TITLE: SIEG UND VERLUST (includes So This is Agent Mulder)  
AUTHOR: CindyET
E-MAIL ADDRESS: cindyet@tdstelme.net 



- - - - - - -

Washington, DC

"What did you say?" I miss Doggett's question over a squeal of 
subway breaks. Homebound commuters pack Union Station. Doggett 
and I stuff our faces with sausages, giant pretzels and 
hotdogs. The guy who sold us our heart-plugging dinner musta 
thought we were trying to kill ourselves. Motive: starvation. 
Weapon: low-density lipoproteins. Time of Death: 5:35 p.m., 
but they died with smiles on their faces. There may be a war 
on, but this food tastes damn good after 152 days of nothing 
but alien Fruit Punch. I consider returning to the cart for 
thirds.   

"I said, are you sure you don't want me to take Strughold? 
Won't he recognize you?"

"By the time he sees me, it'll all be over but the 
celebration." Another chunk of footlong slides down my throat. 
"Besides, I thought you wanted the Hoover Building."

"I do. I'm looking forward to my little tête-a-tête with 
Kersch."

"Tell him I say 'hey.'" I swipe the catsup from my face and 
toss a wad of napkins into a nearby trash bin. "Meet you back 
at the ranch, pard."

I abandon Doggett and head for the train. It feels good to 
squeeze into the crush of humanity. The mix of sweat, garbage 
and excrement is sweet perfume after Morleys and Ode d'Alien. 
The click of the turnstile is music to my ears.

The train lags on the platform, doors hissing shut. I shove my 
way forward and slither inside, ignoring the other passengers' 
irritated expressions. Standing room only. I grab a post, 
enjoying the lurch of the car and the hammer of wheels against 
the rails. The floor vibrates the soles of my pinching shoes. 
My hip presses pleasantly against the buttocks of a frowning 
woman; a lock of her blonde hair caresses my cheek. She's 
tall. Smells good, too. I can't resist -- excusing my boorish 
behavior with the feeble excuse that I need the practice, I 
peek into her mind.

^^get|home^^call|todd|before^^creep|feeling|up|my|ass^^

Oops. I pull back as much as possible -- mentally and 
physically -- and open a sliver of space between us. 

God must be watching. Here's my stop.

Climbing to the street, I use the talisman to locate 
Strughold. The embassy's nearby. I hear him at the same moment 
I spot the Tunisian flags hanging limp in the DC heat.

^^china|facility^^difficulties^^tests|at|the^^what?^^who?^^

Uh oh. A fly in my ointment. Someone's with Strughold and he's 
"seen" me. I can't...I can't read the accomplice. Which can 
only mean one thing...his partner-in-crime is alien. So much 
for the element of surprise. My cover's blown.

I slow my pace, try to figure out what to do. I'm nudged by a 
passerby.

"Going somewhere, Agent Mulder?" the stranger hisses in my 
ear. A gun prods my ribs. The stranger reeks of Ode d'Alien 
and, dammit, I've left my EBE-bustin' shiv in my other pants. 
Sometimes my luck stinks.  

- - - - - - -

Yukon, Canada

"It's Pok," Dana announces, binoculars aimed at the valley. 
With effort, she rises from her chair to stand at the edge of 
the porch and track Pok's progress up the hill. "Looks like 
he's in a hurry."

Even at a trot, it'll take him a few minutes to climb the 
steep path. Dana's free hand traces frantic circles over her 
protruding abdomen as she peers down the mountain.

"You okay?" I nod at her stomach.

She lowers the binoculars a fraction of an inch, exposing a 
small shadow of fear in her eyes. "I'm fine," she insists 
before raising her emotional shield along with the binoculars.

For the umpteenth time, I do the math in my head and calculate 
how long before her due date. 

"Ten days, Walter," she says, as if she can read my mind. 

Ten days. I'm pretty sure some women deliver earlier than 
expected and the possibility that Dana might go into labor 
ahead of schedule makes my palms sweat.

"Don't worry," she says, "Mulder will make it in time and 
you'll be let off the hook." 

Pok negotiates the final leg of the trail. The path spirals 
around an upper cliff and boulders the size of train cars 
narrow the passage. He breaks into a full run when he sees us 
waiting on the porch. His haste doesn't bode well. 

"I'm not worried," I lie. 

Dana would hate to hear me say this but she'd be a helluva lot 
better off if the father of her baby had been anyone other 
than Fox Mulder. 

Last year, I watched Mulder read minds. I saw him predict 
future events with 100 percent accuracy. I heard him answer 
questions before they were asked, anticipate thoughts before 
they were formed. 

In a war, a gift like that would hedge all bets.

It's no wonder the Colonists want a piece of him. And now that 
they've lost him to the Rebels, it only makes sense they might 
target his unborn child, hoping to mine the baby's brain for 
the power it promises. 

Assuming they discover he has a child.

Pok arrives breathless. "A man..." -- he sucks air into his 
lungs and crosses the porch -- "a man came to Bonne Plume this 
morning. He asked...for Dana."

Hope blossoms on her face. She thinks it's Mulder, appearing 
in time to see his child born and bringing good news of the 
aliens' downfall. But Pok isn't smiling. 

"A man?" 

Pok's head bobs as he tries to catch his breath. "He...he 
wanted...directions. Showed me...Dana's picture."

I clutch his arm, squeezing more tightly than I intend. "You 
didn't tell him anything, did you?"

"No. No, of course not. But...he was determined."

"Did he give his name?"

"No, no name." 

Scully's hope refuses to dim. "What did this man look like?" 
she asks.

"Dark hair. Mid thirties, maybe." Pok mops sweat from his jaw 
with his sleeve. "He was missing one arm. Do you know him?"

- - - - - - -

FBI Headquarters

The parking garage is all but deserted. Quitting bell rang at 
five and all the good little government employees beat feet, 
leaving behind only a handful of kiss-asses, several over-
worked agents and the occasional alien conspirator or two. I 
cross to the underground entrance, my footsteps ricocheting 
through the vacant garage.

What are the chances my pass card still works? The talisman 
around my neck tells me I won't need it -- a fresh-faced 
Academy graduate named Michael T. Baxter is on his way out the 
door, allowing me to slip in as he exits. I must be living 
right.      

"Agent Doggett." Baxter nods at my ID on his way past.

"Agent Baxter," I reply and grab the door before it closes.

Walking along the corridor toward the elevator, I realize how 
much I've missed my old stomping grounds. Life seemed a 
helluva lot simpler when I was chasing metal men, bat 
creatures and giant slugs. I tag the down button. The elevator 
dings and the door glides open. 

My first stop is my office. Dana's office. Mulder's office. 
Whatever. Mulder's files -- salvaged from an unexplained fire 
five years ago -- contain the last known addresses of 
fertility clinics, cloning labs, vaccine depositories, genetic 
information storehouses. Not to mention a long list of 
military installations associated with alien activity. I 
argued with Mulder about the value of this outdated 
information. It's my opinion the aliens, once discovered, 
would have vacated the premises and cleaned house. Mulder 
disagreed. He reminded me of The Purloined Letter by Edgar 
Allen Poe. 

"Sometimes the best place to hide something is in plain 
sight," he said. "Where would we be less likely to look than 
behind a door we'd already opened?"

Point taken. Men who collaborate with alien invaders have 
balls the size of melons -- gonads big enough to keep on 
cookin' even after the pot's been uncovered. 

The elevator deposits me on the ground floor, outside my 
basement office. Never did get a nameplate for the door. I let 
myself in. 

Hmm, someone's been rifling the files. At a glance, it doesn't 
look as if anything's been taken, just rearranged a little. 
Don't need the paper copies anyway. My laundry list exists in 
cyberspace -- and I have Mulder's password. I boot up a 
computer and begin my search. 

