From: ephemeral@ephemeralfic.org
Date: 12 Jan 2006 12:27:27 -0000
Subject: Abaddon\'s Reign - COMPLETE (15/18) NC-17 by aka "Jake"
Source: direct

ABADDON'S REIGN
BOOK VIII: MICHAEL AND HIS ANGELS (PART 2)

*   *   *

PRISONER DORMITORY
ANTELOPE ISLAND

Ca-Lo fought an urge to hold his breath against the stench of 
sweating prisoners, excrement-clogged toilets, vomit and 
blood-stained floors. Inmates, packed eight or more to each 
six-by-ten cell, greeted him with jeers and moans as he walked 
the block's long, central corridor. He followed Warden Travis, 
a brawny man with a tattooed, bald head and the disposition of 
a provoked scorpion. Scars crisscrossed the warden's face. His 
uniform was filthy, stained at the collar and under the arms. 
He was missing three fingers on his right hand, yet managed to 
forcefully grip a fully charged Taser. 

Prisoner 2784T3L6 pressed his face between the bars, cursed 
loudly and spat as they passed by. A clot of blood-tinged 
saliva splattered the silicrete floor inches from Ca-Lo's 
polished right boot.

"Son of a fucking whore!" The warden raised his Taser and 
turned on the prisoner. 

Ca-Lo's quiet command halted him mid-strike. "Later."

"Sir, we don't allow prisoners to disrespect--"

"I have neither the time nor the desire to hear about your 
disciplinary procedures." Ca-Lo loathed this place, this 
warehouse of human misery, where hopelessness and fear hung 
like a poisonous mist in the greasy, dank air. It reminded him 
of his boyhood punishments, when he had been stuffed into an 
observation capsule -- a wet, cramped carapace that held him 
immobile while Nih-hi-cho Appraisers crawled through his mind, 
day after day, night after long night. "Do whatever needs 
doing *later*."

"Yes, sir." Discomfiture pinked the chastised warden's scarred 
cheeks. He lowered his Taser and glared at the prisoner. "I'll 
be back for you," he growled, before stalking down the 
corridor.

Ca-Lo trailed him around a corner. Hundreds of cells identical 
to the previous ones came into view. Rust encrusted the bars. 
Oily puddles slicked the floors. The walls sweated a viscous, 
green sludge.

"Here, sir." Travis stopped in front of Cell MMCXVI. 

Eleven tight-lipped men warily eyed Travis and Ca-Lo from 
behind the bars.

"Which one is the priest?"

"Old man in back." 

A grizzled, skeletal man sat on the floor atop a threadbare 
blanket at the rear of the cell, head bowed, lips moving in 
silent prayer. 

"Father Richards?" Ca-Lo called out.

The gaunt priest murmured "amen," then opened rheumy eyes. 
"Well, well. What does the illustrious Commander of the great 
Nih-hi-cho Armada want from a pathetic servant like me?" He 
wore a tattered frock, its once-white collar gray with dirt. 
Emaciated feet, bare, pale, mottled with grime and bruises, 
protruded from loose-fitting trousers. "Seeking absolution for 
your sins, by any chance?" 

"I'm not here to confess." 

"Ah, just as well. The Sacrament of Penance requires 
contrition." Father Richards rose on quaking legs. The other 
prisoners moved aside, squeezing together to allow him room to 
shuffle past. Reaching the door, he clutched the bars for 
support and matched Ca-Lo's stare with a look of obvious 
contempt. "I've yet to meet a friend of the Nih-hi-cho who 
feels repentant for his crimes against humanity."

"That's a rather unforgiving generalization, coming from a 
religious man."

"Indeed. Clearly I am failing God's most recent test. Maybe 
you and I will be roommates in hell one day, hmm?"

"Look around, Father. We're already in hell."

"And no one would know that better than the Devil him--" 

The warden thrust his Taser between the bars and jolted Father 
Richards in the gut. The old priest cried out. Travis shocked 
him again. And again, until the old man collapsed to his 
knees. Even then the warden continued to jab him. 

"Stop it!" Ca-Lo ordered. "Put that damned thing away!"

"He must be taught proper manners, sir."

"I said no." Ca-Lo gripped the warden's arm, jerked him away 
from the cell and confiscated the Taser.

Worry shadowed Travis's eyes. He leaned close to Ca-Lo and 
whispered, "Undermine me in front of these animals and it'll 
lead to trouble."

"Ignore my orders again and you'll be on the receiving end of 
this." Ca-Lo brandished the Taser. "Have I made myself clear?"

"Yes, sir." Travis retreated a step. 

Inside the cell, Father Richards struggled to his feet. 

"A hint of compassion in that cold heart of yours, Commander? 
Perhaps absolution is possible after all. God can be 
sympathetic, you know, even when his servants are not." 

"I'm not here to test your god's leniency."

"Then why are you here?"

"To ask a favor."

"Ask?" The priest's eyes narrowed. "Or demand?"

"The Commander of the Nih-hi-cho Armada is *asking* Prisoner 
3788T3L6 to grant him a favor. You may refuse, but if you do, 
your cellmates and every prisoner on this block will be handed 
over to Warden Travis for whatever punishment he deems 
appropriate." 

"Ah. I see." The priest rubbed his stomach where the weapon 
had struck him. "Given those alternatives, what might Prisoner 
3788T3L6 do for his Lordship?"

"Officiate a wedding ceremony."

"A wedding? For who?"

"Does it matter? Do it or condemn your comrades." 

The priest's gaze flickered to the wretched men around him. 
"Obviously, my answer must be yes."

"Good. The warden will get you cleaned up." To Travis, Ca-Lo 
said, "Deliver him to Tse'Bit'a'i'. Provide whatever trappings 
he may require for the ceremony." 

"Yes, sir. May I, um...may I have my Taser back?"

Ca-Lo shoved the weapon into the warden's outstretched hand 
and spun on his heel. The priest's voice echoed after him as 
he retreated down the corridor. "O God, by my grievous sins I 
have re-crucified Thy divine Son and deserve Thy everlasting 
wrath in the fires of hell. Even more, I have been most 
ungrateful to Thee, my Heavenly Father..."

Back on the roof, Ca-Lo leaned against the hull of his 
runabout and gulped fresh air into his lungs, grateful for the 
wind that pummeled the prison's stink from his clothes. Was the 
priest right? Was there a place more terrible than this world? 
Ca-Lo squinted into the setting sun. Its fire was blinding, 
but did nothing to warm the chill in his bones. 

Shivering against the cold, he climbed into the pilot's seat 
and ignited the thrusters. The thrum of engines helped calm 
his nerves, slow his pulse. He lifted off and breathed a sigh 
of relief as Antelope Island grew small beneath him. Steering 
toward Salt Lake City, he radioed Airman Ingraham for an 
update.

"Good news, sir," the young airman said.

"Tell me." 

"I've located Major Harris's murderer." 

"Where?"

"Wasatch-Cache Forest, heading your way on horseback."

"You're certain he's the killer?"

"Must be, sir. He's a Refuter, a shapeshifter."

"What makes you say that?"

"Because he...he's impersonating you, sir. He looks just like 
you."

Ca-Lo smiled. It was Mulder!   

"He is the man I want," Ca-Lo said. Harmony I came into view. 
The setting sun cast the Armada's twelve warships into fiery 
relief on the airport's outer runways. Their hulls glowed as 
if struck by plasma canon. The sight sent an unexpected chill 
through Ca-Lo. "Does the Refuter have a young child with him?"

"No, sir. Just a hybrid and a human teenager."

No William? That was a surprise. And a disappointment.

"The murderer goes by the name of Fox Mulder. Bring him to 
me," Ca-Lo said. "Alive. Understood?"

"Yes, sir. What about the others?"

"I don't care what you do with them. It's only Mulder I want."

*   *   *

SOMEWHERE IN WASATCH-CACHE NATIONAL FOREST 

"Is William okay?" Mulder crouched beside a mountain stream, 
his fingers growing numb as he refilled their water bottle. 
The ice-cold stream tumbled over rocks and fallen logs. It 
carried the smell of ancient soil and decaying leaves. The 
setting sun tinted its rough surface blood-red.    

Gibson stood above Mulder on a tree-lined bank and gripped the 
horses' reins. Dibeh remained rigid and wide-eyed atop her 
gentle mare. She gasped each time the horse tossed its head 
and huffed into the frosty, evening air.

"You've asked me the same question at least a hundred times, 
Mulder." Gibson toed a pebble into the stream. It plopped into 
the gurgling water, where it was quickly lost in the froth. 

"So make it a hundred and one."

Gibson heaved an exaggerated sigh, then cocked his head, 
obviously listening to faraway voices. Mulder recalled the 
cacophony that had bludgeoned him to the point of insanity 
when, under the spell of Dr. Merkmallen's mysterious rubbings, 
he temporarily possessed Gibson's skill. He had been unable to 
sift through the maddening chatter. But somehow Gibson could 
make sense of it, could even tune his internal radar to a 
single, unique voice -- in this case, that of an eighteen-
month-old boy. The God Module in his brain was aptly named. 
His abilities were nothing short of miraculous. 

"He's fine. Stop worrying."

"I can't." No longer able to feel his fingertips, Mulder 
fumbled with the bottle's push/pull cap. "I don't trust 
Kenna."

"She's been taking care of him for months."

"She wasn't angry at me then."

"She wouldn't hurt William, not even to get back at you."

Gibson was right. Kenna believed William was a gift from God. 
A true miracle. It was one of the few things she and Mulder 
agreed upon. 

Shaking the chill from his fingers, Mulder rose stiffly to his 
feet. Twilight was setting in. A smattering of stars speckled 
the sky to the east where a scimitar moon appeared wedged in 
the jagged treetops. He climbed the bank and offered Gibson 
the water bottle.

"No, thanks." 

"Dibeh?" Mulder held out the bottle.

She reached for it, but before he could hand it off, Gibson 
quietly announced, "Someone's coming."

Mulder's damaged left ear registered nothing. His right picked 
up the rustle of wind through trees, a creak of leather as one 
of the horses shifted position, but no scuff of feet or rumble 
of an approaching engine. Even so, he lowered his voice to a 
whisper. "I don't suppose it's Ed McMahon, coming to tell me 
I've won the Publisher's Clearing House sweepstakes." 

"Airman from the alien army."

"Just one?"

"Yes."

"Shapeshifter?"

"Human."

"How far away?"

"Five hundred yards...that way." Gibson lifted his chin to 
indicate the direction they had come. "He's on foot."

"He walked all the way from Safe Camp?"

"No, he's got a ship hidden in the woods. He's looking for 
you."

"I'm flattered," -- Mulder peered into the gloom and saw only 
black tree trunks and swaying branches -- "but why me?"

"He has orders to take you back to Tse'Bit'a'i'...alive."

"Whose orders?"

"Ca-Lo's."

"Ah, the plot thickens. Maybe we should let him capture me, 
take me directly into the lion's den, no waiting."

"He also has orders to kill Dibeh and me." Gibson glanced at 
Dibeh, who searched the woods from atop her horse, worry 
creasing her broad alien forehead. "He's armed. Stun gun 
and...an automatic."

Mulder felt for the Beretta tucked into his belt. With only 
one bullet, it might not be enough. He was about to toss the 
water bottle aside when an idea struck him. "What do you say 
we lull him into a false sense of security?"

"You intend to take *him* prisoner?" Gibson asked, reading 
his thoughts.  

"He could tell us a lot about the alien stronghold and Ca-Lo. 
Take Dibeh downstream. Give me a few minutes. Gotta see a man 
about a horse." He waggled the bottle. 

Gibson nodded, understanding his intentions. "Be careful," he 
mouthed as he led Dibeh and the horses into the shadows. 

Mulder positioned himself in front of a nearby tree, facing 
the trunk to make it appear from the stranger's perspective as 
if he were taking a much-needed piss. He was careful to shield 
the water bottle and his gun with his body. He opened the 
bottle's push/pull cap and waited for the airman to announce 
himself.

He didn't have long to wait. Snapping twigs alerted him to the 
man's approach. Mulder widened his stance and gently squeezed 
water from the bottle.

"Fox Mulder?" the airman asked.

"Jesus!" Mulder feigned surprise by splashing the tree trunk. 
He glanced over his shoulder to get a look at his opponent -- 
a baby-faced young man, five-ten or eleven, a hundred and 
sixty pounds, give or take. He wore a plain black military 
uniform, like the one Mulder had seen Ca-Lo and his minions 
wearing aboard Tse'Bit'a'i'. A Glock hung in the holster on 
his right hip, and he carried a stun gun in his hand, 
corroborating Gibson's story that he intended to take Mulder 
alive.

"Where are your friends?"

"Giving me a little privacy. Speaking of which, do you mind?"

"Zip up," the airman ordered, trying to sound tougher than he 
looked. "You're coming with me."

"Come on, buddy, you caught me midstream. I'd like to finish 
my business." 

The airman stepped closer, almost within arm's reach, and 
pointed the Taser. "I suggest you hold it 'til later."

"And I suggest you back off." Mulder pivoted, dropped the 
water bottle, drew and aimed his pistol.   

The airman blinked in astonishment. 

"Rock, paper, bullets." Mulder leveled the gun at the man's 
head. "Looks like I win. Drop the cattle prod."

Too late, the airman fumbled for the Glock.

"I wouldn't do that," Mulder warned and cocked his pistol. The 
man froze, hand poised above his holster. "Rumor has it you 
need me alive, soldier. I, on the other hand, am under no such 
obligation. So, either drop your weapon and put your hands in 
the air, or I shoot you in the fucking head. Your choice."     

"D-don't shoot." The airman let the Taser fall to the ground 
and raised his hands.

"Good man." Mulder kicked the weapon into the scrub and 
confiscated the airman's gun. Checking the clip, he found it 
was fully loaded. He hurled the Beretta with its single round 
into the woods. "Gibson, you out there?"

Gibson stepped from the trees. He retrieved the Taser, then 
moved to one side.

Mulder relaxed a little. "What's your name, soldier?" 

The airman squared his shoulders and shut his mouth, making it 
clear he had no intention of cooperating.

"His name is Jason Ingraham," Gibson supplied for him, "and 
he's thinking about how angry Ca-Lo is going to be when he 
learns about what's happened here. He's wondering if all the 
stories he's heard about privation chambers are true."

Ingraham gaped at Gibson. "Y-you're a shapeshifter, too! I 
told Ca-Lo...I-I said--"

"Evidently this guy is smarter than he looks," Mulder said, 
playing along with the airman's supposition. It could work in 
their favor to let him believe they were aliens in human form. 
Make him less argumentative. "You're going to fly us to 
Tse'Bit'a'i', Ingraham."

"I am?"

"Aren't those your orders? Take me back to the ship, to Ca-Lo?

"Y-yes."

"Then let's not keep him waiting. And don't even think about 
trying to warn your pals at headquarters." Mulder brought the 
Glock's muzzle to within millimeters of the airman's nose. 
"Understood?"

Ingraham swallowed hard and nodded.

Mulder eyed his plain, dark uniform. It bore no crest or 
emblem designating rank. Wearing it, Mulder might improve his 
chances of fooling the guards at Salt Lake City into thinking 
he was Ca-Lo.  

He smiled and chucked the airman's nose with the barrel of his 
gun. "Take off your clothes, Ingraham."

"What?"

"You heard me. Strip." 

*   *   *

TSE'BIT'A'I'
SALT LAKE CITY, UTAH

The wedding dress had a deeply scalloped neckline, a 
voluminous skirt with a long train, and yards of satiny green 
fabric with thousands of tiny, hand-sewn beads. It weighed 
close to seventy pounds and sparkled like the Ablution Pools 
on a peaceful night. 

"Put it on, please." Ca-Lo stood before Dana with the gown 
draped over his outstretched arms.

Her frown deepened. "The last time we played dress up I ended 
up in your bed."

"And history's about to repeat itself. We're going to be 
married as soon as Warden Travis delivers our priest." 

"You're delusional."

"It's going to happen."

"Not without my consent."

The dress was growing heavy and Ca-Lo struggled to keep his 
arms held high. "If I say we will be married, we will be 
married. Don't presume anyone will race to your rescue or that 
the Nih-hi-cho will care one way or the other. I command this 
ship."

"You may command this ship, but you don't command me."

"I don't need your cooperation to make you my wife."

"Then what you're proposing is abduction and rape."

His shoulders slumped. He hated what she was forcing him to 
do. To stall, he crossed the room and dumped the dress on the 
bed. 

Their wedding bed. 

He smoothed the gown's wrinkles. Cleared his throat. 

"Why do you love him and not me?" He kept his back to her. He 
couldn't bear the revulsion in her eyes. "We are exactly the 
same, my brother and I."

"You're nothing like him."

He spun to face her and opened his arms. "Physically, we are 
identical. Same face. Same body. Same scars."

"You manufactured those scars to dupe me."

"Does it matter how they came to be there?"

"Of course it matters. Experience molds character. Mulder 
earned those scars. He was changed -- mentally, emotionally -- 
by the events that caused them. A clone or shapeshifter might 
look like him physically, but they cannot posses his 
character, his spirit. You can't replicate what's in a man's 
heart."

"You are in my heart." Ca-Lo's voice cracked. "I love you." 

"Then prove it. Let me go."

"I can't do that."

"Mulder wouldn't keep me here against my will."

"He has other options."

"So do you."

"No. You're wrong."

"Am I?" she challenged. "You act as if you have no choice, no 
free will."

"It's not an act." He moved to the bird cage, where eight 
finches chirped and preened on their perches. Prisoners like 
her. Like him. If he were to release them, they would not live 
more than a day or two. They had been captives all their lives 
and no longer possessed the skills or instincts required to 
survive outside their cage. "None of us is free to do as we 
please. Not here."

"Then why stay?"

"You think I can just walk away?" He faced her. "They would 
never let me go."

"They?"

"The Nih-hi-cho. My masters."

"You said you command this ship."

"Within limits. Like a child directs toy boats in his bath."

"You're a coward," she sneered. The venom in her voice sliced 
through him. 

He was no coward. He had faced hell's worst demons, countless 
times, and survived. She couldn't begin to imagine the 
horrific things they had done to him. What they would do 
again. To him. To her. He had been a mere child the first time 
they pinned him to an examination platform, younger than her 
son William. He had cried to be released, begged them to stop 
their terrible cutting. He screamed until no sound came from 
his aching throat. "You don't understand."

"You're right, I don't." She paced toward him, stopped inches 
away, fixed him with a steely stare. "You want to know how you 
differ from Mulder? He is willing to stand up to his enemies; 
he flouts their rules, plays their game only on his own terms. 
Even when he was held prisoner aboard a ship like this one, he 
was a free man, *is* a free man, because he refuses to let 
anyone dictate his destiny."

"You said it yourself, Dana: experience molds character. If my 
brother had lived my life, he might be a desperate man, too." 
The urge to reach out for her was strong, but he kept his 
hands to his sides, fists clenched. "We could be very happy as 
husband and wife."

"I will not participate in your perverse fantasy."

A familiar feeling of helplessness coursed through his veins. 
"If you don't agree to marry me--"

"What will you do? Put me back in that awful cell?"

"Your friend Walter Skinner is in one now."

"You bastard."

"Unless you cooperate..." It was time to deliver his 
ultimatum. "Your son William will be in one, too." 

Her face paled. "You have William?"

"Yes," he lied, hating the necessity of it, wishing she would 
marry and love him because she wanted to, not because he 
threatened her son.

"Don't do this. Don't--" 

"A stasis cell is no place for a small boy, believe me. I 
speak from experience." 

Rage burned in her tear-filled eyes. "I'll kill you if you 
hurt my son!" 

"You can save him."

"By marrying you?" 

"Would it be so terrible?"

"How can you ask that? You're holding me here against my will. 
You're threatening my son!"

"Only because I love you."

"That's not how it works. That's not what love is."

"Then show me. Show me what love is." He reached out, cupped 
her cheek, leaned in to kiss her, wanting to understand, 
wanting to know where he had gone wrong, wanting to know how 
it would feel to be cherished and cared for.

"You're contemptible." 

She drew back to strike him, but he grabbed her wrist and 
blocked her blow. "So I have been told all my life." 

Satan, Abaddon, Ca-lo the Destroyer -- the Overseers had 
branded him with these names. To serve their own purposes. 
They had shaped his character the way a blacksmith hammers the 
sharp edge of a broadsword. Their success was complete. Dana's 
loathing proved it.

Heart pounding, he released her arm. "An aide will help you 
get ready. I'll be back in an hour." 

Without waiting for her reply, he brushed past her and fled 
the room. He didn't want to hear any more arguments. He didn't 
want to be tempted to change his mind.

*   *   *

SAFE CAMP, UTAH

Kenna ignored the twisting cramp in her abdomen as she duct-
taped a plastic trash bag over the broken window above Royal's 
mattress to block the wind. The pickup's camper shell was in 
bad shape, but even with the tailgate missing it provided a 
roof over their heads. 

"There, that's better," she said, proud of her handiwork.

"Just like home." Royal shivered inside his cocoon of 
blankets.

"You still cold? I saw a couple of sleeping bags over in the 
main building. Not too many bloodstains on 'em. They smelled 
to high Heaven, but they'd keep you from freezing to death. I 
don't mind going to get them."

That wasn't true. She did mind. She didn't want to leave 
William alone with Royal, but the infirmary was too jam-packed 
with stuff that could hurt him if she took him with her: 
spilled pills, needles, bloody rags, dead bodies, not to 
mention locust-monsters. Those devils were hiding everywhere, 
she was sure. Mulder never should have left. It wasn't safe. 
For him or them. Not with locust-monsters on the loose again. 
Nope, best to stay in one place.

