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 THERE WAS A WAR IN HEAVEN
By aka "Jake" and Brandon D. Ray

BOOK ONE

"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-

NEAR THE WASHINGTON NAVY YARD
WASHINGTON, DC
DECEMBER 24, 2001
10:58 PM

Hell of a way to be spending Christmas Eve, Doggett thought, 
as he shifted restlessly in the passenger seat of Monica's 
car. Not that he had any plans -- but still, it was the 
principle of the thing.

"Relax, John," she murmured. "He'll be here."

"He's late," Doggett replied, stuffing his hands in his jacket 
pockets. "He's late, it's Christmas Eve, and I don't even know 
what we're doin' here."

"We're following up on a lead."

"A lead from Brad Follmer," he muttered, slouching down 
further in his seat.

"Yes, a lead from Brad," she said. "But the Lone Gunmen found 
corroborating evidence." She tilted her head as she turned to 
look at him. "You know I wouldn't go out on a limb just on the 
basis of what Brad says. Not after what happened last fall."

Last fall. He grunted softly. A.D. Follmer had almost gotten 
them killed last fall -- with help, he had to admit, from 
Shannon McMahon and Knowle Rohrer. *And* Gene Crane, who he'd 
always thought he could trust with his life, God damn Gene's 
soul. If he still had one. Trust no one, the man had said, and 
Doggett had certainly learned the wisdom of *that* particular 
aphorism these past few months --

"How far does he have to travel to get here?" he asked 
abruptly.

"I don't know. Byers didn't say. I'm not sure anyone knows, 
other than Dana. Byers said there's an email drop, with half a 
dozen cut outs along the way. But he said they got a positive 
response. He'll be here."

"We should have called Agent Scully," he said, not for the 
first time.

Monica didn't respond. They'd already hashed this out, and 
Doggett could still hear the argument echoing through his 
mind. Scully's family was in town. This was her first 
Christmas with William, and it was Christmas Eve. Oh, and by 
the way, she almost flipped out and got the three of us killed 
when we found the lab on that freighter ship a couple of 
months ago -- and then a few weeks later, her desperate need 
to see Mulder had almost got *Mulder* killed.

Monica hadn't phrased it like that, of course. She'd been 
diplomatic and respectful, but she'd also been unshakeable. 
More importantly, she'd been right, and Doggett knew it. Dana 
Scully was fraying at the edges. She was losing her 
perspective, and Doggett had finally been forced to admit that 
pursuing the matter without her assistance was in everyone's 
best interests.

But he still didn't like the fact that they were bypassing 
her. He remembered his own tight-lipped anger at being shut 
out of investigations last year, early in his partnership with 
Scully, and now he was doing it to her. And not just on a 
garden-variety X-file -- Christ, what a long way he'd come, 
that he was even able to *think* a phrase like that --

He almost jumped out of his skin at the sudden rapping on the 
car window next to him. Doggett inhaled sharply, not really a 
gasp, and by the time he'd turned his head to look, Monica had 
popped open the locks on the car, and Fox Mulder was sliding 
into the back seat.

"Agent Doggett," he said, nodding. "Agent Reyes. What have you 
got?"

Right to the point, Doggett thought. All business. He felt a 
bit of annoyance at Mulder's brusqueness, but quickly stifled 
the emotion. He and Mulder might have buried the hatchet, 
after the trip to the oil rig in the Gulf of Mexico, but that 
didn't mean they were buddies -- and Mulder knew Monica even 
less well. Nor had they called him here for a few beers and 
some poker. Doggett sighed, rubbed the bridge of his nose, and 
decided to let Monica take the lead.

"A few days ago," she began, turning in her seat so as to look 
back at Mulder, "we received a tip concerning William's 
heritage." Doggett could almost feel the sudden surge of 
interest coming from the back seat. He turned to look, and saw 
that Mulder was watching Monica, a look of intent 
concentration on his face, as she continued, "I assume Dana 
has kept you up to date on events since you left?"

"Yeah," he agreed, with another short nod. "You got something 
new?"

"Maybe," she replied. "We received an envelope of what 
appeared to be surveillance photos, taken in and near the 
Washington Navy Yard. We didn't recognize most of the 
subjects, but we did see three people we knew." She pulled a 
manila envelope from under her seat, and passed it back to 
Mulder.

"Knowle Rohrer," he said, under his breath, as he examined the 
first of the photographs. A slight shuffling noise, and he 
added, "Agent Crane." And finally, "Billy Miles." Mulder sat 
in silence for a moment, then slid the photos back into the 
envelope. He glanced at Doggett, then looked back to Monica. 
"What's your source for this?"

"It's a Bureau source," she said, her voice neutral. 
"Assistant Director Brad Follmer."

"The guy they promoted after Kersh was made Deputy Director," 
Mulder commented. "I think Scully said he's a friend of 
yours?"

"Yes," Monica answered. "Back when he was SAC in New York. We 
were ... close." Her lips tightened, and Doggett felt a surge 
of sympathy. She'd also suffered betrayals because of this 
assignment. "But since joining the X-files, I've come to 
believe he may be working against our interests."

Mulder nodded. "Do you have anything else?"

"I think so," she replied. "We've been working closely with 
the Lone Gunmen ever since you left. We shared those 
photographs with them, and they were able to identify a few of 
the other subjects. Most of them are listed in MUFON records 
as recent abductees. More importantly, and the reason we 
called you, is that Frohike was able to hack into the Navy 
Yard's computer records and download, among other things, 
shipping manifests for the current fiscal year."

"And?"

"And it turns out that one of the classified activities at the 
Navy Yard, something called the Olympus District, has received 
regular, weekly shipments from a company that's a subsidiary 
of Roush Industries. Frohike said you'd recognize the 
significance of that."

"Yeah."

Mulder was frowning now; his eyes hooded. Doggett could only 
imagine what must be going through his head. He'd gone into 
hiding at Scully's urging, for his own protection. When he 
left, he'd been convinced that Scully and William were out of 
danger -- or, at least, well protected. That belief had been 
shaken by the revelation that Scully had been under long term, 
intense surveillance by the NSA. And now this ....

"There's more," Monica continued. "The Gunmen have also 
finally traced the ownership of that freighter we found last 
fall."

"Let me guess," Mulder interrupted. "It was also owned by 
Roush."

"Through seven or eight different false fronts," she affirmed. 
"And finally, the guys found a data link between the Census 
Bureau's Federal Statistics Center in Crystal City, and the 
Olympus District. Frohike wasn't able to crack their 
encryption scheme, so we don't know the nature of the 
information being exchanged, but he did say the data flow 
between the two can be measured in gigabytes per hour."

"Jesus." Mulder whistled tunelessly. "Have you told Scully 
about any of this?"

"Frankly, no," Monica said. "We didn't think it prudent."

Mulder raised his eyebrows and glanced at Doggett, and Doggett 
found himself fidgeting under the other man's gaze. It had 
been at Monica's insistence that they'd kept Scully out of the 
loop, but he'd gone along with it. There was no point in 
pretending otherwise -- and if Mulder bothered to read between 
the lines, he must have realized that the Gunmen had also 
concurred with the decision, since Doggett and Monica had 
contacted him through them.

"We thought it best not to," Doggett explained, feeling 
awkward even as he spoke the words. "She's already got a lot 
on her mind. We hoped that you could represent Agent Scully's 
interests. And William's."

Something flared in Mulder's eyes at this second mention of 
the child's name. *Mulder's* child, Doggett amended in his 
mind. That question had been settled at last, a couple of 
weeks after his birth, when a copy of the boy's birth 
certificate appeared for a few hours on the bulletin board in 
the agents' bullpen in the Hoover Building. Not that Doggett 
had ever doubted it. It would have been nice if Agent Scully 
had told him herself, directly, but it wasn't like it was 
actually any of his business.

"Yes, I can represent them," Mulder said. "You did the right 
thing." His lips twisted into something between a grimace and 
a smile. "So here we are," he went on. "Ready to break into 
another government facility. A fine old X-files tradition."

Monica nodded, leaned over to grab the gym bag off the floor 
from between Doggett's feet, and passed it back to Mulder. He 
unzipped it, glanced at the contents -- a variety of 
electronic arcana that the Lone Gunmen had assured them Mulder 
would know how to use, when and if the opportunity arose -- 
and closed it again. While he was doing that, Monica flipped 
open her cell phone, punched one of the speed dials, and told 
whichever of the boys happened to answer that they were ready 
-- ready for whatever those three geeks could do to disable 
the Navy Yard's security systems. Thirty seconds later, she 
closed the phone.

"Let's do it," she said.

Without another word, Monica and Mulder opened their doors and 
stepped out of the car. Doggett shook his head, muttered, 
"Arrugah," under his breath, and went after them.


* * *

Back when she was going through the FBI Academy at Quantico, 
it had never occurred to Reyes that she might one day use the 
skills she was being taught against the government that was 
teaching them to her.

She'd also never in her life imagined that it was so *easy* to 
gain illicit access to a secure government facility. She'd 
shown a certain amount of bravado, back in the car, and just 
climbed out from behind the wheel and gone with Mulder when he 
started to move. But the truth was that she was none too 
comfortable with this. She wasn't exactly a goody two shoes -- 
at least, she didn't think of herself that way -- but this was 
far beyond anything she'd ever considered doing before.

She was aware of John following along behind her, but most of 
her attention was on Mulder, the unquestioned past master at 
B&E. John had accompanied Mulder on at least one previous 
foray, she remembered -- the infiltration of the Federal 
Statistics Center, shortly after Mulder's miraculous return 
from the dead. Her own experience was more limited, being 
restricted chiefly to the lab ship earlier in the fall -- and 
it had been left unguarded, preparatory to being destroyed.

So Reyes didn't know quite what to expect. A little electronic 
legerdemain from the Gunmen, to be sure -- but was that really 
all there was to it? Somehow, she expected more. Secret 
passwords, anonymous associates leaving the gate unlocked -- 
something. But in the event, it was all very prosaic: Mulder 
led them to a lonely stretch of chain link fence, and without 
another word he scrambled up and over. Doggett and Reyes 
followed suit.

"Damn it!"

Reyes swore as the sleeve of her leather jacket snagged on the 
barbed wire that ran along the top of the fence. There was a 
quiet, ripping sound, telling her of $300 going down the 
drain. Then her momentum carried her on over, and a few 
seconds later she landed on the other side, automatically 
crouching down to minimize her silhouette, and craning her 
neck to try to assess the damage to her jacket.

"Monica? You okay?"

John's voice was barely a whisper. Reyes looked around to see 
him moving towards her, while Mulder stood with his hands on 
his hips a few yards away.

"I'm fine," she said. She took one more glance at the three-
inch rip in her jacket, shook her head in annoyance, and 
looked back to John. "I'm okay. I just got hung up for a 
second on the wire." She straightened up, brushing off her 
hands. Mulder, apparently having decided that he'd waited long 
enough, turned away and headed into the complex. Reyes brushed 
by John and followed.

They hadn't gone more than a dozen steps before they were 
caught in the glare of a flashlight.

"Freeze!"

Reyes felt her stomach plummeting down towards her boots, and 
did her best to hold perfectly still. The beam of the 
flashlight was coming from behind her and to the right, and it 
took all her willpower not to turn and look at the man as she 
heard his footsteps approaching.

"Okay, all of you. Hands behind your heads, and turn around. 
Slowly." Reyes started to comply, mentally preparing herself 
for the professional train wreck that was about to begin, but 
Mulder was already talking.

"Good evening, uh, Sergeant," he said, his voice calm and 
measured as he squinted into the glare of the flashlight. "And 
Merry Christmas. You've passed with flying colors." The man 
didn't say anything, and Mulder added, "Relax, Sergeant. We're 
Federal agents. Show him your I.D., guys."

"Federal agents --"

"It's okay, Sergeant," John said, taking a slow, careful step 
forward. "We're FBI. I'm going to show you my badge, okay? We 
all work for the same boss." He waited a few seconds, then 
slowly lowered his left hand, reached into his jacket pocket 
with two fingers, and withdrew his I.D. folder. He flipped it 
open and extended his arm. "There. You see? We're part of the 
Bureau's Counter Terrorism Unit -- this is a security check. 
Part of ... Operation Pomegranate."

"Pomegranate?"

"Sure," said Mulder -- and Reyes noticed for the first time 
that he'd moved several steps closer and to his left, so that 
now he and John flanked the man with the flashlight. "You 
haven't heard of Operation Pomegranate? Well, that's good. 
It's pretty highly classified. Right, Agent Reyes?"

"Yeah," she said, feeling stupid and obvious. "Highly 
classified."

"Well, I'm still going to have to take you --"

And Mulder struck, diving to the right and catching the man's 
ankles with a leg sweep. The flashlight and another object -- 
presumably the sergeant's gun -- went flying, and almost by 
instinct, Reyes hit the ground, rolling across the pavement 
and reaching for her weapon at the same time. She came to rest 
a few yards from where she'd begun, arms extended, sighting 
down the barrel of her SIG -- just in time to see John pin the 
hapless guard beneath him. John's fist rose and fell twice, 
and the struggles ceased.

Mulder was already moving forward, even as Reyes was climbing 
back to her feet, and John was rolling off the now-still form 
of the sergeant. Mulder bent down, hooked his hands beneath 
the man's armpits, and began to drag him towards the nearest 
building.

"Take it easy, there," John said, as Mulder dumped the man in 
the shadow of the building. John squatted down next to the 
sergeant, and began to straighten out his arms and legs. Reyes 
took a few steps closer, and finally was able to see the 
unconscious man's uniform. Aha. A Marine.

"We're kind of in a hurry," Mulder commented. "It won't be 
long before they miss that guy."

"Give him a minute," Reyes said.

Mulder shifted his weight in obvious impatience, but didn't 
say anything. John leaned down by the man's ear and muttered 
something -- Reyes thought she heard 'semper fi' -- then rose 
to his feet. "Let's get goin'," he growled.

The three of them moved further into the complex, sticking to 
the shadows as much as possible. Twice, they had to take 
evasive action to avoid detection by guards on patrol, but at 
last they were standing in front of the building they wanted -
- at least, if Frohike's research was correct, it was the one 
they wanted. The building was unmarked, other than a serial 
number stenciled on the side, and the windows were dark.

Mulder, now clearly in charge of the operation, led them down 
the side of the structure, going down to a crouch and duck-
walking past each window. After thirty or forty yards, they 
came to a doorway.

"Alarms?" Reyes breathed.

"What? Don't you trust the guys?" Mulder asked, his voice 
tinged with irony, as he pulled a lock pick from his pocket. 
He shrugged, and added, "If there are, I doubt we'll hear 
them. We're gonna have to be quick. You both ready?"

Reyes nodded, reaching into her own jacket pocket for the 
digital camcorder the Gunmen had provided. Works in low light, 
Langly had said. No need for flashlights. Next best thing to 
the Army's most highly classified night vision goggles. 
Better, Frohike had insisted, in tones of flat assurance.

Reyes had decided not to ask them how they knew that.

And then she had to put those thoughts aside and focus on the 
task at hand. The door swung open, and Mulder led the way 
inside.

-x-x-x-x-x-x-

ST. JOHN'S CATHOLIC CHURCH
ALEXANDRIA, VIRGINIA

"Et hoc vobis signum invenietis infantem pannis involutum et 
positum in praesepio." The gospel of Luke rolled off Father 
McCue's tongue in Latin as easily as it did in English. He 
preached to a full house. More than five hundred parishioners 
packed St. John's Church to hear him tell the story of the 
Divine Nativity tonight.

Members of the choir, dressed in brilliant red robes and 
starched white collars, looked down on the congregation from 
the loft while waiting for a prompt from Frannie O'Donnel, the 
organist. Incense drifted up from the nave, past the choir to 
the arched ceiling overhead. From entry to altar, the church 
glowed with soft candlelight and the warmth of genuine holiday 
cheer.

Scully was grateful her mother had talked her into coming to 
Midnight Mass.

"Et subito facta est cum angelo multitudo militiae caelestis 
laudantium Deum et dicentium..." McCue's voice resounded 
through the nave.

Scully found comfort in the words, and in the priest's 
heartfelt tenor. She sat with her mother and William near the 
front of the church. They shared a pew with Tara, Matthew and 
little Sarah, who even at age three was already the spitting 
image of Bill Jr. Maggie held William on her lap, and the baby 
lay quietly in his grandmother's arms, his serious blue eyes 
drawn to the fluttery vestments of a deacon who carried a 
collection plate up the side aisle.

A second deacon circled the nave, rhythmically raising and 
lowering his censor, leaving a haze of aromatic incense in his 
wake. Scully breathed in the familiar scent, a prickly yet 
pleasing smell, and resisted the urge to reach over and stroke 
her son's plump cheek. William was seven months old. Seven 
months had passed since Mulder had last kissed his son, kissed 
them both, and then gone into hiding.

"Gloria in altissimis Deo..."

Scully had received Mulder's most recent email more than a 
week ago. His note came first to the Gunmen, encrypted and 
sent via randomized hubs in an effort to disguise its point of 
origin. To circumvent the NSA, or anyone else interested in 
intercepting their communications, Mulder had insisted: no 
more AOL accounts, Internet cafes or obvious pseudonyms. He 
entrusted Langly to handle the path reconfigurations and reset 
the encryptions whenever a message downloaded. Frohike hand-
delivered each and every note to Scully personally. The latest 
told her that Mulder was relatively nearby. Old Tavern, 
Virginia. An hour's drive on Interstate 66.

How long would he stay there? Two weeks? Three? She tried not 
to picture him alone in what was sure to be a ramshackle room, 
temporary lodging for a man in hiding and on the run...a 
fugitive from alien invaders and their own government. She 
knew he didn't care if the plumbing leaked or the bed linens 
needed changing; creature comforts took a back seat to his 
primary objectives of staying alive, keeping her and William 
safe, and uncovering the truth about the "super soldiers" and 
the plans for alien colonization.

To be honest, it wasn't the assumed shoddiness of his 
surroundings that bothered her the most, but the fact that he 
was on his own, with no one to watch his back...or buoy his 
spirits. She knew he missed her and William every bit as much 
as she missed him. It wasn't fair. When loneliness became 
unbearable for her, she had the option of turning to her 
family and friends for support; he, on the other hand, had no 
one.

Mulder's email hinted at a face-to-face meeting and a special 
Christmas present. He had signed his note "Mulder Claus." 
Scully worried his loneliness might lead him to risk his life 
for the sake of a gift. She ached to see him, but not if it 
meant exposing him to their enemies.

Only she and the Gunmen knew Mulder's exact location. A few 
others -- Doggett, Reyes, Skinner, Kersh -- understood the 
real reason for his absence, but they weren't privy to his 
whereabouts. To anyone who asked, including her family, Scully 
explained that Mulder was on special assignment for the Bureau 
and she wasn't at liberty to discuss the details.

"Et in terra pax in hominibus bonae voluntatis," McCue 
continued his recitation.

"Bony brontosaurus," four-year-old Matthew mimicked the 
priest. He giggled and poked his sister in the ribs.

"Ow!" Sarah yelped, poking him back. A finger fight ensued, 
setting them both to laughing, until Tara hushed them with a 
tap on each head and a stern motherly look.

Matthew grinned at Scully. "Look," he whispered loudly, and 
pointed to his chipped front tooth. She nodded, as if 
impressed. She suspected her nephew purposely tested Tara's 
easy-going temperament when Bill wasn't around to play the 
role of disciplinarian.

Bill Jr. couldn't be with his family this Christmas. He had 
shipped out ten days earlier, most likely to the Arabian Sea, 
given the current situation in India and Pakistan. He received 
his orders only hours after the suicide attack on New Delhi's 
parliament and, like Scully, he wasn't at liberty to discuss 
the details.

As soon as Maggie had heard Bill Jr. would be at sea during 
the holidays, she invited Tara to bring the children east for 
a visit. "It'll give Mattie and Sarah a chance to meet their 
new cousin," she coaxed.

Tara hadn't needed much coaxing. She couldn't wait to get a 
peek at William herself.

"He's adorable, Dana! He looks just like you," she cooed when 
she first saw William two days ago.

"He has his father's smile," Scully pointed out.

"But your coloring. Look at all his red hair!" Tara rubbed her 
palm over William's downy head. Catching sight of Scully's sad 
expression, she added, "I'm sorry Fox can't be here, Dana. I 
know it's not easy being apart, especially during the 
holidays."

Scully felt a pang of guilt at her own insensitivity. Her 
circumstances weren't really so unique. Both her sister-in-law 
and her mother had raised children alone. Mulder wasn't the 
first man in the family to miss the birth of his child; Bill 
Jr. had been away on a deployment when Sarah was born three 
years ago, and Bill Sr. had been at sea when both Missy and 
Charlie came into the world. Right now Tara could only guess 
at Bill's location and she wasn't likely to hear from him 
anytime soon. At least Scully knew where to find Mulder if she 
really needed him.

Frannie O'Donnel sounded the pipe organ, signaling the choir 
and the congregation to stand and sing "Oh Holy Night."

"I've always loved this song," Maggie whispered to Scully. She 
rocked William gently in her arms while she sang, "O holy 
night, the stars are brightly shining; it is the night of the 
dear Savior's birth."

"I can't see!" Matthew complained, standing on tiptoe.

"Shhh, there's nothing to see," Tara said. "Sing."

"But I don't know the words."

"Pretend."

"But--"

"Santa's making his list, Matthew Thomas Scully," Tara warned. 
Catching Scully's eye, she mouthed the words, "See what you 
have to look forward to?"

When the congregation finished singing the final hymn, they 
turned to their neighbors, shook hands, and wished each other 
good will. Then they gathered their coats, and filtered from 
the pews to the church's front door.

"Aunt Dana, is Santa coming now?" Sarah asked. She stood still 
while Scully helped her into her coat.

"Not until you're in bed and fast asleep." She fitted Sarah's 
hat over the girl's flyaway curls, and then turned to gather 
William from Maggie's arms.

"How will Santa find us?" Matthew asked. "Does he know where 
Grandma lives?"

"He manages to find me every year," Maggie assured him. "Right 
on schedule."

"Can Santa find Daddy, too?"

"Of course he can." Maggie zipped Matthew's jacket. "Is 
everybody ready?"

"I wanna ride with Grandma!" Matthew shouted.

"I wanna ride with Gramma, too!" Sarah repeated.

"Grandma, is it gonna snow?"

"Snow! Snow! Snow!"

"It's not going to snow and you can both ride with me." Maggie 
herded them out of the pew into the side aisle.

"I'll go with Dana, Mom." Tara grinned. "It'll give us a few 
minutes of peace and quiet."

"Come on, Grandma. Santa's coming!" Matthew tugged Maggie's 
arm.

Both children chanted, "Santa's coming," while they skipped 
circles around their grandmother.

"I'll see you back at the house." Maggie winked at Tara and 
Scully. "Come on, kiddos. 'You better watch out, you better 
not cry--'"

"Better not SHOUT!" Matthew's voice echoed in the emptying 
church. "Shout! Shout! SHOUT!" He repeated, enjoying the echo 
and ignoring Maggie's good-natured "shhhh."

Tara rolled her eyes and laughed. "Remember how ecstatic Bill 
and I were when Mattie finally said his first word? Little did 
we realize." She lifted her coat from the pew and uncovered 
Sarah's baby doll. "Oops, Sarah left Hermione behind."

"Hermione?"

"Harry Potter's friend." Tara put on her coat and glanced 
toward the church's entrance. Maggie and the children had 
already disappeared beyond the open door, so she tucked the 
doll beneath her arm.

"Dana?" Father McCue called to Scully. He stood at the front 
of the church, beckoning her with a waggle of two fingers.

Scully nodded, turned to Tara and said, "Excuse me, I'll be 
just a minute."

"I'll warm up the car," Tara suggested. "Keys?" She held out 
her hand. Scully dug into her coat pocket and handed over the 
car keys. "Meet you outside." Tara smiled and headed for the 
door where the last of the parishioners buttoned their coats 
before stepping out into the chilly night.

Scully shifted William to her left arm and walked up the side 
aisle, her heels clacking with each measured step on the 
polished floor. The baby twisted to look over her shoulder, 
his eyes drawn once again to the deacon's fluttery stole. 
"Bababaaa!" he fussed, pointing a tiny finger.

McCue greeted Scully at the altar with a wide smile.

"Merry Christmas, Dana," he said, reaching for her hand. His 
touch, like his expression, was warm. "How have you been? Any 
word from Fox?"

"Not recently," she answered, cautious even with her priest.

"Any chance of a holiday reunion? Surely Fox wants to see his 
son on Christmas day." McCue tickled William's cheek with one 
finger. The baby drew back and scowled at him, causing the 
priest to laugh.

"I doubt that'll be possible, Father."

"I'm sorry to hear that." McCue's smile faded a little. "Well, 
the boy appears to be thriving, despite his father's absence."

William's gaze shifted from the priest to the choir loft. 
Someone in the loft suddenly screamed. Scully looked up to see 
one of the singers' red robes burst into flame. Then a second 
robe caught fire. Sparks and smoke whirled in the updraft. The 
singers panicked. More screams echoed through the church as 
the choir scrambled to escape the spreading blaze.

Scully watched open-mouthed as two faceless men, one at each 
end of the loft, trapped the singers between them. The men's 
features -- their mouths, eyes, noses -- were sealed by 
disfiguring scars. They appeared to be setting the choir on 
fire with some sort of foot-long wands.

Images from Ruskin Dam flashed into Scully's mind. Faceless 
men with no eyes. Oh God! They're setting them on fire...just 
like they did on the bridge in Pennsylvania, she thought, 
remembering her own words recorded on Dr. Heitz Werber's 
hypnotic regression tape. This was what she had seen three 
years ago. These were the men who burned all those abductees, 
who tried to kill her too, and would have succeeded if...if 
the ship hadn't intervened.

What was it Cassandra Spender had said before she was taken at 
the dam? "The different races, they're in upheaval." If these 
faceless men were on one side of an alien conflict, who...or 
what...was on the other? Mulder's grays? Shape-shifting bounty 
hunters? That vicious long-clawed monster they'd chased into 
the Rolling Hills Nuclear Power Plant in Arizona?

McCue's fingers curled around her arm, biting into her wrist. 
Startled by his roughness, she turned to stare at him. His 
kindly smile evaporated and was replaced by a cold, unreadable 
expression. "Come with me," he said.

She took a step backward, testing his hold on her arm. What 
the hell was going on here? Glancing up again at the choir 
loft, she saw more flames spew from the fire-wands. The blaze 
ignited another robe. A burning woman climbed over the rail 
and leapt into the nave. She hit the polished floor, landing 
face down with a stomach-churning thud. Still conscious and 
engulfed in flames, she thrashed and continued to burn. Scully 
looked on in horror as the woman's charring body began to 
dissolve into a bubbling green puddle.

