Blood of Angels (15/18)

*     *     *

     Charles gripped Krycek's body beneath the arms, locking his hands
around the corpse's chest, straining to lift it bit by bit. Rigor hadn't
quite set in--indeed, the body was disturbingly warm, its temperature only
a few degrees colder than his own--but it was still a difficult job; he
couldn't strain for more than a few seconds before his ruptured stomach
protested and he was forced to set the body down, resting briefly against
the side of the ambulance wall until the shrieks in his belly had subsided
and he was able to resume his work.

     His ear still throbbed where the bullet had nicked it. After finally
managing to break the lock on one of the plastic cabinets, he had bandaged
his bleeding ear with gauze and taped it securely to the side of his head.
This simple procedure had taken more than forty-five minutes; his hands
had shaken so badly that he'd discarded the first three bandaging attempts
as too messy, and he'd become terrifically sick--dry-heaving and spitting
bile--on two separate occasions. The first instance had been triggered by
the simple pain of the procedure; a crescent of flesh the size of his
thumbnail had been sliced from his ear, after all, and the dull agony of
disinfecting and dressing the wound had brought tears to his eyes.

     Then, a few minutes later, he'd become nauseous again when Krycek's
body--long dead--had belched. The memory was still vivid: he'd been
standing over the gurney, laboriously trimming a wad of sterile cotton
with a pair of folding scissors, when the corpse at his feet had burped,
its lips smacking. Startled, he'd dropped the scissors. Indeed, Charles
had been about to flee the ambulance in panicky terror--sour phlegm
gathering in his throat--when he remembered that most bodies released
intestinal gas after death, often several hours afterwards. Perfectly
normal. Dana had told him that once.

     But this only served to remind him of a crucial fact. He didn't know
how long he might be stranded here. Upon walking outside, he'd seen that
the ambulance was parked in the very midst of some dense coniferous
woodland, the pines pressing in on all sides, blocking out the sky; Krycek
had chosen the location randomly, driving the ambulance off the road and
several hundred yards into the brush, and he was far from any commercial
campsite. So what now? Given the condition of his abdomen, he certainly
wasn't about to walk back to town. He could use Krycek's phone to call for
help, but to do so would mean explaining the presence of this stolen
ambulance and the cadaver in the rear.

     For a long time, he had been sorely tempted to flee the area,
convinced that some elite wetworks squad would descend upon him at any
moment. After all, he didn't know who had tipped off Krycek. If Neumann
had awakened in the hospital and called the ambulance himself, well, that
was bad enough; but if Neumann had managed to notify someone else, it was
much worse. Charles realized that any number of hardened intelligence
agents might be aware of the deception. Agents who would waste no time in
tracking him down, hungry for blood.

     However, there was one encouraging sign. After Krycek's death,
Charles had crawled into the front of the ambulance, searching through the
glove compartment and beneath the seats and everywhere else that might
hide something valuable. In addition to a mean-looking .32 PPK automatic,
several rounds of ammunition, a topographic map of Virginia, a plastic
baggie filled with ten dollar bills, a half-eaten deli sandwich and the
cellular phone, Charles found a small blue envelope, sealed shut with a
blob of wax. On the front of the envelope was the name NEUMANN.

     Breaking the seal with his fingernails, he pulled out a 3x5 index
card upon which had been typed three phone numbers, each labeled with the
name of a city: Norfolk, Manhattan, Washington. The flip side of the card
bore the additional legend: (MIDNIGHT AUGUST 20)--(MIDNIGHT AUGUST 21.)

     Suggestive. Staring at the numbers, Charles remembered what Krycek
had said to the person at the other end of the line. _Yes, this is the
ambulance...No, I think the number stays the same...This is the only one
you knew?...Yes, it doesn't change like the others_.

     Charles thought carefully. It was obvious that Pio Neumann was part
of a well-financed intelligence organization that was extremely secretive,
extremely paranoid--and so obsessed with security that it utilized
one-time cipher pads for routine communication. Were its phone numbers
also changed daily? It certainly seemed that way.

     Therefore Neumann, who had been unconscious since yesterday night,
wouldn't have known the new numbers. Upon awakening, he'd been stranded.
Isolated. He'd dialed Krycek's cell phone (which, Charles guessed, was
passed from one secondary agent to another) because the number remained
the same throughout--serving, it seemed, as backup in case the Manhattan,
Norfolk and Washington numbers were unavailable. Charles didn't know
exactly what had passed between Neumann and Krycek during their brief
conversation, but he didn't think that the current numbers had been
exchanged--the seal on the envelope had been unbroken. So perhaps Neumann
had been unable to notify anyone else of his predicament.

     And if that were true, it meant that Charles was safe to stay here.
For the moment, anyway.

     But if was going to stay put, he didn't want Alex Krycek's body lying
on the floor beside him, blood drooling languidly from the stump of the
corpse's severed thumb, eyes staring up. (He'd tried closing them several
times, but the lids always slid open again, revealing glazed sclera and
iris and pupil bit by bit, so Krycek began by peering through slits, then
squinting, then glaring, then seeming half-asleep, until finally his eyes
were as wide as ever. Accusatory. By the time Charles thought of using
adhesive tape to cement the lids shut, it was too late: he needed to get
the body out of the ambulance or risk going insane.)

     Due to his weakened state, simply hefting Krycek over his shoulder
was out of the question. In one of the cabinets, however, he found several
tightly-rolled Mylar space blankets, the kind used to warm victims of
hypothermia; laying the foil sheet across the floor, Charles rolled
Krycek's corpse on top, wincing as dime-sized red drops continued to fall
from the body's ruined hand. Thinking quickly, he slipped a rubber
surgical glove over the worst of the damage. The empty thumb-hole was soon
filled with blood.

     Now the process became fairly simple. Charles would grasp one edge of
the blanket in his hands, tug it a foot or so, rest for a minute, then tug
it again, easing Krycek's heavy body from its resting place. The worst
part was getting the body out of the ambulance; the back doors were set
several feet above the ground, and it was rather unsettling to yank on the
sheet and watch as Krycek's feet hung over the edge, then his knees,
thighs, waist, protruding little by little, until he overbalanced and slid
down the rest of the way, banging his dead skull on the bumper and
crashing to the needle-strewn ground.

     It was then that the lower hem of Krycek's shirt flew up, seemingly
of its own accord--and Charles saw the markings on the corpse's belly.

     Curious, he stepped closer. Lifted away the rest of the fabric.
Regarded the inscriptions with awe, tracing their progression from
Krycek's abdomen to just beneath his left clavicle. Words. Sentences.
Written in dark--almost brooding--red, the color of an cherry, overripe
and ready to burst.

     There were two distinct sets of text. The first was a dense
hieroglyphic scribble, unfamiliar to him, that ran in crazy whorls and
spirals up and down Krycek's skin. The ideograms were harsh, sharply
drawn, the pattern of lines laid down randomly within each separate
character. It wasn't Chinese, or demotic Japanese, or cuneiform, or Greek;
they almost reminded him of footprints made on playground sand by a child
on a swing--but there was nothing childlike about the marks. They were
clipped. Mechanical. Precise in their randomness.

     But the other words--they stunned him more. Much more. Because
although the words spelled out a coherent English message and did not
snake crazily across the dead man's flesh, they shocked him anyway.
Frightened him. They were written in a neat printed script, all capital
letters. Calligraphic. Rather feminine. Rather familiar.

     He recognized it.

     It was Melissa's handwriting.

     SAVE DANA. CALL MANHATTAN. EVACUATE. NOW. DANGER. SAVE DANA.
SAVE DANA.

     There was no mistake about it. He'd seen his sister's penmanship
thousands of times, on sixth grade homework and insurance reports, on
birthday cards and funeral guestbooks--and now on the flesh of this dead
man's chest. It had been less than a year since Melissa's death, and as he
stared, thunderstruck, at the scrawled red words, he felt the old grief
and confusion and terror overwhelm him yet again. Along with a new
emotion: awe.

     Because this could only be a message from the dead.

     Charles put two and two together. The Manhattan phone number in the
blue envelope. The one-time cipher pad. He fumbled it out, flipped to
today's page, found the code: Evacuate--54547.

     Krycek: _I heard them say that Scully--Dana Scully, I suppose--will
arrive in Manhattan by sundown; they expect that she'll walk right into
the XenoTech labs, where they can apprehend her easily_.

     If he managed to Evacuate the Manhattan facility--emptying it,
purging it of Neumann's men--would Dana be saved?

     A rational part of his mind whispered: Don't do it. If you call
Manhattan, they can trace it. They'll find you. Even if it's on a cell
phone, they'll monitor the microwave transmissions, the digital noise, get
you within a twelve yard radius. You're committing suicide. These words
mean nothing. It isn't Melissa's handwriting. Couldn't be. It isn't a
message from the dead because there isn't any afterlife, bunky: to know
that, you don't need to study Jean-Paul Sartre or have any of that
existentialistic or atheistic crap on your side, you just need to look at
the way Alex Krycek's dead skull smashes against the bumper of the
ambulance like a cassaba melon, at how stupid and sluggish his face is, at
how his eyes are glazed and soft like a pair of hard-boiled eggs. They
didn't tell you this shit in catechism; you can say "Ave Maria gratia
plena" a billion times and you still won't bring that scrap of flesh back
to life. Are you so anxious to join him? Don't be more of an idiot than
you already are.

     But while that rational voice was speaking, Charles suddenly
discovered that the telephone was in his hand. In his other hand,
miraculously, was the 3x5 card. Manhattan: (212) 555-7459. Charles dialed
the number with numb trembling fingers. The phone rang twice. Was
answered. An unseen presence sat silently at the other end of the line,
waiting for the caller to say something.

     Charles whispered into the mouthpiece: "Five-four-five-four-seven."

     _Click_.

     They hung up. No questions. No comments. No pressure for
identification. No elaborate stalling while the phone-trace equipment was
slid into place.

     And it was indeed as if some benevolent outside presence had
temporarily possessed Charles Scully's mind--a guardian angel, a
beneficent spirit, goading him into an irrational act that he would never
have attempted under different circumstances. Expression oddly blank, he
hung up the phone, let the index card flutter softly to the floor of the
ambulance, and went back outside to Krycek's body. He gripped one edge of
the silvery Mylar sheet and continued to drag the corpse along the ground.

     Within moments, he had completely forgotten the entire incident.

*     *     *

     The kangaroo rammed its head against its carrier door. Again. And
again. Almost before they had crossed the bridge into Manhattan, fighting
the traffic beneath a steel-colored sky, the kangaroo had begun to rattle
the cage, violently, almost masochistically, so hard that Scully worried
it might begin to bleed. Its mews rose to a high, panicky crescendo. Thump
of feet against the plastic. Scratch of paws against the grille. Scully
caught a glimpse of the joey's wide pink eyes and was struck by the
intensity of their gaze, an almost human depth of emotion, as if the
kangaroo somehow felt or tasted or smelled something in the air that her
own senses could not detect.

     Senses. She thought of Sera, of embryonic diapause, of the 'marsupial
instinct'--and then quickly derailed that train of thought. The memory of
Sera--of the words on her forearms, of the way her eyes had changed, and
especially of the manner of her death--still gnawed at Scully, refusing to
let go, tainting her perceptions and making her wonder what had really
happened back there among the smokestacks and industrial ruins. Only stark
images remained. Flashes, burnt into her memory. Sera's shoulder
exploding. The sniper on the rooftop. Crawling back to the car and finding
bits of blood and bone in her hair. Removing Janneson's clothes, stuffing
them back into the box. The way Sera's body had looked when she drove
away, crumpled against the side of the building like a paper doll
assembled by uncaring hands.

