Boredom is a soldier's greatest enemy. Dana was bored. Even lengthy stakeouts don't train you not to be bored. They train you to be bored, and still pay attention to details. Fighting requires a complete devotion to barely restrained aggression. The capacity to remain for long periods in position, one pound of pull away from firing. The entire USAMRIID team, along with Agent Scully, had been waiting alone for only ten minutes. But somehow it was enough time to relax. Scully would never have thought she was relaxing. The sweat had soaked through her shirt, and it was now sticking to her rubber suit, forming uncomfortable wrinkles against her back. She was pressed against the underside of the dirty little table, and her hand burned from the strain of holding it too tightly. Her arm was getting tired as well. If she'd looked, she would have seen that Whitman had lowered his gun, and Hadat had the butt of his pistol set against his knee. Only Pryce was still ready. So when they heard the soft explosion through the hanger doors, everyone jerked upright. Scully realized she'd relaxed somewhat, for every muscle in her body had clenched at the noise, forcing a gasp from her throat. Then, muffled under the echo of the blast, she could hear several pistol-style gunshots from below her. Only the Lieutenant and Mulder were carrying pistols. She shot to her feet, ignoring the creaks in her knees. She stopped short when Pryce caught her gun arm, and forced it down. He tried to drag her back into cover, but she fought, hitting his knuckles. "Let go of me!" She sounded very distant, even to her own ears. "No! There's a firefight going on down there!" His growl cut through the ripping noise of automatic weapon fire. "And my partner's in it. Let go!" She pulled her arm free, and for a moment brought her barrel toward him. It moved only a fraction, but she was shocked to realized how out of control she was. "Listen to me. If you go down there now, they will confuse you with a live target. You'll be a blue on blue. You know what that means, dammit?" She sank down, scared for her partner, and her own temper. "A victim of friendly fire." She was quoting newspaper verbatim. She could see in her head all too well what horrors could be going on downstairs. She knew what Mulder was walking into. And she was stymied. Whispering, "What can I do?" "We wait." * * * Mulder's heart leapt as the muzzle of his pistol climbed skyward. Each round he fired jerked the gun about in his hands, and illuminated the dank blackness of the room with the burning yellow light of a fire fight. The flashes of light burned into his eyes, nearly blinding Fox in the darkness. His flashlight gripped tightly in his other hand was being used to brace his firing arm. But even without seeing his target, he knew it was there. It was screaming. In the darkness of the of the generator room, Fox had caught sight of its gloss black form gliding lightly over the floor, soundless. In the spot of illumination from his flashlight he'd seen something man-like, but covered in a crenelated black carapace. A long, ridged tail sprouted above biped legs, and long spines or tubes erupted from its back. And the eyeless, elongated head it turned upon him had hissed, and bared the tremendous fangs of its two nested mouths. It was dragging a human body across the floor behind it. And now as Agent Mulder emptied his clip into it, it screamed. Not the noises familiar to humans, to mammals, but a high pitched noise, something in between a squeal and a hum. It was a terrifying sound, foreign to his ears. Alien. The gun locked open, its rounds spent. Fox pressed the lever that ejected the clip, and nothing happened. His thick gloves slid off the matte plastic case. Trembling, Fox watched the shadowy form across the room crouch down and hiss. Never looking away from the thing he managed to release the catch, dropping the empty clip to the floor. It moved silently toward him, faster than a sprinter. Its abnormally long legs clutched the deckplates as it ran, and it pulled itself along the banks of machinery with skeletal arms. Although he could not see it, the thing's long tail curved about it, over it. He stumbled backwards, vaguely aware that he could in no way outdistance this thing. All that constituted his world was the metal on metal noise of its claws, and the rush of his breath in the confines of his suit. He fumbled inside his gloves, trying to slap another clip into his pistol. "No! No, dammit, no!" The sharp report of a rifle slammed the beast against the metal housing of a large turbine. Green fluid sprayed away from it as it squealed in pain and grabbed at the machinery to pull itself upright. A second burst of rifle fire came from behind one of the generators, knocking it back down. In deathly silence, an arc of its green blood spun through the air, a drop catching Fox's mask. He noticed that the floor about the body was smoking and hissing. He finally managed to insert the new clip into his gun when he smelled the acrid, choking fumes of burning plastics. His eyes watered, and he realized that a section of his goggles had melted away, exposing him to the outside air. But the fumes were blinding him, choking him. Quiddis and his partner came around the corner housing to find Mulder silently struggling to tear away his mask and hood. "No, don't!" Quiddis tangled himself about Fox's arms, thinking he was fighting claustrophobia. Then he caught sight of the green liquid that was dissolving the agent's mask and he fell back in shock. Fox tossed the mask to the ground, coughing from the smell of melted plastic. With his head freed from the hood, Fox smelled the hold of the rig for the first time. Oil and metal tang mixed with charred flesh and a bitter, unfamiliar smell. "Eel-tee, look at this!" The soldier called his officer over toward the alien body. The body fell through the floor, the metal underneath melted through. All around, the spray of the creature's blood had burned holes through the solid steel machinery, etching the creature's death into the rig. They had found the cause of the holes in the flooring. They came not from fire, but acid. Mulder pulled a glove off so he could wipe at his tearing eyes. For a moment he thought of the instantly lethal virus Scully had found in the Bounty Hunter's blood. But he'd been exposed to it, and knew that this wasn't it. This was something completely new. The loud noises of running feet pounding on the deck preceded the rest of the team into the machine room. All were breathing hard, and scanning the room with their eyes and weapons. Peirson spoke up. "What the hell was that?" He gestured toward the smoking hole next to his commanding officer. "Yeah, Mulder," Lt. Quiddis turned to face Fox, who retrieved his still functional radio headset. "You mind explaining that thing?" Still breathing hard, Agent Mulder joined the team at the edge of the hole, and looked down at the body lying one floor below them. He turned his light on it, and was rewarded my muttered curses from the rest of the team. Fox's sweat-soaked hair stuck up in various directions as he faced the suited SEAL team. "Well, I guess we found our perp." "That thing didn't come off no satellite, man!" One of the men pushed his way to the front. His suit read 'Hall.' "No, it didn't." Mulder holstered his gun, glad now that his gloves and mask were off. The sea air felt cool on his face, even down here. He just hoped Scully could prove the absence of a virus. he didn't want any more time in Decontamination. "So what is it?" Hall seemed deeply upset. Fox could understand why. "Well, off the top of my head I'd tend to say it's a space monster. Got a better idea?" The smell of the smoke brought back some of Fox's earlier nausea. He shook his head. "How do we get down there?" Lt. Quiddis grabbed his arm and spun him around. "Get down there? Are you nuts? We're calling in reinforcements. This is seriously out of our league." "No." Mulder pulled back, aware of the number of military men about him. "I'm not letting this one disappear into a military crate. This time, we keep the body. Now that it's dead, we take it back for the Bureau to examine." He was tense, rigid. "What? I . . .?" The Lieutenant saw an intensity in Fox's hazel eyes that hadn't been there before. "Now help me down there, and we can get out-" Mulder's words were interrupted by the sound of an asthmatic hiss. The sound rose up from Mulder's side, and was joined by another nearby. Very quietly, Mulder drew his pistol and threw the safety off. "I think we have company." "Okay team, back to the stairwell, now! We're outta this mission." The Lieutenant circled his hand in the air, and used silent gestures to direct his teams to fall back. Mulder was absolutely furious. They had a squad of soldiers, more than enough to find the remaining aliens. And they were pulling out, leaving him behind. He tucked the remains of his mask into his belt, and ran after the soldiers. The Lieutenant drew a radio from his web belt, and snapped it on with a crackle of static. "This is the insertion team, request immediate evac. Over." He and Mulder kept their eyes open as they ran through the hallways, half expecting another one of those creatures to await them around every corner. "Roger. I'll be on station in five