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

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A New War—Book One
by Lianne Burwell

Chapter #1: Maneuvers

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

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

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

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

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

Mulder needed to see this.

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

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

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

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

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

Maybe.

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

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

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

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

This was getting ridiculous.

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

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

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

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

"Please let her go," Suzanne pleaded.

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

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

"You'll never know, Blackwood."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

//Please!//

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

//PLEASE!!!//

And pulled the trigger.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And so did the nightmares.

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

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

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

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

It was just too damn humiliating.

"Mulder."

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

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

"Well, what does it say?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Scully looked dubious, but Mulder just waited.

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

"Cover up?" Mulder asked, rhetorically.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Both Mulder and Scully looked surprised at that.

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

Chapter #2: Where is Dr. Blackwood?

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Agent McCullough?"

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

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

"I'm your ride to the meeting."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Mulder?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Paul... Paul!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Debi nodded, then headed for the door.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Here we go again.

Chapter #3: Road Trip

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

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

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

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

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

No turning back now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What do you mean?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Dr. Blackwood, I presume?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"That's Colonel Ironhorse?" Mulder asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What?"

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

Chapter #4: Picking Directions

"We've got company."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Why couldn't they have just left him alone?

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

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

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

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

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

"Hmm?" Blackwood blinked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I've got it!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Tell him I'm taking a vacation."

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

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

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

"I'll come with you."

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

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

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

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

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

"Nope. Just tell him."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And when you talk to mom..."

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

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

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

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

"New York City."

Chapter #5: Destinations

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

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

No one except Mulder, that is.

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

And he didn't.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Time to get this show on the road.

"A word, Agent Scully."

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

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

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

"Have you heard from Agent Mulder?"

"No, sir."

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

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

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

"What did you tell them?"

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

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

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

"What do you mean?"

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

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

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

"Where is he, Agent Scully?"

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

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

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

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

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

She hoped he was all right.

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

Assuming, of course, that she lived that long.

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

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

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

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

"Mulder, that better be you."

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

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

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

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

"When am I not?"

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

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

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

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

"Upscale?"

"No... Definitely not upscale."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I'm looking for Kincaid."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Damnit.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter #6: Underground

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Just Mulder, please."

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

"Why?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Well?" he asked, suddenly tense.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Again.

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

Mulder would probably love it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Thanks, man."

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

"Wolfling?"

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

Alex nodded. No problem. He could do that.

"So where are we going?"

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

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

"New York."

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

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

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

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

Someone was in her apartment.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It rang. And rang.

'Come on, Debi. Be home.'

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

"McCullough."

"Debi, good."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Jen?"

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

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

Chapter #7: Waiting

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

"Jen?"

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

Now she wasn't so sure.

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

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

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

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

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

"So now what?" she finally asked.

"Good question. Let's find out."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Debi wasn't thinking that.

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

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

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

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

"Freeze! FBI!"

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

"Debi?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There was no turning back.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes."

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

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

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

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

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

"First thing in the morning, then."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Colonel... noooooo..."

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

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

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

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

"Scully?" came the shaky question.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter #8: Hidden Spaces

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

And he was wide awake.

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

Like saving the world.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Tests..."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Why did you help them?" Mulder asked.

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

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

Probably not even short-term.

"Up already?"

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

"Yep. So when can we get moving?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He just wished that it would be faster.

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

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

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

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

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

"Malzor?"

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

"What's back there?"

"I don't know."

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

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

"But he's gone," Mulder protested.

Mana closed her eyes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Paul?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And Blackwood asked you to."

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

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

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

"Does he know?"

"Does Blackwood?"

They both snickered.

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

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

"Right."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"John?"

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

"We found Paul."

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

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

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

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

"Yet."

Chapter #9: Resurrection

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

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

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

And there was still no word from Mulder.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Harrison?" Kincaid said in a gentle voice.

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

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

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

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

Darkness.

His first awareness was of lack of light.

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

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

Shots. Screams. His team. Death.

It was a trap!

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

Darkness.

It didn't make any sense.

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

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

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

Where was Harrison?

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

Water! He was drowning!

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

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

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

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

Where was Harrison?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His energy sapped, he slumped back against the pillows.

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

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

But where was Harrison?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"He is not a clone."

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

Paul was alive.

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

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

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

Paul was alive.

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

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

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

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

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

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

But the other man...

"Kincaid?"

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

How long?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then Paul was there, standing in the doorway.

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

Paul looked exactly as he did eight years earlier.

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

"Paul..."

And everything went blank.

Chapter #10: Reunion

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"But..."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You okay?"

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

"Yeah. I guess I am."

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

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

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

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

He pulled away. "What...?"

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

"But..."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Krycek and Kincaid?

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

But Kincaid?

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

His eyes flew open and he stared at the ceiling.

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

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

Did he?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Alex studied the map carefully.

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

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

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

Alex nodded, moving in closer. He frowned briefly when Mulder stepped away from him. He was going to have to have a talk with the man. Something was bugging Mulder, and he wasn't going to give up until he found out what.

"Well," he said. "That one is an unknown, and the easiest to get to, so I suggest we start there."

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

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

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

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

"Rainier University. In Cascade, Washington."

Chapter #11: It's In His Kiss

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That had been more disturbing. They'd reached cruising altitude by the time Paul had been able to coax a response from the man. All Harrison had been able to tell him was that it had felt like his entire body had been vibrating. He just laughed it off, saying that he was out of practice with the modern world, having spend so many years alone in the woods, but Paul wasn't convinced. He didn't have a clue what to do.

Maybe Suzanne would have some ideas.

Alex tossed his bag into the overhead compartment while Kincaid slid into the window seat. Mulder immediately pushed past Alex to take the middle seat. Alex shrugged. He preferred the aisle seat anyway. Easier to defend yourself.

The plane took off without incident, and without Mulder saying a word. The first wasn't too surprising, but the second was. Obviously Mulder was still giving him the cold shoulder.

Alex was almost ready to slug the man, just to get a reaction from him. Mulder hadn't said one world to him all day unless it was in answer to a direct question. Alex wasn't the only one who'd noticed, too. Kincaid had been giving him strange looks all the way to the airport.

When Mulder leaned forward to grab something from his bag under the seat in front of him, Alex looked over him to Kincaid. The mercenary tilted his head towards Mulder and mouthed 'what's his problem?'. Alex shrugged. For once, he was the one who was clueless.

There was a crackle, then the pilot came over the intercom welcoming them and telling them the usual shit about flight times and weather, then announced that the flight attendants would be serving the meal as soon as they reached cruising altitude.

Alex gave a theatrical shudder. "Airline food," he said. "The ultimate proof of a global conspiracy."

For a moment, the corner of Mulder's mouth quirked into a slight smile. Then his face went expressionless again.

Alex sighed. That comment should have gotten some sort of response from the older man. He and Mulder were going to have a long talk, and soon. He was not going hunting alien bases with the man in this sort of state.

In a motel—not too far from Mt. Cheyenne, but not too close—Mulder tossed his bag onto one of the double-beds, then made his escape into the bathroom.

It hadn't taken much checking to find out that there was a supposedly abandoned military base on the mountain that matched up with the glowing spot marking active alien technology on Mana's map. Mulder hadn't been very surprised. They'd known for years that parts of the military were collaborating with the aliens, and that abandoned military bases were often the best places to find these groups working from.

He relieved himself, then washed his hands and splashed water on his face. He stared at his reflection, and resisted the urge to laugh at himself. He was hiding, but sooner or later he was going to have to go back out there and play nice with the lovebirds. He was not looking forward to sleeping alone in one bed while they cuddled in the other.

Mulder groaned as his mind once again started the instant replay of what he'd overheard the night before. All day, he hadn't been able to escape it, and it was driving him nuts. Every time he looked at either man, he heard the moans and cries of pleasure.

"It's no business of yours who he sleeps with," he told his reflection. Do you want it to be? was the response.

"Of course not! I'm not interested in him." Aren't you? "He's a man." He's beautiful. "He's a traitor." He's your best ally. "He isn't interested in me." Are you sure? "Yes!" Then why are you hiding in here?

"Mulder! Pizza's here."

Mulder jerked, pulled out of his reverie by the sound of Krycek's voice. Suddenly it struck him how absurd it was, arguing with his own reflection, and laughed once. "Coming!" he called back.

Composing himself, Mulder unlocked the bathroom door and left his safe- haven.

Kincaid was sitting in one of the room's two chairs, already halfway through a slice. Krycek was sitting cross-legged on one bed, deftly handling his slice of pizza one-handed. Both men were looking at him, and he wondered what they'd been talking about while he was in the bathroom. Probably how to dump him long enough to tumble into bed together.

Mulder turned on the television, grabbed a couple slices and settled down on the other bed to pretend that there was no tension in the room. He was so successful that he was actually surprised by the sound of the door shutting and being locked. Looking up, he found that Kincaid was gone and Krycek was leaning back against the door with an unreadable expression on his face.

"Where's he going?" Mulder finally asked.

"He's a member of the Hunters. He saw a couple of 'brothers' in town, so he's going to go see if they know anything useful and to see if he can get us some weapons before we check out the base tomorrow."

"Oh."

"And we are going to talk."

Mulder froze. "Can it wait until tomorrow? I'm really tired," he said, ignoring the fact that the sun had barely set. If necessary, he could always blame the change in time-zones. "I'll take this bed. I'm sure that you and Kincaid won't have any trouble sharing the other one," he added, then kicked himself for the slip.

Krycek's eyes widened, then narrowed. "Is that what this is about?" He shook his head, looking amused. "How did you know?"

Mulder looked away, suddenly feeling guilty, even though he hadn't been spying. At least not deliberately. "I saw the two of you going into your room," he finally said. "The sounds..."

"Were unmistakable?" Krycek finished for him, and he nodded. "So what's the problem?"

Mulder snorted. "There's no problem," he said, trying to convince them both. "If you want to sleep with him, it's no skin off my nose," he said, well aware that he'd failed.

Krycek snorted. "And a very nice nose it is too," he replied, ignoring the glare he got in return. "I don't believe you, Mulder. You've been pissed off all day, deliberately keeping between me and Kincaid. So what's the problem? Jealous?"

"No!" Mulder jumped to his feet and started pacing. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Krycek grinning at him.

"What's the matter?" was the mocking comment. "Hit a little too close to home?"

Mulder spun, only to find that Krycek had somehow gotten right inside his personal space without him noticing. "Back off," he warned, fists clenching.

"Or what? You'll beat me up? Just like old times," Krycek said, his grin growing by the minute. "Just admit it. You're jealous."

Stubbornly, Mulder kept his mouth shut. He was not going to give Krycek the satisfaction of admitting that he was right. He was used to thinking of himself as the only person that Krycek would work with. It was unnerving to see him so buddy-buddy with someone else.

And that was all it was, he told himself.

Krycek advanced on him, and Mulder found himself backing up until he found himself pressed against the wall with nowhere else to go. Krycek was close enough for him to feel the other man's breath on his face.

Suddenly, the other man's expression gentled, losing the hard edge of triumph. "Mulder, it was one night. Kincaid's in love with Blackwood, and Blackwood's in love with Ironhorse. Kincaid needed a little human contact."

Mulder's jaw clenched. "You make a good couple," he said bitingly. "You're both alike."

Krycek's face got closer, angling so that his chin was almost resting on Mulder's shoulder, his breath hot against the older man's ear. "Yep. Both mercenaries. Both fighting aliens to protect our world. Both wanting someone we can't have."

Krycek pulled back slightly so that he could stare into Mulder's eyes, separated by only an inch or two. "Or maybe we don't have that in common anymore."

Before Mulder could respond, the other man's lips came down on his, hard and hot and moist. A tongue pushed past his lips, exploring the outsides of his teeth, then the insides, when he opened his mouth in shock.

That shock kept him from resisting. Krycek kept him pressed up against the wall, exploring his mouth at his leisure. Mulder went hot, then cold, as he felt something press against his hip and realized that it was the other man's erection. Then he froze when he realized that his own cock was rising in response. In the back of his mind, he could hear Scully saying 'I can guess' when he'd wondered why Krycek kept coming back when he kept beating the other man up every time they met. She'd known, long before him, and hadn't said anything.

Lack of oxygen was starting to make him breathless, even before Krycek deliberately inhaled. As the last of his oxygen was literally sucked out of his lungs, his knees gave way beneath him, and the only thing holding him up was Krycek.

Then the other man pulled back, a smile on his face.

Mulder pushed at him, angry. "What the fuck are you up to, Krycek?" he snarled at the man. "Fucking with my mind again? So now what? Am I supposed to roll over for you so you can have your shot at me, like everyone else?"

Krycek laughed. "If all I wanted was a fuck, I could find that anywhere. I certainly wouldn't wait this many years for it."

"You can't be serious," Mulder said, his tone turning plaintive.

Krycek brushed another kiss across his lips, and he instinctively turned towards it, then flinched. Krycek stepped back, leaving Mulder to hold himself up.

"I'm very serious. I'm also patient, Mulder. I've been waiting for this for years now. I can wait a little longer. I don't want one night with you. I want more. A lot more. Think about it, Mulder. Think about years of waking up alone, living the life of a monk, with only your videos for company. You don't have to, ever again. All you have to do is say you want me there. That's all."

Krycek turned away, and started stripping. Mulder watched, unable to look away. When all he had on was his underwear, Krycek climbed into the second bed, and rolled onto his side, facing away from the other. "Think about it, Mulder," he repeated, then turned off the light.

Mulder stood there in the dark for a moment, still blinking in confusion. It had to be a trick. Krycek couldn't seriously be implying that he was... What? In love with Mulder? Or something else? They worked well together, but then he worked well with Scully. Loved her, even. Didn't mean that he wanted to get in bed with her. It would change their whole partnership. Of course, the idea of sleeping Krycek didn't feel the same. Scully didn't have half the impact that the man had.

For a moment, Mulder imagined what it would be like, Krycek wrapped around him, buried deep inside him, and he gasped. No, Scully didn't have anywhere near the same impact.

Still, it was crazy. He was not going to get involved with Krycek.

Still fully dressed, he climbed into the other bed and closed his eyes, but sleep was elusive. In his mind, over and over again, he felt the warm, hard bulk of Krycek pressing against him. Suddenly, the bed seemed very cold and very big and very empty.

Alex was awake the moment that the doorknob started to turn. He slid his hand under his pillow to grab his gun. It was the latest thing: a new type of plastic gun, undetectable by airport security systems, which labored to keep up with the latest developments in weapons research. As a result, it was the only weapon they'd been able to bring with them from New York. Unfortunately, it was only reliable for a few shots before the chemical process of firing it started to decompose the plastic. That was why Kincaid had gone looking for a local source of more reliable weapons.

The door opened, and Alex relaxed fractionally. It was Kincaid, and he was carrying a duffel bag. The bag, when set down, made a metallic clunking noise, so he assumed that the man had found at least part of what he'd been looking for.

Kincaid disappeared into the bathroom. After a few minutes of running water, Kincaid came back out, already stripped down. Alex gestured, and the man climbed into the same bed.

"You talk to him?" Kincaid whispered.

Alex glanced over at the other bed. Mulder hadn't moved, but he would bet that the other man was awake. Well, if he wanted to eavesdrop then he deserved to get an earful.

"Yeah. Sort of." He snorted. "He overheard us last night, and got jealous." Alex heard a tiny, choked sound from behind him. "So I kissed him."

Kincaid glanced past Alex, and he could tell that the other man was also well aware that Mulder was awake and listening. Kincaid snickered. "Well, that must have been interesting. Did he faint?"

"No. He was speechless, though."

"Well, if he doesn't want you, I'll take you."

Alex grinned. Kincaid seemed dour, but his sense of humor showed up at unexpected moments. Mainly in bed.

"Take me how?" he asked, resisting the urge to laugh.

"On your back with your legs over my shoulders. Long and hard, until you screamed."

All the air whooshed out of Alex's lungs as the game got a little too serious. His cock was up and hard and calling for attention, but he ignored it. Instead, he reached out with his one hand to grab Kincaid and pull him in for a hard kiss. Then he pulled back.

"I'm not giving up just yet. But if I do, I'll look you up," he said in a tone full of regret.

Kincaid hugged him, then turned away and settled down for sleep. "Do that, Alex," he said, then his breathing evened out into sleep patterns. Like Alex, and others in their profession, Kincaid had obviously mastered the ability to fall asleep in an instant, and wake up alert just as fast.

Alex curled up, his back to Kincaid. In the dim light from the window he could see Mulder, who was holding still. He shook his head. If nothing else, Mulder was forced to consider the possibility now. After several years, that was a step forward. In the meantime, Alex didn't see any reason why he should be celibate, and if Mulder didn't like it, tough.

He closed his eyes and slipped into sleep, where a willing and wanton Mulder waited in his dreams. It would do for now.

Chapter #12: Surveillance

It was late when they finally arrived in Cascade and checked into the motel were Debi and Scully were supposed to meet them. Harrison dropped the bag containing the few clothes that Vincent and his people supplied them with on the floor in the corner of the room, and Paul dropped onto one of the beds with a sigh and shut his eyes. It was amazing how tired he could be after sleeping for eight years.

Vincent. The image of the cat-man flashed behind his eyelids. Vincent was one hell of an enigma, but one that he hadn't had the chance to learn much about. At first, he'd been so distracted by his reunion with Harrison that he hadn't noticed anyone or anything else in the room. The next day, between the scan results and the planning, there hadn't been time to learn anything about him. On the plane, he'd wanted to question Harrison, but it had been too public for that sort of topic. Still, he was going to get some answers. It was a mystery, and Paul hated mysteries.

But not now. Right now he was too tired to think coherently.

The bed creaked as Harrison lay down next to him. Strong arms wrapped around him, and Harrison buried his nose in Paul's neck, inhaling deeply, then sighing in contentment. Strangely, that touch drained any residual tension left over from the long flight.

Paul turned, and let himself be pulled closer. "Harrison?"

"Hmm?" the big man purred, his hands starting to roam over Paul's body.

"We going to call Suzanne?"

Harrison had worked his way up to nuzzling Paul's ear, and he pulled back long enough to say, "When Debi gets here. Tomorrow."

"Okay, that makes sense." Paul paused, then grinned. "What do we do in the meantime?"

"I'm sure we'll think of something," Harrison replied. He rolled over onto his back, pulling Paul on top of him.

"Oh, I'm sure we will, Doctor," Paul grinned back at him, then dipped down to seal the man's mouth with his own.

As Harrison began to strip him, there were only two thoughts left in Paul's mind. First, Suzanne could wait. Second, maybe he wasn't as tired as he thought.

Paul came awake, instantly alert, at the knock on the door; a leftover from his military days. A glance at the alarm clock showed that it was nearly eight in the morning. Later than he usually woke, but then they'd been up rather late the night before, he thought with a fond smile.

Whoever it was knocked again. "All right, just a minute," he called, grabbing for his jeans and pulling them on. Not bothering with a shirt, he headed for the door, idly wishing that he had a weapon, just in case. He felt even more naked without a firearm. Behind him, Harrison groaned and sat up in the bed.

Paul checked through the peephole, and saw two women on the other side of the door. Being cautious, he opened the door only a crack, with his weight behind it to slam it shut if necessary. "Yes?"

The redhead was short, but looked like she could give his old drill- sergeant a run for his money in the 'balls' department. And the blonde... She looked familiar. She was also staring at him with a shocked expression.

"Col... Colonel?" The voice was also familiar.

"Debi!" Harrison called from the bed, grabbing for his clothes. Now it was Paul's turn to be shocked.

"Debi?"

This was Debi? This tall, elegant blonde? Suddenly the passage of time hit him with a vengeance. The Debi he remembered was a child, complaining about her homework and lack of friends. This woman was, according to Harrison, a college graduate and federal agent.

"But how?" she asked, reaching out to touch Paul, as if she couldn't believe her eyes. She probably didn't.

Paul stepped out of the way so that the two women could enter the motel room. "It's a long story," he said. "Short answer is that they cloned me more than once, then Malzor basically stuck me into cold storage in case he could use me again. I... Debi, I'm sorry. Harrison and Kincaid told me about what happened. You shouldn't have had to deal with that." Shouldn't have to deal with having someone you care about shoot his own head off in front of you. Shouldn't have had to deal with having her childhood ripped from her by a conflict she didn't belong in the middle of.

Suddenly his arms were full of a sobbing girl who now seemed more like the child he remembered. Awkwardly, he squeezed her and patted her on the back. She was taller than him, he realized with a start.

Finally, the sobs tapered off and she stepped back, scrubbing at her cheeks. He smiled, and ruffled her hair the way he used to. Harrison was coming out of the bathroom where he'd retreated to get dressed.

"Harrison will fill you in," he said gruffly, looking over at the other woman, Agent Scully he assumed. "As soon as I get dressed, we'll go find Suzanne."

With that, he grabbed the rest of his clothes and made his escape to the bathroom.

He stared at his reflection in the mirror for a moment. It was the same face he remembered seeing every morning for years. Why? Eight years had passed. He should be showing that. Everyone else did, why not him? It was like he was trapped in a time warp, which wasn't a bad description of what had happened to him.

Paul shivered. Mentally, he'd known about how many years had passed. Emotionally, it was just starting to sink in.

The fall weather in Washington state was thankfully cooler than in Washington, but still warmer than usual for the area. It was certainly warm enough that the students wandering the Rainier University campus were all in short sleeves, and many were wearing shorts.

It hadn't been hard to find the Biology building and the lab of Doctor Janet Gallagher. The door was closed, but Harrison could hear a familiar humming on the other side. Harrison knocked.

"It's open!" Harrison opened the door, and looked inside.

"Harrison! Oh god, is it really you?"

Suzanne, or Janet he should say, flew into his arms. While they communicated on a fairly regular basis, they hadn't actually seen each other in more than five years.

The changes still shocked him. When they had realized that someone was targeting people who'd been involved in the war against the Mothren Kincaid had arranged for Suzanne to get plastic surgery. Gone was the long, dark blonde curls. In their place was a short cap of red hair. Subtle changes had been made to the shape of her nose and cheekbones, and colored contacts changed her eyes to green. The changes made her unrecognizable to anyone who didn't know what to look for. Her own mother, if she were alive, probably wouldn't recognize her.

Kincaid had also arranged for the fake records that had gotten her the position at Rainier. At first she'd found it difficult to get used to being called by a different name from the one she'd grown up with, but she'd confided in a recent e-mail that it had become such second nature that she was beginning to forget that Suzanne McCullough ever existed.

After a long hug, Suzanne pulled back. "God, it's good to see you, Harrison. But what dragged you out of hiding?"

Harrison tensed up. This was the part he hated. Tell her that, "It's started again."

Suzanne stared at him, horrified. "No," she whispered, stepping back.

Harrison followed her, and the others came behind him. Suzanne looked past him, and smiled. "Debi," she said. Then her eyes went wide. "Paul?"

Harrison barely caught her in time when she fainted.

Suzanne revived quickly, and after introducing her to Agent Scully they moved on to the explanations. First, Scully explained about her experiences with her partner, Mulder. Her tone reflected her obvious desire not to believe what she had seen over the years, but also the fact that events had made it impossible to do so.

Once she was finished, Harrison picked up, explaining what had happened since Debi had shown up on his doorstep with the two Feds and the mercenary, Krycek, including the discovery and revival of Paul and the confirmation of his reality. Debi added her own story; the warnings to stay away from Agent Mulder and the fact that her roommate had been a double-agent set to keep an eye on her. She started shivering when she explained how her roommate had tried to kill her, but quickly pulled herself together. Suzanne reached over and squeezed her hand.

When they were done, Suzanne closed her eyes and sighed, still looking slightly dazed. "I thought it was over," she said, finally. "I hoped it was over. Changing my face and name and everything was worth it, as long as the aliens were gone."

She looked over at Paul and smiled sadly. "But if nothing else good comes out of this, at least we have you back. I'm so glad to see you again, Paul."

"And I'm glad to be back," Paul said in a wry tone. Harrison briefly ran a hand down the smaller man's arm, still getting used to the fact that he could. So many years alone, but not alone anymore. Never again.

Then something caught his attention, and he stood up and moved to the window.

"Suzanne," Paul continued, his tone now all business. "After the attacks on Harrison and Debi, you could be next. Has anything suspicious happened around here? Strange accidents? A feeling that you're being followed?"

Harrison stared out the window, trying to figure out what had pulled him there. He scanned the quad below and the surrounding buildings. All he saw were students, heading to and from classes.

"No, nothing. A few months ago, one of the grad students was attacked in his office and then drowned in the fountain in front of Hargrove hall, but I doubt that had anything to do with me. Maybe they haven't been able to track me down."

A flash of light made him blink. Following it back to the source, he found himself looking at the roof of the building directly opposite. Frowning, he stared, trying to figure out what was causing the flash. Suddenly, everything came into focus, and his blood went cold.

"Down!" he yelled, tackling Paul to the ground. Automatically, Scully and Debi hit the floor, Debi pulling her mother down with her.

"Harrison?" Paul gasped from under his not inconsiderable weight.

At the same moment, the window exploded, showering them with glass. Harrison rolled with Paul until they were directly below the window, and out of the line of sight of the other building's roof. The women all took shelter under one of the heavy wood tables in the lab.

Then there was silence, followed the panicked screams of the students down in the quad. Cautiously, Harrison lifted his head to look out the window at the roof where he'd seen the gunman.

She was gone.

Alex eased his head over the edge of the outcropping, carefully watching for any sign that he'd been spotted. On either side of him, Kincaid and Mulder were doing the same. He brushed sweat and hair out of his eyes. Things had been so hectic the last few weeks that his hair was getting longer than he'd had it in years. The hum of insects filled the air, giving the impression of being in the middle of the wilderness, miles from any other humans.

That wasn't true, though. The scene below was definitely not that of an abandoned military base. The one gateway through the fence surrounding the base was manned by two soldiers, both carrying rather large firearms. When a truck rumbled down the road, it was checked thoroughly before being allowed through. A car leaving the base was checked almost as thoroughly. More armed soldiers were walking the perimeter of the fence, and that was just what they could see from their vantage point.

Alex pulled back and lowered his binoculars. "Okay, so we've hit paydirt," he said casually. "Any suggestions?"

Kincaid took one last look before pulling back. "The fence is wired, and I saw a lot of security cameras. If they're that paranoid, then they'll have someone monitoring them. I don't think we can disable one long enough to get through."

"And the patrols are frequent enough that even if we weren't spotted by the cameras, they would see us," Alex added.

"They practically went through that truck with a fine-tooth comb," Mulder added, worrying at his lower lip. "So stowing away on one isn't going to work." Alex found his eyes drawn to it, yet again, but quickly pulled his attention back to the matter at hand.

At least Mulder wasn't playing silent anymore. He'd still looked a little shell-shocked by what had happened the night before when they got up that morning, but now he looked more thoughtful. And every so often he shot looks in Alex's direction that made his blood run hot and his hopes run high.

Well, at least Mulder hadn't killed or maimed him, which was a good sign. And now his thoughts were heading in the direction that Alex wanted, which was even better. With any luck, he'd realize that Alex was the right person for him. After all, they were on the same side (most of the time), they had the same interests (sort of) and there was a definite attraction. He'd seen the looks Mulder had been giving him over the years, even if Mulder hadn't been aware of them. Add to that the fact that anyone Mulder got involved with would be a target for more organizations than could be named and it only made sense that he should get involved with someone who could take care of themselves; a description that fit Alex to a 'T'.

All right, so there was no evidence that Mulder had even thought of a man that way before. Details, details. Alex would bet that given an hour or two alone with the man in a bed, he could other man singing the praises of gay sex. He'd certainly give it his best shot. Besides, he'd felt a definite physical reaction from the man when he pinned him to the wall with the kiss. Indifferent, Mulder was not.

In the meantime, that wasn't getting them into the base, which was the whole point of this party.

Alex checked his gun again, a reassuring action. "Let's split up," he said. "Follow the full circuit of the fence. See if we can't find a hole in the security. No security is completely seamless."

He started to push back from the ridge when he heard something ominous.

A twig breaking.

Cursing silently, he turned his head.

While they'd been intent on the scene below, they'd been surrounded. Seven soldiers, all well armed, were right behind them. Alex swore again, this time out loud. How the hell had they been spotted? And how did that many soldiers manage to creep up on them without being noticed? Most American soldiers tended to be clumsy oafs who couldn't creep up on a deaf man without being noticed.

"Hands in the air, gentlemen and stand up. No sudden moves," the lead man said, his mouth quirking into a sardonic grin.

They climbed to their feet, keeping their hands in view. Three men stepped forward and frisked them. Every weapon they were carrying was found. They even took Alex's prosthesis, just in case.

"All right, let's go have a talk, shall we?" The leader gestured with his firearm. Alex, Mulder and Kincaid followed him, while the rest of the squad took up positions behind and to the side of them.

Well, it was one way to get inside the base.

Chapter #13: Sight and Sound

When the call came in that there'd been a shooting at the University, nobody thought twice about who the investigating detective should be. It was just accepted that Detective James Ellison would be there. The fact that his partner, Blair Sandburg, had been at the station instead of the university that day didn't matter; the various professors, students and staff at the university were used to dealing with him.

"What do we have?" Jim asked the uniformed cop at the entrance to the university who was turning traffic away.

"Three shots fired. Nothing since. They think the gunman is gone, but they aren't positive."

Jim nodded, and headed for the parking lot closest to the shooting site but still out sight. There he found Suzanne Tomaki, head of University security, acting as liaison between the campus cops and the police department.

"What's up?" he asked, smiling to himself as Blair called a cheerful hello. Someday he was going to get a sample of Blair's morning tea and send it out for analysis. The grad student had far too much energy for it to be all natural. Maybe.

"Three shots, from the roof of the Wilkinson library, all go through the same window of the Jameson building. Witnesses say that the shots were followed by a bright flash of light. Nothing since. No one saw anyone suspicious arrive, and no one has been seen leaving the scene, other than students who have all been questioned. We sent someone up to the roof of the Wilkinson, but there was no sign of the gunman. I had them leave the area alone. The stairwells are blocked off so no one can get in or out."

Jim frowned slightly at that. They should have waited before going up there, but at least they hadn't disturbed the scene. "You say all the shots were at the same window? Whose?"

Suzanne glanced down at the notebook she held in one hand. "One of the biology professors' labs. Dr. Janet Gallagher. She's been with the university for just over four years. No complaints, no threats."

"All right, let's go have a talk with the lady. Was she in the lab at the time?"

"Yes. She had visitors. They've been moved across the hall to her office. Everyone else has been evacuated. They're waiting for you."

After getting directions, Jim headed for the back door, away from the side of the building the shots had been fired at. Blair followed him up the stairs, giving him a rundown on Dr. Gallagher.

"She's a nice lady, Jim. She's done some lab work for me, analyzing artifacts, even though it isn't really her field. A lot of the tenured professors consider that to be below them, but she's always willing to lend a hand. Strange, though. She's talked about a daughter from time to time, but she's probably the only parent I've ever met who doesn't have pictures of their kids on their desk or walls. But I still can't believe anyone would want to kill her."

Jim paused, and held up a hand to still the flow of chatter from his partner. Up ahead, he heard voices.

The first were the uniformed men guarding the crime scene, bantering back and forth, speculating on what had happened.

Far more interesting were the other voices.

//"Well, I'd say that we can drop the idea that they haven't found you yet, Suzanne."

"Damn! I happen to like my life in Cascade. I don't want to have to go running again, Harrison."

"Mom, you probably don't have a choice. If things are stepping up again, we're all at risk."

"The thing I want to know is how you knew we were going to be shot at."//

Jim's eyebrows went up at the new voice. It was familiar, very familiar.

//I saw a flash of light. When I looked closer, I saw... someone with a rifle on the roof of the building across the way."

"Someone?"

"I... I can be completely sure, considering the distance, but it looked like... Do you remember the bounty hunter who was hunting the Mothren?"

"The android?"//

Jim frowned. Androids? What sort of nutcases were they dealing with?

//"It looked like her."

"But she left. Why would she be back now? It's been what? Ten years?"

"I don't know, but before while you were all recovering, I followed her out. I wanted to ask her some questions. After, she said something in a language unlike anything I'd ever heard. Then there was a bright flash, and she was gone. But... The people who attacked my cabin spoke in a very similar way."

"Damn. Just what we need: another mystery."//

Deciding he'd hear enough, Jim climbed the last few steps to the landing. It didn't sound like these people were going to be much help.

Just before he opened the stairwell door, he heard something else, and this sound stopped him dead in his tracks.

An inquisitive growl. Followed by a purr. But he couldn't find anything that could be producing the sound, scanning with all his senses. And the last time something like that had happened...

Shaking his head, Jim put it out of his mind. He would deal with it later, assuming that he had to. He pushed open the door and stepped into the hallway.

He showed his badge to the cop standing guard there. Blair already had his observer badge clipped onto his shirt.

"Forensics is on the way up," he told the woman. "Have them get started on the lab. I'll talk to the witnesses."

The woman nodded and pointed him towards a door marked "Janet Gallagher, Biology Department". Jim knocked.

"Come in," called the voice he recognized as being the one addressed as Suzanne.

He opened the door and stepped in. "I'm Detective Jim Ellison. This is my partner, Blair Sandburg."

He glanced around the room, then suddenly stopped. "Colonel!"

The Amerind man blinked in surprise. "Ellison. It's been a few years."

"Since basic training. Blair, this is Colonel Paul Ironhorse, the toughest drill-sergeant that a trainee could have."

Blair smiled, and shook the man's hand. "Pleasure to meet you, man. Jim is so not-forthcoming about his time in the army."

The man grinned. "Then far be it for me to break confidences," he said, winking at Jim. Blair rolled his eyes and muttered under his breath about closed societies. "But I'm retired now. I'm a little surprised that you left the army, though. You had career army written all over you."

Jim flinched. Even after all these years, the pain was still raw. "Eight years ago, my team was killed. The chopper we were on went down in Peru and I was the only survivor. The army didn't bother to come find out what happened until eighteen months later. After that, I couldn't stay."

A darkness flowed across the man's eyes. "I understand," was all he said. Strangely, Jim believed him. He had the same sort of look that he'd been told he had when talking about his team.

Suddenly, both man shook themselves, as if shaking off bad memories.

"Anyway, let me introduce you," Ironhorse said. "Jim Ellison, Dr. Harrison Blackwood, Dr. Janet Gallagher, Agent Debi McCullough and Special Agent Dana Scully."

Jim frowned. "Feds?"

Scully, a tiny red-head, spoke up. "We're not here on official business, if that's what you're wondering, Detective Ellison."

A quick check of her vitals told him that she was telling the truth. "Well then, what can you tell me about what happened."

The story the group had to tell said nothing about androids or fake names. Blackwood said that he'd seen a flash while looking out the window. He'd seen someone on the roof of the next building holding what looked like a rifle. After the recent rash of shootings at campuses across the country, he'd hit the floor along with everyone else in the room. In this case, the paranoia was appropriate.

Jim continued to use his enhanced senses to monitor the group. The only time that he'd picked up an out-and-out lie was when they said they had no idea why anyone would be shooting at Dr. Gallagher.

Again and again, he found his eyes drawn back to Blackwood. He wasn't sure why, though; just that there was something about the man. Something important. He felt uncomfortable around the man, and yet at the same time something inside him said 'this one isn't a danger'. The only question was this what?

Harrison Blackwood was certainly impressive. He was little taller than Jim, but not quite as muscular. His brown hair was streaked with gray, and as curly as Sandburg's if not as long. Jim would guess him to be close to fifty, but the deep lines on his face and the faint haunted expression in his eyes made him seem ancient. It also didn't escape Jim's notice that he seemed to be hovering near Ironhorse, constantly brushing against the man, getting inside his personal space.

And the colonel... If Blackwood seemed older than his years then Ironhorse seemed much younger than Jim would have expected. There was no gray at all in his black hair and his face was unlined. But there was something there that bothered Jim. A lingering odor... And a sense of familiarity. Ironhorse reminded him of someone, but he wasn't sure who.

Once they had the statements from the group, Jim decided to head over to the Wilkinson library. His instincts said that the gunman was gone, but he wanted to check first before they let forensics onto the scene.

The new library was almost finished, but had been deserted at the time of the shooting. The local union was on strike, making construction grind to a halt. It meant that no one should be inside the building, and with Blair giving him something to ground him, he extended his senses to check. He found nothing. Enhanced senses might be a real pain in the butt most of the time, but they were also very useful on the job.

When they hit the top of the stairwell, Jim paused to examine the lock while Blair caught his breath.

