After months 
with no word about her or Mulder, he had imagined the worst. 

Unfortunately, there was no time to celebrate this unexpected 
reunion, so he fought the urge to wrap her in a big bear hug. 
They could catch up after they were safely back at camp. 

"We're on a tight schedule," he said, reining in his emotions. 

She nodded and turned immediately to help the hybrid, who was 
clinging to the shuttle's tail assembly. "Take my hand, Dibeh. 
I'll pull you in." 

Skinner noticed blood on Scully's tattered gown. "You're 
hurt."

"I'm fine. Help her. She can't swim." 

"Five minutes, sir," Flak warned. 

They needed to head back...now.

"Let's do this quickly," Skinner said.

He offered his hand to the hybrid, which stared back at him 
with inky alien eyes. It was shivering violently from either 
cold or fear.

"Come on, Dibeh," Scully coaxed. "It's okay. He's a friend."

The hybrid refused, shaking its head vehemently. It held up 
its right hand to reveal green blood oozing from parallel cuts 
along its palm. 

"Careful, sir," Scully said. "Her blood could be toxic to us."

"Fuck that." Flak raised his paddle. "I vote we leave the 
freak and head home." 

"You don't get a vote here, soldier," Skinner reminded him.

"But, sir...it's a goddamned alien!"

"She's not an enemy," Scully argued. "We can't abandon her. I 
won't."

"Why the Christ not?" Flak's lips curved down in disgust. 
"Freakin' Martian's got poison all over its paws. Ever see 
what that green stuff does to a man's flesh? I don't want it 
on me."

Scully dismissed him with a scowl and turned to Skinner. Her 
eyes implored him to listen. "She saved my life, Walter."

It was all he needed to hear. "Then it...she is coming with 
us."

"Six and a half minutes." Flak's warning was clipped with 
irritation. 

"Understood," Skinner acknowledged, feeling the pinch of time. 
"What's her name?" he asked Scully.

"Dibeh. And she understands English."

Skinner reached for the hybrid. "Dibeh, I'm going to grab hold 
of your arm and pull you aboard. You ready?" 

The hybrid nodded and Skinner dragged her easily into the 
raft. At only seventy or eighty pounds soaking wet, she was 
built more like a twelve-year-old boy than an adult woman. Her 
features were decidedly alien: oversized eyes, seemingly all 
pupil with no iris or outer ring of white, an almost 
nonexistent nose and small mouth, loose grayish skin, with a 
coarse reptilian texture. Her slender fingers and bare toes 
were half again as long as his. A thick amber mane -- her most 
human characteristic -- capped a too-round skull. Delicate, 
blonde eyebrows drew together and creased her broad forehead, 
giving her a worried appearance.

"Jesus fucking Christ." Flak leaned as far away from her as 
possible.

Skinner had a thousand questions for them. Where were they 
headed when the shuttle crashed? Who was the dead pilot? Why 
was Scully on friendly terms with an alien hybrid? Why were 
they dressed in nightgowns?

Scully's wet gown clung to her, revealing full breasts and an 
unexpectedly round belly. Clearly she was pregnant again. Old 
concerns came rushing back: was the baby healthy, were the 
aliens after it the way they'd been after William, was 
Scully's life at risk? 

Hearing the faint beat of an approaching helicopter, Skinner's 
questions, like his bear hug, would have to wait. 

"Anyone else in the shuttle?" he asked.

"Just the dead pilot," Scully said. 

"Then let's get out of here," he ordered. 

The two men took up their paddles and put their backs to the 
task of crossing the bay before the aliens' salvage crew 
arrived.     

*   *   *

"There he is!" Mulder shouted over the roar of the motorcycle 
engine. "Hang on!"

Freezing rain pelted his face. Gibson gripped his shoulders as 
they rocketed toward the small ranch house where a young woman 
and a toddler collected water from a hand pump in the front 
yard.

"Told you he was here." Gibson's voice joggled in Mulder's 
good ear as they jounced over potholes at break-neck speed.

Indeed. Gibson had claimed William was in Arrowhead and the 
little boy up ahead looked about the right age. But Gibson 
might have misread the child's infantile thoughts, confused 
him with William. There would be no incontrovertible proof 
that this particular boy was Mulder's lost son, not without 
genetic testing. And the chances of getting a lab analysis 
were slim to none. Mulder could only hope he would somehow 
know, maybe sense a connection, the way Gibson could read the 
minds of strangers. 

He swerved into the dirt driveway and lurched to a stop, 
sending up a spray of gravel. The young woman's eyes rounded 
at the sight of them. She dropped her bucket. Water splashed 
onto her faded jeans, turning them dark. She grabbed the child 
and ran into the house.   

"Nice going, Mulder." Gibson swung off the bike. "You scared 
the crap out of her. Now what?"

Mulder swallowed a mouthful of exhaust fumes and killed the 
engine. "We pay the lady of the house a call."

"And then? Have you considered how she's going to react when 
you tell her you're William's father?"

"I'm more worried about how he's going to react." Mulder held 
out little hope that William would recognize him, although 
Gibson insisted the boy sometimes thought about him. Mulder 
didn't see how that was possible, given that William hadn't 
laid eyes on him since the day after his birth.

"She's not going to let you just take him," Gibson warned. 
"She has no reason to trust you and she's *extremely* 
protective of him."

"I appreciate her maternal instincts. It's what's kept him 
alive." Mulder eased off the bike, his left leg throbbing. He 
took a couple of limping steps toward the house, testing his 
balance. "She knows he's not hers. She must have entertained 
the notion that his real parents might come looking for him 
one day."  

"Not necessarily." Gibson angled his face away from the wind 
and stinging rain. "William was adopted. In her mind, his 
biological parents gave him up for good. There's no reason for 
her to think anyone might want him back."

"Then I'll explain the situation."

Mulder started toward the house, but was stopped short when 
Gibson unexpectedly grabbed the back of his jacket. 

"She's got a gun," he warned.

Mulder eyed the front window where a pleated drape hid the 
interior. "Loaded?"

"Yes. And she plans to use it if we come inside."

"In that case, you take the front. I'll go around back."

"Why do I get the front?"

"Because you'll know when she's going to pull the trigger."

"How's that going to help?"

"You'll know when to duck."

Mulder left Gibson to his own devices and circled the house, 
looking for a back entrance. The rear door turned out to be 
locked, so he continued on around, checking windows and--

"Bingo." Cellar door.

He swung the Bilco open and descended the steps slowly, 
letting his eyes adjust to the dimness. He navigated past an 
overturned wheelbarrow and a half-dozen scattered turnips 
before his toe hit something semi-solid.

"Shit."

It was a body, or what was left of a body. The head was 
missing and the torso gutted. Arm flung wide, it appeared to 
be holding hands with a second corpse, a small child. Bile 
rose in his throat when he realized the child was only a 
little older than William.

He fought the heave of his stomach and continued on, past two 
more eviscerated corpses and up the interior stairs. Pausing 
on the top step to listen at the door, he could hear Gibson, 
still outside the house, trying to persuade the woman to let 
him in.

"Go away!" she shouted. "I've got a gun."

Mulder turned the knob, found the door unlocked and silently 
eased into a central hallway, where he was greeted by a 
gallery of family photos. A clean-cut young man and his blonde 
bride grinned at him from a ten-by-twelve studio portrait, 
perfect teeth gleaming, smiles unforced. Surrounding them were 
a dozen or more pictures of two tow-headed brothers at various 
ages from infancy to grade-school. 

Down the hall to his right was a kitchen. To the left, about 
twenty feet away, was the front entry. The woman Gibson 
believed to be Kenna Douglas stood there with her back to 
Mulder and her rifle aimed at the door. William was nowhere to 
be seen. Mulder hoped the boy remained out of harm's way until 
Kenna was safely disarmed.

At five foot eight or nine, a hundred and ten pounds tops, she 
was no match for Mulder, even with his bad leg. Gauging by her 
slim hips, gangly limbs and waist-length hair, he guessed she 
was still in her teens. Younger than he had expected, by 
several years. 

He edged down the hall, confident he could tackle her if he 
could get close enough without giving himself away. His limp 
made stealth nearly impossible. Old instincts and rusty skills 
went only so far and he longed to be able to walk effortlessly 
again. 

Keep her talking, Gibson, keep her talking.

"Are you Kenna Douglas?" Gibson called, right on cue.

Her hands were shaking and her voice wavered when she asked, 
"How do you know my name?"

Mulder inched closer. He was almost within reach. 

"We're looking for William van de Kamp," Gibson said. "Is he 
with you?" 

Before she could respond, Mulder lunged and wrapped both arms 
around her, locking her in place as he grappled for her gun. 

"Let go!" she screamed and rammed his gut with a sharp elbow. 
Pain shot up his bad leg when the heel of her boot slammed 
into his knee. 

"That's enough of that." He wrenched the rifle from her hands 
and staggered back a step. 

She spun to face him, eyes wide as he emptied the gun of 
cartridges. He shoved them deep into his pants pockets.

At that moment William appeared in the hall from an adjoining 
room, thumb in his mouth and a Buzz Lightyear doll dangling 
from his free hand. He blinked at Mulder, his leery expression 
so like Scully's it left no doubt in Mulder's mind that this 
was their son.

William removed his thumb with a wet pop and pointed it at 
Mulder. 

"Dada?"

*   *   *

Skinner and Flak slogged up the beach toward the culvert, 
lugging the life raft between them. Scully and Dibeh ran along 
behind.

"Hurry!" Royal shouted, rushing forward to lend a hand with 
the inflatable. 

They hauled it deep inside the culvert, stowing it out of 
sight in the shadows, then hunkered at the entrance to watch 
the aliens' rescue helicopter lower a search team to the crash 
site. 

Four men dressed in plain black military uniforms dropped on 
ropes and landed with a splash onto the partially submerged 
shuttle. They waded across the fuselage, inspecting it from 
aft end to bow. One of the men looked remarkably familiar to 
Skinner, even at a distance.

He took the binoculars from Royal and quickly focused on the 
lanky man in the bay. Waist deep in water, the officer used 
expansive gestures to make himself understood above the roar 
of the helicopter, which hovered overhead, rippling the water 
and causing the man's long hair to flail like a kite tail 
behind his back. A tattoo darkened his right cheek, yet his 
profile was unmistakable. 

"Mulder?" What the hell was he doing out there?

"It's not him," Scully said, sounding certain.

"Shapeshifter?"

"Not according to him. His name is Ca-Lo. He's a military 
strategist for the aliens. He's also..." Her cheeks darkened 
and she lowered her lashes. "He claims to be Mulder's 
brother."

"You believe him?"

"Not entirely."

"Meaning?"

"He's a liar and a trickster, but there may be some truth to 
his claim." She wrapped her arms around her swollen belly in a 
decidedly protective gesture. "He's looking for me, Walter, 
and he won't stop until he finds me."

Shit. It was Democrat Hot Springs all over again. "We can hide 
you."

"No you can't. I have a locator chip, implanted subcutaneously 
in my lower back." 

"We're fucked," Flak said.

Royal scrambled away from her as if the chip were a ticking 
time bomb. 

"Settle down." Skinner angled toward her. "Can we remove it?" 
he asked. Or was it like the one in her neck, necessary for 
the remission of her cancer? 

She pointed at the knife on his belt. "How good are you at 
slicing and dicing?"

"I don't have your experience."

"Any chance one of your men is a medic?"

Flak and Royal shook their heads.

"Look's like it's up to you then, Walter." Scully positioned 
herself on her knees in front of him and raised her gown. 

He stopped her with a light touch. "The lady doesn't need an 
audience," he growled at his gawping soldiers. "Go ready the 
horses. Both of you." 

Royal and Flak exchanged glances, then did as they were told 
and jogged off through the tunnel.

"Thank you," Scully murmured, when the men were gone. 

Skinner lifted Scully's gown, exposing her bare backside and a 
myriad of cuts and scratches. Most were superficial, but some 
still oozed blood.

Dibeh moved closer, allowing Scully to lean against her for 
support. Skinner ran his hand lightly over her lacerated skin, 
massaging gently, feeling for the chip. He located it a few 
inches above her tailbone, a shallow, hard lump, half the size 
of his smallest fingernail and buried directly beneath her 
tattoo. 

He angled his knife and tried to still his quaking hands. 
"Blade's not sterile."

"Do it anyway." 

"Wish I could offer you something for the pain."    

"I'll be fine."

"I'll do this as fast as I can. You ready?"

"Yes. Do it." Her knuckles whitened as she gripped 
Dibeh's arm.

He sliced into her and his stomach churned at the sight of 
fresh, crimson blood trickling down her smooth buttocks. He 
was relieved she didn't cry out. Not that he had expected 
her to. 

After what seemed an eternity, he exposed a tiny piece of 
metal, pried it free and teased it onto the tip of his knife.

"Done."  

She tugged her gown into place and sat stiffly upright.

"You okay?" he asked.

She nodded and turned for the knife. "Let me see it."

He passed it to her. She regarded it only a moment, her 
expression unreadable, before giving it back. "Get rid of it. 
Quickly. Then let's get out of here." 

*   *   *

Keeping his eyes on William, Mulder unlocked the front door 
and let Gibson in. 

Kenna scooped the baby into her arms. "Go away. Both of you."

"Not without him." Mulder nodded at William.

She tightened her grip on the boy. "You can't have him. Leave 
us alone!"

"Not gonna happen. He's my son."

"I don't believe you."

"He's telling the truth," Gibson said.

She shot him an incredulous stare. "Why should I listen to 
you?"

"Why would we lie?" Mulder asked.

"Maybe you're sick perverts who get off on kids."

Mulder gave a dismissive shake of his head. "You heard what he 
called me."

"Dada? Big deal. That's what he calls all men. And his action 
figures. And most of the corpses we've seen. It means 
nothing."

As if to prove her point, William aimed Buzz Lightyear at 
Gibson and proclaimed, "Dada!"

"See?" Kenna hugged the baby to her chest, shouldered past 
Mulder and headed for the kitchen.

"I thought you said he remembered me," Mulder whispered to 
Gibson as they followed her down the hall. 

"He recognizes your face," Gibson confirmed.

"Then why--?" The gallery of happy portraits in the hallway 
caught Mulder's eye and realization hit. "Scully showed him 
pictures of me. That's what he remembers, isn't it?"

"It's the most likely explanation." 

"He doesn't know I'm his father."

"You've been gone his entire life, Mulder. What did you 
expect?"

A miracle maybe. Or was there a limit of one per customer? Was 
God miserly with His rewards? 

Mulder entered the kitchen, a square room with yellow cabinets 
lining two walls. A window above the sink overlooked an icy 
backyard, where sleet pounded a rusted swing set. A rope 
dangled from the branches of a gnarled pine, pointing the way 
to a half-hidden tree house.

Gibson pulled up a chair and sat at the kitchen's oval table. 
Kenna settled William into a highchair at the opposite end. 
She placed an assortment of colorful Tupperware lids on his 
tray. 

"Din?" William selected a lid and gnawed on its rim.

"We'll eat soon, sweetie." Kenna kissed the top of his head. 
"Gotta cook something first." She headed toward the cupboards, 
but was blocked by Mulder. "S'cuse me," she said, her request 
thick with sarcasm.

If she was frightened of him, she was determined not to show 
it.

He stepped aside so she could get into the drawer behind him. 
She yanked it open, withdrew a short paring knife and 
proceeded to peel a turnip into the sink.

Mulder set the empty rifle on the counter. "Kenna, listen to 
me--"

"Why should I listen to you?" Her knife rhythmically scraped 
the turnip's tough rind. "You got proof he's your kid? Birth 
certificate or something?"

"No."

"Then we've got nothing to talk about."

"Yes, we do. William is my son. He was born on May 20, 2001. 
His mother is Dana Scully. She named him after my father, 
William Mulder."

"I wouldn't know anything about that. He's been William van de 
Kamp for as long as I've known him."

"The van de Kamps adopted him last April." 

Her knife stilled for a moment and she blinked back tears. 
"Artie and Joanne are dead. I-I found William...in his crib. 
There were...there were locust-monsters...everywhere. And 
blood. Lots of blood." She pointed her knife at him. Her face 
was flushed. Her eyes glittered with a mix of fury and terror. 
"If you think I'm going to hand him over to a couple of 
complete strangers, you're out of your mind, mister."

Mulder slumped against the counter. Jesus he'd fucked this up, 
bullying his way in, expecting her to relinquish William after 
what she'd been through. "You're right. You shouldn't give him 
to a stranger. It was wrong of me to expect it."

"Told you we had nothing to talk about." She resumed her 
peeling.

Help me, Gibson, Mulder silently pleaded. You're the one who 
can read her mind. 
 
Gibson cleared his throat and came to the rescue. "We have 
food," Gibson offered. 

"What kind of food?" Kenna let the turnip drop into the sink. 

"Canned stuff, dried fruit. Does he like raisins?"

"Yes, but he can't have too many. They give him diarrhea."

"Okay. We've got other stuff."

She set her knife on the counter. "Well, what are you sitting 
there for? Bring it in." 

Fifteen minutes later, Mulder and Gibson were thawing their 
fingers around mugs of instant coffee, while Kenna heated 
refried beans and thick slices of canned ham on the propane 
stove. The counter was cluttered with groceries, everything 
that had been stuffed into the Scout's saddlebags. 

William bounced in his highchair, eating bite-sized chunks of 
pears. "Mmmm-mm-mmm," he hummed and chewed, juice drooling 
down his chin.

Mulder couldn't tear his eyes away. Cataloging William's 
childish features, he discovered more similarities to Scully 
than to himself. 

It was a familiar exercise, a repeat performance. The first 
time had been an hour after William came into the world. 
Puffed with pride, yet more terrified than he had ever been 
before or since, Mulder had counted his newborn son's fingers 
and toes, caressed his velvety cheek. Then William began to 
squall, searching for Scully's breast. Mulder wept like a 
baby, too, at the sight of her nursing his son. 

It was the most perfect moment of his life.  

"He doesn't look like you," Kenna said, her tone accusatory. 

"He favors his mother...thank goodness."

She spooned more pears into William's bowl. "I don't get it."

"Why he looks like his mother?"

"No, why you gave your kid away."

Mulder wanted to shout "I didn't!" but held his temper. "There 
were extenuating circumstances."

"Those circumstances gone now?"

"More or less."

"What about him? Do you even care what he wants, what's best 
for him?"

"I believe being with his parents is best for him. I've always 
believed that."

She harrumphed and busied herself with wiping pear juice from 
William's face. He twisted to get out from under her wet 
cloth. "Down! Down!" he fussed.

"How come his mama isn't here? She too busy to come after her 
own child? Had to send the two of you to do it for her?"

"It isn't like that, Kenna."

"No?" She turned to scowl at him, hands on her slender hips. 
"Then where is she? For that matter, where's she been for the 
last *year* while her baby's been handed from one stranger to 
the next? What's she been doing while we've been running from 
locust-monsters and practically starving to death?" Kenna's 
resentment boiled over. "No food, no milk, no diapers, no safe 
place to sit for two minutes to catch our breath. Tell me, 
where's she been?"

Her words bludgeoned him like the guards' batons at Mount 
Weather. Guilt and sorrow zigzagged through him.

"I don't know," he whispered.

*   *   *

REBEL CAMP
WASATCH-CACHE NATIONAL FOREST

Scully was fastening the last button of her oversized shirt, 
hiding her swollen belly, when Skinner entered the makeshift 
infirmary.

"Sorry we don't have anything smaller." Skinner plucked at the 
loose fabric. The sleeves dangled to her fingertips, despite 
being rolled twice at her wrists. Her camouflage trousers were 
cuffed like those of a toddler dressed in his older brother's 
hand-me-downs.

"This is fine. Better than the ridiculous dress--" A tide of 
emotion stopped her from saying more about her ordeal with the 
aliens. Eventually she would tell Skinner, but not now, not 
when she was feeling so vulnerable.

Across the tent, an EMT attended Dibeh's wounds and Scully 
focused her attention there.

"Be careful," she warned. 

The EMT ignored her and continued to hastily bind Dibeh's 
injured hand with gauze. Like the others in the camp, the EMT 
was none too pleased to meet Dibeh. They saw only her alien 
features and knew nothing of her individual qualities. She had 
the face of the enemy and they hated her for it.

Dibeh sat motionless, shoulders hunched, eyes wide with fear. 
Scully's heart went out to her. The hybrid's life had changed 
in the blink of an eye. She had generously helped an Earth 
woman and, despite her loyalty to Scully, Dibeh's future among 
humans was grim. She was facing a lifetime of prejudice. Or 
worse. 

"How's the wound?" Skinner's hand grazed Scully's lower back.

She stiffened. The gesture was too familiar, too intimate; it 
reminded her of Mulder and the ache of missing him left her 
heart feeling hollow.

"Walter...have you heard...has there been any news of Mulder?"

"I was hoping you could tell me. Wasn't he with you?"

"No. We were separated soon after we left Mount Weather." Less 
than two days together and their last moments had been spent 
arguing. What a waste.

Her experience aboard the alien ship had taught her firsthand 
the innumerable ways in which imprisonment can ravage the 
psyche. Mulder had been in an extremely fragile state of mind 
when he learned she'd given William up for adoption. She 
should have been more understanding. She should have gone 
after him at Shiprock.

Instead she had let him sulk. She had believed they could 
simply talk out their differences when he returned.

It had been a shortsighted decision. And selfish. His 
accusations had stung, in part because she feared the truth of 
his words. Sometimes it felt like she would spend the rest of 
her life second-guessing her decision to give up William.

And now a new fear loomed in her mind: she might never see 
Mulder again. 

The thought was unbearable. She would find him. She had to. 
She needed to set things right between them.

"Dana...I couldn't help noticing..." Skinner shifted 
uncomfortably. His gaze drifted to her stomach. "When I pulled 
you into the raft..." 

So her drenched nightgown had revealed her secret and now she 
would have to give some sort of explanation. She had hoped to 
conceal her condition under layers of outsized fatigues, at 
least for another few weeks.

"Mulder is the baby's father, if that's what you're 
wondering." The words came out laced with anger and much 
louder than she had intended. The memory of Ca-Lo's appalling 
seduction made her feel as if she might vomit.

"I never doubted that," he said, his discomfort obvious. 
"Dana, I want to send you to a safe camp in the east, near the 
Utah-Wyoming border. I'll assign an escort to take you there, 
to protect you; someone I trust."

"No. I want to stay here. You could use a good doctor." She 
glared at the EMT.  

Skinner shook his head. "It's not safe. We're moving against 
the aliens tonight."

"All the more reason for me to stay. There'll be injuries. I 
can--"

"You're not staying. At dusk, this'll become a war zone, 
complete with live artillery and an enemy that doesn't believe 
in the Geneva Convention." Concern creased his brow. "It's a 
two-day ride through the mountains...on horseback. Not an easy 
trip."

"Horseback? Walter, a fall could cause a miscarriage."

"If you stay here you risk more than a fall."

He was right; she needed to get away from the war -- and Ca-Lo 
-- to protect her baby.

"I won't go without Dibeh." 

"Of course."

"When will I see you again?"

"I'll be a couple of days behind you."

"You can't promise that."

"No, but I've got good soldiers watching my back. I'll be 
okay."

Fear tightened her throat and tears filled her eyes. 

"Hey..." Skinner caressed her cheek, tender and welcome. "No 
need for that." 

She stood on tiptoe and wrapped her arms snuggly around his 
neck. He returned her embrace.

"Please, be careful, Walter. I can't--" Her voice cracked and 
her tears began to fall. "I can't lose you, too."  

*   *   *

Mulder knocked softly on Kenna's bedroom door and waited for 
permission to enter before poking his head in.

"What do you want?" Kenna was dressed for sleep in an 
oversized Cody Rodeo T-shirt. She sat propped against the 
bed's headboard, long legs splayed, a child's storybook in her 
lap. She cradled William in the crook of one arm. He lay with 
eyelids drooping, tiny fingers kneading the folds of her 
shirt. He was dressed in footed pajamas, a couple of sizes too 
big and patterned with bucking broncos and lariats.
 
A blast of wind and sleet rattled the dark windowpanes, yet a 
kerosene heater kept the room toasty warm. 

"Just wanted to make sure everyone was okay," Mulder said. 

"You can see we're fine."

It was true. They looked completely at home in the queen-sized 
bed, flowered comforter folded neatly across the foot, 
hurricane lantern casting a golden glow from the nightstand. 
The sheets looked clean and warm and inviting.  

"Okay. Well then..." He lingered at the threshold. 

"You gonna say goodnight to him or you just gonna stand there 
letting the heat outta the room?"

"You don't mind if I...?" He gestured, indicating he wanted to 
come closer. 

"Not as long as you make it quick." 

A stocked pantry and a full stomach had evidently gone a long 
way toward winning her over. 

Mulder limped to the bed and gave William's soft cheek a 
loving caress. "Hey, big guy." 

William frowned and pulled away, plastering himself against 
Kenna. 

Take it slow, Mulder reminded himself. 

"What are you reading?" He indicated the storybook.

"The Grinch."

"Isn't it a little early for Christmas?"

"He likes the rhymes."

"Ah. Me, too. 'He puzzled and puzzed 'til his puzzler was 
sore, then the Grinch thought of something he hadn't before.'"

William stuck his thumb in his mouth and buried his face in 
Kenna's shirt. The dismissal stung, although Mulder knew 
better than to take it personally. The boy was understandably 
wary. Mulder needed to be patient.  

Kenna rubbed William's back with gentle, hypnotic circles, 
soothing him toward sleep. "He's tired. It's been a long day."

"Yeah. I kinda feel like sucking my thumb, too."

She gave him a sidelong glance, but said nothing.

"Kenna...I-I came for him as soon as I could. He's all I've 
been thinking about for months. I've missed him terribly. You 
have to believe that."

"The only thing I *have* to believe is God saw fit to put this 
boy in my care and that's what I've been doing. I've got no 
obligation to you."

Mulder nodded, wondering how to earn her trust. "I appreciate 
everything you've done for him."

"Oh, right, that's why you want to take him away from me." 

"No take 'way," William whimpered, sounding heartbroken. He 
crawled into Kenna's lap. "Noooo take, mama." 

"Shhhh. It's okay, honey pie. No one's taking you anywhere."

He began to sob and she rocked him until his cries turned to 
hiccups and he lay limp and red-faced in her arms.

Mulder stood firm, wanting to flee the room but feeling it 
would give Kenna the wrong impression. He didn't want her to 
think he was the type to run off at the first sign of trouble.  

"He's grown pretty attached to you," he said at last.

"What do you expect? We've been together since May. That's a 
big chunk of his life."

"Don't misunderstand. I'm glad. I'm glad he's had someone to 
look after him."

"I love him." Her tone dared him to dispute it. "And he loves 
me."

"I can see that."

Apparently satisfied by his acknowledgement, she admitted, "He 
doesn't always call me mama, you know."

"No?"

"No. Only when he's tired or upset." She smoothed William's 
wispy reddish curls, then lifted her gaze to Mulder. She had 
the most liquid eyes he'd ever seen. "You can stay for a 
while, if you want. Rub his back. Like this." She demonstrated 
with exaggerated slowness, as if Mulder were a child himself.

Mulder ignored the stabbing pain in his thigh and lowered 
himself stiffly onto the outermost edge of the mattress. He 
reached hesitantly for his son. The moment he made contact, 
William's thumb went once again to his mouth; he sucked loudly 
as Mulder massaged his small hunched shoulders.

"He feels warm. Is he too warm?"

"He's fine."

"You sure? He feels warm to me."

She laid her palm against his forehead. "He's fine. It was 
just the crying got him worked up."

"Oh." 

Mulder shifted position, trying to ease the ache in his thigh.   

"What happened to your leg?"

"You kicked me, remember?" he said, smiling.

"I didn't put those scars on your face."

"No." His focus flitted to the massive scar that ringed her 
neck.

She caught him staring and lifted her hand to her throat. "I 
got this years ago. Waaaay before I was taking care of 
William. I never, ever let him near the stove, don't you worry 
about that."

"I wasn't worried." Not much. 

William sighed and nestled against the soft mound of Kenna's 
left breast. A nipple tented her T-shirt next to the baby's 
loose fist. Mulder felt his groin tighten and although his 
physical response was unintentional, it felt inappropriate 
enough to heat his cheeks and set his heart hammering.

"You seem awfully young to be married," he said, indicating 
the ring on her finger.

"I'm nineteen."

"Nineteen is young."

"How old are you? Thirty?"

He imagined thirty sounded ancient to her. "Give or take."

"Rick and I got married last April. I miss him something 
terrible."

"How did he die?"

"Oh, he isn't dead. He's coming back. He's going to take me 
and William to the Grand Canyon." 

"But I thought--" 

Kenna's calm expression clearly showed she was in denial. 
Gibson had heard her grieving for her dead husband weeks ago. 
His telepathy wasn't foolproof, but Gibson had seemed certain 
about this. 

Not wanting to argue the point and risk losing this hard-won 
truce with Kenna, Mulder steered the conversation in a 
different direction. "You said you found William in his crib?"

"Yes."

"And there were 'locust-monsters' in the room with him."

"Five of them, standing in a circle."

"Just standing?"

"Standing and watching."

It had been in the back of Mulder's mind for quite some time 
that William might have an ability to communicate with the 
aliens, the way Gibson did. It would explain why the boy was 
still alive. Why Kenna was alive, too. 

"Why do you think they didn't hurt him?" he asked.

"Answer's obvious, isn't it?"

"Is it?"

"Sure. God saved him."

"Right," Mulder said, not at all convinced, "of course."

"That's why I was led to him."

"Oh?"

"God figured I needed a sign. Proof of His power. So He gave 
me William." She planted a kiss on the crown of William's 
head. "It's hard to lose faith when you're looking straight at 
a miracle. Know what I mean?"

William's eyes closed, his breathing grew steady. He was every 
inch at peace. Innocent. Perfect. 

"Yeah. I know what you mean."

*   *   *

WASATCH-CACHE NATIONAL FOREST
SUNSET

Royal twisted in his saddle to listen to the muted rat-a-tat 
of gunfire and the distant blast of bombs. An all too familiar 
hum pulsed up from the war zone in the lowlands.

The hybrid looked ready to jump off her horse and bolt into 
the woods. She'd been quaking like a bowl of Jell-O on the San 
Andreas Fault ever since her rescue, flinched at every damned 
noise, gaped at the men, the horses, the food, attached 
herself to the redhead like they were fucking Siamese twins. 
Had to be pried loose and lifted onto her horse when it came 
time to get moving.

"Vulcan cannons?" asked the redhead, Skinner's friend, Dana 
Scully.

Royal was surprised she recognized the sound. "Yes, ma'am." 

"Ours or theirs?"

"Theirs, stolen from us. Aliens got 'em mounted on Warthogs. 
Vibrate like bitches in heat...if you'll pardon the 
expression." Royal peered back the way they had come. "Our 
side's got grenades, a few M-16s, some plastic explosives. Not 
much else."

"Is that going to be enough?"

"Dunno. You believe in God, ma'am?"

"Yes."

"Then I suggest you say a prayer for our side." 

Royal's faith came and went, depending on the circumstances. 
He had begged God to save his cousin and, lo and behold, 
Nicole was spared. Yet there were other times when God didn't 
seem to give a rat's ass about him or mankind, turning a blind 
eye to the alien invasion and all the misery they brought with 
them.

Take the hybrid, for example. What kind of God would create a 
hideous piece of crap like that?

Uncle Louis had claimed God worked in mysterious ways. 
Believed there was a master plan, a blueprint too complex for 
the comprehension of mere mortals. 

Christ, if that was true, then everything anyone did was 
already set in stone, like the Ten Commandments, and it was 
pointless to worry about the future. Royal didn't like 
thinking that way. Maybe at one time he'd been content to sit 
back and wait for shit to happen, but not anymore. Not since 
he'd joined Skinner's infantry. The NUI was making things 
happen and whether he was part of a master plan or not, for 
the first time in his life, Royal felt he had a purpose, an 
important role to play.

A screech like the sound of tearing metal startled the horses 
and the hybrid. 

"What the hell was that?" Scully asked, looking more 
aggravated than alarmed. 

"Plasma cannon." Royal imagined the damage it must be causing. 
"Damn, I should be back there with them, not babysitting a 
couple of--" 

Don't say it, Royal, he cautioned himself. Don't say or do 
anything that'll make Commander Skinner ashamed of you.

He spurred his horse uphill with a kick of his heels.

They rode without speaking for another half mile. The sky grew 
black and the sound of gunfire faded. Clouds marched overhead 
from east to west, hiding the quarter moon and the narrow 
mountain trail.

"What was it like up there?" Royal finally broke the silence.

"Excuse me?"

"On the Mother Ship. That's where you were, right?"

"Yes. That's where I was. It was...big."

"Big? That's it?"

"And damp."

"Shit." Royal wanted details. "There many like her up there?"

"Yes."

"Jesus. Must be freaky." When she didn't answer, he hooked a 
thumb at the hybrid. "Folks at Safe Camp aren't gonna be 
pleased to see that one."

"Isn't that why Skinner sent you with us? To protect us?"

"Protect you maybe. Can't promise nothing about the alien."

"Your commanding officer expects you to carry out your orders, 
soldier."

"I know my duty, ma'am, but there're close to a thousand 
people at Safe Camp and they ain't gonna welcome any freakin' 
ET." Royal would follow his orders, but the hybrid was going 
to be a problem and he was only one man. "Sorry, but I can't 
guarantee nothin'." 

x-x-x-x-x

BOOK VI: TWO WINGS 

Crista terminalis. The location of the sinuatrial node, the 
pacemaker of the human heart. What makes us tick, literally. 

The heart is situated obliquely in the chest, its broad, 
attached end directed upward, backward, and to the right. It 
corresponds with the dorsal vertebrae, from the fifth to 
eighth inclusive. In an adult, it measures five inches in 
length, three and a half inches in breadth. It weighs from 
eight to twelve ounces, and its proportion to the body is one 
to 169 in males and one to 149 in females.

Scully appreciates the anatomy of the heart. Its purpose is 
irrefutable, its performance quantifiable. 

What confounds her is the commonly held romantic notion that 
the heart is the repository for emotion. Countless autopsies 
have failed to yield one shred of physical evidence to support 
the theory that this muscular organ is anything beyond a 
circulatory pump, but Scully has experienced the ache of grief 
personally. And nine years with Fox Mulder have taught her 
that believing is not always seeing. Sometimes it takes gut 
instinct, a sixth sense, or even a flutter of the heart to 
understand the truth. 

"After great pain, a formal feeling comes," claimed poet Emily 
Dickinson. Scully recalls the verses from an undergrad lit 
class. Nerves sit ceremonious, like tombs; the heart is stiff; 
feet, mechanical. It is the Hour of Lead. If you are able to 
outlive it, you remember it the way a freezing person 
recollects the snow: first a chill, then stupor, then finally, 
finally, you are able to let go.   

Scully anticipates Dickinson's "quartz contentment." She longs 
for her heart to turn stony, durable as a granite breakwater, 
unmoved by tide and turbulent seas.

How liberating it would feel, how healing, to shed her sorrow 
and guilt, to cast off conscience, to weep not one more tear 
for William or Mulder or the daughter growing within her womb. 
She yearns to relinquish the terrible, hollow throb in her 
heart, to forget past mistakes.

But to do so means sacrificing her best memories and 
abandoning her greatest loves -- the very things Mulder has 
accused her of.

He doesn't understand. She gave up William not out of defeat, 
but to shield him, to protect him. It was an act of 
resistance, not submission. A mother's last defense.

And Dana Scully's greatest heartache.

*   *   *

SAFE CAMP
RENDEVOUS BEACH STATE PARK, UTAH
OCTOBER 17, 2002

A seven-inch incision split the patient's chest. Rib spreaders 
exposed his internal organs. Scully carefully removed the 
first of two 45-caliber bullets from beside his beating heart. 
She tied off a stubborn bleeder. As she probed for the second 
round, the patient went into ventricular fibrillation and then 
cardiac arrest.

Without a defibrillator, Scully's only option was to try to 
restore a rhythm by manually massaging the heart.

"Come on, soldier," she pleaded, fingers pumping, "don't give 
up."   

Ten minutes ticked away. The heart refused to beat on its own. 
The anesthesiologist softly announced, "He's dead, Dr. 
Scully."

"One more minute." She had already lost two young men earlier 
in the day and she was not going to lose this one, too.

"Doctor, there are others waiting. Help them."

Moans and cries carried through the open door of the outer 
room, where nurses triaged the wounded. Six medics sutured 
cuts, cleaned debris from torn flesh, treated minor burns, 
concussions, shock. There seemed no end to the injured, and 
intelligence sources indicated the North Utah Infantry was in 
serious trouble; a second wave of casualties was due before 
nightfall.

How many would perish on the battlefield? How many more would 
die en route from Salt Lake City? 

Scully prayed Skinner was okay. 

She peeled off her bloody gloves. They landed with a slap in a 
bin overflowing with medical waste. She wasn't qualified to 
perform heart surgery. She wasn't qualified to perform *any* 
kind of surgery. But Dr. Forrest was operating on his 
nineteenth patient of the day -- a teenager with shrapnel 
lodged in his spinal column. And Dr. Singh was exhausted after 
twenty-two hours of life-threatening plasma burns, head 
wounds, missile injuries. 

There was no one else available with advanced medical 
training. No one to step in and relieve her.

A team of grim-faced volunteers wheeled away the dead soldier. 
Scully blinked back fatigue and prepared for the next patient. 
She donned fresh gloves, arranged sterile instruments on a 
clean tray, took a deep breath. 

Another young man was delivered to her operating table. His 
right foot was missing, the leg badly damaged from the knee 
down. A tourniquet, applied in the field, had kept him from 
bleeding to death on the trip to Safe Camp. 

It was a miracle he was still alive. 

"I need more light here," Scully demanded. 

"I'm on it," replied a volunteer, who hurried to find 
additional kerosene lamps.

"Please, don't cut off my leg," the patient begged, apparently 
unaware that his limb was already gone.

Scully recognized him. "Flak, can you hear me?"

He squinted up at her, confused by pain and drugs. "I-I know 
you?"

"I'm Dana Scully, Commander Skinner's friend."

He turned away. "The alien lover."

She disregarded his resentment. He was not alone in his 
prejudice toward Dibeh. The entire camp hated the hybrid; they 
kept her under armed guard twenty-four hours a day. Scully was 
allowed only brief, monitored visits. 

"It's all gone to hell," Flak growled through clenched teeth. 
"We...retreated...under fire...Jesus, Jesus, guys falling, 
blood everywhere...my leg..."

Scully wanted to ask about Skinner, but knew this was not the 
time or place. "Lie still. I'm going to help you." 

Flak groaned. His eyelids fluttered and closed. "Please, I 
don't want to die."

She signaled the anesthesiologist to start an I.V. "You won't 
die."

It was a promise she couldn't guarantee. If Flak survived 
surgery, it was possible, even likely, he would die of 
infection in a few days. The recovery ward was rife with the 
characteristic fruity odor of pseudomonas, a difficult 
bacteria to combat even under the best of conditions. And 
these were not the best of conditions. 

The makeshift hospital was located in a former visitor center 
at Rendezvous Beach State Park on the southern shore of Bear 
Lake. It was a bare bones unit with dwindling supplies and no 
electricity or modern diagnostic equipment. Surrounding it was 
a "city" of RVs, tents, pop-up campers, cars and trucks. 
People squeezed together, took shelter wherever they could 
find it. Military personnel bivouacked at the former marina, 
sleeping aboard sailboats and motor yachts. Dibeh was being 
held prisoner at the end of one long dock, exposed day and 
night to bitter winds and freezing temperatures. 

Guilt washed over Scully. She lived in comparative luxury, 
alone in Skinner's dilapidated Winnebago.  

"He's ready," the anesthesiologist announced.

Scully mentally reviewed the steps of transfemoral amputation, 
a procedure she had never tried before today. Risks included 
heavy blood loss, the development of clots, infection, failure 
of the stump to heal due to inadequate blood supply. If Flak 
lived, rehabilitation would be a long, arduous process.

She selected a scalpel from the tray. "Let's do it." 

*   *   *

WASATCH-CACHE NATIONAL FOREST

"We all know the field we play on and we all know what can 
happen in the course of a game," Skinner had once told Mulder. 
"If you were unprepared for all the potentials, then you 
shouldn't step on the field."

Skinner had known the potentials when he led the North Utah 
Infantry into the aliens' stronghold at sunset on Sunday, 
October 13. He knew the enemy's forces outnumbered his own. He 
knew his weapons were inferior. 

Tossing grenades at plasma cannons was like pissing at a tidal 
wave. 

But Skinner pressed on despite the unlikely odds. He decided 
it was worth the risk, any risk, to try to defeat this god-
awful foe, to release the scores of men, women and children 
who were being held prisoner, forced by alien masters to work 
as slaves in factories that supplied the enemy army with food, 
clothing, weapons.

Temperatures hovered just above freezing four nights ago when 
Skinner's army attacked Harmony I. A few tattered clouds 
shrouded a rising quarter moon, providing scant light as two-
hundred and fifty-six foot soldiers stole silently through 
Salt Lake City's outer neighborhoods to the walled alien 
settlement within. Skinner remembered a prickle of foreboding 
on the back of his neck when his troops took up their assigned 
positions outside the ten-meter-high bulwark encircling the 
citadel. 

The objective was to infiltrate the stronghold, storm the 
factories, free the human captives, and kill as many alien-
loving sons-of-bitches as possible. Munitions teams were 
ordered to destroy the breeding labs, the stockpiles of 
armaments and the alien air force, giving the released 
prisoners time to escape to the hills of Wasatch-Cache. 
McInness, Skinner's second in command, was to lead a unit to 
Antelope Island, to free the humans imprisoned there.

Privates Brady and Stewart volunteered to create a diversion 
at the citadel's guarded east gate, allowing Skinner's company 
an opportunity to gain access via the unfinished section of 
wall to the north. Dressed in stolen enemy uniforms, Brady and 
Stewart pretended to be drunk, late for evening roll call. 
They stumbled and laughed, called each other names, poked fun 
at the solemn-faced guards. 

They were convincing actors. The guards let them in. 

Once inside, they lobbed half a dozen grenades at the gate, 
guard station and nearby barracks before they were shot down 
by M16s. 

The two young friends knew going in it would be a suicide 
mission. They were brave men, good soldiers. Heroes. 

The exploding grenades drew the attention of alien troops 
throughout the citadel. Armed with carbines and knives, 
Skinner's soldiers quickly overtook and killed the distracted 
sentinels at the northern breach, then hurried to their 
intended targets.  

Half of Skinner's infantrymen perished before the factory 
doors were bludgeoned open. Another twenty or thirty fell 
while escorting escapees to freedom. Only three alien shuttles 
and two Blackhawk helicopters were disabled. No munitions 
warehouses were destroyed. All of McInness's men were lost. 
Not one prisoner was freed from Antelope Island.

Three decades before his attack on Salt Lake City, before the 
North Utah Infantry failed its mission, before 
extraterrestrial demons controlled the Earth, Skinner was a 
young private in Viet Nam. His squad was caught while on 
patrol in Quang Tin. They fell. All of them. Haskell, Peters, 
Richardson, Pooley, Johnson, Mantenuto, Atkins and Sergeant 
Williams. Skinner lost his faith in God that day. He lost his 
faith in everything. 

But on this cold autumn night in what seemed another life, 
Commander Walter Skinner was as changed as the world. He 
humbled himself before the Almighty. The ragged remainder of 
his army and a handful of freed hostages rested fitfully 
beneath the pines of Wasatch-Cache National Forest as he knelt 
stiffly beside his bedroll and brought bandaged palms 
together, mimicking a gesture grown rusty since his pious 
boyhood in the flatlands of east Texas. With tears burning his 
eyes, he blinked in astonishment at the paltry number of 
survivors. Then he prayed for the souls of his lost soldiers 
and begged for the future of mankind.  

*   *   * 

ARROWHEAD CREEK, WYOMING
SOMETIME AFTER MIDNIGHT

"Mulder?" Gibson spoke softly from the hall outside Kenna's 
bedroom. "You in there?"

You know I am, Mulder silently challenged, guessing Gibson was 
listening to his thoughts. He sat on the edge of the bed and 
caressed William's satiny cheek. 

The baby stirred but didn't wake. William lay tucked against 
Kenna's breast, wet thumb slipping from his mouth. She slept 
on her side with one hand placed protectively atop the baby's 
belly. They looked peaceful in the honeyed glow of the oil 
lamp.

"Pleasant dreams, son," Mulder whispered and rose from the 
bed. He considered covering them with blankets, but the room 
was comfortably warm, thanks to the kerosene heater. 

He opened the door to Gibson and asked in a low voice, "What's 
up?"

Gibson peered past him to Kenna. Her dark hair fanned the 
pillows and her T-shirt rode high on one hip, providing a 
glimpse of white panties. "I could ask you the same question."

Mulder stepped into the hall and pulled the door quietly shut 
behind him, blocking Gibson's view. Gooseflesh prickled his 
neck and arms; it was at least twenty degrees colder in the 
hall than the bedroom. "What's that supposed to mean?" 

"You like her."

"She risked her life to save my child."

"That's not what I meant."

Mulder crossed his arms and glared. "What did you mean?"

"I know what you're thinking," Gibson reminded him.

"Then you know I love Scully."

"Yes." Gibson nodded at Kenna's door. "But you're thinking 
about her."

Mulder's face heated. Gibson had evidently "overheard" a 
moment of unexpected desire, knew Mulder had become aroused at 
the sight of Kenna's long, bare legs, her braless breasts.

"Was it good for you?" Mulder growled before adding silently: 
get your ya-yas someplace else, Gibson. 

Gibson met his anger without a hint of embarrassment. "I can't 
help hearing what I hear."

Mulder knew it was true. And it was clear from Gibson's 
expression he wasn't being judgmental. Still, Mulder's 
unconscious reaction to Kenna seemed disloyal to Scully and he 
felt a need to explain.

"My body responded to a pretty woman, that's all. I didn't act 
on it. I didn't go looking for it. It just happened. It 
doesn't mean anything and you're old enough to understand the 
difference between a fleeting physical reaction and a lasting 
emotional bond."

"It's happened more than once."

"Are you keeping count?"

"No, but you've been in her bedroom every night since we 
arrived."

"My son is in there."

Gibson stared at the door, head cocked as if listening. "He's 
the reason she thinks about sleeping with you." 

Mulder blinked in surprise. "She wants to sleep with me?"

"She doesn't want to. But she's worried about being left on 
her own."

"And if we have sex, I'll stay and she'll get to keep William. 
Is that it?"

"She loves him. She thinks he's--" 

"A gift from God. I know." Mulder shouldered past Gibson and 
headed for the kitchen. His left leg ached like a son-of-a-
bitch and it dragged slightly as he limped down the hall. "You 
can stop worrying. I don't plan to sleep with her."

Gibson trailed after him. "Are you sure?"

Mulder spun around and Gibson almost stumbled into him. "What 
the hell makes you think I'm suddenly incapable of controlling 
my actions?"

"You aren't yourself," Gibson answered honestly. "You haven't 
been since Bellefleur."

Mulder tried to corral his irritation, reminding himself that 
Gibson was his friend. The teen had sheltered him during his 
exile. Mulder trusted him with his life. He took his opinions 
seriously. 

"You're right."

Months of torture at the hands of the aliens, followed by more 
torture courtesy of the U.S. military, had taken its toll. 
Summer vacation in a coffin and a year on the run hadn't 
helped his state of mind. 

Then he learned Scully had given their son away. It was the 
final straw, apparently. The most unlikely betrayal he could 
have imagined. It seemed irreconcilable. Unforgivable.

"Only if you want it to be," Gibson said. Light from the 
kitchen lamp reflected off his glasses, making his eyes 
unreadable. 

"Why in God's name would I want that?" 

Mulder's heart was pounding. He tried to steady his quaking 
hands. Failing, he entered the kitchen. His jacket was hanging 
where he'd left it on the back of a chair. He grabbed it and 
fished through the pockets for a cigarette. His fingers closed 
around the half empty pack and the lighter he'd stolen from a 
dead man in New Mexico. 

"You had something to tell me?" he asked, lighting up. "Other 
than to keep my dick in my pants?"

Gibson waited while Mulder drew on his cigarette. "Skinner's 
been hurt," he announced softly.

Mulder nearly dropped the lighter.

"How bad?" 

"I don't know."

Remorse sucker-punched Mulder. Four days ago Gibson had told 
him Skinner was leading an attack against the aliens in Salt 
Lake City. It was part of a larger offensive. Something called 
Operation Free Earth. Mulder should have been there to help.

"What about the other units, the ones you told me about, in 
Denver...Phoenix...Dallas?"

"A lot of people are dead." 

God damn it. Mulder held his breath, allowing the nicotine to 
flood his veins.

Smoke swirled ceiling-ward when he spoke. "Where is Skinner 
now?" 

"Hiding. Somewhere east of Salt Lake, a place called Safe 
Camp."

"Safe Camp? Is that near here?"

"Maybe. I'm not sure." 

Ash dripped from the cigarette onto the scuffed linoleum 
floor. "Will They be coming after him?"

Gibson shrugged, although the answer was obvious. A large-
scale alien victory meant no one was safe. There was nowhere 
to hide; They would find everyone eventually. 

Mulder knew he should join Skinner, help him defeat the 
invaders or die trying. 

When he's old enough, tell the kid I went down swinging, he'd 
once said to Scully. 

But if Mulder followed his quest to its bitter end, who would 
be left to protect his son? 

"I can't leave him. Not again. Not for any reason."

"I didn't say you should."

"It's too dangerous."

"We'll stay here then."

"For how long? Until They find us, too?"

"What choice do we have?"

Mulder tossed the butt of his cigarette into the sink. He had 
made his commitment months ago and it was to his son.

"I hate doing nothing," he muttered.  

"We could stock up on food, other stuff," Gibson suggested. 
"Get another heater." 

"And bury the Quealys." Mulder sniffed the air. The Quealys 
had been dead for days. The place should reek, but there was 
no stench of decaying flesh. No odor at all. 

