From: mikeaulf@tartarus.uwa.edu.au (Michael Aulfrey)
Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
Subject: NEW: Non Draco Sit Mihi Dux (1/10) (NC-17)
Date: 20 Jun 1996 17:00:45 GMT


NON DRACO SIT MIHI DUX
by Michael Aulfrey
------------------------------------------------------------
Author's Note:
First caveat: I'll say right at the start that some language
and situations in this story are serious stuff so far as
violence is concerned.  I hope I haven't been overly
gratuitous.  This story is rated NC-17 for those reasons.
You need not fear any sex scenes between Mulder, Scully, or
anyone else, for that matter. :)

Second caveat: The situations here do not necessarily
reflect my own beliefs about the Catholic Church, especially
considering that I am Catholic myself.  If I do offend any
Catholics, or any members of any other faith or creed, I
apologise in advance.  Feel free to e-mail and burn me at
the stake....just remember I said it's only a story! :) :)

Third caveat: this story is a sequel to a story I did called
"Ex Oriente Lux", though it's not strictly necessary to read
that story to understand this one.  Suffice to say that
Mulder and Scully have had dealings with one of the
characters before.  "Ex Oriente Lux" is available on the
Gossamer archive (http://gossamer.eng.ohio-state.edu/xfiles)
or from me at this address: mikeaulf@tartarus.uwa.edu.au.
The story takes place in the third season, after "Paper
Clip."  There are one or two small spoilers for various
season three episodes, so be warned...:)

Fourth caveat: Insert the usual copyright warnings here.
Chris Carter and Ten-Thirteen Productions have all the
rights to the X-Files characters.  Any other characters I
may have inadvertently ripped off also remain the products
of the folks who made them.  All others remain protected
products of my own warped imagination. :)

Oh, and for those who are getting teed off with the Latin
titles I seem so insistent upon using, this one comes from a
Benedictine monk's prayer.  Check at the end of the story if
you're interested in the meaning ...

Enough warnings.  As Stephen King once said, let's go around
the corner where we can talk comfortably.


In the dark.

------------------------------------------------------------

PROLOGUE:

The candles burned brightly.

The cool, heavy granite blocks of the walls absorbed their
radiance, leaving chilly air to the occupant of the
cathedral.  It did not inconvenience him; his robes more
than compensated.  And the celebration of midnight Mass was
bound to have its drawbacks.

The cathedral was empty; the only lights were the candles on
the altar and those standing sentinel by the first seven
rows of pews.  The rest were hidden in shadow.  The great
double doors were closed.  Security, safety and peace
shrouded him like a mother's love.

"... When supper was ended, He took the cup.  Again He
thanked and praised You ... " The words were in English, but
that had not affected the beauty they had in Latin. He
completed the prayer and raised the chalice and Host above
the altar.  Silence greeted the act, as it always did.

Then a sound from the back of the church.  He opened his
eyes, peered towards the place.  Nothing moved.  Nothing but
the sound.  A sniggering.  A harsh, biting giggling, echoing
around the cathedral as though the sound were jumping from
one place to another.  He looked more closely.  Still
nothing.

There was a crash as of doors being forced open from the
outside.  A wind colder than any gale crossing the Arctic
tumbled down the aisle, a dark bride in full flight. coming
to meet her demon husband.  The candles in the pews blew
out, leaving only the candles on the altar, glowing,
shuddering globes of light in the darkness.

He began to lower the chalice and Host.  An odd sensation of
moisture arose from his upraised arms.   He looked up to see
his hands covered in blood.  For a moment he panicked; then
realised the blood was not his.  It dribbled from the pewter
encrusting of decorations on the chalice, and from between
his fingertips on the wafer.  Trickled down his arms,
stained his robes, stained the cloth of the altar.  Even as
his mind quailed at the miracle before him, he was
suddenly...

Aware.

Of everything in the church at once.  As though his whole
body perceived his surroundings.  He tasted the light of the
candles; he heard the darkness; he touched the stench coming
from the back of the church.

Something stalked around the end of the last pew and started
up the aisle.  Black as night, behemoth in size.  One moment
it loped like a wolf; the next, a frenzy of arachnid motion;
the next, hopping like a raven about to relieve a corpse of
its eyes.  The ancestral memory of predators from the
distant past ingrained into his cells shrieked in
recognition, though his conscious mind pushed down on that,
trying to close the pressure door of his fear.  Such things
had flitted through the nightmares of Lovecraft and Poe.

It was coming towards the front of the church.  Lurching.
Then scurrying.  Slithering.  He slowly lowered the Body and
Blood to the altar, and moved around the stained cloth in
front of it.  Putting himself between the thing and the
sacred items behind him.

It came forward, hovering just outside the glow of the
candles.  He could see it clearly.  It took every ounce of
courage for him not to run screaming from the monstrosity.

"You shall not pass," he whispered.  For a moment, there was
silence.  Gleaming, multifaceted eyes studied the priest.
He took a breath, tried to recall the prayers of exorcism--

A talon erupted from that darkness and smashed into his
abdomen.  Human blood fountained and mingled with the
Divine's.  He screamed, fire erupting through him...

... as he awakened with a cry of terror on his lips, muscles
jerking him upright in his bed.  Sweat stained the bed
sheets.  The corner of his eye saw  -- his head snapped
around.  The shadows had only given life to the black suit
and clerical collar hanging on the old, battered closet.
His hand automatically brushed the scar on the side of his
face.

Scars on the flesh.  Scars in the mind.

          *         *         *

EXTRACT:
CONFERENCE, ROME
1/1/96.

FALSHIRE: Father Slattery, you understand the nature of this
meeting?
SLATTERY: I have a good idea, Eminence --
FALSHIRE: I'm not sure you fully understand.  Your ...
predecessor, Monsignor Berne, only once before called this
conference.  As you know, that was the decision to --
SLATTERY: The family.
FALSHIRE: Yes.  To move them into hiding.  We allowed that
of the late Monsignor, because of his experience and the
concurrence of all the others.  Including yourself.
SLATTERY: Yes, I realise that, but --
GOLDONI: We have to make it clear, father.  You are only
being given this chance because of your position and
involvement in --
SLATTERY: The incident.
GOLDONI:  The incident.  Yes.
DEJESUS: After all, you had reported that the danger to the
family was past.
SLATTERY: I know I said that.  But now I feel that the
situation has changed.
FALSHIRE: You completed the exorcism?
SLATTERY: I believed the spirit expelled, yes.
FALSHIRE: And the children were born in safety?
SLATTERY: Yes.
GOLDONI: Yet now you wish us to move the family again.  Tear
up their roots once more.  On what basis? Your nightmares?
SLATTERY: With all due respect, Eminence, I --
FALSHIRE: We realise your rather unique talents, father.
It's just that without corroboration --
SLATTERY: What corroboration can I give?  The only survivors
of my group are insane or unwilling to remember the
incident!  I'm telling you that something terrible is about
to happen.  We have to move the family again --
DEJESUS: I think this matter would be best served stood down
to a later date.
GOLDONI: I agree.
FALSHIRE: As do I.
[Pause.]
SLATTERY:  God help us if you're wrong.  I hope in the name
of Christ that my intuition is faulty and your opinions are
right.

EXTRACT ENDS.

          *         *         *

NON DRACO SIT MIHI DUX

"Why?"

Assistant Director Walter Skinner swivelled around in his
chair.  The view from his office was only marginally more
comforting than the faces of the two agents standing before
him.  One seemed as cold as the March morning air outside,
the other as bleak as the Washington landscape.  Skinner
opened a drawer on his desk and pushed a small business card
across the table.

Scully picked it up.  "Senator Paul Richmond's office?"
"You've got an appointment with him on Capitol Hill in one
hour.  Make sure you're punctual."
"Is that the answer to my question, sir?"  Mulder's gaze was
suddenly analytical.

Skinner inwardly awarded him a couple of points; maybe
Mulder wasn't such an idealist after all.  He kept his poker
face up.  "The reports I get from your office usually aren't
accompanied by plausible explanations, agent Mulder."  He
saw Scully glance up with indignation on her face.  "So this
shouldn't be anything out of the ordinary for you."
"Yes, sir." said Mulder, cutting Scully off before she
opened her mouth.  "We're on our way."

He glanced at her significantly.  She locked a razor stare
with him for a moment, then followed him as he walked out of
the office.  She closed the door behind her and caught up
with him by the elevator.
"Thanks for the support," she said heavily.
"Sorry, Scully.  Any other time, I would've backed you up.
But Skinner was sending out signals we have to act on."
Her annoyance temporarily gave way to curiosity.  "What do
you mean?"
He looked up at the elevator lights.  "He was telling us
this is something he's covertly supporting, even if it's
strictly outside his area."
She raised her eyebrows at the inference.  "I didn't know
you read Machiavelli."
"I haven't.  I did a crash course in political intrigue
getting myself assigned to the X-Files."

The doors of the lift opened with no more than a whisper of
hydraulics.  They stepped inside and Scully pressed the
basement level button.
"Senator Richmond's name mean anything to you?" he said.
"No.  Should it?"
"I guess not, considering your Quantico background."  He
smiled lopsidedly.  She had already shrugged it off; most
Academy personnel suffered under the stereotype of being
naive academics outside the FBI training school.  "At J-Ed,
Richmond's name usually means trouble for someone.  He's
head of the Appropriations Committee governing the
Department of Justice.  Which includes the FBI."

The elevator drew to a stop.  The bell sounded quietly as
the doors opened revealing the dim corridor leading to their
basement office.
"Home sweet home," said Mulder.  Scully was walking slowly,
looking with renewed interest at the business card.
"He wants clean FBI agents to do something for him," she
said suddenly.  "Ones who aren't working on anything urgent
or popular.  Which is why Skinner pulled us off the X-
Files."

She looked back at Mulder, whose open expression
paradoxically gave nothing away.
"I'm right, aren't I?"
His blank gaze melted to a grin.  "Very good, Scully.  You
learn fast."
"That was my famous mind-reading act.  You want a real
example of prospering by political intrigue?"
"Sure."
"I'll tell you why you're going to get my purse from the
office while I freshen up."
"Why?"
"Because I'm driving.  And because it's my turn to buy
lunch."

He ran past her, catching a glimpse of her smile as he did
so.

          *         *         *

She couldn't get the image of a decorated snowball out of
her mind.  Despite being a navy man's daughter, any time she
drove past the dome of Capitol Hill, the image of a sugar-
encrusted snowball stayed with her.  The image was muted
somewhat by the size of the place, now they were close to
it.  The dome stretched towards the sky.  The usual gaggle
of protesters sat on the white stairs, sipping coffee and
rubbing their hands together against the cold, their hand
painted signs solidifying in the air.  A quick glance noted
that the messages had changed.  Nuclear power was no longer
the rallying-cry; now it was the environment, and that was
becoming old hat in its own way.

Above this expression of free speech towered the dome, and
all the attendant buildings like supplicants before a king.
They walked in, through the interior of the dome, past
groups of tourists awed by the size and soft golden light of
the place.  Tour leaders brayed in their usual way, taking
away from the beauty of the decoration and the paintings.
The smells were of carpet and clean air.

They passed through the various security gates, flashing FBI
identification, going mostly unchallenged.  Up stairs, up
lifts and into far different realms than the golden glow of
the dome.  Here there was dimness.  Dark blue carpets
throughout.  Ancient oak panelling.  The smells were of
cigarettes and coffee.  Sounds of computer keyboards
absorbing punishment from their users.  Quiet voices
speaking in echoing halls.  Suited men, dark-haired but
greying, walking from one office to another.  No sword of
justice or torch of Miss Liberty here.  Only the dagger of
the former ally and the shadows of the unseen political
deals that really kept the wheels of government turning ...
Mulder shook himself from that line of thought.  This was no
time to don the headband and peace medallion.  He smiled to
himself as they ventured deeper into the shadows.

After confronting a particularly unhelpful secretary with
green chewing gum and purple nail polish, they found
themselves outside another of the oaken doors, marked
SENATOR PAUL RICHMOND.  Scully knocked, and a faint voice
echoed for them to enter.

The office was large.  Polished bookcases lined the walls,
law reports filling them in uniform rows of red and brown
leather bindings.  Gold lettering shone in the white
fluorescent light.  A huge wooden desk and leather chair sat
at the centre of the room, a full-sized American flag on a
light wooden flagpole behind them.  White light streamed in
from a large, panelled window on the other side of the room.

A white-haired man stood.  He was dressed in a slate-grey
suit and sombre tie.  Scully expected a large spare tyre,
but he was rake-thin, his face graven and worn by wrinkles.
Clean-shaven.  Dark eyes.  Fairly tall, a few inches shorter
than Mulder, but still tall enough to look over Scully's
head without straining.  Mulder remembered the man's rough
bio.  In any other situation, Mulder would have thought he
was a lawyer, perhaps a partner in a large corporate firm.
But then, Richmond had been an attorney once, working the
criminal cases, defending the clients nobody else wanted:
rapists, murderers, often both, sometimes worse.  And clawed
his way up the political ladder so he now was responsible
for the department that he had opposed so often in the
courtroom.  He resembled nothing so much as an old wolf at
his peak of cunning, if not strength.  Someday there would
be a younger, stronger one to kill him.

But not today.  And that was all that mattered.
"Senator, I'm Special Agent Fox Mulder.  This is my partner-
-"
"Close the door, Mr. Mulder.  I don't like the neighbours
knowing what happens in here."  Richmond's voice was the
surf on rocks: grinding but hypnotic.  Mulder closed the
door.

