Title: AND THERE WAS A WAR IN HEAVEN byaka "Jake" & Brandon D. Ray MSR - Colonization - Rated R BOOK ONE continued. -x-x-x-x-x-x- Previously in War In Heaven... Aboard the U.S.S. Cheyenne, Bill Scully encountered an unknown threat to his battle group in the Arabian Sea. Shannon McMahon plotted with C.G.B. Spender to kidnap William. Mulder and Scully discussed Cassandra's reappearance. Meanwhile, a man who looked like Mulder drove Tara and William to West Virginia. Doggett and Reyes followed, learning there were two Mulders. Doggett phoned Skinner to warn him, and Skinner hurried to Scully's apartment to protect her and to question Mulder. Doggett and Reyes caught up with Tara, William and "Mulder," just as a group of Faceless Rebels attacked... -x-x-x-x-x- CHAPTER 4 OFFICE OF THE LONE GUNMEN COLLEGE PARK, MD "Do not." "Do, too." "Do not." "Do, too." "Will you two *please* stop arguing?" Byers couldn't hear himself think over Frohike and Langly's endless debate. He sat at his computer console, trying to make sense of what he saw on his screen. This couldn't be what it looked like. Could it? "I'll stop when Goldilocks concedes," said Frohike. "Never. Only a moron would claim Denevan neural parasites come from Rigel IV." "They *do* come from Rigel IV." "They do not. They come from Gamma Hydra IV." "Says who?" "Says Mr. Spock. And he knows about these things...unlike *you*. Moron." "Who are you calling an moron, Moron?" Frohike aimed a paper airplane -- shaped like a stealth bomber -- at Langly. It arced gracefully, dipped, and then found its mark. It lodged nose-first in Langly's long hair. "Bullseye!" Frohike chortled. "Hey! Cut it out!" Langly plucked the airplane from his hair. He turned it over in his hands and studied its folds. "Nice design. Not bad workmanship -- for a *moron*." "You're the moron." "Am not." "Are, too." "I said, be *quiet*!" Byers' uncharacteristic shout left the two men blinking at him in silent surprise. Frohike abandoned his workbench to cross the room and peer over Byers' shoulder. When he saw the data on the monitor, he let out a low whistle of appreciation. "Hey, Langly, take a look at this." He waved the other man over, their argument forgotten for the time being. Langly put down the paper plane, now unfolded, to join Frohike at Byers' computer. For a minute or two, all three Gunmen stared quietly at the monitor. "Is this what I think it is, guys?" Byers asked. "Not bad." Langly's head bobbed enthusiastically. "Defense data directory with real-time satellite images from the U.S.S. Fletcher. You've been paying attention, Byers -- that site was protected by some major firewalls." Langly sounded truly impressed. "Now move over, Grasshopper, and let the master in. This calls for some serious kung fu." Langly nudged Byers out of his chair and took his place in front of the console. He typed a series of quick commands onto the keyboard. The splash screen changed, morphing into a schematic of America's defense and communication satellite array. Anomalous data links appeared between the more familiar devices. "Well, what do we have here?" Langly rubbed his palms together. Impatient, Frohike reached past him and punched a key on the keyboard, opening one of the links. When the image finished downloading, Frohike released another low whistle. "The skies are busy tonight." "Yeah, but with what?" Byers leaned forward, his eyes focused on the image. "Humungo upsurge of UFO activity." "All latitudes." "Look at these concentrations above Tunisia, India, western China, Mexico, northeastern U.S." Byers pointed at the monitor. "What the hell is going on?" "Dunno, but it can't be good," said Frohike. "Should we notify Mulder?" "Duh, yeah," said Langly. "But no phone calls. Big Brother is everywhere." "News this hot demands a face-to-face meeting," Frohike agreed, hitting another button to activate the printer across the room. "You guys download the images before they mysteriously disappear. I'll find us some suitable disguises." -x-x-x-x-x-x- ABOARD U.S.S. CHEYENNE SOMEWHERE IN THE ARABIAN SEA "Captain, the SEALs are away." Bill Scully looked up from his writing pad, to see his exec standing in the hatchway. "Very good, Jeff." He reached for the microphone, adding, "Now let's see what the status is on our little buddies." He clicked the transmit button. "Sonar, this is the captain. What have you got for me?" "Sir, I was about to call you. We've just picked up a new contact, much fainter than the first. Bearing 193, transiting west to east at 13 knots." "Another one?" "Yes, sir. Designating Red-2." "What about Red-1?" "We haven't heard him in more than an hour, sir." Bill frowned, and tore off the sheet he'd been working on, exposing a fresh page. He rapidly sketched the