Title: Deathsman's Meed
Author: N. Y. Smith
Email: minismith@aol.com
Homepage: http://members.aol.com/minismith/
Date: November 11, 1999
Category: MSR/X/AU
Rating: No more than R. This section PG-13 for language.
Summary: On the eve of colonization, the time has come to repay old
debts.
Disclaimer: The story's mine (well, parts of it) and the characters belong
to them what creates them. I receive no remuneration for this effort and
intend no copyright infringement. Et cetera, et cetera and so forth.
(Don't you miss great stars like Yul Brynner?)
Chapter 1
At first he didn't recognize her haggard, pale,
smoky voice reduced to a ragged
whisper chained to one of those damn tables.
His horror must have shown in his face for she
cringed, turned her head away. Which was just as
well for she wasn't on the agenda. He had to find
Cassandra before they did or things would,
literally, all go to Hell.
"Krycek," she cried weakly.
Regret darkened his eyes before they were
obscured behind the closing door.
But he had been too late too late for
Cassandra, for that poor imbecile Jeffrey Spender,
for her. After that debacle in the hangar there was
nothing to do but sift through the debris of the lab
for anything that might be of assistance to the
Human Resistance in improving the reliability of
their precious vaccine. Now that the Grays had
Cassandra, The Day would come all too soon. So
he stirred in the ruins of the lab, his curses
echoing through the empty halls. They had
trashed the computers; nothing useful remained.
He spun on his heel and walked cat-like down the
hall, intent on finding the exit, but something
moved, off to the right, about 20 feet down the
hall. He flattened against the wall, thumbing off
the safety on his weapon. He crept silently down
the hall, ears straining to locate any noise. After
about 10 feet he could have sworn he heard a soft
gasp. Another 3 feet and he heard labored breaths
unsuccessfully concealed. Two more feet and he
stopped looking and listening. He felt it; he felt
her.
Watery blue eyes flashed from behind a file
cart. He pulled the cart away and she shrived
pitifully, balling up against the wall.
He holstered his weapon and held out his
good hand, "Hey, they're gone." His voice was
soothing and his movements measured and
reassuring. He leaned down to take her hand
and
She sprung, flattening him against the opposite
wall. She ran, but it was more of a hobble, and he
caught up with her easily. She tried to claw him
with nails that had long ago been chewed away.
"You left me, you son of a bitch!" she railed.
He grabbed her wrists, realizing only too late
that his prosthetic hand had closed too tightly.
"Stop it," he hissed, "or you'll break your wrist."
Hatred still raged in her eyes but she stilled.
"You left me," she accused.
He flexed the correct arm muscle and the
prosthesis released its grip.
Quick as ever, she applied the flat of her hand
to the side of his face. "Bastard," she spat.
"Bitch," he replied and smiled. There was a
time when her actions would have been a prelude
to something much more entertaining. "Can you
walk?"
She shook her head, "Not far."
"Just to the parking lot?" He slipped his good
arm around her waist.
She tested her weight against him for a few
steps then nodded. They walked about 10 steps,
"Wait. I forgot something."
He shot her an exasperated look. "Where is
it?"
She pointed to the file cart.
He uprighted an overturned chair and lowered
her gently into it. "This better be important,
Marita. I'm not hauling " He stopped dead in his
tracks as his eyes found a small black box trailing
rainbow ribbon cable. "Is that what I think it is?"
he said breathlessly.
She nodded triumphantly.
"You know what I like," he leered
appreciatively, wrapped his arm around her waist
again, and walked slowly toward the light.
It was dark now and she could hear the tarred
pavement seams whap, whap, whapping against
the tires. Sometime, while it was still daylight,
she'd changed from the flimsy hospital gown into
sweat pants, socks and a t-shirt that smelled
comfortingly of detergent and softener and
Krycek. She could hear the wind whistling
through an open window. When soft green
dashboard lights glowed before her slightly
opened eyes she realized that her head was in his
lap. She shuddered.
He laid his good hand on her hip. "You
okay?"
She tried to push herself up until the lights
started swirling and she crumpled back into his
lap again with a moan. "Where are we?" Her
eyelids closed out the swirling lights.
"Pennsylvania."
She turned on her back so she could look up
at his face, well, his chin. "Where are we going?"
Instead of answering his thumb made little
circles on her belly and she flinched. "Sore?"
She nodded and tried to close her eyes against
the memory of the "tests." Gleaming tears
escaped from sunken eye sockets.
"No more tests," he reassured, brushing the
tears from her wasted face.
She nodded unsteadily and allowed the noise
from the tires to lull her back to sleep. The next
thing she remembered was walking with Krycek's
arm around her waist, being lathered and rinsed
under warm water, then falling into stiff white
sheets. And when the nightmares came, as they
always did, she tiptoed across the narrow strip of
greasy carpet and curled up against the warm,
strong man in the other bed. Once daylight
finally pried open her swollen eyelids she was
relieved to find her head still tucked into his
shoulder, his arm drawing her close as they slept.
She burrowed deeper into his shoulder and
slipped her hand under the soft cotton crew shirt
he wore. Taut but supple skin glided beneath her
fingertips. She luxuriated in the feel of it; she
luxuriated in the feel of this bodies entwined and
completely relaxed. This was new for them. Of
all their previous encounters-- and they were all
memorable-- there had been a sense of business,
of quid pro quo like sharks stalking each other in
the shallows, coupling ferociously, then parting
impassively. Sharks, the corners of her mouth
turned up slightly at the appositeness of the
comparison. She let his warmth wash over her
like the gentle waves off a Caribbean cay and
sleep swept over her again.
End Chapter 1
minismith@aol.com
Chapter 2
Fox Mulder drew a deep breath in a valiant effort to
ward off the soporific effects of Agent Willoughby's report.
>From her seat between him and AD Skinner, Dana Scully
responded by sharply applying the toe of her shoe to his
shin. He winced and cut his eyes at her while her glassy
gaze remained fixed on some point above Agent
Willoughby's head. Abruptly, she covered her face with
her hand and bolted through the door. Her startled
partner's eyes followed her path before noticing the crimson
dots on the white paper agenda that remained where she'd
been sitting. His look at Skinner betrayed his terror and the
AD responded by dismissing him with a curt head-tilt
toward the door. Skinner himself spent the remainder of
the day unsuccessfully trying to attend to yet another
meeting, another stack of reports, another call from The
New Director. Waiting for a call, the call, from Scully or
Mulder that never came.
"The cellular customer you are calling is not available
at this time. Please try your call again later." Walter
Skinner slammed the receiver onto the cradle next to his
alarm clock. Again. For what seemed like the 100th time.
The clock glowed 5:00. "Shit," he growled and stiffly
climbed out of the bed and into a hot shower.
He called both Mulder and Scully's numbers again on
the way to work, bypassing his usual stop at the coffee
machine to hurry to the phone so he could try again.
The desk chair in his office was occupied; he could see
it from the hallway. He didn't have to watch long to
identify the occupant, singular, of the chair. He was
slumped, legs askew, head supported by the arm that was
propped on the armrest.
"I tried to call," the AD began but stopped short at the
terrified look he received. He slumped. "How bad?"
Mulder leaned his head back, taking in a long, ragged
breath. "Terminal. Three months, maybe four."
Skinner dragged the other desk chair to Mulder's side.
"Agent Mulder, I'm very sorry. I . . ." He found no words.
"When God wants to punish you he answers your
prayers." He smiled wanly, through red-rimmed eyes.
"Cancer isn't the only thing growing inside her."
He gazed quizzically at the younger agent for a long
moment until understanding clouded his already gloomy
expression. He cast down his eyes. "How far along is she?"
Mulder licked his lips. "Nine weeks."
"What can I do?"
The younger man opened and closed his mouth several
times as if words were dammed up inside and he just
couldn't say them.
"Where is she?"
"GWU," he answered flatly.
Skinner stepped into the anteroom before summoning
his agent, "Let's go."
They had only gone a block down Ninth Street before
Mulder sat up and pointed to a building, a bank, half a
block ahead on the right. "Stop, there, at the bank," he
croaked, "please."
Skinner complied wordlessly, waiting until the younger
man had returned, nearly staggering, from the building.
"Thanks." He rubbed his thumb over the black velvet
box in his right hand before opening it with a sigh. "I
promised myself while she was gone before that when she
returned I'd put this," his index finger caressed a tiny
diamond circlet, "on her hand and never let her go." He
wiped his cheek with the back of a hand. "But I never got
around to it. I let things get in the way. And now . . ." He
turned his face to the passenger window.
The older man swallowed hard but maintained silence
as the passing brownstones became a gray concrete parking
garage where he finally found a space.
Again he made that sickening walk down a hospital
corridor knowing Dana Scully lay dying. Mulder ducked
into the restroom as they passed. But he continued onward,
pausing to steel himself for the grim sight he knew he'd
find-Scully in a darkened hospital room, pale, wan. He
finally pushed against the door and reeled at the bright
sunlight that met him.
"Good morning, sir," Scully greeted cheerfully, her hair
a coppery halo. Her luminous grin was a marked contrast
to Maggie Scully's thin-lipped smile.
"Good morning," he choked, unable to cleanse the
shock from his voice. He walked rapidly to the bedside,
extending a hand to Scully's mother. "You look great."
Dana Scully smiled widely, more widely than he'd ever
seen her. "I feel great," she patted the hand he'd rested on
the sheets with the hand that was tethered by clear tubes
connected to a large bag of clear liquid. "Did Mulder tell
you?"
Margaret Scully stifled a sob, which her daughter
ignored.
"Yes, he did," the AD responded unsteadily. "I don't
know what to say."
"Congratulations will do nicely," she replied almost
shyly.
Maggie Scully snuffled and bolted, passing Mulder in
the doorway.
His eyes were still reddened but his expression had
brightened considerably. He manned the other side of the
bed, planting a quick kiss on his partner's forehead.
"Congratulations on your good news," the older man
said with as much warmth as he could muster.
