NEW WIP Not My Lover *NC17* 4/?
Deslea R. Judd
drjudd@catholic.org
Copyright 2000

Detailed prefacing information, summaries, 
author's notes and release timetable available in 
a separate post labelled "Introduction".

Archive: Yes, without alteration.
Spoilers/Timeframe: Ascension to Requiem; this 
installment to Patient X.
Category/Keywords: romance, angst, mytharc, 
Krycek/Covarrubias.
Rating: NC17 for sex.
Summary: Tells the mytharc from Alex and Marita's 
perspective.

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 Story so far: After stealing the digital tape 
(Paper Clip), Alex and Marita are working on a 
vaccine for the alien pathogen, the so-called 
Black Cancer.  Their 1996 marriage (after 
Apocrypha) has protected them from Spender's 
wrath so far; but their clandestine operation in 
Tunguska has cost the lives of her mother, 
Larissa, the dark man, X (Herrenvolk), and their 
accomplice, Benita Charne-Sayrre (Terma).  They 
made Mulder immune with their new vaccine, 
believing that he would be pivotal to the 
resistance (Tunguska); but he reacted differently 
to the other subjects.  Now, Alex is smuggling 
weapons to support the costs of the Russian 
operation, while Marita monitors the efforts of 
the Englishman, Donovan, to find a vaccine of his 
own.  Spender and Donovan are separately 
protecting them from the rest of the Consortium 
in the hope of stealing their vaccine later.


     How much will we suffer?
     I must ask the question, because our 
sacrifice never seems to end.  This vaccine, this 
resistance which will save the world has come at 
a cost which sometimes seems too great for any 
two people to bear.
     I feel the money, of course.  Last month I 
lived on four hundred and twelve dollars.  
Although I no longer had to pay Benita, the new 
vaccine had to be synthesised, and Alexi was out 
of commission because of his arm, so there was no 
gun money.  There was my flight to Tunguska and 
his prosthesis.  I know there are people who live 
this way all the time, but I don't know how to do 
it.  Money was never a problem for me before all 
this happened.
     But the money isn't the point.  The money 
is the most pressing sacrifice, the one I live 
with in every corner of my life; but it is the 
one I feel the least.  Walking home from work 
because I can't afford a taxi and a bus would 
raise questions is inconvenient...vexatious.  But 
it doesn't tear at my soul.
     The thought of my husband, maimed, living 
in a filthy little bunker in the bowels of a 
gulag half a world away does that.
     So I have to ask...how much will we suffer?
     I haven't even begun to make sense of my 
mother or the dark man.  They haunt my dreams, 
images indelibly imprinted on the backs of my 
eyelids, dancing before me whenever I close my 
eyes.
     Hell, sometimes even when they're open.
     I can turn from that image if I really want 
to, though.  Benita Charne-Sayrre is waiting just 
behind it for a turn of her own.  Patient woman, 
Benita was.  Useful trait in a scientist.  More 
useful in a ghost, maybe.  I have an awful 
feeling that by the time this thing is over there 
will be a long line of the dead queuing at my 
psychic door.
     I called a counselling hotline one night, 
if you can believe that.  I didn't get into the 
alien vaccine business - I wanted counselling, 
not forcible psychiatric care - but I did explain 
that my mother and my two closest friends had 
been murdered in a short period.  The woman was 
very kind, and she let me ramble incoherently for 
a while before referring me to a couple of grief 
counsellors.  I didn't use them.  It wasn't the 
grief that undid me.
     It was the realisation that there was no 
one left that I could call at three in the 
morning.
     The corollary of that is that I have no one 
I can call upon now.  No-one, but a man I met for 
but an hour, a man who skirts the edges of my 
dark world, a man who should not be pulled into 
the abyss.  But I have no other choice.  Just 
lately, that could be said of most things.
     I am beginning to believe that choice is a 
lie.

     "I think it's some kind of experiment."
     I'm not sure how convincing my control 
looked, but it felt lousy.  The sounds of weeping 
mothers assaulted my ears, and I felt a dull ache 
in my stomach.  In the face of dying children, 
the mental gymnastics of dealing with the 
Consortium seemed like so much bullshit that I 
thought I would scream.
     "An experiment?" I forced out at last.
     Skinner spoke reluctantly.  "Using bees as 
carriers."
     "That's what was in those packages?" I said 
sharply, stifling a sound of horror.  Spender had 
said nothing about a test - I had been asked to 
travel to Payson solely to monitor Skinner.  I 
knew the bees would be the mode of delivery of 
the alien pathogen, but I had believed testing 
was still two years away, and colonisation 
another three after that.  If they were testing 
with variola now-
     "Have you told Agent Mulder this?" I asked 
harshly.
     Skinner hesitated.  "Not yet," he said 
reluctantly.
     "Why not?" I demanded, though I knew 
perfectly well why not.  Mulder didn't know of 
Skinner's deal with Spender for Scully's life.  
Skinner was supposed to be covering this up, not 
spilling the beans.
     "I can't," Skinner said softly, and I felt 
a moment of pity.
     "Are you involved in this, Mr Skinner?" My 
tone was interrogative - though not for the 
reasons he probably thought.
     "I didn't-" he stopped; then, "No, I'm not 
involved."
     "If you know who is behind this, you have 
to come forward, Mr Skinner," I counselled 
urgently.  "No-one else can."
     He looked at me; then, as though by common 
agreement, we turned to look at the children.  
There weren't many left now, mercifully; most 
were covered with sheets, their mothers choking 
out their grief, clutching at lifeless hands.  I 
felt the bile rising in my chest; felt the 
suffocating heat of shame.  Beneath it all lay 
terrible, mortal sadness.
     "They'll never know what it is to grow up," 
Skinner said thickly.
     "They'll never know what it is to be 
compromised," I countered in a low voice.  
Skinner turned back to me, his expression one of 
fury.  If not for the children, I would have 
laughed - I spoke not of him, but of myself.  I 
met his gaze; insisted, "Talk to Agent Mulder."
     Skinner shot me a look I knew all too well.  
It was a trapped look - one I met in the mirror 
more and more of late.  "I can't."  I challenged 
him, my eyes flashing:
     "You have to."