"I'm okay." Royal cradled his injured arm beneath the covers. 

"Suit yourself," she said, relieved. "Lemme know if you change 
your mind." She tossed the duct tape through the cab's open 
window into the driver's seat, where it bounced with a thud 
into the foot well. 

The noise startled William, who was playing on the mattress 
beside Royal. He stopped driving his toy fire engine over the 
hills of Royal's blanketed knees. "Wha'zat?" he asked, his 
blue-gray eyes searching the camper.

"Bogeyman," Royal said. "Better watch out!" He gave the 
blankets a small kick, which sent the toy truck bouncing into 
the air. 

William stuck his thumb in his mouth and looked like he might 
cry.

"Quit scarin' him." Kenna fished a four-pack of Oreo cookies 
from her coat pocket. "Look what mama's got, sweetheart."  

"Cookie!" William reached out with both hands, fingers flexing 
with excitement.

"Hold your horses. Let me unwrap them first." She tore open 
the cellophane with her teeth and handed him a cookie. 

"Do I get one, too?" Royal's face was pale -- as pale as a 
black man's face could be. He had lost buckets of blood.

She gave him the remainder of the pack. "Need another 
Tylenol?"

"I'd rather have a snort of coke, if you got any." Dark crumbs 
speckled his white teeth.  

"Sorry. Tylenol's all we got," she said, wishing she could 
take one herself. Her belly was killing her, but she'd heard 
medication -- even something as mild as Tylenol -- could hurt 
a developing fetus. Cause a birth defect. She didn't want to 
risk it. 

"Nothin' stronger in the infirmary?" he asked.

"Probably, if you don't mind picking it up off the floor. You 
know most everything got busted and spilled in the blast."

"Might be worth taking the chance." He grimaced and stuffed 
another whole cookie into his mouth.

"Quit complaining. At least you're out of that rusted barrel."

"And into this one." He was about to scarf down the last 
cookie, but changed his mind and offered it to her. "You want 
it?"

"No thanks. I'm not feeling too good." Her guts roiled and 
burned. 

He turned to William. "How 'bout you, kid? Want it?"

William smiled shyly and took the Oreo from Royal's 
outstretched hand. 

"Cute kid." Royal wiped crumbs from his fingers onto his 
blankets.

"Looks like his dad, thank goodness." 

"Why you puttin' yourself down, girl? You ain't bad to look 
at." He licked his lips and she caught sight of a silver stud 
in the middle of his tongue. She'd never met anyone with a 
pierced tongue before. 

"Thanks, but it's just as well he takes after his daddy's 
side." Royal didn't need to know she wasn't William's birth 
mother. She was the boy's mama now, for all intents and 
purposes. Biology didn't mean a thing. It was actions that 
mattered. They defined a person. "He's gonna grow up tall and 
handsome. Just like daddy, huh, William?"

"Dada?"

"Where's his pop now? Dead?" 

"Heck no. You met him yesterday."

"The geek? Gibson?" Royal looked surprised.

"Not him. Mulder."

"Really? Seems kinda old for you."

"Age doesn't matter when you're in love." 

Royal's head bobbed in agreement, setting his dreadlocks 
swaying. "I hear ya." 

Another painful cramp arrowed through her. "Yep, Mulder and 
me, we're very happy. We're hoping this next one's gonna be a 
girl, a sister for William."

"You're pregnant?"

"Yes sir. Been trying for months. Finally happened for us."

"That's cool, I guess," Royal said, although he didn't look 
convinced. "But don't it scare you, bringin' another kid into 
the world, under the circumstances?"

"Mulder and me can take care of our family. Some people don't 
have what it takes, the commitment, you know? Even in good 
times." Like William's selfish birth mother. "But we do."

"Then it's all good, babe."

"Yeah, it is. Mulder's a great dad. He loves William more'n 
life itself. Loves me like that, too." 

She wished Mulder would come back from his silly wild goose 
chase to Salt Lake. This was no time to be leaving his family 
unprotected. He was putting them and himself in danger. And 
for what? That Dana Scully woman, who in all likelihood was 
already dead. William needed his father. Kenna needed Mulder, 
too. She was pregnant now. There was the new baby to consider.

Mulder hadn't actually asked her yet, but she was certain he 
was going to propose soon. He wasn't the "love 'em and leave 
'em" type, the kind of guy who would get a girl pregnant, then 
run for the hills. He'd be back and they'd get married. Maybe 
visit the Grand Canyon on their honeymoon, just like they'd 
always talked about. If he'd said it once, he'd said it a 
thousand times: she was his one true love. They were a family 
now, her, Mulder, William and the new baby. It was a dream 
come true, just like a fairytale. They were going to live 
happily ever after, wait and see. 

Lordy, she missed him. His attentiveness, his kindness toward 
her and William. She blushed, recalling the unhurried way 
they'd made love. He was a perfect lover. Thoughtful and 
generous. As much as she had once loved Rick, he sometimes 
rushed things. But not Mulder. Never Mulder.   

A fiery ache burned low in her pelvis. She gripped her belly 
and waited for the pain to ease.

"You okay?" Royal asked.

"I'm fine. Just a little morning sickness." The words no 
sooner left her mouth when an unexpected surge of warmth 
flooded her panties.

Something was wrong. Very wrong. 

"Mind watching William a minute?" she asked and moved to the 
pick-up's open rear gate.

"Uh, okay, but don't be gone long."

"Back in a jiff, I promise."

Kenna hopped to the ground. She wouldn't go far, not with 
locust-monsters about, but she rounded the truck to the front 
bumper, out of Royal's view, where she quickly unbuttoned her 
jeans, pushed them to her knees and peered inside her panties.

The crotch was sodden and stained with blood.

"Damn it." Tears stung her eyes. 

She hadn't taken any Tylenol. She'd done nothing to jeopardize 
a pregnancy. 

"Why?" she asked God. "I'd've been a good mother." William was 
living proof.

Another cramp ripped through her. She sank onto her haunches. 

What was she going to tell Mulder?

"He doesn't need to know," she muttered. No point hurting him. 
They could try again. They loved each other. They still had 
William. 

"No one needs to know," she whispered to a sky made hazy by 
spitting snow. "It'll be our secret. Shhhhhh."   

*   *   *

TSE'BIT'A'I'
HANGAR DECK

Strips of leather, cut from the horses' reins, bound 
Ingraham's wrists and ankles. Gibson's striped scarf served as 
a gag. Mulder double-checked the knots. Satisfied the airman 
wasn't going anywhere soon, he patted his shoulder and said, 
"Thanks for the ride." 

A warning jolt from the stun-gun -- and a fib about the 
Refuters' displeasure and guaranteed retribution -- had kept 
Ingraham obedient during the short flight to Salt Lake City. 
Dressed only in undershorts, he had maneuvered the shuttle 
into Tse'Bit'a'i's landing bay as ordered, powered down the 
engines, and did nothing to alert the crew on the hangar deck 
that anything was amiss. Mulder was beginning to believe their 
subterfuge, and their rescue mission, had a chance at success.

He tucked the Taser into his left boot, hiding it within easy 
reach against his calf. The knee-high boots were a half-size 
too small and pinched his feet, but Ingraham's sleek uniform 
fit as if it were made for him; the resilient fabric clung to 
his skin, yet stretched to accommodate every move. In an 
unconscious gesture, his fingers brushed the holster on his 
hip. The Glock's weight felt familiar and reassuring.

Almost as an afterthought, he fished into the pocket of his 
discarded jacket and withdrew the artifact -- the "key" Gibson 
had unearthed at Kits'iil, the thing Albert Hosteen had 
described as "an answer to the world's dire condition." He 
slipped it into his pants pocket and tossed the coat aside. 

Leaving Ingraham struggling against his bonds on the floor 
between the rear passenger seat and the bulkhead, Mulder 
joined Gibson and Dibeh at the exit door. He spread his arms 
wide and asked, "Do I look like him...like Ca-Lo?"

Dibeh swiped at his sleeve to remove a smudge of dust, then 
stared hard at his face.  

"Problem?" he asked.

"She thinks you look nervous," Gibson said.

"I am nervous."

"Ca-Lo wouldn't be," Gibson reminded him. 

Dibeh threw back her shoulders, lifted her chin and peered 
down her almost nonexistent nose at them, giving them her 
interpretation of Ca-Lo's imposing demeanor. 

Mulder mimicked her stance and adjusted his expression, trying 
to look more commanding. "Better?" 

Dibeh nodded enthusiastically.

"Then let's go." Mulder gestured toward the exit. 

"There doesn't appear to be a latch," Gibson said, stymied by 
a lack of handle or other obvious mechanism on the door's 
featureless surface. 

"This rescue isn't going anywhere if we can't get out of this 
tin can," Mulder said. He looked to Dibeh for help. 

Her fingers danced through the air and Gibson translated: "The 
doors on Tse'Bit'a'i' respond to thought and voice commands."

"I'm thinking I want out of here, but I don't see the door 
opening," Mulder said.  

More signing from Dibeh. "Only Purebloods use thoughts. Humans 
must state their desires aloud."

"Ah." Purebloods -- the name said a lot about the aliens' 
presumption of superiority. Mulder addressed the door. "Open!" 

It slid into the wall. The hangar's syrupy aroma immediately 
flooded the shuttle. Mulder staggered back, reminded of the 
ship in Bellefleur, the aliens' examination platform, the 
drills and lasers-- 

"It's okay," Gibson said firmly. "You're not there."

His words tethered Mulder to reality. Eased his apprehension. 
Helped him focus on their mission, on Skinner, on Scully. 

He straightened his shoulders and looked out at the hangar, 
determined to take in his surroundings like the trained 
investigator he was, not a man crippled by confinement and 
torture.  

Helicopters, fighter jets, and dozens of unfamiliar aircraft 
crammed the cavernous hangar. A bulky command center separated 
the parked shuttle from a gleaming bank of elevators. Computer 
terminals dotted its waist-high console. Three soldiers, 
dressed in uniforms identical to Mulder's, rose from their 
stations to stare at him.  

Hoping Gibson could glean something useful from their 
thoughts, Mulder asked, "Who are the grunts?"

"Airmen Pitt and Hartley and Transport Chief Barrett," Gibson 
supplied.

All three wore skeptical expressions.

"They were expecting Ingraham," Gibson added, "not Ca-Lo. 
They're wondering why you're here."

"I've been asking myself the same question." Mulder studied 
the soldiers. All three wore communications headsets. And 
sidearms. 

Mulder drew his own weapon and posed as if Gibson were his 
prisoner. "Out of the frying pan..."

He did his best to underplay his limp as they crossed the 
landing bay. When they reached the command console, Barrett 
saluted. "We weren't expecting you, sir. Log indicates Airman 
Ingraham requisitioned this vessel." 

"Ingraham's dead," Mulder said brusquely. He continued toward 
the elevator, hoping the conversation was over.

But Barrett didn't let the news go unchallenged. He called to 
Mulder's back, "Dead, sir? How?"

Mulder stopped. "Curiosity, Chief," he said over his shoulder. 
"Asked one too many questions."

The color drained from Barrett's face. "Y-yes, sir. Do you... 
do you need assistance with your prisoner, sir?"

"Do I look like I need help?" Mulder growled. He herded Gibson 
and Dibeh into the nearest elevator. 

Once inside, Mulder whispered to Dibeh, "Which floor?"

Taking care to hide her actions from the inquisitive crewmen 
beyond the open door, she held up four long fingers.

Mulder jabbed the appropriate button and the doors slid shut. 
The car began its ascent.

*   *   *

Barrett stared after the elevator. "Something's wrong," he 
said to Pitt and Hartley. "Commander didn't seem himself."

"No kiddin'. What's up with the new hairdo?" Pitt asked past a 
wad of chewing gum. 

"His tat was missing. You notice?" Hartley asked.

Pitt guffawed. "Hafta be blind *not* to notice, you moron." 

"I wasn't referring to the Commander's looks." Barrett watched 
the numbers climb on the digital display above the elevator. 
"He was--"

The comlink on his console buzzed. Caller I.D. indicated it 
was Ca-Lo...calling from a wall unit on 17, outside the 
Ablution Pools. Barrett glanced at the elevator. Still going 
up. Deck 60, 59, 58... 

"Must be a malfunction." He flipped the com switch. "Sir?"

Ca-Lo's voice boomed in his earpiece. "Ingraham return yet?" 

Barrett's eyes locked onto the changing numbers above the 
elevator: 32, 31, 30.

"Uh, sir, you said Ingraham was dead."

His earpiece fell silent for a moment. Then, "When was this?"

"Not two minutes ago. Before you got on the lift."

"I'm not in an elevator."

"I saw you get in, sir. With a prisoner and a hybrid."

"A prisoner...?" Another pause. "Those are intruders, you 
idiot. I want them stopped. Use whatever force is necessary." 

"Yes, sir, but..."

"But what?"

"We're shorthanded, sir, what with the celebration going on."

"I don't want excuses. Find the intruders. Stop them!"

Ca-Lo disconnected the call. Barrett immediately punched up 
Security. 

"We have a breach," he said to the officer on duty. "I repeat, 
we have a breach."

*   *   *

"What's on deck four?" Mulder asked. The elevator hummed 
softly beneath his feet.

"Officer's deck," Gibson supplied. "Scully's in Ca-Lo's 
quarters."

"Alone?"

"She's with an aide, a hybrid."

Dibeh grunted and signed.

"She can show us the way," Gibson said.

The elevator hissed to a stop and the doors opened onto a 
vaulted mezzanine that overlooked an enormous hexagonal 
chamber twenty meters below. To Mulder's horror, the chamber 
contained hundreds, maybe thousands, of hybridization tanks, 
identical to the ones he had seen at Zeus Storage and, later, 
the Lombard Facility.

He was about to step out of the car when Dibeh grunted and 
Gibson warned, "Wrong floor."

"I don't think so." Descending a set of spiral stairs into the 
lab below was none other than Mulder's twin "brother" -- Ca-
Lo.

"Find Skinner and Scully. Get them off the ship." Mulder 
shoved the Glock into Gibson's hands. "I'm going after him."

"Mulder, this isn't the time to be settling a personal score."

"It isn't personal. Look at him, Gibson, he's the one man who 
can blow our cover."

Two "Ca-Los" would obviously attract unwelcome attention. To 
get Scully and Skinner off Tse'Bit'a'i', one -- preferably the 
real one -- would have to disappear. 

"You may be too late," Gibson said, head cocked, listening. 
"Security's coming." 

"All the more reason to get rid of him now. Find Scully."

"Mulder--"

"Get her off this ship."

Gibson fell silent and for a moment Mulder feared he was going 
to refuse. 

"Okay," he said at last.

"Good. I'll catch up with you as soon as I can." 

Mulder didn't wait for Gibson's reply, but sprinted down the 
corridor.

*   *   *

Ca-Lo jogged down the stairs, invigorated by the news that 
Mulder was on board. Soon his brother would be in custody and 
Ca-Lo intended to conduct his interrogation personally. It 
would be a pleasure to see Mulder squirm on an examination 
platform and beg for his life. 

Mercy would not be forthcoming. The instant Mulder divulged 
William's location, he would be given to the Overseers. He 
would learn firsthand what it meant to be a servant of the 
Society. 

Anticipation prickled Ca-Lo's scalp as he entered the lower 
chamber and threaded his way between the rows of tanks. 
Aeration filters bubbled loudly, stirring up the murky, 
phosphorescent water, which provided the room's only 
illumination. He scanned for Growers and their apprentices. 
Not a soul moved about the chamber or on the mezzanine above. 
Every Nih-hi-cho was at the Joining, exalting the continuation 
of their wretched species. He was alone. No Watchers, no 
Overseers. No one to stop him from finding out who he was and 
how he had come into the world. 

He walked quickly, back ramrod straight, jaw set, the heels of 
his polished military boots clacking against the onyx floor as 
he navigated the maze of tanks like a lab rat after a reward. 
Ca-Lo's prize lay in Cistern CVII. Reaching it, he swiped the 
tank with his sleeve to clear condensation from the glass.

"Who are you?" he murmured, peering in at Cassandra's clone.

It drifted on unseen currents, eyes shut, face expressionless.  

He moved to the end of the tank, where a flat console 
displayed the clone's vital signs, developmental data, 
nutrient consumption rate. A touch-sensitive control panel 
allowed Growers to adjust the tank's temperature, balance its 
chemical concentrations, and add accelerant or decelerator as 
needed. It also provided access the clone's developmental 
history, including a biography and genetic profile of the 
donor.

Glancing over his shoulder, Ca-Lo checked the room and upper 
gallery again for intruders. The archways and side portals 
remained empty. There was no sound but the gentle swish of 
water. No movement, except the sway of clones in their tanks. 

The press of a button brought up Cassandra's biographical data 
and file photo -- a picture apparently taken decades ago, when 
she was about twenty years old. She looked carefree in the 
photograph. Not at all like the nervous woman Ca-Lo had once 
called "Mother."

Nor like the conglomeration of fleshy cells in the tank. 

Ca-Lo began to read.

Cassandra Joan Hart -- born to Dorothea and Victor Hart at St. 
Jude's Memorial Hospital in Rutherford, Arkansas on April 20, 
1942. 

"Born?" 

He stared in disbelief at the readout. Cassandra's green blood 
had left an indelible stain on the carpet in his quarters. She 
couldn't possibly be the product of two humans. 

He read on, fearful of what he might discover, yet unwilling 
to give up his hunt for the truth. He was determined to know 
how he came into the world. He wanted proof he was human. 

According to the file notes, Cassandra was an only child. She 
attended Abraham Lincoln Elementary School. Had measles, 
mumps, and chicken pox. She was accepted to the University of 
Arkansas at Pine Bluff in 1959 and attended one semester 
before dropping out. In November 1960, she met C.G.B. Spender 
in Fayetteville, North Carolina while visiting a cousin during 
a Thanksgiving holiday. She married him on March 4, 1961 -- 
the same day she became a test subject in the New Destiny 
Project.

"The New Destiny Project!" NDP -- the archive cited in his DNA 
profile. Hope coursed through his veins as he scrolled forward 
to the next screen. 

Beginning in 1964, Cassandra was subjected to a series of 
experiments led by Dr. Eugene Openshaw. She was infected with 
Purity in an effort to transform her into a human-alien 
hybrid, to survive colonization and serve as part of a new 
slave race. In '99, Openshaw's team succeeded. Cassandra 
Spender became the first of her kind.

So that explained her Nih-hi-cho blood. She was originally 
human, which meant it was possible she had been telling the 
truth when she said she was his biological mother.

Ca-Lo's hands began to shake. He searched through Openshaw's 
copious notes, but found nothing more about the New Destiny 
Project. Frustrated, he queried the database.

An encryption warning blocked his efforts. 

"Damn it!" He slammed his fist against the tank, causing the 
clone to vibrate.

"Problem, bro?" The question came from the upper gallery.

Ca-Lo lifted his gaze to the mezzanine. 

There, leaning against a thick onyx column, eyes reflecting 
the Pools' phosphorescent glow, stood the one man he hated 
above all others -- Fox Mulder.

*   *   *

Mulder watched Ca-Lo's startled surprise transform to rage.

"You!" his twin roared.

"In the flesh." Mulder spread his arms. "Rumor has it you've 
been impersonating me. Thought I'd return the favor." 

"Come down. Let me show my appreciation," Ca-Lo shouted.

Mulder shrugged and nodded. He sauntered toward the spiral 
staircase, more to conceal his panic than his limp. Ca-Lo wore 
a sidearm; Mulder's holster now hung empty and the Taser in 
his boot was an inadequate substitute. 

By the time Mulder reached the main floor, Ca-Lo was waiting 
in front of the first row of tanks, several paces from the 
stairs, gun in hand.

"Not very sporting." Mulder indicated his empty holster. "I'm 
unarmed."

"Then this'll be easy, won't it?"

"And here I had you pegged for a hand-to-hand kind of guy."

"Nothing would please me more than to wring your neck with my 
bare hands."

"Bring it on, bro," Mulder taunted, knowing he stood a better 
chance against Ca-Lo's fists than his Sig. "If you think 
you're up to it." 

Ca-Lo loosened his grip on the gun, flipped it upside down, 
let it dangle for a moment, trigger guard looped over 
forefinger. "I'm up to it." He lobbed the gun into the nearest 
tank. 

Down it sank into the murky water, between the clone's buoyant 
limbs, out of reach. It hit the bottom with a muted clank.  

The sound launched Ca-Lo like a starter's pistol. He lunged at 
Mulder. Shoulder to ribs, he plowed him into the stairs. 
Mulder flailed, caught hold of Ca-Lo's uniform. Together they 
toppled. Mulder's back hit the steps hard. Ca-Lo's weight 
knocked the wind from his lungs. He gasped, pushed Ca-Lo away, 
rolled out of range. 

Ca-Lo regained his footing first. Fists balled, he sneered, 
"Maybe it's you who's not up to the challenge."

Physically, the two men were equally matched. Cunning and grit 
would determine the winner. Mulder didn't hesitate. He rose to 
his feet. Moved in. Threw a punch. Missed when Ca-Lo stepped 
out of his path.

Ca-Lo smirked. "You always did lead with your left."

"Been keeping tabs on me?" Balance regained, Mulder faked a 
right. Struck with his left. Connected. Jesus, it felt like 
he'd hit the ship's metal hull. 

The blow knocked Ca-Lo's head back, but he remained on his 
feet. He rubbed his jaw. "Let's just say I've had more than a 
passing interest." He returned the jab. 

Mulder dodged. "In me," -- he threw an uppercut that clipped 
Ca-Lo's chin -- "or in Scully?"

Ca-Lo's next blow sent him reeling into the side of a tank. 
The clone sloshed in its phosphorescent liquid, its movement 
mirroring the shock waves in Mulder's head.