"I'm Special Agent Dana Scully."  She walked forward with
her hand out.  Richmond looked at it for a moment, then
shook it cautiously.  He motioned towards two chairs on the
other side of the table.
"Have a seat."

They settled themselves into the chairs, and it was
immediately apparent from the effort they had to expend to
do so that Richmond liked to keep his visitors on edge.  The
chairs were uncomfortable, wooden slats sticking right into
the small of their backs.  Scully glanced at Mulder once,
and both of them looked back at Richmond.

Richmond pulled an envelope from his desk and tossed it
across to them.  "You were recommended to me as competent
investigators, which is why I've called you here.  I've got
some work for you."
Mulder reached across the table and picked up the envelope.
Richmond stalked over to the window and stared out at the
Mall, which was clearly visible from their chairs, if not
from where he was standing.

Mulder opened the envelope.  Inside were large photographs,
taken without any regard for artistic technique.

Not that Mulder could see much artistic value in their
subject matter.

They were pictures of a corpse, a young white male by the
look of it.  His body had been extensively mutilated.  The
chest was open, and just from the look of it, Mulder could
see the heart was missing, torn out, a red sinkhole in his
chest.  Mulder bit his lip and turned to more of the
photographs, handing the first ones to Scully, making sure
he didn't look at the corpse's intact eyes.

The man's fingers had been cut off, along with most of his
extremities.  He had been emasculated, his genitals stuffed
into its mouth.  Blood ran in dark rivers on the black-and-
white, obscuring some details.  But not enough to disguise
the loss of the nose and ears.  He closed his eyes
momentarily and turned to the last photograph.

It was a detail of the abdomen, which in all the other
photographs had appeared relatively intact.  In this
photograph, the true nature of the damage was revealed.  The
skin had been cut, forming two flaps.  Through the rough
square hole--

He turned the photograph over and leaned back in his chair,
sweating hard.  For a moment, bile rose.  He tried to think
about waterfalls and birds singing.  He was able to open his
eyes again.  Just.  Scully was looking at him concernedly.
"What is it?  What's wrong?"
Without waiting for an answer, she grabbed the photograph
and looked at it.  He tried to say something, but his vocal
chords were as stunned as his mind.

Her eyes widened.  She held her place for a second, then
sprang from her chair and ran out of the room, hand over her
mouth, small sounds making their way from behind her
fingers.  The door slammed.  The photograph drifted to the
floor.  It obeyed Murphy's Law and came right-side up.
Mulder was momentarily as fixed as though there were a cobra
in its place.

The intestines had been removed and replaced with the man's
missing extremities and several other items.  Chicken heads.
Dead snakes.  A dismembered kitten.  And things that might
have been mistaken for necklaces, except for the crosses at
the end of each one.  Fifty or more of them, thrown together
in a maelstrom of silver, gold and blood.

He finally broke the terrible paralysis, got up and left the
office.  Richmond didn't even twitch.

He glanced around; Scully was nowhere in sight.  Then he saw
the door with the stylised stick figure wearing a skirt a
few metres up the hall.  Mulder cautiously walked up to it
and listened.  Sounds of retching.  He knocked on the door.
"Scully?"
The retching continued for a few moments, echoing in the
reverberating way that bathrooms did.  It didn't make the
sound any more pleasant.  Then he heard a coughing and
finally the movement of fabric over skin.
"Yeah..."
"Are you okay?"
"Yeah, I'm fine...just give me a couple of seconds, okay?"
"I'll wait."

He could feel her annoyance through the door, but didn't
move.  He heard the sound of flushing, then water running
and finally the doorhandle squeak as she opened the door.
She looked up at him and saw her own sickened expression in
his eyes.
"I'm okay," she said wearily, and even he could hear the
tight control she had on her voice.
"Scully, if you--"
"I'm okay, Mulder.  Really.  I just...I didn't expect it."
He scrutinised her face.  She had been pale, but her colour
was returning.  "You're sure?"
She took a deep breath, nodding.  "Yes.  Let's go, Mulder.
The Senator's waiting."

END OF PART 1/10



===========================================================================

From: mikeaulf@tartarus.uwa.edu.au (Michael Aulfrey)
Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
Subject: NEW: Non Draco Sit Mihi Dux (2/10) (NC-17)
Date: 20 Jun 1996 17:02:17 GMT


Non Draco Sit Mihi Dux
by Michael Aulfrey
Part 2/10

He followed in the wake of her forced confident stride back
to Richmond's office.

Richmond was sliding the photographs back into the envelope
on the other side of the desk.  His expression did not
change as they walked in again, though he glanced at Scully.
"I trust you're feeling better," he said.
She nodded, her medical practitioner's mask dropping into
place.  "Who was the victim?"
Richmond hesitated for a second.  Mulder thought he saw
grief flicker across the calm features, but it vanished as
quickly as it came.  "His name was Aaron Richmond."

Oh, Jesus.
"Sir--"
"My son."
Mulder glanced at Scully.  Her face was blank, though she
was starting to go pale again.
"I'm very sorry, Senator."
"Don't be."  Now his face gave way to the slightest
furrowing of brows.  "He was a disappointment to me.  I
raised him, set him above everything else in my life.  In
return, he spent my money and thought I would pull him out
of every jail cell he wound up in.  He brought whores home
to meet his mother.  He dealt drugs to his friends and
anyone else who would buy them.  I'm not sorry, agent
Mulder.  His mother will be when she learns of it.  I am
not."
Richmond put the envelope down as he sat down and looked at
them both.  "However, I want my son's murderer found.
People will ask questions; I want answers to give them.  If
I have answers, it is far less likely that they will delve
into my son's past to find them."

Mulder looked at Scully once more, saw her gaze had become
intense with something akin to amazement and disgust.  He
sent a warning look at her.  She subsided, trying to get her
mind back to that steady state of calm she had learned.

Mulder looked back at the Senator.  "Where did it happen?"
"Miami, Florida.  The police department there has the
details."  He put the envelope across to them again,
regarding it grimly for a second.  "I would appreciate it if
you could resolve this as quickly as possible.  Your airline
tickets will be provided by this office.  See the secretary
on your way out."

With that, he turned and walked over to the window again,
looking out at the Washington landscape.  He didn't turn
around before the door opened and closed again.

          *              *              *

"What do you think makes a person that way?"
"Several pairs of garden shears and three surgical
scalpels," replied Mulder, removing one of the photographs
and looking at it again.  His expression still bore the
marks of revulsion.
"I meant his father."
He seemed to come out of his trance, hurriedly shoving the
photo back into the envelope.  He sighed heavily as they
walked down the whitewashed steps of Capitol Hill.
"I don't know.  Maybe everything he told us.  Maybe none of
it.  He could be blocking part of it out.  On the other
hand..."  He glanced back at the building.  "This place does
strange things to the people in it.  Power corrupts,
absolute power corrupts absolutely."

He looked at her.  She was walking silently, looking at the
ground, hands in the pockets of her coat.
"You want to talk about it?"  he asked tentatively.
She stayed quiet for a few moments, then looked up at him.
"I'm sorry about what happened in there."
His gaze was even.  "I understand."
"No, Mulder.  We've handled worse cases than this.  I didn't
hold my end up."
He opened his mouth to say something, then fell silent.
Something in her eyes told him she had something more than
acknowledgment of her unprofessional conduct in mind.  He
nodded towards a bench, and they walked over, shoes wet in
the grass of spring's first gleaming.

She breathed out as she sat down.  "It wasn't the body
itself.  I mean, it was just like any other corpse I'd
autopsied."
She looked up at his neutral face.  Did she see her oft-
sceptical expression there?  No; his brow was slightly
furrowed with concern as he sat down beside her.
"What was it, Scully?"
"The necklaces.  They're called rosary beads."  She stared
out at the view, such as it was from this bench.  "They're a
devotion to the Virgin Mary in the Catholic Church.  You say
a Hail Mary for every bead, and every ten an Our Father, or
something like that ... I don't remember."  She paused.  "My
father gave me a set for my tenth birthday.  He was a strong
believer.  I didn't understand what they were about then.  I
lost the set two days later.  Ahab was furious.  But I'll
never forget the pain in his eyes when he asked me where
they were ... and I had to tell him I'd lost them."

A cool breeze wafted across them both.  Scully shifted her
jacket slightly.  The gold cross beneath her shirt tickled
her skin, bringing back more memories.  She wondered whether
the rosary beads were why she had never laid aside the gift
of the cross from her mother.  The amateur psychiatrist
inside her said that was the reason; the novice mystic
within told her otherwise.

She looked at Mulder.  "Seeing those beads like that,
desecrated, like Mom would call it ... it brought a lot of
things back.  I know it sounds trivial--"
He gently laid a hand on her shoulder.
"Don't even say that.  It's not."
"I just didn't want you to think that it's because--"
"I don't doubt your skills.  With all the work you've done,
I'd be a fool to.  But even if I did, I'd understand."  His
eyes drifted to another place, another time.  "I understand
every time I hear about little girls being abducted."  He
returned to her side and smiled faintly.  "And believe me,
it took a lot for me to stop from giving Richmond a rainbow
smile anyway."
She nodded but said nothing.  They rose silently and started
for the car.

He glanced at the airline tickets they had liberated from
the gum-chewing secretary.  "First class tickets.  The life
of luxury at last."
"They're only on loan, Mulder," she said.
"Don't deny me my fantasies, Scully.  They're all I live
for."
"I noticed."
"You haven't been through my top drawer again, have you?"
"Your policy is trust no one.  Mine is to deny everything,"
she replied deadpan, but couldn't stop a smile at his
annoyed expression.

          *         *         *

The novice walked up the stairs.

They were narrow, winding gently around a heavy pillar of
white stone.  Like the road to God, as he'd read.  Upwards,
ever upwards, dependant and ascendant around the stable
column of God's love.  To -- he hoped -- be one with God
someday, at the end of his life.  His heart warmed; that was
the real reason behind the training to be a Benedictine
monk.  He'd forsaken the world: his job, his girlfriend, his
comforts.  He had given it all without a moment's thought
and come here to this remote part of Italy, high in the
mountains that straddled the country.  Even though he was
still novitiate, and with so far along the road to travel,
he had never been happier.

A far contrast, he thought, from the man he had been sent to
find.  He reached the top of the stairs and walked across
the landing.  On either side, windows looked out onto the
monastery's orchard, bright with green trees.  The wind
pushed the trees to one side, not quite enough to make the
fruit fall, but still a strong wind nonetheless.  He crossed
to the wooden doors, decorated with crucifixes and slowly
opened one.  The door was well-oiled; it did not creak as it
moved.

Inside was the monastery chapel.  Its seats ran in two rows
along the walls so the monks faced each other when they met.
The place was bare of decorations, save for the elaborate
altar that had been carefully moved from the old chapel to
here.  Above the altar a circular stained-glass window
allowed coloured light to stream in.

Before the altar, in the vacant space left by the absence of
pews, the man knelt.  He had pulled a kneeler across from
the side of the room so his knees rested on a cushion rather
than the polished floor.  The novice stopped just inside the
chapel.  The man might have been asleep for all the motion
he showed.

The novice slowly walked over to the man, crossing himself
as he did so, black robes shifting quietly around him.  He
laid a gentle hand on the man's shoulder.
"Father."
The man didn't flinch, but even the novice could feel the
tension in the shoulder muscles.  Part of the strange way of
this man was the expression of virtual pain that came onto
his face when he prayed.  His interlocked hands parted and
came to rest on the sides of the kneeler.  He looked up.

The novice had met Peter Slattery before, of course, but he
hadn't gotten used to the scar yet.  Slattery's eyes, grey
as the rocks that were the spine of these mountains, were
kind, if concealing some pain within.  Which in itself was
disturbing in one so young; Slattery was only a little older
than the novice himself. The scar ran down the left side of
the man's face.  How he had got it was as much a subject of
rumour among the community as the reasons for the Jesuit's
continued presence here.  The prevailing view on the latter
topic seemed to be that he was on sabbatical.  A period of
rest.

"Yes, my friend?"
"You are asked for.  In the guesthouse."
Slattery nodded silently, got to his feet and followed the
novice out.  They walked down silent passageways, the chant
of murmured prayer occasionally finding its way out of
monks' cells that they passed.  Out of the monastery
cloisters and down a cobbled path created two hundred years
ago to the guesthouse, where the vows of hospitality monks
took were fulfilled in their accommodation of travellers,
tourists and people seeking reflection.

The building consisted of the guests' quarters and a common
room.  They walked into the common room, and a black-robed
man Slattery recognised as one of the senior monks stood and
greeted them.
"Thank you, Antonio," said the monk.  Taking the hint, the
novice departed.
"How can I help you, Dom Pendello?" asked Slattery.
The monk cast a worried glance in the direction of the guest
rooms.  "Some of the local villagers have come to us with
one of their sick.  A boy.  He is in some kind of seizure."
"Then we should get him to the hospital."
"They are simple people, father.  I would not have disturbed
you normally.  But our Abbot is away, as you know ... and we
have no other monks trained as priests present at this time.
Will you at least say a blessing for him?"
Slattery considered, then nodded slowly.  "On condition that
we get him to a hospital as quickly as possible."
"Dom Gabriel is fetching a car as we speak."
"Good.  Well...take me to the boy, then."

They moved into one of the rooms.  There, several men held
down an adolescent child on the bed as he squirmed and
jolted unnaturally.  A beautiful woman -- the boy's mother,
Slattery guessed -- stood to one side, twisting her shawl
unmercifully and watching her son with anxious eyes.  The
boy made harsh grunting sounds.  The room was thick with the
smell of sweat.

Slattery moved to the bedside.  The villagers made space for
him as he gazed down at the young man, now in the throes of
a new fit of convulsion.  He did not reach down to touch the
boy.

