From: ephemeral@ephemeralfic.org
Date: 6 Jan 2006 13:26:22 -0000
Subject: Abaddon\'s Reign - COMPLETE (1/18) NC-17 by aka "Jake"
Source: direct

Reply To: nejake@tds.net


Title: ABADDON'S REIGN
Author: aka "Jake"
Rating: NC-17 (language, violence, adult situations and 
graphic sexual descriptions)
Classification: Col/Post-Col, MSR, /O, Consensual and 
(implied) Non-Consensual Sex, Angst, Mytharc 
Spoilers: Seasons 1-9; picks up after "The Truth"
Summary: Mobilization of alien forces comes early.
Feedback: nejake@tds.net
Do not archive without permission.

Disclaimer: The characters Fox Mulder, Dana Scully, Alex 
Krycek, Walter Skinner, Cassandra Spender, Gibson Praise and 
William Mulder are the property of Chris Carter, FOX and 1013 
Productions.

WARNING: "Abaddon's Reign" is a grownup tale set in harsh 
times. A number of scenes contain graphic descriptions and 
portray adult situations that may offend some readers. Please, 
read with caution. 

Special thanks to betas mimic117 and xdksfan (Books I through 
the Epilogue), and Elizabeth Rowandale (Books I & II). Special 
thanks to my hubby, who serves as technical advisor of all 
things military.

I am posting "Abaddon's Reign" in parts over several days, 
however, the story is complete and can be found on my site at
http://akajake.net. 


ABADDON'S REIGN 
by aka "Jake"

In appearance the locusts were like horses arrayed for battle; 
on their heads were what looked like crowns of gold; their 
faces were like human faces, their hair like women's hair, and 
their teeth like lions' teeth; they had scales like iron 
breastplates, and the noise of their wings was like the noise 
of many chariots with horses rushing into battle. They have 
tails like scorpions, and stings, and their power of hurting 
men for five months lies in their tails. They have as king 
over them the angel of the bottomless pit; his name in Hebrew 
is Abaddon...   -- REVELATION 9:7 - 9:11 

BOOK I: FROM THE SMOKE CAME LOCUSTS (PART 1)

I-40, WESTBOUND
NEW MEXICO
MAY 23, 2002
6:26 P.M.

"Agent Scully, isn't it true that you and Mulder were lovers, 
that you got pregnant and had his love child?" 

Kallenbrunner's allegation circled Mulder's brain like a dust 
devil across desert sands. The prosecutor had bulls-eyed his 
romantic relationship with Scully. But it was the only thing 
the asshole had gotten right. 

Not that it mattered now. Skinner's rescue had put an abrupt 
end to the military's bogus tribunal. And a mere forty-two 
hours later, after escaping the USMC brig and dodging a fleet 
of black ops helicopters, Mulder and Scully were skirting the 
Zuni Mountains, fugitives on their way to an uncertain future.

Mulder squinted against the glare of the setting sun and tried 
to coax a few more miles from the rusted Chevy's struggling 
engine. Rohrer's SUV had been more dependable, but too 
conspicuous, so they'd ditched it back in Artesia, where 
Mulder hotwired the pickup.

He wished he'd been a little choosier. The truck was falling 
apart. The rumble of its ancient engine rattled his spine and 
set his teeth on edge. The noise was a little too much like 
the clomp, clomp, clomp of approaching soldiers, or that 
sound, that god-awful drumming that beats deep within the 
bowels of an alien spacecraft.

He winced at the memory and tried to corral his unease. Dread 
seemed a constant companion these days.

Sliding his focus to the rearview mirror, he checked again for 
pursuers.

The road remained empty; no one was tailing them...at least 
for the time being. 

Scully sat on the opposite end of the pickup's bench seat, her 
back ramrod straight. Sunglasses masked swollen eyes, and 
Mulder knew without asking that she was thinking of William. 
Hell, he was thinking about him, too, wondering if their son 
would hover like a specter between them forever.

He longed to grieve outwardly for William, but didn't want to 
heap his sadness on Scully. The additional burden might be 
more than she could bear. She was plagued by guilt, he knew. 
She blamed herself for giving up William, for surrendering too 
soon. 

Trouble was he blamed her for those things, too. 

Back at Mount Weather, she had looked to him for forgiveness. 
At the time, he let her think he understood her reasons. "I 
know you had no choice," he'd lied.

In truth, he didn't understand. He wanted to believe she'd 
done the right thing. More than anything, he wanted to trust 
her instincts on this. God knew he loved her more than life 
itself. And yet, he couldn't help but think there was more she 
might have done...more *he* would have done, if only she'd 
called him home.

Don't go there, he warned himself, shoving his misgivings 
aside. Burying his resentment was preferable to risking what 
little was left to them: their relationship, her heart, his 
sanity.  

Static crackled on the radio, punctuating the opinions of a 
conservative talk show host. Grit clouded the cracked 
windshield and coated Mulder's tongue and throat. An incoming 
draft from the open windows rustled the roadmap that draped 
Scully's lap. Her index finger, positioned somewhere between 
Albuquerque and Gallup, pinned it precariously to her knee.

Her frown deepened. "Route 666?" 

"Appropriate, don't you think, considering the world's going 
to hell in a hand basket." 

The engine groaned as if it concurred. Mulder downshifted, 
hoping the transmission would make it as far as Shiprock. 

"Much further?" he asked. 

She studied the map and estimated the distance. "Forty miles, 
more or less. What's in Shiprock?"

Should he tell her? He doubted she would accept the truth. She 
had come a long way in the last nine years, but believing 
Krycek appeared to him as a ghost was probably too out there. 
The suggestion would most likely provoke a harangue of 
statistics linking hallucinations to insanity. He would rebut 
with details from past case files involving phantoms. Their 
difference of opinion would escalate into a debate about 
delusion versus apparition, and, given their current emotional 
vulnerability, neither would win.

It was better to say nothing. 

Krycek's most recent visitation had come last night, not five 
minutes after Mulder finished making love to Scully in the 
Frontier Motel in Roswell. While she slept, Krycek urged him 
to haul ass to Shiprock, said it was important, a matter of 
life or death. "The solution is there," he'd said cryptically. 
When pressed for details, he shook his head and faded into the 
woodwork.

Typical Krycek. Evasive even after death.

"Shiprock is a 1700-foot eroded volcanic plume, sacred to the 
Navajos," Mulder explained, glancing at Scully. A lock of her 
hair had escaped her ponytail and was lashing at her left 
cheek. He refrained from reaching over and tucking it behind 
her ear. "They call it Tse'Bit'a'i'. It means 'Rock with 
Wings.'"

"And it's important because...?"

"According to legend, it was once a giant bird that carried 
the ancestral people to their land."

"I suppose you're going to tell me this mythical bird was in 
fact a spaceship."

He bristled at her stubborn refusal to admit what they both 
knew to be true. "Do you have another opinion?"

She silenced the radio with a twist of the dial. "It's a 
metaphor--"

"Yes."

"Which likely refers to the religious significance of the 
location...the mountain's ability to lift the human spirit 
above the problems of daily existence."

He appreciated her explanation almost as much as his own and 
relaxed a little. "Either way, it's where we gotta be."

"If it's sacred, won't it be closed to climbers?"

He grinned at her. "Since when do we play by the rules?"

*   *   *

Scully didn't argue. She was tired of discussing government 
conspiracies and alien invasion theories with Mulder. She 
longed for their son and found it increasingly difficult to 
care about anything else. 

Regret stung her anew as she recalled William's inconsolable 
wail when she handed him over to Skinner in the nave of Our 
Lady of Hope Church in Dawn, Virginia.

"He'll be fine," Skinner had assured her, his jaw tight. He 
held the baby and the diaper bag in a clumsy fashion, looking 
more uncomfortable than she'd ever seen him. "They're good 
people."

"You trust them?" 

"Yes. I've known Artie since--"

"Don't, sir." She silenced him with a stern look, then glanced 
nervously down the aisle to the closed oak doors. Events had 
conspired to make her as paranoid as Mulder, and the less she 
knew about the people who were taking her child, the better.

"Mumma-mumma-mumma." William writhed in Skinner's arms, his 
face blotchy and streaked with tears. He reached for her, his 
tiny fingers grasping at the air, and when she didn't take 
him, he howled louder.

"You'd better go," she told Skinner.

"You're sure?"

No, she wasn't sure. How could she be? Caressing her son's 
fiery cheek one last time, she whispered, "Goodbye, sweet 
William. I love you so much."

The words seared her throat. Rage, guilt, bitterness, 
fear...they hammered her chest as Skinner carried her son 
away. As soon as she was alone, she sank into a pew and broke 
into sobs. Harsh, furious sounds. She cried for forty-five 
minutes, forehead pressed against the wooden back of the pew 
in front of her, hands clutching her car keys like a Rosary. 

"Forgive me, please. It's the only way. He'll never have to be 
afraid of anyone or anything," she mumbled through her tears, 
praying it was true.

She repeated the words in her thoughts now, hoping she'd made 
the right decision, sparing her son a lifetime of fear and 
danger. 

An insect hit the windshield and exploded on impact. Mulder 
flicked on the wipers, smearing its amber blood across the 
glass, obstructing her view.

"No washer fluid," he announced, rattling the controls.

She dismissed the stain with a frown and turned to stare out 
the side window, where the landscape was lifeless and dry 
despite last night's rain. Spheres of brittle sagebrush dotted 
the desert, looking fragile and hollow, as if the slightest 
breeze would reduce them to dust.

Her heart felt the same.

Clearly she wasn't as emotionally agile as Mulder, who seemed 
to have rebounded, already turning his back on the fate of 
their little boy to focus on the future of mankind. She had 
hoped he might mourn with her, if only for a short while. But, 
predictably, he was rushing headlong into the unknown, 
searching for answers to a cosmic dilemma of apocalyptic 
proportions. 

It was Bellefleur all over again, she thought dismally. Mulder 
had wanted to go there, despite the danger. He had put himself 
in harm's way because he wanted to find that ship, to prove 
the things he'd believed for so long were true.

Well, he'd proved it. And if it had ended differently he might 
have lauded his foresight over her. As it turned out, however, 
he'd returned subdued. Not defeated -- never defeated -- 
but...diminished. To say reality had outstripped his 
expectations was an understatement. 

Last night in Roswell he had admitted, "I've been chasing 
after monsters with a butterfly net. You heard the man -- the 
date's set. I can't change that." 

She responded by telling him she would not accept defeat. "You 
only fail if you give up."

She'd meant it, too, although she knew it would take courage, 
determination and resilience to wage this new battle, and she 
wasn't certain she possessed these. Not any more. God help 
her, giving up William had depleted her reserves. Recovery 
would take time. 

Unfortunately, Mulder seemed unwilling to wait.

"There it is," he announced, drawing her attention to his side 
window.

She followed his gaze to where a stone mountain rode the 
desert like a giant windjammer. Shiprock was black and 
monumental, a plug of lava that had once filled the throat of 
a volcano, fallen victim to erosion ages ago. Deep gouges 
striped it with vertical shadows as the sun sank behind the 
distant Colorado mountains. Gilded by the setting sun, 
Shiprock's rugged peaks speared a bruise-colored sky. Low 
dikes of solidified magma radiated out from it in several 
directions, like a sea monster's tentacles.

"My God," she gasped.

"Not your run of the mill igneous intrusion. Gives you 
goosebumps, huh?"

He steered the truck onto the shoulder and shut off the 
engine.

"What do we do now?" she asked.

"We have a look-see."

"Mulder..." she said, trying to slow him down, but already he 
was out of the truck. "What are you expecting to find?" she 
called after him.

"Hopefully I'll know when I see it."

*   *   *

Krycek waited up ahead, slouched against an eight-foot-high 
stone dike that snaked across the wasteland to the mountain a 
quarter of a mile away. Mulder bee-lined toward him, thankful 
for the wall's shadow. It would conceal them from prying eyes 
as they hiked to Shiprock. By the time they got there, the sun 
would be set, making it impossible for anyone to spot them 
from the road. 

"Mulder...slow down." Scully trailed by several paces, 
oblivious of Krycek.

Mulder wondered again why these ghosts -- Krycek, X, the 
Gunmen -- showed themselves only to him. Were they visible 
because he had died himself, permanently opening up some sort 
of nexus between this world and the hereafter? Or had the 
experience of dying heightened his extrasensory perception? 

"It's all there." Krycek targeted the mountain with glittering 
eyes. "The questions and the answers. You'll see."

Mulder fell into step behind him and refrained from asking 
what the hell he was talking about. Now was not the time to be 
defending his sanity to Scully.

"It's just a rock, Mulder," she was saying, hanging back. 
"Aside from being interesting in a geological sense, there's 
nothing to see here."

"Maybe." He noticed Krycek was leaving no footprints in the 
sandy soil. "But something tells me we need to check it out 
anyway."

Krycek glanced back at him. "Mind picking up the pace?" 

"What's your hurry?" Scully asked. "The mountain isn't going 
anywhere." 

For a split second Mulder thought she had heard Krycek, and 
his accompanying relief was profound. It was also short-lived. 
She was looking past Krycek, completely unaware of his 
presence. 

"If we wait until morning we could at least see where we're 
going," she said.

"And so could everyone else," he reminded her.

"There is no everyone else, Mulder. We're in the middle of 
nowhere."

"We're on sacred Navajo land."

"All the more reason to turn back."

"Would you two shut up?" Krycek growled. "They'll hear you."

Without thinking, Mulder asked, "Who?" 

"What?" Scully stopped walking. 

Realizing his blunder, Mulder turned to face her. 
"Who...uh...who said 'He who hesitates is lost'?" 

She eyed him suspiciously. Krycek snorted and kept going.

"No one," she said. "It's a misquotation."

"A misquotation?" He tried to sound genuinely interested.

"The original line is from Joseph Addison's play 'Cato.' It 
was 'The woman that deliberates is lost.'"

"Good advice. You should take it, Scully." He reached for her 
hand and tugged her toward the mountain.

She frowned, yet let him lead her without further comment.

Twenty minutes later, the sun had set and they were standing 
at the base of Shiprock. The mountain loomed ominously over 
them, an impenetrable mix of obsidian and fine-grained basalt, 
more ancient than the desert sands that surrounded it. Night 
winds scraped across its corrugated surface, hissing like air 
from a clogged bellows; its whistle melded with the distant 
howls of coyotes and carried the dusty odor of sage.  

"What now?" Scully asked.

What indeed. Mulder looked to Krycek for a hint.

"'Woe, woe, woe to those who dwell on the earth,'" Krycek 
recited, "'at the blasts of the other trumpets which the three 
angels are about to blow.'" He cocked an ear. "Listen, 
Mulder..." A smirk curled his upper lip and his eyes flashed. 
"The trumpet of the fifth angel is about to blow."

Recognizing Krycek's reference, Mulder released Scully's hand 
to run his fingers over Shiprock's cold, hard surface. 
"Revelation," he murmured.

"Excuse me?" Scully asked.

"The fifth angel...in Revelation." Mulder glanced at her. 
"What does his trumpet herald?"

"Locusts, if I remember correctly," she said. 

"Come on, Mulder, you know the story," Krycek said. "A star 
falls from Heaven, bringing with it the key to Hell." 

"They weren't ordinary locusts," Scully said. She tipped her 
head back to study the steep cliffs and Mulder did the same. 
Overhead, the silky black sky appeared perforated by the spark 
of stars. "John compared them to scorpions. He said they would 
torture mankind for five months." 

"'He opened the shaft of the bottomless pit," Krycek 
continued, strolling westward around the formation, "and from 
the shaft rose smoke like the smoke of a great furnace, and 
the sun and air were darkened...'" 

Mulder fought an urge to tackle and beat him into silence. 
Throwing a punch would be pointless, he imagined; it was 
likely his fists would connect with nothing but air. 

Krycek kept on talking, even as he vanished into the 
mountain's shadow. "'And in those days, men will seek death 
and will not find it. They will long to die...'" His 
disembodied voice caused a rash of gooseflesh to stipple 
Mulder's neck and shoulders.

The words conjured up unspeakable memories, blindsiding Mulder 
with fear and immobilizing him as effectively as the rods that 
once pinned his limbs to an alien examination platform. For 
one terrible instant he was back on the spaceship. Aliens 
surrounded him, bug-eyed and impassive, communicating 
telepathically, or with those foreign click-clacking sounds 
that never failed to set his muscles quaking. Saws, lances and 
drills dug into him, opened him, allowed icy, intense pain to 
coat his innards like hoarfrost.

"Mulder?" Scully's voice slipped through the recollection, 
extricating him from Their clutches.

He tried to steady his breathing and conquer his terror. His 
pulse was thundering in his ears, drowning out all common 
sense. He flinched violently when she touched his arm.

"Mulder?"

"I-I'm all right." He sagged against the rock, wishing he'd 
told her months ago about the torture and flashbacks, trying 
to remember again why he'd kept them a secret.

"Let's go back to the truck," she urged.

He was so tempted...

"No, not yet."

"Why not?"

"I'm not ready to give up, Scully. You convinced me of that 
last night."

"Great."

"No, you were right. We can't stop now. Not as long as 
William--" Their son's name lodged in his throat. He blinked 
against the sting of tears.

"Mulder...please..." Her eyes filled, too. "Don't use what I 
did as an excuse to--"

"I wasn't insinuating anything." He didn't want to blame her, 
God help him, he didn't. He wanted only to love her, to love 
William, to be a family again. He struggled to find something 
hopeful to say. "I'm going to get him back," he promised, 
meaning it.

"It isn't safe."

"Then I'll make it safe."

"How, Mulder? How will you--?"

"I don't know," he said through gritted teeth. "I just will. I 
want my son back. I want our family to be together."

"Do you think I don't wish that were possible?"

"Do you, Scully?" His bitterness boiled out unexpectedly, 
fiery hot and unstoppable, like the molten lava that had once 
created Shiprock so long ago. 

She drew back, eyes rounded and mouth gaping. His accusation 
had obviously stung her, but he refused to apologize. There 
had been alternatives -- like calling him out of hiding to 
help her -- but she'd chosen not to do that. She had made her 
decision without him. She'd done exactly what she wanted to do 
and had given him no opportunity to object.

"You gave him up, Scully. You sent him away without even 
asking if I minded."

"To protect him."

No, that was his father's damned excuse all over again. Bill 
Mulder gave away his own child, traded Sam's life for a few 
strands of alien DNA and a shit-load of hollow promises...as 
if she were a thing, a possession, not a helpless little girl. 
To save her, the Smoker had said. But it hadn't saved her. 
She'd suffered unimaginably and now she was dead...dead 
because Bill Mulder had been too cowardly to fight for her. 
He'd abandoned Sam to his enemies, relinquished his parental 
responsibilities, and Mulder could not forgive him for it.

And he couldn't seem to forgive Scully either, as much as he 
wanted to. 

"You did it for you," he challenged.

"How can you think that?"

"Because you sent me away, too."

"For the same reason! It's why I didn't contact you. It wasn't 
safe."

"Come on, Scully, admit it...you were relieved when I left," 
he said, fury overtaking him.

"I wasn't."

"Out of sight, out of--"

"No!"

"Yes, just like you're relieved William is gone now."

"I'm not...I'm...I'm..." Her eyes dodged his accusing stare. 
"Okay, yes, I am relieved, but only because he's better off." 

"Is he? Was *I* better off?" He tensed at the memory of the 
sergeant's raised baton. Its wallop could trigger a 
flashback...put him on board the alien spacecraft...restrained 
on the examination platform...with its saws and lasers. God, 
everything was running together, the alien's torture, the 
beatings at Mount Weather, months of exile, separated from his 
family... "You didn't want the responsibility, Scully. You 
still don't," he accused.

"That's not true."

"Then help me," he begged.

"Do what? There's nothing here!"

He bit back a retort. What was the point of arguing? She'd 
clearly given up. She was shutting her eyes to the threat 
against them, against William, against everyone. "Go back to 
the truck, Scully. I'll do this on my own."

"You aren't going to find anything, Mulder. The mountain is 
solid stone."

"At least I'm trying." History was repeating itself, he 
thought bitterly. His entire adult life had been consumed by 
his search for his sister and the hope of reuniting his broken 
family. Now he was about to embark on a similar quest...alone, 
if necessary.

Scully crossed her arms and shook her head, as if dismissing 
him, dismissing their son, dismissing the world's future. 
"Mulder--"

"Go," he ordered. "Wait for me in the truck...or, or take it, 
leave without me...do whatever you want. Live your life, 
Scully. You're absolved of all responsibility. You should like 
that." It was a cruel thing to say, but, God damn it, it was 
the truth. She'd given away their son for the sake of 
convenience and at that moment he despised her for it.

He spun on his heel and found himself face to face with 
Krycek. 

"Awww. Your little lovers' spat is breaking my heart," Krycek 
said. "It's also wasting time. I'm about to hand you the key 
to Hell, Mulder. Do you understand?" 

He didn't, but if Scully wasn't willing to fight for their 
son's future, he would do it without her. He wasn't going to 
give up...like her...like his father.

He bulldozed straight through Krycek and was only mildly 
surprised when he felt nothing. Scully remained where she was. 
She called out to him and he ignored her, marching around a 
stone outcropping. How could she care so little about their 
son? About the world?

Krycek appeared once again ahead of him, at the top of a 
short, gravelly slope. He was standing in the entrance of a 
ten-foot-high fissure. The indentation was wide enough for 
them to enter side-by-side, but, as Mulder soon discovered, it 
dead-ended six feet in. The uneven ground was littered with 
empty beer bottles. A used condom glowed lunar-white in a 
shaft of pale moonlight. 

