By:  Maraschino
maraschino@ibm.net
 

Date: Sat, 25 Oct 1997

Disclaimer:  This story is (come on, everyone knows this off by heart
now) based on the characters created by Chris Carter, Ten Thirteen
Productions and Fox Broadcasting.  No copyright infringement intended.
Trish Zama, Colonel Josef Beranek, Vladimir Kabalevksy, Anton, and
the two Russian scientists are mine.

Spoilers:  Tons.  Oodles and oodles of spoilers up to and including
Momento Mori.

Summary: Mulder and Scully are drawn back into the Consortium's fingers
when the events of Tunguska/Terma and One Breath/Momento Mori come back
to haunt them.  Your usual last minute dealing ensues.
Warning:  two of Chris' baddies get it in this story.

Timeline:  Right after Momento Mori.  Everything after that ep hasn't
happened yet.

Rating:  R for violence, profanity and some kiss-y scenes but nothing
graphic.

Category:  XA

Feedback:  Most definitely -- good and bad.

Quick notes:
This story has been posted already (around May 1997), but I think it
was me on morphine, judging from all the spelling errors and typos.

By the way, a Canucklehead by nature, you're going to find I use the
"Canadian"-ized unabridged dictionary of spelling.  All right, all right,
it's just an excuse to use "colour" instead of "color".   :)

For those who have read this already, there have been no changes in
general plot, only some tinkering with dialogue and description.  There is
a sequel that is currently being edited, and I hope to have it finished
and posted before the season premiere.

Thanks to Jeannie from BRC who patiently read through everything,
even through the passages where THE was speeled rong  :)

And to my Wisconsin-ite twin separated six years at birth whose talent is
always astounding me.  I would never have expected that a simple e-mail
request could have turned into this, JL.

Thanks, all.

***

Entropy I:  If Only To Prevail -- Part 1/13
Written by:  Maraschino
Feedback to:  maraschino@ibm.net

***

Entropy:  the tendency for a system to degrade or move towards a state of
increasing randomness.

***

Russian Department of Security and Defense
Moscow, Russia
January 26, 1958

 All he wanted right now was a waste basket with which he could
puke his guts out.

 All he wanted was an Aspirin to relieve the incessant humming in
his head.

 All he needed was something to calm his nerves -- to stop his hands
from shaking and his brow from perspiring.

 And yet...

 ...yet, he was happier than he had ever been in the short twenty
five years he had been in this wind blown, snow covered, barren country.

 He glanced furtively around the walls that surrounded him and
absorbed the oak panels, the varnish starting to lose its shine after
so many years.  The painted walls, ever so subtly, were starting to chip
around the edges where it met the baseboards.

 Funny, even though the lamps were bright, there was no glare coming
off the hardwood floors.  It was as if the floor and its fellow inanimate
objects were quite aware of the tangible scent of the foreboding
atmosphere.
They were merely backdrops -- ornaments and pretty decorations -- to the
men who spent their entire existence in this room... creating history,
editing it -- occasionally deleting when necessary.

 It was awe-inspiring.
 
 He heard footsteps approaching and immediately straightened
his posture, made sure his jacket was buttoned, his fly done up,
and wiped his damp brow with a shaky hand.  He took a deep breath,
exhaling in one fast whoosh as the door opened.

 "You're early."

 "I know... I was told you wanted to see me immediately."
 
 The old man pulled out a manila folder and handed it to the
man standing -- if not shifting slightly from side to side -- in front
of him.  "I trust you'll get on it right away.  This one's important."

 The young man took a deep breath again.  His first assignment...
he couldn't believe it.

 And it was a biggie.
 
 He wrapped his fingers tightly around the envelope -- causing
the top to pucker slightly -- to cause some of the contents inside
to crumple just a bit.  He had no choice... the sweat in his hands
was making an effective lubricant between his flesh and his first
assignment.

 His heart started to beat faster in anticipation.

 His first assignment.

 And it was *important*.

 "I'll get on it immediately."

 The older man squinted his eyes for a fleeting second and glanced
down at the envelope -- gaze ever so steadily, ever so practised --
coming to eventually meet that of the envelope's carrier.  He forced
a nod in the direction of the young man before leaving the room.

 Upon the elder's departure, the dark haired man opened the
envelope.

 His first assignment.

 On top of some eight by ten photos were intelligence reports
with handwritten comments.

 And it was *important*.

 He pulled the papers away to look at the glossy black and
whites.

 He was met by the side profile of one Bill Mulder who was
sharing a drink with an as of yet unidentified man who was smoking
a cigarette.

***

The Chmilar farmhouse
Outside Camden, Alabama
November, 1996

 "Matt?  Matthew, honey?  Come look at the falling star!  Come
look... no, Sara, don't tease Johnny like that.  Oh my God!
There's another one!  Maybe it's an asteroid shower!  Maybe...
Matthew, you have to come look at this!  I've never seen anything
like it!"

 Awakening from his nap to his wife's impatient cries, Matthew
Richard Chmilar -- farmer, father, and currently beckoned husband --
came down the stairs two at a time, pulling a shirt over his naked
chest.  His wife and children were standing on the porch, apparently
transfixed by something in the sky.  Glancing upwards, he slowly
let out his breath in awe of the spectacle above him.

 God, it was amazing... certainly one hell of an asteroid shower.

 He continued to watch the tiny specks of light as they fell to
the ground as his wife and two kids continued to ooh and ahh at the
exhibition which was unfolding above them.  He leaned over to his
wife, momentarily noticing how his winter jacket seemed to be swallowing
his wife whole.  Only her head and legs were sticking out of the
oversized parka.  He glanced down and studied her gams more closely.

 She had shaved today.

 He almost lost his train of thought; it soon to be replaced by
a more lustrous one.  "I uh... think it's an asteroid shower."  He paused
to glance back up at the sky and put his hand around his high school
sweetheart's waist.  "And it looks like some of the rocks may have
landed in our corn field."  He couldn't recall if the radio had mentioned
if there would be an asteroid shower tonight.  Hell, they had a hard
enough time trying to get the weather straight.

 He turned to his children.  "Sara, Johnny, how `bout when I go
work in the fields tomorrow, I'll go lookin' for some moon rocks."

 "Moon rocks?"  His children looked at him incredulously.

 "Yeah, moon rocks... but only for children who go to bed at
their bed time and give their parents some relief."  Matthew looked
back at his wife, who smiled in return.

 "Moon rocks?"  She arched an eyebrow at him. "An' what, pray
tell, are you filling our children's heads with now?"  Matthew could
only shrug his shoulders and smile back.  His children, meanwhile,
were already in the bathroom furiously brushing their teeth.

***

The next morning:

 It was a rock.

 Matthew shook his head, nonsensically correcting himself.

 There were a *couple* of rocks.

 Scattered throughout his field, the *moon rocks* were black,
plain, and in comparison to some of the cow pies he had picked up in the
past, quite boring looking.  He absently looked up to the sky.  The
rocks in front of him were far too "normal" to come from the far reaches
of space.

 He picked up two rocks of equal size, knowing the hell that
would break loose if Sara or Johnny got a bigger rock than the other.
He turned the mineral in his hands and examined them more closely.  His
eyes caught the tiny spores which dotted the rock's surface, and he
gingerly ran his finger over the rough, porous material.  He smiled.
Nodded in assertion.

 Finally, they were starting to resemble something from the moon.

 He gasped when he saw the spores moving.

 "Oh my lord."

 Matthew backed up two steps instinctually -- watching, holding
the *worms* which were swimming in the 'rock'.

 His hands started to shake.  He watched, transfixed, as the tiny
black worms, smaller than his pinkie, migrated through a rock which
normally, if he remembered his grade three science correctly, was a solid,
and more specifically, an impenetrable medium. He felt his stomach drop,
and the blood leave his extremities.  All awareness of the outside
world started to fade, only to concentrate on the piece of mineral
he was holding.  His body seized -- its natural physiological response
to panic; and his thoughts were left to jumble, pound, tumble, rush,
swirl like a torrent river through his head.

 "I shouldn't have picked up this rock..."

 "I have to call Rick; he's the sheriff, he'll know what to do..."

 "I shouldn't have picked up this rock..."

 "Oh God please don't let Sara and Johnny come looking for me I
shouldn'thavepickedupthisrock..."

 His thoughts came to an abrupt halt as the worms easily passed
through the surface of the rock onto his hands, and then seemingly
disappeared into his flesh.  A scream, a terror -- primal and inhuman --
escaped from his throat.

 It was a terror born of the invasion of his body by an unknown
parasite.

 A terror that his wife and children would come looking for him
and face this same hideous mass.

 A terror, which had been caused by a black, ordinary-looking
rock, which was not, by any earthly means, ordinary at all.

***

Omaha Police Headquarters
Omaha, Nebraska

 It was over.
 
 Dana Scully, federal agent and board certified pathologist,
slumped in a chair in a comfortably bland conference room -- gazing
at her partner, equally slumped, if not more so, in the chair across
from her.

 A little more than three hours ago, John Sherritan -- male,
Caucasian, slight build, brown hair, blue eyes, abused by his mother,
child molester, and murderer of twenty teenage girls -- had been caught
and quickly processed, if not roughly so.  He was now wasting his
miserable life in some cell, awaiting the inevitable death sentence
that would come once the trial was over.
 
 Scully knew she would never be able to forget the numerous
autopsies she did this past week.  One did not easily forget
dismembered corpses missing their eyes, fingers and hair.

 She stole a quick glance back to her partner.  He needed a shower.
A decent meal.  Some semblance of rest.  A case where the locals
didn't give you jack shit on their case and expect you to wave your
magic wand and catch the perp.  Omaha hit too close for comfort for
Scully.  It was too eerie of a reminder of the darkness her own partner
could engulf himself in.

 He had come, he had profiled, and he had eventually caught...
and now some empty shell was sitting across from her, staring blankly
at the picture of Janet Reno nailed patriotically behind her.  God, it
was Donnie Pfaster and Bill Patterson all over again.

 In a subconscious gesture, she fingered the bottom of her right
nostril.  Just to check.  To her relief, only a faint ivory smudge,
courtesy of what little foundation was remaining on her face, could
be seen on her index.  She swore inwardly when she noticed Mulder
had been watching.

 About twice a day was the norm now.  One nosebleed a day was
considered a bonus.  None a day... well, it hadn't happened for quite
awhile now.  She was tired and irritable.  Even without her medical degree,

she would have been able to make a diagnosis from her symptoms.  It
was no coincidence her lack of appetite and the resultant decrease in
calories would occur at the same time her crankiness would climax.

 She looked back at her partner, his worry lines having
exponentially increased these past few weeks.  She had to inwardly
smile.  The effort Fox Mulder had put in this past week to *not* be
Fox Mulder, for the sake of a fiercely independent woman named Dana
Scully, was, almost paradoxically, chilvalrous.  She saw the concern
in his eyes -- how he would often open his mouth to say something, or
start to raise his arm to lead her out.  Then he would stop, fully
aware of the I-can-do mind set of his partner, and quickly avert his
gaze, close his mouth, or clench his fists and retract his arm as if
burned.  Only when she was too worn down, would he subtly suggest she
get some sleep.

 Not because she had fallen asleep at that Omaha diner when he
had been in mid sentence.

 Not because they had had to ring room service to bring an extra
box of Kleenex because they had used the last box in her most recent
nose bleed.

 Not because she had a cancerous mass in her sinus cavity which
could oh so easily start to spread to her brain.

 Oh no, but because Mulder would *need* her later.  He would
only half jokingly say she was the only one who could keep him sane.

 "I'll need you later, Scully.  You know I *need* you to keep me
sane."  Her partner would then flash a sardonic grin, quickly softening
it into a concerned look.  "You should get some sleep."  The comment
was always followed by a warped smile -- one where the corners always
tilted downwards.  "Then you'll be all rested when we really *need* you."

 *Need*.
 
 After four years of working together, Mulder was the only one
who knew exactly how to push her buttons.

 But in a good way, Scully quickly amended with a twitch of her lips.

 But along with the disguised coddling and forced smiles, Mulder
was also hiding something.  She tried to ask him, bribe him, coerce
him into telling her what was wrong, but he would gently remind her
that she should be worrying about her own personal health, rather than
his.  Although he never told her, she knew he was getting headaches.

 Bad ones.

