A New War
An X-Files/War of the Worlds/Misc. crossover
by Lianne Burwell

Story Summary : Seven years ago, the last war of the worlds ended. But it 
wasn't the *last* war of the worlds. When Alex Krycek finds evidence of a 
previous invasion that was stopped, it leads him, Mulder and Scully to 
Harrison Blackwood, still grieving the death of his lover, Colonel Paul 
Ironhorse. When an attempt is made to kill them it starts them on a path 
that leads them from the forests of <Vermont?> to New York City, Cascade 
Washington, a military base in Colorado, a Consortium research facility 
in Delaware and beyond. Enemies are revealed, new friends are made and 
unexpected reunions occur.

Warning: This was written as a serial, not a novel. As a result, plot 
twists come fast and furious. As well, it is not finished, although this 
section is ended at a partial resolution.

Warning 2: This is a *slash* novel. That means same-sex relationships, 
occasionally described in graphic detail. If this bothers you, don't 
read.

The rest of my fanfic, including standalone War of the Worlds and X-Files 
fanfiction, can be found at: http://adult.dencity.com/lianne

Feedback can be sent to lburwell@adan.kingston.net

------------------------------------------------------------
Chapter #1: Maneuvers
------------------------------------------------------------

Deep in the Russian woods stands a small cabin. Once it might have been a 
pleasant vacation home, appropriate for getting away from the strain of 
the life in Moscow under communist rule. Now, though, it was showing the 
signs of years of neglect. Part of the roof had caved in, after one 
winter too many without repairs, and many of the windows were broken. 
Those that were not were covered in grime, making them almost completely 
opaque.

Alex Krycek was used to grime. Sometimes it seemed like it was the only 
constant in his life anymore. He slept in grimy hotels, when he could 
afford to, wore grimy clothes, and he felt like he would never get clean 
again, even if he spent a year in a bathtub.

Poking through the rubble, Alex hunted for the fake floorboard that hid 
the compartment that he'd been told about. His luck was just as lousy as 
usual, though. Of course it *had* to be under the collapsed roof. The 
debris was so unstable that it took him more than an hour to dig down, 
but the hidden compartment was exactly where he'd been told.

He pried up the fake floorboard, shining his flashlight inside, and 
breathed a sigh of relief to find the file folders, covered in what had 
to be at least five years worth of dust. By the dim red light of his 
modified flashlight he opened the top file and scanned the papers inside.

His informant was right. This was big. This was potentially one of the 
most important things he'd found in his search for information about the 
aliens. In slightly more optimistic days, long ago, he might have been 
shocked at how well this had been covered up, but not anymore. Instead, 
his cynicism left him surprised that even this much had survived.

Mulder needed to see this.

Pulling over his battered backpack, Alex shoved the files in, not 
bothering to try keeping them in order. He was pressing his luck already. 
Closing the bag and putting it on his back, Alex started to get up. Then 
he froze.

A twig had snapped. It could have been just an animal, or something 
equally innocuous, but he wasn't going to take any chances with it. He 
turned off the flashlight, and the only light left was from the few beams 
of moonlight coming through broken windows and the non-existent roof. He 
moved to stand next to one of the broken windows and waited.

Paranoia was a wonderful thing, Alex thought to himself. After a few 
minutes, he was sure that there were at least a half-dozen men out there, 
no doubt heavily armed and with orders to shoot to kill. In a way it was 
flattering that they would send so many after him. He edged towards the 
back of the building, where the cabin backed on the woods. Hopefully the 
trees would shield him from view long enough to get away.

As he made his way away from the cabin, he was careful to keep to the 
shadows. Dressed in black, with his face covered by his ski-mask, it 
would be difficult to pick him out. He hoped.

A single shot, followed by a hail of bullets, quickly proved him wrong, 
and he gave up on being subtle. He ran for his life. Behind him he could 
hear shouts. It took a moment for it to sink in that they were shouting 
in English, though. Obviously, these were *not* local troops. That meant 
the Consortium.

Maybe.

Being better at evasive maneuvers than the shmucks behind him, Alex 
quickly lost his pursuers. Once he was sure that he'd evaded them, he 
headed for where he'd hidden his car. Circling in, he found only two 
watchers near it. Sharp blows to the base of their skulls left them 
unconscious, but basically unhurt.

Deciding that speed was more useful than caution, Alex headed for the 
main road. He needed to get out of the country and back to the US as soon 
as possible.

Not surprising, considering the hour, the road was deserted. Alex left 
his headlights off, running dark, and cranked up the speed up as high as 
the little car would allow, ignoring the persistent shudder that resulted.

He had barely gone five miles when he heard the distinctive 'thwooping' 
of a helicopter behind him. As the floodlight lit the road behind him, 
Alex groaned.

This was getting ridiculous.

>>>~~~~~<<<

The fake Ironhorse stood before him, gun held to Debi's head. The child 
was terrified, but trying to put a brave face on.

"Drop your weapons," ordered the stranger with the familiar face.

"Do what he says," Suzanne called out. She dropped her own gun. "Debi, 
look at me. Don't move. Keep your eyes on me." Her voice was low and 
soothing, all her attention focused only on keeping her daughter calm, 
despite her own fear.

"This place is a bomb," said the man, calmly, emotionlessly. "With about 
three minutes left. Just time enough for you to leave. I won't stop you." 
He paused. "But Debi and I, we're staying."

"Please let her go," Suzanne pleaded.

"You won't leave, will you? You'll stay and die, because you won't leave 
one child behind. That's why we'll win." He was sneering at them, now.

"That's why you'll lose," Harrison shot back.

"*You'll* never know, Blackwood."

"You'll die too," Kincaid pointed out, appealing to reason. It was wasted.

"I'm expendable," was all the man said.

Suzanne was nearly in tears. "Please, there must be some part of you that 
is still Ironhorse."

"I *am* Ironhorse," he said angrily, showing real emotion for the first 
time. "There is no other."

"You're wrong." The real Ironhorse was propped up against the doorway. He 
looked like hell, pale and weak. It had been barely an hour since 
Harrison and Kincaid had rescued the man from the alien base, pulling him 
from the cocoon he'd been left in after the Mothren had cloned him. 
Harrison still wasn't sure what the process had done to the man, but 
Ironhorse was fading quickly.

The clone smiled, faintly. "Good work, Brother. Now we can die together. 
There's... symmetry to that. We *are* the same, after all."

"Not the same. But linked..." Ironhorse paused, as though something had 
just occurred to him. "Linked..." He turned, slightly, to stare into 
Harrison's eyes. "It was good working with you." He turned back to the 
clone.

//No! Not this! I don't want to see this again!//

"Debi. Close your eyes." She squeezed her eyes shut tightly.

"Colonel..." Harrison took a single step, worried at the tone in the 
man's voice.

//Please!//

Ironhorse turned slightly, placed the muzzle of his gun under his chin...

//PLEASE!!!//

And pulled the trigger.

>>>~~~~~<<<

Doctor Harrison Blackwood shot up in his bed, a scream forcing its way 
out of his throat and tears burning in his eyes. For a moment he sat 
there panting, his pulse racing. He brushed sweaty curls out of his eyes, 
then put on his glasses so that he could read the old wind-up alarm clock 
sitting on the table next to the bed.

3:10 AM. He sighed. He wasn't going to get any more sleep this night. 
Actually, he rarely slept *this* late. It had been seven years since he'd 
slept through the night without being wakened by the dreams that left him 
screaming.

Seven years, since the night that Colonel Paul Ironhorse had died, a 
victim of the war with the Mothren, along with Norton Drake. It had been 
six years since the alien threat had ended and the war had ended, but he 
still couldn't escape the past.

He got out of the bed, still naked, and padded over to the window. He 
looked out at the moonlit scene. The Virginia forest shimmered silver, 
under the star-filled sky. The cabin had been an inheritance, long ago, 
which he had told no one about, not even his friends in the Blackwood 
Project. When the secret war had finally ended, and the chaos had faded, 
he had retired to the cabin, solitude and his memories.

Suzanne and Debi still stayed in contact. Kincaid even e-mailed him from 
time to time, from whatever part of the world he was in. He had trouble 
caring. The chaos of the final invasion had been almost completely 
forgotten, like the previous invasions. No one really remembered it, 
except for the four of them. He didn't care. He didn't care about much 
of anything anymore.

All he could do was continue to exist, and he only did that because he 
knew how angry Paul would be if he killed himself, or even just allowed 
himself to die. So he continued.

And so did the nightmares.

>>>~~~~~<<<

Fox Mulder was having a bad day. He'd 'found' information about an alien 
spacecraft being kept at an airforce base. He and his partner, Dana 
Scully, had snuck onto the base, looking for evidence. By now, they knew 
better than to try to get permission from anyone associated with the 
base, or even the military. Permission was usually refused, and the 
evidence always disappeared.

They'd gotten through the barbed-wire fence without trouble, although 
Scully had ripped her pantyhose and Mulder had a ground-in dirt stain on 
the knee of his dress pants that would probably never come out.

But someone must have known they were coming. The MPs were waiting for 
them, when they reached the hangar. In the face of a dozen soldiers with 
rifles, Scully had immediately raised her hands with a rueful expression 
that seemed to say that she knew that she shouldn't have gone along with 
one of Mulder's plans. Mulder tried to argue, but a rifle-but to the side 
of his head had convinced him that there wasn't any point. Besides, with 
the MPs waiting, any evidence would be long gone.

As usual, they didn't even try to detain or question the two agents. No, 
they just escorted the pair back to their car, and waited until the 
agents drove away. The only evidence that they'd even gotten in was the 
bruise to Mulder's temple.

It was just too damn humiliating.

"Mulder."

"Hmmm?" He turned his head, wincing slightly at the movement, so he could 
watch both Scully and the road. Scully was holding a piece of paper that 
he didn't recognize, along with the first aid kit. "What's that?"

"It was in the first aid kit. It wasn't there last time I looked." That 
meant that it was recent, since it had only been yesterday, when Mulder 
had scraped his knuckles in a fight with a goon from whom they'd gotten 
the information about this base. *Some* people who kept first aid kits in 
their cars never even opened them. Mulder's got used on a regular basis.

"Well, what does it say?"

"'Important info. Meet me, the usual place. K."

Scully was glaring at the paper, as though it were the man. It was 
strange. In many ways, Mulder had more reasons to hate Alex Krycek. The 
man had betrayed him, murdered his father, helped to keep him under 
the Consortium's control. But he had gotten over that. He had accepted 
that they needed to work together to beat the conspiracy. In a strange 
way, he'd come to respect the young man. Scully, on the other hand, still 
hated his guts. But she worked with him, when she had to. 

Mulder sighed, and pointed the car towards D.C.

>>>~~~~~<<<

It was nearly eight in the morning by the time they got back to 
Washington. Luckily it was Saturday, so they didn't have to go in to 
work. Mulder really wanted to go home and have a long shower and a longer 
nap, but that would have to wait until he'd heard whatever information 
Krycek thought was so important. He offered to drop Scully off at her 
apartment, but she refused.

The usual place was an apartment that the Lone Gunman had arranged for. 
The Consortium may or may not know about it, Mulder knew, but it was the 
chance they took. But thanks to the Lone Gunman, the connection was as 
protected as it *could* be. They regularly scanned the rooms for bugs and 
cameras for Mulder.

Mulder tapped lightly on the door before slipping his key into the lock. 
When he opened the door, it was to stare down the muzzle of a handgun. 
The gun was quickly gone, once Krycek had confirmed who it was. The 
younger man stood back to let them enter. He was dressed, wearing his 
usual denim and leather, but his hair still sparkled with beads of water, 
and one sleeve hung empty, indicating that he had been showering recently.

"What the hell happened to you?" he asked, brushing a fingertip across 
the bruise on Mulder's forehead, wincing with him. Krycek did things like 
that, from time to time, and it confused Mulder. He was never quite sure 
what went through the man's mind. Then again, he probably didn't *want* 
to know.

"A run-in with some MPs. What's up?"

"Found something that might interest you," Krycek said, pulling files out 
of knapsack that looked like it had gone through several wars, and 
spreading them across the kitchen table.

Mulder carefully kept between his two partners - one current, one 
former - as they bent over the files, even thought they'd done nothing 
more than glare at each other. It was weird, but he often had the urge to 
protect Krycek from Scully, even though he'd beaten up the man on a 
regular basis, himself.

Mulder sneezed at the dust rising from the pages, as Krycek started 
flipping open the folders.

"I got a hold of the records of a Soviet physicist named Katya Rodan," 
Krycek said, giving the last name a French pronunciation. "Ten years ago, 
she was part of a delegation that came to the States for disarmament 
talks. During that time, she came into contact with an old colleague, 
Doctor Harrison Blackwood, who was going to help her defect. In the end, 
she decided not to. The reason, according to her personal papers, was 
that Blackwood told her about an attempt by aliens to take control of 
Earth. She decided to return to the Soviet Union to help organize Soviet 
scientists in helping to fight back."

Scully looked dubious, but Mulder just waited.

"About a year later, there was a meeting, involving representatives from 
various countries, to discuss this alien threat. I've only found shreds 
of information. Most of the records have... vanished in the meantime. 
According to what I *have* found, the meeting was organized by Blackwood, 
along with the American government. Apparently, Blackwood's group was 
working with a General Wilson. About the time that things fell apart a 
couple years later, General Wilson... disappeared, along with all his 
records. Suddenly, there was no sign that the government had even *heard* 
of Blackwood or his project."

"Cover up?" Mulder asked, rhetorically.

"What do *you* think?" Krycek asked, only slightly sarcastic. "Anyway, 
Doctor Rodan's personal papers name the members of Blackwood's group. I'm 
still not sure how they got missed after she was killed," he added, half 
talking to himself.

"Killed?" Scully said, speaking up for the first time since they'd 
arrived.

"Killed. A car crash in a deserted area just north of Volgograd. There 
was no reason for her to have been there and there was no investigation. 
That happened about the same time that General Wilson disappeared. Within 
forty-eight hours of that, her home was destroyed in a fire, and her lab 
was ransacked. All of her papers were destroyed or stolen. Luckily, she 
kept backup copies of her personal papers, leaving them with someone she 
trusted. These are those copies. Also, everyone else that I've been able 
to identify as being at that conference has also died, all under 
mysterious circumstances. Like the doctor, their homes and workplaces 
were all either ransacked or destroyed at the same time."

"Sounds pretty suspicious to me," Mulder said, eyes glued to the papers. 
"Doctor Harrison Blackwood, astronomer. Norton Drake, computer expert. 
Doctor Suzanne McCullough, microbiologist. Colonel Paul Ironhorse, 
military liaison."

"I've done some digging. Both Drake and Ironhorse disappeared seven years 
ago, and are presumed dead. Doctor McCullough taught at the University of 
South Florida until her disappearance three years ago. Doctor Blackwood 
became a recluse. No record of where he is now. "

"And it sounds like *he's* the one we need to contact. But it doesn't 
seem like anyone knows where he is."

"There is one other possibility. Doctor McCullough's teenaged daughter 
was with the group when Doctor Rodan was at the group's residence. 
Government owned, by the way. It was destroyed in a massive explosion 
about the time that everyone involved started to disappear. According to 
her, the daughter's name was Debi. I checked and found out that Debi 
McCullough graduated from Quantico last year. She's assigned to the FBI 
office in Washington."

Both Mulder and Scully looked surprised at that.

"Well, that's interesting," Mulder finally said. "I think that we should 
have a talk with Agent McCullough."

------------------------------------------------------------
Chapter #2: Where is Dr. Blackwood?
------------------------------------------------------------

As she left the FBI headquarters in Washington, Debi McCullough, recently 
graduated FBI agent, brushed her blonde hair out of her eyes, already 
starting to sweat in the unusually warm fall air. Sometime she wondered 
just what she was doing here. When she had graduated, she'd expected to 
be assigned to a branch office out in the middle of nowhere. She 
certainly hadn't expected to be assigned to the Washington office.

But her delight at the plum assignment had been short-lived. Arriving at 
work on her first day, she had found a note waiting for her. One that 
scared the hell out of her. The writer said that 'they' knew exactly who 
she was, and warned her to keep quiet about her teenaged years and what 
had happened then. And above all, to keep away from one Special Agent Fox 
Mulder.

She'd heard about Mulder during her training at Quantico. He was 
alternatively held up as an example of a brilliant profiler and an 
example of a good agent gone cuckoo. Mulder was obsessed with the 
bizarre, they said. He even believed in aliens.

Everyone had laughed at that. Everyone except Debi, that was. She knew 
that aliens were all too real, and that they could be a great threat. 
They could also be a boon, she reminded herself, remembering the ones who 
had been friends and allies.

So she had destroyed the note and had gone about her business, trying to 
forget all about it. And she *had* forgotten about it, at least until 
this morning when she had found another note, this time asking her to 
meet with Agent Mulder. The note promised that no one would know, but she 
had trouble believing it.

So what the hell was she doing meeting with the man? 

"Agent McCullough?"

Debi turned to the car that had just pulled up next to her. The driver 
was cute, she thought to herself. Probably about ten years older than her 
with green eyes and short brown hair. Despite the heat and humidity, he 
was wearing a leather jacket and gloves.

"I beg your pardon?" she asked, not wanting to commit herself yet.

"I'm your ride to the meeting."

Debi watched him for a moment. He waited patiently. Time to choose, she 
told herself. She could walk away, right now. Pretend that nothing had 
happened.

Then she sighed. Her curiosity would drive her nuts if she did. Her 
mother had always said that she had more curiosity than was good for her.

"All right," she said and got in the car.

>>>~~~~~<<<

Krycek split his attention three ways as he drove. Part of him was 
focused on the late afternoon traffic. Part was focused on watching for 
any attempts to tail them. He was very good at that, and he hadn't seen 
any yet.

But the rest of his attention was on the young woman in the passenger 
seat. Agent Debi McCullough was obviously nervous. She fidgeted in her 
seat, watching him and watching the cars behind them. She was obviously 
nervous about being followed too.

"Relax," Alex said, flashing his best bad-boy grin at her. "Nobody's 
tailing us. Trust me, I'm very good at what I do."

She did relax, fractionally. There were few women out there who didn't 
give in to his natural charm. Unfortunately, Scully was most definitely 
one of them. Things would be so much easier for him if she did.

McCullough might not be as tense about being followed, but she was far 
from ready to trust him. "So," she said. "You know my name, but I don't 
know yours. Who are you?"

Alex grinned again. This would be fun. "Alex Krycek, at your service. I'd 
offer to shake hands, but I prefer to keep my good one on the wheel." The 
girl went white at that. Obviously new recruits were being told all about 
the 'dread traitor Krycek' these days. She was reaching for the door 
handle, but the locks were all controlled from the driver's seat. Child-
safety locks. Gotta love 'em.

"Don't worry, kiddo," he said. "We're almost there."

"I take it that the note *wasn't* from Agent Mulder," she said, quickly 
giving up on trying to unlock the door.

"Yes it was. I told Mulder I'd pick you up."

"And why would he let you?" she asked, suspicion plain. "I was under the 
impression that you had betrayed him several times over. Not to mention 
that you were *thought* to be in Russia."

Alex shook his head. "When the enemy is bad enough, you'll work with 
anyone," he pointed out. "And I was in Russia. Now I'm here."

She didn't respond, but she didn't look any happier either. By this point 
they were out in the suburbs. Alex turned into a new subdivision. The 
houses were almost finished, only needing interior work, but no one had 
moved in yet. At this time of day, the workers had already left for the 
day. Alex pulled up onto the gravel that marked where a driveway would 
eventually go and stopped the engine. Mulder's car was already there.

"Here we are," he said, unlocking all the doors. The girl was immediately 
out of the car, gun in her hand. Alex wondered why she hadn't tried to it 
earlier. He ignored it, turning towards the house instead. "Mulder's 
inside."

He headed for the door, wondering if she would follow, shoot or run. 
Maybe he should have dragged her in since they really *did* need to get 
information from her, but that would probably guarantee that she wouldn't 
tell them a thing. Behind him, the slow crunch of gravel said that she 
was following. The girl must have a *bad* case of curiosity. Kind of like 
another FBI agent he knew, he thought fondly.

Inside, the building was bare. The finished carpentry was only half-done 
and the smell of sawdust and paint filled the air. Alex headed for what 
was intended to be the dining room, the only room on the ground floor with 
few windows to worry about.

"Mulder?"

Mulder was sitting on the floor, still dressed in his usual work suit. He 
hadn't even taken off the jacket or tie. Alex winced at the sight of the 
tie. One of these days he was going to break into Mulder's apartment 
while he was at work, take his collection of ties (all of them hideous) 
and replace them with ones that would actually look *good* on the man.

Alex shook his head. Knowing Mulder, he would promptly go out and replace 
the ties taken. Maybe it was his color-blindness. Maybe it was another 
way to rebel against the stuffed-shirt mentality of the FBI. No, he 
wouldn't steal the guy's ties. In a way, they were almost appealing in 
their ugliness.

As McCullough followed Alex into the room, Mulder pushed himself to his 
feet, absent-mindedly wiping his hands on his pants before holding out 
one to shake.

"Thanks for coming, Agent McCullough," he said as she shook it. Alex 
could see her melting under his smile already. Alex might get away with a 
lot based on his bad-boy persona, but Mulder seemed to bring out the 
protective instincts in women.

"Well, I was warned not to, but I was curious," she said, smiling for the 
first time since Alex had picked her up.

"Warned?" Mulder's head tilted to the side, slightly.

"Anonymous notes telling me not to talk to you, among other things," she 
replied, shifting her weight from side to side. She was obviously nervous.

Mulder looked over to Alex, frowning slightly. Both of them could guess 
*who* had warned her. Then he turned back to her.

"Tell me, Agent McCullough. What do you think about aliens?"

"I don't." They could see her closing up on them. "What do you want?" she 
asked bluntly.

Mulder sighed and cut to the chase. "I want to contact Harrison Blackwood."

>>>~~~~~<<<

Somehow, Debi wasn't surprised. The only reason that Fox Mulder would 
want to talk to her was her experiences with the Blackwood project, and 
Harrison was the person he was most likely to want to reach. The question 
was how did he find out about the project? She was under the impression 
that all the records had been destroyed.

In fact, that was why she'd chosen the FBI as a career. From inside the 
FBI she would have a better chance of finding out what happened to her 
great-uncle, General Wilson and why they'd been forced underground. For 
the first three years of the Blackwood project they'd been funded by the 
government. Then, without warning, General Wilson had disappeared and 
they'd been targeted by the military as well as the aliens. All knowledge 
of their existence had been disavowed, she said to herself in the tone of 
the old TV show.

Debi only half-listened as Mulder talked about aliens like oil-slicks, 
shape-changers, weird bees and clones. Clones she knew about, all too 
well. A clone of Colonel Ironhorse had tried to kill her. Her life and 
everyone else's had been bought at the cost of the life of the *real* 
Ironhorse. She still had nightmares from time to time about that night. 
The year that followed had been pure hell. Society seemed to be falling 
apart around them as they hunted for a way to end the Mothren threat. 
Harrison had been tireless during that year, constantly hunting for a way 
to triumph. But then they had, and he had fallen apart. Without the fight 
to distract him, he'd finally had to face his lover's death.

She wasn't supposed to have known that Harrison and Ironhorse were 
lovers. Her mother had done her best to keep her in the dark, although 
everyone else seemed to know about it. She probably *would* have stayed 
in the dark, if she hadn't been outside the locked library doors at the 
cottage at the wrong time.

//"Paul, this isn't the time. Mrs. Pennyworth will have dinner ready soon."

"But I'm hungry *now*. The Colonel's voice was low and throaty as he 
laughed. The sound of a zipper being undone followed.

"Paul... Paul!"

Debi pressed her ear against the door, listening to the slurping noises 
and gasps. Her mother thought that she was too young to know about sex, 
but she knew enough to guess at what was probably going on in there.

The groans were getting louder now, culminating in a strangled cry. There 
was heavy breathing, then the sound of a zipper being done back up.

"You're crazy, Colonel," Harrison said in a fond tone, after a few minutes.

"That's why you love me," was the immediate response.

Debi wondered how long she should wait before knocking to let them know 
that dinner was ready. After all, she didn't want to embarrass them...//

Debi gave a little shudder as she pulled herself back to the present. 
She'd only actually *seen* Harrison a handful of times since he'd left 
for his cabin. He'd lost weight and there were permanent lines drawn on 
his face. Debi had thought of suggesting that he meet other people, maybe 
find someone else... Then she'd thought better of it. Harrison wasn't 
ready for it, and he might never be.

If only something could be found to force him back into the land of the 
living again...

At that thought, Debi made a decision. She raised a hand and Mulder 
halted in mid-lecture. "All right. When?"

Both of the men stared at her, as if surprised that she had agreed so 
easily. Mulder blinked. "Uhh... How about this weekend?"

"Fine. We'll leave Friday night. Pick me up at the cafe down the street 
from my apartment at 8 p.m. I assume that you know where that it?" Mulder 
still looked dazed, but Krycek nodded. "All right, then. Now, how about a 
ride home?"

Krycek tossed her the car keys. "I'll be out in a minute."

Debi nodded, then headed for the door.

>>>~~~~~<<<

Alex turned to Mulder. "Well, *that* was easier than I expected."

Mulder was looking dazed, an expression only enhanced by the bruise on 
his forehead. "No kidding. Is she up to something?"

Alex thought about it, considering her expression when she was listening 
to Mulder. "Yes and no. I think she has her own reasons for agreeing, but 
I don't think she's planning to pull a fast one."

"Well, you better drive her home. I'll see you Friday."

"Take care of yourself," Alex said. He couldn't resist the urge to brush 
a gentle fingertip across the bruise. Then he left the house before his 
ex-partner could react.

>>>~~~~~<<<

The next day, Mulder shocked the hell out of his partner by offering to 
treat her to lunch.

"I should have known," Scully said, glaring at him.

"What? So, what do you want on them?" Mulder asked, after telling the 
hotdog vendor that *he* wanted everything on his 'dogs.

"I should have known that you would be too cheap to spring for anything 
better. Mustard, relish and onions, please."

Scully accepted her hotdogs, while Mulder fished out his wallet to pay 
for them. Side by side, they strolled through the park.

"So what is it you need to tell me that you don't want overheard?"

Mulder grinned around a mouthful of hotdog. "Maybe it's just a beautiful 
day, and I want to enjoy it," he said after swallowing. The look she sent 
his way said that she wasn't buying it. "We need to take a little trip 
this weekend. To see Doctor Blackwood."

Scully looked surprised at that. "You found him that quickly? So who is 
going on this little trip?"

"You, me, Debi McCullough - since she's supplying the directions." He 
paused, knowing the explosion that was guaranteed to follow. "Krycek."

"Mulder! You can't *trust* that two-faced rat. I still don't understand 
why you even bother trying."

Mulder sighed. It was the same complaint. "I don't know either. But 
everything he's told me has had at least a kernel of truth in it. 
Besides, he's useful. What *I* don't understand is why *he* bothers. For 
the longest time it was always the same thing. He shows up. I accuse him 
of killing my father. He denies it. I accuse him of killing your sister. 
He denies it. I accuse him of participating in your kidnapping. He admits 
it, but says he didn't have a choice. Then I hit him, but he doesn't 
fight back. Then he passes on information. I don't know why he kept 
coming before we decided to skip straight to the information stage."

"I can guess," Scully muttered to herself. Mulder frowned at her, but she 
didn't seem inclined to explain just what she meant by the comment. "So 
what do I pack?" she finally asked with a resigned sigh.

Mulder shrugged, then grinned. "Normal weekend stuff, I guess. After all, 
if anyone asks we can say we're on a weekend double-date."

Scully snorted, then went back to carefully eating her hotdogs. Amazing 
how she managed to do that so neatly when Mulder already had a brand-new 
collection of stains on his tie.

>>>~~~~~<<<

Thursday night, Debi pulled the book of road-maps off her shelf and 
started planning the trip. She hadn't been to Harrison's cabin in nearly 
three years, but she remembered the location well. However, she wanted to 
chose a route that would make it difficult for anyone to follow them.

She was beginning to have second thoughts about the whole thing, though. 
Was it worth getting involved, simply to try to drag Harrison out of his 
self-imposed exile? After fighting in one alien invasion, did she really 
want to get involved in a second?

Debi sighed. There wasn't really a choice here. After all, it was her 
world too, and she didn't plan on sitting back while others fought to 
protect it.

Here we go again.

------------------------------------------------------------
Chapter #3: Road Trip
------------------------------------------------------------

Friday dawned, cooler than it had been in weeks. The temperature was 
actually comfortable, for once. Debi McCullough went in to work as usual, 
but she was fighting a case of the nerves. Any minute, she expected to 
have mysterious men in black or something show up to haul her away for 
what she was doing.

Instead, she spent a stress-filled but otherwise boring day in records, 
digging up files for agents working on active investigations. Why they 
didn't just scan them to computer, she didn't know. Sure, it would take 
some time to do the scans, then proof all the documents, but in the long 
run it would speed things up greatly.

When five o'clock finally came, she breathed a sigh of relief.

She made it home in one piece to the apartment that she shared with 
another agent, Jennifer Krandall. Jen had called her earlier to let her 
know that she wouldn't be home. She was off in Dakota, of all places. 
Some sort of serial killer, she said. Debi restrained a shudder. Serial 
killers was one type of case that she had *no* interest getting involved 
with. Some people found them... exciting. Debi just found them 
frightening.

Just to be safe, she left a note saying that she was going camping for 
the weekend, in case Jen made it home earlier than expected. Then she 
grabbed her knapsack and headed for the caf where *they* were supposed 
to meet her. She took a last look around the small, two-bedroom apartment 
that had been her home for only a few months. A little voice inside said 
to enjoy it while she could, since she might never see it again.

No turning back now.

>>>~~~~~<<<

With everything packed in the back of the car, the only problem was who 
would sit where. In the end, Debi sat up front with Krycek, while Mulder 
sat in the back with Scully. What it came down to was that Scully didn't 
want Mulder sitting with Krycek and Mulder would have been a fool to 
trust *her* with the former agent. Since it was Krycek's car -- Mulder 
assumed, probably wrongly -- and Debi was giving directions, it did make 
sense.

Out of the city, the beautiful fall colors, the sunset, the pleasant 
weather and the hypnotic effect of highway driving soon lowered the 
tension levels in the car to the point that Mulder was no longer thinking 
that inviting Scully had been a horrendous mistake. Instead of spending 
her time sniping at Krycek, she was questioning Debi about everything she 
knew about aliens.

"So you're saying that these... aliens tried to take over *several* 
times, and no one even noticed?"

"There's noticing and then there's *noticing*, Agent Scully. Think back 
eight years ago. What do you remember?"

Scully blinked a few times. "I was still in school. Why?"

"Do you remember the food shortages? The curfews? The riots?"

Mulder frowned at that. Something wiggled in the back of his memories, 
trying to get his attention. Scully just looked confused.

"I remember," Krycek spoke up. "It was *not* a nice time. And then... it 
was over. Everyone put it out of their mind, until it was as if it had 
never happened."

"Exactly. Harrison had theories, but he never did find out why people 
always forgot. The previous invasion, the one that killed Harrison's 
parents, was forgotten, except for a movie. The one before that is only 
remembered in a radio broadcast that is now considered fiction. The one 
before *that* is also remembered as fiction, a novel by HG Wells. It's as 
though humans don't *want* to remember."

"Or are being prevented," Mulder said, half to himself. Scully gave him 
one of her patented 'Get real, Mulder' looks, but he ignored it. "What 
happened in the previous invasion?"

"The 'movie' one? The movie was accurate. Common bacteria *did* stop the 
aliens, but it didn't kill them. They went into a hibernation so deep it 
was indistinguishable from death. The military packed them up in metal 
barrels and disposed of them in hazardous waste dumps. They figured that 
it was a good enough solution." Her tone was derisive.

"That's so ridiculous that you *have* to believe it," Mulder snorted. 
"Are they still there?" 

Debi frowned. "I don't know if any are *still* there. What happened,  
about ten years ago, was that some of the barrels were exposed to toxic 
waste. The radioactivity killed off the bacteria that had defeated the 
Mothren, allowing them to break free and start over again. Harrison found 
out, and persuaded the government to take him seriously. My great-uncle, 
General Wilson, was put in charge of the Blackwood Project, and the 
Project tracked alien activity and stopped their plans, whenever 
possible."

"What happened?" Krycek asked. "I know Wilson disappeared, and the 
project... disappeared. Why?"

Debi looked out the window, not responding for a while. "We don't know. 
But that happened about the same time that a new wave of Mothren arrived. 
They were very different. Better able to infiltrate."

"What do you mean?"

"The older aliens were just that... alien. They were able to take over 
human bodies, but they still acted alien. As well, they couldn't *keep* 
control for long, since they burned out their hosts. The last wave 
modified themselves to look human. They had more advanced technology and 
none of the vulnerabilities to Earth bacteria that their predecessors 
had. The troubles seemed to start around the same time that they arrived."

Mulder stayed quiet for the next while, staring out at the landscape as 
it zoomed by. He listened as Scully asked questions about how the... 
Mothren, Debi called them? About how the Mothren were able to take over 
human bodies. It sounded like the oil-slick aliens, but more destructive.

But most of his attention was focused on his memories of eight years ago. 
Strangely, they seemed to slide away, just out of reach. Was he still at 
Oxford? Had he joined the FBI yet? He couldn't quite pin it down. For 
someone with eidetic memory, it was very disturbing.

>>>~~~~~<<<

A few hours later, conversation had petered out. Debi had explained 
everything that she knew about the aliens, which wasn't really a lot, 
since she'd barely been in her teens when the Mothren had been stopped.

Except they hadn't been stopped. Instead, they had *chosen* to end the 
conflict when they realized that their leader had manipulated them into 
continuing a conflict that most were not interested in anyway. Most had 
chosen to leave Earth, continuing on their way. Some had stayed, merging 
into the human population. Hopefully, Blackwood would help find them. 
While he was pretty sure, from the sound of it, that they weren't related 
to the current... problems. But they had technology that could be useful.

Debi had been giving more frequent directions for that last half-hour. 
They had left the highway and had been driving through the back country, 
seemingly in circles. Mulder had a sneaking suspicion that this wasn't 
just to throw off any pursuers. She was making it more difficult for any 
of them to retrace their steps later.

By this time, it was nearly midnight, so the roads were empty. Anyone 
*trying* follow them would either be obvious by their headlights, or else 
driving blind.

Finally, there was the faint gleam of lights up ahead. As they drew 
closer, Mulder could see a small cabin, nestled in the trees on the side 
of a hill. During the day, it probably had a beautiful view of the 
valley below.

Krycek pulled up next to an ancient pickup truck that was so battered-
looking that Mulder wondered if it even ran. They all piled out of the 
car, trying to deal with the kinks caused by sitting for too long.

The cabin door opened. "Whatever you want," came an angry voice. "You 
won't find it here, so you better just head back out the way you came."

The imp of the perverse rose up in Mulder, and he couldn't resist. He 
stepped forward, hand held out.

"Dr. Blackwood, I presume?"

>>>~~~~~<<<

"Harrison, please! You've got to listen," Debi pleaded. They had spent 
hours trying to convince Blackwood to help them, but he wouldn't even 
consider it.

"No I don't. I did my bit. I'm out of it, now. I don't want anything to 
do with this fight. Just... leave me alone."

Mulder was disappointed. The Harrison Blackwood he'd read about in the 
files had been an idealist, determined to save the world. This man was 
bitter. The old Harrison had smiled brightly from the pictures. This man 
had an overgrown beard, and deep lines around the eyes. His shoulders 
were slumped, and his clothes had seen better days. He looked... defeated.

"Dr. Blackwood. If you could at least give us a detailed description of 
what happened during the last invasion. Anything that might help us now. 
And if you know how to get a hold of any of the Mothren that stayed on 
Earth..."

Blackwood slumped in his chair. "I try *not* to think about it. Not that 
*that* stops the nightmares." He looked over at the mantle, and the 
photos sitting there. "So many good people died. The people who knew 
about it are *still* dying. Someone wants to make sure that nobody talks. 
Suzanne told me about three separate attempts on her life after she moved 
to Florida. She kept her head low, talked to no one, but they still kept 
coming after her. I told her to get out. Find someone she trusted to 
create a new identity for her."

"Dr. McCullough is still alive?" Mulder looked over at Debi, but the 
young woman refused to meet his eyes. Her face looked like it was carved 
from stone. That was something that she *hadn't* mentioned.

"Katya was one of the first to die," Harrison said, eyes seemingly fixed 
on the past. "Then the various representatives who were at the conference 
a few months after Katya went home. Then the various scientists we'd 
dealt with, in all areas of the world. They died and their research was 
destroyed, their papers lost."

He turned, face suddenly focused and grim. "We saw it coming. Someone 
was killing everyone who knew about the aliens, about what had happened. 
Kincaid is very good at protecting himself. No one I didn't trust knew 
where I was." He glared at them. "At least until now. But Suzanne was in 
danger. Kincaid had... friends. They created a new identity for her. 
Arranged for surgery to change her appearance."

He shook his head. "I'm not getting involved again. All I want is to be 
left alone."

Mulder wandered around the cabin. Despite the late hour, he was too 
worked up to keep still. It was simple, mostly one large room, and very 
cluttered. The galley kitchen was against one wall, and the large bed at 
the other end. A fireplace sat in between. On either side of the 
fireplace were doors. One probably led to the bathroom -- Mulder guessed 
-- and the other to the storage room and the generator that they could 
hear whirring in the background. Piles of books adorned just about every 
flat surface, as well as the bookcases that squeezed in wherever there 
was space.

In the middle of the room were a couple of chairs, currently occupied by 
Harrison and Scully, and a table littered with papers. Considering the 
titles on books around the papers, Mulder had to resist the urge to rifle 
through them. His curiosity burned, but he wasn't about to insult 
Blackwood by looking through them, uninvited.

So instead he was drawn to the fireplace, and the framed pictures on the 
mantle. It was a little rude to examine them with their owner in the 
room, but he did it anyway. They might give him a better feel for the man 
and ideas of how to convince him to help them.

The pictures showed a very different Harrison Blackwood. This one smiled, 
his eyes glowed. A young man posed with two adults, probably his adoptive 
parents. An older version posed with a long-haired woman and a girl who 
was obviously Debi McCullough. The woman must be her mother, Suzanne. A 
bearded Harrison posed with them again, as well as with a younger man. 
Probably the Kincaid that he had mentioned. A few pictures showed an 
elderly woman with a vacant gaze. Still more showed a grinning black man 
in a wheelchair. Silvia, his memory provided. Murdered in a mental 
institute arranged for by the Blackwood project. Norton Drake, presumed 
dead the same time as Colonel Ironhorse.

But most of the pictures were of Harrison and another man, Hispanic or 
Native American. Mulder picked one of them up. The two men were smiling 
at each other, arm in arm. They were very obviously together and happy, 
no matter what the circumstances of the time.

A hand reached over his shoulder, and plucked the frame from his hands. 
"Do you mind?" Harrison said is a rough voice.

"That's Colonel Ironhorse?" Mulder asked.

Harrison stared at the picture, eyes focused on the past. He brushed 
gentle fingers across the photo. "Yes."

"What happened to him?" Mulder saw Debi flinch in the background, then 
look away. Harrison didn't miss it either.

"The Mothren captured him and cloned him. They sent the clone to blow up 
the cottage and kill us. It did kill Norton. Paul... stopped him." Mulder 
shook his head, not understanding. "Paul realized that the clone was... 
connected to him somehow. He killed himself and the clone died at the 
same moment. We barely got out before the bomb went off."

The expression on Harrison's face was painful, but there were no tears. 
He doesn't have any left, was the thought that popped into Mulder's mind. 
He shook off the flight of fancy.

"Dr. Blackwood..." he started to say, but the man cut him off.

"No. You're on your own." Then he looked around at his visitors, seeing 
how tired they all were. "I have some sleeping bags. You can stay the 
rest of the night, get some sleep." Then his voice hardened. "But then 
you leave." His expression said that he wasn't going to reconsider.

Mulder sighed. It had been a good try, but they'd obviously reached a 
dead-end. He turned to Scully, when there was a muffled curse from 
Krycek, who had parked himself near the window as soon as they'd entered 
the cabin.

"What?"

"We've got company," was the grim reply.

------------------------------------------------------------
Chapter #4: Picking Directions
------------------------------------------------------------

"We've got company."

Three simple words, nothing special about them, but they combined to 
create an effect on the room like a dozen cold showers and too much black 
coffee. Everyone was suddenly wide awake. Outside the window, the flash 
of light repeated, almost too faint to be seen, but too bright to be 
natural.

Alex looked over to see Debi reach for the light switch. "Don't," he 
snapped, and she froze. "They already know that we're here. Kill the 
lights, and they'll know that we know about them. It might force them to 
move faster."

She nodded. Alex turned to Blackwood. "I don't suppose you have a back 
way out of this place."

The older man snorted. "Of course I do. This way."

He headed for the room with the generator, everyone following behind. 
Alex and Mulder took up the rear, guns out and ready. Alex could already 
hear the sound of a stealth helicopter, which mean that it had to be 
practically on top of them. They didn't have much time.

Harrison moved around the generator and pushed at a table sitting against 
the wall. It tilted over, part of the floor going with it. Alex smiled. 
"Paranoia. Gotta love it." Harrison glared at him.

"I've had friends killed. I'd be long dead too, if they had known where 
to find me," he snarled. "Thanks to you, now they've got their chance."

"Just because you're paranoid, doesn't mean that they aren't out to get 
you," Alex replied. He felt a flicker of guilt. It did look like they'd 
lead the hunters right to the man. On the other hand, they'd wanted to 
convince him to work with them. Now he didn't exactly have a choice.

Like it or not, Harrison Blackwood had rejoined the war.

>>>~~~~~<<<

The trapdoor turned out to lead to an underground tunnel leading away 
from the cabin. It was cramped and damp and dark as hell. Mulder 
shuddered, remembering other similar experiences. Prison cells in Russia. 
Buried boxcars in Arizona. If this kept up, he was going to develop an 
acute case of claustrophobia.

Then a hand touched his shoulder, warm and comforting, despite the gun 
that it still held. Mulder relaxed. Strange how Scully was the only 
partner he wanted, but Krycek was the one who actually seemed to 
understand him best. At least *Krycek* had never tried to have him 
committed. He shrugged his shoulder, signaling that the message was 
understood. The hand disappeared.

He was a little nonplussed to find that he missed it.

The tunnel seemed stretch on for miles, finally emerging in the woods, a 
good distance from the cabin.

"Now what?" he asked. "Our cars are back there, and I don't think we're 
going to be able to get to them."

Harrison shook his head. "I keep a spare, well hidden. Just in case."

"Like the tunnel," Krycek said in an almost admiring tone. "I *like* you, 
Blackwood."

Mulder froze, a flash of... something running through him. It was almost 
like... No. He wasn't going there. So what if Krycek liked Harrison. It 
certainly didn't affect *him*.

Harrison set off through the woods confidently. Despite the near pitch 
blackness, he seemed to know exactly where they were going, almost as if 
he could see in the dark. Everyone else followed as best they could, 
since he obviously wasn't going to slow down for them. They could either 
keep up, or be left behind.

They had only been moving for a few minutes when the sky lit up and a 
roar filled the air. The shockwave from behind them knocked them off 
their feet. Mulder landed face-down on the ground. The explosion could 
only have been the cabin being destroyed. This was serious. The enemy was 
usually a lot more subtle than that.

"Damn." The soft exhalation was right into Mulder's ear. It was the first 
moment that he realized that he hadn't just been knocked flat by the 
explosion. Someone else was also lying on top of him, holding him down. 
Someone who sounded remarkably like...

"Krycek?" There was a grunt of affirmation. "I'd like to breath, if you 
don't mind."

"Sorry Mulder." Krycek rolled off of him, but they stayed down. 
Surprisingly, he actually *did* sound sorry.

They all stayed where they were, trying to hear any sounds of pursuit. 
After the sound of the explosion faded away, the forest was unnaturally 
quiet. No insects. No night birds. No sounds at all.

Then there were shouts in the distance, moving closer. Mulder frowned. 
They weren't speaking English. In fact, they weren't speaking any human 
language that he could recognize. Mulder held his breath and waited. This 
could be the end of his glorious quest for the truth, he told himself 
sarcastically. Killed in the New England forest, face down in the dirt 
while turning blue from oxygen deprivation.

The voices stopped getting closer. Then, miraculously, they started to 
move away again. Mulder breathed a sigh of relief, echoed around him, and 
slumped. This was the sort of night when he couldn't help thinking that 
he was getting too old for this.

"Time to move again," came Harrison's voice from the darkness. "Dawn's 
coming, and we want to be well away from here before the authorities 
arrive."

Mulder winced, as he pulled himself to his feet. He ached enough that he 
even accepted the helping hand from Krycek. Harrison pulled Scully and 
Debi to their feet. Then they set off again.

>>>~~~~~<<<

The first faint gleams of false dawn were starting to show when they 
reached the parked van. It was right where Harrison had left it, covered 
with an extra large tarp in a clearing. Mulder and Krycek helped him pull 
the covering off of it, and they all climbed in.

Harrison pulled out the set of keys from their hiding spot, and breathed 
a small prayer. The god of idle cars were obviously smiling on them, 
since the van started on the third try. A quick check with Debi told him 
which route her group had used. He headed in a different direction. There 
were a million back roads in the area that had never made it onto a map. 
With any luck, they might be able to get out of the area without being 
stopped.

Debi. He still couldn't believe that she had led the Feds to him. The 
child that he remembered would never have done that.

But she wasn't that child anymore. She was an adult and a Fed herself. 
And she was a fighter. All those years ago, she had been just a kid, and 
they had tried so hard to protect her. She had so obviously resented 
that. Perhaps it wasn't surprising that she wanted to fight this time.

But why had she dragged *him* into this? Why couldn't she have left him 
alone, like he wanted? A hand crept up to touch the picture that he'd 
slipped inside the heavy flannel shirt that he'd put on as a defense 
against the cool night. The picture of himself and Paul that he'd taken 
away from the nosy one, Mulder. It was the only thing that he'd been able 
to save. Everything else was gone, along with his home. Harrison's face 
crumpled as he resisted the urge to moan his pain.

Why couldn't they have just *left* *him* *alone*?

>>>~~~~~<<<

Alex sighed, his eyes starting to burn. It was mid-afternoon and they 
were finally starting to approach Washington. They'd taken an even *more* 
circuitous route heading back than they had on the way to Blackwood's 
place.

After a few hours of driving, he had traded off with Blackwood. The van 
was a standard, and while driving a standard with an artificial arm was 
awkward, it wasn't impossible.

In the back, Scully and Debi were still asleep. Mulder had been awake for 
less than half an hour. Alex had trained himself to do without sleep, but 
he was coming to the end of his endurance. Someone else was going to have 
to drive soon.

Blackwood hadn't slept, either. He'd dozed a little in the passenger 
seat, but his dreams looked about as restful as Alex's. He'd whimpered 
and thrashed, then come awake with a gasp. He hadn't tried a second time. 
Now he was staring straight ahead, muttering to himself.

Finally, Alex couldn't stop himself. "What?" he snapped.

"Hmm?" Blackwood blinked.

"You've been talking to yourself for the last hour. What is it?"

Harrison frowned. "Something's bothering me." Krycek rolled his eyes. Of 
*course* something was bothering him. "The people who were searching. 
There was something familiar about them."

"What?" Mulder asked. "Searchers? The voices? The language?"

Blackwood smacked his forehead. "Of *course*. I've heard the *words* 
before."

"Was it the Mothren language?" Blackwood shook his head.

"No. That's more guttural. This was more..."

"Like a gurgling," Mulder said, his interest showing as he woke fully.

"Exactly!" Blackwood said. "And I'm sure that I've heard it before. But 
*where*?"

Blackwood opened up the glove compartment and started pulling stuff out. 
Alex watched with one eye, amazed at the amount of *junk* that appeared.

"Hah!" Blackwood shoved everything back into the glove compartment, 
keeping only... A tuning fork? Alex looked over at Mulder, who just shook 
his head. Blackwood ignored them.

He rapped the tuning fork against dashboard and held it to his ear. Eyes 
closed, Blackwood slowly moved the vibrating metal from next to his ear, 
around his face until it was held in front of his eyes. Then he repeated 
the process.

Alex closed his eyes for a second, then asked. "What are you doing?"

"Focusing." Blackwood said, not stopping the repetitive motion.

"And?" Mulder asked, shushing Alex when he would have made a biting 
comment.

"It's an old memory. Before the end of the war. Something other than the 
Mothren. But related."

Alex listened as the man worked through it. Mulder was fascinated. He 
could see it in the man's face. It figured. They find someone just as 
brilliant as Mulder, who believed in aliens, and he turns out to be just 
as *eccentric* as Mulder.

"I've got it!"

Alex glanced over. The man was actually grinning. For the first time, he 
looked like the old pictures of Harrison Blackwood. It was like he was 
coming alive before their eyes.

"It was a few months after we started the project. There was this android 
-- except that she was a little more than an android. She was *hunting* 
the Mothren. She helped us, saved our lives. Anyway, she said that she was 
from some sort of other dimension. When she was injured, she contacted her 
home dimension to be transported back. The language that they were 
speaking tonight *sounded* the same as the one she used while 
communicating with her own people."

Alex cringed inside. This was getting *really* out of hand. "Extra-
dimensional androids? I think I liked body-stealing aliens from another 
planet better." Harrison ignored him.

"But she helped us. Why would her people being hunting us now?" He said, 
mostly to himself, the sudden burst of energy obviously fading.

"Individuals don't always follow their organization's plans," Mulder 
said. "After all, just look at us. Or maybe they had an agenda that 
involved helping you then, but no longer."

Like the Consortium protecting Mulder, then abandoning him. Alex still 
hadn't figured out why they'd done that, or why Mulder was so important. 
Still, when the Consortium had deliberately destroyed Mulder's faith in 
his quest, Alex had done his best to restore it. He'd almost been too 
late. Mulder had actually come within a hair of killing himself.

Alex shuddered at the thought. He wasn't going to let *that* happen again.

>>>~~~~~<<<

When Krycek pulled over to the side of the road, everyone was awake.

"All right folks, time to decide the next move," he announced. "We can't 
just drive into Washington with Blackwood. Too many people would be 
watching."

"What do you suggest?" Harrison asked. Despite the lack of sleep, he was 
feeling remarkably awake. More awake than he had in years.

"You said that some of the Mothren decided to stay on Earth, while the 
rest left. Do you know how to contact them?" Mulder split his attention 
between Harrison and Debi. Harrison gave a slow nod.

"I know how to find Mana," he said.

"All right, then," Mulder said. "Scully, I'll go with Harrison to find 
this Mana. Can you cover for me at work?"

"Not for very long, Mulder," she said. "Skinner is going to smell a rat 
if you don't show up Monday morning."

"Tell him I'm taking a vacation."

Scully snorted. Harrison was starting to get the feeling that Mulder was 
the type who didn't have much of a life outside of work.

"I better go home too," Debi said. "They've obviously been watching me 
for years, so if I just disappear, they'll come looking." She sounded 
scared, but determined.

"Okay. Krycek?" Mulder turned to the last member of the group. Krycek was 
the one that Harrison was having the hardest time trying to pin down. The 
young man was hard, pragmatic. But the way he looked at Mulder. In a way, 
he reminded him of Paul.

"I'll come with you."

"No." Harrison ignored the way that the young man glared at him. "We're 
going to need more people involved." He pulled a piece of paper and pen 
from the messy glove compartment and wrote a memorized address on it, 
then handed the paper to Krycek.

"John Kincaid. If he isn't there, they'll know how to contact him. Tell 
him to come find us at Mana's place."

"And he'll just believe me? I doubt he's *that* stupid."

He was right, Harrison realized. A complete stranger? "Tell him..." 
Harrison frowned. "Remind him of the night at the Purple Ostrich, when I 
told him about the shelter."

Krycek snorted. "The Purple Ostrich? You're joking, aren't you?"

"Nope. Just tell him."

"If you say so. All right. There's a bus station a half-mile from here. 
Scully and Debi can call for cabs."

"And we'll see you later," Mulder concluded.

"Wait a minute. Where are you two *going*?" Scully asked.

"Better that you don't know," Harrison told her. "You can't tell anyone 
something you don't know."

She glowered at him, but a glance from Mulder quieted her down. She 
checked her pockets to make sure she had enough money for two cab-fares.

Harrison gave Debi a quick hug. "I'm sorry for dragging you into this, 
Harrison, but you needed it," she said in his ear. She was almost his 
height now.

"Maybe," he said, not wanting to agree with her, but not able to honestly 
deny her statement.

"And when you talk to mom..."

"I think you'll be seeing her before too long," Harrison said. "Watch 
your back."

"You too." She turned and walked to where Scully was waiting. The two 
headed off to find a phone to call for a cab.

Krycek climbed out, then looked over at Mulder. "Watch yourself," he said 
briefly, then jogged off. Mulder watched him go. There was a mix of 
emotions on his face that Harrison found almost amusing. It would have 
been more amusing if he hadn't been so jealous. The detachment that he'd 
built over the years was being torn away from him, and he was powerless 
to prevent it.

"All right," the man finally said, climbing into the front seat. "So 
where *are* we going?"

"New York City."

------------------------------------------------------------
Chapter #5: Destinations
------------------------------------------------------------

Alex Krycek rested his head against the bus window looking, for all 
intents and purposes, as though he were asleep. Of course, there was 
nothing further from the truth. Through slitted eyes, he watched the 
driver, the passengers and the people in the cars that passed the bus. 
That paranoia had served him well during his years on the run from just 
about everyone and it continued to be an asset.

It was several years ago that his last employers had done their best to 
blow him to kingdom come. That was the point when he'd become a free 
agent, working for no one, trusting no one.

No one except Mulder, that is.

Alex resisted the urge to sigh. He still wasn't sure just how Special 
Agent Fox Mulder, F.B.I. had managed to get past his defenses. By the 
time that the Consortium's orders had forced him away from the man, 
Mulder was so deep under his skin that he couldn't get him out. Even if 
he'd wanted to.

And he didn't.

That was why he kept going back, kept putting up with having the crap 
beaten out of him every time they were in the same room together. Even 
after Tunguska, he kept going back.

The biggest surprise had been the night when he'd broken into Mulder's 
apartment, and left without a single bruise. Mulder'd met him with a 
drawn gun, but as soon as he'd recognized Krycek he'd put it away. Alex 
had barely been able to stammer out the information that he'd wanted to 
pass on, he was so shocked.

And not only had Mulder *not* tried to rearrange his features yet again, 
he'd fed Alex a hot meal, let him sleep on his seldom-used bed and take a 
shower in the morning. It had been the first time in months that Alex had 
gotten a good night's sleep.

Maybe those fantasies he'd been having for years weren't as improbable as 
he'd thought.

That was why it had been so frustrating when Harrison had unilaterally 
decided that Alex should head south to find Kincaid. He'd been hoping 
that travelling with Mulder would finally break through the stubborn 
man's walls. Make him admit what was so obvious to everyone else. Hell, 
Scully was probably laughing her ass off at Alex's frustration. After 
all, she'd been doing her best to keep them apart for a long time, and 
now it looked like she had an ally.

