By WestShore
westshor1@earthlink.net
 

(X)(X)(X)(X)(X)(X)(X)(X)(X)(X)(X)(X)(X)(X)(X)(X)

DISCLAIMER: Fanfic Standard
SUMMARY: A Different Take On It All
(written in 1997, before Mr. Spender was actually named by
Mr. Carter. I have changed my text to reflect the 1013 name.)

(X)(X)(X)(X)(X)(X)(X)(X)(X)(X)(X)(X)(X)(X)(X)(X)

        "He that hath wife and children hath
        given hostages to fortune; for they are
        impediments to great enterprises,
        either of virtue or mischief."
                        - Sir Francis Bacon
                        from "On Marriage and Single Life"
 

***********************

Hostages to Fortune
By WestShore
 
 

Late June, 1973
Strughold Mining Company
West Virginia

The heavy metal of the lab doors burst open into the dim
corridor with a dull clang under the force of Mulder's fury.
He gripped several thin manila files in each of his fists as he
made his way up the long, nearly featureless hall.

His pace defined the outrage he felt. His anger, he realized
dully on another level, had been sitting dormant for such a
long time. Years, maybe. Wasted days, months, years.
Lying to himself; being lied to. He roundly cursed himself as
well. How could he have made excuses to himself for so
long? How could he let himself be so manipulated? So
blinded by ...what?  Idealism? Or was it ambition?

<Let's be honest, old man, > he thought angrily to himself,<
You're considered an unusually perceptive individual, a
supposedly intelligent individual. What really blinded you to
all this horror? Surely not your idealism! That wore away
years ago. That was whittled away with every secretive
arrangement made, every false document filed, every
manufactured American citizenship you crafted for Nazi war
criminals and every other soulless bastard who might further
the cause of The Project...>

Mulder slowed slightly as he reached a junction. He really
hated this cold, dark maze of corridors, knitted into the
complex maze of old mining shafts in a West Virginian
mountainside. These corridors would never know sunlight
or fresh air. The air pumped through them retained the damp
chill of the sleeping mountain that contained the secret maze.
He'd always felt inhuman in these corridors; a microbe
moving through bowels of dead-gray  concrete and steel.

He turned sharply to the left, about to head down that lifeless
corridor when he heard the lab doors clang open again.

"Mulder! Wait! You don't want to do this!"

Mulder reeled around at the sound of the voice.

<Spender. How much did *he* know of this?> Mulder
thought as he paused long enough for the man to catch up
with him. He needed to halt for a moment any way. He felt
as if he hadn't been breathing. His chest hurt. His muscles
ached, pulled taut with his rage.

He watched suspiciously as the man approached him.

The other, a tall lanky man like himself, drew up beside
Mulder and offered him a tight  smile. He still held the
cigarette he had started just moments ago when they were
arguing in the lab office. His face did not betray any feeling.
 There was no anger, no recrimination. His face could and
would assume any emotion he wished to portray.

He laid a hand on the Mulder's shoulder in a mock attempt at
solace.

"Look... I'm sorry you weren't told everything. Certainly
*I* thought you had a right to be in on every aspect of this plan.
But, I think they're beginning to sense that you might be less
than satisfied with your work here and they didn't want to
compromise security if you were... well, not stable."

Mulder gaped at the man. "Less than satisfied?!  Not stable?!
Oh no! -- no-no-NO! It goes way beyond that! This..." He shook
the two fistfuls of files in Spender's face. "This has got to
be stopped. This is wrong!"

Mulder pulled himself out of the other man's grasp and
resumed his trek down the hall. He could hear Spender's
hurried steps behind him. He could hear the raspy breathing
of his comrade near his shoulder. He was huffing slightly,
trying to match Mulder's pace. His smoke-tortured lungs
were showing their age.

He caught Mulder's shoulder again, gripping harder this
time and spinning him around.

"I *said*: You don't want to do this!  -- You have no
idea about the scope of this. There are aspects to this plan
that you aren't even aware of. Other experiments. Done
years ago..."

Mulder glared at Spender. "I knew what I was allowed to
know! THIS goes way beyond the scope of The Project..."

"This IS The Project! You're not going to stop it.
You'll only endanger yourself..."

"Let go of me, you son of a bitch!" Mulder tried to shake
free. He had reached the door he was seeking, the office
of their superior, a stately British diplomat that Mulder
had come to respect for his demeanor and discretion. Mulder
felt certain the man would be as horrified as he at what he
had just learned.

Spender suddenly tightened his grip, and Mulder gasped in
surprise as well as pain. He dropped the files from his hands
to grab Spender roughly by the neck of his shirt and one suit
lapel, slamming his co-worker up against the door frame of the
office.

"I said -- Let. Me. Go!" Mulder hissed. In his fury, he felt like
strangling this man. Right here. Right now. He had worked
side-by-side with this idiot, trusting him, confiding in him.
It was all misplaced; he felt betrayed and foolish.

Spender was struggling against the pressure on his windpipe.
"You don't know what they'll do to..."

The door swung open slowly just then. A tall, thin
gentleman stood in the doorway, looking with a detached
amusement at his two entangled visitors. After a long pause,
he smiled slowly and said, "Gentlemen. What a surprise.
That's a fetching shade of blue on your lips, Spender. It
becomes you. Perhaps you should release your companion
now, Mr. Mulder. It would appear that he needs to
breathe..."

Mulder felt the murderous fury flow out of him at the calm,
cultured sound of the his superior's voice. He felt a flush of
embarrassment at his lack of control. Nodding an
acknowledgment, he pushed himself off of Spender.

"Sir, I need to speak to you. It's an urgent matter,"  Mulder
said as he straightened his tie and suit coat.

The older man looked calmly past him at the files scattered in
the corridor. "Oh, indeed?"

Mulder followed his gaze, then hurried to gather the papers
into a neat pile. Spender remained collapsed against the door
jamb, rubbing his reddened throat and glaring at Mulder.

"Mr. Spender, will you be joining Mr. Mulder and me at our
little tete-a-tete? I shall order another tea cup if that is going
to be the case."

Spender shifted his gaze to the old man and saw the look of
warning behind the somber blue eyes.

"No. No, thanks. I think he can handle this one all by
himself," Spender grumbled as he pulled himself erect. He
stooped over the man gathering up the files. "So long.
We can pick up where we left off just now... Later, my friend?"
His voice was raspy with venom.

Mulder ignored him, gathering the files into some semblance
of order in his arms. He rose as his superior waved him into
his office.

The office door had an industrial-looking metal surface on
the outside, in keeping with the mausoleum decor of the
hallway. On the interior, however, the door appeared to be a
faced with rich mahogany panels, matching the rest of the
office walls.

The thin elder Briton motioned Mulder to one of two leather
club chairs set to either side of a new gas fire grate, dressed
up to look like an old English hearth. He poured out two
cups of tea in silence. He handed his visitor one cup, and
fetching the other, he settled into the opposite chair.

"Take a moment for yourself, please, William. You seem a
bit disconcerted. I'm sorry. I forget my manners. Will you
take any sweetener or cream with that? It's imported Earl
Grey. I'm afraid I can't bear what you Americans pass off as
'tea' over here. Mr. Lipton should have been imprisoned." He
ended the idle chatter, waiting for some response.

Mulder shook his head. He sipped at his tea as ordered, but
he was far from taking a moment to relax, his superior
realized. The older man deliberately prolonged the silence;
only the hissing of the gas flame in the grate could be heard
in the office.

Impatiently, Mulder put the tea cup aside. "Sir. I've just
found out that The Project has moved into a new phase..."

The older man arched one eyebrow, regarding Mulder over the rim
of his own tea cup as he slowly sipped his tea. Mulder felt a
small tug in his mind, a kind of warning. He held out the stack
of eight files he had taken from the lab office. His superior
regarded them but made no move to take them from him.

"What have you there, Mr. Mulder?"

"Files. Files with names. People's names...children
mostly." He swallowed. His throat was suddenly dry. He
had a sudden chilling sense that there was something wrong
here, but he continued: "For each name, a complete medical
work-up. Personal data, immunization records and..." He
halted.

"And what else, Mr. Mulder?"

"...genetic codes. These files contain genetic codes on
ordinary citizens! That technology is not available to any one
but us. Yet there are hundreds, maybe thousands, of records
like these in filing cabinets in Mine Shaft 506! The only way
this material could be attained is by..." He stopped, aghast at
the frozen smile spreading across the face of his superior like
a fracture in a glacier.

"By abductions, William? The forceful removal of good,
tax-paying American citizens from their homes for the
purposes of genetic experimentation?" The older man sipped
at his tea again. He glanced down at the files, but would not
touch them. "I expect that you probably took those forcibly
from Dr. Klemper's office?"

"Yes. I did. He...he wasn't there just now. Spender and I
were in his office looking for some of Klemper's personal
papers that I needed for another inquiry that Immigration
Services had started. I needed his papers to throw them off
the trail. -- again." Mulder sounded bitter. These days, his
waking hours seemed to be spent shoring up the wall of lies
against assaults from  Nazi Hunters, investigative reporters,
curious personnel. "But, I found these and I found out
there are more like them -- many, many more. I don't think
these are *volunteers*, sir."

His superior was silent for a long moment.

"I told them what a bright fellow you are, William. I told
them you were a bit too highly placed in our little
organization to be lied to..." He sighed and put his tea cup
down. "Nor am I surprised that you found out through one
of Otto Klemper's blunders. He is notoriously lax about
security matters...such as leaving such potentially sensitive
material lying around his office."

Mulder watched him, too stunned to speak. The man had
known! He had known all along!

The older man crossed his legs  and folded his long, fine
hands in his lap. He leveled his blue eyes at the other man.
"Don't worry. The Project isn't just limiting itself to the
American public. That would be rather narrow-minded of
us, don't you think? Especially in these peaceful decades
following Adolph Hitler's most singular vision."

