From: "Branwell" Date: Sun, 11 Feb 2001 01:34:21 -0500 Subject: xfc: NEW: Closed Colony, Special Stock by Branwell (1 of 3) Source: xfc Title: Closed Colony, Special Stock (1 of 3) Author: Branwell Written especially for: I Made This Productions, Virtual Season 8 http://www.i-made-this.com Rating: PG-13 for mild language, innuendo, disturbing images and ideas. Category: X, A, M/S Friendship Casefile with Mytharc connection Summary: A body is found in a top secret area on an Air Force Base. No one knows the cause of death, or why the dead woman was in a secured area. The Air Force officer in charge makes a last ditch effort to prevent the project from being closed down. He uses his clout to get the FBI to send Mulder and Scully to investigate. Scully finds she knows the right questions to ask--but how? Author's notes follow the story. --------------------------------------------------- Prologue: An Air Force base in Missouri Monday, Aug. 20, 2001 7:15 A.M. Around the base this place is getting a bad reputation. Security finds secret documents scattered on the floor. The vault door stands open in the morning, after being locked shut the night before. Badges disappear and reappear without an explanation. People talk about it, but no one uses the word "haunted." When I pass Jay, Steve, Drew and the colonel at the coffeepot, they're debating last night's game as though earth's fate hung on an umpire's call. Angie fidgets in the cubicle around the corner, looking like Death with a make-over. She checks her e-mail, rearranges piles of paper and then sits staring into the corner of her cube. Spots of blush stand out as bright as pink bandages on her cheeks. Pam's cubicle is empty. The woman hasn't taken sick leave in seven years, but she's been home with a stomach flu for the last ten days. She's got five months of sick leave saved up: I don't expect we'll see her for a while. In the next cubicle, Marge buttons up her cardigan and rubs her palms together. She gives me a nod, as usual. It's placatory, not affectionate. I accept it graciously, anyway. She turns her back and pretends to be busy reviewing the papers presented at the Conference on Technology-Inherent Risks in Genetic Engineering. I return to the men, who are laughing too loud at old baseball jokes. When Colonel Robbins breaks away, I follow him into his office. He looks up and runs a nervous finger between his collar and Adam's apple, but he doesn't speak. Before now he always looked like he had a slight sunburn, even in the winter. In the last two weeks his face has collapsed into pale furrows. Every day of his sixty-plus years shows. Helen, the two letter admin support, leans in through the open doorway. After a moment's hesitation, she takes two steps inside and beckons to someone behind her. "Colonel Robbins, the special investigative team you requested is here. Agents Fox Mulder and Dana Scully. Agents, this is Colonel Ed Robbins." The man and woman who follow her in should pose for an FBI recruiting poster. He's tall and graceful, with golden skin that looks almost tan. Even though she's small, she has a perfect figure. Daddy calls that type a 'pocket Venus.' I'm not sure if her red hair is natural, but she has the faint freckles that go with that coloring. Both of them radiate health and energy. Hands are shaken all around. Helen can hardly wait to get back to the safety of her own office. She rocks on those spike heels like a fir tree in a high wind, always swaying back toward the door. Robbins releases her with a nod and muttered "Thanks, Helen." I leave when Helen does. I've heard Robbin's story already. I was there when he made the call to his old buddy Kersh at FBI headquarters. The colonel always has a buddy who can fix things. No matter how hard they try to pretend, nothing's been the same since they found the body. There were no signs of violence, forced entry, or tampering with secret documents. Just a peaceful corpse that had no right to be inside a Top Secret vaulted area where a Black Program has been going on for almost fifty years. *********************************** ACT ONE *********************************** 7:30 A.M. Jay has always been good at acting normal. Maybe it isn't an act. Maybe this feels normal to him. I know he put his daily dollar into the coffee fund at 7:00 AM. He poured his first cup at 7:30. In another fifteen minutes he'll pour his second. Fifteen minutes after that he'll head for the men's room with the sports section. You'd never guess that two weeks ago he found his dead wife lying on the floor, not fifteen feet from his desk. The carpet in these offices is thirty years old. In the corners I can still see the fleur-de-lis pattern, red on blue. The rest is a dirty purple blur. The desks are battered--painted a sloppy, gun-metal gray. Half the drawers are coming apart, so they can't be fully closed or opened. The mismatched chairs are too worn to have their heights adjusted. Their spring mechanisms screech like squealing brakes when the sitter moves. I amuse myself by tipping my chair once in a while. Nobody knows when the next little squeal will break the quiet. Marge shakes her head at me. EOS has been losing budget for years now. It's never produced anything usable. Normally Congress would have cut off its funds a long time ago. Colonel Robbins is too good at working the system. According to the rules, he should have relocated eleven times in the last thirty-five years. The brass waived the requirement every time because he convinced everyone he was indispensable to the project, and that the project was indispensable to the DOD. He may not be able to get carpets or furniture, but he's kept vault space and his lab animals. Everybody in the office gets the latest software on their PCs. In the midst of an institutional melt-down, the colonel still gets funding. The Air Force is living on its capital, like the lazy heir of a rich, old family. The fat budgets of the Cold War fostered today's glamorous technology--Stealth, smart missiles, the Shuttle. There's nothing like that warming up over the Bunsen burners in today's labs. More than half the civilian employees will reach retirement age in five years. There aren't enough lower level people to replace them. It's all very well to contract everything out, but someone has to manage the contracts. Rules for contracts make political intrigues look like playground strategies. When the next "incident" breaks out, most of the people who know how to make things happen will be gone. Operations, intelligence, logistics, research--it's the same everywhere. People are going to be surprised during the next conflict. It won't be a happy surprise. Daddy can go on about this for hours. And he does. Colonel Robbins doesn't talk as much, but he knows how to make things happen. And how to stop things from happening. He steps out of his office to make an inspirational speech, and introduce everyone to the FBI agents. I hum the rude song Jay made up about him. "There are chickens on his shoulders, Yeah, chickens on his shoulders. Chickens make him bolder, Than he's any right to be." No one calls his eagles 'chickens' to his face. People have been known to slip and use his nickname 'The Birdman' in his presence. He doesn't react. Agent Scully cuts in so fast at the end of his compliments to his "saddened but loyal team," that it almost sounds like an interruption. "We need an office to conduct our interviews." Her voice is low, but it carries. Colonel Robbins pauses before he gives one of his ominously patient replies. "Of course. We're going to use Lieutenant Jackson's office." The lieutenant's been on TDY to Wiekamp AFB for the last month. Everyone is green with envy at his perfect alibi. They seem to forget that there's no evidence of a crime. "Thank you. We'll speak with each of you individually," Agent Mulder says. I'll bet he's already formulated and poked holes in a dozen theories behind that blank face. With his most steely-eyed gaze fixed on Jay, the colonel speaks up."Please be frank. It's the only way to clear our group's good name. Will you be starting with Mr. Barnes?" the colonel asks. The agents look at each other and then both nod. Are they telepathic or something? "No. We'll speak to him last. We'll start with Mr. Kestler," Agent Mulder answers. "Fine. Drew, you go first. Do you want to go next, Marge?" I head for the lieutenant's office while the colonel is still trying to take charge of the interviews. Maybe this time the Birdman's met his match. These agents act like their final report hasn't already been written. We'll see. The colonel is terrified that the new base commander will use the compromised security issue to shut EOS down. He wants the FBI to find a minor lapse in judgment on somebody's part. After a formal reprimand--maybe even a dismissal--the project can go on as usual. If there's been foul play . . . who knows? A couple months ago Jay said the Birdman was brooding over a new proposal. This fuss could keep it from hatching. Drew has round, wet, black eyes, like those lemurs that stare worriedly out of "National Geographic." It's hard for him to look dignified. "Please have a seat, Mr. Kestler." Agent Mulder takes the lead, sitting behind the desk while his partner takes the chair beside Drew. She perches on it at strict attention. Mulder lounges back in his seat and grins when it screeches a loud protest. "What does 'EOS' stand for, Mr. Kestler?" Mulder asks. "Nothing. It's a random set of letters used to indicate the group's hierarchical position and departmental relationships within the Air Force." Drew must have seen that one coming. "You've been on this project for twenty-five years. Can you give me a brief explanation of its purpose?" "That information is classified and irrelevant to this investigation." Drew's lips purse up with smugness. Mulder has almost perfect control. I hardly see any change in his expression. But his partner intervenes as though he'd objected. "He's right about the classified status, Mulder. Kim gave us forms to fill out for special clearances. You remember the paper I had you sign yesterday? They haven't been processed yet." When he answers, Drew keeps his head