Shadows Of A Former Self

Part One

What lies behind us and what lies before us are tiny matters compared to what lies within us.
-Ralph Waldo Emerson

"It looks like Alex and I will be spending New Year's alone. The University called in the middle of the night to say that the power had gone out at Victor's lab. Even though the university has emergency generators, Victor rushed back to the city so frantic that something had happened to one of his samples. He called a few minutes ago to say that he probably wouldn't make it back to the cabin tonight and apologized for ruining our holiday. I told him not to worry, that Alex and I have been amusing ourselves by building a snow fort and playing with his new puppy, Devi. I didn't mention what I found today.

After lunch we had gone into Victor's study because Alex wanted to see which countries had volcanoes. We pulled out Victor's big atlas and as we flipped though the pages, I found an envelope taped to the back cover. I opened it and inside was a birth certificate and passport. The name on the documents was Lev Kruzich but it was Victor's photograph on the passport. I quickly put the documents away before Alex saw them. I don't know what's a more troubling thought - that something had caused Victor to change his name or that he had taken steps to obtain a second identity. Something tells me that if I don't already know the answer that I shouldn't be asking any questions.

It's getting dark. I must tell Alex to come inside."

-from the journal of Patryka Krycek
December 31, 1977

Tunguska Prison
November 2, 1998

Vasily Ipat slapped his gloved hands against his thighs and stamped his feet as he tried to bring back feeling to his numb fingertips and toes. The heater in the guard room on the prison's east tower was broken and Ipat estimated that it was only a few degrees warmer inside then outside. Gregory Yashvin, his partner on this cold November night, hovered over a military field stove. His breath came out like tiny puffs of smoke that melted into the steam rising off the pot of water he was boiling.

"The doctor would kill us if he knew you had a stove up here," Ipat said. He desperately wanted a cup of Yashvin's hot coffee but the contraband stove sitting on the desk made him nervous.

"So report me," Yashvin grinned. Ipat couldn't help but smile back. None of the guards took the initiative in talking to the doctor unless it was absolutely necessary. Yashvin had caught on quickly.

"Vanka and Petrov were . . . "

"Vanka and Petrov were idiots for getting caught. Besides . . . " Yashvin said as he poured the boiling water into two mugs and added two teaspoons of instant coffee. "If the doctor comes up here, we ask him to sit down and join us. We don't panic and try to hide the stove under some papers and start a fire."

Ipat smiled. It was only his third night working with Yashvin and he was quickly growing to like his new partner. They were both in their late twenties, had served in the army, and their families both had farms in the Osero Basin. Although he considered himself more serious, he enjoyed Yashvin's easy going attitude, a rare commodity under Dr. Kruzich's regime. Tomorrow Ipat and Yashvin would switch to the day shift, guarding the prisoners while they worked in the mine and escorting the prisoners from their cells to the labs. He wondered how long Yashvin's good humor would last under those conditions.

"Here." Yashvin pushed a mug over to Ipat and then pulled it back. "I almost forgot." He reached into the pocket of his overcoat and pulled out a flask. He unscrewed the top and filled each mug up to the rim with unspecified alcohol. "To artificial warmth," Yashvin toasted.

Ipat raised his mug to Yashvin's but did not drink immediately. He waited until the liquid heat passed between the ceramic wall and his hands before he took his first sip. "This tastes like shit," he said, gagging slightly.

"I know." Yashvin's grin widened into a deep laugh. "Want some more?"

"No. Thank you." Still clutching the mug, Ipat turned back to the window and scanned the deserted yard and the edge of the forest. The falling snow was the only movement in the still night. "2:15 a.m. - snowing lightly."

"Check." Yashvin wrote Ipat's comments in the log.

"All clear." Ipat was about to turn back to Yashvin when he caught a glimpse of something out of the corner of his eye. He picked up the binoculars hanging around his neck and focused them on a half-naked figure running into the woods carrying what looked like an ax. "Hit the alarm. One man on the service path. He's armed."

Ipat dropped the binoculars and picked up his rifle. He was out the door and racing down the stairs when he heard the alarm sound. Yashvin was right behind him shouting into his radio, directing the north tower guards to join them outside and for the barracks to get men on horses.

All the searchlights were on, filtering pockets of light through the dark forest, by the time Ipat and Yashvin met the north tower guards where Ipat had seen the man disappear into the woods. Tracks in the snow indicated that the man was wearing snowshoes, an odd choice considering that there was only a foot of snow on the ground. The four guards took off at a brisk run, following the tracks. Ipat signaled them to stop when he heard what sounded like an ax hitting wood. They crept forward into a clearing where they could see a man, dressed only in his pyjama bottoms and snowshoes, swinging an ax at the thick trunk of a pine tree.

The man paused in his swinging, ax held in midair and stared at the guards. "Did anyone think to bring a saw?" Dr. Lev Kruzich asked his speechless audience. When he didn't get a response, he continued cutting down the tree.

Ipat heard Yashvin put in a call that it was false alarm while the other guards whispered among themselves at the bizarre actions of the Camp Commander. The whispering caught the doctor's attention and he turned back with a glare that sent a chill through Ipat's body.

Ipat cleared his throat. "Do you need any help, Commander?"

"Do you have a saw? I need a saw."

"No, Commander. I can get you one."

"No. You, " he pointed at Yashvin. "You get me a saw. And take these rifles back to camp. We're not going hunting." Yashvin glanced sideways at his partner, looking for reassurance. Ipat just shrugged. He knew no better than Yashvin what was the doctor was up to. Yashvin collected the rifles and then started running back toward the prison.

As Camp Commander, Dr. Kruzich had complete authority over the guards but rarely associated with them unless it was for disciplinary purposes. Ipat usually saw him daily but had never spoken to him directly. The guards normally received their orders from Dr. Kruzich's second-in-command, Dr. Tavda. From his limited experience, Ipat had observed that the doctor was a quiet man dedicated to his work at the prison. He rarely left the grounds, preferring to send Dr. Tavda away for external business. Ipat had, however, heard about and on one occasion witnessed first-hand the doctor's severe temper when something disturbed his careful plans. One day Ipat was escorting a prisoner to the lab whom he thought he recognized as a former guard. A month ago that same guard had been caught sneaking a woman from the nearby village into the barracks. Until then, Ipat had always thought that guard had been dismissed.

That incident forced him to reconsider his employment at the prison. The salary was phenomenal, uncomparable to what he had received in the army. The work was easy and he had six weeks off each year. In the end he decided that as long as he didn't break the rules and stayed out of Dr. Kruzich's way he would work at the prison for two more years. By then he would have saved enough money to buy his own land.

The rules were not difficult to obey. The most important ones were never speak to the prisoners and don't talk to anyone else about the work going on at the prison. Ipat had no desire to engage the scraggily prisoners in conversation and he had little knowledge of the project to share with others even if he wanted. All Ipat knew was that it was a government funded medical research project. Prisoners who were serving life sentences in Russian prisons were offered the chance of parole if they participated in a five-year medical study. It had yet to occur to Ipat that he had never seen a prisoner paroled or that the bodies he helped bury could not always be the result of a prison epidemic.

Ipat decided that it would be safer to continue talking to the doctor rather than to stand there and gape at him like the others. "May I help you cut down the tree, Commander, until Yashvin returns with the saw?"

The doctor turned back and looked at Ipat as if he was speaking another language. "What saw?" he asked.

Ipat swallowed. He had no idea what was going on but he could sense that the wrong answer would be dangerous. The two other guards turned to stare at him instead of the doctor, waiting for him to say something, relieved that the doctor's attention was not focused on them. Finally he said, "Is this some sort of test, Commander?"

The doctor walked toward him with the ax slung over his shoulder. He stopped a foot away from Ipat and said in soft, almost singsong voice, "It's not a test. I told you, Alex, it's a game. A game we have to play."

Ipat had no idea who Alex was and did not know if it would be wiser to pretend to be Alex or to explain rationally to the doctor who he really was. Luckily, Yashvin returned with the saw before Ipat could respond.