He slipped the lighter back into his pocket and his knuckles 
bumped the artifact Gibson had found in the ruins at Kits'iil. 
He took it out and held it up to the light of the kitchen's 
single oil lamp.

"What is this thing?"

"Albert Hosteen said it was a key...the 'answer to the world's 
dire condition.'"

Mulder caressed it with his thumb, felt its tiny, incised 
symbols. "Maybe he wasn't speaking metaphorically. It could be 
a real key. A transponder," he said, wishing for the Gunmen's 
expertise. "Receives a signal, then responds with an identity 
data code. Like IFF." In response to Gibson's questioning look, 
he explained, "Identify Friend or Foe. IFF transponders were 
used during World War II on aircraft to identify them. Friendly 
aircraft responded to preprogrammed interrogation codes, 
indicating to radar operators they were okay."

"If the code in this transponder relays the appropriate 
information..."

"We're in like Flynn." He closed his fist around the device. 
The artifact seemed to warm in his hand. Mulder's voice 
thinned to a murmur, "Question is, in where?" 

What secret did the transponder protect? What truths would be 
revealed when it was fit into the appropriate lock? Was it a 
solution to the world's problems, as Hosteen had said? 

Or was it a key to a Pandora's Box?

*   *   * 

TSE'BIT'A'I
DECK 17

"How is she?" Ca-Lo asked, leading the way to the Ablution 
Pools.

Grower 16 hurried to keep pace with Ca-Lo's longer stride. 
"Splendid. We think you'll be very pleased." 

Prolonged exposure to cloning chemicals had discolored the 
Grower's gray skin, giving him an olive cast. His long fingers 
were stained dark copper and his Nih-hi-cho eyes were almost 
as emerald as Ca-Lo's. He wore a loose-fitting jumpsuit, 
soiled at the cuffs with protein ointment. The ointment's sour 
odor reminded Ca-Lo of sweat and semen, although Nih-hi-cho 
didn't sweat or ejaculate.    

"How much longer?" Ca-Lo asked.

"Another twenty-six days, unless we add accelerant." 

"No, no accelerant. Don't risk the embryonic root." 
Accelerants caused unpredictable mutations. This clone had to 
be perfect.

They entered the Pools' upper gallery, a vaulted mezzanine 
that overlooked an enormous hexagonal chamber twenty meters 
below. Massive square piers and glossy, onyx columns supported 
the balcony; arched portals overlooked hundreds of cultivation 
cisterns arranged in rows on the chamber's polished ebony 
floor. Growers identical to 16 tended the tanks, vigilantly 
monitoring their murky, phosphorescent fluid and the 
developing clones within. 

Clones. Detestable beings, in Ca-Lo's opinion. On the surface 
they appeared to be exact replicas of their original donors, 
but were in fact inferior because they lacked the indefinable, 
yet crucial, ingredient that distinguished true humans from 
their synthetic facsimiles -- what a more religious man might 
describe as a soul, bestowed by the Divine at the moment of 
natural conception. By comparison, clones were merely empty 
vessels, devoid of spirit. Second-rate reproductions.

Ca-Lo strode quickly toward the nearest spiral staircase. 
Grower 16 followed close behind. 

"How goes the Amicable Resolution?" 16 asked, referring to the 
recent rebellion. 

"It's over."

The Nih-hi-cho penchant for peaceful euphemisms irritated Ca-
Lo. They diminished the Armada's resounding victory. Fifty-six 
separate uprisings across the continent had been quashed. 
Surviving rebels were being hunted down and rounded up. 
Despite their paltry weapons, the humans had been superb 
strategists and fierce warriors in a guerrilla-style conflict 
that could have gone on for decades if not for the Armada's 
quick and precise response. The terrestrial offensive had been 
impressively coordinated and skillfully deployed without 
benefit of modern communications technology. Ca-Lo admired 
their leaders' cunning, ingenuity, and bravery. So much so, he 
had given explicit orders they be brought to Tse'Bit'a'i'... 
alive. He planned to interrogate each one personally, before 
they were executed.

The Grower's voice wobbled as he ran behind Ca-Lo. "Then we 
shall soon have hosts for the next generation of Infants! 
Good, good. The Nursery has lain empty too long. When is the 
first shipment due?"

"I wouldn't know," Ca-Lo said with annoyance. "The 
reproduction of your race is outside the purview of my 
responsibilities."   

"Apologies, sir." 16 ducked his head, but continued jabbering, 
his excitement overriding his manners. "This is a wondrous 
time to be alive. Momentous. Colonization is assured; the 
Juveniles are returning for the blessed Joining!"

The prospect of a Nih-hi-cho Joining made Ca-Lo's skin crawl. 

The Infants had gone through their transformation, shed their 
puerile skins to become adolescents. An entire neo-generation 
was gathering at Harmony I to be assimilated into the 
collective in a solemn ceremony of communal prayer. Minds 
would connect, thoughts conjoin. More than a million pious 
intellects would merge in joyous adoration of the Great Red 
Dragon and his Divine Legion of Angels. It was the Society's 
most revered ritual.

And Ca-Lo was not invited. The Nih-hi-cho believed the 
inherent inability of humans to access the Society's group 
consciousness would dilute the sanctity of the religious 
experience. In their eyes, autonomy was a weakness, 
individuality an abhorrent genetic failure, unworthy of the 
Holy Dragon. 

No wonder the Nih-hi-cho had a predilection for cloning. 
Duplication circumvented sexual reproduction while also 
satisfying their perverse desire for conformity.

By contrast, Ca-Lo prized his singularity above all else. It 
differentiated him from his Nih-hi-cho masters and their 
loathsome clones. He was unique; he was human.   

Ca-Lo jogged down the spiral staircase. When he passed through 
the arched door at the bottom, he was faced with scores of 
identical tanks containing partially formed clones. 

"Which one?" he asked, suppressing his revulsion.

"This way." Grower 16 took the lead.

They zigzagged through a maze of cisterns until the Grower 
stopped in front of Pool CVII and extended his tapered 
fingers. "Here."   

"Leave us," Ca-Lo ordered.

The Grower bowed and hurried away.

Alone, Ca-Lo pressed his palms to the side of the tank and 
studied the embryonic root inside. Beneath a protective layer 
of protein ointment, Cassandra Spender's familiar features 
were beginning to take shape.

"Mother."

Floating in the tank's gentle current, she seemed to roll 
toward him when he spoke, as if she could hear his voice. 
Impossible, of course. She was far too immature to hear 
anything at all. 

It had been a difficult decision to have her cloned. The husk 
in the tank was not his mother. No matter how closely it might 
resemble or act like Cassandra Spender, it could never be her. 
It would never possess her spirit.  

Still, Ca-Lo missed Cassandra's affection, the first and only 
kindness he had ever known. His desire to feel her gentle kiss 
once more upon his brow had been overwhelming.

The clone could assuage his loneliness. It might also provide 
clues to Cassandra's true origins. 

His "mother's" green blood had been unexpected, a profound 
disappointment, irrefutable proof that he was not her 
biological son. 

Ca-Lo was determined to learn the truth about her...and 
himself. 

He beckoned Grower 16 with a mental command.

"Sir?" The grower appeared a moment later.

"Transfer the genetic records of my mother's clone to the comp 
in my quarters."

"Oh. Hm."

"Is there a problem?"

"Yes...well...it's just that...hm...this clone's profile has 
been encrypted."

"Encrypted? Why?"

"We are not privy to the reason, sir."

"Certainly I'm allowed to view my own mother's genetic 
history, aren't I?"

"Em...no. You do not have permission...sir."

"On whose orders?"

"The Overseers, of course."

It was an insult. Ca-Lo had won the planet for them, yet they 
continued to treat him worse than their lowliest hybrid 
servants.

He would endure their humiliation no longer. He would 
challenge his alien masters.

"I'm done here." Ca-Lo turned away from Pool CVII. 

"Shall we walk out together?" Grower 16 asked.

"I can find my own way."     

*   *   *

Never in her worst nightmares had Dibeh imagined herself in a 
place so unfamiliar and frightening. 

Two armed guards kept watch over her day and night. They 
frowned and jabbered at her, prodded her with their rifles, 
stomped loudly up and down the floating wooden platform where 
she was being held prisoner. She huddled near the water's 
edge, fearful of falling into the sinister lake or being 
swallowed by the enormous sky. She had never been out in the 
open like this. Never so wet or cold.  

Her hands were restrained behind her back with biting plastic 
ties, making it impossible for her to sign to her angry human 
captors that her bladder was full and she needed to relieve 
herself soon or soil her garments. She could only hope they 
would not wait too long to take her to their necessarium, a 
filthy, smelly box built over a hole in the ground, full of 
excrement and buzzing flies.

Homesickness gripped her heart as tightly as the physical 
bonds that cinched her wrists. She longed to return to 
Tse'Bit'a'i's warm and welcoming interior, where the air 
smelled like be-la-sana mist and honey paste wax. There she 
was surrounded by the familiar faces of other hybrids. She 
missed her friends Ulso and Jeha. She even missed grumpy old 
Be-Gahi. 

Here she knew no one other than Lady Dana and the dark-skinned 
man with ropey hair and silver earrings. And aside from them, 
Earth people seemed cruel beings. 

They had given her nothing to eat, not one scrap of food since 
her arrival three days ago. She was allowed only one drink of 
water per day. Her tongue felt gummy and her throat raw. She 
was so hungry she would gobble down spoiled tacheene if given 
the chance. And her thirst was so intense she had even been 
tempted by the putrid water in the necessarium's foul pit.

Forced to sit for hours without moving, she was now shivering 
uncontrollably. Her thin garments did little to block the 
wind. Biting gusts carried prickly, foreign odors and the 
chill transformed every breath into ghostly vapors. A waning 
moon gleamed overhead like a Consort's silicon arm band, 
casting a hoary glow upon the metal barrels of the guards' 
M16s, the dock's gray planks, the choppy water and rocking 
boats.

The sloshing waves reminded Dibeh of the shuttle crash and the 
dead Refuter, salt water filling her mouth and nose, panic 
rising in her chest as she struggled to keep from drowning.

Silently she beseeched the Great Red Dragon, "Please help me. 
I have always loved you and kept faith in you and your Divine 
Angels. Please do not forsake me."

The moon slowly dimmed behind a cobweb of clouds. Wind whipped 
Dibeh's hair and stung her face like a thousand sewing 
needles.  

The pressure in her bladder was growing too great to bear. She 
grunted to the guards, hoping to make them understand her 
desperation.

"Shut the fuck up," yelled the tall one with pale eyes and 
oily hair. When she whimpered more softly, he thundered down 
the dock toward her and aimed his rifle at her head.

Dibeh closed her eyes and prayed, "Do not shoot me."

"Leave it alone, Burk," said the female guard with spiky hair.

"You an alien lover all of a sudden, DeSanctus?" Burk asked.

"No, but it isn't hurting anything."

"It's offending my sensibilities." Burk laughed at his own 
joke and the harsh sound ricocheted off the hulls of the 
surrounding boats. He poked Dibeh's temple with his rifle. She 
bowed her head and tried to make herself as small and 
inoffensive as possible. 

"You're scaring it," said DeSanctus.

"Awww. Too fuckin' bad." Burk jabbed Dibeh again. And again. 
"Quit looking at me," he warned, "unless you want one of them 
big ol' black eyes shot right out of your freakin' skull. You 
want that? Huh?" 

The barrel of his gun hovered a mere millimeter from her left 
eye.

Dibeh kept perfectly still.

"I don't hear it saying no." His finger twitched on the 
trigger. Unexpectedly, he shouted, "BANG!"

Dibeh jumped and her bladder emptied, soaking her thin 
trousers. A dark puddle spread quickly around her. It flowed 
between the slats of the dock and rained into the lake.

"Aw, Christ! The fucker pissed itself. Look at that! Pee-ew!" 

Shame heated Dibeh's cheeks as Burk cursed and paced up and 
down the dock, causing it to rock sickeningly from side to 
side.

"Burk, you're such an asshole," DeSanctus said.

"I ain't the one stinking up the place." He sniffed the air. 
"I think it needs a bath."  

"Burk...come on. We got orders. We aren't supposed to hurt 
it."

"We ain't hurting it. Way I see it we're doing the fucker a 
favor." He handed his rifle to DeSanctus, then gathered a rope 
from one of the dock's cleats. "Shoot the little shit if it 
tries to bite me."

"What are you gonna do?" DeSanctus asked.

"Dip it in the drink. Rinse off the stench." 

Burk threaded the rope roughly beneath Dibeh's arms and around 
her chest. He tied a tight knot, then tested it by giving it a 
yank that squeezed the air from Dibeh's lungs. Using the rope 
to lift her, he dangled her over the water.

She squirmed with fright as waves lapped her bare toes. Burk 
laughed again, just before he dropped her into the icy black 
water.

Cold engulfed her. Panic stiffened her spine. She kicked 
frantically, but was unable to rise to the surface. With her 
hands bound, she was helpless. 

She sank slowly, her breath held against death while fear 
sliced into her like a newly sharpened boning knife. Already 
her legs were so numb she could not feel her feet. Perhaps 
they hit bottom, because she seemed to stop moving and a fog 
of silt rose up from below, billowing around her, making it 
impossible to see.

She waited there for what seemed an eternity, lungs aching for 
air. When she could bear the pain no more, it occurred to her 
she might open her mouth and throat, and thereby end her 
thirst and her life with one quick inhalation. 

Would it hurt? Maybe it would soothe her parched throat.

She unclenched her jaw. Opened her mouth. 

Shadows swirled in the current beneath the dock. The thick 
piers appeared to sway. They took on the shape and proportion 
of a multi-headed serpent. Beards of algae became scales. 
Silvery bubbles transformed into glistening eyes.

Divine Angels, it was the Great Red Dragon.

An old prayer hummed in Dibeh's mind, one of the first she had 
ever learned:  

"My eyes are ever toward you, O Holy One,
For you relieve the troubles of my heart.
Consider my distress.
Consider how many are my foes, 
And with what violent detestation they hate me.
Oh guard my life and deliver me,
For I take refuge in your infinite love."

As if in a dream, the Dragon's tail coiled carefully around 
her waist and buoyed her to the surface.

"Do not surrender," one of the Dragon's seven mouths whispered 
into her ear. "You have reason yet to live."  

Tossed by the serpent's curled tail, Dibeh landed on her back 
atop the dock's rough surface. She closed her eyes. Gasped for 
air. Choked. An urge to vomit rocked her stomach as she was 
dragged several meters. The planks beneath her shook with the 
approach of heavy footfalls. She was rolled onto her stomach.

"Untie her!" growled a deep, masculine voice.

Dibeh was jostled; her arms flopped to her sides like bread 
dough, heavy and unfeeling. Searing fingers gripped her jaw, 
lifted her chin from the deck. She blinked water from her eyes 
and tried to focus on the face in front of her.

Not the Red Dragon.

But another savior. 

It was Lady Dana's friend, the man who had rescued her from 
the salty lake. Walter Skinner.

He leveled squinting eyes at Burk, who stood with one end of 
the wet rope still dangling from his fist. 

"Sir, I wasn't doin' any--" Burk dropped the rope.

"Find Dr. Scully. Bring her here," Skinner ordered. "Now."

"But sir--"

"Go!" Turning to DeSanctus, Skinner said, "Locate Royal 
Jackson and tell him to get his ass out here, ASAP."  

*   *   *

SAFE CAMP, UTAH

Census listed 464 women, 553 children and 152 men living in 
Bear Lake's RVs, boats, tents and cars. The majority of men 
were over the age of sixty or recovering from injuries, which 
meant there were plenty of lonely, frustrated young women 
eager to hook up with a healthy, good looking guy like Royal 
Jackson.

"Make love to me, baby." Ashley nuzzled Royal's neck as they 
stumbled into the sailboat's tiny forward cabin. Long, painted 
nails scraped his tattooed chest, circled his nipple rings.

"I saw him first." Tisha staked her claim by thrusting her 
tongue into Royal's mouth while squeezing his cock.

All three were naked and Royal was sporting a massive hard-on. 
Eager to get down to business, his dick throbbed in Tisha's 
warm hand. 

She flicked the Prince Albert at its tip with her thumb. "This 
should be interesting." 

"Careful there, girl."

He gave her a playful shove onto the bed.

The boat rocked; gentle waves lapped the hull. Tisha rolled 
onto her belly, presenting him with her shapely bare ass. Her 
skin was the color of polished walnut. 

Ashley, pale and smooth as whipped cream, faced Royal as she 
sat on the edge of the bed beside her darker friend. They were 
chocolate and vanilla, and Royal loved the look of both. 
Ashley spread her legs, exposing a shaved pussy and cherry-red 
lips. 

"I've got a place for that big dick of yours," she said, 
fingering herself, tempting him to choose her before Tisha.

"I see that, baby." Jesus, he was hard. "Scoot up."

He climbed onto the bed and buried his nose between Ashley's 
silky thighs. Her giggles turned into moans as the sterling 
stud in his tongue rode her clitoris. She tasted like she'd 
been sautéed in butter and dipped in the sea, a rich, salty 
combination that heated his groin and chased every non-sexual 
thought from his head.

"Hey, I'm getting lonely over here, sugar." Tisha pouted at 
him over her shoulder.

He lifted his mouth from Ashley long enough to say, "Can't 
have that."

Her back arched and she hissed with pleasure when he snaked a 
hand between her legs and slid two fingers inside her. 

God almighty, she was wet and snug, and evidently as horny as 
a bitch in heat. She pushed against his hand, burying his 
fingers up to the last knuckle.

He rose up onto his knees, positioned himself between the two 
women and began to finger Ashley, too. 

"Oh, yeah," she whimpered. 

"You like that, baby?"

"Make me come, Royal-honey."

He pumped them in unison, his eyes darting from Tisha's full, 
rounded ass to Ashley's small, bouncy breasts. The white 
girl's nipples pointed skyward, pink as ripe watermelon. He 
was about to lean down and suck one into his mouth, when a 
better idea struck him.

"Sit up," he told her, withdrawing his fingers from both 
women. 

"Damn it, Royal. I was almost there!"

"Don't worry, baby, you'll get off." He slapped Tisha's ass. 
"Roll over. I want you sitting up, too, hon. Come on, face 
each other."

"Jesus, Royal, you're a fucking tease."

"Why'd you stop?" whined Ashley.

"I wanna see a little girl-on-girl action."

The women gave each other sidelong glances. 

"Now." He motioned for them to get together. 

"No way."

"Yes way. You want my dick in your pussy, you're gonna suck 
each other's titties first."  

"How 'bout I suck your dick instead?" Ashley pushed him onto 
his back, leaned down and took him into her mouth.

"Sweet fuckin' Jesus, you do that fine." He groaned with 
pleasure as she swirled her tongue up his length. She took the 
Prince Albert in her teeth and tugged, slowly, steadily. The 
strain was intense...and freakin' sexy. 

"Oh, yeah...that's nice." 

Her mouth left him. "We're just getting started, hon."

Next thing he knew, she was straddling his hips and guiding 
his cock into her. 

He watched his dick disappear, inch by blessed inch.

Her eyes squeezed shut. She gasped. She was tighter than most 
of the women he'd been with. He liked the way she held her 
breath and bit into her lower lip as he filled her. He wasn't 
sure if she was feeling pleasure or pain, but hell, either one 
was a compliment to the size of his dick. 

Tisha crawled across the bed to sit beside his head, feet 
tucked beneath her, knees spread wide enough to give him a 
clear view of her pussy. She bent over him and pressed one 
heavy breast to his lips. He drew its rigid nipple into his 
mouth and sucked hard while lifting his hips to meet Ashley's 
downward thrust.

His balls tightened. 

Heaven. Fucking heaven.

Just when he was thinking life couldn't get any better, Tisha 
whispered in his ear, "How 'bout you put that talented mouth 
of yours to work someplace else?"

She repositioned herself over him, straddling his head, facing 
Ashley. Her curls tickled his nose and chin. 

He pressed his face to her wet slit.

Closing his eyes, he breathed in her scent and imagined the 
two women fondling each other's breasts as they rode him. In 
his fantasy, they French kissed. Rubbed each other's clits.

He speared Tisha's pussy with his tongue. Bucked against 
Ashley's cunt. He anticipated the best damned orgasm of his 
life.

"Royal!" 

The urgent voice was neither Tisha's nor Ashley's.

Fuck. It was DeSanctus. 

"Skinner's asking for you," she said. "Get dressed."

Royal nudged Tisha off him. Reluctantly, he stilled Ashley's 
downward thrusts.

"Your timing sucks, DeSanctus," he said.

"Don't be pissed at me." DeSanctus eyeballed the situation. 
"I'm just the messenger." 

"Do you have to go, sugar?" Tisha asked, her tone petulant. 

Ashley pouted and climbed off him.

"No choice." Royal scrambled from the bed and brushed past 
DeSanctus to collect his clothes from the galley floor. "Duty 
calls."

Ashley followed him out of the bedroom and posed coyly against 
the doorframe. She looked delectable with tousled hair, 
flushed cheeks, back arched to make her tiny breasts point up 
at him. "Want us to keep the bed warm?"

He pulled on his pants, then leaned in to kiss her. "I'll be 
right back, baby. Don't go anywhere."

He slipped into his boots, yanked a T-shirt over his head, and 
followed DeSanctus off the sailboat.

"Skinner's through the roof," she said, hurrying toward shore. 
Her boots thudded against the wooden planks, keeping time with 
Royal's hammering heart.

"What the hell happened?" 

"Burk was goofing with the alien."

"Fuck. I told him to just watch the damned thing."

"He didn't hurt it."

"No? Then why is Skinner asking for me?" Royal regretted not 
grabbing a jacket. It was freezing cold out in the open. And 
it was beginning to look like he might not be getting back to 
Tisha and Ashley as soon as he'd hoped.

Hurrying through the marina, Royal and DeSanctus passed dozens 
of boats tied in slips. Most were dark, but voices drifted up 
from below decks, amplified by the water. An occasional cry of 
passion punctuated the dark, reminding Royal of what he was 
missing.

In less than two minutes they reached the dock where the 
prisoner was being kept. Skinner was waiting there, hands on 
his hips, jaw set. The alien lay at his feet. It was soaking 
wet and either unconscious or dead.

Skinner targeted Royal with angry eyes. "Where the hell have 
you been?"

"Sir?"

"I left you in charge." 

"I gave orders to Burk--"

"*You* were responsible for this prisoner's well-being and 
*you* will be held accountable for what's happened to her."

"Yes, sir, but...uh...I...what did happen?"

Before Skinner could answer, Burk returned with Scully. 
Outrage darkened her eyes as she knelt beside the alien and 
began examining its drenched, seemingly lifeless form.

"It's not dead, is it?" Royal asked.

"You better hope to God she's not," Skinner said.

"We need to get her someplace warm," Dr. Scully said, stroking 
the alien's sodden hair. 

"Take her to my trailer," Skinner ordered Royal.

"Me? You want me t-to carry it?"

"Christ." Burk hissed with disgust. 

"Yes, I want you to carry her." Skinner locked eyes with 
Royal. "And do it gently. Pretend she's your balls in my fist. 
Get my drift?"

"Y-yes, sir."

"And you..." Skinner turned to face Burk. The big soldier 
swallowed so hard Royal could hear it over the slap of waves 
against the shore. "You're coming with me." 

*   *   *

ARROWHEAD CREEK, WYOMING 

"Wha zat?" William stood on the Quealys' front step beside 
Mulder. He was bundled against the cold in snowpants, jacket, 
hat and scarf. Snot glistened beneath his red nose. He pointed 
one mittened hand at the yard, which had been transformed 
overnight into a winter wonderland.

"It's snow," Mulder said. All eight inches of it. "Welcome to 
Wyoming."

William blinked in astonishment. 

Mulder tried to set aside his apprehension about the upcoming 
winter months and adopt William's childlike delight. The 
clean, bright landscape sparkled. Fat flakes eddied on air 
currents like fairytale sprites. The house, the trees, the 
entire world appeared dipped in cake frosting.

And it was only the middle of October. 

"Come on, buddy. Let's do this before we freeze our ass...er, 
noses." Two empty buckets dangled from Mulder's left fist. 

Kenna wanted water, enough for Gibson and Mulder to take 
baths. 

After breakfast she had announced without preamble or apology, 
"You two stink."

"Tink!" William had parroted, crinkling his small nose and 
mimicking her look of disgust.

Gibson sniffed the air. His hair hung in greasy clumps. His 
face was mottled with road dirt. 

The creases in Mulder's hands were black and his nails were 
caked. He brought a fistful of his sweatshirt to his nose.

It reeked of motorcycle exhaust, gasoline and, most pungent of 
all, his own sweat. 

"Point taken." 

"You fetch the water and I'll heat it on the stove." Kenna's 
tone made it clear they had no choice. "You can wash in the 
sink. Buckets are by the front door."

Mulder and Gibson exchanged glances, neither wanting to brave 
the cold to pump bath water.

"I lugged the coffee water," Gibson reminded Mulder and lifted 
his mug as proof.

"It wasn't snowing then."

"Is that my fault?" 

"Fine. I'll go," Mulder said. He frowned at the window, 
where snow blanketed the outer sills and fogged the glass. 
"But if I'm not back before dark, send out a St. Bernard."

When William saw Mulder putting on coat and boots, he begged 
to go, too. Mulder was game, but Kenna needed convincing. 
After seemingly endless coaxing, she reluctantly granted 
permission, albeit with detailed instructions of where not to 
go and what not to touch. It was a milestone of trust, and 
Mulder planned to take full advantage of it. 

So here they were. Two men on a mission. Father and son. 
Unsupervised. 

The weight of paternal responsibility hit Mulder like a 
blazing meteorite dropped from a clear blue sky. He should be 
doing something fatherly, shouldn't he? Preparing his son for 
life in a harsh world, imparting sage advice.

"You wanna write your name in the snow?"

William spun to look back at the door with worried eyes. 
"Mama?" 

Kenna was there, watching them through the frosty window. She 
gave a half-hearted wave. 

"So much for trust." Mulder reached out to help William 
navigate the slippery steps. "Need a hand, son?"

"No." William turned and crawled down the stairs backward. 
When he reached the bottom, he scooped a palm-full of snow 
into his mouth.

"How's it taste?" Mulder asked.

"Cold."

William zigzagged across the yard. The snow came up to his 
knees. He turned often to check his progress. "Boots." He 
pointed out his footprints to Mulder.

"I see." Mulder's own trail looked inhuman, an unsightly scar 
in the otherwise pristine snowscape. His bad leg dragged like 
the Mummy's in a bad B-movie. Fate had transformed him into 
one of the mutants he used to hunt.

William plowed forward in a new direction and Mulder patiently 
followed, letting the boy explore to his heart's content. 
There was no reason to rush. Nothing urgent needed doing. 

Over the last three days Mulder and Gibson had canvassed 
Arrowhead for supplies. They'd collected food, clothing, 
diapers, toiletries, tools, oil lamps and candles. Two 
kerosene heaters from neighboring homes now warmed the 
Quealys' kitchen and living room. Extra fuel was stored in gas 
cans in the garage. Every closet in the house contained a 
loaded shotgun or rifle, and every closet door had a newly 
installed latch to keep the weapons safely out of William's 
reach. Broken windows had been repaired, drafts plugged, doors 
and windows secured. As far as was humanly possible, they had 
readied themselves for the coldest months of winter. 

Assuming they lived to see spring, Mulder planned to leave 
Arrowhead to search for Scully when the weather permitted safe 
travel again. Until then, he would get to know William better, 
win his trust.

And figure out how to tell Kenna she wasn't needed anymore.

William paused at the corner of the house, reluctant to wander 
around back where the vegetable garden was located. "Babies?" 
he asked, concern peaking his faint brows. 

"No babies, son."

It was a lie of sorts. William had watched Mulder and Gibson 
bury the Quealys in the garden two days ago. The boy had 
repeatedly referred to the bodies of the Quealy children as 
babies. He became quite distraught when Mulder began shoveling 
dirt over them. Kenna had had to take him inside. It took two 
chocolate Ring Dings to quiet him. 

"Toonip?"

"No turnips either."

William resumed his exploration. He trudged the length of the 
driveway, circled around several squat, ornamental evergreens, 
waded to the mailbox.

Eventually, with occasional reminders about their purpose and 
repeated directional guidance from Mulder, they arrived at the 
well. 

The pump rose up out of the snow like a submarine periscope in 
a frothy sea. 

"Me do." William grasped the handle. 

"Sure. I'll help you." 

Together they filled the buckets. 

Back inside the house, they played a game of "Cups and Balls" 
at the kitchen table while Kenna heated the water. William sat 
in Mulder's lap. Gibson sank into the chair opposite them to 
watch. A small pile of raisins between them provided edible 
"balls" for the game.  

Mulder hid a raisin beneath one of three kid-sized plastic 
drinking cups. He shuffled the cups and asked, "Where is it?" 

William selected the correct cup and Mulder let him eat his 
winnings.

"Don't feed him too many of those," Kenna said. "I told you 
before they give him diarrhea."

"One too few? Six too many?" Mulder made a "yikes" face and 
continued the game despite Kenna's warning. 

This time William chose the cup to his left. 

Mulder lifted it to reveal a raisin. "We have a winner."

"He's good at this," Gibson said.

"Like you." 

William gobbled his prize. "Do 'gain!" he demanded.

Mulder made a show of hiding the raisin and shuffling the 
cups. 

"Which one?"

Without hesitation, William pinned his finger to the one on 
the right. 

"You sure?"

William nodded.

"Sorry, son. Guess this one is mine." Mulder showed him the 
raisin under the center cup.

William grabbed it.

"Hey, that's mine." Mulder pouted, pretending to be upset. 
"Gimme."

William's head wagged.

"No?"

"No!"

"But I'm soooo hungry. Pleeeease?" Mulder opened his mouth.

William considered for a moment, then relented. He twisted in 
Mulder's lap and dropped the raisin onto his tongue.

Mulder mugged for him, puffing his cheeks and crossing his 
eyes as if the raisin tasted terrible. William reacted by 
laughing out loud, a delightful chuckle that was unexpectedly 
deep for a child so young. 

"Dada!" 

Mulder's heart flip-flopped.

Did William understand the meaning of the word? Or was this 
like the last time, a child's innocent mistake? 

Wanting...*needing*...to know, Mulder asked, "Who is dada?" 

Before he could respond, Kenna scooped William from Mulder's 
lap. "Time for your nap, baby boy." She nuzzled his cheek.

"Mo' raisin," he said.

"No more." She glared at Mulder. "Water's ready. Soap and 
shampoo're beside the sink. Towels are on the end of the 
counter." 

She turned from Mulder and strode from the room, taking 
William with her. 

*   *   *

TSE'BIT'A'I'

Ca-Lo absently spun his knife on its point, drilling a shallow 
scar into the hard surface of his desk while he studied a high 
definition video clip on his computer monitor. The clip had 
been shot from a surveillance hovercraft less than an hour 
earlier. The quality was exceptional, revealing astonishing 
detail. A neglected ranch house, snow-covered yard, frosty 
water pump. And two hearty souls, bundled against the cold in 
coats and hats. Laughter steamed from wind-chapped lips as Fox 
Mulder helped a happy toddler pump water.   

"The child is William, I assume," Ca-Lo said.

"Yes, sir." Major Harris's voice sizzled from the audio panel 
in Ca-Lo's desk. 

The video clip reached its end and stopped. Ca-Lo hit replay.    
"Who took the pictures?"

"Lieutenant Bradford. Good man. Trustworthy."

"I trust no one, Harris." Especially not you, he added 
mentally, not caring that his old Watcher could read his 
thoughts across the miles between them.

"The point is moot in Bradford's case, Ca-Lo. He met with an 
unfortunate accident right after he forwarded the clip. His 
shuttle suffered a malfunction. He's dead."

Harris was covering his tracks. And this time his subterfuge 
would work in Ca-Lo's favor. 

"Too bad," Ca-Lo said, not feeling at all sympathetic. "I want 
the boy. Bring him to me."

"What about his female caretaker? And Mulder's young friend 
Gibson Praise?"

Ca-Lo recognized the name. The adolescent was a modern day 
Missing Link, a genetic throwback who possessed the ability to 
read minds like the Nih-hi-cho. Such anomalies were rare, but 
not unheard of. Cassandra had mentioned this particular one. 
He had allegedly been part of a pet project of Ca-Lo's father.

Ca-Lo pinpointed Mulder's image with the tip of his knife. 
"Perhaps there will be another unfortunate accident."

Harris paused before responding.

Displeasing the Overseers carried serious consequences, as Ca-
Lo had learned long ago. Harris's lesson -- five months in a 
Privation Chamber -- was recent enough to make the Watcher 
even more cautious than was his custom. 

"Fate rests on the Red Dragon's back," he said at last, 
promising nothing. 

"So they claim." Ca-Lo had stopped believing in benevolent 
deities years ago. Life had taught him there were no miracles. 
A man must steer his own fate.

"I have something else for you," Harris said.

"You found Dana."

"Yes. The retreating rebels led us straight to her."

"Where is she?"

"Utah-Wyoming border. Former state park. A place they call 
Safe Camp. My team is ready to go after her."

"No. Leave her to me."

"But, sir--"

"Order your men to hold off." The video came to its end again. 
William and Mulder froze mid-laugh. "Where are you now?"

"Low altitude over Arrowhead Creek." 

"You're alone?"

"Of course."

"Good. Get the boy. I'll go after Dana."

There was no need to remind the old Watcher to be discreet. 
They were both working outside the Overseers' orders.

"As you wish, sir." 

Harris signed off and Ca-Lo sat for several minutes staring at 
the image of his brother.

"Like looking in a mirror." 

His knifepoint hovered in front of Mulder's face; he imagined 
carving Nih-hi-cho symbols into his brother's smooth cheek. 
The same marks as his own: Ca-Lo, the Destroyer. 
  
He ran his fingers over his old scars, feeling their shallow 
indentations.

A Healer could be bribed to remove them. And change the color 
of his emerald eyes.

If he cut his hair, he would be indistinguishable from Fox 
Mulder. 

A smile thinned his lips. He would pretend to be Mulder. He 
would enter the rebel's camp and bring Dana safely back to 
Tse'Bit'a'i', where he would marry her. While they celebrated 
their wedding night, his army would descend upon the 
terrestrial hideaway and destroy everything and everyone 
there. 

Ca-Lo would raise Dana's son and his daughter together as 
brother and sister, under one roof. They would be a family, 
the first he had ever known. 

He reached behind his neck, grabbed hold of his long hair and 
sawed through it with his knife. 

"I'll make you love me, Dana," -- he tossed the tail of hair 
aside -- "as you have loved my brother." 

*   *   *

Mulder pauses at the Quealys' kitchen door, shoulder pressed 
against the frame. An oil lamp on the table casts a sphere of 
flickering amber, which gilds the naked woman who is bent over 
the sink rinsing soap from her hair.

"Are you going to just stand there, Mulder, or are you going 
to pass me a towel?" Her tone is petulant. Her hand blindly 
explores the counter. The towel is beyond her reach.

The gentle curve of her spine brings tears to his eyes. It's 
Scully. Dear Scully. He has missed her.

He crosses the kitchen, no longer able to move with the 
stealth of a prowling cat; his leg pains him, but there is 
relief waiting just beyond his fingertips. He presses the 
towel into her hands and then strokes a droplet of water from 
the swell of her hip.

She chuckles. The sound delights him. She scrubs moisture from 
her hair, stirring up a clean scent that robs the strength 
from his knees. He cannot keep his hands off her when she 
grins up at him through terrycloth and wet curls, her pique 
gone, ardor sparkling in her eyes.

"Pinch me," he says, "so I know I'm not dreaming."

"I've got a better idea." She turns to face him, rises up on 
bare toes and presses a feather-light kiss to the cleft of his 
chin. Her breath warms his cheeks, tickles his neck. Her left 
breast is silk against his palm. "Make love to me," she 
whispers.

His stiffening cock offers no argument; it is pushing 
relentlessly against the denim of his jeans. He hoists her 
onto the counter and takes a position between her splayed 
knees. She is chuckling again. Dampness blossoms on his shirt 
where she rolls her wet head against his shoulder.

A familiar hunger grips him as he surveys her body with open 
palms, skimming her thighs, ribs, arms. His fingers weave into 
her tangled hair. He cups her cheek and leans in for a kiss. 
His tongue glides into her mouth. Deeply, he explores. Feels 
her swallow. Molds his hand to her throat and pushes her head 
back, exposes her neck and chest.

A bib of scar tissue brings him up short. Corrugated skin, 
striped white and pink, ringing her throat. Chin to 
collarbone. Breasts and nipples, miraculously perfect. Shit, 
it's Kenna in his arms, not Scully. How did he make this 
mistake?

Kenna blinks up at him with liquid eyes. "You don't have to 
stop."

He wants to keep going. He aches to be inside her.

"I can't... I shouldn't."

"It's not like you came looking for this," she parrots his 
earlier excuse. "It just happened. It doesn't mean anything."

"No...it's wrong."

"It's a fleeting physical attraction. Nothing more."

"But I love Scully."

"She gave your son to a stranger," she reminds him, lower lip 
pouting and seductive. Her fingers pluck at his waistband. 
"Just like your father gave your sister away. His own flesh 
and blood. A terrible thing to do."

How does she know these things? He hasn't told her about Sam. 
"Stop it."

"I would never abandon a child...*your* child." She leans 
close, nips at his neck and chin, covers his mouth with wet, 
warm lips. 

Confusion knots his stomach. Panic ricochets along his nerves. 

"Red alert, big guy," warns Frohike, startling Mulder so badly 
he stumbles backward into the kitchen table. A chair teeters 
and crashes to the floor.

"I didn't touch her," Mulder says, hands raised like a 
criminal.

Langly ogles Kenna. "You expect us to believe that?"

"He'll be trying to unload a few acres of Florida swampland 
next."

"Or London Bridge."

"You don't understand..." Mulder's throat closes. He can't 
breathe. Can't move.

"Playing with fire." Byers shakes his head.

"More like nitro. Scully's gonna be pissed, dude."

Frohike steps closer, frowning. "You hurt Scully and I'll 
kick your ass, Mulder." 

Fingers tighten on Mulder's arm.

"Wake up." An urgent warning in his ear. "There's someone in 
the house."

*   *   *

Mulder jerked awake. He was lying on the living room sofa with 
Gibson leaning over him, one hand gripping his arm. 

"In Kenna's room," Gibson said, not bothering to lower his 
voice. Concern knotted his customarily smooth brow. "He's 
alone, but he's armed." 

"Shouldn't we be whispering?" Mulder swung his feet to the 
floor. 

"He can hear our thoughts. He's alien."

"Shit." That meant they couldn't shoot him without exposing 
themselves to his toxic blood. "He wants William?"

"Yes."

Mulder lurched across the living room and down the hall, 
unsure what he was going to do when he got to Kenna's room, 
but hell-bent on protecting his son at any cost. Gibson 
followed after him, sneakers slapping as he ran. 

They stopped just short of the threshold. The door was open 
and Kenna's bedside oil lamp was lit. It illuminated a short, 
human-looking man with gunmetal-gray hair and a deep facial 
scar. He stood an arm's length away from the bed. A handgun 
gleamed in a holster on his belt. A knife rode his thigh, 
strapped to his left leg just above the knee. He was dressed 
in a plain black uniform and glossy, knee-high boots, the same 
type of uniform Mulder had seen on the soldiers aboard 
Tse'Bit'a'i' at Shiprock. 

The intruder cast a cloudy eye in Mulder and Gibson's 
direction. "Come in," he said, voice calm. He smiled, 
deepening the scar that cut through his blind eye. "I've been 
looking forward to making your acquaintance, Mr. Mulder."

Mulder peered past him to where Kenna sat stock-still on the 
bed. Her expression was glazed, as if in a trance. She held 
William tightly to her chest. 

William's eyes were wide with fear, but he remained quiet, 
thumb stuffed in his mouth, his other hand clinging to the 
fabric of Kenna's shirt.

"Who are you?" Mulder demanded.

"Ask your gifted young friend." The intruder's gaze flickered 
to Gibson. 

"You've come for my son," Mulder said. "Why?"

"To take him back to Tse'Bit'a'i'."

The alien ship. Rock with Wings. 

Mulder's fists tightened. "Over my dead body."

The intruder shrugged. "Your choice." Then, studying Mulder's 
face with obvious curiosity, he said, "Amazing. Human cloning 
was in its infancy forty years ago, the process was highly 
unpredictable, yet look at you. Your resemblance to your 
brother is extraordinary."

The image of Jeffrey Spender's ravaged face arose in Mulder's 
mind. "My brother is dead." 

Disdain curled the intruder's lips. "Not that weakling," he 
said, obviously reading Mulder's thoughts. "That one possessed 
neither the skill nor the fortitude to lead the Nih-hi-cho 
Armada. I'm talking about Ca-Lo, your 'twin.'" 

The officer aboard the alien craft at Shiprock. The man with 
the long hair and tattooed face.

The intruder chuckled and his focus slithered to William. 
"With proper training, your son will one day take his uncle's 
place as the leader of our great Armada." 

Mulder stepped forward, intent on wringing the man's neck. 
Lightening fast, the intruder drew his gun. 

"I wouldn't try anything rash if I were you, Mr. Mulder. There 
is the safety of innocent bystanders to consider."

William stopped sucking his thumb and the room fell silent.

"You son of a bitch," Mulder ground between clenched teeth. 
"Touch my son and you won't live to see the outside of this 
room."

"Careful, Mulder," Gibson warned. "He can read your mind. He 
has the advantage."

"You would be wise to listen to your young friend," the 
intruder said. "You cannot win a fight against me. I will know 
your every move before you--"

Mulder lunged and shouldered the intruder hard into the wall, 
grazing the nightstand. The oil lamp wobbled. Mulder's hands 
closed around the gun. He struggled to free it from the other 
man's steely grip. 

"Get them out of here!" he shouted to Gibson.

Gibson moved to the bed and tugged Kenna's arm. She sat 
frozen. The baby began to whimper. 

The intruder grasped the gun with formidable strength. His 
short stature and middle-aged features belied inhuman power. 
He bullied Mulder backward across the room. Slammed him into 
the wall. Mulder's arms shook with effort as he tried to gain 
control of the weapon and point its deadly barrel toward the 
ceiling or floor...any direction where it couldn't harm his 
son.

Inch by inch the alien leveled the gun at Mulder's heart.    
 
William's whimpers turned into wails. "Dada!" he screeched.

The gun fired, startlingly loud. Its ringing report echoed 
like thunder in the small room.

Mulder felt no stabbing pain, no fiery hole in his chest. The 
bullet had miraculously missed him. But where had it gone? 

"William?" he shouted. 

An evil smile split the intruder's face as he raised the gun 
beneath Mulder's chin.

"Say your goodbyes, Mr. Mul--" 

A spray of broken glass, hot oil and flames exploded behind 
the intruder. His eyes went wide. He spun to face Gibson, who 
had hurled the oil lamp and hit him dead center between the 
shoulder blades.

The stinging, noxious odor of alien blood flooded the room. 
The intruder's back was on fire. The flames traveled quickly, 
spreading up and down his entire body, igniting his hair, his 
clothes, melting his flesh. His green blood boiled. Caustic 
steam rose from his shoulders and his head as his arms 
flailed. He staggered on buckling knees. 

"Help me!" he screamed.

Losing his balance, he toppled onto the bed. The fire 
mushroomed. Sheets and blankets burst into flame.

"Everyone out!" Mulder shouted. His lungs burned. Painful 
tears blurred his vision.

He hauled Kenna and William from the bed, away from the fire. 
Her eyes were red-rimmed and gummy from the alien's poisonous 
blood, but her dazed expression was gone, replaced by fierce 
determination. She sprinted barefoot across the smoldering 
carpet, oblivious to the broken glass and blazing oil.

Gibson followed her into the hall. 

Mulder held his breath against the deadly smoke and took one 
last look at the alien. The creature was no longer 
recognizable. Nothing but a puddle of viscous, bubbling ooze 
remained atop the burning mattress. 

The room was ablaze. Tongues of fire leapt from the bedding to 
the drapes. The wallpaper was curling, turning black. Choking 
on fumes, Mulder lurched from the room and slammed the door 
shut behind him.

"We can't stay here." He steered Kenna down the hall. "This 
place is going to be nothing but cinders in a matter of 
minutes." Smoke rolled out from beneath the closed bedroom 
door. 
	
"Let's go then," she said, stumbling on bleeding feet. She 
cradled William against her shoulder and tried to hush his 
frantic cries as she headed for the front entry, where the 
coats hung by the door. She grabbed William's snowpants and 
coat from their peg.

In minutes, all four were out of the house, dressed for the 
cold, with food, water and weapons in hand. Mulder held 
William in the crook of one arm. He tried to shelter him from 
the worst of the bitter cold by facing away from the swirling 
snow. An ominous wind whistled over the house, carrying smoke 
and sparks into the black night.

"Anyone remember to call a cab?" he asked, wondering how the 
hell the alien had gotten to Arrowhead Creek. 

That's when he saw it. A circular depression in the snow, 
undisturbed by the bitter wind. He walked around it, careful 
to keep his distance in case the ship was still there, cloaked 
to make it invisible. He remembered how violently the force 
field in Bellefleur had vibrated his arm when he touched it 
and he didn't want William inadvertently sticking his hand in. 

"It's there, isn't it?" he asked Gibson.

"Yes."

"Anyone on board?"

"No."

"His friends will be looking for him."

"And us."

"What are we going to do?" Kenna asked. 

Mulder turned away from the hidden ship. Even if it were 
visible, they wouldn't know how to operate it. "Looks like 
we're walking."

"We could take your motorcycle, couldn't we?" Kenna shivered 
in the cold. 

The Scout could hold two, plus the baby, but not all four of 
them. And whoever was left behind stood little chance against 
an alien search party.

"Take it, Mulder," Gibson said, reading his mind. "I can stay 
here."

"No."

"I'll know when they're coming. I'll be all right."

"I said no." No one was being left behind. "The snow is too 
deep for the bike anyway." 

"How far are we going?" Kenna asked. 

Mulder adjusted William's bulky knit hat and turned to Gibson. 
"Think we can find that Safe Camp you were talking about?"

*   *   *

SAFE CAMP, UTAH

Skinner's 1983 LeSharo Winnebago had seen better days. The 
door swung loosely on rusted hinges, the interior smelled of 
mildew, and the dated upholstery was split and stained. Not 
quite twenty feet long, the RV provided scant room for one 
person, let alone three. Bench-style seating and a fold-down 
table crowded the tail end. A built-in double bed filled the 
forward section. Wedged in between were a kitchenette and 
shoebox-sized bathroom. 

Dog-eared maps of North America covered the walls, windows and 
ceiling. They were marked with black circles, red Xs, blue 
lines. This was Skinner's "war room," before Scully moved in.

"These look like chemical burns," Scully said, examining 
Skinner's hands by candlelight in the cramped kitchenette. 
"Plasma fire?"

"Alien blood." He glanced at the bed where Dibeh was sleeping 
beneath a mound of blankets. "Is she going to be all right?"

"She has deep bruising on her back and arms where they beat 
her, and lacerations on her wrists from being tied. She was 
hypothermic, dehydrated and half starved." 

After getting her warm, Scully had fed her the first meal 
she'd had in days. Spaghetti-Os. She ate three cans. 

Scully gently spread antibacterial ointment over Skinner's 
right palm, the worst of the two. "Thank you for helping her."

"She isn't safe here, you know. They hate her, what she 
represents."

"Maybe when they get to know her--"

"They won't try. Not after the things they've seen."

"You've seen the same things, but you protected her."

"My reasons aren't as honorable as you might imagine. I 
stopped Burk for your sake, not hers."   

"I don't believe that." She wrapped a clean bandage around his 
hand. "There's no sign of infection. Someone did a good job on 
this in the field."

"Blanchard. Our medic. She's dead."

Sorrow arrowed Scully as she taped the dressing. The emotion 
seemed excessive. She hadn't even known the medic. "I-I'm 
sorry."

He shrugged. "You look beat."

"I've been in surgery since dawn."

"That was twenty-two hours ago."

"When did *you* last sleep?"

"June, I think." He withdrew his hand from hers and opened a 
cupboard, removed a glass tumbler and a fifth of vodka. "I'd 
offer you a drink," he said, pouring a shot, "except..." He 
lifted his glass to her swollen belly.

The baby somersaulted inside her as he downed his drink and 
refilled his glass.

"You okay?" she asked.

He tossed the second shot to the back of his throat. The glass 
clunked loudly against the counter when he set it down. "I'm 
fine. A little tired, is all. I'm going to go, let you get 
some sleep."

He turned toward the door. 

"Wait." She placed a hand on his arm, stopping him. 
"Please...don't go."

His lower jaw worked side-to-side as he considered. "You need 
rest."

"You're not the only one with insomnia."

He nodded. "Okay. But just for one more round." He collected 
his glass and the vodka and moved to the table. He sat heavily 
on the bench and poured another drink, slowly this time, 
purposely, as if trying to savor the action, the smell, the 
sound.

She took the seat opposite him. A roadmap of the American 
Southwest separated them. While he sipped his drink, she 
traced Route 666 to Shiprock with the pad of her ring finger. 

"He never forgave me," she blurted. The unexpected confession 
caused her to blush. She hadn't intended to reveal her 
argument with Mulder.

Confusion deepened his scowl. "He?" 

"Mulder." She shouldn't go into it. There was nothing Skinner 
could do to ease the hurt in her heart. Yet despite her 
reservations, she heard herself explaining. "He...he was angry 
about William." 

Skinner shook his head. "You're wrong. He forgave you."

"No. We fought the last time..." She struggled to maintain her 
composure and failed. Tears stung her eyes. This was exactly 
why she had wanted to avoid the discussion. "He blamed me. I 
blamed him. It was foolish." 

"No. He forgave you at Mount Weather, when I first told him 
about it." 

A hunger for the truth burned in her. "What...what did he 
say?"

"At first...he cried." 

A tear skidded down her right cheek. She quickly wiped it 
away. "He did?"

"He loved William. You know that."

"What I did...it hurt him terribly."

"Maybe, but he was worried about you, how you were handling 
it. He blamed himself for not being there with you. For not 
helping protect you and William."

