From: ephemeral@ephemeralfic.org
Date: 10 Jan 2006 12:58:19 -0000
Subject: Abaddon\'s Reign - COMPLETE (11/18) NC-17 by aka "Jake"
Source: direct

ABADDON'S REIGN
BOOK VII: TWO WINGS (PART 2)

*   *   *

SAFE CAMP, UTAH

Census listed 464 women, 553 children and 152 men living in 
Bear Lake's RVs, boats, tents and cars. The majority of men 
were over the age of sixty or recovering from injuries, which 
meant there were plenty of lonely, frustrated young women 
eager to hook up with a healthy, good looking guy like Royal 
Jackson.

"Make love to me, baby." Ashley nuzzled Royal's neck as they 
stumbled into the sailboat's tiny forward cabin. Long, painted 
nails scraped his tattooed chest, circled his nipple rings.

"I saw him first." Tisha staked her claim by thrusting her 
tongue into Royal's mouth while squeezing his cock.

All three were naked and Royal was sporting a massive hard-on. 
Eager to get down to business, his dick throbbed in Tisha's 
warm hand. 

She flicked the Prince Albert at its tip with her thumb. "This 
should be interesting." 

"Careful there, girl."

He gave her a playful shove onto the bed.

The boat rocked; gentle waves lapped the hull. Tisha rolled 
onto her belly, presenting him with her shapely bare ass. Her 
skin was the color of polished walnut. 

Ashley, pale and smooth as whipped cream, faced Royal as she 
sat on the edge of the bed beside her darker friend. They were 
chocolate and vanilla, and Royal loved the look of both. 
Ashley spread her legs, exposing a shaved pussy and cherry-red 
lips. 

"I've got a place for that big dick of yours," she said, 
fingering herself, tempting him to choose her before Tisha.

"I see that, baby." Jesus, he was hard. "Scoot up."

He climbed onto the bed and buried his nose between Ashley's 
silky thighs. Her giggles turned into moans as the sterling 
stud in his tongue rode her clitoris. She tasted like she'd 
been sauteed in butter and dipped in the sea, a rich, salty 
combination that heated his groin and chased every non-sexual 
thought from his head.

"Hey, I'm getting lonely over here, sugar." Tisha pouted at 
him over her shoulder.

He lifted his mouth from Ashley long enough to say, "Can't 
have that."

Her back arched and she hissed with pleasure when he snaked a 
hand between her legs and slid two fingers inside her. 

God almighty, she was wet and snug, and evidently as horny as 
a bitch in heat. She pushed against his hand, burying his 
fingers up to the last knuckle.

He rose up onto his knees, positioned himself between the two 
women and began to finger Ashley, too. 

"Oh, yeah," she whimpered. 

"You like that, baby?"

"Make me come, Royal-honey."

He pumped them in unison, his eyes darting from Tisha's full, 
rounded ass to Ashley's small, bouncy breasts. The white 
girl's nipples pointed skyward, pink as ripe watermelon. He 
was about to lean down and suck one into his mouth, when a 
better idea struck him.

"Sit up," he told her, withdrawing his fingers from both 
women. 

"Damn it, Royal. I was almost there!"

"Don't worry, baby, you'll get off." He slapped Tisha's ass. 
"Roll over. I want you sitting up, too, hon. Come on, face 
each other."

"Jesus, Royal, you're a fucking tease."

"Why'd you stop?" whined Ashley.

"I wanna see a little girl-on-girl action."

The women gave each other sidelong glances. 

"Now." He motioned for them to get together. 

"No way."

"Yes way. You want my dick in your pussy, you're gonna suck 
each other's titties first."  

"How 'bout I suck your dick instead?" Ashley pushed him onto 
his back, leaned down and took him into her mouth.

"Sweet fuckin' Jesus, you do that fine." He groaned with 
pleasure as she swirled her tongue up his length. She took the 
Prince Albert in her teeth and tugged, slowly, steadily. The 
strain was intense...and freakin' sexy. 

"Oh, yeah...that's nice." 

Her mouth left him. "We're just getting started, hon."

Next thing he knew, she was straddling his hips and guiding 
his cock into her. 

He watched his dick disappear, inch by blessed inch.

Her eyes squeezed shut. She gasped. She was tighter than most 
of the women he'd been with. He liked the way she held her 
breath and bit into her lower lip as he filled her. He wasn't 
sure if she was feeling pleasure or pain, but hell, either one 
was a compliment to the size of his dick. 

Tisha crawled across the bed to sit beside his head, feet 
tucked beneath her, knees spread wide enough to give him a 
clear view of her pussy. She bent over him and pressed one 
heavy breast to his lips. He drew its rigid nipple into his 
mouth and sucked hard while lifting his hips to meet Ashley's 
downward thrust.

His balls tightened. 

Heaven. Fucking heaven.

Just when he was thinking life couldn't get any better, Tisha 
whispered in his ear, "How 'bout you put that talented mouth 
of yours to work someplace else?"

She repositioned herself over him, straddling his head, facing 
Ashley. Her curls tickled his nose and chin. 

He pressed his face to her wet slit.

Closing his eyes, he breathed in her scent and imagined the 
two women fondling each other's breasts as they rode him. In 
his fantasy, they French kissed. Rubbed each other's clits.

He speared Tisha's pussy with his tongue. Bucked against 
Ashley's cunt. He anticipated the best damned orgasm of his 
life.

"Royal!" 

The urgent voice was neither Tisha's nor Ashley's.

Fuck. It was DeSanctus. 

"Skinner's asking for you," she said. "Get dressed."

Royal nudged Tisha off him. Reluctantly, he stilled Ashley's 
downward thrusts.

"Your timing sucks, DeSanctus," he said.

"Don't be pissed at me." DeSanctus eyeballed the situation. 
"I'm just the messenger." 

"Do you have to go, sugar?" Tisha asked, her tone petulant. 

Ashley pouted and climbed off him.

"No choice." Royal scrambled from the bed and brushed past 
DeSanctus to collect his clothes from the galley floor. "Duty 
calls."

Ashley followed him out of the bedroom and posed coyly against 
the doorframe. She looked delectable with tousled hair, 
flushed cheeks, back arched to make her tiny breasts point up 
at him. "Want us to keep the bed warm?"

He pulled on his pants, then leaned in to kiss her. "I'll be 
right back, baby. Don't go anywhere."

He slipped into his boots, yanked a T-shirt over his head, and 
followed DeSanctus off the sailboat.

"Skinner's through the roof," she said, hurrying toward shore. 
Her boots thudded against the wooden planks, keeping time with 
Royal's hammering heart.

"What the hell happened?" 

"Burk was goofing with the alien."

"Fuck. I told him to just watch the damned thing."

"He didn't hurt it."

"No? Then why is Skinner asking for me?" Royal regretted not 
grabbing a jacket. It was freezing cold out in the open. And 
it was beginning to look like he might not be getting back to 
Tisha and Ashley as soon as he'd hoped.

Hurrying through the marina, Royal and DeSanctus passed dozens 
of boats tied in slips. Most were dark, but voices drifted up 
from below decks, amplified by the water. An occasional cry of 
passion punctuated the dark, reminding Royal of what he was 
missing.

In less than two minutes they reached the dock where the 
prisoner was being kept. Skinner was waiting there, hands on 
his hips, jaw set. The alien lay at his feet. It was soaking 
wet and either unconscious or dead.

Skinner targeted Royal with angry eyes. "Where the hell have 
you been?"

"Sir?"

"I left you in charge." 

"I gave orders to Burk--"

"*You* were responsible for this prisoner's well-being and 
*you* will be held accountable for what's happened to her."

"Yes, sir, but...uh...I...what did happen?"

Before Skinner could answer, Burk returned with Scully. 
Outrage darkened her eyes as she knelt beside the alien and 
began examining its drenched, seemingly lifeless form.

"It's not dead, is it?" Royal asked.

"You better hope to God she's not," Skinner said.

"We need to get her someplace warm," Dr. Scully said, stroking 
the alien's sodden hair. 

"Take her to my trailer," Skinner ordered Royal.

"Me? You want me t-to carry it?"

"Christ." Burk hissed with disgust. 

"Yes, I want you to carry her." Skinner locked eyes with 
Royal. "And do it gently. Pretend she's your balls in my fist. 
Get my drift?"

"Y-yes, sir."

"And you..." Skinner turned to face Burk. The big soldier 
swallowed so hard Royal could hear it over the slap of waves 
against the shore. "You're coming with me." 

*   *   *

ARROWHEAD CREEK, WYOMING 

"Wha zat?" William stood on the Quealys' front step beside 
Mulder. He was bundled against the cold in snowpants, jacket, 
hat and scarf. Snot glistened beneath his red nose. He pointed 
one mittened hand at the yard, which had been transformed 
overnight into a winter wonderland.

"It's snow," Mulder said. All eight inches of it. "Welcome to 
Wyoming."

William blinked in astonishment. 

Mulder tried to set aside his apprehension about the upcoming 
winter months and adopt William's childlike delight. The 
clean, bright landscape sparkled. Fat flakes eddied on air 
currents like fairytale sprites. The house, the trees, the 
entire world appeared dipped in cake frosting.

And it was only the middle of October. 

"Come on, buddy. Let's do this before we freeze our ass...er, 
noses." Two empty buckets dangled from Mulder's left fist. 

Kenna wanted water, enough for Gibson and Mulder to take 
baths. 

After breakfast she had announced without preamble or apology, 
"You two stink."

"Tink!" William had parroted, crinkling his small nose and 
mimicking her look of disgust.

Gibson sniffed the air. His hair hung in greasy clumps. His 
face was mottled with road dirt. 

The creases in Mulder's hands were black and his nails were 
caked. He brought a fistful of his sweatshirt to his nose.

It reeked of motorcycle exhaust, gasoline and, most pungent of 
all, his own sweat. 

"Point taken." 

"You fetch the water and I'll heat it on the stove." Kenna's 
tone made it clear they had no choice. "You can wash in the 
sink. Buckets are by the front door."

Mulder and Gibson exchanged glances, neither wanting to brave 
the cold to pump bath water.

"I lugged the coffee water," Gibson reminded Mulder and lifted 
his mug as proof.

"It wasn't snowing then."

"Is that my fault?" 

"Fine. I'll go," Mulder said. He frowned at the window, 
where snow blanketed the outer sills and fogged the glass. 
"But if I'm not back before dark, send out a St. Bernard."

When William saw Mulder putting on coat and boots, he begged 
to go, too. Mulder was game, but Kenna needed convincing. 
After seemingly endless coaxing, she reluctantly granted 
permission, albeit with detailed instructions of where not to 
go and what not to touch. It was a milestone of trust, and 
Mulder planned to take full advantage of it. 

So here they were. Two men on a mission. Father and son. 
Unsupervised. 

The weight of paternal responsibility hit Mulder like a 
blazing meteorite dropped from a clear blue sky. He should be 
doing something fatherly, shouldn't he? Preparing his son for 
life in a harsh world, imparting sage advice.

"You wanna write your name in the snow?"

William spun to look back at the door with worried eyes. 
"Mama?" 

Kenna was there, watching them through the frosty window. She 
gave a half-hearted wave. 

"So much for trust." Mulder reached out to help William 
navigate the slippery steps. "Need a hand, son?"

"No." William turned and crawled down the stairs backward. 
When he reached the bottom, he scooped a palm-full of snow 
into his mouth.

"How's it taste?" Mulder asked.

"Cold."

William zigzagged across the yard. The snow came up to his 
knees. He turned often to check his progress. "Boots." He 
pointed out his footprints to Mulder.

"I see." Mulder's own trail looked inhuman, an unsightly scar 
in the otherwise pristine snowscape. His bad leg dragged like 
the Mummy's in a bad B-movie. Fate had transformed him into 
one of the mutants he used to hunt.

William plowed forward in a new direction and Mulder patiently 
followed, letting the boy explore to his heart's content. 
There was no reason to rush. Nothing urgent needed doing. 

Over the last three days Mulder and Gibson had canvassed 
Arrowhead for supplies. They'd collected food, clothing, 
diapers, toiletries, tools, oil lamps and candles. Two 
kerosene heaters from neighboring homes now warmed the 
Quealys' kitchen and living room. Extra fuel was stored in gas 
cans in the garage. Every closet in the house contained a 
loaded shotgun or rifle, and every closet door had a newly 
installed latch to keep the weapons safely out of William's 
reach. Broken windows had been repaired, drafts plugged, doors 
and windows secured. As far as was humanly possible, they had 
readied themselves for the coldest months of winter. 

Assuming they lived to see spring, Mulder planned to leave 
Arrowhead to search for Scully when the weather permitted safe 
travel again. Until then, he would get to know William better, 
win his trust.

And figure out how to tell Kenna she wasn't needed anymore.

William paused at the corner of the house, reluctant to wander 
around back where the vegetable garden was located. "Babies?" 
he asked, concern peaking his faint brows. 

"No babies, son."

It was a lie of sorts. William had watched Mulder and Gibson 
bury the Quealys in the garden two days ago. The boy had 
repeatedly referred to the bodies of the Quealy children as 
babies. He became quite distraught when Mulder began shoveling 
dirt over them. Kenna had had to take him inside. It took two 
chocolate Ring Dings to quiet him. 

"Toonip?"

"No turnips either."

William resumed his exploration. He trudged the length of the 
driveway, circled around several squat, ornamental evergreens, 
waded to the mailbox.

Eventually, with occasional reminders about their purpose and 
repeated directional guidance from Mulder, they arrived at the 
well. 

The pump rose up out of the snow like a submarine periscope in 
a frothy sea. 

"Me do." William grasped the handle. 

"Sure. I'll help you." 

Together they filled the buckets. 

Back inside the house, they played a game of "Cups and Balls" 
at the kitchen table while Kenna heated the water. William sat 
in Mulder's lap. Gibson sank into the chair opposite them to 
watch. A small pile of raisins between them provided edible 
"balls" for the game.  

Mulder hid a raisin beneath one of three kid-sized plastic 
drinking cups. He shuffled the cups and asked, "Where is it?" 

William selected the correct cup and Mulder let him eat his 
winnings.

"Don't feed him too many of those," Kenna said. "I told you 
before they give him diarrhea."

"One too few? Six too many?" Mulder made a "yikes" face and 
continued the game despite Kenna's warning. 

This time William chose the cup to his left. 

Mulder lifted it to reveal a raisin. "We have a winner."

"He's good at this," Gibson said.

"Like you." 

William gobbled his prize. "Do 'gain!" he demanded.

Mulder made a show of hiding the raisin and shuffling the 
cups. 

"Which one?"

Without hesitation, William pinned his finger to the one on 
the right. 

"You sure?"

William nodded.

"Sorry, son. Guess this one is mine." Mulder showed him the 
raisin under the center cup.

William grabbed it.

"Hey, that's mine." Mulder pouted, pretending to be upset. 
"Gimme."

William's head wagged.

"No?"

"No!"

"But I'm soooo hungry. Pleeeease?" Mulder opened his mouth.

William considered for a moment, then relented. He twisted in 
Mulder's lap and dropped the raisin onto his tongue.

Mulder mugged for him, puffing his cheeks and crossing his 
eyes as if the raisin tasted terrible. William reacted by 
laughing out loud, a delightful chuckle that was unexpectedly 
deep for a child so young. 

"Dada!" 

Mulder's heart flip-flopped.

Did William understand the meaning of the word? Or was this 
like the last time, a child's innocent mistake? 

Wanting...*needing*...to know, Mulder asked, "Who is dada?" 

Before he could respond, Kenna scooped William from Mulder's 
lap. "Time for your nap, baby boy." She nuzzled his cheek.

"Mo' raisin," he said.

"No more." She glared at Mulder. "Water's ready. Soap and 
shampoo're beside the sink. Towels are on the end of the 
counter." 

She turned from Mulder and strode from the room, taking 
William with her. 

*   *   *

TSE'BIT'A'I'

Ca-Lo absently spun his knife on its point, drilling a shallow 
scar into the hard surface of his desk while he studied a high 
definition video clip on his computer monitor. The clip had 
been shot from a surveillance hovercraft less than an hour 
earlier. The quality was exceptional, revealing astonishing 
detail. A neglected ranch house, snow-covered yard, frosty 
water pump. And two hearty souls, bundled against the cold in 
coats and hats. Laughter steamed from wind-chapped lips as Fox 
Mulder helped a happy toddler pump water.   

"The child is William, I assume," Ca-Lo said.

"Yes, sir." Major Harris's voice sizzled from the audio panel 
in Ca-Lo's desk. 

The video clip reached its end and stopped. Ca-Lo hit replay.    
"Who took the pictures?"

"Lieutenant Bradford. Good man. Trustworthy."

"I trust no one, Harris." Especially not you, he added 
mentally, not caring that his old Watcher could read his 
thoughts across the miles between them.

"The point is moot in Bradford's case, Ca-Lo. He met with an 
unfortunate accident right after he forwarded the clip. His 
shuttle suffered a malfunction. He's dead."

Harris was covering his tracks. And this time his subterfuge 
would work in Ca-Lo's favor. 

"Too bad," Ca-Lo said, not feeling at all sympathetic. "I want 
the boy. Bring him to me."

"What about his female caretaker? And Mulder's young friend 
Gibson Praise?"

Ca-Lo recognized the name. The adolescent was a modern day 
Missing Link, a genetic throwback who possessed the ability to 
read minds like the Nih-hi-cho. Such anomalies were rare, but 
not unheard of. Cassandra had mentioned this particular one. 
He had allegedly been part of a pet project of Ca-Lo's father.

Ca-Lo pinpointed Mulder's image with the tip of his knife. 
"Perhaps there will be another unfortunate accident."

Harris paused before responding.

Displeasing the Overseers carried serious consequences, as Ca-
Lo had learned long ago. Harris's lesson -- five months in a 
Privation Chamber -- was recent enough to make the Watcher 
even more cautious than was his custom. 

"Fate rests on the Red Dragon's back," he said at last, 
promising nothing. 

"So they claim." Ca-Lo had stopped believing in benevolent 
deities years ago. Life had taught him there were no miracles. 
A man must steer his own fate.

"I have something else for you," Harris said.

"You found Dana."

"Yes. The retreating rebels led us straight to her."

"Where is she?"

"Utah-Wyoming border. Former state park. A place they call 
Safe Camp. My team is ready to go after her."

"No. Leave her to me."

"But, sir--"

"Order your men to hold off." The video came to its end again. 
William and Mulder froze mid-laugh. "Where are you now?"

"Low altitude over Arrowhead Creek." 

"You're alone?"

"Of course."

"Good. Get the boy. I'll go after Dana."

There was no need to remind the old Watcher to be discreet. 
They were both working outside the Overseers' orders.

"As you wish, sir." 

Harris signed off and Ca-Lo sat for several minutes staring at 
the image of his brother.

"Like looking in a mirror." 

His knifepoint hovered in front of Mulder's face; he imagined 
carving Nih-hi-cho symbols into his brother's smooth cheek. 
The same marks as his own: Ca-Lo, the Destroyer. 
  
He ran his fingers over his old scars, feeling their shallow 
indentations.

A Healer could be bribed to remove them. And change the color 
of his emerald eyes.

If he cut his hair, he would be indistinguishable from Fox 
Mulder. 

A smile thinned his lips. He would pretend to be Mulder. He 
would enter the rebel's camp and bring Dana safely back to 
Tse'Bit'a'i', where he would marry her. While they celebrated 
their wedding night, his army would descend upon the 
terrestrial hideaway and destroy everything and everyone 
there. 

Ca-Lo would raise Dana's son and his daughter together as 
brother and sister, under one roof. They would be a family, 
the first he had ever known. 

He reached behind his neck, grabbed hold of his long hair and 
sawed through it with his knife. 

"I'll make you love me, Dana," -- he tossed the tail of hair 
aside -- "as you have loved my brother." 

*   *   *

Mulder pauses at the Quealys' kitchen door, shoulder pressed 
against the frame. An oil lamp on the table casts a sphere of 
flickering amber, which gilds the naked woman who is bent over 
the sink rinsing soap from her hair.

"Are you going to just stand there, Mulder, or are you going 
to pass me a towel?" Her tone is petulant. Her hand blindly 
explores the counter. The towel is beyond her reach.

The gentle curve of her spine brings tears to his eyes. It's 
Scully. Dear Scully. He has missed her.

He crosses the kitchen, no longer able to move with the 
stealth of a prowling cat; his leg pains him, but there is 
relief waiting just beyond his fingertips. He presses the 
towel into her hands and then strokes a droplet of water from 
the swell of her hip.

She chuckles. The sound delights him. She scrubs moisture from 
her hair, stirring up a clean scent that robs the strength 
from his knees. He cannot keep his hands off her when she 
grins up at him through terrycloth and wet curls, her pique 
gone, ardor sparkling in her eyes.