"The saw, Commander," Yashvin panted and held out the tool. "I also brought you a coat."

The doctor turned away from Ipat to appraise Yashvin thoughtfully. "Thank you. You may go now." He put the coat on, took the saw, and walked back to stare at the tree. He knelt down and ran his hand over the rough wood where the ax had hit. "You may all go now," the doctor called over his shoulder.

A wave of relief washed over Ipat. It had been some sort of test and they had all passed it, even if he did not understand what the point had been. He gave the doctor one more look and then ran to catch up with Yashvin. Yashvin clasped his arm around Ipat's shoulder and whispered, "What was that all about?"

Ipat shook his head. "I have no . . . " Before he could finish, Yashvin jerked his arm away and ducked to the side. Ipat spun around to see the doctor flying after them with his ax raised. The doctor smashed into him and sent him toppling down into the snow. Ipat fumbled for his rifle, forgetting it wasn't there, when he felt the blade of the ax rip through his shoulder. His head flopped to the side and he screamed when he saw his blood seeping out, melting the snow around him.

Dr. Kruzich merely stood and wiped the snow off his pants. The last thing Ipat remembered about the evening was the doctor saying to the other guards, "Take him to the infirmary. I'm going back to bed."

Cape Breton Island, Nova Scotia
November 9

Gibson pressed his forehead against the cool glass, trying to see past his reflection and into the night. He could make out the twinkling lights of the houses dotting the shore but not the houses themselves. Every so often he could see the bobbing light of a boat in the distance as the bus wound its way along the highway hugging Glace Bay. It would have been a scenic drive in the daylight, something his mother would have said was good for him, but, day or night, Gibson was not very interested in scenery.

Rather than pay attention to the changing color of the leaves, he preferred to make up stories about the things he saw. He knew so much about the people around him that he rarely had the opportunity to stretch his imagination. He would try guessing why a house had its lights on so late. Maybe the people were having a party, maybe the parents were fighting, or maybe they were all asleep but didn't care about wasting electricity. The stories didn't have to be dramatic. Not everyone's life involved FBI investigations, aliens and unethical medical experiments. The point was that he didn't know any more about the people and places he passed by than the next person. It made him feel normal.

In the seat beside him, Fionna stirred in her sleep, turning over to face him. In her hand was a book, her index and middle finger marking the spot she was last reading as if she had only planned to close her eyes for a moment. Her grasp had gone slack, and Gibson knew that the next time the bus hit a bump it would slip from her fingers. He carefully slid the book out of her hand, folded the corner down on the page she was marking and tucked it into the mesh pocket on the seat in front of him. Still asleep but feeling the release of book's weight, Fionna moved her free hand to her face and tucked it behind her ear like a pillow. Watching her like this reminded Gibson of his old cat Marty who could sleep anywhere.

Sleep appeared to be Fionna's favorite activity, although not as much as it had been during their first week together. After escaping separately from the hospital, they had met in the children's section of a nearby bookstore and plotted their next move sitting in tiny plastic chairs at a table shaped like Winnie the Pooh's head. While parents selected the latest fairytales and ghost stories for their children, he and Fionna huddled together and spoke in whispers.

Fionna had a plan, which was fortunate because he had only planned as far as leaving the hospital. She had come to the conclusion, and he had agreed, that no one would think they had made it out of their own. Agents Mulder and Scully would think the Smoking Man got them. The Smoking Man would think the FBI was hiding them somewhere. Or both would think Alex wasn't really dead but had come to rescue them. It was their advantage that no one would be looking for them by themselves.

They had decided to stay in Toronto for at least a week just in case someone was watching the airports, bus and train stations and borders. They would hole up in a hotel and wait for everyone to go back to the States. It would also give them time to look healthy again. It was bad enough that with his shaved head and gaunt look he resembled a child undergoing chemotherapy. He would attract more attention if his guardian looked like a drug addict. Fionna's puffy face and flaky red rash around her eyes were already drawing curious stares from bookstore patrons. Their first stop would be to purchase sunglasses before walking to a hotel on the other side of the city.

Before they left the bookstore, Fionna's plan required one more act. His hands still tremble at the memory of leaning over her crouched body in the locked bathroom stall. He dropped the Swiss Army knife twice before he found the courage to slice into her neck at the spot marked by faded black ink. He probed the wound with a pair of tweezers from the first aid kit in Alex's backpack, and his hands were soon coated with her warm sticky blood. He felt like he had been at it for hours when he finally found the chip, a small silver dot that resembled a watch battery. Fionna remained entirely silent during the five minute procedure. He might have thought it was a painless operation if he hadn't heard the screams in her head.

"I got it," he had mumbled.

Fionna had turned her head slowly, holding a towel she had taken from the hospital tightly against the wound on her neck. "Thank you."

He dropped the chip into her free hand and then fumbled to open the bathroom door. He raced to next stall and threw up. When he was done, he got up and washed his hands in the sink and then went back and washed the bloody hand prints from the toilet bowl. Luckily no one else had joined them in the bathroom.

"I'll wait for you outside," Gibson called to the closed stall. Fionna was still inside but she wasn't saying anything. "Unless you need some more help."

"No. That's fine," she said.

He had waited over half an hour for her to reappear. He had already made himself a promise that he would do his best not to listen in on Fionna's thoughts but there really wasn't much to listen to. If it was possible to think of nothing, Fionna was doing exactly that as she waited for the blood to stop, flushed the chip down the toilet and awkwardly bandaged the throbbing wound on her neck.

This trend would continue for the first week. She lived in a waking coma, sleeping for eighteen or more hours a day. She ate when he brought her food and sometimes she sat up and watched t.v. with him, but most of the time she slept as if she hadn't slept in months. Throughout this, she didn't think of Alex, or what she and Gibson would do when they left the hotel. Gibson almost thought she was immune to his telepathy until he realized how hard she was trying to think of nothing. It exhausted her and that was one of the reasons she slept so much.

She was doing much better now. They both were. They had spent a little over a week in the hotel. During this time there was nothing in the newspapers or on the televison about their disappearance or the events which had led the FBI to Toronto. Instead, the top stories dominating both Canadian and American news was the bombing of MultiCradle and the fire in Gettysburg. Gibson had caught a glimpse of Agent Scully in a video clip showing the destroyed building in San Diego which suggested that was where her attention, and most likely Agent Mulder's, was currently focused.

Before they left the hotel they had spread a map of Canada over one of the beds and planned where to go. They had already decided against traveling to the United States or overseas. Alex had provided passports for them under the names of Michael and Emma Trask. But Alex's own recent alias Ethan Trask had been compromised and they were wary about using their identification in any official capacity in case the name had been flagged.

So they had decided to stay within Canada, at least for now. Fionna believed it would be smarter to stay in a city. They would stand out too much in a small town. Fionna automatically nixed Toronto, Montreal, and Vancouver, saying she knew too many people there, and claimed the prairie provinces were out because they were depressingly flat and barren. This left the Maritimes open to them and Fionna picked the city of Sydney on Cape Breton Island in Nova Scotia because she had never been there before but had heard it was supposed to be nice.

The bus trip to Sydney would have taken three days but they stopped for two weeks in the town of Grand Falls, New Brunswick. The Maritimes were experiencing a late apple crop and Fionna decided that helping out with the harvest would be a good way to earn some money under the table. There had been $3200 dollars in Alex's backpack and they had spent almost a thousand of that on the hotel in Toronto and the bus tickets. Fionna wanted to use as little as possible of the remaining money. She thought they should keep the rest as an emergency fund and each of them carried a thousand dollars in case they were separated. It had been obvious from the beginning that they needed another source of income. This would be difficult without a social insurance number or references and Fionna had not taken kindly to his half-joking suggestion about robbing a bank.

They had spent two weeks at Quinn's Farm picking apples, or rather Fionna picked the apples because he was told by the farm manager not to go near a tree after he dropped and bruised too many on his first day. So he spent the days exploring the farm, which in addition to acres and acres of orchards also had cows and goats. There were other children at the farm and he had a good time playing with them even though they were younger.