down. "They're about six months behind on background checks marked 'urgent.' The standard wait is twelve months now." The big knuckles of his spatulate fingers seem to fascinate him. Mulder draws in a big breath and lets it out slowly. "All right, Mr. Kestler, I think we understand each other. I need to know your movements during the 24 hours before the body was found." Drew throws back his bony shoulders and puffs out his narrow chest. "I began that Sunday with a small breakfast of toast and antioxidant green tea. No coffee. Did you know that coffee can aggravate inflammation of the gall bladder? Some times I get this twinge after eating . . . ." They'd better not let him get started on his twinges. Agent Mulder gives him a pleasant smile and interrupts. "Actually my partner here is a . . . ." At that point Agent Scully interrupts his interruption. "Perhaps we can skip to the question of your activities after five o'clock that afternoon. Surveillance cameras show Ms. Barnes being waved through the gate at that time." Drew opens and closes his mouth a few times, and shakes his head. Then he plods on. "I had a meeting of the International Trolley Enthusiasts Club. We're planning an excursion to the Baltimore Streetcar Museum this spring." "Are there enough streetcar enthusiasts to form a club in . . . let's see, you live in Warrensburg?" Agent Mulder asks, flipping through the file in front of him. "I'm the only member from Warrensburg. I had to drive to Kansas City. I allowed plenty of time. I got there early-- at six o'clock. I didn't leave until almost eleven. You can check with the other members. I know you're thinking that's not healthy, staying so late, with work the next day. I had to help Stan break down his cutaway of an interurban." "We'll be getting in touch with your club members. What did you do when you got home?" Agent Scully slips her question in while Drew takes a breath. "Brushed my teeth and went straight to bed, of course. I'd had a shower before I went," he explains. Scully's slightly wrinkled nose makes me think she's getting more information than she wants. Drew continues without prompting. "I slept until my alarm went off at six. There was a huge traffic jam at the gate when I got to the base. The guards were checking everybody's ID. Usually they wave cars with stickers on through. So I ended up being late for work! The first time in twenty-two years. They wouldn't let me into the vault anyway. I waited and waited, and finally went home. Our office was off limits, with guards posted, until Wednesday." "May I see your access card?" Agent Mulder asks. Drew lifts the cord holding his ID over his head. "Have you ever loaned it to anybody? You know, maybe they left theirs at home one day?" Mulder slips the photo card out of its clear plastic pocket and examines the magnetic strip on the back. "Never. That's against every security regulation. That's why we have 'Turkey' badges like yours. I mean 'Temporary' badges." The badges, blazing with big, wattle-red 'T's, are clipped to the agents' collars. In the vault an escort is required for the person with a "Temporary" badge. There's a young officer sitting outside the door right now. All he has to do today is watch Agents Mulder and Scully. "Have you ever told anyone your PIN?" Agent Scully asks. "Certainly not! Has someone accused me of a security breach? Because I've never . . . " Drew gets hives when he gets excited or nervous. I see the welts start to rise at his jaw-line. "No, no. We have to ask everyone these questions," Mulder soothes him. "How well did you know Rebecca Barnes?" Drew leans back a little in his chair and I see the marks fade from his face. "Oh. We always met at the Christmas party and annual picnic. Chatted about the federal budget and trollies. She seemed really interested in the history of electrified rail service." "So you liked her?" Agent Mulder asks. "Sure. Why not? Don't get me wrong. I only liked her as a friend. She wasn't very pretty--kind of pasty and puffy, if you know what I mean. Not very talkative. Jay or Pete always monopolized her anyway." Not very pretty, huh? As though Drew were next in line to play James Bond. The agents keep straight faces. I tune out the rest of the conversation. It's not going anywhere. I take a turn down the narrow passage between cubicles. Jay is graphing something about percentages of diploid, triploid and tetraploid cells in the special stock. I'm watching when he finds the bitten up pencil in his lap drawer. He always hated the way I chewed on pens and pencils. It took me two days get it done, but it was worth it. Finally I see Jay react to something. He turns abnormally pale. When Drew emerges from his interview, I go with Agent Scully to fetch Steve Sanderson. As she shows him in, Steve scans the little office as though he expects to sight a thumbscrew or rack. Steve's nose juts out like the beak of an American eagle. Maybe that's why his eyes look so keen. It's an illusion. He sees what he expects to see, like everybody else. His meaty hands open and shut rhythmically while he explains that all Sunday evening he worked on finishing his basement. If you didn't know him, you'd picture paneling going up, maybe a wet bar in the corner, and an exercise room with carpets and a Nordic track. Steve is building a bunker to defend when the New World Order finally moves into the Heartland. Once we went to his house for dinner, and got the grand tour. He showed us his gun racks, his grain storage bins, and his still. "Better than gold," he grinned, running his hand over the glass tubing. "When society breaks down, people will trade anything for alcohol. And I'm ready to defend my property." Steve is pushing fifty, but his wife is only twenty. She must be close to her due date by now. When he talks she watches his face as though it's the last light burning after Armageddon. I guess she buys into the whole Jewish- Liberal-Feminazi-Welfare-Queen-Homosexualist-Hollywood- Peacenik Conspiracy to reduce American men to sniveling servants of the U.N. Of course Steve has unusual access to top secret documents. That's what makes him scary. He knows more about the government than the rest of us, and he wants to live miles away from everybody else, on a pile of weapons. "I understand you live quite a distance from the base," Agent Scully remarks. She startles her partner by pulling a folder out from under his nose and over to her place. "Yes. I have a few acres about sixty miles east. It's real quiet." "I'm sure it is," she smiles. "But aren't you worried about your wife? She's alone and unprotected out there. There's been a suspicious death right here on base. Or what if she had a medical emergency?" "Why should she need . . . Did the colonel tell you she's expecting? We've got a local midwife lined up. Not that it's any of your business. And Terri knows how to shoot." Agent Scully looks across the table at her partner. He gives a tiny shrug. She asks the next question. "What happened on Monday?" "They were putting on a show of heavy security at the gates. Never mind the miles of unpatrolled fencing around the base." Steve snorts with laughter. "Oh well. By the time I got here, the excitement was over. There was yellow tape all over the office. Security was giving Jay a hard time--wouldn't let him go home until I started threatening to call the Kansas City TV stations. Wasn't it bad enough that he had to be one to find his wife's body? She was lying right outside Marge's cubicle." Steve turns halfway around, as though he needs to re-check that spot for corpses. If I could remember how Jay reacted, I might know everything. Agent Mulder jumps in again. "That puzzles me, Mr. Sanderson. Why was he at work when his wife hadn't been home all night? In his place, I'd have been out looking for her. Or I'd have reported her missing." When he poses the question, Agent Mulder is looking at his partner instead of at Steve. I notice that neither of them wears a wedding band. Steve's jaw muscles stand out as he thinks about his answer. "Well, you see . . . They'd separated. Sort of. Sometimes she stayed with her Dad. So Jay didn't know she was missing all night." Agent Mulder doesn't show a reaction, but he speeds up the pace of the questions. He asks about Steve's membership in MUFON. It's some wacky organization for people who think they've been abducted by aliens. Mulder and Scully exchange whispers before he leaves the room with Steve. I'm surprised to see him return with Jay. I thought they were leaving him until last. Jay is almost forty. Except for the lieutenants that get cycled in and out every three years, he's the baby boy of the project. He spends an hour and a half at the gym every other day, to keep his college athlete body. The luck of the gene pool won him that handsome, durable face, and thick hair that's too blonde to show any gray. The charm--I've never known how much of it comes from the heart. He still looks paler than usual. It doesn't stop the agents from putting him through the usual questioning. I have to sit through another recitation of the story Jay's been telling everyone. "I went to bed early on Sunday. Rebecca was over at her Dad's. When I got up, and she wasn't home, I just assumed her visit lasted so late that she decided to spend the night. Pete gets lonely since he retired. "I'm on an early schedule at work. I opened the vault at seven o'clock, like always." This is the part where he covers his eyes with one hand. "She was lying there curled up like she was asleep." Here he always looks straightforwardly into someone's eyes. He chooses Agent Mulder. "Of course I knew something was very wrong." "What did you do?" Scully prompts. "I touched her hand. She was . . . cold. I'd never seen a dead person before but I knew . . . . I called the base hospital to get an ambulance. I knew it was too late." Mulder takes his turn. "I've read the statement you made to the military police. You said sometimes your wife spent the night at her father's. We have a statement from another source that indicates you and your wife were separated. Is that true?" "No. Well, not exactly. We'd been going through a hard time. Becky could be very . . . difficult. Her