From lochness@mindspring.com Sat Apr 26 01:10:02 1997
Subject: REVISED: Letters of Transit (8/14) By Loch Ness
From: Loch Ness <lochness@mindspring.com>
--------
Letters of Transit (8/14) By Loch Ness

Please do not repost to ATXFC. Already sent to Gossamer U.S. archive; OK
to archive elsewhere or redistribute as long as Loch Ness is acknowledged
as author and nothing of value is exchanged. ***Not to be entered in or
nominated for any competition or award.***

Classification: T, RA
Crossover references to the film *Casablanca*
International readers: US4 spoilers.
Rating: NC-17, for VIOLENCE, PROFANITY and (M/S) SEX. If you are
under-age, please do not read this.
See Part 0 for disclaimer, summary and introductory notes.

***********************************************************************

Letters of Transit (8/14)
By Loch Ness

July 21, 1999
Galveston

The kitchen smelled of egg rolls--Langly cooked them in bulk when he
could get the ingredients and froze them to eat later. When Mulder walked
in, the Gunmen were sitting on tall stools around a prep table, the food
spread out alongside a six-pack of Tecate beer and some limes, all of it
ready to be slurped down. They stopped as if in mid-breath at Mulder's
entrance, Frohike short and dumpy in a black T-shirt and jeans, Langly
taking his hair out of the pony-tail, Byers dapper as always in his
maitre d's tux.

They looked at him expectantly.

Mulder shrugged.

"Something you want to tell us, man?" Langly asked.

Mulder went to the table, pulled up a stool of his own and fished an egg
roll off the platter. "The less you know, the safer you are," he said.
"But it might be a good idea for you boys to be ready to move on short
notice. Just in case."

Frohike popped a chunk of egg roll into his mouth. Around it, he said,
"Hey, we're always ready to move. We're just waiting for you."

Mulder squeezed the juice out of a lime wedge into the opening in the top
of a can of Tecate and took a drink. They fell silent again, eating,
drinking, keeping their thoughts to themselves.

After a while, Frohike said quietly, "She's looking fine, isn't she?"

Mulder lifted his beer toward his mouth and said coolly, "Who?"

Frohike took his cue and shut up.

                                  ****

July 22

*How the mighty have fallen,* Scully thought, thinking of Skinner's
wood-paneled office in D.C. with its elegant brass accents, its
soccer-field-sized conference table.

The office here on the island was an abandoned storefront still bearing a
sign that read "Lula-belle's Shells" over a hand-painted pink clamshell.
Taped to the inside of the glass door was a sheet of white paper on which
the words "Federal Bureau of Investigation" had been written.

Skinner's handwriting, Scully noted. She and Pendrell went in. Beyond the
door, an elderly woman chewing placidly on a wad of gum sat at a small
desk that looked as if it had been rescued out of an estate sale. No
computer, not even a typewriter--just an old telephone and answering
machine. Behind the receptionist stood a rickety, hastily erected wall of
masonite, the nails showing up bright silver against the dark brown.

Scully wondered if Skinner had put up that wall himself and concluded he
probably had. She felt a stab of sympathy--it couldn't have been easy for
the A.D. to cope out here all by himself, to adjust to this sort of
bare-bones, no-budget operation. At least in Miami he'd had some support.
Here, clearly, there was none.

She wondered what this meeting was about. Surely Skinner didn't really
mean to hit them with a fine for having violated the order not to leave
Jefferson parish? She had a more frightening thought suddenly--what if
Pendrell had actually shot somebody in the melee in the bayou?

The elderly woman waved them toward an unfinished wooden door marked
"Private." The moment Pendrell pulled the door open, Scully got a wave of
cigarette smoke. She ground her teeth and went in.

Skinner had opened a window behind his desk, but there wasn't much
breeze, and the smoke wafted heavily in the air. The A.D.'s expression
was tense, his face held hard in annoyance. The smoking man sat on a
couch shoved up against the side of the office, holding his cigarette
like a conductor's baton. Scully tried to ignore him.

"Pendrell, Scully," Skinner said. "Have a seat."

They sat in two folding chairs placed before the A.D.'s desk. There was
an awkward silence while Skinner shuffled some paperwork and closed a
file, put it aside.

"Sir, if this is about New Orleans--" Pendrell started.

"Oh, nevermind New Orleans," the smoking man said pleasantly.

Scully shot a look at Skinner, whose return gaze was calculated to tell
her nothing--which told her everything. It revealed that he wasn't
calling the shots, and that while he didn't like it, there was nothing he
could do about it. They'd have to deal with Bloodworth, not with Skinner.

She turned to face the smoking man. "Then may I assume we're free to go?"

Bloodworth smiled. A lizard's smile, cold-blooded, that didn't touch his
eyes. "You're hardly prisoners in Galveston, Mrs. Pendrell."

"That doesn't answer my question. If we're not here to discuss what
happened in New Orleans, then why *are* we here?"

"I'd heard you might be seeking passage to California," Bloodworth said.
"I thought we might discuss your options."

Scully made a mental note not to ask any more questions of the clerk in
the hotel lobby. Either the clerk himself was snitching, or someone had
overheard them asking discreetly about transport off the island.

"California's certainly a possibility," she said. "It's one of the places
we might consider for continuing our work. On the other hand, in the
daylight--Galveston doesn't seem all that bad."

"Perhaps something could be arranged," Bloodworth said. "It strikes me
that the facilities at the headquarters of the SEB in Colorado could
considerably speed your progress."

"You're offering us a job with the SEB?" Pendrell asked.

"In effect."

"Wait," Scully said. "You don't already have people working on trying to
develop an antivenin for the bee stings?"

"At first glance it wouldn't seem to come under the SEB's charter."

"You're telling me *no one* has been trying to develop an anti-toxin?"
Pendrell asked, his eyes wide.

Bloodworth shrugged. "The truth is, we don't know whether anyone is or
not. We're hoping to locate scientists such as yourselves and collect
them as a team."

In the back of her mind, Scully heard an alarm going off. *Why now? Why
not two years ago?* She didn't trust the smoking man on general
principles, and there was much about the situation that didn't ring true.
If the SEB wanted to talk to them about setting up a lab, why shoot at
them as they were leaving New Orleans? Why not just, well, sit down and
talk about it? Why sink the boat, trapping them here? None of it made
sense.

Slowly, she said, "Well, that certainly opens up possibilities. But I
actually think we're making good progress on our own. I'm not sure it
would benefit us, at this point, to have input from other scientists.
Other opinions might prove distracting."

"Are you afraid working with a team might expose your mistakes?"

"We haven't made any mistakes," Pendrell said coldly.

"Really," Bloodworth said. "But then, you haven't cured anybody, have
you? That suggests to me that you *have* made mistakes, and that, in
fact, whatever you have come up with may actually be dangerous--it could
lead those to whom you administer it into a false sense of security."

Pendrell had flushed with anger. "That's a completely unfounded
accusation. You don't know what we've tried and what we haven't."

Bloodworth lit another cigarette. "Are you so sure?"

"How..." Pendrell faltered. "How could you?"

"His spies are everywhere," Scully murmured.

"Not very genteelly put, but essentially correct."

"Why don't you just come out with it?" she asked. "What the hell is it
you want, exactly?"

"Just as I said--I want you to come back to Denver with me and resume
your work."

She nodded. "Do you mind if we think about it for a couple of days?"

"Not at all. But I will point out that every day you delay an average of
832 people are killed by bee stings."

"We're aware of that," Pendrell said. His tone was neutral, but Scully
knew how much it troubled him that they had not been able to proceed
faster. She knew the weight of those deaths that they couldn't stop.

"We'll consider your offer and get back to you," she said, rising to her
feet.

"I'll look forward to your answer." Bloodworth stood, too. "One word of
caution--the SEB would not take it kindly if you were to attempt another
unauthorized departure. I'm sure you agree that the work you've
undertaken is of vital importance. You can understand our wish to know
where you are at all times?"

"Naturally," Scully said, between her teeth. "In other words, 'don't
leave town.'" She pulled the door open, and Pendrell followed her out.

She wasn't surprised when Skinner caught up with them a few minutes
later, on a street corner as they walked back to their hotel.

"What the hell's going on?" Scully asked the A.D. "We're not really
supposed to believe that nonsense about 'collecting a team of
scientists,' are we? Do we just look stupid?"

Skinner shook his head. "I don't know what he's after. The only thing I'm
sure of is you two had better get off this island before you get buried
here."

"How do we do that?" Pendrell demanded. "Our boat's gone."

Skinner looked at Scully. "That's a question you'd better ask of your old
friend Fox Mulder." He told them about the couriers on the causeway.

"Why would Krycek trust Mulder with those letters?" Scully asked.
"Mulder'd rather cut Krycek's throat than look at him."

"Because Mulder's the only man alive who hates the smoking man even more
than Krycek does. Look, believe me--Mulder either has the letters or he
knows where they are. And they may end up being your only chance of
getting away."

Scully looked away and let go a heavy sigh. "The only problem is, I'm not
so sure Mulder is a friend anymore."

                                  ****

The smoking man's minions had not been kind, but then, Krycek hadn't
expected they would be. He'd had the shit kicked out of him before and
figured he could survive it again. Besides, that they were only beating
him indicated that Mulder had kept his word--the smoking man still didn't
know where the letters of transit were.

Otherwise they would've just killed him.

Of course, they were likely to get around to that anyway, eventually. At
some point, they'd conclude that the letters were irretrievable, and then
they'd have no further use for him. And that would be the end of that.
But like Mulder, Krycek figured denying the smoking man what he wanted
was worth a little grief.

At mid-afternoon, he heard the two minions coming back down the long
concrete hall of the county jail, and Krycek curled up into himself,
expecting another savage pounding. But then he peeked around the arms he
had wrapped over his head to protect it and noticed the minions were all
rigged out in nuclear-bacteriological-chemical protective suits.

Ready to go where the bees were.

Krycek stifled a grin. The smoking man was making a mistake. A *big*
mistake.

They lifted him by the arms, and he made a show of whimpering a little in
terror and going limp, as if too weak to resist.

"Where are you taking me?" he asked, his voice low, trying--and
succeeding, he thought--to sound pitiful.

"Shut up," one of them growled from inside the suit. "You'll find out
where you're going."

They shoved him into the back of a panel truck, then climbed in the front
and drove off. Krycek couldn't see out of the truck, but then, he didn't
have to. He knew where they going.

To Houston.

It would take almost an hour. He lay down on the floor of the truck and
let himself doze off--resting would strengthen him for what was coming
next.

He woke when the suited minions lifted him again, and now he started to
squall like a baby.

"Noooo! No, please! Don't hurt me any more!"

"Talk," one of the minions said. He kicked Krycek in the thigh, but not
very hard. Krycek screamed as if it had really hurt. "Where did you hide
the documents?" the minion shouted.

"I swear I don't know what you're talking about! I don't have any
documents!" He ducked his head and squeezed out a tear for effect.
"Please--you've got to believe me!"

"You lying dirtbag. I'm going to count to five, then I'm shoving your
worthless ass out with the bees."

"NOO!"

"One."

"Oh, God, no, *please*!"

"Two."

"You can't do this!"

"Three."

"Oh, God--it's inhuman!"

"Four."

"Please, I'm begging you--"

"Five."

They lifted him again. Krycek kept right on screaming, knowing perfectly
well the noise would attract the bees. Hell, the bees were probably all
around them now, between the sound of the truck's engine and his yowling.
But that suited him just fine. He'd been exposed to the toxin in Russia;
he'd even been stung before. He had the immunity. Not enough that he
could just walk away--what was coming next wouldn't be pleasant. But he'd
survive it, just as he'd survived the beating.

Seconds later, he hit the ground behind the truck. Instantly the bees
were all over him, and the minions, protected by their suits, stood over
him, watching as he doubled over with the spasms. He had no way of
knowing whether they meant to leave him here or not. There was only one
way to be sure.

He lunged at one of them, and with all the strength he had, ripped loose
the man's hood so that his head was bared to the bees. The minion shouted
in surprise and terror as the bees hit him. He staggered, waving his
arms--as if that would help anything.

"Jesus fucking Christ!" the other one yelled, and he ran for the truck.
Some bees flew into the cab with him, and Krycek heard the faint hiss of
insecticide canisters discharging inside the vehicle. In the enclosed
space, Malathion spray would kill any bees that got in the truck.

The minion who'd been stung toppled over onto the ground, writhing and
retching. His face was already gray, his eyes swimming with the black
toxin. He'd be dead in another five minutes.

Krycek was on the ground, too, in terrible pain, stomach heaving, his
muscles spasming uncontrollably. But he was laughing through it.

As the truck drove off, he used the last of his strength to yell, "You
fucking suckers!"

Some more bees hit him then, because he'd made a noise, but he didn't
care.

