=====o======================================================o=====

"Zurvan" by Mary Ruth Keller  

E-mail: mrkeller@eclipse.net

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Chapter II - The Plains of Edom (Disclaimed in Chapter I)  

-----o--------------------------------------------o-----  

Hear, O Kings! Give ear, O princes!  
I to the Lord will sing my song, 
my hymn to the Lord, the God of Israel.  

O Lord, when you went out from Seir,  
when you marched from the field of Edom, 
The earth quaked and the heavens were shaken, 
while the clouds sent down showers.  

Mountains trembled  
in the presence of the Lord, the One of Sinai, 
in the presence of the Lord, the God of Israel.  

Gone was freedom beyond the walls,  
gone indeed from Israel, 
When I, Deborah, rose,  
when I rose, a mother in Israel.                

             Excerpted from "The Song of Deborah"

-----o---------------------------------------------o-----  

Rowhouse 
Capital Hill Washington, DC 
Friday, 7:13 pm  

Lindhauer checked his watch. <Where is she? I hope she hasn't...>
He waved at the petite brunette rushing up the street from the
Metro. "Hey, angel, what kept you?" 

She shifted her books from one arm to the other. "Sorry. I was
taking a call from one of my bosses' boss. You know, the bald
Marine?" 

The lean, angular man pulled her into his arms. "Ah, let's not
talk about that. You registered yet?" 

All wide-eyed eagerness, she nodded. "My boss said sure. He's a
good guy, for all his strange ideas. I really *am* not all that
busy at the Bureau." 

Wrapping one arm around her waist, he guided her up onto his
porch, where they settled into one of the wicker couches. "It's
almost a waste of the taxpayer's dollar to have you there, but
politics is politics." 

She burrowed under his arm. "Speaking of that, when do I get
tickets for the Senate balcony? You know my Mom's dying to see
Congress in operation." 

A dark look crossed his face, turning his eyes hard momentarily.
"Oh, soon, soon. I thought they were in the middle of the corn
harvest back in Iowa." 

She shook her head. "No, silly, I told you, they were planting
soybeans this year. That's later than corn." 

He grinned down at her. <I only have to put up with all this long
enough to get the information I need on them. Then I can get rid
of her. It was too much work stealing her away from that hayseed
boyfriend of hers.> "Oh, right. You know us New York boys. We'd
probably hook a milking machine to a stallion and wonder why
nothing was coming out." 

Covering her mouth with one hand, she giggled. "Oh, Gil, that's
silly." Standing, she tugged on his arm. "Okay, where to tonight?" 

He shook his head. "No place, Cynthia. I've fixed dinner here." 

She dropped onto his lap, kissing his nose impulsively. "Here?" 

He smiled again. "Right here." He waved over his shoulder towards
the dining room. "In there, actually. You ready?" 

She nodded, giggling again when he carried her in through the open
front door. 

On the corner, a grey-suited man covered the tip of a Morley as he
lit it. Taking a deep drag, he nodded to himself. <Well, well.
This could be useful information indeed. I wonder if the others
know who their leader's latest inamorata is?> Stepping onto the
pavement, he waved carelessly at a honking Mercedes before
unlocking his own black sedan. <Mister Lindhauer, you may have
just handed me the glory of your overthrow.>

                            --o-0-o--

Regional Airport 
Ithaca, New York 
Friday, 8:24 pm

Andrea Rosen pushed her way through the crowd huddled by the same
gate where she had arrived only a few days earlier. Through the
window, she had caught a glimpse of her partner, who was shuffling
across the tarmac, his head bent. <It mustn't have gone well.> She
waved when he entered. 

An attempt to force a smile for his partner's sake resulted in a
slight cant to his moustache. "Hey, Ros." 

Stepping around the final obstacle, which was a crying girl and
her crouching mother, between them, Rosen looked her partner in
the eye. "Sorry to pull you up here on such short notice, Nic." 

Shifting his suit-bag from his left to his right hand, Nichols
shrugged. "No problem. It's not like I have much keeping me in DC,
anyway." 

She nodded, silently extending her sympathy before she spoke. "Oh,
so you haven't heard?" 

As they walked, he glanced over at her. "Heard what?" 

She sighed. "Mulder called. There was an attempt on the
informant's life. Apparently the two new agents Skinner found to
assist after you left were either coerced or brainwashed. The
informant's been charged with their murder." 

He regarded her somberly. "This is more serious than I thought,
Ros. We'll need to check this business with the aliens out, then
high-tail it back to DC. With Mulder and Scully in the shape they
are, they can't take on much heavy-duty investigating right now." 

As they exited, she pointed to the rental parking lot. "Sorry,
it's the best I could do. The station wagon blew a cylinder, so
I've picked a compact for Cary and her Mom to use as long as they
need it."

Once they had pulled out into traffic, the electrical system
winked out momentarily in the red Hundai. Rosen muttered angrily
about cheap technology. 

Much relieved to have the distraction, Nichols grinned. "When it
rains it pours. You want to take it back?"

Nodding, she pulled into the nearest airport exit. "I can't leave
Cary and her Mom stranded. Neither has a lick of mechanical sense
whatsoever." Her lips set in a tight line. 

The balding Montanan attempted a diversion. "Did Mulder give you
any details?" 

She shook her head. "He doesn't have many. Skinner was knocked out
before the attack happened. Apparently this Saunders guy is good
at taking care of himself. When the dust settled, he had one of
their guns, they were members of the formerly living, and, you
know the rest." She looked over at her partner, who was wedged
into the passenger seat. "What kind of Organization are we going
up against here?" 

He chewed his moustache. "Whatever it is, it has more resources
than any of the drug groups I've encountered. We'll have to start
checking in with each other more frequently until things settle
down." 

She nodded. "Likely as not, they'll come after us if it suits
their purposes. I thought just working these regular cases was bad
enough. But this, it's like it's World War Three or something." 

He studied her face. "And only we know about it." He pointed to an
entrance. "You'll need to turn there." 

Her hands flew over the wheel. "Thanks. Almost missed it."

                            --o-0-o--

Student Apartment 
Ithaca, New York 
Friday, 11:43 pm

From his seat on the sofa, Bill Wilson looked up when the door
opened. His throat was sucked dry and his tongue felt like a block
of frayed wood, scraping the roof of his mouth. If anything, this
was the worst hangover imaginable. His buddy, Arnie, was babbling
about aliens and shape-shifting and Andie, now an FBI Agent, until
his head was swimming. That same woman was standing over him,
accompanied by a stocky man, about her height, who looked like he
belonged on the back of a horse, not toting a SIG and cel phone. 

Rosen touched his shoulder. "Bill, this is my partner, Philip
Nichols. We'd like to ask you some questions." 

Bill squinted up at her. "Andie, please, do we have to do this
now?" 

She nodded. "Other lives may be at stake, Bill." Crouching in
front of him, she smirked. "Besides, I've seen you ace exams after
a week of partying in the Catskills."

Arnie bounced in from the kitchen, carrying a glass of water and
two white tablets. "She's gotcha there!" He nodded a greeting to
Nichols as he passed the older man. "So, you're Andie's urban
cowboy?" 

As he looked down at the top of his partner's brown curls, the
thought set Nichols' moustache twitching. "On the way back to DC,
we *talk*, Ros." 

She grinned up at him, then winked. "Don't worry. These guys'll
never tell about the toupee." 

Arnie tugged experimentally from his superior vantage point.
"She's right. It all feels real." 

Nichols passed his fingers over his skull. "Hey! It is..." He
suddenly snorted, then let loose with his gravelly laugh,
something between a sneeze and a bark. <She's trying to cheer me
up.> "Oh, I get it. Thanks." He hadn't expected his partner to
pick up his mood swings so easily. Then he also noted that their
witness was more composed, more ready to answer the difficult
questions they needed to put to him. He settled beside the
rheumy-eyed graduate student. 

Still crouching, Rosen turned her attention to the man before her,
rubbing his wrist gently. "Bill, if you need to stop, or get
confused, we can wait. But we *do* need your help." 

Nichols nodded. "What's the last thing you remember, Son?" 

Bill looked over at him. "Well, I returned home very late from
working on my new thesis ideas." He faced Rosen. "I'd like to
try..."

She shook her head. "Please, I'm here as an agent, Bill. If we
start, you know how long we'll argue."

He rubbed his eyes. "Sure, okay, it was dark."

Nichols flipped open his notepad. "Which day was this?" 

Bill frowned. "Day? Tuesday, the fifth." 

Rosen glanced at her partner. "It's the right time frame."

Arnie bent over her, resting his hands on his knees. "Time frame?" 

She looked up. "We think we encountered that 'thing' up in the
Arctic." 

Arnie tipped his head. "It took commercial transportation?" 

Nichols grunted. "Long story, but yeah, we're pretty sure it did."

Arnie walked to the back of the room to lean against a wall. "Oh.
Okay."

Bill blinked. "Hey, what was it?" 

Rosen blushed slightly. "You'll laugh." 

The graduate student rubbed his temples. "Not the way I feel." 

Nichols cleared his throat. "Maybe, Ros..." 

She nodded. "Okay. Right. We'll ask the questions, Bill. Arnie
will fill you in after we go. Do you know about what time of day
you arrived home?" 

Squinting, Bill sighed. "It was just a little before midnight. I'd
wanted to return to my place to call my folks back in Fresno, and
I wanted to be certain it was late enough that they would be home.
The next thing I knew, the phone was ringing off the hook." He
rolled his eyes towards Arnie. "*He* was trying to reach me to say
you guys were on the way over." 

After scribbling a few lines, Nichols queried, "You had the chance
to note if anything was stolen?" 

Bill frowned. "Let me check." After stumbling around his
apartment, tossing aside the dirty laundry and shifting the old
beer cans stashed in the corners, he returned, deeply concerned.
"Yeah. Yeah, they did. I had some information on the other
nanotechnology facilities in Europe and Japan." He eyed Rosen, now
seated on his right, then Nichols.

The older agent shrugged. "Go ahead and talk technical, Son, if it
helps. Doctor Rosen and the other woman in our section regularly
sling Heisenberg and Helmholtz at me. If I'm not utterly
brain-dead after that, they start in with the differential
equations." 

Relaxing slightly, Bill nodded. "It's not that. It's just that
some of the information offered to me was somewhat restricted,
relating to future upgrades and suggested new improvements in the
hardware. I was, well, looking around," he whispered, staring at
the floor, "looking for someplace else to go."

Rosen shifted on the sofa, patting her friend on the shoulder.
"That's exactly what our visitors would be interested in." She
walked over to Arnie. "Did 'Bill' spend an inordinate about of
time alone this past week?" 

Arnie waved both long arms. "As much as usual. You know what a
night owl he is, so none of us thought much about it." One eyebrow
twitched. "Although, *that* Bill was a lot neater." He leaned over
his friend's shoulder. "We thought he had turned over a new leaf
since, well,..."

As she returned to her seat by Bill, Rosen nodded. "Okay. Neater,
hunh? Changes in personal habits seem to be a clue when someone
has been replaced." 

Nichols cleared his throat, signaling his partner that the
interview should be brought to an conclusion. 

