Title: The 13th Sign

Author: prufrock's love

Rating: Strong R

Summary: He saw no reason for life, death, sex, Armageddon, or emotional
dysfunction to stand in the way of true love.

Archive: No.  Please link to:
www.geocities.com/prufrocks_love/the13thsign.html

Notes: Many thanks to my endlessly tolerant beta readers, and to Fi for
lending her manipulation.

****

Book I: But it comes with a built-in baby seat

****

Scully would never believe it, but all he'd ever wanted to be was normal.  A
normal family, a home, a dog in the yard, and a job where he never had to list
his own death as his reason for taking sick leave.  Twice.  He'd never asked
for a genetic destiny or envisioned himself on a quest for some higher truth
or signed up to save the world; it has just worked out that way for a while.

Mulder looked over the edge of the newspaper, watching the man who stared back
from the new Volvo's driver's side mirror.  His own features looked back,
older, but his lips pink instead of blue, the blood pulsing through his
temples, and the scars on his cheeks faded to barely noticeable.  Though he
knew it wasn't true, he still wondered sometimes if he was a clone or a hybrid
of some sort.  Something that was almost human, almost alive, but not. He
looked down, slowly clenching and opening one hand, still expecting to see the
gray, dead skin around the Christ-like wound through his wrist.  There was
none, just like there was none the week before and the week before that.

He exhaled slowly, sinking back into the car's plush, ergonomic seat and
trying to relax while he waited.  In the baby seat in the back, William was
dozing, making soft baby snores that Mulder found comforting.  Outside the
car, federal workers passed by in a kaleidoscope of winter jackets and
scarves, their boots rhythmic against the sidewalk.  Scully's cup of decaf
cooled in the cup holder beside his hot tea, the two scents mingling amicably.

All in all, life after death wasn't half bad.  There was that lingering
"through the looking glass" sensation that came from missing months of his
life, but he was working on that.  He looked the part, if nothing else.  He
only had a few people fooled, but those two were the most important ones.  In
his past life, he'd matched wits with the worst serial killers humanity could
offer and untangled evil, shadowy plots that defied the laws of nature and
physics; he could pull off "normal' for the sake of Scully and her son.

"We can do this, buddy," Mulder said, glancing in the rearview mirror at
William.  He didn't know whom he was talking to -- the baby or his own
reflection.

Two years ago, he and Scully had been very civil and scientific about the in
vitro attempts; Mulder had waived his right to or responsibility for any child
Scully might conceive.  It was Her Baby: capital letters.  His sperm got
washed before they'd been introduced to her egg (Ms. Ovum, allow me to
introduce Mr. Clean Sperm.  Delighted, I'm sure; let's breed.), so as few
bodily fluids were exchanged as possible. His hand shook as he'd signed the
legal papers, but he'd signed them, knowing that was what Scully wanted.  

None of the in vitro attempts had taken, but when she'd gotten pregnant during
a night she'd later referred to as "wild and passionate and perhaps ill-
considered," he'd thought the old rules still applied: it was Her Baby.  Look
but don't touch.  He'd forced a smile from the wasteland inside him and said
he was happy for her.

After a few false starts, he'd made it to Scully's apartment after the baby
was born, having convinced himself it was to check on her.  And Her Baby. 
Just to see if they needed anything.  Diapers. Groceries.  A college fund. 
Him.  Accepting Scully's invitation to hold William had been a spur-of-the-
moment decision -- one of his better ones.

Scully was in the Hoover Building now, meeting with Skinner and making
arrangements to transfer to Quantico after her maternity leave ended.  She was
staying with the Bureau, but if Mulder wanted to go inside the FBI, he'd have
to get a visitor's pass.  Someone else answered the telephone in the X-files
office now.

Life had rearranged itself at warp speed: he'd become undead, unemployed, and
a father all in the space of a few months.  Given Mulder's personnel file and
the bug Kersh had stuck up his butt, getting fired hadn't been such a
surprise.  But the other two -- his Lazarus act and the adorable bundle of
impossible in the back seat... Leasing a Volvo yesterday had seemed like a
step in the right direction.

Seeing Scully approaching on the sidewalk, he put down the latest issue of The
Lone Gunman and hit the button to unlock the doors.  Instead of getting in,
she walked around to his side of the car, so he hit the button to roll down
his window, as well. It sank into the doorframe with annoyingly efficient
Swedish precision, letting the icy wind in.

"Everything okay?"

"Everything's fine.  I'm just going to be a little longer than I'd
anticipated.  It's getting colder, and they're predicting snow.  Could you
take William back to my place?  You can handle him for a few hours, can't
you?"

Mulder shrugged one shoulder noncommittally. "It's just as easy to wait
instead of driving to Georgetown, unloading, reloading, and driving back to
pick you up.  It's not like I'm not doing anything else today, and William
thinks the rear windshield defroster is fascinating."

She hesitated, breaking eye contact. 

"The defroster really is pretty cool," he added, trying to work up to sarcasm.

"No, go on," she said. "It will be a few hours.  Skinner can take me home. 
Four ounces at noon, then again after his nap: everything is ready in the
refrigerator. Don't forget to burp halfway through."

"Right." He nodded. "Me or him?"

"You or William what?" 

He shook his head; the joke was too dumb to merit an explanation.

"Or you can take him to my mother's," she amended.

"Thank you for the vote of confidence, but I think I'm competent to watch him
sleep for a few hours." He paused. "Are you sure everything's all right?"

"Everything's fine," she repeated. "I'm meeting with Skinner and Deputy
Director Kersh at noon, and then you and I can talk tonight."

"Is there a problem with transferring to Quantico? Your old position is open;
you've applied; Skinner's approved the transfer.  Where does Kersh fit in?"

"I'm just exploring all the options." She glanced back at the ugly Hoover
Building. "I'll know more after the meeting."

"With Kersh?"

She nodded, the wind whipping her auburn hair around her face.

"All right," he agreed warily.  His gut told him this was a bad idea, but
unfortunately, his gut didn't get a vote.

He and Scully had been together for eight years, but always as partners, with
him as the senior agent. In the end, he'd had the final say on the X-files. 
Now, for him, there were no more X-files.  They weren't partners anymore. 
Despite ten pounds of cooing, drooling evidence that they'd combined genetics,
he wasn't sure they'd ever really been lovers.  They weren't married, and
Scully gave no hint that she wanted to be, but they were parents.  They cared
about each other, they worked well as a team, and they had a baby in common: 
A + B = C.  It was the part in old movies where the scene faded to black and
the director yelled "cut!"

Unfortunately, in the absence of set directions, they'd kissed, then looked at
each other awkwardly and thought, "what the hell do we do now?"

At least, he did.  She probably had it all mapped out.  Scully probably had a
five-year plan with tables and pie graphs; he had a few random ideas scribbled
down on the back of an old envelope.

"Are you happy, Mulder?" she asked suddenly, sounding like each word had a
carefully structured paragraph behind it.

"Am I happy?" he echoed in surprise.  He looked up, studying her face as the
anemic winter sun framed it. "Define happy."