Bill Mulder still couldn't speak. He felt weak. Everything he
had told himself, or had been told to him, to keep himself
involved in the service of The Committee had been a lie. And
the lie had been growing. And he had deliberately been kept
in the dark!

The older man shook his head gently. "What are your
intentions, Mr. Mulder? Surely, you realize that you are at a
bit of an impasse here. You cannot leave The Project, nor
can you reveal your new discovery."

Mulder blinked, then seemed to find his tongue. "Does
Kenneth Marker know about this?" He referred to his
supervisor in the State Department in Washington, DC. The
Briton shook his head slowly, watching Mulder's reaction
intently.

"H-how about the Secretary of State?"

Another shake of the head.

"The President?"

Another shake of the head, this time accompanied
by a bemused smile.

Mulder fell into a shocked silence, trying to grasp the
implications of this. His superior shifted in his chair, leaning
his chin casually into the cup of his hand as he addressed the
quiet diplomat before him. "You mustn't take this too
personally, William. You've been with us since the
beginning. Indeed, you helped us build the support structure
for The Project itself."

Mulder visibly winced at that. The older man took notice and
continued, "Perhaps we were wrong to keep this from you,
William. However, several of The Committee members
feared for the sincerity of your loyalties if you were to know
the entire truth. According to your friend, Mr. Spender, you
are a singularly *moral* man..."

This time Mulder just snorted in disgust. "Moral? After what
I've compromised over the past twenty years...?!" And
Spender, he thought sullenly. No surprise. The greaseball knew
just how to advance his personal agenda. He had made sure the
rumors of Mulder's defection of loyalty would be known among
the circle of conspirators.

Spender in; Mulder out.

He shook his head as if coming out of a trance. "I can't let
this go on. This is wrong!"

The British official smiled, as if indulging an idiot. "*You*
can't let this go on, Mr. Mulder? You? I think you've vastly
over-estimated your influence here. You are quite powerless
in this matter."

"The United States Government will never..."

"...Will never find out more than it needs to know. Nor any
of the other Allied Governments for that matter. I implore
you not to be foolish about this, William. You simply won't
be allowed to jeopardize The Project. It's too large now, too
complicated. The abductions are only a part of several
phases of experiments that have been on going since... well,
about 1958."

Mulder was thunderstruck. "The genetic manipulation
experiments? But... but they failed! The experiments -- on
volunteers, not abductees -- were stopped just a few years
later!"

The older man looked at him oddly for a moment, almost
with sympathy. "We had our...rare successes. Few
successes at first, I admit. Damn few. Surely you heard
about the failures: the many aborted fetuses, the high
mortality among those who were brought to term --
anacephalic infants,  mostly. But there were the few rare
successes, Mr. Mulder."

He regarded Mulder again as if contemplating telling him
some further secret.

He merely sighed and picked up his tea cup again. "Those
successes are out there, William. We know who they are,
we know where they are. A small, precious pool of success,
being watched every day and night of their lives. They know
nothing of their special natures. And in most cases..." He
paused and looked significantly at Mulder. "...neither do
their parents." He lapsed into a sullen silence.

Mulder still couldn't believe what he was hearing, but he had
accepted that blowing the whistle on this gargantuan horror
story would make him look like every crazed conspiracist
that had crawled out of the woodwork since the Kennedy
assassination. And in these days of government cover-ups
and UFO hoaxes, Bill Mulder would look like a very foolish
man indeed.

"I can't...," he whispered.

"Can't what, Mr. Mulder?"

"I can't continue this charade. I want out."

"You need time to think this over, Mr. Mulder. We just can't
let you..."

"I want OUT!" His voice rose in anger "I've had nearly two
decades to think this over!"

The older man regarded him quietly for a moment. "What
assurance do we have of your continued silence and loyalty -
- against all odds-- should we allow you to go?"

"Assurances? What assurances can I give you?! I can't tell
you that what I..."

"Don't even utter it, Mr. Mulder! Don't utter your bad faith!
Surely, you realize The Committee will never let you live
apart from The Project without some assurances. It's that
simple."

Mulder knit his brows in consternation. What in the hell did
this man want from him?

"You and they have -- my word," he stammered.

The Briton threw back his head and laughed, a deep hearty
laugh of amusement. Mulder felt the heat of anger rise into
his face once again. "I fail to see the humor."

"Oh, William." The older man wiped a tear of laughter from
the corner of his eye. "You are a rare one, aren't you?" He
sobered and turned his eyes back to Mulder, with a sad
smile. "You will have to take time to consider this carefully.
I want you to take time. Take the remainder of the summer
off. Spend time with that delightful family of yours. Take
time to think about your defection. It could cost you more
than you think..."

"Is this how it's going to be?" Mulder snapped. "All veiled
threats and whispered conditions? All secret codes and
surveillances? What more can I give you?!"

The British man settled his head back against the warm
leather of his chair and gazed into the artificial flames as he
spoke: "No, William. I promise you that when you and The
Committee part company -- should you still decide to do that
-- or rather, should they decide to allow you to do that --
there will be no surprises in your severance package."

Mulder stood and dropped the files at his feet. He felt
disgusted. He felt angry, and he felt helpless. Years of lies.
Years of waste. Years of horror for unsuspecting people. He
turned to leave without a word.

The purr of the cultured British voice stopped him at the
door. "Have you ever read Sir Frances Bacon, William? He
had a fairly insightful observation on the plight of men like
ourselves who have such choices to make in our life... I
believe I am quoting correctly from his work 'On Marriage
And The Single Life': "He that hath wife and children hath
given hostages to fortune, for they are impediments to great
enterprises ..." He lowered his voice. "...either of virtue ...
or mischief."

Mulder stood, not moving, his hand on the gilded door knob,
staring at the plush carpet under his feet. He remained silent.
His family. They would threaten his family.

"I will take your request for separation to The Committee,
William. Please follow my advice to take time to think about
this. I'll make the appropriate excuses to your superiors in
Washington. They will not suspect a thing. And, I expect
you will not apprise them of the situation here, either. That
knowledge would be very deadly for them to possess. Do
you hear me, William? Your little confidences to *anyone*
will be a death warrant for them."

Mulder looked over his shoulder at the man, his face pale.
The man nodded at him.

"You are dismissed, Mr. Mulder. Someone from The
Committee will contact you at your home in the Vineyard if
we don't hear from you first. Enjoy your summer. Enjoy
that beautiful family of yours."
 
 

Fourth of July, 1973
Kennebunk Beach, Maine
 

The sea breeze made a soft whistling sound as it pushed
through the screen of the cottage's back door, gently rocking
the door in its frame.

Bill Mulder listened idly to the rise and fall of the musical
breeze, the staccato dance of the old screen door. The roar of
waves throwing themselves against the rocky Maine seashore
was muffled, dulled by the cliffs and tree break that stood
between the cottage and the Atlantic Ocean.

It was a pleasure not to have to think right now. It was a
pleasure to be aware of the sounds around him and nothing
else. Except for the numbness creeping over him.

He welcomed the numbness. Maybe joining his family here
for a "vacation" was a good idea. He should use the time to
think. He needed to think. He needed to re-evaluate. But,
thinking was more tasking than he had imagined. Thus, he
chose the aid of the whiskey.

His hand slid over the drops of condensation clinging to the
outside of his tumbler of Chivas Regal. The sensation of
cool wetness pulled him out of his reverie. He took a deep,
unsatisfying drink from the glass and sighed as he rose from
the old, overstuffed chair by the empty fieldstone hearth.

His drink appeared finished, but he was far from finished
with his drink. What good was an anesthetic if not taken in
the proper doses?

He imagined he could hear the far away squeals of delight
floating up on the sea breeze from the shore. Children at
play. His children.

He made his way toward the quaint, clean kitchen. He had left
the bottle on the cupboard. He had better use it this one last
time and put it away. His wife would be returning from the beach
soon with the kids.

He hated the worried glances from her large, doe-like eyes.
He cringed inwardly at the thought  of the disappointment
and betrayal he knew would be able to read in those beautiful
eyes when she would come through that screen door,  would
kiss him with love and tenderness, and pull away in horror
and doubt when she smelled the liquor -- again.

And he would see that same look, mirrored in the eyes of his
twelve year old son, Fox. It was useless to pretend the boy
was too young or too stupid to not be aware of the changes
in his father. The changes that had been slowly eating at the
fabric of his life -- and his family's life-- for years now.

No. The boy knew. He knew with a keen sense that is rarely
gifted to adults, much less a child. Fox would be transformed
by his father's tragic condition. He would become quiet. He
would become a wraith, trying not to be seen. Trying not to
see.

And he would reach for the hand of his little sister and tug
her out of the room, shielding her from her father's tragic
condition, too. Steering her natural exuberance into another
promise of play, another chance at hide-and-seek, another
chance to win at the old board game they had brought with
them on this vacation. He would let the grown-ups engage in
their private war without offering reinforcements -- or
hostages.

Smart boy, that Fox, Mulder thought. His hand was shaking,
holding a half-empty bottle of whiskey over the lip of his
glass. He closed his eyes, forcing himself to drive thoughts
of his family from his sodden brain. If he thought of them,
he wouldn't be able to do what he had to do.

When he opened his eyes, he was startled to see a lone
figure in a dark military uniform standing at the edge of the
low cliff, in the shade of a few old wind-bent pines, looking
down to the seashore below, where his family was. The
square-shouldered bearing of the man was familiar.

Mulder frowned as recognition sunk in. He poured his
drink, and as an afterthought, poured another. He headed
out the screen door and down the path leading to the crest of
the cliff, both glasses gripped in his unsteady hands.

He drew up about three feet behind the man, and cleared his
throat in a polite bid for attention. The man did not move,
even though he had surely heard Mulder's clumsy approach
from the path.

He seemed transfixed by the happy scene being played out
on the rock-strewn shore below the dune. Mulder came up
alongside him and followed his gaze.

