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

BOOK ONE continued.

Previously in War In Heaven...

Doggett received an offer from Shannon McMahon to trade his 
loyalty for the resurrection of his son Luke. C.G.B. Spender 
returned a dazed Reyes to DC, where they met with Kersh and 
Follmer, who offered to deliver Gibson Praise in exchange for 
greater access to the Shadow Government.

Tara woke to find herself in West Virginia in the home of 
Jenny and Bobby Peltier. She phoned Scully to tell her William 
was fine and they needed a ride home. Shortly afterward, 
Scully received a second call, this time from a mysterious Dr. 
Sternberg, who claimed to have important information about 
William. Scully left to meet Sternberg -- with the Gunmen 
trailing her -- while Mulder went to fetch Tara and William. 
On his way to West Virginia, Mulder stopped in Old Tavern. 
While there, he discovered a woman who claimed to be his 
sister Samantha...

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

CHAPTER 6

NATIONAL HUMAN GENOME RESEARCH INSTITUTE 
BUILDING 45 
BETHESDA, MARYLAND

Scully paid the taxi driver and stepped from the cab. The snow 
had finally stopped, but the sky remained overcast. Slush 
greased the street. The sidewalk was unplowed, and Scully 
found herself standing in six inches of heavy, wet snow.   

"Merry Christmas, ma'am," the cabby called out the window 
before driving away. Scully didn't share his holiday cheer. 
Not with William a hundred miles away, and his life threatened 
by the Faceless Rebels. 

She turned to inspect Building 45. 

The four-story tech center was made of concrete and glass. 
Modern looking. Security lights made it impossible to tell 
whether or not anyone was at work inside, although it was 
unlikely the building would be deserted. There would be 
guards, as well as researchers who ignored the holidays. And 
presumably her contact, Dr. Sternberg. 

Scully slogged through the snow to the building's front 
entrance. No fresh footprints marred the walkway. If anyone 
was inside, they must have arrived hours ago. Finding the door 
locked, Scully peered through the glass into the lobby. No one 
sat behind the sleek, granite-countered reception desk, but 
several surveillance cameras kept vigil in the upper corners 
of the spacious room. A combination keypad/card-swipe was 
mounted on both the inside and outside of the front door. 
Security didn't appear to be very high tech -- she had 
expected retina scans or DNA analyzers -- but maybe the simple 
keypads were just a cover for more complex, concealed systems.

Crossing her arms against the chill, Scully turned to face the 
street. Traffic was sparse. She eyed each slow-moving vehicle, 
hoping it belonged to Sternberg.

It occurred to her that the doctor's call might have been a 
ruse, a diversion to separate her from Mulder. Anything was 
possible after last night: Faceless Rebels impersonating 
Father McCue; Tara somehow ending up in West Virginia; 
Cassandra Spender appearing, only to mysteriously disappear 
again a few hours later.

Had Cassandra really been abducted by aliens right out of her 
bed as Mulder suspected? The concept remained difficult for 
Scully to accept, but she couldn't rule it out. She'd seen too 
much to argue against the existence of extraterrestrials 
anymore. She wasn't so quick to agree with Mulder's theory 
about "lost time," however. He claimed their inability to 
clearly recall Skinner's visit was due to the period of lost 
time that coincided with Cassandra's abduction. Skinner's 
visit did feel more like a dream than an actual event. But 
Scully was inclined to write off her confusion to fatigue. She 
hadn't slept in 30 hours. Mulder may have been awake even 
longer. 

It was strange they hadn't been able to reach Skinner by phone 
after he left the apartment. Scully had tried calling him at 
headquarters, on his cell, even at home. No luck. She finally 
left a message on his machine, asking him to get in touch as 
soon as possible. 

"Agent Scully." A voice behind her. She swiveled to see a 
gaunt man in his mid-fifties holding the door. His hair was 
gray and close-cropped. He wore glasses and had a lazy eye 
that made it difficult to know if he was looking at her or at 
some point beyond her left shoulder. "I'm Francis Sternberg. 
Come in, please. Hurry."

Sternberg corralled her with one thin arm and steered her into 
the lobby. The door snicked shut behind them.

"This way." His arm dropped from her shoulder as he walked 
briskly toward a bank of elevators to their left. "We don't 
have much time."

"So you said on the phone." She hurried after him.

"I have a lot to tell you."

"I'm listening."

At the elevator, Sternberg pushed the down-button. He glanced 
over his shoulder before speaking, and when he did speak, he 
kept his voice low. "I have information about your son."

"What about him?"

"He's a very special baby." The elevator doors slid open. 
Sternberg stepped into the car and Scully followed him in. He 
pushed "L3" -- the bottom floor. The doors closed and as the 
elevator descended, Sterneberg continued, "Your son is part of 
an ongoing project."

"What project?"

"Our goal was to create a perfect human child with no human 
frailties." Sternberg looked away, appearing to study his own 
distorted reflection in the elevator's brass doors. "More 
human than human."

The phrase implied a hidden agenda, something beyond the 
eradication of birth defects and disease. She fought to 
control her fear of the project heads' intentions and her 
anger at their presumption.      

"For what purpose?"

"I was told we were working toward a cure. Our orders were to 
develop a genetically enhanced human, resistant to a new, 
lethal contagion. The entire project was top secret."

"What contagion?"

The elevator arrived at the basement. The doors opened onto a 
small room, no bigger than six feet by six feet, with an 
unmarked door on the opposite wall. 

"A virus of extraterrestrial origin, Agent Scully."

Purity. The Black Oil. How involved was Sternberg? 

Crossing the antechamber, the doctor positioned himself in 
front of a retina-scanning device mounted on the wall beside 
the door. Security was tighter down here. The NHGRI must have 
something worth protecting after all. Maybe Sternberg was 
telling the truth. The elevator doors slid shut behind them, 
and Scully could hear the empty car head back up.    

A light on the retinal scanner turned green, activating a 
locking mechanism, which clicked twice before the door 
automatically swung open. Scully followed Sterneberg through 
the door, out of the antechamber and into a dimly lit corridor 
with concrete walls and immaculate high-gloss floors. The air 
smelled filtered, and Scully could hear the hum of a 
conditioner overhead. If there were surveillance cameras, they 
were hidden, maybe in the recessed ceiling lights.    

"Who do you work for?" she asked. 

Sternberg rubbed a palm over his bristled head. Although he 
faced her, he appeared to look past her, his left pupil 
drifting to the outer corner of his eye. "Our orders came from 
the government. Highest levels. We were told the samples of 
alien virus came from the CDC, and the genetic material was 
from HHS."

"What sort of genetic material?" 

"Some was alien. Some human. We met our objective, Agent 
Scully. The project was a success. We created a series of 
perfect embryos -- alien/human hybrids, immune to the alien 
virus. The embryos were implanted into a select group of 
barren women."

Scully felt her legs go rubbery and her heart beat faster. She 
didn't want to hear this.  

"Agent Scully, one of those women was you." 

No, he was wrong. Dr. Parenti's IVF attempts had failed. And 
she hadn't tried again. Her pregnancy was the result of a 
natural union, not a product of science. She would know if--

//Our inability to clearly recall Skinner's visit was due to a 
period of lost time that coincided with Cassandra's 
abduction.// Mulder's words, earlier today. Oh God, please, 
no.

"I don't believe you, Dr. Sternberg. It's not possible."

"Yes, it is. I'm very sorry." Sternberg appeared sincere. 
"Please, this way." He gestured to their right, toward the end 
of the hall. "I can prove what I'm saying." 

