Not My Lover *NC17* 6/?
Deslea R. Judd
drjudd@primus.com.au drjudd@catholic.org
Copyright 2000

See Introduction for disclaimers and full headers.

Archive: Yes, without alteration.
Spoilers/Timeframe: Ascension to Requiem. This
installment is Marita's version of the events from
One Son to En Ami.
Category/Keywords: romance, angst, mytharc,
Krycek/Covarrubias.
Rating: NC17 for sex.
More fic: http://home.primus.com.au/drjudd/fun.html
Update list: drjuddfiction-subscribe@egroups.com

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)
protected them from Spender's wrath for a time; but
their clandestine operation in Tunguska 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.  The vaccine
leaves the subject seriously ill and is not
suitable for distribution, but they theorise that
metabolic differences between the races might be
the key.

After Spender exposed Marita to smallpox (Zero
Sum), she miscarried; but was befriended by Skinner
while under forced quarantine.  The alien rebels
destroyed the Russian operation (Patient X),
leaving the couple - and an unwitting Skinner -
with the only stocks of the pathogen and vaccine.
After Marita was infected with the pathogen, Alex
handed over his supply to save her and joined
forces with the Englishman, Donovan, synthesising
new improved formulas of the vaccine.  While Marita
recuperated, the couple lived at Fort Marlene and
befriended Gibson Praise (The End), but she and
Gibson were taken by Spender after Donovan's death
(Fight The Future).  Believing them to be dead,
Alex continued to work on the vaccine for Spender,
but passed intelligence to the Tunisians (SR819)
and conspired with Diana (Fowley) Donovan to halt
hybridisation.

After the rebels destroyed the American operation
and all his stocks of vaccine, Alex found Marita
and Gibson, seriously ill (One Son), and nursed
them, severing ties with Spender and hiding Gibson
in a boarding school.  When she haemorrhaged,
Marita revealed that she was several months
pregnant after consenting intercourse during her
imprisonment.  The details are unclear.
Devastated, Alex fled, but returned to help her
hours later.  Because of the delay, she lost her
child and is unable to have children due to uterine
scarring.  Consumed with guilt, Alex abandoned her;
but the death of Diana Donovan (Amor Fati) led him
to begin the work once more, in order to fulfil his
promise to vaccinate her children.  He exchanged
the nanocyte controller for Skinner's copy of the
vaccine, and attempted to sell Michael Kritschgau's
data to fund the work; but Spender's men caught him
and had him thrown into a Tunisian prison (Amor
Fati/Requiem).  Now, Marita relates her story from
the time of their separation.


      From the ashes of death rises a flame of
life.
      A truthful statement, however painful; and it
characterises my life as it is now.  Life after
death is always searing, always bittersweet; and
yet deeply, profoundly precious.  I have to cling
to that.
      It's all I have left.
      I mourn the life that had throbbed so
insistently within me, though I had sought it only
as a desperate means to an even more desperate end.
I mourn because I had held it in my heart, had
bequeathed it with hopes and dreams.  I mourn
because every life is precious, even when its
burden is great.  I mourn because I had embraced
it, whatever it might cost.
      But after the life was no more, I woke to my
own rebirth.  I woke to a heart that beat strongly
beneath my breast, to blood that coursed powerfully
through my veins, its slow trickle a painful
memory.  I got strong, and that was good; because I
woke to a life alone.  And if that life seemed
infinitely poorer, it was still life; and I had
spent too long in the grip of a living death not to
cherish the kindly warmth of growing strength.
      I feel my husband's absence like an ache, his
abandonment like a bleeding wound in my soul; but I
endure the pain, because it is of my own doing.  My
reasons for my actions, once so compelling, seem
weak; my justifications, no longer justified.  The
compromises I made to survive took our unity and
tore it asunder, and I knew that when I made them.
I had hoped that Alexi would embrace me once more,
and shelter my child as his own; but I did not
expect it: that was not my right.  He had helped me
in my helplessness, proving once again a love that
had never required it; but if he felt unable to
remain by my side, I could hardly reproach him for
that.  I missed him, in my arms and in my bed and
in my work and in my heart; but I faced the
solitude, stared it down, and went on anyway.
      It feels good to be able to do that.
Bittersweet, certainly, but good; because after
more than a year of powerlessness, my union with
him - however fractured - is not that of
dependence, but of choice; a choice renewed in
every thought and every act.  It is ironic that in
the extremity of our brokenness, my commitment to
my marriage is stronger than ever.  I have not seen
Alex since that night, but I bear his name
publicly, wear his ring proudly, because our
marriage is more than the functionality of a shared
life: it is the union of souls that no sin can
break.  He is still my husband; I am still his
wife.
      And whatever else passes between us, we will
always be one together.

      "Why don't you tell him?"
      I looked up from a sheaf of essays written in
straggling hand.  "What are you talking about?" I
asked in bewilderment.  Irritably, I drew myself up
on the hard dormitory bed.  Apparently, Alex and I
paid fourteen thousand dollars a year for Gibson to
sleep on a concave lump of rock.
      "I'm talking about Alex," Gibson said,
slurping noisily from his milkshake.  "About the
baby."  I winced: his knowledge bothered me.  My
shame aside, I was the closest thing he had to a
mother, and he was approaching puberty.  His
awareness of what I had done seemed vaguely
inappropriate.  My admiration for Patricia Praise
was growing daily.  However had she managed to rear
this all-seeing, all-knowing child without leaving
him irrevocably damaged?
      I set the essays aside, frowning.  "We've
talked about this, Gibson," I counselled.  "You
must discipline yourself.  It's very invasive to
root around in people's thoughts without their
permission."  I said gravely, "There are
responsibilities that come with your gifts."
      His eyes flared in protest, the effect
exaggerated by his glasses.  "But-"
      I held up a hand.  "No buts.  That's my
private business - mine and Alexi's.  Just because
you can see my thoughts, doesn't mean you have the
right or the experience to comment on them."  He
nodded, chastened; and I relented, leaning across
his desk to touch his hand.
      "He feels guilty," he said softly.
      I wondered what that meant; but I resolved
not to ask.  "Please don't say any more, Gibson.
If he wanted me to know that, he would tell me
himself."
      "But you both think the wrong thing about
each other," he burst out, his face flushed with
real distress.  "You each think the other feels one
thing, when you both feel something different.
You've got it all wrong!"
      How I wished I could ask what he meant!  But
I had drawn a line, and too many people had screwed
with Gibson's boundaries, and I wasn't going to be
one of them.  "It doesn't matter," I insisted.
"That's for us to work out."  I rose, and came
around behind his chair, bending to embrace him.  I
said gently, "You don't have to be the adult
anymore."
      He buried his head in the crook of my arm.
He wasn't crying, but he was doing that shaking,
crying-on-the-inside thing that boys do.  In a way,
that was worse.  "I wish things were different."
He didn't only mean Alex and I - the things that
hurt Gibson just weren't that simple - but I think
for him Alex and I getting back together signified
a whole lot of other things about family and
normalcy - things that he had been denied over the
last year.  And in a way, that was true of me, too.
      "I do too," I said softly, swallowing hard.
"But things aren't as simple for grown ups as they
sometimes look."  I pulled away and ruffled his
hair.  He was getting taller - more like a teenager
than a little boy.  He looked up at me, and I shot
him a smile.  "Let's think of happier things.  Have
you given any more thought to the summer?"  He
smiled a little at that.  "I got you a passport -
your name will be Jeremy Gibson.  That should be
easy to remember at Customs."
      Gibson nodded vigorously.  "I talked to Alex.
He said summer was fine and that he would take me
at Christmas instead."  I gave a nod of agreement,
but then he surprised me.  "I want to go to the
house in Tangier."
      "Tangier?" I queried.  "How do you know about
Tangier?"
      Gibson looked shamefaced.  "Alex thinks about
it when he thinks of you.  I really want to see it.
It's really nice."  I mentally noted the fact that
Alex thought of me, then chastised myself.  I
didn't want to turn Gibson into some kind of mutant
spy.
      I sighed, frowning.  "I don't know, Gibson.
Alexi built that house for us.  I don't know if I
should see it now.  I don't know if he'd even want
me to."
      "Alex already said that it was there, and
that we may as well use it," he argued.  "And you
said you'd take me anywhere."  I felt myself
weakening: I had wanted to give him a nice holiday
to make up for the time I was away from him, as if
anything could.  Dammit, maternal guilt ruled my
life - and I wasn't even his mother.  "Please?"
      I sighed heavily.  "All right.  One
condition."
      "What's that?"
      "Not one word about Alex and I while we're
there.  Agreed?"
      He gave a little smile that made me frown
suspiciously; but said only:
      "I promise not to say a word."