Skinner's version of events didn't mesh with her own. Mulder 
had accused her of sending him away for selfish reasons. He 
had insisted she was relieved when he left, that she didn't 
want the responsibility, that she still didn't. 

Out of sight, out of mind, he'd said.

"I convinced him to go into hiding." Her voice wavered and the 
tears fell. "I tried to tell myself he was out of harm's way. 
I could sleep for the first time in months, imagining he was 
safe." 

"Scully--"

"But he wasn't safe."

"Don't do this."

"He was never safe. Not anywhere. And William wasn't either." 
Her decision had been a drastic mistake. How could she have 
been so misguided? "He was a miracle, Mulder's and my one and 
only miracle. And I gave him away. Mulder has every right to 
hate me." 

Skinner's focus dropped to the swell of her belly. "One 
miracle? Looks to me like you and Mulder were granted a second 
chance."

"Walter..." She couldn't meet his eyes. "My baby... I'm not 
sure..."

Skinner misunderstood her fears. He reached out and stroked 
her cheek.

"I'm not him...I'm not Mulder. And I'm not trying to take his 
place, but...I am here. I can take care of you."

She drew away from his caress.

"Don't get the wrong idea," he said, "I just want to help you, 
protect you...and your baby. Nothing more." 

From the sadness in his eyes, she could tell he thought Mulder 
was already dead.

Her heart ached with tearing pain.

There would be no quartz contentment for her, she realized. No 
letting go, no Hour of Lead. She was unable to shed her sorrow 
and guilt, or cast off her conscience.

For as long as she lived, she would weep for William and yearn 
for Mulder.

And she would never again give up on either of them.

"They're alive, Walter. I believe that. Help me find them. 
Please." 

x-x-x-x-x

BOOK VII: BLESSED ARE THE DEAD

TSE'BIT'A'I'
CA-LO'S QUARTERS

Sitting on the edge of his bed, Ca-Lo tugged off his boots and 
tossed them carelessly across the room. They landed with a 
satisfying thud beside the birdcage. He ignored the finches' 
nervous twittering as he peeled his dark shirt up and over his 
head. It billowed like a black parachute when he cast it in 
the general direction of his boots. 

He removed his socks, then stood to unzip his trousers. They 
were standard military issue, as form-fitting as a second skin 
and as black as oil. He pushed them to his ankles, stepped 
free, and abandoned them in a heap on the floor. 

As was his custom, he wore no undergarments. 

He turned to regard the change of clothes lying neatly atop 
the bronze-colored linens of his bed: denim pants, white T-
shirt, pullover sweater in navy blue, leather jacket, thick-
soled boots, a wristwatch with a calfskin, not a metal, strap.

The kind Fox Mulder wore.

He picked up the watch and fondled the strap between thumb and 
forefinger. 

No detail was too small. Dana would be wary. Her desire for 
Mulder would not blind her to small differences. 

It would be a challenge to deceive her. Not like the last 
time, when Ca-Lo resorted to Nih-hi-cho mindbending. Dana had 
been vulnerable that night, susceptible to psychological 
manipulation after her Assessment by the Quad. It had been 
easy to win her over, to persuade her to make love to him. 

Unfortunately his mindbending skills were not as sophisticated 
as those of his Nih-hi-cho masters; he could not rely on 
mental manipulation alone to convince her to return to the 
ship. Yet it was imperative he get her safely aboard 
Tse'Bit'a'i' before his troops moved in to raze the rebels' 
camp. 

He could kidnap her outright, if it came to that. Dragging her 
to safety against her will was preferable to leaving her 
exposed on the battlefield. But if at all possible, he wanted 
to avoid physical force and its inherent risk to their unborn 
child. 

No, better to pose as Mulder, convince Dana to leave 
peaceably, and reveal his identity only after she was out of 
harm's way. 

To prepare for his subterfuge, Ca-Lo had spent the last forty-
eight hours reviewing Mulder's dossier. Two decades' worth of 
surveillance photos, written communications, digitized audio 
clips and videos had been collected by Nih-hi-cho allies or 
stolen from their enemies. They documented criminal 
investigations, covert meetings, and even intimate sexual 
encounters. Various technologies had been used. The more 
traditional cameras and bugs were periodically discovered and 
destroyed by Mulder and his three unconventional friends, but 
very little time passed before they were replaced by less 
obvious systems, leaving few holes in Mulder's history. 

Nothing in the files came as a surprise to Ca-Lo; he had 
studied them countless times over the years, scrutinizing his 
brother's mannerisms and speech patterns, sometimes going so 
far as to pretend he was Mulder, fantasizing about living his 
life, outside the ship, a free man. 

It would be easy to slip into his brother's persona now, as 
effortless as donning jeans, sweater and wristwatch. Like 
Mulder, Ca-Lo possessed an eidetic memory, which made it 
possible for him to recall even the smallest detail he'd seen 
or read about his brother's charmed life. 

There were a few details in the files Ca-Lo would have chosen 
to forget, if he could. Like the appalling surveillance video 
of Mulder joking with Dana about "the pizza man." 

Imagine taking a potential rival so lightly! It was 
unthinkable!

Mulder's tolerant attitude could only be explained by his 
privileged life. He did not feel wrenching, jealous anger the 
way Ca-Lo did because he had not had every prize wrested from 
him. He had not endured the punishing sting of a Taser or 
suffered endless sessions of disciplinary mindbending, the 
Overseers crawling inside his mind, controlling his thoughts, 
his body, making him think and do loathsome, unspeakable 
things... 

Ca-Lo cursed his photographic memory and strapped on the 
wristwatch. 

As if to purposely torment him, his mind chose that moment to 
replay another wretched video from Mulder's files, recorded in 
Dana's apartment around the time William was conceived. It 
provided a bird's eye view of her opening her door to Mulder, 
who crossed the threshold, claimed Dana's mouth with a 
crushing kiss, then bullied her backward into her living room, 
where he wrestled off her clothes and pushed her onto the 
couch. Jeans bunched at the knees, he pumped into her. 
Clutched her bare breasts. Nipped her neck and lips. She 
gasped. Whimpered. Called his name at her moment of climax. 

So much passion. So much love. For Mulder.

Cassandra had warned Ca-Lo. She had said he was jealous of his 
brother. The feeling seemed manageable at the time. But 
now...he wanted to either murder Fox Mulder or be him. 

Current circumstances required he opt for the latter and allow 
Major Harris to carry out the former.

He studied the clothes on the bed, impatient to impersonate 
his brother, to live Mulder's perfect life for a few precious 
days. For the very first time, he would walk the Earth as a 
free man, breathe air untainted by the fetid odor of ten 
thousand Nih-hi-cho, feel Dana's kiss, given freely, out of 
love, rather than coercion.

Deception isn't coercion, he told himself. Not the same at 
all. It was necessary. To protect Dana and her child. His 
child.

A daughter. 

Would their little girl resemble him? Or would she be a red 
haired beauty like her mother?

It didn't matter. He would love her no matter what she looked 
like. He loved her already, sight unseen.

He grabbed the pale blue boxers from the bed and stepped into 
them.

The loose undergarment pinched his waist and tickled his 
genitals. He was unaccustomed to anything but his uniform 
against his bare skin. The excess layer would take some 
getting used to. 

He slipped the T-shirt over his head. Pulled on the jeans. 
Fastened a belt about his waist. 

The birds fluttered as he moved past their cage to check 
himself in his bathroom mirror.

Healer 27 had achieved remarkable results, Ca-Lo admitted as 
he studied his reflection in the glass. His right cheek was as 
unblemished as his left.

He opened his mouth to peer in at the silver filling in his 
second molar. The Healer had matched his brother's dental x-
rays precisely.

With a touch of his hand, 27 had also raised scars on Ca-Lo's 
shoulder and thigh to resemble Mulder's gunshot wounds. He 
transformed the emerald color of Ca-Lo's eyes to be 
indistinguishable from Mulder's. He even altered his penis to 
appear as if he had been circumcised in infancy.

Persuading the Healer to remove his tattoo, however, had 
proved more challenging. 

"The Overseers put that mark on you, Ca-Lo," the Healer 
argued. "It is not for us to eliminate without authorization."

"I have access to many things. Perhaps there is something I 
could get for you?"

"You are offering a bribe?"

"A transaction."

As luck would have it, Healer 27 had an unusual predilection, 
one that would land him in a Privation Chamber if widely 
known. Sex between Nih-hi-cho and humans was not tolerated by 
the Society. Not even sadistic sex. Such aberrant behaviors 
were swiftly and severely punished. Sentences were 
nonnegotiable. But the lure of the Healer's perversion 
evidently outweighed the threat of discovery because he 
admitted his proclivity and agreed to remove the tattoo if Ca-
Lo arranged a clandestine rendezvous. 

Two Bliss Boys were dispatched to 27's quarters, along with a 
variety of pleasure devices: manacles, gags, assorted leather 
garments and a fully charged Taser.

The Healer had his night of debauchery and Ca-Lo disposed of 
the dead Bliss Boys at dawn with no one the wiser. 27 paid his 
debt by removing the tattoo.

The procedure took less than a minute and was completely 
painless. The mere touch of the Healer's long fingers upon Ca-
Lo's flesh was enough to cause the old marks to vanish. 

"We are fortunate the Overseers' attention is elsewhere," the 
Healer said when he was finished, "or we would both be 
condemned to a stasis cell for the rest our lives."

Indeed, the timing was opportune. The Society was distracted 
by the upcoming celebration -- the Nih-hi-cho's blessed 
Joining. All the Juveniles were at Harmony I, or en route. 
Official prayers had begun. 

Intent on their divine affairs, the Overseers showed scant 
attention to Ca-Lo's activities or the operation of 
Tse'Bit'a'i'. The spacecraft sat on an outer runway at Salt 
Lake City airport next to her sister ships, Ne'Ol' and 
Chay'Da'Gahi'. Nine more magnificent war ships would soon join 
them, bringing the entire Armada together to protect the 
Society during their exalted celebration. 

Ca-Lo planned to make the most of his short-lived 
independence. Indistinguishable from his brother, he was ready 
to go after Dana. 

In less than ten minutes, he was striding across the tarmac 
beneath Tse'Bit'a'i's jutting hull. The ship's broad shadow 
carried a chill that raised gooseflesh on his arms, despite 
the leather coat he wore. His collar flapped wildly in the 
wind and his newly shorn hair writhed atop his head in an 
unfamiliar way. He paused where darkness met waning daylight 
and waited for his horse to be brought to him, pretending 
nothing was amiss. Should anyone spot him, they would think he 
was merely going out to practice his riding skills, just as he 
had done countless times since military training.

To his left loomed Ne'Ol', a massive vessel, even at half 
Tse'Bit'a'i's size. Sixty decks high, she possessed enough 
firepower to pulverize Earth's lone moon to dust in a matter 
of seconds. 

Beside her sat Chay'Da'Gahi', a stunning example of modern 
design, technology, and military might. The curved hull 
bristled with cannons. Nearly ten-thousand closed portals hid 
docking bays loaded with deadly stingercraft. 

And Tse'Bit'a'i' -- the flagship, largest and most heavily 
armed in the Armada -- outshone her sister ships in every way 
imaginable. Ca-Lo gazed up at her in admiration. A finger of 
sunlight chose that moment to pierce the overcast and coat the 
ship's metallic skin with a coppery glow. Symbols incised in 
Tse'Bit'a'i's sides sprang into stark 3-D relief. Prayers, 
scientific principles, philosophical pronouncements -- every 
square meter of her hull was pocked with the Nih-hi-cho's most 
revered beliefs and discoveries.

She was magnificent, formidable, unrivaled by any vessel in 
the sector.

Ca-Lo inhaled the tang of her recently-fired plasma cannons. 
Her thrumming engines vibrated the ground beneath the thick 
soles of his terrestrial boots. As much as he detested the 
Nih-hi-cho, he had to admire their military preeminence. It 
was a privilege to command the most powerful armada in the 
known universe. It afforded him his only opportunity to make 
choices and control fate. Directing the fleet was as close to 
being a free man as he had ever come.

Until today.   

A young soldier approached at last, leading a saddled horse. 
The lustrous, black animal was well-muscled. It looked capable 
of making the arduous mountain trek in record time. Its 
saddlebags bulged with supplies; a full canteen dangled 
against its right shoulder.   

The soldier's brows rose at Ca-Lo's terrestrial clothes, short 
hair and unmarked cheek, but he said nothing and handed over 
the reins. 

Ca-Lo wasted no time. He mounted the horse and spurred its 
ribs. It took off at a gallop toward the hills in the east. He 
would ride non-stop through the night. Red Dragon willing, he 
would arrive at Safe Camp in just under two days. The rebels 
and Dana would suspect nothing of his true motives, until it 
was too late. 

The horse's hooves pummeled the pavement with a comforting 
thunder that lifted Ca-Lo's spirits. Freedom settled into his 
bones. He leaned forward in the saddle and let the wind dry 
tears of relief from his face.

*   *   *

SAFE CAMP, UTAH
SKINNER'S RV

"Dibeh, please sit down. You don't have to wait on me." Lady 
Dana was frowning, but her eyes shone with genuine concern. 

Dibeh poured steaming tea into a ceramic mug, which was 
decorated with a flagged, fortified city and the words Disney 
World -- Happiest Place on Earth.

She wished her mistress would step back, or better yet, sit at 
the table with the officer named Skinner. The kitchen was 
cramped and the kettle was hot. 

"You should be resting," Lady Dana reminded her for the third 
time since Dibeh had cleared the dinner dishes. 

Nothing would please Dibeh more than to lie down and sleep, 
but she was duty-bound to care for her mistress. She had 
promised Master Ca-Lo. 

She pressed the mug into her Lady's hands.   

"She always this stubborn?" asked Skinner, studying his maps, 
making notations. His tone was sharp, but his expression 
softened as he focused on Lady Dana.

He watched her mistress often, Dibeh had noticed. His gaze was 
protective, even a little possessive. A stark contrast to the 
suspicious looks he cast Dibeh's way. He would surely evict 
her -- or worse, give her to his soldiers -- if not for Lady 
Dana's generous guardianship.   

"I think she's more loyal than stubborn," her mistress said 
kindly. Tea in hand, Lady Dana moved to the bench opposite 
Skinner. "Thank you, Dibeh," she murmured, the hot drink 
steaming from her lips.

Lady Dana's gratitude surprised Dibeh, who was not used to 
receiving compliments for her services. After all, she had 
been created to tend to the needs and demands of her human 
masters. There was no reason to thank her for carrying out her 
duties.

Dibeh filled a second mug for Skinner. The tea smelled spicy 
and delicious. Dibeh wished she could pour some for herself, 
but to drink with them would be inappropriate. 

She set the kettle back on the stove and imagined the hot tea 
filling her belly, radiating out to warm her cold fingers and 
toes. 

Despite the layers of clothing she wore, she felt chilled to 
the bone. Skinner's trailer was drafty. The entire planet 
seemed frightfully bitter and windy. 

She shivered at her memory of the dock, the lake...the dark, 
icy water... 

She had been prepared to end her life at the bottom of that 
lake. But then the Red Dragon appeared and said, "Do not 
surrender. You have reason yet to live." 

He must have been referring to her duty to Lady Dana. There 
was no other possible purpose for her. 

Unless her mistress decided to give her to another master.

Dibeh glanced nervously at Skinner's ominous scowl.

Uncertainty pounded in her veins. She did not want to serve 
Skinner. She did not like his sour looks and angry tone. 

She missed the familiarity and warmth of Tse'Bit'a'i', the 
cheerful conversations with Ulso and the other servants. She 
missed the peace that came from a daily routine, the comfort 
of knowing what was expected of her each moment.

Here, she must somehow anticipate the needs of a mistress she 
barely knew. She must also please her Lady's glowering 
companion, since he owned their shelter, food, and clothing, 
and he commanded the human soldiers who wanted to kill her. 
She was as dependant upon his charity and protection as she 
was upon that of her mistress.  

To add to her worries, Lady Dana's belly was alarmingly large. 
The baby's birth would bring additional responsibilities. And 
Dibeh knew nothing about human infants, not even how they got 
out of their mothers' stomachs. Would Lady Dana be torn apart 
like the hosts of Nih-hi-cho young? Would she die in the 
process? Who would Dibeh serve then? Skinner? The child? 

Divine Angels, she did not know how to care for a human baby. 
What did they eat? How old were they when they finally shed 
their skins and transformed into adults? How would Dibeh learn 
all she needed to know? 

Hands quaking, she delivered Skinner's tea to the table and 
silently thanked the Red Dragon she didn't spill it.

Skinner lifted the mug, his fierce eyes locked upon Dibeh as 
he took a sip. Her skin heated beneath his intense scrutiny. 
She wanted to ask if the tea was too hot, or if he preferred 
it with honey the way Lady Cassandra liked it, but she was at 
a loss as to how to make herself understood. Like Lady Dana, 
Skinner could not grasp the meaning of even the most 
rudimentary hand signals. 

Dibeh retreated the few steps to the kitchen, where she kept 
an ear turned toward her mistress while she washed the dinner 
dishes.

"She never talks?" Skinner asked Lady Dana.

"Her inability to speak is the result of the hybridization 
process," answered her mistress. "At least, that's what I was 
told."

"Aliens don't like their slaves talking back?"

"I don't think that's their motive. The aliens can read minds, 
so verbal communication isn't an issue for them."

"Can *she* read minds?"

Dibeh glanced up from her sudsy dishwater to find Skinner 
eyeing her, lips pressed tightly together. 

She shook her head, wanting to assure him that she did not 
share the mental agility of the Nih-hi-cho, then immediately 
regretted her action. It was not her place to participate in 
their discussion without permission.

"From what I've seen, hybrids don't have that particular 
ability," Lady Dana explained. "They use sign language to 
communicate. She understands everything we're saying. Don't 
you, Dibeh?"

Pleased to be invited to answer, Dibeh nodded, letting them 
know it was true. She understood their verbal and written 
language perfectly, as well as the meanings of their postures, 
mannerisms and facial expressions. She had spent long hours 
memorizing, practicing.   

"A half-alien who's fluent in English? You don't find that 
odd?" Again he directed his question at Lady Dana.

"Not really. She was Cassandra Spender's personal aide."

At the mention of Lady Cassandra's name, Dibeh felt a stab of 
apprehension. There had been Nih-hi-cho blood beneath Ca-Lo's 
desk the night she and Lady Dana were kidnapped. Dibeh 
suspected something dreadful had happened to her former 
mistress.

"I don't get it," Skinner said. "Why would the aliens give a 
servant to a human prisoner?" 

"Cassandra wasn't a prisoner."

"I thought she was abducted at El Rico."

"More like rescued."

"But why? What's special about her?" 

Lady Dana's next words were laced with bitterness. "Her son is 
the officer we saw back at Farmington Bay, the man who looks 
like Mulder."

"The man who claimed to be Mulder's brother." 

"It's not as farfetched as it might sound. We know Jeffrey is 
Mulder's half-brother. We saw the PCR results. It's possible 
Mulder and Jeffrey's father had other children."

"I can't think of a worse candidate for fatherhood than Old 
Smokey." 

Lady Dana glanced at Dibeh, who busied herself, wiping the 
small counter with her damp cloth. 

"Walter, there's something you should know about this man Ca-
Lo. He can be...unusually persuasive."

"Persuasive in what way?"

"Remember Robert Modell?"

"Shit."

"Ca-Lo can make people do things they wouldn't ordinarily do." 

Dibeh watched them from the corner of her eye. She saw 
Skinner's jaw clench.

"He didn't 'persuade' you to do something you didn't want to, 
did he?" 

Lady Dana's voice wavered when she spoke. "It's...it's 
difficult to talk about."

A loud knock on the door startled Dibeh and prevented Lady 
Dana from explaining further.

Dibeh took a step toward the entrance, but Skinner growled 
"I'll get it" and rose to his feet.

The visitor turned out to be Royal Jackson. Snow flecked his 
spiraling hair and knit hat. Slush melted into muddy puddles 
around his boots. 

"News, sir." Royal eyed Dibeh with obvious disdain, then 
removed his gloves and reached into his pocket. He passed 
Skinner a handwritten communiqué. 

Skinner scanned the document. "Why would they put all their 
firepower in one place? Defensively, it makes no sense."

"Not sure, sir. Maybe the warships are there to protect 
whatever the hell is going on in the stronghold."

"Maybe. Or..."

"Sir?"

"It could be they don't consider us a threat any more."

"Good. Then they'll leave us alone." Lady Dana sounded more 
bitter than hopeful.

Dibeh turned her back to hide her disappointment. Secretly she 
had been praying to the Red Dragon, asking him to send Ca-Lo 
and his troops to this miserable place to take her and her 
mistress back to Tse'Bit'a'i', where they belonged. Now there 
seemed little chance she would see her home and friends again. 
Tears filled her eyes, blurring the dishes in the sink.

A gust of wind rattled the trailer. Sleet tapped like ghostly 
fingers against the tiny kitchen window. Dibeh dipped her 
hands into the tepid water and slowly finished washing the 
dishes. 

*   *   *

OPAL RIVER, WYOMING 

Mulder slouched on the sofa, bare feet stretched toward the 
welcome warmth of the fireplace. His frostbitten toes prickled 
as they thawed. Every inch of him ached, especially the 
knotted muscles in his damaged left leg.  

He drew comfort from William, who snoozed in his lap. Kenna 
had fed, bathed, and dressed the boy in a pair of clean 
flannel PJs she'd unearthed from a bureau in a back bedroom. 
She'd then passed William, sated and sleepy, to Mulder so she 
could take her turn in the iron-stained bathtub.

Mulder had accepted his son with open arms.

Imagining moments like this one had comforted him during his 
many months in hiding and, later, when he was confined to a 
prison cell, missing every milestone in William's young life. 

What had been his son's first word? When had he taken his 
first step? Who was the man he called "dada" before Mulder 
came to claim the honor? 

Mulder's eyes misted as he stroked William's downy-soft hair, 
his velvety ear. The boy's lids fluttered but remained shut. 
The heat of the fire, the gratifying weight of William in his 
lap, the simple tranquility he derived from watching his son's 
small chest rise and fall, lulled Mulder toward true peace -- 
the first he had experienced since making love to Scully in 
Roswell a half year earlier.

I found him, Scully, he wanted to tell her. Just like I said I 
would.

The fire snapped and popped, sending a welcome, piney scent 
into the room. The flames' golden glow dappled the hearth, the 
frayed rug, William's pink cheeks. 

The ramshackle cabin had been a godsend. Someone's hunting 
camp, tucked off the main road, overlooking Opal River. It was 
stocked with canned food, cast-off clothing, blankets, 
firewood. 

Best of all, there were no corpses to bury. 

That wasn't to say the place was perfect. Mice inhabited the 
kitchen. The countertop was speckled with their droppings and 
the musty air carried the prickly odor of their urine. But 
rather than being repulsed, Mulder found hope in the faint 
ticking of their small toenails as they scurried about, 
scrounging for food and building their nests, preparing for 
future generations as if the end of the world was not upon 
them. 

Beyond his outstretched legs, Gibson snored softly atop a 
mattress he'd dragged from one of the frosty bedrooms and 
positioned in front of the roaring fire. He looked vulnerable 
without his glasses, which he'd placed on a rickety end table 
beside the hearth. Mulder was struck by how much Gibson had 
changed in the last couple of years. He was no longer the 
plump-cheeked boy he, Scully and Diana had met in Inget Murray 
Psychiatric Hospital in what felt like another lifetime. He 
was leaner, tougher. Real facial hair, not a child's peach 
fuzz, shadowed his upper lip and chin. And he had grown more 
serious, if such a thing were possible. 

Kenna, finished with her bath, sat cross-legged in a worn 
overstuffed chair, brushing her freshly shampooed hair, 
letting the heat from the fire dry it. She had discovered the 
hairbrush in the bathroom and appropriated it the same way she 
did every other useful item she came across. Like William's 
pajamas and the faded jeans she was wearing. 

A size too big, the jeans rode low on her hips, the waistband 
not quite meeting her clean white shirt, which was a 
turtleneck, selected no doubt because it hid the scars on her 
neck. Mulder couldn't help but notice she wore no bra. Her 
breasts bounced with each stroke of the brush. Her nipples 
weren't hard, but the dark areolas showed through the light-
colored fabric, drawing his eye.

"He doing okay?" She glanced at William and caught Mulder 
staring at her chest.

Mulder's gaze dropped to his son.

"He's fine."

"I could hold him if he's a bother."

"He's no bother."

Kenna rose from her chair, abandoning her hairbrush on the 
Navajo blanket that covered the torn seat. She crossed to 
Mulder and reached out to clasp William's small bare foot.

"He's finally warmed up," she murmured.  

The day had been raw, their hike arduous. The snow had stopped 
shortly after dawn, allowing them to cover approximately 
eighteen miles along Route 30 before sundown. The road 
followed Opal River, which provided fresh water as they 
trudged more deeply into the high desert, where limber pines, 
sagebrush and leafless aspens dotted the rocky hillsides.

Kenna sank onto the cushions next to Mulder and drew her knees 
up under her chin. Her shoulder brushed his.

The scent of soap and toothpaste wafted from her. It occurred 
to Mulder she must have used the cabin owner's toothbrush and 
the idea rocked his stomach with queasy waves. She seemed to 
have no qualms about appropriating people's seconds. Like 
Scully, she was practical in the extreme. Maybe she had lived 
with hand-me-downs all her life, reinforcing her pragmatic 
nature. Or perhaps it was the hardships of the last half year 
that drove her to do whatever she needed to survive.

Thank God she had found William all those months ago. How many 
times had she saved the boy's life since then? Mulder would 
never be able to adequately thank her for everything she had 
done on his son's behalf.    

"You look beat," he said.

"So do you." Her dusky eyes took him in.

She was really quite pretty, despite the scars he knew ringed 
her neck. Long-limbed and slender, face unlined, hair glossy. 
Her mouth pursed, full, moist. 

"Rick isn't coming back," she said, germane to nothing as was 
often her habit. She absently twirled her wedding ring. 

"What makes you say that?"

"He's dead," she admitted for the first time. "Locust-monsters 
killed him."

"When?"

"Day I found William." 

"You saw it happen?"

She reached out and caressed the baby's rounded cheek. "He's 
beautiful, isn't he?" she asked, avoiding the question.

"I think so."

"You suppose his mother is still alive?"

"I believe she is. I hope she is."

"How long's it been since you saw her?"

"Six months." Six long months since Scully drove away without 
saying goodbye, leaving Mulder behind. 

"A lot's happened since then," Kenna stated the obvious.

"Yes."

Mulder may have lost Scully, but, thanks to this young woman, 
he had found his son. 

The fire crackled; sparks floated up the chimney like 
lightning bugs. William's rosebud lips sucked on something in 
his dreams.

Mulder's eyes went again to Kenna's breasts. 

"You wanna kiss me?" she asked. 

He did. He was surprised at how much. "I-I shouldn't."

"Why not? Aren't I as pretty as her?"

"It has nothing to do with that. I love her."

"I love Rick, too, but that doesn't mean we can't kiss." To 
prove her point, she leaned close and touched her lips lightly 
to his. Her breath carried the minty smell of a stranger's 
toothpaste. "See?" she said, pulling back a fraction of an 
inch. 

Shaken and aroused, he inhaled slowly, deeply, feeling like he 
was taking his first real breath in months. The first since 
Mount Weather, when he'd learned William was gone, when 
Scully's betrayal had knocked the wind from his lungs, 
seemingly forever.

The ghost of Kenna's kiss tingled upon his lower lip. Her eyes 
remained locked with his while her fingers caressed William's 
baby-fine hair.

Mulder was cold. And bone weary. He wanted to feel pleasure 
and comfort again. He wanted to feel Kenna's hands on his 
skin. Her soft, pliant body beneath his. She was offering him 
a few moments of warm indulgence, a temporary distraction from 
two years of god-awful torture and loneliness. It wasn't love, 
he knew, on her part or his, but it might assuage the empty 
ache in his heart, left there when Scully departed without him 
in Shiprock.  

Wake up, Gibson, Mulder half wished. Stop me before I make a 
horrible mistake.  

He lifted William from his lap and carefully laid him on the 
mattress beside the sleeping teen. 

Gibson didn't stir. 

Mulder grasped Kenna's outstretched hand and snagged the 
Navajo blanket from the chair as he led her to the back 
bedroom.

The floor was icy beneath his bare feet.

"It's freezing in here," she muttered.

He wrapped the blanket, and his arms, around her, then closed 
the door softly with a push of his foot.

*   *   *

TWO DAYS LATER
SOUTH OF SAFE CAMP, UTAH
LATE AFTERNOON

Directing his horse northward along Route 30, Ca-Lo was 
unprepared for the jewel-like glow of Bear Lake at dusk. 
Twenty miles long and eight miles wide, it shimmered a bright 
turquoise blue, the color matching exactly the oval stone in 
the ring he was bringing to Dana as a wedding gift. 

Ca-Lo planned to propose to Dana the way Earth men 
traditionally proposed marriage, on bended knee, ring in hand, 
heart laid bare. He wanted it to be a perfect moment, the 
first of many. In his mind he could clearly imagine their 
wedding ceremony, their first night as man and wife, a long 
joyful future together. He wanted all the rewards his brother 
so blithely took for granted: a woman who loved him, a family 
of his own, freedom to do as he pleased. 

Ca-Lo wondered if Mulder was dead, killed by Harris. He hoped 
the old Watcher was safely back at Harmony I with little 
William. The boy would assure Dana's cooperation -- at the 
altar and in Ca-Lo's bed. She would be grateful to him for 
returning her son. 

Red Dragon willing, she would grow to love Ca-Lo over time. 
And he would dote on her, provide her with every possible 
luxury, with servants, and children, lots of children. Strong, 
ambitious sons and lovely, intelligent daughters. 

The screech of a goshawk drew Ca-Lo's attention skyward. 
Buoyed by an unseen draft, the bird circled beneath the heavy 
overcast, hunting its evening meal. Dusk was fast approaching; 
it would be pitch-dark in less than an hour.

Enough time to reach his destination. 

The camp was visible in the distance. An untidy collection of 
tents, trailers and motor homes cluttering the mile-long white 
sand beach. Boats bobbed in slips at the docks. Smoke rose 
from open fires, carrying the scent of green wood and burning 
refuse. Windows flickered with candlelight while people 
hurried between shelters, bundled against the cold.

A sudden snap of twigs spooked Ca-Lo's horse, causing it to 
whinny and toss its head. Ghostly vapors puffed skyward as it 
nervously sniffed the frosty air.  

"What is it, boy?" Had the horse caught wind of a sentry?

Spruce and juniper dotted the craggy, snow-covered hills on 
either side of the road. Murky, claw-like shadows stretched 
across the landscape, providing perfect cover for rebel 
soldiers lying in wait.  

"Stop right there, mister," came a voice from the half-dark.

Ca-Lo reined in his horse at the road's center line. "I'm 
unarmed."

"We'll see about that." 

A grim-faced man stepped from the shadows, an M-16 aimed at 
Ca-Lo's chest. He was dressed in a camouflage jacket, baggy 
wool pants, and a Rockies' baseball cap with a bent brim.   

"Who are you?" the sentry asked.

"Name's Mulder. I'm looking for a woman named Dana Scully. 
She's a doctor. I have reason to believe she's living in your 
camp." 

"Get off your horse, Mr. Mulder. Slow. And keep your hands 
where I can see 'em." The man shouted over his shoulder, "Ty, 
cover me while I search him." 

Ty stepped into view. He was young, a teenager. Smudges of 
dirt darkened his smooth cheeks and undersized chin. He licked 
chapped lips and held his shotgun with thin, shaky arms.

"Don't do nuthin' stupid," Ty warned, "or I'll shoot your 
fuckin' head off."

"No need for that," Ca-Lo said, easing off his horse.

The older man passed Ty his rifle. "Watch him close." 

"I got him in my sights, Gil. One false move and...BAM!"

Ca-Lo raised his hands and kept an eye on trigger-happy Ty as 
Gil frisked him.

"He ain't armed," Gil announced. 

"I told you," Ca-Lo said.

"Shut the fuck up!" warned Ty.

Ca-Lo waited quietly as Gil rummaged through his saddlebags. 

"Anything?" Ty asked, licking his lips again.

"Not much. Change of clothes, couple cans of food and...this." 
Gil shook the tiny box that held Dana's engagement ring.

"Please, that's for her, the woman I've come for." Ca-Lo took 
a step toward Gil and reached for the box.

"Don't move, mister," Ty warned, "unless you want a back full 
of buckshot."

Gil lifted the box's lid and peered inside. "Pretty."

"Put it back."

"You ain't in any position to be ordering me around, Mr. 
Mulder."

"Are you a soldier in the North Utah Infantry?"

"Might be. Then again, I might not. What's it to you?"

"I'm a friend of Walter Skinner's." This got both men's 
attention. "So unless you want to piss off your commanding 
officer, you'll put that ring back where you found it."

Gil considered for a minute, then returned the ring to the 
saddlebag. "Probably worthless anyway. Where you comin' from, 
Mr. Mulder?" 

"Polson, most recently."

"Flathead Reservation?"

"Yes. I've been riding for six days."

Gil looked him over, clearly trying to assess the truth of his 
claim. "Anyone else up that way?" 

"About a dozen, but they're in no condition to travel."

"Shit," said Ty, "we coulda used more men."

"Shut the fuck up, you moron," Gil warned.

Ty's wet mouth slapped closed and he hung his head.  

"Look...Gil, is it?" Ca-Lo asked. "I'm a stranger and you've 
got no reason to trust me, but if you take me to Ms. Scully, 
she'll tell you who I am."

"You ain't seein' no one but Commander Skinner. Convince him 
you're who you say you are, and we'll take it from there."

"That's fine. Like I said, Skinner's an old friend." 

"We'll see about that." Gil took possession of the horse's 
reins. "Let's go. You lead, Mr. Mulder." 

Ca-Lo headed toward Safe Camp with the barrel of Ty's shotgun 
poking painfully in his spine.

When they arrived at the park's Visitor Center, Gil tied the 
horse to a bicycle rack and then escorted Ca-lo inside to an 
office that smelled like wet wool and burnt coffee. Five 
grubby men, dressed in mismatched hunting jackets, camo 
sweatshirts and baseball caps, sat in metal folding chairs at 
a table strewn with coffee mugs and topographical maps.

A stern, balding man in glasses and fatigues rose from his 
chair. Ca-Lo recognized him from Mulder's files, as well as 
from his own reconnaissance photos: Walter Skinner, ex-Marine, 
ex-FBI, one of Mulder's closest friends and, as leader of the 
rebel resistance, a significant thorn in the Society's 
collective side.

Adopting Mulder's relaxed attitude, Ca-Lo said, "Walter, you 
look like you've just seen a ghost."

Skinner blinked with a mix of surprise and suspicion. 
"Mulder?"

"In the flesh."

"I'll need proof of that." 

"Fair enough." Ca-Lo pointed to the map, where handwritten 
notations marked roadways and mountain ranges. "May I?"

Skinner moved to block his view. "I don't think so." 

"I can show you where the aliens are." 

"We know where they are."

"But do you know *why* they're there?" Ca-Lo would win 
Skinner's trust by providing him with inconsequential 
intelligence. 

"You tell me."

"They're planning a helluva party. Special invitation only."

"What are they celebrating?"

There was no reason for Ca-Lo to lie. Skinner and his troops 
could not stop the Nih-hi-cho. "It's like a Sweet Sixteen, of 
sorts. The young aliens are being introduced into the Society. 
They'll become members of the intellectual community, part of 
a group consciousness. They call it The Joining."

"Assuming what you say is true, how did you learn about it?"

"I was in Salt Lake City." 

Gil raised his rifle and pointed it at Ca-Lo's temple. "You 
said you came from Polson."

"I lied. I trust no one...no one but Skinner and Scully." Ca-
Lo shot Skinner an obstinate stare that he hoped matched 
Mulder's exactly.

Skinner studied him through narrowed eyes. Finally he said, 
"There's a man who looks like you. He would know about this 
'joining.'"

Ca-Lo hid his surprise and nodded. Skinner must have spotted 
him at Salt Lake, probably when he was searching Besh-Lo's 
downed craft. It would answer the question of who had rescued 
Dana and her hybrid aide. "So you've heard about my evil 
twin."

"I've seen him." 

Ca-Lo decided to continue telling small truths in order to 
hide bigger ones. "His name is Ca-Lo. He's a military 
strategist for--"

"For the aliens. Yes, I know all about that."

"You think I'm him?" 

Skinner indicated the maps with a tilt of his head. "He could 
learn a lot by coming here. I need proof you're Mulder -- 
undeniable proof -- before I trust you."

"She'll know," Ca-Lo said, believing Mulder would take this 
tactic. "Scully can be the proof you need."

"I won't put her in danger."

"I wouldn't ask you to." He stared unblinkingly at Skinner and 
stepped closer, invading the other man's personal space the 
way he'd seen his brother do countless times on the 
surveillance tapes. "Let her question me. Hell, let her 
examine me. You can be right there watching."

Skinner regarded him for a long moment, jaw working as he 
considered. "Okay," he said at last. "But if she says you're 
an imposter, you won't live to argue the point. I'll kill you 
where you stand." 

*   *   *

Scully was conducting evening rounds when Skinner entered the 
infirmary with Mulder in tow. Her heart leapt to her throat at 
the sight of him, dressed in familiar clothes, worry creasing 
his brow as he desperately searched the rows of cots looking 
for her. When he spotted her halfway across the room, his 
entire body appeared to relax. A slanting smile lit his face 
and it was all she could do to keep herself from dropping her 
patient's chart and running to him. 

It might not be him, she reminded herself.    

To give her wildly beating heart time to settle down, she 
finished tending her patient, a teenager, burned and blinded 
by plasma fire. 

"How are you feeling?" She checked his IV. 

"C-cold."  

She tucked the thin, inadequate bedding around his shivering 
shoulders. "I'll have someone bring you another blanket," she 
promised, knowing it would come from her bed because there 
were no more. 

"Th-thanks, D-doc."

She gave his shoulder an encouraging squeeze. 

Emotions under control, she crossed the room to stand before 
Skinner and the man who looked like Mulder.

"Scully..." Tears filled the man's hazel eyes and he reached 
for her.

Skinner grabbed his arm, stopping him. "Not so fast."

"This is ridiculous," Mulder objected. "Scully, it's me." 

"You'll have to prove that," she said.

"What a surprise." 

"Convince me you're not a clone or a shapeshifter or...or 
anyone else." She couldn't bring herself to say Ca-Lo's name. 
Waves of disgust and shame heated her face. "If you're really 
Mulder, you'll understand my need for caution."

"All those times I told you to trust no one and now it's come 
back to bite me on the ass. Guess it serves me right."

"Would a physical examination give you the proof you need?" 
Skinner asked.

Would it? It was an approach she would have taken in her old 
life, back before she had lost her faith in the authenticity 
of physical evidence, before experience -- and Mulder -- had 
taught her to rely on her instincts as well as her eyes.

"Follow me." She had seen through Jeffrey Spender's subterfuge 
when he tried to impersonate Mulder to get to William. If this 
man was an imposter, she would expose him, too.

She led both men to a makeshift examining area behind a 
privacy curtain. 

Turning to face Mulder, she ordered, "Take off your clothes."

"Not that I'm complaining, but is this really the best place 
for a reunion?" Mulder glanced at Skinner. 

"Strip. Now," she demanded.

He smiled, almost shyly, then shed his jacket and tossed it on 
the nearby examining table. His pullover and t-shirt followed. 
Bare-chested, arms extended, he turned to face her. 

An old gunshot wound was visible on his shoulder, right where 
it should be.

"Tell me about this." She ran her fingers lightly across the 
scar, testing its authenticity.

He inhaled sharply at her touch and closed his eyes, clearly 
grateful for the physical contact. She let her hand drop.

"A bullet from your gun had my name on it," he said, opening 
his eyes.

"Why would I shoot you?"

"To save me from myself." He leaned close and whispered, 
"Story of our lives, wouldn't you say?"

She took a step back and Skinner moved closer, ready to 
intervene on her behalf. She appreciated his willingness to 
protect her.

"Your pants," she said to the man who looked like Mulder. 
"Drop them." 

He waggled his brows in a gesture so like Mulder, it set her 
heart hammering.

"I always liked playing doctor with you, Scully." He 
unfastened his fly. "And I don't mind having an audience if 
you don't, but I gotta admit it's a side of you I never 
suspected." He pushed his jeans to his knees.

She averted her gaze from his boxers and looked instead at the 
mark on his thigh. "Explain that."

"Lucas Henry shot me during a kidnapping case."

"Which kidnapping case?" If this was Mulder, he would remember 
the kids' names. He had perfect recall.

"Elizabeth Hawley and James Summers. Nineteen years old. You 
saved their lives. You saved mine, too." He gently tagged her 
arm, caressing her through the thick sleeve of her shirt. 

"Back off," Skinner ordered. 

His hand fell away. "I still think Boggs' act was bogus. I 
always wondered how he convinced you to believe him." 

An imposter could memorize the details of the Boggs case from 
written reports, but would anyone other than Mulder know about 
her unlikely acceptance of Boggs' supernatural abilities? 

"Turn around," she said.

He pivoted awkwardly, pants bunched at his knees. "My best 
side," he joked.

She examined the gunshot's exit wound. Position, age -- it 
looked right. Could this really be Mulder? Her pulse quickened 
at the possibility.

"Face me and open your mouth."

For the first time, he appeared annoyed. "This is crazy, 
Scully. I'm Mulder."

"You want to play doctor? Say ahh." She stood on tiptoe and 
peered into his mouth.

One filling, second molar. If this man was an imposter, he was 
a damned good one.

"Convinced yet?" he asked.

"No. Get dressed."

He did as she asked. "You'll believe Luther Boggs can channel 
spirits, but you won't believe I'm me. That hurts, Scully."

He was teasing again and his flip-flopping moods were 
certainly characteristic of Mulder.

"You haven't said one word about our fight." She studied his 
face and eyes. 

"Seems pretty unimportant in retrospect," he said, looking 
uncertain.

"That's not how you felt six months ago."

"Scully..." His expression grew sad. "A lot has happened since 
then." His focus dropped to the swell of her abdomen. "Look at 
you. Y-you're pregnant."

"I was wondering if you'd noticed."

"I *am* a trained investigator." A slight smile curled his 
lips, then quickly vanished. "I've missed a lot, haven't I?"

"It's getting to be a habit."

"For both of us. Should I be hunting down the pizza man?"

Jesus, would anyone but Mulder know their private joke?

"Pizza man?" she asked, testing him.

"Is it unmanly to admit to pepperoni envy?" He mugged 
dismay. 

He had to be Mulder. No one else could rollercoaster between 
grief and humor with such confidence. And, as if she needed 
more to convince her, he donned his panic face, a mask of 
composure meant to camouflage his fears from everyone but her, 
the only person he truly trusted. "I am who I say I am," he 
insisted. "You have to be willing to see. Scully, you have to 
believe me."

Similar words, spoken in Calumet Mercy's psych ward, came 
rushing back to her: Nobody else on this whole damn planet... 
you're my one in five billion.

The baby fluttered inside her. 

She wanted to trust him. *Needed* to trust him. 

"Okay, Mulder. I believe you," she said, praying her instincts 
were correct.

*   *   *

ROUTE 30, WYOMING
NIGHTFALL

Snow skated across Route 30 in dervishes, alternately hiding 
and revealing the highway's golden centerline before vanishing 
like furious ghosts in the growing gloom. Plodding steadily 
westward, Mulder carried William in his arms and, on his back, 
a pack containing clean diapers and a two-day supply of canned 
food. William slept fitfully with his face buried in Mulder's 
neck for warmth. Gibson hugged a gallon-sized jug of water, 
and matched Mulder step for step. Empty handed, Kenna trailed 
several paces behind, dragging her feet, as she'd been doing 
all day. 

"Don't lecture me, Gibson." Mulder kept his voice pitched low, 
although he doubted Kenna could hear him over the wind's 
bitter howl. 

"I wasn't lecturing." 

"No?"  

"If you feel guilty, don't blame me. I just asked a simple 
question."

"One to which you already know the answer." Mulder adjusted 
his hold on William, trying to relieve a cramp in his right 
arm. "I didn't use a condom. I didn't have one. I regret it. 
There's nothing more to say on the subject."

Gibson gave Mulder an accusatory sidelong glance, but made no 
comment.

"I admit, sleeping with Kenna was shortsighted," Mulder 
continued, uncomfortable with Gibson's silence, "and 
selfish...irresponsible...stupid-- You want me to go on?"

"There could be consequences." 

"No shit." 

Blustering snow stung Mulder's face and momentarily blinded 
him. He staggered and leaned into the wind, cursing his bad 
leg.

"She's worried," Gibson said. 

"About getting pregnant?"

"No. About you. She wonders why you're treating her this way."

"I'm not treating her any way. I'm ignoring her."

"Exactly. Like she's a one night stand."

"She is a one night stand."

"You sure about that?" 

"Yes I'm sure." 

Gibson wiped snow from his glasses with gloved fingers. "She 
expected you'd be pleased." 

Another icy gust pummeled Mulder. William jerked awake. 
"Mama?" He extended stubby arms over Mulder's shoulder toward 
Kenna. 

Mulder glanced back. Kenna was trudging along the highway's 
centerline with shoulders hunched, eyes downcast. Her long 
hair lashed as snowflakes spiraled around her.

"It's okay, son. Go back to sleep," Mulder soothed, and 
lumbered on. To Gibson he said, "I am such an idiot." 

Again Gibson remained silent and Mulder took it to mean he 
agreed. Sleeping with Kenna had complicated an already 
complicated situation. "I made a mistake of gargantuan 
proportions during a moment of temporary insanity," Mulder 
admitted.

"Is that her fault?" 

"Of course not."

"You might consider telling her."

"How, without hurting or encouraging her?" Mulder squinted 
through the veil of snow. 

Lurking at the top of the next rise was the faint silhouette 
of a house. 

"Hallelujah," he said without enthusiasm. It was a place to 
get out of the cold, but being stuck under the same roof with 
Kenna's wounded looks and Gibson's disapproving stares was 
going to make for a hell of a long night. 

"Apologize to her, Mulder."

Mulder wondered how far he would get on his bad leg, loaded 
down with William and their food, if he made a run for the 
hills. 

"Coward," Gibson accused, reading his thoughts.

"You won't get an argument from me on that score."

Gibson stopped walking and held out the jug. "Take this and 
give me William; I'll get him to the house. You apologize."

"Now?" Mulder hated the way his voice whined like a two-year-
old's. 

"You want a decent night's sleep?"

"Yes."

"Then clear the air."

Gibson was right. It was time to own up to his mistake.

Mulder kissed William's cheek and reluctantly exchanged him 
for the water. 

Gibson hefted William onto one hip and headed for the house. 
Mulder watched them fade into the whirling snow as he waited 
for Kenna to catch up.

"You all right?" he asked when she was beside him.

Her fists were buried deeply in her pockets. Tears glittered 
on her lashes and Mulder wished it was only the wind, and not 
him, that had put them there. Sniffing, she asked, "Why are 
you so pissed?"

"I'm not."

"Coulda fooled me."

"Okay, I am mad -- at myself, not at you. I shouldn't 
have...what we did...what *I* did..." Shit, this was harder 
than he had imagined.

"See? You are pissed. I did something wrong, didn't I?"

"No, you were fine. You were more than fine."

She tilted her head back, as if searching the snow-filled 
night for answers. Flakes clumped on her lashes. Her lower lip 
trembled. "I know I'm not what you'd call an experienced 
woman. I've only been with one other man. So if I messed up 
maybe you could show me what you--"

"No, Kenna, please, it wasn't anything you did or didn't do."

Her mittened hand rose to her throat to cover the scars that 
were already hidden behind her turtleneck and thick wool 
scarf. "You think I'm ugly. I don't blame you. I-I *am* ugly."

"Kenna...no. You're not ugly. You're very pretty." 

"Then what is it?" Her eyes pleaded for an answer. "Why don't 
you like me?"

"I do like you."

"But not as much as her."

"No."

Tears spilled onto her wind-chapped cheeks. Swiping them away, 
she marched after Gibson and William.

Mulder limped along beside her, trying to keep pace. "I love 
her, Kenna. I told you that."

"She could be dead. Rick's dead. Almost everybody's dead... 
'cept us."

"You're wrong. There are others at Safe Camp." 

"I'll believe that when I see it." Her defiant tone was so 
like Scully's it made his heart skip a beat.

"Kenna, whether there are people at Safe Camp or not, what we 
did can't happen again. It won't."

"'Til the next time you're feeling lonely?" 

He grabbed her arm, intending only to slow her. 

"Don't." She wrenched free.

"I'm trying to apologize."

"You're sorry you slept with me. I get it."

"No, it's not...I mean, yes, I am sorry that we... Damn it, 
stop running!"

She slowed, but didn't stop. "You got something more to say?" 
She glared at him.

"Yes. I'm sorry. I'm just...sorry." 

"Sure you are." 

They reached the front steps of the squatty ranch-style house, 
where Gibson was standing on the small upper landing, free 
hand on the doorknob. Mulder could tell from the way he cocked 
his head that he was listening to voices the others couldn't 
hear.

"Is someone inside?" Mulder whispered.

"No. Shhh."

Mulder waited for what seemed an eternity before blurting, 
"Well?"

"I hear her."

"Who?"

"Scully."

The name sizzled along Mulder's limbs like a jolt of 
electricity and he nearly dropped the jug of water. "Is she 
okay? Where is she?"

"At the rebels' camp. She's with, uh..."

"With who?"

"It can't be."

"Gibson?"

"It doesn't make sense." 

"God damn it, who?"

Gibson's typically bland expression registered genuine 
astonishment. "She's with...you."

*   *   *

"I'll be fine," Dana assured Skinner as she ushered him out 
his own door. 

"I'm going to post a guard outside." He eyeballed Ca-Lo, who 
was leaning against the kitchen counter. 

"Still don't trust me, Walter?" Ca-Lo smiled, hiding his 
irritation at Dana's self-appointed guardian.

Skinner touched Dana's arm and reiterated, "I won't be far."

"I know. Thank you, Walter."