"Define it?" she said awkwardly. "Happiness.  It's a concept, a comparison.  A
lack of suffering is, by definition, happiness."

"Okay..."

"Happiness, Mulder.  It's a very tentative state."

"Tentative happiness," he considered.  That sounded about right.  A semi-
normal life: fragile, handle with care.  Minor imperfections may occur. "Are
you happy?"

"I was asking you."

"And now I'm asking you.  What are we talking about, Scully?"

"Nothing." 

She straightened up, stepping back from the car and pulling the front of her
coat closed.  It was the first time she'd worn a suit since the baby came, and
there'd been an hour of changing, muttering, and safety-pinning this morning
to find one that fit. 

"Okay," he repeated uncertainly.

"I'll see you later."

"I'll see you later," he agreed, and she nodded, wrapping her scarf around her
neck.  They had a plan; they'd see each other later.

****

"In and out, Mulder," she kept repeating over the phone, calling him from
Skinner's office. "Just a few hours." No matter what he argued, she kept
repeating that: "I'll be in and out.  Nothing dangerous."

"But why you?" he asked angrily, sitting on the rug in Scully's living room
with William in the baby carrier in front of him. "Why not someone else?"

"Because Agent Doggett is my partner."

He resisted saying various things chauvinist. "He was your partner.  On the X-
files.  I thought you were transferring to Quantico.  Teaching.  How does
undercover work come into play?  Where did this assignment come from?  And
what about Agent Reyes?"

There was silence on the other end of the phone.

"You have a six-week old baby!  I thought you-"

"I have to do this, Mulder.  It's one afternoon, there's no danger, and
there's no one else."

"How can there be no one else?  There's no one else in the entire FBI who can
handle a last-minute, non-dangerous, afternoon pleasure cruise of an
undercover assignment?"

More silence, and he could feel the tops of his ears burning.

"What's your cover?  Where will you be?" he demanded.

"You know I can't tell you that."

He gaped a few times. "You can't tell me?"

"I have to do this," she repeated evenly. "I'll be home tonight.  In and-"

"Goddamn it, Scully!"

"Mulder, it's an assignment.  I don't have a choice."

"You do have a choice-"

"This isn't debatable.  I don't like it either, but please don't do this.  I
need to know William will be okay."

He exhaled through his nose, probably blowing two clouds of smoke like a
cartoon bull.

"He'll be fine," he said through his teeth.

"And you?" she asked. "Mulder?" Her voice softened. "Will you be all right?" 

His anger faded as her voice slipped inside his soul, smoothing out the
creases.  When he was on the ship, pinned down with steel spikes for
vivisection, and listening to the saws and drills whine as they closed in on
his flesh, he'd heard her voice. Scully was there, in his hindbrain,
whispering to him that it would be all right.  He remembered believing her.

"I'll be okay," he promised. "We'll be fine. I lu- I'll- Uh... Just take care
of yourself."

"I will.  I'll be home tonight, and we can talk then.  Take care of William. 
There's milk in my freezer.  Call my mother if you need anything."

"All right.  I guess I'll see you then," he said.

"I'll see you then," she responded.

****

He'd thought Scully had it all under control: every I dotted and every T
crossed.  He was gone, she was pregnant, he was dead, then he wasn't, and now
she had a baby.  Scully was handling everything with her usual finesse, and he
did mean Everything with a capital E.  Sometimes he thought the only thing he
brought to the party was a Y chromosome.

After so many years, he should have known better.

As the afternoon faded, Mulder roamed Scully's apartment, restless, checking
that the door was locked, keeping track of the cars parked across the street,
and looking in on William every three minutes to make sure the baby was still
breathing.  Then he'd go to the bathroom mirror and make sure he was still
breathing, and life wasn't just some trick of the light.  

Post-traumatic Death Disorder: there wasn't a support group or a website.

Instead of being with the others in the den, the VHS tape marked "Mulder" was
in a top drawer beside the fridge, along with a few notepads, pens, and a
spare clip for her gun.  Curious, he slid it into her VCR, made sure the
blinds were closed, and then leaned back against the sofa, crossing his legs.  

The first part was a series of clips of him, some pulled from press
conferences as far back as 1989.  A lecture he'd given at Quantico; various
footage from conferences and security cameras; even a sound bite of him in a
tuxedo telling the woman from Hollywood Insider to "piss off" after that awful
zombie movie premiered.  He grimaced at a clip of an LA Deputy demanding to
see his identification after he told her they were searching for a werewolf. 
That had made so much more sense at the time, when it wasn't on national
television.

Mulder checked on William again, then settled back, getting comfortable.  He'd
never have guessed Scully had a self-compiled best-of-Fox-Mulder movie, which,
hopefully, she used for nefarious, self-fulfilling purposes.

The footage stopped, and opened again in the interior of his apartment on May
27, 2000, 6:56 p.m., according to the time stamp on the screen.  It panned
slowly over his leather couch, his fish tank, the window with sticky residue
from masking tape, and then finally back to the bedroom door.  The frame
shifted, tilted slightly, and he heard his own voice, sounding smarmy:

"Scully, it's me.  I called and didn't get an answer at your place or the
office, and your cell phone is turned off, so I thought you might be at my
place. I don't know why, but I thought you might be.  Skinner and I just
landed in Oregon, and so far he's been a giant pain in the ass.  Sorry you're
missing it. Anyway, we're at the hotel -- same room as before -- and about to
head out to the forest, and I wanted to give you a call and see how you were
doing.  Just wanted you to know I miss you.  As my partner.  Out here, in the
field, covering my back.  Not front, of course.  Skinner isn't nearly as much
fun when he gets dizzy and wants to crawl into bed with me.  That was a joke,
Scully.  Anyway, I miss you and, uh, as soon as you know, could you give me a
call and tell me what the doctors say?  About these dizzy spells. I'm sure
it's nothing. I hope it's nothing.  Please call and let me know. I'll be in
the woods, looking for bright lights and staying well within our departmental
budget, but I'll have my cell phone.  I, uh, I miss you, baby.  Strike that: I
miss you, Scully.  Sorry, I don't know what I was thinking.  Freudian slip, I
guess.  I- I'll lu, uh, see you soon."

The computerized voice on his answering machine added, "Message received May
second.  Seven forty-one p.m.," followed by a beep as the screen went dark
again.

Mulder remembered making that call and hesitating at the end, wanting to say
he loved her, but not quite being able to.  They'd started to make love a few
nights before -- in the same hotel room in Oregon   -- but Scully had pulled
away, saying she didn't feel up to it.  He'd acted like he'd believed her.
She'd rationalized, he'd nodded, and they'd stumbled on, much more than
friends and slightly less than lovers.  Partners joined at the wussy. 

August 9, 2000; 3:35 am, according to the next caption on the bottom right of
the TV screen.  The camera wobbled, focusing on the ceiling, then panned down
to Scully, wearing scrubs and standing in front of a steel examination table. 
She looked too slim, and purple shadows smudged her pale face.  A body lay
behind her, draped with a white sheet.

"I'm not doing this, Agent Scully," Skinner's hoarse voice said from behind
the lens.