"If I'd known this was what you had in mind, Krycek, I would 
have put on something a little sexier."

Krycek ignored his comment and pointed to a small, crescent-
shaped groove in the wall at about shoulder height. "Press 
there."

"What is it?"

"Press it and find out."

Mulder fitted his fingers into the indentation.

"Nothing's happening."

"Press harder," Krycek urged.

He did, and to his amazement a six-by-six-inch panel slid open 
beside the groove, exposing an illuminated keypad. The keys 
were labeled with symbols...symbols that looked very much like 
the ones he'd seen on Merkmallen's rubbing two years ago. 

Thankfully, these markings sparked no noisy onslaught of 
voices in his head.

"I assume this opens some sort of door."

Krycek nodded.  

"To where?"

"I told you -- to Hell."

"And you know the combination."

"I do."

"Then let's not keep the Devil waiting."

"You don't want Scully to come along?"

"She's made her decision."

"Okay." Krycek nodded at the keypad. "Third row center, top 
row right, second row right."  

Mulder punched the keys as directed. An unseen door hissed 
open at the back of the hollow, exposing an elevator-sized 
chamber. A sickly sweet odor wafted from the cavity. He 
recognized it from the alien ship in Antarctica. Syrupy. 
Cloying. It had stuck to his sinuses, sat like a stone in his 
gut. For weeks after his return he swore he could smell it on 
his hair and skin. No amount of scrubbing seemed to rid him of 
it. Only time had caused it to eventually fade.

"After you," Krycek said. 

Mulder held his breath against the stench, and stepped inside.

*   *   * 

"Mulder?" Scully called.

No answer. Nothing but the lonely howls of distant coyotes.

Irritated, she glared in the direction he had gone. She could 
accept his grief, but, damn it, not his resentment. She'd done 
what was best for William. The threat against him had been 
real and immediate. She'd had no choice. Mulder admitted as 
much back in his cell at Mount Weather. She'd thought he 
understood.

"Mulder!"

No reply.

Fine. He's hurting. He only recently learned about William, 
she reminded herself; he needs time to come to terms with it. 
Lord knew she was still trying to accept the loss herself. It 
was something of a relief, at least, to know Mulder was more 
deeply affected by the loss of their son than he'd been 
letting on.   

She decided to remain where she was and wait for him. He would 
return in a few minutes, they'd get back in the truck and move 
on. Eventually they would sort out their hurt feelings.

The sound of tires on pavement drew her eyes to the road. Two 
military vehicles slowed to a stop behind the parked pickup.

Dropping to a crouch, she watched as four soldiers emerged 
from the forward jeep. They edged cautiously toward the truck 
with rifles drawn. Finding it empty, they opened the driver's 
side door and searched the cab. They confiscated her roadmap 
and the plastic bag of supplies she had purchased at a 
convenience store earlier in the day. She mentally inventoried 
its contents: bottled water, breakfast bars, local newspaper 
and a box of condoms -- nothing that could be linked 
specifically to them.

The soldiers took a moment to confer. Their gravelly voices 
floated across the desert as they bent their heads over her 
drooping roadmap. One man pointed south, then turned to stare 
seemingly straight at her.    

Instinctively, she ducked to conceal her face, which no doubt 
was reflecting the rising moon as brightly as a damned beacon. 
She remained hunkered down until she heard the pickup's engine 
roar to life. Damn it! Mulder left the keys in the ignition 
and now they were taking it.

The driver steered the truck onto the highway and continued 
north. The forward jeep followed it. The second jeep pulled 
onto the road as well, then unexpectedly swerved from the 
pavement to head straight across the sand in her direction.

She scrambled to her feet and ran after Mulder.  

"Mulder?" she called, panic rising in her throat as the jeep's 
headlights jounced nearer. "Mulder, where are you?"

She followed his tracks by moonlight, around an outcropping 
and up an incline to a shadowed cleft in the rock. Stepping 
inside, she dead-ended. He wasn't there.

"Mulder?" 

Frantically she searched the dark cave with her hands, 
expecting to find a hidden tunnel at the back. She encountered 
only impenetrable stone. 

"Mulder? Mulder, where did you go?"

*   *   *

Mulder's stomach rocketed to his throat when the chamber's 
floor seemingly dropped out from under him.

He lurched and grabbed in vain for something solid to hang on 
to. "You could have warned me," he growled at Krycek.

Krycek chuckled. "And spoil the surprise?" 

Regaining his balance, Mulder said, "I feel like Alice down 
the rabbit hole."

"This ain't the way to Wonderland, my friend." 

"Mind telling me where we're going? And don't give me any more 
Revelation crap."

"Then I have nothing to say."

A sudden but cushioned stop unbalanced Mulder again, rocking 
him into a wall. He glared at Krycek. 

"Our floor," Krycek announced when the door hissed open.

"After you," Mulder insisted.

Krycek stepped out and led them down a winding corridor. The 
walls were rough-textured and slick with condensation, oozing 
a slimy, purple-black substance. It smelled foul and pooled in 
steaming puddles on the uneven floor. Misty air, imbued with 
microscopic phosphorescent particles, collected in the high, 
coffered ceiling. The glow provided scant illumination, yet 
created monstrous shadows in the doorways that pocked the 
walls every twenty yards or so. The doors were metallic and 
situated several inches above the floor, like in a submarine. 
All were shut.

"We're in a spaceship," Mulder guessed.

Abductee testimonials aside, he knew extraterrestrial crafts 
were not smooth, clean and bright. He had learned firsthand 
they were dismal places. Damp, organic. Alien in every sense 
of the word.

Krycek traipsed through a puddle without creating a ripple. 
"Not just any spaceship. This is Tse'Bit'a'i'."

"Rock with Wings."

It looked very much like the ships Mulder had seen in 
Antarctica and Bellefleur, except this one was retrofitted for 
human occupation. Exit signs pointed the way out -- in 
English. A water fountain gleamed in an alcove up ahead. 
Beside it was a clearly labeled restroom.

"Renovations look new," Mulder said.

"Relatively."

"It's not like them to be so accommodating."

"They can be cooperative when it suits their purpose."

"What is their purpose?"

"Global domination, annihilation of the human species...the 
usual."

Mulder frowned. He was tired of answers that told him nothing. 
"What are they doing in New Mexico *specifically*?"

"That's what I'm about to show you." Krycek paused in front of 
an unmarked door. "Go ahead. Open it. Greet the new world."      

Mulder tested the wheel-shaped handle and it turned easily 
beneath his hands. He swung the door inward, exposing a gaping 
black hole. It was impossible to make out what was beyond the 
dark threshold, but the hum of hidden machinery, combined with 
the trickle of water, was sickeningly familiar.

A frigid draft gusted into the hall. 

"Someone forgot to turn on the heat." Mulder's words fogged 
the chilled air.

"The cold slows the incubation process." 

"Incubation of what?"

"You already know the answer."

"I was afraid you'd say that." 

Mulder hesitated before entering the black room, trying to 
tamp down a wave of panic. His wrists and ankles tingled where 
they'd been pierced when he was held captive by the aliens.

"Problem?" Krycek asked.

"Just watch my back, Krycek." 

Mulder stepped over the raised doorframe, triggering the 
room's lights.

The interior space was vast; its remote edges vanished in a 
distant mist. A vaulted ceiling, several stories high, was 
cloaked in fog. The ground floor lay thirty feet below the 
broad, metal landing where Mulder was standing.

Yet it was the room's contents, not its size, that staggered 
him. Cryopods -- alien incubators. Row upon row, they throbbed 
with a green glow that set his pulse racing. 

"There must be hundreds," he said, swallowing hard. 

"Thousands," Krycek corrected, "here and all over the planet, 
in places just like this one -- ships, buried beneath the 
ground, ready to rise up when the time is right."

"It's too soon for mobilization," Mulder said. "The 
communication I intercepted set the date at December 22, 
2012."

"That is the plan."

"So...gestating aliens are being kept in stasis until the 
Colonists are ready," Mulder said, thinking aloud.

"It takes a lot of time to coordinate a planetary invasion." 

Mulder descended the stairs on numbed legs. The hard soles of 
his boots clanked on the metal treads, echoing through the 
chamber. He tried to walk quietly, but his feet felt leaden. 
Mist rolled across the floor, moved by some invisible 
ventilation system. It carried the aliens' saccharin stench, 
which grew more pungent the further down he descended. 

"Why did you bring me here?" he asked.

"To stop this."

"Why not do it yourself?"

"You overestimate my abilities."

Mulder tentatively stepped onto the shrouded floor. The ground 
felt pebbly beneath his feet, like hardened lava. The mist 
parted in roiling waves as he approached the nearest cryopod. 
Frost coated its glass front, making it impossible to see 
inside. He scrubbed it with his palm to clear a small window.

"Consider yourself warned," Krycek said.

"Warned about wh--?" Mulder peered into the pod, glimpsed the 
unborn alien's host, and blinked in astonishment. "It's you!"

"They say imitation is the sincerest form of flattery."

Mulder moved quickly to the next incubator and scraped away 
more frost. "This is you, too."

"They're all me."

"All of them?" Mulder asked, incredulous. He glanced down the 
seemingly endless row. 

"They're clones," Krycek said.

"I assumed as much, but...why you?"

"It's possible I pissed somebody off."

The Krycek behind the glass wore a distraught expression, 
giving him a look of vulnerability that Mulder had seldom 
witnessed in the original. Clearing more of the glass, he 
exposed the clone's distended torso. Translucent skin 
stretched tautly over a fully formed alien fetus.

"If you were a Butterball, your timer'd be popped," Mulder 
said. "This alien looks done."

"It is. They all are." 

Shit, tens of thousands of infant aliens, ready to be 
unleashed upon the world.

"What do you expect me to do?" Mulder asked.

"Destroy them."

"Now you're overestimating my abilities."

"There's a control room. Back there." Krycek tilted his head 
toward an open door. "You can end this, Mulder. Shut off their 
life support and postpone colonization."

Could it be that easy? 

Mulder headed cautiously for the small side room. 

As it turned out, there was no need for stealth; no one was 
inside the closet-sized room. A bright blue holographic 
display screen, approximately three feet across and seemingly 
without physical support dominated the small space. A wheeled 
chair, tucked beneath a low podium with a built-in keyboard, 
faced the display. Mulder was relieved to see the keys 
included the English alphabet, along with more of the foreign 
symbols.

He slid into the chair and tapped the Enter key.

An access window appeared on the display, complete with an 
empty textbox and a blinking cursor.    

"It's password protected," Krycek said, standing beside him.

"But you know the password, right?"

"Nnnot exactly."

"Then how are we supposed to get in?"

"I thought you might...you know..." Krycek shrugged.

"Guess?"

"Isn't that what you do best...Spooky?" 

"Shit, Krycek."

Mulder scanned the tiny room for clues, hoping against hope to 
find something like the Vegreville snow globe. When nothing 
presented itself, he considered some of the code words he'd 
encountered in the recent past. 

He typed FIGHT THE FUTURE.

//ACCESS DENIED//

END GAME

//ACCESS DENIED//

"Too easy," Krycek said. "They aren't stupid." He looked out 
at the warehouse of clones. "They do have an annoying sense of 
humor though."

"You want me to try NEENER, NEENER?"

Mulder studied the keys. The password wouldn't be something 
colloquial, he knew. It would be ancient, like the aliens 
themselves. Something like Tse'Bit'a'i' or...  

Scully said Merkmallen's rubbing contained a passage from 
Genesis. This password would be from a religious text, too. 

But which one?

Krycek's earlier warning echoed in his thoughts. Revelation. 
The herald of the Apocalypse.

Tentatively, he typed FIFTH ANGEL.

The access window cleared. It was replaced by an encrypted 
screen, filled with more alien symbols and a prompt for a code 
name.

"Damn it." Whose name? A real person? Another Biblical 
reference?

"Recite Revelation again," he ordered Krycek.

"Which passage?"

"Any one that mentions Satan."

"'In appearance the locusts were like horses arrayed for 
battle; on their heads were what looked like crowns of gold; 
their faces were like human faces, their hair like women's 
hair, and their teeth like lions' teeth; they had scales like 
iron breastplates, and the noise of their wings was like the 
noise of many chariots with horses rushing into battle.'"

The prompt began to blink. It must be timed, Mulder realized. 
If he didn't respond soon, it could shut him out permanently.

"Get to it, Krycek."

"'They have tails like scorpions, and stings, and their power 
of hurting men for five months lies in their tails.'"

The prompt turned yellow.

"Hurry up!" Mulder growled.

"'They have as king over them the angel of the bottomless pit; 
his name in Hebrew is Abaddon, and in Greek he--"

"That's it." Mulder quickly typed ABADDON into the text box.    

The prompt vanished. It was replaced by a schematic of the 
ship in wire-frame. An entire lower level flashed with red. 
Mulder guessed it designated the "nursery" next door.

Krycek's low whistle of appreciation was cut short by a loud 
hiss in the outer room. A tattoo of what sounded like the 
release of several thousand locks sent a chill up Mulder's 
spine.  

"Shit." He leapt from the chair, which teetered and crashed to 
the floor. Lunging toward the outer room, he stopped short 
when the front panels on the nearest row of pods sprang open. 
Steam blasted skyward. A klaxon began to blare, so loud that 
Mulder clapped his hands to his ears. "Damn it, Krycek," he 
shouted at the top of his lungs, "I thought you--"

He spun to confront Krycek, only to find he was alone in the 
control room.

Son of a bi--

ABADDON'S REIGN
BOOK I: FROM THE SMOKE CAME LOCUSTS (PART 2)

*   *   *

"We have you, ma'am. Please, step out of the cave." 

Scully could see four solemn-faced soldiers from where she 
crouched in the shadows. Silvery in the moonlight, they took 
on a metallic appearance and she wondered if they were human 
or supersoldiers. Each aimed an M-16 into her hiding place.

"I'm not armed," she called to them. They didn't lower their 
weapons. "I'm coming out."

As soon as she was in the open, one of the soldiers -- a 
stocky man with pale eyes and jutting chin -- approached her 
and demanded, "Face the cliff, hands on your head, feet 
apart."

"I'm not--"

"Turn around! Now!"

Reluctantly she pivoted and interlocked her fingers over her 
head. He frisked her, brusquely patting her arms, torso and 
legs.

"Satisfied?" she asked over her shoulder when he was finished.

"You're not carrying ID," he challenged.

She almost said, "Why should I? I know who I am," but that was 
the sort of smart-alecky retort Mulder would give, a response 
that would land him in deeper trouble. She decided to answer 
with a simple "no" instead.

"What's your name, ma'am?"

"Is it okay to turn around?" she asked, avoiding his question.

He grabbed her raised elbow and roughly spun her. 

"What are you doing out here, Ms...?"

"Taking a walk," she said.

"Alone?"

"Do you see anyone else?"

"I see a man's footprints."

She shrugged, careful not to glance down. "There are beer 
bottles and a condom in that cave, too, but it doesn't mean 
there's a party going on." 

Jesus, she sounded like Mulder in spite of herself.

She thrust her chin at the empty highway. "Where did you take 
my truck?" 

"You're trespassing on Indian land."

"Bring back my truck and I'll be on my way."

"Can't do that, ma'am.  We--" The soldier was interrupted by a 
signal from his radio. He stepped away to answer it and the 
three others moved to surround her, rifles held high.

The seriousness of her situation hit her full force. If they 
discovered who she was, she would be arrested on the spot. And 
if they discovered Mulder was with her, they would hunt him 
down and kill him.  

The soldier on the radio kept an eye on her while he listened 
to the other end of his transmission. He ended his 
conversation with a clipped "Yes, sir!" before returning the 
radio to his belt. "There's trouble," he announced to the 
others. "We're being called back." 

"What about her?" one of the soldiers asked.

"Command says bring her." 

*   *   *

"God damn it, Krycek!" Mulder bellowed, furious at his own 
gullibility. In hindsight it seemed so obvious: Krycek had 
wanted to free the alien fetuses, not kill them. "You used me, 
you son of a bitch!" 

Out in the nursery all hell was breaking loose. Cryopod doors 
were bursting open one after the next, releasing rivers of 
yellow-green liquid onto the floor. As the pods drained, 
hundreds of naked Krycek look-alikes came into view. Immature 
aliens writhed inside their swollen, translucent hosts, 
snarling and clawing in an effort to birth themselves.

In minutes, the entire place would be crawling with them.

The staircase where Mulder first entered the nursery was fifty 
yards away. To reach it, he would need to run between two long 
rows of open cryopods. He saw no alternative, short of 
shutting himself into the control room, and he doubted he 
could hold out in there for very long. 

Gathering his courage, he took a deep breath, and then 
launched himself toward the stairs. The floor was slick with 
foul-smelling liquid and he skidded as he ran. When a cryopod 
ruptured beside him and spewed its amniotic fluid directly 
into his path, he lost his footing. 

He hit the floor hard. The impact knocked the air from his 
lungs. Cold oily liquid saturated his clothes. He struggled to 
inhale, to get his legs under him. 

Above him in the incubator, an unborn alien screeched inside 
its host. It slashed out, its sharp claws puncturing the 
gelatinous tissue of the host's abdomen. The Krycek clone's 
eyes glazed with obvious pain, and its expression, coupled 
with the sickening sound of tearing flesh, prompted Mulder's 
paralyzed limbs into action. Gulping air, he scrambled on 
hands and knees toward the stairs. 

He made it past three more pods when the door at the top of 
the stairs suddenly swung open and half a dozen armed soldiers 
rushed onto the landing. Mulder dropped onto his belly and 
slid backward. Concealed behind a cryopod, he watched the 
soldiers peer down into the nursery with startled expressions. 

"The tanks are open!" one man shouted over the wail of the 
klaxon. "The Infants are wakening!"

"It's too soon!" yelled another.

"Out of my way," ordered an officer, who shouldered onto the 
platform.

Mulder gaped at him. Jesus! It was like looking in a mirror. 
The officer was his identical twin!

What the hell was going on? 

*   *   *

Pinned between two guards in the back seat of the jeep, Scully 
craned to see where they were going. The men's shoulders 
pounded her with bruising force each time the vehicle jounced 
over a dune. The driver wasn't steering toward the paved road, 
she discovered when she peered past him. He was heading north, 
around Shiprock.

"Where are you taking me?" she demanded, putting as much steel 
into her voice as possible.

All four soldiers remained stone-faced and silent.

Beyond the windshield, the jeep's headlights illuminated tufts 
of dry weeds and occasional rock outcroppings. Dust billowed 
past the side windows, obscuring the view.

"Face front," ordered the man beside her, when she twisted to 
look out the back.

She eyed his rifle, which was propped loosely between his 
knees and aimed at the roof. He carried an automatic in a 
holster on his belt and wore a sheathed knife strapped to his 
calf. The man to her right was equipped with identical 
weapons.

She was jostled again when the driver made a sudden left turn 
and began speeding straight at the mountain. The men remained 
expressionless as the jeep careened toward solid rock.

Scully's stomach lurched when they hit a bump and were briefly 
airborne. The wheels hit the ground hard, jolting her spine. 

The distance to the mountain was shrinking at an alarming 
rate, yet the driver maintained his insane course. They were 
only fifty yards away and closing fast.

Scully gripped the seat in anticipation of impact. The 
mountain loomed closer -- forty yards, thirty.

"Stop!" she shouted, shocked by this inexplicable turn of 
events. Were they on a suicide mission? "What the hell are 
you--?"

With only a few feet to go, the rock wall suddenly evaporated, 
exposing a hangar-sized portal. The stone had been an 
illusion, concealing a cavernous, brightly lit antechamber. 

But an antechamber to what?

*   *   *

Mulder stared in disbelief at his doppelganger. A clone, he 
guessed, but created for what purpose? Certainly not to host 
an alien fetus, like the Krycek clones surrounding him. This 
man was dressed as a soldier and he appeared to be in charge 
of the others. 

Wearing a plain black uniform and spit-polished, knee high 
boots, Mulder's double surveyed the room with glittery eyes. 
An expression of disbelief -- or perhaps annoyance -- furrowed 
his brow. An odd tattoo darkened his right cheek. It resembled 
the alien symbols on the computer keyboard in the control 
room. 

"Open the western bay doors," his twin ordered, jabbing a 
finger toward the back of the room, pinpointing an exit that 
Mulder couldn't see from his lower vantage.

"Release the Infants, sir?" gasped one of the soldiers.

The officer scowled. "Do it. Now." 

"But, Commander Ca-Lo--"

"Do it!" he roared, before spinning on his heel and exiting 
into the hall. 

The soldiers took one last horrified look at the nursery, then 
followed "Ca-Lo." The door clanked with finality behind them. 

Mulder had avoided detection, but his relief was short-lived. 
All around him the aliens were coming to life, howling with 
high-pitched, inhuman voices, thrashing wildly to be free of 
their hosts. Their enormous, unblinking eyes targeted him as 
he rose on unsteady legs.

He glanced at the stairs and the door above. Should he try for 
it? It was probably locked. And if not, the soldiers were 
likely still on the other side.

He could see only two possible courses of action: make a dash 
for the control room or try to find the "western bay doors." 
He had no idea how far off that particular exit was or where 
it might lead him. 

The alien in the nearest cryopod made the decision for him 
when its claws penetrated its host's belly. The clone's 
translucent flesh split lengthwise and the alien thrust its 
head out. It hissed at Mulder, barring razor-sharp teeth. 
Greenish-yellow slime dripped from its fangs.

"Face only a mother could love." Mulder back-pedaled. 

The alien shrieked and snapped its jaws. It freed an arm.

Mulder broke into a run. 