     She tried to gather her thoughts. Catalogue them. Bring some
semblance of order to their randomness. But it was impossible. Nothing
held together; whenever she tried to unravel the truth, the threads only
became more knotted and tangled.

     One thing was for certain: Sera had been lying when she denied
Palimpsest's existence. Those markings on her arms had been enough to
belie her words; they were not copper sulfate, not pigment nor makeup nor
tattoos, but patterned bruises that welled up from beneath the epidermis.
Scully had taken Sera's still-warm wrists in her hands, examined the skin
of the forearms carefully, seen that the words could not be rubbed away or
removed but had been engraved--or inscribed--deeply into the subcutaneous
tissue by some unknown means, probably psychosomatic. The letters
themselves were unfamiliar, sometimes resembling cuneiform, sometimes
Linear B, sometimes Chinese, often none of the above: the strokes were
complicated and often random-seeming, reminding Scully of a seagull's
footprints on wet beach sand. Deciphering them was an obvious
impossibility.

     Continuing her grisly examination, Scully had found a needle mark on
the back of Sera's neck--very fresh, perhaps seven or eight days old--and
a second puncture wound between Sera's sixth and seventh vertebrae. The
signs were clear: sometime in the past week, Sera had been injected with
oxyphenylcyrine and revived with a shot of adrenaline to the spine,
presumably for the express reason of producing coherent stigmata. If it
hadn't been Palimpsest, it had been an organization with an
indistinguishable modus operandi.

     But then Scully had found something much more disturbing. A few
inches above the injection mark in the upper neck, just beneath the bulge
of the cranium, there had been a much older scar--a raised, pill-shaped
cicatrix. Beneath it, Scully felt a small hard lump. A lump that she
recognized, and for good reason.

     It was an implant.

     Sera had been an abductee.

     Scully--who knew nothing of Kaun's connections to Wilhelm Reich, of
his possible links to the development of an alien/human hybrid, or of the
more singular circumstances regarding the destruction of 1527 K
Street--was taken completely aback by this finding. When it was combined
with the previously-existing anomalies of the dwarf, the kangaroo, the
mysterious appearance of Janneson's clothing, the way Sera's eyes had
changed, the singular circumstances of her death, the sniper on the
rooftop, and the words on Sera's arms...well, it was no wonder that Scully
felt more than a little bewildered.

     And now, there was the kangaroo's frenzied, panicked behavior to deal
with. It hurled itself against the door of the carrier again, rattling the
grille; at this rate, neither Scully's hasty rewiring of the hinges nor
the joey's fragile head would last for much longer. She shushed it to no
avail. Couldn't understand its agitation. After all, the joey had traveled
from South Carolina to New York City with little more than a requisite
"mew" every hundred miles; now, unsettled beyond any previous extent, it
was almost frantic. Delirious. Scully couldn't see why.

     Unless, of course, she accepted Sera's explanation. That the kangaroo
could somehow sense the location of XenoTech's second laboratory, leading
her to it by virtue of its metamammalian ectogenetic sensitivity to the
rhythms of the womb. Diapause clairvoyance. Embryonic telepathy. Marsupial
instinct. Whatever.

     Scully supposed that she might as well give it a try. Even if Sera
had lied about Palimpsest, her other ideas had still been suggestive.

     It took her the better part of an hour to locate the street corner
where Josef Kaun had died--the intersection where she and Mulder were to
meet later that night. It was tucked into one of the most
densely-populated sectors of Manhattan's red light district, below Times
Square, below 42nd Street, right in the stinking maw of the prostitution
industry, where streetwalkers could be seen even in the middle of the
afternoon; steam rose from the sidewalk, sunshine pouring down,
skyscrapers and dull sandstone buildings pressing in on either side.
Claustrophobic. Hot. Scully rolled down her windows, felt the air stagnate
inside and out.

     She passed the street corner. Circled the block, looking for parking.
Cars were jammed in on both sides of the street, some double-parked; in
the back, the kangaroo rammed itself against the carrier door yet again,
splintering the plastic in two places. Scully swore. "Hold on," she
muttered. "You'll get your chance."

     Finally, she found a space. Parked gingerly, squeezing her way
between cars. Tried to gather her thoughts. If she was going to search for
XenoTech's Manhattan facility, this was the obvious place to start. After
all, Kaun had last been seen in this area--he'd been killed less than a
block away--and he wouldn't have strayed too far from the lab, even while
searching for hookers.

     She shut off the engine, glanced into the back seat. The kangaroo
seemed calmer; it peered through the slats of its carrier with its
melancholy pink eyes, blinking long lashes, staring at her, plaintive,
waiting.

     "Christ," Scully said, helpless in the face of such lugubriousness.
"All right." She stepped out of the car, reached behind the seat and
unlocked the back door. As she opened it and slid inside, the kangaroo
mewed in apparent delight, thumping its feet against the cage. "Enough of
that," she said.

     She peeked through the grille, examining the sticky white smears
along the kangaroo's ears and nose. It had been ninety minutes since their
last pit stop, and she hadn't coated the joey with sunscreen since, but
she judged that enough remained to keep it safe from sunburn, at least
temporarily. It had already been fed. The collar encircled its neck
snugly, slim leather leash dangling from ruff.

     No excuses to delay. Now or never.

     With some trepidation, Scully thumbed the latch of the carrier
grille. Slowly, tamely, the kangaroo nosed its way out. Calm. Sides
heaving softly. Its manner was unruffled, unhurried; it sniffed the dank
Manhattan air, licked its lips, gazed expectantly up at her. Its agitation
seemed to have completely disappeared.

     "Good for you," she said. "If you behave yourself, I'll let you lead
the way. All right?"

     The kangaroo did not respond. Scully briefly wished that XenoTech had
located its labs in a more isolated area--the street outside was densely
packed, and a few people had already seen the joey through the window--but
decided to go for it anyway. She got a got a good grip on the leash, swung
open the back door--

     --and the kangaroo was off and running.

     "Christ!" It leapt from the interior of the car, toppled out onto the
pavement, shook itself, scampered away with Scully in tow. Barely managing
to slam the door behind her, Scully tried to tug on the leash, slow the
joey down, but it hopped madly along the street, dragging her behind like
a rag doll--"Out of the way!" she cried, waving her free arm. "Out of the
way!" Before, the kangaroo had been loose in empty living rooms and
isolated streets and barren fields, but this was a Manhattan sidewalk in
the middle of the afternoon, and the pavement was a solid mass of people.
Wide eyes, grinning mouths, arms, legs, clumsy feet. Bystanders gawked,
laughed. A few extended their hands, fingers flailing, groping for a bit
of fur or ear or tail or--failing that--buttock or breast. She pressed on
through the crowd, tripping, nearly falling in some places. Comments were
tossed in her direction--"Watch out, sister!" "Where'd you get that
weird-assed thang?" "Damn, lady, check yo-self!"--but she ignored them,
hair flying in her face, now literally sprinting down the street to keep
up with the joey. She was tired, heaving. A stitch burned hotly in her
side.

     Incredibly, the kangaroo kept going. And going. And going. In less
than twenty seconds, they'd gone nearly a block, were nearly past the curb
and onto the street when the kangaroo suddenly turned the corner. Toenails
clicked rapidly against the cement. It ran on. No rhythm was lost. Scully
tried to brake, scraping her feet against the sidewalk, but she was forced
to go even more swiftly or risk falling or losing the kangaroo or both.
She puffed. Exhausted. Her shoes thudded against the sidewalk, soles
snapping against concrete--sights and sounds and passing people were
blurs, punctuated by an occasional razor-sharp image--and she was
dead-tired. Dog-tired. How could she be sure that the joey was going
anywhere? She doubted that the 'marsupial instinct' was good for much more
than a few hundred yards--

     --when the kangaroo suddenly slowed, changed direction, and bounced
its way into a side alley.

     Scully's world returned to normal. Her heart still thrummed like a
jackhammer, but the burning in her lungs subsided; and, to her immense
relief, she saw that the alley was deserted. A few curious onlookers had
followed her inside, but a single furious glance over her shoulder was
enough to dissuade them from coming further. Her calves and ribcage ached.

     Brick walls closed in on either side. Garbage covered the ground. The
kangaroo pranced over discarded cigarette butts, scattering them beneath
its feet as it bounded down the alley--approaching, Scully saw, some
building's rear entrance. Concrete steps, gray walls. A door with a cloudy
oblong window.

     The kangaroo jumped forward with unchecked enthusiasm, ascending the
steps, pawing madly at the doorframe, nosing the drab wood. Scully just
barely managed to get a hand around its belly, pull it back. Shushed it.
Its tail whipsawed from side to side. Glancing around quickly, Scully
wondered what to do next. The alley was empty. There was nothing here. No
markings or indications as to the building's nature. Nothing to welcome;
nothing to threaten.

     Just this door with its yellow rectangle of glass.

     She was not surprised when the knob turned easily--but for a moment,
Scully hesitated. Thought of Palimpsest. Thought of her brother. Thought
of Mulder, thought of Kaun and Janneson, of the rooftop sniper, of 1527 K
Street and ectogenesis and XenoTech, of stigmata, of X. She thought of
albinism, of genetic memory, of copper sulfate. Of the kangaroo. Of how
Sera's eyes had changed. Of the unimaginable ranks of the dead, lined row
upon row upon row.

     Wagering it all, betting everything she had, Scully pushed the door
open and let it swing back into darkness.

     A musty smell--the thick odor of storage, of old newspapers, of
moldering dust only recently disturbed--wafted out, making her cough. The
kangaroo poked its snout inside, sniffing, considerably calmer. Its tail
wagged slowly back and forth as it entered, pulling Scully along with it,
leading her inside just a little too deliberately. She sensed a trap.
Unholstered her gun, held it ready--and stepped over the threshold.

     The darkness was absolute; the smell of old newspapers was
all-pervading. The only sounds were the thud of her own heart and the
padding of kangaroo feet on linoleum. She released the joey.

     The kangaroo mewed softly, as if in response to some sound--and then
Scully began to feel it herself: a deep thrum, a vibration, nearly
inaudible, that issued up from the floor of the building, half-mechanical,
half-organic. It hummed. Sang. Pervaded the air and the floor and the
walls and the ceiling, as if the entire building had been transmuted into
a tuning fork of unimaginable dimensions. It made the soles of Scully's
feet prickle. Her hair stood on end...

     And she understood what it was.

     The Womb. The murmur of ectogenetic machinery. Beneath the floor lay
a great artificial gestation, infinite banks of tissue, fluids, blood,
lymph, heme, cells, eggs, sperm. Churning. Mixing. Nearly inaudible to
human ears, but the kangaroo had heard it from miles away, felt the change
in the atmosphere wrought by this deep, all-encompassing Ur-sound. It
sniffed the baseboards. Pressed its body to the floor, snuggling against
the linoleum in infantile bliss.

     No doubt about it. This was XenoTech's second lab.

     Feeling her way through the darkness, Scully's hand brushed a
doorknob. She froze. Wondered whether she should continue. Realized that
she no longer had a choice.

