Title: AND THERE WAS A WAR IN HEAVEN
by aka "Jake" & Brandon D. Ray
MSR - Colonization - Rated R

BOOK ONE continued.

Previously in War In Heaven...

The Gunmen discovered alarming evidence of increased UFO 
activity. Aboard the Cheyenne, Bill Scully and his crew are 
attacked by an unidentified enemy. Skinner questioned Mulder 
and Scully at her apartment, and when aliens arrived to take 
Cassandra from her bed, he tried to save her. Both Skinner 
and Cassandra were abducted, but due to the "lost time," 
Mulder and Scully had only a vague recollection of Skinner's 
visit, and no memory at all of his and Cassandra's abduction.

Meanwhile, Tara and William survived an attack of Faceless 
Rebels in West Virginia. She managed to escape on foot, 
carrying the baby through the snowy woods, until she finally 
collapsed at the side of a remote road...

-x-x-x-x-x-x-

CHAPTER 5

RURAL WEST VIRGINIA

Tara awoke slowly, her consciousness drifting up through a
cold fog, like a swimmer straining against the current,
reaching for the surface.

She was vaguely aware of strange, impossible dreams, still
lurking around the edges of her mind. She was surrounded by
mysterious, shadowy men, men whose faces were constantly
changing. They slid around her, moving in ever-tightening
circles, never quite coming into her direct line of sight,
but always there, always in the corner of her eye, at the
very limits of visibility.

Suddenly, without warning, the men burst into flames! Fire
was everywhere, surrounding her, cutting off her escape. She
tried to run, but her feet wouldn't move, and besides, there
was no place to go. She was trapped by the dancing
flames, doomed to die. And so was William.

God -- William. Where was he? Why hadn't she thought of him
sooner? She had to do something. She had to save him -- he
was only a little baby, after all. She'd promised Dana --

Tara's eyes flew open. She was awake -- awake and sitting
up, breathing in short, desperate gasps. It had all been a
dream ... just a dream. She'd escaped from the men, and the
fire, and the cold, and now she was safe. She was here. She
was ....

Where?

She looked around, blinking sleep from her eyes, trying to
take in her surroundings. It was somebody's bedroom, and she
was lying -- well, sitting -- in the bed. The room was dark,
except for a thin sliver of grayish light filtering in
through a crack in the draperies. Around her, she could see
vague shadows that presumably represented furniture. Perhaps
a dresser over there, and that might be a ... a desk,
sitting against the far wall. A digital clock sat on the
desk, and orangey-red numerals glowed on its face. 9:04. But
was it a.m., or p.m.?

The door was abruptly flung open, and the room was flooded
with light. Tara blinked, squinting against the sudden
illumination. There was someone standing in the doorway -- a
short, round figure --

"I thought I heard you moving around in here." It was a
woman's voice, low and friendly. She went on, "D'ya mind if
I turn on the lights?"

"N-no," Tara said. Her lips were dry, and she paused to lick
them. "Go ahead."

The light came on, and she got her first good look at the
woman. She was short, about Dana's height, but must have
weighed at least twice as much. She had long, brown hair,
and an open, heart-shaped face. She smiled as she walked
towards the bed.

"I'm Jenny," she said. "Jenny Peltier. My Bobby found you."
She shook her head affectionately. "Dang fool decided to
drive home from the motel -- he's the night manager, y'know.
I told him he shoulda stayed there, waited out the storm.
But he said he wanted to be home for the holiday." She sat
down on the edge of the bed; it creaked audibly under her
weight. "I guess it's lucky for you he did, huh."

"Yes," Tara agreed. "I'm very grateful." She licked her lips
again, and asked the question she was afraid to hear the
answer to. "What about ... what about William?"

"Your little boy?" Jenny's smile broadened. "He's fine. He
bounced back quicker'n you. He's out in the kitchen, raisin'
a ruckus with some oatmeal and applesauce." She held up a
hand. "Now don't you worry -- my Bobby's with him. He won't
come t'no harm."

"I'd like to see him," Tara said. She felt compelled to
explain. "He's my nephew. I promised his mother I'd take
care of him."

"Sure, sure." Jenny stood up from the bed; Tara followed
suit, feeling a little unsteady on her feet. Jenny reached
out and grabbed her arm. "You just take it easy," she said.
"I'll walk ya out there."

Taking slow, careful steps, Tara and Jenny made their way
out of the bedroom and down a short hall. Tara started
breathing easier when she heard William's cheerful-sounding
babble coming from directly ahead. Jenny also
continued to talk.

"Course, it's none o' my beeswax, but I don't know why you'd
be out in the storm like that. My Bobby was out in it, but
he's a dang fool, like I said. By the way, he thought about
takin' you to the hospital, but there weren't no way. Even
my Bobby weren't dumb enough to try to make it to
Martinsburg before the plows and the sand trucks have been
through."

Then they were in the kitchen, and there he was. William.
Thank God. He was sitting in a high chair that looked as if
it had been made by hand. A tall, thin man was sitting next
to him, watching with grave interest as the little boy
chattered nonsense syllables, waving his spoon for emphasis.

"Ta-ta!" William exclaimed, as he spotted Tara standing in
the doorway. He banged his spoon on the tray of his
highchair, spattering his applesauce indiscriminately over
friend and foe alike. "Ta-ta, Ta-ta, Ta-ta!"

Tara couldn't help but laugh at his innocent enthusiasm,
despite the harrowing night she'd just had. "Yes," she
agreed. "Ta-ta's here." She walked over to his chair and
crouched down, closing her eyes for a moment in relief.
"Ta-ta's here."

