Dark Beyond the Stars (3/4)
Part 1
Part 2
Somewhere in Virginia, South of DC
He was way too old to be playing Cops and Robbers in the woods in
the middle of the night. Or was it Cowboys and Indians? Who the
hell knew? He was suddenly very tired of a life that included
all these uncomfortable excursions at odd hours to ridiculous
locales. Why the hell couldn't his mysterious informants ever
direct him to the bar at the Ritz? Please take a table in the
corner and order yourself a very expensive scotch. A beautiful
brunette will be delivering you papers with definitive proof of a
massive government conspiracy to hide the existence of
extraterrestrial life...
He sighed, recognizing the bleak humor for what it was--a way of
avoiding thinking about what he most feared. It wasn't so much
that he was once again heading off to a place where no one knew
he was going to. It was that he knew this had to be related to
Scully, and he was terrified that he would arrive too late. He
didn't know what he would do if he saw her disappearing in some
blinding flash of white light. Watching two people he loved
vanish in that way in one lifetime was already two times too
many.
As seemed to be inevitable for these kinds of things, the
directions had seemed clear. At least on paper. However, past
that initial clarity, there was a certain vagueness once he got
to where he thought he should be. There were, however, trees.
Lots and lots of trees. None of them, thankfully, bleeding. Or
moving, or anything else that would seem to warrant his being out
here, bumbling around in the middle of the night. But he kept
making his way through the forest, convinced that there was
something just ahead.
He tripped over a root, nearly went sprawling, and caught
himself--painfully--by grasping the nearest bush, which turned
out to be holly.
Fortunately, he knew the word "shit" in at least 6 languages and
was muttering them all under his breath as he made his way up the
hill. His muttered curses initially deafened him to the rhythmic
clanking that gradually insinuated itself into his consciousness.
He slowed his pace. Began to put more care into moving quietly.
It was a cool night, but not cold, and the breeze was mild. The
dense, soft air of the forest was overlaid with the scents of
pine, and moist earth. A shift in the breeze, and suddenly he
smelled smoke--not the murky-crisp smell of wood burning, but
something sharp and chemical.
Up to the crest of the hill, and then there it was. The
proverbial deep-woods paramilitary training camp. Was there
anything in his life that wasn't a cliche?
He dropped to the ground, inching his way cautiously along the
forest floor, to edge up to a vantage point looking down into the
valley.
It was big. What he could see of the compound had to be at least
400 yards long and as many deep, and it seemed to go a long way
back into the woods past what he could see in the dark of the
night.
Definitely military of some kind--there were men (and women?
from this distance he couldn't tell) drilling in formations. On
the far right of the area he could see there were squads of
soldiers pushing through an obstacle course--climbing over logs,
low crawling under razor wire, scaling walls. He watched them
for a long moment, knowing that there was something wrong about
what he was seeing, and unable to determine precisely what was
bothering. Finally it hit him--they were working in near
silence.
There was no shouting drill sergeant, no grunts or yells of
encouragement from squad mates. They pushed through the course,
at a deeply efficient pace, with no extra sounds at all. The
troops moved through the course with a grim and professional
efficiency that left him in no doubt that he was looking at some
of the most highly trained mercenaries in the world. There was an
uncomfortable discipline to their movements that spoke of brutal
assassinations and surgical strike forces that would melt away
back into the background after leveling some unspeakable
violence.
He was beginning to look away--to examine the rest of the scene
in front of him--when he suddenly snapped back, realizing a
second oddity. The soldiers were all dressed in winter combat
fatigues--the white and light grey of their BDUs an eerie, almost
glowing, presence in the night.
As he watched them continue their drill, he realized that a
second squad waited to take the course, and they were all dressed
in desert fatigues. What the hell?
He fumbled in his pocket, finally remembering that he had
brought a pair of miniature field binoculars along with him. He
began a systematic sweep of the compound.
On the far left was a weapons depot. A series of tents with side
flaps rolled up revealed dozens, if not hundreds of wooden crates
that were clearly marked with various designations of missile
types and guns and other weaponry. It was the other weaponry
that made him pause. Aside from what seemed to be fairly
standard stinger-type missiles and grenades, there were a number
of bright yellow crates open with soldiers inspecting the
contents.
The weaponry in those yellow containers was most definitely
nothing that he'd ever seen before, even in the most recent
briefings on terrorism, and classified weapons being developed by
the U.S. military. These weapons looked something like a cross
between an assault rifle and a flame-thrower, but were attached
to odd looking canisters. In addition to the canisters, there
were what looked like chambers that might hold rounds of
ammunition. The weapons were clearly unfamiliar to the troops
examining them, also.
As Mulder watched, one of the grunts picked up one of the guns.
He staggered a little under its unexpected weight. Then hefted
it to more comfortable carrying/firing position. He pointed it
in mock assault at one of his fellow soldiers. Just at that
moment, an officer sprinted into the tent, his yell eerily
breaking the otherwise nearly silent night.
Mulder was too far away to make out the words, but the tone was
one of urgent command and warning. The soldier very gingerly
returned the weapon to its crate and the whole group snapped to
attention as the officer gave a long, quiet lecture on what
looked like a safety briefing on the weapons. The quietness of
the speech simply underscored the controlled fury and worry that
seemed to emanate from the officer. Finally, the group was
released and each retrieved one of the new guns and followed the
commander off to a portion of the camp that Mulder couldn't make
out. The firing range must be back that direction. He noted
that the men treated the guns with a significant degree of
respect.
He shifted his view to the middle of the compound, which seemed
to be a staging ground. Twelve large cargo/passenger helicopters
were being loaded and armed. He watched teams of men attaching
sidewinders and other missiles to the mounts at the sides. Boxes
of what seemed to be supplies and more weapons and ammo were
being loaded onto cargo pallets. Several teams of men were
moving through the area, inspecting things, and marking off
manifests on the electronic pads they carried.
There were two cargo planes also being loaded. They appeared to
be C-130s, but the callsign and flagship markings were...non-
existent. No markings or symbols of any kind adorned the flat
grey paint of the planes. Odd-looking humvees and sno-cat like
vehicles were being driven onto the planes. He couldn't see into
the interior of the second plane, but it appeared that the
vehicles on the first plane were being rigged for parachute
drops. From the helo-pad was long road off into the back of the
compound that must lead to the airfield from which the cargo
planes would take off.
It struck him again, that for all the activity taking place,
there was almost no noise. It made the night even more surreal.
Like watching a movie in which the soundtrack had suddenly died.
He focused in again on the compound. Several Quonset huts were
visible behind the staging area. He looked at them intently,
trying to determine if any of them were the sort of structure
that might have the room that he'd seen on the video of Scully.
None of them appeared to be made of the concrete that had been
visible behind her. In fact, none of the huts looked to be more
than a couple of weeks old. Of course, they could be covering
underground structures.... He spent endless fruitless moments
scanning each window. Hoping against hope for...what? But he had
to believe that he'd been led here for a purpose.
The door of the far left hut opened abruptly, and a group of men
emerged. Their dark, business attire contrasted sharply with the
light-colored military uniforms surrounding them. Their casual,
civilian stroll across the helo-pad marked them as apart from
this intense preparation, but the deference shown them by an
obviously high-ranking officer made it clear that they were of it
somehow.
A flare of fire interrupted his field of vision, much larger in
the lenses of the binoculars that it should have been.
Of course he was there. That smoking son-of-a-bitch was
everywhere Mulder turned. Was this the reason he was here? To
see this--this preparation? But what was it a preparation for?
The smoker's presence was an almost comforting familiarity, at
the same time it intensified his worry that there was some
now even more immediate danger to Scully.
As he watched, the men the broke into what become a heated debate.
The smoker was looking smug, but Mulder thought he sensed an
underlying uncertainty. He was gesturing at a stout dark-haired
man, who seemed to be the leader of the rest of the group. At
first the group was all engaged in the discussion, but soon, it
was simply the smoker and the other.
The smoker was saying something to the obvious annoyance of the
fat man, when a uniformed officer approached them and indicated
that they were to follow. One more sharp comment from the smoker
and then the group began to follow the officer. They walked back
toward the tents with the weaponry. The officer halted them
approximately 100 yards from the main area, and Mulder saw that a
target on a sandbag had been set up toward the far end of the
area--almost to the fence that marked the far perimeter.
Apparently there was to be a firing demonstration. The civilians
were shifting nervously, foot to foot. A commotion on the far
side of the tents seemed to catch their attention.
From behind the tent just to the side of the target, three
soldiers led a captive, who was struggling, toward the target.
They tied him to a post just in front of the sandbag. My god--
they were going to test fire at a live person. Mulder was
already on his feet, reaching for his gun before realizing that
there would be nothing he could do to save the captive. He
remained standing, indecision and fury warring in his gut.
He picked up his binoculars and focused in on the unfolding drama
once more. He focused in on the man who was going to be the
shadows' next victim. It killed him to just stand there and
watch--bear witness to one more atrocity, but he also realized
the utter futility of a kamikaze charge down the hill into the
compound. He'd be dead before he was 10 steps beyond the tree
line. One more failure. One more loss to the forces that had
dogged him for so long.
There was something odd about the prisoner's face. The features
were oddly blurred--almost like a child had taken an eraser and
smudged out the eyes and mouth and nose, leaving just the faint
impressions of what had once been there. It was a deeply
disturbing impression. Some echo of a memory tugged at him...
Dark, truck, prison box, flash light, gun, my god--no face!,
light, bright light, not again, not again....Scully....
He shook himself free of the pull of elusive images.
The prisoner had stopped struggling. He stood with military
ramrod straight posture against the pole, looking hopelessly
valiant. Refusing, in what he clearly knew to be his last
minutes, to be a victim of circumstance. Mulder inevitably found
himself thinking of the defiance that Scully had shown on the
video. It broke his heart all over again.
The commander of the weapons squad had finished giving his final
briefing to the men, and three of the soldiers stepped forward
and raised their weapons. The prisoner squared his shoulders.
Mulder tensed, not wanting to see, but utterly unable to look
away....
CR-ack!
The twig snapping 20 yards to his right jolted his heart rate as
though it had been a rifleshot.
He whirled, and saw a group of four sentries moving up the hill.
He froze momentarily, not sure if they'd seen him. He wasn't
sure and began backing down, away from them. For the first 5
seconds, he thought maybe he'd be ok.
Then the world turned upside down.
A dense crack-roar of weapons fire from the compound caught the
attention of the advancing 4-man squad, and Mulder began moving
away in earnest, just as a bright flash of light snapped on
somewhere over the compound.
The light came from above and below and sideways and perfectly
illuminated Mulder for the squad to see. The leader looked right
at him and shouted, "Hey! Stop right there!" He turned back
briefly to his men, "Intruder ahead! Full weapons!"
The men began running toward him, and then the ground began to shake.
