Title: AND THERE WAS A WAR IN HEAVEN Author: aka "Jake" and Brandon D. Ray Rating: R (Violence, Language, Adult Content) Classification: X, MSR, Mytharc, Post-Colonization Spoilers: Contains mytharc references to episodes from seasons 1-9. Picks up after the events of "Trust No 1." Summary: Action and intrigue, romance and heartache, Mulder and Scully (of course!), and all of your other favorite XF characters, too -- heroes and villains alike. If you enjoyed "Fight the Future," we're pretty sure you'll like WIH. Disclaimer: Do these characters really belong to Chris Carter, FOX and 1013 Productions? If so, no copyright infringement intended. Fun, yes. Profit, no. Authors Notes: "And There Was a War in Heaven" is the prequel to "Bare Ruin'd Choirs" and "Love Among the Ruins" by the Secret Squirrels. It is not necessary to read BRC or LATR to enjoy or understand War In Heaven. This story was written with the Secret Squirrels' permission, and will be presented as a WIP. Please do not archive until the story is complete. Special thanks to mimic117 for great beta. We love you darlin'! Feedback is welcome. Please write to: nejake@tds.net and/or publius@avalon.net AND THERE WAS A WAR IN HEAVEN By aka "Jake" and Brandon D. Ray BOOK TWO "And there was war in heaven: Michael and his angels fought against the dragon; and the dragon fought and his angels, and prevailed not; neither was their place found any more in heaven. "And the great dragon was cast out, that old serpent, called the Devil, and Satan, which deceiveth the whole world: he was cast out into the earth, and his angels were cast out with him." -- Rev. 12:7-9 CHAPTER ONE -x-x-x-x-x-x- METRO D.C. HUMANITY CENTER ARLINGTON, VA APRIL 2, 2002 Tara hated going to the Humanity Center. She knew it was ignoble of her. Uncharitable. Maybe even un-Christian. But she couldn't help herself. She just hated it. The last three months had been difficult. Daunting. America -- the whole world -- was at war. Not with the Russians, as she'd feared when she was a teenager. And not with al-Qaeda or Iraq, as she'd recently come to expect. But with aliens. From outer space. Holy Mary, it was really true. And it was true, she thought, as she guided her mother-in- law's car along the narrow lane leading to the Humanity Center. She gripped the steering wheel a little tighter as the memories flooded past her once again. That horrible chase through the snow on Christmas Eve. The man who looked like Fox, but wasn't. Her own mysterious teleportation, from West Virginia to the office belonging to those strange men in Maryland. There was no way for her to deny any of it, because she'd seen it all with her own two eyes. Not to mention the terrible things that had happened all across the world in the days and weeks that followed -- "Tara, slow down. You're going too fast." It was Margaret Scully's voice that brought her back out of her thoughts. Tara took a deep breath, forcing herself to relax as she eased up on the gas. Sometimes she thought she should stop making these visits. They always seemed to trigger a flashback -- and once she'd even had a panic attack. But then she would think of Bill, and what he must be going through, and she felt ashamed of her weakness. Bill. He was the one thing that was really missing in her life. She could survive everything else, if only he were here. But he was gone -- somewhere out at sea. She hadn't seen him since his leave was abruptly canceled, just before Christmas. She'd spoken to him on the phone only once since then, in late January. A three-minute phone call on a staticky, rationed -- and probably monitored -- long distance line. She didn't even know where he'd been calling from; he hadn't been allowed to say. But thank God she'd been home when he called. She couldn't bear the thought that she could have missed her only chance to hear his voice. Mother Scully had been out with the kids, and Tara felt a reflexive twinge of guilt at how happy that had made her, because it meant she hadn't had to share. She glanced at her mother-in-law, wondering if the other woman suspected that inner selfishness. Tara didn't know, and she wasn't sure she ever would. Margaret Scully was such a strong woman; she always had been. She'd raised four children, almost unassisted. She'd lost her older daughter to a brutal murder. And now, of course, her two older sons were in the service, daily putting their lives on the line, and Dana was missing and presumed dead, along with Fox and William. Tara felt a fresh, sharper stab of guilt at her own role in that last tragedy. How could Mother Scully stand it? Once again, she forced her attention back to the road, as they approached the Humanity Center's gate. Tara slowed the car to a halt, then waited patiently as the guard checked their license plate against the list of scheduled visitors. Finally, he stepped from the guard shack, military insignia glinting in the morning sunlight, and walked over to the car. "A little early this morning, ladies." Just a slight hint of challenge in his voice -- a bored man dealing with a vexing change in his routine. "I know," Tara replied. "We were just ... we were ready, so we thought we'd come on over. Is it okay?" "I suppose. No special reason why you're early?" His tone had lightened, but his gaze was sharp and professional. "No." Tara shook her head. "Like I said, we were just ready, so we came." The man seemed a little friendlier than usual this morning, so she chanced a question. "Has Father McCue arrived yet? Father Alan McCue?" "He was here at six," the guard replied. A note of reproof entered his voice. "He was right on time." He straightened up and backed away, waving them forward as he did so. Tara put the car back in gear and tapped the accelerator, easing them forward through the gate. "I still don't see why they need military guards at a civilian hospice," Margaret Scully remarked, as Tara steered for the visitors' lot. Tara nodded, but didn't say anything. They'd had this conversation before. And, in all honesty, Tara agreed with her mother-in-law. She didn't see the need for this level of security, either. Wartime precautions, she supposed. She'd been a Navy wife long enough to know that the military didn't always make sense -- at least, not to outsiders. Still, you'd think the Army could find better things to do, under the circumstances, than standing around all day outside a building full of dying people. By good fortune -- or perhaps due to their early arrival -- she was able to find a parking place close to the entrance. It was a beautiful morning. The sky was a bright, robin's egg blue, with a few puffy clouds to give it character. There was a light breeze, and just enough of a chill in the air to make Tara glad she'd worn her jacket. The Humanity Center was actually a small cluster of buildings, set amidst several acres of greenspace, adjacent to Arlington National Cemetery on the Potomac River. The main building was four stories high, made of brick, and dated from the mid 19th Century. At various times in its history, it had been an office building, an insane asylum, and -- rumor had it, for two decades after the Civil War -- a high-class bordello. A new, government-issue sign stood at the bottom of the flagstone steps: ALIEN PARASITES WITHIN. ENTER AT YOUR OWN RISK. Tara shuddered as they walked on by and up the steps. The two women came to another security checkpoint in the