The flight, of course, was delayed. That was no real surprise, considering that more and more often, every flight seemed to be delayed. It might have meant something to him, if he had any concept of time. It simply didn’t matter to him anymore. Everything had fallen apart, all of the plans and the intrigue, all of it. Now so many were dead, dozens if not hundreds of critical facilities destroyed. And all for what? A shell game, a pack of lies.
He stared at his reflection in the mirror, the dark circles around his eyes a testimony to every hour and minute of silent, damning introspection spanning every night. He couldn’t remember the last time he slept straight through, no cares in the world. It had to have been years, ever since he had learned the truth. The truth that even most of the men who had died in its name had been unaware of. A truth that he had learned at the cost of his hopes for the future, keeping him constantly on the run, looking over his shoulder, praying that one man could uncover enough to figure it out, fight the future. But of course, it hadn’t worked out that way. And now all of the carefully laid out plans were in disarray, fragmented, leaving the chances for humanity’s salvation broken like so many dashed dreams.
He drained his glass, the burn of the alcohol down his throat a reminder of the fate he had escaped. As he gestured towards the bartender for another, he saw a movement behind him at one of the tables. He stiffened, waiting for the moment that yet another assassin would seek to end his life. But instead, he saw the man at the table regard him with interest, and then stand, walking in his direction, a newspaper under his arm.
The man was average in just about every way. Brown hair, cut relatively short, fair features. Maybe just over six feet tall, ever so slightly overweight, yet every movement spoke of efficiency and purpose. Still, there was nothing threatening about the man. The only striking feature about him was his eyes, a startling green that seemed to capture whoever was under their gaze. And that, he mused, marked him as dangerous.
The man regarding him with a slight smile, and then slid onto the stool next to his, sliding the paper down the bar in front of him. “Interesting article in the paper.”
The man’s voice was melodic, almost hypnotic, and he forced himself to look at the paper rather than look up into the man’s face. He read the familiar words with a sinking feeling in his stomach.
“Interesting, isn’t it?” the man continued, as if he had answered. “Dozens of bodies found incinerated on an Air Force base in West Virginia. They say the heat had to have been enormous.” The man leaned in close, as if to say the next words for his ears only. “Hot enough, they say, to melt steel.”
He turned towards the mysterious man. “Why are you telling me this?”
The man smiled. “Because you would appear to be consumed by the thought of it, the implications.”
“What do you know of the implications?” he asked, his voice a hiss from his anger.
“More than you might think,” the man answered. “And less than I would like.” Before he could respond, the man added, “You’ve been running for a very long time, haven’t you? Shifting loyalties like the wind, trying to find the right allies without telling them just how much you know.” He gestured towards the paper. “And now, where will you go? Whose fortunes will you cling to, to survive what is coming?”
He stared at the images of the dead, cast in black and white, and considered his options. If this man had been a player in the game, a part of the project, he would have known. Chances were good that this was someone taking advantage of the aftermath of the Syndicate’s failure. And if that was the case, then he was as good an ally as anyone. It took just a moment to decide.
“You have an offer?” he asked, finally looking the man in the eye again.
“Oh, yes, I would think I do,” the man replied, and he gestured towards his table. “Shall we talk?”
He stood, a bit unsteadily, but his mind was clearing as the possibility of hope sobered him. “First, your name.”
“Of course,” the man said, holding out his hand. “Thomas McShane.”
He replied in kind, even though he was certain that McShane already knew who he was. He took the hand firmly, flashing McShane a confident smile.
“Alex Krycek…”
****
CROWNE PLAZA HOTEL
ROOM 316
CLARK, NJ
NOVEMBER 17, 2001
11:33 AM
The knock on his door was the first sound he heard, and he glanced towards the alarm clock with a groan. Sure, it was relatively late in the morning, but there were few sounds that a human being wanted to wake up to less than someone pounding on the door, demanding attention. Especially after a very, very late night of drinking far too much cheap whiskey.
Mulder stumbled towards the door, only belatedly realizing that he wasn’t wearing his pants. “Hold on, damn it!” he called as the pounding resumed, and he quickly retrieved the rest of his clothes. Running his fingers through his hair, remembering a similar set of circumstances several months before in his old apartment, he peered through the eyehole.
“Dr. Luder?” his visitor said, and Mulder recognized the slight grin, as well as the voice. He pulled open the door, and Mitch looked him over with a grimace. “Jesus, what the hell happened to you?”
“What the hell happened to you, too,” Mulder muttered, waving the genetic biologist into the room.
“Let me guess,” Mitch said as he secured the door. “Another message from Scully?”
Mulder nodded. “Apparently things have been rough for them, ever since…well, you know.” He slumped onto the bed, running his hands roughly over his face, trying to stir some semblance of life to his features. “Scully hasn’t been too bad off, but it’s been a lonely time.”
‘I thought she was working with those new agents,” Mitch said, choosing one of the chairs by the window.
“Agent Doggett and Agent Reyes were reassigned through the New York City office for a while, under a new assistant director named Follmer. Doggett got in some kind of mess, shooting a suspect or something. So he wound up on suspension for six weeks, while Monica was left dealing with Follmer. And according to Scully, they used to work together and had a thing going a few years ago. So she had her hands full.”
“Which left Scully by herself,” Mitch repeated. He shook his head. “Hell of a time for that.”
Mulder sighed, eyeing the coffee machine, and then thinking better of it after his stomach grumbled in protest. “Agent Doggett came of suspension last week. He took off for Colorado or something for a few days, Scully didn’t really say much about it. But then they were working on a case in West Virginia, and things got a little hairy.”
“Everything all right though?” Mitch asked with genuine concern.
“Appears to be.” Mulder gestured in the rough direction of the nearby shopping center. “But I still hate hearing it. And having a liquor store in walking distance doesn’t help.” He sighed again, and then glanced at Mitch. “All right, I know better than to think you were checking on me, so what is it? Any word from our mystery man?”
“Nothing,” Mitch said with a frown. “But I’ve been working steadily on samples since we relocated. And I think I might have something more for you.”
“Like what?” Mulder asked, trying to remember what they had already discovered.
“Well, the best samples we have are from the most recent infection, since that was the active viral strain at the time that your body was frozen,” Mitch said.
Mulder was still a bit uncomfortable hearing that particular description of the source for the samples, but it couldn’t be avoided. “The last thing you told me was that there was some kind of oddity with the DNA samples you tried to run.”
“The analysis failed due to an unusually high metallic content,” Mitch confirmed. “I did the logical thing and tried to get a sample with less content, but it proved impossible. The stuff’s in every sample I’ve tried to take…muscle, skin, blood. Doesn’t make a difference.”
“Were you able to determine the source of the metal content?” Mulder asked, his mind slowly clearing as his interest was building.
“To an extent, yes,” Mitch replied. He shrugged as he thought of the best way to explain it. “There is a virus involved, but that part is fairly primitive. It’s what makes the virus itself that is the real problem.”
“Which is?” Mulder pressed.
“Some kind of microscopic machines,” Mitch said with a slight chuckle. “I have no better way to explain it. From what I can gather, they take the basic building blocks for the virus right from the infected organism, and that’s how it becomes tailored to the individual. I’ve never seen anything like it.” Then he saw Mulder’s expression. “What? Have you heard of this before?”
“Yeah, something like it anyway,” Mulder said. “A few years ago. It’s called nanotechnology. When I was in the FBI, a good friend of mine, another assistant director, was infected with the things. Someone used them to blackmail him. These things, or things like them, were in his blood.” Mulder held out his hands, as though holding something small and rectangular. “There was a controller, and when these things were activated, they would start multiplying, building up in the bloodstream.”
“What happened?” Mitch asked, somewhat alarmed.
“Well, my friend survived, and the man who was behind it is dead,” Mulder said with a shrug. “Nothing about it since then. But you’re saying that these things are part of how this super-soldier virus works?”
“It appears that’s the case, but I need to work on it some more,” Mitch agreed. “Hopefully, with a little time, we can figure out how they are controlled-” He stopped at the sound of another knock at the door.
Mulder jumped to his feet, gesturing towards the door as he slipped into the bathroom. A moment later, at the second knocking, he saw Mitch walk past with an expression of foreboding on his face.
“Who is it?” Mitch asked, and there was the sound of laughter outside his door.
“A friend,” the stranger answered. “One who would prefer to meet the people he has been paying a great deal of money for.”
Mitch hesitated, and then he opened the door. Mulder heard their visitor walk in, and he saw a rather unassuming man walk past the bathroom door, a smile on his face. Before he could react, the man looked in at him, an eyebrow raised.
“Perhaps, Mr. Mulder, you would like to come out as well?”
Mulder flashed him a hesitant smile, and then looked up at Mitch, who was shrugging behind the stranger. “Not much point in staying in here, is there?”
“Not really,” the stranger agreed. “Besides, we have a great many things to talk about.”
Mitch gave Mulder a nervous glance. “I can’t wait to hear this.” He turned to the visitor. “You know us?”
The stranger smiled. “Oh, yes, Dr. Kasten, I know who you are. I know everything about you and your background. The same applies to Mr. Mulder, and the others I have selected. Are we finished with questions confirming the obvious?”
“How about your name?” Mulder asked, suddenly wishing that he were armed. That had always been a comfort during similar situations in the past.
“Of course,” the man said, and then he stepped forward, offering his hand.
“My name is Thomas Gabriel McShane.”
****
WASHINGTON, DC
NOVEMBER 26, 2001
7:45 AM
Doggett stared at the photo in the case file again, tilting his head to one side, and then gave up, turning the folder to one side in the hopes that it would make more sense. He was sure that there was nothing in the photo but a very fuzzy picture of what appeared to be an antelope climbing a tree. Shaking his head with a smirk, he reached across the desk for another file, and then sighed as he saw a photo that was equally questionable.
As soon as he heard the sound of heels on the tiles of the hallway, he cracked a smile and turned towards the noise. “You actually got these from official channels?” Monica stepped in, her expression somewhat blank, and walked over to her desk as though she had never heard him. “I mean, this one looks like some kind of alien porn ad. Mulder would have loved it.” Then he realized that Monica was standing by her desk, staring at it silently with her back to him.
He tossed the file onto his desk, standing. “Listen, Monica, I know that you wanted me to stop by the new place over the weekend, but this has been a bit of a weird time, you know? The holidays always get to me. Maybe I could come over this weekend, bring some more Polish sausage?” She seemed to deflate a little, and he realized that it might not have been the best topic of conversation. There had been a few awkward moments that afternoon, after all, and the last thing he wanted was to make more out of it than necessary.
“Oh, I finally got the suit clean,” he resumed, stepping forward, tapping his suit jacket. “And the tie and shoes, too. Kobold did a real number on them, but as it turns out, there’s this little dry cleaning place next to the fish market on...” She leaned over onto her desk, and now he was truly concerned. He took her by the shoulders, and realized that she was shaking. “Monica, what’s going on?”
In response, she turned around to face him, looked into his eyes, and promptly vomited all over his jacket and tie.
Doggett looked down in shock, and then looked up at Monica with an expression of horror. “Jesus, Monica!”
He stepped back, but not before she caught him again, grabbing his sleeves and resting her head against his chest as she retched onto his pants and shoes. Doggett rolled his eyes as he placed his hands on her shoulders, absently patting her lightly on the back until she was done. And then she was running out of the room for the hallway, her hand over her mouth. He stood staring at the wall for a moment, and then looked down at his sopping clothes.
“Son of a bitch...”
****
KROGER FOOD MARKET
3:03 PM
Doggett stood next to the shopping cart, staring at the slip of paper in his hand, then back up at the shelves. He looked to one side, then the other, then back to the shelves. He was still standing there when another man walked up, took position next to him, and proceeded to assume the same expression of wonder and distaste.
“Hey, Agent Doggett.” Craig turned to him with a weak smile. “That’s a good look for you.”
Doggett looked down at his wrinkled shirt and dirty jeans, and sighed. “Yeah. Bit of a quick decision to get changed this morning. Had to grab the stuff in the trunk.”
“Long weekend?” he asked, turning back towards the shelves.
“Not by choice, no,” John replied, letting out another long sigh, rubbing his eyes absently with the tips of his fingers. “Monica came in this morning with the stomach flu. Pretty bad case. Since I had to get changed after she shared her flu with me, if you catch my meaning, I figured that I would pick some things up for her, drop them off.” He gestured towards the pile of tissue boxes and flu remedies in the cart, and then noticed that Craig’s cart held many of the same items. “Angel?”
“Oh, no,” Craig replied, shaking his head. “Angel never gets sick, or so she says.” He grinned as he turned to Doggett. “Elyssa. We were halfway through some Celine Dion song, that one from ‘Titanic’, when she’s about to rip into the chorus, and well...” He gestured in a way that was more than familiar.
“And now you’re here, same as me,” John concluded.
“Well, at first we naturally assumed it was the choice of song, you know?” Craig said as he glanced at his own list. “So we decided to play something that would never make somebody sick to their stomach.”
“Lyle?” Doggett mused, as he picked up one of the packages on the nearest shelf, checking it against the list.
Craig eyed him, and then shook his head. “Uh, no, Dave Matthews. She loves ‘The Space Between’.” He sighed. “Made it about halfway through the second line.”
Doggett held back a laugh, reminding himself that Monica wouldn’t appreciate being a punch line while she was feeling deathly ill. He tossed the package back onto the shelf. “What kind are you looking for?”
Craig shrugged, glancing at the list. “An economy pack of the ultra thins with wings.”
“Maxis, no wings,” Doggett muttered. He showed Craig the list. “She underlined the ‘no wings’ part.”
Craig rolled his eyes, and then he pointed to one shelf to his left. “Whole bunch of yours over here.”