"A man can't help being curious about his lover's past," Ca-Lo 
said.

Lover? "If you've touched her, I'll--" 

Mulder lunged. Threw a haymaker. Ca-Lo caught his fist mid-
swing and twisted his arm painfully behind his back. 

"You'll what?" Ca-Lo growled into his ear. "Make me regret the 
day I was born?"  

Mulder wrenched free. "That's funny, coming from a clone." 

A freight-train punch rammed Mulder's ribs. Another smashed 
his cheek. His legs wobbled. Gave out. He collapsed to his 
knees. Blood drooled from his mouth. 

Ca-Lo grabbed his shirtfront and hauled him to his feet. 
Saliva sprayed from his lips as he shouted, "I'm not a clone!"

Mulder stared into his hate-filled eyes. "You think *I'm* the 
clone?"

"Yes!"

Mulder lowered his voice to a near-whisper. "Then why are you 
so pissed off?"

Granite knuckles collided with his nose. He rocked on his 
heels. Blinked stars from his eyes. Hard fists pummeled his 
gut. A strike below the belt folded him in half. 

He yelped. Gripped his aching genitals. Fought the urge to 
vomit, to curl into a ball, to die.

A knee to the chin knocked him back. Two hard hits to the 
chest sent him careening into a marble column. His head 
cracked against the stone. He slipped to the floor. 

The room whirled and tilted. His vision blurred. He could 
barely make out Ca-Lo striding toward him. Too shaken to rise 
and defend himself, he dug the Taser from his boot. Aimed it.

Ca-Lo kicked the weapon from his hand. It skidded across the 
onyx floor and disappeared beneath a distant tank. "Tsk, tsk. 
You're not playing fair." He grabbed Mulder's upper arm and 
jerked him to his feet. "Time to congratulate me."

"You haven't won yet."

"Oh, but I have." Ca-Lo hauled him toward the stairs. Mulder's 
arm felt as if it were being wrenched from his shoulder. "You 
see, you're on your way to a privation chamber, whereas I am 
about to start my honeymoon. Dana and I are going to be 
married within the hour."

"She'd never agree to marry you." Mulder elbowed him in the 
ribs. Ca-Lo grunted and loosened his grip. Mulder tore free. 
Threw a punch that split Ca-Lo's lip. 

Ca-Lo struck back. A sledgehammer blow to the chest. Mulder 
teetered. 

"She'll agree."

"She doesn't love you." 

"No?" Ca-Lo seized Mulder's throat. Squeezed hard. Drove him 
backwards between the rows of tanks. "She slept with me." 

Mulder struggled against Ca-Lo's iron grip. Tried to pry his 
fingers loose. 

Ca-Lo rammed him into a pillar. Once. Twice. Mulder lashed out 
with ineffectual blows. 

"She came to my bed willingly," Ca-Lo sneered, lips bloodied, 
eyes glittering. Sweat slicked his bruised skin. His thumb 
pressed into Mulder's larynx. 

"Liar," Mulder rasped. 

The pressure intensified. "She's pregnant. Did you know that? 
Care to lay odds on who's the daddy?"

Gibson had warned Mulder about making this personal. 

Sorry, Gibson, it already is, Mulder thought as he clapped the 
heels of his hands against Ca-Lo's ears. Ca-Lo cried out. 
Released his hold. Staggered back.

Mulder pressed his advantage by bulldozing into him. Fists 
swinging, he bullied Ca-Lo toward the center of the room, 
connected every punch, relished the startled look on the other 
man's face. Nothing was going to stop him from kicking this 
fucker's ass back to hell. Nothing! "You bastard! You son-of-
a-bitch!" 

Blood spurted from Ca-Lo's nose. He raised his arms to protect 
his face. "You'll never see her again." He spat blood. "She's 
mine now." 

Mulder torpedoed into him, skull to gut. Inertia drove them 
both down an aisle. Mulder clamped his arms around Ca-Lo's 
hips and lifted him to his shoulder. Upended, Ca-Lo pounded 
his back. Mulder hurled him at the nearest tank. 

Ca-Lo crashed into it with a spine-jarring jolt. A satisfying 
groan exploded from his lungs. He dropped to hands and knees. 

The tank wobbled above him. Inside, the clone rocked on 
turbulent waters. A loud popping signaled a crack in the 
glass. The fissure expanded, snapped, zigzagged out and up, 
cobwebbing the glass. Green fluid spurted from the breach. A 
thin stream became a gusher when the tank suddenly let go and 
exploded. 

Metal brackets and shards of glass shot through the air. 
Mulder ducked. Ca-Lo was struck from behind. He howled and 
fell face down. Rushing water pinned him in place. 

The tank drained quickly and the clone slid out. It landed 
with a slap on the floor beside Ca-Lo, its eyes wide and 
staring, mouth gaping like a suffocating fish.  

Ca-Lo lay motionless. Mulder felt for a pulse. He was alive, 
but wouldn't be going anywhere soon. A nasty head wound ran 
the length of his brow. A halo of blood, thinned by the water 
from the tank, was pooling around his head. 

"Looks like you were wrong, bro. Scully's mine. Now and 
forever."

Mulder straightened and surveyed the room. His heart told him 
to go find Scully, but his gut was saying he shouldn't leave. 
Not yet. There was something else here, something important. 
Having learned long ago to trust his instincts, he headed for 
the glowing computer where he'd spotted Ca-Lo earlier. "Let's 
see what had you so upset."

He followed the monitor's blue light, leaving a trail of wet 
footprints. Like every tank in the room, this one contained a 
clone with a smooth, expressionless face. Despite the lack of 
detail, there was something familiar about it. 

"Cassandra?"

Thick glass separated her head from the computer, which Mulder 
discovered displayed an encrypted file and a prompt for a 
password. 

"Deja vu."

He moved to the keyboard. Would typing in the correct password 
awaken all the clones? Unleash another disaster? Or would the 
opposite be true? Could he shut this place down, destroy these 
clones? 

His fingers hovered above the controls, waiting for 
inspiration to strike. 

Another Bible reference? Something about Cassandra? 

Whatever the password, Ca-Lo hadn't known it, which was 
curious. The aliens clearly hadn't wanted any fingers in this 
particular pie, not even their top-ranking officer.

"A locked door requires a key." The disembodied voice came 
from behind him. 

He spun to find Albert Hosteen walking toward him.

"Jesus, Albert, you scared the crap out of me."

Hosteen chuckled and moved to stand beside him. He tapped a 
finger on the control panel. "Here."

There was a small hole in the faceplate, easy to overlook or 
mistake for a screw hole. 

"What is it?"

"A keyhole."

The perfect size for the artifact Gibson had found at 
Kits'iil. Mulder dug the transponder from his pocket and 
inserted it into the hole.

The monitor flashed and the archive opened. 

"New Destiny Project?"

"Yes." 

Mulder skimmed the report.

"Team of terrestrial scientists...under the direction of C. 
Spender-- Old Smokey's legacy lives on, I see."

"There is more."

"Cells from a ten-week-old fetus...harvested in utero..." He 
paused, stunned. "Teena Mulder? What is this?" 

"The truth." 

Mulder swallowed hard. He felt as if Ca-Lo's hand still 
gripped his throat. "Nuclei from the cells of Teena Mulder's 
fetus were injected into de-nucleated embryonic cells. The 
resulting embryos were implanted into a group of specially 
selected women." Realization dawned. "That fetus was me, 
wasn't it?"

"Yes."

"It says Cassandra Spender received one of these experimental 
embryos. Hers was the only survivor."

He recalled meeting Cassandra for the first time, five years 
ago in her hospital room. She had tried to tell him about 
this. "I know what I've experienced," she had said. "I have 
been through the terror and the tests more times than I can 
count. I have had an unborn fetus taken from me."

He hadn't believed her at the time; he had been questioning 
all of his beliefs. 

Clearly, he should have listened.    

"On April 13, 1962, Subject 12 -- Ashkii XII/Ca-Lo -- was 
removed from Cistern CXIV." Mulder turned to Hosteen. "That's 
six months after I was born."

"Yes."

"Ca-Lo is my clone."

"Yes."

"And this is the answer to the world's problems?"

Hosteen nodded.

"But...I don't see how..."

"It is not for you to see. It is for him." Hosteen pointed 
across the room to where Ca-Lo lay in a pool of his own blood.

Implanted embryos? Unwitting test subjects? 

"Is...is Scully pregnant?"

"Yes."

The news arrowed Mulder's heart. "With his child?"

Hosteen shrugged. 

"You don't know?"

The old Indian's body began to fade. 

"No, don't go," Mulder begged.

"You do not need me any longer." He shimmered like the night 
sky. Mulder was able to see right through him. 

He groped for Hosteen's arm, but his hand fell on nothing. No 
pulse coursed through the old man's veins. No heat emanated 
from his skin. This was Hosteen's soul. Pinpricks in the 
cosmos. Starlight.

"Wait. Is the answer in there? In the archive?"

"No." Hosteen's voice came to him like seed on the wind. "The 
answer is in your heart."

The last glimmer of light disappeared. Mulder was alone.

And he knew what he must do. 

It was time to find Scully. It was time to ask for her 
forgiveness. And to forgive her.  

ABADDON'S REIGN
BOOK VIII: MICHAEL AND HIS ANGELS (PART 3)

*    *    *

CA-LO'S QUARTERS 

"Please, Lady Dana, please put on the gown," Ulso signed. 
Orders were orders. If Master Ca-Lo wanted this ornery Earth 
woman washed and dressed, then she must obey. "It is a 
beautiful garment. Look, look at this beadwork." She ran long 
fingers over the glittering bodice. "Stitcher 16 sewed each by 
hand. She is skilled with her needle, don't you think? The 
most skilled aboard Tse'Bit'a'i'. She stitches for the 
Overseers themselves. These beads are the finest silica-glass 
in the Sector. Bursar XII said so. See the color? It matches 
your eyes!"

The Earth woman ignored her and paced Ca-Lo's bedroom like a 
lamb in one of Butcher 6's slaughtering pens. She kept her 
head turned away from the pretty gown, which was draped 
carefully over the bed to prevent it from wrinkling before the 
ceremony. 

Great Dragon, the ceremony was scheduled to begin in one-quarter 
hour. And the Earth woman was still wearing her dirty terrestrial 
clothes: loose-fitting trousers, a pair of scuffed, dusty boots, 
and an oversized, military jacket -- which did little to hide 
the alarming swell of her belly. Her knotted hair was sticking 
out in all directions. Her skin was dirty. Worst of all, her body 
carried the sharp, musky odor of human sweat.

Ulso breathed through her mouth to avoid the smell and signed 
frantically. "Master Ca-Lo will be here any minute. He will be 
very angry if you are not ready." She wanted to add, "And I 
will be punished along with you if you continue to stall." 
Instead, she stepped directly into Lady Dana's path to halt 
her pacing. "Please, please put on the dress!"

"Move," Lady Dana ordered. When she did not budge, the Earth 
woman huffed with annoyance, turned and strode from the 
bedroom into the Master's study. 

Divine Angels, what to do now? How was Dibeh able to manage 
these high-strung terrestrials?

The thought of her young friend plucked at Ulso's heart. Dibeh 
had not returned with Ca-Lo and the Earth woman. And no 
mention had been made of her. Ulso feared the young aide may 
have been given to a new master or sent to the Portal of 
Solitude to serve out some sort of punishment. After all, it 
was such an easy thing to anger humans. They had tempers 
shorter than the whiskers of a than-zie.     

Grabbing a hairbrush from the lavatory, Ulso hurried to the 
study and offered it to the Earth woman. 

She took the brush and, without a moment's hesitation, hurled 
it across the room, where it hit the computer and cracked the 
screen.

"Mistress! Please! You *must* ready yourself." Ulso recovered 
the hairbrush. There was nothing to be done about the broken 
monitor. She would sweep up the mess later and send down to 
Supply for a replacement. 

The Earth woman's frown deepened. "Leave...me...alone," she 
said, emphasizing each word as if Ulso were too stupid to 
understand plain English.

"But, Mistress, surely it is considered an honor to become the 
Master's Number One Consort." The moment she had drawn the 
words in the air, she regretted them. She did not want to hear 
any details about the physical inclinations of humans. Master 
Ca-Lo's sexual appetite had been the subject of gossip for 
years. Ulso found it wholly disgusting. No wonder Lady Dana 
was being obstinate. Who would willingly participate in such a 
revolting act? "I will draw your bath while you undress."

Ulso had not taken two steps toward the adjoining room when 
the entrance buzzer sounded.

Lady Dana's eyes darted to the door. "Is it Ca-Lo?"

This Earth woman must be feeble-minded. "Master Ca-Lo would 
not buzz to get into his own quarters," Ulso signed and went 
to the door. She punched the appropriate code and the door 
slid open. Standing at the threshold was a short human male 
Ulso did not recognize. Beside him was Dibeh.

"Young One! I thought you were lost to us!" Overjoyed at the 
sight of her friend, Ulso grasped Dibeh's hands in greeting.

Dibeh grinned and squeezed her fingers in return. 

Their happy reunion was interrupted when Lady Dana asked, 
"Gibson? Is it really you?" 

"It's me. And Dibeh." He regarded them all with perhaps the 
most somber eyes Ulso had ever seen. "We've come to rescue you 
and Skinner."

Distrust thinned Lady Dana's lips. There would be no happy 
hand-squeezing for these two. "Oh really? Where exactly did 
you come from?" she demanded. "And how did you get on board? 
How did you know I was here?"

"I can explain all that later. We don't have much time." 
 
"Explain now, or I'm not going anywhere."

"Ship Security already knows we're here. We have to 
leave...now."

Lady Dana crossed her arms and remained unmoved.

"You think I might be a shapeshifter," the one called Gibson 
said.

"Or worse. I've been fooled before."

"I don't know what to say to convince you. You'll have to 
trust me."

"A wise man taught me to trust no one." 

Dibeh tugged at Gibson's coat sleeve. "Give her Master 
Mulder's weapon," she signed. "Perhaps she will trust you then."

Ulso wanted to ask Dibeh who in the name of the Red Dragon was 
Master Mulder, but before she could raise her hand, Gibson 
handed Lady Dana his gun.

"Okay?" he asked.

She inspected the gun. Apparently satisfied, she tucked it 
into her waistband at the back of her trousers. "Okay, how do 
we get off this damned ship?"

"Dibeh will show us the way."

Worried anew for her friend, Ulso signed, "You are leaving?" 

"I must help them," Dibeh responded.

"Skinner's been taken prisoner," Lady Dana said. "He's in 
something Ca-Lo calls a 'stasis' cell." 

"He is in the Portal of Solitude," Dibeh signed. "I know the 
way, but..."

"We can't all go," Gibson finished for her. "It would draw too 
much attention."

Dibeh nodded. 

"I won't leave the ship without him," Lady Dana warned.

"I can free him," Dibeh said, "but I must do it alone."

"Dibeh, you cannot go to the Portal of Solitude," Ulso 
objected. "Only Feeders are allowed into the caldarium."

"I know what I'm doing. I have been there before."

"When?"

"Master Ca-Lo sent me. I delivered a necklace to Lady Dana. 
The one she is wearing now." Dibeh pointed to the delicate 
chain around the Earth woman's neck. In what seemed an 
automatic gesture, Lady Dana's hand rose to cover it. 
"Commander Skinner will need some clothes. Perhaps one of 
Master Ca-Lo's uniforms would do?"

"Dibeh, we cannot steal from Master Ca-Lo's closet."

"Dear friend, this is very important. Commander Skinner saved 
my life. Not just once, but twice. Now I must save his. Please 
help me."

If what Dibeh said was true, and Ulso had no reason to doubt 
her, then she must help her young friend. "Wait here. I'll 
fetch something." 

She hurried to the bedroom, where she removed a shirt and 
trousers from the wardrobe. She plucked a pair of boots from 
the floor beside the bed. The leather was buttery soft from 
years of wear, but spotless, polished to a high gloss by Old 
De-Gahi for the wedding ceremony. Ulso tucked everything into 
an empty laundry sack and brought it to Dibeh.

Dibeh hooked the bag's woven strap over her shoulder. "You 
must show Master Gibson and Lady Dana the way to Ground 
Transport."

"Me? But I am under orders to get Lady Dana ready for a very 
important ceremony. She cannot leave the ship."

"You must do this, Ulso. As a favor to me."

Steal from the Master? Override orders? It was unheard of! But 
Dibeh was her dearest friend. And the young aide seemed 
determined to help these humans. "All right. I will show them 
the way."

"Thank you!" Dibeh smiled broadly. "I will meet you there as 
soon as I can."

"What about Mulder?" Gibson asked.

"Mulder's on board?" Lady Dana asked, a mixture of relief and 
alarm in her eyes.

"I'll find him, too, and bring him safely to you," Dibeh 
promised, her smile gone. "Keep Lady Dana safe, Master Gibson. 
Please."

"I will." He fell silent and cocked his head as if listening 
to faraway whispers. "Security's on this deck," he warned. 
"They'll be here any minute."

"Then we must hurry." Dibeh gave Ulso a quick embrace. "Take 
them to Transport via the servants' elevator," she signed when 
they parted. "The guards will not think to look there."

"Be careful, my young friend. I wish to see you again."

"And I you."

"Let's go," Gibson urged. 

Lady Dana hung back.

"Scully?" Exasperation furrowed Gibson's brow.

"Hold on."

"Scully, there isn't ti--"

She vanished into the bedroom, paying no more heed to Gibson 
than she had earlier to Ulso. The twitter of Master Ca-Lo's 
birds came from beyond the arched door. Metal hinges squeaked 
as the cage was opened. A frantic finch soared into the study. 
It circled the room, looking for escape. When it found the open 
door, it disappeared into the hall. A second bird followed it. 
Then a third. There would be punishments all around when Master 
Ca-Lo discovered Lady Dana *and* his prized birds were gone. 

The Earth woman strode from the bedroom, a look of smug 
victory on her face. "Now we can go."

*    *    *

ABLUTION POOLS

Ca-Lo came to in a puddle of Ablution fluid and his own blood. 
His head ached. He probed his brow with shaky fingers and 
discovered a painful, four-inch gash above his left eye.

He struggled to rise to his knees. Glass shards slipped from 
his back and tinkled to the floor. His stomach threatened to 
expel his noonday meal at the sight of the dead clone lying on 
the floor beside him. Exposed to the air, its skin had become 
crinkled and dark. The shade and texture told Ca-Lo it had 
been out of its tank -- and he had been unconscious -- for 
about ten or fifteen minutes. Any longer and the clone would 
be as black as a rotted plum.

Temples throbbing, Ca-Lo rose unsteadily to his feet and 
scanned the room and the mezzanine above. There was no sign of 
Mulder. He took a tentative step, rode out a wave of 
dizziness, then followed a trail of wet prints to Cistern 
CVII: Cassandra's tank. 

The clone appeared just as he had left it, seemingly asleep in 
its artificial womb, its expression bland, devoid of emotion 
and spirit.

Using the tank for support, Ca-Lo walked on wobbly legs to the 
control panel. What he saw there set his hands quaking. The 
NDP archive was open. At last, proof of who he was and where 
he had come from was within reach...thanks to his loathsome 
brother, who had somehow gained access.

Ca-Lo propped himself on stiffened arms and began to read. 

ARCHIVE: New Destiny Project
03.27.61: Terrestrial scientists V. Nordlinger and E. 
Openshaw, under the direction of C. Spender, harvested cells 
from 70-day specimen in utero.

"The mother. Who is the mother?"

Ca-Lo scanned for her name. 

When he found it, the truth cut him as deeply and painfully as 
an Appraiser's scalpel. The child's mother was not Cassandra 
Spender, but Teena Mulder.

"No."

Nuclei from donor cells injected into de-nucleated embryonic 
cells; resulting embryos implanted into human females -- Group 
1A: L. Atkinson, R. Curtis, T. Fuentes...C. Spender... 

"No, please..."

05.15.61: 12 surrogates relocated to Tse'Bit'a'i; fetuses 
harvested; stored AP.
05.15.61: Clones 2,5,8,9 DECEASED
05.17.61: Clones 1,10 DECEASED
05.18.61: Clones 3,4,6,11 DECEASED
05.20.61: Clone 7 DECEASED

05.20.61: Cistern CXIV alt. Acell .835+, Bio 227a-tt, Tach px  

04.13.62: Clone 12 [Ashkii XII/Ca-Lo] removed from Cistern 
CXIV. 

SOLE SURVIVOR 

"No, no, no!" 

He was a clone. A soulless empty vessel. Detestable. A second-
rate reproduction.  

His universe dwindled to this one inalterable truth. He was 
not human. He was the product of science. An experiment. It 
was too much, this reality, this hurtful truth.  It was too 
painful. Too unfair. Blood thundered in his ears like a 
prisoner who pummels the bars of his cell.

Lost and furious, he rammed his fist into the monitor. The 
glass gave way, the point of impact marked by his bloodied 
knuckles. Grabbing hold of the console, he ripped it from its 
frame. Wires, torn from the tank, dangled like severed 
arteries. The aeration filter fell silent. The clone jerked 
within its phosphorescent brine as if startled by the sudden 
quiet. 

Ca-Lo hefted the control panel over his head, intent on 
hurling it across the room, as if he might simultaneously cast 
off his anguish and resentment with it. But a slender piece of 
metal dropped from it and hit the floor with a clink, freezing 
him in place, arms extended toward the ceiling, console heavy 
and awkward, as it bounced away.

A transponder, of ancient design. He released his hold on the 
panel, letting it fall behind him. He strode forward, away 
from the spray of computer keys, processors, and memory cards, 
to scoop up the golden key. It seemed to warm in his hand when 
he ran his thumb over its meticulously inscribed Nih-hi-cho 
symbols. 