lobby, this time being required to sign in on a computer datapad. They then waited for a minute or two, while their signatures were compared to those from previous visits. At last, they were given temporary badges and allowed to enter. The main floor always reminded Tara of a well-designed nursing home. A long, carpeted hallway led down the center of the building, with doors to individual rooms on each side. There was a cross hallway about halfway down, with a nursing station located at a diamond-shaped island in the middle of the intersection. Everything was clean and well lit. The staff was always polite and professional. "Tara! Margaret!" A thin, fifty-something woman in a nurse's smock was hurrying towards them, coming up the hall from the nursing station. Her dark black hair, streaked with gray, was done up in a bun. "I'd actually forgotten it was Tuesday. And you're early, aren't you?" "A little," Maggie said, stepping forward and accepting a kiss on the cheek. "Just running a little ahead this morning." "Well, we'll put you right to work. The breakfast trays just arrived. You can deliver them to the patients." Tara nodded, and followed her mother-in-law to the wheeled cart that stood to one side of the nursing station. Twenty or so meals were stacked inside, each resting in a slot corresponding to one of the room numbers. Tara did a quick count, and realized that there was one less than the last time she'd been here. "Ruth?" she asked, turning back to the nurse. Her lips were suddenly dry, and she had to lick them. She knew what this almost certainly meant, but she couldn't keep herself from asking. "Nothing for Benny Johnson? In number 10?" "What? Oh ... no, nothing for Benny. They moved him upstairs ... let me see. I think it was night before last. Yeah, that's right. It was Sunday evening." "I see." Tara glanced at Maggie, but the other woman's face bore no expression. She turned back to Ruth. "I don't suppose there's any way ...." She let her voice trail off. She knew the answer to that question, too. "No, I'm afraid not. You know the rules." A sad shake of the head. "He wouldn't know you were there, even if they let you." "I suppose not." But Tara didn't turn away. She just stood there, staring blindly at the nursing station. In her mind's eye she could see Benny Johnson's face -- she remembered the day he'd been admitted, more than a month ago. He'd seemed so ordinary, so full of life. There'd been others, many others. But somehow, he'd come to stand for all of them in her mind ... and now, he was gone. At last, she felt a light touch at her elbow. Maggie. "Tara? We'd better get started." Tara nodded, and turned away from the nursing station, giving her mother-in-law a quick glance as she moved towards the breakfast cart. So strong, she thought again. So very, very strong. -x-x-x-x-x-x- OFFICERS' MESS ROYAL NAVY BASE, GIBRALTAR Bill Scully sighed, and pushed his tray along the counter, eyeing the steam table on the other side of the glass. Boiled cabbage. Lima beans. Chipped beef. The ubiquitous toast and beans. Yum. "Good stuff, Captain." Bill glanced at his first officer, next in line. The man smirked. "The Brits really know how to bring on the fatted calf," he continued. He gestured at the chipped beef, and waited while the enlisted man behind the counter spooned some onto a plate and handed it to him. "You could have stayed on the boat," Bill pointed out. "Plenty of good American ... uh ... whatever-it-is. Chopped, irradiated, canned, and guaranteed to be in compliance with the terms of the Chemical and Biological Weapons Conventions. Most of 'em, anyway." "Uggh. Point taken." Jeff lifted the plate of chipped beef up to eye level and examined it. "At least the dark bits used to be part of a cow. I think." "Yeah," Bill replied, nodding. But his attention was no longer on his exec. He'd spotted a face -- a familiar face -- halfway across the cafeteria, sitting alone at one of the tables. Bill picked up his tray, with its various servings of glop, and headed across the room. "Bill -- it's damned good to see you. I'd heard Cheyenne was in port." The other man was already standing, extending his hand and offering a crooked smile through the jagged, freshly healed scar that ran from just below his left ear, all the way to the base of his neck. "Charlie," Bill replied. He set his tray down on the table and faced his brother -- and then, before he knew what he was doing, he'd wrapped the other in a bear hug. "Ooof! Hey, take it easy!" Bill let up, and Charlie took a step back. "I'm glad to see you too, bro. Why don't you pull up a rock and take a load off?" His gaze flicked over Bill's shoulder. "Your friend, too." "Uh, yeah." Bill nodded. "This is Jeff McDougal, my exec. Jeff, this is my brother. He's with ONI." "My pleasure," Jeff said. The two lieutenants shook hands. Jeff hesitated, glancing first at one brother, then at the other, then added, "Captain, if it's all the same to you, I think I'll get a doggie bag and head back to the boat. That stack of readiness reports isn't getting any smaller." Bill nodded, aware that his exec was offering a polite excuse, so as to give him a little time alone with his brother. "Sure," he said. "I'll be back as soon as I can." "Very well." Jeff saluted his superior, then nodded to Charlie. "Nice meeting you, Lieutenant Scully." And he turned and walked away. "So," Bill said, once they'd both taken seats at the table. "Where'd you get that scar?" "Edinburgh," the younger man said, shaking his head and reaching for his fork. He affected a Scottish brogue. "A wee slip of a lass gave it to me, with a straight razor." He resorted to his normal voice. "She was supposed to be taking me to a meeting of the local resistance cell, but she turned out to be one of the bad guys." "You're kidding. You mean *human beings* are ... are ...." "There've always been quislings, Billy." Charlie's tone was suddenly harsh. "You know that. There's never been a war that somebody didn't think they had something to gain by selling out. Hell, there were collaborators at Auschwitz, for all the good it did 'em." He gave a short, bleak smile. "Well, this one didn't survive the attempt. I didn't just fall off the turnip truck." The smile died, and again he shook his head. "Two other guys didn't make it, though." "Jesus." "Yeah." Charlie fiddled with his food for a moment, then looked up at Bill. "How about you? When I heard about what happened to the Indian Ocean Fleet ...." Bill nodded. "We were lucky." Once again, the shame and bitterness surged through Bill as he remembered what had happened, and the decisions he'd had to make. The Board of Inquiry had cleared him -- in fact, he'd received a commendation for extricating his command from an impossible situation. But that didn't make him feel any less like a coward and a traitor. Looking for a way to change the subject, he asked, "How are Betty and the boys? Have you heard from them?" Charlie froze for the barest instant. Then he carefully lifted a forkful of food to his mouth, chewed and swallowed, before replying, "They were visiting her folks for the holidays." "Oh, God. Oh, Charlie -- Charlie, I'm so sorry." Charlie's in- laws lived -- had lived -- in San Francisco. One of the many cities around the globe that had been reduced to rubble on Christmas morning. "Man, I didn't know." "S'okay." The younger man took another bite. "It was ... hard for a