"Pinch me," he says, "so I know I'm not dreaming."

"I've got a better idea." She turns to face him, rises up on 
bare toes and presses a feather-light kiss to the cleft of his 
chin. Her breath warms his cheeks, tickles his neck. Her left 
breast is silk against his palm. "Make love to me," she 
whispers.

His stiffening cock offers no argument; it is pushing 
relentlessly against the denim of his jeans. He hoists her 
onto the counter and takes a position between her splayed 
knees. She is chuckling again. Dampness blossoms on his shirt 
where she rolls her wet head against his shoulder.

A familiar hunger grips him as he surveys her body with open 
palms, skimming her thighs, ribs, arms. His fingers weave into 
her tangled hair. He cups her cheek and leans in for a kiss. 
His tongue glides into her mouth. Deeply, he explores. Feels 
her swallow. Molds his hand to her throat and pushes her head 
back, exposes her neck and chest.

A bib of scar tissue brings him up short. Corrugated skin, 
striped white and pink, ringing her throat. Chin to 
collarbone. Breasts and nipples, miraculously perfect. Shit, 
it's Kenna in his arms, not Scully. How did he make this 
mistake?

Kenna blinks up at him with liquid eyes. "You don't have to 
stop."

He wants to keep going. He aches to be inside her.

"I can't... I shouldn't."

"It's not like you came looking for this," she parrots his 
earlier excuse. "It just happened. It doesn't mean anything."

"No...it's wrong."

"It's a fleeting physical attraction. Nothing more."

"But I love Scully."

"She gave your son to a stranger," she reminds him, lower lip 
pouting and seductive. Her fingers pluck at his waistband. 
"Just like your father gave your sister away. His own flesh 
and blood. A terrible thing to do."

How does she know these things? He hasn't told her about Sam. 
"Stop it."

"I would never abandon a child...*your* child." She leans 
close, nips at his neck and chin, covers his mouth with wet, 
warm lips. 

Confusion knots his stomach. Panic ricochets along his nerves. 

"Red alert, big guy," warns Frohike, startling Mulder so badly 
he stumbles backward into the kitchen table. A chair teeters 
and crashes to the floor.

"I didn't touch her," Mulder says, hands raised like a 
criminal.

Langly ogles Kenna. "You expect us to believe that?"

"He'll be trying to unload a few acres of Florida swampland 
next."

"Or London Bridge."

"You don't understand..." Mulder's throat closes. He can't 
breathe. Can't move.

"Playing with fire." Byers shakes his head.

"More like nitro. Scully's gonna be pissed, dude."

Frohike steps closer, frowning. "You hurt Scully and I'll 
kick your ass, Mulder." 

Fingers tighten on Mulder's arm.

"Wake up." An urgent warning in his ear. "There's someone in 
the house."

*   *   *

Mulder jerked awake. He was lying on the living room sofa with 
Gibson leaning over him, one hand gripping his arm. 

"In Kenna's room," Gibson said, not bothering to lower his 
voice. Concern knotted his customarily smooth brow. "He's 
alone, but he's armed." 

"Shouldn't we be whispering?" Mulder swung his feet to the 
floor. 

"He can hear our thoughts. He's alien."

"Shit." That meant they couldn't shoot him without exposing 
themselves to his toxic blood. "He wants William?"

"Yes."

Mulder lurched across the living room and down the hall, 
unsure what he was going to do when he got to Kenna's room, 
but hell-bent on protecting his son at any cost. Gibson 
followed after him, sneakers slapping as he ran. 

They stopped just short of the threshold. The door was open 
and Kenna's bedside oil lamp was lit. It illuminated a short, 
human-looking man with gunmetal-gray hair and a deep facial 
scar. He stood an arm's length away from the bed. A handgun 
gleamed in a holster on his belt. A knife rode his thigh, 
strapped to his left leg just above the knee. He was dressed 
in a plain black uniform and glossy, knee-high boots, the same 
type of uniform Mulder had seen on the soldiers aboard 
Tse'Bit'a'i' at Shiprock. 

The intruder cast a cloudy eye in Mulder and Gibson's 
direction. "Come in," he said, voice calm. He smiled, 
deepening the scar that cut through his blind eye. "I've been 
looking forward to making your acquaintance, Mr. Mulder."

Mulder peered past him to where Kenna sat stock-still on the 
bed. Her expression was glazed, as if in a trance. She held 
William tightly to her chest. 

William's eyes were wide with fear, but he remained quiet, 
thumb stuffed in his mouth, his other hand clinging to the 
fabric of Kenna's shirt.

"Who are you?" Mulder demanded.

"Ask your gifted young friend." The intruder's gaze flickered 
to Gibson. 

"You've come for my son," Mulder said. "Why?"

"To take him back to Tse'Bit'a'i'."

The alien ship. Rock with Wings. 

Mulder's fists tightened. "Over my dead body."

The intruder shrugged. "Your choice." Then, studying Mulder's 
face with obvious curiosity, he said, "Amazing. Human cloning 
was in its infancy forty years ago, the process was highly 
unpredictable, yet look at you. Your resemblance to your 
brother is extraordinary."

The image of Jeffrey Spender's ravaged face arose in Mulder's 
mind. "My brother is dead." 

Disdain curled the intruder's lips. "Not that weakling," he 
said, obviously reading Mulder's thoughts. "That one possessed 
neither the skill nor the fortitude to lead the Nih-hi-cho 
Armada. I'm talking about Ca-Lo, your 'twin.'" 

The officer aboard the alien craft at Shiprock. The man with 
the long hair and tattooed face.

The intruder chuckled and his focus slithered to William. 
"With proper training, your son will one day take his uncle's 
place as the leader of our great Armada." 

Mulder stepped forward, intent on wringing the man's neck. 
Lightening fast, the intruder drew his gun. 

"I wouldn't try anything rash if I were you, Mr. Mulder. There 
is the safety of innocent bystanders to consider."

William stopped sucking his thumb and the room fell silent.

"You son of a bitch," Mulder ground between clenched teeth. 
"Touch my son and you won't live to see the outside of this 
room."

"Careful, Mulder," Gibson warned. "He can read your mind. He 
has the advantage."

"You would be wise to listen to your young friend," the 
intruder said. "You cannot win a fight against me. I will know 
your every move before you--"

Mulder lunged and shouldered the intruder hard into the wall, 
grazing the nightstand. The oil lamp wobbled. Mulder's hands 
closed around the gun. He struggled to free it from the other 
man's steely grip. 

"Get them out of here!" he shouted to Gibson.

Gibson moved to the bed and tugged Kenna's arm. She sat 
frozen. The baby began to whimper. 

The intruder grasped the gun with formidable strength. His 
short stature and middle-aged features belied inhuman power. 
He bullied Mulder backward across the room. Slammed him into 
the wall. Mulder's arms shook with effort as he tried to gain 
control of the weapon and point its deadly barrel toward the 
ceiling or floor...any direction where it couldn't harm his 
son.

Inch by inch the alien leveled the gun at Mulder's heart.    
 
William's whimpers turned into wails. "Dada!" he screeched.

The gun fired, startlingly loud. Its ringing report echoed 
like thunder in the small room.

Mulder felt no stabbing pain, no fiery hole in his chest. The 
bullet had miraculously missed him. But where had it gone? 

"William?" he shouted. 

An evil smile split the intruder's face as he raised the gun 
beneath Mulder's chin.

"Say your goodbyes, Mr. Mul--" 

A spray of broken glass, hot oil and flames exploded behind 
the intruder. His eyes went wide. He spun to face Gibson, who 
had hurled the oil lamp and hit him dead center between the 
shoulder blades.

The stinging, noxious odor of alien blood flooded the room. 
The intruder's back was on fire. The flames traveled quickly, 
spreading up and down his entire body, igniting his hair, his 
clothes, melting his flesh. His green blood boiled. Caustic 
steam rose from his shoulders and his head as his arms 
flailed. He staggered on buckling knees. 

"Help me!" he screamed.

Losing his balance, he toppled onto the bed. The fire 
mushroomed. Sheets and blankets burst into flame.

"Everyone out!" Mulder shouted. His lungs burned. Painful 
tears blurred his vision.

He hauled Kenna and William from the bed, away from the fire. 
Her eyes were red-rimmed and gummy from the alien's poisonous 
blood, but her dazed expression was gone, replaced by fierce 
determination. She sprinted barefoot across the smoldering 
carpet, oblivious to the broken glass and blazing oil.

Gibson followed her into the hall. 

Mulder held his breath against the deadly smoke and took one 
last look at the alien. The creature was no longer 
recognizable. Nothing but a puddle of viscous, bubbling ooze 
remained atop the burning mattress. 

The room was ablaze. Tongues of fire leapt from the bedding to 
the drapes. The wallpaper was curling, turning black. Choking 
on fumes, Mulder lurched from the room and slammed the door 
shut behind him.

"We can't stay here." He steered Kenna down the hall. "This 
place is going to be nothing but cinders in a matter of 
minutes." Smoke rolled out from beneath the closed bedroom 
door.

"Let's go then," she said, stumbling on bleeding feet. She 
cradled William against her shoulder and tried to hush his 
frantic cries as she headed for the front entry, where the 
coats hung by the door. She grabbed William's snowpants and 
coat from their peg.

In minutes, all four were out of the house, dressed for the 
cold, with food, water and weapons in hand. Mulder held 
William in the crook of one arm. He tried to shelter him from 
the worst of the bitter cold by facing away from the swirling 
snow. An ominous wind whistled over the house, carrying smoke 
and sparks into the black night.

"Anyone remember to call a cab?" he asked, wondering how the 
hell the alien had gotten to Arrowhead Creek. 

That's when he saw it. A circular depression in the snow, 
undisturbed by the bitter wind. He walked around it, careful 
to keep his distance in case the ship was still there, cloaked 
to make it invisible. He remembered how violently the force 
field in Bellefleur had vibrated his arm when he touched it 
and he didn't want William inadvertently sticking his hand in. 

"It's there, isn't it?" he asked Gibson.

"Yes."

"Anyone on board?"

"No."

"His friends will be looking for him."

"And us."

"What are we going to do?" Kenna asked. 

Mulder turned away from the hidden ship. Even if it were 
visible, they wouldn't know how to operate it. "Looks like 
we're walking."

"We could take your motorcycle, couldn't we?" Kenna shivered 
in the cold. 

The Scout could hold two, plus the baby, but not all four of 
them. And whoever was left behind stood little chance against 
an alien search party.

"Take it, Mulder," Gibson said, reading his mind. "I can stay 
here."

"No."

"I'll know when they're coming. I'll be all right."

"I said no." No one was being left behind. "The snow is too 
deep for the bike anyway." 

"How far are we going?" Kenna asked. 

Mulder adjusted William's bulky knit hat and turned to Gibson. 
"Think we can find that Safe Camp you were talking about?"

*   *   *

SAFE CAMP, UTAH

Skinner's 1983 LeSharo Winnebago had seen better days. The 
door swung loosely on rusted hinges, the interior smelled of 
mildew, and the dated upholstery was split and stained. Not 
quite twenty feet long, the RV provided scant room for one 
person, let alone three. Bench-style seating and a fold-down 
table crowded the tail end. A built-in double bed filled the 
forward section. Wedged in between were a kitchenette and 
shoebox-sized bathroom. 

Dog-eared maps of North America covered the walls, windows and 
ceiling. They were marked with black circles, red Xs, blue 
lines. This was Skinner's "war room," before Scully moved in.

"These look like chemical burns," Scully said, examining 
Skinner's hands by candlelight in the cramped kitchenette. 
"Plasma fire?"

"Alien blood." He glanced at the bed where Dibeh was sleeping 
beneath a mound of blankets. "Is she going to be all right?"

"She has deep bruising on her back and arms where they beat 
her, and lacerations on her wrists from being tied. She was 
hypothermic, dehydrated and half starved." 

After getting her warm, Scully had fed her the first meal 
she'd had in days. Spaghetti-Os. She ate three cans. 

Scully gently spread antibacterial ointment over Skinner's 
right palm, the worst of the two. "Thank you for helping her."

"She isn't safe here, you know. They hate her, what she 
represents."

"Maybe when they get to know her--"

"They won't try. Not after the things they've seen."

"You've seen the same things, but you protected her."

"My reasons aren't as honorable as you might imagine. I 
stopped Burk for your sake, not hers."   

"I don't believe that." She wrapped a clean bandage around his 
hand. "There's no sign of infection. Someone did a good job on 
this in the field."

"Blanchard. Our medic. She's dead."

Sorrow arrowed Scully as she taped the dressing. The emotion 
seemed excessive. She hadn't even known the medic. "I-I'm 
sorry."

He shrugged. "You look beat."

"I've been in surgery since dawn."

"That was twenty-two hours ago."

"When did *you* last sleep?"

"June, I think." He withdrew his hand from hers and opened a 
cupboard, removed a glass tumbler and a fifth of vodka. "I'd 
offer you a drink," he said, pouring a shot, "except..." He 
lifted his glass to her swollen belly.

The baby somersaulted inside her as he downed his drink and 
refilled his glass.

"You okay?" she asked.

He tossed the second shot to the back of his throat. The glass 
clunked loudly against the counter when he set it down. "I'm 
fine. A little tired, is all. I'm going to go, let you get 
some sleep."

He turned toward the door. 

"Wait." She placed a hand on his arm, stopping him. 
"Please...don't go."

His lower jaw worked side-to-side as he considered. "You need 
rest."

"You're not the only one with insomnia."

He nodded. "Okay. But just for one more round." He collected 
his glass and the vodka and moved to the table. He sat heavily 
on the bench and poured another drink, slowly this time, 
purposely, as if trying to savor the action, the smell, the 
sound.

She took the seat opposite him. A roadmap of the American 
Southwest separated them. While he sipped his drink, she 
traced Route 666 to Shiprock with the pad of her ring finger. 

"He never forgave me," she blurted. The unexpected confession 
caused her to blush. She hadn't intended to reveal her 
argument with Mulder.

Confusion deepened his scowl. "He?" 

"Mulder." She shouldn't go into it. There was nothing Skinner 
could do to ease the hurt in her heart. Yet despite her 
reservations, she heard herself explaining. "He...he was angry 
about William." 

Skinner shook his head. "You're wrong. He forgave you."

"No. We fought the last time..." She struggled to maintain her 
composure and failed. Tears stung her eyes. This was exactly 
why she had wanted to avoid the discussion. "He blamed me. I 
blamed him. It was foolish." 

"No. He forgave you at Mount Weather, when I first told him 
about it." 

A hunger for the truth burned in her. "What...what did he 
say?"

"At first...he cried." 

A tear skidded down her right cheek. She quickly wiped it 
away. "He did?"

"He loved William. You know that."

"What I did...it hurt him terribly."

"Maybe, but he was worried about you, how you were handling 
it. He blamed himself for not being there with you. For not 
helping protect you and William."

Skinner's version of events didn't mesh with her own. Mulder 
had accused her of sending him away for selfish reasons. He 
had insisted she was relieved when he left, that she didn't 
want the responsibility, that she still didn't. 

Out of sight, out of mind, he'd said.

"I convinced him to go into hiding." Her voice wavered and the 
tears fell. "I tried to tell myself he was out of harm's way. 
I could sleep for the first time in months, imagining he was 
safe." 

"Scully--"

"But he wasn't safe."

"Don't do this."

"He was never safe. Not anywhere. And William wasn't either." 
Her decision had been a drastic mistake. How could she have 
been so misguided? "He was a miracle, Mulder's and my one and 
only miracle. And I gave him away. Mulder has every right to 
hate me." 

Skinner's focus dropped to the swell of her belly. "One 
miracle? Looks to me like you and Mulder were granted a second 
chance."

"Walter..." She couldn't meet his eyes. "My baby... I'm not 
sure..."

Skinner misunderstood her fears. He reached out and stroked 
her cheek.

"I'm not him...I'm not Mulder. And I'm not trying to take his 
place, but...I am here. I can take care of you."

She drew away from his caress.

"Don't get the wrong idea," he said, "I just want to help you, 
protect you...and your baby. Nothing more." 

From the sadness in his eyes, she could tell he thought Mulder 
was already dead.

Her heart ached with tearing pain.

There would be no quartz contentment for her, she realized. No 
letting go, no Hour of Lead. She was unable to shed her sorrow 
and guilt, or cast off her conscience.

For as long as she lived, she would weep for William and yearn 
for Mulder.

And she would never again give up on either of them.

"They're alive, Walter. I believe that. Help me find them. 
Please."

BOOK VII: BLESSED ARE THE DEAD (PART 1)

TSE'BIT'A'I'
CA-LO'S QUARTERS

Sitting on the edge of his bed, Ca-Lo tugged off his boots and 
tossed them carelessly across the room. They landed with a 
satisfying thud beside the birdcage. He ignored the finches' 
nervous twittering as he peeled his dark shirt up and over his 
head. It billowed like a black parachute when he cast it in 
the general direction of his boots. 

He removed his socks, then stood to unzip his trousers. They 
were standard military issue, as form-fitting as a second skin 
and as black as oil. He pushed them to his ankles, stepped 
free, and abandoned them in a heap on the floor. 

As was his custom, he wore no undergarments. 

He turned to regard the change of clothes lying neatly atop 
the bronze-colored linens of his bed: denim pants, white T-
shirt, pullover sweater in navy blue, leather jacket, thick-
soled boots, a wristwatch with a calfskin, not a metal, strap.

The kind Fox Mulder wore.

He picked up the watch and fondled the strap between thumb and 
forefinger. 

No detail was too small. Dana would be wary. Her desire for 
Mulder would not blind her to small differences. 

It would be a challenge to deceive her. Not like the last 
time, when Ca-Lo resorted to Nih-hi-cho mindbending. Dana had 
been vulnerable that night, susceptible to psychological 
manipulation after her Assessment by the Quad. It had been 
easy to win her over, to persuade her to make love to him. 

Unfortunately his mindbending skills were not as sophisticated 
as those of his Nih-hi-cho masters; he could not rely on 
mental manipulation alone to convince her to return to the 
ship. Yet it was imperative he get her safely aboard 
Tse'Bit'a'i' before his troops moved in to raze the rebels' 
camp. 

He could kidnap her outright, if it came to that. Dragging her 
to safety against her will was preferable to leaving her 
exposed on the battlefield. But if at all possible, he wanted 
to avoid physical force and its inherent risk to their unborn 
child. 

No, better to pose as Mulder, convince Dana to leave 
peaceably, and reveal his identity only after she was out of 
harm's way. 

To prepare for his subterfuge, Ca-Lo had spent the last forty-
eight hours reviewing Mulder's dossier. Two decades' worth of 
surveillance photos, written communications, digitized audio 
clips and videos had been collected by Nih-hi-cho allies or 
stolen from their enemies. They documented criminal 
investigations, covert meetings, and even intimate sexual 
encounters. Various technologies had been used. The more 
traditional cameras and bugs were periodically discovered and 
destroyed by Mulder and his three unconventional friends, but 
very little time passed before they were replaced by less 
obvious systems, leaving few holes in Mulder's history. 

Nothing in the files came as a surprise to Ca-Lo; he had 
studied them countless times over the years, scrutinizing his 
brother's mannerisms and speech patterns, sometimes going so 
far as to pretend he was Mulder, fantasizing about living his 
life, outside the ship, a free man. 

It would be easy to slip into his brother's persona now, as 
effortless as donning jeans, sweater and wristwatch. Like 
Mulder, Ca-Lo possessed an eidetic memory, which made it 
possible for him to recall even the smallest detail he'd seen 
or read about his brother's charmed life. 

There were a few details in the files Ca-Lo would have chosen 
to forget, if he could. Like the appalling surveillance video 
of Mulder joking with Dana about "the pizza man." 

Imagine taking a potential rival so lightly! It was 
unthinkable!

Mulder's tolerant attitude could only be explained by his 
privileged life. He did not feel wrenching, jealous anger the 
way Ca-Lo did because he had not had every prize wrested from 
him. He had not endured the punishing sting of a Taser or 
suffered endless sessions of disciplinary mindbending, the 
Overseers crawling inside his mind, controlling his thoughts, 
his body, making him think and do loathsome, unspeakable 
things... 

Ca-Lo cursed his photographic memory and strapped on the 
wristwatch. 

As if to purposely torment him, his mind chose that moment to 
replay another wretched video from Mulder's files, recorded in 
Dana's apartment around the time William was conceived. It 
provided a bird's eye view of her opening her door to Mulder, 
who crossed the threshold, claimed Dana's mouth with a 
crushing kiss, then bullied her backward into her living room, 
where he wrestled off her clothes and pushed her onto the 
couch. Jeans bunched at the knees, he pumped into her. 
Clutched her bare breasts. Nipped her neck and lips. She 
gasped. Whimpered. Called his name at her moment of climax. 