"Then give me the camera and get out," she responded, putting her hands on her
hips and dropping her head tiredly.  

There was no further objection from the cameraman, and the footage steadied.

"I'm sure this seems morbid," she began, still looking down. "But you've
probably grown up with morbid, and Mulder would find this strangely amusing."
She looked up at the camera, tried to smile, and failed. "Somehow.  I wish I
knew more about you, even what the world will be like by the time you watch
this, but-"

The camera swung to John Doggett coming through the swinging doors, and Scully
and Skinner snapped in unison, "Get the fuck out!" Agent Doggett retreated
quickly, looking crushed.

Mulder chuckled, the sound of his laughter still seeming foreign and dry in
his chest.  There it was, preserved for posterity: Dr. Dana Katherine Scully
saying the F-word.

"I wish I knew if you are a boy or a girl, if you have hazel eyes or blue.  If
you like basketball or bad science fiction movies or- I don't know.  There are
so many little details I'm afraid will get lost over the years.  I just want
you to know as much about him as you can.  Whoever you are, whoever you'll be,
you missed meeting an amazing man.  We all did, by about five minutes."

"Scully, I can't," Skinner said shakily.  The camera tilted and the picture
went black again.

Mulder exhaled slowly as he realized for whom she'd been making the video. 
And who the body on the table was.  Had been.

"Life lesson number one," Scully's rough voice said as the video camera panned
over the tile floor of some morgue. "Ex-marines aren't always as tough as they
think they are."

She focused the camera on a man's hand and wrist, grayish-green, with a
stigmata-like wound through it. Mulder flexed his fingers as she narrated,
"They aren't warm now, but they usually are.  Mulder's hands are always warm. 
And soft.  I thought he could have been a concert pianist for years before I
knew he could play.  He can.  Could.  Very well.  One night, he sat down at
the baby grand in the bar at the Memphis Ramada Inn and played fifties
rockabilly for half an hour.  I guess he was inspired.  Memphis: Graceland. 
When he noticed I was listening, he switched to classical, which I guess he
thought I'd like better.  Actually, Blue Suede Shoes was just fine."

The lens moved quickly up his arm, and he could see mottling where the blood
had pooled.  The body had been dead for some time; embalming would have been
impossible.  He caught a glimpse of the incision down the center of his chest
as the camera panned over his shoulder and slowly up his face, mercifully
pulling back.  Rows of wounds marked his cheeks, and his blue lips were parted
slightly.  The mortician would pack his mouth full of gauze and then sew his
lips together, if his funeral was open casket, which he wasn't sure if it was.

Scully hadn't mentioned it, and he hadn't asked.

She panned away, wanting to capture details rather than just a dead body.  Her
fingertip caressed his lips, then trailed down, wiping away the paths from
long-dried tears.

Mulder tried to imagine what she'd been thinking.  Was she remembering him
kissing her, whispering to her as they made love like the night would last
forever?  Or of them dancing outside a Pizza Hut bathroom, turning like two
restless souls orbiting each other, and him saying he was relieved in vitro
hadn't worked?  Or of him saying she would never have baby seats and white
picket fences with him, then letting her walk away?  Or of them kissing beside
the Tidal Basin on a beautiful spring evening, believing they had all the time
in the world to work things out?  That evening, she'd been a few weeks
pregnant and hadn't known; he'd been a few weeks from that last, ill-fated
trip to Oregon.

"Nice ears.  His mother must have taught him to keep them squeaky clean. 
Sensitive earlobes, which I'm not certain you need to know, but which might be
hereditary, just like he can curl his tongue and make the 'Live long and
prosper' sign from Star Trek.  If you look closely, there's a scar from having
both his ears pierced.  He did it at Oxford, trying to impress a girl. 
Phoebe.  He got the left one pierced, then heard that was the one which meant
he was gay, so he had the right one pierced, then heard that was the gay ear. 
He ended up taking both earrings out and dying his hair purple.  I'm not sure
if Phoebe was impressed or not."

The camera jiggled as she sniffed, then continued, "It's the little things
like that I'm afraid I'll forget to tell you about him.  I can show you
pictures, and I can tell you stories about Mulder, but I want him to be real
to you.  And trust me, this is as real as it gets."

Except for being corpse-colored, his forehead was unblemished, and she focused
on it, running her fingers through his limp, dirty hair.
 
"He doesn't know; he has no idea.  He'd helped me when I'd tried to have a
baby before and blamed himself when it failed, of course.  If the stock market
falls, Mulder blames himself.  He never said anything, but I know he did."

She was right; he had.  She wanted something and, whether he wanted it or not,
he couldn't give it to her. 

"This is different.  You are different.  I got my miracle, Mulder."

She exhaled shakily and sniffed again.  The video stopped, then started again,
filming Scully's hand in his, the time stamp twenty minutes later.

"I think, right now, I'm just numb.  It's not real.  I keep thinking stupid
things like 'I can't bury him with his hair like that.  I need to wash it, but
where am I going to find a salon that sells Paul Mitchell at five in the
morning in Helena, Montana?'  I keep expecting him to sit up and say something
sarcastic like 'if you'd wanted me out of my pants, you could have just asked,
Scully.'" Her voice softened, talking to herself rather than for the camera.
"I'm sorry.  I'm so sorry, Mulder.  We're going to have a baby, Mulder."

Off-camera, a man cleared his throat. "Agent Scully," Skinner said gently.
"Dana.  Transport's ready."

"All right," she answered, still stroking her fingers over his. "We're ready. 
Let's go home, Mulder." 

The screen faded again, then there was a montage of images and sounds.  Photos
of Samantha.  Of him.  Their basement office.  The old message from their FBI
voicemail before it had been changed upon John Doggett's arrival.  Mulder
still hadn't forgiven him for that.  Move in on a guy's girl and then change
his voice mail message.  

Scully had made a trip up the coast: she'd filmed his mother's house in
Greenwich and his father's in West Tisbury, narrating the little she knew
about each.  The new owners had repainted his father's house, and his mother's
still had the for sale sign in the front yard.  She'd even videoed the old
summer cottage in Quonochontaug, which he'd sold a long time ago.

There was an early ultrasound, which he watched twice, fascinated.  Then
another and another as the baby grew until he could see fingers and facial
features.  

Quick clips of Scully at various stages of her pregnancy, which he found
heartbreakingly sad. She'd set the camera on the kitchen counter, propped at
the right angle, then switch it on, walk in front of it, turn to show off her
belly, then walk back and turn it off again.  There was no one else to operate
it for her.

The clips stopped about six weeks before the baby was born, which was also
about the time Mulder had returned to the land of the living.  Then the
television screen crackled with gray static, and went blue as the tape ended. 
He stared at it until William woke and requested attention.  

****

"We have a slight problem," Skinner's voice said when the phone finally rang
at eight o'clock.  Mulder had been staring at it, willing it to ring.  Scully
had said she'd be home that night, and, channeling his Jewish mother, he'd
defined night as dusk.

"Clarify 'a slight problem,'" Mulder responded tersely, as William snuggled
against him, a successfully bathed bundle of blanket and powdery soft skin.