while. But it's getting better. Except at night, sometimes." He stared at his plate for a moment, then looked up again, a forced smile on his face. "I got a letter from Mom the other day. I was so relieved to hear about Tara and the kids." "Dana --" "Yeah, she mentioned that, too." Once more Charlie looked down at his plate, and Bill remembered that Charlie and Dana had been especially close when they were kids. That memory was followed by a reflexive stab of guilt as Bill recalled his own rocky relationship with their sister. But it wasn't my fault, he thought, wincing at the defensiveness of the words, even in his own mind. Dana was the one who withdrew from the family. Not the other way around. "Maybe she'll still turn up," Bill offered, feeling stupid even as he spoke the words. "You know Dana -- she always bounces back." "Yeah," Charlie agreed. "Maybe." There was an awkward silence, interrupted only by the distant clinking of silverware at other tables. It really wasn't my fault, Bill repeated in his mind, with the fierceness of a man who knows, deep in his heart, that he's probably guilty. "So," Charlie said, breaking the silence at last. "How long are you gonna be in port? You got orders yet?" "Yeah," Bill said, giving a short, sharp nod. He didn't say anything further. Wartime security precautions were in effect. In fact, though, Cheyenne had been tasked to the Bosporus, assigned to help keep what was left of the Russian Navy out of the Med. It seemed crazy to Bill that humans were still fighting amongst themselves, despite everything that had happened. But he had to admit there wasn't much Cheyenne could do about the real bad guys. At least the assignment gave them something to do -- and of course, orders were orders. "We're worried about the Russians," Charlie said, a glint in his eye, and for a moment Bill had an uncomfortable, irrational feeling that his brother might actually be reading his thoughts. "We know half a dozen of those damned ships of theirs landed in the Crimea. There's also been a lot of industrial activity, up around Krasnoyarsk, but nobody's been able to get close enough to find out what's going on. No one who lived to tell the tale, anyway." "You?" Bill asked. "Nah." Charlie grabbed a slice of bread from his brother's tray, and sopped up the last of the congealing gravy from his own plate. "Not my thing. Even that little jaunt to Edinburgh was a bit outside my MOS." He shrugged. "Not that I'm complaining. A lot of people are doing things they never expected to do." Something across the room appeared to catch his eye, and Bill turned in his seat, following his brother's gaze. A tall, slim man in a captain's uniform stood in the entryway, hands on his hips. He was frowning. "And I'm afraid that's my cue," Charlie said with a sigh. He stood up, brushing a few crumbs from his uniform jacket. Bill followed suit, and accepted the firm handshake he was offered. "Give my love to the family, Billy, next time you get a chance. I expect you'll be seeing them sooner than I will." Bill opened his mouth to object, but Charlie shook his head. "No," he said. "You know I can't tell you, anymore than you can tell me your assignment." A ghost of a smile touched his lips. "Dosvedanya, tovarisch." -x-x-x-x-x-x- OFFICE OF A.D. BRAD FOLLMER FBI HEADQUARTERS "You wanted to see me?" Reyes tried not to sound as irritated as she felt. She stood in Follmer's open doorway, waiting to be ushered in. Follmer sat behind his desk, eyes glued to the paperwork in front of him. He didn't acknowledge Reyes' question or her presence. Dammit, Brad, you called this meeting, she thought, glaring at him. And his summons couldn't have come at a more inconvenient time. She'd been about to drive over to Franklin Park to follow up on her most recent, and maybe most promising lead since John and the others had disappeared. John, Skinner, Dana, Mulder, William -- all five had vanished on Christmas morning, seemingly without a trace. Reyes had spent the last three months digging for clues to their whereabouts. She questioned everyone she could think of: Father McCue and his deacons, Agents Delgado and Perry, who had been at the scene after the attack at St. John's, the parishioners who'd been in attendance that night, including Dana's mom and sister-in-law, Tara Scully. Tara told Reyes a confusing story about running away from the church with William at Dana's request, only to be kidnapped in Old Tavern by Fox Mulder, who was later attacked and killed by faceless men with fire wands, but then somehow reappeared, apparently unharmed, in Stratton Mills the next morning. It sounded ridiculous and impossible, until Reyes' white Opel was located in the driveway of a Mrs. Jenny Peltier -- in Stratton Mills. Mrs. Peltier was dead, as was her grown son, Bobby. Their two corpses were discovered in their living room, so severely charred they had to be identified by dental x- rays. Just like the two bodies Delgado and Perry recovered from the church. Reyes ordered Forensics to go over the Peltier house and her Opel with a fine-tooth comb. They found nothing in the house, but pulled several sets of fingerprints from the car. One set was unidentifiable. The other prints, however, were confirmed by IAFIS as belonging to her, John, Dana, Mulder, and, most curious of all, a woman named Cassandra Spender. According to the Bureau's official files, Cassandra Spender had died in a fire at El Rico Air Base back in '99. Mulder's 3-year-old field notes, however, hinted at a different story, and indicated that this Cassandra woman was at one time married to C.G.B. Spender, a key player in an ongoing government conspiracy to conceal the truth about the existence of extraterrestrials. Whether the conspiracy was true or not, the presence of Cassandra's fingerprints combined with what happened to Reyes on Christmas morning seemed too coincidental to be unconnected. Reyes remembered waking in the back seat of C.G.B. Spender's car, several hours after the attack at St. John's Church, unable to recall anything that had happened during those intervening hours. Spender then took her with him to a meeting with Follmer and Kersh, during which Kersh tried to negotiate some kind of deal with Spender. A trade: Gibson Praise for "access" -- whatever the hell that meant. Reyes knew Gibson, of course; she'd read about him in Mulder and Scully's files. But what was Kersh up to? And Follmer -- what was his role in all this? Reyes' trust in Brad Follmer had been fraying at the edges for a long time. On Christmas Day, it evaporated completely. Now she included him on her growing list of adversaries, and she was convinced he knew something he wasn't telling about the disappearances of John and the others. "I'm in a hurry, Brad," she said, trying to rush him along so she could get to Franklin Park. He was wasting her time. If she lost this lead-- "You'll wait as long as need be," Follmer replied, his voice calm and his face impassive. He waved her in, his eyes never leaving his report. "Quiet, Agent Reyes." Fuck you, *sir*. She stepped into the room and shoved the door shut behind her. Not exactly a slam, but loud enough to show her annoyance. Follmer neither flinched nor looked up at her. She crossed her arms and paced while he finished his reading. Finally he pushed the report aside, and lifted his eyes to meet her angry stare. "What's your hurry?" "I'm working on a case." "Really? Which