Jesus, she was alien. Scully looked again at the loft. Then 
around the church. How many others here were alien?

A few yards beyond the liquefying corpse, two stony-faced 
deacons abandoned the hymnals they'd been gathering and headed 
toward Scully and the priest. One pulled a fire-wand from 
beneath his robe.

Scully yanked her arm free from McCue's grip.

"You're in danger," he whispered. "Let me help you."

Scully hugged William to her chest and gauged the distance to 
the front door. The parishioners had all gone. Tara was no 
longer in sight either, already somewhere out on the street. 
The baby whimpered.

A third deacon fell into step behind the first two, hurrying 
down the side aisle toward Scully. All three ignored the fire 
and panic in the loft.

"They want William," McCue warned.

She turned to face him. How would he know that? She had never 
confessed anything about William, aliens or super soldiers to 
him.

McCue reached for the baby and Scully dodged his grasp.

"Who are you?" Scully asked, raking her fingernails down his 
cheek when he grabbed for William again. To her horror, 
McCue's skin peeled away in her hand. A clump of flesh fell 
wetly from her fingers to the floor and beneath his mask she 
glimpsed the sealed eyes and mouth of the faceless men in the 
choir loft.

This was a trap, a planned setup to kidnap William.

Scully bolted away from McCue, wondering what had become of 
the real priest. To avoid the expressionless deacons in the 
side aisle, she ran down the center aisle. The baby started to 
cry. One deacon broke formation, backtracking between the pews 
in an effort to block her before she reached the exit. A 
second followed the first. She ran faster, almost losing her 
balance when her heels skidded on the polished floor. By the 
time both deacons reached the center aisle, they were only six 
or seven rows behind her.

She reached the door and risked a glance over her shoulder.

The deacon with the fire-wand was almost upon her when the 
second suddenly withdrew a needle-sharp weapon from his robe 
and plunged it into the back of the first man's neck. Scully 
recognized the weapon -- Mulder had used one just like it five 
years ago on an alien bounty hunter in a lumberyard off the I-
95.

She didn't stop to figure out why the second deacon was trying 
to kill the first, but continued to run as the injured man 
collapsed. William wailed against her shoulder. Dashing 
through the church's open door, she cleared the portico and 
hurried down the stone steps. A sleety rain stung her cheeks 
and she hugged William, trying to protect him from the icy 
downpour. He struggled in her arms and let out a high-pitched 
screech. She sprinted along the sidewalk, hoping she wouldn't 
slip and fall, and searched the street for Tara.

She spotted the car at the end of the block. Tara had the 
engine running; Scully could see exhaust billowing from the 
tailpipe. She glanced backward again. Two deacons rushed out 
of the church. "McCue" was right on their heels, shouldering 
past them. He spotted her and hurried down the steps. His long 
robes flapped in the December wind, the fabric slapping like a 
wind-whipped flag, and she hoped the ankle length gown would 
slow him down. Wasting no more time, she filled her lungs with 
cold air and raced for the car.

-x-x-x-x-x-x-

WASHINGTON NAVY YARD

"It's deja vu all over again," Doggett muttered, as they made 
their way down the darkened hallway. Mulder was in the lead, 
with Monica close behind, while Doggett acted as rearguard. 
Good thing, too, he thought to himself, since Mulder seemed to 
be oblivious to the risk of detection. The whole thing was 
reminding him vividly of breaking into that Census Bureau 
complex the previous spring, when Mulder had refused to heed 
his warnings, and nearly gotten them both caught.

Of course, that had been soon after Mulder's return from the 
dead, and before the two of them had buried the hatchet. 
Things were better between them, now -- or at least, 
different.

They were passing a long row of offices, none of them with any 
light showing beneath the doors. Of course not, it was 
midnight on Christmas Eve, and these people were home with 
their families, where they belonged.

Or maybe not, he reconsidered. Would a place as important as 
this be dead quiet, even now? Surely *someone* would still be 
here.

But no one was, and they continued down the hallway, past the 
seemingly endless rows of closed doors, while Doggett wondered 
how Mulder could possibly know where he was going. There were 
no signs identifying the owners of the offices, or giving 
directions to departments or divisions, and the only 
illumination was from the occasional security light mounted 
high on the walls. There was also no hint of any surveillance 
equipment -- which of course just meant that it was out of 
sight. By now they must have tripped at least half a dozen 
alarms. The Lone Gunmen weren't *that* good. This whole 
operation was an idiot's trick ....

Mulder turned abruptly, leading them down a side corridor that 
looked much like two others they'd already passed. Doggett 
increased his pace, passing Monica and falling into step with 
Mulder.

"Do you have any idea where we're goin'?" he asked, annoyed 
with himself for being a little out of breath. Too much time 
spent behind a desk; not enough time spent in the gym. Mulder, 
on the other hand, was breathing fine.

"To hell in a hand basket," the other man replied, giving a 
little smirk. "And I think we're getting warm."

He gestured forward, and Doggett looked ahead, to see that 
they were approaching a pair of sturdy-looking double doors. 
The three of them came to a stop in front of the doors, and 
Mulder tried the handle. Locked. Again the lock pick made an 
appearance, and seconds later, the doors were standing open 
and Mulder was once more leading the way, as they stepped 
across the threshold.

There was a little more light here than there had been in the 
hallway, but it took Doggett a few seconds to figure out where 
it was coming from. They were standing at the entrance of a 
large room -- actually, it looked as if it had once been an 
auditorium. Low, rectangular shapes rose from the floor at 
regular intervals, and banks of electronic equipment lined the 
walls.

That's where the illumination was coming from, Doggett 
realized -- the monitors and displays that were clustered here 
and there around the room. His gaze tracked over the strange 
machines, but he saw nothing that he recognized. He moved 
forward into the room, towards the nearest of the rectangular 
shapes. It was about three or four feet high, six feet long, 
and two feet wide. It glinted in the uneven light --

Shit. It was a hospital exam table. He stopped, fingers 
hovering above the surface of the table. It was a dull, 
silvery color, with leather straps at each end, and another, 
heavier strap in the middle. And at one end there were 
stirrups, such as might be found in a gynecologist's exam 
room.

Images flooded his mind, reconstructed from reading numerous 
accounts of abduction experiences. Those stories had never 
seemed real to him, even after Mulder was returned and 
eventually resurrected. Now, suddenly, it was right in front 
of him. This was it. This was proof positive that those 
stories were true, after all. Doggett didn't know how he knew 
it, but he did. In his mind's eye he could see it all 
happening. The bright, white lights. The struggling victims, 
petrified with pain and fear. The strange instruments 
violating their bodies --

"Agent Doggett -- are you okay?" Mulder's voice, calm and 
quiet. The other man was standing behind him and speaking into 
his ear, his tone just above a whisper.

"Y-yeah," Doggett replied. "Sorry. It just got to me, that's 
all."

"It has that effect sometimes."

Mulder moved away, and Doggett turned to watch him as he 
walked by the exam table with barely a glance, heading for a 
computer console along the far wall that had the look of a 
command center. Doggett shook his head, wondering how the 
other man was able to do it. Mulder should be the one having a 
reaction to all this. He'd been here before -- or at least, 
someplace a lot like this -- and so had Scully. He, more than 
anyone, *knew* what this room was intended for. And yet there 
he was, sliding into one of the chairs, a look of detached 
professionalism on his face, as he opened the gym bag and 
started rummaging through it.

"Agent Reyes, you wanna give me a hand?"

"Sure. Just a sec."

Monica was moving along one wall, making a systematic video 
record of everything in sight. Doggett shook himself. He 
needed to be contributing, not just standing there like a 
slack-jawed idiot. They'd climbed the fence more than fifteen 
minutes ago, and been inside the building for nearly ten. 
Their luck wouldn't hold forever -- and way at the far end of 
the room, he saw several more sets of double doors. Time to go 
exploring.

Unlike the doors leading in from the hallway, the first set he 
chose to try at this end of the lab was unlocked. He pushed 
them open, stepped across the threshold, and found himself in 
a short cul-de-sac, with several smaller rooms opening off of 
it. The doors to these rooms were all standing open, allowing 
Doggett to see that they appeared to be standard hospital 
rooms -- hospital rooms in a maternity ward, he amended, 
noting that in addition to an adult-sized bed, each room also 
had a bassinet or a crib.

The rooms were all vacant, but there were names printed on 
cards posted by each doorway, as if the occupants were 
expected to arrive shortly. Owens, Marshelle Marie, and 
Richard Allen. McClain, Alicia Hillary, and Rebecca Serena. 
Goldstein, Ruth (NMN), and Natalie Golda ....

Oh, sweet Jesus.

Doggett froze in place, his eyes locked on the placard outside 
the fourth and final room in this bay. No. He wasn't seeing 
what he thought he was seeing -- but even as his emotions 
screamed denial, the cold logic that powered his investigatory 
skills was nodding in affirmation. Of course. What did you 
think was going on here? What did you expect to find?

"Mulder!" he hissed. Doggett backpedaled, moving to the lab's 
door, and for the barest moment he tore his gaze away from 
what was in front of him, peering into the shadows of the main 
room. "Mulder!" he repeated, a little louder. "Monica! 
Goddammit, get over here!" And he turned his eyes back to the 
front ....

Scully, Dana Katherine, and Mulder, William Jude.

No no no no no no ....

Doggett took a deep breath and steadied himself. Okay. So now 
they knew what they were dealing with, beyond any possibility 
of doubt. Aliens, or just garden variety human evil -- you 
pays your money and you takes your choice, and it doesn't 
really matter, because either answer leads to the same end 
result. He heard footsteps, then a sharp intake of breath, as 
Monica moved up to stand next to him. A moment later Mulder 
joined them, flanking Doggett on the other side. For a few 
seconds, silence reigned -- and when Mulder did speak, his 
voice sounded as if it were passing through ground glass.

"Where are they." Not a question. A demand.

"St. John's," Monica replied. "Midnight mass." She twisted and 
leaned forward, looking past Doggett at Mulder. "But you 
already knew that. You also know that we won't get another 
chance at this. It's now or never."

Mulder turned to stare at Monica, and Doggett stepped back out 
of the way, moving almost on instinct. He opened his mouth to 
say something, not certain what it was going to be, not even 
sure which side of the argument he should be on -- when, 
without warning, the lights came on, half-blinding him with 
their sudden glare.

"Nobody move!"

Doggett spun about, heedless of the harsh order. There were 
five men this time, and they were fanning out across the lab 
even as he turned, all of their attention focused on the 
intruders. Five men wearing ski masks and brandishing machine 
pistols.

The three of them wouldn't last two seconds if the wrong 
finger twitched. Doggett had been in Beirut, and he remembered 
the bullet-riddled corpses -- too many of them, and too many 
trigger-happy motherfuckers always ready to make more. He was 
aware of Mulder tensing on one side, could feel Monica's 
confusion, laced with a tinge of fear, on the other, and 
somehow, he knew it was up to him to keep the other two calm 
and therefore alive. He raised his hands with slow 
deliberation, and was trying to make eye contact with the 
closest of the five men ... when the man closest to the outer 
door burst into flame.

-x-x-x-x-x-x-

OUTSIDE ST. JOHN'S CATHOLIC CHURCH

"It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas," Tara sang along 
with the car radio. She adjusted the heater. It was almost 
cold enough outside to turn the rain to snow. The kids would 
love a white Christmas and the chance to build snowmen or make 
snow angels in Maggie's backyard. Tara needed to buy extra 
film for her camera, just in case. She wondered if Dana would 
mind stopping at a 7-Eleven on the way home so she could pick 
up a couple of rolls. Would a convenience store be open at 
midnight on Christmas Eve?

"And the prettiest sight you'll see is the holly that will 
be..." She tapped a gloved finger against the steering wheel 
in time to the music, and thought about having duplicate 
photos made to send to Bill. Not that he'd get them anytime 
soon, but late was better than never. She hoped he was doing 
okay. A war between Pakistan and India could involve nuclear 
weapons. Of course, Bill might not be in the Arabian Sea at 
all. It was possible he was in the Mediterranean, or even 
stateside, for all she knew. Might, could, should...their 
lives were chockablock full of unknowns.

Tara glanced over her shoulder, back at the church. The car's 
rear window was striped with fog, the defroster working hard 
to clear the glass; sleety rain blurred what little she could 
see. What was keeping Dana? She flicked on the rear wiper in 
an effort to get a better view.

Her eyes rounded when she spotted Scully running toward the 
car, the baby clutched to her chest.

Tara unlocked the passenger door just as Scully skidded to a 
stop beside the car, frosty breaths pluming from her open 
mouth as she gulped for air. The baby howled in her arms. Tara 
leaned across the seat and opened the door.

"Dana, what's the matter?"

Scully peered back at the church, fear glossing her eyes. Her 
expression frightened Tara, who swiveled in her seat to try to 
make out what was back there, what could possibly cause her 
typically unflappable sister-in-law to panic like this. She 
was surprised to see what looked like the priest and two 
deacons running toward the car. Their vestments billowed 
around them, battered by the wind, making them recognizable 
even from half a block away. Why would Dana be running from 
Father McCue?

"Take William," Scully said, her voice thick with dread.

Her uncharacteristic tone alarmed Tara.

"Dana, what happened?"

"There's no time to explain." Scully placed William on the 
passenger seat. His cries grew louder. "My baby's life is in 
danger."

"What are you talking about? In danger from whom?"

"You have to take him to Mulder." Scully glanced again toward 
her pursuers, then returned her focus to Tara. She stared 
directly into Tara's eyes. "It's the only safe place," she 
said, deadly serious.

"Dana, if you're in trouble, get in the car, I'll drive you to 
the police."

"No! I don't trust anyone but Mulder. Please, take the baby to 
him, don't stop anywhere, don't call anyone. Go straight to 
Old Tavern, Virginia, off Route 66. It's only an hour away. 
Pinkham Street. Number 49, Apartment 6. You got that?
*Only* Mulder!"

"Dana--"

"*Please,* Tara! Just do it." Scully reached past William and 
grabbed Sarah's baby doll from between the seats. She tucked 
the doll beneath the lapel of her coat and shouted, "Hurry! 
GO!" before slamming the car door and sprinting away.

Tara shifted the car into drive, dazed by the unexpected 
instructions. Without a doubt, Dana was more afraid than Tara 
had ever seen her. Placing her palm on William's belly to make 
sure he wouldn't roll from the seat, she checked her rearview 
mirror for a break in the traffic. None of this made any 
sense. It was insane! Tara waited for a car to pass, one foot 
on the gas, one on the brake. Ahead, she could see Scully 
running hard down the block.

A pounding knock on the passenger window nearly made her heart 
stop. She turned to look.

Oh God...Jesus, Jesus!

A terribly disfigured man stood on the other side of the 
glass, dressed in the priest's robes. His face was ripped half 
away, his eyes, his mouth...were sealed shut...horribly 
scarred. He pointed at the crying baby with some sort of wand.

Then he punched his fist through the glass, shattering the 
window. Tara screamed. She pressed the accelerator to the 
floor and let off the brake. The car shot out into traffic, 
swerving away from the curb and leaving the priest stranded on 
the sidewalk. A horn blared from somewhere behind her. She 
ignored it and sped past two slow-moving cars, putting them 
and distance between her and the hideously scarred man.

"Old Tavern, Pinkham Street," she repeated aloud, her voice 
shaking. She gripped William with her right hand and steered 
with her left. "Number 49, Apartment 6."

-x-x-x-x-x-x-

WASHINGTON NAVY YARD

For a few seconds, Reyes stood rooted to the spot, unable to 
move. Everyone in the room, in fact, seemed to be frozen in 
place. Flames licked and danced around the man nearest the 
door, while his companions gaped at him in shock and horror. 
For one crazy moment, the memory of a Pulitzer-winning photo 
of a Buddhist monk burning himself to death in protest of the 
Vietnam War flashed through her mind.

But this was no self-inflicted immolation, and in the next 
instant the image was banished, as the guard screamed and fell 
to the floor, writhing in agony, and the man standing next to 
him also began to burn. And that was when Reyes saw the source 
of the attack.

He was tall and heavily muscled, his gait abrupt and a little 
ungainly. He had something clutched in his right hand -- 
something dark and slender, perhaps a foot in length, like a 
magician's wand -- something that spit fire, apparently upon 
command. And his face ... God, his face was the worst. Every 
orifice -- his lips, his nose, even both of his eyes -- every 
possible opening had been closed, blocked off. Reyes had never 
seen anything like it. It was horrible, it was monstrous -- 
and yet, somehow, it was familiar, in a terrible, ugly kind of 
way ....

But there was no time to think about it; not then. Even as her 
frantic mind tried to process all the incoming data, Mulder 
was grabbing her upper arm and dragging her forward, shouting 
that they had to get out of there. She stumbled, but managed 
to regain her balance, and then she was running, dashing past 
the now-burning men who moments before had held her life -- 
and the lives of her companions -- in their hands.

There was a ripping, chattering sound, as one of the men fired 
his machine pistol, the bullets ripping into this new, 
horrifying threat. But the man with the fire wand barely 
staggered, then turned his own weapon on his attacker, sending 
sheets of flame across him and adding his screams to those of 
his squad mates.

Reyes reached the outer door, and paused for just a second to 
look back. All five of their erstwhile captors were on fire, 
their bodies bucking and jerking across the floor, as they 
shrieked and howled in mortal agony. The man with the fire 
wand, not satisfied with that, now moved along one of the 
walls, striding from workstation to workstation, flames 
following in his wake. The room itself was on fire, the 
conflagration spreading to the floor and ceiling even as she 
watched. The sprinkler system suddenly activated, and an alarm 
started clanging, but it was clearly too little, too late --

Again, someone grabbed her arm and yanked. This time it was 
John, shouting something that she couldn't force herself to 
understand. But even without the words, the meaning was clear, 
and seconds later Reyes was once again running, running, 
running, following in Mulder's footsteps as he led the way out 
of the building. Around the corner into the main hallway the 
three of them charged, weapons now at the ready, expecting at 
any moment to be confronted -- by guards, or by another of the 
faceless horrors.

They made it to the end of the hall, though, and burst through 
the door and out into the open. Sirens wailed, and in the 
distance Reyes could see the flashing lights of emergency 
vehicles moving in their direction. A quick glance behind her 
showed why -- the fire was spreading with unbelievable 
rapidity, and flames now danced along the rooftop.

She found herself in the lead as they approached the fence, 
and without hesitation she started to climb. The metal was 
cold, and twice she pinched her fingers, but she didn't let 
that slow her down. Out, out, they had to get out.
She reached the top and heaved herself over, wincing as her 
leather jacket took more damage. Fuck that. She was alive, and 
that was what mattered. Then she was falling, and a second 
later she hit the ground and rolled, letting her momentum 
carry her clear to make way for Mulder and John.

She scrambled to her feet and bounded to her car, fumbling for 
the keys as she did so. The others were right behind her as 
she dived into the driver's seat and jerked her wrist, 
cranking the ignition until the engine roared to life.

"Scully!" Mulder shouted, uttering his first words since 
leaving the lab, as he slid into the back seat. John was 
already in the front passenger seat, groping for his seatbelt 
while watching out the window for pursuit. Mulder went on, "We 
have to find Scully -- and William!"

Reyes nodded, and slammed the accelerator all the way to the 
floor.

-x-x-x-x-x-x-

ALEXANDRIA, VIRGINIA

Scully saw her own car race past her, Tara at the wheel.

"Please, God," Scully murmured, "Help her get my baby to 
Mulder." Would Tara do as she'd been told and drive straight 
to Old Tavern? What if she were followed...or worse?

There was no time to worry about that; two pairs of running 
feet slapped toward her. She hoped her pursuers believed she 
still carried William, not Sarah's doll. Slowing a bit on 
purpose, she turned to give the men behind her a quick look at 
the bulge beneath her coat. She hugged the doll more tightly 
and kept running.

She could hear them following. Good. Maybe she could buy Tara 
some time.

Turning the corner at the next street, Scully headed toward an 
all-night convenience store. The store appeared paradoxically 
cheerful, lit with colorful, blinking Christmas lights. She 
pushed herself to run faster.

When she reached the 7-Eleven, she shoved her way through the 
store's front door. A bell tinkled over her head, sounding as 
frantic as she felt. The scrawny clerk behind the counter 
glanced up from his magazine. She ignored his bored expression 
and followed a trail of muddy footprints down the first aisle. 
The store smelled like coffee, cigarettes and the remnants of 
someone's microwaved supper, and the normalcy of it brought 
unexpected tears to her eyes. Her pulse thundered in her ears. 
A Christmas carol played on the clerk's radio, but it sounded 
so tinny and far away to her battered eardrums that she 
couldn't identify the tune. Unable to see over the shelves of 
soda and chips, she slowed, tried to catch her breath and 
listened for approaching footsteps.

A minute passed. Then two. Had the deacons turned back, gone 
after Tara and William? Maybe they'd seen her switch William 
for Sarah's doll. She hugged the doll beneath her coat and 
realized she was trembling. The plastic doll felt ridiculously 
small and light compared to William. Hard and hollow, it 
seemed more like an infant's skeleton than a flesh-and-blood 
baby. The thought somersaulted through her stomach and raised 
a rash of goosebumps across her arms. Sweat prickled her 
forehead. She tried to swallow but couldn't.

The bell over the door jangled, startling her. She inched 
toward the back of the store, eyes fastened on a big curved 
mirror that hung in an upper corner. In the domed mirror she 
could see the distorted reflection of the two deacons. They 
appeared to slither around the door's ballooning jamb. Their 
satiny robes and embroidered stoles shimmered beneath the 
store's fluorescent lights; their heads swiveled left and 
right, hunting for her. They glared at the clerk, then split 
up to search the store.

Trapped, Scully waited, watching in the mirror as they drew 
closer. No point in running -- there was nowhere to go. And it 
didn't matter that she wasn't wearing her SIG because the gun 
would be useless against these two if they were truly alien 
bounty hunters.

"What do you want?" she asked when the first deacon rounded 
the end of the aisle.

She heard the second man step into place behind her back. "The 
baby," he said into her ear, his voice low and toneless.

She spun to face him and hugged the doll tighter. "Why?"

"He is the answer."

"The answer to what?" Tears flooded her eyes as she glared at 
him.

He reached for her coat. "Everything."

"You can't have him! He's mine!" She took a step backward, 
bumping into the first deacon. His fingers closed around her 
upper arms and held her firmly in place. "No!" she shouted. 
She struggled to free herself, hoping to buy Tara and William 
just a few more precious seconds to get to Mulder.

The deacon at her back lifted her up onto her toes while the 
other man took hold of her lapels and yanked open her coat. 
The doll dislodged from her hands. It clattered to the floor, 
its stiff arms reaching upward, its mechanical eyes closing.

Without a word, the deacons released her, turned and walked 
quickly away.

When the door closed behind them, Scully bent and picked up 
the doll with trembling hands. Her teeth chattered. Her heart 
ached for her baby and tears finally overflowed her lashes. 
Shaking, she sank to the floor. "He's mine," she murmured 
against the doll's plastic cheek. "William is mine." 

-x-x-x-x-x-x-

CHAPTER TWO

ST. JOHN'S CATHOLIC CHURCH
ALEXANDRIA, VIRGINIA

Reyes steered her car off King Street and onto Columbus. Two 
blocks north, flashing lights ricocheted off St. John's 
Church. She counted three fire engines, half a dozen black-
and-whites, and two ambulances crowding the road in front of 
the church. Several media vans with raised satellite antennas 
parked as close to the scene as they could get. Camera crews 
and reporters pressed to get past the police barricade. 

"This can't be good," Doggett muttered from the passenger 
seat. Mulder sat behind them, saying nothing, his eyes focused 
on the rotating beacons.

Reyes slowed the car. She spotted two familiar FBI agents 
among the local law enforcement. "Is that Perry and Delgado?"

"Damn. Yeah. Like I said, this can't be good," Doggett 
repeated. Agents Jack Perry and Paul Delgado worked in 
Forensics and their presence could only mean that somebody had 
died.

"I think that's A.D. Skinner's car, too." Reyes pointed to a 
blue Crown Vic parked across the street from the church. 
Keeping her distance, she pulled over to the curb and parked.

Doggett turned to Mulder. "You stay put while Monica and I 
check this out."

"Not a chance."

Mulder's hand was already on the door handle when Reyes hit 
the switch that locked them all inside.

"It's not safe," she warned, turning to look over her shoulder 
at him. 

"Unlock the door." A muscle twitched along Mulder's jaw, 
giving Monica the distinct impression he would use force if 
necessary to get out of the car. "Scully's in that church," he 
said.

"We don't know that."

"Open...the...door." Each word growled from his throat.

"Your life--"

"Open the damn door!" he shouted, leaning forward in his seat 
and locking eyes with her.

It was clear he wasn't going to sit here and wait. Arguing 
would only waste time. She glanced at Doggett, who shrugged. 
Although she didn't like it, she released the door locks.

Mulder was out of the car and striding down the sidewalk 
before Reyes could unbuckle her seatbelt. "Stay with him, 
John," she said.

Doggett slid from the car and jogged after Mulder. Reyes 
turned off the headlights and pulled the keys from the 
ignition, stopping the windshield wipers in mid-swing. She 
hurried from the car and ran straight through the sidewalk's 
slushy puddles to catch up.

"You can't help Agent Scully or William if you get yourself 
killed," Doggett was saying to Mulder when Reyes reached them.

"I can't help them by hiding anymore either. The situation's 
changed." He didn't slow his pace, continuing toward the 
church.

They passed an open ambulance and Mulder's eyes raked the 
back. Reyes glanced into the ambulance, too. Good. It was 
empty. Even so, she couldn't shake the feeling that something 
dreadful had happened here tonight, something more than a 
typical fire or even a homicide. The knowledge pressed hard 
against her nerves, vibrated her skin in the way it always did 
whenever she sensed an unknowable truth. These feelings of 
hers were more than mere hunches; they made her flesh crawl, 
hollowed her gut, pummeled her breastbone -- just like the 
feeling she'd had back in the lab when she saw the faceless 
men.

"Who were those men?" she'd asked Mulder as soon as they'd 
escaped to the car and she had caught her breath. She drove 
them in the direction of Alexandria and St. John's.

"Alien Rebels."

"What happened to their faces?"

"Self mutilation. Jesus Doggett, didn't you explain any of 
this to her?"

"Hell, I don't understand it enough to explain it," Doggett 
said.

Exasperation hissed from Mulder's nose and Reyes glanced at 
him through the rearview mirror. "Why do they do it...seal 
their faces?" she asked.

"To prevent infection by the black oil, the virus. You have 
heard about the virus, haven't you?" Mulder aimed another 
glare at the back of Doggett's head.

"Yes," Reyes answered. "It's what almost killed you. Turned 
Billy Miles into a replicant."