     I returned to New York with a heavy heart.
     I worked through the night, stopping only 
to e-mail Alex with the latest developments.  
Increasingly, I was being asked by the wider 
group to monitor Spender, and I called him in the 
early hours of the morning for an update, another 
operative at my side.  I almost laughed when 
Spender reported Skinner's threat to kill him, 
and had to restrain myself from cheering the 
latter aloud.  It was four in the morning before 
I finally returned home, cursing myself: my body 
was no longer equipped for this kind of abuse.  
     I got out of my car with a caution that had 
become as natural as breathing; and I turned 
quickly, scanning for the unfamiliar, or for that 
which was too mobile or too still.  
     It was the unfamiliar which caught my eye - 
a government fleet sedan with Washington plates.  
I felt for my firearm; but then I recognised the 
slumped figure behind the wheel.  Breathing out 
in a hiss, I stalked over and tapped on the 
window.  Skinner woke, grabbing for his weapon; 
but then his hand fell back into sight.  He 
opened the window.
     "What are you doing here, Mr Skinner?" I 
demanded in a low voice.  "It's four in the 
morning.  And how do you know where I live?"
     "I'm sorry," he said, genuinely contrite, 
stifling a yawn.  "I was driving through the 
night - I wanted to clear my head after today," 
he added, and I nodded, understanding more than 
he thought.  "By the time I realised where I was, 
I was in New York.  I wanted to see you about 
this business in Payson anyway.  I was going to 
wait until a decent hour and then come up and 
knock."
     "You came to New York to sleep in your car 
and see me.  Don't you have a life?" I demanded 
irritably.
     "Yeah, but I'm hoping for an exchange."
     "That might be funny to someone who's slept 
in forty hours," I conceded.  "You may as well 
come upstairs, but I'm not promising talk until 
I've slept.  On the upside, my apartment is 
warmer than your car."
     "Thanks."
     We walked up the stairs in silence, but at 
the door, Skinner suddenly said piercingly, "Will 
this compromise you?"
     I shot him a look.  He had discerned more 
than I'd thought that day.  "No.  Will it 
compromise you?"
     "I don't know."
     I opened the door and motioned for him to 
enter.  "Make yourself comfortable," I said, 
throwing my keys on the table with a clatter.  
"Tea?"
     "Only if you're having one."
     I wasn't going to, but I made one anyway.  
When I returned to the lounge, I'd stripped off 
my makeup and clothes and put on my pyjamas - the 
chaste navy flannel number I used when Alex was 
out of town, not the sultry silk.  My jewellery 
was gone, my wedding ring moved from my chain to 
my hand as usual.  I might not have done that if 
I'd really thought about it; but when it was 
done, I decided, looking at it, that there was no 
real harm.  It wasn't as though Skinner would 
discuss me with anyone, save possibly for Mulder.  
Shrugging, I put on my dressing gown.  Not 
exactly elegant, but dammit, a guy comes to your 
place at 4am, you're not going to dress up.
     Well, maybe if it had been Alex.
     Nah.  Straight to bed, don't stop for 
trifles.
     Skinner was sitting on the lounge, his coat 
neatly hung up, his tie loosened.  He looked a 
little closer to the land of the living, as 
though he'd taken a bit of my discarded facade 
and made it his.  "Thanks," he said as I set down 
his tea.  He drank from it gratefully.  Then, 
"Are we alone?"
     "I hope so," I retorted, annoyed.  Why did 
the idiot come here if he thought it wasn't 
secure?
     "No," he said hastily, motioning to my 
hand.  "I mean, I thought your husband might be 
here."
     "Oh," I nodded.  "No.  He's overseas."  I 
was mildly amused that he'd done the wedding ring 
spot-check.  He was an attractive man.  I was 
flattered.
     "Ah.  Well, I wanted to talk to you about 
Payson.  I was wondering if your enquiries turned 
up anything about who sent those packages."  He 
stopped a moment, then went on hesitantly, "I'm 
almost sure it would have been a government 
agency."
     "No-one else would have access to smallpox 
stocks," I conceded.  His head jerked up, looking 
at me.  "One of the doctors told me you were 
asking about that.  The first round of autopsies 
are through, and you were right," I explained.  
He sat there, frowning.  I went on, "When you 
said you thought it was an experiment - testing 
what?"
     "A method of delivery," he said in a low 
voice.
     "Delivery of what?" I queried, wondering 
how much he knew, how much he had put together, 
and how much he had tied in with Mulder.  He was 
not a stupid man; I suspected he had a reasonable 
picture.
     "A pathogen."
     "Smallpox?" I said cautiously.
     "No.  Something else.  It would have to be 
something biochemically similar."  He asked 
interrogatively, "Are you familiar with a 
congressional enquiry held by Senator Sorenson 
earlier this year?"
     "Yes.  Mulder believes that there is a 
pathogen transmitted in a black oil-like 
substance.  Scully determined that it originated 
in fossilised rock from Mars."  I met his gaze, 
wondering whether he had pursued that line of 
thought to its natural conclusion, and realised 
from his expression that he had.  "If they're 
testing it - that would mean they plan to use 
it."
     We looked at one another for a long moment 
in the dim light.
     "Mulder thinks that the compound in 
Tunguska that you directed him to is working on a 
vaccine.  Is that true?" he queried, at last.
     "I'm afraid I can't tell you anything about 
that," I said, and that was technically correct.  
"I only gave Mulder the port of entry for the 
diplomatic pouch.  He found Tunguska on his own."
     "We need that vaccine," he said urgently.
     "What for?" I demanded.  "So the men who 
did this can control it?  Is that what you want?"  
At his frustrated look, I went on, "I want what 
you want, Skinner.  But blowing this wide open 
the way you and Mulder and Scully would like 
isn't the way to do it.  Even if there is a 
vaccine, if it goes through those channels there 
will be FDA approvals and pharmaceutical patents 
and a thousand other ways that the formula could 
become known to those who have the pathogen.  
They'll spread it before we have a chance to 
vaccinate."
     Skinner was nodding thoughtfully.  He said 
tentatively, "Mulder thinks - alien colonists."
     "What do *you* think?"
     He hedged.  "I think it doesn't matter 
whether they're alien or human.  It has to be 
stopped."
     I shook my head firmly.  "You can't stop it 
unless you know and understand and believe.  Know 
thy enemy, Mr Skinner."
     "And who is my enemy?" he asked, 
exasperated.
     "That's the wrong question."
     "All right.  Who *isn't* my enemy?"
     It was a fair question, and I thought a 
moment.  "There is an Englishman.  Maxwell 
Donovan.  Scully and Mulder have both met him, 
though I don't believe either of them knows his 
name.  He works with the group and is aligned 
with Senator Sorenson.  You mustn't trust him, 
but equally you would do well to shield him if 
ever the need arises."
     He nodded slowly.  "All right.  Who else?"
     "Alex Krycek," I said with the inimitable 
bias of a wife.  "Whatever you think of his 
methods, you and he are on the same side."
     He frowned a little at that one, but didn't 
comment.  "Anyone else?"
     "No.  Your allies are few, Mr Skinner, and 
your enemies are many.  And even allies can be 
compromised.  Be careful."
     "All right."
     "I know I haven't given you what you 
wanted-"
     He cut me off.  "Actually, you've given me 
a lot.  I came here looking for pieces.  You gave 
me the skeleton of a big picture."
     "I'm glad."
     "Can I make contact again?"
     "If you need to, but use caution.  Like I 
said - even allies can be compromised," I said 
emphatically.
     "Point taken."  He rose.  "I should let you 
get some sleep."
     "Thank you."  I sat there thoughtfully; 
watching him put on his coat, I hesitated.  At 
last, I said quietly, "She's going to live, Mr 
Skinner."
     He whirled around, his expression startled 
- and anguished.  "What do you know about that?" 
he demanded urgently.
     "Not enough to help," I said with genuine 
regret.  "But I know they want Scully alive 
almost as much as you do."
     "Why?"
     I explained, "The same things that make 
Mulder and Scully a problem now - their 
knowledge, their experiences, their 
relentlessness - those things will make them 
vital to the resistance."  At his look, I went 
on, "There will come a time, in the final stages 
before it begins, when there are no immunes or 
abductees left.  I think Mulder and Scully will 
survive that time."
     He jumped on that statement.  "Is Mulder 
immune?  Is that what they did to him in 
Tunguska?"
     "I honestly don't know if he's immune.  
That's an unknown, and for now it's best if it 
stays that way."  Rising, I warned, "If he is 
immune, and the group were to find out-"
     "I understand."
     I moved past him, reaching for the door.  
"Drive safely, Mr Skinner."  
     I opened it, but then stepped back with a 
hiss.  There were four soldiers in the doorway, 
one with a hand raised to knock. Skinner and I 
both reached instinctively for weapons; my hand 
fell away again when I realised I'd taken mine 
off.  Skinner's hand changed course, and he 
pulled out his ID.  
     "Marita Covarrubias?" the knocking soldier 
said.
     "Yes?" I said, shooting a look at Skinner.
     "Ms Covarrubias, you are being detained.  
You will be escorted to Fort Marlene, Maryland 
for the purposes of infection control.  I do this 
under the authority of the United States 
Department of Defence and the Federal Emergency 
Management Agency."
     Skinner and I stared at one another.  
"What?" I demanded harshly.  "But I'm smallpox 
immune, just like all the other adults that were 
in Payson today."
     "Ms Covarrubias, we've received information 
that you're expecting a child.  Is that correct?"  
My eyes widened.
     *No-one was supposed to know that.*  
     My hand tightened on the doorknob, my mind 
running over the implications of this development 
at lightning speed.  Skinner was watching me 
closely.  I held on to my control, but I could 
feel the blood drain from my face.  I felt my 
free hand twitch, moving instinctively towards my 
abdomen, but I stayed it.
     "No," I said coldly.  "I had a 
termination."
     The soldier wrote something on her 
clipboard, exchanging a look with one of her 
colleagues.  "Can you prove that?"
     I shook my head.  "No.  I went to an 
anonymous clinic.  I paid cash.  I didn't want 
anyone to know," I added pointedly.
     "I see.  And you would be willing to submit 
to a sonogram examination to verify that?"
     I was beaten, and we all knew it.  Skinner 
was looking at me compassionately; the soldiers 
in mild irritation.  My mouth was dry, my 
breathing shallow.
     "What do you want with my baby?" I 
whispered.
     She didn't answer - I knew she wouldn't.  
"You may pack toiletries, books, magazines, 
medications, and a change of clothes for your 
release.  Any item you take into quarantine which 
is not able to be sterilised will be destroyed 
when you leave."
     "What do you want with us?" I demanded, 
this time in a fury of fear and despair.  "I'm 
not coming until you tell me!"
     Four hands moved to four military-issue 
weapons.  "You don't have a choice."
     Skinner stepped in, flashing his badge.  
"She's not going until you answer her question."
     The soldier was singularly unimpressed.  
"You have no jurisdiction here, Mr - Skinner?" 
she finished, reading his credentials.
     "I've got enough jurisdiction to blow what 
happened in Payson wide open," he warned.  It was 
an idle threat, and I think they knew that, but 
they exchanged worried looks.  "This woman is a 
respected emissary to the United Nations - not a 
criminal.  How about a bit of decency?"
     More looks, but at last, they nodded to 
each other, and the woman turned back to me.  
"This particular strain of the pathogen is known 
to cross the placenta, even in immune mothers. 
You need to be quarantined until it's over."
     "Until what's over?" I asked, a cold hand 
of dread closing around my heart.
     "The bleeding."  At my bewildered look, she 
said quietly, "Ms Covarrubias, the foetal death 
rate is 100%."
     "No," I said faintly, shaking my head.  I 
turned away shakily and sat, my head in my hands.
     Dimly, I heard Skinner arguing with the 
woman.  She said implacably, "If she haemorrhages 
in a medical facility, she could infect medical 
personnel or other patients.  She must be cared 
for in a secure quarantine facility."  I stared 
up at her, hating her.
     "How long will she be there?"
     The woman shrugged.  "She probably won't 
start to bleed for a few days, then it will be 
five to ten days, then a D&C and a few days 
recovery.  I'd say between two and three weeks."
     "I want a few minutes with her." Skinner 
spoke peremptorily.  "Back off."
     The soldier looked annoyed, but she 
capitulated.  "You've got five minutes."
     Skinner came and sat at my side.  "You 
okay?" he said softly.  Wordlessly, I shook my 
head.  My hands were wet with tears I hadn't 
realised I'd shed.  "Is there someone who can be 
here for you? Family?"
     I shook my head miserably.  "I don't have 
any family."  I hated the pathetic way that 
sounded.
     He was nodding, and I realised Skinner was 
in a not dissimilar predicament.  "Can your 
husband get back here to be with you?"
     I hesitated.  "It's not as simple as that," 
I said at last.  "He would find a way, but I 
can't contact him.  Any calls I make from Fort 
Marlene will be monitored - mostly to make sure I 
don't call a journalist at the New York Times - 
you know how it works," I added.  He nodded.  
"There are people who would like to know where he 
is."
     "Can I contact him for you?"
     I looked up at him.  "You don't know what 
you're offering," I said at last.  "It would 
involve turning a blind eye to someone and 
something you might not feel you should."
     "I've been doing a bit of that lately," he 
said grimly.  "Why don't you try me?"
     I hesitated.  I was uncomfortable with this 
on a host of levels, beginning with the enmity 
between Skinner and Alex and ending with the 
fairness or lack thereof of involving him; but 
when I got right down to it, I knew I couldn't 
endure these three weeks without him.  There was 
a more practical consideration, too: If Alex 
couldn't contact me for that long, he might 
endanger himself trying to find me.
     Skinner was watching me.  His look was 
kind, but neutral.  If I said no, he would not 
press me; but I reluctantly realised that I 
didn't have that option.
     "All right," I said at last.  Then, in a 
low voice, "My husband is Alex Krycek."
     He sat back a little, breathing out 
audibly.  "I wasn't expecting that," he said 
quietly.  
     "If you don't feel you can-"
     He cut me off.  "Where is he?"
     "Russia."
     "Does he need any help getting into the 
country?"
     I shook my head.  "He has diplomatic 
papers.  He'll need help getting in and out of 
Fort Marlene, though.  I'll be in minimum-
security quarantine, I expect - the danger only 
seems to be direct blood contact, from what 
they're saying."
     "I can handle that."
     I shot him a reproachful look.  "Do me a 
favour and don't punch him this time.  He gets 
enough of that from Mulder."
     "All right," he said grudgingly.  "How do I 
contact him?"
     I pulled out my diary and tore out a page.  
I wrote quickly.  "This is the number you need to 
call and the Russian phrase you'll need to use to 
talk to an English speaker.  Ask for Nicolai 
Arntzen.  You'll be asked for your name and who 
gave you the number.  You'll say Dmitria Arntzen.  
You'll also need to say that it's Condition 
Bright Orange - that's an urgency rating.  It 
means of the highest urgency but not involving a 
danger to life."  I gave him the paper.  "Repeat 
it back."
     "Nicolai Arntzen.  Dmitria Arntzen.  
Condition Bright Orange."  He said, "Am I getting 
myself into anything I should know about?"
     I shook my head.  "I don't think so.  The 
Smoking Man will eventually find out you helped 
us, but he won't care - not for something like 
this."  He nodded, seeming to accept this.  I 
said curiously, "Why are you doing this?"
     He glanced at me sideways.  "Call it an act 
of contrition.  My wife - ex-wife went through 
this a few years ago.  I wasn't there," he 
admitted.  "Just one in a long line of sins of 
omission."  He shrugged.  "Besides - even Krycek 
can't be all bad if the Smoking Man wants him."
     I shot him a wry smile.  "Thank you."  I 
slid my hand around his.
     He squeezed it, rose, and left me.