case is that?" Finding the fingerprints of a woman who'd been dead for three years on her 2-year old car constituted an X-File, as far as Reyes was concerned. Over her repeated protests, however, Kersh had purposely excluded her from the teams that searched for Doggett, Skinner, Scully and William. Without a doubt, Follmer would run right to the Deputy Director if he discovered she was actively looking for John or the others. She decided to skirt the issue. "Why have I been called up here?" she asked. Pushing back his chair, Follmer reached into his pocket and removed a small key. He used it to unlock the bottom drawer of his desk. His hand hesitated above the open drawer for just a moment before he withdrew a manila envelope. "Monica..." He turned to look directly into her eyes. His expression had softened, until now he appeared almost sympathetic, reminding her of the Brad Follmer she'd known years ago. She'd cared a great deal for him at one time. Maybe even loved him. She sometimes missed that feeling. Missed him. "Can I trust you?" he asked. "The Bureau signs both our paychecks, Brad. That puts us on the same side. Doesn't it?" She knew he would never deny it outright. He nodded, just as she had expected, and emptied the contents of the envelope onto his desk. Photos. Half a dozen or so. He fanned them out so she could see them all. They were pictures of John Doggett...with Shannon McMahon. "Brad, where did you get these?" "I can't tell you that. And you can't tell anyone I showed them to you." She stepped closer, and picked up the nearest one. "This is several months old." "No, these were taken two days ago." "That's impossible." She stared at the picture in her hand. In the photo, John Doggett appeared to be listening to McMahon as she spoke to him and another man Reyes didn't recognize. "This woman is dead. John told me he saw her killed on a dock in Patapsco Bay in Baltimore." "I don't doubt he told you that. But I'm telling you, these pictures were taken only two days ago. Outside the Potomac Water Reclamation Facility. I've also seen surveillance tapes showing Doggett with McMahon at the Patuxent Water Filtration Plant in Laurel, and the Mays Chapel Chlorinator Station in Timonium." If what Follmer said was true, John wasn't missing; he was hiding. But for what reason? "Brad, why have I been left out of the loop on this? My partner's been missing for three months, yet I'm not assigned to the team responsible for finding him." "You weren't assigned because, as his partner, you might not be able to maintain your objectivity." "What are you implying?" "That it would never occur to you to question Agent Doggett's motives." "Are you questioning his motives?" The idea that John could be disloyal to the FBI was absurd. An impatient-sounding sigh huffed from Follmer's lungs. "I'm trying to help you, Monica." "Help me what?" "Face the truth about John Doggett." "Which is what?" She tossed the picture back onto the pile. That John was working against the FBI? Against her? No way. It wasn't possible. Something else was going on here. Follmer tapped the photo with his index finger. "The other man in the picture is Ronald White. EPA. He oversees the Maryland Risk Management Plan. Ecological assessment of Maryland's watershed." "So? What's he doing with John and McMahon?" "Good question. We've been trying to find an answer to that ourselves." She leveled her eyes at him. "Who is 'we,' Brad?" He shook his head and rose to his feet. "I can't tell you everything. I'm risking my career by showing you these." Stepping directly in front of her, he placed his hand on her shoulder. She resisted the urge to shake it off. "Then why tell me at all?" "I just thought..." -- he gave her arm a gentle squeeze -- "this information might help you with your...'case.'" He let his hand drop away. "Don't think for one second, Monica, that you aren't being watched." -x-x-x-x-x-x- LOCATION UNKNOWN Skinner knew they watched him. Gray sons-of-bitches. "Bastards," he growled. He sat on his haunches in the back corner of his cell, stripped of his clothes, arms hugging his bare legs. Needle punctures dotted his bruised arms. Sweat slicked his back and chest. It was hotter than hell in here. And it smelled bad -- like them -- a syrupy-sweet stench that clung to the back of his throat. Made him want to puke. "Fuckers!" he shouted at the top of his lungs. Jesus, he sounded like a demented street person. Well, fuck it, it'd been a goddamn lifetime since he'd taken a bath, eaten a burger, watched television, talked to another human being. He'd kill the whole bunch of gray sons-of-bitches for one ice- cold beer. Hell, he'd kill them for nothing. The aliens never spoke to him. Never said a word. Oh, they crawled inside his head, rooted around in there, but they never once allowed him to know what they were thinking. They sliced, diced, took their little samples, ran their little tests, but they refused to tell him what they were looking for or what they might have found. Sweat trickled from Skinner's temple into his beard. From the length of his whiskers, he guessed he'd been a prisoner for about two-and-half to three months. There was no other way to gauge the passage of time. They'd taken his watch. His room was windowless, although he doubted he would see a sunrise or sunset in any case, even if he had a window. He suspected the cold vacuum of space waited just beyond the walls of his tiny cell. His quarters were only about six feet square, except the room wasn't really square. Nothing in this place had a sharp corner or flat surface. Everything was lumpy and wet, dark and humid. The ceiling leaked, the walls sweated, the floor was swamped with greenish puddles. And he was left alone in this cesspool for hours on end, nothing to do but listen to the drip, drip, drip of water and the bang, bang, bang of his heart hammering in his chest. Both of which were better than the alternative. The experiments. The god-awful tests. Something had gone wrong with the first test. Cassandra Spender talked about serving a higher purpose, doing God's work, and then emptied a hypodermic into his arm. He guessed the needle held the alien virus, but then...nothing happened. Nothing at all. No fever. No chills. No tumors, tremors or paralysis. And definitely no "long-clawed spacelings," taking root and growing in his gut. That's what Mulder had said would happen. In his report to the OPR committee, Mulder described a virus that caused the growth of an extraterrestrial biological entity inside its human host. A.D. Maslin, the others, none of them believed it. Christ, Skinner hadn't believed it either. It shamed him to think how easily he'd dismissed Mulder's theories back then. How many times he'd chosen to ignore the truth or, worse yet, helped bury evidence. Maybe it served him right to be here now, enduring the aliens' tests. Retribution for all the times he'd turned his back on Mulder and Scully. The aliens repeatedly failed to infect Skinner with the virus, which made him wonder if the nanites in his bloodstream were somehow protecting him from it. HA! If that were true, too bad he couldn't thank Alex Krycek in person, huh? What would that son-of-a-bitch think if he knew his hi-tech torture devices had actually saved Skinner's ass? Over the last few weeks...or months...or years -- however the hell long it'd been -- the aliens regularly drew Skinner's blood, probably