Not My Lover

Part One

Not my lover.

Marita was not my lover.

A colleague, a fellow conspirator, a foil. And, yes, an enjoyable companion, whether bantering at my side or sighing beneath me, or in the company of decadently naked friends.

But not my lover.

The dark man introduced us. He was playing both sides against each other - feeding information to one side, preserving the lies of the other. He was grooming Marita to be his successor when his deception became known, as deception always does. For the dark man, ideology was delineated by truth and lies, good and evil - black and white, if you will. He didn't know that Mare's ideology was more concrete - vaccines and deals. Where the dark man hoped fruitlessly to prevent colonisation, Mare hoped to survive it.

For my part, I was a lackey of the team he had neatly designated "lies". As such, he made himself known to me, and delegated me to his would-be successor. Mare was to keep an eye on me, and so she did. I didn't mind. I was young and naive, but I understood one rule of the game already: watch, listen, and be prepared to switch sides to live. It was the one rule which Mare and I considered sacrosanct. Trust was necessarily fluid, disclosure never total.

And so she was not my lover.

She would become my beloved, my heart, my soul.

But not my lover.

"Alexi?"

I turned, closing the flip of my cell phone with a snap. "There you are. I've been looking for you."

"And I've been looking for you," she said playfully, threading hands through my pockets. She pulled my hips to hers, her touch maddeningly close to my groin. "I was hoping to whisk you away-"

Something in my face must have communicated my distress, because she suddenly let go, withdrawing her hands, and used them to take my own. "Alexi?" she asked quietly. "What is it?"

I gently extricated one hand, holding up my cell. "That was Spender." Then, tentatively, I explained, "He wants me to take care of Bill Mulder and Dana Scully." That I was reluctant to carry out my orders was a concession in itself - one I didn't like to share - but I intuited that it was safe to share this with her.

Her voice was gentle - uncharacteristically so. "Alexi, I'm sorry. Are you all right?" My fleeting fear that she would not understand dissipated, forgotten.

I shook my head; said at last, "Bill Mulder is one thing - he's up to his neck in this - but Scully's an innocent." Then, my voice hoarse, I rasped, "I never wanted to kill anyone I knew, Mare." A flicker of compassion lighted on her features, and she wound her arms around me.

"I know," she said, her voice muffled against my neck. I felt so cold. I could feel her hot breath on me, and it seared through me, comfortingly. I heard her whisper at last, "I hope that's not something ever asked of me."

I pulled back roughly. "If it is," I demanded, taking her by the shoulders, "you tell me. I'll do it for you." Her eyes widened; her lips parted, but no sound came out. My hold on her arms tightened. "Promise me you'll never kill, Mare. Only in self-defense."

She stared at me for a long moment, as though puzzled by the strength of my reaction, or perhaps deliberating my words. At last, though, she nodded. "I promise." She slid arms around my neck once more. "You're so cold. Let me make you warm."

I nodded, burying my face in her hair. "Mare," I breathed, smelling it. "Oh, God, Mare, please."

She turned her face to mine then, and kissed me; first my cheek, then my mouth; her lips warm, her mouth warm, and she made me live once more. My throat constricted as she cradled my neck with her hands, adoring me, and I remember a flash of something more, some empathic passion, something to do with her, her face, her heart; but it was gone before I could grasp what it might be.

There were no preliminaries. No long, languid strokes; no massages or kisses in all those strange and beautiful places a woman has - the point where her ribs end, the inside of the elbow. Shirts were pulled over heads; jeans were tossed heedlessly in both directions. We clasped one another, naked, falling onto the bed, our mouths at war, tongues dancing against one another, each seeking possession of the other. She started to pull away at one point - perhaps to take me into her mouth, I don't know - but I pulled her back, holding the length of her body against mine. "Don't go," I said mindlessly; and again, she understood, content to kiss, to hold and be held. No preliminaries, but we stayed there, touching faces, holding one another's gazes, exposed and raw. I explored her face with my fingertips in wonder, wonder that she would let my bloodied hands touch her.

At last, I kissed her forehead, and started to move towards the nightstand. She stilled me with a touch.

"I want you bare," she whispered.

My eyes flew open. In an instant I understood what she really was asking. Monogamy, if not actual, then symbolic; for neither of us would risk the other by doing this unprotected with anyone else. I understood, too, the gift she was offering. Acceptance...belonging. She was prepared to own me, and allow me to own her, despite the things I had done...the things I would do. I stared at her in shock; took in the guarded, hunted look she gave me.

"You're sure?" I asked, at last.

She nodded, her lips drawn tight, seeming not to trust herself to speak.

So I entered her, bare, as she had asked; and as we moved in rhythm, I stared into her eyes, searching for answers; because my own held none. I knew only that her gift made me need her even more. That, and that the intoxicating shudders radiating through my body were but a fragment of what I felt for her. And when I came, it was not an expletive or a deity or a mindless sound on my lips, but her name; and I kept saying it, kissing her, until she was asleep in my arms.

I was preparing to leave her when she stirred. "Alexi?" she said softly, peering out beneath half-closed eyelids.

"Hush, Mare," I said quietly, tying my shoes. "Sleep."

"You don't have to do it," she whispered earnestly.

I stared at her. "I don't understand."

"Something could go wrong. She could outsmart you. You could get the wrong person." As I watched her with sudden understanding, she whispered, "You don't have to get it right, Alex. This is not your fight."

I frowned; then, rising, I said evenly, "I have to go. I'm meeting Cardinale in an hour."

She opened her mouth to speak again, but then she closed it. She nodded. I went to her, and kissed her forehead. "I'll be okay."

She nodded again. "If anything does go wrong-"

"It won't," I said, with more surety than I felt. I smiled at her fondly, and went to the door. She called my name, and I turned.

"Don't let Cardinale leave you alone."

Frowning, I nodded, and I left her.

Not my lover.

Not my lover, but I remembered her words when I shot high over Scully's head at Mulder's. I remembered them when my surveillance indicated that Melissa Scully would arrive at Scully's home when her sister was out. I remembered her words when I stood over the woman, also an innocent, and couldn't stifle a sound of remorse. It wasn't my fight...none of it was.

I remembered her words when Cardinale left me alone in the car, and when the clock flashed zero. I remembered them when, after making it clear of the blast, I felt in my pocket and discovered I still had the digital tape containing the MJ-12 documents. I remembered them when I fled, an outlaw. And when I had nowhere else to go, it was Mare I trusted.

She sheltered me in Baltimore. She took leave from the United Nations. For weeks, we poured over the data on the tape, consulting computer and Navajo experts alike. We worked all day; we loved, newly tender by night.

She worked hard.

And she haunted me.

Then came the day when I watched her from across the room.

She wasn't doing anything special. Flipping through CDs, her straw-coloured hair falling across her profile. She tucked it back behind her ear absently, and looked up, her fingers marking a Phil Collins case. Her lips parted as though to speak, but then she stopped, her eyes meeting mine, marking me.

"Alexi?" she asked in a whisper.

God only knew what she saw on my face. I was aware of nothing there - no love, no scrutiny. I was just watching. And yet her voice and her gaze freed in me some awe, some enthralled fascination; and I crossed the room in three strides, capturing her face between my hands. "I *want* you," I declared, and I knew it was the wrong word, both diplomatically and descriptively; but I said it with such surprised wonder, such cherishing awe that she knew, had to know, that it was love that I meant.

"I want you, too," she whispered earnestly, her smile gentle. "So much."

I leaned down and kissed her, tenderly, as though for the first time. After a long moment, she pulled away, and smoothed back my hair lovingly.

"Let's get back to work."

At last, we decoded it. The knowledge we gained from that tape left us, in the extremity of it, cradled together, spooned around one another as we puzzled over what it all meant. For two days, we stayed in bed, drinking, talking, arguing about what to do with what we had learned.

It had not been my fight, but now...it was our fight now.

She milked the information for her own uses; I knew that. Equally, she assisted me, connecting me with Jeraldine Kallenchuk, whose ability to sell information was rivalled only by her preparedness to engage in treason. For some months I sold useful information from the MJ-12 files to interests all around the world.

But we kept the real secrets for ourselves.

I'm still an American, dammit.

Jeraldine's death was the purest of bad luck. Selling the location of the American submarine, the Zeus Faber, had seemed like easy money. I had been impressed that she'd found a buyer for it, in fact. I knew of the unusual occurrences on board the Faber, of course; but it had never occurred to me that the lifeform on board could stay alive for forty years.

Much less escape.

The first I knew of the catastrophe was when Jeraldine turned up at our Hong Kong rendezvous handcuffed to Mulder. As I ran off, leaving Jeraldine dead and Mulder to an uncertain fate at the hands of the Consortium lackeys, I quickly made all the necessary connections and understood that something had gone very wrong on the Zeus Faber. I did not fully understand the significance of Mulder's presence until he caught up with me at the airport. Predictably, he wanted to kill me over his father; less predictably, he let me live because he wanted the digital tape. That meant he was becoming more aware of the nature of the Consortium and its involvement in his investigations. Mulder was finally becoming a player.

He threw me a few punches, of course; no escaping that. I took them and didn't fight back. I guess he'd earned a few free blows. When he was done, I went to the bathroom to clean myself up, and that was when I was infected.

Being infected with the alien pathogen was an interesting experience from a scientific perspective, though I wouldn't recommend it. I was conscious throughout the alien's possession of my body. It gained my knowledge in an instant, and while there was no telepathy, I somehow knew Its will and was compelled to obey. I saw, though my sight was dark and filmy. I saw, I think, through the lens of the alien organism, rather than my own; but it's hard to be certain. My voice was my own, but I had no control over my speech. I was Its voice. Despite this, I retained my own will throughout the ordeal. It was as though the connections between the will and the body were irrevocably severed. I gained a unique insight into what it was to be a drone; and it terrified me. I had seen the collapse of the woman who had infected me after it was done, and I was certain I would die in the same way when I was no longer of use. That she lived was something I would learn only much later.

Fortunately for me, I was of considerable use to It. I obtained the digital tape and took it to the Smoker. It wanted to return to Its ship, and Spender was happy to oblige by way of trade for the tape. The deal was done, and I was thrown into the missile silo with the salvaged UFO. My fear turned to cold, flint-like terror. I knew that the UFO was radioactive, and I also knew that once I was no longer infected, my protection from the radiation would disappear. Once that occurred, I had about a two-minute time window in which to escape without becoming burnt or seriously ill. During that time, the alien enzymes that interrupted the abnormal cell reactions associated with gamma radiation would be slowly absorbed by my T-lymphocytes, leaving me defenseless. Even if I got out during that time window, I had a fifty-fifty chance of contracting multiple cancers. I was used to living on the edge of death, but cancer isn't a pretty way to go. Neither is radiation sickness.

Knowledge is not always a good thing.

As I coughed and sputtered, as the black evil thing left me, I tried to make some sort of sense of my life and my death. Mulder and Scully's voices drifted in to me, maddeningly close, and then other voices spirited them away. Scully screaming out that there were men in there with radiation burns. It occurred to me that if this was what colonisation would be like, if this was what it was to be a drone, perhaps I had been spared.

At last, it was over. I was myself again. If my eyes and mouth and lungs hurt, that was insignificant, because I had only minutes to live. At least I would die in my right mind and in control of my body. I stared at my watch in the dark. Its performance was affected by the alien craft, but it was still possible to use the seconds' needle to mark the passage of time. One hundred seconds...ninety...eighty...seventy.

At sixty seconds, I heard what sounded like a clattering sound. It became louder through fifty. At forty, I heard a series of gunshots. At twenty-five, I heard her voice.

"Alexi!" she screamed. "Alexi!"

I ran to the door and banged. "Mare! Silo ten-thirteen! I'm with the UFO!"

She came flying down the corridor and wrestled with the door. "How long have you got?" she cried through the thick window.

"About fifteen seconds to nil protection. Sixty seconds off lethal levels. Hurry, goddamn it!"

She stared at me in horror for a precious second, then worked the bolt with renewed fervour. I stopped watching my watch, not wanting to know how close to death I was anymore. Finally, she wrenched the heavy door open. I grabbed her face between my hands and kissed her. "Am I glad to see you," I cried.

So saying, I grabbed her hand, and we ran.

We made it.

I collapsed outside the base, writhing with pain. Marita struggled to take care of me, fighting back the hysteria that threatened to overwhelm her. In a moment of clarity, I felt empathy as I perceived her fearful panic, before my pain overtook me once more. She manhandled me into a car I didn't recognise, and we sped off.

"I heard gunshots," I said weakly.

"There were men with radiation burns," she said softly. "Two were still alive. They were in agony," she added haltingly. "I know what we said about killing-"

"That's not killing, it's euthanasia," I said thickly. "You did the right thing." I doubled over in spasms of coughing, wiping bitter black oil from my mouth. "Where are we going?"

She started to answer; but I passed out.

The next few hours passed in a blur.

I came to in a motel room, eyes hurting, sinuses agonising. Marita was there, pushing and pulling me into the shower, both of us still dressed. She pulled my ruined clothes off me and washed me, tenderly flushing my eyes with saline over and over. She made me blow my nose, again and again until the stringy trails of black oil stopped coming. She dried me off and tucked me into bed with the tenderness of a mother. I drifted in and out of sleep fitfully.

She was still crouching at my side when I woke an hour later, when I looked at her and really saw her for the first time that day. Her white suit was wet and stained with oil. Her hair was damp and straggling. Her makeup was ruined with water and tears. And in that silent way she had, she was weeping.

I sat up. "Mare - God, get those clothes off," I said vaguely, knowing I was attacking the wrong problem, but wanting to do something for her - anything. I stripped her off and wiped her face, and realised she was shaking - from cold or shock, I couldn't have said. I pulled her into the bed, both of us naked, and guided her down next to me. I held her, trying to warm her and calm her down. She wasn't crying anymore, but she was still trembling. She clung to me silently. I buried my face in her hair, troubled by her distress.

We stayed that way for a long time. "What's wrong?"

She gave a short, dull laugh. "Just where would you like me to begin?" she asked bitterly.

"You know what I mean," I said evenly, smoothing her hair back off her face. I cradled it, making her face me, moving my thumb back and forth across her cheek. "Talk to me."

She was very still for a moment, the twitching muscle in her cheek the only hint of the tears she held at bay. At last, though, she spoke, in a more even voice than I had expected. "I just can't do this anymore, Alex. I can't lurch from crisis to crisis as though it's just us playing strategy games with the Consortium. What we know makes demands of us. We have a duty to do what we can. Otherwise what happened to you today will happen to us all." Her voice was fearful, tentative; yet paradoxically strong and resolute.

"I know." I kissed her hair pensively. "I got a birds-eye view of the life of a drone today. Profiteering doesn't seem so important right now." I felt her sigh gratefully, and I knew she had feared I would object. Rightly, perhaps. But that was before today.

"We have money, thanks to Jeraldine," she pointed out. "We could use it to find a vaccine. The Americans will never find one - they're too busy holding up their part of the hybridisation deal. That's not our problem. We could go to Russia and set up operations there. It's cheap, and there's the old UFO crash site near Norylsk that could be a good source of the pathogen for testing."

"Tunguska. Yes, it's possible," I said. Then, at last, "It's risky."

"We'd probably both get the death penalty for treason if we were caught," she agreed, but her objection was without conviction. We were going through the motions - playing devil's advocate.

I shrugged. "The Consortium would never let us get to trial. I think we'd probably both get a nice painless injection myself."

She shot me a filthy look. "That consoles me no end," she said grimly.

"The risk is more to you than I," I said in a low voice. "I'm already wanted for murder, and I've no doubt Mulder will add treason to the charges when he makes it back to Washington. I have comparatively little to lose, besides the money. But you-" I broke off. "Right now, you're safe."

"I don't want to be safe," she protested. "I want to do what's right." Then, softly, "I want to be with you."

I drew her close then, my arms around her, and kissed her hair. "Are you sure?"

She nodded.

I pulled back and held her face between my hands once more. "Then marry me." She stared at me in shock. "What's the matter, Mare? You think a guy like me can't make an honest woman of you?" But I spoke teasingly, because I knew that wasn't it at all.

She stroked my cheek. "Marriage sounds so *normal*. It's one of those things like having babies or going on camping trips - things that happen to normal people. They don't happen for people like us."

"They can," I told her. "We can make them happen."

"Do you really think so?"

"Maybe not the camping," I teased.

She smiled faintly. "You really want me to be your wife?"

"Mare, you're my wife already. I just want to make this one part of my life right. Will you?"

She looked at me in bewilderment, as though not quite understanding that an answer was called for. I felt bubbling mirth at her expression. "Of course, I'll *marry* you," she said in astonishment, as though that was already settled. I did laugh then, and after watching me quizzically for a moment, she laughed, too. And then I was kissing her, and we were making love, and I felt as though there was hope for us both after all.

We were married in Russian Georgia.

We found a little Russian Orthodox chapel in Ateni dating back to Byzantine times. The church was in communion with the Roman church, so we were able to be married there in a Catholic ceremony concelebrated by Catholic and Orthodox clerics. Marita had been raised Catholic, and I Russian Orthodox, so it suited us well. She spoke only halting Russian, but the Roman priest spoke fluent English, and he assisted the Orthodox cleric, who spoke none. We were able to take advantage of a provision in Catholic law for secret marriage where danger existed. That meant that the marriage was binding, but record of it was retained in the Bishop's secret archive at the Curia. That extra protection gave us peace of mind, for our marriage must be kept from the Americans at all cost, lest we be used as leverage against one another.

That secrecy was painful for us both; so, in the comparative safety of Georgia, we flaunted our marriage. Marita signed her name beneath mine on the marriage register, 'Marita Krycek', embracing my name in a way she could never do in life. We used our own names at the hotel, and we wore ostentatious matching wedding rings. I even had our marriage certificate framed, if you can believe that, relishing the look of our names, Alexei Nicolai Krycek and Marita Elena Covarrubias, entwined in Cyrillic lettering. Who'd have thought sleazy old Alex Krycek would turn out to be a sensitive new age guy, hopelessly in love with his wife?

I guess there's a little hope for everyone.

We travelled to Kazakhstan and met with the highest comrades of our opposing numbers. I had assumed that we would have to bargain for power, that we would be taken in by a larger force with similar aims to our own; but we found the former Russian operation in the same disarray that characterised the rest of the region. Worse, it was in the same abject poverty. They were happy to give us whatever people and information we needed to run the project, and I could have total control - but we would have to fund it ourselves.

That made for some major changes to our planning. Our capital would establish the project, but to a large extent its ongoing costs would be funded by Marita's income from the Consortium and whatever money I could obtain myself, by fair means or foul. Fortunately, labour and supplies were relatively cheap, and there was no shortage of weaponry left over from the old regime in old warehouses and storage facilities, just waiting to be smuggled overseas and sold. The Russians gave me diplomatic immunity with a tacit approval for these activities, with the proviso that the weapons were not to be sold to political forces or terrorists who might target the region.

Marita stayed in our homeland with me for a month, helping me to establish the operations in Tunguska, Georgia, Azerbaijan and Kazakhstan before returning home. She hoped to align herself with the Englishman, Donovan, who was working half-heartedly on the vaccine in America. When she left me, I felt as though I was ripped in two; for who knew when we would be as man and wife again?

She was not my lover.

My sorrow, my joy, my life, my wife.

But not my lover.

Part Two

Not my lover.

That's what he said of me in Kazakhstan as I prepared to leave him. "Fare thee well, Lover," I had teased; then, more seriously, the back of my hand stroking his cheek, "'til next we meet."

"Not my lover," he said softly. "My life, my wife."

He meant it as homage, I know; but I felt some twinge of pain. Our joining could never be total as long as we lived the life we lived. I craved the simple pleasure of sharing our joy with others, of consummating our marriage in a shared life. It was the one thing I feared I would never have. These last few weeks, living openly as man and wife with the Russians had not assuaged my unhappiness, but rather refined it.

He must have seen my pain, my dilemma, because he brushed my eyelashes with his fingertips, wiping away tears not even shed. "Survival first, perfection later," he counselled wistfully.

I nodded resignedly; and I straightened, resolute. I turned from him to the wind, and climbed the steps into the little seven-seater. I looked over my shoulder at him, and our eyes met for just a second. I thought of this gloomy land, and how I loved it for what it had given me.

The pilot began to close the door; but I stayed his hand, sensing before I saw that he was running towards the craft. "Alexi!" I cried into the howling wind.

"Mare!" He raced up the steps, and I started down them to meet him. He clasped me in his arms. "I don't want you to go!" he exclaimed, wryly, as though amused by his weakness.

He pulled back, and I was laughing even through my tears. I held him, my hands at his neck. "God, Alex, I don't want to go," I said ruefully.

"I've got to find that vaccine," he said urgently. "Being away from you is killing me, and you're not even gone yet."

"You'll find one," I told him firmly. "I have faith in you."

He said softly, "You're the only one who ever has." He stroked my hair, tucking it back behind my ear, and rested his forehead against mine. "I love you, Marita Krycek."

I held his face between my palms, our foreheads and noses touching, his mahogany eyes inches from mine. The air between us was hot with our breaths, his closeness suffocating; but I couldn't bear to pull away. "I love you," I whispered. My lips found his, cherishing him, my first love and my last.

We stayed that way for a long moment, before the pilot cleared his throat. "Comrades Arntzen," he said in Russian, using our diplomatic names, "we have to leave if we're to reach St Petersburg by nightfall." We turned, two identical stricken faces. He said to Alex sympathetically, "You could accompany us and return in the morning if you like - there is room."

We looked at each other longingly, but reluctantly, we both shook our heads. "You're needed here," I said softly. He kissed my forehead, and I wrenched myself from his arms. His smile was bittersweet, and I felt it reflected in my own. "Be well, Alexi."

"And you."

So saying, he backed down the steps, and I moved back into the craft, allowing the pilot to shut the door. The older man motioned towards the seat at the window, his expression kind. I thanked him in halting Russian, but sat towards the aisle. To watch him recede into the distance as we took off was more than I could bear just then.

Never had I felt so acutely the cost of our sacrifice as I did then.

Not my lover.

The words haunted me as I stared at my wedding ring in the middle of the night - a ring I could never wear publicly. I replayed in my mind over and over again our marriage, the pictures and tapes of which I could see only when I dared venture to my safety deposit box in a bank vault in Manhattan. I replayed making love and other tender moments, too, the way a woman does when she loves a man; but our marriage had become talismanic in my mind, symbolic of all that we shared and all that we had sacrificed.

We wrote often by e-mail, and sometimes in conventional letters, too. The longer he spent there, the more flamboyantly Cyrillic his handwriting became. They were sometimes cryptic, always detailed - not only for the exchange of information for the work, but because we found they helped us to live with our separation. Phone calls were a rare and risky exercise, and while we occasionally used them for light-hearted banter or phone sex, we more often reserved them for bonding. Love talk, be it silly or sentimental, dominated those.

It was funny, really: Alex had killed Bill Mulder half a year earlier, only to become him, sole advocate for the development of a vaccine. Meanwhile, I continued in my work at the United Nations for Spender and the dark man, gradually aligning myself with the Englishman, Donovan. I hoped to attach myself to Donovan when the dark man's time was over, little dreaming at that point the part I would play in his demise.

I searched for the definitive expert in the variola virus, the most biochemically similar pathogen to the alien organism, and found one in Benita Charne-Sayrre. I recruited her and converted her to our cause; and she pursued it with fervour. We made a formidable team, maintaining low concentrations of the alien organism in delicate balance in human subjects, patients in Benita's nursing homes. Benita tested the vaccines on her patients; then Alex did more thorough testing on an array of unlucky subjects in Tunguska and Norylsk, subjects infected with the organism at full strength. I risked introducing her to Donovan, and Donovan did the rest, recruiting her into his work, as well. Benita got double the pay, and we got double the information. It was a win-win situation. It wasn't until later that I found out that Donovan was getting a piece of the action, too...in more ways than one.

I look back on it all with anger and dismay. I trusted all the wrong people. I should have trusted the dark man. Instead, I trusted Benita, believing that her scientific ideology would lead her to give us her allegiance. But that was not my worst mistake, for that one still reaped considerable reward.

My worst mistake was trusting my mother.

I watched her, smoking.

"I wish you'd tell me what's troubling you," my mother said pensively. She pointed to the delicate silver cigarette case on the table, the intricate bronze lighter, both new. "Those things aren't going to solve the problem. Neither are the joints I found in the bedroom."

"Oh, Mother, honestly," I said in exasperation. "Everyone does a little weed now and then. What's the big deal?"

My mother had little time for bullshit and even less for misdirection, and now was no exception. "Everyone does it? What is this, high school? I don't care about the weed. I care that you're doing dumb stuff you haven't done in years. I'm not a fool, Marita. Something's wrong."

I sighed heavily. "Mother, believe me, you don't want to know. It could compromise you."

She shot me a look. "I can look after myself, thank you very much. I've been tangoing with Spender and his friends since before you were born. You think an ex-KGB girl can't handle those assholes?"

My anger flared. "Is that why you pushed me into working for them too? What kind of a mother does that?" I demanded in a low voice.

She laughed at that. "Honestly, Marita, you'd think I sold you into prostitution to hear you talk. And for the record, no one forced you into anything. You went to nice schools, and you could have had a perfectly respectable life on the outside. You took one look at the eighty grand a year you would have made on the outside and decided that a quarter million with the group was preferable." Shamefaced, I made a gesture of concession, and she went on, "Now, I'm sure old grudges aren't what's worrying you, so what about you filling me in?"

I put out my cigarette and held another to my lips. I picked up the lighter, but reconsidered under my mother's withering gaze. I pushed it away irritably, and it slid across the table with a clatter. She caught it neatly and set it down. With a look of defeat, I put the virgin cigarette in the ashtray. She shot me a satisfied look, not unkindly. She waited.

"Have you heard of a man named Krycek? Alexei Nicolai Krycek?" I said at last.

My mother nodded. "Sure. He's a Russian-born child of Cold War immigrants. They came out here when he was three. He showed promise in criminology and political theory at college, but he wasn't given a lot of opportunity to shine at the FBI. He was pretty dissatisfied, so when Spender approached him he came over to the Group. They used him as a hired gun for a while, but the general consensus was that he made a bad hitman - they should be dumb, unprincipled and obedient, and that's not Krycek. He caused a lot of trouble last year when he got away with a digital tape of the MJ-12 documents. He was indirectly responsible for a French salvage attempt of a UFO a couple of months back - sold the location of the downed escort submarine, I believe."

"That's right," I said nervously.

"You were monitoring him at one time for the black man, weren't you?"

"I wish you'd use his name," I said, diverted by an old argument. "'The black man' sounds really racist."

"Rubbish," my mother dismissed. "The man's black, isn't he? Should I deny what I see? You call him 'the dark man' yourself. And I've never been able to pronounce his name."

"This, from the woman who has fired people for mispronouncing Covarrubias," I snorted. "'Dark man' is not the same at all - it's about his personality, not his skin. He's been very good to me. It wouldn't kill you to play nice."

"Fine, Marita, consider it done," she said, irritably, and utterly without conviction. "Now, what's this about Alex Krycek?"

I cast my eyes heavenward for a long moment. This was the only person I had to confide in? I experienced a moment of doubt, but dismissed it. She was my mother, after all. If I couldn't trust her, who could I trust? Our bickering was mother-daughter malaise, a phenomenon as old as time, nothing more.

I watched her for a long moment, but at last, I reached into my shirt, and withdrew my gold chain. I unfastened the clasp and detached my wedding ring from it, handing it to her. I watched her turn it over in her hands, and hold it up to the light, looking at the inscription inside. She handed it back at last. "Those are yellow sapphires embedded into it, aren't they?" she said, bemused. I nodded. "One thing about Krycek," she reflected, "he doesn't do anything by halves."

I laughed ruefully. "No, you're right about that."

"How long have you been married?" she asked curiously. "It was this year, I can see that. Was it when you went to Europe?"

I nodded. "It was, but we didn't go to Europe. The photos I sent were done by one of my men. We were married in Russian Georgia, near where you and Papa lived before you defected." More quietly, I added, "Papa died two years ago. I saw his grave."

She betrayed no reaction to this news. Instead, she demanded, "Jesus, Marita. Why Russia, of all places? You're a Covarrubias. You could have been in danger."

I shook my head. "I'm not a Covarrubias anymore," I said, not unkindly, "and Russia isn't the same place now. Those old grudges don't matter anymore."

"They will always matter," my mother said darkly. I sighed, ready to argue the point, but she held up a hand, forestalling me. "Where is he now?"

"He's still there," I said. Then, cautiously, "I don't know exactly where at the moment."

She looked at me piercingly. "You're holding out on me," she accused. "Being separated because your husband is in hiding is unfortunate, but it's not enough to do this to you," she said, touching the lighter. "You're made of stronger stuff than that." A new thought occurred to her. "You're not pregnant, are you?"

I felt a sudden pang of sadness, because that was one dream that would be out of reach for years to come. I said nothing of this - my mother, singularly unsentimental about parenthood, would not have understood - and said only, "No, Mother, I'm not pregnant."

"That's a small mercy," she said wryly. "What, then?"

I hesitated, but under her gaze, my resolve faltered. Haltingly, I admitted, "We're working on a vaccine."