"No sign that it was forced," he muttered to himself. "No sign that it was picked either. Either it wasn't locked, or the gunman had a key."

Snapping on a pair of thin latex gloves that would prevent him from smudging any prints without interfering with his sense of touch, Jim opened the door.

The first thing that caught his attention was the stale smell of smoke from the cigarette butts dropped in the gravel that covered the roof. Obviously, before they went on strike the workers had been using the roof for whenever they wanted a smoke and hadn't bothered cleaning up the butts. The lingering odor hung around the doorway like a cloud.

One unfortunate side-effect of the gravel was that it didn't hold a footprint. However, the way it was shifted told a story to someone who knew what to look for.

The majority of the scuff marks were clustered around the door. The campus guards who'd checked the roof, the workers who'd come up to smoke; none of them had moved out very far. The occasional hard rain evened out the gravel elsewhere on the roof. As a result, the scuff marks near the edge, where the gunman must have been standing, were very obvious.

What wasn't obvious was where they'd come from. There was no sign of a path to or away from the spot. Jim wrinkled his nose. There was something else too.

"What do you smell?" Blair asked, already picking up on his confusion. Sometimes Jim wondered if Blair had his sixth sense when it came to dealing with his Sentinel.

Jim frowned. "Ozone," he said, finally identifying the smell.

Blair glanced up at the blue sky. "Well, it's not about to storm, I'd say." Jim waved away the comment.

"No, it's more focused than that." He moved forward heading towards the gunman's vantage point. The scent got stronger with every step. "It's centered here," he finally said, stopping just short of the scuff marks. He didn't think there was much chance of forensics finding anything there, but he wasn't going to take the chance.

He bent down and examined the gravel. He picked up a piece and held it in front of his face.

It was scorched.

Glancing down again, he could find faint scorch marks tracing a circular path around the same area that was focus of ozone smell. It even extended up the concrete block wall that ran around the edge of the building. He moved over to check the ledge.

There were faint marks where the gunman would have braced himself, along with a gleam of something that looked like oil, but wasn't. He made a mental note to make sure that forensics got a sample. He could hear them coming up the stairs already.

The breeze started to pick up, and a small motion caught his eye. He reached over and snagged the item before it could fly away. He reached into his pocket for an evidence baggie.

"What is it?" Blair asked, looking over his shoulder.

"A hair. I think." Once it was safely tucked into the baggie he took a closer look. "At least it looks like a hair, but it isn't."

"From a wig, perhaps?"

Jim shook his head. "Most good wigs use human hair. And this definitely isn't from a cheap wig. The texture is too fine. But it definitely is artificial. Maybe the lab will be able to tell us more."

At that moment, the forensics team led by Serena Chang arrived. Jim handed her the baggie with the fake hair and pointed out the other things he'd noticed. She immediately started directing her people. Jim breathed a sigh of relief that she'd been the one sent on the call instead of Cassie Welles. Cassie would have spent her time coming up with her own theory of what happened, then trying to bludgeon everyone else into accepting it. Sometimes she was even right, but it didn't make up for her abrasive personality and the fact that she was ignoring her own job in favor of trying to do someone else's.

Jim went back to the edge of the roof and looked across the way at the Jameson building and the broken window. He frowned, realizing something for the first time.

"Chief?"

"Hmm? Yeah, Jim?"

"Take a look." Blair left the conversation he'd been having with one of the uniforms and came over to stand next to Jim.

"What is it?"

"Blackwood said he looked out the window and saw someone with what looked to be a gun on the roof here, right?"

"Yeah, so?"

"How much detail can you make out from here?"

Blair frowned, and squinted. "I can see the window, and shapes moving around inside, but no details."

"Exactly."

Blair glanced over at him. "Not a fair comparison, you know. I'm not wearing my glasses."

"No, but the sun is right behind us. It would have been in his eyes."

"So what are you saying? He lied about seeing the gunman?"

Jim shook his head. "No, he wasn't lying."

"Then how could he have seen anything?"

"Good question, and I intend to find out," Jim said in a determined tone.

Harrison paced the confines of the small office, too restless to sit down. Scully was flipping through one of Suzanne's science journals, while Suzanne told Debi and Paul what she'd been up to for the last few years. Harrison blocked it out.

Far more interesting were the voices out in the hall. He was getting a real earful about Ellison and his partner-who-isn't-a-cop. From the way the officers were talking, Ellison and Sandburg were the Batman and Robin of the Cascade PD.

The two young men were an enigma, that was sure. Sandburg, he'd like instantly. Enthusiasm and intelligence without being over-bearing. But there was something about Ellison that disturbed him.

Harrison glanced over at Paul. Maybe it was how friendly Ellison had been with his lover. Harrison had never considered himself the jealous type, but every time that the detective had made a move towards Paul, or even spoken to him, he'd had the urge to get between the two men and snarl "Mine!" at Ellison.

He would meditate on it later. He hadn't done enough meditation in the last few weeks. Maybe it was just the stress getting to him.

Harrison leaned against the wall next to the office door, still trying to listen to what was going on out there. He'd always had good hearing, but his time in the woods had honed it well. Long hikes had trained his hearing to the point that he could hear a chipmunk scampering through the underbrush from a distance. It was a little overwhelming, now that he was back in what passed for civilization, but it had also saved their lives the night that his cabin had been attacked.

Ellison and his partner had just come back. He could hear them talking to the two examining the lab. Harrison shut his eyes and concentrated a little harder.

//"We didn't find any bullets, sir."

"What do you mean. The holes in the wall are right there. There has to be something."

"Yes, but there isn't. We did find some foreign material, but it's more like a ceramic. Definitely not something you make a bullet out of."

"So what would you make out of it?"

"Haven't a clue, sir. We'll analyze it in the lab. See if it matches anything we have on file."//

Ellison muttered something under his breath, and Harrison reached a little harder. In fact, he concentrated so hard on what he was listening to that he never even noticed when the rest of the world started to fade away.

"So John and these other two—Mulder and Kincaid—are in Colorado? What do you think they're going to find?"

Paul shrugged. "According to Mana, alien technology that is in use. There used to be a military base there. In fact, it was in the running to house an underground bunker in case of nuclear attack, but the government decided to go with a different location. But as far as I know, the base has been abandoned for years. Mulder says he's run into a lot of bases that are used by members of the military who are collaborating with the aliens. This may be one of them." Paul's jaw clenched at that. He'd served the military for so many years, fought aliens as a part of the army. It still rankled, the thought that the US military—parts of it at least—were working with aliens that wanted to seize control of their world.

Suzanne shook her head. Paul was still shocked by the lack of long blonde curls. The short, red-dyed hair was one change. Another was the number of fine lines around her eyes and mouth. So much had changed. The only thing, it seemed, that hadn't was Harrison's love.

Paul glanced over at his lover, and muttered an oath. Harrison was leaning against the wall, his eyes open, staring blankly across the room.

"Harrison?"

No reaction.

"Harrison!"

Chapter #14: A Shot In The Dark

The room they were stashed in wasn't bad as far as cells went. It looked like it was probably a meeting room, with a table and a half-dozen chairs. There were no windows, but they were quite a ways below ground, considering how long the elevator had taken to go down. It had probably been quickly cleaned of anything that could be useful to them before they were put in, and a camera in one corner said that they were being watched.

Alex slumped in one chair, his feet propped up on the table, while Kincaid leaned against a wall, a picture in calm. Mulder, naturally, was pacing. Between the insomnia and the nervous energy, Alex was surprised that the agent hadn't already worked himself into a nervous breakdown years ago.

Then again, how would you tell the difference?

Alex watched Mulder pace for a while, trying to distract himself. His hand crept up to cup the stump that was all that remained of his left arm. The ill-fitting prosthetic that had been taken from him might chafe, but without it, he felt... naked. Vulnerable. He hated the feeling.

Finally, he couldn't stand it anymore. "Mulder, would you sit down?" he snapped.

"How can you be so damned calm?" Mulder snapped right back. Then he stopped and stared at Alex.

Alex frowned. "What is your problem now?" he asked.

"You're white as a ghost." Mulder stepped closer and brushed a surprisingly gentle hand across his forehead. "You're sweating. Are you all right, Alex?

Alex batted the hand away, annoyed. "I'm fine. You're the one pacing like a caged animal."

"No you aren't. Talk to me, Krycek."

Alex glared at him, but it had no effect. He almost wished that Mulder was back to ignoring him. Almost. If there was anything he hated, it was showing any signs of weakness.

"It's just our location," he finally said.

Mulder frowned, and glanced around the room. "Locked up?"

Alex shrugged. "Nah. More that we're god only knows how far below ground." Mulder looked blank. "Ever since the silo..." He paused, and Mulder's eyes lit up with understanding.

"Sorry."

Alex shrugged. "Hey, it's not like it was your fault. It was that oil slick thing that took me there and the bastards who locked me in."

Mulder's eyes flickered to his arm-stump and his expression darkened, no doubt with the memory of a torment that was his fault. Alex snorted. "Drop the self-flagellation, Mulder. Not everything that goes wrong is your fault."

Mulder didn't look convinced, but at least he was focussed on something besides pacing. Alex had known right from the start that Mulder had a capacity for guilt that would put the most devout catholic to shame. It made him easy prey for the Consortium.

However, if that distracted him then Alex would play up to it. He got to his feet, and let the shiver he'd been restraining run through him. His one arm wrapped around his stomach.

Instantly, Mulder was at his side. Alex hid a smile. Even more than his sense of guilt, Mulder's biggest weakness was how easy he was to manipulate. It had been used against him many times in the past. This time it was being used to help distract him from his worries.

'With great power comes great responsibility,' Alex told himself with a mental laugh. He knew Mulder even better than the man's partner, and he'd made a study of how the man's mind worked. As a result, no one could manipulate Mulder the way he could. With any luck, he'd be able to manipulate the man right into his bed. And once he had the man where he wanted him, he'd make sure that no one ever hurt Mulder again. The man was his.

Alex deliberately leaned against Mulder, and hid a grin when the man didn't pull away. Instead, Mulder's arm came up and—very hesitantly— came around Alex's shoulders.

Alex leaned in a little harder, and was surprised to find his own anxiety levels dropping. Amazing how much of a difference a little human contact could make. The worst part of his stay in the silo hadn't been the darkness or the hunger or the fact that he was so far underground. The worst part had been the complete and total isolation.

Across the room, Kincaid glanced at them, then turned his face away. A small, wistful smile crossed his lips before his expression went blank again.

Alex felt a tiny pang of guilt. It looked like he was going to get what he wanted—namely Mulder—but Kincaid had lost his own last chance at the man he wanted—Harrison Blackwood. Alex could sympathize, but not enough to pull away.

Naturally, that was when the door opened and an armed soldier stepped through. It was the same one who'd lead the team of soldiers who'd captured them. The markings of his collar said he was a colonel, and the glint in his eyes said that he wasn't to be trifled with. Alex watched him warily.

"All right, folks," the man said with a sarcastic twist of the lips. "The general wants a word with you."

The three of them headed for the door. Alex knew that by the end of the day they'd probably be either dead or in the hands of the consortium, but there was no point in hiding in here. Especially when they'd just be dragged out anyway.

The hallways echoed with their footsteps as they followed the Colonel through the maze of passageways. Two more soldiers fell in behind them. Other than that, they saw no one. All the doors were closed, and none had any identifying signs. Either everyone in the base was expected to memorize locations, or the route had been 'sanitized' the same way that the meeting room they'd been locked in had. Alex was willing to bet on the latter.

They finally stopped outside one door, and their guide knocked. A voice inside called "Enter," and the door was opened for them.

Inside was a typical office. The man behind the desk wore an air force uniform with the markings of a general. In a way he reminded Alex of Walter Skinner, Mulder's boss and his former boss. Both men were middle aged, balding with gray hair—what little was left. Both had a powerful presence. They might even be close to the same height, although it was hard to tell with the man sitting down.

The only place that the comparison broke down was in build. Skinner obviously worked out regularly, giving him a powerful body to go with the rest of the package. This man had already moved into the middle-aged spread, although it didn't distract from his air of command.

The colonel stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. Alex quickly scanned the room for possible weapons, noting more than a dozen, even though he doubted they'd be of any use. The other two soldiers were probably right outside the door, and even if they weren't, they wouldn't know where to head. They would just have to play things by ear.

"Well, gentlemen," the general said, folding his hands on his desk. "I trust you have a good explanation for your presence."

"We were invited at gunpoint," Kincaid said, his lips twitching slightly. The general glared at him.

"And what were you doing in the area?"

"Doing some hiking," Alex chimed in, playing along with Kincaid.

"Carrying handguns? Not exactly what the local hunters use."

Alex shrugged. "It's a dangerous world," he pointed out.

"Indeed. Well then, how about some names."

"Jeff Armen," Alex said, using the fake name that had gotten him from New York to Colorado.

"Fox Mulder," Mulder said, obviously not getting the hint. Alex winced, although he was careful not to show it. That name was a little too well known within the Consortium and all their dupe organizations.

"Fox? You have got to be joking!" the colonel said, choking back a laugh.

"Quite serious, Colonel..." Mulder paused, very obviously waiting for a name to be supplied.

The man glanced over at his boss, before turning back. "O'Neill. Jack O'Neill." The name wasn't familiar to Alex, but he filed it away for reference.

"And you?" the general said to Kincaid.

"John Kincaid," was the answer.

That got a reaction from the man behind the desk. "John Kincaid? And do you have a brother?"

Kincaid's face tightened up. "Had," he grated out. "Max died eight years ago."

"I'm sorry to hear that. Hank always spoke well of him. Of you both."

Everyone else in the room blinked in surprise. "You knew General Wilson?" Kincaid finally asked.

"Of course. We grew up together. Hank and I were friends most of our lives, even after he foolishly decided to join the army instead of the air force." The man grinned. Then he sobered up. "He vanished about the same time as your brother died, I would guess. I don't suppose you know what happened to him?"

Kincaid shook his head. "We didn't hear from him for a couple months before Max died. Then, out of the blue, he contacted us through a blind drop, asking us to run a mission for him. It turned out to be a suicide run, and I barely got out alive. Afterwards, I found out that he'd been missing for a week before we got the job."

The general's expression turned sad. "I guess we'll never know, then..." he said quietly.

"General..." Mulder said, stepping forward. O'Neill tensed up, and Alex prepared to jump him if the man looked like he was going to do something stupid.

"Hammond," the general said, waving for O'Neill to relax.

"General Hammond, what do you know about the Blackwood Project?"

Hammond's eyes narrowed. "A great deal, Mr. Mulder. And what do you know about the Blackwood Project."

"That it was created by Harrison Blackwood, funded by the government and reported to General Wilson. That it was created to fight an alien invasion. That they succeeded."

"They did?"

"Yes. They exposed the fact that the Mothren leader was manipulating them to keep them in a war that none of them wanted. Most of them left. The few that stayed behind are living normal lives as humans."

Hammond frowned. "And does this have anything to do with why you are here?"

Mulder got very intense, the way only he could. It was one of the things that Alex found so appealing about him, and had ever since they'd first been partnered.

"Because they aren't the only ones out there. Because even though the Mothren aren't a threat, Earth isn't safe."

"Tell us something we don't know," O'Neill muttered from his place next to the door.

"That doesn't explain why you are here, Mr. Mulder," Hammond pointed out.

"The Mothren left equipment behind, and people who knew how to use it. We used one device to scan for active alien technology. This base showed up on that scan. Since it wasn't known to us as a Consortium-run base..."

Alex winced at the slip.

"...or a left-over Mothren base, we came to check it out."

"I haven't a clue what you're talking about," Hammond said, his face perfectly blank.

"Bullshit," Alex said, speaking up for the first time. "If you didn't have a clue, neither you nor the colonel would have tensed up. The question is, who do you work for?"

"We work for the United States government," Hammond said glaring at him.

"Of course you do. However, we have run into too many military types who are either dupes or willing collaborators. Sometimes it's because of greed. Sometimes it a misguided belief that they are serving their country."

"Mr. Armen, I do not appreciate what you are suggesting here."

Alex shrugged. "I don't care. All I care about is whether or not you are contributing to an alien plan to take control of this world."

"We are not contributing. We are fighting the Goa'uld."

Alex's eyes narrowed, and Mulder blinked. "The who?"

Now Hammond's eyes narrowed. "The Goa'uld. Parasitic aliens. Look like slugs, and take over human bodies. Spent a lot of time in ancient Egypt."

Mulder shook his head. "The only body-seizing aliens I know of are an earlier version of the Mothren, and a form of life that looks like an oil-slick."

"An... Oil-slick."

"Trust me, General," Alex chimed in. "You don't want to be taken over by one. Puking it up after it's done with you is not a fun experience."

Mulder started ticking items off on his fingers. "Then there's the Greys and the shape-shifters. The rebels, who have their eyes and mouths sewn shut to keep the oil creatures from taking them over. Androids from possibly another dimension. And then of course there's the bees. We're still not sure where they fit in."

There was a pained noise from the man behind them, and Hammond looked confused. "Please tell me you're joking," he said in a plaintive voice.

Alex shook his head, along with Kincaid and Mulder. "Sorry, General. We are quite serious. Deadly serious."

"This is crazy!" O'Neill broke in. "What the hell are we? The galactic equivalent of Grand Central Station?"

Alex snorted. "Nice line, Colonel," he said. "I'll have to remember it. So, getting back to the original subject, what are you running here?"

"That is classified. Only the president, the joint chiefs of staff and certain members of the Senate know about our existence."

Alex groaned. "That means you're about as secret as the stealth bomber. In other words, not at all."

"Mr. Armen..."

"General Hammond, I used to work for the people collaborating with the aliens. They have plants throughout the government and the military. Hell, they practically control the government and the military. They know about you, you can be sure of it. They probably have people in your staff reporting to them, and the moment you are a danger to them, you will be gone. Classified means shit."

Mulder waved at him to back down, and Alex decided to go along with him. For now.

"General Hammond, he may be a little melodramatic about it, but he's right. The only reason that you've been allowed to keep operating without direct control is because either they don't consider you to be a threat yet, or because they figure that you're doing what they want anyway. They won't leave you alone forever."

"And you expect me to believe this?"

"Wilson vanished," Kincaid pointed out. "And so have most of the people who knew about the Mothren. The rest of us have had to hide."

That hit home. Hammond rested his chin on his clasped hands for a moment. "I need to think about this for a while. Until I decide what to do with you, you'll be back in the same room, under guard." He nodded to O'Neill, who headed for the door.

Suddenly, the sound of a stomach growling echoed in the room. The corner of Hammond's mouth quirked into a small smile. "And I'll have some lunch brought to you," he added.

When the door shut behind them, Mulder resumed his pacing. They were right back in the same room, locked in with a gunman on the other side of the door, again. This time, though, the surveillance camera was gone. Evidently they'd proven themselves enough to be allowed a little privacy.

"Relax, Mulder," Krycek said from his seat. "He listened, and he seemed reasonable. There's nothing else we can do except wait."

Mulder snorted. "So we should relax and wait for him to decide whether to help us, let us go, or turn us over to people who would kill us without a second thought? You're not usually this passive, Krycek."

Krycek shrugged, a small smile on his face. At least he didn't look like he was going to puke anymore. Mulder was still a little surprised how much the white face and shivers had affected him before. He had trouble seeing Krycek as vulnerable, but he was at times.

Either that or it was all an act to gain sympathy. Mulder wasn't sure which. Sometimes he wondered if that was part of Krycek's appeal; the uncertainty of what was going on behind those big green eyes.

Mulder gave a little shake. He'd been standing there just staring at the man, and Krycek was staring back with a self-satisfied smile on his face. The rat-bastard thought he'd won, Mulder realized. He said he wanted Mulder—whether it was just physical, a mind-fuck or more—and he thought he won.

//Is he wrong?// asked the annoying little voice in the back of his mind, and he squashed it down ruthlessly. He leaned against the wall and closed his eyes, looking for a little self-control. Unfortunately, the dreams he'd had the night before of Krycek... making love to him eroded that control until he felt like an elastic stretched until it was about to snap.

The door opened, and from beneath his half-closed eyelids he saw a soldier walk in with a tray. Looked like the standard saran-wrapped sandwich fare of cafeterias around the world. Mulder closed his eyes again. He was hungry, but couldn't work up the ambition yet.

"Mulder look out!"

Mulder's eyes flew open as Krycek tackled him to the ground. Dimly, he heard the sound of a silenced gun being fired.

Krycek had him pinned to the ground. Above them, he could see Kincaid grappling with the soldier, who was trying to get a second shot off. The door flew open again, and more soldiers came streaming in, restraining both Kincaid and the gunman.

Mulder didn't notice that. What he did notice was that his front was rapidly being soaked by an unknown fluid. "Krycek?" he said, trying to shift the man on top of him.

All he got in reply was a moan. With a heave, he managed to turn Krycek over and off of himself.

Krycek's head rolled to the side. Mulder's eyes widened as he saw the dark red stain across the other man's abdomen.

"Alex?!"

Chapter #15: Sentinels and Guides

Harrison Blackwood was drifting in a comfortable haze. It was soft and dark, and the only thing that he noticed was the sound. It was like a comfortable roar, filling the air around him. For a moment, the conversation of two students wondering what was going on caught his attention, then disappeared into the roar. The sound of a cop jogging up a set of stairs: there, then gone. The world was made of sound and sound was the only thing that was real, but it was elusive, always just out of the grasp of his comprehension.

Then out of the ocean of noise, one sound, one voice began to grow louder. He couldn't understand what it was saying, but the tone soothed him, distracted him from the other sounds that threatened to overwhelm him again. As time passed—he couldn't tell how long—words became clearer. He could recognize his name in what the voice was saying.

Then there was a pressure, the first physical sensation he'd felt in... Eons, it seemed. He could feel something touching him in the darkness, pressing against his hand. The pressure built and built, until—without warning—it turned sharp and painful, making him cry out in protest.

"Damnit, Harrison, don't do this to me!" he heard clearly all of the sudden.

Harrison blinked, suddenly blinded by the weak afternoon sunlight coming through the window. He could now recognize the sharp pain as being Paul's fingernails digging into the sensitive flesh on the inside of his wrist.

"Paul?" he said, his voice feeling rusty. "What happened?"

"You blanked out on me again, worse than any time before. I've been trying to get you do respond for nearly ten minutes!"

Harrison looked at Paul's face, trying to understand. Sure, he'd blanked out a couple times in the last few days, but that had just been for a few seconds. It was just the stress of everything that had been happening. But his lover looked closer to panic than he'd ever seen before. Paul never panicked. Not even in the face of overwhelming odds. Not even in the face of his own imminent death. But now Paul almost looked like he was the verge of tears. It wasn't a good look for him.

Harrison raised a gentle hand to cup Paul's cheek, and they stood there for a moment, ignoring their audience.

Then he let his hand drop. "I don't understand?" he said plaintively.

"You zoned," a new voice said. He turned to find Ellison's partner— Sandburg, his memory promptly supplied—staring at him with a gleam in his eye. "It happens if you focus too hard on one sense. Which one was it?"

"I don't understand," Harrison repeated. The detective leaning against the wall near the door snorted.

"Let me spell it out for you, then," Sandburg said, pushing the hair out of his face. "In primitive societies, there was a class of warrior set apart by natural abilities. Their senses—all five—were enhanced to what would now be called super-human levels. In modern terms," Sandburg stared into his eyes, "being able to see a gunman on a distant rooftop, even with the sun in their eyes." Harrison flinched. "Being able to hear a conversation in a different room." Harrison flinched again.

"I thought so," Sandburg said. "What were you listening to?"

Harrison glanced at Paul, who just looked confused. "The person from forensics was saying that the bullets shot at us were made of something he didn't recognize. Some sort of ceramic."

Paul's eyes narrowed at that, but Sandburg just nodded. "Right. So you were so focused on what you were listening to that the rest of your senses turned off. You need to learn to keep your attention split so that it doesn't happen again."

"And if it does?" Harrison asked, suddenly having a vision of himself locked in a psych ward.

"That's why every Sentinel has a Guide," Sandburg replied.

"And what is a guide?" Paul said impatiently. Harrison could sympathize. He was beginning to wonder what language the young man was talking in, since it didn't make a hell of a lot of sense as English.

"Every Sentinel has a partner, a Guide. The Guide's job is to keep his or her Sentinel centered and focused without zoning out. We also help them to hone their abilities and use them to the best effect."

"We?" Paul said, picking up on the one word instantly.

"We," Sandburg said with a nod. "As in you and I."

"You're a Guide?" Harrison glanced over at the detective. "His?" he said, with a nod towards Ellison. It would certainly explain why the man felt so... familiar. The moment Ellison had first come through the door, he'd felt a... kinship with the man. Almost as if they knew each other. He'd also felt an instant anger when he'd been so familiar with Paul, but he'd squashed that down quickly.

Sandburg glanced over at the man briefly, then nodded. "Jim's my Sentinel," he confirmed. "I met him while working on my Ph.D. I was researching Sentinels, and his senses had just come back on-line. Long story," he said quickly, before Harrison could ask. "Don't ask. And definitely don't tell. We've already been targeted by a rogue CIA agent who figured it out, and we really don't want that to happen again."

Harrison shuddered slightly. "Understood," he said. While he'd worked with the military on the Blackwood Project, he wasn't sure just how far he would trust the brass. If alien technology made them salivate, so what would a man who could hear through walls and see for miles make them do? A Sentinel would be the perfect spy, the perfect assassin. He was sure that Ellison didn't want to be 'recruited' any more than he did.

"Can I ask a few questions?"

Harrison blinked, and returned his attention to Sandburg. "What sort of questions?" he asked.

"Well, I started out doing my Ph.D. on Sentinels, but dumped that as too dangerous. But I'm still studying them, more to help Jim. You can have a copy of my research," he said in an aside to Paul.

"Me? Why?"

"Well, you're his Guide. It might help you."

"I am?"

"Aren't you? You did pretty good bringing him out of his zone-out."

"That doesn't necessarily mean anything, Mr. Sandburg," Paul said, shaking his head.

"Hey, if it walks like a duck and talks like a duck..." Sandburg said with a shrug of his shoulders.

Paul looked at Harrison and they both shook their heads. This was starting to get surreal. Of course, in the last few weeks he'd been attacked by aliens, met a man who was more cat than human and had his long-dead lover return from the grave, so to speak. Maybe 'starting' wasn't the right word to use.

"So what were the questions?" Harrison finally asked, breaking the silence.

"What? Oh, right. Um... When did your Sentinel abilities come on-line?" Blair said, sitting down and pulling over a pen and piece of paper.

Harrison shrugged. "I don't know. It's not like they weren't there one moment, but were the next."

"Well, when did you have your first zone-out?"

Harrison glanced over at Paul, running through the 'blackouts' that Paul had been so worried about. "That I know of? Two days ago."

"And what happened to cause it?" Sandburg was moving more and more into a scientist tone of voice, one that Harrison remembered well.

"Paul walked into the room, and..."

"And?"

"I could hear his heart beating," Harrison said, feeling a little embarrassed. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see that Ellison looked interested, while Debi and Suzanne just looked confused.

"And you'd never noticed that before?" Sandburg said in surprise.

"Well, considering we thought he'd been dead for the last seven, eight years, no."

"Huh?" Sandburg said, dropping completely out of his scientist mindset.

"Long story," Paul said with a small smile, echoing Sandburg's comment from earlier. "Don't ask."

Sandburg chuckled. "I hear you, man. Okay... Most Sentinels, according to my research, develop their abilities through periods of solitude. Jim's came out during his time in Peru. He repressed them when he got back to the states, but they came out again while he was alone on a stakeout at a wood-mill outside of town. Alex's senses came out while she was in solitary confinement in prison. Ben was raised in the arctic in an under- populated area. Do you have any similar experiences?"

Harrison smiled faintly at that. "After Paul died, I moved into a family cabin in the middle of the woods. Didn't want to see anyone, talk to anyone. Then, a couple weeks ago, Debi showed up and dragged me back into the real world. Suddenly, everything was louder, brighter and stank. I just thought it was the sudden change from woodlands to city."

Ellison snickered; a sympathetic sound. "Been there, done that," was all he said in explanation, obviously willing to let his partner take the lead for the time being.

"Okay," Sandburg said, writing quickly. "That matches the pattern I've seen. Instinct to protect?"

"Yes," Paul said before Harrison could open his mouth.

"Check. When did you two become lovers?"

Harrison choked, and Paul turned red. "What?" Harrison said.

"Lovers. Every Sentinel-Guide pair I've come across in my studies have been lovers."

Harrison glanced over at Paul, then sighed. "Ten years ago."

Suddenly, Sandburg looked excited. "Mutual attraction from the moment you met?"

"Yes," Harrison said, and Paul echoed him.

"Oh, man, this is incredible. Most pairs become lovers after the senses come on-line. Of course every pairing I've come across didn't meet until afterwards anyway. You two were bonded before? And separated when they did?" He was scribbling even faster than before.

Harrison was starting to get frustrated. He was a little unsure if being grilled by this young man was necessarily any better than being grilled by the military. "Listen, this is all very interesting, but isn't a shooting slightly higher in priority?"

At least Sandburg had the grace to look embarrassed at that. "Right. Sorry. Jim?"

The look Ellison turned on his partner was equal parts fond and exasperated. "Well, the shooter is no doubt long gone," he said, "and you've all given your statements. You can head off, if you like. Just..."

Paul held up his hand. "Let me guess. Don't leave town."

Ellison grinned at that. "You took the words right out of my mouth, Colonel."

"Don't worry, we know the drill. You have our hotel and room number. We'll see you later."

Once they were all downstairs and squeezed into the rental car, Harrison turned to Paul. "Back to the hotel?" he asked as they drove away from the university.

"No."

Scully leaned forward from the back seat. "You just told Ellison that we were going back to our hotel and that he could reach us there."

Paul shot her a withering look. "If they found us at the university, they can find us at the hotel easily. It wouldn't be safe to go back there."

"So what do we do?"

Everyone looked at Paul expectantly, Harrison included. No one doubted for a moment that the ex-military man was the right person to make the decisions for the group.

Paul frowned at the steering wheel for a moment. "We haven't heard anything from Kincaid or the others. Until we do..."

He shook his head. "Damn, we can't risk leading our pursuers back to Vincent and his people. They wouldn't be able to fight back. We need to find someplace to loose ourselves until we hear from the others. A reasonably large city with an airport with flights to as many places as possible. From Cascade, the closest appropriate city would be..." Paul's eyes narrowed as though he were consulting a mental map.

"Seacouver," Suzanne supplied for him.

"Right. First step, though, is to get rid of this car and rent a new one using false papers. Harrison, you still have the ones Mulder's friends sent with Debi and Scully?"

Harrison patted his pocket. "You did say to bring them with us," he said mildly.

"Good. I hope no one left anything at the hotel that they didn't want to lose, because we are not going back," Paul said firmly.

"What about Ellison?" Scully asked again, still sounding a little horrified that they were running out on a police investigation; no doubt because she was used to being on the other side of the investigation.

"Do you want to try to explain things to him? Do you really think that the Cascade PD can protect us? If so, we can always leave you here, Agent Scully."

That statement was met with dead silence. Scully slumped back in her seat. She obviously still wasn't comfortable with the idea, but she couldn't deny that he was right. They weren't safe in Cascade.

Paul checked to make sure that they weren't being followed, then turned the car towards the city limits, heading north towards Seacouver. Harrison leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes.

It had been one hell of a day, and it wasn't over yet.

Two hours later, after switching cars, they heard the report about a firebombing at a Cascade motel.

Jim stood back and watched as the bomb squad checked for any more bombs. Uniformed officers redirected traffic and kept the curious from getting to close to the site. The motel had been evacuated, as had nearby businesses.

Blair stood next to him, resting a hand on his arm. "Were they in there?" he asked softly, his hand moving in a soothing stroking motion. Jim covered the strong hand with his own, reassuring himself that his lover was right there, not dead like he'd been before. Losing Blair was a nightmare he'd been through before, and every time they investigated a killing or near-killing, he found himself reaching out to reassure himself that Blair wasn't gone again. He wondered how Blackwood had managed to survive for years with his guide gone. Jim knew he wasn't strong enough to do that himself.

He shook his head. "The blaze was hot, but there'd still be some scent left behind if flesh had burned. No one was in there when it went off. The manager didn't see them come back either."

"So where are they?"

Jim scanned the crowd automatically, not really expecting to see Ironhorse or the others. "Probably long gone," he finally replied. "I would bet they left town right from the university."

"So how do we find out where they went?" Blair asked expectantly. Jim just shook his head.

"We don't," he said. Blair stared at him in disbelief. "Someone wants them dead," Jim explained. "Someone who has guns that fire bullets made of materials that bullets aren't made from. Someone who sets bombs that aren't made from standard materials." He sniffed deliberately, and once more nearly choked from the scent of a chemical he didn't recognize. "What it adds up to, I don't know. But I do know that the Cascade PD isn't equipped for this."

The bomb squad had finished, and the forensics team—this time directed by Cassie Welles, unfortunately—moved in. Most of the team went to work at once, sifting through the rubble for evidence. Cassie, however, was too busy questioning the motel manager. Finally Jim had to redirect her with a not so subtle hint that she should be doing her own job. The manager shot him a grateful look, then headed back to his office at the undamaged end of the building.

"So who do you think is behind this?" Blair asked in the truck when they were finally able to leave the scene to head back to the PD to write the reports.

Jim considered the question carefully. "The government, maybe," he finally said. "Or maybe something the Colonel was involved with. Ironhorse was involved in a lot of top-secret missions when I knew him, and if even his lover thought he was dead for nearly a decade..." his voice trailed off as he considered that possibility.

"Then maybe some government agency had him in something so deep cover that they're willing to kill him to keep it a secret?" Blair said in disbelief. But there was a hesitant tone to his voice. They'd come up against too many rogue operations in the last few years to put that completely outside the realm of possibilities.

But there was still the conversation he'd overheard. The one about aliens. He didn't believe it for a moment, but...

He didn't mention that to Blair, though.

"Why don't you give Jack Kelso a call," he suggested instead. "See if he can find out anything about what Ironhorse was involved in. And have him check on Agent Scully and Harrison Blackwood as well."

Blair grinned at him. "Good idea, Jim," he said. "If there is anything not kosher going on, he'd be able to find out."

They lapsed into silence after that. Jim concentrated on the traffic while Blair scribbled in one of his ever-present notebooks. The suggestion had been genuine, but Jim wasn't sure that anything would come of it. His instincts said that he wouldn't see Ironhorse again. At least, not in Cascade.

And while his instinct was to reject the idea of aliens, the strange ceramic bullets and the unfamiliar chemical at the motel made him wonder.

And what he was wondering made him very uncomfortable.

Chapter #16: Gateways

General George Hammond stormed into the med-center, furious and looking for answers. Glancing around, he spotted the team leader for SG-1. "What the hell happened, Colonel?" he snapped.

O'Neill snapped to attention—not a good sign. "Armen's been shot. Dr. Fraiser has him in surgery right now, but it could be iffy. Stomach wounds aren't good."

There was a strangled sound from one of Armen's companions—Mulder, Hammond reminded himself—but he ignored it. "And how did a gunman get into the base?" he asked in a low, dangerous tone.

O'Neill's eyes slid to the side. "He didn't. The gunman was Corporal Whitaker. He's base personnel. He shot Armen when he was delivering their lunch. He's in the lockup," O'Neill added.

Hammond could feel his jaw dropping with shock. "One of our own people? Are you sure?" He frowned, thinking furiously. "Any chance he's been taken over, or something?"

A shake of the head was his answer. "No, sir. He works in the kitchen, no direct contact with any of the SG teams. If he's been affected by something then there should be more."

"Then why?"

"I told you, General," Mulder said, speaking up for the first time. "The Consortium's probably had agents inside your facility right from the start. Hell," he said with a harsh laugh, "this fellow, Whitaker, probably isn't the only one."

Hammond stared at the man for a long moment. There was an angry light in Mulder's eyes that sent a tiny shiver down his back. Hammond didn't scare easily, either. He forced the reaction down and decided to use it.

"I want to talk to Whitaker," he told O'Neill. Then he turned to Mulder. "Would you care to join us, Agent Mulder?"

The man blinked. "That was fast," he muttered under his breath. "You realize that by doing a look-up on me, you've probably alerted every outfit that's hunting for me to my exact location?"

Hammond glared back at him. "Yes or no, Agent Mulder," he said.

Mulder glanced at the door to the surgery bay, and for a moment the anger disappeared and was replaced by fear.

"Go," Kincaid said in a soft tone. "I'll keep an eye on him."