Still, Alex was patient. Sooner or later...

The bus pulled to a creaking halt. Alex waited until the bus was half-
empty, careful not to be the first person off the bus, or the last. He 
pulled his bag out from under his seat and shouldered it. Getting to this 
point had taken two airplane rides, one train ride and three bus rides, 
all designed to throw off anyone trying to follow him. He'd only stopped 
a couple of times, long enough to buy clothes and toiletries and to get a 
few hours sleep.

Alex stepped off the bus and immediately started to sweat. The weather 
was still unseasonable warm for the time of year, even in Florida. Around 
the world, weather experts were at a loss to explain it. Ecological 
groups were touting it as proof that pollution *had* caused noticeable 
global warming. Doomsayers were predicting coastal flooding caused by 
melting of the polar caps, although no sign of that had been seen yet.

Alex headed for the main exit of the bus station, moving with a purpose. 
It had been a long time since he'd been in Miami, but he knew where he 
was going.

Time to get this show on the road.

>>>~~~~~<<<

"A word, Agent Scully."

Scully was heading down the hallway towards records when Skinner appeared 
at her side. She tensed slightly, bracing herself for the conversation 
that she'd been expecting. She'd gotten some strange looks when she'd 
reported that Mulder was taking a vacation, but none of the expected 
questions. It looked like her reprieve was over, though.

She was a little surprised, though. She'd expected to be summoned to 
Skinner's office. The fact that he'd come looking for *her* was 
disturbing, though she didn't let it show on her face.

"Yes, sir?" She kept her tone bland, waiting for Skinner to bring up the 
inevitable subject.

"Have you heard from Agent Mulder?"

"No, sir."

"And that doesn't strike you as odd?"

Scully stopped and gave him a wry look, as if to say 'Mulder is *always* 
odd'. He didn't buy it.

"I have had some... inquiries into his whereabouts." They both knew who 
those inquiries were coming from.

"What did you tell them?"

"That Agent Mulder is using some of his back vacation days, and that it 
was about time he *did*."

"Exactly, sir. If there's nothing else."

"Scully!" Skinner rubbed at the bridge of his nose and lowered his voice. 
"Agent Scully, don't you think it's about time that the two of you 
started trusting me? Now, more than ever."

"What do you mean?"

"I've been told to... rein him in. That if I don't, his protection is 
going to disappear. That he is looking into areas that could get him 
eliminated."

That made Scully stop. The Consortium had been trying to direct Mulder 
for years. As a result, he'd enjoyed a dubious protection through them. 
If that was withdrawn, he'd be in even more trouble than he'd ever been 
in the history of his partnership with her, and he seemed to *live* for 
trouble. She thought about it, deciding what was safe to tell Skinner. 
He was controlled, in large part, by the Consortium, but he *had* 
protected them many times in the past.

"We got information on a previous takeover attempt from outside," she 
said in a guarded tone, not specifying what she *meant* by 'outside'. 
"One that was *stopped*. Mulder is talking to someone who was involved in 
stopping it."

"Where *is* he, Agent Scully?"

"I don't know." He didn't look like he believed her. "I really don't 
*know*. He didn't take his cell, since he didn't want to be traced. I 
don't know where he is, where he's going, or how he's getting there."

Skinner sighed. "All right," he said. "I'll do my best to stall them. If 
you *do* hear from Mulder..."

"If I do, I'll pass on the warning."

Skinner's expression twisted into something that wasn't quite a smile. 
"Do that," he said, then headed for the elevators.

Scully watched him go, suddenly wanting an antacid tablet. Things were 
getting even more complicated than usual, and considering how complicated 
things got with Mulder, that was saying something.

She hoped he was all right.

>>>~~~~~<<<

Debi McCullough pulled over the latest piece of paperwork that had been 
dumped on her, sighing as she started to read it. Sooner or later she'd 
get to do fieldwork, she told herself.

Assuming, of course, that she lived that long.

The days since she'd gotten home had been the most stressful in her life. 
Even when she had been a kid, stuck in the middle of a war against 
invading aliens, she'd never been this stressed. As a kid, she'd been 
protected, surrounded by friends and family, and without a say in what 
happened.

But now she was on her own. She was an adult, making her own decisions.

She finished off the file, and put it into her out-box. She wondered what 
the others were up to. Mulder. Krycek. Harrison. She also wondered when 
the axe would fall on her. Somehow, she didn't think that it would be 
long.

>>>~~~~~<<<

They were only an hour or so from both New York and dawn when Mulder 
pulled the van into a gas station just off the highway. While Harrison 
filled up the van's tank, Mulder headed for the pay phones. Considering 
the hour, he dialed Scully's home number.

"Mulder, that better be you."

Mulder smiled at the annoyed tone in his partner's voice. "Nice to hear 
your voice too, Scully."

"Listen, you better not say where you are, and we'd better keep this 
short. Certain parties are trying to find you and they are not happy. 
I've been told that you might be on their hit list."

Mulder smiled, an odd reaction he knew. "That means I must be on the 
right track. Don't worry, I'll watch my back. Just make sure that you 
watch yours. After all, they *do* know where *you* are."

"Right. Keep in touch. And... be careful."

"When am I not?"

He could hear that delicate snort that she liked to make. "Don't ask me 
to answer that one, Mulder." The dial tone rang in his ear.

Mulder hung up and headed for the van. Harrison was already behind the 
wheel, having paid for the gas. Since he was the one who knew where they 
were going, Mulder was more than happy to let him take over as driver.

"So..." Mulder said as they pulled back into traffic. "Where exactly are 
we going in New York?"

Harrison smiled slightly. "Oh, I think you'll be impressed."

"Upscale?"

"No... Definitely not *up*scale."

Mulder looked at him, trying to figure out what the man was not saying, 
but there was no help there. Just an enigmatic smile.

Definitely a far cry from the man he'd met several days ago, who'd been 
dead in all but the medical sense.

>>>~~~~~<<<

Coming down the street, Alex felt like he had a target painted on his 
back. It didn't bother him. There might be a tough bunch in the 
neighborhood but he still knew that he was the nastiest sonofabitch in 
the city. Never let it be said that Alex Krycek was falsely modest.

He was in a formerly middle-class suburban neighborhood, long gone to 
seed. Now it would compete with almost any inner-city ghetto. Lawns -- 
when they were still living -- were overgrown with weeds and probably 
hadn't seen a lawn-mower in more than a decade. Most houses, though, 
boasted only a square of dry, cracked earth, dotted with motorcycles and 
half-disassembled cars of dubious origins. Despite the heat leather was 
the most popular clothing material, usually coupled with denim that had 
seen better days. Suspicious eyes followed him.

Signs on the sides of the old houses, many still showing storm-damage, 
told him who he was dealing with. The Hunters. A bike gang that had 
chapters all over the country, and into both Canada and Mexico. Some 
called the Hunters modern rebels, living life free on the roads. Others 
called them criminals, killers and thieves. Some suggested that they were 
linked to drug trafficking, but that had never been proved. Alex had 
never dealt with them before, so he couldn't say who was right about 
them, if anyone was.

Ignoring the growing numbers of eyes watching him, he walked up to the 
house that Harrison had directed him to and rang the doorbell. Not 
hearing anything through the door, he resorted to knuckles on wood.

Footsteps headed for the front door, and it cracked open. "Yeah?" came 
the belligerent challenge.

"I'm looking for Kincaid."

"And who are you?" Alex bristled at the sneer in the man's voice. There 
was an accent, but he couldn't quite pin it down, which was unusual for 
him.

"Alex. Harrison said to remind Kincaid of the Purple Ostrich."

That didn't get an answer. Alex waited patiently, mentally rehearsing the 
best ways to kill the man and the other spectators if things went bad. 
His neck itched, but he refused to fidget.

The door opened, and Alex found himself face to face with a man not much 
taller than himself. Dark skin, dark hair and dark eyes. He was unshaven 
and his clothes had seen better days. He looked just like everyone else 
on the block, in other words.

"I'm Kincaid," he said, and motioned Alex into the house. Feeling like he 
was walking out of the frying pan and into the fire, Alex did so.

>>>~~~~~<<<

Mulder was shaken out of his doze as Harrison pulled into the underground 
parking garage of an office high-rise in downtown New York City. 
Sometimes it seemed like he hadn't done more than doze, or catch catnaps 
in the back of the moving van, since they'd left Virginia, and it was 
starting to show. He was exhausted.

Harrison took the ramp down to the lowest level of the garage and parked 
in a back corner that didn't seem to have seen any traffic in months. 
Mulder climbed out of the van and groaned as he stretched stiff muscles.

"Okay, now what?" he asked Harrison. The large man didn't reply. He just 
headed for an iron door set into the concrete wall. He pulled a key from 
his pocket and used it to unlock the door.

Inside was the usual detritus used by cleaners everywhere, all covered in 
a layer of dust that suggested that it didn't get used very often. Mulder 
watched, completely baffled, as Harrison headed to the water pipes that 
ran along the back wall of the tiny room. Picking up a handy wrench, he 
hammered a complex pattern on the metal pipes.

"Well?" Mulder said once the ringing in his ears had faded.

"Now we wait," Harrison replied, settling into a lotus position on the 
floor.

Mulder wanted to argue, but the man's eyes were already closed, and his 
breathing had evened out into the rhythms of either sleep or meditation. 
With a sigh of resignation, Mulder sat down, leaned back against the cold 
concrete wall and prepared to wait.

Damnit.

>>>~~~~~<<<

An hour later, Mulder had relaxed into a state that was half sleep, half 
waking, when a scraping noise brought him to his feet. For the first time 
since he'd sat down, Harrison's eyes opened.

The back wall groaned and started to open, a light coming through the 
widening line between concrete blocks. Mulder tensed, his hand going to 
his gun.

"Relax, Mulder," Harrison said with a small smile. "This is what we were 
waiting for."

The space had opened up wide enough for even a large man to pass through. 
A hooded figure stepped into the room.

"Harrison," rumbled a deep, rich voice. A shiver ran up and down Mulder's 
spine. The voice was almost fluid. "It's been a while."

"Too long," was Harrison's reply. He stepped forward and hugged the other 
man. Next to the figure, he was almost dwarfed. It wasn't so much the 
height or the girth. The stranger had a... presence.

"Vincent, this is Fox Mulder. He's fighting aliens. A new attempt to do 
what the Mothren failed at. We're here to see Mana."

The man turned to Mulder, his face still shadowed by the cape's hood. His 
hands rose to grasp the fabric, and Mulder immediately noticed that they 
weren't... human.

The hood fell back and Mulder found himself face to face with a face that 
looked like a melding of man and lion. He shivered, wondering if he was 
alien or mutation, or the result of genetic engineering. Mulder knew that 
he should say something, but he couldn't think of anything appropriate. 
Fortunately, this... person, Vincent, didn't have the same problem. His 
mouth curved into a gentle, understanding smile.

"Welcome to the city *below* the city, Fox Mulder."

------------------------------------------------------------
Chapter #6: Underground
------------------------------------------------------------

Mulder followed as Vincent led them through the tunnels beneath New York. 
He'd known that there was a tunnel system -- most large cities had them 
-- but he was still a little amazed at the extent of them. And to find 
out that there was an entire community living down here...

A community that Vincent was obviously highly respected in, if Harrison's 
behavior was anything to go by.

And Vincent himself... Mulder was still going through all of the 
possibilities in his mind. He was a little nervous about asking, 
considering the... man's attributes. A look at his hands revealed claws 
that didn't look useless or disused, and he definitely outweighed Mulder. 
He might be able to get to his gun first if Vincent attacked him, but he 
wasn't sure he'd be able to use it in time.

Finally, though, his curiosity got the better of him and he moved up to 
walk next to Vincent.

'What are you?" he asked, ignoring Harrison's snort. He'd rehearsed 
several possible ways of asking, but none of them had come out when he 
opened his mouth. He resisted the urge to slap his forehead in disgust. A 
warm chuckle answered him.

"That is a very good question, Agent Mulder."

"Just Mulder, please."

"All right. Unfortunately, I don't have an answer for you. I was found 
abandoned outside of St Vincent's hospital by Father. He brought me down 
here and raised me as his child. The community was already established by 
then."

"Why?"

"Why did he bring me here? Or why do people live down here at all?"

Mulder considered the question for a moment. "Both, I guess."

"Actually, the answers aren't very different. The tunnels are a refuge 
for those who do not fit into the world above, either because of physical 
or mental differences, or simply because they are not able to deal with 
the world as it has become. Father raised me here because above, I would 
be an oddity, a lab specimen. Down here, I am accepted as a person."

Mulder nodded. "I can understand that. Even now, I'm sure there are 
organizations that would love to take you apart to see what makes you 
tick." He saw the two men flinch out of the corner of his eye. "I've been 
a 'guest' of those sorts of outfits too many times. I won't betray you."

Vincent nodded, but he knew it wouldn't be that easy. Only time would 
ease the suspicion.

Besides, if he were honest with himself he would also love to know what 
Vincent was, especially since the man obviously had no idea. Still, he 
wasn't going to risk losing an ally just because of his curiosity.

Vincent stopped, and Mulder looked around. There wasn't much to see in 
the lamp-light, just more tunnels. They seemed to be at some sort of 
crossroads.

"Well?" he asked, suddenly tense.

"I'm sorry," Vincent said, pulling a cloth from his pocket. "I'm afraid 
that you need to be blindfolded the rest of the way."

Mulder sighed, and closed his eyes. He'd expected something like this 
would come up.

>>>~~~~~<<<

Some time later -- Mulder wasn't sure how long -- he started to hear 
voices. First one, calling out quietly, then more, until by the time they 
came to a stop it sounded like there was a crowd.

The blindfold was removed and he blinked, trying to adjust to the sudden 
brightness.


The room he was in was... not what he expected. The furnishings were 
antique, but very comfortable. A fire blazed in a corner stove. Idly, he 
wondered how they vented the smoke. Bookcases lined the walls, and more 
books were piled around the room. His fingers itched to pick one up, just 
to see what it was.

And the room was filled with people. They were dressed in everything from 
bag-lady chic to clothing that would get you into almost anyplace. Many 
eyes watched him in obvious distrust. Mulder ignored that as being 
expected.

A well-dressed woman and a small boy moved through to stand next to 
Vincent. He ruffled the child's hair and murmured something to the woman 
softly. Then he turned back to Mulder, his feline-like features even more 
pronounced in the bright lights of the room.

"This is my... wife, Catherine, and our son Jacob."

That surprised Mulder, despite what he had seen. He prided himself on not 
being prejudiced, but still...

"Pleased to meet you," he said politely, shaking her hand, then the boy's.

"So," Vincent said. "What brings the two of you here? Although it's 
always good to see you, Harrison."

"We need to talk to Mana," Harrison said, his face serious. "It's 
starting again."

A few of the older people in the room drew hissing breaths, while the 
rest just looked confused. Vincent looked worried. He turned to one of 
the youngsters.

"Go find Mana. Tell her to come quickly."

The kid nodded, then ran from the room. Most of the others left as well. 
Vincent waved them towards the chairs set up in the large space, and 
Mulder sat down with a sigh, preparing to wait.

Again.

>>>~~~~~<<<

Alex sat in the grimy kitchen, looking around. The linoleum underfoot was 
stained and worn and beyond saving. The table was something from the 
sixties or seventies, equally tired. The walls and cabinets were painted 
in a yellow that would have been cheerful if it wasn't faded and grease-
stained, and the appliances were an avocado-green that was thankfully no 
longer made. It was tacky as hell.

Mulder would probably love it.

"Harrison sent you," was the flat statement. "Why?"

"He headed off with my partner to talk to someone named Mana. I was sent 
to find you to meet them there. Harrison said we needed more people 
involved."

Kincaid frowned, and pulled a beer from the fridge. He didn't offer one 
to Alex, who decided not to point out the hostly lapse. "Why Mana? And 
why now?"

Alex tilted his head, deciding how best to say it. Ah, blunt and direct 
was probably the best approach. "There's another invasion going on. We're 
trying to find ways to stop it. That led us to Debi McCullough, then 
Blackwood."

Kincaid froze in the middle of lifting the beer bottle to his lips. 
"Again?" He put the bottle down on the counter so hard that Alex was a 
little surprised that the glass didn't break.

He headed for the kitchen door and pulled it open. "Wolfling!"

The man who answered the call was anything but small. Six foot six, if he 
was an inch, and built like a redwood, all of it muscle. Next to this 
guy, Skinner would look like the original ninety-pound weakling. The 
biker's hair was a red so bright that it put Scully's bottle-red to 
shame, and his blue eyes burned. The face showed years of laugh and smile 
lines, but he wasn't doing either at the moment.

"Need some help, Cade?" he growled, glaring at Alex. His accent 
definitely northern. Canadian, perhaps.

Kincaid glanced over at Alex. "Some old business has come up. Old debts. 
I'm going to be gone a while. Can we borrow the truck?"

Wolfling stared at him for a moment. "No problem," he said, fishing a set 
of keys from his pocket. Then he gave Kincaid a fast hug. "You need help, 
just call. We'll be there."

"Thanks, man."

Alex watched in fascination as the huge man left without making a sound. 
Definitely *not* someone to be trifled with. He could probably break a 
person in half without even trying. He followed Kincaid down the hall to 
a bedroom, where the man started stuffing clothes and weapons into a 
dufflebag.

"Wolfling?"

Kincaid looked up, glaring. "Don't ask."

Alex nodded. No problem. He could do that.

"So where are we going?"

Kincaid glared at him. Alex did his best to look totally innocent, but 
Kincaid wasn't a fool, and he wasn't going to trust Alex simply because 
Blackwood sent him. Still, he had to provide *some* information.

Finally, Kincaid turned away and went back to packing his bag. He grabbed 
a handgun the size of a small canon and slipped it under his leather 
jacket.

"New York."

>>>~~~~~<<<

Scully sighed as she headed for her apartment, looking forward to a hot 
shower, a large bowl of chocolate ice cream and bed. The stress was 
starting to get to her. It had been nearly a week since Mulder had taken 
off, and nearly two days since she'd last spoken to him.

She'd been a target for most of the time she'd been partnered with him, 
but she'd rarely felt so... exposed. Ever since Skinner had warned her 

that the Consortium was losing patience, to the point of perhaps deciding 
to eliminate Mulder, she hadn't been able to sleep well.

She moved to stick her key in the lock, when a sound made her freeze. She 
held her breath and waited, trying to listen over the pounding of her 
heart. After a moment, the sound of feet shuffling slightly on the other 
side of the door answered her question.

Someone was in her apartment.

Scully went cold. Assassins? In her memory, the events both real and 
imagined leading to her sister's death played out. Swallowing, she 
stepped back once, then again. Reaching under her jacket, she pulled her 
gun. Should she...

Then her common sense reasserted itself. Bursting in there, gun ready, to 
try to get answers would only get her killed. Discretion, after all, was 
the better part of valor. Not making a sound, she retraced her steps.

Climbing back in her car, she considered her options. They could no doubt 
track her car, either by the license plates or by a planted tracking 
device, and she had no way to get a hold of Mulder. Skinner was out too, 
since they probably had him bugged six ways to Sunday.

Making and discarding plans, she finally chose one that had the best 
chance of success.

Driving, she headed for a nearby mall. It was large and busy and the 
perfect place to get lost. In this, her height worked for her. Most 
people were taller than her, so it was easier to get lost in the crowd.

She wandered through the mall for a while, keeping an eye out for anyone 
who looked suspicious. Once she was reasonably sure that she hadn't been 
followed, she headed for the pay phones. Dropping in a quarter, she 
dialed a number she had long ago memorized.

The inevitable answering machine picked up. "Guys, it's me. I'm in 
trouble."

The message cut out and the receiver was picked up. "Are you all right?"

Scully breathed a sigh of relief, even though the chances of none of the 
Gunmen being home were slim. "For the moment. There were people waiting 
for me at my place. I've been told that *they* want to find you-know-who, 
and they're willing to go to extremes now."

A curse answered her. "Where are you? Frohicke will come pick you up."

"The mall near my place. I'll meet him at the... North entrance."

"Okay. He'll be there in thirty minutes. Be careful."

Scully hung up the phone, suddenly feeling more relaxed. The Gunmen 
weren't exactly the US Cavalry, but they would do in a pinch. Suddenly 
she didn't feel quite so alone.

Then something occurred to her. If the Consortium was hot to find Mulder 
and take her, it might mean that they knew about the meeting with 
Blackwood. If they knew that, then...

Scully dug out her wallet and pulled Debi McCullough's card from it. 
Moving to a different payphone (one couldn't be *too* paranoid, she 
thought to herself wryly), she dialed the number.

It rang. And rang.

'Come on, Debi. Be home.'

>>>~~~~~<<<

Debi McCullough brushed her hair out of her eyes, climbing out of the 
shower. In the other room, she could hear the phone ringing. She 
considered ignoring it, but decided that it could be important, and made 
a dash for it.

"McCullough."

"Debi, good."

Debi blinked. "Dana? What's wrong."

"There were shooters waiting for me when I got home. If they're looking 
for Mulder and trying to grab me, they might know we met your friend. In 
that case, you could be in danger too."

The bottom fell out of Debi's stomach and she broke into a cold sweat. 
Those were the words she'd been expecting ever since she got the first 
note from Agent Mulder. In a way, it was almost a relief to have it 
finally happen. Now she could stop waiting.

"What do I do?" she asked, calming down.

"Pack a bag quickly and head for the mall. The one near you. North 
Entrance. We'll pick you up. Be careful, and don't be followed."

Debi hung up, nervously licking her lips. Then she went into action.

There was no time to dry her hair, a toweling would have to do. She 
pulled on jeans and a sweatshirt, and tossed some essentials into a bag. 
Some clothes, a few momentos that she didn't want to leave behind and her 
standard issue sidearm.

Then she realized that if someone did come looking for her, her roommate 
Jennifer could get hurt. She was scribbling down a fast note when she 
heard the door open.

She reached for her gun, heart pounding, then breathed a sigh of relief 
when she realized that it was just Jennifer.

"What's going on?" the older woman asked, a puzzled expression on her 
face.

"Family emergency," Debi said, not really lying, she told herself. 
Leaving Jen to read her note would be faster, since trying to explain in 
person was a delay that she couldn't afford. "I'll be gone a few days. I 
left a note in the kitchen. I'll call when I have a better idea when I'll 
be back."

She grabbed her bag and headed for the door. As she brushed past, a hand 
reached out and grabbed her arm.

"Jen?"

In an instant her roommate was gone, replaced by someone cold and hard 
that wore her face and had a gun in her hand.

"Sorry, Debi, but you're not going anywhere."

------------------------------------------------------------
Chapter #7: Waiting
------------------------------------------------------------

"Sorry, Debi, but you're not going anywhere."

"Jen?"

Debi stared in shock at the hard-faced woman pointing a gun at her. She'd 
only known Agent Jennifer Krandall for a while, since her posting to DC. 
When she'd received her assignment, Debi had posted on the inter-office 
electronic bulletin board looking for a roommate and Jen had responded. 
She was ten years older than Debi, a friendly but private woman who 
traveled a lot for the agency and rarely discussed work. All in all, 
she'd been the perfect roommate as far as Debi was concerned.

Now she wasn't so sure.

Jen pushed her towards the couch, and she sat down with a thump. Debi's 
bag and gun were taken from her and tossed in a corner, then her roommate 
perched on the arm of the chair opposite her, gun rock-steady in her hand.

"You little fool," the woman said in a light, almost mocking tone. "You 
just couldn't follow orders. And they were so simple: Keep quiet and 
don't talk to Fox Mulder. But you couldn't even do *one* properly."

A sudden burst of anger cleared the shock from Debi's head. "Then why 
post me here?" she asked angrily. "You people can obviously control 
postings, so if you didn't want me to talk to Agent Mulder then why not 
post me to Kansas? Or Alaska? Why have me posted to the same *coast*, let 
alone the same city."

Jen shook her head, a small, cold smile on her face. "We needed you... 
accessible."

Debi's blood ran cold at that. She didn't want to consider the 
implications of that statement. At least, not yet.

"So now what?" she finally asked.

"Good question. Let's find out."

Jen pulled a cellphone from her pocket and dialed a number, then brought 
it to her ear, all one-handed, the gun never wavering. "I've got her," 
she said to whoever picked up the other end. "She was about to leave."

She waited for a few moments, listening to whoever she was talking to, 
then nodded. "Understood."

She slipped the phone back into her pocket and smiled. Debi shivered. It 
wasn't a pleasant smile.

"Someone's coming to collect us. Then, you will spend some time answering 
questions. What you told Mulder and where is he tops the list. Oh, don't 
look so stubborn. There are all sorts of drugs that will loosen your 
tongue. Trust me, talk before they turn to them. Some have some pretty... 
unpleasant side affects."

Debi glanced at the clock. Scully hadn't said when they'd meet her at the 
mall. All things considered, she didn't think she'd be able to take Jen 
on, especially since the woman was larger, better trained and armed, 
while Debi was unarmed. Her best hope at this point was that Scully would 
get worried and come after her before Jen's 'friends' showed up.

>>>~~~~~<<<

A knock at the door, a half-hour later, got both their attention. Jen 
got up and moved closer to the door, never taking her eye off Debi. She 
murmured something through the door and waited for a reply.

Debi held her breath and prayed. It was probably too soon to be Scully, 
but... The smile on Jen's face squashed that hope. She waved Debi to 
join her.

"Listen very carefully, Debi. This time, follow orders. You will follow 
the man out there down to the van. I will be right behind you with my 
gun in my coat pocket. One stupid move and I'll shoot you. Nowhere fatal, 
of course. Just a knee, I think. Understand?"

Debi nodded, already planning on her break. She was *not* going to let 
them take her in. She just needed to pick the right moment.

The man outside the door looked like a computer geek from Kansas. Very 
tall, with a skinny neck and a beak of a nose. Thick glasses perched on 
the bridge of his nose, giving him an owlish look. He had a smile that 
seemed to encourage you to trust him. You'd look at him and think 'he 
looks like such a *nice* young man'.

Debi wasn't thinking that.

"Right this way, miss," he said with a flourish of his hand, then turned 
and headed for the emergency stairwell.

Debi followed him down the echoing steps, looking for someplace where 
she could jump him. Or Jen. Or *someone*. She felt helpless, and she 
didn't like it.

She was still looking when they reached the garage level. She braced 
herself to run as they went through the steel doors, but a very obvious 
gun-barrel was shoved in her back.

"Don't even think about it, Debi, m'dear," was the amused comment from 
behind her. The man was headed for a plain grey van near the door, engine 
still running, when a shout stopped them.

"Freeze! FBI!"

At the sound of Dana Scully's voice, Debi threw herself to the side, 
between two cars, and ran for cover. A shoot rang out and she flinched, 
but there was no impact. In the background, she heard a van take off, 
wheels screeching.

"Debi?"

Debi breathed a sigh of relief, then stood up. The grey van was gone, and 
Jennifer Krandall was lying in a pool of blood on the ground.

"Is she dead?" Debi asked, amazed at how stead her voice was, considering 
the last half hour.

Scully crouched down and touched the woman's neck. "'Fraid so. Who was 
she?"

"My roommate, an FBI agent and probably part of this Consortium you've 
been telling me about. I think she was supposed to keep an eye on me. 
They were going to take me someplace where I was going to be questioned 
about where Mulder was. What are you doing here?"

Scully motioned her towards yet another van that was waiting. "I've been 
hanging around Mulder too long. When you weren't at the mall, we didn't 
bother waiting for you to show. We just headed straight here. We only got 
here a couple minutes ago."

Debi shuddered at how close it had been. "Thank God," she whispered, her 
knees finally deciding to go rubbery on her. "Now what?"

"Now we head for a safe-house and hole up until Mulder calls again. Then 
we make some better plans. It looks like this time there's no turning 
back."

Debi nodded, and climbed into the back of the van. The man behind the 
wheel gave her a friendly nod, but she was to busy trying to keep from 
falling apart to respond.

As they drove away, the only thought that came to mind was that she 
wished she could have gone back upstairs to get her bag. She pushed that 
regret away. Scully was right.

There was no turning back.

>>>~~~~~<<<

Mana was nothing like what Mulder had expected. He'd seen black-oil 
aliens, greys, shapeshifters, and humanoid types with their eyes and 
mouths sealed shut, but what he saw before him now was a tiny woman with 
dark hair pulled back into a bun and an expressionless face. Her attitude 
was completely no-nonsense, and in a way she reminded him of Scully.

Mulder fought down the urge to call his partner to share his enthusiasm 
with her. If she was right about the Consortium pulling their protection 
and actively hunting him then a phonecall would be far too risky. He'd 
wait a day or two before contacting her again, going through the Gunmen 
this time.

Chairs had been brought into Vincent's library and the room was filled 
with people. Mulder noted that most of the tunnel-dwellers who chose to 
come to the meeting were older and had grim expressions. Mulder waited 
until Blackwood had finished explaining the events of the last few days 
to Mana and the others. Then it was his turn. He explained about the 
Consortium, and his run-ins with them. The Consortium was still trying to 
cover all the bases, cooperating while trying to come up with ways of 
defeating the aliens. Whichever would gain them the most power and 
influence when everything was over.

"So," Mana said. "What, precisely, do you want from me?"

Mulder looked over at Blackwood, deciding to let him field the question 
since he already had a prior... relationship with the woman.

"Anything that we can use. How much equipment was left behind with the 
majority of the Mothren left Earth?"

Mana tilted her head to the side, giving her a slightly quizzical look as 
she considered the question. "Most of it," she finally said. "The main 
equipment was so heavily adapted to fit alongside Earth technology that 
there was no point in taking it with them."

Mulder's ears pricked up at that. He wanted to ask all sorts of questions, 
but limited himself to the most practical. "Would that equipment be able 
to detect other alien technology, by any chance?"

"Yes."

Mulder felt a grin build up. "Our main problem has always been that we 
didn't know *where* the aliens were based," he told the room in general. 
"If Ms. Mana's equipment can tell us where those bases are by locating 
their alien technology, then we'll be further ahead than we've ever been. 
Where are those sensors? Can you show us how to operate them?"

Mana looked over at Blackwood, and he nodded. "There are several 
locations where we can scan from. One is beneath this city. There is a 
tunnel that connects this system to where the base is."

Mulder immediately popped to his feet. "Let's go!"

Vincent spoke up for the first time since Blackwood had started talking. 
"Tomorrow. It's late, and everyone is tired. The machines will still be 
there in the morning."

Mulder wanted to protest, but realized that Vincent was right. Most of 
the people in the room looked half-asleep already, including Blackwood. 
Mulder sighed.

"First thing in the morning, then."

Vincent nodded, then asked one of his people to take them to the guest 
rooms where they could sleep.

>>>~~~~~<<<

Scully rolled over and sat up, finally giving up on sleep. Even without 
the stresses of the day, she would still have trouble sleeping on the 
couch. That was Mulder's preference, not hers. However, the couch was 
too short for Debi to stretch out on, being several inches taller than 
herself, so Scully had taken the couch and let Debi have the bedroom.

After the attempts on herself and Debi, there hadn't been many options 
open to them. They'd finally settled on the apartment that she and Mulder 
used for their meetings with Krycek. Their link to the apartment was 
buried as deeply as the Gunmen could manage, which was pretty deep. With 
any luck, they'd be safe here until Mulder contacted them.

Things were getting a little crazy. Well, crazier than usual, that was. 
They'd barely been in time to prevent the Consortium from kidnapping 
Debi. Scully didn't want to think about what would have happened to the 
kid if they'd been a few minutes later.

Kid. Scully snorted at herself. Debi was an adult, and a Quantico graduate 
and not *that* much younger than herself. Sometimes, though, she felt 
older than her years. Her abduction, nearly dying of cancer, finding and 
losing her daughter and all the other stresses that had gone with her 
tenure as Mulder's partner had left her feeling ancient.

But she wouldn't have changed a thing. Somehow it still felt like it was 
worth it in the long run, despite the pain.

From the next room, she heard sounds of movement, then a cry. After long 
exposure to Mulder, she recognized the sounds of a nightmare when she 
heard it. Pulling on a robe, she headed for the bedroom.

Debi was deep in the grip of whatever nightmare was disturbing her sleep. 
Her thrashing had pushed back the covers, and tears were running down her 
face.

"Colonel... noooooo..."

Scully sat down on the edge of the bed and carefully reached out to touch 
the other woman. You never knew how a sleeping person would react to 
being woken.

"Debi," she said gently. "Wake up. It's just a dream."

Debi, still asleep, pushed the hand away. "Ceto! Look out!"

"Debi!" Scully said a little louder, wondering who Ceto was. "Wake up." 
This time, she shook the shoulder nearest to her, and Debi's eyes flew 
open.

"Scully?" came the shaky question.

"It's all right. It was just a dream."

In an instant, Scully had her arms full with the girl, who was crying in 
deep gulping sobs. Scully held her, rocking back and forth, until the 
sobs died down. Finally, Debi was still.

"Sorry," she said, pulling away from Scully. "I shouldn't have fallen 
apart on you like that."

Scully gave a snort. "Why not? In the last week or so we've turned your 
life upside down. I'd be surprised if you *didn't* fall apart at least 
once. Do you want to talk about your dream?"

Debi chewed on her lip, and looked in every direction except at Scully. 
"The dead."

Scully blinked. "What?" But Debi didn't seem to hear her.

"So many dead. Norton. Ironhorse. Ceto. Jennifer. All my friends die." 
Debi turned to Scully, finally. "You shouldn't be around me. Everyone 
dies."

"Not everyone," Scully pointed out. "Blackwood, your mother. I'm sure 
there are a lot of people you know who haven't died."

"They all do, sooner or later," was the bleak reply.

Then Debi lay back down, her eyes shutting. "I'm so tired of death," she 
said, then turned away from Scully.

Scully waited a few minutes, but Debi seemed to have gone back to sleep.

She wasn't sure how she was supposed to deal with this. Mulder, she knew 
inside and out. She knew exactly what to do to jolly him out of one of 
his black moods, how to make him laugh. Debi she didn't know well enough 
yet.

Scully stood up, and headed back out towards the couch. At the last 
moment, she swerved and headed for the kitchen. There was milk in the 
fridge. Maybe a glass of warm milk would help her sleep.

All they could do now was wait. Wait for Mulder to call. Wait for the 
opposition to find them. Wait.

Scully sighed. She wanted to talk to someone. Anyone.

No. There were three people she *really* wanted to talk to. The child in 
her wanted to hear her mother say that everything was going to be all 
right. The agent in her wanted to talk to her partner, exchange those 
jokes that they'd used for years to keep each other from falling apart. 
And the part of her that wanted someone else to tell her what to do 
wanted to hear AD Skinner's voice, to give up responsibility to someone 
else.

But she couldn't. This time there was no one to pass the buck to.

She poured the heated milk into a mug and headed back to the couch. It 
was going to be a long night.

------------------------------------------------------------
Chapter #8: Hidden Spaces
------------------------------------------------------------

Mulder rolled over and picked up his watch. Pressing the light button 
only confirmed what he'd already guessed. It was just before four am, and 
he'd only gotten three and a half hours of sleep.

And he was wide awake.

He was also exhausted, but knew better than to try to go back to sleep. 
Long experience had taught him that. Instead, he decided to retrace his 
steps back to Vincent's well-stocked library and see if he could find 
something to occupy his mind until everyone else woke up and they could 
get on with the important stuff.

Like saving the world.

Mulder snorted at the grandiose statement, one he would never consider 
uttering aloud. He pushed off the thick quilts and sat up, already 
reaching for his clothes.

The guest rooms had been something of a surprise. Even after the warmth 
and cheer of the library, he'd expected something cold and damp dungeon. 
The tunnel community was turning out to be anything but. Instead, the 
room had been warm and cozy, the bed comfortable and piled high with 
handmade quilts. He would have preferred a couch and a TV, but it wasn't 
bad.

Except for the silence. At home and at a hotel he would have the TV going 
for background noise. Here, he didn't have the option. The only noise was 
the muffled sounds of people moving, and the occasional rhythmic banging 
of pipes in a pattern too regular to be chance, like the pattern that 
Harrison had hammered out to bring Vincent when they had arrived at the 
parking garage.

There was only the occasional lamp in the hallway, but his eidetic memory 
brought him back to the library with ease. There, he was surprised to 
find Vincent sitting at a desk, carefully writing in a large leather-
bound volume. He was amazed at how delicately the large clawed hands held 
a pen.

Vincent looked up, and smiled gravely. "Mr. Mulder. I would have thought 
you'd still be asleep."

Mulder smiled. He couldn't help it. There was something about the deep 
voice and calm demeanor that inspired trust, disturbing to a man whose 
personal motto was "Trust no one".

"I never sleep much, even in the best of times," he replied. "I thought 
I'd find something to read, then go back to my room."

Vincent waved him to a chair. "Please, feel free to read here. You won't 
disturb me."

Mulder nodded, then started to peruse the shelves. The majority of the 
volumes were older, poetry and literature, but there was a shelf of 
modern paperbacks, with the standard Tom Clancy, John Grisham and 
Danielle Steele bestsellers. He glanced over at Vincent.

"The others find books and leave them here for others to read. Most of 
those are not exactly to my taste," the man explained. Mulder nodded in 
agreement.

"Me neither. Especially mysteries. I always figure them out too soon, and 
get frustrated when the characters insist on remaining clueless."

"While I find the obsession with death to be... distressing. I prefer 
words that celebrate life, not death."

Abandoning the bookshelves for the moment, Mulder took the seat nearest 
the large cat-man. "You said that you don't know where you came from," he 
said, letting his curiosity get the better of him. "Have you ever tried 
to find out?"

Vincent closed the book in front of him. "A few times. There was a man 
who claimed to have created me, but he lied. Another wanted to find out 
what I was. He took my wife while she was pregnant with our son. I was 
almost too late to save them. After that, I decided that it was not worth 
the risk."

"Tests..."

"Would require going to the sorts of scientists who would want to cage 
and study me. No. I am happy with my life. Where I come from is not 
important," he said firmly.

Mulder decided to drop that subject. "How did you meet Harrison? And 
Mana?"

Vincent leaned back in his over-sized chair, steepling his hands together 
as he spoke. "This community has been here for decades. We have watched 
the world above go by, staying separate as much as possible. Then, a 
little over eight years ago, it intruded. We'd seen a chaos building, but 
weren't sure of the cause. Then strangers reached down. The Mothren built 
a base beneath New York, although at the time that area was not connected 
to our tunnels. We watched them from a distance, worried that they would 
find and attack us. Harrison and his people also had a base under the 
city, at the end of a tunnel that did connect to us, but from a great 
distance. After watching them fight the Mothren for a while, we decided 
to approach them."

Vincent looked over at Mulder. "We are not fighters for the most part, 
Mr. Mulder, but we love our world. We supplied Harrison and his group 
with information and materials, and guided them through our tunnels. Some 
of our people even fought at their side, from time to time. We could do 
no less.

"And, eventually the Mothren were stopped. But they were not stopped by 
violence. They were stopped by showing them that their leader had lied to 
them, that he had brought them here to fight in a war for his own 
vengeance. They cast him out, and prepared to leave. Their own home world 
was uninhabitable by then, but they decided to find a different world. 
One with no bad memories associated with it. One were they might be 
welcomed.

"But a few, like Mana, decided to stay here and make a home. We offered 
to help them. We provided them with a place to stay, taught them the 
things about this world that they had ignored up until then. Most have 
left the tunnels, and lead ordinary lives outside. Mana is one of them, 
although she stayed in New York. She is a doctor at one of the free 
clinics in the poorer part of town."

"Why did you help them?" Mulder asked.

Vincent smiled. "We are all refugees, here. How could we not help them?"

Mulder nodded, thinking about it. The tunnel community was very tempting, 
almost like a Shangri-La. Quiet, peaceful, people helping people. He 
found it very attractive, but knew that he would never fit in. Not long-
term.

Probably not even short-term.

"Up already?"

Mulder looked at the doorway, and was surprised to see Harrison there. A 
glance at his watch showed that it was just after six. A thrill of 
anticipation ran through him.

"Yep. So when can we get moving?"

>>>~~~~~<<<

The Mothren base was everything Mulder had imagined. It was musty, full 
of damp and dust after being abandoned for nearly a decade, but it was 
undeniably *alien*.

Harrison and Mana were hovering over one control panel, working by the 
light of the battery-operated lanterns they'd brought with them, trying 
to get the machine started again, while Mulder wandered and gaped. 
Everything he saw seemed to be a combination of mechanical and organic 
parts, making him wonder just what sort of technology the Mothren had. 
He'd expected sleek and shiny metal, not lumps of green material.

A sudden noise made him spin. The lights came up gradually, stopping at a 
level that was still fairly dim to human eyes. The green lumps started to 
pulsate, almost like a heart beating or lungs expanding with air.

With more light, Mulder was able to take a better look around. The 
chamber they were in was large, circular room, filled equipment that he 
couldn't even guess the purpose of. There were three corridors leading 
from the chamber, equidistant around the perimeter. Harrison had already 
told him about the Mothren's original form, three-fingered and working in 
triads. The number three was important to them.

The screen, if you could call it that, on one of the devices lit up, and 
Mana's fingers flew across the controls. Mulder came up to stand next to 
Harrison, just behind her, and watched. Unfortunately, the characters 
scrolling across the screen were completely alien to him -- in more ways 
than one, he thought to himself.

Then the characters disappeared, and a map of the globe appeared on the 
screen.

"I've tapped into one of the Mothren satellites that was left behind," 
Mana said in her cool voice. "Most were taken when the others left, and 
of the rest, only three are still functioning. It will take a while for 
them to complete their scans. We'll leave the program running and come 
back tomorrow."

Mulder grimaced at the thought of waiting another day, but there was no 
point in protesting. If that was how long it would take, then that was 
how long it would take.

He just wished that it would be faster.

"What about the rest of this stuff?" he asked, waving a hand to indicate 
the rest of the equipment. "What does it do? Could it be useful?"

Mana looked around. "Not really. There is communication equipment and 
the cloning equipment in this room, but neither would be of use to you. 
The corridor over there leads to the secondary labs and the breeding 
chambers, as well as the sleep-chambers."

Mulder glanced over at Harrison when she mentioned cloning equipment, 
and the man's face had gone pale. Mulder looked away quickly, feeling 
guilty for intruding on the other man's obvious pain.

"What about the other corridor?" he asked, pointing to the last one, 
since the first was the one that they'd come in through.

Despite the lack of emotion of the woman's face, Mulder could see Mana 
freeze. "That goes to Malzor's lab."

"Malzor?"

"He was our leader." The one who'd manipulated them into a long and 
costly conflict, Mulder filled in.

"What's back there?"

"I don't know."

Mulder blinked in surprise at that. "Why not?"

"He didn't allow anyone else in his private lab."

"But he's gone," Mulder protested.

Mana closed her eyes.

"The last time I came into this chamber was when we confronted and 
rejected Malzor," she said, her voice gone quiet. "The day he killed my 
son. I left, and never returned. The memories are still... painful."

She looked up into Mulder's face, her eyes bright with what might have 
been tears. "If Harrison had not asked for my help, I would not have come 
here now, or in the future. So no, I do not know what is in that lab."

Mulder nodded, accepting her explanation. "But since we're here..." he 
said.

Mana looked at him for a long moment. Then her back straightened and her 
shoulders squared. "We are here," she agreed, "and the past should be 
confronted."

With that, she turned and headed for the corridor to Malzor's lab.

>>>~~~~~<<<

The Mothren leader's lab turned out to be basically more of the same, 
other than the thicker layers of dust that soon had them all coughing. 
More of the strange equipment, as well as an almost ordinary looking 
chemistry lab. Mana looked pale but determined as she checked out the 
room.

Dragged by his curiosity, Mulder moved around, trying to open anything 
that looked like a door or storage compartment. Like the previous room, 
there were three doorways. One led back the way they'd come. One led to a 
small room with a bed -- no doubt where Malzor slept.

And the third led to a room with only one object. A large, green, 
gelatinous mass. It looked like something out of 'Invasion of the Body-
Snatchers'.

"What's this?" he called out. Harrison and Mana left the lab to come see 
what he was talking about.

Mana walked around the object, a puzzled look on his face.

"It's a storage pod," she finally said. "Its kind was mostly used to 
store living beings, original or cloned, until they were needed."

"So, is there anything in it?" Mulder asked.

Mana moved to one end, and tapped a rhythm on the goo as though there 
were a control panel. Heck, Mulder thought to himself, maybe there was 
one and he just couldn't see it.

The green glow faded, and the pod's substance began to turn clear. All 
three of them clustered around it, equally curious.

As the glow faded, a form came into view. Human in shape. Male.

"Paul?"

Mulder turned, just in time to prop Harrison up as the man's knees did 
their best to buckle under him. But then, he would have been surprised if 
they hadn't.

Because, now that the pod was fully transparent, they could all recognize 
the naked form of Colonel Paul Ironhorse.

The only question was; was it another clone? Or was it the original?

>>>~~~~~<<<

By the time they hit New York, Alex was wired from all the coffee he'd 
been drinking to stay awake, and he'd bet that Kincaid was the same. The 
man had refused to stop along the way, and it had taken all of Alex's 
powers of persuasion to convince Kincaid to let him drive any of the 
distance. After all, Alex knew the roads just as well as Kincaid did.

Of course, Kincaid hadn't been shy about having Alex pay for most of the 
gas and food along the way. Alex had his suspicions that dumping him was 
a plan, but he'd managed to make sure that didn't happen. He would have 
cheerfully shot out the truck's tires if that was what it took to keep 
Kincaid from leaving one of those stops without him.

So here they were, in the old factory district, pulling up in front of a 
derelict building. Alex waited until Kincaid was out of the truck before 
following him. He still didn't trust the mercenary not to take off on him.

Kincaid headed for a door that was hanging off its hinges, then stopped 
and turned around.

"You've done your bit," he said with a sneer. "So why don't you just head 
off now."

Alex smiled coldly and reached for his gun. "Like hell. You're not 
getting rid of me."

"And why the hell would someone like you get involved?" Kincaid's tone 
dripped with sarcasm.

Alex smiled, and just turned the question back on him. "Why would you? 
After all, you already did your bit, nearly a decade ago. You're getting 
old, so why get involved in another fight. Leave it for younger men."

The age comment got a snarl, but Kincaid backed down before the tension 
erupted into violence. "Because I didn't fight off invaders once just so 
that I could sit back and watch another batch of aliens take their place."

There was something in the man's face that struck Alex as very familiar. 
Then he recognized it. It was an expression that he'd seen many times 
before. In the mirror.

"And Blackwood asked you to."

Shutters came down behind the man's eyes. "Fine. Yes, because he asked. 
And you?"

Alex shrugged, and gave the man the truth. "Because I have no intention 
of rolling over and letting outsiders take over. Because I have no 
intention of letting less capable people fight for me. And because Mulder 
is involved."

Alex waited. Kincaid's eyes narrowed as he considered the words. Then, 
suddenly, there was a softening in his stance.

"Does he know?"

"Does Blackwood?"

They both snickered.

"Two tough guys, and we're both chickenshit," Kincaid said, shaking his 
head. "Too scared to say a word, but not willing to give up."

Alex smirked. "So let's get going so that we can mope *and* watch out for 
them at the same time."

"Right."

Kincaid turned and headed for the doorway again, Alex right behind him.

>>>~~~~~<<<

It had been a while since he'd last been to New York, but Kincaid 
remembered the route well. During the fight with the Mothren, the tunnels 
beneath New York had been their main refuge, as well as the fastest way 
to get from one end of the city to the other.

The one-armed guy, Krycek, kept close behind him. He was still tempted to 
try ditching the kid, but he didn't think he'd succeed. Whatever else you 
said about the guy, he obviously knew his stuff.

Maybe he wouldn't be dead weight in a fight.

In the meantime, he wondered about Blackwood. He hadn't seen the older 
man in nearly four years. He'd tracked the man down, parked himself on 
Blackwood's doorstep, hoping that he could drag the man back into the 
world.

He hadn't succeeded. Blackwood had still been locked in his grief, still 
mourning Ironhorse.

Kincaid shook his head. He hadn't gotten along well with Ironhorse, even 
before the man booted him from his squad. But he still had a lot of 
respect for the Native American soldier, and when Ironhorse had asked him 
to look after the Project team, right before his death, he'd agreed.

What he hadn't expected, though, was to fall in love with the driven 
scientist. He'd never been much inclined towards his own gender -- he 
liked women. A lot. But Blackwood's loyalty and dedication and energy had 
been a powerful draw.

Until the war had ended. Then, in a matter of weeks, the once vital man 
had turned inward, drawing up walls between himself and the world. And 
everyone who cared about him found themselves on the outside.

But now Blackwood had left his cabin, rejoined the world to fight another 
alien invasion. And maybe, just maybe...

Kincaid moved from the side-tunnel into the main part of the community 
and was immediately hit by chaos. He and Krycek stood there for a moment, 
trying to get their bearings as people swept past. Kincaid caught a 
glimpse of something large and green as it rounded a corner, heading away 
from them.

At the end of the procession came Blackwood, half-supported by a tall, 
handsome man with dark hair and a nose that would be ugly on anyone else.

"Mulder?" Krycek said, stepping forward. "What the hell is going on?"

Blackwood looked over at them, an almost scarily blank look on his face.

"John?"

Kincaid stepped forward, wondering what the hell had happened. "Yeah?"

"We found Paul."

Kincaid looked over at the other man, Mulder. "What?"

The man grimaced. "We found an alien pod. Inside it is what *looks* like 
Colonel Paul Ironhorse."

Kincaid felt the bottom of his stomach drop out. "Clone?"

A shake of the head answered him. "We don't know.

"Yet."

------------------------------------------------------------
Chapter #9: Resurrection
------------------------------------------------------------

Scully looked up from the medical journal she was reading. Debi was still 
sitting next to the window, peering out through a small gap in the 
curtains.

They'd only been in the safehouse for a little over twenty-four hours, 
but they were both ready to go insane with cabin-fever. Byers had dropped 
them off after Debi's rescue, having taken the scenic route to get there. 
Langly had dropped by a few hours later with groceries and reading 
materials. He also told her that they had gotten word to Skinner about 
what had happened.

She could just imagine the reaction that the AD had had, but they'd 
passed the point of no-return. She hoped that he would be alright, 
though. The number of times that he'd protected them had made him a 
target for the Consortium. If they believed that he was concealing their 
whereabouts, he could find himself in big trouble, like the time they'd 
tried to frame him for the murder of a prostitute.

And there was still no word from Mulder.

Debi sighed, got up from her chair and started pacing. "How long do we 
wait?" she asked, impatience plain in her voice. Debi was still blaming 
herself for letting herself trust her roommate, who'd turned out to be 
one of the enemy. Scully had pointed out the number of times that she or 
Mulder had trusted someone, only to have them turn on them, but it didn't 
seem to help.

She dropped her eyes back down to the article that -- if she were honest 
with herself -- she had spent the last few hours not quite reading. 
"Until we're discovered, or Mulder contacts us."

Debi sighed again, and Scully couldn't help echoing the sound. At this 
rate, they were both going to be nervous wrecks by the time that happened.

>>>~~~~~<<<

"Just how the hell is this possible?" Kincaid snarled from across the 
room, not for the first time.

The pod containing what appeared to be Colonel Ironhorse had been locked 
in a storage room with a guard outside the door, just in case. Now the 
question was what to do with it.

Mana shook her head. "I don't know," she said, also not for the first 
time. "I only saw the cloning process run on him once. I had no reason to 
think that Malzor had repeated the process after I left. And," she said, 
holding up a hand to stop the next question, "I don't know why."

Mulder was keeping an eye on Blackwood. The older man looked like he was 
on the edge of a breakdown, and he didn't blame him. For all these years 
he'd thought that his lover was dead. Now he was faced with the chance 
that he wasn't.

"Is there any way to tell if that *is* the real Ironhorse, or if it's a 
second clone?" he asked, not turning to look at Mana.

"A simple blood test will do it, but he will have to be revived first."

Mulder glanced around the room, gauging the reaction. "Any objections?"

There were a few that looked like they wanted to protest, but Vincent 
shook his head. "If he is a clone, we will deal with it. If he is not, we 
cannot leave him as he is now."

Reluctantly, everyone agreed. Mulder turned to Mana. "So. How do we do 
it?"

She bowed her head. "A simple code will open the pod. He will need to be 
extracted, then allowed to recover for an hour before the blood sample is 
taken so the residue from the pod will flush from his system. Vincent, 
you will need to have someone else take the sample."

"Why?" the large cat-man asked curiously.

"If that is the real man and not a clone, then he will remember me as the 
enemy. I will start the release process, then go back to the lab for 
Malzor's records. Once there is a sample, I can scan it for the tags of 
the cloning process."

Vincent nodded. He beckoned over one of the teenaged runners that seemed 
to always be on hand. "Go to the clinic and ask Doctor Sanji to come."

The kid nodded, then was gone. Mana and two others left, heading for the 
storage room. Everyone else filed out, one by one, until only four were 
left.

Mulder and Kincaid crouched down next to Blackwood. Out of the corner of 
his eye, Mulder could see Krycek watching them with an unreadable 
expression.

"Harrison?" Kincaid said in a gentle voice.

"How can I face him?" Blackwood said in a bleak. "If that's Paul, then I 
left him there for eight *years*."

"There's no way you could have known," Kincaid said soothingly. "The 
colonel will understand that."

"Will he? I wish I could believe that. But as long as he's alive, it 
doesn't matter..."

Blackwood dropped his head into his hands, and the four men settled down 
to wait.

>>>~~~~~<<<

Darkness.

His first awareness was of lack of light.

His second was the lack of any *other* sort of awareness... When he tried 
to focus on why, there was no answer. Just a blank spot in his memories 
and the feeling of time having passed.

So he moved to the last thing that he *could* remember.

Shots. Screams. His team. Death.

It was a trap!

Strange devices. Excruciating pain. Strangers watching it all without any 
expression.

Darkness.

It didn't make any sense.

He tried to move, but couldn't. Or maybe he did and just couldn't tell. 
He wasn't sure which.

He was tired. Sleep. Maybe when he woke he would find out what was 
happening.

He let go of the questions, drifting in a haze. Only one refused to leave.

Where was Harrison?

>>>~~~~~<<<

Suddenly there was light. Green. Almost solid. Like light seen through 
water.

Water! He was drowning!

He started to thrash, reaching for the surface. Reaching for air. This 
time he could actually *feel* the motions.

Hands grabbed him under the arms, pulling him until, gasping, he broke 
the surface to take deep gulps of warm, blessed air. The hands pulled him 
until he was completely free of the thick, clinging fluid, wet and 
shivering.

Damp cloths cleaned him, but exhaustion held him in its grasp. Limp, 
confused, he let them clean dry and dress him. Then he was laid on a soft 
surface, and covers were pulled up over him.

He sighed, and let go again. Only one thing was missing.

Where was Harrison?

>>>~~~~~<<<

When consciousness returned again, he was alone. He was dressed in old, 
but clean, sweats that he didn't recognize. Blinking in confusion, he 
looked around the chamber he was in.

The only furniture in the room was the large bed that he was lying on. It 
was well crafted, and obviously hand-made. He drifted for long minutes, 
just looking at the fine carving on the headboard.