*   *   *

Ca-Lo strode down the hall, his long legs carrying him quickly 
toward the elevator. Lieutenant Harris, a shorter, older human 
with gunmetal-gray hair and a battle scar that had left him 
blind in one eye, hurried to keep up.

"Contact the fleet immediately," Ca-Lo ordered Harris. "Tell 
them we're abbreviating the timeline."

"But, sir--"

Ca-Lo held out a hand, silencing the Lieutenant's objections. 
"I won't squander ten thousand Infants." Nor would he waste 
the advantage of a preemptive strike by tipping his hand to 
the terrestrial military.

He was taking a risk. The Society reviled him, he knew. They 
made no secret of it, even while they praised his valuable 
genes. Fucking hypocrites. They claimed he was a bona fide 
link to their Creators because he was born immune to their 
virus. The Derivation flowed in his veins they said, and yet 
they barely tolerated him. Truth be told, he scared the shit 
out of them. Especially the damn Refuters. There were many 
among that loathsome group who would kill him in his sleep, if 
they dared.

Let the whole stinking lot of them squawk, he decided. His 
position within the Armada was assured. The Nih-hi-cho 
commanders would follow his lead and anyone who questioned him 
would be executed. He was their best strategist, necessary for 
colonization, and they all knew it.    

He headed for the Bridge, where he would direct the Armada to 
an altitude of 30,000 meters. There he would initiate an 
electromagnetic pulse. Targeting and discharging the array of 
e-munitions was of paramount importance, to minimize both 
human casualties and collateral damage. The objective was to 
paralyze the planet, not destroy it. To that end, high-energy 
pulses would be aimed at government buildings housing 
strategic computer equipment, production facilities, military 
bases, known radar sites and communications nodes -- all 
previously identified through Nih-hi-cho reconnaissance 
operations and hired human spies. Successful deployment would 
take out the Earth's telecommunications systems, national 
power grids, finance and banking systems, transportation and 
mass media. Resulting ionized gases would produce an extended 
fireball blackout, blocking short wavelength radio and radar 
signals during the critical first wave. 

The world was about to be plunged into chaos. The Infants 
would be released -- a decade sooner than planned. Ca-Lo 
considered it an unexpected boon. The terrestrial military 
would be caught completely off guard. Humans around the globe 
would serve as a food source for the developing Infants, and 
by the time the newborns metamorphosed into adults, permanent 
breeding compounds would be up and running.

Ca-Lo felt a surge of confidence. He had been preparing for 
this moment his entire life, and his sacrifices were about to 
come to fruition. He would lead mobilization, win the war 
against humanity and then reign like a deity over Earth.     

Turning to Lieutenant Harris, he growled, "Relay my orders to 
all hands: prepare for launch."

*   *   *

The stocky soldier with the jutting chin jabbed Scully in the 
ribs with the butt of his rifle. "Out of the jeep!"

The lankier man on her right grabbed her arm and dragged her 
from her seat. He hustled her between two rows of parked 
military vehicles. She stumbled along, gaping at the 
strangeness of her surroundings. Buttresses rose rib-like, 
supporting a dome-shaped ceiling high over her head. Catwalks 
crisscrossed the chamber several stories up and barrel-shaped 
tunnels snaked away from the vaulted space like splayed 
fingers. The steamy air smelled of decaying fruit and the 
walls dripped with an oily substance, reminding her of a 
freshly gutted corpse.

"This way." The soldier tugged her forward.

All around them, people were scurrying from one place to the 
next, swift but silent. Their sheer numbers shocked her. 
Hundreds, maybe thousands, crowded the antechamber and its 
tiered mezzanines. Her eyes widened when she spotted what 
appeared to be aliens among the hordes. Delicate, hairless 
creatures, with large inky eyes and chilling expressions. 
Jesus, these were Mulder's "grays."

Her knees buckled and she would have fallen if not for the 
soldier's tight grip on her arm.

"Let me go," she protested weakly.

She wanted to run away, leave this incomprehensible place, 
find Mulder and escape to somewhere far, far away. Craning to 
see the exit door, she discovered it was closing, shutting her 
in.

She wrenched her arm free and bolted for the door. In fewer 
than three strides, she was tackled from behind and knocked to 
the ground. Muscular arms tightened around her ribs, crushing 
her, cutting short her breath. Panting, she struggled to roll 
out from under her attacker.

"No you don't," growled a male voice, his words steaming her 
ear.

"You have no right to keep me here against my will," she 
grunted.

He chuckled and then the world blurred as he hauled her 
roughly to her feet. She felt the cold barrel of his gun press 
against the back of her neck.

"You'll be here for a while, ma'am."

"Why? What do you want from me?"

"That's not for me to say." He prodded her forward.

She walked on numbed legs, watching crowds scuttle around her. 
She followed one of the grays with her eyes. It moved like a 
salmon upstream, weaving its way through the living current. 
When it reached a gathering of soldiers beneath an arched 
tunnel, it stopped and gave a slight bow to the group. It was 
only then that Scully noticed the small, human woman standing 
at the center of the gathering.

The woman was Cassandra Spender, Scully was sure of it, even 
at this distance. She was about to call out to her, when the 
ground began to shake.

The crowd paused for a moment, as if taking a collective 
breath before their urgency returned two-fold and they rushed 
ahead to whatever tasks they were bent on doing.

The tremor increased. A low rumble emanated from somewhere 
deep beneath the vibrating floor. Cassandra and her entourage 
vanished down a side tunnel.

"Is it an earthquake?" Scully asked her guard, surprised by 
the fear in her own voice.

"Hurry!" He shoved her toward one of the many tunnels. "We 
don't have much time."

"Time for what?"

"Just keep moving." 

*   *   *

Mulder raced for the control room. His pulse hammered in his 
ears as he pumped his arms and legs, pushing himself for all 
he was worth. The quaking floor threatened to unbalance him 
with each splashing stride. He willed himself not to fall...or 
panic when he realized the cause of the vibration. The ship 
was powering up. In a matter of minutes it would be soaring 
above the Earth's atmosphere. 

Ahead, a cryopod shuddered as the unborn alien within fought 
to birth itself. Biting and clawing, it gutted the terror-
stricken clone from the inside out. Internal organs spewed 
like confetti when the translucent shell finally ruptured and 
the newborn jumped free. It landed on powerful, stilted legs, 
then pivoted to face Mulder. Opening fanged jaws, it let loose 
a heart-stopping shriek. 

Mulder dodged it by sprinting down an adjoining row.

The alien gave chase. It moved with alarming speed, scrambling 
effortlessly over the slick floor. Looking like a cross 
between an insect and a man, it was lithe, swift and rippling 
with muscles. It lunged for Mulder, raking four-inch-long 
talons across the back of his shirt.  

At the sound of tearing fabric, Mulder changed course again, 
darting around a wobbling cryopod. Hoping to thwart the alien 
by knocking the pod into its path, he rammed it as he passed. 
The blow forced a grunt from his lungs. Pain shot through his 
arm, so intense he was certain he'd dislocated his shoulder. 
The cryopod teetered. He staggered out of its way as it 
toppled. It hit the ground with a deafening crash, shattering 
on impact and spewing broken glass and green liquid fifteen 
feet into the air. Mulder raised his uninjured arm to protect 
his head, but was too slow; a blizzard of glass ripped across 
his left ear and neck.

He howled and clapped a hand over his bleeding ear. The floor 
was shuddering violently now. Off to his right another pod 
collapsed and exploded. More debris missiled at him and he 
ducked to avoid being hit. Again he was too late -- several 
shards arrowed him in the side. Gritting his teeth against the 
sting, he lurched toward the control room.

An alien appeared several yards ahead, blocking his escape. 
Mulder skidded to a stop. His breath was coming in ragged 
gasps, his ear was bleeding down his shirt front, and his 
right arm hung uselessly at his side. The alien recognized his 
vulnerability. Tilting its head with malevolent curiosity, it 
watched him with bright, unblinking eyes. 

Mulder wasted no time; he spun on his heel and ran for the 
stairs. If there was a God in heaven, the door at the upper 
platform would be unlocked and the hall outside vacant.

The alien loped after him, its clattering talons announcing 
its approach. It was gaining fast. The stairs were still 
thirty feet away. Mulder glanced over his shoulder to gauge 
the alien's progress. His blood ran cold when he spotted a 
second alien joining the first. Then a third and fourth 
appeared from out of the mist. As unfathomable as it sounded, 
all four of them were fanning out like practiced hunters to 
surround and cut him off.

Mulder willed his teeth to stop chattering and raced across 
the final distance. Reaching the stairs, legs burning from 
exertion, he scaled them two at a time. The metal frame 
vibrated beneath his feet and he nearly stumbled when the 
steps yawed violently. Looking down, he saw the aliens were 
yanking on the support struts below, trying to shake him 
loose. He grabbed the railing and clambered up to the first of 
three landings.

The room was seething with newly hatched aliens. Several dozen 
swarmed the area beneath him, while ten times that number 
headed away, perhaps in search of the western exit mentioned 
by his mysterious twin. Led by instinct, or maybe by the smell 
of desert air, the majority were abandoning their frosty 
storeroom -- and him -- for freedom.

Several determined newborns rattled the stairs again. 
Fasteners snapped. Rivets popped from the wall and clattered 
over metal treads. Girders squealed when twisted out of 
alignment. Mulder staggered higher. The rail was wrenched from 
his hand. It swung out, then ricocheted back, hitting him hard 
in the ribs and knocking him to his knees.

He cried out from the crushing blow and his shout seemed to 
hearten the aliens. Their eyes burned with hunger as saliva 
drooled from their open jaws. Intensifying their efforts, they 
combined their brute strength to force him from his perch. 
They pulled at the metalwork and dislodged another crosspiece. 
Three of them separated from the horde to climb to the first 
landing. Mulder crawled higher, past the second landing to the 
uppermost platform. 

He lunged at the door, only to find it locked.

"Son of a bitch!" He pounded impotently against the handle.

The trio of aliens stared up at him from the lower landing. He 
was trapped and they knew it. Growling with eager 
anticipation, they climbed higher. Their added weight caused 
the broken stairway to bounce and creak. Mulder felt the upper 
platform tilt. Would it hold? Jesus, he was three stories up.

The aliens ignored the obvious danger and continued their 
ascent. An underpinning snapped when they reached the second 
landing. The stairway dipped and Mulder lost his footing. He 
hooked his one good arm through the wheel-shaped door handle 
just as the platform dropped out from under him. 

The stairs swung like a pendulum from its upper fastenings. 
The aliens shrieked as they spiraled to the ground. They 
landed with stomach-churning thuds, scattering the remaining 
aliens. 

Then the entire staircase let go. The crash was deafening. 
Metal struts squealed like train brakes as they collapsed; 
stair treads clattered across the room like canon shot. The 
aliens scurried out of the way, abandoning their prey to 
escape to the western exit.

Mulder dangled from the door handle by one arm. He felt 
himself slipping. Frantically, he searched for something to 
stand on...a bit of bent metal or a rivet...anything to take 
the weight off his aching arm.

It was useless. A tremor from the ship's engines shook him 
again. 

"Noooo!" 

He plummeted feet first into the pile of wreckage below. He 
heard the snap of bone and felt fire explode in his left thigh 
just before he lost consciousness.  

*   *   *

"I've got him." The voice sounded like...Frohike?

"Careful, he's hurt pretty bad." 

A set of hands snaked beneath Mulder's arms to support his 
upper body. He felt himself being lifted, jostled. Pain 
sizzled along his left leg, his right arm. He could see 
nothing but a burst of fireworks behind his closed lids.   

"Don't drop him." It was Langly, off to one side.

"Precious cargo, boys." Definitely Frohike.

Mulder blinked, fighting to see them, but something liquid and 
warm swamped his eyes, blinding him. 

"Hold still, big guy. You're in good hands." 

The cavalry, come to the rescue, he wanted to say, but 
couldn't suck in sufficient air to speak. 

It was enough to know they were there, although he wondered 
how they were able to carry him, when Krycek was as 
insubstantial as the wind. It occurred to Mulder he was dead 
now, too, killed by the fall.

"Gotta leave you here, buddy," Frohike said at last. "Don't 
worry. You'll be safe."

Pain rocketed through him when his back met the ground, 
convincing him he must be still alive...or in Hell.

"Real help is on the way," Byers assured.

"Hang in there."

"Wish we could stick around, but..." Langly patted his injured 
shoulder, causing him to gasp. 

"You idiot," Frohike growled.

"Sorry," Langly said, just before blackness claimed Mulder 
once more. 

*   *   *

"Let me out!" Scully's voice was growing hoarse from shouting. 
"Cassandra?" She pounded raw fists against the damp, pumicey 
walls of her prison cell. The sound was immediately swallowed 
up in womb-like quiet.

The cell was without windows or any apparent door. It was 
barely tall enough for her to stand in and was approximately 
three feet square, except it wasn't square -- it was sack-
like. How her guards had managed to get her inside it remained 
a mystery. One minute they were hurrying through a winding 
tunnel, and the next thing she knew, she was in this stuffy 
compartment, feeling groggy and bruised and short of breath.

Exhausted, she sank into a squatting position and stared at 
the sludge-covered walls. Her heart skipped a beat when she 
saw something move there. Lots of somethings. Insects. Minute 
centipede-like creatures, less than an inch long. Dozens of 
them wriggled through the oil that coated the chamber's inner 
surface. She shifted and hugged her legs when she saw them 
squirming around her feet.

How long were her captors planning to keep her here? And who 
exactly were they? The Grays were obviously alien. The others 
looked like military personnel, supersoldiers perhaps, or 
shape-shifting aliens disguised as humans.

Was Cassandra Spender who she appeared to be?

It had been four years since Scully had tried to rescue 
Cassandra from kidnappers at the Potomac Yards, driving her 
car onto the tracks in front of an oncoming train and emptying 
her gun at the engineer. For nothing, it had turned out. She 
hadn't saved Cassandra, who was later presumed dead, burned 
with the others at El Rico Air Base.

Yet it was possible Cassandra hadn't died that night. She 
might have been spirited away, her life spared while the 
others were incinerated. It had happened before. Scully's 
hypnotic regression tape suggested Cassandra was taken aboard 
an unidentified aircraft at Ruskin Dam. Cassandra had said as 
much when she reappeared a year later in a Virginia train 
yard, mysteriously healed from her paralysis.

Scully followed the steady progress of a centipede as it 
climbed toward the conical ceiling, where it eventually 
disappeared into a greasy crevice. Tentatively she touched the 
wall, then dug at it with a fingernail. The material wasn't 
metal or stone. It was more like reinforced paper. Its 
wavering striations reminded her of wasps' nests, made from a 
mixture of masticated wood and salivary secretions -- except 
this material was tough and elastic.    

The desire to be in her own apartment hit her like a punch to 
the gut. Mulder's fish needed feeding and her plants needed 
watering. Mail was filling her box and newspapers were piling 
up outside her door. The rent was due. She hadn't arranged for 
her mother to take care of these things. Not this time. She'd 
left for Mount Weather in a rush, hadn't told anyone outside 
the Bureau where she was going. Her mom would assume she was 
on another assignment, not running from the law, exiled from 
her former life forever.

God, she wanted to be sipping tea by her fireplace, or better 
yet, reading a novel, cocooned in her warm, clean bed. Tears 
stung her eyes at the thought of William's photograph on her 
nightstand. It was her favorite picture of him. He was smiling 
for the camera, toothless, but delightfully dimpled, his 
fleecy hat gripped tightly in his upraised fist and his pale 
hair standing all on end.  

Mulder's photo was propped beside the baby's, in a matching 
frame. He was also smiling for the camera -- a rare wide grin, 
laughter lighting his eyes, because he was holding their one-
day-old son in the crook of his arm. 

Where was Mulder? In a cell like this one? Had they found him, 
too?

"Please, God, keep him safe." 

She began to weep...for Mulder, for herself, but most of all 
for their lost son.

*   *   *

Crickets shrilled, hidden in weeds that needled Mulder like 
shards of glass. A predawn wind scraped across the flatland. 
Somewhere high overhead an engine thrummed. Or maybe it was 
only the roar of blood inside his ears. He was lying on his 
side, and his cheeks and palms felt scoured raw by the 
sandpaper earth. His neck, on the left, burned, from 
collarbone to jaw, and his leg...

He lifted his head to inspect his leg, and was stopped short 
when something liquid and warm flowed out of his left ear. 
Sparks of pain exploded behind his eyes. He clenched his jaw, 
waiting for the dizziness to subside.

When it did, he moved more carefully and tried again to peer 
at his leg. 

"Fuck..."

It was broken...badly. A spike of bone protruded from the 
blood-soaked denim of his jeans just above his knee. His foot 
was twisted at an impossible angle. Bile slid up his throat, 
tasting bitter as it rolled across the back of his tongue and 
he willed himself not to throw up. 

"Stay calm stay calm stay calm," he chanted, his eyes squeezed 
shut against the damage to his leg. His inclination was to 
slip into one of his favorite fantasies, one of those places 
he went in his mind whenever dread threatened to overwhelm 
him. The beach. His childhood bedroom. Scully's arms. These 
delusions brought comfort where there was none, helped him 
cope with saws...drills...Them.

No, not another flashback...please, not now. 

For a full minute he fought against his imagination and 
reality, not wanting to retreat to the former or face the 
latter. 

Scully, help me, he silently begged.

Was she nearby? Would she come if he called?

"Scully?" His voice came out unexpectedly high-pitched and 
thin. Too soft to carry any distance. He cleared his throat 
and tried again. "Sculleee!"

The crickets fell silent but the pounding in his head 
intensified. His stomach churned. Dizziness was eroding his 
vision and the world was disappearing behind a veil of gray 
static.

Damn it, he needed to stay alert. The situation was 
precarious, but not hopeless. He needed to determine where he 
was and what his options were.

With enormous effort he raised his head and blinked at the 
western horizon, away from the ruddy dawn.

Shiprock was gone.

In its place smoke and dust drifted skyward from a gaping hole 
in the Earth. Mulder was reminded of Antarctica, of lying on 
the frozen tundra, watching a spaceship grow small in the sky, 
while Scully lay unconscious beside him--

Where was Scully?

It took every ounce of his strength to turn toward the road. 
And when he did, his lungs stalled.

The truck was gone; Route 666 was vacant. Scully had done 
exactly as he'd suggested -- she'd gone away, left him, and 
now he was alone.

BOOK II: A CROWN OF TWELVE STARS

EARTH DATE: MAY 26, 2002
TSE'BIT'A'I
ASSESSMENT BAY 16

Four Nih-hi-cho entered the lab, moving and thinking as a 
single unit. They positioned themselves equidistantly around 
the terrestrial female. She was prepped for them, stripped of 
her garments and held immobile on the assessment platform by 
rods through her wrists and ankles.

Like most captive earthlings, this one was frightened. She 
watched the Quad with wet, blinking eyes, the muscles in her 
limbs quaking. Sweat slicked her pale skin. Her respiratory 
and circulatory rates were accelerated. The reaction was both 
expected and irrelevant. It didn't matter that she craned her 
neck or writhed on the table; this was going to be a brief 
memory probe, not a complete biological analysis.

Their objective was to insinuate a cognitive conduit into her 
memory center to determine why she had been outside the ship 
prior to launch. Had it been mere coincidence? Or was her 
arrival connected to the premature release of the Infants? 
Perhaps she had been a lookout, or a diversion, for the 
unidentified infiltrator.

That second trespasser had mysteriously eluded detection, and 
the consensus was he must have received help from the 
Incorporeals. It was the only possible explanation.

The Quad readied themselves for the probe. They quickly closed 
off their forebrains' extrasensory receptors, blocking out the 
thoughts of the 5,327 Nih-hi-cho and 15,716 Others who 
inhabited the ship. An abrupt but necessary silence followed; 
it was an unwelcome experience, similar, they imagined, to 
what humans described as loneliness.

There was some satisfaction in knowing their separation would 
be temporary and brief; the Quad would rejoin the Society in 
less than thirty Earth minutes and the unsettling sensation of 
isolation would dissipate.

When all external mind-chatter was effectively shut out, the 
Quad began their survey by channeling an array of telepathic 
links into the terrestrial female's brain, creating a complex 
transference network.  

Their first glimpse of the female's consciousness provided 
them with a distorted view of themselves through her eyes. 
Monsters. Hideous in appearance, terrifying in purpose. It was 
a predictable reaction. She was not in a position to 
appreciate that it was she, not they, who was monstrous.

Earthlings were disgusting creatures, simplistic half-beings 
who relied on pairing with other half-beings in order to 
procreate. Dimorphism and blatant sexual characteristics 
dominated their gender-specific physiques. They had alarming 
reproductive proclivities and seemed to strive for little 
beyond sensual gratification. 

Most despicable of all, however, was their unfathomable 
autonomy. Unable to establish any sort of communal 
consciousness, they were alone with their self-centered 
meditations, blocked off from each other and from the Divine 
Legion of Angels. Only upon death were they capable of 
experiencing a consciousness beyond themselves.

It was a mercy to kill them, really, because living humans 
were useful for only three things: serving as hosts for Nih-
hi-cho offspring, acting as spies to ensure the successful 
takeover of Earth and, in a few rare instances, possessing the 
genetic anomaly referred to as the Derivation. This female, 
like nearly all her kind, was incapable of comprehending the 
importance of these roles. Her thoughts were sheathed in human 
emotion. Terror, outrage and confusion camouflaged any 
rational judgment.

"We could suppress her fear response to facilitate our 
procedure," they considered simultaneously. "No," was their 
immediate and united answer. "Time is short."