She trailed him down the hall. Their movement triggered lights 
in the ceiling, illuminating their way as they passed one 
unmarked door after the next. 

Sternberg finally selected a door and stopped. He took out a 
keycard, but paused before swiping the card through the door's 
lock. Sweat dotted his forehead and upper lip. "I'm showing 
you this because I regret what I've done, Agent Scully. I 
thought I was working for the good of mankind, but..."

"But what?"

"Now I'm not so certain."

He swiped his card through the keypad and then opened the 
door, revealing a small computer lab. Scully was surprised to 
see a man in the room, standing in front of one of the 
workstations, his back to the door. His attention was focused 
on a computer monitor. Scully wasn't able to see what was on 
the screen -- the man blocked her view -- but she could smell 
the smoke of his cigarette. He pocketed his lighter and turned 
to face her. 

C.G.B. Spender. Alive...but how?  

"Agent Scully, you look surprised to see me," he said, 
cigarette poised at his lips. 

"When we last met, you told me you were dying." 

"I was. Don't you believe in miracles, Agent Scully?" Smoke 
sifted from his nose. 

"What do you want, Spender?"

"What makes you think I want anything?" He stepped away from 
the computer to reveal what appeared to be a magnified image 
of a DNA strand on the monitor. "It's Christmas. I'm here to 
give, not to receive."

Right. Like the promise of a cure for all human disease. 
Judging from his unexpected recovery, he must have kept the 
technology for himself. "You're a liar, and I'm leaving." She 
turned to go.

"I wouldn't do that, Agent Scully. Your son's life is at 
stake." 

She stiffened at the mention of William. Anger sizzled beneath 
the surface of her skin, and she spun to face Spender. "What 
does that mean?"

"He needs protection. I can give it to him," he said, his tone 
genial, almost tender. 

Scully strode across the room to stand toe-to-toe with her old 
enemy. She lowered her voice to match his. "I don't believe 
you."

Spender nodded, as if he had anticipated her reaction. "I've 
asked Dr. Sternberg to help me prove my generous intentions." 

Taking his cue, the doctor cleared his throat. "What you see 
on the screen, Agent Scully, is part of a genetic profile," 
Sternberg said, indicating the image on the monitor with a 
tilt of his head. "It belongs to your son." He crossed the 
room and sat down at the workstation. Positioning his fingers 
on the keyboard, he typed a series of short commands, causing 
the image on the screen to rotate and expand. "You're looking 
at a map of your son's DNA. Notice the anomalies here and 
here." Sternberg's finger pinpointed two nucleotide pairs. "Do 
you know anything about hydrogen bonds, Agent Scully?"

"I know they're made up of adenine, thymine, guanine and 
cytosine. The C plus G to A plus T ratio varies from organism 
to organism."

"Making a chicken a chicken and a human a human." Sternberg 
typed another command, and the double helix morphed into a 
table of alphanumeric data. "In humans, the ratios are 30.9 to 
29.4 and 19.9 to 19.8. In alien/human hybrids, the ratios are 
slightly different. Look here." Again he pointed at the 
screen. Then he ejected a CD from the computer's hard drive. 
He handed it to Scully. "That disk contains RFLP scans with 
multiple DNA probes, images of anomalous protein markers, a 
detailed history of the IVF procedure used on you and the 
other women in the project." He looked up at her from his 
chair. "These hybridized babies are immune to the alien virus. 
They are also cognitively gifted. We have reason to believe 
they can read minds, foretell the future, move objects simply 
by thinking about them." 

William's twirling mobile. At first, Scully had tried to shrug 
that off, chalk it up to a draft in the room, refusing to 
believe her son was anything but a normal little boy. But now, 
she wasn't so sure. And she wanted to be sure. "Your claims 
are ridiculous."

Spender removed the cigarette from his mouth. He glanced at 
the CD in her hand. "Really? This doesn't sound at all 
familiar to you?"        

It did, of course. Gibson Praise. He'd been able to read 
minds. Mulder, too, for that matter -- at least, for a short 
time. But what about the other claims? An ability to see into 
the future? Move objects by thoughts alone? Were these things 
possible? 

Scully looked at the disk. "I'll have to substantiate the data 
on this." 

Spender let the stub of his cigarette drop from his fingers to 
the floor. "Of course. Check it. But don't take too long." He 
frowned, and lit another cigarette. "The Faceless Rebels want 
to use William's exceptional powers in their fight against the 
Colonists...and us. Last night's attack at the church was only 
the beginning."   

Damn Spender! He knew about the attempt to kidnap William. Had 
he instigated it? "Why are you telling me any of this?"

Spender smiled. "I want to help you. I can protect William. I 
can protect Mulder, too," he said through a veil of smoke. "I 
can help the three of you live like a real family, free from 
worry."

Could he really give them that? A normal life? A chance for 
Mulder to see his son grow up? She longed for it. To have 
Mulder come out of hiding. To be free of the threat on his 
life, on William's. 

She looked at Spender. How powerful was this son-of-a-bitch?

"What's in it for you?" she asked, not believing for a minute 
that he would make this offer without expecting something in 
return.

He shrugged. "Mulder will need to run a little errand for me."

Little indeed. "Forget it. I'm not agreeing to risk Mulder's 
life, not even for William."

Spender chuckled softly. "I once confessed to you that I'd 
always felt a particular affection for you. For Mulder, too. I 
still do. My affection extends to your son." Spender studied 
his half-smoked cigarette. "I'm suggesting nothing more than a 
simple business trip."

"To where?"

"Krasnoyarsk."

"Tunguska?" Not a chance. She would never agree to send Mulder 
back there. Not for anything.

Spender appeared to weigh his words carefully before he spoke. 
His eyes bored into hers. "The vaccine is there. Without it, 
billions of people will die. Are you prepared to watch that 
happen?"

"Send someone else."

"No one else knows what to look for."

Scully shook her head. "I can't make this decision for 
Mulder."

"Then let him make it himself. You have the disk." He nodded 
at the CD still in her hand. "Verify the information on it. 
When you see that I've told you the truth, extend my offer to 
Mulder. He's free to decline, of course."

Scully knew Mulder trusted Spender even less than she did, but 
she doubted he'd decline. Not if he thought there was a chance 
to buy protection for William. 

One piece of Spender's puzzling offer remained missing.

"How exactly do you plan to protect William?"

Spender's grin widened and his eyes lit up. "Show her," he 
told Sternberg. 

The doctor rose from his chair and reached into his pocket. He 
withdrew a small, metal cylinder, about two inches long and 
only a quarter of an inch in diameter. Twisting the upper 
half, he uncapped the cylinder and then emptied its contents 
into his palm.

A microchip. It looked similar to the one implanted in the 
back of her neck.

"What is it?" The sight of the thing made Scully queasy. She 
dreaded to think what Spender was planning to do with it.

"A new technology. Something we've only recently developed," 
Spender said.

"What *is* it?" she repeated.

"Protection," he said, pulling another cigarette from his 
half-empty pack. "The doctor will demonstrate. He has an 
identical chip implanted in his own neck."

Sternberg hesitated for a moment before returning the chip to 
its container. He gave the cylinder to Scully. 

She looked at Spender and saw he still smiled. 

"You can keep that, and check it, too," he said.

Sternberg crossed the room to a door at the back of the lab. 
His expression was grim, and his hand trembled as he took out 
his keycard and swiped it through the security lock on the 
door. "F-follow me," he told Scully.

Scully glanced again at Spender. He showed none of the 
doctor's nervousness. On the contrary, he seemed to be 
enjoying himself.

Scully followed Sternberg into the adjoining room.

