From: Erynn Date: 4 Nov 2003 10:13:52 -0800 Subject: [all-xf] Things Undone 7: In Love and Black Ops 15/20 Source: atxc Things Undone 7: In Love and Black Ops, part 15 of 20 by Erynn & Sally Disclaimers in part 01 ______ "This is no time for making new enemies." ~~Voltaire~~ ______ FRIDAY, JUNE 30, 2000 WASHINGTON, D.C. SRI LANKAN CONSULATE LATE NIGHT BYERS: When I finally track Sari down, she's in a cluster of her friends, some of whom I've met at her house a few times. I recognize at least half a dozen of them. They greet me by name, and I get hugs or handshakes from the people I know. I get introductions to the others, though their names go right by me. I'm still rather uncomfortable with all the hugging people seem to do around Sari, but I'm beginning to get more used to it. The conversation is rapid fire, and goes on around me in fragmented, confusing torrents. "... and the guy with the rabbit said..." Sari smiles. "Are you done with business for the evening, John?" "Well, yesterday Betty had a customer with..." I nod. "Yes, and now I can relax for a little while, though I think Frohike wants to leave soon." "... Mahmoud's daughter... the chili sauce was..." "It's still way too early to leave," Linda, an comic book artist, says. She's one of the few people here whose names I remember. "You've hardly talked to anyone yet." "... didn't you?" "I was waiting to meet someone, and wasn't sure when they'd be here," I answer. Willson, a landscaper, offers me a glass of red wine from a tray making its way by, and I don't see any reason not to indulge. One glass won't keep me from driving for more than half an hour at most. I'm not really much good at small talk, but I've started getting to know these people, and can at least make conversation with them while Sari seems to effortlessly carry on half a dozen conversations at once. "Did you hear the one about..." "... and the poetry was exquisite, but..." As Linda and I discuss computer modeling and graphics design programs, Hilda makes her way over to our cluster. "...later, darling!" "Oh, John, I was looking for you," Hilda says happily. "When was the last time you talked..." Hilda wraps me in a hug. "... but Harry said he wasn't ready for that kind of commitment yet." I return the hug. "...was always sort of an asshole anyway. Didn't he..." "You were looking for me?" I ask. "Yes," Hilda replies, "I was hoping to speak with you for a moment." "Rita's got the best recipe for..." "Would you join the family for brunch tomorrow, John?" Hilda says. It actually sounds like a good idea. Sari's parents are interesting and comfortable to be around, and I certainly like her sister and brother-in-law well enough, but we have to meet with Sean early tomorrow, and brunch will be impossible. "Unfortunately, Hilda, I have some pressing work to take care of tomorrow during the day, so I won't be able to make it." "I wish that you could come," Sari says, "but I know how important your project is right now." I take Sari's hand and squeeze it. "So do I." "... Margot's nose swelled up like..." "What's the project?" Mahmoud asks. He manages a local bank. "Project... uh, I'm working on a story at the moment, very difficult investigation, and I really can't talk about it now." "And Yeats really did have it right in..." "Then you must come to visit with us on Sunday. We will be having lunch after Mark speaks at the conference," Hilda says. "It's too bad you won't be able to attend his lecture. I think you would really enjoy it. You seem to be a man of discerning tastes." I blush. "Thank you. I'd be delighted to join you." "... and the guy from Seattle says, 'we've got way too many Californians around, and besides, I have to recycle the bottle.'" Hilda beams. "We shall expect you and Sari at 1 p.m. then!" "Yes, of course." Sari's laughter rings next to me. "You should have seen the Pinck executive's face when I showed the hearing that file," she says, as several people listen attentively. From the corner of one eye, I see Frohike approaching. The small man in the suit is nearby, watching him. Suddenly, I'm feeling very uneasy. Frohike grabs me by the elbow. "It's time to go, Byers. Let's get Blondie and get the hell home." He's obviously extremely inebriated. He's starting to slur, and he's wobbling a bit as well. "Ran into Kate Sandridge, the bitch, and she's got her nose up my ass. I think the Rabbi's in cahoots with her." "...took three hours to convince the Senator..." This would explain his current state. Sandridge is a very unscrupulous reporter, and not a particularly pleasant human being. I scan the room for her, and see her watching us from near one of the buffet tables. She looks away as I make eye contact. "That's not good news," I mutter into Frohike's ear. "Do you have any idea what she wants this time?" He blinks. "Not here, not right now. Too many eyes and ears." I turn to Sari, who's now three people over from me. "Sari, I really need to be going now. Frohike's had a few too many, and we're going to have to carry Langly out to the car." "...wasn't that hard, though." She and Hilda turn to me. "I'm sorry you have to leave so soon, John, but I do understand. I'll see you tomorrow when I bring the boy genius over," Sari says. She hugs me and kisses my cheek. I return the favor, and once again notice the light scent of sandalwood on her skin. Just that hint of scent relaxes me a little, takes the edge off my uneasiness. "...and shall see you at lunch Sunday," Hilda adds. I wish I'd been able to catch the first part of her sentence in all the noise here. The sooner we're out of here, the better. I get a last hug from Hilda, and several other people shake my hand and say their goodbyes. Sometimes I think this social life thing is a lot more trouble than it's worth. Then again, if I were still at the FCC, I'd probably have enjoyed the evening much more -- if I'd ever been lucky enough to meet Sari in the first place. This is the sort of life I think my father wanted me to have; rubbing shoulders with the upper classes, superficial party conversations, and probably a wife and a house with a white picket fence, 2.5 kids and a dog, too. The sort of thing I dreamed of having with Susanne, minus the superficial party conversations. But if I'd lived that life, I never would have met Mel or Ringo, never would have met Sari, never would have known the truth about all the things I know... and I never would have found the files that caused Deborah to be shot, or put us in danger, never would have known Mulder and Scully, never would have alienated my father... I force the thoughts from my mind and go to get Langly and my laptop so we can leave. SATURDAY, JULY 1, 2000 LONE GUNMEN HQ LATE MORNING FROHIKE: They say that great insights come at a great price. In this case, I learned that good booze doesn't give you a better hangover, merely a more expensive one. My agony is intensified when I attempt to make my way to the bathroom to get some Alka-Seltzer. Not only do I smack into the doorframe, worsening my headache, but I discover there's no Alka-Seltzer in the bathroom. God dammit. How am I supposed to survive a hangover, let alone work with the Sex Maniac Physics Boy, if I don't have Alka-Seltzer? I drag my aching frame down the stairs. I should kill Mulder for talking us into a multistory house. It just makes the journey to the kitchen all that much more painful. Byers, having not imbibed heavily, is fully dressed and seated at the kitchen table, his face well scrubbed and pink, sipping tea and perusing the morning papers as though this was a perfectly ordinary day. "Where's the Alka-Seltzer?" I snarl at him. He doesn't look up. "Where it usually is." "It's not there." "Then we're out." "Byers, you're supposed to keep up on this stuff! We depend on you!" I'd yell at him, but in my present condition, it comes out as a hoarse whisper. He looks almost smug. "I wasn't aware I was in charge of hangover control." I'm almost ready to smack him, until I hear the front door open with a loud clatter. It's accompanied by heavy foot clomping. The noise reverberates in my head. Maybe I should smack Langly instead. He tramples into the kitchen like a rampaging herd of elephants, tossing his blonde locks back, an immense look of relief on his face. "God, if they didn't get on the plane, I was gonna have to do something drastic." "Jesus, Langly, keep it down to a roar," I snap. I see that he's carrying a latte cup. "I don't suppose you brought any of that back." "I'll make some," Byers offers. "Good, Langly's brew would poison a tyrannosaurus." Byers loads the drip coffee maker and waits while it brews. Langly shoots me an evil glare. "Looks like somebody overdid it last night." "How would you know? You slept through the whole thing. If you'd been awake, you'd probably have been out in the ozone on one of O'Casey's microdots" "O'Casey was there? And he had microdots? And you didn't wake me up?!" Good. He's as irritated as I am. "Langly, you know how Deborah feels about those substances," Byers clucks his tongue. I'm going to kill both of them. Then I decide to wait and see if O'Casey shows up, and produces as good as he promised. If he doesn't, I'll take out my ire on him. "Listen, Blondie, I don't think an earthquake would have woken you last night. Now shut the fuck up and let me suffer silently." "Yeah, well, you might try doing the same." He shoots an unpleasant look at me. "Y'know, Frohike, hangovers only decrease what little charm you have." "Langly," Byers holds up a hand, "Dr. O'Casey will be here soon. Why don't you set up for him?" "Fine. And he better bring drugs." Blondie stomps out of the kitchen, I'm sure for my benefit. I hold my head in my hands. It feels as big as the Capitol Dome. "Is he ever going to grow up?" I mutter. Byers sticks a mug of black coffee in front of me. "Probably about the time you do." I hate these guys. LANGLY: We're just waiting for O'Casey to show his ass up. Hope he's got some wares with him. I can't get away with acid, but a little ganja wouldn't hurt. Deb doesn't have a problem with the happy weed. Says they should legalize the stuff and allow some serious medical research on it. I'm totally in favor of that. Frohike's finally out of the shower, looking a little less ugly than he did before he went in. He's not moaning quite as much, though he's still cursing Byers for not having any Alka-Seltzer on hand. Guess that would annoy me too, but if he wants sympathy, he can look it up in the dictionary under S. I decide I'll give Deb another call, instead of listening to Frohike bitch. I gotta admit, I'm schizzy from all this. She's probably asleep and yeah, I know she needs to rest, but I keep checking up on her. She got hurt real bad and things aren't good around us, so she really can't blame me. I dial her number and get her on the third ring. "Hello?" Her voice is thick and sleepy. "Hey, babe. How's it going?" "About the same as it was when you called... 45 minutes ago." She sounds annoyed, but I'm just relieved to hear her voice. "No weird phone calls, anything like that?" "Only from you." She yawns. "Sweetheart, I'm fine. I just need to sleep. Don't be so paranoid. Honestly, Ringo, you're worse than my father." "Sorry... I'm just worried. I'll get over there soon as we finish up here." "Don't worry about me. All my vitals are fine, babe. Really. I do have some knowledge of these things. Besides, Rae will be here in about two hours anyway. It's not like I'll be alone all day." "I know. Sorry..." "See you soon, sweetheart." Not soon enough. I'd feel a lot better if I was there with her. I'm still waiting for the next shoe to drop, and if the person who rang the door buzzer is who I think it is, that should be right about now. "I'll get it," Byers says. Fine with me; I'd rather nurse my coffee, anyway. "Yeah, let him get his hello kiss in private," Frohike mutters. I can hear Sari's voice, and the voice of a guy that I hope is Sean O'Casey, Boy Wonder. He better be a Boy Wonder, at any rate. We got problems here. Frohike stands up when they come down the stairs. He tells me you're supposed to stand up when a lady comes in the room. What for? First time I met Deb I was barely conscious. Didn't seem to hurt us any. I pass by Frohike's workstation as I'm walking over to Byers, Sari and O'Casey. I notice he's got an email from Mel Scarlett. It's only one line: "Mel, are you drunk?" Shit, he must've written her last night before he passed out. I shudder. I know what Frohike's like when he's smashed and lonely. And he better not have said anything to her about what the hell's going on here. Then again, *we* don't know what the hell's going on. Maybe O'Casey can clarify that little mess and get our asses out of the sling. "Dude, you missed an awesome party last night," O'Casey says when I'm introduced to him. "I hate parties where I don't know anybody," I mutter, and it's true. Unless it's the post party for a Battlebots competition, forget it. And when's he gonna offer some stash? "Langly's had a very exhausting week," Sari explains -- as if she needs to. All I'm sorry I missed were the drugs. She gives me the customary hug and peck on the cheek, and asks me how Deborah 's doing. "She's okay, her sis is coming in a couple of hours. Let's get moving, I wanna get back over to her place," I tell her. Sari bails -- she's got brunch with her folks. Now, free food I could handle. Frohike sweeps the place, just to make sure nobody got near our stuff while we were out last night. We don't get nailed very often, but we tend to get hurt when we do. "I think I can solve your problem, dudes. Nothing like the most sensational menage a trois to get..." "Y'know, O'Casey, that totally falls under the definition of Way Too Much Information," I snark at him. Seriously, we don't need the details of his sex life, especially when the details of mine are nonexistent right now. I hate being reminded. "Would you like some coffee?" Byers, Mr. Gracious Host, asks. "No, no, nothing caffeinated for me. I much prefer something to slow things down" "You got any weed?" I ask him. He brightens up. "As a matter of fact, I do. But your friends here seem to object to my toking in their presence, despite the fact that oftentimes, a little high causes things to make so much more sense." Nothing makes sense right now. I look at my cohorts. "You wanna smoke some weed, okay by me." He smiles. "Excellent." He lights up a blunt and passes it around. Byers passes because he doesn't like to work stoned, but Frohike decides to take a hit. "For medicinal purposes," he says, "I understand it helps with headaches and nausea." Uh-huh. I take a hit when it comes to me, and man, did I need it. It makes the round a couple more times before O'Casey puts it out and stuffs it into a little Altoids tin. "You ready to do some work now?" Frohike looks at him, not quite as mean as he was before he got a few hits in him. "I'm ready. The question is," O'Casey smiles at us, "are you?" Me, I doubt it. BYERS: Our physics whiz starts off by getting into a state in which I simply cannot imagine concentrating, much less dealing with serious work. I understand that some people manage it, but I have no idea how. The