Without further discussion, they proceeded to embed themselves 
deep into her psyche.

Aware of their invasion, she recoiled, mentally and 
physically.

"Get out...don't...oh, please, stop!"

She struggled for several minutes -- longer than most 
terrestrials.

"Strong willed," they agreed. They admired the trait, even as 
they restrained it.

When her objections ceased to dominate her thinking, the Quad 
converged on her most recent memories. Images flooded their 
collective mind: the ship's northwest entrance...Nih-hi-cho 
supersoldiers...

"She recognizes Cassandra Spender!" they said, surprised and 
slightly awed. It was unanticipated. The possibility that the 
female was an associate or friend of Cassandra's meant the 
Quad must cease their psychic exploration immediately. To pry 
further or chance permanent damage was unacceptable.     

"Summon Mrs. Spender," they decided in unison.

*   *   *

"How long has she been here?" Cassandra demanded, rushing 
toward the Assessment Bay. She hated those torture chambers 
and it made her blood run cold to think of Dana in one of 
them.

A Gray ran along behind her. By means of telepathy he 
explained, "We would have finished earlier, ma'am, but 
mobiliza--"

"I don't care about that. Just tell me how long!"

"Fifty-eight Earth hours."

"In Assessment?" Cassandra asked, incredulous. She stopped in 
front of Bay 16. 

"No, no, on the ship, ma'am. She's been in Assessment for only 
eighty-two minutes."

Over an hour -- there would be physical and emotional injury. 
"Open the damned door."

"Yes, ma'am."

The Gray used a mental command to disengage the high security 
lock, and the door slid open with a pneumatic hiss. Cassandra 
hurried inside and went straight to Dana, who was lying naked 
under a spotlight on one of the aliens' despicable examination 
platforms. Her wrists and ankles oozed blood from recent 
puncture wounds, but she was no longer restrained. Her eyes 
were closed. 

"Dana?"

Cassandra took hold of her icy hand. Gooseflesh stippled 
Dana's bruised skin.

"Fetch a blanket, for goodness sake," Cassandra snapped at the 
Gray. "And don't bring it yourself. Send my aide." 

The alien hurried to oblige, leaving the two women alone for a 
few precious minutes.

"Dana? Wake up, dear."

Cassandra smoothed sweat-dampened hair from the younger 
woman's forehead. Dana's face was pinched with pain and fear. 
Russet lashes fluttered as she opened her eyes. 

"Cassandra? Is it really you?" she mumbled. 

"Yes, it's me."

"Wh-where's Mulder?" She searched the room with dazed eyes.

"I have no idea. Was he with you?"

"He--" Dana gasped when Dibeh, Cassandra's personal aide, 
appeared in the doorway, holding a blanket and a plain gown in 
her gray arms.

Cassandra supposed the aide might look threatening to someone 
who wasn't used to seeing alien-human hybrids, but Dibeh, like 
all her breed, was a harmless, serene creature. She had alien 
eyes and skin, yet her mouth, ears and hair were essentially 
human. She was slight and willowy, but taller than most Grays. 
And like all hybrids, she was female. Infertile, but female 
nonetheless.  

Cassandra gave Dana's hand a reassuring squeeze. "It's all 
right. This is Dibeh, my aide. You can trust her."

Dana shook her head. "I'm not sure I can trust you."

"Of course you can. I'm here to help. There's no need to be 
afraid." Cassandra took the blanket from Dibeh and draped it 
over Dana, who hugged it to her chest with shivering hands. 
"You poor thing. Are you okay?"

"Th-they were inside my head."

"I know, it's dreadful." Cassandra helped her to sit up. "But 
it's over now."

"I want to leave this place."

"I'll take you to my quarters."

"No, I want to go home."

"That's not possible."

"Am I being held prisoner?"

"Of course not."

"Then let me go."

"Dana, we're airborne."

"We're on a plane?" She looked around, eyes blinking with 
confusion.

"We're on a ship. A spaceship."

Dana's darting gaze settled on Dibeh. "I...I guess I knew 
that."

Cassandra stroked her hunched shoulders. "Are you hungry...or 
thirsty?"

"I-I could use a drink of water."

"Can you walk?"

"I think so."

"In that case, let's go somewhere more comfortable."

*   *   *

Ca-Lo slouched in his favorite reading chair. His breakfast 
remained untouched on the table beside him. He was dressed in 
his uniform and boots, but his belt was undone and his fly 
open. A hybrid knelt on the floor between his splayed knees.

She had a talented tongue, this one. It swirled delightfully 
around him, pliant and hot, meting out sufficient friction to 
nudge him steadily toward ecstasy. She gazed up at him with 
liquid black eyes, large and unblinking like her Nih-hi-cho 
ancestors. Her alien features were framed by a luscious mane 
of human hair the color of amber. And her lips, oh her lips 
were warm, full and so seductive.

He groaned when she unexpectedly slowed her ministrations. 

"Don't stop, ha-gade," he commanded, using the endearment 
because he didn't know her real name. She was one of many 
hybrids who regularly satisfied his sexual appetite. All the 
half-human, half-alien females looked essentially the same and 
each performed splendidly. They were perfect companions 
because they were willing and adept, and, best of all, they 
were incapable of crawling inside his head to read his 
thoughts like their Nih-hi-cho cousins.

Plowing his fingers into her tresses, he thrust into her 
mouth, eager for his release, yet wanting to prolong this 
moment of pleasure -- an oasis of bliss in a lifetime of duty 
and disquiet. The Nih-hi-cho didn't understand his human 
sexual drive. They tolerated his use of the hybrids in 
deference to his rank, though they considered his proclivity 
disgusting.

"Don't stop...don't...stop..." he begged as he pumped into 
her. That lovely mouth. Heavenly. 

His orgasm arrived like a stealthy adversary; it was upon him, 
unstoppable, too soon. His hips bucked and his semen pulsed 
down the hybrid's compliant throat.  

She was still on her knees, wiping swollen lips, when the 
signal light flashed, letting him know someone was waiting 
outside the door. He palmed her amber head in appreciation 
before tucking himself into his pants and calling out, 
"Enter." 

His command automatically unlocked and opened his door. 
Cassandra Spender stood at the threshold, frowning at him.

"I need to speak with you," she said.

"Come in, Mother." He rose from his chair, crossed the room 
and, hiding his impatience at her unexpected arrival, offered 
his cheek for a kiss. 

Cassandra bestowed her kiss, then shooed the hybrid out of her 
way as she made herself at home in Ca-Lo's chair. The obedient 
hybrid bowed submissively before hurrying from the room. When 
the door closed behind her, Cassandra shot Ca-Lo another 
annoyed look. "Why do you waste yourself on those barren half-
breeds?" 

He remained standing, the sticky sensation in his pants making 
him uncomfortable in his mother's presence. "Because I'm not 
permitted the luxury of human companionship."

"Pish-posh. You're permitted whatever you like." 

It wasn't true. "They watch me constantly."

She plucked a ripe berry from his breakfast plate and popped 
it into her mouth. "So what?" 

"They watch you, too," he reminded her.

"I don't care. You know I want grandchildren...before I'm too 
old to enjoy them."

He wanted offspring, too, but not on this damned Nih-hi-cho 
vessel and certainly not during mobilization. "I have more 
pressing responsibilities at the moment."

"As soon as all the fuss is over then." She reached out a 
hand. Without hesitation, he stepped forward and took hold of 
it. "Promise me, Ashkii. Please?" 

"I've asked you not to call me that." His tone was stern, but 
he gave her fingers an affectionate squeeze. It was an old 
argument. "You make me feel like a child."

"Fine, fine...*Ca-Lo*. I didn't come here to quarrel."

"Good." He pulled gently away. He was overdue on the Bridge. 
Lieutenant Harris would be calling for him soon. "Why did you 
come?"

"Because of Dana." 

"Who?"

"Imagine, seeing her again after all this time!"

"Who are you talking about?"

"Dana Scully. She was picked up by one of your scouting teams 
just before we launched."

"Dana Scully is on this ship?" It couldn't be true. "You must 
be mistaken."

"I'm not mistaken, Ashkii." She picked up another piece of 
fruit. "I was just with her."

If Ca-Lo had been a religious man, he would have offered up a 
prayer of thanks to the Divine Legion. He could scarcely 
believe his good fortune: Dana Scully, delivered directly to 
his door!

"She was alone?" he asked.

"Evidently."

No Fox Mulder? That was disappointing. "What was she doing 
outside the ship?"

"I have no idea. Why don't you ask your 'interrogation team'?" 
she said with a sneer of disapproval. 

He would do one better -- he would ask her himself.

Cassandra suddenly tossed her fruit back onto the plate and 
glared at him. "You should be ashamed, Ashkii."

The rebuke startled him, but he hid his surprise behind a mask 
of practiced calm. Years of Nih-hi-cho punishments -- 
unspeakable beatings, deprivation, mind games, torture -- had 
taught him to conceal his vulnerabilities. "Ashamed of what, 
Mother?"

"You allow these horrible examinations to continue."

"Mother--"

"I mean it, Ashkii. Dana is an old friend and it breaks my 
heart to think of her suffer--"

"It's standard procedure. It's out of my hands."

"Nothing is out of your hands. You outrank everyone on this 
ship. They'll do whatever you tell them to do."

"Within reason."

"Is it reasonable to torture humans?"

"You tell me," he snapped, his anger overtaking him.

Tears sprang to her eyes and he was immediately sorry for his 
reproof.

"I would have stopped them if I could." She sniffled. "You 
must know that."

He did, truly. She had been helpless, too. As much a victim as 
he had been.

"Mother..." He steadied his voice. "Send Dana Scully. I want 
to talk to her as soon as I return from the Bridge."

She eyed him suspiciously. "No more alien interrogations?"

"No."

"You promise? I care about her, Ashkii. Please, don't hurt 
her."

"You have my word, Mother. I've been waiting a very long time 
to meet Ms. Scully. I only intend for us to become better 
acquainted." 

*   *   *

A tap on the shoulder woke Scully with a start. She hadn't 
intended to fall asleep, but the bed had been soft, the linens 
fresh, and the drink Cassandra had given her earlier warmed 
her belly in a most comforting way.

She rolled onto her back and was startled to find an alien-
human hybrid standing at the side of the bed, staring back at 
her with enormous ebony eyes.

"What do you want?" Scully asked, sitting up.

The creature's expression turned sad. 

Scully tossed back the covers and swung her feet to the floor. 
A wave of dizziness struck her, causing the room to spin. 

The hybrid put out a hand to steady her. It cooed 
sympathetically as it caressed her arm. 

"Don't touch me." Scully shrugged out from under its unwelcome 
petting. 

The creature retreated a step and its backward movement caused 
Scully's head to swim. She grabbed the mattress for support, 
blinked, tried to focus. 

What had Cassandra put in her drink? Her fingers felt numb, 
her movements sluggish. A too-sweet taste coated her tongue. 
She glanced at her watch to determine how long she'd been out, 
only to discover a snow-white bandage swathed her wrist in its 
place.

The previous day's events flooded back to her: the examination 
platform, those hideous aliens, their attack on her mind -- 

It's over, it's over...I'm okay, she told herself.

She glared at the hybrid. "Do you speak English?"

The creature wagged its head, then seemed to change its mind 
and nodded.

"Which is it, yes or no?"

It grunted softly.

"You understand what I'm saying, but...you aren't able to 
speak."

It smiled shyly, head bobbing.

"A mute mutant. Wonderful."

The hybrid reached out a thin, gray hand to tentatively pluck 
at the plain robe Scully was wearing. The garment's strange 
fabric was papery and it hung loosely on her frame, several 
sizes too big. The hybrid tilted its head toward a tidy pile 
of satiny green material on the foot of the bed. 

"You want me to change my clothes?"

The shy smile returned. 

The hybrid didn't appear threatening. Then again, Scully 
wasn't sure she could trust her instincts. The invasion of her 
mind and the drug from Cassandra's drink might still be 
affecting her judgment. She needed time to clear her head.

She also needed to wash. Her feet and hands were black with 
oily filth from the cell where she had been kept earlier. She 
could smell an unpleasant tang of dried sweat on her skin. 
More serious, however, was the state of her injuries. Blood 
encrusted her arms and legs around her bandages. The flesh was 
swollen and red, and throbbed with pain. If she didn't 
disinfect the wounds soon, she'd be facing serious infection.

She held out her arms for the hybrid to see. "Is there 
someplace I can clean up?"   

With a wave of its slender hand, the hybrid beckoned her 
toward a side room. Scully rose on unsteady legs to follow.

The adjoining room turned out to be a bathroom, equipped with 
tub, toilet and sink, all spotlessly clean. Faucets and 
mirrors gleamed beneath silvery sconces. A vase of what 
appeared to be real roses graced the vanity beside an 
alabaster soap dish. 

The hybrid located a towel on an upper storage shelf and 
placed it on the counter beside the sink. Then it crossed to 
the tub and began to draw a bath.  

While steamy water thundered from the tap, Scully carefully 
unwrapped the bandage on her left wrist. She was appalled to 
find the wound went straight through her arm. It was the same 
unusual injury she'd seen on Theresa Hoese and on Mulder after 
their return from Bellefleur. 

"Look at this." She thrust her arm under the hybrid's nose.

It hunched its shoulders as if ashamed...or afraid. 

"You've seen this before, haven't you?"

It kept its eyes focused on the streaming tap.

"Well, so have I. You--" 

"Dana?" Cassandra called from the outer room.

"In here." 

"Ah, good. Are you finding everything okay?" Cassandra swooped 
into the bathroom, displacing the hybrid, which backed out of 
her way. "You may go, Dibeh," she told it. 

The creature bowed its head and quickly left them. 

Cassandra gestured to an orderly row of lotions and assorted 
toiletries. "Feel free to use whatever you like. If there's 
anything you need, just ask."

"I want to leave."

Sympathy peaked Cassandra's pale brows. "That's not possible." 

"You're keeping me here against my will."

"You're a guest, Dana, not a prisoner. I explained that 
earlier."

"I wasn't invited here; I was abducted." It was a word she 
rarely used, preferring the terms "kidnapped," "captured," 
"taken hostage," anything that pointed toward human, not 
extraterrestrial, intentions. "What did you put in my drink?"

"Just something to help you sleep."

"You drugged me."

"Dana, I would never hurt you."

"Then let me go."

"I can't do that."

Scully straightened her shoulders and tried to sound stronger 
than she felt. "Who's in charge? I want to speak to them." 

"That's what I've come to tell you." Smiling, Cassandra shut 
off the taps, then poured a measure of scented oil into the 
bath. The smell of jasmine curled through the air. "My son 
wants to meet you."

Jeffrey? Scully had seen him a few days ago, at Mulder's 
trial. Disfigured beyond recognition and weakened by horrific 
tests, he'd barely had the strength to testify.

"Jeffrey's in charge of this spaceship?"

"No, no, not Jeffrey." Cassandra waved off the possibility, 
without a hint of sorrow. Perhaps she was unaware of her son's 
unfortunate circumstances. "I'm talking about Ashkii, my older 
son."

"I didn't know you had an older son."

"Oh, yes. He's a very important man." Pride tinged her voice. 
"He'll keep you safe from the Nih-hi-cho."

"The what?"

"The aliens. The gray ones. I know how they seem, and there's 
no denying they do have a cruel streak, but their ultimate 
purpose is worthy, I assure you."

"Worthy? How can you say that?" She extended her bloodied arm.

"I know, I know. I was in your place on more than one 
occasion. I understand what you're going through. But when you 
get to know them and learn the reasons they do what they do, 
then, well, you'll see the light, just like I did." Her eyes 
glittered with what Scully could only describe as euphoria.

"I want to go home, Cassandra."

"You will...eventually."

"Eventually?"

"As soon as it's safe."

"Why isn't it safe now? Tell me what's happened?"

"Ashkii will explain it all. My aide will take you to him 
after you've finished here." She patted Scully's shoulder. 
"You'll feel right at home when you meet him, I promise you."

*   *   *

"Who chose this ridiculous dress?" Scully demanded, irritated 
by the clinging floor-length gown. Its straight skirt 
constricted her legs. The form-fitting bodice was deeply cut, 
revealing too much cleavage. With the exception of two 
delicate straps that crossed between her shoulder blades, 
Scully's back was exposed from nape to buttocks.

"Was it Cassandra?" she asked, trying to keep pace with Dibeh 
as they navigated a dank, labyrinthine corridor. "Or 
this...this Ashkii person?"

The hybrid shrugged and guided her around another corner.

After several more minutes of dodging puddles and avoiding 
leaks in the ceiling, they arrived at a timeworn door, 
gunmetal gray in color and as solid looking as a bank vault. 
The hybrid used a small wireless transponder to unlock the 
entrance. The door slid into the wall with a pneumatic hiss 
and the hybrid ushered Scully across the threshold with a 
delicate wave of its hand.

When the hybrid turned to go, Scully asked, "Aren't you coming 
in?"

It shook its head and quickly vanished in the direction they had 
come, leaving the door open.

"Great. Thanks." 

Scully wandered into the middle of the sumptuous front room. 
She had been expecting an alien version of a conference room, 
but this was obviously Ashkii's -- or someone's -- personal 
apartment.

"Hello? Is anyone here?" she called.

When no one answered, she considered walking out. But with no 
way off the ship, there was nowhere for her to go, so she 
decided to investigate the apartment and learn something about
its occupant before he returned.

The room was oversized, opulent and decidedly masculine. A 
plush carpet, decorated with bold geometric patterns, 
cushioned her feet. A gleaming wooden desk filled an alcove to 
her left. It held a sleek computer, which was powered down. A 
substantial leather chair was pushed away from the desk to 
face a matching couch and an overstuffed wingback. These were 
flanked by cherry end tables. A toppled stack of ancient-
looking texts littered the floor around the wingback. 

The apartment's walls were straight, smooth and square, unlike 
the organic construction in the outer corridor. They were 
covered with a mossy-green damask fabric. Paintings of 
terrestrial landscapes, illuminated by recessed spotlights, 
hung in neat rows around the room. The air smelled pleasant, 
like sage, and the temperature was less humid than elsewhere 
on the ship.

A sliver of light and the soft twitter of birdsong beckoned 
her to an arched doorway at the room's back corner.  

"Hello?" she called again, crossing to the adjoining room.

It turned out to be a spacious bedchamber, furnished with a 
magnificently carved canopy bed and a large gilded birdcage. 
The domed cage was cylindrical and stood nearly eight feet 
high. Several colorful birds chattered and fluttered on its 
filigreed perches.

The bed's canopy was hung with heavy drapes, which were pulled 
aside to reveal bronze-colored linens and piles of satiny 
pillows. Not a wrinkle marred the sumptuous coverlet.

"Make yourself at home," Mulder's voice startled her from 
behind. 

"Mulder, where did you--" She spun to face him and blinked in 
disbelief. "Oh my God."

It was Mulder. And yet it wasn't. 

A strange brand marked his right cheek. And when he 
sidestepped around her, she saw that his dark hair hung nearly 
to his waist. Three silver clasps held it in a sleek ponytail, 
which swung hypnotically when he tossed a black military 
jacket onto the bed.

"I've been looking forward to meeting you, Ms. Scully," he 
said, turning to confront her. Lanky and graceful, genial yet 
imposing.

Just like Mulder. 

Stunned, she was at a loss for words. 

He loosened a brass fastening at the neck of his plain black 
uniform and watched her with cold amusement. His eyes were 
startlingly green, more so than Mulder's. The irises glittered 
like brilliant emeralds.

"Y-you're Cassandra's son?" she said when she finally found 
her voice.

"I am."

"But...but you're a...a shapeshifter...or a clone."

A look of disgust darkened his too-green eyes. He unstrapped a 
sheathed dagger from his thigh. "Hardly. I'm as human as you 
are." He set the knife and its sheath on the nightstand beside 
the bed.

"Then...how...?"

"How is it I look so much like him?" A slanting grin nudged 
his cheek and his expression was so like Mulder, it stole her 
breath.

"Yes," she managed to whisper.   

"You're gonna love this." He loomed closer. "Fox Mulder is my 
brother."

"I don't believe you."

"No?" He stepped around her to the birdcage, where he filled 
the food tray with fresh seed. The birds twittered with 
apparent appreciation. "You knew my father, Ms. Scully. CGB 
Spender was a dishonorable man. A cheat...in business and in 
marriage." He checked the latch on the cage before turning to 
face her. "He impregnated Teena Mulder six months before he 
impregnated my mother."

"You're a liar." Even as she said the words doubt washed 
through her.

A DNA analysis had proved Jeffrey Spender was Mulder's half 
brother. And Jeffrey testified at Mulder's trial, "His mother 
had an affair with my father," supporting the claim that CGB 
Spender, not Bill Mulder, was Mulder's biological father. 

The look-alike crossed the room to sit on the edge of the bed. 
His face appeared deceptively earnest. He toed off one leather 
boot. "I have no reason to lie to you, Ms. Scully." 

"I've known Cassandra Spender for four years. Why hasn't she 
mentioned you before?"

"Because she met me for the first time only last year." 

"What do you mean she met you for the first time? Is she your 
mother or isn't she?"

"She is, but you know how these things are. Weren't you the 
mother of a child you'd never met?" He tugged off the other 
boot and let it drop to the floor with a muted thud.

"That...that was different," she said.  

"Not so much. My mother was abducted during the first 
trimester of her first pregnancy. I was taken from her womb as 
a fetus." 

"Taken by whom? Aliens?"

"There are thieves and scoundrels all around us, Ms. Scully -- 
both alien and human." 

