Letters of Transit By Loch Ness lochness@mindspring.com RATING: NC-17 Introduction It's 1999--"The Date" has come and gone, the "Project" is under way, and deadly bees have been unleashed on North America. With the world coming apart and people scrambling to get away from the swarm, Mulder faces fateful decisions about his own role in events to come--and about Scully. Although I didn't read past the introduction of *A Notorious Affair* (I'm not a Hitchcock fan), I must give a nod of thanks to Nicole Perry. About four hours after I read that introduction, I suddenly had a very vivid mental image of David Duchovny and Gillian Anderson dressed up in those gorgeous 1930s-'40s movie clothes. And thus this was born. Only - call me crazy - I ended up not putting them in those clothes, for the most part. Although I regard this as a romantic piece, it's not an MSR in the usual sense--our heroes don't ride off into the sunset locked in each other's arms. While I have the same reservations other fans do about the season four conspiracy arc - a totally separate and distinct creature from the conspiracy arc of the first three seasons - this particular story only works in the context of season four's conspiracy. Consequently, this probably won't make much sense to anyone who hasn't seen *Tunguska/Terma*. DISCLAIMER: This is intended as an homage, not a rip-off. These characters and the X Files universe were created by and/or are the property of Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen and Fox Broadcasting, all of whom are smarter and richer than I. Likewise, all references express or implied to the film *Casablanca,* screenplay by Julius J. Epstein, Phillip G. Epstein and Howard Koch. No infringement is intended. Anybody who sues me is wasting a lot of time and effort, because I'm broke and this story is actually *costing* me money to produce. *********************************************************************** Part 1 "I'm no good at being noble, but it doesn't take much to see that the problems of three little people don't amount to a hill of beans in this crazy world." - Rick Blaine, *Casablanca* July 17, 1999 As little as a month ago, the causeway across to Galveston Island would have glittered like a string of Christmas lights in the night-time sky. But that was before the bees had swarmed into Houston, and the lights had gone out all along Interstate 45, including on the causeway. The bridge was still passable. If one had the proper papers and a working vehicle with sufficient fuel, one could still cross it in either direction. But few people would want to go across to the mainland. The bees were on the mainland. Getting to the island didn't guarantee safety, either--there was no real safety to be had, not so close to the bees, not within reach of the Special Emigration Bureau. But the bees had not been seen in Galveston. Not yet. And for now the concrete-and-steel roadway still loomed up out of the water like the desiccated, twisted spine of a long-dead, giant snake, standing out dully in the moonlight as Alex Krycek crept toward it in the dark. Krycek hadn't heard any reports of bees farther south than Clear Lake. Still, he had taken no chances. He was wearing a black nylon wind-suit with all its cuffs and openings carefully sealed with duct tape, leather gloves, and a beekeeper's hood, also sealed with tape. The getup was miserable in the midsummer heat of the Texas coast, but better to be sweaty than to be hit with multiple, toxic bee stings. He couldn't afford the delay in his mission he'd have if he got stung. He drew his gun as he approached the darkened guard house at the end of the causeway. One of the sentries stepped outside the hut and stood there, his submachine gun shouldered, and glanced at his watch. Krycek threw a glance inside. A second guard sat in in the hut, eyes half-closed, nodding in the heavy evening heat. Drawing a long, silent breath, Krycek set himself to his task. He whipped around the edge of the hut and put two silenced rounds into the chest of the standing guard, who gasped and fell, dead before he hit the ground. The sentry inside died without ever waking up. Krycek took the guard outside the hut by the feet and dragged him into the building, dropped him untidily in the corner and left, the murders already forgotten. Krycek never killed out of malice, and he never allowed himself any remorse. He looked at his own watch--ten-oh-seven p.m. Right on schedule. He secured a rope harness to the bridge railing, careful to avoid the strands of wire strung along the bridge, each wire attached to an explosive charge underneath the roadway. The Galveston city fathers had declared that if the bees reached as far south as Dickinson, about ten miles to the north, the road would be destroyed to keep the bees from being able to use it. The theory was that the bees couldn't fly far enough to reach the island without landing on something--something like the causeway--and that they would grow exhausted and drop into the sea before they made it to the island. There was no real evidence to show it was true. Krycek made sure that the end of the rope hung near the Zodiac raft he had tied under the causeway, then turned to wait for the convoy. It didn't take long. After no more than ten minutes he felt more than heard the approaching trucks coming across from the island--a low rumble through the concrete he stood on. He smiled. They were punctual tonight, too. This bunch was made up of "officials"--the city-sanctioned pirates who drove up from Galveston to ravage Houston's wrecked, abandoned corpse twice a week. Refugees fleeing Houston had taken a lot, had burned and destroyed a lot. But there was still canned food in the city, stocks of fuel and clothing, building materials and auto parts, with no police to stop anyone from taking what he liked. At the outset of the bee invasion, somebody had estimated that Galveston could live off Houston's remains for two years. But that had not factored in that Galveston's population would quadruple almost overnight as refugees fled to the island. Refugees were still straggling in. The causeway from the mainland was closed to all but the "officials" now, but escapees came by boat, by raft, by every conceivable sort of aircraft--some just barely air- or seaworthy. Everybody who could get off the mainland was leaving. Their numbers had begun to dwindle as the bees killed more and more who couldn't escape fast enough--but refugees were coming nonetheless. Krycek waited, hunkered down in the dark, as the convoy approached him. The trucks ran without headlights to avoid drawing attention, but they would stop at the barricades before the guard post. And though the men driving the trucks were city "officials," he doubted they'd risk much to interfere with him. Not even the local cops wasted any love on the feds. Krycek didn't really care about the trucks. He was after the federal car he knew would be traveling with them for the safety of numbers. A pouch carried by the government courier in that car was his target. In the pouch, Krycek knew there were two letters of transit signed by the governor of Hawaii and by Lawrence Sherrill, director of the emigration bureau. Sherrill, the almighty guru of escape from the country, who in effect determined who would live and who would die. Letters of transit were reserved for diplomats, and no local authorities could prevent individuals carrying them from leaving the continental U.S. on any basis whatever. Oh, yeah--those letters were Alex Krycek's ticket to better latitudes. He'd use one of them to get out himself and sell the other one for a fat price. He'd ship out for the port of Tampico, Mexico, and from there to Hawaii, which people said was safe from the bees. He could do a lot worse, he figured, than to be stuck for life in Honolulu. The convoy pulled up at the barricades, the driver of the first truck peering warily at the guards' hut. Staying low and in the shadows, Krycek approached the federal car from the passenger side. *Five bucks says the dumb cocksuckers are so arrogant they haven't bothered to lock the doors,* he thought. He was right. The door swung open when he pulled the handle, and before the two men inside had time to register what was happening or shout, he had put two more well-placed bullets into them. He heard the "officials" in the trucks come toward him, but he didn't look up. He used a third round to smash the handcuff lock on the courier's briefcase, then stood up--hands in the air, the case in one hand and his gun in the other, held loosely to indicate he was all done shooting. He'd guessed right again. None of the "officials" wanted to drill him just for offing a couple of feds. They stood there, warily, submachine guns pointed at him, but as long as he made no move to harm any of them, they weren't going to fire. Krycek backed toward his rope harness, hands still up. When he reached the railing, he shifted the gun to his other hand--the prosthesis--and slid down the rope into his raft. The "officials" never even looked over the side. As Krycek untied the raft, he heard them drive off. **** July 19, 1999 The Galveston airport was small, and like everything else on the island had suffered considerably from lack of supplies with which to conduct maintenance work. Paint peeled on the steel hangars, and most of the aircraft crammed onto one end of the tarmac field, some wrecked or dismantled and cannibalized for parts, would never fly again. Many had never been intended to go any farther than the island, and in any case, there wasn't much aviation gas to be had any more. It was hot, the blinding Texas sun beating down like the rays in a microwave oven and bouncing off the pavement in visible waves. Walter Skinner, feeling slightly parboiled in his light gray suit, stood waiting for a plane. Skinner had learned in the army that physical comfort was not a thing to be taken lightly, and so he had found a patch of shade to stand in, just inside an open, broken-down hangar. The hangar's windows were mostly busted out, but no air moved inside the ramshackle building. Just heat, and the faintly metallic scent of engine oil. He wondered what had become of "ocean breezes." None blew this day, that was for damned sure. *Vietnam wasn't this fucking hot,* Skinner thought, though he was pretty sure it had been. He'd just been younger, more resilient then. And it was hard to care about the climate while dodging mortar shells. Skinner hadn't intended to come to Galveston. The bureau's offices had moved twice, farther south each time, to get away from the bees, ending up in Miami. The swarm's entry into Florida had been ugly, people reacting in panic because they were trapped between the sea and the insects. Skinner didn't like thinking about it. He had lost four agents in a riot, and the local cops had been even more decimated than that. Things had gotten crazier and crazier until, in the pandemonium, only about six of the twenty bureau staff in Miami had escaped. Skinner had made it as far as New Orleans, and then had been dispatched to Galveston after a visit from an older man smoking Morley cigarettes and suddenly brandishing the omnipotent authority of the Special Emigration Bureau. Then Skinner had arrived in Texas to find he had no staff on the island, no offices, no nothing. He had commandeered and deputized some local police officers, Old-West-style, by simply handing them badges. When Fox Mulder had appeared out of nowhere, like a revisit from a nightmare long-forgotten, Skinner had offered to forgive his having gone AWOL in Washington fourteen months earlier and put him back to work. And Mulder had laughed. An insane laugh that lived somewhere in the shadows between cynicism and despair. Skinner hadn't asked again. Anyway, Mulder would've been wasted on the sort of cases Skinner's bureau was working now. Petty import violations and the occasional tax evasion would've bored Mulder shitless, and Skinner suspected boredom just would've made him unendurable. As it was, he and Mulder had established an unspoken, uneasy truce. And besides, Mulder had taken up altogether a different line of work these days. There wasn't much left in the way of federal authority, except for the heavily protected SEB, in its high-tech underground bunker in Colorado. Hell, there was nothing left to administer on a national level...except who got out of the nation and why, and where they went. On Galveston Island, Walter Skinner was all the federal authority that remained. And he liked it that way. He could call the shots here--for once in his life, he had no need to check with somebody upstairs or engage in petty internal politics or, worst of all, play two ends against the middle, as it had always been in Washington. The arrival of the smoking man might change all that, and all because some son of a bitch had made a bloody mess of two federal couriers. Hell, it hadn't even happened on the island, wasn't Skinner's problem, as he figured it. Everybody knew going back to the mainland was a risk--apparently somebody in the SEB had considered that sending the couriers to the mainland was an *acceptable* risk. But no. The smoking man was annoyed, and so the world would stop until he was satisfied. Finally Skinner heard the roar of jet engines overhead. The parties he was waiting for were traveling first-class. Skinner had never known exactly what agency, if any, the smoking man worked for. CIA? NSA? It had been explained to Skinner, long ago, that he simply didn't need to know. Neither had he ever known the man's real name. But he knew the man, all too well. His arrival boded ill, and Skinner was none too pleased to have him on the island. Skinner approached the plane, a neat, white LearJet, as it taxied up to the small, empty terminal. Before the plane had even completely stopped moving, the door opened, dropping a short stairway that almost touched the ground. And off stepped the smoking man, with an entourage of two toadies in dark suits and dark glasses, radio earphone cords curling down their necks, both of them lugging briefcases and computers. Skinner did not have to check out the tailoring of their jackets to know they had guns on their hips. The smoking man paused long enough to cup his hand against the hot wind stirred by the jet's engines while he rasped the wheel on his Zippo lighter. His heavily lined face sagged briefly as he bent to light his Morley. When he straightened, he blew a plume of smoke and got right to the point. "I want those papers back," he said bluntly, as they headed toward Skinner's waiting car. "The classified material the couriers were transporting when they got hit." "The letters of transit?" Skinner said coolly. *What did you think, that I wouldn't bother trying to find out what they were carrying?* The smoking man's dark eyes narrowed. "Efficient as ever," he said softly, the words coated with menace. "Do you know who took them?" "Yes. But in your honor, I rounded up twice the usual number of snitches," Skinner said, unable to resist the temptation to aggravate the smoker. The wry humor seemed lost on the other man. "Who?" he demanded. "Old friend of yours. Alex Krycek." The smoking man hesitated, then chuckled. "*That* son of a bitch," he murmured. "He's had it coming for a long time." On this point, at least, Skinner agreed. He had a score to settle with Krycek himself, but the little rat was clever. Even in the confined space of the island, Krycek had eluded arrest. But Skinner had him, now. "What's your plan?" the smoking man asked. "If he means to sell the letters, there's only one place he'll go. We'll get him there, at the Casablanca Club." The smoking man held a silence for a moment. "Mulder's place," he said finally. "Yes." "Your boy Mulder has an appreciation of history," the smoker said. "He's not 'my boy' anymore. And the Casablanca Club is about money, not history. He's making a mint, and technically, it's all legal. Nobody can touch him." "Have you ever seen *Casablanca*, Mr. Skinner?" He shrugged. "Not in years. I don't really remember much of it." The smoking man nodded. "Mulder does." He dropped his cigarette butt on the ground and crushed it out with his foot. "As long as he's still legal, you might tell him for me that it's a dangerous fantasy." Skinner had no idea what he was talking about. The smoking man got in the car, then looked up at Skinner just before he shut the door. "Mulder's got more lives than a fucking cat," the smoking man said. "But he's about used them up. And *Casablanca*--that fantasy's liable to get him killed." *********************************************************************** Part 2 July 19, 1999 New Orleans, La. The bees were moving in from the east, along the coast from Mississippi. There'd been two deaths in Biloxi the day before yesterday, and if the swarm kept up its usual pace, no one would be left alive there by tomorrow. The Interstate 10 bridge across Lake Pontchartrain was closed, and the city was talking of closing the toll road from Chinchuba to Metairie. It was oppressively hot, and afternoon monsoon rains threatened from the west. Dark gray clouds, rimmed with snowy white, prickled with lightning. But in New Orleans itself the air hung motionless, heavy and damp as a wet towel. Dana Scully lifted her auburn hair off the back of her neck wearily, gathered it into a thick hank and twisted a rubber band around it to hold it off her skin. The power company turned the electricity off at six every evening to conserve fuel--only an hour later the tiny apartment she shared with Special Agent Ted Pendrell was unbearably stuffy. Scully opened windows to set up a cross-wind through the apartment. Rain would be welcome tonight; it would cool things off at least a little. It was still light enough to work, though the charge in her laptop would only hold out for about four hours. She opened the computer and turned it on. She wanted the projections, the elaborate plots of the bees' spread that she had so carefully charted. She guessed they'd reach New Orleans within a few days, but she wanted to be sure before having to be uprooted. Scully and Pendrell had been working to develop an antivenin to the bee stings for nearly two years now, but it seemed every time they made a little progress, they had to move again. It didn't set them back completely, but it was disruptive, and it had slowed down the work. Scully was hoping the computer would tell her they could put off another move for a week or so. A peal of thunder sounded, so close it startled her. Her hand jumped, and when she looked at the computer screen, what was coming up was her old Eudora Light e-mail program. She hadn't used e-mail in more than a year. The delicate network that had been the Internet had come apart quickly after the bees had arrived. Eudora had launched before she collected herself sufficiently to cancel it, then a gray dialogue box appeared. "Error getting network address for 'pop.fbi.gov,'" the computer reported. "Cause: requested entry not found (11004)." Scully clicked "OK," and the dialogue box disappeared. She blinked. What was left open after she closed the dialogue box was a mailbox she had labeled "Mulder," in a time that now seemed a million years in the past. Her heart thudded hard. There was one message sitting in the queue from "fwmulder@fbi.gov," with a subject line that read "Lunch on Thursday?" She didn't click on it. That was a very old wound, one she dared not reopen. Besides, she didn't have to read it--it might as well have been engraved on her brain. *How about Casper's, around 11?* It hadn't been about lunch at all. It had been Mulder's own weird code, telling her that if he hadn't made it back to D.C. by Thursday, she should leave without him. The bees had come into Washington that morning, and Mulder hadn't showed. She almost hadn't gotten out of the city herself. She had driven out of Washington at a crawl because the bees had swarmed so thickly around her car that even flailing windshield wipers couldn't sweep them off quickly enough for her to see well through it. She had closed all the vents, terrified that somehow one would get into the car. She had pulled over at an abandoned automatic car wash in Fredericksburg, Va., and had run the car through the steamy water five times to wash them all off. Then she had doused herself with gasoline from a can she'd been keeping on the floor of the front seat and run like a mad thing away from the car, in a panic, afraid that some of the bees would have lived through the car wash and would come after her. She didn't know what had happened to Mulder. She was sure that if he had survived, he would have tried to contact her. He would've found her. Bloodhound to the bone, that was Mulder--if it had been humanly possible for him to rejoin her, he would have. But he hadn't come to her. That meant it had not been humanly possible for him to rejoin her. Because he had gone to Connecticut to get his mother. Because he had gone where the bees were. Because he was dead. Mulder--fearless, reckless, quixotic, charismatic. Dead. Scully knew the kind of torture the bees inflicted before they took their victims. In the two years since the swarm had reached Washington, she had never been able to picture him like the bodies she had examined. Her mind simply would not yield that picture, the muscles torn and the bones broken from the agonizing spasms induced by the bees' venom. The tongue and throat hideously swollen, the black film on the eyes. She couldn't--wouldn't--see him like that. She still saw Mulder in her mind's eye as clearly as if he were standing right before her, intensely alive. The fine, full mouth, the long, straight limbs. An unmistakable, almost feline fluidity in his motions. Clear hazel eyes, alternately bright green or deep brown, the colors of Druids and magical forests. And the last time they'd been together, finally, the warm, slightly salty taste of his mouth on hers. Lightning flared outside, and Scully started again. She drew a long breath to steady herself. What was she thinking? Druids? Well, that at least was a metaphor Mulder himself would have appreciated. *He's gone,* she told herself, and much had changed since then. Nearly everything had changed, in fact. The nature of her work, for one--she was still doing pathology, but not to solve crimes or determine what had killed people. She knew what had killed the people whose bodies she examined now: the bee stings. The only question was whether their experimental antivenin formulas had changed anything at all, whether it had had any effect. And though she was, technically at least, still a sworn law officer, the FBI hardly existed any more. Neither she nor Pendrell had drawn a paycheck from the U.S. government in nearly a year. They were living off their combined savings and what little she could make working at the nearby hospital. She'd felt strange, at first, treating the living again after so long, but she'd gotten used to it. Then there was the biggest change--she and Pendrell. Mulder's disappearance had hit her hard, but she'd had no time to dwell on it. And every time she had lifted her head and looked around, there'd been Ted Pendrell. He'd been a great comfort to her, keeping her focused on her work, on what there might be left to save. Working so closely with him, she had developed a real affection for him. And so, when he had proposed to her, she hadn't been able to think of a reason to turn him down. He was a good man. She wasn't happy with her life--these days, hell, who was?--but she was content. She wondered whether she would've been content with Mulder. No way to know. Not now. She exited out of Eudora. She clicked on the folder that contained her projection program and began typing in the newest reports of bee activity. The program was still running when she heard the front door open. "God," Pendrell's voice called, "how can you be working in this heat?" She smiled up at him as he came in and kissed her forehead lightly. "It's not as bad now as it was before I opened the windows," she said. He sat at the table beside her, then noticed something lying next to the computer and picked it up. Her wedding ring, the plain gold band he had put on her hand six months ago. "You're going to lose that," he complained good-naturedly. "I can't type with it on," she said. "It gets in my way. And I won't lose it. Anything new?" She suspected there was good news tonight--he was in a playful spirit; she could see it in his eyes. "I think we're close, Dana, really close. One of the test cases from Hattiesburg is still alive, and the other two at least died peacefully." "No spasms?" "No." She frowned, thinking hard. "I'm still not convinced we have the dosage right," she said. She glanced back at the computer screen and drew a sharp breath. "Oh, my God," she said. "What is it?" "I don't think we're going to be able to wait for the test case from Hattiesburg." The computer projection showed the bees would reach the outskirts of New Orleans in less than forty-eight hours. Pendrell sighed heavily in resignation. "Where do we go now?" he asked. "Galveston," Scully said. "There's still one ship that sails for Mexico once a week." He inclined his head, his look skeptical. "We need lab equipment--we can't take everything with us. And we haven't got much money left. How are we going to arrange that in Mexico? The exchange rate'll kill us." "We'll have to find a way across to California. We can't go straight west--the bees have already cleaned out Houston. It was drier there; they made good time on their way south." "So we can't go by land," he said. "No. We go by sea." **** July 20, 1999 Scully had planned their escape from New Orleans well in advance, knowing the bees would drive them out eventually and wanting to be ready when the time came. She had hidden the twelve-foot power boat, the same one they had used to get out of Miami with A.D. Skinner and four other agents, in a dark branch off a bayou well to the west of the city. She had kept the gas tank empty and the engine partly dismantled to discourage anyone who accidentally happened on the boat from stealing it. There wasn't much in the apartment that was worth taking with them, and in any case, they needed the space in the boat for the lab samples and what equipment they could take. All she had to pack was a little clothing, a little food, bottled water. She had calculated the trip would take them a good eighteen hours if they could make thirty miles an hour during the night, if the weather held and the sea wasn't too rough. She would hug the coastline as much as she could--the boat wasn't really designed for the open sea, and if they wandered too far out they would attract the unwelcome attention of a U.N. blockade standing off the coast to keep escapees from carrying the bees to other nations. The sun had dipped toward the horizon. Scully made a last sweep of the apartment, making sure she hadn't overlooked anything. As she turned through the kitchen, out of the corner of her eye she noticed a man standing in the shadows between two old storefront buildings across the narrow street. Powerfully built, he had light brown hair and dark eyes. He was looking straight at her, and when he noticed her looking back at him, he turned away and stepped farther back into the darkness. Scully froze. She'd seen that man before, earlier in the day, when she had gone to the lab. He had been lounging in front of the closed-up convenience store, reading a newspaper. She hadn't thought anything of it at the time--there were a lot of people in New Orleans these days who didn't have much to do but lounge around. But every fiber of her now screamed that this man wasn't watching her because he had too much time on his hands. She left the two small suitcases where they were on the floor beside the front door and slipped downstairs, out the back of her building, circled around through the alley to come up behind him. She reminded herself that she had to conserve ammunition. After Miami she had only two magazines left for her service weapon. But when she got to where the strange man had been standing, he was gone. "Dammit," she murmured. Whatever he was up to, it looked like he was getting away with it. God, what if he had drawn her off so that he could break into the apartment? Suddenly fearful for what few possessions remained to them, she hurried back upstairs. But nothing had been touched. She sighed heavily, holstered her gun again, then picked up the cases and headed for the lab, locking the door behind her for the last time. Pendrell was waiting for her, sitting on the big case he used to carry the microscopes. "I was starting to worry," he said, his voice ringing with relief. "There was somebody outside the apartment. I don't think he was just hanging in the 'hood." Pendrell had never been a field agent; it took him a moment to get it. Then he frowned and asked, "What do you think?" "I'm not sure what to think, but the sooner we're away from here, the happier I'll be. Let's go." They finished loading the car. "How much gas have we got left?" she asked. "About half a tank. Just enough." She nodded and got in, and they were off. They could only drive to within about a quarter mile of the boat. Beyond that, it was back into the thick trees that lined the bayou. Rooting around in the bush, Pendrell found the sledge he had used to unload the boat when they had first arrived from Miami, and they hefted the suitcases and lab equipment onto it before setting off into the forest. Scully pulled her flashlight and her gun, and went ahead of him. She wanted to be ready if they had the bad luck to encounter an alligator or a Louisiana panther back in the bush. A little fog rose. The forest sang to them out of the trees, out of the mucky ground--frogs, crickets, cicadas, the occasional mournful call of an egret. Mosquitoes whined in the air. She heard something splash in the water ahead of them and hoped it was nothing more threatening than the slap of a fish biting on an insect. Scully was tired, and the dank darkness of the bayou weighed on her. The quarter mile seemed like an endless, exhausting trek. She knew how early explorers must have felt, venturing into God knew what with nothing to protect them but a flickering torch. She walked on, claustrophobic, following the small circle of light from her flash. Finally she reached the water line and froze in horror. No boat. She swung the flashlight. God, where was it? Had someone stolen it after all? Had it taken some damage she hadn't noticed on the way from Miami and sunk in the bayou? "There," Pendrell whispered, pointing off to her right. She turned the flash, and sure enough--the boat's dirty white side gleamed dully about fifty yards away. They slogged over. Scully climbed aboard and took the gas can when Pendrell handed it up. She filled the boat's tank while he transferred the equipment, then she went to work on the engine, carefully replacing the parts she had removed. "Ready?" Pendrell called breathlessly. He scooped a bullfrog off the rail and stood poised on the bow to cast off. There was a loud pop, back in the trees, and suddenly, the glowing, hissing tail of a flare going up. Another pop, and a blinding light bathed the whole area. "Freeze!" a voice shouted. "This vessel has been impounded by the Special Emigration Bureau!" Scully drew her badge and flipped it open. "We're federal agents!" she shouted back. "FBI! We have clearance to move about freely." "All clearances canceled by order of Executive Director Sherrill!" She couldn't see the man calling to them; the light was too bright. With her free hand, Scully flipped on the switches for the boat's engine and prepared to turn the key. "Why? Since when?" she yelled. "Come out of the boat! No one is to leave the parish, by order of Executive Director Sherrill!" "You don't have that authority," Pendrell called to the unseen voice back in the trees. Scully glanced at him and caught his look--he had finished untying the line on the boat. *Oh, well done,* she thought. *Beautifully done.