Divinities (PhaHks Series) by GenieVB hinking it about it for a few hours, Mulder had decided to drop the idea. It was a cowards way out. It was selfish and hurtful and all those things that would mark him as a disappointment to his co-workers. It would hurt his friends; betray them; they would be horrified. In shock and angry. No matter how much he desired to find an answer and no matter how much he hated what his life had so quickly been reduced to, he really did not want to hurt Scully or anyone else by such a pinheaded, ass-faced maneuver. Mulder cried for a minute, wiped his eyes so no one would know and lay back, so depressed he thought he might die of it. That would, at least, solve the dilema and keep his conscience clear as well. But reason eventually won out and he abandoned the idea, feeling, funnily enough, still like a coward for not having the guts to go through with it. Until he had a visitor. ** Bill reminded himself as he walked up the stairs that he had never really hated the man himself, just the things he stood for and it seemed those things just did not include safety of friends and family. Now Fox Mulder was paying for that. Maybe the price was a little high, but then we reap what we sow. Bill wasn't particularly happy that Dana had chosen to bring her partner here to this mother's house. He walked down the hall, passed the basthroom and approached his old room. This year, they were spending Thanksgiving at his mother's instead of Christmas as was the usual practise. Margaret wanted it that way. She'd said she and Dana would need the "quiet time together after Fox is gone." Again, Mulder was put before the needs of the family. Bill didn't know who to yell at about that. Now this Mulder guy was dying right there in his old bedroom and that gave him the creeps. Everything about the situation had a kind of unreality about it. He'd never understood what his little sister had seen in the guy because, other that being a crackerjack Agent, according to rumor the man was a loon. Bill softly pushed the door to his old room open and peeked in. Mulder was lying on his back but head elevated a little by all the embroidered cushions his own mother must have hauled up the stairs on her own and fluffed under his head. Mulder appeared to be sleeping so he took the opportunity to get a closer look. Dana had said (with an annoyed frown) that no of course it wasn't contagious. But you just never knew. The guy was asleep under the oxygen mask. He looked like shit. He hadn't known what to expect really, he had never seen Emily in her last stages of her illness. He supposed he'd expected Mulder to be sitting up in bed with a thermometer under his tongue and an I.V. maybe. Like a kid playing hookie from school maybe. That was naieve, he realised but it was the only vision that had enterted his head. What he had not expected was a whitewashed hollow cheeked manaquin that almost but not quite passed for a human. Still, Bill couldn't help but ask the question, even though there was nothing awake enough to make any noise back but oxygen pumps and stomach drains and even though the guy really couldn't help being sick: "You don't have any idea what you're putting Dana through, do you?" ** *"You don't have any idea what you're putting Dana through, do you?"* Mulder, only dozing, knew that voice. The higher-than-thou stiff lippedness of it. The way it pointedly did not use his name when it's words were punched out to fly at him like steel blades. William Scully and no other. Brother to Dana. Older, protective, subconsciously controlling and overbearing bro'. This man hated his guts. When Mulder's eyes finally fluttered open - Bill Scully had awakened him - Mulder saw the "I'm in the Navy" six foot two inches of Dana's brother looking down with bullets in his eyes. Mulder imagined Bill's finger on some hidden trigger, just itching to blow him as far away from his sister Dana as his sister Samantha was from him. Mulder was in Bill's old room and Bill's old bed in Bill's mother's house. //"You are one sorry son-of-a-bitch."//. Mulder recalled the longest sentence Bill Scully had ever offered in his direction. Abso-fucking-lutely correct, Mulder thought as the oxygen mask blew air into his nose every eight seconds. He was a sick, sorry son-of-a-bitch. Sorry he was lying there at all. Sorry as hell that, yes, he was putting Bill's little sister Dana through some serious mental and emotional shit. But what was new after all? And he was sick. Physically, about the worst off he'd ever been in his sorry-sick-son-of-a-bitching life. Sick and lying in Bill's bed in Bill's mom's house, smelling up her pressed, country-fresh linen and the carpet. Lovely barf bucket by the headboard. Generally, a stinking mix of sweat, bile, dried bloody smears from where Mulder'd dug his fingers into his palms whenever the pain came steamrolling around the bend, and the indescribably effluent odor of his ulcered, herniad and now fissuring stomach. There was crusted blood on his lips from coughing-up. Bill noticed these things and hated Mulder for them. He hated Mulder, not because the guy was such a bad sort, he wasn't. No, he hated Mulder because whenever Dana's life was looking like it might take a good turn, Mulder'd had somehow managed to fuck it up. Like he was doing now, again. Yet Dana loved the guy. It just didn't make sense to him. Mulder wheezed from the bed and stared slack-eyed up at Bill. He'd lost a whole lot in his life but knew Big-Asshole-Bill didn't give a shit about that. All he cared about what what this was doing to Scully. Suddenly it occurred to Mulder that he and Bill finally agreed on something. Mulder ahifted, feeling the comforting plastic bottle still tucked into the band of his underwear. Except Mulder did not want to agree with Captain William Slightly Running To Fat But Otherwise Healthy As A Horse Mister More Successful Than He'd Ever Get the Chance To Be Scully The Second, with the beautiful wife and the gorgeous kids and the modern house in that new and really terrific area of town. Bill was speaking to him, now that he could see Mulder was awake and semi alert: "You btter not die. Whether I like it or not, understand it not, you seem to mean something to my sister, so let me tell you something, you dink for brains, you'd better either live or die real fast." Mulder listened to Bill Scully's words, agreed with them, felt stirrings in his gut, and then opened wide and let it rip as if he were a firehose and Bill Scully the flames with all the nutricious veggetable puree' that kind, sweet Margaret Scully had so painstakingly and so lovingly spoon-fed him not one half hour ago. Billy got it square under the chin and it ran downhill from there, all over him. Mulder fell back on the bed, gazing at the holy mess he'd made of the man who'd hated him for years. The room smelled inhuman. "Fuck! Fucking son-of-a..." Bill Scully sputtered. Mulder smiled then reached up one painful arm (Bill had no idea, no idea at all, how much effort and pain was involved in that simple gesture), and moved his mask aside. He wasn't smiling now. He was crying because Bill Scully's words were, to him, oh so true. And he cried because of the pain he was in and because he'd once again messed up Margaret's carpeting and the bed. And he cried because he didn't want this man to hate him but since he did, Mulder had taken his bit of revenge, the only kind open to him excepting for the words he said next: "And you're ugly too, but don't worry, Bill, soon you'll get your hearts desire and we can put this whole fucking feud behind us." That tonight would bring his words to their fruition was almost spiritual. Despite thas pain in his limbs and the embarrassment of crying in front of Mister Navy Macho, Mulder was elated. It had been a vomit for the record books. A puke made in heaven. One for the road. The little bottle had warmed against his skin and caused no discomfort at all. Mulder replaced the mask, eased his arm down, and closed his eyes. *** "Jesus." Bill, freshly showered and changed, muttered as he entered the living room. Tara and Dana were drinking coffee together. Tara seemed to be hovering a bit over his sister, perhaps doing her best at damage control after he'd stuck his size eleven's in his mouth earlier. "Dana. I'm sorry. I really am." He tired to be nice but. Just after being sprayed with the man's stomach contents, it was damn hard. "I know." Dana said. He'd been forgiven, he realised. Dana had come back and hearing the shower, her mother had explained tyhat Fox "had had a little accident." Upon hearing the details, though, Scully knew instantly that it may have been a calculated accident. She'd smiled. How she would have liked to've been a fly on the wall to that event. "Is Mulder okay?" Tara asked her husband. He nodded. "I guess so, other than being a morbid basta-..eh.. _guy_." Scully looked up at him. Her eyes were underlined in charcoal. "What do you mean?" "I think he said it to piss me off, guilt trip, I don't know." "Said what?" "Just that..." He wasn't sure of he should tell her. She _knew_ of course, that Mulder was dying, but he didn't think it would be good to remind her of it. "It doesn't matter." "Did he alk about dying?" She asked. He nodded. "Sort of. He said our fued would be over soon enough. That was just after he puked on me, the ass-..