Continued in Part 9.
lochness@mindspring.com

Letters of Transit (9/14) By Loch Ness

Please do not repost to ATXFC. Already sent to Gossamer U.S. archive; OK
to archive elsewhere or redistribute as long as Loch Ness is acknowledged
as author and nothing of value is exchanged. ***Not to be entered in or
nominated for any competition or award.***

Classification: T, RA
Crossover references to the film *Casablanca*
International readers: US4 spoilers.
Rating: NC-17, for VIOLENCE, PROFANITY and (M/S) SEX. If you are
under-age, please do not read this.
See Part 0 for disclaimer, summary and introductory notes.

***********************************************************************

Letters of Transit (9/14)
By Loch Ness

July 22
Galveston

Scully had no reason to doubt what Bloodworth had said about the
boat--though she knew it had sunk because *he* had put a hole in it.
Nevertheless, after the meeting with Skinner, she went to check on it, to
see if there might be a way to repair it.

Mistakenly, she hadn't landed the boat on Galveston Island, but on the
smaller, deserted Pelican Island adjacent to it. Then they had followed a
narrow road toward lights they could see in the distance and walked over
a bridge to the big island, only then discovering the error. At the time,
Scully had thought it might actually be a blessing anyway--it could make
it more difficult for someone to find where they had hidden the power
boat because there were fewer people around who might've seen them
ground. Now *there* was an irony.

She walked north on Broadway, retracing her steps. They hadn't seen much
of the city when they'd arrived, in the dark, after the curfew. Now she
could see the antique, Victorian charm of Galveston. The Catholic
cathedral, gigantic and ornate, with its seemingly incongruous minarets.
An enormous mansion's iron fence held a bronze plaque proclaiming the
house Ashton Villa and explained that the lower row of windows were half
underground because the storm surge from the savage 1900 hurricane had
washed so much mud up onto the island. Six thousand had died. As she
turned away from the plaque, she caught a motion out the corner of her
eye and suddenly had a prickly sensation at the back of her neck.

Someone was following her. But when she turned, she couldn't see anyone.

*Great. One of Bloodworth's minions--just what I need.*

She wound through the Strand, a Victorian historical district, pausing at
a few denuded shop windows in hopes of luring the follower out. But
whoever he was, he was good. She still hadn't seen him.

She debated walking down that lonely road across Pelican Island. A good
three-mile hike with no one near to hear her scream and enough brush on
either side of the pavement to hide any mayhem from view. She had her
gun, but still, why buy trouble? But if the boat was salvageable, delay
might just worsen the damage. She'd have to go. There was no way around
it. Maybe she could get a look at her shadower as she crossed the bridge,
where the terrain was open for some distance, maybe even come up behind
him and get the drop on him.

She clamped her jaw and set herself to the task, walking up Avenue A past
the Port of Galveston, up to the bridge. She crossed, and when she could
do it nonchalantly, she glanced back. Nobody. She walked around a bend in
the road, then slipped into the brush and waited, holding her breath.
Nothing. Nobody came down the road behind her. Either he had given up, or
she had lost him.

Scully let go a long breath, stepped back onto the asphalt and headed off
down the road again.

She had tied the boat underneath a dilapidated fishing pier at the end of
a rocky point facing out into Galveston Bay. As she neared the water, she
could see bottlenose dolphins playing in the channel between the islands.
And in between the flocks of wheeling gulls, brown pelicans diving
gracefully for fish--the island was aptly named.

They had arrived at night, and though Scully had made out the nearby
superstructure of ships, she had not been able to see what kind they
were. She was surprised, in the light of day, to see they were old
warships--a World War II-vintage submarine and destroyer escort. They'd
been hauled up onto the shore and their hulls set into the ground.
Curious, she went off the path to have a closer look. A faded wooden sign
on a little hut at the gate read "Seawolf Park - Parking $2."

Scully pushed on a chain-link gate, and it swung open, creaking loudly.
More plaques, heavily coated with verdigris, told her the submarine was
the U.S.S. *Cavalla* and the destroyer, the U.S.S. *Stewart.* She
wandered around the end of the destroyer, painted light blue, liberally
speckled with patches of rust showing out from underneath the paint.
Behind her, she heard something on the wind--it might've been the squawk
of a gull.

Or the creak of that gate.

Slowly, quietly, she drew her gun, keeping it where someone behind her
couldn't see it. Yet. She went up the ladder onto the destroyer,
listening acutely for footsteps. She heard something, but couldn't sift
anything coherent out of the wind noise, the cries of birds, the roar of
the surf. *Damn, damn, damn.* She ducked into a hatch, into the galley,
with its stark metal cabinets and its industrial-size stove-tops and
ovens. She took her shoes off and set them on a counter so that her steps
wouldn't make any sound. Then she went forward, along the starboard rail
toward the bridge.

Whoever it was, he moved like a cat--silently. She stopped up on the
bridge, where there were steel walls on three sides of her, and slipped
between the ship's wheel and an abandoned chart table, gun poised. He'd
have to come in to follow her. She waited him out. Finally she heard
something nearby, just outside.

"Federal agent!" she yelled. "Put your hands up and step out where I can
see you!"

"Okay," a soft voice said behind her. She whirled, leading with the gun.

It was Mulder, leaning up against the port-side bulkhead, hands lifted
lazily. He was wearing khaki slacks and a denim shirt open at the throat
so a couple of stray dark hairs peeked out, with a dark blue windbreaker
tied around his waist--probably to cover his own gun, Scully figured--and
deck shoes with no socks. He looked like the cover of a Land's End
catalog--the casual, windblown New Englander.

He was devastatingly beautiful, tall and straight, his eyes glowing
bright green in the sunlight. She'd been trying not to think of him that
way, of the smooth lines of bone, the flat, hard planes of muscle. She
lowered the gun, shaking with adrenaline rush, hoping adrenaline rush was
the only reason for it. "Goddammit, Mulder," she said, between her teeth.
"I could've killed you."

He crooked an eyebrow. "And after I went to the trouble of chasing the
smoking man's bloodhound off your trail? That's gratitude."

"Did you kill him?"

"Nah. I just told him you ducked into the cotton warehouse. He had lost
you at that point, so he didn't have any reason not to believe me. What
are you doing out here, Scully?"

"My name's not Scully any more," she said. "And I was about to ask you
the same thing." She holstered her gun.

"Me? I was following you."

She pursed her lips, tamping down the anger that had flared up as her
fear drained away. "A bit late, aren't you?"

A muscle flexed along his jawline. She knew he was debating something
with himself, but he said nothing. She looked away and then stepped off
the bridge, headed back toward where she had left her shoes.

"I was just curious about this old ship," she lied. "Maybe it's in the
blood."

"Pretty long walk, just to satisfy your curiosity," he said, following
her. His tone told her he hadn't bought that story. "It's hotter than
hell out here."

"I've been informed I'm not a prisoner here. I'm free to do whatever I
want."

"Except leave," he said softly.

She stepped into the galley and picked up her shoes. "What do you care?"

He glanced at the ring on her left hand. "Some reason I should care?"

"Not one," she said coldly, yanking on one shoe.

"Are you happy with him?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact, I am. Not that it's any of your goddamned
business."

He shrugged. "Okay," he said. There was a short silence while she got the
other shoe on. "Well," he said, squinting out to sea, "if you came out to
check on your boat, don't bother. Bloodworth's friends ripped it open the
whole length of the hull."

"How do you know that?"

"I have my sources."

"Those three freaks you hang out with? I saw them at the bar last night.
I don't know what you see in them, Mulder."

"They're loyal friends," he said.

"Are you taking lessons?"

He crooked an eyebrow in surprise, and again, she saw some quick flash of
emotion, snuffed out so quickly she couldn't be sure what it was.

She sighed and looked away. What was the point in fighting over that now?
So much had changed. When she glanced back at him, she saw that he was
gazing out at the ocean again. There was no sign of it in his face or his
pose, but she sensed that she had hit a nerve. She doubted it served any
purpose to beat him up over the past--she knew all too well he was
perfectly capable of doing that himself.

"I'm sure you had your reasons," she said.

"Yes."

She leaned on the rail and looked down at the water lapping along a rock
wall a few yards away from where the destroyer stood rooted in the
ground. "Is it true what you said last night--about it being possible to
run the blockade?"

"Not without a boat, and I don't just happen to have one."

Suddenly it occurred to her how he knew it was possible. "Oh, my God,"
she said. "That was you? The 'Malathion Raider?'"

Expressionless, Mulder inclined his head toward the big island. "Me and
those three 'freaks' back at the bar."

"I just assumed that because the insecticide came in from seaward..." she
trailed off.

"I found that I don't get seasick when I'm really terrified."

She didn't know what to say. When she had read about the "Malathion
Raider," she had thought the reckless fool who could do such a thing was
simply the bravest son of a bitch on Earth. He had gone straight through
the blockade, under fire, and then right into the thickest part of the
swarm, time after time. In retrospect, she supposed she might've guessed
who it was. The plan was so...well, so *Mulder*.

"Anyway," he said, "if there's a seaworthy hull left on Galveston, I
don't know about it. And I'd know." He paused, then crooked an eyebrow.
"'Malathion Raider?'"

She stared at him.

He shrugged. "I don't know, Scully--it's not bad, but somehow it just
doesn't have quite the ring of, say, 'Conan the Barbarian.'"

How like Mulder at his most annoying to make a joke of such a thing--and
not even a good joke. She headed down the steel stairs that led off the
destroyer. "No offense, but I think I'll check the boat myself."

It was a moment before she heard his footsteps behind her. Still debating
something with himself, she thought.

But God only knew what.

                                 ****

Frohike didn't mind going to Houston now and then. It was a hot, dirty,
generally unpleasant job. Right up his alley, in other words. He went
once or twice a month, as suited his fancy, if he had a jones for
something. It particularly amused him to go into town and get a couple of
videos. He'd go into Blockbuster and pick something out--even write
himself out a receipt--and then return them on his next trip.

Seeing Special Agent Dana Scully again had put him in the mood for
*Terminator 2.* Linda Hamilton wielding an M-16. Oh, baby.

So he dressed in a vinyl rain suit, carefully taping over the tops of his
boots and around his wrists where the suit met the gloves. He took with
him a welding hood he had specially modified and the roll of tape, too.
Then he pilfered a bottle of Scotch from behind the bar, fired up his
Jeep Cherokee and headed across the causeway.

Early on he had learned how to negotiate with the guards at the end of
the bridge. It wasn't hard to get off the island, but he'd be subject to
inspection on the way back. The guards were only supposed to inspect for
bees, but Frohike had found that they generally helped themselves to a
few things. He could save himself time and effort by finding out what
goodies they'd like to have brought back from the big city, then keeping
the Scotch in reserve in case they got sticky with him later.

Today he'd lucked out. He knew the guys on duty, Frank and Hector, and
they were all right, although they were reputed to be some of Skinner's
most loyal snitches. They just waved him through, and he headed on up
Interstate 45.

He stopped for gas in Texas City, helping himself at an abandoned Texaco
station he knew about. Farther north, the road turned bad, cluttered with
the dead hulks of cars and trucks that hadn't made it. Occasionally he
passed a decaying body or two, crumpled on or beside the pavement. The
wreckage slowed his progress. He popped a tape in the player--Sheryl
Crow. He started to pick up bees just north of the Johnson Space Center.
He knew they couldn't get into the Jeep, so he just ignored them and kept
going, picking his way between the vehicles.

Frohike could've used a Malathion spray inside the Jeep, but he didn't
trust the stuff. He had a system he liked better. He turned east onto
Loop 610, where the road was clear enough that he could go fast--too fast
for the bees to keep up with him. The insects were nasty, but they were
slow. At sixty miles an hour, he could just outrun the mothers. And by
the time he headed out of town, it'd be dark. The bees didn't move at
night.

He turned the engine off and waited. The bees usually lost interest after
about half an hour. He dozed for a bit in the heat, then woke and pulled
a cold bottle of water out of his cooler and sipped on it. Then, when the
bees finally got tired of buzzing angrily around the Jeep, he pulled his
helmet on, taped it and quietly climbed out.

His favorite Blockbuster Video was a couple of miles east from the bottom
of the bridge, in a suburb called Galena Park. Because the little town
wasn't right in the thick of the city, it hadn't been quite as heavily
looted as other areas--so far, Frohike'd had it pretty much to himself.
And it wasn't as bad as some parts of town. Most people had gotten out.
Not too many bodies.

He went through his usual ritual when he reached the video store. Then he
headed off down the street toward a nearby drug store. He knew what Frank
and Hector wanted in exchange for letting him back onto the island--Advil
for Hector, whose wife had arthritis, and toys and picture books for
Frank's little girl, aged eight.

The bees buzzed irritably around him each time he moved, but they slid
off the rain suit when they tried to land, and even if they had landed,
their stings couldn't penetrate the vinyl. The whole trip had become a
sort of rote, and he finished quickly. Still hours before sundown.
Because he was curious and had the time, he strolled farther down the
deserted street than usual. The intense sun seemed to give the whole area
a bleached-bones pallor, grass and weeds climbing between cracks in the
concrete and wilting as soon as they sprang up, signs fading rapidly
under the heat's assault. Around a corner, he saw movement and stopped
sharply.