William burbled his approval -- or something. Tara caught
her own name again, and also "mama" and "gamma". Right. She
needed to call Dana. She ruffled her fingers through
William's hair, then stood up and turned back to her hosts.

"I need to make a phone call. Do you mind? It's long
distance, but I can charge it to my calling card."

"Sure, sure," Jenny said. Her Bobby's head nodded in silent,
friendly agreement. "Th' phone's out in th' living room.
Take all the time you need."

Tara thanked her, then stepped back out into the hall. A
moment later she was settling down on a threadbare couch. A
quick call to directory assistance gave her Dana's number.

"Hello."

It was a man's voice that answered. Fox's voice. Tara felt
prickles run down her spine at hearing him speak again. The
last time she'd encountered "Fox" --

"I need to speak to Dana," she said. "This is Tara Scully."

"Tara," he replied. "Thank God. Are you okay? Is William --"

"Just put Dana on the phone," she interrupted. "I won't talk
to anyone but Dana."

There was a momentary silence, followed by a brief murmur of
conversation in the background. At last, Tara heard the
voice she'd been waiting for.

"Tara? This is Dana. Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," she said. She wanted to let out a sigh of
relief, but it had already occurred to her that if someone
could impersonate Fox, they could also impersonate Dana.
Fortunately, she was prepared for that possibility.
"William's okay, too. Dana, I ... I'm not sure how to say
this, but some really strange things have been happening."

"I know," her sister-in-law answered. "I'm sorry. When I
asked you to take William, I never dreamed anything like
that would happen. I feel so bad."

"It's okay. But ... well, I need to ask you something. It
might sound kind of weird."

"Go ahead."

"Do you remember what happened the night before Bill and I
got married?"

There was a brief pause, and Tara held her breath. She
didn't think anyone else could possibly know about this.
God, please let it be Dana on the other end --

"We're not talking about your bachelorette party, are we." A
statement, not a question.

"You tell me." Tara was determined to give nothing away.

"Tara, as far as I know, your parents never found out about
that. Nobody did. Bill was on a 96-hour pass. He arrived in
Charleston the afternoon before the wedding, and, uh ...."

Tara felt herself blushing at the memory, but she held firm.
"Go on," she said.

"You decided to get an early start on your honeymoon," Dana
continued. "I covered for you -- we told your parents you'd
had too much to drink and were going to stay with me rather
than try to drive home." Tara could almost hear her
sister-in-law smile. "You wore the shower gift I'd given you
-- I dared you to do it. But you never did tell me whether
Bill liked them."

"Oh, God," Tara said, now blushing all the way to her ears.
"He, uh, well, you know strawberry's his favorite fruit
flavor."

Dana laughed. "I'll take that as a yes," she replied. Her
voice turned serious once again. "Tara, where are you? Are
you really okay? Is William --"

"We're both fine," she said. "We, uh, we had some rough
times last night, but we're okay now." She closed her eyes,
and at last allowed that sigh of relief to escape. The
nightmare was finally over.

-x-x-x-x-x-x-

LOCATION UNKNOWN

It took four and a half paces to move from one side of the
room to the other, measuring the long way. It took three and
a half paces, measuring the short way. Doggett had
determined these facts within minutes of waking up in the
small, bare chamber, and had confirmed it numerous times in
the intervening hour and a half. If the situation weren't so
serious, he would've been bored spitless by now.

There was very little in the room to hold his attention. In
addition to the battered couch upon which he'd awakened,
there was an old, gray metal desk that reminded Doggett of
the military. Both pieces of furniture were bolted to the
floor, and all the drawers in the desk were locked. There
was nothing -- absolutely nothing -- that might be used as a
weapon. The single door, set in one of the short walls,
opposite the couch, was sturdy, metal and locked. There were
no windows.

Nor was there any sign of Monica.

Doggett's gun was missing, of course, and his pockets were
empty. Other than that, he was wearing the same clothes he'd
had on the night before. His jaw ached where Shannon had hit
him, and he had a sore ankle, presumably as a result of all
that running around in the blizzard. At least they'd let him
keep his watch: it was now almost ten o'clock on Christmas
morning. Joy to the world.

Several times he'd heard footsteps pass by the door, but no
one had stopped, or even slowed. Doggett had tried yelling,
the first couple of times, knowing even as he did so that he
would probably get no response. And he was right.

So this time when he heard footsteps approaching, he ignored
them, and simply continued his pacing. One, two, three,
four, turn. One, two, three, four, turn. One, two, three --

The lock rattled, the door opened, and Shannon McMahon
stepped into the room. Doggett had a brief glimpse of two
guys in combat fatigues standing out in the hallway, before
the door swung shut again.

"John," Shannon said, smiling and extending her hand. "I'm
so glad you're feeling better."

"No thanks to you." He ignored her proffered handshake, and
after a moment, she let her hand drop to her side.

"Now, John," she said, shaking her head. She moved over to
the desk and hitched one hip up on it. Doggett sidled away,
wanting to keep as much distance between them as he could --
which wasn't much, considering the size of the room. "I
didn't want to hit you," she said. "But you didn't leave me
much choice."

That wasn't worthy of a response. Doggett folded his arms
across his chest and stood in silence, watching her.

"I know you're probably pretty mad right now," she
continued, after a brief pause. "I would be, too, if the
situation were reversed. But if you'll just give me a chance
to explain --"

"What's to explain?" he interrupted. "There I was, stumbling
around in the snow, just found one guy still alive out of
that slaughter ... and you killed him. Then you socked me in
the jaw. What's not to like?"