"Thank you," she beamed.
"Well," he said after an uncomfortable silence, "I'd
better be getting to work. You both take whatever time you
need; we'll work it out." He scurried into the hall, nearly
bowling over Scully's mother. He clasped both arms,
steadying her. "How are you, Maggie?"
She answered with a wan smile.
"Me, too."
End Chapter 2
minismith@aol.com
Header and disclaimer in Chapter 1
Chapter 3
She remembered little of the second day-just the whine
of the tires and the whump-kawhump of the tarred seams in
the pavement. Somewhere on the Ohio Turnpike it had
begun to snow-flakes had blown in with the cold, damp
wind when Alex had stopped along the side of the road.
"What's wrong?" she remembered murmuring when
he'd pulled back onto the highway.
"The snow was beginning to drift; I had to lock the
hubs for the 4-wheel drive."
She mumbled something that indicated complete
understanding, or something like that, and then an odd
slushy, crunchy whine provided accompaniment for their
much slower pace. She could feel the wind buffeting the
vehicle from the passenger side.
"Where are we?" She pulled a lever and the seat back
uprighted itself.
"Halfway between Cleveland and Toledo." The
windshield wipers fought a losing battle against the
onslaught of tiny, but wet, snowflakes.
The rear of the car began drifted sideways. "We need
to get off the road," Marita gasped.
"No shit." He cut the wheel into the drift and the car
straightened out. "I've seen nothing but NO VACANCY
signs for the last 10 miles."
Onward they crept, slush slurping under the wheels.
Darkness fell with terrifying rapidity and the snowflakes
swirled a blinding dervish in the headlights. Fear welled in
his throat but he stowed it away in his emotional bilge hold.
He heard a small gasp from her then felt a hand rest
ever-so-lightly on his thigh. For a moment he yielded to its
comfort before he relegated that emotion to same place
he'd stowed the fear.
She squinted, "Is that a sign? About 50 yards up the
road?"
He searched the roadside, "Yeah. Let's just hope
there's an empty room."
"At this point I'd settle for a greasy sofa in a warm
lobby."
The slurping under the tires gave way to an eery
silence as they plowed through undisturbed snow drifts.
"Is it bad?" she asked.
A tire spun, as if on cue. "We can't go much farther,"
he warned. The hand on his thigh twitched. He was so
startled he almost missed the pair of round, red reflectors
that indicated a driveway. He slid the Bronco into a parking
place in front of a clapboard building marked "Office."
"Wait here," he instructed, reaching for the key in the
ignition. He paused, "Don't go anywhere," he ordered and
waded through the calf-deep drifts to the building.
The curtain sheltering the barred window of the
wooden door parted the instant his foot touched the porch.
"We're closed for the season!" a voice boomed through the
barely opened wooden door.
"I need a room." He stuffed his good hand in his jeans
pocket. "The weather's too bad to go on."
"Closed for the season!" the disembodied voice barked
again.
Krycek tamped down the anger rising in his throat,
spying Marita in his periphery. "Look, I'll pay you double
your peak-time rate. My lady's just gotten out of the
hospital and I need to find a place for her to rest."
Only an eye peeked around the door but Krycek stifled
a wily smile at the effect of his near-truth. Then two eyes
appeared, framed by a weather-beaten round face, held up
by a wiry, string-bean frame. "Fool thing-taking a sick
woman out in weather like this," the scarecrow chastised.
"We were trying to make it home to her folks in
Idaho."
The dark eyes squinted at the Bronco and its sickly
occupant. Then the bony hand disappeared inside the door
and reappeared with a key dangling from it. "Cabin 7."
It was difficult for Krycek, keeping a straight face when
he knew he'd won. He jingled the key ring triumphantly
and jumped back into the waiting SUV. The snow sploshed
rather than crunched beneath the tires for the 30-yard trek
to the largest of the clapboard cabins.
"Can you walk on your own?" he asked as the vehicle
slid to a halt.
She shook her head feebly and he flung open the
door, pulling her, not so gently, to the edge of the seat. She
winced.
"Sorry," he said apologetically.
She responded with a weak smile, swinging her legs
into the growing drift. Her knees buckled.
"[Damn]," his command of the coarser elements of his
native language had not diminished with disuse.
"[I'm sorry,]" she replied, her elegant White Russian
accent in sharp contrast to the guttural Siberian inflection he
used. She shifted her arm from his waist and hooked her
hand over his shoulder, taking her weight off the straining
prosthesis. Her sock-covered toes banged against the risers
of the steps that were too sodden to creak. Then the world
turned soft and black and the next thing she remembered
was lying on something soft but scratchy. A bed, a mattress,
a bare mattress, the smell of musk and machine oil, warm
breath ruffling her hair and, eyes the color of warm
sapphires gazing into her own. And then, in an instant, the
eyes turned icy-blue-the color of the Bering Sea.
"[You're back,]" the voice was as cold as the eyes. The
bed creaked as he stood.
"[Where are we?]"
He peeked through threadbare curtains. "[A fishing
camp. That's Lake Erie you hear lapping at our back door.]"
A board creaked outside the door and, so fast it was a
blur, a pistol appeared in Krycek's hand, hammer already
drawn back.
"Manager," a voice preceded a knock.
"It's open," Krycek called cautiously, training his
weapon at the center of the opening.
The windswung door revealed two figures, "The old
woman thought you'd sleep better on fresh sheets rather
than that bare mattress."
"That's very kind of you," Krycek's weapon was
concealed as quickly as it had appeared, so quickly that
Marita wondered for a moment if she had seen it at all.
"Move inside so we can close the door, old man," a
voice scratched from behind the lollipop figured-man. She
set a pot on the small stove in the kitchenette and turned on
the burner. "The stores are all closed so we brought some
soup and fresh milk." She folded her hands before her,
apple-cheeked and snowy-haired.
"Thank you," Marita said weakly. "I'll get those sheets
on the bed." She swung her legs to the floor, but swayed
too much to stand.
"No, you won't," the woman replied as Krycek caught
his "lady." "A woman just out of the hospital deserves to be
waited on hand and foot," she stared pointedly at Krycek
before fluffing the snowy sheets on the mattress.
"Is she okay?" the old man looked askance. "Do I need
to get the doctor over here?"
"No," the couple replied in unison.
"We, uh," Krycek appeared reticent as he cast about for
a cover story, "we lost our baby recently." He grasped
Marita's hand sympathetically while she reacted sorrowfully
to his confession. "We just need to get her home to her
folks. Everything will be okay once we get her home," he
said earnestly.
"Until then, she needs her rest," the old woman patted
the blanket smooth, then stood up. "Let's go, old man."
"Wait," Alex offered his good hand to the woman.
"Thank you, Mrs.-"
"Jackson. Martha Jackson. The old man is my
husband, Tom, Mr.--"
He held out his hand to the old man, "Arnold, Kevin
Arnold, and this is my wife, Winnie."
Snowflakes managed to blow in despite the Jackson's
hasty exit.
"Was that the best cover story you could come up
with?" She glanced downward at her ventricose abdomen,
paling at the irony of the lie.
He shrugged, "I do better when I've had a chance to
plan. I wasn't exactly expecting to include a wife in the
scenario." He stirred and sniffed the pot. "Hungry?"
"No," she groaned and tried, unsuccessfully, to walk
from the chair to the bed.
Krycek caught her just before she fell. "Besides," he
grumbled, "if you don't eat, you won't get your strength
back and I'll waste all my energy hauling you around."
"I thought you liked hauling me around," she
murmured. "Bastard." Her eyes fell shut.
He stroked his thumb along the gaunt planes of her
cheek and whispered,"Sweet dreams, bitch."
End Chapter 3
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Chapter 4
Typhoon Bill Scully rolled down the hospital hall
pausing at waiting room doors like a storm seeking landfall.
Casting his eyes about for the object of his fury, he spied a
lone figure, its back to the door, slumped on the steps
outside the entrance doors. He barreled through the
whooshing doors, pausing silently, rage building to a
tempest.
"Hello, Bill," the figure remained still, moving only to
drag on the cigarette burning in a trembling hand.
"You sorry, son-of-a-bitch."
"Yeah, that's me, although I'd really appreciate it if you
left my mother out of this." He sucked on the cigarette
again. "Have you seen her? She's glowing, Bill, bright as
the morning sun. Chattering on about names and cradles
and nurseries. It's almost enough to make you forget she's
dying," he said flatly, drawing a final taste, then tossing the
butt into the street where the wisp of smoke withered and
died.
Then a hand closed about his arm and typhoon Bill
landed, jerking him up and pinning him back against a
square concrete column. "It's your fault," Scully's brother
accused, further words choked by the face before him.
The eyes were haunted, lifeless, spiderwebs of red
netting the hazel irises. The lids were puffy and scarlet
against the black, sunken sockets surrounding them. The
skin was ashy gray, lips almost blue, parting to beg, "Do it,
Bill. Beat me senseless for everything I've ever done to
your sister. Maybe then I can forget, even for an instant,
that all of this is my fault." Tears coursed their familiar
tracks. "Do it." He swallowed hard. "Please."
Bill Scully stared into the haunted eyes, recognizing in
them every husband's worst fear.
"Agent Mulder, are you alright?" a rough voice called
from the sidewalk.
Mulder found his feet again and straightened slightly.
"Yes, sir." He dragged the backs of his hands across his
cheeks. Darting a glance at his boss, he pushed past his
nemesis and the hospital doors whooshed behind him. Bill
Scully turned to follow.
"A moment, Commander Scully?"
Bill Scully stopped, head hanging. Walter Skinner
stepped around to face him.
"I suppose your mother's given you her usual complete
report?"
Bill nodded.
"Then you know your sister will need all the strength
she can garner-from her friends, from her family, but mostly
from Mulder."
Bill Scully snorted, "It's his fault she's going through
with the pregnancy. His vanity takes precedence over her
health."