      "I'm going to wring his neck."
      "Gibson, or Alex?"
      "Both," I said grimly.  I swabbed at
Skinner's elbow absently.  "Alex for talking about
it and Gibson for asking to go there.  He thinks
I'll go there and get all sentimental about the
beautiful house Alex built for me and come home and
make the man talk to me.  It's not going to
happen."  I slid the needle home a little harder
than necessary.
      He looked down at his arm ruefully.  "Just
mind your temper, Marita.  That's a big needle
you're playing with."
      I shot him a look.  "I can have Olga do it,
if you prefer," I suggested, smirking
mischievously.
      Skinner shook his head hurriedly.  "Six foot
one of brute Russian efficiency?  No, thank you."
He said accusingly, "I thought Kazakhstanis were
delicate little things."
      "Most of them are."  I withdrew the needle,
and he shuddered, shooting me a reproachful look.
"Better, big boy?" I teased.
      "Much."  He nodded towards the blood sample.
"Do you really think you can do something with
that?"
      I shrugged.  "It's possible.  If I had the
software that controlled them, it would be a piece
of cake.  Without it, I'll be working in the dark -
but you never know."  I pressed a fresh swab into
his elbow and put his opposite hand over it.  "Keep
that elevated, or it will bruise."  Washing my
hands, I returned to my earlier theme.  "Apart from
the fact that Alex won't talk to me, I'm really
pissed with him about this nanocyte business, too."
      Skinner leaned his arm on the kitchen bench,
propping it up.  "Far be it from me to defend Alex
Krycek, but I don't think this is really his doing.
He was working for Spender when he infected me."
      I turned away and opened the refrigerator.  I
pushed aside a couple of vials of vaccine.  "Do you
think he's working for him now?" I said curiously,
putting his blood sample in the space I'd made.
      He shook his head, taking the swab off his
elbow experimentally.  He flexed his arm.  "He's
just using whatever leverage he still has - he
wants to stay in the loop."  I sat down on the
kitchen stool beside him, topping up my tea from
the pot.  He said reflectively, "Work for Spender
after what he did to you?  Not a chance.  You don't
know what Alex was like when you were gone."
      I half-turned to face him.  Hesitantly, I
asked, "How was he, Walter?"
      He frowned.  "Alex came to me the day after
he found out - well, you know, thought he found out
you were dead.  He was almost incoherent."  I tried
to imagine how I'd have felt if I'd thought Alex
was dead, and found I couldn't.  It hurt to try.
"Then, when he came back from Ateni, he was very
quiet and distant.  You could hear it in his voice.
It was really low and raw - like he'd swallowed
glass or something."  I felt my throat tightening,
imagining him like that.
      "Why did he go to Ateni?" I asked softly.
      "Spender gave him ashes.  He scattered them,"
he said, and I flinched a little.  "I thought you
knew," he went on, and I shook my head, drawing my
lips tightly together, unable to speak.
      "You sound like you felt sorry for him," I
said at last.
      "I did," he said simply.  "I don't like him -
you know that.  But I did."  He shook his head.
"After all that, Marita - and to find you alive - I
just can't understand why he left you.  It doesn't
make any sense."  His tone was protective - and
perplexed.
      I bowed my head.  "Please don't think too
badly of him, Walter - well, not on my behalf,
anyway," I added ruefully, nodding at his arm.
"Alexi was right to walk away.  I betrayed him, in
a way, to save myself.  I did this - not him."
      He shook his head.  He said scathingly, "But
to do it right after you lost the baby-" he stopped
short, realisation flooding over his features.  He
looked at me intently.  "Marita?"
      Reluctantly, I met his gaze.  I nodded, my
face hot with shame.  "I was already pregnant when
I came home," I said quietly.  I looked away.  "I
don't have any excuses - I'm not even sure I have
reasons anymore.  I thought I had to do anything to
survive - that it was all up to me."  I blinked
back tears impatiently.  "Maybe adultery isn't the
real sin here.  Maybe it's arrogance.  Maybe I
should have been the best person I could and had
the humility to just let it unfold."  I finished
regretfully, "Maybe that's what I've done wrong all
along."  Skinner's look was kind; but he said
nothing, only looked at me with great compassion.
I said thickly, "Please don't see me like-" I broke
off.  I was going to say, 'like I see myself'.
      "I don't."  He took my hand in his.  "I'm
sorry it happened - and that he can't be open to
hear your side of it."
      I smiled wanly.  "He will.  I believe that."
I squeezed it and let go.  Rising, I went to the
centrifuge and watched, composing myself.
      "Don't touch it - Olga will raise hell."  I
gave a weak laugh, silently thanking him for
letting the matter drop.  He went on, "Where did
you find her?"
      "She worked for Alexi and I in Norylsk.  She
was in Riga seeing her family when the firestorms
hit, so she lived to tell the tale."
      "Did you have any trouble over there?" he
queried.
      I shook my head.  "They dropped the charges
against us some time ago.  Apparently Mikhail -
Alexi's second-in-command, the one who framed us -
left some pretty damning diaries."
      He nodded in understanding.  "So who's paying
for her?"
      "The Secretary General is paying for Olga and
the ongoing costs.  Your report and Senator
Sorenson's verbal testimony was enough to convince
him I wasn't a lunatic, but he didn't put his money
where his mouth was until he'd done a little
digging on his own.  He gets only a certain amount
of money from the United Nations every year before
he has to account for it, so the trick at the
moment is staying under that threshold."
      "What about the house?" he asked, looking
around the room appraisingly.
      "Sorenson paid for the fitout from his
philanthropy budget.  The house is mine - it was my
mother's."  I scanned the hybrid kitchen/laboratory
critically.  "A Kazakhstani scientist working on a
Russian-made vaccine in her kitchen.  She'd be
rolling in her grave."  The telephone rang, and I
picked it up, holding up a hand to Skinner
apologetically.  "Marita Krycek," I said, balancing
it between my cheek and my shoulder to rinse my
cup.
      "It's Olga Aspinadayanova.  I need you
downstairs - we've had some developments."  I
frowned, setting the cup aside.
      "I'll be right there."