It is a little known, or at least little regarded fact that the
Washington, DC area actually lies on one of the most severe
earthquake fault lines in the U.S. There are many small tremors
most years that aren't even noticed by the residents. Geologists
note the tiny events and make quiet, dire predictions about how
overdue the region is for a big one.
As the ground began to roll, a tiny detached part of Mulder's
brain wondered if the DC area was finally getting its due.
Another part of his brain was telling his legs to keep moving,
dammit, because there were men with very big guns coming toward him.
He turned, twisting, slipping, trying to find any kind of cover
in the weird, cutting light that was permeating the forest.
Behind him he heard the confused and angry shouts of the
soldiers. He thought he heard one of them scream, "Goddammit!
not AGAIN!" But he was moving through the trees and the brush,
and he was running and trying to move and faster and away, and he
kept imagining that he could feel them closer and closer.
He'd pulled out his gun, fumbling the safety off, wondering why
he was bothering, when it was perfectly clear that the patrol had
fully automatic weapons. And he ran, and ran, breath beginning
to grow short, heart pounding with the exertion and fear and
anger and adrenaline.
The ground stopped moving. Still he ran, zigging and zagging
through the trees.
He ran past the edges of the light, suddenly blinded by the dark
of the forest, forced to slow his pace for fear of running
headlong into a tree. Finding a dense group of bushes in front
of him, he ducked behind them, and cautiously looked back the way
he'd come.
His breath coming in harsh pants, his heart pounding. He tried
to quiet his ragged breathing, to hear over the roaring in his
ears. His eyes strained through the dark. Where were they?
He'd been crashing through the forest like a wounded rhinoceros,
surely they'd followed.
He glanced to the sides, behind him, in front. Nothing.
Gradually the night sounds of the forest asserted themselves
again. Quiet calls of owls. Leaves rustling. He sat absolutely
still. Weapon at hand. Waiting. Waiting.
Then, just on the horizon--a flash of light, a muffled roar that
might have been an explosion.
Then dark. Silence. Dead silence.
A smell of smoke.
Then nothing.
He waited two hours. Unable to bring himself to move. Not sure
if there was more danger in movement or non-movement. Also,
semi-paralyzed by the realization that in his headlong flight
through the woods he'd completely lost track of direction, and
had no idea where he was.
The first light of dawn helped him find East, and he realized
that it was pointless to continue crouching there, behind bushes
that would afford him no cover in daylight whatsoever. He stood
stiffly, and began walking out.
He emerged from the woods an hour later. The sign at the side of
the road where he finally emerged stopped him in his tracks. The
laughter that welled up from nowhere was only slightly bitter.
U.S. Government Property
NO TRESPASSERS
DANGER
Training grounds. Live weapons in use.
NO ENTRY
U.S. Department of Justice
Federal Bureau of Investigation
~ ~ ~ ~
Unknown location
Run! Run! You must run. Keep running. Don't stop! Don't look
back! Run!
She awoke, barely stifling the shout that rose up from the depths
of her soul.
Run!
She was shaking, covered in light sheen of sweat. She pulled
herself upright, leaning back against the wall behind the bed,
wrapping herself in the blanket--pulling it tight around her, as
though it could keep her from flying apart, from flying across
this room to pound helplessly on the door.
It had come again. The dream. The command. Calling her. The
imperative. Run. You must run. The fourth night in a row. The
command to run. Growing stronger. Pulling at her. Leading
her....
But where? But where?
She found she was unconsciously rocking. Tiny back and
forth motions, trying to soothe herself. Trying to calm her
heartbeat, her shallow, panting breaths. What was happening?
She knew of course, on one level. She was being called.
Summoned through the chip in her neck that may very well have
saved her from cancer, but which might simply lead her to another
death. The video images of the charred bodies on the
Pennsylvania dam danced on the edges of her consciousness,
reminding her of the fate that might wait for her. If They
chose to call her, what would she do? Could she resist? She'd
survived once, and didn't know why. She thought it unlikely that
such random twists of fate would save her twice.
Slowly pulling herself out of the nightmare, waking up, letting
her rational, conscious mind take over, she reminded herself that
dreams of running were undoubtedly just her unconscious dealing
with her captivity and her natural desire to be able to run away
from this place. The thought was momentarily comforting.
Knife point agony spiked her. The back of her neck on fire.
Tight, red hot pain jolting her for an endless 10 seconds. She
was utterly rigid with pain. Held motionless in the grip of the
torment, she was completely unprepared for a sudden jumble of
images and emotions that assaulted her mind.
Faces she recognized and didn't.
Mulder.
Lights sweeping across an oddly distorted body that she realized
belonged to her.
A drill or probe, whirling, nearer, nearer.
Krycek.
Voices that babbled and broke and formed that sounds that she
could almost but never quite be understand.
Dark, long, long dark.
Eyes that watched her and didn't see her at all.
Mulder....
The agonizing sensation abruptly ceased, and she collapsed
boneless and trembling back on the bed.
Slowly she began to breathe cautiously, expecting each movement
to hurt. A residual ache washed over her, sweeping her with
fatigue and weakness.
She huddled on the bed, motionless. And still she felt the call.
~ ~ ~ ~
Skinner's Office
September 21, 1998
9:47 a.m.
There was a certain grim satisfaction in this new...arrangement.
For far too long, it had been the other way around. He'd been at
the beck and call of that man whose name he still didn't know,
but whom he referred to as The Smoker, or sometimes Cancer Man.
There had even been a time when Skinner had equated the man with
the Devil, but ultimately that had proved to be a false
comparison. His theology was a little shaky, but he seriously
doubted that the Prince of Darkness would have left several pints
of blood on the anonymous beige carpet of an anonymous apartment
building in Arlington.
Still, despite the apparently fatal wound--the Smoker was back.
Skinner decided he simply wasn't going to think about it. The
point of the matter was that things had changed. Perhaps for the
better.
Now he could make the calls, place the demands for the time and
places of meetings. He might even be able to prevent the man
from smoking in his office. Maybe. The balance of power hadn't
completely shifted, but it had tilted in his favor. He was
inclined to savor the feeling.
A slight creak and rustle, and he was there, standing in front of
the AD's desk. For a long moment Skinner didn't even look up
from the paperwork he was ostentatiously perusing. Oh yeah.
This felt good.
Click, hiss, and he heard the cigarette being lit. He
deliberately did not react to the affront. You can't win every
battle, even if you win the war.
He waited just a moment more, and then looked up.
"You're late." The same growl he used on Mulder after his more
outrageous field reports.
"DC traffic." Bland tone, but just the faintest shadings of
something--warning, challenge, impatience--underneath.
"It is rush hour." Skinner felt unaccountably magnanimous. Or
perhaps this was just rubbing the smoking man's face in it--it
was now Skinner's role to dispense the absolutions for excuses.
"You called?" The impatience was starting to show.
"Yes, I did." He settled back, steepling his fingers. He
should, by most measures, have felt at a disadvantage--seated
while the other stood over him, but instead, he felt
rather...confident. "We have a situation to discuss."
"Oh?" The tone, still bland, almost casual, but the eyes were wary.
"Yes, I rather think this has gone on long enough. Don't you?"
"You think -what- has gone on long enough?"
He refused to rise to the bait. "I think it's time for you to end this."
"Are you perhaps referring to the rather...interesting...
disappearance of one of your agents? Really, Assistant Director
Skinner, I should think you'd have better things to do than
bother me during a time of such...crisis."
Skinner quirked an eyebrow. "Crisis? Interesting choice of
words." He projected a calm he didn't quite feel. "Yes, one of
my agents is missing under rather...unusual circumstances. But
crisis?" He let the word lay heavy and blatant between them.
The smoker remained impassive, but Skinner thought it was costing
him no small measure of effort to keep the facade. "My mistake
then. So why am I here?"
"Because enough is enough. I want Agent Scully returned. Now.
Unharmed." He hadn't meant to cut to the chase so quickly, but
the game had simply gone on too long.
"What makes you think I know anything at all about that? Or that
even if I did, that I would be inclined to do anything about it?"
For the first time, Skinner felt a jolt of uncertainty, but still
couldn't resist the dig. "I thought you knew everything."
"My dear man, what would give you that impression? I have
certain...connections that prove useful from time to time, but
knowing 'everything?' You give me far too much credit. I'm not at
all sure I can be helpful to you in this case."
Skinner restrained himself from gritting his teeth. "Well then,
perhaps your connections can fill you in on your apparent lack of
knowledge."
"That's presuming I want to know. I'm a busy man, Mr. Skinner.
There are many things which simply don't concern me."
"But I think this should concern you."
"Why? As I said, I am a busy man, and although I do like Agent
Scully, her disappearance is of little consequence to me. Now,
if you have nothing of interest for me, I believe I'll be going."
Skinner had odd the impression that smoking man was both waiting
to hear something that he did want to learn, and waiting for
permission to leave.
It had been a long week, and Skinner was too tired to play games.
"So, you know nothing, and can do nothing." His tone a deliberate
insult.
"Don't confuse my ability to do something with my willingness to do it."
"So you do know something about Agent Scully?"
The smoker gave a slightly theatrical sigh. "I've told you--I'm a
busy man. I simply don't have time to concern myself with all
the small details of the various...activities that are going on.
Besides. Why should I help you with this?"
"Because if you do, I'll return this." Skinner reached inside
his desk and removed the case that he'd been holding on to for an
emergency.
The smoker actually paled. "Where did you get that?" A sharp
urgency now filled the office.
"Where do you think?" The man began reaching for the case, and
Skinner flipped it open to show the empty lining. "Do you think
I'm an idiot? The contents are quite safely stored. But I will
return them to you....for Agent Scully."
He'd taken the sample during one of his "assignments" for the
smoker, somehow knowing it was valuable--not even fully
understanding all it was, but knowing that it was connected
to the damn bees. He'd been proven correct when the smoker had
demanded to know if Skinner had seen anyone else during that
particular raid. He'd been tense and irritable for weeks
afterwards. For some reason it had never seemed to occur to the
man that Skinner might have in any way acted on his own. It had
been a lone moment of satisfaction during those hellish months.
"You're a fool, Skinner."
"Maybe. Do you want to make a trade or not?"
"I'll have to consider this. There are other...players to
consult. It is a somewhat complex time, and people's moods are
subject to change." Something in Skinner's gut told him it was a
bluff. He'd just put all the chips on the table and the smoker
was still hedging. It would seem that he might not actually know
who or what had Scully.
The smoking man was still staring at the case on the desk,
transfixed by the sight. The sample must be even more valuable
than he'd initially guessed.
Finally, the smoker looked up, his mask once more intact, but a
new wariness in his eyes. "I'll be in touch." The tone was
curt. "In the meantime, you might want to find out what your
Agent Mulder was up to last night."
Oddly Skinner was left with the impression that the smoker was
fishing for information. And that he was worried.