Instead, he stretched out with other senses.

He closed his eyes.  Even as visual darkness descended, a
new type of seeing adjusted to being at the mental forefront
and began to show him things his eyes never could.  The
villagers' emotions were bright columns of anxious flame in
the room; behind him, the sedentary spirituality of Dom
Pendello was a cool blue, radiating reassurance despite his
worried mind.  Slattery turned his attention to the boy.

The boy's brain was alive with activity.  Red fire was
leaping over the surface of his consciousness, sparks
erupting as though a blacksmith were using the mind as the
anvil.  A profoundly disturbed intelligence, though Slattery
could not tell whether the problem was physical or
psychological.  He'd sometimes wondered whether the two were
so different.

Slattery reached a hand out to the boy's forehead, trying to
get a better impression of the problem.

And the fire raged from the boy's intelligence into
Slattery, running up his arm and smashing into his head.

Dark places filled his mind.  Knives.  Blood.  So much blood--
Odour of excrement.  The bitter taste of sharp steel.
Tears.
Screaming in the night.  The crushing stink of despair in
every corner.  Men.  Women.  Naked.  Painted symbols on
their bodies.  Standing in a circle.  Chanting.  Hammering
on the membrane of the universe, sending shock waves of
darkness through his spirit.  And at the head of the circle,
something that wavered between humanity and shadow, filmy as
night, eyes gleaming like swamp fire.

Slattery snapped his eyes open, fighting not to stagger.  He
heard the villagers' concerned mutterings, but all his
attention was on the boy's face.  It suddenly stopped its
grimace and calmly looked up at him.

Recognition.

The boy went limp.

The villagers chattered to each other in concern, scarcely
noticing as the priest turned and left the room.

The garden that all of the rooms opened onto was beautiful
in the harsh sunlight.  Roses bloomed mightily.  A solitary
bee floated drowsily from one flower to the next.  Slattery
slowly moved out to the edge of the garden, leaned against a
post supporting the awning of the building.  His gaze
reached out of the garden to the bleak mountains beyond.

He felt rather than see or hear Pendello leave the room and
walk over to stand beside him, agitated and curious.
"The boy will be all right," said Slattery wearily.  Lord,
was his voice as weak as it sounded to him?  "Get him to a
hospital."
"Father--"  Pendello walked around the post to look at
Slattery, but his protest stilled in his throat.  The man
looked like he'd had a heart attack, but the only pain
visible was in Slattery's eyes.
"Dom Pendello, I'll be going with Dom Gabriel to the town.
I won't be returning.  You'll have to convey my apologies to
the Abbot for not saying goodbye."
"Father, what's wrong?  What's going on?"
He looked out towards the mountains again.  Clouds were
forming beyond the Italian Alps, out above the
Mediterranean.  Chances were that the tempest would fizzle
out before it reached this monastery.  Probably.
"A storm is coming," said Slattery quietly, and started up
the cobbled path for his room, where he would pack his
meagre belongings in silence and depart, silently praying
against the worst.

          *         *         *

They debarked from Continental Airlines Flight 112 knowing
they were probably the most despised passengers ever to fly
first-class to Miami, Florida.

Mulder had tried to keep his voice down, but the first class
section was too small for anyone not to overhear the details
of the case as they went over what they knew.  The
passengers were looking distinctly green by the end of the
flight.

Scully knew there would be problems when they mentioned the
FBI: half the passengers had stiffened, and not in response
to any details of the case.  Given most of them were
business high-fliers, it was to be expected.  Two
businessmen in particular seemed extremely anxious,
constantly running hands over the briefcases sitting on
their laps.  Travelling economy had some benefits.
Relaxation seemed to be the prevalent response among less
affluent air passengers, as though "FBI agent" meant
Superman -- or Supergirl -- travelling incognito.  She
didn't know whether awe or fear was a better emotion to
evoke.

Mulder had been surprisingly thorough in the time they'd had
to gather their things before the flight left.  Scully
noticed a thick, hardcover book, incongruent among his
collection of papers.  She finally got a chance to look at
it as they checked their weapons at Miami Terminal's
security office.

'Serial Killers and the Occult.'  By Fox Mulder.  1988.
"My romance novel scripts weren't getting read," he said
with a smile as she looked up at him; he must have noticed
her studying it.  "So I thought I'd try something
different."
"Don't you know all this already?"
"I did.  You wouldn't believe how these things go out of
date.  The way I see it, this case presents unique
opportunities for a new edition."
"Did it sell many copies?" she asked, curious.
"I would've sold more romance novels."

They walked over to the car rental agency after claiming
their baggage and found that Senator Richmond had already
taken care of it.  A blue sedan was apparently waiting for
them outside the terminal.

The heat hit them the moment they stepped outside the
protective atmosphere of the air-conditioned terminal.  It
pummelled the senses; warmth sucked in through every pore in
the skin as reflected sunlight bit into their eyes.  The air
smelt of simmering tar under the bitumen road.  In the
distance was the soft roar of a plane taking off.  Both of
them were born and brought up in northern states; they
simultaneously stopped speaking the moment they stepped out.
They looked at each other, put their bags down and took off
the sober FBI jackets, flipping them over shoulders and
forearms.

Luckily, the car was air conditioned, though it took a few
minutes before the straining refrigerator finally overcame
the latent heat that pounced on them as they got in.  They
cruised down the city streets, only a whisper of the car's
engine reaching them inside the cabin.  When she had a
chance to glance away from the roadmap, Scully took in the
colourful streets outside.  Bikinis proliferated in every
colour.  Male clothing seemed to thrive only at altitudes
below the belt and died abrupt deaths at chest level and
above, save for the occasional flowering of a headband over
the brow.  The aural atmosphere was as mixed as the colour:
a lively plucking of Spanish guitar strings from one
doorway; ear-pounding bass from another, the monotonous beat
of contemporary dance music; and reggae from a third door,
Bob Marley given eternal life in his own way.

They passed through the party district and into the city
itself.  The relevant Police Headquarters was a white
building, done in a fashionable Spanish style, though it was
more than one storey high.  Mulder parked the car outside
and they walked in through the front door, which was guarded
by palm sentinels.

For all its cosmopolitan exterior, on the inside the place
was the anthill of activity most police stations were.
Police cars screamed out of rear doors.  The charge room of
the station was awash with hookers, drug dealers and the
occasional, ubiquitous flasher -- though Scully wondered at
the wisdom of wearing heavy trench coats in the heat and
indeed the fine distinction between flashing and local
fashion.  Police milled around, trying to keep the crowd
under control.  A harried desk clerk directed them up a
couple of floors to Detective Isaac Gershwin's office.

Mulder assumed the detective had been relocated.  The
letters written on the glass door identified Gershwin as the
ostensible occupier of the office, but there was a muscular
black man standing in the office.  His was reading a paper
of some kind, his back turned.  They knocked.  He turned
around and the light from the tinted window glinted on the
Star of David pendant around his neck.
"Detective Gershwin?"
"That's me."  He walked over to them, his hand extended.
"You must be agents Mulder and Scully from the FBI.  Mr.
Richmond called earlier this morning."
"A pleasure," said Mulder as they shook hands.  Gershwin had
a firm, strong grip.  Much like his features.  A black beard
framed his face.  His eyes smouldered like an old campfire.
He greeted agent Scully in the same fashion.
"I also presume you're taking over the investigation."
"Not to your exclusion," replied Scully.  "The FBI hasn't
opened a formal case yet.  We're here mostly as observers."
"That's gratifying, agent Scully."  Gershwin smiled, walked
back over to his table and put his feet up on the desk.
"But you can save the placation for jealous detectives.  I'm
snowed under at the moment.  Frankly, I'll take any help I
can get."
"Early spring rush?"  Mulder grinned sympathetically.
"Spring, period."  Gershwin gestured with a sweeping hand at
the chaos on his desk.  "I've got half a dozen date-rapes
and dope-dealers to contend with already.  And spring break
hasn't even gotten started at most colleges yet!  This is
nothing compared to what I'm going to get in a few weeks."
"Do you have problems with the students in particular?"
asked Scully.
"Nope.  It's across the board.  My theory's hibernation.
Everybody sleeps off autumn and wakes up with a hell of a
hangover ready to give me a three-month headache in the
spring."  He grinned widely at them, then sobered.  "You're
here investigating the murder of Aaron Richmond, right?"
"Yes."
"All right."  Gershwin peered at the table and selected a
folder from beneath a pile of other pale yellow bits of
cardboard.  "Aaron Richmond.  This boy had a couple of
priors for smoking and dealing grass here.  Of course, his
father's a senator, so he gets off with suspended sentences
each time."
"Was he being watched actively?"
"In this town?  There's a lot bigger fish to fry here than
one small dope pusher who only shows every few months or so.
He wasn't hanging around the schools, so we just kept an eye
on him and let him be.  It was more important to us that we
knew who was dealing than actually bringing him in."
"He wasn't a resident, then?"
"No.  He'd only show up for spring and summer, mostly.  Deal
about a couple hundred bucks' worth, enough to keep him here
for a while, then leave."
"Was he in town for long this time?"
"We don't know.  Though I'd say he'd have been here about a
week or so, based on his past movements."

"Do you have any suspects?"  Scully was scribbling on a
notepad.
"I've still got my feelers out.  Word is that none of the
big dealers sanctioned this hit as a matter of business.
Like I said, Aaron Richmond was small fry."
 "You stressed the word 'business'.  You think this was
personal?" asked Scully.
"Not exactly."  He led them out of the office, picking up
his keys and thin-brimmed felt hat as he went.  "You see,
most of the turf law is conducted with guns and knives
around here.  I mean, we've seen this kind of killing
before, but it's usually reserved for the heads of major
gangs.  Sorta proves the leader's manhood.  It would mean
two things.  One, that Aaron Richmond was the head of a big
group here.  Two, that a turf war was already in progress."
"But you don't think such a thing happened here?"  Mulder
caught up with Gershwin as they walked down the stairs
towards the garage.  Gershwin shook his head.
"There isn't a lot that really happens in this town without
us knowing about it, agent Mulder.  Even if we can't always
act on it.  The word on the street is that everyone is
getting ready to open a big selling season.  Nobody wants to
break the peace.  And Richmond, like I said, was strictly
small fry.  He would've wound up dead a lot earlier if he
wasn't."
"Could it be some kind of warning?" said Scully.  "To
Senator Richmond himself?"
Gershwin shrugged.  "You'd probably know more about that
than me."
"I can't think of why, Scully," said Mulder.  "Richmond
didn't give us anything like revenge to go on.  It isn't
like he's visibly in charge of the FBI.  Besides, the FBI
doesn't have any special interest in the Miami drug scene.
The DEA's made it pretty clear they're handling it."
"They aren't very subtle down here anyway," said Gershwin.
"A warning usually isn't that elaborate in this town."
"So what do you think?"  Mulder faced Gershwin as they
reached the elevator.
"Me?"  Gershwin smiled as he put his hat on and walked into
the elevator.  "I think somebody went apeshit and killed
him."

END OF PART 2/10


===========================================================================

From: mikeaulf@tartarus.uwa.edu.au (Michael Aulfrey)
Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
Subject: NEW: Non Draco Sit Mihi Dux (3/10) (NC-17)
Date: 20 Jun 1996 17:04:25 GMT


Non Draco Sit Mihi Dux
by Michael Aulfrey
Part 3/10

Slattery silently stared at the portrait of Saint Thomas
More.

The first Lord Chancellor of England was sedentary, staring
ahead with a peculiar expression combining intensity and
humour.  He had been executed for his beliefs.  Such things
continued all around the world, save for the few peaceful
places that chose instead to ignore the problems of the
radicals.  And like oil reaching a critical boiling point,
the earth was peaceful.  Time was running out; he knew that
all too well.  It was left to people like himself to fix the
plumbing as the ship was sinking.

The nun came out of the office and smiled.  "He'll see you
now, Father."
Slattery managed to smile as he strode past her and into the
office.  Into the august presence of Cardinal Dominic
Goldoni, fifty years a priest and the leading conservative
contender for the Throne of Saint Peter which hung on His
Holiness' weakest breath.

Not quite God Himself, but close enough in his own mind.

Slattery shook the thoughts away, trying to calm the sudden
anger which rose like oil to the surface of water.  He
breathed deeply as the rich brown oaken chair swivelled
around to face him.  The Cardinal was bathed in the light of
the window, turning his swarthy Italian features white.  His
red and black robes glowed.  Behind him was a glass-framed
bookcase, filled with every theological dissertation
imaginable.

"Father Slattery.  What can I do for you?"  That rich
baritone voice rolled out across the office and through
Slattery.
"I will not waste time with pleasantries," said Slattery in
Italian, hoping to soothe Goldoni a little.  The only
visible reaction was a slight tightening of the Cardinal's
eyebrows.
"What is the matter?" said Goldoni into the silence, his
Italian showing its own peculiar Venetian accent.
"I need your permission to leave sabbatical and return to
the United States."

Goldoni leaned back in his chair.  "Why is that?"
"Legion has returned."
Again, a tightening around the eyes was the only reaction.
"How can you be sure?"
Slattery was flat and unemotional.  "Villagers brought a boy
to me for a blessing.  He had the same presence as I felt
seven months ago inside him."
"You say...Legion...is within the boy? Now?"
"No.  It left a few seconds later.  Its sole purpose was to
inform me of its presence."
"And you think it leaves personal calling cards to
exorcists, do you?"
"I realise this is difficult to believe, your Eminence.  Why
it came, I do not know.  I do not know why I have been
chosen by God--"
Suddenly Goldoni was on his feet, dark eyes ablaze with
indignation, though his voice remained under tight control.
"You take too much upon yourself, Father.  Perhaps your
style of intuitive reasoning has clouded your judgment in
this matter?"

