January 25, 2001
Brecken's Gate Trailhead
Oconee State Park, South Carolina

Special Agent Lewis Kastner rolls up his sleeves as he
balances one foot on the front bumper of the late model
Cherokee parked before him.  His eyes scan the group of
men and women moving back and forth across the small
clearing that has become the makeshift base camp for this
impromptu rescue mission.  Glancing over his shoulder he
watches the sun edge under the horizon, its final rays
casting the roiling cloud bank to the east in sickly shades
of yellow and purple.

"Perfect.  A thunderstorm in January.  Like we don't have
enough challenges just trying to figure out where the hell
this nutball is likely to drop the next victim."  This from
the local sheriff, a short, round-faced man whose constant
pacing is starting to grate on Kastner's nerves.

"Or victims.  We're officially out of daylight, Sheriff
Brooks.  Your guy gonna be here soon?"  He knows the
older man resents the loss of authority the Bureau's
presence implies, and he isn't looking to antagonize the
situation, but he knows intuitively that they can not afford
to wait much longer.

Brooks shoots the agent a look, and moves a short way off,
speaking into his two-way radio as he does so.

Kastner looks towards the far end of the gravel parking lot,
where his partner, Fred Hansen, addresses a trio of search
and rescue workers.  A tall man holding the leashes of a
pair of restless bloodhounds moves towards the trailhead
on his left, momentarily blocking his view.  When his field
of vision clears, he sees Hansen staring back, a look of
frustration on his face.  With a few quiet words he
disengages himself from the SAR team and moves back
towards the Cherokee.

The wind gusts suddenly and the 'FBI' ballcap on Hansen's
head lifts off and lands several feet to his right.  With a
smirk he grabs the errant cap before it can skip out of
reach.  His expression darkens as he glances up at the
expanding clouds and realizes they're about to march into
an unfamiliar national park, after dark, quite likely in the
rain.

"Don't look so glum, Hansen," Kastner mocks, his own
unease at this entire situation increasing by the minute.

"Remind me again why we're out here, Lew."

"Dead bodies.  Unsolved mysteries.  Anonymous phone
tip.  The usual."

"You know, I'm starting to get real sick of our version of
'the usual.' "

"Then let's end this tonight buddy.  If we can just--"  His
statement is cut off by the arrival of a speeding Bronco
bearing the insignia of the local sheriff's department.  A
young man, who looks barely old enough to shave, barrels
out of the driver's seat and jogs towards Sheriff Brooks.
He is carrying a cardboard tube under one arm and stops
short as Brooks waves him toward the spot where Kastner
and Hansen are standing.

The boyish deputy fumbles with the cardboard tube,
extracting a large sheet of paper which he tries
unsuccessfully to spread across the hood of the Cherokee
by himself.  The paper moves automatically to curl back
upon itself, with help from the constantly shifting wind.
Kastner, Brooks, Hansen and several other officers move
forward, holding down various corners and edges to get a
better look.

"It's a USGS survey map of this end of the park.  I figure
this should give us a shot at finding wherever it is we're
looking for."

"That's great--Collins." He barely notes the brass name pin
on the man's brown jacket in the quickly waning light.
"Let's see what we've got."  Kastner pulls a small penlight
from his back pocket and attempts to focus it on the
patterns spread before them.

"Somebody get some light over here!" Sheriff Brooks
shouts out towards a group that is converging near the
trailhead, sorting various supplies.

As if on cue, a large flash of light ripples through the
interior of the dense storm front that has migrated
overhead.

Kastner bristles momentarily as all the hairs on the back of
his neck stand on end.  He glances around at the others,
but if they are experiencing the same sensation, they say
nothing.

Within seconds a brilliant bullseye of light splays across
the map in front of them.  One of the search and rescue
team members, more prepared to move out in this type of
operation on short notice, has come forward with a high-
power spotlight.

The map reveals a mass of red, indicating the dense forest
that lies immediately up the trail to the north.

Kastner leans forward so the others can hear him over the
gusting wind.  "Okay, so we know from our mystery caller
that we're looking for a spot at this end of the park.
Anybody have any insight to share?"

A tall brunette sporting an "Oconee County SAR" jacket is
the first to speak up.  She gestures to a pink oval
indicating a meadow deep inside the park.  "Right here.
It's the only clearing I can think of for miles once you start
up this trail."

Sherrif Brooks does not wait for the agents' confirmation or
acknowledgement.  "Of course.  And this trail is the only
way in without a machete for the kudzu.  Besides, if this
guy's got a hostage or hostages he's gonna need to keep
them under control until they get where they're going.
Right?"

"Exactly." Hansen acknowledges loudly, worrying the bill
of his cap as he speaks.  "But there were no vehicles in this
lot when we got here.  Which means someone must have
dropped them off.  This guy isn't working alone."

"So we have no idea how many unsubs to expect when we
get up there.  You have to tell all of your officers, all the
SAR guys, to pay damned close attention.  Nobody, I mean
nobody,  fires a weapon without an order from myself or
Hansen.  Our visibility is gonna be next to nil, and we
don't wanna be hauling your guys out on stretchers
instead of the folks we're going in to save.  Got it?"  He is
shouting now, barely able to hear himself over the endless
rustling of leaves being buffeted twenty yards from where
they stand.

Brooks gives him a look of disgust together with his nod
of acknowledgement.  The only light is reflecting off of the
map below them, the shadows casting faux demons across
each of their faces.  Following Brooks' hesitant lead, the
others agree to Kastner's order in turn.

"Good.  We move in five minutes.  Let's be ready."

The group disperses quickly, leaving Kastner and Hansen
alone with the map and the transcript of the anonymous
phone call that set the night's events in motion only ninety
minutes earlier.

"If this goes wrong tonight we're gonna have our asses in a
sling for not waiting 'til backup could get here." Kastner
says.

"And if we wait, more people die." Hansen's steady
expression momentarily reassures Kastner.

"I'm gonna go check that those SAR guys have everything
we'll need, okay?" Hansen hollers over his shoulder as he
moves away.

Kastner hates this entire situation.  They aren't able to
control any of the variables, and they're working with an
entire group of non-Bureau personnel as likely to get
themselves killed as not.  But he and Hansen don't know
the geography, don't know the terrain, and don't have the
medical training to keep the next victim alive if they are
able to catch these freaks before they kill again.  For
reasons he doesn't have time to analyze, they have been
sent the first real clue of this case.  Hell, it hadn't even been
a case four days ago.  And now someone is leading them
straight to the killers?

His gaze follows Hansen, a man he has known for five
years, and he wonders again if they shouldn't pull the
plug on this whole thing right here.  Right now.  But if
their theory is right, these monsters are escalating and
tonight they have a chance to put an end to all of this.

The first swollen raindrops begin to fall as he rolls the map
back up and moves towards the trailhead.


****

An hour later they are wet and panting, having  traversed
the steep terrain for several miles without incident.  The
trail is winding under the canopy of the tall hardwood
trees again, and the lightning that was infrequent before
they left the parking area is nearly constant now.  Brilliant
flashes of blue and orange throw the vegetation in sharp
relief, exposing fallen tree trunks, broadleaf shrubs and
creeping vines in all directions.

Unexpectedly the wind, which has been relentless during
their progress deeper into the forest, dies down
completely.  The calm is preternatural, and Lewis Kastner
once again feels the hairs on the back of his neck stand at
attention.

At the sound of his short whistle the entourage of men and
women stop short, all eyes focusing on the agent.  Turning
his flashlight towards the sky, he uses it to illuminate a
short series of hand gestures the other law enforcement
officers recognize automatically.  The group suddenly
moves off the trail and spreads into a loose semi-circle,
moving forward silently and cautiously.  Brooks and
several deputies remain near the center of the line, their
local search and rescue cohorts continuing up the path
behind them, even as their eyes scour the surrounding
trees.  Hansen follows a short distance behind.  Like his
partner, he is acutely aware of their isolation and the
possibility that one or more of the killers may be tracking
them even now.