"Now you're catching on."

She wasn't, not really. She had a thousand unanswered 
questions, but decided they would have to wait until after 
Mulder reached Dana, after he made sure she and William were 
safe.

"Give me your cell," Mulder demanded, just as Reyes thought of 
trying to call Dana herself.

She reached between the seats, grabbed her phone from the 
console, and passed it back to Mulder.

He dialed...then redialed. "Shit, she's not answering," he 
said and tried again. "Damn it."

Reyes anticipated Mulder's next words -- "Go faster" -- so she 
pushed the accelerator to the floor, ran a few red lights and 
got them to St. John's in fewer than twenty minutes.

Now Mulder's sense of urgency pushed him up the church steps 
two at a time. Reyes kept pace, matching him step for step. 
She could hear the slap of Doggett's shoes right at her heels. 
Mulder made it to the top and was starting across the stone 
landing when A.D. Skinner appeared in the open doorway. 
Skinner's eyes rounded at the sight of Mulder.

"What the hell are you doing here?" Skinner asked through 
clenched teeth. He thrust out an arm and stopped Mulder with 
the palm of his hand. Mulder tried to dodge around him, but 
Skinner moved to block his way. "This is the worst place for 
you, Mulder."

"Is Scully inside?" he asked, pushing against Skinner's hand.

"Yes, but--"

"Let me in." He tried again to bully his way past Skinner.

The A.D. grabbed his upper arm, and shot Reyes and Doggett 
accusatory looks before hustling Mulder from the door. "Get 
out of here. Right now."

"No, sir. Not if Scully's inside." Mulder struggled to loosen 
his arm, but was unable to break Skinner's solid grip.

Reyes sensed Mulder was about to throw a punch with his free 
fist, so she stepped forward, placing herself in his way. 
"What happened here, sir?" she asked.

Skinner glanced suspiciously at the knot of police officers 
just inside the church and herded Mulder and Reyes out of 
earshot. "I'm still trying to piece it together," he said, 
keeping his voice low.

"Where is Scully?" Mulder all but shouted, not caring if 
anyone overheard.

"She's inside. She's not hurt," Skinner said. "Mulder, you 
can't stay. I don't trust the agents Kersh sent--"

Paramedics appeared on the landing, interrupting Skinner's 
warning. They carried two body bags. At the sight of the bags, 
Mulder jerked his arm free and bulldozed between Skinner and 
Reyes into the church.

Reyes didn't wait around to hear Skinner's entire string of 
epithets. She hurried after Mulder, as eager as he was to find 
out what had happened here.

Inside the church, the smell of burnt flesh clogged the air 
and Reyes had to breathe through her mouth to keep from 
gagging. Water dripped from the choir loft, smoke fogged the 
arched ceiling, and a few scorch marks blackened the polished 
floor.

Beneath the dripping loft, Scully crouched over one of the 
black stains. She wore latex gloves and was scraping something 
into an evidence bag.

Skinner had told the truth: she wasn't hurt. Mulder slowed his 
steps.

"Scully..." he said when he stood not more than a yard or two 
away.

She looked up from the mark on the floor. Tears filled her 
eyes at the sight of him, and she rose to her feet. Swallowing 
once, she managed to nod at the stain and ask, "Look 
familiar?"

Scully's restraint flabbergasted Reyes. If she had been in 
Dana's shoes, she would have leapt on this man, hugged and 
kissed him, to hell with protocol, to hell with the onlookers. 
Christ, it had been months since they'd last laid eyes on each 
other.

But whatever Scully was feeling, she kept her emotions in 
check. She allowed herself only one nervous glance around the 
room. Reyes guessed she was worried about Mulder's safety, the 
same way he was worried about hers.

Reyes took a quick look around, too. Firefighters, police and 
paramedics walked overhead in the loft. Agents Delgado and 
Perry directed a forensics team, which combed the loft, the 
nave, and the pews for evidence. Just inside the church's 
entrance, Doggett talked quietly with Skinner; their eyes 
never left Mulder and Scully.

Reyes glanced again at the mark on the floor. "What is it?" 
she asked.

"It was caused by a biological toxin, arguably 
extraterrestrial," Scully answered. She turned to Mulder. "I 
need to speak with you...outside...right now."

"Let's go." Mulder slid an arm around her shoulders and 
steered her down the side aisle to the door. Reyes fell into 
step behind them. At the door, they joined Skinner and Doggett 
and all five exited the church.

Outside, sleet was coming down hard and snow was beginning to 
collect on the landing and sidewalks.

"The car is this way," Reyes told Scully. She pointed, 
squinting against the sting of sleet.

They avoided the crowd of reporters and walked quickly past 
the fire engines and police cruisers. Once out of earshot, 
Scully leaned close to Mulder and asked, "You're here sooner 
than I expected. Did Tara find you?"

"Tara?" He stopped walking. Sleet hissed past their ears and 
firefighters shouted instructions to one another on the street 
behind them. "Your sister-in-law Tara?"

A look of dread paled Scully's face. Her eyes filled with 
fresh tears. "I sent her to find you...she has William...oh, 
God...there was an attack..." She gestured weakly at the 
church.

"An attack?" Reyes asked. "By who?"

"Aliens. The faceless men...the rebels."

Mulder showed no surprise. "They're after William," he said.

"Yes. I gave him to Tara, asked her to take him to you." 
Scully clutched Mulder's hand and she looked into his eyes. 
"We have to go after them."

He nodded. "Come on. You can tell me what happened on the 
way." He gripped her hand and headed once more for the car.

A wave of panic rolled through Reyes and she wasn't sure if 
the feeling came from Scully or if it was her own sense of 
unease. The scarred men at the lab -- what Mulder called 
faceless rebels -- they scared the crap out of her. Jesus, to 
think they were after William, maybe had him already. No 
wonder Dana looked afraid. This felt like an instant replay of 
the night William was born, when the replicants arrived in 
Democrat Hot Springs, seemingly intending to kidnap Dana's 
newborn son.

They neared the car and Reyes fumbled through her coat pocket 
with numb fingers for the keys. Her hands trembled when she 
tried to insert the key in the door.

"What the hell...?" she heard Doggett ask. He moved past her, 
gun drawn and aimed at the rear seat window. Someone sat 
slumped in the back seat, hidden by shadows.

Skinner drew his gun, too, and circled to the far side of the 
car. "Out of the car!" he ordered. Then, "Jesus...it's 
Cassandra Spender."

Mulder elbowed Doggett out of his way and tried to open the 
locked rear door. "Cassandra? Open the door."

"What if it's not really her?" Scully asked, backing up a 
step. "It could be one of them in disguise."

"Open the door, Cassandra," Mulder repeated.

The woman inside shook her head and slid out of the shadows to 
the farthest corner of the seat where a streetlamp exposed her 
face. She appeared as fearful and distrusting as Scully 
looked. And she was hurt. Burned maybe. Large blisters mottled 
one cheek. Her eyes were swollen, red and watery. Missing 
patches of hair exposed areas of raw, peeling skin on her 
scalp.

Mulder held out his hand to Reyes for the keys. She handed 
them over and he unlocked the driver's door, then reached 
inside to release all the locks. Skinner and Doggett remained 
positioned on opposite sides of the car, their weapons trained 
on the small woman in back.

Mulder slowly opened the rear door. The snick of the handle 
startled the woman inside. Trembling, she began to cry openly.

"Cassandra?" Mulder asked, peering into the car. "What 
happened to you?" He slid into the seat beside her.

She leaned as far away from him as possible. Glancing over her 
shoulder through the window, she gasped at the sight of 
Skinner's gun pointed directly at her head. "They want to kill 
me," she whimpered.

"Who wants to kill you?" Mulder asked.

"The aliens. They were here tonight." She pointed to the 
church. Then she laughed a sharp humorless guffaw. "But I 
escaped. To warn you." Fatigue sagged her shoulders. She 
closed her eyes.

Scully leaned into the car and reached past Mulder to check 
the injured woman's pulse. "She needs to be in a hospital."

Cassandra's eyes flew open, the whites showing all around. 
"No! No hospitals. The aliens...they'll find me. Please...you 
have to hide me. They'll kill me!" She struggled to sit 
straighter, clutched at Mulder and shook his arm. "I know 
their plans. I know why they want William."

Scully sucked an audible breath of air into her lungs. 
"Where's William?" she demanded. "Where's my son?"

Cassandra's head swiveled as she studied Doggett, Skinner, and 
then Reyes, each in turn. Shaking her head, she said, "I'm not 
talking to anyone but Agents Scully and Mulder. I don't know 
if I can trust you other...people." She said the last word as 
if she didn't believe they were human at all. Her mouth closed 
and her trembling lips thinned.

Doggett lowered his gun. "Look," he said, "while we're 
standing here yackin' and not trusting one another, whoever's 
after William is getting a helluva head start. Agent Scully, 
Mulder -- I suggest you take this woman somewhere safe and 
find out what she knows. Monica and I will find William."

Mulder and Scully exchanged glances and seemed to come to a 
silent decision. "We'll need a car," Mulder said.

"Take this one," Reyes offered.

"And you take mine," Skinner said to Reyes. He fished his keys 
from his pocket and tossed them across the roof to her. "I'll 
catch a ride back to HQ with Perry and Delgado."

Reyes turned to go and Scully grabbed her arm. "Please, find 
my baby. Bring William back."

"We will. I promise."

With an uncertain nod, Scully released Reyes's arm and slid 
into the driver's seat. Mulder closed the rear door, shutting 
himself in the back with Cassandra. He passed the keys over 
the seatback to Scully who started the engine. The wipers 
slapped to life and cleared a skim coat of sleet from the 
windshield.

As Scully pulled out onto the street, Reyes and Doggett took 
off at a jog for Skinner's car.

"Keep me in the loop," the A.D. shouted to their backs.

Reyes raised her thumb and kept on running.

-x-x-x-x-x-x-

OFFICE OF ALVIN KERSH
FBI HEADQUARTERS

"Did our Invisible Man show himself tonight?" Kersh asked the 
speakerphone. He paced the dim office, keeping one eye on Brad 
Follmer, who leaned on the edge of the room's oversized desk. 
The young A.D. tried to affect a false show of confidence, but 
twice Kersh caught him chewing on a ragged thumbnail. 
Follmer's nervousness both pleased and annoyed Kersh.

//Right on schedule,// said the voice from the speakerphone.

"Was he alone?" Kersh asked.

//Let me put it this way, sir: not a creature is stirring in 
your basement right now.//

The news came as no surprise. Kersh saw Follmer try to hide a 
small smile, and shot him an angry look, as much for the smile 
as for his inability to control his damn emotions. "What are 
you bringing me for Christmas this year?" Kersh asked the man 
on the phone.

//Two charbroiled songbirds.//

"Anything else?"

//'Fraid not. The place was swept clean before we arrived. And 
the Invisible Man took off with his Basement Buddies.//

"You sent a tail, I presume."

//Uh, yeah...but the group split up. We're on top of it 
though, sir.//

"Damn well better be. You know how important the child is. 
Especially now."

//Yes, sir.//

"I want another report in one hour. And it had better be good 
news." Kersh walked to the phone and punched a button, 
disconnecting the call. He looked at Follmer. "It's time to 
make our offer."

Follmer's eyebrows shot toward his hairline. "But we still 
don't have anything to trade."

"Jesus, Follmer. You'd make a hell of a lousy poker player." 
Kersh dialed a new number. Looking back at the young A.D., he 
said, "When your hole card is a deuce, that's when it's most 
important to show no weakness."

-x-x-x-x-x-x-

WESTBOUND ON INTERSTATE 66
PASSING CENTREVILLE, VA

It took longer than it should have for Tara to make her way 
clear of the city.

The traffic wasn't too bad, once she got out of the immediate 
neighborhood of the church. The biggest problem was the 
freezing rain that continued to fall, coating the pavement 
with a glaze of ice. She saw two fender benders in the first 
twenty minutes, and once her own vehicle slid out into the 
middle of an intersection when she tried to brake for a yellow 
light.

The other problem was her own unfamiliarity with the area. 
She'd met Bill after he graduated from Annapolis, when she was 
a civilian employee at the Navy base in Naples, Italy. Since 
their marriage, they'd moved so many times that Tara had to 
stop and think to get Bill's duty stations in the right order, 
but Washington was not among them. Which meant that her 
knowledge of the local geography was limited to what she'd 
picked up on those rare visits with her in-laws.

Eventually, though, she found her way to the Beltway, and got 
headed in the right direction. She made a quick stop at a 
convenience store to see if William needed changing and to buy 
a super sized cup of coffee. Then she strapped him into his 
car seat and got ready to hit the road. She stood and stared 
at the pay phone for a full minute before getting back into 
the car, trying to decide whether to call Dana. But the 
hideous face of the man who should have been Father McCue 
assaulted her memory, and her sister-in-law's words were too 
fresh in her mind to ignore. Find Mulder. Don't call anyone. 
Go.

Tara went.

The traffic had almost completely disappeared by the time she 
merged onto I-66. It was, of course, Christmas Eve, and most 
people were at home with their families. She saw a battered VW 
heading the opposite direction, but after that, there was 
nothing. William whimpered briefly in the back seat, but then 
was quiet again, apparently asleep, despite the cold wind 
blowing in through the shattered window. Thank God for small 
favors. She cranked the heater all the way up, in hopes that 
it would compensate for the cold at least in part.

Was this what Dana's life was like all the time? Tara couldn't 
help but wonder. She didn't know how anyone could stand it. 
Tara didn't consider herself to be completely innocent and 
sheltered -- she'd spent one summer during college, before she 
met Bill, beatniking around Europe, and she'd done some things 
during that sojourn that her husband was probably better off 
not knowing about. But there was nothing in her past 
experience to prepare her for this.

//My baby's life is in danger.//

Tara shivered, and not just from the cold, as Dana's words 
echoed through her mind. She tried to imagine how she would 
respond, if it were Matthew or Sarah who were being 
threatened. Would she be able to keep her cool the way Dana 
had? Her sister-in-law had been afraid, but she'd still been 
in control, and she'd taken quick, decisive action. What would 
Tara do, if it should happen to her?

Her coffee lasted all the way to Gainesville. She considered 
stopping for more, but then she saw a highway sign that 
informed her that her exit was only another ten miles, and she 
decided to press on. Fifteen minutes under normal conditions. 
Allowing for the weather, and she'd still be there in half an 
hour. She could turn her charge over to his father, and maybe 
then she'd get some explanations for what she'd seen tonight.

Or not. Tara wasn't sure she wanted to hear about it. What she 
really wanted was to race back to Mother Scully's, make sure 
her own children were safe, and curl up in bed and go to 
sleep.

The muffled sound of a cell phone chirping startled her so 
badly, she almost put the car into a ditch. She took a deep 
breath to calm herself, slowing the vehicle still further as 
she waited for the phone to ring again. Glove compartment; 
that's where it was. And it must be Dana's, because her own 
was back at Mother Scully's.

Without thinking about it beyond that, Tara opened the glove 
compartment and pulled out the cell phone, just as it rang for 
the third time. Flipping it open, she saw "Monica Reyes" on 
the display. Tara shook her head. She'd been hoping it would 
be Dana, perhaps calling from her apartment, or even a pay 
phone, to tell her it had all been a big mistake. But Tara 
didn't know this person -- and again, Dana's words echoed in 
her mind.

//My baby's life is in danger .... Don't call anyone.//

Tara closed the phone and tossed it back in the glove 
compartment, even as it continued to ring. It finally fell 
quiet -- only to start up again a few seconds later. This 
time, though, she had no trouble ignoring it. Her instructions 
were clear, and she was almost at her destination, in any 
case.

The freezing rain turned to snow just as she was exiting I-66. 
The new highway was a two lane blacktop, and even slicker and 
more treacherous than the Interstate; luckily, it was only a 
mile or two from the exit to the outskirts of Old Tavern.

William started fussing as she entered the town. Tara risked a 
glance over her shoulder, and saw that he was moving his arms 
restlessly as he whimpered.

"Almost there, William," she said, hoping her voice would 
soothe him. "It's been a long day, hasn't it, honey bunch? 
Well, you'll get to see your daddy soon. Won't that be a nice 
surprise?"

Evidently not, as the child continued to fuss. Tara fought 
back against her maternal instincts and peered out through the 
windshield, trying to read the street signs. He could wait 
five more minutes. What was the address again? Pinkwater? No -
- Pinkham Street. 49 Pinkham Street, apartment 6. She recited 
it under her breath to be sure, and could almost hear Dana's 
voice again as she did so. The town looked like it was about 
five blocks square; how hard could it be to find this place? 
There was something called Old Winchester Road ... and there 
it was! Thank you, Jesus.

Number 49 turned out to be a dilapidated old farmhouse that 
had been converted to a boarding house. Even in the dark and 
in the growing snowstorm, Tara could tell that it had seen 
better days. There was a security light in front, looking 
decidedly high tech and anachronistic, and revealing peeling 
paint and a broken window covered over with plywood. When she 
got out of the car, she saw that the sidewalk was cracked.

William's fussing turned into a full-blown howl as she lifted 
him out of his car seat. Tara brought him to her shoulder, 
patting his back and speaking to him in low tones, as she 
reached back into the car to grab the baby bag.

"Come on, big boy," she said. "We're here now. You're going to 
see your daddy! You probably don't remember him, but I bet 
you'll like him. He's a pretty nice guy."

She couldn't keep herself from wincing as she spoke those last 
words. Well, Bill wasn't around to hear it. No harm, no foul. 
Besides, Tara wasn't about to bad mouth a man to his own son. 
Not even Dana's strange, inscrutable ... well, partner was 
probably still the best word for it, in spite of everything.

She left the keys in the ignition with the motor running and 
carried William up the front walk, through a gate with a 
broken latch. The sidewalk was slick, snow over ice, and Tara 
had to step carefully, lest her feet go out from under her -- 
and William kept crying, every step of the way. She had just 
reached the bottom of the steps leading up to the house, when 
the front door flew open, and Fox Mulder stepped out onto the 
porch.

"Fox," she said, squinting up at him through the snow, and 
raising her voice to be heard above the baby. "Thank God. Dana 
sent me. She said to bring William to you." She bounced the 
child on her shoulder, trying to calm him, but it didn't seem 
to do any good. "Fox?" she repeated, after a moment's silence.

"Tara," he said, giving a little jerk of his head. "Sorry. I 
wasn't expecting you. Is everything okay?"

"Yes. I think so." Tara felt relief flooding through her, 
despite the baby's continued tears. "Now it is, anyway. There 
was some trouble at the church, and Dana said --"

"Trouble? What kind of trouble?" He came down the steps to 
stand in front of her. "Tell me what happened."

Tara hesitated, wondering if she should offer to let him hold 
the baby, and further wondering why they weren't all going 
inside, out of the weather. But Fox made no move to take the 
child. That seemed odd, but she knew that some men weren't 
very comfortable with babies. Bill had been a natural father, 
but she knew guys who weren't, and had had to grow into it. 
And besides, poor William wasn't making a very good 
impression, crying the way he was. But they really should get 
inside --

"Tara," Fox repeated. "You need to tell me what happened. You 
said Dana sent you?"

"Yes," she replied, and started to tell the story.

It sounded silly now that she was hearing the words out loud, 
even coming from her own lips. Silly and bizarre. She wouldn't 
believe a story like this coming from someone else; how could 
she expect Fox to believe her? He barely knew her. But he did 
seem to be taking her seriously. When she got to the point of 
telling him about the horribly disfigured priest, her voice 
faltered, but he simply nodded, a grim look on his face, and 
told her to go on.

"There's really not much else to tell," she admitted. "We just 
got on the highway and drove, and now ... well, here we are." 
She gave a nervous laugh.

"I see." He fell silent again.

"Fox?" Exasperation and weariness were making her short 
tempered. "Can't we go inside? The baby must be getting cold." 
That was probably why he was crying, she thought. She'd kept 
the heat turned up the entire trip, but that had only helped 
so much, because of the broken window. She started trying to 
edge around Fox towards the steps. Maybe if she started 
moving, he'd just follow her --

Tara gasped as Fox reached out and grabbed her upper arm. 
"What? Fox--"

"You're in danger," he said. He moved closer, and lowered his 
voice. "So's William." He began to walk towards the car, still 
gripping her arm, and Tara had to either go with him, or fall. 
"We'd better move," he went on. "I know a place where we'll be 
safe."

"No, wait," she said. She tried to pull free, but only 
halfheartedly. So much had happened so quickly. She wanted to 
do the right thing, but she wasn't sure what that was. Her 
feet slipped on the ice, and she stopped resisting, as she 
realized she needed to concentrate on maintaining her balance. 
The baby bag slid down off her shoulder, and in order to keep 
from dropping William, she had to let it fall to the ground. 
The baby continued to scream.

"Fox ... Fox, you can take William -- you *should* take him. 
That's what Dana wanted. But I need to get back. I need to ... 
Matthew and Sarah are at my mother-in-law's house. Fox --"

"Get in the car," he said, urgency plain in his voice. They'd 
reached the car, and he opened the back door and pulled her 
forward. "It isn't safe for you to go back. You'll have to 
come with me."

//I don't trust anyone but Mulder.//

Once again, Dana's words floated across her mind -- and Tara 
found herself making a decision. She didn't know what was 
going on; she didn't understand. But she did know her sister-
in-law, and Dana did not bestow her trust lightly or without 
thinking.

She found herself climbing into the back seat and turning to 
strap William into his car seat once again, even as the child 
continued to cry. It occurred to her that she should go back 
for the baby bag, still lying on the sidewalk just inside the 
gate, but Fox had already slammed her door and was around to 
the driver's side and sliding in behind the wheel.

-x-x-x-x-x-x-

SCULLY'S APARTMENT
ALEXANDRIA, VA

"Will we be safe here?" Cassandra scanned the four-story brick 
building with suspicious eyes.

Scully unlocked the front door. "I don't know," she said 
truthfully.

Mulder eyeballed the place, too, as he helped Cassandra inside 
the front hall, one arm wrapped around her thin shoulders. She 
swayed on unsteady legs. Emaciated and trembling, she looked 
ready to collapse. Her skin was cracked from dehydration and 
bruised from abuse. Radiation burns mottled her face and neck 
and the backs of her hands. She needed more care than Scully 
could give her here; she needed to be in a hospital, hooked to 
a saline I.V. and receiving antibiotics.

"I moved here a few weeks ago," Scully explained, leading the 
way to the elevator. "I wanted to live in a...quieter 
neighborhood."

A place without surveillance cameras and hidden microphones.

Scully's run-in with the NSA had shown her how exposed she'd 
been and how vulnerable her exposure made William. She moved 
two days after meeting the Shadow Man, after hearing him 
recite the details of her life -- private things about her and 
Mulder, things that no one else had any right to know.

Her new residence was located on a tree-lined street in 
Alexandria, not too far from Mulder's old place. It was larger 
than her old apartment and was on the third floor. She found 
she preferred being above street level. Visions of Duane 
Barry's break-in still haunted her, even after seven years.

Scully thoroughly inspected her new home twice a day for 
surveillance devices, once in the morning while the coffee 
brewed, and again at night before going to bed. Her vigilance 
had become as routine as brushing her teeth. The Gunmen 
visited several times a week to sweep the entire apartment, 
double-checking her own meticulous inspection. So far, they'd 
found nothing: no hidden cameras, no microphones, no recording 
devices. Her computer logs remained clean, her files 
untouched. No one appeared to be watching her from the street, 
hacking into her email, or monitoring her calls. Just the 
same, she didn't believe she was free of surveillance, not 
after learning how far her enemies would go to keep tabs on 
her.

When the elevator doors opened onto the third floor, Scully 
led Mulder and Cassandra down a short hall to apartment 34. 
Brass numbers gleamed against the door's shiny coat of paint, 
and as she unlocked the door, she hoped Mulder would find the 
place to his liking. She wished they had been able to go 
apartment hunting together. Jesus, she wished...she wished 
they could be alone together right now, just for a few short 
hours, so she could tell him how much she had missed him, show 
him how much she loved him.

That would come later, after Cassandra told them what she 
knew. And after Doggett and Monica brought William safely 
home.

Mulder guided Cassandra into the living room and onto the 
couch. She winced when he lowered her onto the cushions. Tears 
filled her bloodshot eyes.

"Could I have some water, please?" she asked through gritted 
teeth.

"Of course." Scully shrugged out of her coat and dropped it 
into a chair on her way to the kitchen. When she returned with 
a glass of cold water, she saw that Mulder had covered 
Cassandra with the afghan that usually lay folded over the 
back of the couch.

Cassandra drank the water greedily, as if she hadn't had a 
drop in days. Maybe she hadn't.

"Thank you," she said when she finished. She held out the 
empty glass and Scully took it and set it on the end table 
beside the couch, and then turned on the table lamp to get a 
better look at Cassandra's wounds. Perspiration dotted the 
injured woman's blistered forehead, her cracked upper lip. A 
large bruise darkened her right cheek. A drop of fresh blood 
trickled from her right ear.

"Cassandra, what happened to you?" Scully asked, and sat down 
on the couch next to her.

"It was the aliens. The aliens did this to me."

"We thought you were dead," Mulder said, "burned with the 
others at El Rico Air Base." He remained standing, hands on 
his hips.

Cassandra shook her head. "No, they took me back to their 
ship. I sometimes wished they'd killed me."

"You've been with them for three years?" Mulder asked, 
sounding incredulous.

Scully wondered how much of his own captivity he remembered. 
He had never said much about it, never described the torture. 
She pictured the terrible scars that had marked his body when 
they discovered him dead in the woods. The wounds on his 
cheeks, the damage to his soft palette, holes through his 
wrists and ankles, and that terrible incision running from 
larynx to groin. Jesus.

Cassandra's wounds were different. No surgical incisions. No 
holes bored into her arms or legs. She had been mistreated, 
certainly, but not in the same manner Mulder had.

"At first, they were nice to me," Cassandra said. A tiny smile 
tugged at her lips. Her eyes seemed to focus on something 
faraway. "That's when I learned about their plans."

"What plans?" Mulder asked.

A bitter laugh chuffed from Cassandra's lungs. "I once thought 
I was the one, you know, a hybrid, *the* hybrid, a peacekeeper 
created to prevent the war. Now I know, I can't stop what's 
coming."

"What is coming?" Scully asked, although she thought she 
already knew. She'd seen them for herself: Billy Miles, the 
Shadow Man, others.

"Super beings. Perfect aliens combined with perfect humans. 
That's why the invaders want your baby and the others." 
Cassandra blinked at her, sadness in her eyes. "These babies 
are the key."

"The key to what?" Scully asked.

"The invaders' victory. The Colonists aren't worried about 
defeating *us*, Agent Scully. Their real enemies are the 
faceless men, the Rebels."