thought makes me uneasy, as I far prefer being in control of my faculties as much as possible. We have no idea if someone is going to come kicking the door in during the next five minutes. If we were all in O'Casey's condition, how would we cope? I just hope Frohike and Langly have the sense to not smoke too much for this. Whatever it is, I'd hate to try to explain it to them when they come down. O'Casey pulls the disk out of his pocket and sticks it into a drive. He opens a file and begins. "Well, dudes," he says, his mood rather more sober than I would have expected, "what you have here is some completely out of this world stuff. I mean that quite literally. I've never seen anything like it before, but from what I can tell... it's a workable theory regarding the operation of a superstring-based interstellar drive." end part 15 Things Undone 7: In Love and Black Ops, part 16 of 20 by Erynn & Sally Disclaimers in part 01 ______ "To assess the damage is a dangerous act." ~~Cherrie Moraga -- This Bridge Called My Back~~ ______ SATURDAY, JULY 1, 2000 LONE GUNMEN HQ EARLY AFTERNOON BYERS: "Superstrings?" Langly says. "What?" Frohike asks. Langly practically chokes. "You mean, like with UFO's and shit?" I can't speak, and feel myself going white. I was right all along. It really was a UFO drive -- one that had been modified and installed in a stealth plane, whose black box we apparently acquired somehow in August of 1998. It's a miracle nobody is actually dead yet, and that probably has more to do with Fletcher being unaware that we have the black box info than anything else. I pull a chair under me and sit down. "Oh, man," Frohike says, shaking his head and chuckling, "Mulder's gonna love this." I'm feeling extremely claustrophobic right now, as though the walls are leaning in to listen. "This one was definitely a three microdot problem," O'Casey continues, his face a combination of excitement and uneasiness. "Feynman said that nobody understands quantum mechanics. To a great degree, he's right. But I think I came a step closer last night. He'd shit himself if he were still around to see this. These equations are a thing of absolute beauty." He settles himself in a chair, puts his feet up on the desk, and props his hands behind his head, grinning like the Cheshire cat. Langly and Frohike sit as well, and takes a deep breath before diving in. "Do any of you guys understand superstring theory at all?" Frohike and Langly shake their heads. "Apparently, not enough," Frohike offers. O'Casey looks at me. "Well," I say, "from what I understand, it's a unifying theory that encompasses Einstein's theories and the effects of gravitation, as well as electromagnetism, the nuclear force, and the 'weak' force, and also seems to account for the proliferation of elemental particles like gluons and such. It proposes that the elemental particles are essentially 'string loops' at a Planck level that vibrate in different harmonics within ten dimensional space, beyond our perceived four dimensions of height, depth, width and time. I understand that some work has been done postulating multiple universes based on these theories. I know enough to recognize some of the equations, though I really have no idea how to interpret them. But how could some kind of... operational interstellar drive be derived from equations demonstrating the theory?" "Not bad for an amateur," O'Casey says, nodding at me. He turns to talk with all of us, sounding more like a physics professor with each passing moment -- in tone more than content. "What the cute one says is essentially correct on a basic level, though of course I could quibble with all sorts of minor details. See, any form of space travel has to take into account Einstein's theory of special relativity. In order to go fast enough to get through interstellar distances in a reasonable amount of time, so that you're something younger than a pile of dust by the time you get there, you have to accelerate pretty darn close to the speed of light, at least in comparison to any speed anyone travels at on the surface of Earth." "Whoa, whoa, slow down a second here. Just exactly how fast are we talking?" Langly asks. "Well, the speed of light is just under 300 million meters per second. A typical jet plane will get up to maybe 300 meters per second, on the outside -- that's 0.0001 percent of light's velocity. We're talking a difference that makes it look like slugs and cheetahs would tie in a race. Going at the speed of a jet plane, it would take you up to 15 years just to get to the sun, and most of the interesting places in space are probably millions or billions of times farther away than that. Light, on the other hand, takes 8 minutes to get from the sun to us. But the problem is that when you accelerate enough to get up into the useful speeds, like maybe a few percent of the speed of light, Einstein's equations start to kick in and time dilates." "So what you're saying is, what looks like 8 minutes to you traveling through space may seem like 15 years to your friends and family back home," I observe. "Exactly. And any alien society that sent its astronauts off into deep space only to not see them come back for centuries or maybe millennia would never have much of an opportunity to learn anything or communicate with us at all." Frohike snorts. "So useful space travel in a reasonable time for a society of biological life forms is pretty much impossible. We knew this, Mulder's ideas notwithstanding." "In normal space, yes. But here's the thing -- Einstein's theory of relativity is derived from classical physics basically by adding a dimension: the three-dimensional space of width, length, and depth is assumed to be only a part of a four-dimensional space-time continuum. Without that extra dimension, even the time-dilation thing that lets the pilot of a ship age less than his comrades back home wouldn't be there, and the only way to travel through space would be to put people into suspended animation for hundreds, thousands, even millions of years at a time. So by essentially broadening space to include time as a dimension along with the three of space, we still have serious problems with space travel, but it's become one step closer to being doable." Langly says, "So maybe if you add even more dimensions to space and time, you could figure out a way to make space travel easier? Like all those extra dimensions Byers mentioned." Sean grins and says, "Give Blondie a Nobel prize!" "For what," Frohike says, "stating the obvious?" "Hey, he's trainable," Sean continues. "Just as Einstein's theory of relativity brought physics from three dimensions to four, modern theories, including superstring theory, take it up from four to ten or eleven -- maybe even twenty-six in some formulations. The theory is that we don't notice these extra dimensions beyond space and time because the Universe is really really small in those directions. It's like Flatland; a two-dimensional being living on the surface of a piece of paper would notice its length and width but not its thickness. So if there really are these extra dimensions out there, we can do the same thing to Einstein's space-time that he did to Newton's separate space and time: make it just a part of a larger Universe." "So how does this make long-distance space travel possible without Einstein's time dilation effect, then?" I ask. "Think of it this way. Let's say you're Trotsky in Moscow right after the Revolution, and you want to send the Red Army directly into Washington to spread workers' rule to the States. You might run into a problem taking the Pentagon by surprise, because the shortest distance from Moscow to Washington along the surface of Earth -- a great circle path -- is still thousands of miles. But imagine that you had some kind of tech that allowed you to burrow straight through the Earth -- pop into the ground and dig a tunnel straight through. You would be traveling a straight line in three-dimensional space; the shortest path in three dimensions instead of the shortest path in two. You could get there much more quickly, not to mention having the element of surprise on your side. Of course, this hypothetical scenario would probably never work because you'd have to go right through the Earth's inconveniently placed molten core, but if you take the analogy and move into ten- or twenty-six-dimensional space --" I see where he's going with this. "And an alien Moscow could send their Red Army straight to Washington through a hyperspace tunnel without actually traveling through the millions of light-years of space in between." "Abso-freaking-lutely, cutie." He winks at me. "Will you cut that out," I snap. I'm really not in the mood for his attitude toward me. The last thing I want is for him to attempt to end the afternoon by groping my ass. "Just like Star Trek," he continues blithely, ignoring me. "Instead of creeping along in four dimensions through impulse at less than the speed of light, you kick on the warp drive and take a shortcut through sub-space as fast as the multidimensional Universe would allow. You might even be able to travel from an entirely separate four-dimensional Universe into our own through the higher dimensions linking them, if the cosmos is set up that way." "Aliens from the Universe Next Door," Frohike says with a snort. "So tie this into your theory, punkass. You're wasting our time." Sean snorts and glares at Frohike. "Well, my geezer friend, superstring theory posits that the basic structure of all matter, energy, space and time is these little strings and loops, as well as claiming that they vibrate in, like, twenty-six different dimensional directions. So if you're in a spaceship that's made up of all these little vibrating strings and loops, and you're wanting to slip all the little pieces of matter in the ship 'sideways' into a few of those extra dimensions instead of hanging around in these four, what would be the easiest way to accomplish that?" I grin, suddenly understanding. "Just send some energy into those strings and loops to make them vibrate in different directions than they normally would." Unfortunately, my glee is short lived. This is scaring the crap out of me. The implications leave me with an icy lump in my stomach. "Bingo. The problem is that these superstrings are reeeally fucking tiny. I mean, dude, the individual atoms in an apple are to the size of the fruit as the apple is to the entire planet Earth; the superstrings are just as much smaller than those atoms as the atoms are smaller than the apple." Frohike whistles in appreciation. "That's pretty goddamn tiny." "Yep. It's totally cool. I told you those other dimensions had to be pretty small for us to not notice them. So you see, the technology to actually do anything like this hyperdimensional space drive is, like, way down the line from where we are now. The amount of energy you'd need to manipulate objects that tiny at controlled frequencies and directions," he squeezes his thumb and forefinger together and looks closely between them, "I mean, like, it just completely blows my mind, dude." "Awesome, man," Langly says, peering at Sean's fingers. They're obviously very stoned. We need to focus. "Can we please get back to the information on the disk and refrain from the groovy commentary from the peanut gallery? This is serious, guys." "Right, right, of course." O'Casey turns back to the screen, tapping it with a forefinger. "So this technology to travel through space fast and easy is far ahead of anything we're even remotely close to having. Hundreds, maybe thousands of years ahead of us. That's why the information here is so unbelievable. You see, this is essentially the blueprint for a working star drive that actually can produce enough energy and manipulate it minutely enough to do exactly what we were talking about; make all the superstrings in a ship vibrate sideways into a higher dimensional space so that the ship can, to all intents and purposes, just 'vibrate' from their alien Moscow right to the White House lawn in the blink of an eye." "So, you mean it's... it's sorta like an oscillation overthruster?" Langly asks. O'Casey grins. "Two points to the Blue Blaze Irregular!" he says, giving Langly a high five. "Yeah, that's essentially what's happening. Like Buckaroo Banzai's jet car, the ship slips into the 8th dimension or something, and ends up on the other side of the galaxy before you can say 'no strike teams, Tommy.'" "This tech has got to be extraterrestrial. There's no way the boobs in the shadow government could come up with this on their own," Frohike says, looking around uneasily, suddenly far more sober than he was a moment ago. "This is what Mulder's been looking for all these years. This disk is material proof that the government is not just in contact with aliens, but experimenting with their technology as well." O'Casey nods. "You got it. But that's not all this is. It's also proof that there are alien races out there with technology -- with the power to pop across interstellar distances in an instant and send as many of them as they want, wherever they want." This makes me very, very nervous. No, actually this terrifies me. "Just like the Red Army tunneling through the Earth to topple the democratic way of life." Sean nods, subdued and rather uneasy himself now. "I hope, for the sake of everyone's ways of life, that the alien races we're talking about here subscribe to an ideology as much based on freedom and equality as Trotsky's version of communism, because with this tech, they could just as easily perform a Stalinist purge on us, or eat us all for breakfast, or turn us into mindless Borg drones with no individual identity -- with nothing more than the push of a button." We all turn to look at the computer screen. The files displayed there have taken on an ominous tone, and the coded information, the graphs and tables that are usually a day's work to me, now fill me with an overwhelming sense of dread. It's become obvious that not only are we in mortal danger, but the entire human race as well. It shakes me and leaves me feeling as frightened and helpless as I've ever felt in my life. I have no idea why Monroe or Fletcher, or anyone else, for that matter, could possibly want to collaborate with forces of this nature. Then again, the lust for power is so strong in some people that they'll do anything, cooperate with anyone, to get it. Spender, the smoker, is precisely the sort of man who would sell his soul for power like that. Assuming the aliens don't just decide to have everyone for breakfast, collaborator or not. I remember Mulder's tales when he returned from Antarctica after rescuing Scully. I'm not keen on being a breeding machine for the greys. The idea of my friends, my family, of everyone I've ever met, and of all the billions of people I haven't, turning into gelatinous gestation pods for an alien species turns my stomach. If I have to face Monroe to keep this from getting back into the shadow government's hands, I will. I turn to O'Casey. "Unfortunately, from what we can determine, they're not exactly Ghandian pacifists. Is that all you can tell us?" He nods. "Unless you guys want to spend a