Ahead, the sound of breaking branches ahead suddenly
ricochets through the stillness.  As quickly as the noise
fades, chaos erupts.  Each man and woman trots forward, a
dozen scoping flashlight beams cutting across the tableau
like laser beams.  The hounds are straining forward, held
in check by their handler, their muzzles the only thing
preventing them from howling their distress.

Another flash of light rips across the sky and suddenly it
occurs to Kastner that the night is still silent.

"No thunder." He mumbles.  "Not during the entire storm."

Before he can pursue the thought, a large explosion occurs
somewhere to the west of the group.  Those near that end
of the line automatically begin moving toward the sound.
As Kastner raises a hand to call for their attention, a
movement catches his eye.  Turning his head he sees a
lone figure at the top of a small rise some twenty yards
distant.  The figure is momentarily backlit by another flash
of light, his stocky build and medium height all that is
revealed from this far away.

Kastner's draws his weapon and moves forward before the
order to freeze even crosses his lips.

He moves forward in pursuit, reaching the top of the small
hill where the figure was standing seconds before.  His
eyes scan the horizon but he sees no one, no sign of
movement.  He begins to move forward again when he
hears his name.

"Agent Kastner!  Agent Hansen!  Over here!  We've found
them!"

His eyes sweep the landscape again, and he wonders for a
moment if he imagined the whole thing.  With equal parts
of relief and frustration he turns and moves back towards
the others.

*****

Fifty feet away, the alien bounty hunter looks over his
shoulder as he lumbers over the rough landscape.  With a
start he pulls up, finding himself standing within a bright
circle of light.  Moving towards him on either side are a
pair of alien rebels.  Even through their scarred eyes and
mouths he recognizes their matching expressions of
triumph.

*****

A cluster of flashlights leads Kastner towards the edge of a
clearing, to the meadow where the others are now moving
across his field of vision.  He pushes through the
perimeter expectantly, catching the look on his partner's
face as he does so.

"Too late.  We were too late."

The search and rescue personnel are searching for vital
signs even as the pall of failure settles over the law
enforcement officers.

Three bodies lie side by side, each naked and face up.
Two men and one woman.  Faces mutilated, ligature
marks at the wrists and ankles.  Scars lining their
respective chests and abdomens.

With a sense of rising dread, Lewis Kastner kneels down
beside one of the dead men.

He mutters something unintelligible and Hansen kneels
down beside him, concern for his partner evident on his
features.  "What did you say, Lew?"

Kastner glances helplessly at his partner.  "I recognize this
guy."

"What?  How?"

"Missing person's report I read a few weeks ago."

Hansen's eyes are drawn to the face of the pale dark haired
man lying before them.  "Who is he?"

Kastner pauses for a long beat before answering.

"He's a cop.  From Oregon.  His name is Billy Miles."

****

Two days later
J. Edgar Hoover Building
Washington, D.C.

Dana Scully shifts a pair of folders under her left arm as
she moves down the stairs to the basement office.  She
juggles the files, her briefcase, and a large bottle of water
as she reaches to give a quick knock before opening the
door and walking through.

"Morning.  I see we're off to Alabama this afternoon?"  It is
a question for Agent Doggett, who stands behind Mulder's
desk, but his is not the voice that answers.

"I'm afraid Agent Doggett's metal man will have to wait,"
responds her supervisor.

John Doggett looks at her gravely as A.D. Skinner and
Agent Kastner step out from the rear of the office.  She sees
that they have been studying a set of images suspended on
the wall-mounted light box.

"Lew?"

"Hi, Dana."  Kastner moves forward and wraps the petite
woman in a tight embrace.  "You look good."  His tight
smile widens as his eyes settle on her swollen belly.

"You two know each other, I take it?" Doggett queries.

"Agent Mulder and I worked together in the ISU back in
the Patterson days.  Before Mulder decided he'd rather
spend his time hanging out in the basement with Agent
Scully here."

"Lew and his partner played on the same interleague
basketball team as Mulder." she says quietly in further
explanation.

"Yeah, and we're still missing his baseline jumper.  Maybe
we'll get lucky and it's genetic." he says with a wink and
barely perceptible nod towards the bulge of her stomach.

"So why are you here, Lew?"  She realizes her voice sounds
more abrupt than she means it to.  After the last few weeks
she is still struggling to establish her equilibrium and
pleasant thoughts can be more difficult to bear than
terrible ones.

Kastner understands and accommodates her need to stick
to business.  "Fred and I went down to work a pair of
bodies found on national park ground in South Carolina
last week.  Figured we'd fly down and find a pair of hikers
who died of exposure or something equally mundane.
Didn't turn out quite that simple."

"What was the cause of death?" Scully asks.

"Undetermined.  Both young males, both in perfect health
according to the pathologist at Quantico who did the post-
mortem.  There was evidence each had been restrained
and tortured, but none of the wounds were serious enough
to be fatal."

"And the tox screens were clean?"  She has a sudden
uneasy feeling where this is going as he continues.

"On a hunch we decided to check the neighboring
jurisdictions, see what else we could turn up.  Within 36
hours we had reports on seven more bodies, all dumped
in remote areas, all found in various states of
decomposition.  There's not a lot of coordination between
the different counties, so nobody made the connection
until our fax went out.  We thought we were looking at
some sort of serial kill."

"Why didn't the VICAP database send up red flags on any
of this?" Doggett asks.

"No cause of death, no way to correlate the crimes."
Skinner answers.

"Exactly.  And a lot of these rural jurisdictions don't have
access to the database anyway," acknowledges Kastner.

"I'm still not sure what this has to do with the X-files, Lew."
Her voice is wary, as if she would rather not know.

The older man's face grows serious, his eyes glancing
towards Skinner, then Doggett.  Scully senses his
hesitation, and her fear that the three men in the room are
trying to shelter her from something is confirmed.

Her eyes take in the photos spread across the desk, the
ones Doggett was studying when she came in.  She moves
forward, past Kastner and picks up a head shot of Billy
Miles.  It is black and white.  An autopsy photo.

"No." She whispers quietly to herself.  "Not again."  She
moves to sit down, still holding the photo tightly in her
hand.  A fresh wave of grief rolls over her, her hand
unconsciously settling across her abdomen in a possessive
gesture.

"Night before last we got a call at the local sheriff's office
where we'd set up shop.  Basically tells us where the next
bodies will be dumped.  Practically drew us a damn map.
These bodies have been turning up two, sometimes three
at a time, so we figured there must be at least two killers
involved.  We thought maybe they were getting cocky now
that they had our attention.  Or even that one of them was
getting cold feet."

Kastner shoots Scully a worried look as she continues to
stare at the picture of Billy Miles.

"We threw together the best makeshift hostage rescue team
we could and marched into the woods like a bunch of
damned boy scouts.  But by the time we got to them they
were already dead."  His voice fades off as replays the
scene in his head.

"How did you know?  About Billy.  That's why you're here
isn't it?"  Scully asks.

"After Mulder's funeral, I sort of pulled all of the case
paperwork."  Off Doggett's angry look, he crosses his arms
over his chest defiantly.

"I just didn't understand, you know?  I mean, I know a lot
of the hacks around here gave him grief 'cause of the cases
you guys work on, but he was a great agent.  One of the
best I ever worked with.  I wanted to know why he died,
so I studied all the reports from his disappearance.  I read
your stuff about all of the others who went missing that
week in Oregon, too." He nods towards Doggett.   "Your
files were very thorough.  There were photos of most of
the men and women referenced in the investigation."

"And you remembered Billy Miles from a single photo
you saw, what?  Weeks ago?" Doggett's doubts are
obvious in his voice.

"One of the unfortunate side effects of the job.  I never
forget a face anymore, dead or alive."

Scully stands suddenly, turning to face Skinner who is
leaning against the wall near the door.

"I want to do the autopsy sir."

Skinner's shoulders slump as he recognizes the familiar
battle ahead.  "I really don't think that's a good idea,
Scully." His face is determined.

"But I know--"

"It's too late.  You can't." Kastner announces.  "The family
requested immediate cremation.  His remains have
already been shipped to Oregon for burial."

"Then I need to be in Bellefleur."  She is moving towards
the door already.  She hesitates as Kastner continues.

