What's FANFIC?

Some of you finding this story via the AngelGrace website 
might not know about the fanfic phenomenon.  Fanfic is a term 
that describes original works of fiction written with 
borrowed characters.  There's a thriving community of people 
writing fiction based on the characters from TV shows, 
movies, and other sources.  They run the gamut from short 
vignettes that fill in missing scenes from specific episodes, 
to barely recognizable alternative universes where the 
characters' names may be all that's familiar.  

Rating: PG-13
Classification: Story, MSR, Adventure, Post-Col
Archive: Yes. Just let me know.
Spoilers: Anything through "Requiem" is fair game.  Anything 
after season 7 never happened.
Keywords: 
Summary:

DISCLAIMER: Fox Mulder, Dana Scully, and anyone else you 
recognize don't belong to me.  They belong to Chris Carter, 
1013 Productions, Fox Broadcasting, and, I like to think, the 
fine actors and actresses that have brought them to life.

Anyone that's a complete stranger is mine.  

They are used without permission, but no infringement is 
intended, and no money is being made.  Suing me would be a 
waste of time.  I haven't got anything you'd want.

FEEDBACK: Yes, please.  This is my first fic.  Good, bad, or 
indifferent, if you read it, I'd be thrilled to hear from 
you.  lynnl10@comcast.com

AUTHOR'S NOTES:  During summer hiatus between Season 6 and 7, 
my husband was watching a rerun of Tithonus, when I came 
tromping in from a late softball game.  While I *think* at 
first he was going to scold me for wearing my cleats into the 
house, instead he just said, "If Scully were alive in 200 
years, she'd still play baseball."  To which my first 
reaction was, "Well, that's not *all* she'd be doing..."  It 
got me to thinking.  This is the result.

I'd like to give a belated (and huge) thanks to Duck and 
Bugs, who gave great advice as beta readers.  Unfortunately, 
life intervened, and given the size this turned out to be, I 
never found time to do the end-to-end editing that it really 
deserves.  Considering that while waiting to find the time to 
do the editing, over two years have passed without publishing 
this beastie, I finally just decided to set it loose as is. 


-------------------------------------------------------------

PROLOGUE:

Water dripped, somewhere.  Rhythmic, echoing.  As soon as she 
became aware of the sound, the scene around her changed.  
High catwalks, coated with slime, crisscrossed above her.  
Below her, channels of water ran between the maze of pathways 
on which she walked.  Something splashed below her, surfacing 
for an instant and sinking back to the murky depths.  She had 
a brief image of a hideously deformed man, mottled white skin 
and a round mouth, full of teeth.  Soulless yellow eyes.  She 
walked faster.

The dripping sound came from a door at the end of the 
walkway, a warm yellow rectangle, promising relief from the 
foreboding dampness.  She hurried toward it, stepping through 
into the light.  The room was comforting, filled with soft 
terry and warm, scented steam.  A claw footed bathtub stood 
under an incandescent bulb, filled and inviting.  She turned 
away from the tub to the sink, and began to undress.  A face 
gazed back at her from the mirror, familiar, but different, 
younger.  She wiped the steam away for a better look, and 
noticed someone perched on the edge of the tub.  She was sure 
he hadn't been there before.  "Do you have chemically treated 
hair, girly girl?" the man asked.

She raced from the room, the words inciting a nameless 
terror.  The strange, wet, landscape was gone, and she found 
herself in another room, candlelit, with tired, cheap 
furnishings and stains on the carpet.  A man stepped forward 
an embraced her.  She was suffused with a sense of safety, 
contentment.  "It's okay, they're just mosquito bites," he 
said.  Then he stepped back, growing taller, menacing.  The 
contentment evaporated, the fear returned.  She tried to run, 
but the big man picked her up and hurled her against the 
wall.  The pain of it tore at her back, but the wall gave 
way, and she was falling, falling, falling...

Dr. Melissa Charles woke with a gasp of fear, the thin dawn 
light creeping in through the parted curtains.  The dream 
drained away rapidly, but she knew she would not return to 
sleep.  Better not to try.  She struggled to recall the 
obscure images, but they were already gone.  She sighed. 

"Lights, half intensity.  Time."  She called out to the 
household computer.

The room lit with a pleasant glow, and a voice called out, 
"The time is 6:17 AM, Eastern Standard."

Class would begin in a little under three hours.  She might 
as well get ready.

-------------------------------------------------------------

When David Mitchell rolled over and stretched, the sun hit 
him undiluted in the face.  He woke immediately, suddenly 
suspicious of its angle and brightness.

"What time is it?" he called out.

"The time is 8:47 AM, Eastern Standard," replied the 
disembodied voice of his organizer.

Crap.  He was going to be late.  First day of Molecular 
Xenobiology, and he'd heard that the new professor was a 
hardass.  What was the name?  Dr. Chanlin?  Charles?  
Whatever.  Some old-school, ivory-tower, master of the 
monograph researcher.  Hardass.  And he was going to be late.

"I told you to wake me at 6AM," he grumbled, hopping on one 
leg to keep his balance while he got into his pants.

"It is currently 5:48AM, Pacific Standard," replied the 
organizer.

"We're not in Pacific Standard Time you idiot, we tubed east 
last night.  We're in Savannah, which is Eastern Standard 
Time, and you're waking me 3 hours late.  If you know what 
time it is here, why do you still have the alarm set for 
home?"

"The alarm request was made in the Pacific Time Zone.  No 
reset was requested," came the matter of fact reply.
David shook his head, stalking into the bathroom.  One thing 
remained true in the 250 years since some blockhead ran a 
current through silicon.  Garbage in, garbage out.

He turned on the sink to brush his teeth, while 
simultaneously pounding on the connecting door of the 
bathroom that led to his roommate's bedroom.

"Jerry, are you up?  Get up, we're late."   The sound of 
something crashing to the floor on the other side of the door 
assured him that his friend was roused.  He picked up the 
toothpaste, and put it down again.  Time was short.  Instead, 
he chewed up a breath capsule, wincing at the strong taste.  
With the few minutes he had, he'd rather indulge in a shave.  
He ran a comb quickly through his thick brown hair, lathered 
up his face, pulled out the old straight razor his father had 
given him, and began the smooth, long strokes.

"I don't know why you persist in that ancient ritual," Jerry 
commented, entering the bathroom, already dressed.  "If you 
want a smooth face, you can have the growth inhibited."

David grinned at his friend in the mirror.  "I don't believe 
in medically altering my appearance."

Jerry gazed at him steadily.  "And yet you're studying to 
medically alter entire bodies."

David shook his head.  "Someday I *will* succeed in teaching 
you the concept of irony."  He shrugged.  "People want to 
look young.  I want to be rich.  And anyway, I'm already good 
looking.  Ouch!"  He wiped the blood off the small nick with 
his thumb, and looked at it.

"Arrogance doesn't flatter you," Jerry said seriously.  "And 
you're wasting your intellect."

David put the razor down and rinsed his face.  "Are you 
channeling my mother?  Just because I've chosen a cosmetic 
specialty doesn't mean I won't be learning anything else.  
But there's not a whole lot left to conquer, you know?  The 
world's a healthy place."  He looked himself over in the 
mirror one more time.  His hazel eyes had paled to the gray 
tone they took on when he was upset.  The small part of him 
that used to be ambitious was nagging at him again.  Ambition 
was so damn draining.  Wanting to be the best only meant you 
were more likely come up short of your goal.  No, he would 
settle for very good, very stable, very comfortable.  And 
these days, that meant xeno-genetic cosmetic-retroplasty.  He 
shoved the voice down where it couldn't be heard, and 
resolutely regained his typical, optimistic outlook.  He 
turned back to his friend.

"Jerry, fix your face.  Are you still asleep?  You look 
sloppy."

Jerry straightened up, and David watched as his friend's face 
morphed more firmly into the familiar features he had known 
since childhood.

"How's that?" he asked.

"Same old Jerry," David replied, smiling.  They crossed into 
David's room just as the organizer announced, "Wake up call, 
wake up call.  Six AM Pacific Standard Time."

David grabbed a shirt and a jacket, shrugged into both, and 
grabbed the organizer.

"Definitely late," he said, stepping into shoes.

They left the campus housing at a jog, David buttoning and 
zipping as they trotted across the common area, Jerry as 
always, tidy and impeccable.

"You know," Jerry said stiffly, "I heard that Dr. Charles is 
a hardass."

-------------------------------------------------------------

Dr. Mel Charles gazed out across the faces of her Molecular 
Xenobiology class.  The enrollment was relatively large for a 
graduate course, thirty-five students.  She knew what was 
drawing most of them to what had once been an obscure 
elective.  She also knew that nearly half of them would not 
survive her course.  They were still shuffling in as 9 
o'clock approached, chatting quietly with friends, an 
occasional burst of laughter coming from the corner of the 
hall.  The display on her desk finally rolled to 9:00, and 
she adjusted the jacket of her conservative dark suit as she 
stood.  Showtime.

She fixed the class with her coldest regard.  In short 
moments, the murmur began to abate, as first one student, 
then another, noticed her glare, and nudged friends into 
silence.  By 9:01 she had their undivided, and clearly 
unsettled, attention.

Without preamble, she launched into the first day lecture 
that she had given so many times before.  Glancing behind her 
to verify the display was working, she wrote on her desk.  

"Address you organizer to the node I'm writing on the 
display.  The class syllabus can be loaded from this node, 
along with the required text and a recommended bibliography.  
Class notes will be available for loading during the first 10 
minutes of lecture.  I want you listening and thinking, not 
copying.  But I pull them down again immediately after that 
interval.  If you're late, or miss a lecture, it's your 
problem.  Get the notes from a classmate."

Dr. Charles took a breath, and without raising her head, 
regarded the bustle of activity as students pulled out styli 
and accessed the notes.  The classroom was briefly filled 
with the sound of busy tapping.  She was already categorizing 
them.  Some seemed timid, unnerved by her demeanor, and no 
doubt by her reputation.  Others strained at nonchalance.  A 
few simply got the notes in a business like manner and waited 
expectantly for her to continue.