An hour later, I've compiled a list as long as my arm. 
Starting with Mulder and Dana's first case in Bellefleur in 
1992 until Mulder disappeared from the same damn spot eight 
years later. The roll call of alien collaborators is 
impressive, unveiling an extended history of awareness and 
involvement. The Air Force. Navy. U.S. Coast Guard. Centers 
for Disease Control. I still can't wrap my mind around the 
fact that Dana discovered an alien fetus at Fort Marlene. 

Then there are the private partners. Lombard Research. 
Transgen Pharmaceuticals. *Strughold* Mining in West Virginia. 
That can't be a coincidence. Dana and Mulder found a shitload 
of medical files and human tissue collection cassettes in that 
facility, stored for safekeeping under a mountain of coal and 
Strughold's name. 

Medical doctors. Researchers. Scientists. FBI, CIA, United 
Nations. The scope of the conspiracy staggers the mind.

List ready, I dial Information -- Mulder's pals: Frohike, 
Langley and Byers.

"Lone Gunman," a voice answers my call.

"Melvin?"

"Who wants to know?"

"John Doggett." Muffled conversation follows my announcement.

"Prove it."

"No time to dick around, Frohike. I'm at headquarters paging 
through the Department of Alien Affairs staff directory. I'm 
not talking about your standard immigration watchdogs here; 
this is a literal Who's Who of government complicity. You want 
the names or not?"

"We need proof you're who you say you are. The enemy is 
everywhere."

"Open your damn Sahasrara. And Frohike, if you were on the bus 
with Kesey in '64 as you claim, you know what the hell that 
means."

"Dog Man! You live and breathe! How's Mulder?"

"Living and breathing, too. We need your help and we don't 
have a lot of time."

"What can we do, amigo?"

"A little technical problem-solving."

"Sounds like you need some kick ass kung fu, Dog Dude!"

"That you, Richard?"

"Close enough. What's on your mind, DD?"

"More than usual, but that's another story. And don't call me 
DD. Doggett or John. I am *not* DD, got it? An electronic file 
is headed your way, routed through Mulder's secure addy. I 
need you to initiate a permanent digital shutdown of all 
parties listed in the file. Wipe their asses clean, boys."

"Message downloading. Wait a sec." More mumbling. "Uh, there 
are some big guns on this list. You realize what you're 
asking?"

"I've got a pretty clear picture of the situation, guys."

"This'll mean pulling the plug on tens of thousands of PCs, 
dumping major databases, cutting out miles of network."

"If it's too much for you, maybe I should call another 
subversive newspaper."

"No, no. Our kung fu is the best. And we learned a thing or 
two from the Y2K scare. It's just...you should know the 
consequences."

"I'm listening."

"Worst case scenario: power grid collapses, nuclear plants 
overheat, the country is left defenseless while the world 
plunges into chaos."

"The world is already in chaos. Start kung fu fighting."

As soon as I hang up, I head straight for Kersch's office. I 
can't wait to dish him a piece of my mind after all the shit 
he gave me during Mulder's manhunt. "Do the damn job, Doggett, 
do the damn job." Humph. That might have been possible if the 
Deputy Director hadn't set me up to fail from Day One. Skinner 
said I was a pawn in a rigged game. Said it was Kersch's plan 
all along to bring me down. He warned me that if I put 
anything about aliens or UFOs or alien bounty hunters in my 
report, Kersch would ruin me. 

Takes no time at all to get upstairs. Elevator's as empty as 
the parking garage, which means no wait, no intrusions and no 
awkward questions to answer. The minute I step out onto the 
sixth floor, I see a welcome mat of light spilling across the 
corridor outside Kersch's office. My nifty talisman tells me 
Kersch is inside, sitting at his desk, reviewing reports and 
putting his stamp of disapproval on some poor sap's request 
for a transfer.

He's all alone.

I open the door and Kersch just about jumps outta his skin.

"Instincts getting a bit rusty, sir?" I ask.

"Jesus, Doggett. Where the hell have you been for the past 
five months?"

"You put me in charge of a job, sir. I'm just doing my damn 
job."

"And what would that be, agent?"

"Finding Mulder." 

^^does|he|know?^^

Kersch leans back in his chair, steely-eyed, mustache 
twitching. "Did you succeed?" 

"Did you expect I wouldn't?" I anchor my fists to his desk and 
lean in close. "You're part of this conspiracy, aren't you?"

"You're out of line, Agent Doggett."

"Am I? My gut says no."

^^lie^^deny^^

"Agent Doggett, may I remind you, you're talking to the Deputy 
Director of the FBI." 

"Then let me give you my report...*sir.* I found Agent Mulder 
five months ago, right here in the Hoover Building. I believe 
you had a meeting scheduled. A meeting to which I wasn't 
invited. Now why would that be, considering I was the man in 
charge of finding Mulder?"

^^turn|the|tables|on|him^^

"Tell me, Agent Doggett, why our MIA never made it to that 
meeting."

"Well here's where the story turns interesting. It seems he 
had a prior engagement -- on board an alien spacecraft."

"I've told you before, Doggett, I don't want to hear any 
bullshit about alien spaceships and planned invasions. My 
patience has worn thin!"

"So has mine, sir. By the way, I didn't mention anything about 
a planned invasion."

"You didn't have to -- I've heard it all before from Agent 
Mulder. The very idea is ludicrous. This is the FBI. We deal 
with what's real."

"Verifiable facts. Quantifiable evidence. Proof positive. Hmm. 
Maybe you need to keep a more open mind, sir." 

"And what does that mean, Agent Doggett?"

^^he|has|no|idea|what|we|know^^what|we|have^^

Ah ha! So it's true -- Kersch knows something, the slimy son-
of-a-bitch. Let's lift a corner of his dirty little rug and 
see what's been swept underneath, shall we? 

Plowing my way through the bluster and panic of his brain, I 
see images of storage shelves, cartons containing evidence. 
Evidence of what, I'm not sure. Computer chips, photos, paper 
files and diskettes, a jar containing...an alien fetus? Where 
the hell is this shit? I pull back, try to get a broader view. 
Wish I had Mulder's talent for this. I trace corridors, pick 
my way through the maze. The place is huge. An enormous 
repository of culpability. Finally, a directional diagram and 
a sign, posted at the exit. A big red star marks "you are 
here:"

"In Case Of Fire Or Emergency
        Know Your Exits
           PENTAGON
     Evacuation Procedure"

I draw my gun and point it at Kersch.

"What the hell do you think you're doing, Agent Doggett?"

"Smellin' the V.C. rice pots, sir."

- - - - - - -

Tunisian Embassy
Washington, D.C.

"Inside, Agent Mulder." The alien's gun drills into my ribs. 
Keeping the weapon hidden between us, he prods me off the 
sidewalk and up the embassy's marble steps. A row of red, 
spangled Tunisian flags hangs overhead. Blood and stars. Can 
you say "irony"? Or maybe I'm projecting. Vat doo yoo see und 
zee inkblot, Heir Mulder?

The minute we step over the threshold, my companion morphs 
into Arnold Schwarzenegger's twin brother. And I'm not talkin' 
Danny DeVito here. Picture the Terminator. 

The chill in the lobby sends a wave of goosebumps crawling up 
my arms. I listen to the voices in my head for clues about the 
building's occupants. His Excellency Khelil, Tunisian 
Ambassador to the U.S. is not on the premises. A Secretary, a 
Counselor, a couple of service personnel, and two security 
guards go about their business in various rooms of the house. 
Conrad Strughold waits upstairs -- kept company by his 
inscrutable friend.

Arnold and I take the elevator to the third floor. My 
reflection scowls at me from the car's brass doors. I look 
damned pissed. In contrast, Arnold could take the house at the 
Mirage poker tables. 

With or without a gun, these alien assholes can easily 
overpower a man. I know from personal experience. Beaufort 
Sea. U.S.S. Allegiance. Spaceman vs. G-Man. I took quite a 
beating.

The elevator announces our floor with a cheerful ping.

What the heck -- it's worth a shot.