Mulder hesitated for a moment longer, then stepped away from the wall he was leaning against. "Anything happens to him, I'm holding you responsible," he said. For the life of him, Hammond couldn't tell if the man meant him or Kincaid or the world in general. He couldn't help wondering just what was the relationship between the two men.

Hammond headed for the door, and O'Neill and Mulder fell into step behind him. Outside the med-center, armed guards stood. Normally, Hammond would have found the sight reassuring, but now... now he was beginning to wonder just how far he could trust his own people. He didn't like the feeling.

The lockup was only a short walk from the med-center, since it also served as isolation for anyone exposed to an unknown bug during a mission. The small cells were air-tight and locked from the outside. Hammond noted that there was a guard outside one of the cells and headed for it.

The guard saluted and moved to one side. Hammond typed in his security code and the door slid open. The three men stepped inside.

Corporal Whitaker was sitting on the room's cot, slouched against one wall. Hammond recognized him as someone who worked in the base kitchen, but couldn't remember ever having spoken to the man. That was about to change.

"Care to explain yourself, soldier?" he asked in his best hard-assed commander voice. Whitaker didn't even bother to look up. "Well?" Silence.

"It doesn't really matter," Mulder said from next to the door, and Whitaker's head shot up. The expression on his face wasn't pleasant.

"Why not?" Hammond asked. He figured that since Mulder was getting a reaction, he'd play along with the man.

"The Consortium doesn't like failure. If there are any other flunkies on-base, he'll be dead within a day or two. If there aren't, then he'll be dead the moment you take him off-base."

There was a flash of uncertainty in Whitaker's eyes. Hammond almost felt sympathetic, but he squashed that quickly. The boy was young, not even twenty-five, but he should have know what he was getting himself into. "Other flunkies?" he asked instead. "Are you saying there might be more, Agent Mulder?"

Mulder shrugged. "They're like termites. If you see one, then there's a thousand you don't see, eating away at the structure until a strong breeze could blow it down."

It wasn't a pleasant analogy. Hammond glanced over at O'Neill, who looked like he was about to explode. "Colonel, I suggest that the personnel files could use another go through," he said thoughtfully.

"Yes, sir," was the only answer. O'Neill didn't take his eyes off of the prisoner, though.

"So," Mulder said in a light tone that wasn't reflected in his eyes. "How does it feel to be a walking dead man?"

Whitaker snorted. "You tell me. You'll probably be dead first."

Mulder frowned. "What makes you say that?" he asked mildly.

"Orders are out. Kill on sight, no matter what the circumstances. Priority one orders."

Hammond could actually see Mulder go pale. "Just me?" he asked, his voice going hard as stone.

"You. Your partner. Krycek. But you most of all," Whitaker said with a sneer. Then he seemed to remember where he was, and his mouth snapped shut.

"Who else on my base is working with you?" Hammond demanded. Whitaker's face went blank, and he stared at the wall opposite him. Hammond stepped over so that he was directly in front of the young man. "Talk!"

Nothing. Hammond turned to O'Neill, seething under his professional expression. "I want round-the-clock guard on him. Nothing and no one goes in or out. Is that understood?"

"Yes, sir!"

Hammond headed for the door. "And seal the base, Colonel. No one comes in or leaves without my approval."

"Sir."

When they left the room, Hammond didn't look back. Whitaker had made his choice and he would have to live with—or die by—it. It was the price of serving two masters. He was more concerned about the security of his base.

O'Neill headed off to carry out his orders, while Hammond headed back to the med-center, Mulder trailing along behind him. He wanted to know if Armen was going to survive. He hoped so. From the one interview he found that he rather liked the brash young man.

The doctor was rubber her eyes as she left the operating theatre. She looked tired. Kincaid waited until she sat down at her desk and started typing up her report, then poured a cup of coffee from the coffee-maker in the corner of the room and brought it over to her. "Here," he said, holding it out.

She looked up, and a smile crossed her dark, attractive face, dropping several years from her apparent age. "Thanks," she said, taking the cup.

Kincaid glanced over at the door to the intensive care-unit where he'd seen Krycek wheeled after his surgery, then turned back to the doctor. "How is he going to be?" he asked.

She looked at him and frowned. "How about we wait until the general gets back, Mr.—" She paused expectantly.

"John Kincaid," he replied. They shook hands, and all the other bullshit that went along with polite society. That sort of thing was one of the reasons why he avoided polite society. The Hunters—a biker gang he'd allied himself with—were cruder, but much more direct, and more honest he'd found.

Maybe that was why he liked Krycek so much. While the man had obviously made lying an art-form, his reasons were clear and unchanging. He fought and killed and lied to protect his world and the man he loved. Kincaid understood those reasons well. Even though he'd been committed to protecting Earth, his own reasons for sticking with the Project had been simple: Harrison Blackwood.

But with Ironhorse back from the dead, he'd lost all chance of winning Harrison. For one brief moment, he'd considered leaving New York, heading back to the life he'd built over the last few years. Then a pair of green eyes had turned towards him, and Krycek had dragged him off to bed. By the time morning had come around, his pain had been soothed and common sense had reasserted itself. Even if he didn't have a chance with Harrison, his world was still in danger again. He couldn't turn away, not after having risked so much to save it in the past.

But, he thought as he watched the doctor working at her computer, intent on what she was writing, that didn't mean he had to be alone. Perhaps it was time to accept that Harrison wasn't meant for him and find someone else. Krycek was too intent on his target—and he would probably have better luck with Mulder than Kincaid had had with Harrison—but there was a world to choose from out there.

A grin started to form as he leaned back in his chair. Yeah, he was tired of being alone. It was time for John Kincaid to go on the prowl.

Maybe he'd see what the lovely doctor did in her spare time.

The door swished open, breaking his train of thought, and Kincaid leapt to his feet, automatically falling into a defensive posture before he recognized Hammond and Mulder. He relaxed slightly, but not too much. Both men looked furious.

"How is he?" Mulder asked.

"Dr. Fraiser?" Hammond said at the same time

The doctor saved what she was working on, and stood up. "Well, he survived surgery, and it looks good. The bullet did an in and out, not doing too much damage as it went through. It narrowly missed several organs, including the intestines, thank God. If they'd been nicked, we'd be looking at a good chance of infection. However, he lost a lot of blood, and he's underweight and probably malnourished as well. That will slow his complete recovery down."

"Can I see him?" Mulder asked.

The doctor glanced to Hammond for permission, then pointed towards the door to the ICU. "He's still out, and will be for a while."

Mulder nodded, but he was already headed for the door.

The doctor was continuing her report, but Kincaid wasn't listening. From his position, he could see through the window in the door to the bed where Krycek was lying, hooked up to several pieces of monitoring equipment.

Mulder stopped, just inside the door. For a long moment he stood there, just looking at the pale man. Kincaid held his breath and waited to see what the man would do. Mulder knew that Krycek wanted him, and any fool could see that Mulder wanted him back. The question was whether Mulder would ever admit it to himself. But if this didn't do it, nothing would. If this didn't get the man to commit himself, then Kincaid was going to convince Krycek to give up and come with him. They'd make one hell of a team.

Finally, Mulder moved. He walked over to the side of Krycek's bed and reached down to cover the man's hand. He stayed still for a moment, but Kincaid could see his lips moving, even if he couldn't hear the words. Finally, he bent down and kissed Krycek on the forehead, then the lips.

Satisfied, Kincaid stepped back. While he really wished it hadn't taken this much to get through to the man, at least Mulder was finally starting to wise up.

But while Kincaid was willing to keep out of the way, he wasn't willing to let Mulder know that just yet. He waited until the FBI agent was coming back into the main room, then grabbed him by the arm. "Hurt him and I swear, I'll take him from you," he said in a low tone. "Assuming I don't kill you first."

Mulder glared back at him. "You're welcome to try," he hissed. Kincaid let him go, not letting loose the smile. He might not know Mulder well, but he already knew one thing about him: Leave him to think about his choice and he would back off. Challenge him, and he would rise to it. Threatening to take Krycek from him would make him more determined not to give him up.

Hammond was waiting, and Mulder walked over to him. His back was straight and when he spoke, his voice was full of command. "General, I think it's time you told us just what it is about this base that has the Consortium so interested. What alien technology is it that you have?"

Hammond glared at him, but Mulder stared him down. Coming up behind him, Kincaid added his own glare to the pressure.

After a moment, Hammond sighed. "All right," he said. He glanced at his watch, then turned towards the door. "SG-7 will be heading out in ten minutes. If you gentlemen would care to join me?"

The control room was interesting, but it was what he saw down below through the broad windows that pulled Mulder away from the contemplation of his sanity, or lack thereof.

He'd just kissed Alex Krycek. Kissed him. In a military base that was probably crammed full of surveillance cameras. A physical record that would probably be used against him. He must have been insane.

But he hadn't been able to help himself. Seeing Alex lying there, pale and thin, suffering from a gunshot wound he'd taken for Mulder... The instinct had been building for days. No, he told himself, be honest. It had been building for months, maybe even years. Hell, it had probably started the day he'd met the man, thinking he was just an over-eager young agent. He was beginning to wonder if everything that had happened since then had happened for the sole purpose of getting them here.

Almost immediately, he'd rebelled against the thought. Alex was unconscious, he had told himself. He'd never know, and Mulder would never tell him.

Then Kincaid had thrown out his little challenge. Kincaid had seen. Kincaid would tell Alex. There was no going back.

Forcing his thoughts away from Alex and the confusion that seemed to go with the man wherever he went, Mulder stared at the... whatever it was. It was some sort of ring, about ten, fifteen feet in diameter, with strange carvings on it. He turned to the general.

"That's it?" he asked, waving towards the object.

"That's it," Hammond replied.

Mulder stared at it. "What the hell is it, then?" he demanded. He couldn't see anything about it that would cause the large blip on Mana's scan.

Hammond leaned forward to a microphone. "SG-7, are you ready?" Down below a group of men in field fatigues turned and one raised an up-thrust thumb.

Hammond nodded to one of the technicians. "That, gentlemen," he said, "is a Stargate."

The technician tapped a command into the keyboard in front of him, and suddenly the inner portion of the ring started rotating. It stopped, and a v-like object moved to frame a symbol on the ring. There was a loud clank, followed by a shudder. "Chevron one encoded," the technician announced.

It wasn't finished. Again the ring moved, then stopped, and the technician announced a chevron. Each time, there was a physical effect, becoming louder and more pronounced, until the technician almost shouted, "Chevron seven encoded!"

Immediately, there was a loud 'woosh', and the ring was suddenly filled with... Well, he wasn't sure just what it was. It looked like a back-lit pool of boiling water. And yet it didn't. Whatever it was, though, it erupted from the ring, then subsided into a more placid form.

As they watched, the military team waked up the ramp to the ring, paused, then stepped through. The light of the whatever-it-was flared, and then vanished. Suddenly, Mulder could once again see through to the concrete walls behind the ring.

Mulder stared, his jaw hanging loose. He looked like an idiot, he knew, but it didn't really matter. He was still trying to assimilate what he'd seen.

A Stargate, Hammond had called it. But to where?

Chapter #17: Lying Low

It was late at night when Paul pulled up in front of the Waterview Hotel. They'd driven straight from Cascade to Seacouver, stopping only twice; once for gas and once to buy some bags, clothing and necessities. Agent Scully had suggested that showing up at a hotel late at night without reservations was going to be unusual enough. Showing up without luggage would pretty much guarantee notice that they didn't want.

"Get two rooms, preferably connecting," he told Harrison as his passengers climbed out of the car. "Then meet me at the end of the parking lot when I get back. I'll go find someplace to dump the car. Agent Scully, call those friends of yours in Washington. See if they can get us some more fake identities. At this rate, we're going to need them. And Harrison, use one of the credit cards we haven't used yet."

Harrison smiled back at him, then leaned over for a long kiss. "Easy, Paul. I've been keeping low for the last seven years. I know what I'm doing."

Paul sighed. "I know," he said. "Doesn't stop me from worrying, though. Being shot at does that to a person," he added with a grin.

Harrison kissed him again, then climbed out to join the three women. "Watch your back," he said. "You're not the only one who worries, and all we're doing is checking into a hotel."

Paul watched at the four headed for the main doors, then put the car back into drive. They'd decided to check into a full hotel, rather than a motel. It made targeting them a little more difficult. At least that was what they hoped. However, having a car stolen in Cascade turn up in a hotel parking lot in Seacouver would make it difficult to cover up their whereabouts, so the car had to go.

Luckily, Seacouver was right on the edge of the ocean. He'd noted a couple likely spots on the way into town, and it didn't take him long to find an isolated spot where he could send the car into the water. He made sure that all the windows were open, so that it would sink fast. Hopefully, it wouldn't be found until after they left town, but even if it were, the salt water would erase all fingerprints very quickly.

That taken care of, he turned and started to walk towards town. With any luck, once he was inside city limits, he'd be able to find a bus or a cab that would get him to the hotel before dawn.

The room was nice, but depressingly silent. In the next room, Debi, Suzanne and Agent Scully were getting ready for bed. A peal of laughter caught his attention, and almost without realizing it, Harrison found himself focusing in on what they were saying.

//"And he fed your dog to it?"

"Yep. Of course, it was the most obvious way to slow it down so that we could get away, but I think he was just looking for a way to avoid having to drive back again. Mulder definitely prefers flying, I think."//

Suddenly, Harrison pulled himself back. Eavesdropping was not something he wanted to be doing. At least not on friends. Resolutely, he forced him to ignore any further sounds coming from the next room.

Unfortunately, the next thing to assault him was the smell of cigarette smoke. They'd taken non-smoking rooms, so either the last guest had broken that rule, or he was smelling the cigarette smoke from the smoking floor, three levels up. Two days ago, he would have assumed the first. Now, after what they'd been told by the kid, Sandburg, he wasn't so sure. Harrison sighed. It was a pity that they'd had to leave Cascade before getting a copy of the kid's research. He'd offered, but after one attempt on them, they'd left town quickly, and since their motel room had been blown up, according to the new report on the radio, that had been the right choice to make. Still, maybe they could contact Sandburg, arrange some way of getting a copy sent to them.

Harrison sighed, and leaned against the window. He'd always had good night vision. He'd never thought twice about it. Now he was beginning to realize that not everyone would be able to see clearly down the street like he could. It was a little unnerving. He'd always been considered odd: His obsession with the aliens that had killed his parents, his work methods, even his eating habits. Now he had one more thing to add to the long list. There were time when he wished that he was just normal.

But he quickly squashed that thought. If he'd just been normal, the Mothren probably would control the planet right now. More importantly, he never would have met Paul Ironhorse.

That brought a smile to his lips. He'd devoted most of his life to science and his quest to find out what had really happened to the Mothren invaders. There'd been a handful of lovers, but never anything serious, never someone he could share all of himself with. As a result, Paul had come as a complete surprise. He'd appreciated the man's beauty right from the start. Paul had the chiseled features of his native heritage, along with the dusky skin, black hair and eyes, and a fascinating lack of body hair. However, he was also an army Colonel, making him off-limits. Back in those days there wasn't even a "don't ask, don't tell" policy in place. Getting caught in bed with a man was grounds for an immediate dishonorable discharge.

As a result, Harrison had ignored the attraction that had flared to life when they met, and had grown as they got to know each other. It had taken being hidden together in an old bomb shelter hiding from aliens that were hunting them to get them to act on the apparently mutual attraction.

Harrison scanned the street again, but saw no one. They'd had to be careful over the following years. Even Paul's hand-picked team hadn't known about their relationship. Only Debi, Suzanne, Norton and Kincaid had known, and Kincaid hadn't found out until after Ironhorse had apparently died.

The thought brought a flash of pain. Seeing Paul die in front of him— or at least what he'd thought was Paul—had been the worst thing that had ever happened to him. He'd kept going, the fight against the Mothren keeping him from dwelling on his loss, but after they'd been defeated, he'd turned inward. Even though he knew how angry Paul would be if he committed suicide, he'd thought of it often over the years after the end of the war. The relief from the never-ending pain had been oh so tempting.

But he'd held on, and now he had his reward. Yes, the planet was in danger from invaders again, but he had Paul by his side, once more. If he'd killed himself, Paul would have woken to a world without him, and he knew the man well enough to know how painful that would have been. He'd lived with that pain for seven years, but it was a small price to pay to keep Paul from living with it for a lifetime.

Harrison sighed, wishing his lover would hurry back. This was the first time since they'd been reunited that Paul had been out of his sight for more than a few minutes, and he hated it. He had a pounding headache, and his stomach was churning. He was beginning to wonder just how he had been able to survive alone for so long.

'Hurry back, Paul. I need you.'

Freshly showered, and feeling clean for the first time in days, Dana Scully pulled out her cell-phone. It was the only thing that she'd managed to hang onto since leaving Washington, and she was determined to keep hanging on to it. It had been a present from the Gunmen, who'd carefully outfitted it with all sorts of scramblers so that her calls couldn't be traced. Some guys gave girls flowers. Frohike gave her spy equipment. At least it was more practical, she told herself.

It also had a button that she now pushed, which automatically called the offices of the Lone Gunmen. A recording answered her, and she said, "It's me, guys."

Immediately, the recording stopped and Frohike's voice answered. "Are you alright?"

Dana blinked. It was an unusual way to start a conversation, even for a paranoid conspiracy theorist. "At the moment, yes. Why?"

There was a pause. "Skinner's in the hospital."

Dana's eyes went wide at that. "What?"

"He was shot leaving work yesterday. The shooter was killed by return fire from one of the guards. Skinner's in intensive care, in a coma."

Dana grabbed for the small crucifix that she wore around her neck and closed her eyes to pray for a moment. "Is he going to be alright?" she finally asked, opening them again.

Frohike sounded tired. "They're not sure yet. The damage is pretty bad."

"I shouldn't have left," Dana said softly. Debi and Suzanne were now sitting on the bed opposite hers wearing identical worried expressions.

"You don't mean that," Frohike replied in a worried tone of voice. "If you were here, it would probably be you in that hospital bed. And before you even suggest coming back, the Consortium probably has watchers all over the hospital. Skinner is a lure."

Dana closed her eyes with a sigh. "You're right. It's just..."

"Yeah. How's your partner?" he asked, quickly changing the subject. Dana shrugged, even though he couldn't see her.

"No idea. We split up a few days ago. I haven't heard anything from him since then."

"Do you think..." Frohike's voice trailed off. He sounded genuinely worried. Dana kicked herself. The three members of the Lone Gunmen had known Mulder even longer than she had. They had every right to be worried.

"No," she said, hurrying to reassure him. "You know Mulder. Even when you think he is dead, he manages to pull a rabbit out of his hat."

"New Mexico," Frohike said, sounding more cheerful.

"Exactly. I'll let you know when I hear from him." And he would call, Dana told herself. She wasn't going to let herself consider any other possibilities.

"Okay. Are you guys doing all right?"

"We were nearly killed in Cascade. We're in Seacouver now, but we've had to use the back-up identities you sent us. Can you get us any more?"

"Sure. Driver's Licenses, credit cards, etc.?"

"Yes. And for an extra person. Debi's mother is with us now. And thanks. We appreciate it."

"Hey, we all do our part. Yours involves face to face confrontations, ours is support. Okay, we can have that for you tomorrow night. You're in Seacouver, you said?"

"Yes."

"Okay. There's a bar called Joe's Blues Bar. The owner, Joe Dawson, is an old friend. We'll courier the stuff to him. He can arrange to get the pictures for the IDs."

"Thanks," Dana repeated.

"No problem. And Dana? Take care. I... We'd hate to have anything happen to you. Or Mulder," he added quickly. Dana couldn't help smiling.

"So would I. You guys watch your backs too."

It was nearly dawn when the cab dropped him off four blocks from the hotel. By the time he made it to the hotel, Paul was running on empty. Nearly two days of travel interspersed with being used for target practice hadn't left him with much in the way of reserves, plus his head was pounding.

As a result, he'd never seen anything more appealing than a parking lot in the pre-dawn gloom, since Harrison was waiting there for him. Harrison wrapped him in a hug, and he leaned into it gratefully. Almost immediately, the headache started to fade.

They stood there like that for a couple minutes, then Harrison pulled away. "Side entrance is over there," he said, pointing away from the main doors. "The key opens it. We'll check with the others, then go to bed."

Paul smiled tiredly. "Sounds good to me."

The rooms were only on the second floor, so they took the stairs to avoid running into anyone. Harrison knocked on one door, then unlocked the one next to it. The others were there in a flash, all dressed in matching sweatpants and t-shirts that had been picked up for sleepwear.

"So what's the word?" Paul asked, trying not to be too obvious in his collapse onto the hotel bed.

Agent Scully looked worried, he noticed. "The Gunmen haven't heard from Mulder either. And Skinner, our boss, is in the hospital in intensive care. He's been shot."

That woke Paul up. "Same group that shot at us?" he asked. Dana shook her head.

"Consortium, probably," she said. "The guys think it was done to try to lure us back to DC."

Paul groaned, and started going over options. "So we don't go anywhere near DC, then," he said, and looked up to make sure that Scully would go along with that. He was reasonably satisfied with what she saw. "How about new ID?"

She nodded. "They'll courier everything to a friend here in Seacouver. He owns a bar. We can pick the package up tomorrow... tonight," she corrected. "He'll also do pictures for everything."

"Good," Paul said. "We'll stay here, at least for a few days, then. We could all use the rest, I think," he added with what was intended to be a smile, but probably wasn't even close. Everyone was nodding.

"I'll set the alarm for six p.m.," Harrison said when Paul didn't add anything. "That should be early enough for us to get over to this bar before it gets busy."

There were murmurs of agreement from the women, and they all got up and headed for the door. Paul briefly considered taking a shower and brushing his teeth, but somewhere along the line he'd ended up horizontal, and he couldn't seem to find the energy to get up again.

He watched silently while Harrison closed the curtains and undressed. The sight brought a smile to his face, but he couldn't find the energy to do anything about that either. Fully naked, Harrison then carefully stripped Paul, since he didn't seem to be able to do that himself, then maneuvered the both of them under the covers, spooning up behind him. Paul sighed contentedly at the feel of the larger body behind and surrounding him. Harrison's arms were wrapped around him, and the other man's chest hairs made a nice texture against his back.

Paul closed his eyes and let sleep carry him away.

Blair Sandburg looked up as his partner, Sentinel and lover entered the apartment. Jim looked to be in a bad mood, and he wasn't sure how the man would take the news he had for him. "Any progress?"

Jim shook his head. "They know that an accelerant was used at the motel, but they can't identify it. They've found parts of the detonator, but no one can figure out how it worked. Joel is confused as hell, and it takes a lot to do that."

Blair nodded. Joel Taggart was Captain of the bomb squad, and he'd seen more types of bombs than most bomb experts in the country. It came from living in what Jim liked to jokingly refer to as "the most dangerous city in America".

"Well," he said, putting aside the papers he was reading through, "Jack called me." Jack Kelso was an old friend at the University and a former CIA operative.

Jim perked up at that. "Did he find anything on the Colonel or the people with him?"

Blair rubbed his eyes. He'd been staring at old print-outs for much too long. "Yep, but it's pretty improbably," he said, pushing the papers over to Jim. While the other man started reading, he headed to the kitchen for a couple beers. Returning to the living room, he opened both and handed one to Jim, who took it without a word.

A half-hour later, Jim put the papers down and took a long pull from the beer bottle. "This is..."

"I know," Blair said. He was already on his second beer. Somehow, getting drunk sounded like a good idea at that moment.

"Aliens? I mean, those were just movies, weren't they?" he asked, almost plaintively.

Blair shrugged. "Yesterday I would have said yes. But ceramic bullets that can't be identified? Unknown accelerants and detonators that stump bomb experts?" He blew a gust of air that lifted a lock of hair hanging in his face. "I don't know. Is it that improbable?"

Jim shook his head in denial, but he didn't look so sure. Blair had already read the papers. He knew what they said. Several alien invasions had repelled then forgotten. Then the survivors had come back. The son of a couple who died in the last invasion, Harrison Blackwood, had approached to government to find the survivors and stop them. The Blackwood Project had been set up in a government facility and given a military contact, Colonel Paul Ironhorse.

And then, three years later, The facility had been destroyed, the members of the Blackwood Project had vanished, and the government had labeled the project top-secret and buried it. Jim's mission to Peru was probably in a similar file cabinet somewhere. Briefly, Blair wondered how Jack had managed to get a hold of the files.

It was crazy. It couldn't be true.

It made too much sense. And it looked like it was starting again.

"So what do we do about this?" he finally asked when Jim stayed silent.

Jim shrugged. "Nothing we can do," he said, not looking happy about it. "At least, not yet. Maybe later... But until then, we wait. It's all we can do right now."

Blair nodded. Much as he hated it, Jim was right. Blair shivered. "Take me to bed, Jim?" he asked, suddenly needing to be held. The world had just become a very scary place.

Jim nodded, and they headed for the stairs to the loft. It was going to be a long, sleepless night.

Chapter #18: Wakeup Call

It was nearly morning before Mulder had managed to doze off in the chair next to Krycek's bed. Then a faint groan brought him back to full alert. Suddenly, Krycek's eyes flew open and he tensed up.

"Don't move," Mulder immediately ordered. "Dr. Fraiser put a lot of effort into sewing you back together. It would be very ungrateful of you to rip out her nice stitches."

Krycek looked confused for a moment, but quickly regained his bearings. "You okay?" he asked, then winced.

"Shut up. I'm fine. But what the hell were you thinking? You could have been killed!" Krycek's expression went mulish, but he kept quiet. Mulder sighed. "The soldier who shot you was a Consortium spy. He's locked up right now, and the base is sealed."

"Why?" Krycek started to say.

"Shut up," Mulder told him again, smiling slightly. But the smile disappeared quickly. "The Consortium has put out shoot on sight orders. You, me and..." He stopped. "Shit! Scully!"

Mulder got to his feet and turned towards the door, then stopped. He glanced back at Krycek, chewing at his bottom lip. He reached down to squeeze Krycek's hand. I need to call Scully. I'll be right back, though. We... need to talk, I think."

Krycek nodded, a small and slightly triumphant smile spreading across his face.

Mulder headed out the door. There was a guard outside the recovery room, and a second waiting for him. "I need to talk to Hammond," he told his bodyguard. The man, whose name he didn't even know yet, just nodded and lead the way.

At this rate he was going to be able to memorize the layout of the entire base, he thought as the man led him to Hammond's office using yet another new route. He wasn't sure whether it was a deliberate attempt to keep him off-balance or just that the base was so complicated that everyone had different preferred routes.

It didn't take long to reach the base commander's office, though. The man behind the desk looked both pissed and exhausted. He didn't look like he'd gotten any sleep since the day before.

"What can I do for you, Agent Mulder?" he asked, looking up as the door opened.

"I need to make a phone call."

Hammond frowned. "The base is sealed, Agent Mulder. A man tried to kill you. I would have thought that you'd want to keep your continued survival quiet, at least for now."

"Yes, but I'm not the only one in danger here. I need to call my partner to warn her."

Hammond stared at him searchingly for a minute, then pushed the phone towards him. "It's the only phone that can dial out right now," he explained. He didn't look inclined to leave.

Mulder took the phone and quickly dialed a memorized number. It automatically transferred him to a second, then a third, then a fourth. After nearly two minutes of bouncing sign signals, he got a ring.

The other end was picked up after only one ring. "Mulder, is that you?"

"Yeah, but we can't talk long. There's a chance this could be traced. They've put shoot on sight orders out for the three of us; you, me and Krycek. You need to be careful."

"Shit." Mulder blinked. Scully didn't curse very often. "Mulder, Skinner was shot two days ago. He's in a coma."

Mulder froze. For a moment it felt like his heart had skipped a beat. "What?"

"The guys think it's a trap; a lure to draw use back to DC. And someone shot at us yesterday in Cascade. Not Consortium, though, not unless they've got access to a completely new type of bullet. We left Cascade right away. Our motel room was bombed about the same time we left the city."

Mulder's mind was turning over options at a furious rate. "Are you secure where you are?" he asked.

"For the moment. Why?"

"Hold tight, then. We need to stay here for a few days. Maybe a week."

"Mulder," Scully said, fully alert and suspicious. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine. Someone else took a bullet meant for me."

There was a sigh. "How bad is Krycek?" she asked. Obviously she had no problem guessing who would be willing to get between him and a bullet. They were going to have to talk about this the next time they were face-to-face.

"Recovering, but off his feet for a few days. Nothing permanent." He heard a mutter that sounded vaguely like "Pity."

"All right," Scully finally said. "We'll loose ourselves for the time being. Hopefully we can figure out what to do next in the meantime."

"Watch your back," Mulder told her then hung up the phone. "Thanks," he said to Hammond as he turned towards the door, planning on letting the man get back to his work.

"What about the other one, Krycek?" Mulder froze, cursing himself for his slip. "I thought so," Hammond said. "Which one is he? Kincaid or Armen?"

Mulder sighed. "Armen," he finally said.

"Anything else you should have told me about?" Hammond asked. The tone was mild, but there was a hard edge underneath.

"Not that I can think of," Mulder said. "If you'll excuse me, I'll be in the Med center."

"Mulder," Hammond started to say, but Mulder cut him off.

"General, what can I say? I'm caught between two enemies. My AD is in a hospital bed. He was shot two days ago, probably just to get me back in their hands. My partner was shot at with possibly alien technology yesterday, and some tried to kill me and almost succeeded in killing my other partner. I'm tired, and right now I haven't a clue what I'm going to do next."

Hammond's expression softened slightly. "Go get some sleep, Agent Mulder. We'll talk later. Planning is not something you should be trying to do exhausted."

Mulder nodded. He was at the end of his rope. But there was something he had to do first. He had to talk to Krycek.

Ignoring his guard, Mulder headed back to the Med center by the most direct route. Part of him wanted to delay, but that little voice in the back of his head told him that it would be cowardly to do that. Besides, who knew what had happened since he left.

When he reached Krycek's recovery room, his worst fears had been realized. Kincaid was sitting in the chair that Mulder had been occupying. Both men looked up as he entered the room, and he was certain that they'd been talking about him.

"Get a hold of Scully?" Krycek asked, already sounding better.

Mulder nodded. "They've left Cascade. Two attacks on them. And Skinner's been shot," he said bluntly.

"Shit," was the succinct reply.

After a moment, Kincaid got to his feet. "I'm going to get some breakfast," he said, looking depressingly awake. Obviously he'd gotten some sleep overnight. "Get some rest, Mulder," he said on his way out the door. "You look like hell."

And then Mulder was alone with Krycek.

His mouth went dry, and suddenly he couldn't think of anything to say. Krycek watched him patiently, then snorted.

"You do look like hell." He nodded towards one of the other beds in the room. "Go to sleep, Mulder."

"But..." Mulder stopped. He was definitely starting to feel fuzzy around the edges.

"It can wait until you're capable of coherent thought. Bed," Krycek ordered.

Mulder sighed, and obediently headed for the bed furthest from the door. Not bothering to find anything to sleep in, he toed off his shoes and climbed into the bed fully dressed.

As he drifted off, the last thing he heard was Krycek's voice.

"Don't worry. It's going to be all right. They'll have to come through me first."

Mulder wanted to say that he didn't want that, but he was already gone.

Kincaid followed his guide to the base cafeteria, carefully keeping track of the route. Sure, he was paranoid. Still, it had kept him alive for more than a decade, hadn't it? Even before he'd ever heard of Harrison Blackwood, he and his brother had been freelance agents for the government—mercenaries in other words—taking the nasty jobs that the government didn't want to send their own soldiers on, and they'd raised survival to a fine art. Then Max's death and General Wilson's disappearance had led him to Harrison Blackwood, just in time to see his old commander, Colonel Ironhorse, apparently kill himself.

At first it was for Ironhorse that he stayed with the Project, teaching Harrison and Suzanne how to work underground. They hadn't been prepared for loosing their government support. Eventually, he'd stayed because he believed in their fight and—more importantly—he believed in Harrison Blackwood.

Then the war ended and the world changed and someone decided that anyone who knew about the Mothren had to die. Harrison disappeared into the wilderness, and he'd helped the McCulloughs hide. Then he'd disappeared back into the underground. He'd spent a couple years with one of the survivalist camps in the mid-west, and it was during that time that he'd met Wolfling.

Wolfling. Unofficial head of the Hunters, a rough biker gang that could out-mean most gangs, but with a stronger sense of honor. They didn't give a shit for the laws of the land, but they didn't deal with drugs or prostitution. They'd been rough and mean, but had quickly accepted Kincaid as one of their own. It was almost like having Max back again.

In a way Wolfling reminded him of Harrison. Both men were bigger than life, dedicated and loyal. In fact, Kincaid had once propositioned the biker in a moment of weakness, because of that resemblance. The man had turned him down with a smile. Pity that Wolfling had to be so damned straight.

Breakfast loaded on a tray, Kincaid looked around, trying to find an empty spot. With the base sealed, trapping people inside, that wasn't easy. Finally, he saw a couple empty seats at the end of one table and headed for it.

Then he noticed the person sitting across from those seats smiled. Things were looking up.

"Are these seats taken?" he asked the attractive woman in fatigues.

"Go right ahead," she said, waving a fork at him.

He settled down, ignoring his guard taking the next seat. "John Kincaid," he said, holding out a hand. She shook it firmly.

"Captain Samantha Carter."

Spender lit another of the cigarettes that had prompted Fox Mulder to mocking call him Cancer Man and took a deep pull. He blew out a cloud of smoke, then nodded to the man standing opposite him. "Continue," he said.

The young man nodded. "No word from our people inside Mt. Cheyenne since reporting that Mulder, Krycek and Kincaid had shown up there. A few hours later, the base was sealed. One of them may have succeeded in eliminating them.

Spender shook his head. "I doubt it. There would be more activity and the base would not be so tightly sealed." Besides, he thought to himself, Mulder always seemed to have more than his fair share of luck on his side. And as for Krycek, that pretty little traitor seemed to have more lives that a room full of cats. "Keep observers around the base and let me know the moment anything changes. What else?"

"Agent Scully has been sighted in Cascade, Washington with James Ellison."

That caught his attention. "Was she alone?"

The man checked his notes. "There were two men and a woman with her. The group was at Rainier University, meeting with one of the professors in the Science department. Someone shot at the group. Ellison was the investigating officer."

He relaxed again. "Then the meeting was a coincidence. Good. Where is Agent Scully now?"

"Unknown," the man said, looking understandably nervous. "There motel room was bombed a couple hours later, but they seem to have vanished before that. It wasn't any of our people," he added.

Spender considered that for a moment. "Have the airports, bus and train stations checked. And alert agents in the closest cities: Seattle, Seacouver, Tacoma."

"And if they see them?"

Spender paused. "Take them alive. Mulder is the one we want. Agent Scully will make better bait than Skinner, I think. As well, I want to know if they learned anything from Ellison and his partner. And get the police reports on the shooting and the bomb. If it wasn't our people, I want to know who."

The young man nodded and left the room.

Spender blew out another cloud of cigarette smoke, considering the patterns it made in the air. It might be time to reevaluate the Sentinel project. The decision had been made to allow Ellison and the Canadian their autonomy, while the woman and two others were housed in various facilities. It might be time to bring them in, though, along with their partners. Spender looked forward to talking with Professor Sandburg in particular. His computer files made very interesting reading.

In fact, it was his master's thesis that had brought him to the attention of the Consortium, and it was his research that had led them to their own subjects. He'd been helping their research for years without even knowing it.

Then he shook his head. It was too early for that move. Ellison could wait.

A sudden flash of light signaled that he was no longer alone, but he refused to show any reaction.

"They must be found. Now."

He turned his head. The woman standing there looked completely human, but her stiff stance and blank expression made her seem... artificial.

"Do you know who tried to kill them?" he asked, not expecting an answer and not surprised when he didn't get one. "One of the men must be Blackwood, and the woman Agent McCullough, but who is the other man?"

"That is irrelevant. They must be found and delivered to us. You may keep the other woman, Scully, but you will deliver the others. And you will deal with the man, Mulder. No resistance is allowed."

Again, there was a flash of light. When it had faded the woman was gone and Spender was alone again. He stared at the spot where she'd been standing, considering her words.

What was it about Blackwood that made them so... anxious, for the lack of a better word. It was a mystery, and he didn't like mysteries.

Spender turned to his computer and started making plans.

Chapter #19: Seacouver Blues

"Well?" Spender asked when his current aide poked his head into view. The young man was calm, which usually meant that he had information. The boy was a useful find. Certainly more tractable than Alex Krycek had been, and more competent than his late son, Jeffrey. That boy had been a disappointment. A waste of time and effort, barely worth the bullet that ended his life.