Fionna kept to herself and didn't mingle with the other pickers. Although they hadn't introduced themselves as mother and son, that was what most people assumed they were. He knew the other workers speculated that Fionna was running away from a bad marriage, possibly from an abusive man. When he told her this, she said that if that's what people thought it would be a good cover story for them.

He had been sad to leave Quinn's Farm. It had been like a holiday for him, full of fresh air, exercise, and nothing to worry about. He felt better than he had in a long time and Fionna had commented that he looked a lot healthier. There was color in his face and his hair had grown long enough to cover the scars so he didn't have to wear a hat anymore. Fionna had also seemed more alive there than she had been in the hotel. They had even been able to talk about a bit about Alex, something they hadn't dared to do in the beginning. Fionna shared with him a few funny stories about when she had first met Alex and Gibson told her about Alex's visits in Gettysburg. Fionna said that his and Alex's friendship had been just what each of them needed at the time and hopefully they would be able to do the same for each other now.

Dawn was breaking outside the bus and the other passengers began to stretch around him. The bus passed a sign stating that they were ten kilometers from Sydney. He suddenly felt excited. Even though he wasn't sure where they would end up or how long he and Fionna would be together, for the first time since he had left his family, he felt like he was headed toward a home.

Lurgan, Northern Ireland
November 13

Alex squeezed the spongy ball in his right hand and raised his arm out and up to the height of his shoulder for what felt like the hundredth time that day, then rotated his shoulder to the right and left, up and down. It was still stiff but it was getting less painful every day. He could feel his muscles slowly waking after lying dormant for so long. The only thing worse than losing an arm was having your remaining one bandaged to your chest for almost a month.

The bullet that tore through his shoulder had been a clean flesh wound. He would have been up and about in a day or two if Almsey's second shot hadn't caught him in the chest, nicking his right lung. His good arm had been taped to his chest to keep him from tearing the stitches and reopening the wound. He had also been confined to bed for the first two weeks, in a half sitting position to prevent pneumonia. After that he was allowed limited movement around the house and garden in a wheelchair.

When the bandages came off earlier in the week, he felt like he had been living in Burns' safe house forever. He couldn't remember staying in one place for so long over the past four years. Throughout the stay he had gone back and forth between suffering from serious cabin fever and being thankful for a roof over his head. Today he had left the grounds of the country manor for the first time since he arrived. He walked to the main street and ended up in the corner of a pub drinking warm Irish beer and watching highlights from a rugby game on a television. It had been an unsettling experience, almost like culture shock. The roaring noise and quick actions of the pub patrons were jarring after spending a month in solitude. He had become used to being left only with his own thoughts and the rotating company of three people. It had almost been a relief to escape back to the safe house where he could continue his exercises and make arrangements to leave Ireland.

Noreen, the nurse from St. Michael's hospital, had given him the green light to leave at the end of the week. This information had been uttered with unconcealed relief. Noreen had been told he was an American working for the IRA and that the house was a safe haven for mercenaries like himself. It helped that Burns had abandoned his clipped English accent for a soft Irish brogue and talked of how his father worked side by side with Collins and de Valera for home rule when she was around. Noreen had come once a day to change his bandages, administer antibiotics and clean his room. He usually wasn't aware of her presence unless she jabbed him with a needle. She came and went quietly, and while she was there, fluttered silently around the room with quick, nervous movements as if she was afraid the British Army was poised outside ready to raid the house. If he had any interest in speaking to her, Alex might have told her that any invasion would just as likely come from the sky as it would from the door.

Burns checked in on him when he was in town. He would pull up a chair and rattle off the latest news, like a reporter from Conspiracy Alumni Weekly. Sometimes Alex listened, sometimes he would feign sleep, and sometimes his murderous glare would stop Burns' idle chatter. He had heard, but not really cared to process the relevance of the news surrounding the aftermath of the events in Toronto. According to Burns, Scully had spent a week in San Diego performing autopsies on the MultiCradle victims while Mulder questioned former patients. Skinner was supervising the excavation of the destroyed Gettysburg site. Despite an investigation into her and Jeffrey Spender's actions, Diana Fowley had been transferred back to her former position as advisor to the Bureau's antiterrorist force in Eastern Europe. Meanwhile Almsey and half a dozen other consortium members had been contacted by Strughold and were instructed to supply their own men to scour North Africa for any signs of the rebels.

The only news that had really piqued his interest was that both Fionna and Gibson's cases had been taken away from the X-Files and were being handled by Violent Crimes. Burns said that their case files were gathering dust as the Bureau was working under the assumption they were looking for bodies, not people, and they were already buried under a hundred other missing person cases.

In between his updates, Burns tried very hard to get Alex to commit to the rebels. He was not subtle or consistent in his appeals and had done everything from flattering Alex about how much his skills were needed to riling him by calling him a coward. Working every angle from pride to patriotism, one day Burns would claim Alex would be stupid not to stand on the winning side, the next he would moan about how desperate the rebels were for manpower. Early on Burns had tried to play up the self satisfying power of revenge. He encouraged Alex to make it personal, seek vengeance for himself and for those that could not fight for themselves.

It would take little effort to release the tidal wave of anger inside and direct it toward everyone who had screwed him over. While laid up, he had spent hours fantasizing about ways to seek revenge only to feel too tired to finish plotting anything specific. He wondered how he would feel with every one of his enemies dead. Would it ease the pain? Did he have the right to feel this relief? Burns finally stopped flaunting this idea in his face when Alex pointedly told him if revenge was on his mind, Burns would be the first to go down.

Alex knew the rebels could use him. Burns was not lying when he said they needed every able-bodied person. It was Alex's opinion that this resistance was a mess. The majority of the members were hybrids who had never strayed far from a laboratory and would be lost on any type of battlefield. Their strength was that many of them remained working undercover within the consortium and were educated in the alien influenced science. The rest of the group was made up a handful of shape shifters and former consortium members, mainly Western deserters.

The shape shifters' importance could not be overestimated. Their knowledge of the colonizing aliens' mission and strategies were uncomparable. Their power to infiltrate and disappear had proved invaluable in every setting and situation. The shape shifters' passion for freedom was also key to influencing the sheltered hybrids. The only problem was that their own efforts were concentrated at home, not Earth. Burns estimated there were only ten with rebel leanings on the planet at any given time. Duncan was the only shape shifter Burns had at his full time disposal. Part soldier, part advisor, part cultural attache, Duncan was the current contact between the two races and divided his time between strategic planning and front line duty.

The human element behind the rebels was the weakest. Seniority and foresight gave Burns the leadership over the small group made up of those who had for their own reasons left the other side. Burns admitted that the fear for one's life was the most popular reason to join the rebels. A group Burns referred to as the Grandfathers, former elders representing many different regions who were physically and/or mentally ill, made up a significant number. Apparently the rebels offered a kinder retirement plan in that you weren't killed if your health presented a security threat. The other group attracted to the rebels was those whose lives were in danger due to failures, personal grudges or one too many betrayals. Alex would have fit nicely into that category, if had been inclined to stick around. Neither grouping was entirely reliable nor particularly useful.

Then there were those few who seemed completely and single mindedly devoted to the cause. According to Burns, Marita fit smugly into this category, though Alex hadn't the opportunity or desire to learn how that came to be. Although she had stayed over at the safe house on at least two occasions while he was there, she had not sought him out. Her interest in avoiding him appeared to be equal to his own.

Still, knowing that the rebels were the most conscience-friendly faction around, did not induce him to stay. He believed if he were involved any longer he would go insane. Even if insanity was an attractive option on some darker days, he felt that if he was going to lose his mind, he was going to do it on his own terms. The only problem was that he had no idea where to go from here. It was as if all his senses had been blunted and as a result his compass was spinning wildly out of control. Up didn't appear to be any different from down these days. He had lost all sense of direction.