minutes. Over." The pilot's voice was robbed of timbre by the radio. "Roger. Warning, it's a hot LZ." The Lieutenant had to smile inside his mask. This brought a whole new meaning to 'hot.' * * * Col. White ignored the gunfire shattering the night behind him. He didn't care how the SEALs were doing, he just hoped they were loud enough. They were his decoy. The site doctor had kept a running radio dialogue with a Coastal Navy Hospital for two days. In the sickbay nearby were his notes, and the biological sample he'd kept. He'd been ordered to collect the notes and samples, and torch the rig. The sealed papers in his vest ordered the _Elliot_ to destroy the rest of the rig, and carry him directly to shore. All he had to do was get in and out quickly. * * * Due to the sealed suits the team wore, the SEALs couldn't use nightvision goggles. Instead they were reduced to flashlights taped to the barrels of their weapons. Mulder had brought his huge halogen flashlight, and by virtue of sheer candlepower was elected to take point as the team wound their way back to the stairs. "On three!" Fox stepped to one side, as Peirson took position directly in front of the steel door. "Now!" Fox threw his shoulder into the door, and it slammed against the inner wall of the night-black stairwell. When nothing showed itself, Mulder stepped in front of the soldiers, and swung his light about the small vestibule at the foot of the stairs. He turned, and waved the SEALs through. "Go! It's clear." Behind the hiss of the sealed suits, and the tromp of gas masks, Mulder heard a faint keening sound. Quiddis was the last into the stairwell, and he pushed Mulder in front of him. "You too. Get up there now!" Behind him a dark, glistening form dropped to the floor, just beyond the doorway. Mulder's gun snapped up, seemingly in slow motion as Quiddis recognized the shock and fear on the agent's face. The muzzle of Mulder's gun had just cleared the lieutenant's shoulder when he started firing. There were screams of shock and outrage from the vaguely insectile apparition, but the bullets whined off its hard shell. Quiddis dove forward, slamming Mulder against the floor and driving the wind out of him. Simultaneously, the alien leapt, and overshot the two men. It landed with feline grace upon the stairwell as its skeletal tail coiled about it. Lt. Quiddis was up and running, pulling Mulder along by the collar on his suit. They were just out the door when flashes of gunfire lit the darkened stairs in a hellish strobe. Fox spun, and fired backwards through the door, still bent on killing the thing. But even as his remaining shells bounced harmlessly off its evil hide, he saw it dance jerkily under the impact of rifle rounds. The SEALs poured fire onto it from the floor above, and managed to pound it back into the ground. But the lower level and stairs disappeared under ropey gouts of its redolent blood. Thick yellow smoke poured out from the acid-eaten crater that had been Fox's escape, choking him. Lt. Quiddis hefted him as he coughed, and shouldered him even as he yelled to his troops above them. "You get moving! We'll find another way up!" "But-" "Go! That's an order!" With that, Quiddis pounded down a service corridor with Mulder slung over one shoulder. He did not look back. Quiddis' hard shoulder and air tank pounded Mulder's chest and stomach, hurting worse than the rank smell of burning metal. Still coughing through a painfully tight chest, he pounded on the Lieutenant through his thick suit. Stopping briefly, Quiddis turned and planted Mulder hard, propping him up against the wall. Fox was still coughing as he unsnapped the safety catches holding his air tank onto his back. With the last one gone, it slid heavily from his shoulders and landed hard upon the deck plates. "You ready to run?" As the Lieutenant spoke, Mulder found himself thinking about the slick black shape that had leapt over them. "Damn straight. Where to?" Mulder still coughed with a deep bronchial sound. In response, the Lieutenant turned and ran, his dark suit nearly disappearing into the darkness ahead. It suddenly occurred to Fox that in the midst of the confusion, he'd dropped his flashlight somewhere down the corridor. Now it was either melted, or in the midst of some hunting creatures he couldn't kill. Mentally he chalked up yet another destroyed light. In the darkness, Fox nearly ran into Quiddis' broad back. The man was undogging a large hatch on one side of the corridor. The door was too small for Agent Mulder to help, so he dropped the spent clip and loaded a fresh one into his gun. Useless or not, he wanted a gun. "Okay, this is the loading bay over to Platform One. Move!" Quiddis threw the door open, chilled by the abrupt silence about them. Mulder leaped through, his Glock at eye level. He was nearly blinded, surprised to find the lights on at this level. But through the light, he saw nothing, and gestured for the Lieutenant to follow. Quiddis hopped over the high sill of the hatch, and tried to swing the door closed behind himself. But a hand closed over the door edge, and in the bright light, Mulder got a good look at the thing. There were too many digits on the dripping hand, and the claws at its tip gleamed more of metal than bone. The tendons and cartilage were stretched taut about the surface of the hand, and its grip nearly snatched the door from the Lieutenant. The sweat on Fox's face ran cold, and he yanked the damaged mask from his belt. Quickly he shoved the barrel of his short pistol into the rubber mask, and brought it up to the almost mechanical hand at the door. As he did so, the monstrosity brought its face about the door, and Quiddis let out a high pitched gasp as he faced a nightmare from two feet away. Its glossy carapace extended from a grotesque, lipless mouth to the crown of a long, slick head. The sides and peak of its head were ridged, and again it looked as though the beast's very tendons were wrapped about its skin. But horror arose when it opened a slavering jaw, only to reveal a second set of jaws inside its mouth. Mulder pushed the mask and barrel up against the creature's hand, and his finger squeezed the trigger over and over. Both he and the creature fell away, both squealing. Fox flung the gun and mask as far away from himself as he could from where he lay on the floor, his face a rictus of pain. The beast pulled back from the door, giving the Lieutenant a chance to unclip a grenade, and lob it though the opening. Then he dogged the hatch, and ran toward Mulder. The heavy sounds of the thing pounding on the door echoed through the room. Then a blast shook the room, denting the hatch. Quiddis ran over to Mulder, and dragged Fox's hand up toward his own mask. Bright red blood poured down his hand from a gouge along his index finger, but he was otherwise intact. "It's just a ricochet, Mulder. Get up now!" He grabbed Fox's elbows, and pulled him upright. "Where are we going, anyway?" His husky voice was now rough and tight from the pain and smoke. "Up three decks is a gangway to Platform Two, next to the infirmary. We can fix you up there." With that, both men started sprinting, Mulder cradling his hand to the heavy plastic of his suit. Behind them lay the smoking ruins of a very fine pistol. Quiddis hoped that this platform was not lit throughout; he didn't want to see another one of those things clearly, ever again. * * * Peirson and the SEAL team charged through the doorway to the hanger as though the very demons from hell were chasing them. And for the life of him, Peirson wasn't sure whether they were or not. He dropped instinctively to the deck as a small caliber round whined past his head. His team dove to the sides, save one man. He chambered a round into his grenade launcher, and snapped the weapon to his shoulder. The wide barrel fixed immediately on the overturned tables before them. "Don't shoot, dammit!" There was no mistaking the woman's voice for any but Dana Scully. Pryce stuck his head over the barricade, his blank mask bobbing slightly, "Sorry." The team didn't even pause, nor did Peirson. To a man they charged over the tables and around them as though they ceased to exist. And as far as being possible threats, they had indeed ceased to exist. "Quick. We're evacing right now." He grabbed the harness holding Scully's air tank, and pulled her to her feet. "Let's go." Scully spun about, frantic. "Mulder? Where's my partner? Mulder?" Still holding his rifle, Peirson grabbed her shoulder to get her attention. "He and the El-Tee are stuck, and they're coming up the other platform. Now come on." With that the dark shape of a Blackhawk helicopter appeared over the edge of the landing platform, its low fuselage coming about. The roar of the engines and high whine of the propeller blades blocked out nearly all noise as the helicopter settled down on the deck. The SEAL team and USAMRIID doctors surged forward, with Scully and Peirson caught in the middle of the hanger. She didn't know what to do. She wanted to run for the helicopter, for the protection the soldiers offered. But she couldn't just abandon him, no matter what Peirson said. It was in that moment of taut hesitation that chaos descended. * * * The loading bay at the base of the oil rig connected all four platforms together. The gaping room