"Agent Scully's not going to be able to leave her assignment tonight.  She's
safe," Skinner hurried to add. "She just can't leave right now without blowing
her cover, and by doing so, the investigation."

To hell with the damn investigation.  Mulder didn't care if it blew everything
and everyone up to Bill Clinton; he wanted Scully walking through her front
door within the next twenty minutes.

"So when will she be able to leave?  Late tonight?  Tomorrow morning?"

"Soon," Skinner hedged. "As soon as it's feasible.  Mulder, I am sorry."

"You're sorry?"

"Yes, I am.  Is there anything I can do?"

"Can you breast feed?" Mulder asked angrily.  The stockpile of frozen Mommy
Juice was getting low. 

"Shit," Skinner responded, exhaling unhappily. "Mulder-"

"I swear to God, if you have her posing as a hooker on a corner somewhere,
I'll rip you limb from limb."

"No, nothing like that.  We have surveillance on her round the clock.  She's
not in any danger, but I promise, we'll get her out of there as soon as
possible."

"But you won't tell me where she is or what she's doing."

"You know how the FBI works, Mulder.  We all knew the rules of the game when
we signed on.  Again, I'm very sorry."

"Uh-huh." They'd had this conversation once, after Scully's abduction, as she
lay in a hospital bed with a machine breathing for her.

"I'll keep you posted."

"Uh-huh."

Mulder hung up, then pushed one of the speed dial buttons on Scully's phone.

"The Lone Studman," Frohike's voice crooned in his ear halfway through the
first ring. "Good evening, Agent Scully."

"It's Mulder."

A disappointed "Oh."

"How's family life?" Langly chimed in. "Long time, no hack, Jack."

"Well, how about starting now." He shifted William to one shoulder, cradling
the portable phone against the other. "Why don't we start with finding
Scully?"

"Did you lose her?" Langly asked. "She's short: can't see her over the racks
at Wal-mart."

"Let's just say I'm not planning on losing her."

**** 

Technically, he was trespassing on someone's private property, and, though it
was a stretch, obstructing a federal investigation.  He wasn't on the Bureau's
good side, and both convictions carried jail time, but neither was anywhere
near as daunting as what Scully would do to him if she found out who was
watching Her Baby.
          
A sound reverberated through his earpiece again, so clearly he could almost
taste the 7-11 pepperoni roll and Big Gulp behind it.

Mulder twisted, training his binoculars through the tree branches, and
focusing on a faded 1973 Plymouth Valiant parked beside a picnic shelter at
the top of the hill.  Frohike's self-described "chick-mobile" was possibly the
least memorable vehicle ever built, and roadside picnics weren't popular in
the middle of winter, so unless an eager-beaver member of law enforcement
stopped to see if it was an abandoned vehicle, no one was likely to notice
them.  Since his or Scully's car was too recognizable, the untraceable
Plymouth was serving as HQ, housing Frohike, Langly, and the honorary
"littlest gunman." 

From what Mulder could see through the windshield, William had finished his
morning bottle, and, in addition to the traditional approach, Frohike was
trying to get him to burp by showing him how it was done.  Repeatedly.  Langly
was leaning over the back seat and helping, while William stared at them,
wide-eyed, trying to decide if he should be afraid.

He should.  Just as a general rule.

"Just.  Pat.  His.  Back," Mulder ordered into his microphone, and the frat
boy chorus came to an end.

"Good one, little dude," Langly's voice said a moment later, and Frohike's hat
nodded in approval.

Mulder shifted in the crook of the tree, trained his binoculars on the
compound again, and tried not to think about William's budding phobia of troll
dolls. The alternative had been leaving the baby with Maggie Scully while
Mulder and his geek friends went to commit a felony, which in no way made him
sound like a responsible parent.

The compound was rundown: a collection of small houses, weeds, and some empty
vegetable gardens huddled in the valley between two hills.  Inside the chain-
link fence, an old church served as the main gathering place, its paint
peeling off to show the gray boards underneath.  Skinny chickens pecked at the
frozen yard, and a woman in a turtleneck sweater opened a door and tossed a
pan of scraps to them.

There was a pair of shivering FBI agents concealed on the hillside a few
hundred yards from where Mulder was perched.  They must be the "visual
surveillance" Skinner mentioned, and they didn't inspire Mulder's confidence. 
If they hadn't spotted him in an hour, they sure as hell weren't competent to
surveil his-

More-than-friend?  Ex-partner?  Woman with whom he had a child and an unspoken
agreement but no formal commitment?  Companion, keeper, and savior?  There
wasn't an IRS form for soul mates filing separately.

He steadied and refocused the binoculars as Scully emerged from one of the
houses, shrugging on a coat.  Once she was on the porch, she exhaled, rolled
her shoulders, then picked up an empty bucket and headed toward a pump in the
yard; either the commune didn't have indoor plumbing or the water had been
turned off.  Within seconds, Doggett followed, taking the bucket and manning
the pump while Scully watched.

Her hair was pulled into a loose ponytail, the way she wore it during predawn
autopsies when she was tired.  She had on glasses, but no makeup or jewelry
except a narrow wedding band. The winter coat wasn't the one she'd been
wearing the previous day, and the long skirt and boots visible below it looked
like clearance items from the softer side of Sears: The Church Lady meets
Woodstock.
 
According to the file that had mysteriously made its way from the FBI database
to The Gunmen's computer, her cover was Doggett's wife, and Agent Doggett's
cover was as a member of a small UFO cult in rural Virginia.  And,
unfortunately for Mulder, who'd been all geared up for a rescue, she seemed
safe.  Tired. A little mussed, but safe.  His plan to don Birkenstocks and
body armor, then crawl under the fence and carry Scully out of the valley over
his shoulder, was at a temporary standstill.

Langly and his wardrobe were relieved.

Before she followed Doggett inside, Scully looked up, scanning the trees on
the hillside, and he prayed she'd see him and give some sign.  Instead, she
picked up an armload of wood from the woodpile and disappeared into the house.

"Can you see anything?" Frohike's voice whispered from Mulder's earpiece,
startling him. 

"I just saw Scully.  And Agent Doggett," he answered softly, his words making
a cloud of white vapor in front of his mouth. "They came out of one of the
houses, but now they're back inside.  Is William okay?"

"Fine.  What are they investigating?" Frohike asked. "Weapons?  Drugs?"

"The paperwork went through the X-files, so there's something paranormal here
somewhere." He focused the binoculars again, watching a window in case he
could catch a glimpse of Scully inside. "And I'd love to know what it is."

His earpiece crackled with static for a few seconds, then Frohike asked, "You
want the X-files back?"

"I want Scully back," he responded automatically. 

It was bad enough that she was staying with the FBI.  And going back to work
so soon.  Scully could say "light duty" and "faculty position" all she liked,
but the first time a bizarre corpse showed up in Boise, she'd be ordered out
of Quantico, onto a plane, and away from William in a heartbeat. The FBI
wasn't a job, it was a lifestyle, and, as Skinner's ex-wife and Mulder's ex-
wife, and probably a few thousand others could attest, it wasn't a lifestyle
considerate of an agent's family.