*What the hell.* Nothing moved in this city any more, and there was no
wind to account for it. He cocked his head and listened. No tell-tale
angry buzzing. But when he looked again, he definitely saw a figure
moving.

Major weirdness. He shuffled closer, warily. There were two bodies, the
one weakly crawling toward a patch of shade, and another one in an
environment suit with the hood removed. Frohike doubted the live one
would hang on for long, but the environment suit was a real find--worth
taking a risk for.

He went over to the dead one and began methodically stripping the suit
off. Newly stung, this guy--he was still stiff. Frohike stuffed the
pieces of the suit into his kit bag and shouldered the respirator that
went with the suit. Then he looked again at the live one, his face
swollen beyond all recognition from the stings, his eyes swimming with
black.

Really strange that he should still be alive. Usually people stung like
that died in a matter of minutes. If the two of them had been stung at
the same time, this guy should've croaked a long time ago. Cautiously
Frohike approached him, staying just outside arm's reach. The guy was
clearly in misery; he didn't appear to realize anyone was there. Frohike
hunkered down beside him.

"Hey," he said softly. "Hey, can you hear me?"

The other man stopped crawling. He made a pitiful, ineffectual try at
turning himself to look. Frohike took him by the shoulder and gently
flipped him over. He couldn't have seen anything if he had tried--his
eyes were swollen shut. Frohike retrieved his half-empty bottle of water
and dribbled a few drops on the man's lips. The mouth moved a little,
parting just enough to let some of the water slip between them.

*Shit.* He couldn't just leave him here, much as he would've liked
to--getting him back to the island was going to be a pain in the ass.

He gave the man some more water, then went to bring the Jeep down.

                                 ****

Standing behind Scully and gazing under the fishing pier, Mulder could
just barely see the sunken power boat. Through the gently rolling water
its white hull looked ghostly.

Scully put her fists on her hips and gave a sigh that sounded like steam
escaping. "Son of a bitch," she muttered.

Mulder sympathized. The Cancer Man had that effect.

"What about that freighter?" she asked, still staring out at the boat.

"Sure. The freighter's good. But you need the paperwork." He thought a
moment, then asked, "What did Skinner say?"

"Skinner said Krycek gave you paperwork we could use."

"Skinner's been wrong about me before," Mulder said coldly.

She faced him. At least, he thought, she had the decency not to look
pitiful. Her expression was cool, neutral. "You don't have the letters of
transit?" she asked.

He decided to return her courtesy and answer her bluntly. He didn't want
to hurt her. He didn't want to do anything that would permit someone else
to hurt her. But he didn't have the strength to take the fall for her,
either. He was *not* planning to get himself embroiled in some quixotic
absurdity that probably wouldn't save her anyway. Been there, done that,
had the scars. If she knew that right up-front, maybe she would find her
own solution.

He said, "I might have some idea where they might be, but if I were to
come across them I wouldn't give them up."

She stared at him. "You mean to use them yourself?"

"No."

Her perplexed frown deepened. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying I've got a pretty comfortable situation here, and I'm not
planning to screw it up."

She glanced away and then back. "What the hell happened to you after you
left Washington?" she asked. Her tone was bitter.

"I had a close encounter with reality."

She shook her head. "So what? So you woke up one morning and suddenly
realized that life sucks? Why didn't you just ask me--I could've told you
that. Jesus Christ, Mulder, that's the most pathetic excuse for amorality
I ever heard."

"Look, Scully, I'm still alive. It's about all I've got left. If you want
me to give that up, too, get your gun back out and get it over with."

Her look was penetrating suddenly. "What happened to your mother?"

"What you think." *The same thing that happens to everybody who gets
close to me sooner or later.*

She looked at the ground. "I'm sorry," she said.

A heavy silence hung between them, broken only by the cries of gulls and
the lazy thrashing of the surf.

Finally, she said, "Why won't you give me the letters? No one has to
know. I don't know if you care about such things any more, but Agent
Pendrell's work has the potential to save thousands of lives. He
discovered a link between the venom in the bee stings and the substance
in that Mars rock Krycek led us to in Washington. He discovered that an
immunity can be built up if..."

Mulder felt as if his head might simply explode. Pendrell had not
discovered that. Mulder had handed it to him, both in the files he had
e-mailed to the FBI office and in the blood he had given up in North
Carolina. The bastard hadn't just taken Scully away from him--he had also
taken credit for work that actually had been Mulder's.

He shoved his anger down into the cold, dark place where he kept all his
other pointless, bothersome emotions. The truth was, although he had
known there was a link between the bees and the black cancer, he hadn't
had the biomedical expertise to do anything about it. Pendrell did, and
right now, that was the important thing. Not who had figured out what the
stuff was, but who could render it harmless. Mulder focused on a seagull
side-slipping on the breeze and forced himself calm.

"It's very important work," Scully was saying.

"Crucial," Mulder agreed.

"We could save thousands of lives," she repeated.

"Millions."

"We need to get to California to continue it, to finish it."

"But it would be better yet to get to Hawaii, where you can be
undisturbed for a period of time."

"Yes." She seemed relieved that he had understood that.

"Then why come to me? Why not go to the SEB?"

She glanced away. "They have been...uncooperative. They tried to stop us
from leaving New Orleans."

"Really," Mulder said, though he was not the least bit surprised. "And
just why do you suppose that is? Has it occurred to you, has it ever
crossed your mind, that maybe they don't *want* to see an antivenin
developed? That maybe they have plans of their own for what's left of the
continent after all of us are gone?"

Her lips compressed in that prim little grimace that he knew meant she
thought he was so full of bullshit his eyes had turned brown.

"I see your paranoia's undimmed," she said.

"I've seen what they have in mind for the future," he said. "And it
doesn't leave much room for independent science projects."

She sighed heavily. "Is that what this is about, Mulder? You've become so
consumed with hopeless cynicism that you just don't even care enough to
try any more? You couldn't stop the bees, so you don't want anybody else
to either?"

He held her look and said nothing.

"Simple cowardice at least would've made sense," she said bitterly. "But
you're no coward."

"If you really want to know, ask your husband," Mulder said, between his
teeth. "He can explain it far better than I can."

"What would Pendrell know about it?"

"Everything," Mulder grated, and he turned sharply and walked away.

Continued in Part 10.
lochness@mindspring.com

Letters of Transit (10/14) By Loch Ness

Please do not repost to ATXFC. Already sent to Gossamer U.S. archive; OK
to archive elsewhere or redistribute as long as Loch Ness is acknowledged
as author and nothing of value is exchanged. ***Not to be entered in or
nominated for any competition or award.***

Classification: T, RA
Crossover references to the film *Casablanca*
International readers: US4 spoilers.
Rating: NC-17, for VIOLENCE, PROFANITY and (M/S) SEX. If you are
under-age, please do not read this.
See Part 0 for disclaimer, summary and introductory notes.

***********************************************************************

Letters of Transit (10/14)
By Loch Ness

July 22
Galveston

Good help was *so* hard to find.

The smoking man sighed out a plume of blue-gray vapor as if to release
his anger along with the smoke. "You miserable bungler," he said to his
aide.

The aide stood there, half-in and half-out of his environment suit, still
trembling visibly from his experience with Krycek in Houston. "He...he
killed Vern," the aide said helplessly.

They had met at the Galveston hospital as had been planned all along.
Only the arrangement had been for Krycek to be here, too, as the first
step in an elaborate plan to make Dana Scully and Ted Pendrell think they
had found the right antivenin, in hopes they would distribute it only to
find it a failure--just before the bees arrived in Galveston and killed
them. Krycek had the immunity, of course--he would recover no matter what
drugs Scully and Pendrell gave him. But without Krycek's bee-stung,
writhing body lying on a gurney, the plan was likely to come apart at the
seams.

"Grow up," the smoking man said. "This is dangerous work--if you planned
to live forever, you should've gone into accounting. All you had to do
was haul Krycek into the truck and bring him back here. Were my orders
not specific enough for your tiny little mind to grasp?"

"No, sir. But I thought--"

"No, you didn't *think*. If you had, you'd have done as you were told.
And when you need to *think*, I'll tell you *what* to think. Is that
clear?"

"Yes, sir."

"It'd better be," the smoking man snarled. He stalked out into the hot
afternoon sun. *Stupid son of a bitch,* he thought. He wondered how he
could accomplish what he wanted without Krycek.

He'd have to find another way to discredit and trap Mr. and Mrs.
Pendrell.

                                 ****

Scully spent the rest of the afternoon searching for a boat. Not that she
hadn't believed what Mulder had told her about there not being any
available, but hell--even Mulder could overlook something now and then,
especially when he wasn't particularly motivated to look. Besides, what
else did she have to do except sit around the hotel?

She had no intention of asking her husband any questions, as Mulder had
suggested. It made no sense whatever that Pendrell would know anything
about Mulder's motivations--Ted had never really known Mulder that well.
Nobody knew Mulder well unless he wanted them to, and he didn't often
make the effort. There was some evidence he'd had a more-or-less normal
social life before he had launched on his quest after his sister--he did
have a few friends from that time before--but since then the term "lone
wolf" pretty much had defined Mulder's leisure time.

In fact, given the depressing nature of what Mulder had told her, Scully
was thinking she might not even mention to Pendrell that she had spoken
to her former partner, at least not until Pendrell brought it up himself.
He had been acting a little squirrelly ever since they had encountered
Mulder at the bar. Maybe a little jealous. She'd always thought she might
like to make a man jealous, for once, but she'd found when it happened
that she actually didn't care for it at all. Seemed like he ought to have
learned to trust her more than that.

Walking by one deserted, ramshackle marina after another on the north
side of the island, she grew more and more annoyed about it all.

Damn Mulder. Damn Pendrell. Damn them both, and for that matter, all men.
Petulant, willful creatures, ruled by their hormones, acting on those
chemical impulses with social impunity.

She gave up searching for a boat at around seven o'clock, as the sun
finally began to sink slowly toward the horizon. Either they'd have to
find a way onto that freighter, or they'd have to try to go overland.

Or maybe take Bloodworth up on his offer and hope they could get away
once they reached Denver.

She hated the thought of it, but their options were being whittled down,
one by one.

                                 ****

Mulder didn't start to get worried about Frohike until 10 o'clock. The
little man functioned on his own terms, on his own schedule. He was the
eyes and ears for the whole operation at the club, and he needed freedom
of movement to make that work. He came and went as he pleased. But the
Jeep was gone, and it looked like he wasn't going to make it back by
curfew at midnight.

"He say where he was going?" Mulder asked Langly at about ten-thirty.

Langly shrugged, flipping his long blond hair off one shoulder. "Haven't
talked to him all day," he said.

Mulder sighed, looking around the club, trying to sniff out any ferrets
Skinner or the Cancer Man might have sent in. He didn't see any.

"Don't sweat it," Langly said. "He's probably lying low somewhere. You
know Frohike--he's a very cautious man."

"Yeah," Mulder said, unconvinced. After the club closed at eleven-thirty
he went upstairs to the apartment over the bar, pacing the floor. He was
tired. He hadn't slept well the night before, and this night didn't seem
to hold much promise for rest, either.

Times like this, he missed the numbing diversion of cable television. He
loaded up the CD player, grabbing discs at random, paying no attention to
which ones he put in, intending to let them function as white noise in
the background. Then he opened the sliding glass door and sat on the
balcony in the dark, staring out at the ocean and the moonlight.

Suddenly something in the music penetrated. He frowned, his attention
sharpening. "...In the end what you don't surrender/Well the world just
strips away..."

*Shit.* Springsteen, "Human Touch"--it was Scully's disc. He had no idea
how it had gotten mixed up in his stuff. Scooped up in a rush while they
were on the road, likely. He jerked up, intending to turn it off. But
when he got within reach of the stereo, he found he couldn't do it.

"...You can't shut off the risk and the pain/Without losin' the love that
remains/We're all riders on this train..."

He let the song play through. The sound of it in his ears was like having
her arms around him. He knew he was playing with fire, but somehow he
just couldn't pull himself away from the flames.

                                 ****

Finally, about two in the morning, Mulder heard something downstairs.
Hand on his gun, he peered around the edge of the door and saw Frohike
gallumphing breathlessly up the stairs.

Mulder stepped around the door. "Where the hell have you been?" he
demanded.

Frohike ignored the question. "Where's Scully?"

Mulder frowned in confusion. Even Frohike wasn't usually this direct or
this crude. "Down the boulevard in the Best Western, why?"

The burly little man went galloping down the stairs toward the back door
and out. What the hell, Mulder thought. Then Byers, from the kitchen,
called to him.

"You'd better come have a look," Byers said, and disappeared through the
double doors again.

Mulder sighed and went down. On the prep table in the center of the
kitchen, a grimy, sweaty figure writhed weakly and emitted a series of
short, low moans. Mulder couldn't recognize the swollen face any more
than Frohike had.