Walter Skinner's fists itched to be applied to the side of
Bill Scully's hard head. But he shook his head instead. "He
asked, begged, her to terminate."
"I'll bet he did,"Scully accused.
"You stupid squid. Either way she dies. At least, with
the child, some part of her lives on."
"At the cost of her own life," Scully spat. "Without the
baby she could take a more aggressive course of treatment,
extend her time, lead a longer life-" He ran out of steam.
"She knows she is dying, Commander. She knows the
possibilities and the liabilities and the consequences of her
choices." Skinner's tongue darted across his parched lips.
"Her dying wish is this child, and I will do everything in my
power to grant it to her."
Bill Scully swayed, eyes unfocused, voice quavering, "I
don't want her to die."
"None of us do," Skinner's own voice wavered, "but
this is her heart's desire and we respect her, love her too
much to take it away from her."
"Bill?" Maggie Scully wrapped her arms around her
son. "Fox said you were here," she said tearfully.
Bill Scully gathered his mother in his arms, comforting
as he was comforted.
Walter Skinner gave them their privacy, his boot steps
echoing down the hall, abruptly saddened by the
realization that Dana Scully's child would never know the
comfort of a mother's touch. "Damn," he breathed,
unsuccessful at blinking away the tears.
End Chapter 4
minismith@aol.com
Chapter 5
"You would tell me if we were lost, wouldn't you,
Alex?" Snow crunched against the floorboards. "You
wouldn't just drive around until we ran out of gas and froze
to death, would you?"
"We're not lost," he said sharply. "It's just hard to get
your bearings in a snow storm like this."
She sat up. "This is exactly why they put women on
the space shuttle, Krycek."
"What, so they can stop and ask for directions?" He
laughed.
"Give me your GPS locator."
"I don't have one." Her eyebrows shot up. "Any signal
we bounce off a satellite is just like a homing beacon.
They'd be on us in minutes."
"Oh," she said, embarrassed to have forgotten. "Then
what are we looking for?"
He twisted his head around. "A block house, 10 by 10
by 10."
"Is it painted?"
"White."
She laughed. "You expect to see a white concrete
block house in the middle of a snowstorm?"
He nodded and slowed. "I think we're close," he said,
squinting through the windshield.
A giant white figure loomed beside them, banging on
the driver's window and making a horrible noise. Marita
had already squealed before she realized the "abominable
snowman" had been shouting Krycek's name.
"Are you lost?" "It" shouted through the lowered
window.
Alex reddened. "NO, I just can't see the blockhouse."
The "snowman" laughed and pointed to a snowdrift
which looked square upon closer inspection. He thumbed
a remote control and the low ridge before them slowly
collapsed revealing a long, low concrete bunker. Krycek
goosed the accelerator and, in an instant, they were inside
the bunker, heavy blast doors creaking shut behind them.
The "snowman" doffed his arctic hood and goggles
revealing a tanned face and dark eyes.
"We expected you 2 days ago. Stasi and your father
were getting anxious." He leered mildly at Marita. "I see
we needn't have worried."
"Stow it, Killian," Alex replied, walking around to the
passenger side, leading her to the only thing that mattered
to her right then--a warm, soft bed and the arms of a warm,
strong man.
***
Fragments of guttural whispers drifted through the
partially-opened metal door and reverberated off the
concrete walls.
"[Who is she, Alexei?]" uttered a feminine voice.
"[A business associate.]"
Marita cringed at the coldness in his voice.
"[Business, brother?"] the other woman snorted.
"[What sort of business associate do you install in your own
bed when there are plenty others available?]"
"[A none-of-your-business associate, Anastasia.]"
A shadow crossed the sliver of light intruding through
the partially-opened door. "[There are children here,
Alexei. You shouldn't have brought your trollop.]"
"[That's not what she is,]" he protested. "[She's the one
who delivered the information storage unit to us. Now that
the Grays have the merchandise, the day is not far off. We
have no time to waste discussing who's in my bed.]"
Icy silence ensued. The voice, when it spoke again,
was soft, loving, pleading. "[You are a gifted scientist,
Alexei. Why do you persist in wasting yourself on these
dark pursuits?]"
"[It's what I was bred for, Stasi.]"
"[Perhaps. But it is not how you were raised. This
woman: does she know you, Alexei? Does she know the
boy whom I taught to swim in the glacier-fed rivers so cold
that after a minute in the water your lips matched your
eyes?]"
"Nyet."
"[Pity. Alex Krycek may have the skills to vanquish his
enemies, but Alexandre Krycek has a talent, a gift that can
help save us all. Don't waste it, Alexandreovitch.]"
"[There's nothing to waste, Anastasia. I am the
deathsman, born to destroy.]"
Marita's breath caught at the bitter resignation in his
voice.
"Nyet, Alexei," his sister disagreed. "[You are your
father's son, born to help us save them all.]"
The metallic ring of a closing door echoed through the
portal. Her eyes finally adjusted to the semi-darkness, she
studied her habitation. It was windowless, devoid of any
architectural ornamentation. From high in the corner next
to the door, a small icon blessed the room, a tattered travel
bag sagging beneath it. A worn chair filled the next corner,
sharing an Art Deco torchere with the bed in which she lay.
Clothes hung from hooks flanking a small chest in the other
corner and in the fourth corner, leaning against the block
wall, was a well-worn guitar. She flung back the
tapestry-covered eiderdown and crept to the corner.
The fingerboard was ebony, highly polished by the
repeated fingerings. The shellac on the back of the neck
and below the sound hole had long since been worn away
and the wood beneath was burnished from use. A capo
was clamped just below the machine tuners and a
tortoiseshell pick was woven into the slender steel strings.
Kneeling silently on a worn carpet thrown across the narrow
area of concrete she drew her fingers across the dusty
strings, tinny notes wafting through the air with the
disturbed motes. She reached up to grasp the neck, but
fingers tightened around her wrist and she felt herself being
wrested back onto the bed.
"Feeling better?" Icy blue eyes burned at her from a
handswidth.
She struggled wildly to free herself from the cage of
leather-clad arms and denim-sheathed legs that pressed her
into the bed. "Not well enough for that," she hissed, trying
to pull her knees to her chest.
"Don't worry," he chuffed. "Sex is the last thing we
have time for." He rolled off her, sitting on the edge of the
bed with his head in his hands. "I just hope that storage
unit you saved will have enough information for us to
develop the vaccine in time. Now that the grays have the
hybrid, the day can't be far off."
"You have more time than you think," she draped
herself over his back as seductively as she had to strength to
manage. She pressed her lips just below his ear, her tongue
just brushing his neck.
"Why?" he rasped, leaning into her hungrily.
"Because," she peeled the leather jacked and dumped
it on the floor. "Because," she repeated as she pulled him
back onto the eider and straddled him.
"Because," he whispered, her face hovering above his.
She shook her head and sat up, her weight settling on
his hips with a smoky electricity. She busied her hands
with his shirt buttons, but he stilled them.
"A business associate expects to be paid . . ."
"For what?" he grinned and busied his hand with her
shirt buttons.
His prosthetic hand felt strangely cool against her hip.
"I know who has Cassandra," her Cheshire-cat grin glowed
in the half-light. She rocked back against him.
"Who?" he groaned, sighing hotly.
"Payment in advance," she admonished then exacted
her fee with great relish.
"Who?" he croaked afterward, sated, spent.
She teased him with the knee that had been draped
across his hips, dug her fingers lightly into his chest,
carefully avoiding the leather harness at his left shoulder.
"The Alien Resistance," she whispered. "Worth the price?"
Cat-quick he pinned her beneath him with a sly grin.
"Worth a bonus."
End Chapter 4
minismith@aol.com
Chapter 6
It just made the legalities of paternity clearer: a
husband was assumed to be the father of any child born to
his wife. That - and the desire to mollify Maggie Scully's
conscience - had led them to the altar in a quiet Episcopal
ceremony held beneath the Moon Window at the National
Cathedral. Mulder had declined to convert so Father
McCue had declined to officiate. But they'd married
despite him, with Mrs. Scully and AD Skinner as their only
witnesses. The bride had worn a work-suit, one of her few
pale ones, the growing bulge in her belly barely hidden by
her partially unbuttoned weskit. They'd "honeymooned" in
the hospital, toasting each other with fruit juice instead of
champagne as the cancer-fighting chemicals dripped into
her. Between the morning sickness and the
chemical-induced nausea, the juice became her main
source of sustenance - so much so that after four weeks she
was returning to work nearly ten pounds lighter. The
elevator car lurched, tossing her forward.
Mulder's hand snaked out, wrapping around her and
pulling her close. "Okay?" he whispered.
She nodded, leaning against him despite the stares of
the other passengers. The new gold band gleamed as he
smoothed her loose-fitting blouse over her belly. She
covered his hand with hers, squeezing it comfortingly
before he returned it to its proper place at the small of her
narrowing back. The elevator halted gently, the doors
whispered open and he guided her into the familiar hall. It
was empty when they began but had filled considerably by
the time they reached AD Skinner's door.
They'd ducked inside, seeking refuge from the prying
eyes. The network administrator later reported that email
volume had tripled in the subsequent quarter-hour.
Grasping her hand, the AD was shocked at the frailty of the
once-firm grip though the eyes burned more brightly than
ever. Her skin was papery, stretched loosely over a
cadaverous frame. But, somehow, she glowed a golden
halo that centered around the miraculous thirteen-week
bulge which she unconsciously stroked, diamond circlet
glittering in the morning sun.
"Sir," she greeted with a smile that Skinner couldn't
help but return.
"Welcome back, Agent Scully."
"It's good to be back, sir," she smiled warmly.
***
It was all very simple really-a very human equation
scrawled on the front of his brain: 1+1=3.
"[Shit]," he hissed and extracted himself from the
extremely intimate position in which he was engaged.
"[What, Krycek?]" his partner demanded breathlessly,
faced flushed.