     We arrived at Fort Marlene two hours later.
     I stood at the desk, shivering; the cold of 
the floor seeping through my paper slippers.  My 
gown was like an oversized coffee filter, and 
provided about as much warmth.  I looked 
longingly at my pyjamas on the counter, waiting 
to be put in safe custody with my other personal 
effects.
     "Name?" the soldier demanded briskly.  It 
was the same soldier from my apartment.  If I'd 
hated her then, I loathed her now.
     "Marita Elena Covarrubias," I said dully.
     "Date of birth?"
     "April 19, 1971."
     "Place of birth?"
     "Ateni, Georgia, former Soviet Union."  
That one always puzzled me.  Was I supposed to 
say Soviet Union, as it had been when I was born, 
or Republic of Georgia, as it was now?
     "Citizenship?"
     "Naturalised American.  Don't you have all 
this on file?" I said irritably.
     "We have to be sure of our information, Ms 
Covarrubias.  Residential address?"
     "You should know; you apprehended me 
there," I snapped angrily.  
     The woman shot me an annoyed look, but 
filled in the information herself.  I turned 
away, wanting to collect myself.
     That was when I saw it.
     Another computer screen, recently in use, a 
file on screen, a familiar name catching my eye.  
As I noted the dates, I understood what I was 
reading, and I felt a glimmer of excitement, even 
through my worry and my distress.  I scanned it 
as quickly as I could, memorising the 
information.  Dana Scully...Emily Sim...Marshall 
and Roberta...Dr Ernest Calderon...Pharngen 
Pharmaceuticals.
     "Ms Covarrubias!"
     I turned back.  "What?" I growled 
furiously, baring my teeth at her.
     "I said, have you been bleeding?"
     "No," I said in the same tone, "but you 
might be if you don't get me to a room and leave 
me the fuck alone."
     "There's no need to be unpleasant about it, 
Ms Covarrubias."
    "There is on my side of the counter," I 
snapped.  
     At last, they led me away, and I was given 
a room and a bed, and for the next twenty hours, 
I only wept and slept.