Inside, a man sat strapped to a chair with his back to the far 
wall. Jesus. His face was horribly scarred. His mouth, nose 
and eyes were sealed shut, as if cauterized. Even his ears had 
been plugged with his own melted tissue. He looked like the 
man who had impersonated Father McCue at the church last 
night. And the men in the choir loft. Faceless Rebels. Was 
this a trick? Or was this really an alien from outer space? 

The scarred man reacted to the newcomers, even without being 
able to see them. He strained against his bonds and turned his 
featureless face toward the door.

"Oh, God," Scully murmured.

Spender stood behind her. "There is no God here," he whispered 
into her ear.

Scully remained rooted to the threshold, her heart hammering 
in her chest, while Sternberg stepped closer to the disfigured 
man. 

The alien struggled, writhing as much as his restraints 
allowed. The closer Sternberg got to him, the more panicked 
the faceless man appeared to become. He grunted repeatedly, 
his muted protests trapped in his throat. Sternberg inched 
closer. Impossibly, the alien howled, and then fell abruptly 
silent, his chin dropping to his chest. His struggling ceased. 
He sat limp and motionless.  

"End of demonstration," said Spender. He clapped his hands 
together three times. 

"You want to put a chip in William," Scully said, her voice 
flat. Not a question. She already knew Spender's plan. And the 
idea hollowed her heart. How could she let Cancer Man put a 
chip in her son's neck? Spender would gain complete control 
over him with this device, the same way he controlled her. His 
words came back to her. //I held your life in my hands. Your 
cancer was terminal. I had a cure. Can you imagine what that's 
like...to have the power to extinguish a life or to save it 
and let it flourish?// 

Then the image of the faceless Father McCue replaced the 
memory of Spender's boasting. She looked across the room at 
the unconscious man in the chair. 

A chip would protect William from the Rebels. And she wanted 
desperately for him to be safe. Her love for him was more 
powerful than she ever believed possible. It filled her, 
consumed her. And she was so grateful for it. She would do 
anything to guarantee William's well-being. 

Or would she?   

"Think it over, Agent Scully," Spender said. "You have 24 
hours to make your decision. After that..." Spender's lips 
twitched one more time. "The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh 
away."

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

Langly leaned his elbows against the steering wheel and aimed 
his high-powered binoculars at Building 45. 

"She still in there?" Byers asked from the back seat. The 
Gunmen had been sitting in the van for three quarters of an 
hour. Despite his heavy Santa suit, Byers was cold, his fake 
beard was beginning to make his real beard itch, and he was 
worried about Scully.

"Must be. You haven't seen her come out, have you?"

"Maybe there's a back door," Byers suggested. 

"Maybe we should just go in and find her," Frohike said. "That 
UFO data we pulled from the D.O.D. mainframe has gotta be more 
important than anything here." He adjusted his Santa beard, 
masking his face as if he were about to rob a bank. Reaching 
for the door handle, he said, "Come on Dasher and Dancer."

Langly stowed his binoculars and scrambled from the driver's 
seat. "Bring our gear, Byers," he called over his shoulder. 

"Wait for me!" Byers said. He grabbed a canvas pack from the 
floor, edged between the two front seats and exited the van on 
the passenger side. 

"Fix your beard," Frohike told Byers when he finally caught 
up. "Surveillance cameras, ten o'clock and two." He nodded at 
the entrance to the tech center.

"We got trouble," Langly warned. "Security guard. Dammit! He's 
seen us." 

Inside the lobby, a security guard with a puzzled expression 
approached them from the other side of the glass door. Frohike 
caught sight of their reflection in the window. No wonder the 
guard looked confused. St. Nick times three.

"Play along," Frohike whispered to the others. 

The guard waited behind the locked door, hands on his hips, 
eyebrows raised. 

"Santa-gram!" Frohike called through the glass. "Hey, open up, 
buddy. We're here to spread a little holiday cheer to the 
eggheads on 4." He pointed a mitten-covered finger at the top 
floor.

"Who hired you?" the guard asked, his voice sounding tinny 
through the speaker mounted above the keypad beside the door.

"Uh...a Dr. Chandrasekharappa, or, Chandraskerperesha, 
er...sounded Indian. Had about twenty syllables."

"I'll have to call upstairs to verify the name," the guard 
said, turning away.

"No, wait!" Frohike yelped. 

The guard stopped and turned around to face them. 

Frohike stammered, "Uh, um, the doctor said he wanted to 
surprise the lab guys." When the guard raised a suspicious 
eyebrow, Frohike hurried to add, "Oh, come on, buddy. You 
think we'd be freezing our velvet-covered asses off out here 
if we weren't on the up-and-up? Feel free to escort us, if you 
need to, but don't spoil Chandrascuppio's Christmas present."

The guard looked them up and down.

Frohike murmured to Langly and Byers, "Okay, fellas, time to 
convince Mr. Grinch we're telling the truth. Follow my lead." 
Raising his voice, Frohike sang, "Oooooohh, you better watch 
out..." He pointed through the glass at the guard.

Langly picked up the next line. "You better not cry..." He 
drew imaginary tears down his cheeks.

"You better not pout..." Byers went right up to the glass and 
gave the guard his best puppy-dog face.

"I'm telling you why..." Frohike continued.

Then all three dropped to one knee and belted out the last 
line. "Santa Claus is coming to townnnn!"

The guard frowned, but punched a code into the keypad, 
releasing the lock. He swung the door open. "This way." He 
gestured them in. 

The Gunmen entered the lobby in single file. "Thanks, 
Officer...um I didn't catch your name," Frohike said in a 
friendly tone. "And I am making a list."

"Checking it twice," Byers chimed in.

The guard's frown deepened, but he led them through the lobby. 
"Name's Burgess," he said when they stood in front of the 
elevators. "What floor did you say?"

"Fourth."

Burgess tagged the up button. "What's in the bag?" he asked, 
hooking his thumb at Byres' pack. His other hand went to the 
gun he wore on his left hip.

"Treats for all the good little boys and girls," Frohike 
answered. 

"Open it."  

The elevator dinged, and the doors slid open, drawing the 
guard's attention away from the bag. Byers took his chance. He 
swung the pack at Burgess' head, wincing when he heard the 18-
inch bolt cutters make contact with the guard's skull. The man 
grunted and went down. Byers confiscated his gun.

Langly and Frohike lost no time, hooking Burgess under the 
arms and dragged the dazed man into the elevator. Byers 
stepped in after them. The doors closed.

"What now?" Byers asked. Burgess lay on the floor, moaning.

"Duct tape," Frohike and Langly said in unison.  

"Great minds think alike," Frohike said. He unzipped the B&E 
bag and rooted through its contents. When he located the roll 
of tape, he ripped off an arm's length to bind the guard's 
wrists behind his back. Then a shorter piece to cover the 
man's mouth. He wrapped Burgess' ankles, too, just for good 
measure.

"Hey, we're heading down," Byers announced, sounding 
surprised. "Someone must have hit the button before we did." 
He watched the numbers above the door light up in descending 
order. L-1, L-2... 

"Stop this thing!" Frohike pushed past Byers in an effort to 
punch the L-2 button before the elevator passed the floor. Too 
late. They continued to head down to the basement. No sense 
hitting the Emergency Stop -- that would draw even more 
attention. "Shit."

The elevator slowed to a stop. Byers realized he still held 
Burgess' weapon. When the doors began to slide open, he raised 
the gun, aiming the barrel at whoever might be waiting on the 
other side.

"Scully!" 