Skinner sat at his desk for a long time, wondering where you went
when your court of last resort turned out to be nothing but smoke
and mirrors.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
FBI Command Post
1:28 p.m.
Mulder had been pacing around the room all morning, and well past
lunch time. He knew that he was giving off some kind of "leave
me the fuck alone" signal because the other agents were giving
him an even wider berth than usual. Suited him just fine. He
was still keyed up from his adventures the night before. Tense.
Edgy. Unable to decide what to do next.
He had long ago surrendered any illusions that the U.S.
Government, or even the Department of Justice, were bastions of
honor, integrity or justice. Still, seeing the tangible proof of
that involvement last night had shaken him. He'd realized,
during his drive back that the installation he'd seen
had to be located somewhere on that no man's land between the
FBI's Quantico facility and the Marine base down there. Still,
it was all federal land, and that clearly meant some kind of
federal involvement.
Shit. Even though it wasn't wholly unexpected, it did reopen the
can of worms about whom to trust and what to do next.
His initial impulse on seeing the compound had been to call
Skinner. He'd wanted to literally send in the Marines--get
Skinner and every damn agent he could get his hands on down there
to overrun the place and find Scully. But the longer he'd
watched the less convinced he'd been that Scully was even there.
He couldn't figure out the connection. What would a seemingly
random snatching of Scully have to do with what looked like
preparations for either repelling or launching an invasion?
Through the long night of waiting in the woods, he'd also come
back time and again to the question of who had given him the
information to find this camp. And to what end? He knew very
little more than when he'd started, but it was clear that what
he'd seen had been vitally important. The smoker and his
colleagues were clearly about to take some new step, and they
expected armed resistance of an unusual type.... the winter
fatigues had inevitably brought to mind the ship in the Arctic
that he'd rescued Scully from...but what about the desert
fatigues? Where did that fit in....? Dammit!
And what would he do now? He needed help. That much was clear.
Although he trusted them implicitly, he wasn't entirely sure that
this was the sort of thing the Lone Gunmen could help him with.
Which left him with Skinner. Could Skinner be trusted? The FBI
was involved in all this, somehow, as was the military. Trusting
no one was the only thing that guaranteed safety, but wouldn't
save Scully. Fuck. The bottom line was that somewhere deep in
his gut he simply trusted Skinner...because he did. There had
been a time, early on, when it seemed that Skinner was far too
deep in the smoking man's pocket. But then there had been
Skinner reopening the X-files, and the DAT trade, and his deal
for Scully's cure. He needed to talk to Skinner.
The pitch of the command room changed abruptly. The general
level of buzz and fatigued chatter died suddenly, and he began to
hear isolated voices. He looked up. Skinner had come in and
seemed to be conducting his usual afternoon update briefing.
He waited until the AD was finished and then met him in the back
corner where Skinner had commandeered a desk as his work space.
Skinner looked distracted--standing, hands on hips, frowning down
at the papers that were neatly stacked in several piles on the
desktop. He didn't seem to realize that Mulder was standing
there for several moments.
"Yes, Mulder. What is it?" There was an unexpected edge of
impatience in the AD's voice.
"I need to talk to you." Mulder hesitated, not quite sure what
to say next. Realizing that he'd just made a decision.
Skinner seemed to be weighing some serious matter. Far more
serious than Mulder's simple request warranted. Finally he gave
a curt nod. "Let's move this to the interrogation room."
The small room to the side of the main command room was normally
an oversized closet that held fax machines and copiers. For this
investigation, the machines had been cleared out and a small
table and two chairs had been set up. They had used it for
questioning the precious few witnesses they'd found. It was the
only truly private area in the command post.
The room felt tight, claustrophobic as soon as Skinner shut the
door. He tended to forget just how solid the AD was. His
imposing presence a combination of the man's sheer physical bulk
and his commanding persona. "So, Mulder, what is it?"
It was hard to know where to start. "I got an anonymous tip last
night."
"And?"
"I followed the directions to some woods down near Quantico. I
found....well, I guess you'd call it a training camp."
As he described what he'd seen in the woods, he kept watching
Skinner for signs of disbelief, or impatience, or perhaps he was
looking for signs that Skinner actually already knew all about
it. But he found he couldn't read his superior at all.
"That's quite a tale, Mulder. I don't suppose you got any
pictures or evidence?" For a brief moment, Mulder almost
wondered if there was a glint of humor in Skinner's voice.
"Uh no, sir. I sort of left in a hurry, didn't take a camera,
and what with the lights and explosions or whatever it was, there
really wasn't..."
"It's ok. I didn't really expect, just thought I'd ask."
Skinner sort of huffed, and looked down at the ground for a
moment. "Did it ever occur to you to call for back up before you
took off?"
"Well, I--"
"Look, Mulder. I know that this is a tough time. Things right
now are more than a little tense, and once again we're left not
knowing who to trust. But you have to trust someone, sometime.
You trusted whoever left you that tip...."
"I know. It was stupid--but it was late at night and I wasn't
thinking." Damn, he hated sounding like a truant kid being hauled
in front of the principal.
"Scully's kidnapping has us all jumping at shadows." Skinner
looked away for a moment, seemingly lost in his own thoughts.
"After the earthquake or whatever it was settled down, did you go
back and check on the camp again?"
"No. I hate to admit it, but I was lost. I'd been dashing
through the woods without paying attention to which way I was
turning. By the time I lost those goons, I really didn't know
which way the camp was. It was pretty much luck that I managed
to get back to the road relatively quickly."
"You say this was down at Quantico."
"Yeah--I came out right at the marker for the FBI campus."
"But you don't know if that camp was..."
"I'm pretty sure it's right on the no man's land."
"Of course. It's probably gone by now, but I'll go ahead and get
some agents I trust out there. The question is what does it all
mean. You say you saw our smoking friend down there?"
"Yeah--they were conducting some kind of weapons test. They were
going to kill that prisoner..." He shuddered, thinking of that
strange, blurred face. The horror he'd felt at his own
helplessness.
"And the soldiers who were training--they were wearing both
arctic and desert BDUs?"
"Yeah."
"Any theories?"
Mulder shrugged. "I don't know. It's frustrating as hell. I
thought about it last night. The only thing I can figure is that
there's another ship somewhere. Maybe at the North Pole."
Skinner nodded absently. "Makes sense in a way, but why the
desert cami's? I can't figure that one. There's been nothing in
any of the recent security briefings that would suggest something
in any of the desert areas..."
"Of course, this sort of thing might not show up in an official
briefing." Mulder knew he was not successfully keeping the
bitterness out of his voice.
"True. But nothing that any of my unofficial channels have told
me would lead me to think that either...."
"Unofficial?" Instantly on the alert again.
"Yeah." Skinner's hard gaze pinned him. Assessed him. "I have
a number of channels through which I receive information. Still,
it's almost like they're preparing for a dual-front assault.
Given the weaponry you've described, I think we have to assume a
somewhat....unusual opponent." Again, the gaze, heavy on him.
"You mean extra-terrestrial?" Mulder took a moment to revel in
the irony that it was now Skinner who would tentatively test the
waters with theories of extreme possibilities. "You're probably
right. What I still don't get, though, is why I got the tip to go
see that particular test. What did they want me to do about it?"
"The question is, what can we do about it? And do you think this
has something to do with Agent Scully?"
Mulder paced for a step or two. "Yeah--I do. Can't begin to tell
you why. Just have a sense. It's making me nuts, too. The only
thing I can figure is that it has something to do with this
summer. She was on that ship, the ship was in ice, these guys
are training in winter gear...maybe a ship is coming back?
Scully has the vaccine in her system. Maybe that has something
to do with it...Damn it!" He kicked the table in frustration.
"Easy, Mulder. We'll figure it out. If you think it's connected
let's just work with that for now. What do you want to do? How
involved do you want the agency to get?" It could still surprise
him--Skinner's tacit admission that there were parts of the FBI
not to be trusted.
"Well, you said you'd send out some agents you trust to check out
the site. Let's see what they find. In the meantime, maybe I
should try to...."
Skinner cut him off abruptly. "Our smoking friend came to see me
this morning." He looked down, and Mulder had the odd sensation
sense that Skinner was almost embarrassed. "I...uh...he seemed
to be fishing for some information. About what you were doing
last night."
The men exchanged a wry look. Skinner continued. "I think we've
answered the questions about his involvement, but he isn't sure
you were there. I think we should keep it that way. I know the
time is still running, but I think we should just wait this out
for a bit. Anyway--I don't think he knows where Scully is."
Mulder felt a deep rage begin to build in his gut. "What do you
mean?" A small detached part of his brain reminded him, even as
he was advancing on Skinner, that Skinner outweighed him by at
least 30 pounds, all of it muscle. Skinner didn't budge a
millimeter.
"You might as well know. I have something that the smoker wants.
Something I acquired," he gave the word an ugly twist,
"during....that time. I essentially offered to trade it for
Scully. He didn't exactly leap at the offer, despite the fact
that he obviously needed it. I don't think he's quite in the
loop on this."
He felt the rage easing a bit. "I think that worries me."
"Me, too."
And there was nothing else to be said.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Unknown location
She watched their captive pacing in her cell. Precise steps
measuring the length and breadth of her room. She admired that
about the red-haired woman. Ironically, she actually admired
many things about the agent. Of course, none of the admiration
would weigh in her decision about Scully's fate.
She'd already negotiated the price for the agent--or more
specifically, the chip in her neck--and Marita was not a person
to allow sentiment to cloud her professional judgment or long
range planning.
Scully's sleep patterns had been erratic the last few nights.
They, of course, had her under constant video surveillance,
strictly as a precautionary measure. It had seemed logical that
some kind of activation of her implant might take place once the
consortium's plans had been finalized with the aliens. The
videos were a way of monitoring Scully during times they couldn't
be there.
It was so hard to get reliable help these days...besides, the
fewer people involved, the fewer chances of a leak and screw-up.
Marita had been in Tunguska. Had seen the charred bodies left by
the rebel aliens. She knew that whatever had called those people
to that place of death and kept them there to be slaughtered like
so many sheep had to be a powerful force indeed.
She wondered idly what the effect of that call would be on a
captive. She thought that something was beginning. The tapes
had shown Scully repeatedly reaching for the back of her neck,
even while sleeping. And her pacing today was tighter than
normal--almost as though she were forcing herself into a routine
against the will of her body.
As she watched, Scully stopped dead in her tracks--rigid with
surprise or pain. She was absolutely still for 2 full minutes,
and then crumpled to the floor, her hand clutching at the
implant.
Interesting. There was definitely a call underway. But the chip
wasn't reacting like the others Marita had seen. So it would
seem her allies were correct--the vaccine did have some
interactive effects.
They would shortly have to set up an "escape" for her--they would
need her to lead them to the confrontation.
She heard footsteps behind her. Krycek. He was an impulsive
fool....but quite useful. And sometimes quite amusing. He had
certain talents in bed, and other places...