"I do know how you feel," she said, her tone infuriatingly
gentle. "In my own defense, I'd like to point out that I
tried to talk to you about this once before, but you
wouldn't listen." She dimpled. "So this time, I had to
resort to drastic measures. If it'll do any good, I'll
apologize."

"Where's Monica?"

"Agent Reyes is fine," Shannon replied. "She's on her way
back to Washington, even as we speak. There, you see? You
ask a straight question, and you get a straight answer. Just
the way it's always been between us."

"What about Tara Scully and Will Mulder?"

She frowned. "That's a little harder. To be frank, I was
hoping you could help us on that one. They seem to have
slipped away in the confusion. We're scouring the woods, but
so far no luck. Do you have any idea where they might have
gone?" Doggett stood mute. After a moment or two, Shannon
went on, "John, this is terribly important. You have no idea
how important. That child ... well, I know this is going to
sound melodramatic, but he could mean the difference between
life and death. For the whole human race."

Doggett snorted. "Sci fi crap."

"It's not crap, John," she said, her tone sharp. "I know
this is hard for you -- but I also know you've seen a lot in
the last year and a half. You can't ignore the evidence --"

"Little green men."

"Yes, little green men." She slipped down off the desk and
walked over to stand before him. "They're real, John, and
they're a deadly threat. If you'll look in your heart,
you'll know I'm telling the truth. This is the biggest
danger mankind has ever faced. Bigger than the atom bomb.
Bigger than the Nazis or the Communists. It's all or
nothing, and we need your help."

"What? You think you're gonna turn the tide with one little
boy?"

"No." She shook her head. "No, it's too late for that -- if
it was ever even possible. We can't win this battle, in the
sense of driving the enemy away. But we can still adapt, so
that no matter what comes, the human race, as a species,
will have a chance to survive. That's why we need Will
Mulder. That's why we have to have him. He's the missing
link; he's the key --"

"This is bullshit." Doggett stepped away from her, and paced
across the tiny room before turning to face her once again.
"It's all bullshit. I don't know what you people think
you're doin', but I'm not playing ball. I won't betray her
like that. Not for love or money."

"Loyalty to your friends is admirable, John." Again she
crossed to stand in front of him, and he couldn't keep
himself from making eye contact. "It's one of the things I
most admire about you. But everything has its limits." She
looked at him for a moment, seeming to calculate something.
Then: "You took an oath when you became a Marine -- and
again when you joined the FBI. I took the same oath. And we
both know that sometimes, if we are not to be forsworn, we
have to make sacrifices." Another pause, and she added, very
softly and deliberately, "And great sacrifice can yield even
greater rewards."

"There's nothing you can offer that would make me ... that
would make me do that. Nothing."

"Every man has his price, John." One more pause, and Doggett
suppressed a flicker of intuition at what she was about to
say. "How would you like to have Luke back at your side
again?"

Doggett felt the blood draining from his face, and there was
a roaring in his ears. This was the one subject he'd never
managed to make peace with himself about, the one thing he'd
never been able to accept. He licked his lips and swallowed.
And then, somehow, he managed to force the words out,
through a throat that was suddenly constricted by emotion.

"Luke is dead."

"Is he? Are you sure?" She raised an eyebrow, then turned
and walked to the door. A quick glance back over her
shoulder. "Not everything dies, John. You've worked on the
X-files long enough to know that."

She rapped sharply on the door. It opened, and a few seconds
later she was gone, leaving Doggett alone with his thoughts.

-x-x-x-x-x-

SCULLY'S APARTMENT

"They're okay." Scully mouthed the words to Mulder while she 
listened to her sister-in-law on the other end of the phone. 

William was fine. Tara was fine. That was the best news Mulder 
could ask for. He sent up a silent prayer of thanks to all the 
powers-that-be. 

Scully hung up the phone and jotted down an address. "They 
need a ride," she said. "They're in Stratton Mills."

"How'd they get there? And what happened to the car?"

"She didn't explain, although she said they'd been through 
some 'rough times' -- her words." 

"What does that mean?"

"I don't know. She was acting strange. Wanted me to prove who 
I am by telling her something only the two of us would know."

There was something familiar about that, something that 
hovered in the back of Mulder's mind, but he couldn't quite 
recall it. Maybe he was experiencing deja vu. A super-duper 
case of deja vu. "Is that what the bachelorette party stuff 
was about? You'll have to tell me about that sometime." He 
swooped in and kissed her quickly on the lips.

She smiled and handed him the address. Jenny Peltier, 416 
Elkview Road, Stratton Mills. "I'll get my coat," she said, 
walking from the kitchen.

Stratton Mills was seventy or more miles west of Old Tavern. 
Poor visibility could have caused Tara to miss an exit, maybe 
even two, but seventy miles seemed a bit too far off track to 
blame on the snowstorm. Rough times, she'd said. Mulder's gut 
told him there was a lot more to the story. He stuffed the 
address into his pocket and followed Scully into the hall.

He found her already dressed in her coat, standing beside the 
front door, holding his jacket in her hand. Obviously, she 
intended to waste no time getting to William. 

"We'll have to take Monica's car," she said.

"Keys are in my coat." He snagged the jacket from her and 
slipped it on. "Oh, wait a sec."

He went to the living room and grabbed the alien weapon -- 
Cassandra Spender's fire wand -- from the coffee table. Might 
come in handy, and it certainly shouldn't be left lying 
around. He slipped the weapon into his jacket pocket.   

Mulder was halfway back to Scully and the front door when the 
phone rang again. He gave her a look that asked, "Should we 
answer that or just go?"