Scully's eyes widened at the sight of the three of them 
dressed in their Santa suits with a security guard bound and 
gagged on the floor behind them, and Byers' gun pointing at 
her-- Oops. He quickly lowered the gun.

"What the hell are you guys doing here?" she whispered. She 
glanced over her shoulder before stepping into the car and 
pressing the Close Door button.

"Looking for you," Frohike said. His eyes went to the CD in 
her hand. "What's that?"

She handed it to him. "Evidence...or so I've been told. I want 
you guys to check it. This, too." She withdrew a small, metal 
cylinder from her pocket.

"Any hints?" Frohike asked.

"It's a microchip. Like the one in my neck. C.G.B. Spender 
claims it repels aliens. I was given a demonstration."

The Gunmen exchanged glances. "Holy Kryptonite."

"Yeah, well, that still needs to be confirmed. The CD, the 
chip, even the demonstration could be bogus."

Frohike studied the CD. "What made Cancer Man so generous all 
of a sudden?"

"You can bet it wasn't the Spirit of Christmas Past." Scully 
pressed the button to take them to the lobby. "Let's get out 
of here."

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

PELTIER RESIDENCE 
416 ELKVIEW ROAD
STRATTON MILLS, WEST VIRGINIA

Tara sang softly into William's ear, "I'll be home for 
Christmas..." She held him against her shoulder and paced the 
Peltier's living room while she watched out the window for 
Dana and Fox to arrive.

"You want another cranberry muffin?" Jenny Peltier asked, 
drawing Tara's attention away from the front yard. 

Several enormous muffins topped the plate in Jenny's hand. She 
stood in the doorway that separated the living room from the 
kitchen. A friendly smile dimpled her plump cheeks, which were 
bright pink from the heat of her kitchen stove. "They're never 
better 'n when they're fresh," she said.

"No, thank you. I'm fine." Tara's eyes returned to the window. 

"Your ride ain't gonna get here any quicker with you watching 
for it," Jenny said, chuckling. "Why don't you have a seat 
while you wait." 

Reluctantly, Tara moved away from the window. "I'm a bit 
anxious," she admitted.

"So I see." Jenny nodded at the plate of muffins. "I'll just 
set these out on the counter, in case you change your mind," 
she said, grabbing one of the muffins for herself as she 
turned for the door. 

Tara crossed to the couch and sat down, shifting William into 
her lap. He seemed in a happy mood this morning, in spite of 
the rough night they'd had. She was embarrassed to think she'd 
actually dropped him...more than once! God, what would Dana 
think about her carelessness? She decided to check William 
again -- for the umpteenth time -- for bruises and cuts. She 
began by pushing up his sleeves and examining his arms. 
Nothing. No lumps on his head either. Nose and fingers 
appeared fine. It was a miracle he hadn't gotten frostbite. 
Her, too, considering she'd been dressed for church, not a 
hike in the woods. She lifted his sweater and T-shirt to 
gently prod his chest and stomach for possible internal 
injuries. 

William giggled. 

"Did Auntie Ta-ta tickle you?" she asked, burying her nose in 
his neck. She loved the sound of his laugh. So she tickled him 
again, on purpose this time, just to hear him giggle some 
more. Thank God he was okay. 

"Mum-mum-mum." William leaned toward Tara, trying to pull one 
of her buttons into his mouth. Drool trickled over his lower 
lip onto his chin.

"You can't still be hungry," Tara chided. She wiped the drool 
from his chin with her thumb. "Not after all that oatmeal and 
applesauce you ate for breakfast." 

He grabbed her finger in his fist and tried to stuff it into 
his mouth. 

"Maybe he'd like one of these." Bobby Peltier appeared at the 
living room door, holding a box of Vanilla Wafers. He dug into 
the box and withdrew a cookie. William watched him with 
rounded eyes. When the baby reached out an open hand, Bobby 
approached and gave him the cookie. It went straight into 
William's mouth.

"Thank you," Tara said to the young man.

Bobby's gaze moved from William to the window. "Looks like 
your ride's here, ma'am. I'll get the door."

While Bobby headed for the front hall, Tara stood, and held 
William propped on her hip. He continued to gnaw his cookie. 
Tara ignored the wet crumbs that tumbled from his mouth onto 
her blouse. She went to the window and peered out at the snowy 
yard.

A white Opel was parked in the driveway. Tara could see the 
shadowy silhouettes of two people sitting in the front seats. 

"They're here," she whispered to William, eager to get him to 
his parents. She knew how nervous she would be if her own 
children had been in danger and needed to be spirited away in 
the middle of the night. The disfigured face of "Father McCue" 
came back to her, giving her a chill. She shivered and hugged 
William tighter, "You're safe now, sweetie. Mumma and Daddy 
are here."

"Mumma?" William's head swiveled as he searched the room for 
his mother.

Out in the driveway, the door opened on the driver's side of 
the car. Fox stepped out and squinted at the house. 

Tara's throat tightened at the sight of him. He looked exactly 
like that awful man from last night. Their kidnapper. A 
horrible thought occurred to her. What if this man wasn't Fox 
Mulder either? What if he was an impostor, too, just like the 
other man, and he was here to hurt William?

No, this man had to be Fox, because Dana was with him--

The passenger door opened and a woman climbed out. She wasn't 
Dana. This woman had long, dark hair and she was a bit taller 
than Dana. Her face wasn't familiar at all. Tara was certain 
she'd never seen her before.

"Mumma?" William asked again.

"No, sweetie, I'm sorry. Auntie Ta-ta made a mistake. Mumma's 
not here."

The unfamiliar woman with the long hair remained standing 
beside the car while Fox walked toward the house. Tara 
listened to the sound of his approaching footsteps as he 
climbed the front stairs. His knock on the door startled her, 
even though she'd been expecting it. 

A murmur of voices filtered into the living room from the 
front hall. Bobby's southern drawl. Then a softer, deeper 
voice, presumably Fox.

"Dada! Dada!" William began bouncing in Tara's arms. 

That was odd. Dana had told Tara that William hadn't seen his 
father in months, not since he was only a day or two old. It 
wasn't possible the baby could recognize Fox's voice. He would 
more likely mistake this man for last night's impostor.

The man who looked like Fox trailed Bobby into the living 
room. Goosebumps sprouted on Tara's arms when he stepped 
around Bobby, hunting for his son.

"Dada!" William shrieked again, obviously delighted to see the 
newcomer. He leaned away from Tara, toward the man who looked 
so much like Fox. Stretching out one small hand, he offered 
him his half-eaten cookie.

Fox targeted William with his eyes and grinned. He reached for 
the baby.

Backing away, Tara hugged William to her chest. "Stop right 
there," she warned, trying to make her voice sound as 
intimidating as possible. Fox stiffened, arms held out in 
front of him. Tara took a deep breath and steadied her voice. 
"How do I know you're really Fox Mulder?"

A look of confusion settled on Fox's face and he let his arms 
drop to his sides. "What happened last night, Tara?" he asked.

She shook her head, not wanting to give him any information 
that he could turn around and use to fool her into believing 
he was Fox, if he truly wasn't. 

Bobby looked from the stranger to Tara. "Is there something 
wrong, ma'am? Ain't he who you was expecting?"

Before she could answer, Jenny screamed in the kitchen, a 
bloodcurdling cry that stood Tara's hair on end. Bobby bolted 
from the room to find his mother, but was blocked at the door 
by the frantic woman. Oh, God! Jenny's clothes were on fire. 
Sparks flew from her apron. Her blouse was in flames. Oh, God, 
oh, God, behind her! Two...no *three* faceless men. They held 
those horrible flaming wands.