"Nighty-night, Walter." Ca-Lo waggled his fingers as Dana 
closed the door behind Skinner. 

Pushing away from the counter, he caught Dana in a loose 
embrace. He kissed her cheek, her ear, her neck. "Alone at 
last."

"Not quite." Dana directed his attention to where Dibeh sat 
quietly at the table. 

Like any well-trained servant, Dibeh was an expert at making 
herself inconspicuous. Stationary as a stone, she watched 
their every move.

Would she give away his ruse?

"There's an alien-human hybrid sitting at your table, Scully," 
he said dryly. "I told you they existed."

"Yes...well...I've come to accept a lot of the things you once 
told me."

"I'm assuming she's friendly since she's here in your home. 
Are you going to introduce us?"

This elicited a surprised look from Dibeh. Tentatively she 
signed, "I have been hoping you would come, Master Ca-Lo. Are 
you taking us back to Tse'Bit'a'i'?"

"She can't speak?" he asked. 

"Only through sign language." 

"Can you understand what she's saying?" 

"No. But her name is Dibeh. She helped me escape from the 
aliens' ship. She saved my life."

"Then I owe her a debt of gratitude." Ca-Lo smiled. "Pleased 
to meet you, Dibeh."

This produced more signing. "Why are you acting like we have 
not met? Why does Lady Dana call you by a strange name?"

"She seems upset," Ca-Lo said, pretending he couldn't 
interpret her hand signals.

"Dibeh, there's no need to be afraid. This is Mulder. He's the 
man I've been looking for since last May. He's a friend." Dana 
reached for Ca-Lo's hand and dovetailed their fingers. "You 
can trust him." 

Confusion knotted Dibeh's brow, but her hands dropped to her 
lap.

Dana leaned into Ca-Lo. "It's been hard for her here," she 
whispered.

"Then let's give her some time to get used to the idea of 
having me around." Placing his hand at the small of her back, 
Ca-Lo steered Dana into the bedroom at the opposite end of the 
trailer. He drew the mildew-stained curtain closed behind 
them, blocking them from Dibeh's view.

Dana snaked her arms around his waist and looked up 
expectantly. 

His plan was working. Dibeh had not blown his cover. Dana 
believed he was Mulder.

Sifting through snippets of taped conversations at lightning 
speed, Ca-Lo searched his photographic memory for an 
appropriate comment or question, something that would sound 
typical of Mulder. He settled on saying nothing at all, 
letting his actions speak for him. He drew her to him and 
rested his chin upon the crown of her head. 

Her distended abdomen pressed pleasantly against his own flat 
stomach and he reveled in the feel of it. This was their 
child, their daughter, between them. His eyes flooded with 
tears at the idea. He could scarcely describe his euphoria, it 
was so foreign to him. His lifelong dream was literally within 
arm's reach. He hardly dared breathe, afraid he might awaken 
to discover this was all a hallucination, induced by the Nih-
hi-cho to keep him quiet while they performed another of their 
heinous experiments.

"You're trembling," Dana said.

"I can't believe I'm actually here," he replied honestly.

"You're here." 

He tightened his embrace. This is real, he told himself. Not a 
hallucination. Make the most of it. "Tell me what I've 
missed," he whispered. 

"I hardly know where to begin."

She was on the verge of telling "Mulder" the truth, that she 
was pregnant with another man's child. Eager to hear how she 
would phrase her confession, Ca-Lo decided to help her, 
gently, as Mulder would.

"Is there something I should know?" he asked, trying to sound 
troubled. 

Her fingers clutched his sweater; her words puffed hotly 
against his neck. She refused to pull back and look him in the 
eye. "I was taken prisoner at Shiprock. One of the officers... 
He looked like you. He tricked me."

"Tricked you?" 

"He pretended to be you. We...we had sex. Unprotected sex." 
She looked up at him at last, eyes glossed with tears.

"This baby...?" He stroked her belly and tried to appear 
stricken. "It's his?" 

A single tear crested her wet lashes and rolled down her 
cheek. "That's just it. I'm not certain. The timing was too 
close. You and I made love the night before I was captured. 
The baby could be yours...or his."

Her pronouncement struck him like a jolt from his old 
Teacher's Taser.

"A...a DNA test would prove paternity," he stammered. 

The Nih-hi-cho Appraisers had run tests. They had drawn an 
amniotic sample, configured the baby's genetic profile and 
compared the results to Ca-Lo's. The DNA Verifier had 
indicated he was the biological father. Based on those 
results, Ca-Lo had assumed Mulder and Dana were not intimate 
in the days prior to her capture, or, if they had slept 
together, they had used some form of birth control. 

A malfunction of the Verifier was unlikely. As was a 
misreading of the data. Appraisers did not make mistakes. 

They would lie, however, if the Overseers asked them to. 

Ca-Lo felt his happiness slipping away.

"I-I need to sit." He lowered himself unsteadily to the bed.

"Amniocentesis, PCR -- those require specialized equipment, 
equipment we don't have. A genetic comparison isn't possible 
here." She sat beside him and tentatively stroked his cheek, 
tracing the very spot where the Nih-hi-cho had once marked him 
with the tattoo. "Would it matter so much?"

"Of course it would matter." 

He would not raise two of his brother's bastard children. 
Keeping William was a necessity, at least for the time being. 
But this unborn child would mean nothing to Ca-Lo if she 
turned out to be Mulder's.

Dana's hand dropped from his face. "You may not believe 
this, given our last argument, but putting William up for 
adoption was the hardest thing I ever had to do."

"But if this baby is another man's--"

"She's mine, Mulder.I've already lost two children. I won't 
lose another. I can't." A mewling sob hitched in her chest.

His anger and self-pity drained away at the sound of her sorrow. 
Sympathy coursed unbidden through his veins. 

Great Dragon, what was he to do?     

Receiving no words of divine inspiration, he gathered Dana in 
his arms and listened to her cry.  

*   *   *

"What do you mean Scully's with me?" Mulder asked Gibson. He 
pushed open the front door and ushered the others into the 
house.

The inner entry was like many others they had been in: stale 
air, squeaky floorboards, wallpaper striped in patriotic hues. 
A child's schoolbooks and skateboard littered a deacon's bench 
to the left. To the right, a bloody handprint marred an 
archway to the family room. The house was as dark and quiet as 
a tomb.     

Kenna took possession of William. "You've got the diapers," 
she reminded Mulder. 

He shrugged out of the backpack and handed it to her. She 
disappeared into the family room.

Mulder asked Gibson, "How the hell can Scully be with me when 
I'm here and she's clearly not?" 

Gibson held up a hand and cocked his head, listening again, 
concentrating.

"Well?" Mulder snapped, unable to curtail his impatience for 
more than a second or two.

"She's upset. Crying."

"Shit."

"You're holding her, trying to comfort her."

"*I* am here, Gibson. It's not me who's patting her back."

"She thinks he's you. He looks like you."

The officer aboard Tse'Bit'a'i'. Mulder's mysterious twin. Ca-
Lo. The shapeshifter in Arrowhead had said something about 
human cloning being in its infancy forty years ago, the 
process highly unpredictable, yet--

"'Your resemblance to your brother is extraordinary,'" Gibson 
extracted the alien's words from Mulder's memory.

"Ca-Lo is a clone."

"Or you are." 

"That's an unsettling thought."

"It's possible you're both clones."

An even more unsettling thought. "Chicken, egg, or Dolly the 
sheep, how did this Ca-Lo person trick Scully into thinking he 
is me?" 

If Mulder had said it once, he'd said it a thousand times: 
trust no one, Scully. 

"However he did it, she believes he's genuinely concerned 
about her."

"That's unlikely. Can you get inside his head?"

"Yes." Gibson concentrated. "He's upset, too."

"What does that mean? Is he angry? Sad?" Sexually frustrated?

"He's sorry she's crying."

Scully almost never cried. The bastard must have done 
something horrific to reduce her to tears.

"What is he doing now?"

"They're getting ready for bed."

"Together?"

"I think so."

"Son of a--!" Mulder's fist slammed the wall beside Gibson's 
head, hard enough to split the wallpaper and crack the 
underlying sheetrock. 

"Jesus, Mulder. Take it easy."

"Some guy who looks like me is forcing Scully into bed and you 
expect me to stay calm?"

"If it helps at all, he's not forcing her."

"Oh, I feel so much better knowing that. Thanks." Mulder tried 
to shake the ache from his knuckles. "I need to get to her."

"We'll be there in two days, three at most."

"That's not soon enough." Mulder regretted leaving the 
motorcycle behind.

"We're already pushing ourselves."

"We could make another five miles tonight if we--"

"I'm not going anywhere." Kenna appeared in the archway, 
William perched on her left hip. "Not tonight. Not tomorrow. 
Maybe never. Neither is he."

"William goes where I go," Mulder said.

"He stays with me and I'm done hiking all over creation. Look 
at him. You think this is good for him?" Kenna wiped snot from 
William's chapped nose with her thumb. His cheeks glowed from 
windburn and his eyelashes were gummed with dried tears. 

"Nose hurt, mama." William sniffled.

She cuddled him. "I know, sweetie. I'm sorry." 

Mulder cast a desperate glance in Gibson's direction. Gibson 
remained silent, evidently not wanting to take sides.

Mulder changed tactics, deciding to use Kenna's concern for 
William to his advantage. "If we stay here he'll be a sitting 
duck for whoever sent that shapeshifter to Arrowhead."

"What makes you think he'll be any safer in Utah?" 

"There are people there, people who can help protect him."

"You mean *her*."

"She's his mother, Kenna." 

"Doesn't act like it. Tossed him out like yesterday's garbage. 
I'd *die* before I'd give him up. And if you had a lick of 
sense you'd see that. You'd stop trying to get rid of me and 
be grateful I came along when I did." 

"I am grateful."

"Is sleeping with me your way of saying thanks?"

Mulder's face heated. "Of course not."

"Quiet," Gibson warned. "Both of you. I can't hear."

"Hear what?" Kenna's tone was sharp, impatient.

"Ca-Lo."

"Who?"

"Shhh," Gibson hushed her. "He's worried." 

"About Scully?" Mulder asked.

"And his daughter."

"Daughter?"

"The alien army is going to attack Safe Camp."

"Jesus, when?"

"Not sure. Soon."

"Tonight?"

"Tomorrow, I think." 

If it was true, Scully was in even greater danger than Mulder 
had first imagined. 

"This some kind of joke?" Kenna asked. "No way anyone can hear 
what's going on in Utah."

"He can," Mulder said. "Gibson hears what people are 
thinking."

"You're claiming he's some sorta Carnac? He can read minds?" 

"It's not as crazy as it sounds. He was born with a unique 
ability."

Kenna chuffed with disbelief. "You'll have to prove it to me." 

Without pause, Gibson said, "As much as he hates thinking 
about them together, Mulder is hoping Ca-Lo gets Scully out of 
Safe Camp before it's too late."

"That's hardly proof; anyone coulda guessed he'd want that," 
Kenna said. "You'll have to do better. Tell me what *I'm* 
thinking."

"Are you sure you want me to?" 

"You can't, can you?"

"I can."

"Then do it."

"All right. You're confused by Mulder's callous attitude," 
Gibson began. "You had hoped sleeping with him would make him 
love you, more than he loves William's real mother, maybe 
enough for him to forget her altogether. You thought you and 
he and William could become a family. But that no longer seems 
likely. You're scared because, with Rick dead and Mulder 
threatening to take William, you'll have no one. You're afraid 
of being left alone."

She blinked, unable to hide her surprise. Her lips trembled. 
Her eyes filled with tears. "I saved William from the locust-
monsters. I've been taking care of him for six months!"

"And you love him now," Gibson added.

"Yes. And he loves me." Her tears fell. "I know he does."

"Mama cry." William sniffled and stuck his thumb in his mouth.  

Guilt descended upon Mulder's shoulders, unwieldy, crushing. 
He wanted to sit, or better still, lie down, sleep for a year. 
Gibson had warned him of Kenna's emotional frailty days ago. A 
less selfish man would have heeded the warning. But to 
alleviate his loneliness, he had taken advantage of her. 

"I won't leave you here alone, Kenna," Mulder said truthfully. 
"Come with us to Safe Camp. Please."

"Safe Camp doesn't sound so safe to me."

"I have to agree," Gibson said, looking at Mulder. "It might 
not be the best place to go, given the circumstances."

"Scully is in trouble," Mulder argued. "The people at Safe 
Camp need help."

"We can't get there in time to help them."

Gibson's logic wasn't enough to dissuade Mulder. "I'm leaving 
at first light and I'm taking William. I hope you'll both be 
with me."

Gibson considered a moment. Mulder had the distinct impression 
the teen was searching his mind to gauge his resolve. 

"You know I'll go," he said at last, as Mulder had hoped.

"I go," William parroted around his wet thumb.

"Kenna?" Mulder asked softly. 

She fussed with William's hair, combing shaky fingers through 
his knotted curls.

"I'll go," she murmured at last, "for him. Not for you or the 
people at Safe Camp, and especially not for *her*."

*   *   *

SAFE CAMP, UTAH
6:58 A.M.

"Mulder, please, slow down." Scully was breathing hard and her 
face was shiny with sweat despite the chilly wind. 

In his eagerness to get them to the pick-up point on schedule, 
Ca-Lo had been walking fast. Too fast for a woman in her 
condition. The terrain was rocky and the slope steeper than he 
had realized. They had been climbing steadily higher, away 
from the camp, for about twenty minutes.

"Sorry," he mumbled and waited for her to catch up.  

Scowling, she asked, "What's your hurry?" 

"No hurry." 

She patted her pregnant belly. "I'm not up for a long hike, 
Mulder. Did you intend to go much further?"

"Just a short way. The view is incredible up there."

"It's not bad here," she said, turning to look. 

A half mile below, Bear Lake sparkled beneath the first rays 
of dawn. Its turquoise color reminded Ca-Lo again of the ring 
he had intended to slip on Dana's finger...before he had 
learned her baby might not be his.

"I've always liked this time of day," she said, as if 
admitting a long held secret. 

He checked his watch. In fifteen minutes a fleet of 
stingercraft and helicopters was due to arrive. Their mission: 
reduce the camp to rubble. Take no prisoners, save one, Walter 
Skinner. If Ca-Lo's orders were followed to the letter, and he 
had no reason to believe they wouldn't be, a cloaked shuttle 
was waiting beyond the next rise for his getaway. He had to 
get Dana aboard, quickly.

"See that?" She nodded at the quiet camp. "Except for the 
sentries, we're the only ones awake."

"It's early." 

"I find it comforting."

"To be the only people up at this hour?"

"No, that they feel safe enough to sleep." She dovetailed her 
fingers with his. "It's the way I felt last night. I haven't 
slept that soundly since Roswell."

His stomach churned at the thought of her night with Mulder.

"Let's climb a little higher," he urged.

"Why, it's beautiful right here. Look at that sunrise!"

An arc of searing orange had crested the distant hills, 
setting the sky afire.

Ca-Lo glanced again at his watch. In fewer than ten minutes, 
the camp would burn just as brightly, set ablaze by the 
Armada's plasma cannons.

"Why didn't we make love last night?" she asked unexpectedly, 
sounding more curious than disappointed.

"We weren't alone, remember?" Dibeh's presence wasn't the real 
reason he had kept to his side of the bed throughout the long, 
sleepless night. In truth, he had not wanted to touch her, let 
alone be intimate, not when there was a chance her child was 
Mulder's. 

"I could've been discreet," she said.

He adopted a teasing tone and said, "You? Quiet while making 
love?" The surveillance videos had shown otherwise.

She gave his arm a playful slap. "I'm not the one who howls 
like a werewolf when--"

He nuzzled her neck and growled softly. "There's a grove of 
trees just over the rise. Very private. Follow me and I'll 
show you who howls like a werewolf."

She wrapped her arms around his neck and drew him to her for a 
soft kiss.

His lips tingled pleasantly when she pressed more firmly 
against his mouth.  He returned her embrace, feeling a 
desperate hollowness deep in his gut, like the hunger of a man 
gone too long without food or drink. He squeezed her more 
tightly. She moaned and opened her mouth. His tongue swept 
over hers and her taste ignited a fire beneath his skin. He 
had never experienced a kiss like this, not when he made love 
to her six months ago, and certainly not with any of his 
hybrid Consorts. This was singular -- mouth-watering, genuine, 
passionate. 

Please, he begged the Red Dragon, make the child mine. Allow 
me this happiness. 

Too soon, Dana drew back, breathlessly breaking their kiss. 
"There's a grove of trees ahead?"  

"Yes, but..." The shuttle. He glanced again at his watch and 
was startled to see they had only three minutes before the 
first helicopters arrived.

She caught him checking the time. "Are we late for something?"

"Late? No."

"You keep checking your watch."

"Sorry. Bad habit."

"What time is it?"

"Uh, 7:13."

"Damn, I promised I'd check in at the infirmary at 7:30."

"You're not going to make it." He lifted his arm so she could 
read the digital display on his watch.

She released her hold on him and drew back. Her smile was 
gone. "You're not Mulder."

"Scully, I thought we settled this yesterday."

"I was a fool to trust you."

"What is this? What's the matter?"

"Electromagnetic pulses stopped every battery-operated watch 
last May." 

Damn it! Despite all his careful planning he had somehow 
overlooked this one vital detail. 

Her eyes flashed with anger. "You're Ca-Lo."

"I had hoped to postpone this conversation until you were 
safely away from here."

She spun on her heel. He grabbed her arm, preventing her 
escape. 

"You can't go back," he warned.

"Let me go." She tried to pull free.

His grip held. "It's not safe there."

"Why?" 

Her question was answered by the distinctive beat of 
helicopter rotors to the west. 

"You bastard." 

She drew back to strike him, but missed when he scooped her 
off her feet and carried her up the hill to his waiting 
shuttle.

*   *   *

Dibeh awoke to an eerie quiet. "The still before the storm," 
Lady Cassandra called moments like these, referring to the 
unnatural silences that preceded Tse'Bit'a'i's defensive 
drills.

"Mulder's" soft snore no longer emanated from beyond the 
bedroom's privacy curtain as it had earlier when Dibeh was 
tossing and turning on her bench. She had lain awake for hours 
trying to figure out if he was truly who he claimed to be. 

She recalled overhearing Lady Dana tell Commander Skinner two 
days ago that Ca-Lo had a brother named Mulder who looked just 
like him. So it was possible this man was telling the truth. 
Yet Dibeh was well-trained at interpreting the body language 
of others and something about him nagged at her. Most of the 
earthmen she'd met since leaving Tse'Bit'a'i' regarded her 
with suspicious eyes, lips curled in disgust, but this man 
treated her with seeming indifference. He appeared unaffected 
by her Nih-hi-cho features. As Ca-Lo would be.

And yet he couldn't be Ca-Lo, could he? A man as powerful as 
her master would have no reason to pretend to be anyone else. 
And why would Lady Dana go along with such a pretense?

Dibeh realized it must be her desire to go home that was 
fueling her doubts. She had been hoping with all her heart 
that Ca-Lo would come to rescue them, but apparently it was 
not to be.

No, this man was Mulder. Lady Dana and Commander Skinner 
accepted his word, so she must, as well. Her life was here 
now, not aboard Tse'Bit'a'i'. She would not be going back. Not 
ever. It was time to stop wasting prayers.  

A faint thudding drew her attention away from her 
disappointment. Sitting up, she strained to identify the 
source and had almost convinced herself it was merely the 
beating of her own heart, when she noticed it growing steadily 
louder, and louder still, until finally it was clattering like 
a wooden spoon thrown loose in Cook VI's dishwasher.  

An explosion, frighteningly loud, rocked the trailer and set 
Dibeh's heart hammering in earnest. Concerned for Lady Dana's 
safety, she tossed off her blankets and lurched toward the 
bedroom at the opposite end of the RV. 

A second explosion shook the trailer as she moved through the 
kitchen. Dishes rattled. A cooking pot toppled into the sink. 
The Disney World mug jittered off the countertop, plummeted to 
the floor and shattered. Shards sailed through the air. One 
razor-sharp fragment sliced Dibeh's wrist, raising a frothy, 
thin line of green blood.

She ignored the sting and stumbled to the bedroom. Yanking the 
curtain aside, she found the bed empty. Lady Dana's 
nightgown was heaped upon the pillows. Her boots were missing 
from their place beside the small closet. Both Mulder and her 
mistress were gone.

Gunshots, muted by distance and metal walls, popped like fat 
in a fry pan somewhere outside the RV. Dibeh thought she could 
detect the prickly smell of smoke. She bolted on wobbly legs 
to the trailer's single entrance. Stumbling out into the cold 
dawn, barefoot, dressed only in thin nightclothes, she nearly 
slipped on the frosty steps as she ran down them, eyes drawn 
upward to a blood red sky. 

Helicopters swooped overhead like winged dragons. Their 
deafening rotors stirred dust from the camp's worn footpaths, 
clogging the air with sand. Higher up, stingercrafts blasted 
the camp's shelters with strings of molten plasma. Everything 
burned: tents, boats, cars, RVs. 

Throngs of terrified humans ran from their homes, screaming, 
bleeding, desperate to escape the choking fumes and plasma fire. 
They scrambled like startled stew-hares toward the lake, the 
hills. Dibeh ran, too, when a mortar tore through the roof of 
the camp's main building not thirty yards from Skinner's RV. 
The explosion shattered the expansive, plate glass windows. 
Brittle plastic and twisted metal peppered the yard. Splintered 
ceiling beams flew into the crowd like lances. 

One frightened woman, clutching a bawling child, darted past 
Dibeh, only to be struck down seconds later, severed in two by 
a sheet of flying tin. The poor baby tumbled from its mother's 
limp arms, skidded across the dirt path, and was vaporized by 
a bolt of plasma from above. 
       
Holding her breath against the stench of plasma and melting 
flesh, Dibeh trailed the crowd through rows of blazing RVs, 
moving uphill toward Route 30. She frantically searched for 
Lady Dana as she ran. Bullets whistled overhead. People cried 
out. Dibeh felt the spray of hot blood. Two, three, four 
humans fell. The survivors ran faster. Dibeh was soon 
outdistanced, her shorter stride unable to keep pace with the 
others.

Helicopters had landed at strategic points around the camp, 
cutting off escape routes to the lake, the highlands, the 
paved road. Nih-hi-cho soldiers leapt out, rifles blasting. 

Near the end of her endurance and with no means of escape, 
Dibeh looked for a place to hide. The camp's garbage dump was 
not far, so she sprinted across a strip of open flatland that 
separated the camp from its piles of refuse. Swarms of flies 
fogged the air as she slogged through cans, bottles and rotted 
food, covering her mouth and nose against the stench of 
spoiled meat and disposable diapers. Two rusted oil drums lay 
half buried on their sides in the piles of trash. Brackish 
liquid pooled inside them. 

Dibeh was about to crawl into one when she heard the pounding 
of horses' hooves out on the open scrubland. Twenty rebel 
soldiers spurred steeds toward the Nih-hi-cho blockade on 
Route 30. Walter Skinner was leading them.

The rebels' counterattack proved as useless as a hybrid's 
prayers. The helicopter was armored; the Nih-hi-cho soldiers 
wore bulletproof helmets and flak jackets. The rebels fell, 
riddled by machinegun fire. Skinner's horse was shot out from 
under him. He continued to charge on foot, alone, firing at 
the enemy until his ammunition was spent. 

The Nih-hi-cho soldiers moved in and surrounded him. Dibeh 
watched, horrified, as they bludgeoned him, then dragged his 
limp, bleeding body onto the helicopter. 

"Fuckers!" a voice screamed from somewhere behind her. 

She turned to see Royal Jackson running toward Route 30, his 
fists raised at the retreating helicopter.

A stingercraft flew overhead, fired its cannons and cut a 
deep, charred furrow fifty meters long between Dibeh and 
Royal. The concussion knocked Royal to the ground. Face down, 
steam rose from the left sleeve of his camouflage jacket. 

A second blast tore through the garbage behind Dibeh, fusing 
glass and igniting metal. Scorching winds roared past her and 
she struggled to breathe. 

Help him, the wind seemed to scream.

Royal Jackson was trying to stand. 

The stingercraft circled overhead like a hungry buzzard.

Without hesitation, Dibeh sprinted through the trash to 
Royal's aid. 

"Don't touch me!" He flailed his good arm when she reached for 
him. 

You must get up, she signed, and tried to pull him to his feet.  

The stingercraft banked steeply, coming round to fire again. 
Time was short. Their only chance was to get out of sight and 
hope the gunner missed them. 

Ignoring Royal's protests, Dibeh hooked his uninjured arm 
around her neck and, using every ounce of strength she 
possessed, shouldered him to his feet.

By divine intervention or by sheer willpower, she managed to 
propel him to the oil drums, where she dropped him. He crawled 
into the closest one, squeezing himself inside until he was 
out of sight. The drum wouldn't protect him from another 
plasma blast, but, Red Dragon willing, the stingercraft pilot 
would lose sight of them. She shimmied into the second drum 
feet first and scooped an armful of garbage in after her to hide 
her from patrolling foot soldiers. 

The stingercraft roared overhead. The ground vibrated. 

I only wanted to go home, Dibeh explained to the Red Dragon. I 
prayed for Ca-Lo to find this place. To take me back to 
Tse'Bit'a'i'. But I never meant this to happen. Please make it 
stop. No more killing. Please. I am sorry I was so selfish.

Dibeh held her breath and waited for the next blast of cannon 
fire.  

*   *   *

TSE'BIT'A'I'
ASSESSMENT BAY 22

Ca-Lo sat stiffly upon a wheeled stool facing a computer 
terminal, as far from the assessment platform as the room 
allowed. Dana was pinned to the platform, nude, awaiting the 
amnio procedure. Dabbing blood from his cut lower lip, Ca-Lo 
kept his back to her while flipping through images in Mulder's 
file.

"Don't do this!" Dana begged. "Ca-Lo? Please!"

He glanced over his shoulder. A youthful medic named Bicker 
was preparing her for the procedure. Overhead lights cast a 
familiar pattern of dots and hash marks upon her bulging 
abdomen. She struggled against her restraints. Blood oozed 
from puncture wounds in her wrists and ankles. Ca-Lo's own 
limbs throbbed with remembered pain.

He hadn't wanted to restrain her, but she had fought him every 
step of the way, from shuttle to Salt Lake airport to 
Tse'Bit'a'i's unguarded entrance. She had kicked and scratched 
mercilessly as he hauled her into an elevator, then down the 
nearly deserted corridors to the Assessment Bays. Her struggle 
ceased only when he set her on her feet in front of Bay 22's 
hulking examination platform.

"Drug her," Ca-Lo ordered Bicker. 

"Sir, we don't usually--"

"Don't argue with me!"

Bicker pursed his lips and prepared a hypo with shaky hands. 

"Amniocentesis can be a dangerous procedure," Dana warned. She 
watched Bicker's needle with wide eyes. "If you haven't done 
this before--"

"He's doing the damned test!" Ca-Lo snapped. 

Bicker was a second year Appraiser's assistant. Training 
videos had provided his only knowledge of the in utero 
chromosomal profiling procedure. "There isn't much call for 
paternity testing aboard a Nih-hi-cho warship," Bicker had 
said earlier, defending his inexperience.

Unfortunately there was no one else available to do the test. 
Every Appraiser and Healer was at Harmony I, preparing for the 
Joining. Tse'Bit'a'i' was like a ghost ship. Human soldiers 
guarded the praying Nih-hi-cho, leaving only essential 
personnel aboard ship.

"His incompetence'll put our baby at risk." Dana's words 
slurred as she began to experience the effects of the 
anesthesia.  

"So it's *our* baby now, is it?" Ca-Lo spun on the stool to 
face her. "I thought you weren't certain."

"Doesn't matter. Innocen' child."

"It matters to me," he said through gritted teeth.

The bio-comp shook in Bicker's nervous hands as he scanned 
Dana's abdomen.  

"Twenty point three two centimeters. Four hundred fifty-two 
grams," he reported, describing the fetus. He set the bio-comp 
aside to apply a sloppy layer of rust-colored disinfectant to 
Dana's pale stomach.

Ca-Lo looked away when the amnio needle punctured her skin.

She cried out, despite the drugs.

"Don't hurt her," Ca-Lo warned. 

"I'm trying not to, sir. Removing 30 cc's now."

"And don't give me a fucking blow by blow." Ca-Lo focused his 
attention on Mulder's photo. 

On the screen, Mulder escorted a very pregnant Dana to his 
car, which was parked in front of her apartment building. He 
was carrying a pillow tucked under one arm.

Ca-Lo zoomed in on his face. Mulder was smiling. Focused only 
on her.  

Bicker soon announced his results. "Probability of paternity: 
99.9994 percent. Combined Paternity Index: 158251.22." 

"Meaning...?" Ca-Lo noticed his own hands were shaking and hid 
them in his lap. 

"It means you are the biological father of this woman's 
child."

Relief flooded Ca-Lo's veins. "Let me see," he demanded. 

Bicker brought him the portable Verifier. 

The display screen corroborated the Appraisers' earlier 
assessment. 

Bicker's attention flitted to the photo on Ca-Lo's computer 
monitor. "Is...is that you, sir?"

"No."

"The resemblance is remarkable."

"We're...related."

"It's uncanny. I've seen twins who looked less alike."

"We're not twins."

At least not according to his mother. Then again, she had lied 
about her own origins. She was not human. The stain of green 
Nih-hi-cho blood on his carpet proved that.

Yet Ca-Lo's blood was red. He had seen it uncountable times 
during assessments and experiments and punishments.

It begged the question: If he was not Cassandra Spender's son, 
who was he?  

The Verifier's readout screen glowed in Ca-Lo's hand. Thanks 
to Bicker's password, it held his genetic information -- 
unencrypted. 

"You may go," Ca-Lo said, hoping the medic would leave the 
Verifier behind. 

"What about her?" Bicker nodded at Dana, who was unconscious.

"I'll take care of her."  

Bicker looked uncertain, but obeyed without argument.

As soon as he was out of the room, Ca-Lo initiated a computer 
search for Mulder's medical records. 

"Red Dragon be praised."

The computer displayed a DNA test taken by the FBI at the time 
of Mulder's hire. 

A few keystrokes later, Ca-Lo had exported the file into the 
Verifier database, where he ran a comparison between his own 
DNA and Mulder's.

Seconds later the results appeared on his monitor: 

Microsatellite cross-comparison 
65398733663 [Fox William Mulder]
03999875288 [Subject NDP-12/Ashkii XII]
Strand repeat regions: 100%
Relationship: 
High probability [99%+/-] 
1) samples are from a single individual
2) samples are from identical twins
3) samples are from identical clones 
4) samples are from an original and a clone
Additional data available at NDP Archive ******* 

Ca-Lo blinked in disbelief. He tried to access the archive, 
but found the path blocked. He had never seen or heard of the 
acronym NDP and couldn't begin to guess its meaning.

One thing was clear, however: he was not Mulder's younger brother, 
not in the way Cassandra had described. Nor was it likely they 
were twins, conceived naturally, given the Overseers' penchant 
for experimentation and cloning. 

Best case scenario, Ca-Lo was the elder of the two, a real 
person with a real soul, and Fox Mulder was his clone.

Worst case? He refused to consider it.

Blood roared in his ears as he turned to Dana. He was 
surprised to find her awake, watching him. 

"Whose...baby?" she rasped. 

Fear etched her tired face. It mirrored the panic ballooning 
in his gut. 

Best case, worst case, it made no difference as far as the 
paternity of Dana's child was concerned. Mulder and Ca-Lo 
shared the exact same genetic code. There was no way to 
determine which of them was the baby's father. 

x-x-x-x-x

BOOK VIII: MICHAEL AND HIS ANGELS 

A mournful wind battered the hills of Rich County, Utah. It 
rattled farm fences and hissed through thickets of sage and 
bunch-grass, pushing a cloud of ruddy smoke into the valley. 
Horses grazed nervously on sloped scrubland. One wore a saddle 
with a military boot dangling from the stirrup. To the west, 
Bear Lake stained the basin like a purple-black bruise.

"Smells like Ruskin Dam the morning after..." A gritty, sour 
taste filled Mulder's mouth, much as it had the day he 
frantically searched for Scully's immolated corpse among the 
dozens of dead. His sinuses stung, his lungs burned; he 
coughed beneath his makeshift mask -- a T-shirt looped around 
the lower half of his face. Flanked by Gibson and Kenna, William 
riding one arm, he limped northward along an empty two-lane 
road. "Eau de burnt flesh." 

With a hint of something vinegary, a sharp, fermented odor he 
couldn't put a name to.

"Plasma fire," Gibson supplied, reading his mind. Dust 
filmed Gibson's glasses. A blue and once-white striped scarf 
protected his mouth and nose from the smoke. He carried a 
half-full jug of water. 

"Safe Camp?"

"I hope not."

"We must be getting close."

Gibson shrugged.

"Jesus, Gibson, toss me a bone, will you? Can you hear 
anything? Anything at all?" Mulder pressed.

"Not from the rebel camp."

"Great." 

Two nights earlier Gibson had dreamed of panicked screams and 
bomb blasts, followed by a deathly silence. Mulder believed it 
was a real event, an alien attack on Safe Camp, witnessed 
telepathically by Gibson in his sleep. Apprehensive about 
Scully's safety, Mulder had harangued him with questions, but 
Gibson, visibly shaken, insisted it was only a nightmare, then 
clammed up. He had remained stubbornly silent on the subject 
ever since. 

"Would it kill you to fill me in on what's happening?" 

"There's nothing to tell." 

"God damn it, Gibson!" 

William startled at Mulder's outburst. He had been nervous and 
clingy all morning. Tears striped his chapped, soot-covered 
cheeks. He leaned away from Mulder and extended mittened fists 
toward Kenna. "Mama!" 

"Fix his neckerchief," she ordered, the sharpness of her tone 
not blunted by the thick layers of her scarf.

Mulder drew the slipping bandana up over William's small nose, 
not for the first time. He pointed to his own mask. "Cops and 
robbers, remember son? We're incognito." 

"No 'nito." William yanked the bandana down. 

Kenna reached over and adjusted it again. "Keep it on, 
sweetie."

"Noooo!" William whined and arched his back.

"Be a good boy," Kenna said gently. "Do as mama says." 

Mulder bristled at her use of the word and was about to object 
when William flopped against his shoulder and stopped his 
fussing. Mulder decided to let it go. For now.

Kenna glared at him. "Cops and robbers?"

"It got him to wear the damned mask, didn't it?"

"For all of five minutes. And don't cuss, least not in front 
of him." She blinked against the acrid smoke. "Maybe I should 
carry him for a while."

"I've got him. He's fine," Mulder snapped, at the end of his 
patience. They had been walking for hours. His leg hurt like a 
son-of-a-bitch. And he was worried to the point of madness 
about Scully and the others at Safe Camp.

"No need to bite my head off," Kenna objected. "I'm just 
trying to help." 

You wanna help? Start your goddamn period, Mulder thought, 
then felt ashamed when Gibson shot him a rebuking sidelong 
glance.  

Gibson had warned him. He had said Kenna was emotionally 
vulnerable. Said she hadn't wanted to sleep with him, but 
believed it was the only way she would be able to keep 
William. 

Which made sex with her not entirely consensual. She may have 
initiated their encounter, but he had been looking for a 
physical release and took advantage of the situation. 

Their abbreviated joining could not be called "lovemaking," 
not by any stretch of imagination. It was a reckless act, on 
both their parts, and its brevity clearly surprised Kenna. 
Three quick thrusts and he spilled into her, stifling a groan 
against the scarred flesh of her neck. "Oh" was all she said. 
"We'll try again," he promised, thinking he should, believing 
she deserved a more suitable demonstration of appreciation for 
the use of her body. "Give me a few minutes." 

As it turned out, no amount of encouragement on her part, or 
his, had proven successful at reigniting his ardor. 

He didn't love her. He barely liked her. 

And yet he may have impregnated her.

Glancing her way, he felt a fresh surge of guilt. At half his 
age, she was still a teenager, for God's sake. 

If she turns out to be pregnant, I'll do the right thing, I 
won't abandon her or our child, he vowed silently, hoping 
Gibson was still listening and could hear the sincerity of his 
unspoken promise. 

Worry furrowed Gibson's brow and Mulder knew he had heard. But 
Gibson said nothing, leaving Mulder to wonder if his friend 
truly understood the extent of his regret. He *was* sorry, 
deeply, genuinely, for the anxiety and hurt he was causing 
Kenna, for his own selfishness and poor judgment, and most 
especially for the reckless way he had ignored the issue of 
birth control.

Jesus, by the end of next summer William could have a baby 
brother or sister.

William squirmed in his arms. "Down," he demanded.

"Sorry, son. We've got a way to go yet." 

Mulder bent to kiss his cheek, but William ducked away. 

"Down!"

"This air isn't good for him," Kenna complained.  

"Yucky," William said, referring not to the air, but pointing 
ahead to where dozens of missile strikes pocked the shore of 
Bear Lake, evidence of an unrelenting attack. At the center of 
this no man's land was a razed campground, the source of the 
red smoke. Charred docks and boats scabbed the shoreline, 
smoke wafted from smoldering RVs and automobiles. 

Mulder swallowed against the god-awful stench and scanned for 
survivors. "Safe Camp?" he managed to ask.

Gibson nodded.

"Is anyone alive?"

"I don't think so." Gibson's pronouncement was so solemn, so 
definitive, it sent a jolt of panic jittering down Mulder's 
spine. 

Scavenging birds, the only signs of life, circled in the red 
sky above the camp. 

Mulder embraced William more tightly. "No one?"

Gibson gave an apologetic shrug.

Mulder was not willing to surrender hope. Scully had to be 
there. Alive. They'd come all this way. He'd brought William. 
It couldn't end like this.  

Unloading William into Kenna's arms, he said, "Take him. I'm 
going to find her." Without waiting for a response, he bolted 
for the campground. 

His gait was lopsided. Each off-kilter stride sent a stab of 
pain through his injured leg. He cursed his clumsiness and 
pushed himself harder, spurred by the alarming number of 
corpses in his path.

Body parts with torn and roasted flesh littered the road. 
Blackened skeletons dotted the scrubland, their ebony ribs 
protruding from the sandy soil like scorched fingers. Mulder 
dodged a mound of tangled legs and arms. Caught sight of a 
youngster's gaping mouth and empty eye sockets. Bile climbed 
to his throat. A small, toy fire engine lay on its side beside 
the child's dismembered hand.

"Scully!" His voice boomeranged through the camp. "Scully!"

The shell of a large, low-slung building loomed ahead, its 
windows blown out, roof gone, walls collapsed, entire sections 
missing between bent wall studs. Buzzards descended in droves 
upon its exposed innards. Mulder entered through an eight-foot 
hole in the wall . Ponds of congealed blood glistened on the 
cracked tile floor. Torn mattresses and bed sheets, speckled 
with gore, clotted the room's far corners. Unbelievably, an 
IV rack remained upright and unscathed at the center of what 
must have once been the camp's infirmary.

Beneath a flattened cot, Mulder glimpsed a shock of red hair.

It was Ruskin Dam all over again. 

"Scully?" Her name rasped past tightened vocal chords.

Broken glass crunched beneath his boots as he lurched toward the 
bed. Heaving it aside, he knelt next to the lifeless body -- a 
petite woman, face cemented to the floor by her own dried 
blood.      

He patted her hair and was surprised by its softness. Staring 
at her small pale hands, he tried to remember the exact length 
and shape of Scully's delicate fingers -- fingers that were as 
adept at bringing him pleasure as they were at dissecting 
corpses.

Please don't let it be her, he begged.

He tried to roll the body onto its side, but the head remained 
fused to the floor. Knotting his fingers into her beautiful, 
red hair, he yanked hard and wrenched her free, exposing her 
face.

It wasn't Scully.

Thank God.

Tears burned his eyes. He swallowed a hitching sob and combed 
the dead woman's hair carefully away from her face with shaky 
fingers.

She was somebody's loved one. A sister or wife. Perhaps a 
mother. 

Lifting his gaze to the crimson sky, he let his tears fall. 
"Scully...please. I brought William. I told you I would. I 
told you. Your son needs you. *I* need you!" 

Warm fingers gripped his quaking shoulders and for an insane 
instant he thought it was Scully. But misery drove out his sense 
of relief when he turned to find Gibson standing over him. 

"I hear someone," he said.

"Sc-scully?"

"No, but someone who knows her."

"Where?" Mulder rose on unsteady legs.

Gibson pointed skyward, targeting a pinwheel of vultures above 
the western edge of the camp. "There."

The word launched Mulder into a stumbling run. 

Hard, open desert separated the infirmary from the vultures. 
The ground was crisscrossed with scorch marks, evidence of 
laser blasts hot enough to melt sand to glass. Mulder jumped 
the shallow troughs and prayed he wouldn't twist an ankle. Over 
the sound of his own ragged breathing he could hear Gibson 
trying to keep pace.

At the camp's refuse area, he waded without pause through 
piles of garbage. Plastic and paper fluttered around him like 
the ruffled feathers of the scattering buzzards. One vulture 
lit upon a fallen oil drum. It paced there, claws tapping 
against metal, head tilted, listening to the rustle of wind.

The barrel was large...large enough to hold a person. 

Mulder scooped trash from its opening. Inside, he discovered 
a child hugging herself against the cold, face buried against 
drawn up knees. She was shivering; she was alive. 

"It's okay," he soothed, reaching for her. "We're here to 
help."

She shook her head and refused to look up at him. Her hair was 
matted. Her delicate arms were smudged with filth and bruises. 
She wore only a thin, dirty nightgown. 

She must be freezing, he thought as he grasped her upper arms 
and gave an encouraging pull. "It's okay, sweetheart, come 
out. I won't hurt you."

"Careful, Mulder," Gibson warned, standing beside him, 
breathing hard. "She isn't human."

"Isn't--?"

The child lifted her gaze. Her skin was grayish-green, her 
eyes wide and inky black. 

She was one of Them. She was alien. 

*   *   *

TSE'BIT'A'I'
COMMAND DECK

Exasperated by the inconclusive results of the paternity test, 
Ca-Lo locked Dana in his quarters, put a hybrid aide in charge 
of her care, and avoided them both while he pretended to run 
the ship from his Standby Room on the Bridge. This smokescreen 
of routine duty hid the fact that he was actually trying to 
access the mysterious NDP Archive. It also allowed him time to 
think and sort out his feelings. 

He loved Dana. Of that he was certain. But what of her unborn 
child? 

It was possible the little girl was his own flesh and blood, 
the daughter he had been hoping to raise. He swallowed past a 
lump in his throat and imagined holding her, tucking her into 
bed at night, watching her sleep and play and grow. He could 
almost feel her soft breath against his cheek as she 
whispered, "I love you, Daddy." 

I love you. No one had ever said those words to him. Not once 
in four decades had he received one solitary declaration of 
affection. 

And it was unlikely he would ever hear the words, if Dana's 
child turned out to be Mulder's and not his own. 

The idea of raising his brother's daughter brought a bitter 
taste to the back of his tongue. Every moment spent with the 
girl, every embrace, every kiss would be tainted by his doubts 
about her conception. Her presence would be a constant, 
heartbreaking reminder of Dana's last act of intimacy with Fox 
Mulder. 

The question of paternity would haunt her, too, Ca-Lo was 
certain. Without definitive proof, she would be left 
wondering, clinging to her damnable memories, never able to 
move forward and forge a new life with him. 

This baby was threatening their happy future. Perhaps it would 
be best to get rid of it, start again with a new baby, one he 
could be certain was his own.

For the price of a few Bliss Boys, Healer 27 might be 
persuaded to make Dana's body reabsorb the fetus. The 
procedure would be physically painless. Probably. And quick, 
Ca-Lo hoped. Dana would eventually get over the emotional 
loss, especially if she had William to assuage her grief. 

But could he bring himself to order such a monstrous thing? 

Not without genetic proof the girl was Mulder's and not his. 

Ca-Lo hoped the NDP Archive would shed light on his own 
conception and birth and thereby prove paternity of Dana's 
child. Unfortunately he had exhausted every access code and 
backdoor imaginable in his attempt to penetrate the encrypted 
database. 

Stymied, he decided to leave it for an hour or two and 
concentrate on another pressing matter: the whereabouts of 
Major Harris and little William. Time was running short; the 
Joining would end soon and the Nih-hi-cho would be returning 
to their ships. Ca-Lo needed William in his mother's grateful 
arms before the Overseers came back to Tse'Bit'a'i' and took 
the boy for themselves, ruining any chance of wedded bliss for 
him and Dana. 

His loathing for the Nih-hi-cho had never been greater. 
Looking down at his immaculate military uniform and spit-
polished boots, he was reminded again of his duty to the 
Armada and the Society. His short time at the rebels' Safe 
Camp had reinforced his desire to leave the aliens, live as a 
free man, with Dana at his side, loving him.

But it was useless to entertain such fantasies. He would never 
escape his masters. 

While he had been gone, the Armada's remaining warships had 
arrived at Salt Lake City. Every Nih-hi-cho in the sector was 
now at Harmony I, celebrating the introduction of the 
Juveniles into the Society. In a year's time their numbers 
would expand a hundredfold as breeding compounds around the 
world churned out one generation after the next. Aliens would 
rule the planet and humans would be their slaves. Including 
Ca-Lo. With the war over, they would no longer need his 
strategic skills. He would be relegated to a factory assembly 
line or, worse, serve as a host for an alien fetus. 

All the more reason to try to take what he wanted now.

He was determined to have Dana. Her vows and her heart. And he 
would secure her devotion by giving her what she desired most: 
her son.

He imagined their happy reunion. And Dana's gratitude. 

Licking his lips in anticipation of her appreciative kisses, 
he considered returning to his quarters. Taking her to his bed. 
Making love to her. 

But he would not force her. He had promised himself he would 
never again resort to coercion or mindbending tricks. Doing so 
would make him no better than the Nih-hi-cho. He wanted Dana 
to accept him willingly, love him honestly, the way she had 
loved Mulder. Even if it took William to earn that devotion.   

Ca-Lo turned his attention to the ship's logs. A quick check 
showed Harris had not returned from Wyoming, nor had he called 
in with a progress report. Angered by the Major's dawdling, 
Ca-Lo tried to raise him via radio. When he didn't answer, Ca-
Lo contacted the hangar deck and dispatched a young airman named 
Ingraham to look for Harris at his last known coordinates. 

Ca-Lo had no sooner ended his call when the com-link buzzed.

He punched the switch and snapped, "You better be on your 
way, Ingraham."

"Uh...it's Warden Wolcott, sir. You asked to be notified when 
Security moved the rebel commander to a stasis cell." 

"Yes, fine, consider me notif--" Ca-Lo paused. If Ingraham 
failed to bring back William, Ca-Lo would need an acceptable 
substitute to guarantee Dana's cooperation. Walter Skinner, 
Dana's dear friend, might just be that substitute. "I'll be 
right down. Wait for me."

"Sir?"

"I'm going to personally oversee the commander's interment."

"Yes, sir."

Five minutes later, Ca-Lo arrived in the Portal of Solitude 
to find Skinner stripped of his uniform and glasses, kneeling 
naked on the chamber's hard amber floor, hands bound tightly 
behind his back by silicon wristbands. Four human soldiers, 
including Wolcott, stood guard while a hybrid swabbed the 
cell's fleshy inner walls with protein ointment, untangled 
bio-tubes, and filled the feeding umbilicus with na-a-jah.

Skinner's limbs and torso were badly bruised. His face and 
hands were blistered and peeling from exposure to plasma fire, 
his blackened eyes swollen nearly shut. 

According to his captors he had put up an exceptional fight. 
His knuckles were scraped raw from the blows he had dealt. A 
lieutenant and an airman were dead, their windpipes crushed. 
Ca-Lo admired Skinner's determination and valor in the face of 
impossible odds.  

Even in his current position, injured, shackled, and 
surrounded by armed guards, Skinner appeared undaunted, his 
fiery spirit unbroken. "My army's not finished with you, Ca-
Lo," he said, lips curled in disgust. "They'll kick your 
alien-loving ass back to wherever the hell you came from."

"Victory to the virtuous, is that it, Commander Skinner?"

"You're fighting the wrong side. You're going to lose."

"No. I've already won." Ca-Lo squatted to stare directly into 
Skinner's bruised eyes. "And I owe you a debt of gratitude, 
Commander." 

"For what?"

"For helping me gain Dana's trust."

"Where is she?" Skinner snarled. "What've you done with her?" 

"She's safe, sleeping peacefully...in my bed."

"You son of a bitch." Skinner lunged for Ca-Lo.

Wolcott immediately intervened, bludgeoning Skinner with the 
butt of his rifle. A well-placed blow to the back of the skull 
toppled Skinner and he writhed in obvious agony. Jaw clenched, 
he growled, "You hurt her, Ca-Lo, I swear I'll kill you."

"You're in no position to threaten me." To the guards he said, 
"Put him in the cell."

Skinner struggled as the guards wrestled him into the prepped 
chamber. Its membranous walls gripped his lower body the way a 
stomach holds an undigested meal and he cried out when the 
hybrid jabbed a bio-monitor into his spine. His yelp echoed 
off the caldarium's high, domed ceiling, lasting several 
seconds after his thrashing ceased.     

"Rest assured, Commander Skinner," Ca-Lo said, standing at the 
lip of the cell, "my intentions toward Dana are completely 
honorable."

"Nothing...honorable...about you," Skinner grunted. 

"Ah, but you misjudge me." Ca-Lo leaned over the aperture, 
hands braced on knees. "I'm going to make Dana my lawfully 
wedded wife."

With effort, Skinner twisted to stare up at Ca-Lo. Rage burned 
in his bloodshot eyes. "She'll never agree."

"See, that's where you're wrong. She'll agree if she thinks 
doing so will get her son back...or save your life."

"You goddamned bastard."

"So I've been told. Seal him in," he ordered the guards. "He's 
to have no contact with anyone without my authorization."

The hybrid grunted for his attention. "What about his meals?" 
she signed.

"I will see to his feeding personally. Just get him ready."

Ca-Lo turned on his heel and strode from the caldarium, not 
interested in watching the hybrid force the umbilicus down 
Skinner's throat. 