few years getting post-grad physics degrees, yeah." "Then I guess your part of this is done." He pulls the zip disc from the computer and starts to pocket it. "Okay guys. Thanks for the fascinating conversation. I'll just be packing up my Nobel prize, and I'll see you at the awards ceremony." I snatch it from between his fingers. "Sorry. This is too dangerous to go anywhere. If we manage to survive this mess, maybe you'll see it again. In the meantime, if you have this and anyone finds out, you're likely to wake up one morning dead." I turn to my desk and call him a cab. The dispatch is about three blocks from here, so it should be here soon. O'Casey blinks. "Hey man, that's my Nobel you just snagged. I may be easy, but I'm damned sure not cheap. No freebies here." Frohike looks at him. "We were under the impression you did it for the challenge, and as a favor to Sari." He grins. "Mmmmm yeah, Sari. Wonder if she's busy tonight?" "Her parents are still in town," I snap at him. "I suspect she'll be quite busy with them until they leave." Frohike and Langly look at me and get stupid grins on their faces. "And don't either of you get started with me. We have some serious work to do once the Doctor here is gone." Sean frowns. "You're fucking with me, dude. Gimme back my disk." "I can't. I'm serious. I'd really rather you didn't die for it." "God, why is everybody so fucking melodramatic all the time?" he snarls. Langly looks at him. "My girlfriend got shot up over this, dude. It's some fuckin' serious shit. You should know that better than we do. You know what this means. You know a lot of people would kill for it." O'Casey nods, slightly more sober. "Jesus H. Christ, all right already. But don't think I'm not coming back for this when the coast is clear." I nod. "Fine," I tell him. Anything to get him out the door and out of our hair. His assistance has been invaluable, but I don't want him to become a liability, or a responsibility. "You sure you won't go out to dinner with me?" he asks, eyeing me with far more interest than I care for. "Not tonight," I tell him. "I'm washing my hair." He snorts. "Like I've never heard that one before." The buzzer rings, and I look up at the front door camera display. It's one of the Sikh drivers from the cab company. "C'mon, Physics Boy, you've saved the day and your work is done," Frohike says, taking Sean by the shoulder and guiding him to the door. "Go home and forgot you ever met us. It's the safest damned thing you could possibly do right now." When he's finally out the door, I collapse back into a chair, the guys gathered around me. "We have to destroy this stuff." Langly's eyes open wide. "What?" "You've got to be out of your mind, Byers," Frohike says. "That's our ace in the hole." "It's the key to a bloodbath I don't even want to imagine." "Or what'll save our asses from the aliens," Langly says. "If they can get here with it, maybe we can get there, and blow their fuckin' grey butts off before they can kill us all." I sigh and look up at him. "Langly, we have to know where 'there' is before we can go there and do anything, much less 'blow their fuckin' grey butts off'." He blinks. "Oh. Right." They're too stoned to understand the true implications of our situation. If Fletcher knew about this, we'd be dead already. I think Monroe does know -- his digital fingerprints are all over the files -- and that's why he's been after us, though for him I think any excuse would do. Why he hasn't succeeded yet is the puzzle. Then again, he's probably more of a hacker than an assassin, and I thank whatever deities might be out there for that mercy. The cold lump in the pit of my stomach just gets bigger. Nothing feels safe right now. "I have no idea how we're supposed to protect ourselves while we have this information, guys." Or anyone we care about. I think of Deborah and Mel Scarlett and Sari, of what we brought them into when we let them into our lives. We told them about the dangers, but none of us ever conceived of something like this happening. I pull the disk out of my breast pocket and look at it. I'm holding the most dangerous information on the face of the planet in my hand. It burns. "The same way Skinner did with that DAT tape Mulder got," Frohike said. I look at him. "Albert Hosteen and the code talkers?" "Not exactly," he replies. "But the same principle applies. We have to get this information out as widely as possible, spread it everywhere, so that it can't be buried. O'Casey already knows about it, and he actually understands most of it. We have an advantage already." "Only if Monroe doesn't know we consulted him, man," Langly says. "Otherwise, Physics Boy is gonna be road pizza. Just like us. We gotta keep this under wraps until we figure out what to do, and find some hole to hide in. I wanna hide us all deep, and pull a rock over us." "I still think we need to destroy it," I tell them. "No way, Byers," Langly says. "They'll kill us anyway, just on the off chance we actually saw the important stuff. And besides, if we destroy it, then there's no way in hell that this planet's gonna have a prayer of defending itself when the shit hits the fan. This is the key, dude. This can keep everybody alive, and get us out from under the shadow poobahs." "If it gets published, and if O'Casey explains it so that people know what it is, every government on the planet will be rushing to build one of these things for planetary defense," Frohike urges. That's only one side of the argument. "Or building one to destroy any other government they see as a threat. Can you imagine one of these in the hands of Iraq? Or Libya? And what about India and Pakistan? I mean, look at what our own government was planning on doing with Pinck in Indonesia, for God's sake!" "It's a bigger threat than any human government, Byers!" Langly's shouting now. "We know what's out there. Mulder's seen what those things are capable of. Lunch, man. Every goddamn single one of us is gonna be lunch! All fuckin' six billion of us! Do you think they won't understand that?" Frohike nods. "He's right, Byers." "But the only part of this we have proof of, Langly, is the potential to build interstellar ships. You know Mulder and Scully haven't got any concrete evidence. What little they had went up in smoke last year when their office got firebombed. Who's going to believe any of it?" Frohike snorts. "Anybody with the brains to know that this proves the existence of intelligent extraterrestrial life, and the fact that it's been here." He has a point. It may not convince the masses, but a lot of the top scientific minds on the planet would have to be convinced by this. "Maybe we could take it to the United Nations and see if they'd create a special council to coordinate a global effort," I suggest. "Yeah, right," Langly says. "I got two words for you. Marita Covorrubias." My stomach twists. Frohike pipes up again. "That's why we need to take it public, Byers. It needs to be out there for everyone to see. All of it. The black box data, the analysis you did, the equations -- everything." "That's going to take about a week to arrange, guys. How do we stay alive in the meantime?" "Like, Fletcher still doesn't know we have this. He's hanging back still, hoping we'll give it to him if he keeps up with the threats," Langly says. "So we just keep stalling him. Tell him we're thinking about giving it back, but he's gotta call off Monroe. We tell him we need a week to make up our minds or something." "Tell him we need a week to be sure we're safe and he's kept his word about leashing Monroe, you mean," Frohike replies. "Get a brain, blondie." "That might work." I think for a few moments while the guys debate about how to approach Fletcher with the 'deal.' Fortunately, Frohike's too hung over to get into a shouting match with Langly, so I'm spared that particular pain while I'm working things out. "Okay guys, here's what I think we'll need to do." They quiet and look back at me. "We need to make a bunch of copies of this. Two for the safe, one for each of us to carry at all times. Several for safe deposit boxes. One for O'Casey--" Frohike interrupts me. "Wait a minute. You want us each to carry one around? That's nuts!" "Is it?" I look Frohike in the eyes. "If they get one of us, they get the information back and maybe they'll think that's the only copy, and they'll stop looking. I don't know if they'd be satisfied with that or not, but even if one of us is injured or... or killed, it might protect the other two. And it might protect Deborah and Mel and Sari, at least until the information can go public. After that, it'll be too late. They won't have any reason to hurt any of us." Langly shakes his head. "Except for revenge." "They might do that even if we gave it back to them without making any copies," Frohike says. "Either way, we're screwed. Byers may have the right idea here. Maybe all they care about is getting the information back. Maybe we should give a copy to Fletcher? We could tell him it was the only one." I tap a corner of the disk on the table nervously. "Fletcher's said before that he thinks we're too useful to kill. Even if he thinks we're buffoons, we might use that to our advantage. I'm sure he'd believe it if we told him that Monroe scared us, and we would give him back the info if he'd rein the man in." "We should contact him Monday," Frohike says. "Why Monday?" Langly asks. Frohike looks at him as though he's grown a second head. "You think for a second that guy's gonna be in his office on the weekend? Get real. He's gonna be out porking some poor unsuspecting chickadee." "Stupid as it sounds, I have to agree with Frohike's analysis." Langly looks at both of us, then nods. "You got a point. What now?" "You get over to Deborah's. Frohike and I will stay here and start burning copies of this thing. You'll get yours when you get home later." His eyes light up and he smiles. "You mean it? You're not gonna make me stay here and work?" I shake my head. "Get out of here before I change my mind. Oh, and take a cab. You're too stoned to drive." I only wish I could spend the rest of the afternoon with Sari and her family, but this is not to be. Frohike and I have too much work to do. We need to get on it. end part 16 Things Undone 7: In Love and Black Ops, part 17 of 20 by Erynn & Sally Disclaimers in part 01 ______ "She lied with fluency, ease, and artistic fervor." ~~Agatha Christie -- They Came to Baghdad~~ ______ LANGLY: Damn, I got off easy on that one. Figured after all the shit PhysicsJerk poured down on us, I was gonna be swimming in it. Sometimes even Frohike and Byers are human beings, though. It's rare but it happens. Deb's on the sofa when I get there, she's all bundled up with her blanket and her stuffed animals. "Hey babe." I want to just grab her in my arms, but I do that, I could do some damage to her, not to mention piss her off, and that would just not be good. That, and I hope she doesn't notice I'm stoned. Deb's a doc. She's not big on recreationals. Really weird, me with a girl who's like totally straight that way, but I like it. After taking a bullet last week, I'm surprised she's still talking to me, let alone happy to see me. "Thank God they're gone," Deb murmurs into my shoulder when I kneel down next to her. "I love them, but they make me crazy." No comment. It's okay for her to diss them. It is not okay for me to do the same. "You got Rae coming in a few hours." Her big sister's coming up from North Carolina to look after her. "Don't worry about Rae. She's totally mellow." "You mean there's a remote possibility she won't think I'm a jackass?" "She'll definitely think you're a jackass, babe. Which you are. But she'll like you anyway." Damned with faint praise again. Which is a lot more than I probably deserve from her after this shit. "Wow, she loves me," I joke, rolling my eyes. Hey, it's just the way me and Deb are. "Want anything?" "I'd love some root beer." "I'll get you some." I stand up to head for the kitchen. Knees are a bit rubbery here. That was good shit Sean brought over. Never mind what a pain in the ass he is. "I'm out," Deb calls after me. "Well, I can get some." I mean, there's a Circle K around the block from her place. No problem. I hope I've got cash. Or at least my ATM card. And maybe there's even money in my account. "You need anything else?" "Tampons." "Come again?" "Tampons." "I can't buy those!" "Why not? I have some money in my wallet if you need it." "Well, uh, no, it's not that--" "Ringo, they're just tampons, and I really, really need them." "Can't you like wait for Rae to get here?" "No, because I'm out of them!" I'm going to die. I just know it. If the shit from this afternoon doesn't get me, embarrassment will. *** I decide on the Eckard's instead. They have root beer. And tampons. Maybe enough guys buy tampons in here so that nobody'll notice. Shit! What kind am I supposed to get? Frohike says women are a mystery. In more ways than one. For once we both agree. Regular...Super...Super Plus...I'm trying to think what I've seen in her bathroom and what she brings over with her...Oh man... "Langly, aren't you in the wrong department?" What the fuck?! I swing around to see who found me here, and it's not as bad as I thought. It's worse. Kate Sandridge. She starts laughing at me. I know I'm red, and it's not just from blushing. This woman is a total bitch! If Frohike hadn't been so stupid as to have a one night stand with her, we'd probably never have this shit from her. Remind me to kick his ass when I see it next. "Oh, let me guess. You're getting them for your girlfriend. My, she has you trained, doesn't she?" I wish it were legal to clobber people at moments like this. However, assault is a felony, and I've already been there, done that and gotten the T-shirt. Okay, so it was only house arrest, but for a year, I had to have all the gaming done at my house, so I had to feed everyone for a year. Which really sucked. "Shut up." I used to pride myself on coming up with fast ones. Seems as if I've lost my touch. Or maybe I've just lost it. Sandridge could make someone lose everything, lunch included. "Or is it because she's incapacitated at the moment? I heard that something had happened to her--" "Mind your own fucking business." She tries to play coy, which, by the way, she sucks at. Sharks should never try to do coy. Doesn't work. "Now is that any way to talk to a lady?" She puts her hand on my arm, which is about as appealing as being chowed on by a viper. I pull away. "How the fuck would you know, since you've never been one?" Really, she should get the fuck out now, because she's pissing me off and the nice high that kept me mellow a little while ago has totally worn off. Not only does she come and embarrass the hell out of me, she kills my buzz. She clucks her tongue at me like an old schooteacher. "Langly, where are your manners?" "Hey, at least I got 'em so I can leave 'em at home when I'm around you!" She does this big tragic sigh. "You know, we really could help each other out." "Negatory." When Kate Sandridge talks about helping someone out, she's only got one person in mind and that's her. "So how is Dr. SaintJohn?" This would be