situation, shading in a large oval to mark the approximate location of the task force. Not good. Not good at all. "Looks like a flanking maneuver," he muttered. He keyed the microphone again. "Sonar, is there any indication the task force is aware of our two friends?" "None, sir. Red-1 should be in La Jolla's patrol area, but there's no sign of any unusual activity. Of course, if they *have* picked up Red-1, they could be lying doggo." Bill drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair. Cheyenne was still deep inside Pakistan's territorial waters, and under orders not to disclose their position. But the situation had changed. He had to alert the task force of this new threat. He turned to his exec. "Jeff, let's launch a SLOT, get a message off." A SLOT buoy held a miniature UHF transmitter. It would rise to the surface and send an encrypted, pre-recorded message to an orbiting satellite, all in a single burst of less than a second. The signal would then be relayed to Central Command, back in Florida, and in turn would make its way to the task force commander. A round about way of doing things, but it would work -- and no one would know it had happened, unless they were very close by, and had a directional antenna pointing right at the buoy at the moment it transmitted. "Aye aye, sir. Anything else?" Bill hesitated, trying to balance the urgency of the situation against the need for operational security. At last he shook his head. Fuck it. He could explain later -- and if the guys in the striped pants were embarrassed, that was their problem. "Yeah," he said. "Let's get back on station as quick as we can. Mr. Southey, plot a course back to the task force. Make your depth 150. All ahead flank." Bill leaned back in his chair and watched as his orders were carried out. Glancing at the clock, it occurred to him that back in D.C. it was Christmas morning. Another holiday away from home and family. Well, it couldn't be helped. At least he had the satisfaction of knowing that he was doing everything he could to keep his loved ones safe. -x-x-x-x-x- SCULLY'S APARTMENT ALEXANDRIA, VA Skinner hammered his fist against Scully's door. He felt edgy and wired, as if he'd just downed an entire pot of coffee. His unease stemmed from Doggett's recent phone call and the ominous news about two "Mulders." Road conditions had been lousy on the ride over from headquarters, but Skinner had managed to make good time. A rush of adrenaline kept his foot pressed to the accelerator. A feeling of urgency still surged through him, raising his blood pressure, along with his desire to see that Scully was safe and Mulder was actually Mulder. Come on, answer the damn door. He knocked again and considered calling out Scully's name. There was no need; the door swung inward, revealing a man who looked exactly like Fox Mulder. The man gave Skinner a brief, squinty-eyed stare, and then turned to shout over his shoulder, "Honey, did you order pizza?" If this was an impostor, he was a damn good one. "Come on in, Walter. Set a spell. Put your feet up. You look tense." Mulder stepped back and gestured toward the apartment's interior. Skinner shouldered past him. "Where's Scully?" he growled, striding down the hall. He glanced quickly into the empty kitchen before heading into the living room. Thank God, she was there. Sitting on the couch, she stared back at him with one eyebrow arched in curious surprise. She appeared tired, but unharmed. Skinner spun to face Mulder, who now stood less than an arm's length away, blocking the exit to the hall. "You hear anything from Doggett and Reyes?" Mulder asked. Skinner hesitated before answering. If this man was truly Mulder, his question was born out of concern for his missing son. On the other hand, if he was an alien in disguise, he would be trying to ferret out information: about William, about the real Mulder, about who-knows-what else. Skinner took a step back to put a little distance between himself and the other man. Damn it, how was he going to know for sure if this was the real Mulder? "Sir?" asked Scully, rising from the couch. "Is something the matter?" "Possibly," he hedged Mulder moved forward, closing in on the A.D. "What's the problem?" Skinner could think of no discreet way to broach the subject, so he decided to come right to the point. "You may not be who you appear to be," he said. "Excuse me?" Mulder's eyebrows shot up in what seemed to be genuine surprise. "Are you asking me to prove I'm me?" "That's what I'm asking." A muscle twitched along Mulder's jaw. "Why?" Doggett's warning ran through Skinner's head. //It looks like we've got two guys who are both the spitting image of Fox Mulder.