     "Pregnant?"
     Alexi had stared at me for a long moment, 
then let out a whoop and swept me up by the 
waist.  He'd even turned with me, like a jock 
with his high-school sweetheart.  It was the 
sweetest, silliest thing.  "Pregnant?" he 
laughed; and I laughed too, gazing down at him, 
letting go of my fear for a precious moment.  
"How?  When?"
     "I think it was St Petersburg.  I missed my 
pills while I was looking for you in Tunguska," I 
explained, sliding my arms around his neck, and I 
found myself smiling at his joy.  I wished - how 
I wished - I wished it wouldn't fade.
     "Who cares?" he burst out.  "We're having a 
baby!"  He twirled me a bit more, holding me 
close against him; but then he suddenly stopped, 
letting me down.  "Wait - we're having a baby?" 
he said in a sombre voice.
     I nodded, my lips drawn tightly together, 
not trusting myself to speak.
     "We - we can't have a baby," he said in a 
low, shocked voice.  "I'm - I'm running 
guns...you work for the most dangerous men on the 
planet."  Then, slowly, "We can't even keep 
ourselves safe."
     "I know," I said thickly.
     "Look at the Donovans," he said softly.  
"Diana sees those children twice a year.  They're 
raised by old Donovan's nannies while she mixes 
it up in Tunisia.  I don't want that for our 
child."
     "I don't either."
     He stroked back my hair tenderly.  "Oh, 
Mare."  He rested his forehead against mine.  He 
sighed, said in a low voice, "What the hell are 
we going to do?"
     "There's abortion," I said reluctantly; but 
there really wasn't, because it just wasn't 
something I could do.
     He dismissed this at once.  "No, there 
isn't.  You don't want an abortion, and neither 
do I."  I breathed a sound of relief.  He pulled 
back to look at me piercingly.  "You've got to 
get away from the group," he said suddenly.  
"There's no other way."
     I stared at him.  "We need their 
information.  We need their money, Alex!  If I 
stop working for them and the UN, that's twenty 
thousand dollars a month we have to find 
someplace else.  We've cut back to Tunguska and 
Kazakhstan - there's nowhere left to cut!"  I 
longed to do as he said, I really did; but I just 
couldn't see it.
     "We don't need their information," he said 
eagerly.  "We know more than they do.  We can 
find money some other way.  I've got some 
intelligence on a World War II bunker full of 
army seizures in Belgium."  He was smiling again, 
glimmer of his earlier joy.  "We'll find a way, 
Mare."
     I was smiling too.  His optimism was 
infectious.  "They're watching, Alexi," I warned.  
"If they get wind of me liquidating assets, 
they'll know I'm going to run.  And Spender knows 
exactly where I'll run to."
     "No, he doesn't.  He knows about Tunguska, 
but he doesn't know about Kazakhstan.  We'll move 
it all down there - shut Tunguska down."  He shot 
me a beatific smile.  "We could live together 
like a normal family, Mare.  This could be a 
blessing.  This *is* a blessing."
     "I know," I said, smiling tearfully.  "But 
I don't know if they'll let me go."  His smile 
faded.
     "We won't give them a choice."

     I wonder if they knew.
     I wonder, now, if Spender's surveillance 
turned up the fact of my pregnancy and my 
cautious moves towards cleaning up my affairs.  I 
don't think I did anything obvious.  I didn't see 
a doctor.  I purchased prenatal vitamins in cash.  
I was oh, so careful not to make conspicuous 
visits to the bathroom at work.  I sold some 
shares and bullion, but I left my mother's estate 
alone.  But who knows what level of surveillance 
is in place?  It is something I dare not 
contemplate, because the constant speculation and 
paranoia would drive me mad.
     But they apprehended me on the information 
that I was pregnant; they must have known.  And 
Spender, that bastard Spender, knowing of my 
plans and my reasons, sent me into the smallpox 
test zone, knowing that I would lose my child, 
knowing that without the child, I would stay and 
continue to be used.  Because whatever Alexi 
said, we needed the money and the information 
they could give.
     I have never hated anyone so much as I 
hated him then.

     "Mare?" 
     His voice was a mere whisper, harsh, 
anguished.  I stared at him, transfixed.  
     "Alexi?"
     He stalked over to me and sat on the bed 
beside me, pulling me to him with a choked sound.  
I sank into him gratefully, my incoherent weeping 
muffled by his sweater.  He buried his face in my 
hair, his fingers twisting their way into it, as 
though to bind him to me.  He rocked me, and I 
realised that in that silent way he had, he was 
weeping, too.  Dimly, I registered Skinner's tact 
withdrawal.
     "I hate them," I said tearfully.  "I hate 
them so much."
     "So do I," he whispered.
     I pulled away.  I said urgently, in a low 
voice, "The date is set, Alex.  It's closer than 
we thought.  If we can't refine that vaccine 
we're never going to have another chance for a 
child.  No one will.  No more babies, no more 
children, no more people.  Just - drones."  Then, 
miserably, through fresh tears, "Maybe this child 
was spared."
     He shook his head.  "Don't you talk like 
that.  Our child was murdered, and people are 
going to pay for that."  His voice was 
raw...hurting.  "We're going to make that vaccine 
work.  We're going to survive the holocaust, if 
only so we can make them pay.  We're not giving 
up and we're not turning back."
     I made a sound of pain.  I whispered 
helplessly, "Alexi, it's so awful to feel this 
life inside me dying, and to know there's nothing 
I can do to stop it.  Every time they examine me, 
the heartbeat is a little bit slower and a little 
bit fainter."  I was weeping again now.  "It's 
not fair.  None of it's fair."  My hands moved 
protectively to my stomach, and then I realised 
his hand was already there.
     He bowed his head against mine for a long 
moment, then lowered it to my abdomen, kissing me 
there with a tenderness I had never known from 
him.  "Goodnight, baby," he whispered thickly, 
and I shook with wracking pain, sure that no-one 
could hurt this much and live.  
     I took his hand in mine.  "Goodnight," I 
wept in turn.  And then he was there, cradling my 
cheek, his agony mirroring my own, and his 
embrace was chaste, selflessly adoring, seeking 
not to take pleasure or comfort, but only to 
bring shelter and solace.
     And for a little while, it did.