“And I think this is what you’re looking for?” Doggett said, nodding towards the shelf. Then he looked at the shelf again. “Hold on. How many damn brands are there, anyway?”
“Not important,” Craig answered, picking one and reading the information on the back. “Picking the right one, now that’s the challenge.” He snorted as he placed the package back onto the shelf. “What do you think, store brand?”
Doggett chuckled. “Go for it, but Monica, I have to work with every day, so I don’t think so.” He scanned the price tags for the most expensive brand, and grabbed two. “Just to be safe,” he added, after noting Craig’s wary expression. The younger man nodded, and proceeded to grab a couple as well. They conferred for a moment, and after seeing that they were generally looking for the same items, decided to strike off together in search for the rest of what they needed.
“So,” Craig said, as they rounded a corner, “how are things on the X-Files these days?”
“Mostly a joke, to be honest,” Doggett replied, scanning the shelves as they walked. “After I got back from Boulder, we had this case down in West Virginia, a real twisted type, let me tell you. Turns out that this guy basically found out all about us on the Internet, decided he could use us to make his escape.”
Craig frowned. “Really. Did it work?”
Doggett swallowed once, stopping as if to look at a can of what appeared to be condensed milk. “Yeah. Yeah, it worked.” He smiled slightly, and then resumed walking, leaving Craig more than a little unsettled.
“And since then?” Craig asked, trying to change the conversation a bit.
“Not a damn thing,” Doggett replied. “Oh, we get case files, possible leads on paranormal activity, but it’s all the kind of crap that the boys at the regional offices pass down. A lot of those turn out to be stuff even Mulder wouldn’t have paid much attention to. Clippings from tabloids, outright hoaxes, and my personal favorites, the ones that read like something out of the Penthouse letters page.”
Craig grimaced. “And they send you this stuff?”
“It’s times like these that I actually respect Mulder the most,” John mused as he tossed a bag of spearmints into Craig’s cart. “They send us this stuff because they get a kick out of it. Hell, sometimes I think I recognize the handwriting. And Mulder put up with that, year after year, and even after getting all those answers, he still wanted it. He still wanted it when he walked out the door for the last time.” He laughed. “You know, the guy still gets mail? It’s even weirder than you would think.”
“You read his mail?” Craig asked with a grin.
“What? No!” John said, and then he smiled. “Monica does.”
Craig burst into laughter. “Oh, man, I just got this picture of her reading some of those alien sex memoirs.” He composed himself when he noticed a woman staring at him with a look of distaste.
“Oh, she loves that stuff,” Doggett said, as though it should have been obvious. “Don’t forget, she’s the one who used to work in New Orleans on ritual crime. They used to run into all kinds of kinky stuff down there, along with the doom and gloom.”
“Yeah, she seems like an interesting woman,” Craig said, a little more seriously. “Approaches the dress code a little liberally, too, which doesn’t hurt.”
“Never noticed,” Doggett deadpanned, and then he stopped. “All right, chicken soup. Can’t lose with this one.” He grabbed a can of Progresso.
“Uh, hold on,” Craig said, placing a hand on Doggett’s arm. “The list says ‘organic chicken soup’.”
“It’s chicken,” Doggett said, as though Craig was a small child with extremely limited understanding. “What’s to know?”
Craig nodded. “Yeah, I know, chicken is chicken, but Monica wrote down ‘organic chicken’. Underlined the ‘organic’ part.” He pointed to that on the paper.
“Right,” Doggett breathed, and then he scanned the shelf as he placed the Progresso back. “And I don’t suppose you can tell me the difference between organic chicken and plain old chicken?”
“About $2.50 a jar,” Craig answered, pointing to the one brand of soup with the word ‘organic’ clearly marked on the label.
“Yeah, figures,” Doggett muttered, and then he turned to Craig. “All right, besides the cereal, I’m just about done. You?”
Craig scanned the list, nodding, and then groaned. “Tofu. Where the hell do they keep tofu in a grocery store?”
Doggett glanced up at the signs hanging from the ceiling, and then nodded towards one across the store. “Probably by the cold cuts.”
“If you say so,” Craig said with a shrug. They started off in that direction. “So basically, what you’re saying is, you’re bored out of your mind.”
“Two cases, Craig,” John answered. “Two cases since April, since William was born. And one of them wasn’t even technically an X-File. Just turned out that way.” He shook his head ruefully. “When it took all that time to get the investigation started, I figured that would have been enough, once it got started. I’d be able to do something about it all, you know, that’s what mattered. But that was over in days, and then it was just a huge mess with OPR once the report was made public...never mind what happened in September.”
Craig hesitated, licking his lips, and then asked the inevitable. “Dana mentioned some things to Angel a while back, but still, what happened up there, John? What happened with that suspect?”
“Nothing to tell,” Doggett said, but the tightness in his voice betrayed the truth. “Monica and I were reassigned under AD Follmer for an operation in the city, a manhunt on a suspect in Brooklyn. A lot of guys I knew from my time on the force were killed and wounded when the towers went down, some guys I met last time I was up there. When the time came, things got a little intense. Follmer decided I stepped over the line, hit me with a six week suspension.” He paused, then shrugged. “Nothing more to say.”
Craig got the hint. “And then you went to Boulder and saw that woman...what was her name? Mo Dannah?”
If anything, Doggett’s expression became even more remote. “Yeah. Spent some time up there.” He cleared his throat. “Tofu’s in the second case on the left.”
Craig glanced over, but even as he reached down for the package, he found himself very worried for his friend. John was like a surrogate older brother, as far as Craig was concerned, and after everything John had done for him after the mess in Jersey, he felt he owed the man. To see him so conflicted, obviously dealing with a lot of confusion and pain, cut Craig to the bone.
“Been a hard year, hasn’t it?” he murmured, as he slowly stood.
“It’s had its moments, yeah,” Doggett agreed. They turned in the direction of the cereal isle. “Let’s just say things were less than heavenly while I was on suspension, and leave it at that. So coming back from all of that, after the city, just to have another guy messing with my head...”
“That case in West Virginia,” Craig said, remembering his earlier misgivings about that. “Sounded a bit familiar, the way you described it.”
“This guy, Professor Kobold, he had Dana and Monica completely convinced that he was possessed, able to reach into our heads, figure us out.” Doggett cracked a smile. “He even told me that Monica was interested in me, and I was running after Dana, trying to be Mulder or something. When all he was doing was playing games, casting doubts based on things we didn’t even realize was public information.”
“Except?” Craig asked, hearing the slight hesitation in John’s voice.
“Except maybe I should have known that much, from what happened with Thomas,” Doggett explained. “McShane had been researching Mulder and Scully for years. Who knows what kind of resources he might have had? Real and unreal.”
They stopped in the cereal aisle, but before Doggett could start looking for Monica’s brand, Craig stopped him. “What else? Come on, I can hear it in your voice. There’s more.”
Doggett sighed, rolling his eyes. “I don’t know, it’s probably nothing.” He saw Craig’s determined expression, and finally gave up with a sigh. “All right, it was right after Monica and Elyssa switched places. Nice of Angel to suggest that, by the way.” Craig smiled, but the expression remained. “So I stopped by to see if I could help out, and the next thing I know, Monica’s hugging me and getting all emotional, like she was just glad to see me alive.”
Craig raised his eyebrows and whistled. “Did you try to find out what was going on?”
“Hell, no,” Doggett said, turning towards the shelves of cereal. He picked up a box of Harmony. “One of these days, I’m going to ask Dana to explain the difference between nutrition for men and nutrition for women.” He tossed it into the cart, and they started for the cashiers. “Anyway, I wasn’t about to open a can of worms if I could help it.”
“Sounds like something’s going on that’s she not telling you about,” Craig said finally, after giving it a moment of thought.
“Nothing work related,” Doggett said with a nod, “and that’s the part that makes me wonder.”
Craig sighed, letting his usual grin return. “Well, it can’t me anything too important, if she’s not telling you what it is. So why worry about it?”
“Yeah,” Doggett said, his worried expression giving way to a smile. “Yeah, it’s probably nothing.”
****
“I can’t John about it,” Monica repeated with a sigh, slumping her head back into the pillows. “Not a chance. He would never believe me, let alone understand why it bothered me so much.”
Angel looked at her with an expression of infinite compassion, holding out the cup of water with her typical casual grace. “But you said it yourself, Monica. He’s got the right to know what was going on that day, if only to make sure he’s not worrying over what he might think it was.”
Monica eyed the cup warily, then forced herself to lean forward enough to sip from it. “I made a complete idiot of myself. This isn’t going to help change his opinion of that.”
Angel smiled slightly. “Well, you have a point there.” Monica groaned, and Angel sighed. “You have to admit, just in terms of what you learned about the existence of alternate realities that intersect with this one, that he should know what happened.”
“But then I’d have to tell him that he chose to die,” Monica countered, grimacing at the way her stomach lurched as she tried to shift in her bed. “And that I was the one to pull the plug.” She slumped back again. “Besides, it never actually happened, so he’ll just say it wasn’t real, pretend that it never meant anything.”
“It did to you,” Angel pointed out. She saw the conflicting look in Monica’s eyes. “Consider the fact that when you pulled the plug, there was an effect on time and space. You were so rooted in the moment that he was there with you, the quantum confusion of the entire process collapsed based on your unconscious desire to return to that moment.” She smiled. “Hell of a way to verify the role of the quantum observer, wouldn’t you say?”
“Sounds like something Dana would appreciate more than John,” Monica muttered.
“What does?” The two women turned to see Scully standing in the doorway, a bag of extra blankets and other such sundries in her arms. “Thought I would bring a few things over, on the way to the academy,” Scully explained, stepping into the room and sliding the bag onto the nearest stack of half-emptied boxes. “How are you feeling, anyway?”
“Been two hours since her last episode,” Angel replied, and then she regarded Scully with worry. “It’s been a while since you stopped by the shop. I was getting worried, Dana.”
Scully looked away slightly, her expression evasive. “Things have been a little crazy lately. Getting settled at Quantico, dealing with everything that happened since September.” She shrugged. “Missing Mulder a bit more than I thought I would.”
Angel’s expression became, if possible, even more worrisome. Monica noticed that there was something more to it than just what Scully had said, but with her head still spinning from the lack of hydration and nutrition, she couldn’t get a good handle on what it might be. “Dana, are you sure…?”
“I’m fine,” Scully said, but her tone of voice betrayed that she was anything but fine. Still, it was clear that she had no intention of talking about it. “Getting anything to eat?” she asked, turning back to Monica.
Monica went pale. “No, no, please don’t mention food.” She sighed, and then looked at Scully with alarm. “Dana, you shouldn’t be here…William…”
Scully seemed to find that amusing, and then she explained, “We’ve gotten our flu shots already, and to be honest, I don’t think we have to worry about that.”
Angel’s expression became a little more wary. “Why do you say that?”
“I don’t think William’s ever been sick,” Scully said with a slight smile, and then she frowned. “I mean, the doctors said to expect him to be sick a few times the first year, but so far, not even a sniffle.” She shook her head. “I haven’t been all that sick either, if you don’t count the visits to the hospital and the morning sickness. The usual, I guess.” She shrugged. “So I didn’t think it would cause any trouble to stop by.”
“Thanks,” Monica said, and though she tried to hide it, she saw that Scully noticed that she was struggling with a spiking fever. Scully looked her over with concern. “I’m fine,” Monica whispered.
“In and out of the worst of it still,” Angel countered with a sigh, looking up at Monica with worry. “She ought to get some rest.”
“I’ll go,” Scully said, and then waved off Angel’s quick objection. “I ought to get home anyway. My mother is probably ready to kill me by now.”
“Dana,” Angel said, standing after checking Monica once more. “You don’t have to go. It’s been a while. Maybe we could talk about you and Mulder?”
“No, thank you,” Scully said curtly, moving towards the door. “Stay with Monica, I’ll see you at the shop soon. I promise.”
Angel regarded her carefully, her expression ever so slightly worried. “All right, Dana. Another time, then.” She smiled slightly. “But you’re all right?”
“Fine,” Scully muttered, flashing an insincere smile. “Feel better, Monica.”
Listening to Scully leave, Angel sat back down next to Monica, watching the woman’s chest heave with more and more strain as the fever began to rise. This is how it had been all day, moments of clarity broken by recurring symptoms. It was normal enough, but there was an element of it that worried Angel all the same. Suffering was not something she enjoyed seeing among those in her care.
****
Doggett tossed the last bag into the back of the car. “So what’s the story with you and Angel, anyway? Getting anywhere with that?”
“Not even close,” Craig replied with a groan. He leaned against the car with a huff. “We hang out, she’s at the club all the time, but besides that? You’d think she lived halfway across the world.”
“Well, I’d give you advice,” John said with a sigh, looking up at the younger man with a frown. “But the way I left things in Boulder, well, you might want to ask someone else.”
Craig frowned. “You didn’t screw it up with Mo, did you? Come on, John, she was perfect for you! Yin and yang, all that.”
Doggett winced, shaking his head. “No, no, nothing that bad. Close, though.” He forced a smile. “What the hell does Angel do, anyway? She spends an awful lot of time hanging out with friends.” He stood, facing Craig. “I think Dana said something about a place down in Georgetown?”
“An antique shop, yeah,” Craig replied, but it wasn’t with the usual easy grin.
“Antiques, and in Georgetown?” Doggett asked with a doubtful expression. “What, her family have money or something? There can’t be much demand for antiques.”
“Doesn’t quite work that way,” Craig answered with a nod. “She works on a barter system, you could say.”
“Barter system?” Now John’s tone of voice was practically dripping with skepticism. “That doesn’t pay rent.”