Slattery slammed his hands down on the table and leaned
close to the Cardinal.  "My judgment has never been better,
Eminence.  I realise you disapprove of my methods.  I will
live with that.  But you cannot ask me to live with you
risking the Catholic Church's two greatest treasures!"
"The Brotherhood of the Eye is no more, Father Slattery.  It
served its purpose while it existed.  The church will
protect its spiritual treasures, even as we protect the
secular treasures here in the Vatican."  Now Goldoni's eye
took on a dark glint.  "But we will not risk those treasures
because one priest sees the Devil in the shadows of his
nightmares!"
"If the Devil's place is not in the shadows, where is it?"
countered Slattery, though he knew he had lost the battle.
With it came the sinking despair that he would fail.  All
his brothers had suffered and died in vain.  He stood back.

Goldoni resumed his seat, leaning to one side, his fingers
tapping on one of the arms of the chair.  He stared at
Slattery for a few seconds, then straightened in his seat.
"You will return to Monte Alberto and resume your
contemplation.  We will contact you if you are needed."

Slattery had a sudden image of the children, running and
laughing.  An image that would never be.  He felt hot tears
coming to his eyes and turned away.
"Father."
He turned back to the Cardinal, who had his right hand
outstretched.

Sickness in his heart, Slattery bowed and kissed the ring,
forcing his voice up his throat.
"Your Eminence."

          *         *         *

Aaron Richmond's apartment door was covered with yellow
police tape.

Gershwin nonchalantly broke it and opened the door, which
was unlocked.  Mulder took another glance at the wall
decorations in the hallway around them.  This was a pretty
classy building; for all his contempt, Aaron Richmond
apparently didn't mind using his father's wallet when it
suited him.

"Did you perform an autopsy?" Scully was saying.
"Yeah.  No fingerprints on his body, and the apparent cause
of death was probably loss of blood or shock.  You saw the
photographs.  I don't think there was anything else it could
have been."

They walked into the apartment.  Mulder expected no less
than what he saw.  Leather couches.  Sleek benches for the
kitchen.  Modern fittings.
"Where was his body found?"
"The bedroom," said Gershwin and pointed towards a doorway.
They walked in.

This place was even more richly-appointed than the rest of
the apartment.  The bed was silk-sheeted, a four-poster with
filmy hangings of gauze against mosquitoes that could never
have penetrated this far into the building.  A few cupboards
and bookshelves milled around the bed like lost sheep.

The sheets were stained red, a large circle of it dried in
the centre of the bed.  Mulder looked at Gershwin
inquiringly, and the detective nodded.
"That's where they found him.  Spread out to the four
corners."
"No sign of any struggle.  This how the place was found?"
Mulder glanced around the room.
"Yeah.  Listen, I've got to check in.  Have a look around."
Scully glanced along the bookshelf.  Aaron Richmond had been
something of a literary eclectic.  Frank Herbert, Robert
Ludlum, Jane Austen and everything in between.  Along the
bottom rows were hordes of magazines.  Here the choices were
more conventional; car magazines, fishing publications, a
copy of Playboy...

Medical magazines?

Scully looked again.  Jutting out from the paper wall of the
magazines were a group of "Medicus" periodicals, filed
neatly in chronological order.  She bent down and looked
closer.  Recent ones.  She filed the choice away from future
reference and started to push them back in line with the
other magazines.

Something resisted her hand.  She stopped, tried again.
They would not move.  Intrigued, she pulled the magazines
out to see what was behind them.

"Mulder, come and take a look at this."
Mulder looked up from the night table where a few papers
were strewn.  Scully was across the room, pulling on a
rubber glove in a squatting position.

She reached behind some magazines she had pulled out and
withdrew what looked like a small figure of some kind.  A
statue.  A plaster statue of a brown-robed man, his arms
outstretched, birds resting on his shoulders.
"What is it?"
Scully was looking at it with apparent distaste.  "It's
Saint Francis of Asissi.  The birds prove it; he was the
patron saint of animals.  Founder of the Franciscan Friars,
if I remember right."  She held the statue out to him.  "But
no saint's statue is made like this."

The eyes--the whole face--of the original statue had clearly
been upraised, as though looking at God.  But someone had
intricately repainted the eyes so they were now twice as
large and staring straight ahead.

Mulder recognised it immediately.

He pulled on a rubber glove of his own and took the statue,
examining it again.
"What do you remember from your history classes, Scully?"
"I did it in high school."
Mulder looked back at her.  " 'In fourteen hundred ninety-
two...'"
"'...Columbus sailed the ocean blue.'" finished Scully.
"Right.  Unfortunately, he brought a lot of other people
with him.  Namely Spanish landowners and cotton merchants.
A lot of black slaves were brought across from the west
coast of Africa to work the land.  They insisted that the
slaves convert to Christianity.  Most did it without a
fight."

He scrutinised the statue a moment longer and put it down on
a shelf.  "When the Spanish saw their slaves making blood
sacrifices to the statues of Catholic saints, they ascribed
it to Old Testament primitivism.  What they didn't know was
that the slaves had hidden their pagan traditions inside the
Christian religion.  They just used various Catholic icons
as the focus for their different gods.  They called it
Santeria--literally, the Saints' Path--a combination of
pagan practice and Christian tradition.  One of Santeria's
practices is to paint their religious statues in the way
this one is--eyes staring ahead.  The statue for them is a
god, not a symbol of love for God."
"So why is the statue here?"
"There's a big Cuban population here in Miami.  A lot of
them hold onto their old beliefs."
"And you think Aaron Richmond, a single, white, all-American
male was a witch doctor."
"No.  The higher-ups tend toward Cuban nationals."  He
glanced at the statue.  "But I don't think Richmond picked
this up as a souvenir."
"His killer was a Santerian?"
"Or thinks he's Santerian.  The basic attitude of Santeria
in Western cultures translates as something like white
magic.  Don't bug them and they won't bug you.  And I've
never seen extensive mutilation like this where Santeria is
involved.  Their system of retribution is founded on the
power of suggestion."
"Like voodoo dolls?"
"That's one of the more publicised methods.  This ... well,
let's just say that it's out of character for a Santerian."

Scully picked up the statue and looked at again, avoiding
locking gazes with the painted eyes.  Gershwin walked in.
"Find something?" he said.
"Yeah.  The statue agent Scully's holding.  Ever seen
anything like this before?"
Gershwin looked at the statue.  "Maybe ... I'm not sure."
"I think this killing was the work of a voodoo cult of some
kind."
Gershwin raised his eyebrows.  "Not often that you see them
killing like this."

Scully glanced at him.  "You've seen others?"
"Sure.  Not humans, though.  You know what they call the
river around here, agent Scully?"
"You mean the Miami River?"
"That's the name on the map.  Its sanitation crews call it
the River of Chickens.  About five years ago, they pulled
out about three hundred animal corpses over a three day
period.  Dogs, cats, chickens, you name it, it was there.
Cut up and dismembered.  There's a lot of that stuff around
here."
"But you still don't think this was a cult killing."
"Like I said, this level of dismemberment is reserved for
major drug leaders -- not two-bit dealers on holiday."

Scully tipped the statue up, wondering if she would find the
stencilled ITALY on the bottom as it often was.  Instead,
that word was obliterated and a small, intricate mark took
its place.  A collection of loops, spirals and dots.
"Detective, does this mark mean anything to you?"
Gershwin peered at the bottom of the statue.  "It's a
signature mark.  Lot of graffitos use them around here.
Some local artists as well.  Like a coat of arms.  I can't
say I recognise this one.  I can find out for you, though."
"How long do you think that'll take?"
"I've got a man who specialises in this kind of thing
working undercover, but he's due to report in tonight.  I
can ask him if you want."
"Please," said Mulder.
Scully glanced at Mulder.  "I'd also like to take a look at
the body, if I may.  I realise the autopsy's already been
conducted..."
"Fine.  He's not going anywhere.  I'll take you there now."

          *         *         *

Her visitor paid well; that was the only reason she took
time away from her task.

A cloud of steam was building across the city.  Her
confederates had spoken to her about it, complaining of the
blur to their perceptions.  She had felt it herself.  For
days, she had tried to determine its source and nature.
Something walked arrogantly down the streets -- her streets
-- shrouded from her vision, unafraid of the powers around
it.

The bead curtain of her grotto drew aside with a musical
twinkle of motion.  Her customer walked in.  He was tall and
thin.  A white man, which was surprising.  They normally
stayed close to their impotent gypsy fortune-tellers.
Still, he paid his money.  And that was the point of the
exercise.

"Greetings.  You have the payment?"
"Uh, yes ... I've got it here."
He fumbled in his trouser pockets for the wad of paper.  Her
contempt surged; they were all the same.  All of them
afraid, not wanting to believe what they were told and still
attracted by it, like dogs circling a fire.  She had leapt
into that fire.  And its sting was not so nearly painful as
they thought.

Four fifty-dollar bills drifted to the surface of the table
as he sat down in the rickety wooden chair opposite her.
She snatched them up with elegant, long-fingered hands,
hiding them in one of the concealed pockets of her flowing
robe.  Then she looked back at him.
"What do you want to know?"
"The future.  My future."  His eyes had a sudden glimmer of
intensity, and for a moment he looked like a potential
recruit.  But the glimmer faded as he got himself under
control.  She shrugged inwardly and picked up an egg and the
wooden plate she used.  She cracked open the egg.  The blood
of the nearly-formed embryo spilled onto the plate.  She
spat into it and muttered the required words.

Around her, the membrane of the universe bent and twisted
and she slipped into it, uniting with it, streaming out
along the paths of possibility.  His presences along the
different paths in the continuum beckoned her, and she
closed her eyes, intensifying the trance.  The threads of
Time, like the threads of the Fates, ran out to the horizon.
She gripped a few, weaving the possibilities and realities
into a coherent series of images.

Her voice was distant even to her.  "I see children.  Their
lights shine like lanterns.  I see you with them in your
arms ... "

Something was wrong.  His images were there, but whenever
she tried to draw together the threads of time surrounding
him, he tugged on them, as though he were sucking time into
himself, a black hole centred around some dark radiance at
his heart.

Her eyes snapped open and she stared at him.

The intensity was back in his eyes now, but it was stronger.
So much stronger.  Like a candle to a supernova.  Her
shocked mind registered some kind of blue light in his eyes
besides the natural gleam of his irises, a light like swamp
fire; the light of the dead and the decomposing.

The cloud of steam dropped for a few short seconds.  She saw
his dark star plainly, her spirit burning and withering
under its power.  Automatically, words came to mind.  Her
mouth was overflowing with desperate words of warding, words
of banishment...

"Oh, really, now.  Surely you don't expect that to work."
No doubtful, fearful tone now.  Only a voice that sounded
like oil beneath the spine of the mountains.  He stood up,
moving with the grace of a swan, so beautifully she wondered
how she could have thought him clumsy.

She tried one last time to break free, her spirit's wild
radiance raging at the bars which had suddenly come down
around it ... and failed.  Darkness enveloped every fibre of
her being.  Her contact with the membrane of the universe,
which she had known since she was a child, was suddenly
severed.  It was like being thrown naked into the path of a
snowstorm.  She slumped in her seat.

He was moving around the table at an unhurried pace, still
moving with such grace she thought she would die if she had
to watch it any longer.
"I mean, more or less, I taught you everything you know."
He kept speaking as he walked around behind her chair.  She
couldn't move.  Weights had settled on every muscle in her
body.  It was hard enough to even breathe.  Her eyes
followed him in the mirror that faced her at the table.

He laid his hands on the corners of the backrest with a
sigh.  "I hate to be such a ... what's the term ... Indian
giver.  I mean, you've done so much work for me.  But you'll
only interfere.  And I can't have that."

One hand left the backrest and dipped into his jacket.  It
emerged with the knife, glinting in the light.  He smiled.
And went to work.

Her heart kept pumping for half an hour before loss of blood
stilled it.

          *         *         *

EXTRACT:

PERSONAL NOTES,
DR. DANA SCULLY.

After examining the body of Aaron Richmond I have to concur
with the autopsy report provided to me by the Florida State
Coroner's office here in Miami.  Cause of death appears
attributable to either shock or extreme blood loss.  Over
four pints of blood appear to have been lost owing to the
removal of genitalia, intestines and heart.

The weapon used was as sharp as a surgical scalpel, but the
depth of the cuts indicates a heavier blade, as the skin
around the wounds is unbruised, which would normally be
consistent with pressure of a blunt knife to the skin by the
hand of the assailant.

The coroner notes little sign of struggle by the victim.  No
flesh was found under the victim's fingernails, and lack of
bruising about the head region indicates the victim was
taken unaware or may have known his assailant.  Along with
the various corpses and body parts found in the intestinal
cavity, the coroner also found several small seashells.  I
have sent a sample of these to the Smithsonian Institute in
Washington to identify the species, care of marine biologist
Dr. Jill Anderson, who was more than happy to take the case
on.

There's something familiar about this whole file.  But I
reviewed my notes regarding the deaths at the refugee
holding centre in Folkstone, and while Mulder's latest
theories somewhat resemble the background surrounding that
case, he and I concur that there is little, if any
connection between that case and this one.  I checked the
body of Aaron Richmond for traces of tetradotoxin, but found
none.

So why the hell do I have the feeling that I've handled
something like this before?

EXTRACT ENDS.

          *         *         *

The cellular phone trilled, yanking her out of the toffee
consciousness of light sleep to sharp-edged reality.