He knew it would be easiest to stay here and let Burns make all the decisions for him. He could play the robotic soldier in his sleep. He had done it for years. He wouldn't need to think about the past or the future. But one thing he was sure of, the war wouldn't be won or lost by his participation or lack thereof.

"I heard Noreen say you were to take it easy," a reproaching voice called from his doorway.

"Noreen's an idiot. If she hadn't kept me in bed for so long, I wouldn't be so out of shape," Alex snapped, continuing his exercises without looking at the silver haired woman in the doorway.

"If I recall correctly there were days that you could have got out of bed but chose to remain there." Rosemary drifted in and sat on the edge of his bed.

"It's not like I had a lot of options. The thought of spending the day sipping tea on the porch and watching you knit was not exactly something that made me want to jump out of bed."

Rosemary laughed warmly, not at all insulted by Alex's sulky tone of voice. "I guess the next time you're recuperating in my home I'll have to come up with more exciting things for us to do. I could always invite some of my friends from the Bridge Club down for a few hands."

Alex lowered his arm, fingering the ball in his hand. "How many times do I have to tell you? There won't be a next time." He threw the ball down, as if to punctuate his sharp tone. It hit the floor with a soft thump and rolled under his bed. "I'm surprised Burns waited so long to drag you into his recruiting campaign."

"Settle down, Alex. I was only kidding. I'll be just as happy to see you go as stay. I'm here to help you, if you let me."

"Look, I appreciate you letting me stay here but I don't need your help."

"If you plan on leaving, you're going need new identification, money, transportation, a weapon . . . "

Alex snorted. "And you think I'm going to let Burns arrange that for me? Let him know who I'll be, where I'll be?"

"I have my own connections. Howard wouldn't need to know the details."

"Even if that was true, I can take care of myself."

Rosemary stood up and smoothed the rumpled bedspread. "Well, I suppose there's a first time for everything," she pronounced.

"I'm still here. That has to count for something."

"Of course," Rosemary agreed quickly. "Ultimately, longevity is the only proof required of a successful survivor. But after a while, the act of surviving is merely the skin and bones of life, unless you have a goal to work toward."

Alex's eyes narrowed. "If you're not snooping for Burns, why are you so interested in what I do or where I go?"

"Because I don't think you have any idea what to do with yourself," Rosemary stated firmly.

"You sound like a high school guidance councillor."

"Alex, you've lived in my house for almost a month now. You arrived in great pain and I haven't seen much of that leave you despite your returning health. At the very least you seem to have awoken all my inert maternal instincts."

"So, what? You want me to return periodically so you and me and papa Burns can bond together?" Alex shook his head in amazement. "I've had my share of dysfunctional families, but I think that would top it all."

"Why can't you just believe that someone is concerned about you for no other reason than that you're a fellow human being?"

"Watch how loud you say that or the hordes will be swooping in to take advantage of you. Don't put it past Burns to schedule you in for a seven o'clock torture session to see if your screams will force me to stay."

"I'm sorry," Rosemary started and then paused, reconsidering her choice of words. "I'm sorry about what happened to you and your friends."

"Yeah, well, aren't we all." Alex's eyes dropped to the floor and an awkward silence settled over the room.

"Do you want to talk about it?" The words were spoken casually but were with laced with caution.

Alex's only response was to shift his gaze out the window. Rosemary took a hesitant step forward and laid her hand gently on his back. They stood there for a moment, staring out the window. Rosemary watched the overcast sky grow darker as the shrouded sun set, sending patches of grey shadows over her garden. A glance at Alex's vacant face suggested he was somewhere else completely.

"For a while I thought the universe was all about balance and that people were drawn together, like magnets, to stabilize each other's strengths and weaknesses, so that things could never get too chaotic," Rosemary said. Alex shifted uncomfortably and she removed her hand. She tucked her arms around her waist and continued. "I still believe we're drawn to one another to seek balance but usually someone needs to surrender part of themselves to make the other person complete. Balance is the existence of stability and instability, polar opposites, empty and full rather than two halves of one type."

Alex cleared his throat and swiftly changed the subject. "Could I borrow your car tomorrow? I need to drive into Belfast."

"Why don't you let me drive you? It might be hard to manage with the gears on the left side."

"Fine," he relented without an argument.

Rosemary stepped back. "I'm going to have some dinner. Care to join me?"

"I'm not hungry."

Alex waited until he heard Rosemary's heels clicking down the wooden hallway floor. He closed the bedroom door and shut the light off. He threw back the covers on his bed and crawled under them. Rosemary's attempt to reach out to him had left him feeling cold inside. Her undeserving concern had pushed to the forefront of his mind so many thoughts and images he had been fighting to keep back.

The first time he tried to forget about Fee had been so much easier. The sharp pain in his heart had been pacified by the fact that he knew she was safe and moving on with her life. Before, if he chose to, he could temporarily ease the pain of separation and the burden of guilt by recalling a moment they had shared together. Now he couldn't even do that. It felt wrong to take enjoyment in anything related to the time they had spent together. Remembering her smile made him feel as sick as imagining her death. Twice he had woken up suddenly, choking on bile and shaking in a cold sweat. As he slowly regained his senses, he remembered that what had begun as a very pleasurable dream had turned into a vision of making love to her dead body.

No matter which way he looked at it, he couldn't absolve himself of her death. While he had come to terms with Victor's, Almsey's and Burns' role in dictating his own screwed-up life, Fionna's part had been his responsibility from beginning to end. He chose to start a relationship with her, and what is more important, he chose to propel himself into her life a second time, fully aware of what the consequences were the first time around. His entire being was saturated by this culpability and the idea of trying to shed the guilt and move on seemed impossible.

Rosemary was right. He didn't know what to do with himself. The usual options of fight or flight made little sense. Still, he planned to leave in three days. He thought he would wander for a bit. He needed to clear his head, try to figure out whether the hole in his heart could be mended or if it even deserved to be.

Part Two

Sydney, Nova Scotia
November 13

After an unseasonably warm fall, the weather had turned cold almost overnight. Fionna could smell the snow in the air as she trudged up the street to the community center. She was grateful for the wool coat she wore but wished she'd had the foresight to have found a pair of gloves to go with it when she had rummaged through the box of donated clothes at the women's shelter. Lately she found herself so preoccupied with larger issues that she often found herself forgetting to do simple tasks like brush her teeth. Logic often fell victim to paranoia. Deducing if the man standing at the bus stop across the street was a shape shifting alien or worrying if the headache she had last night had anything to do with removing the chip took precedent over everything else.

Fionna shoved her hands deeper in the coat pockets and decided that she and Gibson should splurge and go out for dinner tonight. It would be a small treat to celebrate their financial change of fortune. She had been determined when she woke up this morning that she was going to find some sort of job and she had.

She had doubted that the region had a high demand for military historians, especially one without any supporting documents. All her other work experience amounted to the typical rotation of low paying part-time student jobs like waitressing and life guarding. She needed a job where her employer would ask few questions and which would involve little interaction with the public or co-workers. Ideally it would pay under the table so there would be no need for any record keeping.

They had been in Sydney for three days and until this morning she had not been able to find work. It seemed everyone wanted proof of education, experience or at the very least personal references, no matter how vague or unofficial the job sounded. She regretted not paying more attention when Alex spoke of money and contacts. Things would be so much easier if she knew how to go about getting new identities or if he had taught her the more shifty ways of beating the system. At the very least she should have insisted on knowing where he keep his money, if he had any more than was left in the backpack. It became more apparent every day how unprepared she was for this lifestyle and how pathetic Alex's emergency plans for them had been.

Gibson had turned out to be a constant source of support for her. His talents helped allay her paranoia and she trusted him to assure her that they were safe and no one nearby was after them. And that he could relate to her worries made her feel a bit better. He was, after all, a veteran of these affairs and did not think it was a particularly crazy request to listen to see if the police woman who regularly visited the shelter was staring at them because she recognized their faces from a police bulletin.