     "Do you think there will ever be justice?"
     I was toying with the infant, tracing my 
fingers over the sweet-looking curves, the 
delicate features, the soft curls.  I ran my 
fingertip down the nose sadly.  
     When there was no reply, I looked up.  
Alexi was standing by the tree, ornament in hand, 
watching me, his expression wistful.  I realised 
what I was doing, and hastily returned the 
porcelain figure to the nativity.  Still, he 
didn't speak; but the lines of his face were 
etched with grief and compassion.  His scrutiny 
bothered me - mainly because I suspected he had a 
greater insight into my state of mind than I did.
     Uneasily, I said, "You hear of all these 
war crimes tribunals.  Men who did terrible 
things fifty years ago finally being brought to 
justice.  It makes me wonder if the Consortium 
will ever be called to account for what they 
did...for the Dana Scullys and the Emily Sims of 
this world."  And for the unborn, I added 
mentally, but I didn't say it.
     He was still watching with that wistful 
expression, but he shook his head.  "I think 
they'll be long dead by then.  History will hold 
them accountable, but they won't see trial."  He 
went on hesitantly, "We might, though.  You ought 
to be prepared for that."
     My jaw dropped.  I hadn't considered that.
     "Our test subjects are convict volunteers, 
that's true; but they consented to the tests with 
only execution as the alternative - albeit legal 
execution after due process.  There's a human 
rights abuse right there.  At a stretch they 
could even be classed as prisoners of war.  And 
the tests themselves may be judged down the track 
as a form of torture.  That's your crimes against 
humanity.  Yeah, I can see it."  He said gently, 
"You should keep your journals safe, Mare.  They 
might exonerate you."
     "We set up those compounds together, Alex.  
Just because I never whipped a convict doesn't 
mean I'm innocent."
     He returned his attention to the tree, 
putting the ornament in place.  "In the eyes of 
the law, it might," he countered, picking up 
another.  "Those are my crimes, not yours."
     I shook my head.  "No, Alex.  You do these 
things so that I don't have to.  You take my 
guilt and make it yours.  And I love you for it," 
I added, smiling faintly; and he shot me a 
bittersweet look.  "But you can't take my 
culpability - that's as great as yours."  I 
watched him for a long moment, then quoted 
softly, "Your sins are my sins."
     Sighing, he put down the box of baubles.  
He came over and dropped to a crouch in front of 
me.  "Mare, whatever judgement history has for 
us, we know that we have done as we've done 
because it was the only way.  Maybe not the right 
way, but the only way."  His gaze locked on mine.  
"If we had done nothing we would be worse than 
them."
     I smoothed back his hair tenderly.  "If 
anyone knew how you worked and how you suffered 
for what we do, they would get down on their 
knees to you."
     He smiled at that, but shook his head.  
"You're crediting the wrong person.  I don't care 
about the world, Mare.  What has the world ever 
given me?  I care about you.  I want the world to 
live so that I can grow old with you.  It's as 
simple as that."
     "I love you, Alexi.  So much."
     "I love you."  He leaned into me, gently 
drawing me to him, his lips meeting mine.  He 
lingered there for a long moment.  "How long have 
we got until Skinner gets here?" he asked, 
breaking away.
     "A couple of hours.  Long enough."
     "Not nearly long enough," he retorted, "but 
it will do."  He pulled away, his look chagrined.  
"Tell me again why we're doing this."
     I sighed.  "Because we need friends, Alex.  
People who can put aside ideology now and then 
and just be people with us."  My voice was 
earnest...almost pleading.
     "Skinner might be your friend, but he isn't 
mine," he retorted.  "I offered to shake with him 
after he helped me see you that time - I thought 
he was going to shoot me."
     "But he did shake, didn't he?" I argued.  
"He might tell what he knew if he believed it was 
right, but he wouldn't do it for the highest 
bidder.  He wouldn't do it just to sell out.  If 
that's not a friend I don't know what is."  At 
his doubtful look, I said, "We need connections.  
We don't have a home, or a family besides each 
other.  Neither of us has friends - that's just 
part and parcel of what we do.  We need to set 
some roots down - I mean in ourselves.  Don't you 
feel that?  Don't you feel it in your bunk at 
Norylsk when you go to sleep at night after yet 
another day of talking to no-one but Mikhail?"
     "Of course I do," he said in a low voice.  
"But why Skinner?"
     "Because he was there, and because he 
understands how we live even if he doesn't know 
exactly what we do, and because he's even more 
disconnected than we are.  That's why."
     He sighed.  "And you're still hell-bent on 
playing Yenta to him and Scully?"  His look was 
mildly reproving.
     I laughed.  "I didn't say that.  All I said 
was, they'd be good together.  God knows he loves 
her.  Did you see his face when he talked about 
her remission?"  I shook my head.  "No, I'm not 
going to intervene.  They'll find one another on 
their own."
     Alexi looked concerned.  "I worry about 
Mulder.  I don't want him to self-destruct - we 
need him.  The resistance needs him."
     I made a negating sound.  "Mulder's not 
going to self-destruct over Scully and Skinner.  
He sleeps with women if they happen to be there, 
but they aren't his passion - not even Scully.  
You know that, of all people."  He flushed.  "She 
keeps him stable, granted; but I also think he's 
more grounded in himself than you give him credit 
for."
     "Maybe."  He looked at me interrogatively.  
"Are you still going to give her Emily's 
location?"
     "You don't think I should."  It wasn't a 
question.
     "I think it's the *right* thing to do," he 
said slowly, "but I don't think it's the *safe* 
thing."
     "For us, or for them?"
     "Both."
     I watched him for a long moment, nodding.  
He was right, I knew that; but he was also wrong.  
"I can't carry this knowledge and not tell, 
Alexi.  You of all people should know that."
     His look was kind.  "Mare, the digital tape 
said that they got over a thousand ova from 
Scully.  Probably two hundred viable embryos in 
the end.  Are you going to track them all down 
and give them to her?  Then will you move on to 
all the other women?"  He sounded worried.  I 
understood why, too: it was something that could 
become a fixation in the light of our loss.
     "Of course not.  But this one, Alex - I 
know where this one is.  And if she were mine, no 
matter how she was made, no matter that she was 
going to die, I would want to know."  More 
gently, "Wouldn't you?"
     He looked at me; then, at last, he gave a 
grudging nod of agreement.  "How are you going to 
do it?"
     "I've got a recorded message queued.  I'm 
going to re-route it through the exchange so that 
it traces from the Sim residence.  I should re-do 
it, actually - the program went crazy when I was 
making it, and it sounds more like a woman than a 
computer-generated voice.  Very strange."
     "Do you think it could expose us?"
     "I don't see how it could.  It doesn't 
sound like anyone I know.  Maybe the filters got 
mixed up.  I can hack into the CIA, but do you 
think I can conquer Windows?"  I shot him a 
chagrined look.
     "Forget about it, then," he suggested.  
Then, mischievously, "We have other things to do 
before Skinner gets here."
     "Like what?" I asked, leaning forward, 
licking my lips teasingly.
     He pretended to give this some thought.  "I 
was considering making love to my wife."
     "Is that right?" I enquired curiously.
     "Yeah," he said, rising, pulling me up with 
him.  "I was going to hold her like this," he 
explained, manoeuvring me to the wall.  "And then 
I thought I'd touch her hair and push it back, a 
bit like this," he added, suiting the action to 
the word.  I shot him a smile.  "And then I 
thought I'd lean into her-" his voice dropped to 
a whisper "- and she'd be so warm, and I'd be 
able to smell her, and if I moved just a little 
bit more I could taste her, too."
     "Why don't you demonstrate?" I suggested 
helpfully.
     He brought his mouth to mine, his lips 
brushing me as he spoke.  "I would kiss her," he 
breathed.  "I would worship her."  He kissed me, 
first chastely, then slowly building in fervour, 
until he was teasing me insistently with his 
lips.  I felt myself opening beneath him, felt my 
mouth welcoming him, drawing him in.  His taste 
was exquisite; it was wine, it was honey.  We 
were breathing deeply, slowly, in rhythmic 
unison; and I felt as though our hearts were as 
one.  How can that sound so damn fluffy, yet be 
so utterly, profoundly true?  He started to pull 
away, perhaps to speak, but I chased him with my 
mouth, capturing him with my lips, drawing him 
back.  His kiss was delicate, yet devouring; but 
my wanting had nothing to do with technique.  I 
wanted him because it was his smell and his taste 
and his touch that did this to me, no one else's.  
"You see," he said at last, pulling back a 
little; "my wife is very beautiful.  A goddess.  
But I don't think she knows," he whispered, his 
fingertips dancing exquisitely on my neck, 
"because whenever I try to tell her, I find that 
I can't breathe."
     "Maybe you should-" I caught my breath with 
difficulty "- show her."  He hadn't even really 
touched me...but, oh, his voice, his lips...  
"Because, you see, I know something about your 
wife."
     "Yeah?" he managed.
     "I know that she likes you to be close...so 
close that there's nothing else in the world for 
her but you." I pressed myself further back 
against the wall.  "No escape, no space, just 
you-" I broke off with a low sound as he moved in 
on me "...relentless..." and then he was moving 
with me, running his hand over me through my 
dress "...because she doesn't want to be free.  
She wants to be yours."  I pushed open his shirt, 
pushed it back off his shoulders.  "She is 
yours."
     "I'm hers," he said thickly.  "Oh, God, 
Mare."
     "Alexi."
     That was the last time we made love before 
it all went to hell.

     It was the smell that really got to me.
     The visual was nothing.  The bodies were 
charred beyond recognition.  They could have been 
lumps of roughly-sculpted wood, or papier-mache, 
or fibreglass intended to roughly resemble the 
human form.
     Or, of course, they could have been 
incinerated bodies.
     But I had rinsed pathogenic oil from my 
husband's eyes and nose, had tended the remains 
of his arm.  I had watched a man I loved die in a 
pool of his own blood.  I had engaged in the 
mercy killing of two horrifically burnt soldiers.  
Visual gore was nothing to me.
     But the smell...the smell was enough to 
drive a woman mad.
     "This is a mission of mercy," I said at 
last.  There was none of the tantalising thrill 
that might otherwise have arisen from such play-
acting, especially after four months apart.  Our 
conflict was contrived; its gravity was not.
     "This is a mission of fear," Alex snapped.  
"Yours, and the men you work for."
     My blood ran cold.  Beneath the little 
parody we were acting out, I could see his fear.  
I could smell it, even through the acrid smoke 
and the carrion smell of the dead.  This man was 
my husband, after all; I knew the things that 
made him wake in a cold sweat in the middle of 
the night; the things that made his mahogany eyes 
flash ebony.  
     And what had happened here took all those 
fears and blew them away as nothing.
     "I don't know what you're talking about," I 
said, truthfully.
     "You go back and you tell them what you've 
seen here, what you've found."  My eyes widened.  
He wanted me to play it reasonably straight with 
the group.  That meant that what happened here 
transcended political boundaries: it constituted 
a threat to the entire resistance.
     "My name is Marita Covarrubias," I flared, 
mostly as a warning to his soldiers - my soldiers 
- that I was in character.  "I am a Special 
Representative to the Secretary General of the 
United Nations."
     "I know who you are and I know who you work 
for," Alex said coldly.  
     Is this how they see you, Alexi?  Is this why 
they hate you?  
     "Now you go back and tell them-"
     "Tell them what?" I demanded urgently.  
"What happened here?"
     His face flickered with worry.  "Tell them 
it's all going to hell."  He half-turned and 
ordered our men to take the boy away; but his 
eyes were watching me the whole time.
     "Does the boy know?" I asked urgently.
     He only looked at me, then turned away.
     "Did he see?" I cried.  He turned back to 
me, his expression furious.  He spat to the left 
of my feet contemptuously.  He spat:
     "You can tell them to kiss my American 
ass."