     The door was unlocked, as Scully knew it would be. Opening it a
crack, she peered inside. More darkness, deep shadows: the only source of
illumination was a Bunsen burner, mounted upon a small green table in the
very center of the room, issuing a long, wavering flame, bright-yellow and
softly singing. Surgical items were scattered beneath the burner's searing
light: a syringe, several alcohol swabs, a bottle of iodine, an assortment
of sterile gauze pads. Several ampoules of a clear green liquid.
Oxyphenylcyrine. The ampoules were lined up in a row, like toy soldiers.

     Scully lifted her gaze. Her pupils contracted from the burner's
glare; it was difficult to see into the blackest depths of the room. She
squinted. Probed the darkness with her eyes.

     Finally, she saw that she was not alone. The room had one additional
occupant--and when she saw what it was, she almost died from shock.

     It was an alien.

     It was suspended halfway between floor and ceiling, pinioned on a
wheel-shaped steel scaffolding, arms and legs lashed to the spokes. Its
skin was smoothly pebbled, gray, dry-seeming--with the exception of a
startlingly white circle of flesh on its left shoulder, two inches in
diameter. The circle had been prepped with iodine, streaked with
reddish-orange. The alien was naked, with smoothly pebbled gray skin. No
genitals. Large egg-shaped head. Ragged nostrils, lying flat against its
oblate face. Only a slit for a mouth--and those sad insect eyes, lidless
and black, gleaming wetly in the darkness.

     The alien was less than four feet tall. Its hands opened and closed
weakly as Scully approached, webbed, with froglike pads at the extremity
of each fingertip. Coming closer, she saw that its skin was crisscrossed
with fine wrinkles, lines, scales, scabs, like the hide of an alligator:
around its eyes, the flesh grew surprisingly soft, clever little
wrinkles--like laugh-lines--radiating from each corner. She could hear it
breathing. Its nostrils fluttered, flared; its eyes grew less milky,
harder, like obsidian. It saw her. Regarded her. She stared back,
forgetting to breathe, heart beating sluggishly, mind an absolute tornado
of wonder and awe and stunned terror.

     The alien spoke. Its lips did not move, but there was no telepathy
involved--the words were as clear as day: "For Christ's sake," it said,
blinking its ebony mantis eyes. "Are you going to say something or just
stand there gawping all day?"

     Scully decided for the latter, her mouth dropping open with comic
surprise--because she recognized the voice. Knew who the alien was...or
had been.

     It was the dwarf.

*     *     *

End of (15/18)


Blood of Angels (16/18)

*     *     *

     Or it once had been...because the dwarf was no longer recognizably
human. Coming closer, Scully saw that the dome of his head was swollen and
tender, rough amphibious skin covering naked cerebrum, as if the parietal
bones of his skull had been broken to pieces, rewired and strung with
cartilage, increasing the size of the cavity and transforming the head
into an oversized monstrosity the size of a baby watermelon; his teeth had
been removed, his cheeks sunken in and reshaped, his lips cut away and
replaced with seams of alien integument; the cartilage and bone and ragged
flesh of his nose had been extracted, leaving only the nostrils behind;
most of his natural skin was gone, replaced with thick spongy fish-like
tissue; and, most obscenely of all, his eyes had been removed, the sockets
enlarged and fitted with artificial orbs of black fiberglass, blind,
lubricated with the remnants of tears.

     He had been castrated. Part of his pelvis had been taken away. Most
of the flesh from his thighs and calves was gone, the skin collapsing
tightly--anorexically--against bone.

     Yet still he spoke. His ruined face--shattered and resculpted into
this alien image--was still mobile; he was still cognizant; his unseeing
glass eyes rolled slowly in her direction. She knelt by his side, stunned
at the extent of the surgical deformity.

     "It isn't polite to stare," the dwarf/alien said. His lips did not
move; Scully wondered if the mouth she saw was only a veneer, a living,
pulsating mask laid over the dwarf's genuine throat and tongue, allowing
him a unique variety of ventriloquism. Of course: it was all fake. This
was not a complete genetic transformation--not an alien-human hybrid--but
simply an alien doll made from human raw material. A costume of viable
tissue, grafted onto the body, that devoured its host from the inside out.

     "How did you know I was staring?" she finally managed.

     Incredibly, the dwarf chuckled. "Could anyone _not_ stare?"

     Scully whispered, "Did Palimpsest do this to you?"

     "Of course," the dwarf replied, shifting his head a centimeter to one
side. That, right there, was the scope of his possible movement: his neck
was bolted to the scaffolding, arms and legs shackled by loops of metal,
straps of Kevlar binding him further to the frame. He looked like an
effigy of crucifixion taken to Baroque extremes: his entire body bore a
crown of interlocking thorns. "Who else could have done it?"

     "But why?" She felt sick to her stomach. This was an abomination. It
was worse than anything she had yet encountered in her pursuit of
Palimpsest, worse than anything she had ever seen or ever dreaded seeing:
they had torn apart this man's body, crushed and remolded him into this
monstrous form--but to preserve his self-awareness, to leave his mind
intact in the face of such unimaginable horror, was the greatest blasphemy
of all.

     "Why? Do you really want to know?"

     "Yes," Scully said firmly. "I want to hear the truth."

     "All right, then," said that immobile reptilian mouth. "I have
nothing more to lose." The dwarf's voice--pathetically, frighteningly
human to be issuing from so alien a throat--became wistful; he closed his
terrible eyes, inhaled deeply through inflamed slits. "What do you want to
know?"

     "What was at 1527 K Street?"

     The dwarf reopened his eyes. They had been slimed with some
unimaginable secretion, slick and shiny and milk-white; Scully saw her own
face reflected in their smoothness, saw the weary lines around her mouth
and nose, realized that she was nearing collapse. Her knees were weak.

     The dwarf said, "You're tired, Agent Scully. Why don't you sit down?"

     Amazed at how he seemed--eyelessly--to read her thoughts, Scully
said, "How do you know these things? How did you know who I was?"

     He cocked his head slightly, a strangely precise and delicate
gesture: "Agent Scully, they've disabled all my nerves from the neck down.
Completely. I can't feel my arms or legs or chest or hands. I wouldn't be
able to tell if my heart stopped beating or my lungs stopped working. All
I can do, really, is talk and listen." The dwarf chuckled again. "In a
way, I'm thankful for such small blessings: I can't feel what they've done
to me, can't perceive the full extent of the damage. Understand? All of my
connections have been severed. I'm blind, numb, paralyzed. I'm like
someone who's been given oxyphenylcyrine. Or an embryo in diapause."
Closing his huge, empty eyes, he spoke again--but his voice was stranger
this time, roughened, metallic, almost corroded: "'When you isolate an
organism from all physical stimuli, you increase its sensitivity to the
supernatural, to the afterlife. The unknown. A bit of jelly in a marsupial
womb, or a bit of humanity on a concrete sidewalk: it's all the same.
Seclusion. Loneliness. A vacuum that can only be filled by a higher state
of awareness.'"

     Scully's eyes widened. He was quoting Sera's words exactly.
"How...how...?"

     "Can't you understand? Don't you get it?" The dwarf reopened his
eyes, regarding her with orbs of stone. "History is not written in books,
Agent Scully, but in an alphabet of human suffering. Every death leaves
its mark upon the aether, burnt into the astral plane, scorched into the
very fabric of the universe--a textbook accessible to any man who is
willing to annihilate himself in its pursuit. History is a manuscript
written on the clouds. Authored by the blood of angels."

     Shaking her head, Scully said, "I still don't understand."

     "Don't you?" Silence for a moment. A quiet hiss as the dwarf sucked
in air through what remained of his nose. Scully realized that he breathed
only a few times each minute, softly, almost imperceptibly. It was a
concentrated effort, yet somehow automatic; she wondered if he was hooked
to some hidden respirator, a machine operating his lungs in lieu of his
orphaned brain, the only spark of unblemished life in an anatomy ravaged
by uncaring hands. Revised. Genocide on the cellular level. His body had
been demolished by outside forces, weeded by the pogrom.

     Now the dwarf began to speak, slowly and carefully, choosing his
words with obvious care: "In July 1947, an extraterrestrial spacecraft
crashed in a remote field in the New Mexico desert, just outside the town
of Roswell. Three of the aliens within the saucer were killed on impact; a
fourth, who survived for several days, was brought to the Roswell AAF
base, died under observation, and was dissected. The cadaver was frozen
and shipped to Washington, inciting a secret war over rights to the
remains--bureaucratic infighting, arguments over whom the body 'belonged'
to. Eventually, a compromise was reached. The alien's body was completely
dismembered, its body parts scattered throughout the city. Its brain and
skeleton went to the Air Force; its hands, heart and vital organs were
claimed by the Pentagon; its eyes went to the Library of Congress; and so
on. As we speak, bits and pieces of the original Roswell alien are still
preserved in hundreds of specimen jars throughout our nation's capital."

     Listening, Scully said, "That's incredible."

     "Isn't it?" the dwarf said. "Oddly enough, it reminds me of a story
from the Battle of Hastings: King Harold was killed by an arrow through
the eye, falling from his horse and collapsing to the mud of the
battlefield. A foot soldier stabbed him through the heart; another man
lopped off his head. A second later, someone else disemboweled the corpse,
splattering his entrails across the dirt. And a fourth man--having
apparently arrived too late for any greater share of the glory--satisfied
himself by sawing off the dead king's leg. Understand the analogy? Back in
1947, everyone wanted a piece of the alien. It didn't matter if it was a
pound of flesh or a scrap of skin: half the men in Congress ended up with
a trophy to put on their mantelpiece."

     "Xenophobic."

     "Back then, it was, yes. The most important thing, though, was that a
section of the alien's hide--actually a few pieces of skin from the torso
and legs--fell into the hands of a young research biologist for the
Smithsonian. The man who later founded XenoTech Labs." Clearing his
throat, the dwarf paused for a moment. Carefully blinked his malformed
eyes. Then: "Although Roswell was by far the most well-publicized of the
crashes, it was only the first of numerous encounters that resulted in the
recovery of a living alien being, an extraterrestrial biological entity.
In this country alone, nine aliens were found before 1978; we have no idea
how many were taken by the Communists."

     "All those spacecraft crashed?" Scully asked, disbelieving.

     "Perhaps. Although some say we shot them down ourselves," said the
dwarf. "You see, for the first few decades following the establishment of
Majestic-12, the consensus was that any surviving E.B.E. was a security
threat--and must be exterminated immediately after capture. Killed. Many
were. We were extremely cautious, extremely frightened of the possible
alien menace. Later on, however, things changed."

     "The government began to cooperate with the aliens."

     "Right. In 1978, the first attempts were made to actively communicate
with the extraterrestrials, for purely strategic reasons: not because of
science, but because of politics. We didn't know what the Russians might
be doing. If the Commies were making deals with the E.B.E.'s, it meant
that they might reap the benefits of extragalactic technology before we
did, giving them an unimaginable advantage in the Cold War. Such a
situation could not be condoned."

     "So our government beat them to the punch."

     "Well, specifically, it was Dr. Josef Kaun." The dwarf briefly
explained Kaun's interest in Reich, in the tactical value of orgone
energy. "Using orgone--produced by any means, from laboratory experiments
to sexual intercourse--you can attract aliens, communicate with them,
develop a rough pidgin that lays the foundation for interspecies contact.
Kaun's work provided this foundation. Thanks to him, our government began
exchanging ideas with the extraterrestrials in earnest. They were also
able to revive the attempt of creating an alien/human hybrid that had been
initiated following the Second World War. You're familiar with that story,
of course--Operation Paper Clip, with its utilization of Nazi scientists,
elementary eugenics, genetic engineering, a carefully planned program of
abductions..."