*   *   *

Dibeh's unlikely savior released his grip on her upper arms, 
leaving her to crouch at his feet, grateful he was not a 
soldier come to kill her.

He looked like Mulder, but Dibeh hoped with all her heart he 
was Master Ca-Lo, come to take her home to Tse'Bit'a'i'. The 
possibility of seeing her friend Ulso and the other servants 
filled her with hope. She smiled in gratitude and signed, 
"Master Ca-Lo, I am so very happy you have arrived."

Beside him stood a smaller human with hair the color of boiled 
tlo-chin. He wore glasses that made his eyes appear oversized 
for a human. A thin, nervous-looking woman with flowing dark 
hair watched them from the edge of the refuse area. She held a 
young human in her arms.

The man she hoped was Ca-Lo wiped his palms on his pants as if 
to remove something distasteful. "It looks like a hybrid," he 
said to his goggle-eyed companion.

She signed again. "It's me -- Dibeh. Do you not recognize me?"
Her heart sank when he looked to the Goggle-Eyed One as if for 
help. Clearly he did not understand her signals, which could 
only mean he was not Ca-Lo, but his brother Mulder.

"Her name is Dibeh," the Goggle-Eyed One stated. He was either 
interpreting her hand signals or was a telepath like the 
Purebloods. "She thinks she knows you."

"Me?" Mulder knelt in front of her, putting them at eye level. 
"Have we met?"

Dibeh's fingers flew through the air. "What do you mean, have 
we met?" she demanded. "You know who I am! What have you done 
with my mistress?"

"Your mistress?" the Goggle-Eyed One asked.

"My Mistress is Lady Dana Scully," she signed. "Ask your 
friend. He knows."

"What is she saying?" growled Mulder. "Does she know where 
Scully is or not?"

The Goggle-Eyed One regarded her for a long moment, his 
expression unreadable. Finally he said, "She thinks you took 
her."

So he was a mind-reader! Maybe a shapeshifting Refuter, 
disguised as a human!

"I'm not a shapeshifter," he said, confirming her suspicions 
about his telepathic abilities. "I'm human, although I can 
hear your thoughts. And my name is Gibson, not the Goggle-Eyed 
One."

"Apologies, sir, I meant no offense," she signed.

"Tell us what happened," he urged.

Dibeh didn't trust him or this Mulder person, but she did as 
she was told and relayed her tale, signing out of habit, if 
not need.

Gibson translated her thoughts: "I awoke to the sound of 
approaching helicopters. There were several explosions. And 
gunfire. I ran to help Lady Dana--"

"'Lady' Dana?" Mulder interrupted.

"I am her servant, her personal aide. You already know this. 
You were with us."

His eyes flashed with impatience, yet he kept his tone gentle, 
his words unhurried. "That wasn't me. The man who took 
Scu...your mistress, he was an imposter. We have reason to 
believe he wants to harm her."

An imposter? Could the man have been a shapeshifter, neither 
Ca-Lo nor Mulder? Overwhelmed by this possibility, Dibeh began 
to sign urgently. Again Gibson translated. "The man who 
claimed to be Mulder took her from her bed. They were gone 
when I woke and went to her room."

"Where did he take her?"

"I don't know. Bombs were exploding. The camp was on fire. 
People were running in all directions, trying to save 
themselves. I saw Lady Dana's friend captured and beaten by 
soldiers."

"Her friend?"

"Skinner. Walter Skinner."

Mulder and Gibson exchanged worried glances.

"Did they kill him?" Mulder asked.

"I don't know. They took him on their flying ship."

Skinner's battle with the Nih-hi-cho soldiers reminded Dibeh 
of the dark-skinned man in the other barrel. She offered a 
quick apology for her forwardness and, without waiting for 
permission, rose on shaky legs and hurried to the drum. 
Shifting an armload of garbage from its opening, she uncovered 
Royal Jackson, who was curled in a ball, lying in a sticky 
pool of his own blood.
Dibeh pointed and signaled, "This is a friend of Commander 
Skinner's. He was injured in the attack. I hid him here."

Mulder and Gibson carefully hauled Royal from the barrel. 
Flies buzzed around their heads, disturbed from feasting upon 
the unconscious man's injured arm. His left sleeve was singed 
black and his tattooed forearm was swollen and oozing blood. 

"Let's get him someplace a little less fragrant," Mulder 
suggested, waving off the flies and gripping Royal beneath his 
arms. Gibson grabbed his legs. Together they carried him away 
from the stinking garbage. The thin woman with the baby joined 
them at the edge of the refuse area. She glared at Dibeh, 
hatred blazing in her eyes. 

Cringing, Dibeh wondered what was to become of them all.

*   *   *

TSE'BIT'A'I
HANGAR DECK

Ca-Lo boarded his personal runabout and keyed the coordinates 
of Antelope Island into the navigation system. The engine 
hummed to life. The ship eased out of the hangar and took to 
the air. 

Among the thousands of prisoners warehoused on the island 
there was bound to be a preacher or a priest who could be 
persuaded to perform a traditional terrestrial wedding 
ceremony. For Dana's sake, of course. Ca-Lo didn't believe in 
her God or the Nih-hi-cho's Red Dragon, but he knew from 
Mulder's dossier that Dana was a woman of faith, raised to 
trust the teachings of her religion. Until fairly recently she 
had attended church services, albeit sporadically. 
Surveillance tapes showed her praying at home, too, and at her 
sister's grave. Once in the morgue at Quantico. Clearly she 
would appreciate a man of her God sanctifying their marriage. 

She might also need the priest's consolation, in the event her 
baby was not allowed to survive.     

As the runabout crossed Farmington Bay, Ca-Lo radioed Airman 
Ingraham for an update on Harris.

"I've located his shuttle, sir," Ingraham reported. "Cloaked 
and fully functional."

"Where?"

"Fifteen meters from a former residential structure. The house 
is gone, sir, burned to the ground. Nothing left but the 
foundation."

"Have you conducted a bio-scan?"

"Yes, sir. It revealed trace amounts of Nih-hi-cho blood in 
the wreckage. A cross-comparison verified the blood belonged 
to Harris." 

Under other circumstances Ca-Lo would have been delighted to 
learn the old Watcher was dead. But now he was left without 
answers to William's whereabouts. And he had to assume Fox 
Mulder was still alive, too. 

"Did you find any human blood?"

"No, sir." 

"Then widen your search, Lieutenant."

"But, sir, Major Harris is dead. Who am I supposed to be 
looking for?"

"His killer." Ca-Lo jabbed the controls and ended the 
transmission.

Below the runabout, Antelope Island protruded from Great Salt 
Lake like the bleached back of a drowned giant. Three 
windowless, cinderblock dormitories, twenty stories high, 
crowded the southeastern shore. A landing pad large enough to 
accommodate a 200-passenger transport glowed atop the central 
building's roof. 

Ca-Lo maneuvered his small ship onto the pad. A contingent of 
armed guards bustled from the rooftop elevator to greet him as 
he deplaned.

"We weren't expecting you, sir," said a jittery private with 
unshaved jowls and rotted front teeth.

Ca-Lo offered no apology or explanation for his unannounced 
errand. "Show me your prisoner roster, Private." He strode 
toward the elevator. "The rest of you wait for the next ride 
down."

"Looking for someone in particular?" The private hurried to 
keep pace. "Munitions expert? Mercenary? Spy? Name your 
pleasure, sir."

"I'm interested in a peacemaker today." Ca-Lo stepped into the 
car. An odor of piss and sweat assailed his nostrils.

The private entered behind him, seemingly unaware of the 
stench. "I think we have a few mediators, sir. Ex-diplomats."

"I want a priest, not a politician."

The soldier eyed him uneasily. "If you don't mind my asking, 
sir, why a priest?"

"Who better to make a deal with the Devil?" Ca-Lo punched the 
down button.

*   *   *

SAFE CAMP

"Kill it!" Kenna insisted. William hunched in her arms and 
sucked hard on his thumb. "It's one of them! A-a locust-
monster!"

"She's not a threat." Gibson's breath came in gasping puffs as 
he tried to keep pace with Mulder. Stumbling through debris 
and around corpses, Gibson felt as if Royal's dead weight was 
going to tear his arms from their sockets.

Dibeh hurried ahead, leading the way back to the infirmary.

"Careful." Mulder maneuvered along a cracked concrete patio. 

They bypassed the flattened front doors and entered the 
roofless structure through a missing section of wall, then 
struggled around overturned chairs and scattered office 
supplies. Gibson accidentally kicked an abandoned coffee mug. 
It skidded and rattled, spun to a stop beside the red-headed 
woman's corpse, Scully's dead-ringer twin. The bloodied woman 
appeared surprised, her wide, blue-eyed stare seemingly fixed 
on the teetering mug.  

Dibeh scurried to the rear of the building where the twisted 
frames of fold-out cots lay in tangled heaps. Her thoughts 
bombarded Gibson. She was terrified, yet at the same time, she 
was oddly resigned to her circumstances. Almost eager to 
please him and Mulder. In her racing thoughts, she referred to 
them as her "new masters." 

Gibson cringed at the unlikely title. 

Complacency he could understand; his life had been controlled 
by outside forces for years and sometimes the only way to 
survive was to submit to the will of others. But submission 
was not equivalent to servitude. No matter what atrocities had 
been perpetrated upon him, he had never kowtowed to those who 
directed his fate. He may have been powerless to stop the 
things they did, but he had not considered them superior or 
right.   

"Kenna, we could use your help," Mulder shouted, head 
swiveling as he searched for a place to lay down the injured man.

Kenna stood her ground outside the building. "I'm not coming 
in there. Not with that...that *thing*." She pointed a shaky 
finger through the Swiss cheese wall at Dibeh. 

"She won't hurt you," Gibson assured, hoping to silence 
Kenna's fears, which were blaring like sirens in his head. He 
longed to shut out her nightmarish imaginings and god-awful 
memories. Artie van de Kamp's mutilated body. Her husband's 
severed arm. William, squalling in his crib, surrounded by 
five aliens -- human-sized insect-beings with razor sharp 
teeth, glossy scales and a ravenous hunger for human flesh. 

"They killed Joanne and Artie." Kenna gripped William so hard 
it brought tears to the boy's startled eyes. "They killed 
Rick!"

"She's not one of them," Gibson explained.
       
Mulder's injured leg was quaking. He was on the verge of 
dropping Royal. The floor glittered with shards of glass and 
fragments of razor-sharp metal. Split trusses, shattered 
cement and broken sheetrock cluttered the room. "This man 
needs help, Kenna. Get in here."

She began to pace. "I won't put William in danger." 

"The hybrid isn't dangerous," Gibson insisted. 

A metallic screech nearly drowned him out when Dibeh shoved a 
bent aluminum cot out of her way to uncover a tattered 
mattress. She grabbed its corners and dragged it to a semi-
clear spot. 

"Thank you," Mulder grunted as he and Gibson carefully laid 
down their burden. 

Royal moaned, coming to, adding another internal voice to the 
din in Gibson's brain. He was shivering, so Dibeh located a 
blood-spattered blanket and carefully covered him with it. 

"You didn't see what I saw," Kenna was muttering. She jiggled 
William as if he were the one in need of consoling. "You don't 
know what they do. Killers. They're all killers. They tear 
people to shreds. They eat babies."

"Stop it, Kenna. You're scaring William," Gibson warned, 
hearing the child's unease balloon. 

"Hell, she's scaring me," Mulder admitted. He squatted beside 
Royal. "You awake, soldier?"

"Y-yeah. Jesus fucking Christ...my arm hurts."

"You've been burned."

"P-plasma fire."

"He needs water," Gibson said, zeroing in on the man's 
unspoken plea for a drink.

"Kenna," Mulder called to her, "where's the water jug?"

"Back on the road where Gibson left it."

"Go get it."

"I'm not going back there by myself. Not with locust-monsters 
around."

"There are no monsters. Get the damned jug."

"No way. I'm not going."

Dibeh tapped Gibson's shoulder and signaled, "I'll go."

At his nod, she ran from the building.

Royal rocked on the mattress, pain flaring in his arm. Panic 
flooded his thoughts and, in turn, Gibson's. "Am I going to 
die?"

"No," Mulder assured him. "A little food, water, a couple of 
days rest and you'll be fine."

"Can't rest. Gotta go. Gotta help 'em."

"Help who, son?" 

Gibson already knew, the name reaching him like a scream. 
"Skinner," he said.

"They'll torture him to find out what he knows." Royal 
squeezed his eyes shut as he rode out a wave of searing pain. 
"They'll kill him for the things he's done."

Mulder looked to Gibson and silently implored him to deny the 
possibility.

Gibson pushed the limits of his telepathy through forests and 
over mountains to search for Skinner. Instead he discovered 
Scully, arguing with a hybrid servant. 

"She's alive. Scully's alive!"

Shocked surprise from Mulder. Mounting hope. Relief. "Where?"

"Held prisoner aboard the aliens' ship. Inside the stronghold 
at Salt Lake City."

Mulder's relief receded, displaced again by dread. "She okay?"

"Seems to be."

"And Skinner?"

"I can't hear him."

"Does that mean he's...?" 

"I don't know."

"Could he be unconscious?"

"Or somewhere that obstructs telepathic signals."

"Does such a place exist?"

If it did, Gibson wanted to be there -- a haven where he could 
block out the overwhelming clamor in his head. The last few 
months had taken their toll. The voices had always been 
distracting, but lately they had grown horrific, a pandemonium 
of unrelenting misery.      

Royal struggled to rise from the mattress. "Gotta find 
Commander Skinner." 

"You're in no shape to travel," Mulder said.

"Can't stay." 

"You need rest."

"No, no time." Pain knocked Royal flat.

"Sorry, son. You're sitting this one out."

"Then *you* go. You find him. Save him."

The challenge set Mulder's emotions swirling. He glanced at 
Kenna and William. "I...I can't." 

"Then the Commander's a dead man. Doc Scully's dead, too." 

Mulder rose unsteadily and limped across the room, away from 
Gibson, away from Kenna, eyes panning the rubble as if he 
might find a solution to their dilemma among the ash-covered 
cots, the blood-stained bedding, the bodies and spilled pills 
and knotted IVs. He dead-ended at the infirmary's cracked back 
wall, where he shifted restlessly on the balls of his feet, 
confused, afraid. Gibson could hear indecision roaring through 
his mind like a thunderstorm. William needed protection. Yet 
Skinner and Scully were in danger. The threat was real. Mulder 
had been aboard an alien ship, held prisoner. He knew the 
terror, the agony of drills and lasers and scalpels.

Mulder began to hyperventilate and Gibson feared the onset of 
a flashback. He didn't want to experience that torture through 
Mulder again. He had already heard it more times than he could 
bear. It was why he had avoided divulging the details of his 
"nightmare" two nights ago. Mulder was hanging onto sanity by 
his fingertips, had been for months. Gibson feared pushing him 
over the edge.

In retrospect, it might've been wiser to tell him the truth, 
prepare him.       

Gibson went to him and touched his arm, momentarily clearing 
the images of aliens from both their minds. "Scully's alive." 

"But for how long?" Mulder's eyes glittered with desperation. 
"It could take a week or more to hike to Salt Lake City."

"Are you saying we should do nothing? Stay here and let Scully 
and Skinner die? Can you live with that decision?"

"I can't abandon my son. And I certainly can't take him into 
an alien stronghold." 

"He can stay here with Kenna and Royal."

Mulder shook his head, annoyed. "Suppose another shapeshifter 
comes after him. Or we die in Salt Lake City." 

Now Gibson's ire soared. "Stay or go, we'll die eventually. 
The question we need to ask is: how do we want to live the 
time that's left to us?" Gibson refused to let fear steer his 
destiny. Not anymore. He was no longer a powerless child. His 
days of complacency and submission were over. It was time to 
take action, be courageous. "I won't stand by while my friends 
suffer, Mulder, not when there's a chance I can help them." 

"And if you die trying, at least you go down fighting, is that 
it?" 

Gibson could hear Mulder recalling similar words, spoken to 
Krycek's ghost as they raced to save him from aliens at 
Kits'iil.

"You believed that once, Mulder. Why not now?"

"I have different responsibilities."

"Maybe, but what will you tell William a few years from now 
when he asks what happened to his mother?"

"That's not fair."

"Will you tell him the truth?"

"Stop it."

"That you could've done something to save her, but didn't?"

"I said stop."

"You let her die because it was safer to stay here with your 
new little family--"

"Stop it!" Mulder's fists clenched. Gibson could hear him 
wanting to strike out.   

Rather than move out of range, Gibson stepped closer, 
narrowing the gap between them. He needed to get through to 
Mulder, even if it meant risking a flashback. "I know what the 
aliens did to you. I know you've been through hell. But if you 
quit now--"

"They win." More familiar words. Mulder's head wagged as if to 
shake off the memory. His thoughts floundered. He loved 
Scully. He wanted to save her. But he could not desert their 
child. 

The way she had. 

"You're wrong about her," Gibson said.

"Am I? You have some insight I don't?"

"Yes."

"Then tell me! You have the advantage, Gibson. I can't read 
your mind. Say what you're thinking."

Gibson met his angry stare. "She loves William." 

"She gave him away. That's a fact. You can't deny it."

"She put him up for adoption."

"Same thing."

"No it isn't."

"If she loved him she would've done whatever it took to 
protect him."

"That's exactly what she did do." Gibson squared his 
shoulders, hardened his voice and faced off with his old 
friend. "Mulder, you can't seriously believe she wanted to 
give up her child. It was a selfless act. She did it for his 
sake. She did it for yours, too. Your safety outweighed her 
suffering."

Mulder shook his head, disbelieving. "She wasn't suffering. 
She sent him away with no more consideration than you'd give 
an old sweater you dump off at the local thrift shop."

"That's not true." The aliens had done a hell of a number on 
Mulder to screw up his thinking this badly. "Giving him up 
hurt her more than you'll ever know."

"I don't believe it."

"Her grief was genuine. I heard it."

Doubt narrowed Mulder's eyes. "When?"

"When you were at Mount Weather. And earlier. When you were 
with me in Arizona." 

"In Ariz...? That was a goddamned year ago, Gibson! Why didn't 
you tell me then?"

"You'd been through hell. You weren't ready to hear about what 
was happening to Scully, to William."

"You decided what I should or shouldn't know?"

"It was too much."

"The truth is all I've ever wanted, Gibson. Especially from my 
friends." 

Mulder felt cheated. His expectations had always been 
impossibly high and since his abduction and incarceration he 
had grown more paranoid than ever.

To reach him, Gibson decided to change tactics. He relaxed his 
stance. Lowered his voice. "I'm telling you the truth now. Are 
you listening?" 

Mulder studied Gibson's face and considered his words. 

"Why didn't she call me back?" he finally asked. "I could've 
helped. I would've protected them both."

"You saw Jeffery Spender at your trial, what they did to him. 
She didn't want that for you. She didn't want it for William 
either."

"I'm not Jeffrey. I could've...I..." Mulder looked across the 
room at William.  

"You know what these men are capable of," Gibson reminded him. 
"They stop at nothing." 

"We could've gone into hiding."

"Where?"

"They didn't find me in Arizona."

This was Gibson's opening at last, a checkmate, if he played 
his moves right. "Because you don't have a microchip implanted 
in your neck that could lead them right to you."

The reality of Scully's unique dilemma hit Mulder like a punch 
to the gut. She carried a homing device inside her body. It 
was how the supersoldiers had found her in Georgia. It was how 
they would always find her, no matter where she tried to run. 
That damn chip was a beacon and as long she had it they could 
find her, and through her find William. The chip was why she 
sent William away, Mulder realized. To save him.

It was why she sent Mulder away, too.

"Get it now?" Gibson asked, already knowing the answer. "She 
didn't call you out of hiding because you would have come to 
her. And through her, they would've found you."

Sagging against the broken wall, Mulder's fury waned as he let 
go of his bitterness. An uneasy breath sifted from his lungs. 
"I should have realized, figured it out."

"You had other things on your mind."

"Then I should at least have given her the benefit of the 
doubt. Trusted her. It's what she would have done for me."

He turned from Gibson and limped toward Kenna and William. At 
his approach, William pulled his thumb from his mouth and 
extended his arm. "Dada."

Mulder stepped out through a gaping hole in the broken wall 
and took hold of his son's hand. He gently squeezed the boy's 
small, wet fingers. Concerns for William, Scully and Skinner 
loomed large in his mind, and therefore in Gibson's. Duty 
tugged Mulder in multiple directions. He felt equally 
responsible for the safe rescue of his friends and for the 
well-being of this small child.   

"I need to leave for a few days," he said, trying out the 
words. 

Kenna took a step back, breaking his contact with his son. 
"You can't go! It's not safe!" Tears sprang to her eyes. 
"William needs you."

Mulder's doubts returned, crashing through Gibson's mind.

"You've been taking care of William since last May, Kenna." 
Gibson crossed the debris-strewn room to join them outside. 
"You've fed him, kept him warm, saved him from aliens." 

Gibson hoped this truth would give Mulder the permission he 
needed to do what his heart was urging him to do: rescue his 
friends.

"God helped me," she said, "but He isn't here. Look around. 
Would He let this happen?"

Mulder took in the devastation. Uncertainty threatened to 
undermine his tenuous resolve. 

"I can keep track of things here, telepathically," Gibson 
assured them. "We'll turn around and come back at the first 
sign of trouble."

"That could be too late!" Kenna argued. 

"I'll know of any impending problems long before you will." 

"And what if you get captured?"

It was a valid question.

Mulder looked to Gibson. "I don't doubt your extrasensory 
perception, but you can't presage the future. The stronghold 
and the ship are likely to be heavily guarded. There's no 
guarantee we'll get in."

"Or out," Kenna said.

"Take me," Dibeh signaled, having returned with the water. "I 
know Tse'Bit'a'i'. I can find Lady Dana. I can find Skinner, 
too."

"What is she saying?" Mulder asked.

"She wants to help," Gibson said. 

"You trust her?"

Gibson nodded, hearing Dibeh's intense homesickness. Even though 
her motives weren't the same as theirs, her desire to return 
to Salt Lake City was honest and heartfelt.

Mulder's mind began to churn with possible strategies. For the 
first time in months he was thinking like his old self. 
Gibson's relief was profound. He had missed his friend. 

"I could pose as this Ca-Lo guy," Mulder suggested.

"And I could be your 'prisoner,'" Gibson said. 

"They'd practically roll out a red carpet to get their hands 
on you." Mulder turned to Dibeh. "You could play the part of 
my aide." 

"Stop it! Stop talking like this!" Kenna demanded. "It's 
ridiculous. You're all crazy."

"Too bad we left the motorcycle in Wyoming," Mulder said, 
ignoring her.

"Lady Dana and I rode awful beasts. The trip took two days," 
Dibeh signaled with shaky hands. 

"Horses?" Gibson asked.

"We passed horses about a half mile from here," Mulder said, 
picking up on their exchange. 

"You're never coming back," Kenna predicted dismally.

"Nothing will stop me from trying." Mulder reached out and 
caressed William's plump cheek. "I promise."

Gibson could hear that Mulder's feelings of doubt and regret 
remained strong, but he was determined to reunite his family 
by bringing Scully back. 

*   *   * 

Over the next two hours Mulder and Gibson gathered saddles and 
bridles, then rounded up three horses -- not an easy task, 
until they found a small canister of sugar, which Gibson used 
to lure the animals to them. As the horses ate from his hand, 
Mulder slipped bridles over their heads. 

Dibeh changed into warmer clothing and scrounged enough food 
in the wrecked RVs for a two-day ride. She was able to locate 
only one small bottle of water. Mulder decided to take it with 
them and let Kenna keep the larger jug they'd been carrying.

On Mulder's order, Kenna looked for guns and ammunition. If he 
was going to leave his son in her care, he wanted her armed. 
Thankfully she did as she was told, probably because she 
recognized the danger of being left alone with an injured man 
and a defenseless toddler. It took her scant time to bring 
back a Beretta and an M-16; she picked them off the body of a 
dead soldier. Mulder appropriated the handgun for himself, 
although it contained only one round. He offered the rifles to 
her.

"Know how to use one of these?" he asked. 

She had been wielding a rifle when he first met her in 
Wyoming, but he hadn't actually seen her fire it.

"Rick taught me to shoot when we were first dating."

"Sounds romantic."

She huffed, impatient with him. "It was for practical 
purposes, if you must know. *He* worried about me." 

"You may not believe this, but I do, too. Which is why I want 
you to use this if you have to."

"I thought Gibson said you'd come back at the first sign of 
trouble."

"In a perfect world. But since this world hasn't been perfect 
for a very long while, my advice is to trust no one and shoot 
to kill." 

Casting him a sour scowl, she stowed the gun in the cab of a 
pickup, where she intended to take up residence until they 
returned. It had a camper shell over the truck bed, in bad 
shape, but it provided better cover than the roofless 
infirmary. Mulder and Gibson hauled a mattress, and then 
carried Royal, to the back of the truck to make it more 
convenient for her to care for him.

When they were ready to leave, Mulder helped Dibeh onto her 
horse, a roan mare, the gentlest of the three animals. She 
waited nervously while Gibson mounted his black gelding. 
Kenna, looking angry and desperate, paced between the pickup 
and the horses. She held William tightly in her arms. He 
sucked his thumb. Her lower lip trembled.

"I need to say goodbye," Mulder mumbled to Gibson before 
handing him the reins to his own mare, a showy piebald with a 
feisty temperament. 

"Take your time."

This wasn't going to be easy. Kenna was clearly upset, 
shivering. William whimpered in her arms. Dirty snowflakes had 
begun to fall, jittering on the cold breeze like half-crazed 
insects, tinged bloody-pink by the red smoke. 

"Dada go?" Tears welled in William's eyes.

Mulder reached for him. "May I?" he asked Kenna.

Reluctantly, she handed him over. 

Mulder hugged William to his chest, kissed the crown of his 
head, breathed in the warm, soft scent of his hair. The boy 
seemed too light, only thirty or thirty-five pounds fully 
dressed, and Mulder was suddenly swamped by an unfounded fear 
that William wasn't getting enough to eat. 

What kinds of diseases did malnourished kids get? Scurvy? 
Rickets? 

Scully would know. She could keep him healthy.

If Mulder could find her.  

"No go, Dada. No go," William whined.

"I have to, son." He was loath to release his grip on this 
child, as if William would fade away the moment he left his 
arms, become as insubstantial as a mirage or vanish like a 
half-remembered dream. Instinct told him to stay and protect 
his son. Yet his heart prodded him toward Scully, to save her, 
bring her back, so she could be William's mother again, and 
Mulder could watch over them both. "Be a good boy for Kenna 
while I'm gone, okay?"

William sniffled, then unexpectedly threw stubby arms around 
Mulder's neck.

The world blurred as tears flooded Mulder's eyes. A lump 
formed in his throat, making it impossible for him to say all 
he wanted to say: I love you, son, more than I could've 
possibly imagined. I've messed up so many things in my life. 
Kenna. Scully. Maybe the whole goddamned world. Yet look at 
how perfect you are. Somehow, through a miraculous act that 
resulted in you, I managed to get one thing right.

Holding William, rubbing his back to sooth him, Mulder hoped 
he could trust Kenna to keep his son safe, hoped he wasn't 
wrong to leave, hoped Scully could hold on until he arrived. 

"I'll be back, son. As soon as I can. I promise." He kissed 
William's brow, then passed him back to Kenna. "Take care of 
him. Please."

"Don't go," she said, echoing William's plaintive demand.  

"I don't want to."

"Then don't. Stay here with us. Let them go."

"I can't. I have to do this."

Disgust thinned her lips. "You're no better than her, you 
know. You're walking out on your son, just like she did."

Mulder's chest tightened as guilt speared his heart.

"It's for just a few days," Gibson interrupted from atop his 
horse.

Kenna ignored Gibson to glare at Mulder. "You're deserting 
your child." 

"I'm trusting you to look after him." He touched her arm.

She jerked back. Indignant. Furious. "Suppose I decide to 
leave? Take William somewhere you can't find him?"

"You take him anywhere," Gibson warned, "and I'll find you 
wherever you go, just like I did in Wyoming." 

Clearly startled by this idea, Kenna fastened her teary gaze 
on Mulder. "Won't you at least spend the night? Just one more 
night with us? With your son?"

"The sooner I get started, the sooner I can get back."

"With *her*..."

Mulder reached out to stroke William's tousled hair one last 
time. "I hope so."

William began to cry. His wail grew louder when Mulder turned 
away. He walked stiffly to his horse, took the reins from 
Gibson. Mechanically, he hooked the toe of his boot into his 
stirrup. Painfully, awkwardly, he hoisted himself into the 
saddle. The leather creaked from the effort. Wind ruffled the 
horse's mane. Behind them, a tent flapped in the breeze, torn 
loose from its stakes.

Don't cry, son, Mulder silently begged, directing his horse 
westward toward Salt Lake City. 

It took every ounce of his willpower to spur his horse to a 
trot and leave William behind. He didn't turn in his saddle to 
look back. Hearing William's sobs was heartbreaking enough. 
Seeing his tear-stained cheeks would have been Mulder's 
undoing.  

*   *   *

PRISONER DORMITORY
ANTELOPE ISLAND

Ca-Lo fought an urge to hold his breath against the stench of 
sweating prisoners, excrement-clogged toilets, vomit and 
blood-stained floors. Inmates, packed eight or more to each 
six-by-ten cell, greeted him with jeers and moans as he walked 
the block's long, central corridor. He followed Warden Travis, 
a brawny man with a tattooed, bald head and the disposition of 
a provoked scorpion. Scars crisscrossed the warden's face. His 
uniform was filthy, stained at the collar and under the arms. 
He was missing three fingers on his right hand, yet managed to 
forcefully grip a fully charged Taser. 

Prisoner 2784T3L6 pressed his face between the bars, cursed 
loudly and spat as they passed by. A clot of blood-tinged 
saliva splattered the silicrete floor inches from Ca-Lo's 
polished right boot.

"Son of a fucking whore!" The warden raised his Taser and 
turned on the prisoner. 

Ca-Lo's quiet command halted him mid-strike. "Later."

"Sir, we don't allow prisoners to disrespect--"

"I have neither the time nor the desire to hear about your 
disciplinary procedures." Ca-Lo loathed this place, this 
warehouse of human misery, where hopelessness and fear hung 
like a poisonous mist in the greasy, dank air. It reminded him 
of his boyhood punishments, when he had been stuffed into an 
observation capsule -- a wet, cramped carapace that held him 
immobile while Nih-hi-cho Appraisers crawled through his mind, 
day after day, night after long night. "Do whatever needs 
doing *later*."

"Yes, sir." Discomfiture pinked the chastised warden's scarred 
cheeks. He lowered his Taser and glared at the prisoner. "I'll 
be back for you," he growled, before stalking down the 
corridor.

Ca-Lo trailed him around a corner. Hundreds of cells identical 
to the previous ones came into view. Rust encrusted the bars. 
Oily puddles slicked the floors. The walls sweated a viscous, 
green sludge.

"Here, sir." Travis stopped in front of Cell MMCXVI. 

Eleven tight-lipped men warily eyed Travis and Ca-Lo from 
behind the bars.

"Which one is the priest?"

"Old man in back." 

A grizzled, skeletal man sat on the floor atop a threadbare 
blanket at the rear of the cell, head bowed, lips moving in 
silent prayer. 

"Father Richards?" Ca-Lo called out.

The gaunt priest murmured "amen," then opened rheumy eyes. 
"Well, well. What does the illustrious Commander of the great 
Nih-hi-cho Armada want from a pathetic servant like me?" He 
wore a tattered frock, its once-white collar gray with dirt. 
Emaciated feet, bare, pale, mottled with grime and bruises, 
protruded from loose-fitting trousers. "Seeking absolution for 
your sins, by any chance?" 

"I'm not here to confess." 

"Ah, just as well. The Sacrament of Penance requires 
contrition." Father Richards rose on quaking legs. The other 
prisoners moved aside, squeezing together to allow him room to 
shuffle past. Reaching the door, he clutched the bars for 
support and matched Ca-Lo's stare with a look of obvious 
contempt. "I've yet to meet a friend of the Nih-hi-cho who 
feels repentant for his crimes against humanity."

"That's a rather unforgiving generalization, coming from a 
religious man."

"Indeed. Clearly I am failing God's most recent test. Maybe 
you and I will be roommates in hell one day, hmm?"

"Look around, Father. We're already in hell."

"And no one would know that better than the Devil him--" 

The warden thrust his Taser between the bars and jolted Father 
Richards in the gut. The old priest cried out. Travis shocked 
him again. And again, until the old man collapsed to his 
knees. Even then the warden continued to jab him. 

"Stop it!" Ca-Lo ordered. "Put that damned thing away!"

"He must be taught proper manners, sir."

"I said no." Ca-Lo gripped the warden's arm, jerked him away 
from the cell and confiscated the Taser.

Worry shadowed Travis's eyes. He leaned close to Ca-Lo and 
whispered, "Undermine me in front of these animals and it'll 
lead to trouble."

"Ignore my orders again and you'll be on the receiving end of 
this." Ca-Lo brandished the Taser. "Have I made myself clear?"

"Yes, sir." Travis retreated a step. 

Inside the cell, Father Richards struggled to his feet. 

"A hint of compassion in that cold heart of yours, Commander? 
Perhaps absolution is possible after all. God can be 
sympathetic, you know, even when his servants are not." 

"I'm not here to test your god's leniency."

"Then why are you here?"

"To ask a favor."

"Ask?" The priest's eyes narrowed. "Or demand?"

"The Commander of the Nih-hi-cho Armada is *asking* Prisoner 
3788T3L6 to grant him a favor. You may refuse, but if you do, 
your cellmates and every prisoner on this block will be handed 
over to Warden Travis for whatever punishment he deems 
appropriate." 

"Ah. I see." The priest rubbed his stomach where the weapon 
had struck him. "Given those alternatives, what might Prisoner 
3788T3L6 do for his Lordship?"

"Officiate a wedding ceremony."

"A wedding? For who?"

"Does it matter? Do it or condemn your comrades." 

The priest's gaze flickered to the wretched men around him. 
"Obviously, my answer must be yes."

"Good. The warden will get you cleaned up." To Travis, Ca-Lo 
said, "Deliver him to Tse'Bit'a'i'. Provide whatever trappings 
he may require for the ceremony." 

"Yes, sir. May I, um...may I have my Taser back?"

Ca-Lo shoved the weapon into the warden's outstretched hand 
and spun on his heel. The priest's voice echoed after him as 
he retreated down the corridor. "O God, by my grievous sins I 
have re-crucified Thy divine Son and deserve Thy everlasting 
wrath in the fires of hell. Even more, I have been most 
ungrateful to Thee, my Heavenly Father..."

Back on the roof, Ca-Lo leaned against the hull of his 
runabout and gulped fresh air into his lungs, grateful for the 
wind that pummeled the prison's stink from his clothes. Was the 
priest right? Was there a place more terrible than this world? 
Ca-Lo squinted into the setting sun. Its fire was blinding, 
but did nothing to warm the chill in his bones. 

Shivering against the cold, he climbed into the pilot's seat 
and ignited the thrusters. The thrum of engines helped calm 
his nerves, slow his pulse. He lifted off and breathed a sigh 
of relief as Antelope Island grew small beneath him. Steering 
toward Salt Lake City, he radioed Airman Ingraham for an 
update.

"Good news, sir," the young airman said.

"Tell me." 

"I've located Major Harris's murderer." 

"Where?"

"Wasatch-Cache Forest, heading your way on horseback."

"You're certain he's the killer?"

"Must be, sir. He's a Refuter, a shapeshifter."

"What makes you say that?"

"Because he...he's impersonating you, sir. He looks just like 
you."

Ca-Lo smiled. It was Mulder!   

"He is the man I want," Ca-Lo said. Harmony I came into view. 
The setting sun cast the Armada's twelve warships into fiery 
relief on the airport's outer runways. Their hulls glowed as 
if struck by plasma canon. The sight sent an unexpected chill 
through Ca-Lo. "Does the Refuter have a young child with him?"

"No, sir. Just a hybrid and a human teenager."

No William? That was a surprise. And a disappointment.

"The murderer goes by the name of Fox Mulder. Bring him to 
me," Ca-Lo said. "Alive. Understood?"

"Yes, sir. What about the others?"

"I don't care what you do with them. It's only Mulder I want."

*   *   *

SOMEWHERE IN WASATCH-CACHE NATIONAL FOREST 

"Is William okay?" Mulder crouched beside a mountain stream, 
his fingers growing numb as he refilled their water bottle. 
The ice-cold stream tumbled over rocks and fallen logs. It 
carried the smell of ancient soil and decaying leaves. The 
setting sun tinted its rough surface blood-red.    

Gibson stood above Mulder on a tree-lined bank and gripped the 
horses' reins. Dibeh remained rigid and wide-eyed atop her 
gentle mare. She gasped each time the horse tossed its head 
and huffed into the frosty, evening air.

"You've asked me the same question at least a hundred times, 
Mulder." Gibson toed a pebble into the stream. It plopped into 
the gurgling water, where it was quickly lost in the froth. 

"So make it a hundred and one."

Gibson heaved an exaggerated sigh, then cocked his head, 
obviously listening to faraway voices. Mulder recalled the 
cacophony that had bludgeoned him to the point of insanity 
when, under the spell of Dr. Merkmallen's mysterious rubbings, 
he temporarily possessed Gibson's skill. He had been unable to 
sift through the maddening chatter. But somehow Gibson could 
make sense of it, could even tune his internal radar to a 
single, unique voice -- in this case, that of an eighteen-
month-old boy. The God Module in his brain was aptly named. 
His abilities were nothing short of miraculous. 

"He's fine. Stop worrying."

"I can't." No longer able to feel his fingertips, Mulder 
fumbled with the bottle's push/pull cap. "I don't trust 
Kenna."

"She's been taking care of him for months."

"She wasn't angry at me then."

"She wouldn't hurt William, not even to get back at you."

Gibson was right. Kenna believed William was a gift from God. 
A true miracle. It was one of the few things she and Mulder 
agreed upon. 

Shaking the chill from his fingers, Mulder rose stiffly to his 
feet. Twilight was setting in. A smattering of stars speckled 
the sky to the east where a scimitar moon appeared wedged in 
the jagged treetops. He climbed the bank and offered Gibson 
the water bottle.

"No, thanks." 

"Dibeh?" Mulder held out the bottle.

She reached for it, but before he could hand it off, Gibson 
quietly announced, "Someone's coming."

Mulder's damaged left ear registered nothing. His right picked 
up the rustle of wind through trees, a creak of leather as one 
of the horses shifted position, but no scuff of feet or rumble 
of an approaching engine. Even so, he lowered his voice to a 
whisper. "I don't suppose it's Ed McMahon, coming to tell me 
I've won the Publisher's Clearing House sweepstakes." 

"Airman from the alien army."

"Just one?"

"Yes."

"Shapeshifter?"

"Human."

"How far away?"

"Five hundred yards...that way." Gibson lifted his chin to 
indicate the direction they had come. "He's on foot."

"He walked all the way from Safe Camp?"

"No, he's got a ship hidden in the woods. He's looking for 
you."

"I'm flattered," -- Mulder peered into the gloom and saw only 
black tree trunks and swaying branches -- "but why me?"

"He has orders to take you back to Tse'Bit'a'i'...alive."

"Whose orders?"

"Ca-Lo's."

"Ah, the plot thickens. Maybe we should let him capture me, 
take me directly into the lion's den, no waiting."

"He also has orders to kill Dibeh and me." Gibson glanced at 
Dibeh, who searched the woods from atop her horse, worry 
creasing her broad alien forehead. "He's armed. Stun gun 
and...an automatic."

Mulder felt for the Beretta tucked into his belt. With only 
one bullet, it might not be enough. He was about to toss the 
water bottle aside when an idea struck him. "What do you say 
we lull him into a false sense of security?"

"You intend to take *him* prisoner?" Gibson asked, reading 
his thoughts.  

"He could tell us a lot about the alien stronghold and Ca-Lo. 
Take Dibeh downstream. Give me a few minutes. Gotta see a man 
about a horse." He waggled the bottle. 

Gibson nodded, understanding his intentions. "Be careful," he 
mouthed as he led Dibeh and the horses into the shadows. 

Mulder positioned himself in front of a nearby tree, facing 
the trunk to make it appear from the stranger's perspective as 
if he were taking a much-needed piss. He was careful to shield 
the water bottle and his gun with his body. He opened the 
bottle's push/pull cap and waited for the airman to announce 
himself.

He didn't have long to wait. Snapping twigs alerted him to the 
man's approach. Mulder widened his stance and gently squeezed 
water from the bottle.

"Fox Mulder?" the airman asked.

"Jesus!" Mulder feigned surprise by splashing the tree trunk. 
He glanced over his shoulder to get a look at his opponent -- 
a baby-faced young man, five-ten or eleven, a hundred and 
sixty pounds, give or take. He wore a plain black military 
uniform, like the one Mulder had seen Ca-Lo and his minions 
wearing aboard Tse'Bit'a'i'. A Glock hung in the holster on 
his right hip, and he carried a stun gun in his hand, 
corroborating Gibson's story that he intended to take Mulder 
alive.

"Where are your friends?"

"Giving me a little privacy. Speaking of which, do you mind?"

"Zip up," the airman ordered, trying to sound tougher than he 
looked. "You're coming with me."

"Come on, buddy, you caught me midstream. I'd like to finish 
my business." 

The airman stepped closer, almost within arm's reach, and 
pointed the Taser. "I suggest you hold it 'til later."

"And I suggest you back off." Mulder pivoted, dropped the 
water bottle, drew and aimed his pistol.   

The airman blinked in astonishment. 

"Rock, paper, bullets." Mulder leveled the gun at the man's 
head. "Looks like I win. Drop the cattle prod."

Too late, the airman fumbled for the Glock.

"I wouldn't do that," Mulder warned and cocked his pistol. The 
man froze, hand poised above his holster. "Rumor has it you 
need me alive, soldier. I, on the other hand, am under no such 
obligation. So, either drop your weapon and put your hands in 
the air, or I shoot you in the fucking head. Your choice."     

"D-don't shoot." The airman let the Taser fall to the ground 
and raised his hands.

"Good man." Mulder kicked the weapon into the scrub and 
confiscated the airman's gun. Checking the clip, he found it 
was fully loaded. He hurled the Beretta with its single round 
into the woods. "Gibson, you out there?"

Gibson stepped from the trees. He retrieved the Taser, then 
moved to one side.

Mulder relaxed a little. "What's your name, soldier?" 

The airman squared his shoulders and shut his mouth, making it 
clear he had no intention of cooperating.

"His name is Jason Ingraham," Gibson supplied for him, "and 
he's thinking about how angry Ca-Lo is going to be when he 
learns about what's happened here. He's wondering if all the 
stories he's heard about privation chambers are true."

Ingraham gaped at Gibson. "Y-you're a shapeshifter, too! I 
told Ca-Lo...I-I said--"

"Evidently this guy is smarter than he looks," Mulder said, 
playing along with the airman's supposition. It could work in 
their favor to let him believe they were aliens in human form. 
Make him less argumentative. "You're going to fly us to 
Tse'Bit'a'i', Ingraham."

"I am?"

"Aren't those your orders? Take me back to the ship, to Ca-Lo?

"Y-yes."

"Then let's not keep him waiting. And don't even think about 
trying to warn your pals at headquarters." Mulder brought the 
Glock's muzzle to within millimeters of the airman's nose. 
"Understood?"

Ingraham swallowed hard and nodded.

Mulder eyed his plain, dark uniform. It bore no crest or 
emblem designating rank. Wearing it, Mulder might improve his 
chances of fooling the guards at Salt Lake City into thinking 
he was Ca-Lo.  

He smiled and chucked the airman's nose with the barrel of his 
gun. "Take off your clothes, Ingraham."

"What?"

"You heard me. Strip." 

*   *   *

TSE'BIT'A'I'
SALT LAKE CITY, UTAH

The wedding dress had a deeply scalloped neckline, a 
voluminous skirt with a long train, and yards of satiny green 
fabric with thousands of tiny, hand-sewn beads. It weighed 
close to seventy pounds and sparkled like the Ablution Pools 
on a peaceful night. 

"Put it on, please." Ca-Lo stood before Dana with the gown 
draped over his outstretched arms.

Her frown deepened. "The last time we played dress up I ended 
up in your bed."

"And history's about to repeat itself. We're going to be 
married as soon as Warden Travis delivers our priest." 

"You're delusional."

"It's going to happen."

"Not without my consent."

The dress was growing heavy and Ca-Lo struggled to keep his 
arms held high. "If I say we will be married, we will be 
married. Don't presume anyone will race to your rescue or that 
the Nih-hi-cho will care one way or the other. I command this 
ship."

"You may command this ship, but you don't command me."

"I don't need your cooperation to make you my wife."

"Then what you're proposing is abduction and rape."

His shoulders slumped. He hated what she was forcing him to 
do. To stall, he crossed the room and dumped the dress on the 
bed. 

Their wedding bed. 

He smoothed the gown's wrinkles. Cleared his throat. 

"Why do you love him and not me?" He kept his back to her. He 
couldn't bear the revulsion in her eyes. "We are exactly the 
same, my brother and I."

"You're nothing like him."

He spun to face her and opened his arms. "Physically, we are 
identical. Same face. Same body. Same scars."

"You manufactured those scars to dupe me."

"Does it matter how they came to be there?"

"Of course it matters. Experience molds character. Mulder 
earned those scars. He was changed -- mentally, emotionally -- 
by the events that caused them. A clone or shapeshifter might 
look like him physically, but they cannot posses his 
character, his spirit. You can't replicate what's in a man's 
heart."

"You are in my heart." Ca-Lo's voice cracked. "I love you." 

"Then prove it. Let me go."

"I can't do that."

"Mulder wouldn't keep me here against my will."

"He has other options."

"So do you."

"No. You're wrong."

"Am I?" she challenged. "You act as if you have no choice, no 
free will."

"It's not an act." He moved to the bird cage, where eight 
finches chirped and preened on their perches. Prisoners like 
her. Like him. If he were to release them, they would not live 
more than a day or two. They had been captives all their lives 
and no longer possessed the skills or instincts required to 
survive outside their cage. "None of us is free to do as we 
please. Not here."

"Then why stay?"

"You think I can just walk away?" He faced her. "They would 
never let me go."

"They?"

"The Nih-hi-cho. My masters."

"You said you command this ship."

"Within limits. Like a child directs toy boats in his bath."

"You're a coward," she sneered. The venom in her voice sliced 
through him. 

He was no coward. He had faced hell's worst demons, countless 
times, and survived. She couldn't begin to imagine the 
horrific things they had done to him. What they would do 
again. To him. To her. He had been a mere child the first time 
they pinned him to an examination platform, younger than her 
son William. He had cried to be released, begged them to stop 
their terrible cutting. He screamed until no sound came from 
his aching throat. "You don't understand."

"You're right, I don't." She paced toward him, stopped inches 
away, fixed him with a steely stare. "You want to know how you 
differ from Mulder? He is willing to stand up to his enemies; 
he flouts their rules, plays their game only on his own terms. 
Even when he was held prisoner aboard a ship like this one, he 
was a free man, *is* a free man, because he refuses to let 
anyone dictate his destiny."

"You said it yourself, Dana: experience molds character. If my 
brother had lived my life, he might be a desperate man, too." 
The urge to reach out for her was strong, but he kept his 
hands to his sides, fists clenched. "We could be very happy as 
husband and wife."

"I will not participate in your perverse fantasy."

A familiar feeling of helplessness coursed through his veins. 
"If you don't agree to marry me--"

"What will you do? Put me back in that awful cell?"

"Your friend Walter Skinner is in one now."

"You bastard."

"Unless you cooperate..." It was time to deliver his 
ultimatum. "Your son William will be in one, too." 

Her face paled. "You have William?"

"Yes," he lied, hating the necessity of it, wishing she would 
marry and love him because she wanted to, not because he 
threatened her son.

"Don't do this. Don't--" 

"A stasis cell is no place for a small boy, believe me. I 
speak from experience." 

Rage burned in her tear-filled eyes. "I'll kill you if you 
hurt my son!" 

"You can save him."

"By marrying you?" 

"Would it be so terrible?"

"How can you ask that? You're holding me here against my will. 
You're threatening my son!"

"Only because I love you."

"That's not how it works. That's not what love is."

"Then show me. Show me what love is." He reached out, cupped 
her cheek, leaned in to kiss her, wanting to understand, 
wanting to know where he had gone wrong, wanting to know how 
it would feel to be cherished and cared for.

"You're contemptible." 

She drew back to strike him, but he grabbed her wrist and 
blocked her blow. "So I have been told all my life." 

Satan, Abaddon, Ca-lo the Destroyer -- the Overseers had 
branded him with these names. To serve their own purposes. 
They had shaped his character the way a blacksmith hammers the 
sharp edge of a broadsword. Their success was complete. Dana's 
loathing proved it.

Heart pounding, he released her arm. "An aide will help you 
get ready. I'll be back in an hour." 

Without waiting for her reply, he brushed past her and fled 
the room. He didn't want to hear any more arguments. He didn't 
want to be tempted to change his mind.

*   *   *

SAFE CAMP, UTAH

Kenna ignored the twisting cramp in her abdomen as she duct-
taped a plastic trash bag over the broken window above Royal's 
mattress to block the wind. The pickup's camper shell was in 
bad shape, but even with the tailgate missing it provided a 
roof over their heads. 

"There, that's better," she said, proud of her handiwork.

"Just like home." Royal shivered inside his cocoon of 
blankets.

"You still cold? I saw a couple of sleeping bags over in the 
main building. Not too many bloodstains on 'em. They smelled 
to high Heaven, but they'd keep you from freezing to death. I 
don't mind going to get them."

That wasn't true. She did mind. She didn't want to leave 
William alone with Royal, but the infirmary was too jam-packed 
with stuff that could hurt him if she took him with her: 
spilled pills, needles, bloody rags, dead bodies, not to 
mention locust-monsters. Those devils were hiding everywhere, 
she was sure. Mulder never should have left. It wasn't safe. 
For him or them. Not with locust-monsters on the loose again. 
Nope, best to stay in one place.

"I'm okay." Royal cradled his injured arm beneath the covers. 