"As you are all no doubt insufferably aware, you are among 
the elite of humanity's current crop of medical and genetic 
science students.  For that, you have the honor of having me 
as visiting professor here at South Eastern University for 
the next sequence.  I presume my reputation precedes me."

A few students dared to snicker.  Dr. Charles made a few more 
mental notes.

"Show of hands.  How many are familiar with my research?"  A 
few hands.  "How many have heard I'm a hard-ass?"  No hands, 
a little shuffling.  "The hands up before were brown-nosing.  
The hands down now are lying.  Science requires the open and 
honest exchange of ideas.  Once more, how many have heard I'm 
a hard-ass?"  Hesitantly, a few hands went up, others, 
bolstered by their classmates' courage, followed.  Dr. 
Charles delivered the fatal blow.  She favored the class, 
with a brief but brilliant smile.  "Put your hands down.  
We'll begin." 

Many in the class looked openly confused, now.  She knew she 
was not what had they had been expecting.  The nature and 
depth of her research generally caused people to assume she 
was very old.  Her reputation as tough generally made people 
assume she was large.  The most frequent assumption, from 
those who didn't know her, was that she was a man.  When she 
turned out to be a small, relatively youthful and attractive, 
if graying, woman it generally elicited surprise.  

Usually she did nothing to dissuade any preconceptions.  She 
liked to work alone on her research, and valued her privacy.  
Collaboration with colleagues was generally done 
electronically, and without a visual feed.  There was no need 
for her appearance to get in the way of ideas.  She was 
scathing in her reviews of other's research when the 
researcher's bias was evident in the results.  She was also 
usually the first to recognize a genuine insight in others' 
work.  She was as a result loathed by as many as she was 
admired, but she was respected by all.  By and large, she was 
content with her reputation.

Teaching is different, though, she reminded herself.  She 
would have to connect with these students, something she was 
a little out of practice with.  Her rattling performance was 
meant to shake loose their preconceptions, their complacency.  
Real insight required wonder.  And real science, she had 
learned long ago, required the scientist to be able to 
consider the extreme possibility alongside the more mundane.  
She wondered if any of these students would prove to have 
that kind of courage.

It was why she had come out of seclusion after all, and 
accepted the position.  She needed a protege.   She didn't 
really expect to find one among those who were only here 
hoping to unlock just enough genetic secrets to get rich 
catering to the vain.  But maybe the stimulation of teaching 
would help her break through the wall she'd been fruitlessly 
battering for the last three years.

"How many of you are in this class as part of a biotechnology 
degree program?"  Dr. Charles continued to size up the class.  
"How many are planning careers in medicine?"  A smaller 
number.  "How many plan to do pure research?"  Only two.  
"How many are here only because you're looking for 
information on new ways chromosome six of the Smith-alien 
race might be put to profitable use."  Back to the hushed 
shuffling her hard-ass question had elicited earlier.  "I 
see."

Dr. Charles had a fair weight of regret for her part in 
publishing the research on that topic.  Maybe not the kind of 
regret Oppenheimer had lived with, but it was there, never 
the less.  She had been intrigued with the physiology of 
these shape-shifting aliens, but as it was impossible to find 
any willing to take part in a physical study, her research 
had been restricted to what was known of their genome.  Her 
successes were frankly remarkable, given that she lacked 
access to a living sample of the genetic code she was 
attempting to decipher. The aliens who shared the Earth were 
not protective of what they considered basic, encyclopedic 
information about their technology and science.  But they 
were also uninterested in providing human scientists any 
guidance in interpreting or using that information.  The 
Grays insisted that such behavior was in humanity's best 
interests... that to be given scientific insights sooner than 
we could discover them ourselves would somehow bring ruin.  
Dr. Charles thought that was a crock.  At least the Smiths 
lived with humanity, co-mingled.  The Grays remained isolated 
in their settlements on the African continent, rarely 
venturing out, and allowing only infrequent human visitation.

Her research on the Smith genome opened the door for others, 
with less pure ambitions. Given one small key to the shape 
shifting ability, they managed to engineer a modified version 
of the gene which when introduced to a human host, conferred 
just enough of that ability that with practice, an older 
person could morph their features back to a more youthful 
appearance.  It was tricky, expensive, and all the rage.  And 
very likely incredibly dangerous.  Because only the old took 
the treatment, no one had researched whether the changes 
would be heritable, and if so, how it might affect the next 
generation.  It was nothing she had intended or even 
considered when she published.  She wasn't even certain if 
the surge in interest in Xenobiology and Xenogenetics was 
going to prove to be a good thing, given the initial 
application of her discoveries.  Although, for the short run, 
it did mean she could look forward to a growing population of 
peers that she could discuss her research with.  Some of them 
might even come from this class.

"Let me be very clear.  While we will be discussing the known 
features of both the Smith and the Gray genomes, this is not 
a trade school.  I will not be discussing the latest 
techniques in xeno-genetic cosmetic-retroplasty in this 
class."

A late arriver skidded through the upper door of the hall on 
the heels of her words, fresh faced, but misbuttoned.  She 
glanced down at her desk for the roll, which had been taken 
automatically as the students had downloaded their notes.  
Only one name was missing.  

"Mr. Mitchell, please take your seat and try not to disturb 
the class.  You have just under two minutes remaining to 
download the class files.  You will be here, seated, on time, 
from now on.  I do not tolerate tardiness or interruptions.  
Is that clear?"  She looked up at the young man to whom she'd 
had to deliver the supplemental dose of "professor ice" and 
was for the first time in recent memory, herself unsettled.  
She found herself staring.  There was something familiar 
about him, compelling.

The short spell was broken as he stammered "Y-yes ma'am."

She noticed the young man following David Mitchell as he 
struggled toward an empty seat.

"Excuse me.  But now that Mr. Mitchell has graced us with his 
arrival, I have no one else expected on this roster," she 
addressed him.

Jerry looked expectantly toward his friend.  "I'm..." he 
began.

"He's auditing," David finished.

Dr. Charles looked at the young man more closely.  Oh.  Few 
humans could tell just by looking, but she'd been around a 
bit more than most, and she was pretty sure she was right.  

"Mr. Smith?"  

The young man nodded.

"Take your seat, then."

Her lecture began in earnest then, no slow ramp up for the 
first day.  She could see the alarm at her pace in some of 
their faces, heard the grumbling at the amount of work she 
was assigning.  She decided to throw them a bone.

"Right now, you do not have the tools to even understand the 
following problem, let alone solve it," she said, penning a 
long nucleotide sequence onto her desk, so it appeared behind 
her on the large display.   "However, if you are diligent, 
you should be able to fathom the question by about halfway 
through our first trimester." She continued sketching a 
series of complex molecules.  "Any student who succeeds in 
solving this problem before our full sequence together has 
ended is guaranteed an A.  I don't grade on the curve, so 
this may be your only hope."

They didn't know if she was kidding.

Later, she sighed quietly at the students shuffling out, 
while she cleared the desk for the next class.  What the 
hell.  It was absurd to think one of these students would 
actually solve a problem she'd been banging at for three 
years, but she remembered her own student days, and it was 
amazing what desperation could lead one to.

-------------------------------------------------------------

First break was a week of freedom that came three months into 
the university sequence.  David had been eager for the 
respite, eager for a chance to go inland, to camp in the 
sparsely populated mountains, and test himself against the 
steep formations, an adversary he understood.

Now, he had lost track of the time.  It was serene on the 
mountain, near the ruins of the old tower.  He'd chosen the 
steep face and made the ascent fast, working off his 
frustration, forgetting it completely in the several areas of 
technical ascent, when his entire concentration was consumed 
by where to put his toes next, what nub of granite would 
provide the best grip.  Jerry had accompanied him, of course, 
never taking the lead, even though he showed few signs of 
exertion during the climb.

He'd collapsed when they had reached the top, and lay gazing 
back down over the valley and the sky.  It seemed bigger 
here, and helped him find perspective.  It was quiet, too.  
Not a lot of people lived on this part of the continent any 
more, and nature had been busy at reclamation.  The town that 
once lived at the foot of the mountain was visible only by 
the unnatural pattern of straight lines in the meadow grass 
that had overgrown its ruins.

He finally responded to the weight of Jerry's gaze, which 
he'd been feeling upon him for more than a while.  

"What."

David's tone made Jerry discard the line of questioning he'd 
been contemplating, and instead simply state "We should begin 
our descent soon, if we're going to make camp by nightfall."

"We can wait a little longer."

They fell back into silence, and David closed his eyes.  The 
air today was still, and had been surprisingly warm in spite 
of the altitude.  But as the day lengthened, the faintest 
breeze began to stir.  With his eyes closed, it felt like a 
touch, tickling his face and riffling the hair lying across 
his forehead.  It complemented the feeling from the sun, 
baking into his face, and heating his legs in his dark 
trousers.  Soon he'd hear it in the pines, sighing, and when 
the sun went down, the air would cool.  So different from the 
dense mugginess at school, where the constant sweaty drone of 
cicadas felt like it lay on his skin along with the humidity.  
He never wanted to be outdoors, there, even though being 
confined indoors for long stretches made him restless.  He 
grabbed a handful of lichen and held it to his face, enjoying 
the mossy scent mixed with the rosin still on his hands from 
their climb.  He heard the rustle of something small 
scurrying nearby.  Probably a chipmunk, they were everywhere 
here.

"Why do you suppose she insists on physical attendance?" he 
ventured.

Jerry looked at his friend's profile, still gazing out toward 
the east.  He wasn't sure what the question meant.  "It *is* 
her prerogative," he answered simply.

"If she would just broadcast, we could stay here longer.  I'm 
sure I could get a feed."  He stood up, grabbed a piece of 
the faintly pink granite near his feet, and threw it as far 
as he could, listening to the faint clatter as it met the 
ground far below, where the cliffside was angled less 
steeply.

Jerry stood up as well, brushing the dirt from his legs.  
"It's not the same experience."

"Yeah.  No kidding."

Oh.  It wouldn't be long, Jerry thought, before he finally 
learned what was troubling his friend.  He'd watched him grow 
quieter and less animated over the past several weeks, but it 
wasn't in David's nature to complain.