health problems had . . . twisted her some way, I think. It was never clear what was wrong with her, and no one could give us a prognosis. If she was a little unbalanced, I blame it on her illness." Agent Scully steps up to the plate. "I've read her medical history, Mr. Barnes. Unexplained inflammation of various joints and organs. Variously diagnosed as diabetes, vitamin B deficiencies, rheumatoid arthritis, lupus, IBD, asthma, allergies, appendicitis, candidiasis syndrome. It looks like she got a new diagnosis every time she received treatment." "It came and went. I could never see a pattern. I couldn't blame her for being irritable. For trying to control what she could." Jay sounds so understanding. Mulder's turn again: "So what happened lately to make things worse between you?" "She'd gotten this idea that . . . God, I don't want you to think she was crazy, but she thought that her doctors at the base were in a conspiracy against her. She thought they were doing experiments on her connected with MY work!" Agent Mulder surprises me with his next question. "What do you think?" "Of course there's no connection! We're studying . . . .Oh, I know it's supposed to be secret, but I can tell you the general gist of it. It's genetic engineering. Specifically, how to target genes in selected cells and change the protein production codes. Theoretically you could change the cell itself to a different kind of cell by controlling the kinds of proteins it makes. We've gone through a hundred generations of rats, and made a little progress. Imagine if you could change a transplanted organ to avoid the immune rejection response! Or even turn fatty tissue to liver tissue! But we're nowhere near ready for human experimentation." Jay puts on his martyr's look. "Becky sometimes didn't have enough to occupy her mind. She always ended up getting sick and losing jobs. Of course it would have been foolish to try to have children. "It seemed like she had nothing to do but get involved in bizarre theories and grill me and spy on me. It got pretty hard to live with. Every once in a while she'd have a tantrum and drive off. She always ended up at her father's. She didn't have anyplace else to go." Sad but true. Jay could always go to Angie's place. I guess he's not going to mention how he's been carrying on with that slut for the past three months. "Is it possible your wife could have been here looking for evidence of a conspiracy?" Mulder asks. "I don't know what to think. Even if she were crazy enough --I mean, disturbed enough--to try that, she didn't take my access card. She didn't know my password. I can't explain how she got here! All I know is it just about killed me to find poor little Becky like that. After all the times I'd seen her so sick in the hospital, to find her suddenly dead when I least expected it!" This is where Jay will let one manly tear trickle down his face. I know he can't feel too bad. When this blows over, he can have Angie over any time he wants for a quickie. Mulder looks as though he might leak a tear or two in sympathy with Jay. His partner narrows her eyes. "Thank you for your co-operation, Mr. Barnes," Mulder manages. "I know this has been very difficult for you." They shake hands and Jay shuffles out with his head down. I'm sure his mid-morning granola and yogurt will perk him up. "Shall we talk to . . . ." Mulder begins. "Let's get Angie Phillips in here!" Scully snaps. "Angie Phillips? That doesn't sound like a random call. Did I miss something in that interview?" "I'll go get her." Agent Scully answers without answering. Angie probably lost ten pounds in the last two weeks. Some people have all the luck. Jay likes them slim and girlish. Scully shoots a warning glance at her partner and asks the first question. "How long have you been intimate with Mr. Barnes?" Mulder has a good poker face, but his eyes get rounder and his mouth opens a little. Angie looks less surprised than Mulder does. Maybe she's relieved that everything is out in the open. "We started seeing each other about three months ago." "So it began right after you came onto the project?" Scully says, without looking up from Angie's folder. "Not RIGHT after," Angie replies. "We worked together a lot. It was . . . natural. Jay didn't hate Rebecca, if that's what you're thinking. He felt sorry for her." It's so pleasant to be pitied. The opportunity to be pathetic is a great incentive to get up in the morning. Angie had better be careful. Jay isn't the only one with a possible motive here. Agent Scully pounces. "Did you want Mr. Barnes to divorce his wife and marry you?" "Marry me? I . . . No! We didn't have any plans . . . ." I'm thinking--Come on, Angie. He brought you to our house for nooners. What was that all about? Agent Scully's voice takes on a hard edge. "Come now, Ms. Phillips. Be honest. You were doing it right in their marriage bed, weren't you? ADMIT IT!" Mulder's jaw drops like a cartoon of surprise. Angie saves him from having to speak by answering the question. "No! We used the bed in the guestroom. We don't want to get married. It was just . . . propinquity. You know?" "Thank you for your honesty, Ms. Phillips." Scully smiles at her, but it isn't a nice smile. If Scully knows about propinquity, it doesn't please her. They ask her questions about her activities on that Sunday. Usually her son spends the weekend with his Dad. Two weeks ago the ex had plans, so she had to drive her son to a rock concert in Kansas City. She's got her alibi. I half listen to the details. I have to admit, I'm convinced. My death had nothing to do with a crime of passion. It's just as I thought. From the beginning it's been a plot, and everyone is in on it. And the truth will never be known. ************************** End of Act 1, Closed Colony, Special Stock Title: Closed Colony, Special Stock (2 of 3) Author: Branwell See part 1 for rating, summary, etc. See the end of part 3 for author's notes. *********************************** ACT TWO *********************************** Angie leaves and Mulder gives Scully a pained look. "Scully, what's going on? If you knew something, you should have told me. There was no evidence of a relationship between Jay Barnes and Angie Phillips." I'm wondering about that myself. It was great to see Angie shaken up, but how did Agent Scully know about the affair? They were pretty careful. They didn't want Daddy to find out. Scully has all the folders pulled over to her side of the desk. She looks up into her partner's face with confidence. "But they are involved, aren't they?" she responds. "I must be having a hunch. You have hunches all the time." "That's me, Scully. Not you. Sometimes my unconscious solves a problem before I'm aware of the process." "It's not always about you, Mulder," Scully says, directing a severe look his way. For a second he gets this sick expression. Then he registers the little smile she can't quite suppress. He gives a grimace that might be taken as a smile. "Talk to me, Scully," he bursts out. "What does it feel like? Can you trace a reasoning process or is it like a voice in your head? Or just a feeling?" Her smile disappears and she seems to be looking right at me. But her eyes aren't focused. "It's like a voice from another room. A door opens or closes and it's louder or softer. Or maybe a radio station that fades in the hills and gets strong again on flat land. It's coming from outside of me. Mulder, is that how it was for you?" Mulder's nods his head and then shakes it. "It was more than one voice. There were thousands, as though everyone in a football stadium was trying to get my attention. There was no room left for MY thoughts. Are you sure you're all right?" "I'm fine," she says quickly. "No, really--I'm fine." Mulder raises his eyebrows and looks pointedly at the folder in front of her. "So, who are we interviewing next?" Scully lifts her arms with bent elbows, and places the tips of her fingers on her forehead like a stage mindreader. "Please, I must have silence to concentrate," she intones. She's having a hard time keeping a straight face. Daddy! I think. Daddy! Scully's eyes go wide and she gasps. "Why 'Daddy'?" she almost pleads out loud. For a second Mulder looks scared too. Then he grabs for a folder. "Her daddy, Scully. Rebecca's father. Look. He lives in Knob Noster. In her folder it says he's a consultant for HWI." "I wonder what 'HWI' stands for?" Scully asks, her voice a little shaky. "Nothing. It's just the contractor that Mr. Eberhardt works through now." Marge had sneaked up on us and answered Mulder's question from the doorway. With a second sweater on over her suit, she looks as round as the Buddha. Come to think of it, she's got the half-witted, serene look of some mystic. "I'm Marge Elders," she explains. "I'm taking the afternoon off. Do you need to talk to me before I leave?" "We don't have to talk now, if you'll be in tomorrow. But what were you saying about Mr. Eberhardt?" Daddy still works on the project. The government offered big retirement incentives to reduce the payroll. So he retired. Then the government hired him as a consultant, through a contractor, for half again what he earned as a civil service employee. It's how the government saves money. Marge's face shines with benevolent superiority. "Mr. Eberhardt still works on EOS, like he has for the last forty-five years. Now he's a contractor." "Where's Eberhardt's folder, Scully?" Mulder interjects. As Scully fans the folders out, I let myself feel the misery for a moment. It's not easy to find out for sure that everything in your life was false. All the time I thought I was a person, with the whole world to live in, I was a lab rat in a maze. Even my own father was just one of the scientists, running an experiment in our home. "No, it couldn't be her father," Scully protests. Marge and Mulder look at her and she blinks. "We didn't get a folder for him," she asserts. Marge folds her lips and her expression loses some serenity. "Somebody has to solve this. We can't stand it much longer." "Are you worried about your own safety?" Mulder asks. "Ms. Barnes' death may have been due to natural causes. Do you have any reason to believe that