* She had only to hope he wouldn't lose his balance when she started the engine and swung the boat around. If it started--it had been sitting out here for months. She turned the key. The starter whined, then ground, but there was silence from the engine. *Hail Mary, mother of God...* She'd known it wouldn't start the first time, no way. She tried again. Still nothing. Pendrell seized a boat hook and began pushing them away from the bank. "Freeze!" the voice shouted again. Over the whine of the starter, she could hear footsteps crashing through the brush toward them. "We have been authorized to use deadly force! Come out of the boat, or we will open fire!" Deadly force? What the hell for? There was something very strange going on--Scully decided she didn't want to wait around to find out what. She turned the key again, and this time, the engine gave an asthmatic cough. It sputtered briefly, then died. A flash, then the crack of a gunshot. Scully turned the key again with one hand and drew her own gun with the other. Pendrell'd had the same idea, and she heard him fire first, so she turned her full attention back to the engine. Everybody who'd been an FBI agent had taken the same gun instruction, but she knew him for an indifferent shot. In the dazzle of the flare, he couldn't see what he was shooting at anyway. But then, she had no real wish for him to kill anybody--she just hoped he'd keep them down until she could get the damned engine going. She heard him fire off three rounds before she lost count, focused on the engine. It finally caught and roared, and she swung the rudder around, praying the shots from the shoreline wouldn't hole the hull. A rattle of machine-gun fire sounded. Pendrell had finished off the magazine in his gun, so Scully tossed him hers and he resumed firing to hold the others down. The flare above them flickered and went dark. Scully shoved the throttle forward, hoping they could get out of range before the SEB recovered enough to send up another one. It was a narrow channel, but Scully didn't dare shine the flashlight--it would've made an unmistakable target. All she could do was hope they didn't hit anything. Piloting by instinct, she drove the boat forward, then cringed in momentary terror when she heard it scrape the opposite bank. Another flare went up, but they were already hidden by trees. She felt Pendrell jump down beside her. "Shit," he said, "that was close." "Yeah." "I don't I think I was cut out for this kind of stuff." She chuckled bitterly. "I don't think anybody is. You did all right." The channel had widened now--the tree canopy no longer blotted out the faint moonlight, and she could vaguely see ahead. "Why the hell do you think they'd want to stop us?" Pendrell asked. She shook her head. "I don't know. Especially not badly enough to try to kill us. Maybe it was a mistake--screwed-up paperwork." But she didn't believe it. Screwed-up paperwork didn't explain how the SEB had found them. The man outside the apartment probably did, but how? And why? *********************************************************************** Part 3 July 21, 1999 Galveston At the Casablanca Club, Fox Mulder sat at the table that was always reserved for him, playing Windows Solitaire on his battered old laptop computer. Periodically a waiter would interrupt him so he could sign a voucher for somebody who was cashing in his chips from the roulette or craps tables. So far, the cards on the computer had not been kind to Mulder this evening, but then, they rarely were, which was why Mulder left the gambling to his customers. The Casablanca Club stood on a dock that extended a good hundred feet out into the Gulf of Mexico, supported by heavy wooden pilings. It was garish outside, painted purple with orange trim, and hung with wind-battered Chinese lanterns. At first sight, it had conjured for Mulder an image of a cheap brothel. Not so bad, inside--the walls were a pale, muted blue-green, and the round tables had come with white linen cloths; the decor included live, leafy plants and crystal-globed candles. Big, ornate wooden bar, and a private gaming room overlooking the ocean. When things were quiet, Mulder had found he could stand still and hear the surf beat against the pilings. Mulder had bought the club, then named Jack's Shrimp Shack, from a man who had been desperate to get his family to Mexico. Initially, Mulder had thought of the purchase as a kind of charitable act--just give the guy the money so four more people could escape. At the time, he'd had no intention of actually running the place himself. But the longer Mulder had hung around on the island, the more the idea of opening up the club had appealed. If nothing else, it gave some purpose to the fact that he was spending a lot of time standing in the casino staring out to sea. He was acutely vulnerable to seasickness, but he had always liked watching the ocean. He'd grown up near the sea--there was something about the musky smell of saltwater meeting land that had soothed the emptiness in him just a little. After the bee invasion, Mulder had found himself without any real purpose for the first time in his life. The conspiracy had won, and there wasn't a damned thing he could do about it. He hadn't been good enough, hadn't been fast enough, to stop them. And everybody he'd cared about was gone. By the time he'd landed on Galveston, he'd been stagnant, defeated, exhausted. Unwilling to devote the energy to finding a new purpose. So what the hell--why not just run the damned bar until the bees forced him out? His friends the "Lone Gunmen," who had come to Galveston with him, had joined in, unasked. One day they'd just showed up and started working, Langly at the bar, Byers as maitre'd and bookkeeper, and Frohike playing deejay, chatting up the ladies and putting his paranoia to work keeping track of who was snitching for whom. Mulder couldn't decide whether they reminded him more of the Three Stooges or the Three Musketeers. There was a noisy bunch in the casino tonight--the incident on the causeway had everybody churned up with excitement. Rumor had it the couriers had been minions of the Special Emigration Bureau, and everybody was wondering what it would mean, whether the SEB would crack down. It was hard enough now to get off the island and go south or west, to areas where the bees hadn't arrived yet--a blockade of U.N. warships standing off the coast had orders to turn back anyone trying to leave the country, in an effort to stop the spread of the bees to other nations. The warships weren't kidding, either. They'd sunk dozens of vessels in the last two years, everything from freighters to dinghies. The only way to get past that blockade was either to run one Christ-almighty risk or to have the right papers. If the SEB tightened up on emigration requests even more than they had, that could make things hellish on the island. The crowding was miserable already, driving the cost of housing stratospheric. Supplies were sparse and expensive. Mulder couldn't remember the last time he had eaten a real egg. And for the SEB to tighten up was likely to drive up the crime rate, too. Mulder knew that a motley array of cutthroats and thieves sold papers in the darker corners of the island, including at his own Casablanca Club, both real documents stolen from God knew where and forgeries, some painstakingly accurate, some criminally sloppy. Mulder was out of the law enforcement business, and he didn't care what his customers did as long as they were discreet enough not to leave any blood and guts on the bar. He suspected he would've looked the other way even if he had been carrying a badge--people were desperate to get out, and with reason. Mulder knew all too well how good a reason. So he just stayed away from that group of tables over there beyond the roulette wheel. It was none of his business who bought or sold what, or what assignations were made in whispers and for what purpose. He had scrupulously avoided getting involved in illegal papers himself. His former boss, Walter Skinner, was basically the only law left on the island, and Mulder was careful not to provoke him in a way the A.D. couldn't ignore. Skinner had been reasonable enough to define his jurisdiction narrowly, regarding peccadilloes like gambling as beneath his notice. But he would only overlook so much. Mulder moused a card down on the computer screen, then looked up at the sound of a voice louder than the background noise. Someone at the door into the casino was shouting, giving the doorman trouble. And while Casey, the bouncer with arms like King Kong's, was trying to deflect the man doing the shouting, Mulder saw someone else ooze past into the casino. *Shit,* Mulder thought, looking at the lithe, dark man who had slipped through the doorway. It was Alex Krycek. Mulder sighed. He got up and went to the door. "What's the problem?" he asked Casey. The man who had been shouting made a flourish of withdrawing a calling card from the inside jacket pocket of an immaculate black tuxedo. Mulder only saw three words: Special Emigration Bureau. He closed his fist around the card, crumpling it into a ball. "This is a private room," he said. "Now, look here," tuxedo said, "I represent--" "I know what you represent," Mulder said coolly. "It's a private room. You want a drink, pay cash at the bar. Federal scrip's no good here. You don't like it, take a hike." "I'll report this," tuxedo hissed. "You do that." Mulder turned his back and headed for his table. As he passed Krycek said, "A casual observer might think you'd been doing this all your life." Mulder shrugged. "I'm likely to be doing it the rest of my life." He sat down. Krycek signaled a waiter and ordered a Scotch-and-water. "Join me?" he asked. There was an almost-manic gleam in Krycek's blue eyes. Now what the hell was he so good-natured about? Mulder gave him a steady, expressionless glare that meant "not only no, but hell, no." Krycek shrugged. He grinned. "Why don't you just kill me, Mulder? We both know you want to." How true. Mulder allowed himself a tiny, cold smile. "Too public," he said. "Besides I'm taking too much pleasure in watching you crawl on your belly trying to survive the living hell you helped create." When Krycek had first showed up, Mulder had wanted to tear him limb from limb, but over the intervening months his anger had worn down--these days he and Krycek were just two rats who had happened to end up in the same cage. But he had no desire to socialize with the man who had murdered his father. Krycek laughed. "I know you hate me," he said. Mulder felt a tingle of annoyance flare at the back of his neck. *You don't know shit about me, Alex.* He squelched it. Krycek was up to something, and he wanted to know what it was. He held his silence, waiting the other man out while the drink was served. "Hear about those poor bastards on the causeway?" Krycek asked over the rim of his highball glass. Mulder turned back to his computer, feigning indifference. He dragged a black seven down onto a red eight. "Somebody saved them the bee stings," he said. "Hell, they were just doing their job." "Dirty job." "Filthy," Krycek agreed. "You really hate what I do, don't you? Look, these people are desperate to get off this island. I get them off of it." "Yeah, you're a saint. Your going rate these days is what...a quarter million a head?" "No ups, no extras. Same rate for kids. Hey, I'm getting out people the SEB would never let go of." "So they get to Mexico, but they're broke when they ground. They can't afford to go any farther, and it's just postponing the inevitable--the bees will get there eventually." "Well, I'm getting out," Krycek said, his face suddenly darkly moody. "I'm getting out for good. And not just to Mexico, either. I'm about to make a deal that'll have me surfing in Hawaii inside a week." "Hey, maybe I will kill you, then--while there's still time." Krycek grinned wolfishly. "You don't have the ice in your belly for murder," he said. "The truth is, Mulder, you're a fucking boy scout. You're not going to kill me. You've got New England prep-school morality oozing out your ass." Mulder allowed himself a mental image of the satisfying crunch of bone and tooth his fist would cause if it slammed into Krycek's mouth. He smiled icily and said nothing. "That's the reason why you're the only living soul on this island I trust," Krycek said. "Fuck," Mulder said, annoyed. "I had a very tasty shrimp dinner over at Matheson's, Krycek. Make me throw it up, and I'll cancel your credit at the roulette table." "No, it's true. You don't take federal scrip, you don't let the SEB come in here and eavesdrop on the innocent, you don't move contraband--and you could launder some major shit through this place, without attracting any notice. You flirt with sin, but you're still a virgin." "Maybe it just looks that way to a slut like you." He was losing patience. "What do you want, Krycek?" Krycek slid some folded sheets of paper across the table. "Ever seen one of those? Diplomatic letters of transit. Can't be questioned by any local authority, personally signed by Sherrill himself." Mulder resisted the temptation to give a low whistle. The papers in his hand were worth gold by the ton. "I heard the guys on the causeway were carrying letters of transit," he murmured. "Really?" Krycek said, wide-eyed. "Where'd you hear that?" "Around," Mulder said carefully. "You know how rumors are on the island." "Yeah. I want you to keep them for me for a couple of days. Just 'til the heat dies down a little." Mulder crooked an eyebrow. "And I suppose I've got your word that you won't roll over on me if you get busted?" "Absolutely," Krycek said earnestly. Mulder laughed. "Fuck you, Alex. I've had my gullible moments, but I'm not that stupid, not anymore. Find yourself another pigeon." "What good would it do me to roll on you, Mulder? At best, I'm still an accessory. If we both keep our mouths shut, nobody's got anything on either of us. We can spend the rest of our lives slurping rum on the beach in Honolulu." "What makes you think I want to leave?" "Shit, everybody wants off this island." Mulder slid the letters back across the table to Krycek. He turned off the laptop. "Not this time, Alex." He went out to see what was going on in the bar, leaving Krycek to his drink and the roulette table. Full house, tonight, Mulder noted with some satisfaction as he walked through the bar. People were out in force, probably because they suspected trouble and wanted to be able to see it coming. Or because they already knew the causeway incident had screwed the pooch and were even more desperate to get away than they had been before. Mulder himself was still considering what Krycek had revealed to him--but more than he cared about the overall result, he was wondering what really had moved his former partner to confide in him. Overconfidence? Desperation? Did he figure Mulder was only the guy left on the island who had enough cash to meet his price for one of those letters? If so, he had miscalculated. Unlike most on Galveston Island, Mulder was in no great tearing hurry to leave, and he already had an escape pod for when the time came. He went to the bar and saw Langly leaning on it, his long blond hair tied back loosely in a pony tail hanging down one shoulder. Mulder inclined his head to see who Langly was scoping, then sighed. Angela White, formerly a police detective in a small New England town, who Mulder had first met while on a case. Strange case, and one he did not much care to reflect on. Langly caught sight of him and motioned, and Mulder approached, groaning inwardly. He was in no mood for Angela. She had short, frosted blonde hair, and she was almost as tall as Mulder, with an athletic figure and broad shoulders. She was dressed to the nines, tonight, in a body-hugging gown prickled with white sequins. She wasn't bad in bed, but then, in bed he had ways of keeping her from talking. When she talked, she whined a lot, and Mulder would as soon have avoided her tonight. But Langly was waving a piece of paper--a personal check, from the look of it. Mulder took it from him, glanced at the signature and drew a pen from the pocket of his white tuxedo jacket. Angela caught his wrist. "Where were you last night?" she demanded breathlessly. Mulder smelled whiskey on her breath. A lot of it. "Busy," he said tightly. He scribbled, "OK, FM" on the check. Dick Matheson could cover a check for a few drinks. "Will I see you tonight?" she asked. "I don't know." She let go and turned her back on him coldly. "I'll have another," she said to Langly. The thin bartender shot Mulder a glance from behind his glasses. Mulder shook his head. Langly shrugged. "He's the boss," he said. Angela slammed her shot glass on the bar. "I said I'll have another," she said. "Not here, you won't," Mulder said. He took her by the elbow, and as she half-fell from the barstool, he caught her around the waist and propelled her across the club toward the door. "You can't do this to me," Angela gasped. Mulder kept pushing her out the door, out to the street. He whistled, and a pudgy Asian teen-ager with a bicycle cab pedaled up. "You're going home," he said to Angela. "You bastard," Angela raged. "I won't be back!" He handed the kid a fifty-dollar bill. "See she gets home safely," he said. "Shit," the Asian kid said. "For fifty bucks, you can have the bike." "Just see that she gets there." The kid rang the bell on his bike and drove off. "You'll be sorry!" Angela yelled. Mulder forced her out of her mind. He turned to go back into the club, and as he swung around, he caught the moonlight glinting off the lenses of Walter Skinner's glasses. *********************************************************************** Part 4 July 21, 1999 Galveston Mulder's former boss sat in a courtyard the other patrons had abandoned because of the heat. Angela was still yelling as the bicycle cab drove down the boulevard. "How long you figure it'll take her to find another?" Skinner asked dryly. "Twelve hours? Eighteen?" "Psychology teaches that sexual urges take on an air of desperation when animals are under intense stress." Mulder shrugged. "She'll have that kid upstairs inside thirty minutes." "You're not suffering any desperate urges?" "I'm not feeling stressed." He studied Skinner's practiced, apparently nerveless cool. He knew the A.D. well enough to see that there was something simmering underneath. "But you are." He hooked a thumb eastward along Seawall Boulevard. "She lives at the Gulfstream Apartments. Go for it." Skinner shook his head. "No time," he said. He grinned. "Too much stress." Despite himself, Mulder chuckled. He didn't trust Skinner, never had. But occasionally he found he liked the man. "You got a minute?" the assistant director asked. *Shit.* This was not likely to be good news. Mulder shrugged again and strolled over, sat opposite the bald man. When he sat down, he could see what Skinner had been sitting outside in the dark watching--the freighter from Tampico, steaming sluggishly toward the dock, its lights blinking against its black, rust-streaked sides. Once a week, the freighter sailed in with a load of supplies and then back out again three days later, carrying about a hundred lucky people who had found some way to beg, buy or steal the necessary paperwork. "You ever want to be on that ship?" Skinner asked. Mulder doubted Skinner had beckoned him just to share the sight of the freighter, no matter how appealing and romantic it might be to watch a ship glide in off the ocean. And the older man rarely beat around the bush when there was something on his mind. But Mulder decided to play along. "No. I've got no complaints about where I am." "There's not much future here. Not in the long run." "There's no future anywhere." "Don't bullshit me, Mulder," Skinner said softly. "You made six runs through the blockade carrying Malathion into Georgia. That's not the act of a man who's succumbed to his own bitterness." "It didn't work, did it?" Skinner shrugged. "Besides," Mulder said, "I was well-paid by the state of Georgia. How do you think I came up with the cash to buy this place?" The older man fell silent for a moment. Mulder waited him out. Finally Skinner said, "You never turned in your service weapon. You still carrying?" He was. Both of them--the .40 caliber Sig-Sauer 226 that had been authorized and the Walther PPK in an ankle holster that hadn't been. "Why would I?" he asked. "The smoking man is in town," Skinner said. Mulder blinked in surprise. "You want me to kill him?" he asked dryly. "Not that I'd object to the assignment." "I want you to stay out of it." "Out of what?" "He's after Krycek, not you. Leave it alone. Let me handle it." Mulder considered this, his thoughts whirling like startled bats in a dark cave. After a moment he said, "You think Krycek pulled the job on the causeway?" "I know he did. And I know he's here." "He is?" Skinner's look was dour--*don't play me for a fool.* "The place is already surrounded," he said. There was steel in his tone. The freighter was disappearing as it headed for the port of Galveston, around the other side of the island. Still debating with himself, Mulder watched its lights wink out, one by one. He got up. "Don't make a mess of my bar, okay?" he said, then went back inside the club. It took all the control he had not to run back into the casino. When he got there, Krycek was playing roulette, and losing at it, judging from the scowl on his face. Mulder scanned the room. There was no one here he didn't know, and he would've known if any of them were snitching for Skinner. He sauntered over as casually as he could manage, then leaned down and murmured, "Come and have a drink with me, Alex," and walked on, back to his table. After a moment, Krycek followed, his look wary. "I've changed my mind," Mulder said. "Give them to me." The younger man's dark brows knit in suspicion. "What's happened?" he asked. "Skinner's here, and Cancer Man's not far behind him. They had the club surrounded before I knew anything about it." Krycek had gone a little pale at Cancer Man's name. Mulder leaned into his former partner's face. "Listen to me, Alex," he whispered. "I don't give a shit what happens to you. If they pull your guts out through your asshole, I'll make sausage out of them and feed it to the gulls down on the beach. But I don't see any reason to let the Cancer Man get what he wants. You give me the letters, and I'll keep my mouth shut." Much as Mulder found the idea of helping Krycek distasteful, he really wanted, just this one time, to make the smoking man squirm. Cancer Man wanted those papers badly enough to come down here himself--just as badly, Mulder wanted to thwart him, even in a small thing. Just once. After all the Cancer Man had put him through, even a small victory...he deserved that, didn't he? He sat back in his chair. "I won't turn you in, Alex. But I don't know what they've got on you. So maybe you beat the charges. Or not. If you do, you get to leave the island. If you don't...well, like I said, I just don't give a shit. Anyway, the way I figure it, you don't have much choice but to trust me." Krycek studied him for a long moment. Then, expressionlessly, he drew the letters of transit out of the inside pocket of his jacket and slipped them across the table again. Mulder put them in his own pocket. Krycek gave him a wan smile. "I'll give you twenty minutes, then I'll go out front," he said. "That way your customers don't get involved." A magnanimous gesture from a man not known for his generosity. But then, he had little to gain now by taking anyone else with him, or by doing anything to piss Mulder off. Krycek got up, heading back to the roulette table. "See you in Hawaii, partner." **** Skinner sat outside the club for a few more minutes, waiting for the smoking man's arrival, gripped by a foreboding he couldn't identify or drag himself out of. He had an uneasy feeling about what was coming--he wasn't sure why, but he couldn't shake it. Shit, it was hot. He decided to wait inside. As he rose to go into the club, the breeze eddied around the corner of the building, and he caught a whiff of cigarette smoke. He turned to see the smoking man standing on the deck, in the shadows at the corner of the building. *Son of a bitch,* Skinner thought grimly. *How long have you been watching me?* "Interesting place," the smoking man said. He drew on his cigarette, and the ash went from a dusky red to a bright orange. Skinner held his silence. What was he supposed to say? *Glad you like it?* The smoking man gestured, the glowing ash describing a lazy arc toward Seawall Boulevard at the end of the dock. "There's someone I'd like to be introduced to," he said. "I don't know everybody on the island," Skinner said tightly. *And I'm not the social director.* "I'm sure you remember Agent Pendrell," the smoking man said, smiling. Skinner's head swiveled in astonishment before he thought to try to control it. *What the hell were Pendrell and Scully doing on the island?