*ahem*." Bill, clearing his throat over his almost fau pax and looking uncomfortable, walked into the kitchen muttering "Mom. Any more coffee?" Scully got up. "I think I'll just look in on him." "Do you want me to come?" Tara asked kindly. Scully smiled a little and shook her head, trotting up the stairs. It only took her a moment of searching between the matresses to find them. When Mulder awoke, she held them up for him to see. "And just were your plans for these?" Mulder saw his badly hidden booty in her fingers. "You have to ask?" "How could you, Mulder? You were just going to check out, huh? Leave me holding the bag, you selfish..." She cut off the curse word balancing on the tip of her tongue. "That's not what I want. I don't want to be here, Scully. I don't want to end up tended like a baby and unable to wipe my own ass." "It's been done before." "I wasn't conscious of it then. I didn't see it coming down the road from a long way off. With this I do. ENMS is going take me and make me into some kind of half human/alien vegetable and then kill me. I'd rather not be around to feel it happen." "Well, you know what, I don't care what you want. How dare you give up?!" "Scully, you know-" "We know nothing at all. When I had cancer and there was virtually no hope, Mulder, and you came along with your litle speech about "coming out of this" and a kiss on the forehead. Well, now it's you and I am not going to let you give up or take the coward's way out!" "Cowards way?" "You heard me. You don't like the ways things are right now? You don't like being in Bill's bed or my mother's house..." "-I didn't say that." "But you're thinking it. Well, too bad. Live with it. Because I'm not going to let you give up. Not yet." He said nothing. Just wheezed under the damndable oxygen mask that was chafing the bridge of his nose. Finally, "So that's it?" She leaned over him, and waited until he relented and looked back at her. "That's it. Another stunt like that and you'll be staying at Skinner's house." He mentally cringed. "Jesus." It was a frightening prospect. "I'm not kidding, Mulder. He offered, you know." She saw him pale at the thought. Mulder liked and respected Skinner as a boss and friend but Skinner had never lost that ability to intimidate, and he had become an expert over the years at some major Mulder managing. "I'll be good." He promised and she kissed his forehead. "I _will_ hold you to that." Scully had a roll away moved into Mulder's room, much to his protests about her not trusting him. "This is for me as much as for you." She explained. That night, listening to the machines pumping fresh, cool oxygen into his stiffening bronchial lobes, listening to him moan in his sleep as an occasional ripple of pain traveled through his body (he was too drugged up to awaken but not so drugged that his brain did not register it and try to snap him out of his stupor to repair the problem), Scully spent the night staring at the celing, weeping silently every-so-often and watching the white disk of a moon float across the sky outside the bedroom window. It was on its way to the other side of the earth and in a few weeks, it would shrink to a thin sliver and then be born anew to start its journey again. Scully watched it disappear in the slow pink light of dawn. When it was gone, she realized that Mulder would never see another full moon-lit night. Mulder would die. The moon would be reborn. How she hated God. ***** DIVINITIES, Chapter 3 Dinner was a silent meal eaten on a table filled with bowls of guilt and shame. Every night, each was worse than the last and it was because, Scully felt, she could sit at a table and eat substantial meat, morels she could feel under her teeth and he could not. Remorse ate her up that she had the opportunity to enjoy things he never would again. Guilt bit her because her mother had worked to prepare meals and do her best to take up some of the burden of the crippling-ly ill man her daughter had brought home to die. Shame that she had waited until he was dying before bringing him home at all. She, the daughter, had been hollowed out because of this sick man. She, the daughter, was being punished by God for loving an unbeliever. Scully felt that she should not be enjoying and did not deserve eating a meal with her family who still loved her when Destiny the Bitch had decided that Mulder must not have anyone. His old family was dead, his new only allowed to stand by and watch him sicken more and more. They stood with fear and guilt, keeping their eyes on the clock of his body that was winding down to zero. Scully knew they felt sorry for him and her but dealing with their pain was delegated to someday. She had no palate for it. All things tasted alike to her. Food. Family. All of it now had taken on the flavor of mere sustenance and forms moving through empty space. Sustenance was simply solids and liquids the body craved so it would not dehydrate and die and her appetite for them had gone because they demanded time and effort. Family were mere strangers who looked upon her with pity and she shunned their displayed care because they expected acknowledgment and gratitude and she was too exhausted to grant either. The silence in the room reeked of sorrow and she was responsible for bringing that home to them as well. As the weight of things accountable crushed her shoulders and her mind chastised her heart for any fleeting feelings that perhaps Mulder was also in part at fault, that he was, in some way, responsible for bringing this illness home to them all, Scully felt eyes upon her. Scully dropped her fork on her plate, looked up at her mother who turned away reddening. "Mom, it's okay." An effort made, hopefully it was enough to divert their words and words piling up, dying to be said. "It's not okay." This came from her left and her brother Bill's mouth. "He should be in a hospital." "Bill, please..." Margarete admonished. "No. Dana..." Scully turned her face to him with a softening in her eyes but her body remained stiff and unyielding. She loved her brother but needed to stand her ground with whatever she had left. It was Mulder's ground too. Bill spoke: "I may not like the man but I don't like seeing what's happening to him. And I don't like what it's doing to you. Have you looked in a mirror lately? Have you looked at him? Really looked, I mean? The man is dying. He's suffering. Last night, he woke me twice with his moans,...it's obvious the medication isn't doing it's job." Scully could see her mother's face blanche at her son's stark words. Did she seem that fragile to her now? That mere words could penetrate the frozen landscape she'd made of her feelings? Words bounced across it, barely touching, and launched them- selves again into the stratosphere like tiny stones in the gale. She couldn't nurture a thing. But Scully heard them non-the-less. Took them in for what they were, letters and syllables and strings of both, examined them via her ears, and withing the lake blue of her eyes. She could hear them and _see_ them and knew Bill was right in his choice of them. However, though they held meaning they had no power over her. If she allowed them to convince her, if she succumbed to their rightness, Mulder would be ambulance away to a sterile environment and into the hands of pain-killing needles and blank stupor. It would be, in the end, his final journey, one not befitting a man such as he had been, and he would be lost to her forever in too many ways to calculate. Scully could not allow that. She loved him. Surely to God, there was power in that as well. "No." She said quietly, looking at her brother whom she knew deeply cared for her. "No, Bill. Mulder stays here. I refuse to accept that he will die, not yet. We still have time. I know you would do no less for Tara." Her brother swallowed, pushed his plate away and rose from the table. "Mom, will you talk to her?" Scully looked across the left over turkey and empty dressing bowl. Margaret looked back at her daughter, then rose and started gathering dishes. "It's Dana's decision. There's nothing more to say." Scully's eyes teared in gratitude. On her way up the stairs with Mulder's watered-down, pureed vegetable and turkey mush, she stopped and hugged her brother Bill from behind. It seemed to melt the icy feeling that had developed between them since Mulder's condition had deteriorated ever so much more in the last week. Bill was frightened for Mulder, she realized, and for her love for Mulder. Her determination not to quit despite all the evidence that said she would be disappointed. Bill did not want to see hr with her fists up, striking at the air. //Little sis' isn't acting like the rational Dana he is used to.// Scully knew what he was thinking, loved him for it but said nothing to dispel his fears. There were no words that would. New Years Eve' was the next day. One year and four months since Mulder's release from GreenLawn and Doctor's Petrillo's invaluable care. Why had every Christmas been a hallmark of either great joy or heart-stopping grief? "Dana..." He started to say, helpless to understand but hopeless in his concern and that he could offer her nothing to change the course she was on. Not even render the well chosen words of advice in order to turn her from it. "Bill. It's his choice also. And I love him. I _have_ to do this." ***** "Mulder." She smiled, half painted on and half genuine. Enough to please them both. He did not see the lie behind her eyes. "Mmmmm." He said, mocking the dinner she'd brought to him. "Let me guess. Mush or mash?" She took up the spoon and scooped a leveled measure. "Hey. You're getting room service, here, don't knock it." "You know, I am capable of feeding myself." He said while opening his mouth, letting her slowly scoop the food in. Slowly, so he could take his time swallowing. Bit by bit it would go down. Bit by bit it would be digested while little by little his stomach acid would eat at the open wounds in its perforated lining. Little by little the food would be incompletely broken down in his malfunctioning digestive track and then be expelled in watery stools that Doctor Watts would want to have examined. Bit-by-bit they would know more exactly how little-by-little he was dying. All the tiny ways his body was breaking apart from the inside out would be recorded in tiny numbers and letters in his file. Mulder's ENMS and his death was going to make someone's career. "Can't a girl have some fun? Now sit up." "Nag, nag." He complied. She placed an extra pillow behind his back. Scully smiled and scooped more. She would feed him until he said enough. There was no point in force feeding. In fact, there was danger. His stomach, with its ulcerated fissures laced with stiffening blood vessels, could endure no solids, no pressure, no extra ounces at all. "Any word on Caleb or his father?" She shook her head. "I keep hoping Crazy Man will call." //Among other things hoped for.