When he dragged his attention away, he examined the rest of the room. 
Threadbare carpets covered the floor. The walls were bare concrete and 
brick. He wasn't sure why, but his instincts said he was underground.

The only other feature of the room was a door, firmly shut. He was 
considering trying to find the energy to get up and try it when it opened.

The man who came through was Asian. India, or one of its neighbors. 
Something about his bearing said 'doctor'.

"Ah, good," he said in a lightly accented voice. "You are awake. Do you 
know your name?"

"Name?" His voice cracked, and he swallowed before trying again. "Colonel 
Paul Ironhorse, US Army. Where am I?"

The man came closer. "Colonel Ironhorse died. Two of him died. One was an 
alien clone. The other was believed to be the original. Now the question 
is, was he really a clone? Or are you?"

He blinked, his mind turning over the answer, examining it. "How..." he 
finally asked, then stopped. The other man obviously understood what he 
was asking.

The doctor pulled a syringe from his pocket and stripped off the 
protective wrapping that kept it sterile. "A blood sample is necessary to 
tell whether or not you are the real Paul Ironhorse."

Obediently, he rolled up the sleeve of the sweatshirt that someone had 
dressed him in and presented his arm for the needle. The doctor was fast 
and competent.

"Wait," he called as the man headed for the door. "How long has it been? 
What's happened? Where is Harr... Doctor Blackwood?"

The man paused at the doorway. "After the tests," he said. Then he was 
gone.

His energy sapped, he slumped back against the pillows.

Who was he? *What* was he? He thought he was Paul Ironhorse, but was he? 
Maybe he *was* a clone. He shuddered. He didn't want to consider that 
possibility.

Sleep was claiming him again, and he gave in willingly. It was an escape 
from the questions. The fears.

But where was Harrison?

>>>~~~~~<<<

By the time Doctor Sanji had gone to collect the blood samples, Mana had 
returned, bringing an alien device with her. She placed it on the library 
table where a space had been cleared for her.

Vincent had offered to let Harrison be there when they pulled the... man 
from the pod, but he had refused. He didn't want to see the man until 
they knew for sure. He didn't want his hopes raised.

He fought the urge to laugh. It was too late to prevent it.

"Malzor kept a journal," Mana announced to the small crowd waiting. "He 
did make a second clone."

"Why?" Harrison asked, his voice cracking from the strain.

"He says the first clone was flawed. He doesn't say how."

They all looked up as the doctor entered the room. He dropped the syringe 
in Mana's outstretched hand. It was filled with a red fluid. Blood-red.

"He says he's Ironhorse," the man said quietly, not quite looking at 
Blackwood. Everyone who was associated with the tunnel community during 
the war knew about their relationship and the tragic end to it. "He seems 
to believe it. He gave a sample willingly."

Mana nodded, and took the sample over to the alien scanner. She dropped 
it in and started tapping commands.

Harrison held his breath, waiting for the verdict. In his mind, he knew 
that he wouldn't survive a negative. Seven years hadn't dulled the pain 
of loosing Paul, and to have him back, then snatched away again, would be 
the final blow.

Mana paused and read the screen. Then she tapped in more commands and 
waited, probably double-checking the results.

She turned in her seat to face Harrison, a grave expression on her face. 
He held his breath.

"He is not a clone."

Harrison went limp with relief. It was a good thing that he was already 
sitting down.

Paul was alive.

He tried to push himself to his feet, but the room swayed around him. 
Kincaid grabbed him and pressed him back into his seat.

"Relax, Blackwood," the mercenary said, his voice hoarse with emotion. 
"I'll go get him. You wait here."

Harrison nodded, and watched blankly as Kincaid left the room, followed 
by Krycek.

Paul was *alive*.

>>>~~~~~<<<

Sleep didn't last long. He didn't think that much time had passed before 
he was awake again.

Someone had left a pitcher of water, and he sipped the tepid liquid 
gratefully.

Instead of trying to go back to sleep, he carefully pushed himself to his 
feet. He wobbled unsteadily for a moment. How long had it been?

Once he felt solid on his feet, he started pacing. Slowly at first, then 
gaining in confidence. He concentrated on the motions. It distracted him 
from the questions that were going to drive him insane.

He was concentrating so hard on keeping to his feet that he didn't hear 
the footsteps coming down the corridor. He didn't notice until the door 
opened and two men came through.

One of the men was a stranger. About thirty, with green eyes and short-
cropped brown hair. His left arm swung with a weight that said 
'prosthetic' to Ironhorse. The way his eyes flitted around the room and 
the coiled tension in the way he moved said 'dangerous'.

But the other man...

"Kincaid?"

He started to shiver. The man standing in front of him was John Kincaid, 
but not the man he remembered. This one had grey in his hair, and lines 
on his face that he didn't remember. There was also an unfamiliar scar on 
the man's forehead that was long healed.

How long?

He swayed on his feet, and the man was at his side in a flash.

"Easy, Colonel," he said, grabbing him and holding him steady.

"Am I?" he asked in a desperate tone, clutching Kincaid's forearms. "*Am* 
I?"

Kincaid smiled. "Yeah, Colonel. You are. Welcome back."

Relief flooded through him, erasing the fear he'd felt ever since the 
doctor had left with the blood sample.

He raised a hand to brush the scar on Kincaid's forehead. "How... How 
long?"

Kincaid gripped him a little tighter, which he was grateful for a moment 
later.

"Eight years since you... Since we thought you died. Seven since the 
fight with the Mothren ended."

Paul started gasping, then forced himself to slow his breathing. 
"Harrison?" he asked, unable to keep the pleading tone from his voice.

"In the library. C'mon. He's waiting for you."

Paul relaxed, reassured now that he knew Harrison was alive, and followed 
the two men out of the room.

>>>~~~~~<<<

Harrison was practically hyperventilating. In a moment he would see his 
lover again. Touch him again.

Assuming that Paul wanted anything to do with him, that is.

He stood up, wanting to greet Paul on his own two feet. He swayed, but 
Mulder was there to support him.

And then Paul was there, standing in the doorway.

He was so thin. The lean muscles that Harrison remembered were wasted 
away from his long sleep in the pod. But the handsome face was exactly as 
he remembered. There was no grey in the thick hair. No new lines on the 
much-loved face.

Paul looked exactly as he did eight years earlier.

Harrison started gasping, tears streaming down his face. The blurring of 
his vision obscured the image of Paul, but that was alright. He could 
almost smell the man's scent from across the room. Taste his flavor on 
his tongue. Hear his heartbeat.

"Paul..."

And everything went blank.

------------------------------------------------------------
Chapter #10: Reunion
------------------------------------------------------------

Paul nodded his thanks to the girl who'd led him and Harrison to their 
guestroom, then turned his attention back to his still oblivious lover.

Harrison had blanked out the moment Paul had walked into the room, and it 
was beginning to worry him. He moved when he was directed, but he didn't 
seem aware of anything. Right now, he was sitting on the edge of the bed 
that Paul had woken up in earlier, still staring off into the distance.

Paul took a moment to really look at his lover. It had been explained to 
him that everyone had thought he was dead for nearly eight years, and he 
could see it in Harrison's face. Deep lines between the eyes and around 
the mouth spoke of a lot of pain, and Paul felt guilty. Rationally, he 
knew that there was no reason for him to feel guilty; he hadn't had any 
control in the matter. Emotionally, though, the thought of Harrison 
grieving him for so long pained him. Mulder had whispered to him, before 
they'd left the library, about how Harrison had spent years living in the 
woods, alone with his grief.

Paul crawled up onto the bed and settled down behind Harrison, wrapping 
his arms around the oblivious man. He buried his face in the shaggy 
curls. Those curls had far more grey than he remembered, but they were as 
thick as ever. He paused, inhaling the familiar scent of the man, then 
began to talk.

"C'mon, love. Wake up. Let me hear that beautiful voice. Do you know how 
much I love listening to you talk? Doesn't matter what about. It could be 
analyzing alien signals, discussing scientific theories or just 
commenting on the weather. And the way your eyes light up when you're 
trying to figure out a problem."

There was a slight movement; a trembling in the large frame he held 
tight. He closed his eyes and kept talking.

"I'm sorry for leaving you alone like that. I should have know that it 
was a trap, but I walked right into it. I left you alone and in pain for 
so long. I'll make it up to you, I promise."

The trembling grew stronger, and there was a choked noise. "Not... not 
your fault..."

Paul's arms tightened. "Harrison..."

"My fault. Left you there. Should have..."

Paul shook his head. "There was no way for you to know." He reached 
around to cup the other man's chin, but Harrison refused to look at him. 
"What is it?"

The older man seemed to crumple inward. "I... you..."

"Well, that made a *lot* of sense, Harrison. Please. *Talk* to me."

Harrison sighed. "I'm not the same man anymore." Paul held his breath, 
his stomach churning. Was it too late? "I'm... old. And you..."

This time he forced the man's face around, meeting reluctant eyes. "And I 
love you."

"But..."

"No 'but's, Harrison. I love you, and unless you don't love me anymore, 
you're not getting rid of me."

Finally, Harrison's arms came up and around him, and he sighed at the 
familiar warmth. "Always love you," was the whispered reply.

Paul pulled back and smiled. "Good," he said, and reached for the man's 
shirt buttons.

Harrison looked painfully shy as Paul undid the buttons one by one. When 
they were all unfastened, he pushed the shirt back off of Harrison's 
shoulders, then completely off of him.

Harrison was thin. Far too thin. He was going to have to do something 
about that. Later, though.

He ran his hand down the lightly-furred chest, his eyes going sad as he 
encountered scars that hadn't been there before. Then he swooped down and 
started nibbling at the man's neck.

Then he pressed the man back until his was lying prone on the bed. He 
pulled back long enough to remove the sweatshirt he was wearing before 
lying back down on top of the larger man.

He moved against the other man, diving in to explore Harrison's mouth. In 
the back of his mind, he noted large hands running up and down his back, 
stroking him. He pulled away from Harrison's mouth and arched into the 
touch before diving back in. Harrison tasted just as good as he 
remembered.

Encouraged by the response, the hands grew bolder. Bit by bit, they moved 
lower, until one slipped under the waistband of his sweatpants. The other 
joined it, and together they gripped Paul's ass and pulled him hard 
against Harrison's groin. A finger dipped hesitantly to run down the 
crease between the cheeks, and he spread his legs obligingly for it.

Paul's control was rapidly disappearing, and he managed to worm a hand 
between their bodies to unzip Harrison's jeans. He lifted his hips 
fractionally and tried to work the denim and cotton beneath down over the 
man's hips.

Harrison lifted his hips to make it easier for his lover, and did the 
same for Paul's sweatpants and underwear. There was a brief pause as they 
were forced to toe off shoes and socks, and then they came together, 
naked flesh against naked flesh.

Harrison was clinging even tighter, making desperate noises in the back 
of his throat. Paul tried to move away, but the other man clutched at him.

"Easy," he said, stroking Harrison's face. "Just want to see if there's 
anything here to use."

Checking the drawer of the bedside table found that someone had very 
kindly left a bottle of KY. Paul wondered briefly if that someone had 
been using it, or if it had been left specifically for them. He didn't 
really care, though.

Paul looked at Harrison, and decided that the man wasn't going to be able 
to do the necessary preparations. He squeezed some of the lube out onto 
his fingers, and reached around to put it where it was going to be 
needed. Once he was sure that he wasn't going to get hurt, he coated 
Harrison's erection, then rolled them over until he was underneath the 
other man.

"See, love? I'm right here. Ready and waiting for you. Wanting you. 
Needing you."

There were tears on the other man's face, and Paul brushed them away. 
Then he brought his knees up to his chest, despite the protests from his 
stiff back, and reached down to guide Harrison in.

Harrison froze, just barely inside Paul. Then he moaned deep in his 
throat, and pressed all the way in in a single stroke. Paul hissed a 
little as he was stretched open, but voiced no complaint. Even if Harrison 
ripped him apart, he wouldn't say a word to distract him. Harrison needed 
this. They *both* needed this.

Buried as deep as he could go, Harrison dropped his head until it was 
nestled against Paul's shoulder. All the tension drained out of him at 
once. Paul ran soothing hands up and down the man's back. "It's all 
right," he whispered, over and over again. "I'm right here. I'm not going 
to leave. Shhh, it's all right."

When Harrison started thrusting, it was almost like he wasn't aware of 
what he was doing. Just small jerks of his hips. Then he raised his head, 
and the thrust became more purposeful. His eyes were fixed on Paul's 
face, almost glowing.

"I love you, Paul," he said, his voice rusty, as if it hadn't been used 
in years. "I love you."

Paul arched into the thrusts, gasping as Harrison hit the right spot the 
way the man always did. The years of separation hadn't changed that. He 
still seemed to know Paul's body better than its owner did.

"I love you, Harrison. Nothing will change that. Not even if *twenty* 
years had gone by."

Harrison's mouth came down on his, and their tongues clashed desperately. 
Harrison's thrusts were coming fast and harder and more erratic. Paul 
could feel his own orgasm coming, almost in sympathy.

Then Harrison froze, and Paul could feel him throbbing deep inside. 
Almost at once, his own climax hit him.

Harrison collapsed on top of him, and they clung tightly to each other.

"Paul," the other man whispered. "Paul."

"I'm right here, and I'm staying here," he told him reassuringly.

Harrison's tears were flowing freely now, and Paul's eyes started to 
water too. The older man looked up at him, and reached an unsteady hand 
to touch Paul's cheeks, as if he were still having trouble believing that 
he was there.

"I wanted to die," he said, and Paul felt his heart freeze at the thought 
of waking up only to find out that Harrison was gone. "But I knew you 
would be angry if I joined you too soon. So I stayed."

Paul grabbed the trembling hand, brought it to his lips and kissed the 
palm. "Thank you," he said. It was all he could think of to say.

They fell asleep that way; naked, sticky and still on top of the covers. 
Neither noticed, a while later, when a quiet form snuck into the room and 
pulled a quilt over top of them.

>>>~~~~~<<<

Kincaid leaned against the wall in the corridor and closed his eyes. Deep 
inside, he carefully let go of a long-held dream. Seeing the two men so 
tightly entwined had brought home the fact that Harrison would never turn 
to him, never need him.

He couldn't find it in him to be disappointed, though. Since the end of 
the war with the Mothren, Harrison had been half-dead inside. Kincaid was 
a little surprised to find that he could accept losing the man if it 
meant repairing that damage. Besides, it wasn't like he'd even *had* 
Harrison. Dead or alive, Paul owned him.

"You okay?"

Kincaid looked up to meet sympathetic green eyes. Krycek was just 
standing there, a study in casual. He smiled at the young man.

"Yeah. I guess I am."

Krycek returned the smile, and slipped an arm around the mercenary's 
shoulders. "C'mon," he said.

Kincaid followed him, a little puzzled and not quite thinking. "Where are 
we going?"

Further down the hallway, Krycek opened a door and waved Kincaid into 
another of the guestrooms. Kincaid turned around, confused.

Before he could voice the question in his mind, he found himself with his 
arms full of the younger man. The artificial arm hung loose, but the 
other was wrapped around him, and surprisingly soft lips were coaxing his 
own open.

He pulled away. "What...?"

Krycek smiled again, Mona Lisa sweet and mysterious. "You don't really 
want to be alone tonight, do you?"

"But..."

Krycek's fingers pressed against his lips, and he automatically opened 
them and sucked the digits in. Krycek moaned, and swayed towards him.

"Neither one of us can have the one we really want," he said, his voice 
gone breathless. "Doesn't mean we have to be alone."

Kincaid tasted sweat and the faint tang of gun-oil. Reluctantly, he let 
the fingers withdraw, but reached out to pull Krycek against him.

"No," he said, bending his neck slightly so their lips could meet. "No, 
we don't."

The kiss was sweet, but quickly grew in intensity. They stumbled towards 
the bed, shedding clothes as they went.

No, they didn't need to be alone. At least, not for one night.

>>>~~~~~<<<

Mulder watched from his doorway as the door closed behind the two men. 
Soon he could faintly hear the distinctive sounds of two people making 
love. He closed his door, his mind running in circles.

Krycek and Kincaid?

He shouldn't have been surprised that Krycek would go for a man; the 
double-agent didn't seem like he would care what gender his partner was, 
as long as he got what he wanted.

But Kincaid?

Still dazed, Mulder stripped to his underwear and climbed into the waiting 
bed. He closed his eyes, but his mind promptly started filling with the 
image of the two mercenaries in bed together, wrapped around each other.

His eyes flew open and he stared at the ceiling.

It wasn't any of his business, he reminded himself. He didn't have any 
claim on Krycek. On Alex.

He didn't *want* to have any claim on him.

Did he?

Mulder sighed, and settled down for a long, sleepless night.

>>>~~~~~<<<

Alex looked around the Mothren outpost in undisguised fascination. He'd 
seen a few alien bases in his life, but nothing like this. It looked to 
be all organic-based technology, like something out of a really bad 
b-movie.

Everyone else was clustered around the monitor -- if you could call it 
that -- where Mana was bringing up the scan reports.

Harrison was still hanging onto Ironhorse, obviously unwilling to loose 
contact with the man, as if he were afraid that the man would disappear 
if he did.

Kincaid looked a lot more relaxed than he had the night before. Alex 
grinned, and scratched at the purpling bite-mark on his neck. He felt 
relaxed, himself. Kincaid had been a wild man in bed, giving as good as 
he got, and the two of them had spent a very pleasant few hours wearing 
each other out. For once, he'd gotten through the night without thinking 
of Mulder even once.

But Mulder... Mulder looked anything *but* relaxed. He also seemed to be 
having trouble even looking in Alex's direction; his eyes just slid away, 
refusing to meet Alex's. Alex briefly wondered what was bugging the older 
man, but was distracted by the map that appeared on the large monitor, 
marked with glowing dots.

Everyone was looking up, waiting for Mana to explain the results.

"The marks indicate active alien technology," she said, her fingers still 
flying. "Most are low-level activity." She tapped a command, and large 
number of the dots disappeared. "I have eliminated Mothren bases where 
the signal indicates equipment in stand-by mode."

Mulder looked up at the depressingly large number of marks remaining. "So 
where do we start?" he asked.

"There are a wide variance in power output," Mana said. She tapped 
another command, and most of the remaining dots disappeared. "These are 
the ones that indicate heavy usage."

Alex studied the map carefully.

The remaining signals were widely spaced. One in Egypt. Another in 
Siberia, which didn't surprise him. More at both poles. One in Peru. 
Another in the Australian outback. And two in the continental United 
States.

"That one," he said, pointing to the dot in Kansas, "is a base known to 
the Consortium. I don't know about the other one, though."

Mulder frowned at the other dot, obviously bringing up a mental map. 
"Colorado," he said. "At or near Mt. Cheyenne."

Alex nodded, moving in closer. He frowned briefly when Mulder stepped 
away from him. He was going to have to have a talk with the man. 
Something was bugging Mulder, and he wasn't going to give up until he 
found out what.
 
"Well," he said. "That one is an unknown, and the easiest to get to, so I 
suggest we start there."

There was a round of nods, then Harrison spoke. "I think the three of you 
should go," he said, nodding towards Alex, Mulder and Kincaid. Alex 
frowned.

"And where will you be?" he asked suspiciously.

Harrison's arm tightened around Ironhorse's waist. "We need to see 
someone," he said. "Suzanne. And Debi and Agent Scully are still in 
danger. If Mulder will call them, they can meet us. I'm sure Debi would 
like to see her mother again. And Paul."

Mulder looked like he wanted to protest, then nodded reluctantly. "All 
right. Where should they meet you?"

"Rainier University. In Cascade, Washington."

------------------------------------------------------------
Chapter #11: It's In His Kiss
------------------------------------------------------------

Scully hung up the phone, a puzzled frown on her face. Mulder had finally 
contacted them, the signal bounced around the world enough times by the 
paranoid talents of the Lone Gunmen to keep it from being traced.

She turned to Debi, who was waiting none too patiently. "We're to head to 
Cascade, Washington, to your mother's," she told the young woman. It was 
going to be a relief to get out of the apartment, even if it was to head 
to the other side of the country as a fugitive. Being trapped with 
nothing productive to do had been a torture for someone whose life had 
been filled with one challenge after another for years now.

Debi broke into a smile. From what she'd told Scully, Debi hadn't seen 
her mother in nearly four years. "They're meeting us there?" the blonde 
asked, sounding more cheerful than she had since being attacked by her 
roommate.

"Yes and no. They also have a lead, so Mulder, Kincaid and Krycek are 
headed for Colorado. Mulder says that Harrison and Ironhorse will fill us 
in on the rest when they meet us in Cascade. Did Colonel Ironhorse have 
any relatives?" she asked the young woman curiously.

Debi shook her head, obviously confused. "No that I ever met," she said. 
"Are you sure he said Ironhorse?"

Scully shrugged. "That's what he said. I guess we'll find out soon 
enough. I'll have the guys book us on a flight."

She didn't like counting on the gunmen so much, but there was no longer 
any choice. They were on the run from an enemy who had apparently 
unlimited resources. Right now, paranoia was the only thing keeping them 
alive.

>>>~~~~~<<<

Paul looked out the plane window, watching the landscape pass by beneath 
them. A nearly untouched meal sat on the fold-down table in front of him. 
He was a little disappointed to find that airline food hadn't improved 
during his long sleep, but not very surprised.

A warm hand slipped into his, and he squeezed, giving his companion a 
slight smile. Harrison still seemed insecure about his existence, needing 
nearly constant physical contact for reassurance. Paul didn't mind. He'd 
never admit it out loud but he needed the reassurance himself. Eight 
years had passed by without him, and he felt out-of-step with the world.

More disturbing, though, was the way Harrison seemed to keep blanking 
out. The first time had been at their reunion, which could be blamed on 
stress and shock. The most recent time had been when the plane had 
started down the runway.

That had been more disturbing. They'd reached cruising altitude by the 
time Paul had been able to coax a response from the man. All Harrison had 
been able to tell him was that it had felt like his entire body had been 
vibrating. He just laughed it off, saying that he was out of practice 
with the modern world, having spend so many years alone in the woods, but 
Paul wasn't convinced. He didn't have a clue what to do.

Maybe Suzanne would have some ideas.

>>>~~~~~<<<

Alex tossed his bag into the overhead compartment while Kincaid slid into 
the window seat. Mulder immediately pushed past Alex to take the middle 
seat. Alex shrugged. He preferred the aisle seat anyway. Easier to defend 
yourself.

The plane took off without incident, and without Mulder saying a word. 
The first wasn't too surprising, but the second was. Obviously Mulder was 
still giving him the cold shoulder.

Alex was almost ready to slug the man, just to get a reaction from him. 
Mulder hadn't said one world to him all day unless it was in answer to a 
direct question. Alex wasn't the only one who'd noticed, too. Kincaid had 
been giving him strange looks all the way to the airport.

When Mulder leaned forward to grab something from his bag under the seat 
in front of him, Alex looked over him to Kincaid. The mercenary tilted 
his head towards Mulder and mouthed 'what's his problem?'. Alex shrugged. 
For once, he was the one who was clueless.

There was a crackle, then the pilot came over the intercom welcoming them 
and telling them the usual shit about flight times and weather, then 
announced that the flight attendants would be serving the meal as soon as 
they reached cruising altitude.

Alex gave a theatrical shudder. "Airline food," he said. "The ultimate 
proof of a global conspiracy."

For a moment, the corner of Mulder's mouth quirked into a slight smile. 
Then his face went expressionless again.

Alex sighed. That comment should have gotten *some* sort of response from 
the older man. He and Mulder were going to have a long talk, and soon. He 
was *not* going hunting alien bases with the man in this sort of state.

>>>~~~~~<<<

In a motel -- not too far from Mt. Cheyenne, but not too close -- Mulder 
tossed his bag onto one of the double-beds, then made his escape into the 
bathroom.

It hadn't taken much checking to find out that there was a supposedly 
abandoned military base on the mountain that matched up with the glowing 
spot marking active alien technology on Mana's map. Mulder hadn't been 
very surprised. They'd known for years that parts of the military were 
collaborating with the aliens, and that abandoned military bases were 
often the best places to find these groups working from.

He relieved himself, then washed his hands and splashed water on his 
face. He stared at his reflection, and resisted the urge to laugh at 
himself. He was hiding, but sooner or later he was going to have to go 
back out there and play nice with the lovebirds. He was not looking 
forward to sleeping alone in one bed while they cuddled in the other.

Mulder groaned as his mind once again started the instant replay of what 
he'd overheard the night before. All day, he hadn't been able to escape 
it, and it was driving him nuts. Every time he looked at either man, he 
heard the moans and cries of pleasure.

"It's no business of yours who he sleeps with," he told his reflection. 
Do you want it to be? was the response.

"Of course not! I'm not interested in him." Aren't you? "He's a man." 
He's beautiful. "He's a traitor." He's your best ally. "He isn't 
interested in me." Are you sure? "Yes!" Then why are you hiding in here?

"Mulder! Pizza's here."

Mulder jerked, pulled out of his reverie by the sound of Krycek's voice. 
Suddenly it struck him how absurd it was, arguing with his own 
reflection, and laughed once. "Coming!" he called back.

Composing himself, Mulder unlocked the bathroom door and left his safe-
haven.

Kincaid was sitting in one of the room's two chairs, already halfway 
through a slice. Krycek was sitting cross-legged on one bed, deftly 
handling his slice of pizza one-handed. Both men were looking at him, and 
he wondered what they'd been talking about while he was in the bathroom. 
Probably how to dump him long enough to tumble into bed together.

Mulder turned on the television, grabbed a couple slices and settled down 
on the other bed to pretend that there was no tension in the room. He was 
so successful that he was actually surprised by the sound of the door 
shutting and being locked. Looking up, he found that Kincaid was gone and 
Krycek was leaning back against the door with an unreadable expression on 
his face.

"Where's he going?" Mulder finally asked.

"He's a member of the Hunters. He saw a couple of 'brothers' in town, so 
he's going to go see if they know anything useful and to see if he can 
get us some weapons before we check out the base tomorrow."

"Oh."

"And *we* are going to talk."

Mulder froze. "Can it wait until tomorrow? I'm really tired," he said, 
ignoring the fact that the sun had barely set. If necessary, he could 
always blame the change in time-zones. "I'll take this bed. I'm sure that 
you and Kincaid won't have any trouble sharing the other one," he added, 
then kicked himself for the slip.

Krycek's eyes widened, then narrowed. "Is *that* what this is about?" He 
shook his head, looking amused. "How did you know?"

Mulder looked away, suddenly feeling guilty, even though he hadn't been 
spying. At least not deliberately. "I saw the two of you going into your 
room," he finally said. "The sounds..."

"Were unmistakable?" Krycek finished for him, and he nodded. "So what's 
the problem?"

Mulder snorted. "There's no problem," he said, trying to convince them 
both. "If you want to sleep with him, it's no skin off *my* nose," he 
said, well aware that he'd failed.

Krycek snorted. "And a very nice nose it is too," he replied, ignoring 
the glare he got in return. "I don't believe you, Mulder. You've been 
pissed off all day, deliberately keeping between me and Kincaid. So 
what's the problem? Jealous?"

"No!" Mulder jumped to his feet and started pacing. Out of the corner of 
his eye he could see Krycek grinning at him.

"What's the matter?" was the mocking comment. "Hit a little too close to 
home?"

Mulder spun, only to find that Krycek had somehow gotten right inside 
his personal space without him noticing. "Back off," he warned, fists 
clenching.

"Or what? You'll beat me up? Just like old times," Krycek said, his grin 
growing by the minute. "Just admit it. You're jealous."

Stubbornly, Mulder kept his mouth shut. He was not going to give Krycek 
the satisfaction of admitting that he was right. He was used to thinking 
of himself as the only person that Krycek would work with. It was 
unnerving to see him so buddy-buddy with someone else.

And that was *all* it was, he told himself.

Krycek advanced on him, and Mulder found himself backing up until he 
found himself pressed against the wall with nowhere else to go. Krycek 
was close enough for him to feel the other man's breath on his face.

Suddenly, the other man's expression gentled, losing the hard edge of 
triumph. "Mulder, it was one night. Kincaid's in love with Blackwood, and 
Blackwood's in love with Ironhorse. Kincaid needed a little human 
contact."

Mulder's jaw clenched. "You make a good couple," he said bitingly. 
"You're both alike."

Krycek's face got closer, angling so that his chin was almost resting on 
Mulder's shoulder, his breath hot against the older man's ear. "Yep. Both 
mercenaries. Both fighting aliens to protect our world. Both wanting 
someone we can't have."

Krycek pulled back slightly so that he could stare into Mulder's eyes, 
separated by only an inch or two. "Or maybe we don't have that in common 
anymore."

Before Mulder could respond, the other man's lips came down on his, hard 
and hot and moist. A tongue pushed past his lips, exploring the outsides 
of his teeth, then the insides, when he opened his mouth in shock.

That shock kept him from resisting. Krycek kept him pressed up against 
the wall, exploring his mouth at his leisure. Mulder went hot, then cold, 
as he felt something press against his hip and realized that it was the 
other man's erection. Then he froze when he realized that his own cock 
was rising in response. In the back of his mind, he could hear Scully 
saying 'I can guess' when he'd wondered why Krycek kept coming back when 
he kept beating the other man up every time they met. She'd known, long 
before him, and hadn't said anything.

Lack of oxygen was starting to make him breathless, even before Krycek 
deliberately inhaled. As the last of his oxygen was literally sucked out 
of his lungs, his knees gave way beneath him, and the only thing holding 
him up was Krycek.

Then the other man pulled back, a smile on his face.

Mulder pushed at him, angry. "What the fuck are you up to, Krycek?" he 
snarled at the man. "Fucking with my mind again? So now what? Am I 
supposed to roll over for you so you can have your shot at me, like 
everyone else?"

Krycek laughed. "If all I wanted was a fuck, I could find that anywhere. 
I certainly wouldn't wait this many years for it."

"You can't be serious," Mulder said, his tone turning plaintive.

Krycek brushed another kiss across his lips, and he instinctively turned 
towards it, then flinched. Krycek stepped back, leaving Mulder to hold 
himself up.

"I'm very serious. I'm also patient, Mulder. I've been waiting for this 
for years now. I can wait a little longer. I don't want one night with 
you. I want more. A lot more. Think about it, Mulder. Think about years 
of waking up alone, living the life of a monk, with only your videos for 
company. You don't have to, ever again. All you have to do is say you 
want me there. That's all."

Krycek turned away, and started stripping. Mulder watched, unable to look 
away. When all he had on was his underwear, Krycek climbed into the 
second bed, and rolled onto his side, facing away from the other. "Think 
about it, Mulder," he repeated, then turned off the light.

Mulder stood there in the dark for a moment, still blinking in confusion. 
It had to be a trick. Krycek couldn't seriously be implying that he 
was... What? In love with Mulder? Or something else? They worked well 
together, but then he worked well with Scully. Loved her, even. Didn't 
mean that he wanted to get in bed with her. It would change their whole 
partnership. Of course, the idea of sleeping Krycek didn't feel the same. 
Scully didn't have half the impact that the man had.

For a moment, Mulder imagined what it would be like, Krycek wrapped 
around him, buried deep inside him, and he gasped. No, Scully didn't have 
anywhere *near* the same impact.

Still, it was crazy. He was *not* going to get involved with Krycek.

Still fully dressed, he climbed into the other bed and closed his eyes, 
but sleep was elusive. In his mind, over and over again, he felt the 
warm, hard bulk of Krycek pressing against him. Suddenly, the bed seemed 
very cold and very big and very empty.

>>>~~~~~<<<

Alex was awake the moment that the doorknob started to turn. He slid his 
hand under his pillow to grab his gun. It was the latest thing: a new 
type of plastic gun, undetectable by airport security systems, which 
labored to keep up with the latest developments in weapons research. As a 
result, it was the only weapon they'd been able to bring with them from 
New York. Unfortunately, it was only reliable for a few shots before the 
chemical process of firing it started to decompose the plastic. That was 
why Kincaid had gone looking for a local source of more reliable weapons.

The door opened, and Alex relaxed fractionally. It was Kincaid, and he 
was carrying a duffel bag. The bag, when set down, made a metallic 
clunking noise, so he assumed that the man had found at least part of 
what he'd been looking for. 

Kincaid disappeared into the bathroom. After a few minutes of running 
water, Kincaid came back out, already stripped down. Alex gestured, and 
the man climbed into the same bed.

"You talk to him?" Kincaid whispered.

Alex glanced over at the other bed. Mulder hadn't moved, but he would bet 
that the other man was awake. Well, if he wanted to eavesdrop then he 
deserved to get an earful.

"Yeah. Sort of." He snorted. "He overheard us last night, and got 
jealous." Alex heard a tiny, choked sound from behind him. "So I kissed 
him."

Kincaid glanced past Alex, and he could tell that the other man was also 
well aware that Mulder was awake and listening. Kincaid snickered. "Well, 
that must have been interesting. Did he faint?"

"No. He was speechless, though."

"Well, if he doesn't want you, I'll take you."

Alex grinned. Kincaid seemed dour, but his sense of humor showed up at 
unexpected moments. Mainly in bed.

"Take me how?" he asked, resisting the urge to laugh.

"On your back with your legs over my shoulders. Long and hard, until you 
screamed."

All the air whooshed out of Alex's lungs as the game got a little too 
serious. His cock was up and hard and calling for attention, but he 
ignored it. Instead, he reached out with his one hand to grab Kincaid and 
pull him in for a hard kiss. Then he pulled back.

"I'm not giving up just yet. But if I do, I'll look you up," he said in a 
tone full of regret.

Kincaid hugged him, then turned away and settled down for sleep. "Do 
that, Alex," he said, then his breathing evened out into sleep patterns. 
Like Alex, and others in their profession, Kincaid had obviously mastered 
the ability to fall asleep in an instant, and wake up alert just as fast.

Alex curled up, his back to Kincaid. In the dim light from the window he 
could see Mulder, who was holding still. He shook his head. If nothing 
else, Mulder was forced to consider the possibility now. After several 
years, that was a step forward. In the meantime, Alex didn't see any 
reason why he should be celibate, and if Mulder didn't like it, tough.

He closed his eyes and slipped into sleep, where a willing and wanton 
Mulder waited in his dreams. It would do for now.

------------------------------------------------------------
Chapter #12: Surveillance
------------------------------------------------------------

It was late when they finally arrived in Cascade and checked into the 
motel were Debi and Scully were supposed to meet them. Harrison dropped 
the bag containing the few clothes that Vincent and his people supplied 
them with on the floor in the corner of the room, and Paul dropped onto 
one of the beds with a sigh and shut his eyes. It was amazing how tired 
he could be after sleeping for eight years.

Vincent. The image of the cat-man flashed behind his eyelids. Vincent was 
one hell of an enigma, but one that he hadn't had the chance to learn 
much about. At first, he'd been so distracted by his reunion with 
Harrison that he hadn't noticed anyone or anything else in the room. The 
next day, between the scan results and the planning, there hadn't been 
time to learn anything about him. On the plane, he'd wanted to question 
Harrison, but it had been too public for that sort of topic. Still, he 
was going to get some answers. It was a mystery, and Paul *hated* 
mysteries.

But not now. Right now he was too tired to think coherently.

The bed creaked as Harrison lay down next to him. Strong arms wrapped 
around him, and Harrison buried his nose in Paul's neck, inhaling deeply, 
then sighing in contentment. Strangely, that touch drained any residual 
tension left over from the long flight.

Paul turned, and let himself be pulled closer. "Harrison?"

"Hmm?" the big man purred, his hands starting to roam over Paul's body.

"We going to call Suzanne?"

Harrison had worked his way up to nuzzling Paul's ear, and he pulled back 
long enough to say, "When Debi gets here. Tomorrow."

"Okay, that makes sense." Paul paused, then grinned. "What do we do in 
the meantime?"

"I'm sure we'll think of something," Harrison replied. He rolled over 
onto his back, pulling Paul on top of him.

"Oh, I'm sure we will, Doctor," Paul grinned back at him, then dipped 
down to seal the man's mouth with his own.

As Harrison began to strip him, there were only two thoughts left in 
Paul's mind. First, Suzanne could wait. Second, maybe he wasn't as tired 
as he thought.

>>>~~~~~<<<

Paul came awake, instantly alert, at the knock on the door; a leftover 
from his military days. A glance at the alarm clock showed that it was 
nearly eight in the morning. Later than he usually woke, but then they'd 
been up rather late the night before, he thought with a fond smile.

Whoever it was knocked again. "All right, just a minute," he called, 
grabbing for his jeans and pulling them on. Not bothering with a shirt, 
he headed for the door, idly wishing that he had a weapon, just in case. 
He felt even more naked without a firearm. Behind him, Harrison groaned 
and sat up in the bed.

Paul checked through the peephole, and saw two women on the other side of 
the door. Being cautious, he opened the door only a crack, with his 
weight behind it to slam it shut if necessary. "Yes?"

The redhead was short, but looked like she could give his old drill-
sergeant a run for his money in the 'balls' department. And the blonde... 
She looked familiar. She was also staring at him with a shocked expression.

"Col... Colonel?" The voice was also familiar.

"Debi!" Harrison called from the bed, grabbing for his clothes. Now it 
was Paul's turn to be shocked.

"Debi?"

This was Debi? This tall, elegant blonde? Suddenly the passage of time 
hit him with a vengeance. The Debi he remembered was a child, complaining 
about her homework and lack of friends. This woman was, according to 
Harrison, a college graduate and federal agent.

"But *how*?" she asked, reaching out to touch Paul, as if she couldn't 
believe her eyes. She probably didn't.

Paul stepped out of the way so that the two women could enter the motel 
room. "It's a long story," he said. "Short answer is that they cloned me 
more than once, then Malzor basically stuck me into cold storage in case 
he could use me again. I... Debi, I'm sorry. Harrison and Kincaid told me 
about what happened. You shouldn't have had to deal with that." Shouldn't 
have to deal with having someone you care about shoot his own head off in 
front of you. Shouldn't have had to deal with having her childhood ripped 
from her by a conflict she didn't belong in the middle of.

Suddenly his arms were full of a sobbing girl who now seemed more like 
the child he remembered. Awkwardly, he squeezed her and patted her on the 
back. She was taller than him, he realized with a start.

Finally, the sobs tapered off and she stepped back, scrubbing at her 
cheeks. He smiled, and ruffled her hair the way he used to. Harrison was 
coming out of the bathroom where he'd retreated to get dressed.

"Harrison will fill you in," he said gruffly, looking over at the other 
woman, Agent Scully he assumed. "As soon as I get dressed, we'll go find 
Suzanne."

With that, he grabbed the rest of his clothes and made his escape to the 
bathroom.

He stared at his reflection in the mirror for a moment. It was the same 
face he remembered seeing every morning for years. Why? Eight years had 
passed. He should be showing that. Everyone else did, why not him? It was 
like he was trapped in a time warp, which wasn't a bad description of 
what had happened to him.

Paul shivered. Mentally, he'd known about how many years had passed. 
Emotionally, it was just starting to sink in.

>>>~~~~~<<<

The fall weather in Washington state was thankfully cooler than in 
Washington, but still warmer than usual for the area. It was certainly 
warm enough that the students wandering the Rainier University campus 
were all in short sleeves, and many were wearing shorts.

It hadn't been hard to find the Biology building and the lab of Doctor 
Janet Gallagher. The door was closed, but Harrison could hear a familiar 
humming on the other side. Harrison knocked.

"It's open!" Harrison opened the door, and looked inside.

"Harrison! Oh god, is it really you?"

Suzanne, or Janet he should say, flew into his arms. While they 
communicated on a fairly regular basis, they hadn't actually seen each 
other in more than five years.

The changes still shocked him. When they had realized that someone was 
targeting people who'd been involved in the war against the Mothren 
Kincaid had arranged for Suzanne to get plastic surgery. Gone was the 
long, dark blonde curls. In their place was a short cap of red hair. 
Subtle changes had been made to the shape of her nose and cheekbones, 
and colored contacts changed her eyes to green. The changes made her 
unrecognizable to anyone who didn't know what to look for. Her own 
mother, if she were alive, probably wouldn't recognize her.

Kincaid had also arranged for the fake records that had gotten her the 
position at Rainier. At first she'd found it difficult to get used to 
being called by a different name from the one she'd grown up with, but 
she'd confided in a recent e-mail that it had become such second nature 
that she was beginning to forget that Suzanne McCullough ever existed.

After a long hug, Suzanne pulled back. "God, it's good to see you, 
Harrison. But what dragged you out of hiding?"

Harrison tensed up. This was the part he hated. Tell her that, "It's 
started again."

Suzanne stared at him, horrified. "No," she whispered, stepping back.

Harrison followed her, and the others came behind him. Suzanne looked 
past him, and smiled. "Debi," she said. Then her eyes went wide. "Paul?"

Harrison barely caught her in time when she fainted.

>>>~~~~~<<<

Suzanne revived quickly, and after introducing her to Agent Scully they 
moved on to the explanations. First, Scully explained about her 
experiences with her partner, Mulder. Her tone reflected her obvious 
desire not to believe what she had seen over the years, but also the fact 
that events had made it impossible to do so.

Once she was finished, Harrison picked up, explaining what had happened 
since Debi had shown up on his doorstep with the two Feds and the 
mercenary, Krycek, including the discovery and revival of Paul and the 
confirmation of his reality. Debi added her own story; the warnings to 
stay away from Agent Mulder and the fact that her roommate had been a 
double-agent set to keep an eye on her. She started shivering when she 
explained how her roommate had tried to kill her, but quickly pulled 
herself together. Suzanne reached over and squeezed her hand.

When they were done, Suzanne closed her eyes and sighed, still looking 
slightly dazed. "I thought it was over," she said, finally. "I *hoped* it 
was over. Changing my face and name and everything was worth it, as long 
as the aliens were *gone*."

She looked over at Paul and smiled sadly. "But if nothing else good comes 
out of this, at least we have you back. I'm so glad to see you again, 
Paul."

"And I'm glad to *be* back," Paul said in a wry tone. Harrison briefly 
ran a hand down the smaller man's arm, still getting used to the fact 
that he *could*. So many years alone, but not alone anymore. Never again.

Then something caught his attention, and he stood up and moved to the 
window.

"Suzanne," Paul continued, his tone now all business. "After the attacks 
on Harrison and Debi, you could be next. Has anything suspicious happened 
around here? Strange accidents? A feeling that you're being followed?"

Harrison stared out the window, trying to figure out what had pulled him 
there. He scanned the quad below and the surrounding buildings. All he 
saw were students, heading to and from classes.

"No, nothing. A few months ago, one of the grad students was attacked in 
his office and then drowned in the fountain in front of Hargrove hall, 
but I doubt that had anything to do with me. Maybe they haven't been able 
to track me down."

A flash of light made him blink. Following it back to the source, he 
found himself looking at the roof of the building directly opposite. 
Frowning, he stared, trying to figure out what was causing the flash. 
Suddenly, everything came into focus, and his blood went cold.

"Down!" he yelled, tackling Paul to the ground. Automatically, Scully and 
Debi hit the floor, Debi pulling her mother down with her.

"Harrison?" Paul gasped from under his not inconsiderable weight. 

At the same moment, the window exploded, showering them with glass. 
Harrison rolled with Paul until they were directly below the window, and 
out of the line of sight of the other building's roof. The women all took 
shelter under one of the heavy wood tables in the lab.

Then there was silence, followed the panicked screams of the students 
down in the quad. Cautiously, Harrison lifted his head to look out the 
window at the roof where he'd seen the gunman.

She was gone.

>>>~~~~~<<<

Alex eased his head over the edge of the outcropping, carefully watching 
for any sign that he'd been spotted. On either side of him, Kincaid and 
Mulder were doing the same. He brushed sweat and hair out of his eyes. 
Things had been so hectic the last few weeks that his hair was getting 
longer than he'd had it in years. The hum of insects filled the air, 
giving the impression of being in the middle of the wilderness, miles 
from any other humans.

That wasn't true, though. The scene below was *definitely* not that of an 
abandoned military base. The one gateway through the fence surrounding 
the base was manned by two soldiers, both carrying rather large firearms. 
When a truck rumbled down the road, it was checked thoroughly before 
being allowed through. A car leaving the base was checked almost as 
thoroughly. More armed soldiers were walking the perimeter of the fence, 
and that was just what they could see from their vantage point.

Alex pulled back and lowered his binoculars. "Okay, so we've hit paydirt," 
he said casually. "Any suggestions?"

Kincaid took one last look before pulling back. "The fence is wired, and 
I saw a *lot* of security cameras. If they're that paranoid, then they'll 
have someone monitoring them. I don't think we can disable one long 
enough to get through."

"And the patrols are frequent enough that even if we weren't spotted by 
the cameras, they would see us," Alex added.

"They practically went through that truck with a fine-tooth comb," Mulder 
added, worrying at his lower lip. "So stowing away on one isn't going to 
work." Alex found his eyes drawn to it, yet again, but quickly pulled his 
attention back to the matter at hand.

At least Mulder wasn't playing silent anymore. He'd still looked a little 
shell-shocked by what had happened the night before when they got up that 
morning, but now he looked more thoughtful. And every so often he shot 
looks in Alex's direction that made his blood run hot and his hopes run 
high.

Well, at least Mulder hadn't killed or maimed him, which was a good sign. 
And now his thoughts were heading in the direction that Alex wanted, 
which was even better. With any luck, he'd realize that Alex was the 
right person for him. After all, they were on the same side (most of the 
time), they had the same interests (sort of) and there was a definite 
attraction. He'd seen the looks Mulder had been giving him over the 
years, even if *Mulder* hadn't been aware of them. Add to that the fact 
that anyone Mulder got involved with would be a target for more 
organizations than could be named and it only made sense that he should 
get involved with someone who could take care of themselves; a description 
that fit Alex to a 'T'.

All right, so there was no evidence that Mulder had even *thought* of a 
man that way before. Details, details. Alex would bet that given an hour 
or two alone with the man in a bed, he could other man singing the 
praises of gay sex. He'd certainly give it his best shot. Besides, he'd 
felt a definite physical reaction from the man when he pinned him to the 
wall with the kiss. Indifferent, Mulder was *not*.

In the meantime, that wasn't getting them into the base, which was the 
whole point of this party.

Alex checked his gun again, a reassuring action. "Let's split up," he 
said. "Follow the full circuit of the fence. See if we can't find a hole 
in the security. No security is *completely* seamless."

He started to push back from the ridge when he heard something ominous.

A twig breaking.

Cursing silently, he turned his head.

While they'd been intent on the scene below, they'd been surrounded. 
Seven soldiers, all well armed, were right behind them. Alex swore again, 
this time out loud. How the hell had they been spotted? And how did that 
many soldiers manage to creep up on them without being noticed? Most 
American soldiers tended to be clumsy oafs who couldn't creep up on a 
deaf man without being noticed.

"Hands in the air, gentlemen and stand up. No sudden moves," the lead man 
said, his mouth quirking into a sardonic grin.

They climbed to their feet, keeping their hands in view. Three men 
stepped forward and frisked them. Every weapon they were carrying was 
found. They even took Alex's prosthesis, just in case.

"All right, let's go have a talk, shall we?" The leader gestured with his 
firearm. Alex, Mulder and Kincaid followed him, while the rest of the 
squad took up positions behind and to the side of them.

Well, it was one way to get inside the base.

------------------------------------------------------------
Chapter #13: Sight and Sound
------------------------------------------------------------

When the call came in that there'd been a shooting at the University, 
nobody thought twice about who the investigating detective should be. It 
was just accepted that Detective James Ellison would be there. The fact 
that his partner, Blair Sandburg, had been at the station instead of the 
university that day didn't matter; the various professors, students and 
staff at the university were used to dealing with him.

"What do we have?" Jim asked the uniformed cop at the entrance to the 
university who was turning traffic away.

"Three shots fired. Nothing since. They *think* the gunman is gone, but 
they aren't positive."

Jim nodded, and headed for the parking lot closest to the shooting site 
but still out sight. There he found Suzanne Tomaki, head of University 
security, acting as liaison between the campus cops and the police 
department.

"What's up?" he asked, smiling to himself as Blair called a cheerful 
hello. Someday he was going to get a sample of Blair's morning tea and 
send it out for analysis. The grad student had far too much energy for it 
to be *all* natural. Maybe.

"Three shots, from the roof of the Wilkinson library, all go through the 
same window of the Jameson building. Witnesses say that the shots were 
followed by a bright flash of light. Nothing since. No one saw anyone 
suspicious arrive, and no one has been seen leaving the scene, other than 
students who have all been questioned. We sent someone up to the roof of 
the Wilkinson, but there was no sign of the gunman. I had them leave the 
area alone. The stairwells are blocked off so no one can get in or out."

Jim frowned slightly at that. They should have waited before going up 
there, but at least they hadn't disturbed the scene. "You say all the 
shots were at the same window? Whose?"

Suzanne glanced down at the notebook she held in one hand. "One of the 
biology professors' labs. Dr. Janet Gallagher. She's been with the 
university for just over four years. No complaints, no threats."

"All right, let's go have a talk with the lady. Was she in the lab at the 
time?"

"Yes. She had visitors. They've been moved across the hall to her office. 
Everyone else has been evacuated. They're waiting for you."

After getting directions, Jim headed for the back door, away from the 
side of the building the shots had been fired at. Blair followed him up 
the stairs, giving him a rundown on Dr. Gallagher.

"She's a nice lady, Jim. She's done some lab work for me, analyzing 
artifacts, even though it isn't really her field. A lot of the tenured 
professors consider that to be below them, but she's always willing to 
lend a hand. Strange, though. She's talked about a daughter from time to 
time, but she's probably the only parent I've ever met who doesn't have 
pictures of their kids on their desk or walls. But I still can't believe 
anyone would want to *kill* her."

Jim paused, and held up a hand to still the flow of chatter from his 
partner. Up ahead, he heard voices.

The first were the uniformed men guarding the crime scene, bantering back 
and forth, speculating on what had happened.

Far more interesting were the other voices.

//"Well, I'd say that we can drop the idea that they haven't found you 
yet, Suzanne."

"Damn! I happen to *like* my life in Cascade. I don't want to have to go 
running again, Harrison."

"Mom, you probably don't have a choice. If things are stepping up again, 
we're all at risk."

"The thing *I* want to know is how you knew we were going to be shot 
at."//

Jim's eyebrows went up at the new voice. It was familiar, *very* 
familiar.

//I saw a flash of light. When I looked closer, I saw... someone with a 
rifle on the roof of the building across the way."

"Someone?"

"I... I can be completely sure, considering the distance, but it looked 
like... Do you remember the bounty hunter who was hunting the Mothren?"

"The *android*?"//

Jim frowned. Androids? What sort of nutcases were they dealing with?

//"It looked like her."

"But she left. Why would she be back now? It's been what? Ten years?"

"I don't know, but before while you were all recovering, I followed her 
out. I wanted to ask her some questions. After, she said something in a 
language unlike anything I'd ever heard. Then there was a bright flash, 
and she was gone. *But*... The people who attacked my cabin spoke in a 
very similar way."

"Damn. Just what we need: another mystery."//

Deciding he'd hear enough, Jim climbed the last few steps to the landing. 
It didn't sound like these people were going to be much help.

Just before he opened the stairwell door, he heard something else, and 
this sound stopped him dead in his tracks.

An inquisitive growl. Followed by a purr. But he couldn't find anything 
that could be producing the sound, scanning with all his senses. And the 
last time something like that had happened...

Shaking his head, Jim put it out of his mind. He would deal with it 
later, assuming that he had to. He pushed open the door and stepped into 
the hallway.

He showed his badge to the cop standing guard there. Blair already had 
his observer badge clipped onto his shirt.

"Forensics is on the way up," he told the woman. "Have them get started 
on the lab. I'll talk to the witnesses."

The woman nodded and pointed him towards a door marked "Janet Gallagher, 
Biology Department". Jim knocked.

"Come in," called the voice he recognized as being the one addressed as 
Suzanne.

He opened the door and stepped in. "I'm Detective Jim Ellison. This is my 
partner, Blair Sandburg."

He glanced around the room, then suddenly stopped. "Colonel!"

The Amerind man blinked in surprise. "Ellison. It's been a few years."

"Since basic training. Blair, this is Colonel Paul Ironhorse, the 
toughest drill-sergeant that a trainee could have."

Blair smiled, and shook the man's hand. "Pleasure to meet you, man. Jim 
is so not-forthcoming about his time in the army."

The man grinned. "Then far be it for me to break confidences," he said, 
winking at Jim. Blair rolled his eyes and muttered under his breath about 
closed societies. "But I'm retired now. I'm a little surprised that you 
left the army, though. You had career army written all over you."

Jim flinched. Even after all these years, the pain was still raw. "Eight 
years ago, my team was killed. The chopper we were on went down in Peru 
and I was the only survivor. The army didn't bother to come find out what 
happened until eighteen months later. After that, I couldn't stay."

A darkness flowed across the man's eyes. "I understand," was all he said. 
Strangely, Jim believed him. He had the same sort of look that he'd been 
told he had when talking about his team.

Suddenly, both man shook themselves, as if shaking off bad memories.

"Anyway, let me introduce you," Ironhorse said. "Jim Ellison, 
Dr. Harrison Blackwood, Dr. Janet Gallagher, Agent Debi McCullough and 
Special Agent Dana Scully."

Jim frowned. "Feds?"

Scully, a tiny red-head, spoke up. "We're not here on official business, 
if that's what you're wondering, Detective Ellison."

A quick check of her vitals told him that she was telling the truth. 
"Well then, what can you tell me about what happened."

>>>~~~~~<<<

The story the group had to tell said nothing about androids or fake 
names. Blackwood said that he'd seen a flash while looking out the 
window. He'd seen someone on the roof of the next building holding what 
looked like a rifle. After the recent rash of shootings at campuses 
across the country, he'd hit the floor along with everyone else in the 
room. In this case, the paranoia was appropriate.

Jim continued to use his enhanced senses to monitor the group. The only 
time that he'd picked up an out-and-out lie was when they said they had 
no idea why anyone would be shooting at Dr. Gallagher.

Again and again, he found his eyes drawn back to Blackwood. He wasn't 
sure why, though; just that there was something about the man. Something 
important. He felt uncomfortable around the man, and yet at the same time 
something inside him said 'this one isn't a danger'. The only question 
was this *what*?

Harrison Blackwood was certainly impressive. He was little taller than 
Jim, but not quite as muscular. His brown hair was streaked with gray, 
and as curly as Sandburg's if not as long. Jim would guess him to be 
close to fifty, but the deep lines on his face and the faint haunted 
expression in his eyes made him seem ancient. It also didn't escape Jim's 
notice that he seemed to be hovering near Ironhorse, constantly brushing 
against the man, getting inside his personal space.

And the colonel... If Blackwood seemed older than his years then 
Ironhorse seemed much younger than Jim would have expected. There was no 
gray at all in his black hair and his face was unlined. But there was 
something there that bothered Jim. A lingering odor... And a sense of 
familiarity. Ironhorse reminded him of someone, but he wasn't sure who.