     "Yes," Scully said, "yes, of course."

     "The real progress didn't began until a decade ago, when XenoTech got
into the act. It had been studying the DNA from the Roswell sample for
years, you understand, and when it revealed what it had discovered to
Kaun, he immediately began collaboration with their scientists, combining
his genetic know-how with their knowledge of ectogenetics. But all the
same, it was a slow, laborious process. The human and alien genomes simply
aren't compatible: one has four nucleotides, the other six--and that
doesn't even take into account the considerable structural differences
between the helices. Very difficult, very frustrating. It took years
before the results started trickling in."

     "Results? What kind of results?"

     "That kangaroo, for example. If you were to extract a sample of its
blood and examine it beneath a microscope, you'd see what appear to be
ordinary erythrocytes, red blood cells, and lymphocytes, white blood
cells--but you'd also see large protoplasmic masses with no nucleus, an
irregularly puckered silicon membrane and cytoplasm that was saturated
with hexanucleotidal DNA. In other words, green blood cells. Alien blood."

     Scully said, thunderstruck, "You mean--the joey is a hybrid?"

     "Correct. Approximately speaking, the kangaroo is ten percent
extraterrestrial."

     "Ten percent?"

     "There are gradients, you see. It's impossible to grow an alien,
fully-formed, from a test tube--and even if you could, it would take
forever; it's much easier to simply graft sections of alien DNA to
pre-existing marsupial chromosomes, allowing them to divide and develop
ectogenetically, splicing the nucleotides until the division between
mammal and extraterrestrial disappears altogether. You can mix the two
however you like, within limits."

     The dwarf coughed again, flaring its puckered nostrils. "In any case,
we're digressing from the main point. I'll be brief from now on." He began
to speak more quickly. "Here's the crucial detail: to assist XenoTech's
attempts at hybridization, several E.B.E.'s were kept at the 1527 K Street
building."

     "Oh my God," Scully said. "They kept _aliens_ there?"

     "That's correct. K Street was a front, pure and simple, for
XenoTech's genetic research, done in complete cooperation with the
extraterrestrials. Beginning in 1989, a group of three aliens lived and
worked there in full collaboration--to an extent, anyway--with their human
counterparts; Kaun's rough system of communication had been enormously
refined since its implementation ten years before, and our two species
were able to work together marvelously. In addition, Kaun remained busy
overseeing the genetic work itself, using his familiarity with orgone
metaphysics to refine the hybrids and chimeras produced."

     "This is fantastic," Scully said, mind boggling at the far-reaching
implications of what she was discovering.

     "No," the dwarf said. "We haven't gotten to the fantastic part yet.
Listen. Much of XenoTech's hybridization work involved the selection of
viable human test subjects, an analysis of genetic records, smallpox
vaccinations, that sort of thing. Individuals pinpointed as being
especially suited to the DNA-splicing process were taken secretly from
their homes and brought temporarily to the K Street building."

     Scully understood. "Abductees were studied there."

     "Exactly. It was a hotbed of such activity. For several
years--between 1992 and 1995--more abductees were brought to K Street than
any other xenobiological testing facility in America. Subjects were
examined, probed, given implants, relieved of blood and semen and eggs and
stool. Some of them were injected with alien DNA; others were exposed to
mutagenic radiation. All of them, eventually, were pumped full of drugs
and brainwashed until all memories of the experience had been carefully
eradicated. Only then were they returned to their beds, none the worse for
their experience. Usually."

     Trying to speak calmly, Scully asked, "Was...was I brought there?"

     "We'll be getting to that in a moment," said the dwarf. "I just want
to emphasize that, since 1989, thousands of abductees were brought to 1527
K Street each year. Alien and human worked side by side, relentlessly
pursuing their common goal, subjecting countless of innocent people to a
barrage of tests and genetic manipulation. It was the authorized rape of
the American public, a rape that was repeated again and again until the
scope of the crime transcended human understanding. Forget Holocaust
eugenics: Mengele himself couldn't have dreamed of the abominations
perpetrated in that laboratory." The dwarf paused, as if silently
numbering himself among such abominations. "And the research was
continuous, uninterrupted." He paused again. "Uninterrupted, that is,
until last week."

     "The fire."

     "Right. When K Street burned to the ground, the resident aliens were
killed instantly. Seven years of research, destroyed in the blink of an
eye."

     "But what caused the blaze?" Scully asked.

     "No one knows," the dwarf said. "Not really. Of course, some
neighbors saw blue-green lights in the sky, hovering, oscillating in
place, just before the building caught fire...." He dwarf laughed again.
"Who knows? Perhaps a second group of aliens was attracted by the orgone
energy, observed XenoTech's work from afar, disapproved of its
experiments, decided to torch the place. The building was reduced to
cinders in an instant, and I'm not exaggerating; in addition to the
aliens, three dozen researchers died in the inferno. Not even their
skeletons remained: they were calcinated, burnt completely to powder. We
don't have technology like that. It's like taking napalm back to the
Middle Ages.

     "But," he continued, "it doesn't matter. The end result was the same:
the building was demolished, the ectogenetic banks were destroyed, the
aliens were killed. Only Kaun, a few lucky researchers and a handful of
ectogenetic organisms survived...and they were left with their dicks in
the wind. Completely ruined."

     "Why?" Scully said. "Couldn't they just begin the research anew, here
in Manhattan?"

     "That was impossible for a very simple reason: without the aliens,
any further progress was impossible. Kaun may have been the supposed
foreman, the figurehead--but the extraterrestrials contributed most of the
insights, did most of the work, kept most of their secrets to themselves.
Their technology is indistinguishable from magic; if we tried to duplicate
it ourselves--tried to continue where the aliens had left off--we'd
accomplish no more than a South Sea cargo cult, trying to make airplanes
from bamboo. We couldn't do a damn thing without the aliens' guidance."
Chuckling again, the dwarf said, "So--what could Kaun do? You know what he
did."

     She did know. She understood. And now, sitting here by the feet of
this faux-alien, eyes wide, she was staggered by the audacity of the final
piece of the puzzle: "Kaun called Palimpsest," she said numbly. "He wanted
them to contact the ghosts of the extraterrestrials."

     "That's right," said the dwarf. "And Palimpsest soon found that the
process was easier than anyone could have imagined. Usually, one
communicates with the dead by administering an oxyphenylcyrine injection
to someone resembling a relative or close friend of the deceased. In this
case, that was obviously impossible; we can't even comprehend the E.B.E.
familial system, much less utilize it." Although the dwarf's alien mouth
did not move, Scully somehow sensed that he was smiling. "But Palimpsest
was in luck," he continued. "They quickly discovered--and this is the
crucial part--that the dead aliens were automatically attracted to the
abductees they had examined during life. It was almost axiomatic: kill an
abductee under the correct conditions, and an alien will respond."

     Scully did not speak. Could not. Her mouth was as frozen as the
dwarf's, unmoving, fixed in a permanent rictus of disbelieving shock:
everything fell together in an instant, stunning her, rendering her
absolutely speechless.

     The dwarf continued, oblivious or--more likely--indifferent.
"However, there was a slight problem. Logistically speaking, abductees are
a tricky group to mess with; many are aware of their experiences,
especially if they have been taken more than once, and literally thousands
have come forward to declare themselves. Because of this, there are
certain watchdog groups--conspiracy theorists, conscientious
paranoiacs--who keep an eye on avowed abductees, looking out for anything
unusual, a sudden death, for example, that might be attributed to a
government murder squad. Killing one of these individuals under suspicious
circumstances would be incredibly risky. Understand?"

     "Yes," Scully said. "It probably explains why I haven't been silenced
already."

     "Faced with this difficulty," said the dwarf, "Palimpsest decided to
do the standard search of the DMV archives. Find promising faces, people
who might be surgically modified into the image of specific abductees.
Eventually, they found Abby Janneson."

     "Go on," Scully said.

     "Agent Scully, during your 1994 abduction, you were taken to K Street
and experimented on extensively. Exclusively. The dead aliens would
recognize you--or a human being who looked somewhat similar to you--and
send a message through your psychosomatic stigmata. Although Janneson's
resemblance was only slight, they were confident that she could be
surgically remodeled in your image with a minimum of trouble. So Kaun flew
to New York. Tracked Janneson down. And he was about to deliver her to the
second XenoTech lab--when he was betrayed."

     "Betrayed?"

     "By Palimpsest. They killed him with oxyphenylcyrine, shot him in the
back of the head to hide the puncture wound, then let Janneson take the
fall."

     "Why?" Scully asked. "Why would they murder Kaun?"

     "Because they wanted the extraterrestrial information as badly as he
did, if not more so. You see, hybridization was only part of XenoTech's
work--they were also working on the process of shape-shifting. Through
some mind-boggling application of fundamental psychosomatics, certain
alien beings have the power to physically alter their appearance--height,
weight, build, facial features, distinguishing marks, sometimes even
clothing--whenever they wish, to appear as anyone, anything..."

     "Yes," Scully said, digging up some long-buried memories, "I've
encountered that particular ability several times. Chameleon powers. "

     "And XenoTech was attempting to harness it. To give human beings the
shape-shifting faculty." Strangely gleeful, the dwarf continued, "Can you
imagine how Palimpsest must have reacted to news of this development? It
was a procedural leap of staggering proportions: if you can impersonate
anyone, then contacting the dead is the easiest thing in the world--just
assume the proper shape, smoke an OPC cigarette and wait for the stigmata
to appear. Simple as that."

     "So Palimpsest began to covet the extraterrestrial knowledge," Scully
said. "They killed Kaun to see if the aliens would leave a message on his
skin, something useful. Did they?"

     "In a manner of speaking. There was a message, but it was written in
alien language, unreadable. Alien writing is absolutely nothing like the
terrestrial forms of communication we're used to: there's no formal
lexicon, for example, and the very shapes and components of each logogram
change from place to place, as if the words were shifting, mutating where
they sat, their meanings and very appearances dependent on the surrounding
context; almost random-seeming, at least to our sublunar minds. It isn't
strictly impossible to read, but no one at Palimpsest had the necessary
knowledge to do so. Therefore, they needed to commission an outside expert
to decipher the message, someone who could translate the ideograms into
coherent English. Which was when they turned to X."

     "X? X was in league with Palimpsest?"

     "Yes and no. He was unable to read the message himself, but he agreed
to arrange a meeting between Palimpsest and someone else who could. On the
other hand, he had his own agenda to pursue: he was keenly interested in
the information presented by Kaun's research, and wanted his finger in the
XenoTech pie. Unfortunately, he and Palimpsest disagreed on several key
issues. X didn't like the idea of contacting aliens through human beings.
Thought it was impractical. Unruly. You couldn't expect more than a few
stands of gibberish. Even if they responded at all, their minds are so
different from ours, even in death, that the chances of coherent
communication were virtually zero."

     Scully nodded. "I assume that contacting the dead and contacting
aliens are both fiendishly difficult; attempting to combine the two would
increase the problems exponentially."

     "You're very bright, you know that?" the dwarf said. "That's exactly
right. For such reasons, X disapproved of Palimpsest's actions. He felt
that killing Kaun was an especially costly mistake, since Kaun's residual
knowledge was far more valuable than anything that could be obtained
through the oxyphenylcyrine stigmata. X insisted that Kaun be contacted as
well."