She rose. "Guys, thanks for everything." She extended her hand to
the black-haired man. "Bill, good luck. You'll make it, you know,
you're good. If you think of anything else," she requested,
leaning towards him conspiratorially, "or if you discover any
interesting notes your replacement left behind, give me a call."
She dropped a card in his T-shirt pocket, then patted his chest. 

After exchanging farewells, the agents were descending the
driveway when Arnie called after them from his place by Bill's
side, "Andie, how do you think Bill should write his
acknowledgements: Thanks to help from unnamed space aliens?" 

Without breaking stride, she called back over her shoulder, "Hey,
it worked for Blake!" 

Nichols looked up from the passenger side of the car. "Blake?" 

She grinned. "The poet." 

Nodding, he settled in. "So, you ready to go?" 

Turning the key in the ignition, she looked back over her
shoulder. "After I say goodbye to Cary." 

Nichols sobered. "Sorry to pull you away like this." 

She shifted gears to send their vehicle forward. "Duty calls.
Besides, as much as I love Cary, her Mom is getting to be a real
trial." 

Nichols smoothed his lap belt. "Ah, some things never change."

She cocked an eyebrow at him. "Hum?"

He shrugged. "In-laws." 

Nodding, she sent him one quick glance before pulling onto the
main thoroughfare from the apartment parking lot. <He'll need to
talk, but on the plane, not here.> 

                            --o-0-o--

Lowenberg Residence 
Santorini, Greece 
Saturday, August 9, 1997 
5:27 am

Still in his rumpled nightshirt, Max Lowenberg sat alone in his
living room, staring at the faded black and white photograph he
was cradling gently in his hands. A noise in the doorway brought
his attention to the present, so he turned. 

Margaret Scully had paused there, looking pensive. "It's hard to
let go of them, no matter how long they've been gone. No matter
how happy you are now." 

Max stood the frame back up on the end table, which was a
cross-section of a great trunk of oak, thickly varnished and
supported by three plain black legs. Since the cardboard prop on
the back rested on a knot, the image canted slightly as Margaret
focused on it. 

She shifted the frame a fraction of an inch so it would stand
level. "I'm sorry, I thought this was Thea." She studied the group
of uniformed men, who were posing proudly while standing on a vast
stone plaza. "I don't recognize anyone." She bit her lip, afraid
these were more Holocaust victims.

He tapped the glass cover above the head of an older soldier in
the back, his face partially obscured by a rifle. "Me."

She tipped the frame to illuminate the faded image more evenly.
"Oh." She brushed her thumb over a dome in the background. "That
looks like the Dome of the Rock." 

He blew out a slow breath. "It is. The photo is from the
liberation of Jerusalem during the Six Days War. I was asked to
join the regiment that would retake that area." He brushed his
fingers along the tattooed numbers on his arm. "With these, they
wanted the symbolism."

Margaret nodded. "We were moving that week. I never realized that
there was fighting on the plaza itself." Standing the frame on the
table again, she sat and folded her hands in her lap.

Max blinked. "Oh, most Gentiles don't. It was the strangest
feeling, rushing around with rifles on the holiest place on earth.
All I could think of were the high priests, stepping into the
Devir with a rope around their ankles, so if they were overcome by
the Indwelling, they could be dragged out to safety without others
entering." He hesitated for a moment to hum and clear his throat.
"Well, here we all were, some no more than sixteen, and none of us
priests, stepping all over wherever it might have been." He
sighed. 

Margaret shifted, her sleep-fogged brain stuck on his first words.
"Gentiles?"  She touched the gold crucifix she wore. "You mean
me?" 

Max forced a smile. <No deep discussions of religion, not now.>
"Margaret, using your full name is so formal. I know Caroline
prefers that I do so with her, but if you wish otherwise, I'd be
more than willing to oblige." 

She returned the expression softly. "Bill always called me Maggie,
but use whatever you feel comfortable with." 

Max nodded. "I had a great-aunt Margaret I was very fond of. She
preferred Maudie." He spread his hands. "I couldn't begin to say
why." 

Margaret let loose a small laugh. "Then Maudie it is. I'm sorry, I
don't think of Gentile as a modern word." 

He shrugged. "Well, no offense meant, Maudie, but you aren't
Jewish." 

She settled against the back cushions. "And, I'm afraid, neither
is Fox." 

Max shifted into a more comfortable position as well. "Don't be
too hard on him. He's like many young people his age, not ready to
think about deeper issues in his life, so he ignores them. But we
all come back to our roots eventually." He propped his head up on
one hand. "When I was younger, I used to be like him."

Margaret twisted to face him. "Oh?" 

Max nodded. "Certainly. Very career-oriented. There were several
members of my family who had converted to Catholicism in Vienna.
One had to, to advance in the bureaucracy." His eyes darkened.
"But the National Socialists changed all that. No matter what you
were on paper, only your ancestry counted." 

Margaret touched his hand. "I'm sorry. Dana's loaned me some
books. I never knew it was so horrible. We were never told." 

Max waved both hands, then balanced his forearms on his knees. "I
know. There were conspiracies of silence about many things. The
National Socialists were able to use many old prejudices to their
own ends." 

Margaret studied the pale stubble on his face for a moment. "Do
you ever wish..." She continued after she bit her lip nervously,
"I mean, did you ever write down what you saw in the camps?" 

He shook his head. "What would I say now that would make anyone
who wasn't there understand? For those who were there and
survived, nothing more needs be said."

Thinking of the devastation in Caroline's family, Margaret pressed
her palms together. "Was your Aunt Maudie lost in the camps as
well?"

Max went absolutely still, speaking with a conviction born from
endless mental repetition. "All the Lowenbergs in my family were
taken away. I am the only survivor."

A chill ran up Margaret's spine. "I'm so sorry. You must hate them
for what they did."

He caught the dark-haired woman's eyes in a penetrating gaze,
crystalline in its intensity. "And what good is hate, Maudie?
Whether one hated the Germans, or failed to believe this could
possibly be happening, like Caroline's father Jacob, one still
died." He clasped her hand momentarily. "But, out of all that
terror, we were able to unite long enough to reclaim Palestine." 

Margaret leaned towards him. "That's what's had you up this
early?" 

Max raised his chin, then let it fall. "Hum. It's not something I
can discuss with Caroline. She's almost as distant from her own
faith as her son." He rubbed his hands together. "I've always
leaned more towards the teachings of Maimonides myself."

Margaret frowned. <This is too deep for me.> "Are you looking
forward to returning to Israel after all these years?" 

He faced her. "Oh, I've been back, several times, since the war.
Thea and I attended a gala celebration welcoming our art
collection to the Museum in Haifa, and I've been there on
business. Early on, I felt comfortable visiting. But now, with
Rabin's assassination, then all these problems with the peace, I
don't know. I don't know if I'll be able to find the Zion I fought
for." 

Margaret clasped her hands in her lap. "In confirmation classes,
we're always taught, well, horrible things, actually, that the
Jews lost Israel to the Christians through greed." 

Max looked over at her. "That's partially true." He smiled wanly.
"There's so much half-truth made to serve religious or political
aims when it comes to the Holy Land. The Romans, for all we revile
them, didn't take the first revolt as an excuse to slaughter every
Jew they encountered. It took repeated conflicts before they
emptied Israel and rebuilt Jerusalem as a Roman City." 

Margaret frowned. "What?" 

Max cocked one white brow. "Aelia Capitolina. Hadrian went so far
as to have statues of himself and Antoninus Pius erected on the
site of the Holy of Holies." 

She covered her mouth with her hand. "I knew about the pig
sacrifice and the Maccabees, but that, I never knew."

Max crossed his arms. "Oh, things just went downhill from there.
The Muslims were actually better than the Christians when it came
to overlordship of Palestine, which is what makes these modern
conflicts seem so, *ludicrous*." He cocked his head. "Did those
books of Dana's tell you anything about the First Crusade?" 

Wide-eyed, Margaret nodded. "I was so ashamed, Max. All that
killing for no reason! That the Pope sanctioned it all. And then
during the Holocaust..." 

He smiled wanly again. "Don't be so hard on the Popes. It's what
happens when religion and politics are too closely intertwined.
Take Israel today. Despite repeated offers, I've steered clear of
joining any of the parties there because it's so, so, *heated*.
Netanyahu is a well-educated, literate man, well-versed in all the
historical conflicts plaguing the region. Yet, to win the election
under a parliamentary system, he has made alliances with many
smaller, very conservative factions who want to stamp their
interpretation of the Law on every Jew. In many cases, it ties his
hands."

Margaret sighed. "I don't understand how that would even work,
Max. Even in Catholicism, the Bishops don't always agree with the
Pope in everything." 

He grasped his knees, rubbing the flannel of his nightshirt draped
there. "In our faith, there is no schism, as there is between
Catholic and Protestant, Orthodox and Roman. There are only
informal agreements to disagree. Something like the issue of 'who
is a Jew,' and 'what is a legitimate Jewish marriage,' well, those
cut to the core of every believer." He glanced back into the
darkness, seeking his sleeping wife with his eyes. "According to
the strict interpretation of the Israeli Supreme Court, Caroline
and I are living together not with the benefit of marriage. We
didn't apply to them to have our wedding sanctioned." 

Margaret clenched her fists. "Why, just because of that?"

He smiled gently. "But these things can change. Remember, in
Biblical times, there were no limits on the number of wives a man
could have. See what a little bit of historical perspective buys
you, Maudie? It makes it difficult to see things in black and
white, angels and demons."

"Max?" The voice was Caroline's, who stood, drowsing, in the
doorway. "Are you well?" 

The pair looked over the back of the sofa. 

Max rose, draping his arm over his wife's shoulders. "Oh, just
discussing the way of the world." He checked his watch. "I think
it's time for two lovely ladies to have breakfast, don't you?" 

Margaret nodded. <But there's still so much I want to know.>

                            --o-0-o--

Dulles International Airport 
Reston, Virginia 
Saturday, 6:34 pm

Andrea Rosen waved to the pair of agents moving slowly down the
walkway. "Mulder! Scully!" 

The tall agent spotted them first, sending her a quick grin. "Hey!
We didn't expect a welcoming committee. What's up?" 

Nichols joined them, sympathetically studying the auburn-haired
woman's lined face. "I hope you both checked your bags through."

She nodded. "Of course. My partner sweet-talked the stewards into
giving us a couple of free rows to ourselves." She let out a
grunt, steeling her face to keep from grimacing. 

"Scully, are you okay?" three voices exclaimed.

She tried a small, shared joke. "Three part harmony." She glanced
over at Mulder when he cupped her elbow in his hand. "I'm fine." 

He stared down at her worriedly, a growl of frustration escaping
from his chest, but he kept silent. 

Nichols cleared his throat. "I have my wife's," he offered as a
shadow crossed his face, "my ex-wife's van here, so you two won't
be cramped in a car. Let's go." 

Scully looked to Rosen. "What did you find out in Ithaca?"

She bent over the pathologist. "The shape-shifters don't kill the
people they replace. They just induce a coma-like sleep." 

Scully arched one brow. "Although that fits with the philosophy
regarding sentient life-forms they expounded to us, it makes me
wonder how one of them was able to pose as a dead woman for so
long." She found herself suppressing a smirk as she looked up at
her partner's face.