The children were engaged in a raucous game of tag. Sprays
of sand and surf shot up as the long-legged boy made an
overly-dramatic show of allowing himself to be "captured"
by his much smaller sister. Samantha Mulder tackled her
brother into the surf, amid screams and laughter.

Mulder's wife looked up from her book at the childish
screaming. Assured that all was well, she resumed her
reading, shifting back slightly in her beach chair which was
wedged at an odd angle among the many boulders on the beach.

They were all unaware of the two men looking down on
them from the shade of the trees at the top of the cliff.

Bill Mulder made a side-long glance at his companion and
offered him the other tumbler of whiskey. "Captain Hardin.
It's been a while. I didn't know you were stateside again."

The soldier pulled his gaze away from the children on the
seashore, reluctantly it seemed. He regarded Bill Mulder for
a long moment, then slowly shook his head at the offer of
the drink.

"It's Colonel, now, Bill." He tapped the gold bars on the
shoulder of his uniform with a frozen smile. His hazel eyes
were dark with melancholy. "Perks of The Company, of
course. But I earned them..." His voice trailed off as he
shoved his hands in his uniform pockets and ventured
another look at the children.

"Beautiful kids," he murmured, inexplicably. He looked at
Mulder, but the man's face was impassive. "Samantha very
much favors you. But, young Fox..." There was a pause
and a fleeting smile. "He favors your wife, doesn't he? The
same strong, dark looks."

Bill Mulder shrugged. His eyes narrowed as he took a deep
drink from his glass and watched the colonel. There was
something resigned and sad in the man's demeanor.
Different from the man he worked with in the Cold War
Years.

But then, Mulder thought sardonically, haven't we all
changed? Idealism turned into idiocy; passion transformed
into puppetry; all the evil revealed for what it was. He took
another quick drink and tossed the contents of both tumblers
into the weeds.

It had been five years since they had last seen each other,
two years since he had heard anything about his former
associate. His presence here, now, while the Mulder family
spent a summer-long holiday away from the tourist crowds
on Martha's Vineyard, was disconcerting somehow.

Bill Mulder remembered the man with uneasiness. Hardin
was a real soldier boy. Just a few years younger than
Mulder, he was born to wear that uniform. A real gung-ho,
spit-and-polish type.

Like Mulder, his considerable intellect had been his doom
and his saving grace. They both had been eager to give to
"The Project"; both willing to follow orders, bear secrets,
compromise their very beings. Despite the discipline of the
New World Order they were all working toward, those
among them that still held the capacity for the anarchy of free
thought were doomed forever to see the evil that was inherent
in The Committee.

Hardin's individual talent had kept him moving through the
ranks, ever deepening his involvement, well after he had
begun to feel the horror of what he was being pulled into in
the name of world peace and government: the gradual
melding together of alien and human technology, the
infusion of alien lifeblood into a select part of the world
population, the gradual contamination of the human race. He
knew Mulder had been "kept in the dark", and he knew why. The
disillusioned statesman would never survive the whole truth.

Hardin, as a captain in the Army, attached to the same
"special" division of the State Department as Mulder, had
stayed with The Project  a lot longer than Mulder had
expected. He was confounded by Hardin's almost special
interest in him and his family: Distrust and disregard for
individual personal lives was part and parcel of belonging to
The Committee. Military personnel, in particular, remained
impersonal and aloof. They rarely had personal lives as
defined by "normal" society. It made it easier for them to do
their jobs.

He knew Hardin had no family of his own. No wife, no
children. Even his parents were dead, claimed in a train
accident in the soldier's mid-teens. Alone in the world, the
bright young man had embraced the Army as his family just
as the war in Europe was drawing to a close and the Iron
Curtain was beginning to be forged in blood and
bureaucracy.

Mulder's State Department work had involved the covert
assemblage of a brain trust of scientists outlawed because of
their work for "the wrong side": Germany, Poland, Japan.
Hardin joined forces with him to ensure the allegiances of
the scientists who had been allowed a chance to escape war
crimes conviction in exchange for their co-operation. Hardin
also kept the Russian "allies" in the dark about the brain
trust. The Russians were striking their own deals with left-
over Nazi geniuses.

However, the Russians didn't possess the Motherlode: The
Russians had no idea about the Roswell, New Mexico
'treasure'.

It was because of Roswell that the brain trust of scientists
would be needed at all costs. It was because of Roswell that
men who were able to think of their fellow humans as chattel
for experimentation in World War II would be given a
second chance to practice their craft. It was Roswell that
gave birth to The Project.

Long days and nights were spent in covert ops, shielding
The Project from the ever - threatening, prying eyes of the
Red Menace of Communism. And, slowly, with deadly
purpose, the shadow government formed under the
protective mantle of the U.S. Government and its Cold War
Allies. And the shadow government and The Committee that
ruled it, began shielding themselves from the very
governments that had given them an existence.

William Mulder had seen only The Ideal: The chance to
further the cause of Science.

Science was the search for truth, and he had wanted to
contribute to that search. He had been able to tell himself that
for nearly twenty years in the State Department. But the last
decade had taught him different lessons about the truth. It
did not exist. Nor did The Ideal. It had all gotten horribly
twisted somehow, and he couldn't, for the life of him,
remember the moment he had begun to lose his faith.

Mulder and Hardin found themselves thrown together by
circumstance. Two men as different from each other as was
humanly possible, yoked together for a common cause.

It would have been easy enough for the handsome soldier to
have a family. But he had seemed consumed by this passion
of The Committee, the goal of the New World Order. He
seemed a loner, content in his aloneness for as long as Bill
Mulder had known him. At least so it had seemed.

He watched Colonel Hardin in silence for a few moments.
The soldier had resumed his moody watch over the children
below. Clearly, he was troubled.

  "I'd heard you were sent to Viet Nam." Bill Mulder offered
the bit of conversation to break the silence which was
beginning to bother him, even in his half-drunk state.

Hardin dropped his chin to his chest and nodded slowly but
remained silent.

"CIA Ops?," Mulder ventured.

Hardin nodded again and looked at his companion with a
small, crooked smile. "Yep. I could tell you, Bill, but then
I'd have to kill you. You know the drill."

Mulder smiled, but it didn't make him feel any better. It was
a tired, old joke between them. These days, it seemed less of
a joke, more of a threat.

"Yeah. Viet Nam. Being the dutiful son for the fatherland,"
the soldier continued with a barely concealed sigh. "That's
how I earned all the extra gold on my shoulders. Rewards,
Bill, rewards. Perks of the Company, right? I'm getting
pretty good at this subterfuge thing. I should do well in the
Nixon Administration's Washington. I hear even the menus
at the trendiest restaurants are in code..." The little joke fell
flat.

Mulder scowled. "Perhaps," he said and then lapsed into a
moody silence.

The sea breeze picked up, bringing the voice of his son to
his ears. He was calling Samantha's name. Calling for her,
again and again. Looking for his sister.

 From his vantage point, Bill Mulder could see where his
daughter was: hidden behind a stand of sun-bleached
driftwood that had been caught in the rocks. He smiled.
Samantha was so full of life, so full of energetic mischief.

Fox's voice sounded concerned. He couldn't find his sister.

Mulder saw his wife rise from her chair when she heard the
frantic calls of her son. She shielded her eyes from the sun
as she searched up and down the craggy shore. She shook a
scolding finger as Samantha crept into view, startling her
brother from behind.

Mulder and Hardin both snorted in quiet laughter at the
antics of little Samantha. Her big brother was not looking
pleased in the least.

Hardin spoke up suddenly. "I'm headed to a new position in
the Defense Department. A few more additions to my rank
and I'll be next to God..." Another little joke that fell flat.

Bill Mulder stood still and silent beside him. Hardin looked
compulsively down to the seashore again, eyes searching for
the boy, finding him seated near that same stand of driftwood,
laughing now at his sister who was  furiously trying to bury
his long legs in the sand.
 
"I'd heard you were ... *unhappy* with your job lately,
Bill." Hardin's voice was soft as he turned back to his
former friend.

Mulder looked at him, startled, then his blue eyes narrowed
suspiciously. "I've been unhappy for a long time, Colonel.
You knew that. You were unhappy yourself." When Hardin
didn't respond, Mulder continued, "Why are you here,
Colonel? How did you find me here? You're a long way
from West Virginia, aren't you?" This last bit spat out from
his lips bitterly.

The sadness in Colonel Hardin's dark eyes deepened. "No
one knows I'm here, Bill. No one sent me." He reached out
to put a reassuring hand on Mulder's shoulder, but the man
jerked away from his touch.

"Why are you here?" Mulder repeated the question. He
swayed a bit. Was it the drink or the upwelling of anger and
suspicion?

"I know what you're considering, Bill. I'd heard that you
want out of The Project. I know you found out about the
experiments. I know you've been fighting them about the --
uh -- 'acquisitions' of test data and test subjects --"

"Oh, for Christ's sake! Could you drop all the double-
speak?," Mulder howled. "Jesus! You all make me sick!
Secret men and their secret agendas, their secret language!"

Colonel Hardin paled. He looked genuinely wounded by
Mulder's outburst.

That gave Bill Mulder some measure of satisfaction. He
continued angrily, "Let's not call them 'acquisitions', old
buddy. Let's call them abductions.  Outright kidnapping!
And let's not call it 'test data'; let's call it experimentation --
No! No! Let's call it torture! Call it by its real name!  And
let's not call them 'test subjects'; let's call them *humans* --
men, women and.."

He choked up for a moment. "...and children, Hardin.
Children." His voice seized up again, and he fell silent. He
wished he hadn't tossed away the whiskey. He really needed
the anesthesia now. Feeling was coming back to his numbed
mind.