But he didn't have to. The guy was alive.

It had to be Krycek.

*Shit,* Mulder thought. *Here we go.*

                                 ****

Frohike brought Pendrell and Skinner back with Scully. Mulder glared at
the A.D., then at Frohike. The little man returned the scathing glance
with an apologetic shrug. Mulder went out to the bar to make a fresh pot
of coffee--before this was over, they'd all need it. Frohike followed.

"I couldn't help it," he whispered. "He was with them at the hotel."

"Who saw you bring the victim back from Houston?"

"Nobody," Frohike said. Then he thought about it for a moment. "Well,
Frank and Hector on the causeway."

*Wonderful,* Mulder thought. Those two would've been on the phone to
Skinner in two seconds flat. The A.D. had known about it--and probably
relayed the information to the Cancer Man--before Frohike had had time to
drive across the causeway. And that, naturally, would explain why Skinner
was at the hotel with Pendrell and Scully.

Frohike caught Mulder's long-suffering look and said, "I know--they're
Skinner's moles, but there was nothing I could do about it. What was I
supposed to do? Leave him there to die?"

"He's not going to die," Mulder said, disgusted. "Nevermind--it's done.
We'll deal with it."

"There was another one with him. A dead one, wearing most of an
environment suit. Fresh dead, like they were hit at the same time. And I
found this on the body." Frohike handed over an ID wallet, nearly
identical to the one Mulder had carried. Only this guy's badge had been
issued by the Special Emigration Bureau.

Mulder frowned at Frohike. "That doesn't make any sense," he said.

Frohike shrugged. "I know."

When Mulder took the coffee back into the kitchen, Scully was giving
Krycek a shot. Whatever it was, he began to quiet, almost immediately.

"He must have been exposed before," she said.

"The question is how," Pendrell said.

"And why he didn't die the first time," Skinner put in.

Mulder sipped his coffee in silence. Pendrell shot a look at him--but
Mulder didn't react. *Hell, you know more about it than I do,* he
thought. *You want to be a hero? Cool. Earn it.*

"Do we know who he is?" Scully asked.

Frohike shook his head.

She sighed. "Well, he's stable enough," she said. "At this point we can
treat him symptomatically--just provide support and see what happens."

"Can he be moved?" Mulder asked.

Her look would've vaporized diamond.

"Look," Mulder said, "this is a bar, not a hospital."

"Sure, fine. Whatever," she said, between her teeth. "God knows we
wouldn't want to inconvenience you. I just thought it might be better not
to have it get around the rumor mill. I'd love to take credit for curing
him, but I think that's a bit premature and maybe completely
unwarranted."

Mulder shrugged and went back out for more coffee. This time it was
Skinner who followed him. "Mulder," he said, "you know something you're
not telling."

"Sure," Mulder said. "I know, for example, that Ioannina is a city in
northwestern Greece and that pavid is a synonym for fearful. But I can't
imagine what use it would be to say so in the present situation."

"You know what I meant. It's Krycek, isn't it?"

"Huh. You know, he *does* kind of look like Krycek, doesn't he?"

"Why would the smoking man let him go?"

"Who said he did? How do you know Krycek didn't escape on his own? And
why ask me? Why don't you ask your pal, Bloodworth?"

"Goddammit, Mulder--"

"You know, this is fascinating. I don't think you've ever really wanted
to know what I thought before--I don't believe you've ever asked me what
was my theory."

"That's crap, and you know it."

Mulder put both hands flat on the bar. "All right, you want to know what
I think--I think the Cancer Man is setting us all up for a fall."

>From the kitchen door, Scully said, "A third-grader could've figured that
one out."

*Goddammit,* Mulder thought. He should've known. Two years ago he
would've known--that Scully wouldn't let go of it, that she'd follow him
out, dog him to say what he thought, what theories were forming in his
head. *Stupid.*

"Well, then, maybe you ought to get yourself a third-grader to figure out
what comes next," he grated.

"How was Krycek exposed? When?" Scully pressed.

They'd been in Siberia together, but if Krycek had been in the same room,
had the same black worms crawl up his nose, suffered the same convulsions
and nausea while restrained in one of those chicken-wire cages, Mulder
hadn't actually witnessed it. He hadn't been in any condition to witness
it. "How the hell should I know?" he asked.

"Then tell me what you *think* happened!" Scully yelled.

He stopped himself from recoiling away from her, but he didn't manage not
to flinch. Scully enraged was fearsome--he had forgotten that about her,
too. She had that drill-parade voice--must have learned from it her
father--and there was something about somebody that small coming at him
like doom on wheels that suggested she had a sledgehammer held behind her
back. Scully could kick ass and take names with the best. Mulder had seen
her do it. He'd been the victim of it.

He drew a long breath to settle ragged nerves. He was angry, she was
angry; time to cool things off.

"Look," he said, his voice low, "he was working with the Cancer Man when
I first met him--I'm sure of that much. For all I know, he was one of
their experiments."

Skinner said, "They could've exposed their own people to give them an
immunity, so they wouldn't be killed if there was an accident."

Mulder pulled the SEB badge Frohike had given him out of his pocket and
tossed it on the bar. "Yeah, except there was a corpse with him. Frohike
found that on the body. Like they were trying to kill Krycek and it went
bad somehow. Or he was trying to get away from them and it went bad. I
don't know."

"They were together?" Scully asked.

"It looks that way."

"But if Krycek was on Bloodworth's payroll, wouldn't Bloodworth know that
Krycek had been exposed?"

"I don't know, Scully--I'm trying to work this out just like you are."

Langly strolled in then, reading the morning newspaper, fresh from the
curb in front of the bar.

"All right," Skinner said, "for the hell of it, let's assume that
Bloodworth did know he'd been exposed before. What would he gain by
taking Krycek to Houston and letting him get stung?"

"Maybe this," Langly said, and he handed over the paper.

Mulder took it from him. The headline, in type sized appropriately for
the second coming, read: "Medical breakthrough: Doctors save man stung by
bees." The story quoted Bloodworth, in his capacity as deputy director of
the SEB, as saying that government scientists Ted and Dana Pendrell were
"very hopeful" that they had found a cure for the stings.

"Oh, my God," Scully said, reading around his shoulder.

"Yeah," Mulder said. "He's setting you up. You try to leave the island
now, and the mob'll lynch you."

Continued in Part 11.
lochness@mindspring.com

Letters of Transit (11/14) By Loch Ness

Please do not repost to ATXFC. Already sent to Gossamer U.S. archive; OK
to archive elsewhere or redistribute as long as Loch Ness is acknowledged
as author and nothing of value is exchanged. ***Not to be entered in or
nominated for any competition or award.***

Classification: T, RA
Crossover references to the film *Casablanca*
International readers: US4 spoilers.
Rating: NC-17, for VIOLENCE, PROFANITY and (M/S) SEX. If you are
under-age, please do not read this.
See Part 0 for disclaimer, summary and introductory notes.

***********************************************************************

Letters of Transit (11/14)
By Loch Ness

July 23
Galveston

With the news about Krycek now all over the island, Scully saw no point
in trying to keep him out of sight, so they took him to the hospital in
Frohike's Jeep and left him there with specific instructions about how he
should be treated.

Then she and Pendrell went back to the hotel, both of them exhausted and
discouraged. Pendrell flopped on the bed. "Do you think he's right about
what Bloodworth wants?"

"I don't know," Scully said. "In effect, that would mean Bloodworth's
trying to dupe us into thinking we actually have effected a cure--but I
don't understand why. Mulder said he doesn't think the SEB wants us to
find a cure. But that doesn't make any sense. I don't understand what
they'd gain from it."

"Did you ask Mulder about the letters of transit?" Pendrell asked.

She sighed heavily. How much to tell him? "Yes. But it was useless,"
Scully said, pacing across the hotel room. "He was..." She shrugged. "He
was in one of his moods. He was bitter and hateful, and nothing he said
made any sense. But the bottom line is, he's not giving up the letters."

"Did he say why?" Pendrell asked quietly.

Scully gave a bitter chuckle, but it died when she looked at her husband.
He was pale, his face tight with anxiety. "Ted, are you all right? You
look like you're not feeling well."

"Did he say why?" he repeated, in a hoarse whisper.

Slowly, she said, "He said I should ask you." God, what new horror was
coming now? "He said you could explain it better than he could."

Pendrell closed his eyes and let his head incline forward so that she
couldn't see his face. Softly he said, "Well, that was chivalrous of
him."

Chivalrous? She went over to sit on the bed beside him. "What are you
talking about? Ted, what is it?"

He kept his head down and rubbed his hands along his thighs, his pose
abject misery. She waited him out.

Finally he said, "You remember when I went to North Carolina? When I
brought back the samples from the 'unidentified survivor'?"

"Sure, but what has that got to do with--" She snapped. "That was
Mulder?"

He nodded. "He'd been exposed to the active toxin in the venom when he
was in Russia, in Tunguska. I don't know how; he never said. So he had
some immunity already. But he wasn't doing very well--I didn't think he
was going to make it."

Scully sat very still. Nothing in the universe would've kept her from
Mulder if she had known he was alive. Pendrell had known that. And yet he
hadn't told her.

"I think..." Pendrell hesitated. "Dana, I told him you were dead. And
after that, it was like he just gave up. Then one night he left the
hospital. Disappeared."

She got up. Suddenly her skin crawled at the mere thought of being in the
same room with him.

"The truth is, I think I came as close to killing him as the bees did,
just by telling him you were gone," he said. "But I loved you, too, and
it was clear to me at the time he wasn't going to live. I didn't think it
would matter."

"So you were going to let him die thinking he was all alone in the
universe? That there was nothing left for him?"

"I know you'll hate me for it. And I don't blame you." He looked up
suddenly, his eyes brimming with tears. "If you decide to stay with him,
I won't make any trouble."

She couldn't breathe, couldn't think. She was trembling, feverish. She
fled, out the door, across the deserted boulevard and down the seawall to
the beach. She ran and ran, heedless of direction, until the soft brown
sand under her feet finally exhausted her and she had to slow to a
dispirited walk.

She felt suddenly as if she were trapped between them. Pendrell, who
could save the world, if only the world would let him. Mulder, for whom
she would happily give the world up, if only he would let her.

She'd have to choose between them; there was no other way. But she had
never been good at determining what she wanted for herself and herself
alone. She'd never had any trouble readily identifying what others wanted
or needed from her, but her own needs and desires had always seemed
unfocused, indefinable. Only occasionally had she found the will to
pursue things simply because *she* wanted them.

Did she want Mulder? God, yes. So much that the thought of him, the sight
of him, took her breath away. Yes, he was cynical and neurotic as hell.
He was an emotional quicksand of insatiable need and incurable pain, so
wounded he could hardly bear even the gentlest touch. Here on the island
his scars had hardened, but they were no less tender underneath. Scully
knew it would take more than a kiss to heal those wounds--she did not
delude herself that her love would cure him--and that until they were
healed, there would always be times when he just had nothing for her. He
had never been entirely insensitive to her needs. There was in him a
boundless, bottomless tenderness, a generosity he did not easily yield up
and which was, for its rarity, all the more precious. But his needs would
always predominate, and most times, he wouldn't even realize he was doing
that to her. If she opted to stay on the island and pillow her head on
Fox Mulder's chest, *that* was the life she realistically could look
forward to.

And yet, somehow, it was the life she wanted, more than she wanted her
next heartbeat. So which of them really was the neurotic?

Pendrell, on the other hand, was an endlessly giving sort. He had always
been sensitive to her every whim, sometimes giving her what she had not
even realized she needed until he had presented it to her. He had done
all the right things. There had been roses and candlelit evenings, and in
the midst of the hell the world had become, she had needed those things
much more than she ever would have conceded. And he had never asked
anything of her but that she let him love her. And so she had. She had
drifted along with her congenial partner, pleased to share a vital
professional effort with someone who approached it with the same
no-nonsense attitude she held. He had made that easy for her, and in such
a difficult environment, she had been relieved to find that something
could be easy. It had even been easy to make love to him, to close her
eyes and pretend that his hands belonged to someone else.

The only thing that had not been easy had been convincing herself that
there couldn't have been something more.

Yes, Pendrell had given her everything she needed. Except that when he'd
had the opportunity to take *Mulder* away from her, he had snapped at the
chance. And all he had to offer her now, in compensation, was to suggest
that he wouldn't make trouble if she left him? He'd been wrong when he'd
said she would hate him--she couldn't do that. But she couldn't forgive
him, either. Between she and Pendrell, things would never be easy again.

Still, she couldn't simply walk out on him, either. The antivenin still
had to be perfected--she couldn't escape that.

Scully saw lights above her and to her left, and she looked up. She had
drawn even with the Casablanca Club, almost as if she had been pulled
there by some unfathomable magnet. She closed her eyes, her throat
constricting suddenly, a sharp ache welling up in her chest.

God. How would she ever figure out what to do?