"Come on," Fox shouted, grabbing Tara's wrist. His fingers bit 
painfully into her arm as he yanked her toward the front door. 

Oh, God, it was happening all over again! She and William were 
being kidnapped! The baby began to cry. Tara turned to look 
back over her shoulder just as Bobby Peltier lunged at one of 
the faceless men, and then...no! Bobby burst into flames. 

She had to get away! Get William away!

But Fox was hustling her into the entryway. She tried to twist 
free from his grip, but he held her tightly, and continued to 
drag her toward the door. William's wails rose in pitch. His 
tiny fingers clutched her blouse, hanging on for dear life.

Was this nightmare never going to end?

In the entryway, Fox held onto her with one hand and opened 
the front door with the other, only to discover more faceless 
men approaching them on the stairs. Tara looked past them to 
the unfamiliar woman who had arrived with Fox. The woman still 
waited in the driveway beside the white car. 

"Sam!" Fox shouted to the woman. She looked toward him, but 
showed no emotion whatsoever, and she made no attempt to help 
them or to escape.

Several of the scarred men now stood at the top of the stairs. 
Each held a fire wand pointed menacingly at Fox. He 
backpedaled, shoving Tara and William into the house. 
Positioned himself between them and the attackers, he 
continued to hang onto Tara's wrist with one hand, while 
searching his jacket pocket with the other. He withdrew a fire 
wand, identical to the ones held by the faceless men.

Tara gasped. She didn't know what to think. Did he plan to 
turn the weapon on her and William? Or was he trying to 
protect them?

In either case, they were trapped. Faceless men closed in from 
all sides. Behind them, Bobby and Jenny appeared to be already 
dead. They lay motionless on the floor, their bodies still 
burning. The smell of their charred flesh caught in Tara's 
throat. 

She had never felt more afraid in her life. Hugging William, 
she hushed, "Don't cry, don't cry," although she knew the 
appeal was useless. He must be frightened to death, too. She 
could think of no way out, nothing she could do to save them. 
She and William were going to die, right here, right now, at 
the hands of these monstrous men. She would never see her own 
children again. Or her husband. 

"The Lord is my shepherd," she began to pray, "I shall not 
want..."

Tiny white stars began appearing before her eyes, and she 
thought she might be losing consciousness. She felt dizzy. Fox 
released his tight hold on her wrist; she could feel his 
fingers slipping away. The miniature stars seemed to grow 
brighter around her. William's cries stopped ringing in her 
ears, and were replaced by the sound of her own beating heart 
instead.

The floor lost its solid feel as her feet and legs went numb. 
But she didn't fall as she expected to. The millions of little 
starry lights that circled slowly around her seemed to wrap 
her in a cottony cushion of silver, buoying her up, until she 
felt as if she were floating on a sea of moonlight.

The light intensified. It became so bright, she could no 
longer see the Peltier's house, or the faceless men. Fox was 
little more than an incandescent blur, and William's weight 
vanished from her arms, as if some unseen person were lifting 
him away. Strangely, she was no longer frightened, but felt 
untroubled and peaceful.

She drifted in the mysterious light, imagining her children, 
safe with their grandmother...and Bill...somewhere at sea.

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

ABOARD U.S.S. CHEYENNE
SOMEWHERE IN THE ARABIAN SEA

"Conn! Sonar!"

Bill grabbed the mike from its bracket, knocking his latest 
cup of coffee to the deck as he did so. It had been nearly 
eight hours since they'd dropped off the SEALs. They'd 
continued to track the two intermittent sonar contacts while 
making their way back to the task force, and were now less 
than 50 miles out. This time, however, the sonar tech's voice 
sounded strident.

"This is the captain. Report."

"Sir, I just picked up La Jolla!" Because of minor 
imperfections in each submarine's manufacture, computer 
analysis of the sound waves allowed for positive 
identification of any boat, as conclusive as fingerprints on a 
human being. The tech continued, "Bearing 181, turning screws 
for about five knots. It looks like he's stalking Red-1."

"Have you got Red-1 again?"

"No sir. That's based on last known position and projected 
course and speed." A brief pause. Then: "He pinged him! Sir, 
La Jolla is using active sonar! I've now got a precise fix on 
Red-1 ... bearing 180, range ... shit. He's inside the 
destroyer screen."

"What?"

"Sir, the destroyers are going nuts. That last ping set them 
off."

Bill nodded. He could well imagine the sudden rush of shit to 
the heart, as the commander of each surface vessel realized 
that the outer line of defense that was supposed to protect 
the task force's capital ships had been penetrated. There was 
another bad guy out there somewhere, too -- Red-2. They hadn't 
heard him in more than an hour. And Cheyenne was still too far 
away to do anything about it. But it was time -- maybe past 
time -- to take some precautions. Bill turned to his exec.

"Jeff, sound general quarters. All hands to battle stations."

The GQ alarm was still echoing through the ship, when the 
sonar tech spoke again, this time without preamble or 
introduction.

"Sir, Red-1 is picking up speed. Now fifteen knots ... 
seventeen ... Jesus, this is impossible." Another brief pause, 
and Bill suppressed the urge to scream at the man. "Sorry, 
sir, had to double check. Red-1 is now transiting towards the 
task force at 53 knots. That's five-three knots. I'm getting 
Red-2, as well -- bearing 199, also transiting towards the 
task force at high speed. La Jolla's maneuvering, and I can 
hear the destroyers .... Sir! Large explosion, bearing 179. 
It's ... it's ... sir, it's Mahan." One of the destroyers in 
the task force's outer screen. "That is, the explosion is on 
their last bearing. Sounds like a hull breaking up --"

"What hit them?" Bill ask. The microphone was clenched in his 
white-knuckled fist.

"I don't know, sir." The sonar tech's voice was thick with 
emotion. "I didn't hear any weapons launched -- no torpedoes, 
no missiles. I -- more explosions, sir, along the same 
bearing. Probably weapons and fuel cooking off. And now -- oh, 
God. *More* explosions. Bearing 175, 184, 177 -- shit, they're 
all over the map. Uh ... computer is saying Ramage, Laboon, 
Stout ... Jesus, that was Anzio."

"What the hell's going on out there?" It was pointless to yell 
at the man, but Bill couldn't help himself. The task force, 
containing tens of thousands of sailors, many of whom were his 
friends, was disintegrating in front of him, and there was 
nothing, absolutely nothing that he could do to stop it. He 
took a breath and tried to steady himself. "Have you got a 
bearing on --"

"Torpedoes in the water!" The sonar man's shout almost 
deafened him. "La Jolla just fired off two fish. And they've 
already gone active." Bill growled his approval. That meant 
the torpedoes' own onboard sonar had acquired the target. 
Usually, that was a death sentence for whoever was on the 
receiving end. "Estimated time to impact two minutes, 17 
seconds, for the first one, another 23 seconds for the 
second."

It was the longest two minutes of Bill Scully's life. Sonar 
continued to report explosions and other sounds of battle, 
each one representing the deaths of hundreds, sometimes 
thousands of men. Bill heard a whisper of a prayer from his 
exec, and realized his own lips were moving, as well. He 
glanced at the clock. Two and a half minutes. They should have 
heard something by now. He punched the key on his microphone.

"Report."

"I have nothing to report, sir," the tech replied. "The first 
fish should have hit by now. The second ... four seconds ... 
three ... two ... one ... nothing." Bill could almost see the 
despairing shake of the man's head. "They didn't hit, sir. The 
pinging just ... it just stopped, and now there's nothing. 
It's like they were never there at all."