"It could be Tara," she said. "She might have forgotten 
something."

Reluctantly, Mulder returned to the kitchen and answered the 
phone. "You run outta clean diapers or something, Tara?" 

"Uh...Agent Dana Scully, p-please." An older man's voice. He 
sounded nervous.

"And you are?" Mulder asked, irritated that this wasn't Tara. 
A waste of time. He should have let the machine pick up the 
call.

"My name is Dr. Francis Sternberg."

"You'll have to call back later."

"Uh...this is rather urgent. Actually, it's very urgent."

So is my son's well being, buddy. "I'll pass along a message."

"Please, I...I have some information about...about Ms. 
Scully's baby." 

What the hell? Who was this guy? 

Scully stood at the kitchen doorway, waiting for Mulder, a 
look of impatience creasing her brow. 

"Listen, Dr. Sternberg, if this concerns William *Mulder*, 
tell it to me," he said to the mystery man. Scully's eyebrows 
rose at the mention of William's name. "I'm the boy's father."

The doctor was quiet for a moment, then, "I...I shouldn't have 
called." 

Mulder realized Sternberg was about to hang up. Maybe the man 
was telling the truth; his caution seemed to suggest it. He 
sounded truly afraid. 

"Wait. Hold on," Mulder said, and passed the phone to Scully. 
She gave him a puzzled frown, but took it.

Mulder stayed close, bowing his head to listen in. She 
identified herself and held the phone between them so that he 
could hear everything the caller said. 

Sternberg's next words sounded rushed and he spoke only a 
little above a whisper, as if he expected someone was 
listening in. "Agent Scully, my name is Francis Sternberg. I'm 
a geneticist, a former colleague of Lizzie Gill. Perhaps she 
mentioned me?" 

Lizzie Gill. Mulder remembered her all too well. She had 
briefly worked as Scully's "baby nurse," until she was 
discovered swapping prenatal vitamins with who-knew-what. When 
confronted, Gill claimed to be part of a secret government 
project, cloning alien/human hybrids and implanting them into 
barren women. She said the babies never lived more than a day 
or two, but that was inconsequential since it was tissue and 
stem cells that the group was after -- for more experiments.

"She never gave your name," Scully said.

"But she described our project?" He sounded uncertain.

"Why are you calling me, Dr. Sternberg?" Scully cut to the 
chase.

"My life is in danger." The doctor's bluntness surprised 
Mulder. "Because I have...certain information."

"What information?"

"I can't explain over the phone. But it involves your son."

"In what way?" Scully said, stiffening beside Mulder.

"My research helped to produce a clone -- a very special 
clone. More human than human. I regret my involvement."

"What does that have to do with my son?"

"The project continues, Agent Scully. What happened at the 
Navy Yard last night is proof of that."

Mulder pictured the lab with Scully and William's names on one 
of the hospital room doors, and suppressed a shudder.

"Your son is an important part of the project," the doctor 
continued. "There are other babies, too. I need your help."

"To do what?"

"To save them, of course." Dr. Sternberg's voice rose in 
pitch. "To save everyone. Meet with me, please. I can prove 
what I'm saying."

"I can't meet you right now. Maybe later today--"

"That'll be too late. I don't expect to be alive in another 
hour or two."

Scully looked at Mulder, her eyes asking what to do. 

Mulder nodded, letting her know he wanted her to go. He would 
get William himself, while she met with Sternberg.

"Where?" she asked the doctor.

"The National Human Genome Research Institute. Wait out 
front." Sternberg hung up.

Scully set down the phone. "You think he's telling the truth? 
About William?" she asked.

"Maybe not, but we can't take that chance, can we?"

Scully's shoulders slumped. Tears filled her eyes. "I...I just 
want to hold our baby."

"I know." Mulder drew her to him and wrapped his arms around 
her. "So do I." Jesus, it had been such a long time since he'd 
seen William, let alone held him. Even so, he remembered 
vividly the feel of his newborn son, so vulnerable, tucked 
into the crook of his arm. Looking down at William, he had 
been caught unprepared for the sudden rush of emotion the baby 
inspired. Pride, wonder, love. And fear -- gut-wrenching fear 
for his child's future. The same fear he felt right now. "You 
meet Sternberg. I'll get William."

"But, I should be there--" Her voice cracked with emotion.

"You *have* been there, Scully, every day of William's life, 
while I... I want to do my part, too, as a parent, as 
William's father. Let me go after him. I want to bring our son 
home."

She sniffled once, then nodded. This was their only real 
option. Sliding out of his embrace, she said, "You take 
Monica's car. I'll call a cab. And Mulder?"

"Yes?"

"Please, watch your back."

-x-x-x-x-x-x-

Frohike, dressed as Santa Claus, parked the van a block away 
from Scully's apartment. 

"Were we followed?" Langly asked from the front passenger 
seat. He, too, wore a Santa suit. Complete with beard. 

"Not a chance," Frohike assured him, checking his own beard in 
the rearview mirror. It hung crooked no matter how he fussed 
with it. 

"Hey, guys, isn't that Mulder?" Byers, who was also disguised 
as St. Nick, pointed to a dark-haired man getting into an off-
white Opel. A moment later, the car shot away from the curb in 
a spray of slush and snow. 

"That *was* him. Where do you think he's going in such a 
hurry?"

"Bet it's not Christmas dinner."

"Here comes Scully." Byers pointed again. They watched her jog 
down her apartment steps to a double-parked taxicab. "Now 
what? Who do we follow?"