     It was nightfall when I reached Norylsk.
     I raced down the corridors with a pallet 
truck, going from lab to lab, butchering 
computers in a bid to extract hard drives.  I 
worked feverishly, trembling with the adrenaline 
that surged through my veins.  Stalking into 
pathology, I pulled out all the vials of vaccine 
and other vital samples.  I went to my office, 
rarely used, and removed diplomatic papers.  I 
included our policy book on the treatment of 
prisoners, too - I hadn't forgotten Alexi's 
caution about being held accountable for our 
actions later.
     I was prising open yet another computer 
tower when the lights flooded on, the low hum of 
the generator assaulting my ears.  I retreated 
into the shadows.  There was no hiding my 
presence - not with a pallet truck full of 
evidence - but perhaps I could get in a clear 
shot first.
     A familiar voice spoke sharply in Russian - 
not official Russian, but the local dialect.  
"Come out with your hands where I can see them 
and identify yourself."  I breathed a sigh of 
relief.
     "It's just someone who wants to kiss your 
American ass, Alex," I said dryly, stepping into 
the light, dangling my weapon from my finger.
     Breathing out with a hiss, he lowered his 
own and came to me.  He held me for a fleeting 
moment.  "I was worried.  My courier didn't come 
back to the compound.  I was afraid you didn't 
get my message."
     I shot him a filthy look.  "He's dead, and 
I'm really pissed with you about it.  He killed 
one of my men, and another opened fire in self-
defence."  My voice was reproachful.
     "That's probably my fault," he conceded.  
"I told him to get the note to you at any cost."
     "I'll tell that to my peacekeeper's 
mother," I snapped.
     He pursed his lips in a grim line.  
"Marita, it's been a fucking hard day, and I've 
lost a hell of a lot more men than you have.  
Good men - scientists.  The ultimate brain 
drain."
     I took his hand for a moment, chastened.  
"*We've* lost men."  I sighed.  "Desperate times 
and desperate measures, I guess.  I'm sorry I was 
harsh."
     He nodded, smoothing back my hair.  "Yeah, 
I know.  Sorry," he added endearingly.  He 
released me and sat on the edge of a desk.  I sat 
on the desk opposite him, cross-legged like a 
child as I finished extracting the drive.  I 
waited.  
     At last, he said, "The firestorm was the 
work of aliens.  I don't think they were after 
the vaccine, though.  Their eyes and mouths were 
stitched shut - I think to prevent infection with 
the black oil.  That means they're afraid of 
their own kind."
     "Rebels," I guessed, tugging on a 
recalcitrant IDE cable.
     "Got it in one," he said.  "The MJ-12 
documents mention a conflict among the alien race 
- a certain group which considers the hybridising 
to be a dilution of the race.  That group has 
killed hybridising scientists before - the 
Gregors, for instance.  I think that's what was 
happening here."
     "They thought we were hybridising here," I 
realised.  Then, with foreboding, "That means 
they'll go after all the test facilities."
     Alexi nodded.  "Probably abductees, too.  
Those damn implants will lead the rebels straight 
to them."
     "What about *our* work?" I demanded, 
detaching the drive from its frame.  I discarded 
one screwdriver for another disgustedly.
     "Well, I'd closed Tunguska down, of course; 
but they still razed it, yesterday.  They managed 
to obliterate the pathogen from the mine - I'd 
love to know how they managed that."
     "Neat trick," I agreed, pulling the drive 
free.  I handed it to Alex.
     "Kazakhstan fell last night.  Georgia fell 
at lunchtime, Azerbaijan an hour ago.  I'd say 
Norylsk is next on the list.  We have to get what 
we can and get out of here - which I see you've 
been working on."  He motioned to the pallet 
truck.  "I have a truck outside.  I'll escort the 
cargo to New York."
     "All right.  Anything else I need to know?"
     "Two things," he said, rising.  He climbed 
onto the pallet truck, and I followed.  "Firstly, 
you have to get the hell out of Russia tonight.  
Tell your peacekeepers that you have intelligence 
that there's a kidnapping plot."  At my 
questioning look, he explained, "My second-in-
command - remember Mikhail?  He's gone power-
hungry and has convinced some of our comrades 
that *I* am responsible for the firestorm."
     "What?" I sputtered, swerving the pallet 
truck a little.  "That's absurd!"
     "Easy," he reproved, straightening the 
wheel.  "Some of them are buying it.  They think 
that I did this so that I could shut them down 
and smuggle the intelligence back to America.  I 
figured I shouldn't disappoint them," he added 
ruefully.  "I confiscated the vaccine vials that 
weren't destroyed in the firestorm."  He gave a 
mirthless grin.  "We could become the first 
people wanted for treason simultaneously on two 
different continents."
     I stared at him in disbelief.  "That means 
we have no base, no protection, no test subjects, 
no scientists, no useable passports, and almost 
no pathogen or vaccine.  God, Alexi, what a 
mess," I said, horrified.
     "That brings me to the second thing," he 
said as we pulled up in the loading bay.  I 
pulled the brake and manoeuvred the lever, 
setting the pallet in place on the back of the 
waiting truck.  "To establish ourselves somewhere 
else to refine the vaccine, we're going to need 
to get clear of the Consortium.  You know what 
that means?"  
     I nodded, thinking of my more or less 
stable life in New York, the United Nations job 
that I truly loved; but in an instant, I 
surrendered those things in my heart.  "It means 
we have to run," I said softly.
     "Yeah."  His look was kind.  "I'm sorry, 
Mare."  He took my hand.
     "It had to come someday," I said 
philosophically.  I squeezed it a second before 
letting go.
     His voice became resolute.  "Before we do, 
I want everything they've got.  It's our last 
chance to get it."
     "How?" I demanded.  "Short of surrendering 
the vaccine, you don't have anything to deal..." 
I trailed off.  I looked at him expectantly.  He 
nodded.  He looked rather proud of himself, 
albeit in a grim kind of way.  "Oh, very nice.  
You've got the boy, haven't you?"
     "Yeah.  I infected him with the last stocks 
of the pathogen," he admitted, shamefaced.  "I 
didn't know how else to transport it on such 
short notice - Mikhail was only a half hour 
behind me, and I didn't have any biohazard 
containers.  If they give us what we want, they 
get the boy's testimony and the pathogen to work 
with.  We get our freedom, and maybe the chance 
to end this once and for all."
     I thought on this - thought hard.  "I 
really don't think they'll play ball," I said at 
last, "but all right."  I jumped down from the 
pallet truck, and he followed suit.  "Alex - you 
do realise that the alien race might decide to 
proceed with colonisation now, don't you?"
     He nodded.  "Sure, if they decide that 
hybridisation isn't important enough to restart 
the work for.  It depends on whether the rebels 
manage to take Fort Marlene."
     "Have you taken any precautions?" I 
demanded.
     "I did, but my personal stockpile was lost 
when Kazakhstan fell.  We do have an earlier, 
less effective formula of the vaccine in New 
York; but that's all."
     "That's all right; I have precautions for 
both of us."  I put my hand in my pocket and 
withdrew a long, silver barrel with a small cross 
on the top.  I handed it to him.
     "What's this?" he asked, perplexed.
     "It's called an oil stock.  Priests in the 
Roman rite use them to carry consecrated oils.  
I'm not sure if your lot does it," I added, 
referring to his Russian Orthodox heritage, but 
he just shrugged.  
     "I'm not sure.  We weren't very observant."
     "We were *very* observant.  No pretence of 
faith about it - my mother just liked the outward 
practice of religion," I said dryly.  "She 
thought it gave a person structure and self-
discipline.  I think she was quite puzzled by 
people who were genuinely pious."  I shrugged.  
"That's Mother for you.  Anyway, you'll notice 
it's in three sections, and each section screws 
into the next, watertight."  At his nod, I went 
on, "They're labelled CAT, CHR and INF.  INF as 
in infirm - it's the oil they use to anoint the 
sick.  There's a pathogen sample in there - 
you'll remember because of its association with 
illness."  He nodded again.  "CAT is for the oil 
of catechumens, which we use in baptism.  That 
has the vaccine against the black oil.  You'll 
remember because baptism saves us from slavery to 
sin, and the vaccine saves us from slavery as 
drones.  Got it?"
     "Yeah, I got it.  INF is the pathogen that 
makes us sick, CAT is the vaccine that saves us."  
He was looking at the oil stock intently.
     I went on, "CHR is the oil of chrism, used 
in confirmation.  That has the antibodies to the 
retrovirus we synthesised from Mulder's 
blood...the first stage of a retrovirus vaccine."
     He looked at me questioningly.  "How will I 
remember that?"
     "Because it's the only one left," I said, 
amused.
     "Oh."
     "Officials tend to respect religious items 
unless they're obviously suspect," I explained.  
"If you were stopped, you would say they're 
consecrated oils that you've taken from somewhere 
important for your home church.  If you were 
coming from the near or middle East, you'd say 
Jerusalem.  If you were coming from Europe, 
Vatican City.  Get the idea?"
     "Yeah.  I assume you have one of these?"
     "Yes, and a third will be in safekeeping 
with Skinner.  He's expecting it, but he doesn't 
know what it is."  At his look, I said, "I 
couldn't think of anyone else who wouldn't sell 
us out."
     "Fair enough," he said grudgingly.
     I hesitated a moment, but at last, I said, 
"If the rebels get all the facilities, these 
could be the only supplies left.  We only use 
them to save ourselves from infection, or to 
barter for our lives, agreed?"  He gave a slight 
nod, and I went on, "Not for money, not for 
information.  I didn't go through all this to 
become a martyr to the cause.  If it comes down 
to a choice between the work and ourselves, we 
choose ourselves.  If push comes to shove, it 
only takes two immunes to keep the race from 
extinction."
     "Agreed," he said.  He reached into his 
jacket.  "I have another insurance policy."
     "What is it?" I demanded.
     "These," he said, handing over eight CD-
ROMs - two bundled sets of four.  "All the 
essential data so far.  It's not complete - 
that's ninety-seven CDs - but it's the data 
needed to continue the work.  There's a set for 
you and a set for me.  I have a spare - you may 
as well leave that with Skinner, too.  If he's 
going to have us by the balls we may as well let 
him do it properly," he added ruefully.  Nodding, 
I took my copy and Skinner's and put them into my 
pockets.
     I thought about the CDs.  "You don't think 
we're going to be able to get this stuff out, do 
you?" I asked, motioning to the truck.
     "With the Russians *and* the rebels after 
us?  Not a chance."
     "Then why are we here?"  He bolted the 
truck closed.  
     "We have to try."