They took a different route back down the mountain, following 
the gentler descent of what was once a road.  In places the 
black surface was still fairly intact, in others, the roots 
of trees had crumbled it as they pushed up through.  David 
thought about the ghost town they had hiked through on their 
way to the tower, and tried to picture it with whole 
buildings, instead of mossy foundations.  Tried to picture 
the energy and bustle of a large town in this remote place.  
He couldn't do it.  Even the small community of Denver, one 
of the few places with a tube stop near the mountains, seemed 
out of place.

"Do you ever wonder what it was like?" he mused aloud.

"What what was like?" Jerry responded.

"Here.  Earth.  Before the wars."

Jerry looked at his friend and then forward again.  "It's not 
my planet.  We have little history here."

"My grandmother says this continent wasn't empty in the 
interior, the way it is now.  That it was full of towns and 
cities as large as on the coasts, even here in the mountains.  
She says her grandmother remembered."  He was silent for a 
while, missing the woman who had raised him after his parents 
died.  He briefly wished he had gone to visit her on his 
break, instead of going camping.  Next time for sure.  "I 
wonder if it seemed crowded, then."

"Perhaps," Jerry countered, "it would seem empty now to 
someone of that era."

History from that time was vague, and conflicted.  No one 
denied that there had been a tragic loss of life when Earth 
had been caught up in the Gray's war, but at the same time, 
the people of that era were often characterized as ignoble 
and petty.  Decimating the plant's resources at breakneck 
pace, and fighting among themselves even in the face of 
destruction.  The Grays had stayed on Earth at first to 
provide aid during the reconstruction, helping humanity back 
onto their feet.  They had stayed since then because, well, 
no one really knew because.  But they kept to themselves, and 
the planet seemed to have resources enough for everyone.  The 
last 100 years had been something of a renaissance.  It 
wasn't a bad time to be alive.

They hiked overland for a little while, the smell of the 
short mountain grass coming off their heels, burrs sticking 
to their pants, heading steadily for the mountain meadow they 
had researched as a likely campsite.  David pulled out his 
goggles and adjusted them for distance.  He compared the view 
with the information displaying on his organizer, his exact 
position pinpointed by the network of satellites in low 
orbit.  He could see a distant break in the meadow grass that 
was probably the small stream that was a landmark on the 
organizer.  The remaining hike would probably take only 
another 45 minutes or so, then they could set up the tent, 
erect the emitters that would keep the wildlife at a 
distance, and run a few gallons of water through the 
filtration system.   They finished the rest of the hike in 
contemplative silence.

-------------------------------------------------------------

When Jerry awoke during the night, the tent was empty.  He 
sat up quickly, the material of the tent swishing faintly 
against his sleeping sack, and reached for the door flap.  
His alarm abated when he spied David sitting by the banked 
fire, his silhouette lit a milky blue in the moonlight, and 
outlined by the orange embers in the firepit.  The air had 
cooled considerably, making wraiths of every exhaled breath.  

"I didn't mean to wake you," David said, without turning 
around.

Jerry walked the few steps to the firepit, the ground 
crackling underfoot in the cold.  His concern returned 
slightly when he noticed the organizer open on David's knees, 
his face looking sallow in the yellow glow from its display.   

"I see you're not enjoying the scenery," he said simply.

David smiled up at his friend, and switched it off.  "You 
make a good point."

To the west, the Front Range was a deep shadow, sparkling at 
its crests.  The awesome height of Pike's Peak dominated the 
scene, its snow capped summit glittering in the moonlight.  
He took several lungfulls of the crisp thin air, and thought 
himself a proper fool for wasting such a spectacular view.  

Folding himself down to the ground, Jerry asked, "What were 
you looking at?"

Glancing sideways before answering, he confessed, "Dr. 
Charles's extra credit problem."

"Why?"

He shrugged.  "Ace the class, never have to go back?"

"I thought you liked the Xeno classes."

"I do," he insisted.  Then,  "I did.  I don't know..." he 
trailed off.  After a moment, he continued.  "I think Dr. 
Charles really dislikes me.  I don't think she'll let me 
pass."

"There's no evidence that her grading is anything but 
objective," Jerry countered.  "You know that."

David sighed, and lay back on the ground.  "She rides me 
really hard in class.  I feel like I'm back in undergraduate 
courses."

"She's hard on everyone.  She's demanding and very serious.  
She also has more to offer than anyone you have ever studied 
under."

David grimaced.  "I knew you were going to say that."

"You know that I'm right."

"You're always right, Jerry.  Do you know how insufferable 
that gets sometimes?" he demanded, exasperated.  They were 
silent for a moment, but as always, David relented.  "I'm 
sorry.  I shouldn't be taking it out on you."

Jerry lowered his head in mute acceptance of the apology.  "I 
think you're overreacting," he offered.  "You're not doing 
badly.  In fact, you're doing better than many.  Seven 
students have already dropped the course, and so far, you're 
maintaining a B."

"Minus," David added.  "On the ragged edge of a C."  It was 
demoralizing.  Academics had always been his arena, the place 
where he shone.  His mother had been so proud of him, before 
she died, when he brought home his standings.  And it had 
been so easy to please her, that way.  He had charmed his 
early teachers with his quick thinking and eagerness to 
learn, all of them sending home glowing reports.  He'd been 
only a child when his mother had fallen ill, so he had to 
concentrate to bring the image of her face into his mind.    
"My little genius," she had called him, blue eyes shining.  
And then she'd died, of a quick, wasting disease.  An 
impossibly rare occurrence in these times of genetically 
manipulated immunities.   From then on, he'd always 
considered excelling as a way of honoring her memory, and 
life sciences his hope of one day understanding what had 
happened to her.

But years had passed, and his spotless academic record became 
a burden in its own way.  He was too invested in it to let it 
slide, but he was tired of being enslaved to its maintenance.  
So he had made a compromise with himself.  The cosmetic 
specialties had easy coursework, and he could be done in only 
one more sequence, out of school, into practice.  If he could 
get certified in the new xeno techniques, his practice would 
be a rich one, allowing time for his own studies on the side.  
He *did* like the Xeno sciences, was utterly fascinated by 
them.  He just didn't want to be judged any more.  And he was 
so damn close.  Until Dr. Charles.

"You know what I really hate?" David asked.  Without waiting 
for a response, he went on.  "It's when she stops lecturing, 
and starts that drill routine.  Firing off questions like 
darts, running you over if you can't figure out the solution 
immediately.  And you know why?"  Again, he didn't wait.  
"Because I *can* see the answer about half the time, but she 
*always* nails me with the ones I can't.  It makes me feel 
like an idiot."

Jerry considered that for a minute, and concluded, "Then 
you'd feel better if you always knew the answer, wouldn't 
you?"

David sat back up and faced him.  "I'd have to drop all 3 of 
my other classes in order to devote enough time to make that 
a reality."

Jerry looked at him steadily.

"Oh, come on.  That would mean another full sequence."

Still, Jerry didn't speak.

"Stop giving me that inscrutable look, and tell me why I 
would possibly want to do this."

"You would beat her.  You would win."

David bristled.  "It's not about that.  I don't want to beat 
anybody."

"But you don't want to be defeated, either, do you?  A minute 
ago you believed she was out to fail you."

"I don't want to beat her," he repeated.

"Then what do you want?"

The silence hung long after Jerry's last question.  Finally 
David whispered, "I think I want to impress her.  I don't 
know why.  And I'm not sure that I can."

"I'm sure," Jerry stated.  With no more to say, he stood and 
headed back to the tent.

After a moment, David followed.

-------------------------------------------------------------

By morning, David had decided, and having that effort behind 
him, he felt immeasurably better.  Jerry noticed his improved 
demeanor, but didn't comment, merely breaking down and 
packing up the campsite, and preparing for their hike back.

They began the day heading north, in the predawn twilight.  
The eastern sky was just beginning to take on shades of pink, 
and the grass underfoot soaked their shoes with dew.  They 
moved quickly to stay warm, stopping only when the sun broke 
the horizon, to admire the sunrise over the mountain plains.

When the sun had risen enough to begin to bake some of the 
dampness off their feet and packs, they picked up another old 
road.  David paused to pull out the goggles and see what lay 
along it.   In one direction he saw more meadows, like that 
they had camped in.  In the other direction he saw -- well 
that was weird.

"Hey Jerry, what do you make of this?" he asked, handing over 
the goggles.  

Jerry adjusted the view for his better eyesight, and finally 
concluded, "It must be a tunnel."

"It's not on the map.  The organizer has nothing on it, and 
the satellites have nothing to add.  It's a blank."  He 
lowered the goggles and squinted into the distance.  "This is 
really strange.  Usually, there's all kinds of useless 
information.  Like that ghost town we hiked through 
yesterday?  It was called Colorado Springs.  But this place, 
nothing."  

They stood side by side, staring into the distance.

"It's probably dangerous."  "Let's check it out," they said 
simultaneously.

Jerry sighed.  He was unlikely to win this one.  "Why do you 
want to go there?  If the satellites can't read what's in 
there, then they won't be able to find us in there either, if 
something happens."

"What's going to happen?" David grinned. "Come on, it will be 
an adventure."

"David..." Jerry warned.

"It's a mystery.  Don't you want to *know*?" He bounced on 
the balls of his feet, excitement straining at his bond with 
the ground.

Warily, Jerry gave in.  There was no fighting him when he was 
like this, and it was at least nice to see his friend more 
like himself.  "Ok, but just a quick look..."  He sighed.  
David had taken off at "O", and he ran to catch up.

-------------------------------------------------------------

In spite of the long run, David was literally hopping with 
excitement when they reached the mouth of the tunnel.  

"This is incredible," he breathed in awe.

The mouth of the tunnel was covered by a pair of huge metal 
doors, their giant locking cylinders frozen permanently in 
their protracted position, preventing the doors from closing.  
A gap, big enough for a man to pass, led into the mountain.  
He pulled his goggles on once again, and adjusted them for 
darkness.  "Let's go," he said.