I ram my elbow into the alien's gut with as much force as I 
can muster. Arnold's gun spirals to the floor and I lunge for 
it. He responds by bulldozing me out through the open doors. 
We somersault into the corridor where my back hits the 
mahogany floor with a spine-jolting thud. Alien Boy lands on 
my chest, expelling the last micron of oxygen from my lungs. 

I do what any red-blooded Earthman would do -- fight dirty and 
knee him in the groin. My ball-busting move doesn't seem to 
affect him the way it would affect me, but the impact is 
enough to jar him off balance and gives me the leverage I need 
to roll us over. 

Now I'm king of the hill. I clap the heels of my hands into 
his ears. Whammo! 

Nothing works quite the way they show in the movies. Instead 
of writhing in agony from my boxing, he thrusts out his arms 
and catapults me into the air. 

My ass takes the brunt when I land and skid across the 
polished floor. Spinning to a stop, I find I'm just outside 
the open elevator car. The gun teases me from the car's back 
corner, beyond my reach. Up on my knees, more or less, I 
scramble toward the weapon -- an instinctual move after all my 
years with the FBI. However, an utterly useless move in this 
case. I can't shoot the guy. Exposure to his blood is a 
definite no-no. That fact doesn't stop my desperate run for 
the gun.

Arnold's fist around my ankle, however, pulls me up short. My 
knees disappear out from under me. Yanking on my foot, Conan 
the Barbarian hauls me away from the elevator. I grab for the 
doorframe. Hang on by my fingertips. Holy fuck -- my leg feels 
like it's gonna be torn off. My fingers pop loose and I slide 
into Arnold's crouching shadow. 

The alien stands and hauls me up with him. I dangle from his 
upraised fist. Oh, shit. He's gonna --       

I hit the wall hard. Broken plaster rains all around me. By 
the time I clear my foggy head, I'm on the floor again and 
Arnold's bending over me. He catches my shirtfront, punches me 
one, two, owww-goddammit-three times in the jaw, spraying us 
both with my blood. Starry Tunisian flags wave like flags of 
surrender behind my eyelids as Arnold drags me with him to the 
elevator to retrieve his gun. Shoving the barrel up my 
bleeding nose, he whispers in my ear, "We're going to be 
late."

"For what?"

"The end of your world." 

Oh. Hate to miss that. 

Once again, I'm jerked to a standing position. Arnold steers 
me down the corridor. If he's reading my mind, he doesn't give 
any sign of it. A string of expletives courses through my 
brain, but Old Stone Face remains unmoved. 

Standing outside Strughold's door and desperate for any kind 
of advantage, I peek at the future. Possible outcomes 
materialize like rabbits from a magician's hat. The trick is 
to choose the best one. The outcomes' outcomes multiply in a 
geometric progression and a long-range choice is little more 
than luck of the draw. Pick a card, Spooky, any card. 
Anticipating random computer images is one thing; figuring out 
life's infinite possibilities is a damn Rubik's Cube. It takes 
time -- time I don't have.

Strughold's silent buddy opens the door and ushers us in. Even 
at close range, I can't read him. 

"Come in, Agent Mulder," Strughold invites. 
^^mexico^^india^^all|facilities^^ready^^ "I've been expecting 
you."

"So I gathered. Thanks for the personal escort." The room is 
full of computer equipment. At least two dozen monitors 
display exterior views of bee colonies. "We gonna watch a 
little TV? What's on?"

"A lesson in apiculture." ^^final|phase^^begin|countdown^^

"Ahh, Beakman's World. Goodie. Mind if I hold the remote?" 
Arnold elbows me for being a smart-ass. 

"Do you know anything about bees, Agent Mulder?"

"I know they sting when they get angry." I glare at Arnold and 
rub the ache from my ribs.

"Bees fight to protect the hive, Agent Mulder, defend the 
colony." Strughold's eyes flicker to the monitors and back to 
me. ^^thirteen|minutes^^ "That is what we do, too." 

"You're confused, Strughold. You crawled into a wasp's nest by 
mistake. You wage war against your own kind."

On the monitors, the bee colonies appear abandoned, yet I 
sense activity. I focus on one of the facilities. The colony 
in southern Georgia. East of Valdosta. Small town called 
Fruitland. 

"You don't understand our cause, Agent Mulder. You have never 
understood it."

Six enormous bee domes, like the ones Scully and I saw in 
Texas appear in my head as if on a movie screen. I see them 
from above. Look down into them, through them. Curving white 
roofs. Louvered ceilings. Grids of hives, waiting to open and 
release the bees. And below the enormous hives...

"Explain it to me, Strughold."

"Everything is lost if we do not side with the victors, Agent 
Mulder. The Colonists have already won." ^^twelve|minutes^^

Tunnels twist for miles beneath the domes. Narrow. Dark. 
Crammed with machinery. Men and women. Aliens. 

"They win, Strughold, because men like you help them. If the 
aliens didn't need you, they wouldn't allow you to play their 
game."

"We begged to join them. They promised amnesty in exchange for 
our cooperation."

Cryopods! Empty cryopods wait for victims of the virus. 
Workers attend the units like honeybees preparing the comb for 
larvae. Row upon row -- hundreds of thousands of chambers. And 
this is only one facility of dozens. 

"You believe them?" I ask Strughold. 

"Choices are few." ^^eleven|minutes^^ "Serve or die, Agent 
Mulder."

"I'd rather die."

"Then you're a lucky man."

"How's that?"

"You're about to get your wish." ^^ten|minutes^^kill|him^^ 

- - - - - - -

Yukon, Canada

"Inside," I order Dana. "Now!" I bully her off the porch and 
into the house. Slamming the door behind us, I realize what an 
inadequate barrier it is. I cross the room and pluck two 
rifles from our arsenal -- one for Pok and one for me.

Dana's eyes dart from me to the closed door. Her inability to 
help, to watch my back, irritates the hell out of her. 

"Pok's a hunter, a good marksman," I remind her.

"He's never faced an animal like Krycek." She grabs my arm 
when I brush past on my way to the door. "Walter, please, be 
careful." 

"Krycek'll be dead before he makes it to the top of the hill," 
I try to assure us both. "Bolt the door and don't unlock it 
until I--" A spasm of pain rockets through my left arm and 
contracts the muscles in my hand. I fight to hang onto the 
rifle. Shit! Krycek must be closer than I'd thought and he's 
brought his damn remote control. Nanites begin to replicate 
like bunnies in my arteries. The familiar ache makes me 
queasy. Another throbbing wave washes beneath the surface of 
my skin and I wanna puke.

"Sir!" Dana's eyes bug at me, then flood with tears. 
"Walter..."

My fingers sizzle. I look at my hand and see it's roped with 
purple-black veins, distended by the technology that thickens 
my blood. Krycek has turned up the juice; he's destroying my 
blood cells and plugging my veins in record time. 

"Walter!" Pok shouts from the porch, "He's here!"

A gunshot slices the air. Dana rushes past me, hurrying toward 
the door.

"Dana, don't!"

"Pok may need help." 

"I'll go. You stay-- Ahhh!" Fire zigzags through my legs. From 
toes to thighs, my skin boils and the excruciating heat drops 
me to my knees. One of the rifles bounces to the floor. 
Pressure snakes across my shoulders, up my neck and across my 
scalp.

Dana struggles to retrieve the fallen weapon. Made clumsy by 
her pregnancy, she's unable to bend down far enough to grab 
it. She snatches the one I still hold in my hand and aims it 
at the closed door. 

Then we wait, hearing nothing but her labored breath and my 
own hissing moan.

Until...

"Little pigs, little pigs, let me come in," Krycek calls in a 
singsong voice from outside our door, "or I'll huff and I'll 
puff and I'll blooooow your house in."

The door slaps open, crashing against the wall. Dana fires the 
rifle, seeing too late that Krycek uses Pok's body to shield 
himself. Two rounds at point blank range blast Pok's chest 
away. Krycek lets the Indian's corpse tumble to the porch, 
exposing his Kevlar vest and a .357 Magnum aimed at Dana's 
abdomen.