Craig held up his hands in mock defense. “I have no idea where her money comes from, and frankly, I don’t think I have a right to ask yet.” He dropped his hands, and then looked John in the eye. “You know, I have to ask, even though I’m not sure I should...have you ever met Angel before?”
Doggett let out a small guffaw. “Damn, I think I would remember that. No, the first time I saw her was in the club.” He paused for a moment, and then shook his head. “You know, there is something...”
“Yeah?” Craig said, curious. “What is it?”
Doggett answered gruffly, as though he didn’t want to show that it was a difficult memory. But Craig had seen John go through something much more harrowing than a simple question, and so he waited for Doggett to answer. “You said that she works on trade, barter and all that.” He sighed. “I don’t remember Angel, that’s for sure, but there was this place in the city a while back. It was...it was right after, you know?”
“After your son,” Craig said, and that was enough to confirm it.
Doggett nodded anyway. “I stopped by Tommy’s station one night, when I was still...dealing with it, I guess. Things weren’t going well with Kate, and Tommy knew us both from way back.” He stared at the ground for a moment, as if trying to clear his mind of the painful images from the past. “There was this place. A few blocks from the warehouse in Long Island City, near Courthouse Square. There was this little diner under the stop for the 7 line, and just on the other side of the stairs up to the station was this pizza joint. Above that was this little shop, you would have missed the sign nine times out of ten, you know what I mean? Nothing fancy, especially compared to some of the other places on Queens Boulevard.”
Doggett sighed. “Anyway, it was late that night, Tommy and I had been drinking at the bar across Jackson, this Irish pub...and he convinced me to grab the 7 back towards the house. I don’t know, maybe I wanted to avoid the inevitable for a while, but I saw the sign for the pawn shop, and I went inside. Stumbled, actually, and it was a wonder the lady didn’t kick me out the moment she saw me.”
“What happened?” Craig asked, sensing that Doggett needed some urging to continue.
John smiled, a sadness in his eyes. “I just looked around. The stuff wasn’t what you would have expected for that part of the city, not back then. Lots of jewelry, the kind of stuff you wouldn’t want to display, not if you were open that late. But some of it was nice. Personal items, things that had to have been hard to part with.”
He sighed heavily, looking at Craig. “The woman who ran the place was nice enough, an older Irish woman. Long black hair, brown eyes, a typical colleen, you know? But the thing I remember was that she didn’t take money. She only took things on exchange, like you said Angel does.”
Craig thought about that, and then shrugged. “You wind up getting anything?”
“No,” Doggett said softly, and then he forced a smile. “But I guess that answers your question. That woman certainly wasn’t anything like Angel.”
“Doesn’t sound like it,” Craig said with a grin. But as the younger man said his farewells and walked back to his car, Doggett couldn’t help but wonder why the question bothered him as much as it did. Remembering Monica and her flu, he pushed it into the back of his mind.
****
The world was a haze, a shifting of shadow and light, and every sound seemed to carry from the distance, no nearness to anything. She looked towards one side, then towards the ceiling, but nothing would remain still in the liquid fire of her thoughts. Even they were elusive, transient.
She turned to her other side, and her eyes noticed something that didn’t move, and she recognized that someone was watching over her, a figure bathed in light. It seemed as though the figure was there, yet not there, blurred around the edges, yet timeless eyes looked back down at her with compassion and grace. She felt like weeping, and a small sound escaped her throat.
“Hush,” the figure said, and the woman’s voice was clear and penetrating, comforting her at the core. “Rest now, Monica. Everything will be all right. I’m here. I won’t let anything happen to you. I promise.”
Monica closed her eyes, but she could still feel the presence close to her, the anchor in a world of swirling fire.
****
PHARMACEUTICAL RESEARCH INSTITUTE
RARITAN, NJ
NOVEMBER 27, 2001
8:52 AM
Mulder looked down into the operating theatre through the windows high above, staring as Mitch carefully adjusted the position of the machines surrounding the still-frozen body huddled in the center of the room. When Mitch was finished, Mulder glanced back at the screen on the wall. The outline of the primary metallic vertebrae was perfectly centered on the screen. Mulder turned back towards Mitch and gave the man a thumbs up. Mitch nodded, and prepared to leave the confines of the carefully controlled environment of the cleanroom.
He heard the soft and now familiar footfalls behind him, and he didn’t bother turning around. Instead, he continued staring at himself through the window, his mind full of doubt and foreboding.
“Amazing, isn’t it?” McShane whispered, stopping next to Mulder at the window. “A snapshot of time. A future time, if we are to believe the evidence in front of our own eyes.”
“Looks can be deceiving,” Mulder muttered. He nodded towards the body below. “I still don’t think you’ve proven that it’s really me down there.”
“Just because the DNA is difficult to examine?” McShane countered, and then he chuckled. “Oh, no, my friend, that is most certainly your body down there. What we have finally proven, these last couple weeks, ought to be convincing enough.”
Even if Mulder had little desire to agree with McShane, it was all too true. “So you’ve proven that the nanites are a more refined version of the ones used against my friend Skinner.” Mulder turned to McShane with a smirk. “Which, by the way, you have yet to explain. I am still waiting for you to tell me how you managed to retrieve the medical files of an assistant director of the Bureau.”
“It’s not as hard as you might think,” McShane replied with a calm smile. “It doesn’t matter, really. The nanites in your system are many stages ahead of the technology you uncovered. We have already examined the control system that I had acquired.”
“Harping on that again?” Mitch said, walking into the room, wiping sweat from his brow. “I thought we’d gotten past this days ago.”
“Not quite,” Mulder said, his eyes never leaving McShane’s face. “I have plenty of reasons not to trust anyone.”
McShane shook his head, laughing. “Some things never change!” He tapped the screen with the image of the internals of the primary vertebrae. “Fact: the nanotech virus that was developed was an evolution of a self-repairing system of unknown origin. Fact: that virus is also an evolution of a much more crude system that, as you admit, had the capability of self-replication and construction by unknown means. Fact: the human body does not in and of itself contain the raw materials necessary to facilitate that self-replication, let alone the construction of interlocking structures within the circulatory system.”
“I don’t deny any of that,” Mulder replied with a roll of his eyes. He pointed to the screen. “But I still don’t understand how you think that this points to what you say is coming.”
McShane rolled his own eyes. “The control system for the crude nanotech, the type used against your former assistant director, was basically a held-hand computer with one main difference...a specialized computer chip that was able to interpret complex commands very similar to human thoughts.” He tapped the screen again. “At the center of this structure is a computer microprocessor with very similar design, only far more efficient.”
“What?” Mulder looked more closely at the screen, finally noticing the object revealed at the exact center of the symmetrical structure. “How the hell did you know that would be there? And how do you know that’s what it is?”
Mitch cleared his throat. “It was a fairly straightforward assumption, once we saw the connection between the nanites.” He shrugged when Mulder glared at him. “The nanites are able to build, reconfigure, sure, but something has to give the nanites the commands.”
Mulder took in a deep breath, and then relented. “All right, I suppose that makes sense. So where does this take us?”
McShane smiled, his expression warm, but something in his voice betrayed his pleasure at having been vindicated. “It gives us more than a few answers, Mulder. For instance, you told us that the others with these modifications, super soldiers or whatever else they may be, had the ability to reconstitute themselves from little more than this single structure.”
Mulder nodded. “Billy Miles. He was crushed into dog food. But he came back in one piece.” He gestured towards the screen. “How does this explain how that was possible?”
“These nanites are able to construct something out of nothing, in a sense, by converting energy into matter.” McShane smiled at Mulder’s disbelieving smirk. “Why not? If a system is self-repairing, it has to be able to channel and direct energy towards a complex, higher goal. Something that small requires a guiding intelligence. This processor somehow mimics or amplifies the natural processes of the intelligence mated to it.”
Mulder licked his lips, nodding. “Hold on. You mentioned something about this before. To Agent Doggett.”
“What?” Mitch asked, looking at the other two men with confusion. “What are you talking about?”
“Thomas believes that intelligence is non-corporeal, that the body is just a tool of the intelligent mind. He also knows quite a bit about physics, and how matter is really just a form of energy, when you get down to it.”
Mitch raised an eyebrow. “Say what?”
McShane waved it off. “The theory is there, but for now, let’s just take it at face value. The more sophisticated the intelligence, the closer it comes to learning how to manipulate matter at more and more elementary levels. This is just the beginning of that process, a technological means of something that some intelligences learn to do organically.”
“Like the aliens that can shapeshift,” Mulder said, following the logic. “And the black oil. Some kind of alien intelligence using the fluid as a medium.”
“You see the direction this is going,” McShane replied with a smile, tapping the screen. “Mitch has already determined that the retrovirus that you were exposed to several years ago, apparently within the green blood of the supposed alien shapeshifters, as you call them, is a more sophisticated version of the virus created by the nanites to affect the change into one of the super soldiers.”
Mulder sighed, seeing it clearly now. “Mitch said they were looking for a way to evolve the virus into something airborne, but that wasn’t the only thing they were trying to do.” He laughed, shaking his head. “They created an organ in the back of the neck, in the same place that the central control processor is. They created an organic version of the nanotechnology.”
“Exactly,” McShane agreed with a grin.
“But that begs the question,” Mitch said, finally catching up. “Making the virus airborne would be impossible if you needed to introduce these nanites to build them from inside. These machines aren’t capable of becoming airborne, from what I can tell.”
“Not reliably, no,” McShane replied. “That would require that the virus itself be generated by the human body, which would require that the body create it naturally.” He smiled. “Only that doesn’t fully explain the reason why they needed to make it organic, because there are others reliable means of dispersion.” McShane scratched his chin. “Any guesses?”
“You mean you don’t know already? What a shock.” Mulder flashed McShane a smile. “I thought you were the one holding all the cards.”
“If that were true, Mulder,” McShane replied calmly, “then why would I need to bring you all together?”
“Damn good question,” Mulder shot back. “There’s a reason I don’t trust you, McShane. I remember what you did with Agent Doggett, how you toyed with him from day one. You know a lot more than you’re letting on.”
“Maybe,” McShane admitted. He leaned towards Mulder, and there was something in the look in his eye that caught Mulder cold. “But understand, Mulder, that helping me means helping yourself. How far do you think you would get, should any of what you have been told get back to your Dana or dear, sweet John? They are the bait, Mulder. The distraction. While the ones who want your current body on a dissection tray watch them, we can work freely. Never forget, my friend, just what you stand to gain by working with me.”
Mulder took several deep breaths, looking McShane in the eye. Then he looked away, back towards the screen. “I just want answers.”
McShane smiled widely, a wolfish grin. “Then let’s find them.”
****
WASHINGTON, DC
DECEMBER 7, 2001
9:57 PM
They sat surrounded by screens. Screens with moving images that covered, in a given day’s worth of commands, nearly every square inch of the city and its suburbs. There were gaps, of course, but those were to be expected. Sooner or later, as the public became more and more convinced of the need for watchful eyes, those gaps would be covered. And then they would be ready to move into the next stage.
The man with the short brown hair watched the image on his screen with an impassive face. His superior had told them that the orders had been given, that it was time to begin tightening the noose. The initial reactions of the subject were positive, indicating that the controls were firmly in place. Natural emotional impulses had been slowly intensified. The subject would be ready within a month to do anything that they desired. The subconscious was their plaything.
Still staring at the screen, watching the subject as she stepped into the internet cafe. For some time, she had been out of sight, taking refuge where she could not be seen. But just as the terrorist attacks a few months earlier had vastly widened the ability of the project to tap into the existing surveillance, hiding their own fart more advanced systems within the public eye, so had her emotions been perfectly suited to their goals. Just a nudge, a push, and she had diverted her attentions from refuge to isolation, and the desires and needs that came with utter solitude.
The man was still watching the screen when his hand, unbidden, reached for the pen. Unaware of his own actions, he began writing notes onto a small slip of paper. When he was done, he slid the paper into his pocket, not once reacting to his own strange behavior. The act complete, he went back to his silent observation.
****
DECEMBER 10, 2001
7:21 AM
Monica walked into the basement office with a smile on her face. It had taken nearly two weeks for her health to return to normal, but now she felt better than ever. Over the weekend, she had actually felt well enough to go to the club and see Angel’s Flock play. To her surprise, Walter had been there, quietly enjoying himself. It was good to see him finding some solace, with the bitter storm of constant competition from Brad making all of their lives difficult.
The first thing she noticed was John, sitting in his chair, staring at the ceiling. He had to have heard her walking down the hallway, because he held up a hand for silence. He nodded to himself, and then turned to her, a mischievous glint in his eye.
“390,” he said with a grin.
“I’m sorry?” Monica replied, regarding him with a quizzical expression.
“There are exactly 390 holes in that,” he pointed just above his desk, “ceiling tile. Counted it twice this morning already.”
Monica looked up, scanned the ceiling for a moment, and then shook her head. “Nope. 391.”
“What?” Doggett looked up again. “How the hell do you know that?”
“Because I counted the holes in every single ceiling tile on those days when you were on suspension,” Monica growled back. She stepped over to her desk, and found two pencils sitting on her chair. “What’s this?”
“They fell out of the ceiling while you were out on sick time,” Doggett replied, smiling. “That’s what got me counting in the first place.” He tilted his head to one side. “What got you started?”
“One of these fell on my head,” Monica replied, holding up the sharpened pencil. “Hurt like hell.” She slid into her chair, and then scanned her desk. “Nothing?”
“Oh, plenty, but still not much worth talking about.” Doggett held up two file folders. “More of the same. Some guy keeps writing Mulder about, and I quote, ‘aliens giving me rectal cancer through the repeated insertion of anal probes’. Need I go on?”