to study the nanomachines that floated through his veins. Which would mean the nanites must be manmade, not of alien origin. Cassandra visited Skinner at least half a dozen times after she'd tried to infect him with the virus. And every time she saw him, she badgered him with questions about the nanites. "Where did they come from, Mr. Skinner?" "Help me, please," he begged, pinned to the hellish chair. "I will...if you tell me about the nanomachines." Liar. She had no intention of helping him. He'd seen her giving orders to the aliens. He knew she carried some measure of authority here. Yet she did nothing to relieve his misery. After a while, when he refused to tell her anything about Krycek or the nanites, she gave up coming to see him. Skinner hunkered in his cell and picked at a scab on his arm, causing a drop of blood to ooze up out of the tiny wound. How many nanomachines crowded inside that single drop of blood? Did his tiny saviors have any sort of consciousness? Did they feel trapped in their plasma universe, the same way he felt caught in this one? Skinner lapped the blood from his arm, and then raised his whiskered chin toward the ceiling. Sucking in a lungful of syrupy-sweet, stinking air, he shouted, "Let me *out* of here, you goddamn mother fuckers!" The words echoed hollowly in the empty room. As always, there was no response. After a few seconds, the echoes died, and then it was quiet once more. -x-x-x-x-x-x- ST. JOHN'S CATHOLIC CHURCH ALEXANDRIA, VIRGINIA "How's everybody doing?" Father McCue asked. He entered the refectory and offered an encouraging smile to the busy volunteers who were working there. The group was small tonight. Only six. It was getting more and more difficult to recruit helpers; people wanted to be at home with their families. These were trying times. "We're making fine progress," Frannie O'Donnel said, optimistic as always. She returned McCue's smile and gestured at the dozen or so care packages the volunteers were putting together. Frannie was a pint-sized woman with gray, flyaway hair, thick glasses, and the heart of a saint. Not to mention the singing voice of an angel. She played the organ during Sunday services, and McCue could always count on her to volunteer for any charitable project. As a matter of fact, the care packages had been Frannie's idea. She had approached McCue several days ago with a plan to box up and deliver food, clothing and other items to families who had been hit hard by recent events. God, have mercy. War and pestilence, brought to Earth by alien beings from another world. How was it possible? For several weeks after people began to fall ill, government officials had denied the existence of an alien virus. Soon faced with overwhelming scientific evidence and ballooning numbers of infected people worldwide, officials shifted gears and dubbed the new viral contagion "EMO," an acronym for "Extraterrestrial Microbial Outbreak." The media labeled the ailment the "Martian Flu." McCue disliked both terms, feeling neither accurately described the true significance of the threat, but he understood that it served no useful purpose to call the plague anything as horrific as the Black Death. Why launch mass panic and a second Dark Age? People were frightened enough as it was. He believed it was his duty as a priest to encourage hope and faith in God's greater plan, and not add fear and doubt to his already over-burdened parishioners. God's words were certainly needed now more than ever. And one passage in particular, from Jeremiah, ran repeatedly through McCue's mind: For I know the plans I have for you, says the Lord, plans for welfare and not for evil, to give you a future and a hope. Please, dear God, let the words be true. "Care to join us, Father?" Frannie asked. "Yes, certainly." McCue stepped up to the table to help the volunteers pack their remaining boxes. They filled cartons with assorted canned foods, electricity and water ration coupons, flashlight batteries, over-the-counter painkillers, particle masks, and other items that had become scarce now that the Conflict had begun. "We collected some movie passes and leftover Easter candy for the Dunwald children," Frannie told McCue. Her voice dropped to a whisper when she added, "Both their parents are in HC, I'm afraid. Poor things." DC's Humanity Center provided specialized medical care for people infected with the virus. Similar centers were being set up across the country every day as the numbers of sick continued to grow. New regulations had recently gone into effect: get screened for the contagion once a week at your assigned checkpoint, and report immediately to the nearest Humanity Center if infected. Every day McCue visited as many patients as he could in the HC. But his allotted time passed too quickly, and he seldom was able to minister to as many of the sick as needed him. The situation was dreadful. The Conflict hadn't drawn humanity together, as some thought it might. Instead, the viral contagion loomed as a larger threat, isolating people by making them fearful to contact one another. Families suffered when sick members were no longer able to work, when they were sent to the HCs and separated from their loved ones. Many struggled to make ends meet while they worried about the health of their parents, their children, themselves. Meanwhile, scientists continued to scramble for a cure, or at least a means to slow the spread of the disease. The trouble was they knew almost nothing about the virus. Only that the aliens had brought it with them. But was it an airborne pathogen? Or carried by an insect, like West Nile or Lyme disease? Sexually transmitted like AIDS? Maybe it was a bio- weapon, purposefully manufactured and methodically released by the aliens. Or maybe Satan was to blame, as many believed. Was the Devil himself responsible for bringing the aliens and their disease to Earth? And if so, where was God in all this? As conditions around the world worsened, many clung more tenaciously than ever to their religious beliefs, while others began to feel abandoned by God. The congregation at Easter service two days ago was the smallest McCue could ever remember seeing at St. John's. He hoped it was the fear of infection that kept his flock in their homes, and not a loss of faith. Preaching with customary zeal despite the diminished number of parishioners, McCue had recounted the resurrection, reminded the congregation that God's miracles do exist, and urged them to not lose hope, that God has the power to save the dispirited and downtrodden. "The Lord will rescue me from every evil and save me for His heavenly kingdom. To Him be the glory for ever and ever. Amen." McCue felt the truth of these words in his heart. And he prayed for continued strength, to help him deliver God's message to those who would need it most in the coming days, for he suspected the worst still lay ahead. "Do you need help distributing the boxes?" McCue asked the volunteers after they finished their packing. "Thank you, Father, but no," Frannie answered. "I'm delivering them myself tonight." Ah, souls like Frannie were God's blessing during these dark days. "Father? Father!" A man's urgent shout filtered into the refectory from the nave. McCue spun on his heel and headed quickly toward the voice. The volunteers dropped their work and hurried after him. Out in the nave, a frantic looking man rushed forward when McCue and the