sported flats of supplies, and yellow forklifts rusted by the sea air. Well oiled chains hung in black loops from pulleys along the roofline. Condensation and oil dripped in thin strings to rank black pools on the deck. One full side was open to the ocean, with only two sea doors to seal the space. It was not enough to let the sea scrub the decay from the air. The dank hold was illuminated by the light gray of the impending dawn. It clawed through the narrow slit left between the doors, and spilled out over the shattered boxes Mulder and Quiddis ran around. If they crossed the hold, and if the power lasted here, they might be able to ride the cargo lift up to the third level. They would not need to ascend into the warren of hallways above them. Quiddis moved quickly and silently, his heavy boots seeming to whisper in counterpoint to the hammer falls of Fox's own steps. The lieutenant kept his own pistol out and ahead of him, level with his navel. Fox was never more acutely aware of his own defenselessness as he was then. The rubber suit retained about him a sticky heat that left him panting from exertion. With each step his hand bled out along the front of the P3 suit, and it burned painfully under the pressure of his other hand. His lungs were tight as he bit back the hoarse coughs that might give their position away. Instead he whirled about as they ran, searching all the corners of the room. It wasn't until he saw the first of the small, ovoid objects on the floor ahead that the skin on his arms and shoulders crawled in alarm. Uniform in shape, they were leathery, and wet with ooze. All were empty, the tops open like fetid petals. His eidetic memory prompted him with the image of the alien as it descended from above, landing behind Quiddis. He looked up, and froze. His heart clenched inside him, and chills washed over him as he tried to accept what he saw. The lieutenant drew up short as he realized Fox was no longer beside him. He halted, his gun swinging about for prey. Inside his mask, Quiddis' brow furrowed in confusion. Until he realized that Agent Mulder was looking up. He looked up, and gasped in terror and revulsion. The steel beams that comprised the apex of the bay had been encased in a green-gray resin, sculpted into rounded patterns. And as parts of this alien sculpture, the crew of the CGC Prometheus had been embedded in the matrix. Their puffy white deathmasks screamed down at the two men, the silent white eyes too dim to be seen from the ground. But their limbs were snapped, bent backward along their torsos to accommodate their shapes into the alien pattern. They had been jammed into the spaces in the roof, and cemented in place. And to a man, all had fist-sized, bloody holes in their chests. With a jolt of nausea akin to a physical blow, Quiddis realized that the liquid falling about him and Mulder was not water and oil. It was partially congealed blood and mucus. Quddis dropped his pistol, and clutched at his chest as he drew choking, gasping breaths. He doubled over, desperately trying not to vomit as the tears flowed from his eyes. Suddenly he was aware of the liquid around his feet, and the sour, salty taste of his own bile. Fox ran over to Quiddis, and unsnapped the hood from the lieutenant's head. His fingers slipped in the blood from his own wound, which burned like fire as he feverishly worked the air hose connection. Mulder's right forefinger refused to close around the catches, so he pried at them with his left hand. Finally he managed to yank the hood from Quiddis, who was still sucking air in. When the stale, putrid air first hit him, he heaved. Quiddis grabbed the nearest crate, and emptied his stomach until only acid burnt its way up his throat. Then he felt his stomach lunge painfully into his throat as it tried to clean itself further. Mulder wasted no time in sweeping up Quiddis' gun, and snapping the safety off. He couldn't hold the weapon in his right hand, and so cradled it in his left. Revolted, Mulder turned in silent circles, not sure if he was watching for an attack or just trying to accept what he saw hanging above him. His head hurt, and the vertigo that accompanied his seasickness returned along with the sense that he was no longer connected to his own body. Mulder shook the sensation off. "Quiddis?" He got no response. "Lieutenant? You still with me?" He couldn't afford to glance at the man for fear of overlooking the stealthy approach of a glossy shape. "Talk to me. Now." Mulder didn't look down as he grabbed Quiddis' mask from the floor, and tucked in into the belt of his suit. Quiddis gasped, "Shit, man. Oh shit . . . " Mulder had seen this in the Violent Crimes department, and in studies of some war veterans. Sometimes even the most hardened of people can be shaken to their very core. For some it is the sight of a child's broken body, or a face too similar to a loved one. Sometimes it's just a thought, a smell. Sometimes it takes a nightmare. Fox grabbed Quiddis by the arm and pulled him upright. Mulder started running across the bay, the lieutenant complying with his insistent tugs. But if Fox let slack his grip, Quiddis slowed down. Fox pushed Quiddis ahead of him, and leaned in close enough to the man that he could smell the vomit. "If you don't move, we'll die here! Me, I want to see the sun again, so move!" Perhaps it was the thought of dying in the stinking dark of that hold, or the thought of sunlight that propelled Quiddis. Perhaps it was the armed man waiting for him, bleeding. Whatever it was, the lieutenant blinked, and started running. "This way!" Quiddis pointed to a small, open sided elevator that had been left six feet off the ground. They ran across the sticky deck toward the hydraulic lift set into one wall of the bay. The lieutenant got there first, and pulled both his regulation sealed gloves off. Discarding his air tank, he chinned himself up to the level of the platform, and rolled onto it. Mulder turned around, looking for motion. He saw none, and knew that it did not mean safety. He thought momentarily before engaging the safety on the pistol and hurling it to Quiddis. Then he grabbed the elevator platform and tried to pull himself up. His right hand burned and slipped. Mulder could feel the red hot blood roll from his hand toward his elbow, tickling him. His full lips locked in a grimace, it was all he could do to try and drag himself partway up. Then the lieutenant grabbed his left elbow, and hauled him onto the platform like a dead weight. Mulder dragged himself into a sitting position, and clutched at his hand futility. His eyes burned from the effort it had required not to cry out. Instead he let his wracking coughs envelop him, his lungs burning. Quiddis clicked the scratched and dirtied green button, and the lift jolted into motion upward. He picked up his pistol, and tried to ignore the warmth of Mulder's blood on the grips. A dark shape fell from the edge of the hanger doors, and drove Hadat into the deckplates. In absolute silence it grabbed the soldier by the arms, lifting him from the deck. Its fanged mouth opened, and the inner teeth sprang out, tearing a hole through the man's suit and head. In a panic, the next man over unleashed a full volley from his CAR-15 at less than two meters. The creature dropped the decapitated body, and was knocked backward in a spray of green blood. The soldier dropped his weapon as he staggered backwards, his screams echoing through the hanger. He struggled with the smoking suit, which bubbled and hissed with the acid. His companion dropped his rifle and fought to get the P3 gear off in time. The pilot's radio call came in strongly, "What the hell was that?" From only meters away, he had seen the thing go down in a tangle of sinewy legs and tail, its teeth gleaming in the predawn light. Scully dragged Peirson to the ground next to her as she snap fired her pistol at another creature that fell from the ceiling. The thing had dropped down where they had been standing a moment before, and now the horror towered over them, clear drool sliding from its fangs. Scully's chest closed in on her as she saw for the first time what had killed the crew here, though it some analytical part of her mind she recognized the second set of fangs. Those, she realized, were what had made the wounds on the bodies. Still shocked, she snapped her hand up, and started firing. When her first shots merely glanced from its hide in a shower of sparks, she shot its feet out from under it. Peirson unlimbered his rifle and brought it up as the alien pulled itself erect. He rolled over on top of Scully, and jammed the muzzle of his M-16 into the creature's belly before triggering a short burst. The monstrosity was kicked backwards, sprawling in a heap nearby. Its tail lashed briefly as it arched its back. Then the floor gave way beneath the onslaught of acid, and it dropped from sight in a gray-yellow cloud of vapor. Scully winced at the shrill squealing and burning sizzle that accompanied the alien's demise, only to find Peirson choking on top of her. "Damn," she whispered as she fought the smoke to pull Peirson's suit from him. He kicked wildly, his choked cries turning to screams as he tore the zipper on his suit halfway open. Dana saw the rubber was falling apart, and red foam bubbled up past the