Mulder shrugged. "Who reads the obituary page? There was to be no
service, according to the clipping. Aurora had always talked about
having herself frozen, just like her clients. But, if that
Consortium member wakes up like Rosen's classmate did, it'll be
interesting, to say the least."

Since the four had formed into a tight group, Nichols found he was
speaking to Mulder's shoulder. "They seemed most curious about how
far our nanotechnology had advanced. The information the one took
related to other facilities around the world."

Bound by the cast, Mulder spoke without turning. "So, what are
they doing? Looking to build another ship?" 

Rosen shook her head. "With as far as we have to go in materials
development? I doubt it. I'd guess whatever specific knowledge
they'd need to duplicate that vessel we saw destroyed was stored
on computers inside." 

Scully nodded. "They're trying to develop a means of passing among
us undetected." 

Mulder's eyes focused on the far glass wall, through which he
could view the Virginia countryside. "Or preparing defensive
weapons. Whatever. We'll let you two handle the aliens. We'll need
to meet with Skinner about Saunders and the upcoming trial." 

Nichols nodded. "I thought you'd see it that way. Langly wants in
on the alien chase." 

Scully cocked an eyebrow at her partner. "I don't see why not." 

Mulder grinned, remembering an earlier argument. "Yeah, they're
free to do as they wish. We wouldn't be here without them, right
Doctor?" 

A faint smile on her lips, she nodded.

                            --o-0-o--

Secure House 
Wheeling, West Virginia 
Sunday, August 10, 1997 
1:57 am

Walter Skinner opened the door for his two agents, glaring at
Mulder pointedly when the dark-haired man passed him. "Glad to see
you made it back safe." He punched the ultimate word heatedly. 

Mulder winced at the not-so-subtle message. 

Scully, sensing her partner's discomfort, spoke quickly. "How are
*you*, Sir?" 

Skinner, his back to them as he preceded them down the hallway,
ignored the covert challenge. "I've been struck on the head
before, Agent Scully. No permanent damage. Saunders has engaged
someone he trusts for his defense, claiming that you might know
him, Agent Mulder." 

Suppressing bad memories from Behavioral Sciences, Mulder
stiffened. "Oh?" 

Skinner pushed the keys on a numeric lock before he offered, "A
Jarred Stone?" Holding the door, he eyed his agent. "Ring a bell?" 

Mulder grinned broadly. "Yeah, it does." 

Scully checked his face. "You're not reacting as if he were one of
the bad guys, Mulder. That's not like you." 

Mulder guided her into the secured hallway ahead of him, pressing
his hand against her back gently to feel the tension in her spine.
<You should be in bed, Scully.> "He isn't. Jarred's one of the few
lawyers I have respect for." 

Scully nodded. <He used his first name. We'll talk later.> "Oh?
What should I expect?" 

Skinner keyed in a different combination, then stepped back.
"You'll see." 

Scully stepped in ahead of the two men, nodded to X, who was
standing, arms crossed, in the corner, then turned to the new man
in the room, who was also standing. She tipped her head back to
meet his eyes, as she was nearly always forced to do. Her aimed
gaze fell on Stone's tie tack, a silver disk with depressions that
looked like craters. <Ah. I think I see the attachment here.> She
tipped her head further, taking in the long jaw covered with a
close-cropped, silvering beard, the thin nose, the unruly greying
curls, with their original brown streaking through in sections.
What caught her attention, though, were the sparkling hazel eyes,
greener than her partner's, with a ring of blue around the pupil. 

But, like her partner, Stone made no attempt to disguise his
amusement at her appraisal. "And you must be the Dana Scully I've
heard so much about." The sentence rolled out in slow motion, her
first name elongated into three syllables, Dah-ee-nah. He shook
her hand, then bent, raising the fingers to just beneath his lips
in an archaic gesture of chivalry. 

Scully bowed her head, tucking herself into a curtsey that she
hoped would hide the shudder running through her. 

Mulder's hand was under her arm instantly. "Scully?" 

Nodding her thanks, she settled into one of the wooden chairs.

Stone caught the interchange. "Sorry you're feelin' poorly,
Ma'am." He spied the ridges from the cast on Mulder's torso when
his shirt pulled tight across his chest. "Ah, Mulder, I wish the
circumstances were more auspicious..." The agent's name was drawn
into three syllables as well, a Muh-hul-dah spoken in a soft bass. 

The dark-haired man extended his free arm towards the attorney.
"So do I, Jarred. You've been well?" 

The attorney held up his left hand, fingers spread, waggling the
third one with the broad gold band. "I've found a sweet southern
belle, the way you always said I should." He settled into one of
the slat-backed oak chairs across from Scully. "I've always told
your partner he needs a good woman to look after that poet's soul
of his." 

Scully lifted one corner of her mouth. "Until he finds her, I seem
to have been given the job of pinch-hitting." She straightened.
"So, how do you know our Mister Saunders?" 

X stalked back to the table, taking a seat at the opposite end
from Skinner, but closest to Mulder, who was on Scully's right.
"I'd appreciate you not talking about me as if I weren't here."

Jarred's long face drew up into a broad grin. "Of course.
According to what Tyrell has told me, this should be a simple case
of self-defense, but what makes it difficult are the circumstances
under which the attack took place." 

Skinner nodded. "We suspect the charges stem from a deeper, and
much darker, agenda." 

Jarred leaned back, clunking one over-sized suede-encased foot on
the table, then locking the other firmly on top of it. "Ahh'm all
eahs, laee-dy and gee-hntlemaee-hn." He chuckled at the quick
stares of surprise the sudden deepening of his accent elicited.

                            --o-0-o--

Mulder fell silent, looking to Scully for confirmation. 

Stone turned to her as well. "And you believe all this, Dana?" 

She arched one brow. "Scully will do fine, Stone." 

He inclined his head once. 

She began assembling her notes on the table. "While I would
hesitate to use the word *believe*," she explained, glancing at
her partner, her green-blue eyes glinting as they shared the
private joke, "I certainly accept as true the overwhelming body of
evidence in support of our conclusions." 

Mulder smirked. "Jarred, you'll learn to decode the Doctor soon
enough. The answer is, 'yes.'" 

Stone faced Saunders. "How much of this can we use in your
defense?"

The bearded African-American glared at Mulder before he replied,
"None of it." 

Skinner crossed his arms. "But, all this can be verified..."

Saunders shook his head. "What I mean, is that all this will be
dragged out of Mulder by the Prosecution, purely to discredit him,
and all of you, as witnesses."

Scully looked to her partner. "Why?" 

Stone dropped his feet to the floor. "My good friend here is the
weakest link in the chain. You, Scully," he explained, the name
drawling out in four syllables, "could speak from the witness box
and convince a jury of the essential correctness of your testimony
just by your sense of justice alone." He pointed to each man as he
referred to him. "Director Skinner, Tyrell, the same. But Mulder,
well, he has the mannerisms of someone looking to be told 'good
answer, son,' and that never sits well with juries." He interlaced
his fingers on the table. "I always dreaded having to put him on
the stand when we were seeking convictions with Patterson." 

Scully cocked an eyebrow at her partner. 

Hoping his partner now understood why he appreciated the tall
lawyer, he attempted a shrug, but the cast prevented it.

She nodded once before turning back to Stone. "So, since you've
played both sides of the fence, how do you suggest this case
proceed?" 

Stone yawned. "Well, if we could keep testimony to just the
incidents surrounding the attacks, we'll have the jury seeing this
for what it was, self-defense. I'll move to strike any witnesses
related to this secret government of yours as irrelevant. But,
from these sessions with Saunders, I suggest you folks work on
making sure you can verify your version of events. That way the
Prosecution can't dismiss you all as a bunch of wacko civil
servants with a bent sense of justice." 

Saunders nodded his consent. "I'll be ready whenever you are." 

Scully rubbed her face. "What about the dead Agent's bodies? Have
they been autopsied yet?" 

Skinner walked around to stand behind her. "Yes. There was
evidence of sodium pentothal, as well as several mind-altering
substances the lab is still categorizing, in their kidneys." 

She shifted carefully, looking up at her superior. "Their kidneys?
As if it was in the process of being flushed from their systems,
you mean." 

Saunders snorted. "I'm surprised your flunkies even found that." 

Skinner glared back. "Agent Pendrell has been remarkably
resourceful in his analyses. If this were a normal Bureau case, he
would certainly have earned a commendation from me for his
efforts." The bald Director eyed Mulder meaningfully.

The dark-haired agent focused pointedly on his partner, who had
shivered one too many times for him to ignore. "Scully? You okay?"

She waved off his concern, letting one slight smile acknowledge
her gratitude for it, before she looked back up at the Assistant
Director. "Sir? May I ask the disposition of the bodies? The
physical evidence must be secured or..."

Skinner nodded. "We'll lose it. I'm perfectly well aware of that.
The corpses and evidence are all downstairs in the morgue that was
built into this site a few years ago." He rested one hand on her
shoulder carefully. "If you're thinking about checking it over
right now, forget it, Agent Scully. You and Agent Mulder have
sustained serious injuries too short a time ago to keep yourselves
up any longer. They'll be there in the morning," he said as he
rolled his eyes, "*later* in the morning for you to examine." 

"But Sir," she persisted, standing for emphasis, "how are they
being preserved? Organ tissues decay rapidly, and any delay may be
prejudicial to our case." She clenched her fists. "I'm fine. This
is critical." She waved at her partner. "I'll have Agent Mulder
stay with me, or any of the other agents on duty at this facility
that you choose, in case of any problems."

All four turned as several claps sounded in the room. 

Saunders' features had pulled into a near-snarl. "Brava, Agent
Scully. You've proven you're as tough as all the boys, so run down
there right now and miss something in your fatigue." He stood.
"Spare me the histrionics. I'm going to bed." He pulled the heavy
security door open, frustrated that he would be kept from
punctuating his remarks with an emphatic slam by the thick seals.

Stone rose, adding in a dry afterthought, "Well, Agent Scully, my
momma would wash my mouth out with soap for speaking to a lady the
way Tyrell did just now, but he's caught the jist of it. You *and*
my old friend Mulder look like you're both runnin' on fumes and
the last gas station was a good fifty miles back a-piece."

After he left, Mulder focused down on her. "He's right, you know.
We can't do much more, either of us." 

Skinner nodded. "We have rooms for both of you, just across the
hall from Stone and myself. Wheeling may have great scenic
overviews, but no hotels to speak of." He held out his arm. "After
you." 

As Mulder passed his AD, he shot him a look of sincere gratitude.

                            --o-0-o--

Secure House 
Wheeling, West Virginia 
Sunday, August 10, 1997 
2:47 am

Scully had just changed from her suit to baggy knit shorts and an
oversized FBI T-shirt that she used for sleeping when there was a
single tap on the door. "Coming!" She moved across the room, using
the bed as a support. 

"It's me." 

Smiling ever-so-slightly, she threw back the dead-bolt to admit
him. "And here I was hoping for Kenneth Branagh." 

He surveyed her carefully, judging her readiness to talk before he
entered. He opened softly, "I was wondering if you had some of
that ointment for skin rash. There's a place under the lower edge
of the cast..." 

She was already at her bag when he reached her, searching, wincing
periodically. "Yes. Of course." 

He eased his white polo shirt over his head, turning so she could
check the affected area. "Thanks, it rubbed there while I was
driving." 