"What about the enemy vessels?"

"Both still booking towards the center of the formation. Red-1 
is holding steady at five-three knots, Red-2 at five-four. 
Sir, there's nothing left in their way. Any minute ... oh 
God." The man's voice seemed about to break -- and then it 
took on an almost surreal calm, as Bill felt his own heart 
sinking towards the deck. "Captain, it's George Washington." 
The aircraft carrier that was the centerpiece and main 
striking arm of the task force. "I mean, it's got to be them. 
Three explosions -- *big* explosions -- along their bearing. 
The hull is breaking up ...."

The man's voice continued, cataloguing the catastrophe that 
had befallen the U.S. Navy's Indian Ocean task force. Bill's 
mind was in a whirl as he tried to absorb it all, tried to 
think of what to do. Every instinct was screaming for him to 
press onward, to confront the enemy and take vengeance. His 
comrades were dying out there, and he couldn't just turn away 
and leave them to their fate.

And yet, there was nothing, realistically, that Cheyenne could 
do. The battle report being relayed from the sonar suite made 
that perfectly plain. More than a dozen ships, including one 
of the most powerful aircraft carriers the world had ever 
known, had been reduced to smoking hulks in the space of a few 
minutes. His own submarine, facing the same threat, would 
stand no chance at all. His duty, under the circumstances, was 
clear:

Survive. Escape. Report.

He realized that the sonar tech had ceased talking. The 
engagement was evidently over, and the United States Navy had 
just lost the biggest naval battle since Leyte Gulf. And he 
had no choice but to walk away. He turned to his exec, knowing 
that his next words would condemn to death whatever sailors -- 
surely hundreds, if not thousands -- were still alive, 
clinging to the wreckage that had been a fleet only moments 
before.

"Jeff, let's plot an evasion course, away from the action. 
Take her deep -- all the way to the bottom. We'll lie doggo 
for twelve hours, then ... then set course for Diego Garcia."

"Aye aye, sir."

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

OFFICE OF THE LONE GUNMEN
COLLEGE PARK, MARYLAND

"It's the real deal, all right." Frohike peered through a 
magnifying lamp at Cancer Man's microchip. 

Scully watched him from a few feet away, arms crossed, a frown 
creasing her brow.  

Byers nudged Frohike aside so he could take a look at the chip 
himself. He studied it for a moment before saying, "It's not 
unlike yours, Scully. Or the ones being developed by Motorola, 
Packard and the D.O.E.'s Argonne National Laboratory."

"Implantable silicon and polymeric biochips," Frohike said, 
"used to deliver proteins, hormones, pain medications, and 
other 'pharmaceutical compounds.'"

Byers continued, "They contain hundreds, sometimes thousands, 
of micro-reservoirs, each of which can be filled with any 
combination of drugs, reagents, or chemicals."

Langly added, "Release patterns are achieved by opening the 
micro-reservoirs on demand, using preprogrammed 
microprocessors, remote controls, or biosensors."

A sigh chuffed from Scully's nose. "Which means we can't 
activate this one, can we?" 

"Exactamundo. Without a trigger, it's a dud."

Scully stepped closer to the workbench. "Can you find out 
what's in the reservoirs -- what 'pharmaceutical compound' was 
used to knock out the faceless man I saw in the lab?" 

The Gunmen exchanged nervous glances. "Uh...you want us to 
bust it open?" Frohike asked.

"If we can figure out what's in it, then maybe we can 
reproduce it and use it ourselves as a defense against the 
Rebels," she said.

Byers adjusted the magnifying lamp and examined the chip more 
closely. "Good thought, Scully, but impossible. I'm afraid 
this biochip is empty. The compound has already been 
released."

"If there was ever anything in it in the first place." Scully 
pounded the workbench with her fist, startling the Gunmen. 
"God dammit!"

Byers cleared his throat. "We still have the CD. The RFLP 
scans and the protein images appear genuine, but..."

"They need to be cross-referenced," Scully finished his 
sentence. 

"Do you have any reliable genetic data on William?"

Scully shook her head. "No, nothing I can trust. Parenti's 
records were all phony. Dr. Miryum's amnio results were 
probably faked, too, just like her ultra-sound video."

"Run a new profile yourself," Byers suggested.

She nodded. "I need William back here to do that. Where's your 
phone?"

Langly rooted through a pile of disconnected computer parts 
until he found their portable. He handed the phone to Scully.

She dialed information. "Stratton Mills, West Virginia. Jenny 
Peltier," she said, responding to the electronic operator's 
queries. 304-555-2607. She dialed the number and listened to 
the call ring through. Ten rings. Twelve. She shook her head. 
"No one's answering." Her thumb hovered over the disconnect 
button.

Then the room suddenly brightened. Pinpricks of white light 
appeared inexplicably, like miniature stars, eddying through 
the air, turning the room silvery. Their radiance intensified. 
Their numbers multiplied. They picked up speed and began to 
whirlpool around Scully.  

The Gunmen stared open-mouthed as the light congregated around 
her, wrapping her in glittery luminescence. The glow grew more 
intense. Scully gasped, but remained frozen in place. Byers 
raised an arm to shade his eyes against the glare. 

Brighter. Brighter, still. Scully's incandescent silhouette 
now shimmered inside a cocoon of light, like a sun at the 
center of a supernova. Too bright. Byers shut his eyes. 
Langly, too. 

Frohike tried to keep watching, but the light was blinding. 
Even with his eyes wide open, he eventually saw nothing. 
Nothing but white on white on white.  

Arriving late, like a clap of thunder after a lightening 
strike, a loud boom shook the room and all three Gunmen 
covered their ears.

Then, bit by bit, the rumble subsided and the light faded. The 
Gunmen opened their eyes. 

They blinked in surprise. There in front of them, standing 
where Scully had been just a moment ago, was a very 
frightened-looking blonde woman.

"Who the hell are you?" Frohike asked.

She stared back at them, eyes rounded and teeth chattering. 
"T-Tara Sc-cully."

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

ABOARD MARINE ONE
THE WHITE HOUSE LAWN
WASHINGTON, DC

Colonel Mark Dennison grunted in satisfaction as his 
helicopter came to a halt, exactly two minutes and three 
seconds after the alert had sounded. Couldn't do much better 
than that. He glanced at his co-pilot, Major Dan Petrov, who 
nodded in silent approval. Overhead, four other, identical 
helicopters maintained station, providing decoys to anyone who 
might be lurking nearby with a surface to air missile. Farther 
above, a pair of F-14 Tomcats circled, slipping and sliding 
through the overcast, ever watchful for a threat from the air.

Dennison looked out the side window, to see a small party of 
men and women struggling towards them through the snowdrifts. 
The downblast of the rotor blades had cleared the area 
immediately around the landing zone, but farther out the 
effects of last night's blizzard still made walking difficult.

The group was nevertheless making quick progress, forcing 
their way through the drifts, men who Dennison knew must be 
Secret Service agents in the lead, breaking trail for the 
President and his closest advisors. Subtract the snow, and it 
was a familiar sight. The only thing missing from a routine 
weekend trip to Camp David was the short, friendly woman who 
normally was at the President's side. The First Lady was in 
Texas for the holidays.

At last they arrived, and the men and women charged with the 
defense of the United States began to board. The National 
Security Advisor and the Secretary of State settled into seats 
next to the President, still in mid conversation. The Defense 
Secretary and the Vice President would not be joining them, 
the pilot knew. Doctrine called for them to be physically 
separated from the President, so as to maintain a chain of 
command in the event of disaster befalling the Presidential 
party.