He fastened, buckled, zipped. "[You know what,
Marita,]" he flung her shirt, his shirt, actually, at her. "[Get
dressed. We have work to do.]" The metal door rang as it
slammed behind him. He stumbled more than walked, his
ardor not completely cooled yet.
"[Now?]" she dressed as she followed him down the
dank concrete stairwell. "[What is wrong with you?]"
He slowed his pace slightly. "[Just when were you
going to tell me, Marita? Or were you just gonna wait and
let me figure it out on my own?]"
"[I don't know what in the hell you're talking about!]"
She grabbed his good arm and spun him around. "[Tell you
about what?]"
Voices echoed further down the concrete hallway and
he pulled her into an empty wardroom. He spread his hand
across her engorged belly.
"[Just tell me one thing, Marita. Is it my baby or is it
some alien thing they implanted in you?]"
"[What?]" she stammered. "[I don't know,]" she clawed
at her belly, "[oh God, oh, Alex, please,]" blood trickled
from the deep scratches, "[I've got to know, please, Alex,
I've got to find out.]"
He captured her hands in his, her strength surprising.
"[We'll find out,]" he soothed. With his shoulder he leaned
against the intercom. "[Wardroom A2, I need help,]" he
barked. She struggled wildly, ignoring his calm voice
repeating, "[Relax, Marita, we're gonna find out.]"
By the time help arrived in the form of his
brother-in-law, Killian, and his oldest son, she had fallen
into near-catatonia. They carried her deep into the silo to
the examining room of Anastasia Krycek. She remained still
as long as he, Alex, was touching her but the loss of his
touch unleashed her frenzy again. He pulled over a stool
and sat above her head, laying his head on the examining
table next to hers, still speaking soothingly. She flinched
strongly at the invasive portions of the examination,
memories of the "tests" doing a terrible water-dance in her
eyes.
"[Everything looks normal,]" Anastasia Krycek patted
her patient on the arm, gliding an instrument over her belly
while staring at a small screen. "[The baby is approximately
twenty weeks by size. Everything's right where it should
be. Do you want to see?]"
She shook her head but his curiosity won out, eyes
widening with wonder at the miracle before him.
"[Here's the backbone,]" Stasi pointed. "[And the arms,
the legs, the eyes, the mouth. Look, it's moving!]"
Marita's head rolled to face the screen and her face lit
up. "[How can we be sure everything's normal?]" she
asked.
"[I could do an amniocentesis; we have everything here
to do the genetic analysis.]"
"[Do it,]" Alex said quietly, then ran his finger along the
CRT screen while whispering in Marita's ear.
"[You'll feel some pressure,]" Stasi warned and a tear
rolled down the patient's face, which her companion wiped
away with word and deed. "[Just a bit more,]" clear
yellowish fluid filled the giant hypodermic, "[and we're
done.]" She stretched a small bandage over the
needle-wound. "[You may feel some light cramping
tonight. Call for me if it becomes strong or you bleed any at
all.]"
He nodded and walked slowly in silence beside her,
shuddering at the closeness of the elevator car that lifted
them six stories' height to the Spartan quarters they shared
in the ground-level concrete bunker. He guided her around
the comfortable chairs she'd managed to scrounge in the
four weeks since their arrival from the others living below to
augment the office-style furniture left behind by the military
when the silo was abandoned. Pushing open the heavy
metal door between the living room and their bedroom, she
stiffened, hands guarding her belly as she fell toward the
door jamb. She felt herself being lifted, nearly floating the
eight-odd feet before being settled on the soft bed. A large
hand covered hers, the warmth soothing to the cramping
muscles below.
"[Better?]" he asked after a moment, concern darkening
his eyes to sapphire-blue.
She nodded weakly, burrowing deeper into the large
form curled around her.
"[Rest,]" he commanded and she obeyed without her
usual dissent, drifting off to sleep to the lullaby of their
heartbeats.
"[No!]" she bolted upright in the bed, upsetting the
stack of papers on his lap.
"[Hey,]" he soothed. "[You're safe; it was just a
nightmare.]"
She scanned the room with feral intensity before
coiling again into the sheets, eider pulled up around her
nose. According to the clock she'd been asleep several
hours.
He brushed a lock of flaxen hair from her eyes before
returning to his reading.
She blinked rapidly until her eyes adjusted to the
lamplight. "[How's it going?]"
"[It's not.]" He continued studying the paper. "[The
vaccine is only fifteen percent effective on Rh-positive
samples.]"
She scooted higher in the bed and peered over his left
shoulder at his regular, even scrawl. "[And the negative
samples?]" Her belly dislodged his senseless prosthesis.
He stiffened at her touch, quickly adjusting the arm so
that it no longer touched her. "[Still holding at ninety-eight
percent.]"
She lay her head on his shoulder, long since
accustomed to the leather harness that secured the
replacement limb. "[Well, as long as the Grays don't have
the hybrid you have time . . .]"
He shook his head, eyes remaining focused on the
paper. "[Moses thinks the Alien Resistance will begin their
own attack soon using the virus to destroy the strongest then
enslaving us on their own behalf.]"
"[How does he know?]"
"[He's been on the money so far.]" He turned another
page and scribbled in a margin. "[We can't afford not to
believe him.]"
He made a show of concentrating on his work, but she
caught him casting furtive glances at her. Or rather, at her
belly.
She scooted until her breath warmed his ear. "[The
answer is yes, Krycek.]"
"[Marita, I, uh . . .]"
She swallowed hard. "[There hasn't been anyone else,
Alex. Not since the freighter or long before it, for that
matter.]"
He swallowed hard. He mumbled, "[I'm not supposed
to be able to . . .]"
She swung her feet to the floor, unsteadily navigating
the short distance to the lavatory. Silhouetted in the
doorway, she said caustically, ["Then you better start
looking for a star in the east.]" The slamming door cut off
his reply.
He chunked his papers where she had lain. "[Bitch.]"
"[Bastard,]" she called from the lavatory.
"[Damn.]" He pulled his knees to his chest and
propped his head on the arm propped on his knee. He
ground the heel of his palm into his eyes, but failed to
staunch the tears. "[Damn.]"
* * *
"Damn," Fox Mulder whispered to himself as another
dry heave washed over him. As the spasm calmed he
twisted the shower knobs, then stepped under the steaming
stream. Hot tears laved his cheeks as he lathered away the
evidence of his shame, the evidence of his selfishness, the
evidence of his ardor. She had so little strength, so little
time, and he'd wasted both satisfying his base passion.
What kind of man was he? He turned the water hotter,
tearfully offering the scalding pain as penance.
"Don't cry," a soft voice called to him. A soft hand
stroked his cheek and, in a moment, the water cooled. "It's
okay." She stood on tiptoe to cradle his face in her hands,
the child in her growing tummy pressing below his
bellybutton. Her hands, her entire body, for that matter,
had shriveled, bones showing through papery skin, with the
glorious exception of her belly - and that was his fault, as
well.
He shook his head. "I shouldn't have . . ."
"I'd have been disappointed if you hadn't."
"You need your sleep," he protested.
She shook her head, strings of wet hair dancing on
either side. "I have eternity to sleep. I'd rather spend the
time I have left giving you memories to keep you warm on
the coldest winter nights." Sliding her arms around his
waist, she rested her forehead against his chest, enjoying
the memory of their passion, storing it away for her cold
winter to come, filed under the only category that mattered
anymore: Mulder.
End Chapter 6
minismith@aol.com
Chapter 7
A false spring warmed the Maryland countryside and
Maggie Scully had taken advantage of the break in the
weather to plan a little outdoor celebration. She smoothed
the yellow linen napkins folded beneath her best silver.
She'd always liked Dana in yellow. She'd bought her baby
girl maternity clothes in the colors of the rainbow, rebelling
against her daughter's customary black attire that looked so
funereal-
A sob caught in her throat, tears spilling onto her
cheeks. She vainly searched her pockets for a tissue, then
reached for a napkin, stopping when a white handkerchief
floated into view. She plucked the linen from the strong
paw that offered it, turned and buried her face in the broad
chest of its owner. Muscular arms folded around her,
lending her strength in her moment of helplessness.
"I promised myself I wouldn't do this," she sniffled,
lifting her eyes to meet his.
"So did I," Walter Skinner's normally rough voice
softened.
"Were you able to keep your promise?"
"Why do you think I had the handkerchief?" he
grinned.
"Bill hated it when I cried. He said it was a sign of
weakness and maybe he was right." She pulled shyly away,
adjusting the stemware while daubing at her face. "I don't
think I have the strength to face this."
"I know you do." He allowed her some distance.
"With the possible exception of your daughter, you're the
strongest person I know."
She smiled ruefully before folding the sodden square
and slipping it into her pocket. "Four months to go."
"She'll make it."
"Mom?" Scully staggered to the nearest lawn chaise
and flopped more than sat, panting from the walk from her
mother's house. Despite her breathlessness, a sunny smile
split her haggard face which she lifted to the sunshine.
"Mm, what a beautiful day." Her hands stroked her
now-large belly.
"You okay?" Mulder kneeled beside her and asked
ever-so-quietly.
"Mm-hm," she hummed. "I could stay like this
forever."
"So could I," Mulder admitted. "So could I."
***
It was the model of incongruity-the sight of
man-of-action Alex Krycek in a long, white coat, perched on
a high stool, elbow on tabletop supporting chin, poring
over a stack of the latest lab results.
"[Damn.]"
The glass observation window of the "clean" laboratory
prevented hearing his expletive, but she'd watched his lips
form that particular word enough that she knew it by heart.
She rapped on the glass and his face jerked up, eyes dark,
round and lidless like a mole emerging from his tunnel.
She beckoned him through the glass but he shook his head.
She beckoned more urgently and he responded in kind.
Finally she stabbed the intercom switch. "[Take a
break, Alex. You've been at it for 48 hours straight.]"