gleaming white of bone on his chest. She tore the tattered remains of his fatigues off, leaving his still intact mask on. The spray of acid had eaten partially through his rib cage, and his shrieks died out as he went into shock. Doctor Scully stanched the blood with her gloved hands, oblivious to the gunfire around her. Several aliens had leapt from concealment in the roofing, and a pitched battle now raged across the hanger floor. The things moved quickly enough to transform themselves into sinister blurs in the darkness. All that was seen was their smooth bounding motion, as long claws stretched out for the SEALs. The team had retreated to the lab, and now the creatures had cut them off from the helicopter. The ear-numbing rips of automatic weapon fire cut off most talking, and with Peirson unconscious, little strategy remained. The small runoff grate next to Agent Scully snapped upward, and spiraled away across the deck. Two alien hands, elongate and clawed, rose up from the hole, and levered an oblate alien head upward. Dana gasped. It moved through the narrow opening like Eugene Tooms, flattening itself and pulling. She grabbed Peirson's rifle, realizing that the barrel was corroded and smoking. She grabbed Peirson by the harness, ignoring the flashes of gunfire, and pulled him away from the alien. By the time she'd moved some fifteen feet, it had emerged from the conduit, and crouched on the deck. A razor-tipped tail coiled over its head, and its claws grasped convulsively at the air. The grenade launcher slung under the rifle seemed intact to Dana. She pumped a round into the chamber, hoping it worked like a shotgun. The alien pounced as she fired. * * * Col. White used a disposable plastic pen to push the sample into a plastic bag. There was no way he would touch the thing that he'd found on a dissection tray. It was a flat, hand-like organism with eight legs, each resembling elongate fingers. But where a wrist should be, there was only a long tail, contorted in death. The ghastly part was the 'palm' of the creature, a surface covered with vestigial gills, and ruddy-colored soft organs. He had no idea what the damn thing did, and didn't care. He simply sealed the biohazard bag like he'd been shown, and clipped it to his belt. There it bounced next to similar bags containing the medical and captain's logs, and a vial of blood. The generator had maintained the lighting in the clinic, but the discarded bodies had already discolored. Their blood pooled like curdled milk about the floor, and the smears along the wall hardened to a deep brown in the silence. For all the slices of hell the Colonel had seen, or been party to, this small rig was by far the worst. The rec room he'd past had looked entirely normal, save for the spray of russet blood across one white wall. And the charnel smell was nauseating inside the claustrophobic enclosure. But it was the sensation that eyes followed him from room to room that had retracted his scrotum in fear. As he swept the countertop clear and placed a thermite charge next to the alcohol containers, some lizard-like portion of his mind screamed danger. And he trusted his instincts more than any man he'd ever worked with. * * * Quiddis stopped the open lift at the second floor, rather than ascending the last twenty feet. He just could not bring himself to pass within feet of the Prometheus crew. As it stood, they were hung far too close for comfort. "What are you doing?" Fox's voice was raspy from the smoke, and he was too light headed to project much noise. "I'm sure not getting closer to that . . . whatever the hell it is." Quiddis gestured toward the collection of bodies. "You get out here. I'll meet you on the next level." Mulder didn't look up. "No chance. You're coming with me." Quiddis cranked open the door, and examined the shadowed hallway. "Nice thought. You give me a hand up?" Agent Mulder was pale, and the blood-wet hand Quiddis grabbed was cold and clammy. "Let's go. I'm driving." Fox tried to chuckle as the lieutenant hefted him to his feet, but instead he drew a hissing breath as his wound was pulled open. Quiddis dragged Mulder ten feet before the Special Agent collapsed. The lieutenant felt his throat, and noticed Fox's hands shaking. He was lapsing into shock, and quickly. On a hunch, the lieutenant felt the soft plastic that covered Mulder's suit with the back of his hand. In the darkness, the blood slick was as black as night. The wound on Mulder's hand was bleeding out, he realized. He'd been pouring out his life blood across the suit as he ran. And now he couldn't run any farther. Quiddis stripped off his own P3 suit, and kicked it across the hall. Underneath, he was as lean as Fox, but wearing a thin camouflage blouse and togs. He snapped the clasps on the blouse, tossing it carelessly to the ground. "Damn. Damn. Damn, damn, damn!" He hoped there weren't any viri on the rig. His eyes flickered nervously up and down the hall as he whipped his undershirt over his head, and wrapped it about Mulder's hand. The lieutenant looked more closely as he tied the cotton shirt about Fox's hand, and saw an exit wound at the base of his palm. The agent bit down on his lip, but his eyes were still clear when he looked up. "Done." Quiddis tossed his open blouse on, and retrieved the pistol. "Now get up." "Nice bedside manner. 'Gotta introduce you . . . to my partner." "Great, save it for later. We're going back to the elevator, man" * * * The M-203 grenade launcher did indeed work like a shotgun. An enormous shotgun. Dana gasped as the recoil kicked her to the ground. The rifle tried to leap from her grip, but she knew to let it rise only to her shoulder. Her stomach hurt from where the rifle butt struck her, and through the smoke and her tears she could not see where the alien had gone. The wind from the helicopter's rotors swirled aside the cloud of cordite, revealing a smoking hole in the deck metal. The blast had hurtled the creature twenty feet before killing it. And despite her intense dislike of hunting, she grinned ferally at the smoking remains. She chambered another round into the launcher with a swift pump of the grip, and returned to dragging Peirson aside. Soun joined her, the Steyer impossibly large even against his own size. Each took a shoulder of the downed man's suit, and started dragging him. Scully looked up, but could not see Soun's expression though his darkened mask. She imagined he was as pale as she. The team swept the hanger, searching for more creatures on the prowl. The Blackhawk pilots kept unsteady eyes on the roof of the hanger. They could not yet believe what they'd seen. Which is why the men in the helicopter never saw the glistening forms rising from beside them. Two shapes bounded effortlessly over the railing on the far side of the landing platform. The pilot's mercifully short scream echoed with him as the first one dragged him back over the ledge. The copilot spun in his armored seat, only to find a second demonic face grinning at him from where the pilot once sat. In one hand it clutched the frayed end of the pilot's restraining harness, while the other splayed six long fingers across the cockpit instrumentation. The fanged mouth opened to reveal a second set of salivating fangs. In blind panic, the copilot grabbed the red double loop between his legs, and yanked hard. He'd seen the firefight nearby, and although he had no idea what the hard black thing next to him was, he knew what it could do. So he triggered his ejection seat. The explosive bolts kicked the helicopter propellers free, sending them tumbling out horizontally. Soun and Scully flattened themselves, Dana tossing herself across her patient. One of the thirty foot long composite blades slashed through the back wall of the hanger, tearing the stairwell apart. No one had time to determine the course of the other blades, for the top of the Blackhawk fired up and back in a burning hiss, and the copilot's seat rocketed into the air on a pillar of white fire. His arm and leg restraints had dragged the pilot's limbs in close to his body, but the force of his arcing departure bounced his head about on his shoulders, knocking his breathing mask free. The graceful curve of the chair was spun off kilter by the vicious black form drawing itself up to the eyes of the bound and helpless pilot. It seemed totally oblivious to the emerging parachute as it grabbed the copilot's helmet. Then the two fell beyond the range of anyone's vision, into the sea. Without the helicopter blades to weight the engine, it seized and locked, its dying whine mixing with the heavy sounds of ball bearings destroying themselves. The team was left to stand there, staring at the denuded chopper, its ejection system sending up a stream of smoke into the dawning sun. * * * White grabbed the examination table to brace himself as multiple explosions rocked the oil derrick. There was a particularly apt Farsi curse he'd learned once, something about having interesting friends, that flashed though his mind suddenly. The SEAL team was far more effective against these creatures than he'd been led to believe, and now White realized that he was out of time. He abandoned his small detonator charges on the counter top, his bomb setting plans forgotten. Now he had to get off the rig before