* He couldn't imagine. Yet there they were--just coming up the dock toward the club. The smoking man tossed his spent cigarette over the railing onto the beach below. "I would really like to make Agent Pendrell's acquaintance," he said. He lit another Morley. Skinner ground his teeth. The last thing he wanted was for the smoking man to get his hooks into Scully or Pendrell. On the other hand, maybe it'd be better for them if they could see the bastard coming. He inclined his head and led the smoking man toward them. **** Mulder busied himself, waiting Krycek out. He fetched ice for Langly at the bar, made an elaborate show of helping a waitress make change for a hundred-dollar bill. The Gunmen could run the place all by themselves, and usually did, leaving Mulder as the tuxedoed frontman for an operation that really didn't need him for anything but a symbol, a target for any trouble that cropped up. But he had an act to put on tonight. *I'm just running my club. Yessir, I'm way too busy for anything else. Got no time for any ee-legal activity, not me.* The front door got busy just then, as if fate had taken a hand and sent out some subliminal signal for twenty or thirty people to show up at the club right at that moment. Mulder knew better than to question a sudden turn of good luck. He just got to work helping Byers seat customers. But then, out of the corner of his eye, he caught a familiar yellow flare, and despite his better judgment, he turned to find himself facing the smoking man, standing in a small knot of people waiting for tables. "Well, well," the older man said, smiling through a haze of gray smoke. "Mr. Mulder." Skinner stood at his elbow. Mulder stomped down his resentment of the smoker, clamped his teeth hard and asked the A.D., "Table for two?" "Four," the smoker said. He waved off to his left. Mulder turned around and saw them and went into freefall. Pendrell, his eyes wide, flushing deeply across the cheekbones. And beside him, Scully. Scully. Mulder felt gut-shot. As if the whole universe had suddenly canted thirty degrees off level and left him sliding downhill, flailing desperately for balance as the blood ran out of his head. Scully was dead, or at least she was supposed to be. Pendrell had told him she was, almost two years ago, and he'd had no reason not to believe it. But there she was, alive. As radiantly alive as ever. He drank her in with his eyes. She had let her hair grow--it hung down her shoulders, even longer than it had been when he had first met her seven years ago. And she was thinner than he remembered, as if she hadn't been eating well, which had only heightened the ethereal quality of her tiny, delicate features. Her eyes had gone wide, too, staring back at him. She looked every bit as stunned as he felt. Back in a corner of his mind, he was dimly aware of how the tableau must have looked to someone outside himself. He and Scully gaping at each other like two mesmerized lab mice; Pendrell clearly dismayed, bristling slightly and exuding testosterone like some kind of banty rooster prepared to drive off a rival. Skinner and the Cancer Man, clueless but fascinated. Oh, yeah. This was a classic moment, all right. Engrave this one on the old eidetic memory. Proof positive that the human condition was nothing if not absurd--as if he hadn't already been painfully aware of that. Skinner cleared his throat quietly. Mulder forced himself to breathe. How long had he been staring at her? "I think you're already acquainted with Raul Bloodworth," the A.D. said, inclining his head toward the Cancer Man. Mulder blinked. *Raul?* Who did they think they were kidding? He glared at the smoking man and said nothing. "And you'll remember Agent Pendrell," Skinner went on. *Yeah. I remember.* Mulder gave him a curt nod. "And my wife," Pendrell said, his tone a little strident. "Dana." His wife. Why yes, of course. That explained damned near everything. Mulder had known Pendrell had a crush on Scully almost from the first moment it had ignited, but he had never suspected the red-headed lab geek had the balls to clear the field for himself with a blatant, outright deceit. Mulder forced his expression and his tone into neutral. "Mrs. Pendrell," he said evenly, then glanced back at Skinner. "This way, please," he said, and led them into the club. *********************************************************************** Part 5 TWO YEARS EARLIER September 7, 1997 Washington, D.C. The Hoover building had an empty ring as Dana Scully walked through the halls. There were only two kinds of people left in Washington as the bees approached from the northwest--those who didn't have the resources to leave and those who had been ordered to stay. Scully fell into that latter category. She had spent the last four days helping the bureau pack up delicate pieces of forensic evidence stored at Quantico in preparation for moving the whole FBI operation south to the Carolinas. The bees had moved south from Canada, through the northern central plains and slowly southeastward, decimating everyone in their convoluted, seemingly aimless path. They were aggressive and deadly--Scully had never heard of anything that had the sort of 100-percent-guaranteed mortality rate these bee stings carried. They attacked in numbers, in swarms. They attacked anything that moved or made sound. Unlike honeybees, they didn't lose their stingers and die after striking, but could sting again and again. Over the last few months they had moved rapidly and inexorably through the Great Lakes states, then into Pennsylvania, and now were heading into West Virginia, toward the capital. Latest projections showed the bees would arrive at the outskirts of D.C. inside 48 hours. Most of the government big shots were already gone, leaving their frightened staffs to ship office contents south or west and get themselves and their families out as best they could. The bureau was not quite as deserted as Capitol Hill--but at the moment most of its personnel were engaged in local functions like crowd control at the airport, at the port, along the highways. As the city had emptied out, those agents were being gradually transferred south. Scully had thought her partner, Fox Mulder, was in that same "essential personnel" category. But Mulder had pulled one of his trademark disappearing acts two days ago, leaving the basement office at Hoover virtually untouched except for taping up and marking the file cabinets for transfer, with a mere four boxes of miscellaneous stuff he regarded as important stacked on top of them. Scully had no idea where he had gone or what he was doing. She knew only that he had taken off--likely tilting at windmills somewhere--and left her holding the bag for packing up the remaining mountain of paperwork, photos, equipment and just plain junk that had mounted up over the years. She gave him credit, at least, for the fact that what he had bothered to pack was all of *her* things. Each day since his disappearance, Scully had hoped to come back to Hoover and find him down there. She had been disappointed each time. No answer at his home, "no service" on his cell phone, his parking space at work and at home vacant. No sign of him. She hoped Skinner wouldn't find out. He would've been likely to regard it as dereliction of duty. Scully doubted that was Mulder's intent--he had just chosen to interpret what his duty was according to his own rules. Fortunately, Skinner had been too busy to notice. So far. Tonight she opened the door to the office, looked inside at the mammoth task that still awaited, and decided she just didn't have the strength to do any more. What the hell--if the stuff wasn't that important to him, why should she care? She closed the door again and retraced her steps through Hoover's empty, echoing halls and went home. She didn't go past his place this time. He would come to her when he was ready, and it would only add to her frustration to drive by and see his car still missing. What she craved tonight was a moment of normalcy, of peace and quiet, however temporary or illusory it might be. A long, hot bath, maybe. An old movie in the VCR. Nothing too frenetic--maybe something gently humorous and optimistic, like *Singing in the Rain*. Yeah, that was what she needed. A little R-and-R, something to take her mind off things. **** Fox Mulder had been on the road for four solid days, driving to Ohio and back, only catching a few hours' sleep now and then, parked beside the highway and curled up on the front seat of his Buick. The last time he'd pulled over for a nap, he'd awakened to a Pennsylvania highway patrolman thumping his night stick on the side window, demanding to know what Mulder thought he was doing there. Didn't he know the bees were coming? Yeah. He knew. Now he was driving back into a Washington that looked more than ever like one tomb after another - Lincoln, Jefferson and tens of thousands of Joe Blows whose names weren't imprinted on any building but who nonetheless were leaving behind their ruins, monumental and otherwise. As he rolled along a deserted Rockville Pike, it occurred to Mulder that Washington, D.C., was a much safer place tonight than it had been in decades. He stopped off at his apartment just long enough for a shave, shower and change of clothes. He didn't have to check his answering machine to know that it held about a dozen messages from Scully, wanting to know where he was and what he was doing. He had no special desire to spend any extra time at home, and in any case, he meant for his stay in Washington to be brief. He would go to Scully, this time, despite his discomfort with the idea. He hated going to her place. Her apartment had the same shiny, newly minted neatness she fairly exuded. It held her smell, her clean, sweetly spicy fragrance, in its every corner. She smelled the way Earl Grey tea tasted--of warmth, of distant, indefinable flowers. And her place had a softness, a homeyness that one would never guess from watching Scully slice competently and scientifically into a mutilated corpse. There was nothing unfeminine about Dana Scully--her very breath spoke of femininity--but her home was *womanly*. Being there made Mulder sweat. It made his heart race. *It makes your cock hard, you testosterone-drenched schmuck*, he thought. That was the truth, of course. Just thinking about it was making him stiff. And he hated that. Not the erection itself, but the idea that what he and Scully shared really could be that simple. He and Scully were more emotionally and intellectually intimate than he ever would have believed possible between two human souls. He knew people who had been married for decades who had never *fit* together the way he and Scully did. Did he want her? Hell, yes. Who wouldn't? But he treasured the *special* nature of what they had, so much so that the loss of it was unthinkable, terrifying. To turn it into something sexual would've normalized it, made it susceptible to loss, in a way he felt bound to resist, to the extent that he could without driving himself mad. But of course, *that* was the problem, wasn't it? Trying not to go mad while the most delectable woman he had ever known stood so close to him he could hear her heartbeat, while she slept in the hotel room next door, when it would've been the easiest, most natural thing in the world just to reach out, to caress... *Knock it off.* He was torturing himself with it. *Fucking masochist.* Still, it was a more pleasant torture than most. He had a whole menu of things with which he might've tormented himself, and of them, sexual fantasies about his partner were by the far the least painful. At some level, he knew it wasn't his fault that the bees were poised to destroy the world. But he had known the bees were coming, and he had not been able to stop them. Hadn't been able to muster any support for any effort on the part of others to stop them. Just another one of "Spooky" Mulder's fantasies, oh-so-plausibly-deniable. But the moment the swarm had gone free, he had known it was over. The conspiracy had won. He didn't have any clear notion *what* they had won, but it was obvious things had gone well beyond the point where any normal solutions could apply. He thought of a message on his cell-phone's readout, from years ago: "ALL DONE BYE BYE." Yeah. That pretty much summed it up. Mulder had never felt so helpless, so hopeless. He had spent his whole life in an effort that clearly had been so futile it now seemed absurd. His work, his search for Samantha, his life--it was all going up in the smoky flames of Armageddon, and it didn't seem to him that there was a damned thing he could do about it. Worst of all, he couldn't seem to feel anything much about it. Nothing but a dim, numb fatigue that had seeped into his bones. He was still going through the motions of trying to do his work, trying to save what and who he could, but deep down inside, he did not believe his efforts meant anything or had any chance of success. There was nothing left now but the salvage operation, which might or might not work, and which, in any case, was more Scully's line than it was his. **** As Scully drew her bath, she found she couldn't help it, couldn't stop thinking about him, worrying about him. And the longer she worried, the angrier she became, furious with him and even more so with herself. It was so foolish of her to dwell on his comings and goings this way. He was an adult, and a highly trained, well-armed adult at that. Mulder was good at squeezing his own way out of tight situations. He always had been. He could take care of himself. She knew that. So why was she obsessing over this now? Why couldn't she just let it be? Why couldn't she worry about him in the sort of cool, detached way she'd worry about any of her other colleagues? She had always known there was something more between them than friendship, more than service camaraderie, more even than being partners. She would not have called that something love or even lust, but maybe that was just because those words felt so forbidden. Putting their relationship in those terms was dangerous. And what she and Mulder shared was already dangerous enough, for both of them. Nevertheless, whatever that "something" was, it certainly felt as powerful as either love or lust. He had become part of her, and she part of him, almost as if they had physically grown together, like Siamese twins. Nevermind that there'd been no actual, physical joining. Over the years Scully had begun to feel as if she had a missing limb when he wasn't there, and over the same period of time, slowly, the absence of that joining had begun to feel...well, unnatural. She hadn't wanted to take that step, and apparently, neither had he, because he had never made even a subtle effort to veer that direction. And in any case, the bureau bigwigs would've had a fit--some of them devoted a fair bit of time to looking for excuses to hammer Mulder. Give the OPC evidence that Mulder had pranged his partner, and some of them would have been turning cartwheels in the streets with joy. At the very least, she and Mulder would have been separated professionally, and that would have been agony. They both had too much invested in the work to have it disrupted in that way. But now the bureau was coming apart. The nation--maybe the world--was in the process of coming apart. Things were way beyond any concern about her career or his, and it seemed to Scully now that nothing stood in the way of taking that last step toward fusion except the thin air between their bodies. And God knew whether they'd have the chance if they waited. She sighed in resignation and turned off the water in the bath. She picked up the phone, dialed. Still "no service." She paced her living room, her plans for the evening abandoned. Damn him. Damn, damn, damn. The doorbell rang, and she jumped, startled out of her anxious reverie. One hand on her gun, she went to the door and peered out the peephole. It was Mulder. Scully let go of a long breath--half anger, half relief. She unlocked the door, just barely able to resist the temptation to drag him inside by the collar and beat the ever-loving shit out of him. "Hey," he said. His eyes had a manic glaze they got when he had been running continuously for far too long. She doubted he had eaten or slept in days. But his suit looked fresh, and he smelled of soap and shampoo--she'd never noticed any dandruff on him, but he used Selsun Blue like some kind of preventive talisman--he had come over right out of the shower. He flopped bonelessly down on the couch in a motion that telegraphed exhaustion and defeat. She was in no mood to let up on him just for a little fatigue. She stood over him like the school-teacher nun from hell. "Where the hell have you been?" she demanded. "I don't appreciate the way you dumped all the packing-up on me, Mulder--most of that shit is yours, and--" He waved her off. "Oh, forget all that." "Forget it? There's material there that relates directly to a number of active cases--" "None of that matters now, Scully." "Doesn't matter?" "By the time any of those cases could be brought to trial the perps'll all be dead. It's irrelevant unless we do something about the bees." The galling part was, this actually made sense. She ground her teeth. "You have a suggestion?" she asked dryly. "Not yet. But I've got something that might help us find an answer." He pulled a small glass vial out of a pocket and handed it to her. "What's that?" Before he could answer, she knew what it was--one of the bees. "It's dead," he said. "Sorry. I couldn't figure out how to get it back alive." Despite herself, she was impressed. "Where did you get it?" "Ohio." "Ohio?" God. The damnfool had gone right into the 100-percent fatality zone. "Just outside Columbus, to be exact." "How the hell did you manage to get in and out of Columbus, Ohio, without getting stung?" "I doused myself with gasoline, just like I did in Canada that time last year. Don't worry--I've had three showers since then." "That keeps the bees from stinging?" "At least temporarily. I didn't hang around long enough to test whether it would wear off." He retrieved a roll of 35-mm film from another pocket and handed that over, too. "You'll need to get started as soon as you get set up in South Carolina--maybe Pendrell can help, too. Speed things up that way, with two of you working on it." It occurred to her suddenly that he was turning this material over to her in a way that suggested *he* wouldn't be around to help. "Wait a minute," she objected. "What are you going to do?" "I'm going to Connecticut to get my mom." Absurd. He was nuts. On the other hand, it was also quite human and perfectly understandable. Scully had already shipped her own mother off to the Caribbean, where--she hoped--she'd be safe. "I don't think that's such a terrific idea," Scully said carefully. "The bees are getting closer every day, and--" "They're not heading for New England, not yet, anyway. And she can't get here by herself--she doesn't get around that well anymore." Scully sighed. His mother had made a miraculous recovery from her stroke; she was nearly as functional as she'd ever been. But Mulder had a difficult time seeing her that way. He kept picturing her in a coma. Scully understood, but all the same, she knew he was wrong. "All she has to do is take a bus to Massachusetts and get the ferry out to Martha's Vineyard," Scully said. "I don't think the bees can fly that far across the ocean, do you?" He blinked, considered this. "I don't know," he said. "What makes you think they can't?" "They went around Lake Michigan, not across it." He shook his head. "Lake Michigan is farther across than the distance between Cape Cod and the Vineyard." "Then wire her the money to fly down here. It's too dangerous, Mulder. What if the bees get here before you can get back? Then you'll both be cut off, and neither of you will get out." "Well, then, we'll both have to try for the Vineyard, or Nantucket." He was on his feet again, already heading for the door. She moved between it and him. "It's too dangerous," she repeated. "Mulder, she's a grown-up, and I doubt very much she'd want to see you endanger yourself on her account." He let his head drop forward in resignation, then lifted it again to look at her. "If it was your mom, what would you do?" He had her, there. She'd go--even if it meant the hounds of hell snapping at her feet. She sighed. "Will you at least stay the night and get some sleep first? Eat something? You're in no shape for this, and you know it." "I'm all right." "Bullshit." She stepped forward and took the lapels of his jacket in her hands. "I'm not letting you go until you get some rest." She had him cold, now--something about the touch had stopped him dead in his tracks, and there was a deep sadness, a loneliness in his eyes that caught her, too. "I can't stay here, Scully," he whispered. "If I do, I'm not sure I'll be able to leave. I'm afraid something might... Swear you won't wait for me. If it gets bad, you'll just go." She could see how tightly he was caught between his wish to stay and protect her, and his fear that he couldn't protect her if he tried. He hadn't been able to protect Samantha, or his father. That was the Mulder she knew so well she could almost read his thoughts--he spent his life wedged in a narrow chasm that was guilt on one side and terror on the other. Still holding onto his jacket, she lifted herself on tiptoe and kissed him. His mouth was warm, his lips soft, and suddenly he was kissing her back with a passion that caught her breath. She hadn't planned this, hadn't thought it through, and she had a moment of panic. But then his long arms curled around her waist and she found herself unwilling to protest, transported by the sensation of his mouth on hers and her breasts crushed against his chest. *No more thoughts. No plans.* Just her fervent wish to know nothing, feel nothing but his flesh and her own. With one hand she let go of his jacket and reached up to twine her fingers tightly through his hair, to ensure that he could not pull away from her. Then she let her knees go limp so that her own deadweight dragged him toward the floor. There was no romance in it, no gentleness, just the two of them tearing at each other's clothes, and only the essentials at that - his trousers and shorts, her nylons and panties. Then fusion as he found her and penetrated. He was bigger than she had realized, and so hard...just having him inside was enough. She arched her back and came, came with her whole body, grinding against him, her own hoarse groans reverberating in the still room and inflaming her even more. Dimly she realized that he had held perfectly still for her, to keep from disrupting her orgasm, and she felt him trembling with the effort required. Then, just as she began to relax, he moved. His figure was so slim, she rarely thought of him as strong, but she felt his strength now as he thrust with a startling power, withholding nothing, all the force and intensity of him focused inside her. Scully gasped and met him with force of her own, eyes closed, aware of nothing but the fiercely sweet sensation of him moving inside her, driving into the hottest part of her center. He shuddered, and she came again. Through a haze of passion, she heard his animal howl of release. After a long, silent moment, she felt his lips graze hers, then his breath warm against her neck. She twined her fingers into his hair again, gently this time, and held him. Later, Scully would remember that afterward, his tie remained immaculately knotted, as if nothing unusual had happened. *********************************************************************** Part 6 September 8, 1997 Washington, D.C. She had gotten him into bed, after that, where he'd gone dead out like a light the minute he hit the sheets. Scully molded herself against his back and lay awake, not really thinking of anything, just soaking in his warmth, watching over him, worrying she might not have another chance to lie beside him and shelter him, take shelter from him. She knew he feared he couldn't take care of her. And he couldn't, of course, but then, she didn't want him to. All she really wanted from him was what she already had--the certain knowledge that he would fight like hell for her, never willingly let go of her, no matter what. Mulder's affection was hard to obtain, but once won, it was as unconditional as a puppy's. She had rejected him, insulted him, rebelled against him--hell, she'd even shot him--but none of that mattered a damn, because he had given her his heart and just didn't know how to withdraw that gift. He had never given up on Samantha, and he had never, would never, give up on her. She felt him go tense in his sleep, and her attention sharpened. He moaned softly. Dreaming, gripped by some nightmare. She stroked his hair. "Shh," she breathed. He stretched his spine like a cat, sighed, and settled back into slumber, the tension drifting away. Scully knew he was blaming himself for the bees' attack. He was thinking he ought to have been able to do something more to stop it. He hadn't said so, wasn't planning to say so, at least in part because he feared she'd take his self-recrimination to mean he was blaming her. For slowing him down, for arguing him to a standstill, for not believing him, for not having the same willingness to throw her life away in search of the truth. She thought now that he might've been right to blame her for those things. In retrospect, she wished she *had* done more to support him, had been more open to his views. So many times, he'd turned out to be dead right. He'd been dead right about the bees, that was for damn sure. But nobody had listened. She hadn't listened. Instead, she had read him chapter and verse on the Africanized honeybees that had moved up from South America into parts of Texas, pointing out that they hadn't meant the end of civilization. She'd accused him of having spent too much time watching *Them* in reruns on cable. And he'd been right, and she'd been dead wrong. All she could do for him now was give him her love and a warm, dry place to sleep and hope it was enough for him to cling to, despite everything else he was losing. Around dawn she finally dozed, lulled into sleep by the quiet, even rhythm of his breath. **** She woke to find him sitting on the bed, gazing down at her, dressed and ready to leave. He leaned in to kiss her, and she held him briefly, her arms tight around his neck. She let go after a moment; she could almost hear his muscles straining to hold the position. "Okay," he said. "Now you can call me Fox." She smiled and shook her head. "I don't want to anymore." "No?" "It would sound funny now. It's too late, Mulder--you're stuck with your surname." "Oh. Okay, good." He glanced away, his eyes darkly thoughtful. "You didn't swear," he said softly. "To what?" "That you won't wait for me." She put one hand over his heart. "I'm not going to have to wait for you, Mulder," she said. "You're going to get your mom and be back here in record time, and the three of us are going to get to safety together." "Swear," he said. "On one condition--" "No conditions, just swear." "--you e-mail me, the minute you get there, so I know you made it all right, and let me know when you're coming back." He sighed. "Okay, I can do that." She sat up, holding the sheet to her bare chest, and laid one hand gently along his cheek. "You do know that I love you," she said. His eyes were haunted, his mouth tight with anxiety. "I want to believe," he whispered. "What will it take to persuade you?" "If you don't wait for me. Then I'll believe." She kissed him. "Then you hurry back." He closed his eyes, and smiled. "I will." And then he was gone. **** By the time he passed Baltimore, the traffic was godawful in both directions, and it seemed to Mulder that every jerkwater town between D.C. and Boston must have put up a roadblock to stop drivers and check for bees. As if anybody who had bees in his car could drive. Mulder found that his badge eased his way, but still, every five or ten miles, the traffic would stop, would line up. Wait for a state trooper to check things out. It was aggravating as hell, and he had begun to worry that he wouldn't make it back in time. Maybe Scully had been right--maybe this whole idea had been a fool's errand. By the time he reached New York, he had begun to wish he hadn't come, to consider turning around. But hell, he was halfway there, now. The traffic heading south surely would lessen by the time he started on the return trip--by then, people who were going south would be heading *toward* the bees, not away from them. Few would want to do that. As he drove he reflected that twenty-four hours ago, he wouldn't have cared much whether he made it there and back or not. He wanted to get his mother out because it was the right thing to do, but his own survival had not been an issue. Twenty-four hours ago, he hadn't had Scully to get back to. To live for. In the moment when she had reached for him, the ice that had hardened around his heart at the bees' arrival had begun to crack and melt away. Somehow, they would survive whatever happened. If they had to find their way to some hot, dank, primitive corner of the world--hell, Borneo would do, if only they could be together. Or Antarctica, for all he cared. He could live in an igloo, he figured, eat dried fish. He could give up everything else--ESPN, Chinese food, Samuel Adams beer--only, please God, let him have Dana Scully's arms around him, and he would regard himself the luckiest son of a bitch on Earth. He didn't know whether to believe that she really loved him or not. It seemed improbable--could it really be true? The idea terrified him. He knew all too well how painful it was to love and have love snatched away, to have it go sour. Samantha had been snatched away. Phoebe, his father--those loves had gone sour. Scully's affection, in whatever form it took, had become so important to him he was sure he couldn't survive losing it. He would've forgone having her love him, if only it would mean she just wouldn't learn to hate him. All she had to do was tolerate him, and he would be content just to be near her. Still, if for once in his life the fates that controlled such things had finally seen fit to give him a break--God, could it *really* be true?