Hardin regarded his old friend. He realized that Mulder
really had had no idea of the scope of this. Was that
possible? Mulder actually had no idea of the scope of The
Committee's past sins or their plans for future crimes against
humanity? Did he really not understand how his own life, his
family had been touched by the Committee agenda? Was it possible
he could have been so blind? So naive?

Yeah. It was possible. Mulder wanted to be a believer. And
now Hardin's old compatriot was in the worst possible of all
positions: the believer who is about to be stripped of his
beliefs, his comforting hopes, his ideals.

"Bill. Please listen to me. I've come to ask you to reconsider
leaving The Project. You're too valuable to them. You've
been with them too long. They'll never let you live the rest
of your life out as some stodgy old professor of history
somewhere in the bowels of the Midwest!"

Hardin's soft voice became a bit more strident when he saw
that Mulder was already tuning him out, turning away from
him, heading back to the cabin to lose himself in the rest of
that bottle of whiskey.

"Bill! You've got to think about the consequences!"

Mulder stopped and half-turned to him, eyes accusing. "Are
you *him*, Hardin? Are you the Messenger Boy they are
going to send to me?"

The colonel looked shocked. "No... No, I'm not. I just came
to... Bill, have they given you an ultimatum?" Mulder's old
friend looked genuinely alarmed.

Bill Mulder just laughed and spread his arms wide in a
symbolic gesture of surrender. "What could they possibly do
to me, Hardin? I'm all eaten up already! I've compromised
my beliefs, my politics, my country -- my very soul."

With that, he turned up the path again with a curt wave of his
hand over his shoulder to his friend.

Colonel Hardin turned back to face the sea and let the breeze
cool the frustration and fear that had flushed his face. His
eyes sought out the figure of the boy again. He wallowed in
dread as he watched the young man stretch contentedly, his
handsome face lifted toward the warm sun, a golden-bronze
worshipper, a vision of youth and hope.

He had followed the boy's short history as closely as he
dared. He had seen the IQ tests, heard about the prodigious
memory, known about the difficulties of trying to fit him
into a school system that was not designed for his abilities.

Destiny had been pre-programmed into Fox Mulder. But
Hardin feared it was a tainted destiny, and hoped that it
would not end in martyrdom for the boy.

His boy. Hardin's biological son.

A child of his, manufactured in a lab, hidden deep in a West
Virginian mountain. Altered cells, carried and given life by
an unsuspecting, innocent woman. Brought home and raised
by an emotionally crippled, defeated man. No one suspected
a thing; No one knew except Hardin and the monsters that had
told him that his sperm had been used successfully to create
a new, very special life. He had not expected to be so
affected; he did not know, until then, that he had had it in
him to be so -- *human*.

"You say you've compromised your very soul, Bill,"
Colonel Hardin whispered to himself. "But where are the
souls of any of us kept? Maybe in our children..."

He stepped back down onto the path and headed for his car.
He had failed in his very personal mission. Convincing Bill
Mulder to return to The Project would have protected the
family from harm. Kept the boy from harm. He hoped The
Committee valued the boy as a rare successful by-product of
their covert experiments. He hoped that would be enough of
an incentive for them to leave him alone. To leave the boy's
"family" and life intact. It may already be too late, he mused.
Bill Mulder's life was beginning to show signs of wear. The
family would certainly suffer one way or the other.

There was little Colonel Hardin could do but let the events
unfold in their natural order. He could only watch and hope
from a distance.

                                      * * *   * * *   * * *

Fox Mulder brushed back a lock of his thick brown hair. A
movement at the top of the dune caught his eye. Dad? No.
This fellow was taller, held himself more erect. And was he
wearing a uniform? Here? At the beach?

Fox squinted against the sun, trying to see better. He felt the
air knocked out of him as his little sister tackled him from
behind, sending him face first into the sand.

"Samantha!," he growled. He recovered quickly and pushed
himself to his feet, rocketing after his shrieking sister. The
stranger was gone. Forgotten in the delight of the chase.

                                      * * *  * * *  * * *

Bill Mulder leaned heavily against the kitchen table, staring
at the cabinet that held the last of the Chivas Regal. It was
too late. The alcohol wouldn't protect him from himself
now. The feelings were back. The doubts were back. The
horror was back. He closed his eyes. No escape.

He heard the crunch of Colonel Hardin's tread on the
pebbles in the driveway alongside the cottage. Listened to
the open and close of a car door, somewhere near the road.
The engine roared, and Bill Mulder listened for its hum until
it faded from range.

He was not aware of how long he had stood there. The
sound of Samantha's shrill little voice, attempting to mimic a
popular rock song that his son listened to frequently, was
getting louder. They were coming back from the beach,
making their way up the wooden steps that made negotiating
the steep cliff a bit easier.

He could hear Fox's voice, shifting between the high pitch
of childhood and the deep tones of manhood. The boy was
pleading with his sister to cease and desist the pitiful attempt
at singing.

Bill Mulder opened his eyes. He could see Samantha
dancing and skipping down the pathway from the trees.
Fox, his arms full of beach chairs and towels, had hung
back, waiting for his mother to catch up.

His family.

The old man had been right, perhaps: If he'd have been
single, perhaps he could have fought them. But now he had
given "hostages to fortune". And Hardin was right, too. The
Committee would never let him live in peace. He watched
the sun glint off of Samantha's long dark auburn braids as
she danced and sang.

He was going to have to go back. He was going to have to
live with this cancer that he had become a part of. He lifted
his eyes to the cupboard door again. He wondered how
many of his fellow workers under the thumb of The
Committee resorted to "demon alcohol" as their anesthetic.
Maybe not a lot of them; maybe some of them were suited to
this life of shadows and lies. And immediately he thought of
Spender.

He snorted and pushed himself erect. He would go brush his
teeth and use some mouthwash. Clean up a little bit. Maybe
take the family into town for dinner. Give his wife a break
from cooking.

The decision had been made. He was going to have to go
back. He would have to be a good little soldier.
 
 

Early August
Strughold Mining Company
West Virginia

The British official put aside his cup of tea with a sigh when
he heard the sharp rap on the door to his office. He glanced
at his watch. He was sure he knew who this visitor might
be. He reached under his large mahogany desk and pressed a
security button that released the lock on the door.

"Come in."

He did not bother to rise when the tall man entered the room.
The Briton detested the man's oily smile. He detested the
pall of cigarette smoke that hung around this man.

"Mr. Spender. Please come in. What can I do for you today?"

Spender approached the desk confidently. "Good morning. I
know it's a bit early, but I had hoped you'd have some
information for me on my new task schedule. My clearance
should be in place by now and I've finished up..."

"Oh. I'm sorry, Spender. You haven't heard then?"

The man stopped cold at the quiet interruption from his
superior.

The Briton smiled inwardly at the confusion on the other
man's face. Finally, a sincere emotion on Spender's otherwise
mask-like face. The older man continued, "The Committee
has denied the upgrade in your security clearance. It is only
temporary, I assure you."

The look of confusion was beginning to turn to a flush of
anger. Spender began to sputter. "B-but what happened? I've
worked hard--  I was told to expect -- How could this have
happened?"

The older man leaned forward over his vast desk, assuming
a look of sympathy. "I'm sorry, Mr. Spender. As I said, this is
only a temporary halt in your climb up the ladder, rest
assured. But there are a strict limitation on the number of
security clearances we can offer at the Omega Level for
security reasons that I'm sure you understand."

"I *did* understand. I understood that there was one position
opened up; I understood that I was in line to get that position."
He was trying to keep the anger out of his voice.

His superior feigned a look of surprise. "Then you haven't heard?
The Omega Clearance status was given to your friend, Mr. Mulder."

Spender gaped. "Mulder? I thought he..."

The Briton waited for the man to finish his sentence. He
would not offer the man any more explanation. He did not
have to, and the other man was well aware of it.

Spender had begun to turn toward the door to leave when his
superior decided to speak up. He knew how to play this
game with Spender. He enjoyed playing it because he knew
what a duplicitous individual Spender was. It was a cold fact
that Spender was destined to go far in this organization, but the
old man did not see any point in making it easy for a fellow
that he despised on a baser level than his politics and
business.

"Mulder returned to the fold not long ago, obediently, Mr.
Spender. The Committee does not seek to reward him for his
fit of pique. Instead, they very much intend to intensify Mr.
Mulder's involvement in The Project. I know it seems
perverse, but the members of The Committee believe that
deepening his involvement will frighten him into silence,
acceptance. That... and he's damn good at what he does,
don't you agree, Spender?"

The last comment was a deliberate goading of the other man.
The elder Briton knew Spender's competitive nature. He knew
the man envied Mulder. This should prove interesting over
the long term, the old man thought as he watched Spender for a
reaction.

Spender did not disappoint his superior; he assumed a mask of
indifference and smiled. "I see, sir. I hope Mulder holds
up." His smile spread, becoming that oily grimace that the
old man hated so. "I'll make sure that he has all the help I
can give him."

He turned as if to leave and then, turned slowly back, that
smile still in place. "You've heard, of course, that Colonel
Hardin paid a visit to Mulder when he and his family were at
Kennebunk Beach in Maine."

It was too late to hide the surprise at hearing that news.

Spender's smile widened just a bit at seeing his superior's
consternation. He had scored a hit in this game of intrigue.
The mention of the Colonel's name in the same sentence as
Mulder's was enough to cause a stir. But to report a visit --

The old man blinked once and was momentarily silent. There
could only be one reason that Spender had mentioned this,
only one reason he had played this card: He knew about
Hardin's involvement with the Mulder family; he knew
about the experiment that made Hardin the biological father
of Bill Mulder's son. And now, Spender sought to further his
own position in the organization and undermine Mulder's
and perhaps the old man's as well.

<Fool. Why must I suffer this fool? > he thought grimly.
Outwardly, he resumed his detached air. "How silly of
Colonel Hardin. I suppose he thinks he is rather
'untouchable' in his current assignment... Did he say
anything to Mulder about their very classified involvement
in the experiment?"