"Suit yourself," she said, relieved. "Lemme know if you change 
your mind." She tossed the duct tape through the cab's open 
window into the driver's seat, where it bounced with a thud 
into the foot well. 

The noise startled William, who was playing on the mattress 
beside Royal. He stopped driving his toy fire engine over the 
hills of Royal's blanketed knees. "Wha'zat?" he asked, his 
blue-gray eyes searching the camper.

"Bogeyman," Royal said. "Better watch out!" He gave the 
blankets a small kick, which sent the toy truck bouncing into 
the air. 

William stuck his thumb in his mouth and looked like he might 
cry.

"Quit scarin' him." Kenna fished a four-pack of Oreo cookies 
from her coat pocket. "Look what mama's got, sweetheart."  

"Cookie!" William reached out with both hands, fingers flexing 
with excitement.

"Hold your horses. Let me unwrap them first." She tore open 
the cellophane with her teeth and handed him a cookie. 

"Do I get one, too?" Royal's face was pale -- as pale as a 
black man's face could be. He had lost buckets of blood.

She gave him the remainder of the pack. "Need another 
Tylenol?"

"I'd rather have a snort of coke, if you got any." Dark crumbs 
speckled his white teeth.  

"Sorry. Tylenol's all we got," she said, wishing she could 
take one herself. Her belly was killing her, but she'd heard 
medication -- even something as mild as Tylenol -- could hurt 
a developing fetus. Cause a birth defect. She didn't want to 
risk it. 

"Nothin' stronger in the infirmary?" he asked.

"Probably, if you don't mind picking it up off the floor. You 
know most everything got busted and spilled in the blast."

"Might be worth taking the chance." He grimaced and stuffed 
another whole cookie into his mouth.

"Quit complaining. At least you're out of that rusted barrel."

"And into this one." He was about to scarf down the last 
cookie, but changed his mind and offered it to her. "You want 
it?"

"No thanks. I'm not feeling too good." Her guts roiled and 
burned. 

He turned to William. "How 'bout you, kid? Want it?"

William smiled shyly and took the Oreo from Royal's 
outstretched hand. 

"Cute kid." Royal wiped crumbs from his fingers onto his 
blankets.

"Looks like his dad, thank goodness." 

"Why you puttin' yourself down, girl? You ain't bad to look 
at." He licked his lips and she caught sight of a silver stud 
in the middle of his tongue. She'd never met anyone with a 
pierced tongue before. 

"Thanks, but it's just as well he takes after his daddy's 
side." Royal didn't need to know she wasn't William's birth 
mother. She was the boy's mama now, for all intents and 
purposes. Biology didn't mean a thing. It was actions that 
mattered. They defined a person. "He's gonna grow up tall and 
handsome. Just like daddy, huh, William?"

"Dada?"

"Where's his pop now? Dead?" 

"Heck no. You met him yesterday."

"The geek? Gibson?" Royal looked surprised.

"Not him. Mulder."

"Really? Seems kinda old for you."

"Age doesn't matter when you're in love." 

Royal's head bobbed in agreement, setting his dreadlocks 
swaying. "I hear ya." 

Another painful cramp arrowed through her. "Yep, Mulder and 
me, we're very happy. We're hoping this next one's gonna be a 
girl, a sister for William."

"You're pregnant?"

"Yes sir. Been trying for months. Finally happened for us."

"That's cool, I guess," Royal said, although he didn't look 
convinced. "But don't it scare you, bringin' another kid into 
the world, under the circumstances?"

"Mulder and me can take care of our family. Some people don't 
have what it takes, the commitment, you know? Even in good 
times." Like William's selfish birth mother. "But we do."

"Then it's all good, babe."

"Yeah, it is. Mulder's a great dad. He loves William more'n 
life itself. Loves me like that, too." 

She wished Mulder would come back from his silly wild goose 
chase to Salt Lake. This was no time to be leaving his family 
unprotected. He was putting them and himself in danger. And 
for what? That Dana Scully woman, who in all likelihood was 
already dead. William needed his father. Kenna needed Mulder, 
too. She was pregnant now. There was the new baby to consider.

Mulder hadn't actually asked her yet, but she was certain he 
was going to propose soon. He wasn't the "love 'em and leave 
'em" type, the kind of guy who would get a girl pregnant, then 
run for the hills. He'd be back and they'd get married. Maybe 
visit the Grand Canyon on their honeymoon, just like they'd 
always talked about. If he'd said it once, he'd said it a 
thousand times: she was his one true love. They were a family 
now, her, Mulder, William and the new baby. It was a dream 
come true, just like a fairytale. They were going to live 
happily ever after, wait and see. 

Lordy, she missed him. His attentiveness, his kindness toward 
her and William. She blushed, recalling the unhurried way 
they'd made love. He was a perfect lover. Thoughtful and 
generous. As much as she had once loved Rick, he sometimes 
rushed things. But not Mulder. Never Mulder.   

A fiery ache burned low in her pelvis. She gripped her belly 
and waited for the pain to ease.

"You okay?" Royal asked.

"I'm fine. Just a little morning sickness." The words no 
sooner left her mouth when an unexpected surge of warmth 
flooded her panties.

Something was wrong. Very wrong. 

"Mind watching William a minute?" she asked and moved to the 
pick-up's open rear gate.

"Uh, okay, but don't be gone long."

"Back in a jiff, I promise."

Kenna hopped to the ground. She wouldn't go far, not with 
locust-monsters about, but she rounded the truck to the front 
bumper, out of Royal's view, where she quickly unbuttoned her 
jeans, pushed them to her knees and peered inside her panties.

The crotch was sodden and stained with blood.

"Damn it." Tears stung her eyes. 

She hadn't taken any Tylenol. She'd done nothing to jeopardize 
a pregnancy. 

"Why?" she asked God. "I'd've been a good mother." William was 
living proof.

Another cramp ripped through her. She sank onto her haunches. 

What was she going to tell Mulder?

"He doesn't need to know," she muttered. No point hurting him. 
They could try again. They loved each other. They still had 
William. 

"No one needs to know," she whispered to a sky made hazy by 
spitting snow. "It'll be our secret. Shhhhhh."   

*   *   *

TSE'BIT'A'I'
HANGAR DECK

Strips of leather, cut from the horses' reins, bound 
Ingraham's wrists and ankles. Gibson's striped scarf served as 
a gag. Mulder double-checked the knots. Satisfied the airman 
wasn't going anywhere soon, he patted his shoulder and said, 
"Thanks for the ride." 

A warning jolt from the stun-gun -- and a fib about the 
Refuters' displeasure and guaranteed retribution -- had kept 
Ingraham obedient during the short flight to Salt Lake City. 
Dressed only in undershorts, he had maneuvered the shuttle 
into Tse'Bit'a'i's landing bay as ordered, powered down the 
engines, and did nothing to alert the crew on the hangar deck 
that anything was amiss. Mulder was beginning to believe their 
subterfuge, and their rescue mission, had a chance at success.

He tucked the Taser into his left boot, hiding it within easy 
reach against his calf. The knee-high boots were a half-size 
too small and pinched his feet, but Ingraham's sleek uniform 
fit as if it were made for him; the resilient fabric clung to 
his skin, yet stretched to accommodate every move. In an 
unconscious gesture, his fingers brushed the holster on his 
hip. The Glock's weight felt familiar and reassuring.

Almost as an afterthought, he fished into the pocket of his 
discarded jacket and withdrew the artifact -- the "key" Gibson 
had unearthed at Kits'iil, the thing Albert Hosteen had 
described as "an answer to the world's dire condition." He 
slipped it into his pants pocket and tossed the coat aside. 

Leaving Ingraham struggling against his bonds on the floor 
between the rear passenger seat and the bulkhead, Mulder 
joined Gibson and Dibeh at the exit door. He spread his arms 
wide and asked, "Do I look like him...like Ca-Lo?"

Dibeh swiped at his sleeve to remove a smudge of dust, then 
stared hard at his face.  

"Problem?" he asked.

"She thinks you look nervous," Gibson said.

"I am nervous."

"Ca-Lo wouldn't be," Gibson reminded him. 

Dibeh threw back her shoulders, lifted her chin and peered 
down her almost nonexistent nose at them, giving them her 
interpretation of Ca-Lo's imposing demeanor. 

Mulder mimicked her stance and adjusted his expression, trying 
to look more commanding. "Better?" 

Dibeh nodded enthusiastically.

"Then let's go." Mulder gestured toward the exit. 

"There doesn't appear to be a latch," Gibson said, stymied by 
a lack of handle or other obvious mechanism on the door's 
featureless surface. 

"This rescue isn't going anywhere if we can't get out of this 
tin can," Mulder said. He looked to Dibeh for help. 

Her fingers danced through the air and Gibson translated: "The 
doors on Tse'Bit'a'i' respond to thought and voice commands."

"I'm thinking I want out of here, but I don't see the door 
opening," Mulder said.  

More signing from Dibeh. "Only Purebloods use thoughts. Humans 
must state their desires aloud."

"Ah." Purebloods -- the name said a lot about the aliens' 
presumption of superiority. Mulder addressed the door. "Open!" 

It slid into the wall. The hangar's syrupy aroma immediately 
flooded the shuttle. Mulder staggered back, reminded of the 
ship in Bellefleur, the aliens' examination platform, the 
drills and lasers-- 

"It's okay," Gibson said firmly. "You're not there."

His words tethered Mulder to reality. Eased his apprehension. 
Helped him focus on their mission, on Skinner, on Scully. 

He straightened his shoulders and looked out at the hangar, 
determined to take in his surroundings like the trained 
investigator he was, not a man crippled by confinement and 
torture.  

Helicopters, fighter jets, and dozens of unfamiliar aircraft 
crammed the cavernous hangar. A bulky command center separated 
the parked shuttle from a gleaming bank of elevators. Computer 
terminals dotted its waist-high console. Three soldiers, 
dressed in uniforms identical to Mulder's, rose from their 
stations to stare at him.  

Hoping Gibson could glean something useful from their 
thoughts, Mulder asked, "Who are the grunts?"

"Airmen Pitt and Hartley and Transport Chief Barrett," Gibson 
supplied.

All three wore skeptical expressions.

"They were expecting Ingraham," Gibson added, "not Ca-Lo. 
They're wondering why you're here."

"I've been asking myself the same question." Mulder studied 
the soldiers. All three wore communications headsets. And 
sidearms. 

Mulder drew his own weapon and posed as if Gibson were his 
prisoner. "Out of the frying pan..."

He did his best to underplay his limp as they crossed the 
landing bay. When they reached the command console, Barrett 
saluted. "We weren't expecting you, sir. Log indicates Airman 
Ingraham requisitioned this vessel." 

"Ingraham's dead," Mulder said brusquely. He continued toward 
the elevator, hoping the conversation was over.

But Barrett didn't let the news go unchallenged. He called to 
Mulder's back, "Dead, sir? How?"

Mulder stopped. "Curiosity, Chief," he said over his shoulder. 
"Asked one too many questions."

The color drained from Barrett's face. "Y-yes, sir. Do you... 
do you need assistance with your prisoner, sir?"

"Do I look like I need help?" Mulder growled. He herded Gibson 
and Dibeh into the nearest elevator. 

Once inside, Mulder whispered to Dibeh, "Which floor?"

Taking care to hide her actions from the inquisitive crewmen 
beyond the open door, she held up four long fingers.

Mulder jabbed the appropriate button and the doors slid shut. 
The car began its ascent.

*   *   *

Barrett stared after the elevator. "Something's wrong," he 
said to Pitt and Hartley. "Commander didn't seem himself."

"No kiddin'. What's up with the new hairdo?" Pitt asked past a 
wad of chewing gum. 

"His tat was missing. You notice?" Hartley asked.

Pitt guffawed. "Hafta be blind *not* to notice, you moron." 

"I wasn't referring to the Commander's looks." Barrett watched 
the numbers climb on the digital display above the elevator. 
"He was--"

The comlink on his console buzzed. Caller I.D. indicated it 
was Ca-Lo...calling from a wall unit on 17, outside the 
Ablution Pools. Barrett glanced at the elevator. Still going 
up. Deck 60, 59, 58... 

"Must be a malfunction." He flipped the com switch. "Sir?"

Ca-Lo's voice boomed in his earpiece. "Ingraham return yet?" 

Barrett's eyes locked onto the changing numbers above the 
elevator: 32, 31, 30.

"Uh, sir, you said Ingraham was dead."

His earpiece fell silent for a moment. Then, "When was this?"

"Not two minutes ago. Before you got on the lift."

"I'm not in an elevator."

"I saw you get in, sir. With a prisoner and a hybrid."

"A prisoner...?" Another pause. "Those are intruders, you 
idiot. I want them stopped. Use whatever force is necessary." 

"Yes, sir, but..."

"But what?"

"We're shorthanded, sir, what with the celebration going on."

"I don't want excuses. Find the intruders. Stop them!"

Ca-Lo disconnected the call. Barrett immediately punched up 
Security. 

"We have a breach," he said to the officer on duty. "I repeat, 
we have a breach."

*   *   *

"What's on deck four?" Mulder asked. The elevator hummed 
softly beneath his feet.

"Officer's deck," Gibson supplied. "Scully's in Ca-Lo's 
quarters."

"Alone?"

"She's with an aide, a hybrid."

Dibeh grunted and signed.

"She can show us the way," Gibson said.

The elevator hissed to a stop and the doors opened onto a 
vaulted mezzanine that overlooked an enormous hexagonal 
chamber twenty meters below. To Mulder's horror, the chamber 
contained hundreds, maybe thousands, of hybridization tanks, 
identical to the ones he had seen at Zeus Storage and, later, 
the Lombard Facility.

He was about to step out of the car when Dibeh grunted and 
Gibson warned, "Wrong floor."

"I don't think so." Descending a set of spiral stairs into the 
lab below was none other than Mulder's twin "brother" -- Ca-
Lo.

"Find Skinner and Scully. Get them off the ship." Mulder 
shoved the Glock into Gibson's hands. "I'm going after him."

"Mulder, this isn't the time to be settling a personal score."

"It isn't personal. Look at him, Gibson, he's the one man who 
can blow our cover."

Two "Ca-Los" would obviously attract unwelcome attention. To 
get Scully and Skinner off Tse'Bit'a'i', one -- preferably the 
real one -- would have to disappear. 

"You may be too late," Gibson said, head cocked, listening. 
"Security's coming." 

"All the more reason to get rid of him now. Find Scully."

"Mulder--"

"Get her off this ship."

Gibson fell silent and for a moment Mulder feared he was going 
to refuse. 

"Okay," he said at last.

"Good. I'll catch up with you as soon as I can." 

Mulder didn't wait for Gibson's reply, but sprinted down the 
corridor.

*   *   *

Ca-Lo jogged down the stairs, invigorated by the news that 
Mulder was on board. Soon his brother would be in custody and 
Ca-Lo intended to conduct his interrogation personally. It 
would be a pleasure to see Mulder squirm on an examination 
platform and beg for his life. 

Mercy would not be forthcoming. The instant Mulder divulged 
William's location, he would be given to the Overseers. He 
would learn firsthand what it meant to be a servant of the 
Society. 

Anticipation prickled Ca-Lo's scalp as he entered the lower 
chamber and threaded his way between the rows of tanks. 
Aeration filters bubbled loudly, stirring up the murky, 
phosphorescent water, which provided the room's only 
illumination. He scanned for Growers and their apprentices. 
Not a soul moved about the chamber or on the mezzanine above. 
Every Nih-hi-cho was at the Joining, exalting the continuation 
of their wretched species. He was alone. No Watchers, no 
Overseers. No one to stop him from finding out who he was and 
how he had come into the world. 

He walked quickly, back ramrod straight, jaw set, the heels of 
his polished military boots clacking against the onyx floor as 
he navigated the maze of tanks like a lab rat after a reward. 
Ca-Lo's prize lay in Cistern CVII. Reaching it, he swiped the 
tank with his sleeve to clear condensation from the glass.

"Who are you?" he murmured, peering in at Cassandra's clone.

It drifted on unseen currents, eyes shut, face expressionless.  

He moved to the end of the tank, where a flat console 
displayed the clone's vital signs, developmental data, 
nutrient consumption rate. A touch-sensitive control panel 
allowed Growers to adjust the tank's temperature, balance its 
chemical concentrations, and add accelerant or decelerator as 
needed. It also provided access the clone's developmental 
history, including a biography and genetic profile of the 
donor.

Glancing over his shoulder, Ca-Lo checked the room and upper 
gallery again for intruders. The archways and side portals 
remained empty. There was no sound but the gentle swish of 
water. No movement, except the sway of clones in their tanks. 

The press of a button brought up Cassandra's biographical data 
and file photo -- a picture apparently taken decades ago, when 
she was about twenty years old. She looked carefree in the 
photograph. Not at all like the nervous woman Ca-Lo had once 
called "Mother."

Nor like the conglomeration of fleshy cells in the tank. 

Ca-Lo began to read.

Cassandra Joan Hart -- born to Dorothea and Victor Hart at St. 
Jude's Memorial Hospital in Rutherford, Arkansas on April 20, 
1942. 

"Born?" 

He stared in disbelief at the readout. Cassandra's green blood 
had left an indelible stain on the carpet in his quarters. She 
couldn't possibly be the product of two humans. 

He read on, fearful of what he might discover, yet unwilling 
to give up his hunt for the truth. He was determined to know 
how he came into the world. He wanted proof he was human. 

According to the file notes, Cassandra was an only child. She 
attended Abraham Lincoln Elementary School. Had measles, 
mumps, and chicken pox. She was accepted to the University of 
Arkansas at Pine Bluff in 1959 and attended one semester 
before dropping out. In November 1960, she met C.G.B. Spender 
in Fayetteville, North Carolina while visiting a cousin during 
a Thanksgiving holiday. She married him on March 4, 1961 -- 
the same day she became a test subject in the New Destiny 
Project.

"The New Destiny Project!" NDP -- the archive cited in his DNA 
profile. Hope coursed through his veins as he scrolled forward 
to the next screen. 

Beginning in 1964, Cassandra was subjected to a series of 
experiments led by Dr. Eugene Openshaw. She was infected with 
Purity in an effort to transform her into a human-alien 
hybrid, to survive colonization and serve as part of a new 
slave race. In '99, Openshaw's team succeeded. Cassandra 
Spender became the first of her kind.

So that explained her Nih-hi-cho blood. She was originally 
human, which meant it was possible she had been telling the 
truth when she said she was his biological mother.

Ca-Lo's hands began to shake. He searched through Openshaw's 
copious notes, but found nothing more about the New Destiny 
Project. Frustrated, he queried the database.

An encryption warning blocked his efforts. 

"Damn it!" He slammed his fist against the tank, causing the 
clone to vibrate.

"Problem, bro?" The question came from the upper gallery.

Ca-Lo lifted his gaze to the mezzanine. 

There, leaning against a thick onyx column, eyes reflecting 
the Pools' phosphorescent glow, stood the one man he hated 
above all others -- Fox Mulder.

*   *   *

Mulder watched Ca-Lo's startled surprise transform to rage.

"You!" his twin roared.

"In the flesh." Mulder spread his arms. "Rumor has it you've 
been impersonating me. Thought I'd return the favor." 

"Come down. Let me show my appreciation," Ca-Lo shouted.

Mulder shrugged and nodded. He sauntered toward the spiral 
staircase, more to conceal his panic than his limp. Ca-Lo wore 
a sidearm; Mulder's holster now hung empty and the Taser in 
his boot was an inadequate substitute. 

By the time Mulder reached the main floor, Ca-Lo was waiting 
in front of the first row of tanks, several paces from the 
stairs, gun in hand.

"Not very sporting." Mulder indicated his empty holster. "I'm 
unarmed."

"Then this'll be easy, won't it?"

"And here I had you pegged for a hand-to-hand kind of guy."

"Nothing would please me more than to wring your neck with my 
bare hands."

"Bring it on, bro," Mulder taunted, knowing he stood a better 
chance against Ca-Lo's fists than his Sig. "If you think 
you're up to it." 

Ca-Lo loosened his grip on the gun, flipped it upside down, 
let it dangle for a moment, trigger guard looped over 
forefinger. "I'm up to it." He lobbed the gun into the nearest 
tank. 

Down it sank into the murky water, between the clone's buoyant 
limbs, out of reach. It hit the bottom with a muted clank.  

The sound launched Ca-Lo like a starter's pistol. He lunged at 
Mulder. Shoulder to ribs, he plowed him into the stairs. 
Mulder flailed, caught hold of Ca-Lo's uniform. Together they 
toppled. Mulder's back hit the steps hard. Ca-Lo's weight 
knocked the wind from his lungs. He gasped, pushed Ca-Lo away, 
rolled out of range. 

Ca-Lo regained his footing first. Fists balled, he sneered, 
"Maybe it's you who's not up to the challenge."

Physically, the two men were equally matched. Cunning and grit 
would determine the winner. Mulder didn't hesitate. He rose to 
his feet. Moved in. Threw a punch. Missed when Ca-Lo stepped 
out of his path.

Ca-Lo smirked. "You always did lead with your left."

"Been keeping tabs on me?" Balance regained, Mulder faked a 
right. Struck with his left. Connected. Jesus, it felt like 
he'd hit the ship's metal hull. 

The blow knocked Ca-Lo's head back, but he remained on his 
feet. He rubbed his jaw. "Let's just say I've had more than a 
passing interest." He returned the jab. 

Mulder dodged. "In me," -- he threw an uppercut that clipped 
Ca-Lo's chin -- "or in Scully?"

Ca-Lo's next blow sent him reeling into the side of a tank. 
The clone sloshed in its phosphorescent liquid, its movement 
mirroring the shock waves in Mulder's head.

"A man can't help being curious about his lover's past," Ca-Lo 
said.

Lover? "If you've touched her, I'll--" 

Mulder lunged. Threw a haymaker. Ca-Lo caught his fist mid-
swing and twisted his arm painfully behind his back. 

"You'll what?" Ca-Lo growled into his ear. "Make me regret the 
day I was born?"  

Mulder wrenched free. "That's funny, coming from a clone." 

A freight-train punch rammed Mulder's ribs. Another smashed 
his cheek. His legs wobbled. Gave out. He collapsed to his 
knees. Blood drooled from his mouth. 

Ca-Lo grabbed his shirtfront and hauled him to his feet. 
Saliva sprayed from his lips as he shouted, "I'm not a clone!"

Mulder stared into his hate-filled eyes. "You think *I'm* the 
clone?"

"Yes!"

Mulder lowered his voice to a near-whisper. "Then why are you 
so pissed off?"

Granite knuckles collided with his nose. He rocked on his 
heels. Blinked stars from his eyes. Hard fists pummeled his 
gut. A strike below the belt folded him in half. 

He yelped. Gripped his aching genitals. Fought the urge to 
vomit, to curl into a ball, to die.

A knee to the chin knocked him back. Two hard hits to the 
chest sent him careening into a marble column. His head 
cracked against the stone. He slipped to the floor. 

The room whirled and tilted. His vision blurred. He could 
barely make out Ca-Lo striding toward him. Too shaken to rise 
and defend himself, he dug the Taser from his boot. Aimed it.

Ca-Lo kicked the weapon from his hand. It skidded across the 
onyx floor and disappeared beneath a distant tank. "Tsk, tsk. 
You're not playing fair." He grabbed Mulder's upper arm and 
jerked him to his feet. "Time to congratulate me."

"You haven't won yet."

"Oh, but I have." Ca-Lo hauled him toward the stairs. Mulder's 
arm felt as if it were being wrenched from his shoulder. "You 
see, you're on your way to a privation chamber, whereas I am 
about to start my honeymoon. Dana and I are going to be 
married within the hour."

"She'd never agree to marry you." Mulder elbowed him in the 
ribs. Ca-Lo grunted and loosened his grip. Mulder tore free. 
Threw a punch that split Ca-Lo's lip. 

Ca-Lo struck back. A sledgehammer blow to the chest. Mulder 
teetered. 

"She'll agree."

"She doesn't love you." 

"No?" Ca-Lo seized Mulder's throat. Squeezed hard. Drove him 
backwards between the rows of tanks. "She slept with me." 

Mulder struggled against Ca-Lo's iron grip. Tried to pry his 
fingers loose. 

Ca-Lo rammed him into a pillar. Once. Twice. Mulder lashed out 
with ineffectual blows. 

"She came to my bed willingly," Ca-Lo sneered, lips bloodied, 
eyes glittering. Sweat slicked his bruised skin. His thumb 
pressed into Mulder's larynx. 

"Liar," Mulder rasped. 

The pressure intensified. "She's pregnant. Did you know that? 
Care to lay odds on who's the daddy?"

Gibson had warned Mulder about making this personal. 

Sorry, Gibson, it already is, Mulder thought as he clapped the 
heels of his hands against Ca-Lo's ears. Ca-Lo cried out. 
Released his hold. Staggered back.

Mulder pressed his advantage by bulldozing into him. Fists 
swinging, he bullied Ca-Lo toward the center of the room, 
connected every punch, relished the startled look on the other 
man's face. Nothing was going to stop him from kicking this 
fucker's ass back to hell. Nothing! "You bastard! You son-of-
a-bitch!" 

Blood spurted from Ca-Lo's nose. He raised his arms to protect 
his face. "You'll never see her again." He spat blood. "She's 
mine now." 

Mulder torpedoed into him, skull to gut. Momentum drove them 
both down an aisle. Mulder clamped his arms around Ca-Lo's 
hips and lifted him to his shoulder. Upended, Ca-Lo pounded 
his back. Mulder hurled him at the nearest tank. 

Ca-Lo crashed into it with a spine-jarring jolt. A satisfying 
groan exploded from his lungs. He dropped to hands and knees. 

The tank wobbled above him. Inside, the clone rocked on 
turbulent waters. A loud popping signaled a crack in the 
glass. The fissure expanded, snapped, zigzagged out and up, 
cobwebbing the glass. Green fluid spurted from the breach. A 
thin stream became a gusher when the tank suddenly let go and 
exploded. 

Metal brackets and shards of glass shot through the air. 
Mulder ducked. Ca-Lo was struck from behind. He howled and 
fell face down. Rushing water pinned him in place. 

The tank drained quickly and the clone slid out. It landed 
with a slap on the floor beside Ca-Lo, its eyes wide and 
staring, mouth gaping like a suffocating fish.  

Ca-Lo lay motionless. Mulder felt for a pulse. He was alive, 
but wouldn't be going anywhere soon. A nasty head wound ran 
the length of his brow. A halo of blood, thinned by the water 
from the tank, was pooling around his head. 

"Looks like you were wrong, bro. Scully's mine. Now and 
forever."

Mulder straightened and surveyed the room. His heart told him 
to go find Scully, but his gut was saying he shouldn't leave. 
Not yet. There was something else here, something important. 
Having learned long ago to trust his instincts, he headed for 
the glowing computer where he'd spotted Ca-Lo earlier. "Let's 
see what had you so upset."

He followed the monitor's blue light, leaving a trail of wet 
footprints. Like every tank in the room, this one contained a 
clone with a smooth, expressionless face. Despite the lack of 
detail, there was something familiar about it. 

"Cassandra?"

Thick glass separated her head from the computer, which Mulder 
discovered displayed an encrypted file and a prompt for a 
password. 

"Deja vu."

He moved to the keyboard. Would typing in the correct password 
awaken all the clones? Unleash another disaster? Or would the 
opposite be true? Could he shut this place down, destroy these 
clones? 

His fingers hovered above the controls, waiting for 
inspiration to strike. 

Another Bible reference? Something about Cassandra? 

Whatever the password, Ca-Lo hadn't known it, which was 
curious. The aliens clearly hadn't wanted any fingers in this 
particular pie, not even their top-ranking officer.

"A locked door requires a key." The disembodied voice came 
from behind him. 

He spun to find Albert Hosteen walking toward him.

"Jesus, Albert, you scared the crap out of me."

Hosteen chuckled and moved to stand beside him. He tapped a 
finger on the control panel. "Here."

There was a small hole in the faceplate, easy to overlook or 
mistake for a screw hole. 

"What is it?"

"A keyhole."

The perfect size for the artifact Gibson had found at 
Kits'iil. Mulder dug the transponder from his pocket and 
inserted it into the hole.

The monitor flashed and the archive opened. 

"New Destiny Project?"

"Yes." 

Mulder skimmed the report.

"Team of terrestrial scientists...under the direction of C. 
Spender-- Old Smokey's legacy lives on, I see."

"There is more."

"Cells from a ten-week-old fetus...harvested in utero..." He 
paused, stunned. "Teena Mulder? What is this?" 

"The truth." 

Mulder swallowed hard. He felt as if Ca-Lo's hand still 
gripped his throat. "Nuclei from the cells of Teena Mulder's 
fetus were injected into de-nucleated embryonic cells. The 
resulting embryos were implanted into a group of specially 
selected women." Realization dawned. "That fetus was me, 
wasn't it?"

"Yes."

"It says Cassandra Spender received one of these experimental 
embryos. Hers was the only survivor."

He recalled meeting Cassandra for the first time, five years 
ago in her hospital room. She had tried to tell him about 
this. "I know what I've experienced," she had said. "I have 
been through the terror and the tests more times than I can 
count. I have had an unborn fetus taken from me."

He hadn't believed her at the time; he had been questioning 
all of his beliefs. 

Clearly, he should have listened.    

"On April 13, 1962, Subject 12 -- Ashkii XII/Ca-Lo -- was 
removed from Cistern CXIV." Mulder turned to Hosteen. "That's 
six months after I was born."

"Yes."

"Ca-Lo is my clone."

"Yes."

"And this is the answer to the world's problems?"

Hosteen nodded.

"But...I don't see how..."

"It is not for you to see. It is for him." Hosteen pointed 
across the room to where Ca-Lo lay in a pool of his own blood.

Implanted embryos? Unwitting test subjects? 

"Is...is Scully pregnant?"

"Yes."

The news arrowed Mulder's heart. "With his child?"

Hosteen shrugged. 

"You don't know?"

The old Indian's body began to fade. 

"No, don't go," Mulder begged.

"You do not need me any longer." He shimmered like the night 
sky. Mulder was able to see right through him. 

He groped for Hosteen's arm, but his hand fell on nothing. No 
pulse coursed through the old man's veins. No heat emanated 
from his skin. This was Hosteen's soul. Pinpricks in the 
cosmos. Starlight.

"Wait. Is the answer in there? In the archive?"

"No." Hosteen's voice came to him like seed on the wind. "The 
answer is in your heart."

The last glimmer of light disappeared. Mulder was alone.

And he knew what he must do. 

It was time to find Scully. It was time to ask for her 
forgiveness. And to forgive her.

*    *    *

CA-LO'S QUARTERS 

"Please, Lady Dana, please put on the gown," Ulso signed. 
Orders were orders. If Master Ca-Lo wanted this ornery Earth 
woman washed and dressed, then she must obey. "It is a 
beautiful garment. Look, look at this beadwork." She ran long 
fingers over the glittering bodice. "Stitcher 16 sewed each by 
hand. She is skilled with her needle, don't you think? The 
most skilled aboard Tse'Bit'a'i'. She stitches for the 
Overseers themselves. These beads are the finest silica-glass 
in the Sector. Bursar XII said so. See the color? It matches 
your eyes!"

The Earth woman ignored her and paced Ca-Lo's bedroom like a 
lamb in one of Butcher 6's slaughtering pens. She kept her 
head turned away from the pretty gown, which was draped 
carefully over the bed to prevent it from wrinkling before the 
ceremony. 

Great Dragon, the ceremony was scheduled to begin in one-quarter 
hour. And the Earth woman was still wearing her dirty terrestrial 
clothes: loose-fitting trousers, a pair of scuffed, dusty boots, 
and an oversized, military jacket -- which did little to hide 
the alarming swell of her belly. Her knotted hair was sticking 
out in all directions. Her skin was dirty. Worst of all, her body 
carried the sharp, musky odor of human sweat.

Ulso breathed through her mouth to avoid the smell and signed 
frantically. "Master Ca-Lo will be here any minute. He will be 
very angry if you are not ready." She wanted to add, "And I 
will be punished along with you if you continue to stall." 
Instead, she stepped directly into Lady Dana's path to halt 
her pacing. "Please, please put on the dress!"

"Move," Lady Dana ordered. When she did not budge, the Earth 
woman huffed with annoyance, turned and strode from the 
bedroom into the Master's study. 

Divine Angels, what to do now? How was Dibeh able to manage 
these high-strung terrestrials?

The thought of her young friend plucked at Ulso's heart. Dibeh 
had not returned with Ca-Lo and the Earth woman. And no 
mention had been made of her. Ulso feared the young aide may 
have been given to a new master or sent to the Portal of 
Solitude to serve out some sort of punishment. After all, it 
was such an easy thing to anger humans. They had tempers 
shorter than the whiskers of a than-zie.     

Grabbing a hairbrush from the lavatory, Ulso hurried to the 
study and offered it to the Earth woman. 

She took the brush and, without a moment's hesitation, hurled 
it across the room, where it hit the computer and cracked the 
screen.

"Mistress! Please! You *must* ready yourself." Ulso recovered 
the hairbrush. There was nothing to be done about the broken 
monitor. She would sweep up the mess later and send down to 
Supply for a replacement. 

The Earth woman's frown deepened. "Leave...me...alone," she 
said, emphasizing each word as if Ulso were too stupid to 
understand plain English.

"But, Mistress, surely it is considered an honor to become the 
Master's Number One Consort." The moment she had drawn the 
words in the air, she regretted them. She did not want to hear 
any details about the physical inclinations of humans. Master 
Ca-Lo's sexual appetite had been the subject of gossip for 
years. Ulso found it wholly disgusting. No wonder Lady Dana 
was being obstinate. Who would willingly participate in such a 
revolting act? "I will draw your bath while you undress."

Ulso had not taken two steps toward the adjoining room when 
the entrance buzzer sounded.

Lady Dana's eyes darted to the door. "Is it Ca-Lo?"

This Earth woman must be feeble-minded. "Master Ca-Lo would 
not buzz to get into his own quarters," Ulso signed and went 
to the door. She punched the appropriate code and the door 
slid open. Standing at the threshold was a short human male 
Ulso did not recognize. Beside him was Dibeh.

"Young One! I thought you were lost to us!" Overjoyed at the 
sight of her friend, Ulso grasped Dibeh's hands in greeting.

Dibeh grinned and squeezed her fingers in return. 

Their happy reunion was interrupted when Lady Dana asked, 
"Gibson? Is it really you?" 

"It's me. And Dibeh." He regarded them all with perhaps the 
most somber eyes Ulso had ever seen. "We've come to rescue you 
and Skinner."

Distrust thinned Lady Dana's lips. There would be no happy 
hand-squeezing for these two. "Oh really? Where exactly did 
you come from?" she demanded. "And how did you get on board? 
How did you know I was here?"

"I can explain all that later. We don't have much time." 
 
"Explain now, or I'm not going anywhere."

"Ship Security already knows we're here. We have to 
leave...now."

Lady Dana crossed her arms and remained unmoved.

"You think I might be a shapeshifter," the one called Gibson 
said.

"Or worse. I've been fooled before."

"I don't know what to say to convince you. You'll have to 
trust me."

"A wise man taught me to trust no one." 

Dibeh tugged at Gibson's coat sleeve. "Give her Master 
Mulder's weapon," she signed. "Perhaps she will trust you then."

Ulso wanted to ask Dibeh who in the name of the Red Dragon was 
Master Mulder, but before she could raise her hand, Gibson 
handed Lady Dana his gun.

"Okay?" he asked.

She inspected the gun. Apparently satisfied, she tucked it 
into her waistband at the back of her trousers. "Okay, how do 
we get off this damned ship?"

"Dibeh will show us the way."

Worried anew for her friend, Ulso signed, "You are leaving?" 

"I must help them," Dibeh responded.

"Skinner's been taken prisoner," Lady Dana said. "He's in 
something Ca-Lo calls a 'stasis' cell." 

"He is in the Portal of Solitude," Dibeh signed. "I know the 
way, but..."

"We can't all go," Gibson finished for her. "It would draw too 
much attention."

Dibeh nodded. 

"I won't leave the ship without him," Lady Dana warned.

"I can free him," Dibeh said, "but I must do it alone."

"Dibeh, you cannot go to the Portal of Solitude," Ulso 
objected. "Only Feeders are allowed into the caldarium."

"I know what I'm doing. I have been there before."

"When?"

"Master Ca-Lo sent me. I delivered a necklace to Lady Dana. 
The one she is wearing now." Dibeh pointed to the delicate 
chain around the Earth woman's neck. In what seemed an 
automatic gesture, Lady Dana's hand rose to cover it. 
"Commander Skinner will need some clothes. Perhaps one of 
Master Ca-Lo's uniforms would do?"

"Dibeh, we cannot steal from Master Ca-Lo's closet."

"Dear friend, this is very important. Commander Skinner saved 
my life. Not just once, but twice. Now I must save his. Please 
help me."

If what Dibeh said was true, and Ulso had no reason to doubt 
her, then she must help her young friend. "Wait here. I'll 
fetch something." 

She hurried to the bedroom, where she removed a shirt and 
trousers from the wardrobe. She plucked a pair of boots from 
the floor beside the bed. The leather was buttery soft from 
years of wear, but spotless, polished to a high gloss by Old 
De-Gahi for the wedding ceremony. Ulso tucked everything into 
an empty laundry sack and brought it to Dibeh.

Dibeh hooked the bag's woven strap over her shoulder. "You 
must show Master Gibson and Lady Dana the way to Ground 
Transport."

"Me? But I am under orders to get Lady Dana ready for a very 
important ceremony. She cannot leave the ship."

"You must do this, Ulso. As a favor to me."

Steal from the Master? Override orders? It was unheard of! But 
Dibeh was her dearest friend. And the young aide seemed 
determined to help these humans. "All right. I will show them 
the way."

"Thank you!" Dibeh smiled broadly. "I will meet you there as 
soon as I can."

"What about Mulder?" Gibson asked.

"Mulder's on board?" Lady Dana asked, a mixture of relief and 
alarm in her eyes.

"I'll find him, too, and bring him safely to you," Dibeh 
promised, her smile gone. "Keep Lady Dana safe, Master Gibson. 
Please."

"I will." He fell silent and cocked his head as if listening 
to faraway whispers. "Security's on this deck," he warned. 
"They'll be here any minute."

"Then we must hurry." Dibeh gave Ulso a quick embrace. "Take 
them to Transport via the servants' elevator," she signed when 
they parted. "The guards will not think to look there."

"Be careful, my young friend. I wish to see you again."

"And I you."

"Let's go," Gibson urged. 

Lady Dana hung back.

"Scully?" Exasperation furrowed Gibson's brow.

"Hold on."

"Scully, there isn't ti--"

She vanished into the bedroom, paying no more heed to Gibson 
than she had earlier to Ulso. The twitter of Master Ca-Lo's 
birds came from beyond the arched door. Metal hinges squeaked 
as the cage was opened. A frantic finch soared into the study. 
It circled the room, looking for escape. When it found the open 
door, it disappeared into the hall. A second bird followed it. 
Then a third. There would be punishments all around when Master 
Ca-Lo discovered Lady Dana *and* his prized birds were gone. 

The Earth woman strode from the bedroom, a look of smug 
victory on her face. "Now we can go."

*    *    *

ABLUTION POOLS

Ca-Lo came to in a puddle of Ablution fluid and his own blood. 
His head ached. He probed his brow with shaky fingers and 
discovered a painful, four-inch gash above his left eye.

He struggled to rise to his knees. Glass shards slipped from 
his back and tinkled to the floor. His stomach threatened to 
expel his noonday meal at the sight of the dead clone lying on 
the floor beside him. Exposed to the air, its skin had become 
crinkled and dark. The shade and texture told Ca-Lo it had 
been out of its tank -- and he had been unconscious -- for 
about ten or fifteen minutes. Any longer and the clone would 
be as black as a rotted plum.

Temples throbbing, Ca-Lo rose unsteadily to his feet and 
scanned the room and the mezzanine above. There was no sign of 
Mulder. He took a tentative step, rode out a wave of 
dizziness, then followed a trail of wet prints to Cistern 
CVII: Cassandra's tank. 

The clone appeared just as he had left it, seemingly asleep in 
its artificial womb, its expression bland, devoid of emotion 
and spirit.

Using the tank for support, Ca-Lo walked on wobbly legs to the 
control panel. What he saw there set his hands quaking. The 
NDP archive was open. At last, proof of who he was and where 
he had come from was within reach...thanks to his loathsome 
brother, who had somehow gained access.

Ca-Lo propped himself on stiffened arms and began to read. 

ARCHIVE: New Destiny Project
03.27.61: Terrestrial scientists V. Nordlinger and E. 
Openshaw, under the direction of C. Spender, harvested cells 
from 70-day specimen in utero.

"The mother. Who is the mother?"

Ca-Lo scanned for her name. 

When he found it, the truth cut him as deeply and painfully as 
an Appraiser's scalpel. The child's mother was not Cassandra 
Spender, but Teena Mulder.

"No."

Nuclei from donor cells injected into de-nucleated embryonic 
cells; resulting embryos implanted into human females -- Group 
1A: L. Atkinson, R. Curtis, T. Fuentes...C. Spender... 

"No, please..."

05.15.61: 12 surrogates relocated to Tse'Bit'a'i; fetuses 
harvested; stored AP.
05.15.61: Clones 2,5,8,9 DECEASED
05.17.61: Clones 1,10 DECEASED
05.18.61: Clones 3,4,6,11 DECEASED
05.20.61: Clone 7 DECEASED

05.20.61: Cistern CXIV alt. Acell .835+, Bio 227a-tt, Tach px  

04.13.62: Clone 12 [Ashkii XII/Ca-Lo] removed from Cistern 
CXIV. 

SOLE SURVIVOR 

"No, no, no!" 

He was a clone. A soulless empty vessel. Detestable. A second-
rate reproduction.  

His universe dwindled to this one inalterable truth. He was 
not human. He was the product of science. An experiment. It 
was too much, this reality, this hurtful truth.  It was too 
painful. Too unfair. Blood thundered in his ears like a 
prisoner who pummels the bars of his cell.

Lost and furious, he rammed his fist into the monitor. The 
glass gave way, the point of impact marked by his bloodied 
knuckles. Grabbing hold of the console, he ripped it from its 
frame. Wires, torn from the tank, dangled like severed 
arteries. The aeration filter fell silent. The clone jerked 
within its phosphorescent brine as if startled by the sudden 
quiet. 

Ca-Lo hefted the control panel over his head, intent on 
hurling it across the room, as if he might simultaneously cast 
off his anguish and resentment with it. But a slender piece of 
metal dropped from it and hit the floor with a clink, freezing 
him in place, arms extended toward the ceiling, console heavy 
and awkward, as it bounced away.

A transponder, of ancient design. He released his hold on the 
panel, letting it fall behind him. He strode forward, away 
from the spray of computer keys, processors, and memory cards, 
to scoop up the golden key. It seemed to warm in his hand when 
he ran his thumb over its meticulously inscribed Nih-hi-cho 
symbols. 

They spelled out a familiar scripture: "He who conquers the 
beast and its image and its number, shall stand upon a sea of 
glass."  
	
Transponders such as this were rare, destroyed by the Ancient 
Ones for their blasphemous inscriptions. As far as Ca-Lo knew, 
only one existed aboard Tse'Bit'a'i' -- the key he had loaned 
Dibeh when he sent her with Dana's necklace to the Portal of 
Solitude. 

Was this that key? He tried to remember if she had returned it 
to his desk. He had been distracted at the time, by the news 
of Dana's release and pregnancy. Surely the aide would have 
brought it back. Hybrids were not deceptive creatures. It must 
have been stolen. Stolen from his desk by Mulder, to be used 
here, to gain entry to the archive. 

But if Mulder had gotten the key from the desk, then he must 
have been in Ca-Lo's quarters. Which meant he had found and 
freed Dana.

The air seemed to thicken. Ca-Lo struggled to breathe. She 
couldn't be gone. He could not lose her. Life without her was 
too lonely to contemplate.

Lightheaded and afraid, he loped to a com unit by the stairs 
and buzzed Barrett.

"Sir?" 

"Send a man to my quarters. Tell me if Dana Scully is there."

"Sir, I'm in your quarters right now. No one is here."

"No one?" 

Too late. He was too late. It was all coming apart. His plans, 
his future... He was losing everything. 

He staggered away from the com unit. His heart felt as if it 
were being torn from his chest. Anger sizzled down his spine, 
along his limbs, numbed his hands and feet. 

"Nooooo!" 

Outraged, he targeted the nearest tank. Threw himself at it, 
shoulder to glass, putting all his weight and every ounce of 
fury he possessed into upending it. 

The tank wobbled. Toppled. Exploded against the stone floor. 
Fluid spewed across onyx tile, taking the clone with it. 

Splashing through brine and glass, Ca-Lo rammed another tank. 
Knocked it from its base. Glass struck stone and shattered. A 
second clone rolled to its ultimate death. 

There was no reason to feel guilty. Nothing real lived in this 
abhorrent chamber. Nothing here was worth saving. These were 
soulless monsters. It didn't matter that he was one of them. 
In fact, it seemed appropriate. Poetic justice. Grotesque 
beasts slaughtered by one of their own kind. It was his right 
to destroy them, wasn't it?  

Another tank toppled beneath his hands. And another. It felt 
good to destroy them. To demolish the Overseers' heinous 
creations. Down the row he went, smashing one after the next 
until his shoulders ached and his strength was nearly spent. 
In a final burst of rage, he shoved one last tank from its 
base.

It overturned and the clone tumbled out upon a wave of broken 
glass and phosphorescence. It rolled several times, its 
jouncing skull thudding sickeningly against the floor. It 
skidded to a stop, on its back, arms thrown wide, mouth agape. 
Only then did Ca-Lo recognize it and realize what he had done.

"Mother..." 

He lurched forward, knelt and lifted Cassandra into his arms. 
She weighed very little, it seemed, and she flopped like a 
rubber mannequin, not flesh and bone. He cradled her against 
his chest and carried her to the nearest tank, one unharmed by 
his rampage. Slowly, he lowered her in. Releasing his grip, 
she sank down. Bounced lightly atop the clone underneath. For 
an instant she appeared almost relieved, but it was an 
illusion. Her eyes were glazed. Her limbs drifted on 
artificial currents. There was no life in her. She was dead. 
Ca-Lo had killed the one person who had ever truly cared about 
him.

"Damn you!" he shouted at the Overseers, at all the Nih-hi-
cho.   

It was time to end this horror, this sadistic agony. He would 
make them pay for what they had done to her, to him, to all 
humankind. He would make them pay dearly.

*   *   *

DECK 120
GROUND TRANSPORTATION

Scully and Gibson followed the hybrid aide's instructions and 
exited the elevator on the ship's lowest level. The aide had 
refused to accompany them down, preferring to remain behind on 
Deck 4. As it turned out, they needed no further guidance. The 
elevator opened directly onto the garage, a dimly lit space 
the size of a football field and one-third full of assorted 
military vehicles -- jeeps, vans, heavy armored trucks, some 
outfitted with munitions, a handful of diplomatic cars and a 
seemingly out-of-place Blackhawk helicopter. No personnel 
patrolled the deck. One of a dozen thirty-foot-high doors was 
open on the far side of the bay. Through it Scully could see a 
fleet of colossal alien ships hunkered on the runway, silvery 
and surreal in the moonlight. 

A northerly wind carried the scent of sea water from Great 
Salt Lake into the garage. The smell reminded Scully of tide 
pools she'd explored as a girl, inhabited by hermit crabs and 
barnacles abandoned by outgoing tides. She glanced at the 
garage's high ceiling and imagined the hundred-plus decks 
overhead. Which one held Mulder? 

"He's on his way," Gibson assured, clearly reading her mind. 
He set out across the garage at a trot, head bobbing as he 
looked for a suitable vehicle for their escape. "Keys are on 
the dash," he announced.

"Good." She hung back, just outside the elevator. A tingle of 
foreboding crawled across her scalp and set every hair on end. 
"I'm not leaving without Mulder and Skinner," she reminded 
him.

Not when they were so close.
 
Gibson slowed and cocked an ear. "Security's coming."

She moved away from the bank of elevators, out into the 
garage. "How much time do we have?"

"Not long." Gibson resumed his search.

Scully headed toward him. "Is Mulder on his way?"

"I think so." Gibson swiveled to look at the elevator. "Get 
down!"

She dropped to a crouch beside a four-man cargo carrier. In 
its rearview mirror she saw elevator doors glide open. Six 
uniformed soldiers stormed out. They were armed with automatic 
rifles.

Thirty yards ahead, Gibson ducked behind a troop truck. She 
scuttled closer, trying to stay low.

"You there!" shouted one of the soldiers, spotting her. "Stop 
or I'll shoot."

She broke into a run. A warning shot whizzed past her shoulder 
and ricocheted off a fender in a spray of sparks. Head down, 
arms cradling her swollen belly, she zigzagged around a 
tanker, past a van and a jeep.

The soldiers fanned out. In a matter of minutes, they would 
have her trapped, cut off from Gibson and any hope of escape.

At the sound of another rifle blast, she squeezed between a 
passenger van and an armored truck. She leaned against the 
truck's front grill, trying to catch her breath.    

Gibson suddenly appeared at her side. "No time." He grabbed 
her hand and tugged her down a row of cargo trucks. "This 
way."

Gunshots sprayed the air, puncturing metal and breaking glass. 
Gibson guided them to a black and tan Humvee fifty yards from 
the open door. He yanked the passenger door open and thrust 
her toward the front seat. "Get in." 

A bullet ripped through the vehicle's fabric top. Another 
shattered the rear window. 

"Keep your head down," Gibson demanded. He circled the front 
bumper and scrambled into the driver seat.

"You know how to drive this thing?" Scully asked, buckling up.

"Sorta." He grabbed the key off the dash and shoved it in the 
ignition. A twist of his wrist and the engine roared to life.

"The door's closing!" she shouted to be heard over a sudden 
high-pitched whine.

Gibson forced the stick shift into first, ground the gears. 
The jeep shuddered. 

"We're not going make it," she warned. The door was halfway to 
the floor. 