So much passion. So much love. For Mulder.

Cassandra had warned Ca-Lo. She had said he was jealous of his 
brother. The feeling seemed manageable at the time. But 
now...he wanted to either murder Fox Mulder or be him. 

Current circumstances required he opt for the latter and allow 
Major Harris to carry out the former.

He studied the clothes on the bed, impatient to impersonate 
his brother, to live Mulder's perfect life for a few precious 
days. For the very first time, he would walk the Earth as a 
free man, breathe air untainted by the fetid odor of ten 
thousand Nih-hi-cho, feel Dana's kiss, given freely, out of 
love, rather than coercion.

Deception isn't coercion, he told himself. Not the same at 
all. It was necessary. To protect Dana and her child. His 
child.

A daughter. 

Would their little girl resemble him? Or would she be a red 
haired beauty like her mother?

It didn't matter. He would love her no matter what she looked 
like. He loved her already, sight unseen.

He grabbed the pale blue boxers from the bed and stepped into 
them.

The loose undergarment pinched his waist and tickled his 
genitals. He was unaccustomed to anything but his uniform 
against his bare skin. The excess layer would take some 
getting used to. 

He slipped the T-shirt over his head. Pulled on the jeans. 
Fastened a belt about his waist. 

The birds fluttered as he moved past their cage to check 
himself in his bathroom mirror.

Healer 27 had achieved remarkable results, Ca-Lo admitted as 
he studied his reflection in the glass. His right cheek was as 
unblemished as his left.

He opened his mouth to peer in at the silver filling in his 
second molar. The Healer had matched his brother's dental x-
rays precisely.

With a touch of his hand, 27 had also raised scars on Ca-Lo's 
shoulder and thigh to resemble Mulder's gunshot wounds. He 
transformed the emerald color of Ca-Lo's eyes to be 
indistinguishable from Mulder's. He even altered his penis to 
appear as if he had been circumcised in infancy.

Persuading the Healer to remove his tattoo, however, had 
proved more challenging. 

"The Overseers put that mark on you, Ca-Lo," the Healer 
argued. "It is not for us to eliminate without authorization."

"I have access to many things. Perhaps there is something I 
could get for you?"

"You are offering a bribe?"

"A transaction."

As luck would have it, Healer 27 had an unusual predilection, 
one that would land him in a Privation Chamber if widely 
known. Sex between Nih-hi-cho and humans was not tolerated by 
the Society. Not even sadistic sex. Such aberrant behaviors 
were swiftly and severely punished. Sentences were 
nonnegotiable. But the lure of the Healer's perversion 
evidently outweighed the threat of discovery because he 
admitted his proclivity and agreed to remove the tattoo if Ca-
Lo arranged a clandestine rendezvous. 

Two Bliss Boys were dispatched to 27's quarters, along with a 
variety of pleasure devices: manacles, gags, assorted leather 
garments and a fully charged Taser.

The Healer had his night of debauchery and Ca-Lo disposed of 
the dead Bliss Boys at dawn with no one the wiser. 27 paid his 
debt by removing the tattoo.

The procedure took less than a minute and was completely 
painless. The mere touch of the Healer's long fingers upon Ca-
Lo's flesh was enough to cause the old marks to vanish. 

"We are fortunate the Overseers' attention is elsewhere," the 
Healer said when he was finished, "or we would both be 
condemned to a stasis cell for the rest our lives."

Indeed, the timing was opportune. The Society was distracted 
by the upcoming celebration -- the Nih-hi-cho's blessed 
Joining. All the Juveniles were at Harmony I, or en route. 
Official prayers had begun. 

Intent on their divine affairs, the Overseers showed scant 
attention to Ca-Lo's activities or the operation of 
Tse'Bit'a'i'. The spacecraft sat on an outer runway at Salt 
Lake City airport next to her sister ships, Ne'Ol' and 
Chay'Da'Gahi'. Nine more magnificent war ships would soon join 
them, bringing the entire Armada together to protect the 
Society during their exalted celebration. 

Ca-Lo planned to make the most of his short-lived 
independence. Indistinguishable from his brother, he was ready 
to go after Dana. 

In less than ten minutes, he was striding across the tarmac 
beneath Tse'Bit'a'i's jutting hull. The ship's broad shadow 
carried a chill that raised gooseflesh on his arms, despite 
the leather coat he wore. His collar flapped wildly in the 
wind and his newly shorn hair writhed atop his head in an 
unfamiliar way. He paused where darkness met waning daylight 
and waited for his horse to be brought to him, pretending 
nothing was amiss. Should anyone spot him, they would think he 
was merely going out to practice his riding skills, just as he 
had done countless times since military training.

To his left loomed Ne'Ol', a massive vessel, even at half 
Tse'Bit'a'i's size. Sixty decks high, she possessed enough 
firepower to pulverize Earth's lone moon to dust in a matter 
of seconds. 

Beside her sat Chay'Da'Gahi', a stunning example of modern 
design, technology, and military might. The curved hull 
bristled with cannons. Nearly ten-thousand closed portals hid 
docking bays loaded with deadly stingercraft. 

And Tse'Bit'a'i' -- the flagship, largest and most heavily 
armed in the Armada -- outshone her sister ships in every way 
imaginable. Ca-Lo gazed up at her in admiration. A finger of 
sunlight chose that moment to pierce the overcast and coat the 
ship's metallic skin with a coppery glow. Symbols incised in 
Tse'Bit'a'i's sides sprang into stark 3-D relief. Prayers, 
scientific principles, philosophical pronouncements -- every 
square meter of her hull was pocked with the Nih-hi-cho's most 
revered beliefs and discoveries.

She was magnificent, formidable, unrivaled by any vessel in 
the sector.

Ca-Lo inhaled the tang of her recently-fired plasma cannons. 
Her thrumming engines vibrated the ground beneath the thick 
soles of his terrestrial boots. As much as he detested the 
Nih-hi-cho, he had to admire their military preeminence. It 
was a privilege to command the most powerful armada in the 
known universe. It afforded him his only opportunity to make 
choices and control fate. Directing the fleet was as close to 
being a free man as he had ever come.

Until today.   

A young soldier approached at last, leading a saddled horse. 
The lustrous, black animal was well-muscled. It looked capable 
of making the arduous mountain trek in record time. Its 
saddlebags bulged with supplies; a full canteen dangled 
against its right shoulder.   

The soldier's brows rose at Ca-Lo's terrestrial clothes, short 
hair and unmarked cheek, but he said nothing and handed over 
the reins. 

Ca-Lo wasted no time. He mounted the horse and spurred its 
ribs. It took off at a gallop toward the hills in the east. He 
would ride non-stop through the night. Red Dragon willing, he 
would arrive at Safe Camp in just under two days. The rebels 
and Dana would suspect nothing of his true motives, until it 
was too late. 

The horse's hooves pummeled the pavement with a comforting 
thunder that lifted Ca-Lo's spirits. Freedom settled into his 
bones. He leaned forward in the saddle and let the wind dry 
tears of relief from his face.

*   *   *

SAFE CAMP, UTAH
SKINNER'S RV

"Dibeh, please sit down. You don't have to wait on me." Lady 
Dana was frowning, but her eyes shone with genuine concern. 

Dibeh poured steaming tea into a ceramic mug, which was 
decorated with a flagged, fortified city and the words Disney 
World -- Happiest Place on Earth.

She wished her mistress would step back, or better yet, sit at 
the table with the officer named Skinner. The kitchen was 
cramped and the kettle was hot. 

"You should be resting," Lady Dana reminded her for the third 
time since Dibeh had cleared the dinner dishes. 

Nothing would please Dibeh more than to lie down and sleep, 
but she was duty-bound to care for her mistress. She had 
promised Master Ca-Lo. 

She pressed the mug into her Lady's hands.   

"She always this stubborn?" asked Skinner, studying his maps, 
making notations. His tone was sharp, but his expression 
softened as he focused on Lady Dana.

He watched her mistress often, Dibeh had noticed. His gaze was 
protective, even a little possessive. A stark contrast to the 
suspicious looks he cast Dibeh's way. He would surely evict 
her -- or worse, give her to his soldiers -- if not for Lady 
Dana's generous guardianship.   

"I think she's more loyal than stubborn," her mistress said 
kindly. Tea in hand, Lady Dana moved to the bench opposite 
Skinner. "Thank you, Dibeh," she murmured, the hot drink 
steaming from her lips.

Lady Dana's gratitude surprised Dibeh, who was not used to 
receiving compliments for her services. After all, she had 
been created to tend to the needs and demands of her human 
masters. There was no reason to thank her for carrying out her 
duties.

Dibeh filled a second mug for Skinner. The tea smelled spicy 
and delicious. Dibeh wished she could pour some for herself, 
but to drink with them would be inappropriate. 

She set the kettle back on the stove and imagined the hot tea 
filling her belly, radiating out to warm her cold fingers and 
toes. 

Despite the layers of clothing she wore, she felt chilled to 
the bone. Skinner's trailer was drafty. The entire planet 
seemed frightfully bitter and windy. 

She shivered at her memory of the dock, the lake...the dark, 
icy water... 

She had been prepared to end her life at the bottom of that 
lake. But then the Red Dragon appeared and said, "Do not 
surrender. You have reason yet to live." 

He must have been referring to her duty to Lady Dana. There 
was no other possible purpose for her. 

Unless her mistress decided to give her to another master.

Dibeh glanced nervously at Skinner's ominous scowl.

Uncertainty pounded in her veins. She did not want to serve 
Skinner. She did not like his sour looks and angry tone. 

She missed the familiarity and warmth of Tse'Bit'a'i', the 
cheerful conversations with Ulso and the other servants. She 
missed the peace that came from a daily routine, the comfort 
of knowing what was expected of her each moment.

Here, she must somehow anticipate the needs of a mistress she 
barely knew. She must also please her Lady's glowering 
companion, since he owned their shelter, food, and clothing, 
and he commanded the human soldiers who wanted to kill her. 
She was as dependant upon his charity and protection as she 
was upon that of her mistress.  

To add to her worries, Lady Dana's belly was alarmingly large. 
The baby's birth would bring additional responsibilities. And 
Dibeh knew nothing about human infants, not even how they got 
out of their mothers' stomachs. Would Lady Dana be torn apart 
like the hosts of Nih-hi-cho young? Would she die in the 
process? Who would Dibeh serve then? Skinner? The child? 

Divine Angels, she did not know how to care for a human baby. 
What did they eat? How old were they when they finally shed 
their skins and transformed into adults? How would Dibeh learn 
all she needed to know? 

Hands quaking, she delivered Skinner's tea to the table and 
silently thanked the Red Dragon she didn't spill it.

Skinner lifted the mug, his fierce eyes locked upon Dibeh as 
he took a sip. Her skin heated beneath his intense scrutiny. 
She wanted to ask if the tea was too hot, or if he preferred 
it with honey the way Lady Cassandra liked it, but she was at 
a loss as to how to make herself understood. Like Lady Dana, 
Skinner could not grasp the meaning of even the most 
rudimentary hand signals. 

Dibeh retreated the few steps to the kitchen, where she kept 
an ear turned toward her mistress while she washed the dinner 
dishes.

"She never talks?" Skinner asked Lady Dana.

"Her inability to speak is the result of the hybridization 
process," answered her mistress. "At least, that's what I was 
told."

"Aliens don't like their slaves talking back?"

"I don't think that's their motive. The aliens can read minds, 
so verbal communication isn't an issue for them."

"Can *she* read minds?"

Dibeh glanced up from her sudsy dishwater to find Skinner 
eyeing her, lips pressed tightly together. 

She shook her head, wanting to assure him that she did not 
share the mental agility of the Nih-hi-cho, then immediately 
regretted her action. It was not her place to participate in 
their discussion without permission.

"From what I've seen, hybrids don't have that particular 
ability," Lady Dana explained. "They use sign language to 
communicate. She understands everything we're saying. Don't 
you, Dibeh?"

Pleased to be invited to answer, Dibeh nodded, letting them 
know it was true. She understood their verbal and written 
language perfectly, as well as the meanings of their postures, 
mannerisms and facial expressions. She had spent long hours 
memorizing, practicing.   

"A half-alien who's fluent in English? You don't find that 
odd?" Again he directed his question at Lady Dana.

"Not really. She was Cassandra Spender's personal aide."

At the mention of Lady Cassandra's name, Dibeh felt a stab of 
apprehension. There had been Nih-hi-cho blood beneath Ca-Lo's 
desk the night she and Lady Dana were kidnapped. Dibeh 
suspected something dreadful had happened to her former 
mistress.

"I don't get it," Skinner said. "Why would the aliens give a 
servant to a human prisoner?" 

"Cassandra wasn't a prisoner."

"I thought she was abducted at El Rico."

"More like rescued."

"But why? What's special about her?" 

Lady Dana's next words were laced with bitterness. "Her son is 
the officer we saw back at Farmington Bay, the man who looks 
like Mulder."

"The man who claimed to be Mulder's brother." 

"It's not as farfetched as it might sound. We know Jeffrey is 
Mulder's half-brother. We saw the PCR results. It's possible 
Mulder and Jeffrey's father had other children."

"I can't think of a worse candidate for fatherhood than Old 
Smokey." 

Lady Dana glanced at Dibeh, who busied herself, wiping the 
small counter with her damp cloth. 

"Walter, there's something you should know about this man Ca-
Lo. He can be...unusually persuasive."

"Persuasive in what way?"

"Remember Robert Modell?"

"Shit."

"Ca-Lo can make people do things they wouldn't ordinarily do." 

Dibeh watched them from the corner of her eye. She saw 
Skinner's jaw clench.

"He didn't 'persuade' you to do something you didn't want to, 
did he?" 

Lady Dana's voice wavered when she spoke. "It's...it's 
difficult to talk about."

A loud knock on the door startled Dibeh and prevented Lady 
Dana from explaining further.

Dibeh took a step toward the entrance, but Skinner growled 
"I'll get it" and rose to his feet.

The visitor turned out to be Royal Jackson. Snow flecked his 
spiraling hair and knit hat. Slush melted into muddy puddles 
around his boots. 

"News, sir." Royal eyed Dibeh with obvious disdain, then 
removed his gloves and reached into his pocket. He passed 
Skinner a handwritten communique. 

Skinner scanned the document. "Why would they put all their 
firepower in one place? Defensively, it makes no sense."

"Not sure, sir. Maybe the warships are there to protect 
whatever the hell is going on in the stronghold."

"Maybe. Or..."

"Sir?"

"It could be they don't consider us a threat any more."

"Good. Then they'll leave us alone." Lady Dana sounded more 
bitter than hopeful.

Dibeh turned her back to hide her disappointment. Secretly she 
had been praying to the Red Dragon, asking him to send Ca-Lo 
and his troops to this miserable place to take her and her 
mistress back to Tse'Bit'a'i', where they belonged. Now there 
seemed little chance she would see her home and friends again. 
Tears filled her eyes, blurring the dishes in the sink.

A gust of wind rattled the trailer. Sleet tapped like ghostly 
fingers against the tiny kitchen window. Dibeh dipped her 
hands into the tepid water and slowly finished washing the 
dishes. 

*   *   *

OPAL RIVER, WYOMING 

Mulder slouched on the sofa, bare feet stretched toward the 
welcome warmth of the fireplace. His frostbitten toes prickled 
as they thawed. Every inch of him ached, especially the 
knotted muscles in his damaged left leg.  

He drew comfort from William, who snoozed in his lap. Kenna 
had fed, bathed, and dressed the boy in a pair of clean 
flannel PJs she'd unearthed from a bureau in a back bedroom. 
She'd then passed William, sated and sleepy, to Mulder so she 
could take her turn in the iron-stained bathtub.

Mulder had accepted his son with open arms.

Imagining moments like this one had comforted him during his 
many months in hiding and, later, when he was confined to a 
prison cell, missing every milestone in William's young life. 

What had been his son's first word? When had he taken his 
first step? Who was the man he called "dada" before Mulder 
came to claim the honor? 

Mulder's eyes misted as he stroked William's downy-soft hair, 
his velvety ear. The boy's lids fluttered but remained shut. 
The heat of the fire, the gratifying weight of William in his 
lap, the simple tranquility he derived from watching his son's 
small chest rise and fall, lulled Mulder toward true peace -- 
the first he had experienced since making love to Scully in 
Roswell a half year earlier.

I found him, Scully, he wanted to tell her. Just like I said I 
would.

The fire snapped and popped, sending a welcome, piney scent 
into the room. The flames' golden glow dappled the hearth, the 
frayed rug, William's pink cheeks. 

The ramshackle cabin had been a godsend. Someone's hunting 
camp, tucked off the main road, overlooking Opal River. It was 
stocked with canned food, cast-off clothing, blankets, 
firewood. 

Best of all, there were no corpses to bury. 

That wasn't to say the place was perfect. Mice inhabited the 
kitchen. The countertop was speckled with their droppings and 
the musty air carried the prickly odor of their urine. But 
rather than being repulsed, Mulder found hope in the faint 
ticking of their small toenails as they scurried about, 
scrounging for food and building their nests, preparing for 
future generations as if the end of the world was not upon 
them. 

Beyond his outstretched legs, Gibson snored softly atop a 
mattress he'd dragged from one of the frosty bedrooms and 
positioned in front of the roaring fire. He looked vulnerable 
without his glasses, which he'd placed on a rickety end table 
beside the hearth. Mulder was struck by how much Gibson had 
changed in the last couple of years. He was no longer the 
plump-cheeked boy he, Scully and Diana had met in Inget Murray 
Psychiatric Hospital in what felt like another lifetime. He 
was leaner, tougher. Real facial hair, not a child's peach 
fuzz, shadowed his upper lip and chin. And he had grown more 
serious, if such a thing were possible. 

Kenna, finished with her bath, sat cross-legged in a worn 
overstuffed chair, brushing her freshly shampooed hair, 
letting the heat from the fire dry it. She had discovered the 
hairbrush in the bathroom and appropriated it the same way she 
did every other useful item she came across. Like William's 
pajamas and the faded jeans she was wearing. 

A size too big, the jeans rode low on her hips, the waistband 
not quite meeting her clean white shirt, which was a 
turtleneck, selected no doubt because it hid the scars on her 
neck. Mulder couldn't help but notice she wore no bra. Her 
breasts bounced with each stroke of the brush. Her nipples 
weren't hard, but the dark areolas showed through the light-
colored fabric, drawing his eye.

"He doing okay?" She glanced at William and caught Mulder 
staring at her chest.

Mulder's gaze dropped to his son.

"He's fine."

"I could hold him if he's a bother."

"He's no bother."

Kenna rose from her chair, abandoning her hairbrush on the 
Navajo blanket that covered the torn seat. She crossed to 
Mulder and reached out to clasp William's small bare foot.

"He's finally warmed up," she murmured.  

The day had been raw, their hike arduous. The snow had stopped 
shortly after dawn, allowing them to cover approximately 
eighteen miles along Route 30 before sundown. The road 
followed Opal River, which provided fresh water as they 
trudged more deeply into the high desert, where limber pines, 
sagebrush and leafless aspens dotted the rocky hillsides.

Kenna sank onto the cushions next to Mulder and drew her knees 
up under her chin. Her shoulder brushed his.

The scent of soap and toothpaste wafted from her. It occurred 
to Mulder she must have used the cabin owner's toothbrush and 
the idea rocked his stomach with queasy waves. She seemed to 
have no qualms about appropriating people's seconds. Like 
Scully, she was practical in the extreme. Maybe she had lived 
with hand-me-downs all her life, reinforcing her pragmatic 
nature. Or perhaps it was the hardships of the last half year 
that drove her to do whatever she needed to survive.

Thank God she had found William all those months ago. How many 
times had she saved the boy's life since then? Mulder would 
never be able to adequately thank her for everything she had 
done on his son's behalf.    

"You look beat," he said.

"So do you." Her dusky eyes took him in.

She was really quite pretty, despite the scars he knew ringed 
her neck. Long-limbed and slender, face unlined, hair glossy. 
Her mouth pursed, full, moist. 

"Rick isn't coming back," she said, germane to nothing as was 
often her habit. She absently twirled her wedding ring. 

"What makes you say that?"

"He's dead," she admitted for the first time. "Locust-monsters 
killed him."

"When?"

"Day I found William." 

"You saw it happen?"

She reached out and caressed the baby's rounded cheek. "He's 
beautiful, isn't he?" she asked, avoiding the question.

"I think so."

"You suppose his mother is still alive?"

"I believe she is. I hope she is."

"How long's it been since you saw her?"

"Six months." Six long months since Scully drove away without 
saying goodbye, leaving Mulder behind. 

"A lot's happened since then," Kenna stated the obvious.

"Yes."