"I'm sure he didn't, sir. Colonel Hardin understands that his
position, present and future, in the organization is dependent
upon his silence and good behavior in this matter."

"He understands he is not to see the boy? Ever! That he's to
distance himself from the Mulder family? From Bill Mulder?"

"I feel I should point out, sir, that if you give Bill Mulder the
Omega Clearance -- that was promised to me -- it will make
Colonel Hardin's necessary detachment more difficult because of
the necessary involvements with the Defense Department. He and
Hardin are sure to renew old acquaintances through this work. Of
course, nothing would be compromised if I were to have the position
and clearance you appear eager to give to Mulder."

The Briton looked up at him sharply. It sounded like a threat
from Spender. He wouldn't dare...would he?

Spender looked entirely too pleased with himself. This ploy
had worked. The old man was shook. The story of Colonel
Hardin and William Mulder was at the core of another secret
of The Project, a small but possibly harmful, one.

 The technology the science division had worked with since
the war had been ready for secret human trials by the late
'50's, thanks largely to the group led by Dr. Klemper. But
in those early years, the science was imperfect and their
results were dismal. Because of the horror of aborted fetuses
and deformed, non-viable infants that usually resulted, the
fertilizations were conducted upon women who were told
nothing more than they were undergoing a routine gynecological
exam even as the procedure was being performed on them.

Monitoring these special pregnancies had been paramount; the
group of scientists had wanted their test subjects near-by and
accessible. Some of these men had even subjected their own
wives to the experiment, the elder Briton knew. But he also
knew there were unwitting employees, like Mulder, whose
wives had been made part of the experiment without their
knowledge.

The birth of a healthy baby boy in October of 1961 to the
unsuspecting Mr. and Mrs. Mulder had been a surprise to
everyone. As the boy continued to show progress and
promise, the need for secrecy had deepened. Few knew the
truth. Hardin's own military aloofness had begun to erode
when he had learned the truth of the experiments several
years later.

As a result, Hardin had been hastily re-assigned to the CIA.
He had distinguished himself in Viet Nam at covert operations
that would never be read in the history books. It was not expected
that he would be able to return. His re-assignment was meant to
separate him physically and psychologically from the specter of a
son of his growing up calling someone else "Father". It was a
side-effect of Operation Catbird that they never foresaw in 1961,
when Hardin and several other healthy young men had taken part
in a genetic manipulation and in vitro fertilization experiment.

The old man closed his eyes and sighed. This small part of
The Project was threatening to take on the appearance of a
Greek tragedy, a small, predicted twist of destiny in the form
of a human boy that could possibly collapse all that they had
worked for. It was gruesomely funny, in a way. They had
forged their own Sword of Vengeance, he suspected.

He knew what his job was, though: protect the secret at all
costs. And he was going to have to address some "payment"
to the man in front of him right now.

He folded his long elegant hands and laid them on the desk
in front of him. "I see your point, Mr. Spender. How noble of
you to keep The Committee's greater interest at heart. Oh,
and mine, too, of course. I was in danger of making a grave
error in judgment, wasn't I?"

He smiled stiffly and continued, "The Omega status is yours,
Mr. Spender. I will see to the last of the paperwork immediately.
Mr. Mulder arrives here tomorrow. I'd like him to work closely
with you. Is that acceptable?"

Spender scowled. The Briton knew it was not acceptable.
Having a rogue like Mulder in the harness with him would be
confining. It would also keep Spender in check. It would not
be pleasant for either man; it would be interesting to see who
would break first. The old man had hopes, oddly enough,
that Mulder would win this war of wills. He suspected that
Spender's own skills at undermining those around him to further
his own career would defeat Mulder in the end, however.

Too bad.

Spender merely nodded and turned again to leave, already
reaching into his pockets for his pack of Morley cigarettes.
"Wonderful, sir. A wise choice. Mulder and I work very
well together. I'll be sure to help him 'get over' his little
upset with The Project."

The British statesman watched the door close after Spender.
He smiled again. "I'm sure you will, Mr. Spender. I'm sure
you'll be a real help." He shook his head. He knew that The
Committee was not welcoming William Mulder back.
Mulder had already breeched the unwritten law with his
threats of exposure. He was not considered stable.

The Committee had its own agenda with Mulder. He had to
be handled with care. It was already predicted that he would
fall under the crush of his own guilt. They knew his
personal life already had begun to show signs of wear. They
knew he was drinking. They knew he was distancing from
his family.

And they owned the one secret about Bill Mulder
and his son that Mulder might never find out about.
 
 

October 13, 1973
Roadside diner
West Virginia
 

"I seem to spend far too much time chasing after you,
Mulder."

Bill Mulder looked up from his cup of black coffee into
Spender's face. He shrugged, looked around the dim roadside
diner's near-empty interior and resumed his contemplation of
the steaming coffee before him.

Mulder had returned to work weeks earlier, which he felt
detestable enough, but being harnessed in a subordinate
position with Spender had proved to be beyond his endurance.
He was a bit shocked that Spender had followed him to this
out-of-the-way roadside restaurant, but he did not want to
telegraph that surprise to the man.

The other man shook the sheen of rain off his coat and sat
down heavily in the chair across the little table from Mulder.
He waved off the old lady in the apron who had grabbed up
a cup and a pot of coffee the moment she saw him seat
himself.

Spender leaned over the table, his hands folded carefully in
front of him as a gesture of restraint, like a parent about to
lecture an errant child. "You were expected at the meeting
this morning, Bill."

Mulder lifted the cup to his mouth, glaring at Spender as he
sipped at the hot coffee. It seared his tongue and throat.
How odd that the burn would be so welcome, would make
him feel alive. He did not respond to the man across the
table from him for a long moment.

"No, I wasn't. I had nothing to contribute." He set his cup
down noisily and stared at the rain hissing against the diner's
window.

Spender forced himself to be calm. Working side-by-side with
Mulder these last few weeks had been more trying than he
had thought possible. The man's innate perceptiveness
coupled with his new-found discovery and understanding of
the duplicity involved in their work had made it nearly
impossible to get tasks accomplished. Far from being the
meek sheep 'returned to the fold', Mulder was revealing a
streak of stubbornness and viciousness that Spender had
suspected was being adequately fueled by alcohol. They
fought and struggled over every detail of every assignment
that Spender handled.

The Committee knew what they were doing, Spender recently
realized. This was a test.

Not just a test of Mulder. It was a test of Spender as well. Like
throwing two pit bulls into the fighting ring, these two men
were engaged in a struggle designed by The Committee.
Only the more morally-bankrupt of the two would emerge
from this unscathed. Once Spender perceived the game, he
knew he could win. He knew more about the game than
Mulder. He knew how to use power to change lives. And
the message he was here to deliver to Mulder would be a fine
example of that power.

"There was an addendum to the agenda, Bill. You know
that," Spender said smoothly. "I told you to be present."

"And I told you: I had nothing to contribute," Mulder
replied. His eyes made contact with Spender's, snapping
brightly with ire this time.

"The addendum concerned you, Bill," Spender continued with
a steady voice despite the anger he felt seething in himself.
He had become quite good at assuming the mask of civility.

He leaned in a bit closer to Mulder and lowered his voice.
"They know you tried to contact your superior at the State
Department."

Mulder's eyes flickered with concern for just a millisecond.
 
It was enough. Spender knew he had his prey now. He leaned
back in his chair and took out a newly-opened pack of
cigarettes, tapping out one for himself and one for Mulder.
The other man accepted the offered smoke and waited, a bit
nervously, as Spender went through the ritual motions of
lighting up.

Spender inhaled deeply and blew a stream of smoke at his
companion across the table. "Did you know your boss,
Kenneth Marker, met with an accident about an hour ago?'

Spender smiled inwardly as he watched Mulder start violently
at the news of his State Department superior's accident.
There was no hiding the depth of the shock it caused.

"Is he --?"

"Dead? Oh my, yes. Seems he didn't make one of the turns
on a mountain road near here. You know what some of these
roads are like in the rain, Bill." He smiled and leaned
forward with his elbows on the table. "What I couldn't
understand is: Why would a DC bureaucrat like Kenneth
Marker be riding around alone up here in the mountains of
West Virginia? He was your boss at the State Department,
Bill. Maybe you might have some more insight into this --
Do *you* have any answers to that perplexing question?"
He leveled a look at Mulder that dared him to reply
truthfully.

Mulder scowled and lowered his head. He did not speak.

"Were you expecting to talk to him about 'sensitive' matters,
Bill? Perhaps you were expecting him to be sitting across
from you right now instead of me?" Spender asked, his voice
hardening. "Or perhaps, you had already met with him...?"

No answer.

Spender made a dramatic show of checking the watch on his
wrist. "Let's see: where are we at in the schedule of events
now? -- Ken Marker's body will be 'discovered' in
approximately two hours and there will be all the appropriate
weeping and wailing due a man of his station in the
government. And while the media circus is being
orchestrated over his tragic demise, Bill, our men will have
already threshed through his toney Alexandria townhome,
his three cars, his office... oh... and the mail drop and safe
deposit boxes that he seemed to have in at least three banks.
His lawyer's office will also be tossed. Did we forget
anything, Bill. Any other secret rendezvous? Any third party
contact?"

Mulder had grown considerably paler. He swallowed and
shook his head.

Spender enjoyed the way defeat transformed Bill Mulder. His
shoulders slumped. He seemed to fold over on himself,
shrinking. He looked as if he were going to be sick.

"No one is safe, Bill. No one is untouchable. I thought
you would have known that. Let Kenneth Marker's
death be on your head."

Mulder squeezed his eyes shut. He bit his lip until he could
taste the trickle of his salty blood on his tongue.

Spender assumed a mask of sympathy. "Don't take it so hard,
Bill. Even if you had chosen to go directly to the President
of the United States with your little tattle-tale, the results
would have been just as swift and sure. And just as un-traceable."