"Think, Agent Scully. Think real hard. Wouldn't want to 
endanger little Fox, Jr., would you?"

"He's bluffing." I squeeze the words through clenched teeth. 
"He won't...hurt...the baby. H-he needs-- ahhhh!" Jesus 
fucking Christ, I double over as pain steamrolls through my 
gut. Tears blur my vision and I blink to keep Krycek and Dana 
in focus.

"Stop it, Krycek!" Dana spits the words. "Turn it off!"

He shakes his head. "Nnnnnnnnuh-uh." 

One step brings him inside the house, another puts him toe-to-
toe with Dana. He leans over her, drags the barrel of his gun 
up and across her stomach, tracing the outline of a heart 
around her distended belly. "Toss the gun," he whispers into 
her ear.

She hesitates for just a second. Then the rifle clatters into 
a far corner. 

"That's a good girl." He chuckles, lips brushing against her 
temple. A satisfied grin splits his face.

"How did you find us?" She ignores his unwelcome caress.

"That handy-dandy homing device implanted in your neck." 

"Who sent you?" The words grind from my throat. 

"An interested third party...with a taste for fetal brain 
tissue." 

"Fuck you, Kry-- aaahhh!" Pain sears my nerves. My brain feels 
ready to explode. 

Krycek's eyes never leave Dana. "I'd say you're the one who's 
fucked. Now go pack your toothbrush, Scully, because we're 
taking a little trip. Just you and me," -- his lips graze hers 
-- "and baby makes three." 

"I'm not going anywhere." Dana's defiant words skid from 
colorless lips. Trickling down her leg, amniotic fluid puddles 
at the toe of her left shoe.

- - - - - - -

Pentagon

Kersch gnashes his teeth, angry as an ankle-biting rat-dog. We 
stand in an underground corridor in one of the Pentagon's 
lowest levels. The sign I glimpsed in the back of Kersch's 
devious mind reads loud and clear in person.

"Open it." I indicate the door, letting my gun point the way.

He does as he's told -- grudgingly. A string of cuss words 
that would make a sailor blush bounce around inside his skull. 
Dragging his pass card through the reader, he unlocks the 
door. 

"Okay, Kersch, show me what you've been squirreling away down 
here."

We step into the room and I'm flabbergasted. The scale of the 
place is shocking, even after my sneak preview. We're dwarfed 
by row upon row of sky-high shelving units, jam-packed from 
floor to ceiling. Overflowing with evidence.

"Let's explore." I choose an aisle at random and prod Kersch 
along. My gun rides his back while I nose through a carton or 
two. Most of the stuff makes no sense to me. Technology I 
can't begin to explain. Neatly organized. Catalogued. 

We turn a corner, follow another long canyon. Then another and 
another, until we're nearly lost in the government's secret 
stash. Long John Silver's buried treasure meets the Dewey 
Decimal System. Mulder would love this. I smile at the thought 
of delivering the entire shitload to his office.

"Make a call." I tap Kersch on his breast pocket with my gun.

"To who? For what?"

"To send all this," -- I indicate the room full of evidence -- 
"to Mulder's office."

"That'll get me killed."

"You'll do it or you'll be singing like a choirboy for the 
rest of your sorry-ass life." I let my gun dip an inch or two 
until the barrel points at his groin. "You know I'm serious."

Livid, he digs his cell phone from his jacket and dials.

"Send it," he says, once the call rings through. "Hoover 
Building. Basement." A pause. "Yes, I'm sure. All of it." He 
returns the phone to his pocket.

"Now that wasn't so bad, was it?"

"I'm a dead man, Agent Doggett. You've killed me as surely as 
if you'd pulled the trigger yourself."

"Awww. You're making me all misty-eyed. Life's a bitch, sir. 
Suck it up."

We move on and I scrounge through a few more cartons. Cassette 
tapes. Wiretap transcripts. Little metal vials.

"What are in these?" I lift one of the tiny cylinders.

"I have no idea."

I open the cap. Sniff it. It has no smell, so I put it back.

"Is there something specific you're looking for, Agent 
Doggett?" 

"No, just browsing. Next aisle." I waggle the gun.

We're about to turn yet another corner when the sound of 
approaching footsteps halts us in mid stride. High heels. I 
concentrate on the wearer as she weaves her way deeper into 
the room, tracking us like a mouse after cheese. Her picture 
solidifies in my mind. Blonde. Beautiful. Cold as ice. I don't 
recognize her but her name floats to the surface: Marita 
Covarrubias. Her thoughts are anything but friendly.

"Agent Doggett," she calls, before she steps into view. 

Now how the hell does she know me? And how did she know I'd be 
here? 

Three more clacking paces and she turns our corner. 

Sssshhhhheeeeoooo. Ms. Covarrubias is the walking definition 
of blonde bombshell. Stacked like a brick shit house. Knockout 
figure. Legs that won't quit. She holds a gun fitted with a 
silencer, aimed in my general direction. 

For a man sandwiched between two loaded guns, Kersch is 
looking mighty relaxed all of a sudden. It's clear he knows 
who she is and I'm beginning to wonder if she was the one he 
called a few minute ago. He grins from ear to ear.

Then I see it. A glimpse of the future before it happens. I 
raise my arm to protect my face.

"Marita--"

Before he can finish his thought, a bullet punches a hole 
through Kersch's forehead. It bursts out the back of his skull 
in a geyser of bone and brain. I duck while shattered 
eyeglasses twist through the air and Kersch goes boneless. He 
collapses onto the cement floor, oozing pinkish-gray blood 
from the yawning hole in the back of his head. 

"No mind games, Agent Doggett," Covarrubias warns as I'm about 
to dive into her head, try to figure out what's going on, "and 
drop the gun, or I'll put the next one through *your* brain."

I back away from her thoughts and lower my gun to the floor. 

"Kick it away," she orders.

I do.

"Now, Agent Doggett, you're coming with me."

"Where to?"

"The Tunisian Embassy."

- - - - - - -

Tunisian Embassy
Washington, D.C.

"Kill him." Strughold turns away, focuses on his monitors, on 
the bee colonies.  

"Oh, come on, Strughold," I wheedle, "Can't I stay up past my 
bedtime just this once?"

^^mulder^^it's|me ^^

My heart climbs into my throat at the sound of Scully's voice 
in my head. She's coming in so clear, she could be standing 
right next to me. I try to keep my internal ears on her and my 
external ones on Strughold.

"Agent Mulder, if it had been up to me, you would have been 
dead years ago. Other members of our group didn't share my 
opinion. But they are all gone now, the project is mine, and 
there is no one left to protect you." His fingers type 
instructions into the computer. He double-checks the time. 
"I'm tired of your continual interference. Get him out of 
here," he orders his silent alien bodyguard. 

Silent Type eyeballs Arnold. Guess they need to draw straws to 
see who gets to do me. 

"It's only ten more minutes," I say. "I should think you'd 
want me to see it all go to hell. What kind of a sadistic 
megalomaniac are you?"

"An impatient one, Mr. Mulder!" he snaps, turning to scowl at 
the aliens.

^^krycek|found|us^^

Fuck. 

^^krycek|wants|the|baby^^

Fuck, fuck. 

"Kill him. Then deliver his body to the Colonists," Strughold 
says, returning to his work. 

Arnold volunteers for the job by grabbing my arm and crushing 
off the circulation to my hand. I'm thinking this would be a 
good time for Doggett to put in an appearance.

~~Um, Doggett? Doggett, I could reeeally use your help.~~

When the phone rings, for a split second I think it might 
actually be Doggett. Arnold wrenches me toward the door. Only 
eight minutes remain in Strughold's countdown.

"Wait," Strughold demands, the phone pressed to his ear and me 
halfway out the door.

"The Governor grant my pardon?" I ask.