She sat up in bed and immediately knew something was wrong.
Last thing she remembered, she had been working on her
notes.  Mulder was off with Gershwin, waiting for their
undercover man to report in at the appointed rendezvous.
She'd just put her head down for a second ...

The sheets had been lightly drawn over her clothes.  She saw
her jacket hung neatly over the hotel room chair and her
shoes beside it.
The phone was trilling more insistently from that direction.
The clock's digital readout burned in the near-darkness;
6:00 am.

Well, no time to think about it now.  She threw the
bedclothes off and got up, hurrying across to the phone.
"Scully."
"Yeah, it's me.  Sorry for waking you."
"Where are you?"
"At the police station.  Sleep well?"
"Yeah ... Mulder --"
"I looked in on you when I got back from the meeting.  You
were asleep by your keyboard.  I figured the computer could
do without you for a while."
"Thanks," she said after a second.
"No problem.  Your gun and badge are under the bed.  Can you
get down here as soon as you can?"
"What's going on?"
"Well, Gershwin's contact came through.  He thinks he's
identified the mark."
" ... But you didn't wake me up for that reason alone, did
you?"
His sigh was loud over the phone.  "They just called in
another killing.  And it looks like the same one who did
Aaron Richmond.  Gershwin went ahead to the crime scene.  I
was talking to their undercover man for a while.  Can you
pick me up?"
She woke up quickly.  "I'll be there in a few minutes.  Give
me a second or two to get changed."
"I'll see you down here," he said and hung up.

END OF PART 3/10


==================================================

From: mikeaulf@tartarus.uwa.edu.au (Michael Aulfrey)
Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
Subject: NEW: Non Draco Sit Mihi Dux (4/10) (NC-17)
Date: 20 Jun 1996 17:06:40 GMT


Non Draco Sit Mihi Dux
by Michael Aulfrey
Part 4/10

Her route took her along the Miami foreshore.  The hour was
apparently even too early for the sun; it was barely
creeping over the buildings and palm trees.  The die-hard
surfers were out in force, though, riding up and down over
the gently swelling ocean, waiting -- so it seemed -- for
the summer as much as the next wave.

Mulder met her outside when she finally reached the police
station.
"I'll drive."
"No.  At least I had a chance to get some sleep last night.
You've been up all night.  It's my turn anyway."
He nodded slowly, getting into the passenger seat.
"So what did you find out?"  she asked as they pulled away
from the kerb.
"Gershwin was right.  The mark on the bottom of the statue
is the signature of an artist by the name of Andre Ramirez.
Gershwin's undercover man says he operates out of a club
called 'Whispers' on the south side."
"Andre Ramirez ... a Hispanic?"
"Basque, actually.  Or so our man said.  From the French
Alps.  One of the most remote and superstitious areas of the
world.  Perfect place to bring up a family."

Scully turned the car off the road after a few minutes to a
cluster of brightly-lit vehicles with sharp red and blues on
their sides.  The police line had already been raised; they
flashed their identification to get into the site.

The culvert of a large concrete pipe stuck out of the steep
hillside like a mouth opened in agony.  Unsurprisingly, the
vegetation around it was intensely green, trees and grass in
a muddled pattern of life over the hill.  The walk down the
hillside was precarious, but made easier by the well-worn
track created by the bootheels of half a dozen police and
emergency workers.

Gershwin looked up as they came to the bottom of the hill
and to the culvert.
"Have you had breakfast?"
"No."  Scully was glancing around.
"Lucky."

He led them over to the bottom of the sewer outlet.  "We had
an anonymous tip that we'd find something down here.  Sent a
patrol car out and ... well, we found it."
"Found what?"

The body was partially covered by black wrap, lying where it
had been found, half-on, half-off the lip of the drainpipe.
One of the ambulance workers chose that moment to throw back
the cover.  The smell of decomposition was strong, along
with the acquired stink of the sewer.  The ambulance
worker's expression was hidden from them.  His reaction to
the body was not.  He stumbled back and away, staggering
past them to be violently sick a few paces off.

Scully walked over to the body, taking a second to compose
herself.  Her emotions subsided; the cool, detached exterior
of the physician took over.  Had Mulder known about it, she
suspected he would compare the process to his own innate
intuition which let him inside so many killers' heads.  Both
were products of their educations.

She preferred not to mention this idea to him.

Her response this time was better than with Richmond's body.
Even taking into consideration the similarities between the
killings.  Again, the extremities had been removed and
secreted in the cavity formed by the removal of the
intestines.  The heart had also been removed.  Flies clouded
like dust from the body as she approached, contentedly
buzzing.  The smell suddenly rose up and bit her on the
nose.  She closed her eyes for a second and submerged
herself into the cool waters of detachment, blocking it out,
filing it away as a physical response, nothing more.

She opened her eyes again and looked at the body.  What was
different here was the extensive decomposition.  She hadn't
worked on many corpses with such extensive damage done to
them, but from the signs it looked like the body had been
there for weeks.  Something still bothered her, though.  If
she could only put her finger on it ...

"This is wrong," she called across to Mulder, who was
examining police reports.
"What do you mean?"  he asked, crossing over.  He got his
first whiff and was backing away even as Scully stood up and
started back to the police ORV parked nearby out of
deference to his nose.
"Well, I'd say the body was there for about a month or so.
But ..."

He could see something was really bugging her.
"What is it, Scully?"
She glanced once in the direction of the corpse, which a
surgically-masked ambulance driver had covered over again.
"It's her blood.  She's still got the remains of her clothes
on, and her blood is all over them.  It's fresh."
A glint came into Mulder's eye.  "You're sure?"
"I'd have to run an analysis to be sure.  I'm telling you
that some of that blood hasn't even solidified yet.  She was
killed recently.  Hours ago."
"But her body--the decomposition--"
"I know."
Now Mulder was openly gazing in the direction of the body.
"What could cause that kind of  breakdown in such a short
time, Scully?"
"I don't know.  To do something like this, you'd have to
remove virtually all of one component of the cellular
structure.  There's no way to do it under our current
medical knowledge."
"None known to man?"
Scully glanced at him; he had that strange glint in his eye
again, as he always did when he was onto something.
"Yes," she said cautiously.

Mulder walked over to Gershwin, who was talking with a group
of officers.
"Gershwin, how soon can you have the body ready for a full
autopsy?"
Gershwin shrugged and looked at some of his men.  "Maybe by
ten."
Mulder nodded.  "Okay.  Agent Scully and myself will meet
you back at the station at nine-thirty.  Can you have the
body ready by then?"
"Uh ... sure."
"Good.  Put a couple of patrolmen on the door to the
mortuary.  Nobody goes into the autopsy room except myself
or agent Scully, right?"
Gershwin nodded and turned back to the cops clustered
around.  "All right, people, let's move like we got a
purpose.  Johnson, call the department and get a room
prepped up ..."

Mulder was heading up the embankment, Scully catching up
with him as they crested the top.
"What do you think happened here?" she asked.
"You've heard about alien harvesting."
"Mulder--"
"They mutilate cattle and people for embryo material.  You
said yourself they'd have to remove a part of the cellular
structure to cause this level of decomposition.  And where
did the other body parts go?"  He pointed at the body.
"You've got solid proof there that something can erase one
part of cellular structure and cause advanced
decomposition."

She walked in front of him as they reached the top and faced
him.
"Mulder, I've seen a lot of strange things with you.  I know
my Arthur Conan Doyle.  'When you're left with the
impossible, that has to be the only explanation.'  Just
don't jump ahead of yourself.  Not yet.  We haven't even
opened an official investigation here."
Mulder was looking to the horizon.
"If I'm right, Scully, we don't much time.  If they're here,
they won't be here for long.  Long enough to cut up a few
more people up, but that's it.  We've got to find out as
much as we can about them before this gets covered up."
She didn't move.  "I'll do the autopsy, Mulder.  If we find
something, then we can move on it.  But not until.  I'm not
saying I don't believe you ... it's just that we have to be
sure about this other lead first."

He looked as though he might argue for a second, but instead
nodded.

               *         *         *

It was a bad night in Rome.

The storm had come in from the east at dusk, rising in
strength and ferocity as it crossed the Italian Alps.
Thunder heads like the front ranks of an invading army
rolled across the sky.  The meteorologists attributed it to
an error in their calculations.  For three hours, wave after
wave of cloud rumbled ominously.  Wise farmers locked their
doors and brought the animals into their barns.
Firefighters cringed at each explosive crash of thunder,
knowing they would have a rough night.

Then the rain started, along with the gale force winds, the
water blowing so that it seemed to fall sideways.  Roofs
were peeled back like orange skins.  Bricks tore loose from
their foundations.

And then the lightning began.

The meteorologists became confused.  Despite the mass of the
storm, the lightning was centred around the Vatican.  The
Weather Bureau registered no lightning strikes in any part
of Rome aside from Vatican City itself.

One strike hit an iron cross atop Saint Columba's chapel on
the eastern side of the Vatican and severed it, sending the
fused, smoking symbol crashing to the ground.

The dome of Saint Peter's Basilica took six strikes, each
one strong enough to send a shudder through the earth.

Two strikes hit the statues of Saints Peter and Paul atop
the Papal Apartments, splintering rock.  When repair crews
finally reached the monstrous edifices to assess the damage,
they would find that the statues' eyes had been hit so that
they seemed to be staring directly ahead.  Around the city,
men and women stirred in their sleep, remembering nightmares
from years ago when their grandparents had told them stories
of dark things that crept under bridges and in mountain
caves.  Things with razors where their teeth should be, and
a paedophilic diet as opposed to an omnivorous one.

Slattery did not stir.  He sat at his window in the small
guesthouse of the Vatican watching the rain, waiting for the
night to pass so he could return to his monastery.  Normally
a storm held no fear.  The rain soothed the spirit with its
rhythm.  But tonight was different.  He had no doubt that
something other than the storm walked the streets of Rome
this evening.  He didn't care.  Despair sawed at his bones.

A loud thumping came at his door.  His head snapped around.
It repeated, its beat an urgent one despite -- or because of
-- the rain.

He got up and walked over to the door, feeling the agitated
presence of the mind outside.  He hesitated on the doorknob.
For a second.  Then opened the door.

The priest was in a heavy raincoat, and he held an umbrella
over his head.  The white dog collar glittered in the
falling rain.  He also wore a wide-brimmed hat, sometimes
seen among the vineyard workers.  It cast the priest's face
into heavy shadow, even against the strong streetlights
outside.
"Father Peter Slattery?"
"Yes."
"Would you please come with me?"
"What's this about?"

The priest glanced left and right.  The path was deserted.
Nobody out for a late-night walk.  "You are asked for."
"Who asks?"
"It is most urgent," said the priest, and dug into a pocket
with his free hand.  He produced a small ring with an
elaborate centrepiece crafted into it.  Slattery glanced at
the ring, then looked again.  He blinked and glanced at his
visitor, who gave a shallow, single nod.

They stood there for a few seconds, staring at each other.

"All right," said Slattery, awe and resignation competing
for control of his voice.  He followed the priest down the
water-sodden path towards the catacombs of Saint Peter's
Basilica.

A few minutes later, he was ushered into his destination.
He had been here once before, but that had taken six months'
worth of planning and fighting through bureaucratic red
tape.

The priest handed Slattery the ring and withdrew, closing
the door behind him.  Slattery turned and headed through the
beautifully-decorated chambers to the bedroom.

The Pope was sitting up in bed, pillows stuffed behind his
back.  The night light was on, casting a golden glow across
the room.  He smiled as Slattery entered the room, then
coughed heavily, reaching for a handkerchief left at the
bedside table.  The spasm subsided, and he looked up through
his wince of discomfort at the priest.
"Your Holiness," said Slattery in Italian with a bow.
"Please, do not bow to me," replied the Pope in English,
though his accent was heavy.  Slattery straightened and
could not help but feel his depression abate slightly.  The
man was a saint; he had broken so many precedents during his
time, blessed so many, saved so many souls by his own hand
or by the hand of his administration.  It would be a sad
church that saw him depart.  But for the moment, his eyes
still shone keenly, despite the infirmity of his body.

Slattery crossed the floor and handed him the Fisher's Ring,
believed to have been worn by Saint Peter himself, symbol of
the authority the Pope held over the Catholic Church.  The
vicar of Christ, as his title had once been described.

For the Pope to give up the ring, let alone as seal on a
message, was unheard of.

His Holiness took the ring and put it on his finger again,
and Slattery quickly kissed it when it was held out to him.
"Please, Peter.  Pull up a chair."
Slattery was surprised into silence by the use of his first
name, and quietly took a chair from a table nearby to sit
beside the leader of the church.
"You ... asked for me, Holiness?"
"I did.  There is something that I must tell you.  But
first, I must ask you something.  If only to refamiliarise
myself with your specific function in our Church.  I am an
old man, after all."
They both smiled at the self-depreciating words.  Then the
old man sobered.  "Will you roll up your arm, please?"

Slattery did so, knowing why he had asked.  His right arm.
About seven inches up, far beneath the cover of the black
clothes of the priest was the faded image of a blue lily,
imprinted on his arm.  The Pope looked at the mark for a
long moment, then back at Slattery.
"You are one of twelve priests, are you not?"
"Yes, Holiness.  Three of my group remain now.  The others
... have passed on."
"The Brotherhood," said the Pope.  "Formed at the request of
Our Lady of Fatima.  Part of the prophecy handed down to us
by the three children who saw Her.  Is that not so?"
"Yes, Holiness."
"Selected because you see the demons that walk unseen ..."
"'... Until the time when we are no longer needed.'  That is
the full text, Holiness."
"And told to protect the one woman who was mentioned in that
prophecy at all costs."
"Including that of our own lives."