     "What about my UN vehicle?"
     "Leave it," Alex said, reversing the truck.  
"We have to get this stuff out of here - not to 
mention him," he added, motioning to the boy 
beside me.  I looked at the boy properly for the 
first time, noted the stitched up eyes and mouth 
in the dim light.  I remembered what he had said 
about the mutilations on the alien rebels.  
Instead of keeping the pathogen out, Alex was 
keeping it in.  Staring at him, I felt sick, that 
we had come to this.  
     I swallowed painfully, looking at Alexi, 
wondering how the gentle man I knew could have 
done this.  I had always respected his capacity 
to do whatever was needed, but I didn't always 
understand how he *could* do it.  
     My expression must have conveyed something 
of my feelings, because he said softly, "I know 
how he looks, Mare, but we were careful.  His 
optic nerves are fine, and we didn't damage the 
soft tissues of his mouth very much.  If he 
survives the pathogen and the group, he'll be 
okay."
     "That's a big if," I said, but my voice was 
mild.  I recognised, as he did, that there had 
been no other choice.
     "It's a big if for all of us at the 
moment," he countered, starting the truck 
forward.
     "Alex!" I shouted suddenly.  "Ahead!"
     "Wh-" he began, and then he saw the 
movement, the faint glow of headlights.  "Dammit!  
Mikhail!"  He looked in the rear-view mirror.  
"Behind us as well!  We're trapped!"
     "I'll get the boy," I said, opening the 
door.  I yanked the boy by the hand, and he came, 
willingly.  He was docile from shock - too 
docile.  He couldn't be incited to run.  I ran as 
best that I could, the boy ambling comically 
after me.  Then Alex was there, dragging him with 
me.  We ran, and I didn't dare look behind me; 
but I felt the heat and the wind when the 
firestorm began.  I heard the screams of our 
former comrades as the rebels blew up the 
vehicles, and I waited for them to take us too; 
but they were more worried about the compound.
     We did have two pursuers, rebels who 
followed us, closely but seemingly without 
direction.  When we finally lost them more than 
an hour later, we three collapsed on the ground, 
exhausted.  My legs cramped excruciatingly.  I 
moaned in agony, and Alex rubbed them, kneading 
the muscles in my calves with his hand, though 
his legs surely hurt just as much as mine.  The 
boy was crying, and I held him, his head in my 
lap; and he sobbed blindly until he was 
unconscious.  "God damn it, how did they track us 
so far when they can't see?" I demanded between 
heaving breaths.  "Neither of us are abductees!"
     Alex jerked up his head, his expression 
afraid.  "They didn't do anything to you at Fort 
Marlene, did they?"
     "No," I gasped out, feeling the back of my 
neck.  "I don't remember anything.  There's 
nothing there."
     "Let me check," he said, coming around me.  
He smoothed my hair aside and waved his mag light 
over it.  "No, nothing," he agreed after a long 
moment.  I breathed a sigh of relief.
     "And they didn't get you?" I said 
piercingly.
     "Never," he said at once.
     "Then how-" I stopped.  "Give me that."  I 
grabbed the mag and flashed it down on the boy, 
saw the telltale red mark.  "Fuck!  He's a 
fucking abductee!"
     "Oh, shit," he said in frustration.  "Of 
course he is.  That's why he was at the camp in 
Kazakhstan.  He was drawn there like the other 
victims."  He sighed.  "Well, he won't be for 
much longer."  He hunted in his pockets.  "Got a 
lighter?"
     "I'm not smoking.  Sorry."
     He pulled out his pocketknife.  "Any other 
time I'd be glad to hear it.  Ah, here's one."  
He flicked the lighter and ran the flame over the 
blade, and I suddenly knew what he intended to 
do.
     "Alexi, no!"
     His voice was firm.  "Mare, he'll lead the 
rebels to us!"
     "No, he won't!" I protested.  "It's not 
like radar - they can sense an implant if they're 
close enough, and they can use it to draw an 
abductee to them, but they can't use it to find 
one that isn't close by."
     "It's still a risk," he retorted.
     I shook my head.  "Not a great one.  He'll 
die if you take it out, Alex.  Two years at the 
most!"
     He was angry; I could see that.  "Damn it, 
that's a better life expectancy than he has now!  
He'll be killed if we don't!"
     "We don't know that," I argued.  "And maybe 
we can prevent that.  But there's no saving him 
if you take that chip out."  Then, in a low 
voice, I said deliberately, "Are you really going 
to hold him down and take a knife and cut out 
such an important part of him, to save him from a 
threat that might never be?"
     His face was working in the dark, his eyes 
unnaturally bright.  His hand went automatically 
to his maimed shoulder; and he said thickly, 
"That's so low, Marita."
     I reached for him then, my palms cradling 
his face.  "I know," I said gently, blinking back 
tears.  "And I'm so sorry.  But he's just a kid, 
Alex.  We can't."
     He leaned into me for a long moment, 
sighing; but finally, he nodded, reluctantly.  
"All right.  All right!"  He looked unhappy about 
the whole thing - which I guess made two of us.  
He went on with grudging fondness, "But if this 
kid beats me up trying to get to the rebels, 
you're really gonna kiss my American ass."
     "Oh, bite me," I teased.
     "Can I?"
     "As long as I can kiss your American ass."