^^mulder|our|baby's|coming^^

Oh, Jesus. Sorry, Scully. I really meant to make it home in 
time.

"They want you alive," Strughold says to me. He sounds very 
disappointed. 

^^mulder^^i|miss|you^^ 

"Restrain ^^can|you^^ and gag ^^hear|me^^ him. ^^mulder?^^" 

"Yes!" Oops, did I say that out loud? "I mean, no. No, I'll be 
quiet as a church mouse. You don't--"

"Shut him up!"

Shit. Krycek's got Scully. I've got seven minutes before 
killer bees spread an alien plague that'll kill every man, 
woman and child on the planet. Man oh man, I'd love to be 
saying "I told you so" to the ADs on the OPR Committee. My 
pie-in-the-sky report about global domination by vicious, 
long-clawed spacelings doesn't seem quite so far-fetched now, 
does it?

Arnold removes his necktie and produces a handkerchief for a 
makeshift gag. Six minutes until Armageddon.

"I hope that's clean," I say when he balls up the hanky, 
preparing to plug my mouth.

A soft knock on the door momentarily diverts his attention. I 
take a mental peek at our guests.

Marita? 

And Doggett? 

If this is the Cavalry, I'm fucked. 

- - - - - - -

Yukon, Canada

"M-my water broke?" Dana announces, although it sounds almost 
like a question.

Krycek howls, gleeful over the news. "Pass out the cigars, 
Uncle Walter! Our goddamn golden goose is about to hatch. 
Saves me the effort of hauling your ass all the way down the 
mountain, Scully. Nice of you to cooperate."

"She needs a doctor," I moan, nanites crawling through my 
veins, anchoring me to the floor. 

"Unh, unh. No dice."

"Krycek..." All the blood has drained from Scully's face. 
"Please?" Her legs quake and her hands grope for support. 
She's going to fall.

Realizing he mustn't let anything happen to the baby, Krycek 
extends his gun-hand in order to steady Dana. I'm praying she 
has the strength to grab the Magnum. When her fingers slowly 
curl over the weapon, I take my opportunity and launch myself 
at the goddamn son-of-a-bitch.

Keeping low, I missile into him, grab his knees, ram my skull 
into his back. A yowl explodes from his throat when my head 
hammers his kidneys. I upend him and propel us both across the 
room, crash-landing several feet beyond Dana. Since I don't 
hear the thud of Krycek's gun hitting the floorboards, I 
assume Dana nabbed it and is now trying to maneuver a clear 
shot. Too bad I'm wrapped around Krycek like a homesick 
recruit on a Saigon whore.

Krycek struggles to free his legs from my bear hug by throwing 
a tantrum and kicking at my head. He targets my face and the 
heel of his boot catches me dead center. Dark blood erupts 
from my nose; nanites stain the floor black. A second blow 
splits my lip and loosens a front tooth. I wasn't very pretty 
to begin with, but Krycek's nailed the coffin on my winning 
any beauty contests. His third kick dislodges my grip and he 
rolls away.

Freed from my embrace, Krycek turns on me. He stands, regains 
his balance. A smile slithers across his face; the son-of-a-
bitch is enjoying the sight of my mangled nose. He positions 
himself like a batter at home plate and with a twist of his 
body, he clubs me in the side of the neck with his prosthetic 
arm. His Louisville Slugger smashes my jaw, shattering the 
bone. Now it's my turn to howl. 

Pressing his advantage, Krycek lunges, knocking me onto my 
back. His body slams on top of mine and we both grunt from the 
impact. Pinned beneath him, I'm trapped, my strength circling 
the drain. The blows, the nanites -- I'm going down for the 
count.

The goddamn bastard knows it. Lying on top of me, he laughs 
and his chuckle vibrates my aching ribs. We're nose to nose. 
Despite the blood, I can smell his breath, his sweat, his 
exultation. His eyes fall to half-mast and he studies my 
broken jaw, my bloodied face, my hate. God, I want to kill 
this fucking bastard. When his expression softens, he looks 
more like my lover than my adversary. I realize he's getting 
off on my pain.

"Say goodbye, Skinner," he whispers, his smile flashing 
brilliant white. He withdraws the nanite control unit from his 
vest and taunts me with it, waggles it in front of my eyes. 

"Drop it!" Dana is suddenly beside him, the barrel of the 
Magnum denting his temple. It trembles in her hand. Her face 
glistens with cold sweat as she tries to steady the gun. 

"Tut, tut, Agent Scu--"

"Drop it now!" Her finger tugs at the trigger.

Krycek concedes, shrugs, sets the remote on the floor next to 
us. Scully kicks it into a corner, out of reach.

"Get up," she orders him.

"Whatever you say--" 

He twists, rolling off me and lashing at her; his wallop 
knocks her feet out from under her. I see her falling before I 
hear the crack of his prosthetic arm against the bone of her 
knee. The gun cartwheels from her hand and is lost somewhere 
across the room. Dana clutches her swollen abdomen as she 
falls. The crash of her body against the floor brings bile to 
the back of my throat. For the first time in my life I hear 
her scream. Curling into a ball, she hugs her unborn baby and 
moans.

I see red. 

I dig down for every ounce of hate in me. Scraping together 
all my remaining strength, I rise from the dead and charge 
full bore at Krycek. My fists hammer him. Bone into muscle, I 
bully him away from Dana. I throw my entire two-hundred-plus 
pounds at his scrawny, goddamned, sorry ass. Nothing, 
*nothing* is going to stop me until this fucker is dead. 

I push and push and push, maneuvering him out the door, onto 
the porch. He fumbles for a hold on the doorframe but I blast 
him backward, connecting every punch, relishing the surprised 
look on his bugged-eyed face. Deer in the headlights. 

I land three more hard hits. Now *I'm* getting off.

I've cornered him on the outermost edge of the porch. He has 
nowhere to go. Taking a miserable peek over his shoulder, he 
sees he's lost this battle. The Continental Divide opens up 
below him.

"Say goodbye, Krycek," I hiss and give him a shove. 

He teeters for a moment, balanced between me and the sky, and 
then gravity grabs him and he's sucked over the cliff.

His fading screams are music to my ears. I'd break into a 
dance if I had the strength. Scanning the rocks below for 
proof of his death, I want to see his body smashed to 
smithereens.  

From inside the house, Dana groans. She needs me more than I 
need to verify Krycek's tumble into hell, so I lurch my way 
back to her, every muscle protesting. 

I find her still on the floor. With difficulty, I kneel and 
try to help her sit.

"Are you all right?" I ask, each word grinding painfully from 
my cracked jaw. 

Straining to appear calm, she nods. I see she cradles Krycek's 
gun in her lap. Retrieving it must have cost her. She's 
drenched in sweat. Blood soaks her leg where Krycek struck her 
knee.

"The remote..." She targets the device with her eyes. "Turn it 
off." Labor pains slice through her again and she doubles over 
in agony.

"Aren't we a pair?" I chuckle without humor, rising to collect 
the unit. When I get it, no obvious on/off switch glows on the 
device. "I-I don't know how it works," I admit.

"Bring it to me," she says. 

A few stumbling steps and I hand her the device. She studies 
it. Turns it over in her hands, her face a mask of 
concentration. 

"I think..." she says and sets the device gently on the floor 
beside her. My ears ring when she shoots a bullet into the 
mechanism and its components fly through the room like 
confetti at a ticker tape parade.  

- - - - - - -

Tunisian Embassy
Washington, D.C.

FIVE MINUTES, 30 SECONDS... A computerized voice ticks off our 
final moments. By "our," I don't just mean Doggett and me. The 
fate of all mankind hangs in the balance. 

"Bad company you're keeping, Doggett. Ms. Covarrubias sleeps 
with the enemy," I warn when he walks in with Marita's gun 
glued to his back. "Who shares your bed this week, Marita?"

She fastens her cool stare on me. Her baby blues could freeze 
Satan himself. 