--he was for-fucking-sure not going to argue about it. He would just love her, and thank every God man had ever conceived that she let him. **** Greenwich, Conn. Mulder found his mother locked up tight in her house, sitting in front of the television, chewing her nails and staring at CNN. "Get some things together," he said breathlessly. "I'm getting you out of here." He thumped his laptop down on the kitchen counter, near the phone jack, and began setting up to send Scully the e-mail she had asked for. "Fox," his mother started. "Move, Mom," he said. "Go. I don't have time to discuss it." "Fox, there's nowhere to go." He turned, too tired and frazzled and anxious to get back on the road to care what arguments she might put up. "Mother," he said sternly, "if I have to handcuff you and carry you out of here, I will." Her look was sad, helpless. "All right," she said meekly, and went upstairs to her room to pack. Mulder typed furiously, hit "send," then logged off and packed the computer up again. Only then did he turn to see what CNN was saying about the bees. The swarm was eighteen hours out of D.C. And part of the swarm had turned north, toward New York State. If they didn't hurry, they'd get cut off. **** Under normal conditions, he could've made it. But conditions weren't normal. Twelve hours later the roadblocks were still up. This time the state troopers were warning people not to go south, and the last time he got stopped, just south of Trenton, N.Y., his badge didn't do him any good. "My orders are to not let anyone pass," the trooper said from behind his mirrored sunglasses. "I'm sorry, sir, but it's for your own safety." Mulder noticed National Guard trucks a thousand yards away. Soldiers with M-16's on their shoulders. He decided not to argue. He'd pretend to play along. He'd find another road. If he could get on I-76 heading west, he could hook back up with the 95 into Maryland just west of Philadelphia. Beyond this point, surely, there'd be no more traffic, no more blockades because there'd be no one to man them. He nodded at the trooper. "Thank you," he said. He turned around, and started looking for a way to get on another highway. When he finally wound around and got to the interstate, it was blocked only by a "Road Closed" barrier. He got out of the car to move the obstacle out of the way. But then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw something dark moving along the horizon. "Shit," he murmured, suddenly afraid. He had seen that gray shadow before--it had chased him out of Ohio. The bees. He was too late. **** They turned again. Went north, this time. According to the car radio, the swarm was right behind them all the way. Remembering what Scully had said about the bees not being able to cross large bodies of water, he headed into Rhode Island, then to Massachusetts. Three times he stopped to try to call or e-mail Scully, but he couldn't get through. Phone lines jammed or dead; cell phone no help. Finally, he did get an e-mail through to the new North Carolina office, with all the files he had on what he knew about the bees attached, the subject line asking somebody to please deliver the material to Scully or Pendrell. Just in case he didn't make it, he wanted somebody to have that stuff. When they finally reached New Bedford, Mulder knew they'd never make it around the peninsula to Woods Hole, where the ferry to Martha's Vineyard sailed. They'd have to go straight to Nantucket. Another state trooper told him he'd have to leave his car--they were saving the space to try to get as many people aboard the ferry as possible. Mulder had been driving for thirty-six hours. He was exhausted, and he would've agreed to anything that would get them away. He shouldered his mother's bag and led her onto the crowded deck. He stood at the railing, desperately fighting nausea, as the ferry lurched out into Buzzards Bay. He looked longingly at the Elizabeth Islands as they passed, about thirty minutes later, and then at Martha's Vineyard, beyond. But he reminded himself that Scully had figured the bees couldn't go as far as the Vineyard. Surely they wouldn't make it to Nantucket. The freighter had pulled clear of Martha's Vineyard and pushed on for about ten minutes when the bees struck. Mulder heard them before he saw them, and at the sound, he grasped his mother's hand and headed below decks. But it was already too late. Before he'd gone more than two or three steps, the sky went dark with them, and everything seemed to turn to noise--the insects buzzing, voices shrieking in agony, the sickening thud of bodies striking the wooden deck. Mulder tried to ignore it, tried not to hear or see anything. He kept pushing forward, toward the hatchway. If they moved slowly but steadily, if *they* made no noise, if they could just get inside, then maybe... The first sting hit him right in the face, just above his left eyebrow. For a moment, it was just a bee sting, maddeningly painful but with no other obvious effects, and he kept going, intent on forcing his way to the hatch. Then he was stung again, and it hit him--every muscle in his body went into a vicious cramp, and he just managed to draw one shuddering breath before he doubled over in agony and fell. His mother called his name, her voice sharp and fearful. She screamed. He tried to reach out to her, but his body would not cooperate. His muscles all had knotted, his spine curled until he was sure his bones would break with the strain. He felt his mother fall beside him, but if she cried out or groaned, he couldn't hear it over his own hoarse, tortured grunts. **** Sometimes it was dark, and sometimes light, but Mulder had no idea whether the time that passed was measured in days or hours. He didn't know anything but misery. He writhed on the rough deck, jerked about by muscle spasms like a broken puppet, his head exploding. Violent bouts of nausea, retching so hard he thought his guts would burst out through his throat. Miserable thirst, alternately afire with fever and racked by chills. He was incapable of voluntary motion. He could only lie in whatever position his twisted muscles would allow. He could heave and sweat and shiver. His eyes were swollen shut, and even if they hadn't been, he didn't want to see, didn't want to know. He could smell the death around him, a smell that had become all too familiar to him in course of his work. Mulder was not comforted by the fact that the symptoms he was suffering had proved him right, yet again--he had thought there was a connection between the toxin in the bee stings and the black cancer he had encountered in Siberia. What good did knowing that do him now? Each time sleep claimed him, he went willingly, hoping it would be for the last time. The only thing he had the strength left to want was to be dead so that it would finally be over. God, why couldn't he just die? **** He woke to a sound like endless, roaring thunder, and for the first time, he did force his eyes open. He was looking straight up at a painfully bright, blue sky. He saw the ship's superstructure looming above him, and it seemed to split and waver in shimmering, fragmented shards of splintered vision. A huge shadow crossed him, and then he saw what looked like a gigantic red and black insect hovering, its wings whirling above it. A blast of hot wind hit him hard. *Get away.* Without thinking, ignoring how much it hurt, he crawled away from the huge, roaring bug. Then suddenly he was falling, and he hit the water below. It hurt. Oh, God, it hurt. The surface of the water had felt as hard as concrete. And it was cold, and the cold set off another paroxysm of cramps. He couldn't swim, and he gasped in pain, sucked in a mouthful of water. He was going to drown. In his head, he was laughing--it was so ludicrous. After all this, he'd just up and fucking drown. Something grabbed him. For a moment he got his head above the water, and he saw the huge red insect still poised above him. A figure with dark eyes shadowed behind a face plate had hold of his arm. He tried to struggle, but he couldn't. The pounding in his head was worse. He coughed and gagged, and then it was worse yet. Then there was nothing but blackness and a roaring, and then there was nothing at all. **** When he woke again, he was in a hospital. His head still hurt; he hurt all over, but not as much, and though his mouth was dry, he no longer felt thirsty. He wondered how much water he had swallowed when he went overboard. Something stung his arm, and with a terrible effort, he turned to look. The motion made his head hurt and his vision go fuzzy. The man standing beside him had punctured the inside of his elbow with a needle, drawing blood. Vaguely familiar, this man. Mulder fought to focus his eyes, clear his gray, dusky vision. He knew this man, but he couldn't make his brain work. Red, slightly curly hair. Freckles. Mulder tried to speak. In his head, he was saying "who are you?" but the sound that came out of his mouth was more like "huhhh..." The red-haired man looked up, eyes wide in surprise. "Agent Mulder," he said. "You're awake." *In a manner of speaking.* "Uhhh..." Mulder got out. The red-haired man withdrew the needle, then came closer. "You're in a hospital in North Carolina," he said. "You're going to be all right." The combination of proximity and the voice did the trick. Pendrell. It was Agent Pendrell. "Haaw..." Mulder focused, cleared his throat, tried again. Half-croak, half-whisper, he managed, "How...how is that...possible?" "I don't know. We're running some tests to try to find out." "Uh...okay." He frowned suddenly. "Ssss..." It was so hard; why was it so hard? "Sss-scully," he said. Pendrell glanced away, his fair skin coloring slightly. "Have you been exposed before, to the toxin in the bees' sting?" He had. The "black cancer" in Tunguska had produced almost identical symptoms, and it killed people, too, though not as many, not as instantly, as the bees. "Buh...black cancer. The files I sent. Where...where's Scully?" Pendrell looked at the floor. "Are you sure it was the same substance?" He knew it would hurt, but he didn't care. He forced his arm up, forced himself to grab Pendrell's wrist and grip it with whatever strength he had. "Sss-scully...god...dammit." "I'm sorry," Pendrell murmured, not looking at him. "I don't know what happened. I just don't know. I heard she didn't make it out of D.C., that's all I know." Mulder let his hand drop nervelessly onto the blanket, let his head fall back, his eyes close. He'd known, from the way Pendrell wasn't looking at him, but still it was a shock. Like a gunshot to the chest. She had waited for him. And died. Gone, all of them. Scully, too. Everyone he'd ever really loved dead or gone. Samantha, his father, his mother. Scully. His throat constricted painfully, and his eyes burned, and he realized, as if from a great distance, that he was weeping. That did not matter, of course--nothing did now. God, why hadn't he just died? *********************************************************************** Part 7 TWO YEARS LATER July 21, 1999 Galveston, Texas - The Casablanca Club Mulder led Skinner, Cancer Man and the Pendrells to a four-top table near a window. *Nice view. Only the best for the happy couple and the evil government minions,* he thought bitterly. "Have you a moment to join us?" Bloodworth asked, very correctly remaining on his feet while Pendrell just as correctly pulled Scully's chair out for her. Mulder hadn't seen manners like this since his last visit to the Boston Yacht Club. It left him feeling as if he'd been transported into a real-life Sartre short story. *Next thing you know, we'll all be singing *Auld Lang Syne*.* He ground his teeth again. He didn't want to join them--he wanted to get the hell away from the lot of them and never look back. But it would make Pendrell uncomfortable if he did sit down, and he figured the little shit deserved at least a moment of discomfort. What the hell. Mulder smiled. "If I wouldn't be intruding on federal business, I'd love to." "Ah, yes, I'd heard you were...pursuing other interests. Well, this is purely social." *Bullshit,* Mulder thought. *You have even less social life than I ever did.* He appropriated an empty chair from an adjacent table and sat between Skinner and Pendrell. Where he could get an unobstructed view of Mrs. Dana Pendrell. She was keeping her cool, on the outside at least, but there was a tension in the way she held her mouth that he recognized as meaning she was feeling awkward as hell. She was wearing a beige suit with a mustard-colored shell under the jacket, the familiar tiny gold cross at her throat. Reddish-brown lipstick immaculate on her perfect mouth, as always. Suddenly she looked straight at him, her azure eyes pinning him like a laser beam. "How have you been?" she asked. The warm, low sound of her voice stopped his heart for a moment. He breathed carefully, trying to release the sudden constriction in his chest. "I'm still on my feet," he said lightly. "You?" "I'm fine." What she always said when she wasn't. A waitress appeared, and Bloodworth ordered champagne. Then he turned to Scully. "I heard you had some trouble getting out of New Orleans," Bloodworth said. "There was a misunderstanding about our clearances," Scully said. Mulder heard a note of stress in her even tone--it had been more than a misunderstanding. "Nothing Mr. Skinner can't clear up for you, I'm sure." Mulder saw a muscle flex along Skinner's jaw. "I'm sure we can work something out," the A.D. said tightly, "if you two wouldn't mind stopping by my office in the morning." *Jesus,* Mulder thought. *Sit, Walter. Roll over, Walter. Good Walter. Lick his fucking face, why don't you?* "Sure," Pendrell said. "No problem." The waitress came back with five glasses of champagne, set them down one by one. "How long are you planning to stay in Galveston?" Bloodworth asked pleasantly. "We haven't really made any decisions about that," Scully said. Bloodworth nodded and sipped his champagne. Nobody else was drinking. "It can be difficult to get away," he said knowingly. "What with the blockade. Don't you agree, Mr. Mulder?" Bloodworth knew about Georgia, and he wanted Mulder to know he knew. Mulder shrugged. "It's not impossible to get by the blockade." "But of course you need a boat." Bloodworth gave Scully a slantwise look. "I'm afraid on inspecting yours, we discovered it had been damaged. Badly holed. It was already sinking when we went aboard to examine it." Scully's look was venomous--it told Mulder there'd been nothing wrong with the boat when she'd left it. "How lucky for us that you discovered that when you did," she said. "I haven't tried it myself," Mulder said, "but I'm told if you have the right equipment you can go across the causeway and over the mainland to Colorado." He turned the stem of his glass on the crisp table cloth. "There are still flights out of Denver to L.A.--even to Honolulu--if you can just get as far as Denver." "Well, of course, those flights are reserved for movement of essential personnel," Bloodworth said. "Which leads us to the question of how the SEB defines 'essential,'" Mulder said, allowing himself the sarcasm. "Just what is that definition these days? Mute alien-hybrid clones only?" Bloodworth laughed. "I'd forgotten about that vivid imagination of yours," he said, smiling. "What a sense of humor you have!" Mulder grinned back at him. "Well, we are revisiting old times, aren't we? Don't worry--despite the fact that it's all quite true, I'm not delusional enough to expect that anyone will believe it." "Actually," Bloodworth said, then he stopped long enough to light another Morley and exhale a plume of smoke in Skinner's general direction. "I think it could be argued that Mr. and Mrs. Pendrell are essential personnel. How is that antivenin coming along, anyway?" Scully started. She hadn't expected Bloodworth would know what she and Pendrell were working on. Despite himself, Mulder felt his left eyebrow rise a notch. "We haven't perfected anything yet," Pendrell said, frowning down into his glass. "But we're making progress." "Well, now. That's certainly encouraging news." Skinner got to his feet suddenly. "Excuse me," he said softly. Mulder knew he must have spotted Krycek, but he also knew better than to turn and look. He left it to Scully to notice what Skinner was doing. She didn't disappoint him. "My God," she said. "Is that Alex Krycek?" Now he turned. Krycek strolled through the front door and took a left turn on the deck that extended out a few feet from the building, and disappeared from sight. A moment later he was back in view, now running, with two of Skinner's men hot on his heels. He lunged toward the railing, trying to leap into the water, but the two cops caught him before he went over. He shouted, and struggled, but they had him. "Huh," Mulder said. "What do you know? I think it *is* Krycek. Looks like he's got himself in trouble again." "He has a talent for it," Bloodworth said, his tone cold. "What do you suppose he's done now?" Scully asked. Mulder shrugged. "It's Krycek--could be anything from murder to panhandling." "Does he come here often?" Bloodworth asked, his look suddenly penetrating. The feds had Krycek handcuffed and were leading him off the dock. "I don't recall him ever having been here before," Mulder said. He saw Skinner heading back toward the table. "But then," he went on, "I generally don't have time to socialize with the guests. Speaking of which, I'm afraid I'm going to have to excuse myself, too." He got up. "Much as I've enjoyed this, I have a business to run. Oh, and nevermind about the check--it's on the house. My pleasure." "I think we should be going, too," Pendrell said, rising to his feet. "So soon?" Bloodworth said. "We've had a long trip," Scully said. "We're tired. But thank you both--it's been a very pleasant evening." "I'm glad you enjoyed it," Mulder said. He stood back out of the way while they went past. "Please come again." To Skinner, Scully said, "Is there a particular time you'd like us to come by at the office?" "Mid-morning's good," the A.D. said, his face unreadable. "We'll be there," Pendrell said, and then he took Scully's arm and led her off. "Mr. Mulder," Bloodworth said. His tone was soft, underlain by a hint of steel. "I hope you're not thinking of doing anything rash to help them leave the island." "What makes you think I'd do that?" "It's said you have helped some in the past--paid their passage, arranged their transportation. Naturally I assume you may have an understandable affinity for your former colleagues." Mulder gave him a cold smile. "Mr., uh...*Bloodworth,*" he said, "if I knew how to get off this island, do you think for a moment I'd still be here myself?" "Wouldn't you?" He let the smile die. "The bees flew from Cape Cod to Martha's Vineyard. They'll be here, too, before long. You know it, and I know it. The only thing I haven't figured out is just what you and your army of speechless drones intend to do with the wreckage after it's over. I confess it's beyond me what you could gain by reducing North America to roughly the cultural and technological sophistication of the Bronze Age." Bloodworth smiled. **** Scully and Pendrell walked down Seawall Boulevard toward their hotel in silence. The concrete seawall itself, erected to guard against the storm surge from a hurricane, dropped off steeply toward the smooth, sandy beach. The nightly curfew was two hours off, and there were still a fair number of people walking or lounging along the street and on the beach. A half-moon threw a glow on the surf as it rolled steadily, quietly up onto the sand. Some small part of Scully's mind registered that it was picturesque--she might even have called it beautiful, if she had been capable of caring about anything that far off in the distance. "Are you all right?" Pendrell asked, his voice low. "I'm fine," Scully lied. Her emotions stewed, simmered. She dared not lift the lid, for fear they would boil over. Mulder was alive. How could he have been alive and not come back to her? Come looking for her? Why would he do that? Had she meant so little to him? No, that was impossible. She'd had his heart, his soul, in her hands. He had *given* them to her. And yet, he had not come for her. Had she completely misread what he had meant when he had asked her not to wait for him? Was that possible? *Don't wait for me. Then I'll believe.* No. She had known exactly what he meant. She had not misread it. Although he had not explicitly said so, he had been just as much in love with her as she had been with him. What in God's name could've happened in Connecticut that would have so transformed him? It had been clear from looking at him that he was much changed, and not just two years older, not just the three or four strands of silver hair she'd noticed at his temples. The Mulder she had known had worn his heart on his sleeve. He'd been an open book to her, so easily readable she could almost hear his thoughts in her mind. He'd been mercurial, moods spanning the whole range from manic energy to quiet grief to vitriolic moral outrage. Cool of nerve, but never cold of heart. He might not have been a hero in the usual sense, but he had been possessed of a heroic passion. The Fox Mulder who owned the Casablanca Club seemed devoid of any passions at all. The look on his face when he had seen her had been profound astonishment--but there'd been nothing else she could read in it. No embarrassment or horror or affection or pain. Just surprise. Only once during the evening had Scully noticed the smallest glimmer of the old fire in his eyes, when he had come back at Bloodworth: *Just what is that definition these days? Mute alien-hybrid clones only?* And then, as if the tiny flame were a candle, he had simply blown it out, and it was gone. She couldn't understand it. It was completely unlike him. He might be physically alive, but it was clear something inside him had died. She did not want to see him like that. They reached the hotel room and went in. Scully sat numbly on the end of the bed. Pendrell said, "The man in the lobby downstairs said the freighter to Mexico leaves on Saturday." She nodded. "The sooner the bettter," she said. **** Mulder took his run every night after the bar closed, while the Gunmen cleaned up the club. He went out in plain defiance of the island curfew; it was too damned hot to run during the day. He did his five miles down and back on the beach, dodging the milky-white, gelatinous blobs of Portuguese men-o-war washed up on the sand. The little jellyfish had a nasty sting even when dead and were best given a wide berth. The thunderstorms off in the distance had dissipated after sundown, leaving a clear, cool, humid sky. In the last two years he had spent a lot of his time learning to block out thoughts of the past--if there was any coherent lesson in his life, Mulder figured it was the futility of trying to change his own history. He had spent--wasted, as he now calculated it--most of his life in an effort to undo or correct his own past. To get Samantha back so that things would be right. It hadn't worked then, and it wasn't going to work now. As he ran along the beach, he tried valiantly to focus on nothing but the mechanical, enervating rhythm of his feet on the sand. Just running. Breathing. Futility again. The more he concentrated on other things, the more *she* intruded on his thoughts. Every time he thought he had pushed her aside, his eidetic memory yielded up another mental image. The play of light like dancing flame on her hair. The crisp, competent grace of her movement as she had sat down at the table. Seeing her had, yet again, melted the ice he'd been using to numb himself. He wanted to shove the mind-pictures away, as a child might reject playing with a cat who had once scratched its hand. The past couldn't be repaired. He had gone to New England. He hadn't been able to get back. Pendrell had said what he had said. Mulder had not checked it out on his own. And now it was too late. It was done, and wishing would not undo it. He sensed that the near future held something nasty, though he couldn't predict what it might be. A bad patch in his life loomed ahead, and the last thing he needed was something that would make him vulnerable. He was vulnerable to Scully, sure as hell. No solution to that problem loomed immediately on the horizon, so he went back to trying desperately to concentrate on running. To watching out for the men-o'-war on the beach. He wasn't surprised to see Skinner waiting for him outside the club when he came back. "A little past your bedtime, isn't it?" he asked the older man. "We didn't find the couriers' documents on Krycek," Skinner said. "Tough break. You want a cup of coffee? Sounds like you've got a long night ahead of you." He went inside, Skinner following. Mulder shivered a little at the contrast as the air conditioning hit the bare skin on his face and arms. The A.D. slung his jacket across the bar and loosened his tie. Mulder went behind the bar and scooped coffee beans into the grinder. "Did he give them to you?" Skinner asked. "Krycek hasn't given me the time of day in years." He ran the grinder, its harsh whine loud in the empty club. "That's not what I asked you," Skinner said, when the machine went quiet. "I don't know what 'them' you're talking about." "You've become a very adept liar. And don't tell me you didn't lie to Bloodworth about not knowing how to get off the island." "I've always been an adept liar," Mulder said. "I just used to have better reasons to tell you the truth. As for Bloodworth, I don't like the fucker. Never have. And what my plans are is none of his business." "Are you thinking of giving Pendrell and Scully the letters of transit so they can get off the island?" "What letters of transit?" Skinner smiled. "The ones Krycek gave you." Mulder sighed heavily. "You want to search me, Walter? You want to search the club? You don't even need a warrant these days--I couldn't stop you if I wanted to. Go ahead. But they're not here, because I don't have them, because Krycek didn't give them to me." "Bloodworth doesn't want Pendrell and Scully to leave the island." "He made that pretty clear. You want to tell me why?" Into Skinner's sudden silence the coffee maker gurgled and exuded steam. Mulder shrugged. "They made it this far without my help. Why should I stick my neck out?" He poured coffee for both of them and slid a mug across the bar toward the A.D. "I always thought you were in love with her," Skinner said, stirring his coffee. "You were mistaken," Mulder said coldly. But he heard the harsh note in his own voice--too harsh, and he knew Skinner had heard it, too. "Prove it," the A.D. said. He laughed. "I haven't seen her since '97, and she married somebody else." "That doesn't mean you're not in love with her." Skinner wasn't buying it, and Mulder yielded to the inevitable. "Okay, so I wouldn't kick her out of my bed just for eating crackers. So what? I can't give her paperwork I don't have. And if Krycek had any emigration papers with him, he didn't offer them to me." "Uh, huh," Skinner said, unconvinced. "Look, I didn't kill those guys on the causeway. And Alex Krycek and I are not friends. I didn't know Pendrell and Scully were coming to the island, and I have no plans either to assist or interfere with them." There was a silence, Skinner avoiding Mulder's eyes. Finally, Skinner said softly, "Pendrell's very close to developing an antivenin for the bee stings." "Good for him. What's that got to do with me?" "You're the guy who ran the blockade with a cigarette boat full of Malathion six times--you tell me what it has to do with you." "Nothing, that's what. Public service is your line of work." Skinner's turn to sigh. "I'm sorry to hear that," he said. He sounded tired, suddenly. "I was hoping you had those letters and might be willing to devote them to a good cause." He looked up, and there was a heavy sadness in his eyes. "You used to be the kind who'd fight for the chance to do the right thing." Mulder nodded. A cold anger gathered in his chest. Who the fuck did Skinner think he was, coming across with this self-righteous crap? "Yeah," Mulder said. "I was. And all it got me was a reserved seat down in the same sewer with you and Krycek." Skinner's jaw went hard. "Sorry to bother you." He picked up his jacket. "Don't give me that," Mulder said, his anger boiling over. "There's damned little evidence you'd know the right thing to do if it bit you in the ass--you're still doing that smoking bastard's bidding." Mulder leaned toward him and let his voice go low. "You've got one fucking nerve asking me to trust you. Your idea of doing the right thing has always been to get me to smash myself up on the rocks doing it for you. Not this time, *sir.