She wanted to bolt from the room, get as far away from this 
lying clone as possible, but his familiar gaze held her in 
place. "What you're suggesting is impossible. A twelve-week-
old fetus cannot survive outside the womb." 

"And a barren woman cannot become pregnant, isn't that so?" He 
peeled off his shirt, turning it inside out as he drew it up 
over his head. His long hair crackled with static electricity 
when he pulled free of the garment. She was relieved to see 
his left shoulder bore no trace of Mulder's old gunshot wound. 
It was a clear difference between the two men, a reminder to 
be wary of this stranger. The look-alike dropped the shirt to 
the floor, creating a black puddle of fabric beside his 
stocking-clad feet. "These beings work outside the constraints 
of your science, Ms. Scully. Their skill is nothing short of 
miraculous."

"If you're insinuating my son was a product of alien 
technology--"

"You have another explanation? Maybe you believe he was 
summoned into existence by the hand of God."

"Or maybe I believe his conception was proof that I was never 
barren in the first place."

"Interesting theory." 

He rose from the bed and approached her. She held her ground, 
even when he loomed so close she could smell the faint, musky 
odor of his skin...so familiar...so like Mulder. 

His gaze dropped to her low-cut gown. "Your pictures don't do 
you justice, you know." 

She felt her face flush. "You've seen pictures of me?"

"Lots of pictures." He raised a finger to her collarbone and 
traced it to the strap of her gown.

His stare was mesmerizing. His touch was feather-light, barely 
there, and yet it sent a spark sizzling through her. She knew 
she should push his hand away, step back from his uninvited 
caress, but she felt mysteriously paralyzed, even when he 
hooked his finger beneath the dress' strap. 

"Tell me, Ms. Scully, what were you doing outside the ship 
just before we launched?"

"Star gazing," she lied. Cassandra had claimed she didn't know 
Mulder's whereabouts; it was possible her "son" didn't either.

Doubt, and a hint of amusement, glistened in his emerald eyes. 
His finger changed course, taking a leisurely path from her 
shoulder to her cleavage. Gooseflesh sprouted across her chest 
and she felt her nipples harden.

"And the condoms in your shopping bag? Those were for what...a 
chance encounter?"

"That's none of your business."

"Oh, but it is. You see, while my soldiers were picking you 
up, we discovered an intruder on board."

Mulder. It had to be. Damn it. "An intruder?"

"Mm-hmm, a real troublemaker. You wouldn't happen to know 
someone like that, would you?" Grasping her arms, he drew her 
up on her toes and whispered insistently into her ear, "Where 
is he? Where's Mulder?"

"Let me go." She tried to pull away, but he tightened his 
grip. "You're hurting me. Stop it."

He surprised her by releasing her and taking a step back. What 
appeared to be genuine concern creased his brow.

"Sorry," he said, sounding sincerely contrite. He pointed to 
the bandages on her wrists. "I forgot about..." His words 
trailed off as he studied the bruises on her arms. 

After a moment, he said, "I can make the pain go away."

"That's probably the worst pick-up line I've ever heard."

A cheerless smile played across his lips. "Honestly, I can 
help."

"I have no reason to trust you."

"And you have no reason not to trust me."

"Other than the fact that I'm being held prisoner on your 
ship...in your bedroom."

"You're not a prisoner," he said.

"So everyone keeps telling me, yet here I am."

He gently captured her hands, curling his fingers loosely 
around her wrists. "Let me help." 

She stiffened. "How?"

"I told you, I can make your pain disappear."

"You're going to drug me again?" 

"No, no drugs."

"Then...what?"

"I want you to relax, clear your mind," he said. 

"I don't think that's possible."

"Try closing your eyes."

"No." She drew back.

He retained his light hold on her wrists. "All right then, 
look at me instead. Look into my eyes."

"You're going to hypnotize me?"

"No, not hypnosis. This is something different."

She huffed with disbelief and challenged his claim by looking 
directly into his eyes. 

"I don't feel anything," she said after only a few seconds.

"Shhhhh." His stare didn't waver. 

She waited, focusing on his strange-colored eyes, ultra aware 
of his bare chest only inches from her fingertips. Heat 
radiated off him, warming her upraised palms. 

Behind her, the birds twittered softly, a delicate sound, like 
the tinkle of bells. It melded with the rasp of her breath.

It was then she noticed something shift inside her. An odd 
sensation, hard to describe, like the soft brush of a sleeve 
from a passing stranger. It left her slightly disoriented and 
mystified, as if she'd entered her childhood bedroom to find 
her favorite doll had been moved an inch or two from its usual 
spot on the pillows.

"I think...something's happening."

"Good. Don't talk."

Thoughts began to shuffle like playing cards in her brain, yet 
she wasn't alarmed by the rearrangement. She was still in 
Ashkii's room, still held captive by his sea-glass eyes. 
Shards of emerald and jade shimmered around the midnight of 
his pupils, a flash of northern lights in a dark, December 
sky. 

"Can you feel it?" His voice was velvety smooth and infinitely 
intimate.    

She held her breath. His muted pulse tapped against the 
sensitive undersides of her wrists. No pain, just a gentle 
tap...tap...tap...

Unexpectedly, he released his hold on her.  

"How do you feel now?" he asked softly.

The pain had vanished.

"You lied," she said. "You're not human."

"I am. Truly. I just know a few tricks."

"I've seen this before. Shapeshifters who can heal even lethal 
injuries."

"I've seen them, too. But I'm not one of them. See? I didn't 
heal you." He indicated the bruises that still mottled her 
arms. "I just blocked your pain."

His smile broadened into a proud grin, making him appear 
boyish and innocent. 

"Then how did you...?" 

He leaned toward her, as if poised for a kiss. "Does it 
matter?" His lips were so close.

The room's walls wobbled. The floor buckled. He was doing 
something to her, affecting her perception. She watched in 
amazement as the sumptuous linens on his bed transformed into 
a rumpled comforter with a garish design, a kaleidoscope of 
blues, oranges and reds, exactly like the bedspread in the 
Frontier Motel in Roswell.

Muscular arms embraced her. Warm lips pressed against hers.

"Mulder..." She broke the kiss and buried her face in his 
neck, relieved to be with him.

Mulder lifted her off her feet and carried her to the bed.

From somewhere beyond the edges of her conscious mind came a 
whisper of flapping feathers and the trill of birdsong.  

*   *   *

Terrestrial defenses were floundering in the wake of the Nih-
hi-cho's e-munitions offensive. Telecommunications systems 
were inoperable and the world's power grids disabled. As 
anticipated, ionized gases blocked most radio and radar 
signals. The first strike had been a resounding success thanks 
to Ca-Lo's bold push for early mobilization. Yet he wasn't on 
the Bridge to bask in his victory. 

And his absence did not go unnoticed.

"Locate him and report back." The order came telepathically to 
Watcher VII from the Society's Overseers. "Proceed with utmost 
caution." 

Their addendum was unnecessary; the Watcher understood his 
responsibility. He had been surveilling Ca-Lo for the past 
three Earth years and was an expert at stealing into the 
officer's brain and quietly eavesdropping there. Ca-Lo had yet 
to detect his presence, and hopefully never would. VII had no 
intention of repeating Watcher VI's egregious blunder. VI had 
been caught spying and Ca-Lo responded by having him 
lobotomized, severing him permanently from the Society. A 
terrifying punishment, to be sure, but perhaps deserved in his 
case. Due to VI's incompetence, Ca-Lo was now alert to the 
Watchers, making VII's job all the more difficult.  

VII vacated his post on the Bridge to ride the elevator to 
Level 4. Alone in the car he morphed out of his human 
disguise. He observed the transformation in the car's 
reflective steel doors, blandly watching Lieutenant Harris' 
familiar craggy features churn and eddy until his eyes grew 
large, his nose all but disappeared, and his skin melted into 
a pool of smooth, hairless gray. The entire process took only 
a second or two.

Pleased to be back in his own skin, VII inhaled deeply, flexed 
his shoulders, and exited the elevator on 4.

He went directly to the Portal of Solitude, where he entered 
the Privation Chambers' upper hall. A dozen Nih-hi-cho 
squatted like chess pieces on the caldarium's semi-transparent 
decking, intent on their various tasks. The entire floor was 
incised with a faint honeycomb pattern, which delineated the 
sixteen-hundred hexagonal compartments below. Silvery haloes 
spotlighted the occupied cells. Empty chambers remained dark. 

The cells were used for a variety of purposes, ranging from 
enforced imprisonment to voluntary introspection. 
Approximately half were currently occupied by humans slated 
for genetic manipulation or virus testing. One-hundred and 
fifty-two held Nih-hi-cho enemies -- treasonous spies, 
malfunctioning Replacements, and inept personnel like VI, who 
were condemned to live out the remainder of their days in 
solitude, cut off physically and mentally from the Society. 

VII repressed a shiver. To think the Refuters voluntarily 
segregated themselves here. They claimed to use the chambers 
for religious meditation and prayer, preferring to connect 
individually with the Divine Legion. The practice riled the 
Council of Overseers, who considered any desire for autonomy 
immoral. The Council regularly challenged the Refuters, 
accusing them of plotting to overthrow the Society. They made 
little headway, however. The Refuters' self-inflicted 
isolation made identifying their true purposes difficult, if 
not impossible.

The Refuters' disloyalty was not VII's concern at the moment. 
Bent on locating Ca-Lo, he proceeded to an unlit hexagram and 
positioned himself with feet together atop the cell's 
constricted entrance. After a moment, the passage expanded and 
VII was swallowed into the chamber. 

The sphincter-like entrance closed automatically above his 
head, effectively filtering out the Society's mental chatter, 
allowing VII to home in on Ca-Lo's thoughts without a 
prolonged period of mental preparation. He settled back on his 
haunches and began to methodically probe each deck, alert to 
Ca-Lo's familiar thought patterns. 

"There you are," he murmured when he located the officer in 
his personal quarters.

Human emotions assailed his senses the moment he entered Ca-
Lo's psyche, and he recoiled from the onslaught. Ca-Lo was 
engaged in a sexual act. And through him, VII also suffered 
the repugnant physical desires of an adult human male.

Ravenous. Needy. Desperate to join physically with another, to 
dispel his emotional loneliness. 

Ca-Lo's purpose was focused, deliberate, his motivation 
intense. He was impatient. Reckless. Driven. He wanted to 
possess his lover. Control her. Gain her affection. Her 
loyalty. Her desire.

Her moans enthralled him. Her touch set him afire. He was 
spellbound by her scent, by the look of ecstasy in her pale 
blue eyes--

"Nooo!" Watcher VII bellowed upon discovering Ca-Lo was not 
with one of his barren hybrid companions, but was mating with 
a human woman.

It was blasphemy! Ca-Lo was not permitted human lovers. Ever. 

VII sprang to his feet. 

"Let me out!" he commanded.

The overhead passage expanded, opening the cell. He was 
expelled to the decking above and, ignoring the surprised 
stares of his fellow Nih-hi-cho, he bolted for the exit.  

"Divine Legion, help us," he prayed as he ran. 

*   *   *

The nightmare is always the same.

In it, Ashkii is seven Earth years old. He is exploring the 
ship, crawling through a ventilation duct on Deck 19, which 
leads him toward the outer hull. He isn't supposed to be 
there; he isn't supposed to be anywhere without supervision. 
But he manages to elude his Nih-hi-cho tutor after their 
morning lesson and it feels wonderful to be beyond the reach 
of Tkin's stinging Taser. 

Ashkii will pay for his disobedience later, he knows. But 
punishments are a daily occurrence, so it seems there is 
little to lose and plenty to gain by running away.

The duct opens into a tall narrow space with curving walls, a 
cavity between the inner and outer hulls. It is crowded with 
humming machinery and piles of knotted cables. Twenty meters 
up, wasps have made an enormous papery nest at the crook of a 
metal brace. The yellow-eyed insects dot the sweating 
bulkheads in search of moisture. Others swoop through the 
muggy half-dark with seeming purpose, unconcerned by Ashkii's 
intrusion.  

Ashkii slides feet first out of the vent onto a grated floor. 
Tipping his head back, he inspects the upper wall, where 
sunlight seeps through the outer hull like a specter's splayed 
fingers. Light puddles in the crevices of the heat exchange 
system; it reflects off the wastewater stack, highlighting its 
fasteners with silver. Attracted by the gleam, he starts to 
climb a network of thick, flexible tubing. He imagines the fat 
hoses are Tse'Bit'a'i's veins, carrying blood to its parts.

Ashkii has seen his own veins, countless times, exposed during 
his weekly physical assessments.

He tries not to cry when They cut into him. He hates the 
things They do. He hates Them.

Sticky with oil and dust, breathing hard, he works his way 
toward a pair of intake apertures, towering slits in the outer 
hull that allow the New Mexico air to flow into the ship. He 
intends to look out at the surrounding desert, glimpse the 
sun, feel the tickle of real wind upon his skin, maybe smell 
the Earth's hot, foreign odor...but he is distracted before he 
ever reaches the opening.

A small gray bird flounders in a shaft of sunlight. It beats 
its wings against a metallic plate, mistaking the shiny 
rectangle for a way out. 

It's an insect eater, a vireo; he recognizes it from his 
lessons. It must have come looking for food -- the wasps, 
maybe. He's never seen a live bird before and is curious about 
it. Wanting to touch it, he climbs closer.

It stops fluttering and perches crookedly on a coupling when 
he draws near. Its heart is hammering beneath its ruffled 
white breast. Its eyes, circled by thin, pale rings, have 
grown dull. 

"I can help you," he tells it softly.

He wants to ease its terror and confusion. He thinks he can 
manage it, too, because he's been practicing during his weekly 
assessments, concentrating hard on blocking out the most 
painful tests. It's just a matter of willpower, he believes. 
After all, the Nih-hi-cho are able to get inside his head. 
They can make him feel things, do things. When he's been very 
good, they sometimes take his fear away.  

He lifts the bird with great care and cradles it in his palm, 
intending to bring it back to his bedchamber, where he will 
revive it and then keep it as a companion. Its head lolls 
frightfully, however, and he realizes it is hurt worse than he 
first thought.

"Don't worry." He tucks the limp bird into his tunic and 
quickly returns to the ventilation duct.

When he emerges at the other end, Tkin is waiting for him. 

"Give it to us, Ashkii," the tutor demands telepathically, his 
hand held out. His Taser dangles menacingly from a strap 
around his wrist.

Lying is futile, but the words pop out before Ashkii can stop 
them. "I-I don't have anything."

"We want the bird now, without further falsehood or argument."

"But...it's hurt, Tkin. I want to make it better."

"You cannot."

"Maybe *you* can?"

"We are not interested in healing the bird."

"I want to keep it."

"That is not permitted."

Ashkii feels Tkin begin to tunnel into his mind. He is nudged 
toward compliance.

Unable to stop himself, he reaches beneath his tunic and 
withdraws the bird. Its heart beats faintly against his palm. 
Its papery eyelids are closed. 

"Wh-what are you g-going to do w-with it?" he asks, his voice 
thin with fear.

"Dispose of it." Tkin snatches the bird away.

"P-please, don't kill it!"

Tkin's fist closes tightly around the vireo. Blood drips from 
between his fingers, spotting the floor with crimson. "It is 
already done. Now we shall see to your punishment."    

No, please, no, no--

*   *   *

Ca-Lo was startled awake by a hiss from the outer room. 
Someone had opened the pneumatic door. A hybrid servant? He 
glanced at the timepiece on his nightstand.

2:22 a.m. 

"Too early for housekeeping," he mumbled beneath his breath. 
The interloper must be a high-ranking Nih-hi-cho to risk 
intruding at this hour.

He grabbed his dagger from the nightstand, then glanced at 
Dana Scully.

She was still asleep, curled on her side, her hair fanned 
across the pillow. Good. He hoped she stayed that way, at 
least until he could evict his midnight prowler.

He eased off the bed, careful not to wake her or alert the 
intruder.

Stealthy footsteps, hushed by the thick carpet, crossed the 
outer room, drawing near. From the sound of them, Ca-Lo 
guessed there were at least four men, maybe more in the hall. 
Sent by Watcher VII, no doubt.

Fucking little spy. Hope he likes the cell next to VI, Ca-Lo 
thought as he sidestepped his clothes. Edging toward the 
archway, he positioned himself to one side, where he could 
grab the first man who crossed the threshold. 

It turned out to be Lieutenant Harris.

Ca-Lo's arm shot out and hooked Harris around the neck. The 
Lieutenant choked with surprise.

His three comrades rushed to the rescue. Ca-Lo raised his 
knife to the older man's throat. "I wouldn't," he warned them, 
freezing the soldiers in their tracks. "Not unless you want to 
watch him bleed to death all over my nice carpet."

"Ca-Lo...don't," Harris rasped.

"What are you doing here, Lieutenant? Dirty work for the 
Refuters?" Ca-Lo tightened his grip.

"No...I...I was sent by the Overseers."

"Why?"

"You know why. Her." Harris' focus slid to Dana Scully. 

"She's my business, not the Overseers'."

"That's not true." Harris gulped for air. "They're going to 
take her from you. Even if you kill me."

The three soldiers stepped forward. Another dozen filed in 
from the hall, rifles drawn. Behind them came a contingent of 
Nih-hi-cho. Already Ca-Lo could feel them boring into his 
mind.

"It's over, Ca-Lo," Harris wheezed. "You can't win this."

*   *   *

"Poor Dana." Cassandra slumped in Ca-Lo's wingback chair. She 
felt chilly in her nightgown and bathrobe, but was too 
fatigued to return to her apartment to change her clothes. 

Ca-Lo paced around her, his feet bare, his unbound hair 
fluttering restlessly against his naked back. He wore only 
yesterday's wrinkled pants, recouped from the floor shortly 
after Cassandra had arrived to witness Lieutenant Harris and 
his minions dragging Dana Scully from the apartment.

That was an hour ago. 

"What were you thinking, Ashkii?" she scolded. "Did you really 
believe you could get away with it?"

He paused in front of her. "I want her back." 

"Don't be a fool."

"I *want* *her* *back*!" He brought his fist down on the table 
beside her chair. The wallop toppled her coffee cup. Oily 
black liquid rained to the floor. 

Turning away from the mess, he resumed his pacing.

She remained in her chair. One of the hybrid servants would 
clean up the spill later. 

"I asked you not to hurt her, Ashkii. You promised me."

He glanced over his shoulder to glare at her. "I didn't hurt 
her."

"You're saying she came to your bed voluntarily?"

"Is that so hard to believe?"

"Yes, Ashkii, it is. Dana loves Fox Mulder. They have a child 
together. She wouldn't have--" Her eyes widened with sudden 
understanding. "That's it, isn't it?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

"You wanted her because she's his. You're jealous of your 
brother."

He spun to confront her, his face flushed, his emerald eyes 
flashing. "Can you blame me? He has everything, Mother, 
*everything*. He lives *there*...*outside*...in the world of 
humans. He's free to do whatever he pleases. He grew up with a 
mother and a father. He has a family of his own, a son, a 
woman who loves him. Tell me, what do I have?"

"You should be proud of who you are." She plucked at a snag in 
her bathrobe. "You were chosen to serve the Divine Legion."

"You believe that crap?"

"It's written in the Prophesy," she admonished. 

"Three million years ago -- what the hell did they know?" His 
attention wandered to one of his paintings. In the picture, a 
terrestrial waterfall tumbled through a wooded glen.  

"Why didn't you ever search for me, Mother?"

"I didn't know where to look."

"You knew who took me."

"I never imagined this place."

"My father knew of it."

"He told me nothing."

"Did you ask him?" He looked back at her. "Or was it easier to 
forget me than fight for me?"

"I was in no position to fight. I couldn't save you, Ashkii. I 
couldn't even save myself." 

Suddenly the brutality of the past seemed too heavy a mantle 
and he sank to his knees beneath the painting. He plowed 
quaking fingers through his tangled hair. "What am I going to 
do?" 

She rose from her chair and went to him. Placing her palm on 
his head, she stroked his soft hair.

"You could try petitioning the Overseers -- ask them for her 
release."

"They'll never agree to it."

"They might, given your position--"

"My authority goes only so far. I direct the Armada, not the 
Society. The Overseers barely tolerate me." 

She leaned down and kissed his worried brow. She loved him, 
more than he realized. "My poor boy. I'm sorry..."

When she didn't say more, he asked, "Sorry for what, Mother?" 
His eyes gleamed with hope.

She traced the brand on his cheek. A permanent reminder, 
placed there when he was a small boy, so she'd been told, to 
mark him as the man he was meant to become -- "Ca-Lo," the 
Destroyer.

Now she must say the words he needed to hear, not those for 
which he yearned. "You refuse to accept your destiny."

His reply was sharp with disappointment. "I've refused 
nothing, Mother. I'm still here, aren't I?"

*   *   *

Twelve Overseers sat in their customary seats, a semicircle of 
onyx chairs -- the only furniture in their chambers. A central 
spotlight obscured the room's damp walls, giving an illusion 
of infinite space.

Ca-Lo stood at attention in front of them, his spit-polished 
boots gleaming in the spotlight's silvery beam. His features 
were molded into an expression of repentance. The regret was 
genuine -- they could read it in his mind as clearly as on his 
face. However, they also knew his regret was misplaced; it was 
not a response to his irreverent actions, but the result of 
being caught. 

"Release Dana Scully to me," he petitioned. 

The twelve councilors answered as one, verbalizing their 
response to emphasize their point. "No," they said.

Ca-Lo flinched at their use of audible language. He had heard 
their click-clacking speech since his boyhood and understood 
its nuances, yet his reaction revealed he still considered the 
sound alien and offensive. 