Once they had the statements from the group, Jim decided to head over to 
the Wilkinson library. His instincts said that the gunman was gone, but 
he wanted to check first before they let forensics onto the scene.

The new library was almost finished, but had been deserted at the time of 
the shooting. The local union was on strike, making construction grind to 
a halt. It meant that no one should be inside the building, and with 
Blair giving him something to ground him, he extended his senses to 
check. He found nothing. Enhanced senses might be a real pain in the butt 
most of the time, but they were also very useful on the job.

When they hit the top of the stairwell, Jim paused to examine the lock 
while Blair caught his breath.

"No sign that it was forced," he muttered to himself. "No sign that it 
was picked either. Either it wasn't locked, or the gunman had a key."

Snapping on a pair of thin latex gloves that would prevent him from 
smudging any prints without interfering with his sense of touch, Jim 
opened the door.

The first thing that caught his attention was the stale smell of smoke 
from the cigarette butts dropped in the gravel that covered the roof. 
Obviously, before they went on strike the workers had been using the roof 
for whenever they wanted a smoke and hadn't bothered cleaning up the 
butts. The lingering odor hung around the doorway like a cloud.

One unfortunate side-effect of the gravel was that it didn't hold a 
footprint. However, the way it was shifted told a story to someone who 
knew what to look for.

The majority of the scuff marks were clustered around the door. The 
campus guards who'd checked the roof, the workers who'd come up to smoke; 
none of them had moved out very far. The occasional hard rain evened out 
the gravel elsewhere on the roof. As a result, the scuff marks near the 
edge, where the gunman must have been standing, were very obvious.

What wasn't obvious was where they'd come from. There was no sign of a 
path to or away from the spot. Jim wrinkled his nose. There was something 
else too.

"What do you smell?" Blair asked, already picking up on his confusion. 
Sometimes Jim wondered if Blair had his sixth sense when it came to 
dealing with his Sentinel.

Jim frowned. "Ozone," he said, finally identifying the smell.

Blair glanced up at the blue sky. "Well, it's not about to storm, I'd 
say." Jim waved away the comment.

"No, it's more focused than that." He moved forward heading towards the 
gunman's vantage point. The scent got stronger with every step. "It's 
centered here," he finally said, stopping just short of the scuff marks. 
He didn't think there was much chance of forensics finding anything 
there, but he wasn't going to take the chance.

He bent down and examined the gravel. He picked up a piece and held it in 
front of his face.

It was scorched.

Glancing down again, he could find faint scorch marks tracing a circular 
path around the same area that was focus of ozone smell. It even extended 
up the concrete block wall that ran around the edge of the building. He 
moved over to check the ledge.

There were faint marks where the gunman would have braced himself, along 
with a gleam of something that looked like oil, but wasn't. He made a 
mental note to make sure that forensics got a sample. He could hear them 
coming up the stairs already.

The breeze started to pick up, and a small motion caught his eye. He 
reached over and snagged the item before it could fly away. He reached 
into his pocket for an evidence baggie.

"What is it?" Blair asked, looking over his shoulder.

"A hair. I think." Once it was safely tucked into the baggie he took a 
closer look. "At least it looks like a hair, but it isn't."

"From a wig, perhaps?"

Jim shook his head. "Most good wigs use human hair. And this definitely 
isn't from a cheap wig. The texture is too fine. But it definitely is 
artificial. Maybe the lab will be able to tell us more."

At that moment, the forensics team led by Serena Chang arrived. Jim 
handed her the baggie with the fake hair and pointed out the other things 
he'd noticed. She immediately started directing her people. Jim breathed 
a sigh of relief that she'd been the one sent on the call instead of 
Cassie Welles. Cassie would have spent her time coming up with her own 
theory of what happened, then trying to bludgeon everyone else into 
accepting it. Sometimes she was even right, but it didn't make up for her 
abrasive personality and the fact that she was ignoring her own job in 
favor of trying to do someone else's.

Jim went back to the edge of the roof and looked across the way at the 
Jameson building and the broken window. He frowned, realizing something 
for the first time.

"Chief?"

"Hmm? Yeah, Jim?"

"Take a look." Blair left the conversation he'd been having with one of 
the uniforms and came over to stand next to Jim.

"What is it?"

"Blackwood said he looked out the window and saw someone with what looked 
to be a gun on the roof here, right?"

"Yeah, so?"

"How much detail can you make out from here?"

Blair frowned, and squinted. "I can see the window, and shapes moving 
around inside, but no details."

"Exactly."

Blair glanced over at him. "Not a fair comparison, you know. I'm not 
wearing my glasses."

"No, but the sun is right behind us. It would have been in his eyes."

"So what are you saying? He lied about seeing the gunman?"

Jim shook his head. "No, he wasn't lying."

"Then how could he have seen anything?"

"Good question, and I intend to find out," Jim said in a determined tone.

>>>~~~~~<<<

Harrison paced the confines of the small office, too restless to sit 
down. Scully was flipping through one of Suzanne's science journals, 
while Suzanne told Debi and Paul what she'd been up to for the last few 
years. Harrison blocked it out.

Far more interesting were the voices out in the hall. He was getting a 
real earful about Ellison and his partner-who-isn't-a-cop. From the way 
the officers were talking, Ellison and Sandburg were the Batman and Robin 
of the Cascade PD.

The two young men were an enigma, that was sure. Sandburg, he'd like 
instantly. Enthusiasm and intelligence without being over-bearing. But 
there was something about Ellison that disturbed him.

Harrison glanced over at Paul. Maybe it was how friendly Ellison had been 
with his lover. Harrison had never considered himself the jealous type, 
but every time that the detective had made a move towards Paul, or even 
spoken to him, he'd had the urge to get between the two men and snarl 
"Mine!" at Ellison.

He would meditate on it later. He hadn't done enough meditation in the 
last few weeks. Maybe it was just the stress getting to him.

Harrison leaned against the wall next to the office door, still trying to 
listen to what was going on out there. He'd always had good hearing, but 
his time in the woods had honed it well. Long hikes had trained his 
hearing to the point that he could hear a chipmunk scampering through the 
underbrush from a distance. It was a little overwhelming, now that he was 
back in what passed for civilization, but it had also saved their lives 
the night that his cabin had been attacked.

Ellison and his partner had just come back. He could hear them talking to 
the two examining the lab. Harrison shut his eyes and concentrated a 
little harder.

//"We didn't find any bullets, sir."

"What do you mean. The holes in the wall are right there. There has to be 
*something*."

"Yes, but there isn't. We did find some foreign material, but it's more 
like a ceramic. Definitely *not* something you make a bullet out of."

"So what *would* you make out of it?"

"Haven't a clue, sir. We'll analyze it in the lab. See if it matches 
anything we have on file."//

Ellison muttered something under his breath, and Harrison reached a 
little harder. In fact, he concentrated so hard on what he was listening 
to that he never even noticed when the rest of the world started to fade 
away.

>>>~~~~~<<<

"So John and these other two -- Mulder and Kincaid -- are in Colorado? 
What do you think they're going to find?"

Paul shrugged. "According to Mana, alien technology that is in use. There 
used to be a military base there. In fact, it was in the running to house 
an underground bunker in case of nuclear attack, but the government 
decided to go with a different location. But as far as I know, the base 
has been abandoned for years. Mulder says he's run into a lot of bases 
that are used by members of the military who are collaborating with the 
aliens. This may be one of them." Paul's jaw clenched at that. He'd 
served the military for so many years, fought aliens as a part of the 
army. It still rankled, the thought that the US military -- parts of it 
at least -- were working with aliens that wanted to seize control of 
their world.

Suzanne shook her head. Paul was still shocked by the lack of long 
blonde curls. The short, red-dyed hair was one change. Another was the 
number of fine lines around her eyes and mouth. So much had changed. The 
only thing, it seemed, that hadn't was Harrison's love.

Paul glanced over at his lover, and muttered an oath. Harrison was 
leaning against the wall, his eyes open, staring blankly across the room.

"Harrison?"

No reaction.

"Harrison!"

------------------------------------------------------------
Chapter #14: A Shot In The Dark
------------------------------------------------------------

The room they were stashed in wasn't bad as far as cells went. It looked 
like it was probably a meeting room, with a table and a half-dozen 
chairs. There were no windows, but they were quite a ways below ground, 
considering how long the elevator had taken to go down. It had probably 
been quickly cleaned of anything that could be useful to them before they 
were put in, and a camera in one corner said that they were being watched.

Alex slumped in one chair, his feet propped up on the table, while 
Kincaid leaned against a wall, a picture in calm. Mulder, naturally, was 
pacing. Between the insomnia and the nervous energy, Alex was surprised 
that the agent hadn't already worked himself into a nervous breakdown 
years ago.

Then again, how would you tell the difference?

Alex watched Mulder pace for a while, trying to distract himself. His 
hand crept up to cup the stump that was all that remained of his left 
arm. The ill-fitting prosthetic that had been taken from him might chafe, 
but without it, he felt... naked. Vulnerable. He hated the feeling.

Finally, he couldn't stand it anymore. "Mulder, would you *sit* *down*?" 
he snapped.

"How can you be so damned calm?" Mulder snapped right back. Then he 
stopped and stared at Alex.

Alex frowned. "What is your problem now?" he asked.

"You're white as a ghost." Mulder stepped closer and brushed a 
surprisingly gentle hand across his forehead. "You're sweating. Are you 
all right, Alex?

Alex batted the hand away, annoyed. "I'm fine. You're the one pacing like 
a caged animal."

"No you aren't. Talk to me, Krycek."

Alex glared at him, but it had no effect. He almost wished that Mulder 
was back to ignoring him. Almost. If there was anything he hated, it was 
showing any signs of weakness.

"It's just our location," he finally said.

Mulder frowned, and glanced around the room. "Locked up?"

Alex shrugged. "Nah. More that we're god only knows how far below 
ground." Mulder looked blank. "Ever since the silo..." He paused, and 
Mulder's eyes lit up with understanding.

"Sorry."

Alex shrugged. "Hey, it's not like it was your fault. It was that oil 
slick thing that took me there and the bastards who locked me in."

Mulder's eyes flickered to his arm-stump and his expression darkened, no 
doubt with the memory of a torment that *was* his fault. Alex snorted. 
"Drop the self-flagellation, Mulder. Not everything that goes wrong is 
your fault."

Mulder didn't look convinced, but at least he was focussed on something 
besides pacing. Alex had known right from the start that Mulder had a 
capacity for guilt that would put the most devout catholic to shame. It 
made him easy prey for the Consortium.

However, if that distracted him then Alex would play up to it. He got to 
his feet, and let the shiver he'd been restraining run through him. His 
one arm wrapped around his stomach.

Instantly, Mulder was at his side. Alex hid a smile. Even more than his 
sense of guilt, Mulder's biggest weakness was how easy he was to 
manipulate. It had been used against him many times in the past. This 
time it was being used to help distract him from his worries.

'With great power comes great responsibility,' Alex told himself with a 
mental laugh. He knew Mulder even better than the man's partner, and he'd 
made a study of how the man's mind worked. As a result, no one could 
manipulate Mulder the way he could. With any luck, he'd be able to 
manipulate the man right into his bed. And once he had the man where he 
wanted him, he'd make sure that no one ever hurt Mulder again. The man 
was *his*.

Alex deliberately leaned against Mulder, and hid a grin when the man 
didn't pull away. Instead, Mulder's arm came up and -- very hesitantly -- 
came around Alex's shoulders.

Alex leaned in a little harder, and was surprised to find his own anxiety 
levels dropping. Amazing how much of a difference a little human contact 
could make. The worst part of his stay in the silo hadn't been the 
darkness or the hunger or the fact that he was so far underground. The 
worst part had been the complete and total isolation.

Across the room, Kincaid glanced at them, then turned his face away. A 
small, wistful smile crossed his lips before his expression went blank 
again.

Alex felt a tiny pang of guilt. It looked like he was going to get what 
he wanted -- namely Mulder -- but Kincaid had lost his own last chance at 
the man *he* wanted -- Harrison Blackwood. Alex could sympathize, but not 
enough to pull away.

Naturally, that was when the door opened and an armed soldier stepped 
through. It was the same one who'd lead the team of soldiers who'd 
captured them. The markings of his collar said he was a colonel, and the 
glint in his eyes said that he wasn't to be trifled with. Alex watched 
him warily.

"All right, folks," the man said with a sarcastic twist of the lips. 
"The general wants a word with you."

The three of them headed for the door. Alex knew that by the end of the 
day they'd probably be either dead or in the hands of the consortium, but 
there was no point in hiding in here. Especially when they'd just be 
dragged out anyway.

The hallways echoed with their footsteps as they followed the Colonel 
through the maze of passageways. Two more soldiers fell in behind them. 
Other than that, they saw no one. All the doors were closed, and none had 
any identifying signs. Either everyone in the base was expected to 
memorize locations, or the route had been 'sanitized' the same way that 
the meeting room they'd been locked in had. Alex was willing to bet on 
the latter.

They finally stopped outside one door, and their guide knocked. A voice 
inside called "Enter," and the door was opened for them.

Inside was a typical office. The man behind the desk wore an air force 
uniform with the markings of a general. In a way he reminded Alex of 
Walter Skinner, Mulder's boss and his former boss. Both men were middle 
aged, balding with gray hair -- what little was left. Both had a powerful 
presence. They might even be close to the same height, although it was 
hard to tell with the man sitting down.

The only place that the comparison broke down was in build. Skinner 
obviously worked out regularly, giving him a powerful body to go with the 
rest of the package. This man had already moved into the middle-aged 
spread, although it didn't distract from his air of command.

The colonel stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. Alex 
quickly scanned the room for possible weapons, noting more than a dozen, 
even though he doubted they'd be of any use. The other two soldiers were 
probably right outside the door, and even if they weren't, they wouldn't 
know where to head. They would just have to play things by ear.

"Well, gentlemen," the general said, folding his hands on his desk. "I 
trust you have a good explanation for your presence."

"We were invited at gunpoint," Kincaid said, his lips twitching slightly. 
The general glared at him.

"And what were you doing in the area?"

"Doing some hiking," Alex chimed in, playing along with Kincaid.

"Carrying handguns? Not exactly what the local hunters use."

Alex shrugged. "It's a dangerous world," he pointed out.

"Indeed. Well then, how about some names."

"Jeff Armen," Alex said, using the fake name that had gotten him from New 
York to Colorado.

"Fox Mulder," Mulder said, obviously not getting the hint. Alex winced, 
although he was careful not to show it. That name was a little too well 
known within the Consortium and all their dupe organizations.

"Fox? You have *got* to be joking!" the colonel said, choking back a 
laugh.

"Quite serious, Colonel..." Mulder paused, very obviously waiting for a 
name to be supplied.

The man glanced over at his boss, before turning back. "O'Neill. Jack 
O'Neill." The name wasn't familiar to Alex, but he filed it away for 
reference. 

"And you?" the general said to Kincaid.

"John Kincaid," was the answer.

That got a reaction from the man behind the desk. "John Kincaid? And do 
you have a brother?"

Kincaid's face tightened up. "*Had*," he grated out. "Max died eight 
years ago."

"I'm sorry to hear that. Hank always spoke well of him. Of you both."

Everyone else in the room blinked in surprise. "You knew General Wilson?" 
Kincaid finally asked.

"Of course. We grew up together. Hank and I were friends most of our 
lives, even after he foolishly decided to join the army instead of the 
air force." The man grinned. Then he sobered up. "He vanished about the 
same time as your brother died, I would guess. I don't suppose you know 
what happened to him?"

Kincaid shook his head. "We didn't hear from him for a couple months 
before Max died. Then, out of the blue, he contacted us through a blind 
drop, asking us to run a mission for him. It turned out to be a suicide 
run, and I barely got out alive. Afterwards, I found out that he'd been 
missing for a week before we got the job."

The general's expression turned sad. "I guess we'll never know, then..." 
he said quietly.

"General..." Mulder said, stepping forward. O'Neill tensed up, and Alex 
prepared to jump him if the man looked like he was going to do something 
stupid.

"Hammond," the general said, waving for O'Neill to relax.

"General Hammond, what do you know about the Blackwood Project?"

Hammond's eyes narrowed. "A great deal, Mr. Mulder. And what do *you* 
know about the Blackwood Project."

"That it was created by Harrison Blackwood, funded by the government and 
reported to General Wilson. That it was created to fight an alien 
invasion. That they succeeded."

"They did?"

"Yes. They exposed the fact that the Mothren leader was manipulating them 
to keep them in a war that none of them wanted. Most of them left. The 
few that stayed behind are living normal lives as humans."

Hammond frowned. "And does this have anything to do with why you are 
here?"

Mulder got very intense, the way only he could. It was one of the things 
that Alex found so appealing about him, and had ever since they'd first 
been partnered.

"Because they aren't the only ones out there. Because even though the 
Mothren aren't a threat, Earth isn't safe."

"Tell us something we *don't* know," O'Neill muttered from his place next 
to the door.

"That doesn't explain why you are *here*, Mr. Mulder," Hammond pointed 
out.

"The Mothren left equipment behind, and people who knew how to use it. We 
used one device to scan for active alien technology. This base showed up 
on that scan. Since it wasn't known to us as a Consortium-run base..."

Alex winced at the slip.

"...or a left-over Mothren base, we came to check it out."

"I haven't a clue what you're talking about," Hammond said, his face 
perfectly blank.

"Bullshit," Alex said, speaking up for the first time. "If you didn't 
have a clue, neither you nor the colonel would have tensed up. The 
question is, who do you work for?"

"We work for the United States government," Hammond said glaring at him.

"Of course you do. However, we have run into too many military types who 
are either dupes or willing collaborators. Sometimes it's because of 
greed. Sometimes it a misguided belief that they *are* serving their 
country."

"Mr. Armen, I do not appreciate what you are suggesting here."

Alex shrugged. "I don't care. All I care about is whether or not you are 
contributing to an alien plan to take control of this world."

"We are *not* contributing. We are fighting the Goa'uld."

Alex's eyes narrowed, and Mulder blinked. "The who?"

Now Hammond's eyes narrowed. "The Goa'uld. Parasitic aliens. Look like 
slugs, and take over human bodies. Spent a lot of time in ancient Egypt."

Mulder shook his head. "The only body-seizing aliens I know of are an 
earlier version of the Mothren, and a form of life that looks like an 
oil-slick."

"An... Oil-slick."

"Trust me, General," Alex chimed in. "You don't want to be taken over by 
one. Puking it up after it's done with you is *not* a fun experience."

Mulder started ticking items off on his fingers. "Then there's the Greys 
and the shape-shifters. The rebels, who have their eyes and mouths sewn 
shut to keep the oil creatures from taking them over. Androids from 
possibly another dimension. And then of course there's the bees. We're 
still not sure where they fit in."

There was a pained noise from the man behind them, and Hammond looked 
confused. "Please tell me you're joking," he said in a plaintive voice.

Alex shook his head, along with Kincaid and Mulder. "Sorry, General. We 
are quite serious. *Deadly* serious."

"This is crazy!" O'Neill broke in. "What the hell are we? The galactic 
equivalent of Grand Central Station?"

Alex snorted. "Nice line, Colonel," he said. "I'll have to remember it. 
So, getting *back* to the original subject, what are you running here?"

"That is classified. Only the president, the joint chiefs of staff and 
certain members of the Senate know about our existence."

Alex groaned. "That means you're about as secret as the stealth bomber. 
In other words, not at all."

"Mr. Armen..."

"General Hammond, I used to *work* for the people collaborating with the 
aliens. They have plants throughout the government and the military. 
Hell, they practically *control* the government and the military. They 
know about you, you can be sure of it. They probably have people in your 
staff reporting to them, and the moment you are a danger to them, you 
will be *gone*. Classified means *shit*."

Mulder waved at him to back down, and Alex decided to go along with him. 
For now.

"General Hammond, he may be a little melodramatic about it, but he's 
right. The only reason that you've been allowed to keep operating without 
direct control is because either they don't consider you to be a threat 
yet, or because they figure that you're doing what they want anyway. They 
won't leave you alone forever."

"And you expect me to believe this?"

"Wilson vanished," Kincaid pointed out. "And so have most of the people 
who knew about the Mothren. The rest of us have had to hide."

That hit home. Hammond rested his chin on his clasped hands for a moment. 
"I need to think about this for a while. Until I decide what to do with 
you, you'll be back in the same room, under guard." He nodded to O'Neill, 
who headed for the door.

Suddenly, the sound of a stomach growling echoed in the room. The corner 
of Hammond's mouth quirked into a small smile. "And I'll have some lunch 
brought to you," he added.

>>>~~~~~<<<

When the door shut behind them, Mulder resumed his pacing. They were 
right back in the same room, locked in with a gunman on the other side of 
the door, again. This time, though, the surveillance camera was gone. 
Evidently they'd proven themselves enough to be allowed a little privacy.

"Relax, Mulder," Krycek said from his seat. "He listened, and he seemed 
reasonable. There's nothing else we can do except wait."

Mulder snorted. "So we should relax and wait for him to decide whether to 
help us, let us go, or turn us over to people who would kill us without a 
second thought? You're not usually this passive, Krycek."

Krycek shrugged, a small smile on his face. At least he didn't look like 
he was going to puke anymore. Mulder was still a little surprised how 
much the white face and shivers had affected him before. He had trouble 
seeing Krycek as vulnerable, but he was at times.

Either that or it was all an act to gain sympathy. Mulder wasn't sure 
which. Sometimes he wondered if that was part of Krycek's appeal; the 
uncertainty of what was going on behind those big green eyes.

Mulder gave a little shake. He'd been standing there just staring at the 
man, and Krycek was staring back with a self-satisfied smile on his face. 
The rat-bastard thought he'd won, Mulder realized. He said he wanted 
Mulder -- whether it was just physical, a mind-fuck or more -- and he 
thought he won.

//Is he wrong?// asked the annoying little voice in the back of his mind, 
and he squashed it down ruthlessly. He leaned against the wall and closed 
his eyes, looking for a little self-control. Unfortunately, the dreams 
he'd had the night before of Krycek... making love to him eroded that 
control until he felt like an elastic stretched until it was about to 
snap.

The door opened, and from beneath his half-closed eyelids he saw a 
soldier walk in with a tray. Looked like the standard saran-wrapped 
sandwich fare of cafeterias around the world. Mulder closed his eyes 
again. He was hungry, but couldn't work up the ambition yet.

"Mulder look out!"

Mulder's eyes flew open as Krycek tackled him to the ground. Dimly, he 
heard the sound of a silenced gun being fired.

Krycek had him pinned to the ground. Above them, he could see Kincaid 
grappling with the soldier, who was trying to get a second shot off. The 
door flew open again, and more soldiers came streaming in, restraining 
both Kincaid and the gunman.

Mulder didn't notice that. What he did notice was that his front was 
rapidly being soaked by an unknown fluid. "Krycek?" he said, trying to 
shift the man on top of him.

All he got in reply was a moan. With a heave, he managed to turn Krycek 
over and off of himself.

Krycek's head rolled to the side. Mulder's eyes widened as he saw the 
dark red stain across the other man's abdomen.

"Alex?!"

------------------------------------------------------------
Chapter #15: Sentinels and Guides
------------------------------------------------------------

Harrison Blackwood was drifting in a comfortable haze. It was soft and 
dark, and the only thing that he noticed was the sound. It was like a 
comfortable roar, filling the air around him. For a moment, the 
conversation of two students wondering what was going on caught his 
attention, then disappeared into the roar. The sound of a cop jogging up 
a set of stairs: there, then gone. The world was made of sound and sound 
was the only thing that was real, but it was elusive, always just out of 
the grasp of his comprehension.

Then out of the ocean of noise, one sound, one voice began to grow 
louder. He couldn't understand what it was saying, but the tone soothed 
him, distracted him from the other sounds that threatened to overwhelm 
him again. As time passed -- he couldn't tell how long -- words became 
clearer. He could recognize his name in what the voice was saying.

Then there was a pressure, the first physical sensation he'd felt in... 
Eons, it seemed. He could feel something touching him in the darkness, 
pressing against his hand. The pressure built and built, until -- without 
warning -- it turned sharp and painful, making him cry out in protest.

"Damnit, Harrison, don't do this to me!" he heard clearly all of the 
sudden.

Harrison blinked, suddenly blinded by the weak afternoon sunlight coming 
through the window. He could now recognize the sharp pain as being Paul's 
fingernails digging into the sensitive flesh on the inside of his wrist.

"Paul?" he said, his voice feeling rusty. "What happened?"

"You blanked out on me again, worse than any time before. I've been 
trying to get you do respond for nearly ten minutes!"

Harrison looked at Paul's face, trying to understand. Sure, he'd blanked 
out a couple times in the last few days, but that had just been for a few 
seconds. It was just the stress of everything that had been happening. 
But his lover looked closer to panic than he'd ever seen before. Paul 
never panicked. Not even in the face of overwhelming odds. Not even in 
the face of his own imminent death. But now Paul almost looked like he 
was the verge of tears. It wasn't a good look for him.

Harrison raised a gentle hand to cup Paul's cheek, and they stood there 
for a moment, ignoring their audience.

Then he let his hand drop. "I don't understand?" he said plaintively.

"You zoned," a new voice said. He turned to find Ellison's partner -- 
Sandburg, his memory promptly supplied -- staring at him with a gleam in 
his eye. "It happens if you focus too hard on one sense. Which one was 
it?"

"I don't understand," Harrison repeated. The detective leaning against 
the wall near the door snorted.

"Let me spell it out for you, then," Sandburg said, pushing the hair out 
of his face. "In primitive societies, there was a class of warrior set 
apart by natural abilities. Their senses -- all five -- were enhanced to 
what would now be called super-human levels. In modern terms," Sandburg 
stared into his eyes, "being able to see a gunman on a distant rooftop, 
even with the sun in their eyes." Harrison flinched. "Being able to hear 
a conversation in a different room." Harrison flinched again.

"I thought so," Sandburg said. "What were you listening to?"

Harrison glanced at Paul, who just looked confused. "The person from 
forensics was saying that the bullets shot at us were made of something 
he didn't recognize. Some sort of ceramic."

Paul's eyes narrowed at that, but Sandburg just nodded. "Right. So you 
were so focused on what you were listening to that the rest of your 
senses turned off. You need to learn to keep your attention split so that 
it doesn't happen again."

"And if it does?" Harrison asked, suddenly having a vision of himself 
locked in a psych ward.

"That's why every Sentinel has a Guide," Sandburg replied.

"And what is a guide?" Paul said impatiently. Harrison could sympathize. 
He was beginning to wonder what language the young man was talking in, 
since it didn't make a hell of a lot of sense as English.

"Every Sentinel has a partner, a Guide. The Guide's job is to keep his or 
her Sentinel centered and focused without zoning out. We also help them 
to hone their abilities and use them to the best effect."

"We?" Paul said, picking up on the one word instantly.

"We," Sandburg said with a nod. "As in you and I."

"You're a Guide?" Harrison glanced over at the detective. "His?" he said, 
with a nod towards Ellison. It would certainly explain why the man felt 
so... familiar. The moment Ellison had first come through the door, he'd 
felt a... kinship with the man. Almost as if they knew each other. He'd 
also felt an instant anger when he'd been so familiar with Paul, but he'd 
squashed that down quickly.

Sandburg glanced over at the man briefly, then nodded. "Jim's my 
Sentinel," he confirmed. "I met him while working on my Ph.D. I was 
researching Sentinels, and his senses had just come back on-line. Long 
story," he said quickly, before Harrison could ask. "Don't ask. And 
definitely don't tell. We've already been targeted by a rogue CIA agent 
who figured it out, and we really don't want that to happen again."

Harrison shuddered slightly. "Understood," he said. While he'd worked 
with the military on the Blackwood Project, he wasn't sure just how far 
he would trust the brass. If alien technology made them salivate, so what 
would a man who could hear through walls and see for miles make them do? 
A Sentinel would be the perfect spy, the perfect assassin. He was sure 
that Ellison didn't want to be 'recruited' any more than he did.

"Can I ask a few questions?"

Harrison blinked, and returned his attention to Sandburg. "What sort of 
questions?" he asked.

"Well, I started out doing my Ph.D. on Sentinels, but dumped that as too 
dangerous. But I'm still studying them, more to help Jim. You can have a 
copy of my research," he said in an aside to Paul.

"Me? Why?"

"Well, you're his Guide. It might help you."

"I am?"

"Aren't you? You did pretty good bringing him out of his zone-out."

"That doesn't necessarily mean anything, Mr. Sandburg," Paul said, 
shaking his head.

"Hey, if it walks like a duck and talks like a duck..." Sandburg said 
with a shrug of his shoulders.

Paul looked at Harrison and they both shook their heads. This was 
starting to get surreal. Of course, in the last few weeks he'd been 
attacked by aliens, met a man who was more cat than human and had his 
long-dead lover return from the grave, so to speak. Maybe 'starting' 
wasn't the right word to use.

"So what were the questions?" Harrison finally asked, breaking the 
silence.

"What? Oh, right. Um... When did your Sentinel abilities come on-line?" 
Blair said, sitting down and pulling over a pen and piece of paper.

Harrison shrugged. "I don't know. It's not like they weren't there one 
moment, but were the next."

"Well, when did you have your first zone-out?"

Harrison glanced over at Paul, running through the 'blackouts' that Paul 
had been so worried about. "That I know of? Two days ago."

"And what happened to cause it?" Sandburg was moving more and more into a 
scientist tone of voice, one that Harrison remembered well.

"Paul walked into the room, and..."

"And?"

"I could hear his heart beating," Harrison said, feeling a little 
embarrassed. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see that Ellison 
looked interested, while Debi and Suzanne just looked confused.

"And you'd never noticed that before?" Sandburg said in surprise.

"Well, considering we thought he'd been dead for the last seven, eight 
years, no."

"Huh?" Sandburg said, dropping completely out of his scientist mindset.

"Long story," Paul said with a small smile, echoing Sandburg's comment 
from earlier. "Don't ask."

Sandburg chuckled. "I hear you, man. Okay... Most Sentinels, according to 
my research, develop their abilities through periods of solitude. Jim's 
came out during his time in Peru. He repressed them when he got back to 
the states, but they came out again while he was alone on a stakeout at a 
wood-mill outside of town. Alex's senses came out while she was in 
solitary confinement in prison. Ben was raised in the arctic in an under-
populated area. Do you have any similar experiences?"

Harrison smiled faintly at that. "After Paul died, I moved into a family 
cabin in the middle of the woods. Didn't want to see anyone, talk to 
anyone. Then, a couple weeks ago, Debi showed up and dragged me back into 
the real world. Suddenly, everything was louder, brighter and stank. I 
just thought it was the sudden change from woodlands to city."

Ellison snickered; a sympathetic sound. "Been there, done that," was all 
he said in explanation, obviously willing to let his partner take the lead 
for the time being.

"Okay," Sandburg said, writing quickly. "That matches the pattern I've 
seen. Instinct to protect?"

"Yes," Paul said before Harrison could open his mouth.

"Check. When did you two become lovers?"

Harrison choked, and Paul turned red. "What?" Harrison said.

"Lovers. Every Sentinel-Guide pair I've come across in my studies have 
been lovers."

Harrison glanced over at Paul, then sighed. "Ten years ago."

Suddenly, Sandburg looked excited. "Mutual attraction from the moment you 
met?"

"Yes," Harrison said, and Paul echoed him.

"Oh, man, this is incredible. Most pairs become lovers *after* the senses 
come on-line. Of course every pairing I've come across didn't meet until 
afterwards anyway. You two were bonded before? And separated when they 
did?" He was scribbling even faster than before.

Harrison was starting to get frustrated. He was a little unsure if being 
grilled by this young man was necessarily any better than being grilled 
by the military. "Listen, this is all very interesting, but isn't a 
shooting slightly higher in priority?"

At least Sandburg had the grace to look embarrassed at that. "Right. 
Sorry. Jim?"

The look Ellison turned on his partner was equal parts fond and 
exasperated. "Well, the shooter is no doubt long gone," he said, "and 
you've all given your statements. You can head off, if you like. Just..."

Paul held up his hand. "Let me guess. Don't leave town."

Ellison grinned at that. "You took the words right out of my mouth, 
Colonel."

"Don't worry, we know the drill. You have our hotel and room number. 
We'll see you later."

Once they were all downstairs and squeezed into the rental car, Harrison 
turned to Paul. "Back to the hotel?" he asked as they drove away from the 
university.

"No."

Scully leaned forward from the back seat. "You just told Ellison that we 
were going back to our hotel and that he could reach us there."

Paul shot her a withering look. "If they found us at the university, they 
can find us at the hotel easily. It wouldn't be safe to go back there."

"So what do we do?"

Everyone looked at Paul expectantly, Harrison included. No one doubted 
for a moment that the ex-military man was the right person to make the 
decisions for the group.

Paul frowned at the steering wheel for a moment. "We haven't heard 
anything from Kincaid or the others. Until we do..."

He shook his head. "Damn, we can't risk leading our pursuers back to 
Vincent and his people. They wouldn't be able to fight back. We need to 
find someplace to loose ourselves until we hear from the others. A 
reasonably large city with an airport with flights to as many places as 
possible. From Cascade, the closest appropriate city would be..." Paul's 
eyes narrowed as though he were consulting a mental map.

"Seacouver," Suzanne supplied for him.

"Right. First step, though, is to get rid of this car and rent a new one 
using false papers. Harrison, you still have the ones Mulder's friends 
sent with Debi and Scully?"

Harrison patted his pocket. "You did say to bring them with us," he said 
mildly.

"Good. I hope no one left anything at the hotel that they didn't want to 
lose, because we are *not* going back," Paul said firmly.

"What about Ellison?" Scully asked again, still sounding a little 
horrified that they were running out on a police investigation; no doubt 
because she was used to being on the other side of the investigation.

"Do *you* want to try to explain things to him? Do you really think that 
the Cascade PD can protect us? If so, we can always leave you here, Agent 
Scully."

That statement was met with dead silence. Scully slumped back in her 
seat. She obviously still wasn't comfortable with the idea, but she 
couldn't deny that he was right. They *weren't* safe in Cascade.

Paul checked to make sure that they weren't being followed, then turned 
the car towards the city limits, heading north towards Seacouver. 
Harrison leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes.

It had been one hell of a day, and it wasn't over yet.

Two hours later, after switching cars, they heard the report about a 
firebombing at a Cascade motel.

>>>~~~~~<<<

Jim stood back and watched as the bomb squad checked for any more bombs. 
Uniformed officers redirected traffic and kept the curious from getting 
to close to the site. The motel had been evacuated, as had nearby 
businesses.

Blair stood next to him, resting a hand on his arm. "Were they in there?" 
he asked softly, his hand moving in a soothing stroking motion. Jim 
covered the strong hand with his own, reassuring himself that his lover 
was right there, not dead like he'd been before. Losing Blair was a 
nightmare he'd been through before, and every time they investigated a 
killing or near-killing, he found himself reaching out to reassure himself 
that Blair wasn't gone again. He wondered how Blackwood had managed to 
survive for years with *his* guide gone. Jim knew he wasn't strong enough 
to do that himself.

He shook his head. "The blaze was hot, but there'd still be some scent 
left behind if flesh had burned. No one was in there when it went off. 
The manager didn't see them come back either."

"So where are they?"

Jim scanned the crowd automatically, not really expecting to see 
Ironhorse or the others. "Probably long gone," he finally replied. "I 
would bet they left town right from the university."

"So how do we find out where they went?" Blair asked expectantly. Jim 
just shook his head.

"We don't," he said. Blair stared at him in disbelief. "Someone wants 
them dead," Jim explained. "Someone who has guns that fire bullets made 
of materials that bullets aren't made *from*. Someone who sets bombs that 
aren't made from standard materials." He sniffed deliberately, and once 
more nearly choked from the scent of a chemical he didn't recognize. 
"What it adds up to, I don't know. But I do know that the Cascade PD 
isn't equipped for this."

The bomb squad had finished, and the forensics team -- this time directed 
by Cassie Welles, unfortunately -- moved in. Most of the team went to 
work at once, sifting through the rubble for evidence. Cassie, however, 
was too busy questioning the motel manager. Finally Jim had to redirect 
her with a not so subtle hint that she should be doing her own job. The 
manager shot him a grateful look, then headed back to his office at the 
undamaged end of the building.

"So who do you think is behind this?" Blair asked in the truck when they 
were finally able to leave the scene to head back to the PD to write the 
reports.

Jim considered the question carefully. "The government, maybe," he 
finally said. "Or maybe something the Colonel was involved with. 
Ironhorse was involved in a lot of top-secret missions when I knew him, 
and if even his lover thought he was dead for nearly a decade..." his 
voice trailed off as he considered that possibility.

"Then maybe some government agency had him in something so deep cover that 
they're willing to kill him to keep it a secret?" Blair said in 
disbelief. But there was a hesitant tone to his voice. They'd come up 
against too many rogue operations in the last few years to put that 
completely outside the realm of possibilities.

But there was still the conversation he'd overheard. The one about 
aliens. He didn't believe it for a moment, but...

He didn't mention that to Blair, though.

"Why don't you give Jack Kelso a call," he suggested instead. "See if he 
can find out anything about what Ironhorse was involved in. And have him 
check on Agent Scully and Harrison Blackwood as well."

Blair grinned at him. "Good idea, Jim," he said. "If there *is* anything 
not kosher going on, he'd be able to find out."

They lapsed into silence after that. Jim concentrated on the traffic 
while Blair scribbled in one of his ever-present notebooks. The 
suggestion had been genuine, but Jim wasn't sure that anything would come 
of it. His instincts said that he wouldn't see Ironhorse again. At least, 
not in Cascade.

And while his instinct was to reject the idea of aliens, the strange 
ceramic bullets and the unfamiliar chemical at the motel made him wonder.

And what he was wondering made him *very* uncomfortable.

------------------------------------------------------------
Chapter #16: Gateways
------------------------------------------------------------

General George Hammond stormed into the med-center, furious and looking 
for answers. Glancing around, he spotted the team leader for SG-1. "What 
the hell happened, Colonel?" he snapped.

O'Neill snapped to attention -- not a good sign. "Armen's been shot. 
Dr. Fraiser has him in surgery right now, but it could be iffy. Stomach 
wounds aren't good."

There was a strangled sound from one of Armen's companions -- Mulder, 
Hammond reminded himself -- but he ignored it. "And how did a gunman get 
*into* the base?" he asked in a low, dangerous tone.

O'Neill's eyes slid to the side. "He didn't. The gunman was Corporal 
Whitaker. He's base personnel. He shot Armen when he was delivering their 
lunch. He's in the lockup," O'Neill added.

Hammond could feel his jaw dropping with shock. "One of our own people? 
Are you sure?" He frowned, thinking furiously. "Any chance he's been 
taken over, or something?"

A shake of the head was his answer. "No, sir. He works in the kitchen, no 
direct contact with any of the SG teams. If he's been affected by 
something then there should be more."

"Then why?"

"I told you, General," Mulder said, speaking up for the first time. "The 
Consortium's probably had agents inside your facility right from the 
start. Hell," he said with a harsh laugh, "this fellow, Whitaker, 
probably isn't the only one."

Hammond stared at the man for a long moment. There was an angry light in 
Mulder's eyes that sent a tiny shiver down his back. Hammond didn't scare 
easily, either. He forced the reaction down and decided to use it.

"I want to talk to Whitaker," he told O'Neill. Then he turned to Mulder. 
"Would you care to join us, Agent Mulder?"

The man blinked. "That was fast," he muttered under his breath. "You 
realize that by doing a look-up on me, you've probably alerted every 
outfit that's hunting for me to my exact location?"

Hammond glared back at him. "Yes or no, Agent Mulder," he said.

Mulder glanced at the door to the surgery bay, and for a moment the anger 
disappeared and was replaced by fear.

"Go," Kincaid said in a soft tone. "I'll keep an eye on him."

Mulder hesitated for a moment longer, then stepped away from the wall he 
was leaning against. "Anything happens to him, I'm holding you 
responsible," he said. For the life of him, Hammond couldn't tell if the 
man meant him or Kincaid or the world in general. He couldn't help 
wondering just what *was* the relationship between the two men.

Hammond headed for the door, and O'Neill and Mulder fell into step behind 
him. Outside the med-center, armed guards stood. Normally, Hammond would 
have found the sight reassuring, but now... now he was beginning to 
wonder just how far he could trust his own people. He didn't like the 
feeling.

The lockup was only a short walk from the med-center, since it also 
served as isolation for anyone exposed to an unknown bug during a 
mission. The small cells were air-tight and locked from the outside. 
Hammond noted that there was a guard outside one of the cells and headed 
for it.

The guard saluted and moved to one side. Hammond typed in his security 
code and the door slid open. The three men stepped inside.

Corporal Whitaker was sitting on the room's cot, slouched against one 
wall. Hammond recognized him as someone who worked in the base kitchen, 
but couldn't remember ever having spoken to the man. That was about to 
change.

"Care to explain yourself, soldier?" he asked in his best hard-assed 
commander voice. Whitaker didn't even bother to look up. "Well?" Silence.

"It doesn't really matter," Mulder said from next to the door, and 
Whitaker's head shot up. The expression on his face wasn't pleasant.

"Why not?" Hammond asked. He figured that since Mulder was getting a 
reaction, he'd play along with the man.

"The Consortium doesn't like failure. If there are any other flunkies 
on-base, he'll be dead within a day or two. If there aren't, then he'll 
be dead the moment you take him *off*-base."

There was a flash of uncertainty in Whitaker's eyes. Hammond almost felt 
sympathetic, but he squashed that quickly. The boy was young, not even 
twenty-five, but he should have know what he was getting himself into. 
"Other flunkies?" he asked instead. "Are you saying there might be more, 
Agent Mulder?"

Mulder shrugged. "They're like termites. If you see one, then there's a 
thousand you don't see, eating away at the structure until a strong 
breeze could blow it down."

It wasn't a pleasant analogy. Hammond glanced over at O'Neill, who looked 
like he was about to explode. "Colonel, I suggest that the personnel 
files could use another go through," he said thoughtfully.

"Yes, sir," was the only answer. O'Neill didn't take his eyes off of the 
prisoner, though.

"So," Mulder said in a light tone that wasn't reflected in his eyes. "How 
does it feel to be a walking dead man?"

Whitaker snorted. "You tell me. You'll probably be dead first."

Mulder frowned. "What makes you say that?" he asked mildly.

"Orders are out. Kill on sight, no matter what the circumstances. 
Priority one orders."

Hammond could actually see Mulder go pale. "Just me?" he asked, his voice 
going hard as stone.

"You. Your partner. Krycek. But you most of all," Whitaker said with a 
sneer. Then he seemed to remember where he was, and his mouth snapped 
shut.

"Who else on my base is working with you?" Hammond demanded. Whitaker's 
face went blank, and he stared at the wall opposite him. Hammond stepped 
over so that he was directly in front of the young man. "Talk!"

Nothing. Hammond turned to O'Neill, seething under his professional 
expression. "I want round-the-clock guard on him. Nothing and no one goes 
in or out. Is that understood?"

"Yes, sir!"

Hammond headed for the door. "And seal the base, Colonel. No one comes in 
or leaves without my approval."

"Sir."

When they left the room, Hammond didn't look back. Whitaker had made his 
choice and he would have to live with -- or die by -- it. It was the 
price of serving two masters. He was more concerned about the security of 
his base.

O'Neill headed off to carry out his orders, while Hammond headed back to 
the med-center, Mulder trailing along behind him. He wanted to know if 
Armen was going to survive. He hoped so. From the one interview he found 
that he rather liked the brash young man.

>>>~~~~~<<<

The doctor was rubber her eyes as she left the operating theatre. She 
looked tired. Kincaid waited until she sat down at her desk and started 
typing up her report, then poured a cup of coffee from the coffee-maker 
in the corner of the room and brought it over to her. "Here," he said, 
holding it out.

She looked up, and a smile crossed her dark, attractive face, dropping 
several years from her apparent age. "Thanks," she said, taking the cup.

Kincaid glanced over at the door to the intensive care-unit where he'd 
seen Krycek wheeled after his surgery, then turned back to the doctor. 
"How is he going to be?" he asked.

She looked at him and frowned. "How about we wait until the general gets 
back, Mr.--" She paused expectantly.

"John Kincaid," he replied. They shook hands, and all the other bullshit 
that went along with polite society. That sort of thing was one of the 
reasons why he avoided polite society. The Hunters -- a biker gang he'd 
allied himself with -- were cruder, but much more direct, and more honest 
he'd found.

Maybe that was why he liked Krycek so much. While the man had obviously 
made lying an art-form, his reasons were clear and unchanging. He fought 
and killed and lied to protect his world and the man he loved. Kincaid 
understood those reasons well. Even though he'd been committed to 
protecting Earth, his own reasons for sticking with the Project had been 
simple: Harrison Blackwood.

But with Ironhorse back from the dead, he'd lost all chance of winning 
Harrison. For one brief moment, he'd considered leaving New York, heading 
back to the life he'd built over the last few years. Then a pair of green 
eyes had turned towards him, and Krycek had dragged him off to bed. By 
the time morning had come around, his pain had been soothed and common 
sense had reasserted itself. Even if he didn't have a chance with 
Harrison, his world was still in danger again. He couldn't turn away, not 
after having risked so much to save it in the past.

But, he thought as he watched the doctor working at her computer, intent 
on what she was writing, that didn't mean he had to be alone. Perhaps it 
was time to accept that Harrison wasn't meant for him and find someone 
else. Krycek was too intent on his target -- and he would probably have 
better luck with Mulder than Kincaid had had with Harrison -- but there 
was a world to choose from out there.

A grin started to form as he leaned back in his chair. Yeah, he was tired 
of being alone. It was time for John Kincaid to go on the prowl.

Maybe he'd see what the lovely doctor did in her spare time.

The door swished open, breaking his train of thought, and Kincaid leapt 
to his feet, automatically falling into a defensive posture before he 
recognized Hammond and Mulder. He relaxed slightly, but not too much. 
Both men looked furious.

"How is he?" Mulder asked.

"Dr. Fraiser?" Hammond said at the same time

The doctor saved what she was working on, and stood up. "Well, he 
survived surgery, and it looks good. The bullet did an in and out, not 
doing too much damage as it went through. It narrowly missed several 
organs, including the intestines, thank God. If they'd been nicked, we'd 
be looking at a good chance of infection. However, he lost a lot of 
blood, and he's underweight and probably malnourished as well. That will 
slow his complete recovery down."

"Can I see him?" Mulder asked.

The doctor glanced to Hammond for permission, then pointed towards the 
door to the ICU. "He's still out, and will be for a while."

Mulder nodded, but he was already headed for the door.

The doctor was continuing her report, but Kincaid wasn't listening. From 
his position, he could see through the window in the door to the bed 
where Krycek was lying, hooked up to several pieces of monitoring 
equipment.

Mulder stopped, just inside the door. For a long moment he stood there, 
just looking at the pale man. Kincaid held his breath and waited to see 
what the man would do. Mulder knew that Krycek wanted him, and any fool 
could see that Mulder wanted him back. The question was whether Mulder 
would ever admit it to himself. But if this didn't do it, nothing would. 
If this didn't get the man to commit himself, then Kincaid was going to 
convince Krycek to give up and come with him. They'd make one hell of a 
team.

Finally, Mulder moved. He walked over to the side of Krycek's bed and 
reached down to cover the man's hand. He stayed still for a moment, but 
Kincaid could see his lips moving, even if he couldn't hear the words. 
Finally, he bent down and kissed Krycek on the forehead, then the lips.

Satisfied, Kincaid stepped back. While he really wished it hadn't taken 
this much to get through to the man, at least Mulder was finally starting 
to wise up.

But while Kincaid was willing to keep out of the way, he wasn't willing 
to let Mulder know that just yet. He waited until the FBI agent was 
coming back into the main room, then grabbed him by the arm. "Hurt him 
and I swear, I'll take him from you," he said in a low tone. "Assuming I 
don't kill you first."

Mulder glared back at him. "You're welcome to try," he hissed. Kincaid 
let him go, not letting loose the smile. He might not know Mulder well, 
but he already knew one thing about him: Leave him to think about his 
choice and he would back off. Challenge him, and he would rise to it. 
Threatening to take Krycek from him would make him more determined not to 
give him up.

Hammond was waiting, and Mulder walked over to him. His back was straight 
and when he spoke, his voice was full of command. "General, I think it's 
time you told us just what it is about this base that has the Consortium 
so interested. What alien technology *is* it that you have?"

Hammond glared at him, but Mulder stared him down. Coming up behind him, 
Kincaid added his own glare to the pressure.

After a moment, Hammond sighed. "All right," he said. He glanced at his 
watch, then turned towards the door. "SG-7 will be heading out in ten 
minutes. If you gentlemen would care to join me?"

>>>~~~~~<<<

The control room was interesting, but it was what he saw down below 
through the broad windows that pulled Mulder away from the contemplation 
of his sanity, or lack thereof.

He'd just kissed Alex Krycek. *Kissed* him. In a military base that was 
probably crammed full of surveillance cameras. A physical record that 
would probably be used against him. He must have been insane.

But he hadn't been able to help himself. Seeing Alex lying there, pale 
and thin, suffering from a gunshot wound he'd taken for Mulder... The 
instinct had been building for days. No, he told himself, be honest. It 
had been building for months, maybe even years. Hell, it had probably 
started the day he'd met the man, thinking he was just an over-eager 
young agent. He was beginning to wonder if everything that had happened 
since then had happened for the sole purpose of getting them here.

Almost immediately, he'd rebelled against the thought. Alex was 
unconscious, he had told himself. He'd never know, and Mulder would never 
tell him.

Then Kincaid had thrown out his little challenge. Kincaid had seen. 
Kincaid would tell Alex. There was no going back.

Forcing his thoughts away from Alex and the confusion that seemed to go 
with the man wherever he went, Mulder stared at the... whatever it was. 
It was some sort of ring, about ten, fifteen feet in diameter, with 
strange carvings on it. He turned to the general.

"That's it?" he asked, waving towards the object.

"That's it," Hammond replied.

Mulder stared at it. "What the hell is it, then?" he demanded. He 
couldn't see anything about it that would cause the large blip on Mana's 
scan.

Hammond leaned forward to a microphone. "SG-7, are you ready?" Down below 
a group of men in field fatigues turned and one raised an up-thrust thumb.

Hammond nodded to one of the technicians. "That, gentlemen," he said, "is 
a Stargate."

The technician tapped a command into the keyboard in front of him, and 
suddenly the inner portion of the ring started rotating. It stopped, and 
a v-like object moved to frame a symbol on the ring. There was a loud 
clank, followed by a shudder. "Chevron one encoded," the technician 
announced.

It wasn't finished. Again the ring moved, then stopped, and the 
technician announced a chevron. Each time, there was a physical effect, 
becoming louder and more pronounced, until the technician almost shouted, 
"Chevron seven encoded!"

Immediately, there was a loud 'woosh', and the ring was suddenly filled 
with... Well, he wasn't sure just what it was. It looked like a back-lit 
pool of boiling water. And yet it didn't. Whatever it was, though, it 
erupted from the ring, then subsided into a more placid form.

As they watched, the military team waked up the ramp to the ring, paused, 
then stepped through. The light of the whatever-it-was flared, and then 
vanished. Suddenly, Mulder could once again see through to the concrete 
walls behind the ring.

Mulder stared, his jaw hanging loose. He looked like an idiot, he knew, 
but it didn't really matter. He was still trying to assimilate what he'd 
seen.

A Stargate, Hammond had called it. But to where?

------------------------------------------------------------
Chapter #17: Lying Low
------------------------------------------------------------

It was late at night when Paul pulled up in front of the Waterview Hotel. 
They'd driven straight from Cascade to Seacouver, stopping only twice; 
once for gas and once to buy some bags, clothing and necessities. Agent 
Scully had suggested that showing up at a hotel late at night without 
reservations was going to be unusual enough. Showing up without luggage 
would pretty much guarantee notice that they didn't want.

"Get two rooms, preferably connecting," he told Harrison as his 
passengers climbed out of the car. "Then meet me at the end of the 
parking lot when I get back. I'll go find someplace to dump the car. 
Agent Scully, call those friends of yours in Washington. See if they can 
get us some more fake identities. At this rate, we're going to need them. 
And Harrison, use one of the credit cards we haven't used yet."

Harrison smiled back at him, then leaned over for a long kiss. "Easy, 
Paul. I've been keeping low for the last seven years. I know what I'm 
doing."

Paul sighed. "I know," he said. "Doesn't stop me from worrying, though. 
Being shot at does that to a person," he added with a grin.

Harrison kissed him again, then climbed out to join the three women. 
"Watch your back," he said. "You're not the only one who worries, and all 
we're doing is checking into a hotel."

Paul watched at the four headed for the main doors, then put the car back 
into drive. They'd decided to check into a full hotel, rather than a 
motel. It made targeting them a little more difficult. At least that was 
what they hoped. However, having a car stolen in Cascade turn up in a 
hotel parking lot in Seacouver would make it difficult to cover up their 
whereabouts, so the car had to go.

Luckily, Seacouver was right on the edge of the ocean. He'd noted a 
couple likely spots on the way into town, and it didn't take him long to 
find an isolated spot where he could send the car into the water. He made 
sure that all the windows were open, so that it would sink fast. 
Hopefully, it wouldn't be found until after they left town, but even if 
it were, the salt water would erase all fingerprints very quickly.

That taken care of, he turned and started to walk towards town. With any 
luck, once he was inside city limits, he'd be able to find a bus or a cab 
that would get him to the hotel before dawn.

>>>~~~~~<<<

The room was nice, but depressingly silent. In the next room, Debi, 
Suzanne and Agent Scully were getting ready for bed. A peal of laughter 
caught his attention, and almost without realizing it, Harrison found 
himself focusing in on what they were saying.

//"And he fed your *dog* to it?"

"Yep. Of course, it *was* the most obvious way to slow it down so that we 
could get away, but I think he was just looking for a way to avoid having 
to drive back again. Mulder definitely prefers flying, I think."//

Suddenly, Harrison pulled himself back. Eavesdropping was not something 
he wanted to be doing. At least not on friends. Resolutely, he forced him 
to ignore any further sounds coming from the next room.

Unfortunately, the next thing to assault him was the smell of cigarette 
smoke. They'd taken non-smoking rooms, so either the last guest had 
broken that rule, or he was smelling the cigarette smoke from the smoking 
floor, three levels up. Two days ago, he would have assumed the first. 
Now, after what they'd been told by the kid, Sandburg, he wasn't so sure. 
Harrison sighed. It was a pity that they'd had to leave Cascade before 
getting a copy of the kid's research. He'd offered, but after one attempt 
on them, they'd left town quickly, and since their motel room had been 
blown up, according to the new report on the radio, that had been the 
right choice to make. Still, maybe they could contact Sandburg, arrange 
some way of getting a copy sent to them.

Harrison sighed, and leaned against the window. He'd always had good 
night vision. He'd never thought twice about it. Now he was beginning to 
realize that not everyone would be able to see clearly down the street 
like he could. It was a little unnerving. He'd always been considered 
odd: His obsession with the aliens that had killed his parents, his work 
methods, even his eating habits. Now he had one more thing to add to the 
long list. There were time when he wished that he was just normal.