you're in danger?" When Marge shakes her head, her cascade of brassy curls moves with it in a solid mass. "Don't tell me you don't feel it. She's here. All the time. There must be a secret that binds her here. You have to expose it and release her." Mulder and Scully look at each other. They're comical in their uncertainty. Normal agents would give her a non- committal answer and assume she's a nut. But there were the two of them discussing their experience with mental telepathy not ten minutes ago. "Didn't anyone tell you about the vault door unlocking itself, and small objects disappearing and then reappearing?" Marge is definitely showing some temper. "You mean there's been poltergeist activity?" Mulder brightens. "Nothing spectacular." Marge laughs a little. "Nothing flies through the air, or breaks, or catches fire. It's impossible to prove, but we all know it's happening. I know she's here. And the cold spots. Haven't you felt them?" I move over close to Marge and think about touching the back of her neck. That's how it works. I think about it, and sometimes it happens. Sometimes I'm not strong enough. Marge gasps and shivers. "I've got four more years before I can retire. They owe me retirement. But I can't work under these conditions." Who ya' gonna' call? I think. Ghostbusters? Marge recovers and asks, "Why would Pete Eberhardt have anything to do with it? I mean besides being her father. He mostly works at home and only puts in a time card for ten hours a week." Scully looks uncertain. I move away from Marge toward Scully, and consider the facts. Daddy would have an access card. Security should be able to tell whose card was used on Sunday, but the log is kept on tape. The tape is blank, as though somebody set a magnet on it. Who uses reel-to-reel tapes anymore? No one but under-funded government systems. "If he's on the project, Eberhardt has an access card," Scully responds. "We should go talk to him." She starts stacking the folders. "I'll be glad to get back outside into the heat. The air-conditioning in this office is out of control." "It doesn't seem uncomfortable to me," Mulder comments. Marge shrugs and rolls her eyes. When she walks away, that unfocused, mystical look is back again. The agents step out of the office. Their escort's crewcut head snaps up from "Security Policies and Procedures, pub. AFSD-3251." Mulder leads the way with long, effortless strides. His partner's short legs have to move more quickly. The lieutenant hustles after them, juggling books and briefcase. It's only as they're leaving that I realize this decision is my doing. I've helped them crack the case. Before I can stop myself, I think--I should go with them. I can't believe it when I find myself outside in the bright August sunlight. Doing things by thinking about them is tricky business. I have to stop and decide. Should I go with them, away from the base? I'm scared. What if I blink out of existence when I leave the place where I died? What if I find out for sure that I can't leave this place? Maybe I don't want to know that I have to spend eternity in a shabby office with cranky government workers. My undisciplined thoughts land me in the back seat of their car. As we drive off the base, I see that the grass has dried to straw-brown in the last two weeks. It always does that at the end of summer. This isn't much different from coming out of the hospital after a long stay. The rest of the world always moved on, while I struggled with the basics, like digesting and excreting. Every time it happened, I felt like I fell farther behind in some kind of lifetime game. It's kind of a relief to know it can't happen again. But of course neither can any of the good stuff. Daddy's house is only ten minutes away. It's coming back to me, how I drove there that Sunday. *********************************** Knob Noster, Missouri Noon "Turn right at that Reddi-mart past the light," Scully tells her partner. "That's not what the map says," Mulder objects. "It's a shortcut," she assures him. His pouty lower lip juts out more, but he takes the right. Without saying another word, he follows her instructions, cutting through the parking lot to the alley that runs behind Daddy's house. We park on Fillmore Ave, the street that parallels the alley. My parents bought this house five years before I was born. A brick ranch was the most modern thing you could get. Daddy's kept it up beautifully. The basketball hoop over the garage has its annual coat of anti-rust sealant. He still scrapes and paints the garage every three years, no matter what. When I was a little girl, each time he painted, Daddy would buy me a new bike to hang on the garage wall. We'd give away the old one, always as good as new. Most of the time I was getting sick or getting well, so my bikes didn't get much wear and tear. The basketball hoop didn't get much use either, until I married Jay. I would have inherited this house, I think, as we troop up the front walk. I'll never need a house again. How odd. While Mulder is knocking, it occurs to me that I might not need to wait for Daddy to open the door. But really I'm not in a hurry to see him. Daddy looks a lot smaller and older than I expected. He's got less graying hair combed over his head, and his shoulders are so stooped. "Come on in," he tells Mulder and Scully. "Helen called and told me you were on your way. I don't know how I can help." He shows them into the living room. It's so neat and new looking--the opposite of the vault on base. It could be a furniture showroom, except for the post-it notes on the tables and lamps. The agents perch side by side on the pale blue couch. Mulder looks around, and I see his feet move restlessly. Daddy's got even more notes taped up today than he did on that Sunday when I last visited. I wonder if there's one hidden away somewhere that says 'Do something about Becky. She's getting to be a pain.' Or maybe 'Time to sacrifice the subject and end the experiment.' Probably not. He'd throw the note away when the job was done. "Mr. Eberhardt. . . " Mulder begins. "Can we see your vault access card, sir?" Scully interrupts. Daddy frowns in concentration. "Of course," he says slowly. "Give me a minute. I don't use it most days . . . You asked me too fast," he stalls. He keeps it on the mantle under the jade green vase with the artificial ferns. Scully looks above the fireplace and focuses on the vase. Daddy follows her gaze, and his face brightens. He gets up deliberately and walks to the fireplace. He's confident when he lifts the vase. His shoulders rise when he finds only a yellow post-it note. He crumples it and drops it into his pocket. "I must have lost it," he informs the agents. For the past year he's left his card under that vase, along with his password written on a post-it note. Now I remember taking it on that last visit, when he left the room. Why should I care if he got blamed for the security breach? He was in it with the others. Mulder opens his mouth, but Scully jumps in ahead of him. "I'd like to talk to you about your daughter's theory that there was a scientific conspiracy against her." Mulder's face twists as though he's swallowing a spoonful of nasty medicine. He stays quiet. "I know what caused that," Daddy says calmly. He's not happy. He hardly ever is, but he gets so much satisfaction out of being right, that it's almost as good. "It was her brain this time. She was getting sick again, and her brain was affected," he goes on. Even if he believes that, it doesn't make him innocent. "Mr. Eberhardt," Mulder finally gets a word in. "Is there any other place else you could have left your card?" Daddy looks as anxious as if he had to remember events from forty years ago, instead of two weeks. "Maybe the bedroom," he offers, with a helpless, palms-up gesture. He starts down the hall to the bedrooms. Mulder wanders over to the table where Mom set up a display of family photographs. There's nothing more recent than seven years ago, when she died. Now I wonder if she stayed here in the house, and watched us afterwards. And if she did, where is she now? The questions make me nervous. I decide to pay strict attention to Mulder instead of asking myself pointless questions. "She was no Laura, was she, Scully?" Mulder remarks. He leans over for a closer look at my graduation picture. Back in the seventies, we only got to pick two out of three poses. Then our choices were airbrushed until our faces looked like molded plastic. They could take away flaws. With my flaws gone, there wasn't much personality left. Scully's silence doesn't discourage Mulder. He keeps on talking. "You know--there was a movie called 'Laura'. With Dana Andrews. He falls in love with the woman whose death he's investigating. Everyone he interviews says she was special. Then he sees her portrait, and on top of everything else, she was beautiful. There's a hint of the succubus legend in the way he . . . . " "Hmmm. Ah. I see," Scully remains unenthusiastic. "But she's not really dead, it turns out . . . ." "Rebecca Barnes is really dead, Mulder. I did a second post-mortem on her body last night." I don't like to think about that. That body was me for forty years. I still can't figure out who I am without it. "Rebecca might have taken the card," Daddy says from the hallway. "That Sunday she was here, arguing again." He looks sad and tired. I think he's sorry he killed me. "Did you argue often, Mr. Eberhardt?" Scully asks. "She'd argue. I'd listen." Daddy sits down in the olive wing chair with a deep sigh. "Then I'd write her a check. Usually." "You got tired of it, didn't you?" Scully pushed. "Did you ever feel like you couldn't take it anymore? That you had to make it stop? Temporary insanity . . . ." Mulder is still standing by the round table. He keeps his eyes fixed on the picture, as though he doesn't want to know what's happening. "You don't have any children, do you, Agent Scully?" Daddy says. Mulder's shoulders twitch at this question. Daddy fills the silence. "Do you have any idea of the guilt that goes along with having a chronically sick child? You're always asking yourself questions. Was it in the family? Was it in the environment? A vitamin