"You two know each other?" Doggett asks and all parties seem 
interested in my answer.

"Marita fed me crumbs at one time, back when I was more 
trusting. Information about agricultural research, animal 
husbandry. In those days, she straddled the fence. Now, she's 
not so particular."

My nasty revelation sparks an eruption of mind-bending 
chatter. Marita, Strughold, Doggett -- their thoughts bombard 
me, making me feel as if I'm back in my padded cell in George 
Washington Memorial. 

^^fuck|you|agent|mulder^^marita^^loyalties|not|always|with|the
|project^^what|did|she|tell|them^^^^crops|identified|in|Canada
^^hybridization^^what|did|she|say^^^spaceship|in|bellefleur^^^
part|of|the|project^^damn|krycek^the|oil^the|virus^^jeopardize
|our|success^^kazakhstan^^all|burned|beyond|recognition^^^pay|
phone^^skodal|road^^^terrible|tests^^^^how|much|information^^^

FIVE MINUTES... The computer's announcement brings a blissful 
moment of silence. 

Strughold aims an accusing scowl at Marita. "I'm 
disappointed," he says. "I thought your loyalties were with 
the Colonists."

"I've brought Agent Doggett, haven't I? Mulder and Doggett 
should keep them entertained for a while."

"It's not a matter of entertainment!" Strughold spits. "The 
Colonists expect us to do as they ask! There is no room in 
their universe for disloyalty. You risk us all!"

Marita's glacial stare falls away. Melancholy seeps into her 
eyes. Fear, despair, uncertainty shimmer across her perfect, 
smooth face. For an instant, her brows peak like a scolded 
child. When she lifts her eyes again, the insecurity is gone.

"My loyalties *are* with the Colonists," she says. "Against 
the wall, Agent Doggett. You, too, Mulder." A nudge of her gun 
persuades Doggett to do as he's told.

FOUR MINUTES, 30 SECONDS...

Doggett and I stand with our backs to the wall. Marita joins 
Strughold and bends over his shoulder while he sits at his 
keyboard, typing coordinates and instructions. Her derriere is 
a tad difficult to ignore from this vantage. A length of thigh 
captures our attention and Doggett throws me a telepathic 
question.

^^you|sleep|with|her|mulder?^^

^^no|idiot|i|didn't|sleep|with|her^^

"...the final sequence," Strughold tells Marita. Huh? Did we 
miss something important?

"China?" she asks.

"Southern U.S.A. Georgia." Strughold's fingers fly across the 
keys. His eyes never leave the screen. On the monitor, ceiling 
vents slide open at the Georgia facility. "The others will 
follow at ten second intervals, east to--" 

Shots explode. Holy Christ! Silent Type holds a smoking gun. 
He's fired three rounds into Strughold's back.

FOUR MINUTES...   

Strughold slithers to the floor, mouth hanging open, fingers 
typing nothing but air. His eyelids flutter. With blood 
rolling from his tongue, spilling over his lower lip, his head 
bobs as he hangs onto consciousness. Silent Type crouches next 
to him, focusing his mind on Strughold's brainwaves, watching 
for him to flatline. 

Doggett and I hear confusion in Strughold's mind. We feel his 
thoughts fading. It's as if we walk with him into a thickening 
fog. 

"Rebel spy," Marita accuses. Is she talking about Strughold? 
Madness dances in her eyes. She reaches into her pocket and 
withdraws a weapon -- THE weapon. The only thing that will 
kill them. A silver handled spike.

It happens fast. She drives the shiv into the back of Silent 
Type's neck as he bends over Strughold. Focused on Strughold's 
dying mind, the alien misses Marita's intent...until it's too 
late. What the hell good is this damn mind-reading crap when 
you can't see a shiv-wielding madwoman coming at you? 

Speared, Silent Type rocks forward and collapses on the floor 
next to Strughold's body. A tiny bubble of green fizzes around 
the ice pick lodged in his neck.

The alien's body liquefies and it hits me. Marita called *him* 
a rebel spy. Not Strughold. Shit! The fucking silent alien was 
on our side! No wonder he shot Strughold in the back. 

With the alien now dead, Doggett and I become the Rebels' 
"Plan B."   

Arnold -- who is definitely not on our side -- retrieves the 
Rebel's gun and turns it on us. "Finish the sequence," he 
orders Marita. "I'll take care of these two."

Two unarmed humans against one alien packing heat -- what are 
the odds the home team will score and win? 

"Just shoot them," Marita says. She gives Strughold's body a 
shove with her foot and sits in his chair. 

THREE MINUTES, 30 SECONDS...

"Our orders are to bring them back alive."

"Fuck orders," Marita says. Doggett and I both nod in mental 
agreement.

Alien Colonists are not known for their expressiveness, but I 
swear Arnold's eyes are gleaming with anticipated pleasure as 
he approaches me and Doggett. He raises his gun, preparing to 
backhand me with it. With the wall behind me, I've got nowhere 
to go. I ready myself for the blow.

The concussion hurts like hell when the gun connects with my 
jaw. The impact unbalances me and I feel my shoulder blades 
bounce against the plaster. Doggett's arm shoots out as he 
grabs for Arnold's fist and the gun. The alien stops him cold 
with an uppercut. Doggett grunts when the alien's knuckles 
crack against his chin, but he manages to stay on his feet. He 
swings a return punch, hits hard, but with no effect. Arnold 
retaliates by snagging a handful of Doggett's shirt and 
lifting him up off the ground.

"Fuck orders," the alien repeats, tossing Doggett across the 
room. Oooooo. Doggett hurtles through the air and crash-lands 
in a far corner, legs and arms in a tangle and a dazed 
expression fogging his eyes.

My turn. I stand on wobbly legs and face Arnold, ready for 
revenge. This guy has reeeeally ticked me off. While Doggett 
is shaking the stars from his head, Arnold comes for me. 
Christ, this guy is big. We're David and Goliath -- only I 
seem to have left my slingshot at home today. 

No sense wasting time -- I lunge at Arnold. His chest is a 
brick wall and stops me short when I ram into him. He swats me 
off him like a fly. I buzz back for more and Arnold wallops me 
in the solar plexis, knocking the air from my lungs and 
sending me back to the floor. Sprawled at his feet, I latch 
onto his ankles before he can head back for Doggett. One well-
placed kick and he's loosened my hold, split my lip. Blood 
bursts from my mouth. Son-of-a-bitch. I grab him again, 
causing him to stumble a bit, but he quickly regains his 
balance and draws back for another kick. This one hits me so 
hard, I roll three times before I smack into Silent Type's 
dissolving corpse and come to a standstill. 

TWO MINUTES, 30 SECONDS...

Already? What happened to three minutes?

Arnold is on Doggett, fingers tightening around his throat. 
Doggett's face turns purple. He struggles for air, arms 
flailing in an impossible attempt to dislodge the alien. Oh, 
shit -- in my mind I can see Doggett's windpipe snapping. My 
lungs strain from his lack of oxygen. I hear his slowing pulse 
in my ears. I feel him slipping away, fog settling around his 
mind the same way it did with Strughold.

Doggett's legs scissor, his fingers tear at Arnold's face, and 
I realize the picture in my mind is the future. One possible 
scenario, still moments away.

I won't let it happen. Not on my watch. 

Turning to Silent Type, I yank the shiv from his melting neck. 
With my feet under me again, I start running. I scream like a 
banshee when I drive the oversized hypodermic into Arnold's 
neck. Perfect placement, right at the base of his fucking 
skull.

His back stiffens and his hands fall away from Doggett's 
throat. I inhale with Doggett; simultaneously we fill our 
aching lungs. Arnold swipes at the shiv in his neck, trying to 
remove it. He misses and tumbles sideways, eyes glazing over. 
A green, foul steam rises from his flesh. His skin boils, 
fizzes, falls away from his collapsing bones. He disintegrates 
into an oozing puddle of greenish-black sludge.