Scully felt several pieces of the puzzle suddenly shift into 
place, and she began to understand the events at the church. 
There were two alien factions, fighting against each other! 
That's why the faceless men set fire to an alien in the choir 
loft, and why one of the deacons stabbed another in the back 
of the neck with an alien weapon. But what was William's role? 
How could her baby ensure victory for either group of aliens?

Scully was almost afraid to ask. This was a nightmare. A 
horrible, horrible nightmare.

Mulder cleared his throat. He kept his voice low and gentle. 
"Cassandra, how did you get into Reyes' car?"

"I was supposed to be helping the Rebels kidnap William at the 
church tonight. They threatened to kill me if I didn't go 
along with their plan. Maybe I should have let them." She 
started to cry. "Several of them disguised themselves as 
deacons and the priest. I-I don't know what they did with the 
real priest or the other men. I was told to wait outside, and 
one of them stayed with me to make sure I did what I was 
told." She looked through watery eyes at Scully. "I-I was 
supposed to pretend to help you if you ran out, while my 
guard--" Cassandra swallowed and a look of anger flared in her 
eyes. "Then I heard screams inside, and I grabbed the alien's 
weapon and set him on fire. I ran away, down the street, and 
hid...until I saw you, Agent Mulder, with the others, going 
into the church."

"That's quite a story." Mulder looked doubtful.

"I can prove it." Cassandra pushed the afghan to the floor and 
fumbled with the lapels of her coat, trying to reach into an 
inside pocket. She struggled for a minute and then withdrew a 
slender black wand. "This was his weapon." She handed it to 
Mulder.

He turned it over a couple of times, examining it on all 
sides.

"Please, be careful," she warned. "The mechanism is at the 
bottom. It's very dangerous."

He set the wand carefully on the coffee table. It looked 
identical to the ones Scully had seen in the church.

"The Rebels need William and the other babies to win the war,"
Cassandra explained. "They believe the babies will provide 
immunity against the Colonists' virus -- a natural vaccine or 
maybe some sort of genetic cure."

"The Rebels seal their eyes, noses and mouths to keep out the 
Black Oil," Mulder said, nodding.

It made sense. If the Rebels had no protection against the 
virus, they would be trying to develop a vaccine the same way 
human men searched for a cure. "We've got to find William," 
Scully said, "and hide him."

Cassandra grabbed Scully's hand and held it tightly. "You 
can't go after him."

"Why not?"

"You're being watched...tracked."

"Tracked? By who? And how?"

"By the aliens. The chip in your neck tells them where you 
are. If you go to William, they'll find him through you."

Oh God. She was a danger to her own baby; she probably had 
been all along. Was her chip the reason the aliens hadn't 
taken William in Georgia? Because they knew they could find 
him whenever they needed him? "Cassandra, if the Rebels have 
always known where I am, why this elaborate plan? Why take 
William tonight?"

"Because it's beginning."

"What's beginning?"

"A war. A war between two alien races over ownership of the 
planet...and us."

-x-x-x-x-x-x-

WESTBOUND ON INTERSTATE 66

"Still no answer," Doggett said, punching the END button on 
his cell phone. He glanced at Monica, and she nodded, but most 
of her attention was focused on the highway, which was rapidly 
glazing over with freezing rain. He waited in silence while 
she merged onto I-66, then resumed speaking.

"You know, Monica, I wasn't holding out on you."

She glanced over at him, a look of surprise on her face. "I 
never thought you were."

"I mean about the ... the faceless aliens, and like that." He 
grimaced at hearing his own voice saying those words. Faceless 
aliens. God in heaven. Had he really come this far, this fast?

"John, it's okay," Monica said, once again staring out the 
windshield at the highway in front of them. The freezing rain 
was starting to turn to snow, and of course, that was just 
going to make the driving more treacherous than it already 
was.

"It's okay," she repeated. Her face was serene, her voice 
calm. "There's a helluva lot buried down there in that 
basement. We can't be expected to be up to speed on 
everything."

And that was true enough, Doggett thought. Shortly after being 
assigned to search for Mulder, Doggett had informed Scully 
that he'd read every single X-file from start to finish. He'd 
done it in a long weekend of marathon reading and note taking, 
and truth be told, he'd skimmed a lot of them, trying to hit 
the highlights, and focusing most of his time and energy on 
cases that seemed like they might be relevant to Mulder's 
disappearance.

But he'd never had time to sit down and try to assimilate it 
all into a coherent narrative. The urgency of the hunt for 
Mulder, followed by the frantic swirl of events surrounding 
his -- Doggett winced, but there was no other way to put it -- 
death and resurrection, had left little time for reflection.

When Monica joined the X-files, right after William's birth 
and Mulder's second disappearance, she had insisted that they 
attack their assignment systematically. The upshot of which 
was that the two of them had met for dinner every Monday and 
Thursday evening for the past seven months, reviewing past 
cases and discussing their implications. So far, they were up 
to the G's ....

"Stop worrying about it, John," Monica said, breaking in on 
his thoughts. "What's done is done -- and I want to repeat, 
you did nothing wrong. We need to concentrate on the future. 
And right this minute, we need to concentrate on finding Tara 
Scully -- and William."

Doggett couldn't argue with that, either.

The snow kept on falling as they drove westward, and Doggett 
continued to brood. Cassandra Spender. He recognized that name 
from the X-files -- there'd even been a couple of photographs 
in one of the files. Among those presumed dead at the El Rico 
Air Base, nearly three years ago -- but her body was never 
positively identified, because no DNA records existed on her, 
and her dentist's office mysteriously burned to the ground two 
days after El Rico.

*That* should have set alarm bells ringing somewhere, Doggett 
thought. His lip curled in grim amusement at his own new-found 
paranoia. How far he'd come in the last year and a half.

*Was* the woman they'd found in Monica's car really Cassandra 
Spender? And if she was, could they take her claims at face 
value? His first instinct was to reject it all out of hand. 
He'd never believed all that gibble gabble about aliens and 
abductions, despite the fact that Agent Scully and A.D. 
Skinner appeared to take it very seriously.

But there was no denying that *something* out of the ordinary 
was going on. Cassandra was probably confused or deluded -- 
the file on her had made it clear that she was even more "out 
there" than Mulder -- but that didn't mean there wasn't a 
problem. A *big* problem. The lab set-up they'd found at the 
Navy Yard was solid evidence -- or had been, before the fire, 
God damn it.

At last they reached the Old Tavern. The snow was falling 
thick and hard, and the wind blew it in unpredictable clouds 
across the highway. Fortunately, the town was small -- not 
even a village, really -- and they had no difficulty finding 
Number 49 Pinkham Street.

Doggett was out of the car before it had come to a full stop, 
and Monica was only a step or two behind. The street was dark 
and quiet -- so quiet that you could hear the snow falling, 
and the crunching underfoot as the two agents strode up the 
walk sounded like gunshots in the cold winter air.

They stopped for a moment at the battered old gate, and looked 
around. Tara had had a good head start -- at least 45 minutes 
-- and she should have arrived long since, but there was no 
sign of her. There were several cars parked on the street, in 
addition to their own, but Scully's Camry, which Tara was 
driving, was not among them. Doggett put his hands on his 
hips, and shook his head.

"Could we have got here ahead of her, somehow?" he wondered 
aloud.

"No," Monica replied. "The highway was empty -- you saw it 
yourself. We didn't pass any other cars."

"I know," he admitted. "I'm just thinkin'." He shook his head 
again. "Maybe she's come and gone," he suggested. "Maybe she 
got here, found no one waiting for her, and decided to go 
back."

"We didn't see any cars going the other way, either."

Doggett nodded. Then, for lack of any better alternatives, he 
pulled out his cell phone and punched Scully's speed dial. 
This time, he got the out of area message. "I don't get it," 
he said, slipping the phone back in his pocket. "Where could 
she have gone that would put her out of area? Do you suppose 
there's a tower down somewhere?"

"The storm's not that bad." Monica stood still for a moment, a 
look of frustration on her face, then started to turn in a 
slow, 360-degree circle, scanning the neighborhood. As she 
came around to face the house once again, she stopped 
abruptly, her gaze fixed on something further up the walk. She 
stepped past Doggett and through the gate, and a few seconds 
later she was scooping something up out of the snow. A bag of 
some sort. Doggett recognized it just as she spoke again.

"It's William's baby bag," she said, her voice flat and 
uninflected.

"Why would she have left the bag?"

"She wouldn't." Monica dropped the bag; her weapon was already 
in her other hand. "Someone must have been waiting for her."

Without further discussion, Doggett and Monica moved up onto 
the porch. Like the rest of the house, it was old and rickety. 
Doggett tried the front door, and found it unlocked. The two 
of them stepped inside.

They found themselves in a short, narrow hallway, lit by a 
single light bulb dangling from a wire, with doors opening on 
each side. Monica looked up at him and mouthed, "Number six." 
Doggett nodded, and they proceeded on down the hall.

Number six turned out to be the last door on the right. 
Further back in the gloom there was a staircase, suggesting 
more rooms on the second floor. Glancing down, Doggett saw no 
light coming from beneath the door to apartment six. Monica 
cautiously pressed her ear against the door, then drew back, 
looked at Doggett, and shrugged. She reached out and twisted 
the knob -- and the door swung open.

It took less than a minute to determine that the room was 
empty. An unmade camp bed stood next to one wall, with a 
tired-looking bureau against the opposite wall. There was a 
hot plate on top of the bureau, with a small pot of congealed 
... something ... sitting next to it. The only other furniture 
was a decrepit wooden chair, with one of the spindles on the 
backrest missing. There was no luggage, and the bureau drawers 
were empty.

And nowhere was there any clue as to the whereabouts of Tara 
Scully and William Mulder.

-x-x-x-x-x-x-

WESTBOUND ON U.S. HIGHWAY 50
NEAR WINCHESTER, VA
2:41 A.M.

William had finally stopped crying. Thank God.

Tara had tried everything in her parenting arsenal, without 
success. She'd played with his toes, she'd sung to him -- she 
would have offered him food, but his bag was still lying on 
the ground back in Old Tavern. Even the rocking motion of the 
car, which was usually a sure-fire cure in her experience, 
hadn't helped. He'd finally seemed to just wear himself out, 
and now, at last, he was asleep.

Fox seemed remarkably undisturbed by his son's unhappiness, 
she thought. She tried not to be disapproving; she knew 
William and his father hadn't spent much time together. They 
probably just hadn't bonded yet. Besides, Fox obviously 
believed it was important they get away as quickly as 
possible. That was probably why he was being this way.

Her attention was diverted from the sleeping child as the car 
swerved and began to slow. Peering out the windshield, through 
the swirling snow, she saw that they were approaching an off-
ramp, with the glowing sign of an all-night truck stop dimly 
visible at its far end.

"We need to get gas," Fox said, before she had a chance to 
ask. The car slipped a little bit on the ice, and he grunted 
as he steered it back on course. "We'll only be a few 
minutes."

Tara nodded, heedless of the fact that he couldn't see her, 
then waited while he guided the car into the service station 
and brought it to a stop next to one of the gas pumps. She 
grabbed her purse, popped her door open and got out, heading 
for the small convenience store attached to the cashier's 
cage.

"Where are you going?"

"We need a few things," she explained, turning and walking 
backwards a few steps. "William needs some diapers, and I want 
to see if they have anything he can eat. I won't be long." She 
turned around again and stepped into the store without waiting 
for a reply.

She found what she was looking for, and was out to the car 
again in under three minutes, fully half that time having been 
taken up at the cash register, waiting for her credit card to 
clear. She paused, looking at the sleeping baby, then shrugged 
and climbed in front. She'd learned long ago, when Matthew was 
an infant, to grab every available opportunity to spend time 
with other adults. Besides, maybe Fox would be able to explain 
to her what the hell was going on.

She was still waiting for him when she heard Dana's cell 
phone, still in the glove compartment, start to shrill. She 
hesitated, remembering once again her sister-in-law's 
injunction not to call anyone. On the other hand, who would be 
calling Dana at this time of night -- on Christmas Eve, no 
less? She opened the glove compartment and pulled out the 
phone, still considering it. She was about to flip it open to 
check the display when it was snatched from her hand.

"Fox?" She squinted up through the snow at the shadowy figure, 
back lit by the lights of the store. Yes, it was definitely 
him. "Dammit, you scared me." The phone rang again. "Do you 
think we should answer that?"

"No phone calls," he said.

His voice sounded odd -- it sounded deeper than it had been a 
few minutes ago. And then Tara's eyes bulged in shock and 
surprise, as his hand closed around the cell phone and crushed 
it, as easily as a child destroying an egg carton. He dropped 
shattered bits of plastic and electronics to the ground, then 
yanked open her door and pulled her out of the car.

"Fox? Fox, what the ... what the ...." Tara's voice trailed 
off as the man opened the back door and shoved her into the 
vehicle next to William. His face ... no, it couldn't be. It 
was a trick of the light ... but it wasn't. It was real. The 
man's features were changing, even as she watched. His 
forehead widened, his lips thickened, his nose transformed 
before her eyes, all in a scant few seconds. It was 
impossible. It couldn't be happening ....

"You will take care of the child," he said, his voice now low 
and sinister, and nothing at all like Fox's. "You will remain 
quiet. If you follow these instructions, you will not be 
harmed." Then he slammed the door. A few seconds later he was 
in the driver's seat, revving the engine to life. A minute or 
so after that, they were back on the highway, once again 
heading west. 

-x-x-x-x-x-x-

CHAPTER THREE

ABOARD U.S.S. CHEYENNE
SOMEWHERE IN THE ARABIAN SEA

Bill Scully took another sip of his coffee, then set it down 
carefully on the arm of his chair. "Three more hours, 
Lieutenant," he said, "and we'll be in position. Then we just 
have to wait for nightfall. Are you ready?"

The question was redundant, and Bill knew it. All the 
necessary preparations had been made -- at least, everything 
over which the crew of the nuclear powered attack submarine 
had any control. The half dozen SEALs under this officer's 
command were in their quarters, waiting for the word to climb 
into their wet suits and crawl down the emergency escape 
hatch. Their prepackaged equipment, including two inflatable 
boats, was with them. Bill didn't have to be in that 
compartment to know that the men were as still and silent as 
their gear.

"Aye aye, sir," the man replied. His gray eyes were calm; his 
face expressionless.

Bill had never learned the lieutenant's name, and never would 
-- and he liked it that way. He and his crew were filling the 
humble role of taxi drivers for a team of the U.S. Navy's 
crack commandos, and that was all he needed -- or wanted -- to 
know. What they would do after being dropped a few miles off 
the coast of Pakistan -- well, to say that it was classified 
was an understatement. The Pakis were cooperating with the 
Afghan campaign; *this* bunch, for some reason, was a group 
the Navy didn't want their allies to know about.

"Very well," he replied. "You may join your team. The exec 
will let you know when we've reached the drop point." He 
nodded. "Good luck, Lieutenant."

"Thank you, sir."

"Conn, Sonar."

If the sudden voice blaring from the overhead speaker startled 
the SEAL, he didn't show it. Bill trusted that he didn't, 
either. He took the mike from its bracket and clicked the 
transmit button.

"This is the captain," he said. "Report."

"Sir, that contact is back. Bearing 168."

Bill frowned. The intermittent contact had first appeared on 
their passive systems nearly three hours ago. It had faded in 
and out several times, never lasting more than a few minutes, 
but from what data they'd been able to gather, it seemed to be 
moving at 12 to 14 knots, gradually insinuating itself between 
Cheyenne and the task force from which she'd been detached.

The range was difficult to judge without using their active 
systems; all they could say for sure was that the contact was 
either very quiet, or very far away -- probably closer to the 
task force than it was to Cheyenne. If the latter was true, 
they were only hearing it at all because of a freak of 
convergence zones -- layers of sea water with just the right 
temperature and pressure characteristics to channel sound 
waves, allowing anyone with the proper equipment to pick up 
the echoes, even from dozens of miles away. Bill could only 
hope that the other attack boats screening the battle group 
were tracking the contact better than he was.

"Mr. Southey," he said, addressing the navigation officer. 
"What's the current range and bearing to the task force?"

"Sir, bearing to the center of the task force is 164, 
approximate range 189 miles."

Bill nodded. The contact was now almost directly between 
Cheyenne and the battle group. Coincidence? He hadn't been 
given command of a submarine because of his trusting nature -- 
but he had no proof. He itched to order one good, strong ping 
on active sonar, down the contact's most recent bearing. Light 
up the son of a bitch and find out what it was -- determine 
whether it was a threat.

Unfortunately, the mission profile didn't allow it. They were 
already inside Pakistan's territorial waters, and going deeper 
by the minute. No one could be allowed to know they were here 
--

"Conn, Sonar."

"Go ahead," he grated. He knew what was coming, but he had to 
take the report, anyway.

"Sir, the contact is gone again."

"Very well," he replied, suppressing the urge to throw his 
coffee mug across the compartment. "Keep listening. Let me 
know ASAP if it recurs."

"Aye aye, sir."

Bill turned his gaze back to the SEAL, still standing at 
attention in front of him, apparently unperturbed by this 
development. "Prepare to carry out your orders, Lieutenant."

-x-x-x-x-x-x-

RESIDENCE OF MAGGIE SCULLY
3:32 A.M.

"A hell of a way to start Christmas," Maggie muttered to 
herself. She crossed the living room to peer out the window 
for what felt like the hundredth time in the last hour. 
Outside, two or three inches of snow covered the ground, a 
gusty wind rattled the windowpane and sleet pinged against the 
glass. The street remained deserted. Of course. Sensible 
people were at home and in bed, just where they ought to be on 
the night before Christmas.

Maggie closed the drapes and returned to her chair. She was no 
stranger to waiting, but that didn't mean she liked it. She'd 
spent more nights than she cared to count sitting by the phone 
or watching the front door, wondering if her husband or her 
children were safe and would soon be home.

The worst wait had been seven years ago, when Dana went 
missing. Maggie had worn herself ragged, pacing from one room 
to another, all the while hoping Fox Mulder would call with 
some news. The nights had seemed endless, and whenever Maggie 
had managed to sleep, she was plagued by nightmares about Dana 
being taken away. The dreams had always been the same and they 
scared the living daylights out of her. She told Fox about her 
nightmares, about how much they frightened her.

"It's probably scarier when you stop having the dream. Don't 
you think?" he had asked.

She never found out; she continued to have her recurring dream 
right up until her daughter was returned.

Dana's abduction and her mysterious reappearance now felt like 
a lifetime ago. For that matter, Midnight Mass felt like a 
lifetime ago.

Maggie drummed her fingers on the arm of her chair and stared 
at the Christmas tree in the corner of the room. Its cheery 
lights reflected off the colorful packages beneath the lowest 
branches, at odds with Maggie's somber mood. The house was 
dead silent. Mattie and Sarah slept in one of the guest 
bedrooms upstairs. More than two hours had passed since Dana 
called to say that Tara was taking William to Fox.

"Tonight?" Maggie asked, incredulous.

"There was some trouble at the church," Dana said, her words 
vague and her voice sounding tight.

"What sort of trouble? Where are you?"

"Still at St. John's. Skinner is here, too. There's nothing 
for you to worry about, Mom."

Nothing to worry about? Maggie didn't believe that for a 
minute. "Dana, why didn't Tara just bring William here?"

"I asked her to take him to Mulder. It's not far. She should 
be home in less than two hours."

"Dana--"

"Mom, I can't talk right now. I'll have to call you later."

And that was that. Dana had hung up and Maggie was left 
without any details. After waiting for an hour without further 
word, Maggie tried to reach Dana on her cell. When there was 
no answer, she'd settled for leaving a message on Dana's home 
machine. //Dana, I'm worried. Please, call as soon as you 
can.//

Maggie glanced at her watch. Another hour had passed since 
she'd left that message.

Stop worrying, she chided herself, knowing full well she 
wouldn't until either Dana called or Tara arrived safe and 
sound.

She rose from her chair and returned to the window. Swirling 
snow continued to fill the street outside. The road looked 
slippery. Tara would find traveling difficult and slow. Maybe 
she had decided to stay at Fox's until morning. That would 
make sense. Catch a little sleep, wait until daylight when 
visibility was better and the roads had been cleared. It was 
also possible Tara might not call, not wanting to wake the 
kids, thinking Dana had already phoned to explain everything.

But Dana hadn't explained anything really. //I asked her to 
take him to Mulder.// Where was that exactly? And wasn't Fox 
working on an assignment for the FBI? Wouldn't it be dangerous 
for William to be with him?

"Gramma?"

Maggie turned at the sound of her grandson's voice. Matthew 
stood in the doorway, bleary-eyed, hair sticking straight up 
on one side of his head, and looking so much like Bill had 
looked at that age, that for a moment Maggie thought her heart 
might break. He held his favorite stuffed toy in his right 
hand -- a well-worn dinosaur named Rex.

"Mattie, what are you doing up?" She went to the boy and 
lifted him in her arms with a grunt. She smiled at him. 
"You're getting to be so grown up."

He stuck his thumb in his mouth, as if to prove her wrong. 
"Did Santa come yet?" he asked around his thumb.

"Yes, he did." Maggie turned so Matthew could see the gifts 
she'd tucked under the tree earlier, after he'd gone to bed.

Matthew's head drooped sleepily onto Maggie's shoulder. "Can 
we open presents now?"

"Not until morning. Right now, you're going back to bed, young 
man."

"But I'm not tired," he said, before his thumb dropped from 
his mouth as he yawned.

"I'll read you a bedtime story: T'was the Night Before 
Christmas. Would you like that?"

He nodded against her shoulder. "All through the house," he 
quoted.

"Not a creature was stirring..."

"Not even a mouse." He giggled.

"Maybe you should tell me the story," she suggested, heading 
toward the stairs.

"Gramma?"

"What, sweetie?"

"Mama isn't in her bed."

Maggie stopped walking. She looked into her grandson's worried 
eyes. "Not yet, but she'll be home soon." She hoped her words 
were true.

"What if she's lost?"

Maggie shook her head. "There's nothing to worry about, 
Mattie. Your mama is fine."

-x-x-x-x-x-x-

NEAR WINCHESTER, VIRGINIA

"Yeah, I remember her. Blonde, about so tall, maybe 30, 35. 
Only customer I've had all night." The convenience store clerk 
gave a little smirk. "Nice little piece. Too bad she was 
taken."

"There was someone with her?" Doggett asked. They'd got this 
far because the Lone Gunmen had traced Tara Scully's credit 
card. It had been used at this store less than an hour ago.

"Yeah," the man repeated. His attention was divided between 
Doggett and the small, black and white TV sitting on the 
counter next to him. "I mean, I didn't see 'em together, but 
there was only the one car, y'know? She came in and bought 
some diapers and stuff, and then he came in and paid for the 
gas. Kinda weird, they didn't pay for it all at once, now that 
you mention it."

"What did the man look like?" Doggett asked. He glanced out 
the window, through the blowing snow. Monica was out by the 
gas pumps, kneeling down and looking at something. He turned 
his attention back to the clerk.

"Tall guy," the clerk said, with an unconcerned shrug. Right, 
the agent thought. The clerk had only really noticed the 
woman. The man went on, "Dark hair, I think. He had a big 
nose; I remember that. Say, these two in some kind of 
trouble?"

"No," Doggett replied. He was trying to come up with another 
question, when the scene on the television suddenly shifted. 
He blinked in surprise, and then wondered why he was 
surprised. It was a special report about the attack at St. 
John's.

"Fuckin' Arabs," the clerk grunted. He'd turned in his seat, 
and was now staring at the screen. "Got no sense of decency." 
Doggett gritted his teeth at the clerk's blatant bigotry, then 
reminded himself to stay on task. The scene on the television 
changed, and the clerk's frown deepened. Then his eyebrows 
shot up in surprise. "Hey! That's the guy."

"What? Where? Which guy?"

"That guy who was here -- the one who was with the lady. You 
know. Big nose." The clerk was gesturing at the screen, and 
Doggett's jaw dropped when he realized the man was pointing at 
Mulder, who'd apparently gotten caught on camera as he and 
Scully were getting into Monica's car.

"*That's* the man you saw?" Doggett asked. "You sure?"

"Positive. I'd know that nose anywhere. Who is he?"

"We just need to ask him some questions," Doggett replied, 
dodging the question as he tried to get his own thoughts back 
under control. How could Mulder have been *here*, 45 minutes 
ago, and still have been at the church? There was only one 
answer to that question, based on his readings in the X-files, 
and it wasn't something John Doggett wanted to accept. He 
shook the idea off, and tried to refocus his thoughts. 
William. They were here to find William. "Did they have a 
child with them?" he asked.

"I didn't see no kid, but he might have been in the car. Like 
I said, the lady bought diapers."

"How long ago were they here? Where did they go?"

The man shrugged. "Forty, forty-five minutes. They got back on 
50, heading west."

Doggett nodded. He handed his business card to the clerk, then 
went back outside to see how Monica was doing.

"I found something," she said, straightening up as he 
approached. She extended her gloved hand, and Doggett saw that 
she held some bits of plastic, and a broken circuit board. 
"Looks like parts of a cell phone."

"That explains why she was out of area," he commented.

Monica nodded. "Did you get anything from the clerk?"

"Yeah." He gave her a quick summary of the conversation, 
including the man's identification of Mulder.

"Mulder was here?" she asked, her brow furrowing. "That's not 
good."

"Could be better," he agreed. "Think it's time to call for 
back up?"

"No," Monica replied. She jiggled the shattered pieces of cell 
phone in her cupped hand. "If it's what we're both thinking, 
we'd be signing the death warrant of whatever state trooper 
happened to pull them over. And if it's the real Mulder, we'd 
be drawing attention to him."

"We need to warn Agent Scully," Doggett said. "Let her know 
what's going on, before it's too late." Let her know that the 
man she might even now be making love to could be an impostor. 
An unwanted image of the two of them locked in an erotic 
embrace flashed through his mind, but he quickly banished it.

No, she wouldn't be doing that, he told himself; that was an 
unworthy thought, and intrusive and voyeuristic, besides. 
There was too much else going on. Scully would be trying to 
deal with Cassandra Spender. Finding out what she knew, where 
she'd been. He grimaced as he realized that that *also* 
presented risks, as long as the identity of the man who was 
with Scully remained an enigma.

If it really *was* Cassandra Spender. Trying to keep the 
players straight was beginning to give him a headache.

"We can't call her," Monica answered. She let the bits of cell 
phone fall to the ground and brushed her hands. "That was her 
phone, and we don't know where she and ... and Mulder went."

"A.D. Skinner," Doggett decided. He turned and started walking 
towards the car, reaching into his pocket for his cell phone 
as he moved. "I'll call him. You drive."

-x-x-x-x-x-x-

FBI HEADQUARTERS
WASHINGTON, D.C.