"Better make it Scully," Frohike said, shifting the van into 
first gear. "Mulder's already outta sight."

"Well, step on it, Frohike, or we're gonna lose Scully, too."

Frohike pulled out onto the street and floored the 
accelerator. The van fishtailed, headed for a snow bank and 
then swerved back into the road. The tires caught and the van 
leapt forward. "Hang onto your Yule Logs, boys, 'cause this is 
gonna be one helluva sleigh ride." 

-x-x-x-x-x-x-

LOCATION UNKNOWN

Doggett struggled to keep his face expressionless, as the
two soldiers marched him down the hallway. He didn't want
anyone to know how hard his conversation with Shannon
McMahon had hit him. He didn't want to show any sign of
weakness.

He knew he wasn't rational when it came to Luke. Shannon --
or whoever she worked for -- obviously knew it, too, because
she'd known just where to slip the knife in. And once in,
she'd known just how to twist it around for maximum effect.

//Not everything dies,// she'd said. Shit. Doggett knew
that, if anyone did. He'd had first hand experience on that
case in Pennsylvania -- and then a few months later, just to
drive the point home, there'd been Mulder --

His "honor guard" came to an abrupt halt, and Doggett had no
choice but to follow suit. One of the men knocked on a
door, then reached for the knob without waiting for a
response. A moment later, Doggett was being ushered inside.

"John," Shannon said, looking up from her computer monitor.
She smiled, but there was a tension there that Doggett
hadn't noticed earlier. "I'd thank you for coming, but ...."
Her voice trailed off, and she shrugged.

"Always happy to oblige," Doggett replied, not bothering to
hide the sarcasm.

"Here," she said. "Pull a chair around. Sit next me. I want
to show you something."

Doggett grunted, but did as he was told. No point in
fighting it. Not yet.

"I've been reviewing some old X-files," Shannon said, once
he'd taken his seat. "I thought you might like to join me."
She reached for the mouse, and a series of images flashed
across the screen. Kevin Kryder. Clyde Bruckman. Arthur
Felig. Jeremiah Smith.

She stopped clicking with Smith still on the screen. She
seemed to study the photograph for a moment, then she cocked
her head and turned to look at Doggett.

"You still don't believe in a lot of this, do you?" she
asked.

"I believe what I can see," he replied. "I believe what I
can touch. I don't go in for fairy tales."

"I remember," she said, nodding. "And yet, you are a Godly
man, aren't you? I remember that, too, from Lebanon. Or has
that changed?"

"It hasn't changed. And I know where you're going with this,
but --"

"It must have been hard to keep your faith," she suggested.
"When you lost your son, I mean. It must have been hard to
understand. It must have been hard to believe, when you were
so directly confronted with evil."

"I don't ask God to explain Himself," Doggett answered
stonily. "I don't expect that. He has His reasons for th'
things He does. I don't have to understand." Yet there was
that twinge of doubt, deep inside -- the one that had always
been there, ever since that horrible day --

"I asked you before if you wanted to see Luke again." Her
hand moved, so quickly that it was only a blur and a
flicker, and then there was an automatic pistol in her hand.
"I can make it happen. I don't even need this to do it." She
ejected the clip, checked the action, and then Doggett
watched, mesmerized, as she twisted the gun's barrel back on
itself, bending it as easily as if it were made of saltwater
taffy. Doggett stared, remembering once again that night on
the pier in Baltimore, when he'd seen this woman
eviscerated. Was there any explanation for all this that
made *sense*? Any explanation at all?

"Just say the word, John," she murmured, "and I'll send you
to be with him." She dropped the gun on the desktop. Then
she raised her hand to caress the back of his neck, and
Doggett realized that whether he could explain it or not,
she could snap his spine with one flick of the wrist.

As if she were reading his thoughts, she went on, "It
wouldn't even hurt. Well, not much, and not for long."
Doggett did not respond, and she added, "You do believe
Luke's waiting for you, don't you? Over on the other side?"
She inclined her head towards the monitor. "You don't need
to resort to fairy tales, do you? Because you know you will
eventually be reunited by a power greater than any of us.
You have no doubt of that. Right, John?"

Doggett felt the pressure building within him. His gaze
flicked to the computer screen, then away. He wanted to say
yes -- he wanted it so bad. The loss of his son ate at him,
tore at him, every God damned day. One way or another, he
wanted it to be over. He remembered -- dear God, he
remembered it all. Being dragged out of bed by a little boy
eager to show off his new found bike riding skills. That
would never happen again. The future he'd dreamed of when
Luke was born was never going to happen.

But he couldn't do it. He still had too much to do. He had
responsibilities. People were depending on him. But if he
couldn't go to Luke, was it really possible that Luke could
come back to him? Could Shannon really make that happen? He
couldn't believe that, either. He didn't *want* to believe
it. It went against everything he'd thought was true, and it
threatened the precarious peace of mind he'd crafted for
himself so painstakingly. And yet, he *had* experienced it,
first hand. He'd died, and been brought back to life....

At last, Shannon withdrew her hand from his neck and
laughed.

"I'm not going to kill you," she said, her voice brisk and
businesslike. "It might solve your problem -- or it might
not -- but it certainly wouldn't solve mine." She turned her
attention to the image of Jeremiah Smith once more. "But I
want you to remember one thing. *His* power was very
concrete. Very real. There are people walking around today,
alive, because of the power he had. You don't have to fall
back on faith, or mystical mumbo jumbo, for him to save
Luke. You know that, whether you're willing to admit it to
me, or not."