"With the Russians?" she demanded, horrified.

"Minor co-operation, but it's mostly our own operation."

My mother gave a sharp, cynical laugh. "You silly girl. Silly, stupid girl! If by some miracle you manage to make one, they'll take it. They'll keep us all hostage."

"It's not like that anymore. We're working in the Republics - we're protected by their disorganisation and disunity." Then, anger flaring once more, I railed, "What should we have done, Mother? Left it to the goddamn Americans? They made the hybridisation deal with the alien race to get the alien genetic code, and what are they doing with it? Nothing! Only Donovan is working on a vaccine, now that Bill Mulder's gone! They're chasing their tails hybridising everything that moves, taking ova from women like Dana Scully and making doomed children in a fruitless bid to save their own lives! Our only protection is a vaccine, and the Americans aren't *doing* anything!"

She stood then, furious. "This country gave us shelter from the regime! I don't care what you think of their efforts, you have no right to deal with the Russians! No right! This Krycek, is he a Communist?" she demanded.

"Alexi loves this country!" I shouted, rising. "We *both* do!"

My mother paced. "You could be charged with treason. And that's nothing to what the Consortium will do to you if they find out you're playing double agent. God, Marita, what a mess." There was genuine sympathy in her voice, and I felt my anger dissipating.

We stood that way for a long moment, a silent standoff, but suddenly, my mother slumped, her fury gone. "Marita, Marita, Marita," she said in exasperation. I was suddenly overtaken with real mirth - whether rooted in anxiety or relief, I couldn't have said. I collapsed in my chair in floods of hysterical laughter, and my mother, not unreasonably, looked as though I'd lost my mind. "What the hell's the matter with you?"

"Nothing," I sputtered. "It's just -" I broke off, choking back even more laughter, tears streaming down my face. She watched me, looking even more perplexed. Finally, I blurted, "You just look like you really need a cigarette."

She gave a short bark of laughter, and came back to the table. She sat down, calm now, and opened the cigarette case. She got out two.

"I think we both do."

When my mother finally left late that night, I felt easier in mind than I had in months. She had even, wonder of wonders, hugged me when she'd said goodbye. "I love you, Marita," she had told me, and I had heard that from her only a handful of times in my life.

My relief was short-lived. Two hours later, a series of loud knocks at my door woke me. When I opened it, there was my mentor, the dark man, dishevelled and visibly upset. I let him in, a dull ache in the pit of my stomach. "Sir?" I said, confused. He was wet - it had been raining outside. And clearly, he had walked here - probably from the group's offices in Upper Manhattan. That was miles away. My panic levels rose a notch.

"Marita, do you have some suicidal tendencies that didn't show up in your psych evaluation?" he demanded furiously. "Larissa Covarrubias has always been one of the key campaigners against dealing with the Russians. Whatever made you think you could trust her?"

My breath caught in my chest. "She's my moth-" I broke off. "Wait," I said suddenly, "You - knew?"

"Of course I knew. I brought you and Alex together in the first place, and I was, thank God, one of the few people who ever saw you together. Anyone could see you were committed to one another," he added, and it occurred to me fleetingly that it was odd phrasing - very deliberate and specific. "I didn't know the specifics, of course, but I knew. Who do you think leaked the location of the missile silo to you when Alex was trapped?" he demanded.

I put my hand to my mouth. "That was you?" I whispered. I went to him, and embraced him. I kissed his dark cheek tenderly. "Thank you," I said gently. "Thank you so much."

Taken aback, he pushed me just far enough away to look at me curiously. "I can't believe you two got married," he said incredulously. "Alex Krycek, family man. Who'd have thought it?"

I smiled broadly. "How about that?" I laughed. Suddenly, my laughter became tears, and I sat down miserably. "My own mother. Fucking hell!" I blurted in frustration. "Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!"

The dark man took off his coat and hung it up. He sat down before me uninvited. "Does your mother let you use language like that, Marita?" he chided gently.

I looked up at him through my tears in disbelief. "The dark man cracks a joke. The Apocalypse is near."

"Something like that." His expression darkened. "Marita, your position is severely compromised here. You need to go back to Russia."

I shook my head. "I need to stay in the American loop," I said in frustration. He looked unhappy, but didn't argue the point. "Who did she tell?" I demanded.

"Just me for now, but that won't keep," he warned. "You have no more than a week before Teena Mulder either recovers from her stroke or dies, and Spender is back on deck. And when your mother does tell him, it will come out that I shielded you." I started to speak, but he held up a hand. "Now, I can take care of myself. All I'm saying is, your protection won't last. You'll be in custody for treason within the week, and probably dead in your cell a few days after that, unless you strike pre-emptively." He shot me a smile, dead white and chilling against his dark skin, which I knew was meant to be affectionate. "For what it's worth, I'm proud of you, Marita. You've become a player - and in the best of possible ways."

"That means a lot to me," I said fondly, a bittersweet lump in my throat. I loved this strange man, this mentor who had guided and sheltered me; but why could I not have heard those words from my mother? I shook my head to clear it of these useless thoughts. "If I talk to her - maybe I can convince her not to talk," I said; but my voice was without conviction.

"The only way you'll stop her from talking is with terminal force," the dark man said quietly. "I know that's hard to hear, but true just the same."

Drawing my breath in sharply, I shook my head. "No, I can't. Not my mother." I looked at him, stricken. "Could you?"

He conceded, "Probably not."

"Besides, I promised Alexi I would never kill," I said softly. "He said he would do it for me if it was ever necessary - but I can't ask him to kill my mother." The dark man gave a wry sound. "What?" I asked.

He shook his head. "Nothing. I just - Alex surprises me sometimes. So much evil and so much good wrapped up in the one man." He misread my startled look as anger, and said, "I'm sorry. We're discussing your husband."

"No, actually, I think that's true," I agreed.

He watched me for a long moment. "Let me make a proposal," he said at last. I nodded. He continued, "Let me decide what force is required. It will be my decision and my responsibility to carry out." I had been bracing myself for the word 'execute' there, and I was glad he didn't use it.

"In other words, I don't have to get my hands dirty," I said bitterly.

His look was kind. "I wouldn't put it like that. This is a difficult decision. It must be made and enacted by someone objective. That's what a mentor is for." At my doubtful look, he said, "I have to go to Washington tomorrow. You can reach me on the cell phone. Please just think about it."

"All right," I said reluctantly. "I'll think about it."

In the end, my decision counted for nothing.

Ideology, my mother explained when I confronted her the following day. Ideology that could see her only child put to death for treason. "You know nothing of ideology!" I yelled at her furiously. "Ideology is saving the world at the expense of political boundaries! Don't you understand that in the face of this threat we are one world?" She was weeping but unrepentant when I left her, disowning her in my heart.

I spent two long torturous hours sitting in the rain on the shore at Staten Island, not far from my mother's home. In the end, it came down to a choice between my mother and Alexi. I could frame it as self-preservation, or as protecting the dark man, and there was some truth to those pictures; but I knew in my heart of hearts that I would never have killed my mother to save myself, or even my mentor. It went against my every instinct. But I understood in an instant the truth of the rite of marriage: the act of forsaking all others, of leaving my family to form a family of my own - a family that had been far more true than the one from which I had come. If I let my mother live, Alexi would see his wife in the gas chamber for the crimes we had committed together, if only in the narrow boundaries of the law. It would destroy him, and it would be the end of the life and the work we had shared, and sacrificed so much to make happen. Our work could save the world - it wasn't as simple as preserving our marriage or my life - but they were so bound up together that in another way, our marriage was what it really came down to.

I knew then, amid anguish and betrayal, what torment it is to want to die but to seek desperately to live for the love of another. I loved and hated and loved him, thousands of miles away, for a dilemma of which he knew nothing. I thought of the feminist mantra, that I was a woman with my own heritage and that that heritage was something I owed a loyalty to; but again and again I came face to face with its falsehood. I had made this life with this man, given myself over and accepted his gift of himself, chosen of my own free will to surrender my understanding of myself as a Covarrubias, separate from him. It was not a surrender he had ever asked of me; it was one I had made in the silence of my heart, a linear outcome of the truth that we were one. And finally, I understood that I had chosen him in my heart long ago.

At last, I made the call to the dark man, in Washington passing information to Mulder, and told him to do as he chose. Then I went back to the beach, knelt there in the sand, and wept.

When I woke, it was early morning. I was wet and cold, having slept straight through the assault of the rain on my body. Shuddering, I made my way to the car and drove back to Manhattan. By the time most people were arriving at their places of work, I was immaculately dressed and ready to face the day, my appearance giving no hint of my ordeal. Certainly, it gave no hint that I expected to receive word of my mother's death. But the bearer of that news was not whom I expected.

The first hint that things had gone terribly wrong came at nine that morning. Spender arrived at my office at the United Nations - something he had never done before. That fact alone was enough to frighten me. That he had dragged himself from Teena Mulder's bedside to do it was enough to fill me with utter terror. I steered him into an anteroom, and sat before him, my heart beating with painful force. I seated myself closest to the door, and I was very aware of my firearm at my side.

"I must apologise for my inhospitable behaviour when you arrived, Sir," I said evenly. My throat felt very dry. "I felt it best to move you somewhere more discreet."

He waved this aside. "Not at all, Ms Krycek."

I felt very cold. "My name is Ms Covarrubias."

He wasn't perturbed. He said easily, "I was under the impression that you weren't a Covarrubias any more. At least that's what your mother says. She's very upset."

"There's no reason for her to be," I said coolly. Damn my indecision! I'd been too late, and now both my mentor and I would pay.

Spender lit a cigarette. "Well, strictly speaking, she isn't - now." I closed my eyes painfully. He went on, "It may not console you, but it will at least relieve your mind to know that she died of a cerebral haemorrhage last night at my hotel in Providence - not long after we spoke, in fact." My eyes flew open as I realised that she had fallen victim, not to the dark man, but to the man before me. At my horrified gasp, he added with some gentleness, "There was no pain."

I bowed my head for a long moment in silent agony. I made no sound, and he let me be, sitting back, watching me, smoking.

After perhaps ten seconds, I took several deep breaths, and composed myself. I sat upright, and I faced him, head held high, resolute. He sat there, impassive, until I was quite ready. At last, I said with deceptive calm, "What now?"

He shrugged. "I have great respect for the institution of marriage, Ms Krycek - or do you prefer Ms Covarrubias? I can't keep up with you young women." His voice was mildly disapproving.

"I prefer Ms Krycek, but Ms Covarrubias is more appropriate," I said in a level voice, determined not to be goaded.

"Very well, Ms Covarrubias. As I was saying, I have great respect for the institution of marriage. I'm married myself," he added, and I had to bite my tongue to prevent myself from pointing out that he'd taken not only a wife of his own, but a few other men's, as well. "I don't have to ask you to give your husband to me, and I'm not going to. Just keep walking the line, and no-one gets hurt."

I watched him coolly. "I presume there is to be a loyalty test?" I said; deathly quiet, because I already had an idea of what it would be. I had already heard about the photos of Spender and Teena at Quonochontaug, and the Elder's opinion that the leak was from within. The dark man's deception was not far from being exposed, if it had not been exposed already.

Spender held up his hands in a what-can-I-do gesture. "Well, you know, Ms Covarrubias, I know that you're loyal to your husband and the Russian project. I need to know that you're also capable of being loyal to me."

I nodded slowly, unsurprised. I knew how the game worked. "All right," I said resignedly. "I'll bite. What's the test?"

Spender lit a cigarette. "Would you like one?" he offered. "I'm told you're smoking again."

"I quit," I said in a tightly controlled voice.

He gave a slight, deferential nod. "Good for you." He dropped a sliver of ash on the table, right in front of a No Smoking plaque. "Your mentor has been busy in Washington," he said idly. "I hear he's been feeding information to Mulder. Do you know anything about that?"

"Not at all, Sir," I lied. "Could he be playing Mulder for his own purposes? Serving the interests of the group?"

"That's quite likely, of course," Spender allowed, "but some of the information is quite removed from the interests of the group. Your mentor apparently has other loyalties."

"So do I," I pointed out.

"Yours can be used." I was silent, and Spender continued after a moment, "I have suspected your mentor for some time, and to some extent I have been using him; but now the group has become aware of his activities. I am under some pressure to eliminate him." His brow flickered for a moment, and he didn't need to tell me that he needed to reconsolidate his position after losing the digital tape and concealing the fact.

"And I'm the lucky winner," I said coldly.

Spender raised an eyebrow at that. "Yes, you are. You get to live. And so does your husband."

"For now," I retorted.

He shrugged. "I could kill you both now," he pointed out. "You think I don't have men in Russia? You started your work after you got the information off the tape. Obviously your base of operations is Tunguska. I could have Alex with a phone call." I kept my expression neutral, but I knew I was unnaturally pale. "And for what? Your mentor still dies. Martyrdom is honourable. Futile martyrdom is just stupid."

"You know nothing of honour," I said in a low voice.

"Be that as it may, there is an offer on the table. Do you accept?"

The dark man's face swam before me. I blinked twice to clear it.

"Yes, Sir."

I will never forget his face.

The elevator doors slid open, and he saw me, my gun trained on his chest. A fleeting look of disappointment crossed his features, followed by resignation. We stood there for agonising seconds, staring at one another, frozen. I stood firm, but there were tears streaming down my cheeks.

I heard footsteps. I flinched; half hoping it might be some other henchman of Spender's, here to finish us both; but then I knew who it was.

"Mare."

I felt waves of relief that he was here, of shame at what I had almost done...at what he would do for me. And then he was at my side, and his hands were pressing mine, easing them down, gently coaxing the weapon from my fingers. I relinquished it gratefully.

**I'll do it for you. Promise me you'll never kill, Mare.**

His left arm slid around my shoulders, drawing me close. His right rose the weapon abruptly, and fired it. My heart breaking, I saw the dark man's chest explode with blood; saw him stagger back, his expression one of supreme surprise. And then, I broke away, and ran to his side.

"Forgive me," I begged. I could hear Alexi tapping his foot anxiously, and I could sense him darting his eyes back and forth, wondering who might have heard, who might be calling the police. "Forgive me, please."

The dark man stared at me a moment; then, laboriously, he gave a slight movement that might have been a nod. He tried to speak. I leaned closer. "Benita...Donovan...compromised." I turned my head, meeting Alexi's gaze. "He's...playing you. Same goals," he managed, blood starting to bubble from his mouth, "different allegiance." With painstaking effort, he croaked out, "Go." My tears were flowing freely now; and I shook my head, determined to be with him until it was over. He looked imploringly at my husband.

Alex came, and, gently yet firmly, he led me away.

We didn't speak for several hours.

Wordlessly, we returned to my hotel, and I sat numbly in a chair while Alex destroyed the clothing we had worn at Mulder's. When he returned, we went to bed in our clothes, settling in one another's arms. Silently, he cradled me, kissing my hair, until I was ready to talk. It was the early hours of the morning when, finally, I spoke.

"How did you know?"

"Benita Charne-Sayrre," he murmured into my hair. "I've been back in the country for nearly a day now, and when I couldn't reach you in New York, I contacted her."

"She knew I was to kill him?" I demanded angrily. That anyone knew of this shameful thing was intolerable.

"Not exactly. Donovan heard of your mother's death - the group had a minute's silence for her, if you can believe that. When he got word that your mentor was also to die, he thought that was a shade too convenient. He expressed his suspicions of you to Benita." His voice was gentle. "I thought Spender might have found out about our work somehow, and killed them to protect you."

I nodded. "That's about right." My voice was thick with pain.

"I was certain there would be a price, a loyalty test," he continued. "I knew from Benita that Mulder was with Jeremiah Smith. When I saw the X on Mulder's window, I was sure you were there, waiting." He stroked back my hair from my face. "Why didn't you tell me, Mare?" he demanded, his voice incredibly gentle. "Why didn't you tell me you were in trouble?"

"My mother," I said brokenly. "She was going to hand me over for treason. If you'd come home, you might have been tried too. There was no time to call you - I didn't know you were in America. Spender offered me a way out, and I took it." My voice lowered. "Thank God you're here, Alexi."

He held me close, then, his head resting against my own. "I'm always here," he soothed. I felt my face grow hot with shame at the horror I had brought down on us - all for trusting the wrong people. I clung to him, craving his warmth. I felt so cold.

"My own mother," I said at last, my voice muffled by the wool of his sweater. "She would have seen me dead, all in the name of the goddamn Project."

"I believe they call it patriotism," he said dryly, cradling me. "They didn't make you kill her, did they?" he asked without reproach, pulling back to look at me.

"No, he spared me that, at least. I only found out this morning." My voice was bitter. "He knows about you and I, and about the vaccine, and he's guessed we're using Tunguska. He'll shield us...as long as I stay loyal."

"You mean as long as it's expedient," he retorted, smoothing back my hair. I touched his lips, my nod a concession. I waited for his anger - anger I'd have felt if he had compromised us this thoroughly - but none came. Instead, he kissed my forehead, as though sensing my guilt and pain. "You're cold," he said presently. He drew me closer.

I feared I would never be warm again.

I wept when I saw the photographs of the crime scene. So much blood. How much blood is there in the human body? It never seems so much until it's yours.

Or until you're the one that spilled it.

The dark man had scrawled a legend in his own blood at Mulder's door. **SRSG**, the letters read accusingly - letters which led Mulder to me. At first I thought the letters were intended to implicate me; but as the full extent of Benita Charne-Sayrre's betrayal became clear, we understood it to be an aid. The dark man knew before we did that Mulder's help would be essential - so essential that he delivered Mulder into the hands of the Consortium through me.

I thought of him a lot in those days. He knew, obviously, far more of my work with Alexi than my mother or I had told him. If he had gleaned such information in his final days, he clearly had used his time well.

And he had never told a soul.

Instead, he had passed his information to we, his killers, and allowed us to do with it what we chose.

Of all of us, I think now, only the dark man knew what ideology really meant.

Not I, and not my lover.

Part Three

I don't think she knows just how much I love her as she is now.

This is my favourite Marita - strong, principled, truthful. I hate that she hurts, but I love why she hurts. She hurts because we killed a man, a man she had loved, and it is not in her to shy away from that truth as I do with my numbness and my silence. She faces it and lives it, carrying its weight in the lines of her face like a mark of Cain.

The irony of it is that she considers herself weak. She speaks of the dark man's death, and our part in it, as though she had the power to prevent it. She speaks of it with bitter self-loathing, and the fact that she was exploited by everyone - by her mother, by Spender - means nothing to her. She sees not the powerlessness of her situation, but her own, personal powerlessness to act; and she condemns herself for it. And though I took the gun from her trembling hands, and killed him in her stead as I swore I would do, still she looks on what she did as murder.

Killing is never easy. It is not, as those who have not killed suppose, a bridge you cross once, never to return. You don't become a monster on your first kill, or your second, or your third.

But you lose a little of your soul each time...never doubt that.

Killing the dark man was no easier than my first kill, that of an innocent lift operator on Skyland Mountain. I was more technically experienced, that's all. But this time, perhaps, there was a glimmer of redemption; for I killed him that my wife would never know the coldness that I know, that I carry with me like an ache.

The coldness of the dead.

Thankfully, that cold was tempered on this occasion. Whatever judgement the dark man may have had for Mare, he either forgave or pretended to forgive her, to give her some measure of peace. And whatever he thought of me, he chose in the extremity of death to tell us what he knew, that we might continue the work.

The damned work.

Six months.

It had been six months apart, and I had felt every day of them. I ached for Mare, as though for some missing part of myself. I look back on those freshly-written words with considerable amusement, because even a year before, when I was beginning to love her, I would have dismissed them as nonsense...the stuff of fairy tales written by middle-aged women wistful for lives which weren't their own.

You know what? They were right on the money all along.

I hadn't had a lot of time to think of her, though; that was a blessing. I carried her in my heart like a talisman, but I was spared the torture of dreaming of her and remembering her: there was no time. Even the coldness and emptiness of my bunk in Norylsk was only a fleeting pang, because I slept, exhausted, almost at once. Managing the Russian operation was a full-time job, and I had the task of raising its ongoing costs, as well.

I wonder if you can imagine the magnitude of that responsibility. You can't support a testing regime on a hundred prisoners on Marita's income, even in Russia. We were paying Benita Charne-Sayrre fifteen thousand a month, and that was about what Mare made from the Consortium. Most of her modest United Nations income supported the Tunguska compound. That left me with the task of supporting Norylsk, Georgia, Azerbaijan and Kazakhstan. I made a dozen trips to Morocco, selling Russian weaponry. We were only just breaking even.

In the end, I decided to risk a trip to America. I was wanted there, but the market price for weaponry was much higher. I escorted a container of merchandise to Saskatchewan. A neo-Nazi group just over the Canadian border had promised a dazzling figure that could support all five of the gulags for six months. The deal was made, funds were exchanged, and I made my way to New York and put the money in Mare's safety deposit box in Manhattan. Marita would put the money in and out of casino chips over several months, then wire it to me. This served a dual purpose: it legitimised the money as gambling wins, and it supported a rumour we had carefully orchestrated of a significant gambling habit. Some months Mare lived on less than a thousand dollars, and on her income, she needed a plausible reason why.

The money was not the only thing I left in the safe deposit box. I left a vial - a precious, precious vial. A vial with a miracle inside - a secret miracle, only a few weeks old.

A weak vaccine.

I went to her apartment, eager to surprise her. It was empty, and a phone call to her office revealed she was away for several days. No forwarding number. Her cell was turned off. Suppressing my alarm, I telephoned Benita Charne-Sayrre. I intended to tell her of the vaccine, but she pre-empted me with news of a new wealth of information: hard drives containing the US government's smallpox identification data, recovered by Scully while investigating the Jeremiah Smiths. She had already sourced copies, and they were en route to Norylsk. My jubilation at this admittedly fantastic find was muted; I knew Benita, and she was using her Worried Voice. It was then that I learned of the death of Larissa Covarrubias, and of the planned hit on the dark man.

"What do you make of this?" I asked cautiously.

"Maxwell thinks it's awfully coincidental that Marita's two closest affiliations will have died in twenty four hours. He thinks Larissa was sanctioned. That's my feeling as well."

Filing away her easy use of the Englishman's name for future reference, I said only, "I'm inclined to agree."

"Do you think she could be in danger of being exposed?" Benita asked. "Could someone be protecting her?"

"If so, there will be loyalty test," I mused. "I wonder what-" I broke off with a gasp. "Oh, hell. Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"

"The mentor," Benita said firmly. "No doubt about it."

"Can you find out where she went?" I demanded harshly.

Benita's voice was dubious. "I can try, but you can't stop it, Alex. If she doesn't do it, they'll kill her."

"No," I agreed gravely.

"But I can do it for her."

I was in time - just.

I found her at Mulder's, about to put a bullet into the dark man. I coaxed the gun from her trembling fingers and drew her against me, shooting him myself. She gave in without a fight, leant against me with a sound of agony. And then we had left him - but not before hearing his final words.

"Alexi?" Mare said softly the following morning. The timbre of her voice was still bruised, still more husky than usual; but she was more like the Mare I knew. I felt my worry for her ease a little. It would be a long time before the scars of the last forty-eight hours faded, but she would come through. We both would.

I said nothing of this, but only looked up at her questioningly. She was brushing her hair vigorously. She went on, "Do you really think Benita is compromised?" I don't think she truly doubted her mentor. She was sounding me out.

I looked back to the mirror and shrugged. "It's possible. She knows a hell of a lot about the American project," I pointed out, rinsing my razor. "Why would Donovan give a scientist the Jeremiah Smith hard drives? I know it's variola related, but that's hybridisation material, not vaccination material. It's not need-to-know if she's really doing the work for him she says she's doing."

Mare nodded slowly. "Okay. But why side with him? He's probably paying more, but she's independently wealthy. We have the best data and the least compromised operation." She put the finishing touches on her coif, or whatever the hell women call it. Severe-looking bun thing, lots of pins. "She's always said that's why she wanted to work with us."

"I think they might be lovers," I said in a low voice. "There was an intimacy about how she said his name - I'm almost sure of it." She opened her mouth, about to play devils' advocate, but I forestalled her. "It could just be a fling - or she could have done it to get information..." I trailed off.

"But funny things happen to loyalties sometimes when people make love," she supplied, frowning. At my nod, she went on softly, "You and I know that, of all people." Her voice was suddenly husky, and my gaze locked on hers. She flushed. Then, in a whisper, "Alexi."

I hadn't been aware of the desire - the longing for her, always simmering just below the surface - but suddenly I was crossing the room to her, grasping her arms, lowering my mouth to hers. "God, Mare, it's been too long," I whispered urgently, my lips brushing hers as I spoke. Her warm breath on me was intoxicating. "Too damn long."

"Alex," she breathed. "Every day I wish-"

There was more, but it was lost as her mouth opened beneath mine, as she wound her arms around my neck, pulling me closer. I slid my hands down over her arms, the fabric of her dress catching, and I felt her breath against me quicken. I held her, one hand in the small of her back and the other higher up, pressing her torso to mine; and still it wasn't close enough. I could still breathe air that wasn't hers, could still see and hear things that weren't her...still my senses were assaulted by that which wasn't her, and so it could never be enough.

She kissed me, hard, backing up to the dressing table. I followed her, stumbling. I lifted her onto it, dragging up her demure dress to the waist, finding her bare beneath. A teasing line of fire shot through my veins, from my hand straight to my groin, and I gave a low sound against her mouth. "Going commando today?" I said thickly.

She gave a low, indulgent laugh. It was throaty, delicious. "I haven't finished getting dressed yet, you idiot." I laughed too, but my laugh became a sharp gasp as her mouth found mine once more. I'd been lifting my hands to touch her somewhere - breast, neck, between her legs, it didn't matter - but I let them fall again, realising the uselessness of it. I couldn't remember the last time I'd caressed her, or given to her with my mouth, or she to me...the fire between us was just too strong for that. We kissed, we held, and we had to have each other, right now; because the point wasn't the thrill of technique, or the languid teasing, as much as I loved those things. The point was her - her scent, her taste, her touch; and everything else was both too much and not enough.

She rocked against me, a single cry of need escaping her in a hiss; and that sound undid me. Urgently, I picked her up and carried her to the bed, holding the length of her body against mine, my mouth finding hers once more. I laid her out on the bed, and she made only the mildest, most teasing of protests:

"You're going to *ruin* my hair."

"Yes," I growled. "I am."

I stayed in America.

My reasons were many, chief among them an urgent need to be with my wife; but undeniably the most pressing one was the need to monitor Benita Charne-Sayrre. I commuted between Washington, Florida, and a half-dozen other hotspots in her work, along with fortnightly trips to Tunguska. I was still wanted for multiple counts of murder and treason, so it stood to reason that I should shelter with others in a similar predicament - in this case, a couple of my Canadian gun buyers. I did not dare live with Mare; but I based myself in New York, close enough to see her, close enough to touch her, and close enough that if she ever had to flee from Spender, we could run together.

"I think we need a safe house," I said abruptly one day.

"A safe house," Mare echoed, standing a plate in the rack. She didn't question me, but simply waited. I turned and watched her in mischievous silence for some seconds. It doesn't pay to be that predictable. At last, she said fondly, "Being elliptical doesn't work with me; you know that."

Dammit, she was laughing at me.

I shot her a mildly reproachful look, but gave in good-naturedly. "Somewhere we can run to," I explained, turning back to the basin. "Somewhere each of us can go if we're ever separated to wait for the other."

She was nodding. "Good idea. Any thoughts on places?"

"Maybe Morocco," I suggested, handing her a bowl. "Lots of points of entry. It's pretty neutral as far as the alien agenda is concerned. Who knows what could change down the track - we could have the Russians or the Americans after us, or both," I pointed out.

She looked alarmed. "You're not planning a double-cross, are you? The Russians have been good to us, and we're well established there." She stopped wiping to look at me.

I shook my head. "Not at all. But they might sell us out, too." A look of pained surprise crossed her features. I understood her reluctance to consider this possibility, but it had to be said. "Aside from our problems with Spender, I have some concerns about Mikhail. I'm just being cautious."

She nodded slowly, reluctantly. "Fair enough. What about Tangier? That's accessible by sea from Spain if necessary, and it's not as busy as Casablanca," she pointed out. "It's supposed to be beautiful," she added, her voice suddenly wistful.

"It is," I said, brushing a stray soap bubble from her nose. She shot me a gorgeous smile that made me almost forget about safe houses. I had planned something utilitarian, but I suddenly decided to get something nice - something we could live in together when all this was over, if it ever was. Somewhere we could wash dishes together for all eternity if we wanted.

Jeez, Alex, you've got it bad.

I said nothing of this; only, "Okay. Remember - if we get separated, we wait in Tangier for the other to appear. No matter how long it takes."

"As long as it takes," she agreed softly. The lines of her face were suddenly softer, as though I had addressed some fear she had not expressed. I thought I knew what it was, too: the thought that we might one day have to run and lose track of one another haunted me.

We washed in silence for a while. I studied her thoughtfully from the corner of my eye. She wore domestic day garb - faded jeans, paint-spattered shirt, hair pulled back in two braids. Braids, for God's sake. I'd married a schoolgirl, I reflected; and yet she was so right, so *Mare*. So removed from the cool, manufactured Marita who was called upon more and more these days, largely because of me. I had a sudden, mental flash of lifting her onto the bench, of sliding into her in an instant. It was a crude image, but it disguised a deeper truth: that *this* was the Mare I loved, that I craved, that I belonged to; and I longed to give her the kind of life where she could be that Mare all the time.