The Pope nodded.  He sighed heavily.  "I had hoped I should
never have to call upon you during my time.  And now it
seems I must throw you into this vault of horror again."

Slattery said nothing, waiting for the next words that he
knew were coming.
"I received word from the United States a few minutes ago.
The twins have been kidnapped."
Slattery closed his eyes.  "Are their parents all right?"
A silence.  "They were murdered in their beds.  I'm sorry."
Slattery bowed his head, feeling that overarching despair
return.

The Pope seemed to stare off into the distance for a moment.
"When I was a young man, I believed in such things.  We were
stretched over an abyss, and Christ was the only thing we
clung to.  I believed there was no harm that could come to
us so long as we stayed with the church.  Then I became a
priest, and suddenly I was being told that the Devil does
not exist, that Hell is not a reality.  That we have been
saved.  That Revelations is a metaphor."

He sighed.  "Then I took up the Fisher's Ring.  Fatima was
made known to me, as it was my predecessor.  I discovered
the reality.  It was the most joyous moment of my life.  And
the most frightening."

He coughed heavily, reaching for the handkerchief again.
Then he looked up at Slattery.  "My son, you are our only
hope of finding the abomination that has done this.  I know
you are saddened by the death of the twins' parents.  I have
read your reports.  I know what you went through to try and
keep them safe."  His face hardened.  "But I cannot let two
children die without sending all the forces at my hand to
help them."

Slattery's spirit for a moment rose, but sank again.
"Holiness, I am only one man.  His Eminence the Cardinal has
probably told you of my requests.  But I have had much time
to think.  All of my brothers combined could not stop it.
What chance do I have?"
"What chance did our Lord have?" countered the Pope.  "He,
too, was alone when he met his time of trial.  All his
beloved friends and disciples had deserted him.  Don't you
remember Gethsemane?  'Father, let this cup pass me by ...
but let it be by Your will, not mine.'"  His voice softened.
"Peter, you are in Gethsemane now."
"I am not Christ, Holiness!"
"Nor I.  But with faith and strength, miracles can occur.
They carried the day once before.  They can carry you
again."

The Pope's face suddenly took on a humanity Slattery had
never seen before.  "I am an old man, Peter.  Soon this will
all be irrelevant to me. I will not command you to go.  It
is not the place of a dying man to command anything.
Instead, I will ask you.  Will you take up this cross one
more time?"

Slattery considered.  Fear and despair raged inside him.
The Pope would never know how close he was to breaking down
there and then.  For a moment, he would have said no.  But
one way or the other, it brought him closer to God.  And
then there were the children.  Visions crossed his mind
again, this time of a darker nature than he had thought of
in Cardinal Goldoni's office.  He shuddered.
"Yes," he managed.
"Then kneel down, my son," said the Pope.

Tears in his eyes, Slattery went down to the floor.  He felt
the Pope's gnarled hand lightly resting on his head.
"Peter Slattery, last of the Brotherhood, I release you from
your sabbatical.  In the name of Christ I strengthen you.
With the Holy Spirit I bless you.  I send you out to find
Legion again, as you did once before, and find the children
he has taken from us."  The fisherman's hand lifted from his
head.  "Return to the United States and find them.  All the
hope and blessings of the Mother Church go with you.  God be
with you."
Slattery rose to his feet and kissed the ring once more
before he turned and left.

               *         *         *

'Whispers' was open.

Then again, eleven o'clock wasn't so early for a Miami club.
At least he'd have less people to fight his way through.
The place was a small two-storey affair, painted dark blues
and greys, stark against the white buildings around it.
Several tables were set outside on the sidewalk, a couple of
patrons lounging around in flowered shirts and small hats.
The entrance was dark with a hint of muted lamps beyond.

Mulder got out of the car and headed for the door.  He
smiled inwardly as he remembered Scully's response to his
invitation to come out for a drink.
"Only off-duty at Christmas or Easter, Mulder.  You know
that."
She would be halfway through her autopsy by now.  Gershwin
and his men had brought the body to her on time.

He walked into the place unopposed; there was no bouncer at
the door.  A long bar ran down the right side of the room,
more tables and chairs filling the remainder of the place.
There was a faint smell of incense in the air.  In one
corner, PM Dawn crooned from a jukebox.  There were a few
more people inside, but not so the place was busy.
Cigarette smoke drifted in the air, creating hazes around
the lights.

The barkeeper was a tall, muscular black man with
dreadlocks, wearing his vest open.  He looked up from below
the bar as Mulder approached.
"What'll you have, mon?"
Mulder fished a note out of his wallet.  "Screwdriver."
The bartender raised his eyebrows and turned to the Gigerian
array of sparkling taps, pipes and bottles.  Mulder folded
his arms over the bar.
"So what you down here for, mon?  Little business?  Little
fun?"  The barkeep was agile; his hands moved with the rapid
assurance of preparation of a thousand glasses before.
"Actually, I'm looking for someone.  I need some artwork
done."
The barkeeper turned with the screwdriver in hand, setting
it down on the bar.  "No artists here right now," he said
with a flash of perfect white teeth against the black of his
face.
"Ever heard of Andre Ramirez?"
The smile was suddenly gone.  "Who are you?"
Mulder's amicable mood had vanished as quickly.  "Special
Agent Mulder, FBI."  He pulled out his identification from
one pocket and the statue from another, setting them both
down on the bar.  "I think this is Mr. Ramirez's work."

The bartender stepped back a pace.  There was the sudden
rattle of half-a-dozen chairs moving.  Mulder spun around,
his hand going to his gun--

To find he was already finished.  Most of the patrons of the
bar had risen.  An array of weaponry from small pistols to
large shotguns was pointed directly at him.  One of the
women who had been sitting on an old man's lap slammed the
door, the sun vanishing from view with the awful finality of
a tomb.

Mulder slowly moved his hand away from the holster, putting
his hands above his head.

END OF PART 4/10


===========================================================================

From: mikeaulf@tartarus.uwa.edu.au (Michael Aulfrey)
Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
Subject: NEW: Non Draco Sit Mihi Dux (5/10) (NC-17)
Date: 20 Jun 1996 17:08:02 GMT


Non Draco Sit Mihi Dux
by Michael Aulfrey
Part 5/10

A voice from a dark corner was broken and almost dead.  "A
wise decision, FBI man.  Clarissa, get his piece."
The woman walked up, sliding a hand inside his coat to the
pistol and withdrawing it.  She was intensely beautiful, but
had the eyes of a robot.  Dead, flat, unmoving.  He'd
received warmer inspections from corpses, even though she
was spooning up alongside him provocatively.
"And the one in his ankle holster," added the voice from the
corner.
Her hands slid down the inside of his thigh and shin to the
ankle, where she found the Walther and pulled it out, then
stepped back into the dimness.

"You seem to know a lot about me," said Mulder into the
empty space.
Light flared briefly with someone lighting a match and
putting it to a cigarette.  Mulder glanced there.  A
Caucasian form dragged heavily on the cigarette and looked
at him.
"Only about FBI agents' practice," said the man.  It was the
same voice as moments before.  "Not about you specifically.
Your people have come down here enough times so that we know
what you do."
"Are you Andre Ramirez?"
"My friends call me Andre.  My mother called me Andre
Ramirez whenever I was in trouble.  As far as I can see,
you're neither.  I think it's my turn to ask you some
questions."

Ramirez came limping forward, leaning on a walking stick.
He had straight, black shoulder-length hair with streaks of
grey through it.  One eye was milky white with cataracts.
The other was a muddy brown.  His nose jutted out beneath
it, a craggy thing more appropriate to Mount Rushmore than a
face.

The artist hobbled over to the bar and picked up the statue,
turning it upside down to reveal his mark on the bottom.  He
scrutinised it for a moment, then turned back to Mulder.
"You will now tell me where you found this."
"It was in the apartment of Aaron Richmond.  He was
murdered."
"And in your infinite FBI wisdom, you assume I have
something to do with his death."
"It's another FBI practice.  We call it a lead."
Ramirez smiled.  "You're quite plucky considering your
precarious position, agent Mulder."  He wandered a couple of
steps away and leaned on the bar.  "Fortunately for you,
though, I had nothing to do with Richmond's death."
"So Richmond just keeps desecrated statues around his house
to add to the ambience?"
"You call them desecrated, agent Mulder.  Others would call
them merely corrected."
"And are you one of those others?"

Ramirez stared at Mulder, assessing his posture.  "You know
about our beliefs, then.  No, don't try and deny it.  The
rhetorical sound of your question proves it.  I am what your
researchers call a Santerian.  You ask pointless questions,
agent Mulder.  If you know about our beliefs, you also know
that we did not do this."
"So far you haven't given me a lot of evidence to suggest
otherwise," replied Mulder calmly, fighting to control his
surprise at Ramirez' accurate appraisal.

There were several hisses of indrawn breath from around the
room at his comment, but Ramirez held up his hand.
"Don't suggest that again, agent Mulder.  While I do have a
certain authority here, some of my people are perhaps more
fervent than I am."
"Then tell me why it wasn't your group," said Mulder.
"Aaron Richmond was an initiate, nothing more.  Time and
inhibition would eventually have driven him away from us.
We had no reason to kill him."
"Who did?"
"Let me tell you a story, agent Mulder.  Have a seat.
Makala, give the man his screwdriver, would you?  He has
paid for it, after all."

A gunbarrel nudged in Mulder's back.  He slowly pulled a
barstool out and sat down.

Ramirez poured himself a drink as the bartender nudged
Mulder's concoction across the bar.  "No doubt you know
about the Spaniards' knack for diplomacy in Cuba.  What you
won't hear about was their exploits on the west coast of
Africa."
"What about them?"
Ramirez took a sip of the dark liquid and closed his eyes
for a second.  "They encountered several indigenous tribes
there who practiced a very interesting form of religion.
One that involved human sacrifice and demon worship."
"What happened to the tribes?"
"In a similarly diplomatic fashion, the Catholic Church sent
Jesuit missionaries to convert the local populace.  Very few
of them came back.  Those that did were so maddened by their
experiences that the Church either burned them at the stake
for heresy or performed exorcisms on them, depending on the
influence of their parents.  The religions were declared
anathema.  And the Spanish slave traders, being good
Christian men one and all, took it upon themselves to wipe
out every trace of the tribes' existence.  Thousands of
villagers died under Spanish steel.  All with the Pope's
tacit backing."
"But if the tribes were wiped out--"
"I didn't say that.  Things survive in the jungle, agent
Mulder.  There are places even your wonderful spy satellites
haven't seen.  By word of mouth, the religion survived.
Tribal elder passed it down to younger man, father to son,
mother to daughter.  Across land, and across the Atlantic to
Cuba."
"Next you'll be telling me their god was the Ghost Who
Walks."
"You don't believe me.  That is to be expected.  After all,
most of the American populace still believes President
Kennedy's assassination was perpetrated by one amateur
assassin firing an inefficient rifle -- a view that your
department didn't do much to dispel."
Mulder for once had no answer.
"As I was saying, the religion survived.  And it is still
practiced today.  In Africa, in Cuba and in the United
States."
"Does it have a name?"
"Palo Mayombe.  The dark path.  Not like us, I assure you."
"What's the difference?"
"We share some of their gods.  Their dedication is to the
God of Destruction -- Kadiempembe.  It is he you face now,
agent Mulder."
"I was under the impression you didn't believe what they
do."
"We do not.  We know Kadiempembe, and where necessary we
call upon him.  But the Palo Mayombe man is his entirely.
We call him the typhoon, for he comes with great power and
leaves nothing in his wake.  It is a padrino, a priest of
Palo Mayombe, who has done this thing."

Ramirez nodded at the door, and it opened again, casting a
thick bar of yellow light across them, making Mulder squint.
Ramirez jerked his head at the door.  "Go, FBI man.  You'll
find nothing more here."
The artist held Mulder's weapons out to him.
"I've got one question to ask," said Mulder, taking back the
pistols.
Ramirez's smile was the grin of a basking shark.  "What
might that be?"
"Why are you letting me go?  I could just come back and
arrest you."
"Because your soul says you believe me, even if your head
does not.  And also because if you do, we will not be here,
and you will not find us again.  Perhaps you should ask why
it is I chose to let myself come under your scrutiny."
"So indulge me."
"One of our group was killed last night.  We know it was a
padrino's work.  Our man inside the department was most
descriptive.  Why do you look so surprised?  Nothing goes on
in this city without us knowing about it.  To answer your
question, if you find Richmond's killer, you find our
friend's killer.  In that meeting, either you will die or he
will.  Most probably you.  Either way, our group will
survive unmolested.  So long as that happens, we do not care
what fate awaits you."
"I suppose you know that too?" said Mulder sarcastically as
he holstered the second pistol.

Ramirez's only reply was a lingering smile around the edges
of his mouth as he turned and hobbled back to the bar.  He
picked up the statue and tossed it across to Mulder.
"A souvenir of your time in our beautiful city," said
Ramirez by way of explanation, then limped off into the
shadows, heading up a stairwell and out of sight.  The
bartender's face brooked no further loitering.
"Thanks for the drink," said Mulder, putting the statue back
in his pocket and strolling out into the heavy Miami
sunshine.

It was only as he got in the car that he realised nobody had
given Ramirez his pistols for the artist to hand them back
to him.

Before he could consider all the ramifications of that, his
phone rang.  He picked it up.
"Mulder."
"Mulder, it's me.  I need you back here right away."
"What's wrong?"
"I've got to show you something.  I need you to tell me I'm
not going crazy."
"Okay, hang on.  I'll be right there."