the Navy strike team brought the roof down upon his head. The quickest way down to the moon pool was the small lift that ran down to the loading bay. The sample bags bounced against his hips as he padded quickly toward the corridor. White banished all but thoughts of survival as he rejoined the war zone. No fear, no remorse, no concerns. Just his raised weapon, and the path to the loading bay. * * * Mulder lay still on the dank metal grating of the lift, his breathing slow and shallow. His face was sallow, and beaded with the sweat that wet his dark hair and gathered on his eyebrows. Quiddis was locked into a tight shooter's stance over Fox, his camie blouse open over his thin dark torso and his pistol before him. But he took no note of Mulder's condition, for his eyes were locked with morbid fixation above him. Where the lift carried them closer to the remains of the Prometheus' crew. A crewman's snapped arm dangled downward at them, its desiccated fingers caught in a claw of pain. The gray-white flesh clung loosely to the thin bones of the hand, reminding Quiddis of a dozen horror films. Allah, he prayed, get me out of this, and I promise I will never watch a John Carpenter film again. Ever. The lift halted with a short screech of metal and a sudden lurch. The hand was within arms reach of Quiddis. And now he was close enough to see the face in the shadows beyond the body, partially entombed in the murky resin. Never had he seen a more pure expression of mortal terror, for the boy's lips had pulled back from the teeth, and the eyes had clouded over as the body screamed eternally in death. Quiddis shivered, and jumped as the lift door opened on its own. Quiddis whipped about, dropping to one knee near Mulder. The figure in the doorway was silhouetted by the light from the corridor as it snapped a weapon to its shoulder. Suddenly it pitched over backwards, cutting lose a brief burst of small arms fire over the lieutenant's head as it fell. Quiddis pounced, his loose blouse flapping as he pinned the form's wrist with a booted foot. His weight trapped the man's MP5 uselessly against the ground. Now visible in the dim light from the hall, Quiddis saw that it was Glad whom he had trapped under his gun. He also noticed that it had been Mulder's left hand wrapped around Glad's foot that had pulled the man off balance. The lieutenant decided to keep his pistol trained on the man he knew as Glad. "Thanks Mulder. So, dead man," Quiddis turned his attention to Glad again. "Wanna try explaining the warm welcome home?" "You surprised me. You going to let me up?" Col. White sounded keyed up, and embarrassed. He sounded flawless. "Yeah, next week. What are you doing here?" Sweat ran down the young lieutenant's face. "My job. We don't have time for this now lieutenant. It's time to get moving before we get bagged." In the faltering light of the medical level, Col. White's eyes were unflaggingly honest, almost beseeching as he talked. "Drop the gun." The lieutenant's voice was shaken, unsure. He adjusted his grip on the gun, conscious of the sticky blood on the grip. In reply, the Colonel dropped his machine gun, and spread his fingers wide. "Happy? Good, now let's get out of here. I got a baby girl I kinda' want to see some more." White wished he could take his eyes from the lieutenant in order to check out Mulder. He knew the Federal agent wouldn't be this quiet if he wasn't hurt badly. But he did not know if it was enough to insure he'd complete his mission. Quiddis felt the chill, wet air of the rig against his skin, and it suddenly struck him that his back was turned to that hideous mass of human bodies. He felt with chilling certainty that eyes were upon him, watching him. Looking down, he could tell that Mulder was unconscious, or nearly so. As a soldier, Quiddis knew how limited his options were. He stepped to one side, and held out a tanned hand for Glad. "All right, lets get out of here." Col. White stood up slowly, and casually picked up his gun, holding it nonchalantly to the side. He smiled warmly at Quiddis, concern in his eyes. "What happened to Mulder?" "He's lost a lot of blood on the way, sir. I don't know what to do." Quiddis was damn uncomfortable. He'd just been interrogating a superior officer at gunpoint, and now he was reporting to this man, his shirt open, exposing broad tanned muscles. He was scared, alone, and wanted his team badly. "You're doing a fine job son. Now, let's get to the catwalk quickly. You take Mulder, I'll take point. Move!" The Colonel knew how comforting orders could be in the middle of a crisis, and he used that fact. He could not let them realize where he'd been going, and he couldn't be sure of killing Quiddis without being wounded himself. He would have to distract the younger man, and take him down quickly. So he set out first, keeping his back turned to the SEAL. After all, wasn't he so much more trustworthy that way? Quiddis took one of Fox's arms and one of his legs in hand, and hefted the agent over his shoulders. Fox still wore the dark rubber contamination suit, and its large size made it difficult for him to hold on to the thin man inside. He had to holster his pistol before he could get Mulder up onto one shoulder. "I'm ready to go!" he called out to White. "Yes. You are." * * * Scully snapped into motion first, still dragging the limp and bloodied form of Peirson toward the remainder of the team. Soun was right with her, taking the fallen man by the legs, and lifting him clear of the deck. In short order, the SEALs had the wounded and able men gathered together amidst the smoking rubble that had been a hanger. The group of weary men left standing amidst the carnage were mute with shock, and Dana did not need for them to remove their masks for her to know what their eyes said. The sea is a deadly lover, and all who go to her know that perhaps her embrace will be the last they know. And no one becomes a soldier without the knowledge that their art is one of killing, and it is an art that demands to be washed in blood. But even amongst these sailor-soldiers, what they had seen had stripped away too much certainty, too much safety. That they stood alive in the end did not matter, for the sun rising bloodshot across the sky was now a distant thing. No more a yellow light in the sky, but a red star. A reminder that things lived elsewhere. Things whose knowledge of killing matched our own. Things that terrified them. Dana had neither the time nor the inclination to deal with all of this right now. Instead, she had to get these people off the rig, and back to a competent medical facility. And she had to find her partner, whom she was still cursing mentally. "Will somebody get on the radio and hail the _Elliot_?" As one, the seven men left standing turned toward her. "That's a great idea, lady. But it ain't going down." Soun adjusted the sling holding his rifle alongside him before unsealing and removing his mask. Underneath was a broad, brown face and glittering black eyes. "What? We need to get Peir- people off this rig." Scully could smell herself inside the suit, and the sound of her breathing was driving her mad. "Yeah. But Lt. Quiddis has the radio, and he still hasn't joined the party." Soun stripped himself of his gloves, and tossed them to the deck. Behind him the rising red sun lit the men in blood, and revealed the high clouds to the south. Dana blinked under her mask and assessed her situation. Mulder and Quiddis were trapped somewhere down in the hold, and they carried the only radio large enough to reach her uncle's ship. Then she counted the men out under her breath. In a corner, Dr. Whitman was trying to suture Major Pryce's scalp wound. Five SEALs were left standing, and Peirson was their only wounded teammate. There was no trace remaining of the other SEALs or Dr. Hadat. Peirson moaned faintly. Dr. Scully ran to the nearest medkit, and carried it back to the wounded soldier. Kneeling down, she stanched the flow of blood, which was small. The acid had cauterized the wound. Dana played fast and loose with the antibiotic shots and gels, as she wrapped his ravaged chest in yards of gauze. Inside her slick P3 gloves, Dana could barely wind the gauze. After a few more passes, she ripped her gloves off and tossed them across the deck. Scully didn't have time to hunt through the wreckage for surgical gloves, so she just prayed that Peirson had been judicious in his private life. Working with her bare hands in the cold dawn air, she managed to hold Peirson together, his blood hot on her hands. But she knew what would happen to him without immediate emergency care. Still kneeling, Scully slumped back until she rested uncomfortably on her feet. The heavy boots bit into her backside through the rubber suit, and her breath had begun to fog up her goggles. Additionally, her shoulders were raw from the weight of her air tank. At a glance, the gauge on her wrist told her that she had twenty minutes of air remaining. Dana struggled to pull her air tank off, and then stripped the mask off with it. The chill sea air hit her sweating face like a blow, and she closed her eyes. She sucked the air in through parted lips, and the crisp smell cleaned out her lungs. She wanted desperately to push the auburn strands of hair from her face, and take out the tight