"Dana.  These other bodies.  I think maybe they're all like
Mulder and Billy Miles.  We're just getting started on the
dental records, but so far we've been able to match two
others.  Not from Bellefleur, but others who disappeared
last fall within a week or two of when Mulder did."

Doggett moves around the desk and stands beside Scully.
"Let one of us go with you."

"No.  I need to do this alone."  She refuses to make eye
contact, but her tone brooks no argument, and he is savvy
enough to offer none.

Skinner steps forward, hoping to soothe the situation.
"Scully, you go.  We'll look into this.  After the service, if
you're up to it, you can lend us a hand, okay?"

She nods, grateful, and prepares to make the trip she
should have taken four months, ten days and seven hours
ago.

****

West 46th Street
New York City, NY

Marita Covarrubius looks out of the window of the luxury
highrise towards the vista of Central Park in the distance.
Outside, the sky is a brilliant blue and the sun reflects off
the snow coating the trees and sidewalks below.  She
considers the clusters of people, bustling back and forth,
mere dots of color from this height, oblivious to the plans
made for decades in this very room, twenty stories
overhead.  As she turns around, she wonders why the
sunlight never seems to penetrate this place, despite her
recent insistence that the blinds be left up and the fact that
cigars, pipes and Morley cigarettes are no longer allowed.

She is impeccably dressed, every line of her dark suit and
strand of her upswept blond hair in place.  She is the
image of control as she walks among the high-backed
leather chairs to stand beside the mahogany credenza.
Considering that she has hand chosen most of the others in
the room to fill their positions, her role as de facto leader
of this newer, younger syndicate is assured.

In the months since the Cigarette Smoking Man's timely
demise, many things have changed.  The standard topics
of discussion in this room, however, have not.

She glances at her watch, which shows that it is nearly
noon. They have been here for over two hours, and Marita
is anxious to adjourn.  Things are silent for a moment, and
she senses an opportunity to call things to a close.  Before
she can speak the dark haired man seated to her left
suddenly addresses one of the more recent matters.

"We still don't know much about this business with Zeus
Genetics or their abductee fertility project."

A lanky blond man rises from the black leather sofa across
the room. "If the colonists have chosen not to inform us
about those children then they obviously don't want us
involved."

"I hardly think we can afford to wait for an invitation to
stay abreast of this type of situation.  If this new
hybridization project was spearheaded by the rebels, we
need to know."

"Do we really think it's possible that they succeeded so
quickly where our scientists struggled for decades?"

The dark haired man's voice is louder now, angry. "Well it
was never exactly in our best interest to succeed in our
attempts at hybridization, was it?  Regardless, we were on
the cusp of success when the rebels infiltrated Fort
Marlene and captured the alien fetus."

"It's quite likely they have Cassandra Spender as well.  Her
remains were never found at El Rico." This from a slight
Asian woman with short black hair and wire-rimmed
glasses.

Marita's posture stiffens slightly, as memories of the
months spent as a test subject at the air force base assail
her.  None of the others notice her discomfort as the
discussion continues.

"Then it's possible they've found a way to create a full-
fledged human-alien hybrid without the side effects that
occurred before." the dark haired man asserts.

The blond man crosses the room to stand beside Marita
and pours himself a short glass of Scotch from one of the
crystal decanters atop the credenza.  He turns to face the
others.  "What difference does it make?  The colonists still
have the upper hand.  The means to affect mass infection
with the virus is in place."

"If there's a chance that we can fight against colonization,
shouldn't we consider it?" the dark haired man responds.

"Our only hope of survival is to work with the colonists
and do as we're told.  If that will save us...and save our
families, then that's what we do."

"But--"

Marita has been watching the exchange with interest, but
realizes there can be no ambiguity in their purpose here.

"No.  He's right," she utters calmly.  "The opportunity to
ally ourselves with the rebels has passed.  We can't afford
any more missteps with the colonists, or everything our
predecessors spent the last thirty years working towards
will be wasted."

The dark haired man looks as if we will push the point,
but doesn't have a chance as the majordomo enters the
room and silently hands Marita a telegram.

Her eyes scan the half-sheet of yellow paper, her
expression revealing nothing to the others.

"I'm afraid we'll have to continue this discussion at another
time ladies and gentlemen."

Whether or not the others are expecting further
explanation they receive none.  The dark haired man is not
happy to allow the argument to go unfinished, but knows
better than to press the issue.  Slowly he stands and leaves,
the others following suit.  As she watches the last of them
pass out of the room, Marita addresses the majordomo
who has been standing quietly near the door.

"Mitchell?"

"Yes, ma'am?"

"I need you to book a flight for me.  For tonight."

"Certainly.  To where, ma'am?"

"Tunisia."

******

January 28, 2001
CAM-5 Distant Early Warning station
Mackar Inlet, Nunavut
Northern Canada

Alex Krycek stands in front of a large white bulletin board.
The glare of fluorescent lighting reflects off the rows of
photos covering the surface of the board.  His eyes track
the faces, stopping on the image he seeks.  It is the face of
Billy Miles.  With a slow hand he places a strip of black
electrical tape across the picture, sighing in frustration.  He
quickly marks two other photos, those of the man and
woman whose bodies now lie in a FBI morgue two
thousand miles away.  In frustration he turns and throws
the roll of tape across the room.

He closes his eyes momentarily, aware that he cannot
afford to let the others beyond this room see his anger at
this latest setback.

Turning back to the board he takes a mental tally of those
who have been "lost" since this all began six months ago.
Nearly half the photos are covered with tape.  One is
tacked in place away from the others.  It is a candid photo
of Fox Mulder, taken in Bellefleur shortly before his
disappearance.  There is no tape to obstruct this photo,
and Krycek pauses to focus on the image briefly before
turning to stride through the double doors at the other end
of the room.

The chamber he passes into is nothing like the barren
white space he just left.  This one is bathed in darkness, lit
mostly by rows of radar equipment banked in a
rectangular configuration around a central dais.  Large flat
screen monitors line one wall, each refreshing occasionally
to reflect the updated location of its current satellite target.
Despite the large number of work stations, only a handful
are occupied, and Krycek approaches the young man
closest to him.

"Have you been able to confirm the location of the ship
yet, Jackson?"

Dressed in jeans and a t-shirt, the twenty-something man
glances over the thick square frames that have slipped
down the bridge of his nose.  He sports a headset with a
hands-free microphone, and looks far more comfortable
with the amount of technology in the room than Krycek
ever will.

"Yeah man, it's right where we figured it would be.  But
there are still cops crawling all over the place down there."

"Good.  The more attention is focused on those woods, the
harder it will be for Strughold to get his hands on it first."

"You know you look like hell, man.  Maybe you should
get some rest."

Off Krycek's mock glare he slides down in his chair, his
hands raised in a defensive gesture.

"Hey, just a thought. Don't shoot the messenger."

Krycek smirks as he turns to walk out of the room.

"And waste bullets on you?"

----

Moving through the building, Krycek passes a series of
closed doors and turns a corner to enter a small locker
room.  He proceeds to the farthest locker and pulls out a
large parka and a pair of heavy gloves.  He strains to get
the heavy jacket pulled over his uncooperative arm, but
after another moment succeeds in zipping the coat tight.
Stuffing one glove into a pocket, he finishes pulling on the
other as he reaches the exterior door.  Reaching behind his
head he yanks the hood up and launches himself into the
darkness beyond.

They operate with virtually no exterior lighting in the
compound, so the beam of the flashlight he carries is the
only thing piercing the pitch blackness that extends in
every direction.  Even the beacons on the doppler and
tropo towers have been disabled to maintain the facade
that this former military base remains abandoned.

He reaches the entrance to the quonset hut that is a mirror
image of the one he just left.  A quick arc of the flashlight
beam reveals another pair of buildings twenty yards away.
Wishing he could believe that no one in their right mind
would bother looking for this rag-tag operation  in the
middle of the frozen tundra, he steps up to the door.
Awkwardly punching the five digit code into the key pad
alongside the handle, he waits for the tell-tale green light
and quickly moves out of the brutal cold.

