--- EPISODE FIVE --- : Oak Ridge Air Force Base : North Dakota "Are you out of your mind?" Ditton appeared to be on the verge of apoplexy, and the cigar between his teeth came close to being sliced clean in two as he ground his jaws together with rage. The Doctor had her back to him. She was staring out of the window of his third floor office, studying the squadron of missile laden F16s that were lining up on the tarmac. Her expression was one of concern and disapproval. "No, Major, I am not," she said, turning to him, "but *you* must be, if you really think that this attack can succeed." "Now wait just one goddamned minute, Doctor!" Ditton was a large man, his bulging stomach the inevitable result of numerous officer's club dinners, and far too many years of deskbound inactivity, but when he moved, he was surprisingly swift. Once out from behind his desk, he marched over to the window and stood alongside her. "Those aircraft down there are the most sophisticated airborne fighting machines in the world. The pilots that fly them are our very best young Americans, trained to the absolute peak of physical and intellectual perfection. I can assure you that they're ready and able to take on any threat, from anywhere on the planet, or beyond!" "Major General Ditton," the Doctor sighed patiently, "the vessel currently hovering above this base is an Organic Mega Dreadnought of the Imperial Turtloid Oligarchy. Not only is it unfeasibly big, but it is in a constant state of quantum meta-dimensional flux. Have you any idea what that means?" Ditton stared at her, open-mouthed. It was obvious that he didn't. "I think what the Doctor is saying," said Mulder, looking to her for confirmation, "is that your weapons will be about as effective as a blow pipe against an Abrams Main Battle Tank!" "That's *exactly* what I mean," the Doctor agreed, ominously, "The Turtloids are polyectodimensional megamorphs. They exist in an alternative dimensional plane that occupies roughly the same physical space as this universe, but displaced at a quantum level; hence the fact that they are commonly known as 'Quantum Turtles'. Normally, the loathsome little tortoises can't pass through the dimension barrier, but, if the conditions are right ..." Ditton's shoulders sagged with resignation. He plucked the crumpled cigar from his mouth, and tossed it into the waste bin. "All right, Doctor, supposing I go along with all this technobabble bullshit, what exactly *can* we do?" "Exactly?" She tapped her fingertips together, and studied the ceiling for a few seconds. "Exactly nothing, Brigadier." His eyebrows went up with surprise. "Uh, sorry, *Major*," she apologised quickly. "A little slip of the regeneration there." "So, let me get this clear in my mind," Ditton stepped around to the front of his desk, picked up the Doctor Strangelove commemorative cigar box; the one that his wife had given him on their twentieth wedding anniversary; and carefully took out another Havana. He popped it into his mouth, but didn't light it. "While the planet is on the verge of being invaded by a swarm of goddamned extra- dimensional turtles, who are totally impervious to our weapons, we're just supposed to sit around here with our hands stuck underneath our goddamned asses? That about it?" "Well, not quite," she grinned, "after all, *I'm* here; and saving entire civilisations from domination by evil power- mad psychopaths with bad dress sense is all in a day's work for me." Ditton looked over at Mulder. "What's the Bureau's position on this, Agent Mulder?" "I don't believe the Bureau has an official position on alien invasion," said Mulder. "Guess you could try the CIA." "OK, fine." He lit his cigar with a lighter cunningly disguised as a replica of a B52 bomber. "I have a responsibility to protect these United States of America ... and the entire free world, if it comes to it. The president has given me full authority to use such forces and facilities as are at my disposal in order to achieve that end." He looked at the Doctor. She hooked her thumbs behind the lapels of her Edwardian long coat and grinned back at him. "Heaven help us all, Doctor, but I'm gonna listen to your proposal." "Oh, jolly good," she beamed. "It's such a refreshing change to meet a military person who can think for himself. Isn't it, Mulder?" Mulder grimaced, but otherwise declined to comment. Ditton went back behind his desk and settled in the big leather recliner. He indicated the two chairs in front of him, and waited for the Doctor and Mulder to sit down in them. When they did, he leant forward, puffing the occasional cloud of cigar smoke in their direction. "So what's your plan, Doctor?" he growled. She looked at Mulder; Mulder looked back at her; They both looked at Ditton; Ditton looked exasperated. "You *do* have a plan, right?" "Oh, a *plan*," she said, suddenly. "As in a course of action?" He nodded slowly. "As in a sequence of clearly defined tasks that must be followed in order