“Please don’t,” Monica said, shaking her head, her eyes turned heavenward. “How can we have all these files, and not one case to look into?”
“I tried sending in a request, based on one of these files at random,” Doggett mentioned. “Our request was denied.”
“This is insane,” Monica blurted, her patience still thin from the boredom of recovering from her illness. “It’s been almosy a year, John! Almost an entire year, and we have nothing to show for it. I mean, what did Mulder and Scully do all those years?”
“Well, there’s William.” Doggett dodged the pencil that was aimed at his head.
“I’m not even going there,” Monica added. She glanced at the ceiling. “No wonder there were pencils in the ceiling.”
“Best I can figure,” John said, walking around his desk and leaning on the cabinet nearest to Reyes, “they spent about half of every year dealing with the legal and procedural consequences of whatever they were running across. Do you know how many times they were called in front of OPR? We look like angels next to them.”
“Very bored and leashed angels,” Monica countered. She rubbed her eyes. “Sooner or later, we have to actually follow up on something, or they’re going to close us down. You know that.”
“Question is, what do we investigate?” Doggett gestured around the office.
“Tell you what,” Monica said with a grin. “Whatever comes across the desk tomorrow, we pick something and do what we can with it.” She smiled. “Hey, it might even be an excuse to drag Dana out of that classroom of hers.”
“That’s a different question,” John said with a frown. “When was the last time she came out to the club?”
“Not sure, to tell you the truth,” Monica replied, also frowning. “Angel seemed to mention that she wasn’t coming around the shop all that often either.” She noticed something in John’s expression. “What?”
“Nothing,” he replied. Monica knew better, but she decided that it was the wrong time to press. “We still on for tonight?”
Monica raised an eyebrow. “I’m sorry?”
“We were all meeting at the club,” he reminded her. “Your return to wellness party, or whatever the hell Craig called it?”
Monica stood, nodding her head with a grin. She placed her hands on Doggett’s shoulders, looking him in the eye.
“You’ve got a way with words, John Doggett.”
****
NATIONAL MALL
WASHINGTON, DC
2:16 PM
The man with the short brown hair walked briskly along the side of the reflecting pool. His only interest was making his way from one office to another, where the records of the surveillance cameras were kept and maintained. Some of the records were studied and analyzed to gauge public opinion or the effect of intervention with the government process, but others were nothing more than the evidence of their own actions. Direct or indirect, analysts would determine the possible paths forward and the impact on the project.
The latest projections running through his mind, he never recognized the movement of his hand to his pocket, pulling out the slip of paper that he had planted there several days earlier. He tossed it to the ground next to a bench, where another man sat watching as people rushed by, seemingly disinterested in everything around him.
The man with the short brown hair continued on his way, still intent on his own purposes. Five minutes later, the man on the bench reached down and retrieved the crumpled slip of paper, sliding it into his jacket pocket. Standing, he waved to a young woman coming his way. She rushed up and kissed him, speaking excitedly, never aware of how her fingers slid into his jacket and pulled out the paper, tucking it into her purse.
****
TRIPPING BILLIES
ALEXANDRIA, VA
10:41 PM
John and Monica waved to Walter as they walked up to their usual table. They were regulars at the club now, dropping by a couple times a week, usually coming together as a circle of friends to discuss whatever crossed their minds. Most nights it was more of the same, frustrations over the lack of real work or the pressures of dealing with the additional stress of constant alertness since the events of September. On less frequent occasions, they discussed the doubts and regrets that plagued them.
This night was a calm night, and so Skinner was nursing a bottle of beer while staring wistfully at the stage as Elyssa sang her heart out, her voice mixing with Craig’s as they ran through their latest set list. Doggett took a seat next to Walter’s left, and Monica to his left, across from Angel. As usual, she was subtly holding court over them all. On the other side of the table were two empty seats.
As John gestured to the bartender for a beer, Monica sat back in her seat, closing her eyes as the music swirled around them. It was a love song, pure and simple, though there was a certain sadness and acceptance within the words. They had played the song before, and just as it had been all those other nights, Elyssa sang expressively while Craig took a turn at the piano, his eyes never straying from Angel as he played.
I would know your face
In this wild enchanted place
Come to me and be still
And we’ll dream of the wild horses
Running free with the wild horses
From my dream I awake
Just one wish I have to make
If I hold you again
In these arms when the war is over
Will you stay when the war is over
For a lifetime and then
Until the world begins again
Well now I know it’s the price of fire
To love you like I do in these chains
With the pleasure and the pain
It’s nothing more than the price of fire
To feel so good and so afraid
I touch the flame and I can’t look away
Angel sighed, breaking Monica from the spell, and she noticed the mixed expression of disapproval and sadness in the young Asian’s eyes. Angel looked up, feeling Monica’s gaze, and shook her head as the music played on.
“He doesn’t understand,” Angel replied to her unspoken question.
“He loves you,” Monica said softly, and she was surprised by the depth of her own emotions. Perhaps she understood Craig’s position a little too well. “Why does that upset you?”
“I’ve seen it time after time,” Angel said with a knowing smile. She sighed again, looking towards Craig. “I help them find direction, light in the darkness, and sooner or later, they love me for it. It never works.”
“Why?” Monica asked, amazed that the lovely young woman would have such poor luck in love.
“Because their own situations, and my hand in changing those situations, well, it leaves them with a bit of an idealized version of me that they adore.” She shrugged. “The reality is never good enough, I suppose. Or too much to handle.” She saw Monica’s confusion, and added, “Being with me is not always a simple thing.”
The words sounded arrogant, but there was nothing of that in Angel’s voice. Instead, her sadness seemed to be as much for herself as for Craig, as though she had every awareness of what she was missing. She remembered that Dana had mentioned how much of Angel’s family was barren. She watched as Angel turned back towards Craig’s intent stare, as Elyssa brought the song to a close.
I can hear your voice
Now I’m sure I’ve made my choice
Take this heart where you will
And we’ll be gone with the wild horses
Just you and me and the wild horses
Well now I know it’s the price of fire
To love you like I do in these chains
With the pleasure and the pain
It’s nothing more than the price of fire
To feel so good and so afraid
I touch the flame and I can’t look away
Elyssa stepped back, out of the light, as the band continued, lingering over the slow and almost tortuous coda. Monica saw a bit of Angel’s sadness reflected in Craig’s expression as he turn to look down at the keys, and though she couldn’t be sure, she thought she heard him hesitate slightly as they brought the song to a close.
“Amazing,” Skinner said, shaking his head with a grin. “Heard that song about ten times, and it still blows me away.” He turned towards Doggett. “Hell of a voice.”
“Damn right,” John replied with a nod. “Not bad looking, either. Little young for you, though, isn’t she?”
Skinner laughed, muttering a curse under his breath, and then pointed a finger at John. “Let’s not get onto that topic. Neither of us want to get that drunk tonight.”
John smiled, clinking his bottle against Walter’s. “Amen to that.” He looked across the table as Craig slid into the seat next to Angel, giving her a somewhat lingering look, even though her own attitude hinted at vague disinterest. “Sorry we missed most of that.”
“You’ve heard it all before,” Craig replied with a shrug. “Besides, might we hope that your lack of punctuality means you actually have a case to work on?”
Doggett rolled his eyes. “You consider a holiday checkpoint three lights back to be an X-File?”
“Depends on what they’re checking for,” Craig pointed out.
“Looking a little distracted, Craig,” Monica teased, glancing towards Angel. Angel glared at her for a moment. “Something on your mind?”
“Plenty, actually,” Craig said with a sigh. “The usual, I guess. But I tried to get in touch with Kirsten again this afternoon. Still no answer.”
“Hold on,” Doggett said, placing his bottle on the table and glancing at the others before continuing. “I thought you were going to visit them a couple months ago. I know we’ve been a little distracted with other things lately, but are you saying you never went back up north?”
“There were other worries for a while there,” Craig reminded John, but then he shook his head. “That much worry and tension would have been difficult to filter out, and I need to be at my best if I want to stand up to Thomas again.”
“So you’ve heard nothing? Since what, a year ago?” Monica looked towards Doggett with a frown. “Well, I’m a little nervous about that myself.”
Skinner looked around the table. “Am I missing something? Just how much could McShane have done in seven months without someone noticing, especially with the kind of climate they’re dealing with up there these days?”
“More than you know,” Craig answered with conviction. “And make no mistake, this kind of distraction is exactly what he would use to expand his influence.”
“Expand it how?” Skinner pressed. “What exactly are we talking about here?”
“I can’t even guess,” Craig replied, and then he thought about it. “It would be a matter of using his influence to allow himself a bit more mobility. People wouldn’t act differently, exactly, as much as they would turn a blind eye towards whatever he was doing. Depending on how far he wanted to take it, how much he wanted to gamble?” Craig whistled, shaking his head. “He could have half the state doing whatever he wanted, and they would never know it.”
“Jesus,” Skinner whispered, looking towards John and Monica. “No wonder you’re so worried about what he’s up to.”
“Worse than most,” Doggett admitted. “But I’d like to think that if there are others like him out there, somewhere, they would want to keep him in check. Even if just for their own self-preservation.”
“Don’t count on it,” Craig countered. He leaned back, his expression harried. “In all the time I spent working with Thomas, learning what he could do...I never once got the impression that any of the others like him were willing to get in his way. I think he scared them, the way he was willing to act so publicly.”
“Tell you what,” Doggett said, tilting his bottle towards Craig. “I’ll keep an eye out for cases in that general direction, anything that might let us get close enough to Jersey and Cranford to contact Kirsten and check up on the family. You won’t have to worry about facing Thomas that way.”
Craig smiled, letting his usual grin finally break out from behind his sullen mask. “I would really appreciate that. Honestly, that would be more than I could repay.”
“Don’t mention it,” Monica replied, completely in agreement with John’s offer. “The least we could do, really.”
“Just need to get a case,” Skinner reminded them with a mournful chuckle. “I’ll tell you, I don’t think we’ve had a dry spell like this in years. Always seemed to be something coming through channels in the old days, before they started putting all these roadblocks and puppets in the way. None of these deputy directors and Follmers, just me, Mulder, Scully...where is Dana, anyway?”
They all looked at the single empty seat at their table, a chair that had been vacant more often than not in the past several weeks. It brought a nervous calm over them all, and Monica found herself feeling how Scully’s absence left them diminished somehow. She remembered the feeling she had gotten those months ago, when they had first come together in this place, how they were bound together through their common friendships. Now that circle was broken, and it was like a cancer spreading dissension through each and every one of them.
In her heart of hearts, Monica knew that it was just the beginning.
****
SOMERVILLE, NJ
DECEMBER 11, 2001
8:47 AM
The young woman chattered with her mother about her visit to Washington, describing in detail her latest extended weekend with her fiance. He had only been accepted as an aide to the local Congressman a few months earlier, and while the distance was difficult, she found that her schedule allowed for the occasional vacation.
Her father walked by, grabbing a cup of coffee from the counter, and as he turned to listen with a wide smile on his face, the young woman reached into her purse and pulled out a crumpled slip of paper. Without pausing in her account, she handed it to her father, who slid the paper into his shirt pocket as he gulped down the contents of his mug.
He listened for another moment, still smiling, and then kissed his wife and daughter, grabbing his briefcase as he headed for the door. While he was already late for his meeting, Dr. Simon Laufer was confident that his day was going to be a good one.
****
PHARMACEUTICAL RESEARCH INSTITUTE
RARITAN, NJ
9:57 AM
Mulder looked around the table at the other attendees, tapping his armrest nervously with anticipation. In the past two weeks, Simon Laufer and Tatiana Smoleeva, their Antarctica colleagues from September, had each arrived to add their perspective to the ongoing research. Simon had turned out to be more than a little skilled in computer systems, specifically controller software protocols. Tatiana had been brought in to study the ice still clinging to the body in the frigid cleanroom. Together, they had uncovered even more interesting aspects to the mystery.
McShane, the one that had engineered the discovery of that mystery, stood at the head of the table. He glanced at the clock as Mitch ran in, a pastry in his mouth, a stack of papers under his arm. “Only an hour late.”
“Sorry,” Mitch mumbled, swallowing a bite of the danish quickly. “Last minute results.”
“Of course,” McShane replied, giving the man a semi-tolerant smile. “Let’s begin, shall we?” He flicked the switch on the wall, and pressed a button on his laptop. The projector rendered the image against the wall behind him, showing a copy of the internal imaging of the primary vertebrae of the subject. “Mr. Mulder has been asking for a meeting like this one for several weeks now, an explanation of what we have uncovered to date.” He nodded towards Simon, who stood and made his way towards McShane. “Dr. Laufer will begin.”
“We have all seen this, yes?” Everyone nodded, and he pointed to a small structure in the exact center of the vertebrae. “This is a microprocessor, not unlike the kind that you might find in your computer at home. The difference is mostly one of size and overall complexity. This chip is very likely the central command processor for the nanotech drones dispersed throughout the rest of the body.”
He advanced to the next image, a more detailed and magnified look at the chip itself. “The architecture of the processor is extremely similar to the control processor used in the more primitive version of this same technology. That processor was retrieved from a small, palm-sized controller.” Simon pulled a small glass vial from his pocket, placing it on the table. A small cylinder of metal gleamed in the low light, trapped inside the container. “Mulder, I think you have seen this before, or something like it?”
Mulder didn’t need to look more closely at the object. “Yes. This resembles the implants taken from several dozen abductees over the past several years.” He rubbed his cheek as he added, “In fact, it looks exactly like the one my partner, Dana Scully, had implanted in the back of her neck.”