"Are you going back to Flushing tonight?" she asked at last, arranging her dish cloth neatly on the rack.

I nodded; said with distaste, "Neo-nazi scum meet tonight."

"You're going to slip up and call them that to their faces one day," she warned, opening a cupboard. She began to put cups away, her voice grave. "I know they've been a source of protection, but there have got to be other ways."

"It's not going to be for too much longer," I revealed. "They're planning a major bombing next month, and I'm not going to let it happen."

"And how do you plan to prevent it?" she demanded, whirling to face me, aghast. "It's not like you can turn State's evidence against them."

"I'm going to give them to Mulder." The cup she was lifting stopped, mid-air. "Goodwill gesture. We're going to need him sometime down the track." She put the cup up, more slowly than before.

"That's not bad," she said with some admiration. "Not bad at all."

But as it turned out, we needed him sooner than we thought.

Benita was, indeed, compromised.

Donovan was receiving as much information about our work as we were about his. He was playing us, anxious for us to find a vaccine that he could copy and present to the Consortium in order to halt the hybridisation deal. That would be fine - as much as I owed the Russians some fealty, my interest was salvation, not politics - but if the Consortium got the vaccine before it was in general circulation, there was a significant risk that the alien race would find out, and speed up the colonisation timetable. Mare and I would receive nothing for it - neither power nor money - and would probably wind up where we'd been not so long before.

Facing the death penalty.

There aren't too many geniuses out there, though, so we continued to use Benita. Marita misreported results in the nursing homes, directing her towards another, similar formula, hoping for clues on how to refine the formula that worked. Benita continued, following the same biomedical trail, unaware that she had already passed the biggest hurdle. Vaccine and alien samples were trafficked merrily between us. Everything was going well.

Until someone spilled it.

Our couriers had been trained, hypothetically, about what to do if ever such a thing were to happen; but none of them thought it would. For his part, our man was a perfect courier - polite, inoffensive, and totally forgettable.

But not, perhaps, a man equipped for an emergency.

It happened in Honolulu. Our man flew in from the Republic of Georgia, en route to make a sample delivery to Benita. For reasons known only to Customs, he was subjected to a search in spite of his diplomatic passport. Our courier panicked. The canister containing the alien pathogen was opened, and an officer died. Our courier was taken into custody and, we presume, passed on his limited information before being killed. He could give them little - places and a few names - but it was enough to bring us to the attention of the group. And while Donovan and Spender had each quietly allowed our work to continue for their own purposes, once we came to the attention of the others, they were forced to act.

I was on one of my jaunts to Tunguska, and the first I knew of what had happened in Honolulu was when I received a coded message from Mare. It was brief - one of our agents had fallen. A lowly one at that. Nonetheless, I knew our work had been irrevocably compromised, and I flew back to America at once.

Within thirty-six hours of her message, Mikhail, my second-in-command in Tunguska, contacted me with the news that an American intruder had stolen a piece of Tunguska rock. Mare and I had an emergency meeting, and she agreed more emphatically than I had expected when I broached the subject of terminating Benita and her work. But her expression darkened when I spoke of the dark man and his dying words.

"He knew something like this was going to happen," she said softly.

I nodded slowly. "I think he understood a lot more about this than either of us gave him credit for."

"I should have brought him over to our side," she said bitterly.

"Don't do this to yourself," I reproached. "You didn't do this. Your actions were forced by Larissa and by Spender. You were used, Mare."

She nodded. "Yes, I was used. And a man died." She looked away for a moment, then faced me once more. "Do you think he knew we would need Mulder? Do you think that's why he led him to me?"

I thought on this; said at last, "I think so. Mulder can be manipulated. If we play him right, we can use him to get back that rock."

Marita looked nervous. "We'd better. The difference between our operation and theirs has always been the availability of the alien pathogen in dormant form. All the samples they've had have been sentient and capable of generating radiation - they haven't dared use them for vaccine testing. They're at a disadvantage, and it's crucial that they stay that way."

I made a sound of exasperation. "Damn it, if the group gets a vaccine before we refine ours, we can kiss our lives goodbye. That's the only reason Spender and Donovan haven't done it - we're their insurance."

She was shaking her head. "I just don't understand why it leaves the subjects so weak. What the hell does it *do* to them?"

"Benita would know," I said sardonically. "Pity we can't ask her."

"It's infuriating! Without the vaccine, we're strong enough to beat the alien race with numbers and brute strength, but we're defenceless against the pathogen. With the vaccine, we can beat the pathogen but we're too weak to fight them. Oh, hell, why do I keep rehashing this?" she demanded, upset.

"Easy, Mare," I said softly, though I shared her frustration. "We'll work it out. We have a vaccine - that's the main thing. The rest of it will work itself out, as long as we can keep the group at bay."

"All right." She bowed her head for a minute, breathing deeply, then looked up once more, calm. "Do you have someone in mind for Benita and the rest of the cleanup?" she asked. "My position is risky right now. I can't be involved in that."

"I have a man in St Petersburg. Why is your position risky?" I demanded, worried.

"There are a lot of questions being asked about my lifestyle - or rather, why I don't have one. People are starting to ask why. The rumours about gambling debts are wearing thin." I nodded slowly. I'd been expecting this.

"We can't have that. Pull a hundred grand from Switzerland. Get this place redecorated - really rich lavish stuff, antiques; the whole deal. Get a car and a new wardrobe and an expensive watch. We need you in the American loop."

She protested, "Alexi, that only leaves four hundred thousand for the Russian operation aggregate total. You can't fund medical research on that, even in Russia. How much are you going to pay your man in St Petersburg?" she demanded.

I shrugged. "Multiple crimes in multiple jurisdictions...risking execution for treason...maybe a hundred grand," I hazarded.

"Leaving three hundred thousand in Austria. And the Austrian currency is low. It could stay low for six months. We don't have Jeraldine to sell secrets for us anymore, Alex."

"Let me worry about the money, Mare. You worry about staying alive and in the loop. Use whatever you have to. We can cut corners on the Russian operation." At her querying look, I elaborated, "We can trim Norylsk, Georgia and Azerbaijan back to admin and pathology research - get rid of the prisoners and the guards. I'd shut them altogether, but having them makes the governments feel like they have a stake in us so they leave us alone. But I'm not cutting corners on you."

She sighed. "All right." A new thought occurred to her, and she said suddenly, "Mulder would know about the UFO crash in Tunguska. Once he finds out where the rock is from, there's at least a fifty-fifty chance he'll decide to go there - you do realise that, don't you?"

I met her gaze thoughtfully, wondering where she was heading. "Actually, I hadn't given it any thought, but you're right," I agreed.

"Why?"

"Just an idea I had," she said softly. "He's going to be useful - especially if we can't prevent colonisation. He'll probably be a major player in the American resistance, if he doesn't self-destruct first."

"Most likely," I agreed. I looked at her with sudden awe. "You think we should try to make him immune?" I demanded admiringly.

"It's worth a shot. It would only take one test series to be sure of his immunity, and you could fast track that - say a week at the Tunguska compound. He'll be sick for a while, but I don't think the Consortium has anything planned that would require him to be on duty, from our perspective."

I nodded, my mind rapidly ticking over the possibilities. "All right. We'll play that one by ear - see if we can play him in that direction. That will be your job - if I do more than direct him to the rock, it will look too much like a put-up job. I want him to think I'm a pawn, too." It felt good to be conspiring with her again. I felt the lethargy of helplessness lifting, my sense of control over our situation returning. My blood was pumping with it.

She nodded her agreement. "There's something else. Mulder may have some immunity to the retrovirus carried by the morphs, thanks to his adventure in Alaska a couple of years back. Might be worth taking some blood, seeing if we can synthesise a vaccine. If the alien race can't control us with the pathogen, eliminating us with the retrovirus could be the next prong of attack."

"Will do. I'll have someone standing by to work on that in Tunguska." I shook my head. "Damn it, if only we didn't have to lose Benita. The woman's a genius."

"We'll find another genius, Alexi. Just get Mulder in and out of the compound alive. Everything else will fall into place."

We made these plans, and we parted reluctantly, the need to touch white-hot after weeks apart. Our fingers brushed as we said our farewells, and it galvanised us into action. We found one another instantly, held one another's faces between our palms, mirroring each other; kissed with a strange, urgent tenderness. We broke apart reluctantly, for there was no time. I felt her cheeks beneath my palms, felt how perfectly they fit there, and captured forever in my mind how she looked when I held her that way.

It was the last time that I touched her with both hands.

I returned to my fascist friends easier in mind.

I e-mailed Mulder his final tip-off, alerting him to the location of the Canadians. Meanwhile, I played up to my role as the psychotic genius, spouting at length about the Black Cancer. When they got that glazed-over facial expression, I knew I'd had the desired effect. After the bust, I expected, they would give Mulder anything he wanted to hear about their traitor. Hopefully, he would start to put things together from that, and come up with as much of the picture as I wanted him to know.

When the time came, I handed them over to Mulder. Once that goodwill gesture had been accepted and I'd taken the obligatory punch, he and Scully and I settled down to talk.

I told them about the incoming courier from Russia with a diplomatic pouch, and waited patiently as they took off after the American thief. When they returned, diplomatic pouch in hand, I was relieved to find that it indeed contained the Tunguska rock. With little choice, I submitted to custody, knowing Mulder wouldn't leave me in the county lockup. The rock would go somewhere secure and comparatively independent with Scully, and I would get a safe house.

A relatively safe house.

Mulder and Scully left me with Skinner, who threw a punch of his own - a real one, not the pissy ones Mulder does - and left me to freeze, handcuffed to the railing on his balcony. The next morning, he threw some toast at me, glowering, before storming off to work. I thought Skinner's reaction was a little extreme, given that I'd really only punched him a couple of times.

But then I remembered Duane Barry's death and the heat he took for that, not to mention Scully's sister and Scully's abduction - he'd always had a soft spot for her - and that asshole Cardinale had shot him, too; maybe he thought I was part of that. I had a bit more understanding of his attitude then, and chalked one up to bad karma. God knew, I'd earned a bit of that.

I was still cold, though, dammit.

The American thief broke into Skinner's apartment later that day. As Mare explained to me later, conflict had broken out in the group about the vaccine in the wake of the rock incident. The courier had wisely not given himself into custody; but instead hoped to recover the rock and save his own hide. I was more worried about my own: caught between a rock and a high place, I threw myself over the seventeenth storey balcony and prayed the cuffs - and my wrist - would hold. When the courier found me, I wrestled with him and pulled him over the side - the longest ten seconds of my life. No guilt on that kill - it was the only defense I had.

I was still there, dangling between life and death when Mulder retrieved me a half-hour later. "Stupid-ass haircut", he says with a punch, when I just damn near got killed in the so-called safe house he'd set up.

One of these days I'm gonna quit playing penitent for his father and slug him back, I really am.

When I woke, I was alone.

I was still handcuffed to the steering wheel, my shoulder aching, my wrist abraded and bruised. We were parked outside Mare's, and Mulder was gone. I was refreshed in mind, if not in body.

I watched the lights and shadows of the windows, trying to work out what was going on. Mare was moving back and forth - I could tell from the shape of the head - but there was no sign of Mulder. His cell phone was on the dash, plugged into the car charger; and after an hour had passed, I decided to risk using it. I phoned Mare, and after several busy signals, I got through.

"Where are you?" she asked urgently.

"Right under your nose. Mulder has me handcuffed to the steering wheel of his car downstairs." The curtain flickered as she peered down at me. "Can you speak freely?"

"Yes - he's asleep. I'm just about to wake him and feed him the pouch information. I'm not going to give him Tunguska - just the entry point in Norylsk. I think it's better if he works it out for himself. You know what he's like."

I nodded slowly. "Good. It's all arranged with Mikhail - they're expecting us." Then, "Did you hear about the courier?"

"Yes," she said grimly. "What happened?" At my explanation, she said furiously, "Damn it! They had no right to put you at risk like that!"

I laughed at that. "You're like a mother hen sometimes, Mare." It felt good, that someone got that angry on my behalf.

"You're my husband," she said simply.

"It wasn't a criticism," I said gently. "I like it when you get protective."

She smiled indulgently - I could hear it in her voice. "There have been some Consortium developments," she said. "Donovan's buddy Senator Sorenson is calling a congressional enquiry into the American courier's death. Total smokescreen leading to nothing, but Donovan wants to publicly distance the group from the rock theft. Seems some of our Russian comrades aren't too happy with Camp Spender right now," she added sardonically.

I smiled faintly. "The enquiry doesn't really affect our position, and the more preoccupied Donovan is, the more exposed that leaves Benita. I'd say let it be." Then, as an afterthought, "It could even be to our advantage, if it buys Mulder's work some protection."

"That remains to be seen."

"Let's worry about what we can change," I counselled. "Speaking of which, can you have the billing entry for this call wiped from Mulder's phone bill?"

"Piece of cake. You should see my newest hack program," she added gleefully. "You could co-opt the government of a small country with it." I had to laugh - she was such a computer nerd. "I'll go wake him now - get him moving. You must be cold down there." Her tone was solicitous. I could imagine her serving me chicken soup in my sickbed with that voice. The image amused me very much. What had Mare said once? Something about things that happen to normal people, and not people like us?

She was waiting for a response. "More like profoundly relieved," I snorted. "I swear, if he hits me one more time-"

"You two always did like a bit of B&D," she laughed.

"That was a long time ago," I said irritably. "I'm serious, Mare, he's driving me nuts."

"Mulder drives everyone nuts. Even Scully shot him." We laughed, but then she sobered. She cautioned, only half-joking:

"Don't kill him. We need him."

He did hit me again, and I didn't kill him. How much of that was self-control and how much the handcuffs, I don't know.

My little display at the airport was fortunate, but totally unplanned. I was pissed off and humiliated. Twenty-four hours with Mulder and I'd been punched on at least four separate occasions and left to dangle in the cold over the side of a seventeenth-storey balcony. Pissing in the wind, you might say. His snide remarks were not much more than schoolyard bullying, and that was about how they made me feel. I cursed him in English, and then my English left me as it sometimes did when I was very worked up, and I cursed him in Russian.

That was when he decided to bring me to Tunguska with him.

I suspect, though, that he intended to bring me all along. I think in retrospect that the whole thing was just one more bit of bullying. I wondered if Scully ever saw this side of him. I doubted it.

We arrived in Tunguska without incident. Mulder backed off a bit, perhaps realising he had pushed me too far; or perhaps just concerned about alienating his only interpreter. Regardless, we were imprisoned, and I was immediately taken to Mikhail. I directed him on Mulder's vaccination program, and had them throw me back in with Mulder once more. I convinced him that I had been interrogated, and he responded by shoving me against the wall.

Like you couldn't have predicted that.

"What did you tell them?" he demanded.

"That we were stupid Americans lost in the woods," I snapped. His breath was hot on me, and I had a fleeting memory of another time; but I dismissed it. I shoved him away, sick of being his punching bag. "Don't touch me again."

Mulder stared at me as though I had lost my mind. "Don't *touch* you?" he demanded, misinterpreting my words. Maybe I wasn't the only one with a memory of other times. "What are you, married or something?" I turned and glowered at him, and he scoffed incredulously, "You're kidding! Who? La Femme Nikita?"

"Fuck you," I snapped, turning back to look out the barred window. "You're such an asshole, Mulder."

We each paced for a bit, avoiding one another as well as we could in such close quarters. Subjected to the cold and the filth and the stench, far worse than the already-awful conditions I lived in myself in Norylsk, I felt pity for my prisoners; but it was only fleeting. They were all violent criminals, otherwise destined for the death penalty. They had all accepted this arrangement in exchange for parcels of land and money for their families. In the circumstances, their consent wasn't exactly free and heartfelt, but whose is to anything in life? Mine sure as hell wasn't. And it wasn't as though Marita and I were living in the lap of luxury - we worked our asses off to feed and shelter them. That creepy geologist in the next cell was the worst - he'd taken a rock with the alien pathogen and used it to wipe out his wife, her lover, and her family. Only the wife got the vaccine in time, but she came out catatonic.

At last - partly to make peace and partly to pass the time - I said quietly, "You know, Mulder, sooner or later you're going to have to come to terms with the fact that if it hadn't been me that night at your father's house, it would have been someone else."

"Yeah," he grunted by way of concession. His voice was not that of fresh anger, but dull with bitterness. "But it *was* you." He leaned against the wall, his arms folded, watching me.

I nodded with some understanding, but said only, "If I had said no, Mulder, they would have killed me or mine."

"You mean your wife."

"We weren't married at that stage," I said, looking up at him from my stance on the floor, "but yeah."

He thought on this. "Does she know you swing both ways?" he asked curiously. Then, before I could answer, "Does she know what you *do*? I mean she doesn't think you're a travelling encyclopedia salesman, does she?"

"She knows everything," I said darkly. "Everything."

He looked at me quizzically. "But doesn't she - well, mind?"

"Of course she minds," I snapped. "We both do. You think this is the life I grew up wanting?" I demanded bitterly.

He frowned, but didn't reply; and after that we spoke no more.

Next time I decide to take Mulder prisoner, remind me to take a straightjacket.

After I was removed from the cell, we ran the treatment on Mulder. We drew some blood and sent it to Norylsk to attempt to isolate the alien retrovirus. We gave him the vaccine. We gave him the pathogen. We continued this way, vaccine and oil in turn, for much of the night. We had been trialling it this way, incrementally, attempting to overcome the terrible malaise that struck the subjects in the aftermath of the treatment, but to no avail.

Every rule has an exception, though.

We weren't expecting any trouble from Mulder the following day. Usually, the newly- tested prisoners were only semi-conscious, stumbling blindly to keep up with their comrades. Exchanging small-talk with Mikhail, I didn't even look for him, expecting that he was passed out in his cell. He was almost on top of me before my guards and I realised what was happening; and by the time I came to myself, he had me in the back of a hurtling truck, several miles from the compound. I knew of the sometimes-erratic effect of the vaccine on the psyche, and Mulder struck me as someone predisposed to that outcome. The danger was real.

So I jumped.

I fell on my left arm - the same one that was hurt from the balcony episode and the cuffs. Hopelessly lost, I ran in the unfamiliar territory of the woods, clutching it, little dreaming that I would soon crave the feeling of pain it sent through me. At that point, I thought I would be quite happy for the damn thing to fall off and be done with it.

God and irony conspire in their little jokes sometimes.

When I encountered the boys, I was relieved. Naturally, I knew of them, local boys and men who had cut off their left arms in a bid to avoid being tested. It was a pointless exercise - we only ever tested convicts, and some of the boys were too young to have ever received the smallpox inoculation anyway. But one loose- lipped guard had spread the word of a one-armed prisoner we had refused, and then suddenly Tunguska was filled with amputees. I thought the whole thing was darkly funny - it appealed to my sense of the macabre. I still do, actually; though it's taken me a while to reach that point.

I convinced the boys that I was an escapee, my main concern. They would have killed me if I hadn't. Laughable. I was their enemy, in their eyes; but I would no more have harmed them than a butterfly. Like I said...God and irony.

I will draw a curtain over what happened next. I have never spoken of it, not even to Mare; and in that uncanny way she has, she has known not to ask. I will put it baldly for posterity; but details are something I cannot give, even now.

They waited until I was asleep, and then they cut off my arm.

Deliberate choice of words. Amputation just doesn't fit, you see. There was nothing clean and efficient about it. They took a hot knife and sawed at my arm until it was gone, and by then I was hysterical, screaming incoherently with pain.

When it was over, I found myself locked in terror, paralysed by a chilling fear that they would maim me in some other way. I knew it wasn't true - that their violence was not malicious and their interest was in my protection - but I was beyond all reason. I flinched when they came near me to feed me or bandage my arm; and I refused to go with them when they decided to move deeper into the woods. I couldn't have: I could barely move. The shock and the cold were slowly overtaking me.

It was a relief.

Mare found me.

As she explained later, she had arrived in Norylsk just hours after Mulder's escape from the camp in Tunguska. She had taken advantage of Spender's absence, as required by the enquiry, and followed us, aware that her own position might be tenuous in the aftermath of Benita's death. Upon learning of Mulder's escape and my disappearance in his wake, she had taken a crew and followed the near-perfect tracks in the frozen ground. They knew where I fell from the truck: I lost a shirt button. Yeah, you read it right. I laughed when they told me that.

A fucking button. Who but a wife would know me by my button?

They searched the area - the whole crew by day; just her and a dedicated guard by night. That information washed over me when I heard it - I had expected nothing else of her - but later, when I really thought about it, it was so damn comforting. She did that for three days. By now, given the sub-zero temperatures, she was too worried to bother with subterfuge.

"Alexi!" she screamed. "Alexi!"

I heard her crying out that way for hours; but, hoarsely paralysed by hypothermia, shock and blood loss, I couldn't respond. I fought for consciousness, and in the extremity of hunger, I gnawed on the remains of my own limb, discarded by my misguided saviours. I toyed with my wedding band, now on my right hand, and waited patiently, knowing that she would never give up. And she never did.

At last, her hoarse cries drew near, and I cried out as best that I could. I heard her footsteps grow nearer, heard her break into a run. I hid my arm under leaves and, pulling myself into a sitting position, I pulled my jacket around me, wanting to spare her the shock. I would tell her - warn her.

She ran into the clearing, gasping for breath, and she slumped with exhausted relief at the sight of me. She came to me, dropped to her knees in front of me. Wordlessly, she threw her arms around me, silent tears streaming from crystal-clear eyes. I held her with my one arm, and I felt her stiffen as she registered the absence of the second. I felt her right arm, which embraced my left side, tighten, instinctively looking for that which should be there but was not.

She pulled back, her face querying, the suspicion not yet fully formed, not yet articulate. She knew that something was wrong, but not what it was. She cried out in Russian for her crew to stay back, and I knew I should tell her before she worked it out, but I couldn't speak.

I remember the exact moment when she realised; when the pieces of the puzzle came together. Her querying look was flooded with horror, as though she had been slapped, when she remembered the rebel amputees. She pulled my jacket aside, but did not look, still staring up into my eyes. I stared back, afraid of her grief, her disappointment, her rage; for then I must feel my own.

She felt her way, her hands tentatively finding my shoulder. They moved down my stump, and when she found the sudden absence mid-bicep, I saw her breath catch in her chest. Her fingertips moved fearfully over the sodden bandage, and it hurt so much, teasing over the deep wound, even as my phantom itches clamoured for her touch. But somehow I couldn't ask her to stop: I needed to confront her with it, to see her pull her bloodied hand away and accept it anyway.

Maybe then I could accept it, too.

"Oh, Alexi," she whispered, and pressed her mouth to mine.

We stayed there for a long moment, but finally, she pulled away, her silent tears dried to powdery ice on her cheeks. She said softly, "Where is it? This cold - even after this time, perhaps it can be saved -" but I shook my head before she could finish.

"They took it?" she demanded.

I shook my head, and motioned with my head to the pile of leaves, reluctantly. It was a direct question, and I had never lied to her. I waited while she uncovered it, seeing it as though in slow motion. Her movements slowed as she saw the teeth marks and the desecration, and she stared up at me in horror as she realised what I had done. I averted my head, ashamed; but she said sharply, "Look at me." I shook my head, and she said with fresh tears, "Look at me!"

At last, I complied; and she said softly, "If this is how you stayed alive for me, I'm glad, Alex. Don't you ever be ashamed of this."

I shook my head again, my face twisted with pain. The gulf I had perceived between us, when I had killed and she had not - the unworthy bloodiness I felt - it was nothing compared to this. I felt an essential, unnavigable wall rise between us, and I was sure it could never be breached. I heard her saying, dimly, "Don't do this, Alex; don't leave me," but I retreated into myself, staring off into the distance, far from her.

She watched me for a long moment; but then, at last, she came to me, carrying my arm. She crouched in front of me and waited patiently for me to look at her. At last, I did it, watching with numb horror as she lifted my arm in front of me. "Look at it, Alex. Look at what you did. You did it for us. And so will I."

I stared at her, bewildered and perplexed, as she used her fingernails to pull off a few twisted strands of tissue from the bone. They were frozen; little beads of ice crumbled through them. She looked at them for a long moment, steeling herself in a way I understood all too well, and then put them into her mouth, closing her eyes briefly as she swallowed hard.

When she opened them, I was still staring, unaware of my tears until she brushed them away. "We all do what we have to do to survive, Alexi," she said gently. "You don't have to punish yourself - or me." She looked down at my arm. "We are man and wife. Your sins are my sins. There is no room for punishment between us."

And then, at last, I gave way; and she held me; and I was comforted.

She took me to St Petersburg.

We slept fitfully on the plane, and the hospital was a whirlwind of doctors and specialists, who proclaimed me to be in surprisingly good condition for my ordeal. The prosthetic specialist was optimistic about my prospects for rehabilitation. I would be able to drive a car and button my clothes and all of that. I wondered aloud if I would be able to knit, but Mare said she thought I would only be able to knit as well as I did now. I told her that didn't bode very well. She just laughed, a little wanly, but a laugh just the same.

My stump itched and it would take time to heal - certainly I would not be able to use a prosthetic for a while - but I was able to try one on. "I look like a Thunderbird," I said disgustedly.

"Thunderbird?" she echoed, bewildered.

"Sixties British kids' show. The parts were played by marionettes." I started humming the theme and did a little impression, tip-toeing across the room, bobbing the prosthesis up and down. She really laughed then, and it made me feel that I might be able to laugh again too.

Back at the hotel, when at last we went to bed, she spooned against me as usual; and I felt more potently than ever my loss. We lay there against one another, and I couldn't hold her. That hurt in a way that all the little irritations had not. I tried to compensate by nuzzling her neck; but at last, I pulled away in distress. She rolled over, trying to get close, but I turned away.

She watched me for some time, but finally, she rose. I heard her moving behind me, before she came around the bed into view. She knelt before me, saying diffidently, "Alexi, make love to me."

"Mare," I protested weakly, but she cut me off.

"Do it, Alex. Show me that you love me. Show me that you want me. Make me know."

I sat up on the side of the bed, cradling her cheek with my hand, and leaned against her, my head on her shoulder. I didn't intend to do as she asked; but I inhaled her scent, and it was intoxicating. It was sex and heat and lust; it was the gentle warmth of comfort and compassion; it was adoration. She was my lover, my mother, my wife. Everything I'd ever craved in another person. In the depth of my loss, I felt every part of me reach for her, needing her close; and then I was cradling her with my arm, holding her to me as I kissed her urgently, needing her comfort and her warmth.

She touched my face wondrously with her fingertips. "Alexi," she whispered. Her arms wound around me, not at my shoulders or my waist as usual, but one arm at each, bridging the gap where I would normally have held her. She was compensating for me, freeing me to touch her with my hand. She moved closer to me between my legs, pressing herself against me, moving with me as my lips found hers, as I sought her taste and her scent hungrily. I touched her, craving the feel of her under my palm, missing its mate but not minding as much as I'd expected.

I opened my eyes, and hers opened at the same instant, our gazes locked in breathtaking union. Her eyes were like quartz, her irises such an elusively pale green that they were almost clear, trailing delicately around blue- black pupils, bottomless and unfathomable. They spoke of great pain and great love, and it made me ache to know that I was responsible for both. I rested my head against hers for a long moment, breathing her name in an erratic melody. Her hands were at my neck, cradling me like something precious. I felt loved.

I touched her.

Cautiously, tentatively, I moved my hand over her skin - skin I had touched a thousand times before. I touched her with wonder, the feel of her beneath my hand a revelation. I trailed curious fingertips down over her flesh, over the thin silk of her nightshirt. I found her nipple with the back of my hand, and I teased it, relishing the feel of it moving across my hand, catching at each knuckle; the feel of the silk rustling over it, a mere sliver of a barrier between us. I slid my hand beneath her shirt and took her breast in my hand, explored it curiously, and found out what she liked all over again. I toyed with it, gentle yet childlike, treasuring as though for the first time that simplest of pleasures: that of touching my wife. I was oblivious to her need and my own, fascinated by the feel of her beneath my palm. I explored further, my hand drifting over her belly, and felt her shudder against me. It was only then that I saw her predicament, or was conscious of my own. She was watching me, her skin flushed, her eyes bright; and my need was white-hot.

I kissed her fiercely; whispered, "I'm sorry - I just-"

She stopped me. "I know." She took my hand in hers and guided it back to her belly, and kissed me, hard. "Do it, Alex," she gasped between breathless kisses, her harsh whisper scraping across my desire like a knife. "Touch me. Anywhere you want."

"I want you everywhere."

And then we were kissing once again, ravenous for one another. I pushed at her with my head, chased her with my mouth, devouring her, unable to get enough. She stood, pulling me up, moving backwards, letting me push her. The solid wall behind her, she pressed herself into me, flinging her head to one side. Roughly, I pulled aside the shirt and nuzzled the soft hollows of her neck like a man possessed. She leaned against me weakly, making soft sounds of longing. "God! Alex," she cried out, her breasts pushing into me, her body swaying in agonising need. "I want you so bad."