Skinner rode up in the elevator with Agents Perry and Delgado. 
The two men were on their way to Kersh's office, and Skinner 
suspected the Deputy Director had stayed up late just to hear 
their report on Mulder's surprise appearance at St. John's. 
Whatever, the agents were uncharacteristically silent. Usually 
these two joked non-stop. Forensic humor. Dark stuff. But they 
hadn't cracked so much as a knock-knock joke during the entire 
ride over from the church.

The elevator announced their floor and the doors slid open.

"Damn it," Skinner said, patting his pockets. "Must have left 
my cell phone in the car. I gotta go back."

Perry rolled his eyes, then tossed Skinner his car keys before 
stepping out of the elevator behind Delgado. "Leave them at 
the front desk with Security. I'll pick 'em up later, sir." 
The honorific was clearly pro forma. These men worked for 
Kersh, and therefore didn't need -- or want -- Skinner's good 
will.

"Sure. Thanks for the lift, guys." Skinner pocketed the keys 
and pushed the down button, hoping no one would phone him 
before the doors closed. His cell phone wasn't in the car; it 
was in his breast pocket where he always kept it.

The doors slid shut and the elevator headed down to the 
basement, where Skinner hoped to gather some helpful 
background information from the X-files office.

Scully had said she suspected alien involvement at the church. 
The torchings had reminded her of the murders at El Rico Air 
Base and Ruskin Dam. She reported that one of the victims bled 
green blood. And she described a weapon that she'd seen 
several years ago, a small ice-pick sort of thing that Mulder 
claimed was of alien origin, used to kill shape-shifting 
"bounty hunters." Mulder's term. Hopefully Mulder's files 
would enlighten him more than his reports ever had.

Skinner leaned against the back wall and closed his eyes while 
the elevator hummed its way to the basement. God, he felt 
tired. Tonight's events, combined with pressures from 
upstairs, bore down on him, making him feel older than his 
years. He knew the Deputy Director, and other higher-ups, were 
watching his every move, maybe now more than ever, including 
the time he and Agent Scully worked outside of the official 
manhunt for Mulder. Fuck 'em. That unauthorized trip to 
Arizona had been one of the rare occasions when he'd felt 
really good about his actions. That and the night he'd 
insisted on digging Fox Mulder out of an early grave.

Funny, he felt that same way right now, like he was standing 
firmly on the right side of the fence. It was a good feeling.

The elevator deposited him on the bottom floor and he walked 
directly to the X-files office, where he used his own key to 
let himself in. Once inside, he locked the door behind him and 
switched on the lights.

Doggett and Reyes had changed the office very little since 
taking over the X-files last spring. Mulder's file cabinets 
stood exactly where they always had.

Skinner went to the cabinets and opened a drawer. He thumbed 
through the folders until he found one marked El Rico. He 
pulled it before moving on to another drawer, looking for a 
file on Ruskin Dam. He wanted to review the transcripts it 
contained from Scully's hypno-regression tape. The original 
tape had been lost in the fire of '98, along with a lot of 
other carefully collected evidence, but Mulder had 
painstakingly reconstructed many of the files that had been 
lost, including Scully's transcript. Skinner located the file 
and removed it, too.

Grabbing two more thick folders, labeled "Bounty Hunters" and 
"Shape Shifters," Skinner wished he'd taken Mulder more 
seriously over the years. It seemed Spooky Mulder was turning 
out to be right about a lot of things. Things Skinner had 
ignored as too out there to be possible.

The last file Skinner pulled was Theresa Hoese's. Scully 
seemed certain the residue she'd found at the church was a 
match for the sample taken at Theresa's house in Bellefleur.

Skinner stacked the files on Doggett's desk and settled into 
his chair. He decided to start with Theresa Hoese, and opened 
her folder. It contained field notes, lots of them, stuff that 
had never appeared in any official report. Scully had added 
the most recent material several weeks after Mulder 
disappeared in Oregon.

Skinner flipped through the notes. In them, Scully had 
postulated that Theresa's kidnapper may have had the ability 
to make himself look like someone the young woman knew and 
trusted, possibly her missing husband. Scully indicated that a 
"substance of arguably alien origin" found on a carpet in the 
Hoese house substantiated that theory. However, a lab report, 
clipped to the notes, summed up the sample of alleged alien 
blood as "unidentified."

Skinner put the report aside and was about to start sifting 
through the "Shape Shifter" file when his cell phone rang.

He pulled the phone from his pocket. John Doggett's name 
appeared on the display.

"What have you got, Agent Doggett?" Skinner asked into the 
phone.

"Big mystery, sir."

"Meaning?"

"I can't believe I'm about to say this, but it looks like 
we've got two guys who are both the spitting image of Fox 
Mulder. One, or both of them, might be..."

Damn it. "Aliens?" Skinner supplied, realizing he should have 
been more careful, paid closer attention to Mulder at the 
church. They'd seen this before; Christ, the file lay right in 
front of him. He should have anticipated--

"I prefer to think of them as impostors, sir," Doggett said.

"Either way, one of them is with Agent Scully right now."

"Exactly. I'm thinking you should get over there."

Right. If the man with Scully wasn't really Mulder, a phone 
call could tip him off and place her in danger. Skinner fished 
Perry's car keys from his pocket. "On my way."

-x-x-x-x-x-x-

WESTBOUND ON U.S. HIGHWAY 50
NEAR THE WEST VIRGINIA BORDER

Tara was being kidnapped.

There was no doubt about it. There hadn't been since that 
awful moment at the convenience store, when the man who wasn't 
Fox crushed Dana's cell phone and forced Tara into the 
backseat of the car, next to William.

It was William's presence, and her own responsibility for his 
welfare, that were allowing her to keep her sanity. After the 
first few fear-drenched moments, Tara had forced her mind to 
stop scrabbling in circles, and focused her attention on her 
nephew. He was still asleep, his head lolling over a little, 
his mouth slightly open. She took a deep breath, trying to 
calm herself, then gently straightened him, tucking his 
blanket around him to support him better. She fumbled in her 
coat pocket; finding a tissue, she wiped away the trickle of 
drool on his chin. He stirred each time she touched him, but 
he did not awaken.

Satisfied at last that he was okay -- well, as okay as he 
could be, under the circumstances -- she turned her gaze 
elsewhere. Her captor was hunched over the steering wheel, 
peering out the windshield through the wildly blowing snow. 
The car's headlights, as far as Tara could see, almost seemed 
to be doing more harm than good, as they lit up and were 
reflected back by the blinding white of the storm. The car 
slewed and slipped, and Tara sent up a silent prayer that the 
driver could see the edge of the road, because she certainly 
couldn't.

Despite the horrible driving conditions, the car continued to 
move along at a rapid clip -- far faster than Tara would have 
been comfortable with if she were driving. The highway had 
narrowed from four lanes to two, a few miles back, and the man 
behind the wheel wasn't even trying to stay in his own lane. 
Shadows loomed up out of the darkness, each one threatening 
for a few seconds to solidify into another vehicle, before 
dissolving back into nothing. A sign flashed by, announcing 
for a scant second and a half that they were entering West 
Virginia --

"Why are you doing this?" Tara asked, suddenly finding her 
voice after a long silence. The man hadn't spoken a word since 
leaving the convenience store, the better part of an hour 
earlier. She'd been intimidated, frightened and confused, but 
focusing her attention on William had enabled her to ignore 
most of it. Now, however, her mind was clearing, and she 
realized she had to do ... something.

"Where are you taking us?" she persisted after a moment, when 
the man did not reply. She saw his gaze, reflected in the rear 
view mirror, flick briefly to her, then away again. Other than 
that, he made no response. "What is going on here?" She hated 
the way her voice was rising, hated the quaver of fear that 
she couldn't quite suppress. "You ... you won't get away with 
this. My sister-in-law ... she's an FBI agent. They'll find 
you. You can't hide from the FBI."

Still he did not reply, and Tara felt herself starting to 
break. "Please," she said. "Please let us go. I know this was 
all some kind of ... some kind of mistake. If you just let us 
go, I promise I won't tell anyone anything. You'll be safe." 
She licked her lips, feeling weak and futile. Tears welled up 
in her eyes, and her voice rose further. "We ... we weren't 
doing anything to you. Why are you doing this? Where are we 
going? *Why won't you answer me?*"

There was a sudden, sharp bang, coming from outside the car. 
Tara screamed, as the vehicle slewed again, and for a few 
seconds it seemed as if the driver must lose control. Somehow, 
though, he managed to fight it off, and a moment or two later 
the car was slowing to a halt, a rough, rumbling sound 
emanating from behind them and to the right. And Tara 
realized, as her pulse started to return to normal, that 
they'd had a blow out.

The driver was out of the vehicle almost before it had come to 
a full stop. The cold wind, which had never stopped pouring in 
through the shattered window, briefly increased as the door 
was opened, then closed. A few seconds after that, Tara heard 
the trunk pop open.

This was her big chance, Tara thought. This was her 
opportunity to ... to what? Climb into the front, restart the 
car, and drive away from her captor? Of course, he'd taken the 
keys, so she'd have to hot wire it. No big deal. Sigourney 
Weaver or Linda Hamilton could do it in a New York minute, 
leaving the bad guy eating their dust. Or maybe they'd bundle 
William up and make a break for it on foot, trekking cross 
country in a blizzard to safety.

One problem. She wasn't Sigourney Weaver or Linda Hamilton.

She almost screamed again when her door was suddenly pulled 
open. The driver of the car was standing there, snow and sleet 
billowing around him, apparently oblivious to the cold. His 
face was an expressionless mask.

"The spare tire is also flat," he stated. "We'll have to walk 
the rest of the way."

"Walk?" Tara blinked at him. "You're joking. We'd never make 
it. The storm --"

"It is not very far," he interrupted. He grabbed her upper arm 
and dragged her from the car. "Follow instructions, and you 
will not be harmed."

"But ... you can't be serious. You can't take a baby out into 
--"

Suddenly, Tara's feet were off the ground, and the stranger's 
hand was grasping her by the throat. She gasped, swaying in 
his grip, and clawed at the man's arm with her hands, to no 
avail.

"It is necessary that the child reach our destination," he 
said, his voice still flat and uninflected. "The same is not 
true of you." He let go of her, and she fell to her hands and 
knees, her chest heaving as she drew in huge draughts of air. 
"The choice is yours," he added.

For a few seconds, Tara stayed where she was, blinking away 
tears and trying to catch her breath. This couldn't be 
happening -- not to her. It was a dream, a nightmare. She 
wanted ... God, she wanted to just curl up and go to sleep, 
and wake up warm and secure in Bill's arms. She wanted it to 
stop. She wanted it to go away --

William's crying dragged her back to reality. She couldn't 
abandon him. Dana had entrusted him to her care, and she had 
to do what she could to look out for him. She had to protect 
him. Slowly, reluctantly, she struggled to her feet, to see 
that her captor now held the child, and was staring at her 
impassively from a few feet away, waiting to see what she was 
going to do.

She stood in silence, staring at him for a minute or two. 
William's crying had risen in pitch, until now he was 
screaming at the top of his lungs. He almost sounded as if he 
were in pain. The wind whipped around them, cold and uncaring, 
driving snow and sleet before it. Tara swallowed, blinked back 
one more tear, then held out her arms and took a step forward.

"Give him to me," she said, surprised at how strong her voice 
sounded. "Let me ... let me take him. I'll do anything you 
say."

-x-x-x-x-x-x-

SCULLY'S APARTMENT
ALEXANDRIA, VA

While Scully settled Cassandra into bed, Mulder wandered 
around the apartment. If asked, he would say he was sweeping 
for bugs, but the truth was, he was snooping, curious to see 
how Scully had been living while he'd been away.

Potato, potahto.

The new place was a bit more spacious than the old one. Its 
front door opened into a hall that divided the living room 
from the eat-in kitchen. Further down the hall he could see 
three more doors, presumably to two bedrooms and a bath. Large 
windows in the living room overlooked the street, and a 
combination of heavy drapes and interior shutters helped 
discourage prying eyes.

Mulder recognized most of the furniture: Scully's couch, desk, 
kitchen table. His own fifties-modern coat rack stood beside 
her front door. And his fish tank glowed in a back corner of 
the living room. Baby paraphernalia dotted the rooms and the 
discovery of each new item saddened him in a way he wouldn't 
have imagined possible. William's infant swing filled one 
corner of the kitchen, bright toys overflowed a basket on the 
floor beside the couch, and a small blue blanket covered the 
arm of one overstuffed chair. Passing the chair, he snagged 
the blanket with one hand and lifted it to his nose. It 
smelled like some kind of sweet laundry detergent, and felt 
softer than anything he'd ever touched in his life.

Circling the living room, blanket dangling from his fist, he 
stopped to inspect the framed photos Scully displayed on her 
desk. Pictures of William: smiling, waving, face smeared with 
food. When had he grown teeth? And all that red hair? William 
was no longer the tiny newborn Mulder remembered from seven 
months ago. He was turning into a little boy, and the 
realization walloped Mulder like a sucker-punch. He'd missed 
every damn day of his son's life: every laugh, every cry, 
every milestone, all the "firsts," rolling over, sitting up... 
Was William crawling now? Could he say mama...or daddy?

Bill Scully's words rose like ghosts from a grave: //Has it 
been worth it? To you, I mean. Have you found what you've been 
looking for?// Scully had been dying of cancer, and Mulder had 
answered no, it wasn't worth it.

So many things, it turned out, hadn't been worth it.

Scully wasn't dying now. She was living -- living more than he 
was living, raising their son while he spun his wheels 
searching for answers to questions he could barely remember 
asking in the first place. After all this time, had he found 
anything? Was the truth out there? Or had it been right here 
all along, here with Scully and William?

Among the dozen or so baby pictures, Mulder discovered one 
lone photo of Scully and himself, dressed in matching FBI 
jackets, working a case somewhere long ago, when life was no 
more complicated than a flukeman or a fat-sucking Internet Don 
Juan.

"We looked so young back then," Scully said, suddenly 
appearing at the room's threshold, returning from the bedroom.

"We were young back then." Mulder set the picture back in its 
place. Then he crossed the room to embrace her. "I've missed 
you so much, Dana," he whispered, wrapping his arms around 
her. God, she smelled good. Like coming home.

"I can hardly believe you're standing here," she said, her 
voice full of emotion.

"I should be out looking for William."

"Agent Doggett will find him."

"Sooner than he found me, I hope."

She gasped and pulled back. Tears filled her eyes. 

Damn it, he shouldn't have said that.

He tucked a loose strand of her hair behind her ear, hair that 
had grown long in seven months. "How's Cassandra?" he changed 
the subject.

"Sleeping." Scully stepped out of his embrace. Her eyes 
dropped to the blanket in his hand. She took it from him and 
carefully folded it into a neat square. "She needs medical 
attention. More than I can give her here."

"Did she say anything else?"

"Not really. She just kept repeating: 'it's beginning.'"

"The war. The invasion." Mulder glanced at the fire wand 
Cassandra had given him earlier; it lay on Scully's coffee 
table, portending a grim future.

"Mulder, do you think she's right?"

He reached for her hand and dovetailed his fingers with hers, 
pulling her to the couch to sit next to him. He was pleased 
when she curled up against him, her cheek pressed to his 
shoulder and her palm resting on his chest. William's folded 
blanket lay in her lap. The heat of her hand over his heart 
nearly took his breath away.

"Maybe she's lying," he murmured against the crown of her 
head.

"Why would she lie?"

"I don't know. To keep us from William?"

"Mulder, she didn't make up her injuries. I think she's 
telling the truth."

"Maybe." He absently stroked the blanket in her lap. "A man 
once told me, 'a lie is most convincingly hidden between two 
truths.'"

They sat for a minute or two without speaking. Finally Scully 
asked, "Mulder, what were you doing with Doggett and Reyes?"

Shit. He guessed her real question was "Why was I left out of 
the loop?" Doggett and Reyes had said she'd had a lot on her 
mind. //We hoped that you could represent Agent Scully's 
interests. And William's.// What had happened to make them 
circumvent her? Why did they feel they couldn't trust her with 
information about the lab? He thought about Reyes' video, the 
recording she'd made earlier at the Navy Yard. The camcorder 
was still in her car, parked on the street in front of 
Scully's building. They should be reviewing it right now, 
searching for clues -- clues to help them protect William.

Scully sat up and looked into his eyes. He'd been quiet for 
too long. "Did it have something to do with William?" she 
asked.

For someone who didn't believe in intuition or mental 
telepathy, she hit this nail right on the head.

He drew her to him, wanting to feel her against him. 
"Cassandra mentioned other babies like William, babies that 
interest the Rebels."

"William is just a normal little boy," she insisted.

"Is he?" He thought about the lab, the names of the mothers 
and their babies, including Scully's name and William's.

"Mulder, William is not 'the key' to peace in the universe. 
He's not an antidote to an alien virus. Those claims are 
ridiculous. William is our son."

"Yes, yes he is. Still...there are those who believe--"

"Believe what?" She pulled away, her eyes bright with fear and 
anger.

He shrugged and shook his head.

"What is it *you* believe, Mulder? Tell me what you think 
William is."

"I believe..." Mulder decided to test the waters, see if 
Doggett and Reyes had misjudged Scully. She needed to hear the 
truth about William, sooner rather than later, before they ran 
out of time. "William is a target, Scully. He's got a hell of 
a lot of people interested in him. People we've run into 
before. Turns out that freighter you found last fall was owned 
by Roush Industries."

She shook her head. "So what? What does that prove?"

"I'm not sure. But there's more. I saw William's name -- and 
yours -- on a door to a hospital room in a lab at the 
Washington Navy Yard."

Scully rose from the couch, shoulders slumped, William's 
blanket clutched to her stomach. When she spoke, her voice 
quavered. "That doesn't prove William is the product of 
nefarious genetic experiments, Mulder. Isn't it more plausible 
that he's been targeted simply as a way to get to you?"

"To flush me out...?"

"And then control you."

The possibility scissored through him. William's life was in 
danger because of him. Because of his work on the X-Files, 
because he had pushed and pushed to uncover the truth and 
expose the lies. Because he'd been crazy enough to believe in 
UFOs, EBEs, global conspiracies and government plots. And 
because he'd had the audacity to fall in love with his partner 
and drag her and their child down with him.

He couldn't bring himself to look at her. It seemed his 
punishment had become hers...and their son's.

Scully reached out and stroked his cheek. "Mulder, it makes 
more sense than alien vaccines, super soldiers or 
extraterrestrial genomes. And they've tried this sort of thing 
before."

It was true. Her abduction. Her cancer. These events had been 
engineered to rein him in, to shut him down.

He stood and met her worried stare. "The question is: who are 
'they' this time, Scully? The FBI? The Rebels? The Colonists? 
Which of the bad guys are the baddest guys?"

-x-x-x-x-x-x-

LOCATION UNKNOWN

Shannon McMahon hung up the phone, and stared at it for a 
moment in thought. Now wasn't *that* an interesting 
development. She sat for a full minute, considering the 
possibilities, then rose from her desk and exited the office.

Her heels clacked against the concrete floor with metronomic 
regularity as she walked down the hallway. Several men in 
combat fatigues stepped out of her way without comment or 
question. Despite her current civilian persona, they knew who 
-- and what -- she was.

The door at the end of the hall was unmarked, unpretentious. 
The man who occupied this office was accustomed to wielding 
power in an understated, offhand sort of way. McMahon 
understood this technique. It made him seem more formidable, 
more terrifying -- to most people.

Of course, most people weren't able to bend steel with their 
bare hands, she thought with a smirk. She reached out, and 
rapped sharply on the door.

"Come." The voice was rough, but still as strong as ever. 
McMahon pushed the door open and stepped inside.

"Ms. McMahon," said the man behind the desk. "I was just about 
to send for you." He took a drag on his cigarette, stubbed it 
out in the ashtray, and reached for another.

"I just had a phone call from our associate at the FBI," she 
said. He nodded, puffing his new cigarette to life. She 
continued, "He says he wants to make a deal."

"Really?" C.G.B. Spender smiled, but there was no humor or 
warmth in it. "That's most interesting." He inhaled some 
smoke, then let it trickle out through his nostrils. "I was 
not aware that he had anything we wanted. Isn't that a 
prerequisite to any such negotiation?"

"He mentioned Gibson Praise," McMahon responded.

Spender raised his eyebrows. "That's also very interesting." 
He blinked, and seemed to consider the matter for a moment. 
Then he straightened up in his seat. "I've just received word 
that our Navy Yard facility has been destroyed."

"What? How?"

"Arson," he replied. He held his cigarette out for a moment, 
examining the glowing tip, a chagrined expression on his face. 
"Officially, it will be put down as a problem with the 
electrical system, or something equally innocuous. But I'm 
sure you can guess who actually had the means and motive to 
carry this out."

"Yes." She felt frustration building within her. If only she'd 
been there --

"There has also been an intervention against the operation at 
the church in Alexandria. I suspect that the same faction is 
behind that attack, but we're still gathering information."

"Do you want me to check it out?"

"No." Another hit on the cigarette. Then: "We have a man on 
the scene already, and his reports are grudging, but 
satisfactory."

"Then ...?"

"Our operative who was sent to retrieve Mulder arrived too 
late." There was a tinge of annoyance in his voice. That 
initiative, like the one at the church, had been meticulously 
planned and coordinated -- apparently all for naught. But then 
Spender smiled, and continued, "By great good fortune, he has 
acquired something that may ultimately be of even greater 
value. We may yet attain our objectives."

"The child," she guessed.

Spender nodded. "The events in Washington are troubling. As a 
precaution, I want you to take a security team and meet our 
operative topside. Make sure he has what he says he has, and 
escort them back down." He glanced at his watch. "They should 
be here within the hour."

"I'm on it," McMahon replied. "Is there anything else?"

He looked at her for a moment, a thoughtful expression on his 
face. At last, he said, "Why don't you also return Deputy 
Director Kersh's phone call, and set up a meeting." He took 
one more drag on his cigarette. "Just in case."

-x-x-x-x-x-x-

WESTBOUND ON U.S. HIGHWAY 50
NEAR THE WEST VIRGINIA BORDER

It was at times like this that Reyes found herself really 
missing New Orleans. The snow, the wind, the cold -- it cut 
right to the bone, and made her yearn for the warm waters of 
the Gulf. Weekends in Galveston or on Padre Island. She'd 
hated the time she spent in the New York Field Office, and the 
rediscovery of winter was the one real downside to her 
assignment on the X-files.

And naturally, John asked her to drive. Just casually, of 
course -- the good ol' Georgia boy didn't like driving on snow 
and ice any more than she did.

The car slipped and slid down the highway, skating across the 
Icy pavement, only partly under her control. The needle on the 
speedometer fluctuated between 30 and 35, and at that, she was 
driving faster than she really should, considering the 
conditions.

She wasn't even sure they were still in Virginia. The highway 
had narrowed to two lanes several miles back, and she 
remembered that the West Virginia border was somewhere nearby. 
Maybe they'd already crossed it. Christ knew the visibility 
was low enough that she could have missed the sign --

"Jesus, Monica!"

Reyes slammed on the brakes, as the shadowy form of a car 
seemed to materialize out of nowhere, standing square in the 
middle of the highway. Their own vehicle skidded and slid, 
then started into a slow spin. Reyes let her reflexes take 
over, reflexes honed in the combat driving course at Quantico, 
as she turned into the spin, struggling to maintain control.

If this had been her own car, she was confident she could have 
stopped in time, but it wasn't hers, it was Skinner's, and it 
was bigger and heavier than she was used to. The vehicle 
continued its majestic, inexorable spin, headlights flaring 
out like searchlights in the snow-blind void. They swung 
around to the front once again, and she fed the car some gas, 
trying to get some traction so she'd have a chance to 
straighten their course. She then tapped the brakes again, and 
was rewarded when they finally slowed to a halt, the nose of 
their car resting less than a foot from the left rear fender 
of the other vehicle. Reyes let out a huge puff of air, leaned 
forward, and rested her forehead on the steering wheel.

"Damn, Monica. I'm impressed."

"I was lucky," she muttered, raising her head and shaking it. 
"I was going too fast." She heard John stirring in his seat, 
and she waved her hand without looking at him. Instead, she 
was staring out the windshield at the other vehicle. It was a 
light blue Camry, and it looked damned familiar --

Reyes was out of the car and moving forward, heedless of the 
slick footing. John was right behind her, coming up from his 
side and squeezing through the small gap between the two 
cards. Seconds later, they were standing side by side, peering 
into the passenger compartment.

It was definitely Dana's car. Reyes recognized the St. 
Christopher's medal hanging from the rearview mirror -- and, 
yes, that was Will's car seat in back. No question.

But the vehicle was empty. It had been abandoned.

"Looks like they had a blow out," John commented, kicking the 
right rear tire. He nodded towards the open trunk. "Spare's 
flat, too."

"But why would they leave the car?" Reyes asked. "It makes 
more sense to stay here. There's a better chance of being 
found."

"Maybe they don't want to be found. Maybe they thought it was 
too risky."

"More risky than hiking through a blizzard in the middle of 
the night, with a young child?" She shook her head. "That 
doesn't make sense, John."

"I dunno, Monica."

She could hear the shrug in his voice, but she didn't see it, 
because something else had caught her attention: a line of 
footprints, rapidly filling up with snow, leading away from 
the car, and heading further up the highway. Without 
hesitation, Reyes started to follow the trail.

"Monica?" She didn't answer, and she heard John hurrying up 
behind her, slogging through the snow, swearing to himself as 
his feet slid on the icy surface. "Monica, are you nuts?"

"They went this way," she answered, pausing and gesturing 
ahead of her. "We've got to hurry."

"Mon, those tracks are gonna fill up -- hell, they're already 
almost filled up. Twenty minutes, and you won't be able to see 
a damned thing."

"John ...." She let her voice trail off, and she glanced back 
at him, then looked forward again uncertainly. He was right, 
of course. The footprints were already just oval depressions. 
Soon, there'd be no sign of them at all -- and she could see 
that a short distance ahead they veered away from the highway 
and into the nearby trees. There would be no guide at all once 
that happened. She chewed on her lower lip, trying to decide 
what to do --

//She stumbled over a tree root, and almost dropped the child. 
Someone grabbed her upper arm, holding her upright. He gave 
her a few seconds to catch her breath, then forced her to 
continue moving up the hill --//

"No," Reyes said. "No, we have to go after them. It's their 
only chance." She started forward again.

"Monica!" Once more, she could hear John coming after her. 
"Monica, you're not making sense. How're you gonna know you're 
headin' in the right direction? That trail --"

"I'll know," she said, and somehow knew that it was true. She 
also knew, somehow, that Tara and William weren't too far 
ahead. She reached the place where the tracks angled away from 
the road, and she followed, but she didn't need to see it, not 
really. William was *this* way. She was sure of it. She'd been 
there at the moment of his birth; how could she *not* know 
where he was?