"Alexi--where have you been?" She didn't even wait for his
answer before covering his mouth with her own. Yes, very
amusing.
~ ~ ~ ~
Unspecified location in Washington, DC
The funny thing was how easy it was to play this game. How
simple was to fool these men. She was never sure if they
continually underestimated her because she was young, or because
she was a woman. Or simply because they were stupid. It really
didn't matter. The effect was the same--she could come and go as
she more or less pleased, and there were rarely any serious
obstacles to her accomplishing what she wished to do. It was
merely a question of biding her time until an appropriate
opportunity....
Part of the men's complacency probably stemmed from this summer,
when she'd been the first successful test subject for the new
vaccine. It had still been a beta version, but the results had
been...useful. She shuddered briefly, remembering that time--the
endless suspension in a mental and physical limbo that was as
close as she'd ever like to get to hell. Inasmuch as she
believed in such a place.
But, it had been worth it, she supposed. A time she did not want
to relive, but she was a pragmatist. There was a price to be paid
for all gains.
The room was smoke-filled, as usual. She sat quietly in the
corner, in her accustomed place, looking vaguely bored. She had
long since come to the realization that the elders simply saw her
as part of the furniture. It was amazing what she and the
leather chairs had learned over the past several months.
It was a mark that something serious and strange was happening
that the elders had convened in Washington, rather than New York.
But the room was still very much the same. Expensively
understated leather chairs, carpet that muffled sound and
footsteps, and a quiet array of invisible servants and aides.
Such as she.
She was perfectly positioned when the phone call came in for the
smoking man.
"Yes? Oh. It's you." A grimace of distaste.
"About time you called. Where is she?"
"Don't give me that, you know exactly who I'm talking about."
"Since when are you in any position to make demands?"
The smoker began to evidence small signs of agitation. Marita
watched him carefully without betraying her interest.
"You know so much less than you think you do," now real anger
could be heard, "and you are meddling in a situation that you
can't even begin to understand." The cold condescending tone was
irritatingly familiar. It was a pleasure to hear it directed at
another.
"I don't have time for this sort of stupidity, Krycek. Meet me
at the usual place. Forty-five minutes." Marita hoped her sudden
involuntary jerk hadn't been noticed. She felt the cold hand of
rage and fright clutch at her gut. Krycek? What the hell? Had
they been discovered? Had she been betrayed? What did this mean?
The smoking man slammed the phone down and stalked over to pick
up his coat. As he walked out of the room she could hear him
demanding that a cab be summoned.
She quietly turned the pages of the file she was ostensibly
perusing, and considered the call. Krycek had said nothing to
her about being contacted by the consortium. While she hadn't
exactly expected him to play a completely honest game with her,
she nevertheless found herself annoyed by this somewhat
unexpected betrayal. On the other hand, it certainly did appear
that Krycek had been pulled into this latest round of the game by
the elders, not the other way around. He had always been
somewhat weak in his responses to them, and this was probably no
exception.
She permitted herself a brief smile. Perhaps it would be a
useful thing for there to be an observer at this meeting.
One of the things she had learned during all those afternoons and
evenings in this room was where the "usual place" was.
~ ~ ~ ~
Washington, DC
The Vietnam Memorial
45 minutes later
Cliches within cliches. They met at the center of the dark
granite V of The Wall. She spared herself a moment of anger that
Krycek would leave their captive unattended for this meeting, but
reminded herself that they had one or two minions who could at
least be trusted to stand guard, and there was on-going video
surveillance.
Fortunately it was a cool but bright Fall day, and her concealing
sunglasses and hat were quite unremarkable among the crowds that
were always present at this memorial. She trailed the men at a
distance that put her out of easy earshot but was less likely to
raise suspicions.
Krycek was clearly not pleased to have been summoned to the
meeting, and the smoker was clearly agitated. It made for an
interesting dynamic. The two men walked the length of the wall,
and then turned away from the path into some of the trees that
surrounded the area. They were close enough to the nurses'
memorial statue that she could pretend to be admiring it, but
stand near enough to them to overhear snatches of their angry
conversation.
"...and you're in over your head. If you would just--"
Krycek cut off the older man surprisingly smoothly. "What? Hand
her over to you? Presuming of course that I have her. I fail to
see any reason that would work to my advantage. Hypothetically
speaking, of course."
"Don't play games, boy."
Krycek gave an odd, bitter laugh. "Look, I have things to do, old
man. If you have nothing left to say, I think I'll be leaving."
"Wait. Don't be hasty." The smoker's tone was almost
conciliatory. "Maybe some kind of arrangement can be made. Who
are you working with? Perhaps...."
"What is it that you're really looking for here? And, far more
importantly, what's in it for me?"
"I'm not without influence in certain....circles. I could
arrange for a promotion or suitable...compensation for you."
The bitterness in Krycek's tone was unmistakable. "Oh, and
dental benefits, too? Cut me a fucking break. What makes you
think I'm interested in simply being a higher paid lackey for
your stupid group?"
"Because you know that we will be the ones left standing when The
Day comes."
"Maybe. You know, there are moments when I think Mulder is right
and trusting no one is the only way to go. You fools may
simply be the more convenient lambs to the slaughter. Your allies
are rather....unpredictable."
"Maybe, maybe not. You're losing the point. I can help you. I
simply need a gesture of good faith on your part. Tell me who
you're working with."
She had walked slowly through the area as though lost in thought,
and was now standing in a place that afforded her a direct view
of Krycek. She risked looking up, uncharacteristically curious
about he would say. He looked strangely focused.
"You have nothing that I want." There was a note in his voice
she couldn't recall ever hearing before. She turned away and
began slowly making her way back toward the main path.
Krycek brushed by her on his way out of the woods and never
noticed her at all.
~ ~ ~ ~
Unknown location
The last two days had been a terrifying blend of unexpected
lucidity and moments of complete disorientation. Scully didn't
think she was being drugged, yet she would wake at odd moments
throughout the day and night and find herself in positions she
couldn't remember getting into. In parts of the room she had
never walked to. She thought.
The first incident had been two nights before. She'd woken
suddenly to find herself tugging uselessly on the door handle to
her cell, pulling and twisting and turning the knob, frantically
trying to escape. At first she had chalked it up to simple night
terrors. A nightmare turned too real and tangible.
Over the next 48 hours, however, she had four more incidents. In
each case she would suddenly "come to" to find herself in some
unlikely position--scrabbling with her nails at the linoleum
tiles, as though trying to dig her way out of the room, another
time tugging at her bedclothes, as though preparing to rip them
into shreds. Each time, she would have no recollection of
beginning the actions, and her memories up until she presumed she
began doing these things were hazy.
Gradually she realized that just before she lost the thread of
her memories, she had a distinct impression of sudden,
debilitating pain emanating from the base of her neck. The
terror of that realization held her hostage for several hours--
she sat motionless on her bed, legs pulled up to her chest,
panicked into stillness.
For a brief moment she actually found herself grateful to her
captives. Locked up here, she was powerless to respond to this
alien call that the chip was imposing on her. But she felt the
call, and the force of it was undeniable. Was that why she had
been taken prisoner? It seemed possible, at least, that this
"call" and her kidnapping were connected. But why hold her?
What was their plan?
In her moments of clarity, she found her mind turning helplessly
over and over the apparent reality of the call and what it
meant....
.....charred bodies on the bridge, bright lights, gaps in her memory,
cold, dark, dark, dark, nothingness...
What waited for her this time? Would she ever know? What would
Mulder do when he found this next collection of bodies? She
closed her eyes against the image of Mulder desperately searching
through charred and unrecognizable remnants of men and women,
trying to fight the despair rolling through him. She felt the
pit of her stomach clench and roil.
If she were not being held here, would she already be journeying
to some distant point? Even in her moments of lucidity, she felt
a thin, tenuous pull--outward, onward, away. She had been
dreaming of sand and ice. How far was she being called this
time?
Abruptly she was pulled back into her dream of the night before.
Hot. So dry. Burning. Endless dunes of sand. Lost in the
desert. Again. But she kept walking, because she had to.
Because she was called, because she was needed. She had been
walking forever, sand slippery and soft beneath her uncertain
feet.
And there, ahead, a pillar of flame rising 100 feet from the
desert. No. Not fire. Not the destructive inferno of that
vertical furnace. But she had no choice. The flame was for her,
and would not be denied. She walked to meet her fate.
The heat of the flame was overwhelming, enervating. But still
she moved forward, until she reached the moat of a living liquid
that spread in shimmering, surreal waves out and away from the
pillar. The flame that called her had melted the sand into a sea
of molten glass that rippled in the breeze caused by the blaze.
She stopped, torn between the siren call of the flame, and her
terror of the white-hot glass. Frozen in indecision, she was
unprepared for the cool lap of the liquid about her feet and
ankles. The fluid surrounded her, sweet, gentle, embracing. She
felt herself sinking into its cool depths, peaceful, unafraid.
At rest from the harsh desert.
She dove, swimming down, down, glorying in the colors that
flashed and sparked in the crystalline depths of this improbable
ocean. She rose up to the surface, and began walking back to the
shore, and suddenly her steps faltered, her feet trapped, caught
on something.
She looked down, and in horror realized that the molten glass had
become ice, and that crystals were forming all along her skin,
and that her feet were already encased in blocks of ice. She
looked behind her--the lake was freezing, turning white, blue-
green of arctic glaciers. The pillar of flame was freezing, too,
rising up cold and challenging into the sky, a beacon calling,
calling.....
The cold ripped through her, but she was already too frozen to
shiver. She could only wait and watch in horror and remembered
horror, as once more she was encased in a column of clear, cold,
nothingness. She could still see out across the wasteland of ice
and desert--existing together--trapped on the edge of this
uninhabitable desolation. She would be there forever.
Then across the distance, she saw a figure approaching--racing,
tumbling toward her. She strained to call out for help, for
company, for any touch at all.
She thought her heart would break as she realized it was Mulder.
He arrived after an eon of waiting and longing. Just as he
reached to touch her, the column shattered, and she was swept
away into wakefulness.
The voice came through the loudspeaker, breaking her reverie.
"Back away from the door." It must be a meal time.
Instinctively, she moved away, toward the bed, hating the fact
that she had been so readily trained to obey that voice. On a
sudden whim, though, she instead moved to the left side of the
room, where she would be able see out the door when it actually
opened. Surprisingly, the voice made no comment on this variation
in her behavior.
The door opened, and a man slid a tray on to the floor, just
inside the door.
He wasn't armed. Unlike the other times, when an armed thug had
escorted a minion who carried the actual food tray, this time it
was just the minion.
She could clearly see an open hallway behind him. It led to what
looked like an outside door.
It seemed too easy. It seemed just possible. Maybe they thought
her too broken to make a break for it. Such miscalculations had
cost others dearly.
She didn't know what lay beyond that outside door, but for the
first time she felt a glimmer of hope.