// That meant one of three things: Mulder's impostor was this man right here; or he was with Tara and William, one step ahead of Doggett and Reyes; or both "Mulders" were impostors. How would Scully react to any of these scenarios? Skinner decided not to divulge Doggett's report. Not yet. Not until he knew for certain whether *this* Mulder was the real one. "Our agents found the priest -- Father McCue -- about an hour ago," Skinner said, all of his senses on alert. "He was tied up and unconscious in the church's sacristy, along with a couple of deacons. As you probably know, a man who looked just like McCue attacked Scully earlier tonight." "An alien Bounty Hunter." Skinner gave a small nod. He looked directly into Mulder's eyes. "I need proof, right now, that you are who you say you are." Mulder glanced past Skinner to Scully, as if pleading for corroboration, but she remained silent. "All right." Mulder raised his hands, palms out, striking a pose of mock-surrender. "Fair enough." He took a deep breath, allowing his next words to come out in a rush of uninterrupted information. "My mother's name was Teena; my sister's name was Samantha; my badge number-- Hell, I don't have a badge number because I don't work for the FBI anymore. I don't have a phone number either, because I'm hiding from a covert government group who wants to ice my sorry ass." He paused, as if to gauge Skinner's reaction. "And...?" The A.D. needed more. Mulder frowned. "I...uh...I hunt aliens from outer space whenever I'm not annoying my superiors." He glared at Skinner. "My nickname is Spooky. I'll also answer to 'Monster Boy,' if you use a sexy voice and say it like you really mean it. Although it's possible that only works for Scully." The man sounded like Mulder, he really did, but Skinner still wasn't convinced. "Tell me something only you and I would know." An exaggerated sigh huffed from Mulder's nose. When he continued speaking, his voice crackled with irritation. "Last year, I spent my vacation in Raleigh, North Carolina -- six feet under the ground -- which is a real bitchin' way to see the Tarheel State, if you haven't tried it. And correct me if I'm wrong, sir, but I believe it was you who ordered a backhoe to dig me up." Even this last bit of information didn't prove the man's identity -- not beyond a shadow of a doubt. "Anyone could access those details," Skinner said. Mulder's eyes rounded. "Jesus, Skinner, you've become more paranoid than me." Skinner scrutinized Mulder's face. He found nothing unfamiliar, yet he still didn't feel certain this was really Mulder. "Well, there's one way to resolve this," Mulder said, turning around and striding from the room. Skinner glanced at Scully, who remained motionless on the couch. He suspected she was having doubts, too, given what had happened at the church tonight. But if she was worried, she wasn't showing it. Following after Mulder, Skinner found him in the kitchen, rummaging through the drawers, obviously looking for something. The A.D. paused a few steps inside the doorway and watched. His hand itched to reach for his weapon, but he knew that it would be useless if this wasn't Mulder, and unnecessary if it was. Mulder turned and faced Skinner. He held a paring knife in his right hand. Skinner tensed, but there was no threat in Mulder's body language. Instead, the other man just looked at him for a moment, then pushed back one of his shirt sleeves and cut a half-inch nick in his forearm. Blood welled up in the wound. It was red. "I guess that settles that." Scully's voice, coming from behind Skinner. The A.D. turned to see her standing in the doorway, features composed, arms folded across her chest. As if she had known all along what the outcome would be. Maybe she had. "Not quite," Mulder said, drawing Skinner's attention. He offered the knife to the A.D. "Your turn." Skinner didn't argue; trust was a two-way street. He took the knife and drew the blade quickly across the back of his hand, creating a tiny cut. A drop of bright red blood oozed to the surface of his skin. He raised his fist for first Mulder and then Scully to inspect. Scully held her hand out for the knife. Skinner passed it to her, a bit reluctantly, and winced when she used its tip to nick her arm. A drop of red blood appeared in the tiny wound. "Everyone satisfied now?" she asked. "I guess this makes us all officially blood brothers...or blood siblings." Mulder took the knife from Scully and tossed it into the sink. "So tell me, Walter, what's really going on here?" Skinner looked at Scully. Her expression remained impassive. Maybe he'd underestimated her. Maybe she could take the news that an alien Bounty Hunter was impersonating Mulder in order to get to William. He decided to come clean and tell them both what he knew. "I got a call from Doggett. He has reason