                                 ****

The sun was coming up, and Mulder still hadn't slept. Then again, he
figured sleeping probably wasn't all that safe an idea just now. Lots of
things could happen in the dark, when one's eyes were closed, and most of
them, in his experience, were bad things.

He drifted downstairs into the kitchen for a snack, and when he headed
back to the apartment with a plate of toast and jam, he heard footsteps
on the dock outside.

It was Pendrell, peering through the window with his hands cupped around
his eyes so he could see past the reflection of the morning sun on the
glass. *Shit--that's what I need. The red-headed lab geek come to ask
forgiveness. Fucker.*

He sighed and went to open the door. "Something I can help you with?"

"I need to talk to you," Pendrell said. He had his shoulders hunched up a
little, as if to steel himself against a blow.

Mulder would've liked to hit him, but it would've felt like child abuse.
He settled for verbal needling instead.

"And the reason why I would want to talk to you is...?"

"It's not for me. It's for Dana."

"I think she's your responsibility these days."

"Look, it's not her fault," Pendrell said, all in a rush. "She didn't
know--I didn't tell her I saw you alive in--" He stopped short and drew a
breath, as if he were trying to get his nerves under control. "Can I come
in?"

Mulder didn't want to let him in. He wanted to kick his scrawny butt to
the Moon. But then, who knew who might be listening? He held the door
open and backed away so Pendrell could follow him in. He let the door
swing shut, then pulled out a chair and sat down.

"Mulder," Pendrell said, "I know what you must think of me."

"Yeah? What exactly would that be?"

He pulled out a chair and sat down across from Mulder. "That I'm...a
pathetic weasel."

Mulder took a bite of toast and nodded encouragingly. *Not bad for a
start.*

The younger man swallowed hard. "And I guess you're right. But I was in
love with her."

Mulder hooked a thumb toward the street. "Take a number," he growled.

"I shouldn't have done it, and I'm sorry."

Mulder nodded again. "Yeah, I'm sorry, too. So what? What do you want,
Pendrell? My forgiveness? Why should I give it to you?"

Pendrell drew a heavy breath and pinned him with a hard look. "Do you
have the letters of transit or not?"

Well, that was blunt enough. Mulder returned his stare. "If I did, what
would you suggest I do with them?"

"I know you've got no reason to want to help me. But I don't want Dana to
get ground up in whatever Bloodworth's planning. Use the letters to take
her to Hawaii. Just go, the two of you. I'll be all right here. That's
what you want, isn't it? To be with her?"

Mulder blinked in surprise. Now here was a twist. "You're asking me to
use the letters of transit to run off with your wife?"

"I want her to be safe," Pendrell said. "I know you want that, too. If
Bloodworth's really trying to trap us here, I don't want her to get
caught."

Mulder felt something in his chest tighten, like a big snake coiling
itself close around a tree's limb. He thought of black-sand beaches, of
food that didn't come out of a can, of going to sleep with Scully's hair
spread across his chest like dawn. "You're serious?"

"God, yes. Just take her and go. I know she still cares for you."

Mulder realized he was breathing too fast. *Cares for me?* If so, she'd
given little sign of it. Of course, he'd been acting like an asshole,
mostly--quite on purpose. It was possible, he supposed...

No. No, no, no. He shoved his feelings back down into the pit of his
stomach. Why should he believe Pendrell? Why should he trust him? But for
some reason, his heartbeat would not slow down.

"It's an interesting offer," Mulder said carefully. "But I'm not sure it
would work--you and your wife and I are under surveillance, you know."

"We are?" Pendrell's eyes had gone wide. "Are you sure?"

God, the lab geek was a naive little bunny. Now Mulder understood what
Scully had seen in him--she was something of a rescuer personality. It
was part of what had bound her to Mulder for so long.

"Yeah," he said dryly, "I'm pretty sure." *Or if we're not, Skinner's not
doing his job, and he's usually very competent.* "So if I were to try to
find the letters, the odds are good that Bloodworth and his hounds would
snatch them right away from me the minute I had them."

"Damn," Pendrell said, crestfallen.

Mulder got up, leaving his toast uneaten. "So you see," he said, "I
really can't help you."

"Can't?" Pendrell asked harshly. "Or won't?"

Mulder shrugged. "Take your pick. Either way, the answer's no."

"You really want to see her die here?"

"Everybody's got to die somewhere," Mulder said. "If you'll excuse me,
I've had a long night."

He returned to the apartment and shut the door. Then he stood there for a
long time, leaning back against the door, his pulse thudding heavily. A
savage mix of anger and fear and longing had suddenly boiled up inside
him, and he couldn't push it away despite his desperate wish for the
cool, soothing hardness of apathy. God, why had they had come here? He
had worked so hard to dull himself, to strip away his sentimentality. He
had thought pain had finally burned all that mawkish crap out of him, yet
here it was, to torment him again.

Pendrell, trying to repair the past by offering Mulder a future he had
thought could never exist. And it was working, goddammit--he really was
tempted. *Just take her and go.* God, how sweet that sounded. He and
Scully together, fighting the bad guys, working, loving. The thought of
it was enough to make his heart burst open with joy and terror. He let
his head fall against the door and closed his eyes, fighting with all his
strength to get the images out of his mind.

He had already lost it all once. He knew he couldn't stand it again. His
only defense had been not to have anything that he cared to lose, and up
until the moment Scully had walked back into his life, it had been
working.

Not again. God, it hurt so. He did not ever want to care about someone so
much. And yet--to have the chance once more, and turn away from it...

God, it hurt.

Something touched his face then, and he jerked hard away, eyes opening
wide, reaching for his gun.

It was Scully, her hand up where her fingers had grazed his cheek. "Are
you all right?" she asked, frowning in concern.

"How the hell did you get in here?" he demanded. His heart was galloping,
his hands shaking.

"I knocked on the side door, and Byers showed me to the back stairs from
the kitchen. I told him I wanted to talk to you."

*I'll kill the son of a bitch.* He turned away, rubbing the back of his
neck to try to release tension in the muscles. "Yeah, well, I'm not
really up for an extended dialogue, Scul--" He sighed. "Mrs. Pendrell."

For a moment, she said nothing. Then, "I did what you said. I asked him
why. He told me what happened in North Carolina."

Mulder drew a long breath, hoping it would steady him. He faced her.
"Look, you have the letters. I sneaked them into the front pocket of your
handbag out on Pelican Island. You never use that pocket for anything,
but you always check it when you're getting ready to leave somewhere. I
figured you'd plan to make a dash for the freighter and right before you
did, you'd find them." He breathed again. "So you can go now."

He saw her move toward him, saw her move to wrap her arms around him, and
he stepped backward out of reach so fast he knocked something off the
bookshelf behind him. "Don't," he said sharply. It came out at a higher
pitch than his normal range--almost like a yelp.

Her frown had deepened. "Mulder--"

"No. It's too late, Scully. It's over. I'll be fine. You just go."

"I'm not going anywhere."

"I want you to. You and Pendrell--I'm telling you to go."

"Stop it," she whispered. She took a step toward him.

"No!" he yelled. "Don't do this to me! Oh, God--leave me alone!"

That had the desired effect--it stopped her, her eyes dusky blue with
confusion. "I don't understand," she murmured.

He was shaking so hard he thought his knees would go out from under him,
but he locked his jaw and hung on grimly. "Go," he said again.

"Mulder, I know how it must've hurt you--"

"No, you don't. You had him, and you could go on like that. You don't
have any idea what it was like. You want to know what happened to me? You
did, Scully. I lost you, and I couldn't stand it, and it's too fucking
late."

Softly she said, "I cried for you, too, Mulder."

"What is it you think, Scully? You think we can rent a bungalow right
here on the island and live out our lives behind a little white picket
fence? Just you and me and baby makes three? Play out the American dream
by the seashore? Yeah, we can do that, for a few months--until the bees
come and kill you, and I have to watch you die while I'm helplessly
retching my guts up. And then I go on alone again." He gasped in a
shuddering breath. "You don't get to do that to me again, Scully. Tell me
the truth, goddammit--you waited for me, didn't you?"

"Not so long that I couldn't get away. I knew, Mulder--I knew why you
asked me that. I didn't want to do that to you, and I didn't." She
stepped toward him again. He was up against the bookshelf and couldn't
back away.

"Mulder," she said, "I love you. I always have, and I always will." She
reached toward his face.

"Please don't touch me," he whispered.

She let her hand drop. "All right," she said. "I don't want to hurt you
any more. If you want me to go, I will."

"Please."

She went a couple of steps toward the door, then stopped. "I'm still
alive, Fox--I'm still here. I didn't wait for you."

He closed his eyes tight and held his breath until she was gone. It was
the only way he could hold the sobs inside long enough for her to go.

He hadn't wanted her to hear them. He knew she couldn't stand them any
more than he could.

Continued in Part 12.
lochness@mindspring.com

Letters of Transit (12/14) By Loch Ness

Please do not repost to ATXFC. Already sent to Gossamer U.S. archive; OK
to archive elsewhere or redistribute as long as Loch Ness is acknowledged
as author and nothing of value is exchanged. ***Not to be entered in or
nominated for any competition or award.***

Classification: T, RA
Crossover references to the film *Casablanca*
International readers: US4 spoilers.
Rating: NC-17, for VIOLENCE, PROFANITY and (M/S) SEX. If you are
under-age, please do not read this.
See Part 0 for disclaimer, summary and introductory notes.

***********************************************************************

Letters of Transit (12/14)
By Loch Ness

July 23
Galveston

Scully returned to the beach with her thoughts in a whirl, walking
aimlessly along just at the water's edge, not caring that the surf
occasionally splashed over her shoes. Where else did she have to go?

In a way, seeing Mulder in such anguish had been almost a relief. She was
so much more accustomed to the Mulder whose feelings were bruised as
easily as a four-year-old's. The one who was in some ways as delicate as
a butterfly's wing. Looking back now, she realized she'd known he was
aching underneath the icy facade he had presented to her. More in what he
hadn't said, hadn't revealed, he had given it away to her in ways so
subtle she had recognized them only viscerally. Along her spine, not in
her brain.

She was stunned at how much his rejection of her hurt. Scully had always
thought of herself as the one who supplied others' needs--as the one who
fulfilled *his* needs. It had never been clear to her before how much she
needed him.

Part of her wanted to do as he had asked her. Get on the freighter with
Ted and leave. Pretend they had not met again and settle back into the
comfortable blank space somewhere between happiness and misery that she
had been occupying in New Orleans. That would save both of them the pain
of re-opening the sores, re-learning to trust, to believe, to have faith
in each other. Another part yearned to stay--to rush back to him and wrap
herself around him like a bandage. To reclaim what he had given her two
years ago.

Except that she wasn't sure either of them could stand even a healing
touch.

God, how would she decide what to do?

                                  ****

Skinner went by the hospital at mid-morning to see how Krycek was doing.
He had tried to call the smoking man but got no answer--whatever the
bastard was up to, he was being damned quiet about it.

Skinner had spent much of the night thinking about Mulder, about the way
he was behaving, about what he had said and not said. The son of a bitch
was right--Mulder had learned well from example and he now was acting
like Skinner always had. Maintaining distance, maintaining plausible
denial, withholding information, holding himself aloof from the issues
and the action. It wasn't a very attractive picture, and Skinner didn't
like seeing either of them in that light.

*You were the kind of commanding officer to him that you always hated in
'Nam--the kind who'd send troops into a mine field and then sit back
waiting to see if anybody got his head blown off.*

Not an appealing image at all. He ground his teeth, shoved the thoughts
out of his mind and headed for Krycek's room.

Krycek was asleep when he arrived. The guard Skinner had assigned said
he'd slept through the night, his condition apparently improving slowly
but steadily. Skinner had hoped to talk to Krycek, to see if he knew
anything about what the smoking man might be trying to accomplish, but he
decided not to wake him until he knew more details about his condition.
Instead he went to find Pendrell in the hospital's lab.

He found him with one sleeve rolled up and a hypodermic needle in his
other hand, a sheepish look on his face at being discovered.

"What are you doing?" Skinner asked, forcing his tone neutral.

Pendrell glanced away and then back. "I think I've isolated what it is in
Krycek's blood that provided him with an immunity."

That didn't exactly answer the question, but Skinner decided not to push
the issue. "What is it, then?"

"It's a micro-organism that generates an antitoxin when stimulated by the
active ingredient in the bee stings. The ones I got from Krycek last
night were quite active." He gestured toward the microscope, and Skinner
took a look.

He couldn't see a damned thing and said so.

"They look like tiny gnats," Pendrell said. "Little black dots, mostly
sticking to the blood cells."

Skinner looked again, and then he saw them, clinging to a round, pillowy
 red corpuscle like sprinkles on a doughnut. "So those little things are
what made Krycek immune to the bee stings?"

"I think so, yes."

He straightened up from the eyepieces. "And you figured that out
overnight?"