They spelled out a familiar scripture: "He who conquers the 
beast and its image and its number, shall stand upon a sea of 
glass."

Transponders such as this were rare, destroyed by the Ancient 
Ones for their blasphemous inscriptions. As far as Ca-Lo knew, 
only one existed aboard Tse'Bit'a'i' -- the key he had loaned 
Dibeh when he sent her with Dana's necklace to the Portal of 
Solitude. 

Was this that key? He tried to remember if she had returned it 
to his desk. He had been distracted at the time, by the news 
of Dana's release and pregnancy. Surely the aide would have 
brought it back. Hybrids were not deceptive creatures. It must 
have been stolen. Stolen from his desk by Mulder, to be used 
here, to gain entry to the archive. 

But if Mulder had gotten the key from the desk, then he must 
have been in Ca-Lo's quarters. Which meant he had found and 
freed Dana.

The air seemed to thicken. Ca-Lo struggled to breathe. She 
couldn't be gone. He could not lose her. Life without her was 
too lonely to contemplate.

Lightheaded and afraid, he loped to a com unit by the stairs 
and buzzed Barrett.

"Sir?" 

"Send a man to my quarters. Tell me if Dana Scully is there."

"Sir, I'm in your quarters right now. No one is here."

"No one?" 

Too late. He was too late. It was all coming apart. His plans, 
his future... He was losing everything. 

He staggered away from the com unit. His heart felt as if it 
were being torn from his chest. Anger sizzled down his spine, 
along his limbs, numbed his hands and feet. 

"Nooooo!" 

Outraged, he targeted the nearest tank. Threw himself at it, 
shoulder to glass, putting all his weight and every ounce of 
fury he possessed into upending it. 

The tank wobbled. Toppled. Exploded against the stone floor. 
Fluid spewed across onyx tile, taking the clone with it. 

Splashing through brine and glass, Ca-Lo rammed another tank. 
Knocked it from its base. Glass struck stone and shattered. A 
second clone rolled to its ultimate death. 

There was no reason to feel guilty. Nothing real lived in this 
abhorrent chamber. Nothing here was worth saving. These were 
soulless monsters. It didn't matter that he was one of them. 
In fact, it seemed appropriate. Poetic justice. Grotesque 
beasts slaughtered by one of their own kind. It was his right 
to destroy them, wasn't it?  

Another tank toppled beneath his hands. And another. It felt 
good to destroy them. To demolish the Overseers' heinous 
creations. Down the row he went, smashing one after the next 
until his shoulders ached and his strength was nearly spent. 
In a final burst of rage, he shoved one last tank from its 
base.

It overturned and the clone tumbled out upon a wave of broken 
glass and phosphorescence. It rolled several times, its 
jouncing skull thudding sickeningly against the floor. It 
skidded to a stop, on its back, arms thrown wide, mouth agape. 
Only then did Ca-Lo recognize it and realize what he had done.

"Mother..." 

He lurched forward, knelt and lifted Cassandra into his arms. 
She weighed very little, it seemed, and she flopped like a 
rubber mannequin, not flesh and bone. He cradled her against 
his chest and carried her to the nearest tank, one unharmed by 
his rampage. Slowly, he lowered her in. Releasing his grip, 
she sank down. Bounced lightly atop the clone underneath. For 
an instant she appeared almost relieved, but it was an 
illusion. Her eyes were glazed. Her limbs drifted on 
artificial currents. There was no life in her. She was dead. 
Ca-Lo had killed the one person who had ever truly cared about 
him.

"Damn you!" he shouted at the Overseers, at all the Nih-hi-
cho.   

It was time to end this horror, this sadistic agony. He would 
make them pay for what they had done to her, to him, to all 
humankind. He would make them pay dearly.

*   *   *

DECK 120
GROUND TRANSPORTATION

Scully and Gibson followed the hybrid aide's instructions and 
exited the elevator on the ship's lowest level. The aide had 
refused to accompany them down, preferring to remain behind on 
Deck 4. As it turned out, they needed no further guidance. The 
elevator opened directly onto the garage, a dimly lit space 
the size of a football field and one-third full of assorted 
military vehicles -- jeeps, vans, heavy armored trucks, some 
outfitted with munitions, a handful of diplomatic cars and a 
seemingly out-of-place Blackhawk helicopter. No personnel 
patrolled the deck. One of a dozen thirty-foot-high doors was 
open on the far side of the bay. Through it Scully could see a 
fleet of colossal alien ships hunkered on the runway, silvery 
and surreal in the moonlight. 

A northerly wind carried the scent of sea water from Great 
Salt Lake into the garage. The smell reminded Scully of tide 
pools she'd explored as a girl, inhabited by hermit crabs and 
barnacles abandoned by outgoing tides. She glanced at the 
garage's high ceiling and imagined the hundred-plus decks 
overhead. Which one held Mulder? 

"He's on his way," Gibson assured, clearly reading her mind. 
He set out across the garage at a trot, head bobbing as he 
looked for a suitable vehicle for their escape. "Keys are on 
the dash," he announced.

"Good." She hung back, just outside the elevator. A tingle of 
foreboding crawled across her scalp and set every hair on end. 
"I'm not leaving without Mulder and Skinner," she reminded 
him.

Not when they were so close.
 
Gibson slowed and cocked an ear. "Security's coming."

She moved away from the bank of elevators, out into the 
garage. "How much time do we have?"

"Not long." Gibson resumed his search.

Scully headed toward him. "Is Mulder on his way?"

"I think so." Gibson swiveled to look at the elevator. "Get 
down!"

She dropped to a crouch beside a four-man cargo carrier. In 
its rearview mirror she saw elevator doors glide open. Six 
uniformed soldiers stormed out. They were armed with automatic 
rifles.

Thirty yards ahead, Gibson ducked behind a troop truck. She 
scuttled closer, trying to stay low.

"You there!" shouted one of the soldiers, spotting her. "Stop 
or I'll shoot."

She broke into a run. A warning shot whizzed past her shoulder 
and ricocheted off a fender in a spray of sparks. Head down, 
arms cradling her swollen belly, she zigzagged around a 
tanker, past a van and a jeep.

The soldiers fanned out. In a matter of minutes, they would 
have her trapped, cut off from Gibson and any hope of escape.

At the sound of another rifle blast, she squeezed between a 
passenger van and an armored truck. She leaned against the 
truck's front grill, trying to catch her breath.    

Gibson suddenly appeared at her side. "No time." He grabbed 
her hand and tugged her down a row of cargo trucks. "This 
way."

Gunshots sprayed the air, puncturing metal and breaking glass. 
Gibson guided them to a black and tan Humvee fifty yards from 
the open door. He yanked the passenger door open and thrust 
her toward the front seat. "Get in." 

A bullet ripped through the vehicle's fabric top. Another 
shattered the rear window. 

"Keep your head down," Gibson demanded. He circled the front 
bumper and scrambled into the driver seat.

"You know how to drive this thing?" Scully asked, buckling up.

"Sorta." He grabbed the key off the dash and shoved it in the 
ignition. A twist of his wrist and the engine roared to life.

"The door's closing!" she shouted to be heard over a sudden 
high-pitched whine.

Gibson forced the stick shift into first, ground the gears. 
The jeep shuddered. 

"We're not going make it," she warned. The door was halfway to 
the floor. 

Gibson pressed the accelerator. Tires squealed and the Hummer 
shot forward. He steered toward the closing door. 

A bullet punched out a side window. Glass sprayed the seats. 

"Shit!" Gibson clamped a hand over his ear. Blood oozed from 
between his fingers. 

Another round sailed through the cab. Gibson swerved, clipped 
a jeep. Caught its bumper. Metal grated on metal as the jeep 
was dragged several yards. It dislodged with a wrenching 
groan. 

"Watch out!" Scully yelled, when a soldier dodged in front of 
the car.

Gibson plowed on, striking the man and knocking him off his 
feet. The soldier windmilled into a row of motorcycles and 
toppled them like dominoes.

"Duck!" Gibson hunched over the wheel and gunned the engine. 
The Humvee sailed beneath the closing bay door. Its roof 
caught on the lower edge and tore away.          

Wind whipped Scully's hair as she turned in her seat to look 
back at the ship. The bay door slammed shut behind them, 
sending up dust and blocking the soldiers' pursuit.

"You okay?" Gibson up-shifted and pushed the accelerator to 
the floor.

"Yes, but..." They'd left Skinner and Mulder behind.

"I'm sorry, Scully. Really. But I promised Mulder I'd get you 
out of there."

"We have to go back."

"We can't."

They sped down the runway, dwarfed by alien ships. Scully 
counted twelve. Twelve hulking war machines.

What chance did Mulder have against them? Tears stung her 
eyes. "Then where are we going?" 

"Safe Camp. Your son is there." 

*   *   *

With her laundry sack bumping against her left hip, Dibeh ran 
faster than she had ever run in her life. It was almost as if 
she were being spirited to the Kitchen on the back of the 
Great Red Dragon himself. Indeed, perhaps he was there with 
her, helping her. "You have reason yet to live," he had 
prophesied when she was ready to surrender her life to the 
cold waters of Bear Lake. Before Walter Skinner rescued her.

Now she would save him. 

"Whoa, Dibeh!" Cook VI signed when she burst into the Kitchen 
and crashed headlong into a cart of clean silver. "Where are 
you going in such a hurry?"

"I..." For the first time in her life, she would tell a lie. 
Heart thudding in her chest, she signed, "Master Ca-Lo wishes 
me to feed Prisoner Walter Skinner, ma'am."

"Then you have arrived just in time. The Feeders are leaving 
for the Portal now." Cook VI indicated the service lift where 
a group of two dozen Feeders, dressed in sackcloth shifts and 
veils, loaded bags of na-a-jah into the car.

Cook VI pressed a chip that corresponded to Skinner's cell 
into Dibeh's hand. "Grab a cover-up and some gloves. Veils are 
on the shelf over there."

"Thank you, ma'am." Dibeh pocketed the chip.

Cook VI poked at Dibeh's laundry bag. "Do you wish to leave 
your belongings here?" 

"That's very kind, ma'am, but I am under orders to deliver 
clean garments to Master Ca-Lo." The second lie came easier 
than the first. "He is meeting me at the Portal."

Cook VI's eyes narrowed with obvious suspicion. Such an odd 
arrangement was highly unlikely. Laundry services took care of 
pick-ups and deliveries. "Well, if it is the Master's wish, 
you had better not keep him waiting."

"Yes, ma'am."

Dibeh snagged a shift from the storage rack and quickly 
slipped it over her head. She donned a veil and gloves, then 
joined the others in the lift.

It took less than a minute for the service elevator to descend 
to Deck 42. The door slid open and each Feeder shouldered a 
bag of na-a-jah before exiting the car. Dibeh did likewise and 
followed the others into the corridor. 

At the sound of clomping boots, they shuffled to one side, out 
of the way. Four security guards bustled past. Dibeh 
recognized Hartley from Transport in the lead. Bowing her 
head, she hoped he wouldn't notice her.

She needn't have worried. Dressed in her veil, she was 
indistinguishable from the other Feeders. Hartley passed 
without a glance in her direction.

The Feeders continued on to the Portal of Solitude. At the 
giant gate, they waited with eyes lowered for a Greeter to let 
them in. Only Dibeh had the courage to lift her gaze to the 
immense, carved door. As before, the Red Dragon seemed to 
peer down at her, eyes benevolent, expression calm. Confronted 
by his kindly stare, she felt her heart lighten. He would take 
care of her, here and in the afterlife, she was certain. She 
need only trust his divine powers.   

A Greeter opened the door. "Late, as usual," he chastised and 
quickly counted heads, his blue-nailed finger pointing to each 
in turn. He frowned and counted a second time. "There appears 
to be one too many of you. Present your numbers."

They held forth their small hexagonal chips. He pulled a palm-
roster from the pocket of his brightly-colored trousers and 
double-checked their numbers against his list.

"Strange." The Greeter's long nose whistled as he bent to 
scrutinize Dibeh's chip. "My records indicate Commander Ca-Lo 
left orders that only he was to be allowed access to this 
particular prisoner."    

"I am Master Ca-Lo's aide, sir," she signed. "He sent me in 
his stead."

"Is that so?" The Greeter pursed his lipsticked mouth and 
glanced again at his roster.

"You may call him, of course, to confirm," she signed, certain 
he would not. Only the bravest of souls would dare interrupt 
Master Ca-Lo's busy schedule to question his orders.

"Hmm, yes, well..." He was reluctant, just as she had 
predicted. "No need. You may go through. All of you."

Dibeh sent up a silent prayer of thanks and hurried to find 
Skinner's cell.

As before, the Greeter's disdain for the hybrid Feeders drove 
him from the caldarium while they went about their business. 
He retreated through an arched doorway to a back chamber. The 
Feeders dispersed, spreading out across the vast amber deck. 
There were no iron-jawed guards in the niches around the 
caldarium today, much to Dibeh's relief. They had gone to fetch 
and tote for the Society during their celebration, no doubt. 

One by one, each Feeder found her appropriate hexagon, knelt 
and fitted her chip into place. The apertures opened, giving 
the glassy deck the appearance of a cratered moon. 

After a couple of false starts, Dibeh located Skinner's cell. 
Her fingers shook as she inserted her chip, remembering the 
awful state in which she had found Lady Dana. Would Skinner be 
as weak and pale? As the aperture opened, a sigh of foul-
smelling mist escaped. It ruffled Dibeh's veil as it wafted 
toward the stained glass dome overhead. 

Dibeh felt a stab of sympathy when the mist cleared and she 
could see Skinner lying in the bottom of his fleshy cell, 
curled on his side, sticky with protein ointment. She reached 
in and yanked the bio-monitor from his spine, causing his eyes 
to open. He groaned as she pulled out the tubes that aided his 
respiration and the elimination of his bodily wastes, and made 
gagging noises when she withdrew the long feeding umbilicus 
from his throat.

"What's happening?" he rasped, when freed of the umbilicus. 
"Who are you?"

She lifted her veil, hoping he would recognize her.

"Dibeh?"

She nodded emphatically, then reached in to help him out of 
the cell. He crawled away from the aperture's edge, groggy and 
slow-moving. His time in the cell had been relatively short; 
he was not nearly as weak as Lady Dana had been. He would not 
need a Healer to mend his muscles. 

She pushed Ca-Lo's clothes toward him. Time was short. Other 
Feeders were already looking in their direction. It was 
unlikely any of them would break their routine to run off and 
report them to a Greeter, but even so, Dibeh did not want to 
delay.

As fast as he was able, Skinner tugged on the pants and boots. 
Globs of buttery protein ointment slowed his progress and 
stained the knees and thighs of his trousers. Before he could 
pull the shirt over his head, the Greeter reappeared in his 
arched doorway. 

"What's going there?" he called out, long-nailed finger aimed 
in her direction. He started toward them, his pointed shoes 
clacking with determination.

Dibeh tugged at Skinner's arm and together they ran for the 
main gate. His stride was wobbly and his breathing erratic, 
but with his longer legs he was able to keep up with her. They 
passed through the portal, into the corridor. She led Skinner 
along the serpentine hall to the servants' lift, the Greeter's 
frantic screams growing faint behind them. 

The elevator door was closed when they got there. She pounded 
the button to bring the car down and prayed no one would be on 
it when it arrived. 

"Come on, hurry up," Skinner whispered, watching the numbers 
change. Thirty-nine, forty, forty-one, forty-two. The car 
hummed to a stop and the doors slid open.

"Mulder?" Skinner asked when he saw the bruised and bloodied 
man inside the car.

Was it Master Mulder? Or was it Ca-Lo? The man smiled and 
greeted Skinner like an old friend. 

"We've been looking for you, Walter. Good to see you alive."

"We?" Skinner seemed hesitant to step into the car.

"We as in me, Gibson, Dibeh." He pointed to her. "That is you 
under that veil, isn't it?"

She removed the veil and smiled.

"Where's Gibson?" Skinner asked, still suspicious.

"Getting Scully off the ship, I hope. Come on, Walter. Don't 
be shy. Get your ass in here."

Reluctantly, Skinner stepped into the car. "How do I know 
you're who you say you are?" 

"Don't let the uniform fool you. It's me." He plucked at his 
dark shirt. "Looks like we go to the same tailor." Turning to 
Dibeh, he asked, "Which floor?"

She pushed the bottom-most button.

Moments later, the car arrived at Deck 120. The garage 
appeared deserted.

"Where are Scully and Gibson?" Skinner asked.

Mulder fingered what appeared to be a bullet hole in the wall 
beside the elevator. "Hopefully a long way from here." 

He moved out into the garage, inspecting the scene. "Tire 
marks." He pointed to the ground. "They lead to the bay door." 
He picked up his pace. His fingers caressed a cracked side 
mirror, a pocked tailgate, a shattered window. When something 
up ahead caught his eye, he broke into a limping run.

Skinner and Dibeh followed. 

"Someone's insurance rates are gonna go up." Mulder crouched 
to examine a torn fender. 

"It was dragged," Skinner said, indicating the scattered 
remains of a broken headlight several yards back.

"And we have a casualty," Mulder announced. Dibeh followed his 
gaze to where a soldier lay sprawled in a pool of dark blood 
beside a van. 

Mulder stooped and pressed a finger to the man's neck. "He's 
dead. Looks like he got in somebody's way." Standing, he 
pivoted to scrutinize the bay door. A smile crept across his 
face. "They got out. See that?" Crumpled metal and torn fabric 
littered the floor in front of the bay door. He went to it and 
toed the fabric with his boot. "If I'm not mistaken, this was 
once the roof of a Humvee. Which hit...here." He kicked the 
base of the bay door where bright metal showed through dark 
paint. "The door must've been coming down as they were driving 
out."

"How can you be sure it was them?"

"Who else would be running from these guys? It was them. I 
know it."

"Is that opinion based on facts or on a gut feeling?"

"Both." Mulder turned to the door and shouted, "Open!"

The massive door slid upward, metal scraping upon metal with 
an earsplitting squeal that echoed through the bay. A chilling 
wind blew in from outside. It snatched at Dibeh's hair and bit 
her skin, smelling like the salty lake where she and Lady Dana 
had nearly died. Battleships crowded the dark runway, and 
beyond them, Harmony I loomed large and foreboding, its 
ramparts painted silver by spotlights, the parapets looking 
like giant teeth.  

Skinner seemed not to notice the view outside. He was gaping 
at Mulder. "You sure you're not Ca-Lo?" 

"Don't worry. Ca-Lo's facedown in a room full of clones. I 
suggest we get out of here before he comes to. Pick a car, 
Walter, any car. Keys seem to be on the dash."

Skinner didn't hesitate. He targeted the bay's lone 
helicopter. "I prefer that."

"Not very fuel efficient."

"But plenty of room for passengers."

"You thinking about picking up hitchhikers?"

"There're prisoners on Antelope Island. Human prisoners. 
Friends of mine, soldiers under my command." He smiled 
at Mulder. "Mind taking a little side trip?"

"You know me. I'm a sucker for the long way 'round."

Skinner chuffed and extended an arm toward the helicopter. 
"Dibeh?"

She looked at the world beyond the bay door. What was out 
there for her? More places like Safe Camp, where the humans 
hated her, where she had not a single companion, where no one 
understood her language? Here she had duties. A meaningful 
life. And friends who understood her words and her heart. She 
did not belong in the outside world, among Terrestrials. She 
belonged here. Tse'Bit'a'i' was her home, had always been her 
home, and she would stay here until the Red Dragon called her 
to his Divine Kingdom.

The Red Dragon had spared her from the cold depths of Bear 
Lake, she realized, to save the life of Walter Skinner and 
guide him and Master Mulder to safety. But they no longer 
needed her help.  

Feeling no regret, she shook her head and took a step back.

"You sure?" Mulder asked.

She smiled and nodded.

He reached out and caressed her cheek. "Thank you, Dibeh. For 
everything." 

"Hurry, Master, you must go," she signed back. "It is not safe 
for you here."

Whether he understood or not was unclear, but his hand dropped 
away. A mix of appreciation and sadness shone in his eyes.

His gratitude gave her the courage to lightly nudge him toward 
the helicopter.

"Okay, okay. I'm going. Take care of yourself, Dibeh." 

Mulder and Skinner crossed the garage and boarded the 
helicopter. With a wave in her direction, Skinner started the 
engine. The noisy rotors began to spin faster and faster, 
whipping her hair and clothes. The helipcopter lifted from the 
ground and swung through the air toward the bay door.

It flew out into the black night. Dibeh returned Skinner's 
wave, grateful for his understanding, hopeful for his future.

Feeling lighthearted for the first time in weeks, she spun on 
her heel, ran to the elevator and pressed the button that 
would take her back to the Servant's Deck.

*    *    *

Ca-Lo drew stares from the Officer in Charge when he strode 
onto the Bridge, his uniform soaked in Ablution fluid, his 
face battered and dripping blood. 

"Get out," he ordered and took a seat at the command console.

"Sir?" The Navigator gaped from his post at the helm.

"I said get out!"

Nervously, the Navigator and the Weapons Specialist rose from 
their chairs.

"You, too." Ca-Lo pointed to the OC.

"Sir, this is highly irreg--"

"Vacate the Bridge or I'll have Security escort you to a 
stasis cell, where you'll spend the rest of your miserable 
life wishing you hadn't disobeyed my orders."

"Y-yes, sir." The OC joined the others in the elevator. It 
closed and whisked them away.

"Isolate the Bridge," Ca-Lo commanded the computer. Armored 
door-covers hissed into place; deadbolts snap-clamped against 
their strike plates. Ca-Lo felt his pulse steady as he flicked 
an array of switches and powered up the engines.