to believe--" Skinner never finished his sentence. The lights flickered and then went off altogether, plunging the apartment into darkness. A scream ricocheted down the hall from a back room. "Cassandra!" Scully cried out. Skinner heard the scrape of Scully's shoes as she hurried from the pitch-black kitchen, presumably toward the source of the scream. Mulder brushed by, jostling the A.D. when he passed. Another scream pierced the dark. Running blind and relying on his ears to lead him in the right direction, Skinner followed Scully and Mulder down the hall. He unholstered his gun as he hurried to catch up. Cassandra screamed again. Scully shouted to her and opened a door up ahead, then gasped when a flash of intense, white light flooded the apartment. Skinner shielded his eyes with an upraised arm. Squinting against the glare, he was able to make out Mulder's silhouette in the bedroom door. Scully was gone; she must have already entered the bedroom. Mulder stepped across the threshold and he, too, disappeared into the room. Eyes fighting to adjust to the brightness, Skinner moved closer to the open door. He entered the room, where he discovered the light's source was somewhere outside the apartment, beyond the bedroom's single window. The window was open and the room felt bitterly cold. Sweet Jesus. Cassandra Spender was hovering in the air several feet above the bed. She seemed somehow trapped inside the beam of light that shone through the window. Oh, Christ. She was drifting slowly upward, floating toward the open window, her arms and legs outstretched and rigid. She opened her mouth as if to say something, but no sound came out. There was no sound to hear, Skinner realized. Not from Cassandra; not from Mulder or Scully, who rounded the bed to get closer to the floating woman; not from himself. He tried to shout -- he *did* shout -- but the words failed to reverberate back to him. He could feel his voice scrape past his vocal chords, but he heard nothing. Nothing at all. The room seemed to suck up sound the way a black hole steals light, and the disorienting absence of sound caused his stomach to somersault and his head to spin. He fought to keep his balance as he moved further into the room. A few feet in front of him, Scully reached out for Cassandra. She moved slowly, as if underwater. Equally slowly, Mulder took hold of Scully's left arm and held her back. Skinner could see Mulder's fingers bite into her flesh, locking her in place. Cassandra continued to hang in the air just beyond Scully's outstretched hand. She looked oddly calm, as if resigned to the situation. Her eyes widened only a little when she began to gradually pivot, angling to fit headfirst out the window. Fear sliced through Skinner at the sight -- the same awful fear he'd felt in Bellefleur after he realized he'd lost Mulder. Aliens. Abduction. Save her. Don't lose her. Skinner pushed himself forward through the thick, soundless air. His muscles -- slow to respond -- ached as if asleep. He felt like he wore lead shoes, and each stride initiated a wash of pain that threatened to buckle his knees. He no longer bothered to speak or shout. He channeled all his energy into reaching Cassandra before it was too late. With only a few feet between them, Skinner lunged past Mulder and Scully, and grabbed Cassandra around the waist. He was shocked when his weight failed to drag the woman to the floor. She continued to float skyward, and so did he. He tightened his grip. Damn it, he was *not* going to lose her. They drifted out the window. Skinner looked down, aghast. God, they dangled three floors above the snow-covered street. This couldn't be happening. It wasn't possible. Skinner lifted his eyes to peer directly into the bright light above his head. The last thing his senses registered was a loud sound, like a thunderclap, followed by nothing but darkness. * * * "Mulder?" Scully stepped into the kitchen, her arms folded across her chest. "Where did Skinner go?" Mulder stood in front of the sink, watching blood trickle from a small cut on his forearm. "Isn't he with you?" "No. I thought he followed you in here." Mulder glanced around. Obviously, there was no one in the room but the two of them. "Maybe he left." Scully leaned into the hall to take a quick look at the front door. "That's weird, considering he came over here to see you." "He wanted to see me?" "Didn't he?" "I'm...uh...kinda fuzzy on the details." "You're bleeding," she said, noticing the nick on his arm. She stepped closer to examine it. "Did you cut yourself?" "I must've." He spotted the paring knife in the sink. "You don't remember?" "Not really." Mulder frowned. Then he abruptly pushed away from the counter and jogged from the room. "Mulder, where are you