"I can't wait," I breathed, grabbing the silk of her shirt in my hand. "I want you, I need you." I lifted the shirt over her head, awkwardly, and she made a low sound as the fabric dragged on her nipples, teasing them. I dropped the shirt, heedless of where it landed.

She drew me close. Her fingertips dragged across my shoulder, the top of my dressing, her smooth skin skittering across the raw nerves there. I felt the ruthless twinges of new flesh forming, and they sent ripples of pleasure through my veins, right on the knife-edge of pain. I sank to my knees before her, my head pressed against her, moaning with the exquisite pain/pleasure of it. She cradled my head against her stomach, bending to kiss me with sudden tenderness.

I held up my hand to her, and when she took it, I pulled her down to straddle me. The floorboards were hard and cold against my back, but I was heedless, drunk on her, craving her like an addict. I wanted to fill her in every way, to make her forever mine, because I was hers. We rolled around the floor like animals on heat, knocking furnishings and our belongings about carelessly; yet what I felt for her then was not primal, but spiritual. It was that gift of God, of soul meeting soul. I cradled her head with my arm - the only time I truly grieved the absence of its mate - and I worshipped her.

At last, we staggered up, and I laid her face down on the bed, stripping her silk trousers and my own. I parted her thighs, laying her open for me, and knelt between her slightly bent knees, moulding my body to hers. I kissed the back of her neck, pushing her hair up and away, breaths heavy with aching desire. She took my hand in her own and drew it under her shoulders so that my arm cradled her. She laid her cheek against my palm, waiting a moment for me; but then she realised my dilemma, and reached beneath her to guide me inside her. I laid my head against her shoulder, pushing into her, felt her body part willingly to make room for me. She was slick and ready, and she gave a shocked gasp as I filled her, thrusting back at me stroke for stroke, pushed to the hilt at last yet seeking more. Her face deep in the bed, I heard her crying out in breathless need as she came, felt her grow hard and tense, then relax, shuddering, in the cradle of my arm. And when at last I emptied myself into her, and we fell apart, she was weeping; but her tears were of blissful exhaustion; and she turned over, laughing joyfully through them, and pulled me down to her. I was alive, we were man and wife, and we had made love. My arm was gone; but the world was back more or less the way it should be.

And I felt whole once more.

Part Four

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.

Part Five

I blame myself.

Looking at her, so white and still, a mess of tubes and leads, I feel the searing heat of shame and the stunning shock of grief. This is not the first time she has lain in a sickbed in this place, but it is the first time she has been truly at their mercy. And I blame myself, because her illness - her frailty, her brokenness - and most of all, the evil possession that makes her a prisoner in her own body could have been prevented.

My mistakes were twofold. The first was in acquiescing to her demand that I leave the boy's implant in place. What she insisted was, certainly, the right thing. But it was not the safe thing - for the boy or for us. Marita has a history of choosing what is right over what is safe, necessary counterpart to my ruthlessness. But I knew that in the wake of the firestorms, it was ruthlessness that would keep us alive. If I had overruled her, she would have submitted to my judgement, just as I sometimes submitted to hers. But instead, I did as she asked; and ultimately, the boy died regardless.

I don't feel so bad about that. He'd been living on borrowed time from the moment he saw the firestorms in Kazakhstan anyway.

My second mistake, far greater, was in allowing her to take the boy to Mulder, unaccompanied. We were fooled by his harmlessly docile demeanour, fruit of the inactive pathogen. But the greater force of the implant could overcome that docility. It was something I had never considered: we had never tested the pathogen on an abductee. And when confronted with the irresistible draw of the rebels, the boy blindly, instinctively sought to remove that which prevented his compliance: the pathogen, and my wife.

Would you have made the same choices if you had foreseen this, Mare? When you held his sobbing face to you like a mother and let him fall asleep with his head in your lap, when you found the telltale mark of the abductee, would you have still argued for his life? Knowing that your choice would leave you helpless, your eyes coated with delicately trailing oil, your veins blue-black with it? Knowing that your choice would leave you at their mercy?

Damn it, I think you would.

I really think you would.

I returned to the ship in a good mood.

I was exhilarated by the prospect of freedom, of something approaching a normal life; but the compelling frenzy of it had been tamed. Mare and I had spent our urgency and our tense excitement in each other; and there was peace in the aftermath. When she left me there on the wharf, I felt great hope, and a pervading sense of calm. For the first time in a long time, I felt genuinely good.

That was until I reached the cell.

The smell assaulted my senses as soon as I walked in, its weight washing over me. It was a civilised smell, a cultured smell, so distinct amid the filth of this place. I looked around me in alarm, because I identified it at once. It was the sort of scent a man used as his signature.

A man like Donovan.

"Well?" came a gravelly voice behind me. "Where's the boy?"

"Donovan," I said in a hiss, turning to face him. I swallowed a little at his firearm; there was a good possibility that he knew I'd ordered the hit on his beloved Benita. I already knew he'd ordered the death of the hitter, Vassily Peskow; Peskow had died badly. Did he want the vaccine badly enough to keep his need for revenge in check?

"Where is he?" he demanded again.

"Somewhere safe," I said angrily.

"Is that right?" he said mockingly. "It's good that you think so highly of your accomplice." He came to me, pulling out a pair of handcuffs. "We'll soon see if your faith is warranted."

So saying, he cuffed me to a pipe, and he left me.

"You're probably thirsty."

I looked up at Donovan coldly. "Remind me to complain to the captain about the service."

He dipped a cloth into a bucket of water. "You may have that opportunity. This ship is bound back to Vladivostok tomorrow. I gather there'll be quite an enthusiastic homecoming." He wrung out the cloth over my mouth; I moved my head, struggling to drink, then spat the liquid out, disgusted. It was vinegar.

"Do you have the boy?" I demanded. I'd had all night to stew about the fate of the boy. As for Mare - I hadn't dared contemplate her. After this, would they let her live?

"No. Ms Covarrubias took him," he said, and I felt a rush of relief wash over me. They hadn't caught her, then. "Your alliance with her was as misguided as ours, but it appears she was unaware of the consequences of her deception." My eyes opened very wide as I realised that he believed she had double-crossed me. Hot on the heels of that, I realised that Benita had never told him we were married. If that were true, and I could convince him that Marita was acting in their interests-

"You were clever," Donovan went on. "Infect the boy to ensure infection of anyone who tried to learn what he knows, who would cheat you." His words hit me like a slap. I felt a chill of panic, from my stomach, spiralling out.

Mare was infected.

"Then where's the boy?" I snapped, stalling for time. How could I get her back without letting him know he had me over a barrel? Without revealing that she was to me as Benita had been to him? I needed to think.

"Dead. Victim of another mysterious holocaust. Unable now to tell what he knew or saw."

"Then you got no choice but to deal with me," I insisted. If I could deal with him - if I could convince him I wanted to kill her myself -

"I'm afraid there's no deal to be made."

"I'm the only one who knows what those incidents are," I argued, my heart hammering in my chest. "What they mean. I know what that boy saw."

Donovan said scornfully, "You've as much as told me what I need to know."

"You know nothing," I snapped, my fury a poor camouflage for fear. It was beginning to overtake me; I could feel it in my stomach and my chest. The adrenaline was pumping through my veins; and, given no release, it was painful. My capture made fight/flight a torturous little instinct to have.

"If the boy was your trump card, why infect him unless you could also cure him with a vaccine developed by the Russians? One that works," he amended, and I realised in a flash that he knew nothing of the Russian pathogen - that its properties made it valuable in its own right. "It would mean that the resistance to the alien colonists is now possible."

"You're dreaming!" I spat. What did this mean? Could I deal with just the pathogen? Could I keep something back for us to continue the work, and still get her out alive?

"Do you have the vaccine?" he demanded furiously.

"You need what I know," I insisted. If I could only think - but there was no time; Mare had been gone twenty hours, and the vaccine had to be administered within twenty-six.

His face was working, contorted with desperate urgency. "Do you have the vaccine!" He kicked the bucket into me, furiously, and began to walk away; and I felt a great swell of relief. His need was not for revenge - it was for the vaccine. That meant there could be a deal.

"Give you the means to save Covarrubias after what she did?"

He turned, still shaking. "The means to save yourself."

He stalked out, and I panicked; because when push came to shove, the work meant nothing. She was everything.

"All right!"

There was a moment of dead silence as his footsteps came to a halt. I called out, "I'm going to give you what you want, Donovan."

Slow, satisfied steps. "Is that right?" he enquired, appearing in the doorway once more.

"One condition," I warned sharply.

Donovan shook his head. "You're not in a position to make conditions, Mr Krycek."

"I'm in a position to make this one," I countered in a low voice, "because if you don't meet it, I'll take my chances in Vladivostock."

He opened his mouth, probably to argue, but decided against it. He started again. "What is it?"

I watched him steadily; said with a mildly interested calm that I didn't feel, "You use it to save Marita." I held his gaze, unblinking, hoping against hope that he would not perceive my desperation. I prayed it seemed idiosyncratic - an indulgence to a man accustomed to having his number one babe at his beck and call - and not heaven and earth to a man utterly, irrevocably in love.

"Save Covarrubias? After what she did?" he mimicked, his brow creasing.

I made a gesture of concession. "You got me. I knew she was taking the boy to Mulder," I admitted easily.

That shocked him. "Why?" he asked, genuinely puzzled. I said in confusion, "To convince him again of the alien threat. To get him to stop the handover of the captured rebel." At his look of horror, I said in realisation, "You didn't know, did you? You didn't know they were going to give him up."

"Give me that vaccine," he insisted; but his face was flushed with anger and dismay. I had hit a nerve. I shook my head, demanded:

"Take me to her."

She seemed so still.

I walked to her, feeling every footstep like a heartbeat. I touched her face for a long, lingering moment, then opened one of her eyes, catching my breath at the telltale sheen of oil over the iris. I looked into its emerald depths, searching for any sign of the Mare I knew; but it was absent. Only one person had ever seen me shed tears in adulthood - Mare - but on that day, Donovan came close to being the second. I fought them, and won - just.

The older man's voice came from behind me, dimly, implacably. "Give me the vaccine." Still watching her numbly, I nodded, reaching into my jacket. I removed the oil stock, unscrewed the bottom segment, and turned to him, holding it out. He took it, but I didn't let go.

"Save her," I insisted, staring at him, eyes blazing.

He tugged on it uselessly, his hand closing over mine. "What is she to you, Krycek? You wouldn't do this for a business partn-" he stopped short, his grip loosening, and I felt his forefinger moving over my hand curiously. He looked down, and I followed his gaze to my ring finger; saw the realisation spread over his face at the white-gold band with the yellow sapphires, so incongruous with my casual garb. And I remembered that Mare's would have been on her chain around her neck when they found her.

"She's your wife," he said in disbelief.

"Save her," I hissed, my voice thick and harsh with pain.

He nodded slowly. "All right." I let the stock go.

"And one more thing." At his questioning expression, I insisted, "I'm not leaving her side."

That was how I came to live at Fort Marlene.

"They're gone."

I came out of the anteroom, passing Donovan blindly. I went to Mare's side and stood, looking at her morosely.

"She's comatose. There's no radiation, no dominance." Nodding, I lifted her arms, one at a time, rearranging the sheet so that she was covered to the neck. It was a cold room. Behind me, Donovan went on in a worried voice, "Is it a different strain?"

I shook my head absently. "No. Biochemically it's identical." Reaching up, I tilted the overhead light away from her eyes. "Benita believed it was injured, for want of a better term, in the Tunguska crash. She thought it was roughly analogous to what we would call brain damage. Basic survival functions - infection and propagation - but no higher or conscious activity."

Donovan was watching me with interest - whether at my ministrations or because of my information, I didn't know, and didn't much care. "That's why you were able to create a vaccine. Why you were able to test successfully."

I nodded. "We could test without the lifeform being aware of it, without risk of retaliation." I turned to face him.

"Did any survive the holocaust?"

I nodded. "I have a sample. I'm going to give you that, too," I revealed, surprising myself. "No deals - just direct co-operation."

"Why?" He seemed genuinely interested.

I shrugged. "My operation has fallen to the rebels. I can't do it alone, and I won't do it with anyone who would use it for money or power." He caught the inference, that I knew enough of him to know that he wouldn't do that, and nodded, frowning. "The work must continue. The politics are secondary. Agreed?"

"Agreed." He looked at me piercingly; said in his gravelly voice, "Do you want to be part of it?"

I stared at him, demanded, "What kind of a question is that?"

"A real one. If you say no, you and your wife can have a normal life," he pointed out. "Say yes, though-"

I shook my head. "We can't have a normal life. Not til the vaccine is in circulation. Ideology aside, Mare is the only immune female - maybe the only immune, full stop. Think about it." His eyes widened, and then he nodded.

We were silent for a long moment. "Your aims and mine are more aligned than I'd thought, Alex," Donovan said at last. At my enquiring look, he said in a low voice, "You were right about Mulder."

"I don't understand," I said, confused.

"The group are going to hand over the rebel," he revealed; and his level voice couldn't totally disguise his anger and defeat at the fact.

I stared at him in shock. "Despite the vaccine?" I demanded in disbelief.

Sight nod. "Despite the vaccine."

I frowned, turning away, pacing. Those stupid, stupid men! I turned to face him once more. "What can I do?"

"Don't let it happen."

It happened.

I went to Mulder, and I convinced him of the alien threat. He went to the exchange, but the rebel was handed over regardless. However, because of his intervention, the rebel was killed outright, without revealing what he knew. The immediate threat had been averted.

The next three months passed in a blur. Mare regained consciousness in April, just in time for her birthday; but she was terribly, terribly weak. We remained at Fort Marlene, my days spent keeping her company - reading to her, talking to her, involving myself in her rehabilitation. I worked in the adjacent vaccine lab with two trusted scientists when she slept.

Donovan turned out to be, not exactly a friend, but certainly a companionable ally. He proved surprisingly sensitive, arranging a more comfortable bed/sitting room for her after she woke, and - after walking in on us asleep together on her cramped bed - even arranging for a double bed. There was no question of making love - she was far too weak for that - but being able to hold each other as we slept was an incredible comfort to both of us. She was not exactly a prisoner; but nor was she free to come and go, even if she had been able. He understood, as I did, the danger. It was something that had not yet occurred to Mare.

"Alexi?" she said tentatively in May.

I pressed her bent leg firmly against her body with my hand, and her foot up with my prosthesis. She winced slightly, but bore the pain stoically. I looked at her, holding it. "Yeah?"

Her face relaxed and she breathed out in a rush when I let go. "I want to get out of here."

I straightened her leg, massaging the joint of her knee with my thumb. I was very conscious of having only one hand to work with. "You're not well enough."

"I can walk when I really have to, I can wash myself, I can toilet myself," she protested impatiently. I flexed her foot back and forth, rolling it at the ankle. "So what's the problem?"

I rotated each of her toes in turn. "You're not well enough," I repeated implacably. I was frowning, but I don't think she could see it.

"That feels good," she sighed. "It's so good to feel the blood moving." I shot her a smile. She went on, "I am well enough, Alexi. You can help me, and I can make do for myself at home when you're out. You care for me pretty much full-time here anyway."

I went to her side, and she put her arm around my shoulder. I lifted her so that she sat up. "You can make do for yourself," I conceded, putting the cover over her to the waist. I handed her book to her and, grabbing my own, sat at her side. "But can you keep yourself safe?"

She was starting to open hers, but she stopped, frowning. "What do you mean?"

I shifted to face her, my gaze locking on hers. "Do you have any idea how valuable a commodity you are?" I demanded, piercingly.

"What are you talking about?" she said in bewilderment.

"Marita, don't you understand? You're Eve," I said urgently. "The first woman!" Her jaw dropped a little, her brow creasing. "You think being under Donovan's nose is bad? Wait 'til someone like Saddam Hussein finds out there's a fertile, immune woman!"

She stared at me - stared at me for a long moment in utter stupefaction. At last, she protested in a low voice, "We don't even know if the immunity is hereditary yet."

"No, we don't," I agreed. "And I can think of a dozen tinpot dictators who would love to find out." I smoothed back her hair, tucking it behind her ear like a parent, and she smiled faintly; but it was a weak, worried smile. "They could take you. They could demand ransom. Or they might just make you pregnant and see what happened." I didn't use the word rape, but the slight catch in her chest told me that she understood the implication.

"God," she said in a whisper.

I stroked her cheek with the back of my hand. She leant into it a little. "I don't want you scared, Mare, but I want you safe. We're not leaving here until you can take me down from ambush. And I'll fight you harder than I've ever fought you before. I'll fight you as hard as I'd fight to get you back."

She nodded slowly. She was very white. "All right." I leaned in and kissed her forehead. Pulling away, she said, "But will you talk to the occupational therapist? Tell her I want to work more intensively?" I nodded, looking up as Donovan appeared behind her in the doorway. I made a vague greeting gesture. He returned it, but didn't enter. "I want to be well, Alexi," she said insistently. Then, thickly, "I hate this place."

I took her hand in mine. "I know. I'll talk to her." I squeezed it a second, then let go.

Donovan cleared his throat, and Mare turned, composing herself. "Hello, Maxwell."

"Good afternoon, Marita. How are you feeling today?" he asked, not unkindly.

"Strong," she said firmly. "I walked up the corridor this morning. No walker."

He smiled, almost paternally. One thing I had to say for Donovan: his closeness with his grandchildren meant he had the fatherly thing down pat. "That's excellent, Marita. I'm very pleased." He turned to me. "Alex, can I borrow you for a few minutes?"

"Sure. I'll be back," I said to Mare. She nodded, shooting me a smile, and settled down with her book; but she still look troubled. Frowning, I rose, and followed Donovan into the corridor.

"What was that all about?" he asked me in a low voice, nodding towards the room. He asked with genuine solicitude, "Is there something I can do to make her more comfortable?"

I shook my head. "It's nothing like that. Mare has some bad memories of this place. We both do." At his querying look, I explained quietly, "We were pregnant last year. Spender knew." I swallowed hard, fighting to keep the awful, overwhelming sadness of that time out of my voice, but not quite succeeding. "He sent her into the smallpox test zone in Payson. They kept her quarantined here until she lost the child."

He stared at me, slack-jawed with horror. "Dear God."

I could feel my hand clenching with anger. "Controlling, murdering son-of-a-bitch. I'm glad he's gone." My voice was bitter.

Donovan looked worried. "Then you're not going to like what I'm about to ask you to do."

"What do you mean?" I demanded. Donovan looked uncomfortable.

"It's Spender - he's alive."

I didn't like it, but I went along with it.

Spender was indeed alive, and I was sent to his hideout to bring him back. Bring him back? When I'd have happily sent him to hell?

I damn near did it, too.

I had an accomplice, of course; but he was inept, and he paid for his ineptitude with his life. Spender and I were alone, and when I had him at gunpoint, I held him for a long moment - one of the longest moments of my life. I thought of Mare, weeping for her mother. I thought of her at the dark man's side, begging his forgiveness. I thought of her, exposed to radiation rescuing me from the missile silo. I thought of her buried in my arms, our child dying within her. And I wished - vehemently, bitterly, I wished that I could squeeze my finger around the trigger.

But I didn't do it, because Donovan was our ally, our protector; and if he wanted Spender back, then I would do it.

So I brought him back.

To this day, I don't understand why the group wanted him. I wasn't privy to that information: as far as the group was concerned, I was Donovan's right hand. A senior lackey, but still just a lackey. They knew nothing of my work on the vaccine. They believed I had stolen it and surrendered it in exchange for my life, nothing more. Donovan feared that if they knew I had been responsible for its development, I could be in danger. He believed my apparent insignificance would keep Marita and I safe.

As far as Spender went, while it's true that we had little control over the FBI without him, it seemed to me that the recovery of a child, even a child gifted with precognition - and especially a child guarded by a Consortium plant - should have been simple. But then, perhaps the plant was the problem. Diana Donovan - Diana Fowley, I corrected myself - was a mother of three. Her eldest was only a little younger than Gibson Praise. I don't think she would willingly have handed him over. Whatever the case, Spender retrieved the boy. He and Donovan exchanged words, and Donovan bundled the boy into the car, and got in himself.

"I've got a nice, straight shot," I said in a low voice.

"No. He's useful," Donovan countered. He looked at me meaningfully. "And you may need him in the future." I frowned - we had discussed the danger to him more than once. Donovan's days were numbered, and we both knew it.

We drove on, and in the rearview mirror I saw the boy's face darken as we passed Spender. "What's the matter, kid?" I asked, interested. The boy apparently didn't like him, which meant he probably had good instincts.

"That man hurt the lady," he said reproachfully.

"The redhead?" I said curiously. Scully had been guarding him too, I remembered. It didn't occur to me that he might mean Diana - I thought Spender was smarter than that. She and Donovan were thick as thieves.

"No, the other one. Agent Fowley."

Donovan said nothing, but I saw his hands tighten in his lap. I thought sympathetically that he was thinking of his grandchildren. "That's disgusting," I said with feeling. "You don't take women with little kids. Not if there's another way."

The older man looked at me curiously. "A more antiquated sentiment than I'd have expected from you, Alex."

"I know where to draw the line," I retorted. "Mothers are usually off-limits. So are kids, always," I added pointedly. "So if you want this kid dead, you're going to have to find someone else." I went on grimly, "Apart from anything else, Marita would kill me."

Donovan shot me a look, then laughed. "You're a fraud, Alex. You act so tough-"

"I love my wife, and I'm proud of it," I snapped. "You got something to say about that?" He remained silent. I insisted, "I don't kill kids." He looked at me with interest, then revealed:

"I have no intention of killing Gibson Praise."

"Why are you sad, Alex?"

I stared at the screen intently. "What?" He waited while I zapped a few aliens. Silly-looking green things. Don't these people read alien lore? One of them took out my avatar effortlessly, and I gave the boy the joystick in disgust. "You're in my head - don't you know?"

Gibson shook his head, his face blue-green in the light of the screen. "In your head isn't the same as in your heart."

I nodded slowly. That made sense. "My wife is very sick - I suppose you knew that part," I hazarded, and he nodded. "I just miss the things she used to do. She always used to sing in the shower, and she's an awful singer - just awful," I added with a grin. A flicker of amusement passed over the boy's features. "But she doesn't sing anymore, and I miss that. She had a birthday a little while back and I got her this gold bracelet, because she was too tired to enjoy anything else, you know?" He nodded, and I went on, mostly to myself, "She's too tired to laugh or smile or joke or make lo-" I bit off the end of that, but he knew what I was going to say, of course. "Sorry. This is nothing to tell a kid."

He shrugged. "When you see into grown up heads, you don't stay a kid for very long." On-screen, his avatar exploded in flames, and he handed me the joystick once more.

"No, I guess you don't."

"They're very dark," he said presently. "Why are grown ups so dark?"

I shifted, trying to manoeuvre the joystick the way I wanted, without success. I frowned. "I don't know," I said at last, handing over to him. He took it, but didn't play. "But not all of them are like that."

"You mean like your wife."

I glared at him. "Get the fuck out of my head, kid. Yeah, like my wife." I watched him for a moment, then relented. "You're a good kid, Gibson. You don't deserve to be dragged into this." He looked up at me, his expression oddly adult.

"Neither do you."

The next few weeks passed without incident. Gibson was ensconced in quarters at Fort Marlene, and I made an effort to settle him in. Donovan received my suggestion of a tutor for him with favour. In time, we hoped, the boy could be persuaded to take a role in the project - in which case, the group might allow him to live. But that would not be on the agenda for several years. Meantime, we endeavoured to keep him happy and stimulated, and to ease his separation from his family.

Mare and I talked about the boy at some length. I was aware of his value as a commodity, but both Mare and I believed he could not be used. The boy was strong: he would only be used if he allowed himself to be used out of his own ideology. But we both agreed that he should be protected, on both strategic and humane grounds.

I brought him to meet her, and they got along well. Mare thought so much about the baby we'd lost, living in that place; and it was good for her to be able to take an interest in another child. I wouldn't call her relationship with Gibson maternal, exactly, and certainly I wasn't paternal; but we both enjoyed him, both felt fiercely protective of him.

It seems odd to think of those days as domestic bliss, but in a way, they were. For me, it was a welcome interlude of stability after four years of chaos. I usually knew where I would spend my days and my nights, and those places were clean and civilised. I wasn't called upon to undertake unsavoury work. Mare and I slept together and read together and ate together - things we had never been able to do for more than a few weeks at a time before. We had a loose network of associates - my scientists and assistant, and Donovan and Gibson - and we had an identity as husband and wife. It was something loosely resembling a normal life.

Mare said once that there were certain things that only normal people could have - things that didn't happen for people like us. I'd told her, a lifetime ago, that they could happen - that we could make them happen.

But I was wrong.

"Leave us."

I looked up, my brow creasing. My assistant looked to me for my approval, and I nodded. "That's fine, Georgia." I looked at Donovan. He was pacing, fidgeting. I had never seen him so shaken. "Sit down, Maxwell," I said quietly. "You're making me nervous."

"You should be nervous," he said in a low voice, but he complied. He waited until the door snicked shut, then spoke. But his words were ones I could never have predicted.

"It gestates."

I blinked, staring at him in bewilderment. "What?"

"Fossilised pathogen has turned up in Texas," he said gravely. Then, deliberately, "An infected man grew an extraterrestrial biological entity in his abdominal cavity."

My eyes opened very wide, and I sat back in my chair, stunned. "Oh, God." I brought my hand to my mouth, breathing deeply; I could feel the blood draining from my face.

"It gets worse," Donovan went on implacably. "The EBE disembowels the host in the course of being born. It goes on to perpetuate itself by infecting whomever it finds." He looked at me piercingly; said in a low voice, "You know what this means?"

I could feel the bile rising in my chest - anger, fear, and betrayal all at once. I said in mounting horror, "It means infection isn't just slavery - it's digestion and elimination. They've lied to us all along!" Donovan was nodding, his expression a grimace of fear. I got to my feet and paced; then turned back to him at last. "What now?" I demanded. "Are there plans in place to fight?"

Donovan said in a controlled voice, "My colleagues do not yet understand the need to fight the future." At my stunned look, he said tightly, "They're going to turn over the man and demand an explanation."

I stared at him in utter disbelief. "You're kidding."

"I only wish I were, Alex."

I breathed out heavily, thinking fast. I started pacing again. "All right," I said decisively. "We'll get Mulder and Scully on board. You can get Diana and Senator Sorenson. I can probably get Skinner - he hates me, but he's fond of Mare. We'll have a crisis meeting - see if between us we can't dig up enough skeletons to pressure the group. The X Files have been shut down. They don't have anything to lose. With them on board, we could take it to the Senate - make them justify their decision and formulate a defence strategy." I could feel the blood pumping, my sense of control returning - but Donovan was shaking his head.

"It's not as simple as that."

"What do you mean?" I demanded fearfully.

Donovan was grimacing again. An insane voice in my mind remarked that if the wind changed he'd stay like that. "They fear Mulder will expose them in exactly the way you suggest. To prevent that, they've taken Scully. She's infected." I closed my eyes for a long moment, dismayed.

"God. Where is she?"

"The installation in Antarctica."

I stared at him. "We have to give Mulder the vaccine - there's no other way." I was starting to feel a bit like a caged rat.

He protested, "There's a UFO on anchor there. If the vaccine gets into the treatment system, it will also get into the craft. It could alert the alien race to our work." His voice was rising: he was close to raw panic, and coming from such a controlled man, that fact frightened me more than anything else.

"We might have to risk that. We can't go public, even just to Congress, without her - Mulder's seen as a crank. Skinner won't back him without her, and I'm betting your buddy Sorenson won't come to the party without Skinner. Losing Scully will destroy everything." I looked at him. "You think a resistance of eight is bad? A resistance of a man who doesn't exist, a man wanted for murder and treason, and a single immune - that's worse."

He sighed heavily, pondering my words, and he saw that I was right. With three feds, an FBI executive, and a senator, we could achieve what we needed to achieve. We could fight the future, and there was even a small chance we might come out alive. But without-

"Where are we up to on lag times for the vaccine?" he said at last.

"It can be successfully administered within ninety-six hours now. Maybe a hundred for Scully," I added. "She'll seroconvert more slowly in the cold." I went to a locked cabinet, and opened it, removing five vials. I separated one and put it in a pouch with a needle, and put the other four in a second. I handed them to him. He looked at the second pouch questioningly. "For Diana and the kids," I explained. "Once you've given Mulder the vaccine, get them somewhere safe and make them immune. I'm going to do the same for Gibson. There's no guarantee we're going to be able to stop this."

He nodded slowly. "Thank you, Alex."

I held out my hand. "Go safely, old man." He shook it.

I never saw him again.

My labs were empty.

The doors to the five anterooms were open. No Georgia at the desk. No scientists in either of the two laboratories. No Gibson.

No Mare.

I raced into our room, took in at once the empty bed. There was no sign of a struggle, but there was a hypodermic needle on the floor. With rising panic, I crouched to pick it up, and saw traces of clear fluid in the barrel. I doubted it was pure saline.

Diana Donovan's voice came from behind me. It was gentle. "Alex."

I looked up, my heart pounding. "Diana," I said in a husky voice. "What happened?"

She came into the room, a little awkwardly, and I remembered she hadn't been out of the hospital very long. "Max is gone. Car bombing." She said sadly, "He was very good to me. Like a father."