But he quickly squashed that thought. If he'd just been normal, the 
Mothren probably would control the planet right now. More importantly, he 
never would have met Paul Ironhorse.

That brought a smile to his lips. He'd devoted most of his life to 
science and his quest to find out what had really happened to the Mothren 
invaders. There'd been a handful of lovers, but never anything serious, 
never someone he could share all of himself with. As a result, Paul had 
come as a complete surprise. He'd appreciated the man's beauty right from 
the start. Paul had the chiseled features of his native heritage, along 
with the dusky skin, black hair and eyes, and a fascinating lack of body 
hair. However, he was also an army Colonel, making him off-limits. Back 
in those days there wasn't even a "don't ask, don't tell" policy in 
place. Getting caught in bed with a man was grounds for an immediate 
dishonorable discharge.

As a result, Harrison had ignored the attraction that had flared to life 
when they met, and had grown as they got to know each other. It had taken 
being hidden together in an old bomb shelter hiding from aliens that were 
hunting them to get them to act on the apparently mutual attraction.

Harrison scanned the street again, but saw no one. They'd had to be 
careful over the following years. Even Paul's hand-picked team hadn't 
known about their relationship. Only Debi, Suzanne, Norton and Kincaid 
had known, and Kincaid hadn't found out until after Ironhorse had 
apparently died.

The thought brought a flash of pain. Seeing Paul die in front of him -- 
or at least what he'd *thought* was Paul -- had been the worst thing that 
had ever happened to him. He'd kept going, the fight against the Mothren 
keeping him from dwelling on his loss, but after they'd been defeated, 
he'd turned inward. Even though he *knew* how angry Paul would be if he 
committed suicide, he'd thought of it often over the years after the end 
of the war. The relief from the never-ending pain had been oh so tempting.

But he'd held on, and now he had his reward. Yes, the planet was in 
danger from invaders again, but he had Paul by his side, once more. If 
he'd killed himself, Paul would have woken to a world without him, and he 
knew the man well enough to know how painful that would have been. He'd 
lived with that pain for seven years, but it was a small price to pay to 
keep Paul from living with it for a lifetime.

Harrison sighed, wishing his lover would hurry back. This was the first 
time since they'd been reunited that Paul had been out of his sight for 
more than a few minutes, and he hated it. He had a pounding headache, and 
his stomach was churning. He was beginning to wonder just how he *had* 
been able to survive alone for so long.

'Hurry back, Paul. I need you.'

>>>~~~~~<<<

Freshly showered, and feeling clean for the first time in *days*, Dana 
Scully pulled out her cell-phone. It was the only thing that she'd 
managed to hang onto since leaving Washington, and she was determined to 
keep hanging on to it. It had been a present from the Gunmen, who'd 
carefully outfitted it with all sorts of scramblers so that her calls 
couldn't be traced. Some guys gave girls flowers. Frohike gave her spy 
equipment. At least it was more practical, she told herself.

It also had a button that she now pushed, which automatically called the 
offices of the Lone Gunmen. A recording answered her, and she said, "It's 
me, guys."

Immediately, the recording stopped and Frohike's voice answered. "Are you 
alright?"

Dana blinked. It was an unusual way to start a conversation, even for a 
paranoid conspiracy theorist. "At the moment, yes. Why?"

There was a pause. "Skinner's in the hospital."

Dana's eyes went wide at that. "What?"

"He was shot leaving work yesterday. The shooter was killed by return 
fire from one of the guards. Skinner's in intensive care, in a coma."

Dana grabbed for the small crucifix that she wore around her neck and 
closed her eyes to pray for a moment. "Is he going to be alright?" she 
finally asked, opening them again.

Frohike sounded tired. "They're not sure yet. The damage is pretty bad."

"I shouldn't have left," Dana said softly. Debi and Suzanne were now 
sitting on the bed opposite hers wearing identical worried expressions.

"You don't mean that," Frohike replied in a worried tone of voice. "If 
you were here, it would probably be *you* in that hospital bed. And 
before you even suggest coming back, the Consortium probably has watchers 
all over the hospital. Skinner is a lure."

Dana closed her eyes with a sigh. "You're right. It's just..."

"Yeah. How's your partner?" he asked, quickly changing the subject. Dana 
shrugged, even though he couldn't see her.

"No idea. We split up a few days ago. I haven't heard anything from him 
since then."

"Do you think..." Frohike's voice trailed off. He sounded genuinely 
worried. Dana kicked herself. The three members of the Lone Gunmen had 
known Mulder even longer than she had. They had every right to be worried.

"No," she said, hurrying to reassure him. "You know Mulder. Even when you 
think he *is* dead, he manages to pull a rabbit out of his hat."

"New Mexico," Frohike said, sounding more cheerful.

"Exactly. I'll let you know when I hear from him." And he *would* call, 
Dana told herself. She wasn't going to let herself consider any other 
possibilities.

"Okay. Are you guys doing all right?"

"We were nearly killed in Cascade. We're in Seacouver now, but we've had 
to use the back-up identities you sent us. Can you get us any more?"

"Sure. Driver's Licenses, credit cards, etc.?"

"Yes. And for an extra person. Debi's mother is with us now. And thanks. 
We appreciate it."

"Hey, we all do our part. Yours involves face to face confrontations, 
ours is support. Okay, we can have that for you tomorrow night. You're in 
Seacouver, you said?"

"Yes."

"Okay. There's a bar called Joe's Blues Bar. The owner, Joe Dawson, is an 
old friend. We'll courier the stuff to him. He can arrange to get the 
pictures for the IDs."

"Thanks," Dana repeated.

"No problem. And Dana? Take care. I... We'd hate to have anything happen 
to you. Or Mulder," he added quickly. Dana couldn't help smiling.

"So would I. You guys watch your backs too."

>>>~~~~~<<<

It was nearly dawn when the cab dropped him off four blocks from the 
hotel. By the time he made it to the hotel, Paul was running on empty. 
Nearly two days of travel interspersed with being used for target 
practice hadn't left him with much in the way of reserves, plus his head 
was pounding.

As a result, he'd never seen anything more appealing than a parking lot 
in the pre-dawn gloom, since Harrison was waiting there for him. Harrison 
wrapped him in a hug, and he leaned into it gratefully. Almost 
immediately, the headache started to fade.

They stood there like that for a couple minutes, then Harrison pulled 
away. "Side entrance is over there," he said, pointing away from the main 
doors. "The key opens it. We'll check with the others, then go to bed."

Paul smiled tiredly. "Sounds good to me."

The rooms were only on the second floor, so they took the stairs to avoid 
running into anyone. Harrison knocked on one door, then unlocked the one 
next to it. The others were there in a flash, all dressed in matching 
sweatpants and t-shirts that had been picked up for sleepwear.

"So what's the word?" Paul asked, trying not to be too obvious in his 
collapse onto the hotel bed.

Agent Scully looked worried, he noticed. "The Gunmen haven't heard from 
Mulder either. And Skinner, our boss, is in the hospital in intensive 
care. He's been shot."

That woke Paul up. "Same group that shot at us?" he asked. Dana shook her 
head.

"Consortium, probably," she said. "The guys think it was done to try to 
lure us back to DC."

Paul groaned, and started going over options. "So we don't go anywhere 
near DC, then," he said, and looked up to make sure that Scully would go 
along with that. He was reasonably satisfied with what she saw. "How 
about new ID?"

She nodded. "They'll courier everything to a friend here in Seacouver. He 
owns a bar. We can pick the package up tomorrow... tonight," she 
corrected. "He'll also do pictures for everything."

"Good," Paul said. "We'll stay here, at least for a few days, then. We 
could all use the rest, I think," he added with what was intended to be a 
smile, but probably wasn't even close. Everyone was nodding.

"I'll set the alarm for six p.m.," Harrison said when Paul didn't add 
anything. "That should be early enough for us to get over to this bar 
before it gets busy."

There were murmurs of agreement from the women, and they all got up and 
headed for the door. Paul briefly considered taking a shower and brushing 
his teeth, but somewhere along the line he'd ended up horizontal, and he 
couldn't seem to find the energy to get up again.

He watched silently while Harrison closed the curtains and undressed. The 
sight brought a smile to his face, but he couldn't find the energy to do 
anything about that either. Fully naked, Harrison then carefully stripped 
Paul, since he didn't seem to be able to do that himself, then maneuvered 
the both of them under the covers, spooning up behind him. Paul sighed 
contentedly at the feel of the larger body behind and surrounding him. 
Harrison's arms were wrapped around him, and the other man's chest hairs 
made a nice texture against his back.

Paul closed his eyes and let sleep carry him away.

>>>~~~~~<<<

Blair Sandburg looked up as his partner, Sentinel and lover entered the 
apartment. Jim looked to be in a bad mood, and he wasn't sure how the man 
would take the news he had for him. "Any progress?"

Jim shook his head. "They know that an accelerant was used at the motel, 
but they can't identify it. They've found parts of the detonator, but no 
one can figure out how it worked. Joel is confused as hell, and it takes 
a lot to do that."

Blair nodded. Joel Taggart was Captain of the bomb squad, and he'd seen 
more types of bombs than most bomb experts in the country. It came from 
living in what Jim liked to jokingly refer to as "the most dangerous city 
in America".

"Well," he said, putting aside the papers he was reading through, "Jack 
called me." Jack Kelso was an old friend at the University and a former 
CIA operative.

Jim perked up at that. "Did he find anything on the Colonel or the people 
with him?"

Blair rubbed his eyes. He'd been staring at old print-outs for much too 
long. "Yep, but it's pretty improbably," he said, pushing the papers over 
to Jim. While the other man started reading, he headed to the kitchen for 
a couple beers. Returning to the living room, he opened both and handed 
one to Jim, who took it without a word.

A half-hour later, Jim put the papers down and took a long pull from the 
beer bottle. "This is..."

"I know," Blair said. He was already on his second beer. Somehow, getting 
drunk sounded like a good idea at that moment.

"Aliens? I mean, those were just movies, weren't they?" he asked, almost 
plaintively.

Blair shrugged. "Yesterday I would have said yes. But ceramic bullets 
that can't be identified? Unknown accelerants and detonators that stump 
bomb experts?" He blew a gust of air that lifted a lock of hair hanging 
in his face. "I don't know. Is it *that* improbable?"

Jim shook his head in denial, but he didn't look so sure. Blair had 
already read the papers. He knew what they said. Several alien invasions 
had repelled then forgotten. Then the survivors had come back. The son 
of a couple who died in the last invasion, Harrison Blackwood, had 
approached to government to find the survivors and stop them. The 
Blackwood Project had been set up in a government facility and given a 
military contact, Colonel Paul Ironhorse.

And then, three years later, The facility had been destroyed, the members 
of the Blackwood Project had vanished, and the government had labeled the 
project top-secret and buried it. Jim's mission to Peru was probably in a 
similar file cabinet somewhere. Briefly, Blair wondered how Jack had 
managed to get a hold of the files.

It was crazy. It couldn't be true.

It made too much sense. And it looked like it was starting again.

"So what do we do about this?" he finally asked when Jim stayed silent.

Jim shrugged. "Nothing we can do," he said, not looking happy about it. 
"At least, not yet. Maybe later... But until then, we wait. It's all we 
*can* do right now."

Blair nodded. Much as he hated it, Jim was right. Blair shivered. "Take 
me to bed, Jim?" he asked, suddenly needing to be held. The world had 
just become a very scary place.

Jim nodded, and they headed for the stairs to the loft. It was going to 
be a long, sleepless night.

------------------------------------------------------------
Chapter #18: Wakeup Call
------------------------------------------------------------

It was nearly morning before Mulder had managed to doze off in the chair 
next to Krycek's bed. Then a faint groan brought him back to full alert. 
Suddenly, Krycek's eyes flew open and he tensed up.

"Don't move," Mulder immediately ordered. "Dr. Fraiser put a lot of 
effort into sewing you back together. It would be very ungrateful of you 
to rip out her nice stitches."

Krycek looked confused for a moment, but quickly regained his bearings. 
"You okay?" he asked, then winced.

"Shut up. I'm fine. But what the *hell* were you thinking? You could have 
been killed!" Krycek's expression went mulish, but he kept quiet. Mulder 
sighed. "The soldier who shot you was a Consortium spy. He's locked up 
right now, and the base is sealed."

"Why?" Krycek started to say.

"Shut up," Mulder told him again, smiling slightly. But the smile 
disappeared quickly. "The Consortium has put out shoot on sight orders. 
You, me and..." He stopped. "Shit! Scully!"

Mulder got to his feet and turned towards the door, then stopped. He 
glanced back at Krycek, chewing at his bottom lip. He reached down to 
squeeze Krycek's hand. I need to call Scully. I'll be right back, though. 
We... need to talk, I think."

Krycek nodded, a small and slightly triumphant smile spreading across his 
face.

Mulder headed out the door. There was a guard outside the recovery room, 
and a second waiting for him. "I need to talk to Hammond," he told his 
bodyguard. The man, whose name he didn't even know yet, just nodded and 
lead the way.

At this rate he was going to be able to memorize the layout of the entire 
base, he thought as the man led him to Hammond's office using yet another 
new route. He wasn't sure whether it was a deliberate attempt to keep him 
off-balance or just that the base was so complicated that everyone had 
different preferred routes.

It didn't take long to reach the base commander's office, though. The man 
behind the desk looked both pissed and exhausted. He didn't look like 
he'd gotten any sleep since the day before.

"What can I do for you, Agent Mulder?" he asked, looking up as the door 
opened.

"I need to make a phone call."

Hammond frowned. "The base is sealed, Agent Mulder. A man tried to kill 
you. I would have thought that you'd want to keep your continued survival 
quiet, at least for now."

"Yes, but I'm not the only one in danger here. I need to call my partner 
to warn her."

Hammond stared at him searchingly for a minute, then pushed the phone 
towards him. "It's the only phone that can dial out right now," he 
explained. He didn't look inclined to leave.

Mulder took the phone and quickly dialed a memorized number. It 
automatically transferred him to a second, then a third, then a fourth. 
After nearly two minutes of bouncing sign signals, he got a ring.

The other end was picked up after only one ring. "Mulder, is that you?"

"Yeah, but we can't talk long. There's a chance this could be traced. 
They've put shoot on sight orders out for the three of us; you, me and 
Krycek. You need to be careful."

"Shit." Mulder blinked. Scully didn't curse very often. "Mulder, Skinner 
was shot two days ago. He's in a coma."

Mulder froze. For a moment it felt like his heart had skipped a beat. 
"What?"

"The guys think it's a trap; a lure to draw use back to DC. And someone 
shot at us yesterday in Cascade. *Not* Consortium, though, not unless 
they've got access to a completely new type of bullet. We left Cascade 
right away. Our motel room was bombed about the same time we left the 
city."

Mulder's mind was turning over options at a furious rate. "Are you secure 
where you are?" he asked.

"For the moment. Why?"

"Hold tight, then. We need to stay here for a few days. Maybe a week."

"Mulder," Scully said, fully alert and suspicious. "Are *you* all right?"

"I'm fine. Someone else took a bullet meant for me."

There was a sigh. "How bad is Krycek?" she asked. Obviously she had no 
problem guessing who would be willing to get between him and a bullet. 
They were going to have to talk about this the next time they were 
face-to-face.

"Recovering, but off his feet for a few days. Nothing permanent." He 
heard a mutter that sounded vaguely like "Pity."

"All right," Scully finally said. "We'll loose ourselves for the time 
being. Hopefully we can figure out what to do next in the meantime."

"Watch your back," Mulder told her then hung up the phone. "Thanks," he 
said to Hammond as he turned towards the door, planning on letting the 
man get back to his work.

"What about the other one, Krycek?" Mulder froze, cursing himself for his 
slip. "I thought so," Hammond said. "Which one is he? Kincaid or Armen?"

Mulder sighed. "Armen," he finally said.

"Anything else you should have told me about?" Hammond asked. The tone 
was mild, but there was a hard edge underneath.

"Not that I can think of," Mulder said. "If you'll excuse me, I'll be in 
the Med center."

"Mulder," Hammond started to say, but Mulder cut him off.

"General, what can I say? I'm caught between two enemies. My AD is in a 
hospital bed. He was shot two days ago, probably just to get me back in 
their hands. My partner was shot at with possibly alien technology 
yesterday, and some tried to kill me and almost succeeded in killing my 
other partner. I'm tired, and right now I haven't a clue what I'm going 
to do next."

Hammond's expression softened slightly. "Go get some sleep, Agent Mulder. 
We'll talk later. Planning is not something you should be trying to do 
exhausted."

Mulder nodded. He *was* at the end of his rope. But there was something 
he had to do first. He had to talk to Krycek.

Ignoring his guard, Mulder headed back to the Med center by the most 
direct route. Part of him wanted to delay, but that little voice in the 
back of his head told him that it would be cowardly to do that. Besides, 
who knew what had happened since he left.

When he reached Krycek's recovery room, his worst fears had been 
realized. Kincaid was sitting in the chair that Mulder had been 
occupying. Both men looked up as he entered the room, and he was certain 
that they'd been talking about him.

"Get a hold of Scully?" Krycek asked, already sounding better.

Mulder nodded. "They've left Cascade. Two attacks on them. And Skinner's 
been shot," he said bluntly.

"Shit," was the succinct reply.

After a moment, Kincaid got to his feet. "I'm going to get some 
breakfast," he said, looking depressingly awake. Obviously *he'd* gotten 
some sleep overnight. "Get some rest, Mulder," he said on his way out the 
door. "You look like hell."

And then Mulder was alone with Krycek.

His mouth went dry, and suddenly he couldn't think of anything to say. 
Krycek watched him patiently, then snorted.

"You do look like hell." He nodded towards one of the other beds in the 
room. "Go to sleep, Mulder."

"But..." Mulder stopped. He was definitely starting to feel fuzzy around 
the edges.

"It can wait until you're capable of coherent thought. Bed," Krycek 
ordered.

Mulder sighed, and obediently headed for the bed furthest from the door. 
Not bothering to find anything to sleep in, he toed off his shoes and 
climbed into the bed fully dressed.

As he drifted off, the last thing he heard was Krycek's voice.

"Don't worry. It's going to be all right. They'll have to come through me 
first."

Mulder wanted to say that he didn't want that, but he was already gone.

>>>~~~~~<<<

Kincaid followed his guide to the base cafeteria, carefully keeping track 
of the route. Sure, he was paranoid. Still, it had kept him alive for 
more than a decade, hadn't it? Even before he'd ever heard of Harrison 
Blackwood, he and his brother had been freelance agents for the 
government -- mercenaries in other words -- taking the nasty jobs that 
the government didn't want to send their own soldiers on, and they'd 
raised survival to a fine art. Then Max's death and General Wilson's 
disappearance had led him to Harrison Blackwood, just in time to see his 
old commander, Colonel Ironhorse, apparently kill himself.

At first it was for Ironhorse that he stayed with the Project, teaching 
Harrison and Suzanne how to work underground. They hadn't been prepared 
for loosing their government support. Eventually, he'd stayed because he 
believed in their fight and -- more importantly -- he believed in 
Harrison Blackwood.

Then the war ended and the world changed and someone decided that anyone 
who knew about the Mothren had to die. Harrison disappeared into the 
wilderness, and he'd helped the McCulloughs hide. Then he'd disappeared 
back into the underground. He'd spent a couple years with one of the 
survivalist camps in the mid-west, and it was during that time that he'd 
met Wolfling.

Wolfling. Unofficial head of the Hunters, a rough biker gang that could 
out-mean most gangs, but with a stronger sense of honor. They didn't give 
a shit for the laws of the land, but they didn't deal with drugs or 
prostitution. They'd been rough and mean, but had quickly accepted 
Kincaid as one of their own. It was almost like having Max back again.

In a way Wolfling reminded him of Harrison. Both men were bigger than 
life, dedicated and loyal. In fact, Kincaid had once propositioned the 
biker in a moment of weakness, because of that resemblance. The man had 
turned him down with a smile. Pity that Wolfling had to be so damned 
straight.

Breakfast loaded on a tray, Kincaid looked around, trying to find an 
empty spot. With the base sealed, trapping people inside, that wasn't 
easy. Finally, he saw a couple empty seats at the end of one table and 
headed for it.

Then he noticed the person sitting across from those seats smiled. Things 
were looking up.

"Are these seats taken?" he asked the attractive woman in fatigues.

"Go right ahead," she said, waving a fork at him.

He settled down, ignoring his guard taking the next seat. "John Kincaid," 
he said, holding out a hand. She shook it firmly.

"Captain Samantha Carter."

>>>~~~~~<<<

Spender lit another of the cigarettes that had prompted Fox Mulder to 
mocking call him Cancer Man and took a deep pull. He blew out a cloud of 
smoke, then nodded to the man standing opposite him. "Continue," he said.

The young man nodded. "No word from our people inside Mt. Cheyenne since 
reporting that Mulder, Krycek and Kincaid had shown up there. A few hours 
later, the base was sealed. One of them may have succeeded in eliminating 
them.

Spender shook his head. "I doubt it. There would be more activity and the 
base would not be so tightly sealed." Besides, he thought to himself, 
Mulder always seemed to have more than his fair share of luck on his 
side. And as for Krycek, that pretty little traitor seemed to have more 
lives that a *room* full of cats. "Keep observers around the base and let 
me know the moment anything changes. What else?"

"Agent Scully has been sighted in Cascade, Washington with James Ellison."

That caught his attention. "Was she alone?"

The man checked his notes. "There were two men and a woman with her. The 
group was at Rainier University, meeting with one of the professors in 
the Science department. Someone shot at the group. Ellison was the 
investigating officer."

He relaxed again. "Then the meeting was a coincidence. Good. Where is 
Agent Scully now?"

"Unknown," the man said, looking understandably nervous. "There motel 
room was bombed a couple hours later, but they seem to have vanished 
before that. It wasn't any of our people," he added.

Spender considered that for a moment. "Have the airports, bus and train 
stations checked. And alert agents in the closest cities: Seattle, 
Seacouver, Tacoma."

"And if they see them?"

Spender paused. "Take them alive. Mulder is the one we want. Agent Scully 
will make better bait than Skinner, I think. As well, I want to know if 
they learned anything from Ellison and his partner. And get the police 
reports on the shooting and the bomb. If it wasn't our people, I want to 
know who."

The young man nodded and left the room.

Spender blew out another cloud of cigarette smoke, considering the 
patterns it made in the air. It might be time to reevaluate the Sentinel 
project. The decision had been made to allow Ellison and the Canadian 
their autonomy, while the woman and two others were housed in various 
facilities. It might be time to bring them in, though, along with their 
partners. Spender looked forward to talking with Professor Sandburg in 
particular. His computer files made very interesting reading.

In fact, it was his master's thesis that  had brought him to the 
attention of the Consortium, and it was his research that had led them to 
their own subjects. He'd been helping their research for years without 
even knowing it.

Then he shook his head. It was too early for that move. Ellison could 
wait.

A sudden flash of light signaled that he was no longer alone, but he 
refused to show any reaction.

"They must be found. Now."

He turned his head. The woman standing there looked completely human, but 
her stiff stance and blank expression made her seem... artificial.

"Do *you* know who tried to kill them?" he asked, not expecting an answer 
and not surprised when he didn't get one. "One of the men must be 
Blackwood, and the woman Agent McCullough, but who is the other man?"

"That is irrelevant. They must be found and delivered to us. You may keep 
the other woman, Scully, but you *will* deliver the others. And you will 
deal with the man, Mulder. No resistance is allowed."

Again, there was a flash of light. When it had faded the woman was gone 
and Spender was alone again. He stared at the spot where she'd been 
standing, considering her words.

What was it about Blackwood that made them so... anxious, for the lack of 
a better word. It was a mystery, and he didn't like mysteries.

Spender turned to his computer and started making plans.

------------------------------------------------------------
Chapter #19: Seacouver Blues
------------------------------------------------------------

"Well?" Spender asked when his current aide poked his head into view. The 
young man was calm, which usually meant that he had information. The boy 
was a useful find. Certainly more tractable than Alex Krycek had been, 
and more competent than his late son, Jeffrey. *That* boy had been a 
disappointment. A waste of time and effort, barely worth the bullet that 
ended his life.

"Confirmation, sir. Agent Scully, Agent McCullough and Harrison Blackwood 
have been sighted in Seacouver at the Waterview Hotel, along with another 
man and woman. The woman has been identified as Dr Janet Gallagher of 
Rainier University, the woman whose office they were in when they were 
shot at. The man..." He paused.

"Have you identified him yet?" Spender asked, a little impatient with the 
young man's hesitation.

"We're not sure," was the answer. "He *looks* Colonel Ironhorse, from the 
Blackwood project, but the man has been dead for eight years. More to the 
point, he looks *exactly* like Colonel Ironhorse did eight years ago."

Spender froze, his cigarette halfway to his mouth. "Are you sure?" he 
asked. If the answer was negative, he was going to have to have a... talk 
with someone.

"We have pictures, and unless the Colonel had a younger relative who 
looks identical to him--"

"Never mind," Spender interrupted. "Have them picked up. I want them 
*all* alive, but especially Agent Scully and the two men."

"Yes, sir," his aide said, then disappeared to carry out his orders.

Mysteries within mysteries, Spender thought to himself, leaning back in 
his leather-upholstered desk chair. Of course the obvious answers were 
that the man was either a clone or a shape-shifter, but which? And if he 
was a clone, then who created him? The Mothren left on Earth didn't have 
the capability any more, according to the Consortium's... Masters. So 
that only left *them*. But why would they clone the man? Unless it was a 
trap for Blackwood. Now, *that* was a possibility. Still, he should have 
been informed.

They would find out once the group had been captured.

Of course there was always the chance that there was *another* group out 
there, one that they didn't know about yet. That was be the most 
disturbing possibility of all. 

Spender stubbed out his cigarette and went back to the file had been 
reading before the interruption. There was no point in worrying about 
that theory until there was some evidence to support it.

>>>~~~~~<<<

The group had slept through the day, not waking until late afternoon. 
Originally, the plan was for the entire group to go to the bar where the 
Gunmen's friend would have the package with the new sets of id and credit 
cards, but Ironhorse had quickly pointed out how risky that would be.

Instead, they'd gone out in pairs to get id pictures taken for Scully to 
take with her, and Scully would go to pick up the package. Since the Lone 
Gunmen were sending the package for her, it made sense for her to be the 
one to go collect it. Ironhorse would go with her as backup. Just another 
couple out for an evening on the town.

So as soon as the sun had gone down, they'd caught a cab to head for 
Joe's Blues Bar. It must be fairly good, Scully thought, since the cabby 
had known where it was without her providing an address to go with the 
name.

The bar wasn't much to look at from the outside, but inside it was warm 
and inviting. Even from outside they could hear the sound of wonderfully 
mellow blues -- not a surprise considering the name of the bar -- but 
were surprised coming in to find that the music was live.

The bar was full, but not overly crowded, so it didn't take long to get 
to the bar. A wave brought the bartender over to serve them.

"What can I get you folks?" the man asked with an engaging smile. He was 
taller than average. Maybe even taller than Mulder, Scully thought to 
himself. He was a handsome man, despite a nose that looked like it had 
come off a Roman Emperor.

"Joe Dawson?" she asked. He shook his head.

"Joe's a little busy right now," he said, nodding to the handsome gray-
haired man who was leading the band. He had a wonderfully smoky voice, 
and his guitar playing was equally accomplished. "Can I help you?"

Scully shook her head. "A mutual friend sent a package to him for me. I'm 
here to pick it up."

"Ah. Well, I'm just helping Joe out for the night, so I don't know about 
any packages. The set ends in another ten minutes or so, if you can 
wait." Scully nodded. "Well then, would you like a drink in the meantime?"

Scully glanced at Ironhorse, then shrugged. "Gin and Tonic," she said, 
not planning on doing anything more than sip.

"Guinness," Ironhorse said, prompting a brilliant grin.

"A man after my own heart," he said. "Coming right up."

In short order, they had their drinks and claimed one of the few tables 
not yet taken.

The music was good, and Scully found herself relaxing in spite of 
herself. It felt like she hadn't stopped moving since the day Krycek had 
shown up with his papers from Russia, and the stress was catching up with 
her. Sitting here with a drink, listening to a live band, she almost felt 
like life was normal again. Of course, life hadn't been normal since the 
day she'd met Fox Mulder, but that was a different story altogether.

She wondered what Mulder was doing at that moment. She still didn't like 
the fact that he was off with that traitor, Krycek. How could he be so 
blind for so long to what the man really wanted from him? It had been 
obvious to her since the day she'd met the man, apparently a young 
recruit fresh out of Quantico, that he was trying to get into Mulder's 
pants. Mulder hadn't noticed it, and she'd hoped he would keep not 
noticing it.

But she didn't think that was likely. There'd been a note in his voice 
when he'd told her that Krycek had taken a bullet for him. A new 
awareness. Scully sighed. She'd hoped he'd find someone, since she wasn't 
interested in being more than partners with him. Pointed hints from the 
people who'd assigned her to the X-Files that she... distract Mulder had 
pretty much killed an inclination she'd had that way. But Mulder needed 
someone in his personal life to keep him grounded, just like she kept him 
grounded in his professional life. Someone. Anyone.

Anyone but Krycek.

When the set ended, Dawson carefully put away his guitar in its case, 
then picked up a cane and walked stiffly to the bar. The smiling 
bartender leaned towards him, gesturing towards the table where Scully 
and Ironhorse were waiting.

Dawson nodded, then headed over towards them. "Dana?" he asked when he 
was close enough.

Scully stood and held out her hand. "Sorry to use you as a post office," 
she said. Dawson shrugged it off.

"It's not the first time that's happened," he said. "I've got your 
package in the office."

Scully indicated for Ironhorse to wait at the table, then followed Dawson 
towards the back of the bar. The office there was small and cramped, but 
tidy. Certainly tidier than the basement office she'd shared with Mulder 
for so many years.

Dawson opened a box sitting on the desk and pulled out a large envelope. 
He shook a number of card-shaped objects from it into his hand. "Do you 
have pictures to go in these?" he asked, turning towards her.

Scully handed him the pictures they'd had taken, and he checked them, 
matched them up with cards, then pulled an amazingly professional looking 
laminator from a closet. "This will just take a couple minutes," he told 
her, plugging it in.

>>>~~~~~<<<

Ironhorse sipped at his beer, trying to relax. This time, separating from 
Harrison was a little easier, having done it successfully before. He had 
a low-grade headache, but he wasn't as anxious as he'd been the night 
before. He still wanted to get this done with so that he could go back to 
the hotel and Harrison as quickly as possible, though.

He glanced around the bar, taking the chance to examine the people. He 
was watching for signs that they'd been followed, of course, but it was 
also curiosity. Other than the plane flight from New York, he hadn't much 
chance to take a good look around at the way the world had changed.

It didn't look to have changed much. Clothing styles were different, but 
the conversations he could hear were familiar; jobs and politics and the 
crime rate, boyfriends, girlfriends and spouses. Even when he didn't know 
the names, it was still the same. Well, other than that Clinton fellow. 
He couldn't remember ever hearing people discuss a president in *that* 
way, not even Nixon. In a way it was reassuring.

The front door opened, and Ironhorse turned reflexively to check out who 
had come in and his eyes widened in surprise. What the hell was Kincaid 
doing here? He was supposed to be in Colorado with Mulder and Krycek.

Forgetting his drink, Ironhorse got to his feet and moved to intercept 
Kincaid. He reached the man just as he stopped at the bar, calling out a 
greeting to the bartender.

"Kincaid, what are you doing here?" he snapped, almost angry.

The man looked at him, a puzzled expression on his face. "I'm sorry," he 
said. "You must have me confused with someone else." He looked over to 
the bartender and shook his head slightly. The bartender shrugged, but he 
looked tense, ready for a fight..

Ironhorse frowned, slightly confused. The man in front of him could be 
Kincaid's twin, but now that he looked closer, he was almost two inches 
taller than Kincaid. As well, he'd never known John to wear his hair that 
long. And while his voice was similar to Kincaid's, he had an indefinable 
accent; Scottish mixed with others that he couldn't name.

"I'm sorry," he said, still staring at the man. "You look just like 
someone I know."

"Hear that, Duncan?" the bartender called out, now grinning widely. 
"There's another one of you out there. The world is trembling, I'm sure."

The man -- Duncan -- snorted. "And I know just what your dirty mind is 
thinking, Adam," he said, then grinned. "Sorry to disappoint you, 
mister..." He paused.

"Paul Irons," he said, automatically using a cover name he'd used in the 
past.

"Duncan MacLeod," the man responded, holding out his hand. "Can I buy you 
a drink?" he asked, ignoring the snort from his bartending friend. 
Ironhorse shook his head.

"No, I've already got one, thank you. Besides, I'm just waiting for a 
friend."

"Well, enjoy your evening," he said, then turned back to the bar while 
Ironhorse headed back to his table to wait for Scully.

He couldn't help shaking his head, though. The man looked so much like 
John Kincaid that it was scary.

>>>~~~~~<<<

"There you go, all done," Dawson said, handing over the fat envelope to 
Scully.

"Thank you," she replied, eyeing him curiously. He grinned.

"Let me guess. You're wondering why I'm not asking about why you need a 
set of five fake ids and credit cards. I've known Byers for long enough 
to know that he wouldn't ask if it weren't important. Besides," he said 
with a bigger grin, "I've heard all about you and your partner from him."

Scully went a little white at that. "Right now, you'd be better off 
forgetting you've ever even heard of us," she warned.

"Understood, Miss Clancy," he said with a slight bow, using the name on 
her new driver's license. She shuddered slightly. Whose idea was it to 
make her new name Wanda Clancy? Whoever it was, she was going to have to 
have a little talk with him.

They left the small office, and while Dawson headed back towards the 
stage, waving to a newcomer at the bar as he went, Scully headed for the 
table where Ironhorse was waiting for her, sipping his beer.

"Ready to go?" Scully asked, and Ironhorse pushed away from the table. 
Scully frowned. He looked troubled. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," was the immediate answer. Then he said, after a pause, "See 
the man at the bar? The one with the ponytail."

Scully glanced over. The only person matching that description was the 
newcomer that had nodded in response to Dawson's wave. "What about him?" 
she asked as they headed for the door.

"Well, except for an inch or two difference in height, he could be 
Kincaid's identical twin brother."

Scully blinked, and looked back. "Clone?" she asked, a little worried.

Ironhorse shrugged. "Who knows? It could just be a coincidence."

"Maybe," Scully said thoughtfully. Certainly stranger things had happened.

>>>~~~~~<<<

It was only nine when the cab dropped them off at the hotel but Scully 
was already exhausted. It was like her body had decided it was safe to 
relax and catch up on her sleep. A bubble-bath followed by room service 
and an early night, she decided as she headed for the room she was 
sharing with Suzanne and Debi. Ironhorse was already reaching to unlock 
the door to the room he shared with Blackwood when he froze.

She wasn't sure what had caught his attention, but she trusted his 
instincts. From what she knew of him, the man had survived in worse 
situations than she'd ever seen. She held still and listened.

It was quiet. *Too* quiet for a hotel before even ten o'clock in the 
evening. Ironhorse was backing away from his room door, and he indicated 
towards the stairwell with a jerk of his chin. She nodded.

They were almost to the door at the end of the hallway when the stairwell 
door swung open and two armed men stepped through. Scully twisted, but 
two more were coming down the side corridor from where the elevators were 
and another had just stepped out of her room. Between them, the men had 
blocked off all the exits, leaving them with nowhere to go. They were 
unfortunately still unarmed, and the men facing them most definitely were.

Scully sighed, stopped and raised her hands, as did Ironhorse. How many 
times had this happened in the past? The only difference this time was 
that it was usually Mulder standing next to her, cursing under his 
breath. Missing the sound, she used one of Mulder's favorite -- and more 
unusual -- oaths drawing an involuntary snort from Ironhorse.

The lead thug didn't look nearly as amused. "Move," was all he said, 
gesturing with his gun for them to head back towards their room. Scully 
shrugged, and they moved.

Inside, the others were waiting, along with a couple more gunmen as 
guards. This was definitely starting to look like a case of overkill. 
Seven men -- plus any others who hadn't shown their faces yet -- to 
snatch two men and three women?

Debi was sitting on one bed, her expression completely blank. Scully felt 
a surge of sympathy. It seemed like only yesterday -- or a decade ago -- 
that Debi had been in the same position. The only difference was, then it 
had been her roommate standing over her with a gun, and there'd been the 
hope of rescue. Her mother sat next to her, a hand resting on her arm to 
comfort her.

The an oath from Ironhorse pulled her attention towards the other bed. 
Blackwood was lying there unconscious, a large bruise forming on the side 
of his face. She took a step forwards, but a growled warning stopped her.

It didn't stop Ironhorse, though. He ignored the gunmen in his 
determination to get to his lover's side. When one of their guards got in 
his way, a well aimed blow dropped the man to floor, whimpering as he 
clutched his obviously broken arm. A second followed him, clutching his 
family jewels. Scully winced at the high-pitched scream that cut off 
quickly.

In the end, what stopped Ironhorse wasn't a threat to himself. It was the 
gun aimed at the side of Blackwood's head. His glare could melt steel, 
but he stood still, his hands held out to the side. One of the other men 
pulled out a set of heavy-duty handcuffs and used them to bind 
Ironhorse's hands behind his back.

Then he pulled a cell-phone from his pocket and punched in a number. "We 
have them."

>>>~~~~~<<<

"Good," Spender said, allowing himself a small smile. "Bring them back to 
Washington." He hung up, and leaned back in his seat. A Consortium-owned 
jet was waiting at Seacouver International to fly them... home.

And once they were there, he would find out why *they* had been hunting 
Blackwood so hard and for so long. He would find out who the Ironhorse 
lookalike was.

And, he thought to himself with a smile, he would use Agent Scully to 
bring Agent Mulder to him. It was time to end this little dance.

------------------------------------------------------------
Chapter #20: The Talk
------------------------------------------------------------

When Mulder woke up, a glance at the clock told him that he'd slept an 
unprecedented nine hours. He couldn't remember the last time he'd slept 
even *close* to nine hours. He usually just cat-napped, with late-night 
movies for playing in the background.


Then he sat up, and the cotton-wool feeling told him just *why* he'd 
slept that long. "They drugged me!" he snarled, looking over to where 
Krycek was sitting in his own bed, eating some sort of unappetizing-
looking sludge that was obviously supposed to be his dinner. Either that 
or a very late lunch.

Krycek just raised an eyebrow before eating another mouthful of the 
whatever-it-was. Pudding, maybe.

"They drugged me," Mulder repeated, starting to get a little angry at the 
lack of response.


Krycek put his spoon down and glared back at him. "You needed the sleep," 
he said. "You were on the edge of a complete breakdown. Are you really 
*that* eager for another trip to the padded room?" Mulder flinched at the 
reminder of his thankfully brief commitment. Immediately Krycek's 
expression softened. "You look better," he offered.

And he felt better, Mulder realized. Krycek was right; he *did* need the 
rest. Didn't mean he had to like the sneaky, underhanded way he'd been 
forced into it, though.

"So do you," he said finally, moving over to sit on the bed next to 
Krycek, grimacing a little at the collection of small bowls on his tray. 
Everything looked soft and easy to digest. It also looked absolutely 
disgusting. "How can you *eat* that stuff?" he asked as Krycek finished 
off one bowl and reached for the next.

Krycek shrugged. "I've eaten a lot worse," he pointed out. He was 
probably telling the truth, too.

"So," Krycek said a few minutes later, pushing away the tray. He winced a 
little as his abdominal muscles pulled, but he covered it well. Other 
than that, he was just a little pale. "Are you feeling more coherent?"

Mulder blinked, then his stomach clenched as he recognized the reference 
to Krycek's comment that morning. Time for 'The Talk,' it seemed. He 
nodded.

"So where do we begin?" Krycek asked, leaning back against his pillows, 
looking a tiny bit smug.

"Who killed my father?" Mulder blurted out, trying to avoid the main 
topic for a while. Krycek sighed, as if disappointed, but he didn't look 
terribly surprised.

"A Consortium assassin named Jameson. And before you ask, his next 
assignment was to kill me. Needless to say, he didn't succeed. Or 
survive."

"Why?"

"Because I'm a better shot than him. Sorry," Krycek said, holding up a 
hand before Mulder could open his mouth. "Your father was going to tell 
you everything about the Consortium, what it was doing and his role in 
it. That's why he wanted you to come that weekend. He had this crazy idea 
that if he told you all about it, you'd change your mind and join them. 
Yeah, *they* didn't think so either," he said when Mulder snorted at the 
idea. "Anyway, Jameson's orders were to stop him from telling you 
anything. And if he couldn't, he was to kill you."

"How do you know all this?" Mulder asked feeling a tiny pang of 
suspicion. A surprisingly *small* pang.

"I was there."

That surprised Mulder. "Why didn't you stop him, then?"

Krycek's expression went hard. "All I was there for was to keep you 
alive. That's it. That meant your father was going to die. If Jameson 
*hadn't* killed him in time, I would have. If Jameson had tried to kill 
you, I would have killed him."

Mulder just stared at him in shock. He'd believed Krycek's claim of 
innocence for a long time. Now he found out that while Krycek *was* 
innocent of his father's death, he could easily have been guilty.

Krycek sighed. "Mulder, your father was one of them. He was one of them 
before he even met your mother. He handed your sister over to them, then 
made sure you blamed yourself. He'd been warned that if he even breathed 
a word to you, you would be killed. It wasn't going to stop him. He's not 
worth grieving. Besides, can you really say that you miss him?"

Mulder opened his mouth, then closed it again. "No," he finally said. "I 
don't miss him. I can't even say that I'm angry over his death. I'm not 
happy either." If he were to admit the truth, he didn't feel *anything*, 
except numb.

He looked up to find Krycek watching him with empathy in his eyes. "You 
fight long enough and the emotions get burnt out, don't they?" he said 
softly. "You see so many big horrors that the little ones aren't able to 
reach you anymore. The calluses build up on your heart and soul until 
nothing affects them anymore."

Mulder shivered at the even tone. What really scared him was that he 
couldn't deny it. "Is that what happened to you?" he finally asked.

Krycek shook his head. "Not completely. But close enough that I'm not 
willing to give up on the things that *can* still reach me."

"Like what?" Mulder whispered, barely able to breathe. 

"Like you," Krycek said, holding out his hand.

Mulder hesitated, then reached out and threaded his fingers through those 
of Krycek's one hand. They squeezed, and the bands around his chest 
started to loosen.

"Mulder," Krycek said in a low, earnest voice. "You're the only thing 
that has kept me going. You lodged yourself deep inside me from the first 
day we met. There have been times when you were the only reason I didn't 
just give up and die. All because I was waiting for the day when you'd 
see me as I really am."

Mulder gulped slightly. "And what are you really?" he asked.

"An amoral bastard. A man who's in so deep that he can't see the surface. 
A man who wants to fight the Consortium and the aliens not just because 
they have to be stopped but because it's *your* fight. A man who loves 
you and will do *anything* to protect you," he said in a hard tone.

And Mulder believed him. Believed that Krycek loved him. Believed that he 
*would* do anything to protect him. And that scared him. No one, not even 
Scully, was that loyal to him. He wasn't sure how to accept that.

That train of thought led to... "Scully?" he asked.


"It was you or her," Krycek said flatly.

"Skinner?"

"The nanocytes?" Mulder nodded. "Again, it was you or him. *But*," he 
said strongly. "But, I knew you wouldn't forgive yourself if either one 
of them died. They planned to send Scully back, and I watched them to 
make sure they did. If they'd moved to kill her, you would have gotten an 
anonymous tip with proof of where she was. And invisible backup when you 
went to find her. As for Skinner," Krycek smiled, a cold smile. "They 
told me to have him infected, prove that the nanocytes could be used to 
kill him, put him under control." He snickered. "I did that. Then I 
deactivated them."

"Huh?" Mulder said, feeling a little stunned.

"Once he was fully recovered, I sent a self-destruct signal. Within a 
week, he was clean. The nanocytes washed out of his body in his sweat and 
urine. Of course I didn't tell him *or* them. As long as he keeps 
following orders, they don't know. As long as they think they *can* kill 
him at a moment's notice, they won't need to."

Mulder blinked. Again, he believed the man. "So now what?" he asked.

Krycek stared at him, not even blinking. "That's up to you," he finally 
said. "Do you want me?"

"I..."

"I'm not asking for anything deeper from you right now. Do you *want* me. 
Physically. Sexually. Do you want to fuck me?"

Mulder shivered at the blunt term. Mentally, he was still struggling with 
the concept, but his body was responding enthusiastically to the 
suggestion.

"Yes," he whispered.

"Then I'm yours." Krycek snickered again. "Well, I will be once I get out 
of this infirmary."

"That's all you want from me?" Mulder asked, confused. "I though you said 
you didn't want just a fuck," he said, referring to their conversation 
the other night when Krycek had kissed him.

"It will do for now. I can wait until you're ready for the rest. In the 
time we've been dancing this dance, you've gone from hating me to putting 
up with me to accepting me to liking me to wanting me." Krycek smiled. "I 
figure at this point that my chances are pretty damn good. One day you're 
going to say you love me and mean it."

"Optimistic bastard, aren't you," Mulder said, a reluctant smile tugging 
at the corners of his mouth.

"As far as you're concerned? Yep. Now. Do me a favor?"

"Sure."

"Kiss me."

Mulder blinked. "Huh?"

"Kiss me. Reassure me that you really *do* want me."

"I..."

Krycek tugged at his hand. "C'mon, Mulder. You've admitted you want to 
fuck me, so what's a simple kiss? I've kissed you twice. Isn't it time 
you reciprocated?"

Mulder allowed himself to be tugged closer. "Actually," he said, his 
smile getting wider. "I already have."

Krycek frowned. "When?"

"Yesterday. While you were still out of it."

Krycek pouted, a disturbingly cute expression on him. "Well, how about 
trying it again while I'm actually awake to enjoy it?"

Mulder glanced towards the door nervously to make sure that it was shut. 
Then he leaned down over Krycek, who was watching him obvious 
anticipation. A moment before their lips met, Mulder's eyelids fluttered 
shut. The kiss was light at first, just a brush of flesh against flesh, 
like the one he'd given the unconscious Krycek the night before. Then 
Krycek's lips parted with a sigh.

This time it was Mulder's tongue that slipped into Krycek's mouth, 
exploring every nook and cranny. He could taste toothpaste and chicken 
soup and vanilla pudding and a myriad of other flavors. And beneath it 
all he could taste Krycek. One previous kiss and he could already 
recognize the taste of the man. God, had it only been two days since 
Krycek had pinned him to the wall in the motel room with his own kiss?

The kiss was long and sweet, and when Mulder pulled away he found Krycek 
watching him with a smile. "Good enough?" he asked, suddenly feeling a 
little bashful. Ridiculous. It wasn't like this was his first time 
kissing anyone, male *or* female. First time in a while, though.

"Perfect," Krycek assured him.

Finally they separated, letting their hands fall apart. Mulder sat back 
down on the other bed, watching Krycek like he'd never seen him before. 
In a way, it felt like he hadn't. He could still feel the warmth on his 
lips, though, and resisted the urge to touch them.

"So," Krycek said, grinning at him. "What have you found out about this 
place?"

Mulder was instantly jolted back to reality. "You're not going to believe 
this," he said eagerly, suddenly remembering what he'd seen the day 
before, and was pleased to see Krycek's jaw drop as he explained about 
the Stargate.

>>>~~~~~<<<

The small jet landed on a private strip, and the prisoners were quickly 
hustled out. Paul was relieved that Harrison was finally conscious and 
seemed coherent, even though their guards wouldn't let him get close 
enough to make sure that the other man was all right. Paul had been kept 
separate and handcuffed the whole time.

Paul was grimly pleased with that. One of their captors was still walking 
funny, and a second had been left behind for a trip to the hospital to 
have his arm set and put in a cast. 

But even though Harrison was moving under his own power, Paul was still 
worried. The man had stayed unconscious as they were hustled down the 
stairwell, into a van, driven to the airport and loaded on the plane. He 
hadn't moved until nearly an hour after they'd taken off. Paul was 
worried about concussions and brain damage. From the way she was watching 
him, so was Agent Scully, and she was a doctor.

The van waiting for them looked identical to the one that had been 
waiting for them in Seacouver. He could almost believe that they'd flown 
in a big circle and that they were back where they'd started.

But he didn't think that was likely. From the length of the flight, and 
the fact that it was definitely the middle of the night here said that 
they were probably somewhere on the East Coast. If he had to, Paul would 
guess that they were in Washington, DC, or somewhere nearby. It certainly 
seemed to be the center of the current conflict, based on Mulder and 
Scully.

The van doors opened and a sneering voice called out, "End of the line, 
everybody out."

One by one they climbed out of the van. It was parked in front of what 
looked like a country manor, but Paul quickly picked out the armed guards 
on the roof and the signs of a sophisticated security system.

"This way," they were told.

Inside the building, they were led into what was obviously the library. 
A single man was waiting for them, sitting behind the desk smoking a 
cigarette. Behind him, he heard Agent Scully draw a sharp breath. Whoever 
this was, she recognized him.

"A pleasure to see you too, Agent Scully," the man said with a smirk.

>>>~~~~~<<<

Spender found the expression on Scully's face very amusing; a mix of 
horror, dread and disgust. It made her attractive face a little less 
appealing, though. It was pity that her partnership with Mulder had 
failed in one respect; she'd been partnered with him in the hopes that 
they would get involved, providing both distraction and potential 
blackmail material. Unfortunately, while they'd danced around each other, 
nothing had materialized. Alex Krycek had been just as much a failure.

He examined each of the other prisoners in turn.

"Agent McCullough," he said, shaking his head sadly. "All you had to do 
was stay away from Agent Mulder and you would have been left alone."

The young woman glared at him, but underneath the bravado he could see 
the uncertainty. She could have been useful to them, but now she was just 
a liability. Still, she could be of use for a while. In the labs.

"Dr. Gallagher," he said turning to the third woman. Then his eyes 
narrowed. "Or should I say, Dr. McCullough?"

There was no response, but the flinch said he was right. A change of hair 
style and color, combined with some cosmetic surgery, made her look 
different enough to throw off the casual viewer, but there were limits to 
how much of a difference that could make.

And that just left the two men. Spender frowned. The younger man *did* 
look exactly like Colonel Ironhorse's pictures. Mentally, he was lining 
up the tests. He wanted to know if the man was a clone, a shape-changer 
or just some freak coincidence. Interesting, though. Despite the fact 
that he was bruised and handcuffed, he managed to look almost as 
dangerous as Krycek would under the same circumstances.

He was also hovering next to the other man protectively. He glanced at 
Blackwood and frowned. The man was swaying dangerously. "Sit down before 
you fall down," he snapped.

There weren't enough seats for everyone, so the younger McCullough and 
the Ironhorse duplicate stayed standing. Ironhorse moved to stand behind 
Blackwood's chair, leaning forward so that they could touch, despite the 
fact that the handcuffs restrained his hands behind his back.

"Well," Spender finally said after watching them try to hide their 
fidgeting for a while. The more nervous they were, the better it was for 
him. "Shall we get started?"

He reached for the phone.

------------------------------------------------------------
Chapter #21: The Call
------------------------------------------------------------

General George Hammond was working late. Instead of going home, he would 
be using one of the spare beds on the base. It was something he did 
fairly frequently, thanks to his job as commander of the Stargate 
Project, but this time it was because the base was still sealed. They 
were no further along in finding out how Corporal Whitaker had been 
contacted with the orders to kill Mulder and Krycek, and they couldn't 
keep the base sealed for much longer.

It was damned frustrating. If there was anything he hated, it was not 
knowing where his staff's loyalties lay. After a lifetime in the 
military, he felt that a soldier's loyalty lay first with his unit, then 
to the chain of command, then to the country -- although that was implied 
in the other two -- and finally to family and friends outside the 
military, even if that order was hard on marriages. To find that one -- 
and maybe more -- of his people was reporting to an outside agency was a 
betrayal not just to him, but to the project, the military and the 
country, and he wasn't going to rest until he'd uprooted this vicious 
weed from his base.

He put aside the report from security on all calls made to and from 
Whitaker's home phone, looking for any suspicious calls, and reached for 
O'Neill's summary of the members of the various SG teams. He was certain 
that none of *them* would be involved in this Consortium organization, 
but he wasn't willing to count on that any more. After all, two days ago, 
he didn't know that the organization even existed, let alone that 
*anyone* under his command was a plant.

He had just opened the folder when the phone rang.

Hammond froze, then turned to stare at the phone. It was *not* the phone 
that was supposed to be the base's only link with the outside world. It 
was the private line, for emergencies only, that only a handful of people 
had the number for, all of them at the White House. *No one* should be 
calling on that line at this time of the night. In fact, it had been 
years since that phone had last rung.

Frowning, he reached over and hit the speaker button.

"General Hammond, I presume," a husky voice said from over the speaker. 
He didn't recognize it.

"Who the hell is this?" he demanded, all signs of fatigue gone.

"That doesn't really matter, does it? What does matter is that you get 
Agent Mulder to the phone immediately."

"Who?" Hammond asked, frowning. No one outside the base should know that 
the man was there. On the other hand, the man on the other end shouldn't 
have had the number for this phone either. That implied Whitaker's 
bosses, Mulder's Consortium.

"Don't play dumb with me," was the reply. "We have someone he should talk 
to. Get him, or that person dies."

Hammond fumed for a moment, then headed for the door. He beckoned for the 
nearest soldier. "Go down to the med-center and tell them that I need 
Agent Mulder in my office as fast as he can get here," he said.

He headed back to his desk and sat down, staring at the phone speaker as 
if it were a serpent about to strike.

"Well?"

"He's on his way," he said as evenly as he could.

"Good. I hope he doesn't dawdle. He wouldn't want me to get impatient."

>>>~~~~~<<<

Mulder was staring at the ceiling when the door cracked open. Krycek was 
asleep in the bed next to him, but the last of the sedatives had worn off 
and Mulder was left unable to sleep, and without anything to do except 
watch Krycek sleep by the light from the glass panel in the door and 
wonder just what the hell he'd gotten himself into this time. He'd meant 
every word he'd said earlier, but he wasn't so sure that he had the guts 
to go through with it.

A young soldier, barely more than a boy to Mulder's eyes, poked his head 
through and cleared his throat. "Agent Mulder?"

Mulder sat up, grateful from the distraction from his thoughts. "Yes?"

"Begging your pardon, sir, but General Hammond wants you in his office, 
fast as possible."

Mulder swung his legs over the edge of the bed and started putting on his 
shoes. He hadn't bothered to undress earlier, still feeling a little 
uncomfortable. His clothes were wrinkled, but it wasn't like he needed to 
put on a good appearance. At least not yet. "Did he say why?" he asked.

"No, sir, just that you should get there as fast as you could."

"Whassit?" Krycek mumbled from the other bed. Despite the sleepy voice, 
Mulder could see that his eyes were fully alert already.

"Go back to sleep, Alex," Mulder said. "Hammond just needs to talk to me."

"Want me to come?" Krycek asked, starting to sit up. Mulder immediately 
pushed him back down.

"Don't be an idiot. You are in no condition to be getting out of bed. 
Stay here. I'll be back."