      It was heartbreaking.
      I cradled a limp baby monkey in my arms,
smoothing back its fur.  It snuggled into me
weakly, its eyes growing dull.  Olga watched
dispassionately, with a touch of bewilderment; and
part of me hated her for her stoicism.  I didn't
have the coldness of heart for this work - but I
was the only one left to do it.
      I looked at the wall, at cage after cage of
expiring creatures, looming over me as though in
accusation.  Finally, I demanded, "What the hell
happened?"  I drew the monkey closer.
      "As you know, I decided to trial adrenaline
with the vaccine."  I nodded - that decision had
been prompted by my own inexplicable recovery from
the vaccine's after-effects.  The adrenaline I'd
been given when I flatlined had been identified as
a possible reason.  "I didn't overdose," she went
on.  "The dose I chose would normally have returned
a mildly subnormal metabolism to normal levels."
      The monkey was still - whether comatose or
dead, I wasn't sure.  I returned it to its cage
sadly.  "What did they die of, then?"
      "The vaccine itself," Olga said clinically.
"The animals showed the same biochemical behaviour
as the dying pathogen.  It poisoned the pathogen,
and it poisoned them, too."
      I stared at her in sudden realisation.  "The
malaise keeps them alive," I said incredulously.
"The decreased metabolism slows the uptake of the
vaccine to safe levels while it kills the
pathogen."  I looked to her for confirmation, and
she nodded.  "But then the body can't come back -
it can't rebuild the metabolic rate - not for a
long time, anyway."
      Olga handed me a sheaf of papers.  "That's
the raw data - some of it - but that's it in a
nutshell, yes.  I'll have a written report to that
effect ready for you to take to the Secretary
General tomorrow."  I nodded, frowning.  "If I may
make a suggestion, there are ways around this
problem once the pathogen is eliminated.
Adrenaline injections, gradual warming to stimulate
natural metabolic behaviour - there are
possibilities."
      My frown deepened.  "It's a start," I
conceded.  "We can start vaccinating people now -
the handful of people in the know, at least - but
it's still not suitable for mass vaccination.  We
can't treat every vaccinated person that way -
imagine the drain on medical resources.  The World
Health Organisation would never agree to it.  And
even if they did, people won't come forward for the
vaccine once reports of the after-effects start to
trickle in."
      Olga said hesitantly, "They might - if they
knew of the threat."
      "That is one thing the UN will never agree
to," I said pensively.  "Their secret taskforce on
interplanetary defence were unanimous that the
leaking of the alien threat would result in civil
breakdown."
      "Do you think they're right?"
      I shrugged.  "Who knows?"
      Olga gave a low sigh.  "We have another
problem, too.  The animals in the other room - the
ones who got the vaccine first, then the pathogen
two days later - they'll all dead, too."  I made
dismayed sound.  "The pathogen killed them."
      My jaw dropped.  "I don't understand - the
vaccine has its problems, but killing the pathogen
has never been one of them."  I frowned.  "Do we
know how it works?  I mean in the preventative
sense?"
      Olga sat down on a stool.  "Well, it isn't,
strictly speaking, a vaccine at all.  It's more
like a delayed-release poison that sits in the
body, dormant, waiting to be triggered."
      My brow creased.  "How is that possible?"
      "We don't know that with any certainty," she
admitted.  "My guess is that a small number of
vaccine cells somehow graft themselves somewhere in
the body, and when the pathogen is detected they
reproduce at a rapid rate."
      My head hurt.  Science was not one of my
strengths.  "How do the cells detect the pathogen?"
I asked wearily.
      Olga shrugged her shoulders.  "I'm still
guessing, but I imagine that Dr Charne-Sayrre bound
the cells to weak pathogen antibodies - like a
magic bullet that zooms in on the pathogen and
leaves everything else alone.  That's why the
vaccine levels drop again as soon as the pathogen
is dead."
      "What did you say?"  It came out in a hiss.
      "I said, the vaccine levels drop-"
      "No, before that," I said, rising.  "About
Benita."
      "I said she bound the cells to weak pathogen
antibodies."
      "No, not pathogen antibodies," I said in
realisation, my heart racing as I started to put it
together.  "Variola antibodies.  Benita was a
variola expert, and variola is a mutation of the
pathogen."  I could feel my blood pumping as it all
fell into place.  "It grafts itself to the cowpox
protein in the smallpox vaccination scar.  That's
why it works as a cure for everybody, but a
preventative only for those who have the scar."
      Olga nodded slowly.  She looked at me with
new respect.  "It's possible - probable," she
amended by way of concession.  "I'll run more tests
- this time on animals vaccinated for smallpox."
      "You do that," I said jubilantly.  "I'm going
to call the Secretary General.  We have to revive
the Smallpox Eradication Program.  Not just
Stateside - everywhere."  I watched her steadily.
"By the time we're ready to get this vaccine out
there, I want every man, woman and child already
vaccinated for smallpox."
      Olga looked at me dubiously.  "Do you really
think he'll do it?"  I shot her a gleeful look.
      "By the time I'm finished with him? Hell,
yeah."

      "How did it go?"
      I cleared my throat, and said theatrically,
"Ladies and gentlemen: we know almost nothing about
this terrorist group.  We do not know their aims.
We do not know their sympathies."
      "Because they don't exist," Skinner pointed
out over the low hum of his razor.
      "Shh!"  I glared at him reprovingly and went
on, "What we do know is that they have smallpox
supplies, and that they are prepared to use them.
We know that they have already used them in Payson,
South Carolina.  We have compelling evidence - not
just evidence, people; *compelling* evidence," I
added in my normal voice, and he laughed "- from
the FBI that this attack was intended to be a test
in preparation for a large-scale bioterrorist
attack.  The group we have dubbed The Syndicate-"
      "Duh-duh-duh-DUH!" he chimed in forebodingly.
      "- will strike again.  Our only defence is
the revival of the Smallpox Eradication Program,
supported financially and politically by the World
Health Organisation."  I said in a mock whisper,
"This is where it gets really tear-jerky."  I
cleared my throat again, and went on, "When you
consider your vote, I ask that you consider how
many people in your family, how many children are
not currently protected against this threat."
Skinner was grinning, and I said wearily, "And a
whole lot more."
      "Bravo."  He gave a little clap.  "What else
did you tell them?"
      I shook my head, laughing.  "Not a thing.  I
reiterated the same points for an hour."  I nodded
towards his bare chest.  "Would you put a shirt on?
You're making me cold just looking at you."
      "What do you expect, business attire?  You're
the one who rocked up unannounced at seven a.m.,"
he pointed out, but he complied.  "Did they
notice?"
     "Who knows? Maybe they just voted yes to shut
me up."
      He grinned at that, buttoning his shirt.  "So
when does it all begin?"
      I rubbed my hands together gleefully.
"That's the best part.  There's a press conference
in Geneva in -" I checked my watch "- one hour."
He passed into the kitchen, and I raised my voice
to be heard through the hutch.  "The smallpox
vaccine is being manufactured as we speak, and the
first supplies go out in the middle of next week."
      "Very quick," he commented, clinking cups and
spoons industriously.
      "They're afraid the so-called terrorists will
speed up their plans if they don't hurry.  Can't
think where they got that idea," I added
innocently.
      Skinner laughed, coming back into the lounge
with two cups of coffee.  I made a face when he
handed me mine.  "I know you don't like the stuff,
but you need it," he insisted.  He peered at me
appraisingly.  "You look tired, Marita."
      "Just jet lag," I said dismissively.
      "Can you get some sleep?"  He sat down
opposite me.
      I shook my head.  "I'm only passing through -
well, detouring around," I amended at his dubious
look, "but I wanted to let you know how it went.
I'm driving to Bethesda to get Gibson, and then
we're off to Spain for a couple of days, then
across to Tangier.  More flying," I added
irritably.  I eyed him critically.  "You don't look
so hot yourself, Walter.  Big night?"
      Skinner laughed.  "You're not going to
believe this," he said, gulping down a mouthful of
coffee, "but I sat up all night drinking with your
husband."
      My brow creased doubtfully.  "Alex?" I said
in disbelief.  "How did that happen?"  I looked at
him, perplexed.  I tried to picture those two as
drinking buddies, but the image just wouldn't form.
      "I'll have you know, Alex and I get along
very well when we aren't trying to kill one
another," he retorted primly.  I gave a bark of
laughter at that.  He explained, "I put one over on
him, in a manner of speaking, and he accepted
defeat like a man."  He sipped at his coffee, and
continued, "He drank to me, and then I drank to
him, and then he drank to me, and then I-"
      "I get the picture," I said, very much
amused.  I drank some of the awful coffee.  It hit
my taste buds bitterly.  "I'll bite," I said,
grimacing.  "What did you do that was so wonderful
that it warranted such mutual admiration?"
      He sat back with a smug little smile.  "I got
the nanocyte controller."
      My jaw dropped.  "How did you manage that?" I
demanded admiringly.
      He admitted shamefacedly, "Alex wanted the
oil stock.  I told him I wouldn't play ball unless
he gave me the controller."
      I shot him a reproachful look.  "I told you
to *give* it to him."
      Skinner's expression was innocent.  "You
didn't say I had to give it to him *free*."  I set
down my drink and sat back, annoyed.  He asked
tentatively, "Are you angry?"
      Relenting, I shook my head, sighing.  "Of
course not."  I could hardly blame him for wanting
his life back, after all - and he had ultimately
fulfilled my instructions.  "Can you keep the
controller safe until I get back?  I want to find a
way to kill these damn nanocytes once and for all."
      He finished his drink.  "That would be
great," he agreed, rising.  He took his cup to the
kitchen.
      "You must feel good," I called.
      He shrugged a little, returning to the
lounge.  "I did," he said, "but I'm regretting the
drinking binge.  I've got a hell of a day ahead."
He sat once more.  At my enquiring look, he
elaborated, "There's this guy called Michael
Kritschgau-" he broke off when I rolled my eyes.
"What?"
      I shook my head, waving my hand dismissively.
"Oh, he's that asshole who convinced Mulder the
alien threat was a hoax a few years ago.  Caused
Alex and I no end of trouble.  Go on."
      "Oh.  Anyway, he has these computer files
belonging to Dana.  UFO data, and according to her,
a map of the entire human genome."  I raised my
eyebrows at that, but didn't comment.  "His
apartment was set on fire last night, and his
laptop is missing.  She's off playing ministering
angel to Mulder-" his nose wrinkled in distaste at
that, and I remembered he and Scully were fighting
again "- so I have to find an agent to investigate.
That's going to be fun - I'm down nine staff, what
with maternity leave and sick leave and vanishing
lobotomised mutants." I thought this last must
refer to Mulder, but decided it just wasn't worth
pursuing.
      "What about Diana Don- Diana Fowley?" I
corrected.  "She's at a loose end now that she's
off the X Files."
      "Diana's dead," Skinner said grimly.
      "What?"  It came out in a hiss.
      "Murdered overnight.  That's my second
headache."
      I sat back in stupefaction.  "Those poor
kids," I said softly, my good humour forgotten.
      He stared at me.  "What are you talking
about?"
      "She was a widow," I said absently.  "Three
kids."
      A flicker of compassion crossed his features.
"I didn't know."
      "You weren't meant to.  Her husband was a
Consortium man."  I said, thinking aloud, "I wonder
what happens to them now.  That family has been
dropping like flies."
      It was a question that would be answered
sooner than I thought.

