"Hostages To Fortune" an X Files Tale By WestShore westshor1@earthlink.net (X)(X)(X)(X)(X)(X)(X)(X)(X)(X)(X)(X)(X)(X)(X)(X) DISCLAIMER: Fanfic Standard SUMMARY: A Different Take On It All (written in 1997, before Mr. Spender was actually named by Mr. Carter. I Have changed my text to reflect the 1013 name.) (X)(X)(X)(X)(X)(X)(X)(X)(X)(X)(X)(X)(X)(X)(X)(X) "He that hath wife and children hath given hostages to fortune; for they are impediments to great enterprises, either of virtue or mischief." - Sir Francis Bacon from "On Marriage and Single Life" Hostages to Fortune Part One *********************** Late June, 1973 Strughold Mining Company West Virginia The heavy metal of the lab doors burst open into the dim corridor with a dull clang under the force of Mulder's fury. He gripped several thin manila files in each of his fists as he made his way up the long, nearly featureless hall. His pace defined the outrage he felt. His anger, he realized dully on another level, had been sitting dormant for such a long time. Years, maybe. Wasted days, months, years. Lying to himself; being lied to. He roundly cursed himself as well. How could he have made excuses to himself for so long? How could he let himself be so manipulated? So blinded by ...what? Idealism? Or was it ambition? he thought angrily to himself,< You're considered an unusually perceptive individual, a supposedly intelligent individual. What really blinded you to all this horror? Surely not your idealism! That wore away years ago. That was whittled away with every secretive arrangement made, every false document filed, every manufactured American citizenship you crafted for Nazi war criminals and every other soulless bastard who might further the cause of The Project...> Mulder slowed slightly as he reached a junction. He really hated this cold, dark maze of corridors, knitted into the complex maze of old mining shafts in a West Virginian mountainside. These corridors would never know sunlight or fresh air. The air pumped through them retained the damp chill of the sleeping mountain that contained the secret maze. He'd always felt inhuman in these corridors; a microbe moving through bowels of dead-gray concrete and steel. He turned sharply to the left, about to head down that lifeless corridor when he heard the lab doors clang open again. "Mulder! Wait! You don't want to do this!" Mulder reeled around at the sound of the voice. Mulder thought as he paused long enough for the man to catch up with him. He needed to halt for a moment any way. He felt as if he hadn't been breathing. His chest hurt. His muscles ached, pulled taut with his rage. He watched suspiciously as the man approached him. The other, a tall lanky man like himself, drew up beside Mulder and offered him a tight smile. He still held the cigarette he had started just moments ago when they were arguing in the lab office. His face did not betray any feeling. There was no anger, no recrimination. His face could and would assume any emotion he wished to portray. He laid a hand on the Mulder's shoulder in a mock attempt at solace. "Look... I'm sorry you weren't told everything. Certainly *I* thought you had a right to be in on every aspect of this plan. But, I think they're beginning to sense that you might be less than satisfied with your work here and they didn't want to compromise security if you were... well, not stable." Mulder gaped at the man. "Less than satisfied?! Not stable?! Oh no! -- no-no-NO! It goes way beyond that! This..." He shook the two fistfuls of files in Spender's face. "This has got to be stopped. This is wrong!" Mulder pulled himself out of the other man's grasp and resumed his trek down the hall. He could hear Spender's hurried steps behind him. He could hear the raspy breathing of his comrade near his shoulder. He was huffing slightly, trying to match Mulder's pace. His smoke-tortured lungs were showing their age. He caught Mulder's shoulder again, gripping harder this time and spinning him around. "I *said*: You don't want to do this! -- You have no idea about the scope of this. There are aspects to this plan that you aren't even aware of. Other experiments. Done years ago..." Mulder glared at Spender. "I knew what I was allowed to know! THIS goes way beyond the scope of The Project..." "This IS The Project! You're not going to stop it. You'll only endanger yourself..." "Let go of me, you son of a bitch!" Mulder tried to shake free. He had reached the door he was seeking, the office of their superior, a stately British diplomat that Mulder had come to respect for his demeanor and discretion. Mulder felt certain the man would be as horrified as he at what he had just learned. Spender suddenly tightened his grip, and Mulder gasped in surprise as well as pain. He dropped the files from his hands to grab Spender roughly by the neck of his shirt and one suit lapel, slamming his co-worker up against the door frame of the office. "I said -- Let. Me. Go!" Mulder hissed. In his fury, he felt like strangling this man. Right here. Right now. He had worked side-by-side with this idiot, trusting him, confiding in him. It was all misplaced; he felt betrayed and foolish. Spender was struggling against the pressure on his windpipe. "You don't know what they'll do to..." The door swung open slowly just then. A tall, thin gentleman stood in the doorway, looking with a detached amusement at his two entangled visitors. After a long pause, he smiled slowly and said, "Gentlemen. What a surprise. That's a fetching shade of blue on your lips, Spender. It becomes you. Perhaps you should release your companion now, Mr. Mulder. It would appear that he needs to breathe..." Mulder felt the murderous fury flow out of him at the calm, cultured sound of the his superior's voice. He felt a flush of embarrassment at his lack of control. Nodding an acknowledgment, he pushed himself off of Spender. "Sir, I need to speak to you. It's an urgent matter," Mulder said as he straightened his tie and suit coat. The older man looked calmly past him at the files scattered in the corridor. "Oh, indeed?" Mulder followed his gaze, then hurried to gather the papers into a neat pile. Spender remained collapsed against the door jamb, rubbing his reddened throat and glaring at Mulder. "Mr. Spender, will you be joining Mr. Mulder and me at our little tete-a-tete? I shall order another tea cup if that is going to be the case." Spender shifted his gaze to the old man and saw the look of warning behind the somber blue eyes. "No. No, thanks. I think he can handle this one all by himself," Spender grumbled as he pulled himself erect. He stooped over the man gathering up the files. "So long. We can pick up where we left off just now... Later, my friend?" His voice was raspy with venom. Mulder ignored him, gathering the files into some semblance of order in his arms. He rose as his superior waved him into his office. The office door had an industrial-looking metal surface on the outside, in keeping with the mausoleum decor of the hallway. On the interior, however, the door appeared to be a faced with rich mahogany panels, matching the rest of the office walls. The thin elder Briton motioned Mulder to one of two leather club chairs set to either side of a new gas fire grate, dressed up to look like an old English hearth. He poured out two cups of tea in silence. He handed his visitor one cup, and fetching the other, he settled into the opposite chair. "Take a moment for yourself, please, William. You seem a bit disconcerted. I'm sorry. I forget my manners. Will you take any sweetener or cream with that? It's imported Earl Grey. I'm afraid I can't bear what you Americans pass off as 'tea' over here. Mr. Lipton should have been imprisoned." He ended the idle chatter, waiting for some response. Mulder shook his head. He sipped at his tea as ordered, but he was far from taking a moment to relax, his superior realized. The older man deliberately prolonged the silence; only the hissing of the gas flame in the grate could be heard in the office. Impatiently, Mulder put the tea cup aside. "Sir. I've just found out that The Project has moved into a new phase..." The older man arched one eyebrow, regarding Mulder over the rim of his own tea cup as he slowly sipped his tea. Mulder felt a small tug in his mind, a kind of warning. He held out the stack of eight files he had taken from the lab office. His superior regarded them but made no move to take them from him. "What have you there, Mr. Mulder?" "Files. Files with names. People's names...children mostly." He swallowed. His throat was suddenly dry. He had a sudden chilling sense that there was something wrong here, but he continued: "For each name, a complete medical work-up. Personal data, immunization records and..." He halted. "And what else, Mr. Mulder?" "...genetic codes. These files contain genetic codes on ordinary citizens! That technology is not available to any one but us. Yet there are hundreds, maybe thousands, of records like these in filing cabinets in Mine Shaft 506! The only way this material could be attained is by..." He stopped, aghast at the frozen smile spreading across the face of his superior like a fracture in a glacier. "By abductions, William? The forceful removal of good, tax-paying American citizens from their homes for the purposes of genetic experimentation?" The older man sipped at his tea again. He glanced down at the files, but would not touch them. "I expect that you probably took those forcibly from Dr. Klemper's office?" "Yes. I did. He...he wasn't there just now. Spender and I were in his office looking for some of Klemper's personal papers that I needed for another inquiry that Immigration Services had started. I needed his papers to throw them off the trail. -- again." Mulder sounded bitter. These days, his waking hours seemed to be spent shoring up the wall of lies against assaults from Nazi Hunters, investigative reporters, curious personnel. "But, I found these and I found out there are more like them -- many, many more. I don't think these are *volunteers*, sir." His superior was silent for a long moment. "I told them what a bright fellow you are, William. I told them you were a bit too highly placed in our little organization to be lied to..." He sighed and put his tea cup down. "Nor am I surprised that you found out through one of Otto Klemper's blunders. He is notoriously lax about security matters...such as leaving such potentially sensitive material lying around his office." Mulder watched him, too stunned to speak. The man had known! He had known all along! The older man crossed his legs and folded his long, fine hands in his lap. He leveled his blue eyes at the other man. "Don't worry. The Project isn't just limiting itself to the American public. That would be rather narrow-minded of us, don't you think? Especially in these peaceful decades following Adolph Hitler's most singular vision." Bill Mulder still couldn't speak. He felt weak. Everything he had told himself, or had been told to him, to keep himself involved in the service of The Committee had been a lie. And the lie had been growing. And he had deliberately been kept in the dark! The older man shook his head gently. "What are your