CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

The only certain thing was the clutch of Scully's fingers. 
They tethered Mulder to reality while chaos bombarded his 
mind. Memories of his childhood glowed and faded like sparks. 
He was hunkered over a board game with Sam... He recoiled from 
the sting of his father's slap... He blushed at the press of 
Christy McCarty's lips on his. The smell of Mom's gingerbread 
flooded his sinuses. It was replaced by fearsome smoke. Hot 
tears coursed down his cheeks. The chill of the Atlantic 
tempered him. He was outraged, relieved, irritable, hopeful...

"I love you, Scully," he said, gripping her hand. Was she 
okay? He wanted to ask what she was seeing and feeling, but 
another memory snagged him.

"Mom? What's the matter?"

"Fox, you should be ashamed of yourself."

"Why? What did I do?"

"You left your sister hiding in the garage all afternoon. She 
expected you to come looking for her."

"I went to Paul's house."

"You promised her a game of Hide and Seek. Why did you leave 
her like that? I'm very disappointed in you, Fox."

Blinking back tears, Mulder was only partially relieved when 
he suddenly found himself no longer a shamed boy under his 
mother's judgmental eye, but a grown man slumped on the couch 
in his apartment. He was twirling his wedding ring round and 
round his finger. Grief had worn his throat raw. His chest was 
hollow and he knew that only minutes before Diana had walked 
out the door for the very last time. He'd fucked up. Lost her.

In the space of a sigh, his apartment, like his expectations, 
disintegrated around him.

Images from case files began to swirl past his field of vision 
like Polaroids caught in the wind. The first few were 
familiar. A devil woman, a homicidal supercomputer, a vengeful 
pyromaniac. He felt the coldness of Icy Cape and the 
sweltering heat of Puerto Rico. He tasted the tang of barbeque 
sauce and the bitter sting of bile. He smelled fire and vomit 
and cherry blossoms...combined with Scully's alluring scent. 
He watched her eyes laugh and tear up and round with alarm, 
disgust, and delight. He handed her a crime scene photo, a 
vial of monkey pee, a birthday present. He held her in his 
arms, and oh God her heart was pounding, because she'd just 
narrowly escaped death at the hands of a necrophiliac.

The images that followed these were unfamiliar. In them he saw 
himself with Scully, but didn't recognize their surroundings, 
and could make neither heads nor tails of the context. He 
guessed these were glimpses of their future, fragments of 
their life ahead. 

Most of them were too grim to bear.

Scully was bleeding on the cobwebbed floor of a gothic 
mansion, dying beside a counter in a bank, unconscious on his 
living room rug, her snow-white blouse saturated with blood. 
He saw her bruised and blinded and...

Pregnant?

Sweet Jesus, she was lovely, heavy with their child. He longed 
to kiss the worry from her brow.

The scene changed again, and she was lying beneath him in an 
unfamiliar bed, no longer pregnant. He was making love to her. 
An overly warm blanket covered all but their heads. She looked 
older, her face lined, but still achingly beautiful. He 
fingered her hair, thousands of silky strands fanning out 
across the pillow, some shot with silver. She cushioned his 
hard thrusts. The bedroom smelled musty but comfortable, like 
a homecoming. Ecstasy waited only a heartbeat away.

"Dad, where are the car ke--"

Mulder stopped his thrusts to glare at the voice. A redheaded 
teen wearing a wrinkled T-shirt, faded jeans, and a startled 
expression blinked at him from the open bedroom door.

The boy's cheeks darkened and he rolled his eyes. "Sorry," he 
said, grabbing a set of keys from the dresser before turning 
to leave.

"Try knocking next time, son," Mulder warned.

Scully asked, "Where are you going, William?"

The teen kept his back turned and his fingers on the knob. 
"Taking Ella and Ginny for burgers," he said over his 
shoulder.

"Hamburgers for breakfast?" Scully sounded appalled.

"It's after 11:00, Mom. We ate breakfast hours ago. Jeesh. 
Come up for air sometime, would you?" He quietly closed the 
door, leaving them alone once more.   

"Kids." Mulder shook his head and smiled. 

"You might want to have a talk with him later about what he 
just saw."

"He knows we have sex, Scully. He's seventeen years old."

"Still..."

"You think we might have scarred him for life?"

"Probably not, but I once walked in on my parents."

"You did?" He laughed at the pinched look on her face.

"It wasn't funny. I was mortified."

"It hasn't seemed to harm you in the long run." 

"No. A hundred Hail Mary's helped purge me of the awful 
experience." Wrapping her arms around his neck, she returned 
his smile and kissed his nose, his chin, his lips. "Talk to 
him anyway, please," she murmured.

"I will."

She raked her nails across his back, raising gooseflesh. 
"Where were we?" 

"You were about to call out God's name."

"Was I?"

"Mmm." He nuzzled her cheek. "I love you, Scully..."

He wanted to savor this moment, but all too soon it whirled 
away with the others.

His mind cleared and he found himself standing in the cool, 
dim shadow of a massive aircraft, wearing nothing but a 
loincloth. Scully was by his side, her fingers interlocked 
with his. Three Naval officers gaped at them from twenty feet 
away, while a snowstorm of what appeared to be cottonwood 
seeds billowed toward the ceiling.

"I love you, Scully," he whispered, "I love you..." 

*   *   *

HILL AIR FORCE BASE
HANGAR 19
MAY 14, 1998
3:12 PM

Jason Nichols breathed deeply, relieved when the maelstrom of 
past and future events finally dissipated and he felt himself 
sitting once again in the pilot seat of the experimental 
aircraft. He knew even before he opened his eyes that the 
rescue attempt had been a success. Only the safe return of the 
FBI agents into the present could account for the restoration 
of linear time.

"There they are!" Lisa gasped from the co-pilot's seat. Her 
face was bone-white and slicked with sweat from her encounter 
with the distortion.

Jason's gaze slid to the scene beyond the windshield.

The rift was gone. The only light in the hangar came from the 
ordinary fluorescent fixtures in the ceiling. Detritus swirled 
through the air -- gossamer fragments of lost time. It was 
hypnotizing the way it remained suspended for a moment at the 
apex of an updraft, before it sifted slowly down again, drawn 
by gravity.

Agents Mulder and Scully must have materialized while Jason 
was caught in the confusion of his past and future lives. He'd 
missed their arrival by only a second or two, he was sure. 
They were standing with shaken expressions, facing Beck, 
Linden and Kaback, who looked equally dazed. Scully was 
wearing an oversized leather jacket and a fur skirt. Mulder 
was dressed in a loincloth, of all things. His face was 
darkened by an unkempt beard, which made him look fiercer than 
the clean-shaven Air Force officers and far more primitive 
than Jason remembered him. He held a gun in his right hand, 
which he raised and aimed at the General. His arm was shaking 
badly, but his stance was fixed and his shoulders squared.

Jason found himself wishing Mulder would fire point blank and 
drop all three lunatics right where they stood. Not that it 
would solve anything -- an entire base of airmen was waiting 
just outside the door.

Already, half a dozen armed guards were scurrying in, 
surrounding the agents with rifles and shouting: "Put down the 
weapon!"

Mulder lowered and relinquished the gun with obvious 
reluctance. Jason hissed with disappointment. "They'll be 
coming for us next, you know," he told Lisa.

"I'm scared," she whimpered.