He shucks off the extra layers as he approaches the guard
stationed inside the door.  The man sits at a desk behind a
layer of thick plexiglass, his voice transmitted through a
small speaker overhead.

"Destination, sir?" There is no question of his presence,
only its purpose.

"The lab."

A moment later the sound of a mechanical lock sliding out
of place echoes through the room.  Three heavy metal
doors line the far wall, the one on the right now slightly
ajar.  Tossing the parka and gloves onto a bench beside
him, Krycek passes through the door, pulling it closed.

He walks forward a few feet and raps gently on the
window of a small laboratory, capturing the attention of
the man working inside.  Dr.  Parenti, wearing a white lab
coat, gestures him towards the door.

Parenti returns his attention to the slide he is studying
under a large microscope as Krycek enters the room.

"Making the rounds?"

Krycek nods absently as his eyes are drawn to a bank of
video equipment at the rear of the room.  He steps forward
to study the grainy images of several  young children and
their parents.  The cavernous space beyond this lab is
designed to look like the interior of any large house in
suburban America, save the countless hidden cameras
which feed live video to the digital recorders in this room.

"How are they holding up?"

Parenti slides his stool back from the counter.  "For the
most part, quite well."

Krycek watches the image of a small boy crawling towards
a pile of building blocks.

"Do we know what's wrong with the Jenkins boy yet?"

"I'm waiting for more test results.  It's too early to make a
diagnosis, but it looks like some type of degenerative
tissue disease.  We're keeping him comfortable, but if
things get worse we may need to transfer him to a better
equipped facility."

"What about the others?"

"It's hard to gauge.  We can measure their physical
progress.  Their growth rates are definitely accelerated.
The Hendershot baby is off the charts.  And the Margolin
girl?  Barely two years old, and in the last month she's
grown over two inches.  We've got the older children on
high protein diets, and we've upped their caloric intake to
offset the increased metabolism, but I worry if it will be
enough."

Krycek is gazing towards the monitors again, lost in
thought.

Parenti pushes his stool back from the lab bench and turns
to face Krycek fully.

"I hear things aren't going so well next door."

"Another ship went down while the rebels were trying to
recover a set of abductees in South Carolina."

"Trying to recover.  Meaning they failed?"

"According to our man at the Bureau," Krycek says.

"How many this time?"

"Three.  Including Billy Miles."

"I'm sorry.  I know you had high hopes for Miles."

"It's not just Miles.  When the time comes we're going to
need men and women willing to stand beside the rebels
and fight.  The ones who've experienced the colonists'
hospitality first hand are the best candidates.  But
nothing's gone right since Montana.  When we lost Smith
we may have lost our best shot at saving the rest of them."

"I thought this mysterious ability to heal wasn't unique to
Smith."

"It isn't.  But Smith managed to stay under the colonists'
radar for a long time.  What's happening now has the
potential to draw the wrong kind of attention.  We're not
ready to go public, but we can't afford to lose all of these
men and women in a battle of wills between the colonists
and the rebels either."

"Was it a rebel ship that went down?"

"We're not sure.  But if we're interpreting the satellite data
correctly, it was a colonist ship."

"That ship could be powerful leverage.  Why aren't you on
your way down there?"

"It's being handled."

Parenti recognizes Krycek's terse comment as the end of
that particular discussion and brings the topic back to the
children he is studying.  "Well, there's some good news.
We got to the Durham twins before the colonists found
them.  The parents weren't thrilled, but it seems our
powers of persuasion have increased since word of what
happened to the Haskells spread through MUFON
circles."

"Yeah, but how long can we keep them all holed up like
this?"

"They're not all holed up like this.  You know we've been
able to move the rest of them to safe houses.  The only
reason we brought this group here was to monitor their
progress and try to figure out what exactly it is we're
dealing with.  And we both know it's better than the
alternative, Krycek."

The younger man's attention has wandered again.  The
central monitor shifts to a split-screen view, recording a
small girl, too young to speak, clearly selecting one
symbol after another from an array of cards spread on the
floor mat in front of her.  Sitting several feet away, a young
woman holds up a series of cards, faced away from the
child, and towards the camera feeding the other half of the
screen.  Each time the card changes the girl reaches
unerringly for a symbol on the ground which is the perfect
match.

Although he has read the reports on each of the children,
Krycek can not help but be impressed.

"It *is* incredible."

"It's not just incredible.  It's impossible.  Nobody would
believe us even with a pile of these videotapes and a stack
of our research data."

"Just as well.  We can't afford for anyone to know.  Not
yet."


****

January 29, 2001
Bellefleur, Oregon

Dana Scully steers her rental car through the wet streets of
the small coastal town where she investigated her first case
with Mulder eight years ago.  She glances down at the
crude map the hotel desk clerk sketched for her, slowing
to make out a street sign through the sweep of the sedan's
wiper blades.  She makes a sharp right and sees a small
white church several blocks ahead.

She maneuvers into a parking space, turning the ignition
off.  For a moment she sits, transfixed, watching the small
clusters of people moving towards the entrance of the
building.  Raindrops trail down the windshield, blurring
her vision as she recalls how much has changed since the
last time she was here.  Her eyes brim with tears, but she
will not allow them to fall.  Today is not about Mulder.
Not about her failure to protect him as his partner four
months ago nor her failure to reach him in time six weeks
ago.

She is drawn from her reverie by the sensation of her
unborn child shifting within her womb.  She glances
quickly at her watch and realizes the memorial service is
scheduled to begin shortly.   Pulling the lapels of her coat
tight, she reaches for the umbrella lying across the
passenger seat, steels herself and steps outside.

The church is nearly full when she enters.  She pauses
inside the heavy wooden doors, her eyes taking in the
array of floral arrangements covering the front of the
pulpit.  Narrow arches of stained glass line each side of the
building, and even in the muted light of a coastal winter
they bathe the room in rich color.  An organ plays in the
balcony above her.

Scully steps forward, looking for a spot near the door.  She
cannot explain exactly why she needs to be here today,
and sitting near the back seems like a good way to avoid
drawing any attention.  She is just sliding in next to the
aisle when a familiar voice calls her name.

"Agent Scully?"

"Teresa?"

"I can't believe you're really here." She has clearly been
crying, but relief and a hint of fear play across the younger
woman's features.

"When I heard about Billy...I thought it was important to
come."  Scully offers helplessly.

Teresa glances down at the floor.  She looks like she wants
to ask something, but after a moment's debate, she seems
to change her mind.

"You...should come sit with us." She takes hold of Scully's
arm and motions towards the front of the church.

"No, Teresa.   It wouldn't be right.  I'll just stay back here."

"No, please.  I'm so glad you're here.  You...you
understand what's happening." Teresa is pulling on her
arm now, and Scully follows, uncomfortable but unwilling
to push the issue.

Teresa draws Scully towards the front of the church.  A few
people turn to watch, but most of the attendees are somber
and distracted.  Scully wonders how many times these
people have sat in these same pews in recent months.

They stop a few rows from the pulpit.  An older woman
with salt and pepper hair is holding a small boy that
Scully realizes must be Teresa's son.  The boy is squirming
and restless despite the woman's attentions.

"Mom?  This is Dana Scully.  She's the FBI Agent who
helped find me in Montana."

Teresa's mother looks up, a polite smile on her face.  She
says nothing for a moment and Scully wonders what the
woman is thinking.

"It's nice to meet you, Agent Scully."  The woman quickly
returns her attention to her grandson.

Teresa sits down next to her mother and motions for Scully
to join them, which she does.

A large photo of Billy in his police uniform sits on a
podium among the flowers.  Scully considers the picture
for a moment before noticing the small cluster of people
comforting a slight woman with long blond hair standing
to the right of the dais.  She asks Teresa who the woman is.

"That's Beth Miles.  Billy's ex-wife."

Scully recalls having pointed out the wedding band on
Billy's finger last fall.  He had steered the conversation
away from the topic, and in the chaos of events that
followed, she hadn't given the matter another thought.  As
the people around the woman shift, she catches sight of a
small girl with curly blond hair wrapped around one of
Beth Miles' legs.