From her seat on the bed, she examined the reddened area
thoroughly. "You really shouldn't fuss over me like you do. You'll
have months of physical therapy to go through once this comes
off." She rubbed her fingers over the ointment to warm it before
slipping it under the plaster.

He indulged himself in a soft ah, then copied his friend's drawl.
"It's all part of the job, Ma'am."

She rolled her eyes. <This is going nowhere.> "So, how many times
did you work with Stone? You two seemed pretty familiar with each
other." 

He lowered himself into the metal chair across from her. "Not
enough." Light danced out of his eyes. "Jarred was one of the few
bright spots from my time with Patterson. We shared a hotel room
on one of the longer trials in Maine. On nights when I had trouble
sleeping, he'd tell me about his uncles down in Mississippi." 

She settled under the blankets, shifting the pillows around to
support her ribs. "You must have gone through several generations,
then." 

He nodded. "We did. Between the ones who disappeared whenever the
ATF rolled by, and the three who took a fishing trip up the Bayou
that began in December 1941 and ended in October 1945, he told me
I reminded him of family."

She eased her torso back gently, folding the blankets over her
legs. "So why would he be here helping us today?" 

Mulder rubbed his chin. "I'm guessing it has to do with that
wedding ring of his. As a prosecutor, he had to go where the
Justice Department wanted him to. In private practice, he could
pick and choose his cases. I'm glad he's on our side, Scully. He'd
be a devil of an opponent." 

She sighed. "You know why they're doing this, don't you?" 

He closed his eyes wearily. "Yeah. They want to flush us out,
don't they?" 

She nodded. "I'm afraid so. They know if we tell what we think
we've found out with the evidence we have, we'll look like
lunatics." 

He let his head drop against the concrete block wall behind him.
"Using that report we recovered in February with the sections
'reconstructed' from my supposedly eidetic memory would be a
disaster. All they have to do is find someone in the Bureau to
call me a loony," he objected, laughing helplessly, "and we'll be
eliminated as effective opposition for quite some time, if not for
good."

She eyed him. "Mulder, you may just have hit on something useful
here." 

He lifted his head to look over at her. "Hum?" 

Scully slid her feet over the edge of the mattress. "You took the
standard psychological tests prior to admission to Quantico, I'm
sure. Those are a matter of public record. How did you rate?" 

His eyebrows drew together. <Only Scully would think...> "Fairly
well, I suppose. I've never checked."

She padded over to stand in front of him. "Tomorrow," she offered,
rolling her eyes, "later on today, I mean, let's find out. If
they've been tampered with, we can tell. Either way, we might be
able to put together documentation to prove that you're sane." She
touched his shoulder. "If they put someone like Colton on the
stand, well, Stone will attack his motivations like a bulldog."

Grasping his shirt, he rose. "Okay. That'll get us started."
Stopping in the doorway, he called over his shoulder, "Thanks,
Scully." 

Padding to his side, she helped him slide back into the polo
shirt. "Mulder?" 

He turned to check her face. "Hum?" 

She glanced down at the floor before she continued, "Do you mind
if I ask you something?" Tugging at the hem of her T-shirt, she
twisted it around her finger, then clenched both hands into fists.

He closed the door, leaning against it. "What?" <Whatever this is,
it's personal, and it bothers her.> "I'm here, Scully." He watched
her walk back to the bed, her hands restlessly pulling at her hem. 

She settled on the foot of the mattress across from the chair,
waiting to speak until he lowered himself into it. "Am I..." she
stilled herself by clutching the blankets on either side of her. 

Looking over at her, he waited. 

She sighed. "Am I becoming too," she mused as she stared at her
lap, "intense? Rigid? What Saunders said, is it true?" 

Relieved she had come to him with this, he grinned. "No. That's
just how he is, playing games with you all the time. He's trying
to maintain a little control over a situation that could easily
blow up in his face." 

She nodded. "Like we all are." She clasped her hands in her lap.
"Oh. Sorry to bother you with this, Mulder." 

He stood, touching her shoulder to make her look up at him. "Don't
apologize for needing to talk to someone, Scully. I have to use
that degree of mine eventually." He dropped his hand. "Are you
worried about hormone changes, or is it that dream you had?" 

She shrugged, then winced at the effort. "A little of both,
actually. With everything that's happened, I hardly know what to
make of myself anymore." She slid under the covers. "I shouldn't
keep you up for something like this." 

Mulder moved to the door. "Anytime you want to talk, Scully, I'll
listen. Anytime. I mean that." He turned the knob. "Get some rest.
You'll see things more clearly on a few hours sleep." 

She lifted one corner of her mouth. "Unlike you?" 

He snorted. "Yeah. Later, okay?" 

She flicked off the bedside table lamp as he closed the door
behind him.

                            --o-0-o--

Ben-Gurion International Airport 
Lydda, Israel (outside Tel Aviv) 
Sunday, 12:27 pm

Margaret Scully waited quietly behind Max and Caroline Lowenberg
as they passed through the Israeli customs labyrinth. She had seen
more armed camouflage-garbed men on her way from the plane than
she ever remembered from the military bases where she had lived
with her family. 

The dark-haired woman touched Caroline's arm. "Was there some
uprising this morning? These guards - "

Caroline smiled back at her. "Nothing more than usual." 

Margaret blanched. "You mean it's like this all the time?" 

Max leaned over his wife's shoulder. "I'm afraid so, Maudie. But
don't worry, just stick close to us, and you'll be okay. One of
the sub-ministers of Culture will be meeting us here soon." 

Margaret looked to Caroline, who seemed completely at ease with
the situation. "Meeting us?" 

The white-haired woman nodded. "Oh, yes. Max has many friends
here. Daniel stopped by for a visit during the spring." She
scanned the waiting family members just beyond the booth. "Isn't
that him now?" 

When Max waved, a slight man with glasses and close-cropped grey
hair that had retreated from the top of his head decades ago,
waved back. The Minister bent over the Customs clerk, showed his
papers, then pointed to the three seniors waiting in line. The
clerk shouted in Hebrew, then waved them forward. Max began
herding Caroline and Margaret towards the front of the line,
apologizing to the other passengers as they passed them.

Margaret whispered to Caroline, "I didn't know Max spoke Hebrew so
fluently." 

His wife responded, equally softly, "One has to, especially here.
It's a good thing he does, because it was one of the languages I
was expressly not taught." 

Confused, Margaret glanced sharply at her friend, attempting to
add this new piece of information to the nonsensical mosaic she
was assembling in her mind.

Daniel pushed his way through to them. "Max, you old devil!" The
two men embraced, exchanging many firm claps on the back, before
Daniel turned to Caroline, greeting her with an incongruous
formality. "Mrs. Lowenberg." 

Margaret was contrasting Daniel's behavior with Ibrahim Nussbaum's
at the Willard as Max pulled her forward. 

He held Daniel by the shoulder. "This is our friend, Margaret
Scully." 

The two exchanged stiff handshakes, Daniel as formal and cold with
her as he had been with Caroline. He immediately turned his
attention back to Max, leaving the women trailing along behind
them. 

Noticing Margaret's look of surprise, Caroline hastened to
reassure her. "This is the Middle East, Margaret, men are more
effusive with each other, and less with women, than we who have
lived in America expect. Men who have just met will sometimes walk
around arm in arm, but it's rare to see married couples holding
hands. Think nothing of it." 

Margaret nodded. "But when do we go to the Kibbutz? Isn't that why
we're here?" 

Caroline sighed. "I'm afraid it isn't as straightforward as we
would like. Remember that to a certain extent, Israel is a state
under siege. There have been more bombings, the problems with
Bethlehem, and this latest scare with Iran, so Max will have to
pull a few strings to get us into the area. We'll be here for
several days before he can line up all the right permits and
necessary escorts." 

Biting her lip, Margaret eyed a group of soldiers who were
shouting as they passed them. "If you say so, Caroline." 

                            --o-0-o--

Office of the Lone Gunmen 
Alexandria, Virginia 
Sunday, 3:27 pm

Nichols rapped on the Gunmen's door, then stepped back, waiting
for his partner, who was lugging her duffle-bag up the walkway. He
was on a case again, away from the hassles of divorces and
packing, no longer divvying up the flotsam and jetsam of a failed
life under his daughters' haunted eyes. 

Rosen shifted the weight, then patted his arm. "You'll be okay,
Nic." 

He nodded. <This, I can handle.> He shrugged. "Sure. Work is good
for what ails me, right?" 

Having thrown back the various bolts and safety gauges, Byers was
waving them inside. "You guys seen Mulder or Scully?" 

They both nodded, then Nichols filled them in. "We met them at the
airport, and neither of them has any objections to Langly tagging
along on this part of the investigation." He nodded to the object
of their inquiry, who had been waiting just inside the doorway.

Rosen searched the blond Gunman's face, then queried him, "Why do
you want to come with us?" 

A thick sheaf of data sheets in hand, Frohike stepped out of the
kitchen to nod a greeting. "Because he was the lucky one who drew
the long straw." 

Nichols turned to Rosen, a thought leaping into both their minds.
<They'd all be coming along otherwise?>

Langly had extended his arm towards the brunette. "You have the
piece?" 

She handed him the duffle bag. "It was just as we had thought. The
rearrangements on a molecular level are beyond anything our
researchers are capable of." 

Nichols blinked. "What are you two talking about?" 

Byers offered up a question as an explanation. "What's always been
the limitation to computer speeds?" 

Nichols shrugged. "Overheating?" 

Rosen grinned at him. "That's the symptom, not the source. No,
what Byers is referring to, in a way, is the same thing that makes
space travel such a difficulty. Distance."

Nichols chewed his moustache. "Forgive this grizzled detective,
but I'm still lost here. What do you mean?" 

Taking the older man by the arm, Frohike led Nichols to the near
edge of a battered low table in the center of the room. "These
three are just a bunch of eggheads playing games, my friend. Let
me put it simply." He pushed dog-eared back issues of their
newspaper onto the floor, then lined up several stacks of papers
in a row on the coffeetable. "A digital computer's hardware breaks
down, eventually, to a series of toggles, set to either zero or
one." He shifted two of the stacks to the other side. "Now, that's
always meant some location is either empty of charge," he
explained, tapping the bare spot on the table, "or charged." He
slid the pile back into place. "With magnetic media - " 

Byers interjected, "Like memory or disk space, or floppy disks."

Frohike continued, "You increase the speed by decreasing the
distance you move the charge to flip from one to zero and back
again." He shifted the papers over by exactly the length of the
sheets. "But, one can make the charged or uncharged spot only so
small, before there's no way to control how the charge is actually
distributed." He shoved the pages out across the table.

Rosen cleared the table of all papers but one that she tore into
several pieces, before lining the scraps up. "Until one changes
the size of the medium used to store the charge, Nic." She knelt
on the far side of the table. "You've heard of nanotubes?" 

He shook his head. "I don't read Science like you and Scully do." 

She shrugged. "No matter. They're short tubes of carbon atoms,
where the tubes are actually coiled sheets of carbon lattices. If
we can control how they grow, and I mean on an atomic level, here,
we can use the tubes to hold a single buckyball, that new carbon
configuration you may have heard of." 