He waited for the implications to sink in to the other man's
mind. Mulder shuddered and began running his hand
nervously over the cheap checkered tablecloth.

"What was said at the meeting?" Mulder asked quietly
without looking up from a point he had fixed on near his
hands.

Spender relaxed. This was so easy. Like shooting rats in a
barrel. He knew he was taking far too much pleasure in
deepening Mulder's pain. He lit another cigarette.

"The Committee knows -- and I'm sure you know -- that
your continuation with The Project has been compromised."

Mulder looked up quickly. Was he to be executed, too? He
felt an icy feeling wash through his gut. He had considered
the possibility that The Committee and Spender would have
him executed if they found out he had contacted his State
Department superior, intent on uncovering The Project. In
the middle of his many sleepless nights, with the soggy
reasoning of whiskey in his head, he imagined his death
would be an acceptable sacrifice if it brought them down,
exposed the evil. He felt his life had been forfeit for some
time, anyway.

In the clarity of reality, however, he realized that The
Committee had just silently manufactured the assassination
of a highly placed government official with less effort than it
took to call a business meeting. Mulder's life didn't matter,
nor did his indiscretion. He had just been taught how
insignificant his struggle against The Committee was.

"So. I assume you've come like the Avenging Angel, eh,
Spender? To tell me the details of my demise? To lord your
triumph over me and my foolhardy fight against the
omnipotent gentlemen of The Committee?"

Spender feigned a bit of surprise and then smiled. "You know,
Bill, it's that damned instinct of yours that always had me at
odds with you. It's too bad, too. I like you, Bill." He sighed
and continued. "The Committee is severing you from The
Project. It seems you got your wish after all."

Mulder became suspicious. The Committee had just
assassinated a State Department official because he was
meeting in secret with the man. And now they were going to
simply "fire" Mulder like some employee that got caught
stealing stamps from the boss's desk?

"Right," Mulder snorted. "What's the full story? Do I
spend the rest of my days looking over my shoulder,
avoiding grassy knolls and book warehouses, staying out of
the box seats at the theater, or what?"

Spender didn't answer. In the silence that fell between them,
Mulder had a sudden realization. What had the elder British
man insinuated once before? Mulder had given 'hostages'
over to them already; Mulder had a family.

His eyes widened. "It won't be me, will it? They want my
family, don't they?"

Spender did not avoid Mulder's eyes. <Only a lesser man would
have avoided the pain there, Spender thought, I revel in it.>
"They want you to make a choice, Bill." He fell silent,
waiting.

"A -- A choice? What choice? There is no choice to be made.
I'm the key. Let them kill me. Just don't..."

Spender held up his hand, interrupting Mulder's frantic
argument. "The Committee wants you to understand, Bill.
They want you to realize how much they control you. You
need to realize how much they can control anyone's life.
And they want you to live with that knowledge, too, Bill.
You, and your family, may still be useful and The
Committee feels you have a life-long burden, carrying all our
secrets around in your head. You have to learn what a
terrible responsibility that is.  They think you may need a
reinforcement of your resolve to keep this vast knowledge to
yourself..."

"B-But I will!" Mulder gasped. "I'll never ..."

"Spare me, Bill. Ken Marker's bloody corpse is spread all
over a mountainside not twenty minutes from here just
because you decided to give up some of the secrets!"

Mulder fell silent.

"You have an opportunity here, Bill. I advise you to take
it. Your entire family may not survive this unscathed, but
certainly you can minimize the damage by making a delicate
choice." He paused, blew out a long stream of smoke and
continued, "The Committee would like you to give one of
your children to The Project."

Mulder blinked. The other man had spoken without
hesitation, without feeling for what the words implied.
Mulder's brain felt impossibly numb. He seemed to only
hear the rushing pulse of his heart, beating loudly in his
ears. The few bright colors in the dim room around him
began to leech out of his vision, turning everything to shades
of gray. He felt faint.

He tried to pick up his coffee cup, tried to regain some
reality through a small, normal gesture like sipping coffee.
The clatter of the cup against the saucer was so loud that
Spender hurriedly laid his hand across Mulder's trembling one
to still the noise lest the waitress come by to check on them.

"Bill?" Spender said quietly as he waved the waitress away
once again. "You *do* see the necessity of this, don't you?
It's much bigger than you, Bill. Bigger than me, the U.S.
Government, The World Congress, Bill. Bigger. It's the
Future, and you're already a part of it. And so are your
children. That's why you must decide."

Mulder's blue eyes were swimming with threatening tears.
"But the children --? Why? Please, I'd rather be dead."

"But it's not what YOU would rather have, Bill. It's what
The Committee wants. And the Committee wants you alive.
And you'll still have a chance to make up for your
indiscretions by giving up one of the children to The
Project."

Mulder sat in stunned silence. He could not fathom the depth
of cruelty these men were capable of. He slowly shook his
head in disbelief.

Spender squeezed the cold hand he still held under his. "Bill, I
know this sounds strange, but I don't think they'll hurt the
child. Maybe I can get assurances. It can be arranged that the
child will not suffer. They've got drugs now. They can
manipulate the child's memories. He or she would never know..."

Mulder felt himself screaming inside. He felt nauseous.
How could twenty years in service of a dream come to this?

 <Because it was never a dream, old man. It has always been
an unnatural nightmare. Alien technology has become like the
mythical Pandora's Box in the hands of humans. The
blessings are evolving into curses.>

And now he was sitting across from a co-worker, listening
to the man spew reassurances that one of his children
wouldn't be burned as he, Bill Mulder, offered that child up
to the mouth of Hell itself: alien/human experimentation.

Spender shook Mulder's arm a bit, hoping to draw a response.
The man looked almost catatonic.

"Others have made sacrifices for The Project, Bill. You
wouldn't be the first. There have been genetic manipulation
experiments on-going  for well over a decade. You should
merely consider this choice as your pay-back. Your child
would be part of the true future, Bill."

Mulder seemed to rouse as if from a deep sleep at this.
"Other sacrifices? Were they voluntary or are there other
fools like me within this organization?"

Spender pulled his hand back. He considered telling Mulder
that his family had already been hopelessly entangled in The
Project's experiments. "Some of our people volunteered,
Bill. And, by necessity, some have no idea that they were
directly involved in the experiments that have been
conducted. You know the importance of blind studies and
control groups in any scientific experiment..."

"Blind," Mulder mumbled bitterly. "What a fitting term.
That's what I've been."

Suddenly, another sharp edge of intuition stabbed at him.
 
"Have I been...? Has my family already been involved
in...?" He couldn't finish the sentence. He was having a
hard time breathing. <ohgod. What have they been living
with among them?> He searched Spender's face for an
answer. Was his family already part of an experiment? Is
that why his life was being spared?

Spender's face was impassive, unreadable. "Bill, I don't
know. Why -- or how -- would I know something like
that?" Inwardly, he rejoiced in satisfaction: the seed of
doubt had been planted. Mulder was his own worst enemy;
his much-celebrated intuitiveness would feed this new
doubt. It would be the last onslaught for Bill Mulder. The
doubt and the choice would kill whatever was left of his
soul.

Spender shoved his pack of cigarettes at the other man and
pushed himself away from the table. He cinched up his
collar against the rain he anticipated outside. "You have
some time to think about this, Mulder. I told them that you
shouldn't be rushed. It's not an everyday decision, is it?" He
put a hand on Mulder's shoulder but the other man did not
stir. "Well. I've got the rest of this Marker fiasco to attend
to. Don't do anything foolish, okay, Bill? I've got a few
guards posted on you -- and on your family -- for the time
being. You -- uh --You won't see them, but they'll be there.
Just, please, be sensible about this, will you, Bill? "

He left as quietly as he had come. The old woman
approached the lone man at the table several times over the
next hour and a half to see if she could be of further service.
But the man never answered her. Never looked up in all that
time. Just as it was beginning to grow dark outside and she
thought that she might ask her boss to come out from the
kitchen and try to get through to this quiet fellow, she
realized he had gone. He had left a fifty dollar bill on the
table for one lousy cup of coffee. She shrugged and
pocketed the money as she cleared the table. Those fancy
suit-coat types from the big city were sure peculiar.
 

Three days later
Chilmarc, Massachusetts
 
 

 Tina Mulder awoke to the slam of cupboard doors.

<Someone is downstairs!>

She eased herself quietly off the mattress, glancing at the
unoccupied side of her bed, coverlets still smooth,
undisturbed. Her husband, Bill, was back in West Virginia.
Her son, Fox, was spending the night at a friend's house.

She swallowed nervously and forced herself to go to the
hallway. The door to Samantha's room was open. She could
see the little figure of her daughter outlined in the huddle of
blankets on the bed and heard the soft breathing that told her
Samantha was soundly asleep.

<Thank God,> she thought to herself as she took a moment
to close the door . She didn't want the little girl to be
frightened by all the odd noises coming from downstairs.
She also didn't want whomever was downstairs to discover
her little sleeping innocent.

Her eyes fell upon Fox's baseball bat, left standing beside
his bedroom door in his haste to leave two nights ago. She
closed her eyes in a silent moment of thanks for her boy and
his adolescent tendencies to leave sports equipment in odd
places. Folding her hand around the grip, she picked the
heavy bat up and started cautiously down the stairs.

"BILL!"

She cried out and let the bat drop on the landing at the same
moment she recognized her husband as the noisy intruder.
She sank down to sit on the stairs, her hand pressed over her
thudding heart. "You frightened me. I thought you were a --"
She was suddenly breathless, unable to speak as relief
washed over her.

Her husband did not answer. He made no move to reassure
her. He stared at her for a long moment, as if not realizing
who she was or why he might have frightened her so.

"Bill? Is -- Is everything all right?" She realized it was
ridiculous for her to have to ask that question. She had been
the one scared out of her wits, not him.