* If you want to help Pendrell and Scully get off the island, go ahead." There was a hard silence, both of them glaring at each other. Mulder broke it, backing off his belligerent stance. "*If* I had the letters and *if* I wanted to give them to Scully--neither of which is true--you'd be the last motherfucker I'd tell." He picked up his coffee. "And that's all I have to say." "Okay," Skinner said. "I deserve that. But the time's coming when it's not going to be so easy to turn your head." "Bullshit. There's nothing easier than turning your head." Mulder took his coffee and went toward the kitchen. "I learned that from you, Walter." He stopped and turned just before he stepped through the double doors. "Hit that light switch before you leave, will you?" *********************************************************************** Part 8 July 21, 1999 Galveston The kitchen smelled of egg rolls--Langly cooked them in bulk when he could get the ingredients and froze them to eat later. When Mulder walked in, the Gunmen were sitting on tall stools around a prep table, the food spread out alongside a six-pack of Tecate beer and some limes, all of it ready to be slurped down. They stopped as if in mid-breath at Mulder's entrance, Frohike short and dumpy in a black T-shirt and jeans, Langly taking his hair out of the pony-tail, Byers dapper as always in his maitre d's tux. They looked at him expectantly. Mulder shrugged. "Something you want to tell us, man?" Langly asked. Mulder went to the table, pulled up a stool of his own and fished an egg roll off the platter. "The less you know, the safer you are," he said. "But it might be a good idea for you boys to be ready to move on short notice. Just in case." Frohike popped a chunk of egg roll into his mouth. Around it, he said, "Hey, we're always ready to move. We're just waiting for you." Mulder squeezed the juice out of a lime wedge into the opening in the top of a can of Tecate and took a drink. They fell silent again, eating, drinking, keeping their thoughts to themselves. After a while, Frohike said quietly, "She's looking fine, isn't she?" Mulder lifted his beer toward his mouth and said coolly, "Who?" Frohike took his cue and shut up. **** July 22 *How the mighty have fallen,* Scully thought, thinking of Skinner's wood-paneled office in D.C. with its elegant brass accents, its soccer-field-sized conference table. The office here on the island was an abandoned storefront still bearing a sign that read "Lula-belle's Shells" over a hand-painted pink clamshell. Taped to the inside of the glass door was a sheet of white paper on which the words "Federal Bureau of Investigation" had been written. Skinner's handwriting, Scully noted. She and Pendrell went in. Beyond the door, an elderly woman chewing placidly on a wad of gum sat at a small desk that looked as if it had been rescued out of an estate sale. No computer, not even a typewriter--just an old telephone and answering machine. Behind the receptionist stood a rickety, hastily erected wall of masonite, the nails showing up bright silver against the dark brown. Scully wondered if Skinner had put up that wall himself and concluded he probably had. She felt a stab of sympathy--it couldn't have been easy for the A.D. to cope out here all by himself, to adjust to this sort of bare-bones, no-budget operation. At least in Miami he'd had some support. Here, clearly, there was none. She wondered what this meeting was about. Surely Skinner didn't really mean to hit them with a fine for having violated the order not to leave Jefferson parish? She had a more frightening thought suddenly--what if Pendrell had actually shot somebody in the melee in the bayou? The elderly woman waved them toward an unfinished wooden door marked "Private." The moment Pendrell pulled the door open, Scully got a wave of cigarette smoke. She ground her teeth and went in. Skinner had opened a window behind his desk, but there wasn't much breeze, and the smoke wafted heavily in the air. The A.D.'s expression was tense, his face held hard in annoyance. The smoking man sat on a couch shoved up against the side of the office, holding his cigarette like a conductor's baton. Scully tried to ignore him. "Pendrell, Scully," Skinner said. "Have a seat." They sat in two folding chairs placed before the A.D.'s desk. There was an awkward silence while Skinner shuffled some paperwork and closed a file, put it aside. "Sir, if this is about New Orleans--" Pendrell started. "Oh, nevermind New Orleans," the smoking man said pleasantly. Scully shot a look at Skinner, whose return gaze was calculated to tell her nothing--which told her everything. It revealed that he wasn't calling the shots, and that while he didn't like it, there was nothing he could do about it. They'd have to deal with Bloodworth, not with Skinner. She turned to face the smoking man. "Then may I assume we're free to go?" Bloodworth smiled. A lizard's smile, cold-blooded, that didn't touch his eyes. "You're hardly prisoners in Galveston, Mrs. Pendrell." "That doesn't answer my question. If we're not here to discuss what happened in New Orleans, then why *are* we here?" "I'd heard you might be seeking passage to California," Bloodworth said. "I thought we might discuss your options." Scully made a mental note not to ask any more questions of the clerk in the hotel lobby. Either the clerk himself was snitching, or someone had overheard them asking discreetly about transport off the island. "California's certainly a possibility," she said. "It's one of the places we might consider for continuing our work. On the other hand, in the daylight--Galveston doesn't seem all that bad." "Perhaps something could be arranged," Bloodworth said. "It strikes me that the facilities at the headquarters of the SEB in Colorado could considerably speed your progress." "You're offering us a job with the SEB?" Pendrell asked. "In effect." "Wait," Scully said. "You don't already have people working on trying to develop an antivenin for the bee stings?" "At first glance it wouldn't seem to come under the SEB's charter." "You're telling me *no one* has been trying to develop an anti-toxin?" Pendrell asked, his eyes wide. Bloodworth shrugged. "The truth is, we don't know whether anyone is or not. We're hoping to locate scientists such as yourselves and collect them as a team." In the back of her mind, Scully heard an alarm going off. *Why now? Why not two years ago?* She didn't trust the smoking man on general principles, and there was much about the situation that didn't ring true. If the SEB wanted to talk to them about setting up a lab, why shoot at them as they were leaving New Orleans? Why not just, well, sit down and talk about it? Why sink the boat, trapping them here? None of it made sense. Slowly, she said, "Well, that certainly opens up possibilities. But I actually think we're making good progress on our own. I'm not sure it would benefit us, at this point, to have input from other scientists. Other opinions might prove distracting." "Are you afraid working with a team might expose your mistakes?" "We haven't made any mistakes," Pendrell said coldly. "Really," Bloodworth said. "But then, you haven't cured anybody, have you? That suggests to me that you *have* made mistakes, and that, in fact, whatever you have come up with may actually be dangerous--it could lead those to whom you administer it into a false sense of security." Pendrell had flushed with anger. "That's a completely unfounded accusation. You don't know what we've tried and what we haven't." Bloodworth lit another cigarette. "Are you so sure?" "How..." Pendrell faltered. "How could you?" "His spies are everywhere," Scully murmured. "Not very genteelly put, but essentially correct." "Why don't you just come out with it?" she asked. "What the hell is it you want, exactly?" "Just as I said--I want you to come back to Denver with me and resume your work." She nodded. "Do you mind if we think about it for a couple of days?" "Not at all. But I will point out that every day you delay an average of 832 people are killed by bee stings." "We're aware of that," Pendrell said. His tone was neutral, but Scully knew how much it troubled him that they had not been able to proceed faster. She knew the weight of those deaths that they couldn't stop. "We'll consider your offer and get back to you," she said, rising to her feet. "I'll look forward to your answer." Bloodworth stood, too. "One word of caution--the SEB would not take it kindly if you were to attempt another unauthorized departure. I'm sure you agree that the work you've undertaken is of vital importance. You can understand our wish to know where you are at all times?" "Naturally," Scully said, between her teeth. "In other words, 'don't leave town.'" She pulled the door open, and Pendrell followed her out. She wasn't surprised when Skinner caught up with them a few minutes later, on a street corner as they walked back to their hotel. "What the hell's going on?" Scully asked the A.D. "We're not really supposed to believe that nonsense about 'collecting a team of scientists,' are we? Do we just look stupid?" Skinner shook his head. "I don't know what he's after. The only thing I'm sure of is that you two had better get off this island before you get buried here." "How do we do that?" Pendrell demanded. "Our boat's gone." Skinner looked at Scully. "That's a question you'd better ask of your old friend, Fox Mulder." He told them about the couriers on the causeway. "Why would Krycek trust Mulder with those letters?" Scully asked. "Mulder'd rather cut Krycek's throat than look at him." "Because Mulder's the only man alive who hates the smoking man even more than Krycek does. Look, believe me--Mulder either has the letters or he knows where they are. And they may end up being your only chance of getting away." Scully looked away and let go a heavy sigh. "The only problem is, I'm not so sure Mulder is a friend anymore." **** The smoking man's minions had not been kind, but then, Krycek hadn't expected they would be. He'd had the shit kicked out of him before and figured he could survive it again. Besides, that they were only beating him indicated that Mulder had kept his word--the smoking man still didn't know where the letters of transit were. Otherwise they would've just killed him. Of course, they were likely to get around to that anyway, eventually. At some point, they'd conclude that the letters were irretrievable, and then they'd have no further use for him. And that would be the end of that. But like Mulder, Krycek figured denying the smoking man what he wanted was worth a little grief. At mid-afternoon, he heard the two minions coming back down the long concrete hall of the county jail, and Krycek curled up into himself, expecting another savage pounding. But then he peeked around the arms he had wrapped over his head to protect it and noticed the minions were all rigged out in nuclear-bacteriological-chemical protective suits. Ready to go where the bees were. Krycek stifled a grin. The smoking man was making a mistake. A *big* mistake. They lifted him by the arms, and he made a show of whimpering a little in terror and going limp, as if too weak to resist. "Where are you taking me?" he asked, his voice low, trying--and succeeding, he thought--to sound pitiful. "Shut up," one of them growled from inside the suit. "You'll find out where you're going." They shoved him into the back of a panel truck, then climbed in the front and drove off. Krycek couldn't see out of the truck, but then, he didn't have to. He knew where they were going. To Houston. It would take almost an hour. He lay down on the floor of the truck and let himself doze off--resting would strengthen him for what was coming next. He woke when the suited minions lifted him again, and now he started to squall like a baby. "Noooo! No, please! Don't hurt me any more!" "Talk," one of the minions said. He kicked Krycek in the thigh, but not very hard. Krycek screamed as if it had really hurt. "Where did you hide the documents?" the minion shouted. "I swear I don't know what you're talking about! I don't have any documents!" He ducked his head and squeezed out a tear for effect. "Please--you've got to believe me!" "You lying dirtbag. I'm going to count to five, then I'm shoving your worthless ass out with the bees." "NOO!" "One." "Oh, God, no, *please*!" "Two." "You can't do this!" "Three." "Oh, God--it's inhuman!" "Four." "Please, I'm begging you--" "Five." They lifted him again. Krycek kept right on screaming, knowing perfectly well the noise would attract the bees. Hell, the bees were probably all around them now, between the sound of the truck's engine and his yowling. But that suited him just fine. He'd been exposed to the toxin in Russia; he'd even been stung before. He had the immunity. Not enough that he could just walk away--what was coming next wouldn't be pleasant. But he'd survive it, just as he'd survived the beating. Seconds later, he hit the ground behind the truck. Instantly the bees were all over him, and the minions, protected by their suits, stood over him, watching as he doubled over with the spasms. He had no way of knowing whether they meant to leave him here or not. There was only one way to be sure. He lunged at one of them, and with all the strength he had, ripped loose the man's hood so that his head was bared to the bees. The minion shouted in surprise and terror as the bees hit him. He staggered, waving his arms--as if that would help anything. "Jesus fucking Christ!" the other one yelled, and he ran for the truck. Some bees flew into the cab with him, and Krycek heard the faint hiss of insecticide canisters discharging inside the vehicle. In the enclosed space, Malathion spray would kill any bees that got in the truck. The minion who'd been stung toppled over onto the ground, writhing and retching. His face was already gray, his eyes swimming with the black toxin. He'd be dead in another five minutes. Krycek was on the ground, too, in terrible pain, stomach heaving, his muscles spasming uncontrollably. But he was laughing through it. As the truck drove off, he used the last of his strength to yell, "You fucking suckers!" Some more bees hit him then, because he'd made a noise, but he didn't care. *********************************************************************** Part 9 July 22 Galveston Scully had no reason to doubt what Bloodworth had said about the boat--though she knew it had sunk because *he* had put a hole in it. Nevertheless, after the meeting with Skinner, she went to check on it, to see if there might be a way to repair it. Mistakenly, she hadn't landed the boat on Galveston Island, but on the smaller, deserted Pelican Island adjacent to it. Then they had followed a narrow road toward lights they could see in the distance and walked over a bridge to the big island, only then discovering the error. At the time, Scully had thought it might actually be a blessing anyway--it could make it more difficult for someone to find where they had hidden the power boat because there were fewer people around who might've seen them ground. Now *there* was an irony. She walked north on Broadway, retracing her steps. They hadn't seen much of the city when they'd arrived, in the dark, after the curfew. Now she could see the antique, Victorian charm of Galveston. The Catholic cathedral, gigantic and ornate, with its seemingly incongruous minarets. An enormous mansion's iron fence held a bronze plaque proclaiming the house Ashton Villa and explained that the lower row of windows were half underground because the storm surge from the savage 1900 hurricane had washed so much mud up onto the island. Six thousand had died. As she turned away from the plaque, she caught a motion out the corner of her eye and suddenly had a prickly sensation at the back of her neck. Someone was following her. But when she turned, she couldn't see anyone. *Great. One of Bloodworth's minions--just what I need.* She wound through the Strand, a Victorian historical district, pausing at a few denuded shop windows in hopes of luring the follower out. But whoever he was, he was good. She still hadn't seen him. She debated walking down that lonely road across Pelican Island. A good three-mile hike with no one near to hear her scream and enough brush on either side of the pavement to hide any mayhem from view. She had her gun, but still, why buy trouble? But if the boat was salvageable, delay might just worsen the damage. She'd have to go. There was no way around it. Maybe she could get a look at her shadower as she crossed the bridge, where the terrain was open for some distance, maybe even come up behind him and get the drop on him. She clamped her jaw and set herself to the task, walking up Avenue A past the Port of Galveston, up to the bridge. She crossed, and when she could do it nonchalantly, she glanced back. Nobody. She walked around a bend in the road, then slipped into the brush and waited, holding her breath. Nothing. Nobody came down the road behind her. Either he had given up, or she had lost him. Scully let go a long breath, stepped back onto the asphalt and headed off down the road again. She had tied the boat underneath a dilapidated fishing pier at the end of a rocky point facing out into Galveston Bay. As she neared the water, she could see bottlenose dolphins playing in the channel between the islands. And in between the flocks of wheeling gulls, brown pelicans diving gracefully for fish--the island was aptly named. They had arrived at night, and though Scully had made out the nearby superstructure of ships, she had not been able to see what kind they were. She was surprised, in the light of day, to see they were old warships--a World War II-vintage submarine and destroyer escort. They'd been hauled up onto the shore and their hulls set into the ground. Curious, she went off the path to have a closer look. A faded wooden sign on a little hut at the gate read "Seawolf Park - Parking $2." Scully pushed on a chain-link gate, and it swung open, creaking loudly. More plaques, heavily coated with verdigris, told her the submarine was the U.S.S. *Cavalla* and the destroyer, the U.S.S. *Stewart.* She wandered around the end of the destroyer, painted light blue, liberally speckled with patches of rust showing out from underneath the paint. Behind her, she heard something on the wind--it might've been the squawk of a gull. Or the creak of that gate. Slowly, quietly, she drew her gun, keeping it where someone behind her couldn't see it. Yet. She went up the ladder onto the destroyer, listening acutely for footsteps. She heard something, but couldn't sift anything coherent out of the wind noise, the cries of birds, the roar of the surf. *Damn, damn, damn.* She ducked into a hatch, into the galley, with its stark metal cabinets and its industrial-size stove-tops and ovens. She took her shoes off and set them on a counter so that her steps wouldn't make any sound. Then she went forward, along the starboard rail toward the bridge. Whoever it was, he moved like a cat--silently. She stopped up on the bridge, where there were steel walls on three sides of her, and slipped between the ship's wheel and an abandoned chart table, gun poised. He'd have to come in to follow her. She waited him out. Finally she heard something nearby, just outside. "Federal agent!" she yelled. "Put your hands up and step out where I can see you!" "Okay," a soft voice said behind her. She whirled, leading with the gun. It was Mulder, leaning up against the port-side bulkhead, hands lifted lazily. He was wearing khaki slacks and a denim shirt open at the throat so a couple of stray dark hairs peeked out, with a dark blue windbreaker tied around his waist--probably to cover his own gun, Scully figured--and deck shoes with no socks. He looked like the cover of a Land's End catalog--the casual, windblown New Englander. He was devastatingly beautiful, tall and straight, his eyes glowing bright green in the sunlight. She'd been trying not to think of him that way, of the smooth lines of bone, the flat, hard planes of muscle. She lowered the gun, shaking with adrenaline rush, hoping adrenaline rush was the only reason for it. "Goddammit, Mulder," she said, between her teeth. "I could've killed you." He crooked an eyebrow. "And after I went to the trouble of chasing the smoking man's bloodhound off your trail? That's gratitude." "Did you kill him?" "Nah. I just told him you ducked into the cotton warehouse. He had lost you at that point, so he didn't have any reason not to believe me. What are you doing out here, Scully?" "My name's not Scully any more," she said. "And I was about to ask you the same thing." She holstered her gun. "Me? I was following you." She pursed her lips, tamping down the anger that had flared up as her fear drained away. "A bit late, aren't you?" A muscle flexed along his jawline. She knew he was debating something with himself, but he said nothing. She looked away and then stepped off the bridge, headed back toward where she had left her shoes. "I was just curious about this old ship," she lied. "Maybe it's in the blood." "Pretty long walk, just to satisfy your curiosity," he said, following her. His tone told her he hadn't bought that story. "It's hotter than hell out here." "I've been informed I'm not a prisoner here. I'm free to do whatever I want." "Except leave," he said softly. She stepped into the galley and picked up her shoes. "What do you care?" He glanced at the ring on her left hand. "Some reason I should care?" "Not one," she said coldly, yanking on one shoe. "Are you happy with him?" "Yes, as a matter of fact, I am. Not that it's any of your goddamned business." He shrugged. "Okay," he said. There was a short silence while she got the other shoe on. "Well," he said, squinting out to sea, "if you came out to check on your boat, don't bother. Bloodworth's friends ripped it open the whole length of the hull." "How do you know that?" "I have my sources." "Those three freaks you hang out with? I saw them at the bar last night. I don't know what you see in them, Mulder." "They're loyal friends," he said. "Are you taking lessons?" He crooked an eyebrow in surprise, and again, she saw some quick flash of emotion, snuffed out so quickly she couldn't be sure what it was. She sighed and looked away. What was the point in fighting over that now? So much had changed. When she glanced back at him, she saw that he was gazing out at the ocean again. There was no sign of it in his face or his pose, but she sensed that she had hit a nerve. She doubted it served any purpose to beat him up over the past--she knew all too well he was perfectly capable of doing that himself. "I'm sure you had your reasons," she said. "Yes." She leaned on the rail and looked down at the water lapping along a rock wall a few yards away from where the destroyer stood rooted in the ground. "Is it true what you said last night--about it being possible to run the blockade?" "Not without a boat, and I don't just happen to have one." Suddenly it occurred to her how he knew it was possible. "Oh, my God," she said. "That was you? The 'Malathion Raider?'" Expressionless, Mulder inclined his head toward the big island. "Me and those three 'freaks' back at the bar." "I just assumed that because the insecticide came in from seaward..." she trailed off. "I found that I don't get seasick when I'm really terrified." She didn't know what to say. When she had read about the "Malathion Raider," she had thought the reckless fool who could do such a thing was simply the bravest son of a bitch on Earth. He had gone straight through the blockade, under fire, and then right into the thickest part of the swarm, time after time. In retrospect, she supposed she might've guessed who it was. The plan was so...well, so *Mulder*. "Anyway," he said, "if there's a seaworthy hull left on Galveston, I don't know about it. And I'd know." He paused, then crooked an eyebrow. "'Malathion Raider?'" She stared at him. He shrugged. "I don't know, Scully--it's not bad, but somehow it just doesn't have quite the ring of, say, 'Conan the Barbarian.'" How like Mulder at his most annoying to make a joke of such a thing--and not even a good joke. She headed down the steel stairs that led off the destroyer. "No offense, but I think I'll check the boat myself." It was a moment before she heard his footsteps behind her. Still debating something with himself, she thought. But God only knew what. **** Frohike didn't mind going to Houston now and then. It was a hot, dirty, generally unpleasant job. Right up his alley, in other words. He went once or twice a month, as suited his fancy, if he had a jones for something. It particularly amused him to go into town and get a couple of videos. He'd go into Blockbuster and pick something out--even write himself out a receipt--and then return them on his next trip. Seeing Special Agent Dana Scully again had put him in the mood for *Terminator 2.* Linda Hamilton wielding an M-16. Oh, baby. So he dressed in a vinyl rain suit, carefully taping over the tops of his boots and around his wrists where the suit met the gloves. He took with him a welding hood he had specially modified and the roll of tape, too. Then he pilfered a bottle of Scotch from behind the bar, fired up his Jeep Cherokee and headed across the causeway. Early on he had learned how to negotiate with the guards at the end of the bridge. It wasn't hard to get off the island, but he'd be subject to inspection on the way back. The guards were only supposed to inspect for bees, but Frohike had found that they generally helped themselves to a few things. He could save himself time and effort by finding out what goodies they'd like to have brought back from the big city, then keeping the Scotch in reserve in case they got sticky with him later. Today he'd lucked out. He knew the guys on duty, Frank and Hector, and they were all right, although they were reputed to be some of Skinner's most loyal snitches. They just waved him through, and he headed on up Interstate 45. He stopped for gas in Texas City, helping himself at an abandoned Texaco station he knew about. Farther north, the road turned bad, cluttered with the dead hulks of cars and trucks that hadn't made it. Occasionally he passed a decaying body or two, crumpled on or beside the pavement. The wreckage slowed his progress. He popped a tape in the player--Sheryl Crow. He started to pick up bees just north of the Johnson Space Center. He knew they couldn't get into the Jeep, so he just ignored them and kept going, picking his way between the vehicles. Frohike could've used a Malathion spray inside the Jeep, but he didn't trust the stuff. He had a system he liked better. He turned east onto Loop 610, where the road was clear enough that he could go fast--too fast for the bees to keep up with him. The insects were nasty, but they were slow. At sixty miles an hour, he could just outrun the mothers. And by the time he headed out of town, it'd be dark. The bees didn't move at night. He turned the engine off and waited. The bees usually lost interest after about half an hour. He dozed for a bit in the heat, then woke and pulled a cold bottle of water out of his cooler and sipped on it. Then, when the bees finally got tired of buzzing angrily around the Jeep, he pulled his helmet on, taped it and quietly climbed out. His favorite Blockbuster Video was a couple of miles east from the bottom of the bridge, in a suburb called Galena Park. Because the little town wasn't right in the thick of the city, it hadn't been quite as heavily looted as other areas--so far, Frohike'd had it pretty much to himself. And it wasn't as bad as some parts of town. Most people had gotten out. Not too many bodies. He went through his usual ritual when he reached the video store. Then he headed off down the street toward a nearby drug store. He knew what Frank and Hector wanted in exchange for letting him back onto the island--Advil for Hector, whose wife had arthritis, and toys and picture books for Frank's little girl, aged eight. The bees buzzed irritably around him each time he moved, but they slid off the rain suit when they tried to land, and even if they had landed, their stings couldn't penetrate the vinyl. The whole trip had become a sort of rote, and he finished quickly. Still hours before sundown. Because he was curious and had the time, he strolled farther down the deserted street than usual. The intense sun seemed to give the whole area a bleached-bones pallor, grass and weeds climbing between cracks in the concrete and wilting as soon as they sprang up, signs fading rapidly under the heat's assault. Around a corner, he saw movement and stopped sharply. *What the hell.