// "Have the LoneGunMen send out word to their other chapters. They're always whining about wanting to be in the action, let them do some sleuthing. Maybe if they nose around enough, they'll turn up something." Mulder suggested. "Already done. Langley called this morning." "And?" "And nothing so far. He asked after you and assured me they'll call the minute they hear anything." She reluctantly put the bowl aside when he shook his head at the far from last spoonful. Half a bowl three times a day was not going to keep his weight or his strength level. "So relax." "That's about all I've been dong for a week." "Until your strength returns, that _IS_ all you'll do." "Then how about a Laptop and a dial-up? I can't just lie here, Scully, I'm losing my mind." "I suppose if I say no, you'll sneak out one day anyway, so alright, that I'll arrange. Then you can talk to The guys yourself." She stood, picking up the unappetizing remnants of Mulder's dinner. "Anything so I don't have to hear another joke from Frohike." She handed him pills and water and walked to the door. "Hey, Scully, how about a movie tonight?" "Are you sure you're up to it?" "Yeah, I'm strong enough for a date." "Oh, really? Okay, but I get to choose. No action, no science fiction, I've seen enough of that in my own life, and under no circumstances what-so-ever, _anything_ from your own collection." "Party pooper." **** Mulder's bi-weekly hospital trip had her pacing the halls until Watts kindly suggested she get some coffee. Crowded hospital cafeterias were not the ideal location for quiet contemplation. When she left Mulder, at least he was asleep. Their little examinations would go easier for him and them. Quiet is what she had been looking for but the hunger pangs had argued a good case. Scully looked at the remnants of her late afternoon lunch, one third of a mushroom chicken burger and a few limp french fries waited questioningly but her stomach was satisfied. She was thinking about a second cup of coffee when her cellular trilled in her jacket pocket. "Scully." She said and watched the other people consuming their food. Patients and visitors, a doctor and nurse. The place was mostly empty. "It might not just be the gifted." The voice on the other end said hoarsely into her ear. She recognized the gravely whisper of her informant. "What?" "I don't think...what I told you may have been incorrect." "What was incorrect?" Scully stood and walked out of the cafeteria, away from the ears of the curious. "What do you mean?" "The kids. It's not just the gifted, I think it could be others. I think my daughter may be in jeopardy. You have to help me." "The only way I can do that is if you come in. Come in and I guarantee your safety." He was silent and she wondered if he'd simply walked away from whatever phone he was using. "Are you there?" She asked. "Yes." He sounded ground up, in pieces. "Come in. Come in and we'll do everything we can to help your daughter and you." She thought she heard him sniff. "I can't." Strangled words, said because he had no choice but hating them all the same. "I don't know who can be trusted anymore." "Then why did you call me? Why call unless you want help?" "I can give you her location. And her name. Please... understand..that if I could...come in...I would." She felt sorry for him. She knew what it was to lose a daughter. "I want to thank you for your help with finding Caleb, for the tip, for everything." "You're welcome. I'm sorry it didn't turn out better." Scully took out a note pad and pen, "What's her name?" "Sydney. She's dark haired, long hair, curly, about five foot seven..twenty two years old now." He was crying now, "I haven't seen her in ten years." Scully scribbled the information. "You knew this was coming, didn't you? You knew these mass murders were going to occur." "Yes. I was with them once, remember? I got out." "What do they expect to happen?" "The War of God. I don't know if they're right but even if they are, their way of giving God a helping hand shouldn't be heartless, systematic slaughter. I couldn't be a part of that. I wouldn't." "Where do we need to go? Where are these kids?" "The New Hope Evangelical Ranch. It's a dumping ground for orphans, the physically and mentally challenged - unwanted children, fetal addicts, HIV positive,..."garbage can" kids. Children most of society consider a waste of resources. Humanity isn't always humane even when they wear their morals on their sleeves." Scully had to agree, considering the doing of deeds of his former "worshipers". "And your daughter is there?" "She's one of the Guardians, she was always at risk from The Group, because of her abilities. She volunteered to go there and care for the less fortunate. But this place has come under the attention of my former associates and I'm worried she may be a target for elimination now, because of her betrayal. They are nothing if not exacting in their demand for loyalty." "Why did you tell me your daughter had left the country?" "I told you. I didn't know who to trust. I still don't." "Will you come?" "It's too risky. If I'm followed, they'll know she's there for sure, and they'll feel even more certain there's something special about these children." "Wasn't it risky to place her with any children at all?" When he didn't answer, she left behind rebuking. "How did you find out about them?" "My daughter..Sydney...had a dream about them." "A dream?" "Yes. In it men called from heaven to men. And they went out to meet together in a storm while the demons of hell burned up in a fire. It sounds like religious symbolism and we have no interpretation. Even my daughter doesn't. If it had been anyone else, I expect I would have ignored it, but I've come to trust my daughter's abilities. I won't speculate, I'm just afraid." "We'll do everything we can." "Please act quietly and go as soon as possible." Scully could not imagine any Bureau operation being "quiet". all they could do was try. "I promise we'll do all we can. When will you call me again?" "I don't know. I'm not well..." "Please call if you need anything." "Goodbye, Agent Scully." He hung up and Scully let out a breath. She dialed Skinner's direct line, informed him of her latest contact and returned to Watts and her sleeping partner. * "What?" She was dumbfounded. Numb because it simply wasn't possible. Science rocketed out the window, shattering everything she knew as reason as it flew. The overhead fluorescent bounced off of Watts' forehead, adding to the mind blindness he'd just conjured up within her by his markings on paper chart via ballpoint pen. Cruel strokes that had no mind or feeling in them, together summing up Watts' five word update: "A few days at most." Scully returned to Mulder's room, walking like the dead. It was a stupid expression. The dead don't walk, they were scrubbed and stuffed into pretty boxes, dumped into the ground and buried under six feet of dirt and gravel. They were gotten rid of, out of the sight of those who would miss them. Whole human lives reduced to an hour ritual and a big, big bill. It was a Play put on for the universe. Or they were playthings for unfeeling spirit creatures who had no idea what it was like to see the grim reaper walking up your sidewalk. The Death of Mulder. Once upon a time a great man was born who fought to make the world a better place and then he died. The End. Scully had been unprepared to hear "a few days". A few weeks she might have been able to deal with. But the prognosis for Mulder's shortened life had just been cut by a week at least. It was another nail in his coffin and, for her, in Gods. How dare he create creatures with minds to conceive of eternal life and then deny them any hope of it? "That is what heaven is for." The nuns would answer. But you had to go through death to get there and death for some was no different as a roller coaster trip through Hell. Wonderful incentive, Scully thought as she entered Mulder's room and cast away God from her mind as she already had from her heart. Perhaps someone other than God would lend a hand, even if she had to go to the Devil himself to find a path to Mulder's life, so be it. ** "These children were completely unexpected. None of knew what the colonists were up to. How could we?" Speaking was a middle aged, balding man who stood nervously by the cabin's sitting room window. His eyes never stopped moving. The players changed but the game hadn't until now, he thought as he listened to the other man's words and to his own disintegrating lungs. Even the portable lung, carrying oxygen to his pin-holed alveoli, couldn't repair a life time of scoffing the Surgeon General. Samantha Mueller murdered, her children slaughtered. Even the Associates didn't know why. Speculations abounded but the colonists had left them in the dark. His Helper, expressionless, stood back, silently watching the discussion and offering no insight. There had been no word from the Colonists for weeks. Suddenly, without explanation, they had cut off communications. But the murders had not stopped and the Elders were very worried. What about The Work? Was it finished? Should we continue? Should