 Often.

 She had seen him downing one Aspirin after another and knew
that the stress, of not having caught the killer yet, was building.  But
Mulder never took Aspirin during the Mostow case, nor the Barnett case
before that.  She had tried to reassure herself that it was only the stress

that was causing Mulder to run to the drug store every few days.
 
 "Just need to get some stamps, Scully..."

 Yet her doubts refused to dissipate.

***

 Mulder knew Scully was staring at him, trying to look like she
was examining the paint color behind him.  He wanted to laugh and say, uh
huh, yeah...  Nice try, Scully.  She should be worrying about herself,
for God sakes.  He had lost count how many times her nose had bled
during the investigation.

 He remembered he was at twelve by last Tuesday.

 God, he was trying. Trying so hard not to call her mom, rat to
Skinner, bar the door of her motel room and order her, as her superior,
to sleep.  But he was fully aware of the stubbornness and stamina of his
partner -- was fully aware that she wanted to be fully involved in all
investigations.

 But the steadily growing knife in his abdomen would further twist
and impale itself every time her nose bled, or every time she apologized
for being irritable, or for all the meals when she said she wasn't hungry.
 

 He didn't know for how much longer he could act *normal*.

 He wondered what time it was.  The effort required to move his
wrist and force his eyes to look downward, proved to be too tiring a
task.  He could not recall a case which had left him so exhausted...
so physically and emotionally spent.  It was taking all his
concentration just to will his eyes to stay open.  Even talking seemed
like a monumental task.

 And then there were the headaches, which came and went as they
pleased.  Mulder inwardly grimaced, rubbing a hand over his temple --
ammending that the headaches were seemingly more content to *come*
more often than *go*.

 A small, nagging thought in his mind reminded him of the incident
in Tunguska.  He put it aside.  Stress he told himself.  The headaches,
occasional dizziness were all due to stress.  Oh yeah, and old age.
Of course... it had to be.

 Tunguska is over.

 Omaha is over; the UNSUB has been caught.  He closed his eyes,
and soon fell asleep, still upright in his chair, now oblivious to
the concerned look which had flashed across his partner's face.
 

***

Russian Department of Security and Defense
Moscow, Russia

 The intelligence officer looked down at the official looking
form on the table in front of him.  The red letters screamed at
him -- `Classified'.  After ten years of working in this building, it
was a sight that was all too familiar.  He glanced back up towards
the man standing by the doorway.  "Is this real?  Can we trust this?"

 The man standing on the other side of the room shifted
slightly and cleared his throat.  "The Americans have already
dispatched an army reconnaissance team to retrieve all the
evidence and *deal* with any witnesses... if need be."

 "Are they currently in possession of the objects in question?"

 "Yes."

 "Approximately how much?"

 "Intelligence reports the rock, when whole, was approximately
fifty meters in diameter."

 Colonel Josef Beranek swore under his breath.  He passed a
weathered hand over his chin, feeling the one night's worth of stubble
he was now sporting.

 If it hadn't been for the god damned Americans with their god
damned noses in everybody's business he could still be in Krasnojarsk
with his mistress.

 Instead, he was here, in god damned depressing Moscow, dealing
with *pressing business*.

 He knew the importance of the Black Cancer.  He knew the
Russians needed it and needed it badly.  He *knew* the importance of
having something the Americans didn't have.

 He turned suddenly from his thoughts to face the man in front of
him.  "I do not need to remind you the importance of the proper
execution of this mission.  *That* rock is a powerful weapon which
must remain solely ours. I don't think I need to remind you of
Tunguska, something which intelligence reports you partly contributed
to."

 The man standing across from him lowered his eyes for a brief
period.  Yes, he knew what embarrassment he had caused.  He never
knew how fast he could talk before that day.  And yes, he knew how
important this mission was.  He raised his chin and looked squarely
at the Colonel before responding. "Success is imperative, and I
assure you, Colonel Beranek, there will be no repeat of Tunguska."
He paused, again slightly shifting -- the leather jacket causing an
unnatural sound as it shifted against the man's body.  "My partner
will get the necessary money and weapons, and we need new citizenship
papers.  But that can be later."

 Colonel Beranek had heard the sound, previous seconds ago, and
took deep breath, reminding himself that this was the man that *they*
insisted was the best.  He managed to keep the irritation in his voice
to a minimal level.  "Yes, later. You know what channels to use."

 Satisfied, the man started to reach for the doorknob, having to
shift slightly to the right to reach the doorknob with his right hand.
He was looking forward to going back to the States.  "Colonel, I give
you the assurances of me and my partner, the Black Cancer will forever
be the sole property of Russia.  The Americans will never know what
hit them."

 Beranek could only nod slightly.  He still was wondering what
the Consortium was doing, assigning a man who was missing a whole
god damned arm, and his female, Barbie-like partner to this mission.
He knew society was changing.  He liked to think he was an open minded
man, but yet, assigning *these* two to *this* mission made him wonder
if his colleagues had lost all their common sense.

 However, Beranek knew better than to question orders.  The
still vivid memory of his colleague's stiff corpse floating face
down in the Laptev Sea was all the motivation he needed to keep his
mouth shut.  He forced a smile as the man waited under the door frame
for a response.  "That is all I am asking of you, Comrade Krycek."

***

The Chmilar farmhouse
Base Headquarters for the Army Reconnaissance Team
Outside Camden, Alabama

 "Colonel Henderson, the perimeter has been secured and all
evidence is being packed and sent, sir."

 "To Boise?"

 "Sir, yes sir.  We should be able to be out of here by oh
seven hundred tomorrow morning, sir."

 "Good.  Dismissed."

 Colonel Henderson watched as the sergeant practically marched
away -- difficult to do in his level five containment suit.   Only here
for about sixteen hours and retrieval was almost finished, with the
goods being sent to Boise for closer study.  At least they were rocks
this time, not some shape shifting, invisible alien who would give his
men fifth and sixth degree radiation burns before it disappeared
altogether.  No, this sucker was a lot easier to deal with -- a lot
easier to pick up, to research, to store in little polymer vials and
containers so it could be examined...

 But it was also a lot more potent.

 He knew the Russians were studying some specimen.  All the
countries with intelligence agencies knew this.  Hell, they'd been
studying it, reportedly, since 1908.  But no one knew what it did,
or how lethal it was, or if the Russians had even developed a
suitable anecdote.

 Henderson shuddered, glad that his men were too busy with clean
up to notice.

 He knew now.

 He saw the woman and the man lying in the field, dead.  Or not.
The jury was still out to whether they were dead, or according to one
of the field doctors, having their metabolic processes exponentially
diminished... whatever the hell that medical jargon meant.  Their
children had been found in the house, crying.  Apparently, the
husband had gone first, and when he didn't come back later in the
afternoon, the wife went out to look for him, telling the children
to stay in the house.

 Then the calvary arrived.  Picture perfect.  Just like the
commercials, with the patriotic "Be all that you can be, in the
Arrrrrrr-my" a running accompanyment.  Except instead of fatigues,
guns and ammo, the men were equipped with containment suits, biohazard
containers and weapons not even the prez knew existed.

 The children were immediately shipped to Spokane -- away from
the horror of seeing their parents, away from any potential threat
the close proximity of the rock would cause, but more importantly,
away from curious people with potentially dangerous questions.

 Another sergeant with another update snapped the Colonel out
of his reverie.  Henderson batted his mask futilely, steaming
the inside of the polymer panel with indecipherable swear words.
He couldn't make out the man's face behind the suit, blinded by
the sharp glare of the visor and its surrounding silver polymer
material.  "Sir, Intelligence reports the Russians know about the
rock, but are unsure whether they'll go ahead and attempt anything."

 The news came as no surprise.  Colonel Henderson learned a long
time ago never to trust Intelligence and their `reports' entirely.

 Perhaps Intel believed the Cold War was over.
 
 Perhaps Intel wasn't sure if the great Russian Bear was
going to take action.

 But *he* was damned sure the Russians would be coming soon.

***

Federal Bureau of Investigation Headquarters
Washington, DC

 "I swear, Scully, I think paperwork is a primitive form of
torture."

 Scully couldn't help but smile over her laptop monitor.  "Well,
maybe if you stopped moaning and groaning about it for more than ten
minutes, then maybe you would get it done faster."

 Mulder mumbled something indecipherable under his breath as he
turned back to his paperwork -- patiently awaiting his John Hancock and
the date.  "Scully, what day is it today?"

 Scully momentarily stopped typing and furrowed her eyebrows in
concentration.  She remembered FAXing the autopsy data from the
Sherritan case to Quantico -- remembering also the shudders she got
when she had to sign and write the date beside the bland, lineup shot of
the accused.  "Thirteenth of November... Thursday..."

 In her peripheral vision she saw him -- pen in hand -- lean over
his rapidly disappearing desk, it being strewn with two week old
folders, articles and papers.  Omaha was on the top, open and of primary
importance now, it being precariously balanced on a pile of other
multicolored folders.

 The Mulder-scrawl, as Scully liked to refer to it, consisted of
approximately five seconds of loud, noticeable ball point pen,
scratching -- no, ingraining itself for all eternity into the grains and
fibres of the paper.  The sound had almost become as familiar as his
voice.

 She glanced up when the scrawl was mere milliseconds long.

 "Shit!"

 Mulder stood over his desk, clutching the pen as if a dagger.
He would clench his jaw, only opening it to relay the next expletive
that came to mind.

 "God forsaken fucking shit!"

 "Mulder... what the fuck is wrong with you?"

 Apparently his outburst was wearing off on her too.

 "I can't believe I fucking forgot!"

 Only the whir of Scully's laptop could be heard after he proceeded
to kick the garbage can.

 Scully watched Mulder pace the office with the palm of his hand
against his forehead, muttering obscenities, saying he didn't call,
should have called, can't believe that it happened, how could it
happen.  He didn't flinch when his hip caught the corner of his desk.

 When he could recite every passage in Hamlet.  When he could
relay word for word every profile he wrote for that bastard Patterson
and ISU.  When he could recall everything Scully had ordered in that
backwoods Omaha restaurant.  Fox Mulder with his damned eidetic
memory did not simply *forget*.

 His pacing came to an abrupt halt when he saw Scully standing
in the middle of the office, ready to intercept and take down if
necessary.  "Mulder, what is it?"

 Mulder swallowed.  Swallowed again.  The saliva in his mouth
refused to coat his larynx, refused to allow him to speak any louder
than a whisper.

 "Scully, day before yesterday was Sam's birthday."

 Nothing more needed to be said.

 She watched Mulder deflate, felt herself doing likewise.  Scully
swore she could hear the nitrogen and oxygen atoms colliding in the
air surrounding them.  When she dared to speak, her voice echoed,
vibrated, sounded ten times louder than it actually was.  "Who were
you supposed to call?"

 Mulder looked up at her, startled, not realizing he had spoken
aloud during his pacings.  He convulsively swallowed again, slightly
relieved when his voice was stronger.  "I was supposed to go to the
Vineyard.  You know, the whole stay with mom schtick."  He paused,
his gaze to the floor as he continued.  "She said the stroke made her
realize what was important.  I didn't even fucking call.  Shit."

 Four years of working with this man, and Scully had honed
her what-is-Mulder thinking skills.  Yes, like he said, he felt
upset, guilty even, for not calling his mother.  She knew little
about the woman Mulder called his mother.  She remembered telling her
own mother that the elder Mulder's relationship to her son could be
called distant at best.  Sure, she cared for him, as he did for her.
But they didn't *talk*... they didn't *share*.

 She wondered how much the disappearance of one Samantha Mulder
had to do with that... or the murder of Bill Mulder several decades
later.

 A trip to the Vineyard would have certainly helped calm the rocky
waters of their relationship.

 But there was a deeper, more hidden underlying message -- one that
had not been mentioned by Mulder, but which Scully could see.  Trips
to see relatives could be rescheduled, could be made up.  Forgetting
a sibling's birthday -- one who had been torn away from her family and
yet to return -- well, the implications her partner could draw were
potentially dangerous, evidenced in the tremors of incredulity that
entered his voice when he spoke.