     "So X was telling Mulder the truth."

     "Truth, untruth--what's the difference? The fact is, Palimpsest
misled X from the very beginning. X didn't know, for example, that
extensive reconstructive surgery had been required for Janneson's face to
resemble yours, and that this surgery wasn't performed until _after_
Kaun's death--which means that you're useless for contacting Kaun. X spoke
to Mulder in full earnestness; although he kept many of the more crucial
facts to himself, X truly believed that killing you under the correct
circumstances would lure Kaun's ghost."

     "But it wouldn't."

     "No. You can only contact aliens. Which is why Palimpsest is so
interested in obtaining your stigmata." Again, the dwarf smiled his hidden
smile, concealed beneath folds of alien flesh. "In the meantime, of
course, Palimpsest had accidentally created It."

     "It?" Scully's blood ran cold--because she instantly knew who the
dwarf meant. She remembered how Sera's eyes had changed. How her voice had
become rough and metallic and unimaginably loud. The scars on her neck and
spine, the implant at the base of her skull, the words on her forearms:
Scully pondered all this as the dwarf spoke again.

*     *     *

End of (16/18)

Blood of Angels (17/18)

*     *     *

     "Sera," the dwarf said, "was first abducted from her home in June of
1996. Like many abductees, she lived alone, kept to herself, was private
and introverted and in excellent health--the perfect test subject.
Actually, her career paralleled yours in many ways: she came from a
military family, moved far away from her parents and siblings and worked
as a clerical aide for the State Department."

     When Scully did not respond, the dwarf continued: "It was a typical
abduction, quite uneventful. Sera was disabled by a flash of light,
rendered unconscious, brought to K Street and subjected to a series of
tests by the usual assortment of human and alien scientists. Routine
business. She was given an implant, brainwashed and returned to her bed
with nothing but a vague backache and a sense of missing time. The process
was repeated several times; Sera was taken twice more in July and once in
August, each time forced to undergo an additional barrage of
experimentation. One thing which made her case unusual, however, was that
Sera told no one of her experiences--not even when the aliens took her
ovaries."

       Speaking carefully, Scully asked, "When was her final abduction?"

     "August 12. The day before the XenoTech building was destroyed." The
dwarf cleared his throat. "For obvious reasons, she was an excellent
candidate for Palimpsest. Reclusive, little-noticed, a recent abductee. If
the aliens would respond to anyone, they'd respond to her."

     "So what happened?"

     "Three days after the fire, Palimpsest kidnapped Sera and brought her
to their primary Washington facility, an underground bunker three blocks
northeast of Lafayette Park. She was dressed in white robes, identical to
those worn by all K Street abductees, and carefully strapped to a steel
operating table, face-down. Her neck and upper spine were exposed and
carefully prepped with iodine. The syringes were readied."

     "Syringes?"

     "Oxyphenylcyrine and adrenaline. Palimpsest wanted to see whether
someone who had been used to contact aliens could be safely resuscitated.
Usually, they didn't bother with reviving their victims; this time,
however, it was a matter of convenience, since they could perform their
OPC experiments within the context of an abduction. The abductees--jaded
by months, sometimes years, of continual experimentation--would see it as
just another facet to the weirdness, not give it a second thought.
Understand?"

     "Right. So what happened?" Scully repeated.

     "What you might expect. You're aware, of course, that there are
certain psychological changes that often manifest themselves in Palimpsest
victims who have been resuscitated. Mental residue. The victims begin to
sound like their deceased contactees, take on their quirks, some fragment
of their personality, as if some of the foreign soul had possessed their
brains..." The dwarf broke off abruptly, resumed his recollection. "Sera
died instantly. The OPC went into her bloodstream, disabling all her
peripheral nerves, paralyzing her heart and lungs and brain. Palimpsest
waited precisely twenty seconds before injecting the adrenaline. Sera
stirred. Her arms flew into Thornburn position. Markings--alien
logograms--bled up from beneath her skin. She opened her eyes. And then
all hell broke loose."

     The dwarf tried to explain what had taken place, but his words proved
inadequate: all he could do was describe the events themselves, not convey
the premeditation, the deliberate nature of the horror. He invited Scully
to consider the scene. Small room, underground. Green walls, ceiling,
floor: a parody of an operating theater. Sera, pinned to the central slab
by leather straps encircling her legs and waist. Steel tray with surgical
instruments lying alongside the table, within easy reach. Scalpels.
Hypodermics. Ampoules of oxyphenylcyrine. Three men observing, one holding
a syringe, one standing at the foot of the table with his arms crossed,
one sitting in an armchair some distance away. Dim light. Digital clock on
the wall, marking off the seconds.

     00:00:01. One arm--now covered with ideograms--jerks up from the
table, lightning fast. Seizes the empty adrenaline syringe from one of
Palimpsest's men and plunges the needle into his left eye. Drives him
back. He screams, topples into the second agent's arms, brings them both
to the ground. The man in the chair begins to rise. Sera lies on the
table, still strapped down, face still pressed against the metal: she
ripped the syringe from the man's hands and drove it into his brain
without bothering to look up.

     00:00:02. Quick metallic flash: she plucks a scalpel from the
surgical tray, slits her bonds. Eyes lowered, she throws the blade with
clinical precision. It pinwheels through the air. Buries itself in the
second agent's face. Blood snakes across the room in ropy whorls of red.
The agent in the chair gropes for his gun, tries to pry it loose, forgets
to undo the clasp across his speedloader. Sinks back down into the chair,
eyes bigger than saucers.

     00:00:04. Sera takes another scalpel, flings it to the ceiling, where
it hits the naked fluorescent bulb dead-on. Sparks. Sputterings. The room
is plunged into darkness. No sounds, except monotonous drip-drip-drip of
blood. Panicked breathing. The man with the knife in his face still seems
half-alive, squirming across the floor with his sinuses shoved into his
frontal cortex.

     00:00:06. She kneels, yanks the pistol from the dying man's holster.
Blows a hole in the third man's chest without any preliminaries. The sound
is momentous--resounding--in the close confines of the operating room.
Others will arrive soon. She needs to act quickly. 00:00:10. She shoots
the lock off the door. Finds herself in a dark hallway, her white robes
spattered with blood: follows the sounds of traffic until she finds an
unguarded staircase, disappears through the back way, passing within two
feet of Palimpsest agents as she does so.

     Moving with uncanny invisibility, she escapes. Is free. Disappears
into the night, gun still in hand.

     "But she was no longer human," the dwarf said.

     "Then what was she?" Scully asked. "An alien/human hybrid?"

     "Nothing so simple. Hybridization--at least the XenoTech variety--is
a purely physical process, an attempt to combine the finest qualities of
both human and alien physiology. It affects the body, not the mind." The
dwarf's voice became darker, more portentous. "But what happened with
Sera...that was different. DNA wasn't involved. It wasn't tissue, or
chromosomes, or genetic engineering:  it was the soul, plain and simple,
the immortal fucking soul. You can't mess with something like that. When
Sera was used to contact the ghost of an alien, her soul was poisoned,
tainted."

     "She was possessed."

     "More than that. It was pure synergy. Human soul plus
extraterrestrial soul equaled some unknown quantity, something
indefinable, something more alien than anything that comes from outer
space. Listen: When God breathed life into the dust, He conferred the
spirit upon Adam; and He repeated the process an infinite number of times,
on infinite worlds, with a different variety of spirit passing from His
Godhead into the Flesh each time. When you tamper with the soul, you
tamper with the sixth day of Creation. You can't imagine the
repercussions. When those two alien souls were combined into one being, a
howl of anguish tore through fifteen billion years of infinite history.
Sera was no longer male nor female, human nor alien: she became unnamable.
She became It."

     Silence reigned for several moments. When the dwarf spoke again, it
was to take up a different thread, pursue more comprehensible matters.
"After this incident," he said, "Palimpsest realized that there could be
no resuscitation. No second chances. Dead was dead. They weighed their
options, decided that they would best proceed by a systematic program of
OPC killings, performed upon individuals who had been surgically modified
to resemble abductees. The first, of course, was Janneson, whose face was
altered to resemble yours. She manifested numerous alien markings after
her death in prison, although their content remained unknown."

     "Was she really autopsied by the New York medical examiner?"

     "Yes, although the message on her abdomen was obliterated with acid
prior to delivery to the coroner's office, and the ME was intimidated into
silence. The photographs given to Agent Mulder were taken by Palimpsest
itself, for its own reference.

     "After Janneson's death," the dwarf continued, "Palimpsest performed
another DMV search. They located a handful of usable subjects, kidnapped
them and transformed them into abductee doppelgangers. Because of a
shortage of manpower, they were also forced to use these subjects in more
mundane ways, as errand boys, subsidiary agents. Very amusing. Not
surprisingly, one of the doppelgangers escaped--with X's face."

     "Yes, I saw him in Craneo. But why was X targeted by Palimpsest?"

     "He's one of two surviving men who, prior to 1978, killed an E.B.E.
in Vietnam. Palimpsest often utilizes the murderer-victim dichotomy in
selecting its targets; X was a logical choice." Smirking again, the dwarf
said, "Of course, Palimpsest probably wouldn't mind if X took the OPC
himself, if you know what I mean: they don't get along very well.
Different agendas, different objectives. And they've disagreed from the
very beginning over how to handle _you_."

     "What do you mean?" Scully asked.

     "Well, Palimpsest wants to use you in contacting the aliens--which
means that you're to be kidnapped, dressed in white and slain under
certain highly specified indoor conditions. X, on the other hand, wants to
contact Kaun, whose ghost he wrongly believes would be attracted to you."

     "But he wouldn't."

     "No. Kaun only saw Janneson _before_ her plastic surgery; the chances
of him recognizing you are virtually nil. But because X wasn't told this,
he acted rashly on his own. He took copies of Palimpsest's photographs of
Janneson (carefully blurring the writing on her abdomen) and copies of the
autopsy report (slightly falsified to include fabricated details of
English writing on her belly), and gave them to Agent Mulder, telling him
that Janneson had been used to contact Kaun."

     "Why did he lie about that?"

     "Because although he wanted Mulder's assistance, he didn't want him
to know of the extraterrestrial connection unless it was absolutely
necessary. At the same time, however, he made a deal with Palimpsest. He
knew that you couldn't be resuscitated if they used you to contact the
aliens, or you'd become a monster like Sera; on the other hand, he knew
that you couldn't be killed--for the very reasons that Sera told you."

     Scully nodded. "Mulder and I are too well known. He doesn't want a
pair of martyrs."

     "Or a crusade. Abducting you was risky enough; the repercussions of
your death, on the other hand, would threaten to expose
everything--Palimpsest, K Street, XenoTech, the hybridization experiments,
the entire sanctum sanctorum. So what could be done? Palimpsest was
bloodthirsty. X wanted the Kaun information. Eventually, they reached a
compromise: Both Palimpsest and Mulder would kill you--but only Mulder
would be implicated in your death."

     "I don't quite understand."

     "According to the plan, X would tell Mulder the barest details of the
plot. About Janneson, about Kaun. Just enough to entice Mulder, to draw
him into the web. To make him consider killing you. When the time came,
you would be dressed in Janneson's clothing on the street corner where
Kaun died--an abnormally deserted street corner, one which Palimpsest
would have secretly partitioned off; Mulder would give you an
oxyphenylcyrine cigarette; and then revive you with the adrenaline
injection."