Whatever happened between them, there was William, and Scully needed him to be
stable, available.  No more monsters, no ghosts, no alien viruses.  He'd
promised he'd be there for her and do anything he could to help with the baby. 
If that meant he ended up teaching Intro to Psychology as a night class at the
local community college, he'd do it.  No more rash, reckless Agent Mulder. 
Let someone else battle the coming Armageddon.

"Yeah, I want the X-files back," he confessed to the microphone.

****

A guard waved Mulder into the parking garage under the Hoover Building, and
another escorted him into the elevator and up to the fifth floor, offering to
help with the baby.  Mulder shook his head and kept walking down the corridor,
to the office at the end of the hall.  He passed Agent Reyes, who hurried
after him, saying something he didn't have time to listen to.  Agent Reyes
took too long to say things, sometimes.

Skinner looked up from his desk and said brusquely, "We have a problem," which
was a step removed from having "a small problem," which was what they'd had a
day ago.

"Is Scully okay?"

"Yes.  We think so." Skinner hesitated. "I just spoke with the Special Agent
in Charge, and there's been an unforeseen complication with the
investigation."

"Unforeseen by who?" Mulder snapped, setting the baby carrier down.  William
seemed to think their late night, breakneck trip from Scully's apartment to
the FBI, after Skinner had called, was his own personal thrill ride and hadn't
objected yet. 

"Agents Scully and Doggett have been detained at their present location,"
Skinner informed him. "We're maintaining visual surveillance, but we've lost
covert audio.  Agent Scully will have to continue her assignment with Agent
Doggett in order to prevent jeopardizing the investigation and compromising
their situation."

Mulder nodded, a single curt jerk of his chin, as he processed that from
jargon to English. "And what is their situation?  Exactly?"
 
"They're safe, as far as we know.  There's no reason to believe they're not
safe, but they're not able to leave at this time."

"Because..." Mulder prompted.

"At this time, no one is being allowed in or out of their location."   
 
"You mean she's locked in. Someone in the cult found the FBI's listening
device and realized they were under surveillance.  You mean the compound
suddenly locked down, barricaded themselves in, and now you can't get her
out."

Skinner exhaled, nodding.  He didn't bother to ask how Mulder knew what
Scully's assignment was.

"Get her out of there!"

"We have to consider-" Skinner started.

"What's to consider?  I have one word for you: Waco!  No, wait, I have more:
Jonestown.  Heaven's Gate.  Ruby Ridge.  Temple of the Seven Stars.  When the
phrases 'religious cult' and 'barricaded themselves in' co-occur in a
sentence, bad things happen.  Why is she even there? What the hell is wrong
with you?"

"I didn't give this assignment to her.  Kersh did," Skinner said through his
teeth.

"Is he here?  Because I have a few words for him, too!"
 
Skinner held up his hands in the classic calm down gesture. "I don't like it
either, but there's no evidence this group is violent or self-destructive.  As
far as the FBI could tell, it's just a New Age commune.  And there are small
children.  Let's wait and see what happens instead of going in with our guns
blazing."

"Why did you even ask me to come in?" Mulder snapped, then shook his head
angrily. "You could have told me all of this over the phone.  It's not like I
can change anything."

He was calling The Gunmen the second he was out of the Hoover Building and
telling them to prep the Birkenstocks and Batmobile.  They were going in. 

Skinner leaned back, glancing at the baby carrier and choosing his words
carefully. "I have two agents inside that compound, one of whom just had a
baby.  If the best course is to watch and wait, we'll keep surveillance on
them and wait.  But if it's not... In the end, I'm responsible for the safety
of my agents, not Kersh.  And I don't like flying blind.  I just have a bad
feeling about this."
 
Mulder crossed his arms and shifted his weight from foot to foot, then began
to pace restlessly. "I'm still waiting for you to say something comforting."

"I'm saying I need an informed opinion about what's happening inside that
compound.  If I need to go outside the Bureau to get it, I have the
wherewithal to do so."

"Outside the Bureau?"

"At one time, we had a profiler with expertise in the paranormal.  Now, for
that expertise, I have to go outside the Bureau.  As I see it, the FBI has
left me no choice."

Mulder stopped, looking back over his shoulder. "You're just itching to piss
Kersh off, aren't you?"

"I prefer to think of it as making an executive decision," Skinner responded
tightly.

****

"The Church of the 13th Sign is led by a man named Michael Lee Milton.  He
calls himself Ophiuchus," Agent Reyes explained, opening the file and
spreading its contents over the conference table.

"Ophiuchus.  Oh-fee-U-kus," Mulder pronounced for her, "Is the 13th Sign.  The
Sun actually passes through thirteen zodiac signs, though modern astrologers
only recognize twelve.  The Earth has wobbled a little since 5th century
Babylon, so when we track the elliptic now, it touches Virgo twice, though we
only count it once, and never touches Aries at all.  From November 30th to
December 17th, the Sun is in the house of Ophiuchus, the Serpent Bearer."

"Oh," she responded.

"Cults worshipping Ophiuchus date back to ancient Greece, and it's still a
common religious fixation, especially in the South," Mulder continued, paging
through the file and rocking the baby carrier with his foot.  It was after one
a.m., and William dozed contentedly. "He holds a healing serpent and battles
Scorpio, the Devil in the form of a scorpion.  And it's the only zodiac sign
named after a mortal: Aescelpius, a Greek doctor who had the power to heal all
of mankind, including the dead.  But the Gods couldn't allow Aescelpius to
make men immortal, so Zeus struck him down with a thunderbolt and placed him
in the heavens as the 13th sign: Ophiuchus the Healer, the Serpent Bearer. 
It's the snake coiled around his staff that we use as the caduceus: the symbol
of modern medicine."

Another wide-eyed, "Oh."  

She should see him with slides.

"What about the cult are you and Agent Doggett investigating?"

"It's affiliated with the one in Montana which was retrieving and attempting
to heal UFO abductees. 
Your kidnapping is still an open X-file, Agent- Mr. Mulder," she corrected.
"In conjunction with an FBI task force, Agent Doggett and I are investigating
the connection."

"To my abduction?"

Reyes nodded. "But, as far as we could tell, unlike the Montana group, The
Church of the 13th Sign never successfully recovered an abductee."

"But Kersh just gave them one," Mulder answered, thinking aloud. "An abductee. 
Scully's an abductee.  And a doctor.  Why did Doggett need her undercover?"

Reyes looked away, so Skinner answered. "Ophiuchus has been pressing Agent
Doggett to bring his wife into the cult.  The plan was for Agent Scully to
show up, refuse to join, have a quarrel with Agent Doggett, and leave.  In and
out, just like she was told.  By Kersh," Skinner added.

"Is Agent Scully born under the sign of Ophiuchus?" Reyes asked before he
could begin his next question.

"No," Mulder answered, as the profiler wheels begin to turn, creaking from
disuse. "But her baby was." 

He looked down, sorting through the pages scattered across the tabletop.  He
stopped at a photograph of Ophiuchus, comparing it to the information Doggett
and Reyes had gathered.