A deep thrumming beat in the bowels of the ship, vibrating the 
control panel beneath his fingertips. 

Lights blinked on his com-unit -- incoming calls from 
Engineering and Security. 

"Bite me, motherfuckers." 

Ca-Lo entered a password that disabled all on-board and ship-
to-ship communication. 

"Engage thrusters."

The ship lurched and hovered for a moment, millimeters above 
the runway. He checked the HUD. Speed, angle, heading and 
thrust -- all appeared as they should. He slammed the 
throttle. Tse'Bit'a'i' rocketed straight up.

At 50,000 feet, he returned the ship to hover mode. 

"Activate view screen." 

The Armada's eleven glorious warships crystallized on the 
eight-by-eight monitor located between the radar and the 
universal compass on his console. Destroying the Armada would 
be easy. Several terrestrial expressions popped into his head: 
a cake walk, child's play, like shooting fish in a barrel. 

The Nih-hi-cho had their own aphorism for such occasions: As 
effortless as bending a human mind. 

Cruel, condescending fuckers. They were going to pay for their 
tyranny. Always inferior tacticians, their weakness would now 
be their undoing. It had been folly to gather the warships 
together and then leave them attended by only a handful of 
hybrid aides and human personnel. The Overseers had pulled all 
others from regular duty to cater to their physical needs during 
the ceremony. And why not? The terrestrial army had been quashed. 
There was no one left to threaten the Nih-hi-cho. Or so the they 
believed. Their arrogance disallowed an attack, especially from 
Ca-Lo, their top ranking officer, the very man who had led them 
to victory. And yet, had they been more clever strategists, they 
could have predicted this reprisal. After all, they had given 
him his name, branded him Ca-Lo, The Destroyer. They made him 
what he was. 

He targeted Ne'Ol. Her shields were down. And he knew every 
vulnerable system on her.

"Fire."

A rapid succession of well-placed plasma strings disintegrated 
the massive war machine in a matter of micro-seconds. White 
hot silica-steel vaporized. The explosion was spectacular. A 
fiery crater marked the spot where the Ne'Ol had once stood. 

He locked onto Chay'Da'Gahi'. 

"Fire!"

Shock waves thudded like weak fists against Tse'Bit'a'i's 
shielded outer hull. 

Ship by ship, down the line, Ca-Lo obliterated the most 
powerful fighting force in the Sector. The attack was 
unanticipated; every blast went unanswered. The Armada was 
taken completely by surprise. 

A few adjustments in altitude and pitch, and Tse'Bit'a'i' 
rolled away from the airport and headed to Harmony I. Ca-Lo 
razed the breeding compound, the military barracks, the 
factories. Would Dana judge his actions worthy? Would she 
think him heroic?

Tears blurred his vision as he recalled her words. "You want 
to know how you differ from Mulder?" she had asked. "He is 
willing to stand up to his enemies; he flouts their rules, 
plays their game only on his own terms. Even when he was held 
prisoner aboard a ship like this one, he was a free man, *is* 
a free man, because he refuses to let anyone dictate his 
destiny." 

Poised 30,000 feet above the Nih-hi-cho Joining House, hot 
tears coursing down Ca-Lo's cheeks, he reversed the thrusters. 
Tse'Bit'a'i' plunged downward.

"And now I am a free man, too."

*   *   *

THE JOINING HOUSE
HARMONY I

More than one million Nih-hi-cho packed the Joining House, a 
12.5-hectare silicrete structure with a transparent oculus 
that offered a stunning view of the stars. They stood shoulder 
to shoulder, chest to back, swaying gently to the cadence of 
their communal prayer. The press of bodies against Overseer 
VI's bare skin produced a pleasant friction. There was no 
shame in it. The Society was presenting itself to the Red 
Dragon just as they had come into this life, devoid of 
garments, pure of body and mind, eager to burst forth from the 
bellies of their hosts to join their own kind.  

"We give thanks to Thee, O Great Dragon. We give thanks to 
Your Divine Legion of Angels. You are Wisdom. You are Refuge. 
You are Salvation. You are Truth." 

An entire neo-generation of Nih-hi-cho had been introduced 
into the Society over the last four Earth days, their minds 
assimilated into the collective, their intellects merged with 
the group consciousness. It was a proud and noble achievement. 
A historic moment. Joined together, the Society celebrated its 
greater numbers, praised the Great Red Dragon for his 
providence and protection, and prayed for the Fifth Divination 
-- the new Age of Revelation, heralded by a miraculous 
visitation from the Divine Legion of Angels and the Great Red 
Dragon himself.

"Bless us, O Great Lord. Show us your divine countenance. Come 
to us like clear heat in sunshine. We are your faithful 
servants. Hear our prayers--"

Overseer VI felt the silicrete floor tremble beneath his bare 
feet. A flash of red blinked above the oculus.

"A light! A light!" The telepathic announcement pulsed through 
the Society's collective mind like a bursting neutron star, 
spreading anticipation and joy. "It is the Red Dragon!"

Could it be? 

The Joining House brightened with a flickering orange-red 
glow. The air seemed to sizzle with electricity. Overseer VI's 
skin tingled. He heard a deep hum, a rumbling. Was it the 
fiery breath of the Red Dragon? 

"The Fifth Divination!" the Society proclaimed as a single 
voice. "He is coming! The Divine One is coming!"

It must be true. The Red Dragon's holy rays shone through the 
transparent canopy. The floor of the Joining House trembled, 
shaken by the footsteps of gods.

Oh, they were truly blessed! The Red Dragon was descending 
upon them. There was no greater honor. No better time to be 
alive. Overseer VI lifted his eyes to the blazing sky beyond 
the transparent canopy, grateful to be a member of the 
Society, grateful to bear witness to the New Divination, the 
holiest of all occasions.

A shadow fell across the oculus, casting the Joining House 
into darkness.

What was this? A reproach from the Dragon? Or a Refuters' 
trick? Revenge for the Nih-hi-cho's hybridization experiments?

Overseer VI strained to see the night sky. A moment ago, light 
brighter than the midday sun had bathed them in glory. Now a 
black disc with a brilliant blue-white center blocked the 
view. It almost looked like the underside of a spacecraft.

The disc grew larger. Pinprick beacons pulsed around the outer 
rim. Great Dragon, it was a ship! And it was headed straight 
at them.

Realization spread throughout the Society. Audible screams -- 
harsh, high-pitched tones from voices unaccustomed to speech -
- rose up all around. The crowd surged toward the exits. Panic 
severed the collective consciousness as efficiently as an 
Appraiser's scalpel cuts flesh. Jostled, shoved and trod upon, 
Overseer VI found himself mentally isolated from the Society. 
For the first time in his life, he was unable to establish a 
communal connection. He was left alone with his own fear. 

The feeling was intolerable. Far worse than the mounting 
pressure of the masses against his physical body.

"We are forsaken!" he screeched, emptying his lungs. 

His cries were lost amid the sound of crashing silicrete. The 
translucent canopy shattered. Silvery splinters rained down. 
Plasma canons blasted molten bolts at the crowd.

The Joining House collapsed as if it were made of paper. The 
ship impacted the earth, displaced soil and rock, carved out 
an enormous crater. In the blink of an eye, every Juvenile, 
Appraiser and Overseer in the Jish-Cha Sector was annihilated, 
vaporized in a mushroom cloud of gaseous plasma.  

EPILOGUE: SEA OF GLASS

SAFE CAMP II
ALPINE, WYOMING 
MARCH 22, 2003

Alpine was a reasonable place to settle. Far enough from Salt 
Lake City so as not to be polluted by the acrid smoke that, 
four months later, still churned above the enormous crater 
where Harmony I once stood. Yet near enough to logistically 
relocate 782 men, women and children from Antelope Island to 
their new home in the Bridger-Teton National Forest. 

When the refugees arrived, they found six restaurants, three 
gas stations, and God only knew how many fireworks stands -- 
all abandoned -- lining Alpine's two main thoroughfares, U.S. 
Highways 26 and 89. Promotional posters, yellowed with age, 
hung in the windows of the local establishments advertising 
Alpine Mountain Days, a summer festival with Indian dancing, 
mountain men, country music, horseshoe tournaments and black-
powder shoot. The event was to have been held the third week 
in June, but the date came and went without fanfare, the 
town's 542 residents dead six weeks by that time, their 
bellies torn open, their bones stripped bare.

The newcomers buried the bodies, moved into the modest homes, 
and scavenged for food. They discovered industrial-size cans 
of soup, beans, shortening and other assorted edibles in the 
restaurants. Candy bars, chips, snack cakes and Slim Jims 
filled the gas stations' shelves. Residential pantries were 
stocked with sugar, flour, salt, yeast, homemade jams and 
pickles.    

Supplementing their windfall was an abundant supply of fresh 
kokanee, mackinaw, and trout in the 25-square-mile Palisades 
Reservoir to the north. Determined anglers hacked holes 
through the ice to fish. Pine boughs and scraps of lumber 
served as windbreaks. The catch was cooked over open fires and 
eaten on the spot or taken away to be shared with neighbors 
too frail to spend long hours out in the open.    
 
But it was neither the canned food nor the fish or even the 
reservoir's limitless drinking water that made Alpine a 
practical choice for Safe Camp II. It was the former Elk 
Feedground, where several hundred animals, tame enough to let 
a person approach, wandered the Salt River Range from Alpine 
south to Cokeville. With careful management, the herd could 
provide fresh meat for years to come.  
 
Despite its advantages, Alpine was no Garden of Eden. Located 
in the Rocky Mountains, snow came early and stayed late. The 
winter of '03 was harsher than most, with deep, drifting snow 
and temperatures sometimes dropping to forty below. Those 
able-bodied enough to wield chainsaws and axes cut firewood 
for themselves and the sick and elderly. Water was toted from 
the reservoir. Woodstoves and kerosene heaters, transported 
with great effort from the neighboring towns of Etna, Freedom, 
Thayne, and as faraway as Bondurant and Jackson, were 
installed in houses that lacked them. Several homes burned to 
the ground when jury-rigged flues overheated and fires blazed 
out of control. Three children died of smoke inhalation, 
adding to the number of lives lost. Illness, accident, 
hypothermia, and despair -- these were the new enemy.

By March, the days were growing longer and temperatures were 
on the rise. Snow began to melt. The refugees felt hopeful for 
the first time in nearly a year. They started to call 
themselves settlers instead of refugees.

They also began to attend regular Sunday services, officiated 
by Father Richards at the Star Valley Baptist Church, the only 
formal house of worship in Alpine. It didn't matter to the old 
priest that the church and many of his parishioners were not 
Catholic. He was content to lift the settlers' spirits as best 
he could by recounting God's loving messages regardless of 
denomination. 

Gibson lived with Father Richards in the church's basement. 
Its dark-paneled rooms were damp and chilly, but the priest 
often recited prayers in his head and Gibson found these 
comforting. Not the words so much as their gentle cadence. 
Father Richards' pious meditations played like a soothing 
melody, a welcome contrast to the cacophony of fear, 
loneliness and grief that blared in the minds of Earth's other 
survivors. By focusing on the priest, Gibson could almost tune 
out the rest of the world's woes. Almost.

After dinner, Gibson and the priest customarily played chess 
in their small kitchen. Gibson had been frank about his mind-
reading ability, but Father Richards pressed him to play 
anyway. They lit a hurricane lantern, opened a couple of 
bottles of beer, and settled into folding chairs, the dinner 
table and chessboard between them. The priest drank heartily 
as they played, claiming the alcohol eased the aches in his 
arthritic knees. Gibson matched him swallow for swallow, on 
the pretense of giving Father Richards a winning chance at 
their game. In truth, he liked the lightheaded, carefree way 
it made him feel. It afforded him a rare opportunity to relax. 

This particular March night, Father Richards began their game 
boldly, leading with his knight.

"B1 to C3."

Gibson slid a pawn forward, biding his time. The beer's bitter 
effervescence prickled his nose, its yeasty odor reminiscent 
of the restaurant in Bluff, Utah, where Mulder, sullen and 
scared, had downed two bottles in quick succession in an 
attempt to numb his sorrow while confessing his anger over 
Scully's imagined betrayal.

So much had changed since that day. Some for the better. Some 
not.

After an hour of play and three beers apiece, Gibson quietly 
announced, "Bishop to B4. Check."

"As usual, my young friend, you have bested me." The priest 
hunched over the board and squinted at the chessmen. 

"Game's not over yet, Father." 

Gibson had left an opening. Not an obvious one; the priest 
would have to hunt for it. And while he searched, Gibson was 
free to think...and remember...

*   *   *

SALT LAKE CITY
FOUR MONTHS EARLIER

The needle on the speedometer approached sixty. The engine 
wasn't designed for high speed and it whined in protest as the 
Humvee careened down the outer runway. Gibson's knuckles were 
white on the wheel. Scully felt more than heard the rumble of 
the tires on asphalt. Her voice vibrated when she spoke. 
"William's at Safe Camp?"

"Yes." 

"I thought..." Ca-Lo had sent his army to destroy the camp 
after kidnapping her.

"He did," Gibson said, obviously reading her thoughts. 
"Everything's gone."

"And you left William there?" Scully asked, appalled. "Not 
alone, I hope."

"Of course not." Gibson tugged the wheel hard to the right. 
The Humvee veered off the pavement and crossed a lumpy, 
gravel-covered median. Scully hugged her belly as they jounced 
over a curb. The baby kicked, agitated. Another spin of the 
wheel and they skidded onto an access road leading out of the 
airport. "We left him with Kenna and Royal."

Scully knew Royal Jackson and was relieved to hear he was 
alive, but he would not have been her first choice as 
caretaker for William. Hopefully this Kenna person was better 
qualified. "How long before we get there?" 

"Two to three hours." 

A fraction of the time it had taken on horseback. 

Scully twisted in her seat to look out the rear window. 
"Something's happening."

Tse'Bit'a'i' hovered a few meters above the tarmac. A blue-
white halo pulsed beneath it. The ship seemed to hang for a 
moment, a behemoth fighting gravity, then suddenly it shot 
straight up and disappeared into the night sky, a pinprick of 
light indistinguishable from the backdrop of stars. 

Gibson hit the accelerator hard. The engine roared as they 
sped up the onramp to Highway 15. A flare of molten-red 
brightened the sky. Strings of plasma arrowed earthward like 
lightning bolts. One by one they struck the grounded warships. 
White-hot metal and orange gases spewed into the air. 
Concussions rocked the Humvee a quarter of a mile away. 

"My God." Panic welled in Scully's chest. "Did Mulder and 
Skinner make it off the ship?"

Gibson remained tightlipped, eyes locked on the road ahead. 
Scully knew he was privy to what was happening and his silence 
infuriated her. 

"Ca-Lo's at the helm, isn't he?" she asked. It didn't take a 
mind-reader to guess the truth.  

More flashes illuminated the landscape.

"Answer me, Gibson. I know you can hear what's going on."

"Yes, he's attacking the ships." 

"Why? Why is he destroying them?"

"He's doing it for you."

This shocked her. She had refused to marry him, had told him 
he was the devil and she hated him for the things he had done 
to her, the things he had threatened to do to William.

Gibson's glasses reflected more explosions. "He doesn't hate 
you."

She didn't care. She felt no sympathy for him. He had chosen 
his fate.

"Are Mulder and Skinner okay?" she demanded.

"Yes. They got away."

Relief surged through her. Again she turned to look back. 
"Where are they? I don't see a car."

"They're not in a car."

"Then where...?"

"They stole a helicopter." The sky crackled and glowed. Gibson 
grabbed her arm. "Close your eyes!" he ordered unexpectedly.

She did as he asked, just as a blinding light, bright enough 
to penetrate her closed lids, flooded the car's interior. The 
ground shook violently. The Humvee shimmied off the pavement. 
Eyes shut tight, Scully gripped the seat. The car fishtailed 
as Gibson fought to gain control and get them back on the 
road.

"What's happening?" she begged. 

The vibration subsided. "It's okay. You can open your eyes."

They were still on the road, speeding away from the city, away 
from danger. The sky had taken on a strange, sickly yellow 
hue. 

"What happened?"

"Look for yourself." He tilted his head toward the rear window.

Behind them, a massive mushroom cloud ballooned over the city. 
Scully gaped at the plumes of swirling smoke. 

"Oh my God... Mulder!"

*   *   *

Mulder shielded his eyes with an upraised arm. 

Skinner's left hand adjusted the collective control while his 
right worked the cyclic. The cockpit dipped steeply as they 
banked to the west. Shockwaves struck them side on. Mulder was 
thrown hard against his safety harness. The chopper began to 
spin and Skinner wrestled with the controls. Mulder felt like 
he might throw up. 

"I always preferred the Tunnel of Love to the Cyclone, 
Walter," he said through gritted teeth. 

"In that case..." Skinner's feet pressed the floor pedals and 
his head swiveled as he double-checked their bearings. After a 
few stomach churning seconds, the helicopter stopped its 
dizzying rotation. A few additional adjustments leveled them 
out. "Pucker up, sweetheart."

Mulder grinned and asked, "Rain check?" 

"Cock tease."

To the east, fiery debris arced through the air. A ball of 
flame engulfed Harmony I. 

"Bye-bye ET."

"Hallefuckinglujah." Skinner took them higher.

"Apparently Ca-Lo didn't like what he found in the NDP 
archive."

"The what?" 

"A chronicle of the Mulder family tree."

"He was telling the truth? You two were brothers?"

"Not exactly. He was my clone."

"Jesus, don't tell me their experiments started as long ago as 
that." Revulsion darkened Skinner's eyes. "Can't say I'm sorry 
to see him go."

"That makes two of us."

"Three, if you count Scully." The Blackhawk raced northeast 
across Great Salt Lake. "I'm sure she'll be relieved he's 
gone." 

"Uh, about that... Did she say anything to you?" 

"About Ca-Lo?"

"Or her pregnancy." Below them, the lake's rough surface 
reflected the flames from the alien stronghold. Smoke chugged 
westward; sparks writhed and churned. The distinctive vinegary 
odor of spent plasma seeped into the Blackhawk and stung 
Mulder's sinuses and throat. "As you know, I'm usually not the 
kind of guy who needs scientific proof to believe something, 
but in this case I'd be grateful for a reliable PCR."

Skinner shot him a confused glance. "You don't think...?" 

Mulder shrugged and Skinner's grip tightened on the controls. 
His knuckles looked ready to pop through his skin. "Son of a 
bitch. She told me he was a liar, a...a 'trickster.' 
'Unusually persuasive' were her exact words. She said he could 
make people do things they wouldn't ordinarily do -- like 
Robert Modell."

Mulder's queasiness returned. "Did she say if he made her do 
something she didn't want to do?"

"No, but she was definitely upset. I thought it had to do with 
your argument."

"So she told you about that."

"No details. Just that you were angry about William."

"I accused her of betraying me," Mulder confessed.

Skinner scowled at him. "Wonderful. You convinced her of it, 
too." 

"No, no, I was wrong. She *saved* William. I see that now." 
Gibson had opened his eyes to the truth. The chip in Scully's 
neck had left her with no other options. "I've been such an 
ass."

Skinner's expression remained stern. "You have to apologize."

"No shit. I just hope it'll be enough." Would she forgive him? 
For everything? 

Antelope Island came into view. Mercury vapor floodlights 
illuminated three windowless towers on its southeastern shore. 
Mulder was surprised to see dozens, maybe hundreds of people 
streaming from the exits. They were dressed in ragged clothes, 
not the enemy's oil-black uniforms. 

"Prison break?" Mulder asked.

"That would be my guess."

"The explosions across the bay could've spooked the guards."

"Giving the prisoners an advantage."

Three sets of headlights snaked northward away from the 
prison. "Looks like the rats are leaving the ship," Mulder 
said. 

"They're heading for the causeway. It connects the island to 
the mainland at West Point."

"You want to cut them off?"

Skinner shook his head. "We don't have weapons. Better to let 
them go. It'll make our little rescue mission a hell of a lot 
easier." He glanced at Mulder. "When we land, you stay put. 
Give me a few minutes to explain things before you show your 
face."

Mulder fingered the neck of his military uniform. His 
resemblance to Ca-Lo had been an asset aboard Tse'Bit'a'i'. 
Here it could prove deadly. "Can you convince them I am who I 
am?"

Skinner circled the towers and began their descent. "More 
than half of them are members of the North Utah Infantry. 
Yeah, I can convince them."

*   *   *

"Did they make it? Were they out of range?" Scully peered out 
the window at the smoke-filled sky, uselessly searching for 
Mulder and Skinner's helicopter.

"They're okay," Gibson assured her.

She felt her heart begin to beat again. Sucking air into her 
lungs, she tried to steady the tremors in her arms and legs.

"What about Dibeh? Was she with them?"

Gibson shook his head. "She stayed on board."

"On board? Why?"

"There was nothing for her here," Gibson said softly, eyes 
briefly leaving the road to glance her way. "She didn't suffer 
in the end. She didn't die afraid."

Scully's rational side understood the hardships the hybrid 
would have faced, had she chosen to leave with Mulder and 
Skinner and live among humans. And she was grateful Dibeh's 
death had been mercifully swift. Yet her heart ached at the 
loss of her friend. Dibeh had risked her life to save her. The 
small, silent aide had been selfless and kind. Scully would 
miss her dearly.

Tears stung her eyes and she turned toward her window to hide 
them from Gibson. Not that it was possible to hide anything 
from him, for he witnessed everything -- fear, pain, death. 
How did he bear it? How could anyone? 

The baby shifted inside her, making her wish for Mulder's 
comforting presence. She needed to see he was safe. Needed to 
feel his arms around her. 

"He'll join us as soon as he can," Gibson assured her.

