Alternities

By Spooky
ddwake1@netcom.ca


Date sent: Fri, 13 Feb 1998

Rating: PG

Category: V

Summary: What might have happened had Mulder been taken that night in
November.

~~~

Alternities
by Spooky
(C) 1997


He thought of it as the Time Before -- the time before the tests; before
he and the others like him were taught about their gifts and their
duties; before he learned about truth and lies and pain.

He couldn't remember the Time Before -- the knowledge, the memory, had
been taken from him. Knowledge and memory were power, and *They* guarded
their power jealously. Yet he knew that he had been someone else in the
Time Before -- someone other than Frank Miller. A time when, perhaps, he
had been loved. He could almost remember, sometimes, in his dreams. A
small girl in braids, her face vague, calling a name he couldn't quite
hear. His name he was certain. The dream didn't come often, and filled
him with melancholy when it did, but he prayed for it all the same --
the way a drowning man might pray for a life preserver -- prayed for it
to shine clarity into his mind.

But it never did.

There were thirty of them at this so-called private school. Prison,
really. None of them remembered their lives before this place. And they
weren't allowed to leave. They were to be instruments of destiny, they
were told. They were special.

Of all the ones whose DNA had been "augmented", they were the successes.
They were never told how many had failed, or what had become of them.
The unspoken threat was always there -- we don't tolerate failure.

The boy, Frank Miller, didn't fail, though failure tempted him. The
class went from thirty to twenty-two to fourteen. Failure would mean an
end, an end to this non-existence, an end to the emptiness. But he
stoically learned his lessons, studied the languages and sciences that
would enable him to become a dutiful employee of the Project. Learned
the hard way not to flinch as they tested the limits of his DNA and his
endurance. Weakness, like failure, was not tolerated.

They were told of the benefits they were bringing to mankind, but that
mankind wasn't ready for the things they knew. Secrecy was paramount.
Sacrifices were required.

The boy had his doubts, but said nothing.

Eventually he was no longer a boy, but a man, and was released out into
the great world with his dangerous knowledge and his carefully
inculcated doctrine. Assigned to the state department, his facility with
languages and ability to read people made him a valuable liaison between
the various governments. He was good at it; they assured him of a bright
future. He nodded in all the right places. He had become adept at
maintaining the facade of aloofness -- keeping his pain tightly leashed.

His work often took him to the United Nations -- there was a woman
there. Cold and brittle and blonde. They had sex sometimes. She cursed
him for his insensitivity, he accused her (accurately) of sleeping her
way into her job. She slapped him; he felt nothing.

The work challenged him; it sickened him. He stared at his gun most
nights, trying to find the courage to pull the trigger. An empty soul,
he thought, was like an empty belly. Always aching for want of
sustenance.

He found himself making copies of orders he received, of documents that
passed his desk. Made his own records and hid them away. A plan was
forming, still nebulous, unutterably dangerous.

Frank Miller had been left behind long ago; he had many different
identities for his work if one was required. It was usual, however, to
go nameless. So he did not ask the older man's name as he warily watched
him approach from the shadows of the Lincoln Memorial. He looked down on
the craggy features with a question in his eyes.

"You're playing a dangerous game," the man began, his voice gravelly.

He was silent.

"I know you've been collecting evidence," his companion continued. "It's
fortunate no one else has noticed."

He stared ahead impassively. It had been a long time since he had cared
enough about his life to fear for it. Would almost have welcomed the
dark oblivion of a bullet. Except for the idea that was germinating in
his mind.

"I can help you," the older man looked up expectantly, unperturbed by
the young man's silence. They both knew the game, that silence was both
a tool and a weapon. The boy had learned his lessons well.

"Why?"

"I, and a few others, feel as you do. We're in a position to know things
you don't. We may be able to make some of that information available."

He considered that. He preferred to work alone, but if he could reach
his goal that much sooner.... Trust no one, he remembered. As he studied
the other man's face, he realized he wanted to trust, to believe. He
wanted not to be alone.

"It's dangerous, as you yourself pointed out," he reminded the other
man.

"None of us have a death wish. We'll give you information as long as it
is safe for us to do so. You'll deal only with me." He touched the young
man's arm. "You must be circumspect, though. If I could find out, others
can."

He nodded. Success mattered to him, not his life. It was doubtful he
would survive his own success anyway.


"Don't you even want to know what I'll do with the information?" he
asked, slightly amused.

"Oh, I expect I know what you'll do with it. Actually, I've been
expecting this from you for some time."

"Expecting this?"

The other man nodded. "Let's walk," he said abruptly, glancing around
uncomfortably. They strode in silence for a few moments, then Miller had
to break the stillness.

"You said you expected this?" he prodded.

"I knew if you were at all like your father..."

The young man nearly stopped in his tracks. He studied the other man's