He took hold of her hand. "Me, too."

"I don't want my memories erased." Her fingers trembled 
beneath his. "M-maybe they'll leave us alone. We could promise 
not to tell anyone."

"They have no reason to trust us."

"We could say we've discovered something new about the 
Project, something important that would--"

Colonel Beck's finger targeted them behind the windshield. 
Four guards peeled away from the squad and scurried toward the 
craft.

"You said it yourself, Lisa -- they don't need us anymore. 
We've proved time travel is possible and now our data is right 
there in the computer for them to use."

"Delete it."

"There isn't time."

The sound of boot heels on metal was followed by the 
appearance of two guards in the cabin door.

"Come with us," demanded the shorter of the two, his M-16 
leaving no room for argument.

Jason powered off the ship's computer and reluctantly rose to 
follow them out. 

*   *   *

HILL AIR FORCE BASE
BUILDING 30
MAY 14, 1998
3:14 PM

For the past three months Scully had worn little more than a 
fur skirt and a silk bra, feeling perfectly at ease in her 
scanty attire. But beneath the glare of modern-day 
fluorescents, she became the center of attention for a dozen 
gawping airmen, and their unwelcome stares made her blush 
hotly. She hugged Mulder's jacket across her chest and kept 
her eyes aimed at the floor.

She and Mulder were being escorted at gunpoint down a long 
hall in a non-descript, one-story building, a five-minute jeep 
ride from the hangar where they'd first appeared. The tile 
floor chilled her bare feet and she shivered as they passed 
dozens of closed, windowless doors. The odors of bleach and 
ammonia hung thickly in the air, prickling her sinuses, 
reminding her of the psychiatric ward of Calumet Mercy 
Hospital where Mulder was held only a few days before they'd 
left for Utah. Security cameras, spaced every ten yards on the 
ceiling, tracked their progress.

"How 'bout we skip the brainwashing this time, Captain, and go 
straight to our bon voyage party?" Mulder asked.

Stone-faced and silent, the Captain ignored him. 

"I was kinda hoping to get home in time for Ally McBeal," 
Mulder added.

The guards herded them forward, their boots clomping in 
unison. Mulder walked out of step, his near-nakedness looking 
incongruous next to the uniformed men. He remained as close to 
Scully as the M16s would allow, and she appreciated his 
obvious desire to protect her. Three months ago she would have 
acted irritated by his hovering, but now she demonstrated her 
gratitude by taking hold of his hand in full view of the 
airmen.

Thanks to her visions, she knew beyond a shadow of a doubt 
that she and Mulder were destined to be together. A "brain 
drain," as he called it, would only postpone their reunion, 
not prevent it. She lamented the precious time that would be 
lost while they fumbled toward intimacy all over again, but 
she was certain that, in the end, they would be together.

The guards came to a halt at a security checkpoint. The 
Captain used a key card to open the locked door. On the other 
side was an identical hall.

Twin rifles prodded the agents forward.

"Watch where you're poking that thing," Mulder growled, and 
proceeded down the corridor.

A minute or two later, the squad stopped again, this time in 
front of a windowless, unnumbered door. The Captain unlocked 
and opened it. "Get in," he ordered.

Mulder hesitated and Scully peered past his shoulder into the 
room. It was about twelve feet square and devoid of 
furnishings or windows. The walls were white. A security 
camera surveyed the interior from an upper corner. The door 
had no knob on the inside.

"There's obviously been a mistake -- we requested the 
honeymoon suite." Mulder's wisecrack earned him a jab in the 
ribs with a rifle, which forced him across the threshold.

Scully was shoved in behind him, and the door was shut and 
locked.

"Damn it." She pivoted with hands on her hips, eyes exploring 
the ceiling and walls. 
 
There was no removable air vent, no lock to pick, and, with 
the exception of the door, no possible means of escape.

Mulder rubbed his bruised ribs. "Welcome back to the future, 
Scully."

She eyed the security camera and wondered if they could be 
heard as well as seen. Deciding it didn't matter, she asked, 
"Mulder, what do you remember about Yellow Base?"

"Yellow Base?"

"At Ellens. The Budahas case."

"Uh...not much. Which I guess was the point."

"How do you think they did it? Made you forget."

"Drugs."

"Not surgery?" The idea of someone cutting into her brain 
unnerved her. She couldn't help but think of Mary LeFante's 
MRIs, taken after Gerry Schnauz had lobotomized her with a 
leucotome.

"You picked me up just a few hours after I got there. No time 
for surgery. Right?"

"Not using conventional methods. You didn't have any 
noticeable incisions."

He raked his fingers through his hair as if checking for 
overlooked scars. "What do you remember?"

"I remember being ditched at the Beech Grove Hotel." She 
leveled a stare at him.

"Oh...uh...ditched? That's a bit of an exaggeration, don't you 
think?"

"What do you call it when you run off on your own and leave me 
behind?"

"Mmm...independent investigation?"

"Well, whatever...I rescued you anyway."

"And I appreciate that, Scully, I do."

Turning her attention to the walls, she edged around the 
room's perimeter, hoping to discover a hidden means of escape. 
"You were gone overnight. I picked you up shortly after 7:00 
in the morning. You were disoriented. Your speech was slurred. 
Pupils dilated. You asked me how you got there."

"I don't remember any of that."

"You smelled funny."

"Funny?"

She ran her hand over a crack in the plaster and was 
disappointed to find it was just an ordinary crack. 
"Like...chemicals, drugs."

"Anything you recognized?"

"No."

"Well, I don't see what difference it makes how they took my 
memories. The end result was the same -- I don't remember 
anything about Yellow Base, about how I got there or what I 
saw. It's a complete blank." He came up behind her and placed 
his hands on her shoulders, stilling her restless search for a 
way out. "It didn't hurt. It was just...disconcerting."

She spun to face him. "I don't trust these people, Mulder. We 
don't know who they are or what kind of training they've had. 
Their motives are questionable, their techniques experimental. 
I don't want some quack carving into my brain...or yours. It 
scares the hell out of me." 

*   *   *

"Don't do this," Jason begged. "Please." His eyes darted from 
Pearsall to Stroehmer. Neither man seemed to be listening. 

Pearsall drove a needle into his arm and attached an IV. 
Stroehmer sorted drugs at a nearby counter. Lisa was lying on 
the next bed, already unconscious, hooked to monitors, her 
skin ghostly pale. A rift of worry creased her brow even in 
her sleep.

Jason struggled against the bindings that bit into his wrists 
and ankles. He was stripped naked. Cold, amber liquid crawled 
into his veins through the IV, making his arm throb. "Stop, 
please. You don't know what you're doing."

Pearsall gave him an unsympathetic smile. "Try to stay calm, 
Mr. Nichols. Everything will be fine."

"No, no it won't. Not unless you do something."

"Do what?"

"End the Project...end the time travel experiments. You're 
going to kill everyone," he warned. "You're going to end the 
world. Stop Beck. Stop *him* before it's too late." Jason 
craned to get a better view of Stroehmer. "I know what you 
are!" he shouted to the Butcher.

Stroehmer crossed the room, hypodermic in hand. He bent over 
Jason and smiled, exposing a silver eyetooth. Half his face 
was stained purple with a vascular malformation; the other 
half was ashen, the skin papery and too thin. "I'm a doctor, 
young man."

"You destroy people's minds."