intentions, Mr. Mulder? Surely, you realize that you are at a bit of an impasse here. You cannot leave The Project, nor can you reveal your new discovery." Mulder blinked, then seemed to find his tongue. "Does Kenneth Marker know about this?" He referred to his supervisor in the State Department in Washington, DC. The Briton shook his head slowly, watching Mulder's reaction intently. "H-how about the Secretary of State?" Another shake of the head. "The President?" Another shake of the head, this time accompanied by a bemused smile. Mulder fell into a shocked silence, trying to grasp the implications of this. His superior shifted in his chair, leaning his chin casually into the cup of his hand as he addressed the quiet diplomat before him. "You mustn't take this too personally, William. You've been with us since the beginning. Indeed, you helped us build the support structure for The Project itself." Mulder visibly winced at that. The older man took notice and continued, "Perhaps we were wrong to keep this from you, William. However, several of The Committee members feared for the sincerity of your loyalties if you were to know the entire truth. According to your friend, Mr. Spender, you are a singularly *moral* man..." This time Mulder just snorted in disgust. "Moral? After what I've compromised over the past twenty years...?!" And Spender, he thought sullenly. No surprise. The greaseball knew just how to advance his personal agenda. He had made sure the rumors of Mulder's defection of loyalty would be known among the circle of conspirators. Spender in; Mulder out. He shook his head as if coming out of a trance. "I can't let this go on. This is wrong!" The British official smiled, as if indulging an idiot. "*You* can't let this go on, Mr. Mulder? You? I think you've vastly over-estimated your influence here. You are quite powerless in this matter." "The United States Government will never..." "...Will never find out more than it needs to know. Nor any of the other Allied Governments for that matter. I implore you not to be foolish about this, William. You simply won't be allowed to jeopardize The Project. It's too large now, too complicated. The abductions are only a part of several phases of experiments that have been on going since... well, about 1958." Mulder was thunderstruck. "The genetic manipulation experiments? But... but they failed! The experiments -- on volunteers, not abductees -- were stopped just a few years later!" The older man looked at him oddly for a moment, almost with sympathy. "We had our...rare successes. Few successes at first, I admit. Damn few. Surely you heard about the failures: the many aborted fetuses, the high mortality among those who were brought to term -- anacephalic infants, mostly. But there were the few rare successes, Mr. Mulder." He regarded Mulder again as if contemplating telling him some further secret. He merely sighed and picked up his tea cup again. "Those successes are out there, William. We know who they are, we know where they are. A small, precious pool of success, being watched every day and night of their lives. They know nothing of their special natures. And in most cases..." He paused and looked significantly at Mulder. "...neither do their parents." He lapsed into a sullen silence. Mulder still couldn't believe what he was hearing, but he had accepted that blowing the whistle on this gargantuan horror story would make him look like every crazed conspiracist that had crawled out of the woodwork since the Kennedy assassination. And in these days of government cover-ups and UFO hoaxes, Bill Mulder would look like a very foolish man indeed. "I can't...," he whispered. "Can't what, Mr. Mulder?" "I can't continue this charade. I want out." "You need time to think this over, Mr. Mulder. We just can't let you..." "I want OUT!" His voice rose in anger "I've had nearly two decades to think this over!" The older man regarded him quietly for a moment. "What assurance do we have of your continued silence and loyalty - - against all odds-- should we allow you to go?" "Assurances? What assurances can I give you?! I can't tell you that what I..." "Don't even utter it, Mr. Mulder! Don't utter your bad faith! Surely, you realize The Committee will never let you live apart from The Project without some assurances. It's that simple." Mulder knit his brows in consternation. What in the hell did this man want from him? "You and they have -- my word," he stammered. The Briton threw back his head and laughed, a deep hearty laugh of amusement. Mulder felt the heat of anger rise into his face once again. "I fail to see the humor." "Oh, William." The older man wiped a tear of laughter from the corner of his eye. "You are a rare one, aren't you?" He sobered and turned his eyes back to Mulder, with a sad smile. "You will have to take time to consider this carefully. I want you to take time. Take the remainder of the summer off. Spend time with that delightful family of yours. Take time to think about your defection. It could cost you more than you think..." "Is this how it's going to be?" Mulder snapped. "All veiled threats and whispered conditions? All secret codes and surveillances? What more can I give you?!" The British man settled his head back against the warm leather of his chair and gazed into the artificial flames as he spoke: "No, William. I promise you that when you and The Committee part company -- should you still decide to do that -- or rather, should they decide to allow you to do that -- there will be no surprises in your severance package." Mulder stood and dropped the files at his feet. He felt disgusted. He felt angry, and he felt helpless. Years of lies. Years of waste. Years of horror for unsuspecting people. He turned to leave without a word. The purr of the cultured British voice stopped him at the door. "Have you ever read Sir Frances Bacon, William? He had a fairly insightful observation on the plight of men like ourselves who have such choices to make in our life... I believe I am quoting correctly from his work 'On Marriage And The Single Life': "He that hath wife and children hath given hostages to fortune, for they are impediments to great enterprises ..." He lowered his voice. "...either of virtue ... or mischief." Mulder stood, not moving, his hand on the gilded door knob, staring at the plush carpet under his feet. He remained silent. His family. They would threaten his family. "I will take your request for separation to The Committee, William. Please follow my advice to take time to think about this. I'll make the appropriate excuses to your superiors in Washington. They will not suspect a thing. And, I expect you will not apprise them of the situation here, either. That knowledge would be very deadly for them to possess. Do you hear me, William? Your little confidences to *anyone* will be a death warrant for them." Mulder looked over his shoulder at the man, his face pale. The man nodded at him. "You are dismissed, Mr. Mulder. Someone from The Committee will contact you at your home in the Vineyard if we don't hear from you first. Enjoy your summer. Enjoy that beautiful family of yours." Fourth of July, 1973 Kennebunk Beach, Maine The sea breeze made a soft whistling sound as it pushed through the screen of the cottage's back door, gently rocking the door in its frame. Bill Mulder listened idly to the rise and fall of the musical breeze, the staccato dance of the old screen door. The roar of waves throwing themselves against the rocky Maine seashore was muffled, dulled by the cliffs and tree break that stood between the cottage and the Atlantic Ocean. It was a pleasure not to have to think right now. It was a pleasure to be aware of the sounds around him and nothing else. Except for the numbness creeping over him. He welcomed the numbness. Maybe joining his family here for a "vacation" was a good idea. He should use the time to think. He needed to think. He needed to re-evaluate. But, thinking was more tasking than he had imagined. Thus, he chose the aid of the whiskey. His hand slid over the drops of condensation clinging to the outside of his tumbler of Chivas Regal. The sensation of cool wetness pulled him out of his reverie. He took a deep, unsatisfying drink from the glass and sighed as he rose from the old, overstuffed chair by the empty fieldstone hearth. His drink appeared finished, but he was far from finished with his drink. What good was an anesthetic if not taken in the proper doses? He imagined he could hear the far away squeals of delight floating up on the sea breeze from the shore. Children at play. His children. He made his way toward the quaint, clean kitchen. He had left the bottle on the cupboard. He had better use it this one last time and put it away. His wife would be returning from the beach soon with the kids. He hated the worried glances from her large, doe-like eyes. He cringed inwardly at the thought of the disappointment and betrayal he knew would be able to read in those beautiful eyes when she would come through that screen door, would kiss him with love and tenderness, and pull away in horror and doubt when she smelled the liquor -- again. And he would see that same look, mirrored in the eyes of his twelve year old son, Fox. It was useless to pretend the boy was too young or too stupid to not be aware of the changes in his father. The changes that had been slowly eating at the fabric of his life -- and his family's life-- for years now. No. The boy knew. He knew with a keen sense that is rarely gifted to adults, much less a child. Fox would be transformed by his father's tragic condition. He would become quiet. He would become a wraith, trying not to be seen. Trying not to see. And he would reach for the hand of his little sister and tug her out of the room, shielding her from her father's tragic condition, too. Steering her natural exuberance into another promise of play, another chance at hide-and-seek, another chance to win at the old board game they had brought with them on this vacation. He would let the grown-ups engage in their private war without offering reinforcements -- or hostages. Smart boy, that Fox, Mulder thought. His hand was shaking, holding a half-empty bottle of whiskey over the lip of his glass. He closed his eyes, forcing himself to drive thoughts of his family from his sodden brain. If he thought of them, he wouldn't be able to do what he had to do. When he opened his eyes, he was startled to see a lone figure in a dark military uniform standing at the edge of the low cliff, in the shade of a few old wind-bent pines, looking down to the seashore below, where his family was. The square-shouldered bearing of the man was familiar. Mulder frowned as recognition sunk in. He poured his drink, and as an afterthought, poured another. He headed out the screen door and down the path leading to the crest of the cliff, both glasses gripped in his unsteady hands. He drew up about three feet behind the man, and cleared his throat in a polite bid for attention. The man did not move, even though he had surely heard Mulder's clumsy approach from the path. He seemed transfixed by the happy scene being played out on the rock-strewn shore below the dune. Mulder came