She leaned a little closer, and her voice dropped to a
whisper. "He wasn't the only one who was given that power,
John. There are others. And some of them work for us."

-x-x-x-x-x-x-

THE MALL
WASHINGTON, DC

At least the snow had stopped. Kersh supposed he should be
grateful for small favors.

Unfortunately, that didn't make the footing any easier. He
cursed under his breath as he slogged through ten inches of
freshly fallen and drifting snow. Maybe he should let
Follmer go first, and break the trail. But that would be an
admission of weakness, and Kersh was unwilling to concede
anything to the little weasel. Not when the stakes were this
high.

"Looks like they're already here," Follmer commented. Kersh
nodded, but didn't speak. He didn't want the younger man to
know how winded he was becoming.

There were two people waiting for them, a man and a woman.
The man, of course, was C.G.B. Spender. Kersh grinned in
wolfish pleasure as he remembered the day the man's identity
had been disclosed. So much for the fucking Shadow. Lucky
for Spender that that wimp ass Mulder had no instinct for
the jugular. Kersh knew what *he* would have done with a
coup like that --

Suddenly Follmer was pushing past him, forcing his way
through the snowdrifts in the direction of Spender and his
companion. What was it with that boy? Sometimes Kersh
wondered if Follmer had any common sense at all. What was
the God damned hurry?

Oh, shit.

"Agent Reyes," Kersh said, hoping his own expression didn't
betray exactly *how* surprised he was. "This is most
unexpected."

"Monica -- are you okay?"

That was Follmer, of course. He was still moving towards
Reyes, apparently intending to take her into his arms -- but
then she glared at him, and he backed off. Good boy, thought
Kersh. We'll make a grown man out of you yet.

"Deputy Director Kersh," Spender said. "Thank you for being
so punctual." He took a hit on his cigarette, and nodded at
Reyes. "Agent Reyes had quite a busy night last night, and I
offered her a ride back to town."

"I'm sure she appreciated it." Her expression said
otherwise, but that was fine with Kersh. The longer she
stayed angry, the fewer problems she'd cause.

"It was no trouble. I was heading in this direction."
Another lungful of smoke. "Now, down to business. Ms.
McMahon said you have something you wish to discuss."

"Gibson Praise," Kersh said. No point in beating around the
bush. "I believe you have some interest in him?"

"Perhaps." Puff, puff. That damned cigarette, Kersh realized
-- the son of a bitch used it to divert attention from his
body language and facial expressions. Spender continued, "Do
you have him?"

"I know where he is."

"Really." The other man dropped his cigarette into the snow,
and reached for another. "I think you're bluffing."

"Can you afford to take that chance?" Ignorance is weakness,
Kersh reminded himself. He needed to keep that at the top of
his mind if he wanted to win this round.

"There are other pieces of the game in play," Spender noted.
A match scritched, then flared. "Gibson is no longer as
valuable as he once was." Another drag. "What's your
interest in the matter? What do you want?"

"What are you offering?"

"You called this meeting, Mr. Deputy Director." Spender
nodded at Reyes again. "I brought her along as a sign of
good faith. But you can't expect me to show you all my
cards, based on an unsupported claim like that."

Kersh nodded. It was a buyer's market, and he'd known it
from the start. Still, it had been worth a try.

"I want information," he said. "I want information, and I
want access. I'm tired of being left holding the bag." He
stepped closer to Spender, penetrating the man's veil of
smoke. "I've been scrubbing your toilets for more than three
years now...without question, without complaint. I deserve
to be let in."

"Do you?"

"Yes, I do." Kersh saw Follmer stir slightly out of the
corner of his eye, and prayed the idiot had enough sense to
keep his damned mouth shut.

"You don't have Gibson Praise," Spender asserted. "If you
did, I'd know it."

"I never said I did," Kersh replied, striving to keep his
voice low and even. There was an opening here. He could feel
it. An opening and an opportunity. He'd been right to push
things.

"You have nothing," Spender said. He smiled an ugly smile,
and flicked his cigarette away half-smoked. "But if you want
to play the next round, so be it. Find Gibson Praise. Bring
him to me. In the meantime, you can have a seat at the
table." His smile broadened. "Until you fail, of course." He
glanced at Reyes, then at Follmer. "I think you'd best get
her indoors. She's had a hard night. Now if you'll excuse
me, I've got another meeting to attend."

Spender turned to go, and Kersh took the opportunity to
review the conversation in his mind. In all, he decided, it
had been a success. The implied threat at the prospect of
failure didn't bother him. By the time he'd found Gibson --
or conclusively proven that he was dead -- he would have his
foot firmly in the door. The access he'd just been granted
would be its own reward, and could be bartered into greater
things. He turned to Follmer -- only to see that the younger
man had moved to stand in front of Reyes.

"Monica ... Monica, are you okay?"

Kersh shook his head in pursed-lip disapproval, but he did
not intervene.

"I'm fine, Brad," she said. Her tone was flat, and did not
invite further questions. Follmer, though, persisted.

"What happened?"

"I don't want to talk about it." She started walking,
brushing past Follmer and Kersh and heading for the street.

"What do you mean you don't want to talk about it?" Follmer
hurried after her. Kersh followed, curious to see how their
encounter would play out. "Monica --"

"Look, Brad, I don't remember." Reyes was walking steadily,
pushing through the snow as if it weren't even there. "I
just don't recall. The last thing I remember is the
investigation at St. John's. After that, nothing -- until
about an hour ago, when I woke up in *his* car." She jerked
her chin at the rapidly receding figure of C.G.B. Spender.