"Beth knew...about what happened to Billy after
graduation, but... I don't think she ever really believed it.
But she was good for him, made him happy.  And they
were so excited when Bailey was born."

"What happened?"

"Last winter, Billy was shot during a botched robbery, and
Beth ...just kind of lost it.  He was fine, the bullet just
grazed his leg, but I don't think she could handle the idea
he might go to work one day and not...come home, you
know?  They're supposed to come home..."  Her voice
breaks, and a series of tight sobs wrack Teresa's small
frame.  Scully puts an arm around the woman's shoulders,
no words of comfort seeming sufficient for the pain she
knows too well.

A silver haired priest steps from a side door and the organ
music fades.  The few people still standing move towards
their respective seats, and Beth Miles picks up her
daughter and steps back to the first pew.

----

Forty-five minutes later the service is over, and Scully
stands as the other attendees file out of the church.  Many
stop to pay their respects to Beth Miles, and Scully realizes
that there don't seem to be any other family members
present.  Teresa, standing beside Scully with Bobby in her
arms, follows her gaze, sees her watching.

"Billy's mom died when we were just kids, and he didn't
have any brothers or sisters.  With his dad gone now too..."
Her voice trails off as she glances back towards the
entrance to the church.

"Agent Scully.  I really need to go.  I...can't be here.
This...this place, it isn't...safe.  For any of us."

Scully is taken aback by Teresa's fear, but realizes it is
genuine.

"Mom and I are going back to Portland. Will you stop by
and visit?  Before you go back to Washington?"

"I don't know Teresa.  I have a room here in town.  My
flight leaves Portland early tomorrow morning.  I was
planning to drive straight to the airport." She answers
apologetically.

Bobby is squirming and fussing again, not wanting to be
held.

Teresa sets Bobby down and looks pleadingly at Scully,
her voice dropping to a whisper.  "Please Agent Scully.
This isn't over."  She looks frantically around the church, as
if she's afraid she'll be overheard.  "They're watching us.
Waiting.  Sooner or later...they'll come for us again.   I
know it.  There are things I remember now, things you
need to know."

Stunned, Scully considers the implications of what Teresa
has just said.  Is this just the result of the physical and
psychological trauma the young woman has been
through?  Is she simply projecting her fears about being
taken again?  Or could she be recalling something now
that could help lead them to the answers behind what
happened to Mulder, to Billy, to the others still missing?

"I think I can arrange to fly out the day after tomorrow
instead."

Bobby walks himself along the pew and toddles across the
aisle to where Teresa's mother is standing, engrossed in
conversation with an old neighbor.  Behind her Bailey
Miles stands looking over the back of the front pew.
Bobby grins up at the girl, who begins to crawl down from
her perch.

Teresa opens her purse and searches for a piece of paper
to write on.  She settles for an old receipt, and after
locating a pen, quickly jots down the address of her
mother's home.

"If you get lost, call us."  She quickly adds a phone number
to the piece of paper before thrusting it towards Scully.

Teresa notices that Bobby has wandered away.  She moves
past Scully, scooping up Bobby and quietly capturing her
mother's attention.

"I'll stop by tomorrow afternoon then."

Teresa seems reassured, and with a final worried glance
towards Beth Miles, exits the church with her mother and
son.

Scully waits a few more moments, hoping for a chance to
express her condolences.  As she does, Bailey Miles shyly
approaches her.  Scully crouches down.

"Hi Bailey.  I'm Dana."

Bailey looks curiously at Scully, as if she's putting together
a puzzle.  A blond lock of hair falls across her furrowed
brow and large blue eyes.   Scully reaches forward and
pushes the stray curl out of the little girl's face.  Her coat
falls open, and Bailey's eyes settle on her swollen belly.
Before Scully can react, the child reaches forward, placing
her small hands on either side of her pregnant abdomen.
Immediately the color and sound in the room wash away,
replaced by an electrical hum rolling across Scully's
senses.  The sensation grows stronger, and she feels her
unborn child shifting in response to the powerful energy
rushing over her.  Scully tries to speak, her mouth forming
words, but unable to make a sound.

Then, as quickly as it began, it is over.  Scully looks up to
see Beth Miles standing over her, clutching Bailey in her
arms.

Scully stands, slowly, uncertain what has just happened or
what to say for a moment.  When she sees the accusatory
look on Beth's face she feels the need to explain why she is
here.

"I'm Dana Scully.  My partner and I knew Billy.  I just
wanted you to know how sorry I am for your loss."

"I know who you are, Agent Scully.   You and your partner
are the ones who got Billy into this mess.   If it weren't for
you, he'd still be here to watch his child grow up."  Beth
turns and steps back into the midst of several concerned
onlookers, each now looking at Scully with undisguised
anger.

Tears sting Scully's eyes, rolling down her cheeks as she
retreats from the church to the sanctuary of the rental car.

The woman's last words replay in her mind.

"If it weren't for you, he'd still be here to watch his child
grow up."

An image of Mulder appears, unbidden.  She knows now
where she needs to be.  Starting the engine, she backs out
of the parking spot and drives toward the site that changed
their lives.


****

JFK International Airport
New York City, NY

Marita strides up the gangway towards the gate even as an
attendant announces the plane's arrival.   She can barely
make out the voice between the poor-quality overhead
speakers and the crowd milling near the gate.

"Ladies and gentleman, Iberia Air is pleased to announce
the arrival of flight 6928 from Tunis.  Passengers may
claim their checked luggage at carousel seven on the
baggage level in approximately 15 minutes."

Many of the men and women deplaning with her are met
by loved ones, some by business associates or limousine
drivers.  No one is waiting for her, as she hasn't called
ahead to inform anyone of her return.  She deftly
maneuvers her way through the throngs of waiting people,
her lone suitcase in tow, and proceeds to the main
ticketing area of the terminal.  She approaches the United
ticket counter and joins the short line. When she reaches
the podium she uses her UN credentials and a credit card
to purchase a ticket on the next available flight to Portland,
Oregon.

Afterwards she returns to the main portion of the terminal.
She moves into a restroom, and stops at the bank of sinks
lining one wall.  She splashes water on her face, thankful
for a respite from the desert heat and recirculated air that
have been her traveling companions for the last 36 hours.
Straightening, she pauses at the sight of her reflection.  The
face staring back at her in the mirror is worn and weary,
the reality behind the facade she must present outside this
room.  She waits a moment, listening, and when she is
confident the restroom is empty she steps into a stall.
Placing the small black suitcase across the toilet seat, she
quietly unzips it.  She quickly changes from her pressed
linen suit to a casual wool jumper and loafers.  She pulls
out a small case and with practiced ease slips two colored
contacts into place.  Finally she takes a small plastic bag
out of the suitcase.  Inside is a shoulder length brunette
wig.  She pulls it into place over her own blond chignon.

She transfers several items from the Coach handbag she
has been carrying into a light canvas tote.  Pushing
everything else into the suitcase, she zips it closed, leaving
it where it lies.  As she emerges from the stall she pauses
to wash her hands and assess the transformation in the
mirror.  She fishes out a silver tube of lipstick, and adds a
coat of burgundy color.  Satisfied, she drops the lipstick
into the bag and shifting the strap of the bag higher on her
shoulder, she turns and walks out of the restroom.

Twenty minutes later she is at the front of the line at the
Continental ticket counter.

"How can I help you?"

Affecting a slight southern drawl, she smiles widely as she
answers.

"I'd like a ticket on the next flight to Edmonton, Alberta
please."

The man enters a series of information using the bulky
keyboard in front of him.

"May I see your identification please?"

Marita offers him a Kentucky driver's license, her pleasant
expression unfaltering.  He briefly studies the photo, then
adds the pertinent data into the ticketing program.

"And how will you be paying for your ticket today, Ms.
Wilson?"

"Cash."

The man arches an eyebrow briefly, but does not question
her means as he continues to type.

"Any bags to check today?"

"Oh no.  I wanna get everything new at that big ol' mall up
there."

Nonplussed, the agent collects her money and finishes the
computer transaction.  An unseen printer grinds out a
ticket for a flight leaving in less than twenty minutes.