deficiency? Power lines? It all boils down to one question. Was it my fault?" Scully doesn't answer, even though I'm thinking as hard as I can: pity and guilt can turn to resentment and hate! She stares over at the pictures of Daddy and Mom and me when I was just a little kid. Mulder speaks first. "I'm sorry if my partner seems overly aggressive. Her first priority is always justice for the victim." "I already have your daughter's medical records from the base. There's nothing about brain involvement." Scully's voice is a little rough, but it smooths out. "Did she consult any other doctors?" "Yes. A month ago. She said she was going to find the truth. She went to a genetics counselor. If she ever found anything out, she didn't tell me." "Do you have the doctor's name and address?" "Of course. She brought the bill to me." My Daddy's smile is small, and makes me want to cry. A sharp crack sounds from the corner of the room where Mulder stands. He sticks his hands reflexively into his pockets. We all see the big crack in the glass across my picture. "I wasn't touching it," Mulder protests hurriedly. No one is listening. "Those inspirational books about sick children--Ryan White, Karen Killilea--they don't tell the half of it," Daddy says. "Nietzsche didn't raise any children. A lot of times what doesn't kill you leaves you useless. You don't hear stories like that, because they wouldn't sell. I'll get that address for you." The dark curtains filter the summer sun to a dim blue-green. It feels like being inside an aquarium. There's not a word from the agents to interfere with the sound of Daddy opening the file cabinet in his den. "Here," he says, returning with a yellow post-it note. "The doctor's name is Gina Miller. Her office is in Kansas City." "Thank you for your help, Mr. Eberhardt," Mulder says as they exit. "It was a relief to know her suffering was over. Sometimes I think the worst part was wondering when the good periods would end. But I'd give anything to have her back, under any conditions. It's not right to outlive your child." Daddy, I'm sorry. I wish I could have been different. And you too. But I love you. Nothing stops that, I guess. Scully turns back toward Daddy from the front walk. "I believe someday we'll be reunited with the people we love, Mr. Eberhardt. We'll understand each other then," she tells him. He gives her a tolerant smile. Daddy's always been a rationalist. He has to see it to believe it. Won't he be surprised someday? It's a two hour drive to Kansas City, and all they do is argue over expense reports and play Twenty Questions. No normal person could ever win against them. I've never heard of a flukeman, or ice worm, or jersey devil, or e-b-e. When the land is flat, it seems to roll under a stationary car. I wonder how it's working, travelling in a car, when I don't really have a body. I intend to stay with Mulder and Scully, so I do. Very existential. *********************************** Mid-America Medical Consultants Building Kansas City, Missouri 6:00 P.M. I remember the huge parking garage on Wornall Ave., near St. Luke's Hospital. Medical buildings cluster around hospitals, like animals around a watering hole. Dr. Miller was the first non-military doctor I ever saw. I was as scared as though I was doing something criminal. The doctors at the base told me they were the only ones who could treat me. They said they had treatments civilian doctors couldn't use. That was why they agreed to treat me, when I wasn't a military dependent anymore. It was an act of mercy. There was no telling what would happen if I went to a doctor who wasn't familiar with my case. I shouldn't have been so scared. Dr. Miller wasn't going to treat me. She was going to do a genetics consultation. I think I was most scared of finding out that the conspiracy was true. Because then, what would I do? Office hours ended an hour ago, but the door is unlocked, the way Dr. Miller promised Scully on the phone. The generic, orange-cushioned waiting room is empty. There's no receptionist at the little window. "Dr. Miller," Scully calls out. I'm amazed when both agents check inside their jackets for their guns. It hadn't even occurred to me that the conspiracy might spread this far. Then Dr. Miller pops up in the window. Her hair droops flatly to her shoulders, and her eyes have dark circles. "You made good time. I thought the traffic would hold you up longer." "Compared to D.C., it isn't so bad," Mulder answers with a smile. Dr. Miller looks like she tries for a professional finish, but can't keep up with all the details. Today one of her shoes is scuffed, and the hem of her suit hangs down on one side. The blue earrings don't quite match the blue flowers on her blouse. I liked her a lot when I met her, and I still do. She scrutinizes the badges Mulder and Scully hold out, as though she knows what to look for. "I called the field office about you," she explains. "There are legal issues . . . you know. Then I got out Ms. Barnes' file. Now I don't know what to say." "Was the file empty?" Mulder asks. He sighs and his shoulders slump a little. "No. No, my staff is efficient," Dr. Miller says. She gives him a puzzled look. "It's just that I think there was a mistake, and I can't explain it." "Maybe we can help. What did you find?" Mulder perks up a lot at her words. "Ms. Barnes was going to come in for her follow-up visit next week. I should have been ready to explain the results of the work-up. Instead I was going to have to ask her for more blood samples. The lab messed up the tests, somehow. I don't know if their equipment was contaminated, or what, but her results were impossible to interpret." "May I see?" Scully asks. "Come back here and look," the doctor invites. She hits a buzzer below the window, and Mulder opens the door leading back to the receptionist's area. Scully and Mulder stand on each side of Dr. Miller, where she sits at a desk. Dr. Miller holds out a paper with markings on it. It looks like a picture of little bundles, each one tied in the middle. They're arranged by size, in groups of three. I know it's a picture of chromosomes, but it looks odd. Scully seems to think so too. It's her turn to put on the cartoon surprise look. "That's impossible!" she exclaims. "I know. At first I thought I'd ask for a FISH analysis to follow up. Then I decided not to waste time and money. It's obviously a lab error. They sent me the karotype on tissue from a fetus with triploidy." "There's never been a documented case of survival past the first days after birth." "Exactly. And there would be gross abnormalities in the phenotype. Ms. Barnes appeared to be normal." "Unless she were a mosaic?" Scully suggests. "There were multiple samples," Dr. Miller answers, with a shake of her head. She holds out another set of pictures. "Her medical history wasn't normal," Mulder remarks. Dr. Miller holds up a thick bunch of typewritten papers. "No, it certainly wasn't. But it didn't exhibit the effects associated with triploidy--multiple, lethal abnormalities. There was no indication of any permanent damage resulting from her illnesses." "What about the surgery she had? Her records from the base hospital documented an appendectomy, but there was no mention of the removal of her ovaries," Scully inquires. "What? She'd had an oophorectomy?" The doctor looks as surprised as I feel. "Yes. I established that when I re-did the post-mortem. I asked her doctor and he just shrugged. Said she must have had an operation for female troubles somewhere else." That miserable liar. He knows I never went to any other hospital. He told me I'd die if someone else treated me. Dr. Miller closes her eyes and folds her hands. There isn't any noise except for the hum of the office computer. "Let's see. She told me she wanted to get pregnant, but was afraid of passing on abnormalities to her children," she says slowly. A planned pregnancy was just my excuse for having the genetics consultation. Two years ago my belly hurt so bad. I'd have agreed to a brain transplant to stop the pain. When they told me I should have an appendectomy, I didn't even read the consent form. They could have told me the truth. I wasn't fit to have children anyway. But they lied to me! Everyone jumps at the loud crack from the corner of the room when the water cooler splits in half. Water cascades to the floor in one huge wave. "I got glass because of the environment," Dr. Miller says with a stunned look. Scully and Mulder are looking around with wild eyes, as though they expect something else to happen. Dr. Miller jumps up and disappears into a back room. She comes back with a roll of paper towels. She and Scully tear off towels and stomp them down into the soggy carpet. When they've used up all the towels they stare hopelessly at the dark, spreading circle of wetness. Dr. Miller snorts out one loud "Ha!" "I'll call facilities," she says with a weak wave of her hand. "What a day." While she makes the call, Scully joins Mulder. He's sitting at the desk, flipping through my medical history. He can't possibly be reading that fast, but he stops suddenly and points at a paragraph. "Dr. Miller," he says. "What about this incident in 1984?" "What incident? Let me look. I don't remember." Her shoes make squishy sounds as she returns to the receptionist's desk. After a moment's reading, she replies, "Yes. That was unfortunate. But there were no lasting physical sequelae." Dr. Miller is right. It didn't amount to much. I'm surprised it caught Mulder's attention. He tells Scully the story. "Ms. Barnes--she was still Miss Eberhardt at the time-- moved to St. Louis in 1984. She worked at an insurance agency. One night in November she closed up the office after dark. Her car quit on her in a bad neighborhood, as she was driving home. She was mugged for her purse, hit, and shoved to the ground. The muggers got away. There were no injuries, except for minor bruises and abrasions." I shouldn't have told Dr. Miller about that. It's trivial and pathetic. When I told her my history it sounded so childish, so stunted. I wanted to explain why I gave up and went back home. It just makes me look like a quitter. Which I guess I was. So why is Mulder