     There was a firestorm raging in New York.
     There was great debate when I reported back 
to the group.  Not only debate, but conflict.  
And it was explosive.  It was as though the 
rebels had set off another flare, this one in the 
factions of the Consortium.
     Donovan wanted to side with the rebels.  He 
argued bitterly for it.  Resistance was in our 
grasp, he proclaimed in an increasingly gravelly 
voice, the death knell of a man weakening but not 
yet aware of the fact.  The others, afraid for 
their lives and their loved ones, wanted to hand 
over a rebel they captured at an American 
firestorm.  
     But Donovan was no longer convinced that 
co-operation would save their families.  His son 
had been killed the previous year in a scuffle 
with an alien bounty hunter.  I didn't know the 
details, but I knew that his widow, Diana, was on 
the warpath, determined to join forces with 
Mulder and undermine the hybridisation project.  
To that end, she had aligned herself with Spender 
just before the latter's death, with Donovan's 
blessing.  There were plans to place her and 
Spender Jr in the X Files by the end of the year.  
     Now, Donovan found himself more and more 
alienated from the group - pardon the turn of 
phrase.  He had become the sole advocate for the 
vaccine in a group that had discarded long-term 
strategy for short-term appeasement.  I could see 
even now that his time was short.  Continued 
dissent was a recipe for a hit.  I gave him six 
months, and I thought even that was being 
generous.
     But this was not what alarmed me.  
Squabbling about hybridisation and vaccines was 
not an unusual occurrence among the group.  Even 
their plans to hand over the rebel didn't worry 
me especially, though we could well have used his 
help in thwarting colonisation; because normally, 
Mulder could have been manipulated into 
engineering the his rescue.  What worried me was 
Mulder's recent outburst at a paranormal 
convention, during which he disavowed any belief 
in the alien agenda.  He no longer believed in 
the colonisation threat; rather, he believed the 
threat to be purely human, thanks to Spender and 
Michael Kritschgau.  Thanks a lot, guys.
     But it wasn't just a matter of the help the 
rebel could give - we could live without that.  
What I feared was that the rebel had knowledge of 
the work on the vaccine, either in Russia or 
Stateside.  If so, and he was handed over to his 
own kind, he might give up that information, 
either on pain of torture or by way of trade for 
his life.  In that case, the hybridisation deal 
with the Consortium would almost certainly be 
cancelled, and colonisation would begin.  
     I shuddered at the thought.  Now that the 
Russian operation had fallen, the only immune we 
knew of was Mulder, and, if we used our stocks, 
Alex and I.  The spare stock could possibly be 
split between Skinner and Scully, assuming she 
survived the firestorms; though in purely 
Darwinian terms that was pretty pointless, given 
her infertility.  The difficulties survival 
posed in that case were bad enough; the genetic 
quality of a race with Alex and I - or, at most, 
myself and three different fathers - as its sole 
progenitors wasn't something I liked to think 
about.
     No, colonisation now would leave the human 
race nonviable.  Extinction would necessarily 
follow.  We had to get that rebel out before he 
was handed over - and only Mulder could do it.
     But Mulder didn't believe.

     I had a plan.
     It hit me all at once, and the adrenaline 
of relief and anticipation surged through me.  
Despite my fears, the sense of limbo of the last 
two years - the fear, the struggle, the sacrifice 
that seemed to be without end - that sense was 
lifting.  Things were moving.  
     I went to meet Alex on an exhilarated high.  
Soon, we would be in a new land, living a new 
life, working without hindrance.  We would be far 
from the Consortium, living together as a 
family...maybe even able to add to it.  We would 
be able to take the vaccine and recover without 
fear of our weakness being used against us, and 
we could survive the holocaust.  The idea of 
being free of those odious men, able to live 
something approaching a normal life left me 
breathless with anticipation and relief.
     I watched Donovan squirm when Alex 
telephoned, demanding all their work on the 
vaccine in exchange for the boy.  I watched the 
men debating what to do, watched their fear and 
their disunity, and I felt just a glimmer of 
restitution...for the dark man, for my mother, 
for my child, for my husband, for myself.  It 
wasn't enough - nothing would ever be enough - 
but it was something.  And in watching them, 
power, normally so insignificant to me, ran 
darkly through my veins like a drug.  These men 
had killed almost everyone I loved, and we had 
them on their knees.  
     It was bitter...but it was intoxicating.  
     When I reached Alexi at New York Harbour, 
he was as hot as I was, and we stumbled blindly 
from the bowels of the ship, to the wharf, to my 
car in the loading dock, clinging to each other 
all the way.  Neither of us was fit to drive, 
though, so he took me there against a wall, 
urgently, heedless of those who might have come 
across us.  It was fast and frenzied and wanton, 
so different from anything I'd ever known.  I 
craved him - intensely, aggressively - always; 
but this was different: we were drunk on power, 
on freedom, on each other.  It was pure 
celebration of a future that was finally in our 
grasp.
     When it was over, we sat there on the 
wharf, our legs hanging over the side, me leaning 
into his shoulder, holding hands like a couple of 
kids.  I remember it seemed strange that we could 
be so dark together, and then so damn cute in the 
space of minutes.  It was as though the bond 
between us had purged the darkness.  Come to 
think of it, that was pretty much the story of 
our life.
     I told him of the alien rebel and my fears 
about Mulder, and he reluctantly concurred with 
my assessment.  That Mulder should believe, and 
intervene in the handing over of the rebel, was 
paramount - even more so than extracting 
information from the group.  He entrusted me with 
the task of delivering the boy to Mulder and 
convincing him of the alien agenda once more.  
Meanwhile, he would stall the group until I could 
get the boy back.  That shouldn't have been a 
problem; we expected the group would argue about 
the deal for a while at any rate.  I left him, 
our kiss tender, and I returned to the boat.
     I retrieved the boy without incident, and 
led him to the car and belted him in like a 
child.  I frowned, angry with myself, when I 
realised my error: in staying with Alex at the 
harbour, I had missed the bank.  I had planned to 
get Skinner's oil stock and CDs from the safety 
deposit box and send them, in case either Alex or 
I met a nasty fate with the rebels or the group.  
That danger seemed more acute now that I had the 
boy.
     I thought it over as I drove, and it seemed 
to me that my danger that day was more from the 
rebels; and neither the oil stock nor the CDs 
could save me from that.  So, at last, I decided 
to send my own personal supplies to Skinner, the 
ones I carried on my person.  If all went well, I 
would retrieve the other supplies from the bank 
the following day; if not, then Alex and Skinner 
would have to go on with the work.  But I didn't 
really think it would come to that.  Neither the 
rebels nor the group had any way of knowing I had 
the boy; the boy was infected, but he was 
infected with the dormant virus, not the sentient 
one, and his mouth and eyes were secured.  So I 
packed the precious supplies in the prepaid 
courier envelope I'd had on hand for the purpose, 
and left it at the dispatch office along the way.
     I stopped at a payphone on the I-90 and 
contacted Mulder.  I had picked the location for 
its desolateness, but it occurred to me that 
there was a lot of traffic on the road.  I 
watched the steady stream of sole drivers, 
staring at the road intently; and I had a sense 
of deja vu, a flash of memory, but it was gone 
before I could identify it.  I felt distinctly 
nervous, though; I looked over my shoulder at the 
boy the whole time.  And when I looked up and saw 
him before me, his stitches free, the oil leaving 
him, I suddenly realised what I had been 
struggling to recall.
     It was the bodies in the cars in 
Kazakhstan.
     And then everything went black.

COMING IN PART FIVE: THERE ARE MANY WAYS TO LOSE 
A WIFE (SEPT 16)