"Confirmation, sir. Agent Scully, Agent McCullough and Harrison Blackwood have been sighted in Seacouver at the Waterview Hotel, along with another man and woman. The woman has been identified as Dr Janet Gallagher of Rainier University, the woman whose office they were in when they were shot at. The man..." He paused.

"Have you identified him yet?" Spender asked, a little impatient with the young man's hesitation.

"We're not sure," was the answer. "He looks Colonel Ironhorse, from the Blackwood project, but the man has been dead for eight years. More to the point, he looks exactly like Colonel Ironhorse did eight years ago."

Spender froze, his cigarette halfway to his mouth. "Are you sure?" he asked. If the answer was negative, he was going to have to have a... talk with someone.

"We have pictures, and unless the Colonel had a younger relative who looks identical to him—"

"Never mind," Spender interrupted. "Have them picked up. I want them all alive, but especially Agent Scully and the two men."

"Yes, sir," his aide said, then disappeared to carry out his orders.

Mysteries within mysteries, Spender thought to himself, leaning back in his leather-upholstered desk chair. Of course the obvious answers were that the man was either a clone or a shape-shifter, but which? And if he was a clone, then who created him? The Mothren left on Earth didn't have the capability any more, according to the Consortium's... Masters. So that only left them. But why would they clone the man? Unless it was a trap for Blackwood. Now, that was a possibility. Still, he should have been informed.

They would find out once the group had been captured.

Of course there was always the chance that there was another group out there, one that they didn't know about yet. That was be the most disturbing possibility of all.

Spender stubbed out his cigarette and went back to the file had been reading before the interruption. There was no point in worrying about that theory until there was some evidence to support it.

The group had slept through the day, not waking until late afternoon. Originally, the plan was for the entire group to go to the bar where the Gunmen's friend would have the package with the new sets of id and credit cards, but Ironhorse had quickly pointed out how risky that would be.

Instead, they'd gone out in pairs to get id pictures taken for Scully to take with her, and Scully would go to pick up the package. Since the Lone Gunmen were sending the package for her, it made sense for her to be the one to go collect it. Ironhorse would go with her as backup. Just another couple out for an evening on the town.

So as soon as the sun had gone down, they'd caught a cab to head for Joe's Blues Bar. It must be fairly good, Scully thought, since the cabby had known where it was without her providing an address to go with the name.

The bar wasn't much to look at from the outside, but inside it was warm and inviting. Even from outside they could hear the sound of wonderfully mellow blues—not a surprise considering the name of the bar—but were surprised coming in to find that the music was live.

The bar was full, but not overly crowded, so it didn't take long to get to the bar. A wave brought the bartender over to serve them.

"What can I get you folks?" the man asked with an engaging smile. He was taller than average. Maybe even taller than Mulder, Scully thought to himself. He was a handsome man, despite a nose that looked like it had come off a Roman Emperor.

"Joe Dawson?" she asked. He shook his head.

"Joe's a little busy right now," he said, nodding to the handsome gray- haired man who was leading the band. He had a wonderfully smoky voice, and his guitar playing was equally accomplished. "Can I help you?"

Scully shook her head. "A mutual friend sent a package to him for me. I'm here to pick it up."

"Ah. Well, I'm just helping Joe out for the night, so I don't know about any packages. The set ends in another ten minutes or so, if you can wait." Scully nodded. "Well then, would you like a drink in the meantime?"

Scully glanced at Ironhorse, then shrugged. "Gin and Tonic," she said, not planning on doing anything more than sip.

"Guinness," Ironhorse said, prompting a brilliant grin.

"A man after my own heart," he said. "Coming right up."

In short order, they had their drinks and claimed one of the few tables not yet taken.

The music was good, and Scully found herself relaxing in spite of herself. It felt like she hadn't stopped moving since the day Krycek had shown up with his papers from Russia, and the stress was catching up with her. Sitting here with a drink, listening to a live band, she almost felt like life was normal again. Of course, life hadn't been normal since the day she'd met Fox Mulder, but that was a different story altogether.

She wondered what Mulder was doing at that moment. She still didn't like the fact that he was off with that traitor, Krycek. How could he be so blind for so long to what the man really wanted from him? It had been obvious to her since the day she'd met the man, apparently a young recruit fresh out of Quantico, that he was trying to get into Mulder's pants. Mulder hadn't noticed it, and she'd hoped he would keep not noticing it.

But she didn't think that was likely. There'd been a note in his voice when he'd told her that Krycek had taken a bullet for him. A new awareness. Scully sighed. She'd hoped he'd find someone, since she wasn't interested in being more than partners with him. Pointed hints from the people who'd assigned her to the X-Files that she... distract Mulder had pretty much killed an inclination she'd had that way. But Mulder needed someone in his personal life to keep him grounded, just like she kept him grounded in his professional life. Someone. Anyone.

Anyone but Krycek.

When the set ended, Dawson carefully put away his guitar in its case, then picked up a cane and walked stiffly to the bar. The smiling bartender leaned towards him, gesturing towards the table where Scully and Ironhorse were waiting.

Dawson nodded, then headed over towards them. "Dana?" he asked when he was close enough.

Scully stood and held out her hand. "Sorry to use you as a post office," she said. Dawson shrugged it off.

"It's not the first time that's happened," he said. "I've got your package in the office."

Scully indicated for Ironhorse to wait at the table, then followed Dawson towards the back of the bar. The office there was small and cramped, but tidy. Certainly tidier than the basement office she'd shared with Mulder for so many years.

Dawson opened a box sitting on the desk and pulled out a large envelope. He shook a number of card-shaped objects from it into his hand. "Do you have pictures to go in these?" he asked, turning towards her.

Scully handed him the pictures they'd had taken, and he checked them, matched them up with cards, then pulled an amazingly professional looking laminator from a closet. "This will just take a couple minutes," he told her, plugging it in.

Ironhorse sipped at his beer, trying to relax. This time, separating from Harrison was a little easier, having done it successfully before. He had a low-grade headache, but he wasn't as anxious as he'd been the night before. He still wanted to get this done with so that he could go back to the hotel and Harrison as quickly as possible, though.

He glanced around the bar, taking the chance to examine the people. He was watching for signs that they'd been followed, of course, but it was also curiosity. Other than the plane flight from New York, he hadn't much chance to take a good look around at the way the world had changed.

It didn't look to have changed much. Clothing styles were different, but the conversations he could hear were familiar; jobs and politics and the crime rate, boyfriends, girlfriends and spouses. Even when he didn't know the names, it was still the same. Well, other than that Clinton fellow. He couldn't remember ever hearing people discuss a president in that way, not even Nixon. In a way it was reassuring.

The front door opened, and Ironhorse turned reflexively to check out who had come in and his eyes widened in surprise. What the hell was Kincaid doing here? He was supposed to be in Colorado with Mulder and Krycek.

Forgetting his drink, Ironhorse got to his feet and moved to intercept Kincaid. He reached the man just as he stopped at the bar, calling out a greeting to the bartender.

"Kincaid, what are you doing here?" he snapped, almost angry.

The man looked at him, a puzzled expression on his face. "I'm sorry," he said. "You must have me confused with someone else." He looked over to the bartender and shook his head slightly. The bartender shrugged, but he looked tense, ready for a fight..

Ironhorse frowned, slightly confused. The man in front of him could be Kincaid's twin, but now that he looked closer, he was almost two inches taller than Kincaid. As well, he'd never known John to wear his hair that long. And while his voice was similar to Kincaid's, he had an indefinable accent; Scottish mixed with others that he couldn't name.

"I'm sorry," he said, still staring at the man. "You look just like someone I know."

"Hear that, Duncan?" the bartender called out, now grinning widely. "There's another one of you out there. The world is trembling, I'm sure."

The man—Duncan—snorted. "And I know just what your dirty mind is thinking, Adam," he said, then grinned. "Sorry to disappoint you, mister..." He paused.

"Paul Irons," he said, automatically using a cover name he'd used in the past.

"Duncan MacLeod," the man responded, holding out his hand. "Can I buy you a drink?" he asked, ignoring the snort from his bartending friend. Ironhorse shook his head.

"No, I've already got one, thank you. Besides, I'm just waiting for a friend."

"Well, enjoy your evening," he said, then turned back to the bar while Ironhorse headed back to his table to wait for Scully.

He couldn't help shaking his head, though. The man looked so much like John Kincaid that it was scary.

"There you go, all done," Dawson said, handing over the fat envelope to Scully.

"Thank you," she replied, eyeing him curiously. He grinned.

"Let me guess. You're wondering why I'm not asking about why you need a set of five fake ids and credit cards. I've known Byers for long enough to know that he wouldn't ask if it weren't important. Besides," he said with a bigger grin, "I've heard all about you and your partner from him."

Scully went a little white at that. "Right now, you'd be better off forgetting you've ever even heard of us," she warned.

"Understood, Miss Clancy," he said with a slight bow, using the name on her new driver's license. She shuddered slightly. Whose idea was it to make her new name Wanda Clancy? Whoever it was, she was going to have to have a little talk with him.

They left the small office, and while Dawson headed back towards the stage, waving to a newcomer at the bar as he went, Scully headed for the table where Ironhorse was waiting for her, sipping his beer.

"Ready to go?" Scully asked, and Ironhorse pushed away from the table. Scully frowned. He looked troubled. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," was the immediate answer. Then he said, after a pause, "See the man at the bar? The one with the ponytail."

Scully glanced over. The only person matching that description was the newcomer that had nodded in response to Dawson's wave. "What about him?" she asked as they headed for the door.

"Well, except for an inch or two difference in height, he could be Kincaid's identical twin brother."

Scully blinked, and looked back. "Clone?" she asked, a little worried.

Ironhorse shrugged. "Who knows? It could just be a coincidence."

"Maybe," Scully said thoughtfully. Certainly stranger things had happened.

It was only nine when the cab dropped them off at the hotel but Scully was already exhausted. It was like her body had decided it was safe to relax and catch up on her sleep. A bubble-bath followed by room service and an early night, she decided as she headed for the room she was sharing with Suzanne and Debi. Ironhorse was already reaching to unlock the door to the room he shared with Blackwood when he froze.

She wasn't sure what had caught his attention, but she trusted his instincts. From what she knew of him, the man had survived in worse situations than she'd ever seen. She held still and listened.

It was quiet. Too quiet for a hotel before even ten o'clock in the evening. Ironhorse was backing away from his room door, and he indicated towards the stairwell with a jerk of his chin. She nodded.

They were almost to the door at the end of the hallway when the stairwell door swung open and two armed men stepped through. Scully twisted, but two more were coming down the side corridor from where the elevators were and another had just stepped out of her room. Between them, the men had blocked off all the exits, leaving them with nowhere to go. They were unfortunately still unarmed, and the men facing them most definitely were.

Scully sighed, stopped and raised her hands, as did Ironhorse. How many times had this happened in the past? The only difference this time was that it was usually Mulder standing next to her, cursing under his breath. Missing the sound, she used one of Mulder's favorite—and more unusual—oaths drawing an involuntary snort from Ironhorse.

The lead thug didn't look nearly as amused. "Move," was all he said, gesturing with his gun for them to head back towards their room. Scully shrugged, and they moved.

Inside, the others were waiting, along with a couple more gunmen as guards. This was definitely starting to look like a case of overkill. Seven men—plus any others who hadn't shown their faces yet—to snatch two men and three women?

Debi was sitting on one bed, her expression completely blank. Scully felt a surge of sympathy. It seemed like only yesterday—or a decade ago— that Debi had been in the same position. The only difference was, then it had been her roommate standing over her with a gun, and there'd been the hope of rescue. Her mother sat next to her, a hand resting on her arm to comfort her.

The an oath from Ironhorse pulled her attention towards the other bed. Blackwood was lying there unconscious, a large bruise forming on the side of his face. She took a step forwards, but a growled warning stopped her.

It didn't stop Ironhorse, though. He ignored the gunmen in his determination to get to his lover's side. When one of their guards got in his way, a well aimed blow dropped the man to floor, whimpering as he clutched his obviously broken arm. A second followed him, clutching his family jewels. Scully winced at the high-pitched scream that cut off quickly.

In the end, what stopped Ironhorse wasn't a threat to himself. It was the gun aimed at the side of Blackwood's head. His glare could melt steel, but he stood still, his hands held out to the side. One of the other men pulled out a set of heavy-duty handcuffs and used them to bind Ironhorse's hands behind his back.

Then he pulled a cell-phone from his pocket and punched in a number. "We have them."

"Good," Spender said, allowing himself a small smile. "Bring them back to Washington." He hung up, and leaned back in his seat. A Consortium-owned jet was waiting at Seacouver International to fly them... home.

And once they were there, he would find out why they had been hunting Blackwood so hard and for so long. He would find out who the Ironhorse lookalike was.

And, he thought to himself with a smile, he would use Agent Scully to bring Agent Mulder to him. It was time to end this little dance.

Chapter #20: The Talk

When Mulder woke up, a glance at the clock told him that he'd slept an unprecedented nine hours. He couldn't remember the last time he'd slept even close to nine hours. He usually just cat-napped, with late-night movies for playing in the background.

Then he sat up, and the cotton-wool feeling told him just why he'd slept that long. "They drugged me!" he snarled, looking over to where Krycek was sitting in his own bed, eating some sort of unappetizing- looking sludge that was obviously supposed to be his dinner. Either that or a very late lunch.

Krycek just raised an eyebrow before eating another mouthful of the whatever-it-was. Pudding, maybe.

"They drugged me," Mulder repeated, starting to get a little angry at the lack of response.

Krycek put his spoon down and glared back at him. "You needed the sleep," he said. "You were on the edge of a complete breakdown. Are you really that eager for another trip to the padded room?" Mulder flinched at the reminder of his thankfully brief commitment. Immediately Krycek's expression softened. "You look better," he offered.

And he felt better, Mulder realized. Krycek was right; he did need the rest. Didn't mean he had to like the sneaky, underhanded way he'd been forced into it, though.

"So do you," he said finally, moving over to sit on the bed next to Krycek, grimacing a little at the collection of small bowls on his tray. Everything looked soft and easy to digest. It also looked absolutely disgusting. "How can you eat that stuff?" he asked as Krycek finished off one bowl and reached for the next.

Krycek shrugged. "I've eaten a lot worse," he pointed out. He was probably telling the truth, too.

"So," Krycek said a few minutes later, pushing away the tray. He winced a little as his abdominal muscles pulled, but he covered it well. Other than that, he was just a little pale. "Are you feeling more coherent?"

Mulder blinked, then his stomach clenched as he recognized the reference to Krycek's comment that morning. Time for 'The Talk,' it seemed. He nodded.

"So where do we begin?" Krycek asked, leaning back against his pillows, looking a tiny bit smug.

"Who killed my father?" Mulder blurted out, trying to avoid the main topic for a while. Krycek sighed, as if disappointed, but he didn't look terribly surprised.

"A Consortium assassin named Jameson. And before you ask, his next assignment was to kill me. Needless to say, he didn't succeed. Or survive."

"Why?"

"Because I'm a better shot than him. Sorry," Krycek said, holding up a hand before Mulder could open his mouth. "Your father was going to tell you everything about the Consortium, what it was doing and his role in it. That's why he wanted you to come that weekend. He had this crazy idea that if he told you all about it, you'd change your mind and join them. Yeah, they didn't think so either," he said when Mulder snorted at the idea. "Anyway, Jameson's orders were to stop him from telling you anything. And if he couldn't, he was to kill you."

"How do you know all this?" Mulder asked feeling a tiny pang of suspicion. A surprisingly small pang.

"I was there."

That surprised Mulder. "Why didn't you stop him, then?"

Krycek's expression went hard. "All I was there for was to keep you alive. That's it. That meant your father was going to die. If Jameson hadn't killed him in time, I would have. If Jameson had tried to kill you, I would have killed him."

Mulder just stared at him in shock. He'd believed Krycek's claim of innocence for a long time. Now he found out that while Krycek was innocent of his father's death, he could easily have been guilty.

Krycek sighed. "Mulder, your father was one of them. He was one of them before he even met your mother. He handed your sister over to them, then made sure you blamed yourself. He'd been warned that if he even breathed a word to you, you would be killed. It wasn't going to stop him. He's not worth grieving. Besides, can you really say that you miss him?"

Mulder opened his mouth, then closed it again. "No," he finally said. "I don't miss him. I can't even say that I'm angry over his death. I'm not happy either." If he were to admit the truth, he didn't feel anything, except numb.

He looked up to find Krycek watching him with empathy in his eyes. "You fight long enough and the emotions get burnt out, don't they?" he said softly. "You see so many big horrors that the little ones aren't able to reach you anymore. The calluses build up on your heart and soul until nothing affects them anymore."

Mulder shivered at the even tone. What really scared him was that he couldn't deny it. "Is that what happened to you?" he finally asked.

Krycek shook his head. "Not completely. But close enough that I'm not willing to give up on the things that can still reach me."

"Like what?" Mulder whispered, barely able to breathe.

"Like you," Krycek said, holding out his hand.

Mulder hesitated, then reached out and threaded his fingers through those of Krycek's one hand. They squeezed, and the bands around his chest started to loosen.

"Mulder," Krycek said in a low, earnest voice. "You're the only thing that has kept me going. You lodged yourself deep inside me from the first day we met. There have been times when you were the only reason I didn't just give up and die. All because I was waiting for the day when you'd see me as I really am."

Mulder gulped slightly. "And what are you really?" he asked.

"An amoral bastard. A man who's in so deep that he can't see the surface. A man who wants to fight the Consortium and the aliens not just because they have to be stopped but because it's your fight. A man who loves you and will do anything to protect you," he said in a hard tone.

And Mulder believed him. Believed that Krycek loved him. Believed that he would do anything to protect him. And that scared him. No one, not even Scully, was that loyal to him. He wasn't sure how to accept that.

That train of thought led to... "Scully?" he asked.

"It was you or her," Krycek said flatly.

"Skinner?"

"The nanocytes?" Mulder nodded. "Again, it was you or him. But," he said strongly. "But, I knew you wouldn't forgive yourself if either one of them died. They planned to send Scully back, and I watched them to make sure they did. If they'd moved to kill her, you would have gotten an anonymous tip with proof of where she was. And invisible backup when you went to find her. As for Skinner," Krycek smiled, a cold smile. "They told me to have him infected, prove that the nanocytes could be used to kill him, put him under control." He snickered. "I did that. Then I deactivated them."

"Huh?" Mulder said, feeling a little stunned.

"Once he was fully recovered, I sent a self-destruct signal. Within a week, he was clean. The nanocytes washed out of his body in his sweat and urine. Of course I didn't tell him or them. As long as he keeps following orders, they don't know. As long as they think they can kill him at a moment's notice, they won't need to."

Mulder blinked. Again, he believed the man. "So now what?" he asked.

Krycek stared at him, not even blinking. "That's up to you," he finally said. "Do you want me?"

"I..."

"I'm not asking for anything deeper from you right now. Do you want me. Physically. Sexually. Do you want to fuck me?"

Mulder shivered at the blunt term. Mentally, he was still struggling with the concept, but his body was responding enthusiastically to the suggestion.

"Yes," he whispered.

"Then I'm yours." Krycek snickered again. "Well, I will be once I get out of this infirmary."

"That's all you want from me?" Mulder asked, confused. "I though you said you didn't want just a fuck," he said, referring to their conversation the other night when Krycek had kissed him.

"It will do for now. I can wait until you're ready for the rest. In the time we've been dancing this dance, you've gone from hating me to putting up with me to accepting me to liking me to wanting me." Krycek smiled. "I figure at this point that my chances are pretty damn good. One day you're going to say you love me and mean it."

"Optimistic bastard, aren't you," Mulder said, a reluctant smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"As far as you're concerned? Yep. Now. Do me a favor?"

"Sure."

"Kiss me."

Mulder blinked. "Huh?"

"Kiss me. Reassure me that you really do want me."

"I..."

Krycek tugged at his hand. "C'mon, Mulder. You've admitted you want to fuck me, so what's a simple kiss? I've kissed you twice. Isn't it time you reciprocated?"

Mulder allowed himself to be tugged closer. "Actually," he said, his smile getting wider. "I already have."

Krycek frowned. "When?"

"Yesterday. While you were still out of it."

Krycek pouted, a disturbingly cute expression on him. "Well, how about trying it again while I'm actually awake to enjoy it?"

Mulder glanced towards the door nervously to make sure that it was shut. Then he leaned down over Krycek, who was watching him obvious anticipation. A moment before their lips met, Mulder's eyelids fluttered shut. The kiss was light at first, just a brush of flesh against flesh, like the one he'd given the unconscious Krycek the night before. Then Krycek's lips parted with a sigh.

This time it was Mulder's tongue that slipped into Krycek's mouth, exploring every nook and cranny. He could taste toothpaste and chicken soup and vanilla pudding and a myriad of other flavors. And beneath it all he could taste Krycek. One previous kiss and he could already recognize the taste of the man. God, had it only been two days since Krycek had pinned him to the wall in the motel room with his own kiss?

The kiss was long and sweet, and when Mulder pulled away he found Krycek watching him with a smile. "Good enough?" he asked, suddenly feeling a little bashful. Ridiculous. It wasn't like this was his first time kissing anyone, male or female. First time in a while, though.

"Perfect," Krycek assured him.

Finally they separated, letting their hands fall apart. Mulder sat back down on the other bed, watching Krycek like he'd never seen him before. In a way, it felt like he hadn't. He could still feel the warmth on his lips, though, and resisted the urge to touch them.

"So," Krycek said, grinning at him. "What have you found out about this place?"

Mulder was instantly jolted back to reality. "You're not going to believe this," he said eagerly, suddenly remembering what he'd seen the day before, and was pleased to see Krycek's jaw drop as he explained about the Stargate.

The small jet landed on a private strip, and the prisoners were quickly hustled out. Paul was relieved that Harrison was finally conscious and seemed coherent, even though their guards wouldn't let him get close enough to make sure that the other man was all right. Paul had been kept separate and handcuffed the whole time.

Paul was grimly pleased with that. One of their captors was still walking funny, and a second had been left behind for a trip to the hospital to have his arm set and put in a cast.

But even though Harrison was moving under his own power, Paul was still worried. The man had stayed unconscious as they were hustled down the stairwell, into a van, driven to the airport and loaded on the plane. He hadn't moved until nearly an hour after they'd taken off. Paul was worried about concussions and brain damage. From the way she was watching him, so was Agent Scully, and she was a doctor.

The van waiting for them looked identical to the one that had been waiting for them in Seacouver. He could almost believe that they'd flown in a big circle and that they were back where they'd started.

But he didn't think that was likely. From the length of the flight, and the fact that it was definitely the middle of the night here said that they were probably somewhere on the East Coast. If he had to, Paul would guess that they were in Washington, DC, or somewhere nearby. It certainly seemed to be the center of the current conflict, based on Mulder and Scully.

The van doors opened and a sneering voice called out, "End of the line, everybody out."

One by one they climbed out of the van. It was parked in front of what looked like a country manor, but Paul quickly picked out the armed guards on the roof and the signs of a sophisticated security system.

"This way," they were told.

Inside the building, they were led into what was obviously the library. A single man was waiting for them, sitting behind the desk smoking a cigarette. Behind him, he heard Agent Scully draw a sharp breath. Whoever this was, she recognized him.

"A pleasure to see you too, Agent Scully," the man said with a smirk.

Spender found the expression on Scully's face very amusing; a mix of horror, dread and disgust. It made her attractive face a little less appealing, though. It was pity that her partnership with Mulder had failed in one respect; she'd been partnered with him in the hopes that they would get involved, providing both distraction and potential blackmail material. Unfortunately, while they'd danced around each other, nothing had materialized. Alex Krycek had been just as much a failure.

He examined each of the other prisoners in turn.

"Agent McCullough," he said, shaking his head sadly. "All you had to do was stay away from Agent Mulder and you would have been left alone."

The young woman glared at him, but underneath the bravado he could see the uncertainty. She could have been useful to them, but now she was just a liability. Still, she could be of use for a while. In the labs.

"Dr. Gallagher," he said turning to the third woman. Then his eyes narrowed. "Or should I say, Dr. McCullough?"

There was no response, but the flinch said he was right. A change of hair style and color, combined with some cosmetic surgery, made her look different enough to throw off the casual viewer, but there were limits to how much of a difference that could make.

And that just left the two men. Spender frowned. The younger man did look exactly like Colonel Ironhorse's pictures. Mentally, he was lining up the tests. He wanted to know if the man was a clone, a shape-changer or just some freak coincidence. Interesting, though. Despite the fact that he was bruised and handcuffed, he managed to look almost as dangerous as Krycek would under the same circumstances.

He was also hovering next to the other man protectively. He glanced at Blackwood and frowned. The man was swaying dangerously. "Sit down before you fall down," he snapped.

There weren't enough seats for everyone, so the younger McCullough and the Ironhorse duplicate stayed standing. Ironhorse moved to stand behind Blackwood's chair, leaning forward so that they could touch, despite the fact that the handcuffs restrained his hands behind his back.

"Well," Spender finally said after watching them try to hide their fidgeting for a while. The more nervous they were, the better it was for him. "Shall we get started?"

He reached for the phone.

Chapter #21: The Call

General George Hammond was working late. Instead of going home, he would be using one of the spare beds on the base. It was something he did fairly frequently, thanks to his job as commander of the Stargate Project, but this time it was because the base was still sealed. They were no further along in finding out how Corporal Whitaker had been contacted with the orders to kill Mulder and Krycek, and they couldn't keep the base sealed for much longer.

It was damned frustrating. If there was anything he hated, it was not knowing where his staff's loyalties lay. After a lifetime in the military, he felt that a soldier's loyalty lay first with his unit, then to the chain of command, then to the country—although that was implied in the other two—and finally to family and friends outside the military, even if that order was hard on marriages. To find that one— and maybe more—of his people was reporting to an outside agency was a betrayal not just to him, but to the project, the military and the country, and he wasn't going to rest until he'd uprooted this vicious weed from his base.

He put aside the report from security on all calls made to and from Whitaker's home phone, looking for any suspicious calls, and reached for O'Neill's summary of the members of the various SG teams. He was certain that none of them would be involved in this Consortium organization, but he wasn't willing to count on that any more. After all, two days ago, he didn't know that the organization even existed, let alone that anyone under his command was a plant.

He had just opened the folder when the phone rang.

Hammond froze, then turned to stare at the phone. It was not the phone that was supposed to be the base's only link with the outside world. It was the private line, for emergencies only, that only a handful of people had the number for, all of them at the White House. No one should be calling on that line at this time of the night. In fact, it had been years since that phone had last rung.

Frowning, he reached over and hit the speaker button.

"General Hammond, I presume," a husky voice said from over the speaker. He didn't recognize it.

"Who the hell is this?" he demanded, all signs of fatigue gone.

"That doesn't really matter, does it? What does matter is that you get Agent Mulder to the phone immediately."

"Who?" Hammond asked, frowning. No one outside the base should know that the man was there. On the other hand, the man on the other end shouldn't have had the number for this phone either. That implied Whitaker's bosses, Mulder's Consortium.

"Don't play dumb with me," was the reply. "We have someone he should talk to. Get him, or that person dies."

Hammond fumed for a moment, then headed for the door. He beckoned for the nearest soldier. "Go down to the med-center and tell them that I need Agent Mulder in my office as fast as he can get here," he said.

He headed back to his desk and sat down, staring at the phone speaker as if it were a serpent about to strike.

"Well?"

"He's on his way," he said as evenly as he could.

"Good. I hope he doesn't dawdle. He wouldn't want me to get impatient."

Mulder was staring at the ceiling when the door cracked open. Krycek was asleep in the bed next to him, but the last of the sedatives had worn off and Mulder was left unable to sleep, and without anything to do except watch Krycek sleep by the light from the glass panel in the door and wonder just what the hell he'd gotten himself into this time. He'd meant every word he'd said earlier, but he wasn't so sure that he had the guts to go through with it.

A young soldier, barely more than a boy to Mulder's eyes, poked his head through and cleared his throat. "Agent Mulder?"

Mulder sat up, grateful from the distraction from his thoughts. "Yes?"

"Begging your pardon, sir, but General Hammond wants you in his office, fast as possible."

Mulder swung his legs over the edge of the bed and started putting on his shoes. He hadn't bothered to undress earlier, still feeling a little uncomfortable. His clothes were wrinkled, but it wasn't like he needed to put on a good appearance. At least not yet. "Did he say why?" he asked.

"No, sir, just that you should get there as fast as you could."

"Whassit?" Krycek mumbled from the other bed. Despite the sleepy voice, Mulder could see that his eyes were fully alert already.

"Go back to sleep, Alex," Mulder said. "Hammond just needs to talk to me."

"Want me to come?" Krycek asked, starting to sit up. Mulder immediately pushed him back down.

"Don't be an idiot. You are in no condition to be getting out of bed. Stay here. I'll be back."

"Sure thing, Arnie," Krycek said with grin, then closed his eyes. Mulder wasn't fooled. Krycek wasn't going to go back to sleep until he was back.

His young guide set a brisk pace for Mulder and his current bodyguard, and they were at Hammond's office in short order. Kincaid had been sitting in the med-center's outer room, chatting with a blonde in uniform, but he immediately fell into step behind them.

"You wanted to see me?" Mulder asked coming through Hammond's office door.

"Ah, good. Very prompt, Agent Mulder."

Mulder froze. Hammond wasn't the one who'd spoken, and the man looked ready to explode. The voice had come through the speaker phone on a side table. It was a very familiar voice.

"What the hell do you want, Spender?" Mulder asked in a tired voice, waving for Kincaid to stay quiet.

"Actually, the right question is what do you want?" was the smug reply. "Here, let me help you with that question."

There was a pause. Then, "Mulder?"

Mulder dropped into a convenient chair. "Are you okay, Scully?" he asked softly.

"We're fine," she said, a wealth of implication in the two words. The black-lunged bastard had the entire group, but they were unharmed. For now.

"And they'll stay that way as long as you do what you're told," Spender added.

"What do you want?" Mulder asked again.

"Quite simple, dear boy. I want you. There is a small business jet waiting for you at the Colorado Springs airport. You will get on it. Alone. It will bring you here."

"And here is where?"

"You'll find out when you get here, won't you?"

Mulder paused. "What about Scully and the others?" he asked, not expecting much.

"What about them?"

"Will you let them go?"

There was a rasping laugh. "Don't be a fool. Their only real use is as leverage. If I let them go, I lose that leverage. All your cooperation does is guarantee that I won't simply have them killed." There was a choked noise in the background; female, but definitely not Scully.

"Fine."

"Mulder, don't!" he heard Scully say.

"Very good, Agent Mulder. The crew will be expecting you, and only you. If anyone else shows up, Agent Scully dies. And Agent Mulder? Don't dawdle."

There was a click, followed by the hum of a dial-tone. Mulder groaned.

"You can't seriously be considering doing what he says?" Kincaid erupted, angrily.

"Do you have a better idea?" Mulder snapped. "Believe me, these people are serious. They'll kill them. Not just Scully, all of them. Including Blackwood," he added. Kincaid flinched.

Mulder turned to General Hammond. "Could I trouble you for a ride to the airport?" he asked politely.

"Are you sure this is the best move?" Hammond said gently.

Mulder shook his head. "No, but it's the only move I can make."

"Fine. O'Neill will drive you there."

"What are you going to tell Krycek?" Kincaid demanded, not giving up.

This time it was Mulder's turn to flinch. "I'm not," he said softly, feeling like a coward. "He'd insist on coming, and he's in no shape." He sighed. "He'll find out after I'm gone."

Kincaid shook his head. "And then what? We tie him to the bed? I don't think so."

"Too bad," Mulder snapped, moving to stand directly in front of Kincaid. "I'm holding you responsible for his safety," he said softly, only for Kincaid's ears. "Take care of him."

Mulder looked over to the door. Someone had already found Colonel O'Neill and he was waiting there, looking like he'd just crawled out of bed. Either that or he'd never made it that far.

"Good luck," Hammond said as he headed for the door. He didn't reply.

Kincaid watched Mulder leave, beyond furious. Sure, he could understand why the man was doing this. It didn't change the fact that it was the stupidest move he could make. He turned back to Hammond.

"We can't simply let him offer himself up like some sort of human sacrifice!" he said. He was not looking forward to explaining this to Krycek. The injured man was going to blow a fuse over this.

"What do you suggest I do, arrest the man?" Hammond snapped back. He pushed back from the desk violently and stood up. "Come with me."

"Where are we going?" Kincaid asked as they headed out of the office and in the opposite direction that Mulder had gone.

"This base may be home to the Stargate Project, but that's just the start. When they set up NORAD, they wanted a backup. The government loves redundancy," he added with a twisted smile. "As a result, this base also has a radar system that can reach almost all the way to the Arctic circle."

Kincaid stopped in his tracks, then started to smile. "We can track the plane that Mulder gets on, and arrange a rescue."

"Well, we can't be involved in the rescue part, but we can at least tell you where you need to go."

That didn't faze Kincaid. "Don't worry," he said. "I know just who to call."

Then the grin disappeared. "But first I have to tell Krycek what's going on." He groaned. "Any chance you could supply me with a few extra guards to make sure he doesn't kill me?"

The jeep ride to the airport was made in silence. The hour was late enough that there were almost no other cars on the roads. Mulder leaned back in the passenger seat and stared up at the stars.

Those stars seemed a lot closer now. The Stargate Project was letting a few select humans travel to other worlds, meet other races. It had also proved that aliens had visited Earth, thousands of years ago. He wished Scully could have seen it.

But Scully wasn't there. Scully was in the hands of the same people who had kidnapped her and used her before. He knew it was stupid to turn himself in to an organization that wasn't even going to let her go, but he'd put her in too much danger over the years. He wasn't about to be the reason she got killed as well. He just hoped that Krycek would understand.

He snorted. That wasn't too likely. Krycek probably would have said let Scully and the others die. He'd made his priorities clear; He didn't care what happened to anyone else as long as Mulder was safe. No. Krycek was not going to be happy about this.

"He did what?!"

Kincaid grabbed Krycek's shoulders and held him down. "What the hell do you think you're doing?" he said, pushing down hard. He was still having trouble keeping Krycek from getting up.

"Going after the stupid, self-sacrificing sonofabitch!" Krycek said, pushing back.

"You and what army? In case you've forgotten, you were shot yesterday. You are in no shape to go after him. Besides, you couldn't get there before the plane takes off."

"So I'll follow!"

"Where?"

That stopped Krycek. There were probably no end to the list of places that they could be taking Mulder.

"So what do you suggest I do?" Krycek asked, his voice slightly ragged. "Do nothing?"

"Of course not," Kincaid replied. "This place has radar that covers pretty much all of the continental states and Hammond's firing it up as we speak to track the plane. As soon as we know where they're headed, we start planning the rescue."

"Rescue?" Krycek said, starting to relax.

"What? Did you think I was going to just write him off? Besides, they have Blackwood too."

"Right." Kincaid breathed a silent sigh of relief. Krycek was starting to sound rational again.

"So, we find out where they are, then we call for help."

"Help?" Krycek asked, his voice suddenly going suspicious.

"Yeah. This is just the sort of thing that the Hunters love to do. Wolfling will hook us up with weapons and backup."

Krycek was starting to smile. "And this time, I swear I'm killing that cigarette smoking bastard, once and for all. No miraculous resurrections this time."

"Now you're talking," Kincaid said, finally letting him go and stepping back.

"And then, once I get my hands on Mulder, I'm going to paddle him until he can't sit for a year!" Krycek snarled, smile disappearing.

Kincaid sighed. It was going to be a long night.

O'Neill dropped Mulder off at the main entrance to the airport with a wish of good luck, then drove off, presumably heading back to the base at Mount Cheyenne. Mulder watched as he disappeared, then headed inside the airport.

Despite the hour, there was still a large number of people moving around the building. He paused, wondering how the hell he was expected to find the plane, let alone get on it.

"Mr. Mulder?"

Mulder turned and found himself facing a nondescript man in a nondescript suite with a face so ordinary that even with his perfect memory he would be hard-pressed to describe well enough to identify the man later. "Yeah?" he asked suspiciously.

"If you'll come with me, sir, the plane is fueled and ready to take off."

The voice was polite, but the hand on his elbow was like an iron claw, not allowing him to pull away or do anything but follow along as they headed through a side door and out to a small jet waiting with its engines already running.

Once on board, the nondescript man pushed Mulder into one of the swivel seats and belted him in like a child who couldn't be trusted to do it right. Another man was closing the hatch.