Also, Gibson's enthusiasm for life was often the right antidote for her depression. His sunny attitude had been confusing until she realized this lifestyle was a positive turn of events for him. His life had improved vastly over the past few weeks and she had yet to see him yearn for anything, even his family. Last night he had her laughing so hard she had to wipe away tears over his amusing impressions at the reactions potential employers might have if she put Agent Mulder, the Alien Bounty Hunter or Almsey down as her personal references.

Today she vowed she wouldn't take no for an answer. If she could lie well enough during the interview at MultiCradle, she could convince someone in Sydney to give her a job. She owed it to Gibson not let him down.

It almost seemed too good to be true that she hit the jackpot at her second attempt that morning. When she applied for a housekeeping position at a small hotel, the manager immediately introduced her to the owner after noticing her current address was the local women's shelter. Sensing a sympathetic ear, out poured an embellished version of the cover story that she and Gibson had created. She told the owner how she had become pregnant after high school and married a man who turned abusive. She had finally got up the nerve to run away from him and now needed a job to support her son and her dream of eventually attending college.

This characterization grated on her. It was difficult to pretend to be someone whose path in life was one she felt too smart to let happen to her. She felt that by surrendering any illusion of pride, she was becoming less and less of the person she was before. She also thought her lie mocked what was a reality for many women. Still, the tears flowed freely as she spoke because the lies were really just one fantastic degree away from the truth. She had become involved in a dangerous relationship, she had given up all her dreams, and she was saddled with supporting a child. The only difference between her and Emma Trask was that Emma had the possibility of improving her situation. Fionna didn't.

Her sad story appealed to the owner who admitted his own sister had gone through similar experiences as a teenager and had just graduated from nursing school. Fionna was overjoyed when the owner told her she could start tomorrow. It didn't pay much but the position came with a room at the hotel for her and Gibson. Fionna filled out the necessary employee forms with a false social insurance number and hoped if it was ever noticed she could say it was a mistake and leave before the second number was checked.

The East Sydney community center was a modern sprawling building that stood on top of a hill. The library was in the middle part of the complex that also housed an indoor pool and skating rink. Gibson had elected to spend the day at the community center while she conducted her job search. He had told her that he planned to go swimming and then play on the computers at the library.

The familiar smell of books wafted through the library's oak doors and Fionna immediately felt a pang of homesickness. Her mother had worked at the local library when she a little girl. Fionna had fond memories of being invited to come behind the big circulation desk and help her check out books. As a child, libraries were sources of awe and wonderment, all that knowledge available to be absorbed if one only had the time. She remembered being shocked to find out her mother had not read all the books and vowed one day to read them all herself. Since then Fionna had spent countless and often tedious hours in libraries, sometimes feeling like she had read every book in them. Still, they never failed to stir up feelings of nostalgia whether she was in Moscow or New York.

She entered the library and two librarians immediately stopped chatting and stared at her. Fionna felt the tingling of panic shoot through her body. Poised to flee, she tried to maintain her composure as she scanned the row of computer terminals positioned near the door for any sign of Gibson.

Fionna jumped when one of the librarians spoke to her. "Are you looking for a boy named Michael?"

Fionna regarded her suspiciously, wary of saying anything until she knew what was going on but aware that saying nothing would appear odd. "Yes."

"He going to be fine," the first librarian said, coming around the desk. "They took him to a hospital."

"Who took him?" Fionna demanded.

"I called 911."

"He was stung by a bee," the second librarian added.

"A bee?" Fionna wheezed, feeling dizzy as all the blood drained from her face. She must have looked ready to faint because the closer librarian reached out to steady her and motioned for her to sit down on the bench behind her while the other librarian went to get Fionna a drink from the water cooler.

"He's going to be okay. He went into shock but the paramedics gave him something that revived him. Did you know your son was allergic?"

"How many bees were there? Was anyone else stung?" Fionna suddenly thought to ask as she studied the air around her.

The second librarian gave her a paper cup full of water. "There was just one bee, probably came in looking for a warm home when the temperature dropped last week and got trapped inside. Doris, do you remember last year when we found two grasshoppers inside the storage room in December?"

Fionna leaned back on the bench and closed her eyes, trying to stop the room from spinning. She had come to the conclusion that these women were not trying to trick her but that didn't mean what happened to Gibson was not a trap. A bee attack in November, severe enough to put him in the hospital, was suspicious. Even if this was all a huge coincidence, a hospital visit would give them unwanted attention. How was Gibson going to explain all the scars on his head or why he was carrying over $1000 in his bag or why there was no record of a Michael Trask in the national health insurance system? A voice in the back of Fionna's head was prompting her to leave, to take off before the incident attracted any more unwanted attention.

"Do you have a car? Would you like me to drive to the hospital?" The first librarian asked.

She could say no and take a cab to the bus station. By night she could be a hundred kilometers away from here. She couldn't deny it was a tempting option. But she didn't think she had the strength to abandon Gibson. That would haunt her forever and she already felt horribly guilty for considering it. They were in this mess together and she would do her best to figure out a way to get them out of it.

Fionna accepted a ride to the hospital but was firm that she didn't need to be accompanied inside. Standing in the middle of the emergency room, Fionna had second thoughts about being there but tried to push them aside as she looked for Gibson. Finally a nurse directed her to a small curtained off area where she found Gibson hunched over, with his shirt off, sitting on an examining table holding an ice pack on his swollen hand.

"I wasn't sure you would come," Gibson commented without looking up at her. A nurse bustled in before Fionna could respond.

"Oh good, you're here. I have some forms for you to fill out," she said, thrusting a clipboard into Fionna's hands.

"Is he going to be all right?" Fionna asked.

"Oh sure. He's feeling pretty drained right now. He just needs to rest and have something to eat and he'll perk up."

"Was there anything abnormal about the bee sting?" Fionna asked.

"Everyone is allergic to bees to an extent. Michael's body just reacts more severely then most people. He just has to be careful so this doesn't occur again. He should always carry a needle full of epinephrine to counteract his reaction," the nurse reported as she took Gibson's blood pressure. "You'll need to make an appointment to come down to the outpatient's clinic sometime this week to practice using the epi-kit."

"But there wasn't anything else that seemed peculiar?"

"Like what?"

"I don't know." Fionna shrugged causally. "I read an article on how some bees can carry other diseases."

The nurse contemplated Fionna and appeared to be struggling to keep a straight face as she replied. "Mrs. Trask, I think you're confused. Perhaps you're thinking of how mosquitos can be carriers of malaria or how a dog can carry rabies."

"But wasn't there a case of bees carrying Smallpox in the United States?" The nurse shook her head impatiently. "Your son certainly does not have Smallpox. It was eradicated in 1980."

"Oh," Fionna said, pretending to sound relieved at this information."So there was nothing unusual here?"

"The doctor wants to speak to you before you leave. Ask him if you don't believe me," she said to Fionna as she checked Gibson's blood pressure. "Michael honey, you can get dressed now."

The nurse left wheeling out a cart of medical supplies. Fionna put down the clipboard and went over to Gibson. She crouched down to look at him, running her hand over his short hair.

"What happened?"

"I was just reading a book and I thought I swatted a fly away but it was a bee and it stung my hand. It really hurt so I got up to run cold water over it and I started to feel sick," Gibson said, swallowing hard. "I tried not to let anyone notice but I got really dizzy and had to sit down on the floor. Then the librarian comes over and asks me if I'm okay, but it was hard to talk because my throat was all tight. Then she called an ambulance. I didn't want her to. I'm so sorry, Fionna." His body was shaking, trying to hold back the tears.

"Shhh, it's okay, Gibson. It's okay." Fionna wrapped her arms around him as he began to cry and he clutched her back tightly. "It's okay."

"I was so sure you would think they took me and you wouldn't come and get me. I'm sorry," he said, hiccuping in between the tears.

"You have nothing to be sorry about. I'm just relieved you're okay."

"I couldn't believe it was a bee. I thought I was going to die. I thought something would burst out of my stomach."

"I know," Fionna said, rubbing his back until he stopped crying.

Gibson pulled away to look at her. "I told the doctor that we just moved here and we don't have our new health cards yet. We can pay cash."