"You're mistaken. I'm a military surgeon, perfectly qualified 
to do what I do." Stroehmer injected his neck.

Almost immediately, Jason felt his tongue thicken. Pins and 
needles prickled his palms and the soles of his feet. Panic 
hammered his chest. "Stop him," he begged Pearsall, before a 
mask was fitted over his mouth and nose.

The Butcher cackled, causing the folds of his neck to vibrate. 
He squirted stinging drops into Jason's eyes.

The world blurred. Stroehmer's laugh clanged inside his ears, 
sounding hollow and cruel and too damn close. He could no 
longer see Lisa or Pearsall.

It's over, he thought. I've failed. I didn't end the Project. 

Defeat sucked him into the shadows. Dread squeezed his heart, 
while his last shred of hope vanished into a swirling mist of 
fading memory.

*   *   *

"What's taking so goddamn long?" Mulder paced the room again. 
They'd been cooling their heels for the better part of two 
hours. He pounded his fist against the wall and shouted at the 
surveillance camera "Get on with it already!"

"Are you really in such a hurry to have them come after us?" 
Scully was standing in the middle of the room, watching him 
with arms crossed. 

Swathed in his oversized coat, she looked small and 
vulnerable. He recognized fear behind her irritation.

"There may be some benefits to it, Scully."

"To what? Losing our memories?"

"Yes."

"Such as...?"

"Not everything that happened to us during the last three 
months is worth remembering."

She inhaled sharply. The sound was something between a gasp 
and a sigh. "The swap."

"Yes."

"I told you he didn't hurt me."

"I know...but--"

"But nothing! It's over, Mulder. Don't make it more than it 
was."

"Scully, I--"

"I wasn't traumatized. I'm not emotionally crippled. Can't you 
just drop it?"

"No."

"No?" She was clearly struggling to maintain her composure. 
"I've told you I'm okay. Why can't that be enough for you?"

"Because..." Teeth clenched, fists balled, he was surprised at 
how angry he still felt...at Dzeh...at himself. "Because *I'm* 
not okay." Lingering jealousy burned his throat. Unable to 
stop himself, he grabbed her, wrapped her in a crushing 
embrace, and audibly forced the air from her lungs. "Scully, I 
don't think I can ever forgive myself for what happened. 
Allowing another man to touch you...that way... I want to 
forget it. I want you to forget it. It'll be a relief to never 
think about it again."

She said nothing as he tried to steady his breathing. Only 
when her arms slid around his waist did his desperation begin 
to ebb.

"I know," she soothed, rubbing his back. "It's just..."

"Just what?"

"If I lose my memories of Dzeh, that means I lose my memories 
of you, too." She sounded close to tears. "I-I don't want your 
love taken away from me."

"No one can do that, Scully. I loved you before we went back 
in time. I love you now. I will love you for the rest of my 
life. I don't have to remember it -- it just is." He loosened 
his bear hug, but kept her within the circle of his arms, his 
chin resting on the crown of her head. After a moment he said, 
"I saw him."

"Dzeh?" 

"No, William."

"Our baby?" She drew back, eyes burning with eager curiosity.

"He wasn't exactly a baby." He decided to skip the part where 
their son walked in on them while they were making love. "He 
asked me for the car keys." 

"The car--? Mulder, when did this--"

The door suddenly slapped open, banging on the outside wall, 
startling them apart. The Captain, flanked by his guards, 
hooked a thumb over his shoulder. "Let's go."

"Where to?" Mulder corralled Scully protectively in the curve 
of his arm.

"Showers." 

"No thanks. We're fine."

"It's not negotiable."

The guards lifted and aimed their guns.

"I guess I could use a bath." Mulder guided Scully into the 
corridor. 

They were escorted several doors down to a washroom, where 
Scully paused at the door, evidently brought up short by the 
international symbol for "men." 

"Inside," the Captain insisted.

She did as she was told, pushing open the door and entering 
the room. Mulder and the others followed her inside. 

The washroom was divided into three sections: lavatory up 
front, lockers beyond that, and showers at the back. It 
resembled a typical high school locker room, except for the 
fact that it was antiseptically clean.

They walked through to the back, where a dozen showerheads 
projected from a tiled wall. 

"Airman Taylor will take your clothes." The Captain nodded at 
an expressionless young man with blond bristle and a deeply 
cleft chin.

Taylor stepped toward Scully.

Mulder's arm shot out, stopping him. "Back off."

Immediately the Captain's pistol pressed into his cheek.

Mulder met the Captain's unwavering stare. "How about giving 
the lady some privacy?" He nearly choked on the next word. 
"Sir."

Squinting with suspicion, the Captain thought for a moment, 
then relented and lowered his weapon. "You've got ten minutes. 
We'll be waiting outside."

On the Captain's order, the men retreated to the hall.

"Thank you," Scully whispered, when the guards were gone. She 
undressed quickly and crossed to the nearest spigot. Fingering 
the gleaming faucet, she said, "I hardly remember how to use 
these." 

"Scully, uh..."

"Hm?"

"Your tattoo..." Using his best Poltergeist II imitation, he 
said, "It's baaack." 

She turned to face him. "So is your scar." Her eyes dropped to 
his thigh. "Both of them." 

He fingered the old wound on his chest. "Whaddaya know? I must 
be so used to it being there, I didn't even notice it'd 
reappeared."

"It answers your question about whether or not our bodies are 
going to revert back to their original forms."  

"Not really." He ran his hand over his beard. "Why do I still 
have this? Or these?" He held out his arms, displaying the 
cuts and bruises he'd received during his fight with Klesh.

She shook her head. "As far as I know, there is no scientific 
explanation for it."

"I told you we'd find an X-File in Utah." He tapped his bare 
wrist. "How we doing on time?"

"Oh!" She glanced at her watch. "Damn it. We're down to seven 
minutes."

He quickly stripped out of his loincloth and joined her at the 
shower.

Twirling the knob, she stepped beneath the streaming jet. He 
moved in behind her.

"I've got your back," he murmured into her ear as he leaned 
past her for a squirt of soap from the hanging dispenser. He 
used it to lather her shoulders and spine.

Her muscles began to unknot beneath his sudsy caress. "Thank 
you again," she said, "for...for everything."

Hot water pounded his neck and arms, making his blood race. Or 
maybe it was the feel of her flushed, wet skin beneath his 
fingers that warmed him. This might be his last opportunity to 
touch her like this -- at least for a while. Might as well 
take advantage of it. All six and a half minutes worth.

"Face me," he said.

"We don't have that kind of time, Mulder."

"It's okay, my intentions are honorable...for the most part." 
He chuckled and reached to fill his palm with shampoo. "Wet 
your hair."

"You, too," she said, evidently understanding what he intended 
to do. 

Together they ducked beneath the spray.

His knees went weak when she began to briskly massage his 
scalp with sweet-smelling shampoo. Then she soaped and 
scrubbed his beard. When she was finished, he reciprocated and 
lathered her hair.

"Mmmm, feels good," she hummed as he rubbed her.

He kissed her beneath the steaming water.

"I promise we'll do this again," he said against her lips, 
"when we have more time."

"I'm going to hold you to that." She wiped soap from his left 
brow. "Turn around and I'll do your back."