Part 4
Part 2
Somewhere in Virginia, South of DC
He was way too old to be playing Cops and Robbers in the woods in
the middle of the night. Or was it Cowboys and Indians? Who the
hell knew? He was suddenly very tired of a life that included
all these uncomfortable excursions at odd hours to ridiculous
locales. Why the hell couldn't his mysterious informants ever
direct him to the bar at the Ritz? Please take a table in the
corner and order yourself a very expensive scotch. A beautiful
brunette will be delivering you papers with definitive proof of a
massive government conspiracy to hide the existence of
extraterrestrial life...
He sighed, recognizing the bleak humor for what it was--a way of
avoiding thinking about what he most feared. It wasn't so much
that he was once again heading off to a place where no one knew
he was going to. It was that he knew this had to be related to
Scully, and he was terrified that he would arrive too late. He
didn't know what he would do if he saw her disappearing in some
blinding flash of white light. Watching two people he loved
vanish in that way in one lifetime was already two times too
many.
As seemed to be inevitable for these kinds of things, the
directions had seemed clear. At least on paper. However, past
that initial clarity, there was a certain vagueness once he got
to where he thought he should be. There were, however, trees.
Lots and lots of trees. None of them, thankfully, bleeding. Or
moving, or anything else that would seem to warrant his being out
here, bumbling around in the middle of the night. But he kept
making his way through the forest, convinced that there was
something just ahead.
He tripped over a root, nearly went sprawling, and caught
himself--painfully--by grasping the nearest bush, which turned
out to be holly.
Fortunately, he knew the word "shit" in at least 6 languages and
was muttering them all under his breath as he made his way up the
hill. His muttered curses initially deafened him to the rhythmic
clanking that gradually insinuated itself into his consciousness.
He slowed his pace. Began to put more care into moving quietly.
It was a cool night, but not cold, and the breeze was mild. The
dense, soft air of the forest was overlaid with the scents of
pine, and moist earth. A shift in the breeze, and suddenly he
smelled smoke--not the murky-crisp smell of wood burning, but
something sharp and chemical.
Up to the crest of the hill, and then there it was. The
proverbial deep-woods paramilitary training camp. Was there
anything in his life that wasn't a cliche?
He dropped to the ground, inching his way cautiously along the
forest floor, to edge up to a vantage point looking down into the
valley.
It was big. What he could see of the compound had to be at least
400 yards long and as many deep, and it seemed to go a long way
back into the woods past what he could see in the dark of the
night.
Definitely military of some kind--there were men (and women?
from this distance he couldn't tell) drilling in formations. On
the far right of the area he could see there were squads of
soldiers pushing through an obstacle course--climbing over logs,
low crawling under razor wire, scaling walls. He watched them
for a long moment, knowing that there was something wrong about
what he was seeing, and unable to determine precisely what was
bothering. Finally it hit him--they were working in near
silence.
There was no shouting drill sergeant, no grunts or yells of
encouragement from squad mates. They pushed through the course,
at a deeply efficient pace, with no extra sounds at all. The
troops moved through the course with a grim and professional
efficiency that left him in no doubt that he was looking at some
of the most highly trained mercenaries in the world. There was an
uncomfortable discipline to their movements that spoke of brutal
assassinations and surgical strike forces that would melt away
back into the background after leveling some unspeakable
violence.
He was beginning to look away--to examine the rest of the scene
in front of him--when he suddenly snapped back, realizing a
second oddity. The soldiers were all dressed in winter combat
fatigues--the white and light grey of their BDUs an eerie, almost
glowing, presence in the night.
As he watched them continue their drill, he realized that a
second squad waited to take the course, and they were all dressed
in desert fatigues. What the hell?
He fumbled in his pocket, finally remembering that he had
brought a pair of miniature field binoculars along with him. He
began a systematic sweep of the compound.
On the far left was a weapons depot. A series of tents with side
flaps rolled up revealed dozens, if not hundreds of wooden crates
that were clearly marked with various designations of missile
types and guns and other weaponry. It was the other weaponry
that made him pause. Aside from what seemed to be fairly
standard stinger-type missiles and grenades, there were a number
of bright yellow crates open with soldiers inspecting the
contents.
The weaponry in those yellow containers was most definitely
nothing that he'd ever seen before, even in the most recent
briefings on terrorism, and classified weapons being developed by
the U.S. military. These weapons looked something like a cross
between an assault rifle and a flame-thrower, but were attached
to odd looking canisters. In addition to the canisters, there
were what looked like chambers that might hold rounds of
ammunition. The weapons were clearly unfamiliar to the troops
examining them, also.
As Mulder watched, one of the grunts picked up one of the guns.
He staggered a little under its unexpected weight. Then hefted
it to more comfortable carrying/firing position. He pointed it
in mock assault at one of his fellow soldiers. Just at that
moment, an officer sprinted into the tent, his yell eerily
breaking the otherwise nearly silent night.
Mulder was too far away to make out the words, but the tone was
one of urgent command and warning. The soldier very gingerly
returned the weapon to its crate and the whole group snapped to
attention as the officer gave a long, quiet lecture on what
looked like a safety briefing on the weapons. The quietness of
the speech simply underscored the controlled fury and worry that
seemed to emanate from the officer. Finally, the group was
released and each retrieved one of the new guns and followed the
commander off to a portion of the camp that Mulder couldn't make
out. The firing range must be back that direction. He noted
that the men treated the guns with a significant degree of
respect.
He shifted his view to the middle of the compound, which seemed
to be a staging ground. Twelve large cargo/passenger helicopters
were being loaded and armed. He watched teams of men attaching
sidewinders and other missiles to the mounts at the sides. Boxes
of what seemed to be supplies and more weapons and ammo were
being loaded onto cargo pallets. Several teams of men were
moving through the area, inspecting things, and marking off
manifests on the electronic pads they carried.
There were two cargo planes also being loaded. They appeared to
be C-130s, but the callsign and flagship markings were...non-
existent. No markings or symbols of any kind adorned the flat
grey paint of the planes. Odd-looking humvees and sno-cat like
vehicles were being driven onto the planes. He couldn't see into
the interior of the second plane, but it appeared that the
vehicles on the first plane were being rigged for parachute
drops. From the helo-pad was long road off into the back of the
compound that must lead to the airfield from which the cargo
planes would take off.
It struck him again, that for all the activity taking place,
there was almost no noise. It made the night even more surreal.
Like watching a movie in which the soundtrack had suddenly died.
He focused in again on the compound. Several Quonset huts were
visible behind the staging area. He looked at them intently,
trying to determine if any of them were the sort of structure
that might have the room that he'd seen on the video of Scully.
None of them appeared to be made of the concrete that had been
visible behind her. In fact, none of the huts looked to be more
than a couple of weeks old. Of course, they could be covering
underground structures.... He spent endless fruitless moments
scanning each window. Hoping against hope for...what? But he had
to believe that he'd been led here for a purpose.
The door of the far left hut opened abruptly, and a group of men
emerged. Their dark, business attire contrasted sharply with the
light-colored military uniforms surrounding them. Their casual,
civilian stroll across the helo-pad marked them as apart from
this intense preparation, but the deference shown them by an
obviously high-ranking officer made it clear that they were of it
somehow.
A flare of fire interrupted his field of vision, much larger in
the lenses of the binoculars that it should have been.
Of course he was there. That smoking son-of-a-bitch was
everywhere Mulder turned. Was this the reason he was here? To
see this--this preparation? But what was it a preparation for?
The smoker's presence was an almost comforting familiarity, at
the same time it intensified his worry that there was some
now even more immediate danger to Scully.
As he watched, the men the broke into what become a heated debate.
The smoker was looking smug, but Mulder thought he sensed an
underlying uncertainty. He was gesturing at a stout dark-haired
man, who seemed to be the leader of the rest of the group. At
first the group was all engaged in the discussion, but soon, it
was simply the smoker and the other.
The smoker was saying something to the obvious annoyance of the
fat man, when a uniformed officer approached them and indicated
that they were to follow. One more sharp comment from the smoker
and then the group began to follow the officer. They walked back
toward the tents with the weaponry. The officer halted them
approximately 100 yards from the main area, and Mulder saw that a
target on a sandbag had been set up toward the far end of the
area--almost to the fence that marked the far perimeter.
Apparently there was to be a firing demonstration. The civilians
were shifting nervously, foot to foot. A commotion on the far
side of the tents seemed to catch their attention.
From behind the tent just to the side of the target, three
soldiers led a captive, who was struggling, toward the target.
They tied him to a post just in front of the sandbag. My god--
they were going to test fire at a live person. Mulder was
already on his feet, reaching for his gun before realizing that
there would be nothing he could do to save the captive. He
remained standing, indecision and fury warring in his gut.
He picked up his binoculars and focused in on the unfolding drama
once more. He focused in on the man who was going to be the
shadows' next victim. It killed him to just stand there and
watch--bear witness to one more atrocity, but he also realized
the utter futility of a kamikaze charge down the hill into the
compound. He'd be dead before he was 10 steps beyond the tree
line. One more failure. One more loss to the forces that had
dogged him for so long.
There was something odd about the prisoner's face. The features
were oddly blurred--almost like a child had taken an eraser and
smudged out the eyes and mouth and nose, leaving just the faint
impressions of what had once been there. It was a deeply
disturbing impression. Some echo of a memory tugged at him...
Dark, truck, prison box, flash light, gun, my god--no face!,
light, bright light, not again, not again....Scully....
He shook himself free of the pull of elusive images.
The prisoner had stopped struggling. He stood with military
ramrod straight posture against the pole, looking hopelessly
valiant. Refusing, in what he clearly knew to be his last
minutes, to be a victim of circumstance. Mulder inevitably found
himself thinking of the defiance that Scully had shown on the
video. It broke his heart all over again.
The commander of the weapons squad had finished giving his final
briefing to the men, and three of the soldiers stepped forward
and raised their weapons. The prisoner squared his shoulders.
Mulder tensed, not wanting to see, but utterly unable to look
away....
CR-ack!
The twig snapping 20 yards to his right jolted his heart rate as
though it had been a rifleshot.
He whirled, and saw a group of four sentries moving up the hill.
He froze momentarily, not sure if they'd seen him. He wasn't
sure and began backing down, away from them. For the first 5
seconds, he thought maybe he'd be ok.
Then the world turned upside down.
A dense crack-roar of weapons fire from the compound caught the
attention of the advancing 4-man squad, and Mulder began moving
away in earnest, just as a bright flash of light snapped on
somewhere over the compound.
The light came from above and below and sideways and perfectly
illuminated Mulder for the squad to see. The leader looked right
at him and shouted, "Hey! Stop right there!" He turned back
briefly to his men, "Intruder ahead! Full weapons!"
The men began running toward him, and then the ground began to shake.