ponytail from her hair, but the blood on her hands precluded that. Mulder, she thought, where the hell are you? Opening her eyes, she realized that no one had moved. All the ranking officers were wounded or missing, and now all eyes dropped on her. She looked down. Peirson lay crumpled across the oily hanger floor, his suit and fatigues in tatters. Crimson stains spread slowly over the white bandages wound about his chest. But his mask and air tank remained on him. Dana didn't have the energy to unstrap them. Besides, the bandages wound over the air tank's straps in several places. Looking back up, Dana again met the gaze of the team. Slowly, one by one, they pulled their masks off. Apparently, they were all convinced that this was not a viral problem. "Okay. We need to be looking for the Lieutenant and Agent Mulder." She locked her gaze with each man briefly, her eyes ice blue. Soun stepped forward. "The Lieutenant ordered us to wait here." Agent Scully let a hint of anger creep into her voice. "Lieutenant Quiddis didn't anticipate losing the helicopter. We need to get out of here before that storm," Dana pointed to the gathering clouds on the horizon, "hits the rig." All the men cursed softly under their breath. Whitman looked panicked as he started blinking rapidly at the sky. "I take it you have a good idea?" Soun unlimbered his Steyer and rested its length against his own square frame. "Yes. Whitman and two others stay up here with the wounded. Everybody else comes with me to go find the Lieutenant." And Fox, she said only within her own mind. * * * Mulder tried several times to grab Quiddis' beltloops as the SEAL ran. He was hanging upside-down over the soldier's shoulder like a duffel bag, and as weak as a kitten. His head was pounding in time with his racing heart, and his sight wavered in and out as they moved. To exacerbate the problem, Quiddis carried Fox through pools of light and shadow, down shattered corridors the federal agent hazily remembered. The only thing that kept Fox conscious at all was the certainty that Glad was nearby, and that Quiddis trusted him. For Mulder, it was one thing to trust the SEAL team. They were soldiers, first and foremost. For them, the duty was to protect their country from foreign invaders. But Glad. . . Undoubtedly he felt he served his country. But Fox wondered just who Glad thought the enemy was. The waves of nausea and vertigo that washed over Mulder held him in check. Weak from his loss of blood, Fox couldn't summon the energy to make a commotion. And the Lieutenant was too focused upon his objective to take notice of Fox's soft motions. The SEAL was entirely oblivious to the danger he was carrying them both into. As Fox watched yet more gray hallway blur before his eyes, he resolved that he'd wait. He'd outlast Glad, and beat him at his own game. Agent Mulder swiftly lost consciousness. * * * Agent Scully had the dark gray gunbelt Peirson had handed her settled about her waist before the sun had cleared the horizon. She'd discarded the bulky P3 suit, and instead was down to a smelly pair of jeans and short shirt. In the face of the chill sea wind, she regretted not having more to wear, but many of the needed supplies had been stowed in the lab boxes that had been destroyed in the battle. She'd let her ragged and wild auburn hair down from the tie which had bound it under her mask. She hoped that maybe the comfort would help. Peirson's grenade launcher had been salvaged from his rifle, and attached to the weapon of Petty Officer Connley. Dana in turn had picked up the rifle of a dead man in a rubber suit. She didn't want to look at the name on the front of his togs. For years, Dana's older brothers had taught her to hunt game, and use rifles and shotguns. She'd learned to hate killing defenseless creatures. Then she had joined the FBI, and they showed her how to use a pistol, and even her own hands. And Fox Mulder showed her that there was still some game that needed to be hunted. Dana swallowed sharply, and hoped she kept all those lessons inside her still. Soun, Connley, and one other soldier were going to lead the way. Dana was going with them in case the lieutenant or Mulder was hurt. Privately, Dana knew her partner was hurt. He always stood in the path of danger. She was only worried as to the extent of his injuries. Two SEAL team members were staying to watch after the wounded. And Whitman should be able to take care of both Pryce and Peirson. But the hands that kneaded the rubber grips on her rifle were stained russet under the nails, and Scully couldn't help but worry about the charge she left with an inexperienced doctor. The top of the stairwell was rent, and opened to the red morning sky. Long shards of helicopter blade had disintegrated upon impact, leaving carbon fibers and char embedded in the rig's structure. But the light filtering through the blast damage illuminated the route Dana and the soldiers were forced to use when looking for Mulder and Quiddis. Dr. Scully watched the three men before her descend the debris covered steps. Their green fatigues glowed a dull gray under the red sky, and the dark barrels of their weapons gleamed. Then she followed quickly behind them, not wanting to be any great distance from the amassed firepower they represented. The staircase quickly swallowed any light as the four descended, and just as quickly it consumed all noise. Dana was all too conscious of the heavy pounding made by the soldiers feet, out of rhythm to the sounds of her heart in her ears. Dana pivoted sharply at each landing, and brought her rifle to her shoulder. She remembered the Bust House at the Academy in Quantico all too well. But if she forgot to check the corners here, it might well be her last mistake. "All right, level three here." Soun called out in a whisper over Scully's earpiece. "We go through on three, and it's a straight two-by-two advance to the far end. Doc, you're with me." Dana nodded to the square Asian man as she brought her rifle up. She then realized that the entire team was pointing weapons at the one door. Dr. Scully bit her lip, then swung the light rifle upwards, to cover the stairway she'd just descended. There was no need to take chances. She found herself holding her breath as Soun kicked open the hatch. Quiddis kept his bare forearm behind Mulder's knees, and his shoulder planted firmly in the agent's stomach. With Fox tossed over his shoulder in a fireman's carry, the lieutenant was able to keep up with the pace Glad set. Colonel White didn't mind being called Glad. He'd been called a lot of things. None of them bothered him anymore. Not in a day and age where he was called un-American for defending his country. Actually, he rather liked the name Sergeant Glad. White continued to lead the two men toward the catwalk connecting Platforms One and Two. It was a narrow walkway with high railings. He knew the lieutenant would have a difficult time turning around on such a catwalk now that he was carrying a deadweight. And once the Colonel had shot both men, the sea below would consume the evidence. Now all he had to do was get there. * * * Seamen Meyers and PO 2nd Connelly were the first through the hatch and into the third floor. In dead quiet, they ran to the next intersection before throwing themselves against the deckplating. Meanwhile, Scully and Soun were pressed back to back, covering the soldiers and the stairs. Then Dana was running with Soun, her head ringing as they passed the soldiers, and dove for the next intersection. She had barely hit the floor before the first two men bounced to their feet and ran past in a crouch. Dr. Scully remembered that she was supposed to provide covering fire for them. She had to keep her focus on any threats. In the space of a few feet, she'd gone from a firefight into a warrior's mentality. Despite all her precious acumen, she was forced to close off all thought beyond these three men, and the remaining feet to the outside hatch. She scrambled into a low crouch, the shrouded bulk of Soun and his squad support weapon beside her. He used hand gestures to speak, and she picked up with him and his men quickly. Almost before she could think about it, Dana found her back thrown up against the outside wall next to the gangplank door. The metal, like the air, chilled the sweat on her skin. She didn't want to drag her left hand from the rifle stock just to sweep back her errant red bangs, so she shook her head back against the gray steel wall. It felt damn good. And not just the chill metal, but the blood in her ears, in her face. The way her teammates seemed to move in slow motion about her. The tight, cold, liquid feeling inside her chest. For a moment, she knew why these men had chosen this life. "Okay, the gangway. One at a time, and keep sharp." Soun whispered in her ear, and there was no sensuality to it. Just intensity. She breathed deeply, and barreled through the open door, into the light. * * * Glad slid effortlessly along the darkened hallway like a wraith. The taut strap held his gun low, and his rolling gait barely moved the barrel. He was economy of movement, with only the flickering of a single fluorescent distantly lighting his features to give him animation. Quiddis was stunned as he watched, the skill displayed before him almost washing