As much as he hated to give up the view, he turned away. His 
eyes closed when she ran her hands from his neck to his 
buttocks. Suds crawled down his legs, tickling the backs of 
his knees, swirling around his toes. Fragrant steam heated his 
sinuses, his lungs, the tips of his ears, his closed lids.

"Better rinse," she said. "Our time is almost up."

"Already?" He turned to see her combing soap from her hair 
with her fingers. Her movements were graceful. She glistened 
like a mirage. He'd give anything to hold time still and make 
this moment last. 

"Hurry up, Mulder." 

He quickly rinsed. When he was soap-free, she turned off the 
faucet. Water rained from their hair. "Damn, I don't see any 
towels," she said.

"Great. How are we supposed to dry off?" He swiped at his eyes 
with the backs of his hands and, dripping wet, walked through 
to the locker room. "Captain? Cap--"

The guards burst through the door from the hall, guns held 
high. They aimed at his chest and he raised his hands slowly 
over his head. "You wouldn't shoot a naked man, would you?"

The Captain strode forward. "Time to go. Dr. Stroehmer's 
waiting."

"Who?" Scully appeared behind Mulder, wearing his leather 
jacket.

"Base physician. He just wants to make sure you're okay, 
ma'am."

"Right." She shouldered past him.

The Captain signaled Mulder to follow her.

This is it, Mulder thought as he fell into step, Yellow Base 
all over again. 

*   *   *

Simon Pearsall loved his country. He was proud to serve as an 
esteemed surgeon in the United States Air Force. His record 
was spotless. He'd received numerous commendations, medals, 
and praise from high-ranking officials. Yet as far as he was 
concerned all his good deeds and all his acts of heroism were 
negated the moment he helped Oskar Stroehmer essentially 
lobotomize two civilians under the pretext of protecting 
national security. It shamed him to think he hadn't tried to 
stop it before it was too late and his complicity in 
Stroehmer's experiment was more than he could stomach.

Lisa Ianelli lay on one of the room's four operating tables in 
a permanent vegetative state. Only an hour ago, she had been a 
vibrant, intelligent woman with a lifetime of love and 
achievement ahead of her. A career in science, and perhaps a 
family of her own. Oskar Stroehmer ended all of that when he 
injected her with an overdose of drugs, which expurgated her 
mind and left her with the mental acuity of a twenty-week-old 
fetus.

Jason Nichols had fared slightly better. Stroehmer had 
regressed his mind to that of a preschooler. It was possible 
he still retained a capacity to learn, and might, after a 
time, reacquire his education, if not the benefit of his 
experiences.

The human mind is too delicate for this type of razing, 
Pearsall thought. They had no right to be playing God this 
way. 

He patted Lisa Ianelli's limp hand. "Take her away," he 
ordered the transport crew.

Paramedics covered her with a white cotton blanket and lifted 
her onto a gurney. They did the same with Jason Nichols, who 
was bawling like an infant.

His caterwauling set Pearsall's teeth on edge. Stroehmer was 
at the sink washing his hands, seemingly immune to the 
pathetic cries. Pearsall recalled Nichols' final plea. "Stop 
him," he had implored before Stroehmer put him under.

If only I'd listened, Pearsall lamented.

A commotion at the door drew his attention. Captain Linden was 
there with several armed guards, a petite redheaded woman in a 
black leather coat, and a naked man with wet hair and a pissed 
off expression. They looked familiar, but Pearsall wasn't able 
to place them. 

The naked man was shouting to be heard over Nichols' cries. 
"What the hell did you do?" he demanded, struggling to break 
free from the guards who held his arms.

The woman's eyes were wide with disbelief. One of the airmen 
bullied her across the room, which seemed to enrage the 
shouting man even more.

"Don't touch her!" he howled.

"Get them out of here," Captain Linden ordered the paramedics, 
referring to Nichols and Ianelli. He glared at Pearsall. "I 
was told you'd be finished by now, sir."

Evidently the new patients weren't supposed to see what was in 
store for them.

The lab was in chaos. The shouting man was thrashing so 
violently he knocked into a cart, which hit the counter. 
Surgical instruments clattered to the floor. "Leave her 
alone!" he bellowed when a guard tried to wrestle the woman's 
coat off her. 

She threw a punch. The guard retaliated by shoving her against 
a bed.

The naked man tried to tear free from his captors. "Let go of 
her!"

His shouts were silenced when Stroehmer jabbed a hypodermic 
into his upper arm. The drug had an immediate effect; he 
slumped between the guards. They dragged him to an empty bed.

"Captain, get your men out of here," Pearsall demanded. He 
waited for the room to clear before he went to the woman and 
asked gently, "What's your name?"

"Special Agent Dana Scully. I work for the Federal Bureau of 
Investigation."

The FBI? He glanced at Stroehmer, who shrugged.

"Do you know why you're here?" he asked.

Glaring at him, she stepped backward toward her unconscious 
partner, grabbed his wrist and felt for a pulse. "I've been 
told you plan to steal my memories."

"Not quite. The procedure is called SCD -- Selective Cognitive 
Draining."

"It's brainwashing."

"As I said, not quite. But it's true you've seen some things 
you shouldn't and--"

"Don't talk to me like I'm five years old."

"All right," -- he hardened his tone -- "you've witnessed a 
classified military experiment. We can't allow you off the 
Base with that information."

"We didn't see anything. We were sent back in time."

Back in time? Suddenly Pearsall remembered where it was he'd 
seen these two before: right here in this lab, earlier in the 
afternoon during what Stroehmer called a time distortion. 

Dread skittered down his spine.

Everything was becoming clear. The ultramodern lab that had 
replaced his glimpse of the two agents wasn't a figment of his 
imagination or a place that existed...at least, not in the 
present. It was the future. As was his vision of the shocked 
men and women in the lab, secured by restraints, all screaming 
incoherently...like Jason Nichols. Pearsall was beginning to 
understand what Nichols had meant when he'd said, "End the 
Project...end the time travel experiments." Before the young 
scientist's mind was wiped clean, he had begged Pearsall to 
stop Beck and Stroehmer. "You're going to kill everyone," he'd 
warned. "You're going to end the world."

These weren't the ravings of a terrified man, as Pearsall had 
originally thought. They were the truth. 

Beck and his minions were playing with fire. Somehow they'd 
discovered a way to manipulate time. Only...they must have 
messed up. The experiment had evidently gone awry, sending the 
agents back in time.

And now Pearsall was helping Stroehmer cover up the blunder.

He glanced again at Stroehmer. The man held up a hypo, 
indicating he wanted to get started.

Haunted by the images of screaming men and women, Pearsall 
tried to control the tremor in his hands. 

"Don't worry, Miss Scully."

"Is that what you told Jason Nichols?"

"You'll be fine." Would he be able to stop Stroehmer before he 
went too far? "Please, try to relax." 

*   *   *

Her most recent memories were the first to go. It was 
impossible to pinpoint the exact moment they disappeared, but 
it happened sometime after Scully felt a needle prick her 
inner elbow. An IV was inserted. Anesthesia began to nibble 
away at her consciousness, making her fingers numb and her 
limbs too weighty to lift. A mask was fitted over her mouth 
and nose, allowing cool air to flood her sinuses, thickening 
her tongue and fogging her mind. She closed her eyes, but they 
were pried open a moment later by gloved fingers. Drops were 
inserted and she blinked against their sting. She tried to 
focus, wanting to locate Mulder in the next bed, but her 
pupils were dilating, and the room became too bright to see.