Then the nondescript man sat down and pressed an intercom button. "Take off as soon as you have clearance."

"Yes sir."

"So," Mulder said, already fidgeting. "Where are we headed?"

There was no answer, but the other man's eyes never left his face. Mulder sighed and looked out the window as the plane started taxiing towards the runway.

It was going to be a long night.

Jack O'Neill watched as the corporate jet taxied down the runway. He reached down and picked up the radio handset, already set to Mount Cheyenne base's frequency. "They just took off, heading east."

"Understood," was the reply. "Get back here, fast."

"On my way."

He glanced up again, watching as the plane's lights faded from sight.

"Good luck, Mulder," he said softly. "I get the feeling you're going to need it."

Chapter #22: Waiting

They had finally come to an agreement. Kincaid would allow Krycek go to the radar station where Mulder's plane was being monitored as long as Krycek agreed to stay in a wheelchair. Dr. Fraiser wasn't too crazy about the idea, but was smart enough to recognize a losing battle when she saw one. She just warned Krycek not to strain his stitches—or else—then let him go.

The radar station turned out to be a small room tucked in behind the main control room of the Stargate Project. Kincaid noticed that Krycek didn't even glance at the gate, so focused was he on what was happening with Mulder. At least Krycek had stopped ranting about what he was going to do to Mulder when he got his hands on the man. Kincaid definitely did not want to be in Mulder's shoes when Krycek got a hold of him. He would have been worried about what Krycek might do to the agent if it weren't for the obvious worry the man was showing. Krycek had finally gotten close to the one thing he wanted more than anything in the world only to have the Consortium yank it away from him and he was scared—not that he would ever admit it to anyone.

Hammond was waiting in the room, along with the radar tech and several others. Kincaid smiled at the lovely Captain Carter, remembering the pleasant evening he'd spent with the young woman, then turned his attention to the large radar screen. "So, are you tracking?" he asked.

"For the moment, sir" the tech said, not turning around. "They're heading almost due east, at a steady speed. According to the airport, they filed a flight plan for Kansas City."

Krycek shook his head. "Doubt it. They wouldn't be stupid enough to let us know where they're headed. Besides, I don't know of any Consortium bases worth noting in the Kansas City area."

"How can you be so sure of that?" Hammond asked, frowning slightly.

Krycek sighed. "Because I worked for them for a number of years, until I figured out what they were really up to. That's when I started passing information to Mulder. Eventually, they figured out what I was doing and I've been working hard to keep a couple steps ahead of them ever since." Krycek smiled. "They did a very good job of training me. The few assassins who've gotten close haven't survived the experience."

"Oh," Hammond said, looking a little disconcerted. Kincaid wondered if this was going to be a problem, but just did a mental shrug. He doubted that Krycek cared. Just as long as the man didn't get between him and rescuing Mulder. Kincaid had the feeling that anyone who did get in the way was either going to end up dead or wishing he or she was dead.

After the phone call to Mulder, the five prisoners had been separated. The rooms they were locked in were featureless cells, down in some sort of sub-basement. While it might look like a typical country estate from the outside, the basement levels had turned out to house a thoroughly professional lab setup. Rather like the 'Cottage' that the Blackwood Project had been based in, Paul thought. However, they hadn't had cells at the Cottage.

Not that he was really thinking about it right now, though. Harrison was in a cell two doors down, though he wasn't sure just how he knew that, and he didn't like that separation. Paul paced the length of the tiny room he was in, unable to rest. The room was only seven feet square, so there wasn't much room to pace, and the floor, walls and ceiling were all the same unrelieved white, covered in some sort of yielding surface. Basically, it was a padded cell, like a cliched psychiatric ward.

Suddenly, the lights went out, leaving the room pitch black. Paul stopped in his tracks, looking around. He couldn't see a thing. There wasn't even a line of light sneaking around the edge of the door. He shivered slightly. This was familiar. Too familiar. Too much like the oblivion he'd spent eight years in before they'd found and revived him. He hadn't told Harrison, but while he couldn't consciously remember that time, he'd been having nightmares about it.

Then the lights came back on, far brighter than they'd been before. They cycled through colors in a seemingly random pattern, leaving him disoriented. Paul bit back a cry, and squeezed his eyes shut, backing up until he reached a wall. He slid down the wall, landing in a seated position with his face pressed against his knees. It didn't help. The lights were too bright to escape. He prayed that they weren't doing this to Harrison. With the enhanced senses that he'd developed during his solitary years, this would be worse than a torture.

"Who are you?"

The voice boomed from wherever the speakers were hidden, making Paul cry out in pain. The voice was mechanical, sexless, but he could guess who was on the other end.

"What do you want?" he called.

"Who are you?"

The lights were flashing brighter and faster, and the voice was louder. Paul clapped his hands over his ears.

"Colonel Paul Ironhorse, US Army," he ground out through clenched teeth. At the moment, there was no point in not telling them. Besides, it was what his training told him to do: when tortured, tell enough truth so that they won't recognize the lies when you tell them.

There was a long pause, then the lights faded slightly, and the color cycles slowed down. It was still painful, but a little more bearable.

"Colonel Ironhorse died eight years ago," the mechanical voice said. "Explain this."

"It wasn't me!"

The lights intensified for a moment, then died down again: a warning. "The Mothren cloned Ironhorse. Are you a clone?"

"No!" Paul paused. "No. They cloned me several times, then put me in a stasis pod in case they needed me again. It was left behind when they left. Harrison found it a week ago." A week. Was that all? It felt like a lifetime ago.

There was silence for a minute. Then the lights died down even lower to almost normal levels. "Where is that base?"

Paul swallowed. This was going to be tricky. How to give them enough without putting Vincent's people in danger?

"New York," he said.

"Where in New York?"

"I'm not sure." Immediately the lights cycled up again and he cried out. "I don't know!" he cried out, truthfully at least. He didn't know exactly where in New York it was, just that it was underground. The only thing he knew for sure was where the exit from the tunnels was that they'd used when they'd left and he'd be damned before he told them where that was.

Spender turned to the lab tech watching the monitors for Ironhorse's cell. "Is he telling the truth?"

The tech frowned at the readings. "Our sensors aren't infallible, but I'd say yes. He's probably holding something back, though."

Spender smiled slightly. "Going by his records, I'd be surprised if he wasn't."

Ironhorse's records were interesting reading. His skills were impressive. In fact, there was a notation that he'd been suggested for recruitment by the Consortium, but a background check had determined that he was not likely to be cooperative if he learned of their true plans. His file had been tagged for observation and he was carefully kept away from any Consortium operations. His abilities were respected enough that he wasn't simply eliminated as a danger. His participation in the Blackwood Project had proven just how valuable—and dangerous—he had the potential to be.

And now he'd given them valuable knowledge: there was still at least one Mothren base undiscovered by them or their patrons. And if they found it first, they might find technology that would give them an upper hand dealing with the aliens. All they had to do was find that base.

"Get our people in New York hunting," he ordered. "And get everything out of him that you can to help find that base."

"Sir!"

Another tech was waving him over, and he moved to stand behind the man, looking at his monitor. On it, he saw Harrison Blackwood sitting perfectly still, staring blankly into the distance.

"What happened?"

"We were trying to question him about why the aliens want him captured so badly, and he just... blanked."

Spender frowned. "Anything in his medical files to explain why?" he asked.

"No, but..." The tech hesitated.

"What?" Spender demanded angrily.

"I've seen this reaction to the light and sound show before. At the Yucatan facility."

Spender thought about that, then finally understood. "A zone-out?"

"That's what it looks like, and the readings are consistent," the tech said, pointing to the monitors showing the man's brain activity.

"Well, well, well," Spender said, stepping back. "So Dr. Blackwood is a Sentinel. How very interesting."

And it was very interesting. They now had four Sentinels in their hands, and watchers on another five outside. Men and women with enhanced senses had the potential to be very valuable to their plans, both for and against the aliens. If they could figure out what made a Sentinel, they might be able to duplicate those abilities in others.

So far, all they'd been able to learn was that the abilities were genetic, although the scientists studying had not yet found the gene combination that created them, and that a period of intense solitude was necessary to activate those abilities. On a whim, he'd locked Krycek in the silo with the body-possessing alien and its ship, just to see if the young man was one of those who had the potential. He hadn't.

The other thing they'd learned was that a Sentinel without a partner—a Guide, Mr. Sandburg called the partner in his notes—was unstable, and often went insane. Through experimentation with the Sentinels they had they'd found that Guides were more common than Sentinels, and that they were instinctively drawn to 'bond' with a Sentinel. Once that bond was formed, the Sentinel stabilized. However, a Sentinel separated from his or her Guide quickly destabilized, in a matter of only weeks. As well, the bond was permanent. The only way that a Sentinel could 'bond' with a new Guide was if the old one was dead. They hadn't experimented to see if a Guide could re-bond after the death of their Sentinel since they had fewer Sentinels to experiment with. Besides, the Sentinels were the valuable ones. Guides were easy to replace.

Considering their behavior earlier, Blackwood obviously had a Guide, and he could guess who.

"Flood Ironhorse's cell with a knockout gas," he ordered. "Then put him in with Blackwood. Let me know what happens."

"Yes, sir."

Spender headed for the elevators, considering this new development. He wasn't sure how this would affect their plans, but it was important. He was knew that.

He stopped suddenly. Maybe this was why the aliens were so determined to get their hands on Blackwood. Then he shook his head. Blackwood wasn't the only Sentinel in existence, and there was no evidence that the aliens had made moves on any of the others. Still, it was a possibility.

"They've landed."

The announcement brought Krycek out of doze he'd fallen into. A glance at the clock said that it was about dawn, Colorado time. "Where?" he asked, scrubbing his face with his hand, already alert. Hammond and Kincaid were starting to move, also having fallen asleep in their seats. The only fresh person in the room was the radar man, since he'd replaced the last one only an hour earlier.

"Um.. almost directly east of DC. In Delaware."

Krycek cursed softly and slumped back in his wheelchair.

"I take it you know where they are?" Hammond asked

"It could be one of two places. Spender has a country estate in Delaware. It even has a small landing field. They could be there. It's close to DC, which is where the power is, but isolated enough that no one's going to come nosing around. The estate is a near-fortress, in terms of security."

"Have you ever been there?" Kincaid asked, his eyes hooded. Krycek could almost hear the wheels turning as the man started making plans.

"Once, and they didn't let me get a good look around. I think Spender wanted to cow me. It didn't work. It was a month after that that the first attempt was made to dispose of me." Krycek's mouth twisted as he remembered the clumsy attempt to blow him up. He still wasn't sure if the car bomb was seriously expected to eliminate him, or if it was just intended to scare him back into line.

"Anyway," he said, shaking off the memories, "it's well-isolated and well- guarded. Getting Mulder and the others out of there wouldn't be to be easy. Worse would be the other possibility."

"Which is?" Kincaid asked suspiciously.

"The Consortium also has a heavily defended lab in Delaware, near an area called Blue Cove. It is not a nice place, from what I hear, and I've never been there. I say we try the estate first. Are your friends going to be willing to help us out?" he asked Kincaid.

The mercenary grinned. "Are you kidding? This is the sort of challenge they live for. Trust me. Wolfling will have men and weapons ready for us when we get there."

Krycek looked at him skeptically. "That fast?"

Kincaid snorted. "Not as fast as you're thinking," he said. "We are going nowhere until Doctor Fraiser gives her okay. Remember, you're still recovering from a gunshot wound."

"Now wait a minute," Krycek said, starting to push himself to his feet. A sharp pain shot through his abdomen made him drop back down into the seat.

"See? If you behave, my guess is that it will only take a couple of days. Push too hard and it could be a week." Krycek glared at the man, but Kincaid just ignored the expression. "And if you don't behave yourself, I'll have her keep you sedated for that whole time. Understood?"

Krycek snarled, but he had to admit that the man was right. He was in no shape for an assault on an armed compound. "Understood," he said grudgingly, resisting the urge to sulk. Assassins and double-, triple-, whatever-agents didn't sulk.

"Good. In the meantime, we can start planning. You don't need to move much to draw a map of what you do know of the estate, or to explain what typical Consortium security is like. Between us, I'm sure we can have a rough plan ready before we head east."

Krycek nodded, still not happy, but relaxing. His instincts were shouting for him to do something now, but common sense said that this was what he should be doing. For now.

"Fine, then," he said. "Let's get started."

Despite his best efforts, Mulder hadn't been able to get a single word out of his captors during the long flight. Instead, he'd amused himself by timing the flight and trying to figure out all the possible places where they could be going. Canada, Cuba, Florida, somewhere over the Pacific Ocean. All were possibilities.

But he knew where they were headed. Washington, DC, or someplace nearby. Knowing Spender, it was the only possibility that made sense.

The sky was bright around the window shades when Mulder felt the plane start to descend. He hadn't been allowed to lift the shades, so he couldn't confirm his hypothesis by seeing the landscape below, but the timing confirmed that they were headed almost due east.

His guards had never wavered in their diligence, and he had to admire their focus. In a way it was almost reassuring. It told him that they intended to keep him alive. If they wanted him dead, they would have killed him already.

When the plane landed, he followed Mr. Nondescript down the stairs and found himself not at any of the expected DC airfields, but on a small paved runway in the middle of nowhere. A black limousine was parked at the end of the runway, its motor running. Mulder headed for it, followed by his guards.

The driver opened one of the doors, and Mulder was summarily shoved into shoved him in, and the door was slammed behind him.

"Hello, Agent Mulder."

Mulder pushed off the car floor and dropped into one of the seats. Sitting opposite him, smoking one of his ever-present cigarettes was,

"Spender."

Wolfling hung up the phone with a grin as wolfish as his namesake. He'd been waiting for Kincaid to get in touch with him, but he'd been a little surprised at the reason. On the other hand, John Kincaid never had boring problems.

He opened the kitchen door and called out to the man working on his bike there. "Grendel! War counsel. Put out the call."

"Gotcha!" The man wiped off his hands on an oily rag before heading off at a leisurely pace.

Wolfling headed back inside and started bringing the beer in from the garage. If they were going to plan an assault on a heavily armed estate near DC, they were going to need plenty of grease for the mental wheels.

He was already grinning at the thought. This was going to be the most fun he'd had in years.

Chapter #23: Light Show

Paul drifted in a warm haze, unwilling to move, unwilling to wake up. He wasn't sure why he was so unwilling. He just knew instinctively that waking was an invitation to pain, and whatever else he might be, Paul Ironhorse was not a masochist.

But despite his best efforts, the memories asserted themselves, reminding him just why he was in trouble. His eyes flew open before he could stop them, and cringed slightly at the memory of the violent flashing lights. But there were none. Instead, the room was dim and soothing to overly sensitive eyes.

And he wasn't alone.

Pushing up on one elbow, he found that he was laid out next to Harrison, and he breathed a sigh of relief. The cell was identical to the one he'd been in before, and they were alone, but least they were together. He wondered why, though. What were their captors up to now?

Then he frowned. Harrison didn't look like he was asleep or drugged. He was lying there, stiff as a board, and expressionless. If it weren't for the slow rise and fall of his chest, Paul would have been worried that he was dead. The man was deep into one of those fugue states, zone-outs. How long he'd been like that, Paul didn't have a clue.

"Harrison?"

Paul rolled over and pushed up to his knees. He reached down and slapped Harrison lightly on the cheek. "Harrison, don't do this. Wake up. Now!" he added in his best command voice. There was no response.

Paul wasn't sure how long he kept that up, alternating verbal coaxing and physical touching until finally he got a response. A low groan, almost too quiet to hear, then Harrison's eyes fluttered open. He stared up in confusion, and Paul breathed a deep sigh of relief.

"Back with me?" he asked, wanting—no, needing—the verbal confirmation.

Harrison blinked slowly, looking confused. Then there was a blur of motion, and Paul found himself clutched to the larger man's chest. He must be losing his edge, he thought to himself. He hadn't even realized that Harrison was going to move until it was too late to evade. Of course, he didn't want to evade, but it was the principle of the matter.

"Paul?"

Paul started to pull away, but the arms around him tightened. He relaxed again, letting Harrison keep a hold of him. For several long minutes they just enjoyed the physical contact.

Finally, Paul pulled away again, and this time Harrison let him go. They both pushed up until they were sitting side by side on the padded floor, although they stayed close enough that their shoulders were touching.

"What happened?" Harrison asked, his voice stronger and his eyes more alert.

Paul sighed. "Well, they put me in a room full of flashing lights and asked me questions about who and what I was. I told them what I knew. I didn't think there was any point in trying to lie. Then they stopped asking questions, there was a hissing sound and I woke up here. You?"

"I'm... not sure. They put me in here, but I don't remember anything else." "Surely there's something you remember."

Harrison shook his head. "Nothing. It's like a big blank." He sounded upset about the gap in his memory, and Paul dropped a soothing hand on his forearm. After a moment, Harrison started to relax again.

"So," Paul finally said. "I wonder why they decided to put us in together."

"To test a hypothesis."

Both men jumped to their feet at the sound of the voice. Unlike the earlier computer-generated voice, this one was human. Paul recognized it as the man who Scully had called Spender.

"What hypothesis?" Harrison called out.

To Paul, there was no response. At least none that he could hear. However, Harrison went even paler than he'd been before. "What?" he hissed.

"The hypothesis is that I'm a Sentinel," Harrison whispered back.

"Thank you for confirming," the voice said, only slightly sarcastic.

"So now what happens?" Paul demanded.

They waited for a minute, but there was no answer. Finally, Harrison moved to one of the walls and sat down, beckoning for Paul to join him.

"They've turned off the speakers," he said. "The mics are active, though, so I would guess they're recording us."

Paul snorted. "I'm not surprised. How can you tell the mics are on?" he asked curiously.

Harrison shrugged. "They give off a hum. I can hear it in the background. So now what?"

Paul sighed, and leaned against Harrison's side, wrapping his arms around the larger man, even though they were probably being watched. He didn't much care what they thought of it. He'd never been a touchy-feely man before he met Harrison, but with the large man the instinct to touch was instant and constant.

And under the circumstances, he didn't have any interest in fighting the instinct. They were trapped and there was nothing they could do about it, so he would take comfort where he found it and give it when he could.

Spender smiled at the sight on the monitors. Blackwood was fast asleep, tucked in against Ironhorse's side. The Guide had his arm around his Sentinel and watching the room, even though there was nothing to see.

"Protective instinct on the part of the Guide. Physical contact needed by both. Some evidence of other Guiding instincts. They match with the others," the tech said, typing a report on his computer.

"Very good," Spender said. "Keep me informed of any changes."

He headed back upstairs, considering the possibilities as he went. It would be interesting to see what difference it made having a soldier as the Sentinel's Guide instead of an academic. Blair Sandburg was an anthropologist. Of the other four Sentinel-Guide pairs that they were observing, two of the Guides were psychiatrists that the Sentinels had gone to, thinking that their enhanced senses were a sign of some sort of dementia. A third Sentinel was being Guided by her husband, a grade school teacher. Teaching, medicine and history seemed to be fields that could-be Guides were drawn to, almost instinctively.

The last Sentinel was bonded to a Chicago policeman, but he was very different from Ironhorse. The policeman had a history of personal problems and a reputation for being unstable. His partnership with the Canadian had strengthened his personality, but agents set to watch them said that he still showed signs of being insecure about their relationship and his role in it.

But Ironhorse... The Colonel had a reputation for tactical brilliance. He was quick, intelligent and ruthless when he needed to be. It was an interesting contrast, Blackwood and Harrison to the other Sentinel-Guide pairs they had. Their studies had shown Sentinels to be drawn mainly to law-enforcement or the military, while Guides weren't. And yet this pair seemed to have reversed the roles. They would need to be tested to see how this affected them.

Spender entered his study and waved for the guards to leave. They locked the doors behind them on the way out. Spender stubbed out his cigarette and settled into his comfortable desk chair. "Do pardon the delay," he said, smiling insincerely at the young man opposite him.

Agent Mulder was wearing a mulish expression. Pity. It spoiled his fine features. He was rather like his partner in that. "Where are they?" he asked, not for the first time since he'd arrived at the estate.

"Dear boy, you really should learn to cultivate some patience. You wouldn't get yourself into as much trouble as you do if you just controlled yourself. Now, if you're a good boy, I just might take you to see your partner."

Mulder twitched, but he did manage to keep quiet, Spender was pleased to note. Despite the trouble he caused, Mulder was trainable. You just needed the right incentive. With any luck, Scully would be the right incentive for him to do as he was told for once.

But Mulder was impatient. He was already squirming in his seat like an errant schoolboy, eager to get away from class at the end of the day. As the squirming increased, Spender sighed.

"Fine. We shall go see your partner, since I doubt you will listen to reason until you're sure she's safe."

Almost immediately, Mulder relaxed. Spender got to his feet and gestured for Mulder to follow him. A guard fell into step behind Mulder as they retraced his steps from earlier.

During the elevator ride down, Mulder's eyes examined every square inch of the small room, as if he expected to find some important answer hidden in the wall panels or ceiling tiles. After years of studying the young man, Spender knew that he was full of questions, but too stubborn to ask them. It was those questions that were their best chance of bringing Mulder into line. Once he understood that they were his only source of real answers, he would have no choice but to join them.

Mulder had been part of their greatest and riskiest experiment. They'd started experimenting with hybrids. The initial attempts had been human- animal hybrids, an experiment that was still ongoing as they tried to create the perfect soldier. Once they'd been successful, they'd moved to creating human-alien hybrids, using genetic material from captured shape- shifters, with an eye to infiltrating their erstwhile allies. The results had been mixed. There were also objections that even if they were able to drive off the aliens, they were creating a potential non-human master race that they couldn't control.

So the next outgrowth of the human-alien hybrid project were techniques for enhancing human genetics. Members of the council had provided the fetuses for the experiments. Jeffrey, Jarod, Fox Mulder and his sister Samantha were among the children that had resulted. The children had shown early signs of high intelligence and robust physical make-ups. None of them suffered from the same sort of illnesses that normal children did, and they healed faster than the normal.

The only drawback was that they also tended to be intensely focused and unstable. In many ways, Fox Mulder was a prime example of all the best qualities of the resulting children and the worst. For years they had worked to channel his focus in the direction they wanted, but had only been marginally successful. Perhaps now they had the leverage to force him in the direction they wanted.

The elevator doors slid open silently, and Mulder's eyes went wide at the sight of the control room, manned by nearly a dozen technicians. Spender led him over to one of the workstations and gestured towards the monitors. They showed Agent Scully from several angles, sitting jammed into a corner of her cell, facing towards the door.

"I want to talk to her," Mulder said stubbornly, sounding like the spoiled little boy that Spender considered him to be. Instead of answering, he reached down and pressed the intercom button, then stepped back.

"Scully?"

On the screen, Scully's head came up, looking for the source of the sound. "Mulder?"

"Are you all right?"

"Where are you?" she said, standing up, a frown on her face.

"Uh... I'm not sure."

"Damnit, Mulder, tell me you didn't give yourself up!"

Spender's lips twitched at the guilty look on Mulder's face. "There wasn't much alternative," the young man said defensively.

Scully threw up her hands and started pacing. "Did you even try to think of possible alternatives first? I swear, you have a death wish!"

Spender reached down and turned off the intercom. On the screen, they could still see Scully pacing and ranting. He wondered how long it would take before she realized that no one was listening, or if she would even care.

"Well, Agent Mulder? You've seen your partner."

"Where is she?"

Spender smiled. "I don't think you really need to know that. All you need to know is that we have her and she is unharmed. And she will stay that way as long as you follow orders."

"So what happens now?"

"Now you take a little drive. And then you do what you are told. That is all. Is that understood?"

Mulder looked stubborn, but Spender could wait. He held all the cards.

"Yes," Mulder said, grudgingly. "I understand."

"Very good."

Very good indeed. Things were definitely looking up, Spender thought, lighting a fresh cigarette. It might even be time to dispose of that troublesome AD. With Scully in a cell and Mulder under their thumb, Skinner was not very useful anymore. Except as an example.

Kincaid was carrying a thick folder as he headed for the base gym, still followed by his shadow. Hammond had finally had to open the base, although he'd been carefully vague in reporting to his superiors about why he'd sealed the base. As far as command was concerned, a soldier had been affected by an extra-terrestrial virus that had caused him to go berserk. Hammond had sealed the base until Doctor Fraiser had found a treatment. The soldier was still in isolation until they were sure that he was fully recovered and no longer a danger. Or so Hammond told them. Thankfully, there hadn't been any challenges to that story.

Hopefully the story would continue to hold until they were safely on their way.

Hammond had also been very generous about allowing them use of all facilities in their preparations for the attack on Spender's estate in Delaware. Wolfling was already moving a small force of Hunter bikers into Delaware, with weapons and surveillance gear. They'd already reported heightened activity at the estate, which they had people watching around the clock. Kincaid got the feeling that Wolfling and his people were looking forward to the assault. Wolfling sounded almost gleeful when they talked over the scrambled phone lines.

Meanwhile, Krycek had been supplying plans of the interior of the estate based on his one trip there. Kincaid was amazed at the wealth of detail that the man had provided. Krycek had a well-trained memory—a necessity to someone working in the shadows—and an eye for detail, especially when it came to security systems. Again, a necessity.

And getting the details out of him had kept him in bed for most of a day. He'd grumbled about it, but he couldn't deny that it was important. What he remembered could make the difference between life and death.

After that, they'd moved onto creating a variety of battle-plans. They wouldn't be able to finalize those plans until they reached Delaware and got a better idea of who they'd be working with and what equipment they would have, but they could have some options sketched out ahead of time.

While Hammond couldn't actually help them—and they hadn't expected him to—his people had seemed to almost enjoy helping them set up different scenarios. It had started with the lovely Captain Carter, but her entire team had gotten involved, then other teams and before they knew it, there were more than twenty soldiers in a conference room brainstorming different ideas. Some were just plain silly, but they had some very good possibilities. The best, had come from Teal'c, a black man with a gold plaque on his forehead and apparently extra-terrestrial origins. A very intriguing man and one that Kincaid wouldn't have minded knowing better if he weren't already keeping company with Sam.

But Krycek was starting to get antsy. He was up and moving, not too badly. He'd been very lucky with the gunshot. Kincaid wouldn't have believed that someone could be gut-shot without more than nicking any internal organs. Krycek had been unbelievably lucky.

But now that he was well on the road to recovery, he was chomping at the bit, wanting to get moving, and Kincaid knew they'd have to head for the East Coast soon, before the man did something stupid.

Kincaid entered the gym and stopped, pausing to admire the sight in front of him. Krycek, in a cotton gi, was running through an advanced kata. He moved so smoothly and easily that you almost didn't notice that the left sleeve was pinned up. There were no checks in his balance or flow. Kincaid waited until Krycek glided to a stop, then whistled admiringly.

Krycek headed over to the bench and grabbed a towel to mop the fine sheen of sweat from his forehead. Kincaid wondered how long he'd actually been working.

"So, mother," Krycek finally asked. "Do I pass muster?"

"I didn't know you did martial arts."

Krycek snorted, but let himself be diverted for the moment. "I'm more of a brawler, but after I lost my arm, I found a sensei who didn't blink when faced with a one-armed student who disappeared on a regular basis. I haven't actually trained in any style or tested for any belts, though. It was just the best way I could think of to relearn balance and fighting skills after losing an arm. So?"

Kincaid shrugged. "I guess that makes sense. Martial arts does focus a lot on balance." Krycek took a step forward, fist up warningly, and Kincaid backed up, a grin on his face. "We fly out tonight. Wolfling has a friend who flies cargoes—not always legal ones, mind you. He'll be here in a couple hours. We'll be in Delaware by morning."

Krycek broke into a wolfish grin that sent shivers along Kincaid's spine. "Good. And tomorrow night, the fun begins."

Adrenaline started pumping, and Kincaid felt his own grin turn dangerous. Spender was going to learn that he'd made a big mistake.

Chapter #24: Solitary Confinement

Mulder sighed and closed the file folder, rubbing at his eyes. He had no idea what time it was, but he was tired so he might as well take a nap. He dropped the folder on top of the pile of other files and climbed to his feet and stretched his arms up over his head, groaning as he felt his spine popping after sitting in one position for so long.

It was a standard method for keeping a prisoner off-balance. Put him in a cell without windows so that he can't tell what time it was. Vary the feeding schedule and meal contents so that he can't use that to keep track of the time of day. No human contact, except the hand pushing meal trays and file folders through a slot in the door at the floor and the eyes peering through the slot higher up. Already Mulder was having trouble telling how long he'd been in the small cell—although he was sure that it had only been a few days—and he was desperate for the sound of another human voice. He ate when the food appeared and he napped whenever he was sleepy. The only distraction he was given was the files.

At first he'd ignored them. He wanted no part of whatever Spender and his goons were up to. Then he'd considered seeing if he could give himself a fatal paper cut, since he was never given utensils and the dishes his food came in—mostly soup and sandwiches—were unbreakable to keep him from making a weapon. Unfortunately, paper-cuts hurt like a bitch, so that was out.

Finally, out of pure boredom he'd opened the top file and started reading. It had turned out to contain the complete reports on a plane crash in Nevada. The next file had contained the transcript of an interview with a Mexican field worker who claimed to have been attacked by a werewolf. The next was an EPA report on the affects of a new pesticide being tested for use in the California citrus groves.

All in all, they were both fascinating and confusing. It distracted him and kept his mind active, but he had no idea why they were giving him these particular files to read. Hell, why were they giving him any files to read?

Having worked out the kinks as best he could in the tiny room, Mulder headed over to his pallet. The cell they'd put him in was bare concrete with no furniture, unless you counted the toilet sitting in one corner or the sink attached to the wall next to it. Instead of a bed, there was a thin futon-style mattress lying on the floor with one pillow and a sleeping bag on top of it. The sleeping bag was too small for Mulder, so he'd completely unzipped it and laid it out straight. Besides, he had problems with being restrained, even by a blanket. Being in a sleeping bag invariably gave him nightmares about Tunguska and being strapped down for their damned experiments.

Mulder slid under the cover, not bothering to get undressed first. They'd taken away his belt and his shoes, but otherwise left him dressed as he'd been on delivery. Mulder was beginning to wish they'd give him something else to wear. Anything else. Or better yet, let him take a shower. He was starting to get a little ripe, and sponge baths using the cold water from his sink wasn't enough.

He closed his eyes and wished, yet again, that he could turn the lights off, if only for a little while. Then he concentrated on getting a little sleep.

As he drifted off, he wondered what Alex was doing. He was probably furious. The assassin-slash-triple-agent didn't take being thwarted very well, and he'd expressed his opinion of Mulder's common sense many times and in far more pungent terms than Scully ever had.

Alex. When had he started thinking of the man as Alex, not Krycek or 'that ratbastard traitor? Probably about the time he'd stuck his tongue down the man's throat and admitted that he wanted to do the horizontal mambo with him. Mulder winced at the thought of what Scully would say about that. She'd probably use terms that would make a sailor blush.

Alex. The man's face floated behind his eyelids for a moment, his lips twisted in a sardonic expression and his green eyes laughing. It was an expression he'd seen on the man's face often. Then it softened into the almost tender expression he'd been wearing the last time Mulder had seen him. Mulder groaned as a certain portion of his anatomy took interest in the image. God only knew how long before he'd see Alex again (or if, a nasty little voice in the back of his mind said) and how long it would be before Alex forgave him for running out on him.

It almost scared him how important that was to him. In fact, if he were honest with himself, Alex's opinion had been important to him for a long time, even back when he was beating up the man every time he saw him. His training in psychiatry was piping up with words like 'denial' and 'sublimation,' but he did his best to ignore that voice too.

Finally all the voices fell silent, one by one, and he was able to drop off to sleep. And when he woke, he wouldn't have any idea how long or short a nap it had been.

Broots was lurking in the corridor outside the Center's records room. He knew that he didn't lurk convincingly, but when Miss Parker says lurk, you didn't say no. She was a damned scary woman. Even worse, she was a scary woman with a mystery on her hands.

Broots often served as errand boy for both Miss Parker and Sydney. Sometimes they were working together, sometimes they weren't. All in all, it led to ulcers in anyone stuck in the middle. Especially when they were at odds over Jarod. After all, Jarod was a nice guy, and Broots could well understand why he wanted to get as far from the Center as he could possibly get.

Unfortunately, he didn't have a choice. Broots didn't have a chance of breaking the hold that the Center had on him, so he kept his head down and did as he was told. That way, he hoped, he and his daughter would both stay alive.

But now something was up and Miss Parker wanted to know what it was. Security had been stepped up in the last few days, making life even more difficult than usual for the staff and 'guests' of the Center. About the same time, Broots had noticed a lot of files being signed out from records, all by the same person: a lower level tech with no reason to need them unless he was operating on someone else's orders. And there seemed to be no reason for those particular files to be of interest to anyone.

Needless to say, being a paranoid person, Miss Parker wanted to know who and why. That was why Broots was in his current position: lurking outside records, waiting for Golenski to show up for another batch of files. He'd been waiting for nearly four hours now. Sooner or later, he knew, someone was going to notice him and then he'd be in big trouble.

Finally, he heard footsteps. Moving fast, he ducked into a side room and peered out through the tiny pane of glass set high in the door. It was Golenski. The other man was walking briskly, headed for records. Broots waited for a few minutes until Golenski went back past him with several file folders in his arms. Why they—whoever they were—wanted paper files, he didn't know. Everything was in the computers as well, with paper just as a form of backup, and it was much easier to do searches on the electronic versions.

Once he felt that he was safe, Broots emerged from his hiding spot and headed down the hallway in the same direction as Golenski. Maybe his lurking skills were improving, since he was able to follow the man all the way to his final destination without being noticed. The route he took was long and circuitous, but eventually led to one of the sub-levels, well below ground, although thankfully not sub-level twenty-seven. They were still two levels above that ill-fated place. Broots shuddered quietly at the thought of going back down there.

After that his job got a little tougher. The level they were on was one rarely used and sound carried down here. He carefully removed his shoes and followed in sock-covered feet, trying to avoid making any noise at all.

Golenski headed for a corridor lined with doors, obviously opening into cells. Each had a food slot and a view slot set into the solid metal. Broots watched as Golenski stopped in front of one of the doors and leaned down to slide the folders through the slot intended for food trays. Then he straightened up and headed back the way he'd come.

Broots eyes went wide, and he glanced around for someplace to hide. There was an unlit side-corridor, so he ducked down it and squeezed into a doorway. He held his breath and tried to will himself invisible.

A moment later, Golenski swept past, heading for the stairwell. He didn't even glance at the corridor where Broots was hiding. Broots waited until he heard the stairwell door slam shut, then breathed a sigh of relief.

Instead of heading back up to inhabited levels himself, Broots headed for the cell that Golenski had shoved the file folders into. He knew that if he went to Miss Parker and told her what he'd seen she'd just order him back down here for more information. Better to get everything he could right away.

It was easy to find the right door—it was the only one showing a thin line of light around the edge. Broots quickly checked for signs of watchers or cameras, then slowly slid the view-slot covering open.

Inside, he saw a man sitting against the back wall, his head bent over one of the files. For a moment he thought that it must be Jarod. But it couldn't be. For one thing, the hair was the wrong color. Besides, if it were Jarod, then surely they would have heard about it by now, if only through someone gloating over Sydney and Miss Parker's failure.

The man's head shot up and Broots recoiled, realizing that he must have made some sort of noise. The face was completely unfamiliar. In a flash, the man was on his feet and at the door.

"Well? Are you finally going to tell me what the hell I'm doing here? Why you've got me reading these files? What does Spender want?!"

"Shh!" Broots hissed, waving for the man to keep his voice down. "Do you want to get us both in trouble? Who are you?" he asked at a whisper, eyes flickering to both sides, watching for any signs that someone was coming.

"Special Agent Fox Mulder, FBI. And you people are in a hell of a lot of trouble," the man growled, although thankfully at a lower volume than before.

A Federal Agent? Were they nuts? Broots shook his head. Of course they weren't nuts. They just didn't think that anything or anyone could touch them, so why not lock up a Federal Agent?

"How long have you been here?" he asked curiously.

"What day is it?"

"Thursday."

The man frowned. "Four days, then." The same time that the security had been stepped up, Broots realized. Whoever this Fox Mulder was, they really didn't want to lose him. And what sort of name was 'Fox' anyway?

Well if nothing else, the man was seriously pissed off. Broots took a deep breath, trying to figure out what to say when he heard something that almost made him soil himself. Voices. A lot of them, heading that way.