"[I'm okay.]" With his false left hand he swirled a spoon
in the tarnished silver coffee-glass. "[See?]" His hand
twitched and the glass toppled, dregs of tepid coffee
spreading across the tabletop. He muttered sharply and she
smiled, recognizing on his lips the formation of the word
that was not only his favorite expression of frustration but
was, in her experience, his favorite recreational activity-the
proof of which was now playing soccer with her internal
organs.
"[Oh, I see.]"
He smiled sheepishly and plodded to the door, pausing
to hang his white lab coat on the nearby rack. "[Just for a
little while,]" he admonished, leaning wearily against the
back wall of the elevator car as it whooshed upward seven
stories' height to the cavernous bunker that capped the
abandoned missile silo into which a community had settled.
The doors swished open and he inhaled deeply,
drawing in fresher air to replace the stale, recycled
atmosphere found in the air-tight spaces below them. His
footsteps echoing heavily, she followed him to their
compartments, finding him in their bedroom struggling with
the buttons on his shirt. Her belly brushed his left arm and
he drew a sharp breath. She finished the buttons, peeled off
the shirt, then the undershirt. He reddened at the revelation
of the harness that secured the replacement appendage but
she did not.
"[How long has it been hurting?]" She nimbly released
the buckles.
"[A day or so.]" He grabbed the false arm with his right
hand and shrugged out of the harness, tossing the prosthetic
onto the bed. "[What time is it?]"
"[Nearly dawn.]" She gently examined the stubby arm.
"[You have a pressure sore. You know you're not supposed
to wear your prosthesis for that long at a time.]"
She disappeared into the bathroom, returning with
salve and bandages, finding an empty room, an open door
and the sound of footsteps on the stairway that led to the
surface. She grabbed two coats and a blanket and followed,
finding him on the crest of the rolling ridge nearby,
shirtless, face illuminated by the first rays of the morning
sun. Winter's snows had surrendered to spring's wet
greening and the breeze warmed her face like a lover's
breath.
"[Moses says we don't have much time.]"
She hung the leather coat over his shoulders. "[Are the
vaccines ready?]" She spread the blanket on the ground on
the sunward side of a boulder.
He shook his head. "[Just the one.]" He sat on the
blanket, leaning against the boulder, pulled his knees
akimbo and propped his head on one with a trembling
hand. "[Half the world will die at the end of the first
incubation period and there's nothing we can do about it.]"
"[But the other half will live.]" She settled between his
legs, leaning back into his chest.
"[Maybe. We'll have to continue the research after we
lock down the silo.]" He rested his chin on her pale head.
He burrowed his hand under her shirt, fingers dancing in
tiny circles on the taut, shiny skin of her belly. "[What day
is it?]"
"[Sunday. Your father will be celebrating the Eucharist
soon. He invited me personally last night,]" she said with a
little bitterness.
"[Me, too,]" Alex chuckled. "[Do you know how he
referred to you?]"
She felt his hand rummaging through his pocket -- or at
least she thought that was his hand in his pocket. "[I
shudder to think . . .]"
"[He, um,]" Krycek stammered.
Marita tensed; she'd never heard him stammer.
"[He called you my wife.]"
Silence hung between them.
"[It made me think,]" he said hurriedly, "[that he knows
more about us than we do.]"
"[Does he?]"
Slowly he brought up his closed fist, finally resting it
lightly on her tummy. He opened it, spilling the contents.
"[What are these?]" she asked slowly.
"[They're nested O-rings from the rocket's fuel lines.
They're made from aerospace-grade titanium and carry the
same serial number.]" He slipped one of them on his right
hand, third finger. The other he offered to her. "[I have
nothing to offer you but this. My past is best forgotten. My
present is a fool's quest. I have no future but what grows in
your belly, what we made in there. I want my child,]" he
smiled shyly, "[to know I accepted that future, that I
considered him or her the only thing I ever did worth being
remembered for.]"
"[I thought you were intent on saving the future.]"
He laid his right hand, the metal ring a cool contrast to
its wearer's warmth, on her belly. "[I've changed. I'm
intent on saving my future. Our future.]"
She slipped the matching band on her own hand and
laid it on top of his. "[You know, Krycek, this is the only
thing I've ever done that hasn't gone to hell.]"
"[Fate,]" he said resignedly.
"[Destiny,]" she corrected with a shy smile.
"[Bitch,]" he said tenderly.
"[Bastard,]" she replied hungrily.
And they claimed each other with a tender ferocity, no
longer straining against the shackle of their common
passion, but entering into an ancient yoke, bound about the
heart. Finally they lay, together, sated, in the ebbing
embers of their fervor.
"[You're not coming with us, are you?]" She buried her
face in his left shoulder while his hand danced warmly over
her roundness, fingers finally entwining with hers just
whispers away from their baby's heart.
"[He's kicking a lot today, isn't he? Maybe he'll be a
soccer player when he grows up.]"
"[Answer me, Alex.]"
"[You know I can't live,]" he swallowed hard, "[down
there.]"
End Chapter 7
minismith@aol.com
Chapter 8
In times past he would have found the swim refreshing,
invigorating, but now Mulder felt only the overwhelming
fatigue of heartache. Lap after lap he stroked the water,
each circuit both penance and a prayer. It was a petition
offered to a God whom he doubted but was in no position
to disbelieve. And so he swam on, pushing off from the
side of the pool at every turn, seeking nirvana in his
exhaustion or, failing that, oblivion. His journey was
delayed by the appearance of a dark angel, looming at the
opposite end of the pool, his wings taking the form of a
dark raincoat, his halo a bald pate. As his strokes pulled
him closer he considered the reason for the angel's
appearance. It could only mean one thing: it was The
End. It had come two months too soon. Salty tears
mingled with the slick chlorinated water. Be it one or
both, someone he loved would die today taking his heart
with them. Vacantly he accepted the hand that lifted him
from the water, dressed silently, then turned to the last
page of his life.
***
It had begun as a dull ache just above the stretched-out
waistband of the borrowed sweat pants that had become
her uniform. She slid her hands beneath the borrowed
shirt, pressing her fingers into the overtaxed muscles just
above her spine. It made her distended belly jut out even
further, if that were possible, putting even more tension
on the complaining muscles. She rubbed harder, wincing
at the discomfort of stretching her already-taut belly
muscles to their limit.
Her partner watched this ungainly ballet with engaged
bemusement. Had she not been so uncomfortable it
would have been funny. She was enormous; he could not
have conceived no pun intended, he smiled to himself
that she could be this big. Of course, he could not
conceive that she would have conceived in the first place
since, supposedly, he'd been genetically engineered to
prevent such things. But Mother Nature had prevailed
and he stood on the brink of parenthood with a woman
for whom he could not form a relational description. She
was not his "wife" as his father so euphemistically referred
to her. That they were in the situation proved she was
more than a business associate, despite his insistence.
She was
"Krycek," she called sharply.
His, he thought before wordlessly leading her to the
military-surplus sofa, sitting sideways on it, and settling
her back into the crook between his legs. She rested her
head against his chest and he slid his hands around her
pendulous belly, taking some of the weight from her
tortured muscles. Gently he kneaded her, relishing the
little jabs as tiny elbows and feet protested the additional
confinement.
"[Better now?]" He glanced at the clock on the wall as she
nodded. "[How long have you been hurting?]"
"[A few hours,]" she murmured. "[It's happening, isn't
it?]" Her voice trembled.
"[Probably.]" He kissed the top of her head and spread his
fingers so they covered her belly.
Her fingers crept up to interlace with his where they
stayed for a long while the gentle soughs of their
breathing interrupted only by the cooking of another
batch of replicated DNA-vaccine.
She shifted, then swung her feet to the floor, perched on
the edge of the worn seat cushion. "[Aren't you afraid?]"
"[Of what?]" He returned to his perch at his work table.
She followed him. "[Of everything! What if the amnio
was invalid and there's something wrong with it?]"
"[Him,]" the prospective father corrected. "[I told you that
the amnio results were just as we expected.]" With
surprising gentleness, his mechanical hand tucked a
stubborn lock of hair behind her ear.
She smiled shyly and stepped into the V made by his legs
propped on the stool-rungs. "[What if we screw him up?
We're not Ozzie and Harriet . . .]"
He pulled her belly-close.
"[Or even Gomez and Morticia.]" She rested her forehead
on his chest, arms circling his waist.
"[More like Boris and Natasha.]" He nuzzled her hair,
hands stroking her back. Her back muscles tensed, then
her belly muscles hardened.
"[How long has it been since the last one?]" she gasped.
"[Five minutes.]" He turned her sideways, stroking both
her back and her belly as the muscular bands hardened.
Her knees buckled and he joined her crouch, whispering
hopefully soothing noises in her ear. She gasped again
and leaned into him, her lungs no longer pumping.
"[Breathe,]" he reminded. "[Makes the pain easier.]"
"[Shut up, bastard,]" she growled. "[How would you
know?]"
"[I know,]" he whispered and deathly-cool fingers stroked
her face.
Tears rolled down her cheeks. "[I'm sorry, I'm such a
bitch and now you're stuck with me and a baby and . . .]"
He chuckled, planting a small kiss on her glistening
forehead. "[That's okay. When Stasi goes into labor we
never know whether to call a midwife or an exorcist.]"
Her features softened as her muscles relaxed. "[It's really
stupid.]" Tears coursed down her cheeks again.
"[What's stupid?]" He stood, then pulled her up into his
embrace.
"[Bringing a baby into a world that has no hope of
surviving.]"
"[Maybe.]" He whispered a few words into the intercom
before resuming. "[But hope is alive so long as even one
human is. That's why you'll both be down in the silo with
Papa and Stasi. Besides, I'm a pretty hard kill.]"
"[He won't even have the chance to know you,]" she
wept.
"[No great loss.]"
***
The delivery room was eerily quiet despite the throng of
people and machines attached to and working on the
petite patient. Mulder sat at her head, her eyes only
occasionally focusing when she drifted in, and out, of
consciousness as she had in recent days. The lights were
sun-bright but the voices were muted, nearly obscured by
the beeping machines that monitored both mother and
baby's heartbeats.