Gibson pressed the accelerator. Tires squealed and the Hummer 
shot forward. He steered toward the closing door. 

A bullet punched out a side window. Glass sprayed the seats. 

"Shit!" Gibson clamped a hand over his ear. Blood oozed from 
between his fingers. 

Another round sailed through the cab. Gibson swerved, clipped 
a jeep. Caught its bumper. Metal grated on metal as the jeep 
was dragged several yards. It dislodged with a wrenching 
groan. 

"Watch out!" Scully yelled, when a soldier dodged in front of 
the car.

Gibson plowed on, striking the man and knocking him off his 
feet. The soldier windmilled into a row of motorcycles and 
toppled them like dominoes.

"Duck!" Gibson hunched over the wheel and gunned the engine. 
The Humvee sailed beneath the closing bay door. Its roof 
caught on the lower edge and tore away.          

Wind whipped Scully's hair as she turned in her seat to look 
back at the ship. The bay door slammed shut behind them, 
sending up dust and blocking the soldiers' pursuit.

"You okay?" Gibson up-shifted and pushed the accelerator to 
the floor.

"Yes, but..." They'd left Skinner and Mulder behind.

"I'm sorry, Scully. Really. But I promised Mulder I'd get you 
out of there."

"We have to go back."

"We can't."

They sped down the runway, dwarfed by alien ships. Scully 
counted twelve. Twelve hulking war machines.

What chance did Mulder have against them? Tears stung her 
eyes. "Then where are we going?" 

"Safe Camp. Your son is there." 

*   *   *

With her laundry sack bumping against her left hip, Dibeh ran 
faster than she had ever run in her life. It was almost as if 
she were being spirited to the Kitchen on the back of the 
Great Red Dragon himself. Indeed, perhaps he was there with 
her, helping her. "You have reason yet to live," he had 
prophesied when she was ready to surrender her life to the 
cold waters of Bear Lake. Before Walter Skinner rescued her.

Now she would save him. 

"Whoa, Dibeh!" Cook VI signed when she burst into the Kitchen 
and crashed headlong into a cart of clean silver. "Where are 
you going in such a hurry?"

"I..." For the first time in her life, she would tell a lie. 
Heart thudding in her chest, she signed, "Master Ca-Lo wishes 
me to feed Prisoner Walter Skinner, ma'am."

"Then you have arrived just in time. The Feeders are leaving 
for the Portal now." Cook VI indicated the service lift where 
a group of two dozen Feeders, dressed in sackcloth shifts and 
veils, loaded bags of na-a-jah into the car.

Cook VI pressed a chip that corresponded to Skinner's cell 
into Dibeh's hand. "Grab a cover-up and some gloves. Veils are 
on the shelf over there."

"Thank you, ma'am." Dibeh pocketed the chip.

Cook VI poked at Dibeh's laundry bag. "Do you wish to leave 
your belongings here?" 

"That's very kind, ma'am, but I am under orders to deliver 
clean garments to Master Ca-Lo." The second lie came easier 
than the first. "He is meeting me at the Portal."

Cook VI's eyes narrowed with obvious suspicion. Such an odd 
arrangement was highly unlikely. Laundry services took care of 
pick-ups and deliveries. "Well, if it is the Master's wish, 
you had better not keep him waiting."

"Yes, ma'am."

Dibeh snagged a shift from the storage rack and quickly 
slipped it over her head. She donned a veil and gloves, then 
joined the others in the lift.

It took less than a minute for the service elevator to descend 
to Deck 42. The door slid open and each Feeder shouldered a 
bag of na-a-jah before exiting the car. Dibeh did likewise and 
followed the others into the corridor. 

At the sound of clomping boots, they shuffled to one side, out 
of the way. Four security guards bustled past. Dibeh 
recognized Hartley from Transport in the lead. Bowing her 
head, she hoped he wouldn't notice her.

She needn't have worried. Dressed in her veil, she was 
indistinguishable from the other Feeders. Hartley passed 
without a glance in her direction.

The Feeders continued on to the Portal of Solitude. At the 
giant gate, they waited with eyes lowered for a Greeter to let 
them in. Only Dibeh had the courage to lift her gaze to the 
immense, carved door. As before, the Red Dragon seemed to 
peer down at her, eyes benevolent, expression calm. Confronted 
by his kindly stare, she felt her heart lighten. He would take 
care of her, here and in the afterlife, she was certain. She 
need only trust his divine powers.   

A Greeter opened the door. "Late, as usual," he chastised and 
quickly counted heads, his blue-nailed finger pointing to each 
in turn. He frowned and counted a second time. "There appears 
to be one too many of you. Present your numbers."

They held forth their small hexagonal chips. He pulled a palm-
roster from the pocket of his brightly-colored trousers and 
double-checked their numbers against his list.

"Strange." The Greeter's long nose whistled as he bent to 
scrutinize Dibeh's chip. "My records indicate Commander Ca-Lo 
left orders that only he was to be allowed access to this 
particular prisoner."    

"I am Master Ca-Lo's aide, sir," she signed. "He sent me in 
his stead."

"Is that so?" The Greeter pursed his lipsticked mouth and 
glanced again at his roster.

"You may call him, of course, to confirm," she signed, certain 
he would not. Only the bravest of souls would dare interrupt 
Master Ca-Lo's busy schedule to question his orders.

"Hmm, yes, well..." He was reluctant, just as she had 
predicted. "No need. You may go through. All of you."

Dibeh sent up a silent prayer of thanks and hurried to find 
Skinner's cell.

As before, the Greeter's disdain for the hybrid Feeders drove 
him from the caldarium while they went about their business. 
He retreated through an arched doorway to a back chamber. The 
Feeders dispersed, spreading out across the vast amber deck. 
There were no iron-jawed guards in the niches around the 
caldarium today, much to Dibeh's relief. They had gone to fetch 
and tote for the Society during their celebration, no doubt. 

One by one, each Feeder found her appropriate hexagon, knelt 
and fitted her chip into place. The apertures opened, giving 
the glassy deck the appearance of a cratered moon. 

After a couple of false starts, Dibeh located Skinner's cell. 
Her fingers shook as she inserted her chip, remembering the 
awful state in which she had found Lady Dana. Would Skinner be 
as weak and pale? As the aperture opened, a sigh of foul-
smelling mist escaped. It ruffled Dibeh's veil as it wafted 
toward the stained glass dome overhead. 

Dibeh felt a stab of sympathy when the mist cleared and she 
could see Skinner lying in the bottom of his fleshy cell, 
curled on his side, sticky with protein ointment. She reached 
in and yanked the bio-monitor from his spine, causing his eyes 
to open. He groaned as she pulled out the tubes that aided his 
respiration and the elimination of his bodily wastes, and made 
gagging noises when she withdrew the long feeding umbilicus 
from his throat.

"What's happening?" he rasped, when freed of the umbilicus. 
"Who are you?"

She lifted her veil, hoping he would recognize her.

"Dibeh?"

She nodded emphatically, then reached in to help him out of 
the cell. He crawled away from the aperture's edge, groggy and 
slow-moving. His time in the cell had been relatively short; 
he was not nearly as weak as Lady Dana had been. He would not 
need a Healer to mend his muscles. 

She pushed Ca-Lo's clothes toward him. Time was short. Other 
Feeders were already looking in their direction. It was 
unlikely any of them would break their routine to run off and 
report them to a Greeter, but even so, Dibeh did not want to 
delay.

As fast as he was able, Skinner tugged on the pants and boots. 
Globs of buttery protein ointment slowed his progress and 
stained the knees and thighs of his trousers. Before he could 
pull the shirt over his head, the Greeter reappeared in his 
arched doorway. 

"What's going there?" he called out, long-nailed finger aimed 
in her direction. He started toward them, his pointed shoes 
clacking with determination.

Dibeh tugged at Skinner's arm and together they ran for the 
main gate. His stride was wobbly and his breathing erratic, 
but with his longer legs he was able to keep up with her. They 
passed through the portal, into the corridor. She led Skinner 
along the serpentine hall to the servants' lift, the Greeter's 
frantic screams growing faint behind them. 

The elevator door was closed when they got there. She pounded 
the button to bring the car down and prayed no one would be on 
it when it arrived. 

"Come on, hurry up," Skinner whispered, watching the numbers 
change. Thirty-nine, forty, forty-one, forty-two. The car 
hummed to a stop and the doors slid open.

"Mulder?" Skinner asked when he saw the bruised and bloodied 
man inside the car.

Was it Master Mulder? Or was it Ca-Lo? The man smiled and 
greeted Skinner like an old friend. 

"We've been looking for you, Walter. Good to see you alive."

"We?" Skinner seemed hesitant to step into the car.

"We as in me, Gibson, Dibeh." He pointed to her. "That is you 
under that veil, isn't it?"

She removed the veil and smiled.

"Where's Gibson?" Skinner asked, still suspicious.

"Getting Scully off the ship, I hope. Come on, Walter. Don't 
be shy. Get your ass in here."

Reluctantly, Skinner stepped into the car. "How do I know 
you're who you say you are?" 

"Don't let the uniform fool you. It's me." He plucked at his 
dark shirt. "Looks like we go to the same tailor." Turning to 
Dibeh, he asked, "Which floor?"

She pushed the bottom-most button.

Moments later, the car arrived at Deck 120. The garage 
appeared deserted.

"Where are Scully and Gibson?" Skinner asked.

Mulder fingered what appeared to be a bullet hole in the wall 
beside the elevator. "Hopefully a long way from here." 

He moved out into the garage, inspecting the scene. "Tire 
marks." He pointed to the ground. "They lead to the bay door." 
He picked up his pace. His fingers caressed a cracked side 
mirror, a pocked tailgate, a shattered window. When something 
up ahead caught his eye, he broke into a limping run.

Skinner and Dibeh followed. 

"Someone's insurance rates are gonna go up." Mulder crouched 
to examine a torn fender. 

"It was dragged," Skinner said, indicating the scattered 
remains of a broken headlight several yards back.

"And we have a casualty," Mulder announced. Dibeh followed his 
gaze to where a soldier lay sprawled in a pool of dark blood 
beside a van. 

Mulder stooped and pressed a finger to the man's neck. "He's 
dead. Looks like he got in somebody's way." Standing, he 
pivoted to scrutinize the bay door. A smile crept across his 
face. "They got out. See that?" Crumpled metal and torn fabric 
littered the floor in front of the bay door. He went to it and 
toed the fabric with his boot. "If I'm not mistaken, this was 
once the roof of a Humvee. Which hit...here." He kicked the 
base of the bay door where bright metal showed through dark 
paint. "The door must've been coming down as they were driving 
out."

"How can you be sure it was them?"

"Who else would be running from these guys? It was them. I 
know it."

"Is that opinion based on facts or on a gut feeling?"

"Both." Mulder turned to the door and shouted, "Open!"

The massive door slid upward, metal scraping upon metal with 
an earsplitting squeal that echoed through the bay. A chilling 
wind blew in from outside. It snatched at Dibeh's hair and bit 
her skin, smelling like the salty lake where she and Lady Dana 
had nearly died. Battleships crowded the dark runway, and 
beyond them, Harmony I loomed large and foreboding, its 
ramparts painted silver by spotlights, the parapets looking 
like giant teeth.  

Skinner seemed not to notice the view outside. He was gaping 
at Mulder. "You sure you're not Ca-Lo?" 

"Don't worry. Ca-Lo's facedown in a room full of clones. I 
suggest we get out of here before he comes to. Pick a car, 
Walter, any car. Keys seem to be on the dash."

Skinner didn't hesitate. He targeted the bay's lone 
helicopter. "I prefer that."

"Not very fuel efficient."

"But plenty of room for passengers."

"You thinking about picking up hitchhikers?"

"There're prisoners on Antelope Island. Human prisoners. 
Friends of mine, soldiers under my command." He smiled 
at Mulder. "Mind taking a little side trip?"

"You know me. I'm a sucker for the long way 'round."

Skinner chuffed and extended an arm toward the helicopter. 
"Dibeh?"

She looked at the world beyond the bay door. What was out 
there for her? More places like Safe Camp, where the humans 
hated her, where she had not a single companion, where no one 
understood her language? Here she had duties. A meaningful 
life. And friends who understood her words and her heart. She 
did not belong in the outside world, among Terrestrials. She 
belonged here. Tse'Bit'a'i' was her home, had always been her 
home, and she would stay here until the Red Dragon called her 
to his Divine Kingdom.

The Red Dragon had spared her from the cold depths of Bear 
Lake, she realized, to save the life of Walter Skinner and 
guide him and Master Mulder to safety. But they no longer 
needed her help.  

Feeling no regret, she shook her head and took a step back.

"You sure?" Mulder asked.

She smiled and nodded.

He reached out and caressed her cheek. "Thank you, Dibeh. For 
everything." 

"Hurry, Master, you must go," she signed back. "It is not safe 
for you here."

Whether he understood or not was unclear, but his hand dropped 
away. A mix of appreciation and sadness shone in his eyes.

His gratitude gave her the courage to lightly nudge him toward 
the helicopter.

"Okay, okay. I'm going. Take care of yourself, Dibeh." 

Mulder and Skinner crossed the garage and boarded the 
helicopter. With a wave in her direction, Skinner started the 
engine. The noisy rotors began to spin faster and faster, 
whipping her hair and clothes. The helipcopter lifted from the 
ground and swung through the air toward the bay door.

It flew out into the black night. Dibeh returned Skinner's 
wave, grateful for his understanding, hopeful for his future.

Feeling lighthearted for the first time in weeks, she spun on 
her heel, ran to the elevator and pressed the button that 
would take her back to the Servant's Deck.

*    *    *

Ca-Lo drew stares from the Officer in Charge when he strode 
onto the Bridge, his uniform soaked in Ablution fluid, his 
face battered and dripping blood. 

"Get out," he ordered and took a seat at the command console.

"Sir?" The Navigator gaped from his post at the helm.

"I said get out!"

Nervously, the Navigator and the Weapons Specialist rose from 
their chairs.

"You, too." Ca-Lo pointed to the OC.

"Sir, this is highly irreg--"

"Vacate the Bridge or I'll have Security escort you to a 
stasis cell, where you'll spend the rest of your miserable 
life wishing you hadn't disobeyed my orders."

"Y-yes, sir." The OC joined the others in the elevator. It 
closed and whisked them away.

"Isolate the Bridge," Ca-Lo commanded the computer. Armored 
door-covers hissed into place; deadbolts snap-clamped against 
their strike plates. Ca-Lo felt his pulse steady as he flicked 
an array of switches and powered up the engines.

A deep thrumming beat in the bowels of the ship, vibrating the 
control panel beneath his fingertips. 

Lights blinked on his com-unit -- incoming calls from 
Engineering and Security. 

"Bite me, motherfuckers." 

Ca-Lo entered a password that disabled all on-board and ship-
to-ship communication. 

"Engage thrusters."

The ship lurched and hovered for a moment, millimeters above 
the runway. He checked the HUD. Speed, angle, heading and 
thrust -- all appeared as they should. He slammed the 
throttle. Tse'Bit'a'i' rocketed straight up.

At 50,000 feet, he returned the ship to hover mode. 

"Activate view screen." 

The Armada's eleven glorious warships crystallized on the 
eight-by-eight monitor located between the radar and the 
universal compass on his console. Destroying the Armada would 
be easy. Several terrestrial expressions popped into his head: 
a cake walk, child's play, like shooting fish in a barrel. 

The Nih-hi-cho had their own aphorism for such occasions: As 
effortless as bending a human mind. 

Cruel, condescending fuckers. They were going to pay for their 
tyranny. Always inferior tacticians, their weakness would now 
be their undoing. It had been folly to gather the warships 
together and then leave them attended by only a handful of 
hybrid aides and human personnel. The Overseers had pulled all 
others from regular duty to cater to their physical needs during 
the ceremony. And why not? The terrestrial army had been quashed. 
There was no one left to threaten the Nih-hi-cho. Or so the they 
believed. Their arrogance disallowed an attack, especially from 
Ca-Lo, their top ranking officer, the very man who had led them 
to victory. And yet, had they been more clever strategists, they 
could have predicted this reprisal. After all, they had given 
him his name, branded him Ca-Lo, The Destroyer. They made him 
what he was. 

He targeted Ne'Ol. Her shields were down. And he knew every 
vulnerable system on her.

"Fire."

A rapid succession of well-placed plasma strings disintegrated 
the massive war machine in a matter of micro-seconds. White 
hot silica-steel vaporized. The explosion was spectacular. A 
fiery crater marked the spot where the Ne'Ol had once stood. 

He locked onto Chay'Da'Gahi'. 

"Fire!"

Shock waves thudded like weak fists against Tse'Bit'a'i's 
shielded outer hull. 

Ship by ship, down the line, Ca-Lo obliterated the most 
powerful fighting force in the Sector. The attack was 
unanticipated; every blast went unanswered. The Armada was 
taken completely by surprise. 

A few adjustments in altitude and pitch, and Tse'Bit'a'i' 
rolled away from the airport and headed to Harmony I. Ca-Lo 
razed the breeding compound, the military barracks, the 
factories. Would Dana judge his actions worthy? Would she 
think him heroic?

Tears blurred his vision as he recalled her words. "You want 
to know how you differ from Mulder?" she had asked. "He is 
willing to stand up to his enemies; he flouts their rules, 
plays their game only on his own terms. Even when he was held 
prisoner aboard a ship like this one, he was a free man, *is* 
a free man, because he refuses to let anyone dictate his 
destiny." 

Poised 30,000 feet above the Nih-hi-cho Joining House, hot 
tears coursing down Ca-Lo's cheeks, he reversed the thrusters. 
Tse'Bit'a'i' plunged downward.

"And now I am a free man, too."

*   *   *

THE JOINING HOUSE
HARMONY I

More than one million Nih-hi-cho packed the Joining House, a 
12.5-hectare silicrete structure with a transparent oculus 
that offered a stunning view of the stars. They stood shoulder 
to shoulder, chest to back, swaying gently to the cadence of 
their communal prayer. The press of bodies against Overseer 
VI's bare skin produced a pleasant friction. There was no 
shame in it. The Society was presenting itself to the Red 
Dragon just as they had come into this life, devoid of 
garments, pure of body and mind, eager to burst forth from the 
bellies of their hosts to join their own kind.  

"We give thanks to Thee, O Great Dragon. We give thanks to 
Your Divine Legion of Angels. You are Wisdom. You are Refuge. 
You are Salvation. You are Truth." 

An entire neo-generation of Nih-hi-cho had been introduced 
into the Society over the last four Earth days, their minds 
assimilated into the collective, their intellects merged with 
the group consciousness. It was a proud and noble achievement. 
A historic moment. Joined together, the Society celebrated its 
greater numbers, praised the Great Red Dragon for his 
providence and protection, and prayed for the Fifth Divination 
-- the new Age of Revelation, heralded by a miraculous 
visitation from the Divine Legion of Angels and the Great Red 
Dragon himself.

"Bless us, O Great Lord. Show us your divine countenance. Come 
to us like clear heat in sunshine. We are your faithful 
servants. Hear our prayers--"

Overseer VI felt the silicrete floor tremble beneath his bare 
feet. A flash of red blinked above the oculus.

"A light! A light!" The telepathic announcement pulsed through 
the Society's collective mind like a bursting neutron star, 
spreading anticipation and joy. "It is the Red Dragon!"

Could it be? 

The Joining House brightened with a flickering orange-red 
glow. The air seemed to sizzle with electricity. Overseer VI's 
skin tingled. He heard a deep hum, a rumbling. Was it the 
fiery breath of the Red Dragon? 

"The Fifth Divination!" the Society proclaimed as a single 
voice. "He is coming! The Divine One is coming!"

It must be true. The Red Dragon's holy rays shone through the 
transparent canopy. The floor of the Joining House trembled, 
shaken by the footsteps of gods.

Oh, they were truly blessed! The Red Dragon was descending 
upon them. There was no greater honor. No better time to be 
alive. Overseer VI lifted his eyes to the blazing sky beyond 
the transparent canopy, grateful to be a member of the 
Society, grateful to bear witness to the New Divination, the 
holiest of all occasions.

A shadow fell across the oculus, casting the Joining House 
into darkness.

What was this? A reproach from the Dragon? Or a Refuters' 
trick? Revenge for the Nih-hi-cho's hybridization experiments?

Overseer VI strained to see the night sky. A moment ago, light 
brighter than the midday sun had bathed them in glory. Now a 
black disc with a brilliant blue-white center blocked the 
view. It almost looked like the underside of a spacecraft.

The disc grew larger. Pinprick beacons pulsed around the outer 
rim. Great Dragon, it was a ship! And it was headed straight 
at them.

Realization spread throughout the Society. Audible screams -- 
harsh, high-pitched tones from voices unaccustomed to speech -
- rose up all around. The crowd surged toward the exits. Panic 
severed the collective consciousness as efficiently as an 
Appraiser's scalpel cuts flesh. Jostled, shoved and trod upon, 
Overseer VI found himself mentally isolated from the Society. 
For the first time in his life, he was unable to establish a 
communal connection. He was left alone with his own fear. 

The feeling was intolerable. Far worse than the mounting 
pressure of the masses against his physical body.

"We are forsaken!" he screeched, emptying his lungs. 

His cries were lost amid the sound of crashing silicrete. The 
translucent canopy shattered. Silvery splinters rained down. 
Plasma canons blasted molten bolts at the crowd.

The Joining House collapsed as if it were made of paper. The 
ship impacted the earth, displaced soil and rock, carved out 
an enormous crater. In the blink of an eye, every Juvenile, 
Appraiser and Overseer in the Jish-Cha Sector was annihilated, 
vaporized in a mushroom cloud of gaseous plasma.  

x-x-x-x-x

EPILOGUE: SEA OF GLASS

SAFE CAMP II
ALPINE, WYOMING 
MARCH 22, 2003

Alpine was a reasonable place to settle. Far enough from Salt 
Lake City so as not to be polluted by the acrid smoke that, 
four months later, still churned above the enormous crater 
where Harmony I once stood. Yet near enough to logistically 
relocate 782 men, women and children from Antelope Island to 
their new home in the Bridger-Teton National Forest. 

When the refugees arrived, they found six restaurants, three 
gas stations, and God only knew how many fireworks stands -- 
all abandoned -- lining Alpine's two main thoroughfares, U.S. 
Highways 26 and 89. Promotional posters, yellowed with age, 
hung in the windows of the local establishments advertising 
Alpine Mountain Days, a summer festival with Indian dancing, 
mountain men, country music, horseshoe tournaments and black-
powder shoot. The event was to have been held the third week 
in June, but the date came and went without fanfare, the 
town's 542 residents dead six weeks by that time, their 
bellies torn open, their bones stripped bare.

The newcomers buried the bodies, moved into the modest homes, 
and scavenged for food. They discovered industrial-size cans 
of soup, beans, shortening and other assorted edibles in the 
restaurants. Candy bars, chips, snack cakes and Slim Jims 
filled the gas stations' shelves. Residential pantries were 
stocked with sugar, flour, salt, yeast, homemade jams and 
pickles.    

Supplementing their windfall was an abundant supply of fresh 
kokanee, mackinaw, and trout in the 25-square-mile Palisades 
Reservoir to the north. Determined anglers hacked holes 
through the ice to fish. Pine boughs and scraps of lumber 
served as windbreaks. The catch was cooked over open fires and 
eaten on the spot or taken away to be shared with neighbors 
too frail to spend long hours out in the open.    
 
But it was neither the canned food nor the fish or even the 
reservoir's limitless drinking water that made Alpine a 
practical choice for Safe Camp II. It was the former Elk 
Feedground, where several hundred animals, tame enough to let 
a person approach, wandered the Salt River Range from Alpine 
south to Cokeville. With careful management, the herd could 
provide fresh meat for years to come.  
 
Despite its advantages, Alpine was no Garden of Eden. Located 
in the Rocky Mountains, snow came early and stayed late. The 
winter of '03 was harsher than most, with deep, drifting snow 
and temperatures sometimes dropping to forty below. Those 
able-bodied enough to wield chainsaws and axes cut firewood 
for themselves and the sick and elderly. Water was toted from 
the reservoir. Woodstoves and kerosene heaters, transported 
with great effort from the neighboring towns of Etna, Freedom, 
Thayne, and as faraway as Bondurant and Jackson, were 
installed in houses that lacked them. Several homes burned to 
the ground when jury-rigged flues overheated and fires blazed 
out of control. Three children died of smoke inhalation, 
adding to the number of lives lost. Illness, accident, 
hypothermia, and despair -- these were the new enemy.

By March, the days were growing longer and temperatures were 
on the rise. Snow began to melt. The refugees felt hopeful for 
the first time in nearly a year. They started to call 
themselves settlers instead of refugees.

They also began to attend regular Sunday services, officiated 
by Father Richards at the Star Valley Baptist Church, the only 
formal house of worship in Alpine. It didn't matter to the old 
priest that the church and many of his parishioners were not 
Catholic. He was content to lift the settlers' spirits as best 
he could by recounting God's loving messages regardless of 
denomination. 

Gibson lived with Father Richards in the church's basement. 
Its dark-paneled rooms were damp and chilly, but the priest 
often recited prayers in his head and Gibson found these 
comforting. Not the words so much as their gentle cadence. 
Father Richards' pious meditations played like a soothing 
melody, a welcome contrast to the cacophony of fear, 
loneliness and grief that blared in the minds of Earth's other 
survivors. By focusing on the priest, Gibson could almost tune 
out the rest of the world's woes. Almost.

After dinner, Gibson and the priest customarily played chess 
in their small kitchen. Gibson had been frank about his mind-
reading ability, but Father Richards pressed him to play 
anyway. They lit a hurricane lantern, opened a couple of 
bottles of beer, and settled into folding chairs, the dinner 
table and chessboard between them. The priest drank heartily 
as they played, claiming the alcohol eased the aches in his 
arthritic knees. Gibson matched him swallow for swallow, on 
the pretense of giving Father Richards a winning chance at 
their game. In truth, he liked the lightheaded, carefree way 
it made him feel. It afforded him a rare opportunity to relax. 

This particular March night, Father Richards began their game 
boldly, leading with his knight.

"B1 to C3."

Gibson slid a pawn forward, biding his time. The beer's bitter 
effervescence prickled his nose, its yeasty odor reminiscent 
of the restaurant in Bluff, Utah, where Mulder, sullen and 
scared, had downed two bottles in quick succession in an 
attempt to numb his sorrow while confessing his anger over 
Scully's imagined betrayal.

So much had changed since that day. Some for the better. Some 
not.

After an hour of play and three beers apiece, Gibson quietly 
announced, "Bishop to B4. Check."

"As usual, my young friend, you have bested me." The priest 
hunched over the board and squinted at the chessmen. 

"Game's not over yet, Father." 

Gibson had left an opening. Not an obvious one; the priest 
would have to hunt for it. And while he searched, Gibson was 
free to think...and remember...

*   *   *

SALT LAKE CITY
FOUR MONTHS EARLIER

The needle on the speedometer approached sixty. The engine 
wasn't designed for high speed and it whined in protest as the 
Humvee careened down the outer runway. Gibson's knuckles were 
white on the wheel. Scully felt more than heard the rumble of 
the tires on asphalt. Her voice vibrated when she spoke. 
"William's at Safe Camp?"

"Yes." 

"I thought..." Ca-Lo had sent his army to destroy the camp 
after kidnapping her.

"He did," Gibson said, obviously reading her thoughts. 
"Everything's gone."

"And you left William there?" Scully asked, appalled. "Not 
alone, I hope."

"Of course not." Gibson tugged the wheel hard to the right. 
The Humvee veered off the pavement and crossed a lumpy, 
gravel-covered median. Scully hugged her belly as they jounced 
over a curb. The baby kicked, agitated. Another spin of the 
wheel and they skidded onto an access road leading out of the 
airport. "We left him with Kenna and Royal."

Scully knew Royal Jackson and was relieved to hear he was 
alive, but he would not have been her first choice as 
caretaker for William. Hopefully this Kenna person was better 
qualified. "How long before we get there?" 

"Two to three hours." 

A fraction of the time it had taken on horseback. 

Scully twisted in her seat to look out the rear window. 
"Something's happening."

Tse'Bit'a'i' hovered a few meters above the tarmac. A blue-
white halo pulsed beneath it. The ship seemed to hang for a 
moment, a behemoth fighting gravity, then suddenly it shot 
straight up and disappeared into the night sky, a pinprick of 
light indistinguishable from the backdrop of stars. 

Gibson hit the accelerator hard. The engine roared as they 
sped up the onramp to Highway 15. A flare of molten-red 
brightened the sky. Strings of plasma arrowed earthward like 
lightning bolts. One by one they struck the grounded warships. 
White-hot metal and orange gases spewed into the air. 
Concussions rocked the Humvee a quarter of a mile away. 

"My God." Panic welled in Scully's chest. "Did Mulder and 
Skinner make it off the ship?"

Gibson remained tightlipped, eyes locked on the road ahead. 
Scully knew he was privy to what was happening and his silence 
infuriated her. 

"Ca-Lo's at the helm, isn't he?" she asked. It didn't take a 
mind-reader to guess the truth.  

More flashes illuminated the landscape.

"Answer me, Gibson. I know you can hear what's going on."

"Yes, he's attacking the ships." 

"Why? Why is he destroying them?"

"He's doing it for you."

This shocked her. She had refused to marry him, had told him 
he was the devil and she hated him for the things he had done 
to her, the things he had threatened to do to William.

Gibson's glasses reflected more explosions. "He doesn't hate 
you."

She didn't care. She felt no sympathy for him. He had chosen 
his fate.

"Are Mulder and Skinner okay?" she demanded.

"Yes. They got away."

Relief surged through her. Again she turned to look back. 
"Where are they? I don't see a car."

"They're not in a car."

"Then where...?"

"They stole a helicopter." The sky crackled and glowed. Gibson 
grabbed her arm. "Close your eyes!" he ordered unexpectedly.

She did as he asked, just as a blinding light, bright enough 
to penetrate her closed lids, flooded the car's interior. The 
ground shook violently. The Humvee shimmied off the pavement. 
Eyes shut tight, Scully gripped the seat. The car fishtailed 
as Gibson fought to gain control and get them back on the 
road.

"What's happening?" she begged. 

The vibration subsided. "It's okay. You can open your eyes."

They were still on the road, speeding away from the city, away 
from danger. The sky had taken on a strange, sickly yellow 
hue. 

"What happened?"

"Look for yourself." He tilted his head toward the rear window.

Behind them, a massive mushroom cloud ballooned over the city. 
Scully gaped at the plumes of swirling smoke. 

"Oh my God... Mulder!"

*   *   *

Mulder shielded his eyes with an upraised arm. 

Skinner's left hand adjusted the collective control while his 
right worked the cyclic. The cockpit dipped steeply as they 
banked to the west. Shockwaves struck them side on. Mulder was 
thrown hard against his safety harness. The chopper began to 
spin and Skinner wrestled with the controls. Mulder felt like 
he might throw up. 

"I always preferred the Tunnel of Love to the Cyclone, 
Walter," he said through gritted teeth. 

"In that case..." Skinner's feet pressed the floor pedals and 
his head swiveled as he double-checked their bearings. After a 
few stomach churning seconds, the helicopter stopped its 
dizzying rotation. A few additional adjustments leveled them 
out. "Pucker up, sweetheart."

Mulder grinned and asked, "Rain check?" 

"Cock tease."

To the east, fiery debris arced through the air. A ball of 
flame engulfed Harmony I. 

"Bye-bye ET."

"Hallefuckinglujah." Skinner took them higher.

"Apparently Ca-Lo didn't like what he found in the NDP 
archive."

"The what?" 

"A chronicle of the Mulder family tree."

"He was telling the truth? You two were brothers?"

"Not exactly. He was my clone."

"Jesus, don't tell me their experiments started as long ago as 
that." Revulsion darkened Skinner's eyes. "Can't say I'm sorry 
to see him go."

"That makes two of us."

"Three, if you count Scully." The Blackhawk raced northeast 
across Great Salt Lake. "I'm sure she'll be relieved he's 
gone." 

"Uh, about that... Did she say anything to you?" 

"About Ca-Lo?"

"Or her pregnancy." Below them, the lake's rough surface 
reflected the flames from the alien stronghold. Smoke chugged 
westward; sparks writhed and churned. The distinctive vinegary 
odor of spent plasma seeped into the Blackhawk and stung 
Mulder's sinuses and throat. "As you know, I'm usually not the 
kind of guy who needs scientific proof to believe something, 
but in this case I'd be grateful for a reliable PCR."

Skinner shot him a confused glance. "You don't think...?" 

Mulder shrugged and Skinner's grip tightened on the controls. 
His knuckles looked ready to pop through his skin. "Son of a 
bitch. She told me he was a liar, a...a 'trickster.' 
'Unusually persuasive' were her exact words. She said he could 
make people do things they wouldn't ordinarily do -- like 
Robert Modell."

Mulder's queasiness returned. "Did she say if he made her do 
something she didn't want to do?"

"No, but she was definitely upset. I thought it had to do with 
your argument."

"So she told you about that."

"No details. Just that you were angry about William."

"I accused her of betraying me," Mulder confessed.

Skinner scowled at him. "Wonderful. You convinced her of it, 
too." 

"No, no, I was wrong. She *saved* William. I see that now." 
Gibson had opened his eyes to the truth. The chip in Scully's 
neck had left her with no other options. "I've been such an 
ass."

Skinner's expression remained stern. "You have to apologize."

"No shit. I just hope it'll be enough." Would she forgive him? 
For everything? 

Antelope Island came into view. Mercury vapor floodlights 
illuminated three windowless towers on its southeastern shore. 
Mulder was surprised to see dozens, maybe hundreds of people 
streaming from the exits. They were dressed in ragged clothes, 
not the enemy's oil-black uniforms. 

"Prison break?" Mulder asked.

"That would be my guess."

"The explosions across the bay could've spooked the guards."

"Giving the prisoners an advantage."

Three sets of headlights snaked northward away from the 
prison. "Looks like the rats are leaving the ship," Mulder 
said. 

"They're heading for the causeway. It connects the island to 
the mainland at West Point."

"You want to cut them off?"

Skinner shook his head. "We don't have weapons. Better to let 
them go. It'll make our little rescue mission a hell of a lot 
easier." He glanced at Mulder. "When we land, you stay put. 
Give me a few minutes to explain things before you show your 
face."

Mulder fingered the neck of his military uniform. His 
resemblance to Ca-Lo had been an asset aboard Tse'Bit'a'i'. 
Here it could prove deadly. "Can you convince them I am who I 
am?"

Skinner circled the towers and began their descent. "More 
than half of them are members of the North Utah Infantry. 
Yeah, I can convince them."

*   *   *

"Did they make it? Were they out of range?" Scully peered out 
the window at the smoke-filled sky, uselessly searching for 
Mulder and Skinner's helicopter.

"They're okay," Gibson assured her.

She felt her heart begin to beat again. Sucking air into her 
lungs, she tried to steady the tremors in her arms and legs.

"What about Dibeh? Was she with them?"

Gibson shook his head. "She stayed on board."

"On board? Why?"

"There was nothing for her here," Gibson said softly, eyes 
briefly leaving the road to glance her way. "She didn't suffer 
in the end. She didn't die afraid."

Scully's rational side understood the hardships the hybrid 
would have faced, had she chosen to leave with Mulder and 
Skinner and live among humans. And she was grateful Dibeh's 
death had been mercifully swift. Yet her heart ached at the 
loss of her friend. Dibeh had risked her life to save her. The 
small, silent aide had been selfless and kind. Scully would 
miss her dearly.

Tears stung her eyes and she turned toward her window to hide 
them from Gibson. Not that it was possible to hide anything 
from him, for he witnessed everything -- fear, pain, death. 
How did he bear it? How could anyone? 

The baby shifted inside her, making her wish for Mulder's 
comforting presence. She needed to see he was safe. Needed to 
feel his arms around her. 

"He'll join us as soon as he can," Gibson assured her.

"Why isn't he coming now? What's he doing?"

"There are prisoners on Antelope Island."

"And he and Skinner have gone to free them." Typical. Thinking 
of everyone's safety but their own. "I don't want to be kept 
in the dark, Gibson. I want to know the truth, no matter what 
it is, as soon as you know it."

He hesitated before answering, obviously reluctant to agree. 
After a moment, he nodded and urged her to "Try not to worry." 

For the next two hours she counted mile markers and read road 
signs in a futile effort to keep her mind off of what was 
happening at the prison. When worry threatened to overwhelm 
her, she concentrated on William. It had been more than a year 
since she'd handed him over to Skinner in Our Lady of Hope 
Church. He would be changed, a toddler, not the pudgy baby she 
remembered. She tried to picture him. Hair longer. Face 
narrower. Nose more defined. He'd had only two teeth when she 
last saw him. Now he would have a mouthful. Was someone 
teaching him to brush? Did they read to him, the way she had? 
Did they sing him songs? It grieved her to think she had 
missed his first words, his first steps, his first birthday. 
She anticipated holding him, breathing in his scent and 
whispering in his ear: I love you, Sweet William. I have never 
stopped loving you. You have been in my thoughts every minute 
of every day.

"The woman taking care of William," Scully said, breaking 
their long silence, "you said her name is Kenna?"

"Kenna Douglas. She found William last May, after the aliens 
killed the Van de Kamps."

So this Kenna woman was not a survivor of the Safe Camp 
massacre as Scully had assumed. "Van de Kamp?"

"The people who adopted William. Kenna lived next door."

Questions whirled through Scully's mind. How had Mulder and 
Gibson found William? What did Mulder say when he first saw 
his son? What was William's reaction? But her throat tightened 
and all she could manage was, "How is he?"

"He's...happy...relatively speaking."

This brought mixed emotions. She was glad he was okay -- it 
was why she had given him up in the first place. And yet she 
couldn't help but feel a stab of jealousy. Another woman was 
caring for her son, cuddling him, making him smile. "She's 
good to him?"

"Yes. He's grown pretty attached to her. Are you going to be 
okay with that?"

"She saved his life. I don't resent his affection for her."

Gibson glanced at her. "She loves him, you know."

It was understandable. "She's been caring for him for nearly a 
year."

"She won't give him up easily."

"But I'm his mother."

"Not in her mind." 

Scully's heart beat faster. "He's safe. That's all I care 
about." 

A billboard for Rendezvous Beach came into view. 

"We're almost there," Gibson said. 

Minutes, not miles, now separated her from her son, and her 
nervousness returned tenfold. She shoved her hands into her 
lap to still their shaking.

Craters and debris blocked the road. Gibson slowed the Humvee 
to snake around them. The jostling high beams revealed the 
camp and its devastation in stages. Gone were the RVs and 
tents. The main office was demolished. Nothing but rubble 
remained everywhere. And bodies. Lots of bodies.

"Ca-Lo is responsible for this," she said bitterly. 

"He's also responsible for ending the invasion."

She placed a hand on her abdomen. Maybe he had stopped 
colonization, but she could not forget what he had done to her 
personally.

An open fire glittered beyond the old infirmary and Gibson 
steered toward it. "That's them."

Three figures came into view, lit by the flickering blaze. 
Scully recognized Royal Jackson, sitting on the tailgate of a 
pickup truck, bundled in blankets. A slender, dark-haired 
woman in an oversized parka fed broken two-by-fours into the 
fire. But it was the small boy who tottered around her in too-
long blue jeans and a pale blue, hooded coat that held 
Scully's attention. It was him...William...her son. Her fear 
that she might not recognize him evaporated instantly. He was 
her child, the little boy she had rocked and nursed and sang 
to. He had changed, but she would have recognized him whether 
it had been twelve months or twelve years that had passed. 

He bent down and picked up a foot-long stick from the ground. 
Grasping it firmly in his mittened fist, he waved it at the 
sparks and smoke. He stepped closer to the flames and, 
mimicking the woman, he hurled his little stick. It fell short 
of its mark. He scurried precariously near the fire to collect 
it and try again. Sparks drifted mere inches from his hair and 
face. He blinked against the heat. Why didn't Kenna or Royal 
call him back? He was too close. Too close!

Scully unbuckled her seatbelt. "Stop the car," she ordered and 
opened the door. Gibson hit the brakes and she staggered from 
the still-moving vehicle. "William! William, no!"

He looked up, startled. But before she could reach him, Kenna 
scooped him into her arms. He laughed as she swung him onto 
her hip, his cheeks cherry red and eyes shining. 

Scully longed to rush forward and snatch him away from this 
careless woman. It took every ounce of control she possessed 
to hang back and take this initial meeting slowly. She didn't 
want to frighten William or antagonize Kenna. Her goal was to 
get her son back, with as little trauma to William as 
possible. 

Kenna was younger than Scully had imagined when trying to 
conjure up her image in the car -- a leggy teenager, not a 
kindly older woman. She had long, shiny hair that fell to her 
waist, full lips, and wide, fiercely protective eyes. William 
clung to her, one small arm looped over her shoulder. His 
other hand went to his mouth and, smile now gone, he nervously 
gnawed his mittened thumb.  

Suspicion narrowed Kenna's eyes. She tightened her grip on 
William. "Who the hell are you?" 

Gibson appeared out of the dark to stand beside Scully. 
"Kenna, this is Dana Scully, William's mother." 

Royal hopped down from the tailgate, a broad grin splitting 
his dark face. "You're alive! You made it."

"Yes, we made it," Gibson replied.

"Where's Mulder?" Kenna demanded at the same time Royal asked, 
"You find Commander Skinner?"

"They'll be along in a day or so."

"Kenna, I've come for my son." Scully took a hesitant step 
toward them, arms outstretched. 

"Stay away from him! I know all about you. I know what you 
did." Kenna shuffled backward, nearer to Royal, putting the 
fire between her and Scully. 

William stared solemnly at Scully, his expression mirroring 
Kenna's, full of distrust and fear. Not a glimmer of 
recognition registered in his blue-gray eyes. Scully's hopes 
sank at the realization he considered her a stranger, not his 
mother. It had been unrealistic to think he might remember her 
and yet it broke her heart to discover he did not.

"You gave him away," Kenna accused. "Mulder said you tossed 
him out like yesterday's trash."

"It wasn't like that," Scully protested. 

"Liar! I know what happened. Mulder told me." 

Scully chose her next words with care. "Mulder might have seen 
it that way, but--"

"But nothing. You didn't want your baby? Fine. Now he's mine, 
mine and Mulder's. And as soon as Mulder gets back, he's going 
to take me and William away from this awful place. 
We're...we're going to the Grand Canyon. Find a decent house 
to live in. And you can go to hell!"

"I won't let you take him." 

"You've got no choice." Kenna squared her shoulders. "Mulder 
doesn't love you any more. He loves *me*. Tell her, Gibson," 
she challenged. "Tell her how he feels about me."

"He doesn't love you, Kenna," Gibson said softly.

"No? Then why did he sleep with me? Tell me that!" 

Scully looked at Gibson to see if Kenna was lying. He blushed 
darkly, giving her the answer. Mulder had slept with this 
teenager, William's substitute mother.

"It's true?" she stammered, silently pleading with him to deny 
it.

Gibson opened his mouth, but Kenna spoke first. "Yes, it's 
true. Tell her, Gibson. Tell her what happened. Give her the 
details. Mulder slept with me because he didn't want her any 
more. I know you heard it. You're always listening in on 
private conversations. Tell her."

Unable to meet Scully's gaze, Gibson stared at the toes of his 
worn sneakers. 

Scully's throat tightened. She felt nauseated and dizzy. 
"Gibson?" 

"There's some truth to what she says," he admitted.

"Some?"

His eyes met hers, glistening with sympathy and regret. 
"Sorry."

Scully turned and staggered away from them. Her feet felt 
leaden, her legs numb. The uneven ground seemed to tilt and 
shift. She had lost her son *and* Mulder. And there was no one 
to blame but herself. 

*   *   *

The prisoners scattered at the Blackhawk's approach, reluctant 
to be recaptured and forced back into their cells by an envoy 
of the alien army. But a few stragglers noticed it was Skinner 
who emerged from the pilot's seat. Recognizing him, they 
whooped with delight and called the others back. Skinner was 
soon surrounded by the ragtag remnants of his North Utah 
Infantry. Ignoring protocol, they slapped him on the back and 
welcomed their old commander with broad smiles and tear-filled 
eyes. He was equally glad to see them, his comrades in arms, 
his friends.

"Can't believe it's you, sir!"

"What are our orders, Commander? Where's the battle?"

"We heard explosions! What's happening?"

Skinner raised his hands to silence them. "It's over. The 
aliens are dead."

"All of 'em?"

"Yes, all of them. We've won!"

A cheer went up. They were free. Their enemy was vanquished 
and they were finally, truly free. They embraced one another. 
Shook hands. Wept openly. Their joyful celebration continued 
for several long minutes, their enthusiasm unabated...until 
Mulder stepped from the helicopter.

All smiles faded. Fear, then anger, sparked in the prisoners' 
eyes. 

"What's *he* doing here?" 

"Kill the fucking bastard!"

Again Skinner raised his hands for silence. The epithets grew 
fewer and fainter until finally they ceased altogether. "This 
man isn't who you think he is. His name is Mulder. He's a 
friend." 

"Sir, he's the enemy! It's Ca-Lo!"

"The bastard who put us here."

"He killed my wife! And my children!"

"No. Ca-Lo is dead," Skinner shouted to be heard above the 
protests. "This man isn't him."    

It took persistence and a recounting of Ca-Lo's kamikaze death 
to get the mob to accept Mulder for who he was. They trusted 
Skinner and eventually he was able to cool their hatred with 
the truth. 
  
Appeased, they filled him in on the details of their escape, 
how Father Richards had led an uprising after the explosions 
started on the mainland. Stealing Warden Travis's Taser, the 
priest subdued him with his own weapon. 

"It was really quite easy," Father Richards explained. "He 
never anticipated trouble from a weak, old man like me." 

Travis's transponder allowed Father Richards to release other 
prisoners on the block. With the guards' attention focused on 
the trouble in Salt Lake City it had been fairly simple to 
stealthily overtake the floors above and below, confiscate the 
guards' weapons and release the prisoners before moving on to 
the next tower. By the time the klaxons blared, Towers I and 
II had been emptied and the guards were either dead or running 
for their lives.
 
Skinner congratulated his troops and the priest, and over the 
next hour they made plans for their relocation. Mulder 
volunteered to stay behind with Father Richards to organize 
ground transportation for the bulk of the escapees while Skinner 
flew the most severely injured to their new home.

They quickly located a small fleet of military vehicles in the 
prison garage. Not nearly enough to carry everyone in a single 
trip, but over a week's time, they would be able to shuttle 
them all to Alpine, Wyoming, a location Skinner had considered 
the previous year when searching for an appropriate 
headquarters for his infantry. 

Skinner appointed four lieutenants, men and women he knew were 
expert marksmen, to serve as gunners in case they ran into 
renegade soldiers, humans who had once served in the alien 
army. The sick and injured were triaged. Those in the worst 
condition were loaded onto the Blackhawk for immediate 
evacuation.

Pushing the chopper's carrying capacity to its limit, Skinner 
decided to chance adding one more and selected Dr. Davis, an 
experienced combat surgeon, to ride along with him. Medics 
Johansson and Perez would remain behind to care for those 
awaiting transportation.

"Your Dr. Davis could use Scully's help setting up an 
infirmary and getting those patients stabilized," Mulder 
suggested.

"Too bad we don't know where she is."

Mulder smiled for the first time since landing on Antelope 
Island. "I left William in Safe Camp. Gibson will take her 
there."

Skinner agreed to stop at Bear Lake to look for her, after 
dropping off his current load in Alpine and refueling in 
Jackson. "Sorry you can't come along, Mulder. I know you're 
anxious to see her."

"It's okay. The injured take precedence. I can help here. 
Scully will understand."

Skinner appreciated his grasp of the situation and his 
willingness to put the refugees' needs first. There would be 
time enough for a reunion later. 

Before departing, Skinner gave Mulder directions to Alpine, 
along with a bit of friendly advice. "Change your clothes." 

"It'll be a pleasure." Mulder looked down at Ca-Lo's uniform. 
"I sure as hell don't want to show up at Scully's door dressed 
like this."

As it turned out, Skinner found Scully at Rendezvous Beach 
with her son and the others, just as Mulder had predicted. He 
jogged from the helicopter to wrap her in a bear hug. "Jesus, 
you're a sight for sore eyes." 

She blinked back tears and kissed his cheek, clearly as 
pleased to see him as he was to see her. 

Feeling elated, he hugged Gibson and Royal in turn.

"Good to see you alive, sir." Royal grinned from ear to ear.

"You, too, son."

"Where's Mulder?" Scully asked, brow furrowing as she craned 
to see inside the Blackhawk.

"He stayed behind to oversee ground transportation to Safe 
Camp II, which is where I'm taking you now. We've got people 
in need of medical attention."

Her disappointment over Mulder's absence was obvious. But she 
quickly buried her personal feelings behind a mask of 
professional duty. "Then we'd better get started."

*   *   *

SAFE CAMP II
ALPINE, WYOMING
TWO WEEKS LATER

Scully sat on the living room floor with William. Late 
afternoon sun flooded the room and frost glittered on the 
windows. Yesterday's storm had dumped three feet of fresh snow 
on the mountain community. Scully was grateful the winds had 
died down and the skies were now clear, because today was the 
day Skinner was bringing Mulder home. 

The washboard texture of a frayed, braided rug served as 
roadways for William's toy fire truck. He followed a groove 
past Scully's slipper-clad feet, vroom-vrooming as he pushed 
the truck along. She wondered where he had learned the sound 
in this car-less world of post-alien invasion. Had Mulder 
taught it to him? 

"Where did you get your truck?" she asked, hoping to learn 
something about Mulder's relationship with their son.

He babbled nonsense about nightcrawlers and raisins, then 
burst into a tuneless and almost unrecognizable rendition of 
"Joy to the World" -- the song she had taught him while giving 
him his bath earlier in the day.

Her limited time with William was a gift. She had struck an 
uneasy truce with Kenna a week ago after William took a tumble 
that sliced open his forehead. The laceration required 
stitches. Alarmed by the bleeding, Kenna had grudgingly agreed 
to let her sew him up.

It had been heartbreaking to hear him cry for his mama and 
know he meant Kenna and not her. 