A moment later, boarding pass in hand, Marita
Covarrubius is moving towards her gate.  She has a
message to deliver, and is running out of time.

****

Oconee County Sherriff's Department
Mountain Rest, South Carolina

Lewis Kastner leads the way down the hall and into the
former storeroom he and his partner Fred Hansen have
appropriated for use during their investigation.  The room
is littered with cardboard boxes, stacked from place to
place around the perimeter to accommodate a large
folding table.  An old photocopier stands against one wall,
no longer functional beyond its ability to host a twenty-
year-old Mr. Coffee machine, several used mugs and half
of a five-pound bag of sugar.

Kastner loosens the knot on his tie and shrugs off his
jacket, tossing it across the back of a chair at the table.  He
turns and gestures to Doggett and Skinner who have
followed him into the room.

"This is a map of the region where the first seven bodies
turned up.  And this," he gestures to a dozen  8x10 crime
scene photos tacked to the paneled wall, "is the spot where
we found Miles and the others."

Doggett steps forward and studies the small flag pins
sticking from the map, searching for a pattern.  His gaze
wanders around the room, taking in the empty pizza boxes
and soda cans stacked around the overflowing garbage can
in the corner.   His mind recalls another cluttered room,
another task force, desperately trying to locate Luke before
it was too late.  'Always too late.'   He is lost in thought
when a movement catches his eye and brings him back to
the present.

Kastner points to a pair of yellow pins near the top of the
map.  "This is where the first two--"

A high pitched beep interrupts from across the room.
Skinner and Doggett turn, startled.

"It's the damned fax machine.  Thing's older than dirt."  He
moves over to the archaic device, pressing a green button
and checking to make sure the roll of thermal paper on top
is lined up.

Skinner steps over to the table, which is strewn with
folders and paperwork, including the missing person
report on Billy Miles.  He begins to leaf through the pages,
wondering why the room was empty when they arrived.
"Where is everybody?"

"Good question.  I suspect the local boys are home for
dinner with their wives and kiddies.  When I talked to
Fred earlier he was still over at the local funeral home.
We're using it as a makeshift morgue.  A couple of forensic
dentists have come down from Quantico to help ID the
other bodies but things are still slow going.  We've
requested dental records for all of the men and women
that disappeared at the same time as Mulder, but they're
taking a while to get here."  He gestures to the sheet of
paper he has just torn off the fax machine.  "Rest of 'em  are
probably still out canvassing the spots where the earlier
bodies were found.  So, where do you guys wanna start?"

Doggett, who has been silent since their arrival, finally
speaks up.  "You said on the way down that you saw a
man out there that night.  In the woods."

"Yeah, just before we found the bodies.   It was dark, and
we'd been out there a while, but I know what I saw.  One
minute this guy was right in front of me, the next he was
gone.  But the dogs found no trace of anyone and we
combed that mountain for hours."

"And this was near where you found Miles and the
others?"  Skinner asks

Kastner nods.  "Yeah."

Skinner appears uncertain, wanting to speak but unsure
whether he should.  He draws a chair up to the table and
sinks into it.  He rolls his thumb along the corner of a stack
of papers nervously.

"The night Mulder disappeared, we were trying to locate a
ship in those woods in Oregon."

"A ship?  What kind of ship?"  Kastner, intrigued by the
Assistant Director's sudden change in demeanor, pulls up
a chair of his own.

Skinner pauses for a moment, debating.  When he
continues, he looks Kastner directly in the eye.

"A downed alien spacecraft."

Doggett leans back against the wall and looks away,
frustrated.

Kastner's eyebrows notch up in surprise.  This is not what
he expected to hear, but he's willing to play along.

"In the middle of the woods?"

"It had some sort of a..."   Skinner shakes his head slightly,
"...cloaking device."  He rolls his eyes slightly and Kastner
can tell it's costing the man to discuss this.

"We had gone out there to find it.  We were setting up
some detection equipment.  Mulder was right in front of
me.  I looked down for one second, and he was gone.  Just
like that."  He pauses for a moment, considering.  "A few
minutes later I watched as something I can only describe
as an unidentified craft hovered overhead, then flew
away."

Kastner is stunned.  The room is silent for thirty seconds as
all three men process Skinner's admission.

"Well, that part of the story didn't make it into the case
files."  He looks pointedly at Doggett, who has turned his
back on the conversation to stare out the window.

"So you're thinking there's another... 'cloaking device' in
these woods.  Around another flying saucer?"

Skinner chuckles ruefully.  "I think it's what Mulder would
say if he were here."

Kastner smiles, appreciating the sentiment.

Skinner's countenance changes, the humor of the moment
gone.  "It's also the proof that Mulder always sought.  If we
find that ship, maybe all of this won't have been in vain."

"Okay.  So let's go back out there in the morning.  See what
we can find."

Doggett turns, "You're not actually buying into this crap?

"Look, I can't explain what I saw out there, Doggett.  I'm
not sure I even care.  In my line of work, taking leaps of
faith is part and parcel of getting inside some monster's
head.  This is no different.  In the end, what matters to me
is whether we can find a way to stop this from happening
again.  Maybe if we find this...ship, we do that.  And if we
can prove what happened to Mulder in the bargain, so
much the better."

*****
January 30, 2001
Near Bellefleur Oregon

The car is parked along the side of the narrow county road,
an orange 'X' spray-painted across the pavement beneath
the sedan's left tires.

Scully eases carefully down the incline, a blanket of wet
pine needles covering the ground she walks, retracing
their steps towards the spot where Richie stumbled upon
the hidden ship in September.  There is still a black scar on
the ground where his melted flashlight landed months
earlier.  She moves deeper into the woods, heavy
raindrops falling through the moss-covered trees.

She stops, knowing without question that it was this place
where Mulder and the others stood before they were
taken.  This spot where her partner and best friend was
lost.  It is completely silent, almost eerily so.  She stands,
hoping for the sense of closure she fears will never come.

A sound, so faint she cannot tell which direction it is
coming from, catches her attention suddenly.  After a
moment she hears it again beside her.

"Scully."

She turns toward the sound, not believing her ears.

"Scully, please."

His voice, a whisper.  Behind her.  Spinning, she calls out
his name.

"Mulder?"

Her name again.  A plea, repeated over and over again,
coming from every direction around her.

"Mulder, where are you?"

She sinks to her knees, tears mixing with the rain to stream
down her face.  The sound of her name stops suddenly,
replaced by her own heartbeat echoing in her ears.  Then,
louder, undeniably his voice.

"Help me, Scully."

It is the last thing she hears before she slumps forward, her
mind seeking refuge in unconsciousness.

-----

She startles awake, the sound of her name still repeating
again and again from somewhere nearby.

"Mulder?"

"---Scully, can you hear me?"

She slowly opens her eyes, registering the encroaching
darkness as she struggles to recognize the face of the
young man leaning over her.  She pushes herself up,
sitting back as she recalls how she came to be lying face
down in the forest.

"Agent Scully?  Are you alright?"

"Richie?  What are you doing here?"  A hint of a smile
plays on her lips as she questions the young man.  She
should be suprised to see him here.  There can't be a
logical explanation for his presence in the woods at the
same time she has collapsed.  Again.

"I come out here sometimes.  When I wanna think.  Some
things just seem clearer here, you know?  Sometimes I
think if I stand out here long enough I can change it, make
it different...keep it from happening."  His voice trails off
as his eyes take on the far away look she recognizes from
long mornings standing in front of her bathroom mirror.  "I
saw the car parked beside the road up there, and thought
I'd better stop."

He helps pull her to her feet, steadying her as she regains
her equilibrium.  "How come you're out here, Agent
Scully?"

She ignores his question, neither able or willing to explain
her choice to come here, let alone hearing Mulder's voice.
"You weren't at Billy's funeral earlier."  It is equal parts
question and statement on her part.

He shakes his head vigorously, reminding her of the
frenetic energy he had when she and Mulder first met him
last fall.

"I don't go to the funerals anymore.  After the fourth or fifth
one, I started coming out here instead."  They are both
quiet for a long moment, the remnants of the earlier storm
cascading down from the forest canopy to splatter loudly
on the vegetation around their feet.  Gary puts a hand
under her elbow, leading her back towards the road.  "I
don't understand, why some of them came back, like Gary
and Teresa...but the others...Billy, and Agent
Mulder...didn't."