"I'm sorry," I said hollowly. I felt like leaping to my feet, lunging at her, pushing her against the wall by her slender white neck, screaming at her to tell me what happened to Mare. I didn't do it, partly because I didn't have that kind of energy in me, and partly because I already knew she was gone.

Diana said quietly, "The alien rebels found out about the vaccine when Mulder used it in Antarctica. They demanded the handover of the scientists and the immunes. If we hadn't complied, they would have given their information to the colonists. Colonisation would have begun at once." She sat down on the bed in front of me.

"We?" I echoed angrily, rising from a crouch to my feet, my face dark with rage.

She should have looked afraid, but she didn't. She just looked up at me with that odd empathy in her eyes, and I remembered that she had lost a spouse not so long before. "I didn't do this," she said softly. "I found out about it after the fact." Oddly, I believed her.

"What will they do to her?" I demanded harshly.

She bowed her head. "They killed her, Alex."

I sank into the chair and closed my eyes in agony. "How?" I whispered.

She said reluctantly, "They burnt her." I flinched.

"You saw?" I whispered at last.

She shook her head. "One of my men did - my right hand man. I don't have any reason to suspect his account." She reached down, took my hand in hers and held it out, and put something into my palm. I stared down at it numbly.

Mare's wedding ring.

It was covered in soot, stained in delicate ebony trails where it had been licked by flames. The yellow sapphires were dulled, their settings littered with ash. Staring at it, I couldn't breathe.

Diana's voice was gentle. "She's gone, Alex."

And then suddenly I could breathe, but the breaths were deep and laboured. "Leave me," I burst out, gesturing blindly.

Her hands were on my shoulders. "Alex, I've been widowed, I know what this is like. I don't think you should be alone-"

I shook her off. "Leave me!" I roared. "Leave me!"

Nodding wordlessly, she rose and left the room; and when I heard the double doors close behind her, I screamed in pain. I kept screaming, cries of a mortally wounded animal, until I was hoarse; and then I was silent.

But still I screamed in my heart.

I was still there when Spender came the following day.

I heard him come into the labs, heard him quietly giving orders to his men to continue the work. I heard him introducing scientists to one another, telling them where to find things, and telling them that they were to report to me. He instructed them not to enter the bed-sitting room nearest the door - those were Mr Krycek's quarters. I ignored it all; he would come to me if he wanted to. If he dared.

At last, he appeared in the doorway. "Alex?"

I didn't look at him. "What do you want?" I asked morosely.

His voice was surprisingly level - no arrogance, no cynicism. He said simply, "I want to give you something."

"What is it?" I said dully.

"It's your wife."

I turned to face him, and stared at the box he held out. "Her ashes, Alex. I thought you might like to bury them, or scatter them."

I tried to scatter them. I took them to the plains of Ateni, her birthplace, place of our marriage. Such a grey place, and yet it had given us so much. I shook the box, and let the wind take her; but then I screamed in pain, and I ran after her, scooping up whatever ash I could find on the ground, holding it to myself. In the extremity of it I collapsed to the ground on my knees, holding what fragments of her I could, and I wept, begging her to stretch out her hand to comfort me from wherever she might be.

But she was silent.

I continued to work on the vaccine.

I didn't really know what else to do. Spender had given me continued control of the operation, so I stayed there more or less by default. I had nowhere else to go, except for Mare's apartment - mine, I supposed now - but that was much too painful to bear. Co-operating with Spender wasn't something that sat easily with me, but I had no reason to hate anymore. Everything that gave my life the layers of meaning that hate required was gone.

Not that my co-operation was total: I was passing intelligence to the Tunisians. There was no real method to my madness - I was just hedging my bets. I had the vague idea of eventually working on the vaccine away from Spender; but I couldn't seriously contemplate it for the time being. It all seemed too hard. I remained an American at heart, and I was choosy about the intelligence I passed on.

Before his death, Donovan had delivered the vaccine to Mulder in time to save Scully - she was ill, but nowhere near as ill as Mare had been, and that puzzled me. The Antarctic installation collapsed when the anchored UFO broke free, decimating a good part of the polar environment; the Australian government - with the backing of adjacent stakeholder Norway - pressured for ongoing investigation into the incident, and as a consequence the X Files were reopened. That was largely political appeasement, however: we had major conflicts with Australia already over wheat export concessions. The Bureau was quite happy for the X Files to be non-productive; so Spender was able to displace Mulder and Scully, replacing them with Diana Donovan and an unwitting Spender Jr.

With the X Files in his pocket, only Skinner remained as a wildcard, and Spender was anxious that he be controlled. I won't belabour the details of how I took him. It was all very political and technological, and I have little patience for either. The short version is this: Spender had been playing with nanotechnology - microscopic machines that behaved as pathogens. He had agreed to give the technology to the Tunisians; in exchange, he got the Tunisian vote for control of the vaccine project after Donovan's death. Once the vote was cast, Spender privately decreed that the deal should not proceed, and in any case I was determined to stop it. But neither Spender nor I could be seen to be the ones who prevented it.

The work on the technology was comparatively open, approved and funded in top-secret congressional sittings, and as a consequence the handover of the technology had to be more or less by the book. Spender had arranged for a senate resolution, SR819, which would allow the granting of money and medical technology to third world countries as a humanitarian measure. The technology was to be handed over under the provisions of that bill; if we stopped the bill, we could stop the handover.

In the end, I killed two birds with one stone. I infected Skinner with the nanocytes, manipulated he and Mulder into exposing the bill, damn near killed him, then brought him back. No more bill, and Skinner was under my control. I have to admit that I felt a little pride about that operation: it was clean and efficient, had a low body count, and I had my desired results in less than thirty-six hours. Mare would have praised me - and then she'd probably have slapped me, for Skinner. I never really got the friendship between those two, but it was strong.

But I felt something; that was the thing. Seven long months without her, and while I wasn't healing - I would never heal - perhaps the flow of blood was finally ebbing. The agony was losing some of its bite - or so I thought.

It had only just begun.

"Dear God."

I stared down at my lab table, strewn with facsimile copies and folders and medical charts. I remembered that fog just after Mare died, when my world fell apart. In a way, this was not much different. It hurt less, but it was just as shocking.

Diana Donovan came and peered over my shoulder. "What's the matter?"

I picked up a picture of Cassandra and waved it at her. It was an old picture - she'd still been married to Spender then. "She's the matter," I snapped, flinging it down again. I laid three charts side-by-side, and pointed. "Look at the dates and then look at the metabolic readings."

She did as I asked, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear in a way that reminded me eerily of Mare. Her eyes widened, and she froze. For long, long moments, she stared, her body still, her face deathly white, her strong, chiselled features lined with horror. "They've done it," she said harshly. "They've really done it."

I nodded. "A successful alien-human hybrid." I said quietly, "As soon as the alien colonists find out about this, she'll be handed over, and it will begin."

She looked at me squarely. "My husband died to prevent this," she said fiercely. "So did Max. I'm not letting it happen now."

"So did my wife," I said gravely. "What did you have in mind?"

She answered my question with a question. "Where are we on the vaccine?"

"Nowhere," I said wearily. "Even if we piggy-back it off another vaccine, people will stop complying as soon as the first lots of after-effects are reported. It's just not a viable candidate for mass vaccination."

Diana made a sound of frustration. "What about the water supply?"

I shook my head. "The dosage is too precise. It's not the sort of thing you can take in small quantities over time for a cumulative effect. We might get twenty percent of the population immune, but we'd also have forty percent unaffected and forty percent mortality."

"Forty percent mortality?" Diana repeated, horrified.

I nodded grimly. "Mostly the very young, the very old, and the infirm. Might be a good thing in Darwinian terms, of course," I added wryly.

She shook her head. "No, that's not acceptable."

"No, it isn't," I agreed. We were silent for some time, but at last, I suggested, "What about killing Cassandra? I know it's unpalatable-"

She cut me off. "She's protected. Spender will never kill her. She's the mother of his child." At my doubtful look, she insisted, "I know you think of him as heartless - you have reason to - but I'm telling you, Alex; that is one thing he will never allow."

"So what will he do?" I demanded. "Hand her over and take his chances on colonisation?"

"I think so," Diana said softly. "I know they never really intended to succeed on a hybrid - it was to buy time - but once they realise they could see their families again-" she broke off. "Think about it, Alex. If it were you, and letting it happen meant you could have Marita back. What would you do?"

"I don't know," I said harshly, but it was a lie.

Diana wasn't fooled. "Yes, you do," she asserted. "The same as I'd do for my husband. You'd say damn the world. Because you want her back, and you'd give up the world to do it."

I nodded slowly; admitted, "Yeah." I looked at her, pinned her down with my gaze. "How long do you think we've got?"

"Until Spender has the same intelligence we have?" I nodded. "A couple of hours, maybe. Openshaw won't tell him until they've tested - he'll want to be sure. The group will probably meet overnight. It could be in motion as soon as tomorrow evening." She spoke clinically, her eyes dull, her voice dead. I thought a part of her had already given up.

I watched her reflectively; at last, said, "Diana?" At her glance, I asked in a low voice, "Do you want the vaccine?"

She shook her head morosely. "You're going to need me, Alex." She looked very tired. "I think you should offer it to the scientists, though."

"Yeah." My cellphone rang, and I removed it from my pocket, opening the flip. "Krycek." I listened, hanging my head at the message being conveyed. I made vague sounds of thanks, then hung up, my face very white. I looked at Diana once more. "That was Spender."

"He knows?" she said fearfully.

I shook my head. "No, it isn't that." At her querying look, I said softly, "There's been another firestorm."

She did a double take at that. "Rebels?"

I shrugged. "Apparently. Openshaw is dead. They're all dead."

"Including Cassandra?" she said hopefully.

I shook my head. "They killed everyone but her."

Diana's jaw dropped a little. She demanded, perplexed, "Why? Their whole ideology is that the hybrids are a dilution of their race! Why let her live?"

"To lead them to the group?" I hazarded.

She nodded slowly. "That's a point. Kill the group to make sure the hybridisation stops."

I frowned - that didn't fit together. "But they know we're working on a vaccine. Surely they know we never really planned to go through with the hybridisation," I argued, trying to make sense of it.

Diana thought on this, but then she shook her head slowly. "Alex, I don't think they want to stop colonisation. They still want to colonise - just without hybridisation. If they can somehow cancel the deal, they will have the power among their own kind to take control of the invasion. They don't want us to have a vaccine any more than the colonists do." I nodded slowly. I hadn't thought of it that way. "Besides," she said hesitantly. "They don't know about the vaccine."

"What do you mean?" I demanded. "They demanded the immunes! That's why they wanted Mare-" I stopped suddenly, staring at her accusingly.

"I only found out a few days ago, Alex. I didn't think it would achieve anything to tell you," she said apologetically. "Gibson, Marita - it was just Spender clearing the board. But he wanted you to keep working on the vaccine for him, so he blamed the rebels. He convinced me, and that convinced you."

I felt the horror rise in my chest. "Son of a-"

Long, white hands on my arm. "Don't do this, Alex. He can't know you're against him. We have to try to stop this thing. Agreed?" Breathing deeply, I got control of myself. I nodded, my gaze locked on hers.

"Agreed."

I waited for Jeffrey.

The group's offices at New York were deserted. The smell of cigarette smoke and aged liqueur was already lifting. A fine layer of dust seemed to have settled. The musty smell of marching decay was already gaining ascendancy, marking the passing of an age. Testosterone seeped through the leather and embedded itself in the wood panelling. It hung in the air like a vapour. It was a very male room, and as far as I knew, Mare had been the only woman ever admitted, besides domestic staff. The thought filled me with both pride and disgust. Feminists the elders were not.

Where the hell was Jeffrey?

I held him in my mind's eye, appraisingly. A weak, weaselly creature, not at all cut out for the work, and best left to a life of puckering up for his paycheck; but just recently Spender had insisted on his initiation. He could be groomed, the proud father had proclaimed, and I was just the one to do it. The irony that he entrusted me with his child when he had killed mine was not lost on me.

But Jeffrey had shown surprising mettle, disavowing his father when he learned of the experiments on his mother. He was the only person left who knew enough to help, but not enough to think to sell out. Perhaps - just perhaps - if I could get him to Fort Marlene, between us we could prevent his mother from being handed over.

I would give him five more minutes.

I frowned, thinking of Diana. She was pursuing her own path, pretending to help the older Spender as they prepared to surrender Cassandra. Or was she really helping him? Had she decided to give up the fight to save herself and Mulder? I didn't know, and I didn't much care. If she had, I couldn't blame her, in the circumstances.

There was a noise, and I rose, watching the door expectantly. "Jeff?" I called. He came in, closing it softly behind him. He was green. Some of that was the reflection of the light from the bottle green leather chairs. Most of it, though, was just Jeffrey being green.

"You're looking for your father," I said quietly. "He's gone. They've all gone."

"What do you mean?" he demanded, his face working. It was the look of a man who was in over his head, and sinking fast. The question now was whether he could swim. He had done it before when I'd thought it beyond him; perhaps he would again.

"Well, they've abandoned these offices," I said, waiting for it all to fall into place for him. I was careful to keep my voice even: Jeff was a bit like a rabbit sometimes, easily startled.

"But they've been here for fifty years!" he protested. Dammit, Gibson was less trouble than this. "Where did they go?"

"To West Virginia," I replied. "They'll begin medical preparations to receive the hybrid genes." Then, pointedly, "Except for your father. He's gone to get your mother."

He looked startled. He'd gone from rabbit to deer-in-the-headlights. "No one can get to her. I've got her secured away."

"Secured away?" I said, in disbelief at his naivete. "He's already had his doctors looking at her."

He protested, "I've got her under guard!"

"She's probably being prepared as we speak, Jeffrey."

I'll say this for Jeffrey: he took a while to latch on, but when he did, he was okay at putting things into action. I had a van waiting, and we drove to Fort Marlene, exchanging intelligence along the way. He knew a lot more than I'd expected, and it occurred to me that he might be worth cultivating as an ally, if by some miracle this catastrophe could be averted.

We parted company at the installation; him to try to find his mother, me to salvage whatever work and vaccine I could. If I couldn't save the world, I could sure as hell save myself, and whatever unfortunates I happened to find along the way. I threw him the keys to the van and told him to use it if he found Cassandra. I didn't really think he'd find her, and he didn't.

He found Mare.

There was a rebel at Fort Marlene.

My labs had been ransacked. Vaccine gone, pathogen samples destroyed. My blood pumping, I backed out of there and ran to Purity Control, three floors up at the other end of the building.

I passed through half a dozen security checkpoints without incident; but at the last, I was stopped. "This is an emergency!" I protested. "I have top-level clearance!"

"I'm sorry, Mr Krycek," the guard said evenly, "but the computer says you've been specifically denied access to this part of the installation."

My jaw dropped. "By who?"

He tapped a few keys. "CGB Spender."

"That's ridiculous," I said incredulously. "I'm his offsider. What's the reason code?"

More tapping. "X14 - classified miscellaneous."

"What does that mean?" I demanded; but I already knew the answer. It meant there was something in there that he didn't want me to see.

"I don't know." He shrugged a little. "It's within his authority. Take it up with him."

I shook my head. "There's no time. Besides," I added, raising my weapon. "His authority just expired."

I shot the guard, cleared my file from the screen, and continued down the hall.

The EBE was gone.

Disbelief is too insignificant, too unimportant a word. My world was taken, shaken, and its fragments tossed awry, falling to the floor in formations I had never seen before. And some part of me screamed her name.

It was all for nothing.

The vaccine was pointless...useless. There would never be opportunity for its distribution. Whatever happened with Cassandra, with the alien genome gone, the hybridisation deal was cancelled. The rebels would gain ascendancy among their own kind and lead the invasion; and this time there would be no opportunity for survival, even as drones. Colonisation would take place, the thing I had sold my soul to prevent. And her death was in vain.

Even as I fled the room, I was swallowing cries of rage. Eight months, she'd been gone, and rarely had I spared her a tear. But now I felt some part of me rip, violently, leaving unimaginable pain in its wake. The mundane matter of survival drove my body and my mind; but my heart and soul were far away, in Ateni, with what remained of my wife. My body stalked purposefully down halls; my soul ran through the plains, gathering her ashes, and cried her name.

"Krycek! I'm trying to get out of here."

I came out of my reverie, disorientated, trying to locate the source of the words. I looked about, and there, in another, anonymous doorway stood Spender the younger. He was looking at me expectantly.

"What are you talking about?" I asked at last, bewildered, and trying not to show it. In a thousand ways, Jeffrey was just a boy, after all.

"We can't get past security. They won't recognise my authority to remove a patient."

I stared at him, uncomprehending. Security? Authority? These words were meaningless now. Patient? I looked past him into the room, trying to make sense of his words.

Mare.

I stared at the woman in shock. Not my wife, but some shell of her, hair coarse like straw, lips cracked, eyes lined with red. And so pale. So pale. Not ivory, but alabaster. No one could be white like that and live.

Not my wife.

She stared back at me, dully, her fire gone, her eyes dead to me.

Not my wife.

Jeffrey's voice intruded. "My father did this to her. She wants to tell her story."

I turned on him. "You sorry son of a bitch. You don't get it, do you?" I accused. "It's all going to hell. The rebels are going to win. They took it!"

"They took what?" the boy demanded. Mare stared at me in shock, understanding. Suddenly, her eyes lived again, lived with pain and dread. It was more than I could bear to look at, and I turned and fled from her, stalking on down the corridor, leaving her behind.

It was then that I heard her cry, harsh and anguished.

"Alexi!"

I stopped - stopped for a full five seconds, when there were none to spare. She must have heard my footfalls cease, because she called again, pitifully, "Alexi."

And then I was back at the door at a run. "Mare?" I rasped, oblivious to Jeffrey. I pulled her to face me, my palm at her cheek. "Mare?" I whispered, disbelieving, teasing a lock of her cornsilk hair, so coarse between my fingers. "What did they do? What did they DO TO YOU!" I shouted, and she flinched. Jeff's hands were on my arm, and I shook him off, walking away in fury. I couldn't think, dammit!

"We have to get out of here," Jeffrey said softly. His voice was kind. I nodded, his words galvanising me into flight.

"Bring her," I ordered. "Bring her!"

Gibson was alive.

Mare directed us to where he was detained. He was weak, and I carried him, walking in purposeful strides. Jeff and Mare kept up, but I could see her weakening. She was so horribly pale. I didn't know how she could stand, let alone walk. But she did, drawing on resources I couldn't imagine she could still possess.

My credentials got us out of the installation easily enough; and, fearful even now that we would be stopped, I led them hurriedly to the van. I bundled Gibson into the back, and leaped into the front with Jeff and Mare. "Drive," I barked at Jeffrey, slamming the door, and he complied.

I collapsed back into the seat and drew Mare to me, holding her close against me, my face in her hair. I breathed deeply, and even though her scent was faintly tinged with stale sickness, my body recognised it as hers, moulding itself against her effortlessly.

I pulled back to look at her, transfixed; and she did the same, her face upturned. I stared down at her, searching those colourless, translucent eyes for any sign of the woman I had known; and when I saw her within them, I felt warmth radiate through me. My body was alight with celebration; my veins were flooded with it. She was a shadow of herself - her fire extinguished, her beauty a memory - but it didn't matter: she was my wife.

I had to kiss her.

I bent my head to hers, cradling her cheek with my hand. I kissed her dry, cracked lips, felt them crumble against me. It was heartbreaking, and yet as I felt her lips part for me, felt her sweet, soft warmth from within, it was as though she healed. Cold, terribly cold hands flew to my face, chilled fingertips stroking my cheek in wonder, and I felt them grow warm. Dull eyes grew bright; deathly white skin infused with blood. Her voice lost its monotone, became alive, as she whispered against me, "Alexi."

"Mare," I breathed, meeting her gaze. "Mare."

"Say it again. Mare."

"Mare," I complied. "Marita, Mare, my wife, Mare." I pushed back that straw-like hair in wonder.

"Alexi," she whispered again; and buried herself against me, and she spoke no more.

A single moment in time, ageless; but when it passed, Jeffrey was watching curiously from the corner of his eye. "Alex?" he said questioningly.

I stroked her hair absently. "She's my wife."

"And the boy?" he demanded. "Is he your son?"

I shook my head. "No, he really is the child the Praise family. We were surrogate parents to him at one time, that's all." I said harshly, "I thought she was dead. I thought they both were." My arm tightened around Mare's sleeping form protectively.

He thought on this for a while. "What happens now?" he asked at last.

"We ride it out. See who lives, see who dies. Play our allegiances accordingly." I pinned him down with my gaze. "All bets are off now, Jeffrey. Whatever powerbase forms, it will be based on knowledge, not age or affiliation or any of the usual denominators. You and I and Mare can be part of that."

He turned his eyes back to the road. "I want the truth known."

"The truth, the truth. You're as bad as Mulder, Jeff," I said irritably. "The truth is, someone still has to fight the colonisation threat even after the rebels kill whoever they're going to kill. The date is no longer set, but that doesn't help us. It just leaves us further in the dark." I shook my head. "Truth is admirable, but right now it's an indulgence. We need people who can fight the future."

"Maybe we can have both."

I shot him a questioning look, but he said no more.

"She was beautiful."

Jeffrey was looking at our wedding photo, curiously. It was only three years since that had been taken, but she looked so damn young. A twenty-four-year-old with childlike features, and old, old eyes that had already seen too much.

"She still is," I said gravely, drawing the quilt up over her. She stirred suddenly, upset, but I stilled her with a touch. "Hush, Mare," I said firmly, holding her by the wrist. She breathed a sigh, and the tense lines of her relaxed. I frowned. It looked like nightmares might be par for the course for a while. I passed out of the bedroom into the lounge. "Do you want a drink?"

"Yeah," he said with feeling, following me. He sat with an exhausted thud. "What's wrong with the boy?"

I scanned the bar appraisingly. I passed over two open bottles of wine - they'd been there for a year, since Mare had last lived here - and pulled out a bottle of bourbon. "I gave Gibson the vaccine in June of last year," I explained. "Between that and his vitals I think he's in what we call recovery plateau. It's basically a relapse that lasts about three weeks - I think he's on the tail end of that. After that comes recovery Phase 2, which lasts about four weeks." I handed him his drink, and he gulped from it convulsively. "Give it a month, Jeff, and he'll be running around like any kid."

He grimaced slightly at the sudden assault on his throat. "What about Marita?" he asked when it had passed.

My expression darkened. "I honestly don't know how to classify Mare. From her condition, I think it's likely she's been in a near-continuous cycle of pathogen and vaccine - probably testing the formulas I made, actually," I realised bitterly, "since she was taken eight months ago. The human body just wasn't meant to take that."

"But what's wrong with her, exactly?" he demanded, bewildered.

"The vaccine slows the body's systems," I said, taking a long draw on my drink. "That's fine if you take it once, or even twice - a healthy subject can eventually come back from that. That takes about nine months. But keep on taking it-" I stopped, drinking again. "Mare's heart rate is low enough to kill her, and the only reason she isn't dead is that everything else is slow, as well. Her body temperature, digestion, circulation, everything." Jeffrey nodded, understanding. "We've thought for a couple of years now that metabolism is the key. People who have received the vaccine in extreme cold, where the metabolism is naturally slowed, have not shown the usual recovery problems - Agent Scully in Antarctica, for instance." I shook my head. "That means something, but I'm not entirely sure what. It does make a weird sort of sense, though - the alien race are from a colder climate than us."

Jeffrey frowned. "But Mulder didn't get sick, either, and he got it in Tunguska."

I looked at him in sudden admiration. "And just how did you know that? His files were burnt. Nothing was salvaged."

"Mulder's smarter than that. He backed up every three months to microfilm. We didn't lose much."

I laughed. "Crafty son of a bitch," I said admiringly, not sure if I meant Mulder or Jeffrey. Probably both. "So you spent all that time you were meant to be doing nothing, reading up on the X Files."

"Something like that," he agreed, draining his drink. He said reprovingly, "You were a bad boy, Krycek."

"Yeah." I didn't argue the point.

Returning to his earlier thread, he demanded, "So why didn't Mulder get sick?"

I rose and topped up my drink, and did the same for Jeffrey without being asked. "That I don't know," I said, perplexed. "I have this nagging feeling that it's caught up with his exposure to the retrovirus, but I haven't worked it out yet."

We drank in silence for a while, but at last, he said softly, "What are you going to do about Gibson?"

I gave a low sigh. "His parents are dead - they asked too many questions about his disappearance. I honestly don't know."

"What's the deal with him?" Jeffrey asked. "I mean really? Mulder thought he was some kind of evolutionary leap towards our alien progenitors. I didn't believe him, but now-"

"Mulder was right," I conceded, "but I don't think he really got the significance of his belief. When our progenitors left us, the races on each planet developed along different lines. That was inevitable, given vastly different environments." I sat back, warming to my theme. "The colonists believe they have natural sovereignty over us because they are our ancestors, but I don't believe that. Over millions of years we've established ourselves as a separate race, dominant over our environment - for better or worse - in our own right." Jeffrey looked quite daunted, and I gave a sudden, rueful laugh. "I'm sorry, Jeff. I majored in political philosophy. Now and then I've got to show it."

"No, it's food for thought," he said reflectively. "So where does Gibson fit into that?"

"Let me tell you a story," I said, stretching my legs out before me. "A few years ago, some researchers were working with monkeys on an uninhabited island. They taught these monkeys how to use cutlery and build shelters and all sorts of things - human tasks," I explained. Jeffrey nodded, his brow creasing. "Another island nearby - but too far away for any of the research monkeys to have made their way there - had its own monkeys. Here's where it gets interesting: those monkeys spontaneously developed the same skills among themselves." He sat back, bemused. "They spontaneously evolved in their abilities and caught up to the research monkeys on the next island."

"And Gibson is like one of those monkeys?"

I nodded. "In a purely functional sense, he's the human equivalent of the alien race. He's caught up with them in every relevant way. The ways he hasn't, like the capacity to withstand radiation, are specific to the Martian environment. He's still human," I added. "Biochemically, he's identical to the rest of us."

Jeffrey breathed out in a rush. "Oh, boy." He drained his drink with a grimace, and held out his glass for more with a rueful look. I topped him up with a secretive grin. "What did you mean when you said Mulder didn't get the significance?"

"Well," I said hesitantly, "if we can catch up functionally, why not biologically? What if we've worked so hard to prevent the creation of a hybrid, and then one happens spontaneously? If that happened, and the colonists were to find out-" I shook my head. "I simply don't know enough about how they interact to predict what would happen then." Jeffrey was very pale, and I figured he was probably feeling bad enough already about his mother; so I relented. "Don't worry too much about it for the moment, Jeff. It'll probably never happen."

"Still a bad thought," he said thoughtfully.

"Yeah." I drained my drink and set it aside. "As for what happens to Gibson, the only thing I can think of is hiding him in a boarding school. Somewhere he can have something approaching a normal life." At his reproachful expression, I said, "Don't look at me like that, Jeffrey. I've killed thirty-nine people. Those people didn't die so that Mare and I could adopt him and lope off into the sunset. There's work to be done." I frowned; admitted, "I love Gibson. But he will never be safe as long as he's with us."

He nodded reluctantly, and we sat in reflective silence. At last, he said quietly, "I'm going to blow it open."

"What?" I wasn't sure I'd heard him correctly.

"When I give my report to Skinner. I'm going to tell everything I know - I won't mention you three," he added at my expression. "I'm going to recommend that Mulder and Scully be reassigned to the X Files."

"Why?" I demanded.

"Like you said," he said ruefully. "We need freedom fighters."

"Your career won't be worth shit."

Wry shrug at that. "It never was."

I nodded slowly. Funny how both he and I had been led into the work after being stymied at the Bureau. "Will you come and work with me?" I asked at last.

"If they let me live," he said tightly.

I shrugged a little at that. "I doubt there will be much of the group left to spare any of us a thought."

"My father will survive," Jeffrey said dryly.

"Why do you say that?" I queried, interested. His expression darkened.

"Guys like him usually do."

Spender was alive.

Diana Donovan made contact that night to relay the news of a firestorm in West Virginia. The elders, their families, and Cassandra Spender had all been killed outright. Details were unclear, but it seemed that the rebels had taken control of the colonists' base and started the fire to prevent the handover. Diana and Spender were the sole survivors.

The rebels did not attempt to invade, although they clearly had the upper hand. Diana speculated that they and the colonists were at war on their own planet to gain control of Project Earth - that the conflict was not yet resolved. They were divided in resources and purpose, and that meant we had time...but how much was anyone's guess.

Jeffrey was killed as he had predicted; his father, seen leaving the building afterwards. That made a grotesque sort of sense: Spender loved his son too much to leave his disposal to a mere hired hand. Mulder and Scully were reassigned to the X Files as per Jeffrey's recommendation. Anxious to rebuild my sources of information, I threatened Skinner with the nanocyte controller, and had him install surveillance equipment in their office and his own. Skinner and I settled into a comfortable routine: I arrived, he glared, I threatened him with the controller, he growled, I made a cutting remark, and we settled down to chat. It was yet another of those ironies of the work that he detested me, and I considered him to be a peculiar kind of friend.