we side with The Rebels if one could even be located? What do we do!? The one who had spoken was a newer, younger member who had signed over his millions to further fund the Project. He especially wanted to know. It was, after all, money! Cancer Man smiled to himself. He could almost read those words in the mind of the younger member. He was too inexperienced to know that money was nothing. Money provided the means to forge ahead with the Project started so long ago it seemed, back when they had all been young and thought they had found the answer to the future of all mankind. Young enough that they still possessed the arrogance to make a decision, one that would forever radically alter the quality of life of every human being across every continent on the planet, without so much as a telegram to The White House. Money did not mean life, it meant perhaps, if they were lucky and did all the correct things according to plan, it would help them attain _a_ life of some sort. For themselves maybe. For their children, almost certainly. He himself had given up many things for The Project, the Work Bill Mulder had had a hand in sparking and then spurring on. But if it meant life for a few of the worthy, it was worth it. Any sacrifice. "We couldn't have known. Even my Helper didn't know." His tasted fresh, cool oxygen with each inhale, blood with each exhale. "Maybe your helper knows more than he says." The nervous man retorted, glancing toward the thick necked assistant of the one they all knew as The Smoker. The old man's portable oxygen tank made a hissing noise whenever the wrinkled fossil took a breath. It was annoying. It made him restless. "No one knew!" Smoker insisted. "The colonists have broken our agreement with them. How were we to know they were creating their own hybrids, their own race, right under our noses?" Cancer Man coughed. "Well, what are we going to do about it?!" Nervous Man asked. "This other Group, whoever they are, might be solving the problem for us." "You heartless old skeleton, they killed your own daughter!" He made an attempt to sit forward, anger welling in him, but unable to complete the movement, fell back, cursing his weakness. "We have all had to make sacrifices! What family I have left is all I am concerned about, as you should be. Now's the time for all men to look after their own." The others, all silent until now, seemed to fade in strength compared to the old one who had been with The Project since the beginning. Few of them liked him, but there was no doubt the old guy demanded their respect. One of their other older members spoke: "He's correct. The Work is all but finished. We have all made our...arrangements...in the event of something like this. It's time we took our families and called and end to it." The meeting broke up. Men in all manner of business and casual dress filed out the door into the night. Cars and trucks were started and a convoy of vehicles left on a road that winded down from the mountain to the highway. In the cabin, the oldest surviving member of the Consortium sipped tea brought to him by his Helper. Helper watched as his In Charge lifted the cup to his thin lips and drank. And drank again. Satisfied, Helper took the cup and arranged a pillow under the old human's neck. He returned to his place and watched. **** Cancer Man felt tired and leaned back in his chair, letting his head fall to his chest. So tired. Some sleep would revive him. "Samantha.." Cancer Man mumbled in his stupor. "Fox,..." He dreamed they were dead and regretted it. But they were free of whatever was upon them. The storm. The End. Dreamed. "...yes, yes..." Their deaths had served a better purpose. His grandson would live. Something would survive. Not everything would die. "Caleb.." He said as his heart stopped. **** Through trees that shaded him from the cool, yellow star, he carried his burden with methodical, even steps. Odd sensations. Dirt under his feet, sun on his face, the odor of grass and pine. A dead human over his shoulder. They had death as well, but theirs was simpler - instantaneous decomposition. Three hundred and twenty-one shovels of dirt later, he dragged the trussed up remains of his former In Charge to the six by three by four foot hole. The old man would have finally succumbed to his bodies disease, so it was no betrayal to have spared him a few extra hours of struggle. His own kind did not bury their dead. But this had been a human and required a hole. He knew of their death rituals and that they believed in a deity and mouthed offerings during their significant life events. Such as at death. But he was unsure of the words and so made himself content that burying the corpse was enough; a gesture of respect out of their many years together in The Work. His peers might provide him with a new assignment or they might not. The Work was so close to being completed, another In Charge was unlikely. He had not been able to complete his In Charge's last request. The Watchers were being murdered by a rebellious faction of humanity but that trouble would soon be over. The invasion was imminent. Nothing else needed to be accomplished. Even the puzzle of the unusual human offspring was no longer a particular consideration, although they would still be watched where possible, because The Time was nearly complete. The body slowly disappeared under black soil and rocks as he scooped and dumped. He stood, stretched the body's confining muscles and skin. At the cabin, he gathered up only those things which would have provided the human authorities with information about The Work. Removing fingerprints or accessories such as clothing was unnecessary. His In Charge was dead, his body buried a mile away under shrubs and soil, there was nothing left of him for the authorities to find. They would trace the fingerprints and look, yes, but evidence beyond that would not be uncovered. Soon he would return to his people, his part in The Work that had spanned seventy-five years, finished. He had done his job and if he could feel the human emotion of gladness, he would have. Outside the cabin, the night sky became bright cobalt blue. It was time to leave. *** Scully found the cabin, north of Augusta, as she had before. The door hung on one hinge, like a torn lip, the hardwood, at one time waxed to a shine, was strewn with leaves, cans and debris that had been scattered by animals from inside cupboards left open and the all the litter of the forest floor that the wind had blown in. She walked through the abandoned rooms. The occupants had left in a hurry and there was linen lumped on an unmade bed, now peppered with animal droppings. Cobwebs hung in the corners of the room and in between the panes of the broken windows, as if the insects had tried to repair the human damaged glass. The stove still had on its surface, sitting in their proper places, blackened, oily pots. Grease was smeared on the stainless steel counter. It had been 6 months and the forest had reclaimed the structure almost completely. "You won't find him." Scully spun, gun drawn. Stared, mouth open. "_You_?" A strangled whisper, after finding her voice again. "He's gone." "Where?" "Dead. He wouldn't have been able to help anyway." "Of what? What did he die of?" "I don't know. Everyone guessed though. Cancer probably." "What are you doing here, Krycek?" "I heard you were looking for him. I heard Mulder is sick, maybe dying. I was surprised that day at the school, to see him again. As shocked as he was to see me I'm sure. When did he get back?" She kept him in her sights, not dropping her barrel for a second. "I'm surprised you don't know. Didn't Cancer Man give you all the dirty little details?" She hoped not. She hoped Krycek didn't know that Mulder had suffered a breakdown and spent all those months in therapy bringing himself back from the brink. She hoped Krycek knew nothing at all. Nothing, that is, but one very important thing. The one thing she wanted. "You know what's wrong with him, don't you?" She said, testing his knowledge. He shook his head. "No. If you came here looking for the antidote, you've wasted gas. The alien virus, if that's what he has, has probably mutated anyway. Even if I did have the Anti- viral, I doubt it would cure what he has." "I thought you said you didn't know anything?" "You've been talking to one of our former members. Word gets around. I know about Emily. I know Mulder's sick like she was." Scully's countenance faltered, as if someone had pulled the stopper from her heart and her hope was pouring into the void that had opened beneath her, Mulder and life funneling away like so much sand. "Mulder isn't supposed to die. It's not right. He didn't do anything to deserve it. He wasn't even abducted, he wasn't part of the experiments!" She wanted to shoot the man before her, make him - make somebody - pay for what was happening to Mulder. Make someone else suffer like he was suffering. "Mulder was protected because of who he was." Krycek said, on his voice just a hint of envy. She swallowed her grief, kept control because she wanted an answer from him. "What do you mean?" "I thought you knew. Mulder does." "Knew what?!" She shouted, suddenly furious, her finger tightening on the trigger. If Krycek noticed, he didn't show it. "Mulder's mother and Cancer Man, they..._knew_ each other. A long time ago." "That's a lie." "Come on! Didn't you ever notice the resemblance? I saw it right away. Why else would the old man have protected and helped him for so long?" "He tried to kill Mulder!" "Don't be naive'." She wanted him to shut up. Mulder was not tainted by that sickening old man and if he was dead, the world was a better place for it. "Do you know where I can get the Anti-viral?!" Krycek watched her trigger finger. "No." May as well be honest. He came here to do