The man who was now Ophiuchus the Healer had flunked out of pre-med, then been
dishonorably discharged from the military.  He'd done time for statutory rape,
fraud, possession of cocaine, and assault with intent: an all-around unlikable
guy with outstanding warrants in three states.  After his mother's death,
Ophiuchus was committed to a mental hospital with paranoid schizophrenia,
reporting that he was a multiple abductee.  Upon release a year later, he
falsified his transcripts and applied to medical school, then the seminary. 
Both rejected him.  In 1999, he emerged as the leader of a doomsday UFO cult,
which evolved eventually into The Church of the 13th Sign.

Bad things; all very bad things.  The more Mulder read, the tighter the knot
in his stomach got.  The profile had more red flags than a bullfight.

"Agent Doggett believes Ophiuchus could be the real deal," Reyes said
earnestly. "Like Jeremiah Smith."

"Well, Agent Doggett is wrong.  Did he even look at this guy's history?"

"Of course.  Yes.  We ran background checks on all the members, but in
Ophiuchus's case, there wasn't much to go on."

Mulder gathered up the pages angrily, holding them for Reyes to see. "Not much
to go on?  Pick a page.  Ophiuchus makes David Koresh look stable."

"He what?" Skinner asked in surprise, looking back and forth between them.
"Agent Reyes?"

"I don't understand." 

She took the background check, chewing her lower lip as she skimmed it.  She
shifted, tilting her head, and read again, flipping through the pages, then
leafed through the ones scattered across the conference table, searching for
something.

Mulder drummed his fingers on the tabletop and rocked William's carrier harder
than it needed to be rocked.  

Skinner seemed to walk a tightrope between his desk and the door to the
hallway, hands on his hips, doing his unhappy dance. "Agent Reyes?" he
repeated tersely.

She continued staring at the pages, stunned. "I don't understand.  We did a
background check.  I-I did the background check, but it isn't in here.  This
one- I've never seen this one before.  This isn't the information we gathered
for the task force.  Michael Lee Milton is a drifter with no criminal record.
No-"

"He has three outstanding warrants.  How did you miss outstanding warrants?"
Mulder demanded.

"Because they weren't there," she insisted. "When I ran him through the NCIC
database, he'd never been arrested. He'd never even had a traffic ticket. This
isn't the record Agent Doggett and I received."

Mulder drummed his fingers faster.

"Oh my God.  I don't know how it even got in the file," she added, sitting
down numbly.

"I do.  Someone fed you false information, making Ophiuchus seem harmless,
then, once Scully and Agent Doggett were undercover, replaced your background
check with this one," Mulder summarized. "Check NCIC again: a hundred bucks
says you'll find exactly what this report says, and the information you
received will have vanished."

Agent Reyes was staring at him like such a thing could never happen: no one
would hack the National Crime Information Center's database just to change one
man's information.  And then change it back.  

Novice.

"It's a setup," he clarified angrily. "You and Agent Doggett were set up.  And
now Scully's-" He stopped drumming, staring at the baby carrier helplessly.

"Are they in danger?" Skinner asked. "Mulder?  Are they in danger?"

"Goddamn it!" Mulder yelled, and swept his arm across the table, clearing the
papers and photos.   A coffee cup crashed against the wood-paneled wall,
soaking the carpet and waking William.

He was off the X-files and out of the Bureau.  Scully was transferring to
Quantico.  She had a baby.  He had four-year lease on a fucking Volvo with a
built-in baby seat.  This wasn't supposed to happen anymore.

"Mulder?" Skinner repeated as the baby howled.

"Get her out of there!  Now.  Tonight," he ordered, and Skinner picked up the
phone.

****

The baby carrier was on the table between them, and Skinner and Reyes were
guarding it like two warrior archangels: Gabriel and Uriel in London Fog and
Banana Republic.  The rest of the agents belonged to the FBI's elite Hostage
Rescue Team: more than twenty men clothed head to toe in black.  They were
silent, efficient men, veterans of Ruby Ridge and Waco and a thousand other
operations. They rushed in where angels feared to tread, and thought in terms
of "acceptable losses" and "calculated risk" and other concepts foreign to
most civilized men.

Mulder had worked with many of the senior members of the HRT before: when he
was a green agent and a shot not taken at John Barnett had ended another
agent's life; with Duane Barry, before Barry escaped and took Scully to
Skyland Mountain; at the Temple of the Seven Stars, where Melissa Ephesian
took her own life.  There was the "hiding in the light" monster and Cradock
Marine Bank, and hopefully, a few he couldn't recall when someone didn't end
up dead. 

The room quieted as the lights dimmed, and the projector screen lowered from
the ceiling.

He took a breath, then laid the photo of Ophiuchus on the overhead projector
so it appeared on the bright screen. "Michael Lee Milton, age thirty-seven,"
Mulder began. "Ex-med student, ex-military, ex-con, ex-mental patient, is the
leader of a small UFO cult called The Church of the 13th Sign.  The name
Ophiuchus comes from a zodiac myth about a demigod with the power to bring
back the dead.  Milton thinks he is Ophiuchus: returned from the Heavens by
UFO's, reincarnated -- whatever.  His followers attempt to recover dead or
injured UFO abductees so he can heal them.  Except he can't."

Two-dozen heads nodded. 

"But he believes he can," Mulder continued. "As do the members of his church. 
He demands and gets blind obedience from them. If he says shoot, they will. 
If he says swallow poison or kill the hostages, they'll do that, too."

Mulder glanced over his shoulder, and, from the screen, Ophiuchus stared at
him with bland features and dead gray eyes.  The face reminded him of Robert
Modell: another little man who wanted to be big.  

"Earlier tonight, he found and disabled audio surveillance," Mulder said,
turning toward his audience again. "Which means he knows someone's been
listening.  Infrared scans indicate the members are in the central building:
an old church.  Ophiuchus is probably holding them there, trying to decide
which one is the spy, and becoming increasingly agitated and violent.  And
while we have no report of the cult stockpiling weapons, assume they're there
and that at least some of the members know how to use them."

He replaced Ophiuchus's image with a photo of Agent Doggett, then one of
Scully. "There are forty-eight cult members, including eighteen children and
two undercover FBI agents, posing as a married couple.  They're both seasoned
agents who've done undercover work and been in hostage situations before."

Scully had been in more hostage situations than he cared to count.  

Twelve.  Since joining the X-files, she'd been abducted or held against her
will twelve times. Unless the cult members were having a pajama party in the
church, this made lucky thirteen.  

"It's possible Ophiuchus knew in advance who Agents Scully and Doggett are;
that he has a personal interest in one or both of them, purposely lured them
into his church, and kept them there.  Agents Doggett and Reyes received false
NCIC information about Ophiuchus, which suggests there are greater forces at
work.  Possibly forces inside the FBI."

"For what purpose?" an agent asked from the back of the room, sounding
skeptical.

Mulder looked toward the voice, trying to make out the man's features in the
dim room. The voice seemed familiar, but Mulder couldn't recall a name or
which operation they'd worked together.