 Forgetting Samantha Ann Mulder's birthday, was like forgetting
the little girl whose picture Mulder kept religiously on his desk.
Scully's eyes absently tracked towards Samantha's framed photo, the
sweat suit clad girl seemingly untouched by the surrounding chaos of
papers and files.  Scully held back the sigh that was forthcoming,
wondering what assortment of guilt-laden conclusions were currently
forming in Mulder's warped mind.  "Mulder,"  Scully spelled out her
words carefully, appeasingly.  "We just got back from a high profile
case.  It took all our time.  All our effort."  She shuddered at a
memory.  "Your profile, Mulder.  The autopsies... we weren't given
an opportunity to think about much else.  Your mother will understand."

 Mulder absently nodded, not fully paying attention to whatever
logic his partner was probably dictating now.  He caught the
'I want to believe' poster behind his partner and inwardly flinched.
He did not want to delve into the reasons why he forgot.  Sure, the
case was draining, sure his diet of the week consisted of stale police
coffee and doughnuts, sure he wrecked one of his suits because he took
a shower in it right after he was done writing his profile.

 But Sam... Sam was real.  Wasn't she?  He had said so to Werber
so many years ago.  What had happened that he could get so easily
sidetracked?  God, there was the whole Jeremiah Smith thing, Schnauz,
Ephisian and Melissa...

 The X-Files had been opened because of his search to find
his sister.  She was his main goal, his lifelong quest, his
singular passion.

 Wasn't she?

 "... Mulder."

 He looked back at his partner, who was radiating that special pained
look it seemed she reserved just for him.  "Hmmm..."

 "It'll be okay, you know.  Your mother will understand."

 He looked at the cell phone lying on his desk, its lighted
number pad glaring accusingly at him.  Scully was answered by a non
committal grunt.  His next words came out slowly, reluctantly, as if
the effort to pull out consonant and vowel sounds was a laborious
task.  "I guess... I guess I should call my mother and tell her I
haven't fallen into some abyss."  The never-ending chasm was appealing;
Mulder was wishing nothing more than for the floor to open up
underneath and swallow him whole.

 He started for the desk, for the phone, when there was a voice.
Quiet.  Understanding.  "Do you need some privacy, Mulder?"

 Scully watched him nod no with the handset to her ear.  She
wasn't sure if her partner would want her to be witness to an intimate
conversation with his mother.  She wasn't sure if she wanted to.  She
cringed when his voice cracked with the first, "Hi mom.  It's me,
Fox."

 Then, "Yes, I know I said I'd come down, but there was a big case
in Boise that we got... I know I should have called... I'm sorry...
I know it was Samantha's birthday... But the case was important..."
She heard the voice trail off, the excuse sounding lousy.  There was
no way Mulder's mother could understand the work her son did.

 Mulder said he preferred it that way.

 She watched him bite his lip.  So hard that she was afraid he
might draw blood soon.  "What kind of case?  It was... A case...
A homicide investigation.  I just forg..."

 Scully sensed Mulder didn't stop because his mother had interrupted
him, but because he simply could not bring himself to admit that he had
forgotten the birthday of his sibling, of the woman's daughter, who had
been missing for twenty four years now.

 She watched him nod into the phone.  "I know... I know...
I'll call later... I promise I'll call later.  Yeah... Bye."
He disconnected the phone and slowly disentangled himself from the
chair.

 Scully watched him take his phone, and grasp it so tightly that the
hand was trembling slightly.  Suddenly, violently, he slammed it against
the edge of the desk.  The federal agent got to fourteen slams before he
stopped, air noisily going through his nostrils, lips pressed so tightly
together that they were turning white.

 The next words were cruelly spat out, the bitterness evident in
every syllable.  "Yeah, Scully.  She'll understand all right."

 Scully opened her mouth to protest but he waved it off.  The
voice was now tired and defeated.  "I know you said... what you thought
was... right.  It's okay.  I'm gonna go home.  I don't think I have
much capacity to think right now.  I'll do the paperwork tomorrow."

 She watched him stuff the battered phone into his pocket and
walk, feet dragging, shoulders slumped to the door.  There was a surprised
grunt as Mulder nearly ran into the broad chest of Assistant Director
Skinner -- who by evidence of his outstretched hand, had been almost
ready to open the wooden panel.

 "Agent Mulder."  The older man acknowledged his younger agent
with a nod.  He saw the agent's partner sitting behind her laptop.
Judging from the defeated posture of the section chief and the
nervous way his partner kept looking back and forth between the two
men, Skinner suddenly realized he had not come at the very best of times.

 "Agents Mulder and Scully.  I just came down here to personally
commend you for your work in Omaha.  I just got a call from the big
wigs there and they just want to thank you for all your help.  They say
both of you did incredible work."  He looked to Scully and then towards
Mulder.  Both of them looked like they hadn't heard a thing he had said.
"Agent Mulder?  Are you feeling all right?"

 Mulder looked up to his superior.  "I'm just... tired... sir."
Skinner almost had to lean in to hear his agent's response.

 "Go home and rest, Agent Mulder, Agent Scully.  You deserve the
break after what the officers in Omaha say.  Maybe go home and see some
family."

 Skinner failed to notice Mulder cringe.

 "Thank you, sir.  I will."  The Assistant Director watched the
agent walk out the door.  Mulder nodded one more time, his feet dragging
slightly, his neck and shoulders hunched towards the floor, his hands
barely gripping the leather briefcase.  Skinner heard the sigh of his
partner as she returned to her computer.  He opened his mouth to say
something, then thought better of it.

 Skinner quietly showed himself out the door.
 

***

Scully's Apartment
Annapolis, Maryland

 Pulling her jacket on, Scully made sure she had her purse and keys
before she made her way to the door.  She sighed loudly when the phone
rang just as she was reaching for the door knob.

 She ran to the cordless, managing a breathless "Hello?" to whoever
it was that was calling.

 "Scully, are you okay?"

 Scully smiled.  "I'm fine.  How are you?"

 There was no hesitation between question and response, the
exchange having occurred so many times before.  "I'm fine."  Scully's
smile faded when she heard his monotone response.

 There was a long pause, punctuated by the audible breaths of her
partner.  "Mulder, it's okay, you know."

 A sigh.  "Yah, I know, Scully."  She heard him take a deep breath.
The next phrase came out in a rush.  "I don't suppose you want to get a
drink with me to celebrate my sister's belated birthday and her older
brother's complete callousness."  There was a pause, and his voice slowed
to normal Mulder-speak.  "Notice the emphasis on `one drink', Scully.  I
promise you won't have to drag me into the car this year."

 Scully smiled at the memory.  She still remembered last year when
a local bar had called at two in the morning, one November fourteenth and
asked if she could please pick up a Fox Mulder who was currently passed
out.

 Scully wanted to go -- wanted to comfort her distressed friend.
"Ah... the whole family's coming over to Mom's house to eat.  Bill Jr.
and Charlie are coming from out of town..."  Scully swore she could
hear Mulder's face fall.  "But, I'm sure my mom wouldn't mind if you
came.  She makes so much food, we always have to take home her leftovers.
She's been asking about you anyways.  Come, Mulder."

 "Ah... no, that's okay, Scully.  No offense, but family
gatherings aren't high on my `to do' list right now.  I shouldn't have
asked anyway..."

 "Mulder..."

 "S'okay, Scully.  I know you haven't seen you're family in a while,
I'm sure they want to see you."

 "But..."

 "No, it's okay, really.  I'll just..."  Mulder tried to sound
nonchalant on the phone as he lowered his voice a notch.  "It's okay,
Scully... Really.  You need... I know you need to see your family.  Go.
So... So seeyouhavefunbye."
 
 Scully was forced to whisper a sad "bye" to the dial tone which
assaulted her ear.
 
***

Apartment 42
Alexandria, Virginia

 CASE FILE X-365-465-3532

 NAME: SAMANTHA MULDER

 DATE: NOVEMBER 28, 1975

 IN CASE OF EMERGENCY CONTACT:

  AGENT FOX MULDER
  FEDERAL BUREAU OF INVESTIGATION
  WASHINGTON, DC

  DESCRIPTION:  SUBJECT WAS ABDUCTED BY HOME BY UNKNOWN ENTITY,
NOVEMBER 27, 1973.  NO PHYSICAL EVIDENCE OF BREAK IN EXCEPT FOR BLOWN FUSE. NO FINGERPRINTS EXCEPT FOR ONES FOUND ON GUN WHICH SUBJECT'S BROTHER USED TO TRY AND WARD OFF ATTACKERS.  LATER UPON QUESTIONING, SUBJECT'S BROTHER HAS NO RECOLLECTION OF EVENTS WHICH OCCURRED DURING NIGHT IN QUESTION.  SUBJECT'S BROTHER WAS FOUND CATATONIC ON LIVING ROOM FLOOR....

 Mulder lifted the glass and swallowed.  Eyes closed, after a
fleeting moment of discomfort, he felt his lips, his throat, his
stomach eventually welcome the burning amber liquid.  The Jack Daniels
was beginning to dull the thoughts in his head, but not as much as he
had hoped it would.  At least it took the edge off the headache which
had followed him home from Omaha.

 His fingers rubbed his temple harder, in more defined circles
as his conscience, as guilt -- his ever constant companion -- waged
war with the voices of memories past.

 Is it too late for a game of Stratego?

 I forgot my sister's birthday...

 I need your protection, Fox...

 God, how could I forget my sister's birthday?

 You traded your sister for your partner, is that what you're
trying to tell me?

 I'm sorry, Dad.  I forgot Sam's birthday.

 I`m turning into my father.  He used to drink too.

 What kind of brother am I, that I forget my sister's birthday?

 Mulder had always wondered what a reunion with his sister would be
like.  He had always had the belief that she would be found.  And, although

the psychologist in him dictated it was naive, he believed everything
would be right again when she was finally returned.

 She would make everything good again.

 Occasionally, in between the hordes of nightmares he had, there
would be a *good* dream.  In between the dreams where Scully was killed,
tested, his father an alien, Samantha dead, Phoebe coming back,
Patterson coming back for his soul, the world obliterated and him the
sole survivor -- in between all those nightmares -- he would sometimes be
reunited with Sam.

 Sometimes she would be eight years old and running into his arms.
"Foxy, I've missed you so much," she would say, with her brown braids
swinging.  Other times, she would be thirty or so, coming to him, telling
him she didn't blame him, that she had made it, had a family, had a
career, and that she had always, always loved him...

 But now...

 The reunion two years ago was nothing like he had expected.
Granted, she was an adult clone, but the reunion was anything but happy.
The consequences... Well, his mother still had a hard time understanding.
Then this year, he was reunited with a child clone.  Their meeting could
hardly have been called a reunion.  Mulder snorted loudly, hearing the
disgust echo off the walls of his empty apartment.

 For Christ sakes, *it* couldn't even talk

 Sam was his quest, his life long goal, his Holy grail... His
Achilles' heel.  The Roches and the Cancermans could wave her around
and almost certainly Foxy Boy would follow.  Would he be able to put
aside all the doubts when he finally found her?  How would he be able
to know for certain?

 There would be no such thing as a happy reunion.

 Would there ever be a reunion?

 Startled from his thoughts, his head turned sharply and his
hand automatically reached for his gun when there was a knock at the
door.  He put the gun back on the coffee table when he heard the
familiar "It's me."

 Mulder walked over to the door and opened it slowly, watching
the female enter his apartment.

 Marita Covarrubias turned towards the sweat-and-alcohol smelling
agent still standing by the door.  "Agent Mulder, I have some information
which may be of some value to you."

***

United States Federal Medical Research Facility
Boise, Idaho

 "The man is dead, Colonel Henderson. I see no reason to try the
test again."

 Dr. Trish Zama, all five-foot-one of her, found the crick in her
neck was quickly worsening as she continued to glare into the face of
the very muscular and very no nonsense six-foot-four frame of Colonel
Henderson.

 "The man died of acute septic shock.  Christ, the drugs we used to
try and relieve the symptoms are worse than the organism itself.  He is
dead.  We do not need to perform the test again."  She rose her voice to
try and let the words sink in.  "It is an exercise in futility.  These
test subjects are dying for nothing."
 
 Henderson continued to glare at the doctor, trying to use his
height as an advantage.  "They are dying for science, Dr. Zama.  Just
as makeup companies use lab rats, we use the great race of Homo
sapiens.  You managed to put your conscience aside two years ago, so
you no doubt can do it again."  He glanced over to the gurney,
reflexively swallowing when he could see the dead subject's skin still
moving, trembling, twitching, alternately stretching and relaxing in
response to the parasites to which is was still playing host.