that, speak some truth, but it was probably too late to be redeemed in her eyes or anyone else's. Scully suddenly hated Krycek more than she thought she could ever hate anyone. He represented all that had come before, all the rotten tricks and disgusting lies. All the needle points of pain and hurt that had finally resulted in the gaping red wound inside her: Mulder's impending death. "You've changed sides again, Krycek." She sneered. "You're killing _babies_ now." BIG MAN! her sarcastic voice cut. "Why? Not enough sadistic satisfaction in slaughtering those your own size, you son-of-a-bitch!?" Krycek breathed fast, in and out. "I'm - _we're_ doing what _has_ to be done! For the human race! Don't you see what's about to happen, you stupid bitch?! We're about to be snuffed out!" Scully asked again but believing him or not would be something she'd decide later. "So why are you killing children? Families? Why are your pals committing mass murder, huh? Who are they? And what are the God's children dying from?" "I'm with them because what they said made sense. We're ridding the planet of the "watchers", the Infected ones Cancer Man's people put in place to watch the kids. The kids are special." "Special how?!" "I don't know! They don't tell us everything, but I've seen what they can do, I saw what Gibson could do. The kids are the key and we have to have control or-!" "I have the gun, Krycek, and don't think for one second I won't blow you away unless you tell what I want to know!" She screamed at him, knowing she sounded almost crazed. Good, maybe he'd be afraid enough of her desperation to speak. "What did Cancer Man want with these kids!?" "We thought the kids were alien-human hybrids put in place by the aliens themselves. We,..they,..Cancer Man, the Elders, thought the colonists had betrayed them and the Work by starting their own hybrid breeding program behind their back. Breeding hybrids right under their noses, from within. Some of us came to the conclusion that the Elders were nothing but pawns, that they were just being humored to keep them in line until Invasion. The colonization had already begun decades before." He lifted his chin. "But a few of us got smart." "Did you?" She meant it as unflattering and it found its mark in his reddening face. "Yes! We found others, another group, who were looking far ahead, who seemed to know more, who had different ideas about what was happening. I didn't agree with all of their ideas, but I agreed with their solution. Not to _work_ with the aliens but wipe them out, one by one if necessary and that meant starting with those who were infected. Those who were being controlled by the Black Oil. "The Mill-...the group I'm with used the knowledge I brought them to further their work against the aliens - what they call The Evil ones, the Dark servants, they had a dozens names for the Infected. The labels don't matter. But somebody had to take a stand." "But the God's children were never touched. Why did they die?" He shook his head. "We don't know. They were always dead before we got to them. Every time. The Elders thought maybe the aliens were killing them somehow, to deprive us of using the hybrid kids against their plans for further invasion." "How convenient that sounds. What else?! What happened to Gibson Praise?" "I don't know! But he was one and not the only one." Krycek was lying. Or he was crazy and telling what he thought was truth. Or he was telling the truth and if so, the truth was crazy. But it didn't matter. She alone could not stop any alien invasion. Krycek's companions were impotent. Powerless. If aliens were on Earth's doorstep like Mulder (and now Krycek) asserted, then they'd been there a long time and possessed the power to do as they pleased. Humanity would go the way of the buffalo. Wiped out. But one more thing before extinction. "Where is Caleb? Samantha's other son?" Krycek shook his head. "I can't tell you. I'd be killed. He has to be protected." She took careful aim at his left eye. "You'll be dead anyway." He stared back but his brave defiance weakened. "You don't have-" "-GODDAMN IT!-.." She forced her voice into calmer tones, "I hate you Krycek, but other than that, I have no personal vendetta against you. All I want is for Mulder to see Caleb. That's all. Mulder needs this. Just this one thing." She stepped closer, ensuring that when she pulled the trigger, she'd be close enough not to miss and the back of his skull would be blasted clean away. No margin for error. "Lie to me Krycek and I _swear_ I'll kill you." He heard her and understood, maybe not for the first time, that for Mulder, she would do it. Anything. "So Mulder _is_ dying? It's not just a story?" Scully's hand trembled. "Shut-up!" Krycek's expression was neutral, his voice was almost remorseful. "I'm sorry. I can't help you. I can't help myself either. And despite what the group is trying to do, it's probably too late to protect these kids. We think the invasion is well under way. It's too late for any of us now." "You're a liar." "Believe what you want, Agent Scully. Caleb is with his father. Mueller. We don't know where. But I think you already knew that much." He turned until his back was facing her and paused, as if waiting to see if she'd shoot him in the back. After he left, Scully stared at the door a long time until in the distance she heard a car engine start up and wheels spinning on gravel. Sinking to her knees, she let her gun fall to the floor with a soft thump, letting it fall where it may. Light from the late afternoon sun poured through the door, across the worn two by sixes and over to her. She could feel the heat from it near her. But its light did not touch her skin or even the hem of her jacket, now coated from the neglected dusty cabin floor. She shivered. Cold like the dead fall over the hard clay on the mountain came over her. Frozen solid fear in the pit of her stomach, just like it happened to the heroines in the adventure novels she kept piled on the night stand beside her bed. She didn't know that it really happened that way. Scully had felt fear often. Felt dread and terror and it has always been a hot emotion, a thing that moved her to action. Even her cancer had stirred fight in her. Even Emily, though a terrible painful loss never to be forgot, had not frozen her in place. It had not made her ice-covered and lifeless. Mulder would become that cold in his urn. She'd be the one to pick it out. Choosing style and engraving. Decide the location for a memorial. Chat with his distant relatives whom she had never met and never would again. Strangers who did not know him. "I hope all will be well....I cannot choose but weep, to think they should lay him i' the cold ground. " She was going mad. Shivering there on her knees in a tumbling down old house in the hills, quoting tragedy to no one. Words had no meaning anymore. They accomplished nothing except to dry the throat. And words - lies or truth - spoken for their own sake were cold on her skin. Like her father and her sister and her daughter were cold. Words sounded and ended. Like Mulder's father and Mulder's sister. Like, soon, Mulder. With that cold, colors and normal body warmth had faded again to black and white and ice water, just like years ago. Like the time when Mulder had been taken and brought back somewhat physically intact but insane. She could do nothing for him then but send him away to the doctors. But no cure was forthcoming this time. Krycek the liar had told her so and it was tragically ironic that she found herself believing him. Why would he lie? She knew the truth and the truth had not set her free but enslaved her in it's pain. Truth itself was a liar. "But. This. Cannot. _Be_." She said aloud. Beyond the broken door her God was silent from behind his brilliant sun. *** Scully drove steadily for several hours on autopilot. It was soothing in a way, just seeing the highway appear before her out of the dark in her headlights, where nothing was visible beyond their beams. Cancer Man was dead. Krycek was off fighting his version of Armageddon. She didn't even hate him for it, he was too sad a reality for her to hate him. She could feel sorry for him almost now. Feel sorry for a double crossing, lying murderer. Forgive him in his sin. But she couldn't render to God the same compassion. God was supposed to be beyond the need for anything. He was powerful and if he wanted to, he could end it all. Every terrible thing, all pain. Death. He could end death if He so choose. Why _didn't_ he?! Highway disappeared and street lamps lining suburban roads appeared. Buildings grew from points in the distance and whizzed be her eyes as blurs. A steeple appeared, taller than the homes surrounding it with their shiny cars parked in driveways and darkened windows. She pulled in. ** "Father? Are you there?" "Yes. It is late my child. Have you some to confess?" Out of the corner of her eye, Scully could see the shape of the Father through the cross-crossed wooden slats. It obscured his features, making him into a faceless man. Like the words in scripture made God just another character in a book. Why did there have to be such separations? "No. No, but I do have a question." "Yes?" "Why does God allow evil?" "Evil has always existed. God battles it, as should we." "Why does God not win?" "What evil have you encountered? What brings you here?" "The human kind of evil. Perhaps something more. Do you believe in angels, Father?" "Of course." "So, if there are angels, there are also devils? And there must also be Satan, isn't that what the Church teaches?" "If you are a catholic, you must know these things." "I've read about them, but that doesn't mean I believe." "Yet, you question." "Yes. If there is God, if there is a Good, why must there be a bad? A creature, a spirit who is the enemy