John followed along after her. Somewhat to her surprise, he 
made no further protest. They plunged into the tree line, and 
visibility dropped even further. Now, she was lucky if she 
could see the next tree in time to avoid running into it. 
Roots caught at her feet and branches slapped her in the face, 
but somehow, she kept her balance. She wished she had a 
flashlight -- Skinner probably had one in his glove 
compartment. But she pushed the thought away. A light at this 
point would just turn them into targets. Better to push on 
through the dark.

At least the trees provided shelter from the wind and snow. 
That was something. At some point John had moved in front of 
her, using his larger body to break the trail, and that was 
helping, too. She thought about asking him how *he* knew which 
way to go, but decided against it. She remembered how quickly 
he'd gone into denial over the vision they'd had of Luke's 
death. They couldn't afford for him to shut down now.

At length the ground began to rise. Another couple of minutes, 
and there was no longer any doubt: they were climbing a hill. 
Could it be the same hill? The one she'd "seen" back at the 
car? That seemed too much to hope for -- but again, it felt 
right. This *had* to be the place. She brushed her hair back 
and peered ahead into the gloom --

And the darkness was abruptly banished by an intense, white 
light, coming from somewhere ahead of them. Reyes gasped, then 
plunged ahead, drawing even with John as they clambered the 
last few yards to the crest of the hill, which now was 
visible, thanks to the light. The trees had become thinner, 
which made the climb easier, but it also allowed the bitterly 
cold wind and snow to assault them once again. She brushed the 
discomfort aside, promising herself that she'd deal with it 
later. Now, there was no time, no time. And finally they 
cleared the last of the trees and reached the top.

They stood for a moment or two, looking down into the next 
valley. The light was much brighter, and now she could make 
out the source -- a pair of floodlights, mounted on the back 
of a dark, boxy-looking vehicle. A Jeep? She couldn't tell for 
sure from this distance, not through the windblown snow.

There were shadowy figures moving around down there. Reyes 
squinted against the light, trying to make them out. Most were 
clustered around the floodlights, and for a few seconds that's 
all she could see. But then she spotted two more, moving 
slowly down the slope towards the light. Tara and William -- 
logic told her that's who it had to be, and her inner sense 
agreed. Without further hesitation, she drew her weapon and 
started running after them, and John was matching her stride 
for stride.

They were going to be too late. She could tell after they'd 
run less than a dozen steps. Tara and whoever was with her 
were already three fourths of the way down, and as the ground 
leveled off they were only going to make better time. 
Meanwhile, Reyes and John were having trouble finding their 
footing, as the hillside was uneven and rocky, and slippery 
with snow, besides. They were going to have to slow down; they 
were going to have to be careful --

Even as she thought the words, her feet went out from under 
her, and Reyes found herself tumbling and rolling down the 
hill. Her weapon went flying as she bounced along like a rag 
doll, never touching down long enough to try to work herself 
into a controlled fall. At last, dazed and bruised, she 
skidded to a halt.

"Monica! Monica!"

"O-over here," she managed, her voice shaky. She was lying on 
her stomach, one hand trapped underneath her. Carefully, she 
pushed herself onto her side, and then into a sitting 
position. A shadow loomed up out of the snow, and then was 
crouching down next to her. John.

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine." She shook her head to clear it, then 
struggled to her feet, brushing herself off and refusing his 
offer of assistance. "I'm fine," she repeated, turning towards 
the light once again. "We've got to hurry --"

The vehicle with the floodlights suddenly erupted in a huge 
gout of flame. The earth shook, and Reyes had only the 
briefest glimpse of human figures bursting into fire. Then 
John tackled her, knocking her to the ground and covering her 
body with his own. 

-x-x-x-x-x-

CHAPTER 4

OFFICE OF THE LONE GUNMEN
COLLEGE PARK, MD

"Do not."

"Do, too."

"Do not."

"Do, too."

"Will you two *please* stop arguing?" Byers couldn't hear 
himself think over Frohike and Langly's endless debate. He sat 
at his computer console, trying to make sense of what he saw 
on his screen. This couldn't be what it looked like. Could it?

"I'll stop when Goldilocks concedes," said Frohike.

"Never. Only a moron would claim Denevan neural parasites come 
from Rigel IV."

"They *do* come from Rigel IV."

"They do not. They come from Gamma Hydra IV."

"Says who?"

"Says Mr. Spock. And he knows about these things...unlike 
*you*. Moron."

"Who are you calling an moron, Moron?" Frohike aimed a paper 
airplane -- shaped like a stealth bomber -- at Langly. It 
arced gracefully, dipped, and then found its mark. It lodged 
nose-first in Langly's long hair. "Bullseye!" Frohike 
chortled.

"Hey! Cut it out!" Langly plucked the airplane from his hair. 
He turned it over in his hands and studied its folds. "Nice 
design. Not bad workmanship -- for a *moron*."

"You're the moron."

"Am not."

"Are, too."

"I said, be *quiet*!" Byers' uncharacteristic shout left the 
two men blinking at him in silent surprise.

Frohike abandoned his workbench to cross the room and peer 
over Byers' shoulder. When he saw the data on the monitor, he 
let out a low whistle of appreciation. "Hey, Langly, take a 
look at this." He waved the other man over, their argument 
forgotten for the time being.

Langly put down the paper plane, now unfolded, to join Frohike 
at Byers' computer. For a minute or two, all three Gunmen 
stared quietly at the monitor.

"Is this what I think it is, guys?" Byers asked.

"Not bad." Langly's head bobbed enthusiastically. "Defense 
data directory with real-time satellite images from the U.S.S. 
Fletcher. You've been paying attention, Byers -- that site was 
protected by some major firewalls." Langly sounded truly 
impressed. "Now move over, Grasshopper, and let the master in. 
This calls for some serious kung fu."

Langly nudged Byers out of his chair and took his place in 
front of the console. He typed a series of quick commands onto 
the keyboard. The splash screen changed, morphing into a 
schematic of America's defense and communication satellite 
array. Anomalous data links appeared between the more familiar 
devices.

"Well, what do we have here?" Langly rubbed his palms 
together.

Impatient, Frohike reached past him and punched a key on the 
keyboard, opening one of the links. When the image finished 
downloading, Frohike released another low whistle. "The skies 
are busy tonight."

"Yeah, but with what?" Byers leaned forward, his eyes focused 
on the image.

"Humungo upsurge of UFO activity."

"All latitudes."

"Look at these concentrations above Tunisia, India, western 
China, Mexico, northeastern U.S." Byers pointed at the 
monitor. "What the hell is going on?"

"Dunno, but it can't be good," said Frohike.

"Should we notify Mulder?"

"Duh, yeah," said Langly. "But no phone calls. Big Brother is 
everywhere."

"News this hot demands a face-to-face meeting," Frohike 
agreed, hitting another button to activate the printer across 
the room. "You guys download the images before they 
mysteriously disappear. I'll find us some suitable disguises."

-x-x-x-x-x-x-

ABOARD U.S.S. CHEYENNE
SOMEWHERE IN THE ARABIAN SEA

"Captain, the SEALs are away."

Bill Scully looked up from his writing pad, to see his exec 
standing in the hatchway.

"Very good, Jeff." He reached for the microphone, adding, "Now 
let's see what the status is on our little buddies." He 
clicked the transmit button. "Sonar, this is the captain. What 
have you got for me?"

"Sir, I was about to call you. We've just picked up a new 
contact, much fainter than the first. Bearing 193, transiting 
west to east at 13 knots."

"Another one?"

"Yes, sir. Designating Red-2."

"What about Red-1?"

"We haven't heard him in more than an hour, sir."

Bill frowned, and tore off the sheet he'd been working on, 
exposing a fresh page. He rapidly sketched the situation, 
shading in a large oval to mark the approximate location of 
the task force. Not good. Not good at all.

"Looks like a flanking maneuver," he muttered. He keyed the 
microphone again. "Sonar, is there any indication the task 
force is aware of our two friends?"

"None, sir. Red-1 should be in La Jolla's patrol area, but 
there's no sign of any unusual activity. Of course, if they 
*have* picked up Red-1, they could be lying doggo."

Bill drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair. Cheyenne was 
still deep inside Pakistan's territorial waters, and under 
orders not to disclose their position. But the situation had 
changed. He had to alert the task force of this new threat. He 
turned to his exec.

"Jeff, let's launch a SLOT, get a message off."

A SLOT buoy held a miniature UHF transmitter. It would rise to 
the surface and send an encrypted, pre-recorded message to an 
orbiting satellite, all in a single burst of less than a 
second. The signal would then be relayed to Central Command, 
back in Florida, and in turn would make its way to the task 
force commander. A round about way of doing things, but it 
would work -- and no one would know it had happened, unless 
they were very close by, and had a directional antenna 
pointing right at the buoy at the moment it transmitted.

"Aye aye, sir. Anything else?"

Bill hesitated, trying to balance the urgency of the situation 
against the need for operational security. At last he shook 
his head. Fuck it. He could explain later -- and if the guys 
in the striped pants were embarrassed, that was their problem.

"Yeah," he said. "Let's get back on station as quick as we 
can. Mr. Southey, plot a course back to the task force. Make 
your depth 150. All ahead flank."

Bill leaned back in his chair and watched as his orders were 
carried out. Glancing at the clock, it occurred to him that 
back in D.C. it was Christmas morning. Another holiday away 
from home and family. Well, it couldn't be helped. At least he 
had the satisfaction of knowing that he was doing everything 
he could to keep his loved ones safe.

-x-x-x-x-x-

SCULLY'S APARTMENT
ALEXANDRIA, VA

Skinner hammered his fist against Scully's door. He felt edgy 
and wired, as if he'd just downed an entire pot of coffee. His 
unease stemmed from Doggett's recent phone call and the 
ominous news about two "Mulders."

Road conditions had been lousy on the ride over from 
headquarters, but Skinner had managed to make good time. A 
rush of adrenaline kept his foot pressed to the accelerator. A 
feeling of urgency still surged through him, raising his blood 
pressure, along with his desire to see that Scully was safe 
and Mulder was actually Mulder.

Come on, answer the damn door. He knocked again and considered 
calling out Scully's name.

There was no need; the door swung inward, revealing a man who 
looked exactly like Fox Mulder. The man gave Skinner a brief, 
squinty-eyed stare, and then turned to shout over his 
shoulder, "Honey, did you order pizza?"

If this was an impostor, he was a damn good one.

"Come on in, Walter. Set a spell. Put your feet up. You look 
tense." Mulder stepped back and gestured toward the 
apartment's interior.

Skinner shouldered past him. "Where's Scully?" he growled, 
striding down the hall. He glanced quickly into the empty 
kitchen before heading into the living room.

Thank God, she was there. Sitting on the couch, she stared 
back at him with one eyebrow arched in curious surprise. She 
appeared tired, but unharmed.

Skinner spun to face Mulder, who now stood less than an arm's 
length away, blocking the exit to the hall.

"You hear anything from Doggett and Reyes?" Mulder asked.

Skinner hesitated before answering. If this man was truly 
Mulder, his question was born out of concern for his missing 
son. On the other hand, if he was an alien in disguise, he 
would be trying to ferret out information: about William, 
about the real Mulder, about who-knows-what else.

Skinner took a step back to put a little distance between 
himself and the other man. Damn it, how was he going to know 
for sure if this was the real Mulder?

"Sir?" asked Scully, rising from the couch. "Is something the 
matter?"

"Possibly," he hedged

Mulder moved forward, closing in on the A.D. "What's the 
problem?"

Skinner could think of no discreet way to broach the subject, 
so he decided to come right to the point. "You may not be who 
you appear to be," he said.

"Excuse me?" Mulder's eyebrows shot up in what seemed to be 
genuine surprise. "Are you asking me to prove I'm me?"

"That's what I'm asking."

A muscle twitched along Mulder's jaw. "Why?"

Doggett's warning ran through Skinner's head. //It looks like 
we've got two guys who are both the spitting image of Fox 
Mulder.// That meant one of three things: Mulder's impostor 
was this man right here; or he was with Tara and William, one 
step ahead of Doggett and Reyes; or both "Mulders" were 
impostors.

How would Scully react to any of these scenarios?

Skinner decided not to divulge Doggett's report. Not yet. Not 
until he knew for certain whether *this* Mulder was the real 
one.

"Our agents found the priest -- Father McCue -- about an hour 
ago," Skinner said, all of his senses on alert. "He was tied 
up and unconscious in the church's sacristy, along with a 
couple of deacons. As you probably know, a man who looked just 
like McCue attacked Scully earlier tonight."

"An alien Bounty Hunter."

Skinner gave a small nod. He looked directly into Mulder's 
eyes. "I need proof, right now, that you are who you say you 
are."

Mulder glanced past Skinner to Scully, as if pleading for 
corroboration, but she remained silent.

"All right." Mulder raised his hands, palms out, striking a 
pose of mock-surrender. "Fair enough." He took a deep breath, 
allowing his next words to come out in a rush of uninterrupted 
information. "My mother's name was Teena; my sister's name was 
Samantha; my badge number-- Hell, I don't have a badge number 
because I don't work for the FBI anymore. I don't have a phone 
number either, because I'm hiding from a covert government 
group who wants to ice my sorry ass." He paused, as if to 
gauge Skinner's reaction.

"And...?" The A.D. needed more.

Mulder frowned. "I...uh...I hunt aliens from outer space 
whenever I'm not annoying my superiors." He glared at Skinner. 
"My nickname is Spooky. I'll also answer to 'Monster Boy,' if 
you use a sexy voice and say it like you really mean it. 
Although it's possible that only works for Scully."

The man sounded like Mulder, he really did, but Skinner still 
wasn't convinced. "Tell me something only you and I would 
know."

An exaggerated sigh huffed from Mulder's nose. When he 
continued speaking, his voice crackled with irritation. "Last 
year, I spent my vacation in Raleigh, North Carolina -- six 
feet under the ground -- which is a real bitchin' way to see 
the Tarheel State, if you haven't tried it. And correct me if 
I'm wrong, sir, but I believe it was you who ordered a backhoe 
to dig me up."

Even this last bit of information didn't prove the man's 
identity -- not beyond a shadow of a doubt. "Anyone could 
access those details," Skinner said.

Mulder's eyes rounded. "Jesus, Skinner, you've become more 
paranoid than me."

Skinner scrutinized Mulder's face. He found nothing 
unfamiliar, yet he still didn't feel certain this was really 
Mulder.

"Well, there's one way to resolve this," Mulder said, turning 
around and striding from the room.

Skinner glanced at Scully, who remained motionless on the 
couch. He suspected she was having doubts, too, given what had 
happened at the church tonight. But if she was worried, she 
wasn't showing it.

Following after Mulder, Skinner found him in the kitchen, 
rummaging through the drawers, obviously looking for 
something. The A.D. paused a few steps inside the doorway and 
watched. His hand itched to reach for his weapon, but he knew 
that it would be useless if this wasn't Mulder, and 
unnecessary if it was.

Mulder turned and faced Skinner. He held a paring knife in his 
right hand. Skinner tensed, but there was no threat in 
Mulder's body language. Instead, the other man just looked at 
him for a moment, then pushed back one of his shirt sleeves 
and cut a half-inch nick in his forearm. Blood welled up in 
the wound. It was red.

"I guess that settles that." Scully's voice, coming from 
behind Skinner. The A.D. turned to see her standing in the 
doorway, features composed, arms folded across her chest. As 
if she had known all along what the outcome would be.

Maybe she had.

"Not quite," Mulder said, drawing Skinner's attention. He 
offered the knife to the A.D. "Your turn."

Skinner didn't argue; trust was a two-way street. He took the 
knife and drew the blade quickly across the back of his hand, 
creating a tiny cut. A drop of bright red blood oozed to the 
surface of his skin. He raised his fist for first Mulder and 
then Scully to inspect.

Scully held her hand out for the knife. Skinner passed it to 
her, a bit reluctantly, and winced when she used its tip to 
nick her arm. A drop of red blood appeared in the tiny wound.

"Everyone satisfied now?" she asked.

"I guess this makes us all officially blood brothers...or 
blood siblings." Mulder took the knife from Scully and tossed 
it into the sink. "So tell me, Walter, what's really going on 
here?"

Skinner looked at Scully. Her expression remained impassive. 
Maybe he'd underestimated her. Maybe she could take the news 
that an alien Bounty Hunter was impersonating Mulder in order 
to get to William. He decided to come clean and tell them both 
what he knew.

"I got a call from Doggett. He has reason to believe--"

Skinner never finished his sentence. The lights flickered and 
then went off altogether, plunging the apartment into 
darkness. A scream ricocheted down the hall from a back room.

"Cassandra!" Scully cried out.

Skinner heard the scrape of Scully's shoes as she hurried from 
the pitch-black kitchen, presumably toward the source of the 
scream. Mulder brushed by, jostling the A.D. when he passed. 
Another scream pierced the dark.

Running blind and relying on his ears to lead him in the right 
direction, Skinner followed Scully and Mulder down the hall. 
He unholstered his gun as he hurried to catch up.

Cassandra screamed again. Scully shouted to her and opened a 
door up ahead, then gasped when a flash of intense, white 
light flooded the apartment.

Skinner shielded his eyes with an upraised arm. Squinting 
against the glare, he was able to make out Mulder's silhouette 
in the bedroom door. Scully was gone; she must have already 
entered the bedroom. Mulder stepped across the threshold and 
he, too, disappeared into the room.

Eyes fighting to adjust to the brightness, Skinner moved 
closer to the open door. He entered the room, where he 
discovered the light's source was somewhere outside the 
apartment, beyond the bedroom's single window. The window was 
open and the room felt bitterly cold.

Sweet Jesus. Cassandra Spender was hovering in the air several 
feet above the bed. She seemed somehow trapped inside the beam 
of light that shone through the window. Oh, Christ. She was 
drifting slowly upward, floating toward the open window, her 
arms and legs outstretched and rigid. She opened her mouth as 
if to say something, but no sound came out.

There was no sound to hear, Skinner realized. Not from 
Cassandra; not from Mulder or Scully, who rounded the bed to 
get closer to the floating woman; not from himself. He tried 
to shout -- he *did* shout -- but the words failed to 
reverberate back to him. He could feel his voice scrape past 
his vocal chords, but he heard nothing. Nothing at all. The 
room seemed to suck up sound the way a black hole steals 
light, and the disorienting absence of sound caused his 
stomach to somersault and his head to spin. He fought to keep 
his balance as he moved further into the room.

A few feet in front of him, Scully reached out for Cassandra. 
She moved slowly, as if underwater. Equally slowly, Mulder 
took hold of Scully's left arm and held her back. Skinner 
could see Mulder's fingers bite into her flesh, locking her in 
place.

Cassandra continued to hang in the air just beyond Scully's 
outstretched hand. She looked oddly calm, as if resigned to 
the situation. Her eyes widened only a little when she began 
to gradually pivot, angling to fit headfirst out the window.

Fear sliced through Skinner at the sight -- the same awful 
fear he'd felt in Bellefleur after he realized he'd lost 
Mulder.

Aliens. Abduction. Save her. Don't lose her.

Skinner pushed himself forward through the thick, soundless 
air. His muscles -- slow to respond -- ached as if asleep. He 
felt like he wore lead shoes, and each stride initiated a wash 
of pain that threatened to buckle his knees. He no longer 
bothered to speak or shout. He channeled all his energy into 
reaching Cassandra before it was too late.

With only a few feet between them, Skinner lunged past Mulder 
and Scully, and grabbed Cassandra around the waist. He was 
shocked when his weight failed to drag the woman to the floor. 
She continued to float skyward, and so did he. He tightened 
his grip. Damn it, he was *not* going to lose her.

They drifted out the window. Skinner looked down, aghast. God, 
they dangled three floors above the snow-covered street. This 
couldn't be happening. It wasn't possible.

Skinner lifted his eyes to peer directly into the bright light 
above his head. The last thing his senses registered was a 
loud sound, like a thunderclap, followed by nothing but 
darkness.

* * *

"Mulder?" Scully stepped into the kitchen, her arms folded 
across her chest. "Where did Skinner go?"

Mulder stood in front of the sink, watching blood trickle from 
a small cut on his forearm. "Isn't he with you?"

"No. I thought he followed you in here."

Mulder glanced around. Obviously, there was no one in the room 
but the two of them. "Maybe he left."

Scully leaned into the hall to take a quick look at the front 
door. "That's weird, considering he came over here to see 
you."

"He wanted to see me?"

"Didn't he?"

"I'm...uh...kinda fuzzy on the details."

"You're bleeding," she said, noticing the nick on his arm. She 
stepped closer to examine it. "Did you cut yourself?"

"I must've." He spotted the paring knife in the sink.

"You don't remember?"

"Not really." Mulder frowned. Then he abruptly pushed away 
from the counter and jogged from the room.

"Mulder, where are you going?" Scully trailed after him.

At the end of the hall, Mulder paused in front of Cassandra's 
closed door. Without knocking, he opened it and walked in.

Scully hurried to catch up with him. She found him standing at 
the foot of Cassandra's empty bed. The room was freezing cold 
and the window was wide open.

Mulder turned his gaze to the billowing curtains and the night 
sky beyond. "I'm guessing she didn't jump."

-x-x-x-x-x-

RURAL WEST VIRGINIA

Tara was lifted off her feet and thrown backwards by the force 
of the explosion. By some miracle, she managed to hold onto 
her nephew as she catapulted through the air, finally landing 
on her back with a dull thud, the baby still clutched in her 
arms. For a few endless seconds she lay there, stunned. Heat 
washed over her as the vehicle continued to burn. At last, the 
ringing in her ears began to recede, and she struggled 
painfully to a sitting position.

She was sitting in the snow, about 40 or 50 feet from the 
truck -- or whatever it was -- that once had mounted the 
searchlights. The lights were gone of course, but their role 
was now being fulfilled by the flames that leapt and capered 
around the vehicle, casting an eerie glow over the scene. 
Shadows danced across the snow, and as her vision cleared, she 
realized that some of them were actually alive --

Tara gasped, as someone grabbed her arm and dragged her to her 
feet. William squalled as she lost hold of him with one arm, 
and gripped him frantically around the waist with the other, 
not wanting to drop him. She swung around, her gaze tracking 
upwards. It was her captor, the man who wasn't Fox. If 
anything, his expression was even grimmer and more forbidding 
that before.

"They have found us," he said. "We must --"

Tara would never know what he'd been about to say, because at 
that instant, a man appeared, seemingly from nowhere. She had 
a brief glimpse of twisted, mutilated features, like those 
she'd seen on the "priest" back at St. John's. Then his arm 
rose and fell, striking a blow to the base of her captor's 
neck. The man who wasn't Fox gaped at her for a moment, 
seemingly shocked at what had just happened -- and then he 
collapsed to the ground without a word. Tara's gaze followed 
him down.

What happened next was beyond belief. The man's body lay there 
for a few seconds, perfectly still -- and then it started to 
dissolve. Tara stared in horror, frozen in place, unable to 
make herself look away. This couldn't be happening; it simply 
could not be. Of all the crazy things that she'd seen this 
night, this was the worst. In a matter of seconds, the body 
was gone, leaving only a puddle of green goo in its place.

A flash of motion caught her attention, and she looked up. The 
... the *thing* that had struck the killing blow now stood 
before her, brandishing something -- a long, black stick of 
some sort. Her eyes bulged in fear as the stick was pointed at 
her. She didn't know what it was, or what it could do, but 
some instinct, deep within her soul, told her that this was 
the end. She clutched William close against her chest, wishing 
there were some way she could shield him. But there was 
nothing, absolutely nothing she could do.

"Hail Mary," she whispered, "full of grace, the Lord is with 
thee --"

Another shape materialized out of the darkness, hurtling at 
the thing in front of her and crashing into it with an audible 
thud, knocking it off its feet. Tara saw olive drab, and a 
glint of silver insignia, as the two men wrestled on the 
ground in silence. Army, she realized, and in that instant 
promised herself and God that she would never badmouth a rival 
branch of the service again.

The two men continued to struggle, rolling around in the snow. 
Tara was still rooted in place, unable to move, despite the 
alarms clamoring in her, telling her that she needed to be 
elsewhere -- anywhere.

They were battling over the wand, she realized, and she 
started looking around for a weapon. A rock, a stick -- 
anything. But there was nothing -- nothing but cold and wind 
and snow. She turned her gaze back to the combatants --

Just in time to see them both burst into flame.

That was the last straw. Tara Scully had seen too much, had 
been exposed to too many horrors, in too short a time, and she 
was finally overwhelmed. Still holding William tight against 
her chest, she turned and ran blindly into the storm.

-x-x-x-x-x-

It took Doggett several seconds, lying there in the snow, to 
regather enough of his wits to realize that someone was 
underneath him. He hastily rolled off to the side, then 
clambered to his feet. A moment later, Monica joined him.

"Jesus," he said, still gasping for breath. "What the hell was 
*that*?"

"I dunno," Monica replied, already starting to move on down 
the slope. "But we'd better go find out."

"Shit."

Doggett knew better than to argue when she got like this -- 
especially when she was right. He shook his head and took off 
after her, reaching for his cell phone as he ran, trying to 
keep one eye on the treacherous terrain as he dialed 911. His 
call was answered on the second ring.

"This is FBI Special Agent John Doggett," he said. "I've got a 
situation here. Large explosion and fire, north of Highway 50, 
in the vicinity of the Maryland/West Virginia state line. 
Numerous casualties, and armed suspects still on the scene. We 
need -- hell, give us everything you got. SWAT, bomb squad, 
EMTs -- the whole nine yards." He exchanged a few more 
sentences with the dispatcher, all the while continuing to 
hurry after Monica. Then he punched END, and turned his 
attention back to the spectacle before him.

It was like something out of Dante. At first, Doggett saw only 
the burning vehicle, but as he drew nearer, and his eyes 
adjusted to the uneven lighting, he noticed that there were a 
number of smaller fires scattered across the landscape, with 
dark, man-shaped forms moving in the spaces in between. As he 
watched, one of the figures burst into flame, and then 
another, and Doggett's stomach churned as he realized what the 
smaller fires most likely were.

At length, the two of them reached level ground and were able 
to increase their pace. Almost immediately, Monica swerved, 
heading for the nearest of the smaller fires -- actually, it 
was now nothing but a smoldering, blackened lump of flesh and 
clothing. She knelt down next to it. A few seconds later, she 
shook her head and stood again.

"No good," she said. She paused and looked around. "They're 
probably all like this."

"We have to check, though," Doggett replied.

"Agreed. And it'll go faster if we split up."

"I dunno, Mon. There're still hostiles, and you don't have 
your gun." Her weapon had gone flying off into the darkness 
when she took her tumble down the hill, a few minutes before.