going?" Scully trailed after him. At the end of the hall, Mulder paused in front of Cassandra's closed door. Without knocking, he opened it and walked in. Scully hurried to catch up with him. She found him standing at the foot of Cassandra's empty bed. The room was freezing cold and the window was wide open. Mulder turned his gaze to the billowing curtains and the night sky beyond. "I'm guessing she didn't jump." -x-x-x-x-x- RURAL WEST VIRGINIA Tara was lifted off her feet and thrown backwards by the force of the explosion. By some miracle, she managed to hold onto her nephew as she catapulted through the air, finally landing on her back with a dull thud, the baby still clutched in her arms. For a few endless seconds she lay there, stunned. Heat washed over her as the vehicle continued to burn. At last, the ringing in her ears began to recede, and she struggled painfully to a sitting position. She was sitting in the snow, about 40 or 50 feet from the truck -- or whatever it was -- that once had mounted the searchlights. The lights were gone of course, but their role was now being fulfilled by the flames that leapt and capered around the vehicle, casting an eerie glow over the scene. Shadows danced across the snow, and as her vision cleared, she realized that some of them were actually alive -- Tara gasped, as someone grabbed her arm and dragged her to her feet. William squalled as she lost hold of him with one arm, and gripped him frantically around the waist with the other, not wanting to drop him. She swung around, her gaze tracking upwards. It was her captor, the man who wasn't Fox. If anything, his expression was even grimmer and more forbidding that before. "They have found us," he said. "We must --" Tara would never know what he'd been about to say, because at that instant, a man appeared, seemingly from nowhere. She had a brief glimpse of twisted, mutilated features, like those she'd seen on the "priest" back at St. John's. Then his arm rose and fell, striking a blow to the base of her captor's neck. The man who wasn't Fox gaped at her for a moment, seemingly shocked at what had just happened -- and then he collapsed to the ground without a word. Tara's gaze followed him down. What happened next was beyond belief. The man's body lay there for a few seconds, perfectly still -- and then it started to dissolve. Tara stared in horror, frozen in place, unable to make herself look away. This couldn't be happening; it simply could not be. Of all the crazy things that she'd seen this night, this was the worst. In a matter of seconds, the body was gone, leaving only a puddle of green goo in its place. A flash of motion caught her attention, and she looked up. The ... the *thing* that had struck the killing blow now stood before her, brandishing something -- a long, black stick of some sort. Her eyes bulged in fear as the stick was pointed at her. She didn't know what it was, or what it could do, but some instinct, deep within her soul, told her that this was the end. She clutched William close against her chest, wishing there were some way she could shield him. But there was nothing, absolutely nothing she could do. "Hail Mary," she whispered, "full of grace, the Lord is with thee --" Another shape materialized out of the darkness, hurtling at the thing in front of her and crashing into it with an audible thud, knocking it off its feet. Tara saw olive drab, and a glint of silver insignia, as the two men wrestled on the ground in silence. Army, she realized, and in that instant promised herself and God that she would never badmouth a rival branch of the service again. The two men continued to struggle, rolling around in the snow. Tara was still rooted in place, unable to move, despite the alarms clamoring in her, telling her that she needed to be elsewhere -- anywhere. They were battling over the wand, she realized, and she started looking around for a weapon. A rock, a stick -- anything. But there was nothing -- nothing but cold and wind and snow. She turned her gaze back to the combatants -- Just in time to see them both burst into flame. That was the last straw. Tara Scully had seen too much, had been exposed to too many horrors, in too short a time, and she was finally overwhelmed. Still holding William tight against her chest, she turned and ran blindly into the storm. -x-x-x-x-x- It took Doggett several seconds, lying there in the snow, to regather enough of his wits to realize that someone was underneath him. He hastily rolled off to the side, then clambered to his feet. A moment later, Monica joined him. "Jesus," he said, still gasping for breath. "What the hell was *that*?" "I dunno," Monica replied, already starting to move on down the slope. "But we'd better go find out." "Shit." Doggett