The first few yards inside the mountain were covered with 
debris that had blown in over the years.  It crunched loudly 
beneath their feet, and echoed hollowly in the cavernous 
entryway.  David sneezed as the stale dust tickled his nose.  
"What do you think this place was?"

Jerry didn't answer.

The passage continued, wide and unremarkable for some length, 
but the air felt heavy, as though the weight of the mountain 
above them were pressing down.  His enthusiasm waning at the 
lack of artifacts, David was about ready to turn around, when 
a glint of machinery caught his eye in the distance.  They 
picked up the pace, their footsteps clattering loudly back at 
them from the walls of the tunnel.  There were vehicles of 
some kind, wreckage.  The metal of which they were made was 
twisted violently where they had contacted the walls, and 
each other.  Many of them seemed perforated with hundreds of 
small holes, and shards of glass remained sharp on the 
ground.  Something clinked across the ground as David's foot 
kicked it away.  He bent down to look more closely, and found 
the ground littered with hundreds of small metal tubes, 
closed on one end.  Curious, he picked a few off the ground 
and pocketed them.

Behind the tumble of metal, another door stood ajar, this one 
sized for men, not for machinery.  It was pitch dark beyond.

"Let's go back," Jerry said, though he didn't expect 
compliance.  He wasn't disappointed.

"No, I want to see."  He climbed over the wreckage, and into 
the heart of the mountain.  

At first, they were faced again with a corridor, this time 
tiled and smooth.   "Have you got your breadcrumbs ready?" 
David joked, when they came to the first of several 
junctures.  They followed the widest corridor, and sucked in 
surprised breaths when it at last opened out onto an enormous 
room, packed with old technology.  The centerpiece of the 
room was a huge display screen.  A string of letters 
stenciled beneath it was still clear.  "What's N-O-R-A-D?" 
David wondered aloud.  This deep into the mountain, very 
little dust or debris had penetrated.  The sensation was 
eerie, as though the lights would come on at any moment, and 
someone would demand to know why they were trespassing.  The 
floor of the room held rows of old computer keyboards and 
monitors.  Looking closer, David saw that between the 
credenzas of equipment, nests of blankets and metal dishes 
littered the floor.  "I think people were living here, once," 
he whispered, awed.  But no sign of the inhabitants 
themselves could be seen.  "I wonder where they all went."  
He stepped forward to the nearest of the little nests, and 
bent down to look more closely.  Reaching out his hand, he 
came back with a small stuffed bear, its glass eyes 
glittering harshly in the enhanced light from his goggles.  
The hairs began to rise a little on the back of his neck, and 
he replaced the toy with a faint shiver.  "Let's see what 
else there is," he said, retreating from large hall.  

Many of the rooms off the narrower corridors revealed similar 
scenes, although the people living in those rooms had at 
least had the luxury of a cot, a table, and a door.  In every 
case, signs of living stood abandoned, as though the 
inhabitants had just gotten up and left during the middle of 
a meal, or while reading.  He shuffled through the items on a 
shelf above the cot in one of the rooms.  Books, mostly.  An 
old Bible.  A stack of scientific papers.  He looked at the 
titles.  'Variola Virus.  Dr. Bonita Carn-Sairs.' Most of the 
papers seemed to focus on biological topics.  There was one 
exception, on physics: 'Einstein's Twin Paradox: A New 
Interpretation.  Dr. Dana K. Scully.'  A smaller stack of lab 
books, filled with notes in a tight, neat, feminine hand.  He 
warred with himself for a moment about taking some of the 
items with him.  Archeology?  Or sacrilege?   The ever 
growing prickling on the back of his neck convinced him it 
would be better to leave it behind.

The final doors at the end of the deepest corridor opened 
onto a familiar sight.  A laboratory, with long black-topped 
work benches, and sinks.  The timeless shapes of petrie 
dishes, beakers, test tubes, and erlenmeyer flasks.  Racks of 
equipment, still recognizable in spite of their out-of-date 
design: centrifuges, microscopes, more of the old computers.

Strained by both providing the only light source, and working 
at peak efficiency to amplify it, David's goggles began to 
dim in the way that warned him the battery was in need of 
restoration.  He turned the amplification down by half to 
preserve the power that remained, but still ventured further 
into the laboratory.  Near the back of the lab, some sort of 
struggle had taken place.  The bench had been swept clear, 
and broken glass lay thickly on the floor beside it.  A 
bootprint was still visible on the counter, and David looked 
up, to see why someone had been standing on the bench.  
Something glinted near the ceiling, and he thoughtlessly 
repeated an act that must have taken place almost two hundred 
years earlier, jumping onto the lab bench and reaching up 
toward the ceiling.  It was a small gold chain, with a tiny 
cross, broken, and caught in the nappy fabric of a pants leg.  
A pants leg?

Oh.  Oh, man.  

"Jerry?" he called out tensely.

"Here."

"I found somebody."  Hearing Jerry's footsteps approaching, 
he reached up and plucked the necklace from its perch, 
pocketing it, before taking a firmer grip on the boot hanging 
out of the vent.

"What are you doing?" Jerry demanded, alarmed.  "Leave it 
alone.  What's here belongs to the past."

"Don't you want to--"

"No!  No, I don't want to *know*!  It is wrong to disturb 
this site.  Leave the dead to their rest."  He pinned him 
with his stare, never more serious than this.  David's 
goggles chose that moment to give another dimming warning, 
and he was forced to turn them down yet again.  Between the 
waning of his vision, his now almost constant sense of 
unease, and the deadly earnestness of Jerry's regard, he 
decided for once to listen to his friend's conservative 
advice, and jumped down from the bench.

Something hit him squarely from behind, knocking him to the 
ground, and he screamed.  A weight pressed him into the 
floor, and he scrambled forward, heedless of the broken 
glass, frantically working to dislodge it.  

"David!  David!"

Jerry's voice cut through his rising panic, and strong hands 
dragged him to his feet, the weight falling away to the 
ground with a sickening crunch.

"It fell, David!  That's all!  When you jumped, it fell."  He 
modulated his voice to a more soothing tone.  "They just 
fell."

They both looked back at the grisly sight.  Two leathery, 
desiccated corpses, locked eternally in a mortal struggle.  
One was a man, dressed in olive green from head to toe, his 
head arched back and face in rictus.  The other had the large 
head and liquid eyes of a Gray, dimmed and sunken, a part of 
its neck blown away.  The Gray's arm was completely through 
the ribcage of the man, emerging out the back.  A narrow 
sliver of light cut across the floor, shining from the place 
in the ceiling from which they had fallen.  It was the 
entrance to a ventilation shaft, cut all the way through to 
the surface.  

The scene was even more shocking than the fall moments 
before.  It fit none of what David understood about the wars.

"What the hell happened here?"

Across the fall of the light, something black and oily 
glistened and flowed.

"Jerry, what the hell is *that*?"  David pointed.

Jerry reacted instinctively, yanking David back several feet 
by his pack straps.  "Don't let it touch you," he hissed 
urgently.  They watched in horror for a heartbeat more, as 
the oil oozed in their direction.  Then the panic set in, and 
they bolted from the lab.

They ran back the way they had come, scrambling over the 
wreckage with far less grace than they had on the way in, 
Jerry frequently pulling a stumbling David up by his jacket 
sleeves, and finally leading him when his goggles become too 
weak for him to see clearly.  They didn't stop until the 
colossal doors were a mile behind them.

-------------------------------------------------------------

Melissa Charles woke with her heart pounding, covered in a 
fine sheen of sweat.  She took several deep, calming breaths, 
and scrubbed her palms on the fabric of the bed sheets. Try 
as she might, though, she couldn't remember the nightmare.  
Returning to sleep was never an option when she woke in this 
fashion, so she fingered the control on her bedside table, 
bringing the lights up at half intensity.  Might as well get 
up.  Her face in the bedroom mirror looked haggard from lack 
of sleep, and puffy, although it didn't really reflect her 
age.  Her youthful appearance was sometimes a problem for 
her, and was one of the reasons for her cold persona.  It 
generated respect.  She ran her fingers through her hair, and 
considered the amount of gray showing in it.  She thought 
about touching it up, but decided to leave it as it was.  

She padded through the quiet house, starting a kettle for a 
first cup of tea.  While the water heated, she cut open a 
cantaloupe that she'd pulled from her garden the day before, 
filled one half with cottage cheese, and stood at her sink to 
eat.  As she savored the sweet orange flesh, she gazed out 
the window at the sunrise. Her sometime visitor, a stray 
brown tabby cat, appeared at the back door, giving her its 
best forlorn look.  She retrieved a saucer, filled it with a 
few leftovers from her dinner the night before, and set it 
outside, giving the cat a few perfunctory scratches behind 
the ear as she did so.  The cat purred, but she presumed it 
had more to do with the baked fish than with her caress.  Her 
association with the cat was mainly an act of charity to 
another solitary earth creature.  She'd long ago given up on 
the affection of pets, having outlived a few too many to bear 
getting reattached.

She had been relieved when the first break arrived, when she 
could retreat to her home for a week, and not have to deal 
with being on campus.  Over the years she had become 
accustomed to a solitary existence, and readjusting to 
teaching had been a bit of a strain.  It was going about as 
well as she had expected, so far.  A fifth of the class had 
dropped, the rest were scattered in their standings.  No one 
stood out.  In the end it wouldn't matter for her purposes 
whether there was a real talent in this group or not.  
Eventually she would pass on her scientific legacy the same 
way it had been passed on to her.  It would have been nice to 
have someone rise to her challenge, though.  Her research 
could use fresh eyes.  

The break had afforded her the opportunity to return to her 
research for a few days; the well-equipped laboratory that 
consumed the rear half of her house had been underutilized 
recently. 

Science, she reflected, like all the nobler pursuits, had 
been slow to be rejoined after the war, but most of the chaos 
had been relieved by about 2045, which was the date most 
people accepted as the end of the reconstruction, and marked 
the resumption of the keeping of history.  What remained of 
the population after the war had been relocated and 
concentrated toward the coasts of the various continents, to 
better utilize the most abundant source of power -- an 
extraordinarily efficient system of mining energy from the 
ocean, both from its tides and from the immense temperature 
and pressure differentials that could be exploited.  It was 
one of the few outright gifts of technology that had been 
given by the Grays. 