"We don't know," he answered, moving on. "To put Agent Doggett in danger,
possibly.  To make him and Agent Reyes look foolish and discredit the X-files
office, maybe.  Until recently, Agent Scully was also assigned to the X-
files."

"How do we make contact to begin negotiations?" someone else asked.

"We don't," Mulder responded. "Ophiuchus thinks he's half-human and half-god. 
Paranoid demigods see no benefit in negotiating with the FBI.  He believes he
has the power to raise the dead, which means he won't hesitate to cause death. 
If he knows we're coming, we'll have another Jonestown or Seven Stars."

"You're certain of that?" Skinner asked.

Mulder nodded, and the agents shifted uncomfortably.  Even negotiations that
ended badly saved lives.  The longer they kept a kidnapper talking, the higher
the chance of the hostages surviving.  Keep a kidnapper talking for twenty-
four hours, and hostage deaths dropped by thirty percent.  Forty-eight hours:
sixty percent.  Once the Hostage Rescue Team went in, guns drawn, survival
rates plummeted. 

"We have to surprise him.  If we don't, while we're negotiating, the people
inside the compound will be dying.  Ophiuchus will talk as long as it takes
for his followers to kill Agents Scully and Doggett and commit suicide, and
then he'll surrender.  All we'll find inside the compound will be bodies." 

"Thank you, Mulder," Skinner said, and Mulder returned to the back of the
room.

From the screen, Scully's serene blue eyes stared at him, larger than life and
deeper than the ocean. Although there was no reason to, Mulder picked up
William, holding the warm baby against him. Scully's image slid away and was
replaced by a map of the compound as the Special Agent In Charge of the
Hostage Rescue Team assumed center stage.

****

In the Virginia countryside, a moonless night was truly black.  Their
headlights off, the vans drove single-file up the gravel road, winding through
the trees to the top of the hill. When the vans stopped, the rear doors swung
open, and FBI agents in body armor and night vision gear slipped into the
woods like shadows.

"Stay with the Blazer," Skinner said as he parked on the side of the road,
well past the surveillance vans. "In fact, stay in the Blazer," he ordered,
leaving the engine running. "Don't get out."

"We must be half a mile from the compound," Mulder said. "What do you think
Ophiuchus has?  Cannons?  Scud missiles?  I think I'm fairly safe."

"It's not you I'm worried about," Skinner responded, then nodded curtly at the
baby seat in the back. "He shouldn't even be here.  I'm sure the Bureau has a
policy about it somewhere, and if not, we need one."

"He's fine.  He's asleep.  I'm not calling Scully's mother to come get him in
the middle of the night."

"I'm not taking any chances," Skinner said. "Stay in the Blazer."

"How will I know what's happening?" he protested.

"I'll have someone bring you a headset," he promised over his shoulder, then
closed the door and vanished into the winter night.

Mulder watched through the passenger side window, listening to Skinner's heavy
footsteps fade away.  The SUV's engine purred, and William breathed softly,
his fingers curled into miniature fists as he slept in the baby seat.  As the
minutes slid past, sleet collected on the windshield, forming a fine white
line across the wiper blades. 

Restless, Mulder turned the heater up and rolled his window down.  He got out,
leaned against the fender, crossed his arms, and stared impotently at the
cold, black nothing around him. Somewhere in the darkness, the Hostage Rescue
Team was moving down the slope and into place along the chain-link around the
compound, establishing a perimeter.

William was fed, changed, warm, and sound asleep, and wasn't likely to wake
until after five.  Mulder could save Mommy from the psychotic UFO zealot and
be back by 5:15.  Really.

He took a step away from the SUV, then a step back, gritting his teeth.  He'd
promised Scully that he would take care of Her Baby.  Not take him to spend
the night with Grandma in Baltimore.  Not pawn him off on The Gunmen.  And not
leave him alone in an SUV while Mulder played the hero. 

Footsteps approached, and he turned as Agent Reyes emerged from the darkness.
"I was told to bring you a set of ears," she said, holding an earpiece and
receiver out to him. "And to make sure both of us stay out of the way."

As he slid the earpiece into place, he heard the Hostage Rescue Team reporting
in, saying they were through the fence around the compound and ready to go. 
Skinner ordered them to hold their positions and wait for his command.

"It shouldn't be much longer," Reyes assured him.

"Do they have a visual on Scully?"

"Not yet.  Not that I've heard."

"They need to have a clear visual on her before they go in.  If Ophiuchus has
a special interest in her, he'll have her close to him.  She could be in the
line of fire."

"The team knows that." 

"Could you just stay with William while I-"

"They know.  Stay put, Mulder," she ordered, and he slouched against the SUV,
crossing his arms again.  

After a few uncomfortable minutes, Reyes exhaled and produced a pack of
cigarettes from her coat pocket.  Cellophane rattled, a lighter flickered
orange light against her profile, and she leaned back, savoring the sweet-
smelling tobacco.

"I quit.  Again.  I don't really smoke anymore," she explained awkwardly. "Do
you mind?"

"No.  I don't really smoke anymore, either," he said. "It's a disgusting,
unhealthy habit.  Can I have one?"

She smiled like a sad Mona Lisa and held the pack and lighter out to him.  He
took them, finding temporary comfort in the once familiar ritual: the smooth
paper between his fingers, the dry burn in his throat.  Scully wouldn't like
it, but to Hell with it.  He'd been shot, abducted, tortured, infected with an
alien virus -- twice -- died on several occasions, and survived sundry flesh
wounds, man-eating flora and fauna, and mutants galore. The Surgeon General's
warning didn't carry as much weight as it once had.

"Where is Ophiuchus?" Reyes asked, filling the tense lull. "The
constellation?"

The clouds had cleared, and Mulder looked up at the endless sky, getting his
bearings. 

"There," he said, pointing. "The star at the top of that triangle is his head,
and the bottom two are his shoulders.  See the coffin?  That's Ophiuchus,
rising.  His father was Apollo; his mother was a mortal woman named Coronis. 
Apollo loved her at first sight: her beauty and her fierce intelligence.  They
had a passionate affair but Coronis feared her fate with him and instead chose
another: a mortal man who could give her a normal life, which Apollo could
not.  The lovers quarreled, and in a fit of rage, unaware she was pregnant
with his child, Apollo struck Coronis down.  When he realized what he'd done,
he tried to bring her back, but couldn't. Desperate and half-crazed with
grief, he took his son from her body and carried the baby far away, to a place
where he would be safe.  That child became Ophiuchus the Healer." 

Agent Reyes lowered her cigarette, looking at him strangely. "That's very
impressive."

"It's Scully," he responded, shrugging one shoulder. "Her father taught her
the constellations when she was a girl, and, over the years, she taught me."

"John's been trying to teach me to appreciate stockcar racing."

"It's not really the same."

"No," she admitted. 

He adjusted the earpiece, hoping to hear something.  When there was nothing
but dead air, he checked his watch, pushing the little button so the dial
glowed blue.  Not much longer until dawn.

"John says there's an entire subtext to stockcar racing that I'm not
appreciating.  I tell him the same thing about Buffy the Vampire Slayer," she
added.