"Sure thing, Arnie," Krycek said with grin, then closed his eyes. Mulder 
wasn't fooled. Krycek wasn't going to go back to sleep until he was back.

His young guide set a brisk pace for Mulder and his current bodyguard, 
and they were at Hammond's office in short order. Kincaid had been 
sitting in the med-center's outer room, chatting with a blonde in 
uniform, but he immediately fell into step behind them.

"You wanted to see me?" Mulder asked coming through Hammond's office door.

"Ah, good. Very prompt, Agent Mulder."

Mulder froze. Hammond wasn't the one who'd spoken, and the man looked 
ready to explode. The voice had come through the speaker phone on a side 
table. It was a very familiar voice.

"What the hell do you want, Spender?" Mulder asked in a tired voice, 
waving for Kincaid to stay quiet.

"Actually, the right question is what do *you* want?" was the smug reply. 
"Here, let me help you with that question."

There was a pause. Then, "Mulder?"

Mulder dropped into a convenient chair. "Are you okay, Scully?" he asked 
softly.

"We're fine," she said, a wealth of implication in the two words. The 
black-lunged bastard had the entire group, but they were unharmed. For 
now.

"And they'll stay that way as long as you do what you're told," Spender 
added.

"What do you want?" Mulder asked again.

"Quite simple, dear boy. I want you. There is a small business jet 
waiting for you at the Colorado Springs airport. You will get on it. 
*Alone*. It will bring you here."

"And here is where?"

"You'll find out when you get here, won't you?"

Mulder paused. "What about Scully and the others?" he asked, not 
expecting much.

"What about them?"

"Will you let them go?"

There was a rasping laugh. "Don't be a fool. Their only real use is as 
leverage. If I let them go, I lose that leverage. All your cooperation 
does is guarantee that I won't simply have them killed." There was a 
choked noise in the background; female, but definitely not Scully.

"Fine."

"Mulder, don't!" he heard Scully say.

"Very good, Agent Mulder. The crew will be expecting you, and only you. 
If anyone else shows up, Agent Scully dies. And Agent Mulder? Don't 
dawdle."

There was a click, followed by the hum of a dial-tone. Mulder groaned.

"You can't seriously be considering doing what he says?" Kincaid erupted, 
angrily.

"Do you have a better idea?" Mulder snapped. "Believe me, these people 
are serious. They'll kill them. Not just Scully, all of them. Including 
Blackwood," he added. Kincaid flinched.

Mulder turned to General Hammond. "Could I trouble you for a ride to the 
airport?" he asked politely.

"Are you sure this is the best move?" Hammond said gently.

Mulder shook his head. "No, but it's the only move I can make."

"Fine. O'Neill will drive you there."

"What are you going to tell Krycek?" Kincaid demanded, not giving up.

This time it was Mulder's turn to flinch. "I'm not," he said softly, 
feeling like a coward. "He'd insist on coming, and he's in no shape." He 
sighed. "He'll find out after I'm gone."

Kincaid shook his head. "And then what? We tie him to the bed? I don't 
think so."

"Too bad," Mulder snapped, moving to stand directly in front of Kincaid. 
"I'm holding you responsible for his safety," he said softly, only for 
Kincaid's ears. "Take care of him."

Mulder looked over to the door. Someone had already found Colonel O'Neill 
and he was waiting there, looking like he'd just crawled out of bed. 
Either that or he'd never made it that far.

"Good luck," Hammond said as he headed for the door. He didn't reply.

>>>~~~~~<<<

Kincaid watched Mulder leave, beyond furious. Sure, he could understand 
*why* the man was doing this. It didn't change the fact that it was the 
stupidest move he could make. He turned back to Hammond.

"We can't simply let him offer himself up like some sort of human 
sacrifice!" he said. He was not looking forward to explaining this to 
Krycek. The injured man was going to blow a fuse over this.

"What do you suggest I do, arrest the man?" Hammond snapped back. He 
pushed back from the desk violently and stood up. "Come with me."

"Where are we going?" Kincaid asked as they headed out of the office and 
in the opposite direction that Mulder had gone.

"This base may be home to the Stargate Project, but that's just the 
start. When they set up NORAD, they wanted a backup. The government loves 
redundancy," he added with a twisted smile. "As a result, this base also 
has a radar system that can reach almost all the way to the Arctic 
circle."

Kincaid stopped in his tracks, then started to smile. "We can track the 
plane that Mulder gets on, and arrange a rescue."

"Well, we can't be involved in the rescue part, but we can at least tell 
you where you need to go."

That didn't faze Kincaid. "Don't worry," he said. "I know just who to 
call."

Then the grin disappeared. "But first I have to tell Krycek what's going 
on." He groaned. "Any chance you could supply me with a few extra guards 
to make sure he doesn't kill me?"

>>>~~~~~<<<

The jeep ride to the airport was made in silence. The hour was late 
enough that there were almost no other cars on the roads. Mulder leaned 
back in the passenger seat and stared up at the stars.

Those stars seemed a lot closer now. The Stargate Project was letting a 
few select humans travel to other worlds, meet other races. It had also 
proved that aliens had visited Earth, thousands of years ago. He wished 
Scully could have seen it.

But Scully wasn't there. Scully was in the hands of the same people who 
had kidnapped her and used her before. He knew it was stupid to turn 
himself in to an organization that wasn't even going to let her go, but 
he'd put her in too much danger over the years. He wasn't about to be the 
reason she got killed as well. He just hoped that Krycek would understand.

He snorted. That wasn't too likely. Krycek probably would have said let 
Scully and the others die. He'd made his priorities clear; He didn't care 
what happened to anyone else as long as Mulder was safe. No. Krycek was 
*not* going to be happy about this.

>>>~~~~~<<<

"He did *what*?!"

Kincaid grabbed Krycek's shoulders and held him down. "What the hell do 
you think you're doing?" he said, pushing down hard. He was still having 
trouble keeping Krycek from getting up.

"Going after the stupid, self-sacrificing sonofabitch!" Krycek said, 
pushing back.

"You and what army? In case you've forgotten, you were *shot* yesterday. 
You are in no shape to go after him. Besides, you couldn't get there 
before the plane takes off."

"So I'll follow!"

"Where?"

That stopped Krycek. There were probably no end to the list of places 
that they could be taking Mulder.

"So what do you suggest I do?" Krycek asked, his voice slightly ragged. 
"Do nothing?"

"Of course not," Kincaid replied. "This place has radar that covers 
pretty much all of the continental states and Hammond's firing it up as 
we speak to track the plane. As soon as we know *where* they're headed, 
we start planning the rescue."

"Rescue?" Krycek said, starting to relax.

"What? Did you think I was going to just write him off? Besides, they 
have Blackwood too."

"Right." Kincaid breathed a silent sigh of relief. Krycek was starting to 
sound rational again.

"So, we find out where they are, then we call for help."

"Help?" Krycek asked, his voice suddenly going suspicious.

"Yeah. This is just the sort of thing that the Hunters love to do. 
Wolfling will hook us up with weapons and backup."

Krycek was starting to smile. "And this time, I swear I'm killing that 
cigarette smoking bastard, once and for all. No miraculous resurrections 
this time."

"Now you're talking," Kincaid said, finally letting him go and stepping 
back.

"And then, once I get my hands on Mulder, I'm going to paddle him until 
he can't sit for a *year*!" Krycek snarled, smile disappearing.

Kincaid sighed. It was going to be a long night.

>>>~~~~~<<<

O'Neill dropped Mulder off at the main entrance to the airport with a 
wish of good luck, then drove off, presumably heading back to the base at 
Mount Cheyenne. Mulder watched as he disappeared, then headed inside the 
airport.

Despite the hour, there was still a large number of people moving around 
the building. He paused, wondering how the hell he was expected to *find* 
the plane, let alone get on it.

"Mr. Mulder?"

Mulder turned and found himself facing a nondescript man in a nondescript 
suite with a face so ordinary that even with his perfect memory he would 
be hard-pressed to describe well enough to identify the man later. 
"Yeah?" he asked suspiciously.

"If you'll come with me, sir, the plane is fueled and ready to take off."

The voice was polite, but the hand on his elbow was like an iron claw, 
not allowing him to pull away or do anything but follow along as they 
headed through a side door and out to a small jet waiting with its 
engines already running.

Once on board, the nondescript man pushed Mulder into one of the swivel 
seats and belted him in like a child who couldn't be trusted to do it 
right. Another man was closing the hatch.

Then the nondescript man sat down and pressed an intercom button. "Take 
off as soon as you have clearance."

"Yes sir."

"So," Mulder said, already fidgeting. "Where are we headed?"

There was no answer, but the other man's eyes never left his face. Mulder 
sighed and looked out the window as the plane started taxiing towards the 
runway.

It was going to be a long night.

>>>~~~~~<<<

Jack O'Neill watched as the corporate jet taxied down the runway. He 
reached down and picked up the radio handset, already set to Mount 
Cheyenne base's frequency. "They just took off, heading east."

"Understood," was the reply. "Get back here, fast."

"On my way."

He glanced up again, watching as the plane's lights faded from sight.

"Good luck, Mulder," he said softly. "I get the feeling you're going to 
need it."

------------------------------------------------------------
Chapter #22: Waiting
------------------------------------------------------------

They had finally come to an agreement. Kincaid would allow Krycek go to 
the radar station where Mulder's plane was being monitored as long as 
Krycek agreed to stay in a wheelchair. Dr. Fraiser wasn't too crazy about 
the idea, but was smart enough to recognize a losing battle when she saw 
one. She just warned Krycek not to strain his stitches -- or else -- then 
let him go.

The radar station turned out to be a small room tucked in behind the main 
control room of the Stargate Project. Kincaid noticed that Krycek didn't 
even glance at the gate, so focused was he on what was happening with 
Mulder. At least Krycek had stopped ranting about what he was going to do 
to Mulder when he got his hands on the man. Kincaid definitely did not 
want to be in Mulder's shoes when Krycek got a hold of him. He would have 
been worried about what Krycek might do to the agent if it weren't for 
the obvious worry the man was showing. Krycek had finally gotten close to 
the one thing he wanted more than anything in the world only to have the 
Consortium yank it away from him and he was scared -- not that he would 
ever admit it to anyone.

Hammond was waiting in the room, along with the radar tech and several 
others. Kincaid smiled at the lovely Captain Carter, remembering the 
pleasant evening he'd spent with the young woman, then turned his 
attention to the large radar screen. "So, are you tracking?" he asked.

"For the moment, sir" the tech said, not turning around. "They're heading 
almost due east, at a steady speed. According to the airport, they filed 
a flight plan for Kansas City."

Krycek shook his head. "Doubt it. They wouldn't be stupid enough to let 
us know where they're headed. Besides, I don't know of any Consortium 
bases worth noting in the Kansas City area."

"How can you be so sure of that?" Hammond asked, frowning slightly.

Krycek sighed. "Because I worked for them for a number of years, until I 
figured out what they were *really* up to. That's when I started passing 
information to Mulder. Eventually, they figured out what I was doing and 
I've been working hard to keep a couple steps ahead of them ever since." 
Krycek smiled. "They did a very good job of training me. The few 
assassins who've gotten close haven't survived the experience."

"Oh," Hammond said, looking a little disconcerted. Kincaid wondered if 
this was going to be a problem, but just did a mental shrug. He doubted 
that Krycek cared. Just as long as the man didn't get between him and 
rescuing Mulder. Kincaid had the feeling that anyone who *did* get in the 
way was either going to end up dead or wishing he or she *was* dead.

>>>~~~~~<<<


After the phone call to Mulder, the five prisoners had been separated. 
The rooms they were locked in were featureless cells, down in some sort 
of sub-basement. While it might look like a typical country estate from 
the outside, the basement levels had turned out to house a thoroughly 
professional lab setup. Rather like the 'Cottage' that the Blackwood 
Project had been based in, Paul thought. However, they hadn't had cells 
at the Cottage.

Not that he was really thinking about it right now, though. Harrison was 
in a cell two doors down, though he wasn't sure just *how* he knew that, 
and he didn't like that separation. Paul paced the length of the tiny 
room he was in, unable to rest. The room was only seven feet square, so 
there wasn't much room to pace, and the floor, walls and ceiling were all 
the same unrelieved white, covered in some sort of yielding surface. 
Basically, it was a padded cell, like a cliched psychiatric ward.

Suddenly, the lights went out, leaving the room pitch black. Paul stopped 
in his tracks, looking around. He couldn't see a thing. There wasn't even 
a line of light sneaking around the edge of the door. He shivered 
slightly. This was familiar. Too familiar. Too much like the oblivion 
he'd spent eight years in before they'd found and revived him. He hadn't 
told Harrison, but while he couldn't consciously remember that time, he'd 
been having nightmares about it.

Then the lights came back on, far brighter than they'd been before. They 
cycled through colors in a seemingly random pattern, leaving him 
disoriented. Paul bit back a cry, and squeezed his eyes shut, backing up 
until he reached a wall. He slid down the wall, landing in a seated 
position with his face pressed against his knees. It didn't help. The 
lights were too bright to escape. He prayed that they weren't doing this 
to Harrison. With the enhanced senses that he'd developed during his 
solitary years, this would be worse than a torture.

"Who are you?"

The voice boomed from wherever the speakers were hidden, making Paul cry 
out in pain. The voice was mechanical, sexless, but he could guess who 
was on the other end.

"What do you want?" he called.

"Who are you?"

The lights were flashing brighter and faster, and the voice was louder. 
Paul clapped his hands over his ears.

"Colonel Paul Ironhorse, US Army," he ground out through clenched teeth. 
At the moment, there was no point in not telling them. Besides, it was 
what his training told him to do: when tortured, tell enough truth so 
that they won't recognize the lies when you tell them.

There was a long pause, then the lights faded slightly, and the color 
cycles slowed down. It was still painful, but a little more bearable.

"Colonel Ironhorse died eight years ago," the mechanical voice said. 
"Explain this."

"It wasn't me!"

The lights intensified for a moment, then died down again: a warning. 
"The Mothren cloned Ironhorse. Are you a clone?"

"No!" Paul paused. "No. They cloned me several times, then put me in a 
stasis pod in case they needed me again. It was left behind when they 
left. Harrison found it a week ago." A week. Was that all? It felt like a 
lifetime ago.

There was silence for a minute. Then the lights died down even lower to 
almost normal levels. "Where is that base?"

Paul swallowed. This was going to be tricky. How to give them enough 
without putting Vincent's people in danger?

"New York," he said.

"Where in New York?"

"I'm not sure." Immediately the lights cycled up again and he cried out. 
"I don't *know*!" he cried out, truthfully at least. He didn't know 
exactly *where* in New York it was, just that it was underground. The 
only thing he knew for sure was where the exit from the tunnels was that 
they'd used when they'd left and he'd be damned before he told them where 
*that* was.

>>>~~~~~<<<

Spender turned to the lab tech watching the monitors for Ironhorse's 
cell. "Is he telling the truth?"

The tech frowned at the readings. "Our sensors aren't infallible, but I'd 
say yes. He's probably holding something back, though."

Spender smiled slightly. "Going by his records, I'd be surprised if he 
wasn't."

Ironhorse's records were interesting reading. His skills were 
impressive.  In fact, there was a notation that he'd been suggested for 
recruitment by the Consortium, but a background check had determined that 
he was not likely to be cooperative if he learned of their true plans. 
His file had been tagged for observation and he was carefully kept away 
from any Consortium operations. His abilities were respected enough that 
he wasn't simply eliminated as a danger. His participation in the 
Blackwood Project had proven just how valuable -- and dangerous -- he had 
the potential to be.

And now he'd given them valuable knowledge: there was still at least one 
Mothren base undiscovered by them or their patrons. And if *they* found 
it first, they might find technology that would give them an upper hand 
dealing with the aliens. All they had to do was *find* that base.

"Get our people in New York hunting," he ordered. "And get everything out 
of him that you can to help find that base."

"Sir!"

Another tech was waving him over, and he moved to stand behind the man, 
looking at his monitor. On it, he saw Harrison Blackwood sitting 
perfectly still, staring blankly into the distance.

"What happened?"

"We were trying to question him about why the aliens want him captured so 
badly, and he just... blanked."

Spender frowned. "Anything in his medical files to explain why?" he asked.

"No, but..." The tech hesitated.

"What?" Spender demanded angrily.

"I've seen this reaction to the light and sound show before. At the 
Yucatan facility."

Spender thought about that, then finally understood. "A zone-out?"

"That's what it looks like, and the readings are consistent," the tech 
said, pointing to the monitors showing the man's brain activity.

"Well, well, well," Spender said, stepping back. "So Dr. Blackwood is a 
Sentinel. How very interesting."

And it was very interesting. They now had four Sentinels in their hands, 
and watchers on another five outside. Men and women with enhanced senses 
had the potential to be very valuable to their plans, both for and 
against the aliens. If they could figure out what *made* a Sentinel, they 
might be able to duplicate those abilities in others.

So far, all they'd been able to learn was that the abilities were 
genetic, although the scientists studying had not yet found the gene 
combination that created them, and that a period of intense solitude was 
necessary to activate those abilities. On a whim, he'd locked Krycek in 
the silo with the body-possessing alien and its ship, just to see if the 
young man was one of those who had the potential. He hadn't.

The other thing they'd learned was that a Sentinel without a partner -- a 
Guide, Mr. Sandburg called the partner in his notes -- was unstable, and 
often went insane. Through experimentation with the Sentinels they had 
they'd found that Guides were more common than Sentinels, and that they 
were instinctively drawn to 'bond' with a Sentinel. Once that bond was 
formed, the Sentinel stabilized. However, a Sentinel *separated* from his 
or her Guide quickly destabilized, in a matter of only weeks. As well, 
the bond was permanent. The only way that a Sentinel could 'bond' with a 
new Guide was if the old one was dead. They hadn't experimented to see if 
a Guide could re-bond after the death of their Sentinel since they had 
fewer Sentinels to experiment with. Besides, the Sentinels were the 
valuable ones. Guides were easy to replace.

Considering their behavior earlier, Blackwood obviously *had* a Guide, 
and he could guess who.

"Flood Ironhorse's cell with a knockout gas," he ordered. "Then put him 
in with Blackwood. Let me know what happens."

"Yes, sir."

Spender headed for the elevators, considering this new development. He 
wasn't sure how this would affect their plans, but it was important. He 
was knew that.

He stopped suddenly. Maybe *this* was why the aliens were so determined 
to get their hands on Blackwood. Then he shook his head. Blackwood wasn't 
the only Sentinel in existence, and there was no evidence that the aliens 
had made moves on any of the others. Still, it was a possibility.

>>>~~~~~<<<

"They've landed."

The announcement brought Krycek out of doze he'd fallen into. A glance at 
the clock said that it was about dawn, Colorado time. "Where?" he asked, 
scrubbing his face with his hand, already alert. Hammond and Kincaid 
were starting to move, also having fallen asleep in their seats. The only 
fresh person in the room was the radar man, since he'd replaced the last 
one only an hour earlier.

"Um.. almost directly east of DC. In Delaware."

Krycek cursed softly and slumped back in his wheelchair.

"I take it you know where they are?" Hammond asked

"It could be one of two places. Spender has a country estate in Delaware. 
It even has a small landing field. They could be there. It's close to DC, 
which is where the power is, but isolated enough that no one's going to 
come nosing around. The estate is a near-fortress, in terms of security."

"Have you ever been there?" Kincaid asked, his eyes hooded. Krycek could 
almost hear the wheels turning as the man started making plans.

"Once, and they didn't let me get a good look around. I think Spender 
wanted to cow me. It didn't work. It was a month after that that the 
first attempt was made to dispose of me." Krycek's mouth twisted as he 
remembered the clumsy attempt to blow him up. He still wasn't sure if the 
car bomb was seriously expected to eliminate him, or if it was just 
intended to scare him back into line.

"Anyway," he said, shaking off the memories, "it's well-isolated and well-
guarded. Getting Mulder and the others out of there wouldn't be to be 
easy. Worse would be the other possibility."

"Which is?" Kincaid asked suspiciously.

"The Consortium also has a heavily defended lab in Delaware, near an area 
called Blue Cove. It is *not* a nice place, from what I hear, and I've 
never been there. I say we try the estate first. Are your friends going 
to be willing to help us out?" he asked Kincaid.

The mercenary grinned. "Are you kidding? This is the sort of challenge 
they *live* for. Trust me. Wolfling will have men and weapons ready for 
us when we get there."

Krycek looked at him skeptically. "That fast?"

Kincaid snorted. "Not as fast as you're thinking," he said. "We are going 
*nowhere* until Doctor Fraiser gives her okay. Remember, you're still 
recovering from a gunshot wound."

"Now wait a minute," Krycek said, starting to push himself to his feet. A 
sharp pain shot through his abdomen made him drop back down into the seat.

"See? If you behave, my guess is that it will only take a couple of days. 
Push too hard and it could be a week." Krycek glared at the man, but 
Kincaid just ignored the expression. "And if you don't behave yourself, 
I'll have her keep you sedated for that whole time. Understood?"

Krycek snarled, but he had to admit that the man was right. He was in no 
shape for an assault on an armed compound. "Understood," he said 
grudgingly, resisting the urge to sulk. Assassins and double-, triple-, 
whatever-agents didn't sulk.

"Good. In the meantime, we can start planning. You don't need to move 
much to draw a map of what you *do* know of the estate, or to explain 
what typical Consortium security is like. Between us, I'm sure we can 
have a rough plan ready before we head east."

Krycek nodded, still not happy, but relaxing. His instincts were shouting 
for him to do something *now*, but common sense said that this was what 
he *should* be doing. For now.

"Fine, then," he said. "Let's get started."

>>>~~~~~<<<

Despite his best efforts, Mulder hadn't been able to get a single word 
out of his captors during the long flight. Instead, he'd amused himself 
by timing the flight and trying to figure out all the possible places 
where they could be going. Canada, Cuba, Florida, somewhere over the 
Pacific Ocean. All were possibilities.

But he knew where they were headed. Washington, DC, or someplace nearby. 
Knowing Spender, it was the only possibility that made sense.

The sky was bright around the window shades when Mulder felt the plane 
start to descend. He hadn't been allowed to lift the shades, so he 
couldn't confirm his hypothesis by seeing the landscape below, but the 
timing confirmed that they were headed almost due east.

His guards had never wavered in their diligence, and he had to admire 
their focus. In a way it was almost reassuring. It told him that they 
intended to keep him alive. If they wanted him dead, they would have 
killed him already.

When the plane landed, he followed Mr. Nondescript down the stairs and 
found himself not at any of the expected DC airfields, but on a small 
paved runway in the middle of nowhere. A black limousine was parked at 
the end of the runway, its motor running. Mulder headed for it, followed 
by his guards.

The driver opened one of the doors, and Mulder was summarily shoved into 
shoved him in, and the door was slammed behind him.

"Hello, Agent Mulder."

Mulder pushed off the car floor and dropped into one of the seats. 
Sitting opposite him, smoking one of his ever-present cigarettes was, 

"Spender."

>>>~~~~~<<<

Wolfling hung up the phone with a grin as wolfish as his namesake. He'd 
been waiting for Kincaid to get in touch with him, but he'd been a little 
surprised at the reason. On the other hand, John Kincaid never had boring 
problems.

He opened the kitchen door and called out to the man working on his bike 
there. "Grendel! War counsel. Put out the call."

"Gotcha!" The man wiped off his hands on an oily rag before heading off 
at a leisurely pace.

Wolfling headed back inside and started bringing the beer in from the 
garage. If they were going to plan an assault on a heavily armed estate 
near DC, they were going to need plenty of grease for the mental wheels.

He was already grinning at the thought. This was going to be the most fun 
he'd had in *years*.

------------------------------------------------------------
Chapter #23: Light Show
------------------------------------------------------------

Paul drifted in a warm haze, unwilling to move, unwilling to wake up. He 
wasn't sure why he was so unwilling. He just knew instinctively that 
waking was an invitation to pain, and whatever else he might be, Paul 
Ironhorse was *not* a masochist.

But despite his best efforts, the memories asserted themselves, reminding 
him just *why* he was in trouble. His eyes flew open before he could stop 
them, and cringed slightly at the memory of the violent flashing lights. 
But there were none. Instead, the room was dim and soothing to overly 
sensitive eyes.

And he wasn't alone.

Pushing up on one elbow, he found that he was laid out next to Harrison, 
and he breathed a sigh of relief. The cell was identical to the one he'd 
been in before, and they were alone, but least they were together. He 
wondered why, though. What were their captors up to now?

Then he frowned. Harrison didn't look like he was asleep or drugged. He 
was lying there, stiff as a board, and expressionless. If it weren't for 
the slow rise and fall of his chest, Paul would have been worried that he 
was dead. The man was deep into one of those fugue states, zone-outs. How 
long he'd been like that, Paul didn't have a clue.

"Harrison?"

Paul rolled over and pushed up to his knees. He reached down and slapped 
Harrison lightly on the cheek. "Harrison, don't do this. Wake up. Now!" 
he added in his best command voice. There was no response.

Paul wasn't sure how long he kept that up, alternating verbal coaxing and 
physical touching until finally he got a response. A low groan, almost 
too quiet to hear, then Harrison's eyes fluttered open. He stared up in 
confusion, and Paul breathed a deep sigh of relief.

"Back with me?" he asked, wanting -- no, *needing* -- the verbal 
confirmation.

Harrison blinked slowly, looking confused. Then there was a blur of 
motion, and Paul found himself clutched to the larger man's chest. He 
must be losing his edge, he thought to himself. He hadn't even realized 
that Harrison was going to move until it was too late to evade. Of 
course, he didn't *want* to evade, but it was the principle of the matter.

"Paul?"

Paul started to pull away, but the arms around him tightened. He relaxed 
again, letting Harrison keep a hold of him. For several long minutes they 
just enjoyed the physical contact.

Finally, Paul pulled away again, and this time Harrison let him go. They 
both pushed up until they were sitting side by side on the padded floor, 
although they stayed close enough that their shoulders were touching.

"What happened?" Harrison asked, his voice stronger and his eyes more 
alert.

Paul sighed. "Well, they put me in a room full of flashing lights and 
asked me questions about who and what I was. I told them what I knew. I 
didn't think there was any point in trying to lie. Then they stopped 
asking questions, there was a hissing sound and I woke up here. You?"

"I'm... not sure. They put me in here, but I don't remember anything 
else."
"Surely there's something you remember."

Harrison shook his head. "Nothing. It's like a big blank." He sounded 
upset about the gap in his memory, and Paul dropped a soothing hand on 
his forearm. After a moment, Harrison started to relax again.

"So," Paul finally said. "I wonder why they decided to put us in 
together."

"To test a hypothesis."

Both men jumped to their feet at the sound of the voice. Unlike the 
earlier computer-generated voice, this one was human. Paul recognized it 
as the man who Scully had called Spender.

"What hypothesis?" Harrison called out.

To Paul, there was no response. At least none that he could hear. 
However, Harrison went even paler than he'd been before. "What?" he 
hissed.

"The hypothesis is that I'm a Sentinel," Harrison whispered back.

"Thank you for confirming," the voice said, only slightly sarcastic.

"So now what happens?" Paul demanded.

They waited for a minute, but there was no answer. Finally, Harrison 
moved to one of the walls and sat down, beckoning for Paul to join him.

"They've turned off the speakers," he said. "The mics are active, though, 
so I would guess they're recording us."

Paul snorted. "I'm not surprised. How can you tell the mics are on?" he 
asked curiously.

Harrison shrugged. "They give off a hum. I can hear it in the background. 
So now what?"

Paul sighed, and leaned against Harrison's side, wrapping his arms around 
the larger man, even though they were probably being watched. He didn't 
much care what they thought of it. He'd never been a touchy-feely man 
before he met Harrison, but with the large man the instinct to touch was 
instant and constant.

And under the circumstances, he didn't have any interest in fighting the 
instinct. They were trapped and there was nothing they could do about it, 
so he would take comfort where he found it and give it when he could.

>>>~~~~~<<<

Spender smiled at the sight on the monitors. Blackwood was fast asleep, 
tucked in against Ironhorse's side. The Guide had his arm around his 
Sentinel and watching the room, even though there was nothing to see.

"Protective instinct on the part of the Guide. Physical contact needed by 
both. Some evidence of other Guiding instincts. They match with the 
others," the tech said, typing a report on his computer.

"Very good," Spender said. "Keep me informed of any changes."

He headed back upstairs, considering the possibilities as he went. It 
would be interesting to see what difference it made having a soldier as 
the Sentinel's Guide instead of an academic. Blair Sandburg was an 
anthropologist. Of the other four Sentinel-Guide pairs that they were 
observing, two of the Guides were psychiatrists that the Sentinels had 
gone to, thinking that their enhanced senses were a sign of some sort of 
dementia. A third Sentinel was being Guided by her husband, a grade 
school teacher. Teaching, medicine and history seemed to be fields that 
could-be Guides were drawn to, almost instinctively.

The last Sentinel was bonded to a Chicago policeman, but he was very 
different from Ironhorse. The policeman had a history of personal 
problems and a reputation for being unstable. His partnership with the 
Canadian had strengthened his personality, but agents set to watch them 
said that he still showed signs of being insecure about their 
relationship and his role in it.

But Ironhorse... The Colonel had a reputation for tactical brilliance. He 
was quick, intelligent and ruthless when he needed to be. It was an 
interesting contrast, Blackwood and Harrison to the other Sentinel-Guide 
pairs they had. Their studies had shown Sentinels to be drawn mainly to 
law-enforcement or the military, while Guides weren't. And yet this pair 
seemed to have reversed the roles. They would need to be tested to see 
how this affected them.

Spender entered his study and waved for the guards to leave. They locked 
the doors behind them on the way out. Spender stubbed out his cigarette 
and settled into his comfortable desk chair. "Do pardon the delay," he 
said, smiling insincerely at the young man opposite him.

Agent Mulder was wearing a mulish expression. Pity. It spoiled his fine 
features. He was rather like his partner in that. "Where *are* they?" he 
asked, not for the first time since he'd arrived at the estate.

"Dear boy, you really should learn to cultivate some patience. You 
wouldn't get yourself into as much trouble as you do if you just 
controlled yourself. Now, if you're a good boy, I just might take you to 
see your partner."

Mulder twitched, but he did manage to keep quiet, Spender was pleased to 
note. Despite the trouble he caused, Mulder *was* trainable. You just 
needed the right incentive. With any luck, Scully would be the right 
incentive for him to do as he was told for once.

But Mulder was impatient. He was already squirming in his seat like an 
errant schoolboy, eager to get away from class at the end of the day. As 
the squirming increased, Spender sighed.

"Fine. We shall go see your partner, since I doubt you will listen to 
reason until you're sure she's safe."

Almost immediately, Mulder relaxed. Spender got to his feet and gestured 
for Mulder to follow him. A guard fell into step behind Mulder as they 
retraced his steps from earlier.

During the elevator ride down, Mulder's eyes examined every square inch 
of the small room, as if he expected to find some important answer hidden 
in the wall panels or ceiling tiles. After years of studying the young 
man, Spender knew that he was full of questions, but too stubborn to ask 
them. It was those questions that were their best chance of bringing 
Mulder into line. Once he understood that they were his only source of 
real answers, he would have no choice but to join them.

Mulder had been part of their greatest and riskiest experiment. They'd 
started experimenting with hybrids. The initial attempts had been human-
animal hybrids, an experiment that was still ongoing as they tried to 
create the perfect soldier. Once they'd been successful, they'd moved to 
creating human-alien hybrids, using genetic material from captured shape-
shifters, with an eye to infiltrating their erstwhile allies. The results 
had been mixed. There were also objections that even if they were able to 
drive off the aliens, they were creating a potential non-human master 
race that they couldn't control.

So the next outgrowth of the human-alien hybrid project were techniques 
for enhancing human genetics. Members of the council had provided the 
fetuses for the experiments. Jeffrey, Jarod, Fox Mulder and his sister 
Samantha were among the children that had resulted. The children had 
shown early signs of high intelligence and robust physical make-ups. None 
of them suffered from the same sort of illnesses that normal children 
did, and they healed faster than the normal.

The only drawback was that they also tended to be intensely focused and 
unstable. In many ways, Fox Mulder was a prime example of all the best 
qualities of the resulting children and the worst. For years they had 
worked to channel his focus in the direction they wanted, but had only 
been marginally successful. Perhaps now they had the leverage to force 
him in the direction they wanted.

The elevator doors slid open silently, and Mulder's eyes went wide at the 
sight of the control room, manned by nearly a dozen technicians. Spender 
led him over to one of the workstations and gestured towards the 
monitors. They showed Agent Scully from several angles, sitting jammed 
into a corner of her cell, facing towards the door.

"I want to talk to her," Mulder said stubbornly, sounding like the 
spoiled little boy that Spender considered him to be. Instead of 
answering, he reached down and pressed the intercom button, then stepped 
back.

"Scully?"

On the screen, Scully's head came up, looking for the source of the 
sound. "Mulder?"

"Are you all right?"

"Where are you?" she said, standing up, a frown on her face.

"Uh... I'm not sure."

"Damnit, Mulder, tell me you didn't give yourself up!"

Spender's lips twitched at the guilty look on Mulder's face. "There 
wasn't much alternative," the young man said defensively.

Scully threw up her hands and started pacing. "Did you even try to think 
of possible alternatives first? I swear, you have a *death* wish!"

Spender reached down and turned off the intercom. On the screen, they 
could still see Scully pacing and ranting. He wondered how long it would 
take before she realized that no one was listening, or if she would even 
care.

"Well, Agent Mulder? You've seen your partner."

"Where is she?"

Spender smiled. "I don't think you really need to know that. All you need 
to know is that we have her and she is unharmed. And she will stay that 
way as long as you follow orders."

"So what happens now?"

"Now you take a little drive. And then you do what you are told. That is 
all. Is that understood?"

Mulder looked stubborn, but Spender could wait. He held all the cards.

"Yes," Mulder said, grudgingly. "I understand."

"Very good."

Very good indeed. Things were definitely looking up, Spender thought, 
lighting a fresh cigarette. It might even be time to dispose of that 
troublesome AD. With Scully in a cell and Mulder under their thumb, 
Skinner was not very useful anymore. Except as an example.

>>>~~~~~<<<

Kincaid was carrying a thick folder as he headed for the base gym, still 
followed by his shadow. Hammond had finally had to open the base, 
although he'd been carefully vague in reporting to his superiors about 
*why* he'd sealed the base. As far as command was concerned, a soldier 
had been affected by an extra-terrestrial virus that had caused him to go 
berserk. Hammond had sealed the base until Doctor Fraiser had found a 
treatment. The soldier was still in isolation until they were sure that 
he was fully recovered and no longer a danger. Or so Hammond told them. 
Thankfully, there hadn't been any challenges to that story.

Hopefully the story would continue to hold until they were safely on 
their way.

Hammond had also been very generous about allowing them use of all 
facilities in their preparations for the attack on Spender's estate in 
Delaware. Wolfling was already moving a small force of Hunter bikers into 
Delaware, with weapons and surveillance gear. They'd already reported 
heightened activity at the estate, which they had people watching around 
the clock. Kincaid got the feeling that Wolfling and his people were 
looking forward to the assault. Wolfling sounded almost gleeful when they 
talked over the scrambled phone lines.

Meanwhile, Krycek had been supplying plans of the interior of the estate 
based on his one trip there. Kincaid was amazed at the wealth of detail 
that the man had provided. Krycek had a well-trained memory -- a 
necessity to someone working in the shadows -- and an eye for detail, 
especially when it came to security systems. Again, a necessity.

And getting the details out of him had kept him in bed for most of a day. 
He'd grumbled about it, but he couldn't deny that it was important. What 
he remembered could make the difference between life and death.

After that, they'd moved onto creating a variety of battle-plans. They 
wouldn't be able to finalize those plans until they reached Delaware and 
got a better idea of who they'd be working with and what equipment they 
would have, but they could have some options sketched out ahead of time.

While Hammond couldn't actually help them -- and they hadn't expected him 
to -- his people had seemed to almost enjoy helping them set up different 
scenarios. It had started with the lovely Captain Carter, but her entire 
team had gotten involved, then other teams and before they knew it, there 
were more than twenty soldiers in a conference room brainstorming 
different ideas. Some were just plain silly, but they had some very good 
possibilities. The best, had come from Teal'c, a black man with a gold 
plaque on his forehead and apparently extra-terrestrial origins. A very 
intriguing man and one that Kincaid wouldn't have minded knowing better 
if he weren't already keeping company with Sam.

But Krycek was starting to get antsy. He was up and moving, not too 
badly. He'd been very lucky with the gunshot. Kincaid wouldn't have 
believed that someone could be gut-shot without more than nicking any 
internal organs. Krycek had been unbelievably lucky.

But now that he was well on the road to recovery, he was chomping at the 
bit, wanting to get moving, and Kincaid knew they'd have to head for the 
East Coast soon, before the man did something stupid.

Kincaid entered the gym and stopped, pausing to admire the sight in front 
of him. Krycek, in a cotton gi, was running through an advanced kata. He 
moved so smoothly and easily that you almost didn't notice that the left 
sleeve was pinned up. There were no checks in his balance or flow. 
Kincaid waited until Krycek glided to a stop, then whistled admiringly.

Krycek headed over to the bench and grabbed a towel to mop the fine sheen 
of sweat from his forehead. Kincaid wondered how long he'd actually been 
working.

"So, *mother*," Krycek finally asked. "Do I pass muster?"

"I didn't know you did martial arts."

Krycek snorted, but let himself be diverted for the moment. "I'm more of 
a brawler, but after I lost my arm, I found a sensei who didn't blink 
when faced with a one-armed student who disappeared on a regular basis. I 
haven't actually trained in any style or tested for any belts, though. It 
was just the best way I could think of to relearn balance and fighting 
skills after losing an arm. So?"

Kincaid shrugged. "I guess that makes sense. Martial arts *does* focus a 
lot on balance." Krycek took a step forward, fist up warningly, and 
Kincaid backed up, a grin on his face. "We fly out tonight. Wolfling has 
a friend who flies cargoes -- not always legal ones, mind you. He'll be 
here in a couple hours. We'll be in Delaware by morning."

Krycek broke into a wolfish grin that sent shivers along Kincaid's spine. 
"Good. And tomorrow night, the fun begins."

Adrenaline started pumping, and Kincaid felt his own grin turn dangerous. 
Spender was going to learn that he'd made a *big* mistake.

------------------------------------------------------------
Chapter #24: Solitary Confinement 
------------------------------------------------------------

Mulder sighed and closed the file folder, rubbing at his eyes. He had no 
idea what time it was, but he was tired so he might as well take a nap. 
He dropped the folder on top of the pile of other files and climbed to 
his feet and stretched his arms up over his head, groaning as he felt his 
spine popping after sitting in one position for so long.

It was a standard method for keeping a prisoner off-balance. Put him in a 
cell without windows so that he can't tell what time it was. Vary the 
feeding schedule and meal contents so that he can't use *that* to keep 
track of the time of day. No human contact, except the hand pushing meal 
trays and file folders through a slot in the door at the floor and the 
eyes peering through the slot higher up. Already Mulder was having 
trouble telling how long he'd been in the small cell -- although he was 
sure that it had only been a few days -- and he was desperate for the 
sound of another human voice. He ate when the food appeared and he napped 
whenever he was sleepy. The only distraction he was given was the files.

At first he'd ignored them. He wanted no part of whatever Spender and his 
goons were up to. Then he'd considered seeing if he could give himself a 
fatal paper cut, since he was never given utensils and the dishes his 
food came in -- mostly soup and sandwiches -- were unbreakable to keep 
him from making a weapon. Unfortunately, paper-cuts hurt like a bitch, so 
that was out.

Finally, out of pure boredom he'd opened the top file and started 
reading. It had turned out to contain the complete reports on a plane 
crash in Nevada. The next file had contained the transcript of an 
interview with a Mexican field worker who claimed to have been attacked 
by a werewolf. The next was an EPA report on the affects of a new 
pesticide being tested for use in the California citrus groves.

All in all, they were both fascinating and confusing. It distracted him 
and kept his mind active, but he had no idea *why* they were giving him 
these particular files to read. Hell, why were they giving him *any* 
files to read?

Having worked out the kinks as best he could in the tiny room, Mulder 
headed over to his pallet. The cell they'd put him in was bare concrete 
with no furniture, unless you counted the toilet sitting in one corner or 
the sink attached to the wall next to it. Instead of a bed, there was a 
thin futon-style mattress lying on the floor with one pillow and a 
sleeping bag on top of it. The sleeping bag was too small for Mulder, so 
he'd completely unzipped it and laid it out straight. Besides, he had 
problems with being restrained, even by a blanket. Being in a sleeping 
bag invariably gave him nightmares about Tunguska and being strapped down 
for their damned experiments.

Mulder slid under the cover, not bothering to get undressed first. They'd 
taken away his belt and his shoes, but otherwise left him dressed as he'd 
been on delivery. Mulder was beginning to wish they'd give him something 
else to wear. *Anything* else. Or better yet, let him take a shower. He 
was starting to get a little ripe, and sponge baths using the cold water 
from his sink wasn't enough.

He closed his eyes and wished, yet again, that he could turn the lights 
off, if only for a little while. Then he concentrated on getting a little 
sleep.

As he drifted off, he wondered what Alex was doing. He was probably 
furious. The assassin-slash-triple-agent didn't take being thwarted very 
well, and he'd expressed his opinion of Mulder's common sense many times 
and in far more pungent terms than Scully ever had.

Alex. When had he started thinking of the man as Alex, not Krycek or 
'that ratbastard traitor? Probably about the time he'd stuck his tongue 
down the man's throat and admitted that he wanted to do the horizontal 
mambo with him. Mulder winced at the thought of what Scully would say 
about that. She'd probably use terms that would make a sailor blush.

Alex. The man's face floated behind his eyelids for a moment, his lips 
twisted in a sardonic expression and his green eyes laughing. It was an 
expression he'd seen on the man's face often. Then it softened into the 
almost tender expression he'd been wearing the last time Mulder had seen 
him. Mulder groaned as a certain portion of his anatomy took interest in 
the image. God only knew how long before he'd see Alex again (or if, a 
nasty little voice in the back of his mind said) and how long it would be 
before Alex forgave him for running out on him.

It almost scared him how important that was to him. In fact, if he were 
honest with himself, Alex's opinion had been important to him for a long 
time, even back when he was beating up the man every time he saw him. His 
training in psychiatry was piping up with words like 'denial' and 
'sublimation,' but he did his best to ignore *that* voice too.

Finally all the voices fell silent, one by one, and he was able to drop 
off to sleep. And when he woke, he wouldn't have any idea how long or 
short a nap it had been.

>>>~~~~~<<<

Broots was lurking in the corridor outside the Center's records room. He 
knew that he didn't lurk convincingly, but when Miss Parker says lurk, 
you didn't say no. She was a damned scary woman. Even worse, she was a 
scary woman with a mystery on her hands.

Broots often served as errand boy for both Miss Parker and Sydney. 
Sometimes they were working together, sometimes they weren't. All in all, 
it led to ulcers in anyone stuck in the middle. Especially when they were 
at odds over Jarod. After all, Jarod was a nice guy, and Broots could 
well understand why he wanted to get as far from the Center as he could 
possibly get.

Unfortunately, *he* didn't have a choice. Broots didn't have a chance of 
breaking the hold that the Center had on him, so he kept his head down 
and did as he was told. That way, he hoped, he and his daughter would 
both stay alive.

But now something was up and Miss Parker wanted to know what it was. 
Security had been stepped up in the last few days, making life even more 
difficult than usual for the staff and 'guests' of the Center. About the 
same time, Broots had noticed a lot of files being signed out from 
records, all by the same person: a lower level tech with no reason to 
need them unless he was operating on someone else's orders. And there 
seemed to be no reason for *those* particular files to be of interest to 
anyone.

Needless to say, being a paranoid person, Miss Parker wanted to know who 
and why. That was why Broots was in his current position: lurking outside 
records, waiting for Golenski to show up for another batch of files. He'd 
been waiting for nearly four hours now. Sooner or later, he knew, someone 
was going to notice him and then he'd be in *big* trouble.

Finally, he heard footsteps. Moving fast, he ducked into a side room and 
peered out through the tiny pane of glass set high in the door. It was 
Golenski. The other man was walking briskly, headed for records. Broots 
waited for a few minutes until Golenski went back past him with several 
file folders in his arms. Why they -- whoever they were -- wanted paper 
files, he didn't know. Everything was in the computers as well, with 
paper just as a form of backup, and it was much easier to do searches on 
the electronic versions.

Once he felt that he was safe, Broots emerged from his hiding spot and 
headed down the hallway in the same direction as Golenski. Maybe his 
lurking skills were improving, since he was able to follow the man all 
the way to his final destination without being noticed. The route he took 
was long and circuitous, but eventually led to one of the sub-levels, 
well below ground, although thankfully not sub-level twenty-seven. They 
were still two levels above that ill-fated place. Broots shuddered 
quietly at the thought of going back down there.

After that his job got a little tougher. The level they were on was one 
rarely used and sound carried down here. He carefully removed his shoes 
and followed in sock-covered feet, trying to avoid making any noise at 
all.

Golenski headed for a corridor lined with doors, obviously opening into 
cells. Each had a food slot and a view slot set into the solid metal. 
Broots watched as Golenski stopped in front of one of the doors and 
leaned down to slide the folders through the slot intended for food 
trays. Then he straightened up and headed back the way he'd come.

Broots eyes went wide, and he glanced around for someplace to hide. There 
was an unlit side-corridor, so he ducked down it and squeezed into a 
doorway. He held his breath and tried to will himself invisible.

A moment later, Golenski swept past, heading for the stairwell. He didn't 
even glance at the corridor where Broots was hiding. Broots waited until 
he heard the stairwell door slam shut, then breathed a sigh of relief.

Instead of heading back up to inhabited levels himself, Broots headed for 
the cell that Golenski had shoved the file folders into. He knew that if 
he went to Miss Parker and told her what he'd seen she'd just order him 
back down here for more information. Better to get everything he could 
right away.

It was easy to find the right door -- it was the only one showing a thin 
line of light around the edge. Broots quickly checked for signs of 
watchers or cameras, then slowly slid the view-slot covering open.

Inside, he saw a man sitting against the back wall, his head bent over 
one of the files. For a moment he thought that it must be Jarod. But it 
couldn't be. For one thing, the hair was the wrong color. Besides, if it 
were Jarod, then surely they would have heard about it by now, if only 
through someone gloating over Sydney and Miss Parker's failure.

The man's head shot up and Broots recoiled, realizing that he must have 
made some sort of noise. The face was completely unfamiliar. In a flash, 
the man was on his feet and at the door.

"Well? Are you finally going to tell me what the hell I'm doing here? Why 
you've got me reading these files? What does Spender want?!"

"Shh!" Broots hissed, waving for the man to keep his voice down. "Do you 
want to get us *both* in trouble? Who are you?" he asked at a whisper, 
eyes flickering to both sides, watching for any signs that someone was 
coming.

"Special Agent Fox Mulder, FBI. And you people are in a *hell* of a lot 
of trouble," the man growled, although thankfully at a lower volume than 
before.

A Federal Agent? Were they nuts? Broots shook his head. Of course they 
weren't nuts. They just didn't think that anything or anyone could touch 
them, so why not lock up a Federal Agent?

"How long have you been here?" he asked curiously.

"What day is it?"

"Thursday."

The man frowned. "Four days, then." The same time that the security had 
been stepped up, Broots realized. Whoever this Fox Mulder was, they 
*really* didn't want to lose him. And what sort of name was 'Fox' anyway?

Well if nothing else, the man was seriously pissed off. Broots took a 
deep breath, trying to figure out what to say when he heard something 
that almost made him soil himself. Voices. A lot of them, heading that 
way.

"Someone's coming," he hissed when the man opened his mouth. "I've got to 
go. Don't tell them you saw me."

Not bothering to wait for an answer, Broots headed in the opposite 
direction from where the voices were coming from. Fear made his hearing 
hyper-sensitive, and shivers ran down his spine. If he was lucky, he'd be 
able to double back behind them to the stairwell without being caught. If 
he were unlucky and they caught him, he would probably end up dead.
>>>~~~~~<<<

Mulder stared at the slot in the door, confused by what had just 
happened. Then he heard the voices that the other man had obviously heard 
first. Not stopping to consider his motives, Mulder quickly moved back to 
his seated position against the opposite wall and picked up the file he'd 
been reading. When the slot was opened again, he showed no signs of 
having been disturbed.

He looked up again and met a set of ice-cold eyes and shivered. Whoever 
this man was, he was dangerous, very dangerous.

The man stared at him for a moment, then looked away. "He's still here. 
Fan out. I want to know *who* he was talking to." The slot-cover snapped 
shut as the man let go.

Mulder took a deep breath and forced himself to relax. Then he frowned 
and started a visual search of his cell. The fact that they knew he'd 
been talking to someone meant there was at least a microphone in the 
room, and more likely a camera set up to watch him. The fact that they 
didn't know *who* meant that there weren't any in the corridor.

Hopefully whoever it was had gotten away in one piece, Mulder thought. 
After all, if he was going to get out of this place, he was going to need 
outside help. Then he slumped. He couldn't do that. If he *did* manage to 
escape, Scully and the others would pay the price. Of course, that 
assumed that they were even still alive.

Mulder dropped the file and hunched forward to rest his head against his 
knees. Bit by bit, everything was catching up with him. He wanted out of 
here. He wanted everything back to normal. He wanted to argue theory with 
Scully. He wanted Skinner to growl at him about his expense claims. He 
wanted to come home and find Alex waiting with another bit of cryptic 
information.

He wanted to come home and find Alex naked in his bed, he thought with a 
blush.

And he wanted the strange man to come back and talk to him. God, right 
now he would be happy just to have someone to talk to.

>>>~~~~~<<<

Scully took another look around her cell and sighed.

It was a nicer cell than her first one, she had to admit. After all, this 
one didn't have padded walls. It had a bed and a toilet area sheltered by 
a low wall that gave the illusion of privacy, even though for all she 
knew there was a camera at the bottom of the toilet bowl getting an 
eyeful every time she exercised her bowels.

And once a day, an armed guard -- female, thank God -- escorted her to a 
locker room where she could shower and change into a fresh sweat-suit. 
Other than that, she'd had no contact with her captors since the morning 
she'd woken up after talking to Mulder.

Mulder. How could a man who was so smart also be so stupid? She'd been 
partnered with him for what? Six years now? And through that time he'd 
endangered both of them more times than she could count -- always for a 
good cause, of course. He'd dragged her into the strangest places in his 
quest for 'The Truth' -- and his sister, understandably -- confronting 
aliens and vampires and Bigfoot and sex-changing humans. And while Scully 
really wished that she could just close her eyes and refuse to see, she 
couldn't, even though she would never tell Mulder that.

Sometimes, being an ostrich was a *very* attractive alternative.

But it wasn't the path for her. She was a scientist, and while she might 
be constantly looking for -- *praying* for -- a logical alternative, she 
had no choice but to accept that there were things out there that were 
beyond the scope of her knowledge. She played the Doubting Thomas to 
Mulder's 'I want to believe,' but it was more and more just a role she 
played to try to rein her partner in.

And he desperately needed reining in. Just look at the sort of trouble he 
got into when he was on his own. This whole experience was just the 
latest example of that. They were forced to head off in separate 
directions and what happened? Anyone with half a brain could see that 
Krycek had finally succeeded in snaring Mulder in his sexual web, and 
then he had surrendered to his worst enemies. (She ignored the fact that 
he'd been unhappily celibate for most of the time she'd known him, and 
that he'd surrendered to save her life).

No. She needed to get out of here so that she could save Mulder, not just 
from the Consortium but from himself.

------------------------------------------------------------
Chapter #25: Frustration
------------------------------------------------------------

"What do you mean you *lost* him?!"

The man facing him was about ready to shit his pants, and while normally 
Spender would have found this amusing, right now he was too furious 
notice.

"We went to the hospital to verify that he was dead, but he'd checked 
himself out AMA only twenty minutes earlier," the man said in a defensive 
whine.

"He should have been *dead* by then," Spender snarled, and the man went 
even paler.

"Yes sir. We followed the instructions, to the word. But it didn't have 
any effect, at least not according to the hospital."

Spender waved for the man to leave and he so did gratefully, no doubt 
breathing a sigh of relief for his reprieve. He wouldn't be so relieved 
when he got his orders to head for Russia, though. Spender got to his 
feet and started pacing.

Skinner should have been *dead*! He'd decided that the man was no longer 
of any possible future use and he'd ordered the nanocytes activated that 
morning. Based on past experiments -- including the one where Skinner had 
been infected with the microscopic machines -- the man should have been 
dead within minutes of the command being inputted into the hand-held 
control. His people had been well within the necessary signal range.

Spender stopped and picked up a sculpture, hefting it for a moment. Then 
he snarled, and hurled it at an ornate mirror hanging on one wall. The 
mirror exploded into a hail of razor-sharp fragments. They mocked him as 
they lay on the ground reflecting his image back at him when he went to 
stand over them. The expensive bronze sculpture was dented beyond repair 
by the impact and fall.

There was only one possible answer.

Krycek. That fucking little traitor.

Krycek was the one he'd sent to infect Skinner. Krycek was the one he'd 
set to test the controls. And Krycek was the only one who could have 
destroyed the nanocytes that should have killed Skinner.

And now Skinner was gone. He'd left the hospital and vanished without a 
trace. Worse still, assassins sent to dispose of Mulder's little hacker 
friends had found all their bolt-holes abandoned, stripped of anything 
even vaguely useful. Of the three men, there was no sign.

Spender brought his heel down on the largest of the mirror fragments and 
slowly, deliberately ground it to dust, embedding it into the expensive 
Persian rug it was lying on. What the hell else could go wrong?

A flash of light behind him told he was about to find out.

>>>~~~~~<<<

"You need to eat, Harrison," Paul said, waving a plate under the other 
man's nose. His lover just wrinkled his nose and pushed it away. His skin 
was starting to look gray and he'd lost pounds that he couldn't afford to 
lose. Paul had barely been able to get him to eat a few bites in the last 
few days.

It wasn't that the food was bad. In fact, it was almost gourmet fare; the 
best he'd had since waking up in the tunnel society beneath New York. 
Paul had quickly put back on the pounds that *he'd* lost during his long 
sleep in the Mothren stasis pod.

No, the problem wasn't the food, it was the tests. Since they'd been put 
in the same padded cell together they'd been subjected to non-stop tests. 
The taking of blood samples had been all right. The bone marrow samples 
had been humiliating and painful. All their captors had bothered to do 
was to flood the room with a paralyzing gas. They'd been unable to move, 
unable to fight back, unable to do anything except lie there while they 
were poked and prodded.

And then there was the constant barrage of light and sound and scent. Not 
that he'd noticed, most of the time. They'd been too subtle for that. 
Instead, he'd known when they'd changed the attack by how Harrison had 
reacted. All he could do was try to keep the man from overloading. He'd 
been getting a crash course in the guiding stuff that Sandburg had 
mentioned in Cascade. God, what he would give to have the young man handy 
for lessons.

Scratch that, he told himself. He wouldn't wish this on his worst enemy, 
let alone a potential ally.