"That was a smart idea." Fionna reached to help him put on his shirt, holding the sleeve wide so he could fit his swollen hand through the opening.

"The doctor is going to ask you about my head. I told him I cracked my head open a few times falling. He knows we are staying at the shelter so he immediately assumed I was lying and that my father did it. If you confirm that, and say it was already reported, there shouldn't be any problem."

Fionna nodded. "You know, we won't be living at the shelter for long."

"You got the job?" Gibson asked. "At the hotel?"

"I can start tomorrow. We get our own room. It has two beds, a little kitchenette, and a full bathroom."

"And a television."

"There's no point in trying to surprise you, is there?"

"Nope."

"Just as well, we don't need any more surprises in our life, do we?"

"I think today should last us for a while."

"I think you're right."

Lurgan, Northern Ireland
November 14

A whistling kettle greeted Alex and announced the presence of someone else in the house. He doubted it was Rosemary as the car she had left in early this morning was still missing from the driveway. They had planned to drive into Belfast together today but she had excused herself at the last minute with an apology but no explanation.

The kettle's noise ceased but no sound followed it and he suspected someone else was listening as carefully as he was. He stayed where he was, aware that any movement across the ancient floorboards would ruin his eavesdropping. He scanned the hallway for evidence that might reveal who else was here. Burns had said that Rosemary's home was open to a small number of people, none of whom Alex had ever encountered.

A small puddle of water was collecting under a lavender umbrella hooked over the banister. A small black leather handbag sat next to it. As far as he knew the only woman besides Rosemary who had access to the house was Marita. That thought alone prompted him to move and he started up the stairs, two steps at a time. What did you say to someone with whom you had everything and nothing in common?

"I thought you'd be gone by now," a surprised voice floated up from the kitchen doorway.

Alex paused, put his bag down on the step in front of him and slowly turned around. Marita was leaning against the foyer wall, a tea cup cradled in both hands, looking like she just stepped off the runway, not out of a rainstorm.

"Soon."

"I don't understand why Burns wants you to stay so much. It's not like we're running short on unreliable idiots."

"Yourself excluded, I suppose."

"Depends on which side you ask and when," Marita admitted, her frame slouching down the wall a few inches. She looked up at him again. "You're looking better."

Better than when, he thought. Had she come to stare at him as he lay unconscious upstairs or was she referring to their last meeting, on the ship, where he has been glassy-eyed and smouldering at the thought of finally being a player?

"Appearances can be deceiving," he muttered.

"Look, I just wanted to say . . . You did a good job with those files. It really made them take notice of us. And it was a nice touch to enlighten Mulder along the way. But we don't need people chasing ghosts around here, whether they're dead or alive," she said, sounding both apologetic and superior. "I'm sorry, but it's true, you've never been focused on the larger picture. You've never wanted to be where you are."

"I'm used to falling short of other people's expectations. You're going to have to get in line," he said with a shrug.

"Is this some sort of joke for you?"

"What?"

"The end of the world."

"Let's just say that I don't see much difference these days between being Burns', Almsey's or some alien's pawn. It all ends up the same."

"So you don't think we stand a chance?"

"Honestly? No. We're already dead."

"You appeared to think differently a month ago. Did you really believe we could make a difference or was it all a sham to impress the girl?"

He shook his head as he bent down to pick up his bag. "I think this is where we say good night and good luck to each other."

"I should have done my research more carefully. Who knows what I could have got you to do if I'd come to you all sweet and innocent?"

"Keep in mind Marita," Alex called over his shoulder as he continued his ascent, not waiting to see her reaction, "that the Mata Hari didn't win the Nobel Peace Prize."

He reached his bedroom and closed the door behind him, hoping Marita wouldn't follow wanting to have the last word. But he supposed she would have already considered it a waste of her time to speak to him, let alone stand around trading insults when there was a world to be saved. He imagined she was kept up at night puzzled how the survival of humanity was not enough of an incentive for some people. But, hell, you couldn't even get Mulder to crawl up out the basement these days without waving secrets about Samantha or Scully's safety in his face.

It was just as well he would be here longer than he expected because his bed never looked more inviting. The day in Belfast had tired him more than he thought it would. Surprisingly, his legs hurt more than his upper body. He was not used to being on his feet all day. He should have remembered how debilitating an injury could be on your whole body. It would probably be another month until he was back to where he had been before the shooting. He dropped the duffle bag on the floor by the bed and lay down on top of the covers, not bothering taking off his clothes.

The trip into Belfast had been worth the exhaustion. He had been able to withdraw funds from one of his American accounts, no questions asked. He had bought a duffel bag and new clothes. He had checked out a few handguns in an underground gun store but nixed buying one. There was too much chance of being stopped and search by the police in Belfast. After a series of phone calls, he had been able to arrange for new identification through his usual contact to be sent to a Federal Express office in London a week from today. His final errand had been to purchase a ferry ticket to England. He had almost held off booking a fare, something about it feeling inevitable, but once he did it felt good to have made some sort of decision about his future.

He thought he had only closed his eyes for a minute when he awoke to sunshine streaming through the window and a loud, almost boisterous male voice coming from downstairs. He was about to close the curtains and try to go back to sleep when he thought he heard someone speaking Russian. He listened carefully, trying to make out what the speaker was saying but the words were muffled.

He rolled around to look out the window behind his bed. There were no new cars in the driveway, only the one he drove to Belfast, and it looked like Rosemary still hadn't returned. He got up, rubbing the sleep from his face, and went to listen at the top of the stairs. Nearer to the voice he could tell it was recorded, not live. It sounded very far away and the recording hissed with interference. The person listening obviously was having difficulty understanding it and kept rewinding to listen to a passage over and over again.

Marita had stopped the tape and was collecting papers spread out over the kitchen table when he entered the room. Silver glasses he never knew she wore were perched on her head. Her red-rimmed eyes were the only sign in her otherwise impeccable appearance that she had been up all night.

"What's going on?"

"I didn't mean to wake you." Concealing a yawn behind her hand, Marita gestured to the earphones lying next to her. "It's a very poor recording. I thought it might sound clearer without them."

"Who's the Russian?"

"One of my contacts."

"He was saying something about an ax. Play it again."

"I don't think so," Marita said, lowering the screen to her laptop and resting her hand protectively on the tape recorder.

"You're afraid of what an unreliable idiot like myself might do with all your rebel secrets?"

"It crossed my mind. But it wouldn't do you much good. These reports are little more than observations from inside the consortium. It's not about us."

"Where is he stationed?" Alex asked but Marita just looked at him warily. "Come on. Who do you think I would tell about this?"

"Alex, who knows what you might say or do to get out of a desperate situation one day. Burns has told you too much as it is."

"Marita, let him listen to the tapes." Alex and Marita both turned in surprise to see Burns in the kitchen doorway, leaning heavily against a young red-headed man Alex didn't recognize.

"Marita, I could use your help," Rosemary said, squeezing by Burns and rummaging through a cupboard next to the sink. "Could you make up the bed in the den?"

Marita rose obediently to help Rosemary but not before she cast a disapproving look at both Burns and the tape recorder, clearly suggesting she thought it was unwise to let Alex listen to the tapes. But Burns either didn't understand the meaning of her glare or chose to ignore it.

"I'm not going to bed." Burns concentrated on straightening his shoulders as if the improved posture could negate his tired grey face. "I'm fine. I have work to do."

"An angina attack does not mean you're fine."

"Duncan's here now. If anything happens, he can just wave his hand around or do whatever he does and I'll be fine."

Alex marveled at Duncan's appearance. So this was a form he chose when he wasn't impersonating the Bounty Hunter. It was a slight, almost feminine figure that gave no indication of his formidable strength.

"Duncan has more important things to do than sit around waiting for you to have a heart attack. You of all people should know that. Now, here take your medicine." Rosemary held out a glass of water and two pills. "And for God's sake, sit down until we get your bed ready."