"This may pull a bit," the doctor warned, seemingly
elbow-deep in patient.
The patient, herself, nodded vacantly, mumbled, "Just take
care of the baby."
The father sat stone-silent, tears streaming down his
cadaverous face.
An awful slurping sound preceded the production of what
appeared to be a cream-cheese-covered baby doll draped,
silent and motionless, over the doctor's hand. The
mother's hand reached for it but in an instant it was gone,
surrounded by gowned figures, moving feverishly.
"How is she?" the mother asked.
The father cooed into her ear.
"Please tell me she's okay," the mother begged.
"BP's dropping," the anesthesiologist warned.
"Do something," the father begged.
"Is she okay?" the mother insisted, groggily.
"Stay with us, Dana," the doctor ordered.
"Do something!" the father insisted.
The doctors held a terse conversation amidst a flurry of
activity. "She's closed," one doctor announced.
"BP's rising."
"What about the baby?" the mother cried. "Please, please
. . ."
The activity in the corner slowed and a faint mewling
broke the silence of the room.
"Samantha?" the mother called desperately. "Mulder,
please," both arms quivered as she held them toward the
sound source, "please, I have to see her, to feel her . . ."
The father shot the doctor a questioning look.
"Dana," the doctor replied calmly. "The baby is two
months premature. She's having trouble breathing and
needs to go on to the NICU."
"No, please," Scully's arm flailed toward the incubator,
"please let me touch her before you take her away."
"Scully, they can't," Mulder stroked her forehead. "She
needs some help right now."
"Please let me touch her . . ."
"Scully, you'll have plenty of time to hold her," the father
comforted, but his eyes begged the doctor for help.
"Please, oh God, please, just a touch."
The doctor nodded and a glass box appeared at her side,
its lobster-colored occupant flailing about like an upended
beetle. Instinctively, the mother's hand found the opening
in the side and, in a heartbeat, her finger was gently
stroking the prominent ribs and deceptively puffy cheeks.
The tiny form calmed, as if recognizing someone
intimately familiar. The father slipped his hand inside the
box, too, his large paw ruffling the cinnamon-colored fuzz
on the baby's head.
"I love you, baby girl," the mother whispered urgently.
"She'll be alright," the father whispered strongly. "She has
her mother's strength."
Too soon, much too soon, the incubator was wheeled
away, leaving the parents with empty arms and broken
hearts.
***
"[One more push, baby, and it'll be over.]"
"[That's what you said the last time, Krycek.]"
"[So I lied,]" he breathed into her ear, struggling to
maintain their position on the birthing bench while she
pushed back into him.
"[Again,]" she grimaced, tensing again with the
contraction.
He leaned forward into her back, his arms circling above
her belly. "[Push, baby.]"
"[I see the head,]" Anastasia announced, her hands
moving feverishly but confidently.
"[Now, Alex,]" Marita grimaced and Alex Krycek looked
over her shoulder, witness to the most amazing sight of
his life.
Sound ceased for him, shouts diminished to muted
whispers. Time slowed to a blessed crawl as he watched
his son emerge, inch by inch, into the waiting hands of his
mother. She cradled her child while the pulsing cord was
tied, then severed, his lusty cries filling the room. She
nuzzled him to her breast and he, following primal
instinct, suckled ferociously. "[His father's son,]" she
chuckled.
Anastasia, having finished the ablutions, led them all to
their bed and with a kiss, disappeared. The new parents
clung to each other, their child between them. Joined
now by much more than simple passion, they gazed into
each other's eyes, solemnizing this joyous event with the
only promise that counted at this moment.
"[I love you.]"
End Chapter 8
minismith@aol.com
Chapter 9
Walter Skinner rounded the corner to a familiar sight:
Mulder, surrounded by a coterie of doctors. His posture
reflected the months of agonizing waiting he'd endured
the most recent weeks being the worst. Scully had been
in torment, the pressure of her growing tumor causing
blinding headaches and violent mood swings. She'd been
kept sedated for the most part, awakening only when the
pain became too great. The baby named Samantha, of
course had nearly died, her premature lungs suffering
the burning effect of oxygen. But, with copious treatment,
she'd survived and had improved to the point that she could
leave the nursery to room in with her parents for short
periods of time which, judging by the warning sign on
the door, was where she was at this moment.
Mulder stood at the breech, fending off this squad of
medicos, swollen, purplish lids hooding his now-perennially-
bloodshot eyes. The older man paused, lending privacy to
the younger man, until Mulder's lids fluttered and he swayed
like a tall, withered plant in a strong wind. In an instant
Skinner's hand clasped his upper arm, steadying him.
"While the baby is ready to leave, Ms. Scully's condition
continues to deteriorate," the youngest of the doctors
intoned. "For her comfort we suggest that she remain here until . . ."
Mulder swallowed hard. "She doesn't want to stay;
she doesn't want to be separated from Samantha for a moment."
"We understand that, Mr. Mulder, but Ms. Scully's condition . . ."
"There's nothing you can do for her. She doesn't want to
die here."
A robed nurse pushing a bassinet scooted past them
into the room.
"I know you're concerned, Mr. Mulder, but I don't think
you understand-"
Mulder's face turned red. "Oh, I understand. My wife just
gave birth to a daughter she won't live to see grow up. I'm
going to spend the rest of my life trying to make sure that
little girl gets to know a mother she won't even remember."
Mulder's eyes flashed fire, the first sign of life Walter
Skinner had observed in the younger man in
months. Then tears quenched the flame.
"She wants to go home. As kind and caring as your
staff has been, she wants to die in peace, surrounded by
all the people who love her." The voice cracked, "Please."
The nurse rolled the bassinet, baby Samantha snoozing
contentedly on her belly, through the awkward silence. The
doctors studied their shoes for a moment.
Walter Skinner's head jerked up suddenly. "Um,
nurse?" He followed the nurse and bassinet. "Nurse?"
The nurse froze, momentarily, still facing away.
"May I see your identification please?" Walter
Skinner advanced warily, right hand gripping the weapon
under his suit coat.
The nurse remained silent. Skinner continued his
advance, followed by the baby's father.
"Call security," the father ordered.
"Step away from the child and put your hands
in the air," the AD ordered.
The nurse, taller than average and stoutly built,
complied slowly, leaning against the nearest wall. Skinner
kicked her feet further apart while patting down the limbs
and torso. Then she flickered and, in the blink of an eye,
he found himself facing a tall, blonde giant of a man with
a face like chiseled cold steel. Cat-quick the former nurse
swung, knocking the weapon from the AD. Lightning-quick
the old soldier responded by planting a spike in the base
of the nurse's neck just as Mulder snatched up Samantha
and ran toward Scully's room.
"Get out of here," Skinner ordered, shielding his eyes
while retreating from the noxious fumes emitted by the
nurse's body. He followed Mulder, first standing guard,
then running rear guard as they made their escape to
someplace safe, wherever that might be.
***
Scalding water streamed over him, coercing overtired
muscles to decompress. In months past he would have
waked up Marita and found his release in their white-hot
passion. But tonight he settled for showering, toweling
dry, and sharing warm, snowy sheets with his lady and
his son. Rolling on his side to face them, he slid the
arm-stump under his pillow, tangling his feet with hers and
stroking the tiny back that slumbered peacefully between
his parents' hearts.
"Hi." Her water-blue eyes blinked sleepily as he
brushed a gentle, adoring kiss across her lips. Then
he did the same among the cottony tufts on the baby's head.
"Hi."
"[Did you finish?]"
He swallowed hard. "[Sort of.]"
Her silence begged him to continue.
"[We've gone as far as we can with the current antibody pool.]"
"[Success rate?]"
"[Still ninety-eight percent effective for Rh-negative
subjects; not even fifty percent for Rh-positive subjects.]"
"[Those numbers don't sound too bad, Alex.]"
"[The numbers lie. The vaccine is virtually ineffective
on the O-positive antigen type. Thirty-nine percent of the
world's population is O-positive. Despite all of our work,
over two billion people will be defenseless against the alien virus.]"
"[But I thought you said the antibodies in the baby's blood
would be stronger . . .]"
"[They were,]" Krycek soothed the suddenly restless
child. "[The antibodies from Itzhak's blood made the
difference for two-and-a-half-billion people, Marita. But
you're type A-negative and I'm type AB-negative which makes
him type B-negative. We can splice the antibody sequence into
all the AB-antigen types and even the O-negative type. But we
can't get a good graft with the O-positive DNA. It won't accept
the antibody sequence.]"
She covered his trembling hand with hers. "[You, your
father and Anastasia have done in a short time what the
Consortium failed to do in fifty years, Alex. The vaccine you
developed will save most of us from bondage. The world will
survive because of your work.]"
"[Not all of the world.]" He rested his forehead against
hers, silent, shame-filled tears glistening in the half-light.
"[Most of it.]" Angel-kisses, full of hope, wiped away the
tears. "[Alexei,]" she paused, eyes burning brightly, "[you're
a hero.]" She brushed a wet kiss across his parched
lips. "[You're our hero.]" The tender kiss hardened,
demanding, and receiving, and ardent response. Her
smooth calf caressed his, her knee lingering at his
thighs expectantly. "[It's been three weeks.]"
He groaned as she coaxed her knee even
higher. "[Nearly four,]" he rasped. "[But,]" with a final
kiss he pulled away from her, "[Stasi will kill me if we
don't wait a while longer.]"
"[How long?]"
"[Two more weeks,]" he sighed, dejectedly.
He could feel, and see, the heat rising in her
cheeks. "[You discuss our sex life with your sister?]"
"Nyet," he grinned. "[She discusses it with me.]" His
hand brushed her cheek. "[And she says wait until you're stronger.]"
"[There are times when your family is a little too close-knit.]"