It is a little known, or at least little regarded fact that the
Washington, DC area actually lies on one of the most severe
earthquake fault lines in the U.S. There are many small tremors
most years that aren't even noticed by the residents. Geologists
note the tiny events and make quiet, dire predictions about how
overdue the region is for a big one.
As the ground began to roll, a tiny detached part of Mulder's
brain wondered if the DC area was finally getting its due.
Another part of his brain was telling his legs to keep moving,
dammit, because there were men with very big guns coming toward him.
He turned, twisting, slipping, trying to find any kind of cover
in the weird, cutting light that was permeating the forest.
Behind him he heard the confused and angry shouts of the
soldiers. He thought he heard one of them scream, "Goddammit!
not AGAIN!" But he was moving through the trees and the brush,
and he was running and trying to move and faster and away, and he
kept imagining that he could feel them closer and closer.
He'd pulled out his gun, fumbling the safety off, wondering why
he was bothering, when it was perfectly clear that the patrol had
fully automatic weapons. And he ran, and ran, breath beginning
to grow short, heart pounding with the exertion and fear and
anger and adrenaline.
The ground stopped moving. Still he ran, zigging and zagging
through the trees.
He ran past the edges of the light, suddenly blinded by the dark
of the forest, forced to slow his pace for fear of running
headlong into a tree. Finding a dense group of bushes in front
of him, he ducked behind them, and cautiously looked back the way
he'd come.
His breath coming in harsh pants, his heart pounding. He tried
to quiet his ragged breathing, to hear over the roaring in his
ears. His eyes strained through the dark. Where were they?
He'd been crashing through the forest like a wounded rhinoceros,
surely they'd followed.
He glanced to the sides, behind him, in front. Nothing.
Gradually the night sounds of the forest asserted themselves
again. Quiet calls of owls. Leaves rustling. He sat absolutely
still. Weapon at hand. Waiting. Waiting.
Then, just on the horizon--a flash of light, a muffled roar that
might have been an explosion.
Then dark. Silence. Dead silence.
A smell of smoke.
Then nothing.
He waited two hours. Unable to bring himself to move. Not sure
if there was more danger in movement or non-movement. Also,
semi-paralyzed by the realization that in his headlong flight
through the woods he'd completely lost track of direction, and
had no idea where he was.
The first light of dawn helped him find East, and he realized
that it was pointless to continue crouching there, behind bushes
that would afford him no cover in daylight whatsoever. He stood
stiffly, and began walking out.
He emerged from the woods an hour later. The sign at the side of
the road where he finally emerged stopped him in his tracks. The
laughter that welled up from nowhere was only slightly bitter.
U.S. Government Property
NO TRESPASSERS
DANGER
Training grounds. Live weapons in use.
NO ENTRY
U.S. Department of Justice
Federal Bureau of Investigation
~ ~ ~ ~
Unknown location
Run! Run! You must run. Keep running. Don't stop! Don't look
back! Run!
She awoke, barely stifling the shout that rose up from the depths
of her soul.
Run!
She was shaking, covered in light sheen of sweat. She pulled
herself upright, leaning back against the wall behind the bed,
wrapping herself in the blanket--pulling it tight around her, as
though it could keep her from flying apart, from flying across
this room to pound helplessly on the door.
It had come again. The dream. The command. Calling her. The
imperative. Run. You must run. The fourth night in a row. The
command to run. Growing stronger. Pulling at her. Leading
her....
But where? But where?
She found she was unconsciously rocking. Tiny back and
forth motions, trying to soothe herself. Trying to calm her
heartbeat, her shallow, panting breaths. What was happening?
She knew of course, on one level. She was being called.
Summoned through the chip in her neck that may very well have
saved her from cancer, but which might simply lead her to another
death. The video images of the charred bodies on the
Pennsylvania dam danced on the edges of her consciousness,
reminding her of the fate that might wait for her. If They
chose to call her, what would she do? Could she resist? She'd
survived once, and didn't know why. She thought it unlikely that
such random twists of fate would save her twice.
Slowly pulling herself out of the nightmare, waking up, letting
her rational, conscious mind take over, she reminded herself that
dreams of running were undoubtedly just her unconscious dealing
with her captivity and her natural desire to be able to run away
from this place. The thought was momentarily comforting.
Knife point agony spiked her. The back of her neck on fire.
Tight, red hot pain jolting her for an endless 10 seconds. She
was utterly rigid with pain. Held motionless in the grip of the
torment, she was completely unprepared for a sudden jumble of
images and emotions that assaulted her mind.
Faces she recognized and didn't.
Mulder.
Lights sweeping across an oddly distorted body that she realized
belonged to her.
A drill or probe, whirling, nearer, nearer.
Krycek.
Voices that babbled and broke and formed that sounds that she
could almost but never quite be understand.
Dark, long, long dark.
Eyes that watched her and didn't see her at all.
Mulder....
The agonizing sensation abruptly ceased, and she collapsed
boneless and trembling back on the bed.
Slowly she began to breathe cautiously, expecting each movement
to hurt. A residual ache washed over her, sweeping her with
fatigue and weakness.
She huddled on the bed, motionless. And still she felt the call.
~ ~ ~ ~
Skinner's Office
September 21, 1998
9:47 a.m.
There was a certain grim satisfaction in this new...arrangement.
For far too long, it had been the other way around. He'd been at
the beck and call of that man whose name he still didn't know,
but whom he referred to as The Smoker, or sometimes Cancer Man.
There had even been a time when Skinner had equated the man with
the Devil, but ultimately that had proved to be a false
comparison. His theology was a little shaky, but he seriously
doubted that the Prince of Darkness would have left several pints
of blood on the anonymous beige carpet of an anonymous apartment
building in Arlington.
Still, despite the apparently fatal wound--the Smoker was back.
Skinner decided he simply wasn't going to think about it. The
point of the matter was that things had changed. Perhaps for the
better.
Now he could make the calls, place the demands for the time and
places of meetings. He might even be able to prevent the man
from smoking in his office. Maybe. The balance of power hadn't
completely shifted, but it had tilted in his favor. He was
inclined to savor the feeling.
A slight creak and rustle, and he was there, standing in front of
the AD's desk. For a long moment Skinner didn't even look up
from the paperwork he was ostentatiously perusing. Oh yeah.
This felt good.
Click, hiss, and he heard the cigarette being lit. He
deliberately did not react to the affront. You can't win every
battle, even if you win the war.
He waited just a moment more, and then looked up.
"You're late." The same growl he used on Mulder after his more
outrageous field reports.
"DC traffic." Bland tone, but just the faintest shadings of
something--warning, challenge, impatience--underneath.
"It is rush hour." Skinner felt unaccountably magnanimous. Or
perhaps this was just rubbing the smoking man's face in it--it
was now Skinner's role to dispense the absolutions for excuses.
"You called?" The impatience was starting to show.
"Yes, I did." He settled back, steepling his fingers. He
should, by most measures, have felt at a disadvantage--seated
while the other stood over him, but instead, he felt
rather...confident. "We have a situation to discuss."
"Oh?" The tone, still bland, almost casual, but the eyes were wary.
"Yes, I rather think this has gone on long enough. Don't you?"
"You think -what- has gone on long enough?"
He refused to rise to the bait. "I think it's time for you to end this."
"Are you perhaps referring to the rather...interesting...
disappearance of one of your agents? Really, Assistant Director
Skinner, I should think you'd have better things to do than
bother me during a time of such...crisis."
Skinner quirked an eyebrow. "Crisis? Interesting choice of
words." He projected a calm he didn't quite feel. "Yes, one of
my agents is missing under rather...unusual circumstances. But
crisis?" He let the word lay heavy and blatant between them.
The smoker remained impassive, but Skinner thought it was costing
him no small measure of effort to keep the facade. "My mistake
then. So why am I here?"
"Because enough is enough. I want Agent Scully returned. Now.
Unharmed." He hadn't meant to cut to the chase so quickly, but
the game had simply gone on too long.
"What makes you think I know anything at all about that? Or that
even if I did, that I would be inclined to do anything about it?"
For the first time, Skinner felt a jolt of uncertainty, but still
couldn't resist the dig. "I thought you knew everything."
"My dear man, what would give you that impression? I have
certain...connections that prove useful from time to time, but
knowing 'everything?' You give me far too much credit. I'm not at
all sure I can be helpful to you in this case."
Skinner restrained himself from gritting his teeth. "Well then,
perhaps your connections can fill you in on your apparent lack of
knowledge."
"That's presuming I want to know. I'm a busy man, Mr. Skinner.
There are many things which simply don't concern me."
"But I think this should concern you."
"Why? As I said, I am a busy man, and although I do like Agent
Scully, her disappearance is of little consequence to me. Now,
if you have nothing of interest for me, I believe I'll be going."
Skinner had odd the impression that smoking man was both waiting
to hear something that he did want to learn, and waiting for
permission to leave.
It had been a long week, and Skinner was too tired to play games.
"So, you know nothing, and can do nothing." His tone a deliberate
insult.
"Don't confuse my ability to do something with my willingness to do it."
"So you do know something about Agent Scully?"
The smoker gave a slightly theatrical sigh. "I've told you--I'm a
busy man. I simply don't have time to concern myself with all
the small details of the various...activities that are going on.
Besides. Why should I help you with this?"
"Because if you do, I'll return this." Skinner reached inside
his desk and removed the case that he'd been holding on to for an
emergency.
The smoker actually paled. "Where did you get that?" A sharp
urgency now filled the office.
"Where do you think?" The man began reaching for the case, and
Skinner flipped it open to show the empty lining. "Do you think
I'm an idiot? The contents are quite safely stored. But I will
return them to you....for Agent Scully."
He'd taken the sample during one of his "assignments" for the
smoker, somehow knowing it was valuable--not even fully
understanding all it was, but knowing that it was connected
to the damn bees. He'd been proven correct when the smoker had
demanded to know if Skinner had seen anyone else during that
particular raid. He'd been tense and irritable for weeks
afterwards. For some reason it had never seemed to occur to the
man that Skinner might have in any way acted on his own. It had
been a lone moment of satisfaction during those hellish months.
"You're a fool, Skinner."
"Maybe. Do you want to make a trade or not?"
"I'll have to consider this. There are other...players to
consult. It is a somewhat complex time, and people's moods are
subject to change." Something in Skinner's gut told him it was a
bluff. He'd just put all the chips on the table and the smoker
was still hedging. It would seem that he might not actually know
who or what had Scully.
The smoking man was still staring at the case on the desk,
transfixed by the sight. The sample must be even more valuable
than he'd initially guessed.
Finally, the smoker looked up, his mask once more intact, but a
new wariness in his eyes. "I'll be in touch." The tone was
curt. "In the meantime, you might want to find out what your
Agent Mulder was up to last night."
Oddly Skinner was left with the impression that the smoker was
fishing for information. And that he was worried.
Skinner sat at his desk for a long time, wondering where you went
when your court of last resort turned out to be nothing but smoke
and mirrors.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
FBI Command Post
1:28 p.m.