up alongside him and followed his gaze. The children were engaged in a raucous game of tag. Sprays of sand and surf shot up as the long-legged boy made an overly-dramatic show of allowing himself to be "captured" by his much smaller sister. Samantha Mulder tackled her brother into the surf, amid screams and laughter. Mulder's wife looked up from her book at the childish screaming. Assured that all was well, she resumed her reading, shifting back slightly in her beach chair which was wedged at an odd angle among the many boulders on the beach. They were all unaware of the two men looking down on them from the shade of the trees at the top of the cliff. Bill Mulder made a side-long glance at his companion and offered him the other tumbler of whiskey. "Captain Hardin. It's been a while. I didn't know you were stateside again." The soldier pulled his gaze away from the children on the seashore, reluctantly it seemed. He regarded Bill Mulder for a long moment, then slowly shook his head at the offer of the drink. "It's Colonel, now, Bill." He tapped the gold bars on the shoulder of his uniform with a frozen smile. His hazel eyes were dark with melancholy. "Perks of The Company, of course. But I earned them..." His voice trailed off as he shoved his hands in his uniform pockets and ventured another look at the children. "Beautiful kids," he murmured, inexplicably. He looked at Mulder, but the man's face was impassive. "Samantha very much favors you. But, young Fox..." There was a pause and a fleeting smile. "He favors your wife, doesn't he? The same strong, dark looks." Bill Mulder shrugged. His eyes narrowed as he took a deep drink from his glass and watched the colonel. There was something resigned and sad in the man's demeanor. Different from the man he worked with in the Cold War Years. But then, Mulder thought sardonically, haven't we all changed? Idealism turned into idiocy; passion transformed into puppetry; all the evil revealed for what it was. He took another quick drink and tossed the contents of both tumblers into the weeds. It had been five years since they had last seen each other, two years since he had heard anything about his former associate. His presence here, now, while the Mulder family spent a summer-long holiday away from the tourist crowds on Martha's Vineyard, was disconcerting somehow. Bill Mulder remembered the man with uneasiness. Hardin was a real soldier boy. Just a few years younger than Mulder, he was born to wear that uniform. A real gung-ho, spit-and-polish type. Like Mulder, his considerable intellect had been his doom and his saving grace. They both had been eager to give to "The Project"; both willing to follow orders, bear secrets, compromise their very beings. Despite the discipline of the New World Order they were all working toward, those among them that still held the capacity for the anarchy of free thought were doomed forever to see the evil that was inherent in The Committee. Hardin's individual talent had kept him moving through the ranks, ever deepening his involvement, well after he had begun to feel the horror of what he was being pulled into in the name of world peace and government: the gradual melding together of alien and human technology, the infusion of alien lifeblood into a select part of the world population, the gradual contamination of the human race. He knew Mulder had been "kept in the dark", and he knew why. The disillusioned statesman would never survive the whole truth. Hardin, as a captain in the Army, attached to the same "special" division of the State Department as Mulder, had stayed with The Project a lot longer than Mulder had expected. He was confounded by Hardin's almost special interest in him and his family: Distrust and disregard for individual personal lives was part and parcel of belonging to The Committee. Military personnel, in particular, remained impersonal and aloof. They rarely had personal lives as defined by "normal" society. It made it easier for them to do their jobs. He knew Hardin had no family of his own. No wife, no children. Even his parents were dead, claimed in a train accident in the soldier's mid-teens. Alone in the world, the bright young man had embraced the Army as his family just as the war in Europe was drawing to a close and the Iron Curtain was beginning to be forged in blood and bureaucracy. Mulder's State Department work had involved the covert assemblage of a brain trust of scientists outlawed because of their work for "the wrong side": Germany, Poland, Japan. Hardin joined forces with him to ensure the allegiances of the scientists who had been allowed a chance to escape war crimes conviction in exchange for their co-operation. Hardin also kept the Russian "allies" in the dark about the brain trust. The Russians were striking their own deals with left- over Nazi geniuses. However, the Russians didn't possess the Motherlode: The Russians had no idea about the Roswell, New Mexico 'treasure'. It was because of Roswell that the brain trust of scientists would be needed at all costs. It was because of Roswell that men who were able to think of their fellow humans as chattel for experimentation in World War II would be given a second chance to practice their craft. It was Roswell that gave birth to The Project. Long days and nights were spent in covert ops, shielding The Project from the ever - threatening, prying eyes of the Red Menace of Communism. And, slowly, with deadly purpose, the shadow government formed under the protective mantle of the U.S. Government and its Cold War Allies. And the shadow government and The Committee that ruled it, began shielding themselves from the very governments that had given them an existence. William Mulder had seen only The Ideal: The chance to further the cause of Science. Science was the search for truth, and he had wanted to contribute to that search. He had been able to tell himself that for nearly twenty years in the State Department. But the last decade had taught him different lessons about the truth. It did not exist. Nor did The Ideal. It had all gotten horribly twisted somehow, and he couldn't, for the life of him, remember the moment he had begun to lose his faith. Mulder and Hardin found themselves thrown together by circumstance. Two men as different from each other as was humanly possible, yoked together for a common cause. It would have been easy enough for the handsome soldier to have a family. But he had seemed consumed by this passion of The Committee, the goal of the New World Order. He seemed a loner, content in his aloneness for as long as Bill Mulder had known him. At least so it had seemed. He watched Colonel Hardin in silence for a few moments. The soldier had resumed his moody watch over the children below. Clearly, he was troubled. "I'd heard you were sent to Viet Nam." Bill Mulder offered the bit of conversation to break the silence which was beginning to bother him, even in his half-drunk state. Hardin dropped his chin to his chest and nodded slowly but remained silent. "CIA Ops?," Mulder ventured. Hardin nodded again and looked at his companion with a small, crooked smile. "Yep. I could tell you, Bill, but then I'd have to kill you. You know the drill." Mulder smiled, but it didn't make him feel any better. It was a tired, old joke between them. These days, it seemed less of a joke, more of a threat. "Yeah. Viet Nam. Being the dutiful son for the fatherland," the soldier continued with a barely concealed sigh. "That's how I earned all the extra gold on my shoulders. Rewards, Bill, rewards. Perks of the Company, right? I'm getting pretty good at this subterfuge thing. I should do well in the Nixon Administration's Washington. I hear even the menus at the trendiest restaurants are in code..." The little joke fell flat. Mulder scowled. "Perhaps," he said and then lapsed into a moody silence. The sea breeze picked up, bringing the voice of his son to his ears. He was calling Samantha's name. Calling for her, again and again. Looking for his sister. From his vantage point, Bill Mulder could see where his daughter was: hidden behind a stand of sun-bleached driftwood that had been caught in the rocks. He smiled. Samantha was so full of life, so full of energetic mischief. Fox's voice sounded concerned. He couldn't find his sister. Mulder saw his wife rise from her chair when she heard the frantic calls of her son. She shielded her eyes from the sun as she searched up and down the craggy shore. She shook a scolding finger as Samantha crept into view, startling her brother from behind. Mulder and Hardin both snorted in quiet laughter at the antics of little Samantha. Her big brother was not looking pleased in the least. Hardin spoke up suddenly. "I'm headed to a new position in the Defense Department. A few more additions to my rank and I'll be next to God..." Another little joke that fell flat. Bill Mulder stood still and silent beside him. Hardin looked compulsively down to the seashore again, eyes searching for the boy, finding him seated near that same stand of driftwood, laughing now at his sister who was furiously trying to bury his long legs in the sand. "I'd heard you were ... *unhappy* with your job lately, Bill." Hardin's voice was soft as he turned back to his former friend. Mulder looked at him, startled, then his blue eyes narrowed suspiciously. "I've been unhappy for a long time, Colonel. You knew that. You were unhappy yourself." When Hardin didn't respond, Mulder continued, "Why are you here, Colonel? How did you find me here? You're a long way from West Virginia, aren't you?" This last bit spat out from his lips bitterly. The sadness in Colonel Hardin's dark eyes deepened. "No one knows I'm here, Bill. No one sent me." He reached out to put a reassuring hand on Mulder's shoulder, but the man jerked away from his touch. "Why are you here?" Mulder repeated the question. He swayed a bit. Was it the drink or the upwelling of anger and suspicion? "I know what you're considering, Bill. I'd heard that you want out of The Project. I know you found out about the experiments. I know you've been fighting them about the -- uh -- 'acquisitions' of test data and test subjects --" "Oh, for Christ's sake! Could you drop all the double- speak?," Mulder howled. "Jesus! You all make me sick! Secret men and their secret agendas, their secret language!" Colonel Hardin paled. He looked genuinely wounded by Mulder's outburst. That gave Bill Mulder some measure of satisfaction. He continued angrily, "Let's not call them 'acquisitions', old buddy. Let's call them abductions. Outright kidnapping! And let's not call it 'test data'; let's call it experimentation -- No! No! Let's call it torture! Call it by its real name! And let's not call them 'test subjects'; let's call them *humans* -- men, women and.." He choked up for a moment. "...and children, Hardin. Children." His voice seized up again, and he fell silent. He wished he hadn't tossed away the whiskey. He really needed the anesthesia now. Feeling was coming back to his numbed mind. Hardin regarded his old friend. He realized that Mulder really had had no idea of the scope of this. Was that possible? Mulder actually had no idea of the scope of The Committee's