Mulder may have lost Scully, but, thanks to this young woman, 
he had found his son. 

The fire crackled; sparks floated up the chimney like 
lightning bugs. William's rosebud lips sucked on something in 
his dreams.

Mulder's eyes went again to Kenna's breasts. 

"You wanna kiss me?" she asked. 

He did. He was surprised at how much. "I-I shouldn't."

"Why not? Aren't I as pretty as her?"

"It has nothing to do with that. I love her."

"I love Rick, too, but that doesn't mean we can't kiss." To 
prove her point, she leaned close and touched her lips lightly 
to his. Her breath carried the minty smell of a stranger's 
toothpaste. "See?" she said, pulling back a fraction of an 
inch. 

Shaken and aroused, he inhaled slowly, deeply, feeling like he 
was taking his first real breath in months. The first since 
Mount Weather, when he'd learned William was gone, when 
Scully's betrayal had knocked the wind from his lungs, 
seemingly forever.

The ghost of Kenna's kiss tingled upon his lower lip. Her eyes 
remained locked with his while her fingers caressed William's 
baby-fine hair.

Mulder was cold. And bone weary. He wanted to feel pleasure 
and comfort again. He wanted to feel Kenna's hands on his 
skin. Her soft, pliant body beneath his. She was offering him 
a few moments of warm indulgence, a temporary distraction from 
two years of god-awful torture and loneliness. It wasn't love, 
he knew, on her part or his, but it might assuage the empty 
ache in his heart, left there when Scully departed without him 
in Shiprock.  

Wake up, Gibson, Mulder half wished. Stop me before I make a 
horrible mistake.  

He lifted William from his lap and carefully laid him on the 
mattress beside the sleeping teen. 

Gibson didn't stir. 

Mulder grasped Kenna's outstretched hand and snagged the 
Navajo blanket from the chair as he led her to the back 
bedroom.

The floor was icy beneath his bare feet.

"It's freezing in here," she muttered.

He wrapped the blanket, and his arms, around her, then closed 
the door softly with a push of his foot.

*   *   *

TWO DAYS LATER
SOUTH OF SAFE CAMP, UTAH
LATE AFTERNOON

Directing his horse northward along Route 30, Ca-Lo was 
unprepared for the jewel-like glow of Bear Lake at dusk. 
Twenty miles long and eight miles wide, it shimmered a bright 
turquoise blue, the color matching exactly the oval stone in 
the ring he was bringing to Dana as a wedding gift. 

Ca-Lo planned to propose to Dana the way Earth men 
traditionally proposed marriage, on bended knee, ring in hand, 
heart laid bare. He wanted it to be a perfect moment, the 
first of many. In his mind he could clearly imagine their 
wedding ceremony, their first night as man and wife, a long 
joyful future together. He wanted all the rewards his brother 
so blithely took for granted: a woman who loved him, a family 
of his own, freedom to do as he pleased. 

Ca-Lo wondered if Mulder was dead, killed by Harris. He hoped 
the old Watcher was safely back at Harmony I with little 
William. The boy would assure Dana's cooperation -- at the 
altar and in Ca-Lo's bed. She would be grateful to him for 
returning her son. 

Red Dragon willing, she would grow to love Ca-Lo over time. 
And he would dote on her, provide her with every possible 
luxury, with servants, and children, lots of children. Strong, 
ambitious sons and lovely, intelligent daughters. 

The screech of a goshawk drew Ca-Lo's attention skyward. 
Buoyed by an unseen draft, the bird circled beneath the heavy 
overcast, hunting its evening meal. Dusk was fast approaching; 
it would be pitch-dark in less than an hour.

Enough time to reach his destination. 

The camp was visible in the distance. An untidy collection of 
tents, trailers and motor homes cluttering the mile-long white 
sand beach. Boats bobbed in slips at the docks. Smoke rose 
from open fires, carrying the scent of green wood and burning 
refuse. Windows flickered with candlelight while people 
hurried between shelters, bundled against the cold.

A sudden snap of twigs spooked Ca-Lo's horse, causing it to 
whinny and toss its head. Ghostly vapors puffed skyward as it 
nervously sniffed the frosty air.  

"What is it, boy?" Had the horse caught wind of a sentry?

Spruce and juniper dotted the craggy, snow-covered hills on 
either side of the road. Murky, claw-like shadows stretched 
across the landscape, providing perfect cover for rebel 
soldiers lying in wait.  

"Stop right there, mister," came a voice from the half-dark.

Ca-Lo reined in his horse at the road's center line. "I'm 
unarmed."

"We'll see about that." 

A grim-faced man stepped from the shadows, an M-16 aimed at 
Ca-Lo's chest. He was dressed in a camouflage jacket, baggy 
wool pants, and a Rockies' baseball cap with a bent brim.   

"Who are you?" the sentry asked.

"Name's Mulder. I'm looking for a woman named Dana Scully. 
She's a doctor. I have reason to believe she's living in your 
camp." 

"Get off your horse, Mr. Mulder. Slow. And keep your hands 
where I can see 'em." The man shouted over his shoulder, "Ty, 
cover me while I search him." 

Ty stepped into view. He was young, a teenager. Smudges of 
dirt darkened his smooth cheeks and undersized chin. He licked 
chapped lips and held his shotgun with thin, shaky arms.

"Don't do nuthin' stupid," Ty warned, "or I'll shoot your 
fuckin' head off."

"No need for that," Ca-Lo said, easing off his horse.

The older man passed Ty his rifle. "Watch him close." 

"I got him in my sights, Gil. One false move and...BAM!"

Ca-Lo raised his hands and kept an eye on trigger-happy Ty as 
Gil frisked him.

"He ain't armed," Gil announced. 

"I told you," Ca-Lo said.

"Shut the fuck up!" warned Ty.

Ca-Lo waited quietly as Gil rummaged through his saddlebags. 

"Anything?" Ty asked, licking his lips again.

"Not much. Change of clothes, couple cans of food and...this." 
Gil shook the tiny box that held Dana's engagement ring.

"Please, that's for her, the woman I've come for." Ca-Lo took 
a step toward Gil and reached for the box.

"Don't move, mister," Ty warned, "unless you want a back full 
of buckshot."

Gil lifted the box's lid and peered inside. "Pretty."

"Put it back."

"You ain't in any position to be ordering me around, Mr. 
Mulder."

"Are you a soldier in the North Utah Infantry?"

"Might be. Then again, I might not. What's it to you?"

"I'm a friend of Walter Skinner's." This got both men's 
attention. "So unless you want to piss off your commanding 
officer, you'll put that ring back where you found it."

Gil considered for a minute, then returned the ring to the 
saddlebag. "Probably worthless anyway. Where you comin' from, 
Mr. Mulder?" 

"Polson, most recently."

"Flathead Reservation?"

"Yes. I've been riding for six days."

Gil looked him over, clearly trying to assess the truth of his 
claim. "Anyone else up that way?" 

"About a dozen, but they're in no condition to travel."

"Shit," said Ty, "we coulda used more men."

"Shut the fuck up, you moron," Gil warned.

Ty's wet mouth slapped closed and he hung his head.  

"Look...Gil, is it?" Ca-Lo asked. "I'm a stranger and you've 
got no reason to trust me, but if you take me to Ms. Scully, 
she'll tell you who I am."

"You ain't seein' no one but Commander Skinner. Convince him 
you're who you say you are, and we'll take it from there."

"That's fine. Like I said, Skinner's an old friend." 

"We'll see about that." Gil took possession of the horse's 
reins. "Let's go. You lead, Mr. Mulder." 

Ca-Lo headed toward Safe Camp with the barrel of Ty's shotgun 
poking painfully in his spine.

When they arrived at the park's Visitor Center, Gil tied the 
horse to a bicycle rack and then escorted Ca-lo inside to an 
office that smelled like wet wool and burnt coffee. Five 
grubby men, dressed in mismatched hunting jackets, camo 
sweatshirts and baseball caps, sat in metal folding chairs at 
a table strewn with coffee mugs and topographical maps.

A stern, balding man in glasses and fatigues rose from his 
chair. Ca-Lo recognized him from Mulder's files, as well as 
from his own reconnaissance photos: Walter Skinner, ex-Marine, 
ex-FBI, one of Mulder's closest friends and, as leader of the 
rebel resistance, a significant thorn in the Society's 
collective side.

Adopting Mulder's relaxed attitude, Ca-Lo said, "Walter, you 
look like you've just seen a ghost."

Skinner blinked with a mix of surprise and suspicion. 
"Mulder?"

"In the flesh."

"I'll need proof of that." 

"Fair enough." Ca-Lo pointed to the map, where handwritten 
notations marked roadways and mountain ranges. "May I?"

Skinner moved to block his view. "I don't think so." 

"I can show you where the aliens are." 

"We know where they are."

"But do you know *why* they're there?" Ca-Lo would win 
Skinner's trust by providing him with inconsequential 
intelligence. 

"You tell me."

"They're planning a helluva party. Special invitation only."

"What are they celebrating?"

There was no reason for Ca-Lo to lie. Skinner and his troops 
could not stop the Nih-hi-cho. "It's like a Sweet Sixteen, of 
sorts. The young aliens are being introduced into the Society. 
They'll become members of the intellectual community, part of 
a group consciousness. They call it The Joining."

"Assuming what you say is true, how did you learn about it?"

"I was in Salt Lake City." 

Gil raised his rifle and pointed it at Ca-Lo's temple. "You 
said you came from Polson."

"I lied. I trust no one...no one but Skinner and Scully." Ca-
Lo shot Skinner an obstinate stare that he hoped matched 
Mulder's exactly.

Skinner studied him through narrowed eyes. Finally he said, 
"There's a man who looks like you. He would know about this 
'joining.'"

Ca-Lo hid his surprise and nodded. Skinner must have spotted 
him at Salt Lake, probably when he was searching Besh-Lo's 
downed craft. It would answer the question of who had rescued 
Dana and her hybrid aide. "So you've heard about my evil 
twin."

"I've seen him." 

Ca-Lo decided to continue telling small truths in order to 
hide bigger ones. "His name is Ca-Lo. He's a military 
strategist for--"

"For the aliens. Yes, I know all about that."

"You think I'm him?" 

Skinner indicated the maps with a tilt of his head. "He could 
learn a lot by coming here. I need proof you're Mulder -- 
undeniable proof -- before I trust you."

"She'll know," Ca-Lo said, believing Mulder would take this 
tactic. "Scully can be the proof you need."

"I won't put her in danger."

"I wouldn't ask you to." He stared unblinkingly at Skinner and 
stepped closer, invading the other man's personal space the 
way he'd seen his brother do countless times on the 
surveillance tapes. "Let her question me. Hell, let her 
examine me. You can be right there watching."

Skinner regarded him for a long moment, jaw working as he 
considered. "Okay," he said at last. "But if she says you're 
an imposter, you won't live to argue the point. I'll kill you 
where you stand." 

*   *   *

Scully was conducting evening rounds when Skinner entered the 
infirmary with Mulder in tow. Her heart leapt to her throat at 
the sight of him, dressed in familiar clothes, worry creasing 
his brow as he desperately searched the rows of cots looking 
for her. When he spotted her halfway across the room, his 
entire body appeared to relax. A slanting smile lit his face 
and it was all she could do to keep herself from dropping her 
patient's chart and running to him. 

It might not be him, she reminded herself.    

To give her wildly beating heart time to settle down, she 
finished tending her patient, a teenager, burned and blinded 
by plasma fire. 

"How are you feeling?" She checked his IV. 

"C-cold."  

She tucked the thin, inadequate bedding around his shivering 
shoulders. "I'll have someone bring you another blanket," she 
promised, knowing it would come from her bed because there 
were no more. 

"Th-thanks, D-doc."

She gave his shoulder an encouraging squeeze. 

Emotions under control, she crossed the room to stand before 
Skinner and the man who looked like Mulder.

"Scully..." Tears filled the man's hazel eyes and he reached 
for her.

Skinner grabbed his arm, stopping him. "Not so fast."

"This is ridiculous," Mulder objected. "Scully, it's me." 

"You'll have to prove that," she said.

"What a surprise." 

"Convince me you're not a clone or a shapeshifter or...or 
anyone else." She couldn't bring herself to say Ca-Lo's name. 
Waves of disgust and shame heated her face. "If you're really 
Mulder, you'll understand my need for caution."

"All those times I told you to trust no one and now it's come 
back to bite me on the ass. Guess it serves me right."

"Would a physical examination give you the proof you need?" 
Skinner asked.

Would it? It was an approach she would have taken in her old 
life, back before she had lost her faith in the authenticity 
of physical evidence, before experience -- and Mulder -- had 
taught her to rely on her instincts as well as her eyes.

"Follow me." She had seen through Jeffrey Spender's subterfuge 
when he tried to impersonate Mulder to get to William. If this 
man was an imposter, she would expose him, too.

She led both men to a makeshift examining area behind a 
privacy curtain. 

Turning to face Mulder, she ordered, "Take off your clothes."

"Not that I'm complaining, but is this really the best place 
for a reunion?" Mulder glanced at Skinner. 

"Strip. Now," she demanded.

He smiled, almost shyly, then shed his jacket and tossed it on 
the nearby examining table. His pullover and t-shirt followed. 
Bare-chested, arms extended, he turned to face her. 

An old gunshot wound was visible on his shoulder, right where 
it should be.

"Tell me about this." She ran her fingers lightly across the 
scar, testing its authenticity.

He inhaled sharply at her touch and closed his eyes, clearly 
grateful for the physical contact. She let her hand drop.

"A bullet from your gun had my name on it," he said, opening 
his eyes.

"Why would I shoot you?"

"To save me from myself." He leaned close and whispered, 
"Story of our lives, wouldn't you say?"

She took a step back and Skinner moved closer, ready to 
intervene on her behalf. She appreciated his willingness to 
protect her.

"Your pants," she said to the man who looked like Mulder. 
"Drop them." 

He waggled his brows in a gesture so like Mulder, it set her 
heart hammering.

"I always liked playing doctor with you, Scully." He 
unfastened his fly. "And I don't mind having an audience if 
you don't, but I gotta admit it's a side of you I never 
suspected." He pushed his jeans to his knees.

She averted her gaze from his boxers and looked instead at the 
mark on his thigh. "Explain that."

"Lucas Henry shot me during a kidnapping case."

"Which kidnapping case?" If this was Mulder, he would remember 
the kids' names. He had perfect recall.

"Elizabeth Hawley and James Summers. Nineteen years old. You 
saved their lives. You saved mine, too." He gently tagged her 
arm, caressing her through the thick sleeve of her shirt. 

"Back off," Skinner ordered. 

His hand fell away. "I still think Boggs' act was bogus. I 
always wondered how he convinced you to believe him." 

An imposter could memorize the details of the Boggs case from 
written reports, but would anyone other than Mulder know about 
her unlikely acceptance of Boggs' supernatural abilities? 

"Turn around," she said.

He pivoted awkwardly, pants bunched at his knees. "My best 
side," he joked.

She examined the gunshot's exit wound. Position, age -- it 
looked right. Could this really be Mulder? Her pulse quickened 
at the possibility.

"Face me and open your mouth."

For the first time, he appeared annoyed. "This is crazy, 
Scully. I'm Mulder."

"You want to play doctor? Say ahh." She stood on tiptoe and 
peered into his mouth.

One filling, second molar. If this man was an imposter, he was 
a damned good one.

"Convinced yet?" he asked.

"No. Get dressed."

He did as she asked. "You'll believe Luther Boggs can channel 
spirits, but you won't believe I'm me. That hurts, Scully."

He was teasing again and his flip-flopping moods were 
certainly characteristic of Mulder.

"You haven't said one word about our fight." She studied his 
face and eyes. 

"Seems pretty unimportant in retrospect," he said, looking 
uncertain.

"That's not how you felt six months ago."

"Scully..." His expression grew sad. "A lot has happened since 
then." His focus dropped to the swell of her abdomen. "Look at 
you. Y-you're pregnant."

"I was wondering if you'd noticed."

"I *am* a trained investigator." A slight smile curled his 
lips, then quickly vanished. "I've missed a lot, haven't I?"

"It's getting to be a habit."

"For both of us. Should I be hunting down the pizza man?"

Jesus, would anyone but Mulder know their private joke?

"Pizza man?" she asked, testing him.

"Is it unmanly to admit to pepperoni envy?" He mugged 
dismay. 

He had to be Mulder. No one else could rollercoaster between 
grief and humor with such confidence. And, as if she needed 
more to convince her, he donned his panic face, a mask of 
composure meant to camouflage his fears from everyone but her, 
the only person he truly trusted. "I am who I say I am," he 
insisted. "You have to be willing to see. Scully, you have to 
believe me."

Similar words, spoken in Calumet Mercy's psych ward, came 
rushing back to her: Nobody else on this whole damn planet... 
you're my one in five billion.

The baby fluttered inside her. 

She wanted to trust him. *Needed* to trust him. 

"Okay, Mulder. I believe you," she said, praying her instincts 
were correct.

ABADDON'S REIGN
BOOK VII: BLESSED ARE THE DEAD (PART 2)

*   *   *

ROUTE 30, WYOMING
NIGHTFALL

Snow skated across Route 30 in dervishes, alternately hiding 
and revealing the highway's golden centerline before vanishing 
like furious ghosts in the growing gloom. Plodding steadily 
westward, Mulder carried William in his arms and, on his back, 
a pack containing clean diapers and a two-day supply of canned 
food. William slept fitfully with his face buried in Mulder's 
neck for warmth. Gibson hugged a gallon-sized jug of water, 
and matched Mulder step for step. Empty handed, Kenna trailed 
several paces behind, dragging her feet, as she'd been doing 
all day. 

"Don't lecture me, Gibson." Mulder kept his voice pitched low, 
although he doubted Kenna could hear him over the wind's 
bitter howl. 

"I wasn't lecturing." 

"No?"  

"If you feel guilty, don't blame me. I just asked a simple 
question."

"One to which you already know the answer." Mulder adjusted 
his hold on William, trying to relieve a cramp in his right 
arm. "I didn't use a condom. I didn't have one. I regret it. 
There's nothing more to say on the subject."

Gibson gave Mulder an accusatory sidelong glance, but made no 
comment.

"I admit, sleeping with Kenna was shortsighted," Mulder 
continued, uncomfortable with Gibson's silence, "and 
selfish...irresponsible...stupid-- You want me to go on?"

"There could be consequences." 

"No shit." 

Blustering snow stung Mulder's face and momentarily blinded 
him. He staggered and leaned into the wind, cursing his bad 
leg.

"She's worried," Gibson said. 

"About getting pregnant?"

"No. About you. She wonders why you're treating her this way."

"I'm not treating her any way. I'm ignoring her."

"Exactly. Like she's a one night stand."

"She is a one night stand."

"You sure about that?" 

"Yes I'm sure." 

Gibson wiped snow from his glasses with gloved fingers. "She 
expected you'd be pleased." 

Another icy gust pummeled Mulder. William jerked awake. 
"Mama?" He extended stubby arms over Mulder's shoulder toward 
Kenna. 

Mulder glanced back. Kenna was trudging along the highway's 
centerline with shoulders hunched, eyes downcast. Her long 
hair lashed as snowflakes spiraled around her.

"It's okay, son. Go back to sleep," Mulder soothed, and 
lumbered on. To Gibson he said, "I am such an idiot." 

Again Gibson remained silent and Mulder took it to mean he 
agreed. Sleeping with Kenna had complicated an already 
complicated situation. "I made a mistake of gargantuan 
proportions during a moment of temporary insanity," Mulder 
admitted.

"Is that her fault?" 

"Of course not."

"You might consider telling her."

"How, without hurting or encouraging her?" Mulder squinted 
through the veil of snow. 

Lurking at the top of the next rise was the faint silhouette 
of a house. 

"Hallelujah," he said without enthusiasm. It was a place to 
get out of the cold, but being stuck under the same roof with 
Kenna's wounded looks and Gibson's disapproving stares was 
going to make for a hell of a long night. 

"Apologize to her, Mulder."

Mulder wondered how far he would get on his bad leg, loaded 
down with William and their food, if he made a run for the 
hills. 

"Coward," Gibson accused, reading his thoughts.

"You won't get an argument from me on that score."

Gibson stopped walking and held out the jug. "Take this and 
give me William; I'll get him to the house. You apologize."

"Now?" Mulder hated the way his voice whined like a two-year-
old's. 

"You want a decent night's sleep?"

"Yes."

"Then clear the air."

Gibson was right. It was time to own up to his mistake.

Mulder kissed William's cheek and reluctantly exchanged him 
for the water. 

Gibson hefted William onto one hip and headed for the house. 
Mulder watched them fade into the whirling snow as he waited 
for Kenna to catch up.

"You all right?" he asked when she was beside him.