He sighed. "Yeah, I remember those. Named for Buckminster Fuller,
as I recall. Something about his domes, right?" 

Langly grinned. "Yeah, the carbon atoms form into a curved network
that looks like a geodesic dome." 

Rosen had balled up a single sheet of paper, then coiled a
different one into a tube. She inserted the ball into the coil,
and tipped the paper, until the ball rolled to the other end,
capped by her free hand. "Now, once we understand how to control
it, the buckyball can give us a one or a zero, just by using
static electricity to move the ball from one end of the tube to
the other, then back again." 

Frohike grinned. "So, we solve the problems with speed by
shortening the distance to these nanotubes, where the buckyball
can be pulled around at close to the speed of light in a vacuum." 

Nichols rubbed his chin. "Are you telling me this is how their
technology operates?" 

Byers nodded. "According to the results of the scanning electron
microscope surveys *we* had conducted," he continued, smirking at
Rosen, who nodded back, "they're using carbon-based components in
something beyond nanotubes, but the principle is the same. They
still haven't developed a true multi-level storage device like
neurons and axions." 

Rosen patted his arm. "The way the brain operates." 

Nichols looked from his partner to the Gunmen. "So, where does
this get us in terms of finding where the aliens are?" 

Langly shrugged. "It tells us what to expect that they'll be
doing."

Nichols was calculating. "You said the ship was a carbon-fiber
hull?" 

Rosen nodded. "Their entire culture seems to be based around
adapting living structures, so that should come as no surprise."

Nichols narrowed his eyes. "Ah. Although they've proven perfectly
capable of using our technology in the past, they seem to want to
do something beyond it now. Since we know what types of materials
they need to rebuild some portion of their own," he said, back on
familiar ground and reveling in it, "we need to track acquisition
of relatively pure carbon sources." He looked around at the
others. "And that would be?" 

Rosen smiled at her partner, relieved that underneath all the
jargon, he had realized that they were on a hunt where his
drug-tracking skills would come in handy. "Well, the purest source
is diamond, of course." 

Frohike waved his hand. "But it's unlikely they'd be either
attempting to purchase or mine them themselves."

Nichols looked to his partner. "Oh?" 

She nodded. "The tetrahedral crystalline structure of diamond
makes for very stable molecular bonds. Because the electrons are
locked up, it won't hold a charge, won't conduct electricity." 

Nichols recalled the complaints of the jeweler who had reshaped
the stone his mother had given him, preparing it for the
engagement ring he had then presented Alicia, all those years ago.
"And it's tough to cut." 

Langly agreed, "Basically, you have to melt it to reuse the
carbon." 

Nichols thought out loud. "Too energy-consuming. They don't like
wasting natural resources like that. So? They refine carbon?" 

Rosen rubbed the back of her neck. "Maybe. Only I wouldn't expect
they would use hydrocarbons. They'd go for something simpler and
more in tune with their philosophical outlook. Something renewable
that we already produce, even if it meant a little extra work." 

Nichols gaze fell on the papers scattered across the floor, then
he pointed. "Like those." 

The four exchanged glances, then Rosen nodded. "Like those." 

Langly rubbed his hands together gleefully. "Let's get started.
We'll check for new buyers of paper recycling plants, or new
users, or any changes in raw paper going and coming out of
existing plants." Chattering happily, the three Gunmen headed for
their computer lab.

Nichols and Rosen followed them in, Nichols whistling, slightly
off-key, to himself. 

Rosen glanced at her partner. "You seem like you feel better." 

He grinned back. "Nothing like some honest, roll up your sleeves
and dig through the archives detective work." 

                            --o-0-o--

Apartment Complex 
Laurel, Maryland 
Sunday, 8:47 pm

'Ace' rubbed her eyes wearily. Her covert financial transfer
software was protected by several layers of lockouts, one within
the other, but the Singapore banks had consistently tripped the
first two levels. She had monitored the efforts of the distributed
processing group, attacking this same problem using millions of
free CPU cycles from thousands of home computers, looking for
alternate solutions to those she had developed. But she had
another problem, one closer to home, a 240 pound problem to be
exact, who was standing behind her, arms crossed, glaring at the
back of her head. 

'Charlie' poked her back. "Lisa? You ready to talk now?"

Dropping her hands in her lap, she rotated in her computer chair
to face him. "What is it? Do you need something?" 

He bent over her, grasping the arms of her chair. "I need you,
Lisa, I need to talk to you with all your attention about..." 

She pushed him upright, standing and moving until most of the room
was between them. "Drew, it was the best way to keep track of
Mulder and Scully." 

He stalked over to her. "But, Black Lung plays games with these
informants he creates! Only telling them half-truths so they don't
spill too much to Mulder,  until they become a liability." Lifting
his arm, he extended his index finger and cocked this thumb
upwards, "Bang! He eliminates them. I don't want to end up dead or
insane." He reached for her. "Not when I have you." 

She pushed past him again. "Because I'd be watching out for you,
that's expressly *not* how this would work. I wouldn't let him
play any mind-games with you like he did with the others." 

He caught the brunette by the arm, tucking her up close to him.
"But you're never there, Lisa." He covered her mouth with his hand
when she began to object. "Oh, you may be here in body, but in
your mind, you're a million miles away. You don't eat right, you
don't sleep." 

She rested her head against his shoulder. "I thought that was why
I had you. To watch out for me." She searched his face. "I can
count on you can't I? To take care of me?" 

He wrapped both arms around her. "Of course you can." Shifting one
hand up to the back of her neck, he began nibbling her throat.
"Come to bed. Now. You need your sleep." He slipped one hand up
under her shirt, but pulled away when she went rigid. "Lisa?" 

She shook her head. "My proximity alarm. Someone's outside the
door." Crossing the room, she tapped a few keys, then a tiny
window with surveillance camera frames appeared. "What does he
want now?" 

'Charlie' followed her to the door, cautioning, "Don't listen to
him, Lisa, he'll only lie to you." 

When the door opened, the Smoking Man was holding an unlit Morley
in his left hand. He set his face in its broadest grimace. "Ah,
there you are, my lovely." He bent in to kiss her, but 'Ace'
pulled away. 

She leaned back against 'Charlie', who had pressed himself close
to her spine before she demanded, "What do you want?" 

The old man waved at the interior of the apartment. "What? I'm not
welcome here? So different from before..." He sent meaningful
gazes towards each of them. 

'Charlie' grasped both 'Ace''s arms firmly. "We were busy. What do
you want?" 

The Smoking Man pushed his way past the couple. "Ah, I've lost you
too, I see." He lit the cigarette with a match. "No matter, I only
wanted to quickly pass along some new information, then I'll let
you two return to your... recreational activities."

'Charlie' slid 'Ace' to one side. "Say what you came to say and
leave." 

The old spy puffed the Morley several times before responding.
"Very well." He stroked 'Ace''s fingers. "I'd much prefer you
spent more of your time on the banking software than at the
Bureau. Your efforts are wasted there, and on your pleasurable
distractions." He raised his eyes to 'Charlie''s. "I'd have a
little talk with your Leader, if I were you, about his latest
conquest, who may be known to you. A Cynthia Mulholland?" He waved
his tobacco-stained hand before turning and stepping into the
twilight. "Just so you'd know." 

'Charlie' slammed the door. "Why is he doing this?" 

'Ace' stood beside him. "Who, him, or 'Finn'?" She jerked her
thumb over her shoulder. "He's trying to divide us, you know that.
Why 'Finn' is dating the X-Files Section secretary is beyond me."
She pointed to her SGI machine. "I already give him full updates
from my eavesdropping network scattered throughout the building.
Does 'Finn' think I'm incompetent or something?" 

'Charlie' sighed. "Or is it just his obsessive need to prove
himself the victor by fouling Mulder's domain?" He stared at the
door. "Do you think *he*'s already told 'Andrew'?"

'Ace' stepped close to him. "Either he will or we will." She
rested her hands on his chest. "But there's some unfinished
business we need to attend to ourselves. I want to make you happy
with me, Drew." The ferocity of her assault on his lips aroused
him instantly and completely, so much so that all else faded to
inconsequentiality.

                            --o-0-o--

Safe House 
Wheeling, West Virginia 
Monday, August 11, 1997 
8:27 am 

Fox Mulder grunted at the persistent banging, raps that ricocheted
through his drowsing mind. <I just got to sleep.> "Yeah?" The
response came out as a hoarse croak. 

"Agent Mulder?" 

The dark-haired man frowned at the concerned undertone in Walter
Skinner's voice. "Sir?" He slid off the bed, struggling with the
thick security door. "Is everything okay?" 

Skinner reached in to take Mulder by the arm. "You need to get
your clothes on. Scully is up and wants your assistance in the
morgue." 

Mulder nodded as he headed back into his room. "How long have I
been out?"

Skinner followed him in. "It's Monday morning, Agent Mulder." 

The tall man glanced over, surprised. "Oh. Sorry." He turned away,
expecting another dressing-down.

Skinner held up both hands. "I'd prefer it if you were both
healthy, but Jarred and I agreed you two should be allowed to
sleep as long as you seemed to need it." 

Mulder scratched his blackened chin. "How long has Scully been
awake?" 

Skinner stepped over to shift the polo shirt down across the cast.
"A couple of hours." 

Mulder dropped his sweatpants, one-handedly tugging an old pair of
jeans up in their place. "Oh. She's ready to go, I take it." After
stepping into a loose pair of running shoes, he looked over
apologetically. "Sir, about what happened in the Arctic, I didn't
mean for Scully and me to be..." 

Skinner clenched his jaw. "There'll be time for this later, Agent
Mulder. We need to move on." 

Mulder blinked. "Okay. I'll join you in a minute." He headed for
the bathroom. 

                            --o-0-o--

Moriah Hotel  
Tel Aviv, Israel 
Monday, 2:47 pm

Caroline Lowenberg stirred her tea anxiously, then sent a quick,
helpless smile across the table to Margaret Scully. 

The gesture was lost on the dark-haired woman, who had fixed her
gaze on the double doors looking out onto the street. "Where is
he? Why should it be so difficult to get permission to cross this
tiny country?" 

Having purposely seated herself with her back to the view of the
crowded beaches, Caroline sighed. "I wish I knew, Margaret." For
both women, the thrill of amusing themselves by sight-seeing among
the ruins around and in the museums of the city had worn off. She
turned to watch the door as well. "Oh, Max." 

Margaret glanced at her friend, then followed her gaze to the side
door of the hotel. "Oh, dear." The tall, broad-shouldered man
looked every one of his seventy-eight years as he limped painfully
across to them. 

Caroline stepped out to take him by the arm. "Max?" 

He patted her hand. "Not to worry. I've walked a little too much
today. Blisters." Standing by Margaret's chair, he grasped their
friend's shoulder. "I'm sorry to be so late, Maudie. I had several
detours along the way." He dropped the accordion-backed folder of
papers on the table. "At least, I have all the necessary
signatures from the Israeli government and the Kibbutz Control
Board." 

Caroline poured her husband a cup of tea, flavoring it with two
lumps of sugar and a dash of cream. "I'm sorry you have to do this
all alone. Is there anything I," she queried, glancing at
Margaret, "we, can do to help?" 