Simon nodded. “The manufacturer of the chip is Japanese, as it turns out. We could discuss the possible manufacturers, but I’m not sure it matters at this stage of the game.” The image on the wall displayed the back of a human neck, with the processor chip implanted in the approximate location that Mulder had described. “The abductees that Mulder has mentioned had the implants inserted into the neck without their knowledge. A comparison of the location of the implants and the location of the processor within the organometallic vertebrae, as shown here,” he advanced the image, “demonstrates that the locations are effectively identical.”
“Meaning what, exactly?” Mitch asked, echoing Mulder’s own question. Mulder, however, had already guessed the answer.
“Both the implants and the central control processor have functions that mimic the formation of memory,” Simon explained. “More than that, they have similar restorative functions, though that aspect is exponentially more effective in the more evolved processor in the vertebrae. The implants can sustain health and repair tissues, to the point where the abductee becomes completely dependent on the implant to maintain normal brain function. Without it, the very act of memory formation leads to the immediate and cascading spread of cancerous tissue.”
“Wait a second,” Mulder said, interrupting with a frown. “I’ve heard the part about the mimicking memory formation before. But I was under the impression that the implants recorded the memories of the abductees. From what you’re saying, it was acting on the brain itself...creating memories, altering them?”
“Even erasing them,” Simon confirmed with a nod. “In fact, given time and sufficient baseline, whomever had control over the function of the implant would be able to alter the behavior of the subject in question...emotional response, in particular. If they wanted someone to forget an inconvenient truth, all it would take is a means of interpreting whatever data had been recorded, then sending the appropriate commands.” The image on the screen now showed a typical MRI of a human brain. “The areas affected, here and here,” he pointed them out on the screen, “would be damaged. The process is fairly primitive, compared to the evolved version. The restorative functions of the implant repair the damage over time.”
Mulder shook his head. “This is a little too convenient.” He tapped the back of his neck. “I know that the super soldiers were created using a virus, because Scully used anti-virals and blood transfusions to reduce the effect, postpone it.”
“Sorry, no dice,” Mitch replied. “We’ve already had it confirmed by Simon that the origin of that virus is the nanites in the infected host. You can kill the virus, but then they just rebuild the virus from scratch, tailored specifically for the victim.” He smiled weakly. “No offense.”
“None taken,” Mulder muttered. He looked back at Simon. “You’ve confirmed that?”
“Completely,” Simon answered with a nod. “At some point, the victim is implanted with the control processor and a minimum population of nanites. They do the rest, rebuilding the body from the inside out until the new and improved body is created from the old. With, of course, advanced levels of controls built in, to allow a more sophisticated level of influence.”
“I don’t believe it,” Mulder said with a shake of his head. “I’m supposed to be doing whatever they want, under their influence? Why don’t they just command me to show up for my vivisection, if it’s that easy?”
“Because at first, as you know, those structures weren’t yet in place,” McShane interjected. “The physical manifestations began before the mental restructuring. And you’ve already admitted that you were experiencing a lack of direction before you left Washington, indicating that you were awaiting orders from those behind the project.”
“Fine, whatever,” Mulder replied with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Why don’t they call me back now?”
“For the same reasons that they haven’t traced your little love letters to ‘dearest Dana’ yet,” McShane replied evenly. “Because I won’t allow it. I’ve kept those connections severed since the moment you received my first message through your former superior. You remember, the one who was infected by the most primitive example of this technology.” McShane smiled. “You think that I contacted you through Skinner by chance?”
Mulder paled, seeing the implications. All of Doggett’s accounts of McShane and his abilities were suddenly running through Mulder’s mind. “How much do you know?”
“More than you think,” McShane replied, his expression unreadable. “Do you still doubt that this is the truth, the explanation behind how the implants work, the intended effect?”
“I’m not convinced,” Mulder admitted, and then shrugged. “You apparently know my history on the X-Files. Agent Doggett said as much. You tell me why I should believe you.”
“Mulder, consider how many of the cases you have investigated over the past ten years prove that the implants were used to control behavior and alter memories. The first case you investigated with Scully in Oregon. Duane Barry. For that matter, Scully herself. Which brings me to the most important example.” He nodded to Simon, who advanced the image on the screen. It was a newspaper article from early March 1998, attributed to the Washington Post.
“Several dozen alleged abductees were drawn to Skyland Mountain, Virginia, where they were killed. The remains suggested an unknown biochemical reaction resulting in intense heat.” The screen shifted to a similar article, this time from the Philadelphia Inquirer, some days later. “And the same at Ruskin Dam. I believe your Dana was one of the survivors of that incident, was she not?”
“Yeah,” Mulder said, remembering that terrible feeling, pulling up to the scene at the bridge with Skinner, not knowing if Scully was still alive. “Yeah, she was there. She was drawn there.”
“By those with the ability to use the control aspects of the implants to their own devices,” McShane pointed out. “In all other ways, the victims were exactly the same. Only they felt an overwhelming, undeniable desire to convene at these sites, where they were systematically eliminated. Until, of course, some other power intervened.”
“You made your point,” Mulder acknowledged. He pointed to the screen, at the images of the charred remains. “You said there was a reason why those incidents were important. Might I assume it has something more to it than Scully’s personal involvement?”
McShane nodded, and gestured for Mitch to continue. Simon returned to his seat, and Mitch took his place at the head of the table.
“With Simon’s help, we tracked the rough evolution of the technology behind the original virus,” Mitch explained. “We already guessed that it went back about 50 years. If we are to believe Thomas at all, this all goes back to the self-repairing fragments of metal discovered in the wreckage at Roswell in 1947.”
“Alien technology,” Mulder muttered. He turned to the others. “I was told several years ago, by a source connected to the secret projects, that they had recovered the technology at that point.”
“Whatever it was, it was more advanced than the nanotechnology we’ve uncovered in your own body,” Mitch confirmed. “The earliest versions of attempts to recreate that technology came soon after that. The results eventually became the nanotech with the handheld controller. That progressed to the point where the implants became sophisticated enough to evolve from simple functions of behavioral control to a complex system able to create a genetically tailored virus within an infested host.”
The screen advanced to the image of a DNA molecule. “This virus is specific to the individual, and when the body is severely damaged, it can be repaired, but only to the same state it was in prior to the injuries. That’s the limiting factor.” The image progressed to a different molecule, with sections of the configuration marked and enhanced.
“This is the retrovirus dormant within your system.” Mitch pointed to various marked sections as he spoke. “There are entire portions of the primary viral DNA which match the more generic parts of the virus generated by the nanotechnology. The retrovirus was tailored, however, to advance the regenerative qualities of the technology a quantum leap forward, using a kind of organic technology in place of the nanites. It allows the body to heal, and potentially, reform at will. And being organic, there is a closer connection between the functions of the organ controlling these functions and the intelligent mind of the altered human being.”
He pointed to a section outlined in red. “Unfortunately, without the nanotechnology to tailor the virus, it is fatal if introduced to a new organism.” Mitch smiled, turning to Mulder. “However, there is a way to counter that effect. As with all biological agents, lower the temperature, and the molecular activity slows down. Clearing the blood and introducing anti-virals does the rest.”
“We don’t have much to go on,” McShane admitted, looking around the table. “But from what Mulder has described in his experience, experiments moving towards this kind of evolution in the viral process, from nanotech to organic technology, began about 25 years ago in 1973.”
“I was told that it was an attempt to create a human/alien hybrid,” Mulder pointed out. “That was supposed to be a means of surviving the eventual colonization by aliens in the form of a different virus, contained within a black oily substance.”
“Whatever the explanation,” McShane replied, “this is what the science is telling us. And our own analysis shows that the supposed black oil virus was just a further evolution of the retrovirus, expanding the regenerative abilities to the quantum level, among other things.” He held up his hand for silence when Mulder seemed ready to interject. “Another time. The path from nanotech to retrovirus is the current crisis.”
“Crisis?” Tatiana said, finally entering the conversation. As usual, her expression was still unreadable, and she said nothing more.
“A number of experiments have been done over the years to advance this possible organic version of the nanotechnology,” Mitch said, gesturing towards Mulder. “Typically, according to the evidence Mulder uncovered over the past ten years, female abductees with the implants described by Simon are used in genetic experiments geared towards the creation of a new breed of human being, designed at conception to exhibit the primary organ required. Up to this point, that’s failed.”
“I know what you’re referring to,” Mulder said, thinking of Emily, and the strange growth on the back of her neck. “But what I don’t understand is why they would be doing this in the first place. If the nanotech worked so well, and did everything they needed, why keep working so hard on creating a new version that would develop this organic version of it?”
“And here is where the pieces fit together,” McShane answered. The screen returned to the articles from 1998. “The victims at Skyland Mountain and Ruskin Dam were killed using a weapon that catalyzed a biochemical reaction resulting in extremely high temperatures. Temperatures, as noted by one article, high enough to melt the metal of the implants into slag.” He looked into the eyes of everyone at the table. “That weapon was designed not just to kill, but to destroy those implants. And not just the implants, but the metallic vertebrae of the later, more advanced version of that same technology.”
He looked at Mulder. “Someone in the project, my friend, likely discovered that there was a weakness in the original design. One way or another, they determined that the nanotechnology was vulnerable. Not just to the weapons used in those incidents, because as yet, no one can explain how those weapons were designed. But beyond extremely high temperatures, there is one other weakness. And this is what they are working to evolve beyond.”
“Magnetics,” Simon said, completing McShane’s explanation. “You can melt the implant, but unless you have the regenerative abilities to withstand the effects of that heat, you need a different way to disrupt the technology.” Simon shook the vial containing the implant. “The weakness of the design is that the nanites are vulnerable to certain magnetic compounds.”
“So they are developing this new, organic version of the super soldiers to counter that weakness,” Mulder repeated to himself, nodding. “That matches something Agent Doggett was told, and everything Kersh told me. But to be honest, I’m having a little trouble believing all of this. I mean, really, it hangs together nicely, but there has to be a way to prove it.” Mulder couldn’t believe that he was the one saying those words, but stranger things had happened since he had left Scully’s side.
“We could demonstrate using the body, but I’d hate to lose our one solid piece of evidence.” McShane turned as Simon absently passed him a slip of paper from his shirt pocket. He smiled faintly at the gesture, and then scanned the contents of the message, his smile widening. “Perhaps there is a better demonstration that I can provide.”
“What?” Mulder said, leaning forward. “What does that say?”
“Surely you remember what Agent Doggett told you about my own abilities,” McShane replied. “Planting suggestions in the unconscious is a wonderful tool. Especially when our mutual enemy recruits from this area.” He passed the paper to Mulder. “It would appear that they are planning to move against you, my friend.
“And your ‘dearest Dana’ is the bait.”
****
WASHINGTON, DC
DECEMBER 13, 2001
7:27 AM
Monica strode into the office, amazed yet again at how John managed to get in and functioning before she had a chance to form a conscious thought, even though he lived so much farther away. He was standing over his desk, rubbing the back of his neck as his eyes flicked back and forth. Two files sat open under his gaze. She tossed her bag onto her chair and walked over to him, trying to get a look at the case files.
“We have something?”
“Define ‘something’,” Doggett asked with a smile. He shook his head as he grabbed for his coffee, gesturing towards the desk with his free hand. “At least they’re both in New Jersey, for what that’s worth.”
“Both right off the press,” Monica murmured as she picked up one of the files. “Manahawkin, teenage boy, skull deformed by an apparent blow to the head. Yesterday?”
“That one is a priority, from what I hear. Locals are restless.” John held back a smile, then turned away, as if interesting in something the wall had to say. “The other one is in Linden, real close to familiar ground.”
Monica grabbed the folder, scanned the page. “OK, Linden, woman says she...oh....”
“Yeah, thought that would get your attention,” Doggett said with a grin.
She read it again, then smiled doubtfully. “So these aliens had...six?”
“Six,” John confirmed. He shrugged. “Apparently it was the doctor that called the authorities. She was a bit worn out.”
“No kidding,” Monica replied. She started reading on, and John came up behind her, looking over her shoulder. Every so often, Monica would make a little noise, a mixture of amusement and something that sounded an awful lot like appreciation. Nodding absently, she flipped to the next page, and as her eyes went wide, John let out a low whistle. “Ah. Diagrams.” They tilted their heads to one side, then the other, moving in unison. Then Monica slapped the file shut, her cheeks flushed. “So, Manahawkin...”
“Yep,” Doggett breathed, reaching for his suit jacket.
****
UNION, NJ
DECEMBER 14, 2001
7:50 PM
Mulder stepped into the kitchen from the small set of stairs leading from the side door. It was larger than he would have guessed from the outside, quite spacious and neat. Everything was perfectly in its place, as though it were never used. The faint, lingering scent of cinnamon seemed to suggest that it was, and the thought of it made him think of home. Even if he wasn’t sure where, or even what, that was anymore.
He heard the rapid footfalls of a child running down the stairs, and in less time than he would have guessed, a young girl stumbled into view. She looked up at him with wide amber eyes, full of wonder, but that quickly passed from her face. She looked at him carefully, almost as though she was looking right through him, and then she smiled.
“Hello, Mr. Mulder,” she said, her tone of voice perfectly even. “Daddy said you were coming over tonight.”
Mulder blinked once, looking over his shoulder as McShane stepped into the room behind him. “We just decided on that this afternoon. You never called anyone.”
“I didn’t have to,” McShane said, as though that would be explanation enough. He knelt down, smiling at the little girl. “Good day, Rhia?”
The girl nodded, grinning. “Mommy made cookies for Mulder.” She looked up at Mulder. “Would you like one? They’re cinnamon.”
Mulder looked around the room, wondering how anyone could have cooked a batch of cookies in that short a time, yet return the room to this immaculate state. Then he looked at the young girl again. She was easily five or six years old, but that didn’t make any sense. He forced a smile onto his face, bending down to Rhia’s level. “You’re a pretty girl. How old are you?”