face, scrutinizing it for a hint of deception. The blue eyes met his
hazel ones squarely.

He swallowed. "You...you know my father?" he whispered.

His companion pulled a thick manila envelope from beneath his
trenchcoat. "This is for you. I thought you might like to know about
your past."

Miller was dumbstruck. It had been so long since he'd thought about what
other life he might once have had. So long since he had harboured any
dreams of ever knowing. He suddenly wanted to rip the envelope open and
devour its secrets. He tried to hide the trembling of his hands, but
knew the other man had seen.

"Does he," a deep breath, "does he work for them too?"

"Not anymore," the other man said, a note of sadness in his voice. "Like
you, he had too much of a conscience for this work. He tried to appease
it by threatening to expose the Project, so they took you to ensure his
silence. He never recovered from that."

Hazel eyes regarded the envelope. Hope or damnation? It promised so
much, so much for which he had long thought he had ceased yearning.

Again the hand reached out to touch him, the owner's craggy features
kind and filled with compassion. "No matter how tempted you are, don't
go to them. You would only be endangering both them and yourself."

The younger man nodded numbly as the other strode hurriedly away. Had to
restrain the urge to burst into a mad run back to his lonely apartment.

I'm not alone anymore, he thought wonderingly. I have a family.

*********

He ran his hand tentatively over the pictures, the faces he no longer
remembered. Happy faces. Was this really who he was? He waited for some
shred of memory to surface, but none did. He could recognize his own
face, recalled from so long ago. But the others? Was this the girl who
haunted his dreams even now? He stared a long time at the birth
certificate. His? Tried to force some familiarity out of the name, but
couldn't. Fox William Mulder. What the hell kind of name was Fox?

He felt the facade tremble, emotions kept too long in check clamoured
for release.

*********

It had been easy to find her; she worked for a computer company in
Silicon Valley. He became addicted to watching her, although he knew the
risks of being seen and being mistaken for a stalker. Although that was
exactly what he was. She looked happy, he thought. She had friends,
coworkers, a lover.... Only sometimes he would catch a sad, wistful
expression on her face as she scanned the crowds. Dare he hope she was
searching for the brother she had lost?

He wanted to go to her, wanted with desperate longing to tell her he was
her brother and she didn't have to look anymore. But he was ashamed,
too. Ashamed of what he had become, what he had been party to. He
couldn't bear the thought of destroying her innocence, couldn't bear the
thought of her turning away from him in revulsion. There was only his
secret hope that he could, at the end, make some restitution. That he
could expose the Project as their father had failed to do; destroy the
hydra that fed on people like Samantha.

Samantha. The name rolled sweetly off his tongue and he went to sleep
reciting it like a mantra.

He imagined all manner of meetings. That she wrapped her arms tightly
around him, her face radiant with joy. That she didn't remember him,
barely remembered she had ever had a brother and didn't care that he had
suddenly returned. Or worse, that she believed him not at all, and
turned away from him forever.

He left the city before the impulse to act became unbearable.

And the facade began to crack.

*********

Time had moved on; his cigarette-smoking superior's cancer sticks had
finally done him in and he was tapped to take his place. More
information to be hidden away. He finally felt the time was right.

He told his friend, the one he had come to think of as Deep Throat, what
he planned to do. "I'll need your help."

The older man shook his head slowly. "It's suicide."

"What have we been doing then?" the younger man snapped. "They could
stop anything else. At least this way, the information will be public.
They won't be able to cover it up, regardless what happens to us."

"You need to be patient...."

"I've had it with being patient. It's time we did something. I'll do it
myself if I have to, but I really need your help. It won't work
otherwise." He paused. "Once it's set up and they can't stop it, you
tell them I'm going to expose the Project. That'll protect you."

The other man shook his head. "They won't need me to tell them." He
sighed, reading the determination in the other man's eyes. "If it
doesn't work, we'll lose everything; we won't get another chance,
assuming we survive."

"The longer we wait the easier it will be for them to cover their
tracks," the younger man persisted.

Blue eyes searched impassioned hazel ones. "What is it really?"

His companion gazed wistfully into the distance. "One day, I'd like to
be able to go to my sister and tell her I did the right thing."

The older man was silent, gazing into space. He found the unspoken plea
in those words more compelling than all the young man's arguments. They
had all sacrificed, but perhaps none more so than the young man at his
side. He and his colleagues had chosen their course, albeit naively.
There had been no choice for the young man who had once been a boy named
Fox Mulder. His choices, like his past, had been taken from him. He
thought of the years he had kept silent, done nothing, until the young
man's actions had galvanized him. Ignited a spark he had thought long
dead. Made his decision.

"All right. Tell me what you need."

*********

The young man sighed, looking about his apartment for the last time. A