"Someone's coming," he hissed when the man opened his mouth. "I've got to go. Don't tell them you saw me."

Not bothering to wait for an answer, Broots headed in the opposite direction from where the voices were coming from. Fear made his hearing hyper-sensitive, and shivers ran down his spine. If he was lucky, he'd be able to double back behind them to the stairwell without being caught. If he were unlucky and they caught him, he would probably end up dead.

Mulder stared at the slot in the door, confused by what had just happened. Then he heard the voices that the other man had obviously heard first. Not stopping to consider his motives, Mulder quickly moved back to his seated position against the opposite wall and picked up the file he'd been reading. When the slot was opened again, he showed no signs of having been disturbed.

He looked up again and met a set of ice-cold eyes and shivered. Whoever this man was, he was dangerous, very dangerous.

The man stared at him for a moment, then looked away. "He's still here. Fan out. I want to know who he was talking to." The slot-cover snapped shut as the man let go.

Mulder took a deep breath and forced himself to relax. Then he frowned and started a visual search of his cell. The fact that they knew he'd been talking to someone meant there was at least a microphone in the room, and more likely a camera set up to watch him. The fact that they didn't know who meant that there weren't any in the corridor.

Hopefully whoever it was had gotten away in one piece, Mulder thought. After all, if he was going to get out of this place, he was going to need outside help. Then he slumped. He couldn't do that. If he did manage to escape, Scully and the others would pay the price. Of course, that assumed that they were even still alive.

Mulder dropped the file and hunched forward to rest his head against his knees. Bit by bit, everything was catching up with him. He wanted out of here. He wanted everything back to normal. He wanted to argue theory with Scully. He wanted Skinner to growl at him about his expense claims. He wanted to come home and find Alex waiting with another bit of cryptic information.

He wanted to come home and find Alex naked in his bed, he thought with a blush.

And he wanted the strange man to come back and talk to him. God, right now he would be happy just to have someone to talk to.

Scully took another look around her cell and sighed.

It was a nicer cell than her first one, she had to admit. After all, this one didn't have padded walls. It had a bed and a toilet area sheltered by a low wall that gave the illusion of privacy, even though for all she knew there was a camera at the bottom of the toilet bowl getting an eyeful every time she exercised her bowels.

And once a day, an armed guard—female, thank God—escorted her to a locker room where she could shower and change into a fresh sweat-suit. Other than that, she'd had no contact with her captors since the morning she'd woken up after talking to Mulder.

Mulder. How could a man who was so smart also be so stupid? She'd been partnered with him for what? Six years now? And through that time he'd endangered both of them more times than she could count—always for a good cause, of course. He'd dragged her into the strangest places in his quest for 'The Truth'—and his sister, understandably—confronting aliens and vampires and Bigfoot and sex-changing humans. And while Scully really wished that she could just close her eyes and refuse to see, she couldn't, even though she would never tell Mulder that.

Sometimes, being an ostrich was a very attractive alternative.

But it wasn't the path for her. She was a scientist, and while she might be constantly looking for—praying for—a logical alternative, she had no choice but to accept that there were things out there that were beyond the scope of her knowledge. She played the Doubting Thomas to Mulder's 'I want to believe,' but it was more and more just a role she played to try to rein her partner in.

And he desperately needed reining in. Just look at the sort of trouble he got into when he was on his own. This whole experience was just the latest example of that. They were forced to head off in separate directions and what happened? Anyone with half a brain could see that Krycek had finally succeeded in snaring Mulder in his sexual web, and then he had surrendered to his worst enemies. (She ignored the fact that he'd been unhappily celibate for most of the time she'd known him, and that he'd surrendered to save her life).

No. She needed to get out of here so that she could save Mulder, not just from the Consortium but from himself.

Chapter #25: Frustration

"What do you mean you lost him?!"

The man facing him was about ready to shit his pants, and while normally Spender would have found this amusing, right now he was too furious notice.

"We went to the hospital to verify that he was dead, but he'd checked himself out AMA only twenty minutes earlier," the man said in a defensive whine.

"He should have been dead by then," Spender snarled, and the man went even paler.

"Yes sir. We followed the instructions, to the word. But it didn't have any effect, at least not according to the hospital."

Spender waved for the man to leave and he so did gratefully, no doubt breathing a sigh of relief for his reprieve. He wouldn't be so relieved when he got his orders to head for Russia, though. Spender got to his feet and started pacing.

Skinner should have been dead! He'd decided that the man was no longer of any possible future use and he'd ordered the nanocytes activated that morning. Based on past experiments—including the one where Skinner had been infected with the microscopic machines—the man should have been dead within minutes of the command being inputted into the hand-held control. His people had been well within the necessary signal range.

Spender stopped and picked up a sculpture, hefting it for a moment. Then he snarled, and hurled it at an ornate mirror hanging on one wall. The mirror exploded into a hail of razor-sharp fragments. They mocked him as they lay on the ground reflecting his image back at him when he went to stand over them. The expensive bronze sculpture was dented beyond repair by the impact and fall.

There was only one possible answer.

Krycek. That fucking little traitor.

Krycek was the one he'd sent to infect Skinner. Krycek was the one he'd set to test the controls. And Krycek was the only one who could have destroyed the nanocytes that should have killed Skinner.

And now Skinner was gone. He'd left the hospital and vanished without a trace. Worse still, assassins sent to dispose of Mulder's little hacker friends had found all their bolt-holes abandoned, stripped of anything even vaguely useful. Of the three men, there was no sign.

Spender brought his heel down on the largest of the mirror fragments and slowly, deliberately ground it to dust, embedding it into the expensive Persian rug it was lying on. What the hell else could go wrong?

A flash of light behind him told he was about to find out.

"You need to eat, Harrison," Paul said, waving a plate under the other man's nose. His lover just wrinkled his nose and pushed it away. His skin was starting to look gray and he'd lost pounds that he couldn't afford to lose. Paul had barely been able to get him to eat a few bites in the last few days.

It wasn't that the food was bad. In fact, it was almost gourmet fare; the best he'd had since waking up in the tunnel society beneath New York. Paul had quickly put back on the pounds that he'd lost during his long sleep in the Mothren stasis pod.

No, the problem wasn't the food, it was the tests. Since they'd been put in the same padded cell together they'd been subjected to non-stop tests. The taking of blood samples had been all right. The bone marrow samples had been humiliating and painful. All their captors had bothered to do was to flood the room with a paralyzing gas. They'd been unable to move, unable to fight back, unable to do anything except lie there while they were poked and prodded.

And then there was the constant barrage of light and sound and scent. Not that he'd noticed, most of the time. They'd been too subtle for that. Instead, he'd known when they'd changed the attack by how Harrison had reacted. All he could do was try to keep the man from overloading. He'd been getting a crash course in the guiding stuff that Sandburg had mentioned in Cascade. God, what he would give to have the young man handy for lessons.

Scratch that, he told himself. He wouldn't wish this on his worst enemy, let alone a potential ally.

But damnit, he didn't know what he was doing! And he was screwing it up. He knew that. Hour by hour, Harrison was withdrawing further and further into himself. All he could do was try to slow the slide into oblivion. He hated the thought of failure, and he was terrified at the thought of what that failure would bring.

No! he told himself. He was not going to think that way. He was going to find a way to save Harrison. Failure was simply not an option. He'd never failed in any battle and he wasn't going to fail in this one. And this was the most important battle of all: for the sanity of his other half.

Paul put down the plate with a groan. The only problem was, this battle used weapons that he wasn't trained in, and there was no one to teach him. All he had to go on was instinct and he wasn't sure that he trusted his instincts.

Suddenly, Harrison moaned and closed his eyes. If he concentrated hard, Paul could pick up a faint flicker in the lights, like the fluctuation of a fluorescent light. The new attack had begun.

"Harrison, listen to me. You need to shut the lights out. Ignore the lights and concentrate on me. I'm right here." He wrapped his arms around the big man, pulling the curly-haired head down to his chest, trying to block the maddening—to Harrison, at least—light show with his own body.

"Paul," Harrison said in a tone that was half-whisper, half-whimper.

"I'm right here. Whatever happens, I'll be right here. Always and forever."

Paul continued to murmur reassurances, rocking his lover, his Sentinel, back and forth. He ignored the prickle in the back of his eyes. They were going to survive this, damnit. They were.

He refused to accept any other possibility.

"I have come for them."

Spender lit a cigarette, trying to hide a faint tremor in his hand. Then he took a deep drag and blew out a cloud of smoke. "Who would that be?" he asked casually.

"You have Blackwood and his companions. I am here for them."

Spender stared at the being in front of him. On the surface, she looked like a normal human female, not unattractive, with masses of curly dark hair. However, surreptitious scans over the years had proven her to be an android of almost super-human strength. Her frame was mostly metal and as well as unknown artificial compounds. His scientists desperately wanted samples for study, but all attempts to obtain those samples had failed.

There was, however, the question of what exactly she and her ilk were. Barely detectable within her form was a core of well-shielded genetic material. Were they remote-controlled tools or some sort of host for completely non-human aliens? They'd already had experience with alien life-forms that resembled nothing more than oil-slicks that could take over human forms. The alien shape-shifters that were their favorite hosts often sealed all accessible orifices to keep the oil-beings from taking control of them. Spender sometimes wondered if perhaps the androids were just another of the oil-beings' available hosts, mechanical instead of organic. It was one reason why the consortium had put so much effort into the vaccine testing in Russia. If their patrons were the oil-beings then they wanted to make sure that they didn't end up as unwilling hosts along with the rest of humanity.

"We have them," he finally told her grudgingly. They'd learned long ago that lying to their alien patrons was useless. Untruths were exposed immediately and punished.

"You will hand them over," she said in her eerie monotone. The complete lack of expression was one of the things that made her seem so... alien.

"Why?" he asked boldly. "They are no danger to you while in our hands. What is it about them that makes them so important?"

"That is none of your concern. You will produce the ones called Blackwood, Ironhorse and McCullough. Now."

Spender opened his mouth to protest again, but she focussed her icy gaze on him and he shivered. While the Consortium were willing collaborators, he had no illusions of their relative importance. They were tools for the aliens, nothing more. They knew that when the aliens took control, they would, at best, be servants. At worst, they would share whatever the rest of humanity's fate would be.

That was why while they did the aliens dirty work and made a show of being the perfect quislings, they were busily studying any alien technology they could get their hands on and experimenting with ways of destroying their patrons. When the time came, they would let the aliens proceed with their plans, then destroy them, stepping into the power vacuum that resulted.

"Come with me, then," he said, getting to his feet. While he'd hoped to use Blackwood and Ironhorse, it looked like that was not in the cards. The woman followed him as he headed for the elevator to the sub-levels. On the surface, he was the image of cooperation. Inside, he was seething with anger.

Oh, yes, he was going to enjoy destroying them.

The room had been scanned for bugs and the doors were locked. They were as private as they were going to be able to get while still in the Center, which wasn't very.

"So, what have you found out about our... guest on sub-level twenty- five?" Miss Parker asked. There was never any small talk from the woman. Straight to the point and you had better have the answer she wanted ready. Sydney, thankfully, was a little more laid back.

Broots gave the door a last glance, then took a deep breath. "Special Agent Fox Mulder is an FBI agent heading a department of two called the X-Files. They investigate weird stuff."

"Weird stuff?" Miss Parker asked, lifting one eyebrow. "Is that a technical term?"

Broots flushed a little at the sarcasm. "They investigate UFOs and alien abductions, werewolves and vampires, spontaneous combustion and poltergeists. Weird stuff. Anyway, he disappeared a couple weeks back. The FBI thinks he's been kidnapped by someone named Krycek and rumor has it that there's a contract out on his life. Nobody's seen hide nor hair of him since then."

"So, any reason why the Center would have him here?"

Broots hesitated for a moment, then continued. "I have some net-friends who know Mr. Mulder. They say he had to go underground and fast. A lot of the stuff he investigates brings him up against a very powerful organization that might be collaborating with some sort of alien invasion that's coming. They've left him alone up until now, but he's gotten a little too close for comfort and they want him permanently out of circulation." He wasn't surprised when Miss Parker snorted at that. It sounded pretty improbable to him too.

"Great. Alien invaders from Mars?"

"I did some checking into this organization based on the information my friends gave me. The outfit calls itself The Consortium."

"So?" Miss Parker asked, shaking her head.

Broots stared at her, as if he could force her to believe what he was going to say next. "The Consortium has people in ever level of government and military. They run a lot of private companies too. And..." he took a deep breath, "they also control the Center."

"What?!" Both Sydney and Miss Parker were shocked.

"I checked it every which way," Broots said. "Took me all night. I found four separate direct links between the upper management of the Center and this Consortium. No mistake."

Miss Parker did something unusual for her: she slumped back in her chair. She rarely showed anything but perfect posture, but the expression on her face said she was thinking too hard to worry about anything as inconsequential as posture. Sydney was also frowning.

"And the alien business?" he asked.

Broots shrugged. "I didn't find anything definite, but how many times have we seen things around here that looked too... weird? Technology that does things we didn't know could be done? I mean, at Donoterase they were able to clone Jarod. Science says that that's not completely possible yet, despite the occasional animal."

"You can't be serious," Miss Parker said derisively. "You believe in aliens? You think they've come to take over Earth? War of the Worlds, millennium-style?"

Broots cringed inside at the words, then squared his shoulders. "I don't know that I believe that, but I've seen too much to reject the possibility. If nothing else, I believe they're out there somewhere. The question is, are they here?"

"If they are, then God help us all," Sydney said, and Broots found himself echoing the prayer.

Thankfully, the latest barrage of tests had been short. Once it was over, Paul had managed to coax Harrison into eating at least part of his dinner. Or breakfast or lunch. He wasn't sure which meal it was. Then they'd curled up together to try to get some sleep before it started again. Harrison had curled himself around Paul, hugging him like an oversized teddy-bear, sighed, then gone straight to sleep. Paul was finding sleep a little more elusive.

Harrison couldn't take this much longer. Sooner or later—and he was afraid that sooner was more likely—Harrison was going to reach the breaking point. What the result would be, he wasn't sure. All he knew right now was that it was his job to hold the big man together.

Harrison sighed in his sleep and snuffled, inhaling Paul's scent through his hair. "Paul," he murmured contentedly before slipping a little further into sleep. It was a nice feeling, Paul thought. And if nothing else, Harrison's embrace kept the nightmares away.

He wished they could make love, though. The need for that more intimate contact burned in his veins. And he wasn't the only one to feel it either. He could feel the hot, solid press of an erection against his buttocks through the thin cotton pajamas they'd been given to wear. But they were constantly monitored, and he wasn't going to give their captors a show. He wasn't an exhibitionist.

Besides, making love with Harrison had always felt special. It was a gift between them and to the spirits. To allow these people to watch would be to profane something... sacred.

Harrison snorted softly, then suddenly stiffened, awake again. Paul stiffened too. "What is it?" he whispered soft enough that the microphones wouldn't pick it up. Surely it was too soon for the next torture to be starting?

"Someone's coming," Harrison whispered back.

"And?"

"They're coming here. Spender and someone else. They're talking about us."

Paul quickly pushed to his feet. If someone was coming to see them, he was going to meet them on his feet. Preferably with a fist leading.

Harrison was standing next to him when the cell door swung open silently. Two figures stepped through and Paul dropped into a ready stance.

Only to straighten up in shock at the sight of the second figure.

"You!"

The bounty hunter android tilted her head slightly in acknowledgement. "Me, Colonel Paul Ironhorse."

Shit! Now what the hell was going on?

Krycek held the binoculars to his face in a well-practiced grip. The first few times he'd tried that once he'd received his prosthetic, he'd either dropped the binoculars or failed to hold them in a usable position. Now it had become second nature, along with everything else. In a way, it was almost scary how used he'd become to the prosthetic.

"Hello," he said softly, catching the attention of his companions. Kincaid and the giant red-head Wolfling moved closer. Down below, on the grounds of Spender's estate, a helicopter had just landed. While they watched, a figure left the building and headed for the waiting vehicle.

Krycek grinned at what he saw through the binoculars. "Spender's leaving, and my, he looks pissed."

Kincaid snorted. "And what could possibly piss off the big man himself?"

Krycek grinned. "Nine time out of ten? Mulder. Of course, the man does make a career of pissing off everyone he meets. Spender, Scully, Skinner, Me, the military, police forces across this country and in other countries too. It's a talent," he added fondly.

"My kind of guy," Wolfling said. "So. Spender's gone. Now what?"

Krycek tapped a finger against his jaw as he watched the helicopter take off and head in the direction of D.C.. "We go in, of course."

Chapter #26: Setbacks

Getting into the estate was easy. Disturbingly so, as far as Krycek was concerned. There were only four men patrolling the grounds, accompanied by guard dogs. Wolfling's Hunters took them out quickly, knocking them unconscious, then tying and gagging them before dumping them under some convenient bushes. The dogs were dropped using tranquilizer guns and deposited with their handlers.

The building had a simple alarm system, one which took Krycek only a minute to disarm. He was starting to get very uneasy by that point. There should have been more security. Surely Spender was expecting some sort of attack?

Inside, the building was eerily silent, seemingly abandoned. The Hunters fanned out on Kincaid's orders, checking every room for signs of life, while Krycek lead the search for any concealed entrances or exits.

Ten minutes later, he'd found an elevator concealed behind the wood- paneling in the hallway outside Spender's study. It was a pity that the computer in the study was password locked and they didn't have the time to crack the code. Finding Mulder was more important.

The elevator just had two buttons: up and down. Seven men crammed into small room, then Krycek pressed the down button. He stood directly in front of the elevator doors, gun held ready for whatever they found when they stopped. No one challenged him. He was going to find Mulder and God help anyone who got in his way.

There was no ping to announce their arrival. The doors just opened and they spilled out, taking the technicians in white coats off-guard. Only one reached to press a button, but Krycek's gun barrel jammed against his temple and the prosthetic arm wrapped around his neck quickly convinced him that any further movements would be a very bad idea.

"I could do a very bad Clint Eastwood imitation," Krycek said with an insincere smile, "or we could skip that and you'll just tell me what I need to know. Now. Before your brains end up splattered all over these nice, expensive electronics."

The man gulped a couple times, then said, "What do you want?"

"Good boy," Krycek said approvingly. "Mulder."

"Not here." Krycek growled and the gun barrel pressed a little harder against the man, who started sweating profusely. "I tell you! He's not here! They took him away four days ago! He was only here for a couple hours!" The man was making very unattractive whimpering noises in the back of his throat.

"Where did they take him?"

"They didn't say!"

"Guess," Krycek said in a flat monotone.

"The Center! I heard someone say that he'd been sent to the Center!"

Krycek cursed softly. This was not a good thing. The Center had a much stronger security system. It was one of the Consortium's main experimental facilities in the country and was guarded as such.

"What about the others?" Kincaid asked, coming up beside Krycek.

"Others?" the man squeaked.

"Blackwood. Ironhorse. The three women with them."

The man licked his lips nervously. "Someone came for them. The two men and the older woman. A couple hours ago. I don't know where she took them."

Krycek squeezed a little, cutting the man's air off. "Liar," he hissed. "We've been watching for a couple days. No one arrived or left except Spender."

"I swear! I don't know who she was! He looked upset, but he handed them over to her. I don't know what she did with them after that!"

Krycek forced himself to relax a little bit. He wasn't sure what was going on here, but the man obviously believed what he was saying. "And the other two women?" he asked, not allowing his frustration to bleed through into his voice.

"The... the blond was sent to the Mexican facility," the man told them. "The other one is still here.

"It figures," Krycek groused to himself. "The only one left behind is the one I don't want to see. Well, I suppose we can't leave her here. Mulder would get upset if we did."

He pulled the technician out of his seat. "Where is Agent Scully?" he asked in a mock-polite voice, but his eyes were gleaming with barely restrained violence. The man trembled, but didn't argue. Instead he led them to a barely visible door. It opened into a corridor lined with more doors, obviously the facility's holding cells.

One of the Hunters started opening doors. It wasn't difficult. There were quick-release buttons on each one. Obviously, Spender figured that no one would be able to get this far. Naturally, they wouldn't be able to open from the inside.

Halfway down the hallway, the man opened a door and was immediately hit by a red-head more than a foot shorter than him. It would have been fun to watch the poor man trying to defend himself from someone he didn't want to hurt, but they didn't have the time.

"Down, Scully. The clock is ticking, and we need to get the hell out of here."

Her head twisted so fast that Krycek wondered if she was going to end up with whiplash. "You son of a bitch..." she started to hiss.

"Later, Scully," Krycek said with a sigh. "Let's get out of here first, okay?"

Instead of answering, she just brushed past him, heading for the exit. When she saw Kincaid, she pulled up short, staring up into his face. "Ironhorse was right," she said in disbelief. Kincaid looked puzzled, but didn't say anything. Like Krycek had said, the clock was ticking, and sooner or later, reinforcements would be coming. They needed to be out of there before they arrived.

They herded the technicians into the now empty cells, locking them in, then headed for the elevators. Krycek looked around, briefly wishing for some C4 and detonators, but he knew the others would draw the line at blowing the place up while there were still people down there. He sighed, then punched the up button. Luckily, Scully was small enough to be squished in, instead of taking two trips.

The other Hunters waiting for them were definitely getting antsy. One of them gestured to Wolfling. "Green says there's trucks heading this way, Wolf! We gotta book, now."

Wolfling nodded. "All right, folks. You heard the man. Party, part one, is now over. Let's get the hell out of here."

"Part one?" Krycek asked with a raised eyebrow.

"Hey, we told Kincaid that we'd help rescue your friends and his," the big man said with a shrug. "Job ain't finished yet. Unless you're giving up."

Krycek snorted at the idea as he climbed onto the back of the man's motorcycle. Everyone else was doing the same and the first few were already heading down the drive for the exit. Once off the estate, they would head cross-country by a variety of routes, meeting up at the pre- arranged location. The Hunters might seem crude by 'civilized' standards, but they were sharp when it came to planning. He liked them.

"Of course not," he said. "But after this, they'll be expecting us at the Center."

"That's all right," Wolfling said with a grin. "I got a friend who can help us."

"What makes you think this person can help us."

"Well, considering he's escaped from the Center, more than once, I think he can help us figure a way to break someone out."

Krycek's eyes went wide. Then the memory of an overheard argument involving Spender surfaced. "Your friend wouldn't happen to go by the name Jarod, by any chance?" he asked.

"Got it in one, little boy," the Canadian said. Then he kicked his Harley to life and they sped down the road, last in the string of vehicles. By the time Spender's goons arrived, they would be long gone.

When the sudden burst of light faded, Harrison dropped to his knees. He didn't know what the hell had just happened, other than that they were no longer where they had been. The air temperature had dropped several degrees and the air was musty and heavy with dust. When his eyes finally recovered from the blinding flash of light, he looked around to find that they were in some sort of abandoned lab. The room was large and echoing, not a window in site, and a few microscopes and the like were left on the tables scattered around the room. Wires dangled from the walls where larger, more elaborate devices had obviously been installed. The only thing in the room that wasn't covered in a thick, velvety layer of dust was a pile of boxes in one corner.

"Where are we?" Paul demanded from his side, one arm protectively wrapped around Harrison's shoulders as he struggled back to his feet.

"Someplace safe. Where does not matter," the android told him. It wasn't very helpful.

"Why?" Harrison asked. Everything else was secondary to that one question, as far as he was concerned.

"Because your cooperation is needed."

"Cooperation?!" Paul snarled. "You're trying to take over our world and you want cooperation? You try to kill us and you want cooperation!?"

Harrison reached to restrain his lover. This was not the time to be losing their tempers. The android just stared at them for a moment, completely expressionless, before continuing.

"Your cooperation in preventing my people from taking your world."

That statement shut them all up.

Two hours later, Krycek and Wolfling arrived at the rendezvous location. They'd led pursuers on a merry chase before losing them out in the middle of nowhere. The morons were probably still scratching their heads, trying to figure out what had happened to the two guys on the motorbike. Either that or they were shaking in their boots, trying to figure out what they were going to tell Spender. Krycek grinned at the thought of the man's expression when he found out that someone had broken into his estate and made off with one of his prisoners.

Speaking of whom, hurricane Scully—or maybe blizzard was a better term considering how cold the woman could be—was bearing down on him before he'd even gotten off the bike. It was the first time they'd been in the same place without Mulder to mediate between them and Krycek wasn't sure if he was dreading the confrontation or looking forward to it.

"This is all your fault," were the very predictable first words out of her mouth.

Krycek blinked. "And how do you figure that?" he asked in a deceptively mild tone.

"How could you let Mulder just turn himself over to them?" she demanded, but there was a plaintive note to her voice. Krycek sighed. He might not like Scully—and she definitely hated him—but she was Mulder's partner and friend, so of course she was worried about him.

"I didn't exactly have a say in the matter," he told her. "The general wanted to talk to him, so he headed off, saying he'd be right back. He left poor Kincaid to do his dirty work telling me."

"And where were you?" she asked pointedly.

"In a bed in the medical center, recovering from major surgery to repair the damage done by a not inconsiderable piece of metal passing through my body. You want to see the scar?" he invited, starting to tug at his T-shirt.

"Spare me," she said in a tone that had made strong men whither in the past. Krycek wasn't impressed.

"Listen, you should know how good Mulder is at ditching people, even when they're in the best of health. We still managed to track him here." She flushed, the point having hit home. Mulder had ditched her far more often than he'd ditched Krycek. Well, other than that brief period where Krycek had been playing the naÔve FBI agent.

"But he isn't here anymore!" she replied

"No, but we were able to find out where he was sent to. Wolfling," he said, gesturing to the over-sized man who was part of their very interested audience, "knows someone who can get us into the facility where they're holding him. We go in, we get Mulder, then we track down the others."

"I wouldn't have thought you'd care about anyone else," Scully said with a sneer.

"But then, you don't know me, do you?"

"I know enough. You're a traitor and a murderer and worse."

That got a reaction from the small crowd around them. "You work from the outside, I work from the inside," he told her. "And I've never killed anyone who didn't deserve it."

"Like my sister?" Scully shouted. "Did she deserve it?"

Krycek threw up his hands. "How many times do I have to say it before you get it through your head? I. Did. Not. Kill. Your. Sister!"

"Maybe not, but you were there. You could have stopped Cardinale," She said accusingly.

"And if I had, he would have killed me and your sister would probably still have ended up dead. And so would a lot of other people. You can't deny that the information I've funneled Mulder since then has saved lives."

Scully just glared at him. Obviously she could and would. "Why don't you admit the truth," she hissed. "The only thing you care about is you."

"Wrong," he shot back. "I care about Mulder too. And in a choice between him and a stranger—hell, him and you—he'll win every time."

Scully snorted. "The only thing you care about Mulder is getting into his pants," she said.

"Which is more than you care," he hissed back.

Scully went white. "How dare you..." she started to say. Krycek dropped into a fighting stance, ready for whatever she threw at him next.

Blood-letting was starting to look inevitable when Kincaid stepped between them, his face tense with anger. "Listen, if the two of you want to rip each other to shreds, that's your business. Just wait until we've found the other, all right?"

Krycek took a deep breath, then let it out slowly, forcing himself to relax. Kincaid was right: this wasn't helping matters.

"We rescue Mulder, then find the others," he told Scully. "You can help or you can head back to D.C.. Your choice. Just don't get in my way."

"If you think I'm leaving Mulder to you, you've got another thing coming. But," she said grudgingly, "I'll work with you until he's free. After that..." She glared at him.

"After that, all bets are off," he promised her. The smile he got in return was almost scary.

Still, they understood each other. Trust was a different matter altogether.

Debi McCullough felt like shit, pure and simple.

She rolled over in bed, already aiming for the conveniently placed bucket. The smell rising from it was the last impetus her stomach needed, and she was heaving, adding what was left in her stomach to the fluids already in the bucket

As the last spasms faded, her stomach completely empty, she reached for the pitcher of water sitting on the table next to her bed and poured a glass. Her hands trembled and a little bit slopped onto the table surface. She ignored it. She rinsed her mouth with a small amount, spitting it into the bucket, then sipped the lukewarm liquid. When she'd finished the glass, she put it down and collapsed back onto the bed.

The heat was almost unbearable. The air in the room was stagnant, fetid, and the heat sapped all of her strength. She reached a hand down and rubbed her stomach through the thin nightgown she'd been given to wear. She winced a little. Whatever they'd done to her while she was unconscious had left her sore and with a stomach that rebelled at all thoughts of food. She'd lost weight and the only thing that was keeping her healthy were the daily shots of vitamins and intravenous feedings her captors had been giving her.

If only she could get them to explain what was happening to her.

Maybe she wouldn't be so scared.

She'd been separated from her mother and the others as soon as that... person had finished his phone-call to Agent Mulder. She'd been injected with something and didn't remember anything else until she'd woke in her current location. She wanted—no, needed—to know where the others were, but no one would answer her questions. Was her mother somewhere in this building? And where was she anyway?

And what were they doing to her?

Despite her efforts to stop them, the tears started again. She rolled over onto her side and curled up around her aching stomach, the sobs making her whole body shake. The sound of the door opening heralded the arrival of her keepers, come to stick needles in her again, but she ignored them.

The only thing real to her was her misery and there was no relief from it.

Chapter #27: Cages

"What is it you want from us?" Suzanne McCullough asked in a tired voice. For the last week—or something close to that—she'd been kept locked up in a small cell with nothing to distract her from her thoughts and worries. The few people she had seen had refused to answer her questions and even now she had no idea where her daughter was. Out of everything, that last worried her the most.

And her first sight of Harrison and the Colonel had been shocking. Ironhorse looked healthy enough, although the dark circles under his eyes spoke of a lack of sleep. Harrison, on the other hand...

The man she'd once worked with—and had been in love with, though she'd never told him that—looked like hell. His sandy-colored curls were plastered to his skull by sweat and grime. His eyes were sunk deep in their sockets and he looked gaunt. As he stood, he was swaying slightly. The sway probably would have been worse if Ironhorse hadn't been at his side, propping him up. Neither one of them looked like they'd had a bath since she'd last seen them. At least she'd been allowed the chance to shower in the small locker room just down the hall from her cell.

"Your help to save your people from mine," was the flat reply from the woman she only vaguely remembered from ten years earlier.

"Why?" Paul asked suspiciously. "People—if you could be called that," he added bitterly, "don't change sides often. How do we know that this isn't a trick?"

"Because it is not. Ten years ago, I had decided that your race has potential. Most of my people see you as no better than animals. You kill each other, you watch while thousands of your own kind die of hunger without lifting a finger. You destroy your world. These are the acts of beasts.

"But while I hunted the Mothren so that they could not interfere with our plans, I saw enough to know that your kind has the potential to become civilized. If given the chance. I, and others, believe that you should be given that chance."

"And what do you plan on doing about it?" Paul asked. "Tell your friends that they should just give up, go home and leave us alone?"

The woman just stared at him until he flushed, part anger and part embarrassment from the look of it. "No. They would not listen if I tried to do so. You must stop them."

Suzanne laughed. She could hear the tinge of hysteria in her own voice, but was powerless to do anything about it. "And how are we supposed to do that? We couldn't even stop the Mothren. It was Ceto and Mana, two of their own, that convinced them that they were being used by their leader. Nothing we did had any real effect."

"You have the knowledge necessary," they were told. "You will know what to do when the time comes." She stopped, and looked around at them. "Where is the other?"

Suzanne went blank, but Harrison answered, the first words he'd spoken since their arrival. His voice sounded tired. Hoarse, like he'd been screaming a lot. "Norton Drake is dead." At his side, Paul winced. Suzanne felt a small surge of sympathy. She and Harrison had had eight years to adjust to Norton's death. For Paul, Norton had been alive only a couple weeks earlier. For him, the wounds would still be fresh.

"That is unfortunate. However, his presence is not critical."

"Unfortunate? Unfortunate!?" Without thinking, Suzanne stepped forward and slapped the woman. The resulting pain in her hand reminded her again that while this being looked like a woman, she wasn't. It was like she'd slapped a brick wall. Suzanne gasped hugged her throbbing hand to her chest. For a moment, she wondered if she'd broken something.

Unfortunate? Sweet, brilliant Norton Drake. The man who'd run all their computers, designed their scanners and search engines, been their best support. The man with an infectious laugh, always ready to help. The man who'd been so patient with a child dragged out of her life and forced to live with a fight she hadn't chosen to be part of. The man who'd never let the disabilities that had put him in a wheelchair slow him down, even in a fight. Norton Drake had become one of her dearest friends and sometimes lover and this... thing was calling his death unfortunate but not critical? The fury let her ignore the pain in her hand.

The being that now held their lives in her hand just stared at her, not bothering to react to the ineffective assault. "I will return for you when the time is right." Then she was gone in a flash of light, leaving them alone in the dust-filled room.

Suzanne slowly collapsed into a seated position on the floor, dropping her head to her knees, fighting the urge to cry. She wasn't sure how much more of this she could take. She longed for her simple life in Cascade. No. She wanted to go further back. She wanted to go back to the days when she'd just been a scientist and a mother. She wanted the days when she laughed at the idea of aliens and invasions. She wanted a normal world again.

She wasn't going to get it.

Jarod Martin, zoo-keeper—for the moment, at least—stared out over the small enclosure, a smile on his face as he watched the otters frolic in their artificial grotto. The enterprising little creatures had built a slide in the embankment and were sliding down it to the water where they did fancy twists and turns before scampering up to the top of the slide to go again. A few just floated in the shallows, enjoying the warm Indian-summer sun. He loved to watch the otters. There were few creatures in the world that could match them for sheer love of life and playfulness.

"Jarod?"

The unfamiliar voice caught his attention. Jarod turned and slid his sunglasses down his nose to look at the man standing behind him. He was tall and skinny—so skinny that he looked like a strong breeze would blow him over. He was dressed in much-ripped blue jeans, a Harley T-shirt and a leather bomber jacket that was probably too warm for the day, though he didn't show any signs of being uncomfortable.

"Yes. Do I know you?" Jarod didn't think he knew the man, but he'd met so many people since leaving his old home—prison was probably a better term—that sometimes his memory played tricks on him. Right now it was telling him that he'd seen this man before, but had not been introduced to him. He was having a little trouble remembering where though.

"Wolfling sent me."

That jogged his memory. Jarod had met Wolfling in New Mexico, almost a year earlier. He'd acquired a motorcycle and had decided to take a road trip. No destination, no plans. Just... see some more of the country he had so little practical experience with. He'd run into a biker gang led by an oversized Canadian with red hair and the improbable name of Wolfling and had ended up travelling with them for a couple of weeks. It had never occurred to him that it wasn't safe to do so.

About two weeks later, a group of goons from the Center had caught up with him, but the Hunters hadn't taken kindly to the interference with someone they'd accepted into their family. They hadn't killed the three men. Just tied them up and left them in a farmer's pig pen. Jarod smiled at the memory of the expression on the faces of the well-dressed men as they rolled in the mud, trying to get to their feet.

"So what brings you my way?" he asked, leaning back against the low wall separating the walkway from the otter enclosure below.

"Wolfling needs a favor."

Jarod nodded. He'd told the Canadian that if he ever needed anything from him to just call. He owed the man, and he liked to pay his debts. Besides, he liked Wolfling. "Where?" he asked, brief and to the point.

"Delaware. He says that your old friends have an unwilling guest that he wants to get out."

That caught Jarod's attention. After they'd defended him, he'd told the Hunters all about the Center and how he'd been taken by them as a child, his later escape and his quest to find his family while staying one step ahead of the Center's pursuit since then. How a Hunter—or someone they knew—had ended up in the Center, he didn't know. But he supposed he would find out.

"Let's go then," he said, reseating his sunglasses properly on his nose.

As they headed for the exit, they passed by the big cats building. Dimly, Jarod could hear the sounds of screams. Obviously, the soon-to-be-former owner of the zoo hadn't yet figured out that he was perfectly safe in the plexi-glass cage he was stuck in. Of course, that cage was in the middle of the lion enclosure, and the normally pleasant cats were not happy. The drugs that had been put in their food to make them more irritable—and as a result providing a better show for the visitors— made them very dangerous, as one of the zoo's employees had found out. He would let the man know that his scars were not in vain before he left for Delaware.

Debi was taking a few cautious steps around her prison when the door opened. Her stomach had finally settled down and the weather had turned a little cooler, letting her sleep at night, so she was starting to feel human. She was eating properly again and slowly regaining her strength.

She turned, expecting yet another of the endless stream of technicians who showed up to take blood samples and run tests on her. She wasn't sure why, but she had a feeling that it was related to whatever had been done to her when she'd arrived at this place.