knew better than to argue when she got like this -- especially when she was right. He shook his head and took off after her, reaching for his cell phone as he ran, trying to keep one eye on the treacherous terrain as he dialed 911. His call was answered on the second ring. "This is FBI Special Agent John Doggett," he said. "I've got a situation here. Large explosion and fire, north of Highway 50, in the vicinity of the Maryland/West Virginia state line. Numerous casualties, and armed suspects still on the scene. We need -- hell, give us everything you got. SWAT, bomb squad, EMTs -- the whole nine yards." He exchanged a few more sentences with the dispatcher, all the while continuing to hurry after Monica. Then he punched END, and turned his attention back to the spectacle before him. It was like something out of Dante. At first, Doggett saw only the burning vehicle, but as he drew nearer, and his eyes adjusted to the uneven lighting, he noticed that there were a number of smaller fires scattered across the landscape, with dark, man-shaped forms moving in the spaces in between. As he watched, one of the figures burst into flame, and then another, and Doggett's stomach churned as he realized what the smaller fires most likely were. At length, the two of them reached level ground and were able to increase their pace. Almost immediately, Monica swerved, heading for the nearest of the smaller fires -- actually, it was now nothing but a smoldering, blackened lump of flesh and clothing. She knelt down next to it. A few seconds later, she shook her head and stood again. "No good," she said. She paused and looked around. "They're probably all like this." "We have to check, though," Doggett replied. "Agreed. And it'll go faster if we split up." "I dunno, Mon. There're still hostiles, and you don't have your gun." Her weapon had gone flying off into the darkness when she took her tumble down the hill, a few minutes before. "John, these people are *dying*. Tara and William might be among them. There's no time --" "You're right," he interrupted. His guts clenched at the thought of finding Scully's little boy, reduced to nothing but a fire-blackened corpse. He didn't want to think about that. He nodded sharply, pushing the unwelcome image away. "Let's do it." -x-x-x-x-x- Tara ran through the woods, not knowing or caring which direction she was heading. She was vaguely aware that the ground had stopped sloping up, and now was on a downward trend, but all she really knew was that the going was a little easier than it had been. Twice she'd fallen -- or was it three times? The terrain was slick and treacherous, and tree roots gripped at her ankles. One of the times she fell, she'd dropped William. Then she'd sat dumbly in the snow, dazed, on the verge of tears, until the baby's cries penetrated her consciousness and snapped her out of it. Now she was on her feet and running again. Running, running, running. The trees were closer together, but she forced herself between them, ignoring the branches that clawed at her, oblivious to the cold and the snow. Bill was ahead of her, somewhere -- she was sure of it. She just had to keep going, and eventually she would find him. She knew she would. She had to .... -x-x-x-x-x- RESIDENCE OF MAGGIE SCULLY 7:12 A.M. "Is it time to open presents now, Gramma?" Matthew ignored his breakfast and twisted in his seat, trying to see the Christmas tree in the next room. Maggie stood at the kitchen counter. She kept one eye on the kids and one on her paring knife. Apple slices dropped one by one into a pie-shell in front of her. Dessert for Christmas dinner. Assuming they were going to have Christmas dinner. "No, it isn't time to open presents. We're waiting for your mother and Aunt Dana. "Cousin William, too?" "Cousin William, too." Sarah sat in a highchair across the table from Matthew. She struggled to remove the cap on her sippy-cup. Milk dribbled from the cup's pinched lid onto the tray of her chair, and she bent forward to taste it. "Where's Mommy?" she asked, her nose pressed into her spilled milk. That was an excellent question. Maggie had spent the entire night pacing and worrying. Around 4:30, she couldn't stand the wait any longer. She tried Dana's home phone again. The phone rang twice, and then... "Yeah?" It was a man's voice. "I'm sorry, I must have dialed the wrong number." Maggie was about to hang up when she heard the man ask, "Mrs. Scully?" She hesitated. The voice was familiar. It sounded like Fox. But that wasn't possible, was it? "Fox? Is that you?" "Yeah, I--" "Thank, God. I've been worried sick. Is William all right? Is Tara with you? When is she coming home? The kids will be asking for her when they--" "Mrs. Scully...Tara isn't here. Neither