"Why isn't he coming now? What's he doing?"

"There are prisoners on Antelope Island."

"And he and Skinner have gone to free them." Typical. Thinking 
of everyone's safety but their own. "I don't want to be kept 
in the dark, Gibson. I want to know the truth, no matter what 
it is, as soon as you know it."

He hesitated before answering, obviously reluctant to agree. 
After a moment, he nodded and urged her to "Try not to worry." 

For the next two hours she counted mile markers and read road 
signs in a futile effort to keep her mind off of what was 
happening at the prison. When worry threatened to overwhelm 
her, she concentrated on William. It had been more than a year 
since she'd handed him over to Skinner in Our Lady of Hope 
Church. He would be changed, a toddler, not the pudgy baby she 
remembered. She tried to picture him. Hair longer. Face 
narrower. Nose more defined. He'd had only two teeth when she 
last saw him. Now he would have a mouthful. Was someone 
teaching him to brush? Did they read to him, the way she had? 
Did they sing him songs? It grieved her to think she had 
missed his first words, his first steps, his first birthday. 
She anticipated holding him, breathing in his scent and 
whispering in his ear: I love you, Sweet William. I have never 
stopped loving you. You have been in my thoughts every minute 
of every day.

"The woman taking care of William," Scully said, breaking 
their long silence, "you said her name is Kenna?"

"Kenna Douglas. She found William last May, after the aliens 
killed the Van de Kamps."

So this Kenna woman was not a survivor of the Safe Camp 
massacre as Scully had assumed. "Van de Kamp?"

"The people who adopted William. Kenna lived next door."

Questions whirled through Scully's mind. How had Mulder and 
Gibson found William? What did Mulder say when he first saw 
his son? What was William's reaction? But her throat tightened 
and all she could manage was, "How is he?"

"He's...happy...relatively speaking."

This brought mixed emotions. She was glad he was okay -- it 
was why she had given him up in the first place. And yet she 
couldn't help but feel a stab of jealousy. Another woman was 
caring for her son, cuddling him, making him smile. "She's 
good to him?"

"Yes. He's grown pretty attached to her. Are you going to be 
okay with that?"

"She saved his life. I don't resent his affection for her."

Gibson glanced at her. "She loves him, you know."

It was understandable. "She's been caring for him for nearly a 
year."

"She won't give him up easily."

"But I'm his mother."

"Not in her mind." 

Scully's heart beat faster. "He's safe. That's all I care 
about." 

A billboard for Rendezvous Beach came into view. 

"We're almost there," Gibson said. 

Minutes, not miles, now separated her from her son, and her 
nervousness returned tenfold. She shoved her hands into her 
lap to still their shaking.

Craters and debris blocked the road. Gibson slowed the Humvee 
to snake around them. The jostling high beams revealed the 
camp and its devastation in stages. Gone were the RVs and 
tents. The main office was demolished. Nothing but rubble 
remained everywhere. And bodies. Lots of bodies.

"Ca-Lo is responsible for this," she said bitterly. 

"He's also responsible for ending the invasion."

She placed a hand on her abdomen. Maybe he had stopped 
colonization, but she could not forget what he had done to her 
personally.

An open fire glittered beyond the old infirmary and Gibson 
steered toward it. "That's them."

Three figures came into view, lit by the flickering blaze. 
Scully recognized Royal Jackson, sitting on the tailgate of a 
pickup truck, bundled in blankets. A slender, dark-haired 
woman in an oversized parka fed broken two-by-fours into the 
fire. But it was the small boy who tottered around her in too-
long blue jeans and a pale blue, hooded coat that held 
Scully's attention. It was him...William...her son. Her fear 
that she might not recognize him evaporated instantly. He was 
her child, the little boy she had rocked and nursed and sang 
to. He had changed, but she would have recognized him whether 
it had been twelve months or twelve years that had passed. 

He bent down and picked up a foot-long stick from the ground. 
Grasping it firmly in his mittened fist, he waved it at the 
sparks and smoke. He stepped closer to the flames and, 
mimicking the woman, he hurled his little stick. It fell short 
of its mark. He scurried precariously near the fire to collect 
it and try again. Sparks drifted mere inches from his hair and 
face. He blinked against the heat. Why didn't Kenna or Royal 
call him back? He was too close. Too close!

Scully unbuckled her seatbelt. "Stop the car," she ordered and 
opened the door. Gibson hit the brakes and she staggered from 
the still-moving vehicle. "William! William, no!"

He looked up, startled. But before she could reach him, Kenna 
scooped him into her arms. He laughed as she swung him onto 
her hip, his cheeks cherry red and eyes shining. 

Scully longed to rush forward and snatch him away from this 
careless woman. It took every ounce of control she possessed 
to hang back and take this initial meeting slowly. She didn't 
want to frighten William or antagonize Kenna. Her goal was to 
get her son back, with as little trauma to William as 
possible. 

Kenna was younger than Scully had imagined when trying to 
conjure up her image in the car -- a leggy teenager, not a 
kindly older woman. She had long, shiny hair that fell to her 
waist, full lips, and wide, fiercely protective eyes. William 
clung to her, one small arm looped over her shoulder. His 
other hand went to his mouth and, smile now gone, he nervously 
gnawed his mittened thumb.  

Suspicion narrowed Kenna's eyes. She tightened her grip on 
William. "Who the hell are you?" 

Gibson appeared out of the dark to stand beside Scully. 
"Kenna, this is Dana Scully, William's mother." 

Royal hopped down from the tailgate, a broad grin splitting 
his dark face. "You're alive! You made it."

"Yes, we made it," Gibson replied.

"Where's Mulder?" Kenna demanded at the same time Royal asked, 
"You find Commander Skinner?"

"They'll be along in a day or so."

"Kenna, I've come for my son." Scully took a hesitant step 
toward them, arms outstretched. 

"Stay away from him! I know all about you. I know what you 
did." Kenna shuffled backward, nearer to Royal, putting the 
fire between her and Scully. 

William stared solemnly at Scully, his expression mirroring 
Kenna's, full of distrust and fear. Not a glimmer of 
recognition registered in his blue-gray eyes. Scully's hopes 
sank at the realization he considered her a stranger, not his 
mother. It had been unrealistic to think he might remember her 
and yet it broke her heart to discover he did not.

"You gave him away," Kenna accused. "Mulder said you tossed 
him out like yesterday's trash."

"It wasn't like that," Scully protested. 

"Liar! I know what happened. Mulder told me." 

Scully chose her next words with care. "Mulder might have seen 
it that way, but--"

"But nothing. You didn't want your baby? Fine. Now he's mine, 
mine and Mulder's. And as soon as Mulder gets back, he's going 
to take me and William away from this awful place. 
We're...we're going to the Grand Canyon. Find a decent house 
to live in. And you can go to hell!"

"I won't let you take him." 

"You've got no choice." Kenna squared her shoulders. "Mulder 
doesn't love you any more. He loves *me*. Tell her, Gibson," 
she challenged. "Tell her how he feels about me."

"He doesn't love you, Kenna," Gibson said softly.

"No? Then why did he sleep with me? Tell me that!" 

Scully looked at Gibson to see if Kenna was lying. He blushed 
darkly, giving her the answer. Mulder had slept with this 
teenager, William's substitute mother.

"It's true?" she stammered, silently pleading with him to deny 
it.

Gibson opened his mouth, but Kenna spoke first. "Yes, it's 
true. Tell her, Gibson. Tell her what happened. Give her the 
details. Mulder slept with me because he didn't want her any 
more. I know you heard it. You're always listening in on 
private conversations. Tell her."

Unable to meet Scully's gaze, Gibson stared at the toes of his 
worn sneakers. 

Scully's throat tightened. She felt nauseated and dizzy. 
"Gibson?" 

"There's some truth to what she says," he admitted.

"Some?"

His eyes met hers, glistening with sympathy and regret. 
"Sorry."

Scully turned and staggered away from them. Her feet felt 
leaden, her legs numb. The uneven ground seemed to tilt and 
shift. She had lost her son *and* Mulder. And there was no one 
to blame but herself. 

*   *   *

The prisoners scattered at the Blackhawk's approach, reluctant 
to be recaptured and forced back into their cells by an envoy 
of the alien army. But a few stragglers noticed it was Skinner 
who emerged from the pilot's seat. Recognizing him, they 
whooped with delight and called the others back. Skinner was 
soon surrounded by the ragtag remnants of his North Utah 
Infantry. Ignoring protocol, they slapped him on the back and 
welcomed their old commander with broad smiles and tear-filled 
eyes. He was equally glad to see them, his comrades in arms, 
his friends.

"Can't believe it's you, sir!"

"What are our orders, Commander? Where's the battle?"

"We heard explosions! What's happening?"

Skinner raised his hands to silence them. "It's over. The 
aliens are dead."

"All of 'em?"

"Yes, all of them. We've won!"

A cheer went up. They were free. Their enemy was vanquished 
and they were finally, truly free. They embraced one another. 
Shook hands. Wept openly. Their joyful celebration continued 
for several long minutes, their enthusiasm unabated...until 
Mulder stepped from the helicopter.

All smiles faded. Fear, then anger, sparked in the prisoners' 
eyes. 

"What's *he* doing here?" 

"Kill the fucking bastard!"

Again Skinner raised his hands for silence. The epithets grew 
fewer and fainter until finally they ceased altogether. "This 
man isn't who you think he is. His name is Mulder. He's a 
friend." 

"Sir, he's the enemy! It's Ca-Lo!"

"The bastard who put us here."

"He killed my wife! And my children!"

"No. Ca-Lo is dead," Skinner shouted to be heard above the 
protests. "This man isn't him."    

It took persistence and a recounting of Ca-Lo's kamikaze death 
to get the mob to accept Mulder for who he was. They trusted 
Skinner and eventually he was able to cool their hatred with 
the truth. 
  
Appeased, they filled him in on the details of their escape, 
how Father Richards had led an uprising after the explosions 
started on the mainland. Stealing Warden Travis's Taser, the 
priest subdued him with his own weapon. 

"It was really quite easy," Father Richards explained. "He 
never anticipated trouble from a weak, old man like me." 

Travis's transponder allowed Father Richards to release other 
prisoners on the block. With the guards' attention focused on 
the trouble in Salt Lake City it had been fairly simple to 
stealthily overtake the floors above and below, confiscate the 
guards' weapons and release the prisoners before moving on to 
the next tower. By the time the klaxons blared, Towers I and 
II had been emptied and the guards were either dead or running 
for their lives.
 
Skinner congratulated his troops and the priest, and over the 
next hour they made plans for their relocation. Mulder 
volunteered to stay behind with Father Richards to organize 
ground transportation for the bulk of the escapees while Skinner 
flew the most severely injured to their new home.

They quickly located a small fleet of military vehicles in the 
prison garage. Not nearly enough to carry everyone in a single 
trip, but over a week's time, they would be able to shuttle 
them all to Alpine, Wyoming, a location Skinner had considered 
the previous year when searching for an appropriate 
headquarters for his infantry. 

Skinner appointed four lieutenants, men and women he knew were 
expert marksmen, to serve as gunners in case they ran into 
renegade soldiers, humans who had once served in the alien 
army. The sick and injured were triaged. Those in the worst 
condition were loaded onto the Blackhawk for immediate 
evacuation.

Pushing the chopper's carrying capacity to its limit, Skinner 
decided to chance adding one more and selected Dr. Davis, an 
experienced combat surgeon, to ride along with him. Medics 
Johansson and Perez would remain behind to care for those 
awaiting transportation.

"Your Dr. Davis could use Scully's help setting up an 
infirmary and getting those patients stabilized," Mulder 
suggested.

"Too bad we don't know where she is."

Mulder smiled for the first time since landing on Antelope 
Island. "I left William in Safe Camp. Gibson will take her 
there."

Skinner agreed to stop at Bear Lake to look for her, after 
dropping off his current load in Alpine and refueling in 
Jackson. "Sorry you can't come along, Mulder. I know you're 
anxious to see her."

"It's okay. The injured take precedence. I can help here. 
Scully will understand."

Skinner appreciated his grasp of the situation and his 
willingness to put the refugees' needs first. There would be 
time enough for a reunion later. 

Before departing, Skinner gave Mulder directions to Alpine, 
along with a bit of friendly advice. "Change your clothes." 

"It'll be a pleasure." Mulder looked down at Ca-Lo's uniform. 
"I sure as hell don't want to show up at Scully's door dressed 
like this."

As it turned out, Skinner found Scully at Rendezvous Beach 
with her son and the others, just as Mulder had predicted. He 
jogged from the helicopter to wrap her in a bear hug. "Jesus, 
you're a sight for sore eyes." 

She blinked back tears and kissed his cheek, clearly as 
pleased to see him as he was to see her. 

Feeling elated, he hugged Gibson and Royal in turn.

"Good to see you alive, sir." Royal grinned from ear to ear.

"You, too, son."

"Where's Mulder?" Scully asked, brow furrowing as she craned 
to see inside the Blackhawk.

"He stayed behind to oversee ground transportation to Safe 
Camp II, which is where I'm taking you now. We've got people 
in need of medical attention."

Her disappointment over Mulder's absence was obvious. But she 
quickly buried her personal feelings behind a mask of 
professional duty. "Then we'd better get started."

*   *   *

SAFE CAMP II
ALPINE, WYOMING
TWO WEEKS LATER

Scully sat on the living room floor with William. Late 
afternoon sun flooded the room and frost glittered on the 
windows. Yesterday's storm had dumped three feet of fresh snow 
on the mountain community. Scully was grateful the winds had 
died down and the skies were now clear, because today was the 
day Skinner was bringing Mulder home. 

The washboard texture of a frayed, braided rug served as 
roadways for William's toy fire truck. He followed a groove 
past Scully's slipper-clad feet, vroom-vrooming as he pushed 
the truck along. She wondered where he had learned the sound 
in this car-less world of post-alien invasion. Had Mulder 
taught it to him? 

"Where did you get your truck?" she asked, hoping to learn 
something about Mulder's relationship with their son.

He babbled nonsense about nightcrawlers and raisins, then 
burst into a tuneless and almost unrecognizable rendition of 
"Joy to the World" -- the song she had taught him while giving 
him his bath earlier in the day.

Her limited time with William was a gift. She had struck an 
uneasy truce with Kenna a week ago after William took a tumble 
that sliced open his forehead. The laceration required 
stitches. Alarmed by the bleeding, Kenna had grudgingly agreed 
to let her sew him up.

It had been heartbreaking to hear him cry for his mama and 
know he meant Kenna and not her. 

"You see how it is?" Kenna held him in her lap as Scully 
stitched his brow. "He's *my* son, not yours."

Scully ignored her ridiculous claim.

Her silence angered Kenna. "Say it," she demanded, "or I won't 
let you near him again."

"He'll need these stitches removed in a few days."

"I'll take them out myself if you don't say it!"

Reluctantly, Scully repeated the lie. It seemed her only 
option if she were to properly treat her son. Appeased, Kenna 
agreed to let her stay overnight in the guest room, in case 
William's cut became infected.

In the days that followed, Scully learned that as long as she 
didn't try to usurp Kenna's role as William's mother, Kenna 
tolerated her being near him. But if she tried to overstep her 
bounds by giving William a hug or a kiss, Kenna scooped him 
out of arms' reach and harshly reminded Scully she was in 
their house to tend to William's injury and would be leaving 
as soon as the stitches came out.

"Tell him I'm his mama," she insisted several times a day.

"Kenna..."

"Tell him!"

Contact with her son was worth any humiliation, so Scully 
nodded and said the words. It seemed apt punishment for giving 
him up in the first place. Kenna rewarded her by letting her 
do more than swab William's forehead with antiseptic. She was 
allowed to give him a bath, teach him a song, or, like now, 
sit quietly beside him while he played with his truck.

Pots and pans clattered in the kitchen across the hall where 
Kenna was preparing a feast in honor of Mulder's homecoming -- 
roasted elk seasoned with pungent garlic and rosemary. A 
fresh-baked pie sat on the counter cooling, filling the house 
with the mouth-watering aroma of apples, cinnamon and cloves. 
Earlier William had begged for a taste and Kenna indulged him 
with a spoonful of the canned filling. She told him how much 
his daddy enjoyed her cooking, especially her apple pie.

"What does Daddy love?" Kenna had asked as she handed him a 
piece of crust sweetened with sugar.

"Pie." 

"And *who* does Daddy love?"

"Willim!"

"That's right. Who else?"

"Mama."

"Who is mama?" she said slyly, casting a satisfied smirk in 
Scully's direction.

"You!"

The demonstration was clearly intended to keep Scully in her 
place. 

To hurt her further, Kenna insisted that Mulder was going to 
marry her as soon as he returned. She even claimed to be 
pregnant by him. Scully hoped it wasn't true, but given the 
fact that Mulder had slept with her, it was entirely possible.

The faint drum of helicopter rotors drew William's attention 
from his play. "Dada?"

"Let's look."

Scully rose awkwardly from the floor, the weight of the baby 
putting her off balance. William was already at the window, 
standing on tiptoe and peering over the sill when she joined 
him to look out at the approaching Blackhawk. 

Snow blanketed the yard and long, purple-black shadows 
stretched like splayed fingers from the trees along the 
property line to the open area where Skinner was setting down 
the chopper. Snowflakes churned and momentarily blocked the 
view with a spray of diamond-bright light. Scully's heart beat 
faster as the rotors slowed to a stop. The veil of snow 
settled and she saw Mulder, rigid and apprehensive in the 
passenger seat, a small rucksack in his lap.

"Dada?"

"Yes, sweetie. It's him."  

This time it was really and truly him.

Kenna appeared in the living room doorway and William ran to 
her, arms flailing with excitement. "Dada! Dada!"

"I see, honey." Kenna lifted him to her hip to give him a 
better vantage. "Look, he's getting out."

Mulder gingerly climbed from the chopper, favoring one leg. He 
stood for a moment to squint at the house, hand shading his 
eyes against the glare. He looked thinner than Scully 
remembered. His hair was longer and the stubble on his cheeks 
and chin was speckled with gray. He wore tattered jeans, a 
too-thin coat and no gloves. 

She quickly shrugged into a sweater and hurried outside, 
forgetting she was still in her slippers, but not caring that 
snow spilled into them and chilled her feet. Mulder smiled 
when he saw her, a broad, genuine grin that lit his face and 
lifted her heart. She ran toward him. 

"Oh my God." A laugh bubbled out of her. "Mulder." 

She slogged through drifts, closing the gap between them. They 
met halfway and Mulder wrapped his arms around her. Her feet 
momentarily left the ground when he lifted her and squeezed.

"Scully." His cold nose nuzzled her neck and his fingers 
kneaded her back as he drew her more tightly to him.

Tears filled her eyes and a sob shook her chest. She had 
missed him so much. And she deeply regretted their hurtful 
argument. Was he still angry? How was he going to react to her 
pregnancy? Would he renounce the baby if she couldn't prove it 
was his? Would he leave her to make a new life with Kenna? It 
suddenly seemed possible, even plausible that Kenna had been 
telling the truth. Mulder had fallen in love with her, the 
pretty young woman who had rescued his son. 

Scully's throat tightened and her chest ached as she tried to 
push these thoughts from her mind. He was here now, in her 
arms, whole and real and safe. The rest didn't matter.  

She captured his face and kissed him hard on the lips, lips 
chapped and pale from too much time outside in the cold. He 
looked exhausted but responded with enthusiasm, plunging his 
fingers into her hair and pressing his mouth over hers. His 
lips devoured hers, urgent and loving, tasting of bitter 
coffee and stale cigarettes. She melted into him, wondering 
when he had started smoking. So much had changed. He seemed a 
different person. And yet, he was achingly familiar. The man 
she had loved for years. And still loved. Hot tears coursed 
down her cheeks, wetting his. She clung to him and reveled in 
the solid feel of his shoulders, the heat of his body.

"Now that's what I call a homecoming," he said with a shaky 
voice when they finally parted. Tears brimmed in his eyes. He 
ran his thumb over her lower lip, wiped her wet cheeks, 
stroked her hair. "Look at you." His focus dropped to her 
swollen belly. Then to her slippers. "Let's get you inside."

Hand to her back, he prodded her toward the house. But when he 
spotted Kenna glaring back at him from the front steps, his 
smile faltered. "Everything okay here?"

"It will be," she promised, praying it was true, hoping with 
all her heart they would be able to mend their differences and 
work out some sort of future together.

ABADDON'S REIGN
EPILOGUE: SEA OF GLASS (PART 2)

*   *   *

THE NEXT MORNING

Luxuriating in the warmth of thick blankets and linens blessed 
with Scully's soft fragrance, Mulder breathed deeply, his nose 
pressed into her pillows. She was still there, even though she 
was elsewhere in the house. With William...and Kenna.

Mulder rose and dressed quickly. For better or worse, he and 
Scully had talked very little the previous night. Skinner had 
joined them for dinner and, feeling celebratory now that the 
relocation effort was finally at an end, regaled them with his 
plans for the future. There was much to be done if they were 
to survive the winter in Alpine. Kenna remained unnaturally 
quiet throughout the discussion. She kept a watchful eye on 
Mulder and appeared shocked when he declined a slice of apple 
pie in favor of sleep. She showed him the way to her bedroom, 
but he shook his head, insisting the twin bed in William's 
room was where he wanted to spend the night. Sometime later, 
Scully woke him there and led him to her room down the hall.

Lying in bed together, she had asked about his limp and the 
scars on his face. He skipped the goriest details to tell her 
instead about Eric Hosteen and his daughter Jewel. In turn, 
she described Alpine's infirmary and the progress of her 
patients. She avoided any mention of Ca-Lo, her imprisonment, 
her pregnancy, or Kenna. He had wanted to delve deeper, but 
was afraid her answers would be too painful...for the both of 
them. Sleep overtook him before he could work up the courage 
to ask his questions or make any confessions.   