But concentrating the population had had beneficial side 
effects, and among these was the synergy produced when 
remaining scientists, engineers, artists, and educators began 
to find one another.  The first University was reopened, and 
the most ambitious scientific pursuit from before the war, 
the mapping of the human genome, was revived.  It was almost 
an act of defiance, a proof that mankind had survived, a 
celebration of mankind's design.  It was nearly necessary to 
start from scratch, so much data and equipment, so many 
techniques had been lost.  And so many of those who would 
lead or teach were already at an advanced age.

Still, they prevailed, and in less than 20 years, had a 
complete map, and a generation of eager students.  Within 60 
years, a majority of the functional variations for each gene 
were understood.  Gradually, a high level language of human 
genetics evolved, that filtered out the common denominators 
of the chemistry, and allowed those with the training to 
understand it, to describe and model the effect of a genetic 
change to the human organism.  Medicine became a wholly 
different field.  There was still symptomatic treatment, and 
aspirin remained as constant as the speed of light -- 
medicine's universal invariant -- but serious illnesses were 
treated uniquely for each individual.  The Doctor became a 
detective, searching for the bug in the code, devising the 
right fix.

Dr. Charles was trying to do it all over again, this time, to 
understand the new residents come so recently to share the 
planet with humanity.  Her task was both easier and harder 
than that of her heroic forbears.  Easier, because the 
machinery to analyze a sample of DNA and spit out the 
chemical base pairs was ubiquitous now.  Harder, much harder, 
because she lacked a meaningful point of reference.  The raw 
data of the alien genomes was available on the nets, if you 
knew where to look, but there was no elaboration beyond the 
nucleotide sequence itself.  And it was occasionally possible 
to obtain a bit of alien cellular material, by following 
where they had recently visited -- their dermis sloughed just 
like ours.  But it was impossible to get any of them to 
submit to any physiological study.  No exams, external or 
internal.  No family studies.  Nothing.  She was forced to 
compare against the human genome, looking for matches against 
the grossest similarities -- bipedal, oxygen breathing, bi-
ocular -- and from that deduce the rest.  And she was one of 
a very small group of people working on the problem.  Most 
saw no practical application.

After an hour in the spotless and carefully organized lab, 
she realized her reflections were taking her only backward, 
not forward, and sighing, retired from her pursuit for the 
rest of the day.  The house was already impeccably neat, 
testimony to her current impasse, as well as her natural 
habits.  Even the vegetable garden she kept in the back yard 
was ordinarily tidy, and usually provided most of the produce 
she would use during a year.  The garden had necessarily 
suffered a bit of neglect while she was busy with teaching, 
and she considered spending the remainder of her last free 
day tending it.  She often found that physical labor helped 
her thought process.  It wasn't the exercise she would most 
have preferred, but that would require either another person 
with the right skills, or equipment that wasn't handy at the 
moment.  

Gardening it would be, then.  She finished her tea and toast, 
changed out of her lightweight blue pajamas and into a pair 
of worn hemp pants and a gray heather shirt, donned a wide 
brimmed hat to protect her fair skin, and headed outside.  By 
the time the sweet peas were free of weeds, she'd long 
forgotten her anxious awakening.

-------------------------------------------------------------

A week after returning from first break, David Mitchell had 
also forgotten much of the excitement of his camping trip, 
buried by the effort of his renewed dedication to his single 
remaining class.  Only the occasional itch of the scars on 
his forearms, where he had struggled in the broken glass, 
reminded him that there had been more to the trip than 
glorious sunrises and clean, thin air.  He pushed the sleeves 
of his Henley up past his elbows and scratched absent 
mindedly.

Jerry had faded quietly into the background as David's focus 
narrowed, taking over the day to day maintenance of their 
small campus apartment, and disturbing him only to remind him 
to eat.

Today, though, he had something of more direct value to 
offer.

"What's this?" David asked, when Jerry dropped the data tab 
onto the desk where he was working.

"Read it and see."

The data tab was a small, rigid rectangle, about an inch 
long, half as wide, and only a few millimeters thick.  David 
inserted it into the reader slot on his organizer, and tapped 
the icons that would reveal its content.

He whistled appreciatively.  "You've been digging."

"That is the sum total of every scientific thing written by 
one Dr. Melissa Charles, including her undergraduate student 
work.  Not just the famous monographs available on the major 
library directories.   Some of these existed only in old 
grading archives at her alma maters.  My access to those 
files was -- unorthodox."

David scrolled eagerly through the listing, back to the 
earliest writings.  "Well, I'm sure it will boost my self-
esteem to nit-pick her early efforts.  Everyone has to start 
somewhere, right?" he joked.

"More interesting, I think, is this."  He selected a group of 
lab reports from the middle of the listing.  "Look.  See 
here?  Does this appear familiar?"

After a few moments study, David made the connection.  "Yeah, 
it does.  The class drills, the seat-of-the-pants application 
of concepts she loves so much.  She's following the pattern 
of her own research.  Although..." he studied the dates on 
several of the articles.  "She's doing it at a much 
accelerated pace."

Jerry considered.  "It took your Newton much longer to invent 
Calculus than it takes to teach it," he finally responded.

"So now she's Newton?" David scoffed.  "Jerry, I think you 
give her too much credit."

"Go ahead and nit-pick her early work, then.  You may change 
your mind."  

David stared thoughtfully after Jerry as he left, wondering 
what had gotten into his friend, that he held this woman in 
such regard.  Since physical attraction wasn't likely given 
their differing species, it had to be something deeper.  And 
though he rarely discounted Jerry's opinion outright, he just 
couldn't see it.  He'd been doing better since he'd dropped 
his other classes, but he hadn't given up on his original 
assessment of Dr. Charles.  He still thought she was a 
hardass.  He bent back to the organizer.  Well, whatever it 
was she was driving the class toward, he would get there 
faster if he knew where she'd been.

-------------------------------------------------------------

Dr. Charles regarded her student's smug expression for an 
extra few seconds before speaking.  Just long enough to 
unsettle him.  Perhaps she was finally getting a nibble, 
although David Mitchell hadn't been in the top third of the 
students she expected to rise to her challenge.  "Wrong 
again, Mel," she thought to herself.  Her feminine intuition 
was definitely rusty.  Not at all the caliber of her 
namesake.  To be completely honest with herself, she supposed 
she had pushed this student harder than the others.  She'd 
never gotten over the eerie sense of familiarity that had 
possessed her on the first day of class, and something about 
him made her want to provoke him, get him to react.  At first 
it had just made him sullen, and she always felt a little bit 
of guilt at the end of the day over it.  But not much.  Now, 
in the past several weeks, he had suddenly surged ahead of 
the rest of the class in his understanding of the topics she 
was presenting.  She had a suspicion that she knew the reason 
why.

"That is correct, Mr. Mitchell.  Please broadcast that 
solution.  Class, please study the derivation from protein 
sequence to base-pair location in Mr. Mitchell's solution.  
We'll cover that technique in more depth tomorrow.  Mr. 
Mitchell, I expect to see you in my office this afternoon at 
2PM.  Don't be late.  Class dismissed."  She had to turn her 
back to the class as they left.  She couldn't afford to let 
them see the smile tugging at the corner of her mouth, it 
just wouldn't do for her image.  But the look on that young 
man's face had been priceless.

-------------------------------------------------------------

It was, in fact, seven minutes past 2 PM when Dr. Charles 
heard a hesitant knock on her door.

She schooled her expression carefully.  "Come!" she called.

She deliberately remained focused on the integrated display 
of her desktop, putting the finishing touches on the 
impromptu test.  Without looking up, she addressed him.  
"You've been doing very well recently, Mr. Mitchell.  To what 
do you attribute your recent improvement?"

David's heart skipped a beat.  Did she know?  It hadn't 
occurred to him until this very moment, but he suddenly 
realized she might consider his use of her research a kind of 
cheating.  He was unsure how to answer, so said simply, "I've 
dropped all my other classes."

"And that's not all, is it?" She looked up at him, and 
immediately back at her desk.  Maybe she was playing this 
game a little too hard.  She remembered -- it was a faint 
memory, but still there -- her own university days.  The 
teachers that had pushed her hardest were ultimately those 
she most valued, but they scared the hell out of her at 
first.  David's eyes were very wide, and she spied a faint 
sheen of sweat on his upper lip.  She had to remind herself 
again not to smile.

"You've accessed all my old work.  Even the undergraduate 
papers."  Her face finally under control, she gazed at him 
steadily.  "I know where all my work is kept.  I was able to 
audit the access trail, and even my most obscure reports have 
been downloaded in the last several weeks."

Busted.  David rubbed his hand across the back of his neck, 
and shifted his weight nervously from foot to foot.  One damn 
sequence left and he was going to be expelled.  It was 
unbelievable.  He had to salvage this, somehow.  "Dr. 
Charles, I can explain..." he began.

"Sit down, Mr. Mitchell," she interrupted.  Hesitantly, he 
complied.  

"You seem to be under the impression that I'm angry about 
this.  On the contrary, I think it shows initiative.  And 
formidable network navigation skills."

Irrationally, David felt a sudden need to confess that 
neither the initiative or the skill were his.  "Dr. Charles, 
I should tell you..."

She interrupted him again.  "But what I really want to know 
is if you understood those reports, or simply memorized 
them."  She pulled the printout from the slot on her desk.  
Sometimes, there was still a good reason for paper.  "You 
have until 3PM to complete the following."  She handed him 
the paper, and a simple carbon pencil.  "You may not use your 
organizer."

David took the sheet, stunned.  This was unexpected.  He 
glanced over the 3 questions on the sheet and realized that 
it also was going to be difficult.  "That's not even a full 
hour," he dared to complain.

"Next time, don't be late," she shrugged.  She pointed to the 
large table under the window.  "Sit over there."  She waited 
while he folded his lanky frame into the straight-backed 
chair, and then returned to her own work.