     "But...that wouldn't contact Kaun."

     "Probably not--but X doesn't know that. He's putting you on that
street corner because he thinks it _will_ contact Kaun; Palimpsest is just
playing along, humoring him, trying to secure his full cooperation for the
second phase of the plan."

     "But why was his involvement necessary?"

     "Because you and Mulder have to go onto that street corner of your
own free will. That's the object of the entire plan. Don't you get it?
Everything revolves around the establishment of that moment, that
situation, where Mulder will kill you. The past sixteen hours has been one
long confidence game, a trick: Palimpsest has always been in control.
They've followed you everywhere, never let you out of their sight. Your
'escape' in Craneo was carefully orchestrated--you never really eluded
them. They allowed Mulder to go to K Street. They've listened to all your
phone calls, tapped your conversations regardless of how much helium you
inhale, observed you twenty-four hours a day. Your freedom is an illusion.
You have no choice in these matters. Sooner or later, you'll do what
Palimpsest wants you to do: die."

     Scully didn't think about the implications of these words. Fought
them down. Forced herself to tackle the remaining points. "All right.
What's the second phase of the plan?"

     "Do you really want to know?" the dwarf asked. "Here's the scene. You
and Mulder on the street corner. You're in hooker garb. He takes out the
cigarette, sticks it in your mouth. You inhale, collapse, die. He rips
away your blouse, inserts the needle between the sixth and seventh
vertebrae--and all the while, Agent Scully, all the while, a Palimpsest
agent in the distance is taking picture after picture after picture.
Photographs. Dozens of them. Documenting the murder. Every bit of it, from
the cigarettes to the adrenaline.

     "After you've been resuscitated," he continued, "you and Mulder see
that no stigmata have appeared. It's all been for nothing. So--now what?
This is where the kangaroo comes in. You've already seen that the kangaroo
is drawn to these XenoTech labs, through diapause clairvoyance or
marsupial instinct--"

     "--or simply because it hears the ectogenetic machinery," Scully
said.

     "But the actual mechanism of its sensitivity is irrelevant. All that
matters is that Palimpsest gave you the kangaroo so it would lead you
here."

     "But why?"

     "Here's the plan. Prior to the rendezvous on the street corner, X
contacts Mulder and casually suggests that the kangaroo might be useful in
locating XenoTech's second lab. Later--after you've been needlessly killed
and revived--you and Mulder become extremely anxious, wondering what to do
next. Mulder then tells you what X said. Since it's the only course of
action that seems feasible, you decide to go for it. You release the joey.
Follow it to the XenoTech building. After a moment's hesitation, you and
Mulder enter the lab of your own accord.

     "The second you step inside, however, Palimpsest overwhelms you.
Captures Mulder, knocks him unconscious. Kills the kangaroo. They drug
you, strip you, dress you in white, strap you to an operating table and
kill you then and there.

     "Afterwards, your skin is doused with acid to hide the stigmata and
the needlemarks. Your body is dressed in Janneson's clothes--and you're
dumped on the street corner again. The police find you the next day.
Hardly a difficult case to solve: Mulder's fingerprints are all over the
clothing, inside and out; a bottle of sulfuric acid is discovered
alongside the body, traceable to the FBI labs; and a sheaf of photographs
is anonymously sent to Homicide the next day, containing dozens of
pictures of Mulder administering the cigarette, watching as you fall to
the sidewalk, and tearing away your blouse. (Needless to say, the photos
of the adrenaline injection are not included.)

     "Mulder is apprehended soon afterward. The official story is quite
simple: Special Agent Fox Mulder, driven clinically insane by personal
trauma, kidnapped his partner and forced her to participate in his
paranoid delusions. He'd fabricated a huge imagined conspiracy, replete
with secret societies, ghosts, demons and alien invaders, that revolved
around XenoTech--which, the prosecution is quick to claim, is simply a
legitimate research company with no ties whatsoever to the Pentagon.
Completely innocent. However, Mulder became convinced that both XenoTech
and his partner were part of the plot. He kidnapped her, took her to New
York, dressed her suggestively, killed her using an elite government
assassination tool, sexually abused her body and disfigured her with acid.

     "Meanwhile, all traces of the real conspiracy are carefully erased.
The joey's carcass is cremated; all kangaroo hairs are vacuumed from the
upholstery of your car; the pet carrier is removed and burnt; the Janneson
autopsy photographs--as well as the body itself--mysteriously disappear;
the XenoTech labs become an abandoned warehouse. All of Mulder's
fantasies--Palimpsest, the kangaroo, the dwarf, the connection to
aliens--are absolutely unsubstantiated; he's regarded as a lunatic, a
paranoiac. Maybe a pyromaniac. Photographs of him rooting through the
ashes at K Street are produced to provide a background to his obsessions,
and they charge him with arson, too, just so no loose ends are left
hanging. He's confined to an institution--and Palimpsest wins.

     "Just consider it. Palimpsest could have led you here by any
means--but they chose an albino kangaroo. Anyone could have delivered the
kangaroo to your door--but Palimpsest sent a dwarf wearing a white derby
and a lime-green overcoat. Palimpsest did upload your voiceprints to the
IPSD--but the means of 'bypassing' the system was completely fabricated.
The point of all this lunacy, Agent Scully, was to make Mulder seem even
more deranged. What's he going to say? 'A circus dwarf gave my partner a
white kangaroo, which we then used to track down the aliens, and even
though I eluded them by sniffing helium from a magic red balloon, they
killed her anyway...' You understand? Palimpsest intentionally did
ridiculous things, only to make Mulder's story seem all the more
ludicrous."

     "But what about my brother?" Scully asked. "He's a potential witness;
he'd substantiate Mulder's claims..."

     "He probably would. Your brother has seen more than anyone realizes."
The dwarf smiled behind alien flesh. "Haven't you been wondering why we're
all alone? Why all of Palimpsest's agents have--so conveniently--abandoned
me here?"

     Scully admitted that the thought had crossed her mind.

     The dwarf explained what Charles had done. How he had impersonated
Pio Neumann, gone into the ambulance, killed Krycek--and called the
Manhattan labs with the Evacuate code, clearing the area less than three
minutes before Scully entered the building. "You were very lucky," the
dwarf said, deciding not to mention the familiar-looking stigmata on
Krycek's chest. "A few minutes earlier, and they would have captured you
immediately. They would have let you escape, of course, so that you
wouldn't be late for you appointment with Mulder..."

     "But...Krycek?" Scully asked. "Was it really Alex Krycek?"

     "It might have been," said the dwarf. "Or it might have been a
Palimpsest doppelganger doing a passably good Krycek impersonation. Krycek
spent much of his career in close proximity with several E.B.E.'s of
various kinds; he would have been an obvious choice for Palimpsest." The
dwarf did not mention the possibility that the death of Melissa Scully's
murderer might also have attracted a human soul; instead, he continued,
"But rest assured that Palimpsest did not mean to spare your brother's
life. That gunshot wound was meant to kill him...and they'll try
again...and again...and again. When they finally succeed, ballistics will
trace the fatal bullet to a 9mm Taurus automatic registered in Mulder's
name, completing the circle of incrimination."

     Horrified, Scully asked, "Is there anything I can do?"

     "Do you really want my advice?"

     She nodded.

     "Then here it is: go to the street corner at eight o' clock. Meet
Mulder. Ask him to give you the cigarette, and allow yourself to die.
Hopefully, should revive you without any difficulties."

     "But why?"

     "It isn't as great a risk as it seems," the dwarf said.
"Physiologically speaking, eighty-nine percent of all oxyphenylcyrine
victims can be resuscitated with no ill effects whatsoever. The other
eleven percent usually suffer a temporary loss of equilibrium, impaired
hand-eye coordination, and an inability to perform delicate motor
functions for a period of up to three weeks. All of these minor symptoms,
needless to say, are preferable to death. As for the so-called
psychological problems: we've already agreed that it is highly unlikely
that you will succeed in contacting anyone under these circumstances.
Therefore, the risk of any 'mental residue' or disfiguring stigmata is
almost zero."

     "Let me repeat my question," Scully said: "Why?"

     "Here's why. Palimpsest will be watching you. Constantly. And no
matter what you do, they'll keep looking for ways to kill you and frame
Mulder for the crime. If you and Mulder don't do as expected--if you don't
take the poison--then they'll know that something has gone wrong; in all
likelihood, they'll disregard caution and kidnap you then and there,
resorting to faked photographs and planted fingerprints to implicate
Mulder in your death. If you follow X's instructions, on the other hand,
you've bought yourself a brief reprieve. It's a choice between certain
death and an opportunity for escape."

     "But how?"

     "There is a good chance that X will not allow you to die. He seems to
be regretting his choice to assist Palimpsest."

     "How do you know this?"

     "I've already told you that I see things. Feel things. I'm like an
embryo in diapause, or someone who has been given oxyphenylcyrine; I don't
know if you'd call it clairvoyance, or telepathy, or ESP, or something
even more mystical, but it does afford me a certain amount of insight. And
I can tell that X is having second thoughts; he's given Mulder some
inkling of what's in store for him, although he told a false story about
morphine syringes to conceal his own part in the conspiracy; and he hasn't
told Mulder about the purpose of the kangaroo. I can feel his confusion.
His hatred towards Palimpsest. Especially now that he's encountered his
own doppelganger." Scully began to ask about that; the dwarf closed his
eyes impatiently, as if to tell her that it wasn't important. "All you
need to know is that X may intervene on your behalf. But he'll only do so
if he believes that you have contacted Kaun--which means that you'll have
to smoke the cigarette."

     After Scully did not respond for nearly a minute, the dwarf asked,
"You still here?"

     "Yes."

     "Do you have any more questions?"

     "I have three. First: what's the significance of the messages in
copper sulfate?"

     "To perpetuate the myth of Palimpsest's 'rival' organizations."

     "They don't exist?"

     "No; they never did. Everyone works for Palimpsest. I do. X does. You
and Mulder do, although you may not be aware of it.... The entire fiction
of Palimpsest's 'opponents' served as a backup plan in case you and Mulder
tried to flee the city; one of Palimpsest's men, disguised as a member of
that mythical rival group, would attempt to detain you, claiming that he'd
sent the kangaroo. But it's all an illusion. It's a game."

     "Which brings us to my second question." Scully briefly hesitated,
then asked, "Why did Sera come to me? I understand that the sniper who
killed her was working for Palimpsest--but why did she reveal herself at
all? Why did she tell me all those things?"

     The dwarf gave a dry smirk of discontentment. "That, I'm afraid, I
don't know; I have no insight into Sera's psyche. The disfigurement of her
soul conceals her." Shifting his head slightly to one side, the dwarf
said, "My best guess is that Sera wanted to upset Palimpsest's work, to
sabotage the plan. Petty mischief. She told you of the kangaroo's hidden
power, for example, to bring you here six hours too early; and she knew
that making you doubt Palimpsest's existence would only make it more
difficult for Mulder to administer the OPC."

     "That makes sense," Scully said reluctantly, although she was
unsatisfied with the dwarf's explanation. She continued anyway. "Third
question: why did Palimpsest...do this to you? Change you?"