"Mmmmuller..." Had she called his name aloud?

A pair of rough hands rearranged her legs. Electrodes were 
taped to her chest, icy at first but then quickly forgotten 
when other less pleasant sensations taunted her nerves. A 
puncture to the back of her hand. Pressure in her throat. Was 
she being intubated?

She imagined drills penetrating her cranium, allowing the 
insertion of needle-thin scalpels, which would be used to 
excise her memory one microscopic synapse at a time. She 
almost hoped her captors would take such a careful, methodical 
approach, rather than hacking indiscriminately, like Gerry 
Schnauz hunting for Howlers.

Whatever the process, she worried it would be frightening. 
Like the way the first stages of dementia are for Alzheimer's 
patients, when they are still aware of their failing 
cognition, but frustrated by their limited ability to recall 
facts and events.

In the end, it turned out to be nothing like she expected. 
There was no snip-snip-snipping of brain cells, resounding 
inside her skull like Mulder's wire cutters clipping a hole 
through the Base's chain link fence. The images from her past 
didn't fade away, blur or wink out. The process wasn't 
comparable to flicking off a light switch or tearing out the 
pages of a book.  

Instead she was reminded of a time when she stayed late in 
Conference Room C, long after the other agents had left 
Skinner's briefing. She was seated at a sun-drenched mahogany 
table, leafing through autopsy reports, and the room was so 
quiet she could hear the wall clock ticking. Skinner's 
secretary arrived to clear the team's abandoned coffee cups 
and gather up the pens and pads of paper. Arlene tiptoed 
around the room, trying her best to be unobtrusive. But, 
caught off-guard by the faint, unexpected smell of the 
secretary's freshly ironed clothes, Scully looked up, her 
concentration broken. She stared at the crisp, bright creases 
in Arlene's snowy sleeves, and noticed her nails were pink and 
neatly manicured. One stray hair wavered out of place at her 
part as she walked to the white board to erase Skinner's 
notes. Place names, chronology, and a list of victims, coded 
in shades of red, purple and green -- colors too cheerful to 
represent a killer's wicked intentions -- disappeared beneath 
her silent eraser one by one, until the board was restored to 
its original, pristine innocence.

Dr. Stroehmer used a potent combination of drugs to erase 
Scully's memories. As each recollection vanished there was no 
way to know it had ever been there. Whole thoughts became no 
thoughts at all. Scully didn't miss them. Their going caused 
her no torment. It was impossible to grieve something that 
seemed to have never existed in the first place. Like asking a 
man born blind if he missed his sight.

Incrementally, painlessly, the Ice Age was expunged from her 
consciousness. Every past event, every feeling, every insight 
into the future was meticulously wiped clean, and her 
knowledge of Mulder's love vanished along with the rest.

*   *   *

HILL AIR FORCE BASE 
MAY 15, 1998 
7:28 AM 

Colonel Beck fought the urge to pace. He stood on the shoulder 
of the road beside the opened front door of the agents' rental 
car. His driver waited at the rear bumper, eyes trained east. 
The Crown Vic had been washed and waxed, its tank filled. New 
keys had been cut before it was moved out of storage -- 
apparently the originals were lost somewhere in the past. The 
car was returned to the exact location where Captain Linden's 
security team had discovered it the morning after the bungled 
flight test. Jesus, that was only two days ago. It seemed like 
a fucking lifetime.

Heat rippled up from the pavement despite the early hour, 
baking right through the soles of the Colonel's spit-shined 
boots. Sweat oozed from beneath the brim of his hat. 

"Here they come, sir." Beck's driver nodded at an approaching 
jeep.

Sunlight backlit the vehicle, making it impossible to see who 
was inside. If there was a God in Heaven, Captain Linden would 
be at the wheel with the two FBI agents in the seats behind 
him.

Pearsall's report had arrived on Beck's desk an hour ago and 
indicated the SCD had been a success. Evidently the agents 
remembered nothing about trespassing on Base property or their 
detour into the past. Yet their other memories remained 
miraculously intact.  

Nichols and Ianelli hadn't been so fortunate and the loss 
weighed heavily on Beck. Although his specialists assured him 
they could continue the time travel experiments, using the 
data collected by Nichols during the retrieval of the agents, 
he knew the Project would move at a snail's pace without the 
two civilian scientists.

The jeep pulled to the side of the road and parked behind the 
rental car. Captain Linden climbed out, marched up to Beck, 
and saluted.

"They're all set, sir."

"Then get them on their way."

"Yes, sir."

The Captain signaled to Beck's driver, who went to the rear of 
the jeep and removed the agents' overnight bags. He loaded 
them into the trunk of the Crown Vic, beside Agent Mulder's 
wire cutters. Then he returned to escort the passengers to 
their car.  

"Lady's out cold, sir," he said.

"Help him, Captain," Beck ordered.

Captain Linden joined the airman and together they hauled 
Agent Scully from the jeep. She was wearing a change of 
clothes from her overnight bag. Her head lolled when they 
lifted her. Beck could see Mulder watching them, eyes 
blinking, mouth open. He was shaking his head, but seemed 
glued to his seat.  

Linden and the airman carried Scully to the car and worked her 
into the front. Beck shut the trunk. The noise startled a 
snake out from beneath the vehicle. It must have been looking 
for respite from the godawful heat and crawled into the 
shadows. Beck watched it skate into the weeds, where it 
disappeared.  

Just like the clues to the agents' recent whereabouts, he 
thought. Care had been taken to eliminate all evidence that 
might prove they'd been anywhere but right here. The Black Sox 
baseball cap had been destroyed -- although after seeing the 
strange garments the agents were wearing when they returned, 
Beck wasn't altogether sure they'd been watching ballgames in 
the 30s. Their absurd fur clothes were burned along with the 
cap. 

They were allowed to keep most everything else: cell phones, 
the Smith and Wesson, a pair of binoculars, and the few other 
items Mulder had been carrying in the pockets of his worn 
leather coat...including a delicate gold necklace and a 
strange bone carving.

Beck assumed additional items, like the car keys, must have 
been lost in the past. Agent Scully was carrying no gun. She 
was wearing a wristwatch, but Mulder was not. Neither agent 
had shoes, or any other modern apparel, except for the one 
jacket. Beck hoped that whatever they'd left behind wouldn't 
cause serious repercussions.

Linden helped Mulder out of the jeep. The agent was dressed in 
slacks, shirt and necktie. His face was clean-shaven, his hair 
neatly trimmed to match his file photo. Guided by the Captain 
and the airman, he walked stiffly, occasionally tripping over 
his own feet. His eyes were glassy and his expression dazed. 
The drugs would wear off soon enough; in ten or fifteen 
minutes he'd be alert enough to drive. 

Mulder pointed a drifting finger at Beck as he stumbled past. 
"Y'woan giddaway wi'thisss," he warned before the men dumped 
him unceremoniously into the driver's seat.

"You're wrong, Agent Mulder," -- Beck turned away and headed 
for Linden's waiting jeep -- "we already have." 

*   *   *

2630 HEGAL PLACE, APT. 42
ALEXANDRIA, VIRGINIA
TWO DAYS LATER
7:36 AM

"I've seen ghouls and hobgoblins and witches..." Mulder sang 
while he showered. "And some moth-eaten werewolves with 
fangs..." He grabbed the soap and lathered his armpits for the 
third time. He couldn't remember ever enjoying a shower so 
much. Except... 