is William." Maggie's stomach flip-flopped as she tried to make sense of his words. "I don't understand. Dana told me she sent Tara to drop off William with you." She paused for him to reply, hoping he'd laugh, assure her that he'd misheard, and that, of course, Tara had found him, and, yes, William was safe, fast asleep in his crib right now. But he said none of these things. She had learned a long time ago that Fox was nothing if not honest. "Agents Doggett and Reyes are looking for Tara right now. We expect to hear from them soon. I thought maybe this call--" Looking for Tara? Did that mean she was lost? And why send other agents? This was Dana and Fox's child, for Pete's sake. Why hadn't they gone after their son themselves? Immediately! "Fox, I don't understand any of this. Where is William? Is my grandson's life in some sort of danger?" She wanted to add "again," referring to the frightening circumstances of the boy's birth. She had been appalled to learn that William had been born in a ghost town in Georgia, delivered by an FBI agent. What had Dana been thinking, putting herself and her baby at risk that way? Sometimes Dana's reasoning completely baffled Maggie. "We should know something soon, Mrs. Scully," Fox was promising, his tone soothing, the way it had been when Dana had gone missing all those years ago... "Call me the *minute* you hear anything," Maggie said through clenched teeth. "Don't keep me hanging, Fox." "I won't." Then he put Dana on the phone, who told Maggie not to worry and assured her they'd call her back soon. Dana had hung up and Maggie resumed her vigil at the front window, the portable phone clasped in her hand. At 6:30, Matthew and Sarah appeared at the bottom of the stairs, hungry for breakfast and eager to open presents. So Maggie had settled them at the kitchen table with crayons and paper while she prepared them a simple breakfast. Cereal and apple slices, juice and milk. That's where they sat now. "Draw me another picture of Santa," Maggie said to Matthew, hoping to distract him a bit longer. "I don't want to. I wanna open presents." "Presents?" Sarah asked. Her face was covered with milk. Cheerios stuck to her chin and forehead. Maggie wiped the girl clean and explained again that the presents would have to wait until later. "You two can watch cartoons while I finish making our pie. What do you say to that?" "Yay! Cartoons!" Matthew leapt from his chair and ran for the living room. Maggie released Sarah from her highchair. "Carry me?" Sarah asked, her arms held high above her head. Maggie picked her up and smoothed her flyaway hair. "What's your favorite cartoon?" she asked. "Bugs Bunny." "What's up, doc?" Maggie mimicked the character, bringing a smile to Sarah. Maggie carried Sarah into the living room where she found Matthew already sitting in front of the TV, flicking through channels in search of cartoons. He passed over the weather channel, the local news, CNN-- "Mattie, turn that back," Maggie urged. Something had caught her eye on the local channel. "I don't wanna see news," Matthew said. "Turn it back, please. Now." Matthew did as he was told, returning to the previous channel, where the local news station was broadcasting a special report. Oh, my... St. John's church...with fire engines, ambulances and police cars crowding the street in front. A smaller photo of Father McCue appeared in the upper left corner of the screen. "Turn it up, Mattie," Maggie urged, setting Sarah on the floor. Matthew adjusted the volume until they could hear the announcer's voice: //McCue is currently in stable condition at Georgetown Memorial Hospital. Officials continue to search for the person or persons responsible for last night's attack...// The time stamp on the videotape said the news footage had been shot last night at 1:36. Dana mentioned something about trouble at the church, but Maggie hadn't considered anything so dire. The camera zoomed in for a close-up of the church's front door, where a group of officials hurried out of the church and down the front steps. Maggie's mouth went dry when she recognized Walter Skinner, Fox Mulder and her own daughter. -x-x-x-x-x- RURAL WEST VIRGINIA Doggett had worked his way about a quarter of the way around the smoldering wreckage when he finally found someone who was still alive. There were actually two bodies, limbs intertwined in a grotesque parody of lovemaking -- they'd apparently been fighting when they were overcome by flame. Doggett prodded them carefully, hoping against hope for any sign of life. He was about to give up and move on, when one of the figures moved, just a little. Then it moaned. "Monica!" He looked around, trying to find her, but the blowing snow, combined with smoke from the fires, had reduced