He dreamed about paternity tests and children who looked like 
him but who weren't his. 

Following the scent of fresh coffee, he limped down the 
carpeted hallway toward the kitchen. Lining the walls were 
photographs of a typical family with three children, a father 
and only one mother -- a contrast to the bizarre situation he 
found himself in now. 

A hell of my own making, he had to admit.    

Tentatively, he entered the kitchen. Kenna was drying dishes 
and putting them away in bead-board cupboards. Scully kneaded 
dough on a butcher-block counter beside the sink. William 
played with Legos on the linoleum floor. Dressed in an 
oversized sweater and corduroy pants, torn at the knees, he 
paused in his play to smile shyly up at Mulder. 

Mulder crouched beside him, the effort causing his leg to 
throb. "What'cha making, son?"

"Copter." 

The colorful lump of plastic parts looked nothing like a 
helicopter.

"Need help?"

"Nope."

Mulder pointed to the collection of Lego people. "Who are 
they?"

William picked up a cylindrical construction worker in a red 
hardhat. "Unc Walt."

"And this one?" Mulder tagged a road worker wearing an orange 
vest.

"Me." William grinned.

Mulder fingered a helmeted figure on a three-wheeler. "What 
about him?"

"Dada!"

"Me?"

"Vroom, vroom!" William drove the cyclist into a pile of 
blocks, scattering them across the floor. Mulder realized he 
was remembering the day he and Gibson arrived in Cache on the 
Scout, spewing gravel, engine roaring.

"Careful, William," Kenna admonished. She lifted him, kissed 
his cheek with a loud smack and placed him in his highchair. 
Casting a disapproving glance at the Legos, she stooped to 
collect them. "He's too young for these. Pieces are too small. 
He could choke."

Mulder helped her gather them, then rose and hobbled over to 
Scully.

"Make one Martha Stewart crack and I'll break your other leg." 
She paused to wipe a stray hair from her eyes. Flour smudged 
her face and sweater and collected on the shelf of her stomach 
and larger-than-normal breasts. Her cheeks were pink from 
exertion, her hair askew. She was beautiful. Breathtakingly 
so.

Ignoring Kenna's watchful stare, Mulder leaned in and kissed 
her on the lips. "Morning," he murmured. 

"Sleep okay?"

"Never better."

She placed the smooth, heavy mound of dough into a large 
ceramic bowl, covered it with a damp towel and lifted it from 
the counter.

"Here, let me get that." He looked pointedly at her belly and 
reached for the bread.

"I can do it..." she protested, but relinquished the bowl 
without a struggle.

"Where are we taking it?"

"Living room." She led the way.

"Any place in particular?" he asked as they entered the room. 

"Bookshelf beside the woodstove. It's warm enough to make the 
bread rise, but not hot enough to kill the yeast."

He set the bowl between a stack of Dirt Bike magazines and an 
antique, wind-up clock that ticked loudly. "When did you learn 
how to bake bread?"

"Last week. Part of my crash course in survival techniques."

Rid of the bowl, he put his arms around her. "I enjoyed last 
night," he said, nuzzling her ear.

"Mulder, we didn't do anything last night."

"We slept in the same bed."

She peered past him toward the kitchen where Kenna was singing 
to William. "This might not be the best place for this," she 
said, pushing gently against his chest.

He refused to release her and buried his nose in her hair. 
"Tell me everything I've missed."

"That's a tall order."

"Okay, start with the living arrangements. I have to admit, I 
was a little surprised to find you here with Kenna."

"William's not ready to leave her." 

"He'll never be ready as long as you--"

"I won't put him through any more upheaval. He's devoted to 
her and he barely knows me."

"But you're his mother."

"And he'll learn that, in time. For now, this is the way it 
has to be...for his sake." Her willingness to sacrifice her 
own happiness for that of their child was as unwavering now as 
it had been the day she gave him up for adoption. Mulder no 
longer doubted her motives. Her decision had been selfless and 
he felt ashamed for his previously misguided accusations. 
She'd had William's best interests at heart, then as now. 

Scully slipped out of his embrace and busied herself 
straightening books, folding an afghan, picking up toys, 
anything, it seemed, to avoid looking directly at him. "Kenna 
told me you asked her to marry her."

"That's not true. You can ask Gibson."

"I did."

"And?"

"He said it wasn't true."

"See?" Mulder felt his panic start to subside.

Scully pinned him with a serious stare. "The point is, *she* 
thinks it's true."

"I'll talk to her."

"No, don't. She's..."

"Two aliens short of a full blown invasion?"

"That's not funny."

"I know. I'm sorry." He glanced over his shoulder at the empty 
doorway. "But aren't you concerned about her being around 
him?"

"She seems a bit off, I'll admit. But she's good to him, 
Mulder. She kept him alive. I'll always be grateful to her for 
that." 

Maybe not when you learn the whole truth, he thought 
miserably, knowing he had to tell her about their short-lived 
affair -- before Kenna told her. If it wasn't already too 
late. 

Stalling while gathered his courage, he fed a log into the 
woodstove. The fire snapped and crackled as it radiated warmth 
and the piney scent of green wood. Scully lowered herself into 
a nearby chair, a rocker with a padded seat and back. She 
rested her hands on the rounded curve of her belly and watched 
while he rearranged logs with the poker.

"They saved my life," he blurted, not ready to confess his 
infidelity, not with William and Kenna so close by.

"Who?"

"The Gunmen."

Scully's brows rose. "When?"

"The day it all went to hell. After I let the aliens out. And 
the ship took off with you in it."

"I don't understand. How did they save your life?"

"I...I don't really have an answer for that."

"You do realize they're dead?"

"Of course." Mulder closed the door on the woodstove and hung 
the poker back on its hook. "I've seen other ghosts, too," he 
said, as if this admission would help her believe he had 
actually seen Byers, Frohike and Langly.

"Whose ghosts?"

"Krycek. X. Deep Throat."

"Given what you were going through, it's not unrealistic you'd 
be thinking of them."

She didn't believe him and he found it difficult to keep 
sarcasm out of his response. "And your sister? Why would I be 
thinking of her, given what I was going through?" 

"You saw Missy?"

"At a gas station in Wyoming."

Concern knotted her brow. "How long have you been having 
these...visions?"

"The first was the day I broke into the facility at Mount 
Weather, before I was captured."

"Jesus, Mulder, I visited you in your cell. I saw you at your 
trial. Why didn't you tell me?" 

"I was afraid you would think I was crazy."

A half-hearted laugh chuffed from her lungs. "And that doesn't 
worry you now?"

"No, because I don't see them anymore."

This seemed to surprise her. She considered a moment and he 
thought he read a mix of pity and relief in her eyes. "Maybe 
you don't see them anymore because you no longer need to see 
them."

He shook his head, knelt in front of her, and clasped her 
hands between his. "They weren't a mental manifestation, a 
coping mechanism, if that's what you're thinking. They helped 
me, Scully."

"That's what I'm saying." 

"No, I mean, they helped me in a literal, physical sense. The 
Gunmen carried me to safety, away from Tse'Bit'a'i'. They 
saved my life."

"I believe you." She stroked his face. "I do."

The gesture felt patronizing. He ducked away from her hand. 
"Really? It used to take a lot more than my say-so to convince 
you that something as unlikely as ghosts were real."

"I've changed, Mulder." Tears shone in her eyes. Her hand went 
to her stomach. "In more ways than the obvious." 

What had happened to her aboard Tse'Bit'a'i'? What had she 
endured at the hands of his nefarious clone? He desperately 
wanted to ask if Ca-Lo had touched her, forced himself on her, 
fathered the child she was carrying. He covered her hand with 
his own. "I don't remember you being this big with William." 
Leaning forward, he put an ear to her stomach and listened. 
"Maybe there's more than one in there. William plus 
quadruplets would make a great basketball team," he joked, 
hoping to steer their conversation into less distressing 
territory. 

She appeared to appreciate his humor and relaxed a little. 
"Bite your tongue. One healthy baby will be plenty." 

"You realize I'm finally going to be able to put my Lamaze 
skills to use."

"I'll hold you to it. I hated that you couldn't be with me 
when William was born."

He was about to tell her how deeply he regretted it, too, but 
the opportunity was lost when William raced into the room and 
happily shrieked "Dada!" 

Mulder caught him in the crook of his arm and lifted him into 
Scully's lap. "Hey, big guy, how would you like to go sledding 
with your ol' man later today?"

It was doubtful William knew what a sled was, but he replied 
with an enthusiastic "Yay!"

"Maybe we can convince your Mom to come watch us." He winked 
at Scully.

William's head swiveled. His faint brows drew together. He 
stared hard at Scully. "Mama kitchen," he said earnestly.

"No, mama's right here," Mulder said.

"Mulder, don't." 

"It's time, Scully. It's past time. Son, I want you to meet 
your real--" 

A crash of glass stopped him mid-sentence. Kenna stood in the 
doorway, face stricken. Spilled coffee and shards of the 
broken carafe littered the floor around her feet. "Lies!" she 
hissed.

"Kenna..." Mulder stood and lifted William from Scully's lap. 
"You know the truth."

"That's right, I do." She marched up to him, latched onto 
William and tried to pull him away from Mulder. "Let go."

William whimpered and Mulder relinquished him, rather than 
play tug-of-war with his son. 

"You're a fine one to talk about the truth, Mulder." Her eyes 
narrowed. Her mouth twisted with anger. "How honest have you 
been?" 

She whirled and stalked from the room, taking William with 
her. 

*   *   *

SHORTLY BEFORE DAWN THE NEXT DAY

Bone-chilling cold. Sting of sleet on bare skin. Darkness 
everywhere. "We'll be there soon, William, I promise."

Gibson woke with a start. He knew instantly it wasn't a bad 
dream that was making his heart pound. 

Kenna was out on the frozen reservoir. With William.

He tossed off his blankets. Not taking time to light a 
lantern, he pulled on his pants, shoved his feet into his 
boots, and hurried to the next room to wake Father Richards. 
"Get Mulder," he urged.

"What's the matter?" Father Richards rose groggily from his 
bed.

"Kenna's taken William. I think she's gone to the reservoir. 
I'm going after them."

The priest fumbled to light the lantern on his bedside table. 
The room brightened when he touched match to wick. He held the 
lamp out to Gibson. "Take this."

"I don't need it."

"Maybe not, but it'll help us find you." 

Gibson nodded, grabbed the lantern and headed for the door. 
"Bring Mulder as soon as you can," he called over his 
shoulder.

Outside, a northerly wind whistled past his ears. Sleet 
needled his face. He stumbled through knee-high snowdrifts, 
homing in on Kenna's thoughts, using them to guide him to her. 

"She isn't your mama, William...*I* am...I know what's best 
for you...she gave you away...I'll never leave you...I love 
you..." 

It seemed an eternity before Gibson arrived at the reservoir 
and spotted Kenna near the outlet, where the ice tapered, 
translucent and dangerously thin, and open water gurgled 
through a grate in a small dam. It rushed downstream on the 
opposite side, a deep, black crevice in the snow. 

Kenna was dressed in only a thin nightgown. Her head, arms and 
feet were bare. Thankfully, she had bundled William in a 
snowsuit, hat, mittens and boots. Reading the boy's thoughts, 
Gibson knew he was neither cold nor frightened.

"Kenna!"

Surprised, she spun to face him. "Gibson?"

He slogged closer, lamp held high so she could see his face. 
He tried to smile. "Where are you going?"

"Don't you already know? Thought you could read minds."

He nodded, conceding the point. "You can't get to the Grand 
Canyon on foot."

"Yes I can. Don't try to stop me."

"You're going in the wrong direction. It's that way." He swung 
the lantern toward town. 

"No it's not. You're trying to trick me." 

"I'm not, I swear."

She backed away from him...closer to the outlet. "Don't follow 
me."

"Kenna, please." He continued toward her. A few more steps and 
he might be able to grab hold of her arm--  

"I said don't come any closer!" She stumbled back, one, two, 
three steps.

A loud pop ricocheted through the ice. The sound provoked a 
primal response in Gibson, an almost overwhelming fear. His 
muscles tightened, his heart pounded, every neuron screamed at 
him to run to safer ground. He held his breath and listened 
for confirmation that the ice was going to collapse beneath 
their feet. When nothing happened, he fought his instincts, 
tried to quell his panic and stand firm. 

"Okay. I'm not following you. I've stopped. Please, come back 
before you fall in."

Kenna clung to William. She shivered as much from fear as from 
the cold. "What do you care? You're *her* friend."

"I'm your friend, too."

"No you're not. You brought her here. She wants to take 
William and Mulder away from me." 

The ice snapped and spider-webbed beneath her feet. One 
fissure zigzagged past Gibson, splitting ice and snow.

He felt helpless. Even with his telepathic powers he didn't 
know what to say or do to stop her. He had no experience with 
situations like this.

"Kenna!" Mulder's voice cut through the clatter of sleet on 
frozen snow. He loped toward them, coat flapping, bare chest 
exposed. Far behind him, Father Richards followed the crooked 
trail of his footsteps, a bobbling light in the dark. 

"Come off the ice, Kenna." Mulder slowed when he reached 
Gibson. He was breathing hard. Frightening thoughts swirled 
through his mind, bombarding Gibson with worst case scenarios. 
Inwardly he was falling apart. Outwardly, his face remained a 
mask of calm, his voice steady and sympathetic. "You're 
putting William in danger."

This got Kenna's attention. She stiffened and looked down at 
the cracks in the ice. 

"I know you don't want to hurt him," Mulder pressed, keeping 
his tone free of reproach. Gibson was impressed. Mulder didn't 
need his mind-reading ability; he had a gift for understanding 
human behavior and motivation. "He's depending on you to keep 
him safe." 

"I...I love him."

"I know you do."

"And he loves me."

"Yes, yes, he does."

"I've taken good care of him."

"You have." Mulder inched closer. The ice creaked and sagged 
beneath him.

"Mulder, it won't hold all of us," Gibson warned. 

"Then back away." Mulder stepped closer to Kenna, ignoring the 
danger. He had done this sort of thing before, put himself in 
harm's way while talking desperate people off ledges, stopping 
kidnappers from killing hostages. "Kenna, I appreciate 
everything you've done for William." 

"Then why don't you love me?" 

"We can talk about that." He was almost within reach. "Come 
back to the house."

She shook her head and began to cry. "What's the point? You 
hate me."

"I don't hate you."

"I didn't take the Tylenol! Honest. And it's not like I lost 
it on purpose...like I gave it away. The way *she* did! It was 
an accident. You have to believe me."

"I believe you," he lied, not understanding what she was 
referring to. 

She choked on her sobs. "We can try again. I'll be more 
careful. Please, please don't take William away."

William looked up at her with troubled eyes. "Mama sad."  

She soothed him as she sniffled, kissed the crown of his head 
and rocked him in her arms. Her skin was pebbled with 
gooseflesh. Her trembling lips were blue. The cold had turned 
the scars on her neck bright crimson. "I'm taking him to the 
Grand Canyon, Mulder. You can come with us if you want." She 
turned. Took a step toward the open water. Gibson knew then 
she intended to end her life and drown them both.

Mulder realized it, too. He lunged, grabbed her arm. The ice 
cracked and snapped.

"Dada?"

"Give him to me, Kenna. Please," Mulder begged, hanging on to 
her. 

She shook her head, but didn't struggle when Mulder lifted 
William from her arms and drew her to firmer ice. Her thoughts 
were a jumble of memory and fantasy, her mind a victim of the 
unimaginable events she had witnessed over the past seven 
months. 

"Rick will be home soon," she mumbled. "He'll be hungry. We're 
going to the Grand Canyon."

Mulder passed William to Gibson, then lifted Kenna in his 
arms. She hung limply as he carried her across the ice. When 
he reached shore, he headed away from the house they had 
shared, intending to take her to a new place where she could 
be watched and cared for, away from William. 

"Where Dada go?" William stared after his father. 

Father Richards tweaked his rosy cheek. "What do you say we 
get you back home, young man? Poor Dana was beside herself 
with worry."

Gibson could hear Scully's panic even now. She had desperately 
wanted to come after her son, but was afraid her presence 
would ignite Kenna's anger and endanger William further. So 
she put her trust in God. And in Mulder.  

Kenna had imagined she could hurt Scully by telling her about 
Mulder's infidelity. She had hoped to drive an irreconcilable 
wedge between them. Thing was, she hadn't understood Scully's 
faith. Or Mulder's love...

*   *   *

MID-DECEMBER, 2002

Mulder paced, impatient for Scully to return home with 
William. She had taken him to Vic's Motel, a tidy 
establishment where Royal Jackson lived with a rotating harem 
of five or six women. Kenna stayed in one of the motel's 
twelve guest rooms. She wasn't one of Royal's lovers, but he 
and the women kept an eye on her, making sure she got enough 
to eat and returning her to the motel whenever she wandered away. 

"Why?" Mulder demanded the moment Scully walked through the 
door with William asleep against her shoulder.

"Shh. Keep your voice down." She went directly to William's 
bedroom.

Mulder limped after her. "Why did you take him to see her?"

"We had this conversation earlier. My answer's still the same: 
he was asking about her."

"You couldn't tell him she moved away?"

She laid William in his crib and unzipped his snowsuit. "She 
was the most important person in his life for months. He 
misses her." She handed the snowsuit to Mulder, along with 
William's boots, mittens and hat. "I want what's best for our 
child."

"So do I." He dumped William's things onto the changing table.

"Do you? Is that the real reason you want to cut Kenna out of 
William's life?"

Guilt heated his cheeks. How much had he contributed to 
Kenna's breakdown? "She could've killed him that night on the 
ice."

"She was sick, Mulder. She didn't realize what she was doing."

"That's my point."  

Scully placed William's favorite plush toy -- a threadbare and 
food-stained beagle -- beside his head. A mobile of circus 
animals hung from the headboard, a relic of the crib's 
original occupant. Touching it lightly, Scully set its 
elephants and tigers twirling. She watched them bobble and 
whirl for a moment, seemingly lost in thought. Finally, she 
said, "When we tried IVF...and it failed...I...I was very 
disappointed." She kept her eyes focused on the rotating 
animals.

"I remember."

"I thought it was my last chance."

Mulder moved to stand behind her. He threaded his arms beneath 
hers and embraced her swollen waist. Her coat still carried 
the chill of the outdoors and the distinctive, musty odor of 
Vic's Motel.

She reached into the crib and stroked William's cheek. His 
lips puckered and he stirred, but his eyes remained closed. 
"You told me to never give up on a miracle. Remember?"

He kissed her ear. "Yeah, I was hoping to get lucky, so to 
speak." 

"We both got lucky." He thought he heard humor in her voice, 
but when she turned in the circle of his arms to face him, her 
expression was deadly serious. "There's something I haven't 
told you. Something that happened to William while you were in 
hiding."

"I know about Jeffrey Spender's visit, if that's what you're 
referring to. Gibson filled me in on the details." At her 
surprised look, he explained, "We had a lot of time to kill. 
You can only play I Spy With My Little Eye for so long, you 
know." 

She slid out of his embrace, removed her coat and dropped it 
on the twin bed opposite the crib. "Several weeks before 
Jeffrey showed up claiming to be you, William was kidnapped." 

"Kidnapped? By who?"

"A man named Josepho. He was part of a religious group, what 
Agent Doggett described as a whacked-out UFO cult. Josepho was 
their leader. He told me I had to choose between your life and 
William's."

"And...?"

She returned to the crib and drew a fleecy blanket over their 
sleeping son. Together they watched his small chest rise and 
fall. Steady. Unconcerned. 

"I couldn't, of course," she said. "I wouldn't. I loved you 
both. So I refused. I tailed Josepho, looking for William."

"And you found him."

"Yes."

"Where?" 

"I can hardly describe it, let alone explain it."

"Try."

"I followed him to a ship...an alien ship." 

"I'll save my 'I told you so' for later." His head dipped and 
his cheek grazed hers. He offered her a smile.

Her expression remained solemn. "The ship took off. The site 
was in ruins. On fire. Everyone was dead. Except William. 
He...he didn't have a scratch on him."

"How do you explain that?"

"I can't. But there were other things that happened while you 
were away, other things I can't explain."

"Such as...?"

"I saw William levitate objects." She reached out and stilled 
the mobile. 

"He seems like a perfectly normal kid now."

"Jeffrey Spender injected him with something."

"You think the injection changed him?"

"I don't know, that's not my point." She turned and looked up 
at him, her expression unbearably sad. "My point is that 
despite every precaution, I couldn't protect him. From the 
cult. From Jeffrey. No more than I could protect you from the 
men who wanted you dead." 

"Scully--"

"What I'm trying to say... What I *am* saying is that you were 
right, Mulder. I wanted to send William away. I wanted to send 
you away, too. I thought it would save you. But I was wrong." 

"No. You weren't." *I* was wrong, he thought.

His expectations had been unrealistic. His anger misguided. 
The last few months had taught him the truth about 
responsibility and self-sacrifice -- the altruistic side of 
love. Scully hadn't betrayed him or William. She'd put their 
needs ahead of her own, suffered to keep them safe. And how 
had he responded? By lashing out at her, blaming her, accusing 
her of being selfish and disloyal, words that more closely 
described him than her. His behavior had been abominable. His 
betrayal unforgivable.

"After our escape from Mount Weather, when we were headed to 
the Anasazi Pueblos, I pulled over while you were asleep in 
the car. The Gunmen appeared to me at the side of the road." 
He paused to see if she would dispute this claim. When she 
didn't, he continued. "Langly told me to hang a big U-ie and 
never look back. Byers wanted to know why I was willing to 
risk perfect happiness -- not to mention our lives -- to chase 
after answers I already knew. Frohike called me crazy. "

"What did you tell them?"