Alex moved back into a corner of the kitchen as Duncan guided Burns to the table, feeling completely out of place in this oddly domestic scene where everyone was acting like family instead of enemies, aliens and secret agents. To top it all, after Burns was settled in a chair, Duncan looked over at Alex with a kind smile on his freckled face.

"Nice to see you again," he said. Alex just nodded. He had little experience with aliens and none with benign ones who stood there grinning at him like they were long-lost best friends. Fortunately Burns saved him from coming up with a response.

"I would appreciate your opinion on these reports," Burns nodded toward Marita's papers. "We know so little about the context of the Russian organization. It is difficult to know what to make of Yashvin's observations."

"I doubt I could offer a better interpretation than Marita. I've been out of that loop for a long time."

"Considering that Yashvin is stationed in Tunguska, I can think of no one more qualified to read his reports."

"Tunguska? Who is he?" Alex asked, sitting down at the table and reaching for a file. Inside were pages and pages of sloppily written letters in Cyrillic with the English translation written above the Russian text in Marita's neat handwriting.

"A Hungarian who's spent the past two years preparing for this assignment. He's been there for little over a month now, as a guard. His reports are optimistic."

"What do you mean?" Alex asked, finding the words optimistic and Tunguska to be an unusual combination.

"There might be a small window of opportunity for rebel leadership in the area. Our first real breakthrough in any Eastern consortium and a strategic one at that."

"Not if Victor's still the running the place."

"That's the point. According to Yashvin, Victor's been put on administrative leave until further notice."

Alex flipped through the papers, scanning for Victor's consortium alias, Lev Kruzich. "Why?"

"The official reason is exhaustion but Yashvin suggests otherwise. He claims that your stepfather had some sort of mental breakdown earlier in the month. He's still on site but has been relieved of any responsibility until his fitness can be assessed."

Circled in red on one of the pages dated only a week ago, Alex found a paragraph detailing Victor's insistence that the third floor of the prison's east wing be evacuated and left unused because it was haunted and that the four guards who had helped him close it down be dismissed for communicating with spirits. That Victor was crazy was not a revelation to Alex. That his mental health was regarded as anything different from the other men in his position was a new development.

The Russian syndicate hadn't changed much since the fall of communism. It faithfully followed many of the old police state traditions; people didn't get put on administrative leave, they simply disappeared before their replacement arrived. Surely they wouldn't go through the motions of assessment if they thought it was serious. His superiors must be convinced that he could be cured. This indicated that Victor was valuable. But then why would they coddle him when they could as easily torture him for what they need? Or could this whole incident be staged for some other purpose altogether? And if so, by who? Victor? The Russians? Marita's contact Yashvin? Did they know the rebels were watching?

One couldn't sit back and be an armchair analyst with data like this. There were too many unknown variables for intelligent hypothesizing; too many hidden agenda, both personal and professional. Burns needed someone to play the field, not merely report the moves, and Yashvin was not in a position to do that yet. He closed the file. "I can't help you."

"I'm not asking you to do anything but read over these reports and give me your opinion."

"These reports go back six weeks. If that's all you wanted, you would have asked me to look at them before, not casually thrown out the Russia equation as a last-ditch effort to get me on your side. It wouldn't surprise me if your next request would be for me to go to Russia and appraise the situation myself. Very subtle."

A smile that turned into a sneer settled in on Burns' face. "Frankly I'm surprised that you think so highly of yourself that you believe every move I make is orchestrated to get you to stay, as if everything in the universe hinges on your loyalty to us." He leaned back in the wooden chair, eyeing Alex like a judge deliberating over whether the accused deserved the life sentence handed down by the jury. "Trust me, you're not that important. None of us are. Still, I think it's about time for you to realize that you won't feel any better if you walk away from this now. You might find something out there but it won't be peace. It won't bring her back. You won't feel free until this is finished."

Alex braced his hand on the table and stood. "Are we finished here?"

Burns glanced at Duncan, who had remained silent and inexpressive at Burns' side, and then looked back to Alex. "That's entirely up to you."

Part Three

Sydney, Nova Scotia
November 19

Fionna never would have guessed that doing other people's laundry would be such a satisfying job. But there was something cathartic in the act of collecting the wrinkled, slept in sheets and sloppy wet towels, hearing the rattling of the machines shake them clean and then inhaling their fresh scent as she took them out of the dryer. Working in the dimly lit basement room of the hotel, sorting and folding the laundry, was her favorite time of the day. There was a radio but she didn't turn it on, preferring the white noise humming from the washers and dryers. It was calming and mindless.

She enjoyed less the earlier part of each day which involved going in and out of the hotel rooms tidying up and collecting the laundry. The rooms of departed guests were fine but it felt like an invasion of privacy to enter the rooms which were strewn with the personal items of its inhabitants.

Working at the Stone Willow Inn had proved to be a good experience. The work was simple, if a bit physically demanding. Her back ached after the first day from the constant bending but it was already feeling better. The staff were pleasant and uninterested in her background. She rarely saw the manager who had hired her but he had made a point to see how her first week had gone and seem pleased with her work.

She worked the early shift, from seven to three, while Gibson spent the day puttering around the hotel. She had told anyone inquiring about his presence that she would enroll him in school in January. She figured it meant Gibson would just make the pretense of disappearing every day but instead Gibson decided he would actually like to go to school and created a background of home schooling by an aunt that wouldn't require any school records. In preparation he spent part of his day reading about Canadian geography and history and listening to the Beginner's French tapes he borrowed from the library in hope that he would be ready in a month to pass the test required to determine what grade he would be put in.

The last three months had been a whirlwind, from the escalation of her and Alex's work to the final devastation and uncertainty. It was such a relief to feel that the ground was under her feet again. And it was easy to stand on if she didn't think too much about her life before Alex's return and acknowledged that the present calm could change to chaos at any time. Though she had no idea that the next disruption would fall more into Agent Mulder's territory than Alex's.

It was a hotel policy to knock on every door, even ones thought to be vacated, before entering. Apparently it was common for people to sleep in and miss their check out times or change their mind and stay at the last minute. According to the morning manifest, Fionna's last room should have been empty. She knocked and there was no response, so she entered, pulling her cleaning cart behind her. She had already stripped and remade the two beds when she caught a glimpse of movement out of the corner of her eye. She spun around, pillow case clutched to her chest to see someone sitting at the desk in the corner.

It was a woman in a brown turtle neck and plaid skirt that spilled over the side of the chair. A long skinny black braid hung down her back. Fionna looked up and saw the woman's reflection in the mirror over the desk. The woman's face was lined with concentration, eyes downward. She was holding her head with her left hand while the other scribbled rapidly in a book. The woman seemed completely unaware or unconcerned with Fionna's presence.

Fionna stood stunned for a few moments before she found her voice. "I'm sorry to have disturbed you. I'll come back later."

The woman gave no sign that she had heard Fionna and continued writing, pausing to turn to a fresh page in her notebook. She smoothed the paper down and then started writing again. Fionna watched, intrigued by the woman's apparent detachment from everything around her. It also disturbed her, as she felt certain that the woman was not merely ignoring her or unable hear. It was almost as if they were sharing the same space but not the time. The air around her seemed distorted somehow. It occurred to Fionna that she was dreaming. If that was the case, she was torn between waking and staying where she was, being more afraid to turn away than curious.

Bracing herself, she took a step backward and grasped her cleaning cart with one hand. Its physical presence grounded her and she gripped the handle tightly. Her eyes crossed the room, measuring the space between herself and the door. When she turned back the woman had stopped writing and was looking into the mirror, watching Fionna.

The woman's gaze was as hypnotic as her presence. Her face was thoughtful but apprehensive, an expression of someone who had tasted caution and regret often. She had watery eyes that looked like they would spill over at the next blink. Her mouth remained in an unmoving thin line, neither happy nor sad, almost disapproving.

Fionna was not sure how long they stared at each other before the woman's eyes dropped once more to her book. She did not write but closed her eyes and rubbed her forward with the heel of her hand. Fionna thought the woman had reverted back to her own world when she suddenly spoke.