Sipping quietly, he considered, then offered, "Not really. I've
about used up all the favors I still have getting this far." He
set the cup back down on its sea-green saucer. "The bureaucracy
has become immensely tangled these days." 

Margaret pushed a plate with two turkey sandwiches towards him.
"Too bad we can't employ Alexander's solution." 

He smiled, then turned the metaphor around. "Well, Alexander did
make a point of bypassing Palestine. But it looks like we can't." 

Caroline was searching through the sheets as she queried, "So we
will be on our way to Jerusalem?" 

Margaret blinked. "Jerusalem?" 

Max nodded. "Zion it is, Maudie." He pointed to the papers in
Caroline's hand. "We'll be passing through Palestinian-controlled
areas, and while we're there, we'll need the protection of the
Guard. We'll be dropping off our Israeli escorts before and after
each enclave, but we'll need the Palestinians once we're inside." 

Margaret covered her mouth with her hand. "All those tour groups!
How do they handle all this?" 

Saddened, Max took a bite of one of the sandwiches. After he
swallowed, he looked over at her. "Well, no matter who controls
the country, everyone needs the money tourists bring in. So, they
get through first. It's the individuals or families arriving on
short notice, like we are, that get handed this can of worms."

Her half-glasses now on her nose, Caroline continued, "Also, most
tourists have fixed destinations: Jerusalem, Bethlehem, Masada.
We're going into a part of the country that doesn't get many
visitors, which was one of the ideas behind the Kibbutzim in the
first place. No planes, no trains. Just vehicular access." Her
eyes twinkling, she leaned across the table. "We could do without
the Palestinian escorts if we crossed over the mountains on
donkeys." 

Margaret shook her head. "Once was enough for me, thank you." She
looked to Max, whose bushy white moustache was twitching merrily.
"Unless that - "

He chuckled. "After spending all that time with Mulder, you let
his Mother pull your leg like that? No, there are no donkey trails
over the hills, although," he teased, tugging at Caroline's elbow,
"I'd like to see you try it, my dear." 

Caroline stuck out her chin. "Anytime." 

Margaret held up both hands. "Okay. So, when do we leave for
Jerusalem?" 

Max shrugged. "We can fly down there tonight, if you wish. Or in
the morning, if that's easier." He leaned towards Margaret. "It
isn't like this country has totally escaped the Twentieth Century,
you know." His hazel eyes clouded as he grew reflexive. "Far from
it." He looked from one woman to the other. "Tomorrow?" 

They nodded.

                            --o-0-o--

Morgue Safe House 
Wheeling, West Virginia 
Monday, 8:51 am

Scully glanced over at the door when she heard the keyed lock
buttons clicking. <He won't be happy to hear this.> 

Mulder, his hair still sticking up on one side, pushed his way
through ahead of Skinner, then nodded to his partner. "Hey." 

In deference to Mulder's queasiness, she pulled the sheet over the
body she was working on. "Good morning." She stepped over to meet
him. The deep circles that had formed under his eyes during the
flight, then the long road trip, were gone, but she suspected his
energy reserves were barely recharged. <Just like yours.> 

Mulder checked his partner over. Although she kept her left arm
tucked tightly against her side, she was moving with far more ease
than he expected. He ran his hand through his hair several times,
only partially collapsing the thatch for all his effort. "What do
you have?" 

She led the two men back to the corpse, sliding the sheet back to
expose the chest. She had cut the stitches of the previous
pathologist's, using forceps to hold the abdominal cavity open.
She pointed to the interior. "Where are the internal organs? Is
this some kind of joke prepared prior to my examination?" 

Mulder's eyes followed her finger. The intestines, kidneys, and
bladder were missing, replaced with styrofoam beads.

Skinner shook his head. "Agent Scully, I supervised the autopsies
myself, locked the bodies up myself. I don't understand how this
could have happened, or when." 

Shaking with rage, Mulder rounded on his superior. "We have no
back-up physical evidence now, just those tests that can never be
verified. Who was the Pathologist of Record? Where is he?" 

"I had to pull a lot of strings to get somebody down here."
Skinner snapped back. "He came down from Quantico, cleared through
Director Freeh's office himself." The two men were nose to nose
now. "My neck is in the noose right along with yours on this one,
Mulder. Allen Parker is a man I trust, that's why I was happy to
use him on this case." 

Holding the clipboard with the tests, Scully pushed her way
between the two men. "But he's not the Pathologist of Record."
Both men looked down at her. "I am." She held the papers out for
them to view. 

Mulder's eyebrows drew together. "What? Let me see that." He
peered over her shoulder. "Scully, that's not even a passable
attempt to forge your handwriting."

Skinner took the form off the board. "Nor is it Allen's. Yet it
was Allen who came here." 

Mulder looked down at his partner. "You thinking what I'm
thinking, Scully?" 

She nodded. "There's no way Parker could have been programmed to
write differently between when you requested him and when he
arrived. Oh, stress can alter a signature, certainly." She looked
to her partner, who grinned back, recalling the same long-ago
argument. "But there are pages of handwritten notes here. Altering
a fundamentally instinctive behavior to that extent requires
months of reprogramming. The only question we can ask is this:"

Mulder looked over at the Assistant Director. "What would have
been in those mens' bodies that would have been of such interest
to the shape-shifters that they would have broken in here and
stolen it now?" 

A different voice spoke from the door. "Or perhaps there is no
interest." His arms crossed, Saunders advanced on them, then
looked down at Scully. "They know you, know you will pursue them.
They know the members of the Group, know they will pursue them as
well. What is the best way to stop that?" 

She arched both eyebrows. "Keep us and the Consortium off-balance,
but after each other. They'll wiggle right through the cracks,
leaving us high and dry."

Both shoulders slumping, Mulder, suddenly drained, rubbed his face
with his hands. "Games within games. I wonder what they've done to
the Consortium?" 

                            --o-0-o--

Secluded Research Facility 
Upstate New York 
Wednesday, 10:46 pm

Andy Millman leaned close to the speaker mounted on the monitoring
station wall to listen. The two shape-shifters had been clicking
to each other for several hours now, and he didn't like it.
Normally, he volunteered for this graveyard guard duty, using the
long stretches of quiet time to catch up on his all-consuming
hobby, baseball. He could play back the tapes of several games
simultaneously, even keeping up on the pennant race in the AL West
if he could pull the games down off the satellite feed. 

But since the two women had been brought in, there had been
nothing but interruptions and disturbances late at night. This was
when the aliens would test out their latest escape plot, so he had
to keep several monitors displaying outputs from multiple sensors
to make sure they didn't find their way out of the facility. 

<What's this?> One of the women had a cockroach in the palm of her
hand, clicking and snapping excitedly as she stroked it. The
sandy-haired guard checked the monitor for the UV sensors. <I
can't tell.> If the roach was one of the outside shapeshifters,
come to stage a rescue, he had picked an odd form to use. The
Samanthas were unable to morph as proficiently as the later
aliens, so he doubted they were all going to change into roaches
and fly out through some cracked window. 

<But still.> Standing, he alerted the other night guards that he
wanted to check on the shape-shifters, and that he would give an
all clear in the next ten minutes. After receiving confirmation
from the booths at the four entrances to the building, he trotted
down the hall to the sealed doors. 

Checking the monitor, he saw that the women were still fascinated
with the roach, placing it gently on the concrete, collecting it
if it ran too far away. Once he initiated the entrance sequence,
he checked again. Both women were now drawn up straight, shoulder
to shoulder facing the door. The roach was nowhere to be seen.

The sandy-haired, uniformed guard smiled nervously when he finally
entered their chamber. He was used to the various criminals and
test subjects that would be brought here, but to suddenly be face
to face with beings from beyond the solar system, and incredibly
old ones at that, left him ill-at-ease. 

He cleared his throat. "Um, I just wanted to make sure you were
okay. We tend to consider bugs like that to be, well..."

One of the dark-haired women glared at him. "Vermin? How
narrow-minded. Think again." 

Jumping when he heard scratching sounds, Millman looked down at
the floor. The roach had grown in size until it was as large as
his long feet and was waving its antennae furiously. The bug's
head disappeared under his blue trouser leg, followed by the rest
of its mud-brown body. He was so busy swatting at his pants and
shouting that he never heard the whoosh of air preceding the blow
that felled him.

                            --o-0-o--

Ed Pollack whistled anxiously as he trotted down the hallway to
Millman's racks of monitors and cassette players. Poking his head
around the corner, he queried the lanky blond man leaning back in
his padded chair. "You okay?" 

Andy Millman smiled over his shoulder. "Yeah, sure. They had a
roach in their room." He shrugged. "They wanted to keep it for a
pet or something, but I wouldn't let them. Security and all." 

Ed nodded. "You didn't check back in with us. We were beginning to
worry." 

Andy rolled his eyes. "Sorry. They were repeating a triple play
that I missed when I got back here." 

Ed grinned. "Only you, Andy." The two men waved, Ed turning on his
heel to resume his post. Andy thumbed the volume up on the game,
obscuring the thump and soft grunt that issued from just around
the corner. 

                            --o-0-o--

Secluded Research Facility 
Upstate New York 
Thursday, August 14, 1997 
8:34 am

Trish Akers waved to her two friends and fellow guards as she
stepped through the doorway and into the most secure part of the
lab building. "So, how did it go with the women? Problems?" 

Andy shrugged. "No." 

Ed grinned. "They tried to make a pet out of a cockroach. Can you
imagine?" 

She smiled back. "Well, it's not quite the Birdman of Alcatraz,
but if they're as fascinated with Earth's creatures as they
pretend to be, it isn't very surprising. See you guys tonight." 

They waved their farewells, then separated to walk to their
respective vehicles, Andy's a sport utility Ford Explorer, and
Ed's a beaten-up Chevy Suburban. 

Settling inside the monitor booth, Trish performed her morning
checks for tampering and failed machinery. Finding none, she set
about cleaning Andy's burger wrappers, plastic cups, and paper
trays away. <Like he isn't big enough to do this himself.> Only
then did she check the sensors for the shape-shifters room. <It
all looks good, except for...> After a second glance, she hit the
alert button, leaning forward to call to the rest of the guards,
"I need some medical assistance in here, right now! There's
something wrong with the aliens!" 

Once an army of physicians and guards was assembled, they rushed
through the entrance procedures, then pushed their way inside. The
monitor had shown the two women lying head to head, on the floor,
motionless, but Trish didn't want them walking into a trap. 

Alex Richards, the senior physician present that morning, bent
over the two women, reaching for a wrist of each in turn. "They
seem to have a pulse, what ever that means. This is the closest
I've been permitted to examine them." The others gathered around
gasped as the forms of the women began rolling off the supine
bodies like a scroll, curling up from both pairs of feet. Beneath
what must have been a living covering were the unconscious bodies
of Andy Millman and Ed Pollack. Richards began barking orders.
"Seal those doors off, now! Someone get some stretchers, we need
to take these men down to the infirmary. No telling what's been
injected into them!" 

A flurry of activity, then the two men were carried from the room.
A few minutes later, they awoke in the infirmary, confused, but
otherwise unharmed. Richards sent them off with the head guard of
the shift to try to work out exactly what happened to them. No one
held out any false hopes that the Organization would be able to
track and reclaim their charges anytime soon. Pollack expected
them both to be unemployed once their four bosses found out what
had happened. Millman wondered if they would live out the day, or
whether the Organization would simply relieve itself of the
necessity to burden their pension plan. An aura of gloom had
settled over most of the lab personnel.