"John, these people are *dying*. Tara and William might be 
among them. There's no time --"

"You're right," he interrupted. His guts clenched at the 
thought of finding Scully's little boy, reduced to nothing but 
a fire-blackened corpse. He didn't want to think about that. 
He nodded sharply, pushing the unwelcome image away. "Let's do 
it."

-x-x-x-x-x-

Tara ran through the woods, not knowing or caring which 
direction she was heading. She was vaguely aware that the 
ground had stopped sloping up, and now was on a downward 
trend, but all she really knew was that the going was a little 
easier than it had been.

Twice she'd fallen -- or was it three times? The terrain was 
slick and treacherous, and tree roots gripped at her ankles. 
One of the times she fell, she'd dropped William. Then she'd 
sat dumbly in the snow, dazed, on the verge of tears, until 
the baby's cries penetrated her consciousness and snapped her 
out of it.

Now she was on her feet and running again. Running, running, 
running. The trees were closer together, but she forced 
herself between them, ignoring the branches that clawed at 
her, oblivious to the cold and the snow. Bill was ahead of 
her, somewhere -- she was sure of it. She just had to keep 
going, and eventually she would find him. She knew she would. 
She had to ....

-x-x-x-x-x-

RESIDENCE OF MAGGIE SCULLY
7:12 A.M.

"Is it time to open presents now, Gramma?" Matthew ignored his 
breakfast and twisted in his seat, trying to see the Christmas 
tree in the next room.

Maggie stood at the kitchen counter. She kept one eye on the 
kids and one on her paring knife. Apple slices dropped one by 
one into a pie-shell in front of her. Dessert for Christmas 
dinner. Assuming they were going to have Christmas dinner. 
"No, it isn't time to open presents. We're waiting for your 
mother and Aunt Dana.

"Cousin William, too?"

"Cousin William, too."

Sarah sat in a highchair across the table from Matthew. She 
struggled to remove the cap on her sippy-cup. Milk dribbled 
from the cup's pinched lid onto the tray of her chair, and she 
bent forward to taste it. "Where's Mommy?" she asked, her nose 
pressed into her spilled milk.

That was an excellent question.

Maggie had spent the entire night pacing and worrying. Around 
4:30, she couldn't stand the wait any longer. She tried Dana's 
home phone again.

The phone rang twice, and then...

"Yeah?" It was a man's voice.

"I'm sorry, I must have dialed the wrong number."

Maggie was about to hang up when she heard the man ask, "Mrs.
Scully?"

She hesitated. The voice was familiar. It sounded like Fox. 
But that wasn't possible, was it?

"Fox? Is that you?"

"Yeah, I--"

"Thank, God. I've been worried sick. Is William all right? Is 
Tara with you? When is she coming home? The kids will be 
asking for her when they--"

"Mrs. Scully...Tara isn't here. Neither is William."

Maggie's stomach flip-flopped as she tried to make sense of 
his words. "I don't understand. Dana told me she sent Tara to 
drop off William with you." She paused for him to reply, 
hoping he'd laugh, assure her that he'd misheard, and that, of 
course, Tara had found him, and, yes, William was safe, fast 
asleep in his crib right now. But he said none of these 
things.

She had learned a long time ago that Fox was nothing if not 
honest.

"Agents Doggett and Reyes are looking for Tara right now. We 
expect to hear from them soon. I thought maybe this call--"

Looking for Tara? Did that mean she was lost? And why send 
other agents? This was Dana and Fox's child, for Pete's sake. 
Why hadn't they gone after their son themselves? Immediately!

"Fox, I don't understand any of this. Where is William? Is my 
grandson's life in some sort of danger?" She wanted to add 
"again," referring to the frightening circumstances of the 
boy's birth. She had been appalled to learn that William had 
been born in a ghost town in Georgia, delivered by an FBI 
agent. What had Dana been thinking, putting herself and her 
baby at risk that way? Sometimes Dana's reasoning completely 
baffled Maggie.

"We should know something soon, Mrs. Scully," Fox was 
promising, his tone soothing, the way it had been when Dana 
had gone missing all those years ago...

"Call me the *minute* you hear anything," Maggie said through 
clenched teeth. "Don't keep me hanging, Fox."
 
"I won't."

Then he put Dana on the phone, who told Maggie not to worry 
and assured her they'd call her back soon. Dana had hung up 
and Maggie resumed her vigil at the front window, the portable 
phone clasped in her hand.

At 6:30, Matthew and Sarah appeared at the bottom of the 
stairs, hungry for breakfast and eager to open presents. So 
Maggie had settled them at the kitchen table with crayons and 
paper while she prepared them a simple breakfast. Cereal and 
apple slices, juice and milk.

That's where they sat now.

"Draw me another picture of Santa," Maggie said to Matthew, 
hoping to distract him a bit longer.

"I don't want to. I wanna open presents."

"Presents?" Sarah asked. Her face was covered with milk. 
Cheerios stuck to her chin and forehead.

Maggie wiped the girl clean and explained again that the 
presents would have to wait until later. "You two can watch 
cartoons while I finish making our pie. What do you say to 
that?"

"Yay! Cartoons!" Matthew leapt from his chair and ran for the 
living room.

Maggie released Sarah from her highchair.

"Carry me?" Sarah asked, her arms held high above her head.

Maggie picked her up and smoothed her flyaway hair. "What's 
your favorite cartoon?" she asked.

"Bugs Bunny."

"What's up, doc?" Maggie mimicked the character, bringing a 
smile to Sarah.

Maggie carried Sarah into the living room where she found 
Matthew already sitting in front of the TV, flicking through 
channels in search of cartoons. He passed over the weather 
channel, the local news, CNN--

"Mattie, turn that back," Maggie urged. Something had caught 
her eye on the local channel.

"I don't wanna see news," Matthew said.

"Turn it back, please. Now."

Matthew did as he was told, returning to the previous channel, 
where the local news station was broadcasting a special 
report.

Oh, my... St. John's church...with fire engines, ambulances 
and police cars crowding the street in front. A smaller photo 
of Father McCue appeared in the upper left corner of the 
screen.

"Turn it up, Mattie," Maggie urged, setting Sarah on the 
floor.

Matthew adjusted the volume until they could hear the 
announcer's voice: //McCue is currently in stable condition at 
Georgetown Memorial Hospital. Officials continue to search for 
the person or persons responsible for last night's attack...//

The time stamp on the videotape said the news footage had been 
shot last night at 1:36.

Dana mentioned something about trouble at the church, but 
Maggie hadn't considered anything so dire.

The camera zoomed in for a close-up of the church's front 
door, where a group of officials hurried out of the church and 
down the front steps. Maggie's mouth went dry when she 
recognized Walter Skinner, Fox Mulder and her own daughter.

-x-x-x-x-x-

RURAL WEST VIRGINIA

Doggett had worked his way about a quarter of the way around 
the smoldering wreckage when he finally found someone who was 
still alive. There were actually two bodies, limbs intertwined 
in a grotesque parody of lovemaking -- they'd apparently been 
fighting when they were overcome by flame. Doggett prodded 
them carefully, hoping against hope for any sign of life. He 
was about to give up and move on, when one of the figures 
moved, just a little. Then it moaned.

"Monica!" He looked around, trying to find her, but the 
blowing snow, combined with smoke from the fires, had reduced 
visibility almost to zero. "Monica! I've got a live one!"

There was no audible response, but a few seconds later, a 
shadowy form loomed up out of the darkness. At first Doggett 
assumed it was his partner, but whoever it was, they were too 
tall. Still, there was something familiar about the way he -- 
or she -- was walking --

Shit.

"Shannon McMahon? What th' hell are *you* doing here?" The 
last time he'd seen this woman, she'd just been disemboweled 
and dumped in Baltimore's Inner Harbor. This was impossible --

"My job," she replied. She brushed past him and knelt down 
next to the bodies. "You said one of them is still alive?"

"Uh ... yeah. The one on the left."

Things were happening too fast, and Doggett was having trouble 
assimilating it all. He'd been in stressful situations before, 
including firefights in Beirut, but even the most chaotic 
military or law enforcement situations at least made sense on 
a basic, real-world level. Since he'd jointed the X-files, 
however --

"Not one of ours," she said, with a shake of her head. She 
reached in her pocket, and withdrew a short, silver tool. 
Then, without another word, she jabbed it into the back of the 
injured man's neck.

"What the fuck --"

"Relax, John," she said, in calm, soothing tones. "He was one 
of the bad guys."

She stayed on her knees next to the dead man, and Doggett 
watched in horrified fascination as the body just ... 
disintegrated. He'd read about this in the X-files, but he'd 
never seen it, and he certainly hadn't believed it. In a 
matter of seconds, there was nothing left -- nothing but a 
gooey green mess, soaking into the snow.

Shannon was already rising to her feet. She reached out and 
grabbed his upper arm in a vice-like grip. "Now come on," she 
said. "We've got things to do."

"I'm not going anywhere. Monica --"

"There's no time for that," she said, cutting him off. She 
tried to tug him away from the two dead men, but Doggett 
refused to be moved. "Don't make this any harder than it has 
to be." Still he stood his ground. She sighed. "Dammit, John. 
I told you there's no time --"

Her fist lashed out, striking him squarely on the chin. Pain 
shot up his jaw and into his head. Lights danced before his 
eyes, and the world started to spin. Then he fell to his 
knees. He remained upright for the barest instant, before 
collapsing face first into the snow.

Consciousness fled.

-x-x-x-x-x-

The trees were thinning out again, but Tara was beyond knowing 
whether that was a good thing. It was all she could do to keep 
going forward, forcing one foot in front of another. And with 
each step, she prayed that she was moving closer to safety.

William had been quiet for quite some time -- since the last 
time she dropped him, in fact. How long had it been? She had 
no idea. But he had to be frightened, and it was so very, very 
cold. The wind and snow hadn't been so bad while she was under 
the trees, but now that the woods were becoming less dense, 
the elements were hitting hard once again.

Still, she told herself, he must be okay. He continued to 
cling to her, and she could feel his tiny body shift against 
her from time to time. He had to be okay. She'd promised Dana.

Please, God. Let him be okay.

At last they broke free of the trees and into open country, 
and Tara found herself struggling up a short, steep incline. 
Snow swirled around her, and the wind cut like a knife. But 
finally she reached the top, where she came to an exhausted 
halt.

Could this be the road? She stood there for a moment, swaying 
in the wind, as she considered the matter. There was at least 
six inches of snow on the ground, making it impossible to 
determine what lay underneath. But she stood at one edge of a 
long, narrow ribbon, perhaps 20 or 30 feet wide. On the other 
side the ground dropped away again, and in the distant gloom 
she saw dark, hulking shadows that might have been more trees.

Was this the road? It was so cold and so hard to think. If it 
*was* the road then she should follow it. That was the surest 
way to find help. But which way ... ?

She must have fallen, because the next thing she knew, she was 
lying on the ground, curled in a fetal position, her nephew 
tucked securely against her belly.

She tried to move, tried to get up, but she was so tired. So 
sluggish. She'd been through so much in the last few hours. 
She needed to rest. Just for a little while. She'd just lie 
here for a few minutes, and then she'd get up and go on. Or 
maybe she wouldn't have to. Maybe she could just stay here 
until Bill came for her. That would be nice. She'd like to see 
Bill. She missed him so much when he was away ....

She was still thinking about her husband, feeling remarkably 
warm and comfortable, when the darkness finally overtook her. 

-x-x-x-x-x-x-

CHAPTER 5

RURAL WEST VIRGINIA

Tara awoke slowly, her consciousness drifting up through a
cold fog, like a swimmer straining against the current,
reaching for the surface.

She was vaguely aware of strange, impossible dreams, still
lurking around the edges of her mind. She was surrounded by
mysterious, shadowy men, men whose faces were constantly
changing. They slid around her, moving in ever-tightening
circles, never quite coming into her direct line of sight,
but always there, always in the corner of her eye, at the
very limits of visibility.

Suddenly, without warning, the men burst into flames! Fire
was everywhere, surrounding her, cutting off her escape. She
tried to run, but her feet wouldn't move, and besides, there
was no place to go. She was trapped by the dancing
flames, doomed to die. And so was William.

God -- William. Where was he? Why hadn't she thought of him
sooner? She had to do something. She had to save him -- he
was only a little baby, after all. She'd promised Dana --

Tara's eyes flew open. She was awake -- awake and sitting
up, breathing in short, desperate gasps. It had all been a
dream ... just a dream. She'd escaped from the men, and the
fire, and the cold, and now she was safe. She was here. She
was ....

Where?

She looked around, blinking sleep from her eyes, trying to
take in her surroundings. It was somebody's bedroom, and she
was lying -- well, sitting -- in the bed. The room was dark,
except for a thin sliver of grayish light filtering in
through a crack in the draperies. Around her, she could see
vague shadows that presumably represented furniture. Perhaps
a dresser over there, and that might be a ... a desk,
sitting against the far wall. A digital clock sat on the
desk, and orangey-red numerals glowed on its face. 9:04. But
was it a.m., or p.m.?

The door was abruptly flung open, and the room was flooded
with light. Tara blinked, squinting against the sudden
illumination. There was someone standing in the doorway -- a
short, round figure --

"I thought I heard you moving around in here." It was a
woman's voice, low and friendly. She went on, "D'ya mind if
I turn on the lights?"

"N-no," Tara said. Her lips were dry, and she paused to lick
them. "Go ahead."

The light came on, and she got her first good look at the
woman. She was short, about Dana's height, but must have
weighed at least twice as much. She had long, brown hair,
and an open, heart-shaped face. She smiled as she walked
towards the bed.

"I'm Jenny," she said. "Jenny Peltier. My Bobby found you."
She shook her head affectionately. "Dang fool decided to
drive home from the motel -- he's the night manager, y'know.
I told him he shoulda stayed there, waited out the storm.
But he said he wanted to be home for the holiday." She sat
down on the edge of the bed; it creaked audibly under her
weight. "I guess it's lucky for you he did, huh."

"Yes," Tara agreed. "I'm very grateful." She licked her lips
again, and asked the question she was afraid to hear the
answer to. "What about ... what about William?"

"Your little boy?" Jenny's smile broadened. "He's fine. He
bounced back quicker'n you. He's out in the kitchen, raisin'
a ruckus with some oatmeal and applesauce." She held up a
hand. "Now don't you worry -- my Bobby's with him. He won't
come t'no harm."

"I'd like to see him," Tara said. She felt compelled to
explain. "He's my nephew. I promised his mother I'd take
care of him."

"Sure, sure." Jenny stood up from the bed; Tara followed
suit, feeling a little unsteady on her feet. Jenny reached
out and grabbed her arm. "You just take it easy," she said.
"I'll walk ya out there."

Taking slow, careful steps, Tara and Jenny made their way
out of the bedroom and down a short hall. Tara started
breathing easier when she heard William's cheerful-sounding
babble coming from directly ahead. Jenny also
continued to talk.

"Course, it's none o' my beeswax, but I don't know why you'd
be out in the storm like that. My Bobby was out in it, but
he's a dang fool, like I said. By the way, he thought about
takin' you to the hospital, but there weren't no way. Even
my Bobby weren't dumb enough to try to make it to
Martinsburg before the plows and the sand trucks have been
through."

Then they were in the kitchen, and there he was. William.
Thank God. He was sitting in a high chair that looked as if
it had been made by hand. A tall, thin man was sitting next
to him, watching with grave interest as the little boy
chattered nonsense syllables, waving his spoon for emphasis.

"Ta-ta!" William exclaimed, as he spotted Tara standing in
the doorway. He banged his spoon on the tray of his
highchair, spattering his applesauce indiscriminately over
friend and foe alike. "Ta-ta, Ta-ta, Ta-ta!"

Tara couldn't help but laugh at his innocent enthusiasm,
despite the harrowing night she'd just had. "Yes," she
agreed. "Ta-ta's here." She walked over to his chair and
crouched down, closing her eyes for a moment in relief.
"Ta-ta's here."

William burbled his approval -- or something. Tara caught
her own name again, and also "mama" and "gamma". Right. She
needed to call Dana. She ruffled her fingers through
William's hair, then stood up and turned back to her hosts.

"I need to make a phone call. Do you mind? It's long
distance, but I can charge it to my calling card."

"Sure, sure," Jenny said. Her Bobby's head nodded in silent,
friendly agreement. "Th' phone's out in th' living room.
Take all the time you need."

Tara thanked her, then stepped back out into the hall. A
moment later she was settling down on a threadbare couch. A
quick call to directory assistance gave her Dana's number.

"Hello."

It was a man's voice that answered. Fox's voice. Tara felt
prickles run down her spine at hearing him speak again. The
last time she'd encountered "Fox" --

"I need to speak to Dana," she said. "This is Tara Scully."

"Tara," he replied. "Thank God. Are you okay? Is William --"

"Just put Dana on the phone," she interrupted. "I won't talk
to anyone but Dana."

There was a momentary silence, followed by a brief murmur of
conversation in the background. At last, Tara heard the
voice she'd been waiting for.

"Tara? This is Dana. Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," she said. She wanted to let out a sigh of
relief, but it had already occurred to her that if someone
could impersonate Fox, they could also impersonate Dana.
Fortunately, she was prepared for that possibility.
"William's okay, too. Dana, I ... I'm not sure how to say
this, but some really strange things have been happening."

"I know," her sister-in-law answered. "I'm sorry. When I
asked you to take William, I never dreamed anything like
that would happen. I feel so bad."

"It's okay. But ... well, I need to ask you something. It
might sound kind of weird."

"Go ahead."

"Do you remember what happened the night before Bill and I
got married?"

There was a brief pause, and Tara held her breath. She
didn't think anyone else could possibly know about this.
God, please let it be Dana on the other end --

"We're not talking about your bachelorette party, are we." A
statement, not a question.

"You tell me." Tara was determined to give nothing away.

"Tara, as far as I know, your parents never found out about
that. Nobody did. Bill was on a 96-hour pass. He arrived in
Charleston the afternoon before the wedding, and, uh ...."

Tara felt herself blushing at the memory, but she held firm.
"Go on," she said.

"You decided to get an early start on your honeymoon," Dana
continued. "I covered for you -- we told your parents you'd
had too much to drink and were going to stay with me rather
than try to drive home." Tara could almost hear her
sister-in-law smile. "You wore the shower gift I'd given you
-- I dared you to do it. But you never did tell me whether
Bill liked them."

"Oh, God," Tara said, now blushing all the way to her ears.
"He, uh, well, you know strawberry's his favorite fruit
flavor."

Dana laughed. "I'll take that as a yes," she replied. Her
voice turned serious once again. "Tara, where are you? Are
you really okay? Is William --"

"We're both fine," she said. "We, uh, we had some rough
times last night, but we're okay now." She closed her eyes,
and at last allowed that sigh of relief to escape. The
nightmare was finally over.

-x-x-x-x-x-x-

LOCATION UNKNOWN

It took four and a half paces to move from one side of the
room to the other, measuring the long way. It took three and
a half paces, measuring the short way. Doggett had
determined these facts within minutes of waking up in the
small, bare chamber, and had confirmed it numerous times in
the intervening hour and a half. If the situation weren't so
serious, he would've been bored spitless by now.

There was very little in the room to hold his attention. In
addition to the battered couch upon which he'd awakened,
there was an old, gray metal desk that reminded Doggett of
the military. Both pieces of furniture were bolted to the
floor, and all the drawers in the desk were locked. There
was nothing -- absolutely nothing -- that might be used as a
weapon. The single door, set in one of the short walls,
opposite the couch, was sturdy, metal and locked. There were
no windows.

Nor was there any sign of Monica.

Doggett's gun was missing, of course, and his pockets were
empty. Other than that, he was wearing the same clothes he'd
had on the night before. His jaw ached where Shannon had hit
him, and he had a sore ankle, presumably as a result of all
that running around in the blizzard. At least they'd let him
keep his watch: it was now almost ten o'clock on Christmas
morning. Joy to the world.

Several times he'd heard footsteps pass by the door, but no
one had stopped, or even slowed. Doggett had tried yelling,
the first couple of times, knowing even as he did so that he
would probably get no response. And he was right.

So this time when he heard footsteps approaching, he ignored
them, and simply continued his pacing. One, two, three,
four, turn. One, two, three, four, turn. One, two, three --

The lock rattled, the door opened, and Shannon McMahon
stepped into the room. Doggett had a brief glimpse of two
guys in combat fatigues standing out in the hallway, before
the door swung shut again.

"John," Shannon said, smiling and extending her hand. "I'm
so glad you're feeling better."

"No thanks to you." He ignored her proffered handshake, and
after a moment, she let her hand drop to her side.

"Now, John," she said, shaking her head. She moved over to
the desk and hitched one hip up on it. Doggett sidled away,
wanting to keep as much distance between them as he could --
which wasn't much, considering the size of the room. "I
didn't want to hit you," she said. "But you didn't leave me
much choice."

That wasn't worthy of a response. Doggett folded his arms
across his chest and stood in silence, watching her.

"I know you're probably pretty mad right now," she
continued, after a brief pause. "I would be, too, if the
situation were reversed. But if you'll just give me a chance
to explain --"

"What's to explain?" he interrupted. "There I was, stumbling
around in the snow, just found one guy still alive out of
that slaughter ... and you killed him. Then you socked me in
the jaw. What's not to like?"

"I do know how you feel," she said, her tone infuriatingly
gentle. "In my own defense, I'd like to point out that I
tried to talk to you about this once before, but you
wouldn't listen." She dimpled. "So this time, I had to
resort to drastic measures. If it'll do any good, I'll
apologize."

"Where's Monica?"

"Agent Reyes is fine," Shannon replied. "She's on her way
back to Washington, even as we speak. There, you see? You
ask a straight question, and you get a straight answer. Just
the way it's always been between us."

"What about Tara Scully and Will Mulder?"

She frowned. "That's a little harder. To be frank, I was
hoping you could help us on that one. They seem to have
slipped away in the confusion. We're scouring the woods, but
so far no luck. Do you have any idea where they might have
gone?" Doggett stood mute. After a moment or two, Shannon
went on, "John, this is terribly important. You have no idea
how important. That child ... well, I know this is going to
sound melodramatic, but he could mean the difference between
life and death. For the whole human race."

Doggett snorted. "Sci fi crap."

"It's not crap, John," she said, her tone sharp. "I know
this is hard for you -- but I also know you've seen a lot in
the last year and a half. You can't ignore the evidence --"

"Little green men."

"Yes, little green men." She slipped down off the desk and
walked over to stand before him. "They're real, John, and
they're a deadly threat. If you'll look in your heart,
you'll know I'm telling the truth. This is the biggest
danger mankind has ever faced. Bigger than the atom bomb.
Bigger than the Nazis or the Communists. It's all or
nothing, and we need your help."

"What? You think you're gonna turn the tide with one little
boy?"

"No." She shook her head. "No, it's too late for that -- if
it was ever even possible. We can't win this battle, in the
sense of driving the enemy away. But we can still adapt, so
that no matter what comes, the human race, as a species,
will have a chance to survive. That's why we need Will
Mulder. That's why we have to have him. He's the missing
link; he's the key --"

"This is bullshit." Doggett stepped away from her, and paced
across the tiny room before turning to face her once again.
"It's all bullshit. I don't know what you people think
you're doin', but I'm not playing ball. I won't betray her
like that. Not for love or money."

"Loyalty to your friends is admirable, John." Again she
crossed to stand in front of him, and he couldn't keep
himself from making eye contact. "It's one of the things I
most admire about you. But everything has its limits." She
looked at him for a moment, seeming to calculate something.
Then: "You took an oath when you became a Marine -- and
again when you joined the FBI. I took the same oath. And we
both know that sometimes, if we are not to be forsworn, we
have to make sacrifices." Another pause, and she added, very
softly and deliberately, "And great sacrifice can yield even
greater rewards."

"There's nothing you can offer that would make me ... that
would make me do that. Nothing."

"Every man has his price, John." One more pause, and Doggett
suppressed a flicker of intuition at what she was about to
say. "How would you like to have Luke back at your side
again?"

Doggett felt the blood draining from his face, and there was
a roaring in his ears. This was the one subject he'd never
managed to make peace with himself about, the one thing he'd
never been able to accept. He licked his lips and swallowed.
And then, somehow, he managed to force the words out,
through a throat that was suddenly constricted by emotion.

"Luke is dead."

"Is he? Are you sure?" She raised an eyebrow, then turned
and walked to the door. A quick glance back over her
shoulder. "Not everything dies, John. You've worked on the
X-files long enough to know that."

She rapped sharply on the door. It opened, and a few seconds
later she was gone, leaving Doggett alone with his thoughts.

-x-x-x-x-x-

SCULLY'S APARTMENT

"They're okay." Scully mouthed the words to Mulder while she 
listened to her sister-in-law on the other end of the phone. 

William was fine. Tara was fine. That was the best news Mulder 
could ask for. He sent up a silent prayer of thanks to all the 
powers-that-be. 

Scully hung up the phone and jotted down an address. "They 
need a ride," she said. "They're in Stratton Mills."

"How'd they get there? And what happened to the car?"

"She didn't explain, although she said they'd been through 
some 'rough times' -- her words." 

"What does that mean?"

"I don't know. She was acting strange. Wanted me to prove who 
I am by telling her something only the two of us would know."

There was something familiar about that, something that 
hovered in the back of Mulder's mind, but he couldn't quite 
recall it. Maybe he was experiencing deja vu. A super-duper 
case of deja vu. "Is that what the bachelorette party stuff 
was about? You'll have to tell me about that sometime." He 
swooped in and kissed her quickly on the lips.

She smiled and handed him the address. Jenny Peltier, 416 
Elkview Road, Stratton Mills. "I'll get my coat," she said, 
walking from the kitchen.

Stratton Mills was seventy or more miles west of Old Tavern. 
Poor visibility could have caused Tara to miss an exit, maybe 
even two, but seventy miles seemed a bit too far off track to 
blame on the snowstorm. Rough times, she'd said. Mulder's gut 
told him there was a lot more to the story. He stuffed the 
address into his pocket and followed Scully into the hall.

He found her already dressed in her coat, standing beside the 
front door, holding his jacket in her hand. Obviously, she 
intended to waste no time getting to William. 

"We'll have to take Monica's car," she said.

"Keys are in my coat." He snagged the jacket from her and 
slipped it on. "Oh, wait a sec."

He went to the living room and grabbed the alien weapon -- 
Cassandra Spender's fire wand -- from the coffee table. Might 
come in handy, and it certainly shouldn't be left lying 
around. He slipped the weapon into his jacket pocket.   

Mulder was halfway back to Scully and the front door when the 
phone rang again. He gave her a look that asked, "Should we 
answer that or just go?"

"It could be Tara," she said. "She might have forgotten 
something."