unbelievable coming from anyone else, but from this bitch, it's standard issue. In desperation, I grab a box of tampons, I'm not even sure what kind, I just hope Deb can use 'em 'cause no way in hell am I going out to do this again. You think she'd take a hint, but she follows me to the cash stand. "Isn't it kind of slumming for you down here?" I glare at her. "How do you know I don't live here?" I know exactly where she lives, and this ain't her neighborhood. Fucking bitch is spying on us, I swear to God. And then she has the balls to cut in front of me in line. I didn't notice her pick anything up, but sure as hell, she's got a tube of AstroGlide. I'll have to share that one with Frohike when I kick his ass for having such crummy taste in women. This is the guy who said there're no ugly women after 2 a.m. He must've really been beyond blind drunk the night he did it with her, or he'd have noticed. Then she's waiting for me after I get my purchase rung up. Lucky for me the counter clerk doesn't say anything. I don't think the counter clerk is conscious, actually, which suits me fine. "Listen, Langly, I happen to know that you and the guys have something. I could help you with it." "Nobody's got the clap." Which is about the only thing she could give us, assuming we'd let her get close enough. She keeps blocking me. I wish she were a guy in the Limerick Tavern. I'd just slug her. "Someone shot at your girlfriend, Langly." "Yeah? They get a lot of crazies at GWU." "I heard it wasn't random." "You heard wrong." "Then what were your friends doing talking to Sean O'Casey last night?" "How the fuck should I know? I was sleeping." "Really? Then why was he coming out of your place just a short time ago?" Oh, she is so dead. Spying on us. That's low. That's beyond low, actually. Then again, she's a total bottom feeder. "Y'know, maybe we oughta get a restraining order against you." "I don't think you'd have much success. It's not as if you're well regarded by some aspects of the law enforcement community." That much is true. I don't think the cops we drink with at the Limerick would be able to help us much, either. Good guys, and they've helped us out before, but they're kind of stuck with what they can do, y'know? I climb into Deb's car. "I'm outta here, bitch. And don't be showing your ugly face around us again. Got it?" "So you do have something." "All we got right now is trouble. Mostly from you." And with that, I slam the door and gun the engine. Well, as much as you can gun a 4-cylinder Escort, anyway. *** Deb and I watch Battlebots, and then she crashes out again. My cue to call Frohike. I take her cordless, which I've scrambled, out to her lanai and dial the HQ. "Lone Gunmen Newspaper Group, Byers speaking." "Put Frohike on." "Langly, is something wrong?" "Just put the old bastard on, got it?" A couple minutes later Frohike gets on. Figures he'd keep me waiting. "There a problem?" Frohike asks me, all innocent like. "You bet your sorry ass there's a problem. I was over at the Eckard's getting Deb some stuff and guess who shows up?" "Don't tell me Scotty's jacking pharmacies again." Scotty, our favorite druggie, has been known to pick pharmacies as his targets when he can't con the rest of us anymore. "No, maybe if you'd think with something other than your dick, Kate Sandridge would leave us the fuck alone!" "Don't talk to me about thinking with my dick, boy, because that's all you've done lately." "She saw you with O'Casey last night." "There were a lot of people at that party. For all she knows, we could've been having a threesome with him." He makes this gagging noise. For once we agree. Not an image anyone needs. "Yeah, well, she also saw him leave the house." "What the fuck?" "She's spying on us." "I talked to her last night and blew her off." "Apparently you didn't blow her the right way, 'cause she's out slumming. And you better do something about it!" He does the tragic sigh he's so famous for. "I make a lousy choice in a one night stand and I'm reminded for it the rest of my life." "And you deserve it!" Line goes silent. "Frohike? You better not have hung up on me!" "Against my better judgment, I'm still here. I think what we have to do is find out where she's getting her intel." "I don't think she's got any. I think she's trying to worm it out of us." "Sandridge may be unethical as hell, but she'll have intel. We need to find out from whom and where she's getting it. And use it." "Well, I'm kind of like with Deb right now, you deal with it." "Fine!" Now that time, he hung up. No question about it. FROHIKE: One night stands are supposed to be just that -- one night stands. Cheap, easy, no strings attached. I've had exactly two in my life. One was in Bangkok with a hooker. A simple business transaction, right? Yeah, sure. I got interest on that account, in the form of the clap. You'd think I'd have learned from my mistakes. But I always was a slow learner. After Nikita, I was lonely, and I was drunk, and I was at a party with a bunch of other drunken journalists. ("Drunken journalists," in case you are not aware, is a redundancy.) Kate Sandridge was one of the few who even had proper gender on her side, let alone looks. So of course I had to talk to her. She was certainly flattering. I was amazed that she would even talk to a little troll like me, let alone suggest we get a room. I later found out why. Hurt worse than the clap ever did and lasted a hell of a lot longer. Some things don't clear up with a seven day course of antibiotics. Kate's not like an infection. She's more like a kudzu plant; never gets cleared out and strangles everything in her path. It'd be nice if Mel was here, but right now, I'm glad she's not. Saves me from having to explain an indiscreet liaison, although labeling it as such is dignifying it far more than it ever deserves. "Frohike?" Byers calls out to me. "What is it, Byers?" Really, I'm not in the mood. "We've got a lot of work to get done!" "So get to it, boy!" "I could use some help here!" "That's what I'm about to do!" "Well, then, why are you getting ready to leave?" "Because I have to find out something!" "I thought O'Casey gave us what we needed." "Not everything." Not by a long shot. *** I'm off to where I do my best thinking, as well as my best drinking. The two go hand in hand. I've got one hangover in progress; shouldn't hurt to add another one. I head for the Limerick Tavern. "Frohike, you're looking in fine form," Bernie says to me with an evil smile as I plop myself at the bar. "Some hair o' the dog that bit ya?" "Just bring the whole damn coat, fleas and all." Hell if I care. It's been a long day and it's not even close to sundown. It is, however, past noon. I certainly don't need to feel guilty, even if I were capable. "Better take the corner booth. Can't have you scaring off the regulars," Bernie says, bringing a bottle of J&B around the bar. "Bernie, your regulars make the Ten Most Wanted look like choirboys." I drag my sorry ass over to the corner booth. Okay, so it's more comfortable than the barstool. "You seen Skinner around?" "Not today." "Dammit." "Anything I can help you with?" "Bernie, there's nothing in it for you, so don't worry about it." He's a good bartender and can keep his mouth shut, but he's also not likely to do something for you unless he can benefit. "And how would you be knowing that?" The wicked smile again. For a guy who's drinking himself to death, Bernie's pretty sharp. The place is nearly empty right now. It'll be another hour before the regulars begin to trickle in, and at least another three before the view is obliterated by cigarette smoke. This means I can't kick Bernie out from my table, especially since I owe him on my tab. So we sit and drink together in silence. Guys can do that. Women seem baffled by the fact that two guys can sit there all night and not say anything other than 'pass the peanuts.' A couple of the local beat cops come in and that forces Bernie to get up. Support your local police. I know these guys, actually, and they're all right. They don't bash on the hookers in the area and they've normally got enough violent crap on their shifts that we fall under their radar. I dig my cell phone from my pocket. Dammit. Batteries are almost gone. I pull up the phone list and head for the pay phone in the back, which hasn't been replaced since 1970 and probably hasn't been cleaned since then, either. The '5' key sticks. Well, the bastard's not at work, and he's not picking up his cell. If he's having hot sex I'll have to hurt him the next time I see him. I could try Mulder, but the problem is that he'd show up. I really don't think I can cope with Mulder and a headache at the same time. It'd be nice if he could answer our questions and get a life as well, but I've nearly given up hope for that moron. And there's no way I'm going to bother the lovely Agent Scully with this. For one thing, she'd tell Mulder, and he'd find me, and then I'd still have to put up with him. Wonder if Sandridge showed up here recently. I doubt it. This isn't her usual watering hole. She prefers bars with ferns and clean restrooms and bartenders that know how to make a cosmopolitan. The Limerick most assuredly does not feature ferns, the plumbing -- assuming it works, which is rare -- hasn't seen anything remotely resembling disinfectant in decades, and if mixed drinks are your bag, you don't come here. Order a cosmopolitan or any other girlie drink and you'd be laughed down the block. Plus, if she has been here, the last thing I want to do is let the word out that I'm asking after her. She might get the wrong idea. Like I'd be willing to exchange information for sex, for example. If she'd stick to vibrators, she'd be doing every male in the city a service. I've been tempted on more than one occasion to send her one, and have gone so far as to look at them on line. And let's not even consider that she isn't worth the $12.95. Fuck. What am I doing here? I was hoping to catch up with Skinner. He slums on weekends frequently, except when there's a woman involved. Then it's the beach house, bubble bath and champagne. Traitor. In the meantime, I should head out. Mulder's been known to show up here in search of anyone that will listen to him, and there have been too many times when I've been an unwitting audience -- "Frohike, you gonna share or do I have to buy my own?" Too late. I knew I should have left while I had the chance. "Cheapskate," I mutter at him. "What brings you here? Nothing good at the Love Machine?" That's our local XXX rated theater. It's too filthy for even my standards, but Mulder loves it. "Already seen 'A Decade of Dirty Delinquents.' Twice." I'm tempted to ask why he doesn't do something worthwhile, like invite Scully out for dinner, but I suspect she sees enough of him as is. And while it's a sore subject, it won't do the job of getting rid of him. No, as if having Kate Sandridge on our ass and the world's worst hangover to boot wasn't enough, now I'm cursed with his presence. "So see it again. Or check out the Candy Apple. They have naked female mud wrestling on Saturday nights." "Seen it. With you, I might add." "Well, since I know you don't have any friends, I won't suggest getting together with them." "Oh, that was cold, Frohike." Bernie comes over. "You gonna order something, Mulder?" "Yeah. Gimme a double shot of Jose. Put it on Frohike's tab." "Asshole." "You're flattering me, Frohike." "Mulder, really, you should get out of here." I really don't want him getting into the meat of what's troubling us. It'd create a mother lode of problems for him with Skinner. Which is why I wanted to call Skinner first. Not to mention that Skinner's a much better drinking partner. He knows how to shut up. To my amazement, after Bernie brings his drink, he manages to keep quiet for a while. "What's going on, Frohike?" He finally asks. I stare at him. "About?" "What we talked about earlier this week." "Oh, that. No... " "Where is my goddamn data file?" We're interrupted by hissing and spitting, a familiar voice behind the bluster. Christ. Can this night get any worse? Mulder leans back. "Do we know you?" "Oh, you most certainly do, my friend." Mulder appears genuinely puzzled. "Frohike?" "I'd like to deny ever having been in his presence. Mulder, meet Morris Fletcher." I'm waiting for Mulder to pull his Sig Sauer, or at least jump up and strangle the bastard, but instead, he smiles congenially. "So we meet again." This knocks Fletcher more off balance than ever. "What do you mean, again?" He blusters. "We never met." Mulder smiles more broadly. "Oh. Perhaps I mistook you for someone else. C'mon, sit down and have a drink. Frohike here's buying." Of course I am, you cheap bastard. You're always willing to spend other people's money. "Uh -- I should really get going... " Mulder pulls him by the sleeve and forces him into our booth. "No, no, have a drink with us." He signals to Bernie. "The best in the house for this man, Bernie." Well, he's getting Bud on tap. "I really don't have time... " "What? You come into a bar and have no time for a drink? What's wrong with you, Morris?" "Listen, not that it's any of your business, but I have a date with the hottest brunette in DC tonight... " "Well, certainly she'll wait a few extra minutes for a man of your caliber." Mulder, what are you thinking? This is the last person I want around me at this time! "I don't think so--" "Then call her. Here, use my cell." Mulder proffers the phone from his pocket. "Amazing. You haven't lost this one yet." "Hey, just got it last week," Mulder grins like a kid at Christmas time. "You've kept it a whole week? New land speed record for you." "Frohike, you have no manners," Mulder chides me. I almost spit my Scotch across the table. This is really the pot calling the kettle black. "Look, I really have to go!" Fletcher is really beginning to sweat. I smile a bit. I'm seeing where Mulder is going with this. "I have business with Sneezy here, and I'd like to get it done!" "Oh, what sort of business would that be?" Mulder inquires, all wide eyed innocence. "That's between him and me," Fletcher hisses. "Oh, but Frohike and me, we have no secrets," Mulder is just having a blast, toying with him. "Do we, Frohike?" He kicks me under the table. "Oh. Right." Fuckhead had the nerve to call me Sneezy. He's going to pay for that one. We'll see if he gets his files now. "So if you want to do business with Frohike, you can do it right here with me." Fletcher turns to me and in a harsh whisper, spits at me, "Gimme my files and give them to me now." "Oh, these wouldn't happen to be those Area 51 files?" Mulder smiles like he just made a free throw. Fletcher doesn't answer. "You knew the deal. You give us Monroe. We give you the files." I'm playing this one. Fletcher looks desperate. "I'm telling you, I have no idea what Monroe is up to." Mulder smiles at him. "Oh, but I think you do." "I don't! I'm telling you, I don't--" A cell phone rings. It's Fletcher's. "What?" He hisses into it. "I'm sorry, I've been held up, I'll be there as soon as I can." He flips the phone into his pocket. "Listen, that was my date and she is pissed. Now if you gentlemen will just hand over