     "Isn't it obvious?" the dwarf said. "They're going to kill me with
oxyphenylcyrine, and hope that the aliens will respond to one of their
own." Strangely, horribly, he giggled. "It was a painful process. They
removed all my skin, replaced it with artificial XenoTech flesh, and
exposed me to radiation until I became wrinkled and gray. They crushed my
skull, rebuilt it. They took my muscles. They took my eyes. I'm a decoy.
I'm the contingency plan: if the abductees produce nothing usable when the
stigmata is translated, then perhaps I will. It's a carefully calculated
gamble, Agent Scully, nothing more--and I shall go to my death not without
some satisfaction.

     "Because I have seen things," the dwarf said sadly, ruefully, gazing
out from those unseeing fiberglass eyes, speaking through that unmoving
slit of a mouth: "I have gained more than any mortal could ever dream,
even as my humanity is taken from me. I have read the writing of men's
souls. I have seen the blood of angels." He closed his eyes again. "And I
want to die."

     The dwarf did not speak further. When Scully prompted him into
revealing more, he did not respond. His breathing grew slow; his hands
went limp in their shackles. A single milk-white tear trickled from the
corner of one malformed eye, fading away among the cracks and folds of his
fish-gray skin: and his face hardened like stone.

     Scully rose from the floor. Walked, her legs prickling with pins and
needles, back into the hallway.

     The kangaroo still lay against the linoleum floor, pressed against
the source of the Ur-sound. Taking it by the leash, hauling it up from the
ground, Scully briefly considered exploring the rest of the building,
going down into the basement, walking among the ectogenetic tanks that she
knew would be there...but decided against it.

     When she stepped outside, the sunlight was harsh, painful, as if she
had been in darkness for a thousand years.

*     *     *

End of (17/18)

Blood of Angels (18/18)

*     *     *

     The dwarf had made a mistake. He berated himself, letting the waves
of anger and reprobation bleed through his veins, their dark burning
currents substituting for the nerves he no longer possessed. Although he
could not feel his own heartbeat, he knew that the muscle pumped hotly
against the drumskin of his chest, only a thin gray membrane lying between
it and the outer void; his clavicles had been removed, along with four of
his ribs and a five-inch section of his breastbone; the loose flesh had
been folded back and pinned into place; and all this had brought his lungs
and heart close to the surface. An alien's heart--or whatever analogous
organ they possessed--was similarly located, just underneath the skin. So
vulnerable. He didn't know what ran through their vessels, though. Ichor?
No. Green fluid. Hexanucleotidal silicon protoplasms.

     Beat.

     H-h-h-heartbeat.

     His aorta fluttered. The artery was too constricted, pinned midway
between extraterrestrial tissue and human guts; if he became too angry,
too agitated, he might rupture his pericardium. Die. For a moment, he
considered the option. Felt the anger squeeze his heart like a clammy
fist.

     He'd been mistaken. He'd been a fool. He hadn't seen the obvious.

     Surrendering himself to his unlikely powers, the dwarf let himself
go. He felt vestiges of feeling cluster in the tips of his fingers, in the
soles of his feet, in the cauterized stump where his genitals had once
been: he let the waves of pain wash across him, sailed through
thunderheads, tore apart fields of magnetism with invisible fingernails--

     --and was plunged onto a hot dirty road. Kneeling. Industrial
machinery clustering around him. He inhaled dust. Followed the two women
beneath the shade of the overhang. Sera's voice, oddly casual, ordering
Scully to put on Janneson's clothes. The tank top. The barrettes. The
earrings, necklace, rings, bracelets, hose, miniskirt, heels. Scully
standing, humiliated and terrified. Sera's eyes running over Scully's
body. The first gunshot. The exploding redness. Sera dying, looking down:
_Damn. This is my roommate's dress_.

     Why had Sera revealed herself to Scully?

     Why had she gone so calmly to her own death?

     The dwarf closed his useless lids, sighing heavily as the vision
disappeared. He felt paralysis invade his body again, his flesh descending
into stupid numbness. The tingling in his fingers ceased; the pain
stopped; he knew nothing from the neck down, his head and shoulders
floating three feet above the floor. His shackles had returned, binding
him to an unseen ebony scaffold. His arms and legs were splayed like the
spokes of a wheel.

     And suddenly, he felt presences. Men entering the room. Dark shapes,
passing the table with the Bunsen burner, flickering, casting shadows on
the wall in a thousand lunatic shapes.

     He understood.

     Thoughts floated through his brain at a languid pace. He knew that
Sera possessed an intelligence--perhaps clairvoyance--far greater than any
mortal mind could comprehend, a soul that was neither alien nor human but
something undreamt of since the sixth day of Genesis. She was It. An
abomination that would strive to propagate Itself at all costs. A cancer.
A tumor. And It was well aware of its abominable nature; It knew that
Palimpsest would try to hunt It down, purge the universe of Its blasphemy.
Sooner or later, they would succeed. Its arms were covered with those
damning marks, and even if It wore long-sleeved blouses, and even if the
stigmata faded away after time, Palimpsest would find It eventually, and
kill It with a bullet to the brain. There was no escaping this final
conclusion. Axiomatic. Unavoidable.

     Unless It took on another form. Another body.

     And It, faced with such unavoidable annihilation, had been very
careful to die according to Its own timetable. It had revealed Itself at a
particular moment, to a particular person--and when It died, It made sure
that Dana Scully (wearing Janneson's clothes) was the last thing It ever
saw.

     Pausing in his thoughts, the dwarf listened. The men were closer now.
He could hear their footsteps, smell the sour scent of their breath. One
of them came close, whispered, harsh against the dwarf's severed alien
ears: "She came here, didn't she?"

     No answer.

     More words, directed to someone else in the room: "Get the OPC
ready." Random voices. Sound of syringes being prepped, ampoules being
slid into place, needles being torn from their sterile wrappings.
Additional footsteps. Closer. Cool breath on his cheek. Another set of
smells. Two voices, bouncing back and forth in a soothing litany of sound.

     "We'll get her anyway."

     "No matter what you told her."

     "She can't be saved."

     "We've been watching her."

     "You can't tamper with fate."

     "Don't you get it?"

     "Don't you understand?"

     He did. Moments later, he felt the needle slip into his shoulder. It
was very cold, like the lips of a corpse. After that, he didn't feel much
of anything.

*     *     *

     The next six hours passed uneventfully.

*     *     *

August 20, 1996--7:58 PM

     Red neon light bled across the concrete. Doorways like gaping mouths
lay flush with the pavement, thresholds draped in shadow. Mulder chose a
random stoop, ascended the low steps and disappeared beneath the overhang,
retreating until he was completely swallowed by the darkness.

     Only the scarlet glint of his weary eyes betrayed his presence.

     The corner was abnormally deserted, he thought. Ominous. Letting his
gaze roll from one end of the block to the other, taking in the
emptiness--a soft wind licking at the sidewalk, blowing cans along the
street, old newspapers, ashcan lids--Mulder trembled. Brought a hand to
his face. Although the makeup was freshly applied and hadn't lost its
tackiness, his skin still prickled at the touch, flesh retreating from his
fingers in mock-revulsion: he could feel it. His face had become alien.
Under the makeup, he was blacker than pitch. The soot had grown thick and
luxuriant beneath its shallow cosmetic veneer, creeping along his eyelids,
the insides of his nostrils, into his ears, his lips, his sockets. A mold;
a mask. His face felt tight and depleted, as if the blood was being
siphoned away.

     Clouds coagulated above the rooftops. A storm was gathering.

     Footsteps. Clicking heels, quick, mincing, along the neon-soaked
street. A moment later, Scully stood before him, dressed in Janneson's
clothes. When he met her eyes, they were intense and bluer than blue.

     "Hi," he said from the doorway.

     "Hi," she responded. "Give me the cigarette."

     "Scully..." he began.

     "Mulder, listen," she said, standing there in Janneson's tank top,
the pink fabric spattered with brilliant dots of Sera's blood and old
amber splotches of Kaun's brain: "Please, just let me talk." Her voice was
firm, unyielding. "I've learned a lot today...seen a lot of things...and
I've come to the conclusion that this is our only chance to be free of
Palimpsest. I'm tired of running, Mulder. We don't need to prolong the
suffering; just give me the oxyphenylcyrine, and everything will be all
right."

     "How can you be sure of that?" Mulder asked, emerging from the
shadows. "Do you have any idea what you're saying? What you're asking me
to do? You don't know how dangerous this poison can be..."

     "It's no more poisonous than life itself. Don't you understand?"
Scully's eyes shone, pupils burning with alien fire. "Palimpsest is
everywhere. Everything we do is subject to their approval, their
omniscience, their timetable: our freedom--our free will--is an illusion.
Always was. Always will be. But we can escape, Mulder, you and I, if we
finish this business _now_."

     Silence. He asked, "Where's the kangaroo?"

     "In the car. I parked around the corner." Scully held up her hands in
frustration. "Mulder, you have to trust me. This is our only chance. If
you give me the cigarette now, X might be inclined to help us; if you
don't, then Palimpsest will kill me anyway, and the blood will be left on
your hands. We no longer have a choice."

     Mulder asked in frustration, "Did we ever have one?"

     "I doubt it. I'm already dead," Scully said simply. "Nothing you do
can change that."

     Mulder glanced quickly to either side. Saw the vast barrenness of the
streets, the wind blowing albino-white shreds of litter along the asphalt.
"This corner is awfully quiet," he said. "I think it's been cordoned off.
Deliberately. We're being watched."

     "Of course we're being watched," Scully said. "More than that. We're
onstage. This is all a performance, nothing more, with the audience
waiting in the wings."

     "But--"

     "Mulder, I'm confident that I'll be safe."

     "But Scully, listen," said Mulder, his voice choked with pain.
"Hurting you...it isn't going to contact Kaun, or anyone else. I saw
Janneson's body today--Scully, she was given plastic surgery--"

     "I know," Scully said. "I agree. It's pointless. Stupid. But unless
you give me the cigarette now, I'm going to die, you'll be arrested and
institutionalized, and Palimpsest will have won. It's our only chance.
Trust me. Please. Don't ask for reasons: just give me the cigarette."

     "Scully, I--"

     "Wait." Up until then, Scully's words had been clipped, deliberate;
now, a shadow fell across her face; her eyes closed; she retreated
slightly to the edge of the curb. "Mulder, I...I feel faint..." She
trailed off, put a hand to her forehead. Wobbled unsteadily on high heels,
her face suddenly pale and drawn, lipstick etched harshly against
paper-white skin. Mulder stepped out from the doorway, concerned. She
squinted up at him, her eyes widening in surprise.  "Mulder--are you
wearing makeup?" she asked.

     "Yeah," he said, moving abashedly forward. "I have to. Something's
been growing on my--"

     "No--wait--stay where you are," Scully said quickly. She extended a
hand, palm out, halting him in his tracks. Backstepped. "On your face,
right? Something's been growing on your face? Is that it?" Her voice
became suddenly tense, confused.

     "Yes, but--"

     "I can feel it," Scully said, fear rising. "It's strange...alien...I
don't know what it is...but it's hurting me. I can feel it," she repeated.
"Mulder, it's dangerous. More dangerous than the OPC."

     Stunned, gaping stupidly in the middle of the sidewalk, Mulder
remembered what Langly had said: _The alien black substance caused nausea,
pain, dizziness, cyanosis, thirst in whoever came in contact with it_. But
he'd been many places since the substance had begun to grow--the airport,
the ME's office--and no one else had complained of any adverse effects.
Why was Scully so sensitive?