of God?" "It is a basic Christian belief that the struggle will always exist, even if it is only within ourselves, until we achieve the reward." "That sounds like a riddle. I have one for you." "Go ahead." "Satan is the head of Evil. He is the master of the underworld. The one who oversee's the punishment of evil-doers for all eternity." "Yes." "Who sends them there?" Scully waited for the priest to answer her. When he didn't, "Is it not God who sends the wicked to hell? So isn't Satan an agent of God. Is he not God's helper? Does that make sense to you?" "The way you say it, it does not." "You know what, Father, I don't know anymore what is evil or good. Sometimes I don't see a difference." "Do you pray?" "I used to." "Why not now?" "Because a friend of mine is dying. He's dying because all his life he fought against evil. Those who would hurt others in order to save themselves by making dirty deals with terrible men, deals agreed to in darkness." "It is not always obvious who is the winner in a struggle for life. Sometimes life moves on. Sometimes the life is a spiritual one." "Is it? I'm no longer convinced there is a heaven, or even a hell. But I can say this much for certain. There is evil in the world, and God should do something about it." "He will child. He will, in his time. In his way." "That sounds like an excuse." "Does it? Do you believe in the President of the United States?" "Yes, of course." "Have you ever met her personally?" "No and I know what you're trying to say, you're trying to reason that just because I have never met God, that is no reason to lose my faith in his existence, but that is not the same. Ms. President can be seen on television. There are eye-witness accounts of her." "As there are of God. And though there are no pictures of him, since he is a spirit, that is not so unusual." Scully did not say anything. She was angry. It was an anger that came from nowhere and every part of her too. It had no origin, it seemed, and nowhere to focus but this priest sitting in the wooden confessional. Though she did not lash out with it, Scully reveled in her anger. She needed it, it gave her a sense of power and will. She did not answer him. "Let me ask you something." The voice of the priest said. "All right." "Does Lady President call you when it's time to make decisions that will affect the entire country, even if they are decisions that will affect you in ways in which you do not approve?" "No." "But you believe that God should call on you." Scully felt her anger reach the rim of her understanding until she felt weak with fatigue and helpless in ignorance. "No." She began to cry. "But why doesn't he ever answer me? When this is the only request I have ever made of him? I would give my life for the answer." "You mean for your friends life." "Yes." "Perhaps God has something more in mind for him. Or for you." "It's not fair." "I'm sure Jesus Christ felt the same way at times. Even he asked for the trial to be removed from him, yet, he said to God: "Not as I will, but as you will."." "I know." Tears flowed silent and steady. Her heart ached but it was a better ache than before. It was almost, very nearly, good. "I want him to live." "Have faith, child. Sometimes, it is our only weapon." ** "Are you well?" Scully's mother asked as she stepped inside the house. Scully nodded but quickly changed it to a head shake when she saw her mother's disbelief. "He's dying and I can't do anything." "He knows you love him." She nodded. She'd said it. Often enough she hoped, resolving to correct it if it proved to be inaccurate. That thought became hope by the time she reached his bedroom and heard the respirator going full. Hope became a vacuum expanse by the time she swung the door open. The vacuum threatened to suck her into its void by the time she reached his bedside. In perhaps a few days at most, she'd be visiting him in a far more public place with grass under her feet instead of carpet. Love and not grief won when he opened his eyes to look at her. Something good stood up inside for the time being and gave her the wherefor all to smile and take his bone-thin fingers in her own. "Hi." He cracked a smile in response. She knew it was especially for her because it hurt him. Nothing now was free, he paid for each movement of living with pain. Each moment exacted a price. "Skinner's arranging a task force to the New Hope site. There's a chance some of the "special" children are there. We may learn something new." "You told me." Scully nodded. It was a "Oh? Yes, that's right. I did, didn't I?" nod. Words and movements designed to replace rooms far too full of uncomfortable despair "Are you all right?" He asked He'd seen inside her; her carefully sculpted hope collapsing in upon itself, she guessed. What eyes that see! She nodded to him anyway. If you're going to lie, try to make it a convincing lie. "Yes. I'm okay. I was just thinking about how much I love you and how little I've mentioned that." "Enough." He wheezed. "Plenty." She looked at their entwined fingers. Her small, flesh colored and his thin, white, nearly bloodless appendages looking like the fingers of his "Greys". Soon into death he would travel, an alien in a alien place. In living experience and in current state, he knew and was becoming something very like them. Mulder had sought for aliens all his life for many reasons. Now there was one growing inside him, making him over to suit itself. Talk about close encounters. "Mulder..." she couldn't speak another word. Shivered but felt his heat. It was warmer than the sun outside his bedroom window which she'd driven all night long to see once more. "I know, Scully." Gasping. Tightened his grip. To anyone else an almost imperceptible increase in pressure, but she felt it. "I,...I..." She wanted to speak and make the words mean something. Something great and powerful and everlasting. Words that would change the way people viewed the world and everything in it. Sayings that would find Cancer Man in his grave and slap his face. Utterances that would reach up to heaven and convince God that Mulder was worth saving. Prove that he was the only and last thing Dana Scully would ever ask for and if He would only grant her this, she'd serve Him with total humility and the deepest sanctity forever and ever, Amen. And they would be true words. "It's okay." Mulder assured her from the other side of the wall of his suffering. "It's okay." She saw her tears fall and wet both their hands. Spoke those words in brief. "I,...I wanted to marry you." *** Margaret Scully watched the three strangers file through her living room, and without being obvious, tried to make heads or tails of Dana's companions. Her daughter took up the rear, instructing where they should turn once they reached the end of the hall. "Just left, Langly, we'll work there." Margaret understood. Her husband's old den had a large comfortable easy chair where Fox could lay back and rest without too much discomfort but still be present and participate. Langly was a tall, thin fellow in T-shirt and jeans with a buzzed blonde 'do and wearing Lennon type eye glasses. Following him after stopping to introduce himself with a hand- shake was a much older, balding man in glasses who appeared to be in poor health. He seemed very pleasant. Dana's third and last visitor impressed her the most. A clean cut, well dressed office type, she surmised. Probably a family man as well. "Close the door, Frohike, will you?" Mulder asked. He did so and asked "How are you, Mulder?" "Fine." Mulder and endured a kind shoulder squeeze from his friend. Scully seated herself in her dad's old cushioned desk chair while Byers sat in a hard one next to it. Langly just leaned against the wall as was his habit. "So?" Scully opened the informal meeting. "What do you have?" Byers spoke: "Nothing new. The media's already made the connections, they know these child murders are occurring in other countries, it's all over the news. Interpol, CSIS, FBI, CIA, NSA, the British Secret Service, the DCGA, the Japanese, the Russian fragments and all their agencies, are all trying to find the hub of the God's Children Spree Killers, the "Millennium Makers" or whatever they call themselves. No one's had any success." "We even had an inquiry about the approaching year, 2010, sent out to every apocalyptic group or doomsday sect we could think of to see if there was some kind of religious significance to it. Nada." "Hell. We even had some astrologers in and other than I should be dating a Libra, the couldn't tell us a thing." Frohike said, then added, "Scully, what's your mom's birthday?" "Forget it Frohike." She opened a file folder and said to them all, "Well, it seems to have no historical weight either. 