place to toss and turn on the couch at night -- not a home. That was
something he doubted he would ever have.

Months spent in preparation, his plans were on the verge of fruition. In
twelve hours every major news organization, every important politician
in the world would get copies of the evidence he had spent years
compiling. And his own statement. It would be copied to thousands of
sites on the Internet. Once begun, it would be a juggernaut that could
not be stopped.

The truth would be out there.

Deep Throat had come through with the technical expertise to make it
work. Soon, Frank Miller, once Fox Mulder, would disappear. He had no
real hope of survival, but he wouldn't go down without a fight. He had
revealed his true identity to only one person. The information would be
more credible if he was willing to testify. It was a risk he was
prepared to take.

He looked down at the note before him. His last task. The originals of
everything were going to the President. The Consortium had members in
the President's Secret Service detail and in his personal staff; he had
used them in the past to ensure certain documents and individuals never
reached the Oval Office. He appreciated the irony in using them now for
completely contrary purposes. He checked the note one last time.

Mr. President:

In these documents you will find evidence of a conspiracy against
American citizens, and indeed, a conspiracy of worldwide proportions. I
know this is a grandiose, and, on the surface, an incredible claim. But
I ask you, sir, to consider how this material reached your desk. The
people who placed it there are more usually responsible for ensuring
information does not reach you. Take the utmost care sir, for many of
the people you trust are involved.

These documents will shock you. They detail the workings of a government
within the government -- one that is accountable only to itself, not to
you, nor the people who elected you. They show how the American people
have been used as pawns, used as unwitting guinea pigs in ongoing
experiments.

I was born into this conspiracy, an experiment even before my birth. I
was taken from my family when my father threatened to expose these men.
I was made to forget them, and subjected to intense indoctrination. To
my regret I have worked for these men for many years -- I only hope that
the evidence I have compiled will be some expiation. I do not ask for
any immunity from prosecution; I do not expect my former employers will
be tolerant of my actions in any case. I ask only that you consider
these documents carefully, and take the appropriate actions. Many of the
names in here will shock you.

Copies of these documents have gone to others in the government, major
news organizations, the leaders of other countries and have been posted
on the Internet. These truths *will* be heard.

Sir, I can only hope you appreciate the authenticity of these documents,
in spite of how impossible a tale it all seems. If my testimony makes
this more credible, you may have it. Although I do not doubt that my
former employers' vengeance will be swift. They do not know that I have
penetrated the secret they hid from me, do not know that I have learned
who I am. I reveal my true identity only here. I can only beg you to
keep it confidential, for my family's safety. They should not have to
face the consequences of my actions. One day, if it were possible, I'd
like them to know I did the right thing.

Fox Mulder

********

Samantha Mulder emptied her mailbox, eyes rivetted to the newspaper's
front page. In a few short weeks the world had gone mad, or woken up.
More allegations and counter-allegations. Senate hearings. Prominent and
wealthy men being led out in handcuffs. Terrible horror stories of
abductions and experiments. How could this have happened in this
country? How could it have gone on so long in secret?

She suppressed a shiver, her mind travelling back to a cold November
night so long ago. Had her brother been subjected to those heinous
experiments? Was he dead even now? She brushed away a tear. She would
never know what had happened to Fox.

She put the newspaper down, and sifted through the mail. A small
envelope caught her eye amid the junk mail and bills. No return address.
Curiosity piqued, she opened the envelope. She caught her breath at the
picture that fell onto the table. Caressed it with a trembling hand,
tears welling in her eyes. Two children, a boy and a younger girl,
grinned happily into the camera, the boy's arm wrapped protectively
around the girl's shoulder. "Fox," she whispered. Who?

She unfolded the small sheet of paper. The tears fell freely now.

Dear Samantha,

It's been so long Sam, I'm not sure you would even remember me. I've
wanted to contact you, but it was too dangerous. But I can't wait any
longer. I only hope that you have been happy. They took you away from
me, even the memory of you. Despite all their crimes, that's what I'll
never forgive. I wish we could have known each other; I wish for a lot
of things I suppose. Funny, I haven't wished for anything in so long; I
learned not to wish a long time ago.

I'm no doubt being selfish, barging into your life like this, but I
couldn't stay silent any longer; I don't think I have much time. Don't
tell anyone about me, Sam; I don't want you to pay for the things I've
done. I did nothing for so long, Sammi. I hope you can forgive me. I
hope finally I've done something right. Take care, Sammi, and be happy.

Love, Fox

It seemed her tears must have fallen for an eternity before her eyes
fell on the newspaper. Her hand flew to her mouth as realization hit.

"Oh my God, Fox?"

Finis