past sins or their plans for future crimes against humanity? Did he really not understand how his own life, his family had been touched by the Committee agenda? Was it possible he could have been so blind? So naive? Yeah. It was possible. Mulder wanted to be a believer. And now Hardin's old compatriot was in the worst possible of all positions: the believer who is about to be stripped of his beliefs, his comforting hopes, his ideals. "Bill. Please listen to me. I've come to ask you to reconsider leaving The Project. You're too valuable to them. You've been with them too long. They'll never let you live the rest of your life out as some stodgy old professor of history somewhere in the bowels of the Midwest!" Hardin's soft voice became a bit more strident when he saw that Mulder was already tuning him out, turning away from him, heading back to the cabin to lose himself in the rest of that bottle of whiskey. "Bill! You've got to think about the consequences!" Mulder stopped and half-turned to him, eyes accusing. "Are you *him*, Hardin? Are you the Messenger Boy they are going to send to me?" The colonel looked shocked. "No... No, I'm not. I just came to... Bill, have they given you an ultimatum?" Mulder's old friend looked genuinely alarmed. Bill Mulder just laughed and spread his arms wide in a symbolic gesture of surrender. "What could they possibly do to me, Hardin? I'm all eaten up already! I've compromised my beliefs, my politics, my country -- my very soul." With that, he turned up the path again with a curt wave of his hand over his shoulder to his friend. Colonel Hardin turned back to face the sea and let the breeze cool the frustration and fear that had flushed his face. His eyes sought out the figure of the boy again. He wallowed in dread as he watched the young man stretch contentedly, his handsome face lifted toward the warm sun, a golden-bronze worshipper, a vision of youth and hope. He had followed the boy's short history as closely as he dared. He had seen the IQ tests, heard about the prodigious memory, known about the difficulties of trying to fit him into a school system that was not designed for his abilities. Destiny had been pre-programmed into Fox Mulder. But Hardin feared it was a tainted destiny, and hoped that it would not end in martyrdom for the boy. His boy. Hardin's biological son. A child of his, manufactured in a lab, hidden deep in a West Virginian mountain. Altered cells, carried and given life by an unsuspecting, innocent woman. Brought home and raised by an emotionally crippled, defeated man. No one suspected a thing; No one knew except Hardin and the monsters that had told him that his sperm had been used successfully to create a new, very special life. He had not expected to be so affected; he did not know, until then, that he had had it in him to be so -- *human*. "You say you've compromised your very soul, Bill," Colonel Hardin whispered to himself. "But where are the souls of any of us kept? Maybe in our children..." He stepped back down onto the path and headed for his car. He had failed in his very personal mission. Convincing Bill Mulder to return to The Project would have protected the family from harm. Kept the boy from harm. He hoped The Committee valued the boy as a rare successful by-product of their covert experiments. He hoped that would be enough of an incentive for them to leave him alone. To leave the boy's "family" and life intact. It may already be too late, he mused. Bill Mulder's life was beginning to show signs of wear. The family would certainly suffer one way or the other. There was little Colonel Hardin could do but let the events unfold in their natural order. He could only watch and hope from a distance. * * * * * * * * * Fox Mulder brushed back a lock of his thick brown hair. A movement at the top of the dune caught his eye. Dad? No. This fellow was taller, held himself more erect. And was he wearing a uniform? Here? At the beach? Fox squinted against the sun, trying to see better. He felt the air knocked out of him as his little sister tackled him from behind, sending him face first into the sand. "Samantha!," he growled. He recovered quickly and pushed himself to his feet, rocketing after his shrieking sister. The stranger was gone. Forgotten in the delight of the chase. * * * * * * * * * Bill Mulder leaned heavily against the kitchen table, staring at the cabinet that held the last of the Chivas Regal. It was too late. The alcohol wouldn't protect him from himself now. The feelings were back. The doubts were back. The horror was back. He closed his eyes. No escape. He heard the crunch of Colonel Hardin's tread on the pebbles in the driveway alongside the cottage. Listened to the open and close of a car door, somewhere near the road. The engine roared, and Bill Mulder listened for its hum until it faded from range. He was not aware of how long he had stood there. The sound of Samantha's shrill little voice, attempting to mimic a popular rock song that his son listened to frequently, was getting louder. They were coming back from the beach, making their way up the wooden steps that made negotiating the steep cliff a bit easier. He could hear Fox's voice, shifting between the high pitch of childhood and the deep tones of manhood. The boy was pleading with his sister to cease and desist the pitiful attempt at singing. Bill Mulder opened his eyes. He could see Samantha dancing and skipping down the pathway from the trees. Fox, his arms full of beach chairs and towels, had hung back, waiting for his mother to catch up. His family. The old man had been right, perhaps: If he'd have been single, perhaps he could have fought them. But now he had given "hostages to fortune". And Hardin was right, too. The Committee would never let him live in peace. He watched the sun glint off of Samantha's long dark auburn braids as she danced and sang. He was going to have to go back. He was going to have to live with this cancer that he had become a part of. He lifted his eyes to the cupboard door again. He wondered how many of his fellow workers under the thumb of The Committee resorted to "demon alcohol" as their anesthetic. Maybe not a lot of them; maybe some of them were suited to this life of shadows and lies. And immediately he thought of Spender. He snorted and pushed himself erect. He would go brush his teeth and use some mouthwash. Clean up a little bit. Maybe take the family into town for dinner. Give his wife a break from cooking. The decision had been made. He was going to have to go back. He would have to be a good little soldier. Early August Strughold Mining Company West Virginia The British official put aside his cup of tea with a sigh when he heard the sharp rap on the door to his office. He glanced at his watch. He was sure he knew who this visitor might be. He reached under his large mahogany desk and pressed a security button that released the lock on the door. "Come in." He did not bother to rise when the tall man entered the room. The Briton detested the man's oily smile. He detested the pall of cigarette smoke that hung around this man. "Mr. Spender. Please come in. What can I do for you today?" Spender approached the desk confidently. "Good morning. I know it's a bit early, but I had hoped you'd have some information for me on my new task schedule. My clearance should be in place by now and I've finished up..." "Oh. I'm sorry, Spender. You haven't heard then?" The man stopped cold at the quiet interruption from his superior. The Briton smiled inwardly at the confusion on the other man's face. Finally, a sincere emotion on Spender's otherwise mask-like face. The older man continued, "The Committee has denied the upgrade in your security clearance. It is only temporary, I assure you." The look of confusion was beginning to turn to a flush of anger. Spender began to sputter. "B-but what happened? I've worked hard-- I was told to expect -- How could this have happened?" The older man leaned forward over his vast desk, assuming a look of sympathy. "I'm sorry, Mr. Spender. As I said, this is only a temporary halt in your climb up the ladder, rest assured. But there are a strict limitation on the number of security clearances we can offer at the Omega Level for security reasons that I'm sure you understand." "I *did* understand. I understood that there was one position opened up; I understood that I was in line to get that position." He was trying to keep the anger out of his voice. His superior feigned a look of surprise. "Then you haven't heard? The Omega Clearance status was given to your friend, Mr. Mulder." Spender gaped. "Mulder? I thought he..." The Briton waited for the man to finish his sentence. He would not offer the man any more explanation. He did not have to, and the other man was well aware of it. Spender had begun to turn toward the door to leave when his superior decided to speak up. He knew how to play this game with Spender. He enjoyed playing it because he knew what a duplicitous individual Spender was. It was a cold fact that Spender was destined to go far in this organization, but the old man did not see any point in making it easy for a fellow that he despised on a baser level than his politics and business. "Mulder returned to the fold not long ago, obediently, Mr. Spender. The Committee does not seek to reward him for his fit of pique. Instead, they very much intend to intensify Mr. Mulder's involvement in The Project. I know it seems perverse, but the members of The Committee believe that deepening his involvement will frighten him into silence, acceptance. That... and he's damn good at what he does, don't you agree, Spender?" The last comment was a deliberate goading of the other man. The elder Briton knew Spender's competitive nature. He knew the man envied Mulder. This should prove interesting over the long term, the old man thought as he watched Spender for a reaction. Spender did not disappoint his superior; he assumed a mask of indifference and smiled. "I see, sir. I hope Mulder holds up." His smile spread, becoming that oily grimace that the old man hated so. "I'll make sure that he has all the help I can give him." He turned as if to leave and then, turned slowly back, that smile still in place. "You've heard, of course, that Colonel Hardin paid a visit to Mulder when he and his family were at Kennebunk Beach in Maine." It was too late to hide the surprise at hearing that news. Spender's smile widened just a bit at seeing his superior's consternation. He had scored a hit in this game of intrigue. The mention of the Colonel's name in the same sentence as Mulder's was enough to cause a stir. But to report a visit -- The old man blinked once and was momentarily silent. There could only be one reason that Spender had mentioned this, only one reason he had played this card: He knew about Hardin's involvement with the Mulder family; he knew about the experiment that made Hardin the biological father of Bill Mulder's son. And now, Spender sought to further his own position in the organization and undermine Mulder's and perhaps the old man's as well. he thought grimly. Outwardly, he resumed his detached air. "How silly of Colonel Hardin. I suppose he thinks he is rather 