No one had noticed that a slip of paper fell from Millman's pocket
when he was carried down the hall, until the janitor rolled up the
corridor an hour or so later. He was oblivious as well when that
same piece of paper blew out of his trash cart as he crossed the
lawn to the incinerator, prepared to secure all the day's work
from unwanted eyes. Once it had rolled into the bushes, the paper
reformed into a sparrow, winging its way to the nearest bush,
hopping from one to the next until it was out of the complex and
gone.

                            --o-0-o--

Office of the Lone Gunmen 
Alexandria, Virginia 
Thursday, 7:24 pm

Rosen and Langly had been struggling with a CPU chassis, she
jamming cables inside, while he attempted to slide the case shut.
She had four screws tucked in one corner of her lips, while he was
clutching the Phillips-head screwdriver in his teeth. 

She looked over at him. "Mm, I think that'll do." 

He shoved the case back on. 

Nichols looked over his half-high reading glasses from his seat on
the couch. "You guys still fighting with that thing?" He passed a
sheaf of papers to Frohike, who grinned. 

The little man stood, then crossed the room, nearly slipping on
the papers and maps strewn across the carpet as he picked his way
over to them. "How's it coming?" 

Langly passed Rosen the screwdriver before he responded, "Oh, I
think we're there. Good thing we had this old 486 still around.
It'll be perfect for a dedicated router." He peered over the back
of the unit. "Don't put too many of those in. If this Spectrum
analyzer card doesn't work, we'll be digging inside again really
soon." 

She shrugged. "These cases aren't like an old 286 chassis. Those
you could drop from a plane and still have work." After tucking
the remaining screws back in her pocket, she passed out the red-
handled tool. "That'll do. Now we can try to check for Lady
Lovelace's packets when they come in, grab them, and redirect them
with false data on the way out." 

Byers looked towards the street. "Somebody just pulled up into the
driveway." After a mad scramble by the rest to collect and conceal
the documents strewn across the room, he checked out the peephole,
then broke into a broad grin. "Hey, no sweat, guys, it's them!" He
was unlatching the multiple locks and swung the door wide,
catching Mulder off-guard. 

His fist still poised to knock, Mulder recovered sufficiently to
favor them with a smirk. "Glad somebody missed us." He waved his
partner inside.

Scully scanned the room. Frohike was perched precariously on a
suspicious lump under the cushions on the sofa closest to the
door. Langly was holding papers behind his back, some of which
cascaded to the floor while she watched. Cocking both eyebrows,
she turned to Rosen and Nichols, both of whom were standing, arms
crossed, in front a computer resting on one of the endtables. The
red disk light flashed randomly. She moved towards them. "You two
certainly look right at home here." 

Nichols shrugged. "Hey, you go where the action is." He stepped
towards Scully. "How are you both?" 

She lifted one corner of her mouth. "Recovering nicely." 

The questioning glance the older man sent towards the Section Head
was answered by a roll of hazel eyes. 

Mulder faced Byers. "Whatcha got?" 

The bearded man pointed towards Langly. "We think we've figured
out what the shape-shifters are up to." 

Mulder settled on the couch by Frohike, Scully taking a seat
across from the pair. The dark-haired agent rubbed his arm under
the cast. "I thought we had beaten you to it, but go on." 

Frohike slid a map from under the cushions. "They've been
purchasing equipment from suppliers all up and down the East
Coast." 

Mulder frowned. "How do you know?" 

Rosen stepped forward. After a quick recap of their initial ideas,
she looked from Mulder to Scully. "Now, what's the highest-grade
mass-marketed paper available? Either of you know?" 

The auburn-haired woman nodded. "The fan-folded form-feed paper
that the old dot-matrix printers used to use." 

Mulder stared at the two women. "What?"  

Rosen nodded, then continued, "Had to be, Mulder, if it broke down
easily, the dust and fibers would jam the printers. Since most
everyone uses standard-sized sheets in laser and ink-jet printers
today, paper recycled from the old stuff is getting rarer and
rarer. There were specific requests for just such paper that came
in to plants from many different small companies."  

Nichols tucked his glasses in his shirt pocket. "Now, that, in and
of itself, isn't suspicious. What was, we discovered upon checking
the records on several of them, was that they existed only as
mailbox addresses, so we went back even further, to see who had
set them up. *Those* persons were the ones placing the equipment
orders we were just following before the systems were crashed by
Frohike's Lady Lovelace." He waggled his thick fingers at his
partner and the Gunmen. "The Brains been preparing an active
firewall defense," he said as he sighed dramatically, "whatever
that is, for a couple of days now."

Scully shifted to the edge of the cushions, easing the weight off
her ribs. "This sounds like the type of investigation the Bureau
would normally be interested in. Did you have any help with it?" 

Rosen nodded. "We looked up your buddy Pendrell, Scully, and he
was more than willing to help us gain access to the commercial
data bases. Why?" 

She was chewing her lower lip. "When we go back into the Hoover
Building tomorrow, Mulder, I want to buttonhole Arthur and ask him
a few questions. He's a common link with the Saunders
investigation as well."

Mulder eyes glittered. "Do you want me there for the
interrogation, Agent Scully?"

She tossed her head. "Of course. This isn't one of your
videotapes, Mulder." Since they had an audience, she spoke a
little more forcefully. "If he isn't nervous with you present,
we'll know he's been replaced by a shape-shifter."

Chuckles made a round of the others, all but Frohike, who stared
pointedly at his feet. 

Mulder reached out to touch his partner's shoulder. "I take it
you'd like to go home?" 

Stretching cautiously, she nodded. "After a week of that hospital,
my own bed and that big bathtub are just about heaven right now."

The two agents left, Rosen and Nichols excusing themselves to
follow suit a few minutes later.

                            --o-0-o--

Apartment 5 
Alexandria, Virginia 
Thursday, 9:23 pm

As Dana Scully settled into the steaming hot water of her bathtub,
an uncharacteristic 'ahhhh' escaped her lips. After some effort,
she had convinced her partner that she was perfectly fine on her
own. The remembered discussion brought a soft curve to her lips.
<Mulder, you're the one in the body cast.> She had offered to let
him stay at her place if he needed any help with routine personal
care, but, sensing the tables had been turned, he declined with a
twinkle in his eye. 

Scully had taken the portable unit into the bathroom, expecting at
least two more calls from her partner before he collapsed onto his
futon for a few hours. He had called once, just to let her know he
was home safe, but that his latest batch of finned charges needed
burials at sea. <Oh, Mulder!> Her partner, the eternal optimist. 

When the phone buzzed, she lifted it slowly to her ear. "Hey." 

She heard an answering chuckle. "Well, they're gone. One had some
weird purple fungus growing on it." 

She ran a little more hot water into the tub. "Mulder, have you
noticed how we seem to never have *normal* conversations anymore?" 

A snort. "Did we ever have normal conversations, Doctor Scully?" 

Shifting against the porcelain, Scully turned onto her healthy
side. "I presume there's an equally exotic batch of flora in your
refrigerator?" 

She heard thumping as he walked. "Mulder?" 

"Yes?" 

"Why are you still wearing your hiking boots?" 

A chuckle. "They were the only shoes I have that don't require two
hands. Could I come over if I told you those and the cast were all
I was wearing?" 

She arched both eyebrows. "And have you arrested for indecent
exposure when you're pulled over for speeding? No way, partner.
We'll keep your choice of at-home attire our little secret." She
heard him cough. "That bad, hunh?" 

There was a thwump as he slammed the door. "Yeah. Armand's sound
good to you?" 

She stuck out her tongue. "Too much cheese. Bertucci's?" She sat
up. "Hey, don't, Mulder. Stay there and rest. You drove all the
way back from Wheeling. I can fix something for myself." 

He exhaled a sigh of feigned offense. "You're cruel, Scully. You'd
deprive an injured, lonely civil servant of the comforts of a
home-cooked meal, when just moments before he was offering you
pizza? Delivered?" 

Tucking the phone between her shoulder and chin, she rubbed the
bridge of her nose. "Well, if microwaved frozen veggies and pasta
are your idea of home-cooking..." 

"Nothing could be finer. See yah." He terminated the call. 

Setting the unit on the tile, she yawned. The water was soothing,
relaxing. For a day or two at the hospital, she had suffered
through sponge baths. But her partner's commentary about missing
the free entertainment as he would be wheeled unceremoniously out
of the room flustered the student nurses, so she began looking
after herself sooner than she had wanted to. The showers ran cold
in the first few minutes, making this her first real cleansing.
She yawned again. <So warm.> 

                            --o-0-o--

Dana Scully kicked her feet happily in the clear, sparkling water.
She felt the sand beneath her fingers, then looked around in
surprise. <Oh, no, not another one.> Behind her was a long line of
men, women, and children, all waiting to speak with the occupant
of a plain brown pyramidal tent under a curving palm. The fronds
rustled as they swayed in the breezes that blew down from the
hills. She had been dragging her bare feet through a thin stream
that flowed out of those same hills, away from the setting sun.
She ran her hands over her body, feeling the rough-hewn undyed
travelling cloak that covered her long blue shift. <Well, at least
I'm a woman this time, and at least I'm clothed.> She felt a tap
on her shoulder, and turned. 

A tanned man was bending over her, holding out his hand. "The
Prophetess will see you now. Yours is a case for all Israel to
hear." 

Using the support to help her stand, she bowed graciously. "I'm
sorry, but, do I know you?" 

He smiled. "I doubt it. I'm probably the only man in Israel who's
known as his wife's husband." Holding open the flap, he bowed to
her. "Lappidoth, husband of Deborah, Judge of Israel." 

Scully crouched, then crawled through the opening. 

Within was a tiny woman, rounded by the years, clad in a simple
white linen dress and worn sandals. Her hair was uncovered, but
whiter than the cloth over her body. She nodded towards a low
stool, just as high as the one she herself was occupying at the
moment. "Have a seat, my dear." She smiled briefly, hoping to put
her visitor at ease. "We don't all carry two-edged swords to
slaughter Canaanite kings, you know." 

Lappidoth poked his head in again. "He's here." 

Another tanned man, also in white linen, crawled in beside Scully,
but when she stood to offer him her stool, Deborah shook her head.
"This Levite scribe is your witness, and mine." The round,
wrinkled face bent forward, disappearing out of the circle of
bright light formed by the hole in the top of the tent. Deborah
lifted a scroll from among a pile at her feet. 

Settling a board across his lap, the scribe drew several
characters from right to left across the top of the papyrus.
"Whenever you're ready, Prophetess." 

Deborah pulled the edge of the scroll away until the roll was
completely unwound. "You see, dear child, when Moshe and Aharon
gave us the Law, they knew there would simply be no time to
outline solutions for cases of this nature. So, I have been called
to judge, and after prayer and consultation with the Levites and
priests, this is what must be." 

The scribe's quill flew furiously over the ridged surface, pausing
only for a tap, tap as he picked up more ink. He cleared his
throat nervously. "Prophetess, please. The day grows late. While
you honor Him with your eloquence, you tire you humble servant..."