He still did not speak. She saw him clutching a glass of his
favorite whiskey. How long had he been home? Why didn't he
wake her? "What's wrong?" she pleaded. "Why have you
come home? And in the middle of the night...?"

Mulder took a swallow of his drink and walked toward the
living room. She followed and sat down quietly when he
waved at the easy chair in a silent command. She waited. He
poked at the warm embers in the fireplace, all that remained
of a comfortable fire that she and Samantha had built for
themselves earlier in the evening. The room had already
begun to take on the night chill of mid-October.

"Where's Samantha?" His voice was hoarse. He did not
look at her.

"Well... upstairs, sleeping. At least I hope she is. After all
the racket you made--" She was becoming a bit angry.

"And Fox?" He interrupted the beginnings of her long
complaint. He still would not look at her. He kept pushing at
the embers and ashes.

"He's not here."

"Not here?" He looked startled.  " I don't like that he's left
you and Samantha alone! Where is he?" His voice had an
edge of anger, and his eyes were filled with concern when
he looked at her.

"Don't be silly, Bill! He's just a little boy. Surely, you don't
expect him to protect this household. That's supposed to be
*your* job!" That erupted a bit more bitterly than she had
intended.

She continued hastily, "Fox has spent the last few nights
with the Kaplans. They had a bad house fire, and Fox is
helping them out." She was puzzled by her husband's
appearance here at home. A trace of anger crept bravely back
into her voice. "You could have called. You *should* have
called. You missed Fox's birthday, you know."

He closed his eyes briefly. October 13th. Fox's birthday.
The day Kenneth Marker died. <My fault. All my fault.>
He'd never forget October 13th again.

"Something came up that day --" He began and then stopped
himself abruptly. He took another quick swallow of his
drink and sat down in the chair across from her. "I'll
apologize to him. I just couldn't get free that day. I -- I'll
make it up to him."

She bit her lip, forcing herself to keep the reproaches to
herself. He looked miserable, and he was avoiding eye
contact with her. She had played the diplomatic wife for too
long to become a nag now. She could see he was deeply
bothered, and it didn't take women's intuition to know that
this worry was related to his "job", a job she knew precious
little about despite fourteen years of marriage to this man.

He dropped his head into his hands, suddenly. Another
long, protracted silence. When he looked up, he had a
assumed a mask of ironic humor. "Well, missing birthdays
won't be a problem any more, anyway."

He smiled weakly at his wife's puzzled expression.

"I'm retiring. Getting out. I've got about twenty years worth
of pension and with our investments, we can live very
comfortably even if I never work another day in my life. I've
been thinking about teaching at the university -- "

He watched his wife's expression change from puzzlement
to shock. He took another long drink from his half-empty
glass.

"Bill. What's happened? I thought you had decided to stay
with it. You thought they'd give you some different
work..."

"Well, it wasn't different!" he snapped. She drew back at his
tone of voice, and he looked immediately apologetic. He put
his glass of liquor on the hearth and moved forward to kneel
before her.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry, my darling. I'm so sorry." His voice
was whispery and tortured. She could see the beginnings of
tears threatening in the corners of his blue eyes. "I'm so
sorry... for so much."

She laid her hand gently on his head when he placed it in her
lap. She smoothed his hair., intending to comfort him, but
her confusion persisted.

"Bill, what has happened?"

"Nothing." He picked his head up and smiled at her,
blinking away the thin veil of tears. "I'm just tired. Tired of
government work. Happens to the best of us." He rubbed at
his eyes. "I ... uh... I had a falling out -- of sorts -- with
Spender. The... uh... compromises I was going to have to
make at the...uh... office became unacceptable." He looked
up at her again. "I hope you're not alarmed. We won't have
to worry about money. I promise you."

She smiled and brushed his hair gently with her hand. "Of
course not, Bill. I trust you. I've always trusted you to do
the right thing."

At that, he shut his eyes and sat down heavily on the floor at
her feet. "You trust me... to do the right thing." His words
were slurring as he dropped his head into his hands again.
She thought she heard him laugh and mistook his laughter as
a jibe at her. She started to stand up, but his hand shot out
and grabbed her tightly by the wrist. He pulled her sharply
back into the chair, staring at her, his eyes red-rimmed.

"You're drunk," she hissed, letting her anger at him burst
into full bloom. She pulled her wrist free from his grasp and
rubbed it as she glared back at him.

"Yes. Yes, so I am," he said as he leaned back to grab his
glass again. He swirled the amber liquid, staring at it as it
moved seductively in the bottom of the tumbler. He was
astounded to realize that he was grateful for her anger: It
would be easier to make her hate him. It would make it
easier for him to remember this night with deep pain and
regret for years to come. And he wanted the pain. After all
that he had compromised in his life, he deserved to have the
pain.

When it seemed apparent he had fallen into his own thoughts
again, his wife stood and started toward the stairs. She was
still angry. She stopped at the soft sound of his voice.

"You've been a wonderful wife to me, Tina. And a great mother to
the children." He sounded sober. Sincere. She turned to watch him
get slowly to his feet and walk toward her. He kissed her. A gentle,
sad kiss. He smelled of liquor. She drew away, just enough to break
the kiss, and turned her head, a silent disapproval.

He dropped his head for a moment, biting his lower lip. He
was going to have to ask her the question. There would not
be a 'good' time to ask it. And right now, he thought he had
enough whiskey-tempered courage to get through it. He
couldn't make this decision alone. Please, don't let her make
him -- force him -- to make this decision alone, he prayed to
a god he no longer trusted to exist.

"If you had to choose --"

Her head turned back at the icy tone of his voice.

"If you had to choose between the children -- between Fox
or Samantha -- I mean, if we were to lose one of our
children... to an accident..." His voice was becoming more
strained.  His eyes sought contact with her now. They
seemed to be pleading. "Who would you chose? Whose loss
would be -- easier -- to handle?"

The horror of what he was saying sank slowly into her
mind. She slowly backed away from him, half-stumbling up
two of the stairs to put some distance between them. Her
head was shaking with disbelief before she could even
speak.

"How can you ask? How could you dare think such a thing?
You're talking about our children! *OUR* children! They
are both important to our lives, Bill. What is wrong with you
tonight? Do you hear yourself? You're talking like an insane
person--!"

"Shhhh. Shhhh." He pressed a finger hastily to his lips as
her voice rose with her fright. He reached for her hand but
this time she pulled away, escaping his grasp. Her eyes
shone with tears.

<Ohgod, ohgod, > he thought desperately. <She won't
help. She *can't* help. I shouldn't have done this to her!>
He reached out again and pulled her down into his arms.
"All right, Tina, all right. I should have never brought
something like that up. I'm sorry. Calm down. It's nothing.
Calm down. Please, I'm sorry. Just the ramblings of a drunken
fool."

She was crying softly. He felt her holding herself stiffly in
his arms. She would not forget this. He should not have
sought her help. This was his alone to bear. What ever made
him think he should bring her to this level of The Inferno?

He sighed and released her. She turned without a word and
fled upstairs, pausing only to pick up Fox's baseball bat
from the landing where she had dropped it earlier.

He turned back to the chilly, empty living room. He felt like
a stranger in his own home. Sullenly, he dropped himself
back into the chair by the fireplace again and stared into the
gray ashes, thinking.

His eyes fell upon a portrait of the children, framed in silver
and sitting among other family photos on the mantlepiece. He
picked it up and brought it back to where he had been sitting.
It was new. He had never noticed it before. It  had been taken
recently. Mulder stared at the two beautiful young faces that
stared mutely back at him.

<There is a decision to be made.>

Payment had been demanded by The Committee. He was no
longer tolerated in The Project. And now, he did not feel
tolerated in his own home.

<There is a decision to be made.>

How was he going to do this? How could he justify this?
His entire family might be sacrificed if he couldn't choose.

<There is a decision to be made.>

He took another drink. Alcohol helped. It blessed him with a
numb brain, a hardened heart and just the right amount of
foggy reasoning power to find a way to choose.

It was the doubt that helped. It was Spender's little suggestion
that the Mulder family had already been touched by The
Project. The insinuation that for the past twelve years or so,
there had been a stranger in his family, a child not his own.

<There is a decision to be made.>

He stared at the photo, struggling to remember what it was
like to be at their births. <Godhelpme. I remember
Samantha's... Why can't I remember Fox's birth?> His brow
furrowed.

Last-minute Committee business had kept him in Germany.
He remembered the frustration of trying to get back home, to
be here for their firstborn. He had had to learn, over a
badly connected transatlantic phone line, that his wife had had
an emergency Cesarean surgery to give birth to his son. Had
they engineered the 'last-minute' business? Had they kept him
away for a reason? Had they even engineered the emergency
surgery?

<Make the decision.>

Then, there was the boy himself. A quiet prodigy. An
eidetic memory, the doctors had said when they had him
tested for school. And how often had his wife told him of
the boy's spooky foresight? How often had the boy "just
known" about matters that were seemingly incomprehensible
to adults?

<The decision.>

Hazel eyes. Not on his family's side, he knew. Maybe his
wife's side, they had reasoned. <Godhelpmehelpme...This
sounds so insane!>

He licked his lips. Took another drink. The boy did not
approve of him, he felt. The boy never said so, but the
disapproval was in those eyes, those hazel eyes. Bill could
see it, sense it. <Please. No. He's *my* son. I love him...>

The tears started. At first he wasn't even aware of them. He
only noticed them when he wasn't able to see the photo that
lay in his lap.

If he could keep Samantha... Wouldn't the loss of a daughter
would be harder on his wife than the loss of a son? Women
are closer to their daughters, aren't they?

And... And Fox was older, too. He could handle the change
better than Samantha, couldn't he? Didn't Spender promise the
child would not suffer? <God, take me. If you're truly out
there, strike me dead. These are not the thoughts of a father...
They are *my* children... MINE!>

He lurched forward, sobbing over the photo frame in his
lap. He reached over and took the princess phone from its
cradle. With shaking hands, he dialed the pre-arranged
phone number and let it ring the pre-arranged number of
times, indicating his choice, and hung up.