so excited about the story? "Scully, let's assume, just for a minute, that Ms. Barnes was right. That she was the victim of an experiment run by the government. Doesn't it make sense that they'd do something to drive her back into a controlled environment when she tried to leave? And that they killed her when she started to ask hard questions?" Dr. Miller tips her head back and looks at Mulder through the bottom of her glasses. "You're saying that Ms. Barnes was an unwilling subject of covert, government-sanctioned medical experiments. And that she was eliminated by criminal means when she threatened to blow the whistle?" Mulder puts on his expressionless expression. "We form many theories in the course of an investigation," he soothes. "I'm sure a scientist like you understands that." Scully has a fierce look that contrasts with Mulder's abrupt calm. "What about the story her doctor gave me about 'female problems'? I need to talk to him." Dr. Miller takes off her glasses and closes her eyes again. She pinches the bridge of her nose. There's a bustle at the outside office door, and a paunchy man in a navy coverall lets himself in. "I didn't understand the message. Something about a flood. Is it a plumbing leak?" he inquires. They answer "No" in unison, and then everyone goes quiet. Mulder starts to engineer a quick departure. "We'll be on our way, Dr. Miller. Thanks so much for your help," Mulder pulls the inner door open for the new arrival. "Yes, thanks. We'll be in touch if we have more questions." Scully dashes through the open door, neatly sidestepping the workman. Her tall partner has to hurry to catch up with her in the hall. "We've got to get back to the hospital, Mulder," Scully tosses over her shoulder as they hustle through the parking garage. "Wait a minute. We're all over the map with these hunches of yours. Let's talk about this for a minute." "Hunches? Hunches! Look how far we've gotten with these 'hunches'." Scully takes an indignant stance beside the car while she waits for him. "Look, I'm not questioning the value of your . . . insights. But let's stop and think about which lead to pursue. Why would her doctor tell you anything more now? I think we should go back to her father and ask about this mugging." Scully has the passenger door open, but she stops before she climbs in, as though she's listening for something. My thoughts refuse to take form. The agents get in the car at the same time. There's an apology in Scully's voice when she speaks. "You're right, Mulder. I need to go back to basics and get some hard evidence. I'll take tissue samples from her body and send them to the FBI lab. Let's see what another DNA analysis shows. You can drop me at the hospital and go back to talk to Mr. Eberhardt." Here's where Scully and I part company. I don't need it anymore, but I don't want to see my body cut up like a deer. Maybe I can't get through to Mulder's mind, but right now, I'm sticking with him. "Do you think we can rule out the philandering husband as a suspect?" Mulder ventures. If I could laugh, I would. Jay's never been passionate about anyone but himself. I'm sure I was an excellent excuse for him to avoid making commitments to other women. With me gone, he's got more freedom, but less cover. Not enough motive, I'd say. "I think that's a dead end," she answers with a grim smile. Mulder navigates his way back to the highway without any directions from Scully. She takes out a tape player and plugs in headphones. I notice the tape she puts in is labeled "#X-2546 - PM on Rebecca Barnes." Probably not anything I'd want to hear. I amuse myself by thinking my way to the roof of the car. When I was alive, I had dreams of flying. Speeding through a glow of rosy sunlight, with only the endless blue of the heavens around me, is almost like flying. There's no wind, or fear of falling. I'm beginning to understand that I don't need things like cars, and I don't have to pay attention to solid barriers, like closed doors. It's hard to get over the habit of being limited. It's frightening to imagine an existence without limits. I could expand to fill the sky--the universe. And nothing of me would remain. ************************************* End of Act 2, Closed Colony, Special Stock Title: Closed Colony, Special Stock (3 of 3) Author: Branwell See part 1 for rating, summary etc. See the end of this part for author's notes. *********************************** ACT THREE *********************************** The Base Hospital 9:00 P.M. When we pull up outside the hospital, I don't know if time has drifted or whipped by. I didn't even notice a pause at the gate. The sky is already navy blue behind the gray, floodlit hospital. Scully zips through the automatic doors without a backwards look. Luckily she doesn't need my help to slice up specimens. Even in the dark, Mulder finds the shortcut to Daddy's house. It's not my doing; he remembers it. There's a constant seething in Mulder's brain. It pushes me back, like the wind holding a sailboat offshore. *********************************** Knob Noster 9:30 P.M. Once upon a time, Daddy would have turned away a late-night visitor. He needed his evening solitude to get anesthetized. Instead, he invites Mulder in, and offers him a whiskey. It's early yet for Daddy to be that far gone. The two of them sit in the kitchen in the white glare of the overhead light. "No thanks, Mr. Eberhardt," Mulder says. Daddy drinks the second shot himself and squints at Mulder through red-lined eyes. "My partner and I visited Dr. Miller," Mulder begins. "There was no conclusive evidence from DNA tests. But the doctor realized that there was an unexplained discrepancy between the medical records and your daughter's physical condition. Ms. Barnes had had her ovaries removed, but her medical history showed only an appendectomy. Can you explain that?" Daddy shrugs and makes a sound in his throat, as though he's trying to choke something back down. "I haven't been able to explain anything in forty years. I just kept on going because I couldn't stop. You can't stop, can you? You make decisions and you take the consequences. Whose fault is it if you don't foresee the problems? It doesn't matter. You do the best you can." That was always his way. Do your duty and don't whine. He focuses suddenly on Mulder's face. "I met a Bill Mulder once. He didn't look much like you. No relation, I suppose. I was still in the service. We were both on TDY down at Eglin AFB, for different meetings on Black Projects." Mulder sits still as a rabbit caught on the open lawn. His thoughts are whirling in a vortex. Daddy doesn't wait for a response. "We had the same Chief Scientist on our projects. 'Herr Doktor Klemper' we called him, behind his back. Bill and I met at the hotel bar and decided to check out Dean's Place on the island. I wanted to celebrate. Dot had just gotten pregnant. I was so happy I was buying drinks for everybody. Bill told me his wife had just given him a son. I don't know if he was celebrating, but he sure liked to drink. I told him--this will make you laugh--'I don't care what it is, just as long as it's healthy.'" Mulder doesn't laugh. Daddy doesn't notice. "No matter how drunk I got, I didn't tell him how Dot got pregnant. That I'd made a deal with the devil. I wasn't allowed to tell anyone that we were having a test tube baby." "Sir, the first test tube baby wasn't born until 1978." Mulder shapes each word carefully, as though it might break with rough handling. "That's what the history books will always say. Just like they'll always say JFK was shot by a lone gunman." "Do you know something about the assassination?" Mulder asks, still in that cautious way. "I know nothing, but given the nature of the 'truth' published about other things, I've got my suspicions." "What ever happened to Bill Mulder, I wonder?" There's a new sadness in Mulder's tone when he speaks. "I don't know. We shared a cab back to the hotel. I barely remember getting to my room. Didn't get to breakfast the next day. Bill didn't turn up at the hotel bar that night. I assumed his meetings were over." "Did Dr. Klemper arrange for your wife to have an embryo implanted?" Mulder is regaining some of his usual cool. Daddy must have heard the change in Mulder's voice. "You think I'm too drunk to be discreet, don't you? I just don't care anymore. Dot died after more than thirty years of worry and trouble. Now Becky's gone. What more can anyone do to me?" "If that's right, why don't you tell me what happened?" It's funny how good Mulder is with the people he can see. He watches them, notices all the little tics and blinks. He takes things in at so many levels, there's no room for me to slip in a word or thought. "It was Colonel Robbins. He was the wonder-boy assistant to Victor Klemper. 