  "We need to know if there are any factors which affect this
organism.  I'm sure you're well aware of the need to catch
up to the Russians."  He paused so his next words would have a greater
effect.  "So I suggest you do your job... before you meet a fate
similar to your father's."

 Trish tightened her jaw.  The Colonel was rubbing fucking coarse
salt into an old festering wound.  The bastard did not have to bring that
up.  "This organism, *Colonel*, is not like the retro virus of before. It
is not hampered by cold, by heat, by antibiotics, by anti-coagulants,
anti-viral agents.  We have researched, autopsied, tested, and examined
at least a hundred test subjects now.  There is no need to waste anymore
innocent lives, Colonel.  This... this *organism* is unstoppable.  I
recommend you bury it in the ground or send it back to where it came from."

 Henderson rolled his eyes, wanting nothing more than to grab her
thin neck with his hands and squeeze.  He hated her, hated her sudden
onslaught of conscience.  A traitor to the project, he hated her father
too.  He placed his hand on the holster at his hip, drawing the doctor's
attention to semi-automatic it housed.  "I suggest you follow orders, Dr.
Zama, because out of all lives you should be concerned about, it should
be yours."

***

Apartment 42
Alexandria, Virginia

  The blond woman looked at the currently bedraggled man who was
sitting on his leather coach, nursing a tumbler of whisky.  Some God
awful porno tape was playing itself on the TV; the grunts and moans
were still faintly audible, the flexibility of the people momentarily
holding the attention of the special representative.  With a cleansing
breath, the female turned back to the agent in front of her.

 "Agent Mulder, I've come with some information which may be of
value to you."

 Mulder looked at the UN informant warily before reaching for the
remote control and muting the TV.  He had heard this phrase numerous
times before.

 "And that is?"

 "As of nine o clock yesterday evening, a rock fell in a field by
Camden, Alabama -- it was of extraterrestrial origin."  At this stage
of the proceedings, there was no need to beat around the bush.  "It is the
same rock that the Russians were mining in Tunguska."  Mulder flinched
at the mention of the Russian city, unnoticed by Marita.  "The rock has
been sent to Boise for further study, and they are attempting to find
a possible vaccine."

 Mulder's attention was piqued, but his face remained impassive.
"Why?"

 "The Russians have had a head start on us, Agent Mulder.  An
eighty eight year head start in researching and carefully studying this
organism.  You've heard of the space race?  The arms race?  What kind
of power do you think a country could have if they had an organism
which rendered its host completely incapacitated on a cellular level.
What if there was only one country that had a cure?  With their head
start, needless to say, the Russians have a slight advantage."

 "You're referring to biological warfare."

 "If need be."  Mulder's informant moved deeper into the living
room, moving closer to the federal agent before speaking again.  "Agent
Mulder, the Russians came very close.  The gulag you went to was a
primitive testing center."

 Mulder nodded.  No shit.

 "The Russians developed something -- some sort of bio-chemical
compound.  When given to test subjects infected with the Cancer, the
symptoms went away."  Marita paused.  The desire for global domination
was not a thing of the past, contrary to popular belief.  If the
Russians came, she was determined to be the first one to put a gun to
her head.  There was absolutely no way she was ever going back.  "You
can imagine our fears when we discovered the Russians had a potential
vaccine..."

 Mulder looked at the woman standing across from him -- for one
split second still expecting the intense glare X.  Eyes shifting, words
barely escaping her lips, as if the effort to move them was too great
a price, a very deliberate way of walking, of moving... she was polar
opposite of his last informant.  He sensed a 'but' coming soon...

 "*But*, these symptoms reappeared later.  Running guess is that
this chemical puts the cancer into some sort of temporary remission or
dormant state. The subject recovers, but then they start getting
headaches and dizziness which gets worse as time progresses.  The
original symptoms then re-emerge.  That is, the subject lapses back
into his original catatonic state."  Marita noticed Mulder had gotten
very pale, the sweat was starting to run down the side of the agent's
face.  "Agent Mulder, are you feeling all right?"

 Mulder attempted to clear his throat.  "Uh... it's the whisky..."
Catatonia?  Jesus Christ.  "How long of a remission?"

 "Most of the test subjects were *normal* for a period of two to
three months."

 Mulder did a quick calculation.  Two to three months, so that
meant he had how long before... NO!  He quickly derailed the thought.
It was just stress.  It had to be stress.  Mulder exhaled a shaky
breath while trying to ignore the growing terror in his stomach.  He
looked back up at his informant.

 "Tell me more."
 

***

Margaret Scully's house
Baltimore, Maryland

 Scully felt guilty, guilty that she was actually enjoying herself.
The fact that she was enjoying herself was also an odd sensation,
strangely foreign.  God, how long had it been since the family had gotten
together?  Although she knew that her cancer had something to do with
everyone's sudden desire to see everyone again -- assure themselves that
everyone was relatively healthy -- it had been a long time since she had
seen her brothers.  Until the moment that they had arrived, she hadn't
realized how much she had, indeed, missed them.

 "Dana, eat some more pie, you need to gain some weight."

 "Yeah... Day-na.  Need you to get fat."  Bill Jr. proceeded to
snort like a pig, much to the amusement of his three children and to
the disgust of his wife.

 "Seriously, Dana, are you feeling okay?"  Even when they were
kids, although he was the youngest, Charlie was the more serious of
her two brothers, always looking out for other people's welfare.  No
wonder he had become a social worker.

 "I'm fine."  She caught her family's subtle signs of doubt -- the
slight shift in position on the coach, the quiet intake of breath, the
slight twitch of the lips.

 It unnerved her more than any red lettered manilla folder labelled
X could.

 "Really, I'm fine."  She put on her best `I'm fine' smile, usually
reserved for her partner.  "I get tired a little more easily, and get
nosebleeds once in awhile but it's okay.  Really.  Mom, don't look at me
like that... I'm okay."  Scully smiled, Deep Throat's 'a lie is best
hidden between two truths' still haunting her.

 "How's Fox?"

 Scully's eyes, wide and bright in an attempt to convince her
family members that she was indeed fine, averted, turned towards the
floor, and darkened.  She didn't want to know what kind of inner
torment he was subjecting himself to.  Maybe she'd drop by his apartment
on her way home.  Just to check.

 "He's... okay, mom."

 "Is he treating you okay?"

 Scully turned towards her younger brother, noting for the first
time the edge that had crept into his voice.  "Yes, Charlie."

 "So have you two hit the sack yet?"

 Scully almost spit out the pop she had been drinking.  She heard
her mother gasp loudly.  "No!"  She looked at her older brother who was
smiling wildly.  It was exactly the reaction he had wanted.

 Dana smiled despite herself -- Bill Jr. still knew how to rile her
even though she was no longer the teeth-braced, gawky teenager she once
was.  "We're partners, Bill.  Partners.  He knows how I like to be
treated."  Her voice started to grow distant, as she thought back
towards Omaha.  "He knows me probably better than anyone.  He's a very
good friend..."  She caught herself quickly, that was not the word she
had wanted.  There was no word for what he was.  "...*More* than a
friend.  He knows I don't want this... cancer to affect our work."
Even a month after her diagnosis, it was difficult to say *that* word.

 Charlie stood by his younger sister, half listening to what she
was saying.  The other half trying desperately to calm the storm that
was brewing inside -- the combination of feelings that seemed to weave
and warp themselves into one horrid mess.  Resentment.  Anger.
Helplessness.

 Unbeknownst to anyone else in the living room, Charlie was
cursing Dana's partner.  Her sickness was because of *him*.  Missy's
death was because of *him*.  The new worry lines on his mother's face
were because of *him*.  "Gee, Dana, what a *great* guy your partner
must be."

 Her head snapped towards her younger brother.  She heard the
dangerous undertones his voice had carried.  His sarcasm reeked of
animosity, unchecked rage -- one which had been allowed to brew and
simmer for some time, and only now was ready to spew.  The conversation
regarding Mulder had quickly gone downhill from concern, to humour, to
accusatory.  "And what is that supposed to mean?"  Dana's mind vaguely
registered a doorbell ringing, but her Irish temper was too busy rising.

 Charlie's temper rose alongside hers. Fox Mulder might as well
wear a robe and recite scripture, if he meant that much to his
clearly misguided and naive sister.  "Dana, *he* called you into
that hostage situation, when, if I may remind you, you were no longer
working with *him*.  Then the psycho kidnaps you and you're missing
for months, while he returns, saying he turned you in to the aliens for
Christ sakes!"  He caught, from the corner of his eye, Bill's wife
ushering the children and the toys hastily upstairs.  "I thought you
were dead!  Do you know what that was like for me?  For mom?"  Charlie
stopped suddenly, the emotions still too close to the surface even
though two years had passed.  He remembered Mom telling him she had
just picked out her grave stone; his lunch had gone into the toilet
immediately after.

 He paused, slowly exhaled, counted to five -- all the things he
told the broken people who walked into his clinic to do.  "Dana,
you're painting him as a saint.  And I... I... I'm sorry, but I can't
look at him that way.  I see him or when you talk about him, all I
can think about is your dissapearance.  All I can think is maybe,
maybe Missy would still be alive.  All I can think about is puking
in the toilet with worry."  There was a tense pause when Charile shook
his head grimly.  "I can't forgive him for calling you to that case.  I'm
sorry."

 "I see," Scully whispered bitterly.  Her piercing blue eyes
bore holes into her brother's grays, and Scully crossed her arms
over her chest resolutely.  "He cares for me.  He looked for me."  She
paused, feeling the tears threaten.  "At least he had faith in me."

 Charlie reflexively flinched.  "Are you sure you're not sleeping
with him?"

 The slap was loud -- echoing, rebounding off the walls of the
now silent house.

 It wasn't a reunion.  It was a war zone.  Under the facade of
the apple pie, two point three kids American household, wounds were being
cruelly ripped open, no holds barred.  Past memories, so cleverly,
so deceivingly hidden, now thrown out, shot into the other person's
face as if artillery.

 The tears were blinding her; she couldn't hear anything for the
rushing in her ears, she couldn't feel anything for the blood pounding
in her veins.  She heard a familiar voice, muffled, in quicksand.
Only when she fully concentrated could she hear what the person was
saying.

 "...Dana, Fox is here."

 Dana turned, only to see the very mortified face of her partner.

 He had heard everything.

 He wouldn't meet her eyes.  Her mother had her hand gently
behind his back -- as if in preparation to catch him, brace him, if
he should fall.  Charlie felt the blood rush to his face, couldn't
decide if he wanted to run to the bathroom or beat the crap out of
the man in front of him.  Dana looked from her partner to her brother,
back to her partner.  She tried to emanate apology, as if the waves
of emotion she was feeling could magically diffuse into him.

 Mulder's chest hurt.  His heart had moved to his stomach under
the weight of accusations and charges which had been hurled at him.
He didn't know Scully's brother had felt that way about him.  It only
made him wonder who else felt the same way.

 Charlie didn't need to blame him.

 For he was quite capable of blaming himself.

 Scully's cancer was a result of her abduction... her abduction
was a result of Duane Barry... Duane Barry was the result of him... His
carelessness... His fault... His fault only...

 He momentarily forgot why he had come... What had pushed him to
drive all this way to see her.  On yeah, Marita and that Russian gulag
thing.  Yet his feet remained planted, unwilling to move.  Only when
Scully walked over and gently took his arm, leading him outside, were
his feet finally able to obey.

 Scully turned her partner around to look at him, momentarily
meeting his eyes until he jerked his head away.  She stood on the
porch with her arms around her thinking of something to say.

 They both opened their mouths at the same time.

 "I'm sorry."

***
 

United States Federal Research Facility
Boise, Idaho

 Trish hated this part.  She hated hearing the subjects scream as
the liquid rock was poured onto their faces.  She hated being the one
who had to record their initial reactions and attempt to put it into
words.

 ...Okay, dokey, Subject Number one screamed like hell, and them
lapsed into a complete catatonic state which, dog gone, we can't
really cure with normal medical procedures.  The things -- or organisms
of `extraterrestrial being' -- inhabit the host by entering any open
air body cavity such as the eyes, nose or ears.  Yuck...