"I needed to know if I could change the future." The Keeper of 
the Truth in the pueblos had unfortunately turned out to be 
only C.G.B. Spender, eager to gloat over their powerlessness. 
Which meant Mulder had risked Scully's life for nothing. 
Again. "I never did save the world."

"That's not entirely true. Ca-Lo was your clone and he 
destroyed the aliens." 

"Which makes me a hero by proxy? That's a stretch, don't you 
think?"

"Does it matter? The world has a future now."

More time for us to hurt each other? "I owe you an apology, 
Scully," he admitted, wanting to set things right. "To be 
honest, I owe you a whole bunch of apologies."

"You don't owe me anything. You brought back our son, just 
like you said you would."

"No, I didn't trust you. I questioned your motives. I 
said...terrible things." He felt ashamed and hung his head. It 
was time to come clean, tell her the truth. All of it. "I... I 
slept with Kenna. I'm sorry, Scully. It was a stupid, selfish 
thing to do and I regret it more than--"

"Stop, Mulder. I already know about it. Kenna told me." 

An uneasy sigh sifted from his lungs. "I was afraid of that."

"No, it's okay."

"It's not okay. I--"

She silenced him by running her fingers across his lips. She 
appeared neither angry nor hurt.

"There's no such thing as perfect happiness, Mulder. Byers was 
wrong."

"That's a pessimistic point of view."

"Not really. Happiness doesn't have to be perfect. Not as long 
as we can forgive one another for our mistakes." Her 
expression was earnest. She was forgiving him. After all the 
hurt he had caused. 

His throat tightened. "Is it enough?"

"I hope so, because I have a confession to make, too." Her 
gaze dropped to her rounded stomach. "I'm hoping you can 
forgive this child and love her..."

"Even if Ca-Lo is the father and not me."

"Yes. How did you know?"

"It doesn't matter. What matters is I don't care."

She searched his face, trying to gauge his sincerity. "We 
could look for a lab where I could run tests, maybe learn the 
truth," she suggested.

He shook his head and gathered her into his arms. She had 
referred to the baby as "her." They were going to have a 
little girl. A sister for William. Emotion threatened to 
overwhelm him as memories of Samantha resurfaced. 

"She's your daughter, Scully. I love her for that reason 
alone. However she came to be, I'm her father now. I don't 
need a test," he said, meaning it. "Do you?"

"No." She leaned into him and clutched at the fabric of his 
shirt. He felt her shoulders hitch as she cried silently, face 
pressed against his chest. He stroked her hair, kissed the 
crown of her head, and tightened his embrace. 

There was no point kidding himself; they faced difficult times 
ahead. They would need to work hard to rebuild their lives, 
keep watch for another invasion, and bring a new baby into a 
harsh, uncertain world. But Scully had forgiven him. They had 
their son back and a daughter on the way. They were a family 
again. 

It might not be Byers' idea of perfect happiness, but at this 
moment it seemed damn close. 

*   *   *

SOMETIME AROUND CHRISTMAS

Shortly after dawn Mulder and Skinner took off on a "top 
secret mission" in the helicopter. While they were gone, 
Scully kept William occupied by making cookies shaped like 
stars and candy canes -- part of their contribution to the 
town's holiday feast to be held at the church later in the 
day. No one knew for certain if today was actually Christmas, 
but it was deemed close enough. People felt celebratory and 
declared this the day to give thanks.

William got more frosting on his face and fingers than on the 
cookies, but Scully enjoyed hearing him laugh and "sing" 
carols as he alternately licked the spatula and drummed his 
highchair tray. Every few minutes he asked "Where Dada?" She 
reassured him everything was fine. "Daddy will be home later."

"Mo' cookie."

"You've had plenty." She handed him a wet dishrag. "Wipe your 
face, please."

He smeared frosting into his hair, then sucked on the cloth.

"You need a bath, young man."

"Mo' cookie!"

"No more cookies. They're for after dinner." 

She filled the kitchen sink with water warmed on the stove, 
undressed him and sat him in the sudsy water. He splashed 
happily as she shampooed and bathed him. She loved the 
slippery feel of his sturdy arms and legs, the vibration of 
his chest when he laughed. She inspected him from head to toe 
and marveled at the changes in him. When thoughts of lost time 
and missed milestones brought tears to her eyes, she painted 
her chin with a soap suds beard, making them both giggle. 

William objected when it came time to drain the water and get 
out. But he settled down quickly after she wrapped him in a 
big towel and carried him to his room to diaper and dress him. 
She put him down for his nap and read to him -- "Green Eggs 
and Ham," "The Cat in the Hat," "The Night Before Christmas," 
books she had discovered in the toy chest beneath his crib. 
She stayed long after his eyes had closed and his breathing 
slowed, content to watch him sleep, loath to leave him alone 
after being separated for so long. 

Mulder and Skinner returned in late afternoon, dressed as the 
most pathetic looking Santa Clauses Scully had ever seen. 
Their false white beards were thin, straggly things, dingy and 
askew, the elastic that held them in place clearly visible. 
Mulder had stuffed a bed pillow under his red coat and cinched 
it in place with a wide leather belt with an enormous 
Budweiser Beer belt buckle. Skinner's coat hung loose, but he 
sported shiny black boots and a fur-trimmed hat with a jingle-
bell pompom. 

They hoisted several bulging sacks of gifts from the 
Blackhawk. The settlers gathered around and braved the winter 
chill to see what surprises these unlikely St. Nicks had 
brought back from distant towns. Old and young alike stared 
with glittering, wide eyes as Mulder and Skinner ho-ho-hoed, 
poked fun at one another and distributed gifts, starting with 
toys for the camp's children.

Spirits ran high as kids were given skates and sleds, action 
figures and baby dolls, puzzles and toy ponies, cars and 
trucks. The adults received more practical presents: warm 
coats, toiletries, food, blankets, space heaters. These 
everyday items seemed nothing less than miraculous to the 
luxury-starved settlers.  

William blinked in wonder when Mulder handed him an eight-inch 
die-cast motorcycle, complete with rider and passenger. "Vroom 
vroom." Mulder winked and William shyly took the toy. 

After doling out dozens of presents, Santas Skinner and Mulder 
surprised everyone by hauling a fully decorated artificial 
Christmas tree from the Blackhawk. They carried it on their 
shoulders to the church and stood it in one corner of the 
large meeting room, which was set for dinner with rows of 
folding tables and chairs, mismatched tablecloths, dinnerware 
and candles. 

Shortly after dusk, everyone gathered together and Father 
Richards offered a prayer of thanks. After a collective 
"amen," he smiled and announced, "Okay, let's eat!"

Platters of wild turkey, fresh trout, casseroles, breads and 
desserts were passed from table to table. When the supply of 
wine ran low, Skinner sent Royal to the Blackhawk for a stash 
of eighteen-year-old Glenfiddich Scotch. The night continued 
with numerous, heartfelt toasts, joyous singing and even 
dancing as several talented musicians played fiddle, guitar, 
flute and drums. Traditional favorites like O Come All Ye 
Faithful and Twelve Days of Christmas were intermixed with 
everyday tunes like Hey Jude, American Pie and Bridge Over 
Troubled Water. People were grateful to be alive, happy to be 
among friends.   

Mulder held William throughout the evening. Scully stuck close 
by, thankful they had worked out their differences. She loved 
him and William with all her heart and was relieved to have 
them both back in her life. To think that only a few months 
ago, it seemed likely she would never see either of them again. 
But here they were, the three of them together, with a baby on 
the way and a hopeful future ahead. 

Across the room, Kenna skulked at the fringe of Royal's 
entourage. She cradled a plastic baby doll in her arms. Every 
now and again, she caught William's eye and waved. He smiled 
back and Scully worried that his friendliness would encourage 
Kenna to come over. But she remained where she was and there 
were no uncomfortable confrontations.  

At evening's end the settlers parted reluctantly. A group of 
inebriated revelers followed Royal and his seven or eight 
female companions to Vic's, where the party would continue 
until sunrise. Kenna trailed after them, baby doll hugged 
tightly to her chest. 

Mulder lifted William onto his shoulders and offered his arm 
to Scully. They bid goodnight to Gibson and Father Richards, 
then sauntered across a moonlit landscape toward home, their 
breaths pluming the air. Stars winked overhead, brilliant as 
gemstones in the dark night sky. Laughter and jovial voices 
eddied around them, people called goodnight, wished one 
another happy holidays. A snowball sailed past Mulder's left 
shoulder and he spun to find three neighborhood boys stifling 
giggles. "Thanks for the Christmas presents, Mr. Mulder," they 
shouted before dashing off.

Inside the house, Mulder volunteered to put William down for 
the night. "You go ahead and get ready for bed, Scully. I'll 
take care of Junior."

"Want Mama." William sleepily rubbed his eyes and reached for 
Scully. 

Was it a slip of the tongue? 

"You heard the man." Mulder handed him to Scully. "He's all 
yours...Mama." 

Tears filled her eyes. Whether William was aware of what he 
had said or not, he had called her mama and it was music to 
her ears.

She was still smiling twenty minutes later when she joined 
Mulder in the bedroom. 

"He asleep?" Mulder deposited his pants atop a chair in the 
corner, then climbed into bed wearing only boxer shorts.  

"Out like a light." Scully undressed quickly. The room was 
chilly. She slipped a heavy flannel nightgown over her head. 
"We'll have to move him out of that crib and into a bed before 
the baby comes."

"He's too big for it anyway. I caught him trying to climb out 
a couple of days ago."

"You didn't tell me that."

"Didn't want you to worry he might take a tumble and crack 
open his skull."

"Thanks for that image. I'll sleep well tonight," she teased. 
"Did you hear him? He called me mama."

"I heard. That's great."

"Best Christmas present I could've received." She blew out the 
lantern and slid into bed. 

He spooned behind her, covering her with the comforter and one 
warm, heavy arm. Moonlight flooded the room as brightly as any 
streetlamp. He drew her closer, until his chest blanketed her 
back and his groin cradled her hips. "Then I guess there's no 
point in giving you this."

He opened his fist to reveal a tiny velvet gift box.

"You got me a present," she said, delighted as a child. She 
grabbed the box from his hand, yanked off the bow and opened 
the lid. A diamond solitaire ring sparkled inside. "Skinner 
picked this out, didn't he?"

"Busted. I was lobbying for a glow-in-the-dark Dick Tracy 
secret decoder ring, but he nixed the idea. You disappointed?"

"A decoder ring would've come in handy--"

"That's what I said."

"But this is beautiful."

"I didn't pay for it."

"No, really?"

"The sentiment is genuine, if that counts for anything."

"Depends on the sentiment." She tilted the box, watching the 
stone sparkle in the moonlight. 

He plucked the ring from the box and slipped it onto the third 
finger of her left hand. "I'm hoping to dazzle you into not 
noticing you've inadvertently hitched your wagon to an idiot's 
horse."

"I have a wagon?"

"You do. And a horse. And an idiot. If you'll have us." He 
tried to manipulate the angle of her hand to reflect moonlight 
off the ring into her eyes.   

She ignored the blinding flashes of light and his boyish 
attempts to distract her. "Does this idiot love me?"

"With all his heart."

"Then I'm a lucky woman." She leaned back and kissed his chin. 

He rose up on one arm, leaned over her and pressed his lips to 
hers. The angle was awkward. She tilted her head to give him 
better access. His hand slid up her neck and cupped her jaw, 
pinning her in place as his tongue plundered her mouth. Her 
heart beat faster. Heat radiated out to her fingertips and 
toes. She gasped when his lips abandoned hers. Feather-light 
kisses taunted her cheek, her temple, her ear. His darting 
tongue teased her lobe and the creases of her neck. She had 
missed this: the feel of his body, solid and warm against 
hers, the rasp of his cheek upon her skin, his panting breaths 
and wandering hands and heavy-lidded gaze. So familiar. So 
cherished.

Shaking, she whispered, "Make love to me, Mulder."

His hands stilled. Doubt replaced desire in his dark eyes. "I-
I want to, but..."

"But what?"

"I don't want to hurt the baby."

"It's virtually impossible to harm a fetus by having sex, 
Mulder."

He didn't look convinced. "I can wait, if you think we 
should."

"Well, I can't." She pressed her buttocks to his lap, rubbing 
against his rigid penis. He moaned softly and ground his hips 
against her spine. Desire pulsed low in her belly. An 
unexpected surge of wetness dampened her curls and slicked her 
inner thighs. "This position would be perfect; it'd avoid deep 
penetration. We'll be okay." 

The mattress dipped and creaked as he shimmied out of his 
boxers. She tugged her nightgown higher, baring her backside. 
His fiery erection poked between her legs. She was eager, 
almost desperate, for him to enter her. But he hesitated and 
drew back.

"Mulder..." His name scraped past tightened vocal chords, her 
frustration obvious. "You won't hurt the baby. Or me. It's 
okay, really."

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

"What?"

"I should use a condom."

She hated the idea of delaying their lovemaking, or abstaining 
altogether if a condom couldn't be procured, but the 
suggestion was a sensible one and necessary. "We've both had 
unprotected sex with other partners."

"Hold on. I'll see what I can find." He rolled over and rummaged 
through the nightstand. "Nothing here."

"Try the medicine cabinet."

"Be right back."

A few minutes later he returned with a foil packet. 
"Expiration date's still good," he announced and crawled into 
bed behind her. She heard him tear open the wrapper and a 
moment later his sheathed erection prodded her inner thighs.

Turning her head to look into his eyes, she laced her fingers 
through his hair and drew his mouth to hers. They kissed as he 
pushed slowly into her. Inch by inch, her softness enveloped 
him. 

Pressure, fullness, heat. The feeling was divine.

He hissed with obvious pleasure. "Are you sure I'm not hurting 
you?"

"I'm fine. More than fine. I'm..." Sated was the only word to 
describe the way she felt.

She drew his hand to her breasts. They were fuller, the 
nipples larger and more sensitive because of her pregnancy. 
She overflowed his palm and her voluptuous curves seemed to 
please and excite him. He groped her. Tugged gently at her 
left nipple. The sensation was exquisite. And powerful. 
Pleasure rocketed through her. Blissful pinpricks of 
electricity tingled her where their flesh met.    

"You can go deeper," she urged, wanting to feel more of him.

He complied, deliberate and measured, his eyes locked on hers 
to gauge her reaction as he buried himself in her. 

"Too much?"

"No."

He began a dawdling withdrawal. Then returned, unhurried, 
careful. 

"Mmmm," she hummed. "S'nice."

"Let's try for something better than just nice." He hooked his 
arm over her jutting abdomen. His hand caressed her belly, 
meandered lower, discovered her damp curls. He fingered the 
sensitive nub of her clitoris. He pressed and plucked at her 
flesh. She arched against him, delighted by the sensation of 
his hand upon her, the press of his cock inside her. It had 
been too long since they were joined like this.  

Her ardor blossomed. Her blood became fire and her pulse a 
drum in her ears, its thunder muting her sudden cry of 
delight. A grunt punctuated his own release moments later.

His movements ceased. He embraced her tightly and plowed his 
nose into the nape of her neck. His ragged breath puffed hotly 
against her sweaty skin. His penis grew flaccid inside her.

"Damn, I was hoping to last longer," he groaned.

She chuckled, completely satisfied. "We can always do it again 
later."

"Hold you to it." He yawned. Slipped out of her. She heard him 
remove the condom and throw it in the wastebasket beneath his 
nightstand. 

She rolled over to face him.

"C'mere." He gathered her into his arms.

Snuggling against his chest, she listened to his heartbeat. 
His breathing slowed. Soon, a gentle snore whistled from his 
nose.

"I love you," she whispered, content to let sleep capture her, 
too. 

It had been a good day. A very good day indeed.

*   *   *

STAR VALLEY BAPTIST CHURCH
MARCH 23, 2003

"Ah ha! There's hope!" The priest's face lit up. He had found 
the opening Gibson had left for him.

Gibson was pleased. He liked Father Richards. Admired his 
persistence. And his optimism. The priest was a natural 
leader. The settlers looked up to him and considered him a 
hero after his role in their daring escape. Rightly so. His 
confidence and good cheer would see them through future 
hardships. And while Father Richards tended to the settlers' 
souls, Gibson would watch over their daily lives and bear 
witness to their hopes and heartaches. 

In Royal Jackson's case, there weren't many heartaches. His 
arm had healed months ago and his reputation as an adventurous 
lover drew an inordinate number of young women to his rooms at 
Vic's Motel. Appreciative of his attentive style, they 
lavished him with favors, sexual and otherwise. He never 
wanted for a home-cooked meal or a bedmate. 

Walter Skinner, on the other hand, preferred a more solitary 
existence. He took an occasional partner, but more often than 
not he was piloting the Blackhawk in search of other 
settlements and old friends. The helicopter had a range of 
approximately 350 miles, forcing him to leapfrog from one 
airport to the next, where he used a manual pump to fuel up 
with av gas. To date, he had located two enclaves of 
survivors, two out of the countless settlements Gibson knew 
were scattered around the globe. Skinner hoped to locate 
others and eventually set up a network of trade routes to help 
distribute limited resources and trade for luxury items. He 
also planned to make a journey north after snowmelt to bring 
back John Doggett, who Gibson had recently detected on the 
move in Canada, heading east through Ontario toward Hudson's 
Bay. Skinner held out hope that Monica Reyes was with him, but 
so far Gibson had picked up nothing to indicate the two were 
together.

Kenna Douglas cared nothing about outsiders and faraway 
settlements. She remained locked in a dream world that was 
blissfully more pleasant than her real one. In her addled 
mind, she walked the rim of the Grand Canyon each day, arm in 
arm with her dead husband Rick, their several imaginary 
children in tow. The number and ages of their sons and 
daughters changed with each new sunrise, but she loved them as 
genuinely as she had loved William. The townspeople were 
tolerant of her, watching over the slender, scarred young 
woman who talked to herself as she wandered the snowy 
thoroughfares of Alpine. Royal made sure she was dressed 
warmly before she went out. And his female companions fed her 
regularly and saw to it she was tucked safely into bed each 
night. 

Scully continued her visits to Kenna, her emotional reserves 
replenished since Mulder and William's return and the birth of 
her new baby. She felt strong and capable, once again ready to 
wage battle against any threat, whether it be an outbreak of 
influenza or a second alien invasion. She pestered Gibson for 
news of her mother and brothers. So far he had located none of 
them, but Scully held out hope. She looked forward to 
introducing them to the newest family member.   

True to his word, Mulder did love Scully's baby -- a small but 
feisty daughter, born on February 16, 2003. This time, he was 
in attendance for the birth. They named the baby Abigail at 
Father Richards' suggestion. He said it meant "my father 
rejoices," which made it a perfect choice. Little Abby was 
clearly the apple of Mulder's eye. He fell head over heels in 
love with his little girl the moment she took her first 
breath. She squirmed and bawled gustily as he lifted her, red 
and wrinkled, onto Scully's deflated belly. He grinned like a 
lunatic and cried openly when Scully put the baby to her 
breast and coaxed her to suckle. 

"She has your eyes," Scully said breathlessly, exhausted after 
hours of labor.

Abby did indeed have her father's eyes. Curious and full of 
wonder. A shock of dark hair fuzzed her soft scalp. She 
smelled like sour milk and morning mist, and Mulder could not 
get enough of sniffing her. Or counting her tiny toes and 
fingers, marveling at her little nails, her long eyelashes and 
shell-shaped ears. But most of all, he loved the warm weight 
of her in the crook of his arm. "Five and a half pounds of 
pure perfection," he boasted, experiencing the same mix of 
pride and nervousness he'd felt after William was born.

William took the birth of his new sister in stride. Mulder and 
Scully lavished him with attention and did their best to make 
him feel a part of things. While Scully and Abby napped, 
Mulder took William outside to play with the town's other 
children. They made forts with snowman guards and piles of 
snowball ammunition. When the roughhousing threatened to 
overwhelm young William, Mulder lifted him onto his shoulders 
and took him to the reservoir to watch the fishermen set 
traps. They caught snowflakes on their tongues, which 
delighted William no end. As his giggles echoed through the 
forest, Mulder tipped his head back to listen, immersing 
himself in his young son's joy, grateful beyond words for this 
chance at a new and better life.  

Not everyone felt so fortunate. Many had lost their loved 
ones. They grieved for their dead.

Gibson's thoughts drifted to Dibeh and Ca-Lo. Victims both. 
And unsung heroes. How different might their lives have been 
had they not suffered at the hands of alien masters? Born 
free, would Ca-Lo have been more like Mulder? And how would 
Mulder have fared in Ca-Lo's place?

Circumstances drive our choices, he thought. Fate molds 
character like soft clay beneath a potter's hands. Fear and 
loneliness give rise to imagined grievances and unfortunate 
decisions. He knew better than anyone that people were 
imperfect beings, who often acted selfishly and thoughtlessly, 
made frequent mistakes, and inadvertently hurt those they 
professed to love. But in the end it was their capacity to 
forgive that allowed them to unburden their souls and soar 
with angels.

Scully was right, he thought. There is no perfect happiness. 
But there is forgiveness. And it is enough.

"Care for another?" Gibson offered a Coors to Father Richards.

"Since you're twisting my arm, don't mind if I do." The priest 
took the bottle and rubbed it like a good luck charm as he 
contemplated his next move.  

Gibson sipped his beer and waited. He had a nice buzz going. 
The voices in his head hummed like drowsy bumblebees and the 
future seemed suddenly as promising as a summer afternoon. 


THE END 

Feedback welcome at nejake@tds.net