'Why don't you take advantage of the technology we're developing, Pete?' he kept saying. I don't even remember telling him about our problem. Afterwards he made the excuse that the technology hadn't been perfected. He was always reminding me that we should thank our lucky stars that he could arrange for Becky to get medical care at the base." I'm rooting for Mulder to tell him about the triploidy, but he's not getting it. He goes off on a tangent. "Mr. Eberhardt, your daughter was attacked in St. Louis in 1984. Did you ever think there was anything unusual about the incident?" "It happens to a lot of unwary people," Daddy snaps at him. "In fact, I warned her not to move to a big city alone. It didn't surprise me when I got the call the day after it happened. I was just thankful it hadn't been worse. She called me at work. Colonel Robbins suggested I take Jay along with me to pick her up. He'd just started on the project. I hadn't even thought about needing someone to drive Becky's car back. Her nerves were shot." "Sir, did her car start when you got there?" I don't listen anymore, because I already know the answer. I'm preoccupied with thinking up the right punishment for Colonel Robbins. A cage with cedar shavings, a water dish and pellets would be too good for him. I picture him pickling in a formaldehyde bath, like a frog ready for dissection. *********************************** The Base Hospital The morgue 10:30 P.M. Then the kitchen is gone, and I'm watching Colonel Robbins watch Scully as she slides a steel drawer shut. "I just got word that you were here, Agent Scully," he's saying to her. "What authorization do you have for doing a third post-mortem on Rebecca Barnes?" "I have the authority you gave us to investigate this case, sir. I was collecting tissue samples to send to the FBI lab. We think there may be some abnormality in Ms. Barnes' karotype." "What would it prove if that were true, agent? It had nothing to do with the circumstances and cause of her death?" "How can we know that, until we find out the nature of the mutation? Maybe her parents were exposed to radiation, or some toxin, before her birth. We might learn something new about pre-natal hazards. I believe we should take every opportunity to advance medical knowledge." The Birdman did it, Scully! I think hard. He's the guilty person! I concentrate on shaking him, and the colonel wavers a little in place. I wonder if I could kill someone. Scully is wrapped in green scrubs that are too big. Even the goggles look too big, as though she's a child playing doctor. She strips off the outer gear and looks over at Robbins while she washes her hands. "You're not afraid of the truth, are you?" she asks him. She folds her arms to wait for his answer. Colonel Robbins is chewing on his lower lip. He folds his own arms and edges around the table toward Scully. She moves slightly, so the table is still between them. "You're a scientist, Agent Scully. Not just a glorified policewoman." "We need trustworthy policewomen. And military personnel," she says. I seem to shiver with the chill in her voice, even though I don't have a body anymore. "Of course. But you're in a position to appreciate things a layman can't understand. You can imagine what it would be like to be on the verge of creating a new species!" "Please explain what that means, colonel," she invites him. "You know that cells are just factories for making amino acids," he charges ahead, ignoring her severe expression. "It's our genes that determine what proteins are produced. Every cell we have has a full set of genes, but most of them are turned off. Turned off! That was the key. We had to find the switch for turning genes on and off. And then we planned to test it by providing a completely different set of genes. It should have worked like switching a production line back and forth between producing parts for jets and parts for trucks." "Should have worked," she echoes, as though the ideas made sense. "The sequence would have to be perfect, or the organism would die. The body's systems would be out of sync." "Yes! You understand. I knew you would." The Birdman gives her a complicit smile. "I'm interested in the switching," she responds. She doesn't return his smile. "You must have followed the work on weak photon emission from cellular DNA. It shouldn't surprise you that the DNA in cells is also receptive to ultraweak photon influence. It was just going to be a matter of experimenting until the right sequence was found." "Where did you get the technology? I saw a third set of chromosomes in Rebecca Barnes' karotype." "That was a serendipitous contribution by Dr. Klemper. A seminal thinker, Victor Klemper . . . ." Scully's face changes suddenly from a non-committal mask to the picture of disgust and contempt. Her words are dragged down to a low, rough pitch. "So. You're telling me that you've experimented on a human. Without her consent. You made her sick over and over again with failed attempts to activate a set of non-human genes. You haven't published. You haven't shared your discoveries. That's not how true scientists work! You know that what you're doing is wrong." "Don't let the personal prevent you from being objective. We're on the verge of success. We didn't get it right with Barnes, but we learned a lot. And we've got a whole new set of potential test subjects in the freezer here. Her descendants . . . ." "Her ova. You took her ova . . . ." Scully starts walking toward the colonel. He should be frightened by the look on her face. Instead he talks on and on, as though she were hanging on his words. "When the subject got too difficult to manage, we halted the experiment and euthanized her. It was just a matter of toggling all the switches off at once . . . . " The Birdman even turns his back on Scully, as he leads the way to the locked, stainless steel cabinet in the corner. My last moment comes back to me then. I have a sudden vision of the colonel at the end of the narrow corridor between the cubicles. I'd been searching the file cabinet in his office. There was a dog-eared file with my name on it. Seeing the file felt like being backed into that alley by two men with guns. It was something I'd imagined with a queasy stomach and pounding heart. When it actually happened, it didn't seem real. I heard a noise outside the room, and looked up. My eyes skimmed the length of dingy purple carpet, and fixed on Colonel Robbins. I was too surprised at how perfectly my nightmare was coming true to feel terror. When I stepped out of the office, he didn't look surprised to see me. I waved the folder at him and spoke the words I'd planned. "I'm going to expose you all!" Of course I'd visualized a more public setting, like a press conference. He pointed something like a flashlight at me, but there was no beam of light. Then there was nothing at all, until I woke up somewhere just below the ceiling. Beneath me security police strode around with grim, self-important expressions. In the time it takes me to remember, the Birdman whips around and catches Scully on the point of her chin with his fist. Her head snaps back, her eyes roll up, and she tumbles to the floor, like a block tower with the bottom block kicked out from under. "I could tell she didn't really understand," Robbins murmurs to himself. If I'd stayed alert I could have warned her. I got Scully into this, and I now I can't get her out--not alone. But I'm not giving up. I'll find some way to get to Mulder. *********************************** Knob Noster 11:30 P.M. And I'm suddenly in Daddy's kitchen, where Mulder is pouring boiling water over instant coffee. Scully's in trouble! Surely my thought must be loud enough to hear. At the same second the fluorescent light tube overhead pops and goes out. "What the hell?" Daddy says. I can tell he's not that drunk by the way he jumps out of his chair. He's been putting on an act for Mulder. "What?" Mulder shouts. "What is it? Why aren't you with Scully? I can't hear you." She's in danger! SHE NEEDS YOU. I think and think. The glass shelf over the sink breaks in two. The potted plants rush down into the sink and shatter. Little clods of wet, black dirt go everywhere. "What are you doing?" Daddy yells at Mulder. "It's not me, Mr. Eberhardt." Mulder lowers his voice, but he's panting as though he's been running. "It's an entity." Mulder hits three buttons on his cell phone, pacing the floor while it rings and rings. Then he walks to the corner of the kitchen. Mulder faces the wall, bows his head and covers his ears. He pays no attention to Daddy's exclamations. Scully! Go to your partner at the hospital! My mind is screaming the words with all the force of my will. The blue china cups on hooks under the cupboard fly apart with loud cracks. "Get out of my house. Right now." Daddy grabs at Mulder's arm. The agent shakes him off, his back rigid. He moves his hands to cover his eyes. I can feel his mind straining, like an engine in overdrive. I don't know if he can't, or won't, let me in. Then he whirls around and asks a lunatic question. "Do you have a basketball?" he asks my furious father. "Any kind of ball?" "I want you out of here!" Daddy shouts. "I'm going. I promise I'm on my way out, but I need a ball." "Jay keeps one in the garage," Daddy growls. He makes a wide circle around the pitcher on the counter, as he crosses the kitchen to the garage door. "Here. Go out this way," he calls out a minute later. In the doorway Mulder catches the basketball he throws. "Perfect," Mulder mutters, tossing the big orange ball from one hand to the other. Daddy activates the garage door opener. Mulder ducks under the door before it's all the way open, and makes a basket in the hoop over it on his first try. He looks ridiculous, dribbling the ball and feinting with it in the dark. His tie and jacket flap in all different directions. "Stand under the basket," he calls out to Daddy. "What? I don't feel like playing. That was a long time ago." "Please. Just stand there," Mulder gasps. He dribbles up and down the driveway as though the state championship was riding on it. Pivoting to keep the ball away from imaginary opponents, he sinks another shot. He dodges around Daddy to catch the rebound. Smack. Smack. Smack. The ball hits his hands as hard as it hits the driveway. Daddy looks preoccupied, instead of worried about this loony contest. I can hear the hum of traffic on the state route. The living room curtains twitch apart at the Newman's house. Someone I don't know opens the front door across the street. Mulder is slow compared to the boys I remember from high school, but he seems to have plenty of stamina. In the meantime Colonel Robbins could be sliding Scully into a cold metal drawer right beside me. Mulder's shot misses the basket entirely. He ignores the ball and dashes for his car. "Thanks Mr. Eberhardt," he babbles out, as he yanks the door open. Mulder is crazy, but he's Scully's only hope. I keep trying to get through. There's a small "pop" from the dome light as he turns the key in the ignition. He flinches at the sound, but the plastic cover keeps the glass inside. "I heard you," he says loudly. "Scully is in the hospital morgue with Robbins. But I can't hear you now. It's hard for me to let you in." *********************************** The Base Hospital 11:50 P.M. He makes the drive in four minutes, running three red lights on the almost empty streets. He does remember to slow down before coming in sight of the gates to the base. A bored young guard waves him through on the strength of his cardboard visitor's pass. At the hospital, his