      "Just five more minutes."
      I looked at Gibson in bewilderment.  "Gibson,
it's just an arrivals lounge.  There's nothing to
see here.  We've already hung around here for an
hour."  He looked at me reproachfully.  I said more
gently, "I really want to get to the house.  I'm
hot and I'm tired.  Please."  He shot me a baleful
look, but he came along more or less willingly.
      I thought about it as we clambered into a
taxi, and the more I thought about it, the more it
seemed to me that something was wrong.  He was at a
prime age for prepubescent petulance; but somehow
that didn't strike me as a likely explanation.
Gibson was still too insecure after his ordeal to
risk being truly defiant.  I shot him a sidelong
look, and he seemed preoccupied...worried.  My brow
creasing, I mentally willed him to talk to me; and
he turned at once to face me.  It seemed so nicely
fortuitous that I forgot, for a moment, that he was
telepathic; but then I realised that my thought had
prompted his response.
      "What's wrong?" I asked him at last.
      His shoulder's were hunched.  He wouldn't
meet my gaze.  "If I tell you, you promise you
won't be angry?" he asked, his voice pleading.
      I frowned.  "I promise to try not to be
angry," I said cautiously.  What on earth could he
have done?
      "I kind of lied to you about this summer."
He shifted uncomfortably.
      "What do you mean?" I demanded, bewildered.
      Wincing, he admitted, "Alex thinks *he's*
looking after me at the house for the holidays."
      "Gibson!" I hissed, mortified.
      "I'm sorry!  I just thought if you two were
in that house he made for you, you'd talk about the
- about whatever you have to talk about -" I
groaned in disbelief "- and then everything would
be the way it was at Fort Marlene."  I hung my head
in my hands in dismay.  "I want him back, Marita.
I want you to be happy again."  He suddenly sounded
very young, and I sighed and put my arms around
him, though I didn't feel like it.  "Are you very
angry?" he asked worriedly, his voice muffled
against my shoulder.
      I made a sound of frustration.  "I'm
*furious*!"  He stiffened against me, and I kissed
his hair, relenting.  "But it will pass."  I pulled
back from him.  "All right, Cupid, when is he
meeting us?"
      He was very pale.  "That's the problem.  He
was supposed to meet us at the airport."
      I shrugged.  "Maybe he was delayed.  Maybe
he's going to meet us at the house."
      He shook his head.  "He didn't know you would
be here.  He thought I was flying unaccompanied."
I shot him a look, and understood at once his
concern.  Alexi would never have intentionally
risked leaving Gibson unsupervised in a foreign
airport; nor would he have risked the boy being
handed over to the authorities as abandoned.
      "What's your sense?" I demanded.  He said urgently:
      "He's in trouble."