"She will remain a captive," Overseer One said, reverting to 
telepathy. "It is because of your contravention, Ca-Lo, she 
must be closely monitored now." 

"So tag her with an implant," Ca-Lo suggested. 

His voice was restrained, his manner outwardly calm. Yet his 
hypothalamus was releasing norepinephrine, causing his adrenal 
glands to produce adrenaline. His heart rate, pulse and 
respiration were rising. Blood sugar, lactic acid, and 
cortisol were readying his body to fight or run, neither of 
which was truly an option for him. Human emotions -- 
frustration, resentment, dread -- were beginning to overwhelm 
his psyche. At the moment, he perceived everything as a 
threat, everyone as an enemy.

He had good reason to be afraid of them.

"We have already installed a bio-monitor in the woman's sinus 
cavity," Overseer One said, "and a locator beneath the dermis 
of her lower back." 

Ca-Lo's thoughts registered surprise, yet his face showed no 
emotion at the Overseer's pronouncement. "Then she can be set 
free."

"No. Her implants will not ensure your cooperation," Overseer 
Six explained. "Her imprisonment will." 

"Then tag me, too." A muscle twitched along Ca-Lo's jaw, the 
first outward sign of desperation. His tone grew sharp. "Don't 
keep her in isolation. You know humans can't tolerate 
loneliness any better than you can."

"Do not attempt to compare your insignificant feelings to 
ours," said Overseer Six. "We are not here to bargain with 
you. Our intent is to curb your undesirable impulses by 
punishing your disobedience."

"What if I promise to be a good boy, forever and ever, amen."

"Your sarcasm does not amuse us. It never has."

"What does amuse you? Torturing an innocent woman?"

"You misjudge us, Ca-Lo. Torturing the terrestrial female 
elicits no emotion in us whatsoever."

Ca-Lo's fists tightened. "Please, don't do this. It was me...I 
forced her... The fault is mine. Imprison me instead."

"Yes, the fault was yours, but it is not practical to remove 
you from your duties at this time. Your tactical skills are 
required for colonization."

"And if I refuse to lead the Armada?"

"Then Dana Scully will spend the rest of her life in a 
Privation Chamber."

They waited for his response, listening to his internal 
struggle. His emotional connection to the Earth woman was 
strong, stronger than they would have predicted, given the 
scant amount of time the two had spent together.

"And if I cooperate in every imaginable way, how long will you 
keep her locked in your despicable bee hive?" he asked.

"Until we know whether or not she carries your child."

This time Ca-Lo didn't try to hide his surprise. "You think 
she could be pregnant? After only one...?"

"Why not? You took no precautions."

"Did the damned Watcher give you that detail, too?"

They saw no reason to lie. "Yes. He also reported the true 
motive for your sexual encounter with Dana Scully."

"I was feeling horny after a long day of world domination?"

"No, you intended to impregnate her--"

"That's not true."

"You took no precaution against such an eventuality."

Ca-Lo's mind was crowded with protests, but digging deeper 
they uncovered a buried desire. Ca-Lo dreamed of having a 
family.  

Unfortunately for him, his rare genetic configuration 
disallowed it. The Derivation flowed in his veins. He was the 
will of God, Heavenly Father of humankind. This made him an 
abomination in the eyes of the Nih-hi-cho, who followed the 
teachings of their own gods -- the Divine Legion of Angels and 
the Red Dragon, eternal enemies of God the Almighty. The Nih-
hi-cho reviled Ca-Lo, but they dared not kill him. To do so 
would result in severe retribution from his Creator. Better to 
hold him prisoner, control his actions, study his unusual 
genes and understand his special skills, all the while 
ensuring a natural end to his cursed bloodline by denying him 
a mate.     

It was paramount Ca-Lo never sire a child, an anomaly, like 
the four Earth children born last year, all believed to be 
miracle babies, future saviors of the human race.

Of these four, only young William Mulder remained alive, 
hidden from his enemies by a devious mother, Dana Scully, the 
very woman who was found in Ca-Lo's bed mere hours ago.

Ca-Lo cleared his throat. "And if there is a child?"

They would not terminate the pregnancy, as much as they might 
want to. The humans' God wielded great power over this matter 
and now was not the time to test Him.

"Will you release her to me then?" Ca-Lo asked.

"You do not seem to grasp the seriousness of your 
transgression. You will never see Dana Scully again."

Desperation rolled through him. "There must be 
something...something I can do in exchange for her return."

Another quick reading of his mind told them his plea was 
sincere. His desire for the woman was not a whim. As a matter 
of fact, the prospect of a child had solidified his resolve.

"Perhaps there is something..." Overseer One began. 

"Anything. Name it."

"Find her son William and bring him to us -- alive. Then and 
only then may you bargain for Dana Scully."

BOOK III: THE FIRST WOE (PART 1)

COCONINO NATIONAL FOREST, ARIZONA

Lightning flashed. Tremors rattled the earth. The mountain 
exploded in a fountain of fire, spewing ash and embers. The 
blast was heard for hundreds of miles. All through the night, 
the mountain glowed fiery red. Chunks of molten rock rained 
down, crushing homes, scorching farmland. The next day, and 
for weeks after, fires blazed. They consumed the forest; they 
choked the sky.

It was the birth of Sunset Crater...nine-hundred years ago.

The eruption buried the surrounding countryside. The displaced 
inhabitants relocated to the lower plateau, an arid scrub-
covered flatland, previously considered too dry and barren for 
farming. Over the next hundred years, they built more than 
eight-hundred pueblos across miles of open desert. They 
struggled to grow corn, beans and squash. They raised 
families. They prayed to the gods. 

Then suddenly, they vanished. 

Where did the Anasazi go?

Hunkered in the open air in front of a stone-cold fire pit, 
Gibson Praise popped the top off a can of peaches and fished 
the fruit out with dirty fingers. He was alone in the Coconino 
campground, surrounded by abandoned vehicles, tents and 
scattered gear. A thicket of spiny mountain pines guarded his 
back. Blood-red devil's weed, buffeted by an updraft, trembled 
at the edges of the bluff thirty feet in front of him. Half 
hidden in the matted grass lay the remains of twenty-three 
dead campers.

Cracked bones, ragged muscle, shredded organs. Tainted by the 
stench of extraterrestrials, the corpses were ignored by 
Earthly scavengers.

A storm was gathering in the east. The air prickled with 
electricity. Looming thunderclouds cast blue-black shadows 
across Sunset Crater's distant cinder cone. 

Gibson had first visited the crater in early May, shortly 
after his sixteenth birthday. He'd climbed Lenox and 
Strawberry, too, to study their geological and historical 
significance. He hoped to find answers to the future buried 
somewhere in the ashes of the past. At the time, he believed 
he had ten more years to learn what the world needed to know.

That was before. Before Mulder's trial. Before the Smoker's 
death. Before 100,000 immature aliens were let loose on the 
Earth. Cunning hunters, with a taste for human flesh. He 
listened again for them.

Nothing. Apparently they'd moved on, like a swarm of colossal 
army ants in search of their next meal.

Six miles down-slope on the lower park road were the mutilated 
remains of three more hapless humans, a father and two sons, 
strangers to Gibson before an hour ago when his keen mind 
detected their terror. He hadn't answered their screams or 
hurried to rescue them. To do so was pointless. He couldn't 
help them; he could only cower beneath the pines and listen as 
they suffered and died.

Guilt coated him like sweat, even though he knew his 
responsibility was to all humans, not one unfortunate family. 
He had a gift, a unique ability. Adept at deciphering the 
young aliens' primitive thoughts, he could communicate with 
them, in a rudimentary way. Yet even with his exceptional 
mental capacity, he couldn't bargain for individual human 
lives. The infants' intense hunger made them irrational and 
unyielding. They were interested only in sating their empty 
bellies. 

Gibson swallowed the last slice of peach. Cool, sweet and 
slippery. 

From his hilltop vantage, he had a bird's eye view of the 
lonely Arizona plateau. He could see for miles, all the way to 
the Painted Desert in the northeast.

He could "hear" even further. Testing the extreme range of his 
telepathy, he listened intently. What came back to him sounded 
like a stuttering radio signal -- a myriad of quarrels, pleas 
and cries, overlapping, creating a mind-numbing cacophony of 
dread and dissatisfaction, panic and grief. Years ago, in what 
seemed another life, he had wanted to turn off those voices. 
Now, without radio, telephone or other forms of communication, 
they were his only connection to humanity, his only glimpse at 
world events.

The peaches were gone. He raised the can to his lips and drank 
their thick syrup, then tossed the empty can beneath the 
trees.    

The storm would be overhead before nightfall. Thunder and 
lightning. Rain. High winds. His tent would take a beating. He 
would sleep in one of the abandoned cars.

Hugging his arms around drawn up knees, he closed his eyes and 
listened. 

//...is the baby asleep?...outta canned milk...killed everyone 
in...daylight...head north...sister in Montana...after 
dark...dear God... no-no-no...rain's coming...thirsty... 
water...//

Gibson focused on this last voice. Weak but familiar. 
Struggling to survive.

It was Mulder.

*   *   *

TWO GRAY HILLS MEDICAL CENTER
NAVAJO RESERVATION, NEW MEXICO 
JUNE 7, 2002
LATE AFTERNOON

"Water," Mulder rasped as he fought to escape the chaos of 
nightmares. His head ached and the sharp odor of bleach stung 
his sinuses. With effort, he opened his eyes.

Pale walls. Waning daylight. An I.V., pressure cuff, bed tray, 
empty visitor's chair. Damn, he was in a hospital. A man with 
Native American features stood watching him from the foot of 
his bed. A preschooler clung to the man's hand, dark-haired 
and curious like her caretaker. 

Mulder cleared his throat. "Nobody brought flowers?"

The child rose up on her toes to get a better look over the 
hill of Mulder's blanketed feet.

The Indian moved to fill a tumbler with water from a plastic 
pitcher on the bedside tray. He held the cup to Mulder's 
parched lips.

Mulder swallowed greedily, spilling tepid water down his chin, 
soaking the front of his thin hospital gown. A fit of coughing 
wracked his body when he accidentally sucked liquid into his 
lungs.

The Indian waited patiently for his coughing to subside. 

Finally Mulder was able to wheeze out a few words. "Are you a 
doctor?"

"No. I'm Eric...Eric Hosteen. We met seven years ago."

The boy with the motorcycle. Albert Hosteen's grandson. He'd 
given Mulder a ride to a buried boxcar full of dead aliens. 

"You've changed, grown up."

"Yes."

Mulder's focus dropped to the girl who was tugging on Eric 
Hosteen's pants leg.

She whispered loudly, "Is he gonna die?"

"No, he will live." Eric bent and lifted her into the crook of 
one muscled arm. "This is Jewel, my daughter," he said.

"No, Daddy. I'm *Butter Bean*," she corrected him. 

"My nickname for her," Eric explained. 

"I'm five," the girl told Mulder. "I have a loose tooth." She 
demonstrated.

"Ah." Mulder rubbed a palm over his own aching jaw. "I think I 
have one or two myself."  

"You were hurt pretty bad, Agent Mulder."

"Not 'Agent'...not anymore." He tried to sit up, but something 
beneath the blankets held his left leg immobile. "Where...uh, 
where am I exactly?"

"You've asked that question before, several times in fact 
since you were first brought here."

"My memory's not so good." Mulder indicated the I.V., where 
tubes snaked into his right arm, drugging him with who-knew-
what. He wished it would dull the throbbing in his head. "Tell 
me again."

"You're in Two Gray Hills Medical Center."

Two Gray Hills. Navajo Reservation, northwest of Los Alamos. 
Mulder had nearly died there once, from thirst, heat and a 
gunshot wound. Scully's gunshot wound.

He glanced again at the empty chair. Where was she? Surely she 
had come back for him after the ship left.

His eyes searched the hall beyond the open door. "I was at 
Shiprock. How...how did I get here?"

An image of the Gunmen hovered at the fringes of his memory.

"Some men from the tribe brought you." 

From the tribe? Maybe he'd been mistaken about the Gunmen. 

Maybe he'd been mistaken about the spaceship, too. And the 
aliens and that man who looked like him, his mysterious twin. 
Ca-Lo. 

Maybe he was having a delusion right now, had been 
hallucinating for days, or even weeks. Hell, maybe he was 
still in his Mount Weather prison cell...or on the alien 
spacecraft. 

Panic seized him. Eric Hosteen could be a figment of his 
imagination. The girl, too. He cringed, anticipating the crack 
of a soldier's baton or...or...or the slash of the aliens' 
fiery scalpel as it split him from gullet to groin, exposing 
pale viscera and slippery organs. Jesus, Jesus, you're not 
supposed to see your own intestines, your own pounding heart--

Like a drowning man caught in a riptide, he clung desperately 
to the life raft of his present reality, to the hospital room, 
to Eric's uneasy expression and the girl's startled eyes.

"D-did they find her? Scully? My partner?" he stammered.

"We were led only to you."

"Led?"

"By my grandfather."

"But...your grandfather is dead."

"Yes." Eric caressed Jewel's smooth cheek, bringing forth a 
shy smile. "The dead are not lost to us, Mr. Mulder. You know 
that."

Mulder nodded. He did know it. He'd known it for a long time.

"And the living?" His fear refused to recede. Where was 
Scully? "Are they lost?"

"We are all in danger, Mr. Mulder. You must rest, recover from 
your injuries. There is much to do."

*   *   *

DOUGLAS RESIDENCE
CACHE, WYOMING
SHORTLY AFTER DAWN

The sound of breaking glass woke 19-year-old Kenna from a 
nightmare about giant locusts with scorpion tails and razor-
sharp teeth. "Rick?"

"Shhh. Someone's in the house," her husband whispered. He rose 
from the bed and silently crossed to the closet where he kept 
his rifle. 

Kenna's hand went automatically to the collar of her cotton 
nightgown, securing it over the damaged skin on her neck and 
chest. It was a protective gesture, a habit since childhood, 
after a pot of boiling water had left her baby-smooth skin 
looking like melted candle wax. 

"Hide in the closet," Rick ordered, loading cartridges into 
the rifle. His new onyx wedding ring winked with each jerky 
movement. He looked boyish with his licorice-colored hair 
askew, matted on one side from sleep. He was shirtless and his 
pajama bottoms rode low on his hips; Kenna had intended to 
mend the elastic waistband before she'd folded them away in 
his dresser drawer. "Stay put 'til I come back for you," he 
insisted.

"Rick--"

"Don't argue." Three strides brought him to her side. He 
grabbed her arm and hauled her easily from the bed. At age 
twenty, he had the strength of a seasoned rancher. 
"Hide...*now*!" 

Dazed by what was happening, she loosened her clutch on her 
collar, intending to neaten his mussed hair, but when she 
reached for it he shoved her fingers aside and lifted her off 
her feet. He carried her to the closet. "Everything'll be 
fine," he promised, dumping her inside and shutting the door.

Blinking into the dark, she hunkered beneath the hanging 
clothes: wool coats, Rick's Sunday suit and her month-old 
wedding gown, sealed in its drycleaner bag. A lock of her long 
hair was tangled in a hanger above her head, but she let it 
be, intent on listening to the sounds beyond the door.

A crash came from the downstairs living room and she pictured 
the ceramic table lamp -- a wedding gift -- smashed to bits on 
the oak floor. Odd click-clacking noises echoed in the 
stairwell. Then a blast from Rick's rifle startled her so 
badly she hit her head against the wall. Another shot followed 
the first. Rick screamed, high-pitched and unfamiliar, full of 
panic. Rick never panicked. Never. Whatever was happening must 
be unbearable.

Oh, God, help him, please help him, she prayed.

Another godawful scream and her bladder emptied, soaking her 
nightgown.      

Kenna hugged her knees and shivered. Tears stung her eyes, 
burned wavering trails down her cheeks. Her throat tightened 
until she couldn't catch her breath. 

How long she waited like that, gulping for air, trying not to 
cry aloud, she wasn't sure, but her leg muscles were cramping 
and her wet nightgown had grown cold beneath her by the time 
she realized the noises downstairs had stopped. She remained 
still for several more minutes, hoping beyond hope that Rick 
was going to return soon, safe and sound. Then he would laugh 
at her for peeing herself. She would laugh, too, for letting 
her silly fears get the best of her. She'd wash and change her 
clothes, then make them both a big breakfast: bacon and fresh 
eggs, over easy, just the way Rick liked them. She'd slice 
potatoes for homefries, too, and open that jar of her mom's 
huckleberry jam for their toast. Rick ate as much as a man 
twice his size and she liked to spoil him with her cooking. 
Maybe she would bake him a custard pie later in the day. Or an 
angel food cake.

No, there would be no pie or cake -- the power was out. She'd 
forgotten that. It had gone off last Tuesday and had stayed 
off. Not a soul at Duffy's Market or the Post Office knew why, 
and there was no way to find out. Telephones, TV, radio, 
*nothing* was working. Rick's truck wouldn't start. Neither 
would her aging Pinto, although that wasn't out of the 
ordinary. But, Lord o' mercy, even their watches had stopped. 
It was so strange. People were scared. They said it was a 
terrorists' plot. The beginning of WWIII maybe. With no way to 
get reliable news, rumors were flying while people tried to 
make do, helping their neighbors as best they could. Rick gave 
Artie next door a cord of wood, to heat the house and boil 
water to wash the baby's things. In return, the van de Kamps 
lent them a portable kerosene cook stove. It was small, but 
serviceable enough to fry an egg...over easy...just the way 
Rick liked them. 

Oh, God. Rick was dead. She knew it in her heart. Killed by 
whoever was...out...there...    

Kenna rose on numbed legs. Hands shaking, she cracked open the 
closet door and peered into the bedroom. Sunlight spilled like 
whitewash across the unmade bed. Rick's worn blue jeans lay 
draped over the blanket chest at its foot. A buzzing housefly 
bounced desperately against the windowpane, trying to escape 
into the bright dawn.

She stepped into the room. Her damp nightgown clung to the 
back of her thighs as she searched Rick's pants for his 
pocketknife. When she found it, she opened its blade with 
trembling fingers. 

Knife in hand, she tiptoed into the hall, which was dimmer 
than the bedroom. Its wooden floor felt cold beneath her bare 
feet. She held her breath and avoided the squeaky board at the 
top of the stairs.

Blood, lots of it, glistened on the stair treads. Splashes of 
crimson marred the ivory wallpaper. Rick was nowhere to be 
seen, but a swathe of red striped the entry floor from the 
bottom step to the open front door.

"Rick!" she screamed and dropped the knife.

She hurried down the stairs, skidded across the blood, nearly 
slipped as she tracked it onto the porch. 

More blood mottled the dirt driveway in a trail that led to 
the east pasture. Kenna followed it, ducking beneath the wire 
fence. She raced along a path of matted, spattered grass, a 
jagged line that ran from her property to the van de Kamp's a 
quarter of a mile away.

She found the fence broken on the far side of the field, 
knocked down, its wires snarled into loose knots. Dodging 
them, she hurried toward the neighbor's farmhouse. Her feet 
sank into freshly tilled soil as she navigated Artie's 
vegetable patch. Inhuman footprints, shaped like no animal 
she'd ever seen, had crushed the fragile seedlings, upended 
the tomato cages. She sprinted along one ruined row and then 
out across the overgrown lawn toward the flagpole, where the 
flag's ghostly buffalo waved in seeming surrender against a 
too-perfect azure sky. Kenna flinched at its frantic slap-
slap-slap as she dashed past.

"Rick!" Her cry was as rough as the weather-beaten clapboards 
on the van de Kamp's sagging barn. Its doors gaped like a 
screaming mouth; its interior was as black as Death's shroud.

A thinning trail of blood led her up onto the neighbor's front 
porch, where she stopped, out of breath. Overexertion stabbed 
her ribs and she gasped for air. The morning breeze tugged at 
her hair, twisted her nightgown. The porch swing wobbled, set 
into motion by a gust of wind...or a passing devil.

Blood speckled the peeling porch floor. She tried to avoid 
stepping in it as she pushed through the unlocked front door. 
Splintered at the hinges, the frame squeaked. Deep curving 
gouges scored the wood around the handle.

"Artie? Joanne?" Her desperate call echoed inside the still 
house. 

The air in the front hall felt feverish and smelled sickly-
sweet, like molasses and fermenting fruit.

She glanced into the living room to her right, then opposite 
to the dining room. Straight ahead, the hall led past a 
central staircase. She'd been in the house before and knew the 
hall continued through to the kitchen in the back.

Cautiously, she entered the living room and then stifled a cry 
when she spotted Artie's head, torn off at the neck, leaning 
at an awkward angle beside the rocking chair's curved runner. 
His dead eyes bulged and a look of sheer terror curled his 
parted lips. The room's pine floor was slick with 
unidentifiable gore and its once blue-and-white braided rug 
was saturated with blood. Artie's body had been hollowed out. 
His stony ribs curved up like the fingers of a loose fist; his 
innards stretched from the loveseat to the television set. 

A whimper leached from Kenna's throat as she backed away from 
the carnage.

She discovered Joanne's body in the kitchen, its torso yawning 
and empty like Artie's, its legs stripped to the bone, yet 
with both feet still intact, one wearing a terrycloth slipper. 

"Oh God." Dazed, she bent to retrieve the lost slipper, 
stupidly intending to fit it over Joanne's bare foot, when a 
baby screeched upstairs. 

"William!" She raced for the staircase, weak no-no-no's 
puffing from her lungs as she took the steps two at a time. 

Guided by the baby's wails, she turned left at the upper 
landing and careened through the first open door.