<Decision made.>

He stumbled up the stairs and fell into a drunken stupor on
his son's empty bed.
 
 
 

November, 1973
Chilmarc, Massachusetts

It had been weeks since he quit his job. It had been weeks
since they had been out of the house for anything more than
groceries .

He had insisted that she refuse all social invites for a while.
She had noted how anxious he became every time she suggested that
they leave the children and go out for a movie or dinner, just the
two of them. She had forgiven, if not forgotten, his drunken
display from that night in October.

The idea of being a complete family for the first time in years
was worth working for, she decided, and it would take some
getting used to.

The winter holidays were started and with them came a fresh
round of invitations from friends she had made on the
Vineyard. They had been important to her when Bill had
spent so much time away. Now, she hoped he would come
to like and appreciate her friends.

He seemed too distracted, though. He spent long hours pre-
occupied with the children's whereabouts, which she
mistook as a compensation for all the time he had missed
with them.

They no longer took the bus to school or rode their bikes to
friends' houses. Bill insisted on driving them everywhere.
Samantha reveled in the attentions of her father at first. Fox,
however, began to chafe under the constant supervision
immediately: Almost a teen-ager, he had worked hard to earn
a larger social circle than his sister. To make matters worse,
his father recently demanded that he give up his basketball
and wrestling team commitments.

Lines were drawn over the athletics. She appreciated that Fox
had patiently given in to the new curfews and constant demands
of his father.

When he was made to give up his beloved sports, the young man
fought back. He had had such difficulty fitting in at school and
his ability at sports had bridged a lot of difficulties with his
peers, she knew. She wondered if Bill knew how much the sports
meant to the boy.

Bill was taking a harder line with Fox these days, she noticed
with worry. She elected not to interfere, but her annoyance
was growing.

The result was a month of hell for the family. Bill's drinking
had abated somewhat but when the conflicts with Fox arose,
he seemed to drink more. Disaster resulted. Nights were
spent in stony silence, Fox confined to his room by his
father's command or hidden in his room by his choice.

Samantha whined, missing the bright presence of her
brother, not understanding the sullen silence of her father
nor the deepening sadness of her mother.

The tension had grown. They were like prisoners in their
own home, wardened by a man that they called" father", but
only knew as a stranger, an occasional visitor in their lives.

When his son's displeasure at the new, imposed way of life
had been vocalized at the dinner table recently, Bill Mulder
had struck out in sudden, vicious anger, catching the boy
squarely in the mouth, bloodying his lip and knocking him
from his chair to the floor.

In the shocked silence that had followed, Bill Mulder saw
the horror in the eyes of his young daughter, the disgust in
the  eyes of his wife. And when he had turned to look down
at  his son, the boy was getting up, quietly. He had pulled
himself to his feet and walked from the room in defeat, hand
held tightly to his bloody mouth, eyes full of tears and hate.

The dinner had continued without a word said, and Mulder
promised himself that he would never lose control like that
again. He had to make Fox understand, however. He had to
impress him with the importance of staying together,
watching out for each other. Fox would just have to make
some sacrifices. It was for his own good and the good of the
family.

Later, in the assumed comfort afforded him by a glass of
whiskey, he had thought perhaps he had been wrong about
The Committee. Maybe Spender was toying with him. They
had shown no sign of exacting their horrible demand from him.
Perhaps they had trusted him to keep silent after all. He had
pleaded with them for so long --  maybe they had listened,
after all.

        * * * * *     * * * * *      * * * * *

Perhaps it would be safe to go out, do some special things,
be social, Bill decided. Fox could go to his friends' houses.
Samantha seemed to miss her friends, too. And his wife
certainly deserved a night out. Perhaps it was time for him
to just relax and adjust to his new life. The family had been
more than patient with him, he realized, and he vowed to be
a better father, a better husband.

It was the new resolve that made him accept the invitation to
a night out with the Walkers on November 27th.

His wife had been pleasantly surprised. When they left the
house at 7 P.M., the children  were already engaged in a
board game of Stratego. Samantha  had jumped up from the
floor just long enough to give them  each a good-bye kiss
and then tumbled onto her brother's back as he was trying,
for the third time, to set the board up.

"Samantha!" her mother chided. "Please be gentle with your
brother! And don't give him a hard time tonight! Your
bedtime is at eight o'clock. Let him watch his television
show in peace, please."

"Big deal! The Magician!! It's a stupid show!" She made a
face at her brother.

"Mom! This is going to be a problem...!" Fox growled. He
looked woefully up at his parents.

"Just settle down, you two!" Bill Mulder warned as he
helped his wife into her coat. "If you can't act responsibly,
your mother and I won't allow you to be on your own again.
Got it?"

Samantha laughed and waved good-bye. Fox merely nodded
his head, turning back to the board game as his parents went
out the door. The lock clicked loudly behind them.

When Mulder hesitated at the car door, looking through the
sheeting rain, checking the quiet dark street at both ends, his
wife called to him to get in the car. She told him once again:
Everything would be all right. The kids were old enough to
take care of themselves.

He shuddered. His wife thought he had simply caught a chill
from the cold November rain.

        * * * * *      * * * * *      * * * * *

Several Hours Later
 

He hurried along the slick roadways a bit too quickly. His
confidence that all was well had gradually eroded as the
evening wore on. He knew he had left a curious impression
with the Walkers by the end of the visit. He had become
more and more anxious and less and less conversant. Good-
byes were terse, and his wife seemed a bit embarrassed. At
least she spared him any lectures on the way home. They
rode in silence.

He heard her gasp. He felt an ice-like sliver of fear stab at
his heart as they turned onto their street. At the far end, in
front of their house, the rolling blue lights of three police
cruisers stood out like beacons in the darkness. Neighbors,
many with winter coats draped over their pajamas, lined the
streets, straining to see what was going on at the Mulder
house.

<Oh, please, please. This can't be happening...>

He was numbly aware of his wife frantically clawing at the
door before he had even stopped the car in the driveway. He
could hear her desperate questions, heard her crying as a
female officer reached out to hold her for a moment at the
bottom of the broad concrete steps leading up to their home.

He moved as if in a dream, hypnotized by the flash of the
blue lights rolling over his home.

<They've done it. They've come.>

"Bill? Hey, Bill. It's me, Neil -- from next door."

Bill Mulder became aware of the concerned face of his
neighbor hovering before him. A grim-looking police officer
stood just behind him.

"What's happened here?" He managed to croak out the
question, even though he felt his throat constricting as he
moved toward the house. The entire scene was bathed in
those damned rolling lights. He stopped when he saw a
small figure, swaddled in damp blankets, huddled at the
knee of another female officer at the bottom of the steps.

"Fox?"

The boy never moved. His eyes looked lost under the mop
of longish dark hair plastered to his head by the icy rain.

"We found him wandering the street about an hour ago,
Bill."

Neil the Neighbor again. Trying to be helpful. "He kept
calling for Samantha. We couldn't find her anywhere. And
Fox... he doesn't remember anything about what happened.
They think he's in shock. Craziest thing. He won't go back
in the house, Bill. And we had some real odd happenings
tonight. Power went out. Weird lights. We heard your boy
about thirty minutes later... Just the craziest thing. We're
so sorry... I can't imagine what..."

The voice trailed off. A comforting hand laid on Mulder's
shoulder. He kept staring at his son, stunned. This was a
mistake. His daughter wasn't supposed to have been...

"Bill?"

Neil, again. He did not answer him.

"Mr. Mulder. Sir? "

The officer this time. His voice was as grim as his face. "We
can't find your daughter, sir. There are no signs of forced
entry. The boy's incoherent, and we found a gun and a box
of rounds scattered over ..."

Bill Mulder's head snapped up at the sound of his wife's
anguished screams. He did not dare look at the boy again.
He forced himself to walk past the boy and not look at him
again. He could feel the anger growing with his despair.
Another officer at the top of the steps had to help him up
onto the porch; he was stumbling, blind with tears.

He was lost in remembering. Remembering the way the sun
glinted off her braids as she danced and sand on the path
from the seashore.

        * * * * *     * * * * *     * * * * *

Colonel Hardin rolled down the window of the black sedan.
He didn't notice the icy fingers of rain that clawed at his
face. He was intent on watching the small, huddled form of
Fox Mulder. He watched as Bill Mulder strode by his son.
He watched as the female officer bent down again to brush
the boy's wet hair from his brow and plead with him again
to return to the house.

He could see the boy wasn't responding.

Finally, the officer sat down on the wet steps beside the boy
and pulled him into her arms and just rocked him while the
comings and goings of law enforcement personnel, curiosity
seekers and well-meaning neighbors moved around and
about them.

Hardin was grateful for the instincts of that anonymous
female officer. He saw the boy dissolve into shameless tears
and cling tightly to the stranger who had offered him
comfort.

There would be a search organized soon. He rolled up the
car window and headed slowly down the street. It was time
to retreat. He would have to resume his sentry watch over
the boy from a distance.

As for tonight: There would be reports about the lights.
There would be speculations about the power outage. His
own car would be noted, but they would never be able to
trace the license plate numbers to any one. And they would
search for, but never find, Samantha Mulder.

He wondered when it would occur to Mulder that The
Committee had exercised its power over him by taking
Samantha, not the child he had chosen for sacrifice: his son,
Fox. No. The Committee would not touch Fox. And they
would let Bill Mulder wallow in the misery of his decision,
checkmated by *their* decision.

And Fox Mulder's life was going to take a deeper turn
toward hell, he knew. He hoped he wouldn't remember. He
hoped they had solved the little problem with the boy's
memory, for the boy's sake.

He didn't want him to have to live with that memory.
 
       *********************************
                         (FINIS)