the files--" "When you hand over Monroe, you get your toys back," I say levelly. Fletcher gets up angrily. "You're going to be sorry you did this." "Not half as sorry as you're going to be for calling me Sneezy." "So who do you think he's seeing tonight?" Mulder asks, downing another shot of Jose. "Enquiring minds want to know." "Generally he picks ones whose IQ's are smaller than their shoe size." We drink in silence for a while longer. "If he ever calls me Sneezy again, feel free to shoot him." "Why? You do kind of look like Sneezy." I hate this punkass. I really, really hate him. End part 17 Things Undone 7: In Love and Black Ops, part 18 of 20 by Erynn & Sally Disclaimers in part 01 ______ "It's a sign of your own worth sometimes if you are hated by the right people." ~~Miles Franklin -- My Career Goes Bang~~ ______ FROHIKE: We're headed for DuPont Circle and the Farragut Hotel. I happen to know this is one of his favorite watering holes. The problem is that he has almost as many favorite watering holes as he does women, which is to say, all of them. "Would be nice if we had the night vision goggles," Mulder muses as we head into the city. It's not too bad; the Congresscritters have all left for summer vacation. We'll have to start pulling together material for that issue soon--every fall, we run a 'What I Did on My Summer Vacation' issue, illustrating some of the more dubious deeds of our 'elected' officials -- but needless to say, I think the one we're currently working on is somewhat important. "Would be nice if you'd get around to returning them someday!" How many years has he had them now? It's got to be at least six. And those babies were expensive. Mulder's as efficient about returning our equipment as he is about giving me back my videos. "Haven't got 'em." "Oh, you've got 'em. You're the last person we lent them to." Hell, he's the only person we lent them to! "Frohike, maybe you should try Metamucil." "Listen, you may be driving, but I can still push your ass out on to the street. I doubt anyone would miss you." "You would." "Don't bet on it." We hand our keys to the valet, who doesn't even look at us. Half the town tools about in government issued Tauruses in bland colors. We're hardly worth noting. Well, maybe not for the valet, but the doorman certainly noticed. "There's a dress code here," he snaps at us. "There's something in it for you if you drop it," Mulder smiles, pulling 2 crisp 100's from his wallet. I'm really worried now. I hope the cash works. Mulder certainly can't count on charm. I guess times must be tough, since he motions us through. "How much are you carrying? They might not be here." "You said this was his favorite bar." "This, and probably a dozen others." "Hey, he's just a poor civil servant like me. Not like we can afford the Library Lounge or the Watergate on our salaries." "He might not be as cheap as you are." "I'm not cheap. I'm frugal." "You're cheap." The bartender is everything Bernie's not. He looks at us as though someone pulled us out of the dumpster out back, but he's happy to take our money. I order the Scotch so as not to piss off the bartender, but I stick to the water. What I wouldn't give for some Maalox about now. "So are we just gonna barhop all night?" I growl at him. I'd really like to get home, thank you very much. Collecting intel is one thing. Getting work done is another. "You have a better idea?" We drink up. No Fletcher. I throw down a tip and we head out, this time for the Belmont. "You don't think he'd be tacky enough for the Marriott?" Mulder asks. "Tacky is what Fletcher's all about." "Yeah, but what about the woman?" "If I knew who it was, I'd have a better idea." My stomach knots up as we head towards the Belmont. It was in this very bar that I was willingly seduced by Kate Sandridge. Needless to say, this does not hold warm fuzzy memories for me. The doorman is about 18 if he's a day and stoned beyond belief. No wonder he doesn't mind wearing the stupid uniform. We pass him without incident. The Belmont actually offers self parking, as if they imagined such a thing would exist in DC, but it works for us. $9.00 for 24 hours. A bargain here. "At least it was cheaper this time," Mulder muses. The only problem with the Belmont is that it has not one, not two, but three lounges. This entails being seen by a lot more people. No dice. No Fletcher in any of the bars. "They've got two restaurants, too," Mulder observes. "And a disco." "They've got a disco here at the Belmont? The end of the civilization must be imminent." We duck into the pay phone area while we work out whatever passes for a plan. We didn't exactly have one beyond jumping into the car and following Fletcher down. "I'm thinking Fletcher's not the type to want to spend the bucks wining and dining the girl. He wants dessert as quickly as possible." "And that's what you learned as a profiler? I could've told you that." "I was just saying that checking out the restaurants is going to be a waste." "I think we should find out where he's checked in. Hold on a moment." I dial one of the pay phones, using our illicit but oh-so-useful calling card. General Motors will never know the difference. "Lone Gunmen, it's Saturday night, get a life already," Langly growls into the phone. "Speak for yourself. Got a job for you." "Byers is already cracking the fucking whip." "Too bad. This is priority." "Well, if it's so fucking important, spit it out already!" "Find out where Fletcher's checked in." "As in, what hotel?" "Ding ding ding! The boy gets 5 points!" "Aw, c'mon, man, database searching's a pain. And what if he's not checked in under his real name?" Oh man, didn't think of that. However, I'm not sure he's all that clever. "Just do it, and call back on Mulder's cell." "Aww, what's wrong, Mel not here, so you gotta date Mulder?" His tone is that of a mocking 5 year old. "Fuck you. And get busy." I like having the last word, so I hang up before he can slip in. Mulder shakes his head. "Frohike, has anyone told you you're just a regular Mr. Warmth, Charm and Personality?" "No." "There's a reason for that, you know." "Shut up, Mulder." And be happy I don't call you anything worse. I'm only being nice because he's my ride. "So what now, G-Man?" "I think we should boogie like it's 1975." Aargh! *** I missed the disco years, and now that I've been immersed in them, I'm glad I did. How can anyone even think in here -- oh, wait, that's not the point. You wouldn't need to. The songs all have one line repeated 753 times with the same obnoxious bass that is only serving to enhance my headache. Worst of all, though, is how not dressed we are for this gig. We stand out like supermutants amidst a sea of mutants. How can anyone dance like this? It's completely undignified. No style, no grace, no class. Now the tango. There's a dance that takes real skill. People here are simply flapping their arms like pathetic penguins desperately seeking flight. We take a table on the upper level. The better to see you with, Morris Fletcher. Unfortunately, it's not the better to hear anyone with. I order a club soda and Mulder orders a Slow Comfortable Screw. I think he just likes the name. "That's a girlie drink!" I yell to him. "Do you see him?" I think is what he yelled back. I think he deliberately ignored the girlie drink slam. I peer over the dance floor. The disco ball strobes the light. This is a marvelous place--if you're in the market for developing a migraine. Trying to pick out individual forms in this den of debauchery would be difficult enough without it. "Hey cutie, wanna dance?" A twentysomething, made up to the gills and draped in the finest of polyester, has come over to our table. In view of the lighting, it's really hard to make out what she looks like, but I'm thinking a younger Tammy Faye Bakker. Mulder certainly knows how to attract 'em. "Sure, why not--" Mulder begins to rise, but she holds up her hand. "Not you, Ken doll. Your friend here." She points a lacquered nail at me. "Uh...well..." This is a child accustomed to getting her way as she drags me to my feet. "C'mon. All the other guys here are so plastic." Mulder makes a face at me as I head, as though a lamb led to slaughter, to the dance floor. This is not what I had in mind. *** We dance on the upper level, which is a smaller floor, but I don't believe it's giving us any relief in terms of the music volume. My head pounds right along with the beat. Fortunately, the next tune is 'The Hustle,' a dance that I actually know how to do. I attend the occasional wedding. I'm trying to keep my eyes pasted on the other patrons which is no doubt annoying my dance partner. Not that I care. I'm here to work as opposed to flopping about and getting wasted. If I wanted to simply get wasted, I'd have stayed at the Limerick. I want Fletcher's ass and I want it soon, or I'll go blind, deaf and insane in here. I turn to see if Mulder's been hit on yet. There's a surprising number of unescorted women here, but none of them have approached him. Despite the fact that my partner is strictly third rate romance, low rent rendezvous, I at least got hit on. Maybe they can tell he has cooties. I smirk at him. He's on the phone, but then he tries to catch my eye back. He's jabbing his finger down towards the other dance floor. "Hey, where you going?" My partner shouts at me over the din. "Sorry, I prefer boys." I rush back to our table, which is perched near the railing. I stare down in the mass of bodies swirling below. Son of a bitch. It's him. It's got to be him. Doing a horrible imitation of John Travolta. The only thing he's missing is the white polyester leisure suit. What's even more horrifying, however, is the woman he's dancing with. It's none other than Kate Sandridge. If we weren't in the situation we're in, I'd feel that there was some poetic justice in the world. "Houston, we have a problem," Mulder says. "So now what?" "Let's see if they get a room." "Langly didn't find him checked in anywhere in town." "So he's staying under an assumed name. We have his aliases on file. Call Langly back." "Forget it. You deal with the little twerp. Just because he's not getting any this week doesn't mean he has to take it out on all of us." "You should know, Mulder. You don't get it any week." I dial while he comes up with a witty response. We leave the disco for the men's room off the lobby, where I never realized how peaceful the sound of running water actually was. It may be days before I lose the beat in my head, but at least the volume's down. "I'm not sure how following them to their room is going to help," I remind him. "What about your portable bugs? You don't leave home without them, right?" "That's not the point! We have to get it into the room!" I shake my head. "You're an idiot, G-Man." "That's the nicest thing anyone's said to me recently." "Or maybe you could just try being clairvoyant, Mr. Supernatural." "I study clairvoyance. I don't practice it." "So what do we do now?" I groan, unhappy at how this night is turning out. "I don't know about you, but I've had enough disco dollies for one night." "For once, we both agree." This should be a national holiday. "So let's wait outside here." "Oh, that's delightful. What if he has to come in here?" Condoms. Only a buck at the vending machine in here. Then again, maybe he comes prepared. God knows he's got a new conquest each time he's in town. "You got a better idea? We can hide in a hurry if we need to. We can catch him red-handed--" "Listen, you've got a gun. I don't." "Oh, I'm not looking to shoot ol' Morris. I just want to toy with him for a while." He wrinkles his brow. "You really think Sandridge would sleep with him?" "If it means getting a story out of him? Count on it." *** Two hours pass before we're kicked out for loitering. Even Mulder's FBI badge didn't help, especially when he said that he couldn't make that knowledge public and no, security could not call his supervisor. "Why can't you call Skinner? He knows what's going on. More or less." "This isn't really official business." "That never stopped you before." "I prefer to start Monday morning not getting my ass chewed out." "Why make it different from any other Monday?" "Look, we're wasting our time here." "I think you're wrong about that," I assert. "You wanna go back in the disco?" About as much as I want to enter the seventh circle of hell. "Fuck. Let's go." *** BYERS: "What the hell's he doing wasting his time following Fletcher? I thought he was going to give him the disk if he saw him and be done with it!" Frohike is really ticking me off. Why the hell is he tailing Fletcher? With Mulder? Nothing but trouble in that sort of sport, and right now, we have all the trouble we can use, thank you very much. "Maybe Fletcher found him," Langly suggests. "Sounds like it to me." "He should have given him the data and left well enough alone." "I thought he was supposed to give us Monroe." I can't believe I'm listening to this. "Langly, nobody is going to give us Monroe. Nobody. If we want him, we're going to have to go after him ourselves. And right now, I think that's a terrible plan." "Byers, the only plan you think is a good plan is where everybody shakes hands and goes back and plays nice." "I prefer negotiation to blood." "Who doesn't, dude? Problem is, you don't like it, find another line of work. Like go back to the FCC." Oh, as if they'd really have me. I've never been tried, never been convicted, but the fact of the matter is, in the eyes of the law, I'm a felon. This factoid bothers Langly and Frohike considerably less than it bothers me. But there's law, and there's what's right, and we're in business to do the right thing. Right now, I'm not sure what the right thing is. I'm not even certain we should have taken it this far. I'm having a lot of misgivings about our involvement with this whole project. Needless to say, however, it's a little late for that. Once again, it's the difference between ham and eggs: the chicken is involved. The pig is committed. I think we're not only committed, we're eaten. Our friends and loved ones are certainly being devoured by this. "It just keeps getting uglier," I groan. "Speaking of ugly, check out the security cam. Guess who's back?" "That is a horrifying sight." Mulder and Frohike in one shot. Both trundle down to the work area. "Got any coffee working, Byers?" Frohike asks me. "Screw the coffee! What the hell were you doing tailing Fletcher?" "Hey, he found us first!" Oh great. "And guess who he's with?" "Another high-priced DC bimbo," Langly offers up. "Actually, she looks pretty cheap to me," Mulder chimes in. "Shut up, Mulder. No, this one's as expensive as they get. Our old pal, Kate Sandridge." Langly pounds the worktable. "Oh, fuck, that bitch is all over us! This is all your fucking fault, Frohike!" "Excuse me, I was against this whole thing from the start!" Okay, that changes things. For the worse. "Where did he run into you?" I ask Frohike. "Where I always go to collect intel. The Limerick, of course." I glare at Mulder. "And you, of course, happened to just come along." "Hey, nothing else to do on a Saturday night." He shrugs. "Try a hand job," Langly suggests. "You're