On the home front, Gibson recovered more or less as I had predicted, and he acceded readily to my suggestion of a boarding school. Perhaps perceiving my dilemma, he offered no protest. I believe - or like to believe - that he understood the practical necessity, and my genuine wish for a normal life on his behalf. He was duly enrolled in a Jesuit school in Maryland, and I left him reluctantly, with a promise that we would stay in touch.

That left only Mare.

She improved; that was something. Her hair became softer. Her eyes were no longer rimmed with red. Her skin became supple once more. Her muscles were no longer wasted. And yet still her vitals were deathly slow; still she was in the grip of terrible malaise. Sitting up, even with help, took Herculean effort; walking was out of the question. She stayed awake for only an hour at a time; talking cut that time by half.

It was awful to watch.

With the shock of her condition receding, my desire to shelter her and heal her, though strong, gave way in part to more selfish dreams. I wanted to have the kind of life with her that we used to have. I wanted to hold her, not only as I'd hold a crumbling leaf, but as I'd held her before - forcefully, intensely - and to be held in the same way. I wanted to make love to her gently; I wanted to take her powerfully, or have her take me. I craved her strength and her power nearly as greatly as she did.

Still, she was alive, and I believed she would stay that way - that counted for a hell of a lot. I nursed her as best that I could, but I was worried by her vital signs. They weren't improving, and that meant her body wasn't coming back. It had accepted its own weakness as the status quo. If that were true, she could stay this way indefinitely.

Mare probably intuited that in herself, but I was careful not to voice it. If the thought upset me, it would truly horrify her. To me, she was still my wife, however I longed for what had been. But to her, she was not truly herself unless she was strong, because that was such a big part of who she understood herself to be. It hurt me to see her this way, and I prayed that she could be strong once more.

But there was another who needed her to be strong, too.

Mare was bleeding.

I sat up on the side of the bed in bewilderment, looking down at my track pants. They were rust-coloured and sticky, stained with encroaching blood. I looked at myself in a panic, but I wasn't cut.

I flung back the covers; saw the stain seeping out from her sleeping form. I stared at her in horror, registering the dead white of her face and the tinges of blue at her lips; and then fear jolted me into action. I shook her in a panic. "Alexi?" she said weakly, stirring. "What is it?"

I said urgently, "You're bleeding really badly. We have to get you to a hospital. I need you to help me if you can." I grabbed my prosthesis and hurriedly put it on.

"Bleeding?" she murmured, bewildered. She asked vaguely, "Am I cut?" Her eyes began to drift closed again.

"I don't think so," I said, rising. "I think it's internal. Fresh blood, too much to be menstrual." Pulling on my sweater, I picked up the telephone receiver, then realised we hadn't had it reconnected.

Her eyes opened very wide. "Oh, my God," she said, turning her head from side to side, looking for me, disoriented. "Alex-" I was hunting for my cell phone, and she reached out with effort, grabbing me. "Alex, there's something-"

I found my cell. "What is it?" I said absently, turning it on.

"Alex, I'm pregnant."

I closed the flip in a single movement. "You're what?" I hissed.

She nodded. "Nearly four months," she whispered through laboured breaths, her eyes closed.

"Tests?" I demanded urgently, dropping to my knees at her side.

"No - the other," she said vaguely. "The other way."

"Rape?" I whispered unhappily, stroking the hair back off her forehead, a lump forming in my throat.

"No," she said, struggling for consciousness. "I consented."

I stared at her in utter disbelief. "You what?"

"I - it was-" she was drifting again, and I rose, backing away.

"No," I said thickly, "no."

"Alex - please help me -" and then she was out once more.

I turned and ran.

I walked for hours.

One foot after another, my cheeks wet with rain and sweat and tears. It was unimaginable - unthinkable. The thing before me - this terrible, incomprehensible thing was just too big for me to even begin to coalesce. My pain was a rending tear through my body; my anger a dull throb in my head. They consumed me.

I felt cheated. For so long, I had accepted the celibacy that her condition demanded without question; but she had allowed someone else to touch her. It was a betrayal and repudiation and rejection all rolled into a single act. I remembered the pervasive bond between us, the aggressively possessive need, the sweetness of owning her and of having her own me; and I recoiled. She was mine, and someone had taken her; I was hers, and she had taken another. It cut to the heart of the bond between us, the physical joining of man and wife.

I was haunted by terrible, terrible images. Mare with a faceless man, writhing beneath him, twisting on top of him, engulfed in hot, gasping need. Had she held him close, or pushed him back so she could watch him? Torturously, I imagined her arching her neck, leaning into him, running nails down his back, branding him as hers. Side by side with those were other images, images of myself in that time - Christmas, I calculated - staring into my reflection in beautifully decorated shop windows, looking for any glimmer of light that might tell me I could survive my agony and grief. Wearing her ring on its chain, as well as my own. Waking on Christmas day to the memory of a wife and child now lost; unaware that she lived, and was engaged in the business of making a child with another. I marked all these images with pounding footsteps, imprinting them in the rainwashed sidewalk and leaving them behind.

As the dull thud of my footfalls marked the passage of minutes and hours, I came to see the incongruity of it all - first dimly, then in sharper relief. The Mare I saw in those images was the strong, untamed woman I had made love to more than a year before; not the weakened Mare I had lost nine months ago, and certainly not the frail Mare I knew now. In her weakened state, the very concept of sex was all but meaningless, and a part of me understood that. Mare's version of consent could mean anything from a disoriented failure to say no, to saying yes to someone who promised freedom if she complied; but it couldn't mean the extremity of desire - her condition all but precluded it. But what that meant, either factually or for me in making sense of it, I couldn't see clearly enough to tell.

And so I walked. Trembling with rage and anguish, I walked in the sleet until I ached, until the angry fire in my veins melted and turned to ice, until I shivered with cold and overwhelming sorrow. And then reason asserted itself enough to replace all the other images with one more, one that was touching and bitter and deeply sad: Mare, motionless, her face to one side, her eyes distant; her faceless companion labouring over her, heedless of her disquiet. I didn't know exactly what had happened nor why it had happened, but reason and intuition told me that this was more or less how it had happened. My fury finally gave way to desperate sadness, to unwilling compassion, to deep and abiding love.

It was growing light by the time I was calm. By the time three passers-by had looked at me in fearful horror, I had come to myself enough to understand that something was terribly wrong. I looked down, and realised I was covered in blood.

Mare's blood.

I stopped still for a long, long moment, staring at it; and every lingering vestige of betrayal and fury left me in that instant.

She was my wife, and she was helpless. Her child - a child I would raise as my own, because it was hers - her child was helpless. And I would be there, because I loved her, and she was dead, but now she was alive.

And I would find a way to live with whatever had happened in between.

"...when you have a type, get me blood..."

She was so white. So horribly, deathly white. White like alabaster. I'd thought that once before, but I hadn't seen real alabaster then.

"...ultrasound coming through..."

So frail, so ethereal. Too fragile and flimsy to be part of this world. Like an angel, slipping away, being called home, taking flight and leaving her body behind.

"...we have to go in. It's a mess in there..."

Hair like spun glass, splayed across the pillow, fading from gold to the impossibly pale silver with which she'd been born. Why do I always think of that which is exquisite and precious with her?

"...she must have been haemorrhaging for hours..."

I had left her to bleed. This most precious of gifts to me, and I had turned my back on her, and left her to bleed, like a stray in the gutter.

"...I need an OR. Emergency D&C..."

I was faced with the awful truth of my cowardice and its heavy price, and I could not escape the blinding truth and the searing shame; for this was my doing.

"...hope she's got kids at home - she's not having any more..."

Out of her death to me came a life, and out of her life came death; and from that death came the lifelessness of sterility. And it was my doing.

"...her vitals are dropping, Doctor..."

I loved her, and I had taken the one thing she wanted above all else. The thing we had prized in a future otherwise devoid of dreams: that what we shared might one day be incarnate in a life so precious.

"...damn it, she needs blood!"

With my selfish anguish and my blind, stupid jealousy, I had stolen from her. I had stolen her child, her maternity, and perhaps her life.

"...she's flatlining..."

I was her husband, and she was helpless, and I had walked away when she needed me the most.

"...one-two-three-CLEAR..."

And now she lay, robbed and dying for my cowardice.

"...get me adrenaline, stat..."

And even if they got her back...even if by some miracle she lived...

"...one-two-three-CLEAR..."

Even if God saw fit to return to her that which I had stolen...

"...she's back. Get her to surgery, we've got to stop that bleeding..."

How could I ever face her again?

I abandoned her.

She survived; but when I learned that she would live, I fled, compounding my sin with foolish weakness and the cruelty of silence. I had believed my absence to be a penance; I understand now that it was merely one more act of cowardice in a string of them.

I returned to Fort Marlene. My credentials were still valid, and the funding for my quarters and my labs would remain for eight more months. In the next funding cycle, there would be no one to sign off on my presence there; but for now it was my safe haven. Spender never approached me: it would have served him little purpose, for I used it as a way station rather than for the work - perhaps he knew that. I would have shot him on sight for what he did to Mare, and perhaps he knew that, too. Or perhaps, with his colleagues gone, he was living with his own confusion.

Mare got strong again, I knew that much; and I knew that she returned to the United Nations, and that she wore my ring and bore my name. That was comforting - and bewildering. Gibson relayed factual messages about his holiday arrangements and his financial arrangements; but there was no other contact. She did not seek a divorce, and nor had I expected that she would: she didn't believe in it.

Diana Donovan was my constant companion in this time. It was an alliance born of mutual loneliness, and there was not a shred of romantic feeling between us; but we stuck together with lover-like compulsion. It was a little like a bad marriage: no sex and constant bickering. But it was companionship in a life otherwise devoid of it; and in its own way, it kept me going during those bad, bad months when my life was in pieces.

Things heated up in November. The spontaneous hybridisation, about which I had only speculated, occurred in Mulder. I acted as best I could to salvage the situation, but I was hampered by my own numbness; I reacted to the unfolding events, but I couldn't begin to form a useful plan. Suffice it to say that Diana, Scully, Skinner, Spender and I were all running hither, thither and yon trying to get our own desired outcomes. Spender wanted to get the hybrid genes for himself; Diana, Scully and Skinner wanted to stop him and save Mulder's life. I wanted to stop him too, because I hated him and I thought he was wrong, and I didn't much care at that point whether Mulder made it or not. Like most things in that time, the whole thing pretty much washed over me; but it was important because of its outcome: it pulled me out of my morose inertia and prompted my decision to work on the vaccine once more.

It all started with a book - a book only Diana, Spender and I had known about. It shed some light on the affair, and Diana sent it to Dana Scully in a bid to help Mulder; Scully contacted Skinner, believing him to be responsible.

The call worried me. I knew only too well that Scully's digging could bring the incident to Spender's attention; and that would be death for Diana. Acting on the spur of the moment, I gave Skinner a dose of nanocyte trouble to keep Scully occupied while I made my arrangements. Diana was playing with fire, and if she was doing it that openly, then her time was short.

I made some calls, and when I was done, I called Diana on her cell. I took no time for niceties. Roughly, I demanded, "Can you speak freely?"

"Just one moment; the reception's bad. Hold on." Sound of a door closing; then Diana said quietly, "I can now. What is it?"

"You've got to get out," I said urgently. "Stupid thing to do, Diana, sending that book. You may as well have sent a telegram to Spender saying 'I have a fucking big mouth, so shoot me'." I sounded angry, because I was. She'd put herself on the line for a man who would never love any woman the way she wanted, and she knew it. What's worse was she'd put the work on the line, at a time when there were few workers left.

"Did you call just to insult me?" She was annoyed; I could imagine her arranging her features into her Hard Faced Bitch look. I never understood that - she was a beautiful woman. A woman who should always smile - not that she had much to smile about now.

I relented. "No. There are travel papers and tickets waiting for you in locker C24 at Dulles. Use your credentials to have it opened. You're going to Tunisia first thing in the morning. In the meantime, I want you to stay in well-lit, well-populated areas. Do not go back to your apartment. Do not call the London house. Do not call the Bureau. Understood?"

She burst out, "My children-"

I cut her off. "Already arranged. Their nanny is bringing them to meet you." At her silence, I insisted, "Look, Diana, give Scully whatever she needs to save Mulder. But you have to get the hell out."

There was a rustling sound. I think she was nodding. She was silent for a long moment; but then she said in a low voice, "Alex, I know you must still have vaccine-"

I cut her off, frowning. "Now is hardly the time-"

"Give it to my kids," she said, her voice flint-edged with desperation. Then, more quietly, "If I don't make it, give it to my kids - please."

I closed my eyes. "Diana, you don't know what you're asking," I said wearily. "The rebels destroyed everything I had. I have access to a sample, but I'd have to synthesise a supply." I said unhappily, "You're basically asking me to restart the work."

Her voice was grave. "I know exactly what I'm asking." In a low voice, she persisted, "Will you do it? Please?"

After a long moment, I gave a frustrated sigh. "All right. All right!" She breathed a low sigh of relief. "But you *better* make it."

She didn't; she was dead within the day.

I didn't like it, but I'd promised.

I didn't wait for news of Diana's death. Rather, I assumed the worst, and acted accordingly. I went first to Michael Kritschgau, who I knew had copies of Scully's data on the latest downed UFO. The location of the UFO alone would sell for a considerable sum; the medical data I intended to patent and then sell. A patent on the complete human genome was the medical community's Holy Grail. It would be worth many hundreds of millions of dollars...and that might be enough to create a real, widespread vaccine program.

My next stop was Crystal City. I had given my oil stock to Donovan when Mare was first infected, but there were two left - hers, and the spare, in safe keeping with Skinner. I could have legitimately asked Mare for hers; but that was a thought I couldn't bear. So I went to Skinner.

"Come on in, Alex," he said with that slurred magnanimity of the very old and the very drunk. He looked the former and smelled the latter. I passed him, waving his breath aside. "Have a drink."

"Looks like you've already had enough for both of us," I said mildly.

"What are you going to do, use the Palm-Pilot-Of-Death on me?" It always bothered me that Skinner wasn't afraid of me. He should have been, with the power I had over him; but he wasn't. He said irritably, "You've already done that once today." He shut the door, went to the kitchen, and came back with a beer.

"Yeah, sorry about that," I said through the hutch. "Damage control."

"Do I want to know?" he asked, handing it to me. I shook my head. He said wryly, "Then I won't ask." I took a long, grateful drink and sat down; he did the same.

We sat in an oddly companionable silence for a while; but at last, he said curiously, "Why are you here, Alex?"

"You have something that I want," I said cryptically.

"My looks?" he said with a straight face, taking a mouthful of beer. "Or my charm?"

"I'd take your charms, but I'm a married man," I said deadpan. That should fuck with his head a little.

Give him his due, he kept his cool. "I don't take Mulder's leavings." I opened my mouth to say that ruled out a reconciliation with Scully, but thought better of it, in the circumstances.

"I want the oil stock."

Skinner looked at me piercingly. "That oil stock belongs to Marita, and you're separated." He shook his head vigorously. "No way."

"Your loyalty is commendable, but it's also misplaced," I said, annoyed. "It belonged to both of us, and I used mine on her. That stock belongs to me."

He shook his head. "No way, Alex. I'm not giving it to you. I'd rather face down a bad case of nanocytes than your wife."

I laughed a little at that. "She's a wildcat, all right," I admitted goodnaturedly. "But I'm not leaving here without that stock."

He shrugged, rising. "Then you may as well hunker down and have another beer." He held one out.

"I don't want your fucking beer, I want the stock," I snapped irritably. I took the bottle and looked at it. "What is this shit, anyway?"

"Stella Artois. It's Belgian. You and your American beer - what kind of a Russian are you, anyway?"

"Latvian," I corrected, annoyed. "And I'm an American." I took a mouthful. It wasn't bad, actually. "Give me the stock."

He shook his head regretfully. "Sorry, Alex. It's not going to happen."

I stared at him in disbelief. "Walter, with one wave of my stylus I could have you in hospital!"

"Yeah, yeah," said Skinner, drinking. "And with a wave of your sword you could cut my head off and with a wave of your remote control you could reprogram my VCR. And all that crap." The bastard was laughing at me. "But you still wouldn't know where it was, would you, Alex? That sounds to me like I have you over a barrel."

"How about this?" I hissed. "I put you in intensive care and keep you there until you tell me where it is? I seem to recall last time was pretty painful for you. You sure you're up for a second round?" He went pale - I had him rattled now, and that was good.

"Perhaps we can reach a compromise," he said at last.

I sat forward. "I'm listening."

"The stock for the controller."

I shot him a reproachful look. "You'd really give me Marita's stock for that? That's very disloyal, Walter," I said in mock earnest.

"You're an asshole, Alex. Do we have a deal?"

I shrugged, conceding defeat. "Yeah, I'll deal." I drained my beer and set it aside, breathing out in a rush of relief.

He rose and left the room, and I heard the dim clicking sound of turning tumblers. A wall safe, I speculated. He came back a few moments later and stood a few feet from me, holding the stock. "You first," he said quietly.

I shrugged. "Fair enough." I'd kill him for the stock if I had to; but I didn't think Skinner would double-cross me - that wasn't his style. I pulled the controller out of my pocket and handed it over without a fight.

He looked down at it, experimented with the stylus a little. He winced in pain and nodded, convinced of its authenticity by its effect on him. He threw me the oil stock. I caught it and put it in my pocket, its weight comforting against my body.

He was watching me, his expression an odd one of grim satisfaction. "What are you so fucking happy about?" I said, annoyed.

"Besides having my life back?" he said mildly.

"Yeah."

Skinner shook his head indulgently. "Alex, Alex, Alex." He met my gaze. He said kindly, "You could have had it all along. She *wanted* you to have it. You only had to ask."

I stared at him in stupefaction. "You dirty old son of a bitch," I said in amazement. He just shrugged, and I said with grudging admiration, "I didn't think you had it in you." He just laughed.

I glared at him, but only for a moment; and then I laughed too.

I went to Tunisia alone.

I'd still been at Skinner's apartment early the next morning, drinking amiably with him, when the call came. Diana was gone, but before her death, she had given Scully the means to save Mulder. Mulder was alive, but sans hybrid genes; apparently Spender had succeeded in stealing them surgically. What that meant in the scheme of things was anyone's guess. I doubted that Spender even had a plan anymore; he was merely reacting to events in the same way as I.

There was nothing useful I could do in America, and I had to go to Morocco later that week in any case; so I stuck with my own plan, such though it was, and flew to Tunisia. Regretfully, I broke the news of Diana's death to her children. That was an awful, awful thing to have to do. I wasn't quite sure what to do about them; but I took them to the house in Tangier and gave their nanny money for their immediate care. While I was there, I put the oil stock in the safe - better that than to have it on me when I met my buyer.

I went back to Tunisia and met with my contact there, ready to sell the location of the downed UFO; but we were ambushed by two of Spender's men. They killed my buyer outright, and I was thrown into a Tunisian prison. The charges were trumped-up, and it was yet another irony along the way that I served time for things I didn't do rather than for the things I did.

I thought of Mare often. She had to know that something was wrong: I was supposed to meet Gibson for the summer holidays in just a few days time, and the Donovan nanny would make contact when the money ran out. I wondered whether she knew where I was - or whether she cared.

I got my answer five days into my ordeal. On that day, I was dragged before the warden and accused of plotting to escape. My punishment was that of solitary confinement by night, my cell close to the warden's post, lest I try to escape once more. I was innocent of the charges, but I felt a cautious jubilation: solitary by night represented safety in a place where rape could come on a whim, and death for the sake of a piece of bread. And when the warden signed off on the arrangements, the light caught a chain around his wrist, a chain I recognised. It was too thick to be a woman's, but too fine to be a man's; and I knew its design because I had chosen it myself.

It was Mare's.

Part Six

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 himself 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."

Part Seven

I know you have been wondering.

About Mulder and whatever became of him. About us, and what we did that brought about the new beginning we all share. I know you wonder about your daughter, and whether she is really yours - or whether she is even Dana's. And as Mare and I face our life anew, we have decided that you should know the truth of it.

We think of you often, Walter, especially now that we have Elena. It is for this reason that we have decided to send you these journals, to explain how it all came about. It is our gift to you in this precious time - a time that we finally share.

Before I go further, I will say this. On the day that we said goodbye, when Mare told you she had vaccinated Dana, we lied about when and how that came about, in a bid to preserve the friendship between us. The truth of it is elsewhere in these pages. However, the bare fact remains: Dana received the vaccine, and she received its regenerative properties; and that is how your child came to be. You need not hold any fears about her parentage, nor about her future.

The vaccination program progresses well, and I have enjoyed my work and the novelty of respectability; but Mare and I have resolved to resign our posts and remain in Tangier. Gibson's safety is paramount; no less important is the tranquillity we seek for all our children. Elizabeth and Shane aren't really ours, even now; but we have hope that that will change, as it has with Samuel. Even if it doesn't, though, we will still find ways of being a family - we always do.

I think you and Dana would like it here; and I hope that one day, when the wounds among us have healed enough, you will see it. It is a rambling house with an odd menagerie of children and pets - Mare even brought one of the lab monkeys - and the garden is beautiful. We spend most of our time out there with the sounds of the water and the warmth of the sun: after so long in darkness, we crave the light. Our happiness is undeserved, and that makes it all the more precious.

Mare is reading over my shoulder, and she sends her love as always. I know she is special to you as she is to me, and I believe you would find joy in seeing her as she is now. She runs about with the children in bare feet and white seersucker dresses, her hair long and unfettered; and her eyes are finally free of the shadows she has carried as long as I've known her. She's free now, as we all are.

And that alone has made it all worthwhile.

"Your release has been arranged."

I turned my head sharply at the words. They drew my attention with their language and their content; but most of all, with their sound. They were spoken in a high, clear voice - a female voice, an American voice, a strong voice.

A voice I'd thought I would never hear again.

Unbelieving, I pushed my way forward, parting a way through a sea of inmates, my footfalls reverberating in my mind. Her voice cut through my carefully nurtured oblivion; and as I approached her, I was cruelly aware of my broken state. I steamed filth and stench; my pores were dripping with it. It clung to the fine whiskers that protruded mercilessly from my flesh; it was embedded in the fibres of my clothes - clothes I had worn for a year. My sleeve was knotted, evidence of a loss I preferred to conceal. I had left her as she lay in the twilight between life and death; now, as I pushed my way to the front of the cell, she found me broken, and she was strong. I hated myself, and I hated her for leaving me here, and I hated her for seeing me this way.

"Marita Covarrubias," I hissed, deliberately using her maiden name. "The last time I saw you, I left you for dead."

I regretted it even before the hurt flickered over her eyes - it was a cruel, unnecessary thing to do, and part of me knew that even before she drew herself up and cut me down as I deserved. "Alex, if it was strictly up to me, I'd leave you here to rot, too," she said, her dismissal mercilessly efficient; and it stung, though I had no right to expect anything else.

The guard opened the cell, sliding the barred gate aside; but I didn't even see him. I saw only the sudden absence of barrier between us. I stepped out, advancing on her, my gaze locked on hers. Her scent washed over me. Mine must have washed over her, too; but she didn't step back. I didn't think she would. She only asked in Arabic to be escorted to the shower, her voice mildly neutral, her eyes never leaving me.

We walked to a room that passed for a bathroom in silence, and when the guard left us, she nodded towards a bench. There were toiletries and clothes waiting - and my prosthesis. Still, she didn't speak; still, she betrayed no reaction to me; but I noticed that the jeans were in my normal cut and the toiletries were in my usual brands. Even under her steely gaze, it comforted me to know that someone knew me so well.

She made no move to leave, which I supposed was fair enough, given we'd been married nearly five years. As for the idea of asking her to go - that opened a whole new can of worms. The only thing that made me more uncomfortable than her seeing me this way was the idea of her perceiving my discomfort about the fact. So I went to the sink and shaved, clipped my nails, cleaned my teeth - anything to delay exposing myself to her. But soon, there were no tasks left; and my desire to be clean was fast outstripping the problem of her scrutiny. She'd left me here, after all; let her live with what it had done to me.

So I stripped, horribly aware of the wasting in my muscles and the dark shadows in the hollows of my stomach and my chest. She watched me steadily, her expression inscrutable; but she closed and unclosed her fingers compulsively, and I was bitterly pleased that I could still touch her that way. I felt my self-awareness and discomfort melt away: it wasn't really her seeing that bothered me, but the thought that she mightn't care.

I stood under the hot spray, relishing the feel of it, cleaning myself unselfconsciously. I looked at her appraisingly, making no attempt to hide the fact. Before I'd come here, I'd known she was strong again; but I hadn't seen her, and to do so now was something that gave me real warmth. Despite the bitterness I'd felt towards her over the last year - and there hadn't really been a lot of it - I had always wanted that for her.

The wasting was gone. She was svelte, but toned...powerful. Her hair was longer, the way it had been when we were first married; and it was glossy. I remembered plunging my hands into that hair on our wedding night, cradling her, plundering her with my mouth. I closed my eyes, flinging my head back to face the shower spray, banishing these images. I was hard, and I wondered if she'd noticed; then decided I'd rather not know.

"Who sent you?" I demanded at last, determined to focus on something else. Something other than my wife, and how I wanted to stalk across the room in three strides and take her; never mind the guard outside, never mind her crisp white clothes, never mind that she almost certainly despised me, and with good cause.

"The smoking man," she said, and that didn't surprise me: she had to have been in contact with him to find me in the first place. The surprise was in the words that followed. "He's dying."

I stared at her, slack-jawed, thunderstruck. She didn't elaborate. Instead, she said quietly, "Did you have any trouble in here?"

I shook my head. "No. By day I could take care of myself, by night I was in solitary." I wiped streaming water from my face; said pointedly, "I guess that birthday bracelet was money well spent."

She retorted coolly, "Actually, I wanted them to treat you worse, but you know how bad my Arabic is." She walked past me, tossing her hair in a show of false bravado, moving towards her bag.

Quick as lightning, I reached out and pulled her against me, holding her roughly by the arm. She gave a cry of protest as the spray hit her, drenching her in an instant. Her face was upturned, and I lowered my lips to hers. "You're full of shit, Marita," I hissed, my mouth brushing her as I spoke. The length of her body was moulded to mine, wet and cool; our skin was almost touching, only a sliver of wet fabric between us. My hardness brushed her stomach, not pressing into her, but not held away, either.

The tension was incredible.

Her breaths came in shallow gasps; bright spots of colour rose on her cheeks. Water coursed over her, clinging to her hair and her eyelashes in tiny droplets. Her eyes were gleaming, her mouth open a little; and her breaths came in irregular, shallow pants. I could feel my body crying out to hers as though for a missing part of myself. I thought I would have to either thrust her away or have her right then - I could have done it in an instant, just by pulling aside her skirt and lifting her onto me; and I think that she would have allowed it - but I did neither of those things. Instead, my hold on her loosened, and I burst out in genuine laughter.

"What?" she demanded, affronted, breathlessly confused.

"It's good to see you, Mare," I sighed, grinning amiably - and whatever else had happened between us, it was. My body still throbbed for her, but the tension was dissipating - both physical and otherwise.

She shot me an unwilling smile. "It's good to see you too, Alex," she admitted, her voice suffused with genuine warmth. She stepped away, chagrined. "You made me wet, you son of a bitch."

I pulled the crude lever, shutting off the water, and went to her, taking the towel she held out. "Sorry."

"No, you're not," she said good-naturedly. She sat down on the bench, wiping her hair with a towel for a few moments; but soon discarded the idea as futile. I slipped on my prosthesis and fastened the strap across my chest, and flexed the hand experimentally. I still had the muscle control to operate the myoeletric sensors, much to my relief.

She handed me a shirt. Her dress was drying in the heat, but I could still see the damp lines of her underwear. She regarded my groin appraisingly. "You're going to need a shoehorn to get your trousers on," she said clinically.

"Don't be crass." I pulled on my jeans and turned away to fasten them, not wanting her to see me wrestle with the task, and I could hear her breathing become erratic as she struggled heroically against sounds of mirth. Shooting her a filthy look, I sat down at her side; but she gave me a gorgeous smile in response. I returned it ruefully. "How are the children?"

"Good," she said, pushing aside a dripping tendril of her hair. She flicked the water from her fingers at me irritably. "Gibson's been missing you. He's in Tangier now, with the others. We're going to have to spend some time with them when this is over." I was going to ask what she meant by 'this', but decided it could wait. "Samuel is okay, but Elizabeth and Shane are still pretty traumatised. They're struggling."

I nodded slowly. "What's the guardianship situation?"

"You're guardian under Diana's will," she said, and that didn't surprise me. It had come down to Mulder or me, and Mulder hadn't known they existed. "I've been exercising power of attorney to make decisions about their care." Then, hastily, "I'll hand over the reins to you now, of course."

"Don't be silly," I reproved. We were silent for a long moment, and I was conscious of renewed tension. It was the first time we'd referred, even obliquely to our separation. Hastily, I asked, "What does Spender want?"

"What he *wants*," she said deliberately, "is for us to locate a group of surviving colonists so that he can offer himself as a hybrid and be healed." My eyes widened, both at the news of survivors and at the implications of Spender's plan. She gave a grim smile. "But what he's going to get is another matter."

I regarded her curiously. "You've got a plan." How tantalising it was to see her like this - calculating, planning, acting. She exuded power and latent strength. I'd loved to watch that even before she was sick; I loved it a thousand times more now.