     Aloud, he asked, "What's the matter? How do you feel?"

     "I don't know. Dizzy. Thirsty. I can't breathe. Mulder, I..."
Scully's eyes rolled back. She began to topple forward, one of her heels
breaking cleanly off--Mulder managed to catch her, but only barely,
gripping her elbows in his hands, feeling the fever that pulsed beneath
her skin as she pressed herself against him--and suddenly he felt his own
face glow red-hot, makeup running, the alien blackness shrieking from his
very pores, fire passing between their bodies, spots of magenta dancing
before his eyes. He felt weak. Disoriented. His muscles fluttered; he
tried to support her, but she continued to fall, went to her knees,
scraping them on the concrete, her lips moving silently as she collapsed
to the sidewalk: "Do it," she whispered. "Do it now."

     And then she was gone. Unconscious, but still breathing. Crumpled at
his feet.

     Mulder stared down, terrified. His heart pounding. Her words echoing
through his head. Do it. Do it now. What was he so afraid of?
Physiologically speaking, oxyphenylcyrine poisoning wasn't so dangerous.
He had the cigarettes. The adrenaline. He could do it if he wanted to.
She'd be dead for a few seconds, no more. She wouldn't be invaded by any
spirits; Kaun's ghost wouldn't be attracted to her; there would be no
'mental residue.' Think. Decide. At least pretend that you have a choice.

     But Scully was right: they were onstage.

     And if Palimpsest wanted him to dance, by God, he was ready to dance.

     Scully lay splayed on the sidewalk, breath imperceptibly ragged, eyes
darting behind closed lids. Kneeling, Mulder pulled a cigarette from the
front pocket of his blazer, poked it tremblingly into Scully's unconscious
mouth and lit it with a flaring snap of thumb against flint. The shaft
jutted loosely up from her lips, smoldering. The air crackled with tense
electricity. He could hear his own heartbeat. Couldn't believe he was
doing this. It was like a dream. A nightmare where one's course of action
is determined from the very beginning. Mulder checked his watch. Frowned.
Watched, careful not to inhale, as a thin tendril of greenish-gray smoke
curled up from Scully's nose and was lost in the dense urban night.

     And suddenly, there it was. The characteristic reflex. A twitching of
occipital muscle around her lovely eyes. His partner's body stiffened
against the pavement, her cigarette fluttering to the ground.

     Scully was dead.

     If her soul passed by, he did not feel it.

     His brain short-circuited. It was one thing to anticipate this
instant, to prepare for it, to obsess, to play and replay the
possibilities in his mind--but now she was dead, truly dead, her body
growing cold and stiff at his very feet...

     Straightening up--the sweat pouring down his face, his flesh-toned
makeup dripping--Mulder glanced quickly left and right. The street
stretched emptily to either side, neon dangling down from overhanging
rooftops in hellish frequency, scarlet light spread across the asphalt
like strawberry jam. Christ. His head was pounding. Had to be timed
perfectly. Please. Please God. Counting the seconds, staring down at
Scully's motionless form, he groped in his pocket for the pen-syringe;
finding it, he pressed the clip--heard the click of a spring--and saw the
needle glisten in the darkness. Counted: eight...nine...ten seconds into
death. Time. Dropping to his knees, he rolled Scully over, her body limp
and unresponsive. She _felt_ dead. Wooden. Like one of the carved
figurines in the cathedral altar. Shaking, Mulder's fingers skittered over
her shoulder blades, tore her tank top, exposed mid-back. He began
counting vertebrae. Seventeen seconds had passed. Mulder found the proper
juncture, placed the needle against Scully's spine, waited for the
twentieth second and rammed it in, depressing the hidden plunger as he
did.

     Scully's arms flew to her throat in pseudo-Thornburn position.

     Dropping the syringe, he took her cool wrist between his hands,
feeling for a pulse. She had been dead for precisely twenty-five seconds.
Her fists were clenched. "C'mon, Scully," he muttered. "Just a little bit
more. You can make it." Thirty seconds. Movement: Scully's left leg
scraped against the cold cement, her knee lifting, spike-heeled shoe
slipping from foot and falling to the sidewalk. Mulder felt the whisper of
blood in her veins. He riveted himself to that hint of life, seized it,
focused on it, massaging the blue pump of her upper arms, murmuring, "It's
been long enough, Scully, you can come back, you can come back..." For a
split second he allowed himself to consider what might happen if she
failed to awaken, if her brain suffocated and she died like a hooker on
this dirty New York street, all for the sake of a secret so monumental, so
unimaginable, that he hardly credited its existence...

     And then his world exploded.

     Men poured from the alleys, a thundering crowd of uniforms advancing
thick and frenzied through the street. There were voices, muffled shouts.
Thud of three dozen feet on pavement. Peering up from Scully's body
through a haze of confusion and fear, ears ringing from the sudden tumult,
Mulder saw a squadron of police officers in starched blue, their broad
faces the color of uncooked dough, guns drawn, running down the sidewalk
in his direction, flanked by green-robed paramedics in red wraparound
sunglasses, swinging blue medical kits in perfect syncopation--but Mulder
passed over these men with disinterest, riveted upon the demons in black
who led the charge, their eyes blank and expressionless, faces creased
with stony anger, bearing down upon him like moths to a candle. Overcoats
trailed behind them like the wings of carrion birds. They carried guns.
Everyone carried guns. Snap. Click. Brekk-ekk-ekk. The sound of an entire
9 mm arsenal being cocked at once.

     Beneath him, Scully gulped. Moved.

     The men continued to close in. Mulder rose from Scully's body,
staggering backward on shock-clumsied legs, irrational, his right hand
moving of its own accord and groping for his pistol--he would have
willingly opened fire, committed suicide then and there--but he was seized
from behind by a pair of unimaginably strong arms, pinning his own,
holding him back.

     Whisper in his ear: "I'm sorry, Agent Mulder. I'm truly sorry."

     X. Mulder kicked, flailed, tried to force his way back to Scully.
"Goddammit, you set me up!" he spewed, trying to break X's iron grip, pry
back his fingers, futilely butting his head back into empty air. X
remained silent, impassive, condoning Mulder's struggles but not releasing
him.

     "There was nothing I could do," X said.

     Mulder watched helplessly as the paramedics surrounded Scully's
motionless form, a wall of sterile green bodies hiding her momentarily
from his sight. Suddenly the ranks parted, making room for a wizened
figure dressed in ivory scrubs, stethoscope dangling from his collar--and
Mulder, with rapidly diminishing disbelief, recognized him. It was the ME
he'd met that afternoon. The man who'd performed Janneson's autopsy.

     Kneeling alongside Scully's body, the ME took a pulse. Frowned.
Checked her vital signs, her heartbeat, raised an eyelid and examined the
pupil. Took a bulb syringe, inserted the tip into her ear,
squeezed--ostensibly ice water, used to test for a basic nervous
reflex--but there was no condensation on the surface of the bulb. Mulder
couldn't see whether Scully moved or not. The ME shook his head,
stethoscope swaying from side to side. "She's dead."

     "No!" Mulder screamed. "No! She's alive! I saw her move!"

     The men in black, paying him no attention, encircled the paramedics,
drawing closer to Scully's body, their eyes impassive, filmed with
exaggerated concern--and suddenly, Mulder understood. He knew what was
happening and struggled even harder, X's fingers digging into the meat of
his biceps as he strained to wrench himself free, tendons standing out
against his neck like ropy cords.

     Palimpsest.

     Because of the ME's declaration, Scully would be deemed legally dead,
with dozens of witnesses ready to implicate Mulder in her murder. Once the
police had arrested him and cleared the scene, Scully would be zipped into
a body bag, slid into an ambulance and hauled to the morgue--where
Palimpsest could claim her, take her away, and use her however they
wished. They had won. There was nothing he could do. He tried to wrest
himself from X's grip, wriggle free, a Herculean effort, but it was no
good. His arms ached. His brain ached. Rage thundered through his body. He
watched with desperation as police approached, jaws set into grim lines of
condemnation. Flash of handcuffs. Guns drawn. He stopped struggling,
knowing that if he were killed while resisting arrest, Palimpsest's plan
would be brought to perfect fruition; head lowered, he stared at Scully's
body as the bracelets snapped shut around his wrists, great shuddering
currents of despair drowning him where he stood--

     --and then Scully opened her eyes.

     Her hand shot up from the ground. She seized the ME by the collar,
ripping the stethoscope from his neck, pulling him to his knees until they
were eye to eye. Face to face. Her voice was disdainful. She spat, "I've
been pronounced dead by better coroners than you."

     She shoved him away. The ME fell back heavily to the sidewalk,
gasping, glancing in disbelief between Scully and the bulb syringe in his
other hand--and Mulder, in a flash of insight, realized that the syringe
had contained some kind of synthetic opiate, intended to knock Scully
unconscious until she could be revived by Palimpsest. It hadn't worked.

     And now Scully was standing, incredibly, she was standing under her
own power, slightly unsteady but firm on her feet, her knees scraped and
slightly bleeding. She extended a hand--and the flock of paramedics parted
like water. She glanced in Mulder's direction--and the policemen slowly
withdrew from his side. His handcuffs clicked open, fell to the ground. X
released him. Even the men in black seemed shocked, bewildered, as Scully
staggered boldly towards her partner, her hair tangled, eyes wide and blue
and utterly devoid of emotion.

     He met her halfway. It was several moments before he could speak,
gripping her by the shoulders, mouth opening and closing dumbly. Around
them, the throngs of men seemed to retreat into the shadows, backing away,
more silent than death, watching wordlessly as Mulder gaped and tried to
find words.

     It was then that Mulder saw the stigmata.

     The message was written in letters no larger than the thumbnail of
his little finger, redder than blood itself, running along the lower curve
of Scully's jaw, her neck, until they disappeared beneath one pink strap.
Neat, crisp handwriting that he didn't recognize. For a few seconds, the
writing was blurred, unreadable, his eyes going out of focus...until words
finally coalesced out of the sanguine neon haze.

     The stigmata read: I'VE BEEN PRONOUNCED DEAD BY BETTER CORONERS THAN
YOU.

     "Scully..." Mulder croaked. "You're all right."

     "Of course I'm all right," she replied, raising a hand to her
forehead and brushing back a stray strand of hair. As she did, Mulder saw
more scarlet text running along the back of her hand, from the knobby bone
of her wrist to the knuckle of her middle finger, spiraling and curving
across her skin in psychosomatic calligraphy: OF COURSE I'M ALL RIGHT.

     "What happened?" Mulder asked. He looked briefly away from the words
on Scully's body, glanced over her shoulder onto the street--and saw that
they were alone again. Breeze gusted across the emptiness. The policemen,
the paramedics, the men in black, even X: all had disappeared. "What's
going on?" he demanded. "Where did they go?"

     "They can't touch us now, Mulder," Scully said calmly. "Trust me."

     Along the plumpness of her left shoulder: THEY CAN'T TOUCH US
NOW--and then the strap intervened, hiding the remainder of the message.
He touched the words lightly. They burned with a hot inner fire, tender,
almost glowing. She winced at the pressure of his fingers, pushed his hand
away--but when she looked back up at him, her smile was warm and
affectionate and quite genuine, almost beatific, befitting the face of an
angel.

     And he saw that her eyes had turned black.

*     *     *

End of (18/18)

To be continued...

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(This story is dedicated to Kavitha, who doesn't watch "The X-Files.")