“You know already,” Rhia pointed out, and then she flashed a smile towards her father. “Have fun. I need to go to bed, Mr. Mulder.” She looked back at him, giggled, and then ran back towards the stairs.
Mulder watched her go, and then turned towards McShane. “Agent Doggett told me about your daughter. He said that she was about two years old. That was just over a year ago.”
McShane smiled, giving a mysterious shrug of his shoulders as he walked over to the refrigerator. He scanned the contents as he spoke. “Actually, she was a little over two and a half years old when John came around. You see, at first, there is a tendency to leg behind in a few areas of development. That’s an effect of the ability to manipulate the world around them.”
He pulled out two bottles of beer, handing one to Mulder. “But before long, the development increases a bit more quickly. Speech, physical development, mental acuity...it all speeds up. Not something I expected, but that happens rarely enough. I’ve learned to enjoy the moments.”
“You’re saying this as though it should mean something to me,” Mulder noted, trying to maintain a sense of calm as he accepted the bottle. He had already learned to expect that there was more to everything McShane deigned to tell him.
“Of course,” Thomas admitted. He leaned against the counter, casually sipping at the beer as he spoke. “Let’s cut to the chase, Mulder. You know that your son is abnormal, whether he was part of the experiments we’re discussing at PRI or not. The thing to keep in mind is how that might manifest itself.” He gestured towards the ceiling. “My daughter began with telekinesis. It’s actually easier than telepathy, because it’s just motion. Infants move their arms and legs without understanding the process, after all. Motion is motion.”
Mulder looked into the other rooms from his vantage point in the kitchen. The dining and living rooms were just as perfectly maintained as the kitchen. It was as unnatural as everything McShane touched. He wondered how long it would take for McShane to start having an effect on him.
“Look, this is a nice American Gothic moment, but just say what you have to say.”
“My daughter, Mulder, is a product of two parents with extensive abilities that you might term psychic,” McShane obliged. “You know that. John Doggett passed all of what we told him to you. You carry it around even now, wondering if it holds the answers to your questions.” Thomas chuckled. “It does. And my daughter is even more talented than I am.”
Mulder glared at McShane. “I’ve been known to overdo the dramatics now and then, so I’m not impressed with the stall tactics.”
McShane sighed with disapproval. “What they tried to create in your son, Mulder, has occurred naturally more than once. It’s all about defense against something that requires maximum adaptability, and those of us designed to be that defense pass it on genetically. My daughter is a perfect example. Even now, less than four years old, she could defend herself against nearly every threat you can imagine in this world. Their goals are the same, and sooner or later, they were bound to stumble across the right formula.” McShane smiled as he sipped from his bottle. “I think your William might have that genetic formula, even if they were trying for something closer to Cassandra Spender.”
Mulder took a few long pulls from the bottle, thinking about how to respond, and then he gave up. “All right. What is this about?” He gestured at the room, but it was obvious that he meant the entire situation. “I remember what Agent Doggett said about your abilities. And you were right, I still have those notes with all that science. But I also remember what he said about how little you leave to chance.” He looked into McShane’s eyes. “You know a lot more than you’re letting on. How much of what we’ve ‘discovered’ was something you already knew? Things you only needed our help to explain or verify?”
“Just about all of it,” McShane replied with a knowing smile. “Knowing the answers is not always as important as knowing why something is happening. It’s all about context. And the fact is, Mulder, for all that I’ve learned and managed to uncover, it’s not about the here and now. It’s about creating the future.”
“You’re not the first person to say that,” Mulder pointed out. “And those men were just as questionable in their practices.”
Thomas smirked. “If there is one thing that John taught me, it was the value of control. Total control. The things I left to chance, to the choice of others...those were the only things that turned out badly.” He shrugged. “I do what I must. It is the reason I was made to be what I am.” He pointed at Mulder. “If you assume that I somehow knew that your body was trapped in that ice, when it could be found, what evidence we might find, then is it such a stretch to assume that I would want to keep you close? Take advantage of your situation and the wealth of information your condition might offer? There are still a number of things I have not uncovered, only suspect will come to pass.”
“And working from the beginning like this allows you to...what? Figure out how to stop colonization?”
“We both know that in about ten years, you apparently get pulled back into time over one million years, along with that ship. Everything has been pointing to that same time period as a massive turning point in human history. My kind was meant to get us past that crisis. In order to do that, we have to know what that threat consists of.”
“And all you have is the evidence of what was done up until now, their goals,” Mulder mused, and then it hit him. “Wait a second. When we were at the station in Antarctica, there was evidence that someone had taken tissue samples. Did you know what they found?”
McShane only smiled. “All in good time, Mulder. Accepting that I know more than you do about the situation is a good beginning. Also accepting that your best option is to cooperate, I think, would help. Stop trying to figure out my reasons for doing what I do. The fact is, my motivations are hardly in question. This is what I was meant to do. Let me do it, and at the same time, help yourself and the ones you care about.”
“I don’t know if I can do that,” Mulder admitted. He placed his half-empty bottle on the counter, stood in front of McShane. “People have been using me for reasons that I can’t even understand. What you’re showing us, helping us uncover, it’s giving me answers. But I can’t trust you.”
“I’m not asking for trust,” McShane replied. He looked Mulder in the eye. “Mulder, I brought you into my home because I wanted it to be clear that you have no choice. That little chip in your neck is just as useful for me as it is for the ones who put it there. I don’t even need that. If I want your cooperation, I could force you to give it. But it is much faster, much more efficient and useful in the long run, if you just accept the inevitable.”
Mulder felt a rush of fear run down his spine. “What are you talking about?”
“Everything that happens here, happens because I allow it,” McShane said, opening his arms wide, as if to encompass everything in his sight. “I need you. Accept that I could fulfill that need without the annoyance of your questions and sense of humor. Be glad I give you the option of free will.” He paused, and then smiled. “Now, allow me one final demonstration to prove my point.” He glanced upward. “Kirsten? Honey, could you come down here?”
A moment later, a young woman walked into the kitchen. She seemed perfectly normal, nodding a greeting to Mulder before walking over to McShane, wrapping an arm around his waist. She was rather average, in fact, other than the look in her eye. There was something that struck Mulder as very wrong about her expression, features that were far too content when it was obvious that she was working constantly to maintain the perfection of the household.
The phone suddenly began ringing, and Mulder assumed that Kirsten would move to answer it. Instead, she stood next to Thomas, her expression never wavering, never reacting to the sound of the shrill ring as it repeated several more times. There was a slight pause as the caller gave up, and in the silence, Mulder waited for McShane to say something, make his point. Instead, the man continued to stare at Mulder, a slight smile on his face.
The ringing began again, and each time it sounded, Mulder felt the strong desire to demand that someone answer it. He even considered answering it himself. But he didn’t dare give in to that temptation. For all he knew, that was exactly what McShane wanted him to do. The moment the thought crossed his mind, he panicked at the thought that he was being so easily manipulated.
Finally, McShane spoke, though his eyes never left Mulder. “Answer it, honey. It’s for you.”
Kirsten pulled away, smiling slightly at Mulder while grabbing the phone from the wall, nothing in her demeanor suggesting that the situation was remotely out of the ordinary. “Hello?” she asked, her voice perfectly level. “Oh, Agent Doggett, this is surprise! You’re the last person I was expecting to hear from.” She paused, listening to something he was saying, and then she laughed. “No, everything’s fine. Why wouldn’t it be?”
“You see, Mulder,” McShane whispered in the silence that followed, “I brought you here, to this house, tonight, because the moment John Doggett crossed someone under my influence, I was aware of it.”
“Craig was worried?” Kirsten said beside them. “I’m sure I understand his reasons, after the way he left, but he could have called any time.”
“And the fact is, my friend,” McShane continued, “I’ve been in John’s mind. I’ve pushed him where I needed him to be. And I won’t hesitate to do it now.”
“Rhiannon?” Kirsten repeated. “Oh, she’s such a good little girl. Not a worried hair on her head. I have no idea why Craig would think that Thomas would do anything to hurt her.”
“I knew when he would call, why he was calling, and what it would take to make him believe that everything was fine,” McShane said, his mouth inches from Mulder’s ear. “And just as I made sure you would be here to see and hear it...”
“It was good to hear from you too, John,” Kirsten said with a warm tone of voice. “Give our best to Monica!”
“...I’m making sure my dear, lovely Kirsten says exactly what I want her to say.”
Kirsten placed the phone back on the wall, and then turned to McShane, her expression blank. Thomas reached out and caressed her cheek, and then turned to Mulder. Mulder, for his part, found himself too stunned and overwhelmed to move or reply.
“Now that we understand each other,” Thomas added with a smile, “why don’t I have Kirsten make us something to eat, while we discuss our plans?”
****
MANAHAWKIN, NJ
8:15 PM
Doggett stared at his cell phone with concern, and then slid it back into his jacket. Monica stepped in front of him, her brow wrinkled in worry. He caught her gaze, and shook his head. “Everything sounds all right.”
“But?” Monica said, hearing the hesitation in his voice.
“It almost sounded too good,” Doggett said, leaning against the side of the car. “From what I remember of Kirsten Walden, she wasn’t exactly the happy, upbeat type.”
“More the oddly perceptive and frightening type,” Monica agreed. She looked over her shoulder at the hospital. “I think we ought to get back to work, before Dana thinks that we’re hiding something.”
John nodded, letting out a frustrated sigh. “I think she’s been annoyed enough, without dragging her into something like this.” He pushed off the car, rubbing his forehead. “Can you believe they’ve run into this kind of thing before?”
“Sure,” Monica said, walking in step with him towards the door. “I’m still trying to figure out why they kept coming back.”
****
UNION, NJ
11:38 PM
Thomas Gabriel McShane stood at the end of his driveway, watching as Mulder drove back towards Somerville. It had taken Mulder only a short time to recognize his situation, to accept the fact that he was simply a means to an end. Frankly, Mulder had already realized that his fate was sealed, one way or another, and that it was a choice between raging against the inevitable or making the best of what remained to him.
They had discussed the plan at length. McShane would influence Doggett to be more trusting, reinforcing his natural tendency to take people at their word. Their mutual enemy would be contacting Doggett very soon, and within a couple of weeks, Doggett would be ready to approach Scully regarding the potential offer. In the meantime, Mulder would continue to communicate with Scully, gauging the extent of her yearning desire to see him. If she was truly falling under the control of the program, she would call for him, and he would go to her.
The rest was up to McShane. If Mulder did leave, then they both knew that the enemy would make their move as soon as he arrived. McShane would make sure that his mole within the organization was there to interfere, to stem the threat. Even so, they had a contingency plan. If the contact survived the confrontation at the train station, then Mulder would try to draw him to an iron quarry not much further south on the same route. One way or another, they would test the theory that magnetic compounds were the Achilles heel of the so-called super-soldiers.
All things being equal, it was a ridiculous situation, almost unreal. Who would believe that any of this could happen, all around them, hidden? And yet he had lived through far worse. The community under his wing was still healing from the wounds that had been inflicted. If his brethren had no intention of acting to preserve their world, then he would do what was necessary. It was what he born for.
There was only one thing that was troubling him, taking away from the perfection of what he had wrought. He had already begun slipping his suggestions to John Doggett, preparing for what was to come, and he had been pleased to note that Agent Monica Reyes had arrived as well. It was more difficult to work his will with her, given her sensitivity, but all he had to do was emphasize that Mulder’s son be protected from harm, regardless of the outcome.
It was the other influence that he noticed behind both of them that bothered him. A familiar presence that gave him pause. Someone that he had been sure, based on his careful inspection of Mulder, had not been involved.
“What are you up to,” he murmured, his eyes gazing towards the south.
“What are you planning?”
****
ALEXANDRIA, VA
11:45 PM
Angel Rose leaned against her balcony, the sheer fabric of her robe outlining the gentle curves of her body as the cool wind tossed her hair over her eyes. Downstairs, Craig was playing his acoustic guitar, gently humming along to the meandering tune. She closed her eyes, enjoying the sound, the purity of his creative effort, knowing without a word that he was playing for her.
She would have to face his attraction to her sooner or later, explain things to him that he wouldn’t be ready to hear. He would be all too willing to accept it, to embrace the changes that would enter into his life. But she still wanted to give him the time to choose otherwise, to live free of the obligations that would burden him again. He had been free for so short a time.
The wind blew more strongly, and abruptly Craig stopped playing, aware that something was there with them, reaching out with its tendrils, probing for some hidden knowledge. Angel knew that was the reason that Craig faltered, because she was keenly aware of it. It was all too familiar a presence, a mentality that she had wanted to avoid for as long as possible.
She resisted every attempt to breach her defenses, her deep brown eyes steeling with resolve. “Not this time, Thomas. I won’t let it you stop me.
“Not this time!”
****
WASHINGTON, DC
DECEMBER 17, 2001
8:25 AM
“I have to tell you, if we never go on another case like that,” Doggett said as they walked into the basement office, “it will be too soon.”
“Tell me about it,” Monica said, as she tossed her coat onto the back of her chair. She looked up at John with a grin. “Did you see the look on Skinner’s face when we told him about the lice spelling out words on the kid’s stomach?”
“Hell yeah,” Doggett said with a growing smile. “I think he pales next to Kersh and Follmer though. I think they’re still arguing over which part was the more unacceptable...the expense of sending the three of us up there, or the fact that the suspects escaped custody.”
Monica burst into laughter. “I know! At least this turned out to be something remotely related to the X-Files. Even if the two suspects did get away.” She glanced at his desk, then hers. “Looks like nothing new came in while we were gone. Even the Linden case is gone.”