to achieve a stated objective?" Ditton leant closer to the Doctor, puffing more cigar smoke towards her. "As in the best laid -" "Yes, Doctor!" said Ditton, clearly running out of patience. "As in all of those things!" "Well," she started tapping her fingertips together again, "now that you come to mention it ..." Mulder felt a general sense of foreboding gaining hold on him, and he really dreaded what he thought was coming next. "Of course I have a plan," she said, much to Mulder's relief. "The easiest way to stop an incursion by an extra- dimensional invading force is to remove the conditions that enable them to cross the dimension barrier." "I'm listening," said Ditton, still puffing on his cigar. "What kind of conditions are we talking about here?" Mulder asked. He thought he'd better ask something, and he hoped that it least sounded sensible and relevant. "Well, frankly, the nanofractional uniphase triactor array from a Time Ship is always handy, *if* you know how to recalibrate the nanoconfluic pentode stack at the sub octron level." "Really?" said Mulder, fascinated. "But wouldn't that require the use of a triple theta-transmutronic ion dichronatron operating in inverse nanophased varaction mode?" The Doctor looked at him suspiciously. "Hmmmn, you haven't been reading the TARDIS Technical Manual again have you, Mulder?" "Look, guys," Ditton spread his hands out over the desk, "I tell you what, how does this sound? I give the go to launch a squadron of F16s. They close to within four hundred metres, and then they shoot the *fuck* out of it, with a combined strike of Sidewinders and nuclear-tipped AMRAAMs!" Mulder and the Doctor looked at one another, and began slowly shaking their heads in unison. "Really, Brigadier -" the Doctor began to respond. "Major," Mulder corrected her. "Really, Major, that is such a *basic* approach to problem solving," she scolded him, "and, as I've already said, it won't work. Your missiles will explode in this universe - *not* theirs. The only damage done will be to this base, which, I imagine, will be totally and utterly obliterated, and won't prove to be a very popular move with the American taxpayer." "So," Mulder continued, "if it's not part of a TARDIS -" "It's not. I'd have picked it up on the instruments," she said, sucking her lower lip thoughtfully. "- What else could they be using?" The Doctor thought carefully for a few moments, trying to ignore the look of blatant impatience on the base commander's face. "Major Ditton, when I was at my friend Dana's apartment, I saw a TV show that bore a remarkable similarity to the events that have transpired in the last few hours." "Yeah. 'Earth Siege.' My kids watch it, and I know what you mean, it's uncanny how close the design of that alien ship was to this goddamned Turtloid thing." She snapped her fingers, and jumped up out of the chair, pausing only to sling the folds of her scarf over her shoulder, before starting towards the door. "Come along, Mulder." "But, where -" She stopped at the door. "I want to go and see where that the show is made." "Then you want Wolverine Studios," said Ditton, "but that's in Los Angeles. How the hell will you get there?" "Not a problem," Mulder winked at the major, before getting up to join her, "I'll take the Doctor's Time Ship against a Greyhound any day." "Be back in five minutes," said the Doctor, pulling open the door. After they were gone, Ditton lit himself another cigar. "The whole goddamned world is off its goddamned rocker," he muttered. --- --- --- : The Walter S. Skinner Turtle Farm : Damascus, Maryland Sadly, Scully stepped away from the bloodied corpse of the turtle/human amalgam, and went over to see how Pendrell was doing. After Krycek had emptied almost the entire clip of his weapon into the strange creature, he had stepped forward and pistol whipped the young agent into near unconsciousness. She knelt down beside him, resting her hand on his shoulder, while Krycek looked on, waving the Uzi threateningly. "I'm OK, Dana," he managed to say, weakly. "No, you're not, Brian," she examined the lump on the back of his head, "and you might be in line for a nasty spot of concussion." "All right, enough of the caring partner crap," growled Krycek, once more brandishing his weapon as if it made up for the fact that he only had one good arm, "let's get moving." "Moving where?" Pendrell asked. "Oh, not far," Krycek grinned sadistically, "just into the lab." "Why did you have to kill that - thing?" Scully glanced back at the dead turtle. "Because it was a useless reject," Krycek shrugged, but then felt that he needed to qualify his statement. "Let's just say that it didn't quite turn out the way the blueprints said it should. Seems that just using Skinner's DNA wasn't enough." He waved the gun at them again. Reluctantly, Scully helped Pendrell to his feet. Krycek waited for the two agents to go out through the door, before following them at what he considered to be a safe