 She still remembered patient zero and one -- the poor saps who
had found the rock.  Eyes open, staring, their mouths agape, as if
caught in some unimaginable terror.  She didn't know, and didn't want
to know how her father had dealt so easily with the mass suffering
and death brought on by his own hands.

 But then of course, she would never get a chance to know.
Because as Henderson had so kindly pointed out, he was dead -- and not
by any natural means.

 She hated Colonel Henderson.

  The complete unabridged edition of a dumb testosterone-saturated
prick with a stick up his ass.

 She hated her job.

 Trish rubbed a hand over her face, a memory threatening.  Darren
had hated his job, too -- had tried to leave, but was now wrapped up in
a straight jacket, pacing in a room with padded walls in a pretty
looking hospital.  A government institution, no less, that wasn't on any
road map.  Coincidence?
 
 Trish did nothing but roll her eyes and clench her teeth at the
thought.

 She was growing tired of living in shadows and answering to the
men in shadows.  Men with no names who sent middle men, also with no
names, to retrieve the research, to give new commands, to deliver more
test subjects.  She did not want to join her father.  She had thought she
was done.  The retro virus was supposed to be the last one.

 She had discovered how to control it, but *they* deemed the virus
too easy to kill.  Too easy to figure out.  Apparently the FBI had managed
to.  So it was thrown away.  The retro virus was made obsolete, shunned
as if the extraterrestrial biotoxin was as simple as the measles or
small pox.

 Just because the Project wanted something that was exclusively
theirs.

 Ingrained in her brain, was still the regiment of heparin,
plasma, and the cocktail of anti viral agents.  Trish grimaced, almost
forgetting the cooling blanket and the cold room that each patient would
be subjected to.  Still ingrained were the darkened orbitals around
the eyes, the occasional squeal of the EKG, the blue lips...

 Her head tilted upwards.  Oh God, how easily she thought she would
be able to leave.  How naive.  How so much like her father.

 She thought she would be able to leave after the retrovirus --
that she could finally have her freedom and her life.
 
 Just a normal life.

 Two years later, she was still in this stainless steel hell hole.

 After devoting her entire adult life to The Project, Dr. Trish
Zama wanted out.

***

Margaret Scully's house
Aberdeen, Maryland

 The silence was so thick, so palpable that Scully was tempted to
raise her hand to see if she could touch it.  Instead, she reached for
her partner's arm.  "How much did you hear?"

 He studied the sidewalk.  The conversation forever etched in his
memory, was running in a continuous loop through the fissures of his brain.
 
"I heard how hard your abduction was on your brother and your mom."

 Scully nodded, noting Mulder's defeated voice.  "Charlie, didn't
mean what he said, Mulder.  He didn't have time to think properly."

 "He's had two years to think about it."

 Scully's mouth twitched.  There was no adequate response she
could give him.  She looked into the living room window; Charlie was no
longer there.  "So... what made you decide to come?"

 For the first time that evening, Mulder raised his head to look
at his partner.  Scully nodded her head, almost imperceptibly, to urge
him on.

 He swallowed, shifted his weight to his left foot and spoke as if
reciting a monologue.  "A rock landed in a field in Alabama.  A retrieval
team was sent to clean up the place and send everything to a facility
in Boise.  A family found the rock, and the father and mother are now
dead.  The children have been sent to an orphanage in Spokane."

 Scully waited for him to ask her.

 She waited longer.

 He didn't ask.

 She nudged him slightly with her elbow, tried to dispel the heavy
and quickly settling air of depression.  "Mulder, aren't you going to
tell me to pack?  You know, tell me where to go?"

 The question was in the back of throat, wanting to come out,
prevented -- barred -- from forming into words by what he had heard a
mere ten minutes ago.  "You don't have to come Scully.  It'll be
dangerous."

 "So?"  Scully looked at her partner carefully, noticed for the
first time the black jeans and the leather jacket that he was wearing.
There was most likely a knapsack in the trunk of the rental car
parked out front, along with a plane ticket to Boise.  However, the
posture of the man in front of her was like that of a puppet whose
strings had just been cut.  He did not resemble a federal agent who
would soon be illegally violating a federal quarantine.  Scully glanced
into the living room window again to see Charlie arguing with their
mother.  She sighed.  "Mulder... don't read too deeply into anything
Charlie said."  She paused, bent slightly at her knees to look into
Mulder's eyes which were focused on the ground.  "Hey... tell me what
you want me to do."

 His face twisted and in an agonizingly short torrent of words he
blurted, "I can't... Scully.... Too dangerous...I won't..."

 Scully's eyes flared.  "Mulder, don't you dare heap all this shit
onto your shoulders.  Don't.  I'll do whatever I damn well please.
It's not your fault.  Charlie was a bastard for what he said.  He doesn't
understand.  He thinks I'm fragile."

 Mulder inwardly smirked.  Scully was anything but fragile.

 "Mulder.  I.  Don't.  Blame.  You.  I never did."

 Mulder looked up at his partner, noticing the tremor that her
voice carried.

 "Mulder, I want you to tell me, exactly what you would have said
to me if you hadn't heard any of that bull shit Charlie said.  Tell me
word for word... And I know when you're lying, Mulder.  So help me God
if I have to shoot you again."

 Mulder noticed the corners of Scully's lips twitching slightly.
He wanted her safe.  He wanted Mrs. Scully to have two daughters
instead of one...
 
 But he had also wanted her to go to Spokane.

 "I was um..."  He cleared his throat, his next words came out in
a torrent.  "I was thinking that maybe... Only if you want to... That
you might, if you could, go to Spokane and check on the children while
IgotoBoisetocheckoutthesite...."

 "Let me go to Boise, too."

 The response was automatic.  "No."

 "Mulder!  Don't ditch me."

 The conversation was now on familiar ground.  "Scully, I *need*
you in Spokane.  We *need* to talk to those kids before they ship them
off somewhere were no one will be able to find them.  I don't know what's
exactly in Boise.  Maybe it'll be nothing."  Maybe everything, Mulder
amended inwardly.  He smiled a weak reassurance towards Scully, comforted
only by the fact that there would be no worms in Spokane.  "I think
we have a better chance if we split up.  I *need* you in Spokane,
Scully."

 Once again, there was that word.

 She looked at him closely, drew her face closer to his.  "What
are you hiding?  Why is this rock so important to you?"

 Mulder shook his head.  "I don't know what you're talking
about."

  She started counting off the fingers on her right hand.  "One,
you forgot Sam's birthday."  Scully pretended to ignore the wince on
Mulder part.  "Two, you were despondent and depressed when you called
this evening.  Then, three, Charlie had to open his big mouth."  She
tilted her head slightly.  "But yet you still want to go... why?"

 Mulder opened his mouth to protest, cut off quickly by his
partner.  "I'll go to Spokane, Mulder.  Just tell me why it's so
important.  I don't need a psych degree to see it's personal.  You
wouldn't have come over and asked me just right now if it hadn't been
so.  It's not purely the government conspiracy your trying to make it
out to be.  Tell me.  What's in Boise?"

 Mulder decided it would be faster to say something... Anything,
rather than try to convince Scully that everything was fine, and that
there was no personal agenda on his part, no potential organism that
was invading his body.  He decided to tell the truth... Or, rather,
a warped version of the truth.

 "Scully."  She shifted her body position slightly, showing Mulder
that her attention would be directed solely on the next words he would
say.  "This rock, that they found in Boise, is the same rock that they
were mining in Tunguska."

 Scully recognized the name of the Russian city immediately.  It
was a name she went to jail for, the name for which she incurred the
wrath of a sub Senate committee.

 "This rock contains the organism which was responsible for Dr.
Saks... This you already know.  When I was at the gulag in Tunguska...
I was *witness* to certain events.  I *watched* people being purposely
infected with these worms.  They were test subjects, basically.  The
liquid came from a pipe... And they'd squirm... But can't move...
The chicken wire..."  He paused momentarily, the onslaught of memories
threatening to suffocate him.

 "And then... then... it was just like Saks.  No movement, can't
tell from first glance whether they're dead or not.  Then they'd wake
up in their cells some hours later with no recollection of what
happened to them or how much time had passed."

 Mulder subconsciously raised his hand to his arm, remembered
the nausea, and the bicep that seemed to burn.  "This happened
repeatedly, until the subjects eventually died, presumably because of
the stress the body's immune system was subjected to."

 He paused, remembering the man who was in the cell next to him.
"I met a man, a geologist. He had no reason to help me, but he
did.  Because of him, I escaped, and for his sake and the sake of all
the other innocent people in that cell, I need to find the vaccine, if
they have indeed developed one.  I'm sure the military is working full
force in an attempt to catch up with the Russians."  Mulder had to
inwardly laugh -- the Cold War had never ended, contrary to popular
belief.  "If they're researching this organism, then they have to be
looking for a cure.  Forget about nuclear bombs or stealth planes.
Biological warfare is the weapon of choice now."  The calmness in
Mulder's voice betrayed the emotions he was feeling.  "Scully, they
have a vaccine... Or a semi working vaccine anyway. The Russians
managed to cure these people to some degree.  The army can't be too
far behind.  Scully, I have to find it"

 Scully absorbed all the details.  He still hadn't told her all of
what happened in Tunguska, and after what he had just said, she wasn't
sure if she wanted to know.  "You were in the cell?"

 "Um hum..."

 "But they didn't test you?"

 It was a story hole Mulder hadn't realized.  The cogs in his
brain started to work furiously in an attempt to find a plausible
response.  "I escaped before they had a chance to."  He could feel his
heart throbbing in his throat; whatever little to none telepathic
ability he had was pushing the woman in front of her to please buy it.

 Scully caught a brief flash in his eyes.  She knew there was
more, that there was much more than what the man in front of her was
letting on.  But she also knew by experience that pushing would be useless.
 
She would wait.  For now.

 "Wow.  Rambo-Mulder... I'm impressed."  Scully saw Mulder raise
his eyebrows to her, her heart simultaneously feeling lighter.  "I
guess I better go pack for Spokane then... I'll go to the airport with
you and then catch the next flight out, I guess."

 Mulder smiled out of relief.  Spokane was safe.

 Scully started heading inside where she was met halfway by
Charlie.  She stopped momentarily, gauging Mulder's reaction.  Both men
waved her off.

 She continued on inside, to see her mother smiling -- conveying
the aura of experience and wisdom it seemed only mothers possessed:
that things were alright and all kinks could be mended.

 Charlie raised his right hand in a mock surrender.  There was a
forced smile, causing it to look more like a grimace.  Mulder regarded
him warily, unsure of what to expect after his outburst before.

 "Fox... I mean... Mulder... I was... I was totally out of line
before."  He paused, remembering the animated conversation with his
mother not more than ten minutes ago.  She had been speechless when she
had tried to describe Dana's relationship with the man in front of him.
He looked back at Mulder, speaking carefully, avoiding any potential
land mines.  "Mom tried to describe your relationship with Dana, but all
she could come up with was that it was special.  I guess I can't
understand that yet."  He paused, struggling for what to say next.
"Mulder, Dana's my little sister.  She's very special to me..."

 Mulder nodded, in full agreement.

 She was special to him too.

 "...And I don't want to see her hurt..."
 
 And neither did he.

 "...And I would die to protect her."

 At his last sentence, Mulder looked at Charlie -- made sure his
partner's brother could see that he meant every word he was about to
say.  "So would I, Charlie.  So would I."

***

Boise International Airport
Boise, Idaho

 The brunette stewardess smiled at the married couple in front of
her.

 Such poor little things.  All new to the States and they couldn't
speak a word of English to save their lives.

  "Thank you Mr. and Mrs. Popov for choosing our airline."
The stewardess paused.  She hoped she had spoken slowly and
loudly enough for them to understand.  She carefully enunciated her
next sentence.  "Have... a... great... day... and... wel... com...
to... A... mer... i... ca."

 Nodding at the stewardess and retrieving their luggage from
the bins above their seats, Alex Krycek and his partner landed
safely on American soil.

***

United States Federal Medical Research Facility
Boise, Idaho

 Upon reaching the modern, highly secured medical facility, the
first thing Mulder heard once inside were the screams.  Memories of a
complete paralysis, an inability to move or scream for help soon filled
his mind.  He could still vividly remember the screams around him, the
terror of the unknown alien parasite invading and crawling through his
body, the utter nothingness that followed...