      "I feel very badly about this, Ma'am."
      I looked up as the older woman put a cup of
tea in front of me.  One thing about the English,
they have their priorities straight.  When the shit
hits the fan, crack open the Twinings.
      I shook my head.  "It's not your fault,
Gladys.  My husband clearly intended to be back in
time to meet us and tell us you were at the house.
Thank you," I added, motioning to the cup.  I took
a sip gratefully.  I motioned to Gibson and the
Donovan children.  They were petting a very
reluctant cat in the gazebo.  "How are they
coping?"
      "I really couldn't say, Ma'am.  They were
quite distraught initially, but now they're just
shocked.  They've become accustomed to loss,
especially Samuel - the youngest," she added by way
of explanation.
      I nodded slowly.  "That's right - their
father and grandfather in the last three years, as
well.  And now their mother."  Gladys nodded.
"Those poor kids."
      "Your husband was very gentle with him when
he told them.  I think that helped - as much as
anything can help."  I nodded wistfully.  That
sounded like Alex.  She went on, "I hate to worry
you with this, but - what happens to us now?"
      I gave a shrug.  "I really don't know.  I'm
going to have to make some calls and find out about
Diana's estate.  I can't imagine who she gave
guardianship to - there's no-one left," I added
ruefully.  I gave a weary sigh.  "Are you willing
to stay here for now?  I'll make sure you continue
to get whatever Diana was paying you."  It didn't
occur to me to question why I considered these
latest Consortium orphans to be my responsibility;
I just did.
      "Yes, I'm happy to stay here," she said
easily.  "My children are grown, and I've never
been out of England before."
      "All right."  I finished my tea.  "Can you
tell me exactly what happened?"
      Gladys nodded.  "I got a phone call from Mr
Krycek earlier this week.  He told me that Mrs
Donovan was in danger and that she was going to
Tunisia, and that I was to bring the children to
meet her."
      "Didn't you think that was a little odd?"
      She shook her head.  "Mrs Donovan herself had
told me more than once that this could happen.  She
was a very brave woman, though I do think, you
know, that women should leave such dangerous work
to the men."  I suppressed a grin.  "Anyway, we
arrived in Tunis, and your husband met us.  He told
me privately that Mrs Donovan had passed away, and
that he had a house in Morocco, and that we should
stay there until he could work something out.  I
telephoned the FBI, and an Assistant Director there
confirmed her death."
      "Skinner," I supplied, nodding.
      "That's right.  So we came here with him, and
then he broke the news to the children.  He gave me
some money for our immediate needs and said he had
to go back to Tunisia, but that he would be back in
two days.  He said he had to pick up his son from
the airport.  That's all I know."
      "He called Gibson that?" I said, pleased.
"His son?"  Gladys nodded, and I smiled a little.
I asked, "How long was he here, and where did he go
while he was here?"
      "A few hours.  He used the bathroom and
shower, went to the master bedroom for a few
minutes, and the second bedroom for an hour or so.
I think he was getting it ready for the boy.  Other
than that, he was out here with the children and
I."
      I nodded, rising.  "Will you excuse me?"
      "Of course, Ma'am."
      I went to the master bedroom and opened the
built-in wardrobe.  Pulling back the carpet on the
floor, I found the metal plate Alex had once
described and lifted it, revealing the safe
beneath.  I tried our wedding date, my New York zip
code, and his cellphone number, to no avail.
      I finally got lucky with his old FBI badge
number.  Peering inside, I reached in and drew out
the oil stock - the one Alex had gotten from
Skinner.  That made me frown - his decision to
leave it here meant he had gone to do something at
least potentially dangerous, and if it was in
Tunisia, it was probably an intelligence sale.
He'd been doing that for a year now - Diana had
made the necessary introductions.  I wondered
fleetingly whether they'd been lovers, then decided
it hardly mattered now.
      Setting the stock aside, I drew out a laptop
computer.  I wondered what Alex was doing with it -
and why he thought it necessary to leave it in the
safe.  I turned it over, saw the engraved security
panel, and frowned.
      *Michael Kritschgau.*
      Frowning, I put the laptop back in the safe,
put everything back as it had been, and went out
back.  "Gladys?"
      "Yes, Ma'am?"
       "Would you mind watching Gibson, as well as
the others? I hate to impose-"
     "Not at all.  You're going to make some
enquiries about your husband?"
      I nodded.  Then, thinking of Gibson, I said
softly, "Tell me, are you able to use a firearm?"
      "You mean like a handgun?"
      "That's right."
      Gladys nodded.  "I do, actually - Mrs Donovan
thought it was wise for me to learn.  But I don't
have one."
      I nodded, and drew mine from my waistband.  I
held it out to her by the barrel, and she took it,
frowning.  I said meaningfully:
      "Just in case."

      I went to the library.
      Reading through three days' worth of Moroccan
and Tunisian newspapers, I identified four
gangland-style hits.  I eliminated two on the basis
of the country of origin of the weapon, and a third
on the basis of the physical description of the
victim.  The fourth hit was of interest: a Tunisian
diplomat, killed in Tunis by an American weapon,
the model of which I recognised as that issued as
standard to Spender's men.  It was possible that
Alex could have killed his buyer with an old weapon
from his days working for Spender - but that made
no sense; he would have returned to Tangier in that
case.  The other possibility was that Spender's men
had ambushed Alex and his buyer.
      Frowning, I left the library and travelled
south to Casablanca.  No point in making myself too
easy to trace: Tangier was the one place Alex and I
had that wasn't compromised.  I checked into a
hotel and telephoned Spender.
      "Ms Covarrubias," he said.  There was a hiss
of static on the line as he exhaled - probably
smoking.  "I wondered when you would get in touch."
      "My name is Krycek."  I flicked idly through
a hotel bible.  Three things were certain in life,
I reflected: death, taxes, and the Gideons.
      "Ah, yes.  I suppose there's little point in
concealing your marriage now that your enemies are
dead."  Make that four, I amended: Spender being a
prick.
      "Most of them," I said coldly.  "Where's my
husband?"
      "Why should I tell you that?" he asked with
interest.
      "Because you owe me," I snapped.  "You owe me
for my children.  You owe me for my marriage."
      "Your marriage - yes, I heard Alex was
displeased with the surprise you brought home."  I
winced, but said nothing, determined not to be
goaded.  "Some debts are not enforceable, Marita.
But I could be persuaded to give you the
information, if I were to get something in
exchange."
      Surprise, surprise.  "What did you have in
mind?"
      Sound of a flicking lighter.  "You may have
heard that I'm down an assistant."
      I laughed, genuinely amused.  "And you want
me to take the job?  No way.  Your offsiders have
an alarming death rate.  Diana was a comparative
veteran."  I put the bible back in its drawer and
took out a couple of complimentary mints.
      "Yes, but you have somewhat more value than
most of your predecessors."  He went on
thoughtfully, "I hear you've had the Smallpox
Eradication Program revived."
      I balanced the phone between my cheek and my
shoulder so I could unwrap a mint.  "You're not
getting within a mile of the work on the vaccine.
Even if I allowed it, there are others now who
wouldn't.  Your glory days are over."  I popped it
into my mouth.
      I expected him to argue, but he said
reflectively, "Maybe that's true.  But I still have
other projects, and you have connections, and
that's something that could be helpful to me."
      I frowned, but decided that it might be
better to cede partial defeat on this one.  "All
right," I said at last, swallowing my mint.  "Where
is he?"
      "Before I tell you, a condition."  More
exhaling.  I wondered if he didn't know it was rude
to smoke into the phone, or if he just didn't care.
      "What is it?" I asked wearily.
      "I don't want him freed," Spender replied.
He insisted, "I want Alex where I can lay my hands
on him."
      "And what if I free him anyway?" I demanded,
feeling cautious optimism.  Apparently Alex was
somewhere from which escape was an option.  But his
response chilled me.
      "I might have to tell him the truth about
your child."
      My reflection in the dresser mirror caught my
eye.  I was very pale; there were bright spots of
red high on my cheeks.  "You have no right-"
      "I have every right.  I have a vested
interest, after all."
      I decided not to pursue this unpromising line
of argument.  "Fine," I said coldly.  I twisted the
mint wrapper between my hands viciously.  "Tell me
where he is."
      "He's in a prison in Tunis."
      "Which one?"  He laughed at that.
      "The worst one."