She observed him glancing curiously about the office from 
time to time, taking in the modest collection of antique 
books, the health and variety of the many plants hanging from 
the ceiling and standing in corners.  His eyes paused briefly 
when they lit upon the three baseball bats leaning against a 
bookshelf, and his brows furrowed.  He glanced at her, and 
startled to find her staring back, returned guiltily to the 
test.  He looked around a few more times, but didn't meet her 
eyes again until the hour was up.

"Let's see what you've got."  Dr. Charles held out her hand, 
palm up.  

"I'm not quite done?"  It was really another question:  "Can 
I have more time?"

She flexed her fingers a couple of times, indicating for him 
to hand it over.  Sighing, he returned to the chair in front 
of her desk, and put the sheet into her hand.

The third question was only half completed, but it was clear 
he'd been on the right track with his reasoning.  The first 
two questions, in spite of the smear of carbon in a few 
places, drew the correct conclusions.  She could work with 
this, she thought.

"This is excellent work, Mr. Mitchell," she said, putting the 
page down onto her desk.  She rewarded him with a brief 
smile, along with the praise.  The relief coming off of him 
was palpable.  "And now that I know what you're capable of, 
I'll be expecting more from you than the other students."  
She watched his face fall while he considered the 
implications of that.

"Fear is an excellent motivator, Mr. Mitchell, which is why I 
need you to know that I won't hesitate to lower your grade if 
you fail to meet your potential.  I don't want my best 
student coasting." She looked at him seriously, wondering if 
he had caught the offhand compliment. "It is not, however, 
the only motivator."  No it wasn't.  There was also prestige, 
privilege and position.  All of which had to be earned if 
they were to be appreciated.

"I need a lab assistant.  Not simply to help with the 
laboratory portion of the undergraduate classes I teach, but 
ultimately in my personal research lab as well.  Until today, 
I did not think I would find someone worth the investment of 
time that entails."   She studied him again.  He was 
beginning to look a bit dazed.  She recalled something he had 
said earlier.  "You have no other classes this sequence?"  He 
nodded.  "That's convenient.  You will be on an accelerated 
schedule, but you will not be on your own.  You'll meet me 
daily at 6AM to prepare for the 7 to 9 AM labs.  You will 
continue to attend my 9AM lectures.  And you will reserve the 
hours from 2-4 in the afternoon to meet with me, 
individually, here in my office.  We'll proceed through the 
rest of the work you accessed," she smiled again at the 
guilty glance that elicited, "and I'll be available to answer 
your questions.  That should be enough for now.  Assuming 
you're interested in the position?" she added, as an 
afterthought.

He startled at being given the option.  "Yes ma'am," he 
affirmed, eagerly.

"This won't be easy, David," she said seriously.  The 
unexpected use of his first name got his undivided attention.  
She leaned forward in her seat.  "You have probably never 
worked as hard as I'm going to need you to work.  And you'll 
have to keep up if you want to keep the position."

He nodded soberly.

"All right, then.  You can go.  I'll expect you at the lab at 
six.  Don't be late."  She gave him a final smile as she 
dismissed him, allowing a trace of warmth into it this time.

His step was positively jaunty as he crossed to the door.  
Just before leaving he glanced back over his shoulder with a 
cocky grin, opened his mouth as if to make a witty exit, 
thought better of it, and with a little shake of his head, 
left.

Dr. Charles studied his test responses again, and suddenly 
had an insight into David Mitchell.  The questions hadn't 
been easy, and the fact that he'd nailed them in less than an 
hour indicated both a good deal of burgeoning insight into 
this strange young science, and a significant degree of 
native intelligence.  That cocky grin, even though she'd 
never witnessed it before, was probably his typical 
expression, not the sullen glare she'd become accustomed to.  
Someone that bright had probably always been at the top of 
his class, with little effort.  No doubt a great deal of his 
identity was tied up in that fact, and being in the middle of 
the pack wasn't something he was equipped to deal with.  More 
than likely, he'd be willing to do almost anything in order 
to feel like himself again, including struggle, maybe for the 
first time in his life.   And he would need guidance in that 
struggle, on more than a strictly academic level.

She wasn't sure how she felt about that.  Actually finding 
someone like David at this school, or any other, hadn't been 
something she'd realistically expected.  And had this 
happened with anyone other than this oddly compelling young 
man, she probably wouldn't have engaged him so immediately, 
without thinking about it at length, first.   She had hoped 
that by steering the coursework in the direction of her 
current research, and persisting in her fast paced class 
drills, that she might force a flash of intuition out of some 
student that would break down the wall she faced.  Taking 
this boy into her tutelage was a far cry from that, or from 
her distant electronic relationship with her few peers.  She 
would have to get to know him, and allow him to know her.  It 
would be a delicate balance.  There were secrets in her life 
that she'd prefer to keep to herself.

-------------------------------------------------------------

David had barely seen the light of day for six weeks, and he 
had needed to get out.  Even though the day was unusually 
humid, which ordinarily would keep him inside.  Even though 
it meant he wouldn't be entirely prepared for his meeting 
with Dr. Charles tomorrow.  Being cooped up any length of 
time made him restless, but he hadn't felt he had the luxury 
to take time away from his studies.  It was Jerry who finally 
made him realize he needed to take a break, and do something 
physical.  Not in the usual reasonable, cajoling way that was 
his manner, but by the fact that the almost uniformly 
moderate Jerry was showing actual signs of exasperation.  
David realized that he must be becoming a real pain in the 
ass.  So he had put on a pair of lightweight shorts and a 
tank, and headed for the University's athletic fields.  There 
was a track there, and he could run.  It wasn't as good as 
climbing, but the mountains were miles away, and the indoor 
facility the University kept was designed for novices.  It 
was getting dusky when he arrived, not that that had 
decreased the temperature very much, yet.  But it was usually 
slightly better after dark.  The field lights would be on 
until midnight, and he preferred the mosquitoes to the heat.   
He dropped the bag he'd carried with him onto the bleacher 
with a loud clunk, changed from his sandals into running 
shoes, and took a long drink of water.  He did only a few 
perfunctory stretches, even though he knew better.  It had 
been a while since he'd exercised at all, which meant he 
should be stretching out, and warming up slowly.  But it also 
meant he was overeager to get moving.

Soon, he had settled into a comfortable pace, breathing 
deeply and regularly, the cinder oval elapsing behind him 
again and again.  He meant to count his laps, but as he found 
his rhythm, his mind began to wander.

In the six weeks since Dr. Charles had taken him on as her 
assistant, he had worked harder, and learned more, than in 
possibly the combined total of all his graduate studies.  He 
was beginning to discover that although demanding of her 
students during lab sections, and sometimes harsh during 
lectures, when teaching individually Dr. Charles was 
surprisingly patient, and was more generous with her approval 
than he would have imagined.  She seemed to have a natural 
instinct for pacing the presentation of material; fast enough 
to keep him challenged, but not so fast that he couldn't 
succeed.  If he worked like hell, anyway. He wouldn't exactly 
say he liked her, but he wasn't frightened of her anymore.  

In a short six weeks, the undergrads in the 7AM labs had 
practically come to worship him, which he found amusing.  If 
he had found her a daunting taskmaster, they were scared 
speechless.  Which was a problem since they needed to ask 
questions.  For a small woman, she was incredibly imposing.  
So he took on the manner of circulating through the lab, 
offering assistance and advice as the younger students 
practiced and mastered procedures they would use again and 
again, if they stuck to their major.  It was a new experience 
for him, seeing things from the perspective of a teacher, 
where success wasn't in proving you understood a thing, but 
that you could make someone else understand it.  As he got 
better at it, the younger students had warmed to him, and 
some now approached him for help outside of class, usually a 
little bit shyly.  They never approached him if he was with 
Dr. Charles, though.  He wondered how much of their 
admiration was based on the fact that he could appear 
comfortable with someone they found so unnerving.

He hadn't yet seen her personal research facility, as she had 
indicated he would in their first meeting.  He didn't know 
what the delay was -- or even if she meant to follow through.  
But he wasn't ready to press her on it.

The burn in his legs was changing from invigorating to 
painful, and he discovered that he had lost all track of 
time.  It was no longer dusky, but completely dark, and there 
was no one else on the track.  He'd been running a long time.  
Slowing, he jogged over to the bleacher where his bag still 
sat, and bent over, hands braced on his knees, breathing 
heavily through his mouth.  The sweat dripped off his face in 
this position, making a pattern of small dark dots on the 
ground at his feet.  He fished a towel out of his bag and 
mopped his face and neck, then finished the water he had 
brought in one long draught.  His shirt clung to his back 
between his shoulder blades, tacky and uncomfortable.  He 
changed that, too, to a thin, dry navy T-shirt.  More 
comfortable, he slung the bag over his shoulder and began to 
head home.

The path from the track meandered between various outdoor 
facilities, and he thought how strange they looked abandoned 
at this late hour, bathed in the artificial light.  First, 
the tennis courts, then a fenced in paved rectangle, with 
high hoops on each end, gossamer nets hanging beneath them.  
Another grass field, with wide net goals at the far ends.   A 
short distance ahead, he could hear the rhythmic clang of 
someone in the batting cage, hitting the hard polymer balls 
with a metal bat.  He stopped and watched when he reached the 
cage, admiring the skill of the batter.  The machine was set 
for hard fastballs, and he hadn't missed a single pitch since 
David had come into view.  It was mesmerizing, in a way.  The 
soft "thwump" of the machine as it spat out the ball, the 
quick hiss of the ball slicing through the air, the loud 
clang of the bat as the hitter brought it around with grace 
and power, and then the rattling clank of the fencing at the 
far side of the cage.  He could almost understand why it had 
been such a popular game, once, watching this guy.  That 
moment of connection looked satisfying.

Evidently, the sequence was finished, because the hum of the 
machine lowered in pitch, and the batter took off his helmet 
and turned around.  "Dr. Charles?" David said, shocked.

She smiled faintly, covering her surprise better than he had.  
"Close your mouth David.  Something will fly in."

He did, with an almost audible pop, then opened it again to 
say, "I, uh, I didn't know you played."