She mirrored his rueful smile. Little Itzhak stirred,
his tiny cry piercing the silence. She pulled the child
close, unbuttoning her soft sleep-shirt, his tiny mouth
seeking, and finally finding, succor.
"[Lucky,]" the father teased, curling himself
around his family.
"[Lucky to have a father like you.]"
"[No,]" Alex protested but she stopped it with a kiss
that warmed him not only with passion, but with hope.
"[How long can you stay with us?]"
He stroked Itzhak's leg and nuzzled her
cheek. "[Distribution begins day after tomorrow.]"
"[So soon?]"
"[The sooner we start, the more lives we
save. Moses says the advance reconnaissance raids
are already under way.]"
"[I thought we'd have more time.]" A tear rolled down her cheek.
"[We will,]" he vowed, tightening his embrace,
both of them ignoring for a moment the reality that would
make a liar of him.
End Chapter 9
minismith@aol.com
Header and disclaimer in Chapter 1
Chapter 10
"Where are we going?" Mulder had asked sometime
during their first night.
"Mount Nebo," Skinner had answered, never taking his
eyes off the road.
Three days later he was equally cryptic, but infinitely
more grouchy after sleeping little more than a few hours of
the previous seventy-two. He'd done most of the driving,
allowing Mulder and Maggie Scully to spell him when sleep
overtook him. Somewhere outside Minneapolis he'd pulled
into a used car lot and traded his land-barge Crown Victoria
for an older Suburban.
"State car of Texas," he'd grinned sheepishly as he'd
transferred the luggage while Mulder carried Scully and
Maggie transferred baby Samantha.
"Where are we going, Walter?" Maggie Scully had
asked after everyone else had drifted off to sleep.
"A safe place. Maybe the only safe place."
"But where, Walter?"
Skinner stared into the rear-view mirror, watching for
any signs of wakefulness on the part of the occupants.
Satisfied that they were, essentially, alone he responded to
Maggie Scully's question with a question of his own. "Do
you know what's coming, Maggie? Not just for Dana, but
for the world?"
"Fox has said some things, tried to tell me some pretty
unbelievable stories about alien invasions "
"Believe them."
"Excuse me?"
"Believe them, Maggie. They're true."
An oncoming car illuminated the shocked look on her
face. "Little green men and "
"They're gray, actually."
Her jaw practically grazed her chest.
"Over forty years ago representatives of the major
powers agreed to collaborate with an alien race to buy time
to develop the means of survival a vaccine against a virus
they were planning to use to destroy us. In the meantime,
another alien race has become interested and now we are
the spoils in an extraterrestrial war."
They rode in an uneasy silence for a long time, until
the first rosy tendrils of dawn shone in the rear-view mirror.
"What about the vaccine?" Her voice shook as she
finally spoke again.
The hum of asphalt had been replaced by the crunch of
large gravel. "The government research has been
spectacularly unsuccessful. But " He guided the heavy
vehicle to a smooth stop. "Recently, scientists loyal to the
growing Human Resistance have developed a vaccine that
is nearly seventy percent effective."
"And that's where we're going?"
He nodded. "That's where we are." A metallic
scraping preceded the appearance of his weapon in his
large paw. "Wait here," he ordered, stepping out into the
coolish pre-dawn. The slamming of the passenger door
confirmed for him that Dana Scully had inherited her innate
curiosity from her mother.
"Stop!" a voice ordered from the treeline.
They obeyed, Skinner's free hand ushering her behind
him.
"What do you want?" the voice boomed.
"I need to see the head of the research team. I have a
new antibody source for the vaccine."
Maggie Scully gasped and tried to pull away but his
firm grasp detained her.
"And who might you be?"
"Moses."
***
Dana Scully shifted stiffly, her fluttering hand seeking
the velvet warmth of Samantha's tiny body that was
strapped into the giant car seat. The pink dawn had
become a glorious morning the sun painting gold on
everything in its path. Samantha cooed at her touch but did
not stir. Her father snored gently, head lolled against the
door, feet stretched all the way over to her side of the
vehicle. Scully nudged him gently with her toe and he
moaned, his moans could be delicious she remembered,
but this moan conveyed only sorrow and exhaustion.
She tried to lift her head but it had been too heavy for
some days now, just as she'd been unable to completely
focus her vision since the baby's birth. So she relied on
hearing and feeling and right now she felt stillness and hear
only the rustle of the wind in the grasses. They had
stopped, in the middle of nowhere it seemed, and Skinner
and her mother were not in sight. She nudged her husband
again, eliciting a groan, but the sight of black-clad strangers
made the next nudge a kick. Their hand on the car door
elicited a feeble but anguished cry, turning to a kitten-roar
when she realized what, or who, they wanted.
Samantha. Gloved, evil hands were reaching across
her, ignoring blows from her rag-doll arms, to steal her child
away. She kicked, scratched, cursed, nothing stopped
them, not even Mulder's fierce but weak attempts at rescue,
but still she fought, like a dying lioness for her only cub,
until a bright, white pain engulfed her.
***
She awoke to a terrifyingly familiar voice. Opening her
now-dull blue eyes she focused enough to recognize the
face of the voice's owner a face looming over her
Samantha with a syringe in hand.
"No!" Samantha's mother cried with as much strength
as she could muster. She pushed herself to her feet but the
world tipped and she toppled into Mulder's nearby arms.
"He killed Melissa!"
The child uttered a cry then bawled, the sure hands of
an older woman holding her down gently but firmly.
"[Quiet, quiet, sweet little one,]" the woman cooed to
the frightened child, "[it will be over soon.]" She continued
to hum and shush comfortingly and, after a moment, the
child quieted. She could make out Krycek swishing around
a vial of red before he scooped up the child and deposited
her in her mother's arms with surprising gentleness.
"We've been working on a vaccine for several years,
but our antibody sources carried the negative antigen." His
hands moved swiftly among the machines and the dishes.
"We managed to overcome the Rh-factor problem in the
AB-types but the O-positive type remained resistant. That
meant the vaccine would not be effective on nearly thirty
percent of the population. Two billion people would face
the alien virus unprotected. We needed an O-positive
antibody source."
"Samantha," Scully breathed. "You can't have her,"
she tucked the child deeper into her embrace.
"Relax, Agent Scully. I already have her--at least what I
need of her." Krycek swirled a crimson test tube.
"They just needed a blood sample," Mulder comforted.
"No," she raged. "He killed Melissa, and your father,
and now he wants to kill Samantha!" She struggled to get
up until crimson gushed from her nostril. Swiftly, Mulder
scooped up his daughter, handing her to her grandmother,
and pulled his wife's head down into his lap, tilting it back
and wiping away the blood with the towel Anastasia Krycek
had offered him. She raged on but he held on until she
stilled, sobbing, her tears diluting the blood to a watery
pink.
Krycek didn't try to hide the shock on his face. "Rough
postpartum?"
"End-stage nasopharyngeal carcinoma." Skinner
snarled from only inches away. "It should have taken her
months ago but she held on until Samantha was born
despite being unable to take her treatments."
"How long?" Krycek's voice trembled.
Skinner merely shook his head. "What you did to me,"
he said pointedly. "Can that help her? Get rid of the
cancer?"
Krycek watched Mulder's tender ministrations. The
bony hands stroked her face so gently while tears flowed
freely from sunken sockets. The skin hung loosely, dully,
with no fat to soften the skeletal angles. "Mulder looks like
hell."
"That's where he's been for the last eight months."
Krycek dragged his right hand down his stubbled,
weary face. "It could kill her if the cancer's metastasized."
For the first time Skinner noticed the dark metal ring
Krycek wore on his third finger. Terror flashed through the
icy blue eyes, mirroring that in Mulder's, of a husband
facing the reality of watching his lady love being taken
away so horrifically. He moved stiffly toward an opened
safe, but stopped, instead accepting a prepared hypodermic
Anastasia Krycek offered with a knowing nod.
"What's that?" Mulder asked suspiciously while Krycek
sought a viable blood vessel on Scully's scarecrow arm.
Scully did not move, her eyes fixed and glassy.
Krycek ran his fingers over her papery skin until he
found a strong blue line along the inside of her upper arm.
"NBTV. Non-biological technovirus."
She did not flinch at the needle prick and Krycek
depressed the syringe's plunger. "They're in," his reply
preceded the sound of clicking computer keyboard keys.
"Upload profile."
"That's what you did to Skinner and he nearly died,"
Mulder spat.
"Yeah, well, he didn't and the little buggers did the job
they were sent to do."
"Short of a miracle, Mulder, you know it's her only
hope." Skinner had moved behind the stained naugahyde
sofa and was whispering softly.
"How's the upload, Stasi?" Scully's skin had become a
mottled blue, blood vessels thickening dangerously.
"Ninety-eight, ninety-nine percent, it's done."
"Do something," Mulder demanded when her limp
body went rigid.
"Krycek," Skinner admonished.
"It will take a few minutes for them to respond," Krycek
answered, his warm, beringed hand brushing against her
again-ashen cheek. "Stasi?"
"Contact with the cancer cells," the older woman
responded. "Commencing self-destruct."
"What?" Skinner grabbed Krycek. "I thought you were
helping her."
Krycek wrested his arm away from the larger man. "I
am. The self-destruct sequence is an electronic overload.
The current released will destroy adjacent tissue the
cancer-- and cauterize any compromised blood vessels."
Mulder thought for a long moment. "And if the
cancer's metastasized?"
"She won't suffer." Maggie Scully, who'd been quietly
rocking Samantha, gasped at Krycek's reply. "It will be over
quickly."
Mulder pulled his wife closer into a desperate embrace.
"I'm not ready for it to be over." Sorrow choked his voice.
Comfort came from an odd corner. "Our hearts never
are, Mulder." Tears glistened as though the icy eyes were
melting. Krycek backed away slowly, silently returning to
his work while watching the computer screen.
The minutes ticked by, silence interrupted by Mulder's
and Maggie Scully's snuffles, Skinner's pacing and Krycek's
restless manipulation of the lab equipment. The only sound
Scully emitted was labored breaths which slowed, spacing
further and further apart until . . .