"I've got better than that," she said with sudden, shy pride. "I've got a vaccine."

I stared at her, thunderstruck. "One that can be distributed?" I said sharply. She nodded with a childlike grin - gleeful and ear-to-ear - and I hugged her impulsively, holding her close against my body. Pulling back to hold her by the shoulders, I said with awed satisfaction, "You did it, Mare!"

"*We* did it," she corrected; and then we both became aware that I was holding her, and we broke apart abruptly. She cleared her throat, and went on hurriedly, "The World Health Organisation has already approved a timetable for its distribution." I looked at her with admiration. I had the political background, but she had an instinct for it that I didn't. It was fascinating to watch. She went on deliberately, "We only need eight months. As far as I know, these colonists are the only ones that could pose a threat between now and then - no-one else could get here in time."

I stared at her, comprehending the danger. "We've got to find them," I said urgently. She nodded gravely:

"Let's end this thing once and for all."

There was war amid the silence.

We didn't speak in the plane. Instead, she drowsed, and I watched her intently. My muted anger at her for leaving me in that hellhole was not diminished by time; nor was my remorse. I waged an inner war over her, like a forbidden land with suspect treaties and conflicting claims. My love and my anger fought for supremacy over her - over me - and love was winning.

I wanted to kiss her tenderly. I wanted to kiss her hard, aggressively, possessively. I wanted her to forgive me. I wanted her to hate me, so that I could hate her. And underneath it all was a desire to drag her into my arms and never let go. How much of that was love, and how much the headiness of her scent after two-and-a-half years' celibacy, I couldn't have said.

We disembarked in Casablanca. Our connecting flight was not til morning, so she proposed a hotel. Eager to sleep in a proper bed, I gratefully agreed.

The concierge asked for a name, and Mare said smoothly, "Marita Krycek." I shot her a glance; but she had said it automatically and was unaware of the fact. By the time she looked up, my expression was carefully neutral once more. She asked for a twin room without consulting me, and I didn't argue the point. I waited to be told they had only doubles; but that didn't eventuate. Evidently, my life had not yet become a cheesy soap opera. I'm not sure whether I was disappointed or relieved.

We settled in the room, and I sank gratefully into a hot bath, soaking up the little luxuries of freedom. Mare came in with a drink - Dom Benedictine, my favourite - and handed it over wordlessly, her expression neutral. "It's not poisoned, is it?" I asked dryly, taking the glass. At her filthy look, I mumbled an apology.

"Don't get excited," she reproved, sitting on the edge of the tub. "It was the first thing I laid my hands on in the minibar." At my doubtful look, she snapped, "Oh, damn it, Alex, it is poisoned. Just shut up and drink." I laughed and did as I was told. It was my first Benedictine in a year. If it were poisoned, it would be worth it.

We drank in silence, but at last, she spoke. "I'm sorry I left you in that place," she said matter-of-factly. I looked at her, frowning, querying. "Spender threatened me if I got you out," she said by way of explanation, and I nodded in sudden understanding. She met my gaze, then gave a low sigh. She said contritely, "But I shouldn't have left you there. It was a cowardly thing to do."

I waved my hand in dismissal of this. "Forget it," I said easily. "Chalk one up for bad karma." At her dubious look, I sighed; said gravely, "I blame him, Mare, but I don't blame you." That wasn't entirely true - or hadn't been, at any rate - but threats or not, I was prepared to let her off the hook for it. After all, I abandoned her first.

"Thank you," she said softly. She rose to leave, but she stopped at the door. "I have something of yours," she said abruptly. She pulled something from her pocket and left it on the handbasin, silver and gleaming.

Not silver. White gold.

My wedding ring.

She turned and left, closing the door gently behind her.

I rose in a single movement, water sliding off me in a rush, and stepped out of the bath, staring at it. I remembered them ripping it from my hand at the penal colony a year before; and I remembered Mare handing over twenty thousand dinari there earlier that day, and thinking that it was an overly generous bribe just for my release. Looking up at the closed door, I wondered what she would think if I left it off. I wondered what she would think if I put it on. And then I decided I didn't care what she thought. I was her husband, and that hadn't changed.

With a reflective sigh, I put it on, and I have worn it ever since.

We were fighting.

I'd tell you what the fight was about, if I could remember. Something stupid, undoubtedly. The air was thick with renewed tension when I came out of the bathroom; Mare was morose and petulant, and the next thing I knew we were squabbling like children. We were on a hair-trigger, both of us; ready for war, ready for love, navigating a precarious tension between the two.

At last, fed up, I started for the door, with no clear idea of where I would go. The bar, maybe. "I don't need this, Marita," I snapped in frustration, grabbing the doorknob.

She grabbed my arm, turning me around roughly. "Damn it, Alexi-"

She stopped, realising her mistake. In using the old name she had revealed something of how she thought of me. She pushed me away abruptly. "Alex," she corrected breathlessly.

I pulled her back to me, just as abruptly, lowering my face to hers. I kissed her, hard; and she kissed me back with a sound of longing, her mouth warring with mine, aiming to conquer rather than surrender.

She lifted her hands to my hair, threading fingers through it, holding me to her. She pressed herself against me, so warm, so powerful, so exquisitely strong. She pushed me against the door, pulling my shirt out of my jeans, her hands sliding up my back, shooting a line of lazily-growing fire over my nerves.

I stroked down her shoulder to her breast, my hand firm on her, yielding no more than she did. "Mare," I breathed into her mouth, sliding my hand back up over her neck, teasing her hair relentlessly with my fingers. I engulfed her mouth with mine, determined to subdue her and bend her to my will; not tamed, only kept in check. My wanting was urgent, aggressive; but against sanity, against even instinct, I felt my avid need for her recede in the face of something more. My hold on her became less fierce, and my mouth slowed, kissing her forehead, then her lips once more.

Her hands flew to my face, fingertips dancing on my cheeks, as our kiss grew tender. I tasted her lips, dipped my tongue between them delicately, cherishing her. I cradled her head, soft hair threaded between my fingers. No longer was I duelling with my opponent; I was loving my wife, the woman I had given my life to; and I was lost to her all over again. I gave myself over to her, sighing in rueful surrender. I slid my hand into the top of her shirt at the back, pulled it aside, kissed the soft whiteness of her neck. She gave a low sound, and I stayed there for a long moment, breathing her scent, intoxicated.

Suddenly, she tore away. "Damn it, Alex," she shouted, "I won't be your whore!" She pulled her shirt back in place, and stalked out onto the balcony. I watched her go unhappily, and sank morosely into a chair, my head in my hand.

At last, I rose, and followed her out there. She was sitting on the chaise lounge, smoking. I hadn't seen her do that in years. She didn't look at me when I sat at her side; but we sat there in an oddly companionable silence, looking out over the streets of Casablanca. I could see the lights of El Jadida dimly in the distance.

"I don't think of you that way," I said, at last. "No matter how hurt I've been, I've never thought of you that way. Never," I repeated at her sharp look. "What happened back there wasn't just being alone all this time. It wasn't just sex." I finished in a low voice, "It's never just sex between us."

"No, it isn't," she agreed softly.

I took one of her cigarettes without asking. We sat there, smoking; but at last, she said curiously, "What did you mean at Forj Sidi Toui? About leaving me for dead?"

I hung my head remorsefully. "I shouldn't have said that, Mare."

"No - I said things I shouldn't have, as well," she said apologetically. "But you meant something by it, and I would like to know what it was."

I looked at her, perplexed. "What I did to you," I said in self-reproach. "The way I left you."

"Left me?" she echoed in bewilderment. "You saved me, Alex. I was dying. You got me help just in time."

I said painfully, "You were dying because I walked off my anger for five hours instead of staying to help you. You were dying because I was a self-absorbed coward." At her stunned look, I said, "You didn't know that?"

Slowly, she shook her head. "I remember asking you to help me, and then I remember waking up in the hospital, after it was all over, and you weren't there." Her voice was even, but low, and tinged with sadness.

"You lost your child because of me," I confessed, my face hot with shame.

She watched me for a long moment. She was frowning thoughtfully. "Please look at me, Alex," she said at last. Her voice was gentle. Reluctantly, I complied, and she said softly, "You don't seriously think I could have carried to term in the condition I was in, do you?"

I shrugged uncertainly, my shoulders hunched. I said in a low, raw voice, "Your fertility-"

"Probably doomed the moment the placenta tore away," she said implacably. "That wasn't your doing."

I said harshly, "You could have died, Mare."

She stared at me in realisation. "You've been blaming yourself," she said with wonder - and compassion.

I hung my head, swallowing hard. "I couldn't face you, Mare. Not after what I cost you." My voice was thick with pain.

"That's why you stayed away?" she gasped, her cheeks wet with sudden tears. At my silent nod, she said in anguish, "I thought it was because of the child." Her eyes were wide, unnaturally bright.

I stared at her, stunned. "No," I whispered, shaking my head. "I made peace with that the night it happened." She bowed her head, the lines of her body slumped, her cheeks glistening with silent tears in the light of the moon. "I never intended any harm to you or your child, Mare. I hope you can believe that, even if you can't forgive."

She met my gaze once more. "I do forgive you, Alex," she said softly. She took my hand in hers and threaded her fingers through mine. I held it tightly.

We stayed that way, silently watching the stars. "Alexi?" she said at last. At my look, she went on in a low voice, "I'd like to tell you about the child...about why it happened."

I shook my head. "I don't want to know." I spoke more sharply than I'd intended, and she drew back a little. "I don't need to know," I amended more gently, squeezing her hand reassuringly.

"Maybe not," she whispered. "But I think I need to tell - if you're willing to hear," she added hesitantly. I didn't want to hear it, but I had abandoned her too many times already; so I nodded. She explained, "I'd been in the tests for five months. The scientists were talking - they thought I was asleep."

"What did they say?" I asked; but I thought I already knew the answer. There were discussions I'd had about my own prisoners at Norylsk - sick prisoners who had been tested to the very brink of death. I understood the danger to her in that time, perhaps better than she had herself. The full weight of my own wrongdoing hit me then, and I flinched with sudden agony.

She was staring at the floor, struggling for composure, and she didn't notice. "That my body was so decimated that my results were unreliable. They didn't know what was the vaccine and what was drug interactions and what was my illness anymore."

"They were going to list you for termination," I said slowly, squeezing her fingers tightly.

"Yeah." She looked at me; said reflectively, "I remembered what you said about me being valuable because I was fertile - that they would want to know whether the immunity was hereditary." I sighed heavily, my eyes closed in sudden pain. I wasn't sure whether to be thankful or to hate myself. "I didn't even know if I could get pregnant," she said helplessly. "I was so sick. But my cycle was still normal, so I thought - maybe-" she broke off, shaking her head miserably.

"How did you do it?" I asked quietly, without reproach.

She looked away for a long moment. She said, oddly reserved, "I asked a guard if I could see Gibson." Looking at me once more, she explained, "I said that I understood it was a concession, and that I would reciprocate with one of my own. That's how I knew where to find him when you got us out." She went on, her voice low and raw, "He - it wasn't violent or - or rough - but it-" she broke off, shaking her head, impatient with her own weakness. "I can't," she said suddenly. All at once, I drew her close, laying her head on my shoulder, holding her tightly, sadly. I buried my face in her hair. She clung to me, said in a dull voice, "I'm sorry, Alex."

I shook my head; pulled away, quoting softly, "We all do what we have to do to survive, Mare." I stroked back her hair. "We are man and wife. Your sins are my sins." She smiled faintly in the moonlight, remembering that day in Tunguska. "There is no room for punishment between us."

She nodded in acceptance of this. "I love you, Alexi." She drew up my fingers to her lips; brushed them pensively. "I never stopped."

"I love you," I rejoined. "You're still my wife." I looked at her, meeting her gaze. "You're still my life."

She rested her head against mine, forehead to forehead for a long moment; then rose, our hands still entwined. She tugged gently, and I got up. "Let's get some sleep," she whispered.

I nodded, and I followed her, but I was troubled. Something about her account didn't hold water. I had a sudden feeling she was holding something back, but decided not to pursue it. Mare had been in a war, and you don't push people who've been in a war.

That didn't stop me from speculating, of course. Her story held up, but the way she'd looked away when she identified a guard as the father troubled me greatly. I remembered her when I found her, frail, marred by her illness. I'd wanted her then as now, but I was her husband: she was always beautiful to me. To another man, an objective man - and I would never say this to her - she wasn't, in that time, a woman to be touched with desire. With pity, or horrified self-loathing, perhaps, but not desire. It took a particular mentality to accept an offer such as she had proposed, and that mentality wasn't something I could reconcile with a strapping young Marine. It was the mentality of a man drunk on power above all else, a man who would accept such an offer just because it was one more opportunity to exercise that power.

Supposing Spender-

I froze, biting off the end of that awful, awful thought; but it wouldn't leave me. I stared at her retreating back; imagined his hand on it, imagined her staring at him - this man who had killed her mother and her child - and the strength it must have taken to allow it without weeping or screaming.

No. Absurd. Unthinkable. Why did it matter who it was anyway? And then the answer, inescapable in its logic and mortally sad in its meaning:

Because it mattered to her.

"Alexi?"

I blinked. "Yes, Mare?" I couldn't quite keep the raw compassion from my voice.

"What is it?" I realised I'd stopped still near the lounge, my hand still in hers.

I watched her steadily. "Nothing. It's nothing," I said softly.

She held my gaze for a long moment, watching me appraisingly, her expression doubtful; but she shrugged. "Okay." She looked over at the two single beds, side by side. "The floor?" she said questioningly, and I nodded absently. She started moving cushions and pillows to the floor, and I followed suit, watching her, still troubled.

We knelt on the floor, and she started to take off her clothes, but I took her hand, staying her. "Mare?" She looked at me, her expression querying. "I don't need to reclaim you like some macho caveman," I said in a low voice. "I'd like to think I'm better than that."

Her look was gentle. "You are better than that," she said softly. "But I want to be reclaimed. I want to be yours. I want you to be mine." She was smiling.

"I am," I said ruefully.

She slid her arms around my shoulders. She leaned into me, and kissed me with warm, tender lips. "Then make love to me. Take what's yours."

So I did.

I looked on him in horror.

Mare had warned me that he looked bad, but I hadn't been prepared for this. He was still the man who killed my child, who took my wife and son away; but he was also wretched...pathetic. I watched him, transfixed, disgusted and dismayed in turns.

"I heard about your incarceration," Spender said mildly, oblivious to my reaction.

"You had me thrown in that hellhole," I snapped bitterly. It was the least of his sins; but if I let myself think of the others, I would kill him with my bare hands.

"For trying to sell something that was mine, was it not?" he retorted in a rattling whisper. "I hope we can all move forward...put the past behind us. We have a singular opportunity now."

"A singular opportunity?" I said dumbly. He believed Mare and I were estranged, and it was better that he continued to believe that. If he thought he could play us against one another, perhaps we could make that to our advantage. Better that he thought she'd left me in the dark.

"There's been a crash in Oregon. An alien craft has collided with a military aircraft..."

I tuned out. I already possessed the information, and my attention had been caught by something else. Something about Mare, and how she carried herself - not quite at my side, but a half-step behind, subtly putting me between herself and Spender. Her breathing was shallower than usual, something only a husband would notice. Her face was as inscrutable as ever, but there was an odd harshness in the lines of her cheek and her chin, something overly controlled. The question that had occurred to me fleetingly the previous night, like a snake raising its head, suddenly came to me again, this time at full force. And this time, I could not nervously dismiss the idea as absurd. This time, reluctantly, sadly, I was sure.

It was Spender.

It was Spender to whom Mare had offered herself. It was Spender whom she had taken into herself, taking life from him - this man who had only ever brought death - in a desperate bid to save her own. And she had carried his child willingly, nurturing it in spite of its paternity and in spite of her frailty, carrying it for four months against all odds through sheer power of will. It made me deeply, mortally sad.

"...our chance to rebuild the project," he finished in pitiful glee. I couldn't speak, or move; because if I moved, I would kill him - I was certain of it. I wanted to kill him; I wanted to hurt him; I wanted to bring him down the short distance left to his knees. I wanted all those things; all those things any man wants - any decent man - when another man violates the most precious thing in his world. But more than anything, I wanted it all to be over. I wanted to take her home to Tangier, to shelter her and help her to forget. Neither before nor since have I hated so much and loved so much in a single moment.

"How do you know someone hasn't already recovered it?" Mare was saying, saving me from the need to respond. Her voice was cold. Spender looked at us smugly.

"It's never quite so easy."

I hated leaving her.

I hated knowing that she would be with him in my absence, that she would sit stiffly in that apartment in the furthest chair from him that she could, that she would endure his presence with cold revulsion. It brought out all my protective instincts. I toyed with the idea of taking her to Oregon with me, but that would reveal our unity to him; and we needed his information. He was giving it out piecemeal in a bid to protect himself and his plans.

Mulder and Scully were in Oregon, too, looking for a missing policeman who had been abducted. The colonists were swiftly collecting up their test subjects, and the Bellefleur population was dropping at an alarming rate. Time was running out before the ship could be located; before it moved on with its subjects in tow.

Mare hacked into the FBI's e-mail server and was able to add to our information. There was a location in the woods, near where the policeman had gone missing, in which Scully had experienced a strange collapse. "She speaks of a sense of being lifted and shaken," she said absently, and I could hear her fingers tapping at lightning speed over her keyboard. "She's not certain whether that's actually what happened, though. She's very noncommittal here. I won't tell you what Skinner wrote back - it's personal - but he's pretty worried."

I frowned, thinking it over. "I was on the phone to Spender earlier on. He says the craft is shielded by some kind of energy field."

"I was there," she said, her tone noticeably cooler. Then, in a worried voice, "Do you think Scully might have run into the field?"

"More like tripped over it, by the sounds of things," I mused into the phone.

"It didn't let her in," she said slowly. The keyboard tapping had stopped. "That's bad news. I'd already stolen one of her implant chips from the Pentagon. She's an abductee - I was sure she'd get aboard."

I said grimly, "So was I."

"So how do we breach it?" she demanded urgently. "What could it be looking for in the people it lets in, besides implants?"

It was a good question, and not one I'd considered in exactly those terms. "Something involving electrical impulses," I hazarded. "Something with set fluctuations that an energy field can detect."

"Brain waves?" Mare wondered. She said thoughtfully, "Spender's operation was around the frontal lobe when he took the hybrid genes from Mulder."

I damn near choked. "What did you say?" She started to speak, and I amended, "No, I know what you said - I mean, are you saying it might let Mulder aboard?"

There was a moment of dead silence; and then she said slowly, "Why, yes...yes, I think it might."

"We could end it," I said breathlessly. "*He* could end it."

"He could," she agreed slowly. "You still have a stiletto somewhere, and there are explosives...there are ways." She sounded wary. "But Alexi," she asked, very gently, "are you sure you want to do this?"

She'd cut to the heart of it, as she always did. I hung my head miserably. "No," I said morosely, "but it has to be done. It's gone too far, Mare. Too many people have died. It has to end here."

There was a rustling sound. I could picture her nodding. "That's true," she conceded.

"Mulder has no family, no children - just the work," I said, urgently. "And the work is about to end. Maybe he was born for this - to die so that others can live."

Her voice was gentle. "Are you trying to convince me, or yourself?"

"Mare, please-" I stopped short, my breath catching in my throat.

"I'm not trying to be unkind," she said softly. "Think whatever you need to think to get through - and for what it's worth, I think you might be right. But you loved him. I don't begrudge that - I never have. You don't have to go through this alone."

My face felt very hot - with shame, with pain, with sorrow. "You're very good to me, Mare," I said thickly.

She gave an indulgent sound. "I love you, Alex," she sighed. "Try to get some sleep."

But sleep was a long time coming.

"Why me and why now?"

A lesser man might have asked first where the alien craft came from, or how we knew about it; but not Mulder. Trust him to get right to the heart of the matter in a single stroke. And I would have told him; but Skinner was there, and this was one quest Mulder had to face alone.

But he was waiting for an answer; so I gave him another truth, a lesser one. "I want to damn the soul of that cigarette-smoking son of a bitch." I said it with venom, and Mare shot me a worried glance; but didn't comment.

"Mulder?"

Mulder, Mare, Skinner and I turned in unison, confronting Scully as a single unit; and for a long moment, she stared at us, transfixed. I hadn't seen her in several years, and for just a second she appeared to me as her sister - the sister I carried with me, along with the rest of my victims. I blinked, and the illusion passed.

Mare broke the silence. "Agent Scully, we haven't met. I'm Marita Krycek." Abruptly, Mulder turned to face me, putting it all together at last; but I ignored him, moving to Mare's side, sending an unobtrusive but firm message. I wanted to get the speculation over with as quickly and quietly as possible.

"Hello," Scully said evenly, but she didn't offer her hand. She went on, discernibly colder, "Hello, Krycek." Dimly, I heard Mulder conducting a muted telephone conversation in the background.

"Good to see you, Scully." She raised her eyebrows at that, but didn't comment; only looking from Mare and I to Skinner, and back again. I wondered how much he had told her in bed - and how much he hadn't. I was pretty sure that the identity of his best friend's husband fell into the latter category. She looked pissed.

Mulder put the phone back in its cradle. "All right, people," he said in a high voice. "The Gunmen will be here in an hour with some data for us, so we have some play time." He shot us a look. "We should all stay close together," he said warily. "There's safety in numbers."

We all nodded, and we passed the next little while in Skinner's office, chatting. Skinner handed around drinks, and he and I talked amicably. Our friendship, if you could call it that, had always been on a provisional basis; but, bound by a common fondness for Mare, we'd become skilled at co-existence. Scully and Marita exchanged small talk for a while. I'm not quite sure what small talk women exchange, but they were similar in temperament, and they seemed to get along all right. Mulder watched Marita and I in turn, his expression wary.

The dark man had said once that anyone could see that Mare and I were committed to one another. Mare told me about it because she'd thought it was a peculiar choice of words. I had to admit that he was right. Watching ourselves in an attempt to perceive us as Mulder and Scully perceived us, I noted with amusement the multitude of little ways we gave ourselves away. We didn't use endearments, but there were other things - the way when Skinner absent-mindedly passed me a drink from my left, Mare automatically reached for it and passed it to my hand on my right, still talking, unaware that she'd done it. Scully's eyebrows shot up in trademark fashion at that. It felt very peculiar; but it also felt good. The number of people who knew us as husband and wife was small. In being perceived that way, I felt the shy pride I'd felt in Russia as a newlywed. It was so ridiculously sweet to feel that way, but I didn't mind - not really. Ridiculously sweet was an improvement on most things I felt that day.

I'm not sure how it happened, but eventually, Scully and I wound up talking. Mare was talking to Skinner, I think, and Mulder was on the phone with the Gunmen; and we were the odd ones out. We talked awkwardly for a few moments about the weather, then fell silent.

"You were there with Luis Cardinale when he shot my sister, weren't you?" she asked presently. I started to protest, but she said, "I'm not going to slug you, Krycek. I just want to know."

I watched her for a long moment; but finally, I nodded. "Yes, I was there."

She deliberated for a few moments; but at last, she asked, "I just- really need to know, Alex. Did she - did she suffer?"

I didn't want to answer, but dimly, I recognised that it was important do so. It was something that cost me only remorse - remorse I already lived with - but that would give so much. After a long moment, I shook my head. "It was dark. She never saw us. She wasn't afraid. She didn't even cry out, and she was unconscious before she hit the ground. She didn't suffer."

Scully nodded. "Thank you." She gave a low sigh, but betrayed no other reaction.

"Try not to think too badly of us," I said softly. "We've been on the same side, all along."

"You killed people," she said, not so much in accusation as a statement of fact.

"So have you."

"Never an innocent," she countered, looking at me.

"I've killed a few so a much greater number could live," I said. "I know that's not your ethic, and maybe it isn't the right one; but it's an ethic nonetheless." I looked across the room at Mare thoughtfully. "We've all lost so that the world could live - a world that will never care," I added bitterly. "Every quest has casualties, and we had no more choice in our quest than you did in yours."

That seemed to touch her for a moment, but then she frowned. "What do you know of loss?" she demanded. "And I don't mean your arm. We're all maimed here, one way or another."

I nodded, acknowledging the truth of this. "Two children," I said softly. Scully flinched, and I knew she was thinking of Emily. "They had Mare in the tests. She was gone for eight months. She was a prisoner of war," I said distantly, thinking of Spender and the child, "and she suffered like one. And she didn't have the mercy of amnesia." Scully glanced over at her with a fleeting look of empathy. "They told me she was dead," I said softly. "That cigarette smoking son of a bitch even gave me ashes and told me they were her." She was looking at me once more, her brow creased with horrified compassion. I looked at her, suddenly really seeing her. I said sharply, "I know what you think of me, Scully, but I love my wife."

"I can see that," she said quietly. She asked curiously, "How long have you been married?"

"Five years in February." She looked genuinely surprised, and I gave a rueful laugh. "I know what you're thinking. How does a guy like me wind up with a woman like her?" I shot her a wry smile.

"Actually, I was thinking that a man who remembers his wedding anniversary can't be all bad."

She laughed at my expression, and then she rose, and left me.

"Alex?"

I looked up as Mulder sat down at my side. He was holding a folder emblazoned with the UN logo. It had a broken security seal. He was ashen.

"Mare told you?" I said, nodding to the folder. Mare shot me a glance from across the room, then made a beeline for Skinner and Scully, engaging them in conversation, carefully positioning herself so that they faced away from us. I gave her a nod of thanks.

Mulder looked confused for a second, but then realised I spoke of Marita. "Yes. There's a working vaccine - it goes out in eight months." He said dryly, "Bet you cashed in on that."

How could he know me so well and so badly at the same time? I shrugged indifferently. "Nowhere near as much as we could have. Enough to take care of Mare and the children, that's all."

Mulder stared at me in disbelief. "You have children?"

I nodded. "Four of them." I nearly laughed at his expression, and I watched him wrestle with the math before relenting. "They're adopted."

"You *adopted* children?" He looked at me as though I had suddenly morphed into - well, a little grey alien, I suppose.

I did laugh then. "I'm not the monster you think I am, Mulder."

He shook his head. "No, I never thought that," he said reflectively. "Many things, but not that." He looked at me sharply. "This alien ship - it's a threat, isn't it?"

I nodded. "They're the only ones close enough to start colonisation before we can get the vaccine out." I cautioned, "If they were to find out about Spender-"

"I understand." He toyed with the folder for a moment, then met my gaze. "You know, in Oregon, there was this place where Scully was struck down. Like the energy field you described. She was denied access to the craft. It didn't want her," he realised. "*They* didn't want her."

I half-turned to face him. "But you, Mulder - you had the hybrid genes," I said earnestly. "I think it will let you in."

He stared at me, thunderstruck. "You want me to go aboard and stop it. You want me to kill the colonists." He looked to me for confirmation, and reluctantly, I nodded. I said gravely:

"I think you might be the only one who can."

"They're looking at us like we have two heads."

Mare laughed, turning with me. "Let's give them something to look at, then," she said, leaning up to kiss me tenderly. I shot her a smile, tucking a stray tendril of hair back off her face, but said nothing. I was troubled.

The evening had been Mulder's idea - dinner and drinks before he and Skinner left on a late flight to Oregon. He'd made it sound casual, but I wasn't deceived. Mulder knew the lay of the land. It saddened me to think of it; but it was better that he went prepared. Mulder was going to die with his boots on, facing his quest head-on - and perhaps that's the best way to die. He was dancing with Scully across the floor, his gaze fond; and I thought he was saying goodbye to her in his heart.

"Penny for your thoughts," Mare said softly.

"Not sure they're worth that much." She laughed a little at that, and out the corner of my eye I saw Skinner cut in on Mulder and Scully. Mulder passed us, watching curiously. I met his gaze for a fleeting moment. "What about yours?"

She hesitated, moving fluidly with me; but finally, she spoke in a low voice. "I was wondering why we haven't made love since we got here," she said at last. She said tentatively, "Is it about-"

I put a finger to her lips. "It is," I conceded, "but not in the way you think." At her bewildered look, I said gently, "I want us to be away from all this when we do that - away from Spender." Her breath caught in her throat, her eyes widening, and I ran my palm over her cheek. She leaned into it, her eyes closed in sudden pain. "It *was* Spender, wasn't it?"

Her eyes grave and hurting, she nodded; and I drew her close. "I'm sorry, I'm so damn sorry," I whispered into her hair. "I'm sorry you went through it all, I'm sorry I didn't look for you, I'm sorry I gave up."

She broke then, weeping in silent, wracking sobs. She shook against me, almost imperceptibly. "I closed my eyes," she whispered. "I thought that would make it easier - that I could imagine that it was you - or at least that it wasn't him. But he didn't smell like you or taste like you and I felt so ashamed-" she broke off miserably.

"You have nothing to be ashamed of, Mare. Nothing at all." Her hair muffled my voice. I pulled back, wiping her tear-streaked cheeks with my fingers. "*Nothing.*" I don't know if she believed that - or if she believes it even now - but she nodded, and she let me draw her close, let me press her against me protectively.

We danced in silence for a long time, but at last, I said quietly, "I would have raised it, Mare. I would have loved it because it was yours."