2013 might have, it'll be the 100 year anniversary of the start of World War One, but that's it." "Crime is down." Mulder said. "Nations at present are mostly at peace, the Big Arms Race was over long ago, rumor has it Saddam's got cancer, Pakistan and India are still chilly but not bombing each other, we haven't had a whole-scale civil slaughter in any third world nation for the last six years, there seems to be nothing happening anywhere to explain why suddenly this previously unknown "Glory of God" Club would start killing families." "I don't think the reasons for any of it are cut and dried." Scully said. Mulder sighed. "Crazy doesn't mean a person can't be intelligent. Religious doesn't mean goodness." "I didn't say it did. But they might be suffering from some kind of mass delusion." "World wide? Why isn't it affecting others? Why only the God's Children Murderers?" "I don't know." "I don't think this has anything to do with God." Mulder dismissed the idea. Frohike seemed to sense an argument building and asked "Why these kids? Are these kids like Gibson was? You never told us what happened to Gibson, Mulder." "We don't know, but my opinion is Gibson was part alien. Or he'd been altered as a child. Abducted and genetically manipulated, that's why he could read minds." "They tried to kill him, Mulder." "No. they tried to study him, control him. Maybe Gibson was a failure. I think that's why they're after these kids. Maybe these kids are the successes. They put Oil infected control subjects in place or infected parents already present to watch the kids, to retain that control." "Then why are they dying or being killed?" "I don't know. These religious fanatics are obviously well organized and maybe they recognize, somehow, what's going on. Maybe their solution to the world's woes is to remove the "tainted"." "They seem too well organized to be crazy." Scully said, still stinging from his comment. "Look at John List, a family man, an accountant who stuck to routine and who, verified by the testimony of friends and co-workers, worked to effect a normal American family life - who wanted things to be "nice". But one day he wakes up and decides the answer to all his troubles is to brutally murder his ill and alcoholic wife and then his three children one at a time, afterward lining up their corpses in a row like popsicle sticks. Why do we believe that madness must by definition also mean chaos? Can't there be orderly, methodical, even logical, insanity?" Scully bristled. "I think that it does not always clearly manifest itself, yes. I think sometimes it comes in disguise and fools us all." The room was suddenly very uncomfortable. Langley, Byers looked at the floor, the walls. Frohike made himself occupied with the goings on outside the room's one window. They looked anywhere but at the two other occupants whose mutual tension was as thick as cheese. Bluntly, "Do you think I'm crazy?" Mulder asked her. She was shocked. "Where did that come from? You know I don't." "But I believe aliens abducted me for eight years. And I believe that now, we're seeing aliens on the verge of an invasion. I think these kids are tied to it. I think it's been planned for decades and someone has to try and stop it." "Do you think I'm crazy for not believing that, Mulder? Am I crazy for thinking that maybe, just maybe God does have a hand in things and even if aliens are about to destroy all human life, He will have something to say back to them? That they could also be a creation provided with free will and that He might stop this himself?" An interruption in the way of Margaret Scully halted further words momentarily. She apologized, carrying in a tray loaded with cups filled with coffee, saucers, cream and sugar and a plate of squares. Byers went to take the tray from her. "Thank-you's" issued from the group as she nodded and left, closing the door again behind her. A few minutes were spent doctoring up cup. Frohike helped himself to two of the cocoanut topped confectionaries. "Frohike." Scully said in protest. "I know, I know. I've decided to ignore my doctors advice for a few minutes. Let an old man enjoy a few pleasures." He took a bite. "These are incredible. What else is your mother good at?" Amused, Scully shook her head and gave up. Mulder didn't take a coffee or anything off the plate. He'd had his morning meal, barely recognizable as food if he remembered right. Yellow mush that tasted vaguely like bananas. Scully had brought her meal to his bedroom and after, he'd felt well enough to join her in the T.V. room. The morning had been spent just enjoying each others company. He wanted to repair the damage and looked over at Scully. She was staring at her coffee cup. She looked sad and it was because of him. Their eyes met when she looked up and a private word was exchanged. It said they were each sad, each sorry, each wishing for things to have turned out differently. It said love and plenty of it. Mulder nodded to her, the gesture made to once again draw the others into the conversation. "Scully has a right to her own opinions on this, but we're working together toward the same goal." "Yes." She added. "We're just working from different mind sets." She addressed the group, and then just Mulder smiling, "When have we not?" To all: "I believe something is going on, something big. But, personally, I'm also trying to keep a faith that the very worst will not be the outcome, no matter what we do or are unable to do. Don't worry guys," She said to the three Gunmen, "Mulder and I all right," To Mulder, "aren't we?" Mulder nodded. "Then let's get to work. " Scully took the floor once more. "All we have is what my informant has told me, which is still, I remind you, somewhat questionable. He can give us so little concrete information and nothing that targets any one individual, so he is almost a dead end. The names he gave us of some of the members of his old clan turned up possibles but the information is a decade old and it could be a dead end." Byers reported. "I did a web search. There are organizations that call themselves the "Millennium Children", people who believe they were abducted from the womb, taken to the "mother ships", "altered" - made into geniuses the reasons for which they can't say, then returned to the womb for normal birth. "There are chapters who also think that they have or still have somewhere,a twin who was the abductee, removed pre- natally from the mother and taken to the aliens ships, the other twin being left behind as the "control subjects". That ties in with Mulder's theory to some extent." "Except they're not abducted to be made into geniuses. They're test subjects for the aliens, for their breeding program or the Black Oil infection-" Mulder added. "Those people are deluding themselves, guys." Scully said. "They desire something beyond mediocrity and, based on a dream or a sense of "incompleteness" or "invasion" that could be explained by anything from a lack of iron or a rhinovirus, they decided that they must have been abducted and they are now super humans endowed with superintelligence or talent and the main liners of the future. There is nothing scientific to sup[port their claims." "There was nothing scientific to support mine." Mulder reminded her. Scully didn't look at him, biting her too wuick tongue. "anyway, there's been no sign of the Black Oil in any of the dead children." She said. " And none of this goes any where in explaining how those children who are found dead died. None of them showed trauma of any kind. Not even raised adrenaline levels in the blood." "But it does explain Sam's child." "We all want to believe our children or our family is more special that the rest, but it's just one theory." Scully answered but didn't look at him. The case had become a web of threads that did not lead back to each other but simple away. Each dead family added to the unbelievable. None of it made sense. Nothing fit. Nothing answered to normal avenues of scientific investigation. "Where does your friend Krycek fit into all of this?" Langley asked. "He was never anyone's friend." Mulder said. "And we don't know yet, but he's one of the baby killers." Byers cleared his throat, "Back to the reason why. The only thing happening in the world seems to be a lack of newsworthy events. the "why" just isn't clear." "Krycek knows. We need to find him." Mulder said. Scully had not mentioned her encounter. It had been held for an entirely different purpose, but "I doubt he knows much." she said, just to stave off the pangs of conscience over her secrecy about having gone. "We have our chapters on it, everything we know about him. So far, zip." Langley said. "Scully, what's the word on Caleb?" Mulder asked. That was what was most on his mind. The case itself had gone world-wide, whoever was doing the killings, it now seemed far more important to stop them than to know all the reasons behind why, other than the why might eventually lead them to the culprits. But Caleb. Caleb was personal. Scully seemed distracted. "Scully?" She looked up at him, as if she not heard. "I'm sorry, something Byers said made me think of something. It's nothing." But she had aroused Mulder's curiosity. "What?" All their eyes were on her now. "That the only significant "Event" is that there is none. No wars, no uprisings, things seem good. It...uh..reminded me of a passage in Luke 12:40, "she quoted for them, "at a day you do not think likely, the Son of Man cometh."