She looks over at him, her face somber.  "I don't either,
Richie.  Maybe we're not supposed to understand.  Or
maybe we will someday, just not now."  It's a weak
answer, but she has nothing else to offer.

They walk the rest of the way out of the forest together, in
silence.


*****

Northern Canada


Through the fading afternoon light, a Bell 412 helicopter
travels a few hundred feet above the ground, low enough
to evade detection by radar.  The pair seated in the
military craft haven't seen another living creature for two
hundred miles with the exception of a large herd of
caribou they passed over twenty minutes ago.  The
landscape is remarkably desolate, large rocks breaking
through the surface of the ice and snow occasionally,
looking as if someone sprinkled powdered sugar across
the surface of the moon.

Through a bulky headset, the pilot tells her that they're
almost there, pointing to a cluster of non-descript shapes
on the horizon.  As they draw closer she makes out the
quonset huts, radar towers and fuel bladders clustered
together amidst the rolling landscape.  The pilot circles the
compound once, looking for a flat space to set down.  He
settles on a patch of ice fifty yards from the narrow
doppler tower and lowers the craft smoothly to the
ground.

"Sorry I can't stay, ma'am.  But this bird'll light up half a
dozen satellites if I stay here long."

"That's okay.  I'll radio back to Inuvik when I'm ready to
go."

"Yes ma'am."

She steps out of the helicopter, ducking the rotors, a hand
raised against the blowback of crystalline snow swirling
up from the ground.  She turns to face several men armed
with semi-automatic weapons.  Behind them stands Alex
Krycek, whose face quickly slips from relief to irritation.

As the sound of the helicopter recedes, Krycek directs the
men to lower their guns and steps forward to address their
unexpected visitor.

"What the hell are you doing here Marita?"

"We need to talk, Alex."

He stands, looking very much like he'd deny her an
audience if he had any choice in the matter.  Having none,
and realizing the already frigid temperature is dropping
with the setting sun, he relents.

"Not out here."

-----

Fifteen minutes later they stand alone in one of the storage
rooms of the maintenance hut.  Shelves stocked with food,
toiletries and other essentials line the walls.  It is cold, cold
enough that their breath condenses into puffs of steam, but
here he can be assured they won't be interrupted or
overheard.  She's changed out of her flight suit into a pair
of borrowed jeans and a flannel shirt, and is gratefully
holding a steaming cup of Earl Grey tea.  He is impatient
for her explanation, considering what is at stake.

"You know we shouldn't be seen together.  What's so
damned important you're willing to risk everything we've
accomplished by coming here?"

She fixes him with an assessing look for a moment before
answering.

"You know about the ship that went down in South
Carolina?"

"Yes." He nods, hoping her news is bigger than this.

"It was a colonist ship."  She continues to stare at him with
her ever-serious eyes and he stifles an urge to shake the
rest of it out of her.

"We figured as much.  We tracked the colonist ship all the
way from Oregon that night, but it dropped off the satellite
shortly after the rebels intercepted it.  This is third time in
as many weeks that the rebels have tried to stop them."

"The pilot was captured."

"By who?!"

"The rebels."

Krycek's mind whirls through the possibilities, wondering
what this will mean for the escalating battle between the
alien factions.

"That pilot knew something, Alex.   Something the
colonists are afraid the rebels know now too.  Something
they were willing to come to Strughold for help with."

"What is it?"

"I'm not completely sure.  But it has to do with the children
of the abductees."

"These kids engineered by the rebels?  We already know
about them.  They were designed to serve as a standing
army against the colonists when the time comes.  That's
why we've spent the last two months rounding them up
and protecting them, you know that."

"No.  Not the hybrids created at Zeus Genetics.  The
children of these abductees that are being returned.
There's something different about them.  Something that
has the colonists scared enough to want them all dead.
Now."

"But how could those children pose a threat to the
colonists?"

"If what the colonists told Strughold is true, it's because of
what was done to these abductees before their kids were
even born."

Krycek slumps against one of the shelves and frowns, not
seeing the connection.

Marita continues.  "These men and women who were taken
last fall had all suffered from unexplained brain disorders.
Right?"

"Yes."

"Because the rebels had tripped their god modules by
activating the same dormant DNA sequences that are
functional in these hybridized kids.  And Gibson Praise."

"Right, but they nearly killed them in the process.  Most
ended up comatose or with epileptic seizures until the
new DNA sequences were deactivated again." Krycek
points out.

Marita takes a cautious sip of the hot tea and steps closer
to emphasize her next words.

"According to the colonists that DNA was never
deactivated.  When the rebels realized their experiment
had gone wrong they turned off the god modules but left
the new DNA in tact.  In fact that DNA was the evidence
that the colonists feared could be used as proof of alien
existence.  It's why they started collecting the abductees
again last fall."

Krycek paces towards the end of the room and spins back
towards her as realization dawns on his face.

"Then any children conceived since the rebels' original
experiment may have inherited the non-dormant
sequences.  As far as Parenti has been able to determine it's
activated DNA that gives the hybrid children their unique
abilities.  If so, these children have the same abilities."

"Alex, Strughold thinks I'm on my way to Oregon.  He
wants me to eliminate Teresa Hoese and her son."

"Then I'll make sure they're gone by the time you get there.
We'll just have to create a little distraction."

*****

January 31, 2001
Brecken's Gate Trailhead
Oconee State Park, South Carolina


Walter Skinner climbs down from the passenger seat of the
rented Cherokee as Lewis Kastner pulls the vehicle to a
stop.  A park ranger sits in a nearby vehicle, ensuring that
only authorized personnel make use of the trail leading to
the crime scene.  The late morning sun glares off the dew-
soaked vegetation surrounding the parking area and
Skinner finds himself wishing for a pair of sunglasses.
Glancing towards the thick forest ahead he realizes he
won't need them.

John Doggett climbs down behind him, pulling out a pair
of light backpacks and tossing one towards Skinner.  "We
should get moving if it's an hour's hike.  We're already
running late."

Kastner, zipping the car keys into his own pack, catches
the irritation in the other man's voice.  "I know you wanted
to be out here sooner, but--" He is cut off by the sound of
his cell phone ringing.  He pulls it from the side pocket of
the nylon trail jacket he wears.

"Kastner."

Skinner and Doggett watch as he carries on half of a stilted
conversation with the person on the other end of the line.

"Right.  Thanks Fred."

He presses the end button and gestures towards them with
the phone.

"That was Hansen.  They've made positive ID's on two
more of the bodies.  He just needs the medical examiner to
sign off before he can notify the families."

"Who were they?" Skinner asks.

Kastner thinks for a second, recalling the names.  "Gina
Erickson and Ray Hoese."

Doggett and Skinner look at each other, recognition
dawning on their faces even as the name clicks into place
for Kastner.

"Hoese.  Wasn't that the name of the woman found in
Montana--"

"Right before we found Mulder." Doggett finishes.

Skinner points out the obvious connection they are all
forming in their minds. "She's from Bellefleur, same as
Billy Miles.  Ray Hoese was her husband."  Hating himself
he reaches for his own cell.  "I'll call Scully."

*****

Highway 26
Outside Bellefleur, Oregon


Dana Scully stares in disbelief at the cell phone in her right
hand, until the flash of a passing car jolts her back to
reality and she tightens her grip on the steering wheel.
Ray Hoese dead.  One more fallen in battle for an unseen
war.  She will have to tell Teresa.  She will have to explain
that just like Bailey Miles and her own unborn child,
Bobby Hoese will never know his father.  She feels the rage
that burned so hot weeks ago push past the numbness that
has settled in, and wishes that just once she could confront
the monsters and the men behind these crimes face to face.
No law, no responsibilities, no consequences.

The baby shifts, responding to the adrenalin pumping
through her, and she knows with sudden painful clarity
that no amount of revenge will undo what has been lost.
She will work to drag those responsible for these crimes to
justice, to find the truth she and Mulder fought to reveal,
and to protect their child.