A vision of Scully beneath steaming spray, naked and soapy and 
sexy, came to him like a recent memory. For just a moment he 
swore he could feel her slick, heated skin beneath his palms.

"Naahhh." He shrugged it off. It was one of his favorite 
fantasies. He must have dreamt it last night. 

"There were creatures that chattered and others that 
clattered..." Squeaky clean he let the water run, pounding his 
neck and spine. The tenant in 44 was going to be pissed when 
she discovered he'd used up all the hot. "And Japanese 
monsters with bangs."

He turned off the tap and reached around the curtain for a 
towel. "Frankenstein gives me the shakes, and Count Dracula's 
driving me batty..." The towel smelled nice and he attributed 
it to that new "springtime fresh" detergent someone had left 
behind in the laundry room. He dried his arms and chest before 
stepping out onto the mat, which cushioned his feet in a way 
he'd never really appreciated before this morning.

"But they're not on a par..." -- he draped the towel over his 
head and scrubbed -- "with the worst one by far..."

A swipe across the bathroom mirror cleared the steam and he 
stared at his reflection as he deadpanned the final line, "The 
cockroach that ate Cincinnati." 

Out in the bedroom his cell phone rang. He tossed the towel on 
the floor and went to answer it.

"Mulder," he announced when he had the phone trapped between 
shoulder and chin. Back in the bathroom, he grabbed his razor 
and shaving cream. 

"Mulder, it's me."

"Hey, Scully. What's up?" He sprayed foam into his palm. Had 
it always puffed like that? It seemed fluffier than he 
remembered and smelled more...minty. He checked the label on 
the can to assure himself he'd bought his usual brand.

"I'm thinking about getting my tattoo removed."

"That's weird, 'cause I'm thinking about growing a beard." 
Shaving cream at the ready, he faced the mirror and eyeballed 
the stubble on his chin and neck.

"You're kidding."

"Do hairy guys turn you on at all, Scully?"

"Not particularly."

His shoulders slumped and he lathered one cheek, moved his 
phone to the other ear and coated the rest of his face. "Why 
do you want to get rid of your tattoo?" He let the sink fill 
with water.

"It seems...inappropriate now."

He wanted to say it always had struck him as inappropriate, 
but refrained from doing so. Scraping the razor across his 
jaw, he marveled at the smooth stripe of skin it left behind. 
"I thought you said it represented a need to move forward with 
your life."

"That's just it, Mulder. I feel I'm exactly where I should be 
at this point in time."

"What does that mean?"

"It means...nothing. Forget it. That's not why I called."

"Why did you call?" He tilted his head and shaved underneath 
his chin.  

"To tell you I've got an 8:30 meeting this morning."

"Just you? I'm not invited?"

"Apparently not."

"Why's that?" Finished with his razor, he set it on the edge 
of the sink and reached for a hand towel. 

"Maybe because...you don't play well with others?"

"No, really."

"It's possible Skinner is punishing you."

"For what?"

"Do I really need to spell it out? How about disregarding 
Bureau protocol, losing your gun, our badges, and two pairs of 
handcuffs, or, if nothing else, wasting my time?"

"A visit to Seven Peaks Water Park -- 'the place where 
families play in Utah' -- is never a waste, Scully." 

"While we're on the subject, where the hell are my apartment 
keys?"

"I'm guessing with your badge." He used a corner of the towel 
to dig shaving cream out of his left ear.

"The super had to let me in yesterday."

He grimaced at the mirror and wondered if he could hold the 
phone and floss his teeth at the same time. "What's your 
meeting about?"

"I don't know yet, but I'll fill you in as soon as I can," she 
promised before she hung up.

He released the water from the sink and returned to the 
bedroom. Tossing the phone onto the bed, he went to his 
closet. 

"But the worst one it seems," he sang as he slid a gray suit 
from its hanger, "haunting all of my dreams," -- he selected a 
tie -- "is the cockroach that ate Cincinnati." 

*   *   *

FBI HEADQUARTERS
BASEMENT OFFICE
8:21 AM

"I was afraid I'd miss you before you went to your meeting. I 
seem to have lost my watch."

Scully paused at her typing to glance at Mulder as he entered 
the office and crossed to his desk. "I'm guessing it's with 
your badge," she repeated his own words back to him. "No 
beard?"

"Nah. I decided to wait and grow it out when I go on 
vacation."

"You never go on vacation." She double-checked her last line 
of text before saving and closing her document. "You don't 
know the meaning of the word."

"I was thinking I might travel to Maine, maybe go wilderness 
camping, live off the land, do a little fish-- What?"

She couldn't help but stare. Something was different about 
him, yet she couldn't quite put her finger on what. It was 
more than his uncharacteristic yearning to abandon the city 
for the northwoods. Was it something about his face? It looked 
too...too...smooth, and his clothes were too...neatly pressed. 
He seemed...overdressed, somehow, although he was wearing a 
familiar suit. She blinked at his silk tie as if she'd never 
seen one on him before. And the faint scent of his morning 
shower tickled her sinuses in the strangest way -- shampoo, 
aftershave, deodorant, all familiar and yet...not. She was on 
the verge of going over to him and touching his hair where it 
brushed his shirt collar with perfect uniformity. She wanted 
to prove to herself that he was real, not a mirage or daydream 
or whatever it was about him that was giving her goosebumps. 
"Who are you and what have you done with my partner?" she 
half-joked.

A small grin nudged his too smooth cheek as he settled into 
his chair and started sorting through the files on his desk. 
"You don't know me as well as you think you do, Scully."

"Oh no?" The peculiar feeling began to diminish as she watched 
him shuffle papers. She was being silly, imagining things that 
weren't there. She smiled and said, "You'd have to join a 
twelve step program just to go two minutes without your cell 
phone." 

"I only use it because it's available. I could survive just 
fine without modern conveniences -- if I had to." He powered 
up his computer. "As a matter of fact, I bet I could outlast 
you."

"In your dreams." She checked her watch. "Damn, I'm late." She 
stood and gathered her files. She was halfway to the door 
before she remembered the carving. "Oh, I meant to ask you..." 
She reached into her pocket and pulled out the small figurine. 
It was made of bone or ivory, and it reminded her of the 
primitive carvings she'd seen in Dr. Diamond's anthropology 
classes as an undergrad. 

She crossed the room and set it on the desk in front of him. 
"That yours?"

He picked it up and twirled it between his fingers. "No. Where 
did you get it?"

"I found it in my overnight case. You don't recognize it?"

"It looks like a fertility idol, like the Venus of 
Willendorf."

"Yes, but where did it come from?"

"Don't look at me. I'm not trying to get pregnant." He started 
to give it back, then evidently changed his mind and hung onto 
it, caressing its voluptuous curves, pendulous breasts and 
swollen belly with his thumb. 

"Is something wrong?" she asked.

"It feels...warm."

"Well, it's been in my pocket."

"Hm. Can I borrow it?" He sounded distracted.

"Sure. What are you going to do with it?"

"I know a guy at the Smithsonian. I'd like him to take a look 
at it...see if it's the real deal."

"Mulder, it's a reproduction. It has to be."

"Maybe." He set it back on his desk. "I'll let you know."

"Fine. I have to go." She headed for the door.