She shrugged in response, but added "I was surprised to find 
that this campus has a cage.  I'm just glad it works."

"Were you on a team once, or something?" he asked, curiosity 
growing.  He realized suddenly that he couldn't recall having 
once seen her in anything other than the dark, conservative 
suits she wore to lecture.  It was why he hadn't recognized 
her, he supposed, in the snug pants and loose, oversized 
jersey.

"Or something," she said, concentrating on pulling off her 
gloves.  

When she didn't continue, David began to feel uncomfortable.  
"I, uh...  Sorry.  I didn't mean to pry."

"It's alright, David, you're not prying.  I'm just out of 
practice answering questions about myself."

He nodded silently, waiting for her to go on.

"I've played in a few informal leagues now and then, but this 
is really something I do for myself.  A friend of mine taught 
me when I much younger.  Sometimes a workout helps clear your 
mind, you know?"  

He nodded again, and she supposed that he did know, judging 
by the way his hair was plastered to his head, in thick 
sweaty strands.

"And it helps me to remember him," she confessed.

"Don't you see him much?" David asked, imagining a childhood 
friend.  Dr. Charles didn't wear a ring, and he really 
couldn't imagine her with a boyfriend -- he didn't think 
anyone could measure up.

"He's dead," she replied.

"Oh."  He felt like a jerk.  "I'm sorry."

"It happened a long time ago."

They were both quiet for a beat, and not sure how else to 
break the silence, Dr. Charles offered "I could teach you 
some time, if you like."

David was unsure how to respond.  His entire academic 
existence revolved around this woman.  He wasn't really eager 
to add her to what little there was of his social life as 
well.  "Uh, well, I'm not really, um...  I climb, you know?  
That's mostly what I do when I can.  Or I run.  I don't think 
this is really something for me.  So, uh, no.  But thanks for 
the offer."

"All right, then."  She ended the awkwardness by returning to 
her professor persona, and the roles they were both 
comfortable in.  "I'll see you at lab in the morning.  Don't 
be late."  And with that, she gathered her equipment and 
walked away, not looking back.

David stayed put a moment longer, thoughtful, then headed for 
home in the balmy night.

-------------------------------------------------------------

For the third weekend in a row, David Mitchell watched the 
day wane out the high window in Dr. Charles's personal 
laboratory.  Although he had sometimes complained about the 
pace with which they were covering the background of her 
life's research (he'd been snide to Jerry on more than one 
occasion when he felt overwhelmed, for his "help" of finding 
it in the first place) he now realized what a luxury it was 
to see the young science unfolding in compressed time.   What 
appeared in retrospect to be a series of brilliant insights 
and intuitive leaps, was based on data that was gathered 
painstakingly, and tediously, over weeks and months, even 
years.

Three weeks ago Dr. Charles had identified a segment of Gray 
genome that she thought would prove to be expressive.  They 
had assembled the base-pair sequence the week she first 
brought him here.  Later that evening, she had given him a 
tour of the old farmhouse she inhabited, and sent him home 
with a bag of tomatoes.  The complex molecules were 
stabilized in a special solution, and their temperature 
gradually lowered in the liquid-nitrogen cooled refrigeration 
unit, to await the next stage.  They were warmed just as 
gradually the following week, and injected into a broad range 
of simple cellular hosts, for incubation.  They'd shared 
lunch in her kitchen that day.  A thick vegetable stew and 
fresh bread.  At first he didn't think anything could 
surprise him more than to discover that she cooked, until she 
bowed her head for a brief moment of grace.  Nobody believed 
in God anymore.

Today, they were harvesting the proteins from the more 
successful colonies, for analysis.  This stage would be the 
longest.  Building the protein was one thing, trying to 
determine its purpose much harder.

"No! David, not that one!"

He snatched his hand back from the incubator door.  He had 
almost opened the wrong unit.  It contained a special group 
of experimental cells.  Temperature sensitive, they needed to 
be gradually adjusted to room temperature before the door 
could be opened safely.  An abrupt temperature change could 
have damaged the work of several weeks.

"I'm sorry, Dr. Charles," he said, scrubbing his face with 
his hands.  "I'm burnt.  Honestly, I don't think you should 
have me in here right now.  Can't we take a break?"

"Hmm," she said, considering him.  Abruptly, she covered the 
sample she had been working on, and put it away.  Reaching 
deep into a cabinet beneath a counter against the wall, she 
pulled out a pair of large brown objects, and tossed one to 
David.

"What's this?" he asked, puzzled by the large glove.

"It's a mitt," she said.  "Come on.  Let's go outside."  She 
walked out of the lab without looking to see if he was 
following.  He trotted after her, still puzzled, but glad to 
be out of the sterile atmosphere of the lab.

As they emerged from the back of the farmhouse, David took a 
closer look at the strange glove.  "Um, Dr. Charles?  I'm not 
sure what this is for, but I'm right handed," he said.

"Of course you are.  That's why the mitt goes on your left.  
It would be in the way on your throwing hand."  At the 
genuinely blank look on his face she relented.  "You can't 
mean to tell me that you've never played catch?"  

"I grew up in the west," he said.  "Nobody plays baseball 
there."

"Well, it's not yet dead in the east, young man.  It's about 
time you got introduced.  Put the mitt on."

Accustomed by now to doing as she instructed, he shoved his 
hand up into the mitt.  It felt awkward and heavy, the 
fingers too far apart.  She took his hand, felt for the 
position of his fingers through the thick leather, and 
adjusted a couple of straps for fit.  Standing so close, 
David realized that he could look right down at the top of 
her head.  It made him feel strange.  His father had once 
told him a story about outgrowing Nana, and how weird it had 
made him feel to be looking down his own mother.  He wondered 
if the feeling were similar.

"Now, this is where the ball goes," she said, placing a 
small, red-stitched white sphere into the pocket of the 
glove.   "When you put your hand up to catch it, try to catch 
it in the pocket.  All you have to do then is close your hand 
to keep if from falling out.  If you catch it in your palm, 
it'll sting."  She slapped the ball into her own glove a few 
times to demonstrate.  "When you see the ball coming at you, 
your first instinct will probably be to get out of the way.  
If you do that, you'll miss."  She smiled to show she was 
joking.  "Just keep the glove up in front of you, and keep 
your eyes open all the way in.  I'll throw you nice easy 
ones.  You go and stand over there."  She pointed to a spot 
not far from the fence.  If he missed, he wouldn't have to go 
far to pick up the ball.  She took her own spot near the edge 
of the garden, by the green beans.

He didn't miss, although his throw had some room for 
improvement.  "Like a girl," is what people would have said, 
once.  They played in silence for a while, the rhythmic slap 
of the ball into the glove their only communication.  
Strangely relaxed by the ritual, David found himself asking 
questions he hadn't dared before.

"Dr. Charles?"

Slap.

Slap.

"Yes."

Slap.

Slap.

"How *did* you find the shape shifting gene on the Smith 
Aliens?  It could have been anywhere, and it doesn't map to 
us..."

Slap.

Slap.

"Still planning a career in cosmetic medicine?"

Slap.

Slap.

Slap.

Slap.

"I don't think so."

Slap.

Slap.

"Glad to hear it."

Slap.

Dr. Charles caught the ball one last time, then pulled her 
mitt off, wrapped the ball inside it, and tucked them both 
under her arm.

"Come on.  I'll show you."  She turned and headed back for 
the house.

-------------------------------------------------------------

It was a room she hadn't shown him before, and it was full of 
paper.  Reams of it.  Stacks and stacks piled on every 
surface, overflowing from shelves, balanced four feet high on 
the floor in the corners.  It was strange to be in the 
presence of so much paper.  It gave the room a peculiar, 
musty smell that reminded him of a field trip he had taken as 
a child to one of the old public library buildings from 
before the war.  It's not that there wasn't still an 
abundance of printed material, it was just that it seemed so 
out of place in someone's *house*.  Almost everything 
contemporary was available on the nets, as well as 
transcriptions of classic texts.  The old libraries were 
maintained by the governments, and open to the public, for 
the preservation of things left from before the war.  They 
weren't used much.  But Dr. Charles stood in the midst of 
this forest of wood pulp and ink as though it were the most 
natural thing in the world.  In spite of the apparent chaos, 
David had no doubt that this room, like every other he had 
seen, followed some precise organizational system.  

His suspicion was confirmed when she unerringly went to a 
rack of shelves third from the corner, bent down to the 
second lowest, and retrieved a thin report from the middle of 
the stack on the left.  Then she stood, gestured for him to 
lead the way out, and shut the door carefully behind her.

The light in her kitchen cast a warm glow, and the first 
crickets could be heard starting up outside the open window.  
David took a seat at the table, and waited patiently while 
she began heating water for tea.  He was beginning to be more 
comfortable in her home, after three weeks, and the kitchen 
seemed to make him more at ease than any other room.  
Finally, she sat down across from him, turned the report so 
it was right side up from his perspective and said, "It 
happened once before, in humans.  A spontaneous mutation that 
allowed for voluntary appearance modification."

David was astonished.  He'd been studying the life sciences 
almost exclusively since secondary school, and had never 
heard of such a thing.  "When?" he asked.

"Near the end of the twentieth century.  A man named Edward 
Van Blundht.  There was a thin layer of striated muscle 
tissue under the surface of every part of his epidermis.  He 
also had an anomalous structure to his hair follicles.  The 
report doesn't state conclusively, but it was presumed the 
mutation allowed him to change the appearance of his hair at 
will, along with his facial features."

David stared at her, disbelieving.

"It was hereditary.  His father also had the anomalous muscle 
tissue, and presumably had the same ability.  They both had 
tails.  Oddly, Edward's children inherited the tail, but not 
the ability to morph."

At the mention of tails, David's expression turned sour.

"What?" Dr. Charles asked, unable to read him.