 Shaking it off, he stalked through each section, trying to find a
room which would contain some sort of lab or pharmacy, a magic pill, a
test tube of anecdote.  He could feel the desperation beginning to
form at the back of his mind -- clawing for space, looking for a
spot to implant itself and multiply.

 So preoccupied by looking into the doorway of one of the main
lab rooms, Mulder did not see the figure who would approach him and put
a gun barrel to his head.
 

***

 Christ, did the guy ever give up?

 Krycek saw Mulder, but he also saw the figure slowly approaching
the agent with gun in hand.  God, he hoped she would shoot him.  He
reminded himself he had much bigger things to worry about -- and much
bigger fish to fry.

 It was too risky to try and retrieve the rocks and transport
them, as evidenced in the Tunguska fiasco, so the general consensus was
to destroy whatever the Americans had recovered.  He looked over to his
partner who was carefully attaching a device to one of the facility's
walls behind a garbage can.  He liked to think of himself and his
partner as Boris and Natasha.

 Out to destroy Moose and Squirrel, of course.

 All it would take were some explosives, a timer, and three wires --
which were ironically red, white, and blue.

***

 "Who are you?"

 "My name is Agent Mulder.  I'm with the FBI."  Mulder inwardly
cringed as he expected the person in front of him to yell for security,
shoot him, kick him, chastise him, tell him he was breaking the law by
trespassing on private property, anything other than what she would
then proceed to say.

 "Prove it."

 "Uh... my badge is in my jacket pocket if you want to look at
it."

 At the gun woman's approval, Mulder reached into his jacket
pocket and slowly removed his badge.  He quickly sized up the petite
form of the female who was still pointing the gun at his chest.  She
was Oriental, wearing the stereotypical lab coat and stethoscope,
and looked very, very haggard... and oddly familiar.  The next words
took him even more by surprise.

 "If you get me out of here, I can help you."

 It had to be a lie.  A set up.

 Doubt temporarily flared in Mulder's eyes.  The gun woman saw
this and hastily continued.  "I've been working here for all my life.
I can get for you some disks of research we've done on retro virus',
extraterrestrial beings, cloning, hybridization.  I'm a doctor, Agent
Mulder.  I've been here for fifteen years.  I've diagnosed and cured
some of the worse virus' not yet known to any other medical
institutions or facilities.  I've made vaccines from chemicals that not
even the Nobel prize winner from last year knows exists.  I'll tell you
whatever I know if you can get me out of here."  She saw the inner
battle this FBI agent was currently undergoing.  Apparently he had
heard similar sentiments before.  "Agent Mulder, please."

 Mulder studied the woman in front of him -- her hands shaking
slightly, her inexperience with handling a gun clearly evident.  "Are
you familiar with an organism which leaves its host in a catatonic
state?"

 Trish took a step back, momentarily stunned that a federal agent
knew so much about an organism that the Project was trying desparately
to keep hush hush.  "Why?"

 "Do you?"

 Trish nodded a quick yes, in response to the urgency which had
crept into the man's voice.

 "How much do you know?"

 Trish narrowed her eyes, wondering exactly what interest the fed
had in the rock.  "I know more about it than anyone else you'll be able
to find in this place."
 
 Mulder nodded.  So far, so good.  "You have the disks on you?"

 "No, I have to go get them.  It'll only take ten minutes."

 "They're personal disks?"

 "No, I have to swipe them from a vault in one of the lab rooms."

 Mulder took a deep breath and made up his mind.  "I came in
through a door in section D4.  It was by some stairs, do you know what
I'm talking about?"

 The woman nodded.

 "Five minutes, be there."  He clamped down on his urge to say `or
be square'.

 The gun woman looked at the tall, lanky agent before her and
wondered why he wasn't moving yet.  Oops, the gun was still pointed
at his chest.  She quickly lowered her arm and shifted the gun to her
left hand.  She raised her right hand to Mulder.

 "Pleased to meet you Agent Mulder, my name is Trish... Trish
Zama.  I'm... uh... sorry about the gun thing."

 Accepting her hand, Mulder wondered what it was about this Trish
Zama that was so vaguely familiar.

***

 Krycek looked back down at his partner whose face was furrowed
in concentration.  She was checking the lead wires for the fourth time
in as many minutes.  "Everything all set?"

 "Everything."

 He grinned seductively at her.  "I must say, it's truly a work of
art."

 She returned the look.  "Well them, wouldn't you say I deserve a
kiss for such a job well done, monsieur Vladimir Popov?"

 "Hmmmm... Only if you're a good little girl.  You know how it
goes -- the bigger the blast, the bigger the climax."  He saw her take
a sharp intake of breath in anticipation.  "Now, now... just as soon as
we get out of this blasted country, my dear."

 "Have I told you, Lexi, how much I love anarchy?"

 Krycek arched his eyebrows at his partner.  God he loved this
woman.  "My sentiments exactly.  Come on, let's get out of here."

 As the two figures silently left the building, a timer hidden
underneath a garbage can lid read 00:20:00.

***

 God damn, where the hell was he?

 Although, to Mulder, logic dictated that you follow the exact
opposite way you came in when leaving, the guard currently pacing the
hallway in front of him with two 9mm pistols at his hip, warranted a
change in plan.

 Must have been at a pee break when I entered, Mulder mused.

 The federal agent was about to turn around and try the other
direction when he found himself looking straight into the very familiar
looking eyes of Colonel Henderson.

***

 God, it was like Townsend, Wisconsin all over again.

 Deja vu was all Mulder could think as he was roughly handcuffed
and forced into a metal chair.  Colonel Henderson was pacing, wearing
very familiar looking green fatigues.
 
 "Agent Mulder, why is it we keep running into each other like
this?"

 "I'm tempted to say your dynamic personality, but I'm afraid it's
just the sex."

 Mulder failed to see the gun before it connected with his jaw.

 "Your sense of humour is not very humourous.  What are you doing
here?"

 "Funny, I was going to ask you the same thing."

 The next gun butt to the jaw had Mulder seeing stars.

 "Agent Mulder, we are try to research the most recent ecological
disaster."

 Mulder rolled his eyes.  "As I recall, Colonel, you said the
exact same thing just before a civilian Max Fenig disappeared and a
dozen soldiers lost their lives due to fifth and sixth degree
radiation burns, and under your command.  If you're going to make an
excuse, I'd recommend you think of a more original and plausible
explanation."

 "I'm sorry, Agent Mulder," the Colonel's tone was almost curt.
"I don't know what you're talking about."

 "Oh yeah, I forgot.  Deny Everything.  Got it."

 The Colonel grabbed a hold of Mulder's throat, causing the chair
he was sitting on to rock precariously on its two hind legs. "Agent
Mulder, this is a medical facility.  We do research.  We are always
in need of research subjects.  You could be in a lot of pain for a very
long time before you meet your unfortunate demise.  If you do not
willingly ans...."

 "What the hell are you doing, Colonel Henderson?"

 The Colonel abruptly turned around and let go of Mulder, sending
the chair and it's captor tipping backwards.  "What is it now?"

 "That is my test subject.  The lab techs didn't sedate him
enough, and I need him.  Now.  We want to do one more batch of tests
before tomorrow morning.  We need to prep him."

 Mulder watched the exchange between the woman he knew as Dr.
Zama and Colonel Henderson.  If only looks could kill -- the bad blood
between the two was evident.

 "Why isn't he gowned?"

 "I told you, the techs didn't sedate him enough."

 "He's a test subject?"

 Trish rolled her eyes.  "Isn't that what I said?  This guy's a
fed anyway, I'm sure you won't miss him.  Now, Colonel Henderson,
please, can you hold him down while I sedate him?"

 Mulder looked sharply at her.  He thought she had come here to
save him, but now he wasn't so sure.  He particularly did not like
the gleam the Colonel's eyes had now developed.

 He soon found himself restrained by Colonel Henderson himself
along with two of his guard goons.  He watched as she withdrew a
syringe and bottle.  His mind started to panic and he tried to struggle,
to scream -- panicking because there was no one here who would care
about the echoing screams that floated through the empty corridors.
He heard the hot breath of the Colonel whisper:  "It looks like Santa
does grant wishes, Agent Mulder.  I must have been a particularly good
boy this year."  He saw the woman in front of him draw the needle closer
and closer to his arm.  He waited for the sharp prick, the ice
racing through his veins, the heaviness, the approaching darkness...

 It didn't come.

 There was no prick, no ice, no heaviness, and Dr. Zama was slowly
moving away from him, recapping the needle and saying, "he should calm
down soon."

 He felt the cool dampness on his sweater, the needle having
pierced two layers of his clothing, but not his flesh. It was all an
act.  Hell, he could play at this game too.  Although his heart was
racing, he willed his breathing to slow down, slowed his flailing
handcuffed arms and stopped his legs from kicking.  He tapered off his
screaming until no more sound came from his mouth.  He even added some
drool.

 Maybe someday when the Bureau finally did fire him, he'd go
into acting.

 He bit his lip to prevent himself from yelping as one of the
guards none to gently lifted the limp agent over his shoulder.  Once
in the lab, Dr. Zama shut the door and leaned her back on it.  She
was biting her lip, as if to keep herself from laughing.  "That," she
said, when she composed herself finally "was definitely an Oscar
winning performance."

***

00:01:00

00:00:59

00:00:58

***

 Having short legs was definitely a disadvantage.

 Trish could still hear the pounding in her ears and the
adrenaline pumping through her veins as she tried to keep Mulder's
sprinting figure in view.  It didn't help that she was getting
whacked in the arms, legs and head by tree branches -- the thorns
stuck in her pants would take forever to get out.  Mulder gradually
slowed down and waited for her approach.

 Mulder's car was still at least two miles away, with at least one
mile of that dense underbrush.  The forest that surrounded the compound
was their cover, but they had to stay near the compound in order to
keep their bearings.  Their trek was one of running, waiting for the
guard to pass, crawling, waiting for the guard to pass, and standing
completely, totally still, while waiting for the guard to pass.  Both
jumped whenever there was a sound -- their ears hypersensitive to any
sort of noise.  And both were absolutely, head to toe, no-spot-of-flesh-
visible-anywhere filthy.  Mulder turned around to see the short-
statured woman, almost wheezing, finally catch up to him.

 "They don't let us out much... if you couldn't tell," she
managed between pants.

 Mulder bent over to puts his hands on his knees.  Apparently the
little sprint fest had winded him as well.  He took a few cleansing
breaths and then looked around.  "Come on," he said rising suddenly
and putting a hand on her back to push her on.  "We still have at least
a mile and a half to go.  Knowing my luck something'll probably happen
along the way."

 As if on cue, the whole world turned orange.

***

Spokane General Hospital
Spokane, Washington

 "Here, dear, why don't you read a magazine and get comfortable...
This is going to take awhile."

 Scully smiled her thanks to the nurse and accepted the offered
magazine -- "Cosmopolitan" and Ten Steps to Better Sex.

 Glancing at the bag hanging above her, and silently cursing it,
Scully whispered a silent prayer -- praying that this incident was
isolated and was the last.

 It was a prayer that had been repeated many times in the past
month.

 She would not tell anyone she was here getting a blood
transfusion.

 Not Mulder.

 Not her mom.

 Not Skinner.

 No one.

 After getting two long nosebleeds on the flight from Washington
to Spokane, Scully had fainted at the airport and had the embarrassing
experience of being gawked at by numerous travel goers as she was
carted off by the paramedics.  Despite her `I'm fines', the `I just
didn't eat breakfast', and her medical credentials, she was still
forced on a gurney and transported to the hospital.

 She called her oncologist in DC, and he, in turn, had ordered an
MRI and CAT scan, the results to be immediately forwarded to him.  He
would then call her with the diagnosis.  If there was any, she reminded
herself.  She was under strict orders by the Spokane doctors to go home
after the transfusion -- to wait for her results in DC so that if
treatment was required, she would be able to commence it right away.

 She did not tell the doctor on call that immediately proceeding
the transfusion she would be heading back to her motel to aid her
federal agent partner in an unauthorized investigation which
involved extraterrestrial killer rocks.

 The magazine a dead weight in her hands, Scully wondered what he
was doing now -- wondered why was this case so important.  She knew the
case was personal, but personal regarding who?  The I-have-to-save-the-
world crap was only a cover.