distance. "Now we'll have to try something else," he said ominously. Scully glanced back over her shoulder. "What do you mean?" "Direct grafting," he elaborated with another grin. "Ya know what, Agent Scully? Much as I think you've got a fabulous body, I do believe your head's gonna look rather fetching on top of a matching shell and flippers." --- --- --- : Studio One : Wolverine Productions, L.A. The passport photograph booth blended in reasonably well with the old London telephone box, a pile of Victorian tea chests, and several old grey filing cabinets. The Doctor poked her head outside the curtain, satisfied herself that their arrival had not been observed, and stepped outside. Mulder followed close behind. "This way," she whispered. They made their way across the crowded prop room, climbing through piles of old costumes, stuffed animals, suits of armour, and several scale models of the Starship Enterprise, in various states of disrepair, before finally reaching the door. "So, let me get this straight," said Mulder, standing behind her while she rummaged through her pockets for something, "you think this 'Earth Siege' show is planting images in people's subconscious minds, and that those images are awakening the latent telepathic abilities in all humans." She pulled out volume six of the Encyclopedia Infinica, tossing it at once over her shoulder. "Dreadful book," she muttered, "if they wanted to write a piece about the nineteen headed sentient slime postules of Beta Arianus Nine, why didn't they take the time to talk to someone who's actually seen them?" "So, the telepathic energy released is somehow rupturing the dimension barrier?" Mulder continued. "What? Oh, yes." She waved one hand dismissively at him, while she withdrew a bright red hover mower from her pocket with the other. "Grrr - now where was *that* when I had to tidy up the Time Ship's lawns?" Finally, she found the polymorphic pliers, and Mulder breathed a sigh of relief. At least when *they* came out, things normally started getting better. She pointed the pliers at the lock of the door, tapped a few control studs on the handles of the instrument, and the door swung open as if by magic. "Tiens, Mulder! C'est simple, quand nous avons les outils adequats." "Uh, shouldn't that have been nous aurions?" he said, trying his very best to get the accent right. "I mean, isn't it normal to use a conditional verb in -" "Mulder." "What?" "Do you speak fluent French?" "Well no, but -" She jabbed him in the centre of the chest with her index finger. "A bit of advice, Mulder. You stick to playing the part of the obsessive federal agent with the boyish good looks, and I'll do all the irascible, eccentric, and unpredictable Time Lord stuff. How does that sound?" Meekly, he nodded. She sighed, and pushed through the door, stepping out into the large sound stage beyond. He followed her, bending awkwardly at the waist in an attempt to conceal his involuntary erection. --- --- --- : Skinner's apartment Marita Covarrubias had just switched off her cellphone, and returned it to her handbag when Skinner came up behind her and hooked his right arm around her neck. "Uh, Walter, this is unexpected." She tried to remain calm, but the force that he was exerting sent a feeling of panic through her. She knew at once that he must have discovered her scheme. "I'll bet," said Skinner, dragging her across the lounge to the sofa, where he threw her down and immediately trained a .25 calibre automatic pistol at her head. "Who was that on the phone?" "An associate," she said. "Cancer Man?" "An associate," she repeated, her eyes frantically scanning the apartment in search of some means of distracting him. He jabbed the gun into her cheek. "And what about all this turtle farming crap? It's all been a setup, hasn't it?" She smiled provocatively, and shifted her legs to reveal the tops of her thighs beneath the short black skirt, hoping that would be enough to divert his eyes for the fraction of a second that she needed. It wasn't, and Skinner just pressed the barrel of the gun harder against her cheek. "You're under arrest, Ms. Covarrubias," he said, with obvious satisfaction. "On what charge?" "Attempting to seduce a Federal Agent." "But that's preposterous!" she objected. "Besides, what do you mean, *attempting*?" "All right then, how does espionage, activities against the interests of the American people, and impersonating a United Nations official strike you?" "Where's your evidence?" She shook her head defiantly, and tried to get up from the sofa. "Haven't you ever heard of a simple, honest to goodness frame up?" Skinner grinned. "Now, unless you want to grow old behind bars, I strongly suggest that you co- operate." She only had to think about it for a few seconds. "OK, what do you want?" "Well, for a start," he pushed the pistol into his belt, "I'd like to go see this turtle farm I'm supposed to own." --- --- --- : Studio One : Wolverine Productions, L.A. Professor Annabel