* Nothing moved in this city any more, and there was no wind to account for it. He cocked his head and listened. No tell-tale angry buzzing. But when he looked again, he definitely saw a figure moving. Major weirdness. He shuffled closer, warily. There were two bodies, the one weakly crawling toward a patch of shade, and another one in an environment suit with the hood removed. Frohike doubted the live one would hang on for long, but the environment suit was a real find--worth taking a risk for. He went over to the dead one and began methodically stripping the suit off. Newly stung, this guy--he was still stiff. Frohike stuffed the pieces of the suit into his kit bag and shouldered the respirator that went with the suit. Then he looked again at the live one, his face swollen beyond all recognition from the stings, his eyes swimming with black. Really strange that he should still be alive. Usually people stung like that died in a matter of minutes. If the two of them had been stung at the same time, this guy should've croaked a long time ago. Cautiously Frohike approached him, staying just outside arm's reach. The guy was clearly in misery; he didn't appear to realize anyone was there. Frohike hunkered down beside him. "Hey," he said softly. "Hey, can you hear me?" The other man stopped crawling. He made a pitiful, ineffectual try at turning himself to look. Frohike took him by the shoulder and gently flipped him over. He couldn't have seen anything if he had tried--his eyes were swollen shut. Frohike retrieved his half-empty bottle of water and dribbled a few drops on the man's lips. The mouth moved a little, parting just enough to let some of the water slip between them. *Shit.* He couldn't just leave him here, much as he would've liked to--and getting him back to the island was going to be a pain in the ass. He gave the man some more water, then went to bring the Jeep down. **** Standing behind Scully and gazing under the fishing pier, Mulder could just barely see the sunken power boat. Through the gently rolling water its white hull looked ghostly. Scully put her fists on her hips and gave a sigh that sounded like steam escaping. "Son of a bitch," she muttered. Mulder sympathized. The Cancer Man had that effect. "What about that freighter?" she asked, still staring out at the boat. "Sure. The freighter's good. But you need the paperwork." He thought a moment, then asked, "What did Skinner say?" "Skinner said Krycek gave you paperwork we could use." "Skinner's been wrong about me before," Mulder said coldly. She faced him. At least, he thought, she had the decency not to look pitiful. Her expression was cool, neutral. "You don't have the letters of transit?" she asked. He decided to return her courtesy and answer her bluntly. He didn't want to hurt her. He didn't want to do anything that would permit someone else to hurt her. But he didn't have the strength to take the fall for her, either. He was *not* planning to get himself embroiled in some quixotic absurdity that probably wouldn't save her anyway. Been there, done that, had the scars. If she knew that right up-front, maybe she would find her own solution. He said, "I might have some idea where they might be, but if I were to come across them I wouldn't give them up." She stared at him. "You mean to use them yourself?" "No." Her perplexed frown deepened. "What are you saying?" "I'm saying I've got a pretty comfortable situation here, and I'm not planning to screw it up." She glanced away and then back. "What the hell happened to you after you left Washington?" she asked. Her tone was bitter. "I had a close encounter with reality." She shook her head. "So what? So you woke up one morning and suddenly realized that life sucks? Why didn't you just ask me--I could've told you that. Jesus Christ, Mulder, that's the most pathetic excuse for amorality I ever heard." "Look, Scully, I'm still alive. It's about all I've got left. If you want me to give that up, too, get your gun back out and get it over with." Her look was penetrating suddenly. "What happened to your mother?" "What you think." *The same thing that happens to everybody who gets close to me sooner or later.* She looked at the ground. "I'm sorry," she said. A heavy silence hung between them, broken only by the cries of gulls and the lazy thrashing of the surf. Finally, she said, "Why won't you give me the letters? No one has to know. I don't know if you care about such things any more, but Agent Pendrell's work has the potential to save thousands of lives. He discovered a link between the venom in the bee stings and the substance in that Mars rock Krycek led us to in Washington. He discovered that an immunity can be built up if..." Mulder felt as if his head might simply explode. Pendrell had not discovered that. Mulder had handed it to him, both in the files he had e-mailed to the FBI office and in the blood he had given up in North Carolina. The bastard hadn't just taken Scully away from him--he had also taken credit for work that actually had been Mulder's. He shoved his anger down into the cold, dark place where he kept all his other pointless, bothersome emotions. The truth was, although he had known there was a link between the bees and the black cancer, he hadn't had the biomedical expertise to do anything about it. Pendrell did, and right now, that was the important thing. Not who had figured out what the stuff was, but who could render it harmless. Mulder focused on a seagull side-slipping on the breeze and forced himself calm. "It's very important work," Scully was saying. "Crucial," Mulder agreed. "We could save thousands of lives," she repeated. "Millions." "We need to get to California to continue it, to finish it." "But it would be better yet to get to Hawaii, where you can be undisturbed for a period of time." "Yes." She seemed relieved that he had understood that. "Then why come to me? Why not go to the SEB?" She glanced away. "They have been...uncooperative. They tried to stop us from leaving New Orleans." "Really," Mulder said, though he was not the least bit surprised. "And just why do you suppose that is? Has it occurred to you, has it ever crossed your mind, that maybe they don't *want* to see an antivenin developed? That maybe they have plans of their own for what's left of the continent after all of us are gone?" Her lips compressed in that prim little grimace that he knew meant she thought he was so full of bullshit his eyes had turned brown. "I see your paranoia's undimmed," she said. "I've seen what they have in mind for the future," he said. "And it doesn't leave much room for independent science projects." She sighed heavily. "Is that what this is about, Mulder? You've become so consumed with hopeless cynicism that you just don't even care enough to try any more? You couldn't stop the bees, so you don't want anybody else to either?" He held her look and said nothing. "Simple cowardice at least would've made sense," she said bitterly. "But you're no coward." "If you really want to know, ask your husband," Mulder said, between his teeth. "He can explain it far better than I can." "What would Pendrell know about it?" "Everything," Mulder grated, and he turned sharply and walked away. *********************************************************************** Part 10 July 22 Galveston Good help was *so* hard to find. The smoking man sighed out a plume of blue-gray vapor as if to release his anger along with the smoke. "You miserable bungler," he said to his aide. The aide stood there, half-in and half-out of his environment suit, still trembling visibly from his experience with Krycek in Houston. "He...he killed Vern," the aide said helplessly. They had met at the Galveston hospital as had been planned all along. Only the arrangement had been for Krycek to be here, too, as the first step in an elaborate plan to make Dana Scully and Ted Pendrell think they had found the right antivenin, in hopes they would distribute it only to find it a failure--just before the bees arrived in Galveston and killed them. Krycek had the immunity, of course--he would recover no matter what drugs Scully and Pendrell gave him. But without Krycek's bee-stung, writhing body lying on a gurney, the plan was likely to come apart at the seams. "Grow up," the smoking man said. "This is dangerous work--if you planned to live forever, you should've gone into accounting. All you had to do was haul Krycek into the truck and bring him back here. Were my orders not specific enough for your tiny little mind to grasp?" "No, sir. But I thought--" "No, you didn't *think*. If you had, you'd have done as you were told. And when you need to *think*, I'll tell you *what* to think. Is that clear?" "Yes, sir." "It'd better be," the smoking man snarled. He stalked out into the hot afternoon sun. *Stupid son of a bitch,* he thought. He wondered how he could accomplish what he wanted without Krycek. He'd have to find another way to discredit and trap Mr. and Mrs. Pendrell. **** Scully spent the rest of the afternoon searching for a boat. Not that she hadn't believed what Mulder had told her about there not being any available, but hell--even Mulder could overlook something now and then, especially when he wasn't particularly motivated to look. Besides, what else did she have to do except sit around the hotel? She had no intention of asking her husband any questions, as Mulder had suggested. It made no sense whatever that Pendrell would know anything about Mulder's motivations--Ted had never really known Mulder that well. Nobody knew Mulder well unless he wanted them to, and he didn't often make the effort. There was some evidence he'd had a more-or-less normal social life before he had launched on his quest after his sister--he did have a few friends from that time before--but since then the term "lone wolf" pretty much had defined Mulder's leisure time. In fact, given the depressing nature of what Mulder had told her, Scully was thinking she might not even mention to Pendrell that she had spoken to her former partner, at least not until Pendrell brought it up himself. He had been acting a little squirrelly ever since they had encountered Mulder at the bar. Maybe a little jealous. She'd always thought she might like to make a man jealous, for once, but she'd found when it happened that she actually didn't care for it at all. Seemed like he ought to have learned to trust her more than that. Walking by one deserted, ramshackle marina after another on the north side of the island, she grew more and more annoyed about it all. Damn Mulder. Damn Pendrell. Damn them both, and for that matter, all men. Petulant, willful creatures, ruled by their hormones, acting on those chemical impulses with social impunity. She gave up searching for a boat at around seven o'clock, as the sun finally began to sink slowly toward the horizon. Either they'd have to find a way onto that freighter, or they'd have to try to go overland. Or maybe take Bloodworth up on his offer and hope they could get away once they reached Denver. She hated the thought of it, but their options were being whittled down, one by one. **** Mulder didn't start to get worried about Frohike until 10 o'clock. The little man functioned on his own terms, on his own schedule. He was the eyes and ears for the whole operation at the club, and he needed freedom of movement to make that work. He came and went as he pleased. But the Jeep was gone, and it looked like he wasn't going to make it back by curfew at midnight. "He say where he was going?" Mulder asked Langly at about ten-thirty. Langly shrugged, flipping his long blond hair off one shoulder. "Haven't talked to him all day," he said. Mulder sighed, looking around the club, trying to sniff out any ferrets Skinner or the Cancer Man might have sent in. He didn't see any. "Don't sweat it," Langly said. "He's probably lying low somewhere. You know Frohike--he's a very cautious man." "Yeah," Mulder said, unconvinced. After the club closed at eleven-thirty he went upstairs to the apartment over the bar, pacing the floor. He was tired. He hadn't slept well the night before, and this night didn't seem to hold much promise for rest, either. Times like this, he missed the numbing diversion of cable television. He loaded up the CD player, grabbing discs at random, paying no attention to which ones he put in, intending to let them function as white noise in the background. Then he opened the sliding glass door and sat on the balcony in the dark, staring out at the ocean and the moonlight. Suddenly something in the music penetrated. He frowned, his attention sharpening. "...In the end what you don't surrender/Well the world just strips away..." *Shit.* Springsteen, "Human Touch"--it was Scully's disc. He had no idea how it had gotten mixed up in his stuff. Scooped up in a rush while they were on the road, likely. He jerked up, intending to turn it off. But when he got within reach of the stereo, he found he couldn't do it. "...You can't shut off the risk and the pain/Without losin' the love that remains/We're all riders on this train..." He let the song play through. The sound of it in his ears was like having her arms around him. He knew he was playing with fire, but somehow he just couldn't pull himself away from the flames. **** Finally, about two in the morning, Mulder heard something downstairs. Hand on his gun, he peered around the edge of the door and saw Frohike gallumphing breathlessly up the stairs. Mulder stepped around the door. "Where the hell have you been?" he demanded. Frohike ignored the question. "Where's Scully?" Mulder frowned in confusion. Even Frohike wasn't usually this direct or this crude. "Down the boulevard in the Best Western, why?" The burly little man went galloping down the stairs toward the back door and out. What the hell, Mulder thought. Then Byers, from the kitchen, called to him. "You'd better come have a look," Byers said, and disappeared through the double doors again. Mulder sighed and went down. On the prep table in the center of the kitchen, a grimy, sweaty figure writhed weakly and emitted a series of short, low moans. Mulder couldn't recognize the swollen face any more than Frohike had. But he didn't have to. The guy was alive. It had to be Krycek. *Shit,* Mulder thought. *Here we go.* **** Frohike brought Pendrell and Skinner back with Scully. Mulder glared at the A.D., then at Frohike. The little man returned the scathing glance with an apologetic shrug. Mulder went out to the bar to make a fresh pot of coffee--before this was over, they'd all need it. Frohike followed. "I couldn't help it," he whispered. "He was with them at the hotel." "Who saw you bring the victim back from Houston?" "Nobody," Frohike said. Then he thought about it for a moment. "Well, Frank and Hector on the causeway." *Wonderful,* Mulder thought. Those two would've been on the phone to Skinner in two seconds flat. The A.D. had known about it--and probably relayed the information to the Cancer Man--before Frohike had had time to drive across the causeway. And that, naturally, would explain why Skinner was at the hotel with Pendrell and Scully. Frohike caught Mulder's long-suffering look and said, "I know--they're Skinner's moles, but there was nothing I could do about it. What was I supposed to do? Leave him there to die?" "He's not going to die," Mulder said, disgusted. "Nevermind--it's done. We'll deal with it." "There was another one with him. A dead one, wearing most of an environment suit. Fresh dead, like they were hit at the same time. And I found this on the body." Frohike handed over an ID wallet, nearly identical to the one Mulder had carried. Only this guy's badge had been issued by the Special Emigration Bureau. Mulder frowned at Frohike. "That doesn't make any sense," he said. Frohike shrugged. "I know." When Mulder took the coffee back into the kitchen, Scully was giving Krycek a shot. Whatever it was, he began to quiet, almost immediately. "He must have been exposed before," she said. "The question is how," Pendrell said. "And why he didn't die the first time," Skinner put in. Mulder sipped his coffee in silence. Pendrell shot a look at him--but Mulder didn't react. *Hell, you know more about it than I do,* he thought. *You want to be a hero? Cool. Earn it.* "Do we know who he is?" Scully asked. Frohike shook his head. She sighed. "Well, he's stable enough," she said. "At this point we can treat him symptomatically--just provide support and see what happens." "Can he be moved?" Mulder asked. Her look would've vaporized diamond. "Look," Mulder said, "this is a bar, not a hospital." "Sure, fine. Whatever," she said, between her teeth. "God knows we wouldn't want to inconvenience you. I just thought it might be better not to have it get around the rumor mill. I'd love to take credit for curing him, but I think that's a bit premature and maybe completely unwarranted." Mulder shrugged and went back out for more coffee. This time it was Skinner who followed him. "Mulder," he said, "you know something you're not telling." "Sure," Mulder said. "I know, for example, that Ioannina is a city in northwestern Greece and that pavid is a synonym for fearful. But I can't imagine what use it would be to say so in the present situation." "You know what I meant. It's Krycek, isn't it?" "Huh. You know, he *does* kind of look like Krycek, doesn't he?" "Why would the smoking man let him go?" "Who said he did? How do you know Krycek didn't escape on his own? And why ask me? Why don't you ask your pal, Bloodworth?" "Goddammit, Mulder--" "You know, this is fascinating. I don't think you've ever really wanted to know what I thought before--I don't believe you've ever asked me what was my theory." "That's crap, and you know it." Mulder put both hands flat on the bar. "All right, you want to know what I think--I think the Cancer Man is setting us all up for a fall." >From the kitchen door, Scully said, "A third-grader could've figured that one out." *Goddammit,* Mulder thought. He should've known. Two years ago he would've known--that Scully wouldn't let go of it, that she'd follow him out, dog him to say what he thought, what theories were forming in his head. *Stupid.* "Well, then, maybe you ought to get yourself a third-grader to figure out what comes next," he grated. "How was Krycek exposed? When?" Scully pressed. They'd been in Siberia together, but if Krycek had been in the same room, had the same black worms crawl up his nose, suffered the same convulsions and nausea while restrained in one of those chicken-wire cages, Mulder hadn't actually witnessed it. He hadn't been in any condition to witness it. "How the hell should I know?" he asked. "Then tell me what you *think* happened!" Scully yelled. He stopped himself from recoiling away from her, but he didn't manage not to flinch. Scully enraged was fearsome--he had forgotten that about her, too. She had that drill-parade voice--must have learned from it her father--and there was something about somebody that small coming at him like doom on wheels that suggested she had a sledgehammer held behind her back. Scully could kick ass and take names with the best. Mulder had seen her do it. He'd been the victim of it. He drew a long breath to settle ragged nerves. He was angry, she was angry; time to cool things off. "Look," he said, his voice low, "he was working with the Cancer Man when I first met him--I'm sure of that much. For all I know, he was one of their experiments." Skinner said, "They could've exposed their own people to give them an immunity, so they wouldn't be killed if there was an accident." Mulder pulled the SEB badge Frohike had given him out of his pocket and tossed it on the bar. "Yeah, except there was a corpse with him. Frohike found that on the body. Like they were trying to kill Krycek and it went bad somehow. Or he was trying to get away from them and it went bad. I don't know." "They were together?" Scully asked. "It looks that way." "But if Krycek was on Bloodworth's payroll, wouldn't Bloodworth know that Krycek had been exposed?" "I don't know, Scully--I'm trying to work this out just like you are." Langly strolled in then, reading the morning newspaper, fresh from the curb in front of the bar. "All right," Skinner said, "for the hell of it, let's assume that Bloodworth did know he'd been exposed before. What would he gain by taking Krycek to Houston and letting him get stung?" "Maybe this," Langly said, and he handed over the paper. Mulder took it from him. The headline, in type sized appropriately for the second coming, read: "Medical breakthrough: Doctors save man stung by bees." The story quoted Bloodworth, in his capacity as deputy director of the SEB, as saying that government scientists Ted and Dana Pendrell were "very hopeful" that they had found a cure for the stings. "Oh, my God," Scully said, reading around his shoulder. "Yeah," Mulder said. "He's setting you up. You try to leave the island now, and the mob'll lynch you." *********************************************************************** Part 11 July 23 Galveston With the news about Krycek now all over the island, Scully saw no point in trying to keep him out of sight, so they took him to the hospital in Frohike's Jeep and left him there with specific instructions about how he should be treated. Then she and Pendrell went back to the hotel, both of them exhausted and discouraged. Pendrell flopped on the bed. "Do you think he's right about what Bloodworth wants?" Pendrell asked. "I don't know," Scully said. "In effect, that would mean Bloodworth's trying to dupe us into thinking we actually have effected a cure--but I don't understand why. Mulder said he doesn't think the SEB wants us to find a cure. But that doesn't make any sense. I don't understand what they'd gain from it." "Did you ask Mulder about the letters of transit?" Pendrell asked. She sighed heavily. How much to tell him? "Yes. But it was useless," Scully said, pacing across the hotel room. "He was..." She shrugged. "He was in one of his moods. He was bitter and hateful, and nothing he said made any sense. But the bottom line is, he's not giving up the letters." "Did he say why?" Pendrell asked quietly. Scully gave a bitter chuckle, but it died when she looked at her husband. He was pale, his face tight with anxiety. "Ted, are you all right? You look like you're not feeling well." "Did he say why?" he repeated, in a hoarse whisper. Slowly, she said, "He said I should ask you." God, what new horror was coming now? "He said you could explain it better than he could." Pendrell closed his eyes and let his head incline forward so that she couldn't see his face. Softly he said, "Well, that was chivalrous of him." Chivalrous? She went over to sit on the bed beside him. "What are you talking about? Ted, what is it?" He kept his head down and rubbed his hands along his thighs, his pose abject misery. She waited him out. Finally he said, "You remember when I went to North Carolina? When I brought back the samples from the 'unidentified survivor'?" "Sure, but what has that got to do with--" She snapped. "That was Mulder?" He nodded. "He'd been exposed to the active toxin in the venom when he was in Russia, in Tunguska. I don't know how; he never said. So he had some immunity already. But he wasn't doing very well--I didn't think he was going to make it." Scully sat very still. Nothing in the universe would've kept her from Mulder if she had known he was alive. Pendrell had known that. And yet he hadn't told her. "I think..." Pendrell hesitated. "Dana, I told him you were dead. And after that, it was like he just gave up. Then one night he left the hospital. Disappeared." She got up. Suddenly her skin crawled at the mere thought of being in the same room with him. "The truth is, I think I came as close to killing him as the bees did, just by telling him you were gone," he said. "But I loved you, too, and it was clear to me at the time he wasn't going to live. I didn't think it would matter." "So you were going to let him die thinking he was all alone in the universe? That there was nothing left for him?" "I know you'll hate me for it. And I don't blame you." He looked up suddenly, his eyes brimming with tears. "If you decide to stay with him, I won't make any trouble." She couldn't breathe, couldn't think. She was trembling, feverish. She fled, out the door, across the deserted boulevard and down the seawall to the beach. She ran and ran, heedless of direction, until the soft brown sand under her feet finally exhausted her and she had to slow to a dispirited walk. She felt suddenly as if she were trapped between them. Pendrell, who could save the world, if only the world would let him. Mulder, for whom she would happily give the world up, if only he would let her. She'd have to choose between them; there was no other way. But she had never been good at determining what she wanted for herself and herself alone. She'd never had any trouble readily identifying what others wanted or needed from her, but her own needs and desires had always seemed unfocused, indefinable. Only occasionally had she found the will to pursue things simply because *she* wanted them. Did she want Mulder? God, yes. So much that the thought of him, the sight of him, took her breath away. Yes, he was cynical and neurotic as hell. He was an emotional quicksand of insatiable need and incurable pain, so wounded he could hardly bear even the gentlest touch. Here on the island his scars had hardened, but they were no less tender underneath. Scully knew it would take more than a kiss to heal those wounds--she did not delude herself that her love would cure him--and that until they were healed, there would always be times when he just had nothing for her. He had never been entirely insensitive to her needs. There was in him a boundless, bottomless tenderness, a generosity he did not easily yield up and which was, for its rarity, all the more precious. But his needs would always predominate, and most times, he wouldn't even realize he was doing that to her. If she opted to stay on the island and pillow her head on Fox Mulder's chest, *that* was the life she realistically could look forward to. And yet, somehow, it was the life she wanted, more than she wanted her next heartbeat. So which of them really was the neurotic? Pendrell, on the other hand, was an endlessly giving sort. He had always been sensitive to her every whim, sometimes giving her what she had not even realized she needed until he had presented it to her. He had done all the right things. There had been roses and candlelit evenings, and in the midst of the hell the world had become, she had needed those things much more than she ever would have conceded. And he had never asked anything of her but that she let him love her. And so she had. She had drifted along with her congenial partner, pleased to share a vital professional effort with someone who approached it with the same no-nonsense attitude she held. He had made that easy for her, and in such a difficult environment, she had been relieved to find that something could be easy. It had even been easy to make love to him, to close her eyes and pretend that his hands belonged to someone else. The only thing that had not been easy had been convincing herself that there couldn't have been something more. Yes, Pendrell had given her everything she needed. Except that when he'd had the opportunity to take *Mulder* away from her, he had snapped at the chance. And all he had to offer her now, in compensation, was to suggest that he wouldn't make trouble if she left him? He'd been wrong when he'd said she would hate him--she couldn't do that. But she couldn't forgive him, either. Between she and Pendrell, things would never be easy again. Still, she couldn't simply walk out on him, either. The antivenin still had to be perfected--she couldn't escape that. Scully saw lights above her and to her left, and she looked up. She had drawn even with the Casablanca Club, almost as if she had been pulled there by some unfathomable magnet. She closed her eyes, her throat constricting suddenly, a sharp ache welling up in her chest. God. How would she ever figure out what to do? **** The sun was coming up, and Mulder still hadn't slept. Then again, he figured sleeping probably wasn't all that safe an idea just now. Lots of things could happen in the dark, when one's eyes were closed, and most of them, in his experience, were bad things. He drifted downstairs into the kitchen for a snack, and when he headed back to the apartment with a plate of toast and jam, he heard footsteps on the dock outside. It was Pendrell, peering through the window with his hands cupped around his eyes so he could see past the reflection of the morning sun on the glass. *Shit--that's what I need. The red-headed lab geek come to ask forgiveness. Fucker.