'untouchable' in his current assignment... Did he say anything to Mulder about their very classified involvement in the experiment?" "I'm sure he didn't, sir. Colonel Hardin understands that his position, present and future, in the organization is dependent upon his silence and good behavior in this matter." "He understands he is not to see the boy? Ever! That he's to distance himself from the Mulder family? From Bill Mulder?" "I feel I should point out, sir, that if you give Bill Mulder the Omega Clearance -- that was promised to me -- it will make Colonel Hardin's necessary detachment more difficult because of the necessary involvements with the Defense Department. He and Hardin are sure to renew old acquaintances through this work. Of course, nothing would be compromised if I were to have the position and clearance you appear eager to give to Mulder." The Briton looked up at him sharply. It sounded like a threat from Spender. He wouldn't dare...would he? Spender looked entirely too pleased with himself. This ploy had worked. The old man was shook. The story of Colonel Hardin and William Mulder was at the core of another secret of The Project, a small but possibly harmful, one. The technology the science division had worked with since the war had been ready for secret human trials by the late '50's, thanks largely to the group led by Dr. Klemper. But in those early years, the science was imperfect and their results were dismal. Because of the horror of aborted fetuses and deformed, non-viable infants that usually resulted, the fertilizations were conducted upon women who were told nothing more than they were undergoing a routine gynecological exam even as the procedure was being performed on them. Monitoring these special pregnancies had been paramount; the group of scientists had wanted their test subjects near-by and accessible. Some of these men had even subjected their own wives to the experiment, the elder Briton knew. But he also knew there were unwitting employees, like Mulder, whose wives had been made part of the experiment without their knowledge. The birth of a healthy baby boy in October of 1961 to the unsuspecting Mr. and Mrs. Mulder had been a surprise to everyone. As the boy continued to show progress and promise, the need for secrecy had deepened. Few knew the truth. Hardin's own military aloofness had begun to erode when he had learned the truth of the experiments several years later. As a result, Hardin had been hastily re-assigned to the CIA. He had distinguished himself in Viet Nam at covert operations that would never be read in the history books. It was not expected that he would be able to return. His re-assignment was meant to separate him physically and psychologically from the specter of a son of his growing up calling someone else "Father". It was a side-effect of Operation Catbird that they never foresaw in 1961, when Hardin and several other healthy young men had taken part in a genetic manipulation and in vitro fertilization experiment. The old man closed his eyes and sighed. This small part of The Project was threatening to take on the appearance of a Greek tragedy, a small, predicted twist of destiny in the form of a human boy that could possibly collapse all that they had worked for. It was gruesomely funny, in a way. They had forged their own Sword of Vengeance, he suspected. He knew what his job was, though: protect the secret at all costs. And he was going to have to address some "payment" to the man in front of him right now. He folded his long elegant hands and laid them on the desk in front of him. "I see your point, Mr. Spender. How noble of you to keep The Committee's greater interest at heart. Oh, and mine, too, of course. I was in danger of making a grave error in judgment, wasn't I?" He smiled stiffly and continued, "The Omega status is yours, Mr. Spender. I will see to the last of the paperwork immediately. Mr. Mulder arrives here tomorrow. I'd like him to work closely with you. Is that acceptable?" Spender scowled. The Briton knew it was not acceptable. Having a rogue like Mulder in the harness with him would be confining. It would also keep Spender in check. It would not be pleasant for either man; it would be interesting to see who would break first. The old man had hopes, oddly enough, that Mulder would win this war of wills. He suspected that Spender's own skills at undermining those around him to further his own career would defeat Mulder in the end, however. Too bad. Spender merely nodded and turned again to leave, already reaching into his pockets for his pack of Morley cigarettes. "Wonderful, sir. A wise choice. Mulder and I work very well together. I'll be sure to help him 'get over' his little upset with The Project." The British statesman watched the door close after Spender. He smiled again. "I'm sure you will, Mr. Spender. I'm sure you'll be a real help." He shook his head. He knew that The Committee was not welcoming William Mulder back. Mulder had already breeched the unwritten law with his threats of exposure. He was not considered stable. The Committee had its own agenda with Mulder. He had to be handled with care. It was already predicted that he would fall under the crush of his own guilt. They knew his personal life already had begun to show signs of wear. They knew he was drinking. They knew he was distancing from his family. And they owned the one secret about Bill Mulder and his son that Mulder might never find out about. October 13, 1973 Roadside diner West Virginia "I seem to spend far too much time chasing after you, Mulder." Bill Mulder looked up from his cup of black coffee into Spender's face. He shrugged, looked around the dim roadside diner's near-empty interior and resumed his contemplation of the steaming coffee before him. Mulder had returned to work weeks earlier, which he felt detestable enough, but being harnessed in a subordinate position with Spender had proved to be beyond his endurance. He was a bit shocked that Spender had followed him to this out-of-the-way roadside restaurant, but he did not want to telegraph that surprise to the man. The other man shook the sheen of rain off his coat and sat down heavily in the chair across the little table from Mulder. He waved off the old lady in the apron who had grabbed up a cup and a pot of coffee the moment she saw him seat himself. Spender leaned over the table, his hands folded carefully in front of him as a gesture of restraint, like a parent about to lecture an errant child. "You were expected at the meeting this morning, Bill." Mulder lifted the cup to his mouth, glaring at Spender as he sipped at the hot coffee. It seared his tongue and throat. How odd that the burn would be so welcome, would make him feel alive. He did not respond to the man across the table from him for a long moment. "No, I wasn't. I had nothing to contribute." He set his cup down noisily and stared at the rain hissing against the diner's window. Spender forced himself to be calm. Working side-by-side with Mulder these last few weeks had been more trying than he had thought possible. The man's innate perceptiveness coupled with his new-found discovery and understanding of the duplicity involved in their work had made it nearly impossible to get tasks accomplished. Far from being the meek sheep 'returned to the fold', Mulder was revealing a streak of stubbornness and viciousness that Spender had suspected was being adequately fueled by alcohol. They fought and struggled over every detail of every assignment that Spender handled. The Committee knew what they were doing, Spender recently realized. This was a test. Not just a test of Mulder. It was a test of Spender as well. Like throwing two pit bulls into the fighting ring, these two men were engaged in a struggle designed by The Committee. Only the more morally-bankrupt of the two would emerge from this unscathed. Once Spender perceived the game, he knew he could win. He knew more about the game than Mulder. He knew how to use power to change lives. And the message he was here to deliver to Mulder would be a fine example of that power. "There was an addendum to the agenda, Bill. You know that," Spender said smoothly. "I told you to be present." "And I told you: I had nothing to contribute," Mulder replied. His eyes made contact with Spender's, snapping brightly with ire this time. "The addendum concerned you, Bill," Spender continued with a steady voice despite the anger he felt seething in himself. He had become quite good at assuming the mask of civility. He leaned in a bit closer to Mulder and lowered his voice. "They know you tried to contact your superior at the State Department." Mulder's eyes flickered with concern for just a millisecond. It was enough. Spender knew he had his prey now. He leaned back in his chair and took out a newly-opened pack of cigarettes, tapping out one for himself and one for Mulder. The other man accepted the offered smoke and waited, a bit nervously, as Spender went through the ritual motions of lighting up. Spender inhaled deeply and blew a stream of smoke at his companion across the table. "Did you know your boss, Kenneth Marker, met with an accident about an hour ago?' Spender smiled inwardly as he watched Mulder start violently at the news of his State Department superior's accident. There was no hiding the depth of the shock it caused. "Is he --?" "Dead? Oh my, yes. Seems he didn't make one of the turns on a mountain road near here. You know what some of these roads are like in the rain, Bill." He smiled and leaned forward with his elbows on the table. "What I couldn't understand is: Why would a DC bureaucrat like Kenneth Marker be riding around alone up here in the mountains of West Virginia? He was your boss at the State Department, Bill. Maybe you might have some more insight into this -- Do *you* have any answers to that perplexing question?" He leveled a look at Mulder that dared him to reply truthfully. Mulder scowled and lowered his head. He did not speak. "Were you expecting to talk to him about 'sensitive' matters, Bill? Perhaps you were expecting him to be sitting across from you right now instead of me?" Spender asked, his voice hardening. "Or perhaps, you had already met with him...?" No answer. Spender made a dramatic show of checking the watch on his wrist. "Let's see: where are we at in the schedule of events now? -- Ken Marker's body will be 'discovered' in approximately two hours and there will be all the appropriate weeping and wailing due a man of his station in the government. And while the media circus is being orchestrated over his tragic demise, Bill, our men will have already threshed through his toney Alexandria townhome, his three cars, his office... oh... and the mail drop and safe deposit boxes that he seemed to have in at least three banks. His lawyer's office will also be tossed. Did we forget anything, Bill. Any other secret rendezvous? Any third party contact?" Mulder had grown considerably paler. He swallowed and shook his head. Spender enjoyed the way defeat transformed Bill Mulder. His shoulders slumped. He seemed to fold over on himself, shrinking. He looked as if he were going to be sick. "No one is safe, Bill. No one is untouchable. I