others appeared in the chancel. McCue recognized him. Harvey Stoughton. He'd attended Easter service with his wife and three young children. All boys, the spitting image of their dad, right down to the unruly cowlicks that gave the Stoughtons their constantly disheveled appearance. McCue rounded the altar and met Stoughton in front of the foremost pew. "Father, help me!" Stoughton begged. His face was flushed, tears filled his dark eyes, and his chest heaved as he gulped for air. His hands waved wildly, as if grasping for invisible straws. "Harvey, what is it? What's the matter?" "Hide me!" Stoughton's eyes went wide, spilling tears onto his cheeks. He glanced quickly over his left shoulder toward the church's front door. No one was there. "Hide you from whom?" McCue kept his own voice calm. He reached out to Stoughton, hoping to still the man's flailing arms. Stoughton grabbed McCue's outstretched hand. His touch burned with fever. McCue recognized the slightly translucent look to Stoughton's fingertips. And the man's smell. A syrupy-sweet odor, like honey. Stoughton was infected with the virus, McCue had no doubt. He'd visited too many victims to mistake the signs. "Please, Father." Stoughton looked at McCue through bloodshot eyes. "They're coming for me...to take me to HC." "Harvey, you're sick. They can help you at the Center. It's the best place for--" "Nooo! Who'll care for my family? My boys--" Stoughton's voice cracked, and he released his grip on McCue. He looked nervously at the group of volunteers who hovered behind the priest. "Your wife...is Jean all right?" McCue asked. "No...she lost her job..." Stoughton was crying openly now. "The place she worked...closed...too many sick...we have no money...my paycheck..." "The Church will help your family." McCue gestured at the volunteers. Stoughton shook his head. "If you could hide me...just until the MPs are gone..." The military police weren't going to stop their search for Stoughton. McCue knew, when people like Harvey were identified as infectees, their names were forwarded immediately from the checkpoint to the Humanity Center. And if an infectee failed to report to HC, they were rounded up and escorted by armed guards, in an effort to protect others from becoming infected. It seemed the only way to control the spread of the contagion. Stoughton suddenly dropped to his knees in front of McCue. He grabbed hold of McCue's black coat, and clutched the fabric in his fists. "Pleease?" The word hissed from Stoughton's trembling lips. McCue put out his hand again, to help Stoughton back to his feet, when the church doors slapped open. Two armed MPs stood in the doorway. They wore emergency protective gear: one-piece jumpsuits, full-face respirators, silvery gloves. Targeting Stoughton, they marched straight for him, right down the center aisle, their boots clomping against the polished floor, the sound of their footfalls ricocheting off the cherry-wood pews. When the MPs reached Stoughton and the priest, each hooked a fist under one of Stoughton's arms and lifted the hapless man to his feet. "Come with us, sir," said the soldier on Stoughton's left. His voice sounded mechanical, inhuman, through his voice-activated radio. His expression was impossible to read behind the face shield of his respirator. Stoughton shot McCue one last beseeching look. All hope appeared to drain from his face. McCue stood quietly with Frannie O'Donnel and her small group of volunteers as the MPs escorted Stoughton back down the aisle and out of the church. It was the right thing to do. Wasn't it? -x-x-x-x-x-x- LINGANORE WATER TREATMENT PLANT FREDERICK, MARYLAND "You know what to do?" McMahon asked, watching Doggett closely. They stood on a cement pad outside the front entrance of the Linganore Water Treatment Plant. Dressed in conservative business suits, they wore matching nametags that identified them as representatives of the State Emergency Planning Commission. The fake IDs got them past the plant's two armed guards without any problem. McMahon carried a clipboard; Doggett hid a time-release chemical capsule in his jacket pocket. They were here to prove whether or not Doggett could be counted on to do as he was told, no matter what the orders. "For chrissake, Shannon, I can follow a simple set of instructions." He looked pissed. Probably angry with himself for being so weak-willed, she thought. John Doggett breaking the law, working against the Bureau, against his friends -- must be eating holes in his gut. Recruiting him had been easier than she'd expected. All it had taken was a small reminder that it was possible to raise the dead and a false promise that he would be reunited with Luke if he joined her cause. Of course, he refused at first. But his desire to see his son won out in the end. Love is a liability, John. Didn't anyone ever teach you that? "Just checking," she said, smoothing her skirt. "Well, don't. I know the drill. Let's get this frickin' show on the road." He swung the door inward and held it open for her. Gentleman to the end. She brushed past him and heard him fall into step behind her. They crossed the narrow lobby and stopped in front of a workstation that faced the door. The frizzy-haired brunette behind the desk looked up from her computer screen to greet them with a smile. "May I help you?" she asked. "I'm Jane Parson and this is Don Willard. We're from SEPC. We have an appointment with Mr. Jackson," McMahon said, waggling her clipboard. The receptionist checked her calendar and nodded. "I'll page him for you." While they waited for Jackson's arrival, McMahon wandered over to a large map that hung on the lobby wall. The map outlined the entire Maryland watershed, and pushpins marked every water and sewage treatment facility in the state. She'd already visited several of them. Brought Doggett along a couple of times, too, as a show of good faith and to demonstrate what she would expect of him if he threw in with her. Unfortunately, not a single one of their capsules had proven successful. Yet. Maybe today was their lucky day. "Ms. Parson?" A stocky man with a permanent five o'clock shadow approached McMahon with his hand extended. He wore a tan coverall and his smile revealed a chipped front tooth. "Thank you for coming...I think." He chuckled at his own nervousness. "It's not everyday we get a personal visit from the SEPC." McMahon shook his hand, and gave him her most winning smile. "Nothing to be worried about, Mr. Jackson. Just a routine check. We're here to fill out your Tier I. Domestic security is a concern these days, as you know." She gestured toward Doggett. "This is my colleague, Don Willard. He'll inspect your tanks and chemical storage." "Certainly." Jackson's head bobbed as he pumped Doggett's hand. "Ya' know though, I can't understand why you folks didn't get a copy of my Tier form. I sent the paperwork in on schedule, as always." "You're not being accused of anything, Mr. Jackson," McMahon assured him, and decided to mention her contact at the EPA. "Ron White told me you've always been on time with your reports in the past. Must've been a simple filing error. Why don't we get started?" She used her clipboard to point to the back of the building. "By all means. This way," Jackson said, and led them through a door marked NO VISITORS BEYOND THIS POINT. McMahon continued to ask Jackson questions as they walked. "Number of storage tanks?" "Six. They