probably getting plenty of practice," Frohike shoots back at him. "Maybe you can give him pointers." "Shut up, this isn't helping!" Jesus, these guys can't stop their bickering long enough to let me think. Talk about migraine central. "Frohike, he knows we hang out at the Limerick. Some of us less than others," I add pointedly, which is childish, but right now, I'm feeling more than a bit infantile and irritable, not to mention terrified. To my intense surprise, they comply with my demand. I should mark this on the calendar, it happens so infrequently. There's coffee, and everyone pours themselves a fresh cup. I haven't told them, but it's decaf. I think we're all sufficiently wired to stay awake as long as necessary. It dawns on me too late that we've totally screwed this thing up. "We should have cooperated with Sandridge from the start." "When pigs fly," Frohike snorts. "All this time we're trying to keep her from scooping us, and in the end, we just end up biting off our noses to spite our faces. What if she's got stuff we could use? We could have exchanged information with her." "You don't share meat with a piranha," Frohike points out. As if any rational argument would get him to change his mind. "This is major stuff, though. It's not as if there wasn't enough to go around. And how do we know that the Post would even print it?" Their legal department would likely pitch a fit and keep the story from ever going public. "Excuse me, but what's the first rule of investigative journalism?" Langly crosses his arms and pushes his long frame back in the chair. "Get there first," I respond. "Yeah, and we got there first, and we don't have to share. Like Sandridge'd ever help me find who shot Deb," Langly is completely irritated. "She probably has all the data you gave him by now, " I mourn to Frohike. "Au contraire. No data was exchanged in the making of this motion picture." Frohike looks triumphant for a moment. This, however, merely aggravates my indigestion. "Frohike, that wasn't the deal!" "Sure it was. He was to give us Monroe. He had nothing. So no Monroe, no data." "Frohike, there was no way he could give us Monroe on a silver platter." "Exactly. And if he knew that, then he shouldn't have expected us to come through on our end." Playground games. That's what this is. Playground one-up-manship with potentially lethal consequences. "He should know something about Monroe, though. Like where he is." Langly muses on this. Mulder shakes his head. "Monroe's been a moving target for years. I somehow don't imagine that's changed in the last week. Besides, what if it was Fletcher, not Monroe, that was arranging the warning shots on Deborah and Kimmy?" "I don't think Fletcher has the cojones," Frohike grumbles. "Yeah, but he sure as hell knows somebody who does!" Langly is becoming very agitated. "Hey, listen, we've had the best people in the Bureau on him for years and--" "Spare me. We know all about your best people!" snaps Langly. I look over at the screen that I've been working on, tiring of this exchange. Wait a moment. Something's wrong here. The cookies have changed. I'm sure of it. "Langly, you said we were offline!" I'm sure he said it. I was explicit about being offline while we were working. "We are, dude. What kind of moron do you take me for?" "I'm not going there," Mulder says. "Shut up!" I sit back down at my workstation. "Byers, what the hell's going on?" Frohike's voice rises from discontent to alarm. I gulp. Tastes like bile. "Don't look now, guys, but we're being hacked." My hands race over the keyboard, trying every trick I know to stop our unwanted visitor in his tracks. "Fuck, I'm on it," Langly is at his workstation, typing vigorously before I even finish my sentence, and Frohike joins in. "Mulder, do us a favor and don't touch anything," Frohike reminds him. "Hey, I'm not touching anything!" "Just make sure it stays that way." "Shit, I can't stop this asshole!" Langly shouts. "Yeah, well, neither can I!" I yell back. "What the fuck?!" Frohike shakes his head. "Monroe's got us by the short and curlies, man," Langly moans. "No. This isn't Monroe. Monroe would have burned the rig by now." Monroe's style isn't this elegant. He's got a slash and burn approach. This is a lot more like poison. "Then who the fuck is it?" Frohike demands above the clatter of our keyboards. "Frohike, go on the otaku boards. Find The Ferret. See if she knows anything about this." The Ferret is a fellow hacker, just about on par with the Thinker. Goddamn him for not being alive right now. "The Ferret might not be on. She's usually not," Langly warns. "Then see if you can get Amazon directly." Amazon has never been seen by anyone. Ever. For all I know, she could be about as human as HAL 9000. I don't care if she's an elephant with purple spots, just so long as she can give us our hacker. "Amazon doesn't like anyone contacting her directly unless it's a life and death emergency." Mulder has made contact with Amazon over the years periodically, as have we, but never through direct request. "I'd say this qualifies!" I retort. "Forget it. We're shutting down!" Frohike yells. "No way in hell, man, if this gets me to Deb's--" Langly butts in. "This isn't about you!" I shout back. "Then get out!" Frohike clamors. "No way. I'm going to nail this bastard!" "Guys, it's my professional opinion... " Mulder offers up in his calm psychologist voice. "SHUT UP!" The three of us manage to be in unison that time. "Byers, if this is one of Monroe's goons, it's not just our rig that's gonna get fried!" Frohike is almost pleading with me. He can plead till pigs fly. I'm going to follow this down to the last. We've suffered enough. It's time to even the score... "WHAT THE?!" The screen before me dies. Fades to black. Langly and I both swing around to glare at Frohike, standing there with a power cord in his hand. "What the hell do you think you're doing!" "Keeping our asses from getting fried," Frohike snarls at me. "You asshole, I was on him." Langly is about ready to throw a few punches. I could join him. "You don't wanna be on him." I'm really, really angry at Frohike. "Since you've appointed yourself Napoleon, what do you propose?" "We feed the source text to The Ferret and Amazon." "I tried raising The Ferret. She's not on." "Well, get Amazon!" "She's gonna be pissed," Langly warns. "I don't give a flying fuck!" I can't recall the last time I shouted this much. This whole thing is turning me into a raving lunatic. If I follow this down, I'll be a maniac. If I don't follow it down, I'll be a maniac. Not a hard choice. *** It takes most of the night to retrieve the source code, and even longer to raise Amazon, who was, as expected, irritated to hear from us, but agreed to check it out. "Think it was Sandridge?" Mulder asks. Frohike snorts. "Sandridge has to have her assistant boot up her word processor. Fat chance of that." "People like that are too stupid to live," Langly snarls. Then it dawns on me. "Guys, if she's been with Fletcher, chances are she went back to her office and started typing." "Thought you said she couldn't turn on her own equipment," Langly remarks snidely. "Sandridge can do a lot of things when she wants something. Even turn on her computer," Frohike mutters. "Or seduce losers," Langly chides back. "Langly, button it." I can't believe that came from me instead of Frohike. "Not your girl that got shot at!" "If you don't knock it off--" We're interrupted by the chime that indicates that Amazon is back with us. We all lean over our screens intently, reading her terse messages. "Found your hacker." I type back. "Who is he?" "Not he. She." "She?" "Yves Adele Harlow." "Never heard of her." "You have now." With that, she signs off. That's all we're going to get from Amazon. We shake our heads. "A woman," Frohike muses. "Unbelievable. We're gonna be outnumbered." "It's a good thing the women aren't here to hear that, or you'd have your testicles in your mouth," I snap. I turn to Mulder. "Go make yourself useful for a change and find out who this Yves Adele Harlow is." He rises up. "Sure, why not? I never sleep anyway." It may be awhile before we sleep again as well, so I'm not about to feel sorry for him. End part 18 Things Undone 7: In Love and Black Ops, part 19 of 20 by Erynn & Sally Disclaimers in part 01 ______ "The more hidden the venom, the more dangerous it is." ~~Marguerite de Valois -- French Wit and Wisdom~~ ______ FROHIKE: "Well, maybe Mulder will turn up something useful for a change," Langly snorts. "Hey, we wouldn't have half our headlines without him," Byers reminds him tartly. "You make us sound like we're no better than that Sandridge bitch." "Are we?" I'm not in the mood for Byers' moral postulations. "What matters is getting the story away from her," I remind them. "Heh. We can get her copy, but not her resource material," Langly shoots back. "She can always go back to Fletcher." "That's where you're wrong, boy," and I know this to be true. "Sandridge'll toss him out faster than a used jiz rag. Trust me, she won't go near him again. She's not that stupid." That's precisely the problem with people like her. They're not stupid. If they were, they wouldn't be such a problem. "So we still get to scoop her," Langly looks unimpressed. "Look, she has to get it through her editor, through legal, the whole nine yards. And deadline's past at the Post for the Sunday edition." "Fortunately, we don't have those sorts of problems," Byers snaps. "Is anyone else planning on doing any work around here tonight? Because if you're not, I'd appreciate it if you'd all just shut up and let me grab Sandridge's copy." "You got copy already?" Langly stares at him, looking a lot more dead than alive. "She's typing it now." "And when she goes to save her file--" "She'll see all of it when she saves, but when she hits send for the editor, it's all going to be gone, gone, gone." Byers seems surprisingly satisfied about this. Apparently his holier-than-thou attitudes can vanish with the proper target. Langly and I are still trying to check out the invasion we've just suffered at the hands of one Yves Adele Harlowe. Be nice to have some 411 on her. We've been scrounging but can't seem to find anything. Amazon might know more -- or not, and it doesn't matter, because once she's signed off, it means, don't bother me again with this. "What're we gonna do about Fletcher?" Langly whines. "We're not going to do anything about him. We won't have to. We bring this story to print, his bosses are gonna be all over him like white on rice," I advise him. We won't be bothered anymore by Mr. Man in Black Morris Fletcher after that. If he knows what's good for him, he'll keep a safe distance from us, which shouldn't be a problem once he's safely ensconced in whatever correctional facility he's sent to. "Guys, just in case you forgot, this was his data in the first place," Byers points out as he continues to type in an animated fashion. "No way in hell. He latched on to this stuff, hoping to sell it to the highest bidder and cash out. Any of you bother to look at his finances?" And Byers prides himself on being detail oriented. Ha. "I haven't exactly had time," Byers' voice drips acid. Langly snorts in response. "Well, just for your edification, I thought I'd add that our boy is ass deep in debt. More like drowning in it." "Visa. It's everywhere you wanna be," Langly looks up, becoming interested. "Worse that that. Eight major credit cards, all maxed. Twelve department store cards, also maxed. Took a second on the house in Rachel when it was at the height of its value, and now that it's been downgraded, he's in the red on equity. Lost a bundle on margin calls. And bankruptcy doesn't look too good to his bosses." "So now we have the real motivation," Byers turns and stops clicking for a moment. "But who did he sell to? Sandridge?" "Sandridge couldn't have come up with the kind of dough he needs to shovel himself out." "Then who? The Russians? The Chinese?" "Who the hell knows. All we know is, US citizens should have a look at their tax dollars at work." I shake my head. "It always comes down to money." "You said it always comes down to sex," Langly whines accusingly. "That too." Amazing how the two become perilously intertwined on so many occasions. "Okay, looks like Sandridge is done with her copy," Byers says. "She's starting to boot down." "Wonder what loser she yanked out of bed for that," Langly mutters bitterly. He blinks his eyes, then pushes his glasses up so he can rub them. "So you're telling me Fletcher's been in it for the cash all along. That Deb got shot up because he took a major trip down Debtor's Alley." The last sentence is uttered in a tone that's unbelievably hard, even for Langly. Not a kid anymore. He's playing for keeps, just like the rest of us. It's hard to be charitable when you've got that much at stake. "What about this Yves Adele Harlowe that Amazon talked about?" Byers frowns, as if thinking is causing him pain. Wouldn't be a surprise. Thinking is starting to hurt all the time these days. "I'm betting it's a nom de guerre. Nobody names their kid that," I grumble. "Sure. Like nobody names their kid Melvin, either," Langly mumbles, just loud enough for me to catch. At least he didn't call me Sneezy. He'd have seen the end of those long blonde locks. "Wait, I'm getting something from Mulder," Byers breaks in before any further damage occurs. "If it's the naked fit Oriental twins, I've seen it." It wasn't that great, either. "No, it's -- he's sending another ad over for Viagra." "He's the one that needs it." If he can be around that luscious partner of his for that long and not get it up, there's something seriously wrong with him, which we already know there is, but I don't think that part of his anatomy is completely inoperable. "Probably how he encrypted what he sent," Langly suggests. "Then you decrypt it," Byers fires at him. "Not in the mood." "Great." Byers groans and begins to enter a decryption algorithm. Within four minutes, he's broken the code, but the results aren't promising. "Oh, wonderful. All he's sent is the list of the FBI's hit list of known female hackers." "Good, maybe we can find out Amazon's real name," Langly retorts. "I don't give a crap what her name is. Why she's such a bitch would be more useful," I snarl. There are 13 names on the list. The girls are definitely moving in. "No Yves Adele Harlowe," Byers sighs. "I think we're going to have to raise Amazon again." "She'll fry our rig if we do that," Langly warns. "I've heard what she does when she gets pissed off." "She can put her PMS on hold for an hour," I growl. "I'm raising her again, and I don't care what her problem is." Byers spiders down to where she operates. We don't know if she's on, since she always operates in invisible mode, but we ding her. And wait. It takes several interminable minutes before she comes on, and it's not pretty. Amazon: What? You bothered me once tonight already. Byers: We need more info on Yves Adele Harlow. Amazon: Don't have any. Ask the Ferret. Byers: She's not on. Amazon: That's not my problem. "Well, she's certainly a cooperative soul," Byers snaps. "Lemme try to find the Ferret. I'll offer