      I left him there.
      I confirmed Spender's story of Alexi's
imprisonment, and I bribed an official to extend
him some protection; but I left him there.  I left
him because I knew he was safe, and I left him
because he'd tolerated worse conditions in Norylsk;
but mostly I left him because I was too weak to
tell him the truth and too cowardly to let Spender
do it for me.
      I stayed in Tangier for three weeks, in the
end, caring for Gibson and the Donovan children.
Diana's estate left Alex their legal guardian; I
had power of attorney over his affairs, just as he
did for me, so that made the children mine.
Although that was a legal reality rather than an
absolute one, I took it seriously, and did what
little I could for them.  I considered taking them
home to New York and rearing them myself, but they
were more or less settled; so I decided to leave
them there in Gladys' care.  Better that they
didn't get too attached to me; after all, I could
die too.
      Gibson regarded me watchfully during this
time, and I knew he disapproved of my decisions -
both concerning the other children and concerning
Alexi - but he didn't broach the issue.  Slowly,
very slowly he was learning to accept and trust in
my judgement.  Instead, he threw himself into the
business of getting to know his new surrogate
siblings.  He was very close to them, especially
Shane, who was not much younger than he.  Elizabeth
was distant, and that worried me, but I was in no
position to help.  Samuel was very clingy, and that
was bittersweet: he had been born after his
father's death, about the time Alex and I had
expected our own.
      Gibson remained in Tangier as well.  Spender
had known of my attachment to the boy, and his
renewed interest in Alex and I worried me.  Working
for Spender would increase the risk of Gibson being
found by a factor of ten.  After several heated
discussions late at night, Gibson reluctantly
accepted my decision; so I returned to New York
alone, a childless mother yet again.
      My work with Spender was mercifully limited.
It seemed that Mulder had spontaneously mutated
before I went to Tangier, and that Spender had
stolen the hybrid genes by some kind of surgical
intervention.  It was that which Skinner had been
referring to with his lobotomised mutant remark
before I left.  Instead of survival, the operation
had left Spender facing his own death.  He was
determined to die with his boots on, pursuing the
work to the bitter end; but the work, as he
understood it, no longer existed.  He was left with
pursuing nonsense leads in the hope of building
something of meaning before he died, and my work
was limited to stamping on the occasional spotfires
he left behind.  The man disgusted me on a thousand
levels, but his predicament struck me as very sad.
He was like a child, grasping blindly at anything
that seemed like a good idea at the time, with no
comprehension of the big picture.
      My real work, the work on the vaccine,
continued in leaps and bounds.  I took the laptop
from Tangier and laboriously reassembled the human
genome information, breaking down the deleted data
into individual bytes and transposing the data,
then reassembling it into something comprehensible.
A lot of it was pointless, irritating work - I
reassembled not only the data, but Michael
Kritschgau's private e-mail, his internet cache,
and his downloaded porn.  This last left me turning
my head to one side in chagrined disbelief on more
than one occasion.  But at last, it was done, and I
had a map of the complete human genome.  Once Olga
had verified the information as well as she was
able, I patented it in Alexi's and my name; but I
made no attempt to licence its use.  That would
come later, when all this was over.  Right now my
priority was using the information to perfect the
vaccine.
      Christmas came - a time Alex and I had always
made for one another, no matter how far apart we
were - and that brought his absence into sharp
relief.  The sorrow, always lingering, became
acute; the pain, my constant companion.  The
jubilation I felt at our moderate successes on the
vaccine was muted: this was his work, too, and he
should be here to share it.  My strength lay in
computers and politics, and his in science and
security; this work, which at last was coming
together into something that might really make a
difference, could not have happened without both of
us.  Our marriage had united our strengths, given
us clarity and permanence with which to succeed
where so many others had failed; and now that our
marriage was in pieces, the work, fruit of our
union, brought me sorrow as well as joy.  In this
time - this time of strength and of profound
loneliness - that was true of many things.
      It was the little things that seemed to
matter the most.  Memories that were mere fragments
of a life became focal, considered and analysed in
torturous detail in the silence of the night.  I
thought of Alexi, and I remembered the one I'd had
before him - and the one after, but I tried not to
think of that - and how he had moved above me, his
body pulled back from mine, supporting himself with
rigid arms.  Even before we had loved one another
(had there ever been such a time?), it would never
have occurred to Alex to do such a thing.  Making
love was not an athletic activity; it was a
joining.  He would cover me with his body and his
weight, skin on skin, heart over heart, breath to
breath, filling the space in my heart as well as
the one in my body.  He would allow me to engulf
him in every way, to hold him in my arms and within
myself.  My body screamed to be touched after so
long alone, but more than anything, I craved that
joining of the soul.  I wished we had made love
after my return, just once; because then the other
would not be my most recent memory.  It would be my
husband's hand I felt on my neck and on my breast
and on my thigh, and not those other hands.
      The other - a painful memory, one I tried not
to let in; but sometimes it seeped in anyway,
pervading my mind and my body like a poison.  I
doubt he'd even wanted me, in my sickened state;
but I had offered my body as a concession in
exchange for one of his own, and he was not the
sort of man to give without extracting something in
exchange.  He accepted my offer simply because he
could, unaware that I wanted something else,
something that he could give me in this act: the
means to live.  What had been done to me wasn't the
horror of rape, but it left bile in my throat and
ice in my veins, even now.  More than anything, it
left the raging fire of shame.  And in those
moments when the memory caught me unawares, I would
pray for forgiveness - from my God, from my
husband, from myself.
      But sometimes it felt as though that was
beyond the power of all three.

      "What do you mean, you're out of ideas?"
      Olga's expression was unhappy.  "What you're
seeking just can't be done with any of the
pharmaceuticals currently available.  You want
something that will do nothing for twenty hours and
then just magically kick in.  These things don't
come with a built-in time clock, you know."
      I turned the pages of the report rapidly.
"What's wrong with metabolic stimulants?"
      Olga shook her head.  "Adding metabolic
stimulants to the formula is useless - people's
bodies will come back too soon, and they'll die
from the vaccine."  Her tone left no room for
argument, and I didn't try - I knew she was right,
and she was tiring of playing teacher to a
layperson.  We were both on a hair-trigger of
nerves after weeks of twenty-hour days.
      "What about delayed-release metabolic
stimulants?" I asked at last, with no idea of
whether such a thing existed.
      She shook her head.  "There's no such thing.
Sustained release, maybe, but not delayed release.
You're not hearing me, Marita," she accused
angrily.  "What you're asking for is not possible.
It requires a kind of precision which is outside
the realm of the pharmaceutical.  It's more like -
I don't know, artificial intelligence."
      I stared at her in shock - stared at her for
a full five seconds, thunderstruck.  I started to
laugh, my blood pumping, my body alive with
realisation. "Olga, you're a genius."  She watched
me with utter bewilderment, and the last thing I
heard as I bolted out of the lab was her
beleaguered sigh:
      "Bloody Americans."