She was stopped short at the threshold by an unbelievable 
sight. Five human-sized insect-beings, locusts with razor 
sharp teeth and glossy scales -- the monstrous creatures from 
her nightmare, somehow come to life. They leaned over the 
crib where the baby sat crying, his dimpled hands gripping a 
faded blanket. His face was blotchy and tear-streaked. 
Hiccoughing cries opened and closed his mouth like a 
suffocating bluegill.

The locusts watched him with oily, oversized eyes. They seemed 
unconcerned by Kenna's arrival. Their jaws jittered, making 
unearthly click-clacking noises. They were broad, tall and 
muscular. Long talons studded their oddly jointed toes and 
fingers.

One of them was gripping a human arm. Rick's onyx wedding ring 
gleamed on the severed limb's curled finger.

"Noooooo!"

Kenna rushed forward, not thinking what the creatures might 
do, not caring about the danger. She moved by instinct, 
knowing only that she must protect the baby, save him from 
these ungodly beasts. 

"Monsters! Go away!" she screamed.

To her astonishment, the creatures stepped aside and allowed 
her access to the child. She reached into the crib, elbowing 
the mobile, setting its four white buffalo rocking as she 
lifted William out. He clung to her, his blue-gray eyes wide 
and wet. His small fingers bit into the scarred flesh of her 
neck.

"Everything'll be okay," she murmured, repeating Rick's last 
words.

Legs trembling, she edged slowly from the room. For whatever 
reason, the locusts made no move to stop her. She bumped into 
the doorframe, stumbled around it, and then ran for all she 
was worth.  

*   *   *

THREE MONTHS LATER, SEPTEMBER 27, 2002
HOSTEEN RESIDENCE
TWO GRAY HILLS, NEW MEXICO

Jewel clambered onto a scuffed wooden chair, then up onto the 
kitchen table to get a better view out the window. A plastic 
saltshaker, bumped by her knee, rolled across the Formica 
tabletop and clattered to the floor. 

"Get down, honey," her mother warned, hands thrust in 
dishwater. "Eric, get her off there."

Eric deposited his empty coffee mug into the sink and crossed 
to his daughter.

"Stay away from the window, Butter Bean," he said, retrieving 
the saltshaker. "You know it's not safe."

"Then why is *he* out there?" Jewel pressed her nose against 
the glass. 

Eric could see Mulder beyond the dusty pane, limping toward 
Jewel's swing-set. Late afternoon sun glinted off his metal 
crutches as he hobbled between the empty clothesline and the 
sandbox. He navigated carefully around Jewel's overturned Big 
Wheel and a faded blue and red beach ball. Dark silhouettes 
resembling surreal cartoon creatures stretched across the 
bristling lawn: Mulder's shadow became a stilted circus clown, 
the swing set a crouching spider, the clothesline its enormous 
web.

Mulder paused at the foot of Jewel's slide, where he appeared 
to talk with someone, although no one else was in the yard.   

"Can I play, too, Daddy?"

"He isn't playing."

"What's he doing?" 

"Searching for a way home."

She twisted to peer skeptically back at him, brows drawn 
together. He was glad she questioned everything, even him. 

"Like the snake you found in the bath tub," he reminded her.

"Oh."

She returned her gaze to Mulder and thumped the windowpane 
with her small fist to get his attention.

Mulder ignored her...or, more likely, couldn't hear her. The 
"accident" at Shiprock had left him deaf in one ear. Dozens of 
razor thin scars stippled his neck and jaw on the one side, as 
if he'd sailed head first through a windshield or stumbled 
through a plate glass door. Eric wasn't sure what really 
happened because Mulder claimed he couldn't remember.

A lie, Eric was certain.  

Whatever the cause of Mulder's injuries, the worst damage was 
to his leg. Doctors had set and pinned his broken thighbone 
with a steel rod in an hours-long operation, which was 
interrupted by a sudden and evidently permanent power outage. 
Things got more complicated when the back-up generator 
wouldn't start. The team of surgeons worked frantically to 
stitch Mulder's leg by the light of kerosene lamps. He'd 
nearly bled to death on the operating table. 

After the surgery, Mulder was pumped full of antibiotics to 
stave off infection. For days it had been touch and go. 
Traditional prayer supplemented modern medicine. By the grace 
of God and the ancestral spirits, he'd managed to survive.

He was laid up for weeks, at first in the hospital and later 
in Eric's back bedroom. He worked hard to regain the use of 
his leg and now wore a removable cast made of plastic and 
Velcro straps. His prognosis was guardedly optimistic; given 
time and determination he would eventually be able to give up 
the crutches, but the doctors predicted he would always walk 
with a limp   

"How did the snake get in the bathtub?" Jewel asked, eyes 
still on Mulder.

"It came up through the pipes." Eric lifted her from the table 
onto his shoulders.

She gripped his hair like the reins of a pony.

"Where is it now, Daddy? Did you kill it?" 

"No. It returned to its den." 

Eric's grandfather used to say a snake could be an omen, the 
harbinger of misfortune. This one had appeared the day the 
power went out, the day everything went to hell. 

Eric carried Jewel out onto the slanted front porch. A smear 
of orange glowed like a branding iron above the desert's 
distant horizon.  

"Mulder," he called softly, eyes combing the yard for signs of 
danger. "Come inside."

"Watch this." Mulder half-turned, lifted both crutches from 
the ground and took several limping steps toward the setting 
sun.  

"You can practice in the living room just as easily as out 
here." Eric was reluctant to say more in front of Jewel, but 
felt pressed when Mulder continued to hobble away. "There's 
been trouble in Pintado," he warned, "and Fort Defiance."

"But not here." Mulder wobbled, working hard at staying upright.

"Not yet. Please come inside."

"Only if you tell me what's really going on." Mulder's voice 
scraped the late afternoon air like a buzzard's cry.

Jewel flinched at the sudden sternness of his tone. Her tiny 
fingers dug into Eric's hair and pricked his scalp like 
needles. He gave her legs a reassuring squeeze.

"I'll tell you everything I know," Eric bargained, "if you 
promise to do the same."

Mulder squinted against the setting sun and considered for a 
moment.

"Deal," he said at last. "The truth this time...from both of 
us."

Eric nodded, figuring Mulder was recovered enough to hear 
about the attacks, the mutilations, the rumors of murderous 
invaders. Terrorists, devils, even ghosts were being blamed 
for the power outages and killings. 

"Let's talk inside. Linda's made fresh coffee."

"Can't say no to that." 

Determined to walk on his own, Mulder let the crutches dangle 
as he shuffled back to the house. His jaw tightened whenever 
he put weight on his bad leg. By the time he reached the 
steps, sweat was beading on his forehead and upper lip. His 
skin had gone ghostly pale.

Eric reached out a helping hand, but instead of taking it, 
Mulder thrust the crutches at him. "Thanks," he growled before 
slowly mounting the steps and entering the house.

Inside wasn't much safer than out, not if the rumors about 
roving killers were true. And Eric had no reason to doubt the 
stories; he'd seen evidence himself, bodies out in Hunters 
Wash, gutted and stripped of flesh and muscles, the corpses 
ignored by coyotes and vultures alike. It was strange; not so 
much as a blowfly fed on the remains. 

Eric glanced at his rifle, oiled and loaded, locked beyond 
Jewel's reach in the gun cabinet beside the refrigerator.

"Lemme down, Daddy." Jewel squirmed atop his shoulders. 

He swung her to the floor one-handed. She immediately seized 
the crutches from him. The metal cuffs were set too high for 
her short arms, so she clumsily gripped the crutches halfway 
down and began clomping around as if she were lame.

"Those belong to Mulder," Eric reminded her gently.

"She can keep 'em," Mulder said. "I won't be using them any 
more." He lowered himself stiffly onto one of the kitchen 
chairs and accepted a mug of steaming coffee from Linda.

"We're out of propane," Linda informed Eric, removing the 
empty coffee pot from the flameless burner.

They were out of almost everything: kerosene, candles, bottled 
water, canned food.

"Danny and I'll go to Shonto's tomorrow, try to scrounge some 
supplies." Eric straddled the chair opposite Mulder.

"Think there's anything left there?" Linda asked. 

Probably not. The market had been ransacked and picked clean 
weeks ago. But it wasn't like he had a lot of options. 
Everyone was getting desperate. 

"I might need to go to Gallup or Albuquerque."

"That's too far, Eric," she said, her voice watery with 
concern. "It's a three day ride on horseback."

"Then I'll take the Scout." For whatever reason, the vintage 
motorcycle still ran, unlike the pickup. "I can be there and 
back in a day."

"I don't want you going all that way alone," she objected.   

"I'll go with you," Mulder volunteered.

"Sorry," Eric said, "I'll need the space behind the seat for 
supplies."

"I want to help. You've been babysitting me long enough."

"You can help by staying right here, keeping an eye on the 
place while I'm gone." He hooked a thumb at the gun cabinet. 
"Linda never learned how to shoot."

"I don't like guns," she said, sounding defensive. "They scare 
me."

"What's roaming around outside is a helluva lot scarier than 
my rifle, hon," Eric said.

"What is out there?" Mulder's weary expression indicated he 
might already know the answer.

Eric glanced at Jewel. She didn't appear to be listening. 
Using Mulder's crutches, she was hopping back and forth over 
the threshold between the kitchen and the living room, singing 
to herself as she played. "Soon you'll zooooom all 'round the 
room, all takes is faith an' trust..." -- she leapt through 
the doorframe -- "but th'thing thassa pos'tive must..." -- she 
pivoted and bounded back -- "izza li'l bitta pixie dust!"

Eric lowered his voice to explain, "They showed up the day we 
found you."

Linda stood at the sink, shoulders hunched. She scrubbed hard 
at the coffee pot. "That's when everything started."

"Such as?" Mulder asked.

"Power went out."

Mulder nodded. "Right. Watches stopped working, cars wouldn't 
start, yadda, yadda. What else?"

"A shit-load of lightning, but no rain," Eric said.

"Flames dancing in the sky," Mulder guessed. "Tree branches, 
leaves, blades of grass, even the horns of cattle glowed a 
ghostly blue, am I right?" 

"How did you know?"

"St. Elmo's Fire," he said, as if the mysterious phenomenon 
made perfect sense. "What else?"

"Birds went crazy, flying in circles, crashing into buildings, 
cliffs, road signs. My cousin Danny found twenty-eight 
pintails dead in the desert. Imagine -- ducks in this part of 
New Mexico."

"Their ability to navigate was affected by the EMP." 

"The what?"

"Electromagnetic pulse. That's what disabled the power grids, 
communications systems, cars, your wristwatch."

"But not my motorcycle?"

"No electronic ignition."

Eric still didn't understand. "Where did this electro-whatever 
come from?"

Mulder waved off the question. "First tell me about the 
creatures, the ones killing cattle, horses, people."

Eric shot another quick look at Jewel. She had stopped her 
singing and was now watching them intently.

"Linda, didn't you promise Butter Bean a story after dinner?"

"You're right, I did," Linda said, understanding the need to 
shelter their daughter from the worst rumors. She dried her 
hands on a towel. "What'll it be this time, sweetie? Lizzie 
Zipmouth or Glubbslyme?" She led the girl into the adjoining 
room.

As soon as they were out of earshot, Eric continued, "I don't 
believe they're terrorists. Then again, I don't believe 
they're devils or ghosts either."

"They're none of those."

"Then who?"

"You know who they are. You saw them yourself seven years 
ago." 

He had seen them. Alien bodies stacked floor to ceiling in a 
boxcar, inexplicably buried beneath the red desert sand.

"You think they've come back?"

Mulder's gaze dropped to the oily surface of his coffee. He 
stared into it as if he might divine the future there. "There 
are thousands of them, Eric, tens of thousands. I saw them."

"Where?"

"Shiprock, the day this happened." He patted his injured leg.

Tens of thousands. Was it really possible?  

"How bad is it gonna get?"

"Did you see what happened at Shiprock?"

"No, but I heard." The men who had rescued Mulder described a 
huge open pit where the sacred mountain once stood. "What do 
these...these aliens want?"

"To feast on an all-you-can-eat human buffet."

Eric thought again of the bodies in Hunters Wash. It was no 
wonder the mutilated corpses were left untouched by 
scavengers. The dead were tainted by something from beyond 
this world.

"Why now?" he asked.

Mulder's cheeks darkened and a look of disgust thinned his 
lips. "My fault."

"Yours?"

"Yes." He pushed his coffee away. "Eric, if I don't stop them 
soon, they'll be crawling all over this planet. No one will be 
safe."

"How do you plan to stop ten thousand aliens?"

"I don't know." A muscle twitched along his jaw. "I-I've got 
to find Scully."

"You sure she's still alive?"

Mulder's startled expression made Eric wish he hadn't asked.  

"She's alive," Mulder growled. "We were together at Shiprock. 
I... She--" His voice broke and tears suddenly filled his 
eyes. He turned to the window and the growing gloom beyond. 
After a moment he whispered, "I'm sorry."

Eric nodded, although he had the feeling Mulder's apology 
wasn't directed at him.

"There may be a way to get some information," he offered, 
"although it's a little unconventional."

"I'm okay with unconventional." Mulder locked eyes with him. 
"What did you have in mind?"

"There are stories about a boy in the west. The elders say 
Wind's Child whispers in his ear."

"Wind's Child?"

"A guardian spirit. The elders believe Wind's Child helps this 
boy talk to the devils...the aliens...whatever they are. They 
say the boy can read minds."

"I know a boy like that." Mulder leaned forward. "Where is 
he?"

"In Arizona, a place called Kits'iil. It means 'houses that 
have been left behind.' I can show you on a map." 

Eric went to the junk drawer and rustled through credit card 
receipts, takeout menus and last year's Christmas cards. 
Unearthing a roadmap of Arizona, he took it to the table, 
unfolded it and pinpointed Kits'iil with the tip of his 
finger.

"There."

"Mind if I take this with me?" Mulder pushed away from the 
table and stood.

"You're leaving? Right now?"

"Why not?"

"Your leg--"

"My leg is fine." As if to prove his point he took three 
determined, if uneven, steps toward the door.

"Wait...Mulder...it's getting dark."

"Good, these aliens come out only in the day."

"How do you know that?"

"They crave heat, need it to develop, to metamorphose into 
their adult form. The desert is too cold at night. They don't 
like freezing their alien asses off."

The explanation didn't make much sense to Eric, but Mulder 
seemed convinced.

"You can't walk all the way to Kits'iil, Mulder. For 
Chrissake, you won't make it as far as the next street with 
that bad leg."

"Maybe I know a guy who owns a horse." Mulder smiled.

"You think you can get on and off a horse? Jesus, Mulder, wait 
a few weeks. Give yourself time to heal."

"I don't have that kind of time, Eric. None of us does."

In the adjoining room Jewel laughed at something in her 
storybook. She sounded heartbreakingly carefree. Eric's chest 
tightened. 

He made a quick decision. "Take the Scout."

For the first time since his arrival, hope gleamed in Mulder's 
eyes. "Got any gas?"

"Tank's full." Eric folded the map and offered it to Mulder. 
"Let me see what I can find for supplies. If you're willing to 
wait, that is." 

Mulder tucked the map into his back pocket. "Just don't take 
too long."

ABADDON'S REIGN
BOOK III: THE FIRST WOE (PART 2)

*   *   *

SOMEWHERE NEAR THE NEW MEXICO/ARIZONA BORDER
MIDNIGHT

Moonlight frosted the body of a white male, indeterminate age, 
spread-eagle on the highway's centerline. Blood, dried and 
black as pine pitch, darkened the pavement around him like a 
reverse halo. He was missing his head. From the jagged wound 
at his neck, Mulder guessed it had been torn off. The gaping 
torso was split lengthwise, its organs plundered. Large 
muscles -- thighs, calves, buttocks -- had been ravaged, 
exposing bone, yet the dead man was still wearing a canvas 
coat, leather gloves and a pair of hiking boots.

Mulder swung stiffly off the motorcycle. His left thigh 
throbbed after only two hours of riding.

"Guess I got that peg leg after all, Scully," he muttered, 
limping to the corpse. 

He quickly rifled through the man's pockets, hoping to find 
anything he might use as a weapon -- a handgun or a knife, 
hell, even pepper spray would be welcome. He missed the weight 
and security of his FBI-issued Glock.

His hand closed around a pack of cigarettes. 

"Better than a kick in the nuts," he said when the urge to 
smoke struck him like a roundhouse punch. It had been twelve 
years since his last cigarette, if you didn't count that 
tobacco beetle debacle. He opened the pack and looked inside. 
It held four cigarettes and a disposable lighter.

"Those things'll kill you," X warned, appearing out of the 
dark. His eyes swept the surrounding terrain with the same 
nervous caution he'd shown in life.

Mulder waved the Morleys at the gore lumping the road. "There 
are worse ways to go." He slipped the cigarettes into the 
pocket of his windbreaker.

"You should take his gloves, too," X urged.

"No thanks."

"Why not? He won't be needing them and it can get damn cold in 
the desert, especially with autumn coming on."

"I said no."

"It's okay to smoke his cigarettes, but not take his gloves?"

"I draw the line at stealing clothes from a corpse." 

"Is that an ethical decision? Or are you just squeamish?"

Mulder waited out a wave of irritation. "Interesting you 
should ask."

"Why's that?"

"Scully told me something once...something a man told her."

"What would that be?"

"He said the dead speak to us from beyond the grave, that 
that's what conscience is." Mulder glared at X. "You aren't my 
conscience, are you?"

X laughed, a harsh, barking sound that echoed across sagebrush 
and sand. "Is that really what you think?"

"I see dead people. I don't know what I think any more." 

Mulder hobbled back to the motorcycle to hunt through the 
storage compartment behind the seat. Locating the water 
bottle, he popped the cap and took a swig. The water tasted 
gritty, but it cleared the tang of death from his throat.

Slouching against the bike, he adopted a genial tone. "You 
ever run into Krycek over there on your side of the Great 
Beyond?"

X circled the bike, his shoes soundless on the tar, his 
trenchcoat hanging limp despite the night wind. He cast no 
shadow on the moonlit highway. "No. Why?"

"Because I'd like to kick his ethereal ass from here to Hell 
for getting me into this mess...for getting everyone into it." 
Mulder recapped the bottle and tossed it into the storage 
compartment.

"Mobilization was going to happen with or without Alex 
Krycek." 

"Yeah, well later would've been a helluva lot better than 
sooner. The world might've had a chance to prepare."

"The world was never going to be prepared...not for this."

Mulder zipped his jacket against the chill and scanned the 
highway ahead. The road resembled a knife blade, splitting the 
badlands as far as the eye could see. 

Was he still on Highway 134? 

He yanked the map from his back pocket, unfolded it and angled 
it into the moonlight.   

"Krycek used me," he said.

"And they used him." 

"They cloned him. That should've appealed to an egocentric 
son-of-a-bitch like Krycek."  

"Playing host to the Apocalypse is hardly an honor." 

Mulder recalled the haunted expressions on the clones' faces. 

"You think he was trying to end the clones' suffering?"

"Sounds like something an egocentric son-of-a-bitch might do, 
doesn't it? They were part of him."

The wind rattled the map, folding it back on itself.

"Doesn't mean he was trying to stop the invasion, even if he 
believed the alien fetuses would die with the clones."

X wasn't listening. His attention was on the road behind them. 
"Better get moving."

"Why? What's back there? What's coming?"

"You don't want to find out."

*   *   *

HOSTEEN RESIDENCE
SOMETIME AFTER MIDNIGHT

Jewel was awake and calling for Eric. She wanted a drink of 
water. And a story.

Eric granted her both, trying to settle her down for the 
second time that night by recounting a favorite Navajo legend.

"Changing Woman's twin sons--"

"Born for Water and Monster Slayer," the girl interrupted, 
naming the twins. 

"That's right. They set out to visit their father."

"The Sun."

She'd heard the story before...many times.

"The trip was dangerous," Eric continued.

He sat on the edge of her bed, his weight sinking the small 
mattress. A kerosene lamp cast a blond circle of light on the 
nightstand beside him; it scented the air with its oily odor, 
reminding him again of the effortlessness of electricity and 
the serenity of earlier times. Jewel watched him through wide 
eyes, her blanket drawn up to her chin.

"Are you sure you want to hear this story, Butter Bean?" he 
asked, worried it might give her nightmares.

"I like Wind's Child," she said.

Wind's Child -- the twins' helper, placed in the folds of 
their ears to advise them when they were in danger. Eric 
understood the appeal of such a guardian.

"Okay then...the twins climbed a rainbow to get to the house 
of the Sun," he said. "They underwent many trials to prove 
they were truly his sons."

"And they proved it."

"Yes."

"And the Sun wanted to give them jewels and pretty flowers and 
rainbows, right?"

"He did, but Wind's Child told the twins to say, 'We did not 
come for those things, my father; that is not our purpose. We 
came for a pair of lightning arrows and flint shoes, clubs and 
leggings.'"

"On account of the monsters."

"Yes, on account of the monsters. The Sun answered slowly, 
telling them they were brothers to the monsters they wished to 
kill. But he placed agate in them, making them immune to 
injury, and then gave them the garments and weapons they had 
asked for. He also gave them prayersticks and told the younger 
of the two--"

"Born for Water."

"Yes, Born for Water. He told him he must sit and watch the 
prayersticks while his older brother--"

"Monster Slayer."

"Yes, while Monster Slayer went to kill the monsters."

"Monster Slayer was very brave."

Or crazy, Eric thought. Like Mulder.

"Monster Slayer left his father's house--"

A crash in the hall startled Eric and caused Jewel to gasp.

"What was that?" she whispered.

"Shh." 