her some new cheats for Mafia," Langly offers. "I thought you hated that game," Byers looks at him, mystified. "I do, but hey, she loves organized crime, I guess." "Do what you have to do, but get her." "Fine, fine! I just have to find where she's gaming." "If she's gaming. She didn't show on anywhere." "She's gaming. It's Sunday morning early. Not like she's gonna be asleep." "What if she's not playing Mafia?" "Then she'll be playing somewhere else! Jesus, gimme a freakin' break, would ya?" Langly is beyond his usual petulance. I doze off while he checks out the various game rooms. And there are a lot of them. She could be in any number of places. Or maybe she took the night off. Maybe she got a life. Nah. Doesn't happen in this world. Most of us are scared to get a life. That's why we do this. And you know what? It's a good thing most hackers don't go for it. Watching what happens to people you get close to is far uglier than watching it happen to yourself. "Okay, okay, I found her, she's in 'Third World Takeover,'" he announces. "Can you get her attention?" Byers demands. "I'm trying!" Fifteen minutes later, a line of text appears in the box he's left open for her. Ferret: You know, I had the most beautiful coup d'etat staged. I've been working it all night, and you had to come and spoil it. I was about to be dictator of all of Southeast Asia. Lord_Manhammer: You play such boring games. "Langly, would you not antagonize her?" Byers hisses. "She DOES play boring games! I mean, who wants Southeast Asia?" "Apparently she does. Get to it, boy." I mean it, too. This night isn't getting any shorter. Daylight is starting to creep across the sky, thin streams of light appear through the window bars. Ferret: You owe me for this one. Lord_Manhammer: I got something for you. Ferret: It better be good. Lord_Manhammer: New Mafia cheats. Ferret: Hand them over. Lord_Manhammer: Not yet. We need some 411 on somebody. Ferret: What do I get for that? "Christ, a mercenary in real and virtual time," Byers mutters. Lord_Manhammer: I already told you! I have cheats. Ferret: That was for interrupting my game. What else are you going to give me? Lord_Manhammer: What do you want? Ferret: Cash is always nice. Lord_Manhammer: You are talking to the wrong guy. Ferret: Then this conversation is over. Lord_Manhammer: Look, we're in a bad spot, help us out. Ferret: If you're trying to appeal to my better nature, just remember, I haven't got one. Lord_Manhammer: What do you know about Yves Adele Harlow? Long pause. Very long pause. But at least she hasn't left. Ferret: You're really in over your head, aren't you? Lord_Manhammer: You thought I was shitting you? Ferret: Why should this be different from any other time? Lord_Manhammer: What can you tell us? Ferret: What do you want to know? Lord_Manhammer: Not what, who. What do you know about Yves Adele Harlow? Another very long pause. I'm relieved to see the message that she's typing. Ferret: You really know how to pick 'em, don't you? Lord_Manhammer: She picked us. Apparently. Ferret: She hack you? Lord_Manhammer: Duh! Ferret: Not someone you want to mess with. Lord_Manhammer: Obviously. Ferret: She's got skillz. Lord_Manhammer: We figured that out already. Who's she working for? Ferret: Yves only works for one person, and that's whoever's the highest bidder. Lord_Manhammer: Can you find out who she's working for? Ferret: That's your job. I'm in the middle of a game, which you so rudely interrupted. Lord_Manhammer: Well, we're in the middle of getting our asses messed up. Ferret: Occupational hazard. Lord_Manhammer: Got her real name? Ferret: What makes you think that's not her real name? Lord_Manhammer: We're just guessing. Ferret: You and me both. Find out who she's working for. That's your only bet. Now if you'll excuse me, it's my turn to go again, and I'm not in the mood to lose another round. "That was useless," I sniff. She didn't tell us much more than we already knew. "She did indicate that this was someone definitely in it for the money," Byers comments. "Her and everyone else," I snort. Who isn't in it for the money? Oh, right. I forgot. Our bank balance generally suggests that we're not. "We got her story, right?" Langly asks, yawning desperately. "We did," Byers assures him. "Didn't even have to decrypt it." "Well, duh. It's not like Sandridge would have a clue about little things like that," Langly sneers. "What are we going to do about Harlow?" I ask. "Whaddya think we're gonna do? We're gonna hack her back," Langly snaps, returning to his keyboard. "I'm not about to let some hacker bitch outdo me." "You think that's wise?" I ask, expecting Byers to back me on this one. "In this case, I think it's our only choice," Byers answers, to my chagrin and surprise. "And we've got a story to get out," I sigh. "Let's get to press." *** By late morning, we have the story ready to print. We've unsuccessfully tried to retrace Yves Adele Harlow's steps. "Let's put a rush on this," Byers says as we finish the layout and putting the edition to bed. "We'll have to pay the printer double. It's Sunday." "I think it's worth our while." "I think this whole thing sucks, and lemme tell you, if I didn't need to get back to Deb's so bad, I'd hunt down Hacker Bitch Barbie and kill her," Langly rants. "Fact, I'm taking my laptop." "Just be careful." I know he's secured the phone lines in Deborah's apartment, but even with our setup, we're apparently vulnerable. We're going to have to do something about that, but such tasks are best performed when one is more than barely conscious. Byers has an opening and doesn't miss it. "I guess you're not getting much action from Deborah, are you?" He winks at Langly. Langly looks as if he's about to throw the laptop at Byers' head. "Fuck you." "No, he wants Sari to do that." And I don't care how he reacts. I'm tired and punchy and he deserves it. "Fuck both of you with a chainsaw. Anyway, I'm due at brunch in an hour. I really don't want to look as if I've been up all night," Byers hisses through clenched teeth. "Ah, yes, interview with the in-laws," I hassle him. Byers looks as if he could issue a square one to me in the jaw right now. Instead, he simply glares at me and says, "Are you going to the printer or not?" BYERS: One quick thing to do before hitting the restaurant with Sari and her family: a dropoff to Dr. O'Casey. I should have phoned in advance but don't feel comfortable discussing it, so I'll simply drop it off at the address Sari gave me. It's a bit nerve wracking that no one answers the door for several minutes, and when it is finally opened, it's by a young, shapely woman wearing nothing but a towel. "Sorry you missed your chance to conserve water," she winks at me seductively. I want to ask her if she's cold dressed like that but the temperature is already in the mid-90s. "I'm sorry, but I was under the impression Dr. O'Casey was here." I try to maintain some sense of composure. "Oh, he's here." Another attractive young girl, clad in only her lingerie, comes up behind Towel Girl, giggling every inch of the way. "Seanie-poo! Some stiff here to see you!" She chimes out. "Would you like to come in?" Towel Girl asks obligingly. "Uh -- no, I don't think that will be necessary," I stammer. Seanie-poo? Please. A night of coffee and what I'm carrying in my pocket is already giving me indigestion. Sean appears a few moments later, clad only in a pair of Mickey Mouse boxers. I shake my head. "Come now, Byers, I've got nothing you haven't seen before. Or perhaps not?" He winks at me. I am not in the mood for his shit, not at any time, but especially not right now. "I have what you asked for. We're going to press. You have first publication rights." I thrust a jewelcase containing a CD-ROM into his hand. "Thank you for your help." I hurry off, but he calls after me. "Sure you don't want to come in and play? These girls could make you the sandwich of a lifetime." "Thank you, but I'm already late for lunch." LANGLY: When I get to Deb's, she's conked out on the sofa. Rae's watching cartoons. Cool. Rae's a lot easier than her folks to get along with. "I love Anime," she admits, kind of embarrassed. "Cool." I kind of like Anime myself, but this way, she won't mind if I hook up and do some work. "You working?" She asks me, not like suspicious or anything. "Yeah." On nailing Hacker Bitch Barbie and her pal Kate Sandridge to the wall. "Deborah says you're a journalist." "Yep." That, and a few other things we won't go into here. Rae watches Anime, Deb snoozes away with her feet in my lap, and I keep scanning and breaking down firewalls and jamming routers. At this point, I'll settle for revenge any way I can get it. You don't go around harming my girl and get away with it. And I don't care if you're an accessory and not the main player. You're dead, whoever you are. Two hours of hammering away, and finally -- "Got her!" Rae looks at me a little strange, but doesn't say anything except, "Would you like some lunch?" FROHIKE: I really should give up the cell phone. No sooner do I get into Spies R Us and it jangles, especially my nerves. "What?" I bellow into it. "I got her!" It's Langly. "Got who?" "Harlow!" "You're kidding." "Say it." "No." "Say it!" "I'm busy right now!" And with that, I click off. The story is now at the printer's. This is ordinarily a coup. Right now, I couldn't feel a whole lot worse. The story of our careers, and I don't even feel like celebrating. Maybe I need a trip to Fry's. That should cheer me up. Yes. Fry's. And turning off the phone might help as well. BYERS: "Delicious lunch. Thank you very much for inviting me," I say to Hilda and Mark, trying not to yawn as I do. "We hope to see you again," Hilda says, rising up to give me a kiss on each cheek. "Be well," Mark shakes my hand. Sari and I step into the light of day. "Why don't you stay with your family? I'm very tired, really. All I want to do is go home and rest for a while," I tell her. "I'm quite aware you're tired. That's why I'm driving you home." "I can manage the Metro. Really, it's not a problem." "Maybe not for you, but for me, well, friends don't let friends take the Metro when they're exhausted. Come on," she coaxes me, and I follow. "I don't want to take you away from your parents when they're only here such a short time." "I'll meet them back at Devi's after I take you home. Will you be joining us for dinner? You know you're invited." Sari's parents have invited me to dinner at the home of a friend of theirs from American University. Under any other circumstances, I'd accept, but I'm beyond tired, and not much up for socializing after what we've been through. "Sari, I'd love to, but I'm pretty useless." "I can see you're exhausted." "I don't want to be rude to your parents." "Trust me, they understand completely." It's probably a good thing she offered to transport me, because as soon as the engine starts, I'm asleep, and I don't wake up until I hear her let out a shriek. "John! Wake up!" I'm having a hard time becoming conscious again, despite her entreaties. "What is it?" "John, I do have the right address, don't I?" I look up, blinking. I glance at the street around me, and yes, it's our street, all right. The only thing is, where our house should be, is blazing flames and smoke. "OH SHIT!" End part 19 Things Undone 7: In Love and Black Ops, part 20 of 20 by Erynn & Sally Disclaimers in part 01 ______ "There are those who have discovered that fear is death in life, and have willingly risked physical death and loss of all that is considered valuable in order to live in freedom." ~~Virginia Burden Tower -- The Process of Intuition~~ ______ BYERS: Jesus Christ. "Mel!" I can't help it. I just shout into the air. He could still be in there. "Where's Mel?" "Oh, gods," Sari whispers. She starts running toward the house. I follow her. There's no way I'm letting her go in there. God knows she would. We're stopped by an officer as we get closer. "What do you think you're doing?" he asks. "Mel!" Sari shouts, pointing to the house, struggling to run closer. We hold her back. "I live here," I tell him, breathless. "One of my roommates was in there. Melvin Frohike. Have you seen him?" I gesture. "Short guy, middle aged, balding. He's got glasses." The officer shakes his head. "No, haven't seen anyone answering that description, and the firemen didn't bring anyone out." "Oh, no." I feel my knees wobble, but I won't fall down. I won't. Sari's got me by the arm now, holding tight, tears streaming down her face. "No, Mel..." "You got any idea what could have happened here?" the officer asks. I do, but nothing I want to share with law enforcement right now. "No. I need to find out if Mel was in there." "Had any wiring problems?" "No. I need to find Frohike!" "Got any enemies?" Only enough to paper a wall. "My roommates and I... we're investigative journalists." I can barely think, I'm so worried. "Please, we need to talk to someone who's been in there. I need to know if Mel was in there. He might have been asleep." He asks me a few more questions regarding my whereabouts during the previous hours before he directs me to the firemen's supervisor. I know this is the sort of thing Langly gets tetchy about, but I understand it as being part of his job. Furthermore, this is not the time to alienate the man. We need him on our side if we're ever to prove this was arson, which it is. I can only imagine how Mulder and Scully felt when their office went up in flames. Everything you have, everything you work for, and in our case, our home. God, what if Mel was in there? I need to stop watching, need to talk to the supervisor, and yet I can't. It's the same morbid fascination one feels watching a horrible accident. As the flames billow towards the sky, crusted by thick black smoke, my fear and anger burn in similar fashion. "I should have just left the story alone," I shake my head at Sari. She looks at me, questioning. "You think it's that?" "I know it's that. Look at everything. Our home burnt down. Deborah shot. Mel... god, what if he's in there? What's next?" I almost blurt out, "you," but stop there. I don't think my mind should go there right now. I'm momentarily distracted by a ruckus at the end of the block. The entrance to the street has been blocked off, and someone is arguing loudly with the officers stationed there. It's Frohike. "Oh, thank god!" I run over to him, Sari right on my heels. FROHIKE: "Whaddya mean, I can't enter? I live here!" The officer is barricading the street because of a house fire. Sadly, it's our house. "Your license says you live elsewhere." "That's because I haven't had time to get to the DMV yet!" Well, okay. I haven't bothered to hack the DMV. You think I'd go stand in line with the great unwashed when I can do it from the comfort of my ergonomic chair? In this case, putting off till tomorrow what I should've done a number of yesterdays ago isn't helping my cause. "Frohike! Thank God you're all right!" Byers is there with Sari close behind him, and I'm not sure if I'm relieved or even more freaked out. "Tell him to let me in, Byers." He looks at the cop. "He lives here." "Fine. But leave your car here." I'm about to protest but think better