aside his grubbier concerns. Then his eye caught upon the gently swaying bags at Sergeant Glad's waist, and he was returned to his own thoughts. Mulder's weight was no grave distraction for the Lieutenant, and instead served to focus him upon the situation at hand. In any other place, Quiddis would have followed Glad with the trust implicit in the chain of command. Now he was carrying a trusted civilian and federal agent over his shoulder in a dead retreat from demonic creatures his mother would have sermonized about. And rather than run in blind fear, he gave himself something to think about, to light the darkness pressing in with chill fingers about him. He knew from his experience with his men how people worked on an instinctive level. He knew Fox Mulder did not trust Glad. And it made him think. He'd done too many dark deeds at the bidding of his government not to know that Glad had been sent with a separate agenda. The ripstop nylon and Teflon bags at his waist merely confirmed this. Glad disappeared around a corner. Moments later, a uniformed hand curved back into view, beckoning Quiddis on. He paused to feel Fox's thready pulse before jogging onward. On a hunch, he stopped momentarily to draw his weapon, and remove the safety. Then he held it pinned against his chest, hidden by the bulk of Mulder's thighs. It wasn't actually distrust of Glad, he believed. Just an active sense of caution. Around the corner, Glad halted Quiddis with an abrupt wave of his hand. Quiddis nearly drew his weapon, his shoulders tight. Then he realized that Glad was staring into the gathering light at the end of the corridor, and stopped. "Okay, here we go. I lead up to the door," Glad gestured to the shattered remains of the hatch he'd demolished to enter the Platform. "And then you go through first. I'll cover you." "Your work?" Quiddis nodded in the semi-darkness toward the smoking hatch. The smell of composite explosives still scarred the air. "Yeah. You like?" He smiled. "Yeah." Quiddis grinned in return. He was confused by the dual vision of the affable companion he saw before him, and the viper he'd seen reflected in Mulder's eyes. "My favorite part of the job." Glad patted the Lieutenant on the shoulder, scant inches from the hidden gun. Then Glad darted down the corridor, trading stealth for speed. He tossed himself against the wall near the doorway, and gestured to Quiddis to join him. The bright light through the door nearly blotted out all sight of Glad. Quiddis knew he had to be illuminated perfectly to Glad. He thought of the gun he had hidden, and burned with shame. What the hell was he thinking, he wondered. With a burst of speed, Quiddis slammed his right shoulder painfully hard into the wall. He had to do so in order to save Mulder from the pounding. Glad checked his weapon surreptitiously. "Go, quick!" Quiddis bit his lip, and ran out onto the planking between platforms One and Two. * * * Scully charged onto the planking just as Quiddis burst through from the other side. Both stopped abruptly, starring at one another across thirty feet of rusted white grating. For a moment even the freezing wind seemed to stop, and the ruddy light of daybreak painted Agent Scully in the rich hues of the Impressionists. It seemed her flaming hair billowed about her umber shirt, and Quiddis was transformed into a chiseled statue, his blouse snapping away from his bare torso. Then Dana's blue eyes caught the Lieutenant, and saw through him. She swung a rifle to her shoulder in a motion seemingly too slow for words. But Quiddis couldn't seem to think of why this beauty before him was trying to kill him. His hand twitched on his pistol, and his heart leapt. * * * Colonel White was damn sorry to kill Quiddis. The young man seemed genuinely nice. And he was a patriot. It didn't matter that he'd die in service to his country. Men like that, he felt, could do so much more for America than die meaninglessly. But his orders were clear. He was sorry Mulder was unconscious. An insufferably smug traitor like that should see what came his way. And he didn't deserve to fall amidst heroes like Lt. Quiddis. White reminded himself that none of this was personal before swinging into the doorway. He brought his gun up, and had it pointed at the Lieutenant's back before he realized the younger man was stopped in his tracks. Glad remembered another back, frozen in his mind. The last time he'd seen a soldier freeze like that was before the blast in an ambush. It was that same, useless premonition of death that had cost White a point man. Then Quiddis fell to the ground, the Special Agent a boneless rubber-suited mass atop him. The narrow steel railings kept them from dropping to less than knee height, but it was enough. Enough to reveal Dana Scully leveling a loaded CAR-15 at Glad. White let his small weapon yammer out a burst at Scully as she dropped to the deck. The rounds knocked the man behind her down, his rifle firing mindlessly into the clean sky. For a moment, White realized that Dana's small form was out of sight behind the bodies of the two men he'd tried to kill. Then he realized he could simply fire through the three at this range, and dropped his sights down onto Fox Mulder's unconscious back . And the low gray plastic shape of a Steyer Squad Support Weapon led Soun about the far door. The enraged SEAL triggered off a rolling burst on full automatic before he'd acquired a target. He didn't care. He had fifty rounds of NATO standard heavy that promised him no man would shoot at his team. And what could a gun do to him, next to the aliens he'd just seen? The thunder of the Steyer rolled over the wind and seasong. Its star-shaped blasts swung across Col. White, who'd abandoned all hope of winning out. One of the high powered rounds kicked a spray of blood from White as he threw himself off the gantry. It was the worst dive he'd ever made in his life, and the last. * * * Scully hadn't realized she'd fired until half of her thirty-round magazine was gone. The whine of bullets still echoed in her ears as she swept the sea she'd fired into. Her mouth went dry. She realized she had just fired into the ocean, praying that she would hit Sergeant Glad. The moans from around her on the slippery gangplank snapped the impending tears from her eyes. She turned, and saw the Petty Officer, Connley sprawled across the small plank, one arm sticking out into empty air. Dana tossed her rifle over one shoulder, and crawled over to him. She didn't trust her legs to carry her unassisted. The boy had three crimson holes in the canvas of his blouse, and she tore the large buttons apart to get to the wounds. Three bullet holes clustered between his nipples, and hissed as he breathed. He was mercifully unconscious, but Dr. Scully watched the thin ropes of blood fall into the water far below. Dana looked up at Soun, who fitfully trained his gun on the sea beneath them. Their eyes met for a moment, and Dana shook her head softly. Then he returned to his watch, and she to her patient. "Meyers, take Connley." Soun's soft voice was tightened, thickened. "Soun! This man cannot be moved." Dana tried using blood-wet cloth to seal the holes in his chest, fighting the steady collapse of his lungs. "And we can't stay on this bridge. Not with more of those things running around." Soun pulled Scully to her feet with one thick hand. "Both of you, stand down!" Quiddis stood up, laying Mulder at his feet. The two jumped from where they stood toe to toe. "We've got wounded, and the hospital is on this level. We'll just do a little recon in force. Soun get me Connley's rifle." Quiddis shouldered Mulder again, and Meyers dragged Connley along toward the rig hospital. Scully couldn't do much to carry, so she instead kept furious watch down the dark corridors. And Soun hefted his Steyer as though he wanted something to shoot. The Lieutenant felt as though he were lost, and making up the rules as he ran. He was jogging back down darkened corridors, retracing his steps. He'd had no time to ask about the shooting on the bridge. One moment he'd seen Scully, the next Glad had opened fire. He was fairly certain the first shots he'd heard had come from behind him. Dr. Scully was fairly burning with righteous anger. A soldier had just tried to kill her, and instead fatally wounded the man being dragged behind her. Her partner, Fox, was dangling in front of her, blood covering his sealed suit, and she couldn't do a thing. Just wait until she reached the hospital. It felt as though everyone about her conspired to keep her from saving these men. She knew Fox would smile thoughtfully at her dreaming of conspiracies. Then she saw the pale face and bloody hand swing from Quiddis' shoulder, and blinked back tears. "Move faster, dammit." She hardly recognized her own voice inside the gruff words. Soun's retort was swallowed by a sickening squealing from behind her. She snapped her head back, and saw Soun firing down a connecting corridor. Then she found her back pressed against his, the violence of his rifle shaking her. Dana kept her eye on Quiddis and Mulder ahead of her, covering them. Soun and Meyers could take the rear. Still back to back, Soun and Dana advanced sideways down the suddenly quiet corridor. Meyers pranced backwards, searching the hallways with wild eyes. There