She slows the car as she maneuvers along the shaded,
curving highway and digs through the pocket of her trench
coat for the crumpled piece of paper with the phone
number to Mrs. Nemman's house.  Finding it, she enters
the number into her cell phone, hoping for service
amongst the tall cedars and surrounding hillsides.   She
doesn't want to deliver this news over the phone, but she
does want to be certain that Teresa will be home when she
arrives.

After a long pause, she hears the line ring through.  When
the call is answered there is no greeting at the other end
but Scully can hear Bobby crying in the background, and
the sounds of someone shouting nearby.  Suddenly she
hears Mrs. Nemman's voice clearly, screaming for Teresa
to run.

"Mrs. Nemman!?  Teresa!?  Can you hear me?"

The only response is a click as the connection is broken.
She stares at the silent phone for a heartbeat, then quickly
redials, but this time the call goes unanswered.
Determined, she pushes the fourth speed dial button on
her phone and is connected with the Bureau's main
switchboard.

"This is Special Agent Dana Scully.  Badge number
JTT0331613.  I need you to patch me through to the
Portland, Oregon field office immediately."

-----

Forty minutes later Scully speeds down a series of south-
east Portland side-streets, the winter-barren branches of
hundred-year-old maple trees and morning sunlight
casting crooked shadows across the neighborhood.  The
roadway angles sharply to the left and she decelerates at
the sight before her.

Police vehicles and a pair of unmarked Bureau sedans
block the street directly ahead.  An ambulance is parked
near the base of the walkway of a two story Tudor-style
home on Scully's right.  Concerned neighbors cluster
across the street and on the porches of nearby houses.
EMS personnel unload a gurney from the ambulance,
wheeling it up to the front door.  Uniformed officers begin
to mark off the area with crime tape.

Scully parks her vehicle half a block away and jogs up the
sidewalk  towards the house.  A plain-clothed man who
has been writing notes into a small leather-bound
notebook looks up and raises his hand in a gesture to stop.
Scully pulls out her identification, flipping it open for him
to see.

"I'm Special Agent Dana Scully.  What happened here?"

"We're not sure yet.  When our office took the call we sent
out a pair of agents and notified the local police.  When
they got here twenty minutes ago they found the front
door wide open, and the owner of the house..." he trails off
momentarily, flipping back a page in his notes, "Marie
Nemman, unconscious in the living room.  She appears to
be suffering from some type of burns around her eyes."

Scully closes her eyes, her heart sinking.

"What about her daughter and grandson?" she demands.

"There was nobody else here when the first agents arrived.
The mother said something about someone named Ray
when she woke up.  We've searched the house and other
agents are on their way down to question the neighbors,
but it looks like whatever happened was over by the time
we got here."

Scully turns, her eyes scanning the neighborhood.  The red
and blue lights of the police cruisers are reflecting off the
windows of a dozen stately houses.  More people are
gathering to watch the commotion, no doubt an unusual
sight in their well-manicured neighborhood.  She studies
the faces, searching for something familiar, Teresa's voice
in her ear.

"They're watching us.  Waiting.  Sooner or later...they'll
come for us again.   I know it.  There are things I remember
now, things you need to know."

She closes her eyes once more, her head tipping forward
and shoulders slumping.   She doesn't know how to do
this anymore.  Not without Mulder.

*****

Oconee State Park, South Carolina


Doggett scans the woods around him, looking for a sign of
either Kastner or Skinner but seeing nothing.  The three of
them agreed to separate earlier, attempting to cover more
area as quickly as possible.  Kastner carries a geiger
counter he borrowed from one of the park geologists,
while he and Skinner search the good old fashioned way.
They have been in the area where Billy Miles and the
others were found for almost two hours and Doggett's
irritation at the wasted time has grown with each passing
minute.  He swats at a large flying insect that has ignored
the cold weather to make its presence known.

He trudges to the top of a small hill and suddenly finds
himself directly above Kastner, who is focused on
something in the distance.

"Hey.  You turn something up?"

Kastner does not answer.  He turns slowly, facing Doggett.
A long moment passes.

"I asked a question.  You find something or not?"

The coldness of Kastner's face is unwavering.  Doggett
observes that Kastner's hands are empty, the geiger
counter nowhere to be seen.  When the man still refuses to
speak, Doggett's hand slowly reaches under his jacket
towards his Glock.  With a flick of his thumb he releases
the snap of the leather holster.

Within the length of one heartbeat Kastner's face shifts,
reconfiguring, and Doggett is looking at a total stranger
dressed in the agent's clothes.

"What the hell?"

He aims his weapon, but the man quickly retreats, a
nearby tree obstructing Doggett's line of fire.  With a
grimace he moves through the dense underbrush in
pursuit.  Doggett stumbles over the unfamiliar terrain,
struggling to keep up with the larger man.  He senses they
are circling back towards the meadow, and cuts across the
hillside, closing the distance between them.  He has nearly
caught up when an arm swings out and plunges
something metal into the back of the figure's neck.
Skinner steps out from behind a large tree as the bounty
hunter collapses onto the ground.  Doggett steps closer,
stunned.  Green foam oozes from the wound at the back of
the fallen man's neck.

"Be careful!  The blood can be toxic!" Skinner ushers him
away from the body, which is already beginning to ripple
and collapse.

"Blood?"  Doggett looks back at the body, horrified.

"Where's Kastner?"

"I..I don't know.  What the hell is that thing?" he gestures
towards the metal cylinder in Skinner's hand, but the older
man can't help but wonder whether he's referring to the
disintegrating figure on the ground behind them.

"Never mind.  I'll explain later.  Just go find him.  He may
need help."

Doggett moves back towards the trail unwillingly, his eyes
fixed on the puddle of green oozing acid where the bounty
hunter lay moments before.

Skinner slides the weapon closed and slips it into his
pocket.  He notices a low thumping sound, distant but
growing louder.  The foliage begins to sway back and forth
as a sudden gust of wind pushes out from the meadow.
He steps into the clearing as the blades of a helicopter
rotor settle in front of the tree line on the east side of the
meadow.  Within seconds another Huey comes into view
over the horizon, following directly behind the first.

The aircraft land in tandem on the far side of the clearing.
The cargo doors slide back and a dozen men in military
uniforms pour from the sides of each helicopter.  The men
wear gas masks and spread out across the clearing,
weapons in hand.  Several close on Skinner, ordering him
to put his hands in the air, while the others disperse
behind him into the woods.  He looks nervously over his
shoulder, knowing what they may find.

"What is this all about?"

An officer steps forward from behind the line of armed
soldiers.  He too wears a black protective respirator .
Although Skinner can not see his face, he recognizes the
insignia of a colonel on his beret and the name 'Henderson'
on the breast of his dark blue flack jacket.  When he
speaks, his voice is muffled but his authority carries
clearly.

"We're evacuating the area on orders of the Centers for
Disease Control, Mr. Skinner."

"The CDC?  On what grounds?"

"Biological hazard.  A small aircraft went down in these
woods that was carrying anthrax samples back to Atlanta."

"What?  We haven't heard anything about a downed
aircraft---" Skinner grimaces, recognizing the charade.
"How do you know my name?" The man doesn't answer
and Skinner is nudged towards the waiting helicopters.
"Hey! Answer me!"  He is herded across the meadow,
furious, and unwillingly climbs into the craft.  A soldier
stands guard outside the door, and moments later Doggett
is marched out of the woods.  Kastner is carried forward
by two soldiers, unconscious.

*****

Alex Krycek watches the main lab monitor intently.  On
the screen Teresa Hoese, looking miserable and
frightened, clutches Bobby close to her chest.  She faces
each of the walls in turn, taking in her new surroundings.

"You're sure this is a good idea?"  Parenti, standing behind
him, is concerned about the sudden change of plan.

Krycek chuckles as he turns around.  "A good idea?  No.
But they need our protection, and we're going to give it to
them."

"Does this mean there are others?"

"Yes, yes it does."  He lifts the object he has been grasping
in his hand.  It is the photo of Mulder from the bulletin
board in the ready room.  "And we're gonna need all the
help we can get."