"You see how it is?" Kenna held him in her lap as Scully 
stitched his brow. "He's *my* son, not yours."

Scully ignored her ridiculous claim.

Her silence angered Kenna. "Say it," she demanded, "or I won't 
let you near him again."

"He'll need these stitches removed in a few days."

"I'll take them out myself if you don't say it!"

Reluctantly, Scully repeated the lie. It seemed her only 
option if she were to properly treat her son. Appeased, Kenna 
agreed to let her stay overnight in the guest room, in case 
William's cut became infected.

In the days that followed, Scully learned that as long as she 
didn't try to usurp Kenna's role as William's mother, Kenna 
tolerated her being near him. But if she tried to overstep her 
bounds by giving William a hug or a kiss, Kenna scooped him 
out of arms' reach and harshly reminded Scully she was in 
their house to tend to William's injury and would be leaving 
as soon as the stitches came out.

"Tell him I'm his mama," she insisted several times a day.

"Kenna..."

"Tell him!"

Contact with her son was worth any humiliation, so Scully 
nodded and said the words. It seemed apt punishment for giving 
him up in the first place. Kenna rewarded her by letting her 
do more than swab William's forehead with antiseptic. She was 
allowed to give him a bath, teach him a song, or, like now, 
sit quietly beside him while he played with his truck.

Pots and pans clattered in the kitchen across the hall where 
Kenna was preparing a feast in honor of Mulder's homecoming -- 
roasted elk seasoned with pungent garlic and rosemary. A 
fresh-baked pie sat on the counter cooling, filling the house 
with the mouth-watering aroma of apples, cinnamon and cloves. 
Earlier William had begged for a taste and Kenna indulged him 
with a spoonful of the canned filling. She told him how much 
his daddy enjoyed her cooking, especially her apple pie.

"What does Daddy love?" Kenna had asked as she handed him a 
piece of crust sweetened with sugar.

"Pie." 

"And *who* does Daddy love?"

"Willim!"

"That's right. Who else?"

"Mama."

"Who is mama?" she said slyly, casting a satisfied smirk in 
Scully's direction.

"You!"

The demonstration was clearly intended to keep Scully in her 
place. 

To hurt her further, Kenna insisted that Mulder was going to 
marry her as soon as he returned. She even claimed to be 
pregnant by him. Scully hoped it wasn't true, but given the 
fact that Mulder had slept with her, it was entirely possible.

The faint drum of helicopter rotors drew William's attention 
from his play. "Dada?"

"Let's look."

Scully rose awkwardly from the floor, the weight of the baby 
putting her off balance. William was already at the window, 
standing on tiptoe and peering over the sill when she joined 
him to look out at the approaching Blackhawk. 

Snow blanketed the yard and long, purple-black shadows 
stretched like splayed fingers from the trees along the 
property line to the open area where Skinner was setting down 
the chopper. Snowflakes churned and momentarily blocked the 
view with a spray of diamond-bright light. Scully's heart beat 
faster as the rotors slowed to a stop. The veil of snow 
settled and she saw Mulder, rigid and apprehensive in the 
passenger seat, a small rucksack in his lap.

"Dada?"

"Yes, sweetie. It's him."  

This time it was really and truly him.

Kenna appeared in the living room doorway and William ran to 
her, arms flailing with excitement. "Dada! Dada!"

"I see, honey." Kenna lifted him to her hip to give him a 
better vantage. "Look, he's getting out."

Mulder gingerly climbed from the chopper, favoring one leg. He 
stood for a moment to squint at the house, hand shading his 
eyes against the glare. He looked thinner than Scully 
remembered. His hair was longer and the stubble on his cheeks 
and chin was speckled with gray. He wore tattered jeans, a 
too-thin coat and no gloves. 

She quickly shrugged into a sweater and hurried outside, 
forgetting she was still in her slippers, but not caring that 
snow spilled into them and chilled her feet. Mulder smiled 
when he saw her, a broad, genuine grin that lit his face and 
lifted her heart. She ran toward him. 

"Oh my God." A laugh bubbled out of her. "Mulder." 

She slogged through drifts, closing the gap between them. They 
met halfway and Mulder wrapped his arms around her. Her feet 
momentarily left the ground when he lifted her and squeezed.

"Scully." His cold nose nuzzled her neck and his fingers 
kneaded her back as he drew her more tightly to him.

Tears filled her eyes and a sob shook her chest. She had 
missed him so much. And she deeply regretted their hurtful 
argument. Was he still angry? How was he going to react to her 
pregnancy? Would he renounce the baby if she couldn't prove it 
was his? Would he leave her to make a new life with Kenna? It 
suddenly seemed possible, even plausible that Kenna had been 
telling the truth. Mulder had fallen in love with her, the 
pretty young woman who had rescued his son. 

Scully's throat tightened and her chest ached as she tried to 
push these thoughts from her mind. He was here now, in her 
arms, whole and real and safe. The rest didn't matter.  

She captured his face and kissed him hard on the lips, lips 
chapped and pale from too much time outside in the cold. He 
looked exhausted but responded with enthusiasm, plunging his 
fingers into her hair and pressing his mouth over hers. His 
lips devoured hers, urgent and loving, tasting of bitter 
coffee and stale cigarettes. She melted into him, wondering 
when he had started smoking. So much had changed. He seemed a 
different person. And yet, he was achingly familiar. The man 
she had loved for years. And still loved. Hot tears coursed 
down her cheeks, wetting his. She clung to him and reveled in 
the solid feel of his shoulders, the heat of his body.

"Now that's what I call a homecoming," he said with a shaky 
voice when they finally parted. Tears brimmed in his eyes. He 
ran his thumb over her lower lip, wiped her wet cheeks, 
stroked her hair. "Look at you." His focus dropped to her 
swollen belly. Then to her slippers. "Let's get you inside."

Hand to her back, he prodded her toward the house. But when he 
spotted Kenna glaring back at him from the front steps, his 
smile faltered. "Everything okay here?"

"It will be," she promised, praying it was true, hoping with 
all her heart they would be able to mend their differences and 
work out some sort of future together.

*   *   *

THE NEXT MORNING

Luxuriating in the warmth of thick blankets and linens blessed 
with Scully's soft fragrance, Mulder breathed deeply, his nose 
pressed into her pillows. She was still there, even though she 
was elsewhere in the house. With William...and Kenna.

Mulder rose and dressed quickly. For better or worse, he and 
Scully had talked very little the previous night. Skinner had 
joined them for dinner and, feeling celebratory now that the 
relocation effort was finally at an end, regaled them with his 
plans for the future. There was much to be done if they were 
to survive the winter in Alpine. Kenna remained unnaturally 
quiet throughout the discussion. She kept a watchful eye on 
Mulder and appeared shocked when he declined a slice of apple 
pie in favor of sleep. She showed him the way to her bedroom, 
but he shook his head, insisting the twin bed in William's 
room was where he wanted to spend the night. Sometime later, 
Scully woke him there and led him to her room down the hall.

Lying in bed together, she had asked about his limp and the 
scars on his face. He skipped the goriest details to tell her 
instead about Eric Hosteen and his daughter Jewel. In turn, 
she described Alpine's infirmary and the progress of her 
patients. She avoided any mention of Ca-Lo, her imprisonment, 
her pregnancy, or Kenna. He had wanted to delve deeper, but 
was afraid her answers would be too painful...for the both of 
them. Sleep overtook him before he could work up the courage 
to ask his questions or make any confessions.   

He dreamed about paternity tests and children who looked like 
him but who weren't his. 

Following the scent of fresh coffee, he limped down the 
carpeted hallway toward the kitchen. Lining the walls were 
photographs of a typical family with three children, a father 
and only one mother -- a contrast to the bizarre situation he 
found himself in now. 

A hell of my own making, he had to admit.    

Tentatively, he entered the kitchen. Kenna was drying dishes 
and putting them away in bead-board cupboards. Scully kneaded 
dough on a butcher-block counter beside the sink. William 
played with Legos on the linoleum floor. Dressed in an 
oversized sweater and corduroy pants, torn at the knees, he 
paused in his play to smile shyly up at Mulder. 

Mulder crouched beside him, the effort causing his leg to 
throb. "What'cha making, son?"

"Copter." 

The colorful lump of plastic parts looked nothing like a 
helicopter.

"Need help?"

"Nope."

Mulder pointed to the collection of Lego people. "Who are 
they?"

William picked up a cylindrical construction worker in a red 
hardhat. "Unc Walt."

"And this one?" Mulder tagged a road worker wearing an orange 
vest.

"Me." William grinned.

Mulder fingered a helmeted figure on a three-wheeler. "What 
about him?"

"Dada!"

"Me?"

"Vroom, vroom!" William drove the cyclist into a pile of 
blocks, scattering them across the floor. Mulder realized he 
was remembering the day he and Gibson arrived in Cache on the 
Scout, spewing gravel, engine roaring.

"Careful, William," Kenna admonished. She lifted him, kissed 
his cheek with a loud smack and placed him in his highchair. 
Casting a disapproving glance at the Legos, she stooped to 
collect them. "He's too young for these. Pieces are too small. 
He could choke."

Mulder helped her gather them, then rose and hobbled over to 
Scully.

"Make one Martha Stewart crack and I'll break your other leg." 
She paused to wipe a stray hair from her eyes. Flour smudged 
her face and sweater and collected on the shelf of her stomach 
and larger-than-normal breasts. Her cheeks were pink from 
exertion, her hair askew. She was beautiful. Breathtakingly 
so.

Ignoring Kenna's watchful stare, Mulder leaned in and kissed 
her on the lips. "Morning," he murmured. 

"Sleep okay?"

"Never better."

She placed the smooth, heavy mound of dough into a large 
ceramic bowl, covered it with a damp towel and lifted it from 
the counter.

"Here, let me get that." He looked pointedly at her belly and 
reached for the bread.

"I can do it..." she protested, but relinquished the bowl 
without a struggle.

"Where are we taking it?"

"Living room." She led the way.

"Any place in particular?" he asked as they entered the room. 

"Bookshelf beside the woodstove. It's warm enough to make the 
bread rise, but not hot enough to kill the yeast."

He set the bowl between a stack of Dirt Bike magazines and an 
antique, wind-up clock that ticked loudly. "When did you learn 
how to bake bread?"

"Last week. Part of my crash course in survival techniques."

Rid of the bowl, he put his arms around her. "I enjoyed last 
night," he said, nuzzling her ear.

"Mulder, we didn't do anything last night."

"We slept in the same bed."

She peered past him toward the kitchen where Kenna was singing 
to William. "This might not be the best place for this," she 
said, pushing gently against his chest.

He refused to release her and buried his nose in her hair. 
"Tell me everything I've missed."

"That's a tall order."

"Okay, start with the living arrangements. I have to admit, I 
was a little surprised to find you here with Kenna."

"William's not ready to leave her." 

"He'll never be ready as long as you--"

"I won't put him through any more upheaval. He's devoted to 
her and he barely knows me."

"But you're his mother."

"And he'll learn that, in time. For now, this is the way it 
has to be...for his sake." Her willingness to sacrifice her 
own happiness for that of their child was as unwavering now as 
it had been the day she gave him up for adoption. Mulder no 
longer doubted her motives. Her decision had been selfless and 
he felt ashamed for his previously misguided accusations. 
She'd had William's best interests at heart, then as now. 

Scully slipped out of his embrace and busied herself 
straightening books, folding an afghan, picking up toys, 
anything, it seemed, to avoid looking directly at him. "Kenna 
told me you asked her to marry her."

"That's not true. You can ask Gibson."

"I did."

"And?"

"He said it wasn't true."

"See?" Mulder felt his panic start to subside.

Scully pinned him with a serious stare. "The point is, *she* 
thinks it's true."

"I'll talk to her."

"No, don't. She's..."

"Two aliens short of a full blown invasion?"

"That's not funny."

"I know. I'm sorry." He glanced over his shoulder at the empty 
doorway. "But aren't you concerned about her being around 
him?"

"She seems a bit off, I'll admit. But she's good to him, 
Mulder. She kept him alive. I'll always be grateful to her for 
that." 

Maybe not when you learn the whole truth, he thought 
miserably, knowing he had to tell her about their short-lived 
affair -- before Kenna told her. If it wasn't already too 
late. 

Stalling while he gathered his courage, he fed a log into the 
woodstove. The fire snapped and crackled as it radiated warmth 
and the piney scent of green wood. Scully lowered herself into 
a nearby chair, a rocker with a padded seat and back. She 
rested her hands on the rounded curve of her belly and watched 
while he rearranged logs with the poker.

"They saved my life," he blurted, not ready to confess his 
infidelity, not with William and Kenna so close by.

"Who?"

"The Gunmen."

Scully's brows rose. "When?"

"The day it all went to hell. After I let the aliens out. And 
the ship took off with you in it."

"I don't understand. How did they save your life?"

"I...I don't really have an answer for that."

"You do realize they're dead?"

"Of course." Mulder closed the door on the woodstove and hung 
the poker back on its hook. "I've seen other ghosts, too," he 
said, as if this admission would help her believe he had 
actually seen Byers, Frohike and Langly.

"Whose ghosts?"

"Krycek. X. Deep Throat."

"Given what you were going through, it's not unrealistic you'd 
be thinking of them."

She didn't believe him and he found it difficult to keep 
sarcasm out of his response. "And your sister? Why would I be 
thinking of her, given what I was going through?" 

"You saw Missy?"

"At a gas station in Wyoming."

Concern knotted her brow. "How long have you been having 
these...visions?"

"The first was the day I broke into the facility at Mount 
Weather, before I was captured."

"Jesus, Mulder, I visited you in your cell. I saw you at your 
trial. Why didn't you tell me?" 

"I was afraid you would think I was crazy."

A half-hearted laugh chuffed from her lungs. "And that doesn't 
worry you now?"

"No, because I don't see them anymore."

This seemed to surprise her. She considered a moment and he 
thought he read a mix of pity and relief in her eyes. "Maybe 
you don't see them anymore because you no longer need to see 
them."

He shook his head, knelt in front of her, and clasped her 
hands between his. "They weren't a mental manifestation, a 
coping mechanism, if that's what you're thinking. They helped 
me, Scully."

"That's what I'm saying." 

"No, I mean, they helped me in a literal, physical sense. The 
Gunmen carried me to safety, away from Tse'Bit'a'i'. They 
saved my life."

"I believe you." She stroked his face. "I do."

The gesture felt patronizing. He ducked away from her hand. 
"Really? It used to take a lot more than my say-so to convince 
you that something as unlikely as ghosts were real."

"I've changed, Mulder." Tears shone in her eyes. Her hand went 
to her stomach. "In more ways than the obvious." 

What had happened to her aboard Tse'Bit'a'i'? What had she 
endured at the hands of his nefarious clone? He desperately 
wanted to ask if Ca-Lo had touched her, forced himself on her, 
fathered the child she was carrying. He covered her hand with 
his own. "I don't remember you being this big with William." 
Leaning forward, he put an ear to her stomach and listened. 
"Maybe there's more than one in there. William plus 
quadruplets would make a great basketball team," he joked, 
hoping to steer their conversation into less distressing 
territory. 

She appeared to appreciate his humor and relaxed a little. 
"Bite your tongue. One healthy baby will be plenty." 

"You realize I'm finally going to be able to put my Lamaze 
skills to use."

"I'll hold you to it. I hated that you couldn't be with me 
when William was born."

He was about to tell her how deeply he regretted it, too, but 
the opportunity was lost when William raced into the room and 
happily shrieked "Dada!" 

Mulder caught him in the crook of his arm and lifted him into 
Scully's lap. "Hey, big guy, how would you like to go sledding 
with your ol' man later today?"

It was doubtful William knew what a sled was, but he replied 
with an enthusiastic "Yay!"

"Maybe we can convince your Mom to come watch us." He winked 
at Scully.

William's head swiveled. His faint brows drew together. He 
stared hard at Scully. "Mama kitchen," he said earnestly.

"No, mama's right here," Mulder said.

"Mulder, don't." 

"It's time, Scully. It's past time. Son, I want you to meet 
your real--" 

A crash of glass stopped him mid-sentence. Kenna stood in the 
doorway, face stricken. Spilled coffee and shards of the 
broken carafe littered the floor around her feet. "Lies!" she 
hissed.

"Kenna..." Mulder stood and lifted William from Scully's lap. 
"You know the truth."

"That's right, I do." She marched up to him, latched onto 
William and tried to pull him away from Mulder. "Let go."

William whimpered and Mulder relinquished him, rather than 
play tug-of-war with his son. 

"You're a fine one to talk about the truth, Mulder." Her eyes 
narrowed. Her mouth twisted with anger. "How honest have you 
been?" 

She whirled and stalked from the room, taking William with 
her. 

*   *   *

SHORTLY BEFORE DAWN THE NEXT DAY

Bone-chilling cold. Sting of sleet on bare skin. Darkness 
everywhere. "We'll be there soon, William, I promise."

Gibson woke with a start. He knew instantly it wasn't a bad 
dream that was making his heart pound. 

Kenna was out on the frozen reservoir. With William.

He tossed off his blankets. Not taking time to light a 
lantern, he pulled on his pants, shoved his feet into his 
boots, and hurried to the next room to wake Father Richards. 
"Get Mulder," he urged.

"What's the matter?" Father Richards rose groggily from his 
bed.

"Kenna's taken William. I think she's gone to the reservoir. 
I'm going after them."

The priest fumbled to light the lantern on his bedside table. 
The room brightened when he touched match to wick. He held the 
lamp out to Gibson. "Take this."

"I don't need it."

"Maybe not, but it'll help us find you." 

Gibson nodded, grabbed the lantern and headed for the door. 
"Bring Mulder as soon as you can," he called over his 
shoulder.

Outside, a northerly wind whistled past his ears. Sleet 
needled his face. He stumbled through knee-high snowdrifts, 
homing in on Kenna's thoughts, using them to guide him to her. 

"She isn't your mama, William...*I* am...I know what's best 
for you...she gave you away...I'll never leave you...I love 
you..." 

It seemed an eternity before Gibson arrived at the reservoir 
and spotted Kenna near the outlet, where the ice tapered, 
translucent and dangerously thin, and open water gurgled 
through a grate in a small dam. It rushed downstream on the 
opposite side, a deep, black crevice in the snow. 

Kenna was dressed in only a thin nightgown. Her head, arms and 
feet were bare. Thankfully, she had bundled William in a 
snowsuit, hat, mittens and boots. Reading the boy's thoughts, 
Gibson knew he was neither cold nor frightened.

"Kenna!"

Surprised, she spun to face him. "Gibson?"

He slogged closer, lamp held high so she could see his face. 
He tried to smile. "Where are you going?"

"Don't you already know? Thought you could read minds."

He nodded, conceding the point. "You can't get to the Grand 
Canyon on foot."

"Yes I can. Don't try to stop me."

"You're going in the wrong direction. It's that way." He swung 
the lantern toward town. 

"No it's not. You're trying to trick me." 

"I'm not, I swear."

She backed away from him...closer to the outlet. "Don't follow 
me."

"Kenna, please." He continued toward her. A few more steps and 
he might be able to grab hold of her arm--  

"I said don't come any closer!" She stumbled back, one, two, 
three steps.

A loud pop ricocheted through the ice. The sound provoked a 
primal response in Gibson, an almost overwhelming fear. His 
muscles tightened, his heart pounded, every neuron screamed at 
him to run to safer ground. He held his breath and listened 
for confirmation that the ice was going to collapse beneath 
their feet. When nothing happened, he fought his instincts, 
tried to quell his panic and stand firm. 

"Okay. I'm not following you. I've stopped. Please, come back 
before you fall in."

Kenna clung to William. She shivered as much from fear as from 
the cold. "What do you care? You're *her* friend."

"I'm your friend, too."

"No you're not. You brought her here. She wants to take 
William and Mulder away from me." 

The ice snapped and spider-webbed beneath her feet. One 
fissure zigzagged past Gibson, splitting ice and snow.

He felt helpless. Even with his telepathic powers he didn't 
know what to say or do to stop her. He had no experience with 
situations like this.

"Kenna!" Mulder's voice cut through the clatter of sleet on 
frozen snow. He loped toward them, coat flapping, bare chest 
exposed. Far behind him, Father Richards followed the crooked 
trail of his footsteps, a bobbling light in the dark. 

"Come off the ice, Kenna." Mulder slowed when he reached 
Gibson. He was breathing hard. Frightening thoughts swirled 
through his mind, bombarding Gibson with worst case scenarios. 
Inwardly he was falling apart. Outwardly, his face remained a 
mask of calm, his voice steady and sympathetic. "You're 
putting William in danger."

This got Kenna's attention. She stiffened and looked down at 
the cracks in the ice. 

"I know you don't want to hurt him," Mulder pressed, keeping 
his tone free of reproach. Gibson was impressed. Mulder didn't 
need his mind-reading ability; he had a gift for understanding 
human behavior and motivation. "He's depending on you to keep 
him safe." 

"I...I love him."

"I know you do."

"And he loves me."

"Yes, yes, he does."

"I've taken good care of him."

"You have." Mulder inched closer. The ice creaked and sagged 
beneath him.

"Mulder, it won't hold all of us," Gibson warned. 

"Then back away." Mulder stepped closer to Kenna, ignoring the 
danger. He had done this sort of thing before, put himself in 
harm's way while talking desperate people off ledges, stopping 
kidnappers from killing hostages. "Kenna, I appreciate 
everything you've done for William." 

"Then why don't you love me?" 

"We can talk about that." He was almost within reach. "Come 
back to the house."

She shook her head and began to cry. "What's the point? You 
hate me."

"I don't hate you."

"I didn't take the Tylenol! Honest. And it's not like I lost 
it on purpose...like I gave it away. The way *she* did! It was 
an accident. You have to believe me."

"I believe you," he lied, not understanding what she was 
referring to. 

She choked on her sobs. "We can try again. I'll be more 
careful. Please, please don't take William away."

William looked up at her with troubled eyes. "Mama sad."  

She soothed him as she sniffled, kissed the crown of his head 
and rocked him in her arms. Her skin was pebbled with 
gooseflesh. Her trembling lips were blue. The cold had turned 
the scars on her neck bright crimson. "I'm taking him to the 
Grand Canyon, Mulder. You can come with us if you want." She 
turned. Took a step toward the open water. Gibson knew then 
she intended to end her life and drown them both.

Mulder realized it, too. He lunged, grabbed her arm. The ice 
cracked and snapped.

"Dada?"

"Give him to me, Kenna. Please," Mulder begged, hanging on to 
her. 

She shook her head, but didn't struggle when Mulder lifted 
William from her arms and drew her to firmer ice. Her thoughts 
were a jumble of memory and fantasy, her mind a victim of the 
unimaginable events she had witnessed over the past seven 
months. 

"Rick will be home soon," she mumbled. "He'll be hungry. We're 
going to the Grand Canyon."

Mulder passed William to Gibson, then lifted Kenna in his 
arms. She hung limply as he carried her across the ice. When 
he reached shore, he headed away from the house they had 
shared, intending to take her to a new place where she could 
be watched and cared for, away from William. 

"Where Dada go?" William stared after his father. 

Father Richards tweaked his rosy cheek. "What do you say we 
get you back home, young man? Poor Dana was beside herself 
with worry."

Gibson could hear Scully's panic even now. She had desperately 
wanted to come after her son, but was afraid her presence 
would ignite Kenna's anger and endanger William further. So 
she put her trust in God. And in Mulder.  

Kenna had imagined she could hurt Scully by telling her about 
Mulder's infidelity. She had hoped to drive an irreconcilable 
wedge between them. Thing was, she hadn't understood Scully's 
faith. Or Mulder's love...

*   *   *

MID-DECEMBER, 2002

Mulder paced, impatient for Scully to return home with 
William. She had taken him to Vic's Motel, a tidy 
establishment where Royal Jackson lived with a rotating harem 
of five or six women. Kenna stayed in one of the motel's 
twelve guest rooms. She wasn't one of Royal's lovers, but he 
and the women kept an eye on her, making sure she got enough 
to eat and returning her to the motel whenever she wandered away. 

"Why?" Mulder demanded the moment Scully walked through the 
door with William asleep against her shoulder.

"Shh. Keep your voice down." She went directly to William's 
bedroom.

Mulder limped after her. "Why did you take him to see her?"

"We had this conversation earlier. My answer's still the same: 
he was asking about her."

"You couldn't tell him she moved away?"

She laid William in his crib and unzipped his snowsuit. "She 
was the most important person in his life for months. He 
misses her." She handed the snowsuit to Mulder, along with 
William's boots, mittens and hat. "I want what's best for our 
child."

"So do I." He dumped William's things onto the changing table.

"Do you? Is that the real reason you want to cut Kenna out of 
William's life?"

Guilt heated his cheeks. How much had he contributed to 
Kenna's breakdown? "She could've killed him that night on the 
ice."

"She was sick, Mulder. She didn't realize what she was doing."

"That's my point."  

Scully placed William's favorite plush toy -- a threadbare and 
food-stained beagle -- beside his head. A mobile of circus 
animals hung from the headboard, a relic of the crib's 
original occupant. Touching it lightly, Scully set its 
elephants and tigers twirling. She watched them bobble and 
whirl for a moment, seemingly lost in thought. Finally, she 
said, "When we tried IVF...and it failed...I...I was very 
disappointed." She kept her eyes focused on the rotating 
animals.

"I remember."

"I thought it was my last chance."

Mulder moved to stand behind her. He threaded his arms beneath 
hers and embraced her swollen waist. Her coat still carried 
the chill of the outdoors and the distinctive, musty odor of 
Vic's Motel.

She reached into the crib and stroked William's cheek. His 
lips puckered and he stirred, but his eyes remained closed. 
"You told me to never give up on a miracle. Remember?"

He kissed her ear. "Yeah, I was hoping to get lucky, so to 
speak." 

"We both got lucky." He thought he heard humor in her voice, 
but when she turned in the circle of his arms to face him, her 
expression was deadly serious. "There's something I haven't 
told you. Something that happened to William while you were in 
hiding."

"I know about Jeffrey Spender's visit, if that's what you're 
referring to. Gibson filled me in on the details." At her 
surprised look, he explained, "We had a lot of time to kill. 
You can only play I Spy With My Little Eye for so long, you 
know." 

She slid out of his embrace, removed her coat and dropped it 
on the twin bed opposite the crib. "Several weeks before 
Jeffrey showed up claiming to be you, William was kidnapped." 

"Kidnapped? By who?"

"A man named Josepho. He was part of a religious group, what 
Agent Doggett described as a whacked-out UFO cult. Josepho was 
their leader. He told me I had to choose between your life and 
William's."

"And...?"

She returned to the crib and drew a fleecy blanket over their 
sleeping son. Together they watched his small chest rise and 
fall. Steady. Unconcerned. 

"I couldn't, of course," she said. "I wouldn't. I loved you 
both. So I refused. I tailed Josepho, looking for William."

"And you found him."

"Yes."

"Where?" 

"I can hardly describe it, let alone explain it."

"Try."

"I followed him to a ship...an alien ship." 

"I'll save my 'I told you so' for later." His head dipped and 
his cheek grazed hers. He offered her a smile.

Her expression remained solemn. "The ship took off. The site 
was in ruins. On fire. Everyone was dead. Except William. 
He...he didn't have a scratch on him."

"How do you explain that?"

"I can't. But there were other things that happened while you 
were away, other things I can't explain."

"Such as...?"

"I saw William levitate objects." She reached out and stilled 
the mobile. 

"He seems like a perfectly normal kid now."

"Jeffrey Spender injected him with something."

"You think the injection changed him?"

"I don't know, that's not my point." She turned and looked up 
at him, her expression unbearably sad. "My point is that 
despite every precaution, I couldn't protect him. From the 
cult. From Jeffrey. No more than I could protect you from the 
men who wanted you dead." 

"Scully--"

"What I'm trying to say... What I *am* saying is that you were 
right, Mulder. I wanted to send William away. I wanted to send 
you away, too. I thought it would save you. But I was wrong." 

"No. You weren't." *I* was wrong, he thought.

His expectations had been unrealistic. His anger misguided. 
The last few months had taught him the truth about 
responsibility and self-sacrifice -- the altruistic side of 
love. Scully hadn't betrayed him or William. She'd put their 
needs ahead of her own, suffered to keep them safe. And how 
had he responded? By lashing out at her, blaming her, accusing 
her of being selfish and disloyal, words that more closely 
described him than her. His behavior had been abominable. His 
betrayal unforgivable.

"After our escape from Mount Weather, when we were headed to 
the Anasazi Pueblos, I pulled over while you were asleep in 
the car. The Gunmen appeared to me at the side of the road." 
He paused to see if she would dispute this claim. When she 
didn't, he continued. "Langly told me to hang a big U-ie and 
never look back. Byers wanted to know why I was willing to 
risk perfect happiness -- not to mention our lives -- to chase 
after answers I already knew. Frohike called me crazy. "

"What did you tell them?"

"I needed to know if I could change the future." The Keeper of 
the Truth in the pueblos had unfortunately turned out to be 
only C.G.B. Spender, eager to gloat over their powerlessness. 
Which meant Mulder had risked Scully's life for nothing. 
Again. "I never did save the world."

"That's not entirely true. Ca-Lo was your clone and he 
destroyed the aliens." 

"Which makes me a hero by proxy? That's a stretch, don't you 
think?"

"Does it matter? The world has a future now."

More time for us to hurt each other? "I owe you an apology, 
Scully," he admitted, wanting to set things right. "To be 
honest, I owe you a whole bunch of apologies."

"You don't owe me anything. You brought back our son, just 
like you said you would."

"No, I didn't trust you. I questioned your motives. I 
said...terrible things." He felt ashamed and hung his head. It 
was time to come clean, tell her the truth. All of it. "I... I 
slept with Kenna. I'm sorry, Scully. It was a stupid, selfish 
thing to do and I regret it more than--"

"Stop, Mulder. I already know about it. Kenna told me." 

An uneasy sigh sifted from his lungs. "I was afraid of that."

"No, it's okay."

"It's not okay. I--"

She silenced him by running her fingers across his lips. She 
appeared neither angry nor hurt.

"There's no such thing as perfect happiness, Mulder. Byers was 
wrong."

"That's a pessimistic point of view."

"Not really. Happiness doesn't have to be perfect. Not as long 
as we can forgive one another for our mistakes." Her 
expression was earnest. She was forgiving him. After all the 
hurt he had caused. 

His throat tightened. "Is it enough?"

"I hope so, because I have a confession to make, too." Her 
gaze dropped to her rounded stomach. "I'm hoping you can 
forgive this child and love her..."

"Even if Ca-Lo is the father and not me."

"Yes. How did you know?"

"It doesn't matter. What matters is I don't care."

She searched his face, trying to gauge his sincerity. "We 
could look for a lab where I could run tests, maybe learn the 
truth," she suggested.

He shook his head and gathered her into his arms. She had 
referred to the baby as "her." They were going to have a 
little girl. A sister for William. Emotion threatened to 
overwhelm him as memories of Samantha resurfaced. 

"She's your daughter, Scully. I love her for that reason 
alone. However she came to be, I'm her father now. I don't 
need a test," he said, meaning it. "Do you?"

"No." She leaned into him and clutched at the fabric of his 
shirt. He felt her shoulders hitch as she cried silently, face 
pressed against his chest. He stroked her hair, kissed the 
crown of her head, and tightened his embrace. 

There was no point kidding himself; they faced difficult times 
ahead. They would need to work hard to rebuild their lives, 
keep watch for another invasion, and bring a new baby into a 
harsh, uncertain world. But Scully had forgiven him. They had 
their son back and a daughter on the way. They were a family 
again. 

It might not be Byers' idea of perfect happiness, but at this 
moment it seemed damn close. 

*   *   *

SOMETIME AROUND CHRISTMAS

Shortly after dawn Mulder and Skinner took off on a "top 
secret mission" in the helicopter. While they were gone, 
Scully kept William occupied by making cookies shaped like 
stars and candy canes -- part of their contribution to the 
town's holiday feast to be held at the church later in the 
day. No one knew for certain if today was actually Christmas, 
but it was deemed close enough. People felt celebratory and 
declared this the day to give thanks.

William got more frosting on his face and fingers than on the 
cookies, but Scully enjoyed hearing him laugh and "sing" 
carols as he alternately licked the spatula and drummed his 
highchair tray. Every few minutes he asked "Where Dada?" She 
reassured him everything was fine. "Daddy will be home later."

"Mo' cookie."

"You've had plenty." She handed him a wet dishrag. "Wipe your 
face, please."

He smeared frosting into his hair, then sucked on the cloth.

"You need a bath, young man."

"Mo' cookie!"

"No more cookies. They're for after dinner." 

She filled the kitchen sink with water warmed on the stove, 
undressed him and sat him in the sudsy water. He splashed 
happily as she shampooed and bathed him. She loved the 
slippery feel of his sturdy arms and legs, the vibration of 
his chest when he laughed. She inspected him from head to toe 
and marveled at the changes in him. When thoughts of lost time 
and missed milestones brought tears to her eyes, she painted 
her chin with a soap suds beard, making them both giggle. 

William objected when it came time to drain the water and get 
out. But he settled down quickly after she wrapped him in a 
big towel and carried him to his room to diaper and dress him. 
She put him down for his nap and read to him -- "Green Eggs 
and Ham," "The Cat in the Hat," "The Night Before Christmas," 
books she had discovered in the toy chest beneath his crib. 
She stayed long after his eyes had closed and his breathing 
slowed, content to watch him sleep, loath to leave him alone 
after being separated for so long. 

Mulder and Skinner returned in late afternoon, dressed as the 
most pathetic looking Santa Clauses Scully had ever seen. 
Their false white beards were thin, straggly things, dingy and 
askew, the elastic that held them in place clearly visible. 
Mulder had stuffed a bed pillow under his red coat and cinched 
it in place with a wide leather belt with an enormous 
Budweiser Beer belt buckle. Skinner's coat hung loose, but he 
sported shiny black boots and a fur-trimmed hat with a jingle-
bell pompom. 

They hoisted several bulging sacks of gifts from the 
Blackhawk. The settlers gathered around and braved the winter 
chill to see what surprises these unlikely St. Nicks had 
brought back from distant towns. Old and young alike stared 
with glittering, wide eyes as Mulder and Skinner ho-ho-hoed, 
poked fun at one another and distributed gifts, starting with 
toys for the camp's children.

Spirits ran high as kids were given skates and sleds, action 
figures and baby dolls, puzzles and toy ponies, cars and 
trucks. The adults received more practical presents: warm 
coats, toiletries, food, blankets, space heaters. These 
everyday items seemed nothing less than miraculous to the 
luxury-starved settlers.  

William blinked in wonder when Mulder handed him an eight-inch 
die-cast motorcycle, complete with rider and passenger. "Vroom 
vroom." Mulder winked and William shyly took the toy. 

After doling out dozens of presents, Santas Skinner and Mulder 
surprised everyone by hauling a fully decorated artificial 
Christmas tree from the Blackhawk. They carried it on their 
shoulders to the church and stood it in one corner of the 
large meeting room, which was set for dinner with rows of 
folding tables and chairs, mismatched tablecloths, dinnerware 
and candles. 

Shortly after dusk, everyone gathered together and Father 
Richards offered a prayer of thanks. After a collective 
"amen," he smiled and announced, "Okay, let's eat!"

Platters of wild turkey, fresh trout, casseroles, breads and 
desserts were passed from table to table. When the supply of 
wine ran low, Skinner sent Royal to the Blackhawk for a stash 
of eighteen-year-old Glenfiddich Scotch. The night continued 
with numerous, heartfelt toasts, joyous singing and even 
dancing as several talented musicians played fiddle, guitar, 
flute and drums. Traditional favorites like O Come All Ye 
Faithful and Twelve Days of Christmas were intermixed with 
everyday tunes like Hey Jude, American Pie and Bridge Over 
Troubled Water. People were grateful to be alive, happy to be 
among friends.   

Mulder held William throughout the evening. Scully stuck close 
by, thankful they had worked out their differences. She loved 
him and William with all her heart and was relieved to have 
them both back in her life. To think that only a few months 
ago, it seemed likely she would never see either of them again. 
But here they were, the three of them together, with a baby on 
the way and a hopeful future ahead. 

Across the room, Kenna skulked at the fringe of Royal's 
entourage. She cradled a plastic baby doll in her arms. Every 
now and again, she caught William's eye and waved. He smiled 
back and Scully worried that his friendliness would encourage 
Kenna to come over. But she remained where she was and there 
were no uncomfortable confrontations.  

At evening's end the settlers parted reluctantly. A group of 
inebriated revelers followed Royal and his seven or eight 
female companions to Vic's, where the party would continue 
until sunrise. Kenna trailed after them, baby doll hugged 
tightly to her chest. 

Mulder lifted William onto his shoulders and offered his arm 
to Scully. They bid goodnight to Gibson and Father Richards, 
then sauntered across a moonlit landscape toward home, their 
breaths pluming the air. Stars winked overhead, brilliant as 
gemstones in the dark night sky. Laughter and jovial voices 
eddied around them, people called goodnight, wished one 
another happy holidays. A snowball sailed past Mulder's left 
shoulder and he spun to find three neighborhood boys stifling 
giggles. "Thanks for the Christmas presents, Mr. Mulder," they 
shouted before dashing off.

Inside the house, Mulder volunteered to put William down for 
the night. "You go ahead and get ready for bed, Scully. I'll 
take care of Junior."

"Want Mama." William sleepily rubbed his eyes and reached for 
Scully. 

Was it a slip of the tongue? 

"You heard the man." Mulder handed him to Scully. "He's all 
yours...Mama." 

Tears filled her eyes. Whether William was aware of what he 
had said or not, he had called her mama and it was music to 
her ears.

She was still smiling twenty minutes later when she joined 
Mulder in the bedroom. 

"He asleep?" Mulder deposited his pants atop a chair in the 
corner, then climbed into bed wearing only boxer shorts.  

"Out like a light." Scully undressed quickly. The room was 
chilly. She slipped a heavy flannel nightgown over her head. 
"We'll have to move him out of that crib and into a bed before 
the baby comes."

"He's too big for it anyway. I caught him trying to climb out 
a couple of days ago."

"You didn't tell me that."

"Didn't want you to worry he might take a tumble and crack 
open his skull."

"Thanks for that image. I'll sleep well tonight," she teased. 
"Did you hear him? He called me mama."

"I heard. That's great."

"Best Christmas present I could've received." She blew out the 
lantern and slid into bed. 

He spooned behind her, covering her with the comforter and one 
warm, heavy arm. Moonlight flooded the room as brightly as any 
streetlamp. He drew her closer, until his chest blanketed her 
back and his groin cradled her hips. "Then I guess there's no 
point in giving you this."

He opened his fist to reveal a tiny velvet gift box.

"You got me a present," she said, delighted as a child. She 
grabbed the box from his hand, yanked off the bow and opened 
the lid. A diamond solitaire ring sparkled inside. "Skinner 
picked this out, didn't he?"

"Busted. I was lobbying for a glow-in-the-dark Dick Tracy 
secret decoder ring, but he nixed the idea. You disappointed?"

"A decoder ring would've come in handy--"

"That's what I said."

"But this is beautiful."

"I didn't pay for it."

"No, really?"

"The sentiment is genuine, if that counts for anything."

"Depends on the sentiment." She tilted the box, watching the 
stone sparkle in the moonlight. 

He plucked the ring from the box and slipped it onto the third 
finger of her left hand. "I'm hoping to dazzle you into not 
noticing you've inadvertently hitched your wagon to an idiot's 
horse."

"I have a wagon?"

"You do. And a horse. And an idiot. If you'll have us." He 
tried to manipulate the angle of her hand to reflect moonlight 
off the ring into her eyes.   

She ignored the blinding flashes of light and his boyish 
attempts to distract her. "Does this idiot love me?"

"With all his heart."

"Then I'm a lucky woman." She leaned back and kissed his chin. 

He rose up on one arm, leaned over her and pressed his lips to 
hers. The angle was awkward. She tilted her head to give him 
better access. His hand slid up her neck and cupped her jaw, 
pinning her in place as his tongue plundered her mouth. Her 
heart beat faster. Heat radiated out to her fingertips and 
toes. She gasped when his lips abandoned hers. Feather-light 
kisses taunted her cheek, her temple, her ear. His darting 
tongue teased her lobe and the creases of her neck. She had 
missed this: the feel of his body, solid and warm against 
hers, the rasp of his cheek upon her skin, his panting breaths 
and wandering hands and heavy-lidded gaze. So familiar. So 
cherished.

Shaking, she whispered, "Make love to me, Mulder."

His hands stilled. Doubt replaced desire in his dark eyes. "I-
I want to, but..."

"But what?"

"I don't want to hurt the baby."

"It's virtually impossible to harm a fetus by having sex, 
Mulder."

He didn't look convinced. "I can wait, if you think we 
should."

"Well, I can't." She pressed her buttocks to his lap, rubbing 
against his rigid penis. He moaned softly and ground his hips 
against her spine. Desire pulsed low in her belly. An 
unexpected surge of wetness dampened her curls and slicked her 
inner thighs. "This position would be perfect; it'd avoid deep 
penetration. We'll be okay." 

The mattress dipped and creaked as he shimmied out of his 
boxers. She tugged her nightgown higher, baring her backside. 
His fiery erection poked between her legs. She was eager, 
almost desperate, for him to enter her. But he hesitated and 
drew back.

"Mulder..." His name scraped past tightened vocal chords, her 
frustration obvious. "You won't hurt the baby. Or me. It's 
okay, really."

"No, it's not that. I was just thinking..."

"What?"

"I should use a condom."

She hated the idea of delaying their lovemaking, or abstaining 
altogether if a condom couldn't be procured, but the 
suggestion was a sensible one and necessary. "We've both had 
unprotected sex with other partners."

"Hold on. I'll see what I can find." He rolled over and rummaged 
through the nightstand. "Nothing here."

"Try the medicine cabinet."

"Be right back."

A few minutes later he returned with a foil packet. 
"Expiration date's still good," he announced and crawled into 
bed behind her. She heard him tear open the wrapper and a 
moment later his sheathed erection prodded her inner thighs.

Turning her head to look into his eyes, she laced her fingers 
through his hair and drew his mouth to hers. They kissed as he 
pushed slowly into her. Inch by inch, her softness enveloped 
him. 

Pressure, fullness, heat. The feeling was divine.

He hissed with obvious pleasure. "Are you sure I'm not hurting 
you?"

"I'm fine. More than fine. I'm..." Sated was the only word to 
describe the way she felt.

She drew his hand to her breasts. They were fuller, the 
nipples larger and more sensitive because of her pregnancy. 
She overflowed his palm and her voluptuous curves seemed to 
please and excite him. He groped her. Tugged gently at her 
left nipple. The sensation was exquisite. And powerful. 
Pleasure rocketed through her. Blissful pinpricks of 
electricity tingled her where their flesh met.    

"You can go deeper," she urged, wanting to feel more of him.

He complied, deliberate and measured, his eyes locked on hers 
to gauge her reaction as he buried himself in her. 

"Too much?"

"No."

He began a dawdling withdrawal. Then returned, unhurried, 
careful. 

"Mmmm," she hummed. "S'nice."

"Let's try for something better than just nice." He hooked his 
arm over her jutting abdomen. His hand caressed her belly, 
meandered lower, discovered her damp curls. He fingered the 
sensitive nub of her clitoris. He pressed and plucked at her 
flesh. She arched against him, delighted by the sensation of 
his hand upon her, the press of his cock inside her. It had 
been too long since they were joined like this.  

Her ardor blossomed. Her blood became fire and her pulse a 
drum in her ears, its thunder muting her sudden cry of 
delight. A grunt punctuated his own release moments later.

His movements ceased. He embraced her tightly and plowed his 
nose into the nape of her neck. His ragged breath puffed hotly 
against her sweaty skin. His penis grew flaccid inside her.

"Damn, I was hoping to last longer," he groaned.

She chuckled, completely satisfied. "We can always do it again 
later."

"Hold you to it." He yawned. Slipped out of her. She heard him 
remove the condom and throw it in the wastebasket beneath his 
nightstand. 

She rolled over to face him.

"C'mere." He gathered her into his arms.

Snuggling against his chest, she listened to his heartbeat. 
His breathing slowed. Soon, a gentle snore whistled from his 
nose.

"I love you," she whispered, content to let sleep capture her, 
too. 

It had been a good day. A very good day indeed.

*   *   *

STAR VALLEY BAPTIST CHURCH
MARCH 23, 2003

"Ah ha! There's hope!" The priest's face lit up. He had found 
the opening Gibson had left for him.

Gibson was pleased. He liked Father Richards. Admired his 
persistence. And his optimism. The priest was a natural 
leader. The settlers looked up to him and considered him a 
hero after his role in their daring escape. Rightly so. His 
confidence and good cheer would see them through future 
hardships. And while Father Richards tended to the settlers' 
souls, Gibson would watch over their daily lives and bear 
witness to their hopes and heartaches. 

In Royal Jackson's case, there weren't many heartaches. His 
arm had healed months ago and his reputation as an adventurous 
lover drew an inordinate number of young women to his rooms at 
Vic's Motel. Appreciative of his attentive style, they 
lavished him with favors, sexual and otherwise. He never 
wanted for a home-cooked meal or a bedmate. 

Walter Skinner, on the other hand, preferred a more solitary 
existence. He took an occasional partner, but more often than 
not he was piloting the Blackhawk in search of other 
settlements and old friends. The helicopter had a range of 
approximately 350 miles, forcing him to leapfrog from one 
airport to the next, where he used a manual pump to fuel up 
with av gas. To date, he had located two enclaves of 
survivors, two out of the countless settlements Gibson knew 
were scattered around the globe. Skinner hoped to locate 
others and eventually set up a network of trade routes to help 
distribute limited resources and trade for luxury items. He 
also planned to make a journey north after snowmelt to bring 
back John Doggett, who Gibson had recently detected on the 
move in Canada, heading east through Ontario toward Hudson's 
Bay. Skinner held out hope that Monica Reyes was with him, but 
so far Gibson had picked up nothing to indicate the two were 
together.

Kenna Douglas cared nothing about outsiders and faraway 
settlements. She remained locked in a dream world that was 
blissfully more pleasant than her real one. In her addled 
mind, she walked the rim of the Grand Canyon each day, arm in 
arm with her dead husband Rick, their several imaginary 
children in tow. The number and ages of their sons and 
daughters changed with each new sunrise, but she loved them as 
genuinely as she had loved William. The townspeople were 
tolerant of her, watching over the slender, scarred young 
woman who talked to herself as she wandered the snowy 
thoroughfares of Alpine. Royal made sure she was dressed 
warmly before she went out. And his female companions fed her 
regularly and saw to it she was tucked safely into bed each 
night. 

Scully continued her visits to Kenna, her emotional reserves 
replenished since Mulder and William's return and the birth of 
her new baby. She felt strong and capable, once again ready to 
wage battle against any threat, whether it be an outbreak of 
influenza or a second alien invasion. She pestered Gibson for 
news of her mother and brothers. So far he had located none of 
them, but Scully held out hope. She looked forward to 
introducing them to the newest family member.   

True to his word, Mulder did love Scully's baby -- a small but 
feisty daughter, born on February 16, 2003. This time, he was 
in attendance for the birth. They named the baby Abigail at 
Father Richards' suggestion. He said it meant "my father 
rejoices," which made it a perfect choice. Little Abby was 
clearly the apple of Mulder's eye. He fell head over heels in 
love with his little girl the moment she took her first 
breath. She squirmed and bawled gustily as he lifted her, red 
and wrinkled, onto Scully's deflated belly. He grinned like a 
lunatic and cried openly when Scully put the baby to her 
breast and coaxed her to suckle. 

"She has your eyes," Scully said breathlessly, exhausted after 
hours of labor.

Abby did indeed have her father's eyes. Curious and full of 
wonder. A shock of dark hair fuzzed her soft scalp. She 
smelled like sour milk and morning mist, and Mulder could not 
get enough of sniffing her. Or counting her tiny toes and 
fingers, marveling at her little nails, her long eyelashes and 
shell-shaped ears. But most of all, he loved the warm weight 
of her in the crook of his arm. "Five and a half pounds of 
pure perfection," he boasted, experiencing the same mix of 
pride and nervousness he'd felt after William was born.

William took the birth of his new sister in stride. Mulder and 
Scully lavished him with attention and did their best to make 
him feel a part of things. While Scully and Abby napped, 
Mulder took William outside to play with the town's other 
children. They made forts with snowman guards and piles of 
snowball ammunition. When the roughhousing threatened to 
overwhelm young William, Mulder lifted him onto his shoulders 
and took him to the reservoir to watch the fishermen set 
traps. They caught snowflakes on their tongues, which 
delighted William no end. As his giggles echoed through the 
forest, Mulder tipped his head back to listen, immersing 
himself in his young son's joy, grateful beyond words for this 
chance at a new and better life.  

Not everyone felt so fortunate. Many had lost their loved 
ones. They grieved for their dead.

Gibson's thoughts drifted to Dibeh and Ca-Lo. Victims both. 
And unsung heroes. How different might their lives have been 
had they not suffered at the hands of alien masters? Born 
free, would Ca-Lo have been more like Mulder? And how would 
Mulder have fared in Ca-Lo's place?

Circumstances drive our choices, he thought. Fate molds 
character like soft clay beneath a potter's hands. Fear and 
loneliness give rise to imagined grievances and unfortunate 
decisions. He knew better than anyone that people were 
imperfect beings, who often acted selfishly and thoughtlessly, 
made frequent mistakes, and inadvertently hurt those they 
professed to love. But in the end it was their capacity to 
forgive that allowed them to unburden their souls and soar 
with angels.

Scully was right, he thought. There is no perfect happiness. 
But there is forgiveness. And it is enough.

"Care for another?" Gibson offered a Coors to Father Richards.

"Since you're twisting my arm, don't mind if I do." The priest 
took the bottle and rubbed it like a good luck charm as he 
contemplated his next move.  

Gibson sipped his beer and waited. He had a nice buzz going. 
The voices in his head hummed like drowsy bumblebees and the 
future seemed suddenly as promising as a summer afternoon. 


THE END 

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