 Something to do with Tunguska.

 Something having to do with her cancer?  Her abduction?

 Something to do with his father's death?  Her sister's?

 Something to do with Samantha?

 No.  No, none of those fit.  Tunguska and its rock were
something else entirely.

 It was something about him.

 It was about the way his hands were wringing when he told her
about what he saw in his cell.

 It was about the way his breath had quickened and his eyes had
shifted when he told her about the worms.

 Thoughts now turned to Mulder, she reflected on their
bittersweet relationship -- sweet relationship, bitter circumstances.
She would not tell him about this jaunt in the hospital.  Hell, if
it was him, he'd be doing the same.
 
 She absently flipped through the magazine, momentarily stopping
at an add for Morleys.  She ripped the add out of the magazine -- ripped
it in half, in half again, in half again, until the pieces were so
small that she could blow them off with the slightest breath.

 Giving up would be giving in to *them*.  Quite simply, if she
was not with Mulder and his X-Files, then *they* would be able to
declare victory.  Symbiotic they were now -- one could not survive
without the other.  Mulder never mentioned it, but both of them knew
what the big picture held if she was no longer in it.  She was not
being overly dramatic in her certainty that Mulder would be dead if
she were to die.  Sure, maybe he would still be talking, breathing,
walking... but he would no longer have hope.  Drive.  Desire.

 She knew, was so sure of it in the deepest part of heart,
because she would be the same way if their roles were reversed.

 Scully once again looked at the bag hanging above her.  The red
fluid -- the medium through which life could be sustained -- dripping
slowly, going through plastic tubing, eventually into her arm, via a
stainless steel needle.

 She would not let the cancer get to her.

 She was going to beat it -- for two lives depended on it.

***

Outside the United States Federal Research Facility
Boise, Idaho

 Colonel Henderson landed right in front of them.

 At the same instant a piece of brick hit Mulder square in the
shoulder, Colonel Henderson, or what was left of him, landed by their
feet.  Charred, black, and still on fire, he was not screaming nor
thrashing about.  He was quite visibly dead.  Knocked on to his
stomach by the piece of flying clay, Mulder's nose was five inches
away from the smoking remains of Colonel Henderson, whose green
fatigues were now black ash -- blown off the carcass by the slightest
breeze.  Mulder shuddered at the smell which met his nasal passages
and the thought of dying by fire made bile rise in his throat and
his stomach threaten to expunge all its contents.

 He looked to his left and saw Trish trying to stand up, still
slightly dazed by the blast.  The whole facility had been knocked to
the ground in a matter of milliseconds.  Now it was all rubble, brick,
and the occasional glowing ember.  It would take a while for the
ambulances to arrive.  They didn't even know this place existed.

 Perhaps even more ominous than the occasional popping of wood
which sent sparks flying every which way, or the occasional barrel of
whatever exploding, was the otherwise lack of noise.  There were no
screams.  No cries for help.  No `help me I'm underneath this boulder
and pinned'.  The blast levelled everything, everyone.  Even if rescue
squads were dispatched right now, Mulder was already certain that they
would find no survivors.

 "Agent Mulder... We should go... The disks."

 Mulder turned to look at her and winced when the movement caught
his shoulder by surprise.  Trish leaned over to examine the wound,
noting the added gloss that blood could give to a leather jacket.

 Having been examined by one certain doctor many times already,
Mulder started pulling away.  "Let's get out of here, whoever did this
may still be around here."  Mulder's lips drew into a tight line.  The
explosion certainly was no accident, prompting him to wonder
who the unknown assailants were targeting.  He started to sprint away.

 Trish started jogging, soon working up to a sprint in an attempt
to catch up to Mulder who was still six feet away.  She called out to
him, her voice punctuating certain syllables in time with her steps
"We should probably stop by the hospital, your shoulder is going to
need stitches."

 Even in the crackling of the fire, Trish could hear the
exasperated, and very audible sigh of Fox Mulder.

***

Good Rest Inn
Spokane, Washington

 Scully was frantic.  Hospital stay long forgotten, she saw the
medical facility explosion in Boise.  She saw the news reports and
rising body count.  A gas leak they had called it.  A gas leak in an
abandoned warehouse which was being used by soldiers in a training
exercise.

 Sure.  Fine.  Whatever

 Scully was positive.

 No one could have survived that blast.

 She had called his cell to receive the mechanical drone stating
the phone was currently out of service or range.  She called the
office, just in case Skinner, by sudden onset telepathy, had predicted
Mulder's actions and called him back.  She called his apartment just
in case by some fluke of nature or by some super human stealth speed
he had already come home.

 Maybe, he had met a woman and held off going to Boise for one
day.

 Yeah right, the probability of Skinner growing hair was higher.

 Maybe he went jogging.

 That was more believable.

 But for twelve hours?
 
 Like an accelerating train, the thoughts became a mantra, became a
litany of phrases she had uttered so many times already.

 She would not worry.  She absolutely *would not*...

 She stared at her cellular phone as it began to ring.
 
 Mulder?

 Perhaps it was Mulder dead, and someone calling to inform her so...

 She pushed the `talk' button.  Her "hello" was a mere murmur.

 It unnerved her more when there was no reply.  She could feel
her worried breaths being reflected back to her face courtesy of the
plastic of her cell phone.  "Hello?"
 
 She heard a sigh and then a "Hi, Scully, it's me."

 "Mulder?"  He could hear the high pitched squeal in his partner's
voice.

 "Yeah, it's me, Scully.  I'm okay."  He had to get the last part
in quickly before he gave her an ulcer.  "How's Spokane?"  Safe
Spokane, Mulder reminded himself.

 "Much better now."

 "Did you get a chance to talk to the kids?"

 "Uh... no."  Scully hoped, although she knew it was highly
unlikely, that Mulder would not ask.  The memory of her hospital stay
and what it could mean came crashing down on her.  She knew what the
next question would be.

 "Why not?"

 "Because..."  She struggled for a response.  "Uh... because... I
didn't have time."

 "I thought your flight left late last night."

 "It did.  But... I... I missed it."

 "*You* missed it?"  Scully could hear the incredulous tone in
Mulder's voice.

 Scully grew defensive.  "So what... Yeah... I missed it."

 Scully thought Mulder was about to say something, but then stopped
himself in the process.  She heard a familiar background noise from
Mulder's end of the phone, a smile playing on her lips.  It was the
same sort of background noise she had heard earlier that afternoon.
"Mulder, you wouldn't happen to be in a hospital would you?"

 Scully's smile grew larger when she could hear Mulder's sigh of
resignation.  "Yah, Scully.  Apparently some brick from the medical
facility decided to hit me in the shoulder and I kind of needed some
stitches.  We're here in lovely... uh..."  She heard him ask someone
where they were now, and then came back onto the phone.  "...in Boise
County General, got ten stitches, nothing major."  Scully didn't know
anyone who thought ten stitches were a minor affair.

 When Mulder started talking again, his voice had sobered
considerably.  "I found out some things, Scully.  I'll head down to
Spokane after my fun here's done.  We can talk to the kids together
tomorrow."

 Scully, her rendezvouz to hospital now fresh in her mind, nodded
her head as if her partner would be able to feel the gesture.  "I'll
be waiting."

***

Good Rest Inn
Spokane, Washington

 "...so what did Trish say?"

 "She says she wants to move back to Japan after this whole thing
is over.  She wasn't born there, but she says she thinks she'll be
able to blend in."

 Scully nodded.  That wasn't what she meant.  "No, Mulder.  About
the disks.  What did she say about the disks?"

 "Oh... the disks."  He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled
out three slim hard disks.  He shrugged his shoulders.  "She wasn't going
to do anything with them, so she gave them straight to me when we were
driving here."

 "So where's she going to stay in the meantime?"

 "She refused witness protection; she said she wanted to be as mobile
as possible.  So I said she should probably stay in another motel for
awhile -- different than ours, just in case.  And when things cool down,
to get the hell out of here and not look back.  I think *they* suspect
something.  I won't be surprised if *they* start cross checking dental
records with the bodies at the scene.  God, I hope these disks are
jus..."  Mulder trailed off and looked at Scully, his brow wrinkled
with worry.  "Scully..."  He fingered his upper lip to indicate
Scully's nose was once again bleeding.  He wordlessly handed her a
Kleenex.

 It was a ritual Mulder had begun not so long ago.  With every new
motel they went to, he made sure he knew where all the Kleenex boxes
were located.  He watched her absentmindedly pull the Kleenex out of
its box, crumple the one edge slightly and then put it against the
offending nostril.  It was a familiar routine both of them were now
used to, as would be the proceeding conversation.

 "I'm fine, Mulder."

 There was no response.

 "Mulder, I'm fine.  Quit staring at me."

 Scully watched him avert his eyes and take a shaky breath.  She
decided to change the topic before he asked her how many nosebleeds
she had yesterday.  "Mulder, how's your shoulder?"

 "It's fine."  Mulder looked back at Scully, who just rolled her
eyes.

 "Okay, okay.  I just have a *small* headache."

 Scully's smile started to fade.  Mulder admitting any malaise
that he was feeling was automatically a bad sign.  "For how long have
you had the headache?"  She remembered him drowning four Aspirin
earlier when he and Trish had just arrived, saying his shoulder
was bothering him.

 Mulder shrugged his shoulders.  "Only a couple of hours.  It's not
that bad.  Besides, we have to worry about tomorrow."

 Scully sighed in resignation, both of them had become quite adept
in the art of changing the subject.  However, not permitting herself to
admit it to Mulder, she did agree with his last statement.

 Tomorrow they would look for some answers.

 For tomorrow they would go to the orphanage and talk to the
children.

***

Good Samaritan Social Services
Spokane, Washington

 Mulder hated these places.

 Upon entering, the cramp entered his stomach, his fingers
started to numb, and the already present throbbing in his head
increased ten fold.  The pastel painted walls, the cheery Disney
posters strewn all over the wall, the posters stating "All dreams
come true with hope" were total, absolute, complete bull shit.

 He would know, he had been here.

 Well, not here in Spokane.  But the one in Chilimark was exactly
like this, with the exact same kind of posters, with the exact same
kind of inspirational messages.

 He was sentenced here approximately twenty years ago, just when the
beatings got really bad -- just when Mr. Cowan saw the angry red marks on
his back after one basketball practise.  For the first time he didn't have
an excuse.  Black eyes, bruised arms and knees were easy to cover -- he had
fallen down the stairs, off the tree, a baseball managed to strike
his cheek -- but inflamed red skin courtesy of a one inch thick leather
belt could only plausibly be caused by one thing.

 A one inch thick leather belt.

 He remembered being sent here, being told he was loved.  And he
tried to accept their explanations, but he always secretly wondered
where his parents were, why weren't they getting him out of this place
of cry babies and bed wetters.  The posters were only there to cover up,
to distract, to divert, to deceive.  If the children didn't know their
parents weren't there, weren't dead, weren't abusive, weren't whatever,
then maybe everything would work out and everything would be all right.

 Walking into Good Samaritan Social Services, Mulder already felt
a sick sense of deja vu.

 Scully watched her partner follow her, if not hesitantly, into
the building.  She saw him looking at a cute poster of Mickey Mouse
and frowning.

 "Can I help you?"

 Scully looked to the heavy set woman who was now approaching
them.  "I'm Agent Dana Scully and this is Agent Mulder."  She glanced
back at her partner, who was now approaching, glad to see that he was
finally out of la la land.  "We were wondering if we could talk to two
children who have just recently been admitted here -- Johnny and Sara
Chmilar."

 The woman looked apprehensive.  "Their parents just passed
away."

 Mulder stepped in.  "We're aware of that, ma'am.  They aren't
in trouble or anything.  We just want to ask them some questions
regarding the circumstances of their parents' death.

 The woman nodded.  She lowered her voice.  "They're so quiet.
They barely say anything.  They haven't cried.  The poor things must be
so traumatized. I'm just scared they may crack or something... I..."
The woman swallowed, her eyes cast downward.  She started walking away.
"Follow me."

 They were lead to a play room where there was only the two
children.  Mulder grimaced when he was confronted with more posters.
The boy was colouring, while the girl was reading a story book.  They
looked up when the three adults came into the room.