John looked down at his desk with a frown. “Damn. I wonder who took up that one.”
“Just look for the first person to walk funny off assignment,” Monica joked as she slumped into her chair. Then she sighed, gesturing towards the phone. “Looks like a message. Think Brad managed to scare up OPR already?”
“I think he has their office on speed dial,” John said, walking over to the machine and punching the button with a smirk. “Let’s see when we’re expected at the dance.”
“Agent Doggett,” the voice said, and the two agents were immediately struck by the electronic distortion. Monica sat up straight, reaching for a pencil, and Doggett tossed her his notepad from his pocket. “I have information regarding a program you were investigating several months ago. Classified military files on test subjects. I am prepared to deliver this information to the right person. Do not attempt to contact me, or the offer will be revoked.”
They waited for more, but then the message ended. Doggett glanced at Monica, and she nodded as she tossed the pencil back onto the desk, blowing out the breath that she had been holding. “That was unexpected.”
“After all this time, I figured we would have to get lucky,” John agreed. He read Monica’s notes, and then shook his head. “I would have thought that Kersh might have mentioned something, if some kind of deal was coming our way. This doesn’t sound right.”
“No, it doesn’t,” Monica replied, thinking to herself. “I find it a little hard to believe that they would contact us directly, offer us something so useful.”
“If we knew who the super-soldiers were, based on these files,” Doggett said, walking over to his desk, “we could find a way to flush them out. Eliminate the threat.” He jotted down a name, and then handed it to Monica as she handed him the notebook.
“It won’t be that easy,” Monica reminded him. “We can’t even touch them, as it stands now.”
“A start’s a start,” he countered, shoving the notepad back into his jacket. “It’s been months since Mulder left to get away from these people. We’ve been twisting in the wind just as long. If we’ve got a chance at finally doing something substantial, we have to give it our best shot.” He pointed to the paper in her hand. “I know the message said not to attempt contact, but we should at least try to run records and find out who called the office while we were gone.”
Monica nodded, reading the name. “I’ll try to be discreet. What about you?”
Doggett smiled grimly. “I figured I would buy Skinner breakfast. If this is starting again, he ought to get fair warning.”
****
“You’re sure about this? This is a legitimate offer?”
Doggett passed Skinner the notepad, letting him read the message for himself. “No details, but the fact that the contact felt the need to disguise his voice paints a picture. Dollars to doughnuts, this is the real thing.”
Skinner ran a hand over his head, screwing his eyes shut. “I can’t believe that this is happening again. I thought this was over.”
“It was bound to start up again sooner or later,” Doggett reminded him. “We only stopped the last time because every shred of evidence disappeared. If Kersh managed to find a way to get us some kind of lead, something we can work with...”
“I know,” Skinner breathed. He cupped his coffee mug, staring at the steam rising from the brew. “And I know that the stonewalling has been driving the two of you crazy, ever since the Kobold case. I’m just a little worried about the consequences. None of our circumstances have changed. I’m still looking at a murder charge, John.”
“That’s why I wanted you to know about this as soon as possible.” He hesitated, glancing around at the other tables, and then leaned forward. “I’m leaning towards exploring whatever offer this guy might make. It might be better for you to be somewhere else for the holidays.”
Skinner considered the notion, then nodded. “You might be right. Taking the time off won’t be a problem, giving the current case load.” He said the last two words with sarcasm. “I’ll let you know how to get in touch with me, just in case. It might be nice to have a little advance warning if I’m the subject of a manhunt myself.”
“Bet on it,” Doggett said, rising from the table. “I ought to get back to the office. Monica was going to run the records, try to get a source on that call.”
“Good luck,” Skinner muttered. He grabbed John’s arm as he walked by, stopping him. “Hold on. What about Scully?”
Doggett bit his lip, shaking his head. “I don’t know. I don’t think I want to tell her until we’ve got something. This could turn out to be nothing, someone just jerking us around. Why get her worked up? She’s got enough to deal with. The holidays, family, she’s got to be thinking of Mulder.”
“If it were me, I’d tell her now,” Skinner warned. “Before she finds a reason not to trust you again.” He let go of Doggett’s arm, shrugging.
“That’s a chance I’ll take,” Doggett replied. “We’ll let you know when things settle down.”
****
PHARMACEUTICAL RESEARCH INSTITUTE
RARITAN, NJ
DECEMBER 19, 2001
1:29 PM
Mulder was waiting on the other side of the airlock when Mitch emerged, running his fingers through his short white hair. The older man looked surprised to see him, but when he saw the look on Mulder’s face, he sobered and glanced around for others that might overhear.
“We ought to be able to talk for a moment,” Mulder said, holding up his hands to calm Mitch down. “Thomas is going over some of the simulations with Simon and Tatiana. They want to make sure that they’ve got the right compound identified. I’d hate to get trapped in that quarry, just to find out that it was the wrong type of ore.”
“No kidding,” Mitch said with a slight smile. “They figure out if you’ll react to it at all?”
“Could be a problem,” Mulder admitted with a shrug. “But there was something else I wanted to talk to you about.”
“All right,” Mitch said, pulling the shoe covers from his feet. “Shoot.”
“We’ve spent a lot of time focusing on the relationship between this nanotechnology and the retrovirus, figuring out the steps that they would need to take to introduce the changes into the population.”
“Getting there, yeah,” Mitch agreed. “Is there something new?”
“No, no,” Mulder said, waving it off. “I was just wondering if you had been working at all with the black oil virus, trying to find out the process of getting to that from the retrovirus.”
“Nothing substantial,” Mitch replied, scratching under his chin. He leaned against the wall, thinking it over for a moment. “We know that it’s a further evolution of the original, but not much more. There’s something else missing from the process. Some additional factor.” He shrugged. “We haven’t worked on it enough. Thomas has us focusing on the retrovirus, like I said.”
“That’s what worries me,” Mulder said, shaking his finger to emphasize it. “I know he has something in mind, something he’s doing all of this for, and he seems to know enough about what we are going to find that I have to believe that he’s trying to hide his true intentions.”
“Why?” Mitch asked, his expression confused. “I mean, sure, he has an odd way of getting things done, but to hear his stories, he’s had a pretty interesting life.”
“Preparing for some kind of future event connected to all of this,” Mulder reminded his friend. “I think it has something to do with the black oil, because a lot of the references to the event refer to a ‘viral apocalypse’. But everything I believed about the events leading towards that has been thrown into question by what we’ve uncovered. Things he already knew.”
“I understand what you’re saying, Mulder,” Mitch said with a sigh, “but we’re still putting the pieces together. Knowing what the big picture looks like doesn’t mean you know the process of how it's going to come about. The details are the key to everything.”
“I’ve heard things like that before,” Mulder replied evenly. “You’d be surprised how often it turns out to be an illusion.”
Mitch was about to reply, when he looked over Mulder’s shoulder and smiled. “Hey, Thomas. We were just talking about the plans.”
“And my intentions,” McShane added with a smile of his own. “Don’t worry, I expect that. I had something new to share with Mulder. Something unexpected.”
Mulder turned at that, his expression becoming panicked. “What? What’s wrong?”
“Not wrong,” McShane corrected, his smile never wavering. “Simply unexpected. It would seem that the reach of our adversaries is somewhat incomplete.” He handed Mulder another crumpled slip of paper. “Our mole has determined that while most of Scully’s apartment is under constant surveillance, there is one room that they cannot watch her in.”
“The bedroom?” Mulder asked, confusion in his eyes. “I don’t understand. What’s different about her bedroom?”
Finally, McShane frowned. “I was hoping you could tell me. Is there anything you can think of that would block surveillance, present some kind of interference?”
“Baby monitors?” Mulder quipped, and then shook his head. “No, nothing. I’d tell you if I knew.”
“I know, since it would give us another weapon to use,” McShane murmured, deep in thought. “I’m not sure it matters. Agent Doggett’s taken the bait. We expect things to come together just after Christmas. They’ll want to use the strong feelings of loneliness surrounding William’s first birthday to make things easier for themselves. Are you sure you still need to do this? We can just as easily deal with it using other resources.”
“No, I want to do this,” Mulder said, his voice determined. “I need to be sure that this is all real.”
McShane only nodded.
****
WASHINGTON, DC
DECEMBER 19, 2001
10:55 AM
“Nothing,” Doggett repeated, looking at Monica in disbelief. “You couldn’t get anything?”
“Apparently it was a cellular call, but that’s all that they could figure out based on the records so long after the fact,” Monica explained, handing him the phone records. “The cell was placed somewhere in the local area on the night of the 14th.”
“Almost a week ago,” Doggett murmured. He pulled out his cell phone, shook it with emphasis. “I got a call from someone in the CIA about a guy calling around, looking for a way to talk with Mulder. He won’t tell them what it’s about, but it sounds like it might be connected.”
“Any proof?” Monica said, raising an eyebrow.
“No, not yet, but I ought to be able to get something later this morning,” John said. He tossed the phone onto his desk. “I’m not even sure there’s anything to it anymore. Walter left a couple days ago, so if they were waiting for us to react in some way, they ought to have noticed by now.”
“Maybe it was just some kind of trick, to throw us off balance,” Monica countered. “We’ve been keeping Dana at arm’s length to make sure she’s not implicated until we know there’s more to it, and you know as well as I do she recognizes the difference.”
“Actually, for as much as we’ve seen her, I don’t know,” John reminded her. He laughed to himself. “I can’t even remember the last time we saw her at Billies. The only reason you’ve seen her is the occasional babysitting.”
“You have a point,” Monica replied, leaning back on her desk, staring at the filing cabinets in thought. “I haven’t asked, but I wonder what she’s planning for the holidays.”
“Haven’t thought about it myself, let alone what she’d be doing,” Doggett replied, reaching for a file. “You see the latest bunch? There’s this one here...”
“You’re spending the whole weekend at the house,” Monica said, interrupting his attempt to change the subject. “Come on, John, not again. You spent Thanksgiving by yourself, why do the same thing for Christmas?”
“Not something I really want to talk about right now,” Doggett answered evasively. She glared at him, and so he slid the file back onto his desk with a flip of his hands, tightening his lips. “I don’t like the holidays much, not anymore. You know that.”
“What better reason to make sure you spend them with friends?” Monica said persistently. “At the very least, come out to Billies over the weekend. I hear Elyssa throws one hell of a party.” She smiled. “We could try to help Craig get Angel under the mistletoe.”
John smiled at the thought. “That would be one hell of a-” He was interrupted as the phone began to ring, and his expression returned to its usual intensity. Monica slid behind her desk and grabbed her own cell phone. nodding for Doggett to pick up the line. As soon as he reached for the receiver, she was requesting a trace on the incoming call.
“John Doggett,” he said, forcing his voice to sound a normal as possible.
“Agent Doggett,” the voice began, and it was the same distorted voice that they had heard before. “Listen carefully.”
“Who is this?” Doggett said quickly, trying to interrupt as quickly as possible.
“This is very important, Agent Doggett,” the voice continued, as though nothing had been said. “I am prepared to deliver classified files on all test subjects related to the program you wish to investigate. There is, however, a condition. I will only deliver this information to the man who knows how it can best be used.”
“Let’s stop playing games,” Doggett interrupted, glancing over at Monica. She whispered into her phone, shaking her head at John’s unspoken question. “You want to meet, give a time and a place.”
“You have demonstrated a distinct lack of experience in this kind of investigation,” the voice admonished. “I prefer to deal with someone with a lot more to gain, and just as much to lose. I will only deliver this information to Fox Mulder.”
“Not a chance,” Doggett replied, glaring at Monica as she gestured for him to keep the call going, shaking her head in frustration. “Mulder’s underground for a reason.”
“Find a way to contact him, or the information stays with me,” the caller said, and then the call ended abruptly. Doggett slammed the receiver down and stood, leaning over his desk towards Monica.
“Tell me you got that.”
“No more than we already had,” Monica answered with a disgusted sigh, disconnecting her call with a flick of her finger.
“Damn,” Doggett breathed, staring down at the phone with disappointment. He looked up at Monica. “Our contact asked for Mulder. Said he wouldn’t give us the information, only him, face to face.”
Monica bit her lip in worry. “You already said it, John. If we get this information, it could get us a long way towards making things safe for Mulder to come out of hiding.”
“And now they’ve upped the ante,” Doggett added. “We get this list, we can do something about Mulder’s situation. But to get it, we have to take the chance of bringing him back now. If we can even get in contact with him.” He glanced at Monica warily. “I bet Dana knows how to get in touch with him. Think this is the time to tell her what we’ve been offered?”
“I think so,” Monica said with a sigh, reaching for her leather jacket. “I just hope she’s willing to listen to us. You remember what happened the last time we started down this road.”
Doggett’s humorless smile as he reached for his suit jacket was enough of an answer.
****
PHARMACEUTICAL RESEARCH INSTITUTE
RARITAN, NJ
7:48 PM
Mulder looked up in mid-chew, his expression more than a little annoyed. He tossed his fork down onto his plate, wondering if he would ever get to have a moment to himself. It seemed like everywhere he went, someone was watching him, making sure he was still where he was supposed to be. As though he had any chance of getting away from McShane or his people, now that the die had been cast.
“Forgive the interruption,” McShane said, his false smile spread wide on his average face. “But I thought you should know. The timetable has changed. They appear to have made their move tonight.” He saw Mulder’s look of panic, and he raised his hands to appeal for calm. “William and Dana are fine. Our mole is the one in charge of the operation at this point. It ought to be another day or two before you get the message to return to Washington.”
Mulder swallowed, digesting the information at the same time. Licking his lips, he sat back into his chair. “You saw the last letter?”