"I know that, Alexi," she said, looking up at me with a sad little smile.

At last, she pulled away, her eyes a little red but otherwise betraying no sign of the recent storm. "I'm going to clean myself up," she said, touching my cheek tenderly. She motioned to Mulder, sitting with the Gunmen, watching us. "I think there's someone you should talk to." I nodded to him; cautiously, he returned it. She said with an odd undertone, "You two have unfinished business."

"You don't mind?" I said piercingly.

She shook her head, smiling faintly. "No."

I kissed her forehead and released her. I watched her leave, and then I went to him. The Gunmen looked up at my approach; but Mulder just stood, and wordlessly led me to a far booth. He sat opposite me, playing with his drink morosely; presently, a waiter brought one for me. It was a Dom Benedictine.

"You remembered," I said, oddly touched. He said nothing. Frowning, I withdrew a stiletto weapon from my pocket and set it down before him, along with a couple of vials of vaccine, vials of nitric acid and glycerine, and some lengths of colour-coded wire. "It was all I could get together on short notice. You should be able to do something with what's there." He nodded, bundling together the items and putting them away, careful to put the acid and glycerine in separate pockets. Still he said nothing.

We drank in silence for a long time; but at last, he set his drink down on the table. His voice was grave. "This is a suicide mission, isn't it?"

"I think so." I watched him, feeling deeply sad.

He nodded, frowning. He toyed with a coaster, turning it over and over in his hands. Finally, he said in a low voice, "We were on the same side all along, weren't we?"

"We were," I agreed, "but you chose a higher path."

"I'm not so sure of that anymore." He sounded bitter.

I shrugged. "It doesn't matter anymore. What you're about to do will cancel every debt left behind. Be sure of that." I didn't know if that was true, but I hoped it was. I watched him for a long moment; said quietly, "I really loved you, Mulder." I didn't know if that even mattered to him anymore, but it mattered to me. And though I love my wife, I suspect it will always matter.

"I really loved you, Alex." His voice was grave, and a little sad.

I leaned forward across the table and firmly kissed his lips, intimately yet chaste; and when I pulled away, there were tears for both of us - not many, but a few. I covered his hand with mine for a long moment, and then I got to my feet and walked away without looking back; leaving my past to return to my future.

Mare was watching.

She was leaning on the bar near the Gunmen, playing with a cocktail umbrella. "Better?" she said softly; and I nodded, taking her hand in mine. How is it that she can know what I need better than I do myself? I leaned in and kissed her, long and lingering.

I said apologetically, "I know how it must have felt to watch that-"

She cut me off. "You have no idea how it felt to watch that." Her voice was calm...almost mild. Could it be that she was smiling? "We've come through a fire together, Alex, and for a long time that man you were when you were with Mulder got lost." I nodded, frowning. "Seeing you with him - it's as though that's all starting to come together again."

I bowed my head. "Maybe that's true," I said; and haltingly, clumsily, I expressed a little of the guilt and remorse that had begun to come into sharp focus. She listened, as she always listened; and she was my comfort.

At last, she kissed my fingertips lightly. "I love the man you were, Alexi," she said thoughtfully, "but I love the man you're growing into even more."

I think I like him better, too.

Spender was devastated.

"We've failed, then. Perhaps you never meant to succeed."

I looked on the old man coldly. In the face of Mulder's explosive death, splattered in accusatory pictures of light and fire across the newspaper, Spender's wretched pathos at the loss of his shot at immortality struck me as horribly offensive. Looking at him, I was struck yet again by his peculiar detachment from the richness of humanity. One way or another, I reflected, all four of Spender's children - Jeffrey, Samantha, Mulder, and Mare's child - all had died at their father's hands. Even the gift of creation - the most divine gift of all - even that could not remain sacred in the face of Spender's particular brand of darkness.

"Anyway...the hour is at hand, I presume," Spender said in a low voice. I looked on him steadily, Mare at my side; and then I went to him.

I took the handles of his wheelchair in my hands. I remembered running from the burning car and the missile silo. I remembered shooting the dark man so that he wouldn't kill my wife. I remembered her tears for her mentor and for her mother.

I pushed him forward. I remembered Skinner, meeting me at Dulles with the news of the miscarriage. I remembered Diana breaking the news of her death. I remembered scattering ashes I'd believed were hers.

I shouted at the nurse when she tried to stop me. I remembered finding her, broken and frail. I remembered Jeffrey, saying grimly that he expected to die. I remembered breaking the news of Diana's death to her children.

Mare stepped in the nurse's path, holding her back with a single venomous stroke. I remembered her tears as we danced the night before. I remembered Scully an hour earlier, as she told us of her pregnancy, terrified of that which should bring joy. The thirst for blood was roaring in my ears - the thirst for vengeance. And though I had not the benefit of my peers, I was certain that this sentence was just.

"This is for a lot of people," I said solemnly, wheeling him down the corridor. "It's for Larissa Covarrubias, and for Mulder, and for Diana Donovan, and for our children," I told him, my voice dull and raw. "But most of all, it's for raping my wife."

"Rape?" he said mockingly as Mare fell back in step with us. "Is that what she said?"

"You had the power of life and death over her," I hissed. "That makes it rape no matter what she said."

He frowned at that, but whatever flicker of conscience he'd had was gone in an instant. As we reached the top of the stairs, he said calmly, "As you do to Mulder and to me, you do to all of mankind, Alex." I suppose that was his idea of dying an honourable death. It made me mad, that he could inflict such horror on so many, and that he still had the nerve to try to die with dignity.

Steeling myself, I gathered my strength, and pushed him away from me, flinging him down the stairs. He crashed to the floor, tangled in his wheelchair, tumbling violently over and over again, his eyes glazed from the first strike of his head. Mare and I watched in cold horror as he came to rest; then, hand in hand, we walked down the stairs and stepped over his body together.

We walked until we reached the light of outdoors. Then, we stopped, and I drew her close, right there on the sidewalk; and we were laughing and crying at the same time, rejoicing in our freedom, mourning what we had lost, regretting what we had become. And then we went home, man and wife for better or worse, and we made love.

It was over. We had survived, and we had been avenged.

And I will never kill again.

"I look small," Mare said critically.

"Small short or small thin?" I queried, linking my hand with hers over her stomach. It was still a little rounded, even now. I liked it, the way I liked her hair long. It made her look softer. Samuel clambered up onto the arm of the lounge and balanced there precariously. "Careful, Sam."

"Both," she mused, stretching her legs, sliding them against mine teasingly. I tickled the underside of her foot with my toes, and she shooed me away, laughing.

"I'm being a superman, Mama," Samuel declared.

"You'll be a splatman in a minute," Mare reproved.

This set him off in a paroxysm of giggles. "Splatman! Splatman!" He clambered down over both of us and ran off outside, yelling, "Splatman!"

"We're just splats on the highway of life," I sighed.

Gibson wandered in, munching an apple absent-mindedly. "What are you watching?" he asked; then, before we could answer, he sighed, "Oh, not *that* again," with a heaven-help-me face.

"Spoilsport," I countered. "Go play with Elizabeth if you don't want to watch."

He shook his head. "She keeps asking to play chess," he complained.

Mare enquired, "What's wrong with that?"

Gibson made a face. "She's learned to shield her thoughts. Sticks up pictures in her head of the sky or brick walls or -" he shuddered "- Leonardo DiCaprio." I laughed uproariously. "I keep losing."

"It will do you good to lose now and then," I said mildly.

He made a face. "Ugh! You've been reading those parenting websites again, haven't you? Dear Abby, my son is an omnipotent telepath, what should I do?"

"Are you going to stay and watch, or not?" I demanded, smirking.

He shrugged. "Yeah, I'll stay." He settled down on the floor in front of us.

I held out the remote control and flicked up the volume. "We're on."

-- "United Nations Under-Secretary General, Marita Krycek and Alex Krycek of the World Health Organisation will read from a prepared statement. They will accept questions afterwards."

Gibson frowned. "I still say that's a rotten hairdo, Marita."

She reached down and ruffled Gibson's hair. "And what are you, Leonardo DiCaprio?" she teased. He shot her a filthy look, but laughed anyway.

-- "...seven year covert operation involving the FBI and the World Health Organisation reached its conclusion in New York. Members of an international pressure group known as The Syndicate were apprehended and charged with a total of 9,327 offences related to biological warfare..."

"You're thin there," he said clinically, turning to look Mare over thoughtfully. "No stomach at all, and a month later you'd sprogged."

Mare's eyes narrowed in mock irritation. "Sprogged?" she echoed. "Has Shane been teaching you British slang again?"

"Experienced the miracle of birth," I corrected loftily.

"Hey, I've watched birth videos. The only miracle is getting something that big out of something that small."

"He's got a point, you know, Alex," Mare grinned.

"Would you like to watch Elena's birth video?" I offered ingeniously. Gibson shot me a look of abject horror, shaking his head urgently. I laughed.

-- "...seized a stockpile of biological agents from their headquarters. The centrepiece of this stockpile is a new bioweapon created by the group, dubbed Dmitri Syndrome, for the first known fatality. A vaccine was also found. We understand that the group intended to release the weapon and then demand a ransom..."

Gibson shifted, looking up at me. "Dmitri wasn't the first fatality. He didn't even die of the oil," he protested. I wished he didn't know quite so much about our work - it was a bit like living with an omnipresent demi-god.

"Well, we had to call it something," I pointed out. "The whole idea of misinformation is to give wrong information to get a desired response."

-- "...voted to take the preventative step of launching a worldwide vaccination program. The first stocks of vaccine have already been distributed to every country in the world and are available now. The success of this program depends entirely on the participation of the public..."

Gibson frowned. "So talking about The Syndicate is giving wrong information to get people to have the medicine."

I shrugged. "Basically, yeah."

"Why not just tell them about the aliens?"

Mare explained, "Lots of people wouldn't believe. They might not take the vaccine."

"Oh."

-- "...concerns that the vaccine has been fast tracked without reference to proper protocols. Can you comment?"

-- "Certainly, we have fast tracked the program. I think that's appropriate, given the nature and severity of the threat. But the FDA and other authorities have considered the seized data at length..."

"I like this bit," I said gleefully.

Mare tilted her head up to look at me. "Egotist."

-- "...weren't you wanted on multiple counts of murder and treason until very recently?"

-- "I can answer that. Those charges were laid in co-operation with the FBI as part of the covert operation. They have now been dropped. Mr Krycek has sacrificed much, not least of which being his good reputation for the greater good. The international community owes him a debt..."

I smirked. That bit got me every time. "You laid it on pretty thick, you have to admit."

She shrugged. "You're my husband. I'm allowed to be biased."

-- "...do you have any data on genetic effects of the vaccine?"

-- "Yes. The first child was born to a vaccinated woman this week..."

Gibson said curiously, "You don't say very much in this, Alex."

"Mare's the political brain, not me. I'm more of an action man," I added, lifting my arm and flexing a bicep theatrically.

"Or a splatman," said Mare, dissolving in laughter. I smacked her hand playfully with a look of mock reproach.

-- "...is it true that the child's name is Liberty?"

-- "I can say only that the child is female and that she was born to an American couple..."

"Liberty," Mare said disgustedly. "I thought Walter, at least, had better taste."

"Elena is much more dignified," I agreed.

-- "...you're the man and woman of the hour. How does that feel?"

-- "I think that denigrates the innocent victims of this operation. The real heroes are those who gave their lives..."

I pointed the remote and flicked the television off suddenly. Mare shot Gibson a look, her eyebrows raised, speaking to him silently. He nodded, got up and walked away, leaving us alone. Having a telepathic child was handy - sometimes.

Mare's hands closed over mine. She drew it up to her lips and kissed it tenderly. "You know, there's only so long you can beat yourself up about this."

I shook my head morosely. "I killed forty two people, Mare."

"And saved all the rest."

"A few years ago I might have thought that was enough," I said quietly. "I don't now. And neither do you."

She sat up, turned to face me. She looked at me thoughtfully for a long moment; then admitted, "No. But we can only keep trying to be the best people we can be. The best parents," she added, nodding out the window to Gibson and Shane, playing ball in the fading light.

I sighed. "Maybe."

"I think Elizabeth is thawing," she said, deliberately changing the subject. "I was in her room this morning. You know that photo Gladys took of us all at the hospital with Elena? She's got it taped to the wall."

I nodded thoughtfully. "That's good, I guess."

"Baby steps, Alex," she counselled.

In this brave new life of ours, those are words to live by.

"Benedictine?"

I shook my head, said absently, "Juice is fine." Mare was nursing, and I didn't like to drink in front of her when she couldn't. I flicked off the lights and went to her side, taking the glass she offered. "Thanks."

"Come outside," she whispered, leading me. "It's a beautiful night."

"I was hoping to make love to you," I said mildly, following anyway.

She shot me a gorgeous smile over her shoulder. "You can."

Smiling faintly, I followed her, out over the lawns, down to the gazebo. We settled there on the oversized chaise, overlooking the water. The ocean was rough, and the sky was dark. The sound of rolling waves was soothing. Gently, I drew her against me, and she leaned into me with a sigh; turning a little to touch my cheek with her fingertips.

And then her kiss was cherishing me, not an invasion, but a caress. Her taste was silk; it was snow; it was wine. A kiss as though the first, a declaration of passion, of abiding love. I held her, hand entangled possessively through her hair, locks of molten silver between my fingers. "Mare," I breathed against her lips. Her touch was scorching, branding me, claiming me as her own; and I could only draw her up in pursuit, claiming her in return. I cradled her face with my hand, kissing her cheek and her hair and her ear with fascinated tenderness. I left a trail of caresses down her throat, and she gave a shocked moan of wracking need. My fingers traced the curves of her, strong and fine. My need was a white-hot flare, caressing and giving and demanding all at once.

And then suddenly the turbulence subsided, replaced with slow wonder. She met my gaze, and we stayed there a long moment, our faces inches apart, expressions a war of urgency and tenderness. "Love me, Alexi," she said softly; her voice low, ragged with desire.

"I do," I murmured. "Oh, Mare."

She leaned up to me, her mouth forming an exquisite smile in the dim light; and I put my hand on her as she asked, my mouth upon hers. She arched for me as I teased her throat, her breast with my palm. She unbuttoned her dress; and I parted its folds, exposing her to the cool night air. She gave a single cry of aching need, her breath coming in ragged sighs. She pulled my shirt over my head, discarding it; and then I felt her long, slender palms stroking me with gentle relentlessness. I slid questing fingers down to the dank warmth of her, and found her slick and ready, waiting for me to unite with her, waiting to draw me in, to own me as hers forever.

She gave me a gentle kiss and sank back on the chaise, one hand stretched out to me. I took it in my own and leaned down to her, meeting her, my lips on hers. I was swamping her, engulfing her; yet she welcomed me, wanting me, trusting me. She teased my body with her fingertips, and my fingers lifted to her breast, caressing the swell of flesh there; but it was done absently. Our eyes fixed on one another, we beheld one another in love, desire, and finally strength. And even in our nakedness, our gaze remained locked, lovemaking in its own right. I leant into her, truly mystified that she could engender such love in me. I felt bewilderment, and deep gratitude, that such a thing could have been revealed to me; and I kissed her with awe. She slid her arms around my neck, drew me down to her, tasting me as I tasted her.

I held her close, and my body found hers unerringly, waiting patiently until she opened up for me, until her body made space for me within her. And then I was inside her, moving with her in a rhythm as old as time, her body rising to meet me, her arms wound around me, holding me to her. I teased at her hair tenderly, treasuring her, worshipping her.

The heat within her was delicious, the strength of it exquisite. And when she came, she cried out, her passion a prayer of hope. I filled her, filled her with a giving over of myself that could never be erased; body against body, soul against soul.

When it was over, and we came to rest, we lay together, my body cradling hers, my arm around her, crossed protectively over her stomach. We were silent, but the silence was not a parting, but a final joining of pure understanding of one another.

And in the silence, there was love.

"Why do you let me touch you?"

Mare opened her eyes. I was teasing her hand lazily with my fingertips. "Well," she said slowly, a little taken aback, "because you're my husband. Because there's a space in a woman's body for the man who fills the space in her heart," she added, her brow furrowing. She was struggling. "I'm not making a lot of sense."

"You're making perfect sense," I mused. "But Mare...my hand is covered in blood."

"And washed in tears," she said in a low voice. I wondered what that meant, but I didn't ask. "You're still thinking about the press conference."

"Yeah." For no other reason than an odd feeling that it was vaguely relevant, I wondered aloud, "How did we wind up adopting four children?" At her look, I said, "It's not a rhetorical question - I really want to know."

She looked perplexed, but she indulged me, thinking it over. "I think," she said slowly, "that it happened the same way everything else happened. Because when you see something that has to be done, you do it, no questions asked. When these children came to us in need, you made the hard decisions that needed to be made, because that's just what you do."

"What does that make me?" I demanded. "Some kind of hero?" My voice was bitter.

She shook her head. "It makes you someone capable of great evil - and great good," she added with gentle emphasis. She gave a rueful laugh. "You know, everyone thinks it's their job to save the world, and we were in the odd situation where that was really the case." I laughed a little at that. She went on gravely, "Now that it's not, we've got to have the humility to be the best people we can be, and just let it all unfold." She had a wistful look, as though in memory. "I have to believe that's why we were spared, Alexi - to find a way of being something more, something better than the people who did those things."

I said nothing, but only cradled her, kissing her hair, breathing its scent, because I didn't know whether such a thing was possible. Even now, as I write this, Mare asleep at my side, my precious Elena at her breast - gifts I could never have deserved - I still don't know if it's possible.

But I know we can try.

For Daddy
Lawrence James Judd
May 7, 1946 - March 27, 2000

Deslea R. Judd
Sydney, Australia
May 29 - October 8, 2000

Author's Afterword

Gentle Reader - thank you for coming with me this far, and I hope you've enjoyed the ride. I thought I would take this opportunity to explain a little of what I was trying to do in writing Not My Lover. It could be argued that if you can't figure that out by reading it, I didn't do such a hot job; but one of the perks of writing is that as an author I can indulge in this kind of rambling post-mortem. You can skip it if you like - you're not missing anything vital.

For those of you who stayed, I've got to say, Not My Lover is probably my favourite work to date for a host of reasons. I've found it incredibly satisfying to write and read on a number of levels. First and foremost, of course, is the exploration of two incredibly complex, rich characters - not to mention ones which are hopelessly underused on the show on which this story is based! Alex Krycek and Marita Covarrubias, portrayed so richly by Nicholas Lea and Laurie Holden, are very complex characters - primarily due to the efforts of their performers. I consider this to be less a work based on The X Files, though certainly the X Files storyline is integral, and more a work based on the work of Lea and Holden.

This story veers radically away from my usual style. It deals with murky characters with very flawed motives. Nonetheless, it echoes my earlier work with Scully and Skinner in that, in this interpretation of the X Files canon, Alex and Marita are people who share a great love, and live that out in partnership while seeking that which is right as they understand it. You won't find dark-and-dirty Ratboy and Blondie here - rather, you will find radically flawed yet deeply convicted people who understand their own particular shade of grey as a kind of good. It is, in part, an exploration of what good and evil might really mean in the context of the colonisation threat. Is good, absolute good? Is it the greatest good for the greatest number? And is the only real evil that of doing nothing?

It was something of a challenge to me to write the kind of story that I wanted to write in the face of several on-screen betrayals between the characters, but it was important to me to remain consistent with what was portrayed. There are only two instances, as far as I can see, in which the work absolutely does not mesh with the established story. The first is the killing of X (on the show, he was killed by the Grey Haired Man), which I felt was both significant enough to the story and insignificant enough to the canon to warrant a little inconsistency. The second inconsistency is the age and gender of the Donovan children: the children seen in Fight The Future are a little too old to be Diana Fowley's children, and they are two girls and a boy rather than vice versa. A further inconsistency is the wearing of wedding rings by both Alex and Marita, which is not borne out in the show, but which I felt was an acceptable adaptation.

I especially like Not My Lover because it's a story that honours marriage. Alex and Marita marry very early, in the first chapter; and there's an ongoing theme to the effect that it's the strength and the permanence of their marriage that enables them to serve as a counter-Consortium. Their work and their family are so bound up together that they couldn't have succeeded otherwise. Although it's explored in a humanistic rather than a religious context here, the underlying theme is definitely grounded in my understanding of marriage as a Catholic. I am indebted to discussions with other Catholic authors as far as this aspect of my work is concerned, especially my dear friend Mary Mastrangelo, with whom I've discussed the issue of Catholicity in writing over several years.

I chose my language very carefully in creating this emphasis - for instance, Alexi and Mare refer to each other as "my husband" and "my wife" far more frequently in their journals and dialogue than people do in real life. That was quite deliberate. Both speak of marriage and lovemaking very strongly as owning one another, belonging to one another, possessing one another in a way which is somewhat antiquated - even offensive to some in the current era. I felt that this was acceptable despite its political-cultural connotations because of its mutuality, and because there is a clear undertone that their mutual ownership originates in each partner's allowing that ownership. For each of them, the decision to marry meant embracing an identity of mutual belonging which was otherwise missing in their lives, and which ironically they weren't able to live publicly until their separation in Chapter 6. This accounts in some way for their emphasis on the fact of their marriage in their words. Similarly, Marita's embrace of her husband's name, and their wearing of wedding bands even at times when that was unwise, were not in the story for sentimental purposes (neither character strikes me as likely to indulge in conventional sentiment). They are there because my perception is that both characters found something genuinely meaningful in those symbols above and beyond the arbitrary symbolism passed on culturally. I think all of this is quite in character. I see Marita, in particular as a quite conservative young woman in many respects, bordering on old-fashioned; and Alex strikes me in the same way. This is borne out on the show by such details as the clothes they wear and the language they use.

Flowing on from this is the issue of children. Children are immensely important in Not My Lover - Mare is pregnant three times, and the couple adopt four children over the five year period covered by the story - but I wouldn't class Not My Lover as 'babyfic', as that genre has become known in X Files fandom. It is not until the final scenes that they are able to live as a family with their children. I had several reasons for this, but perhaps the biggest is the existential question: why, when so many died, did these two remain standing, able to go forward with their lives in the safety their actions created? Aside from the fact that the writer wanted them to, it seemed to me that there needed to be some natural justice that allowed it. In the end, I decided to use the light/darkness in Alex to create that justification. It has always seemed to me on the show that this is a profoundly convicted man who has his own cause and is committed to it at all costs. Alex has been seen in only a handful of outfits. There is nothing to suggest that he has a home, a car, or personal effects. His prosthesis is not the most aesthetic or high-tech available by any means. All that is despite the fact that he clearly has access to great amounts of money - from selling secrets on the digital tape, from working for the Tunisians. This is not a man in it for the money. He's in it because he has an agenda, and he will do whatever is needed to get what he believes in. The same fundamental generosity and commitment in his personality that allows him to choose poverty and homelessness for what he believes in also leads him to darker deeds - the killing of those who stand in the way of his cause. I decided that these same traits should lead him to take care of Gibson Praise and the Donovan children when they crossed his path, though not necessarily in a way that was paternal. That would come later, in the unseen period in Tangier. In this way, Alex and Mare's generosity set the scene for the future they longed for, as well as in some way justifying their survival. I felt this was in character because, as extreme people, neither would shirk at extreme acts of kindness. These are not people afraid of commitment - rather, they thrive on it, in all its guises.

I tried to make the characters as three-dimensional as possible by giving them character quirks and habits. Mare smokes and cusses when she's under stress. Alex likes Dom Benedictine, and he's more likely to cuss when he's amused. Mare wedges the telephone between her shoulder and her ear, even when it's not strictly necessary. Alex likes to tuck Mare's hair behind her ear, which I think is a benignly possessive gesture. Gibson and Alex tease one another mercilessly, and Gibson is endearingly misguided in his scheming to reunite the couple in Chapter 6, while Mare struggles to teach him to trust her to take on the adult responsibilities. This mirrors her own struggle, and Alexi's, to surrender her need to try to take on the world and with humility allow the world to assert its natural order. I also like their friendship with Skinner - it's a very normal thing, one partner disliking another partner's best friend, or vice versa, and although this was on a grander scale, the principle remained. The image of Alex and Walter chatting stiffly by the Christmas tree because they both cared for Marita amused me a great deal, as did their amicable drunkenness after Walter got the best of Alex. I'm not sure how in character this would be in the American context, but certainly in my country, this would be a natural response to a ceasefire among men with a long history.

I see Marita as a very strong woman. I like her in Chapter 6 very much, where she finds herself alone and bereft, but still finds it within herself to face her future with, I think, a great deal of dignity. I liked the themes I pulled in about her becoming strong again, and the whole picture of her being very desolate but still being her own person who has a lot of inner power and ability to do things. I see that chapter as balancing the terrible ways in which she was used and coerced in earlier chapters, and most especially in her sexual encounter with the Cigarette Smoking Man. This is only described in retrospect, and I think that was important: it was not, in my opinion, an encounter to be viewed, in that it was very ugly on many levels. I didn't want the reader to picture the physical reality of Spender and Marita naked together on a hospital gurney. What I wanted was for the reader to picture the incredible strength of will possessed by Marita, both in enduring the event and in facing the reality of what she had done. For both Spender and Mare, it was consenting intercourse, and Mare's sense of shame is magnified by the fact that she proposed the encounter. It is Alex, later, who is able to pinpoint that Mare's actions were forced, if not physically by Spender, then by the reality of her situation, and that in that sense it was more akin to rape. I think Mare redeems the humiliation of what was done to her, by outsmarting Spender to become pregnant so that she would be allowed to live, by willingly nurturing the resulting child, and with her dignity in the aftermath.

I was actually a little torn about this storyline. As I wrote to Rachel A., I'm not convinced that it's in character for Spender, who I consider to be rather old-fashioned, both on the show and in the story. In an earlier version of the chapter, Mare got pregnant to a guard because a pro-life scientist was smuggling out pregnant test subjects to protect them from forcible terminations. I liked that story, but it didn't seem to gel - it seemed to require too much freedom of movement within Fort Marlene, and too much involvement with other captives and the scientists. In the end, what really tipped the scales was that Spender called her Marita in Requiem; and he is not someone who often uses people's given names - previously he had called her only Miss Covarrubias. The other reason I pursued this explanation for her pregnancy was that Alex had been growing more and more scrupulous about the taking of life. He reported a body count of thirty-nine after One Son, and when he came out of prison eighteen months on, that had risen only to forty-one (two victims in Amor Fati). He already had ample reason to make Spender his final kill, but I wanted to emphasise the idea that killing Spender was, to his mind, an act of justice rather than strictly one of murder, though he does still include it in his final body count of forty-two. The realisation that Mare's child was fathered by Spender formed the impetus, and I think the difference between him killing and not killing, given his growing qualms. Alex discussed as early as the first chapter his feelings about killing, and it's clear that he doesn't do it lightly; but I think he thought a lot about that during his unseen period in prison in Tunisia. I suspect that he has a dossier for each person he's killed, and that he tortures himself sometimes, reading them - just one of those images that occurs to me.

There were several scenes that I wanted to write but which the points-of-view narrative, or else the plot emphasis, would not allow. One of these is Skinner meeting Alex at Dulles with the news of Marita's miscarriage. Another is Marita visiting Gibson at Fort Marlene immediately after her sexual encounter with Spender, whereupon I imagine she attempted to shield her thoughts from him but failed. Others relate to Alex dealing with the loss of his arm in the six months or so following the event, and the introspection I imagine he went through in the penal colony in Forj Sidi Toui. There were other scenes which I deleted, including one alternate scene in One Son, where Marita gave Mulder a note for Alex in which she told him what she had done, and Mulder giving Alex the note in an alternate scene from Requiem. In the end I felt it added little to the plot or its expression, and I omitted it. Another scene that wound up on the cutting room floor was one where the couple worried that an ill Marita had cancer as a result of her exposure to the alien craft in North Dakota, unaware that she was in fact pregnant. In another missing scene, an imprisoned Alex befriended a Jesuit priest who had stolen food for his villagers, and the priest told him a hypothetical moral problem from his theological studies, that of Mrs Bergmeier. Mrs Bergmeier was a German POW in World War II with a sick husband and children at home. She learned that pregnant women were sent home as liabilities and was faced with the dilemma of whether to break her marriage vows and attempt to become pregnant. In this version, Alex had not yet made peace with Mare's second pregnancy, and he was bothered by the story; but I decided in the end that it was more powerful for Alex to understand and forgive Mare almost immediately, and abandon her solely out of his own overwhelming guilt.

It won't surprise most of my readers to learn that my background is in moral theory, and this story is definitely a tug-of-war between utilitarianism and virtue ethics. To grossly generalise the issues, utilitarianism is an end-justifies-the-means, greatest-good-for- greatest-number ethic, and that's very much the ethic Alex and Marita pursue in this story. But as time wears on, they become more and more aware of the truth of virtue ethics, which allows only for good ends and good means. Their concrete situation, at least in their perception, does not allow for the living out of that ethic until the colonisation threat has been averted, but they each speak of a vague longing for a better path - one which, in the end, they are finally able to embrace. I hope that you, Gentle Reader, can see the richness and complexity of Alex and Marita that I have come to embrace in the course of writing this protracted little morality tale. Thanks for reading.

All my love, Deslea