Pendrell pursed his lips in annoyance and shook his head. "I've been
working on this for two years, and I suspected for some time now it was
something like that. But we never could isolate it--they don't show up
until they've been inflamed by the toxin, and the only samples I had to
work with came from someone who'd been stung more than a day before I was
able to draw blood. The results were inconclusive."

"You had a sample from someone else who had an immunity?" Skinner was
surprised--he had thought he knew more-or-less how Scully and Pendrell
had been proceeding.

A fleeting look of distaste crossed Pendrell's face, lip slightly curled.
"Yeah. Mulder."

"You boys have a falling out?" Skinner asked, and then, before Pendrell
could answer, he knew.

Scully.

"Oh," he said. "Yeah. I get it."

"It was my fault," Pendrell said.

"I don't need to know."

"Anyway, I thought he must have had some kind of micro-organism,
something that was producing an antibody or an anti-toxin in his system,
but I never could prove it. The organisms were just about gone by the
time I got hold of the first sample--he'd been floating around on that
ferry out by Martha's Vineyard for more than thirty hours. I only saw
them once, in the microscope, and then they were gone. And the second
blood sample I drew didn't show them at all."

Skinner nodded. "So now you think that if we can introduce the same
organisms into other people before they get stung, that will protect them
from the stings?"

"I don't know if 'protect' is quite the right word. You saw what Krycek
was like when they brought him in--he's not going to die, but he's damned
sick, just like Mulder was."

"But people won't *die,*" Skinner pointed out.

"Right. I mean, it's not the answer, but it's all we've got, and if it
really works, it's a helluva lot better than nothing."

"Uh, huh," Skinner said. "So your plan was to stick yourself with these
things and see if it works?"

"Yes." He shrugged. "Somebody's got to test it. I don't know how much
time there is before the bees get here--not much, if they're as close as
Houston."

"And if it doesn't work? Pendrell, if you try it on yourself, then who
finishes up the work?"

He colored slightly. "Dana can do it," he said softly. He inclined his
head toward the computer. "I left her all my notes."

Skinner nodded. Time to get out into the mine field. "I've got a better
idea," he said.

                                 ****

Mulder had slept finally, after his emotional outburst, and had awakened
balled up around his pillow, feeling drained but calm, as if the release
had greatly relieved some pressure that had been building. The bar had
been pretty quiet all evening, giving him a chance to drift for a few
hours.

But he figured it wouldn't last, and when he saw Scully coming up the
dock, he wasn't really surprised. She was walking swiftly, bearing
straight for him, her I'm-in-a-hurry manner telling him it wasn't a
social call.

That was all right; he preferred it that way.

"Can I talk to you privately?" she said quietly, and headed toward the
kitchen without waiting for his answer.

Son of a bitch, Mulder thought. She just treated me like a witness she
wants to interview. He shook his head in wonder and followed her.

"What's up?" he asked, once he went through the double doors.

"I need some ice," she said. "The hospital's run out of it."

"Okay." He stuck his head back out the doors and made a "come-here"
motion at Frohike. "What's happened? Krycek take a turn for the worse?"

Scully sighed. "No. It's Skinner."

Mulder frowned. "What happened to Skinner?"

"He volunteered to be exposed to the micro-organisms that create the
immunity to the bee stings." She didn't look or sound happy about this.
She was holding her mouth in that I-think-this-is-bullshit grimace again.

"You know what causes the immunity?"

"Ted thinks he does. And all I can do now is hope to hell he's right."

Frohike came in.

Mulder said, "Go up to Seward's place, remind him how big a favor he owes
us, and tell him to send--" He looked at Scully. "A hundred pounds
enough?"

Scully nodded. "That should be plenty."

"A hundred pounds of ice over to Galveston General."

Frohike glanced at Scully, murmured, "On my way," and took off.

When he had gone, Scully said, "Tell me about Tunguska."

"I went, I got captured, had some black shit stuffed up my nose by some
people I did not regard as gentlemen. I got away."

She inclined her head. "You know what I mean."

"Yeah, but I can't tell you what you really want to know. I don't know
what the stuff was--I mean, not *exactly* what it was. I just know it
came from the meteorite that crashed there. I can only vaguely estimate
how much of it they gave me. A tablespoon, maybe two. All I know is, the
symptoms I had were pretty much the same as when I got stung. I thought
so even before I got stung, just from watching the victims on the news.
And from seeing people get hit in Ohio when I went to get the bee I
brought back to D.C."

"That's why you went to Ohio, wasn't it? Because you thought there was a
connection."

"Yes."

"You went to Ohio to get yourself stung," she guessed.

"No. Well, yes. I mean, yeah, that was the plan. But the bee I saw in
Canada died after it stung. I wasn't really sure they were the same
bees--maybe they're not, exactly. So..." He shrugged. "I chickened. I
didn't actually get stung until I was on the ferry, headed for
Nantucket."

She sighed heavily. "How many times did you get stung?"

"I'm not sure. I remember two--but things got rather confused after that.
It could as easily have been five or a hundred." He thought a moment,
then said, "Skinner's really bad?"

"He was comatose for the first five hours. Now he's got a fever of a
hundred and four, and he's delirious. Convulsions, nausea."

"The usual, in other words," Mulder said.

"Yes." She ducked her head and rubbed the back of her neck. "I've seen
too many people die from this toxin." She sounded exhausted, and Mulder
supposed she probably was. Doubtful she'd had any more sleep than he had.
Maybe less.

"Well, for what it's worth, if he's made it this far, I doubt he'll die.
The remaining question is, will it really work if he gets stung? And
there's only one way to find out."

She looked up, and her startlingly blue eyes were haunted. "I know," she
said.

Suddenly there was a loud boom, like distant thunder or artillery fire.
They went silent, listening. Another boom, and then another.

"What the hell?" Scully said.

"Shit," Mulder said. "They're blowing the causeway."

                                 ****

July 24

Scully woke to a distantly familiar clicking sound. Before she even
opened her eyes, she knew what it was--Mulder playing Solitaire on his
laptop computer.

She'd always found watching him do that slightly annoying. He was
practically addicted to the thing--he'd play on and on for hours, and
sometimes had whiled away entire intercontinental flights with it,
seeming irritated when it came time to turn the computer off for landing.

But what was really irritating was that he was so damnably methodical
about it. Mulder--Mr. Quantum Leap of Intuition--had a system for
Solitaire and never varied from it. Turn up every card you can right at
the outset. Always leave a space to pull down a king. Never pull down low
cards unless you needed them to move something else.

It didn't even work. He lost most of the time. And he knew it didn't
work, and yet he persisted, as if he were following some script from
which he simply could not bring himself to deviate. She wondered if he
had learned that lousy card system from his father.

She sat up and stretched. They were at the hospital, in the same room
with Skinner and Krycek, who were still sleeping. Scully had made
Pendrell go and get some rest, protesting that she would watch over the
patients. And then, despite her best efforts, she had fallen asleep. She
wasn't sure what time Mulder had showed up to shoulder the rest of her
watch for her, but from the look of his wilted white tuxedo jacket, it
couldn't have been long after she'd dropped off.

He glanced up when she moved and wordlessly passed her a thermos.

"How long have you been here?" she asked, opening it.

"I came over after the bar closed up."

Scully breathed the warm, bitter scent in the bottle. "God," she said.
"This is *real* coffee, isn't it?"

"Costa Rican. Ought to be called Costa Bundle, but it's worth it."

"We couldn't get the real stuff in New Orleans. It was all burnt barley
and chicory."

"Shades of the Civil War." He moved a card with one hand and reached into
a pocket of his jacket with the other, withdrew a couple of brown paper
packets labeled "creamer."

"That stuff probably dates back to at least the Korean War," he said,
handing it to her. "It's Army surplus. But it's what we've got here on
our island paradise."

She opened one of the packets, sniffed, and decided to forgo it. The
coffee smelled so good, she didn't want to taint it with old, musty
creamer. "Not that I want to seem ungrateful, but..."

"I completely understand."

"Is there enough for me?" Skinner asked hoarsely.

Scully put the cup down and went to him. "I really don't think you
should, just yet," she said. "How are you feeling?"

"Like somebody scoured my guts with steel wool. I'm all right. Where are
my glasses?"

Scully handed them over. He was getting up. "Sir, I think you really
ought to rest for a while," she said.

"No time," Skinner said.

"Relax, Walter," Mulder said, closing up the laptop. "Nobody's going to
Houston today. They blew out the causeway last night."

Skinner frowned. "What the hell for?"

"Because the smoking man, speaking as deputy director of the SEB, told
them to."

"Son of a bitch," Skinner muttered.

"Are the bees getting closer?" Scully asked.

"No. According to the city's official reports the bees seem to have found
the old rice fields west of Houston very appealing, and the bulk of the
swarm is still out there eating like mad and...roosting, or whatever bees
do at night. And making little baby bees, I presume."

Mulder shrugged. "And on top of that, there's a tropical storm coming in
that's likely to blow the little bastards all the way back to San
Antonio."

"Then why destroy the bridge?" Scully asked.

>From behind her came a bitter, rough-throated laugh. "Man," Krycek said,"you people just don't get it, do you?"

"So why don't you tell us?" Skinner demanded.

The younger man propped himself up on his elbows in the hospital bed.
"They don't want anybody to get away. They don't want any of us to
survive--especially not anybody who could make it possible for a lot of
people to survive."

Krycek laughed again.

"They just want to sweep the planet clean," he said.

Continued in Part 13.
lochness@mindspring.com

Letters of Transit (13/14) ***NC-17*** By Loch Ness

Please do not repost to ATXFC. Already sent to Gossamer U.S. archive; OK
to archive elsewhere or redistribute as long as Loch Ness is acknowledged
as author and nothing of value is exchanged. ***Not to be entered in or
nominated for any competition or award.***

Classification: T, RA
Crossover references to the film *Casablanca*
International readers: US4 spoilers.
Rating: NC-17, for VIOLENCE, PROFANITY and (M/S) SEX. If you are
under-age, please do not read this.
See Part 0 for disclaimer, summary and introductory notes.

***********************************************************************

Letters of Transit (13/14)
By Loch Ness

July 24
Galveston

Krycek was grinning like a dog. Mulder would've liked to slap the smile
right off his face, but they all wanted to find out what the little
ratfucker knew about the Cancer Man's plans.

"You're wrong, Krycek," he said. "We're all painfully aware that the
smoking man wants to wipe out every living soul on the continent. The
question is why, and if you don't start talking, I'm going to use you to
troll for sharks."

The smile segued into a smirk. "Yeah, you'd like that, wouldn't you,
Mulder?"

Mulder took two long strides and got his hands around Krycek's throat.
"You just don't *know,*" he snarled.

Reflexively, Krycek tried to jerk away, but Mulder had him.

"I'm going to hold you down while he threads the hook, you cocksucker,"
Skinner growled. "Talk--and you'd goddamned well better tell it straight
and tell it all."

"All right," Krycek said.

Mulder released his hold, and Krycek wrenched free.

"They want to start over," he said. "They've developed some kind of
super-humans, and they're making space for them, so these new people can
take over and rule the world, and make it a better place. They think
regular folks like you and I are too contentious to co-exist with their
super-race. Assholes like us would just screw up the dynamics of the new
order."

"What kind of super-humans?" Scully asked.

"They've got some of the genetic characteristics of the aliens that
crashed at Roswell, back in '47. I mean, they're mostly human still, but
they're stronger, and they have resistances to diseases and chemicals and
radiation. And they have some kind of healing powers."

"Like Jeremiah Smith?" Scully asked.

"The Jeremiah Smith series was one of the later experiments," Krycek
said.

"Those mute clones I saw in Canada," Mulder said, his voice low.

"Some of the original prototypes. Now they think they've got it
perfected--the ones they're producing now are even better than the
Smiths."

"Who's 'they?'" Skinner demanded.

"The smoking man, Bloodworth. I don't know their names, but some of them
have been in it since the Truman administration."

"The Majestic Twelve?" Mulder asked. UFO lore had it that President Harry
Truman had appointed a commission of twelve men to research and use
technology recovered from Roswell. Mulder had never been absolutely sure
it was true.

"Yeah. There's not many of the original twelve left now, but they put the
whole thing in motion, way back in the '50s." He looked at Mulder. "Your
dad was pretty high up on the staff there, at one point. Until he backed
out."

Mulder nodded. Not a surprise.

"What's in it for them?" Skinner asked. "They're going to be replaced,
too."

"They're *patriots.*" Krycek spat the word out. "Fanatics. They don't
care whether they come out of it or not. And hell, they're all, what?
Seventy years old? They won't be around long enough for it to matter
much, and half of the damned hybrids are their kids, in effect. Their
offspring are going to take over the world."

"One would assume," Scully said, "that if these 'super-humans' were all
that super, it wouldn't be necessary to get rid of the *unter-menschen*
so that they could take over. Why not just turn them loose among us, and
let natural selection take its course?"

"They were trying that," Krycek said. "There were a lot--maybe a
hundred-thousand--like Smith out there before the bees were let loose.
But now they're in a hurry."