badge is in his hands before he gets to the emergency room doors. "Fox Mulder, FBI," he snaps at the nurse behind the admitting desk. He doesn't wait to answer the questions she shouts after him. I know she can't leave the desk. "Do we have an emergency?" she calls. She picks up the phone with exasperated emphasis. Mulder is taking the stairs to the basement two at a time. He picks the right door even though it's unlabeled. I don't know if he's getting my directions or if he was there with Scully the night before. The white glow from the morgue contrasts with the dim halls. I see Scully crumpled on the floor by the table. The door to the steel cabinet in the corner is open, and it's empty inside. Colonel Robbins is pouring chemicals into opened waste containers at the other end of the room. Mulder's left hand goes to his nose and mouth. He's got a gun pointed at the colonel with his right hand. "Put the bottle down and place your hands against the wall." Mulder is almost gagging on the words. His eyes, and the colonel's, are streaming with tears. "You don't really expect me to watch forty years of work go for nothing, do you?" the colonel asks. He up-ends a brown glass bottle over a dirty linen container and then drops it in. His voice is as reasonable as though he were asking to someone to wait while he put the finishing touches on a paint job. "There'll be time to rescue your partner, if you don't worry about me or the evidence," he goes on. "What are you waiting for? After the risks I've taken, don't you believe I'm ready to risk my own death? All I have to do now, is flip this switch." Robbins might be able to escape. There's another exit behind him. I notice he's got a thermos-like steel cylinder tucked under one arm. Copper shines out of a long gash in the cord that runs between the autoclave and the electrical outlet beside it. The colonel dumps another bottle of chemicals on the cord. An oxygen tank beside the outlet has a big red slash through the picture of a flame on its side. There's a sinister hiss of gas escaping. I don't know what to do. Mulder is struggling to keep his eyes open. I wish he'd shoot, but even if he hit Robbins, there'd be time to flip the switch. A shot might even trigger an explosion. All the evidence would be burned up. Then there's a step in the doorway behind Mulder. He moves sideways and backward, but doesn't turn his back on Robbins. A manila folder sails across the room, scattering papers and pictures as it goes. "You lying bastard," Daddy says. He's got the gun he always kept in the drawer beside his bed. "Maybe I always knew and wouldn't admit it to myself. You shouldn't have kept the records in your office." For the first time the colonel looks shocked. He clutches at the steel cylinder with his right hand. Mulder says, "Cover me," to Daddy. He doesn't notice that Daddy isn't listening to him. He dashes to the center of the room. His gun is gone, probably into his pocket, because he needs both arms to lift Scully. The colonel should stay quiet, but he can't. He speaks, saying all the wrong things. "You don't understand. It was an honor to be part of it, Pete. Like the doctor who infected himself to identify the vector for yellow fever. She'd suffered enough at the end. It was painless . . . ." He reaches the switch even after Daddy puts two shots into his chest. Daddy careens into Mulder, who's already in the hall when flames come roaring across the room. The intense light sparkles through me, bursting blossoms of orange. For a moment there's no separating myself from the golden energy. Then the door slams shut, and I decide to be on the other side to find out what's happening. The hall is empty except for the smoke. There are bells and a voice announcing that this is not a drill. Then firemen come tearing around the corner like invaders from another planet, inhuman in their breathing equipment and protective clothing. Outside, fire trucks are still arriving in a blast of noise and flashing lights. Dozens of people are running from place to place. Airmen are transporting patients bundled onto stretchers to the gymnasium. There's a huddle around Daddy, where security police are putting handcuffs on him. His face barely moves while he answers questions with "yes," or "no," or silence. A medic is examining Scully's eyes with a light where she sits on the back steps of an ambulance. Mulder is talking to her very fast, while she blinks and frowns. She winces when she turns her head to see where a blue truck with floodlights has pulled up. A man, so tall and long-legged he reminds me of a stick figure, jumps down from the passenger side of the cab. It's General Brandon, the base commander. He prides himself on his quick grasp of the essentials and refusal to waste time. Everyone he speaks to points at Mulder and Scully in answer to his questions. They don't want to irritate him with second or third-hand information. But I've already seen how these things go. I ride along with Daddy, instead of staying to see how the cover up will be done this time. ************************ Epilogue Outside the Base Commander's Office Tuesday, August 21, 2001 10:00 A.M. The next day I wait with Mulder while the security police finish questioning Scully. When she leaves the base commander's office, her lips are pressed together so tight they must be holding back strong words. Mulder pats the seat of the chair next to him in the waiting room. Scully sits down with a "hmmph" of disapproval. "They want us to go now, Mulder," she says. "They've figured everything out and the services of the FBI are no longer needed." A smile as thin as paper stretches her mouth. "Peter Eberhardt shot his boss and old friend due to the stress of his daughter's death, combined with the first stage of senile dementia. Then he panicked and tried to cover up his crime by setting a fire. His misinterpretation of questions put to him by Special Agent Fox Mulder probably led to his crazed behavior. Mulder's partner had her brains scrambled by a blow to the head, making her testimony unreliable." "I know," he answers. "Can you get in as a doctor to see Eberhardt at the psychiatric facility? See if he has any ideas about where we could find evidence?" "Mr. Eberhardt can't be seen by anybody but staff with special clearances. Since he isn't in his right mind, he might communicate sensitive information to those with no need to know." Scully must be quoting the official Air Force memo. "It's a perfect cover up. The experiment can go on under somebody else." Mulder looks so tragic, I wish I could cheer him up. He wouldn't feel so bad if he understood how the military works. General Brandon may not want to own up to the unethical experimentation that went on here, but that doesn't mean he wants it to continue. Without Colonel Robbins to lobby for funds in Washington, there won't be any money for EOS. With no budget, EOS will be dissolved, and the staff will disperse to other projects until they retire. Some of the findings will go into archives. The inconvenient ones will disappear. "Maybe it won't be that easy, Mulder," Scully consoles him. "Barnes' ova were lost with Colonel Robbins in the fire. They won't have ready test subjects. My report will be strongly worded in condemnation of Robbins' experiments." "A strongly worded report." As if that would have an influence. No one will admit it, but there's a better deterrent. A haunted project won't attract or keep workers. Marge was right about the feeling in the office. I'll make it impossible to work anyplace where they try to follow up these experiments. I'm getting smarter and stronger every day. "Mulder. It's over. There won't be any more experiments," Scully tells him. "What? How do you know? Did a little birdie tell you?" Mulder starts teasing. I disrupt the electrical current through the lamp next to him and the light flickers. He rises quickly to his feet and grabs Scully's hand. She gives him a startled look, but immediately stands up beside him. Their hands cling together while Scully makes a quick survey of the room. She squeezes Mulder's hand, and then drops it to reach for the doorknob. As they leave the room, Scully looks back over her shoulder. I feel the good-bye in her thoughts. Her eyes almost seem to focus on me in the corner of the room next to the window. Mulder lets her exit, before he pauses at the door. He says good-bye to the lamp in a soft voice, while I watch from the opposite end of the room. Mulder isn't sensitive, but he means well. It's important to mean well. My father is a good example of why meaning well isn't enough. A person has to be strong, and face the truth about herself and other people. And do something about it. I'll be in this place for a while. But I know there's something else waiting. I can't see it yet. There's a corner somewhere that I'll decide to turn one day, and there will be something new. Or old. And a chance to use what I've learned this time. Patterns continue, but they change, too. There's no seeing the whole thing at once. We only know that everything is part of the same infinite weave. -------------------------------------------------------- End of "Closed Colony, Special Stock" Branwell's e-mail: combs-bachmann@worldnet.att.net Date Posted: 01/19/01 Written especially for: I Made This Productions, Virtual Season 8 http://www.i-made-this.com Archiving permission: Anyone may archive this. Please keep my name with it. Disclaimer: Chris Carter, David Duchovny, Gillian Anderson, and Ten Thirteen productions created and own the characters you recognized. My writing is for fun, not profit. Thanks: I thank IMTP for honoring me by asking for a story, and for the tremendous amount of hard work put into Virtual Season 8 by Laurie and her fellow producers, writers, and artists. I especially thank Deej for the banner and dustjacket she created for my story. She's done a wonderful job of capturing the mood of "Closed Colony," and created a beautiful image of our heroes in the process. I thank bugs for her friendship, and for her beta work on this story. I also thank her for the beautiful website she created for my stories. See the url below. http://urw.simplenet.com/branwell