thought you would have known that. Let Kenneth Marker's death be on your head." Mulder squeezed his eyes shut. He bit his lip until he could taste the trickle of his salty blood on his tongue. Spender assumed a mask of sympathy. "Don't take it so hard, Bill. Even if you had chosen to go directly to the President of the United States with your little tattle-tale, the results would have been just as swift and sure. And just as un-traceable." He waited for the implications to sink in to the other man's mind. Mulder shuddered and began running his hand nervously over the cheap checkered tablecloth. "What was said at the meeting?" Mulder asked quietly without looking up from a point he had fixed on near his hands. Spender relaxed. This was so easy. Like shooting rats in a barrel. He knew he was taking far too much pleasure in deepening Mulder's pain. He lit another cigarette. "The Committee knows -- and I'm sure you know -- that your continuation with The Project has been compromised." Mulder looked up quickly. Was he to be executed, too? He felt an icy feeling wash through his gut. He had considered the possibility that The Committee and Spender would have him executed if they found out he had contacted his State Department superior, intent on uncovering The Project. In the middle of his many sleepless nights, with the soggy reasoning of whiskey in his head, he imagined his death would be an acceptable sacrifice if it brought them down, exposed the evil. He felt his life had been forfeit for some time, anyway. In the clarity of reality, however, he realized that The Committee had just silently manufactured the assassination of a highly placed government official with less effort than it took to call a business meeting. Mulder's life didn't matter, nor did his indiscretion. He had just been taught how insignificant his struggle against The Committee was. "So. I assume you've come like the Avenging Angel, eh, Spender? To tell me the details of my demise? To lord your triumph over me and my foolhardy fight against the omnipotent gentlemen of The Committee?" Spender feigned a bit of surprise and then smiled. "You know, Bill, it's that damned instinct of yours that always had me at odds with you. It's too bad, too. I like you, Bill." He sighed and continued. "The Committee is severing you from The Project. It seems you got your wish after all." Mulder became suspicious. The Committee had just assassinated a State Department official because he was meeting in secret with the man. And now they were going to simply "fire" Mulder like some employee that got caught stealing stamps from the boss's desk? "Right," Mulder snorted. "What's the full story? Do I spend the rest of my days looking over my shoulder, avoiding grassy knolls and book warehouses, staying out of the box seats at the theater, or what?" Spender didn't answer. In the silence that fell between them, Mulder had a sudden realization. What had the elder British man insinuated once before? Mulder had given 'hostages' over to them already; Mulder had a family. His eyes widened. "It won't be me, will it? They want my family, don't they?" Spender did not avoid Mulder's eyes. "They want you to make a choice, Bill." He fell silent, waiting. "A -- A choice? What choice? There is no choice to be made. I'm the key. Let them kill me. Just don't..." Spender held up his hand, interrupting Mulder's frantic argument. "The Committee wants you to understand, Bill. They want you to realize how much they control you. You need to realize how much they can control anyone's life. And they want you to live with that knowledge, too, Bill. You, and your family, may still be useful and The Committee feels you have a life-long burden, carrying all our secrets around in your head. You have to learn what a terrible responsibility that is. They think you may need a reinforcement of your resolve to keep this vast knowledge to yourself..." "B-But I will!" Mulder gasped. "I'll never ..." "Spare me, Bill. Ken Marker's bloody corpse is spread all over a mountainside not twenty minutes from here just because you decided to give up some of the secrets!" Mulder fell silent. "You have an opportunity here, Bill. I advise you to take it. Your entire family may not survive this unscathed, but certainly you can minimize the damage by making a delicate choice." He paused, blew out a long stream of smoke and continued, "The Committee would like you to give one of your children to The Project." Mulder blinked. The other man had spoken without hesitation, without feeling for what the words implied. Mulder's brain felt impossibly numb. He seemed to only hear the rushing pulse of his heart, beating loudly in his ears. The few bright colors in the dim room around him began to leech out of his vision, turning everything to shades of gray. He felt faint. He tried to pick up his coffee cup, tried to regain some reality through a small, normal gesture like sipping coffee. The clatter of the cup against the saucer was so loud that Spender hurriedly laid his hand across Mulder's trembling one to still the noise lest the waitress come by to check on them. "Bill?" Spender said quietly as he waved the waitress away once again. "You *do* see the necessity of this, don't you? It's much bigger than you, Bill. Bigger than me, the U.S. Government, The World Congress, Bill. Bigger. It's the Future, and you're already a part of it. And so are your children. That's why you must decide." Mulder's blue eyes were swimming with threatening tears. "But the children --? Why? Please, I'd rather be dead." "But it's not what YOU would rather have, Bill. It's what The Committee wants. And the Committee wants you alive. And you'll still have a chance to make up for your indiscretions by giving up one of the children to The Project." Mulder sat in stunned silence. He could not fathom the depth of cruelty these men were capable of. He slowly shook his head in disbelief. Spender squeezed the cold hand he still held under his. "Bill, I know this sounds strange, but I don't think they'll hurt the child. Maybe I can get assurances. It can be arranged that the child will not suffer. They've got drugs now. They can manipulate the child's memories. He or she would never know..." Mulder felt himself screaming inside. He felt nauseous. How could twenty years in service of a dream come to this? And now he was sitting across from a co-worker, listening to the man spew reassurances that one of his children wouldn't be burned as he, Bill Mulder, offered that child up to the mouth of Hell itself: alien/human experimentation. Spender shook Mulder's arm a bit, hoping to draw a response. The man looked almost catatonic. "Others have made sacrifices for The Project, Bill. You wouldn't be the first. There have been genetic manipulation experiments on-going for well over a decade. You should merely consider this choice as your pay-back. Your child would be part of the true future, Bill." Mulder seemed to rouse as if from a deep sleep at this. "Other sacrifices? Were they voluntary or are there other fools like me within this organization?" Spender pulled his hand back. He considered telling Mulder that his family had already been hopelessly entangled in The Project's experiments. "Some of our people volunteered, Bill. And, by necessity, some have no idea that they were directly involved in the experiments that have been conducted. You know the importance of blind studies and control groups in any scientific experiment..." "Blind," Mulder mumbled bitterly. "What a fitting term. That's what I've been." Suddenly, another sharp edge of intuition stabbed at him. "Have I been...? Has my family already been involved in...?" He couldn't finish the sentence. He was having a hard time breathing. He searched Spender's face for an answer. Was his family already part of an experiment? Is that why his life was being spared? Spender's face was impassive, unreadable. "Bill, I don't know. Why -- or how -- would I know something like that?" Inwardly, he rejoiced in satisfaction: the seed of doubt had been planted. Mulder was his own worst enemy; his much-celebrated intuitiveness would feed this new doubt. It would be the last onslaught for Bill Mulder. The doubt and the choice would kill whatever was left of his soul. Spender shoved his pack of cigarettes at the other man and pushed himself away from the table. He cinched up his collar against the rain he anticipated outside. "You have some time to think about this, Mulder. I told them that you shouldn't be rushed. It's not an everyday decision, is it?" He put a hand on Mulder's shoulder but the other man did not stir. "Well. I've got the rest of this Marker fiasco to attend to. Don't do anything foolish, okay, Bill? I've got a few guards posted on you -- and on your family -- for the time being. You -- uh --You won't see them, but they'll be there. Just, please, be sensible about this, will you, Bill? " He left as quietly as he had come. The old woman approached the lone man at the table several times over the next hour and a half to see if she could be of further service. But the man never answered her. Never looked up in all that time. Just as it was beginning to grow dark outside and she thought that she might ask her boss to come out from the kitchen and try to get through to this quiet fellow, she realized he had gone. He had left a fifty dollar bill on the table for one lousy cup of coffee. She shrugged and pocketed the money as she cleared the table. Those fancy suit-coat types from the big city were sure peculiar. Three days later Chilmarc, Massachusetts Tina Mulder awoke to the slam of cupboard doors. She eased herself quietly off the mattress, glancing at the unoccupied side of her bed, coverlets still smooth, undisturbed. Her husband, Bill, was back in West Virginia. Her son, Fox, was spending the night at a friend's house. She swallowed nervously and forced herself to go to the hallway. The door to Samantha's room was open. She could see the little figure of her daughter outlined in the huddle of blankets on the bed and heard the soft breathing that told her Samantha was soundly asleep. she thought to herself as she took a moment to close the door . She didn't want the little girl to be frightened by all the odd noises coming from downstairs. She also didn't want whomever was downstairs to discover her little sleeping innocent. Her eyes fell upon Fox's baseball bat, left standing beside his bedroom door in his haste to leave two nights ago. She closed her eyes in a silent moment of thanks for her boy and his adolescent tendencies to leave sports equipment in odd places. Folding her hand around the grip, she picked the heavy bat up and started cautiously down the stairs. "BILL!" She cried out and let the bat drop on the landing at the same moment she recognized her husband as the noisy intruder. She sank down to sit on the stairs, her hand pressed over her thudding heart. "You frightened me. I thought you were a --" She was suddenly breathless, unable to speak as relief washed over her. Her husband did not answer. He made no move to reassure her. He stared at her for a long moment, as if not realizing who she was or why he might have frightened her so. "Bill? Is -- Is