Her fists were buried deeply in her pockets. Tears glittered 
on her lashes and Mulder wished it was only the wind, and not 
him, that had put them there. Sniffing, she asked, "Why are 
you so pissed?"

"I'm not."

"Coulda fooled me."

"Okay, I am mad -- at myself, not at you. I shouldn't 
have...what we did...what *I* did..." Shit, this was harder 
than he had imagined.

"See? You are pissed. I did something wrong, didn't I?"

"No, you were fine. You were more than fine."

She tilted her head back, as if searching the snow-filled 
night for answers. Flakes clumped on her lashes. Her lower lip 
trembled. "I know I'm not what you'd call an experienced 
woman. I've only been with one other man. So if I messed up 
maybe you could show me what you--"

"No, Kenna, please, it wasn't anything you did or didn't do."

Her mittened hand rose to her throat to cover the scars that 
were already hidden behind her turtleneck and thick wool 
scarf. "You think I'm ugly. I don't blame you. I-I *am* ugly."

"Kenna...no. You're not ugly. You're very pretty." 

"Then what is it?" Her eyes pleaded for an answer. "Why don't 
you like me?"

"I do like you."

"But not as much as her."

"No."

Tears spilled onto her wind-chapped cheeks. Swiping them away, 
she marched after Gibson and William.

Mulder limped along beside her, trying to keep pace. "I love 
her, Kenna. I told you that."

"She could be dead. Rick's dead. Almost everybody's dead... 
'cept us."

"You're wrong. There are others at Safe Camp." 

"I'll believe that when I see it." Her defiant tone was so 
like Scully's it made his heart skip a beat.

"Kenna, whether there are people at Safe Camp or not, what we 
did can't happen again. It won't."

"'Til the next time you're feeling lonely?" 

He grabbed her arm, intending only to slow her. 

"Don't." She wrenched free.

"I'm trying to apologize."

"You're sorry you slept with me. I get it."

"No, it's not...I mean, yes, I am sorry that we... Damn it, 
stop running!"

She slowed, but didn't stop. "You got something more to say?" 
She glared at him.

"Yes. I'm sorry. I'm just...sorry." 

"Sure you are." 

They reached the front steps of the squatty ranch-style house, 
where Gibson was standing on the small upper landing, free 
hand on the doorknob. Mulder could tell from the way he cocked 
his head that he was listening to voices the others couldn't 
hear.

"Is someone inside?" Mulder whispered.

"No. Shhh."

Mulder waited for what seemed an eternity before blurting, 
"Well?"

"I hear her."

"Who?"

"Scully."

The name sizzled along Mulder's limbs like a jolt of 
electricity and he nearly dropped the jug of water. "Is she 
okay? Where is she?"

"At the rebels' camp. She's with, uh..."

"With who?"

"It can't be."

"Gibson?"

"It doesn't make sense." 

"God damn it, who?"

Gibson's typically bland expression registered genuine 
astonishment. "She's with...you."

*   *   *

"I'll be fine," Dana assured Skinner as she ushered him out 
his own door. 

"I'm going to post a guard outside." He eyeballed Ca-Lo, who 
was leaning against the kitchen counter. 

"Still don't trust me, Walter?" Ca-Lo smiled, hiding his 
irritation at Dana's self-appointed guardian.

Skinner touched Dana's arm and reiterated, "I won't be far."

"I know. Thank you, Walter."

"Nighty-night, Walter." Ca-Lo waggled his fingers as Dana 
closed the door behind Skinner. 

Pushing away from the counter, he caught Dana in a loose 
embrace. He kissed her cheek, her ear, her neck. "Alone at 
last."

"Not quite." Dana directed his attention to where Dibeh sat 
quietly at the table. 

Like any well-trained servant, Dibeh was an expert at making 
herself inconspicuous. Stationary as a stone, she watched 
their every move.

Would she give away his ruse?

"There's an alien-human hybrid sitting at your table, Scully," 
he said dryly. "I told you they existed."

"Yes...well...I've come to accept a lot of the things you once 
told me."

"I'm assuming she's friendly since she's here in your home. 
Are you going to introduce us?"

This elicited a surprised look from Dibeh. Tentatively she 
signed, "I have been hoping you would come, Master Ca-Lo. Are 
you taking us back to Tse'Bit'a'i'?"

"She can't speak?" he asked. 

"Only through sign language." 

"Can you understand what she's saying?" 

"No. But her name is Dibeh. She helped me escape from the 
aliens' ship. She saved my life."

"Then I owe her a debt of gratitude." Ca-Lo smiled. "Pleased 
to meet you, Dibeh."

This produced more signing. "Why are you acting like we have 
not met? Why does Lady Dana call you by a strange name?"

"She seems upset," Ca-Lo said, pretending he couldn't 
interpret her hand signals.

"Dibeh, there's no need to be afraid. This is Mulder. He's the 
man I've been looking for since last May. He's a friend." Dana 
reached for Ca-Lo's hand and dovetailed their fingers. "You 
can trust him." 

Confusion knotted Dibeh's brow, but her hands dropped to her 
lap.

Dana leaned into Ca-Lo. "It's been hard for her here," she 
whispered.

"Then let's give her some time to get used to the idea of 
having me around." Placing his hand at the small of her back, 
Ca-Lo steered Dana into the bedroom at the opposite end of the 
trailer. He drew the mildew-stained curtain closed behind 
them, blocking them from Dibeh's view.

Dana snaked her arms around his waist and looked up 
expectantly. 

His plan was working. Dibeh had not blown his cover. Dana 
believed he was Mulder.

Sifting through snippets of taped conversations at lightning 
speed, Ca-Lo searched his photographic memory for an 
appropriate comment or question, something that would sound 
typical of Mulder. He settled on saying nothing at all, 
letting his actions speak for him. He drew her to him and 
rested his chin upon the crown of her head. 

Her distended abdomen pressed pleasantly against his own flat 
stomach and he reveled in the feel of it. This was their 
child, their daughter, between them. His eyes flooded with 
tears at the idea. He could scarcely describe his euphoria, it 
was so foreign to him. His lifelong dream was literally within 
arm's reach. He hardly dared breathe, afraid he might awaken 
to discover this was all a hallucination, induced by the Nih-
hi-cho to keep him quiet while they performed another of their 
heinous experiments.

"You're trembling," Dana said.

"I can't believe I'm actually here," he replied honestly.

"You're here." 

He tightened his embrace. This is real, he told himself. Not a 
hallucination. Make the most of it. "Tell me what I've 
missed," he whispered. 

"I hardly know where to begin."

She was on the verge of telling "Mulder" the truth, that she 
was pregnant with another man's child. Eager to hear how she 
would phrase her confession, Ca-Lo decided to help her, 
gently, as Mulder would.

"Is there something I should know?" he asked, trying to sound 
troubled. 

Her fingers clutched his sweater; her words puffed hotly 
against his neck. She refused to pull back and look him in the 
eye. "I was taken prisoner at Shiprock. One of the officers... 
He looked like you. He tricked me."

"Tricked you?" 

"He pretended to be you. We...we had sex. Unprotected sex." 
She looked up at him at last, eyes glossed with tears.

"This baby...?" He stroked her belly and tried to appear 
stricken. "It's his?" 

A single tear crested her wet lashes and rolled down her 
cheek. "That's just it. I'm not certain. The timing was too 
close. You and I made love the night before I was captured. 
The baby could be yours...or his."

Her pronouncement struck him like a jolt from his old 
Teacher's Taser.

"A...a DNA test would prove paternity," he stammered. 

The Nih-hi-cho Appraisers had run tests. They had drawn an 
amniotic sample, configured the baby's genetic profile and 
compared the results to Ca-Lo's. The DNA Verifier had 
indicated he was the biological father. Based on those 
results, Ca-Lo had assumed Mulder and Dana were not intimate 
in the days prior to her capture, or, if they had slept 
together, they had used some form of birth control. 

A malfunction of the Verifier was unlikely. As was a 
misreading of the data. Appraisers did not make mistakes. 

They would lie, however, if the Overseers asked them to. 

Ca-Lo felt his happiness slipping away.

"I-I need to sit." He lowered himself unsteadily to the bed.

"Amniocentesis, PCR -- those require specialized equipment, 
equipment we don't have. A genetic comparison isn't possible 
here." She sat beside him and tentatively stroked his cheek, 
tracing the very spot where the Nih-hi-cho had once marked him 
with the tattoo. "Would it matter so much?"

"Of course it would matter." 

He would not raise two of his brother's bastard children. 
Keeping William was a necessity, at least for the time being. 
But this unborn child would mean nothing to Ca-Lo if she 
turned out to be Mulder's.

Dana's hand dropped from his face. "You may not believe 
this, given our last argument, but putting William up for 
adoption was the hardest thing I ever had to do."

"But if this baby is another man's--"

"She's mine, Mulder.I've already lost two children. I won't 
lose another. I can't." A mewling sob hitched in her chest.

His anger and self-pity drained away at the sound of her sorrow. 
Sympathy coursed unbidden through his veins. 

Great Dragon, what was he to do?     

Receiving no words of divine inspiration, he gathered Dana in 
his arms and listened to her cry.  

*   *   *

"What do you mean Scully's with me?" Mulder asked Gibson. He 
pushed open the front door and ushered the others into the 
house.

The inner entry was like many others they had been in: stale 
air, squeaky floorboards, wallpaper striped in patriotic hues. 
A child's schoolbooks and skateboard littered a deacon's bench 
to the left. To the right, a bloody handprint marred an 
archway to the family room. The house was as dark and quiet as 
a tomb.     

Kenna took possession of William. "You've got the diapers," 
she reminded Mulder. 

He shrugged out of the backpack and handed it to her. She 
disappeared into the family room.

Mulder asked Gibson, "How the hell can Scully be with me when 
I'm here and she's clearly not?" 

Gibson held up a hand and cocked his head, listening again, 
concentrating.

"Well?" Mulder snapped, unable to curtail his impatience for 
more than a second or two.

"She's upset. Crying."

"Shit."

"You're holding her, trying to comfort her."

"*I* am here, Gibson. It's not me who's patting her back."

"She thinks he's you. He looks like you."

The officer aboard Tse'Bit'a'i'. Mulder's mysterious twin. Ca-
Lo. The shapeshifter in Arrowhead had said something about 
human cloning being in its infancy forty years ago, the 
process highly unpredictable, yet--

"'Your resemblance to your brother is extraordinary,'" Gibson 
extracted the alien's words from Mulder's memory.

"Ca-Lo is a clone."

"Or you are." 

"That's an unsettling thought."

"It's possible you're both clones."

An even more unsettling thought. "Chicken, egg, or Dolly the 
sheep, how did this Ca-Lo person trick Scully into thinking he 
is me?" 

If Mulder had said it once, he'd said it a thousand times: 
trust no one, Scully. 

"However he did it, she believes he's genuinely concerned 
about her."

"That's unlikely. Can you get inside his head?"

"Yes." Gibson concentrated. "He's upset, too."

"What does that mean? Is he angry? Sad?" Sexually frustrated?

"He's sorry she's crying."

Scully almost never cried. The bastard must have done 
something horrific to reduce her to tears.

"What is he doing now?"

"They're getting ready for bed."

"Together?"

"I think so."

"Son of a--!" Mulder's fist slammed the wall beside Gibson's 
head, hard enough to split the wallpaper and crack the 
underlying sheetrock. 

"Jesus, Mulder. Take it easy."

"Some guy who looks like me is forcing Scully into bed and you 
expect me to stay calm?"

"If it helps at all, he's not forcing her."

"Oh, I feel so much better knowing that. Thanks." Mulder tried 
to shake the ache from his knuckles. "I need to get to her."

"We'll be there in two days, three at most."

"That's not soon enough." Mulder regretted leaving the 
motorcycle behind.

"We're already pushing ourselves."

"We could make another five miles tonight if we--"

"I'm not going anywhere." Kenna appeared in the archway, 
William perched on her left hip. "Not tonight. Not tomorrow. 
Maybe never. Neither is he."

"William goes where I go," Mulder said.

"He stays with me and I'm done hiking all over creation. Look 
at him. You think this is good for him?" Kenna wiped snot from 
William's chapped nose with her thumb. His cheeks glowed from 
windburn and his eyelashes were gummed with dried tears. 

"Nose hurt, mama." William sniffled.

She cuddled him. "I know, sweetie. I'm sorry." 

Mulder cast a desperate glance in Gibson's direction. Gibson 
remained silent, evidently not wanting to take sides.

Mulder changed tactics, deciding to use Kenna's concern for 
William to his advantage. "If we stay here he'll be a sitting 
duck for whoever sent that shapeshifter to Arrowhead."

"What makes you think he'll be any safer in Utah?" 

"There are people there, people who can help protect him."

"You mean *her*."

"She's his mother, Kenna." 

"Doesn't act like it. Tossed him out like yesterday's garbage. 
I'd *die* before I'd give him up. And if you had a lick of 
sense you'd see that. You'd stop trying to get rid of me and 
be grateful I came along when I did." 

"I am grateful."

"Is sleeping with me your way of saying thanks?"

Mulder's face heated. "Of course not."

"Quiet," Gibson warned. "Both of you. I can't hear."

"Hear what?" Kenna's tone was sharp, impatient.

"Ca-Lo."

"Who?"

"Shhh," Gibson hushed her. "He's worried." 

"About Scully?" Mulder asked.

"And his daughter."

"Daughter?"

"The alien army is going to attack Safe Camp."

"Jesus, when?"

"Not sure. Soon."

"Tonight?"

"Tomorrow, I think." 

If it was true, Scully was in even greater danger than Mulder 
had first imagined. 

"This some kind of joke?" Kenna asked. "No way anyone can hear 
what's going on in Utah."

"He can," Mulder said. "Gibson hears what people are 
thinking."

"You're claiming he's some sorta Carnac? He can read minds?" 

"It's not as crazy as it sounds. He was born with a unique 
ability."

Kenna chuffed with disbelief. "You'll have to prove it to me." 

Without pause, Gibson said, "As much as he hates thinking 
about them together, Mulder is hoping Ca-Lo gets Scully out of 
Safe Camp before it's too late."

"That's hardly proof; anyone coulda guessed he'd want that," 
Kenna said. "You'll have to do better. Tell me what *I'm* 
thinking."

"Are you sure you want me to?" 

"You can't, can you?"

"I can."

"Then do it."

"All right. You're confused by Mulder's callous attitude," 
Gibson began. "You had hoped sleeping with him would make him 
love you, more than he loves William's real mother, maybe 
enough for him to forget her altogether. You thought you and 
he and William could become a family. But that no longer seems 
likely. You're scared because, with Rick dead and Mulder 
threatening to take William, you'll have no one. You're afraid 
of being left alone."

She blinked, unable to hide her surprise. Her lips trembled. 
Her eyes filled with tears. "I saved William from the locust-
monsters. I've been taking care of him for six months!"

"And you love him now," Gibson added.

"Yes. And he loves me." Her tears fell. "I know he does."

"Mama cry." William sniffled and stuck his thumb in his mouth.  

Guilt descended upon Mulder's shoulders, unwieldy, crushing. 
He wanted to sit, or better still, lie down, sleep for a year. 
Gibson had warned him of Kenna's emotional frailty days ago. A 
less selfish man would have heeded the warning. But to 
alleviate his loneliness, he had taken advantage of her. 

"I won't leave you here alone, Kenna," Mulder said truthfully. 
"Come with us to Safe Camp. Please."

"Safe Camp doesn't sound so safe to me."

"I have to agree," Gibson said, looking at Mulder. "It might 
not be the best place to go, given the circumstances."

"Scully is in trouble," Mulder argued. "The people at Safe 
Camp need help."

"We can't get there in time to help them."

Gibson's logic wasn't enough to dissuade Mulder. "I'm leaving 
at first light and I'm taking William. I hope you'll both be 
with me."

Gibson considered a moment. Mulder had the distinct impression 
the teen was searching his mind to gauge his resolve. 

"You know I'll go," he said at last, as Mulder had hoped.

"I go," William parroted around his wet thumb.

"Kenna?" Mulder asked softly. 

She fussed with William's hair, combing shaky fingers through 
his knotted curls.

"I'll go," she murmured at last, "for him. Not for you or the 
people at Safe Camp, and especially not for *her*."

*   *   *

SAFE CAMP, UTAH
6:58 A.M.

"Mulder, please, slow down." Scully was breathing hard and her 
face was shiny with sweat despite the chilly wind. 

In his eagerness to get them to the pick-up point on schedule, 
Ca-Lo had been walking fast. Too fast for a woman in her 
condition. The terrain was rocky and the slope steeper than he 
had realized. They had been climbing steadily higher, away 
from the camp, for about twenty minutes.

"Sorry," he mumbled and waited for her to catch up.  

Scowling, she asked, "What's your hurry?" 

"No hurry." 

She patted her pregnant belly. "I'm not up for a long hike, 
Mulder. Did you intend to go much further?"

"Just a short way. The view is incredible up there."

"It's not bad here," she said, turning to look. 

A half mile below, Bear Lake sparkled beneath the first rays 
of dawn. Its turquoise color reminded Ca-Lo again of the ring 
he had intended to slip on Dana's finger...before he had 
learned her baby might not be his.

"I've always liked this time of day," she said, as if 
admitting a long held secret. 

He checked his watch. In fifteen minutes a fleet of 
stingercraft and helicopters was due to arrive. Their mission: 
reduce the camp to rubble. Take no prisoners, save one, Walter 
Skinner. If Ca-Lo's orders were followed to the letter, and he 
had no reason to believe they wouldn't be, a cloaked shuttle 
was waiting beyond the next rise for his getaway. He had to 
get Dana aboard, quickly.

"See that?" She nodded at the quiet camp. "Except for the 
sentries, we're the only ones awake."

"It's early." 

"I find it comforting."

"To be the only people up at this hour?"

"No, that they feel safe enough to sleep." She dovetailed her 
fingers with his. "It's the way I felt last night. I haven't 
slept that soundly since Roswell."

His stomach churned at the thought of her night with Mulder.

"Let's climb a little higher," he urged.

"Why, it's beautiful right here. Look at that sunrise!"

An arc of searing orange had crested the distant hills, 
setting the sky afire.

Ca-Lo glanced again at his watch. In fewer than ten minutes, 
the camp would burn just as brightly, set ablaze by the 
Armada's plasma cannons.

"Why didn't we make love last night?" she asked unexpectedly, 
sounding more curious than disappointed.

"We weren't alone, remember?" Dibeh's presence wasn't the real 
reason he had kept to his side of the bed throughout the long, 
sleepless night. In truth, he had not wanted to touch her, let 
alone be intimate, not when there was a chance her child was 
Mulder's. 

"I could've been discreet," she said.

He adopted a teasing tone and said, "You? Quiet while making 
love?" The surveillance videos had shown otherwise.

She gave his arm a playful slap. "I'm not the one who howls 
like a werewolf when--"

He nuzzled her neck and growled softly. "There's a grove of 
trees just over the rise. Very private. Follow me and I'll 
show you who howls like a werewolf."

She wrapped her arms around his neck and drew him to her for a 
soft kiss.

His lips tingled pleasantly when she pressed more firmly 
against his mouth.  He returned her embrace, feeling a 
desperate hollowness deep in his gut, like the hunger of a man 
gone too long without food or drink. He squeezed her more 
tightly. She moaned and opened her mouth. His tongue swept 
over hers and her taste ignited a fire beneath his skin. He 
had never experienced a kiss like this, not when he made love 
to her six months ago, and certainly not with any of his 
hybrid Consorts. This was singular -- mouth-watering, genuine, 
passionate. 

Please, he begged the Red Dragon, make the child mine. Allow 
me this happiness. 

Too soon, Dana drew back, breathlessly breaking their kiss. 
"There's a grove of trees ahead?"  

"Yes, but..." The shuttle. He glanced again at his watch and 
was startled to see they had only three minutes before the 
first helicopters arrived.

She caught him checking the time. "Are we late for something?"

"Late? No."

"You keep checking your watch."

"Sorry. Bad habit."

"What time is it?"

"Uh, 7:13."

"Damn, I promised I'd check in at the infirmary at 7:30."

"You're not going to make it." He lifted his arm so she could 
read the digital display on his watch.

She released her hold on him and drew back. Her smile was 
gone. "You're not Mulder."

"Scully, I thought we settled this yesterday."

"I was a fool to trust you."

"What is this? What's the matter?"

"Electromagnetic pulses stopped every battery-operated watch 
last May." 

Damn it! Despite all his careful planning he had somehow 
overlooked this one vital detail. 

Her eyes flashed with anger. "You're Ca-Lo."

"I had hoped to postpone this conversation until you were 
safely away from here."

She spun on her heel. He grabbed her arm, preventing her 
escape. 

"You can't go back," he warned.

"Let me go." She tried to pull free.