"Why?" Mulder demanded. "What happened?"

"I don't know."

Mulder reached for him. "Krycek, if you're lying--"

"I swear I don't know! Whatever it was, it happened after I left for Hong
Kong. I heard that one of the Smiths went soft--he wanted to help out the
poor mortals. Maybe that was it; maybe they were afraid the *wunderkind*
didn't have the balls to wipe us out. That could be it."

"That's enough," Skinner said. "Scully, where the hell are my clothes?
And don't give me any grief about how I ought to rest, just tell me."

"Closet," Scully said.

While the A.D. collected his suit and went into the bathroom to dress,
Mulder kept one eye on Krycek and motioned to Scully. "That freighter for
Tampico leaves at dusk," he murmured. "You'd better be ready."

"If Krycek's telling the truth, Bloodworth's not going to let us get on
it," she whispered back.

He nodded. "You leave that to me and Walter."

                                 ****

There was a lot to be done, but most of it fell on Pendrell--denied the
opportunity and the time to conduct a full-scale human test on Skinner,
he had to run some additional bench tests to try to make sure the stuff
was working. And he was the one who had to figure out how to synthesize
the micro-organisms in bulk so that the hospital staff could produce them
after he and Scully left. He had to test whether mixing them with a
minute quantity of the toxin would keep them active long enough to be
used.

It was a big job, and not really Scully's field--she couldn't help him
any more than the hospital's own lab techs already were doing. And to her
surprise, a whole gaggle of young people who'd been studying at the
now-defunct University of Texas Medical Branch and had gotten stuck on
the island suddenly showed up to pitch in, too.

That left her with little to do but lecture the hospital's staff and the
students on how to take care of people who were recovering from both the
anti-toxin and the bee stings. She felt silly doing it--these people all
knew how to treat a fever and nausea and convulsions symptomatically. It
took all of thirty minutes. But they seemed relieved to hear it was
something they could handle. She told them over and over again that the
whole thing was highly experimental. She told them over and over again
that she and Pendrell couldn't guarantee anything. But on her way out,
she could hear renewed hope in their voices, see it glowing in their
eyes.

She hoped it was all warranted.

And so, afterward, what there was left for her to do was think and wait
aimlessly for dusk.

Mulder had vanished after Skinner had dispatched Krycek back to jail. She
had no idea what Mulder was planning, but it seemed clear he had
something cooking. A frontal assault on the SEB's compound in Denver
wouldn't have surprised her, though she hoped what he had mind was at
least a little less goofy than running headlong into a hail of bullets.
She wished she were helping him plan it. That was what she *wanted* to be
doing--to be with him, to be in on whatever cock-eyed scheme he was
working on. She would have liked to have been with him on that boat in
Georgia, to be the "Malathion Raider's" gun moll, so to speak.

Suddenly, she pictured herself in a flapper's fringed red dress, a
cigarette holder between her lips, a tommy gun across her lap. Maybe one
of those sequined cloche hats. Mulder in a dark, pinstriped zoot suit.
She and Mulder, cast as Bonnie and Clyde for the new millennium. She
stifled a laugh.

But then, really, maybe that was what it would take to stop the smoking
man and his colleagues from destroying the world. Most of the time she'd
spent on the run with Mulder had been harrowing, but the truth was, she
had felt alive. She had felt she was doing the right things, the
necessary things. She had felt needed, had felt both she and her work
were valued, even if only by a certified kook carrying a badge.

Maybe now the real question was, what was stopping her from donning that
red dress?

                                 ****

She found him in his apartment over the bar, still dressed in the same
wilted tux he'd had on at the hospital, still working on the laptop. But
he wasn't playing Solitaire now--he was typing something, sitting at the
dining room table with his back to her.

"You're getting to be a real break-in artist," he said, as she approached
quietly from behind him. He turned, and she saw he had his glasses
on--one of the lenses had gotten cracked at the bottom. The sight of him
made her heart pound. Even bedraggled and tired, he was beautiful. Legs
and arms that went on forever. Eyes like new spring grass.

"I could swear I locked that door," he said, turning back to the
computer.

"You did."

He turned off the computer, removed his glasses and twisted in the chair
to face her. "What's up?" he asked.

"I'm not going," she said. She went toward him. Like the last time, she
had not planned this. She was flying on autopilot.

"Yes, you are," he said.

She caught him just as he started to get up from the table, caught him
between the chair and her body, both of her hands on either side of his
jaw. "I love you," she said. "You can't make me leave, and I won't."

She leaned in to kiss him, but at the last second he turned his head away
from her. She kissed what she could reach--his cheek, his left eye.

"Stop it," he whispered.

"I don't want to."

He wrenched out of her grip, pushed the chair sideways and got to his
feet, size and sheer brute force overcoming her feeble effort to hold him
trapped. "Look, Scully, this won't change anything." His eyes and his
voice had gone hard as granite. "This immunity is only a stopgap measure,
and you know it. We still need a real cure, and you and Pendrell have the
best shot at coming up with it. You know now that you're on the right
track."

"He doesn't need me for--"

"Maybe not, but he is still your husband. I don't know about you, but I
was raised to believe that meant something." Into her stunned silence, he
said, "I may be a lonely guy, but I don't fuck other men's wives."

She knew he'd calculated that to shock her, so she threw it back at him.
"Do you fuck women you're in love with?" She advanced on him like a tiger
stalking a zebra, knowing full well that, like a zebra, he might bolt at
any second. "Do you fuck women who want you so bad they'll break into
your apartment?"

His eyes had gone wide--she read fear and desire in about equal measure.
She sensed that he wanted to bolt, but he held his ground. She stopped
when she stood close enough that she knew he could feel her breath
against his throat, and looked up at him. "Do you want me to beg,
Mulder?"

There was a long silence while she stared up at him, and he stared back
at her. Slowly, very deliberately, she raised her hands toward his face.
Just before she touched him, he finally backed away a step. She could see
his chest rising and falling as breathed. "Shall I tell you exactly how
much I want you?" she asked, her voice low.

He was beside her before she knew it--she'd forgotten he could be so
quick, so agile. His hands closed around her waist, and he lifted her up
onto the table and held her. There was a dark challenge in his hazel
eyes, in the pained set of his mouth. *Do you want me? Are you *really*
ready for this?*

He raised his hands and cupped her breasts, still holding her with his
gaze. She shivered hard with pleasure and let him see it, in her eyes,
her slightly parted lips. He ran his thumbs across her nipples, and she
drew a ragged gasp. *Yes. I'm ready. Are you?*

He leaned in to kiss her, and she knew what he was planning--to crush her
mouth with his own, to claim her. She stopped him with a touch, her
fingers feather-light along his jaw. His look was savage, ravenous. But
ravishment was not what he needed to give or to receive.

"Let me gentle you," she breathed. He froze, and now the wildness in his
eyes was partly fear. "I know it's hard. I know you're afraid. Trust me.
You used to trust me."

His eyes closed, and it was his turn to shiver.

*I know the tenderness in you, Mulder. You can't hide it from me; you
never could. Give it to me. Let me give it back to you.*

She pulled ever-so-gently, with the hand along his jaw, and felt him
hesitate, then slowly begin to yield, until he took two small steps and
placed himself in her grasp. She wrapped her legs around his thighs, her
arms around his neck. He was trembling like a frightened puppy, but she
could feel his erection gently prod her belly as he breathed. She stroked
his hair to reassure him.

*I won't hurt you. I won't let anything hurt you. Not today. Let it go,
all that hurt, all that terror.*

He pulled his head away a little and brought his hands up to her face,
her hair. Now his eyes were wide, adoring, startlingly green with
excitement. "God," he whispered, "you're so beautiful. I need you so
much."

"I'm yours."

He kissed her, his sweet, full mouth soft and warm on hers, his tongue
exploring lightly. She drew him closer, pressed her breasts against him,
ran her own tongue across his lower lip, and felt him shiver in
anticipation. God, he felt so good, the smooth, trim planes of him, the
clean lines of bone and muscle. She could feel herself melting inside,
and she knew neither of them could wait for long.

Scully withdrew just far enough to reach up and undo the knot of his tie.
*No more sex with your tie on, Mulder.* He was still trembling, but none
of it was fear now. He leaned back a little so she could slip his jacket
off his shoulders, still staying inside the circle of her legs. She took
the gun off his belt and laid it behind her on the table, then started on
his shirt. *I want all of you this time. I want to see you, breathe in
your scent, tickle my nose in the hair on your belly. All of it.*

With his shirt open, she saw that his nipples were erect, hard as tiny
buttons. She leaned forward, intending to kiss them, but he jerked
backward.

"Wait," he whispered.

*Ah. So those are sensitive, are they?* She would remember. Instead, she
placed her mouth in the shallow cleft between his breasts and kissed him
there, licked his skin, drank in the warm, salty taste of it. He gasped.
His arms closed around her again, and he lifted her and carried her into
the bedroom. As he went, she tugged his shirt-tails out.

He set her down on her feet in the bedroom, toed his shoes off, then
stood still while she unbuckled his belt and slid his trousers to the
floor. Gently she freed his erection, straining at the fabric of his
briefs. God, he was big. She tried not to touch him there any more than
absolutely necessary. She could feel the effort he was exerting to keep
control--she knew she couldn't push him much.

Naked, he was stunningly beautiful. Lean and perfect, slim and muscled
for speed. She let her gaze roam up the length of him until she was
looking into his eyes again and read the message there: *Now you.*

She took a step closer to him and let him remove her blouse and skirt,
only touching him to hold his shoulder for balance as she stepped out of
the skirt. He slid the straps of her slip off her shoulders, unhooked her
brassiere, then stood looking at her bare breasts, as if transfixed.

*Yes,* Scully thought, in the moment before his hands cupped her again.
*Yes, touch me.* She gave a little whimper of delight at the contact. His
hands were warm, the skin a little rough to the touch. He leaned down and
kissed her, his thumbs again caressing her nipples. Every nerve in her
body was aflame with him. Just when she thought she couldn't stand
another moment, he released her. He pulled the slip gently down off her
hips, then removed her panties. Again she caught his shoulder briefly for
balance.

Then she was lying on his bed, waiting, anticipating. It was his turn to
look at her, and there was a kind of awe in his manner as he ran one hand
lightly from the hollow of her throat, between her breasts, and down to
the top of the hair that lay between her legs. He bent his head and took
her right nipple in his mouth, suckling gently but insistently like a
hungry child, his tongue lapping at her in steady swipes. Scully groaned
out loud, full-throated, her hips writhing involuntarily.

*Oh, God, take me.* And he was there, entering her, in more small,
insistent movements, a centimeter at a time. She wanted to shove up and
take him straight into her center, but he had her pinned with his weight
so that she could only match him, tiny thrust for tiny thrust. He was so
hard; she was so wet. The sensation of him moving inside her was too
much. She came like an explosion, the world seeming to blow apart with
the force of it along her spine. And he was still moving, deeper and
deeper, inexorably, and she came again, and yet again when she knew she
had all of him.

He let go of her breast. They were both panting like overheated animals,
and for a moment, they just stopped there.

Then he lay down across her chest and did something Scully couldn't quite
grasp in her dazed, exhausted state, something that somehow turned them
over so that she was on top of him without breaking the fusion between
them. She tucked her legs, lifted her shoulders and smiled at him.
*You're lucky I still have the strength for this,* she thought. She moved
on him and felt him shudder, saw his eyes shut and his mouth twist. She
wouldn't need much strength; he was very close.

She leaned down and suckled at his breast and came again as he did, his
spasm inside her, the delicious sound of his incoherent cries, igniting
her own body again.

*You're mine now,* she thought in elation. *And I'm yours. No matter what
comes between us, we'll never be separated.*

Continued in Part 14.
lochness@mindspring.com

Letters of Transit (14/14) By Loch Ness

Please do not repost to ATXFC. Already sent to Gossamer U.S. archive; OK
to archive elsewhere or redistribute as long as Loch Ness is acknowledged
as author and nothing of value is exchanged. ***Not to be entered in or
nominated for any competition or award.***

Classification: T, RA
Crossover references to the film *Casablanca*
International readers: US4 spoilers.
Rating: NC-17, for VIOLENCE, PROFANITY and (M/S) SEX. If you are
under-age, please do not read this.
See Part 0 for disclaimer, summary and introductory notes.

***********************************************************************

Letters of Transit (14/14)
By Loch Ness

July 24
Galveston

Mulder let Scully sleep, but he couldn't. He cuddled her on his chest and
wept a little, silently. He wanted to hold her as long as he could,
knowing it wouldn't be for long; he knew he couldn't keep her with him,
much as he desperately wanted her beside him forever.

The question was, how would he ever manage to let her go? The thought
made him feel as if his heart might simply split open.

*Don't think about it. Just hold her. This is all you have.*

Slowly, the warm, regular thud of her heart soothed him, and he calmed.
Pendrell had been right--they wanted the same thing--for her to be safe.
She wouldn't like it, he knew, but it had to be done.