Mulder had been pacing around the room all morning, and well past
lunch time. He knew that he was giving off some kind of "leave
me the fuck alone" signal because the other agents were giving
him an even wider berth than usual. Suited him just fine. He
was still keyed up from his adventures the night before. Tense.
Edgy. Unable to decide what to do next.
He had long ago surrendered any illusions that the U.S.
Government, or even the Department of Justice, were bastions of
honor, integrity or justice. Still, seeing the tangible proof of
that involvement last night had shaken him. He'd realized,
during his drive back that the installation he'd seen
had to be located somewhere on that no man's land between the
FBI's Quantico facility and the Marine base down there. Still,
it was all federal land, and that clearly meant some kind of
federal involvement.
Shit. Even though it wasn't wholly unexpected, it did reopen the
can of worms about whom to trust and what to do next.
His initial impulse on seeing the compound had been to call
Skinner. He'd wanted to literally send in the Marines--get
Skinner and every damn agent he could get his hands on down there
to overrun the place and find Scully. But the longer he'd
watched the less convinced he'd been that Scully was even there.
He couldn't figure out the connection. What would a seemingly
random snatching of Scully have to do with what looked like
preparations for either repelling or launching an invasion?
Through the long night of waiting in the woods, he'd also come
back time and again to the question of who had given him the
information to find this camp. And to what end? He knew very
little more than when he'd started, but it was clear that what
he'd seen had been vitally important. The smoker and his
colleagues were clearly about to take some new step, and they
expected armed resistance of an unusual type.... the winter
fatigues had inevitably brought to mind the ship in the Arctic
that he'd rescued Scully from...but what about the desert
fatigues? Where did that fit in....? Dammit!
And what would he do now? He needed help. That much was clear.
Although he trusted them implicitly, he wasn't entirely sure that
this was the sort of thing the Lone Gunmen could help him with.
Which left him with Skinner. Could Skinner be trusted? The FBI
was involved in all this, somehow, as was the military. Trusting
no one was the only thing that guaranteed safety, but wouldn't
save Scully. Fuck. The bottom line was that somewhere deep in
his gut he simply trusted Skinner...because he did. There had
been a time, early on, when it seemed that Skinner was far too
deep in the smoking man's pocket. But then there had been
Skinner reopening the X-files, and the DAT trade, and his deal
for Scully's cure. He needed to talk to Skinner.
The pitch of the command room changed abruptly. The general
level of buzz and fatigued chatter died suddenly, and he began to
hear isolated voices. He looked up. Skinner had come in and
seemed to be conducting his usual afternoon update briefing.
He waited until the AD was finished and then met him in the back
corner where Skinner had commandeered a desk as his work space.
Skinner looked distracted--standing, hands on hips, frowning down
at the papers that were neatly stacked in several piles on the
desktop. He didn't seem to realize that Mulder was standing
there for several moments.
"Yes, Mulder. What is it?" There was an unexpected edge of
impatience in the AD's voice.
"I need to talk to you." Mulder hesitated, not quite sure what
to say next. Realizing that he'd just made a decision.
Skinner seemed to be weighing some serious matter. Far more
serious than Mulder's simple request warranted. Finally he gave
a curt nod. "Let's move this to the interrogation room."
The small room to the side of the main command room was normally
an oversized closet that held fax machines and copiers. For this
investigation, the machines had been cleared out and a small
table and two chairs had been set up. They had used it for
questioning the precious few witnesses they'd found. It was the
only truly private area in the command post.
The room felt tight, claustrophobic as soon as Skinner shut the
door. He tended to forget just how solid the AD was. His
imposing presence a combination of the man's sheer physical bulk
and his commanding persona. "So, Mulder, what is it?"
It was hard to know where to start. "I got an anonymous tip last
night."
"And?"
"I followed the directions to some woods down near Quantico. I
found....well, I guess you'd call it a training camp."
As he described what he'd seen in the woods, he kept watching
Skinner for signs of disbelief, or impatience, or perhaps he was
looking for signs that Skinner actually already knew all about
it. But he found he couldn't read his superior at all.
"That's quite a tale, Mulder. I don't suppose you got any
pictures or evidence?" For a brief moment, Mulder almost
wondered if there was a glint of humor in Skinner's voice.
"Uh no, sir. I sort of left in a hurry, didn't take a camera,
and what with the lights and explosions or whatever it was, there
really wasn't..."
"It's ok. I didn't really expect, just thought I'd ask."
Skinner sort of huffed, and looked down at the ground for a
moment. "Did it ever occur to you to call for back up before you
took off?"
"Well, I--"
"Look, Mulder. I know that this is a tough time. Things right
now are more than a little tense, and once again we're left not
knowing who to trust. But you have to trust someone, sometime.
You trusted whoever left you that tip...."
"I know. It was stupid--but it was late at night and I wasn't
thinking." Damn, he hated sounding like a truant kid being hauled
in front of the principal.
"Scully's kidnapping has us all jumping at shadows." Skinner
looked away for a moment, seemingly lost in his own thoughts.
"After the earthquake or whatever it was settled down, did you go
back and check on the camp again?"
"No. I hate to admit it, but I was lost. I'd been dashing
through the woods without paying attention to which way I was
turning. By the time I lost those goons, I really didn't know
which way the camp was. It was pretty much luck that I managed
to get back to the road relatively quickly."
"You say this was down at Quantico."
"Yeah--I came out right at the marker for the FBI campus."
"But you don't know if that camp was..."
"I'm pretty sure it's right on the no man's land."
"Of course. It's probably gone by now, but I'll go ahead and get
some agents I trust out there. The question is what does it all
mean. You say you saw our smoking friend down there?"
"Yeah--they were conducting some kind of weapons test. They were
going to kill that prisoner..." He shuddered, thinking of that
strange, blurred face. The horror he'd felt at his own
helplessness.
"And the soldiers who were training--they were wearing both
arctic and desert BDUs?"
"Yeah."
"Any theories?"
Mulder shrugged. "I don't know. It's frustrating as hell. I
thought about it last night. The only thing I can figure is that
there's another ship somewhere. Maybe at the North Pole."
Skinner nodded absently. "Makes sense in a way, but why the
desert cami's? I can't figure that one. There's been nothing in
any of the recent security briefings that would suggest something
in any of the desert areas..."
"Of course, this sort of thing might not show up in an official
briefing." Mulder knew he was not successfully keeping the
bitterness out of his voice.
"True. But nothing that any of my unofficial channels have told
me would lead me to think that either...."
"Unofficial?" Instantly on the alert again.
"Yeah." Skinner's hard gaze pinned him. Assessed him. "I have
a number of channels through which I receive information. Still,
it's almost like they're preparing for a dual-front assault.
Given the weaponry you've described, I think we have to assume a
somewhat....unusual opponent." Again, the gaze, heavy on him.
"You mean extra-terrestrial?" Mulder took a moment to revel in
the irony that it was now Skinner who would tentatively test the
waters with theories of extreme possibilities. "You're probably
right. What I still don't get, though, is why I got the tip to go
see that particular test. What did they want me to do about it?"
"The question is, what can we do about it? And do you think this
has something to do with Agent Scully?"
Mulder paced for a step or two. "Yeah--I do. Can't begin to tell
you why. Just have a sense. It's making me nuts, too. The only
thing I can figure is that it has something to do with this
summer. She was on that ship, the ship was in ice, these guys
are training in winter gear...maybe a ship is coming back?
Scully has the vaccine in her system. Maybe that has something
to do with it...Damn it!" He kicked the table in frustration.
"Easy, Mulder. We'll figure it out. If you think it's connected
let's just work with that for now. What do you want to do? How
involved do you want the agency to get?" It could still surprise
him--Skinner's tacit admission that there were parts of the FBI
not to be trusted.
"Well, you said you'd send out some agents you trust to check out
the site. Let's see what they find. In the meantime, maybe I
should try to...."
Skinner cut him off abruptly. "Our smoking friend came to see me
this morning." He looked down, and Mulder had the odd sensation
sense that Skinner was almost embarrassed. "I...uh...he seemed
to be fishing for some information. About what you were doing
last night."
The men exchanged a wry look. Skinner continued. "I think we've
answered the questions about his involvement, but he isn't sure
you were there. I think we should keep it that way. I know the
time is still running, but I think we should just wait this out
for a bit. Anyway--I don't think he knows where Scully is."
Mulder felt a deep rage begin to build in his gut. "What do you
mean?" A small detached part of his brain reminded him, even as
he was advancing on Skinner, that Skinner outweighed him by at
least 30 pounds, all of it muscle. Skinner didn't budge a
millimeter.
"You might as well know. I have something that the smoker wants.
Something I acquired," he gave the word an ugly twist,
"during....that time. I essentially offered to trade it for
Scully. He didn't exactly leap at the offer, despite the fact
that he obviously needed it. I don't think he's quite in the
loop on this."
He felt the rage easing a bit. "I think that worries me."
"Me, too."
And there was nothing else to be said.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Unknown location
She watched their captive pacing in her cell. Precise steps
measuring the length and breadth of her room. She admired that
about the red-haired woman. Ironically, she actually admired
many things about the agent. Of course, none of the admiration
would weigh in her decision about Scully's fate.
She'd already negotiated the price for the agent--or more
specifically, the chip in her neck--and Marita was not a person
to allow sentiment to cloud her professional judgment or long
range planning.
Scully's sleep patterns had been erratic the last few nights.
They, of course, had her under constant video surveillance,
strictly as a precautionary measure. It had seemed logical that
some kind of activation of her implant might take place once the
consortium's plans had been finalized with the aliens. The
videos were a way of monitoring Scully during times they couldn't
be there.
It was so hard to get reliable help these days...besides, the
fewer people involved, the fewer chances of a leak and screw-up.
Marita had been in Tunguska. Had seen the charred bodies left by
the rebel aliens. She knew that whatever had called those people
to that place of death and kept them there to be slaughtered like
so many sheep had to be a powerful force indeed.
She wondered idly what the effect of that call would be on a
captive. She thought that something was beginning. The tapes
had shown Scully repeatedly reaching for the back of her neck,
even while sleeping. And her pacing today was tighter than
normal--almost as though she were forcing herself into a routine
against the will of her body.
As she watched, Scully stopped dead in her tracks--rigid with
surprise or pain. She was absolutely still for 2 full minutes,
and then crumpled to the floor, her hand clutching at the
implant.
Interesting. There was definitely a call underway. But the chip
wasn't reacting like the others Marita had seen. So it would
seem her allies were correct--the vaccine did have some
interactive effects.
They would shortly have to set up an "escape" for her--they would
need her to lead them to the confrontation.
She heard footsteps behind her. Krycek. He was an impulsive
fool....but quite useful. And sometimes quite amusing. He had
certain talents in bed, and other places...