      "It works!"
      I jumped, startled.  "What?" I hissed.  I
hadn't been aware of going to sleep.  I looked
around, disorientated.  I was at my mother's, in
the downstairs lab, and the jubilant voice belonged
to Olga.  My laptop was open before me, networked
with the nanocyte controller and Michael
Kritschgau's hard drive by a mass of leads.  I
blinked rapidly, and it all started to come back.
"How long have I been asleep?"
      "Six hours.  You hadn't slept in two days - I
didn't like to disturb you."
      I shook my head to clear it.  "Did you say it
worked?"  I was dimly aware of the noises in the
background.  Animals jumping and scratching and
calling to one another.  It sounded strange, and
after a moment I pinned down the reason why.  I was
used to the quiet that usually followed the tests.
      Olga was nodding.  "Half got the vaccine
administered after the pathogen.  They all
eliminated the pathogen, and were ill in the ways
we've seen before for twenty hours.  Then the
nanocytes kicked in to boost the metabolism, and
they came back."
      I could feel my excitement building.  "What
about the others?  The ones who got the vaccine
first?"
      "Same story.  When the pathogen is
introduced, the antibodies reproduce at a rapid
rate and attack.  The metabolic rate plummets to
protect the body.  Then, when the pathogen is gone
and the free-floating antibodies have died, the
nanocytes kick in and rebuild the metabolism."  She
looked at me curiously.  "You really did it."
      I was grinning like a gleeful idiot.  "We did
it," I corrected.  "Thank God."  I gave a low sigh
of exhilarated relief.  "Any side effects beyond
the twenty hour recovery period?"
      "Yes," Olga said, and at my stricken look,
she held up a calming hand.  "The metabolic kick-
start seems to kick-start a one-off regenerative
process, as well."
      I frowned.  "Explain."
      "Well, for one thing, the vaccination scars
are healing over.  The cowpox protein is still
there," she added at my look of alarm, "but the
soft tissues are regenerating.  That may make it
difficult to tell those who have been vaccinated
apart from those who never got a smallpox vaccine,
but that's a relatively minor issue.  More
significant regeneration is taking place, as well:
one of the monkeys was missing about two inches of
a finger where a cage door had slammed on it."
      I glared at her, temporarily diverted.  "I
expect better care of these animals than that."
      "It didn't happen here," she said hastily.
"It was at the breeder's.  Anyway, it's growing
back.  Quite fascinating, because something like
that doesn't regenerate in the normal scheme of
things.  It grows once, in utero, and then that's
it.  If you lose it, it's gone forever."
      "Could bigger parts of the body be restored?"
I asked, thinking of Alex.
      "You mean like a limb?" she queried.  "I
doubt it.  I think we're talking about a mild, one-
off regeneration of small areas.  We have other
monkeys with more significant injuries, and they
haven't healed.  If I had to guess, I'd say we're
looking at tissues and organs with a diameter of
perhaps a few inches at most.  Tonsils, glands,
that sort of thing.  We might see a rush on repeat
circumcisions."
      I laughed.  "Will it cure disease?"
      "No, but it will repair some of the damage.
In some cases it will buy people time."
      "Nice bonus."
      "Very satisfying."
      I rose from my stool awkwardly.  "How the
hell did I *sleep* there?" I marvelled.  I
stretched, my joints cricking in symphony.  Olga
winced.  I rolled my head a little.  "God, that
hurts.  Okay, so the nanocytes work in apes.  Do
they work in humans - and without doing any harm?"
      "I couldn't say without a human subject."
      "We need-" I broke off when my cell phone
rang.  "Sorry, Olga; hang on."  I opened the flip.
"Marita Krycek."
      Spender's voice echoed through the phone.
"Where are you?"
      I made a face.  "New York," I said with long-
suffering weariness.  "What do you want?"
      If he heard my irritation, he chose to ignore
it.  "Practically next door," he said brightly.
"I'm at the Summervale Inn in Pennsylvania.  I'd
like you to meet me."
      I balanced the phone between my cheek and my
shoulder.  "Can it wait?" I said, ignoring Olga's
reproving look.  She'd been pestering me about the
habit for a while.  The words 'strained neck' were
a recurring theme; she mouthed them now.
      "I'm afraid it can't."  I waited for the
telltale static of exhaled smoke, but it didn't
come.  Could it be that he wasn't smoking?
      "What the hell do you want, Spender?"
      He said calmly, "I've drugged Dana Scully.  I
would like you to change her into more comfortable
clothes."
      He betrayed no awareness of the strangeness
of his words.  It was such an innocently peculiar
request.  Feeling slightly surreal, I snapped,
"What am I, a fucking nursemaid?  Do it yourself."
      "I don't think that's appropriate," he said
primly.
      I thought about it.  "All right," I said at
last, "I'll come.  Give me an hour."  I rang off,
and turned to Olga.
      "I think we just got our human subject."

      "This is a mind-fuck!"
      Spender wrinkled his features in distaste.
"You can be terribly uncouth, Marita," he said
reprovingly.  "It doesn't become you."
      "You bring out the worst in me," I said
coldly.
      "That wasn't always the case."
      I stared up at him in disbelief that he
genuinely believed that, but decided it just wasn't
worth pursuing.  Instead, I said incredulously,
"You seriously believe that when this woman wakes
up and finds her clothes have been tampered with,
she will feel safe with you?"
      "If her underwear isn't disturbed, yes, I
think she will."  I shook my head incredulously.
It was a logic that only Spender could have come up
with.  Not for the first time, I wondered if the
inflammation in his brain might be affecting his
intellect.  He was not a stupid man, even now; but
the lines that connected some of the greater
complexities were going down.  "I will have had her
vulnerable and exposed, and yet I will not have
taken advantage of her," he went on.  "That counts
for a lot."
      I said disgustedly, "It does, doesn't it?"
      He shot me a look, but said nothing; and then
he left the room, shutting the door quietly behind
him.
      I watched him go, perplexed; then returned my
attention to the task at hand.  Dana Scully lay on
the bed, dressed in a crisp business suit, two
hours into a drug-induced slumber that should last
for fifteen.  I went dutifully to her overnight bag
and withdrew her pyjamas - awful pink satin things.
Painstakingly, I undressed the older woman, lifting
each limb with care, until at last I had her laid
out before me in her underwear.  I looked at her
lingerie approvingly: sensible white things
befitting a woman on a mission.  I noted the
recording apparatus in her bra, and I decided to
leave it there.  I didn't know exactly what either
of them were up to, but if Scully was out to
outsmart Spender, I'd go along with it.
      With my ear tuned to the sounds of movement
behind the door, I withdrew a leather pouch from my
pocket and opened it.  Working quickly, I found a
dark freckle on the fleshy part of Scully's thigh;
drew vaccine up into a needle, and eased it into
her flesh there, counting on the freckle to
disguise the point of entry.  I injected her with
pathogen next.  I opened her eyelids and took a
cursory glance to be sure there was no telltale
sheen of oil over her eyes; but the efficacy of the
vaccine was not in question, and in any case,
Scully was already immune.  The question was, after
her metabolism dropped in the course of killing the
pathogen, would her body recover?
      I packed up my pouch, looking nervously at
the door, and gently swabbed away the spot of blood
on Scully's leg.  If all went well, I reflected,
she would wake feeling ill, and she would probably
accuse Spender of drugging her.  She would write
off the seven hours of malaise that followed to the
after-effects.  Of course, if things went wrong,
she might stay ill; but I didn't really believe
that would happen.  I was pretty sure of my ground.
      And at last, my faith was justified.

      Scully recovered.
      She and Spender went on with their odd little
intrigue; and I gathered later that whatever the
aim had been, Spender had won, but that the victory
gave him no advantage.  But that wasn't the point:
the point was, Scully had the nanocytes in her
body, and they did their job, and she suffered no
ill-effects.  I followed up with a test on myself,
partly for scientific veracity, and partly in the
desperate hope that my shredded uterine tissue
would regenerate, allowing me to bear children once
more.  The four children I reared from afar had not
eased my pain, but rather made it acute.
      It wasn't enough testing - not by a long shot
- but I was convinced enough of the vaccine's
safety to take it to the Secretary General, my
powerful ally.  He, in turn, was convinced enough
to create a top-secret taskforce within the World
Health Organisation to formally test the vaccine
and verify our findings.
      Within a month, we had some preliminary
results on the table, and a top-secret
extraordinary meeting of the United Nations was
called.  I travelled to Geneva in my new capacity
as Under-Secretary General and made a marathon
thirteen-hour presentation, supported by
presentations by Skinner, Senator Sorenson, Olga,
and a small handful of surviving Consortium
employees and abductees.
      During the heated discussions that followed,
several representatives admitted independent
knowledge of the colonisation threat.  That swayed
the balance, and they voted in favour of the world
vaccination program and an accompanying program of
disinformation.  The timetable for the release of
the vaccine, subject to favourable testing
outcomes, was less than twelve months.  I signed
over the manufacturing rights to the vaccine for an
amount which was token in pharmaceutical terms, but
which was enough to keep Alex and the children and
I in comfort for the rest of our lives.
      We'd done it.
      We'd really done it.