"I see," Follmer replied. He was silent for a minute, and
Kersh wondered if he was actually going to be smart enough
to let the matter drop. Then the young A.D. said, "Monica,
why don't you let me take you home? You're tired. You've
obviously been through a lot."

"Fuck you, Brad," she said, in the same flat, emotionless
tone. She wheeled around to face him. "Do you think I'm
stupid, as well as blind? You just set up a meeting with
*that* man, and you expect me not to notice?" She shook her
head. "I'll see you at work, because I have to -- but that's
the *only* place I'll see you."

And with that, she turned and walked away.

-x-x-x-x-x-x-

OLD TAVERN, VIRGINIA

Mulder exited I-66 at Old Tavern to make a quick stop at his 
apartment, before rendezvousing with William and Tara in 
Stratton Mills. He expected to be in and out in ten minutes, 
maybe less, and he'd make up the lost time on Highway 50. 
Traffic was light today, almost nonexistent; people were at 
home with their families, opening gifts, celebrating the 
holiday. 

A wave of envy swept over him, making him grind his teeth. He 
longed for a moment or two of normalcy with his own family. 
Waking up on Christmas morning next to Scully. Having 
breakfast at her kitchen table -- *their* kitchen table -- 
with William between them in his highchair. Visiting the in-
laws, watching "It's a Wonderful Life," knowing that Scully 
and William were happy and safe.

William *is* safe, he reminded himself. Tara had said they 
were both fine. 

Even so, he wanted to get to them. And he would have driven 
right on past Old Tavern, if not for the fact that he needed 
to collect his gear. He couldn't risk leaving behind anything 
that might be used to identify and track him. 

Like Scully's e-mail. Shit, he'd been a fool to print that out 
and keep it. He knew at the time he should just hit the delete 
key. But he hadn't. He couldn't bring himself to erase her 
words forever. //I'm scared for you, Mulder. And for William. 
The forces against us are unrelenting. But so is my 
determination. To see you again. To regain the comfort and 
safety we shared for so brief a time. Until then, I remain 
forever yours ...Dana.// 

God, he missed her.

Against his better judgment, he'd tucked her e-mail into his 
suitcase with his clothes. The same damn suitcase he'd been 
living out of for seven long months. It felt more like seven 
years since he'd last hung a shirt in a closet or kept his 
socks in a drawer. But there was no point in unpacking, 
settling in anywhere. He needed to be able to pick up and go 
at a moment's notice. 

He wondered where he'd end up next, after he delivered William 
safely to Scully. Not home, that was for sure, although he 
ached to be with them. He worried constantly about their 
safety. Especially now, after the attack at the church. 

But he was still a danger to them. And he couldn't live with 
himself if they were harmed because of him. 

The truth was he could help them most by connecting the dots 
between Roush, the Navy Yard, and William. There'd be time for 
normal family life later. There had to be. 

Mulder steered Reyes' Opel into the snow-filled drive of his 
Old Tavern hideout. He turned off the car's engine and 
eyeballed the house through the windshield. Everything 
appeared as he'd last seen it. 

He stepped from the car.

If Doggett and Reyes had been here last night, there was no 
sign of them. Snow filled the walk, obscuring any tracks they 
may have left behind. Where the hell were they, anyway? Tara 
hadn't said a thing about seeing them. And several calls to 
Doggett's cell phone had produced nothing more than a repeated 
"out of service area" message.

Mulder climbed the front steps, breaking trail through the 
fresh snow. On the small landing, he paused to peer through 
the glass in the front door. The inside hall was empty. 
Sliding his key into the lock, he discovered the door was 
already unlocked. He pocketed his key, and drew his gun. The 
.38 felt light in his hand and he missed his old service 
weapon, but those days were gone and the stubby Walther was 
better than nothing.

Gently, Mulder pushed the door inward, letting it swing open 
on its hinges before he entered the narrow hall. His eyes went 
immediately to his own apartment at the far end. The door was 
open. He moved noiselessly toward it. Positioning himself to 
one side, he peered into the room. 

Someone was standing beside the bed, facing the bureau. A 
woman, with long, wavy hair. She was slender. Medium height. 
She wore blue jeans and a colorful wool jacket with a bold 
Indian pattern stitched into the fabric across the back. There 
was something familiar about the way she stood, the slope of 
her shoulders, the color of her hair.

He raised his gun and aimed its barrel at her back. "Don't 
move," he said. "I'm armed."

She stiffened, but didn't turn. "Who are you?" she asked. Her 
voice sounded watery, as if she'd been crying.    

"I was about to ask you the same question. How did you get in 
here?"

"The door was unlocked. C-can I turn around?" 

"Slowly. Hands where I can see them."

She nodded and lifted her arms. Her hands were shaking. He 
noticed her nails had been chewed down to the quick. She 
turned to face him.

Jesus Christ! Samantha? 

No, this wasn't possible. This was someone who only looked 
like Samantha. A clone, like the ones he'd seen years ago in 
the Women's Clinic in Maryland. Or maybe an alien/human 
hybrid. Or a Bounty Hunter disguised as his sister. 

Sam was dead. He'd seen the proof with his own eyes. He'd 
seen... What had he seen? Her ghost? Her spirit? 

The woman lowered her hands. "F-Fox?"

"Don't! You are *not* my sister," he growled, causing her to 
flinch. "Tell me who you are. What are you doing here?" He 
kept the Walther aimed at her chest. 

"I *am* your sister, Fox. I-I've been looking for you." Her 
chin quivered. Her eyes were red-rimmed and teary. "I have so 
much to tell you, so much you *need* to know. Please, please, 
believe me."