"There is a proverb," the voice was gravelly, as if it had been over or underused, "Every day learns from the one that went before, but no day teaches the one that follows. "

"Who are you?" Fionna asked, not quite sure if she wanted to know the answer.

"I was you. Now you're me." The woman spoke so quietly that Fionna wasn't even sure she had heard her correctly.

"I don't understand."

"You're all he has."

The shivers that had been running up and down her spine since the woman appeared intensified. Fionna didn't know why but she felt that the woman was somehow referring to Alex. To her role in Alex's final days.

"Alex?" Fionna whispered hesitantly as if the name would wake something inside her.

The woman did not respond directly. Instead she swivelled around in her chair and looked out toward the window. Fionna followed her gaze. In the distance she could see Gibson helping one of the custodians shovel snow off the hotel's front steps. As if sensing the scrutiny, Gibson looked up and waved.

"Do not repeat my mistakes."

"What..." Fionna stopped, the question forgotten, as she turned to find the woman gone.

It was then that she awoke, sweaty and cold. It took her a few moments to determine that she was in her bed at the hotel .She lay still for a moment and then got up to check on Gibson. He lay sleeping, mouth open, one arm flung over his head on the pullout couch across the room. He looked peaceful enough so she went back to her bed, stopping to picked up the twisted bedcovers laying on the floor. She settled down in the bed again, tucking the blankets around her.

As soon as she closed her eyes, the vivid images from the dream came flooding back, most prominently the woman's sorrowful eyes. She didn't usually remember her dreams and wished she could forget this one but it kept her awake as it ran though her mind over and over again until her alarm went off and it was time to get up.

Marita could hear muted voices in the den so she knocked before nudging the half-closed door open. Burns nodded at her from behind his desk but did not take his eyes off the photos he was sharing with Rosemary. Marita entered the room and took a seat on the leather couch facing the wall of books and waited for Rosemary and Burns to finish whispering. If she strained, she could have made out their conversation but that wasn't necessary. If it was of any importance they would have stopped when she entered or included her.

The air in the room looked alive as hazy sunlight illuminated particles of dust floating toward the floor. It reminded her of sand falling through an hourglass, a description that reminded her of the world's precarious situation. Soon they would need to break the glass or be buried. Time was running out or at least it certainly seemed like it was running faster these days.

It bothered her that Burns often acted like they had all the time in the world. They were lucky that for now colonization was crawling toward the finish line but who knew if it would get a second wind and sprint ahead of the planned date. A date, mind you, which no one knew for sure, but Marita thought it was best to expect it sooner rather than later.

"Is he gone?" Marita asked once Rosemary left, moving to sit in the chair across from Burns' desk.

"He left last night."

"Has he contacted his stepfather?" Marita asked, watching Burns pick up one of several pill bottles on his desk and squint at the label.

"Not yet and I don't expect him to do it so soon." He shook two pills out into his hand and place in his mouth, swallowing them dry before continuing. "Alex knows I'm right about not finding closure anywhere but on the inside, but he needs to feel like this was his decision. And the further he is away from us, the easier it will be for him to rationalize that he can do this on his own terms. But he's too impatient to dwell on it. Alex wants to know what's going on in Russia and he knows if he waits too long that door might be closed forever."

"We're giving him two weeks, right?" Marita asked, already crossing off the days on the calendar in her head. This meant she had two weeks to come up with something else when Duncan returned empty handed. It was probably time to work on Russia's Chinese allies again.

"I'm leaving the timing up to Duncan. He'll call it off if he thinks it's a dead end."

"I hope you won't regret not listening when I told you Alex was a dead end a year ago."

"Your expression of vexation in front of Alex was greatly appreciated, in front of me it's annoying and redundant."

"I would like nothing more than to be wrong about Alex, especially given the hope, if not the time, we've invested in him. It's just not practical to put too much faith in any one person to do the right thing."

"We both agreed that infiltration of the Russians is our top priority. Unless you can surprise me with a more reliable angle to follow . . . " Burns paused long enough to remind Marita that this was not an impulsive decision, "then I suggest we move onto other business."

Knowing it would be pointless to push her apprehension over Alex any further, Marita followed Burn's direction. "The WHO is holding a conference on Bio- terrorism in the 21st century. This would be a good opportunity to hear what scenarios the UN is discussing."

"When is it?"

"It starts on Friday, in Amsterdam."

"Good. Then you'll have time to do something quick first." He opened his briefcase and removed a file. "Were you aware that Assistant Director Skinner sent letters to all hospitals in the United States and Canada requesting their help in reporting any cases of Smallpox to the FBI?"

"It doesn't surprise me. He was quite shaken after what he saw in South Carolina."

"A noble but futile effort. Smallpox was never used again in a trial. It doesn't mutate fast enough to be an effective comparison to the alien virus. Until now, the only response Skinner ever received were a false alarm and two hoaxes."

"Until now?

"Two days ago he received a fax from Dr. Albert Burrows, Chief of Staff, Sydney Memorial Hospital, Nova Scotia. Dr. Burrows was writing to inform the FBI that after a random review of hospital cases, he came across a mention of Smallpox in a bee sting case, something Skinner's letter had warned about." Burns opened the file and flipped through its contents. He selected two papers and pushed one of them across the desk so Marita could read it. "I don't know what must have shocked Skinner more, that someone remembered his memo 18 months later or that someone was taking him seriously."

"But you don't think this a hoax, do you?" Marita stated, skimming the letter.

"I am convinced that the doctor's report is innocent enough. He ensured Skinner that there was no outbreak of the disease. But Skinner happens to think it's worth investigating, unofficially at least. He's taken a week's vacation and booked a flight to Nova Scotia that leaves tomorrow morning."

"What do you think he expects to find?"

"Alex Krycek."

Burns passed her the second paper. Marita had to read the patient report twice before the names jumped out at her. "I'm assuming you didn't tell Alex about this."

"And have him run in the opposite direction I want him to?"

"So Skinner finds them, which means sooner or later Almsey finds them and nothing changes. They'll kill the woman and take the boy."

"We cannot let an opportunity like Gibson fall back into their hands. He could be the one that changes everything for us."

Burns' words echoed Marita's thoughts. Having Gibson on their side would raise the rebel's profile and prospects significantly. Variations on Gibson's usefulness flew through her mind. The most difficult decision would be selecting what to do with him first. It would make things considerably easier if he worked with them willingly. Hopefully, the woman would be helpful in this matter.

It wasn't until she was sitting on a plane halfway across the Atlantic that Marita let herself appreciate the irony of how she had been assigned the job of chasing Alex's ghosts for him.

Paris
November 23

Alex felt like a man thrilled to have been let out of prison only to discover that everything he had ever done before being jailed made little sense. Nothing was familiar. It was as if all the particles and modules had shifted ever so slightly and he no longer had a role to play in the universal design. It wasn't so much disorientating as it was refreshing. He was free to weave in and out of the crowds without being noticed, not a player in any drama. No one waiting for him. Nothing to be concerned about.

Of course this could only be true if he could shed his memories. But he couldn't feign amnesia any more than he could let go of all the questions and ideas fighting each other. His instincts refused to let him be still. If his thoughts didn't have a direction, his body would, so he moved continually. From boat to bus to train he had moved swiftly across the United Kingdom to France, crisscrossing the country from Cherbourg to Paris to Bordeaux and back to Paris again all in the matter of days. He liked Paris the best as it felt like he was still on the train watching the scenery fly by, time standing still, even if all he did was sit and drink cup after cup of coffee in a buzzing cafe.

The perpetual motion was a good companion to procrastination. It had worked for a while to trick his mind into ignoring what it kept pressing him to do. But he did not like remaining in flux. Impatience won over indecision. Curiosity won over caution.

So before he could stop himself he left a message at the Grand Hotel Bohemia in Prague for room 222, asking if anyone had lost a pair of eyeglasses. He walked out of the cafe and bought a train ticket to Geneva. It was out of his hands. Now all he had to do was wait to see if and how the occupants of Room 222 would respond to his message.