      On our last night in Geneva, Skinner came to
me.
      I knew what he wanted when he passed into my
hotel room; I had known for a while, and that
knowledge left me torn.  It had been more than a
year since I had last been touched; more than two
since a man had truly made love to me.  When he
embraced me, I clung to him, consumed with
ravenous, devastating need.  He felt so substantial
in my arms, so warm; and how I longed to be warm.
      Cautiously, tentatively, he bent his head to
mine and kissed me, a first kiss, steeped in
fondness and caring.  I tilted my head to meet him,
opening my mouth beneath his, letting him taste me.
For long, long moments, I relished what it was to
be wanted and adored; but when he pulled away, I
made no attempt at pursuit.  We stood there, gazes
locked for a long, silent moment.  I felt deep
sadness.
      He swallowed painfully, and at last, he
touched my cheek with tenderness.  "It's not there,
is it?" he said in a raw whisper, his hold on me
loosening.
      I could have let myself off the hook right
then, denied that there was a choice to be made;
but I didn't.  There were truths here that I needed
to honour with words.  "It is," I admitted
wistfully.  "I want you, Walter.  Maybe I even love
you a little.  But..." I trailed off, helplessly
shaking my head.
      "Alex," he supplied.  His voice was kind.
      I nodded.  "Yeah," I agreed softly. I stroked
his cheek with the back of my hand, and he leaned
into it, his eyes closed painfully.  I said gently,
taking his hand in mine, "Alexi and I aren't over
just because he's not my lover.  He's the other
half of my soul."  Tears started to slip down my
cheeks - a lot of them tears for Alex, but some of
them for Walter, and some of them for myself,
because I wanted to be held, and it hurt like hell
to give that up.  "I dishonoured that once, and
even if he never touches me again, I can't do that
again.  I'd like to prove that I'm better than
that."
      He brushed away my tears, watching me
steadily.  He nodded in understanding.  His eyes
were unnaturally bright, and it hurt me to know
that I had hurt this man, this faithful man I loved
second only to one.  He bent to kiss me once more,
and I allowed it; and when he pulled away, he
gently detached myself from me.  "I love you,
Marita," he said, still holding my hand.
      "I love you, my friend," I whispered,
squeezing it tightly before finally letting go.  I
watched as he went to the door, but as he turned
the handle, I called his name.  He turned back to
me, his expression a question.
      "Go to Dana," I counselled.  I spoke not as a
rejecting lover, but as a friend; and I prayed he
heard it that way.  "You loved her longer and
better than you've ever loved me.  You two have
unfinished business."
      He nodded slowly.  "Maybe I will," he said
gravely.  He looked away, and started to turn the
doorknob again, but then he turned back once more.
"Do you remember that night Alex and I sat up
drinking together?  The night before you came back
from Geneva?"
      "Yes, I remember."
      He said, his brow creasing, "There was
something that he said that's stayed with me, and I
think I finally know why."
      "What was it?" I said curiously.
       "He said - very flippantly, he said it - he
said, 'I'd take your charms, but I'm a married
man.'"
       I looked at him blankly.  "You knew he was
bisexual," I said in confusion, not at the words
but at why Skinner considered them significant.
      He made a dismissive gesture.  "Of course I
did.  You're missing the point."  I looked at him,
perplexed.  "He said he was a married man," he said
emphatically.  "He still thinks of himself as your
husband, Marita."  He opened the door.  "I don't
think Dana and I are the only ones with unfinished
business."
      He left then, and I waited until his
footsteps receded, and then I sank down on the
lounge and wept.  I wept for myself, and for
Walter, and for Alex, sitting in a filthy jail cell
for my cowardice; but more than anything, I wept
because I feared I would never be held again.

      "They're back."
      Spender made his proclamation, not with a
bang, but with a whisper.  He was grey now, his
body failing him.  He was not as sick as I had been
when he'd held me captive, but he looked remarkably
similar - same red eyes, same cracked lips.  It was
not in me to feel pity for him, but nor could I
feel the vengeful jubilance I had expected in
anticipation of his final days.
      I watched him warily.  Even now, defeated and
helpless, he struck me as someone capable of
profound evil.  He sat innocently in his
wheelchair, but that did not ease my worry; it
merely meant that the evil was momentarily in
check.  In a way, his helplessness frightened me
more: Spender no longer had anything left to lose.
That made him dangerous - more dangerous.
      "Who's back?" I demanded at last.
      Spender nodded to his nurse, who discreetly
withdrew.  After the door shut behind her, he said
calmly, "The alien colonists are back."
      I wondered fleetingly about the possibility
of dementia.  "The colonists are dead.  The ones
who were here died at the rebels' hands, and the
ones on Mars couldn't have gotten here so fast."  I
spoke very evenly and calmly, unsure of my ground.
      "They aren't from Mars.  They're survivors
from Antarctica."
       "Antarctica?" I said in disbelief, my eyes
wide.
      Spender nodded.  "Apparently your vaccine not
only kills the pathogenic lifeform, but the
humanoids as well."  I nodded - Alex and I had
already known that.  "The UFO that broke anchor
when Antarctica fell had one hundred and three
colonists on board.  They all became ill, and most
died."
      "Most?" I echoed with mounting fear.
      Spender nodded.  He looked satisfied.  Could
it be that the man thought this was a good thing?
"The craft continued on autopilot for almost a
year.  When the six survivors recovered enough to
restore contact with their own kind, the hybrid
project had fallen, and Mars was at war over who
should control the planned invasion."
      I nodded slowly.  His data matched Alexi's
speculations and my own about the outcomes of the
fall of the colonists.  I was no longer humouring
his demented ravings: the danger was real.  "What
did they do?" I asked finally in a deathly quiet
voice.
      "If they can make a hybrid and bring it home,
they will have the political sway to take control
from the rebels."  I gasped, comprehending.
"They've been working secretly in Oregon for five
months now, trying to recreate what happened in
Mulder last year."
      "Have they succeeded?"
      Spender shook his head.  "No.  Their craft
collided with an air force plane last night.  They
fear the rebels will become aware of them, and so
they are gathering up their subjects.  They plan to
move to another location once they have cleaned up
the evidence of their actions."
      I thought about this.  "How do you know all
this?" I demanded at last.
      "I have been monitoring their transmissions
home for some time."
      I rose and walked to the window.  I breathed
out heavily, trying to make sense of what all this
meant.  A touch of condensation formed on the
glass, and I wiped it away, absently.  Spender
watched me; I watched him watching me in the
reflection.   His expression was an odd mix of
calculation and affection.  It was an expression I
had seen once before; but I shunted that memory
aside hurriedly.  I wouldn't think about that - not
today.
      At last, I turned back to face him.  "So what
does all this mean for us?"
      He looked mildly annoyed at my lack of
foresight.  "It means we can find them and join
them," he said, as though this were the obvious
course of action.  I could think of no strategy
less appealing, save for surrender.  "It means we
can save ourselves."
      "Save yourself, you mean," I said coldly.
     "If they take you home as the prized hybrid,
they'll heal you and you will live."
      "Don't you want to survive it, Marita?" he
asked, truly puzzled.  "You could join me.  Be my
consort."
      Consort?
      With effort, I passed over the astoundingly
repugnant implications of that. I demanded angrily,
"Be queen of a race which will no longer exist?
What's the point of that?"
      He made a conceding gesture, but pointed out,
"It's life."  I watched him in stony silence, and
at last, he said, "We can even bring Alex if it's
that important to you.  The crown prince.  He can
play Lancelot to your Guinevere."  His tone was
lightly mocking, but I could see he was serious.
      I frowned.  "And if I say yes - then what?"
      "We find that ship, and join them on their
journey home."
      I thought - thought for some time.  I thought
about the vaccine, and how its distribution,
unknown to Spender, was mere months away.  I
thought about the colonists, near enough to invade
before then; and the warring groups on Mars, who
were not.  I thought about Alex - Alex, who wasn't
immune.  And slowly, the seeds of a plan began to
grow in my mind.
      We could really end this thing.
      If I couldn't have my marriage, then at least
I could have that - for myself, for my children,
and for the man I loved.
      "You say I can have Alex?" I demanded, my
eyes bright.
      "Certainly, you may have Alex."  I watched
him steadily.
      "Then my answer is yes."

COMING IN PART 7: (ALEX) SURVIVAL, VENGEANCE, AND
PENANCE (October 1)