          *              *              *

"It seemed routine enough," said Scully.  She was sitting at
a bench in the cafeteria of the hospital, a forgotten cup of
coffee before her.  She hadn't even changed back into
civilian garb; her white coat glowed in the fluorescent
lights overhead.  She was staring off into space, her
expression haunted.  Mulder had a momentary attack of deja-
vu, but he couldn't place from where.

"The autopsy?" he prompted when she didn't continue.  Her
eyes abruptly came back to his face, as though she had
snapped out of a dream.
"Sorry, what?"
"You were saying it was routine," he said.
"Oh ... yes.  I mean, the body looked like Richmond's body.
Same cuts and amputations.  The only difference was the
decomposition.  I wasn't able to find any cause for that.
But I opened the intestinal cavity to see what was in it ...
and I found this."

She reached into her pocket and produced a necklace.  A set
of rosary beads, he remembered.  She had wiped them clean.
He saw they were mother of pearl beads with silver links
between them.  She laid them on the table, where they rested
with a slightly musical tinkle.  He picked them up, then
looked at her.
"Rosary beads?"
"Not just any," she said quietly.  "They're mine."
He glanced at her, a chill going up his spine in spite of
himself.  "What do you mean?"
"They're mine, Mulder.  From when I was ten.  My father's
birthday gift."
"But that's--"
"Impossible?"  Her expression was even more intense now.
"Actually, I was going to say, 'one hell of a coincidence'.
I mean, how can you be sure that they're yours?"
"The medal at the centre, where the ends meet.  Look at the
back of it."
He turned the medal over and squinted.  In tiny lettering
were three letters: DKS.  And even smaller, beneath that, a
single word: Ahab.
"He engraved it himself," she said sadly, her voice in
distant memories.  "It was one thing he prided himself on.
You wouldn't have thought it, knowing he was a naval
officer.  He said it was the only thing that kept him sane
during the Cuban missile crisis.  That and the thought of
Mom."
He nodded slowly, looking at her.  "You said you lost it."
"Yeah, but I found it again after two days ... and as far as
I know, the set was still at home."
"And your mother wouldn't have sold it."
"No.  She'd never do that."

Mulder returned his gaze to the rosary beads, watching the
crucifix at the end slowly spin one way, then back again.
He handed the set back to Scully, who put it into one of her
pockets.
"I don't know, Scully.  I mean, you could have forgotten--"
"I didn't.  I can remember leaving it at home.  Something
strange is happening here, Mulder.  You told me there's at
least two religious sects at work here.  Maybe ..."
He raised his eyebrows.  "What?"
"Maybe they've tapped into something they shouldn't have.
Something ... spiritual."

She saw his eyes sink into disbelief, and knew with a pang
of shame that she'd done the same thing to him more than
once.
"Scully, I think this thing has you more spooked than you
realise.  All right, I'll accept that the appearance of that
set of rosary beads here, now is unexplainable ... at least
by common chance.  These people aren't from any organised
religion, fanatical or otherwise."  He looked at her
carefully.  Reluctantly, she nodded.  He smiled weakly.
"I'll tell you what.  I'll lay off the alien harvesting
explanations for you."
Her own smile was wry.  "There's no need to bargain with me,
Mulder.  I won't turn you in to the Professional
Responsibility Office."

Scully's phone rang.  She sighed to herself and answered it,
and held a truncated conversation that contained several
long pauses.  Finally, she nodded, which struck Mulder as a
strange gesture, but he said nothing.
"Okay.  Thanks for your help, Doctor."  She pressed a button
and retracted the aerial.  "That was Jill Anderson at the
Smithsonian in Washington."
"The marine biologist?"
"Yeah.  She identified the species of those shells that we
sent her from Richmond's body.  Gregorius Caergonii, to be
exact.  A small, white clam unremarkable in every way.
Except for one thing."
"What's that?"
"This particular clam subsists on a very specific diet.  Its
food only exists in three places on earth.  Two are in the
Indian Ocean.  One off the coast of Mauritius, and one in
the waters off Southwestern Australia.  The third," she
said, a smile of satisfaction coming to her face, "is on one
coral reef off Key West, Florida."

Mulder nodded in acknowledgment and rubbed his chin.  "Of
course, that still doesn't tell us why they turned up inside
Aaron Richmond's intestinal cavity in the middle of Miami."
Scully shrugged.  "One step at a time."

The door to the cafeteria banged open.  Detective Gershwin
strode in.  He spotted the two agents sitting at the table
and walked over.  "There you are.  I've been looking all
over the place for you."  He sat down.  "We got a big
problem."
Mulder glanced at the man and was instantly attentive.  He
was no mind-reader, but the man's face read like a magazine.
He was tightly controlling something.  "What is it?  What's
wrong?"
Gershwin sighed deeply through his nose and took off his
hat, absently dropping it to the table.  "Lifeguard out at
Key West called in.  They found three dead kids half an hour
ago."

               *              *              *

Eight hours.

First the Pope's jet, its tail gleaming with the gold and
silver symbolic keys to the gates of heaven and the colours
of the Vatican.  A non-stop flight to Heathrow Airport,
England, where he had been given a curious reception by a
contingent of airport security guards who hustled him to his
connecting flight.

Even he had been impressed when he saw it through the mist-
shrouded glass of the boarding gate's waiting room.  A great
white arrow, glowing in the darkness, its nose pointed down
as though broken in a fight.  The Concorde in a seat given
up by a businessman who had been more than compensated for
his loss.  Across the Atlantic at the speed of sound and
beyond.

Finally, touchdown in the United States.  A connecting
flight via American Airlines to Miami, Florida.  The most
recent hiding-place, and last known location, of the twins.
A short jaunt in a crowded cabin, odd looks directed at the
black suit, white dog collar and prominent scar.  Then
alightment in Miami in the early afternoon.

Eight hours.  Dark rings had formed under his eyes.  He had
tried to sleep on the various planes; but with each passing
mile, the nightmares returned, more potent each time.  The
final one had been the one that disturbed him the most.  An
armour-clad figure, eyes blazing red, stood astride the
Caribbean and beckoned him, twisted coathangers in its hands
and the silent screams of unborn children echoing around it.
The hate behind this figure was so powerful it had driven
him out of sleep almost against his will.

Eight hours.  He should have been falling asleep on his
feet.

But the moment he stepped onto the ground in Miami, he knew
he would not sleep again until his work here was done.  The
blast of chill air that surged through his veins, despite
the haze of heat outside, was unmistakable and also far more
potent than it had been the last time he had felt it.  It
was the chill of a door left open in the dead of winter.
The chill of the grave.

Somehow, he got to the door and opened it.  Now heat and
cold both pulsed at him at once.  He breathed deeply,
pushing down the utter fear and despair tearing at his mind
and concentrated.

Mist.  Mist with blue light behind it, so he could only see
a thick wall of nothingness.  Somewhere within that wall was
his quarry.  He tentatively probed at the wall with his
mind; it flowed around him like mist, seemingly harmless.
But he also knew that to enter that cloud was death.  He
floated back and away from it, breathing out slowly and
opening his eyes.

Legion was here.  Somewhere nearby.  He remembered the last
time he'd been this close to the adversary.

The memory was not a good one.

Apparently it had learned something this time.
Specifically, how to hide itself from his inner eye.  And
that was not good.  He was looking for the proverbial needle
in the haystack now.  He sagged against a door pillar, the
despair returning.

Something tugged at his consciousness.  At first he resisted
it, but gave in to it, mentally shrugging.  And his mind
flew along that path.

               *              *              *

The lifeguard was crying.

Small wonder, considering what he'd seen already.  Still, it
was hard to imagine someone whose stereotype had always been
the boneheaded surfer feeling so much grief for people he
didn't even know.

Scully was interviewing him -- or trying to, anyway -- in
the police car.  Meanwhile, Gershwin and Mulder had walked
down to the site, where the evening sun cast bloody shadows
across the ground.  The usual crowd of ghouls and
rubbernecks were there, though the police were implacably
holding them back.  The first of the news crews had shown up
as well, the reporters primping themselves in front of the
cameras like they always did.

Three sheets had been thrown over the bodies, three grim
limpets on a barren rock outcrop.  Police were clustered
around the bodies, the photographer in his grim dance once
more.
"Where did he find the bodies?" said Mulder, jerking a thumb
in the direction of the police cruiser.
"Someone got into difficulties near those rocks over there.
He swam out, but he noticed one of the victims' arms
protruding out.  There's a lot of small caverns around here.
Things wash underneath.  He brought the swimmer in, went
back out ... and pulled one of the bodies loose."  Gershwin
tilted his hat against the setting sun.  "Brave kid."
Mulder nodded as they reached the spot.  He reached down and
pulled up the sheet slightly.

He took a long, long look, burning it onto his mind, hoping
that when they caught the killer, he'd give Mulder an excuse
to draw his weapon.  Then he looked under the second and
third sheets, sickly hoping that--

No such luck.  The last was a little girl, her face composed
and beautiful in death.  His mind half-numbed, he lifted the
sheet further.  Her torso looked as though someone had
performed open-heart surgery on her and then neglected to
sew her back up.  He closed his eyes as he dropped the
sheet, fighting not to see her face--

[don't think about it don't think about it don't THINK about
it]

--he breathed deeply and opened his eyes again.

"Who'd do such a thing?" Gershwin was saying in a thin voice
as Mulder straightened.
"Religious fanatics," said Mulder.
"What?"

END OF PART 5/10


===========================================================================

From: mikeaulf@tartarus.uwa.edu.au (Michael Aulfrey)
Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
Subject: NEW: Non Draco Sit Mihi Dux (6/10) (NC-17)
Date: 20 Jun 1996 17:10:26 GMT


Non Draco Sit Mihi Dux
by Michael Aulfrey
Part 6/10

They started walking back up the beach.
"I interviewed Ramirez this morning.  He said it was his
work, but he denied killing Aaron Richmond.  He said it was
the work of a Palo Mayombe padrino.  Have you ever--"
He glanced up at Gershwin, and stopped speaking.  The man
was suddenly sweating, his mouth set in a grim line, his
eyes set forward.  For just a second.  Then Gershwin snapped
out of it and simple surprise dropped over his face.
"You went to see him? Alone?"
"Yeah.  His whole club was pretty well-armed."
"Yahweh," said Gershwin, closing his eyes and tracing a
quick Star of David over his chest.  He looked at Mulder
again.  "I thought I told you not to go and see him without
me."
"You said that when your undercover man left us.  But why--"
"Consider yourself very lucky, agent Mulder.  Ramirez is
also one of the biggest gun runners this side of Cuba."
Mulder stopped and faced Gershwin, poleaxed.  "Why didn't
you tell me?" he managed.
"I was going to when we went to see him.  I didn't want to
prejudice your view of him.  And the other reason is because
I don't trust the undercover man you met with me.  I think
he's gone bad.  Spent too much time on the other side of the
line.  I've got my people watching him, but for the moment
he's still useful as a source of information.  But it sounds
like you saw what you had to see anyway.  What the hell did
you think you were doing, going in alone like that?"
"We've all got bad habits," replied Mulder evenly.
Gershwin shook his head and smiled.  "Do you have any idea
how much paperwork is involved when a federal agent gets
killed on my beat?"
"No."
"Neither do I.  If you don't mind, I'd like to keep it that
way."
"Likewise," said Mulder, and smiled.

But Gershwin was already walking further up the beach.
"Okay, so Ramirez says he didn't do it.  You said half a
dozen guys pulled guns on you.  I think that's more than
probable cause, don't you?"
Mulder was speculative.  "I don't know, Detective.  I don't
think he was lying when he said it wasn't him."
"Yeah, sure.  And my uncle's a woman.  I think it's time
Miami PD had a little party down at Whispers."
Mulder walked in front of Gershwin.  "Detective, I don't
think that's a good idea.  And there's still something I
haven't asked you.  Have you ever heard of Palo Mayombe?"

Again, the pause and a moment's flash of fear, quickly
suppressed.  Gershwin stared at Mulder heavily.  "Agent
Mulder, I'll remind you that the FBI hasn't got an official
investigation opened here.  Your role is strictly advisory.
And no, I've never heard of Palo Mayombe.  Now, if you'll
excuse me?"

Gershwin moved past, just short of pushing Mulder.  He
sighed and stared out at the sunset as Scully walked over.
"How's the lifeguard?" said Mulder.
"He'll be fine.  They're taking him for counselling in a few
minutes.  Is it the same killer?"
"I, uh ... I'm not sure."
She looked at him more closely, concern edging into her
voice.  "Are you okay, Mulder?"
"Yeah.  It's just ... it's pretty bad, Scully."  He looked
at her with eyes that were just this side of pleading.
"I'll be over in a minute, okay?"

She nodded and walked down the beach alone towards the
bodies, knowing what the trouble would be.

[it's not easy to lose a sister, is it]

She pushed that thought down and crouched down by the
bodies, looking at the first.  Her eye was trained to notice
things, much like Mulder's mind was trained to notice
similarities.  She spotted the small white objects almost
immediately.  She snapped a rubber glove on and picked them
up, getting a feeling of deja-vu, and with good reason.

Gregorius Caergonii, of the clam family.  All over and
inside the bodies, like some second skin.  Which meant the
killer had been here more than once.  Perhaps the children
had disturbed him, and he'd--

That thought also led to dark visions, so she looked up to
the horizon and the barren landscape.  There wasn't a
building in sight, on land or sea.  Only a few scattered
trees over past the rocks where the children had been found.

Why would the killer have come here?

               *              *              *

"Did you ever swim much as a kid, Scully?"