everything all right?" She realized it was ridiculous for her to have to ask that question. She had been the one scared out of her wits, not him. He still did not speak. She saw him clutching a glass of his favorite whiskey. How long had he been home? Why didn't he wake her? "What's wrong?" she pleaded. "Why have you come home? And in the middle of the night...?" Mulder took a swallow of his drink and walked toward the living room. She followed and sat down quietly when he waved at the easy chair in a silent command. She waited. He poked at the warm embers in the fireplace, all that remained of a comfortable fire that she and Samantha had built for themselves earlier in the evening. The room had already begun to take on the night chill of mid-October. "Where's Samantha?" His voice was hoarse. He did not look at her. "Well... upstairs, sleeping. At least I hope she is. After all the racket you made--" She was becoming a bit angry. "And Fox?" He interrupted the beginnings of her long complaint. He still would not look at her. He kept pushing at the embers and ashes. "He's not here." "Not here?" He looked startled. " I don't like that he's left you and Samantha alone! Where is he?" His voice had an edge of anger, and his eyes were filled with concern when he looked at her. "Don't be silly, Bill! He's just a little boy. Surely, you don't expect him to protect this household. That's supposed to be *your* job!" That erupted a bit more bitterly than she had intended. She continued hastily, "Fox has spent the last few nights with the Kaplans. They had a bad house fire, and Fox is helping them out." She was puzzled by her husband's appearance here at home. A trace of anger crept bravely back into her voice. "You could have called. You *should* have called. You missed Fox's birthday, you know." He closed his eyes briefly. October 13th. Fox's birthday. The day Kenneth Marker died. He'd never forget October 13th again. "Something came up that day --" He began and then stopped himself abruptly. He took another quick swallow of his drink and sat down in the chair across from her. "I'll apologize to him. I just couldn't get free that day. I -- I'll make it up to him." She bit her lip, forcing herself to keep the reproaches to herself. He looked miserable, and he was avoiding eye contact with her. She had played the diplomatic wife for too long to become a nag now. She could see he was deeply bothered, and it didn't take women's intuition to know that this worry was related to his "job", a job she knew precious little about despite fourteen years of marriage to this man. He dropped his head into his hands, suddenly. Another long, protracted silence. When he looked up, he had a assumed a mask of ironic humor. "Well, missing birthdays won't be a problem any more, anyway." He smiled weakly at his wife's puzzled expression. "I'm retiring. Getting out. I've got about twenty years worth of pension and with our investments, we can live very comfortably even if I never work another day in my life. I've been thinking about teaching at the university -- " He watched his wife's expression change from puzzlement to shock. He took another long drink from his half-empty glass. "Bill. What's happened? I thought you had decided to stay with it. You thought they'd give you some different work..." "Well, it wasn't different!" he snapped. She drew back at his tone of voice, and he looked immediately apologetic. He put his glass of liquor on the hearth and moved forward to kneel before her. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, my darling. I'm so sorry." His voice was whispery and tortured. She could see the beginnings of tears threatening in the corners of his blue eyes. "I'm so sorry... for so much." She laid her hand gently on his head when he placed it in her lap. She smoothed his hair., intending to comfort him, but her confusion persisted. "Bill, what has happened?" "Nothing." He picked his head up and smiled at her, blinking away the thin veil of tears. "I'm just tired. Tired of government work. Happens to the best of us." He rubbed at his eyes. "I ... uh... I had a falling out -- of sorts -- with Spender. The... uh... compromises I was going to have to make at the...uh... office became unacceptable." He looked up at her again. "I hope you're not alarmed. We won't have to worry about money. I promise you." She smiled and brushed his hair gently with her hand. "Of course not, Bill. I trust you. I've always trusted you to do the right thing." At that, he shut his eyes and sat down heavily on the floor at her feet. "You trust me... to do the right thing." His words were slurring as he dropped his head into his hands again. She thought she heard him laugh and mistook his laughter as a jibe at her. She started to stand up, but his hand shot out and grabbed her tightly by the wrist. He pulled her sharply back into the chair, staring at her, his eyes red-rimmed. "You're drunk," she hissed, letting her anger at him burst into full bloom. She pulled her wrist free from his grasp and rubbed it as she glared back at him. "Yes. Yes, so I am," he said as he leaned back to grab his glass again. He swirled the amber liquid, staring at it as it moved seductively in the bottom of the tumbler. He was astounded to realize that he was grateful for her anger: It would be easier to make her hate him. It would make it easier for him to remember this night with deep pain and regret for years to come. And he wanted the pain. After all that he had compromised in his life, he deserved to have the pain. When it seemed apparent he had fallen into his own thoughts again, his wife stood and started toward the stairs. She was still angry. She stopped at the soft sound of his voice. "You've been a wonderful wife to me, Tina. And a great mother to the children." He sounded sober. Sincere. She turned to watch him get slowly to his feet and walk toward her. He kissed her. A gentle, sad kiss. He smelled of liquor. She drew away, just enough to break the kiss, and turned her head, a silent disapproval. He dropped his head for a moment, biting his lower lip. He was going to have to ask her the question. There would not be a 'good' time to ask it. And right now, he thought he had enough whiskey-tempered courage to get through it. He couldn't make this decision alone. Please, don't let her make him -- force him -- to make this decision alone, he prayed to a god he no longer trusted to exist. "If you had to choose --" Her head turned back at the icy tone of his voice. "If you had to choose between the children -- between Fox or Samantha -- I mean, if we were to lose one of our children... to an accident..." His voice was becoming more strained. His eyes sought contact with her now. They seemed to be pleading. "Who would you chose? Whose loss would be -- easier -- to handle?" The horror of what he was saying sank slowly into her mind. She slowly backed away from him, half-stumbling up two of the stairs to put some distance between them. Her head was shaking with disbelief before she could even speak. "How can you ask? How could you dare think such a thing? You're talking about our children! *OUR* children! They are both important to our lives, Bill. What is wrong with you tonight? Do you hear yourself? You're talking like an insane person--!" "Shhhh. Shhhh." He pressed a finger hastily to his lips as her voice rose with her fright. He reached for her hand but this time she pulled away, escaping his grasp. Her eyes shone with tears. he thought desperately. He reached out again and pulled her down into his arms. "All right, Tina, all right. I should have never brought something like that up. I'm sorry. Calm down. It's nothing. Calm down. Please, I'm sorry. Just the ramblings of a drunken fool." She was crying softly. He felt her holding herself stiffly in his arms. She would not forget this. He should not have sought her help. This was his alone to bear. What ever made him think he should bring her to this level of The Inferno? He sighed and released her. She turned without a word and fled upstairs, pausing only to pick up Fox's baseball bat from the landing where she had dropped it earlier. He turned back to the chilly, empty living room. He felt like a stranger in his own home. Sullenly, he dropped himself back into the chair by the fireplace again and stared into the gray ashes, thinking. His eyes fell upon a portrait of the children, framed in silver and sitting among other family photos on the mantlepiece. He picked it up and brought it back to where he had been sitting. It was new. He had never noticed it before. It had been taken recently. Mulder stared at the two beautiful young faces that stared mutely back at him. Payment had been demanded by The Committee. He was no longer tolerated in The Project. And now, he did not feel tolerated in his own home. How was he going to do this? How could he justify this? His entire family might be sacrificed if he couldn't choose. He took another drink. Alcohol helped. It blessed him with a numb brain, a hardened heart and just the right amount of foggy reasoning power to find a way to choose. It was the doubt that helped. It was Spender's little suggestion that the Mulder family had already been touched by The Project. The insinuation that for the past twelve years or so, there had been a stranger in his family, a child not his own. He stared at the photo, struggling to remember what it was like to be at their births. His brow furrowed. Last-minute Committee business had kept him in Germany. He remembered the frustration of trying to get back home, to be here for their firstborn. He had had to learn, over a badly connected transatlantic phone line, that his wife had had an emergency Cesarean surgery to give birth to his son. Had they engineered the 'last-minute' business? Had they kept him away for a reason? Had they even engineered the emergency surgery? Then, there was the boy himself. A quiet prodigy. An eidetic memory, the doctors had said when they had him tested for school. And how often had his wife told him of the boy's spooky foresight? How often had the boy "just known" about matters that were seemingly incomprehensible to adults? Hazel eyes. Not on his family's side, he knew. Maybe his wife's side, they had reasoned. He licked his lips. Took another drink. The boy did not approve of him, he felt. The boy never said so, but the disapproval was in those eyes, those hazel eyes. Bill could see it, sense it. The tears started. At first he wasn't even aware of them. He only noticed them when he wasn't able to see the photo that lay in his lap. If he could keep Samantha... Wouldn't the loss of a daughter would be harder on his wife than the loss of a son? Women are closer to their daughters, aren't they? And... And Fox was older, too. He could handle the change better than Samantha, couldn't he? Didn't Spender promise the child would not suffer? He lurched forward, sobbing over the photo frame in his lap. He reached over and took the princess phone from its cradle. With shaking hands, he dialed the pre-arranged phone number and let it ring the pre-arranged number of times, indicating his choice, and hung up. He stumbled up the stairs and fell into a drunken stupor