But damnit, he didn't know what he was doing! And he was screwing it up. 
He knew that. Hour by hour, Harrison was withdrawing further and further 
into himself. All he could do was try to slow the slide into oblivion. He 
hated the thought of failure, and he was terrified at the thought of what 
that failure would bring.

No! he told himself. He was *not* going to think that way. He was going 
to find a way to save Harrison. Failure was simply *not* an option. He'd 
never failed in any battle and he wasn't going to fail in this one. And 
this was the most important battle of all: for the sanity of his other 
half.

Paul put down the plate with a groan. The only problem was, this battle 
used weapons that he wasn't trained in, and there was no one to teach 
him. All he had to go on was instinct and he wasn't sure that he trusted 
his instincts.

Suddenly, Harrison moaned and closed his eyes. If he concentrated hard, 
Paul could pick up a faint flicker in the lights, like the fluctuation of 
a fluorescent light. The new attack had begun.

"Harrison, listen to me. You need to shut the lights out. Ignore the 
lights and concentrate on me. I'm right here." He wrapped his arms around 
the big man, pulling the curly-haired head down to his chest, trying to 
block the maddening -- to Harrison, at least -- light show with his own 
body.

"Paul," Harrison said in a tone that was half-whisper, half-whimper.

"I'm right here. Whatever happens, I'll be right here. Always and 
forever."

Paul continued to murmur reassurances, rocking his lover, his Sentinel, 
back and forth. He ignored the prickle in the back of his eyes. They were 
going to survive this, damnit. They were.

He refused to accept any other possibility.

>>>~~~~~<<<

"I have come for them."

Spender lit a cigarette, trying to hide a faint tremor in his hand. Then 
he took a deep drag and blew out a cloud of smoke. "Who would that be?" 
he asked casually.

"You have Blackwood and his companions. I am here for them."

Spender stared at the being in front of him. On the surface, she looked 
like a normal human female, not unattractive, with masses of curly dark 
hair. However, surreptitious scans over the years had proven her to be an 
android of almost super-human strength. Her frame was mostly metal and as 
well as unknown artificial compounds. His scientists desperately wanted 
samples for study, but all attempts to obtain those samples had failed.

There was, however, the question of what exactly she and her ilk were. 
Barely detectable within her form was a core of well-shielded genetic 
material. Were they remote-controlled tools or some sort of host for 
completely non-human aliens? They'd already had experience with alien 
life-forms that resembled nothing more than oil-slicks that could take 
over human forms. The alien shape-shifters that were their favorite hosts 
often sealed all accessible orifices to keep the oil-beings from taking 
control of them. Spender sometimes wondered if perhaps the androids were 
just another of the oil-beings' available hosts, mechanical instead of 
organic. It was one reason why the consortium had put so much effort into 
the vaccine testing in Russia. If their patrons *were* the oil-beings 
then they wanted to make sure that *they* didn't end up as unwilling 
hosts along with the rest of humanity.

"We have them," he finally told her grudgingly. They'd learned long ago 
that lying to their alien patrons was useless. Untruths were exposed 
immediately and punished.

"You will hand them over," she said in her eerie monotone. The complete 
lack of expression was one of the things that made her seem so... alien.

"Why?" he asked boldly. "They are no danger to you while in our hands. 
What is it about them that makes them so important?"

"That is none of your concern. You will produce the ones called 
Blackwood, Ironhorse and McCullough. Now."

Spender opened his mouth to protest again, but she focussed her icy gaze 
on him and he shivered. While the Consortium were willing collaborators, 
he had no illusions of their relative importance. They were tools for the 
aliens, nothing more. They knew that when the aliens took control, they 
would, at best, be servants. At worst, they would share whatever the rest 
of humanity's fate would be.

That was why while they did the aliens dirty work and made a show of 
being the perfect quislings, they were busily studying any alien 
technology they could get their hands on and experimenting with ways of 
destroying their patrons. When the time came, they would let the aliens 
proceed with their plans, then destroy them, stepping into the power 
vacuum that resulted.

"Come with me, then," he said, getting to his feet. While he'd hoped to 
use Blackwood and Ironhorse, it looked like that was not in the cards. 
The woman followed him as he headed for the elevator to the sub-levels. 
On the surface, he was the image of cooperation. Inside, he was seething 
with anger.

Oh, yes, he was going to enjoy destroying them.

>>>~~~~~<<<

The room had been scanned for bugs and the doors were locked. They were 
as private as they were going to be able to get while still in the 
Center, which wasn't very.

"So, what have you found out about our... guest on sub-level twenty-
five?" Miss Parker asked. There was never any small talk from the woman. 
Straight to the point and you had better have the answer she wanted 
ready. Sydney, thankfully, was a little more laid back.

Broots gave the door a last glance, then took a deep breath. "Special 
Agent Fox Mulder is an FBI agent heading a department of two called the 
X-Files. They investigate weird stuff."

"Weird stuff?" Miss Parker asked, lifting one eyebrow. "Is that a 
technical term?"

Broots flushed a little at the sarcasm. "They investigate UFOs and alien 
abductions, werewolves and vampires, spontaneous combustion and 
poltergeists. Weird stuff. Anyway, he disappeared a couple weeks back. 
The FBI thinks he's been kidnapped by someone named Krycek and rumor has 
it that there's a contract out on his life. Nobody's seen hide nor hair 
of him since then."

"So, any reason why the Center would have him here?"

Broots hesitated for a moment, then continued. "I have some net-friends 
who know Mr. Mulder. They say he had to go underground and fast. A lot 
of the stuff he investigates brings him up against a very powerful 
organization that *might* be collaborating with some sort of alien 
invasion that's coming. They've left him alone up until now, but he's 
gotten a little too close for comfort and they want him permanently out 
of circulation." He wasn't surprised when Miss Parker snorted at that. It 
sounded pretty improbable to him too.

"Great. Alien invaders from Mars?"

"I did some checking into this organization based on the information my 
friends gave me. The outfit calls itself The Consortium."

"So?" Miss Parker asked, shaking her head.

Broots stared at her, as if he could force her to believe what he was 
going to say next. "The Consortium has people in ever level of government 
and military. They run a lot of private companies too. And..." he took a 
deep breath, "they also control the Center."

"What?!" Both Sydney and Miss Parker were shocked.

"I checked it every which way," Broots said. "Took me all night. I found 
four separate *direct* links between the upper management of the Center 
and this Consortium. No mistake."

Miss Parker did something unusual for her: she slumped back in her chair. 
She rarely showed anything but perfect posture, but the expression on her 
face said she was thinking too hard to worry about anything as 
inconsequential as posture. Sydney was also frowning.

"And the alien business?" he asked.

Broots shrugged. "I didn't find anything definite, but how many times 
have we seen things around here that looked too... weird? Technology that 
does things we didn't know *could* be done? I mean, at Donoterase they 
were able to clone Jarod. Science says that that's not completely 
possible yet, despite the occasional animal."

"You can't be serious," Miss Parker said derisively. "You believe in 
aliens? You think they've come to take over Earth? War of the Worlds, 
millennium-style?"

Broots cringed inside at the words, then squared his shoulders. "I don't 
know that I believe *that*, but I've seen too much to reject the 
possibility. If nothing else, I believe they're out there somewhere. The 
question is, are they *here*?"

"If they are, then God help us all," Sydney said, and Broots found 
himself echoing the prayer.

>>>~~~~~<<<

Thankfully, the latest barrage of tests had been short. Once it was over, 
Paul had managed to coax Harrison into eating at least part of his 
dinner. Or breakfast or lunch. He wasn't sure which meal it was. Then 
they'd curled up together to try to get some sleep before it started 
again. Harrison had curled himself around Paul, hugging him like an 
oversized teddy-bear, sighed, then gone straight to sleep. Paul was 
finding sleep a little more elusive.

Harrison couldn't take this much longer. Sooner or later -- and he was 
afraid that sooner was more likely -- Harrison was going to reach the 
breaking point. What the result would be, he wasn't sure. All he knew 
right now was that it was his job to hold the big man together.

Harrison sighed in his sleep and snuffled, inhaling Paul's scent through 
his hair. "Paul," he murmured contentedly before slipping a little 
further into sleep. It was a nice feeling, Paul thought. And if nothing 
else, Harrison's embrace kept the nightmares away.

He wished they could make love, though. The need for that more intimate 
contact burned in his veins. And he wasn't the only one to feel it 
either. He could feel the hot, solid press of an erection against his 
buttocks through the thin cotton pajamas they'd been given to wear. But 
they were constantly monitored, and he wasn't going to give their captors 
a show. He wasn't an exhibitionist.

Besides, making love with Harrison had always felt special. It was a gift 
between them and to the spirits. To allow these people to watch would be 
to profane something... sacred.

Harrison snorted softly, then suddenly stiffened, awake again. Paul 
stiffened too. "What is it?" he whispered soft enough that the 
microphones wouldn't pick it up. Surely it was too soon for the next 
torture to be starting?

"Someone's coming," Harrison whispered back.

"And?"

"They're coming *here*. Spender and someone else. They're talking about 
us."

Paul quickly pushed to his feet. If someone was coming to see them, he 
was going to meet them on his feet. Preferably with a fist leading.

Harrison was standing next to him when the cell door swung open silently. 
Two figures stepped through and Paul dropped into a ready stance.

Only to straighten up in shock at the sight of the second figure.

"You!"

The bounty hunter android tilted her head slightly in acknowledgement. 
"Me, Colonel Paul Ironhorse."

Shit! Now what the hell was going on?

>>>~~~~~<<<

Krycek held the binoculars to his face in a well-practiced grip. The 
first few times he'd tried that once he'd received his prosthetic, he'd 
either dropped the binoculars or failed to hold them in a usable 
position. Now it had become second nature, along with everything else. In 
a way, it was almost scary how used he'd become to the prosthetic.

"Hello," he said softly, catching the attention of his companions. 
Kincaid and the giant red-head Wolfling moved closer. Down below, on the 
grounds of Spender's estate, a helicopter had just landed. While they 
watched, a figure left the building and headed for the waiting vehicle.

Krycek grinned at what he saw through the binoculars. "Spender's leaving, 
and my, he looks pissed."

Kincaid snorted. "And what could possibly piss off the big man himself?"

Krycek grinned. "Nine time out of ten? Mulder. Of course, the man *does* 
make a career of pissing off everyone he meets. Spender, Scully, Skinner, 
Me, the military, police forces across this country and in other 
countries too. It's a talent," he added fondly.

"My kind of guy," Wolfling said. "So. Spender's gone. Now what?"

Krycek tapped a finger against his jaw as he watched the helicopter take 
off and head in the direction of D.C.. "We go in, of course."

------------------------------------------------------------
Chapter #26: Setbacks
------------------------------------------------------------

Getting into the estate was easy. Disturbingly so, as far as Krycek was 
concerned. There were only four men patrolling the grounds, accompanied 
by guard dogs. Wolfling's Hunters took them out quickly, knocking them 
unconscious, then tying and gagging them before dumping them under some 
convenient bushes. The dogs were dropped using tranquilizer guns and 
deposited with their handlers.

The building had a simple alarm system, one which took Krycek only a 
minute to disarm. He was starting to get very uneasy by that point. There 
should have been more security. Surely Spender was expecting some sort of 
attack?

Inside, the building was eerily silent, seemingly abandoned. The Hunters 
fanned out on Kincaid's orders, checking every room for signs of life, 
while Krycek lead the search for any concealed entrances or exits.

Ten minutes later, he'd found an elevator concealed behind the wood-
paneling in the hallway outside Spender's study. It was a pity that the 
computer in the study was password locked and they didn't have the time 
to crack the code. Finding Mulder was more important.

The elevator just had two buttons: up and down. Seven men crammed into 
small room, then Krycek pressed the down button. He stood directly in 
front of the elevator doors, gun held ready for whatever they found when 
they stopped. No one challenged him. He was going to find Mulder and God 
help anyone who got in his way.

There was no ping to announce their arrival. The doors just opened and 
they spilled out, taking the technicians in white coats off-guard. Only 
one reached to press a button, but Krycek's gun barrel jammed against his 
temple and the prosthetic arm wrapped around his neck quickly convinced 
him that any further movements would be a very bad idea.

"I could do a very bad Clint Eastwood imitation," Krycek said with an 
insincere smile, "or we could skip that and you'll just tell me what I 
need to know. Now. Before your brains end up splattered all over these 
nice, expensive electronics."

The man gulped a couple times, then said, "What do you want?"

"Good boy," Krycek said approvingly. "Mulder."

"Not here." Krycek growled and the gun barrel pressed a little harder 
against the man, who started sweating profusely. "I tell you! He's not 
here! They took him away four days ago! He was only here for a couple 
hours!" The man was making very unattractive whimpering noises in the 
back of his throat.

"Where did they take him?"

"They didn't say!"

"Guess," Krycek said in a flat monotone.

"The Center! I heard someone say that he'd been sent to the Center!"

Krycek cursed softly. This was not a good thing. The Center had a much 
stronger security system. It was one of the Consortium's main 
experimental facilities in the country and was guarded as such.

"What about the others?" Kincaid asked, coming up beside Krycek.

"Others?" the man squeaked.

"Blackwood. Ironhorse. The three women with them."

The man licked his lips nervously. "Someone came for them. The two men 
and the older woman. A couple hours ago. I don't know where she took 
them."

Krycek squeezed a little, cutting the man's air off. "Liar," he hissed. 
"We've been watching for a couple days. No one arrived or left except 
Spender."

"I swear! I don't know who she was! *He* looked upset, but he handed them 
over to her. I don't know what she did with them after that!"

Krycek forced himself to relax a little bit. He wasn't sure what was 
going on here, but the man obviously believed what he was saying. "And 
the other two women?" he asked, not allowing his frustration to bleed 
through into his voice.

"The... the blond was sent to the Mexican facility," the man told them. 
"The other one is still here.

"It figures," Krycek groused to himself. "The only one left behind is the 
one I *don't* want to see. Well, I suppose we can't leave her here. 
Mulder would get upset if we did."

He pulled the technician out of his seat. "Where is Agent Scully?" he 
asked in a mock-polite voice, but his eyes were gleaming with barely 
restrained violence. The man trembled, but didn't argue. Instead he led 
them to a barely visible door. It opened into a corridor lined with more 
doors, obviously the facility's holding cells.

One of the Hunters started opening doors. It wasn't difficult. There were 
quick-release buttons on each one. Obviously, Spender figured that no one 
would be able to get this far. Naturally, they wouldn't be able to open 
from the inside.

Halfway down the hallway, the man opened a door and was immediately hit 
by a red-head more than a foot shorter than him. It would have been fun 
to watch the poor man trying to defend himself from someone he didn't 
want to hurt, but they didn't have the time.

"Down, Scully. The clock is ticking, and we need to get the hell out of 
here."

Her head twisted so fast that Krycek wondered if she was going to end up 
with whiplash. "You son of a bitch..." she started to hiss.

"Later, Scully," Krycek said with a sigh. "Let's get out of here first, 
okay?"

Instead of answering, she just brushed past him, heading for the exit. 
When she saw Kincaid, she pulled up short, staring up into his face. 
"Ironhorse was *right*," she said in disbelief. Kincaid looked puzzled, 
but didn't say anything. Like Krycek had said, the clock was ticking, and 
sooner or later, reinforcements would be coming. They needed to be out of 
there before they arrived.

They herded the technicians into the now empty cells, locking them in, 
then headed for the elevators. Krycek looked around, briefly wishing for 
some C4 and detonators, but he knew the others would draw the line at 
blowing the place up while there were still people down there. He sighed, 
then punched the up button. Luckily, Scully was small enough to be 
squished in, instead of taking two trips.

The other Hunters waiting for them were definitely getting antsy. One of 
them gestured to Wolfling. "Green says there's trucks heading this way, 
Wolf! We gotta book, *now*."

Wolfling nodded. "All right, folks. You heard the man. Party, part one, 
is now over. Let's get the hell out of here."

"Part one?" Krycek asked with a raised eyebrow.

"Hey, we told Kincaid that we'd help rescue your friends and his," the 
big man said with a shrug. "Job ain't finished yet. Unless *you're* 
giving up."

Krycek snorted at the idea as he climbed onto the back of the man's 
motorcycle. Everyone else was doing the same and the first few were 
already heading down the drive for the exit. Once off the estate, they 
would head cross-country by a variety of routes, meeting up at the pre-
arranged location. The Hunters might *seem* crude by 'civilized' 
standards, but they were sharp when it came to planning. He liked them.

"Of course not," he said. "But after this, they'll be expecting us at the 
Center."

"That's all right," Wolfling said with a grin. "I got a friend who can 
help us."

"What makes you think this person *can* help us."

"Well, considering he's escaped *from* the Center, more than once, I 
think he can help us figure a way to break someone *out*."

Krycek's eyes went wide. Then the memory of an overheard argument 
involving Spender surfaced. "Your friend wouldn't happen to go by the 
name Jarod, by any chance?" he asked.

"Got it in one, little boy," the Canadian said. Then he kicked his Harley 
to life and they sped down the road, last in the string of vehicles. By 
the time Spender's goons arrived, they would be long gone.

>>>~~~~~<<<


When the sudden burst of light faded, Harrison dropped to his knees. He 
didn't know what the hell had just happened, other than that they were no 
longer where they had been. The air temperature had dropped several 
degrees and the air was musty and heavy with dust. When his eyes finally 
recovered from the blinding flash of light, he looked around to find that 
they were in some sort of abandoned lab. The room was large and echoing, 
not a window in site, and a few microscopes and the like were left on the 
tables scattered around the room. Wires dangled from the walls where 
larger, more elaborate devices had obviously been installed. The only 
thing in the room that *wasn't* covered in a thick, velvety layer of dust 
was a pile of boxes in one corner.

"Where are we?" Paul demanded from his side, one arm protectively wrapped 
around Harrison's shoulders as he struggled back to his feet.

"Someplace safe. Where does not matter," the android told him. It wasn't 
very helpful.

"Why?" Harrison asked. Everything else was secondary to that one 
question, as far as he was concerned.

"Because your cooperation is needed."

"Cooperation?!" Paul snarled. "You're trying to take over our world and 
you want cooperation? You try to kill us and you want *cooperation*!?"

Harrison reached to restrain his lover. This was not the time to be 
losing their tempers. The android just stared at them for a moment, 
completely expressionless, before continuing.

"Your cooperation in preventing my people from taking your world."

That statement shut them all up.

>>>~~~~~<<<

Two hours later, Krycek and Wolfling arrived at the rendezvous location. 
They'd led pursuers on a merry chase before losing them out in the middle 
of nowhere. The morons were probably still scratching their heads, trying 
to figure out what had happened to the two guys on the motorbike. Either 
that or they were shaking in their boots, trying to figure out what they 
were going to tell Spender. Krycek grinned at the thought of the man's 
expression when he found out that someone had broken into his estate and 
made off with one of his prisoners.

Speaking of whom, hurricane Scully -- or maybe blizzard was a better term 
considering how cold the woman could be -- was bearing down on him before 
he'd even gotten off the bike. It was the first time they'd been in the 
same place without Mulder to mediate between them and Krycek wasn't sure 
if he was dreading the confrontation or looking forward to it.

"This is all *your* fault," were the very predictable first words out of 
her mouth.

Krycek blinked. "And how do you figure that?" he asked in a deceptively 
mild tone.

"How could you let Mulder just turn himself over to them?" she demanded, 
but there was a plaintive note to her voice. Krycek sighed. He might not 
like Scully -- and she *definitely* hated him -- but she was Mulder's 
partner and friend, so of course she was worried about him.

"I didn't exactly have a say in the matter," he told her. "The general 
wanted to talk to him, so he headed off, saying he'd be right back. He 
left poor Kincaid to do his dirty work telling me."

"And where were you?" she asked pointedly.

"In a bed in the medical center, recovering from major surgery to repair 
the damage done by a not inconsiderable piece of metal passing through my 
body. You want to see the scar?" he invited, starting to tug at his 
T-shirt.

"Spare me," she said in a tone that had made strong men whither in the 
past. Krycek wasn't impressed.

"Listen, you should know how good Mulder is at ditching people, even when 
they're in the best of health. We still managed to track him here." She 
flushed, the point having hit home. Mulder had ditched *her* far more 
often than he'd ditched Krycek. Well, other than that brief period where 
Krycek had been playing the nave FBI agent.

"But he isn't here anymore!" she replied

"No, but we *were* able to find out where he was sent to. Wolfling," he 
said, gesturing to the over-sized man who was part of their very 
interested audience, "knows someone who can get us into the facility 
where they're holding him. We go in, we get Mulder, then we track down 
the others."

"I wouldn't have thought you'd care about anyone else," Scully said with 
a sneer.

"But then, you don't know me, do you?"

"I know enough. You're a traitor and a murderer and worse."

That got a reaction from the small crowd around them. "You work from the 
outside, I work from the inside," he told her. "And I've never killed 
anyone who didn't deserve it."

"Like my sister?" Scully shouted. "Did she deserve it?"

Krycek threw up his hands. "How many times do I have to say it before you 
get it through your head? I. Did. Not. Kill. Your. Sister!"

"Maybe not, but you were there. You could have stopped Cardinale," She 
said accusingly.

"And if I had, he would have killed me and your sister would probably 
still have ended up dead. And so would a lot of other people. You can't 
deny that the information I've funneled Mulder since then has saved 
lives."

Scully just glared at him. Obviously she could and would. "Why don't you 
admit the truth," she hissed. "The only thing you care about is *you*."

"Wrong," he shot back. "I care about Mulder too. And in a choice between 
him and a stranger -- hell, him and *you* -- he'll win every time."

Scully snorted. "The only thing you care about Mulder is getting into his 
pants," she said.

"Which is more than you care," he hissed back.

Scully went white. "How dare you..." she started to say. Krycek dropped 
into a fighting stance, ready for whatever she threw at him next.

Blood-letting was starting to look inevitable when Kincaid stepped 
between them, his face tense with anger. "Listen, if the two of you want 
to rip each other to shreds, that's your business. Just wait until we've 
found the other, all right?"

Krycek took a deep breath, then let it out slowly, forcing himself to 
relax. Kincaid was right: this wasn't helping matters.

"We rescue Mulder, then find the others," he told Scully. "You can help 
or you can head back to D.C.. Your choice. Just don't get in my way."

"If you think I'm leaving Mulder to you, you've got another thing coming. 
But," she said grudgingly, "I'll work with you until he's free. After 
that..." She glared at him.

"After that, all bets are off," he promised her. The smile he got in 
return was almost scary.

Still, they understood each other. Trust was a different matter 
altogether.

>>>~~~~~<<<

Debi McCullough felt like shit, pure and simple.

She rolled over in bed, already aiming for the conveniently placed 
bucket. The smell rising from it was the last impetus her stomach needed, 
and she was heaving, adding what was left in her stomach to the fluids 
already in the bucket

As the last spasms faded, her stomach completely empty, she reached for 
the pitcher of water sitting on the table next to her bed and poured a 
glass. Her hands trembled and a little bit slopped onto the table 
surface. She ignored it. She rinsed her mouth with a small amount, 
spitting it into the bucket, then sipped the lukewarm liquid. When she'd 
finished the glass, she put it down and collapsed back onto the bed.

The heat was almost unbearable. The air in the room was stagnant, fetid, 
and the heat sapped all of her strength. She reached a hand down and 
rubbed her stomach through the thin nightgown she'd been given to wear. 
She winced a little. Whatever they'd done to her while she was 
unconscious had left her sore and with a stomach that rebelled at all 
thoughts of food. She'd lost weight and the only thing that was keeping 
her healthy were the daily shots of vitamins and intravenous feedings her 
captors had been giving her.

If only she could get them to explain what was *happening* to her.

Maybe she wouldn't be so scared.

She'd been separated from her mother and the others as soon as that... 
*person* had finished his phone-call to Agent Mulder. She'd been injected 
with something and didn't remember anything else until she'd woke in her 
current location. She wanted -- no, *needed* -- to know where the others 
were, but no one would answer her questions. Was her mother somewhere in 
this building? And where was she anyway?

And what were they doing to her?

Despite her efforts to stop them, the tears started again. She rolled 
over onto her side and curled up around her aching stomach, the sobs 
making her whole body shake. The sound of the door opening heralded the 
arrival of her keepers, come to stick needles in her again, but she 
ignored them.

The only thing real to her was her misery and there was no relief from it.

------------------------------------------------------------
Chapter #27: Cages
------------------------------------------------------------

"What is it you *want* from us?" Suzanne McCullough asked in a tired 
voice. For the last week -- or something close to that -- she'd been kept 
locked up in a small cell with nothing to distract her from her thoughts 
and worries. The few people she had seen had refused to answer her 
questions and even now she had no idea where her daughter was. Out of 
everything, that last worried her the most.

And her first sight of Harrison and the Colonel had been shocking. 
Ironhorse looked healthy enough, although the dark circles under his eyes 
spoke of a lack of sleep. Harrison, on the other hand...

The man she'd once worked with -- and had been in love with, though she'd 
never told him that -- looked like hell. His sandy-colored curls were 
plastered to his skull by sweat and grime. His eyes were sunk deep in 
their sockets and he looked gaunt. As he stood, he was swaying slightly. 
The sway probably would have been worse if Ironhorse hadn't been at his 
side, propping him up. Neither one of them looked like they'd had a bath 
since she'd last seen them. At least she'd been allowed the chance to 
shower in the small locker room just down the hall from her cell.

"Your help to save your people from mine," was the flat reply from the 
woman she only vaguely remembered from ten years earlier.

"Why?" Paul asked suspiciously. "People -- if you could be called that," 
he added bitterly, "don't change sides often. How do we know that this 
isn't a trick?"

"Because it is not. Ten years ago, I had decided that your race has 
potential. Most of my people see you as no better than animals. You kill 
each other, you watch while thousands of your own kind die of hunger 
without lifting a finger. You destroy your world. These are the acts of 
beasts.

"But while I hunted the Mothren so that they could not interfere with our 
plans, I saw enough to know that your kind has the potential to become 
civilized. If given the chance. I, and others, believe that you should be 
given that chance."

"And what do you plan on doing about it?" Paul asked. "Tell your friends 
that they should just give up, go home and leave us alone?"

The woman just stared at him until he flushed, part anger and part 
embarrassment from the look of it. "No. They would not listen if I tried 
to do so. You must stop them."

Suzanne laughed. She could hear the tinge of hysteria in her own voice, 
but was powerless to do anything about it. "And how are we supposed to do 
that? We couldn't even stop the Mothren. It was Ceto and Mana, two of 
their own, that convinced them that they were being used by their leader. 
Nothing *we* did had any real effect."

"You have the knowledge necessary," they were told. "You will know what 
to do when the time comes." She stopped, and looked around at them. 
"Where is the other?"

Suzanne went blank, but Harrison answered, the first words he'd spoken 
since their arrival. His voice sounded tired. Hoarse, like he'd been 
screaming a lot. "Norton Drake is dead." At his side, Paul winced. 
Suzanne felt a small surge of sympathy. She and Harrison had had eight 
years to adjust to Norton's death. For Paul, Norton had been alive only a 
couple weeks earlier. For him, the wounds would still be fresh.

"That is unfortunate. However, his presence is not critical."

"Unfortunate? Unfortunate!?" Without thinking, Suzanne stepped forward 
and slapped the woman. The resulting pain in her hand reminded her again 
that while this being looked like a woman, she wasn't. It was like she'd 
slapped a brick wall. Suzanne gasped hugged her throbbing hand to her 
chest. For a moment, she wondered if she'd broken something.

Unfortunate? Sweet, brilliant Norton Drake. The man who'd run all their 
computers, designed their scanners and search engines, been their best 
support. The man with an infectious laugh, always ready to help. The man 
who'd been so patient with a child dragged out of her life and forced to 
live with a fight she hadn't chosen to be part of. The man who'd never 
let the disabilities that had put him in a wheelchair slow him down, even 
in a fight. Norton Drake had become one of her dearest friends and 
sometimes lover and this... *thing* was calling his death unfortunate but 
not critical? The fury let her ignore the pain in her hand.

The being that now held their lives in her hand just stared at her, not 
bothering to react to the ineffective assault. "I will return for you 
when the time is right." Then she was gone in a flash of light, leaving 
them alone in the dust-filled room.

Suzanne slowly collapsed into a seated position on the floor, dropping 
her head to her knees, fighting the urge to cry. She wasn't sure how much 
more of this she could take. She longed for her simple life in Cascade. 
No. She wanted to go further back. She wanted to go back to the days when 
she'd just been a scientist and a mother. She wanted the days when she 
laughed at the idea of aliens and invasions. She wanted a normal world 
again.

She wasn't going to get it.

>>>~~~~~<<<

Jarod Martin, zoo-keeper -- for the moment, at least -- stared out over 
the small enclosure, a smile on his face as he watched the otters frolic 
in their artificial grotto. The enterprising little creatures had built a 
slide in the embankment and were sliding down it to the water where they 
did fancy twists and turns before scampering up to the top of the slide 
to go again. A few just floated in the shallows, enjoying the warm 
Indian-summer sun. He loved to watch the otters. There were few creatures 
in the world that could match them for sheer love of life and playfulness.

"Jarod?"

The unfamiliar voice caught his attention. Jarod turned and slid his 
sunglasses down his nose to look at the man standing behind him. He was 
tall and skinny -- so skinny that he looked like a strong breeze would 
blow him over. He was dressed in much-ripped blue jeans, a Harley T-shirt 
and a leather bomber jacket that was probably too warm for the day, 
though he didn't show any signs of being uncomfortable.

"Yes. Do I know you?" Jarod didn't think he knew the man, but he'd met so 
many people since leaving his old home -- prison was probably a better 
term -- that sometimes his memory played tricks on him. Right now it was 
telling him that he'd seen this man before, but had not been introduced 
to him. He was having a little trouble remembering *where* though.

"Wolfling sent me."

That jogged his memory. Jarod had met Wolfling in New Mexico, almost a 
year earlier. He'd acquired a motorcycle and had decided to take a road 
trip. No destination, no plans. Just... see some more of the country he 
had so little practical experience with. He'd run into a biker gang led 
by an oversized Canadian with red hair and the improbable name of 
Wolfling and had ended up travelling with them for a couple of weeks. It 
had never occurred to him that it wasn't safe to do so.

About two weeks later, a group of goons from the Center had caught up 
with him, but the Hunters hadn't taken kindly to the interference with 
someone they'd accepted into their family. They hadn't killed the three 
men. Just tied them up and left them in a farmer's pig pen. Jarod smiled 
at the memory of the expression on the faces of the well-dressed men as 
they rolled in the mud, trying to get to their feet.

"So what brings you my way?" he asked, leaning back against the low wall 
separating the walkway from the otter enclosure below.

"Wolfling needs a favor."

Jarod nodded. He'd told the Canadian that if he ever needed anything 
from him to just call. He owed the man, and he liked to pay his debts. 
Besides, he liked Wolfling. "Where?" he asked, brief and to the point.

"Delaware. He says that your old friends have an unwilling guest that he 
wants to get out."

That caught Jarod's attention. After they'd defended him, he'd told the 
Hunters all about the Center and how he'd been taken by them as a child, 
his later escape and his quest to find his family while staying one step 
ahead of the Center's pursuit since then. How a Hunter -- or someone they 
knew -- had ended up in the Center, he didn't know. But he supposed he 
would find out.

"Let's go then," he said, reseating his sunglasses properly on his nose.

As they headed for the exit, they passed by the big cats building. Dimly, 
Jarod could hear the sounds of screams. Obviously, the soon-to-be-former 
owner of the zoo hadn't yet figured out that he was perfectly safe in the 
plexi-glass cage he was stuck in. Of course, that cage *was* in the 
middle of the lion enclosure, and the normally pleasant cats were not 
happy. The drugs that had been put in their food to make them more 
irritable -- and as a result providing a better show for the visitors -- 
made them very dangerous, as one of the zoo's employees had found out. He 
would let the man know that his scars were not in vain before he left for 
Delaware.

>>>~~~~~<<<

Debi was taking a few cautious steps around her prison when the door 
opened. Her stomach had finally settled down and the weather had turned a 
little cooler, letting her sleep at night, so she was starting to feel 
human. She was eating properly again and slowly regaining her strength.

She turned, expecting yet another of the endless stream of technicians 
who showed up to take blood samples and run tests on her. She wasn't sure 
why, but she had a feeling that it was related to whatever had been done 
to her when she'd arrived at this place.

It wasn't a technician or a doctor. Her eyes widened at the sight of 
the... man? standing in the doorway and she lost her balance, landing 
hard on her rear end.

"Are you all right?" her... visitor asked in a deep growl. He was at her 
side, holding out a hand out to her. She stared at it, and him, not 
moving. And it wasn't because all he was wearing was a short loincloth.

The being in front of her was shaped roughly like a man, but most 
definitely was not. Male, maybe, but not a man. Men did not come covered 
in a thick pelt of black fur like this one. And while men did often have 
blue eyes, they did not come with slit pupils like this one.

And they definitely did *not* come with tails.

He waited -- not very patiently -- for a moment. When she didn't take his 
hand... paw... whatever... he finally reached down and yanked her to her 
feet. She cried out, feeling like her arm had been nearly pulled from its 
socket. Almost at once, she found herself clutched to a soft, broad chest 
with a hand stroking her back soothingly.

There was a faint rumble above her head, which was tucked under his chin. 
He -- whoever he was -- was very tall and very muscular. Kind of like 
what Arnold Schwarzenegger would like if crossed with a black panther. 
When she finally managed to push away from him slightly, the sound had 
turned into words.

"sorrysorrysorrysorrysorrysorrysorry..."

Debi blinked. "I'm all right," she said, reaching up to turn the face to 
see her. She flinched a bit at the sharp teeth that showed through the 
still moving lips. However the big tears welling up in his eyes reassured 
her that he didn't *really* mean any harm, although it didn't escape her 
attention that he could probably rip her to shred accidentally.

"All right?" he asked, sniffling like a little boy. He rubbed the back of 
his hand across what was more muzzle than face. Debi couldn't help 
smiling and the contrast between his behavior and the deep, gravely voice.

"I'm all right," she repeated. "You just caught me a little... off-guard. 
Who are you?" He cocked his head to the side, looking at her with a 
puzzled expression. "What's your name?" she asked, trying again. That 
didn't get any more of a reaction than the first question. "What do they 
call you?" she tried desperately.

That got a reaction. He stood up straight and puffed up his chest 
proudly. "Test subject nine-seven!" he announced to the world.

Debi blinked, then paled a little. Test subject? It had a disturbing ring 
to it. "I can't call you that," she protested.

The panther-man deflated. "Why not?" he asked plaintively.

"It wouldn't be right. You need a name, not a number."

His features might be inhuman, but they were very expressive. At the 
moment, they were expressing confusion. "There's a difference?"

"Of course there is!"

He frowned slightly. "What's *your* name?"

"Debi."

"oh." His face went sad. "I don't have a name."

"Well, then we'll just have to give you one," Debi told him. There was 
something about his obvious innocence that she was finding very 
endearing. In fact, it reminded her of someone else she'd known, years 
ago. An enemy who'd become a friend. Someone who'd died and deserved to 
have his memory honored. "How about Ceto?"

"Ceto?"

"Yes. Do you like it?"
He stared at her for a moment, then puffed up again, She found herself 
giggling at the sight. "My name is Ceto!" he said in a very determined 
voice.

All at once, Debi found herself swept into another tight hug. The newly-
named Ceto was snuffling her hair, making a rumbling sound that was 
suspiciously like a purr. Debi giggled again and hugged him back, 
enjoying the feel of his silky fur against her cheek.

For the first time since she'd received the note from Agent Mulder, Debi 
McCullough felt safe and protected.

>>>~~~~~<<<

Mulder paced back and forth in his cell, trying to work off some nervous 
energy. Several days -- he wasn't sure how many -- had passed since his 
one visit from someone who wasn't a jailer. The man hadn't come back, but 
he wasn't surprised. Not long after that, he'd heard the sounds of 
construction outside his door and he would bet it was his jailers 
installing monitoring equipment in the hallways to make sure he didn't 
get any more unauthorized visitors.

He'd amused himself for a while searching his cell for audio pickups and 
cameras; something he'd become adept at in his frequent sweeps of his 
apartment back in DC. He'd found five, of a type he'd never seen before. 
The miniaturization was impressive: Much better than anything the FBI 
ever got. And he was pretty sure that he hadn't found them all.

It hadn't done him much good, though. Not long after he'd gleefully 
flushed the no-doubt expensive devices down his toilet, he'd woken from 
one of the increasingly erotic dreams he'd been having of Alex with the 
groggy, stuff-headed feeling that said his last meal had been drugged. 
When he'd checked, all the monitoring devices were back in place. They 
hadn't even bothered trying to hide them, just putting them back in the 
exact same spots.

Message received and understood.

Since then, the files had been arriving at an even faster pace, and now 
they had a common thread. While the incidents were now more mundane - 
although just as varied as before -- and were scattered across the 
country, they all had one name in common.

Jarod.

Who this Jarod person was, he wasn't sure at first. Sometimes he was 
described as a doctor, a fire fighter, a special effects wizard, a 
racecar driver. Hell, 'tinker, tailor, soldier, spy' was as good a phrase 
as any to describe the man. And he always seemed to show up to uncover 
secret crimes and corruption after someone had been hurt. Sort of a 
real-life superhero, according to the files Mulder was given.

After more than a dozen of these files, he'd started getting older ones: 
Files that explained just who and what Jarod was. He was a Pretender. A 
man with the ability to become anything he wanted, right down to the 
skills. Mulder quickly found himself speculating on just how this was 
possible. A subconscious form of telepathy was his guess, since it seemed 
that even Jarod didn't seem to know how he did what he did. It was the 
only way to explain how the man could walk into a hospital and become a 
surgeon: He plucked the necessary knowledge from the minds of the 
surgeons around him.

He was also, according to these files, the 'property' of The Center and 
had escaped several years earlier. Mulder would guess that The Center was 
the place he was currently being held.

The last file had come with a pad of paper, a pen and typewritten 
instructions: Propose a plan for predicting the subject's moves and 
reacquiring him.

This was what had him pacing like a caged animal. On an intellectual 
level, the puzzle was fascinating. He even had a few ideas based on the 
profile he'd built of the man while reading his files. However he had no 
interest in helping his jailers capture a man he found himself liking 
more and more as he read.

But he'd promised Spender that he would 'do as he was told.' If he 
didn't, Scully was the one that would suffer for his defiance.

What to do?

He was stuck in a cage with no way out.

------------------------------------------------------------
Chapter #28: Consultations
------------------------------------------------------------

Sydney sighed and brought up the next list. Miss Parker had set Broots to 
keeping track of the files being taken to this Mulder person and a 
disturbing trend was starting to appear. At first there was no rhyme or 
reason to the subject matter. He wasn't even sure why the Center had 
files on some of them: none of the events seemed to be related to Center 
business. Maybe they had something to do with this Consortium that Broots 
had discovered.

However, now the files were all about Jarod. First the more recent, then 
the older files from before his escape. The implications were disturbing. 
The Center wanted Mulder to know everything about Jarod. Either they 
expected to get their hands on the man soon, or they expected Mulder to 
*help* them capture Jarod.

Speaking of whom, he hadn't heard from Jarod in several weeks now. No 
questions, no teasing hints of what he was doing and where. Sydney felt 
perversely abandoned, even though it was safer for Jarod *not* to contact 
him right now. He was sure that he was being watched by the powers that 
be or their flunkies. While he might work for the Center, he found 
himself working more and more at cross-purposes with them and they knew 
it.

He'd been warned when he was younger to be careful of getting too 
emotionally involved with his subjects, but that hadn't saved him. He'd 
been lost since the day they put him in a room to work with a young boy, 
a new intake at the Center. Very quickly, Jarod had become the son he'd 
always wanted. As a result, he couldn't seem to help looking forward to 
those calls these days, anticipating the brief contacts they had from 
time to time. And he was equally helpless to resist the need to interfere 
in the Center's attempts to recapture Jarod. The young man had obviously 
flourished since his escape, and both Sydney's parental and scientific 
instincts wanted to see what he would make of himself.

He was so distracted by his thoughts that when the phone rang it made him 
jump. He stared at it suspiciously for a moment before picking it up.

"Hello?"

"Hello, Sydney," said the voice of the man he'd just been thinking about.

Sydney felt a small burst of pleasure at the familiar voice before 
caution reasserted itself. With the heightened security, he was probably 
being watched. However, with any luck it was just visual, not audio. As 
long as he didn't make any unusual moves, no one should notice.

"Hello," he said pleasantly, leaning back in his chair casually. "It's 
been a while."

"Yes it has. Why, did you miss me?" Jarod teased, and Sydney smiled in 
response.

"Actually, yes. But now is not a good time. Things are a little... busy 
around here right now."

"Really? And would that have anything to do with a man named Mulder?"

Sydney froze in shock. How had Jarod known...? But then Jarod always 
seemed to know more than he should. It was one of the things that had 
made working with him so fascinating.

"How did you know that?" he asked, carefully keeping his surprise from 
his face. Meanwhile, he kept one eye on the clock, timing the call. The 
longer the call, the more likely that someone would get suspicious and 
start a trace.

"It seems that Agent Mulder has some very anxious friends," Jarod 
replied. "Can we meet?"

"Well, I'm not sure I can get away tonight," Sydney said. "I won't be 
home until late. In a couple days, perhaps?" he said, trusting Jarod to 
pick up on what he was really saying.

"Understood. Later, then."

Sydney hesitated, then said honestly, "Be careful."

He could almost hear the smile in the other man's voice. "I always am," 
Jarod said, then hung up.

Sydney leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes. He'd leave his back 
door unlocked when he got home. While he was sure that Jarod knew where 
his spare key was -- and was fully capable of picking the lock if he 
didn't -- there was no point in making things difficult for him.

He opened his eyes and stared at the phone for a moment, fully expecting 
it to ring again, this time with either Mr. Raines or his unfortunate 
flunky, Mr. Lyle, on the other end. It didn't

Finally, Sydney straightened up and went back to work, this time with a 
feeling of anticipation to carry him through the day.

>>>~~~~~<<<

"So, how's she doing?"

Linda Malone, head of the gene-splicing project at the Consortium 
facility in the Yucatan province, looked up from her computer screen, her 
face twisting in annoyance at the interruption. Jeff Ericks, her second 
and a brilliant scientist in his own right, if a little too soft-hearted 
for her liking, was standing in front of the monitor showing the view 
from the security camera in test subject one-five-seven's room. On the 
monitor, the subject was talking animatedly with test subject nine-seven.

"Fine. The adjustment to the booster shots corrected the chemical 
imbalance in the subject's blood."

"I meant emotionally," Ericks said, frowning.

Linda shook her head, snorting in derision. "Don't get so attached to the 
subjects," she told him. "It just gets you in trouble." It was a warning 
she'd given to many a subordinate over the years.

Ericks sighed. "Emotional states affect the physical, you know. If she's 
overly upset or tense, it could harm the fetus."

The muscles around Linda's mouth tightened at the rebuff. While it was a 
good comeback, she didn't buy it. Ericks got emotionally involved with 
his subjects. He hadn't yet learned, the way that she'd learned, to see 
them as faceless, disposable lab rats. Of course, she'd also seen too 
many scientists over the years who got attached to their lab rats, even 
going so far as giving them names. You wouldn't catch *her* doing 
something that foolish. Numbers were adequate labels. Besides, it wasn't 
like they were going to be around for long.

Even nine-seven, the longest resident test subject, was headed, 
inevitably, for the dissection table once his usefulness came to an end.

"Check the results of the latest blood-tests," she said, prodding him to 
get to work. He headed for his own terminal, obediently. At least he knew 
how to follow orders.

Linda turned her attention back to her screen, pushing gray hair out of 
her eyes. It was time to get it cut again, she reminded herself. It was 
becoming a distraction. Then she lost herself in the gene-sequences that 
danced on the screen before her. She'd been working on this program for 
more than forty years and she was determined to produce a complete 
success before she died. The fetus that one-five-seven carried was that 
success. She was sure. One-five-seven and the other three surrogates 
would produce the perfect human-feline hybrids in just three months, 
thanks to techniques that sped up the development of the fetuses.

When she'd first joined the project, she'd been fresh out of school, full 
of confidence. She'd been set to work on a project to combine human DNA 
with that of animals. They'd tried several different types before 
settling on felines as a source. Primates were more compatible, but 
feline were more... elegant. And more inspiring of fear, she knew. It was 
obvious from the start that the project was intended to produce soldiers. 
She didn't really care. It was the science involved that interested her.

Unfortunately, there were still a lot of unknowns involved. The first 
batch of hybrids produced had been completely psychotic. While this 
wasn't necessarily a bad thing in a soldier, in their case it made them 
uncontrollable. The entire batch had been terminated before their fifth 
birthday.

Dissection and analysis had suggested ways of making the next batch a 
little more biddable, but they'd over-compensated. The result had been 
pacifists unless they were directly threatened. It was better, but still 
not usable. That batch had also been destroyed.

Linda's expression tightened. Destroyed except for one. Somehow, not long 
after the birth of group two, one of the technicians had managed to steal 
one of the subjects and escape. Their employers had caught up with the 
woman, but the infant was gone. The woman had refused to say what she'd 
done with it before she died. It was one of the reasons that the project 
had been quickly moved from New York to the middle of the Mexican jungle.

Since then, there'd been three more test batches. Nearly a dozen had been 
deemed worth preserving. They'd been raised at the facility, then shipped 
off for training. Nine-seven had been part of one of those batches. It 
wasn't considered aggressive enough, but had been allowed to live to see 
if the hybrids would breed true. Unfortunately, they hadn't. Bred with 
humans, they produced fully human offspring. Bred with large cat breeds, 
they produced fully feline offspring. The only interesting result was 
that the one third of the humans had shown signs of being Sentinels and 
the felines had all showed higher than average intelligence and 
trainability.

That's why she had suggested something new for this batch. The three 
subjects currently developing in-uterus were all female.

Her employers had resisted the idea. Up until now, all the hybrids had 
been male. Linda snorted softly to herself. It was pure sexism on their 
part. They wanted to breed soldiers and they refused to see that females 
might be better choices than males. After all, wasn't the female called 
the deadlier of the species? She'd pushed for the chance for several 
decades and she'd finally gotten them to agree to one batch of females. 
In the end, it had been the suggestion that they find out if female 
hybrids would breed true, especially if mated to male hybrids.

Linda looked forward to finding out, although she would probably be at 
the end of her career by that point. It didn't really matter. She'd 
devoted her life to this project. All she wanted was to see it succeed.

>>>~~~~~<<<

Sydney hadn't lied about being busy. It was almost midnight before he 
managed to get away from the Center. By the time he got home, he was 
exhausted. He started a pot of coffee brewing and settled down to wait 
for Jarod to show up.

The sound of the back door woke him up. He'd sat down on the sofa, just 
intending to close his eyes for a moment. A glance at the clock said that 
nearly an hour had passed since then. Ignoring the sounds of footsteps 
coming down the hall, he went to check the coffee. It was a little 
strong, but drinkable. Sydney pulled out several mugs, filled one and 
took a long swallow before turning around.

Jarod was standing in the kitchen doorway, a small smile on his face. 
Behind him were two men. Both had dark hair and an air that said they 
were dangerous. *Very* dangerous. Presumably the anxious friends that 
Jarod had mentioned.

"Coffee?" Sydney asked mildly, then had to suppress a yawn.

One of the men with Jarod smiled, but the other one just shook his head. 
"Mulder," he said bluntly.

Sydney waved them towards the kitchen table. He brought over the mugs and 
the pot of coffee. "Milk's in the fridge, sugar's in the bowl," he said, 
nodding towards where it sat on the table. "Help yourselves."

Jarod poured a cup and added a disgusting amount of sugar. Jarod had 
developed a definite sweet-tooth since leaving the Center. No doubt a 
reaction to the carefully controlled diet he'd been on since he was a 
child.

The man with the smile also poured a cup. He drank it black. The third 
member of the group ignored the coffee. "Mulder," he said again in a hard 
voice.

"He's in the Center. A cozy little cell on Sub-Level twenty-five. Broots 
spoke to him, "he told Jarod in an aside. "He's fine, but angry. Or at 
least he was a few days ago. Unfortunately, his cell was bugged. They 
knew someone was down there, but not who. The whole level is being 
monitored now."

"Any way in except through the front door?" the other man said. He had an 
unusual accent. Sydney would guess that the man had spent a lot of time 
out of the country.

Sydney glanced at Jarod, then nodded. "Most of the other entrances have 
been sealed since Jarod escaped. But there are still a couple that the 
powers that be don't know about."

"Really?" Jarod said, his eyebrows going up. "I didn't know that."

"Miss Parker found one of her mother's diaries recently," Sydney said. 
"It was well-hidden. It detailed her work trying to free some of the 
children that the Center took. She found a couple escape tunnels, built 
into the Center to allow the management to leave if there was trouble. 
I'm not sure how, but she managed to destroy all reference to them, and 
I'm not sure that anyone currently know where those exits are. Except us, 
that is."

The hard-faced man pulled a pad of paper and a pen from under his leather 
jacket. "I assume you can draw us a map," he said, pushing them towards 
Sydney. There was no please in his voice, just an order.

Sydney frowned. He was beginning to dislike this man. Intensely. He 
didn't bother saying so, since he doubted that the man would care. He 
would also guess that the man would cheerfully hurt him if he said no. 
Not that Sydney intended to. Jarod had asked him and he had a hard time 
telling *Jarod* no.

So he took the pen and paper and started sketching. It didn't have to be 
too accurate. Jarod already knew the area, so as long as he and his new 
friends could follow it to the entrance, it would be enough. Besides, if 
something happened and they were captured or lost the paper, no one else 
would be able to make heads or tails of it. "It opens into Sub-Level 
fourteen," he said as he wrote. "Not far from the north stairwell. The 
stairwell will take you straight down to twenty-five. However, the moment 
you open the door onto Sub-Level twenty-five, the alarms will go off. As 
well, there are cameras in all of the stairwells that are being 
monitored. You'll have to move fast to get your friend out before 
security arrives."

"Can you do anything about the alarms?"

Sydney shook his head. "They're on a stand-alone system that I don't have 
authorization for. However..." He paused, thinking about it.

"Yes?" Jarod asked, leaning forward eagerly.

"Well, we *might* be able to arrange a short in the system that would 
take out all of the security cameras. It's something Broots and I have 
been working out. Just theory, you understand, but it might give you a 
little more time to work with." Jarod nodded.

The unfriendly member of the trio opened his mouth, no doubt to say 
something scathing, but the other man broke in before he could say 
anything. "Don't, Alex. If it's all he can do, it will have to be enough."

Sydney pushed the pad over to Jarod, who tore off the top page, folded it 
and put it in his shirt pocket. "I'll get Broots to arrange it," Sydney 
told them. "But a short won't last long. You'll have to let me know 
*when* you plan to make your move."

"So you can tell your bosses? I don't think so," said the man who'd been 
called Alex. Again, his friend shushed him up.

"Thank you, Sydney," Jarod said, getting to his feet. "I'll let you know 
when." When the other man made to protest, Jarod frowned. "I trust 
Sydney," he said. Sydney felt a warm glow swell inside him at the words. 
Not many people *truly* trusted him, not even his own son.

"Fine," Alex said, pushing to his feet. "But if you betray us," he said, 
turning ice-cold eyes on Sydney, "I will kill you."

Somehow, Sydney didn't doubt it.

Sydney watched as the three men headed for the back door again. Once they 
were gone, he collected the mugs and washed them all. When they were back 
in the cupboard where they belonged, he decided to be paranoid. He wiped 
down the table and everything else that the three men might have touched.

After he finished, he locked all the doors, turned out the lights and 
headed for bed. In the morning he would talk to Broots. He wasn't sure 
how the tech would react to the idea of trying out their theories in real 
life, though. Either excited at having the chance to prove he was right 
or piss-your-pants terrified.

Sydney was betting on terrified.

But he didn't think he would tell Miss Parker what was going on. While 
the woman was growing more sympathetic over time as she learned more 
about her mother and what had really happened to her, her feelings 
towards Jarod were rapidly reaching the point of obsession. He couldn't 
be sure that she wouldn't take the chance to get her hands on her 
nemesis. He was a challenge. He was the only assignment she'd failed in.

And she was showing signs of a more personal interest that Sydney knew 
Jarod would never return. While Jarod showed a great deal of fondness for 
the emotionally-damaged woman, his feelings showed a more fraternal 
leaning, while Miss Parker's were anything but, Sydney would guess.

Despite the thoughts and plans racing through his mind -- not to mention 
the caffeine racing through his veins -- Sydney was yawning again by the 
time he made it to the bedroom and changed into his pajamas. After a week 
of heavy overtime, he was asleep almost the moment his head hit the 
pillow.

Morning would be soon enough for making firmer plans.

------------------------------------------------------------
Chapter #29: Anticipation
------------------------------------------------------------

Left alone in the abandoned facility with no idea how long they'd be 
there, the first thing they did was get settled. Suzanne started 
unpacking the boxes that had been left for them while Harrison and Paul 
checked the rest of the building, assuming that it was a building and not 
some sort of underground bunker.

They didn't find much. The abandoned equipment -- what little there was 
-- was all human manufacture and at least a decade old. The only 
exception was the portable toilet in one of the rooms off their starting 
point. Silly as it might be, both men were relieved that they wouldn't 
need to use a bucket, assuming that they could find one.

However, there was no sign of *why* the facility had been abandoned or 
what it's purpose had been.

After almost an hour of searching, they finally found the exit, an air-
lock setup. Fortunately, whatever was supplying the power for the lights 
and heat also powered the doors.

Unfortunately, once they got the doors open, any hopes they had of escape 
were crushed. The thick doors opened onto a snow-covered plain. The two 
men stared out over it, shivering in the cold wind. The thin light was 
fading fast as the sun went down.

"Antarctica," Harrison said gloomily. In a strange way, he liked it 
though. It was so... quiet.

"Or the North Pole," Paul suggested. He didn't sound like he seriously 
believed that.

Harrison shook his head. "No. This may sound stupid, but it *feels* like 
the South Pole."

Next to him, Paul shrugged, then shivered. "Well, with no vehicle, no map 
and no compass, we are going *nowhere*, not there would be anywhere to 
go. I suggest we get back inside and seal things up. The last thing we 
need is to start bleeding heat."

"All right," Harrison said, giving the peaceful landscape one last look 
before following Paul in. Inside, the hum of the generator and the echoes 
from their footsteps sounded almost deafening. Harrison winced. After all 
the torture tests he'd been put through, his senses felt hyper-sensitive. 
He focused on his lover, looking for the peace that the other man seemed 
to exude along with confidence, no matter what the circumstances.

They retraced their route back to the lab they'd started in, following 
their footsteps through the dust. There they found Suzanne inflating an 
air mattress, with two more leaning against the wall, already inflated.

"We've got food, bedding and clothes," she said, pointing towards tidy 
piles on tables that had been cleared of dust. Paul picked up one foil-
wrapped package and groaned.

"MREs," he said in a resigned tone. Harrison winced. He'd only had to eat 
the army's idea of a "Meal Ready to Eat" a couple of times in the past 
and he had as low an opinion of them as the common field soldier.