TWO MINUTES... 

Over at the computer, Marita stares back at us in shock, her 
eyes fastened on the alien's dissolving corpse. My own eyes 
are locked on the countdown -- red numbers flashing in 
descending order on the screen beyond her shoulder.

"Stop the countdown, Marita," I say.

Her head wags once, otherwise she sits motionless, not typing, 
not watching the monitors. Bee colonies in China, India, and 
elsewhere, wait to release billions of virus-laden bees. Life 
as we know it is set to end in less than two minutes.

"I can't," she says, still frozen.

She's afraid. Afraid of retribution from the Colonists. She 
imagines the atrocities they'll inflict on her if she fails 
her mission. I wade through her mind, past her terror of 
failure, her certainty of punishment. Hidden beneath her 
fears, I glimpse a solution. A code that can halt the 
countdown. A kill switch lies buried in her panic. A blessed 
sequence of numbers. A password to peace.

With horror, she realizes I'm rooting through her mind. I've 
discovered her secret and her icy-blue eyes widen in dread.

"No!" she shouts. She draws her gun, points it at my chest. 
The motion is nothing but a blur, but in that moment, I see 
her bullet spiral toward my heart. Although she hasn't yet 
pulled the trigger, the future unfolds with a blast of pain 
through my chest. The Earth explodes in orange-yellow flames 
at the same moment her bullet missiles through my heart. The 
Colonists are victorious. Doggett's dead. Skinner's dead. 
Scully's dead. My unborn child is never given the opportunity 
to breathe air.

^^mulder!^^ Scully screams my name from someplace that blows 
away like wood ash in a hurricane.

ONE MINUTE...

Marita's finger squeezes the trigger, determines my destiny 
and sets all mankind's future into motion. I close my eyes and 
try to locate Scully in my mind; I want to hold her. If I'm 
going to die, I want to feel her love one last time. I want to 
join her in my thoughts. Embrace her, kiss her, tell her I 
love her.

But I can't...I can't find her. I see only darkness.

Opening my eyes, I watch John Doggett lunge between me and 
Marita. In that instant, in that tiny microsecond, another 
future unveils itself. Another outcome unfurls. 

Marita's bullet pierces Doggett just above the heart. He is 
ripped open and we burn from the blast. His agony is mine. He 
is surprised at how much the impact hurts; he's pleased the 
bullet found him and not me.

"The password..." he grunts, forcing me off my ass and I see 
this is real. This isn't a vision of the future. He's been hit 
and I have to get to the computer, shut down the system, stop 
the countdown. 

Marita fires again, hoping to kill me, too, and complete her 
assignment for the Colonists. But her clip is empty. Scully 
was right, there is a God.

TEN, NINE, EIGHT...

On my feet, I knock Marita aside and punch the first numbers 
of the sequence into the computer. 

SEVEN, SIX, FIVE...

The password is too damn long! I can't type fast enough. There 
won't be time--

FOUR, THREE...

Last set of numbers. My fingers tap in the final digits; God, 
I hope I'm remembering the correct sequence. No time to 
double-check Marita's mind. Come on photographic memory, don't 
fail me now.

TWO...

I hold my breath.

Another second passes; the computer is silent. On the 
monitors, the bees remain trapped in their colonies.

SYSTEM SHUTTING DOWN. PROGRAM ENDED.
      
Yes!! I turn to Doggett, forgetting he's been shot and 
expecting a high five. Oh, God. His blood is everywhere. 
Saturating his shirt. Pooling on the floor. He clutches his 
chest as if he could stop the emptying of his heart.

"Doggett?" 

He doesn't travel any path in the future. He doesn't exist 
there.

Refusing to accept my vision of what does and doesn't lie 
ahead, I hurry to Doggett's side, prop him up against me and 
press my palm to his chest, trying to staunch the awful flow 
of his blood. 

"It's all going to hell," Marita murmurs behind me. I'm only 
dimly aware she leaves the room, escapes down the hall. I 
don't care. The only thing that matters is helping Doggett.

"I'll call 911," I tell him. "Hang on. Help'll be here soon." 
     
"Mulder..." He grips my arm, strong for a dying man. "I, uh, I 
shipped a package...to your office," he says.

"W-what are you talking about?"

"A little Christmas present." He coughs; blood tints his lower 
lip. "You've...you've been...a good boy." His mind shows me a 
room, a room in the basement of the Pentagon, an enormous room 
filled with-- "Evidence..." The word hisses from Doggett's 
lungs. There's a fog drifting into his mind. I'm losing him.

I try to hide my fear, but can tell he already knows the 
truth.

"I-I knew you'd say that, Doggett."

"Mulder...you're an asshole." 

The familiar conversation brings tears to my eyes. "I knew 
you'd say that, too," I whisper.

"Fuck you." He smiles and blood trickles from his mouth. 

Then nothing. There are no more words, no more thoughts.

Doggett has left, gone...wherever. He no longer inhabits the 
body I hold in my arms. 

I'm furious. This isn't how it's supposed to end. I can't...I 
won't...

He is nowhere in the future.

I release him, let him go. 

My hands... 

His blood. 

I think about our first meeting in Skinner's office. The day 
Doggett threw in with me and shook my hand to seal the deal. 
My blood on his palm.

"I'm in, if you'll have me," he said at the time. 

Scully and Skinner had merely blinked at us, unable to believe 
we were heading back to the war together. Scully had cried and 
Skinner looked downright envious. 

"Any partner of Scully's is welcome to tag along with me." 
That's what I told him then. I repeat it now, although I know 
he can't hear me.

Then I pray his decision was worth the cost. 

- - - - - - -

EPILOGUE
Scully's Apartment

My son. Nine pounds, seven ounces. He snoozes in my lap while 
I sit on Scully's couch, my feet propped shoeless on her 
coffee table. Cradled on my thighs with his head aimed at my 
knees and his tiny bootied feet resting in my lap, he's 
positioned so we can both study each other when he wakes up. 

Although Scully insists our son is big for a newborn, his 
weight is so slight, I hardly know he's there except for the 
oval of heat beneath his seemingly boneless body. He sleeps 
the sleep of angels while I scrutinize his features for any 
resemblance to me...or Scully. I harbor fears about green 
blood and a facility for shape-shifting.

His hair is dark like mine. And long enough to comb with the 
tip of my finger. I smooth it to the left, then back to the 
right, amazed by its softness. Brushing it straight down over 
his forehead, I make him look a bit like Moe Howard. Hey Moe, 
nyuk, nyuk, nyuk. I brush back Moe's hairdo before Scully 
notices what I'm doing. 

Beneath his closed lids, the baby's eyes are blue. For now. 
Scully tells me blue eyes are common in newborns and often 
temporary. I hope not. He has Scully's rosy mouth, so he might 
as well have her eyes, too. As for his nose, it's too soon to 
tell. I pray big nose genes skip a generation.

Naming him was easy. "John" was a no-brainer. As for a middle 
name, Fox was out. William was out. Walter, Melvin and Ringo -
- all out. I liked Elvis, but Scully nixed the idea. I 
suggested John "Arthur Dales" Mulder. Nope. John "George Hale" 
Mulder? No, but... Scully hesitated on this one.

"Is that a maybe, Scully?"

"No, it's not a maybe. I was just thinking..."

"Yyyyyes?"

"Your elf-inspired astronomer -- what was his middle name? 
Ellery?"

"George Ellery Hale, yes."

"I like that. John Ellery Mulder. Any arguments?"

"No arguments." It fits. Our son looks like an elf who might 
inspire great things. 

"Want me to take him?" Scully asks, tilting her head toward 
the baby. She wears a bathrobe even though it's late 
afternoon. Beneath the robe, her leg is bandaged -- not 
broken, but badly bruised from Krycek's beating -- and she 
limps a bit. I shake my head no, so she shuffles to the 
kitchen, still too sore from John Ellery's birth to sit. "I'm 
going to make tea," she tells me. "You want some?" She removes 
two mugs from the cupboard without waiting for my answer.