About seven, he touched her face to wake her.

"Mmm," she murmured. "I would've begged, you know."

"I didn't want you to," he whispered back. "I love you."

She lifted her head and looked at him. He let himself drink in the sight
of her--her eyes peacock blue in the afternoon sunlight filtering in
through the windows. Her hair like a slick of molten copper.

"I love you, too," she said. "I won't leave you."

He knew better, but he smiled up at her.

"Still," she said, "we have to make sure Ted gets away."

"Yes." Mulder shifted, and she caught his signal, moved so that he could
sit up. "He's not going to go without you, Scully."

"He'll have to." She sat up beside him.

"Yeah. That's why you have to convince him that you *are* going with him.
Once we get him to the freighter, then we'll tell him. Then he'll have to
leave."

"Okay," she said. She looked closely at him, her brows knitting suddenly
in concern. "Are you okay?"

"Sure. Why?"

"Your eyes are a little swollen."

"I'm tired, that's all." He bumped her shoulder with his. "Which is at
least as much your fault as mine."

She chuckled and bent to retrieve her clothes. "Believe me, it's mutual.
What time will the freighter leave?"

"About 9:30. You and Pendrell be here at a quarter to. We'll give you an
escort to the ship."

"Just in case we get in a firefight, do you have some ammo that'll fit my
Sig? I'm down to one magazine and three rounds."

"I doubt it, but I'll look." With her tiny hands, she carried a smaller
Sig than he did; it fired 9-mm parabellum rather than the .40-caliber
Smith & Wesson rounds he liked. He searched but didn't find any. "Sorry.
No good." He thought a moment, still shuffling through a drawer. "You
want my PPK? I've got plenty of .380 auto you can have." When he turned,
he saw she was admiring the view--he was still naked.

"No, it's okay. I'll try to conserve."

Despite himself he blushed as he went back to her.

"Very nice," she said. He rolled his eyes.

"You'd better hurry," he said. "There's not a lot of time."

She stood up, laid her hand along his cheek and gave him a wide-eyed look
of such tenderness it stopped his breath. "Do you believe I love you?"
she asked.

"I believe," he whispered.

He did.

"I do," he said. Then he kissed her. He suspected it was for the last
time.

                                  ****

They were right on time. Frohike had already taken their luggage and
equipment to the ship in his Jeep--Bloodworth's people weren't watching
him. He had made a circuitous trip around the island, then, carrying an
order signed by Skinner, had got the freighter's crew to load the bags in
advance.

"Distract Scully for a minute, will you?" Mulder asked the little man.

"My pleasure," Frohike said.

"You have the letters?" Mulder asked Pendrell.

Pendrell nodded.

"Put your name and hers in the blanks at the top. Do it now, so you're
legal before we leave."

As he wrote the names in, Pendrell said softly, "What made you change
your mind?"

"I didn't."

Pendrell looked up, his eyes both fearful and hopeful.

"I never told you I was going to take her to Hawaii."

He finished writing the names and stuffed the letters in his jacket
pocket. "Why would you do this? Just let her go with me?"

Mulder shrugged. "Like you said--I want her to be safe. And she wouldn't
be safe here."

Pendrell nodded. "But it doesn't matter. She hates me now," he said, his
voice low.

"No. She was so determined to see you get away she tried to seduce me in
return for the letters," Mulder lied coolly. "I didn't take her up on
it."

Pendrell frowned at him in confusion.

"She's a very forgiving sort, Pendrell. She's mad at you, all right--but
she always forgave me, and she will you, too, if you earn it. You have a
chance now to regain her respect." He gave the younger man a hard look.
"Don't blow it."

"I won't. What do you want us to do?"

"Sit down and have a drink. I'll call you when we're ready."

About fifteen minutes later, he motioned at Scully over the heads of the
other patrons. She murmured something to Pendrell, and they came into the
kitchen. Just as they entered, Byers and one of the waitresses headed out
the back and along the side of the dock to the street.

"What's going on?" Scully asked.

"Oh, you two are going back to the hotel," Mulder said. "Or at least
that's what we hope Bloodworth's crack surveillance team will think."

"How'd you manage that?" Pendrell asked.

Mulder shrugged again. "The only hard part was getting Byers to shave off
his beard."

Scully smiled. "Tell him we appreciate his sacrifice," she said.

What a beautiful smile she has, Mulder thought.

Frohike stuck his head in through the back door. "They bought it," he
called softly. "They're gone."

"Let's move," Mulder said.

They made it to the ship without incident. But as they pulled up to the
pier, Mulder saw Skinner and another man standing at the bottom of the
ramp. It was tuxedo, the guy he had thrown out of the casino just before
Pendrell and Scully had showed up. There was no mistaking the gun he had
stuck in Skinner's back.

Warily, they got out of the Jeep, hands on their holstered guns. And
then, from back in the shadows, a figure stepped forward, a man-shape
darker than the dark.

Bloodworth.

"Good evening," he called pleasantly. "I was afraid you were going to
leave without saying goodbye. So I took the liberty of asking Mr. Skinner
to bring me down to see you off."

"You bastard," Scully said. She had her gun out now, pointed at tuxedo.
"You pull that trigger, and you'll be dead before he hits the ground."

Mulder slid out the left side, drew his own gun and braced both hands on
the Jeep's roof. The shot was a little long, but there was no wind,
nothing between he and the smoking man. "Drop it, Bloodworth!" he yelled.
"I've got a clean shot, and nothing would make me happier!"

"I'll trade him for Agent Scully," Bloodworth said.

Clever, Mulder thought. Take Scully, and he'll have all three of us by
the balls--me, Skinner, Pendrell.

"The fucking hell you will," Pendrell said. Mulder didn't see the gun
until the younger man fired. At once, Skinner flung himself out of the
way and tuxedo fell, shot through the heart.

Scully was holding aim on Bloodworth and moving slowly toward him. "Get
your hands up," she ordered.

Something was wrong; Mulder could feel it in a tingle of fear along the
back of his neck. Scully was so close, and she was moving between the
Cancer Man and Skinner and Pendrell. Bloodworth stood motionless and let
her get closer.

And he wasn't smoking. It was all wrong.

"Get your hands up!" Mulder yelled, echoing Scully. The son of a bitch
was up to something--he wouldn't just stand there and be taken.

She was so close. Too close.

Mulder tightened his grip on the Sig and moved out around the Jeep. He
guessed it was thirty yards, in the gathering dark, with Scully too
close.

Now, suddenly, the smoking man moved. His right hand still in shadow,
coming up in a lazy arc, a glint of steel off something clutched in his
fist.

Scully had seen it first, and she moved left, squarely into Mulder's line
of fire. She shot, three times in quick succession. Bloodworth staggered
but didn't fall--Mulder realized he was wearing a vest. He'd recover in a
second, and Scully was out of ammo, searching frantically in a pocket for
another magazine.

"Down!" Skinner yelled at Scully, but she didn't seem to hear him.

Mulder danced left, to clear his aim. Bloodworth's hand was still rising.
Mulder stopped, let his knees unlock and took his shot.

And double-tapped the son of a bitch right between the eyes.

Bloodworth's spine arched impossibly as the impact flung his head back,
and for a moment Mulder thought he might actually turn a flip as he fell,
his feet coming up off the ground. Then he dropped in a heap, slid almost
a yard across the pavement and finally lay still.

Mulder went toward him, leading with his gun. Bloodworth was dead. Jaw
slack, eyes wide in an expression that looked like astonishment. Mulder
nudged the right hand, still gripping something, with his foot. The
fingers let go, and a small object hit the ground with a metallic rattle.

A Zippo lighter.

Mulder leaned his head back, trying to relax, let the adrenaline drain
back out of his muscles. It was over. He had thought he might have a
moment of triumph over the Cancer Man's demise. Instead, he just felt
tired.

Scully turned around, glanced at tuxedo's body on the ground and gave her
husband a look of amazement.

Pendrell looked equally stunned. "I've been practicing..." he got out. "A
little."

"Practice any more and you'll be a fucking Olympic contender," Mulder
murmured.

"Well, I couldn't... I mean, I couldn't let him..."

"I think it was meant as a compliment," Skinner said dryly. "At any rate,
I'm grateful for your newfound skill."

"I never killed anybody before," Pendrell went on. "I never even shot
anybody before."

"You'll get over it," Mulder said sympathetically. "Just remember he
would've killed A.D. Skinner if you hadn't shot him. Keep telling
yourself that."

Scully put one hand on his shoulder. "Ted," she said, "go aboard. I'll
take care of this."

"Okay," Pendrell said numbly. "Here." He handed her the letter of transit
with her name on it.

She took it, with a slantwise glance at Mulder. "I'll be right up," she
said.

Pendrell went up the gangplank.

When he had gone, Mulder said, "We'll get rid of the bodies, Scully." He
holstered his Sig. "There are sharks in these waters. Nobody'll find
them." He inclined his head toward the freighter. "You go on."

She stared at him. "Mulder, I told you--I'm not leaving you."

"You have to go, Scully, and you know it."

"No!"

He took her arms, just above the elbows, and held her. "Listen to me.
Pendrell didn't even know you were under surveillance. Despite his
stellar performance here, I don't think he's going to make it out of
Tampico without you. If you really think he doesn't need you, I think
you'd better reconsider."

"I want to stay with you," she whispered.

"I know you do. And I wish like anything that you could. But you know
better, Scully. There's been too much pain, too much blood spilled. I
thought I could turn away from it, but when I did, I lost myself. I
didn't get it back until I saw you again."

She closed her eyes, as if doing that could stop her from hearing what he
was saying. But just before they closed he could see in them that she
knew he was right.

"The faith to keep looking," she whispered.

"Yes," he said. "I'd lost that. And I need it. You do, too--you can't
turn away, either. We may not ever bring the bastards to justice, but we
still have a chance to stop them."

He fell silent for a moment. Then he reached to lift her chin gently. "I
love you, Dana," he said. "But if we give up fighting now, what will we
have?"

She opened her eyes, spilling over with tears. "Each other," she
breathed.

"I don't think so. I don't think we'd ever stop wondering if we'd done
the right thing. Do you really think we could be happy together while the
rest of the world came unraveled around us? What kind of life would that
be for either of us?"

The freighter's whistle blew, thunderously loud, like the crack of doom.
Scully started hard, and Mulder tightened his grip on her arms a little
to steady her.

"I want to be with you," she said.

"You will be, no matter what happens." He let go of her.

She reached up and stroked the lapels of his jacket with both hands, as
if remembering a time when she had been able to hang on to him by taking
hold of them. "You never forgot Samantha," she said, as if reassuring
herself that he wouldn't forget her, either.

"And I never will." The freighter's crew was casting off lines. "You'd
better go," he said.

"I love you," she said.

"Go," he said.

She went quickly up the gangplank. For a moment he feared she might stay
on deck, watching until she couldn't see him any more, but she spared him
that--she disappeared.

Mulder stood watching, though. Standing guard until the freighter had
gone, sailing slowly off around the end of the island until its lights
winked out one by one.

He felt drained, a soft, miserable loneliness soaking down into his
bones.

Then suddenly Skinner was beside him. Mulder drew a sharp breath to
compose himself. "Where's Bloodworth?"

"Back of the Jeep," the A.D. said. "Wrapped in garbage bags."

"Nice touch," Mulder said.

"I thought so. Here." He handed Mulder the lighter. "Souvenir."

*More like a scalp,* Mulder thought. He looked at the lighter. Engraved
on it were the words, "Trust no one."

*That's what got you killed,* he thought. *You couldn't trust anyone, and
no one could trust you.* He put the lighter in his pocket.

They were silent for a long moment. Then Skinner asked, "You really do
know how to get off the island, don't you?"

Mulder looked over his shoulder at him.

Skinner shrugged. "Somebody's going to have to start distributing the
micro-organisms to what's left of the country. And I've got a certain
curiosity all of a sudden about what's going on back east--I left some
stuff in D.C. I'd like to reclaim, if I can wrest it away from the
members of the master race who have probably taken up residence in my
apartment."

"Okay," Mulder said. "I'll take that ride. Just do me one favor, will
you, Walter?"

"Name it."

"Don't make any sappy remarks about 'a beautiful friendship.'"

"Wouldn't dream of it."

                                 ****

As she was settling herself in the tiny ship's cabin, Scully noticed that
her handbag seemed heavier than usual. There was something in that front
pocket that Mulder had said she never used for anything.

She looked. His Discman, complete with headphones. It was on pause, the
display showing "9." With the cover closed, she couldn't see what disc it
was, but she knew he had meant it as a message.

She slipped the headphones on and pushed play.

She heard Sarah McLachlan and knew instantly what the message was.

"...so now you're sleeping peaceful/ and I lie awake and pray/ that
you'll be strong tomorrow/ and we'll see another day..."

She let the song play through. The sound of it in her ears was like the
warm strength of his arms around her.

He believed.

**********************************************************************
The End
lochness@mindspring.com