have a combined capacity of 6.75 million gallons. We treat 59 percent of the city's water here at Linganore. That's 2.3 billion gallons per year," he said, sounding proud. He paused when they reached a boxy locker room. He took two hardhats off their hooks and handed one each to McMahon and Doggett. He reached for a third, which he put on his own head. McMahon made a show of adjusting her hat over her shoulder- length hair. She knew the effect her good looks had on men. And sure enough, Jackson was not immune; his eyes lit up as he watched her. She rewarded him with another radiant smile. After all, her purpose was to distract him while Doggett planted the capsule. Might as well start now. "You have an emergency response plan, I assume?" she asked. "Yes, yes, of course. Training, drills, worst-case scenario RRPs. The works." He walked them down a short hall and out into the tank room, a vast space that smelled like chlorine and sounded like a giant flushing toilet. Two workmen crouched over the nearest tank. They looked up when the strangers entered. McMahon saw their eyes rake her legs from high heels to hem. Doggett raised his voice to be heard above the sound of churning water. "You mind if I take a look?" He tilted his head at the open vats. "Go right ahead." Jackson's gaze followed Doggett as he picked his way to the far end of the room. McMahon tapped Jackson's sleeve to regain his attention. Taking a small sideways step, she shifted her position so that she faced Doggett, and Jackson stood between them, his back to the tanks. "Sorry we've interrupted your day, Mr. Jackson. EPCRA requirements, you know." Glancing over Jackson's shoulder, she could see that Doggett was where he needed to be, but was being watched by the two workmen at the nearest tank. It was time for the oldest trick in the book, she decided, and let her pen clatter to the floor. "Oh!" Her exclamation caused the workmen to glance her way. Now, to give Doggett a bit more time... She gracefully bent to pick up her pen, knowing her tight skirt would hold the men's attention long enough for Doggett to remove the fist-sized capsule from his pocket and drop it into the tank. "Here, lemme get that, Ms. Parson." Jackson scooped up the pen from the floor and handed it to McMahon. She laughed lightly and took the pen from him. "I guess I'm just a butter fingers today." Mission accomplished -- Doggett was already returning. He paused on his way past the workmen to ask, "How's it goin', guys?" before joining Jackson and McMahon. Jackson turned to Doggett. "You want to see our MSDS now, Mr. Willard?" "Nah. I'm sure they're in order, and we're late for another appointment." Doggett gave the room a final once-over. "I'm satisfied everything's shipshape here." McMahon smiled. Doggett was playing his role just right, although he had no real idea what he'd just done. She hadn't told him the truth about the capsules. She wanted to wait until she was certain she could trust him. Let him assume it contained chloramine, altered to prime the population to breed super soldiers -- the lie she'd told him last autumn. "Thanks for your time, Mr. Jackson. We appreciate your cooperation," Doggett said, and shook the man's hand again. "Thank you!" Jackson said, a relieved-looking grin on his face. Doggett corralled McMahon with one arm and steered her toward the exit. "Satisfied?" he hissed into her ear once they were out of earshot. "Completely," she said. Even if the chemical capsule failed, Doggett had passed his test. There was no doubt about it now -- she had him by the balls. -x-x-x-x-x-x- LOCATION UNKNOWN Mulder opened his eyes to find Scully still asleep beside him. Ah, this was more like it! No fleabag motel, no screechy subway car, no smoky bus station. He must have died and, due to some inexplicable lapse in God's good judgment, he'd been allowed into heaven. Scully slept with her head resting on his arm. They lay side- by-side on the floor of the mysterious, phosphorescent corridor, with William tucked comfortably between them. Mulder watched the baby's lips pucker in his sleep, and wondered what the boy dreamt about. Pureed fruit and his mother's smile? Sounded pretty damn nice. Around them, the corridor's silvery glow remained unchanged. The temperature was comfortable, the air odorless, but fresh. Voices continued to hum along the passage -- children played games, sang songs, adults laughed, lovers whispered. No harsh words, no anger, no crying. Heaven indeed. Mulder might have been content to spend the rest of eternity right here, except...exactly where was this place? Trying to puzzle it out while Scully and William slept a while longer, Mulder reviewed yesterday's events. A group of Faceless Rebels had attacked the Peltier house in Stratton Mills. He lost Tara and William when a whirlwind of miniature stars seemed to pick him up and deposit him in the corridor. Then he walked a while, slept a while, and finally discovered William in an identical corridor that ran parallel to his own. William was unhurt and appeared happy to see him. Soon after that, Scully showed up, with a very confused look on her face. The corridor's delayed-sound phenomenon had made conversation impossible. Unable to ask or answer questions, Scully sat, leaning wearily against one wall, while Mulder lay down on his back on the floor beside her, and played with William. He bounced the baby on his stomach, pretending to gobble his soggy, half-eaten cookie, and William seemed delighted with the game. When William finally grew tired, he flopped face down onto Mulder's chest, hiding his eyes from the corridor's relentless glow. Mulder rubbed the baby's back until his body went limp and his breathing slowed. That's when Scully moved closer and stretched out beside them. Mulder offered his arm as a pillow. She accepted and promptly fell asleep. With the faraway sound of voices echoing in his ears, Mulder soon dropped off to sleep, too. //Blue bells, cockle shells, eevy, ivy, over...// How long ago had that been? A few minutes? Or had it been hours? There was no way to know for sure. Scully's head pinned his now aching arm to the floor, hiding his watch, which had stopped working in any event. He caressed Scully's cheek with his free hand, hoping to wake her, and get the blood flowing back into his arm. When her eyes opened, he mouthed the word "Hey." She smiled back at him. Then her eyes shifted to William, checking to see that he was safe, sleeping soundly. His tiny chest rose and fell in a regular rhythm, and Scully appeared satisfied that their child was fine. She turned her attention back to Mulder, and traced his lower lip with her index finger, teasing a smile from him. God, her eyes were a beautiful shade of blue. He'd almost forgotten the exact color. And it seemed like forever since he'd last seen them shine the way they did right now. Not a hint of sadness. No worry. No fear. Please, let this last, for her sake. Leaning carefully over William, Mulder kissed her. Just the lightest brush of his lips against hers. A soft, leisurely tickle. Her breath, warm on his mouth, encouraged him to slide the tip of his tongue between her lips, to taste her, to find the source of her heat. When his tongue met hers just behind her parted lips, he felt fire erupt in his veins, a blaze that singed him from the crown of his head to the soles of his feet. He kissed her deeply then, passionately, the way