Deborah laughed, a tinkling sound like the water that was
evaporating from Scully's feet had made as it bubbled along. "Of
course. To the point, as always." She set the scroll aside. "You
have come to me after the loss of your Mother because your Father
is dead, your older sister is dead, and your brothers are no more.
Is that correct?" 

Scully nodded. "It is as you say, Ma'am." 

The judge's brown eyes sparkled. "The truth is written on your
heart, blessed child; it shines through your face. You wish to
know what will happen to your family's name and estate now that
you are all alone." 

Scully nodded again. "Yes, Ma'am."

Deborah curled a bronzed hand around each knee, the fingernails
cracked and split from age and the endless toil all women share.
"If it were your father's estate that we were considering, the
case would be simple. You, as the only heir, would inherit it
all." She looked to the scribe, who nodded for her to continue.
"But this is your mother's estate, left to her because she had no
brothers and no uncles, no nephews and no male cousins. What shall
become of it, you ask?" She clasped her hands together. "He is
merciful and just, and He believes that as for the Father, so for
the Mother. What is hers shall be yours. Go, my dear. So shall it
be for all Israel." 

Scully licked her lips, tasting dust and sweat. "But, as I
understand it, Ma'am, I am to marry within my own clan," she
pressed as she frowned, sensing that somehow that was the wrong
word, "then pass it on to my sons when I die. But, Ma'am..."

Deborah sighed. "You can no longer have children?" 

Scully nodded. 

Deborah reached over to grasp her hand. "All you need is an heir,
not necessarily a child. One of your own," she counseled, her face
wrinkling with delight at the choice of the word, "clan." 

The three turned when there as a shout from outside the tent. 

Deborah began to rise. "Now who could that be?"

                            --o-0-o--

"Scully! You okay?" 

She sat upright, water sloshing around the tub. "Yes. Just took a
nap. I'm okay." Hoping to buy time until the throbbing in her side
eased, she rested on the rim, calling out a further reassurance.
"I'll be out in a minute." 

There was an explosion of breath from the other side of the door.
"Yeah, sure. Sorry. Take your time." 

Patting herself dry, she queried. "Mulder?" 

"Yeah?" The normal tone of voice told her he was still hovering
outside. 

"How long since we talked last?" 

"About an hour. I waited for the pizzas. Why?" 

Her robe tied around her waist, she opened the bathroom door to
arch both eyebrows at him. "There's something I need to tell you
about." 

Anxious still, he scanned her face intently, then, when she lifted
one corner of her mouth to send an all-clear, he leaned towards
her. "Oooh, sharing your secrets with *me* now, Doctor?" 

She edged a bit closer. "Would there be anyone else?"

He studied his feet before he looked up, suddenly serious. "I hope
not."

                            --o-0-o--

X-Files Offices 
J. Edgar Hoover Building 
Washington, DC 
Friday, August 15, 1997 
8:12 am

Mulder and Scully had ensconced themselves in his large office,
waiting for the red-haired agent they wished to question. She had
settled into the old recliner to review her insurance claims,
while Mulder was scribbling dollar amounts onto an expense sheet. 

Removing her wire-rimmed reading glasses, she checked the papers
on her partner's desk. "You know, the Bureau has those forms
computerized now. You can enter them in and let the program tally
the expenses." 

He eyed the pages in her hand. "So what is that, Doctor? The Daily
Racing Form?" 

She turned them so he could check the header on the front. "See?
For once, the government is ahead of the eight ball." Letting the
thick packet drop on the oak, she thumbed through his folder of
notes. "You have the hospital charges in here?" 

"Agent Scully?" 

The partners looked over. Arthur Pendrell hovered nervously in the
doorway between their shared offices. 

Scully waved him into the ladderback chair in front of the desk.
"Thanks for stopping by, Arthur." 

Visibly relaxing, he crossed to room to sit. "How are you?" He
looked first to Scully, then, after holding her gaze for several
long moments, to Mulder. 

She walked around the desk to stand by his shoulder. "We're
recovering. Thank you for your help on this last case." 

He fidgeted, checking Mulder's expression before he answered, "Oh,
no problem. Finding the sickling data bases was a great change of
pace." He licked his lips. "What's happening with, ah, the other,
ah, thing?" He stared at them both until he felt certain they
understood his meaning. "I haven't heard from Director Skinner in
several days. Anything I can do to help..." 

Propping his feet up on his desk, Mulder chuckled. "Director
Skinner mentioned that you had been of great assistance." 

Scully looked across the desk to her partner. "I guess he's
clear." 

Mulder nodded, then dropped his feet to lean over the long top.
"So, Pendrell, how's Phillips?" 

The technician reddened visibly. "Oh, ah, I haven't seen her in,"
he considered, his forehead wrinkling into a frown, "five days
now? She was taking some time to visit her Mom." He stared out the
window behind Mulder's head. 

Scully crossed her arms, winced, then dropped them. "But she's all
right? No personality shifts you've noticed?" 

Pendrell grasped the sides of the seat. "Personality changes? What
do you mean?" 

Since the cast was banging the arm of his desk chair, Mulder
stood. "If the shape-shifters replace someone, they copy the form,
but not all the memories. You can tell by little things, recent
things usually, that are forgotten." 

The red-haired agent nodded. "Oh. I see. What does this have to do
with 'the other'?" He looked from Scully to Mulder. 

She settled onto the edge of the recliner. "We think one of the
shape-shifters was inside the Safe House, so we're checking
everyone who was there to see if they've lost time, or someone
around them has changed." 

Mulder continued, "How much did you tell Phillips?" 

Pendrell stood. "She was helping me on the case." He looked to
Scully. "She's better than I am with the records. She knows where
odd data are stored." 

The auburn-haired woman held up her hand. "That's fine. Any help
we can get is greatly appreciated. If you can think of anyone else
besides ourselves and you two who might know about the 'other',
let us know, and we'll question them, too. Thanks." 

After a quick glance at Mulder, who nodded, Pendrell stepped out
of the office, his pace increasing as he crossed the tiles.
<Anyone else? Anywhere?>

                            --o-0-o--

Townhouse 
Loudon County 
Friday, 6:12 pm

Arthur Pendrell rapped on the steel security door anxiously. Since
meeting with Scully, he had been replaying the last discussion he
and Terry had shared. <I hadn't known how poorly she and her
Mother were getting along.> He stepped down into her flower bed,
crushing thick little bushes of lemon-colored marigolds underfoot,
to peer through her front window. 

The house was in disarray. The Shaker reproductions, of which she
was so proud, were flung against the door. He recognized the four
curved feet of her grandmother's embroidered stool protruding from
the wide-screen TV case, curved green shards of glass flung
outward across the spotless white carpet. 

His hands trembling, he inserted the smooth aluminum key she had
presented him just two weeks earlier in the deadbolt, then had to
throw all his weight on the door to shove the stack of walnut and
cherry away. "Terry!" He rubbed his damp palms on his dress
trousers, then sprinted through the living room to the bedroom,
grasping the doorframe when he spotted the sleeping woman on the
Laura Ashley bedspread. 

He gulped nervously. This was not the way he envisioned entering
her bedroom for the first time, but his anxiety propelled him, so
he hurried forward. Terry Phillips' breasts rose and fell in long,
even breaths, her arm crossed over her stomach, holding down a
summerweight blanket that covered her lower body. Bending over
her, he reached for her cheek, appreciating the lovely way her
hair curled around her face, now that she was growing it longer as
he had asked. 

His breath caught. There were bruises on her neck, forearms, and
wrists. When he peeled the blanket away, he saw that there were
blackening patches on the insides of her thighs and calves. His
first fear was of rape, but her shorts and polo shirt were whole
and unbloodied, no more wrinkled and dirty than the crumbs of peat
moss on her knees would account for. Whatever had happened to her
had begun in her precious vegetable garden, her pride and joy. 

"Terry?" He cradled her cheek in his hand. "Terry?" 

Her long lashes fluttered. "Hum?" Pendrell smiled gently, feeling
like they were in some old fairy tale. "Arthur?" She grimaced,
then reached for his hand. "Are you here?" She flung herself up at
him, hugging him and pulling him down off balance. 

He grunted, then braced himself with his arms on either side of
her before sitting and holding the now-sobbing woman, tucked
tightly against him. "Terry?" He rubbed her back, waiting for the
sheer terror to subside. "It's okay, it's okay. You're safe." He
bit his lip. <Are any of us, anymore?> 

Once she had settled into sniffles and gulps, Pendrell felt safe
in prying himself out of her tight grip to tip her face up by the
chin. "What happened, Ter? You look like you've been through a
fight." 

Rubbing her eyes, she nodded. "I thought it was the neighbor from
up the street, you know, the one who tries to beat me to the first
tomato?" She looked anxiously for his attention, so he mustered a
smile. "But, he said he'd like to borrow one of my references on
herbs, so I invited him inside. Once there, he..." She paused to
bite her lip. "He..." 

Pendrell took her hand. "Changed?" 

She nodded. "How did you know?" 

He held her against him. "I was warned." He rubbed her back. "I
need to call someone. I'll only be a minute." 

                            --o-0-o--

Mulder and Nichols were standing, hands in their pockets, in the
center of Phillips' ruined living room. 

Nichols looked up at his Section Head. "Sometimes I wonder whether
letting these lab types call themselves agents is a good idea."

Tight-lipped, Mulder nodded. Scully and Rosen had been with the
brown-haired woman and Pendrell for a good twenty minutes now.
Both men turned when Scully stepped out to join them. 

She locked eyes with her partner for a moment, then she spoke to
Nichols without breaking Mulder's gaze. "Rosen asked me to leave."
She spread her hands helplessly. "I seemed to be making matters
worse." 

Mulder stepped over the shattered spindles of a ladderback chair
to stand beside her. "Did you get anything?" 

Rubbing her hands on her jeans, she shrugged. "It was a
shape-shifter. She's been out since August Tenth, as nearly as we
could tell." 

Nichols sighed. "Then they know nearly everything about our
plans." He glanced at the bedroom door, waiting for his partner to
step through it. "What's next, I wonder?" 

Mulder rubbed his face. "We regroup, develop cross-checking
signals, try to work out..." 

Nichols took in the haggard faces of the partners. "Tomorrow,
boss. Tomorrow. Tonight, no one stays alone, okay?" 

Rosen nodded. "They may be finished with us; they've certainly
done enough damage with this. But, they may not be." 

Mulder ran his hand though his hair. "Yeah. There are too few of
them to do this other than one on one. Rosen, Nichols, how do you
feel about that?" 

The brunette agent grinned. "If Nic here doesn't mind the boxes in
the living room, I have no problem with him using my sofa."

He shrugged. "Just like my place, Ros." 

They exchanged smirks.

Scully looked to Pendrell, who had just stepped out of the
bedroom. "Arthur, do you think Phillips would be willing to stay
with you for a few days?" 

The red-haired agent nodded. "I think that would help her a lot.
She put up quite a struggle once she realized something was
wrong." 

Scully patted his shoulder. "If you can, let someone check her
over. She doesn't need to be walking around with something really
broken or sprained." 

Sobered, the four agents took their leave, Pendrell standing by
the smashed cherry secretary. 

                            --o-0-o--

                  End - Zurvan - The Plains of Edom