“I did,” McShane replied, grabbing the back of the chair across the table for support. “I assume you agree that it was exactly what I told you to expect?”
“Even playing along, I couldn’t believe what I was reading,” Mulder admitted. He shook his head, remembering the words that he had read on the screen. “It was like talking to a completely different person.”
“It’s the programming,” McShane reminded him. “If this works out as well as we hope, we can take away part of this influence. Give John and Monica a chance to figure it out on their own, help Dana protect your son. I know that’s what you want to do, what you would do if you could contact them directly.”
Mulder nodded. “We still don’t know what kind of effect this will have on me, do we?”
“Not enough to make a difference,” McShane confirmed. “The deal is simple. You go down there to confirm that the situation is as we have discussed. Under no circumstances are you to contact or otherwise communicate with Scully or the others. Let them figure it out on their own. Getting you out of there without giving away our existence is going to be hard enough. They can’t believe that you are there for any other reason than to see Dana.” He leaned over the chair, his piercing green eyes centered on Mulder intently. “You understand?”
“Yeah,” Mulder muttered, reaching for his fork, glancing at McShane as he forced himself to return to his meal. Even so, he could do little more than play with his food, staring at it to avoid McShane’s gaze. “Yeah, I understand.”
****
WASHINGTON, DC
DECEMBER 20, 2001
8:17 PM
“She did what?”
Doggett scratched the back of his head, trying to think of a way to explain it to Skinner without making himself look like an idiot. “She’s out meeting this guy now. We have no idea where she is, and the more I think about it, the more I think we made a mistake letting it get this far.”
“That’s not the problem,” Skinner said, breathing heavily into his cell phone. “The problem is, one way or another, it sounds like she might convince herself that calling Mulder back might be the right thing to do. And we have no idea whether or not this contact is legitimate. Never mind the fact that Scully might become a hostage. What about William?”
“Monica’s looking after him at Scully’s place,” Doggett replied, and then he sighed. “You want to hear something unbelievable? From what I can gather, something’s been going on with William ever since Mulder left. Some kind of incident with moving objects with his mind. This couple supposedly has a daughter who can do the same kind of thing.”
“She never said anything to me about it,” Skinner said, after a short silence. “Do you think there’s something to that?”
“I have no idea,” Doggett admitted. He leaned against the back of his truck, looking up into the Falls Church sky. “She doesn’t trust me with anything personal these days, and as little work as we do together...this sounds like a set-up, Walter. I think I ought to talk her out of calling Mulder back. Especially when they say that we’ve been under their watch all this time.”
“It fits perfectly with what Kersh told us before Mulder left,” Skinner reminded him, “and if that much was true, then we know that Mulder would be an immediate target.”
“That’s enough for me,” Doggett replied with a nod to himself. “I’ll discuss it with Monica in the morning, and then I’ll catch up with Scully at Quantico.”
“Good luck, John,” Skinner said with a heavy sigh. “I think you’re going to need it.”
****
PHARMACEUTICAL RESEARCH INSTITUTE
RARITAN, NJ
DECEMBER 21, 2001
8:29 AM
McShane stood on the other side of the desk, watching Mulder’s expression carefully. He saw the mixture of elation and fear rushing across Mulder’s face, the way his eyes flickered back and forth, reading every word again and again. “This is the one, isn’t it?”
“Yeah,” Mulder said, running his hand over his mouth nervously as he said it. “Tonight at midnight.”
“I’ll make sure Mitch or Simon can get you to the train station in Philadelphia,” McShane added, tossing Mulder an envelope. “Here are your tickets. Before you go, we’ll go over the map one more time. In the meantime, I’ll make the arrangements to have someone waiting for you at the quarry.”
“You’re sure it will come to that?” Mulder said, reaching for the envelope.
“If not, our man will be there at the station, one way or another,” McShane reminded him. “Just remember, if there’s even the slightest hint of danger...”
“I know,” Mulder said with a slight smile. “The quarry.”
****
WASHINGTON, DC
1:57 PM
Monica woke with a start at the sound of the door opening. She was reaching for the gun under the pillow until she realized that it was Doggett. She gestured towards the bassinet, where William was sleeping, and raised an eyebrow in question.
“Dana already called for Mulder,” he whispered, walking towards the bedroom. Monica checked on William quickly, and then followed him inside. He was going through a pile of clothing on the floor.
“What are you doing?” she asked, rubbing her eyes.
“Whoever the contact was, he made Dana change into new clothes,” he said, grabbing the ladies’ suit jacket and blouse, then pulling out a plastic evidence bag. “I figure, one way or another, we might have a shot at getting some kind of evidence off of this, something that might tell us who this guy is.”
Monica looked over her shoulder. “What should I do?”
“Stay here until Dana gets home,” Doggett said, stating the obvious. He stood, tucking the bag under his shoulder. “Then make sure you’re there when she goes to meet with Mulder. Whatever you do, make sure she never leaves your sight.”
“And William?” Monica asked, stopping him at the door.
“A risk we have to take,” Doggett said, shrugging. “This isn’t our call anymore. Dana made the choice. We have to make sure this doesn’t turn into anything worse than it already is. Let Scully make the arrangements, and I’ll see if we can get some kind of backup to keep an eye on him.”
“John,” Monica said, looking him in the eye. “This isn’t going to go well, is it?”
“You have a feeling about this?” He nodded before she could answer. “Yeah. Me too.”
****
30 MILES NORTH OF BALTIMORE, MD
10:48 PM
Mulder sat by the window, watching the racing night through the glass, his heart already racing with anticipation of what was to come. It was a matter of mere moments now, moments until he would either look into the eyes of the woman he loved and the son he missed more than life itself, or set himself down a path that might keep him away from them forever. Everything that he had experienced since leaving Washington had been leading to this moment of truth.
He pulled out the sheet of paper in his jacket, a printout of one of Scully’s last messages to him. He read the words again, even though he had memorized them in the hours waiting for the train to disembark. The choice of words, the overall sentiment of the message, none of it was what he would have expected of Scully, even if she had been responding simply to his choice of words. But there was a part of him that wished that they could have had that kind of life, where they could say the kind of things that normal people said to one another. A life where the future was full of promise, instead of never-ending threat.
He shoved the paper back into his jacket, and resumed his vigil at the window. In a matter of hours, at least one aspect of that future would be certain. He would know if they had a chance to survive.
****
WASHINGTON, DC
MIDNIGHT
John Doggett ran up the stars at the first sound of gunfire, drawing his weapon before he could even see the situation. As his stepped onto the platform, he saw Monica dive forward, driving Scully to the ground, as the man with the short brown hair was gunned down. He took aim quickly, set his stance, and in a matter of seconds, the unknown assailant was falling onto the tracks.
****
Mulder pressed himself against the window, watching in horror as Agent Reyes covered Scully as another man was shot down. In the low light, it took him a short moment to recognize McShane’s man as the victim. Even over the screeching of the train, he heard more shots fired as Agent Doggett stepping into view, taking down the original shooter. He saw the shooter crumple down as his legs gave out, and then he was under the train, out of sight.
Mulder knew that it was only a matter of time. Everything that McShane had told him was true, and that meant that the shooter had been one of the super soldiers. It would take a while for the man to heal from the wounds inflicted by the train, but then he would be after Mulder without a doubt. Desperately reviewing the location of the quarry in his mind, he rushed towards the forward passenger cars.
****
DECEMBER 22, 2001
12:27 AM
It had taken a while to get the usual crime scene business taken care of, but now they were on the hunt for the man that had started this entire mess. Monica was doing her best to calm Scully down, even though it was a waste of time at this point. Doggett was making his third and final pass around the area where a body would be found, but after what he had heard from the evidence lab, he had little hope of finding anything.
He quickly pulled out his cell phone, hitting the seldom-used speed dial connection while he walked briskly back towards the platform. As he expected at this time of night, it took a few moments before someone answered. Even then, there was only a mumble on the other end.
“Byers, that you?” he barked out.
“No, it’s Langley,” the answer came, more than a little annoyed. “Don’t you have someone else to harass this time of night, Agent Doggett?”
“No time for fun and games,” Doggett snapped back. “We have a situation. Mulder was on his way back home.”
“What?” Langley seemed to be very much awake now. “What happened?”
“Nothing good,” Doggett said evasively. “We’re trying to pick up the pieces on this end, but there’s something I need you guys to do, and fast.”
“Hold on.” He heard Langley calling for the others in the background. “OK, what is it?”
“There’s a building that Agent Reyes and I were keeping tabs on this morning,” Doggett explained, stopping at the bottom of the stairs. “I think there might be some kind of surveillance network operating out of there. I need you guys to do whatever you can to get access to the information they have.”
“Is that a joke?” Langley scoffed. “If something went wrong, they probably have the entire place stripped by now.”
“Then it’ll be a short job,” Doggett replied evenly. “Just do what you can. I’ll check in with you once we’re sure Mulder’s safe.”
****
MANVILLE ROCK QUARRY
DECEMBER 22, 2001
1:20 AM
Mulder ran through the fog as fast as he could. Even this far from the center of the quarry, he could feel something happening just under his skin, like thousands of needles pushing their way out. He could only imagine what it would be like for the one chasing him. At least he had known what to expect, thanks to McShane’s warnings.
He had just run into a clear, open space when he heard someone call his name. He turned and looked up the slope just in time to see Agent Doggett and Agent Reyes looking down at him. Doggett called out to him again, and he found himself torn. He wanted to run to them, tell them everything that was happening, make it clear what kind of danger they were all facing. But he knew that he couldn’t spend much more time in the quarry, and if he violated his agreement with McShane, he would lose the one chance he had at organizing some kind of resistance.
Cursing his fortune as he turned away, he ran farther into the darkness, praying that they would understand. Praying that they could figure out why he had brought the enemy here. Praying that Scully and William would live long enough to make it matter.
****
1:45 AM
Doggett ran forward, grabbing Scully by the shoulders. She was on her knees, sobbing convulsively, seemingly unaware of his presence. He looked to either side quickly, looking for some sign of the enemy, but there was nothing. Monica stepped into view, leading with her weapon raised, scanning every inch of the pit for signs of attack.
He knelt down, taking Scully into his arms, feeling her anguish with every tiny motion of her body against him. “It’s all right, Dana. We saw Mulder. He got away. I’m sure he got away fine.”
“I don’t understand,” she cried out, clenching his sleeves. “Why did I do it? Why did I call him back?”
“You wanted to see him,” Doggett said helplessly. What was he supposed to say? What else could he say? “Because you love him.”
“I couldn’t help it,” she continued, as if not hearing any of what he said. “What’s happening to me? I couldn’t stop myself! I just had to do it! I don’t even know why!”
“It’s all right, Dana,” he said, patting her softly on the back. He looked up at Monica, who was watching him with compassion. He knew that his eyes were practically pleading with her for help, but it was obvious that she had no idea what to do either.
“It’s all right, Dana,” he repeated, as she sank into sobs again.
“It’ll be all right...”
****
WASHINGTON, DC
DECEMBER 22, 2001
10:49 AM
Doggett watched Monica soothe Scully in the bedroom through the door, still unsure what exactly to feel. Despite everything that had happened the night before, no new complications had emerged in the hours since they had returned from the quarry. The agent Monica had requested to watch Scully’s apartment had reported nothing out of the ordinary, and Dana’s mother had been surprised to hear that anything dangerous had happened while they had been sleeping.
It was clear that Mulder had discovered some kind of weakness, some means of killing the super soldiers that apparently even many of their adversaries hadn’t been aware of. Doggett couldn’t help but believe that at least some of them had to know something about their own limitations, simply from his own years in the military. But now they had something to work with. He hoped that it was just a start.
He felt his phone vibrate against his chest, and he quietly stepped into the kitchen to ensure that he wouldn’t wake William. “John Doggett.”
“Agent Doggett, this is Byers.” He heard persistent tapping in the background. “Langley is working on some of the data we managed to capture remotely. By the time Frohike and I arrived at the address you forwarded to us, there was nothing left.”
“I figured as much,” Doggett replied with a frustrated sigh. “Any idea on what you might have?”
“Langley says that he went for information regarding the coverage of their surveillance, the kind of information that would be intrinsic to the operation. Less likely to be considered specialized and therefore compartmentalized.”
“How long?” Doggett asked.
There was a pause while Byers consulted with Langley. “About a week, give or take.”
“Sounds good to me,” Doggett said with an absent nod. “I appreciate all of the work. I just hope it gives us some kind of answer.”
“So do we,” Byers replied. “How’s Agent Scully?”
Doggett hesitated, not sure how to answer the question. “Beside herself. All over the map, if you know what I mean. It’s like she’s trying to find herself all over again. We called Angel to see if she can come over sometime this afternoon.”
“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Byers asked, and something in the sound of his voice triggered Doggett’s suspicions.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing,” Byers said, but it was clear that he was just covering his tracks. “We’ll talk when the analysis is complete. Merry Christmas, Agent Doggett.”
Doggett lowered the phone, and then glanced towards the direction of bedroom, wondering what Byers could have been trying to say. “Yeah,” he muttered. “Merry Christmas.”
****
SOMERVILLE, NJ
11:10 AM
Mulder sat in Simon’s living room, still covered in the dust from the Manville quarry. There was a cup of cold coffee in his hands, still mostly full, and he was staring into space, lost in thought. McShane knelt down next to the chair, gazing into Mulder’s face, as if trying to read the man’s thoughts from the pain in his eyes.
“I heard about everything,” McShane said. “Do you understand now? Are you ready to do what it takes to fight the future they threaten to bring about?”
Mulder looked down at McShane, biting his lip, his expression lost. But finally, he nodded. “Yeah. I’m ready.