His grip held. "It's not safe there."

"Why?" 

Her question was answered by the distinctive beat of 
helicopter rotors to the west. 

"You bastard." 

She drew back to strike him, but missed when he scooped her 
off her feet and carried her up the hill to his waiting 
shuttle.

*   *   *

Dibeh awoke to an eerie quiet. "The still before the storm," 
Lady Cassandra called moments like these, referring to the 
unnatural silences that preceded Tse'Bit'a'i's defensive 
drills.

"Mulder's" soft snore no longer emanated from beyond the 
bedroom's privacy curtain as it had earlier when Dibeh was 
tossing and turning on her bench. She had lain awake for hours 
trying to figure out if he was truly who he claimed to be. 

She recalled overhearing Lady Dana tell Commander Skinner two 
days ago that Ca-Lo had a brother named Mulder who looked just 
like him. So it was possible this man was telling the truth. 
Yet Dibeh was well-trained at interpreting the body language 
of others and something about him nagged at her. Most of the 
earthmen she'd met since leaving Tse'Bit'a'i' regarded her 
with suspicious eyes, lips curled in disgust, but this man 
treated her with seeming indifference. He appeared unaffected 
by her Nih-hi-cho features. As Ca-Lo would be.

And yet he couldn't be Ca-Lo, could he? A man as powerful as 
her master would have no reason to pretend to be anyone else. 
And why would Lady Dana go along with such a pretense?

Dibeh realized it must be her desire to go home that was 
fueling her doubts. She had been hoping with all her heart 
that Ca-Lo would come to rescue them, but apparently it was 
not to be.

No, this man was Mulder. Lady Dana and Commander Skinner 
accepted his word, so she must, as well. Her life was here 
now, not aboard Tse'Bit'a'i'. She would not be going back. Not 
ever. It was time to stop wasting prayers.  

A faint thudding drew her attention away from her 
disappointment. Sitting up, she strained to identify the 
source and had almost convinced herself it was merely the 
beating of her own heart, when she noticed it growing steadily 
louder, and louder still, until finally it was clattering like 
a wooden spoon thrown loose in Cook VI's dishwasher.  

An explosion, frighteningly loud, rocked the trailer and set 
Dibeh's heart hammering in earnest. Concerned for Lady Dana's 
safety, she tossed off her blankets and lurched toward the 
bedroom at the opposite end of the RV. 

A second explosion shook the trailer as she moved through the 
kitchen. Dishes rattled. A cooking pot toppled into the sink. 
The Disney World mug jittered off the countertop, plummeted to 
the floor and shattered. Shards sailed through the air. One 
razor-sharp fragment sliced Dibeh's wrist, raising a frothy, 
thin line of green blood.

She ignored the sting and stumbled to the bedroom. Yanking the 
curtain aside, she found the bed empty. Lady Dana's 
nightgown was heaped upon the pillows. Her boots were missing 
from their place beside the small closet. Both Mulder and her 
mistress were gone.

Gunshots, muted by distance and metal walls, popped like fat 
in a fry pan somewhere outside the RV. Dibeh thought she could 
detect the prickly smell of smoke. She bolted on wobbly legs 
to the trailer's single entrance. Stumbling out into the cold 
dawn, barefoot, dressed only in thin nightclothes, she nearly 
slipped on the frosty steps as she ran down them, eyes drawn 
upward to a blood red sky. 

Helicopters swooped overhead like winged dragons. Their 
deafening rotors stirred dust from the camp's worn footpaths, 
clogging the air with sand. Higher up, stingercrafts blasted 
the camp's shelters with strings of molten plasma. Everything 
burned: tents, boats, cars, RVs. 

Throngs of terrified humans ran from their homes, screaming, 
bleeding, desperate to escape the choking fumes and plasma fire. 
They scrambled like startled stew-hares toward the lake, the 
hills. Dibeh ran, too, when a mortar tore through the roof of 
the camp's main building not thirty yards from Skinner's RV. 
The explosion shattered the expansive, plate glass windows. 
Brittle plastic and twisted metal peppered the yard. Splintered 
ceiling beams flew into the crowd like lances. 

One frightened woman, clutching a bawling child, darted past 
Dibeh, only to be struck down seconds later, severed in two by 
a sheet of flying tin. The poor baby tumbled from its mother's 
limp arms, skidded across the dirt path, and was vaporized by 
a bolt of plasma from above. 
       
Holding her breath against the stench of plasma and melting 
flesh, Dibeh trailed the crowd through rows of blazing RVs, 
moving uphill toward Route 30. She frantically searched for 
Lady Dana as she ran. Bullets whistled overhead. People cried 
out. Dibeh felt the spray of hot blood. Two, three, four 
humans fell. The survivors ran faster. Dibeh was soon 
outdistanced, her shorter stride unable to keep pace with the 
others.

Helicopters had landed at strategic points around the camp, 
cutting off escape routes to the lake, the highlands, the 
paved road. Nih-hi-cho soldiers leapt out, rifles blasting. 

Near the end of her endurance and with no means of escape, 
Dibeh looked for a place to hide. The camp's garbage dump was 
not far, so she sprinted across a strip of open flatland that 
separated the camp from its piles of refuse. Swarms of flies 
fogged the air as she slogged through cans, bottles and rotted 
food, covering her mouth and nose against the stench of 
spoiled meat and disposable diapers. Two rusted oil drums lay 
half buried on their sides in the piles of trash. Brackish 
liquid pooled inside them. 

Dibeh was about to crawl into one when she heard the pounding 
of horses' hooves out on the open scrubland. Twenty rebel 
soldiers spurred steeds toward the Nih-hi-cho blockade on 
Route 30. Walter Skinner was leading them.

The rebels' counterattack proved as useless as a hybrid's 
prayers. The helicopter was armored; the Nih-hi-cho soldiers 
wore bulletproof helmets and flak jackets. The rebels fell, 
riddled by machinegun fire. Skinner's horse was shot out from 
under him. He continued to charge on foot, alone, firing at 
the enemy until his ammunition was spent. 

The Nih-hi-cho soldiers moved in and surrounded him. Dibeh 
watched, horrified, as they bludgeoned him, then dragged his 
limp, bleeding body onto the helicopter. 

"Fuckers!" a voice screamed from somewhere behind her. 

She turned to see Royal Jackson running toward Route 30, his 
fists raised at the retreating helicopter.

A stingercraft flew overhead, fired its cannons and cut a 
deep, charred furrow fifty meters long between Dibeh and 
Royal. The concussion knocked Royal to the ground. Face down, 
steam rose from the left sleeve of his camouflage jacket. 

A second blast tore through the garbage behind Dibeh, fusing 
glass and igniting metal. Scorching winds roared past her and 
she struggled to breathe. 

Help him, the wind seemed to scream.

Royal Jackson was trying to stand. 

The stingercraft circled overhead like a hungry buzzard.

Without hesitation, Dibeh sprinted through the trash to 
Royal's aid. 

"Don't touch me!" He flailed his good arm when she reached for 
him. 

You must get up, she signed, and tried to pull him to his feet.  

The stingercraft banked steeply, coming round to fire again. 
Time was short. Their only chance was to get out of sight and 
hope the gunner missed them. 

Ignoring Royal's protests, Dibeh hooked his uninjured arm 
around her neck and, using every ounce of strength she 
possessed, shouldered him to his feet.

By divine intervention or by sheer willpower, she managed to 
propel him to the oil drums, where she dropped him. He crawled 
into the closest one, squeezing himself inside until he was 
out of sight. The drum wouldn't protect him from another 
plasma blast, but, Red Dragon willing, the stingercraft pilot 
would lose sight of them. She shimmied into the second drum 
feet first and scooped an armful of garbage in after her to hide 
her from patrolling foot soldiers. 

The stingercraft roared overhead. The ground vibrated. 

I only wanted to go home, Dibeh explained to the Red Dragon. I 
prayed for Ca-Lo to find this place. To take me back to 
Tse'Bit'a'i'. But I never meant this to happen. Please make it 
stop. No more killing. Please. I am sorry I was so selfish.

Dibeh held her breath and waited for the next blast of cannon 
fire.  

*   *   *

TSE'BIT'A'I'
ASSESSMENT BAY 22

Ca-Lo sat stiffly upon a wheeled stool facing a computer 
terminal, as far from the assessment platform as the room 
allowed. Dana was pinned to the platform, nude, awaiting the 
amnio procedure. Dabbing blood from his cut lower lip, Ca-Lo 
kept his back to her while flipping through images in Mulder's 
file.

"Don't do this!" Dana begged. "Ca-Lo? Please!"

He glanced over his shoulder. A youthful medic named Bicker 
was preparing her for the procedure. Overhead lights cast a 
familiar pattern of dots and hash marks upon her bulging 
abdomen. She struggled against her restraints. Blood oozed 
from puncture wounds in her wrists and ankles. Ca-Lo's own 
limbs throbbed with remembered pain.

He hadn't wanted to restrain her, but she had fought him every 
step of the way, from shuttle to Salt Lake airport to 
Tse'Bit'a'i's unguarded entrance. She had kicked and scratched 
mercilessly as he hauled her into an elevator, then down the 
nearly deserted corridors to the Assessment Bays. Her struggle 
ceased only when he set her on her feet in front of Bay 22's 
hulking examination platform.

"Drug her," Ca-Lo ordered Bicker. 

"Sir, we don't usually--"

"Don't argue with me!"

Bicker pursed his lips and prepared a hypo with shaky hands. 

"Amniocentesis can be a dangerous procedure," Dana warned. She 
watched Bicker's needle with wide eyes. "If you haven't done 
this before--"

"He's doing the damned test!" Ca-Lo snapped. 

Bicker was a second year Appraiser's assistant. Training 
videos had provided his only knowledge of the in utero 
chromosomal profiling procedure. "There isn't much call for 
paternity testing aboard a Nih-hi-cho warship," Bicker had 
said earlier, defending his inexperience.

Unfortunately there was no one else available to do the test. 
Every Appraiser and Healer was at Harmony I, preparing for the 
Joining. Tse'Bit'a'i' was like a ghost ship. Human soldiers 
guarded the praying Nih-hi-cho, leaving only essential 
personnel aboard ship.

"His incompetence'll put our baby at risk." Dana's words 
slurred as she began to experience the effects of the 
anesthesia.  

"So it's *our* baby now, is it?" Ca-Lo spun on the stool to 
face her. "I thought you weren't certain."

"Doesn't matter. Innocen' child."

"It matters to me," he said through gritted teeth.

The bio-comp shook in Bicker's nervous hands as he scanned 
Dana's abdomen.  

"Twenty point three two centimeters. Four hundred fifty-two 
grams," he reported, describing the fetus. He set the bio-comp 
aside to apply a sloppy layer of rust-colored disinfectant to 
Dana's pale stomach.

Ca-Lo looked away when the amnio needle punctured her skin.

She cried out, despite the drugs.

"Don't hurt her," Ca-Lo warned. 

"I'm trying not to, sir. Removing 30 cc's now."

"And don't give me a fucking blow by blow." Ca-Lo focused his 
attention on Mulder's photo. 

On the screen, Mulder escorted a very pregnant Dana to his 
car, which was parked in front of her apartment building. He 
was carrying a pillow tucked under one arm.

Ca-Lo zoomed in on his face. Mulder was smiling. Focused only 
on her.  

Bicker soon announced his results. "Probability of paternity: 
99.9994 percent. Combined Paternity Index: 158251.22." 

"Meaning...?" Ca-Lo noticed his own hands were shaking and hid 
them in his lap. 

"It means you are the biological father of this woman's 
child."

Relief flooded Ca-Lo's veins. "Let me see," he demanded. 

Bicker brought him the portable Verifier. 

The display screen corroborated the Appraisers' earlier 
assessment. 

Bicker's attention flitted to the photo on Ca-Lo's computer 
monitor. "Is...is that you, sir?"

"No."

"The resemblance is remarkable."

"We're...related."

"It's uncanny. I've seen twins who looked less alike."

"We're not twins."

At least not according to his mother. Then again, she had lied 
about her own origins. She was not human. The stain of green 
Nih-hi-cho blood on his carpet proved that.

Yet Ca-Lo's blood was red. He had seen it uncountable times 
during assessments and experiments and punishments.

It begged the question: If he was not Cassandra Spender's son, 
who was he?  

The Verifier's readout screen glowed in Ca-Lo's hand. Thanks 
to Bicker's password, it held his genetic information -- 
unencrypted. 

"You may go," Ca-Lo said, hoping the medic would leave the 
Verifier behind. 

"What about her?" Bicker nodded at Dana, who was unconscious.

"I'll take care of her."  

Bicker looked uncertain, but obeyed without argument.

As soon as he was out of the room, Ca-Lo initiated a computer 
search for Mulder's medical records. 

"Red Dragon be praised."

The computer displayed a DNA test taken by the FBI at the time 
of Mulder's hire. 

A few keystrokes later, Ca-Lo had exported the file into the 
Verifier database, where he ran a comparison between his own 
DNA and Mulder's.

Seconds later the results appeared on his monitor: 

Microsatellite cross-comparison 
65398733663 [Fox William Mulder]
03999875288 [Subject NDP-12/Ashkii XII]
Strand repeat regions: 100%
Relationship: 
High probability [99%+/-] 
1) samples are from a single individual
2) samples are from identical twins
3) samples are from identical clones 
4) samples are from an original and a clone
Additional data available at NDP Archive ******* 

Ca-Lo blinked in disbelief. He tried to access the archive, 
but found the path blocked. He had never seen or heard of the 
acronym NDP and couldn't begin to guess its meaning.

One thing was clear, however: he was not Mulder's younger brother, 
not in the way Cassandra had described. Nor was it likely they 
were twins, conceived naturally, given the Overseers' penchant 
for experimentation and cloning. 

Best case scenario, Ca-Lo was the elder of the two, a real 
person with a real soul, and Fox Mulder was his clone.

Worst case? He refused to consider it.

Blood roared in his ears as he turned to Dana. He was 
surprised to find her awake, watching him. 

"Whose...baby?" she rasped. 

Fear etched her tired face. It mirrored the panic ballooning 
in his gut. 

Best case, worst case, it made no difference as far as the 
paternity of Dana's child was concerned. Mulder and Ca-Lo 
shared the exact same genetic code. There was no way to 
determine which of them was the baby's father.

BOOK VIII: MICHAEL AND HIS ANGELS (PART 1)

A mournful wind battered the hills of Rich County, Utah. It 
rattled farm fences and hissed through thickets of sage and 
bunch-grass, pushing a cloud of ruddy smoke into the valley. 
Horses grazed nervously on sloped scrubland. One wore a saddle 
with a military boot dangling from the stirrup. To the west, 
Bear Lake stained the basin like a purple-black bruise.

"Smells like Ruskin Dam the morning after..." A gritty, sour 
taste filled Mulder's mouth, much as it had the day he 
frantically searched for Scully's immolated corpse among the 
dozens of dead. His sinuses stung, his lungs burned; he 
coughed beneath his makeshift mask -- a T-shirt looped around 
the lower half of his face. Flanked by Gibson and Kenna, William 
riding one arm, he limped northward along an empty two-lane 
road. "Eau de burnt flesh." 

With a hint of something vinegary, a sharp, fermented odor he 
couldn't put a name to.

"Plasma fire," Gibson supplied, reading his mind. Dust 
filmed Gibson's glasses. A blue and once-white striped scarf 
protected his mouth and nose from the smoke. He carried a 
half-full jug of water. 

"Safe Camp?"

"I hope not."

"We must be getting close."

Gibson shrugged.

"Jesus, Gibson, toss me a bone, will you? Can you hear 
anything? Anything at all?" Mulder pressed.

"Not from the rebel camp."

"Great." 

Two nights earlier Gibson had dreamed of panicked screams and 
bomb blasts, followed by a deathly silence. Mulder believed it 
was a real event, an alien attack on Safe Camp, witnessed 
telepathically by Gibson in his sleep. Apprehensive about 
Scully's safety, Mulder had harangued him with questions, but 
Gibson, visibly shaken, insisted it was only a nightmare, then 
clammed up. He had remained stubbornly silent on the subject 
ever since. 

"Would it kill you to fill me in on what's happening?" 

"There's nothing to tell." 

"God damn it, Gibson!" 

William startled at Mulder's outburst. He had been nervous and 
clingy all morning. Tears striped his chapped, soot-covered 
cheeks. He leaned away from Mulder and extended mittened fists 
toward Kenna. "Mama!" 

"Fix his neckerchief," she ordered, the sharpness of her tone 
not blunted by the thick layers of her scarf.

Mulder drew the slipping bandana up over William's small nose, 
not for the first time. He pointed to his own mask. "Cops and 
robbers, remember son? We're incognito." 

"No 'nito." William yanked the bandana down. 

Kenna reached over and adjusted it again. "Keep it on, 
sweetie."

"Noooo!" William whined and arched his back.

"Be a good boy," Kenna said gently. "Do as mama says." 

Mulder bristled at her use of the word and was about to object 
when William flopped against his shoulder and stopped his 
fussing. Mulder decided to let it go. For now.

Kenna glared at him. "Cops and robbers?"

"It got him to wear the damned mask, didn't it?"

"For all of five minutes. And don't cuss, least not in front 
of him." She blinked against the acrid smoke. "Maybe I should 
carry him for a while."

"I've got him. He's fine," Mulder snapped, at the end of his 
patience. They had been walking for hours. His leg hurt like a 
son-of-a-bitch. And he was worried to the point of madness 
about Scully and the others at Safe Camp.

"No need to bite my head off," Kenna objected. "I'm just 
trying to help." 

You wanna help? Start your goddamn period, Mulder thought, 
then felt ashamed when Gibson shot him a rebuking sidelong 
glance.  

Gibson had warned him. He had said Kenna was emotionally 
vulnerable. Said she hadn't wanted to sleep with him, but 
believed it was the only way she would be able to keep 
William. 

Which made sex with her not entirely consensual. She may have 
initiated their encounter, but he had been looking for a 
physical release and took advantage of the situation. 

Their abbreviated joining could not be called "lovemaking," 
not by any stretch of imagination. It was a reckless act, on 
both their parts, and its brevity clearly surprised Kenna. 
Three quick thrusts and he spilled into her, stifling a groan 
against the scarred flesh of her neck. "Oh" was all she said. 
"We'll try again," he promised, thinking he should, believing 
she deserved a more suitable demonstration of appreciation for 
the use of her body. "Give me a few minutes." 

As it turned out, no amount of encouragement on her part, or 
his, had proven successful at reigniting his ardor. 

He didn't love her. He barely liked her. 

And yet he may have impregnated her.

Glancing her way, he felt a fresh surge of guilt. At half his 
age, she was still a teenager, for God's sake. 

If she turns out to be pregnant, I'll do the right thing, I 
won't abandon her or our child, he vowed silently, hoping 
Gibson was still listening and could hear the sincerity of his 
unspoken promise. 

Worry furrowed Gibson's brow and Mulder knew he had heard. But 
Gibson said nothing, leaving Mulder to wonder if his friend 
truly understood the extent of his regret. He *was* sorry, 
deeply, genuinely, for the anxiety and hurt he was causing 
Kenna, for his own selfishness and poor judgment, and most 
especially for the reckless way he had ignored the issue of 
birth control.

Jesus, by the end of next summer William could have a baby 
brother or sister.

William squirmed in his arms. "Down," he demanded.

"Sorry, son. We've got a way to go yet." 

Mulder bent to kiss his cheek, but William ducked away. 

"Down!"

"This air isn't good for him," Kenna complained.  

"Yucky," William said, referring not to the air, but pointing 
ahead to where dozens of missile strikes pocked the shore of 
Bear Lake, evidence of an unrelenting attack. At the center of 
this no man's land was a razed campground, the source of the 
red smoke. Charred docks and boats scabbed the shoreline, 
smoke wafted from smoldering RVs and automobiles. 

Mulder swallowed against the god-awful stench and scanned for 
survivors. "Safe Camp?" he managed to ask.

Gibson nodded.

"Is anyone alive?"

"I don't think so." Gibson's pronouncement was so solemn, so 
definitive, it sent a jolt of panic jittering down Mulder's 
spine. 

Scavenging birds, the only signs of life, circled in the red 
sky above the camp. 

Mulder embraced William more tightly. "No one?"

Gibson gave an apologetic shrug.

Mulder was not willing to surrender hope. Scully had to be 
there. Alive. They'd come all this way. He'd brought William. 
It couldn't end like this.  

Unloading William into Kenna's arms, he said, "Take him. I'm 
going to find her." Without waiting for a response, he bolted 
for the campground. 

His gait was lopsided. Each off-kilter stride sent a stab of 
pain through his injured leg. He cursed his clumsiness and 
pushed himself harder, spurred by the alarming number of 
corpses in his path.