It wasn't a technician or a doctor. Her eyes widened at the sight of the... man? standing in the doorway and she lost her balance, landing hard on her rear end.

"Are you all right?" her... visitor asked in a deep growl. He was at her side, holding out a hand out to her. She stared at it, and him, not moving. And it wasn't because all he was wearing was a short loincloth.

The being in front of her was shaped roughly like a man, but most definitely was not. Male, maybe, but not a man. Men did not come covered in a thick pelt of black fur like this one. And while men did often have blue eyes, they did not come with slit pupils like this one.

And they definitely did not come with tails.

He waited—not very patiently—for a moment. When she didn't take his hand... paw... whatever... he finally reached down and yanked her to her feet. She cried out, feeling like her arm had been nearly pulled from its socket. Almost at once, she found herself clutched to a soft, broad chest with a hand stroking her back soothingly.

There was a faint rumble above her head, which was tucked under his chin. He—whoever he was—was very tall and very muscular. Kind of like what Arnold Schwarzenegger would like if crossed with a black panther. When she finally managed to push away from him slightly, the sound had turned into words.

"sorrysorrysorrysorrysorrysorrysorry..."

Debi blinked. "I'm all right," she said, reaching up to turn the face to see her. She flinched a bit at the sharp teeth that showed through the still moving lips. However the big tears welling up in his eyes reassured her that he didn't really mean any harm, although it didn't escape her attention that he could probably rip her to shred accidentally.

"All right?" he asked, sniffling like a little boy. He rubbed the back of his hand across what was more muzzle than face. Debi couldn't help smiling and the contrast between his behavior and the deep, gravely voice.

"I'm all right," she repeated. "You just caught me a little... off-guard. Who are you?" He cocked his head to the side, looking at her with a puzzled expression. "What's your name?" she asked, trying again. That didn't get any more of a reaction than the first question. "What do they call you?" she tried desperately.

That got a reaction. He stood up straight and puffed up his chest proudly. "Test subject nine-seven!" he announced to the world.

Debi blinked, then paled a little. Test subject? It had a disturbing ring to it. "I can't call you that," she protested.

The panther-man deflated. "Why not?" he asked plaintively.

"It wouldn't be right. You need a name, not a number."

His features might be inhuman, but they were very expressive. At the moment, they were expressing confusion. "There's a difference?"

"Of course there is!"

He frowned slightly. "What's your name?"

"Debi."

"oh." His face went sad. "I don't have a name."

"Well, then we'll just have to give you one," Debi told him. There was something about his obvious innocence that she was finding very endearing. In fact, it reminded her of someone else she'd known, years ago. An enemy who'd become a friend. Someone who'd died and deserved to have his memory honored. "How about Ceto?"

"Ceto?"

"Yes. Do you like it?" He stared at her for a moment, then puffed up again, She found herself giggling at the sight. "My name is Ceto!" he said in a very determined voice.

All at once, Debi found herself swept into another tight hug. The newly- named Ceto was snuffling her hair, making a rumbling sound that was suspiciously like a purr. Debi giggled again and hugged him back, enjoying the feel of his silky fur against her cheek.

For the first time since she'd received the note from Agent Mulder, Debi McCullough felt safe and protected.

Mulder paced back and forth in his cell, trying to work off some nervous energy. Several days—he wasn't sure how many—had passed since his one visit from someone who wasn't a jailer. The man hadn't come back, but he wasn't surprised. Not long after that, he'd heard the sounds of construction outside his door and he would bet it was his jailers installing monitoring equipment in the hallways to make sure he didn't get any more unauthorized visitors.

He'd amused himself for a while searching his cell for audio pickups and cameras; something he'd become adept at in his frequent sweeps of his apartment back in DC. He'd found five, of a type he'd never seen before. The miniaturization was impressive: Much better than anything the FBI ever got. And he was pretty sure that he hadn't found them all.

It hadn't done him much good, though. Not long after he'd gleefully flushed the no-doubt expensive devices down his toilet, he'd woken from one of the increasingly erotic dreams he'd been having of Alex with the groggy, stuff-headed feeling that said his last meal had been drugged. When he'd checked, all the monitoring devices were back in place. They hadn't even bothered trying to hide them, just putting them back in the exact same spots.

Message received and understood.

Since then, the files had been arriving at an even faster pace, and now they had a common thread. While the incidents were now more mundane— although just as varied as before—and were scattered across the country, they all had one name in common.

Jarod.

Who this Jarod person was, he wasn't sure at first. Sometimes he was described as a doctor, a fire fighter, a special effects wizard, a racecar driver. Hell, 'tinker, tailor, soldier, spy' was as good a phrase as any to describe the man. And he always seemed to show up to uncover secret crimes and corruption after someone had been hurt. Sort of a real-life superhero, according to the files Mulder was given.

After more than a dozen of these files, he'd started getting older ones: Files that explained just who and what Jarod was. He was a Pretender. A man with the ability to become anything he wanted, right down to the skills. Mulder quickly found himself speculating on just how this was possible. A subconscious form of telepathy was his guess, since it seemed that even Jarod didn't seem to know how he did what he did. It was the only way to explain how the man could walk into a hospital and become a surgeon: He plucked the necessary knowledge from the minds of the surgeons around him.

He was also, according to these files, the 'property' of The Center and had escaped several years earlier. Mulder would guess that The Center was the place he was currently being held.

The last file had come with a pad of paper, a pen and typewritten instructions: Propose a plan for predicting the subject's moves and reacquiring him.

This was what had him pacing like a caged animal. On an intellectual level, the puzzle was fascinating. He even had a few ideas based on the profile he'd built of the man while reading his files. However he had no interest in helping his jailers capture a man he found himself liking more and more as he read.

But he'd promised Spender that he would 'do as he was told.' If he didn't, Scully was the one that would suffer for his defiance.

What to do?

He was stuck in a cage with no way out.

Chapter #28: Consultations

Sydney sighed and brought up the next list. Miss Parker had set Broots to keeping track of the files being taken to this Mulder person and a disturbing trend was starting to appear. At first there was no rhyme or reason to the subject matter. He wasn't even sure why the Center had files on some of them: none of the events seemed to be related to Center business. Maybe they had something to do with this Consortium that Broots had discovered.

However, now the files were all about Jarod. First the more recent, then the older files from before his escape. The implications were disturbing. The Center wanted Mulder to know everything about Jarod. Either they expected to get their hands on the man soon, or they expected Mulder to help them capture Jarod.

Speaking of whom, he hadn't heard from Jarod in several weeks now. No questions, no teasing hints of what he was doing and where. Sydney felt perversely abandoned, even though it was safer for Jarod not to contact him right now. He was sure that he was being watched by the powers that be or their flunkies. While he might work for the Center, he found himself working more and more at cross-purposes with them and they knew it.

He'd been warned when he was younger to be careful of getting too emotionally involved with his subjects, but that hadn't saved him. He'd been lost since the day they put him in a room to work with a young boy, a new intake at the Center. Very quickly, Jarod had become the son he'd always wanted. As a result, he couldn't seem to help looking forward to those calls these days, anticipating the brief contacts they had from time to time. And he was equally helpless to resist the need to interfere in the Center's attempts to recapture Jarod. The young man had obviously flourished since his escape, and both Sydney's parental and scientific instincts wanted to see what he would make of himself.

He was so distracted by his thoughts that when the phone rang it made him jump. He stared at it suspiciously for a moment before picking it up.

"Hello?"

"Hello, Sydney," said the voice of the man he'd just been thinking about.

Sydney felt a small burst of pleasure at the familiar voice before caution reasserted itself. With the heightened security, he was probably being watched. However, with any luck it was just visual, not audio. As long as he didn't make any unusual moves, no one should notice.

"Hello," he said pleasantly, leaning back in his chair casually. "It's been a while."

"Yes it has. Why, did you miss me?" Jarod teased, and Sydney smiled in response.

"Actually, yes. But now is not a good time. Things are a little... busy around here right now."

"Really? And would that have anything to do with a man named Mulder?"

Sydney froze in shock. How had Jarod known...? But then Jarod always seemed to know more than he should. It was one of the things that had made working with him so fascinating.

"How did you know that?" he asked, carefully keeping his surprise from his face. Meanwhile, he kept one eye on the clock, timing the call. The longer the call, the more likely that someone would get suspicious and start a trace.

"It seems that Agent Mulder has some very anxious friends," Jarod replied. "Can we meet?"

"Well, I'm not sure I can get away tonight," Sydney said. "I won't be home until late. In a couple days, perhaps?" he said, trusting Jarod to pick up on what he was really saying.

"Understood. Later, then."

Sydney hesitated, then said honestly, "Be careful."

He could almost hear the smile in the other man's voice. "I always am," Jarod said, then hung up.

Sydney leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes. He'd leave his back door unlocked when he got home. While he was sure that Jarod knew where his spare key was—and was fully capable of picking the lock if he didn't—there was no point in making things difficult for him.

He opened his eyes and stared at the phone for a moment, fully expecting it to ring again, this time with either Mr. Raines or his unfortunate flunky, Mr. Lyle, on the other end. It didn't

Finally, Sydney straightened up and went back to work, this time with a feeling of anticipation to carry him through the day.

"So, how's she doing?"

Linda Malone, head of the gene-splicing project at the Consortium facility in the Yucatan province, looked up from her computer screen, her face twisting in annoyance at the interruption. Jeff Ericks, her second and a brilliant scientist in his own right, if a little too soft-hearted for her liking, was standing in front of the monitor showing the view from the security camera in test subject one-five-seven's room. On the monitor, the subject was talking animatedly with test subject nine-seven.

"Fine. The adjustment to the booster shots corrected the chemical imbalance in the subject's blood."

"I meant emotionally," Ericks said, frowning.

Linda shook her head, snorting in derision. "Don't get so attached to the subjects," she told him. "It just gets you in trouble." It was a warning she'd given to many a subordinate over the years.

Ericks sighed. "Emotional states affect the physical, you know. If she's overly upset or tense, it could harm the fetus."

The muscles around Linda's mouth tightened at the rebuff. While it was a good comeback, she didn't buy it. Ericks got emotionally involved with his subjects. He hadn't yet learned, the way that she'd learned, to see them as faceless, disposable lab rats. Of course, she'd also seen too many scientists over the years who got attached to their lab rats, even going so far as giving them names. You wouldn't catch her doing something that foolish. Numbers were adequate labels. Besides, it wasn't like they were going to be around for long.

Even nine-seven, the longest resident test subject, was headed, inevitably, for the dissection table once his usefulness came to an end.

"Check the results of the latest blood-tests," she said, prodding him to get to work. He headed for his own terminal, obediently. At least he knew how to follow orders.

Linda turned her attention back to her screen, pushing gray hair out of her eyes. It was time to get it cut again, she reminded herself. It was becoming a distraction. Then she lost herself in the gene-sequences that danced on the screen before her. She'd been working on this program for more than forty years and she was determined to produce a complete success before she died. The fetus that one-five-seven carried was that success. She was sure. One-five-seven and the other three surrogates would produce the perfect human-feline hybrids in just three months, thanks to techniques that sped up the development of the fetuses.

When she'd first joined the project, she'd been fresh out of school, full of confidence. She'd been set to work on a project to combine human DNA with that of animals. They'd tried several different types before settling on felines as a source. Primates were more compatible, but feline were more... elegant. And more inspiring of fear, she knew. It was obvious from the start that the project was intended to produce soldiers. She didn't really care. It was the science involved that interested her.

Unfortunately, there were still a lot of unknowns involved. The first batch of hybrids produced had been completely psychotic. While this wasn't necessarily a bad thing in a soldier, in their case it made them uncontrollable. The entire batch had been terminated before their fifth birthday.

Dissection and analysis had suggested ways of making the next batch a little more biddable, but they'd over-compensated. The result had been pacifists unless they were directly threatened. It was better, but still not usable. That batch had also been destroyed.

Linda's expression tightened. Destroyed except for one. Somehow, not long after the birth of group two, one of the technicians had managed to steal one of the subjects and escape. Their employers had caught up with the woman, but the infant was gone. The woman had refused to say what she'd done with it before she died. It was one of the reasons that the project had been quickly moved from New York to the middle of the Mexican jungle.

Since then, there'd been three more test batches. Nearly a dozen had been deemed worth preserving. They'd been raised at the facility, then shipped off for training. Nine-seven had been part of one of those batches. It wasn't considered aggressive enough, but had been allowed to live to see if the hybrids would breed true. Unfortunately, they hadn't. Bred with humans, they produced fully human offspring. Bred with large cat breeds, they produced fully feline offspring. The only interesting result was that the one third of the humans had shown signs of being Sentinels and the felines had all showed higher than average intelligence and trainability.

That's why she had suggested something new for this batch. The three subjects currently developing in-uterus were all female.

Her employers had resisted the idea. Up until now, all the hybrids had been male. Linda snorted softly to herself. It was pure sexism on their part. They wanted to breed soldiers and they refused to see that females might be better choices than males. After all, wasn't the female called the deadlier of the species? She'd pushed for the chance for several decades and she'd finally gotten them to agree to one batch of females. In the end, it had been the suggestion that they find out if female hybrids would breed true, especially if mated to male hybrids.

Linda looked forward to finding out, although she would probably be at the end of her career by that point. It didn't really matter. She'd devoted her life to this project. All she wanted was to see it succeed.

Sydney hadn't lied about being busy. It was almost midnight before he managed to get away from the Center. By the time he got home, he was exhausted. He started a pot of coffee brewing and settled down to wait for Jarod to show up.

The sound of the back door woke him up. He'd sat down on the sofa, just intending to close his eyes for a moment. A glance at the clock said that nearly an hour had passed since then. Ignoring the sounds of footsteps coming down the hall, he went to check the coffee. It was a little strong, but drinkable. Sydney pulled out several mugs, filled one and took a long swallow before turning around.

Jarod was standing in the kitchen doorway, a small smile on his face. Behind him were two men. Both had dark hair and an air that said they were dangerous. Very dangerous. Presumably the anxious friends that Jarod had mentioned.

"Coffee?" Sydney asked mildly, then had to suppress a yawn.

One of the men with Jarod smiled, but the other one just shook his head. "Mulder," he said bluntly.

Sydney waved them towards the kitchen table. He brought over the mugs and the pot of coffee. "Milk's in the fridge, sugar's in the bowl," he said, nodding towards where it sat on the table. "Help yourselves."

Jarod poured a cup and added a disgusting amount of sugar. Jarod had developed a definite sweet-tooth since leaving the Center. No doubt a reaction to the carefully controlled diet he'd been on since he was a child.

The man with the smile also poured a cup. He drank it black. The third member of the group ignored the coffee. "Mulder," he said again in a hard voice.

"He's in the Center. A cozy little cell on Sub-Level twenty-five. Broots spoke to him, "he told Jarod in an aside. "He's fine, but angry. Or at least he was a few days ago. Unfortunately, his cell was bugged. They knew someone was down there, but not who. The whole level is being monitored now."

"Any way in except through the front door?" the other man said. He had an unusual accent. Sydney would guess that the man had spent a lot of time out of the country.

Sydney glanced at Jarod, then nodded. "Most of the other entrances have been sealed since Jarod escaped. But there are still a couple that the powers that be don't know about."

"Really?" Jarod said, his eyebrows going up. "I didn't know that."

"Miss Parker found one of her mother's diaries recently," Sydney said. "It was well-hidden. It detailed her work trying to free some of the children that the Center took. She found a couple escape tunnels, built into the Center to allow the management to leave if there was trouble. I'm not sure how, but she managed to destroy all reference to them, and I'm not sure that anyone currently know where those exits are. Except us, that is."

The hard-faced man pulled a pad of paper and a pen from under his leather jacket. "I assume you can draw us a map," he said, pushing them towards Sydney. There was no please in his voice, just an order.

Sydney frowned. He was beginning to dislike this man. Intensely. He didn't bother saying so, since he doubted that the man would care. He would also guess that the man would cheerfully hurt him if he said no. Not that Sydney intended to. Jarod had asked him and he had a hard time telling Jarod no.

So he took the pen and paper and started sketching. It didn't have to be too accurate. Jarod already knew the area, so as long as he and his new friends could follow it to the entrance, it would be enough. Besides, if something happened and they were captured or lost the paper, no one else would be able to make heads or tails of it. "It opens into Sub-Level fourteen," he said as he wrote. "Not far from the north stairwell. The stairwell will take you straight down to twenty-five. However, the moment you open the door onto Sub-Level twenty-five, the alarms will go off. As well, there are cameras in all of the stairwells that are being monitored. You'll have to move fast to get your friend out before security arrives."

"Can you do anything about the alarms?"

Sydney shook his head. "They're on a stand-alone system that I don't have authorization for. However..." He paused, thinking about it.

"Yes?" Jarod asked, leaning forward eagerly.

"Well, we might be able to arrange a short in the system that would take out all of the security cameras. It's something Broots and I have been working out. Just theory, you understand, but it might give you a little more time to work with." Jarod nodded.

The unfriendly member of the trio opened his mouth, no doubt to say something scathing, but the other man broke in before he could say anything. "Don't, Alex. If it's all he can do, it will have to be enough."

Sydney pushed the pad over to Jarod, who tore off the top page, folded it and put it in his shirt pocket. "I'll get Broots to arrange it," Sydney told them. "But a short won't last long. You'll have to let me know when you plan to make your move."

"So you can tell your bosses? I don't think so," said the man who'd been called Alex. Again, his friend shushed him up.

"Thank you, Sydney," Jarod said, getting to his feet. "I'll let you know when." When the other man made to protest, Jarod frowned. "I trust Sydney," he said. Sydney felt a warm glow swell inside him at the words. Not many people truly trusted him, not even his own son.

"Fine," Alex said, pushing to his feet. "But if you betray us," he said, turning ice-cold eyes on Sydney, "I will kill you."

Somehow, Sydney didn't doubt it.

Sydney watched as the three men headed for the back door again. Once they were gone, he collected the mugs and washed them all. When they were back in the cupboard where they belonged, he decided to be paranoid. He wiped down the table and everything else that the three men might have touched.

After he finished, he locked all the doors, turned out the lights and headed for bed. In the morning he would talk to Broots. He wasn't sure how the tech would react to the idea of trying out their theories in real life, though. Either excited at having the chance to prove he was right or piss-your-pants terrified.

Sydney was betting on terrified.

But he didn't think he would tell Miss Parker what was going on. While the woman was growing more sympathetic over time as she learned more about her mother and what had really happened to her, her feelings towards Jarod were rapidly reaching the point of obsession. He couldn't be sure that she wouldn't take the chance to get her hands on her nemesis. He was a challenge. He was the only assignment she'd failed in.

And she was showing signs of a more personal interest that Sydney knew Jarod would never return. While Jarod showed a great deal of fondness for the emotionally-damaged woman, his feelings showed a more fraternal leaning, while Miss Parker's were anything but, Sydney would guess.

Despite the thoughts and plans racing through his mind—not to mention the caffeine racing through his veins—Sydney was yawning again by the time he made it to the bedroom and changed into his pajamas. After a week of heavy overtime, he was asleep almost the moment his head hit the pillow.

Morning would be soon enough for making firmer plans.

Chapter #29: Anticipation

Left alone in the abandoned facility with no idea how long they'd be there, the first thing they did was get settled. Suzanne started unpacking the boxes that had been left for them while Harrison and Paul checked the rest of the building, assuming that it was a building and not some sort of underground bunker.

They didn't find much. The abandoned equipment—what little there was —was all human manufacture and at least a decade old. The only exception was the portable toilet in one of the rooms off their starting point. Silly as it might be, both men were relieved that they wouldn't need to use a bucket, assuming that they could find one.

However, there was no sign of why the facility had been abandoned or what it's purpose had been.

After almost an hour of searching, they finally found the exit, an air- lock setup. Fortunately, whatever was supplying the power for the lights and heat also powered the doors.

Unfortunately, once they got the doors open, any hopes they had of escape were crushed. The thick doors opened onto a snow-covered plain. The two men stared out over it, shivering in the cold wind. The thin light was fading fast as the sun went down.

"Antarctica," Harrison said gloomily. In a strange way, he liked it though. It was so... quiet.

"Or the North Pole," Paul suggested. He didn't sound like he seriously believed that.

Harrison shook his head. "No. This may sound stupid, but it feels like the South Pole."

Next to him, Paul shrugged, then shivered. "Well, with no vehicle, no map and no compass, we are going nowhere, not there would be anywhere to go. I suggest we get back inside and seal things up. The last thing we need is to start bleeding heat."

"All right," Harrison said, giving the peaceful landscape one last look before following Paul in. Inside, the hum of the generator and the echoes from their footsteps sounded almost deafening. Harrison winced. After all the torture tests he'd been put through, his senses felt hyper-sensitive. He focused on his lover, looking for the peace that the other man seemed to exude along with confidence, no matter what the circumstances.

They retraced their route back to the lab they'd started in, following their footsteps through the dust. There they found Suzanne inflating an air mattress, with two more leaning against the wall, already inflated.

"We've got food, bedding and clothes," she said, pointing towards tidy piles on tables that had been cleared of dust. Paul picked up one foil- wrapped package and groaned.

"MREs," he said in a resigned tone. Harrison winced. He'd only had to eat the army's idea of a "Meal Ready to Eat" a couple of times in the past and he had as low an opinion of them as the common field soldier.

"It's better than starving," Suzanne pointed out.

Harrison glanced around. There were two storage rooms attached to the lab they were in—probably the main lab originally. One had the portable toilet and the other was empty. He nodded towards it. "Do you want the other room or shall we take it?" he asked Suzanne, deciding to be optimistic and assume that he and Paul were going to need the privacy.

Suzanne chuckled. Having something to do had obviously raised her spirits. "You take it," she said. "That way, if I need to go to the toilet in the middle of the night, I won't have to worry about interrupting... anything," she added with a small leer.

Harrison glanced over at Paul, but the Colonel was busy going through their supplies. There were sleeping bags and pillows to go with the air mattresses, and several track suits that they could change into. There was even toilet paper and a pile of paperback novels, although Harrison doubted that he would ever be desperate enough to read a Harlequin Romance. He wondered briefly why an alien android would pick those for reading material.

Seeing soap in his lover's hand, Harrison grabbed it from him, along with a change of clothing and one of the towels that their very thorough host had left for them before heading for the door. "Shower," he called over his shoulder. They'd already discovered that there was running water— although bottled drinking water had been left for them—and they'd found a locker room, so he was looking forward to a hot shower. The more time that went by without the 'tests,' the more he relaxed. He was now relaxed enough that the he found the dirt and grime on his body and in his hair unbearable. Everything itched.

Paul uttered an almost inaudible moan. "I'll join you," he said, grabbing more towels and clothing for himself. Suzanne waved them off, picking up one of the romance novels.

Harrison quickly fell behind as Paul headed for the showers at a quick march. The military man had always been fastidious, so their time in Spender's hands, not allowed to bathe or change, had probably been as bad for him, if not worse, than it had been for Harrison.

Dirty clothes were dropped on the floor and left to molder. Clean clothes and towels were carefully hung on hooks. Hot water was turned on and no words were spoken as they immersed themselves in the serious business of getting clean other than "Soap, please."

Finally, all dirt was gone and the two men just stood under the spray, enjoying the sensation of being clean. Harrison ran his fingers through the thick beard that he now sported, trying to bring it under control. He looked enviously at Paul. The man's Amerind genes meant that he had almost no facial hair worth noting, while Harrison grew a thick and curly beard, bright red in color, in a matter of days.

Paul noticed the motion and grinned. "Sorry, Doctor," he said. "No razors in the care package."

Harrison sighed. "She probably worried that we might use them to kill ourselves before we do whatever it is she wants from us." He paused. "Do you believe her?" he asked the other man. Harrison knew he was out of practice reading people after living in the woods for more than half a decade, and even before that he hadn't been very good at it. Paul had always been the more suspicious one.

Paul thought about it for a moment. "I don't know," he finally said. "She... sounds different. I mean, her face and voice still have no expression, but the way she talks is a little different. The phrasing is more natural. Hell, we don't even know if she really is the same one we met before, Katara. They're artificial beings. They could all look like that, for all we know."

Harrison nodded. "I noticed that too. So the question is, what do we do?"

"For now, what we're told. Our choices are a little limited, you noticed. She put us someplace we can't leave. Until she comes back, there's nothing we can do except wait."

Harrison leaned against the cool tile wall and closed his eyes, breathing the steam from the showers. Then he smiled. "I can think of one other thing we can do," he said softly.

Paul returned the smile, then moved into the circle of Harrison's arms, leaning against him. "So can I," he said.

Their lips met in a gentle kiss that slowly grew in intensity. Despite exhaustion and deprivation, Harrison's cock twitched and started to swell. Against him, he could feel Paul's cock doing the same. It felt so damn good.

By the time need for breath drove them apart, they were both hard and panting. Harrison reached down to grasp Paul's erection in one hand. He felt his lover's hand do the same to him and they both groaned. It had been too long. Since Paul had been returned to him, they hadn't gone this long without the intimate touching that they both seemed to need so badly.

It was short, but very, very sweet. Paul came first and Harrison brought his hand up to his mouth and licked the bittersweet fluid dripping from it. The overwhelming taste of 'Paul' was all he needed to drive him over the edge.

They collapsed against each other, panting as the hot water continued to cascade down on them. Finally, Paul pushed away and reached over to turn off the water. "Suzanne will kill us if we use all the hot water," he said apologetically.

Harrison grunted in understanding. The hot water and climax had caught up with him and he was almost asleep on his feet. Paul moved away, and a moment later he was being wrapped in a warm and fluffy towel. Sighing in pleasure, Harrison let his lover do with him as he willed.

Broots glanced at the door nervously. Sydney had finally gone home, and now that it was two in the morning, the tech-center was empty except for him. The Center was never really completely quiet, but in the middle of the night, he could be reasonably sure that he wasn't going to be interrupted.

The computer beeped and a small drawer slid open. He pulled the mini-disc from it and dropped it into a small pocket hidden inside his shirt. As soon as he was done here, he'd put it with the others, carefully hidden from prying eyes. Someday, if he got the chance, he'd sneak them out of the Center.

And then? Well, he wanted to get them to Jarod, but had no idea how to go about that. Jarod had helped him once; kept him alive when the Center had wanted him dead simply because he'd survived a massacre inside the facility and was considered suspect as a result. Sure, Sydney and Miss Parker had worked from the inside to help him, but Jarod had protected him until they'd succeeded. For that, he owed the man.

Hopefully, this would be a good form of repayment. He'd been copying the Center's entire database onto disk, a little bit at a time. He'd started with experiment data and personnel files, and worked his way out from there. He now had nearly everything on disk.

He never logged into the system as himself, of course. That would attract the wrong sort of attention. But he wasn't considered a master of the computer for nothing. For each section, he found a technician who would have reason to access the data and used their access codes at a time when they weren't logged in. With any luck, no one would even notice.

Broots shivered. He hoped that no one would notice. Getting caught poking around in places you weren't supposed to be was a good way to end up dead.

He really should get away from this place—he knew that. Staying with the Center was almost a guarantee that sooner or later you'd end up dead, but he knew better than to try to leave. The Center would hunt him down, and he had a daughter to protect. Debbie was the light of his life, he thought with a smile. Only eleven, she was beautiful, smart and kind.

The smile disappeared. It had been made quite clear—sometimes without even a word—that she was the one who would suffer if he tried to get away. He'd sold his soul to the devil and the devil didn't like to be cheated. Besides, life on the run was no life for a young girl.

Broots glanced around one last time before leaving, checking to make sure he hadn't forgotten anything. In a way, that had been the Center's biggest mistake. They had threatened his daughter. The only way she would be really safe was if the Center no longer existed and Jarod was the person with the best chance of bringing down the damned place.

That was why Broots was risking his life in late-night data-raids. If Jarod was going to bring down Parker and his people, he was going to need information. Information that Broots was going to supply him with.

It took nearly two days to organize their plans and to coordinate with Sydney and Broots. Wolfling had offered his Hunters for the rescue attempt, but Kincaid had turned him down. Alex agreed with him. The assault on Spender's estate had needed a sledgehammer, but the high-tech security of the Center needed a scalpel. The Hunters would be their backup, waiting a mile from the facility to cover their escape, but a small group would have the best shot at success.

That group would be Alex, Kincaid and Jarod. Alex wasn't happy about that last part, but accepted the necessity. While he'd heard a lot about Jarod of the years—a man who'd escaped from a Consortium lab and had proceeded to drive them insane by staying one step ahead of all pursuers, taunting them and leading the on a merry chase—he didn't know the man personally. The idea of putting this much trust in a complete stranger made Alex nervous. He didn't like being nervous. But Wolfling vouched for the man and he'd come to at least accept the big man's advice. Trust was still reserved for Mulder alone.

Besides, Mulder was too important to allow his personal feelings to get in the way. If the man could help rescue Mulder, he would use him. If he became a liability, Alex would get rid of him. If he—or his pal, Sydney—betrayed them, he would kill them. Not quickly and definitely not painlessly.

At least he'd managed to keep Scully out of it. She'd tried to insist on being part of the rescue, but Alex definitely didn't trust her not to screw up, if only because she was too occupied with hating his guts. She would be waiting with their backup, just in case Mulder needed medical attention. He didn't much like that either, but it was the best compromise he'd been able to come up with. Personally, he'd like it better if she were on the other side of the world.

At least the hidden entrance was right where Sydney had promised, and there were no cameras or security goons waiting for them. Alex didn't relax, but he did breathe a little easier.

The air in the passage was still thick and stale, indicating that it had been sealed for a long time. They followed its twists and turns, always heading down at a steep angle.

They finally reached the end of the tunnel, a wooden panel that was the back wall of a small, unused room. Jarod waved them to a stop.

"Sub-Level Fourteen is mostly storage," he said in a hushed whisper. "There wasn't any security there when I was last in the Center. The stairwells are a different matter, though. There are security cameras on every landing, and they are monitored by guards.

"They won't be a problem is your friends do their job right," Kincaid pointed out. Alex said nothing, busy rechecking his guns and various concealed weapons.

"They will," Jarod said confidently. "The camera system will short out in," he checked his watch, "five minutes. It will take between ten and fifteen minutes for the problem to be repaired. That is how long we have to get to your friend and get him out. You better be able to move fast."

Alex glanced at him coldly. "Just don't get in my way," was all he said.

Jarod grinned, seeming not to notice the implied threat. "Don't worry. But remember, whether we succeed or not, they'll find this entrance and plug it. This is a one-shot deal."

Alex just grunted and checked his watch. Four minutes to go. Then he grinned quietly and patted the bag hanging from his shoulder. Just because they were a scalpel, that didn't mean they couldn't do massive damage.

Three days after being left in the abandoned lab by the alien, life had settled into a routine for the three members of the Blackwood Project. Paul exercised, Suzanne read and Harrison rested and regained his strength from his ordeal. And they all fought the mix of boredom and anxiety that filled every waking moment, as well as their dreams.

One benefit of the solitude had been that Harrison and Paul had been able to indulge themselves in as much love-making as they could physically manage, although they tried to be as discreet about it as possible for Suzanne's sake. After the first twenty-four hours, the compulsion had faded a little and they were actually able to spend several hours at a time apart without Harrison zoning.

But the boredom was growing more and more oppressive. Harrison had finally become desperate enough to pick up one of the stack of romances that Suzanne had finished and was groaning his way through the cliched plot and cardboard characters. He was sure that there were good romance novels out there, but this definitely wasn't one of them.

Turning the last page, Harrison put down the book and considered inflicting another one on himself. Then his nose prickled. His head came up and he sniffed the air. There was an unexpected scent of... ozone?

"Paul!" he shouted, climbing to his feet. Across the room, Suzanne scrambled to her feet as well.

Paul burst through the door just as a blinding flash of light heralded the return of their captor, Katara. She waited until the afterimages had faded from their sight before saying, "It is time."

"Time for what?" Paul snapped, stepping protectively in front of both Harrison and Suzanne. "You still haven't told us just what you want us to do!"

"You will know when the time is right," was the calm answer.

Paul opened his mouth to protest, but before he could, there was a second flash of light. When it was done, the room was empty.

Chapter #30: Adrenaline Rush

Mulder was amusing himself by wadding up pieces of paper and using the sink in the corner as a make-shift basket. He'd had enough practice by now that his success rate was four out of five attempts landed successfully in the sink. Every so often he'd go over and collect the balls of paper before starting over again, throwing out the ones that were too soggy to keep using.

He was doing his best to delay providing his captors with anything usable, even though he knew he was going to have to produce, much as he hated the idea: Scully was counting on him. Still, he was doing his best to waste as much time as possible by rereading files, jotting down barely helpful questions and ideas and making a production of playing the eccentric genius, thinking deep thoughts while shooting makeshift hoops.

He'd been in the cell for more than a week now and he was finally seeing some signs of outside life, although he wasn't sure that it was much of an improvement. He'd had three visits from a man who was probably more deserving of the nickname 'Cancerman' than Spender was. The man hadn't provided him with any information, not even his name. Instead, it was just demands for results and veiled threats of what would happen if he didn't produce them. It would be laughable if it weren't so damned scary.

Mulder's face twisted into a bitter expression. At his best estimation, he only had a couple more days before he would have no choice in the matter. He wasn't even sure why he was delaying, other than the fact that he liked the Jarod he'd seen on paper. And perhaps there was still a small part of him that thought a miracle could still happen, rescuing him, Scully and the others.

He snorted. He wasn't usually this much of an optimist.

He was starting round seventeen of his paper basketball game when something unusual happened, catching his attention and make his pulse race, although he couldn't identify it at first. It wasn't much, just a sound. A sound vaguely like an electrical arc. Glancing around the small room, his eyes fell on the latest addition to his cell, a very obvious security camera mounted in one corner near the ceiling. He figured that they had decided that the old pickups and cameras were too subtle.

It was the camera that confirmed that something was going on. The little light that said it was working had gone dark. Mulder moved to stand below the now-dead camera, staring up at it. His breath started to quicken in anticipation.

He glanced around again and moved to pile up the Jarod files, moving quickly. Something was happening and his mind insisted on assigning the name 'Alex' to it. If that was right, he wanted to be ready.

He was starting to seriously pace when the alarms started to shriek and he heard the sound of running footsteps in the hallway.

"Back, Mulder!"

Mulder moved back fast, a grin spreading across his face. It was Alex!

A moment later there was a small explosion and the door swung open, the section around the bolt now missing. On the other side was Alex, a small bag slung over one shoulder, Kincaid and a stranger whose face matched the photographs in the files sitting in the middle of his cell, Jarod.

"Let's go, Mulder," Alex urged, still watching the corridor. He was intense. He was focused.

He was the most beautiful sight Mulder had ever seen.

He headed for the door and the waiting man, then he paused, a thought occurring to him. "You got any more of those little bombs?" he asked.

Alex frowned. "Mulder..."

"Could you blow up the room and everything in it?" Mulder asked hopefully.

Alex looked like he was going to protest, then sighed, obviously deciding that arguing would waste more time than just going along with the request. He pulled a small ball from his bag, twisted the top and rolled it to the middle of the room. "Now can we go?"

Instead of answering, Mulder headed through the door at a run. They were halfway down the corridor when the concussion of the blast behind them tried to knock them off their feet. It didn't slow them down.

The second transport was a little easier than the first, now that he knew what to expect. Harrison didn't end up on his knees and Paul's eyes recovered faster. But even before the sparkles had faded, Paul knew that wherever they were, it wasn't abandoned.

Around him he could hear the hum of machines and the low gurgle of voices speaking a language never meant to be formed by human throats. Paul looked around, and his breath caught.

They were in some sort of base, and one that was well-maintained and heavily manned, unlike the one they'd just come from. All around them was equipment that he couldn't even begin to guess the purpose of, with a handful of expressionless men and women doing equally incomprehensible tasks. A couple of them looked up curiously at the new arrivals.

"Move."

Paul spun and found Katara standing there, a device in her hand that while not exactly gun-shaped was close enough to make his throat close up and his expression turn angry. So much for her claims of wanting to help them. But why now? Why not earlier?

"This way," she said, waving them towards a doorway leading out to a long hallway.

Not having much choice in the matter, they did as they were told. Harrison was cursing under his breath while Suzanne was just white. Paul was cursing too, but not out loud. Somehow, despite himself, he'd believed the woman when she'd said that she wanted to help Earth escape whatever fate her people planned for it and he was calling himself nine kinds of fool for it.

"In here," was the direction, and they went through the indicated door.

Inside was a large room with a glowing circle seemingly inlaid in the floor. Controls of some sort were set into the walls. There was something overwhelmingly... familiar about it.