"It's better than starving," Suzanne pointed out.

Harrison glanced around. There were two storage rooms attached to the lab 
they were in -- probably the main lab originally. One had the portable 
toilet and the other was empty. He nodded towards it. "Do you want the 
other room or shall we take it?" he asked Suzanne, deciding to be 
optimistic and assume that he and Paul were going to need the privacy.

Suzanne chuckled. Having something to do had obviously raised her 
spirits. "You take it," she said. "That way, if I need to go to the 
toilet in the middle of the night, I won't have to worry about 
interrupting... anything," she added with a small leer.

Harrison glanced over at Paul, but the Colonel was busy going through 
their supplies. There were sleeping bags and pillows to go with the air 
mattresses, and several track suits that they could change into. There 
was even toilet paper and a pile of paperback novels, although Harrison 
doubted that he would ever be desperate enough to read a Harlequin 
Romance. He wondered briefly why an alien android would pick *those* for 
reading material.

Seeing soap in his lover's hand, Harrison grabbed it from him, along with 
a change of clothing and one of the towels that their very thorough host 
had left for them before heading for the door. "Shower," he called over 
his shoulder. They'd already discovered that there was running water -- 
although bottled drinking water had been left for them -- and they'd 
found a locker room, so he was looking forward to a hot shower. The more 
time that went by without the 'tests,' the more he relaxed. He was now 
relaxed enough that the he found the dirt and grime on his body and in 
his hair unbearable. Everything itched.

Paul uttered an almost inaudible moan. "I'll join you," he said, grabbing 
more towels and clothing for himself. Suzanne waved them off, picking up 
one of the romance novels.

Harrison quickly fell behind as Paul headed for the showers at a quick 
march. The military man had always been fastidious, so their time in 
Spender's hands, not allowed to bathe or change, had probably been as bad 
for him, if not worse, than it had been for Harrison.

Dirty clothes were dropped on the floor and left to molder. Clean clothes 
and towels were carefully hung on hooks. Hot water was turned on and no 
words were spoken as they immersed themselves in the serious business of 
getting clean other than "Soap, please."

Finally, all dirt was gone and the two men just stood under the spray, 
enjoying the sensation of being clean. Harrison ran his fingers through 
the thick beard that he now sported, trying to bring it under control. He 
looked enviously at Paul. The man's Amerind genes meant that he had 
almost no facial hair worth noting, while Harrison grew a thick and curly 
beard, bright red in color, in a matter of days.

Paul noticed the motion and grinned. "Sorry, Doctor," he said. "No razors 
in the care package."

Harrison sighed. "She probably worried that we might use them to kill 
ourselves before we do whatever it is she wants from us." He paused. "Do 
you believe her?" he asked the other man. Harrison knew he was out of 
practice reading people after living in the woods for more than half a 
decade, and even before that he hadn't been very good at it. Paul had 
always been the more suspicious one.

Paul thought about it for a moment. "I don't know," he finally said. 
"She... sounds different. I mean, her face and voice still have no 
expression, but the way she talks is a little different. The phrasing is 
more natural. Hell, we don't even know if she really *is* the same one we 
met before, Katara. They're artificial beings. They could *all* look like 
that, for all we know."

Harrison nodded. "I noticed that too. So the question is, what do we do?"

"For now, what we're told. Our choices are a little limited, you noticed. 
She put us someplace we can't leave. Until she comes back, there's 
nothing we can do except wait."

Harrison leaned against the cool tile wall and closed his eyes, breathing 
the steam from the showers. Then he smiled. "I can think of one other 
thing we can do," he said softly.

Paul returned the smile, then moved into the circle of Harrison's arms, 
leaning against him. "So can I," he said.

Their lips met in a gentle kiss that slowly grew in intensity. Despite 
exhaustion and deprivation, Harrison's cock twitched and started to 
swell. Against him, he could feel Paul's cock doing the same. It felt so 
damn good.

By the time need for breath drove them apart, they were both hard and 
panting. Harrison reached down to grasp Paul's erection in one hand. He 
felt his lover's hand do the same to him and they both groaned. It had 
been too long. Since Paul had been returned to him, they hadn't gone this 
long without the intimate touching that they both seemed to need so badly.

It was short, but very, very sweet. Paul came first and Harrison brought 
his hand up to his mouth and licked the bittersweet fluid dripping from 
it. The overwhelming taste of 'Paul' was all he needed to drive him over 
the edge.

They collapsed against each other, panting as the hot water continued to 
cascade down on them. Finally, Paul pushed away and reached over to turn 
off the water. "Suzanne will kill us if we use all the hot water," he 
said apologetically.

Harrison grunted in understanding. The hot water and climax had caught up 
with him and he was almost asleep on his feet. Paul moved away, and a 
moment later he was being wrapped in a warm and fluffy towel. Sighing in 
pleasure, Harrison let his lover do with him as he willed.

>>>~~~~~<<<

Broots glanced at the door nervously. Sydney had finally gone home, and 
now that it was two in the morning, the tech-center was empty except for 
him. The Center was never really completely quiet, but in the middle of 
the night, he could be reasonably sure that he wasn't going to be 
interrupted.

The computer beeped and a small drawer slid open. He pulled the mini-disc 
from it and dropped it into a small pocket hidden inside his shirt. As 
soon as he was done here, he'd put it with the others, carefully hidden 
from prying eyes. Someday, if he got the chance, he'd sneak them out of 
the Center.

And then? Well, he wanted to get them to Jarod, but had no idea how to go 
about that. Jarod had helped him once; kept him alive when the Center had 
wanted him dead simply because he'd survived a massacre inside the 
facility and was considered suspect as a result. Sure, Sydney and Miss 
Parker had worked from the inside to help him, but Jarod had protected 
him until they'd succeeded. For that, he owed the man.

Hopefully, this would be a good form of repayment. He'd been copying the 
Center's entire database onto disk, a little bit at a time. He'd started 
with experiment data and personnel files, and worked his way out from 
there. He now had nearly everything on disk.

He never logged into the system as himself, of course. That would attract 
the wrong sort of attention. But he wasn't considered a master of the 
computer for nothing. For each section, he found a technician who would 
have reason to access the data and used *their* access codes at a time 
when they weren't logged in. With any luck, no one would even notice.

Broots shivered. He *hoped* that no one would notice. Getting caught 
poking around in places you weren't supposed to be was a good way to end 
up dead.

He really should get away from this place -- he knew that. Staying with 
the Center was almost a guarantee that sooner or later you'd end up dead, 
but he knew better than to try to leave. The Center would hunt him down, 
and he had a daughter to protect. Debbie was the light of his life, he 
thought with a smile. Only eleven, she was beautiful, smart and kind.

The smile disappeared. It had been made quite clear -- sometimes without 
even a word -- that she was the one who would suffer if he tried to get 
away. He'd sold his soul to the devil and the devil didn't like to be 
cheated. Besides, life on the run was no life for a young girl.

Broots glanced around one last time before leaving, checking to make 
sure he hadn't forgotten anything. In a way, that had been the Center's 
biggest mistake. They had threatened his daughter. The only way she would 
be really safe was if the Center no longer existed and Jarod was the 
person with the best chance of bringing down the damned place.

That was why Broots was risking his life in late-night data-raids. If 
Jarod was going to bring down Parker and his people, he was going to need 
information. Information that Broots was going to supply him with.

>>>~~~~~<<<

It took nearly two days to organize their plans and to coordinate with 
Sydney and Broots. Wolfling had offered his Hunters for the rescue 
attempt, but Kincaid had turned him down. Alex agreed with him. The 
assault on Spender's estate had needed a sledgehammer, but the high-tech 
security of the Center needed a scalpel. The Hunters would be their 
backup, waiting a mile from the facility to cover their escape, but a 
small group would have the best shot at success.

That group would be Alex, Kincaid and Jarod. Alex wasn't happy about that 
last part, but accepted the necessity. While he'd heard a lot about Jarod 
of the years -- a man who'd escaped from a Consortium lab and had 
proceeded to drive them insane by staying one step ahead of all pursuers, 
taunting them and leading the on a merry chase -- he didn't know the man 
personally. The idea of putting this much trust in a complete stranger 
made Alex nervous. He didn't like being nervous. But Wolfling vouched for 
the man and he'd come to at least accept the big man's advice. Trust was 
still reserved for Mulder alone.

Besides, Mulder was too important to allow his personal feelings to get 
in the way. If the man could help rescue Mulder, he would use him. If he 
became a liability, Alex would get rid of him. If he -- or his pal, 
Sydney -- betrayed them, he would kill them. Not quickly and *definitely* 
not painlessly.

At least he'd managed to keep Scully out of it. She'd tried to insist on 
being part of the rescue, but Alex *definitely* didn't trust her not to 
screw up, if only because she was too occupied with hating his guts. She 
would be waiting with their backup, just in case Mulder needed medical 
attention. He didn't much like that either, but it was the best 
compromise he'd been able to come up with. Personally, he'd like it 
better if she were on the other side of the *world*.

At least the hidden entrance was right where Sydney had promised, and 
there were no cameras or security goons waiting for them. Alex didn't 
relax, but he did breathe a little easier.

The air in the passage was still thick and stale, indicating that it had 
been sealed for a long time. They followed its twists and turns, always 
heading down at a steep angle.

They finally reached the end of the tunnel, a wooden panel that was the 
back wall of a small, unused room. Jarod waved them to a stop.

"Sub-Level Fourteen is mostly storage," he said in a hushed whisper. 
"There wasn't any security there when I was last in the Center. The 
stairwells are a different matter, though. There are security cameras on 
every landing, and they are monitored by guards.

"They won't be a problem is your friends do their job right," Kincaid 
pointed out. Alex said nothing, busy rechecking his guns and various 
concealed weapons.

"They will," Jarod said confidently. "The camera system will short out 
in," he checked his watch, "five minutes. It will take between ten and 
fifteen minutes for the problem to be repaired. That is how long we have 
to get to your friend and get him out. You better be able to move fast."

Alex glanced at him coldly. "Just don't get in my way," was all he said.

Jarod grinned, seeming not to notice the implied threat. "Don't worry. 
But remember, whether we succeed or not, they'll find this entrance and 
plug it. This is a one-shot deal."

Alex just grunted and checked his watch. Four minutes to go. Then he 
grinned quietly and patted the bag hanging from his shoulder. Just 
because they were a scalpel, that didn't mean they couldn't do massive 
damage.

>>>~~~~~<<<

Three days after being left in the abandoned lab by the alien, life had 
settled into a routine for the three members of the Blackwood Project. 
Paul exercised, Suzanne read and Harrison rested and regained his 
strength from his ordeal. And they all fought the mix of boredom and 
anxiety that filled every waking moment, as well as their dreams.

One benefit of the solitude had been that Harrison and Paul had been able 
to indulge themselves in as much love-making as they could physically 
manage, although they tried to be as discreet about it as possible for 
Suzanne's sake. After the first twenty-four hours, the compulsion had 
faded a little and they were actually able to spend several hours at a 
time apart without Harrison zoning.

But the boredom was growing more and more oppressive. Harrison had 
finally become desperate enough to pick up one of the stack of romances 
that Suzanne had finished and was groaning his way through the cliched 
plot and cardboard characters. He was sure that there were good romance 
novels out there, but this definitely wasn't one of them.

Turning the last page, Harrison put down the book and considered 
inflicting another one on himself. Then his nose prickled. His head came 
up and he sniffed the air. There was an unexpected scent of... ozone?

"Paul!" he shouted, climbing to his feet. Across the room, Suzanne 
scrambled to her feet as well.

Paul burst through the door just as a blinding flash of light heralded 
the return of their captor, Katara. She waited until the afterimages had 
faded from their sight before saying, "It is time."

"Time for what?" Paul snapped, stepping protectively in front of both 
Harrison and Suzanne. "You still haven't told us just what you want us to 
do!"

"You will know when the time is right," was the calm answer.

Paul opened his mouth to protest, but before he could, there was a second 
flash of light. When it was done, the room was empty.

------------------------------------------------------------
Chapter #30: Adrenaline Rush
------------------------------------------------------------

Mulder was amusing himself by wadding up pieces of paper and using the 
sink in the corner as a make-shift basket. He'd had enough practice by 
now that his success rate was four out of five attempts landed 
successfully in the sink. Every so often he'd go over and collect the 
balls of paper before starting over again, throwing out the ones that 
were too soggy to keep using.

He was doing his best to delay providing his captors with anything 
usable, even though he knew he was going to have to produce, much as he 
hated the idea: Scully was counting on him. Still, he was doing his best 
to waste as much time as possible by rereading files, jotting down barely 
helpful questions and ideas and making a production of playing the 
eccentric genius, thinking deep thoughts while shooting makeshift hoops.

He'd been in the cell for more than a week now and he was finally seeing 
some signs of outside life, although he wasn't sure that it was much of 
an improvement. He'd had three visits from a man who was probably more 
deserving of the nickname 'Cancerman' than Spender was. The man hadn't 
provided him with any information, not even his name. Instead, it was 
just demands for results and veiled threats of what would happen if he 
*didn't* produce them. It would be laughable if it weren't so damned 
scary.

Mulder's face twisted into a bitter expression. At his best estimation, 
he only had a couple more days before he would have no choice in the 
matter. He wasn't even sure why he was delaying, other than the fact that 
he liked the Jarod he'd seen on paper. And perhaps there was still a 
small part of him that thought a miracle could still happen, rescuing 
him, Scully and the others.

He snorted. He wasn't usually this much of an optimist.

He was starting round seventeen of his paper basketball game when 
something unusual happened, catching his attention and make his pulse 
race, although he couldn't identify it at first. It wasn't much, just a 
sound. A sound vaguely like an electrical arc. Glancing around the small 
room, his eyes fell on the latest addition to his cell, a very obvious 
security camera mounted in one corner near the ceiling. He figured that 
they had decided that the old pickups and cameras were too subtle.

It was the camera that confirmed that something was going on. The little 
light that said it was working had gone dark. Mulder moved to stand below 
the now-dead camera, staring up at it. His breath started to quicken in 
anticipation.

He glanced around again and moved to pile up the Jarod files, moving 
quickly. Something was happening and his mind insisted on assigning the 
name 'Alex' to it. If that was right, he wanted to be ready.

He was starting to seriously pace when the alarms started to shriek and 
he heard the sound of running footsteps in the hallway.

"Back, Mulder!"

Mulder moved back fast, a grin spreading across his face. It *was* Alex!

A moment later there was a small explosion and the door swung open, the 
section around the bolt now missing. On the other side was Alex, a small 
bag slung over one shoulder, Kincaid and a stranger whose face matched 
the photographs in the files sitting in the middle of his cell, Jarod.

"Let's go, Mulder," Alex urged, still watching the corridor. He was 
intense. He was focused.

He was the most beautiful sight Mulder had ever seen.

He headed for the door and the waiting man, then he paused, a thought 
occurring to him. "You got any more of those little bombs?" he asked.

Alex frowned. "Mulder..."

"Could you blow up the room and everything in it?" Mulder asked hopefully.

Alex looked like he was going to protest, then sighed, obviously deciding 
that arguing would waste more time than just going along with the 
request. He pulled a small ball from his bag, twisted the top and rolled 
it to the middle of the room. "*Now* can we go?"

Instead of answering, Mulder headed through the door at a run. They were 
halfway down the corridor when the concussion of the blast behind them 
tried to knock them off their feet. It didn't slow them down.

>>>~~~~~<<<

The second transport was a little easier than the first, now that he knew 
what to expect. Harrison didn't end up on his knees and Paul's eyes 
recovered faster. But even before the sparkles had faded, Paul knew that 
wherever they were, it wasn't abandoned.

Around him he could hear the hum of machines and the low gurgle of voices 
speaking a language never meant to be formed by human throats. Paul 
looked around, and his breath caught.

They were in some sort of base, and one that was well-maintained and 
heavily manned, unlike the one they'd just come from. All around them was 
equipment that he couldn't even *begin* to guess the purpose of, with a 
handful of expressionless men and women doing equally incomprehensible 
tasks. A couple of them looked up curiously at the new arrivals.

"Move."

Paul spun and found Katara standing there, a device in her hand that 
while not exactly gun-shaped was close enough to make his throat close up 
and his expression turn angry. So much for her claims of wanting to help 
them. But why now? Why not earlier?

"This way," she said, waving them towards a doorway leading out to a long 
hallway.

Not having much choice in the matter, they did as they were told. 
Harrison was cursing under his breath while Suzanne was just white. Paul 
was cursing too, but not out loud. Somehow, despite himself, he'd 
believed the woman when she'd said that she wanted to help Earth escape 
whatever fate her people planned for it and he was calling himself nine 
kinds of fool for it.

"In here," was the direction, and they went through the indicated door.

Inside was a large room with a glowing circle seemingly inlaid in the 
floor. Controls of some sort were set into the walls. There was something 
overwhelmingly... familiar about it.

A man stepped from the shadows, saying something to their captor in the 
alien gurgle. He looked angry, or at least as angry as any of this race 
seemed to get.

Without a word, she shot him.

Suzanne gave a little shriek, and Paul couldn't help jumping too. The man 
when down in a shower of sparks, revealing that he was also an android. 
While they watched, something black and viscous, like tar or extra-thick 
oil, oozed from the mechanical remains. Paul watched in horrified 
fascination as whatever it was slipped across the floor, heading towards 
the door.

Another blast from the not-gun turned the liquid in a greasy black smear 
on the floor, and Harrison moved over to prod it with his toe, 
considering it with a scientist's mind. "Is this what you really are, 
inside that form?" he asked, open curiosity in his voice.

"There is no time for this. You must work fast."

'Doing what?' Paul wanted to ask.

But he didn't. He was already moving to the controls left of the door 
they'd come in and was tapping in commands without thinking about it.

>>>~~~~~<<<

The race to escape the facility had all the earmarks of a nightmare as 
far as Mulder was concerned. Alarms wailed, making conversation 
difficult. The regular lights had all blinked out, replaced with 
emergency lighting that washed everything with a sickly red glow. They 
could already hear the shouts of security heading their way.

As they headed up a flight of steps at a run, Alex was glued to his side. 
On one of the landings, Mulder finally found the breath to shout over the 
alarms, "Scully?"

Alex snarled, then shouted back, "She's waiting for us! Stop worrying and 
concentrate on running!"

Mulder still had worries -- not to mention questions -- but that was the 
most important one. The others -- like what about Harrison and the 
others, how did Alex find him, how did Alex find *Jarod* -- all could 
wait until they were safely out of there. Besides, he didn't think he 
could find the breath to ask those questions

Mulder was a little taken aback when they left the stairwell through a 
door labeled "SL-14," implying that they were still well below ground. 
Only the confidence of his rescuers kept him from protesting, but he did 
wonder where the hell they thought they were going.

Gulping for air as they ran, he was caught off-guard when Alex grabbed 
his arm and dragged him into what looked like a storeroom.

An even bigger surprise was the man waiting there for them, and by Alex's 
reaction it wasn't just a surprise for Mulder. He recognized the man, 
though. It was his unauthorized visitor from a few days after he'd been 
delivered to this facility, wherever it was.

Alex and Kincaid obviously didn't know the man; they both drew weapons on 
him. The poor man promptly dropped the package he was holding and started 
to babble barely coherent explanations for his presence.

Jarod stepped between the man and the guns pointed at him. "Broots, what 
are you doing here?" Alex promptly groaned and lowered his gun. Obviously 
the name meant something to him, even if the face didn't.

"I wanted to get this to you before you left," Broots said, crouching 
down to pick up his package while trying not to take his eyes off of 
Alex. He obviously recognized the assassin as the most dangerous man in 
the room. "Here," he said, thrusting the small bundle at Jarod.

"What is it?" Jarod asked, turning it over in his hands.

Before Broots could answer, there was a shout from the hallway. 
Immediately, Kincaid moved to push one of the filing cabinets at the back 
of the room out of the way, revealing a hole in the plywood paneling. 
"Time to go," he said, almost diving through the opening. Alex pushed 
Mulder after him, following closely behind.

"Come on, Broots," he heard behind them.

"What? I can't... I have to get back to my workstation!"

"Too late. If you stay here, they'll catch you for sure. You don't have 
any other choices. Come on!"

"Just what we need," Alex muttered under his breath. Mulder ignored him, 
too busy trying to keep to his feet as they headed up through the rough-
hewn passageway.

Inside, although he was relieved by the rescue, he was dreading what 
would happen next. As soon as they were safe, he was going to have to 
talk to Alex, and he wasn't sure he wanted to deal with that 
confrontation. What was worse, he knew that he deserved whatever Alex was 
going to throw at him for breaking his promise, back at Cheyenne Mt.

And worst of all, Scully was out there waiting for *her* shot at him too.

>>>~~~~~<<<

As he worked, Harrison stole glances at the circle in the floor. He 
didn't even need to look at what he was doing, his hands obviously knew 
what to do. Instead, his mind was focused on the puzzle of what was going 
on.

The alien woman was standing guard at the door, watching for the no-doubt 
inevitable wave of resistance from her own people. Alarms filled the air 
with a noise that set his teeth on edge. Across the room, Suzanne and 
Paul were both working feverishly.

As he worked, bits of information floated to the surface of his mind like 
flotsam. It told him that the circle he saw was evidence of large amounts 
of equipment beneath the room. This was the sole conduit through which 
the aliens were moving into this world. He wasn't sure *why* it was the 
only one -- it didn't seem to make much tactical sense, he knew -- but it 
was.

Something started pounding at the stout doorway that was all that stood 
between them and a base-worth of aliens, and Harrison picked up speed. He 
wasn't sure what he was doing, or how he knew to do it, just that it was 
important that he finish quickly. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw 
Paul's hands drop to the side and the man stepped back from his control 
panel. Then Suzanne did the same.

And then he felt a sense of completion and he stepped back, just as the 
door flew open and figures poured through.

Harrison watched, drained, as weapons came up to fire the blasts that 
would kill them all. In his mind he felt only resignation, as though this 
moment had been inevitable since the knock on his door, only a few weeks 
earlier. At least if he had to die, he'd had these last days with Paul, 
repairing the emotional damage of years without him.

Then a whine filled the air, and he winced and raised his hands to his 
ears. He watched in amazement as the figures of their attackers started 
to glow, then one by one... vanished? Then more appeared, out of thin 
air, then disappeared again. And more, and more...

Finally, only two were left, two of the original wave of attackers. They 
stared in shock, leaving themselves open to the blasts from Katara's gun. 
These two didn't explode into sparks like the other one. Instead, they 
went down with screams and started to bleed a green substance that hissed 
and smoked as it was exposed to air. Harrison watched in disbelief as the 
bodies slowly dissolved into nothing. They hadn't been machines.

A moment later, they were alone in the room with their... savior? She 
lowered the gun and nodded to Paul. The military man stepped forward 
stiffly and tapped one last command into the panel in front of him. Then 
Suzanne did the same.

Immediately, all of Harrison's hair started to stand on end. Static 
electricity filled the air and he could hear the sound of electronics 
shorting out. Streams of smoke started to pour from the panels on the 
walls.

Katara nodded slowly. "It is done."

>>>~~~~~<<<

After what seemed like an eternity of climbing, Mulder finally saw a pale 
grey light up ahead and sighed in relief. They'd had plenty of flashlights 
to light their way at the start, but most of them had been turned off when 
they'd heard the hidden entrance to the tunnel discovered, although Mulder 
wasn't sure why. After all, it was pretty damn obvious where they'd gone, 
considering how well sound was carrying. But all Alex allowed them was a 
single dim flashlight, barely enough to keep them from walking into the 
tunnel walls. Mulder's bare feet were bruised and battered already from 
the rough ground.

But they'd finally reached the end of the line, stumbling out into the 
pale pre-dawn light. Mulder collapsed against a tree, breathing heavily. 
The last week or so of enforced inactivity had left him feeling 
completely out of shape. He desperately needed exercise. He wasn't sure 
how Alex kept going, considering that the man had been shot only a week 
earlier.

Instead, the man still looked fresh. He turned to face the tunnel exit, 
tossing his now-empty bag aside. Reaching into his jacket pocket, he 
pulled out a palm-sized device and extended the small antenna. He stared 
into the tunnel, a fierce grin on his face. They could hear the sounds of 
pursuit getting closer. Then he pressed a button on the device in his 
hand.

A moment later, there was a deep, rumbling sound, followed by a cloud of 
dust and debris belching out of the tunnel. Mulder drew a deep breath, 
realizing what Alex had done. He'd planted explosives during their escape 
and he'd just blown the tunnel with their pursuers inside. Then Mulder 
remembered what he knew of the facility -- and the people who'd been 
holding him prisoner -- and found that he couldn't work up much outrage 
at Alex's actions.

Kincaid was equally unconcerned, but both Jarod and Broots looked 
shocked. Thankfully they didn't say anything, though. Mulder could just 
imagine what Alex would say in response to any criticism.

Alex stuffed the detonator back into his pocket. "Let's get going," he 
said, heading off at a slow jog. Mulder groaned and pushed himself back 
to his feet to follow.

"We're done here."

------------------------------------------------------------
Chapter #31: Reunited
------------------------------------------------------------

The sun was just peeking up above the tops of the trees when they reached 
the abandoned shed about five miles from the Center where Scully, 
Wolfling and the others were waiting for them with the vehicles to finish 
their escape. Alex was reasonably pleased with the way things had gone: 
The rescue had been pulled off without a hitch -- other than their 
unexpected little tagalong -- with the only casualties being on the other 
side. He would have liked to have blown the entire place to kingdom come, 
but it was too big and they hadn't had the time. Besides, the others 
might have objected to the wholesale death and destruction.

However, since the tunnel had been discovered, he had no problem deciding 
to blow it up along with the people inside. Very few people were going to 
mourn the deaths of a few Consortium thugs; not even Mulder.

With his gun ready as usual -- just to be safe -- Alex pushed open the 
door of the shed. There was always the chance that the opposition knew of 
the building and had beat them there.

Inside, everyone who was supposed to be there was, along with one 
unexpected addition. Jarod's pal, Sydney, was in a corner, tied to a 
chair with a couple of Hunters watching him.

"How the hell did he know to come here?" Alex snapped at Jarod. The 
sheepish expression on the man's face told him all he needed to know and 
he resisted an urge to just shoot the man. These sorts of leaks were what 
led to failed operations. "That's what I thought."

"Scully, are you all right?" Mulder asked squeezing past him. The petite 
red-head glared up at her partner.

"I'm fine," she said coolly. "However, you and I are going to have a long 
talk about these suicidal tendencies of yours." The glance she shot in 
Alex's direction said that she wasn't just talking about Mulder's 
decision to turn himself over to Spender. Alex's back straightened and he 
glared back: The battle for Fox Mulder had begun, and he had no intention 
of losing.

"What about him?" he asked Wolfling in a low voice, gesturing towards 
Sydney.

"Showed up about ten minutes before you. Said he needed to talk to 
Jarod." The big Canadian looked as suspicious as Alex felt.

The others had entered the shed now. Sydney smiled when he saw Jarod, 
then slumped in apparent relief when he saw Broots. "Mr. Raines is 
looking for you," he said, and Broots made a sound suspiciously like a 
whimper. "He put two and two together and decided that the camera failure 
wasn't just a coincidence. He's suspicious, but that's all so far."

Broots turned to Jarod, grabbing at the man's arm. "As soon as he 
realizes I'm not in the Center, he's going to decide that I'm guilty. 
He'll send someone after Debbie!"

"Who's Debbie?" Kincaid asked in an undertone. Alex shrugged, but Jarod 
answered him.

"His eleven year old daughter. Also the best hold that the Center has 
over him."

Kincaid glanced at Wolfling, who gestured to one of his Hunters. "What's 
the address," he asked Broots. "Green will go pick her up before this 
Raines person can get to her."

Broots looked at the heavily tattooed biker dubiously, but obviously 
realized that his options were limited. He rattled off a street address 
and some basic directions. The Hunter left and a moment later they heard 
the a motorcycle start up.

"Now what?" Broots asked, vibrating nervously.

"You run," was the blunt answer from Sydney. Jarod was quickly untying 
him. "Even if you could prove that you weren't involved -- and that would 
be tough since you were -- Mr. Raines would probably kill you on just 
principle."

"Is that the guy I met?" Mulder broke in. "The one with the lung trouble?"

"That's him."

Mulder gave a little shudder. "I can believe he would do just that," he 
told Alex. "This guy makes *Spender* look like the picture of reason."

Alex found that hard to believe, but there wasn't time to debate it. 
"This is all well and nice, but the longer we stay here, the more likely 
it is that we're *all* going to get caught," he said to the room in 
general. "Let's *go*."

"Go with them," Sydney told Broots, rubbing his wrists where they'd been 
tied together. "It's your only option."

"What about you, Sydney?" Jarod broke in. "You could come with us too. 
After all, if Raines suspects Broots, it's only a matter of time until he 
starts looking at you."

"Maybe. But until then, I can be of more use on the inside. Besides, Miss 
Parker needs me." He smiled fondly at Jarod. "But maybe in the near 
future. Until then, keep in touch," he said softly, already heading for 
the door.

"Be careful," was the equally soft reply.

"*Now* can we go?" Alex asked impatiently. "Before someone *else* decides 
to join this little party?"

Wolfling grunted in agreement, and quickly hustled them all into the 
waiting van. They would be dropped at a Hunter safehouse, almost fifty 
miles away. Then the stolen van would be dumped even further away, in a 
different direction. They'd all been careful not to leave fingerprints or 
any other traces, so there would be nothing to lead the police -- or the 
Center -- to them.

They hoped

>>>~~~~~<<<

"Would you mind telling us *what* is done?" Paul asked, shaking a little 
from suppressed tension. From the moment they'd entered the room, he 
hadn't been in control of his own body. It was not a feeling he liked, 
especially after everything that had happened since he'd been released 
from the Mothren storage pod. "What the hell did we just do, and why?" he 
added as an afterthought.

The android seemed strangely relaxed, considering she was basically an 
artificial being. "There are those in my home who disagreed with the 
plans for your world. Knowing that those factions might try to infiltrate 
the project, the leaders ensured that no members of the project would be 
able to act against them directly."

"A familiar story," Harrison said, moving to wrap his arms around Paul 
from behind. Paul leaned back into the embrace. "I take it that we were 
your way around that injunction?"

"Correct. When I healed you," she said, referring to their first meeting, 
more than a decade earlier, when she'd saved their lives, "as a 
precaution, I implanted the knowledge you would need into your 
subconscious. Once you entered this room, that knowledge was activated."

"And what was it we did?" Paul asked again, wondering if she were giving 
them the run-around.

"And what was Norton supposed to have done?" Suzanne added, a catch in 
her voice. Paul winced, remembering the relationship that the two had 
had. They'd been discreet, especially around Debi, but everyone knew 
about it. Probably the same as they'd all known about Paul and Harrison, 
although no one had ever mentioned it.

The android nodded to Harrison. "You activated a device implanted inside 
every android form, transporting them first here, then back to our home 
dimension. You," she nodded to Paul, "sent a signal that will spread 
through our computing network, erasing all information that refers to 
your dimension or its coordinates."

"What about off-line backups and archives? Paper, even?" Harrison asked.

"There are none," she replied, a slightly puzzled expression on her face. 
Harrison snorted, and Paul had to agree. Even in the Project, they'd 
always kept at least two backups, unconnected to the outside world to 
protect them from hackers and spies.

"Then you," she nodded to Suzanne, "destroyed the only homing device 
that would have guided them back, severing the last link between this 
dimension and mine."

Paul shook his head. This was ridiculous. "You mean to tell me that this 
is the only link? No backups at all?"

"They were not necessary," was the reply. He shook his head again in 
disbelief. These people were far too overconfident. He found it hard to 
accept that they'd managed to get this far with all their eggs in one 
basket, so to speak.

"And Norton?" he reminded her before Suzanne could.

"His knowledge would have activated the bases self-destruct. However, the 
leaders gave us the authorization to activate if the base were in danger 
of being seized by humans." Her lips curved into a small and obviously 
artificial smile. "The circumstances allow it. I will transport you to 
safety, then destroy this place." She reached for a panel.

"Wait!" Harrison said, reaching out. "Do you have to? There is so much we 
could learn here," he pleaded.

"Yes. Too much." She started to tap a series of commands at one panel. "I 
will give your race the chance to develop unmolested by mine, but I must 
protect my people as well. This technology, in human hands, might 
endanger them."

Suzanne frowned. In the background, a computer voice started speaking in 
the rhythmic tones of a countdown. "Why weren't you transported with the 
others?" she asked as the android moved to another panel. "Didn't you 
have one of those devices implanted in your body as well?"

"I removed mine before I retrieved you. While most of my kind in this 
world wore mechanical forms, there are still others that are housed in 
either human bodies or those of the shift-form animals we brought with 
us. After this base is destroyed, I will locate and neutralize them 
before they can interfere with your race any more than they already have."

Paul wanted to ask for more information on those remaining aliens, but 
before he could speak, she pressed one last control. Immediately there 
was the flash of light that went with the alien transportation method.

When the blinding light faded, Paul looked around and started cursing. 
His idea of safety and the alien's were obviously very different. They 
were back in Spender's study.

"We have to get out of here before..." He was interrupted by the sound of 
a gun safety being clicked off. A *lot* of gun safeties, actually.

Standing in the doorway to the study was a depressingly large number of 
armed men. Then they parted, like the Red Sea in front of Moses, and 
Spender stepped into view.

He stared at the group standing in his study for a long moment, then 
turned to leave. "Take them, but don't damage them," he said. "We want 
answers."

Paul snarled, but raised his hands. Fighting now would be a waste of 
time. But their time would come, sooner or later.

He was looking forward to 'talking' to Spender *then*.

>>>~~~~~<<<

They arrived at the safe-house just before lunch. Normally it wouldn't 
have taken that long to drive the distance involved, but they'd taken the 
scenic route, watching for any sign of pursuit. Once they were satisfied 
that they weren't being followed, they'd headed for their final 
destination.

Alex had beaten Scully to the spot next to Mulder and had been pleased 
when the man had promptly leaned against him and dozed off, obviously 
completely at ease with Alex. Scully, sitting opposite them in the van, 
squeezed between Kincaid and Wolfling, had to be content with just 
glaring at him. He didn't care. She'd turned Mulder away too many times 
in the past and now he belonged to Alex, and he wasn't going to give him 
up.

Mulder woke as they pulled into the barn next to the old farmhouse. 
Green's motorcycle was already parked in the rickety old building, Alex 
noted as he helped Mulder out of the van. The man's bare feet were a mess 
and were going to need attention. As soon as they were out of the van, 
the Hunter driving it left again, heading for the site where the vehicle 
would be dumped.

"Just a little further," Alex promised as Mulder leaned on him heavily. 
The man just bit his lip and nodded.

Inside the large kitchen, warmed by a wood stove, Green waited with an 
attractive young girl who promptly threw herself at the man that Jarod 
had insisted on dragging along. Alex supposed it was necessary; after 
all, the man *had* helped them by dealing with the security cameras. They 
owed him, even if he had complicated matters by his presence.

Alex settled Mulder into one chair with his feet propped up with another, 
then went to fill a bowl with hot water to clean the man's feet. Bandages 
were also located and pulled out. Mulder's feet were bruised and cut 
under the layer of dirt and blood. He kicked himself for not anticipating 
the problem and bringing extra footwear.

Scully took the water from him and immediately started to clean Mulder's 
cuts. Since she *was* the one with a medical degree and the first-aid 
kit, Alex decided to let her have her little victory, but he chose to sit 
next to Mulder, on the heavy kitchen table.

"All right, folks. Time to make some plans here," he announced to the 
room at large. Broots was sitting in the corner, talking with his 
daughter. Jarod was leaning against a wall, watching them with an almost 
wistful smile on his face. The sight of the two men reminded Alex of one 
question he had. "But first of all, what the hell was so damned important 
about that package?"

Broots jumped, obviously not expecting to be addressed. The man glanced 
at Jarod, who pulled the bundle out of his jacket pocket and starting to 
unwrap it. Inside was a series of small silver disks which made Mulder 
perk up in interest.

"I've been downloading everything from the Center computers," Broots 
explained, nodding towards the storage disks. "Everything I could get to 
over the last few months. I thought you could... use it." He shrugged 
helplessly.

Jarod's expression turned surprised, then he smiled broadly. "Broots, I 
could kiss you," he said and the other man turned bright red. Jarod 
glanced at the young girl and said, "Maybe later," then winked. Broots 
looked completely flustered.

Alex snorted, then his eyes narrowed. "That could be useful," he said 
thoughtfully. "When we rescued Scully," the woman in question glared at 
him, "the technician I questioned said that the younger McCullough was 
taken to 'the Mexican facility.' Anything on those disks to tell us where 
that is?"

Broots frowned, then shook his head. "Maybe. I'd have to check, though. 
I didn't exactly have time to read everything while I was copying it to 
disk."

"Do it," Alex told him.

"My daughter... They're going to be looking for me. For her." Debbie 
clutched his hand, but looked amazingly calm and collected for her young 
age. Alex found himself admiring the kid.

"We can protect her," Wolfling said from his seat next to the back door, 
speaking for the first time. Broots looked uncertain, but Jarod nodded 
reassuringly. "I have a cousin living north of the border in Ontario. He 
and his wife have two kids at university. They can take her in. Both of 
you, if you like."

Broots looked down at his daughter, then shook his head. "Just Debbie," 
he said softly, then shushed her when she tried to protest. "They'll be 
looking harder for me. Debbie will be safer if I'm not around."

"What about you?" Wolfling asked.

Jarod looked up from the disks he was holding. "He'll come with me."

"Are you sure?" Broots asked hesitantly.

"Of course. Just like old times." Both men grinned, and Alex wondered 
briefly what story was behind the comment.

"What about the others?" Scully asked, fastening the last bandage on 
Mulder's feet. "Suzanne, Debi, Harrison and Ironhorse?"

Alex sighed. "That's a little more difficult. The techie said that 
someone came and took them away, but we were watching the estate. They 
didn't leave by any means *we* saw, but they were gone when we searched 
the building."

"So how do we find them?"

"Right now, unless a miracle happens, we don't." That blunt if honest 
reply earned him another Scully-glare. He wasn't sure just what she 
expected from him; he wasn't clairvoyant, after all. Hell, finding a 
clairvoyant was probably their best bet at that moment.

"But for now," he continued, "let's start with what we *can* do. We find 
Debi McCullough -- since we have a lead, even if it is pretty slim. Start 
going through those files," he told Broots, confident that the nervous 
man would do what he was told. "Once we've found her, we can start 
looking for the others. The Consortium has to have them *somewhere*."

There were some nods and some murmurs, but no one seemed to object to his 
orders, he was pleased to note.

In the meantime, Mulder was falling asleep where he sat. Alex slid off 
the table and leaned over. "Let's get you upstairs," he said in a soft 
voice. Mulder blinked and looked a little nervous. Alex held out a hand 
to pull him to his feet.

"I can take care of him," Scully promptly said.

Alex glared at her, but she didn't back down. He didn't say a word, but 
waited not-so-patiently for Mulder to make his choice. He could have 
pressed the issue, but it was about time that the other man made a public 
stand. Besides, Alex was pretty damn sure that at the moment, he would 
come out on top.

It didn't stop him from being damned relieved when Mulder finally said, 
"It's okay, Scully. I'm sure Alex will take good care of me."

Shooting a triumphant look at Scully, Alex braced Mulder against him and 
led him towards the stairs to the second floor and the bedrooms up there.

"Besides," Mulder said softly in his ear, his voice a little shaky. "I 
suppose we need to talk."

------------------------------------------------------------
Chapter #32: Calm Before The Storm
------------------------------------------------------------

"Are you telling us that this was all it took? A few computer commands 
and the aliens are stopped?" Michaels, a member of the Consortium's inner 
circle, raised his voice in disbelief.

Spender stubbed out his cigarette, frowning at the man. He was a fool, 
but considering his position, he was a very useful fool. "No, that is 
*not* what I am saying. It required very specific knowledge that one of 
the aliens implanted in the minds of the members of the Blackwood Project 
a decade ago. And before you ask, no, they did *not* know that it had 
been done. Apparently, the knowledge was not activated until they were 
literally in a position to use it."

"But why? What did she do it?"

"I suppose it would explain why they were so interested in getting 
Blackwood: To prevent this from happening," one of the others said 
thoughtfully, and Spender sighed.

While in the long run, only a handful of the Consortium elite had died in 
the alien trap the year before, unfortunately that handful had included 
some of the most powerful and intelligent of that elite. However, he 
refused to allow that to interfered with the Consortium's -- or more to 
the point, *his* -- long-term plans. This was merely a temporary setback.

"Enough!" he finally barked, interrupting the squabbling session that was 
well underway. "It doesn't matter how or why it happened, it did. Now we 
need to decide what *we* will do in response."

"What can we do?" one idiot asked. Spender resisted the urge to hit him.

"We still have the technology we've obtained from the aliens, as well as 
our various projects," he said, pointing out what should have been 
obvious. "Not to mention underlings at every level of the government and 
military. We are *not* without options.

"Now, let's discuss those options, shall we?"

>>>~~~~~<<<

During the escape, Mulder hadn't noticed how badly his feet were hurting, 
the adrenaline rush covering up the discomfort. It wasn't until they got 
into the van and he sat down for a while that they started to throb and 
ache. The anesthetic cream and bandages Scully had put on them helped, 
but even with Alex's support, he was limping badly as they entered the 
small, spartan bedroom. He was not going to be moving very fast for a few 
days, which meant he better clear things up with Alex. Running again was 
not an option.

Mulder sighed in relief as he sat down on the bed, noting that the 
mattress was firm, the way he liked it. Back home, he still slept on his 
couch rather than the waterbed that some idiot had installed in his 
bedroom while he was out on assignment. He still suspected the Lone 
Gunmen, despite their constant protests of innocence.

Mulder watched while Alex closed the door behind them and shrugged out of 
his jacket. His expression was closed, and Mulder found himself fidgeting 
nervously.

"I'm sorry," he finally said.

"Sorry? Sorry!?" Alex exploded. "Are you really?"

Mulder grimaced. "Well, maybe not. Scully's important to me, Alex. I'd 
probably do the same thing over again if I had to."

Alex tossed his leather jacket onto the dresser angrily, then spun to 
face him. "Damnit, Mulder, do you know how much that hurt? You promised 
you'd be right back and then you vanished. Kincaid had to tell me where 
you'd gone. Couldn't you at least have come and said goodbye?"

Mulder winced at the obvious hurt in the other man's voice. "There wasn't 
time," he said weakly. "Spender gave me a tight deadline to get to the 
airport." Alex glared at him. Mulder dropped his eyes. "All right, I was 
scared. I ran."

"Scared of me." Alex's voice was flat.

He shrugged. "More scared of how you make me feel. Every time I'm near 
you, I feel off-balance. Even when we were enemies -- hell, when you were 
eager young agent Krycek -- you always had me off-balance. It scares me. 
I needed to get away from you so that I could think."

"And turning yourself over to Spender was going to give you a chance to 
think?" Alex said in disbelief, amusement starting to filter into his 
voice. Mulder chuckled nervously. It did sound pretty stupid.

"All right, so did you think?"

"About us? Almost non-stop, between bouts of worry over Scully and what 
they were planning for her, me and everyone else."

"And what did you decide?" Alex asked, leaning back against the door. He 
was the picture of nonchalance, but Mulder could see the underlying 
tension. He wondered if anyone else would. He probably knew Alex better 
than anyone else in the world, just like Alex knew *him* better than 
anyone, even Scully.

"That somewhere along the line, you became a part of me that I didn't 
want to lose. I don't know if you can forgive me for taking off like 
that, but could you give me a second chance?"

Alex stared at him for a long moment, then moved forward slowly, stopping 
right in front of him. "Second chance and last chance," he said softly. 
"I won't let you run out on me again. If something like that happens 
again, come *talk* to me. We could have figured something out and gotten 
you to the airport in time. You're just damned lucky that Hammond had 
some damned good radar gear available to track you." Mulder was relieved 
to note that there was an assumption that he would have still gone, even 
if he *had* gone to talk Alex first.

"I will," he whispered, mesmerized by the clear green gaze. He could see 
everything in them and was reassured.

Alex's hand came up to caress his cheek, then the man leaned down and 
brushed a soft kiss against his lips. Mulder moaned softly and reached 
out to wrap his arms around the man's slim waist. "I dreamt about this," 
he whispered against Alex's lips. "Every time I shut my eyes, I saw your 
face, remembered how you felt against me. By the time you came, I was 
more scared that I'd never feel it again."

Alex pushed him back until he was lying on the bed. Mulder scooted until 
he was fully on the bed, then waited until Alex moved to cover him. "You 
dreamt of me, hmmm?" the assassin murmured with a wicked grin. "And what 
did I do in those dreams?"

"Everything," Mulder gasped as he felt something hard press against his 
groin, hot even through the layers of fabric separating them. He started 
pulling desperately at Alex's shirt, needing to feel the man's skin 
against him. All his blood was rushing to his groin, making thought 
difficult. He groaned as Alex started to rock against him. It had been so 
long since he'd gone to bed with anything besides his own hand for 
company, and it had never been another man, but it felt so damned *right*.

He finally succeeded in getting Alex's T-shirt up and over the man's 
head, and when Alex settled back down against him, he was surprised to 
find that Alex had managed to get his own shirt off without him noticing. 
Bare chest rubbed against bare chest, sending electric shocks along his 
nerves. He arched up into the sensation, barely noticing the hand busily 
pushing down his track pants and briefs.

Then the sensations went away and he opened his eyes, wanting to protest. 
What he saw stopped the words before they could come.

Alex had rolled off the bed and was stripping the rest of his clothes off 
as quickly as he could with one hand. His prosthetic arm hung limp, as if 
he couldn't summon enough control to use it. When he was naked, his cock 
almost slapping against his stomach in its eagerness, he then reached 
over and grabbed the waistband of Mulder's pants, now bunched around his 
knees, and pulled them down and yanked them off in one smooth motion.

Then he was back on top of Mulder and nothing stood between them. Mulder 
separated his legs to let Alex get between them, needing him closer. Alex 
started the rocking motion again, rubbing their cocks together in a 
friction that set off fireworks behind Mulder's eyelids. He wrapped his 
legs around the back of Alex's thighs, pulling him down harder. Their 
lips clashed and Alex's tongue thrust into his mouth, following the same 
rhythm as their hips. It was all so intense that Mulder couldn't stop 
himself. He arched upwards and froze, his head thrown back, and came in 
heavy spurts, the speed and volume inspired by long celibacy.

Shivering in reaction, he sank back down against the bedspread, Alex 
still on top of him. Against his still twitching groin, he could feel the 
heat and weight of the other man's erection.

"Doing everything is going to take a while," Alex said with a wicked 
grin. "Think you're up to it?"

Mulder moaned as his cock started to harden again. Alex's grin grew wider 
and he started to move again.

>>>~~~~~<<<

Kincaid grinned as the rhythmic thumping above their heads started again. 
He was glad to see -- or maybe that should be *hear* -- that the reunion 
was going well.

Well for Mulder and Krycek, that was. Over in the corner, Mulder's 
partner was scowling at a notebook she was scribbling furiously in. 
Before the rescue attempt at Spender's estate, he hadn't had the chance 
to meet the woman. All he had to go by were Krycek's comments -- highly 
unflattering -- and Mulder's -- probably overly-flattering.

The truth was no doubt somewhere in between. Considering the scene after 
they'd rescued her, when she'd nearly attacked Krycek with her bare 
hands, it was safe to say that the two were never going to be friends, 
even though they had one thing in common: Mulder. Instead, they behaved 
like two bad-tempered dogs fighting over the same bone, and Krycek had 
won.

However, the attractive red-head wasn't about to give up, going some of 
the things she'd been muttering to herself.

Out of the blue, the woman snarled and threw her pen across the room, 
barely missing him. Then she started, obviously having forgotten that 
she wasn't alone in the room. She glanced at him, her expression a 
combination of embarrassment and anger. Kincaid grinned back: He loved a 
woman with fire.

He picked the pen and gently tossed it back to her, then got up and 
headed to fill the kettle. He put it on the stove to boil, then turned to 
pull down a mug. "Tea?" he offered, twisting to smile invitingly at the 
woman.

Her jaw clenched and her eyes flashed. Finally, though, she relaxed a 
fraction. "Please."

Nodding, he pulled down a second mug, then grabbed a couple chamomile 
tea-bags from a drawer.

Technically, he should have offered a choice since they had several 
blends, one of the Hunters being a closeted tea-drinker, but he figured 
that the woman could use the calming effect.

About the time that the tea was ready, there was a shout and the noises 
overhead stopped again. Red glared at the ceiling and Kincaid had to 
swallow a snicker as he handed her the mug. "Careful, it's hot."

She took it gingerly and blew across the surface before sipping. The 
flavor, heat and steam acted in concert and she slumped back, the tension 
starting to drain. Kincaid took the seat across the table from her and 
leaned forward on his elbows, cradling the heated ceramic in both hands. 
"I take it you don't approve," he said, nodding towards the ceiling.

"No, I do *not* approve," she said frostily.

"Why not?"

She glared at him again. "He's a killer and a traitor."

Kincaid shrugged. "From what *I* understand, he's a double-agent who 
supplied you with very valuable information."

"He just did that to get into Mulder's pants," she said dismissively. He 
snorted.

"No one risks their lives for just a good lay. He also wouldn't be this 
protective of Mulder if that was all he wanted. No, there's more to Alex 
Krycek than self-serving hormones if you care to look."

"I don't," she said, staring at a spot on the wall behind him. He didn't 
let that deter him.

"In fact, he probably the best thing Mulder has going for him right now. 
Think about it," he said when her head jerked around to stare at him in 
disbelief. "Mulder's got a lot of enemies, from what I hear, and now 
there's a contract on his life. He needs someone with sufficient 'mean' 
to protect him. You have to admit, Alex certainly has that in spades."

"He'll get Mulder killed."

Kincaid laughed. "More likely it will be the other way around. After all, 
he's already lost an arm because of Mulder. And let's not forget, he took 
a bullet for the man in Colorado *before* they were lovers. No. Anyone 
who tries to hurt the man now is a fool." He hoped she got the hint in 
that.

"It doesn't change a thing," she spat. "Because of him, my sister is 
dead. Because of him, I was abducted. Because of *him*, I'll never have 
a child. It doesn't matter what he does, it will never change his past."

Kincaid sighed. Obviously the woman had made up her mind and wasn't going 
to allow anything to change it, not even pesky little details like facts. 
It made her a little less attractive.

Krycek better watch his back around this one.

>>>~~~~~<<<

Two days later, matters hadn't changed. Most of the Hunters had already 
left for their home-bases, leaving only Wolfling and Green behind. As 
soon as it was safe, Green would be heading north with Broots' daughter. 
Wolfling was sticking around out of curiosity, or so he said.

Meanwhile, Broots spent his time going through gigs of data, trying to 
find the information that they needed to locate Debi. Jarod alternated 
between helping him and distracting him. 

Alex and Mulder wandered down from the honeymoon suite where they'd spent 
most of that time, just in time for dinner. They sat down and both winced 
at the same time. Mulder's lips were swollen and slightly bruised and the 
bite marks on his neck were very obvious. Alex couldn't wipe the grin off 
his face. He knew that he was wearing the same sort of marks. He also 
wasn't leaning against the chair back. Mulder hadn't cut his nails during 
his captivity and Alex's back was now covered in scratches.

He felt fucking fantastic.

Food was placed in front of them and they both started to eat greedily, 
ignoring the knowing smirk from Kincaid and Jarod as well as the frosty 
glare from Scully. Silence reigned supreme in the small space. The longer 
it continued, the broader Alex's grin got. Idly, he wondered how high 
Scully's blood pressure was these days.

"Wolf, get in here! There's big trouble!"

The shout from the front room broke the slight tension in the room. The 
Canadian got to his feet and headed for the source of the shout. Curious, 
everyone else followed.

They found Green, Broots and Debbie sitting in the living room in front 
of an almost antique television set. Both the men had shocked expressions 
on their face.

On the screen was a shaky-looking anchor-woman. Behind her was a picture 
of the White House with the words "Presidential Shooting" written across 
it in red letters.

"I repeat, there has been a shooting at the White House. The Vice 
President is dead and the President has been rushed to hospital, in 
critical condition. Unconfirmed reports say that the gunman was a member 
of the President's Secret Service detail. We will bring you more details 
as we get them."

"Shit," Alex said, speaking the thought they were all having. "This is 
*not* good."

>>>~~~~~<<<

"The latest reports say that the President came through surgery alive, 
but is in critical condition and may not survive the night. It has been 
confirmed that the gunman was a twelve-year veteran of the Secret 
Service. He was shot down by his fellow agents within seconds of opening 
fire, but it was too late.

"We go live to the Capitol where Speaker of the House, Jerome Michaels, 
is about to hold a press conference."

The glass impacted the wall, right above the large screen television set 
into it, shattering into shards. The scotch it had contained dripped 
slowly down the wall, staining the image of Michaels, earnestly promising 
the American public that he would find and punish whoever was behind the 
assassination

There was, he claimed, now evidence linking Michael Assid, the gunman, to 
terrorist factions in the middle east. As a result, he was ordering the 
Secret Service to suspend operations pending a full-scale investigation. 
In the meantime, the military would be stepping into their role until 
they had answered questions about how they could have allowed a terrorist 
to infiltrate their ranks. As well, every member would be put through a 
thorough background check, looking for more traitors.

Of course, Spender knew that there was no plot. Michaels was the 
mastermind behind this. Evidence would certainly be found and blame would 
be laid, but the only people caught would be scapegoats who didn't know a 
thing.

"You damned *fool*!" Spender snarled at the screen.

This move confirmed the fears he'd had the moment he'd heard what 
Ironhorse and Blackwood had done: Without the alien threat/promise to 
unite them, the Consortium was starting to splinter.

Now Michaels and his supporters had made an obvious and precipitous move. 
What the hell did he think was going to happen, the country would fall at 
his feet? Now matter how well he'd covered himself, sooner or later 
someone would figure it out. Probably there were already investigators 
quietly taking a look at him as someone with a lot to gain. In essence, 
he *was* the President, for the time being.

Spender had his own plans, far more subtle, but now they were in 
jeopardy. The only way to protect those plans was to deal with Michaels; 
quickly, permanently and very, very publicly.

Several possibilities presented themselves, but one appealed the most. It 
would dove-tail nicely with his original ideas and would permanently 
weaken Michael's faction. But first, he needed a new set of pawns for the 
chess board.

He buzzed for his assistant and lit a cigarette while he waited for the 
young man.

"Yes, sir?"

Spender nodded, pleased at the speed with which the man had responded. 
"I'm activating the Sentinel Project, David," he said, and his assistant's 
eyes went wide with surprise. "Make the arrangements.

"Bring them in."


END A NEW WAR


Now, put away those sharp implements. It may be the end of the New War, 
since the alien threat has been dealt with, but it is far from the end of 
the story.

However, I need to do some outlining, as well as finish off a couple of 
other series and tackle some of the projects languishing untouched for 
far too long.

So, coming in a couple months: A New War Book 2: The Sentinel Project!