The baby inhales with a shudder. He makes little sucking 
noises in his sleep. His eyes swing beneath paper-thin lids 
and I'm thinking he must be dreaming about Scully's humungo 
breasts. Just like his ol' man.

That would be me.

Big kudos to Skinner for helping the little guy into the 
world. Uncle Walt deserves a helluva lot of credit and he'd 
tell you so himself if his jaws weren't wired shut while his 
broken bones heal. 

God, I wanted to be there with Scully. I can't believe I 
missed our baby's grand entrance. 

For a while, it didn't look as though I was going to meet my 
son at all. If it hadn't been for Doggett...

Agent John Doggett was buried in Arlington National Cemetery 
yesterday afternoon. Marine Corps Color Guard. The whole nine 
yards. The 24th Marine Amphibious stood at attention to bid 
final farewell to their comrade in arms. It's not easy to 
watch grown men in uniform cry without getting a little teary-
eyed yourself. 

Doggett's family flew up from Atlanta. His mom accepted the 
American flag, stripped from his coffin and folded into a neat 
triangle. 

A large NYPD contingent drove down to pay their last respects. 
And the Hoover Building stood practically empty after agents 
and secretaries, cleaning crews and top brass abandoned their 
posts to stand beside John Doggett's grave and say goodbye. A 
brother was lost in the line of duty, going above and beyond 
the call. 

Scully missed the service, much to her disappointment -- 
concerned doctors held her and the baby at Georgetown Memorial 
for observation. Mrs. Scully kept her daughter and new 
grandbaby company while I gave John's eulogy.

John Doggett's bravery saved countless lives. Without a second 
thought, he traded his own life for mine. He knew what he was 
doing -- the talisman he wore allowed him to see the 
consequences of his actions. The knowledge of his own death 
didn't sway him from doing what he thought was right. Brave or 
foolhardy, he was a damn hero. More of a man than I ever 
imagined when I first met him. As much of a man as I ever hope 
to be.

Too bad Doggett hadn't lived long enough to see the results of 
his sacrifice.

"The aliens have pulled back," I tell Scully. "For now."

"So I heard. What happened?" She rattles through cupboards, 
removes a couple of teabags.

"Project Y2K."

"Project...? What the hell is that?"

"While Doggett and I pulled the plug on Strughold's bee 
colonies, the Gunmen were closing down clinics, labs, storage 
facilities. They terminated the computer communication systems 
of Doggett's entire list of evil-doers."

"Your list," she reminds me.

"Lot of good those names ever did me."

"What about the virus?"

"When the bees weren't released on schedule, the Rebels 
swooped in and burned the facilities. They torched the 
underground cryopods, too. Did you ever notice how much those 
guys like to play with fire?" As soon as the words leave my 
mouth, I regret it. The burnt ghosts of Skyland Mountain and 
Ruskin Damn billow into the room like chimney smoke at 
Birkenau. I plow through them before Scully has time to 
remember how close she came to dying that night on the bridge. 
"The corn crops were all destroyed," I tell her.

"Strughold's dead. Kersch is dead. Marita's vanished." Steam 
squeals from the kettle and John Ellery flinches. He 
brandishes a tiny fist at me, scowling in his sleep -- a dead 
ringer for Scully. Scully lifts the pot from the stove and the 
noise evaporates. "Krycek...is probably dead," she says.

"Probably?"

"We never found his body." 
 
I don't like the sound of that. The frown fades from the 
baby's face and I try to relax with him. 

"With the Invaders in retreat, who's left to fight, Mulder? 
Can we rest now? Finally?"

I haven't told Scully about CGB. She views John Ellery's 
conception as nothing short of a miraculous blessing. She's 
oblivious to Cancer Man's self-motivating role and for now, I 
intend to keep it that way. I tuck the information about Old 
Smokey into a dark corner of my brain -- somewhere between the 
memories of my short-lived miserable marriage and my theft of 
Scully's frozen ova. My personal vault of lies and deceit. 

"Sorry I missed his birth," I say, instead of answering her 
question. 

The baby's compact chest rises and falls in a comfortable 
rhythm. He is a miraculous blessing. 

"Hey, you were busy saving the world. It'll be a great story 
to tell him one day." She brings my cup of tea. Deciding it's 
too hot and dangerous for me to drink around the baby, she 
sets it on the coffee table to cool. She can't quite bring 
herself to sit yet, so she sips her tea while leaning against 
the wall.

"Thanks to Doggett, a shitload of evidence has been delivered 
to my office from the Pentagon. That'll keep me busy for a 
decade or two."

"The evidence we always wanted but could never hold in our 
hands. It's hard to believe, Mulder." She smiles at John 
Ellery. "It's all hard to believe."

"You have to want to believe, Scully. I've been telling you 
that for years."

"The truth is out there -- yeah, yeah, I know."

"Well, now it's in our office. And not all of our questions 
have been answered. We still don't know why the Rebels wanted 
to stop the Colonists. Or if the Invaders plan to return. And 
we don't know why my talisman doesn't seem to work anymore." I 
fish the inscribed stone from beneath my shirt. It dangles 
impotently from its chain around my neck.

My talisman, Scully's chip -- devices controlled across great 
distances. But by whom or by what? 

Spender's still alive. Maybe Krycek, too. Nothing is certain.

My son is only four days old and I love him thoroughly and 
intensely. I worry about his future. For the first time in 
years, I don't feel like making a wisecrack.

"Do you miss reading minds, Mulder?" 

"Not really. It didn't always work too well."          

"I have something for you." Scully circles the room and 
retrieves a slender package from her desk drawer. Smiling like 
the cat who ate the canary, she brings it to me. "Happy 
Father's Day, Mulder." 

"I don't need any more ties, Scully." I take the gift and turn 
it over a couple of times. Give it a shake. Little green alien 
faces speckle the silvery wrapping paper. "Besides, it's not 
Father's Day."

"Maybe not by any widely understood definition of the term. 
But it *is* your first day on the job." She hovers over me and 
gives John's cheek a gentle stroke. "Open it."

I shrug and tear into the package. 

Mmm. Not a necktie after all. 

It's the nameplate missing from my basement office desk. I run 
my thumb over the letters. FOX MULDER.

Scully eases very, very carefully onto the couch. She keeps 
her eyes on the baby as she speaks to me. 

"Mulder, the day after you disappeared, I found men in your 
office. Going through your things, your files. They claimed to 
be collecting everything pertinent to your manhunt. They'd 
already removed the nameplate from your door. Over the next 
couple of weeks, other things disappeared, too. I thought...I 
felt as if I were losing you all over again, one little piece 
at a time. So I hid your nameplate...temporarily in the desk 
drawer. Later, I took it home. I...I wanted to save it for 
you."

Now she gives *my* cheek a gentle stroke. Her eyes are full of 
tenderness and tears. 

"Welcome back, Mulder," she says, "Welcome home." 
    

THE END 


Author's notes: I like Doggett and it was with great reluctance 
I killed him off in this story. His demise was not based on any 
deeply rooted desire to see him axed from the show. His death 
made for a more powerful ending, so he had to go. My husband 
disagrees. He wanted the aliens to rush in and heal Doggett the 
same way they healed CGB and Scully. He likes those "they all 
lived happily ever after" endings.

Thank you to all who asked for a follow-up to "So This Is Agent 
Mulder." Your requests honor and humble me. Special thanks to 
dlynn for her "pointy stick." Will you release the hostages 
now? And extra special thanks to Marybeth for virtual hugs when 
I needed them most, AND for telling me in no uncertain terms 
that my writing does not sound goofy. 

Feedback, good or bad, is welcome on this or any of my 
stories. Send comments to cindyet@tdstelme.net. 

Visit my other fanfic at 
http://www.crosswinds.net/~bluefroggie/cindyet.html, maintained 
by the stupendous bluefroggie.