He rose from the bed. Across the hall, Linda screamed.

"Momma!" Jewel kicked back the covers and scrambled to her 
knees in the middle of the mattress. "Mom--"

"Shhhh!" Eric hissed. His hand shot out to cover her mouth 
before she could shout again.

Footsteps thudded down the hall. Another crash. The sound of 
splintering wood.

Jewel was shaking. Small, frantic breaths hissed from her 
nose, steaming Eric's hand, which had grown ice cold. He 
couldn't leave her; he was certain she would chase after him, 
even if he told her not to. Yet he had to find a way to help 
Linda.

Glass shattered in the bathroom. It was followed by a gurgling 
howl, so inhuman Eric wasn't sure if it was Linda or one of 
her attackers.

Jewel whimpered behind Eric's hand and he realized he was 
gripping her mouth too tightly. 

"I'm going to take my hand away. Don't scream, okay?"

She nodded, knocking loose two fat tears.

He released his hold.

"I'm going to get you out of here, Butter Bean. You're gonna 
crawl through the window. Then you're gonna run as fast as you 
can to Uncle Dan's. Got that?"

"You come, t-too, D-daddy."

Thumps and clangs continued throughout the house.

"I'll be right behind you," he lied, lifting her from the bed. 
In truth he intended to run to the kitchen to get his rifle as 
soon as Jewel was safely on her way.

She clung to him with quaking arms as he carried her to the 
window. 

He shoved the drapes aside and froze at what he saw beyond the 
glass. His cousin's house was ablaze next door. Further down 
the street, the Attakai's and the Nells' were engulfed in 
flames, too. Columns of sparks spiraled skyward above the 
rooftops. Fiery fingers clawed desperately at the heavens, 
while a shroud of smoke dimmed the moon and stars. Dozens of 
tall insect-like creatures loped across the yards, backlit by 
the inferno.

They were Mulder's aliens. He had been right.

Rifle shots, muted by distance, popped like firecrackers 
somewhere across the village, while a chorus of human screams 
pressed against the glass like fog. 

Jewel screeched when an alien face suddenly appeared at the 
window, inches away. It had eyes the size of Eric's fists, 
black as tar and glossed with evil. Green scaly plates covered 
its hairless head. A row of fangs glittered in a lipless 
mouth. It hissed, splattering the window with a sludgy pus-
colored film.  

Eric stumbled back, two steps, three...

An unearthly stutter trilled in the hall outside the bedroom 
door, a click-clacking noise that brought bile to the back of 
his throat. 

They were trapped. 

The window burst, spraying glass across the floor. The alien's 
taloned hand reached into the room. 

Eric kissed the crown of his daughter's dark head and hugged 
her tightly. Resignation seized him; his thudding heart felt 
ready to burst. There was no Monster Slayer to save them 
tonight, no Wind's Child to steer them from evil. The ancient 
deities had fled the world of men and abandoned them to Hell's 
demons.

*   *   *

KITS'IIL, ARIZONA

Gibson longed to shut out the panicked screams at Two Gray 
Hills. It was suffocating, crushing, to bear witness to the 
death throes of an entire town.

"I can't help them," he sniffled, wiping sweat from his brow 
with his sleeve.

He was exhausted after hours of moving rocks, incrementally 
dismantling Kits'iil's crumbling walls in search of something 
he'd been promised was buried there -- a "key," Albert Hosteen 
had said, an answer to the world's dire condition. Gibson's 
arms and shoulders ached from his labor. His fingers bled, 
rubbed raw by the pumicey stone of the ancient ruins. 

"What you are doing will help many," Albert Hosteen assured. 
He sat cross-legged beside Gibson's oil lamp, arms draped over 
his knees. His eyes gleamed with infinite patience. 

"It's not enough."

"You cannot save everyone, but you can do this."

Gibson tossed another stone aside. It landed with a hollow 
thud on the hard sandy soil behind him. "You're certain it's 
here?"

"Yes, but you must dig deep. The Ancient Ones did not intend 
for it to be found easily." 

Gibson was unable to read the dead Indian's thoughts, so was 
forced to ask, "Do you know what's going on in Two Gray 
Hills?" 

"Yes. My grandson and great-granddaughter will join me soon. 
It will be a joyful reunion."

"They're suffering."

"Yes." Moonlight transformed the dead Indian's long, white 
hair into a silvery waterfall. "But it will be over quickly."

Not for me, Gibson thought.

Six para-aliens watched him from beyond the glow of his oil 
lamp. Their bellies craved fresh meat. They lifted their 
slotted nostrils to the night wind, attracted by his human 
scent. Yet for whatever reason they remained where they were. 
Maybe they understood he was like them, his genes a closer 
match to their ancestors than to his own.

Or maybe it was Albert Hosteen's ghost that kept them at bay.

Gibson worked another stone loose and reached into the dark 
hole behind it.

His hands encountered something smooth, cool and dome-shaped.

"Now you have what you need," Albert Hosteen said and 
vanished.

The aliens moved restlessly, chattering in their peculiar 
click-clacking language; their extraterrestrial interchange 
raised the fine hairs on the back of Gibson's neck. They knew 
he'd found what he'd come for, and he knew they intended to 
take it from him.

He carefully removed the item from its ancient hiding place. 
The lamp revealed gleaming teeth, deep eye sockets and the 
smooth crown of a humanoid skull. The jaw was delicate, the 
nubbin-like teeth as small as a preschooler's, yet the cranium 
was oversized even for an adult, and its massive brow ridges 
shadowed enormous eyeholes. 

Something rattled inside the hollow brain case.

Gibson struck the skull hard against a stone to break it open. 
It split into several brittle pieces and a slender metallic 
cylinder tumbled out.

He held it to the light. Three inches long and as thin as a 
PDA stylus, it had no movable parts and no apparent purpose, 
yet it was incised with miniature symbols. He ran his 
thumbnail over them and the artifact seemed to warm in his 
hand.

The aliens' chatter intensified. He sensed their desire for 
the thing he'd found. He wondered if they would kill him for 
it.

*   *   *

NORTHEASTERN ARIZONA

Dawn seeped across the sky like blood on silk, staining the 
clouds crimson and tinting the roadway pink. Mulder navigated 
a series of spine-jarring potholes. His injured leg burned 
with each jolt and he longed to get off the bike and stretch.

"Suck it up, G-Man," Krycek whispered into his ear, startling 
him so badly he swerved off the pavement.

He fought the drag of sand and wrestled the Scout back onto 
the road, then chanced a quick look behind him. 

Krycek was there, riding shotgun and grinning smugly. "Miss 
me?"

"Fuck you."

Krycek leaned closer. His tone was mockingly seductive. "They 
say absence makes the heart grow fonder." 

"Go to hell."

"Not ready to forgive and forget?"

"I'd kill you if you weren't already dead."

"Why are you mad at me? I was just trying to help."

"You've never helped anyone but yourself."

"Not true, my friend. Yes, I wanted those aliens dead. But you 
wanted them dead, too. I figured we could help each other."

Mulder chuffed in disgust.

"Hey, you saw what they were doing to my, uh, heirs," Krycek 
tried to defend his actions. "You think I should've just bent 
over and let them metaphorically fuck me up the ass?"

"I could live with that -- metaphorically or otherwise."

"Mulder, I swear you get meaner with every passing 
conspiracy."

"Yeah, well, daily beatings and lousy prison food tend to do 
that to a guy."

"You're singing to the choir, pal." Krycek leaned closer to 
Mulder's ear. "Remind me to cry you a river after they've 
chopped you up and turned you into ten thousand alien 
incubators."

"Now who's whining?" 

Mulder focused on the road ahead. Three-quarters of a mile 
away, the ruins of an ancient village dotted the flatland like 
broken teeth. 

"Kits'iil?" Krycek asked. 

"I hope so." Mulder was eager to be off the bike and rid of 
his ghostly passenger.

"Looks like trouble in River City," Krycek said.

Something was moving among the toppled adobes. 

Several somethings, Mulder corrected himself, counting seven 
distinct shapes.

Krycek began to bellow a verse from The Music Man. "'Heed the 
warning before it's too late! Watch for the tell-tale sign of 
corruption!'"

"Shut the fuck up."

Mulder could see them more clearly now, several stilt-legged 
aliens forming a loose circle within the crumbling walls of 
the ancient village, their greenish-black scales reflecting 
the early morning sun. At their center stood a lone human boy. 

"Shit, that's Gibson."

"Better hurry, Batman," Krycek warned. "Looks like the Boy 
Wonder is in danger." 

Mulder lowered his head and gave the bike more gas. 

The roar of the engine alerted the aliens to his approach. 
They closed ranks around Gibson, who pivoted like "it" in a 
game of dodge ball. The rising sun flashed off his glasses 
with each frantic turn of his head. 

"Time to kick a little alien ass," Mulder muttered, more to 
himself than to Krycek.

"Or die a fool," Krycek said. 

Without a weapon, Mulder wasn't sure what he would do once he 
reached Gibson. There were few realistic alternatives, but he 
refused to let impracticality stop him.

"At least I'll go down fighting." 

He steered the motorcycle off the pavement and bee-lined 
toward the ruins.

The Scout jounced over corrugated sand, ripping through scrub 
and sending a plume of dust skyward. He hit a ridge and became 
momentarily airborne. He braced for impact. It came, hard and 
excruciating. Pain shot from his knee to his hip. 

Biting back a yelp, he opened the throttle. He planned to ram 
the alien phalanx, take down as many as he could in the 
process.

With less than a hundred yards to go, Krycek shouted above the 
straining engine, "I don't like the odds, buddy. Gotta go."

Then he vanished from the seat behind Mulder. 

"Coward," Mulder growled behind clenched teeth. It was just 
like Krycek to turn tail and run the minute things got dicey.

The aliens began milling in a disorganized way. They kept a 
distance of a few feet between themselves and Gibson. Mulder 
knew the boy could communicate with them; he'd witnessed it at 
Rolling Hills Nuclear Power Plant. Maybe Gibson was pleading 
for his life right now. 

Mulder targeted three to Gibson's left. If he could wound or 
kill them --  

To his surprise, Krycek suddenly materialized inside the ring 
of aliens. They scattered, although not very far. Mulder was 
astounded they could see Krycek, let alone feared him, yet they 
kept their distance.

Krycek waved Mulder in.

"You owe me an apology," Krycek said when Mulder skidded to a 
stop beside him and the boy.

Mulder offered a hand to Gibson, who mounted the bike behind 
him.

The aliens pawed the air and hissed, their disappointment 
evident. One darted forward, trying to get to Gibson, but 
Krycek blocked it. It chattered angrily, but stayed back.   

"Apology for what?" Mulder asked, revving the engine.

"Misjudging me."

"I still don't trust you, Krycek." Mulder released the brake 
and rocketed across the sand. "But thanks."

*   *   *

BLUFF, UTAH
SEPTEMBER 30
SUNRISE

Twin Rocks Monument rose like two giant fists from the ruddy 
plateau. Tucked at their base was a sprawling restaurant/gift 
shop, a pit stop for busloads of tourists on their way to 
Canyon de Chelly or Arches National Park. 

The restaurant was deserted and had an eerie ghost town feel. 
The rising sun shot horizontal bands of pale light through its 
long front windows, casting prison bar patterns across the 
chilly interior's scuffed Linoleum floor. A fetid, rotting 
odor wrinkled Gibson's nose as he wandered the aisles of the 
gift shop. He kept his mind anchored to Mulder, who was 
rummaging through the kitchen for something to eat and drink.

Native American crafts, fossils, disposable cameras, and 
useless souvenirs were gathering dust on the shelves. Gibson 
selected a picture postcard from a circular rack. According to 
the description on the back, the Twin Rocks Monument 
represented mythical brothers -- Born for Water and Monster 
Slayer -- from a Navajo creation story.

"Bingo!" Mulder shouted from behind the breakfast counter.

He'd found drinks and Gibson read relief in his mind. He 
replaced the postcard and sauntered to the dining room, where 
Mulder was up-righting two vinyl-padded chairs, one a dirty 
yellow, the other a pale blue. 

"Coke's yours," Mulder said. He eased into the blue chair, 
stiff-legged and tired. He gripped a Shiner Bock in one hand.

"How come I don't get beer?" Gibson sat, too.

"Because you're underage."

"I don't see anyone checking IDs."

Mulder shook his head, dismissing the argument. "I need your 
mind clear, Gibson." //...to help me find Scully...//

Gibson ignored Mulder's unspoken hope and tilted his chin 
toward the kitchen. "There wasn't anything to eat back there?"

Mulder bristled at the change of subject. Gibson could hear 
Mulder's thoughts as clearly as his own. Among them, he found 
patterns of disquiet and desire. Mulder wasn't interested in 
food. He ached for Scully, who Gibson quickly learned had gone 
missing after an argument between the two of them. The cause 
of their quarrel had hurt Mulder profoundly. His need to find 
her and set things right was stronger than anything Gibson had 
ever experienced firsthand. It was physically powerful, with a 
sexual component, but more than that, too. Meandering doubts, 
unresolved anger, and so much guilt. Scully's absence caused a 
phantom pain in Mulder's psyche; it left a gaping hole in his 
heart.  

"You had a fight." Gibson said.

"What?"

"A fight. With Scully."

A string of uncharitable phrases thundered through Mulder's 
thoughts. "Stay out of my head, Gibson."

"It's not like I can turn it off."

Mulder chugged half his beer without taking a breath. Gibson 
could hear him wishing for something stronger, something that 
would cloud his mind and stymie Gibson's unwelcome intrusion. 

"Is it safe to assume you and I aren't the only two people 
left on the planet?" Mulder asked, setting his beer on the 
table. He kept his fingers curled tightly around the bottle's 
narrow neck.

"There are others."

"Then how 'bout eavesdropping on one of them?"

"I could try, but...you're right next to me, so it's kind of 
like your signal's the loudest."   

"Wonderful." 

"I'm not passing judgment."

"Excuse me?"

"On what you're thinking."

"Better not--" //prying punk-ass //

Gibson forced a smile. "Really? Is that how you think of me?"

Mulder turned his deaf ear to Gibson and absently scratched 
the roadmap of fine scars on his left cheek. "You'd think I'd 
be used to this mind-reading crap by now," he said, referring 
to their months together in New Mexico, when Mulder was in 
hiding. He sipped his beer more leisurely, trying hard to 
relax. "Tell me something I don't know. Like why--"

"Why was I with a bunch of aliens at Kits'iil?"

"Yeah, like that."

Gibson picked at the dirt and dried blood on his hands. "They 
didn't want to kill me, you know."

"No? Looked like it to me."

"They wanted this." Gibson dug into his pocket and pulled out 
the artifact.

Mulder took it, turned it over in his hand. His irritation was 
immediately displaced by curiosity. "What is it?"

Gibson shrugged. "I was hoping you might know."

"I recognize the markings." //...they match the ones on the 
spacecraft in Shiprock...//

"You were on board?" Gibson searched Mulder's mind, trying to 
fill in the blanks. 

"Yes, unfortunately." Mulder slipped the artifact into his 
pocket.

"What did you see?"

"Why not perform your Amazing Kreskin act and save us both 
some time?"

Gibson took a swallow of Coke, trying to appear inconspicuous 
as he probed Mulder's mind for details.

Krycek clones, alien fetuses, a uniformed man who looked like 
Mulder's twin.

The aliens' premature invasion was beginning to make sense.

"I've got some bad news," Gibson warned.

Although Mulder's expression held reservations, he cocked his 
good ear toward Gibson. //...go on...//

"They're dead."

"Who's dead?"

"The people in Two Gray Hills."

"Everyone?"

"Yes."

"Jesus. What happened?"

"You really want details?"

//...no, no, no...// "I've got to stop this."

"It's not your fault, Mulder."

//...if you can read my mind...// "You know what I did."

"I know colonization was going to happen with or without you." 

Mulder drained the remainder of his beer, then rose to get 
another. 

He was halfway to the kitchen when Gibson said, "I don't like 
knowing this stuff, you know." He was hoping Mulder would 
relent and bring him a beer, too, giving him the means to 
silence the miserable voices in his head, present company 
included.

Mulder turned to face him. "There's something I need you to 
do, Gibson." //...listen for Scully. Find her...//

"I can't hear her, Mulder. I'm sorry."

"Have you tried?"

"Yes." When Mulder's distress overtook him, Gibson added, "It 
doesn't mean she's dead."

"No?"

"She could just be...in a place I can't access."

"Like where? Jesus, she was with me at Shiprock. She can't be 
too--" Realization rolled through him. He swayed on unsteady 
legs. "She's with Them, isn't she?"

"It's possible."

"Oh, Christ." Mulder balled his fists. "Damn it. I blamed her-
-"

"I know, for putting William up for adoption."

Fear and anger warred within Mulder. "It wasn't just that. She 
quit, Gibson. She wouldn't fight for him. She put his life at 
risk for her own convenience. I couldn't forgive that." //...I 
still can't...//

His trust had been broken; he was deeply, maybe irrevocably 
wounded by a perceived betrayal.

A wave of panic rose in Mulder's mind. Gibson wanted to dodge 
the nightmarish images, but couldn't. Aliens. Human soldiers. 
The sting of deprivation. Gibson ducked reflexively when faced 
by a too-real memory of raised batons, cracked ribs, spraying 
blood. Terror knotted Mulder's belly and, in turn, Gibson's. 
Screams lodged in both their throats. They blinked back 
scalding tears. They shivered from the frigid damp of a prison 
cell, an examination platform, a closed coffin.

"M-maybe I can help you find William," Gibson blurted, wanting 
to end the godawful feeling of isolation, the appalling 
treachery. 

"Can you hear him?" A tide of hope stemmed Mulder's terror, 
relieving Gibson. "Do you know where he is?"

"I don't, but... I can try."

Gibson concentrated, spiraling out geographically, taking mere 
seconds to scan tens of thousands of individual thoughts. He 
searched for a pattern unique to young William Mulder. Voices 
rotated past his internal radar like stations on a radio dial. 
Locating a specific adult could be complicated, but 
pinpointing a baby might prove impossible. Without fully 
developed language skills, an infant's thoughts were abstract 
and generalized. One baby tended to sound much like another.

"Do you see him? Is he okay?" 

Mulder's impatience was distracting. Gibson held up a hand to 
quiet him.

"I haven't found him ye--"

And then suddenly there he was. William's thoughts were more 
distinct than Gibson would have predicted. The pattern bore a 
striking resemblance to Mulder's insightful mind.

"I've got him."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, he's...he's thinking about you." This surprised Gibson 
almost as much as it surprised Mulder.

"He doesn't even know me," Mulder said. "We were together for 
only a couple of days."

"I can't explain it, but it's true."

"Could...could William be like you? Can he hear my thoughts?" 
//...God, please no...//

Mulder's unspoken disappointment hurt Gibson; it made him feel 
monstrous, inhuman. "Maybe," he said meanly, then relented 
when Mulder's eyes widened and his mind recoiled. "Or it could 
be just a memory."

"That's not possible. He was only two days old when I left. 
There's no way he could remember me."

Gibson shrugged, unable to explain. "He's with a woman. 
She's..." Gibson shifted from William's immature impressions 
to the woman's more focused thoughts.

"She's what?" Mulder asked, exasperated.

"Afraid."

"Jesus, Gibson, who isn't?" Fighting to control his temper, 
Mulder began to pace, then stopped when he realized his noisy, 
lopsided stride might distract Gibson and break his link with 
William's caretaker.

There was no need for concern. Gibson's abilities were far 
from fragile. 

"Why is she afraid?" Mulder asked after only a moment.

Gibson waited for the woman's consciousness to voice a reason. 
"Rick's dead."

"Who the hell is Rick?"

"Husband. He was killed...by Them." Bits of a stranger's 
history blew past Gibson like autumn leaves in a windstorm. 
"She isn't William's mother."

"No shit."

"No, I mean, she isn't his adoptive mother."

"Then who is she? Is she...qualified to be taking care of a 
baby?"

Gibson listened for more details. "She's hungry. She's worried 
about him...the baby."

"Where are they?"

"I don't know."

"Come on, Gibson. There must be something in her thoughts 
that'll give us a clue."

"Not at the moment."

"What about William? Is he...is he looking at anything?"

"Mulder, it doesn't work that way. I can't *see* through their 
eyes. I hear their thoughts. Words, impressions, memories, 
feelings. It's not always easy to sort out and it's not like 
I'm watching a movie."

Mulder returned to the table, but didn't sit. "I'm sorry. It's 
okay. I'm just--"

"Worried. Yes, I know." Gibson listened again. "He's thinking 
of a toy."

"A toy?"

"He doesn't have a word for it. I think it's one of those 
things people hang on kids' cribs."

"A mobile?"

"Yeah, with animals on it."

"What kind of animals?"

"Does it matter?"

"Right now everything matters."

"Well, uh, they're, uh, I think they're light-colored...like 
clouds. He knows the word for clouds."

"Sheep?" Mulder pressed, hoping to glean some useful bit of 
information from Gibson's connection.

"Not sheep...uhh... He calls them 'buffs.'"

"Buffalo? White buffalo?" That was it -- the clue Mulder had 
been hoping for. "They're in Wyoming. The state flag has a white 
buffalo on it." Mulder limped to the cafe's front entrance. 

"We're leaving now?"  Gibson rose to hurry after him, leaving 
the Coke.

"My son's with a frightened woman who's not his adoptive 
mother in a place that's not his home." Mulder opened the door 
and held it. "There are ten thousand killer aliens roaming the 
planet. Yeah, we're going after him...right *now*."

CONTINUED IN BOOKIV: THE GREAT RED DRAGON...