"Oh...wait." He stood and fished into his pants pocket. "Um, I 
believe this is yours."

Her necklace dangled from his fingers.

"Where did you find it?"

"It was in the pocket of my leather jacket...which looks like 
crap by the way." He came around the desk. "The clasp was 
broken, so I stopped at Friedman's yesterday and got it 
fixed."

She waited while he hooked it around her neck. Her fingers 
went immediately to the tiny cross. "Thank you, Mulder. That 
was a thoughtful thing for you to do."

"I figured I owed you...you know...for dragging you to Utah."

"Mulder, about that. I don't exactly remember..."

"Remember...?"

It embarrassed her to admit it, but she remembered almost 
nothing about their trip. "Mulder, what happened in Utah?"

"We drove to Hill Air Force Base and..."

"And what?"

"Uh...fell asleep in the car?"

"For two days? Mulder, we arrived in Salt Lake City on the 
13th."

"And woke up in the car the morning of the 15th. Mm, I know. 
I've been wondering about that myself. I have a theory, if you 
care to hear it."

She glanced again at her watch. "Make it quick."

"Remember the Budahas case?"

"Ellens Air Force Base, our second case together... 
Wait...you're not going to suggest what I think you're going 
to suggest."

"Two words, Scully. Brain drain."

"No. I've got to go." She headed for the door.

"Then what's your explanation?" he asked, bringing her up 
short at the threshold. "And don't give me that folie a deux 
crap again."

The truth was, she didn't have a logical explanation. And 
she'd been trying to come up with one for the last two days. 
"I'll have to get back to you on it," she said, and hurried 
from the room. Missing a day or two certainly wasn't the 
strangest thing that had ever happened to her and Mulder, but 
it was disconcerting just the same. 

She jogged to the elevator, her mind already switching gears 
to the meeting upstairs.

*   *   *

The elevator hummed beneath her high-heeled shoes as she 
watched the floor numbers rise. Alone in the car, Scully 
reviewed Skinner's case. The background information that he'd 
sent down to her this morning described a sniper hit on a 
Russian chess player named Anatole Klebanow during a world 
championship match in British Columbia. The shooter worked for 
the National Security Agency, which was why the FBI was 
involved. It wasn't an X-File, which could explain why Skinner 
might not assign Mulder to the case, but then why had he 
tagged her for the investigative team? Maybe the A.D.'s 
reluctance to invite Mulder had more to do with his recent 
stay in a psychiatric ward than with the specifics of the 
Vancouver shooting. Or maybe Skinner was still pissed about 
Mulder's unauthorized trip to Utah. 

The elevator came to a stop on the third floor to pick up more 
passengers. Scully edged to the back as Agents Spender, 
Edwards and Maier blustered inside, clipboards in hand and 
scowls on their faces.

"Hold the door, please," a woman called from the hall behind 
them. Spender held out an arm to prevent the door from sliding 
shut. "Sorry," the woman apologized as she hurried inside. Her 
perfume flooded the car and she brushed her dark hair into 
place with a quick swipe of her fingers.

Scully didn't recognize her, but there was something familiar 
about her just the same. She was tall and a few years older 
than Scully. She stood with her head tipped slightly back, 
giving her a haughty demeanor. Her suit was well tailored and 
looked expensive. It showed off her busty figure and long legs 
-- the type of legs that always attracted Mulder's attention. 
Her nails were well manicured, her lipstick freshly applied. 
She wore a Bureau ID, but the glare from the elevator's 
overhead light prevented Scully from reading it.

The woman caught her staring.

Scully forced a polite smile. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to..." 
For some reason she disliked this woman on sight, although she 
had no excuse for it. Nothing but a vague sense of deja vu 
that was making her feel uneasy and inexplicably...what? 
Jealous? That was ridiculous. She didn't even know the woman. 
Did she? "Do we know each other?"

"I don't think so." The woman extended her hand. Her 
expression remained stern. "I'm Agent Fowley."

"Agent Scully," she identified herself. "I swear we--"

The elevator dinged, indicating their floor. The doors slid 
open and everyone shuffled into the corridor. 

"Nice to meet you." Agent Fowley nodded crisply, before 
turning toward the briefing room.    

*   *   *

BASEMENT OFFICE
8:47 AM

Mulder returned from the men's room to find Skinner flipping 
through a file folder. The A.D. hadn't brought it with him; it 
was the file for the Pincus case, which had been lying on 
Mulder's desk. His internal warning bells began clanging. 
Skinner rarely made his way down to the basement. The A.D. had 
purposely excluded him from whatever was going on upstairs, 
and yet here he was poking around.

"Wow, you know you're going places in the Bureau when the 
Assistant Director tidies up your office for you. What's up?"

Skinner smiled sheepishly. "I was just, uh...looking."

"For anything special?" Mulder stepped into the room.

"I came down to ask you something. I, uh, I guess I was nosing 
around...wondering about you...your, uh, long-term plans."

"My long-term plans? You've got them right there in your 
hands." He took the folders from the A.D., who relinquished 
them without argument. Mulder crossed to the file cabinet and 
cracked open the drawer.

"What do you hope to find?" Skinner asked. "I mean, in the 
end."

"Whatever I hope to find is in here." He waggled the folders 
before dropping them into the drawer. "And maybe I'll know it 
when I find it. Is that what you came to ask me?"

There had to be more. Skinner never asked stuff like this.

"No. There's a case –- nothing I'd send you normally –- a 
murder...the assassination of a Russian chess player. The 
shooter is former National Security Agency...one of ours. It's 
got a lot of people upset. This kid, Jeffery Spender –- 
Special Agent Spender –- he's been given the case. He's 
running it."

This surprised Mulder.

"You give it to him?"

"No. It came as an order from somewhere outside the Bureau," 
Skinner said, making it clear that he wasn't punishing Mulder 
by denying him access to the briefing. "His team's assembled 
upstairs right now. He was very specific that you be 
excluded."

Mulder couldn't hide his smile. "Looks like I've got a party 
to crash."

The A.D. nodded. "Just remember you didn't hear anything from 
me."

"You know me, sir. I can be quiet as a church mouse...when I 
have to be." 

He headed for the door, feeling cocky and optimistic. There 
was a fresh conspiracy to uncover and A.D. Skinner was in his 
corner this time around. Now if he could just get Scully to 
admit that she'd seen the cockroach that ate Cincinnati in his 
room at Calumet Mercy Hospital last week, life would be damn 
near perfect.  

x-x-x-x-x

EPILOGUE

OFFICE OF THE LONE GUNMEN
COLLEGE PARK, MD
THREE WEEKS LATER

"Got it!" Langly announced. "Our headliner for next month's 
issue."

"What d'you find?" Frohike stood at the stove, stirring a pot 
of black bean soup. A few steps away, Byers was peeling an 
avocado.

"Check it out." Langly carried his laptop into the 
kitchenette. He tapped the monitor and smiled proudly. On the 
screen was one of his favorite community message boards. 
"Voila!" 

"Reliable source?" Byers asked without looking.

"D'uhhh, yeah -- paranormal.com."

"Read it to us," Frohike said, glasses steamed by the heating 
soup.

"The thread was started by 'not_alone'--"

"Old Faithful," interrupted Byers.  

"It's in the UFO Forum--"

"Always a treasure trove," said Frohike, nodding approval.