Mulder stared at her, waiting for the punch line, but there wasn't one.  He
never knew whether Agent Reyes was serious or not, whether she was making fun
of him or coming on to him or just trying to make conversation.  Some people
marched to a different drummer; Reyes polkaed. 
 
"He doesn't believe me," she said finally.

"Agent Doggett's a tough sell."

"Yeah," she said, more to herself than him.

She held rather than smoked her cigarette, watching the darkness.  Except for
a few flecks of sleet, the blackness was crystal clear and infinitely deep,
and it seemed like they should be able to see farther than they could.

"Choppers," he said, hearing them and turning as two helicopters rose from
behind the horizon, lights off, blades slicing through the air. "Here we go."

Agent Reyes blew out a lungful of smoke, then tossed the butt down, stubbing
it out with the toe of her shoe.  She watched the dark valley below them,
radiating waves of nervous energy.

He heard Skinner gave the go order over the radio, and Mulder took a step
forward before he caught himself.

As he watched, the helicopters' spotlights came on, illuminating the compound
like flashlights in the distance.  A gun fired, making Mulder flinch as the
shot cracked in his ear, seeming inches rather than half a mile away.  Over
the radio, he could hear frightened shrieks, the choppers' blades whirling,
and two-dozen FBI Agents ordering everyone to get down.  Skinner's voice
requested an update, demanding to know where the shot came from.

There was a cacophony of answers, but the consensus seemed to be that
Ophiuchus was firing.  

William woke, adding his cries to the chaos of sounds from the compound.  On
autopilot, Mulder jerked the earpiece out and opened the back door of the
Blazer. "Shush... I'm here," he assured William, as he unfastened the
complicated tangle of straps and buckles. "I'm right here, buddy.  It's okay."

The baby continued shrieking as Mulder picked him up, wrapping a blanket
around him.  Two shots echoed through the air and were answered by an
automatic rifle opening fire, sounding like firecrackers.  Mulder cupped his
hand over the baby's head, watching the helicopters' spotlights scour the
valley.

Agent Reyes pressed her earpiece tighter into her ear.  There was a muffled
shot, probably from a Hostage Rescue Team sniper in one of the trees, and
suddenly, silence.

No shots, no screams, no choppers, no nothing.

"What's happening?" Mulder demanded as William continued to sob.

"They're- Hold on," Reyes said, trying to listen. "I don't know.  I can't
hear." She fiddled with her earpiece and checked the connection to the box on
her waist. "It's not working. All I hear is static."

A light rose above the trees on the horizon, like a star becoming a supernova. 
It grew brighter, and for about a second, Mulder thought it might be a third
helicopter late to the party.  Then the Blazer's engine sputtered and died.

"Mulder?  What the hell is-" Agent Reyes started uncertainly, turning to stare
at it.

He squinted, trying to block the light with one hand and shield the baby with
his other.  He ordered his body to run, but his legs refused to obey.  Fear
ensnared him like a spider's web.  He needed to hide, to protect the baby, but
he couldn't.  He cowered and waited, with his back pressed against the SUV's
oversized tire and William pressed against his chest, as the light came
closer.

He saw Reyes' mouth moving in slow motion, yelling his name, but she could
have been miles away for all her words registered in his brain.

The UFO loomed huge and eerily silent, except for a low hum, like high voltage
lines.  Its intricate underbelly paused over them, and Mulder waited for the
beam to pull him up -- or to pull William away from him.  The light bathed
everything in white, bleaching out all color and taking up the entire sky. 
Then, as suddenly as it appeared, it was gone.

At first, he thought he was on the spaceship again, huddled in a corner like a
frightened animal, trying to escape the needles and drills and saws.  As the
spots faded from his retinas and he could breathe again, he felt William's wet
face against his neck.  Another second, and he could see Reyes crouched beside
him, gun in her hand.  He took a breath, filling his lungs with the icy air. 
He smelled frozen mud and car exhaust and baby shampoo: things found only on
the planet Earth. 

He wasn't on the ship.  They weren't on the ship.

"Are you okay?  Is he?" Reyes asked, pulling the blanket aside to check the
baby when he didn't answer. "Mulder?"

He finally nodded numbly.

They weren't on the ship. They hadn't taken William.

"Can you get up?"

They weren't on the ship.

He nodded again, flinching as she touched his arm.  To his adrenaline-
heightened senses, her hand felt like fire and scratched like sandpaper.

"Don't," he said, shrugging away, and she backed off.

"Where'd it go?" Reyes asked as he got to his feet.

"I don't know," Mulder mumbled, turning in a slow circle in the center of the
gravel road, holding the baby and watching the horizon. "It's not gone," he
promised, feeling the dull pull at the base of his skull.  He'd felt it for
too many months to ever forget it. "It's still here."

She raised her weapon. "Where?"

"I don't-"

The beam appeared again, this time illuminating the valley floor.  Mulder saw
the outline of the ship glowing blue against the black night sky, and the
stars distorting as the atmosphere rippled around the hull.  The beam of light
moved slowly toward the compound, searching for someone.

"No!"

He pushed William into Reyes' arms and scrambled down the slope, the tree
branches lashing at him.  He half ran, half slid down the slippery hillside,
toward the light shining between the saplings like a beacon.  Behind him, he
heard Reyes yelling for him to stop, to come back, but he couldn't.  Her
shouts and William's cries faded, blocked out by the white glow ahead of him.

When he reached valley floor, he jumped to reach the top of the fence, shoving
the toes of his boots into the rusty chain-link.  In two moves, he was over
the top, ignoring the metal biting into his jacket and flesh.  He landed hard,
then was on his feet again and sprinting through the frozen weeds.  His heart
pounded, his lungs strained, and his boots flew over the uneven field.  They
couldn't take Scully.  They could take him again, but not her.  She had a
baby.

It was a setup.  Ophiuchus.  The cult.  The whole task force and undercover
operation.  It was a setup to lure Scully to one of the pickup points.  They
were taking abductees again.  She was an abductee.

He was underneath the ship.  It spanned from hill to hill, filling the sky,
and it was hard to reconcile how anything that large could stay in the air. 
He kept running, passing the Hostage Rescue Team as they stood in stupefied
disbelief, staring upward. 

Mulder felt a helicopter hit the ground near him, its blades chopping into the
dirt and its cockpit crumpling like an aluminum can.  He could see it and feel
it, but there was no sound.

He saw Scully beneath the center of the ship, with a winter coat on over a
nightgown.  She stood alone, dazed, with the wind blowing her hair wildly.

He screamed her name, but she didn't look toward him.

As Mulder reached the edge of the beam, instead of drawing him in, an
invisible force tossed him back as if he was an unwanted rag doll.  He wasn't
the one They wanted this time.  He hit the back of his head hard, and the
world went nauseously bright again.  Time slowed to an uneven crawl.  As he
got to his feet, swaying drunkenly, and took a step toward it, still yelling
for Scully, the beam vanished.  In less than a heartbeat, so did the ship,
leaving nothing behind but darkness.
 
****

End: Book I