Constantine (Becky Paretto) threw down the thick wad of printout, aiming it perfectly, so that it landed right in the centre of Major General John Trenchard's (John Green-Franks') desk. He looked up, and grunted an acknowledgement. "I suppose it would be too much to expect some good news?" he ventured. "Today is Monday," the Professor replied, brushing a thick lock of wheat-blonde hair away from her eyes. "No good news on Mondays." Trenchard grimaced, and picked up the report. He scanned the first sheet quickly. "My God, these numbers can't be right!" Annabel sighed tiredly, and settled down in the chair opposite him. "I'm afraid so, sir. The Tuttleoids have now - " "CUT!!!!" Becky hissed a curse through her clenched teeth, and slapped her knees. "Shit!" "That's Turtloids, Becky," called Henry V. Frybungler, from his position in the director's chair, across the set. "Turtloids. Turtloids. Turtloids. Try saying it over and over, there's a doll." "All right, all right." She waved him quiet. "It's a damned stupid name, anyway!" Franks was grinning at her, knowing that when Becky got worked up like this, by far the best thing to do was to sit back and watch the fireworks fly. It usually led to an entertaining break, if nothing else. "Hey, did I write the freaking script?" Frybungler defended himself. Before Becky could give voice to the sarcastic rejoinder that had been taking shape in her mind, a man and a woman strolled casually onto the set. The man was tall, slim, hazel-haired, and quite dishy, she thought. The woman, on the other hand, a short redhead, looked as if she had a severe case of costume dyslexia "Hello, there," said the redhead, proffering her hand towards Becky, "I'm the Doctor." "Uh, hello -" Not sure what else to do, she shook the woman's hand. Mulder flashed his badge in every direction. "Federal Agent," he said, confidently. "Jeeezuss Keriste!!!" wailed Frybungler, stepping up to the set. "What is this, a freaking social function? I've got an episode to make here, people, and the clock's against us!" "Like I always say," said the Doctor, grinning in a way that made Becky smile as well, "time is the enemy." "And who the freaking hell are you, Lady?" She held out her hand. "I'm the Doctor," she said, regally, "a Time Lord from the planet Gallifrey, in the constellation of Kasterborous. I travel through time and space, in a passport photograph booth that's bigger on the inside than it is on the outside, righting wrongs, helping the underdog, standing up for truth, justice, and the humanoid way, and generally saving the cosmos from the constant threat of total and utter annihilation." Frybungler stood there, his mouth hanging open. She leant forward, and gently pushed his jaw back into place. "And this," she indicated her travelling companion, "is my friend Mulder. He's a -" "Federal Agent," said Mulder, whipping out his badge. The Doctor snatched the ID from his hand and threw it angrily across the set. "Mulder, will you *please* stop doing that!" He looked across the room to where the leather wallet had landed, just beside the waste bin; and was about to go and retrieve it, when he found himself on the receiving end of a really dark frown from the Time Lord. Thinking again, he just made a mental note of its location, and resolved to pick it up before they left. "Now then," said the Doctor, feeling all the better for having vented some of her frustration, "in case you haven't been watching the news, the Earth is under attack from hostile alien forces. Nasty things, actually. Turtloids, affectionately known throughout the forty-two universes as Quantum Turtles!" "Yeah, of course," said Franks, getting up from the desk, and walking around to join them, "that's what this show is all about." "No, no." She shook her head. "I'm afraid you don't quite understand. These Turtloids are *real* Turtloids. The Earth really *is* under attack." "You're kidding!" exclaimed Becky. "She's not," said Mulder, "just switch on the TV, and take a look." "I don't have much time," the Doctor continued, "but I believe that the Turtloids have been able to cross over into this universe as a result of the TV show that you're making." "'Earth Siege'?" Frybungler was astonished. "But how?" "Mass suggestion leading to a triggering of latent telepathic powers that have led to a rupture in the dimension barrier that separates universes." She tapped her temples and raised her eyebrows. "I imagine that you'll want to talk to me about that," said a voice from the shadows. They all turned around, to where Cigarette Smoking Man had appeared from behind one of the stage lights. Mulder noticed at once that the ever-present cigarette was missing, and that the man was vigorously chewing on some gum. "Yeah, why?" Fox asked, instinctively moving his right hand to his holstered weapon. CSM held up a neatly bound script for them all to see. "Because *I* am the writer behind the most successful science fiction show since 'The X Files'."