"It starts out: 'They're here. Or to be more precise, they 
*were* here. Archeologists recently unearthed incontrovertible 
evidence of ancient extraterrestrials in a cave in 
northwestern Utah. Ice Age petroglyphs, carbon-dated 11,550 
B.P. and depicting common modern day items such as a bicycle 
and a television set, were found alongside traditional Paleo-
Indian images of mastodons and saber-toothed cats. This one 
ain't no hoax, folks!'" Langly turned the laptop toward them. 
"Feast your eyes on this, dudes...there's a photo."   

Frohike stopped his stirring to wipe his glasses and study the 
unlikely petroglyph: an image of a television set with a spear 
through its screen. "Wow. Is that for real?"

"One hundred percent."

"Wait'll Mulder sees it." He returned to his cooking. "I say 
we run it."

Byers shook his head. "Forget it, guys. It can't be genuine."

"Looks real," Langly said.

"So did the Piltdown Man." Byers reached for a tomato. "We 
don't need that kind of embarrassment. We've got a reputation 
to uphold. I say we wait until we've had a chance to 
thoroughly check it out. If it's the real deal, we'll run it 
next month."

"Byers is right," Frohike agreed, blinded again by steam. 
"It's not too likely ancient extraterrestrial astronauts 
watched TV." 

"Fine. Whatever. We'll wait...and miss the scoop of the 
century." Langly hit his back button and the petroglyph 
vanished. 

*   *   *

YE-TSAN CAVE
SEASON OF THE HOWLING WOLF

"Auntie Gini, tell us a story," whined Dibeh, Klizzie's eldest 
girl. Her pleading eyes were as big as goose eggs.

"Yes, a story, Mama, please, please!" Tse-Le jumped up and 
down on the balls of his small feet.

Content to be surrounded by her family, Gini stirred the coals 
in the hearth and added another stick of wood. This was their 
thirteenth winter in Ye-tsan Basin. Their village was small, 
but growing. Eight large shelters currently lined the 
riverbank below the cave. The occupants were an unexpected mix 
from various clans, linked by a common desire to start anew, 
more than by any long-standing blood ties.

"Stowwy, peese?" begged Yo-Ih, the younger, yet more outspoken 
of Gini's two children.

Unable to resist her little girl's demands, Gini drew Yo-Ih 
into her lap and gave her a hug. The toddler looked so much 
like her father the sight of her could steal Gini's breath 
away. Yo-Ih had Chal's sly grin, his determined chin and 
mischievous hazelnut eyes.

Gini glanced across the cave at Chal, who was sitting beside 
Dzeh at the windbreak. The men relaxed with their backs to the 
half wall, while they talked in genial tones about the proper 
way to knap chert into spear points. Dzeh massaged the deep 
scar at his temple as he pondered Chal's latest innovative 
ideas.

"A new story or an old one?" Gini asked the children.

"A new one," Dibeh said, her sewing needle held mid-stitch. 

"No, no. An old one! Tell the one about the magic medicine 
necklace and the secret words!" Tse-Le begged.

Gini fingered the totem at her neck. Muhl-dar had been right; 
the necklace had brought her good luck. She had survived the 
awful Yellow Sickness, and five summers later, she became 
Joined with Chal.

Sharing Chal's sleeping skins had turned out to be 
surprisingly pleasant, not disgusting and painful, as she had 
once feared. He was a wonderful mate, fair-minded, generous 
and affectionate. The Spirits evidently thought so, too, 
because they had blessed him with two healthy, cheerful 
children. A third, due in the spring, was turning somersaults 
in her belly right now.  

"Tell us about the day Snake Spirit came to Turkey Lake," said 
Nilchi, Klizzie's firstborn, the son who had been growing in 
her womb during that frightening time. Now he was a handsome 
youngster, recently Promised to a girl in Otter Clan. He sat 
cross-legged beside the hearth, carving a pretty hair comb to 
give to her as a Joining gift.

Klizzie and Ho-Ya sat on either side of him, softening deer 
hides. Ho-Ya was an old woman now, her face deeply lined and 
her hair snowy white. Her mate, Chal's father, had died four 
winters ago, a few months before Tse-Le was born. Ho-Ya's 
swollen hands often pained her on cold days like this one, but 
she still managed to work hides until they were as soft as 
chicks' down.

Lin had passed into the Spirit World, too, after a fall 
through thin ice at Tacheene River last spring. He was sorely 
missed, as a hunter and a leader. His two sons, able hunters 
and wise men in their own right, lived with their mates and 
children in the shelter beside Gini's.    

Shortly after settling in Ye-tsan, Lin had wanted to designate 
the cave as a place where the men could offer prayers, but 
Gini had insisted it be available to all people. Since she had 
been the one to lead them to it in the first place, Chal sided 
with her, and Ye-tsan Cave became a communal area where the 
entire Clan could gather to celebrate special occasions, sing 
songs, offer prayers, or just tell stories.

"Gini, tell us one of the old Eel Clan tales," Klizzie 
suggested.  

"Stowwy 'bout baby Sam come home!" Yo-Ih demanded.

"But I have told that story more times than I can count," Gini 
said.

"Tell it again," Tse-Le begged. 

The other children grew excited and chanted, "Yes, yes! Tell 
it again." 

"All right." Gini hushed them. "I will tell it."

Tse-Le clapped his hands and skipped around the hearth. His 
exuberance caused lively shadows to dance across the cave's 
walls. Countless carved images appeared to come to life in the 
flickering firelight. The pictures included representations of 
family and Clan members, as well as every kind of animal found 
in the Basin. These traditional paintings had been fitted 
around and in between Muhl-dar's old drawings, which showed 
wondrous things like bicycles and TVs and foreign games called 
baseball and Kick the Can and Hide and Go Seek. The pictures 
reminded Gini of the many pleasant evenings she had lain 
beneath her beaver blanket, listening to Muhl-dar talk in his 
strange Eel language. //"I'll help you," said Horton. "But 
where are you? Where?" He looked and he looked. He could see 
nothing there...//

Gini's eyes grew misty as she recalled her long-ago friends. 
Where was Muhl-dar now? she wondered. And Day-nuh? Were they 
together with the Spirits? 

"Once upon a time," Gini began, savoring the familiar story, 
"there was a boy named Fox who lived with his mother and 
father in an old house by the ocean." 

"What 'howz'?" Yo-Ih interrupted.

"It is like a cave."

"Why not say cave?" 

Yo-Ih's questions had once been Gini's own, and the answers 
felt as comfortable as her old beaver skin blanket. Her summer 
with Muhl-dar and Day-nuh had been a significant one in her 
life, and for as long as she lived she would remember each and 
every detail.

She gave her daughter's hand a gentle squeeze. "A house is not 
a cave...not quite."

"What is it?"

"It is a shelter made of wood, like our smokehouse, only 
bigger."

Yo-Ih nodded, then asked, "What is 'o-shun'?"

How curious the way life repeats itself, Gini thought.

Her journey had brought her full circle, back to her family 
and to Ye-tsan Basin. Yet she was no longer a naive girl of 
eight, hoping to find happiness by running away from her 
troubles. Two compassionate strangers had shown her the truth: 
Happiness requires no arduous search -- it is always within 
reach, wherever you choose to open your heart. 

She kissed her child's dark, flyaway hair. "An ocean is a very 
big lake..."


THE END