* He sighed and went to open the door. "Something I can help you with?" "I need to talk to you," Pendrell said. He had his shoulders hunched up a little, as if to steel himself against a blow. Mulder would've liked to hit him, but it would've felt like child abuse. He settled for verbal needling instead. "And the reason why I would want to talk to you is...?" "It's not for me. It's for Dana." "I think she's your responsibility these days." "Look, it's not her fault," Pendrell said, all in a rush. "She didn't know--I didn't tell her I saw you alive in--" He stopped short and drew a breath, as if he were trying to get his nerves under control. "Can I come in?" Mulder didn't want to let him in. He wanted to kick his scrawny butt to the Moon. But then, who knew who might be listening? He held the door open and backed away so Pendrell could follow him in. He let the door swing shut, then pulled out a chair and sat down. "Mulder," Pendrell said, "I know what you must think of me." "Yeah? What exactly would that be?" He pulled out a chair and sat down across from Mulder. "That I'm...a pathetic weasel." Mulder took a bite of toast and nodded encouragingly. *Not bad for a start.* The younger man swallowed hard. "And I guess you're right. But I was in love with her." Mulder hooked a thumb toward the street. "Take a number," he growled. "I shouldn't have done it, and I'm sorry." Mulder nodded again. "Yeah, I'm sorry, too. So what? What do you want, Pendrell? My forgiveness? Why should I give it to you?" Pendrell drew a heavy breath and pinned him with a hard look. "Do you have the letters of transit or not?" Well, that was blunt enough. Mulder returned his stare. "If I did, what would you suggest I do with them?" "I know you've got no reason to want to help me. But I don't want Dana to get ground up in whatever Bloodworth's planning. Use the letters to take her to Hawaii. Just go, the two of you. I'll be all right here. That's what you want, isn't it? To be with her?" Mulder blinked in surprise. Now here was a twist. "You're asking me to use the letters of transit to run off with your wife?" "I want her to be safe," Pendrell said. "I know you want that, too. If Bloodworth's really trying to trap us here, I don't want her to get caught." Mulder felt something in his chest tighten, like a big snake coiling itself close around a tree's limb. He thought of black-sand beaches, of food that didn't come out of a can, of going to sleep with Scully's hair spread across his chest like dawn. "You're serious?" "God, yes. Just take her and go. I know she still cares for you." Mulder realized he was breathing too fast. *Cares for me?* If so, she'd given little sign of it. Of course, he'd been acting like an asshole, mostly--quite on purpose. It was possible, he supposed... No. No, no, no. He shoved his feelings back down into the pit of his stomach. Why should he believe Pendrell? Why should he trust him? But for some reason, his heartbeat would not slow down. "It's an interesting offer," Mulder said carefully. "But I'm not sure it would work--you and your wife and I are under surveillance, you know." "We are?" Pendrell's eyes had gone wide. "Are you sure?" God, the lab geek was a naive little bunny. Now Mulder understood what Scully had seen in him--she was something of a rescuer personality. It was part of what had bound her to Mulder for so long. "Yeah," he said dryly, "I'm pretty sure." *Or if we're not, Skinner's not doing his job, and he's usually very competent.* "So if I were to try to find the letters, the odds are good that Bloodworth and his hounds would snatch them right away from me the minute I had them." "Damn," Pendrell said, crestfallen. Mulder got up, leaving his toast uneaten. "So you see," he said, "I really can't help you." "Can't?" Pendrell asked harshly. "Or won't?" Mulder shrugged. "Take your pick. Either way, the answer's no." "You really want to see her die here?" "Everybody's got to die somewhere," Mulder said. "If you'll excuse me, I've had a long night." He returned to the apartment and shut the door. Then he stood there for a long time, leaning back against the door, his pulse thudding heavily. A savage mix of anger and fear and longing had suddenly boiled up inside him, and he couldn't push it away despite his desperate wish for the cool, soothing hardness of apathy. God, why had they had come here? He had worked so hard to dull himself, to strip away his sentimentality. He had thought pain had finally burned all that mawkish crap out of him, yet here it was, to torment him again. Pendrell, trying to repair the past by offering Mulder a future he had thought could never exist. And it was working, goddammit--he really was tempted. *Just take her and go.* God, how sweet that sounded. He and Scully together, fighting the bad guys, working, loving. The thought of it was enough to make his heart burst open with joy and terror. He let his head fall against the door and closed his eyes, fighting with all his strength to get the images out of his mind. He had already lost it all once. He knew he couldn't stand it again. His only defense had been not to have anything that he cared to lose, and up until the moment Scully had walked back into his life, it had been working. Not again. God, it hurt so. He did not ever again want to care about someone so much. And yet--to have the chance once more, and turn away from it... God, it hurt. Something touched his face then, and he jerked hard away, eyes opening wide, reaching for his gun. It was Scully, her hand up where her fingers had grazed his cheek. "Are you all right?" she asked, frowning in concern. "How the hell did you get in here?" he demanded. His heart was galloping, his hands shaking. "I knocked on the side door, and Byers showed me to the back stairs from the kitchen. I told him I wanted to talk to you." *I'll kill the son of a bitch.* He turned away, rubbing the back of his neck to try to release tension in the muscles. "Yeah, well, I'm not really up for an extended dialogue, Scul--" He sighed. "Mrs. Pendrell." For a moment, she said nothing. Then, "I did what you said. I asked him why. He told me what happened in North Carolina." Mulder drew a long breath, hoping it would steady him. He faced her. "Look, you have the letters. I sneaked them into the front pocket of your handbag out on Pelican Island. You never use that pocket for anything, but you always check it when you're getting ready to leave somewhere. I figured you'd plan to make a dash for the freighter and right before you did, you'd find them." He breathed again. "So you can go now." He saw her move toward him, saw her move to wrap her arms around him, and he stepped backward out of reach so fast he knocked something off the bookshelf behind him. "Don't," he said sharply. It came out at a higher pitch than his normal range--almost like a yelp. Her frown had deepened. "Mulder--" "No. It's too late, Scully. It's over. I'll be fine. You just go." "I'm not going anywhere." "I want you to. You and Pendrell--I'm telling you to go." "Stop it," she whispered. She took a step toward him. "No!" he yelled. "Don't do this to me! Oh, God--leave me alone!" That had the desired effect--it stopped her, her eyes dusky blue with confusion. "I don't understand," she murmured. He was shaking so hard he thought his knees would go out from under him, but he locked his jaw and hung on grimly. "Go," he said again. "Mulder, I know how it must've hurt you--" "No, you don't. You had him, and you could go on like that. You don't have any idea what it was like. You want to know what happened to me? You did, Scully. I lost you, and I couldn't stand it, and it's too fucking late." Softly she said, "I cried for you, too, Mulder." "What is it you think, Scully? You think we can rent a bungalow right here on the island and live out our lives behind a little white picket fence? Just you and me and baby makes three? Play out the American dream by the seashore? Yeah, we can do that, for a few months--until the bees come and kill you, and I have to watch you die while I'm helplessly retching my guts up. And then I go on alone again." He gasped in a shuddering breath. "You don't get to do that to me again, Scully. Tell me the truth, goddammit--you waited for me, didn't you?" "Not so long that I couldn't get away. I knew, Mulder--I knew why you asked me that. I didn't want to do that to you, and I didn't." She stepped toward him again. He was up against the bookshelf and couldn't back away. "Mulder," she said, "I love you. I always have, and I always will." She reached toward his face. "Please don't touch me," he whispered. She let her hand drop. "All right," she said. "I don't want to hurt you any more. If you want me to go, I will." "Please." She went a couple of steps toward the door, then stopped. "I'm still alive, Fox--I'm still here. I didn't wait for you." He closed his eyes tight and held his breath until she was gone. It was the only way he could hold the sobs inside long enough for her to go. He hadn't wanted her to hear them. He knew she couldn't stand them any more than he could. *********************************************************************** Part 12 July 23 Galveston Scully returned to the beach with her thoughts in a whirl, walking aimlessly along just at the water's edge, not caring that the surf occasionally splashed over her shoes. Where else did she have to go? In a way, seeing Mulder in such anguish had been almost a relief. She was so much more accustomed to the Mulder whose feelings were bruised as easily as a four-year-old's. The one who was in some ways as delicate as a butterfly's wing. Looking back now, she realized she'd known he was aching underneath the icy facade he had presented to her. More in what he hadn't said, hadn't revealed, he had given it away to her in ways so subtle she had recognized them only viscerally. Along her spine, not in her brain. She was stunned at how much his rejection of her hurt. Scully had always thought of herself as the one who supplied others' needs--as the one who fulfilled *his* needs. It had never been clear to her before how much she needed him. Part of her wanted to do as he had asked her. Get on the freighter with Ted and leave. Pretend they had not met again and settle back into the comfortable blank space somewhere between happiness and misery that she had been occupying in New Orleans. That would save both of them the pain of re-opening the sores, re-learning to trust, to believe, to have faith in each other. Another part yearned to stay--to rush back to him and wrap herself around him like a bandage. To reclaim what he had given her two years ago. Except that she wasn't sure either of them could stand even a healing touch. God, how would she decide what to do? **** Skinner went by the hospital at mid-morning to see how Krycek was doing. He had tried to call the smoking man but got no answer--whatever the bastard was up to, he was being damned quiet about it. Skinner had spent much of the night thinking about Mulder, about the way he was behaving, about what he had said and not said. The son of a bitch was right--Mulder had learned well from example and he now was acting like Skinner always had. Maintaining distance, maintaining plausible denial, withholding information, holding himself aloof from the issues and the action. It wasn't a very attractive picture, and Skinner didn't like seeing either of them in that light. *You were the kind of commanding officer to him that you always hated in 'Nam--the kind who'd send troops into a mine field and then sit back waiting to see if anybody got his legs blown off.* Not an appealing image at all. He ground his teeth, shoved the thoughts out of his mind and headed for Krycek's room. Krycek was asleep when he arrived. The guard Skinner had assigned said he'd slept through the night, his condition apparently improving slowly but steadily. Skinner had hoped to talk to Krycek, to see if he knew anything about what the smoking man might be trying to accomplish, but he decided not to wake him until he knew more details about his condition. Instead he went to find Pendrell in the hospital's lab. He found him with one sleeve rolled up and a hypodermic needle in his other hand, a sheepish look on his face at being discovered. "What are you doing?" Skinner asked, forcing his tone neutral. Pendrell glanced away and then back. "I think I've isolated what it is in Krycek's blood that provided him with an immunity." That didn't exactly answer the question, but Skinner decided not to push the issue. "What is it, then?" "It's a micro-organism that generates an antitoxin when stimulated by the active ingredient in the bee stings. The ones I got from Krycek last night were quite active." He gestured toward the microscope, and Skinner took a look. He couldn't see a damned thing and said so. "They look like tiny gnats," Pendrell said. "Little black dots, mostly sticking to the blood cells." Skinner looked again, and then he saw them, clinging to a round, pillowy red corpuscle like sprinkles on a doughnut. "So those little things are what made Krycek immune to the bee stings?" "I think so, yes." He straightened up from the eyepieces. "And you figured that out overnight?" Pendrell pursed his lips in annoyance and shook his head. "I've been working on this for two years, and I suspected for some time now it was something like that. But we never could isolate it--they don't show up until they've been inflamed by the toxin, and the only samples I had to work with came from someone who'd been stung more than a day before I was able to draw blood. The results were inconclusive." "You had a sample from someone else who had an immunity?" Skinner was surprised--he had thought he knew more-or-less how Scully and Pendrell had been proceeding. A fleeting look of distaste crossed Pendrell's face, lip slightly curled. "Yeah. Mulder." "You boys have a falling out?" Skinner asked, and then, before Pendrell could answer, he knew. Scully. "Oh," he said. "Yeah. I get it." "It was my fault," Pendrell said. "I don't need to know." "Anyway, I thought he must have had some kind of micro-organism, something that was producing an antibody or an anti-toxin in his system, but I never could prove it. The organisms were just about gone by the time I got hold of the first sample--he'd been floating around on that ferry out by Martha's Vineyard for more than thirty hours. I only saw them once, in the microscope, and then they were gone. And the second blood sample I drew didn't show them at all." Skinner nodded. "So now you think that if we can introduce the same organisms into other people before they get stung, that will protect them from the stings?" "I don't know if 'protect' is quite the right word. You saw what Krycek was like when they brought him in--he's not going to die, but he's damned sick, just like Mulder was." "But people won't *die,*" Skinner pointed out. "Right. I mean, it's not the answer, but it's all we've got, and if it really works, it's a helluva lot better than nothing." "Uh, huh," Skinner said. "So your plan was to stick yourself with these things and see if it works?" "Yes." He shrugged. "Somebody's got to test it. I don't know how much time there is before the bees get here--not much, if they're as close as Houston." "And if it doesn't work? Pendrell, if you try it on yourself, then who finishes up the work?" He colored slightly. "Dana can do it," he said softly. He inclined his head toward the computer. "I left her all my notes." Skinner nodded. Time to get out into the mine field. "I've got a better idea," he said. **** Mulder had slept finally, after his emotional outburst, and had awakened balled up around his pillow, feeling drained but calm, as if the release had greatly relieved some pressure that had been building. The bar had been pretty quiet all evening, giving him a chance to drift for a few hours. But he figured it wouldn't last, and when he saw Scully coming up the dock, he wasn't really surprised. She was walking swiftly, bearing straight for him, her I'm-in-a-hurry manner telling him it wasn't a social call. That was all right; he preferred it that way. "Can I talk to you privately?" she said quietly, and headed toward the kitchen without waiting for his answer. Son of a bitch, Mulder thought. She just treated me like a witness she wants to interview. He shook his head in wonder and followed her. "What's up?" he asked, once he went through the double doors. "I need some ice," she said. "The hospital's run out of it." "Okay." He stuck his head back out the doors and made a "come-here" motion at Frohike. "What's happened? Krycek take a turn for the worse?" Scully sighed. "No. It's Skinner." Mulder frowned. "What happened to Skinner?" "He volunteered to be exposed to the micro-organisms that create the immunity to the bee stings." She didn't look or sound happy about this. She was holding her mouth in that I-think-this-is-bullshit grimace again. "You know what causes the immunity?" "Ted thinks he does. And all I can do now is hope to hell he's right." Frohike came in. Mulder said, "Go up to Seward's place, remind him how big a favor he owes us, and tell him to send--" He looked at Scully. "A hundred pounds enough?" Scully nodded. "That should be plenty." "A hundred pounds of ice over to Galveston General." Frohike glanced at Scully, murmured, "On my way," and took off. When he had gone, Scully said, "Tell me about Tunguska." "I went, I got captured, had some black shit stuffed up my nose by some people I did not regard as gentlemen. I got away." She inclined her head. "You know what I mean." "Yeah, but I can't tell you what you really want to know. I don't know what the stuff was--I mean, not *exactly* what it was. I just know it came from the meteorite that crashed there. I can only vaguely estimate how much of it they gave me. A tablespoon, maybe two. All I know is, the symptoms I had were pretty much the same as when I got stung. I thought so even before I got stung, just from watching the victims on the news. And from seeing people get hit in Ohio when I went to get the bee I brought back to D.C." "That's why you went to Ohio, wasn't it? Because you thought there was a connection." "Yes." "You went to Ohio to get yourself stung," she guessed. "No. Well, yes. I mean, yeah, that was the plan. But the bee I saw in Canada died after it stung. I wasn't really sure they were the same bees--maybe they're not, exactly. So..." He shrugged. "I chickened. I didn't actually get stung until I was on the ferry, headed for Nantucket." She sighed heavily. "How many times did you get stung?" "I'm not sure. I remember two--but things got rather confused after that. It could as easily have been five or a hundred." He thought a moment, then said, "Skinner's really bad?" "He was comatose for the first five hours. Now he's got a fever of a hundred and four, and he's delirious. Convulsions, nausea." "The usual, in other words," Mulder said. "Yes." She ducked her head and rubbed the back of her neck. "I've seen too many people die from this toxin." She sounded exhausted, and Mulder supposed she probably was. Doubtful she'd had any more sleep than he had. Maybe less. "Well, for what it's worth, if he's made it this far, I doubt he'll die. The remaining question is, will it really work if he gets stung? And there's only one way to find out." She looked up, and her startlingly blue eyes were haunted. "I know," she said. Suddenly there was a loud boom, like distant thunder or artillery fire. They went silent, listening. Another boom, and then another. "What the hell?" Scully said. "Shit," Mulder said. "They're blowing the causeway." **** July 24 Scully woke to a distantly familiar clicking sound. Before she even opened her eyes, she knew what it was--Mulder playing Solitaire on his laptop computer. She'd always found watching him do that slightly annoying. He was practically addicted to the thing--he'd play on and on for hours, and sometimes had whiled away entire cross-country flights with it, seeming irritated when it came time to turn the computer off for landing. But what was really irritating was that he was so damnably methodical about it. Mulder--Mr. Quantum Leap of Intuition--had a system for Solitaire and never varied from it. Turn up every card you can right at the outset. Always leave a space to pull down a king. Never pull down low cards unless you needed them to move something else. It didn't even work. He lost most of the time. And he knew it didn't work, and yet he persisted, as if he were following some script from which he simply could not bring himself to deviate. She wondered if he had learned that lousy card system from his father. She sat up and stretched. They were at the hospital, in the same room with Skinner and Krycek, who were still sleeping. Scully had made Pendrell go and get some rest, protesting that she would watch over the patients. And then, despite her best efforts, she had fallen asleep. She wasn't sure what time Mulder had showed up to shoulder the rest of her watch for her, but from the look of his wilted white tuxedo jacket, it couldn't have been long after she'd dropped off. He glanced up when she moved and wordlessly passed her a thermos. "How long have you been here?" she asked, opening it. "I came over after the bar closed up." Scully breathed the warm, bitter scent in the bottle. "God," she said. "This is *real* coffee, isn't it?" "Costa Rican. Ought to be called Costa Bundle, but it's worth it." "We couldn't get the real stuff in New Orleans. It was all burnt barley and chicory." "Shades of the Civil War." He moved a card with one hand and reached into a pocket of his jacket with the other, withdrew a couple of brown paper packets labeled "creamer." "That stuff probably dates back to at least the Korean War," he said, handing it to her. "It's Army surplus. But it's what we've got here on our island paradise." She opened one of the packets, sniffed, and decided to forgo it. The coffee smelled so good, she didn't want to taint it with old, musty creamer. "Not that I want to seem ungrateful, but..." "I completely understand." "Is there enough for me?" Skinner asked hoarsely. Scully put the cup down and went to him. "I really don't think you should, just yet," she said. "How are you feeling?" "Like somebody scoured my guts with steel wool. I'm all right. Where are my glasses?" Scully handed them over. He was getting up. "Sir, I think you really ought to rest for a while," she said. "No time," Skinner said. "Relax, Walter," Mulder said, closing up the laptop. "Nobody's going to Houston today. They blew out the causeway last night." Skinner frowned. "What the hell for?" "Because the smoking man, speaking as deputy director of the SEB, told them to." "Son of a bitch," Skinner muttered. "Are the bees getting closer?" Scully asked. "No. According to the city's official reports the bees seem to have found the old rice fields west of Houston very appealing, and the bulk of the swarm is still out there eating like mad and...roosting, or whatever bees do at night. And making little baby bees, I presume." Mulder shrugged. "And on top of that, there's a tropical storm coming in that's likely to blow the little bastards all the way back to San Antonio." "Then why destroy the bridge?" Scully asked. >From behind her came a bitter, rough-throated laugh. "Man," Krycek said,"you people just don't get it, do you?" "So why don't you tell us?" Skinner demanded. The younger man propped himself up on his elbows in the hospital bed. "They don't want anybody to get away. They don't want any of us to survive--especially not anybody who could make it possible for a lot of people to survive." Krycek laughed again. "They just want to sweep the planet clean," he said. *********************************************************************** Part 13 July 24 Galveston Krycek was grinning like a dog. Mulder would've liked to slap the smile right off his face, but they all wanted to find out what the little ratfucker knew about the Cancer Man's plans. "You're wrong, Krycek," he said. "We're all painfully aware that the smoking man wants to wipe out every living soul on the continent. The question is why, and if you don't start talking, I'm going to use you to troll for sharks." The smile segued into a smirk. "Yeah, you'd like that, wouldn't you, Mulder?" Mulder took two long strides and got his hands around Krycek's throat. "You just don't *know,*" he snarled. Reflexively, Krycek tried to jerk away, but Mulder had him. "I'm going to hold you down while he threads the hook, you cocksucker," Skinner growled. "Talk--and you'd goddamned well better tell it straight and tell it all." "All right," Krycek said. Mulder released his hold, and Krycek wrenched free. "They want to start over," he said. "They've developed some kind of super-humans, and they're making space for them, so these new people can take over and rule the world, and make it a better place. They think regular folks like you and I are too contentious to co-exist with their super-race. Assholes like us would just screw up the dynamics of the new order." "What kind of super-humans?" Scully asked. "They've got some of the genetic characteristics of the aliens that crashed at Roswell, back in '47. I mean, they're mostly human still, but they're stronger, and they have resistances to diseases and chemicals and radiation. And they have some kind of healing powers." "Like Jeremiah Smith?" Scully asked. "The Jeremiah Smith series was one of the later experiments," Krycek said. "Those mute clones I saw in Canada," Mulder said, his voice low. "Some of the original prototypes. Now they think they've got it perfected--the ones they're producing now are even better than the Smiths." "Who's 'they?'" Skinner demanded. "The smoking man, Bloodworth. I don't know their names, but some of them have been in it since the Truman administration." "The Majestic Twelve?" Mulder asked. UFO lore had it that President Harry Truman had appointed a commission of twelve men to research and use technology recovered from Roswell. Mulder had never been absolutely sure it was true. "Yeah. There's not many of the original twelve left now, but they put the whole thing in motion, way back in the '50s." He looked at Mulder. "Your dad was pretty high up on the staff there, at one point. Until he backed out." Mulder nodded. Not a surprise. "What's in it for them?" Skinner asked. "They're going to be replaced, too." "They're *patriots.