." "You think God is behind all this?" Mulder asked. Scully pursed her lips. "No, but I think it's interesting that something this wide reaching is occurring now, when things seem fine. When there seems to be no catalyst, that such a world-wide and obviously organized group would see _now_ as the time for action. What is it about _this_ time, about _now_?" "They're religious fanatics. For some, that's all they need: The "call to serve" ." Mulder said and shifted, even the padded chair was growing uncomfortable. As if to apologize to Scully for his flip comment, he addressed the group, "Scully and I think differently on the possibilities of why, whether angels, demons, aliens or just bible thumping zealots suffering from mass psychosis, families and children are being murdered. It has to be stopped." The groups silence was an agreement and a sign the meeting had come to a close. Mulder sat forward and started to rise with the help of the cane Margaret had kindly provided. Frohike moved to help him up but Mulder waved him off. He looked embarrassed. "I have to go take my doc's-" He nodded in Scully's direction, a humorous twist on his mouth, "one hundred and one pills." He limped out of the room. When Frohike was sure he was out of earshot, "He looks bad, Dana." She nodded. "He is." It seemed to pull Frohike's face down, hearing it without any punches pulled. "How long?" Byers asked. They all knew what he meant. She stood to follow Mulder and they trailed after. "Uh...days. That's what Watts said, but science has been known to be wrong." If they were shocked to hear her say it, it wasn't evident on their faces. But they were all thinking the same thing. Days if Mulder took care. But they all knew he wouldn't. Frohike stopped her, letting the rest file passed and down the hall. "If you need any help with anything,...uh,...arrangements,...you'll call me? Us?" His hand on her forearm, his kind offer, his gentle words almost broke the fierce control she'd been practicing since the hospital yesterday. With eyes watering, she lay one hand one his arm and both stood there, two old friends in grief for the cherished third. Lip trembling, she nodded. Then, with Frohike right there, being so honest with her, so caring about Mulder, she wanted to share something more. "About Krycek. There's a place I went. Someone I had to ask something..." Frohike frowned, then understood. "You went to see him. Cancer Man." She nodded. "But he wasn't there. Krycek was. Don't tell Mulder but Krycek knows nothing that can help us." "Or if he did, he won't say." "Yes." She sighed. "Mulder's already dying, and so will more children. What could he have told me that would have made any difference? Even if we knew everything about them, I doubt we could stop them." "You could have been hurt." Scully shook her head sadly. "Mulder's dying Frohike. They wouldn't need to punish me anymore than that. There's nothing I have that they already haven't taken away." *** Skinner assigned her to lead the Infiltration Team on New Hope. They were here to find and protect Sydney Black, daughter of Frank and Catherine Black. Catherine Black, the mother who had died during the North West Outbreak by her own hand. Frank Black who had lost himself inside a frightening doomsday Sorority. Frank who had embroiled his family in something that ultimately caused him to destroy them, wither in death or separation. Frank who had put his trust in his religiously guided millennium seekers who believed one effective method of eradicating evil was infecting the populous with a prion carried virus that killed in seconds; one that caused its victims blood to cease clotting and all blood carrying vessels to break down and leak like wet rice paper. It was a well conceived virus that brought a truly biblical vision to life before the horrified stare of any unfortunate observer: the sufferer bleeding from the mouth and eye-sockets, as even the capillaries on the tongue and in the eyeballs broke down, eventually spilling their fluid out onto the face. A very effective method of eradication. But one from men, not from God. Distributed by men who had cast their deadly bread upon the waters and then took measures so it would not come back to them. A very terrible way to die, but at least it was quick. ENMS was agonizingly slow for both victim and those who in horror, had to stand and watch. These diseases were death for men by men because their brand of destruction murdered the innocent while leaving the guilty to walk the earth. It would not always be so. If God was love as the Father's had taught, it could not be. Scully had looked up a passage in her leather bound Bible, the very old one her mother had given her at age eight, and which she'd had lovingly and newly inscribed with her name in gold lettering: Zechariah 14:12, "...And this what will prove to be the scourge with which Yahweh will scourge all the peoples that will actually battle against Jerusalem: There will a rotting away of ones flesh, while one is standing upon ones feet; and one's very eyes will rot away in their sockets, and one's very tongue will rot away in one's mouth." The God's Children Killer's had used a man's invention to praise God and to control those who did not. Or those they felt who did not believe such particulars and in the way in which they approved. The evil among men seemed to dwell within their ranks. Another method of controlling - in this case - their own members was to generously provide the antidote for those members, with or without their consent. Not the members families, just the members. Scully recalled Frank's face, her informant, Crazy Man. The loss of his family had driven him insane, she was sure, but not too insane to tell the truth. Craziness didn't mean liar. Spiritual didn't mean unscientific. Spooky didn't mean unreal. Did the God's Children Killers know about Sydney and The New Hope Evangelicals? Protecting the children was the right thing to do, that's what they were here to do. Which children among millions? and Why them? were impossible questions and best left to posterity or God to figure out. If only the Evangelicals had not denied them entry onto the property. "This is a place of God. We are peaceable, tax paying citizens caring for children no one else wanted and we are, by the way, legalized in every way. Permission is denied. Even if the Devil were bold enough to show his face here, do you think God would not have an answer?" So had preached the woman on the phone to her, vehemently denying the F.B.I. access to the property or the children. "Has there been a report that the children are being neglected or abused in any way?" The woman had astutely asked, and with Scully's answer in the negative, she'd finished, "Then there is no reason for you or anyone to disturb the tranquility of New Hope. I'm sure if you've done your background check on us adequately, you'll know that we are registered as a free-standing Church of God and a place of sanctuary and as such, have every right under the law to refuse you entry. Men of war and weapons of death are forbidden here." And that had been that. Scully knew her duty, she wanted to help this man Frank Black save his daughter whom he claimed had been one of these special children. Scully wanted to save these kids. She wanted to do the right thing. But the last thing she and the team wanted to do was let the New Hope's know that the F.B.I. was at least watching the property if not stepping feet on it. Spooking the New Hope's would not be a good idea. The task force had no idea of the true nature of New Hope: who they were, how they operated, whether they themselves were innocents and in need of protection or if they were another self righteous, Waco-like paranoid cult just waiting for any reason to show their godly devotion by opening fire upon the law enforcers of men. Caution was the word. Mulder was at her mothers and after arguing fruitlessly about leaving him behind, with conscience burning with guilt, Scully' had decided to sedate him. "I'm sorry, Mulder. You can't be in on this one, you're not strong enough for field work anymore." He argued back. Coughed and spit up blood and argued some more. "I have a right to find my nephew! Not as an agent but as a human being! He's the only surviving member of my family, Scully! Don't make me sit here while Sam's only son is murdered! You have no right to drug me up Scully! No right!" She had ignored his protests and nodded to the day nurse who held his arms while she'd inserted the needle. ****** Three dozen agents in black body armor surrounded New Hope. It was a non threatening place. A one two story house, a dozens smaller cabins, a corral where some horses dozed in the early morning sunrise. A cow barn. There were no fences, no watchtowers, no fortifications of any kind. Scully crouched low next to Skinner. They were close to what appeared to be the main house. Through her field glasses, she could make out lace curtains in the windows and white wooden chairs on the veranda that wrapped the entire structure. "This place looks like a summer Bible camp." Skinner said. "All this fire power seems almost profane." He nodded in the direction of the house "That's where the children most likely are." "Probably. It might also just be the cook house, where the camp counselors stay and where they all eat. These other cabins," she pointed, "could be sleeping quarters." The task force had looked over aerial photographs of the site. No unusual activity had been detected. Reports from the neighboring town said that the place was benign and appeared to be exactly what it stated and nothing more. Even a check on taxes revealed complete and up front reporting to the I.R.S.. "What do we do first?" Skinner asked her, though procedures had already been laid out. "We wait." The sun had been up no more than forty minutes before all the children, talking and giggling among themselves like hungry kids do, were filing into the main house accompanied by their guardians to, Scully guessed, sit down for breakfast, as frying bacon could be smelled. Things were quiet for a time. If the place was a haven for aliens or angels, nothing was surfacing to mark it. The sun had traveled for another hour before more movement could be seen in the camp. A woman wearing a simple dark dress came out the front door of the main house carrying a bucket. She walked to a well in the center of the small, fenced yard and pumped its handle, filling her bucket before re entering the dwelling. Before long, the odor of fresh coffee reached their nostrils. Skinner's mouth watered. "Bacon. Coffee. I should have had breakfast." "Well, you never did listen to your doctor much." "So why start now, Doctor Scully?" He joked, exchanging looks with his prettiest agent and remembering past times spent with her in ways closer than they were now. Memories, he decided, better left in his head. "I don't know, I'm beginning to think my informant really is just a wacko. Unless I've lost my instincts, there's nothing unusual going on here that I can see." "He was an F.B.I. agent." "So was Duane Barry, look how that turned out." "Well, my ass is getting sore just-" A voice on his radio interrupted: "Sir. We've got company." **