"Alexi--where have you been?" She didn't even wait for his
answer before covering his mouth with her own. Yes, very
amusing.
~ ~ ~ ~
Unspecified location in Washington, DC
The funny thing was how easy it was to play this game. How
simple was to fool these men. She was never sure if they
continually underestimated her because she was young, or because
she was a woman. Or simply because they were stupid. It really
didn't matter. The effect was the same--she could come and go as
she more or less pleased, and there were rarely any serious
obstacles to her accomplishing what she wished to do. It was
merely a question of biding her time until an appropriate
opportunity....
Part of the men's complacency probably stemmed from this summer,
when she'd been the first successful test subject for the new
vaccine. It had still been a beta version, but the results had
been...useful. She shuddered briefly, remembering that time--the
endless suspension in a mental and physical limbo that was as
close as she'd ever like to get to hell. Inasmuch as she
believed in such a place.
But, it had been worth it, she supposed. A time she did not want
to relive, but she was a pragmatist. There was a price to be paid
for all gains.
The room was smoke-filled, as usual. She sat quietly in the
corner, in her accustomed place, looking vaguely bored. She had
long since come to the realization that the elders simply saw her
as part of the furniture. It was amazing what she and the
leather chairs had learned over the past several months.
It was a mark that something serious and strange was happening
that the elders had convened in Washington, rather than New York.
But the room was still very much the same. Expensively
understated leather chairs, carpet that muffled sound and
footsteps, and a quiet array of invisible servants and aides.
Such as she.
She was perfectly positioned when the phone call came in for the
smoking man.
"Yes? Oh. It's you." A grimace of distaste.
"About time you called. Where is she?"
"Don't give me that, you know exactly who I'm talking about."
"Since when are you in any position to make demands?"
The smoker began to evidence small signs of agitation. Marita
watched him carefully without betraying her interest.
"You know so much less than you think you do," now real anger
could be heard, "and you are meddling in a situation that you
can't even begin to understand." The cold condescending tone was
irritatingly familiar. It was a pleasure to hear it directed at
another.
"I don't have time for this sort of stupidity, Krycek. Meet me
at the usual place. Forty-five minutes." Marita hoped her sudden
involuntary jerk hadn't been noticed. She felt the cold hand of
rage and fright clutch at her gut. Krycek? What the hell? Had
they been discovered? Had she been betrayed? What did this mean?
The smoking man slammed the phone down and stalked over to pick
up his coat. As he walked out of the room she could hear him
demanding that a cab be summoned.
She quietly turned the pages of the file she was ostensibly
perusing, and considered the call. Krycek had said nothing to
her about being contacted by the consortium. While she hadn't
exactly expected him to play a completely honest game with her,
she nevertheless found herself annoyed by this somewhat
unexpected betrayal. On the other hand, it certainly did appear
that Krycek had been pulled into this latest round of the game by
the elders, not the other way around. He had always been
somewhat weak in his responses to them, and this was probably no
exception.
She permitted herself a brief smile. Perhaps it would be a
useful thing for there to be an observer at this meeting.
One of the things she had learned during all those afternoons and
evenings in this room was where the "usual place" was.
~ ~ ~ ~
Washington, DC
The Vietnam Memorial
45 minutes later
Cliches within cliches. They met at the center of the dark
granite V of The Wall. She spared herself a moment of anger that
Krycek would leave their captive unattended for this meeting, but
reminded herself that they had one or two minions who could at
least be trusted to stand guard, and there was on-going video
surveillance.
Fortunately it was a cool but bright Fall day, and her concealing
sunglasses and hat were quite unremarkable among the crowds that
were always present at this memorial. She trailed the men at a
distance that put her out of easy earshot but was less likely to
raise suspicions.
Krycek was clearly not pleased to have been summoned to the
meeting, and the smoker was clearly agitated. It made for an
interesting dynamic. The two men walked the length of the wall,
and then turned away from the path into some of the trees that
surrounded the area. They were close enough to the nurses'
memorial statue that she could pretend to be admiring it, but
stand near enough to them to overhear snatches of their angry
conversation.
"...and you're in over your head. If you would just--"
Krycek cut off the older man surprisingly smoothly. "What? Hand
her over to you? Presuming of course that I have her. I fail to
see any reason that would work to my advantage. Hypothetically
speaking, of course."
"Don't play games, boy."
Krycek gave an odd, bitter laugh. "Look, I have things to do, old
man. If you have nothing left to say, I think I'll be leaving."
"Wait. Don't be hasty." The smoker's tone was almost
conciliatory. "Maybe some kind of arrangement can be made. Who
are you working with? Perhaps...."
"What is it that you're really looking for here? And, far more
importantly, what's in it for me?"
"I'm not without influence in certain....circles. I could
arrange for a promotion or suitable...compensation for you."
The bitterness in Krycek's tone was unmistakable. "Oh, and
dental benefits, too? Cut me a fucking break. What makes you
think I'm interested in simply being a higher paid lackey for
your stupid group?"
"Because you know that we will be the ones left standing when The
Day comes."
"Maybe. You know, there are moments when I think Mulder is right
and trusting no one is the only way to go. You fools may
simply be the more convenient lambs to the slaughter. Your allies
are rather....unpredictable."
"Maybe, maybe not. You're losing the point. I can help you. I
simply need a gesture of good faith on your part. Tell me who
you're working with."
She had walked slowly through the area as though lost in thought,
and was now standing in a place that afforded her a direct view
of Krycek. She risked looking up, uncharacteristically curious
about he would say. He looked strangely focused.
"You have nothing that I want." There was a note in his voice
she couldn't recall ever hearing before. She turned away and
began slowly making her way back toward the main path.
Krycek brushed by her on his way out of the woods and never
noticed her at all.
~ ~ ~ ~
Unknown location
The last two days had been a terrifying blend of unexpected
lucidity and moments of complete disorientation. Scully didn't
think she was being drugged, yet she would wake at odd moments
throughout the day and night and find herself in positions she
couldn't remember getting into. In parts of the room she had
never walked to. She thought.
The first incident had been two nights before. She'd woken
suddenly to find herself tugging uselessly on the door handle to
her cell, pulling and twisting and turning the knob, frantically
trying to escape. At first she had chalked it up to simple night
terrors. A nightmare turned too real and tangible.
Over the next 48 hours, however, she had four more incidents. In
each case she would suddenly "come to" to find herself in some
unlikely position--scrabbling with her nails at the linoleum
tiles, as though trying to dig her way out of the room, another
time tugging at her bedclothes, as though preparing to rip them
into shreds. Each time, she would have no recollection of
beginning the actions, and her memories up until she presumed she
began doing these things were hazy.
Gradually she realized that just before she lost the thread of
her memories, she had a distinct impression of sudden,
debilitating pain emanating from the base of her neck. The
terror of that realization held her hostage for several hours--
she sat motionless on her bed, legs pulled up to her chest,
panicked into stillness.
For a brief moment she actually found herself grateful to her
captives. Locked up here, she was powerless to respond to this
alien call that the chip was imposing on her. But she felt the
call, and the force of it was undeniable. Was that why she had
been taken prisoner? It seemed possible, at least, that this
"call" and her kidnapping were connected. But why hold her?
What was their plan?
In her moments of clarity, she found her mind turning helplessly
over and over the apparent reality of the call and what it
meant....
.....charred bodies on the bridge, bright lights, gaps in her memory,
cold, dark, dark, dark, nothingness...
What waited for her this time? Would she ever know? What would
Mulder do when he found this next collection of bodies? She
closed her eyes against the image of Mulder desperately searching
through charred and unrecognizable remnants of men and women,
trying to fight the despair rolling through him. She felt the
pit of her stomach clench and roil.
If she were not being held here, would she already be journeying
to some distant point? Even in her moments of lucidity, she felt
a thin, tenuous pull--outward, onward, away. She had been
dreaming of sand and ice. How far was she being called this
time?
Abruptly she was pulled back into her dream of the night before.
Hot. So dry. Burning. Endless dunes of sand. Lost in the
desert. Again. But she kept walking, because she had to.
Because she was called, because she was needed. She had been
walking forever, sand slippery and soft beneath her uncertain
feet.
And there, ahead, a pillar of flame rising 100 feet from the
desert. No. Not fire. Not the destructive inferno of that
vertical furnace. But she had no choice. The flame was for her,
and would not be denied. She walked to meet her fate.
The heat of the flame was overwhelming, enervating. But still
she moved forward, until she reached the moat of a living liquid
that spread in shimmering, surreal waves out and away from the
pillar. The flame that called her had melted the sand into a sea
of molten glass that rippled in the breeze caused by the blaze.
She stopped, torn between the siren call of the flame, and her
terror of the white-hot glass. Frozen in indecision, she was
unprepared for the cool lap of the liquid about her feet and
ankles. The fluid surrounded her, sweet, gentle, embracing. She
felt herself sinking into its cool depths, peaceful, unafraid.
At rest from the harsh desert.
She dove, swimming down, down, glorying in the colors that
flashed and sparked in the crystalline depths of this improbable
ocean. She rose up to the surface, and began walking back to the
shore, and suddenly her steps faltered, her feet trapped, caught
on something.
She looked down, and in horror realized that the molten glass had
become ice, and that crystals were forming all along her skin,
and that her feet were already encased in blocks of ice. She
looked behind her--the lake was freezing, turning white, blue-
green of arctic glaciers. The pillar of flame was freezing, too,
rising up cold and challenging into the sky, a beacon calling,
calling.....
The cold ripped through her, but she was already too frozen to
shiver. She could only wait and watch in horror and remembered
horror, as once more she was encased in a column of clear, cold,
nothingness. She could still see out across the wasteland of ice
and desert--existing together--trapped on the edge of this
uninhabitable desolation. She would be there forever.
Then across the distance, she saw a figure approaching--racing,
tumbling toward her. She strained to call out for help, for
company, for any touch at all.
She thought her heart would break as she realized it was Mulder.
He arrived after an eon of waiting and longing. Just as he
reached to touch her, the column shattered, and she was swept
away into wakefulness.
The voice came through the loudspeaker, breaking her reverie.
"Back away from the door." It must be a meal time.
Instinctively, she moved away, toward the bed, hating the fact
that she had been so readily trained to obey that voice. On a
sudden whim, though, she instead moved to the left side of the
room, where she would be able see out the door when it actually
opened. Surprisingly, the voice made no comment on this variation
in her behavior.
The door opened, and a man slid a tray on to the floor, just
inside the door.
He wasn't armed. Unlike the other times, when an armed thug had
escorted a minion who carried the actual food tray, this time it
was just the minion.
She could clearly see an open hallway behind him. It led to what
looked like an outside door.
It seemed too easy. It seemed just possible. Maybe they thought
her too broken to make a break for it. Such miscalculations had
cost others dearly.
She didn't know what lay beyond that outside door, but for the
first time she felt a glimmer of hope.
Part 4