She looked up at him from the material they'd gathered that
was on her lap.  His eyes were on the road back to the
police station, his hands loosely on the wheel of the car.
Three hours had passed before the police, reporters and
spectators finished their work, packed up or simply drifted
away.  The sun stung the sky with red and orange so
beautiful it hurt the eyes to look at.

"No," she admitted.  "My brothers -- Charlie and Bill -- got
into that more than Melissa and I did."
"I did," said Mulder.  "My parents would take us down to a
beach almost every weekend in the summer.  Mom was a racing
swimmer."
"You never told me that before," she said, surprised.

Mulder smiled.  "It was a long time ago.  But she was good -
- really good.  She even made it to the Olympics one year.
She's in the team photos, under her maiden name."
"Did she win a--"
"No.  On the third day she was there, she broke her leg.
They sent her home.  She never competed again, not at that
level or any other."  His smile faded slightly, but
remained.  "On the way back, she met my father."

She fleetingly considered not taking it any further, but
curiosity prevailed.  "How?"
"Whenever I asked Dad about it, he'd smile and tell me to
ask Mom.  She told me he was working for the diplomatic
corps at that time, headed back from the same place.  Guess
athletes aren't the only ones who get together every four
years or so."
Scully decided the conversation was moving in a decidedly
dangerous direction.
"Did she teach you to swim?"
He came out of the past.  Momentarily.  "Yeah.  I really
liked it.  You could say I took to it like--"
"--A duck to water," she finished with a grin.  "Do you
still swim?"

He looked at her evenly.  The truth battered at his lips
like a trapped bird.  No, he wanted to say.  No, I've hardly
been able to put my toe in the water since the day Duane
Barry took four people hostage.  Because I was swimming that
day, and that day starts off one of the worst periods in my
entire life, because that day I lost the only person I can
trust for three months.  And though you never held it
against me, every time I look at a swimming pool I wonder
what they'll tell me next time I get out.  That you've
disappeared again? Or that I'll have to come and identify
you for real this time--
He forced a grin.
"I haven't had time," he said.  "How about you?"

She smiled ruefully.  "Would you believe I can't swim?"

His eyebrows sketched disbelief.

"Well, maybe a little.  I can stay afloat and dog-paddle,
but that's about all."

Now his expression was mock-disapproval.  "A navy pilot's
daughter doesn't know how to swim?"
"I never got around to it, okay?" she protested.  "Besides,
Melissa nearly drowned me one time when we had a fight down
at the beach.  It put me off."

Mulder would have been amused had he known his concern at
the direction of the conversation had been mirrored only a
few seconds earlier.
"You guys fought when you were kids, huh?"
Scully glanced out the window at the sunset.  "I was really
jealous of her.  I thought she had all the good looks.  She
always had a boyfriend coming or going in high school."  She
smiled at the memory.  "It worried Mom crazy.  But even when
we were little, she was pretty.  It wasn't until she left
for college that I found out how much I missed her."

Now she turned her head to look directly out at the city
blocks flashing past, hoping he wouldn't see the telltale
glimmer around her eyes.  But he knew what was wrong.
Silence descended over the cabin.  He chewed his lip for a
moment.  He hadn't had a lot of experience with this kind of
thing.  Psychology wasn't the same as empathy.

If he'd been like some of his smooth-talking colleagues,
he'd have had something to say that would have comforted
her.  Maybe even talk her into a lot more than that -- he
pushed the thought aside.  He didn't have those kinds of
words.

The turnoff for the station came up, and he brought the car
around to stop in the main parking lot.  He turned the
engine off and looked at her.

"Uh, Scully?"
She slowly turned back to him, wiping her eyes and making it
look like she was only rubbing away a headache.
"If you want ... I can teach you."
"What?"
"To swim, I mean.  If you want."

She stared at him blankly for a full five seconds.

Then, slowly, like the sun rising again, she smiled.  "I'd
like that."

They looked at each other for a few moments in silence.  For
a second he thought he would say -- he would say -- he
didn't know what he would say, but then whatever Something
that had set this moment apart was gone, and she was getting
out of the car and walking towards the police station, him
following in her wake.

For once, the reception area was quiet.  In terms of people.
However, the noise coming from the front desk more than made
up for it.  They could see Gershwin on the front desk, his
face in a barely-controlled scowl, arguing with a man in
black trousers and coat.
"... Father, I appreciate your concern in this case, but
we've got a lot of work--"
"You don't understand, officer.  This is a large a concern
as you may ever encounter."
"Look, mister, I'm tired of your--"
"Is there a problem here, Detective?" said Mulder.  Scully's
last thought before the priest and police officer turned to
look at them was that the priest's voice sounded familiar
from somewhere.

The priest had close-cropped straw for hair, and grey eyes
that seemed to pierce the soul.  He was young, in his late
twenties or so, a wiry form in the black suit and white dog
collar of the Roman Catholic Church.  The only difference
from when Scully had last seen him was the long burn scar
running down the side of his face like the mark of Cain.

Recognition flared in his eyes, and Scully knew the same
recognition would erupt in her own eyes and Mulder's.  For a
second he looked as though he would run, but he calmed and
smiled faintly.
"Agents ... Mulder and Scully?" he said.
"Father Slattery?" said Mulder, the disbelief evident in his
voice.  "Father Peter Slattery?"
"You know each other?" asked Gershwin curiously.
Scully glanced at Mulder and saw her own uncertainty
reflected there.  "Detective, agent Scully and myself will
handle this.  Can we use one of your interrogation rooms?"
Gershwin's look was plain; he didn't like being left out.
But the black detective nodded slowly.
"Room Seven's free."

               *              *              *

Father Peter Slattery.

Had eight months passed so quickly?

Scully didn't know.  All she could do was remember the last
time they had encountered him.  The walls of the police
station were insignificant to her as the four of them walked
to an interrogation room; her mind was in the past.

Eight months ago, Mulder had been passed a series of
homicides, the victims in all cases being Roman Catholic
priests.  It had come across his desk because of the unusual
modus operandi in each case.  In the first, crucifixion
twelve feet off the ground; the second, murder by a man in
police custody the whole time, and so forth.

However, strange murder had not been the only thing that
connected the priests.  Mulder had caught Slattery trying to
remove a mark from the body of one of the murdered priests.
Slattery had confessed.  It was a mark that signified each
priest's membership in what he called the Brotherhood of the
Eye -- a clandestine order of priests with psychic talent, a
group operating outside all but the Pope's direct authority.
Priests that were then trained in the even more mysterious
rite of exorcism.  The casting out of unclean spirits.

Slattery was pursuing one of these spirits--

The memory became painful at that point.  Scully's hand
unconsciously strayed towards the place on her thigh where
the only remainder of a bullet wound was now a white mark an
inch long.  Slattery was pursuing the spirit that he claimed
had murdered all the other priests.

In catching and killing the being responsible, an FBI agent
and most of Slattery's order had been killed.  And then,
with efficiency comparable to any of the government cover-
ups conducted, Slattery and all trace of the Brotherhood's
existence had disappeared, swallowed up by the awesome
bureaucracy of the Catholic Church.  They had never seen him
again.  Until now.

There was something she was forgetting about the incident.
She tried to remember, but the memory flitted away every
time she tried to focus on it.

They walked into the interrogation room.  Slattery
unhurriedly took a seat as Mulder closed the door behind
them.
"So what're you doing here?" said Mulder.
Slattery leaned back.  "I came here because I'm looking for
the same thing you are."
"What do you mean?" asked Scully.
"The man you're searching for isn't a man at all.  No -- let
me put it another way.  The man you are looking for is
human, yes, but the killer is another thing entirely."
"How did you know we're--" began Scully, but Mulder shot a
look at her, and she fell silent.
"Father Slattery, you're still wanted for questioning
concerning the deaths of the other members of the
Brotherhood.  Now, you're not making any sense at the
moment.  Why don't you try and be straight with us?"
Slattery looked at the two of them in turn.  "Very well."
He took a sip from the glass of water that had been
provided.  "Doubtless you remember the circumstances under
which we met last time?"
"Someone's murdering priests again?" asked Scully.
"No.  Not priests.  That time has passed.  But it is the
same killer as before.  Legion."
"Hold on, Father.  I remember what happened at that woman's
house in New York.  I thought it was over, that you removed
the spirit."
"I exorcised it, yes.  But I wasn't able to do it under
optimum conditions.  And I do not presume to know the mind
of God.  Why, how it has returned I don't know.  All I do
know is that Legion has come back.  And it is here, now, in
this city."
"How do you know?" asked Mulder.  Scully bit the inside of
her lip at his tone.  She'd heard it enough times to know it
was disbelief, in spite of his open-mindedness.
"How do you know when a fire is burning somewhere, agent
Mulder? You can smell it on the wind.  And I tell you there
is smoke around this city."
"Smoke?"
"That's as best as I can put it.  As soon as I landed here,
I felt a mist drop over my abilities.  Normally, I could
feel your emotions as well as I could see you now.  But now
I can't."  He smiled faintly.  "You might say I'm seeing
through a glass dimly.  Sometimes the mist fades, but for
the greater part of time, I cannot sense you."
"So what does that have to do with the killings?"
"It means that something is here.  Something that the
natural universe cannot abide.  Something evil.  And the
only force capable of that is Legion.  If all my brethren
were here, I might be able to break through the mist.
However ..."
For a moment his face shadowed with sadness.  " ... I am
alone now."
"So why did you come here?"  Scully's face was implacable.
"Because there is another way for me to find Legion.  If I
was able to touch something from one of the victims, I might
be able to pick up enough from the vibrations Legion leaves
in its wake to track it."  He looked at them.  "And to do
that, I need a piece of evidence from a crime scene."

Mulder glanced at Scully and nodded at the door.  She got up
from her seat and followed him out.  They closed the door
behind them.
"What do you think?" he said.
"I know you don't believe him."
"I didn't say that."
"You didn't have to."  She looked in through the window at
Slattery.  He was sitting patiently, not looking at her.  "I
think we should help him."
His gaze was analytical now.  "Why?"
She turned back to him.  "Look, Mulder, we've hardly got any
leads on the killer at the moment.  Forensics can't find a
single fingerprint on any of the bodies, let alone anything
else.  I was just thinking we should follow up every lead we
can get."
"Scully, Slattery was a help to us before.  But there could
be any number of reasons why he's here now."
"Such as?"
"If it is a Palo Mayombe group that's committing the
killings, I don't think the Catholic Church would like it to
come out that they were indirectly responsible for it.  I've
never heard of Mayombe before.  That might be because the
Church is trying to cover up its existence."
"Mulder, that is as paranoid a statement as I have ever
heard.  From what you told me, the cover-up would have to be
three hundred years old!"

Something broke inside him.  Maybe it was her seemingly-
hypocritical faith that did it; maybe it was his lack of
sleep.  He didn't know.  He pointed at the window.
"Slattery is living proof that the Church has a lot of
secrets it's not telling anyone.  Leave aside the religious
implications for a second.  It's a bureaucracy stretching
back for centuries."  He heard his voice rising, and the
other, still, small voice, begging him to stop, but he kept
on relentlessly.  "The Borgia dynasty made our government's
cloak-and-dagger tactics look amateur by comparison, and
they've had a lot more time to get in some practice at it.
Why don't you leave your irrational beliefs aside for a
second and look at this from the standpoint of a rational
person?"

There, it was out.  For one, brief second he had a moment's
exultant pleasure.  But it disappeared just as quickly as he
saw the hurt bleed from her eyes.  It, too, took only a
moment, then it was gone, submerged beneath the cool, calm
exterior so forcefully he thought she'd turn to stone.  And
that hard face was all the chastisement he'd ever dreaded.
"If you think you're looking at this rationally, I suppose
there's no reason for me to stay here," she said, her voice
icy but with that awful tinge of pain beneath it.  She
turned in a reasonable imitation of a military about-face
and marched off down the corridor, her back straight.
"Scully--" he began, but she was already out of earshot.
The shame hit him all at once.  He thumped his head against
the wall.  "Jesus."  Righteous anger, guilt and embarassment
churned his stomach.

The door opened behind him, and he turned to see the priest
come out, his face draped with concern behind a calm
expression.
"Father?"
"What's wrong, agent Mulder?"  Slattery glanced around.
"Agent Scully -- is she --"

Suddenly Mulder had had enough of it for one day.  "Father,
you're free to go.  But we'll ask you to stay in the area
for a few days."

Simultaneous disappointment and tacit understanding somehow
managed to flash across Slattery's face.  He nodded slowly,
digging in his pocket and drawing out a card.  "This is the
hotel I'm staying at.  If you change your mind, please call
me."
Mulder took it, staring down at it momentarily and then down
the hall in the direction Scully had gone.

Ten seconds later, he knew the priest was still there and
turned around.  Slattery was looking at him with sad,
knowing eyes.
"What?" said Mulder.
"She was irrational," said Slattery.  "But we all are
sometimes.  And she doesn't want to be."
Asking how he knew was on the tip of Mulder's tongue, but he
held it in and simply opted to stare down the passage.  He
thought the priest would say something else, but instead
there was only the rustle of soft cloth and the clip of
shoes on laminated flooring, fading away.

He walked down the corridor after Scully, but only met
Gershwin.
"So?  What did he have to say?"
"Not much."
"Hm.  Well, at least you got him off my back.  I've got a
lot of planning to do."
Alert surged through Mulder's veins.  "What do you mean?"
"We're getting a little party together for mister Ramirez.
We're getting a search warrant right now, and tomorrow
morning we'll raid Whispers nightclub."
Mulder nodded slowly and walked out into the bright
sunlight, deciding to get a taxi back to the hotel.

END OF PART 6/10



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