A man stepped from the shadows, saying something to their captor in the alien gurgle. He looked angry, or at least as angry as any of this race seemed to get.

Without a word, she shot him.

Suzanne gave a little shriek, and Paul couldn't help jumping too. The man when down in a shower of sparks, revealing that he was also an android. While they watched, something black and viscous, like tar or extra-thick oil, oozed from the mechanical remains. Paul watched in horrified fascination as whatever it was slipped across the floor, heading towards the door.

Another blast from the not-gun turned the liquid in a greasy black smear on the floor, and Harrison moved over to prod it with his toe, considering it with a scientist's mind. "Is this what you really are, inside that form?" he asked, open curiosity in his voice.

"There is no time for this. You must work fast."

'Doing what?' Paul wanted to ask.

But he didn't. He was already moving to the controls left of the door they'd come in and was tapping in commands without thinking about it.

The race to escape the facility had all the earmarks of a nightmare as far as Mulder was concerned. Alarms wailed, making conversation difficult. The regular lights had all blinked out, replaced with emergency lighting that washed everything with a sickly red glow. They could already hear the shouts of security heading their way.

As they headed up a flight of steps at a run, Alex was glued to his side. On one of the landings, Mulder finally found the breath to shout over the alarms, "Scully?"

Alex snarled, then shouted back, "She's waiting for us! Stop worrying and concentrate on running!"

Mulder still had worries—not to mention questions—but that was the most important one. The others—like what about Harrison and the others, how did Alex find him, how did Alex find Jarod—all could wait until they were safely out of there. Besides, he didn't think he could find the breath to ask those questions

Mulder was a little taken aback when they left the stairwell through a door labeled "SL-14," implying that they were still well below ground. Only the confidence of his rescuers kept him from protesting, but he did wonder where the hell they thought they were going.

Gulping for air as they ran, he was caught off-guard when Alex grabbed his arm and dragged him into what looked like a storeroom.

An even bigger surprise was the man waiting there for them, and by Alex's reaction it wasn't just a surprise for Mulder. He recognized the man, though. It was his unauthorized visitor from a few days after he'd been delivered to this facility, wherever it was.

Alex and Kincaid obviously didn't know the man; they both drew weapons on him. The poor man promptly dropped the package he was holding and started to babble barely coherent explanations for his presence.

Jarod stepped between the man and the guns pointed at him. "Broots, what are you doing here?" Alex promptly groaned and lowered his gun. Obviously the name meant something to him, even if the face didn't.

"I wanted to get this to you before you left," Broots said, crouching down to pick up his package while trying not to take his eyes off of Alex. He obviously recognized the assassin as the most dangerous man in the room. "Here," he said, thrusting the small bundle at Jarod.

"What is it?" Jarod asked, turning it over in his hands.

Before Broots could answer, there was a shout from the hallway. Immediately, Kincaid moved to push one of the filing cabinets at the back of the room out of the way, revealing a hole in the plywood paneling. "Time to go," he said, almost diving through the opening. Alex pushed Mulder after him, following closely behind.

"Come on, Broots," he heard behind them.

"What? I can't... I have to get back to my workstation!"

"Too late. If you stay here, they'll catch you for sure. You don't have any other choices. Come on!"

"Just what we need," Alex muttered under his breath. Mulder ignored him, too busy trying to keep to his feet as they headed up through the rough- hewn passageway.

Inside, although he was relieved by the rescue, he was dreading what would happen next. As soon as they were safe, he was going to have to talk to Alex, and he wasn't sure he wanted to deal with that confrontation. What was worse, he knew that he deserved whatever Alex was going to throw at him for breaking his promise, back at Cheyenne Mt.

And worst of all, Scully was out there waiting for her shot at him too.

As he worked, Harrison stole glances at the circle in the floor. He didn't even need to look at what he was doing, his hands obviously knew what to do. Instead, his mind was focused on the puzzle of what was going on.

The alien woman was standing guard at the door, watching for the no-doubt inevitable wave of resistance from her own people. Alarms filled the air with a noise that set his teeth on edge. Across the room, Suzanne and Paul were both working feverishly.

As he worked, bits of information floated to the surface of his mind like flotsam. It told him that the circle he saw was evidence of large amounts of equipment beneath the room. This was the sole conduit through which the aliens were moving into this world. He wasn't sure why it was the only one—it didn't seem to make much tactical sense, he knew—but it was.

Something started pounding at the stout doorway that was all that stood between them and a base-worth of aliens, and Harrison picked up speed. He wasn't sure what he was doing, or how he knew to do it, just that it was important that he finish quickly. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Paul's hands drop to the side and the man stepped back from his control panel. Then Suzanne did the same.

And then he felt a sense of completion and he stepped back, just as the door flew open and figures poured through.

Harrison watched, drained, as weapons came up to fire the blasts that would kill them all. In his mind he felt only resignation, as though this moment had been inevitable since the knock on his door, only a few weeks earlier. At least if he had to die, he'd had these last days with Paul, repairing the emotional damage of years without him.

Then a whine filled the air, and he winced and raised his hands to his ears. He watched in amazement as the figures of their attackers started to glow, then one by one... vanished? Then more appeared, out of thin air, then disappeared again. And more, and more...

Finally, only two were left, two of the original wave of attackers. They stared in shock, leaving themselves open to the blasts from Katara's gun. These two didn't explode into sparks like the other one. Instead, they went down with screams and started to bleed a green substance that hissed and smoked as it was exposed to air. Harrison watched in disbelief as the bodies slowly dissolved into nothing. They hadn't been machines.

A moment later, they were alone in the room with their... savior? She lowered the gun and nodded to Paul. The military man stepped forward stiffly and tapped one last command into the panel in front of him. Then Suzanne did the same.

Immediately, all of Harrison's hair started to stand on end. Static electricity filled the air and he could hear the sound of electronics shorting out. Streams of smoke started to pour from the panels on the walls.

Katara nodded slowly. "It is done."

After what seemed like an eternity of climbing, Mulder finally saw a pale grey light up ahead and sighed in relief. They'd had plenty of flashlights to light their way at the start, but most of them had been turned off when they'd heard the hidden entrance to the tunnel discovered, although Mulder wasn't sure why. After all, it was pretty damn obvious where they'd gone, considering how well sound was carrying. But all Alex allowed them was a single dim flashlight, barely enough to keep them from walking into the tunnel walls. Mulder's bare feet were bruised and battered already from the rough ground.

But they'd finally reached the end of the line, stumbling out into the pale pre-dawn light. Mulder collapsed against a tree, breathing heavily. The last week or so of enforced inactivity had left him feeling completely out of shape. He desperately needed exercise. He wasn't sure how Alex kept going, considering that the man had been shot only a week earlier.

Instead, the man still looked fresh. He turned to face the tunnel exit, tossing his now-empty bag aside. Reaching into his jacket pocket, he pulled out a palm-sized device and extended the small antenna. He stared into the tunnel, a fierce grin on his face. They could hear the sounds of pursuit getting closer. Then he pressed a button on the device in his hand.

A moment later, there was a deep, rumbling sound, followed by a cloud of dust and debris belching out of the tunnel. Mulder drew a deep breath, realizing what Alex had done. He'd planted explosives during their escape and he'd just blown the tunnel with their pursuers inside. Then Mulder remembered what he knew of the facility—and the people who'd been holding him prisoner—and found that he couldn't work up much outrage at Alex's actions.

Kincaid was equally unconcerned, but both Jarod and Broots looked shocked. Thankfully they didn't say anything, though. Mulder could just imagine what Alex would say in response to any criticism.

Alex stuffed the detonator back into his pocket. "Let's get going," he said, heading off at a slow jog. Mulder groaned and pushed himself back to his feet to follow.

"We're done here."

Chapter #31: Reunited

The sun was just peeking up above the tops of the trees when they reached the abandoned shed about five miles from the Center where Scully, Wolfling and the others were waiting for them with the vehicles to finish their escape. Alex was reasonably pleased with the way things had gone: The rescue had been pulled off without a hitch—other than their unexpected little tagalong—with the only casualties being on the other side. He would have liked to have blown the entire place to kingdom come, but it was too big and they hadn't had the time. Besides, the others might have objected to the wholesale death and destruction.

However, since the tunnel had been discovered, he had no problem deciding to blow it up along with the people inside. Very few people were going to mourn the deaths of a few Consortium thugs; not even Mulder.

With his gun ready as usual—just to be safe—Alex pushed open the door of the shed. There was always the chance that the opposition knew of the building and had beat them there.

Inside, everyone who was supposed to be there was, along with one unexpected addition. Jarod's pal, Sydney, was in a corner, tied to a chair with a couple of Hunters watching him.

"How the hell did he know to come here?" Alex snapped at Jarod. The sheepish expression on the man's face told him all he needed to know and he resisted an urge to just shoot the man. These sorts of leaks were what led to failed operations. "That's what I thought."

"Scully, are you all right?" Mulder asked squeezing past him. The petite red-head glared up at her partner.

"I'm fine," she said coolly. "However, you and I are going to have a long talk about these suicidal tendencies of yours." The glance she shot in Alex's direction said that she wasn't just talking about Mulder's decision to turn himself over to Spender. Alex's back straightened and he glared back: The battle for Fox Mulder had begun, and he had no intention of losing.

"What about him?" he asked Wolfling in a low voice, gesturing towards Sydney.

"Showed up about ten minutes before you. Said he needed to talk to Jarod." The big Canadian looked as suspicious as Alex felt.

The others had entered the shed now. Sydney smiled when he saw Jarod, then slumped in apparent relief when he saw Broots. "Mr. Raines is looking for you," he said, and Broots made a sound suspiciously like a whimper. "He put two and two together and decided that the camera failure wasn't just a coincidence. He's suspicious, but that's all so far."

Broots turned to Jarod, grabbing at the man's arm. "As soon as he realizes I'm not in the Center, he's going to decide that I'm guilty. He'll send someone after Debbie!"

"Who's Debbie?" Kincaid asked in an undertone. Alex shrugged, but Jarod answered him.

"His eleven year old daughter. Also the best hold that the Center has over him."

Kincaid glanced at Wolfling, who gestured to one of his Hunters. "What's the address," he asked Broots. "Green will go pick her up before this Raines person can get to her."

Broots looked at the heavily tattooed biker dubiously, but obviously realized that his options were limited. He rattled off a street address and some basic directions. The Hunter left and a moment later they heard the a motorcycle start up.

"Now what?" Broots asked, vibrating nervously.

"You run," was the blunt answer from Sydney. Jarod was quickly untying him. "Even if you could prove that you weren't involved—and that would be tough since you were—Mr. Raines would probably kill you on just principle."

"Is that the guy I met?" Mulder broke in. "The one with the lung trouble?"

"That's him."

Mulder gave a little shudder. "I can believe he would do just that," he told Alex. "This guy makes Spender look like the picture of reason."

Alex found that hard to believe, but there wasn't time to debate it. "This is all well and nice, but the longer we stay here, the more likely it is that we're all going to get caught," he said to the room in general. "Let's go."

"Go with them," Sydney told Broots, rubbing his wrists where they'd been tied together. "It's your only option."

"What about you, Sydney?" Jarod broke in. "You could come with us too. After all, if Raines suspects Broots, it's only a matter of time until he starts looking at you."

"Maybe. But until then, I can be of more use on the inside. Besides, Miss Parker needs me." He smiled fondly at Jarod. "But maybe in the near future. Until then, keep in touch," he said softly, already heading for the door.

"Be careful," was the equally soft reply.

"Now can we go?" Alex asked impatiently. "Before someone else decides to join this little party?"

Wolfling grunted in agreement, and quickly hustled them all into the waiting van. They would be dropped at a Hunter safehouse, almost fifty miles away. Then the stolen van would be dumped even further away, in a different direction. They'd all been careful not to leave fingerprints or any other traces, so there would be nothing to lead the police—or the Center—to them.

They hoped

"Would you mind telling us what is done?" Paul asked, shaking a little from suppressed tension. From the moment they'd entered the room, he hadn't been in control of his own body. It was not a feeling he liked, especially after everything that had happened since he'd been released from the Mothren storage pod. "What the hell did we just do, and why?" he added as an afterthought.

The android seemed strangely relaxed, considering she was basically an artificial being. "There are those in my home who disagreed with the plans for your world. Knowing that those factions might try to infiltrate the project, the leaders ensured that no members of the project would be able to act against them directly."

"A familiar story," Harrison said, moving to wrap his arms around Paul from behind. Paul leaned back into the embrace. "I take it that we were your way around that injunction?"

"Correct. When I healed you," she said, referring to their first meeting, more than a decade earlier, when she'd saved their lives, "as a precaution, I implanted the knowledge you would need into your subconscious. Once you entered this room, that knowledge was activated."

"And what was it we did?" Paul asked again, wondering if she were giving them the run-around.

"And what was Norton supposed to have done?" Suzanne added, a catch in her voice. Paul winced, remembering the relationship that the two had had. They'd been discreet, especially around Debi, but everyone knew about it. Probably the same as they'd all known about Paul and Harrison, although no one had ever mentioned it.

The android nodded to Harrison. "You activated a device implanted inside every android form, transporting them first here, then back to our home dimension. You," she nodded to Paul, "sent a signal that will spread through our computing network, erasing all information that refers to your dimension or its coordinates."

"What about off-line backups and archives? Paper, even?" Harrison asked.

"There are none," she replied, a slightly puzzled expression on her face. Harrison snorted, and Paul had to agree. Even in the Project, they'd always kept at least two backups, unconnected to the outside world to protect them from hackers and spies.

"Then you," she nodded to Suzanne, "destroyed the only homing device that would have guided them back, severing the last link between this dimension and mine."

Paul shook his head. This was ridiculous. "You mean to tell me that this is the only link? No backups at all?"

"They were not necessary," was the reply. He shook his head again in disbelief. These people were far too overconfident. He found it hard to accept that they'd managed to get this far with all their eggs in one basket, so to speak.

"And Norton?" he reminded her before Suzanne could.

"His knowledge would have activated the bases self-destruct. However, the leaders gave us the authorization to activate if the base were in danger of being seized by humans." Her lips curved into a small and obviously artificial smile. "The circumstances allow it. I will transport you to safety, then destroy this place." She reached for a panel.

"Wait!" Harrison said, reaching out. "Do you have to? There is so much we could learn here," he pleaded.

"Yes. Too much." She started to tap a series of commands at one panel. "I will give your race the chance to develop unmolested by mine, but I must protect my people as well. This technology, in human hands, might endanger them."

Suzanne frowned. In the background, a computer voice started speaking in the rhythmic tones of a countdown. "Why weren't you transported with the others?" she asked as the android moved to another panel. "Didn't you have one of those devices implanted in your body as well?"

"I removed mine before I retrieved you. While most of my kind in this world wore mechanical forms, there are still others that are housed in either human bodies or those of the shift-form animals we brought with us. After this base is destroyed, I will locate and neutralize them before they can interfere with your race any more than they already have."

Paul wanted to ask for more information on those remaining aliens, but before he could speak, she pressed one last control. Immediately there was the flash of light that went with the alien transportation method.

When the blinding light faded, Paul looked around and started cursing. His idea of safety and the alien's were obviously very different. They were back in Spender's study.

"We have to get out of here before..." He was interrupted by the sound of a gun safety being clicked off. A lot of gun safeties, actually.

Standing in the doorway to the study was a depressingly large number of armed men. Then they parted, like the Red Sea in front of Moses, and Spender stepped into view.

He stared at the group standing in his study for a long moment, then turned to leave. "Take them, but don't damage them," he said. "We want answers."

Paul snarled, but raised his hands. Fighting now would be a waste of time. But their time would come, sooner or later.

He was looking forward to 'talking' to Spender then.

They arrived at the safe-house just before lunch. Normally it wouldn't have taken that long to drive the distance involved, but they'd taken the scenic route, watching for any sign of pursuit. Once they were satisfied that they weren't being followed, they'd headed for their final destination.

Alex had beaten Scully to the spot next to Mulder and had been pleased when the man had promptly leaned against him and dozed off, obviously completely at ease with Alex. Scully, sitting opposite them in the van, squeezed between Kincaid and Wolfling, had to be content with just glaring at him. He didn't care. She'd turned Mulder away too many times in the past and now he belonged to Alex, and he wasn't going to give him up.

Mulder woke as they pulled into the barn next to the old farmhouse. Green's motorcycle was already parked in the rickety old building, Alex noted as he helped Mulder out of the van. The man's bare feet were a mess and were going to need attention. As soon as they were out of the van, the Hunter driving it left again, heading for the site where the vehicle would be dumped.

"Just a little further," Alex promised as Mulder leaned on him heavily. The man just bit his lip and nodded.

Inside the large kitchen, warmed by a wood stove, Green waited with an attractive young girl who promptly threw herself at the man that Jarod had insisted on dragging along. Alex supposed it was necessary; after all, the man had helped them by dealing with the security cameras. They owed him, even if he had complicated matters by his presence.

Alex settled Mulder into one chair with his feet propped up with another, then went to fill a bowl with hot water to clean the man's feet. Bandages were also located and pulled out. Mulder's feet were bruised and cut under the layer of dirt and blood. He kicked himself for not anticipating the problem and bringing extra footwear.

Scully took the water from him and immediately started to clean Mulder's cuts. Since she was the one with a medical degree and the first-aid kit, Alex decided to let her have her little victory, but he chose to sit next to Mulder, on the heavy kitchen table.

"All right, folks. Time to make some plans here," he announced to the room at large. Broots was sitting in the corner, talking with his daughter. Jarod was leaning against a wall, watching them with an almost wistful smile on his face. The sight of the two men reminded Alex of one question he had. "But first of all, what the hell was so damned important about that package?"

Broots jumped, obviously not expecting to be addressed. The man glanced at Jarod, who pulled the bundle out of his jacket pocket and starting to unwrap it. Inside was a series of small silver disks which made Mulder perk up in interest.

"I've been downloading everything from the Center computers," Broots explained, nodding towards the storage disks. "Everything I could get to over the last few months. I thought you could... use it." He shrugged helplessly.

Jarod's expression turned surprised, then he smiled broadly. "Broots, I could kiss you," he said and the other man turned bright red. Jarod glanced at the young girl and said, "Maybe later," then winked. Broots looked completely flustered.

Alex snorted, then his eyes narrowed. "That could be useful," he said thoughtfully. "When we rescued Scully," the woman in question glared at him, "the technician I questioned said that the younger McCullough was taken to 'the Mexican facility.' Anything on those disks to tell us where that is?"

Broots frowned, then shook his head. "Maybe. I'd have to check, though. I didn't exactly have time to read everything while I was copying it to disk."

"Do it," Alex told him.

"My daughter... They're going to be looking for me. For her." Debbie clutched his hand, but looked amazingly calm and collected for her young age. Alex found himself admiring the kid.

"We can protect her," Wolfling said from his seat next to the back door, speaking for the first time. Broots looked uncertain, but Jarod nodded reassuringly. "I have a cousin living north of the border in Ontario. He and his wife have two kids at university. They can take her in. Both of you, if you like."

Broots looked down at his daughter, then shook his head. "Just Debbie," he said softly, then shushed her when she tried to protest. "They'll be looking harder for me. Debbie will be safer if I'm not around."

"What about you?" Wolfling asked.

Jarod looked up from the disks he was holding. "He'll come with me."

"Are you sure?" Broots asked hesitantly.

"Of course. Just like old times." Both men grinned, and Alex wondered briefly what story was behind the comment.

"What about the others?" Scully asked, fastening the last bandage on Mulder's feet. "Suzanne, Debi, Harrison and Ironhorse?"

Alex sighed. "That's a little more difficult. The techie said that someone came and took them away, but we were watching the estate. They didn't leave by any means we saw, but they were gone when we searched the building."

"So how do we find them?"

"Right now, unless a miracle happens, we don't." That blunt if honest reply earned him another Scully-glare. He wasn't sure just what she expected from him; he wasn't clairvoyant, after all. Hell, finding a clairvoyant was probably their best bet at that moment.

"But for now," he continued, "let's start with what we can do. We find Debi McCullough—since we have a lead, even if it is pretty slim. Start going through those files," he told Broots, confident that the nervous man would do what he was told. "Once we've found her, we can start looking for the others. The Consortium has to have them somewhere."

There were some nods and some murmurs, but no one seemed to object to his orders, he was pleased to note.

In the meantime, Mulder was falling asleep where he sat. Alex slid off the table and leaned over. "Let's get you upstairs," he said in a soft voice. Mulder blinked and looked a little nervous. Alex held out a hand to pull him to his feet.

"I can take care of him," Scully promptly said.

Alex glared at her, but she didn't back down. He didn't say a word, but waited not-so-patiently for Mulder to make his choice. He could have pressed the issue, but it was about time that the other man made a public stand. Besides, Alex was pretty damn sure that at the moment, he would come out on top.

It didn't stop him from being damned relieved when Mulder finally said, "It's okay, Scully. I'm sure Alex will take good care of me."

Shooting a triumphant look at Scully, Alex braced Mulder against him and led him towards the stairs to the second floor and the bedrooms up there.

"Besides," Mulder said softly in his ear, his voice a little shaky. "I suppose we need to talk."

Chapter #32: Calm Before The Storm

"Are you telling us that this was all it took? A few computer commands and the aliens are stopped?" Michaels, a member of the Consortium's inner circle, raised his voice in disbelief.

Spender stubbed out his cigarette, frowning at the man. He was a fool, but considering his position, he was a very useful fool. "No, that is not what I am saying. It required very specific knowledge that one of the aliens implanted in the minds of the members of the Blackwood Project a decade ago. And before you ask, no, they did not know that it had been done. Apparently, the knowledge was not activated until they were literally in a position to use it."

"But why? What did she do it?"

"I suppose it would explain why they were so interested in getting Blackwood: To prevent this from happening," one of the others said thoughtfully, and Spender sighed.

While in the long run, only a handful of the Consortium elite had died in the alien trap the year before, unfortunately that handful had included some of the most powerful and intelligent of that elite. However, he refused to allow that to interfered with the Consortium's—or more to the point, his—long-term plans. This was merely a temporary setback.

"Enough!" he finally barked, interrupting the squabbling session that was well underway. "It doesn't matter how or why it happened, it did. Now we need to decide what we will do in response."

"What can we do?" one idiot asked. Spender resisted the urge to hit him.

"We still have the technology we've obtained from the aliens, as well as our various projects," he said, pointing out what should have been obvious. "Not to mention underlings at every level of the government and military. We are not without options.

"Now, let's discuss those options, shall we?"

During the escape, Mulder hadn't noticed how badly his feet were hurting, the adrenaline rush covering up the discomfort. It wasn't until they got into the van and he sat down for a while that they started to throb and ache. The anesthetic cream and bandages Scully had put on them helped, but even with Alex's support, he was limping badly as they entered the small, spartan bedroom. He was not going to be moving very fast for a few days, which meant he better clear things up with Alex. Running again was not an option.

Mulder sighed in relief as he sat down on the bed, noting that the mattress was firm, the way he liked it. Back home, he still slept on his couch rather than the waterbed that some idiot had installed in his bedroom while he was out on assignment. He still suspected the Lone Gunmen, despite their constant protests of innocence.

Mulder watched while Alex closed the door behind them and shrugged out of his jacket. His expression was closed, and Mulder found himself fidgeting nervously.

"I'm sorry," he finally said.

"Sorry? Sorry!?" Alex exploded. "Are you really?"

Mulder grimaced. "Well, maybe not. Scully's important to me, Alex. I'd probably do the same thing over again if I had to."

Alex tossed his leather jacket onto the dresser angrily, then spun to face him. "Damnit, Mulder, do you know how much that hurt? You promised you'd be right back and then you vanished. Kincaid had to tell me where you'd gone. Couldn't you at least have come and said goodbye?"

Mulder winced at the obvious hurt in the other man's voice. "There wasn't time," he said weakly. "Spender gave me a tight deadline to get to the airport." Alex glared at him. Mulder dropped his eyes. "All right, I was scared. I ran."

"Scared of me." Alex's voice was flat.

He shrugged. "More scared of how you make me feel. Every time I'm near you, I feel off-balance. Even when we were enemies—hell, when you were eager young agent Krycek—you always had me off-balance. It scares me. I needed to get away from you so that I could think."

"And turning yourself over to Spender was going to give you a chance to think?" Alex said in disbelief, amusement starting to filter into his voice. Mulder chuckled nervously. It did sound pretty stupid.

"All right, so did you think?"

"About us? Almost non-stop, between bouts of worry over Scully and what they were planning for her, me and everyone else."

"And what did you decide?" Alex asked, leaning back against the door. He was the picture of nonchalance, but Mulder could see the underlying tension. He wondered if anyone else would. He probably knew Alex better than anyone else in the world, just like Alex knew him better than anyone, even Scully.

"That somewhere along the line, you became a part of me that I didn't want to lose. I don't know if you can forgive me for taking off like that, but could you give me a second chance?"

Alex stared at him for a long moment, then moved forward slowly, stopping right in front of him. "Second chance and last chance," he said softly. "I won't let you run out on me again. If something like that happens again, come talk to me. We could have figured something out and gotten you to the airport in time. You're just damned lucky that Hammond had some damned good radar gear available to track you." Mulder was relieved to note that there was an assumption that he would have still gone, even if he had gone to talk Alex first.

"I will," he whispered, mesmerized by the clear green gaze. He could see everything in them and was reassured.

Alex's hand came up to caress his cheek, then the man leaned down and brushed a soft kiss against his lips. Mulder moaned softly and reached out to wrap his arms around the man's slim waist. "I dreamt about this," he whispered against Alex's lips. "Every time I shut my eyes, I saw your face, remembered how you felt against me. By the time you came, I was more scared that I'd never feel it again."

Alex pushed him back until he was lying on the bed. Mulder scooted until he was fully on the bed, then waited until Alex moved to cover him. "You dreamt of me, hmmm?" the assassin murmured with a wicked grin. "And what did I do in those dreams?"

"Everything," Mulder gasped as he felt something hard press against his groin, hot even through the layers of fabric separating them. He started pulling desperately at Alex's shirt, needing to feel the man's skin against him. All his blood was rushing to his groin, making thought difficult. He groaned as Alex started to rock against him. It had been so long since he'd gone to bed with anything besides his own hand for company, and it had never been another man, but it felt so damned right.

He finally succeeded in getting Alex's T-shirt up and over the man's head, and when Alex settled back down against him, he was surprised to find that Alex had managed to get his own shirt off without him noticing. Bare chest rubbed against bare chest, sending electric shocks along his nerves. He arched up into the sensation, barely noticing the hand busily pushing down his track pants and briefs.

Then the sensations went away and he opened his eyes, wanting to protest. What he saw stopped the words before they could come.

Alex had rolled off the bed and was stripping the rest of his clothes off as quickly as he could with one hand. His prosthetic arm hung limp, as if he couldn't summon enough control to use it. When he was naked, his cock almost slapping against his stomach in its eagerness, he then reached over and grabbed the waistband of Mulder's pants, now bunched around his knees, and pulled them down and yanked them off in one smooth motion.

Then he was back on top of Mulder and nothing stood between them. Mulder separated his legs to let Alex get between them, needing him closer. Alex started the rocking motion again, rubbing their cocks together in a friction that set off fireworks behind Mulder's eyelids. He wrapped his legs around the back of Alex's thighs, pulling him down harder. Their lips clashed and Alex's tongue thrust into his mouth, following the same rhythm as their hips. It was all so intense that Mulder couldn't stop himself. He arched upwards and froze, his head thrown back, and came in heavy spurts, the speed and volume inspired by long celibacy.

Shivering in reaction, he sank back down against the bedspread, Alex still on top of him. Against his still twitching groin, he could feel the heat and weight of the other man's erection.

"Doing everything is going to take a while," Alex said with a wicked grin. "Think you're up to it?"

Mulder moaned as his cock started to harden again. Alex's grin grew wider and he started to move again.

Kincaid grinned as the rhythmic thumping above their heads started again. He was glad to see—or maybe that should be hear—that the reunion was going well.

Well for Mulder and Krycek, that was. Over in the corner, Mulder's partner was scowling at a notebook she was scribbling furiously in. Before the rescue attempt at Spender's estate, he hadn't had the chance to meet the woman. All he had to go by were Krycek's comments—highly unflattering—and Mulder's—probably overly-flattering.

The truth was no doubt somewhere in between. Considering the scene after they'd rescued her, when she'd nearly attacked Krycek with her bare hands, it was safe to say that the two were never going to be friends, even though they had one thing in common: Mulder. Instead, they behaved like two bad-tempered dogs fighting over the same bone, and Krycek had won.

However, the attractive red-head wasn't about to give up, going some of the things she'd been muttering to herself.

Out of the blue, the woman snarled and threw her pen across the room, barely missing him. Then she started, obviously having forgotten that she wasn't alone in the room. She glanced at him, her expression a combination of embarrassment and anger. Kincaid grinned back: He loved a woman with fire.

He picked the pen and gently tossed it back to her, then got up and headed to fill the kettle. He put it on the stove to boil, then turned to pull down a mug. "Tea?" he offered, twisting to smile invitingly at the woman.

Her jaw clenched and her eyes flashed. Finally, though, she relaxed a fraction. "Please."

Nodding, he pulled down a second mug, then grabbed a couple chamomile tea-bags from a drawer.

Technically, he should have offered a choice since they had several blends, one of the Hunters being a closeted tea-drinker, but he figured that the woman could use the calming effect.

About the time that the tea was ready, there was a shout and the noises overhead stopped again. Red glared at the ceiling and Kincaid had to swallow a snicker as he handed her the mug. "Careful, it's hot."

She took it gingerly and blew across the surface before sipping. The flavor, heat and steam acted in concert and she slumped back, the tension starting to drain. Kincaid took the seat across the table from her and leaned forward on his elbows, cradling the heated ceramic in both hands. "I take it you don't approve," he said, nodding towards the ceiling.

"No, I do not approve," she said frostily.

"Why not?"

She glared at him again. "He's a killer and a traitor."

Kincaid shrugged. "From what I understand, he's a double-agent who supplied you with very valuable information."

"He just did that to get into Mulder's pants," she said dismissively. He snorted.

"No one risks their lives for just a good lay. He also wouldn't be this protective of Mulder if that was all he wanted. No, there's more to Alex Krycek than self-serving hormones if you care to look."

"I don't," she said, staring at a spot on the wall behind him. He didn't let that deter him.

"In fact, he probably the best thing Mulder has going for him right now. Think about it," he said when her head jerked around to stare at him in disbelief. "Mulder's got a lot of enemies, from what I hear, and now there's a contract on his life. He needs someone with sufficient 'mean' to protect him. You have to admit, Alex certainly has that in spades."

"He'll get Mulder killed."

Kincaid laughed. "More likely it will be the other way around. After all, he's already lost an arm because of Mulder. And let's not forget, he took a bullet for the man in Colorado before they were lovers. No. Anyone who tries to hurt the man now is a fool." He hoped she got the hint in that.

"It doesn't change a thing," she spat. "Because of him, my sister is dead. Because of him, I was abducted. Because of him, I'll never have a child. It doesn't matter what he does, it will never change his past."

Kincaid sighed. Obviously the woman had made up her mind and wasn't going to allow anything to change it, not even pesky little details like facts. It made her a little less attractive.

Krycek better watch his back around this one.

Two days later, matters hadn't changed. Most of the Hunters had already left for their home-bases, leaving only Wolfling and Green behind. As soon as it was safe, Green would be heading north with Broots' daughter. Wolfling was sticking around out of curiosity, or so he said.

Meanwhile, Broots spent his time going through gigs of data, trying to find the information that they needed to locate Debi. Jarod alternated between helping him and distracting him.

Alex and Mulder wandered down from the honeymoon suite where they'd spent most of that time, just in time for dinner. They sat down and both winced at the same time. Mulder's lips were swollen and slightly bruised and the bite marks on his neck were very obvious. Alex couldn't wipe the grin off his face. He knew that he was wearing the same sort of marks. He also wasn't leaning against the chair back. Mulder hadn't cut his nails during his captivity and Alex's back was now covered in scratches.

He felt fucking fantastic.

Food was placed in front of them and they both started to eat greedily, ignoring the knowing smirk from Kincaid and Jarod as well as the frosty glare from Scully. Silence reigned supreme in the small space. The longer it continued, the broader Alex's grin got. Idly, he wondered how high Scully's blood pressure was these days.

"Wolf, get in here! There's big trouble!"

The shout from the front room broke the slight tension in the room. The Canadian got to his feet and headed for the source of the shout. Curious, everyone else followed.

They found Green, Broots and Debbie sitting in the living room in front of an almost antique television set. Both the men had shocked expressions on their face.

On the screen was a shaky-looking anchor-woman. Behind her was a picture of the White House with the words "Presidential Shooting" written across it in red letters.

"I repeat, there has been a shooting at the White House. The Vice President is dead and the President has been rushed to hospital, in critical condition. Unconfirmed reports say that the gunman was a member of the President's Secret Service detail. We will bring you more details as we get them."

"Shit," Alex said, speaking the thought they were all having. "This is not good."

"The latest reports say that the President came through surgery alive, but is in critical condition and may not survive the night. It has been confirmed that the gunman was a twelve-year veteran of the Secret Service. He was shot down by his fellow agents within seconds of opening fire, but it was too late.

"We go live to the Capitol where Speaker of the House, Jerome Michaels, is about to hold a press conference."

The glass impacted the wall, right above the large screen television set into it, shattering into shards. The scotch it had contained dripped slowly down the wall, staining the image of Michaels, earnestly promising the American public that he would find and punish whoever was behind the assassination

There was, he claimed, now evidence linking Michael Assid, the gunman, to terrorist factions in the middle east. As a result, he was ordering the Secret Service to suspend operations pending a full-scale investigation. In the meantime, the military would be stepping into their role until they had answered questions about how they could have allowed a terrorist to infiltrate their ranks. As well, every member would be put through a thorough background check, looking for more traitors.

Of course, Spender knew that there was no plot. Michaels was the mastermind behind this. Evidence would certainly be found and blame would be laid, but the only people caught would be scapegoats who didn't know a thing.

"You damned fool!" Spender snarled at the screen.

This move confirmed the fears he'd had the moment he'd heard what Ironhorse and Blackwood had done: Without the alien threat/promise to unite them, the Consortium was starting to splinter.

Now Michaels and his supporters had made an obvious and precipitous move. What the hell did he think was going to happen, the country would fall at his feet? Now matter how well he'd covered himself, sooner or later someone would figure it out. Probably there were already investigators quietly taking a look at him as someone with a lot to gain. In essence, he was the President, for the time being.

Spender had his own plans, far more subtle, but now they were in jeopardy. The only way to protect those plans was to deal with Michaels; quickly, permanently and very, very publicly.

Several possibilities presented themselves, but one appealed the most. It would dove-tail nicely with his original ideas and would permanently weaken Michael's faction. But first, he needed a new set of pawns for the chess board.

He buzzed for his assistant and lit a cigarette while he waited for the young man.

"Yes, sir?"

Spender nodded, pleased at the speed with which the man had responded. "I'm activating the Sentinel Project, David," he said, and his assistant's eyes went wide with surprise. "Make the arrangements.

"Bring them in."

END A NEW WAR

Now, put away those sharp implements. It may be the end of the New War, since the alien threat has been dealt with, but it is far from the end of the story.

However, I need to do some outlining, as well as finish off a couple of other series and tackle some of the projects languishing untouched for far too long.

lburwell@adan.kingston.net
A New War Book Two: The Sentinel Project

A New War
An X-Files/War of the Worlds/Misc. crossover
by Lianne Burwell
Story Summary : Seven years ago, the last war of the worlds ended. But it wasn't the last war of the worlds. When Alex Krycek finds evidence of a previous invasion that was stopped, it leads him, Mulder and Scully to Harrison Blackwood, still grieving the death of his lover, Colonel Paul Ironhorse. When an attempt is made to kill them it starts them on a path that leads them from the forests of to New York City, Cascade Washington, a military base in Colorado, a Consortium research facility in Delaware and beyond. Enemies are revealed, new friends are made and unexpected reunions occur.
Warning: This was written as a serial, not a novel. As a result, plot twists come fast and furious. As well, it is not finished, although this section is ended at a partial resolution.
Warning 2: This is a slash novel. That means same-sex relationships, occasionally described in graphic detail. If this bothers you, don't read.
The rest of my fanfic, including standalone War of the Worlds and X-Files fanfiction, can be found at: http://adult.dencity.com/lianne
Feedback can be sent to lburwell@adan.kingston.net

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