Not a chance in hell. He'd been duped too many times into 
thinking he'd found his long-lost sister. Samantha was dead. 
She'd been taken by the Walk Ins. He'd made his peace with the 
idea a long time ago, and there was nothing this impostor 
could say or do that would convince him otherwise. 

She blinked away her tears and sniffled. "I-I need to blow my 
nose," she said in a small voice. She sounded just the way Sam 
had when she used to come to him for comfort when their 
parents argued. 

His chest tightened and he swallowed past a lump in his 
throat. 

"There are some paper towels...next to the hot plate." He 
pointed to the bureau with a lift of his chin, keeping his gun 
leveled at her heart. "No sudden moves."

He watched her pivot and carefully tear a paper towel from the 
roll. She used it to wipe her eyes and then blow her nose. She 
turned to face him again. "You were always good to me, Fox. 
Back when Mom and Dad used to fight and..." She let her voice 
trail off and lifted her thumb to her teeth. A nervous habit 
she evidently shared with the real Sam. He guessed she must 
have bitten too hard when she pulled her thumb away, a 
startled look on her face. A drop of blood sprouted around her 
torn nail. The blood was red. 

"I can prove I'm your sister," she said, meeting his eyes with 
her own. She hid her bleeding thumb inside her fist and 
squared her shoulders.

She appeared determined, yet achingly vulnerable, just the way 
he remembered his sister. An image of Sam came to him, dressed 
in her ballerina costume, six years old and ready for her 
first dance recital. She'd worn the same expression of false 
bravado as this woman. The same look she'd had when he taught 
her the proper way to hold a baseball bat because she'd wanted 
to play ball with him and the other kids on the Vineyard. The 
bat had been nearly as tall as she was, but she had kept at 
it, her lip caught between her teeth as she 
concentrated...just like now.

"Fox, remember how you used to walk me to Mrs. Wadleigh's for 
my dance lessons? You were embarrassed to be seen with a girl 
in a pink tutu, remember? But you carried my toe-shoes." A 
smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. "Remember Danny Bell? 
He played shortstop."

"Right field."

"Yeah, right field. Remember when I hit him in the head with 
the ball? Gave him a black eye!"

Danny had been sure Sam wouldn't connect with the ball. He'd 
laid down his glove and closed his eyes. Boy, was Danny 
surprised when she walloped it, sent it straight for his head. 
Mulder could still hear the crack of the bat, followed by 
Danny's startled yelp.

Funny she mentioned Danny. He'd just been thinking about those 
all-day ball games--    

"We were playing a board game the night I was taken," she 
said. "Do you remember?"

"I don't trust my memories of that night."

"Well, I trust mine. We were playing Stratego. You were Blue 
and I was Red. You were always Blue."

It was true, he had always played Blue, because Red went first 
and he wanted to give her the advantage.

"The board began to shake," she continued. "Remember? Then the 
lights went out. And I could hear someone outside the door. 
Somehow I knew they were coming for me. I was so afraid." She 
paused, and closed her eyes. Keeping them shut, she continued 
to speak. "All these years...all these years I've been praying 
to see you again, hoping you'd somehow find me, or I'd find 
you. And now I finally have." 

She opened her eyes. Two tears slid over her lashes and onto 
her cheeks. She ignored them, and reached into her pants 
pocket. "I saved this, to give to you when we met...to prove 
to you who I was, in case you didn't recognize me." She 
withdrew something from her pocket, held it out to him. He 
blinked, thinking it might not be real, that it might vanish, 
just as she had disappeared 28 years ago. 

But it didn't. It was there, still resting in the well of her 
palm. A game piece -- his blue Flag. 

He let his gun arm drop to his side. "I never found it after 
you left. I looked for it..." He reached for the piece, took 
it from her, held it firmly between his fingers. It was 
scratched and dirty; its tiny silver flag was barely visible 
anymore, worn almost completely off. Had she rubbed it between 
her fingers the way he did now? 

"I used to hold it and think of you," she said. "It made me 
feel closer to you, and it kept me from going crazy. It was 
proof, you know? Proof that what happened that night was real. 
And proof that I had a brother out there somewhere, who once 
loved me enough to always pick Blue so that I could go first." 

Was she telling the truth? He wanted it so badly. He hadn't 
realized, not until this minute, how very much he still hoped 
to find her alive.

"Why didn't they take it from you?"

"I don't know." She frowned. "Fox, I'm scared. It's not safe 
here."

Mulder was torn, almost literally torn in two. On the one 
hand, William and Tara were waiting, and he desperately wanted 
to get to them. He *needed* to get to them. They were both 
counting on him, and so was Scully. On the other hand, if this 
woman truly was Sam...

He suppressed a reflexive shake of the head. No. He couldn't 
let himself believe this; it was too dangerous, and he'd been 
fooled on too many occasions in the past. At the same time, he 
couldn't just dismiss the possibility out of hand -- he 
couldn't ignore the chance that *this* time it was really 
true. And besides, even if she were an impostor, she might 
still have valuable information -- information that could 
eventually allow him to return home to Scully and William.  
Either way, he couldn't just leave her here.

He'd take her along, he decided, while promising himself to 
take everything she said with a huge grain of salt. An uneasy 
compromise, negotiated between his heart and his head -- but 
one he thought he could live with.

He rolled the game piece into his fist and focused his 
attention back on the woman who might -- just might -- be his 
long-lost sister. "I've got somewhere I need to be. Come with 
me." 

-x-x-x-x-x-x-

CONTINUED IN BOOK ONE, CHAPTER SIX