The hatch was finally slammed shut, and one of the men 
remaining on the ground gave a thumbs up, still hurriedly 
backing away. Dennison nodded, manipulated the controls, and 
the craft leapt into the air, banking and turning as he set 
course for Andrews Air Force Base, some twenty miles away in 
the Maryland countryside. The decoy helicopters formed up 
around him, and they were off.

They hadn't been in the air three minutes when trouble 
appeared -- trouble, in the form of an unidentified aircraft 
almost directly ahead of them, blocking their route to 
Andrews. Dennison squinted against the bright morning 
sunlight, made worse by glare from the snow-covered ground 
beneath them. It was odd-looking -- God, it was triangular. 
Who would build a plane like that?

He shook his head, dismissing the thought. Not his problem. 
Now where the hell were the Navy flyboys? They were supposed 
to be preventing things like this --

The question was banished by the roar of jet engines, 
heralding the arrival of the two F-14s assigned to combat air 
patrol. Dennison allowed his own craft to slide to the right, 
the decoy helicopters making way with the ease of long 
practice. His job was not to mix it up with the intruder; his 
job was to get his charges safely to the air base, so that 
they could continue their journey on Air Force One.

There was a sudden glare of light, as a beam of pure white 
energy cut through the air, emanating from the unknown craft 
and catching one of the Tomcats in mid-fuselage. The plane 
exploded in a ball of orange flame, cartwheeling to 
destruction more quickly than the eye could follow. Dennison 
barely had time to brace himself for the shockwave, then had 
the battle of his life to keep Marine One from spinning out of 
control.

Somehow, though, he managed, and was finally able to tear his 
attention from the controls for a few precious seconds -- just 
in time to see the same beam of energy lash out at the second 
Tomcat. This time, though, the destruction was not total, as 
the beam skimmed past the wildly maneuvering Navy jet, 
striking a glancing blow against one wing tip. For a moment 
Dennison held his breath, wondering if the pilot would be able 
to save his craft, and himself ....

But then the plane started to barrel roll, listing to port as 
it did so. For a moment Dennison thought the pilot was angling 
for the Potomac, trying to avoid crashing into the residential 
neighborhood that lay below them. But in the next instant the 
true point of the maneuver became clear, as the F-14 slammed 
into the side of the intruder.

The world lit up like the Fourth of July. A series of 
explosions ripped and tore at the strange aircraft, marching 
across its surface and tearing into it without mercy. The 
craft shuddered and staggered, losing several hundred feet of 
altitude in a matter of seconds. Then the pilot seemed to get 
things under control. The mysterious vehicle steadied itself, 
leveled off, and once more turned towards the small fleet of 
helicopters --

And suddenly detonated, disappearing completely in a burst of 
intense white light, light that was even brighter than the 
beam that had been its principle weapon. A few seconds later, 
the shockwave rolled over the helicopters, buffeting and 
tossing them about like paper planes in a hurricane. One of 
the choppers started to spin as its pilot lost control, going 
into a death spiral that could have only one destination. But 
the others, including the one piloted by Mark Dennison, and 
bearing the President of the United States, rode it out.

"God speed, Navy," whispered Dennison. Then he turned his 
attention back to his task, as Marine One continued on its 
course towards Andrews Air Force Base.

* * *

The same scene was repeated countless times across the globe 
in the ensuing hours, as men and women struggled to save 
themselves, their families, their friends ... and even, 
sometimes, their enemies.

In Jerusalem, a Palestinian shopkeeper threw himself at a man 
who had no face, grappling for the black wand that had already 
ended the lives of half a dozen Israeli soldiers. The 
shopkeeper, whose father had died in the 1973 war, and whose 
grandfather was killed in 1956, lost his life in the attempt, 
but his sacrifice allowed the remaining Israelis to escape 
without further casualties.

Northwest of London, a squadron of RAF Tornadoes fought a 
valiant but hopeless air battle against three alien craft, 
dying to a man in a futile effort to protect the helicopters 
that carried the Royal Family.

In Beijing, men and women fled in terror, as U.F.O.'s leveled 
a city that had been a thriving metropolis for more than two 
thousand years.

In Athens, in Moscow, in New Delhi, in Caracas, in Mexico City 
-- in all these places and more, the story was the same. 
Humans fought back, defending their homes in epic displays of 
love and heroism -- but victories were few in number, and 
never more than temporary and local. Nothing and nobody seemed 
able to stem the tide of alien invasion.

And yet, amidst the chaos there were pockets of unexplained 
calm. The

Vatican remained untouched, while the city of Rome burned all 
around it. Most of sub-Saharan Africa was spared the wrath of 
the invaders. The cities of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, already 
slain once by nuclear fire, went unscathed.

Perhaps most important of all to the future of the human race, 
the East Coast of the United States remained virtually 
untouched. Few people recognized the true significance of 
this. Even fewer understood why it had happened. But among 
that tiny handful of cognoscenti, two questions now overrode 
all other concerns.

Was Will Mulder still alive?

And if so, where was he hiding?

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

LOCATION UNKNOWN

When the bright light faded, Mulder found himself inside a 
space that could only be described as a corridor. The walls, 
the floor, the ceiling appeared to be made out of some sort of 
gleaming, phosphorescent material. It felt glassy and warm 
beneath his palm. He scraped it with a fingernail, but was 
unable to leave a mark. He rapped his knuckles against it, but 
heard no knocking sound.

Forget it. Focus on finding Tara and William. And the woman 
who claimed to be his sister.

He called Tara's name. Jesus, his voice seemed to have 
vanished. No sound came from his throat. He tried again, 
shouting at the top of his lungs. Tara!

Nothing.

He remembered having a dream like this once. A nightmare in 
which he called for Scully's help, only to find he couldn't 
speak. Was he asleep right now? Unconscious? Dead? 

Although he couldn't hear his own voice or the sound of his 
knuckles rapping on the wall, he hadn't gone deaf. He could 
hear faint voices. Not like the noisy gobbledygook he'd heard 
while strapped to a gurney in the Georgetown Memorial Hospital 
loony bin, but whispers, faint conversations, laughter.

Where the hell was he? What was this place? And what had 
happened to the house in Stratton Mills? To Tara and William 
and the Faceless rebels? Shit, it was as if he'd been plucked 
up and set down here, like Dorothy in Oz. Only this wasn't 
Emerald City. It was more like an endless Yellow Brick Road, 
without scarecrows, tin men or cowardly lions. 

He looked down the length of the corridor. Then turned around 
and searched the opposite direction. Ahead, behind, the empty 
passage appeared to stretch on forever. 

No point in just standing around. Pick a direction and start 
walking. But which way? If Scully were here, she'd say right, 
then he'd say left, and they would go left, because...well, 
because they'd both learned to trust his instincts. 

Feeling fresh out of hunches at the moment, however, he took 
Imaginary Scully's advice, turned right and started walking.

"Ninety-nine bottles of beer on the wall," he sang, hearing 
the words only in his head.

By the time he'd gone through Ninety-Nine Bottles several 
times, he began to worry he might never find his way out of 
the damn place. It seemed to continue on and on, featureless 
and unchanging. He glanced at his watch and saw that it had 
stopped. Back at the Peltier's? Shit, now there was no way to 
know how long he'd been here.

His feet hurt. His legs ached. He considered going back the 
way he'd come, trying the opposite direction instead, but he 
felt exhausted. Lack of sleep was catching up with him. It had 
been two days since he'd last slept. Maybe he should rest 
here...for just a few minutes, figure out what to do. Lowering 
himself to the floor, he sat. Oh, to hell with it. He 
stretched out on his back, pillowing his head with his arms. 
The ceiling glowed silvery-white above him. No night sky, but 
plenty of starlight. He listened again to the voices, and 
tried to sort out phrases or words that drifted through the 
corridor.