Reluctantly, Mulder returned to the kitchen and answered the 
phone. "You run outta clean diapers or something, Tara?" 

"Uh...Agent Dana Scully, p-please." An older man's voice. He 
sounded nervous.

"And you are?" Mulder asked, irritated that this wasn't Tara. 
A waste of time. He should have let the machine pick up the 
call.

"My name is Dr. Francis Sternberg."

"You'll have to call back later."

"Uh...this is rather urgent. Actually, it's very urgent."

So is my son's well being, buddy. "I'll pass along a message."

"Please, I...I have some information about...about Ms. 
Scully's baby." 

What the hell? Who was this guy? 

Scully stood at the kitchen doorway, waiting for Mulder, a 
look of impatience creasing her brow. 

"Listen, Dr. Sternberg, if this concerns William *Mulder*, 
tell it to me," he said to the mystery man. Scully's eyebrows 
rose at the mention of William's name. "I'm the boy's father."

The doctor was quiet for a moment, then, "I...I shouldn't have 
called." 

Mulder realized Sternberg was about to hang up. Maybe the man 
was telling the truth; his caution seemed to suggest it. He 
sounded truly afraid. 

"Wait. Hold on," Mulder said, and passed the phone to Scully. 
She gave him a puzzled frown, but took it.

Mulder stayed close, bowing his head to listen in. She 
identified herself and held the phone between them so that he 
could hear everything the caller said. 

Sternberg's next words sounded rushed and he spoke only a 
little above a whisper, as if he expected someone was 
listening in. "Agent Scully, my name is Francis Sternberg. I'm 
a geneticist, a former colleague of Lizzie Gill. Perhaps she 
mentioned me?" 

Lizzie Gill. Mulder remembered her all too well. She had 
briefly worked as Scully's "baby nurse," until she was 
discovered swapping prenatal vitamins with who-knew-what. When 
confronted, Gill claimed to be part of a secret government 
project, cloning alien/human hybrids and implanting them into 
barren women. She said the babies never lived more than a day 
or two, but that was inconsequential since it was tissue and 
stem cells that the group was after -- for more experiments.

"She never gave your name," Scully said.

"But she described our project?" He sounded uncertain.

"Why are you calling me, Dr. Sternberg?" Scully cut to the 
chase.

"My life is in danger." The doctor's bluntness surprised 
Mulder. "Because I have...certain information."

"What information?"

"I can't explain over the phone. But it involves your son."

"In what way?" Scully said, stiffening beside Mulder.

"My research helped to produce a clone -- a very special 
clone. More human than human. I regret my involvement."

"What does that have to do with my son?"

"The project continues, Agent Scully. What happened at the 
Navy Yard last night is proof of that."

Mulder pictured the lab with Scully and William's names on one 
of the hospital room doors, and suppressed a shudder.

"Your son is an important part of the project," the doctor 
continued. "There are other babies, too. I need your help."

"To do what?"

"To save them, of course." Dr. Sternberg's voice rose in 
pitch. "To save everyone. Meet with me, please. I can prove 
what I'm saying."

"I can't meet you right now. Maybe later today--"

"That'll be too late. I don't expect to be alive in another 
hour or two."

Scully looked at Mulder, her eyes asking what to do. 

Mulder nodded, letting her know he wanted her to go. He would 
get William himself, while she met with Sternberg.

"Where?" she asked the doctor.

"The National Human Genome Research Institute. Wait out 
front." Sternberg hung up.

Scully set down the phone. "You think he's telling the truth? 
About William?" she asked.

"Maybe not, but we can't take that chance, can we?"

Scully's shoulders slumped. Tears filled her eyes. "I...I just 
want to hold our baby."

"I know." Mulder drew her to him and wrapped his arms around 
her. "So do I." Jesus, it had been such a long time since he'd 
seen William, let alone held him. Even so, he remembered 
vividly the feel of his newborn son, so vulnerable, tucked 
into the crook of his arm. Looking down at William, he had 
been caught unprepared for the sudden rush of emotion the baby 
inspired. Pride, wonder, love. And fear -- gut-wrenching fear 
for his child's future. The same fear he felt right now. "You 
meet Sternberg. I'll get William."

"But, I should be there--" Her voice cracked with emotion.

"You *have* been there, Scully, every day of William's life, 
while I... I want to do my part, too, as a parent, as 
William's father. Let me go after him. I want to bring our son 
home."

She sniffled once, then nodded. This was their only real 
option. Sliding out of his embrace, she said, "You take 
Monica's car. I'll call a cab. And Mulder?"

"Yes?"

"Please, watch your back."

-x-x-x-x-x-x-

Frohike, dressed as Santa Claus, parked the van a block away 
from Scully's apartment. 

"Were we followed?" Langly asked from the front passenger 
seat. He, too, wore a Santa suit. Complete with beard. 

"Not a chance," Frohike assured him, checking his own beard in 
the rearview mirror. It hung crooked no matter how he fussed 
with it. 

"Hey, guys, isn't that Mulder?" Byers, who was also disguised 
as St. Nick, pointed to a dark-haired man getting into an off-
white Opel. A moment later, the car shot away from the curb in 
a spray of slush and snow. 

"That *was* him. Where do you think he's going in such a 
hurry?"

"Bet it's not Christmas dinner."

"Here comes Scully." Byers pointed again. They watched her jog 
down her apartment steps to a double-parked taxicab. "Now 
what? Who do we follow?"

"Better make it Scully," Frohike said, shifting the van into 
first gear. "Mulder's already outta sight."

"Well, step on it, Frohike, or we're gonna lose Scully, too."

Frohike pulled out onto the street and floored the 
accelerator. The van fishtailed, headed for a snow bank and 
then swerved back into the road. The tires caught and the van 
leapt forward. "Hang onto your Yule Logs, boys, 'cause this is 
gonna be one helluva sleigh ride." 

-x-x-x-x-x-x-

LOCATION UNKNOWN

Doggett struggled to keep his face expressionless, as the
two soldiers marched him down the hallway. He didn't want
anyone to know how hard his conversation with Shannon
McMahon had hit him. He didn't want to show any sign of
weakness.

He knew he wasn't rational when it came to Luke. Shannon --
or whoever she worked for -- obviously knew it, too, because
she'd known just where to slip the knife in. And once in,
she'd known just how to twist it around for maximum effect.

//Not everything dies,// she'd said. Shit. Doggett knew
that, if anyone did. He'd had first hand experience on that
case in Pennsylvania -- and then a few months later, just to
drive the point home, there'd been Mulder --

His "honor guard" came to an abrupt halt, and Doggett had no
choice but to follow suit. One of the men knocked on a
door, then reached for the knob without waiting for a
response. A moment later, Doggett was being ushered inside.

"John," Shannon said, looking up from her computer monitor.
She smiled, but there was a tension there that Doggett
hadn't noticed earlier. "I'd thank you for coming, but ...."
Her voice trailed off, and she shrugged.

"Always happy to oblige," Doggett replied, not bothering to
hide the sarcasm.

"Here," she said. "Pull a chair around. Sit next me. I want
to show you something."

Doggett grunted, but did as he was told. No point in
fighting it. Not yet.

"I've been reviewing some old X-files," Shannon said, once
he'd taken his seat. "I thought you might like to join me."
She reached for the mouse, and a series of images flashed
across the screen. Kevin Kryder. Clyde Bruckman. Arthur
Felig. Jeremiah Smith.

She stopped clicking with Smith still on the screen. She
seemed to study the photograph for a moment, then she cocked
her head and turned to look at Doggett.

"You still don't believe in a lot of this, do you?" she
asked.

"I believe what I can see," he replied. "I believe what I
can touch. I don't go in for fairy tales."

"I remember," she said, nodding. "And yet, you are a Godly
man, aren't you? I remember that, too, from Lebanon. Or has
that changed?"

"It hasn't changed. And I know where you're going with this,
but --"

"It must have been hard to keep your faith," she suggested.
"When you lost your son, I mean. It must have been hard to
understand. It must have been hard to believe, when you were
so directly confronted with evil."

"I don't ask God to explain Himself," Doggett answered
stonily. "I don't expect that. He has His reasons for th'
things He does. I don't have to understand." Yet there was
that twinge of doubt, deep inside -- the one that had always
been there, ever since that horrible day --

"I asked you before if you wanted to see Luke again." Her
hand moved, so quickly that it was only a blur and a
flicker, and then there was an automatic pistol in her hand.
"I can make it happen. I don't even need this to do it." She
ejected the clip, checked the action, and then Doggett
watched, mesmerized, as she twisted the gun's barrel back on
itself, bending it as easily as if it were made of saltwater
taffy. Doggett stared, remembering once again that night on
the pier in Baltimore, when he'd seen this woman
eviscerated. Was there any explanation for all this that
made *sense*? Any explanation at all?

"Just say the word, John," she murmured, "and I'll send you
to be with him." She dropped the gun on the desktop. Then
she raised her hand to caress the back of his neck, and
Doggett realized that whether he could explain it or not,
she could snap his spine with one flick of the wrist.

As if she were reading his thoughts, she went on, "It
wouldn't even hurt. Well, not much, and not for long."
Doggett did not respond, and she added, "You do believe
Luke's waiting for you, don't you? Over on the other side?"
She inclined her head towards the monitor. "You don't need
to resort to fairy tales, do you? Because you know you will
eventually be reunited by a power greater than any of us.
You have no doubt of that. Right, John?"

Doggett felt the pressure building within him. His gaze
flicked to the computer screen, then away. He wanted to say
yes -- he wanted it so bad. The loss of his son ate at him,
tore at him, every God damned day. One way or another, he
wanted it to be over. He remembered -- dear God, he
remembered it all. Being dragged out of bed by a little boy
eager to show off his new found bike riding skills. That
would never happen again. The future he'd dreamed of when
Luke was born was never going to happen.

But he couldn't do it. He still had too much to do. He had
responsibilities. People were depending on him. But if he
couldn't go to Luke, was it really possible that Luke could
come back to him? Could Shannon really make that happen? He
couldn't believe that, either. He didn't *want* to believe
it. It went against everything he'd thought was true, and it
threatened the precarious peace of mind he'd crafted for
himself so painstakingly. And yet, he *had* experienced it,
first hand. He'd died, and been brought back to life....

At last, Shannon withdrew her hand from his neck and
laughed.

"I'm not going to kill you," she said, her voice brisk and
businesslike. "It might solve your problem -- or it might
not -- but it certainly wouldn't solve mine." She turned her
attention to the image of Jeremiah Smith once more. "But I
want you to remember one thing. *His* power was very
concrete. Very real. There are people walking around today,
alive, because of the power he had. You don't have to fall
back on faith, or mystical mumbo jumbo, for him to save
Luke. You know that, whether you're willing to admit it to
me, or not."

She leaned a little closer, and her voice dropped to a
whisper. "He wasn't the only one who was given that power,
John. There are others. And some of them work for us."

-x-x-x-x-x-x-

THE MALL
WASHINGTON, DC

At least the snow had stopped. Kersh supposed he should be
grateful for small favors.

Unfortunately, that didn't make the footing any easier. He
cursed under his breath as he slogged through ten inches of
freshly fallen and drifting snow. Maybe he should let
Follmer go first, and break the trail. But that would be an
admission of weakness, and Kersh was unwilling to concede
anything to the little weasel. Not when the stakes were this
high.

"Looks like they're already here," Follmer commented. Kersh
nodded, but didn't speak. He didn't want the younger man to
know how winded he was becoming.

There were two people waiting for them, a man and a woman.
The man, of course, was C.G.B. Spender. Kersh grinned in
wolfish pleasure as he remembered the day the man's identity
had been disclosed. So much for the fucking Shadow. Lucky
for Spender that that wimp ass Mulder had no instinct for
the jugular. Kersh knew what *he* would have done with a
coup like that --

Suddenly Follmer was pushing past him, forcing his way
through the snowdrifts in the direction of Spender and his
companion. What was it with that boy? Sometimes Kersh
wondered if Follmer had any common sense at all. What was
the God damned hurry?

Oh, shit.

"Agent Reyes," Kersh said, hoping his own expression didn't
betray exactly *how* surprised he was. "This is most
unexpected."

"Monica -- are you okay?"

That was Follmer, of course. He was still moving towards
Reyes, apparently intending to take her into his arms -- but
then she glared at him, and he backed off. Good boy, thought
Kersh. We'll make a grown man out of you yet.

"Deputy Director Kersh," Spender said. "Thank you for being
so punctual." He took a hit on his cigarette, and nodded at
Reyes. "Agent Reyes had quite a busy night last night, and I
offered her a ride back to town."

"I'm sure she appreciated it." Her expression said
otherwise, but that was fine with Kersh. The longer she
stayed angry, the fewer problems she'd cause.

"It was no trouble. I was heading in this direction."
Another lungful of smoke. "Now, down to business. Ms.
McMahon said you have something you wish to discuss."

"Gibson Praise," Kersh said. No point in beating around the
bush. "I believe you have some interest in him?"

"Perhaps." Puff, puff. That damned cigarette, Kersh realized
-- the son of a bitch used it to divert attention from his
body language and facial expressions. Spender continued, "Do
you have him?"

"I know where he is."

"Really." The other man dropped his cigarette into the snow,
and reached for another. "I think you're bluffing."

"Can you afford to take that chance?" Ignorance is weakness,
Kersh reminded himself. He needed to keep that at the top of
his mind if he wanted to win this round.

"There are other pieces of the game in play," Spender noted.
A match scritched, then flared. "Gibson is no longer as
valuable as he once was." Another drag. "What's your
interest in the matter? What do you want?"

"What are you offering?"

"You called this meeting, Mr. Deputy Director." Spender
nodded at Reyes again. "I brought her along as a sign of
good faith. But you can't expect me to show you all my
cards, based on an unsupported claim like that."

Kersh nodded. It was a buyer's market, and he'd known it
from the start. Still, it had been worth a try.

"I want information," he said. "I want information, and I
want access. I'm tired of being left holding the bag." He
stepped closer to Spender, penetrating the man's veil of
smoke. "I've been scrubbing your toilets for more than three
years now...without question, without complaint. I deserve
to be let in."

"Do you?"

"Yes, I do." Kersh saw Follmer stir slightly out of the
corner of his eye, and prayed the idiot had enough sense to
keep his damned mouth shut.

"You don't have Gibson Praise," Spender asserted. "If you
did, I'd know it."

"I never said I did," Kersh replied, striving to keep his
voice low and even. There was an opening here. He could feel
it. An opening and an opportunity. He'd been right to push
things.

"You have nothing," Spender said. He smiled an ugly smile,
and flicked his cigarette away half-smoked. "But if you want
to play the next round, so be it. Find Gibson Praise. Bring
him to me. In the meantime, you can have a seat at the
table." His smile broadened. "Until you fail, of course." He
glanced at Reyes, then at Follmer. "I think you'd best get
her indoors. She's had a hard night. Now if you'll excuse
me, I've got another meeting to attend."

Spender turned to go, and Kersh took the opportunity to
review the conversation in his mind. In all, he decided, it
had been a success. The implied threat at the prospect of
failure didn't bother him. By the time he'd found Gibson --
or conclusively proven that he was dead -- he would have his
foot firmly in the door. The access he'd just been granted
would be its own reward, and could be bartered into greater
things. He turned to Follmer -- only to see that the younger
man had moved to stand in front of Reyes.

"Monica ... Monica, are you okay?"

Kersh shook his head in pursed-lip disapproval, but he did
not intervene.

"I'm fine, Brad," she said. Her tone was flat, and did not
invite further questions. Follmer, though, persisted.

"What happened?"

"I don't want to talk about it." She started walking,
brushing past Follmer and Kersh and heading for the street.

"What do you mean you don't want to talk about it?" Follmer
hurried after her. Kersh followed, curious to see how their
encounter would play out. "Monica --"

"Look, Brad, I don't remember." Reyes was walking steadily,
pushing through the snow as if it weren't even there. "I
just don't recall. The last thing I remember is the
investigation at St. John's. After that, nothing -- until
about an hour ago, when I woke up in *his* car." She jerked
her chin at the rapidly receding figure of C.G.B. Spender.

"I see," Follmer replied. He was silent for a minute, and
Kersh wondered if he was actually going to be smart enough
to let the matter drop. Then the young A.D. said, "Monica,
why don't you let me take you home? You're tired. You've
obviously been through a lot."

"Fuck you, Brad," she said, in the same flat, emotionless
tone. She wheeled around to face him. "Do you think I'm
stupid, as well as blind? You just set up a meeting with
*that* man, and you expect me not to notice?" She shook her
head. "I'll see you at work, because I have to -- but that's
the *only* place I'll see you."

And with that, she turned and walked away.

-x-x-x-x-x-x-

OLD TAVERN, VIRGINIA

Mulder exited I-66 at Old Tavern to make a quick stop at his 
apartment, before rendezvousing with William and Tara in 
Stratton Mills. He expected to be in and out in ten minutes, 
maybe less, and he'd make up the lost time on Highway 50. 
Traffic was light today, almost nonexistent; people were at 
home with their families, opening gifts, celebrating the 
holiday. 

A wave of envy swept over him, making him grind his teeth. He 
longed for a moment or two of normalcy with his own family. 
Waking up on Christmas morning next to Scully. Having 
breakfast at her kitchen table -- *their* kitchen table -- 
with William between them in his highchair. Visiting the in-
laws, watching "It's a Wonderful Life," knowing that Scully 
and William were happy and safe.

William *is* safe, he reminded himself. Tara had said they 
were both fine. 

Even so, he wanted to get to them. And he would have driven 
right on past Old Tavern, if not for the fact that he needed 
to collect his gear. He couldn't risk leaving behind anything 
that might be used to identify and track him. 

Like Scully's e-mail. Shit, he'd been a fool to print that out 
and keep it. He knew at the time he should just hit the delete 
key. But he hadn't. He couldn't bring himself to erase her 
words forever. //I'm scared for you, Mulder. And for William. 
The forces against us are unrelenting. But so is my 
determination. To see you again. To regain the comfort and 
safety we shared for so brief a time. Until then, I remain 
forever yours ...Dana.// 

God, he missed her.

Against his better judgment, he'd tucked her e-mail into his 
suitcase with his clothes. The same damn suitcase he'd been 
living out of for seven long months. It felt more like seven 
years since he'd last hung a shirt in a closet or kept his 
socks in a drawer. But there was no point in unpacking, 
settling in anywhere. He needed to be able to pick up and go 
at a moment's notice. 

He wondered where he'd end up next, after he delivered William 
safely to Scully. Not home, that was for sure, although he 
ached to be with them. He worried constantly about their 
safety. Especially now, after the attack at the church. 

But he was still a danger to them. And he couldn't live with 
himself if they were harmed because of him. 

The truth was he could help them most by connecting the dots 
between Roush, the Navy Yard, and William. There'd be time for 
normal family life later. There had to be. 

Mulder steered Reyes' Opel into the snow-filled drive of his 
Old Tavern hideout. He turned off the car's engine and 
eyeballed the house through the windshield. Everything 
appeared as he'd last seen it. 

He stepped from the car.

If Doggett and Reyes had been here last night, there was no 
sign of them. Snow filled the walk, obscuring any tracks they 
may have left behind. Where the hell were they, anyway? Tara 
hadn't said a thing about seeing them. And several calls to 
Doggett's cell phone had produced nothing more than a repeated 
"out of service area" message.

Mulder climbed the front steps, breaking trail through the 
fresh snow. On the small landing, he paused to peer through 
the glass in the front door. The inside hall was empty. 
Sliding his key into the lock, he discovered the door was 
already unlocked. He pocketed his key, and drew his gun. The 
.38 felt light in his hand and he missed his old service 
weapon, but those days were gone and the stubby Walther was 
better than nothing.

Gently, Mulder pushed the door inward, letting it swing open 
on its hinges before he entered the narrow hall. His eyes went 
immediately to his own apartment at the far end. The door was 
open. He moved noiselessly toward it. Positioning himself to 
one side, he peered into the room. 

Someone was standing beside the bed, facing the bureau. A 
woman, with long, wavy hair. She was slender. Medium height. 
She wore blue jeans and a colorful wool jacket with a bold 
Indian pattern stitched into the fabric across the back. There 
was something familiar about the way she stood, the slope of 
her shoulders, the color of her hair.

He raised his gun and aimed its barrel at her back. "Don't 
move," he said. "I'm armed."

She stiffened, but didn't turn. "Who are you?" she asked. Her 
voice sounded watery, as if she'd been crying.    

"I was about to ask you the same question. How did you get in 
here?"

"The door was unlocked. C-can I turn around?" 

"Slowly. Hands where I can see them."

She nodded and lifted her arms. Her hands were shaking. He 
noticed her nails had been chewed down to the quick. She 
turned to face him.

Jesus Christ! Samantha? 

No, this wasn't possible. This was someone who only looked 
like Samantha. A clone, like the ones he'd seen years ago in 
the Women's Clinic in Maryland. Or maybe an alien/human 
hybrid. Or a Bounty Hunter disguised as his sister. 

Sam was dead. He'd seen the proof with his own eyes. He'd 
seen... What had he seen? Her ghost? Her spirit? 

The woman lowered her hands. "F-Fox?"

"Don't! You are *not* my sister," he growled, causing her to 
flinch. "Tell me who you are. What are you doing here?" He 
kept the Walther aimed at her chest. 

"I *am* your sister, Fox. I-I've been looking for you." Her 
chin quivered. Her eyes were red-rimmed and teary. "I have so 
much to tell you, so much you *need* to know. Please, please, 
believe me."

Not a chance in hell. He'd been duped too many times into 
thinking he'd found his long-lost sister. Samantha was dead. 
She'd been taken by the Walk Ins. He'd made his peace with the 
idea a long time ago, and there was nothing this impostor 
could say or do that would convince him otherwise. 

She blinked away her tears and sniffled. "I-I need to blow my 
nose," she said in a small voice. She sounded just the way Sam 
had when she used to come to him for comfort when their 
parents argued. 

His chest tightened and he swallowed past a lump in his 
throat. 

"There are some paper towels...next to the hot plate." He 
pointed to the bureau with a lift of his chin, keeping his gun 
leveled at her heart. "No sudden moves."

He watched her pivot and carefully tear a paper towel from the 
roll. She used it to wipe her eyes and then blow her nose. She 
turned to face him again. "You were always good to me, Fox. 
Back when Mom and Dad used to fight and..." She let her voice 
trail off and lifted her thumb to her teeth. A nervous habit 
she evidently shared with the real Sam. He guessed she must 
have bitten too hard when she pulled her thumb away, a 
startled look on her face. A drop of blood sprouted around her 
torn nail. The blood was red. 

"I can prove I'm your sister," she said, meeting his eyes with 
her own. She hid her bleeding thumb inside her fist and 
squared her shoulders.

She appeared determined, yet achingly vulnerable, just the way 
he remembered his sister. An image of Sam came to him, dressed 
in her ballerina costume, six years old and ready for her 
first dance recital. She'd worn the same expression of false 
bravado as this woman. The same look she'd had when he taught 
her the proper way to hold a baseball bat because she'd wanted 
to play ball with him and the other kids on the Vineyard. The 
bat had been nearly as tall as she was, but she had kept at 
it, her lip caught between her teeth as she 
concentrated...just like now.

"Fox, remember how you used to walk me to Mrs. Wadleigh's for 
my dance lessons? You were embarrassed to be seen with a girl 
in a pink tutu, remember? But you carried my toe-shoes." A 
smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. "Remember Danny Bell? 
He played shortstop."

"Right field."

"Yeah, right field. Remember when I hit him in the head with 
the ball? Gave him a black eye!"

Danny had been sure Sam wouldn't connect with the ball. He'd 
laid down his glove and closed his eyes. Boy, was Danny 
surprised when she walloped it, sent it straight for his head. 
Mulder could still hear the crack of the bat, followed by 
Danny's startled yelp.

Funny she mentioned Danny. He'd just been thinking about those 
all-day ball games--    

"We were playing a board game the night I was taken," she 
said. "Do you remember?"

"I don't trust my memories of that night."

"Well, I trust mine. We were playing Stratego. You were Blue 
and I was Red. You were always Blue."

It was true, he had always played Blue, because Red went first 
and he wanted to give her the advantage.

"The board began to shake," she continued. "Remember? Then the 
lights went out. And I could hear someone outside the door. 
Somehow I knew they were coming for me. I was so afraid." She 
paused, and closed her eyes. Keeping them shut, she continued 
to speak. "All these years...all these years I've been praying 
to see you again, hoping you'd somehow find me, or I'd find 
you. And now I finally have." 

She opened her eyes. Two tears slid over her lashes and onto 
her cheeks. She ignored them, and reached into her pants 
pocket. "I saved this, to give to you when we met...to prove 
to you who I was, in case you didn't recognize me." She 
withdrew something from her pocket, held it out to him. He 
blinked, thinking it might not be real, that it might vanish, 
just as she had disappeared 28 years ago. 

But it didn't. It was there, still resting in the well of her 
palm. A game piece -- his blue Flag. 

He let his gun arm drop to his side. "I never found it after 
you left. I looked for it..." He reached for the piece, took 
it from her, held it firmly between his fingers. It was 
scratched and dirty; its tiny silver flag was barely visible 
anymore, worn almost completely off. Had she rubbed it between 
her fingers the way he did now? 

"I used to hold it and think of you," she said. "It made me 
feel closer to you, and it kept me from going crazy. It was 
proof, you know? Proof that what happened that night was real. 
And proof that I had a brother out there somewhere, who once 
loved me enough to always pick Blue so that I could go first." 

Was she telling the truth? He wanted it so badly. He hadn't 
realized, not until this minute, how very much he still hoped 
to find her alive.

"Why didn't they take it from you?"

"I don't know." She frowned. "Fox, I'm scared. It's not safe 
here."

Mulder was torn, almost literally torn in two. On the one 
hand, William and Tara were waiting, and he desperately wanted 
to get to them. He *needed* to get to them. They were both 
counting on him, and so was Scully. On the other hand, if this 
woman truly was Sam...

He suppressed a reflexive shake of the head. No. He couldn't 
let himself believe this; it was too dangerous, and he'd been 
fooled on too many occasions in the past. At the same time, he 
couldn't just dismiss the possibility out of hand -- he 
couldn't ignore the chance that *this* time it was really 
true. And besides, even if she were an impostor, she might 
still have valuable information -- information that could 
eventually allow him to return home to Scully and William.  
Either way, he couldn't just leave her here.

He'd take her along, he decided, while promising himself to 
take everything she said with a huge grain of salt. An uneasy 
compromise, negotiated between his heart and his head -- but 
one he thought he could live with.

He rolled the game piece into his fist and focused his 
attention back on the woman who might -- just might -- be his 
long-lost sister. "I've got somewhere I need to be. Come with 
me." 

-x-x-x-x-x-x-

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