of it. Byers throws his arms around me, and he's shaking like a leaf. Sari looks just about as bad. "Frohike, you were right. I should have left it alone." I back away from him. "Save it. We all decided to go in on it. So quit hogging all the guilt." Byers actually looks chastened for the moment, although I suspect this is unlikely to be a lasting situation. We head back to the curb across the street from the charred, flaming monstrosity that was once our monstrosity. The officer questions me as to my whereabouts. "I was enjoying a little retail therapy," I explain. He has a confused expression. Clearly not the brightest bulb in the socket. "I went shopping, if you must know." "Where were you shopping?" "Electronics stores," I mumble. No need to explain that one of my stops involved heavily damaging my Visa account at Spies R Us. Retail therapy. It's not just for women. I was feeling pretty damned good till I turned the corner here. I'd love to say it's a new miserable experience, but alas, it seems to be the story of our lives. Talulah, our neighbor, has been talking with the police. She comes over to us when they've apparently finished with her. "Mr. Frohike, I coulda sworn there was a bomb going off," she shakes her head. "Real loud like, this boom, and then, whoosh! Place is burning up." I shudder, not so much at her description but at the knowledge that in all likelihood, it was a bomb, but I don't say that to her. Talulah's lived on this street since she was a girl. "'Hood's gone to hell," she mumbles. "First the dopers at the 7-11, then the gangs, now this. It ain't right. I been living here since I was this high, and used to be a place where you could raise a family. Now..." she sweeps her arm across the scenery, "my granddaddy would roll in his grave seeing what be happening." "I'm sorry, Talulah," I apologize to her, and I mean it. She's in her 50s, takes care of her grandbabies and a bunch of other kids. She brings us sweet potato pies when she bakes. I feel guilty for adding to urban blight. She's always been suspicious of our occupation. She considers journalists slightly less acceptable than the crack dealers, but a notch above the gang shooters. On the other hand, all of us are above the police. I don't think she spoke with them voluntarily. Not only does this destroy our home, but it's a blight on a neighborhood that the locals are struggling vainly to hold on to vestiges of. "Makes you wonder if it's worth it," she mutters crossly, echoing my thoughts exactly. "We'd better notify Langly," Byers jolts me back to earth, and the destruction before us. Babylon being destroyed couldn't have felt worse than this. I pick up my cell, reluctantly, and dial Deborah's house. The phone is answered by her sister. "Hold on," she says politely. She returns a moment later. "Sir, he says he'll call you when Battlebots is over." "Tell him to get his sorry ass on the line now!" I bellow, more harshly at her than intended. Bad move. I wait until the surly voice pops on. "This better be fucking good!" "You wish. Get your ass over here right now, Blondie." "You interrupted Battlebots!" "Yeah, well, right now that should be the least of your worries." "Look, I'm so not in the mood for any interstellar warp drives or people with automatic weapons..." "Langly, the house burned down!" Silence. I always wanted to leave the kid speechless. Now I know why they say be careful what you wish for. When he does recover composure, he's a lot more subdued. "On my way." *** LANGLY: Christ, can my life get any worse? Bad enough that Deb took a bullet. And she took it for us, and that makes it even worse. Now somebody's brought the house down. Fuck. I pull up and Byers is there. "I didn't think you'd updated your license yet," he tells me. "Fuck that -- oh man!" It's not just a fire. The place is totally torched. Majorly. My CD collection. My Ramones poster. My brand new computers. My Disney movies. Like, gone. "Hey, I had nothing to do with this!" I hiss at Frohike, who should probably be making some snide comment about my wiring talents at this point. Except he looks too bummed. He just says, "Save it, Blondie," like he doesn't even really mean it. "Guess they're not gonna be able to save anything." I don't believe this. We finally have a place that's decent enough to bring women to, and this is what happens. "We should be able to get the safe, at some point," Byers says quietly, so that no one else can hear. "What about the data?" Frohike pats the pocket on his Godawful Hawaiian shirt. "Got it here." "We should never have gotten involved in this," Byers is doing his lament. "I'm so sorry, guys." Jesus, that pisses me off. "Byers, you asshole, quit acting like it's all on you! I mean, it's Deb that took the hit! You think I wasn't gonna follow it down?" We stand there, not saying anything. This is just too weird. "Don't suppose this is a good time to tell you, but I hacked Harlow," I tell them. Frohike and Byers both stare at me, hard. They've got their eyes wide open. "Well, hell, don't act so surprised or anything! You know my kung fu's best." "What time did you hack her?" "Few hours ago." Oh shit. She probably got my footprint -- no. No way. That was as clean as it gets. A virgin doesn't get cleaner than that. "You saying that was a bad idea?" Frohike looks about a hundred years old. "Haven't heard any good ideas yet. Not in a while." The cops want to talk to me. No, I'm not gonna say anything. I mean, they're cops. Like they'd get it or something. Even the cops we drink with at the Limerick, I wouldn't put this on 'em. They're cool dudes but they're still cops. They don't look real convinced when I tell 'em I guess what Byers and Frohike told 'em, yeah, we do investigative journalism, yeah, we've got enemies, no, nobody's threatened us. Yeah, right. Even me, a practiced liar, had trouble on that one. "We've got to get the safe," Byers looks all, pardon the expression, way burnt out. Frohike shakes his head. "We won't be able to touch it for days. Whole thing'll be hot for days, and we've gotta figure out how to get to it through all this rubble." "So what will you do now?" Sari asks. "Maybe a beer is in order," Byers says tentatively. "First good idea I've heard in ages," Frohike agrees. FROHIKE: "Did you get hold of Mulder and Scully?" Byers asks me again. We're into our third beer, probably only among the first of many to come. "Got their voice mails. Told them where we were." I think I've repeated this at least three times so far, one to match each beer. Langly's been silent the entire time. "So what're we gonna do besides sit here and drown ourselves?" "You got a better suggestion?" I don't. "Well, for Chrissake, I thought you'd want me to get this hacker bitch Harlow," Langly grumbled. "I'm sure we'll need to use her information. Just not right now." Byers winces and signals to Bernie to bring us another round. "I think the big question right now is, do we publish?" "We've already published," I tell him. "It's just a matter of distribution." "Yeah, well, O'Casey better keep his fucking yap shut till we figure this out," Langly snarls. "Sari's talking to him. I suspect she can reason with him." He takes a long pull on his Sam's. "Well, I hope." "Yeah, well, if she can't reason with him, she can probably make him an offer he can't refuse," Langly taunts Byers, who shoots him a withering stare. Please, not now. We're so busy feeling sorry for ourselves that we don't even notice Skinner pulling up to our table. He grabs a chair and signals to Bernie to bring him the same and to put it on our tab. Which, I would like to point out, we can't afford to pay right now. "When do you guys plan to stop screwing up my life? Between you idiots and Mulder, whatever I did in my youth, trust me, I've made up for it." He slaps his ample forehead against his hamlike hand. Langly glares at him. "You didn't have the kind of day we did, so shut up." "Langly, I have days like this more than you'd care to imagine. Now are you planning to share your ideas on why this happened or do I have to get Mulder over here to go on about the life, universe and everything?" "Oh please. Anything but that," Byers moans. "Fine. So since Dr. SaintJohn's unfortunate incident, I'm guessing that you turkeys wouldn't have done anything so sensible as leave well enough alone." "Oh, like you'd just say, well, my girl got shot, but I'll let it slide!" Alcohol doesn't necessarily mellow Langly out until he's had significant quantities of it. "Will you keep it down, Langly?" Byers hisses at him, before I can smack him across the mouth. If I had the energy. "What the fuck for? We published it!" "All we published were the scientific findings," Byers retorts. "What scientific findings?" Skinner demands. "Would you care to fill me in? Either that, or I'm going to find a better table to drink at." Christ, explaining this debacle. Where to start? "Well," Byers draws out the word, indicating that he's rapidly becoming intoxicated, "Deborah was shot right after we, uh, stumbled on some data." "What kind of data?" Skinner's beer is not making him mellow. I signal to Bernie to keep them coming. Byers takes another long pull. "Byers, that kind of heavy lifting takes practice, and you haven't had it. Slow down." I mean, we still need a designated driver. He ignores me as he draws in a deep breath and begins, slightly slurred, "Data for an interstellar drive." Skinner blinks, shakes his head. "You guys are too much. Next thing you'll tell me is that Jack Monroe is behind all this." Byers looks at him. "Actually, we think he is." He gulps down the rest of his beer and starts the second one. "And I thought Mulder told me unbelievable stuff." "We have proof. We had the data analyzed," Byers continues. "By whom? One of Langly's gaming buddies?" "No. Our investigator was Sean O'Casey." "The CERN wunderkind? How the hell... no, don't tell me, I don't want to know. And he was able to verify this?" "He's just waiting for a call from Stockholm," I say. "If he doesn't get his ass shot off first." No one speaks for a long, long time. "So you're going to print," Skinner mutters. "Already done it. At the printer's as we speak." "The public has a right to know," Langly whines. "And I'm gonna get even with this bastard." "Not on my watch, you're not." "So what are we supposed to do? Just sit here and wait for Monroe to come for us again?" Langly is getting very agitated again. "Don't you guys get it? Monroe is dangerous! We've had our best people on him for years, and we haven't been able to bring him down! What makes you think you're gonna do it?" "Maybe we have a better shot at it than you do." Byers must really be drunk to make that sort of claim, right in front of the Big Guy. "At what price? Don't you guys ever wonder if this is worth it?" "Only all the time," I comment dryly. There are barely perceptible nods from my cohorts. Skinner would miss it, but I wouldn't. "So you thought this was worth it." "I made a mistake," Byers says, shamefacedly. "Oh, stuff it, Byers. We're all in it. Remember? It's not all about you!" Langly seems insulted. Byers seems both embarrassed and angry but doesn't shoot back at Langly. Maybe he's had enough alcohol to be numb by now. I'm trying to get there. I'm wondering how much we won't be able to afford by the time I've had enough. Skinner stares at the longneck in front of him. For complaining that we're screwing up his life, he's certainly not drinking enough. "Hey, don't tell me we're late for the party and you guys started without us." Oh Christ, I'd recognize that voice anywhere, the annoying cheerfulness Mulder only displays when everyone else is miserable. "What's going on, guys? You said you might need our help," Scully, bless her, always manages to abate my irritation with her partner. "They've had a little problem with overheating," Skinner remarks in a dry voice. "Hey, not my fault!" Langly pipes up. He's a little defensive about his rep as a firestarter. "What happened?" Scully asks, pulling up her own chair and giving Mulder a meaningful 'if you had any class at all you'd do this for me' look. "Does this mean I'm not going to get the fit Oriental twins you promised me, Frohike?" Mulder winks. I'd like to smack him. Why do I put up with him, anyway? Oh yeah. Occasionally he bails us out. And provides us with some of our more interesting headlines. "Mulder, get a beer and shut up," I order him. With an emphasis on the shut up portion, I add silently. We tell our sordid tale again, this time with a bit more detail, although not as much as we could have. Mulder, of course, grows animated as we discuss the interstellar drive, but his enthusiasm is tempered as we reveal that the house he helped us so lovingly to locate is no longer. Scully has been extremely quiet, listening carefully as she sips her beer, but now turns to her errant partner. "I don't know about you, Mulder, but I smell setup a mile away." Mulder looks skeptical. "Why would you say that?" "Think about it. They virtually led these guys to the files. It's almost as if they wanted them to discover them. That would give Monroe, if it is Monroe, an excuse to go after them." I try to take in what the lady is saying. I'm intoxicated enough that I don't react immediately. It's almost too much to think about. "Are you saying we've been had?" Langly's voice rises in an angry pitch. "I'm saying someone wanted you badly enough to reel you in," she says steadily. The three of us eyeball each other. Shit. What if we've been duped? Not just damaged, but fooled. That's almost worse. Except that usually if you're fooled, you don't lose your house over the deal or have friends shot at. "Someone really hates you guys. And if it's Monroe, and he's surfaced again, you have more problems than you know about." Skinner tosses two twenties on the table and gets up. "If you don't mind, I have work to do. Keep me advised." He vanishes out of the bar. "So what're you guys going to do now?" Mulder asks. "I'll call Sari. She said I could stay there with her and the Cardinal. And the lizards," Byers says, trying not to blush. Moose and Squirrel exchange a private glance that Langly and I can translate, but fortunately, it's lost on him, or he'd probably start protesting out his ass. I'm still trying to absorb what Scully has insinuated. Unfortunately, it makes a lot of sense. "I'm gonna head for Deb's. I'll metro there." "I'm going that way. I could drop you off," Scully offers. "Nah. I need to think. Clear my head." She nods. Langly says goodnight, he'll call later. Byers is on the phone to Sari. The agents offer to take me anywhere of my choosing, but I decline. I'm not sure where I'll go at this point. I think I'll just stay here awhile. Till last call, anyway. "Call us when you've made a decision, or if you have any problems," Scully says gently, laying a hand on my shoulder. "I'm so sorry, Frohike." "Yeah," Mulder echoes. "What're you going to do about publishing?" "No decisions yet." "Hard to make decisions when something like this happens," Scully sympathizes. "Oh, I've made one decision," I announce. "And that is?" "Mulder, I am never letting you pick out real estate for us again!" FINIS