He heard children's laughter. The slap of a jump rope. A 
chanted rhyme: "Apples, peaches, pears and plums. Tell me when 
your birthday comes." The voices sounded happy and carefree. 
He wondered who they were. And *where* they were.   

Hell, where was *he*? 

The last thing he remembered before finding himself in the 
corridor was the Rebels' attack. He saw them kill the 
Peltiers, burn them alive. Grabbing Tara's hand, he had tried 
to run from the house, only to find more Rebels blocked the 
front door. He could see Samantha behind them, waiting beside 
Reyes' car. Then...

Then the light came. 

Millions of tiny stars. They grew so bright, he needed to 
shade his eyes. That's when he let go of Tara.

And that's when he lost her. William, too. Fuck. 

Were they dead now? Or in a place like this? Fear uncoiled in 
his gut. His eyes flooded with tears and he closed his lids 
against their sting. 

* * *

How long had he been asleep? He sat up, rubbed his eyes and 
checked his watch again. Still broken. His joints felt stiff. 
He tilted his head from side to side, popping the bones in his 
neck.

Again, he listened to the voices that drifted along the 
corridor. Murmurs, snippets of conversation, and..."Fifty-six 
bottles of beer on the wall..." 

That was him! His own voice was echoing through the corridor, 
long after he'd sung the words.

He scrambled to his feet and started to jog back the way he'd 
come. The singing became neither louder nor fainter. He 
slowed. Stopped. Cocked his ear to listen more intently. 

"Forty-nine bottles of beer on the wall..."

"Ta-ta? Da-da?"

William! He was here! Or, *was* here...earlier. The belated 
arrival of his own voice suggested that sounds were arriving 
long after their cause, like thunder during an electrical 
storm -- first you saw the lightning, and then you heard the 
rumble of thunder, because the sound waves traveled slower 
than the speed of the light.

Light... The walls of the corridor glowed with silvery 
phosphorescence. He reached out and caressed the nearest 
surface with the tips of his fingers. 

He heard a baby's giggle.

A pinhole appeared in the wall beside his hand. He watched it 
grow larger. The wall continued to melt incrementally away, 
creating a circular-shaped window of sorts between this 
corridor and what appeared to be an identical one running 
parallel to it.

He leaned his head through the widening hole.

Well, whaddaya know? 

There on the other side sat William, looking back at him with 
a big grin, arm outstretched, offering him his half-eaten 
cookie. 

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

LOCATION UNKNOWN

Chamber of Horrors. That was Cassandra's nickname for the 
aliens' labs, because the rooms reminded her more of Madame 
Tussaud's infamous exhibitions than any standard science 
laboratories. The chambers were designed for experimenting on 
live, conscious human subjects. Painful tests. Vivisection. 
The harvesting of fetuses. The birthing of alien babies. And 
now, something altogether new: preparing a select group of 
genetically suitable humans for transformation into 
Replicants. All in the name of religious conviction.

Well, humans were no better. Northern Ireland, Rwanda, Bosnia, 
Palestine, Chechnya, Serbia, Pakistan -- the list went on and 
on. When it came to religion, everyone was always so positive 
they stood on God's side.

And now Earth was the alien races' Gaza Strip. It served 
humans right. People in glass houses, blah, blah... 

Oh, well. Let God sort it out, reward the chosen, deal with 
the damned. Cassandra knew who was righteous in this war. Not 
that she always agreed with the Colonists' methods -- like 
their Chamber of Horrors -- but she didn't doubt they served 
the higher purpose and the greater good. 

She took a deep breath and entered Lab Six. The room was dark 
and muggy, and at its center stood a bulky chair, used to 
restrain test subjects while they were examined and 
experimented on. Walter Skinner reclined in this particular 
chair, stripped of his clothes, and pinned into place by rods 
that ran clean through his wrists and ankles. He appeared to 
be unconscious.

"Wake up, Mr. Skinner," Cassandra said, going to him. She 
prodded his shoulder in an effort to rouse him.

He moaned, and tried to open his eyes. Cassandra guessed he 
was still overly sensitive to light -- even the low levels 
here -- and she had no doubt that his head ached. She'd been 
through this herself more times than she could count. Earth-
to-ship transport always gave her a whopping migraine, a dull 
throbbing pain at the back of the neck, the crown of the head, 
behind the eyes. Especially the eyes. It came from that awful 
white light they used during the transfer. Too bright for 
humans, it caused temporary vision problems, like snow 
blindness, she imagined. 

"I know it hurts, but the pain will go away soon. Open your 
eyes." 

He tried again, and managed to squint at her, blinking at the 
light.

"Cassandra? What happened? Where...?" He struggled against his 
restraints, causing blood to ooze from the holes in his arms 
and legs. 

"Don't move. You'll just make it hurt worse." She felt pity 
for him, but his pain would be worth his reward. He would 
understand soon enough. "We're on a space ship, Mr. Skinner."

"A sp...?" 

"The idea is a little hard to wrap your mind around at first, 
I know. But believe me, space travel gets to be 'same old, 
same old' after awhile." She patted his arm. "You're actually 
one of the lucky ones. Your arrival may have been 
unanticipated, but it isn't unwelcome. We plan to use you for 
the advancement of the species." 

Not everyone was given an opportunity to serve in this manner. 
Mr. Skinner was blessed, whether he realized it or not.

He shook his head, and then winced. "I...I don't understand. 
Advancement...?"

"Of the species," she finished for him. "The alien species. 
The Colonists."

His Adam's apple rose in his throat, and he looked as if he 
might vomit. "You're working with them?" He sounded 
incredulous.

"Of course. They serve a higher power. I'm honored to be a 
part of their plan."

"But I thought..." He stared at her face, at the radiation 
burns, the bruises and cuts.

She chuckled at his confusion. Pointing to her wounds, she 
said, "This was a ruse, Mr. Skinner. To keep Agents Scully and 
Mulder with me, and away from William." 

"Why?" The word rasped from his throat.

"To save him from the Rebels. To save us all." She could see 
he didn't understand, but he would, after the procedure. He'd 
see that faith required sacrifice. She understood that fact 
better than most, because she'd had to sacrifice a great deal 
in her life, forgoing the ideal of a normal family, enduring 
years of painful tests, and perhaps most difficult of all, 
giving up her own unborn child. The aliens had taken a live 
fetus from her years ago. A girl. 

She supposed the baby would be a grown woman now -- thirty 
years old, if she'd managed to live through the experiments. 
Cassandra had never seen her daughter, but she often dreamt of 
meeting her. 

But there was no point in moaning about it. Water under the 
bridge. And a small price to pay. Cassandra's sacrifice would 
ensure both her own and her daughter's places in heaven. 

"It's time, Mr. Skinner." She turned to a portable workbench 
at Skinner's right, where a fluid-filled hypodermic lay 
waiting. She picked it up, handling it carefully, 
reverentially. It contained the essence of God -- Purity. 

"This may sting a bit," she said, aiming the needle at 
Skinner's muscular biceps.

"What are you doing?" His eyes widened, and he tried to pull 
away. He appeared to recognize the black oil. She supposed he 
knew about it, that it contained the virus. But he couldn't 
know the truth about what it meant to be exposed to Purity.

She smiled at him. He had nothing to fear. "God's work, Mr. 
Skinner. We're here to carry out His plan."

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

CONTINUED IN BOOK TWO