he'd been dreaming about kissing her for months. And in response, she folded her arms around his neck, mindful not to upset William or squeeze him too tightly between them. While the intensity of his ardor prickled Mulder's skin, a swirl of stars began to float dizzily in front of his eyes. He felt suddenly lightheaded, and the floor seemed to slip out from under him. Scully's kiss? No...oh God...it was happening again. The corridor brightened, and Mulder clutched at Scully and William, pinning the baby to his chest. He felt as if unseen hands were lifting them into the silvery air. The light became so intense, Scully and William became mere incandescent ghosts. He would *not* let go of them. He would *not* lose them. The voices in the corridor grew louder and louder until they rolled like thunder in his ears. The light grew even brighter, and he closed his eyes against it. His stomach churned at the sensation of weightlessness. Blind and deaf, he hung onto William and Scully for dear life. Suddenly, it felt as if the invisible hands let him go. And he fell. Fast. "Shhhhhit!" he yelled. Somewhere it registered in the back of his mind that he could hear his own voice again. He hit the floor hard, landing on his back with a spine-jarring jolt, grunting from the impact. He managed to hang onto William and break the baby's fall. William began to wail when his head knocked against Mulder's chest. Beside them, Scully landed with a thud that forced the word "fuck" from her lungs. "Mulder?" A man's voice. "Scully?" A different man's voice. "Where'd they come from?" A third man's voice. Mulder opened his eyes. The bright light was gone. The swirling stars were gone. The phosphorescent corridor was gone. They were in the Gunmen's office. And standing over them with very shocked looks on their faces were Byers, Langly and Frohike. -x-x-x-x-x-x- LOCATION UNKNOWN The air was thick with cigarette smoke. It always was when C.G.B. Spender was around. McMahon didn't mind, though. She'd long since grown used to it. Besides, it was amusing to see other people trying to cover their discomfort. At the moment, she was watching Kersh, and his pet weasel, Brad Follmer, seated at the foot of the conference table. They'd been coming to these meetings since Christmas -- ever since the deal Kersh had struck with Spender. Well, Kersh probably thought he had a deal. He had no idea of the amused contempt Spender held for him. Idiot. The one thing keeping Kersh and Follmer alive and in the loop, McMahon knew, was the possibility that they might actually have a lead on Gibson Praise's whereabouts. She'd been pretty sure they were lying at the outset, when the deal had first been struck, and as weeks turned into months with no concrete evidence that the boy was even alive, let alone that Kersh had the faintest clue as to where he might be, she'd become even more certain. But with William Mulder missing and presumed dead, Gibson was now their last, best hope. She hadn't brought Doggett to this meeting. For one thing, she still wasn't quite sure she could trust him -- not to play in the big leagues, anyway. He'd done fine at the water treatment plant, but letting him into their inner councils -- even for one of Kersh's dog and pony shows – that was another matter. Even more importantly, she and Spender had agreed that Kersh and Follmer were not to be allowed to have contact with Doggett. They had arranged for Follmer to receive some incriminating photographs recently, but that had been a test of his loyalty -- a test, as it happened, that he had flunked. Another issue to be dealt with at a later date. "Well," said the old man, pausing for yet another hit on his cigarette. "I believe the next item on the agenda is a status report on Gibson Praise. Deputy Director Kersh, this is your assignment. What do you have for us today?" Kersh straightened in his seat, shuffling the papers on the table in front of him. He looked almost like a peacock in his obvious self-importance. Follmer was watching him, McMahon noted, a narrow, wary look on his face. It wasn't the first time she'd seen that look, and she'd come to the conclusion, based on that and other things, that the younger man might be smarter than he looked. Certainly he was smarter than Kersh thought he was. The Deputy Director launched into his report, a droning, interminable paen of polysyllabic bureaucratese. The bottom line, McMahon gathered, was that they had nothing, despite three months of searching. "Of course," Kersh rumbled, "the recent outbreak of hostilities has complicated the issue. The Praise boy was last seen in Arizona, and much of the southwestern United States has been occupied territory since early January. Nevertheless, I have agents on the ground in Tucson, and they are continuing to develop information." "What sort of information?" McMahon asked. She and Spender had discussed this situation before the meeting, and while the old man wasn't ready -- yet -- to pull the plug on Kersh, there was no reason she couldn't make him squirm a bit. "As you know," Kersh said, "Gibson was at one time associated with the Flemington School for the Deaf. That school is now abandoned -- a burned out hulk, actually --" "Yes, yes," McMahon interrupted. "So you said at the last meeting. And the one before that, and the one before that. You also told us about the cavern in the desert where you think he was living. What have you got that's *new*?" "Well," Kersh said, frowning. "I would have to say that's not the correct way to approach an investigation of this sort. Bits of evidence may surface here and there, seemingly unconnected. This may give the appearance that little, if any progress is being made. There is a synergy to the process, however, and the day eventually comes --" He was cut off by the shrilling of a cell phone. All four of them patted their pockets; Spender emerged the winner. The group fell silent as he flipped his phone open and spoke a few, crisp sentences. Then he punched END and set his phone down on the table. He lit another cigarette, studied it for a moment, took a long, deep drag, and smiled. "It seems the situation has changed," he announced. He nodded once to Kersh, and then to Follmer. "The search for Gibson Praise shall continue, but it will no longer be a priority for the organization." "What?" Kersh sputtered. "But we *are* making progress. I assure you --" "Spare us," Spender said, and suddenly there was steel in his voice. "Finding the boy has always been a hail Mary. Now, a new opportunity has opened up." "But what opportunity could possibly be more important than finding Gibson Praise?" the Deputy Director asked. McMahon actually was curious about that herself, but judging from the disdainful smirk on Spender's face, she was just as glad she wasn't the one who'd asked the question. "I said the situation has changed," the old man repeated. "And it has." He paused, inhaled some smoke, and blew it out again. He watched in apparent fascination as the blue gray cloud drifted down the conference table towards Kersh and Follmer. "I've just been informed that Dana Scully's chip has suddenly become active once again. According to the telemetry, she's alive and well. With any luck at all, William Mulder is with her." One more puff, and McMahon actually shivered at the cold glint that entered his eye. "I'd say we have a whole new ballgame on our hands." CONTINUED IN CHAPTER TWO...