on his son's empty bed. November, 1973 Chilmarc, Massachusetts It had been weeks since he quit his job. It had been weeks since they had been out of the house for anything more than groceries . He had insisted that she refuse all social invites for a while. She had noted how anxious he became every time she suggested that they leave the children and go out for a movie or dinner, just the two of them. She had forgiven, if not forgotten, his drunken display from that night in October. The idea of being a complete family for the first time in years was worth working for, she decided, and it would take some getting used to. The winter holidays were started and with them came a fresh round of invitations from friends she had made on the Vineyard. They had been important to her when Bill had spent so much time away. Now, she hoped he would come to like and appreciate her friends. He seemed too distracted, though. He spent long hours pre- occupied with the children's whereabouts, which she mistook as a compensation for all the time he had missed with them. They no longer took the bus to school or rode their bikes to friends' houses. Bill insisted on driving them everywhere. Samantha reveled in the attentions of her father at first. Fox, however, began to chafe under the constant supervision immediately: Almost a teen-ager, he had worked hard to earn a larger social circle than his sister. To make matters worse, his father recently demanded that he give up his basketball and wrestling team commitments. Lines were drawn over the athletics. She appreciated that Fox had patiently given in to the new curfews and constant demands of his father. When he was made to give up his beloved sports, the young man fought back. He had had such difficulty fitting in at school and his ability at sports had bridged a lot of difficulties with his peers, she knew. She wondered if Bill knew how much the sports meant to the boy. Bill was taking a harder line with Fox these days, she noticed with worry. She elected not to interfere, but her annoyance was growing. The result was a month of hell for the family. Bill's drinking had abated somewhat but when the conflicts with Fox arose, he seemed to drink more. Disaster resulted. Nights were spent in stony silence, Fox confined to his room by his father's command or hidden in his room by his choice. Samantha whined, missing the bright presence of her brother, not understanding the sullen silence of her father nor the deepening sadness of her mother. The tension had grown. They were like prisoners in their own home, wardened by a man that they called" father", but only knew as a stranger, an occasional visitor in their lives. When his son's displeasure at the new, imposed way of life had been vocalized at the dinner table recently, Bill Mulder had struck out in sudden, vicious anger, catching the boy squarely in the mouth, bloodying his lip and knocking him from his chair to the floor. In the shocked silence that had followed, Bill Mulder saw the horror in the eyes of his young daughter, the disgust in the eyes of his wife. And when he had turned to look down at his son, the boy was getting up, quietly. He had pulled himself to his feet and walked from the room in defeat, hand held tightly to his bloody mouth, eyes full of tears and hate. The dinner had continued without a word said, and Mulder promised himself that he would never lose control like that again. He had to make Fox understand, however. He had to impress him with the importance of staying together, watching out for each other. Fox would just have to make some sacrifices. It was for his own good and the good of the family. Later, in the assumed comfort afforded him by a glass of whiskey, he had thought perhaps he had been wrong about The Committee. Maybe Spender was toying with him. They had shown no sign of exacting their horrible demand from him. Perhaps they had trusted him to keep silent after all. He had pleaded with them for so long -- maybe they had listened, after all. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * Perhaps it would be safe to go out, do some special things, be social, Bill decided. Fox could go to his friends' houses. Samantha seemed to miss her friends, too. And his wife certainly deserved a night out. Perhaps it was time for him to just relax and adjust to his new life. The family had been more than patient with him, he realized, and he vowed to be a better father, a better husband. It was the new resolve that made him accept the invitation to a night out with the Walkers on November 27th. His wife had been pleasantly surprised. When they left the house at 7 P.M., the children were already engaged in a board game of Stratego. Samantha had jumped up from the floor just long enough to give them each a good-bye kiss and then tumbled onto her brother's back as he was trying, for the third time, to set the board up. "Samantha!" her mother chided. "Please be gentle with your brother! And don't give him a hard time tonight! Your bedtime is at eight o'clock. Let him watch his television show in peace, please." "Big deal! The Magician!! It's a stupid show!" She made a face at her brother. "Mom! This is going to be a problem...!" Fox growled. He looked woefully up at his parents. "Just settle down, you two!" Bill Mulder warned as he helped his wife into her coat. "If you can't act responsibly, your mother and I won't allow you to be on your own again. Got it?" Samantha laughed and waved good-bye. Fox merely nodded his head, turning back to the board game as his parents went out the door. The lock clicked loudly behind them. When Mulder hesitated at the car door, looking through the sheeting rain, checking the quiet dark street at both ends, his wife called to him to get in the car. She told him once again: Everything would be all right. The kids were old enough to take care of themselves. He shuddered. His wife thought he had simply caught a chill from the cold November rain. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * Several Hours Later He hurried along the slick roadways a bit too quickly. His confidence that all was well had gradually eroded as the evening wore on. He knew he had left a curious impression with the Walkers by the end of the visit. He had become more and more anxious and less and less conversant. Good- byes were terse, and his wife seemed a bit embarrassed. At least she spared him any lectures on the way home. They rode in silence. He heard her gasp. He felt an ice-like sliver of fear stab at his heart as they turned onto their street. At the far end, in front of their house, the rolling blue lights of three police cruisers stood out like beacons in the darkness. Neighbors, many with winter coats draped over their pajamas, lined the streets, straining to see what was going on at the Mulder house. He was numbly aware of his wife frantically clawing at the door before he had even stopped the car in the driveway. He could hear her desperate questions, heard her crying as a female officer reached out to hold her for a moment at the bottom of the broad concrete steps leading up to their home. He moved as if in a dream, hypnotized by the flash of the blue lights rolling over his home. "Bill? Hey, Bill. It's me, Neil -- from next door." Bill Mulder became aware of the concerned face of his neighbor hovering before him. A grim-looking police officer stood just behind him. "What's happened here?" He managed to croak out the question, even though he felt his throat constricting as he moved toward the house. The entire scene was bathed in those damned rolling lights. He stopped when he saw a small figure, swaddled in damp blankets, huddled at the knee of another female officer at the bottom of the steps. "Fox?" The boy never moved. His eyes looked lost under the mop of longish dark hair plastered to his head by the icy rain. "We found him wandering the street about an hour ago, Bill." Neil the Neighbor again. Trying to be helpful. "He kept calling for Samantha. We couldn't find her anywhere. And Fox... he doesn't remember anything about what happened. They think he's in shock. Craziest thing. He won't go back in the house, Bill. And we had some real odd happenings tonight. Power went out. Weird lights. We heard your boy about thirty minutes later... Just the craziest thing. We're so sorry... I can't imagine what..." The voice trailed off. A comforting hand laid on Mulder's shoulder. He kept staring at his son, stunned. This was a mistake. His daughter wasn't supposed to have been... "Bill?" Neil, again. He did not answer him. "Mr. Mulder. Sir? " The officer this time. His voice was as grim as his face. "We can't find your daughter, sir. There are no signs of forced entry. The boy's incoherent, and we found a gun and a box of rounds scattered over ..." Bill Mulder's head snapped up at the sound of his wife's anguished screams. He did not dare look at the boy again. He forced himself to walk past the boy and not look at him again. He could feel the anger growing with his despair. Another officer at the top of the steps had to help him up onto the porch; he was stumbling, blind with tears. He was lost in remembering. Remembering the way the sun glinted off her braids as she danced and sand on the path from the seashore. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * Colonel Hardin rolled down the window of the black sedan. He didn't notice the icy fingers of rain that clawed at his face. He was intent on watching the small, huddled form of Fox Mulder. He watched as Bill Mulder strode by his son. He watched as the female officer bent down again to brush the boy's wet hair from his brow and plead with him again to return to the house. He could see the boy wasn't responding. Finally, the officer sat down on the wet steps beside the boy and pulled him into her arms and just rocked him while the comings and goings of law enforcement personnel, curiosity seekers and well-meaning neighbors moved around and about them. Hardin was grateful for the instincts of that anonymous female officer. He saw the boy dissolve into shameless tears and cling tightly to the stranger who had offered him comfort. There would be a search organized soon. He rolled up the car window and headed slowly down the street. It was time to retreat. He would have to resume his sentry watch over the boy from a distance. As for tonight: There would be reports about the lights. There would be speculations about the power outage. His own car would be noted, but they would never be able to trace the license plate numbers to any one. And they would search for, but never find, Samantha Mulder. He wondered when it would occur to Mulder that The Committee had exercised its power over him by taking Samantha, not the child he had chosen for sacrifice: his son, Fox. No. The Committee would not touch Fox. And they would let Bill Mulder wallow in the misery of his decision, checkmated by *their* decision. And Fox Mulder's life was going to take a deeper turn toward hell, he knew. He hoped he wouldn't remember. He hoped they had solved the little problem with the boy's memory, for the boy's sake. He didn't want him to have to live with that memory. ********************************* (FINIS)