 Scully walked towards the older girl, her blond hair an exact
match of her younger sibling's.  In different circumstances they
could have been Osh Kosh poster material.  Mulder kept his distance,
leaning against the doorframe for support.  "Sara, Johnny, my name
is Dana.  That's my partner, his name is Fox."  She saw the corners
of the girl's mouth upturn slightly at the mention of her partner's
name.  "We're FBI agents, kind of like police officers,
and we want to talk to you about what happened to your parents."
Scully paused, unsure of how to proceed next.  Sure, the Academy
taught you how to deal with distraught children whose parents may
have been killed by human monsters, but the section concerning killer
alien worms was still to be written.

 "If you talk to us, Sara, we can try and catch the *people* who
hurt your parents.  We can make sure *they* don't hurt anymore
people."

 Any smile which had been starting, was snuffed out.  There was no
flicker or waver, no moment of hesitation; the girl's face simply fell,
as if all adjoining facial muscles had been cruelly disconnected.  The
boy had stopped colouring.

 "Mommy and Daddy are sleeping."  The boy's whisper was barely
audible to the two federal agents.

 Mulder stopped leaning against the door and moved into the room,
kneeling beside the younger boy.  "Johnny, did you see anything funny
outside the house the day your parents went to *sleep*?"

 "We were there."

 Scully nodded her head sympathetically.  "We know you were there
in the house, Sara.  Did you see anything funny outside?"

 "No."  The girl's voice was impatient, hurried, as if the two
agents had completely misunderstood what she meant.  "We were outside.
We *saw* Mommy and Daddy sleeping."

 Out of the corner of their eyes, Scully and Mulder exchanged
looks with each other.  Surely, it couldn't be possible. "What do
you mean, you were there?"

 "When Mommy didn't come back we went out to look for her and
Daddy and we saw them beside the *moon rocks*."

 Mulder thought his eyes couldn't open any wider without his
eyeballs falling out, thought his stomach couldn't cramp up any more
without it hemorrhaging.  The same neurotransmitters and synapses which
he used to build profiles on serial killers were firing wildly, manically.

His thoughts were suffocating, as his brain attempted to put all the
rapidly increasing pieces of the puzzle into some logical conclusion,
at least into some semblance of order.  Were the kids infected?  Or
were they not?  Did they have any idea of what happened to their
parents?  Or were they fully aware of the implications of the *moon
rock* that landed on their field?

 What Sara said next made him want to leave, to get out of there;
his fight or flee reflex was in full flee gear.

 "They're in us now."

 "In you?  Who?"  Scully had no idea what they were talking about,
or why Mulder was suddenly looking nervous.

 "Them.  They're in us, that's why we could see Mommy and Daddy
and not sleep.  But we're going to go to sleep soon too.  We're gonna
see Mommy and Daddy in heaven very soon."

 Mulder tried to clear his throat, make sense of the situation.
If the organisms were in the children, they shouldn't be talking,
colouring, reading... Whatever.

 They should be dead.

 Could this be some fantasy the children were concocting to help
deal with their parents death?  Doing his residency in England, he had
encountered many such cases.  But this...

 Mulder doubted this was a concoction.

 Johnny then looked squarely at Mulder.  He looked at the older
man and looked deep into his eyes with a seriousness that a seven year
old boy should not have been burdened with.  "We know that they're in
you now.  We can see them.  But they're sleeping.  But they're not
gonna sleep long."

 Mulder looked toward Scully who looked completely bewildered by
the entire conversation.

 "I don't know what you're talking about."  He couldn't believe he
was defending himself a boy who barely reached his waist.

 "Them.  They're sleeping in you, but they don't sleep long.
Maybe we'll see you.  Mommy said heaven's for good people, and Mommy
said me and Sara were very good, an' all police officers are very
good, so... so we'll see you."

 "Who are *they*, Sara?  Who are the *them* that Johnny keeps
talking about?"  After starting the conversation, Scully was starting
to feel very much like the odd man out.  She had no idea who *they*
were, and apparently, according to Mulder's body language, it was a
very vital part of the investigation.

 Something that was in the children, but also in her partner.

 Scully's mind quickly drew a blank.

 *Them* was a connection solely between Mulder and the children.
Mulder evidently knew what they were talking about, so much so that
she could almost hear him consciously trying to slow down his
breathing.

 "*Them*.  *They* don't have any names.  There's too many.
They..."  Sara suddenly stopped talking.  Scully watched her muscles
start to spasm, the small form eventually writhing off the chair where
it proceeded to go into violent convulsions.  Sara's seizure was soon
followed by Johnny's.

 Scully and her scientific logic could not believe what was
transpiring.  She tried to convince herself that their convulsions
had nothing to do with the fantastic story they had just told her --
*story* being the operative word.

 The convulsions grew in their intensity.  Scully could hear their
teeth grinding, their joints creaking under the stress.  "Oh God."  Her
fingers numbly reached for her cellular phone and dialed nine-one-one.
How the hell could she describe this?  "This is Agent Dana Scully with
the FBI, badge number JTT0331613. I need paramedics at the Good
Samaritan Social Services.  We have two children aged seven and twelve
who have gone into violent convulsions that... Oh God, just wait a
minute..."  Scully stared open mouthed at the still forms of the two
children.  No movement.  No lingering residual spasms.  Eyes open.  Clear.

Unseeing.  She heard Mulder from behind her.  He was on the verge of
hyperventilating.

 "Oh God.  Oh God, Scully, it's starting.  It's just like..."

 Scully was interrupted by the panicked voice of the nine-one-one
operator.  "Yes, I still need an ambulance..."

 "Scully, get a special containment unit out here too."

 Scully opened her mouth, on the verge of asking why, but she
thought better of it when she saw her partner's hands wringing, his eyes
darting.  "Yeah, I'll also need a special containment unit."  She heard
the operator take a deep breath over the phone.  A few more words were
passed before Scully disconnected her phone.

 Scully stepped towards Sara in an attempt to assess her
condition when Mulder stopped her suddenly, grabbing her arm roughly
and abruptly stopping any forward progress.  "Mulder, what are you
doing?  Check Johnny's pulse, while I check Sara's."

 "No."  He moved so that he was in between the children and
Scully.  His grip had still not loosened.

 "What?"

 "You heard what they said."  His voice was a mere whisper.  The
knuckles in his hand were starting to turn white, while the flesh it
held was starting to turn blue from the lack of circulation.  "You could
get it."

 "Mulder, they're children.  They have their own stories to help
deal..."

 "Scully, don't they resemble Dr. Saks?  We need to evacuate this
place."

 "Mulder, these worms are not in the children.  If they were, they
would have been catatonic, or in a coma -- whatever it is that these
things do -- immediately after they saw their parents.  It's been
what, two days since they were picked up, and there were no
incidents.  They've been so traumatized by their parents death
that..."

 Mulder was shaking his head.  "But what if, Scully.  You saw what
those organisms did to Saks.  We can't risk exposing this place, Scully.
Special containment is just for precautionary measure.  For now."

 Scully sighed.  Her mother's mantra, better safe than sorry,
echoed once again through her head.  She nodded her agreement reluctantly.
"I think you're just being paranoid.  Mulder, have you even thought about
the fact that if these kids were infected, it should have showed up
immediately?"

 "I know... I know... I don't have an explanation."

 Scully replayed the short but mind blowing conversation in her
head.  She looked up at Mulder sharply, making sure she had eye contact
before she commenced speaking.  "Mulder, they said *they* were in you
too."

 Mulder grimaced.  He had been hoping, although he knew it most
likely would not to happen, that Scully would magically forget that
part of the conversation.  The female federal agent didn't fail to miss
the panicked facial expression that her partner's visage momentarily
carried.  He unlocked his eyes from hers and started to stare at the
tiled floor.
 
 "I don't know what they were talking about, Scully."

 "But..."

 "Scully, you said it yourself, they're kids, they're making up
they're own stories.  It's not true."  He was aware of how hypocritical
he was sounding.  He had debunked her theory a mere five minutes ago, and
was now using it defend himself.  He took a calming breath.  "Scully,
we both know that I wouldn't be standing here talking to you if they
were in me, right?  I'd be having seizures.  I'd be in a coma.  Whatever.
Right?"  He saw Scully nod her head slowly.  "I'm fine."  He failed to
mention the rapidly escalating headache which was causing his eyes to
burn underneath the fluorescent lights.  "Now let's evacuate this place
and see if what these kids were telling us was true, and if it was, why
the hell it took it so long for the things to take effect."

 Before she could voice her objections, Scully watched her
partner storm out of the room muttering something of the likes that
perhaps Trish would know, and that this couldn't be happening.  She
looked at the kids, her insides turning at the blank look in their
eyes, the stillness of their bodies.  She glanced at her watch and
put a hand to her mouth.  Only five mintues had passed since the
body-wracking violent spasms had begun.

 Scully drew in a shaky breath.

 It turned out Johnny had been right when he said that they were
going to sleep really soon.

 She heard the loud squeal of the sirens approaching and started
for her partner and the exit.  She couldn't help but wonder what the
children had meant in their comments towards Mulder, and his
subsequent, vehement denial.  His outburst, was an indication, as much
as Scully couldn't believe it, that the children's story had some
truth in it.

 This case was very personal.

***

West 46th Avenue
New York City, New York

 The elderly man walked into the elevator silently fuming --
silently ripping out his American colleagues for their stupidity and
their carelessness.  This matter was not going to die quickly and it
was time to take action.  The elevator stopped at the top floor and
he stepped out, to meet the familiar aroma of smoke, leather, and oak.
He set his briefcase down and proceeded to sit in one of the leather
chairs.  Not coincidentally, it was the seat directly across from the man
who was currently smoking a cigarette.

 "You stupid ignoramus."  He spat out the words.  "How could you
let security be breached like this?  *They* still have the advantage
and we have nothing.  *Nothing*."

 The smoker twisted the butt of his cigarette into a nearby
ashtray before speaking.  "*They* have the rock.  So what?  The
Russians have had it since 1908 and yet they still have no vaccine,
or at least an effective one.  They can't use it yet because they
are threatened with exposure too.  Frankly, I think the matter has
been resolved quite nicely."  He took a package of cigarettes out of
his pocket before proceeding.

 "The media is reporting that the explosion was caused by a
faulty gas leak, and all the bodies have been accounted for -- innocent
men dying while training to serve their country, gentlemen.  The media
loves stories like that.  If the Russians have the rock, fine.  All
they've really done in eighty years is fondle with it anyways.  I
assure you gentlemen, there is no danger."  He carefully chose a
cigarette and raised it to his mouth.

 "We had it all."  The older man enunciated each word carefully, a
faint British accent brushing his words.  "We had research.  We could
have had the vaccine if we had time to study the rock.  We had so much
power for about the space of twenty four hours.  We have nothing now.
All burned up.  Ash and soot.  The mistake happened on your country's
soil, the mistake is on your hands."

 The smoker shook his head and smiled, more to reassure himself
than the others.  "At least there is damage control.  All that this
incident amounts to is a few obituaries and a couple burials at
Arlington for the poor, brave souls of the young men who served this
country."  He reached for the lighter in his jacket pocket.

 "All except one."

 The smoker faltered.  There was no flame when he tried to flick
the lighter.  "Except one, what?"

 The man rose and stood close to the smoker.  He was joined by
some of his other colleagues who had been told the news earlier that
morning.  "Dr. Trish Zama's remains haven't been found.  As you so
confidently stated, everyone's remains *have* been identified, except
the good doctor's."  He paused for effect.  "And Intel reports a
certain federal agent bought a plane ticket to Boise.  I think we all
know who that is."

  The smoker lit his cigarette.  "I will rectify it."

 "You've said that before, and have been sorely inefficient and
messy."

 The smoker rose to his feet.  "I said I'll rectify it."  He saw
the doubts in the Consortium members' faces.  "If," he paused to place
significance on the word.  "*If* Zama indeed did not perish, and *if*
Mulder has her, I'll deal."

 He saw the anger flash across his colleague's face.  No, the
Consortium did not like to deal.  "A deal?"

 The smoker smiled slightly, an idea forming.  "A small deal."

 "With what?"

 The smoker slowly exhaled and a stream of smoke came floating
out of his mouth.  "With Agent Scully's life of course."

***

End Entropy I:  If Only To Prevail -- Part 6/13
Feedback to:  maraschino@ibm.net or pinkus1013@hotmail.com