Body parts with torn and roasted flesh littered the road. 
Blackened skeletons dotted the scrubland, their ebony ribs 
protruding from the sandy soil like scorched fingers. Mulder 
dodged a mound of tangled legs and arms. Caught sight of a 
youngster's gaping mouth and empty eye sockets. Bile climbed 
to his throat. A small, toy fire engine lay on its side beside 
the child's dismembered hand.

"Scully!" His voice boomeranged through the camp. "Scully!"

The shell of a large, low-slung building loomed ahead, its 
windows blown out, roof gone, walls collapsed, entire sections 
missing between bent wall studs. Buzzards descended in droves 
upon its exposed innards. Mulder entered through an eight-foot 
hole in the wall . Ponds of congealed blood glistened on the 
cracked tile floor. Torn mattresses and bed sheets, speckled 
with gore, clotted the room's far corners. Unbelievably, an 
IV rack remained upright and unscathed at the center of what 
must have once been the camp's infirmary.

Beneath a flattened cot, Mulder glimpsed a shock of red hair.

It was Ruskin Dam all over again. 

"Scully?" Her name rasped past tightened vocal chords.

Broken glass crunched beneath his boots as he lurched toward the 
bed. Heaving it aside, he knelt next to the lifeless body -- a 
petite woman, face cemented to the floor by her own dried 
blood.      

He patted her hair and was surprised by its softness. Staring 
at her small pale hands, he tried to remember the exact length 
and shape of Scully's delicate fingers -- fingers that were as 
adept at bringing him pleasure as they were at dissecting 
corpses.

Please don't let it be her, he begged.

He tried to roll the body onto its side, but the head remained 
fused to the floor. Knotting his fingers into her beautiful, 
red hair, he yanked hard and wrenched her free, exposing her 
face.

It wasn't Scully.

Thank God.

Tears burned his eyes. He swallowed a hitching sob and combed 
the dead woman's hair carefully away from her face with shaky 
fingers.

She was somebody's loved one. A sister or wife. Perhaps a 
mother. 

Lifting his gaze to the crimson sky, he let his tears fall. 
"Scully...please. I brought William. I told you I would. I 
told you. Your son needs you. *I* need you!" 

Warm fingers gripped his quaking shoulders and for an insane 
instant he thought it was Scully. But misery drove out his sense 
of relief when he turned to find Gibson standing over him. 

"I hear someone," he said.

"Sc-scully?"

"No, but someone who knows her."

"Where?" Mulder rose on unsteady legs.

Gibson pointed skyward, targeting a pinwheel of vultures above 
the western edge of the camp. "There."

The word launched Mulder into a stumbling run. 

Hard, open desert separated the infirmary from the vultures. 
The ground was crisscrossed with scorch marks, evidence of 
laser blasts hot enough to melt sand to glass. Mulder jumped 
the shallow troughs and prayed he wouldn't twist an ankle. Over 
the sound of his own ragged breathing he could hear Gibson 
trying to keep pace.

At the camp's refuse area, he waded without pause through 
piles of garbage. Plastic and paper fluttered around him like 
the ruffled feathers of the scattering buzzards. One vulture 
lit upon a fallen oil drum. It paced there, claws tapping 
against metal, head tilted, listening to the rustle of wind.

The barrel was large...large enough to hold a person. 

Mulder scooped trash from its opening. Inside, he discovered 
a child hugging herself against the cold, face buried against 
drawn up knees. She was shivering; she was alive. 

"It's okay," he soothed, reaching for her. "We're here to 
help."

She shook her head and refused to look up at him. Her hair was 
matted. Her delicate arms were smudged with filth and bruises. 
She wore only a thin, dirty nightgown. 

She must be freezing, he thought as he grasped her upper arms 
and gave an encouraging pull. "It's okay, sweetheart, come 
out. I won't hurt you."

"Careful, Mulder," Gibson warned, standing beside him, 
breathing hard. "She isn't human."

"Isn't--?"

The child lifted her gaze. Her skin was grayish-green, her 
eyes wide and inky black. 

She was one of Them. She was alien. 

*   *   *

TSE'BIT'A'I'
COMMAND DECK

Exasperated by the inconclusive results of the paternity test, 
Ca-Lo locked Dana in his quarters, put a hybrid aide in charge 
of her care, and avoided them both while he pretended to run 
the ship from his Standby Room on the Bridge. This smokescreen 
of routine duty hid the fact that he was actually trying to 
access the mysterious NDP Archive. It also allowed him time to 
think and sort out his feelings. 

He loved Dana. Of that he was certain. But what of her unborn 
child? 

It was possible the little girl was his own flesh and blood, 
the daughter he had been hoping to raise. He swallowed past a 
lump in his throat and imagined holding her, tucking her into 
bed at night, watching her sleep and play and grow. He could 
almost feel her soft breath against his cheek as she 
whispered, "I love you, Daddy." 

I love you. No one had ever said those words to him. Not once 
in four decades had he received one solitary declaration of 
affection. 

And it was unlikely he would ever hear the words, if Dana's 
child turned out to be Mulder's and not his own. 

The idea of raising his brother's daughter brought a bitter 
taste to the back of his tongue. Every moment spent with the 
girl, every embrace, every kiss would be tainted by his doubts 
about her conception. Her presence would be a constant, 
heartbreaking reminder of Dana's last act of intimacy with Fox 
Mulder. 

The question of paternity would haunt her, too, Ca-Lo was 
certain. Without definitive proof, she would be left 
wondering, clinging to her damnable memories, never able to 
move forward and forge a new life with him. 

This baby was threatening their happy future. Perhaps it would 
be best to get rid of it, start again with a new baby, one he 
could be certain was his own.

For the price of a few Bliss Boys, Healer 27 might be 
persuaded to make Dana's body reabsorb the fetus. The 
procedure would be physically painless. Probably. And quick, 
Ca-Lo hoped. Dana would eventually get over the emotional 
loss, especially if she had William to assuage her grief. 

But could he bring himself to order such a monstrous thing? 

Not without genetic proof the girl was Mulder's and not his. 

Ca-Lo hoped the NDP Archive would shed light on his own 
conception and birth and thereby prove paternity of Dana's 
child. Unfortunately he had exhausted every access code and 
backdoor imaginable in his attempt to penetrate the encrypted 
database. 

Stymied, he decided to leave it for an hour or two and 
concentrate on another pressing matter: the whereabouts of 
Major Harris and little William. Time was running short; the 
Joining would end soon and the Nih-hi-cho would be returning 
to their ships. Ca-Lo needed William in his mother's grateful 
arms before the Overseers came back to Tse'Bit'a'i' and took 
the boy for themselves, ruining any chance of wedded bliss for 
him and Dana. 

His loathing for the Nih-hi-cho had never been greater. 
Looking down at his immaculate military uniform and spit-
polished boots, he was reminded again of his duty to the 
Armada and the Society. His short time at the rebels' Safe 
Camp had reinforced his desire to leave the aliens, live as a 
free man, with Dana at his side, loving him.

But it was useless to entertain such fantasies. He would never 
escape his masters. 

While he had been gone, the Armada's remaining warships had 
arrived at Salt Lake City. Every Nih-hi-cho in the sector was 
now at Harmony I, celebrating the introduction of the 
Juveniles into the Society. In a year's time their numbers 
would expand a hundredfold as breeding compounds around the 
world churned out one generation after the next. Aliens would 
rule the planet and humans would be their slaves. Including 
Ca-Lo. With the war over, they would no longer need his 
strategic skills. He would be relegated to a factory assembly 
line or, worse, serve as a host for an alien fetus. 

All the more reason to try to take what he wanted now.

He was determined to have Dana. Her vows and her heart. And he 
would secure her devotion by giving her what she desired most: 
her son.

He imagined their happy reunion. And Dana's gratitude. 

Licking his lips in anticipation of her appreciative kisses, 
he considered returning to his quarters. Taking her to his bed. 
Making love to her. 

But he would not force her. He had promised himself he would 
never again resort to coercion or mindbending tricks. Doing so 
would make him no better than the Nih-hi-cho. He wanted Dana 
to accept him willingly, love him honestly, the way she had 
loved Mulder. Even if it took William to earn that devotion.   

Ca-Lo turned his attention to the ship's logs. A quick check 
showed Harris had not returned from Wyoming, nor had he called 
in with a progress report. Angered by the Major's dawdling, 
Ca-Lo tried to raise him via radio. When he didn't answer, Ca-
Lo contacted the hangar deck and dispatched a young airman named 
Ingraham to look for Harris at his last known coordinates. 

Ca-Lo had no sooner ended his call when the com-link buzzed.

He punched the switch and snapped, "You better be on your 
way, Ingraham."

"Uh...it's Warden Wolcott, sir. You asked to be notified when 
Security moved the rebel commander to a stasis cell." 

"Yes, fine, consider me notif--" Ca-Lo paused. If Ingraham 
failed to bring back William, Ca-Lo would need an acceptable 
substitute to guarantee Dana's cooperation. Walter Skinner, 
Dana's dear friend, might just be that substitute. "I'll be 
right down. Wait for me."

"Sir?"

"I'm going to personally oversee the commander's interment."

"Yes, sir."

Five minutes later, Ca-Lo arrived in the Portal of Solitude 
to find Skinner stripped of his uniform and glasses, kneeling 
naked on the chamber's hard amber floor, hands bound tightly 
behind his back by silicon wristbands. Four human soldiers, 
including Wolcott, stood guard while a hybrid swabbed the 
cell's fleshy inner walls with protein ointment, untangled 
bio-tubes, and filled the feeding umbilicus with na-a-jah.

Skinner's limbs and torso were badly bruised. His face and 
hands were blistered and peeling from exposure to plasma fire, 
his blackened eyes swollen nearly shut. 

According to his captors he had put up an exceptional fight. 
His knuckles were scraped raw from the blows he had dealt. A 
lieutenant and an airman were dead, their windpipes crushed. 
Ca-Lo admired Skinner's determination and valor in the face of 
impossible odds.  

Even in his current position, injured, shackled, and 
surrounded by armed guards, Skinner appeared undaunted, his 
fiery spirit unbroken. "My army's not finished with you, Ca-
Lo," he said, lips curled in disgust. "They'll kick your 
alien-loving ass back to wherever the hell you came from."

"Victory to the virtuous, is that it, Commander Skinner?"

"You're fighting the wrong side. You're going to lose."

"No. I've already won." Ca-Lo squatted to stare directly into 
Skinner's bruised eyes. "And I owe you a debt of gratitude, 
Commander." 

"For what?"

"For helping me gain Dana's trust."

"Where is she?" Skinner snarled. "What've you done with her?" 

"She's safe, sleeping peacefully...in my bed."

"You son of a bitch." Skinner lunged for Ca-Lo.

Wolcott immediately intervened, bludgeoning Skinner with the 
butt of his rifle. A well-placed blow to the back of the skull 
toppled Skinner and he writhed in obvious agony. Jaw clenched, 
he growled, "You hurt her, Ca-Lo, I swear I'll kill you."

"You're in no position to threaten me." To the guards he said, 
"Put him in the cell."

Skinner struggled as the guards wrestled him into the prepped 
chamber. Its membranous walls gripped his lower body the way a 
stomach holds an undigested meal and he cried out when the 
hybrid jabbed a bio-monitor into his spine. His yelp echoed 
off the caldarium's high, domed ceiling, lasting several 
seconds after his thrashing ceased.     

"Rest assured, Commander Skinner," Ca-Lo said, standing at the 
lip of the cell, "my intentions toward Dana are completely 
honorable."

"Nothing...honorable...about you," Skinner grunted. 

"Ah, but you misjudge me." Ca-Lo leaned over the aperture, 
hands braced on knees. "I'm going to make Dana my lawfully 
wedded wife."

With effort, Skinner twisted to stare up at Ca-Lo. Rage burned 
in his bloodshot eyes. "She'll never agree."

"See, that's where you're wrong. She'll agree if she thinks 
doing so will get her son back...or save your life."

"You goddamned bastard."

"So I've been told. Seal him in," he ordered the guards. "He's 
to have no contact with anyone without my authorization."

The hybrid grunted for his attention. "What about his meals?" 
she signed.

"I will see to his feeding personally. Just get him ready."

Ca-Lo turned on his heel and strode from the caldarium, not 
interested in watching the hybrid force the umbilicus down 
Skinner's throat. 

*   *   *

Dibeh's unlikely savior released his grip on her upper arms, 
leaving her to crouch at his feet, grateful he was not a 
soldier come to kill her.

He looked like Mulder, but Dibeh hoped with all her heart he 
was Master Ca-Lo, come to take her home to Tse'Bit'a'i'. The 
possibility of seeing her friend Ulso and the other servants 
filled her with hope. She smiled in gratitude and signed, 
"Master Ca-Lo, I am so very happy you have arrived."

Beside him stood a smaller human with hair the color of boiled 
tlo-chin. He wore glasses that made his eyes appear oversized 
for a human. A thin, nervous-looking woman with flowing dark 
hair watched them from the edge of the refuse area. She held a 
young human in her arms.

The man she hoped was Ca-Lo wiped his palms on his pants as if 
to remove something distasteful. "It looks like a hybrid," he 
said to his goggle-eyed companion.

She signed again. "It's me -- Dibeh. Do you not recognize me?"
Her heart sank when he looked to the Goggle-Eyed One as if for 
help. Clearly he did not understand her signals, which could 
only mean he was not Ca-Lo, but his brother Mulder.

"Her name is Dibeh," the Goggle-Eyed One stated. He was either 
interpreting her hand signals or was a telepath like the 
Purebloods. "She thinks she knows you."

"Me?" Mulder knelt in front of her, putting them at eye level. 
"Have we met?"

Dibeh's fingers flew through the air. "What do you mean, have 
we met?" she demanded. "You know who I am! What have you done 
with my mistress?"

"Your mistress?" the Goggle-Eyed One asked.

"My Mistress is Lady Dana Scully," she signed. "Ask your 
friend. He knows."

"What is she saying?" growled Mulder. "Does she know where 
Scully is or not?"

The Goggle-Eyed One regarded her for a long moment, his 
expression unreadable. Finally he said, "She thinks you took 
her."

So he was a mind-reader! Maybe a shapeshifting Refuter, 
disguised as a human!

"I'm not a shapeshifter," he said, confirming her suspicions 
about his telepathic abilities. "I'm human, although I can 
hear your thoughts. And my name is Gibson, not the Goggle-Eyed 
One."

"Apologies, sir, I meant no offense," she signed.

"Tell us what happened," he urged.

Dibeh didn't trust him or this Mulder person, but she did as 
she was told and relayed her tale, signing out of habit, if 
not need.

Gibson translated her thoughts: "I awoke to the sound of 
approaching helicopters. There were several explosions. And 
gunfire. I ran to help Lady Dana--"

"'Lady' Dana?" Mulder interrupted.

"I am her servant, her personal aide. You already know this. 
You were with us."

His eyes flashed with impatience, yet he kept his tone gentle, 
his words unhurried. "That wasn't me. The man who took 
Scu...your mistress, he was an imposter. We have reason to 
believe he wants to harm her."

An imposter? Could the man have been a shapeshifter, neither 
Ca-Lo nor Mulder? Overwhelmed by this possibility, Dibeh began 
to sign urgently. Again Gibson translated. "The man who 
claimed to be Mulder took her from her bed. They were gone 
when I woke and went to her room."

"Where did he take her?"

"I don't know. Bombs were exploding. The camp was on fire. 
People were running in all directions, trying to save 
themselves. I saw Lady Dana's friend captured and beaten by 
soldiers."

"Her friend?"

"Skinner. Walter Skinner."

Mulder and Gibson exchanged worried glances.

"Did they kill him?" Mulder asked.

"I don't know. They took him on their flying ship."

Skinner's battle with the Nih-hi-cho soldiers reminded Dibeh 
of the dark-skinned man in the other barrel. She offered a 
quick apology for her forwardness and, without waiting for 
permission, rose on shaky legs and hurried to the drum. 
Shifting an armload of garbage from its opening, she uncovered 
Royal Jackson, who was curled in a ball, lying in a sticky 
pool of his own blood.
Dibeh pointed and signaled, "This is a friend of Commander 
Skinner's. He was injured in the attack. I hid him here."

Mulder and Gibson carefully hauled Royal from the barrel. 
Flies buzzed around their heads, disturbed from feasting upon 
the unconscious man's injured arm. His left sleeve was singed 
black and his tattooed forearm was swollen and oozing blood. 

"Let's get him someplace a little less fragrant," Mulder 
suggested, waving off the flies and gripping Royal beneath his 
arms. Gibson grabbed his legs. Together they carried him away 
from the stinking garbage. The thin woman with the baby joined 
them at the edge of the refuse area. She glared at Dibeh, 
hatred blazing in her eyes. 

Cringing, Dibeh wondered what was to become of them all.

*   *   *

TSE'BIT'A'I
HANGAR DECK

Ca-Lo boarded his personal runabout and keyed the coordinates 
of Antelope Island into the navigation system. The engine 
hummed to life. The ship eased out of the hangar and took to 
the air. 

Among the thousands of prisoners warehoused on the island 
there was bound to be a preacher or a priest who could be 
persuaded to perform a traditional terrestrial wedding 
ceremony. For Dana's sake, of course. Ca-Lo didn't believe in 
her God or the Nih-hi-cho's Red Dragon, but he knew from 
Mulder's dossier that Dana was a woman of faith, raised to 
trust the teachings of her religion. Until fairly recently she 
had attended church services, albeit sporadically. 
Surveillance tapes showed her praying at home, too, and at her 
sister's grave. Once in the morgue at Quantico. Clearly she 
would appreciate a man of her God sanctifying their marriage. 

She might also need the priest's consolation, in the event her 
baby was not allowed to survive.     

As the runabout crossed Farmington Bay, Ca-Lo radioed Airman 
Ingraham for an update on Harris.

"I've located his shuttle, sir," Ingraham reported. "Cloaked 
and fully functional."

"Where?"

"Fifteen meters from a former residential structure. The house 
is gone, sir, burned to the ground. Nothing left but the 
foundation."

"Have you conducted a bio-scan?"

"Yes, sir. It revealed trace amounts of Nih-hi-cho blood in 
the wreckage. A cross-comparison verified the blood belonged 
to Harris." 

Under other circumstances Ca-Lo would have been delighted to 
learn the old Watcher was dead. But now he was left without 
answers to William's whereabouts. And he had to assume Fox 
Mulder was still alive, too. 

"Did you find any human blood?"

"No, sir." 

"Then widen your search, Lieutenant."

"But, sir, Major Harris is dead. Who am I supposed to be 
looking for?"

"His killer." Ca-Lo jabbed the controls and ended the 
transmission.

Below the runabout, Antelope Island protruded from Great Salt 
Lake like the bleached back of a drowned giant. Three 
windowless, cinderblock dormitories, twenty stories high, 
crowded the southeastern shore. A landing pad large enough to 
accommodate a 200-passenger transport glowed atop the central 
building's roof. 

Ca-Lo maneuvered his small ship onto the pad. A contingent of 
armed guards bustled from the rooftop elevator to greet him as 
he deplaned.

"We weren't expecting you, sir," said a jittery private with 
unshaved jowls and rotted front teeth.

Ca-Lo offered no apology or explanation for his unannounced 
errand. "Show me your prisoner roster, Private." He strode 
toward the elevator. "The rest of you wait for the next ride 
down."

"Looking for someone in particular?" The private hurried to 
keep pace. "Munitions expert? Mercenary? Spy? Name your 
pleasure, sir."

"I'm interested in a peacemaker today." Ca-Lo stepped into the 
car. An odor of piss and sweat assailed his nostrils.

The private entered behind him, seemingly unaware of the 
stench. "I think we have a few mediators, sir. Ex-diplomats."

"I want a priest, not a politician."

The soldier eyed him uneasily. "If you don't mind my asking, 
sir, why a priest?"

"Who better to make a deal with the Devil?" Ca-Lo punched the 
down button.

*   *   *

SAFE CAMP

"Kill it!" Kenna insisted. William hunched in her arms and 
sucked hard on his thumb. "It's one of them! A-a locust-
monster!"

"She's not a threat." Gibson's breath came in gasping puffs as 
he tried to keep pace with Mulder. Stumbling through debris 
and around corpses, Gibson felt as if Royal's dead weight was 
going to tear his arms from their sockets.

Dibeh hurried ahead, leading the way back to the infirmary.

"Careful." Mulder maneuvered along a cracked concrete patio. 

They bypassed the flattened front doors and entered the 
roofless structure through a missing section of wall, then 
struggled around overturned chairs and scattered office 
supplies. Gibson accidentally kicked an abandoned coffee mug. 
It skidded and rattled, spun to a stop beside the red-headed 
woman's corpse, Scully's dead-ringer twin. The bloodied woman 
appeared surprised, her wide, blue-eyed stare seemingly fixed 
on the teetering mug.  