"Alex," a sharp, desperate voice cried from the door.
Its owner rushed to the lab table, to Krycek who
immediately drew them Marita and the baby she
clutched closer. Her whisper rang around the concrete
walls, echoing back seemingly a thousand times. "There's
something wrong with Itzhak."
End Chapter 10
minismith@aol.com
Chapter 11
Fox Mulder stood before the half-closed door, the voices from
inside echoing through the empty bunker. He'd come to express
his thanks to a sworn enemy thanks for saving the life of his wife
who lay, resting comfortably and happily, six stories below them.
But now, standing at the door, he realized that his enemy had no
time for his thanks.
"[When did you know, Krycek? When did you know Itzhak would
die?]"
"[The amnio,]" he replied emptily. "[The reactivated DNA showed
up on the amnio.]"
"[And you didn't tell me?]"
Mulder shifted uncomfortably. Despite the language difference, he
picked up the drift of the conversation.
"[There was no point to it.]"
"[There was no point to telling me the baby I was carrying was
infected with an alien virus that would kill him?]"
"[He wasn't infected, Marita. He was genetically altered in utero
by the tests to be immune to the virus. But the process caused
genetic damage, enough that he could not survive."
"[Then why would you let him be born in the first place?]" Her
eyes grew wide. "[The antibodies,]" the pitch of her voice rose
with the volume. "[You bastard, you wanted the antibodies.]" She
was screaming now, her fists thudding against his motionless form.
"[You just wanted him for the vaccine. Ghoul!]" Her fists
pummeled , her voice a ragged banshee cry. "[You sacrificed your
son for the sake of your precious vaccine!]"
"May I help you?" Krycek's voice boomed from behind the very
large Glock that was now pointed at the center of Mulder's
forehead.
Mulder swallowed hard, but not from his own fear. He choked at
the tinny notes of terror he heard in his enemy's voice, at the tear-
stained face. "I, uh," he swallowed again. "I just came to say
thank you."
The Glock disappeared as quickly as it had appeared. "You're
welcome." The flat, lifeless intonation thudded off the concrete
walls.
Mulder shuffled his feet restlessly.
"Was there something else?"
"No. Yes." Mulder studied the ring on his hand. "I'm sorry.
About your son."
Krycek gazed mistily across the concrete bunker. "Yeah, well, it's
probably what I deserve--meed for the deathsman."
Mulder shook his head. "Nobody deserves to see his child die. Or
hers."
"It's the ultimate irony. I was created to end lives; he was born to
save them. But to do that he had to die to pay for my sins, I
think. He was my Pascal Lamb." Krycek's eyes remained
unfocused after a long blink. "She was yours, you know. Emily."
Mulder cast his eyes down before meeting Krycek's now-focused
gaze.
"But the biology didn't matter, did it? She was always yours in
your heart."
Mulder nodded.
"It's funny, you know. How you can become attached to
something, someone, in a mere eighteen days."
"Or less."
Krycek nodded, eyes squinching shut while Mulder's footsteps
scurried away. He stood, silent, motionless, etching for all time
the shape of his son's face on his memory until a hand circled his
arm, gently pulling him back inside.
"[I know why you didn't tell me,]" she clutched a tiny, empty
blanket. "[You didn't want to spoil it for me.]"
He chuffed. "[I wish I were that noble.]" He tugged at the tail of the
tiny coverlet, pulling her into his embrace. "[He was my firstborn
son.]"
"[And mine.]"
They shared the wracking sobs, the first since they'd returned their
son to the Earth in the sighing shelter of a knotty pine tree, until
they stilled, breathless, tearless, supported only by their shared
strength.
"[How long?]" she whispered. "[How long until you have to
leave?]"
He smoothed her hair. "[Six hours.]"
"[What if the vaccine doesn't work? What will you do?]"
He pressed his lips against the top of her head. "[Stay. Topside.
Until they're gone or we are.]"
She shuddered. "[Don't leave me here, Alex. Don't leave me here
alone.]"
"[You won't be alone,]" he cooed. "[You'll have Papa and
Anastasia and her family and ]"
"[Don't leave me here alone. Empty.]" She nuzzled his chest.
"[It's too soon, love, too soon, too soon . . .]" His protests
weakened.
"[Please,]" she begged, tugging at his heart. "[Please.]"
***
So this is how it would end: not in conflagration and immolation
but with assimilation, gestation, then annihilation. Walter Skinner
buttoned his shirt, his handgun neatly tucked inside the waistband
of his jeans. He mulled over his role in the plans he'd set forth
nearly seven years ago when he'd first assumed the role of Moses.
It was time, now, for mankind to leave the Wilderness and step
over into Canaan. If it worked, mankind would survive and even
prevail. If not . . . "[Please,]" he breathed, crossing himself three
times.
"I never knew you were a religious man, Walter." Maggie Scully
sat primly next to him.
"You know what they say about atheists and foxholes."
She smiled.
He fumbled with his collar button and she brushed his hands
away, nimbly fastening the button. He grabbed both wrists. "Find
a good man and be happy, Maggie Scully."
She laced her fingers through his. "Like you found a good
woman?"
He grinned. "Just my luck. We were both still in love with other
people."
"Yes, we were. Friends?" She wrapped her arms around his waist.
He sighed at the remembrance of the comfort a woman's touch
afforded.
"Friends," he whispered. "Take care of them."
"I promise."
"Shall we?" he offered his arm most ceremoniously.
"I'd be delighted," she giggled, matching his strides into the
crowded meeting room.
Conversations quieted as he ascended the steps. "By now," he
shouted, too loudly. "By now," his adjusted his volume. "You
each have your distribution assignments. I don't think I have to tell
you that your mission is, very simply, to save the world." He
looked over the sea of faces. "We'll know in fourteen days if we
were successful. You know what you have to do. God help us
all." The room fell oddly silent as the warriors, sick to death of
war, took their leave to do final battle.
"I should be going," Mulder said quietly.
"Someone has to stay," Skinner replied. "I'm too old."
"And I'm too evil," Krycek interjected. "Besides, your daughter
deserves to know her father."
Dana Scully, skin radiating increasing health, pulled her husband
into an embrace.
Walter Skinner continued his trek toward the blast door.
"Be safe, Walter Skinner," Maggie Scully said quietly.
He stopped, grasping her hand between his. "Be happy, Maggie
Scully."
Alex Krycek lingered. "[I never planned to fall in love with a bitch
like you,]" he whispered huskily, his warm hand brushing Marita's
cheek.
"[And I never planned to fall in love with a bastard like you.]" She
kissed his hand then spread it against her belly. "[Come home to
us when you're done saving the world.]"
"[I love . . .]"
She sealed his vow with a kiss, long, passionate, hopeful.
Tearfully he followed the teams into the moonlight night, kissing
his ring, then watching and waving as the gaping maw of the
bunker ground shut.
"[I love you,]" she vowed, praying that her empty arms would soon
be filled again.
***
The communications room became sort of widow's walk where
the wives and families breathlessly watched the news reports of a
global "influenza epidemic." Over ninety percent of the world
was infected with the mild strain, but very few deaths were
reported. No person watched with more intensity than Anastasia
and Alexandre Krycek who, on the third day, as if mankind had
risen from some tomb, pronounced the fateful words, "We've
won."
The first of the teams returned on the fifth day, flush with their
victory. The remainder streamed in over the next few days,
departing with their families back to their normal lives. The radio
crackled on the eighth day, bringing with it a message that "Moses"
had returned to his family in Texas. By the tenth day nearly all of
the teams had returned. By the eleventh day, all of the teams had
returned save one. "[We need you,]" Marita breathed as she
hunched over the short wave, her hand gently rubbing her bellyful
of hope. She stayed by the radio, hardly eating, seldom sleeping
until, on the fourteenth day, a familiar voice crackled the speaker
saying only two words, "[Come home.]"
Epilogue
One Christmas had passed and another loomed only days away
since the world had nearly ended. Samantha Mulder ran more
than walked now, her cinnamon hair flying behind her. Her
mother lunged to keep her busy hands off the holiday tree
bedecked with both angels and dreidels. Prevented from
redecorating she turned her attention to helping her father with his
job, wrapping presents. Joyfully she plopped in the middle of the
paper he'd just cut, as though she were the grandest of presents.
Her father could only smile and sweep her into the dearest of
embraces, sending her on to help her grandmother cook. As her
little steps receded, the computer announced the arrival of
messages.
"I'll get it," Mulder spared his again-expectant Scully the task of
getting up from the floor.
A few keytaps brought greetings from Walter Skinner, now a
gentleman horse-rancher in Texas. Spying a few words for Maggie
Scully, Mulder clicked to print them without reading them. A few
more keytaps brought the oddest of messages. The sender's name
was blank, the header information garbage even to a DOD-quality
decryption program. But the hard drive churned and an image
painted the screen. It wasn't just an image, but a movie clip and
Mulder, curiosity getting the better of his common sense, clicked
on "Play."
Christmas music crackled the speakers, peppered with baby
giggles. A cotton-topped child toddled into the picture, steadied
by its mother's strong hand. The mother was pregnant, too, very,
and her face beamed. The view widened to include a dark-haired,
blue-eyed man who teetered atop a ladder adjusting a treetop
angel.
"Krycek?" Scully breathed incredulously over his shoulder.
"Well, it ain't Ozzie and Harriet."
"Or Boris and Natasha."
His tree-trimming task completed, the man descended the ladder,
hooking an arm around his wife and child.
As the picture faded to black, Krycek voiced their message.
"From our family to yours, we wish you joy, we wish you peace
and we wish you hope in the future that you helped to preserve."
Fox Mulder pulled his wife into his lap, embracing her as he
prayed to that God in whom he'd gained new-found confidence,
"Shalom to you, Alex Krycek. You've earned it."
End Deathsman's Meed
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