*" Krycek spat the word out. "Fanatics. They don't care whether they come out of it or not. And hell, they're all, what? Seventy years old? They won't be around long enough for it to matter much, and half of the damned hybrids are their kids, in effect. Their offspring are going to take over the world." "One would assume," Scully said, "that if these 'super-humans' were all that super, it wouldn't be necessary to get rid of the *unter-menschen* so that they could take over. Why not just turn them loose among us, and let natural selection take its course?" "They were trying that," Krycek said. "There were a lot--maybe a hundred-thousand--like Smith out there before the bees were let loose. But now they're in a hurry." "Why?" Mulder demanded. "What happened?" "I don't know." Mulder reached for him. "Krycek, if you're lying--" "I swear I don't know! Whatever it was, it happened after I left for Hong Kong. I heard that one of the Smiths went soft--he wanted to help out the poor mortals. Maybe that was it; maybe they were afraid the *wunderkind* didn't have the balls to wipe us out. That could be it." "That's enough," Skinner said. "Scully, where the hell are my clothes? And don't give me any grief about how I ought to rest, just tell me." "Closet," Scully said. While the A.D. collected his suit and went into the bathroom to dress, Mulder kept one eye on Krycek and motioned to Scully. "That freighter for Tampico leaves at dusk," he murmured. "You'd better be ready." "If Krycek's telling the truth, Bloodworth's not going to let us get on it," she whispered back. He nodded. "You leave that to me and Walter." **** There was a lot to be done, but most of it fell on Pendrell--denied the opportunity and the time to conduct a full-scale human test on Skinner, he had to run some additional bench tests to try to make sure the stuff was working. And he was the one who had to figure out how to synthesize the micro-organisms in bulk so that the hospital staff could produce them after he and Scully left. He had to test whether mixing them with a minute quantity of the toxin would keep them active long enough to be used. It was a big job, and not really Scully's field--she couldn't help him any more than the hospital's own lab techs already were doing. And to her surprise, a whole gaggle of young people who'd been studying at the now-defunct University of Texas Medical Branch and had gotten stuck on the island suddenly showed up to pitch in, too. That left her with little to do but lecture the hospital's staff and the students on how to take care of people who were recovering from both the anti-toxin and the bee stings. She felt silly doing it--these people all knew how to treat a fever and nausea and convulsions symptomatically. It took all of thirty minutes. But they seemed relieved to hear it was something they could handle. She told them over and over again that the whole thing was highly experimental. She told them over and over again that she and Pendrell couldn't guarantee anything. But on her way out, she could hear renewed hope in their voices, see it glowing in their eyes. She hoped it was all warranted. And so, afterward, what there was left for her to do was think and wait aimlessly for dusk. Mulder had vanished after Skinner had dispatched Krycek back to jail. She had no idea what Mulder was planning, but it seemed clear he had something cooking. A frontal assault on the SEB's compound in Denver wouldn't have surprised her, though she hoped what he had mind was at least a little less goofy than running headlong into a hail of bullets. She wished she were helping him plan it. That was what she *wanted* to be doing--to be with him, to be in on whatever cock-eyed scheme he was working on. She would have liked to have been with him on that boat in Georgia, to be the "Malathion Raider's" gun moll, so to speak. Suddenly, she pictured herself in a flapper's fringed red dress, a cigarette holder between her lips, a tommy gun across her lap. Maybe one of those sequined cloche hats. Mulder in a dark, pinstriped zoot suit. She and Mulder, cast as Bonnie and Clyde for the new millennium. She stifled a laugh. But then, really, maybe that was what it would take to stop the smoking man and his colleagues from destroying the world. Most of the time she'd spent on the run with Mulder had been harrowing, but the truth was, she had felt alive. She had felt she was doing the right things, the necessary things. She had felt needed, had felt both she and her work were valued, even if only by a certified kook carrying a badge. Maybe now the real question was, what was stopping her from donning that red dress? **** She found him in his apartment over the bar, still wearing in the same wilted tux he'd had on at the hospital, still working on the laptop. But he wasn't playing Solitaire now--he was typing something, sitting at the dining room table with his back to her. "You're getting to be a real break-in artist," he said, as she approached quietly from behind him. He turned, and she saw he had his glasses on--one of the lenses had gotten cracked at the bottom. The sight of him made her heart pound. Even bedraggled and tired, he was beautiful. Legs and arms that went on forever. Eyes like new spring grass. "I could swear I locked that door," he said, turning back to the computer. "You did." He turned off the computer, removed his glasses and twisted in the chair to face her. "What's up?" he asked. "I'm not going," she said. She went toward him. Like the last time, she had not planned this. She was flying on autopilot. "Yes, you are," he said. She caught him just as he started to get up from the table, caught him between the chair and her body, both of her hands on either side of his jaw. "I love you," she said. "You can't make me leave, and I won't." She leaned in to kiss him, but at the last second he turned his head away from her. She kissed what she could reach--his cheek, his left eye. "Stop it," he whispered. "I don't want to." He wrenched out of her grip, pushed the chair sideways and got to his feet, size and sheer brute force overcoming her feeble effort to hold him trapped. "Look, Scully, this won't change anything." His eyes and his voice had gone hard as granite. "This immunity is only a stopgap measure, and you know it. We still need a real cure, and you and Pendrell have the best shot at coming up with it. You know now that you're on the right track." "He doesn't need me for--" "Maybe not, but he is still your husband. I don't know about you, but I was raised to believe that meant something." Into her stunned silence, he said, "I may be a lonely guy, but I don't fuck other men's wives." She knew he'd calculated that to shock her, so she threw it back at him. "Do you fuck women you're in love with?" She advanced on him like a tiger stalking a zebra, knowing full well that, like a zebra, he might bolt at any second. "Do you fuck women who want you so bad they'll break into your apartment?" His eyes had gone wide--she read fear and desire in about equal measure. She sensed that he wanted to bolt, but he held his ground. She stopped when she stood close enough that she knew he could feel her breath against his throat, and looked up at him. "Do you want me to beg, Mulder?" There was a long silence while she stared up at him, and he stared back at her. Slowly, very deliberately, she raised her hands toward his face. Just before she touched him, he finally backed away a step. She could see his chest rising and falling as breathed. "Shall I tell you exactly how much I want you?" she asked, her voice low. He was beside her before she knew it--she'd forgotten he could be so quick, so agile. His hands closed around her waist, and he lifted her up onto the table and held her. There was a dark challenge in his hazel eyes, in the pained set of his mouth. *Do you want me? Are you *really* ready for this?* He raised his hands and cupped her breasts, still holding her with his gaze. She shivered hard with pleasure and let him see it, in her eyes, her slightly parted lips. He ran his thumbs across her nipples, and she drew a ragged gasp. *Yes. I'm ready. Are you?* He leaned in to kiss her, and she knew what he was planning--to crush her mouth with his own, to claim her. She stopped him with a touch, her fingers feather-light along his jaw. His look was savage, ravenous. But ravishment was not what he needed to give or to receive. "Let me gentle you," she breathed. He froze, and now the wildness in his eyes was partly fear. "I know you're afraid. Trust me. You used to trust me." His eyes closed, and it was his turn to shiver. *I know the tenderness in you, Mulder. You can't hide it from me; you never could. Give it to me. Let me give it back to you.* She pulled ever-so-gently, with the hand along his jaw, and felt him hesitate, then slowly begin to yield, until he took two small steps and placed himself in her grasp. She wrapped her legs around his thighs, her arms around his neck. He was trembling like a frightened puppy, but she could feel his erection gently prod her belly as he breathed. She stroked his hair to reassure him. *I won't hurt you. I won't let anything hurt you. Not today. Let it go, all that hurt, all that terror.* He pulled his head away a little and brought his hands up to her face, her hair. Now his eyes were wide, adoring, startlingly green with excitement. "God," he whispered, "you're so beautiful. I need you so much." "I'm yours." He kissed her, his sweet, full mouth soft and warm on hers, his tongue exploring lightly. She drew him closer, pressed her breasts against him, ran her own tongue across his lower lip, and felt him shiver in anticipation. God, he felt so good, the smooth, trim planes of him, the clean lines of bone and muscle. She could feel herself melting inside, and she knew neither of them could wait for long. Scully withdrew just far enough to reach up and undo the knot of his tie. *No more sex with your tie on, Mulder.* He was still trembling, but none of it was fear now. He leaned back a little so she could slip his jacket off his shoulders, still staying inside the circle of her legs. She took the gun off his belt and laid it behind her on the table, then started on his shirt. *I want all of you this time. I want to see you, breathe in your scent, tickle my nose in the hair on your belly. All of it.* With his shirt open, she saw that his nipples were erect, hard as tiny buttons. She leaned forward, intending to kiss them, but he jerked backward. "Wait," he whispered. *Ah. So those are sensitive, are they?* She would remember. Instead, she placed her mouth in the shallow cleft between his breasts and kissed him there, licked his skin, drank in the warm, salty taste of it. He gasped. His arms closed around her again, and he lifted her and carried her into the bedroom. As he went, she tugged his shirt-tails out. He set her down on her feet in the bedroom, toed his shoes off, then stood still while she unbuckled his belt and slid his trousers to the floor. Gently she freed his erection, straining at the fabric of his briefs. God, he was big. She tried not to touch him there any more than absolutely necessary. She could feel the effort he was exerting to keep control--she knew she couldn't push him much. Naked, he was stunningly beautiful. Lean and perfect, slim and muscled for speed. She let her gaze roam up the length of him until she was looking into his eyes again and read the message there: *Now you.* She took a step closer to him and let him remove her blouse and skirt, only touching him to hold his shoulder for balance as she stepped out of the skirt. He slid the straps of her slip off her shoulders, unhooked her brassiere, then stood looking at her bare breasts, as if transfixed. *Yes,* Scully thought, in the moment before his hands cupped her again. *Yes, touch me.* She gave a little whimper of delight at the contact. His hands were warm, the skin a little rough to the touch. He leaned down and kissed her, his thumbs again caressing her nipples. Every nerve in her body was aflame with him. Just when she thought she couldn't stand another moment, he released her. He pulled the slip gently down off her hips, then removed her panties. Again she caught his shoulder briefly for balance. Then she was lying on his bed, waiting, anticipating. It was his turn to look at her, and there was a kind of awe in his manner as he ran one hand lightly from the hollow of her throat, between her breasts, and down to the top of the hair that lay between her legs. He bent his head and took her right nipple in his mouth, suckling gently but insistently like a hungry child, his tongue lapping at her in steady swipes. Scully groaned out loud, full-throated, her hips writhing involuntarily. *Oh, God, take me.* And he was there, entering her, in more small, insistent movements, a centimeter at a time. She wanted to shove up and take him straight into her center, but he had her pinned with his weight so that she could only match him, tiny thrust for tiny thrust. He was so hard; she was so wet. The sensation of him moving inside her was too much. She came like an explosion, the world seeming to blow apart with the force of it along her spine. And he was still moving, deeper and deeper, inexorably, and she came again, and yet again when she knew she had all of him. He let go of her breast. They were both panting like overheated animals, and for a moment, they just stopped there. Then he lay down across her chest and did something Scully couldn't quite grasp in her dazed, exhausted state, something that somehow turned them over so that she was on top of him without breaking the fusion between them. She tucked her legs, lifted her shoulders and smiled at him. *You're lucky I still have the strength for this,* she thought. She moved on him and felt him shudder, saw his eyes shut and his mouth twist. She wouldn't need much strength; he was very close. She leaned down and suckled at his breast and came again as he did, his spasm inside her, the delicious sound of his incoherent cries, igniting her own body again. *You're mine now,* she thought in elation. *And I'm yours. No matter what comes between us, we'll never be separated.* *********************************************************************** Part 14 July 24 Galveston Mulder let Scully sleep, but he couldn't. He cuddled her on his chest and wept a little, silently. He wanted to hold her as long as he could, knowing it wouldn't be for long; he knew he couldn't keep her with him, much as he desperately wanted her beside him forever. The question was, how would he ever manage to let her go? The thought made him feel as if his heart might simply split open. *Don't think about it. Just hold her. This is all you have.* Slowly, the warm, regular thud of her heart soothed him, and he calmed. Pendrell had been right--they wanted the same thing--for her to be safe. She wouldn't like it, he knew, but it had to be done. About seven, he touched her face to wake her. "Mmm," she murmured. "I would've begged, you know." "I didn't want you to," he whispered back. "I love you." She lifted her head and looked at him. He let himself drink in the sight of her--her eyes peacock blue in the afternoon sunlight filtering in through the windows. Her hair like a slick of molten copper. "I love you, too," she said. "I won't leave you." He knew better, but he smiled up at her. "Still," she said, "we have to make sure Ted gets away." "Yes." Mulder shifted, and she caught his signal, moved so that he could sit up. "He's not going to go without you, Scully." "He'll have to." She sat up beside him. "Yeah. That's why you have to convince him that you *are* going with him. Once we get him to the freighter, then we'll tell him. Then he'll have to leave." "Okay," she said. She looked closely at him, her brows knitting suddenly in concern. "Are you okay?" "Sure. Why?" "Your eyes are a little swollen." "I'm tired, that's all." He bumped her shoulder with his. "Which is at least as much your fault as mine." She chuckled and bent to retrieve her clothes. "Believe me, it's mutual. What time will the freighter leave?" "About 9:30. You and Pendrell be here at a quarter to. We'll give you an escort to the ship." "Just in case we get in a firefight, do you have some ammo that'll fit my Sig? I'm down to one magazine and three rounds." "I doubt it, but I'll look." With her tiny hands, she carried a smaller Sig than he did; it fired 9-mm parabellum rather than the .40-caliber Smith & Wesson rounds he liked. He searched but didn't find any. "Sorry. No good." He thought a moment, still shuffling through a drawer. "You want my PPK? I've got plenty of .380 auto you can have." When he turned, he saw she was admiring the view--he was still naked. "No, it's okay. I'll try to conserve." Despite himself he blushed as he went back to her. "Very nice," she said. He rolled his eyes. "You'd better hurry," he said. "There's not a lot of time." She stood up, laid her hand along his cheek and gave him a wide-eyed look of such tenderness it stopped his breath. "Do you believe I love you?" she asked. "I believe," he whispered. He did. "I do," he said. Then he kissed her. He suspected it was for the last time. **** They were right on time. Frohike had already taken their luggage and equipment to the ship in his Jeep--Bloodworth's people weren't watching him. He had made a circuitous trip around the island, then, carrying an order signed by Skinner, had got the freighter's crew to load the bags in advance. "Distract Scully for a minute, will you?" Mulder asked the little man. "My pleasure," Frohike said. "You have the letters?" Mulder asked Pendrell. Pendrell nodded. "Put your name and hers in the blanks at the top. Do it now, so you're legal before we leave." As he wrote the names in, Pendrell said softly, "What made you change your mind?" "I didn't." Pendrell looked up, his eyes both fearful and hopeful. "I never told you I was going to take her to Hawaii." He finished writing the names and stuffed the letters in his jacket pocket. "Why would you do this? Just let her go with me?" Mulder shrugged. "Like you said--I want her to be safe. And she wouldn't be safe here." Pendrell nodded. "But it doesn't matter. She hates me now," he said, his voice low. "No. She was so determined to see you get away she tried to seduce me in return for the letters," Mulder lied coolly. "I didn't take her up on it." Pendrell frowned at him in confusion. "She's a very forgiving sort, Pendrell. She's mad at you, all right--but she always forgave me, and she will you, too, if you earn it. You have a chance now to regain her respect." He gave the younger man a hard look. "Don't blow it." "I won't. What do you want us to do?" "Sit down and have a drink. I'll call you when we're ready." About fifteen minutes later, he motioned at Scully over the heads of the other patrons. She murmured something to Pendrell, and they came into the kitchen. Just as they entered, Byers and one of the waitresses headed out the back and along the side of the dock to the street. "What's going on?" Scully asked. "Oh, you two are going back to the hotel," Mulder said. "Or at least that's what we hope Bloodworth's crack surveillance team will think." "How'd you manage that?" Pendrell asked. Mulder shrugged again. "The only hard part was getting Byers to shave off his beard." Scully smiled. "Tell him we appreciate his sacrifice," she said. What a beautiful smile she has, Mulder thought. Frohike stuck his head in through the back door. "They bought it," he called softly. "They're gone." "Let's move," Mulder said. They made it to the ship without incident. But as they pulled up to the pier, Mulder saw Skinner and another man standing at the bottom of the ramp. It was tuxedo, the guy he had thrown out of the casino just before Pendrell and Scully had showed up. There was no mistaking the gun he had stuck in Skinner's back. Warily, they got out of the Jeep, hands on their holstered guns. And then, from back in the shadows, a figure stepped forward, a man-shape darker than the dark. Bloodworth. "Good evening," he called pleasantly. "I was afraid you were going to leave without saying goodbye. So I took the liberty of asking Mr. Skinner to bring me down to see you off." "You bastard," Scully said. She had her gun out now, pointed at tuxedo. "You pull that trigger, and you'll be dead before he hits the ground." Mulder slid out the left side, drew his own gun and braced both hands on the Jeep's roof. The shot was a little long, but there was no wind, nothing between he and the smoking man. "Drop it, Bloodworth!" he yelled. "I've got a clean shot, and nothing would make me happier!" "I'll trade him for Agent Scully," Bloodworth said. Clever, Mulder thought. Take Scully, and he'll have all three of us by the balls--me, Skinner, Pendrell. "The fucking hell you will," Pendrell said. Mulder didn't see the gun until the younger man fired. At once, tuxedo fell, shot through the heart, and Skinner flung himself out of the way. Scully was holding aim on Bloodworth and moving slowly toward him. "Get your hands up," she ordered. Something was wrong; Mulder could feel it in a tingle of fear along the back of his neck. Scully was so close, and she was moving between the Cancer Man and Skinner and Pendrell. Bloodworth stood motionless and let her get closer. And he wasn't smoking. It was all wrong. "Get your hands up!" Mulder yelled, echoing Scully. The son of a bitch was up to something--he wouldn't just stand there and be taken. She was so close. Too close. Mulder tightened his grip on the Sig and moved out around the Jeep. He guessed it was thirty yards, in the gathering dark, with Scully too close. Now, suddenly, the smoking man moved. His right hand still in shadow, coming up in a lazy arc, a glint of steel off something clutched in his fist. Scully had seen it first, and she moved left, squarely into Mulder's line of fire. She shot, three times in quick succession. Bloodworth staggered but didn't fall--Mulder realized he was wearing a vest. He'd recover in a second, and Scully was out of ammo, searching frantically in a pocket for another magazine. "Down!" Skinner yelled at Scully, but she didn't seem to hear him. Mulder danced left, to clear his aim. Bloodworth's hand was still rising. Mulder stopped, let his knees unlock and took his shot. And double-tapped the son of a bitch right between the eyes. Bloodworth's spine arched impossibly as the impact flung his head back, and for a moment Mulder thought he might actually turn a flip as he fell, his feet coming up off the ground. Then he dropped in a heap, slid almost a yard across the pavement and finally lay still. Mulder went toward him, leading with his gun. Bloodworth was dead. Jaw slack, eyes wide in an expression that looked like astonishment. Mulder nudged the right hand, still gripping something, with his foot. The fingers let go, and a small object hit the ground with a metallic rattle. A Zippo lighter. Mulder leaned his head back, trying to relax, let the adrenaline drain back out of his muscles. It was over. He had thought he might have a moment of triumph over the Cancer Man's demise. Instead, he just felt tired. Scully turned around, glanced at tuxedo's body on the ground and gave her husband a look of amazement. Pendrell looked equally stunned. "I've been practicing..." he got out. "A little." "Practice any more and you'll be a fucking Olympic contender," Mulder murmured. "Well, I couldn't... I mean, I couldn't let him..." "I think it was meant as a compliment," Skinner said dryly. "At any rate, I'm grateful for your newfound skill." "I never killed anybody before," Pendrell went on. "I never even shot anybody before." "You'll get over it," Mulder said sympathetically. "Just remember he would've killed A.D. Skinner if you hadn't shot him. Keep telling yourself that." Scully put one hand on his shoulder. "Ted," she said, "go aboard. I'll take care of this." "Okay," Pendrell said numbly. "Here." He handed her the letter of transit with her name on it. She took it, with a slantwise glance at Mulder. "I'll be right up," she said. Pendrell went up the gangplank. When he had gone, Mulder said, "We'll get rid of the bodies, Scully." He holstered his Sig. "There are sharks in these waters. Nobody'll find them." He inclined his head toward the freighter. "You go on." She stared at him. "Mulder, I told you--I'm not leaving you." "You have to go, Scully, and you know it." "No!" He took her arms, just above the elbows, and held her. "Listen to me. Pendrell didn't even know you were under surveillance. Despite his stellar performance here, I don't think he's going to make it out of Tampico without you. If you really think he doesn't need you, I think you'd better reconsider." "I want to stay with you," she whispered. "I know you do. And I wish like anything that you could. But you know better, Scully. There's been too much pain, too much blood spilled. I thought I could turn away from it, but when I did, I lost myself. I didn't get it back until I saw you again." She closed her eyes, as if doing that could stop her from hearing what he was saying. But just before they closed he could see in them that she knew he was right. "The faith to keep looking," she whispered. "Yes," he said. "I'd lost that. And I need it. You do, too--you can't turn away, either. We may not ever bring the bastards to justice, but we still have a chance to stop them." He fell silent for a moment. Then he reached to lift her chin gently. "I love you, Dana," he said. "But if we give up fighting now, what will we have?" She opened her eyes, spilling over with tears. "Each other," she breathed. "I don't think so. I don't think we'd ever stop wondering if we'd done the right thing. Do you really think we could be happy together while the rest of the world came unraveled around us? What kind of life would that be for either of us?" The freighter's whistle blew, thunderously loud, like the crack of doom. Scully started hard, and Mulder tightened his grip on her arms a little to steady her. "I want to be with you," she said. "You will be, no matter what happens." He let go of her. She reached up and stroked the lapels of his jacket with both hands, as if remembering a time when she had been able to hang on to him by taking hold of them. "You never forgot Samantha," she said, as if reassuring herself that he wouldn't forget her, either. "And I never will." The freighter's crew was casting off lines. "You'd better go," he said. "I love you," she said. "Go," he said. She went quickly up the gangplank. For a moment he feared she might stay on deck, watching until she couldn't see him any more, but she spared him that--she disappeared. Mulder stood watching, though. Standing guard until the freighter had gone, sailing slowly off around the end of the island until its lights winked out one by one. He felt drained, a soft, miserable loneliness soaking down into his bones. Then suddenly Skinner was beside him. Mulder drew a sharp breath to compose himself. "Where's Bloodworth?" "Back of the Jeep," the A.D. said. "Wrapped in garbage bags." "Nice touch," Mulder said. "I thought so. Here." He handed Mulder the lighter. "Souvenir." *More like a scalp,* Mulder thought. He looked at the lighter. Engraved on it were the words, "Trust no one." *That's what got you killed,* he thought. *You couldn't trust anyone, and no one could trust you.* He put the lighter in his pocket. They were silent for a long moment. Then Skinner asked, "You really do know how to get off the island, don't you?" Mulder looked over his shoulder at him. Skinner shrugged. "Somebody's going to have to start distributing the micro-organisms to what's left of the country. And I've got a certain curiosity all of a sudden about what's going on back east--I left some stuff in D.C. I'd like to reclaim, if I can wrest it away from the members of the master race who have probably taken up residence in my apartment." "Okay," Mulder said. "I'll take that ride. Just do me one favor, will you, Walter?" "Name it." "Don't make any sappy remarks about 'a beautiful friendship.'" "Wouldn't dream of it." **** As she was settling herself in the tiny ship's cabin, Scully noticed that her handbag seemed heavier than usual. There was something in that front pocket that Mulder had said she never used for anything. She looked. His Discman, complete with headphones. It was on pause, the display showing "9." With the cover closed, she couldn't see what disc it was, but she knew he had meant it as a message. She slipped the headphones on and pushed play. She heard Sarah McLachlan and knew instantly what the message was. "...so now you're sleeping peaceful/ and I lie awake and pray/ that you'll be strong tomorrow/ and we'll see another day..." She let the song play through. The sound of it in her ears was like the warm strength of his arms around her. He believed. ********************************************************************** The End lochness@mindspring.com