Dibeh scurried to the rear of the building where the twisted 
frames of fold-out cots lay in tangled heaps. Her thoughts 
bombarded Gibson. She was terrified, yet at the same time, she 
was oddly resigned to her circumstances. Almost eager to 
please him and Mulder. In her racing thoughts, she referred to 
them as her "new masters." 

Gibson cringed at the unlikely title. 

Complacency he could understand; his life had been controlled 
by outside forces for years and sometimes the only way to 
survive was to submit to the will of others. But submission 
was not equivalent to servitude. No matter what atrocities had 
been perpetrated upon him, he had never kowtowed to those who 
directed his fate. He may have been powerless to stop the 
things they did, but he had not considered them superior or 
right.   

"Kenna, we could use your help," Mulder shouted, head 
swiveling as he searched for a place to lay down the injured man.

Kenna stood her ground outside the building. "I'm not coming 
in there. Not with that...that *thing*." She pointed a shaky 
finger through the Swiss cheese wall at Dibeh. 

"She won't hurt you," Gibson assured, hoping to silence 
Kenna's fears, which were blaring like sirens in his head. He 
longed to shut out her nightmarish imaginings and god-awful 
memories. Artie van de Kamp's mutilated body. Her husband's 
severed arm. William, squalling in his crib, surrounded by 
five aliens -- human-sized insect-beings with razor sharp 
teeth, glossy scales and a ravenous hunger for human flesh. 

"They killed Joanne and Artie." Kenna gripped William so hard 
it brought tears to the boy's startled eyes. "They killed 
Rick!"

"She's not one of them," Gibson explained.
       
Mulder's injured leg was quaking. He was on the verge of 
dropping Royal. The floor glittered with shards of glass and 
fragments of razor-sharp metal. Split trusses, shattered 
cement and broken sheetrock cluttered the room. "This man 
needs help, Kenna. Get in here."

She began to pace. "I won't put William in danger." 

"The hybrid isn't dangerous," Gibson insisted. 

A metallic screech nearly drowned him out when Dibeh shoved a 
bent aluminum cot out of her way to uncover a tattered 
mattress. She grabbed its corners and dragged it to a semi-
clear spot. 

"Thank you," Mulder grunted as he and Gibson carefully laid 
down their burden. 

Royal moaned, coming to, adding another internal voice to the 
din in Gibson's brain. He was shivering, so Dibeh located a 
blood-spattered blanket and carefully covered him with it. 

"You didn't see what I saw," Kenna was muttering. She jiggled 
William as if he were the one in need of consoling. "You don't 
know what they do. Killers. They're all killers. They tear 
people to shreds. They eat babies."

"Stop it, Kenna. You're scaring William," Gibson warned, 
hearing the child's unease balloon. 

"Hell, she's scaring me," Mulder admitted. He squatted beside 
Royal. "You awake, soldier?"

"Y-yeah. Jesus fucking Christ...my arm hurts."

"You've been burned."

"P-plasma fire."

"He needs water," Gibson said, zeroing in on the man's 
unspoken plea for a drink.

"Kenna," Mulder called to her, "where's the water jug?"

"Back on the road where Gibson left it."

"Go get it."

"I'm not going back there by myself. Not with locust-monsters 
around."

"There are no monsters. Get the damned jug."

"No way. I'm not going."

Dibeh tapped Gibson's shoulder and signaled, "I'll go."

At his nod, she ran from the building.

Royal rocked on the mattress, pain flaring in his arm. Panic 
flooded his thoughts and, in turn, Gibson's. "Am I going to 
die?"

"No," Mulder assured him. "A little food, water, a couple of 
days rest and you'll be fine."

"Can't rest. Gotta go. Gotta help 'em."

"Help who, son?" 

Gibson already knew, the name reaching him like a scream. 
"Skinner," he said.

"They'll torture him to find out what he knows." Royal 
squeezed his eyes shut as he rode out a wave of searing pain. 
"They'll kill him for the things he's done."

Mulder looked to Gibson and silently implored him to deny the 
possibility.

Gibson pushed the limits of his telepathy through forests and 
over mountains to search for Skinner. Instead he discovered 
Scully, arguing with a hybrid servant. 

"She's alive. Scully's alive!"

Shocked surprise from Mulder. Mounting hope. Relief. "Where?"

"Held prisoner aboard the aliens' ship. Inside the stronghold 
at Salt Lake City."

Mulder's relief receded, displaced again by dread. "She okay?"

"Seems to be."

"And Skinner?"

"I can't hear him."

"Does that mean he's...?" 

"I don't know."

"Could he be unconscious?"

"Or somewhere that obstructs telepathic signals."

"Does such a place exist?"

If it did, Gibson wanted to be there -- a haven where he could 
block out the overwhelming clamor in his head. The last few 
months had taken their toll. The voices had always been 
distracting, but lately they had grown horrific, a pandemonium 
of unrelenting misery.      

Royal struggled to rise from the mattress. "Gotta find 
Commander Skinner." 

"You're in no shape to travel," Mulder said.

"Can't stay." 

"You need rest."

"No, no time." Pain knocked Royal flat.

"Sorry, son. You're sitting this one out."

"Then *you* go. You find him. Save him."

The challenge set Mulder's emotions swirling. He glanced at 
Kenna and William. "I...I can't." 

"Then the Commander's a dead man. Doc Scully's dead, too." 

Mulder rose unsteadily and limped across the room, away from 
Gibson, away from Kenna, eyes panning the rubble as if he 
might find a solution to their dilemma among the ash-covered 
cots, the blood-stained bedding, the bodies and spilled pills 
and knotted IVs. He dead-ended at the infirmary's cracked back 
wall, where he shifted restlessly on the balls of his feet, 
confused, afraid. Gibson could hear indecision roaring through 
his mind like a thunderstorm. William needed protection. Yet 
Skinner and Scully were in danger. The threat was real. Mulder 
had been aboard an alien ship, held prisoner. He knew the 
terror, the agony of drills and lasers and scalpels.

Mulder began to hyperventilate and Gibson feared the onset of 
a flashback. He didn't want to experience that torture through 
Mulder again. He had already heard it more times than he could 
bear. It was why he had avoided divulging the details of his 
"nightmare" two nights ago. Mulder was hanging onto sanity by 
his fingertips, had been for months. Gibson feared pushing him 
over the edge.

In retrospect, it might've been wiser to tell him the truth, 
prepare him.       

Gibson went to him and touched his arm, momentarily clearing 
the images of aliens from both their minds. "Scully's alive." 

"But for how long?" Mulder's eyes glittered with desperation. 
"It could take a week or more to hike to Salt Lake City."

"Are you saying we should do nothing? Stay here and let Scully 
and Skinner die? Can you live with that decision?"

"I can't abandon my son. And I certainly can't take him into 
an alien stronghold." 

"He can stay here with Kenna and Royal."

Mulder shook his head, annoyed. "Suppose another shapeshifter 
comes after him. Or we die in Salt Lake City." 

Now Gibson's ire soared. "Stay or go, we'll die eventually. 
The question we need to ask is: how do we want to live the 
time that's left to us?" Gibson refused to let fear steer his 
destiny. Not anymore. He was no longer a powerless child. His 
days of complacency and submission were over. It was time to 
take action, be courageous. "I won't stand by while my friends 
suffer, Mulder, not when there's a chance I can help them." 

"And if you die trying, at least you go down fighting, is that 
it?" 

Gibson could hear Mulder recalling similar words, spoken to 
Krycek's ghost as they raced to save him from aliens at 
Kits'iil.

"You believed that once, Mulder. Why not now?"

"I have different responsibilities."

"Maybe, but what will you tell William a few years from now 
when he asks what happened to his mother?"

"That's not fair."

"Will you tell him the truth?"

"Stop it."

"That you could've done something to save her, but didn't?"

"I said stop."

"You let her die because it was safer to stay here with your 
new little family--"

"Stop it!" Mulder's fists clenched. Gibson could hear him 
wanting to strike out.   

Rather than move out of range, Gibson stepped closer, 
narrowing the gap between them. He needed to get through to 
Mulder, even if it meant risking a flashback. "I know what the 
aliens did to you. I know you've been through hell. But if you 
quit now--"

"They win." More familiar words. Mulder's head wagged as if to 
shake off the memory. His thoughts floundered. He loved 
Scully. He wanted to save her. But he could not desert their 
child. 

The way she had. 

"You're wrong about her," Gibson said.

"Am I? You have some insight I don't?"

"Yes."

"Then tell me! You have the advantage, Gibson. I can't read 
your mind. Say what you're thinking."

Gibson met his angry stare. "She loves William." 

"She gave him away. That's a fact. You can't deny it."

"She put him up for adoption."

"Same thing."

"No it isn't."

"If she loved him she would've done whatever it took to 
protect him."

"That's exactly what she did do." Gibson squared his 
shoulders, hardened his voice and faced off with his old 
friend. "Mulder, you can't seriously believe she wanted to 
give up her child. It was a selfless act. She did it for his 
sake. She did it for yours, too. Your safety outweighed her 
suffering."

Mulder shook his head, disbelieving. "She wasn't suffering. 
She sent him away with no more consideration than you'd give 
an old sweater you dump off at the local thrift shop."

"That's not true." The aliens had done a hell of a number on 
Mulder to screw up his thinking this badly. "Giving him up 
hurt her more than you'll ever know."

"I don't believe it."

"Her grief was genuine. I heard it."

Doubt narrowed Mulder's eyes. "When?"

"When you were at Mount Weather. And earlier. When you were 
with me in Arizona." 

"In Ariz...? That was a goddamned year ago, Gibson! Why didn't 
you tell me then?"

"You'd been through hell. You weren't ready to hear about what 
was happening to Scully, to William."

"You decided what I should or shouldn't know?"

"It was too much."

"The truth is all I've ever wanted, Gibson. Especially from my 
friends." 

Mulder felt cheated. His expectations had always been 
impossibly high and since his abduction and incarceration he 
had grown more paranoid than ever.

To reach him, Gibson decided to change tactics. He relaxed his 
stance. Lowered his voice. "I'm telling you the truth now. Are 
you listening?" 

Mulder studied Gibson's face and considered his words. 

"Why didn't she call me back?" he finally asked. "I could've 
helped. I would've protected them both."

"You saw Jeffery Spender at your trial, what they did to him. 
She didn't want that for you. She didn't want it for William 
either."

"I'm not Jeffrey. I could've...I..." Mulder looked across the 
room at William.  

"You know what these men are capable of," Gibson reminded him. 
"They stop at nothing." 

"We could've gone into hiding."

"Where?"

"They didn't find me in Arizona."

This was Gibson's opening at last, a checkmate, if he played 
his moves right. "Because you don't have a microchip implanted 
in your neck that could lead them right to you."

The reality of Scully's unique dilemma hit Mulder like a punch 
to the gut. She carried a homing device inside her body. It 
was how the supersoldiers had found her in Georgia. It was how 
they would always find her, no matter where she tried to run. 
That damn chip was a beacon and as long she had it they could 
find her, and through her find William. The chip was why she 
sent William away, Mulder realized. To save him.

It was why she sent Mulder away, too.

"Get it now?" Gibson asked, already knowing the answer. "She 
didn't call you out of hiding because you would have come to 
her. And through her, they would've found you."

Sagging against the broken wall, Mulder's fury waned as he let 
go of his bitterness. An uneasy breath sifted from his lungs. 
"I should have realized, figured it out."

"You had other things on your mind."

"Then I should at least have given her the benefit of the 
doubt. Trusted her. It's what she would have done for me."

He turned from Gibson and limped toward Kenna and William. At 
his approach, William pulled his thumb from his mouth and 
extended his arm. "Dada."

Mulder stepped out through a gaping hole in the broken wall 
and took hold of his son's hand. He gently squeezed the boy's 
small, wet fingers. Concerns for William, Scully and Skinner 
loomed large in his mind, and therefore in Gibson's. Duty 
tugged Mulder in multiple directions. He felt equally 
responsible for the safe rescue of his friends and for the 
well-being of this small child.   

"I need to leave for a few days," he said, trying out the 
words. 

Kenna took a step back, breaking his contact with his son. 
"You can't go! It's not safe!" Tears sprang to her eyes. 
"William needs you."

Mulder's doubts returned, crashing through Gibson's mind.

"You've been taking care of William since last May, Kenna." 
Gibson crossed the debris-strewn room to join them outside. 
"You've fed him, kept him warm, saved him from aliens." 

Gibson hoped this truth would give Mulder the permission he 
needed to do what his heart was urging him to do: rescue his 
friends.

"God helped me," she said, "but He isn't here. Look around. 
Would He let this happen?"

Mulder took in the devastation. Uncertainty threatened to 
undermine his tenuous resolve. 

"I can keep track of things here, telepathically," Gibson 
assured them. "We'll turn around and come back at the first 
sign of trouble."

"That could be too late!" Kenna argued. 

"I'll know of any impending problems long before you will." 

"And what if you get captured?"

It was a valid question.

Mulder looked to Gibson. "I don't doubt your extrasensory 
perception, but you can't presage the future. The stronghold 
and the ship are likely to be heavily guarded. There's no 
guarantee we'll get in."

"Or out," Kenna said.

"Take me," Dibeh signaled, having returned with the water. "I 
know Tse'Bit'a'i'. I can find Lady Dana. I can find Skinner, 
too."

"What is she saying?" Mulder asked.

"She wants to help," Gibson said. 

"You trust her?"

Gibson nodded, hearing Dibeh's intense homesickness. Even though 
her motives weren't the same as theirs, her desire to return 
to Salt Lake City was honest and heartfelt.

Mulder's mind began to churn with possible strategies. For the 
first time in months he was thinking like his old self. 
Gibson's relief was profound. He had missed his friend. 

"I could pose as this Ca-Lo guy," Mulder suggested.

"And I could be your 'prisoner,'" Gibson said. 

"They'd practically roll out a red carpet to get their hands 
on you." Mulder turned to Dibeh. "You could play the part of 
my aide." 

"Stop it! Stop talking like this!" Kenna demanded. "It's 
ridiculous. You're all crazy."

"Too bad we left the motorcycle in Wyoming," Mulder said, 
ignoring her.

"Lady Dana and I rode awful beasts. The trip took two days," 
Dibeh signaled with shaky hands. 

"Horses?" Gibson asked.

"We passed horses about a half mile from here," Mulder said, 
picking up on their exchange. 

"You're never coming back," Kenna predicted dismally.

"Nothing will stop me from trying." Mulder reached out and 
caressed William's plump cheek. "I promise."

Gibson could hear that Mulder's feelings of doubt and regret 
remained strong, but he was determined to reunite his family 
by bringing Scully back. 

*   *   * 

Over the next two hours Mulder and Gibson gathered saddles and 
bridles, then rounded up three horses -- not an easy task, 
until they found a small canister of sugar, which Gibson used 
to lure the animals to them. As the horses ate from his hand, 
Mulder slipped bridles over their heads. 

Dibeh changed into warmer clothing and scrounged enough food 
in the wrecked RVs for a two-day ride. She was able to locate 
only one small bottle of water. Mulder decided to take it with 
them and let Kenna keep the larger jug they'd been carrying.

On Mulder's order, Kenna looked for guns and ammunition. If he 
was going to leave his son in her care, he wanted her armed. 
Thankfully she did as she was told, probably because she 
recognized the danger of being left alone with an injured man 
and a defenseless toddler. It took her scant time to bring 
back a Beretta and an M-16; she picked them off the body of a 
dead soldier. Mulder appropriated the handgun for himself, 
although it contained only one round. He offered the rifles to 
her.

"Know how to use one of these?" he asked. 

She had been wielding a rifle when he first met her in 
Wyoming, but he hadn't actually seen her fire it.

"Rick taught me to shoot when we were first dating."

"Sounds romantic."

She huffed, impatient with him. "It was for practical 
purposes, if you must know. *He* worried about me." 

"You may not believe this, but I do, too. Which is why I want 
you to use this if you have to."

"I thought Gibson said you'd come back at the first sign of 
trouble."

"In a perfect world. But since this world hasn't been perfect 
for a very long while, my advice is to trust no one and shoot 
to kill." 

Casting him a sour scowl, she stowed the gun in the cab of a 
pickup, where she intended to take up residence until they 
returned. It had a camper shell over the truck bed, in bad 
shape, but it provided better cover than the roofless 
infirmary. Mulder and Gibson hauled a mattress, and then 
carried Royal, to the back of the truck to make it more 
convenient for her to care for him.

When they were ready to leave, Mulder helped Dibeh onto her 
horse, a roan mare, the gentlest of the three animals. She 
waited nervously while Gibson mounted his black gelding. 
Kenna, looking angry and desperate, paced between the pickup 
and the horses. She held William tightly in her arms. He 
sucked his thumb. Her lower lip trembled.

"I need to say goodbye," Mulder mumbled to Gibson before 
handing him the reins to his own mare, a showy piebald with a 
feisty temperament. 

"Take your time."

This wasn't going to be easy. Kenna was clearly upset, 
shivering. William whimpered in her arms. Dirty snowflakes had 
begun to fall, jittering on the cold breeze like half-crazed 
insects, tinged bloody-pink by the red smoke. 

"Dada go?" Tears welled in William's eyes.

Mulder reached for him. "May I?" he asked Kenna.

Reluctantly, she handed him over. 

Mulder hugged William to his chest, kissed the crown of his 
head, breathed in the warm, soft scent of his hair. The boy 
seemed too light, only thirty or thirty-five pounds fully 
dressed, and Mulder was suddenly swamped by an unfounded fear 
that William wasn't getting enough to eat. 

What kinds of diseases did malnourished kids get? Scurvy? 
Rickets? 

Scully would know. She could keep him healthy.

If Mulder could find her.  

"No go, Dada. No go," William whined.

"I have to, son." He was loath to release his grip on this 
child, as if William would fade away the moment he left his 
arms, become as insubstantial as a mirage or vanish like a 
half-remembered dream. Instinct told him to stay and protect 
his son. Yet his heart prodded him toward Scully, to save her, 
bring her back, so she could be William's mother again, and 
Mulder could watch over them both. "Be a good boy for Kenna 
while I'm gone, okay?"

William sniffled, then unexpectedly threw stubby arms around 
Mulder's neck.

The world blurred as tears flooded Mulder's eyes. A lump 
formed in his throat, making it impossible for him to say all 
he wanted to say: I love you, son, more than I could've 
possibly imagined. I've messed up so many things in my life. 
Kenna. Scully. Maybe the whole goddamned world. Yet look at 
how perfect you are. Somehow, through a miraculous act that 
resulted in you, I managed to get one thing right.

Holding William, rubbing his back to sooth him, Mulder hoped 
he could trust Kenna to keep his son safe, hoped he wasn't 
wrong to leave, hoped Scully could hold on until he arrived. 

"I'll be back, son. As soon as I can. I promise." He kissed 
William's brow, then passed him back to Kenna. "Take care of 
him. Please."

"Don't go," she said, echoing William's plaintive demand.  

"I don't want to."

"Then don't. Stay here with us. Let them go."

"I can't. I have to do this."

Disgust thinned her lips. "You're no better than her, you 
know. You're walking out on your son, just like she did."

Mulder's chest tightened as guilt speared his heart.

"It's for just a few days," Gibson interrupted from atop his 
horse.

Kenna ignored Gibson to glare at Mulder. "You're deserting 
your child." 

"I'm trusting you to look after him." He touched her arm.

She jerked back. Indignant. Furious. "Suppose I decide to 
leave? Take William somewhere you can't find him?"

"You take him anywhere," Gibson warned, "and I'll find you 
wherever you go, just like I did in Wyoming." 

Clearly startled by this idea, Kenna fastened her teary gaze 
on Mulder. "Won't you at least spend the night? Just one more 
night with us? With your son?"

"The sooner I get started, the sooner I can get back."

"With *her*..."

Mulder reached out to stroke William's tousled hair one last 
time. "I hope so."

William began to cry. His wail grew louder when Mulder turned 
away. He walked stiffly to his horse, took the reins from 
Gibson. Mechanically, he hooked the toe of his boot into his 
stirrup. Painfully, awkwardly, he hoisted himself into the 
saddle. The leather creaked from the effort. Wind ruffled the 
horse's mane. Behind them, a tent flapped in the breeze, torn 
loose from its stakes.

Don't cry, son, Mulder silently begged, directing his horse 
westward toward Salt Lake City. 

It took every ounce of his willpower to spur his horse to a 
trot and leave William behind. He didn't turn in his saddle to 
look back. Hearing William's sobs was heartbreaking enough. 
Seeing his tear-stained cheeks would have been Mulder's 
undoing.  

CONTINUED IN BOOK VIII (PART 2)...