visibility almost to zero. "Monica! I've got a live one!" There was no audible response, but a few seconds later, a shadowy form loomed up out of the darkness. At first Doggett assumed it was his partner, but whoever it was, they were too tall. Still, there was something familiar about the way he -- or she -- was walking -- Shit. "Shannon McMahon? What th' hell are *you* doing here?" The last time he'd seen this woman, she'd just been disemboweled and dumped in Baltimore's Inner Harbor. This was impossible -- "My job," she replied. She brushed past him and knelt down next to the bodies. "You said one of them is still alive?" "Uh ... yeah. The one on the left." Things were happening too fast, and Doggett was having trouble assimilating it all. He'd been in stressful situations before, including firefights in Beirut, but even the most chaotic military or law enforcement situations at least made sense on a basic, real-world level. Since he'd jointed the X-files, however -- "Not one of ours," she said, with a shake of her head. She reached in her pocket, and withdrew a short, silver tool. Then, without another word, she jabbed it into the back of the injured man's neck. "What the fuck --" "Relax, John," she said, in calm, soothing tones. "He was one of the bad guys." She stayed on her knees next to the dead man, and Doggett watched in horrified fascination as the body just ... disintegrated. He'd read about this in the X-files, but he'd never seen it, and he certainly hadn't believed it. In a matter of seconds, there was nothing left -- nothing but a gooey green mess, soaking into the snow. Shannon was already rising to her feet. She reached out and grabbed his upper arm in a vice-like grip. "Now come on," she said. "We've got things to do." "I'm not going anywhere. Monica --" "There's no time for that," she said, cutting him off. She tried to tug him away from the two dead men, but Doggett refused to be moved. "Don't make this any harder than it has to be." Still he stood his ground. She sighed. "Dammit, John. I told you there's no time --" Her fist lashed out, striking him squarely on the chin. Pain shot up his jaw and into his head. Lights danced before his eyes, and the world started to spin. Then he fell to his knees. He remained upright for the barest instant, before collapsing face first into the snow. Consciousness fled. -x-x-x-x-x- The trees were thinning out again, but Tara was beyond knowing whether that was a good thing. It was all she could do to keep going forward, forcing one foot in front of another. And with each step, she prayed that she was moving closer to safety. William had been quiet for quite some time -- since the last time she dropped him, in fact. How long had it been? She had no idea. But he had to be frightened, and it was so very, very cold. The wind and snow hadn't been so bad while she was under the trees, but now that the woods were becoming less dense, the elements were hitting hard once again. Still, she told herself, he must be okay. He continued to cling to her, and she could feel his tiny body shift against her from time to time. He had to be okay. She'd promised Dana. Please, God. Let him be okay. At last they broke free of the trees and into open country, and Tara found herself struggling up a short, steep incline. Snow swirled around her, and the wind cut like a knife. But finally she reached the top, where she came to an exhausted halt. Could this be the road? She stood there for a moment, swaying in the wind, as she considered the matter. There was at least six inches of snow on the ground, making it impossible to determine what lay underneath. But she stood at one edge of a long, narrow ribbon, perhaps 20 or 30 feet wide. On the other side the ground dropped away again, and in the distant gloom she saw dark, hulking shadows that might have been more trees. Was this the road? It was so cold and so hard to think. If it *was* the road then she should follow it. That was the surest way to find help. But which way ... ? She must have fallen, because the next thing she knew, she was lying on the ground, curled in a fetal position, her nephew tucked securely against her belly. She tried to move, tried to get up, but she was so tired. So sluggish. She'd been through so much in the last few hours. She needed to rest. Just for a little while. She'd just lie here for a few minutes, and then she'd get up and go on. Or maybe she wouldn't have to. Maybe she could just stay here until Bill came for her. That would be nice. She'd like to see Bill. She missed him so much when he was away .... She was still thinking about her husband, feeling remarkably warm and comfortable, when the darkness finally overtook her. -x-x-x-x-x-x- CONTINUED IN BOOK ONE, CHAPTER FIVE