was no sign of Connley's body. One moment Meyers had been dragging his teammate, the next he'd been torn away. Into the darkness. Before her, Quiddis jogged forward with Mulder over one shoulder. He hadn't even turned as the gunfire erupted. Somewhere inside Scully, this touched an animal instinct, and scared her down to the colds of her feet. "Lieutenant." Dana hissed at his broad back, so like Mulder's. "Lieutenant!" "Soon. We'll be there soon." His voice wavered unsteadily. Before Scully could formulate a reply, he'd slid Mulder to the ground, and tossed open a door quickly. He wordlessly slid into the lighted hospital, unlimbering his assault rifle. Scully ran to Mulder, while Soun took up a firing position near the battered metal door. He waved Meyers through the doorway in pursuit of their wayward Lieutenant. The hospital was lit, and the open doorway spilled some ghastly illumination across Mulder's waxen face. Dr. Scully dropped to her knees beside her partner, and quickly ran her fingers along his throat and forehead. He was cold, and his pulse was thready. She hesitated to remove the blood-soaked bandage from his hand. Instead she silently felt along his sparse frame. She could find no other injuries, no broken bones. The rubber suit needed to come off, but not now. Not until she had him warmed up. From the gray cast to his lips, she guessed that he'd lost a large quantity of blood. Again. The SEALs called out that the hospital was clear, and then Meyer was dragging Mulder inside. No sooner did his boots clear the doorway than Soun slammed and locked the heavy metal door. Now it was Dana's turn to take charge. The room reeked of alcohol, and the floor was a mess of papers and broken glass, but Dana ignored them. The outer room was a simple examination room, and Scully felt that it would do. She didn't want to waste the time trying to find a better location. She pulled a board out from the end of the padded exam table for Mulder's legs, and turned to Meyers and Soun. "Lift him up here. Lieutenant, can you find the refrigerator?" When no answer was forthcoming, Soun moved off to look for the cooler. Scully snapped on a pair of the disposable latex gloves that were in a cardboard box nearby. She was sweating from the stress of getting here, and had no time to sweep her hair back. But she tried to push these things from her mind, along with the image of Connley's blood pouring out of him. Along with a lot of things. Unwinding the bloody shirt from Mulder's right hand revealed a marginal entrance wound between his thumb and second digit. The hole was ragged, indicating that it was not a simple gunshot. Turning his hand over, she spotted a matching exit wound near his wrist, along his palm. This was the point he'd bled out from. She guessed that the projectile had fractured some of the carpal bones in his hand, and possibly compromised one of the major veins along the wrist. That meant surgery, and immediately. "You," Scully nodded toward the remaining soldiers as she applied pressure to Fox's hand. "What's your name?" "Meyers, ma'am." He was quiet as he watched her. "Okay Meyers. I need you to apply pressure here while I get set up. Got it?" She hoped first aid was a regular course for these guys. "Yes ma'am." Meyers hoped to the task with the speed of a duty nurse. Scully was impressed. Soun returned with four liters of Type O whole blood. "These work?" Scully didn't answer. She simply tagged the tubing into the bottom of the first liter, and started an IV, leaving the bag at Fox's side. Then she felt for his pulse, and began squeezing the bag in time with his heart. He'd lost enough blood that he couldn't wait for it to simply flow into him. "Good. Soun, you go find the drug cabinet, and smack it open. Should be a part of the refrigerator." Soun nodded. Scully couldn't see it though; she was dragging up a rolling cart loaded with shining steel implements. "Get a couple of small bottles, labeled morphine." "Shit." Soun muttered it under his breath as he headed out. If she wanted the man down completely before she got to work, then it wasn't good. By the time he'd returned, she'd started a second IV into Mulder's other arm, and was tying a surgical mask around Meyer's head. Her own hung about her neck, at odds with the sway of her hair. Soun scattered the ampules of morphine on the surgical tray next to Doctor Scully. She pushed Meyers aside, started cleaning out Fox's wounds. For the moment, his bloodstained rubber suit was a blessing, because it gave her a surface to place Mulder's hand on. "Soun, you know how to start an IV drip?" Scully's voice was almost relaxed, like a soldiers as she spoke. Cool, but not cold. "No. Meyers, you run it.." Soun stepped back out of the way momentarily. "Good. Hang it for twenty mils an hour." She reached across Mulder's prone form to grab a clamp from the tray. She snapped it on a slashed vein, and set to work sewing Fox Mulder back together. * * * Soun found his lieutenant standing in the doorway of the doctor's office. His rifle lay amongst the broken glass and crumpled papers on the floor. Quiddis himself was slumped in upon himself, staring into the room Soun could not see. Soun called out to the taller man from a distance. "El-tee. watcha' got?" He was glad that this team was lax about protocol. It gave him a chance to talk with his officer. "You take a look around here?" Quiddis' normally rich voice had died. It was almost a whisper. "It's trashed, like the rest of the rig." Soun still held the Steyer by his side. He knew he had to talk with the Lieutenant about calling in a second chopper, but he was too worried to bring it up now. "Soun, it's nothing like the rest of the rig." He turned slowly, and Soun jerked at the anger burning in his Lieutenant's dark eyes. With his combat shirt open, and his gear gone, Quiddis no longer looked like a military officer. He just looked dangerous. Soun was debating what tact to take with Quiddis when the lieutenant tossed a small gray shape at him. Reflexively, Soun caught it with his free left hand as it hit the sweaty cloth on his broad chest. "What the . . . ?" He turned it over one handed, familiar with the feel of US-issue anti-personnel firebomb. "Smell the alcohol in here? That little fuck, Glad, was going to torch us all!" Quiddis slammed a swarthy hand into the wall next to him. "But-" "Look around. All the paper everywhere, alcohol shattered. I found a propane tank for the emergency generator back here. And the Doc's records have been ransacked." Quiddis had cooled down almost instantly, his face now a mask of impassive calm. Soun blinked rapidly before his expression mirrored Quiddis. "We've been set up. As decoys." His mouth ran dry at the thought of not getting off the rig. Quiddis left his rifle, and wandered through the office before turning back to Soun. "Listen, how's the lady Doc doing with Mulder?" Soun tossed a glance over his shoulder, where Scully's voice could almost be heard ordering Meyers about. "I don't know. He looked bad off, but she's pretty good." "That guy's the only one who figured out this was a setup. I need him." Quiddis rubbed his eyes, remembering their run through the bowels of this beast. "Not that I'm not happy or anything, but why didn't you evac like I told you?" Quiddis was too tired to muster any anger at his soldier. Soun leaned up against the wall, his adrenaline high dropping fast. "Chopper blew." What else to say, he wondered. Quiddis just shook his head. With a smile, he ran his hand over his buzzed black hair. "Figures. Think it's safe to call for backup?" Soun realized that his lieutenant didn't trust any of their superiors now. "I don't know, boss. Maybe." He raised a thin eyebrow. "But you think we can get away with not calling?" "Hmph. Where's the rest of the team?" "Back at the hanger. Whoever's left. Peirson's down, and only one of the Army pukes is still up and running." Soun held himself tensely, worried at the Lieutenant's response. "Damn. I'll call them first. Once Scully and Meyers get through in there, we'll huddle, and pick out a plan of attack." * * * The winds froze his fingers, and he barely felt the icy metal rungs he held onto. His attempt to climb up a workman's ladder on the outside of Platform Four was nearly freezing Colonel White to death. But if he didn't get out of the water quickly, he'd simply be choosing which avenue he took to die. He'd lost the little machine pistol during the fall, and at least one of his parcels. He couldn't remember right now. It was all he could do to push numb limbs further up the rusted hull of Rig 43. Harder still with the gunshot wound in one arm. Colonel White just waited to lose himself in the pain. He always did. When he thought it could get no worse, the hurting always did. And then it went away, and he kept walking. He could always keep walking. They'd given him awards and positions because he always kept walking. The voice of his drill Sergeant back in Missouri floated to him from inside. Keepin' it up here, Sarge, he thought. Resting his sweating forehead against the icy side of the rig, White paused to watch the storm massing along the horizon. I'll get out of this. I'll get out real soon. Then I can really be Glad. The thought made him smile, despite the burning cold in his fingers.