"This is a joke, right?  Not a very funny one, either.  If 
you don't think I can follow your progression, just say so."  
The story had been a stretch from the first.  The notion of a 
shape shifting human, with a *tail* no less, just capped it.  
Since he couldn't believe it, he concluded she was lying.   
And he couldn't fathom a reason why, unless she didn't think 
him capable of understanding the truth.  Anger and insecurity 
warred within him for the upper hand.  Insecurity that his 
months of effort had been inadequate after all, and that in 
spite of her encouraging words, this challenging, demanding 
woman held him in intellectual contempt.  Anger that she 
would think she had any such right.  

Dr. Charles watched the conflicting emotions flash across her 
pupil's face, and the brooding flash of anger in his hazel 
eyes triggered a strange sense of deja vu.  She shook it off, 
and went to rescue the tea kettle, whistling with an 
agitation that mirrored that of the young man.  Methodically, 
she prepared the tea and set a cup in front of him, meeting 
his angry glare without reaction.  After a calming pull on 
her own mug, she finally asked "Why would think this is a 
joke?"

"I finished Human Genomics two sequences ago.  No way this is 
possible.  It's taken a fleet of researchers to figure out 
how to engineer this ability on a limited basis.  A 
spontaneous occurrence of the degree you're describing is out 
of the realm of possibility."  He snorted.  "And a tail!"

"Even extreme possibility?" she asked, seriously.

"There's no science to support it," he insisted.

"There's plenty of science to support it.  You just have to 
consider the possibility that there's more to science than 
what's already been discovered, what you've already been 
taught.  It's not static, young man.  There was a time when 
most respected scientists completely denied the possibility 
of extra terrestrial life.  Even the most brilliant minds 
were summarily branded lunatics if they dared to suggest 
otherwise.  Because it was 'out of the realm of possibility.'  
Today, we not only take the presence of alien life for 
granted, we consider those men and women laughably short 
sighted for denying the statistical evidence in support of 
that life."

Dr. Charles gestured to the report.   "Read it.  Try to keep 
an open mind.  If you still think I'm mocking you, you're 
free to go."  The phrase held a tone of finality.  She 
couldn't mentor him without his trust.  If he wasn't willing 
to give it, she'd waste no further time with him.

David looked at the report.  It was dated in 1997, almost 200 
years ago.  The author was a Dr. Dana K. Scully.  The name 
seemed familiar, but he couldn't place it.  Not by any means 
mollified, he still handled the brittle and yellowing paper 
gingerly.

An hour later, his calm had returned, but his puzzlement had 
multiplied.  The report was scholarly, and thorough.  The 
conclusions were reasonable given the science of the day, and 
even showed some remarkable intuitive leaps.  The man had 
been incarcerated for a series of rapes perpetrated by 
disguising himself as someone known to each of the victims.  
Because he was in prison, he was required to submit to blood 
and urine tests on a regular basis.  Dr. Scully had been 
given access to these, and to tissue samples.  Dr. Charles's 
more recent notes were at the end of the file.  The original 
author hadn't the tools to analyze Mr. Van Blundht's DNA to 
any real depth, but there was enough intact DNA remaining in 
the tissue sample that Dr. Charles had been able to do a 
thorough analysis.  With what was known about the human 
genome today, the anomaly was obvious, even to him.  Still, 
finding the analogous gene on DNA that was so radically 
different was an amazing feat.  The Smith mechanism for 
morphing couldn't be assumed to be the same, since little was 
known of their physiology.  And even if it could, the gene 
was long and complex, so the variety of ways that it could be 
coded in the nucleotide base pairs was extremely large.  It 
was quite a feat to have found it, even with the head start 
provided by this report.  But where had the report come from?

The chair creaked loudly in the thick silence of the kitchen, 
as David leaned back from his reading.  He was alone.  
Engrossed in the report, he hadn't noticed Dr. Charles leave.  
Now, he rose and began searching for her, poking his head 
into several empty rooms, feeling a bit like an intruder into 
spaces where he had not been invited.  

He found her at last, in the room at the end of the hall.  It 
was clearly her personal study, and tidy, as was the rest of 
her home.  A single lamp lit the desk where she sat with a 
circle of warm yellow light.  The room was paneled in a dark 
wood, possibly original from the old house, with bookshelves 
built into two of the walls.  As before, he was surprised to 
see many of them filled with actual books, clearly antiques.   
The corners of the room were shrouded in deep shadows.  He 
knocked softly on the slightly open door, and she looked up, 
sitting back from her reading in the high backed leather 
chair.  "So, David, what do you think?" she asked, coming 
directly to the point.

He stepped inside a few paces.  "I don't think you were 
joking," he said solemnly.  Dr. Charles recognized the 
oblique apology, and didn't press him.  

"Come and sit down," she invited, moving to the dark sofa 
along the west wall.  

David sat down carefully at the far end, his back to the 
squared arm, right leg crossed and tucked under the left, 
which rested on the floor.  Dr. Charles mirrored his position 
at the other end, and waited for him to begin.

"Do you believe it?" he finally asked.

"You were planning to base a career on the science that 
evolved from that report," she countered.  "Do *you* believe 
it?"

David conceded the point.  "Where did you find this?  I was 
always taught that there was nothing left from that period 
that survived the destruction of the war."

It had always bothered Dr. Charles that history had a gaping 
quarter-century hole, right where the most significant event 
in mankind's existence fell.  "There's plenty left, if you 
know where to look."

"Is everything in that room as old as this?" he asked.  

"No, not everything.  More than you probably imagine, 
though."

While David contemplated changing a point of view he had 
always taken for granted, Dr. Charles pressed the point.  
"Hasn't it ever bothered you that there's plenty of history 
from before the war, and after the reconstruction, but 
nothing from during those events?"

He shook his head.  "People were moving, relocating.  A lot 
of cities were destroyed.  It was chaotic."  It was what he'd 
been taught, all his life.

"You know about the American Revolution?" she asked.  He 
nodded.  "Columbus?"  Another nod.  "Gallileo,  Copernicus, 
Aristotle, Plato?"  He nodded again.  "That was all written 
history.  If everything were as thoroughly destroyed as you 
say, wouldn't the written history of the distant past be 
destroyed along with it?  Why would you know anything about 
it?"

"Maybe people were too busy surviving to record anything new 
during those years," he proposed.

"Maybe," she conceded.  "Or maybe there was plenty written, 
that's been suppressed in the six generations since it all 
ended."

"Who would do that?" he scoffed.

"Who caused the war?" she challenged.

"You think the Grays are responsible for erasing history?"

She looked at him steadily, without answering.

"But that's nuts.  What would they have to gain?"

"That rather begs the question, don't you think?"  She wanted 
him to reason it out.  Without knowing what was missing, how 
could you know if there was something being hidden?

"A breakaway extremist faction of Gray culture attempted to 
utilize Earth as a base of operation for imperialistic 
intent.  Alien pathogens caused significant destruction 
before the invaders were subdued by the main body of Gray 
society, who then provided immeasurable help in 
reconstructing human culture by concentrating the remaining 
population and providing technological and ecological 
support," he recited.

"Don't quote propaganda," she snapped, exasperated.  "Think."

Propaganda?  David began to wonder if Dr. Charles's 
intellectual persona didn't hide some darker secrets.  "Are 
you specieist?" he demanded.

"Not everyone who challenges your world view is a bigot, Mr. 
Mitchell," she said coldly.  "What you're holding in your 
hand doesn't exist, according to the accepted view of 
history."  He looked down at the report he still clutched.  
"And you've seen a whole room full of history that doesn't 
exist."

"I refuse to believe that the Grays have any dark designs on 
us," he insisted.  "That's the most paranoid thing I've ever 
heard."

"I'm not asking you to believe anything," she said 
forcefully. "Certainly not because I say so," she continued, 
in a calmer tone.  "But you *must* learn to question your 
assumptions.  About science," she gestured again to the 
report on Van Blundht, "about history.  About the world 
around you.  It's the only real path to discovery.  You have 
a fine mind, David, but you've never really used it."

David's anger flared at her assertion, but before he could 
retort, she silenced him.

"Humanity's recent history contains some puzzling 
contradictions.  But no one puzzles over them." She shook her 
head.  "No one even sees them.  I'm not going to trouble you 
with any more of them tonight because it's clear you're not 
ready." She shifted her position on the couch, leaning toward 
him to press home her message.  "If you want to be a great 
scientist, you must examine everything in life with the same 
objectivity that you apply in the lab.  And you must be open 
to the extreme possibility.  The one that fits the facts at 
hand, even when the science that exists so far, or the 
history, doesn't adequately explain it."

She sat back, giving him his space.  "I had to learn that 
too, David.  I wasn't born knowing it.  Few people are."

Her words conjured an image of a younger Melissa Charles.  
He'd never considered her as anything other than the person 
he knew, fully formed, commanding, assured.  It made him 
suddenly curious about the start of her journey.  Made him 
consider for the first time that he might be at the beginning 
of a road that could lead him one day to where she stood, a 
respected leader in her field, and confident that her 
abilities gave her the right to the position.

"Who taught you?" he asked quietly.

She smiled wanly.  "The same person who taught me baseball."

They were silent for a moment, David in his concern at having 
brought up a painful subject, and Dr. Charles in remembrance.  
When he realized she was smiling faintly, he dared to ask, 
"Was he your professor?"

Dr. Charles returned from her moment of reverie.  "No," she 
said.  Coming fully back to the present she offered, "I 
studied mostly with Dr. Luder.  I first met her as a graduate 
student, she was already quite old then.  What I've done with 
you is a cake walk compared to what she did with me," she 
grimaced.  "But I must have measured up.  A lot of the 
material in that room she left to me.  She also taught me how 
to find more."

David's eyebrows climbed into his hairline.  "You studied 
with Dr. Luder?" he asked, incredulous.  "Samantha Luder?" 

"If I see farther than those before me, it is because I stand 
on the shoulders of giants," she quoted in response.

Dr. Luder's text on Comparative Genomics was required reading 
at every university with a biology department.  She was 
renowned for her radical research into the genomics of the 
most obscure and bizarre forms of earth life.  Creatures that 
lived at the ocean bottoms, by sulfurous volcanic vents, 
microbes that could withstand the vacuum and radiation of 
space, bacteria that survived on nothing but rock in the 
earth's depths.  Tiny shrimp that survived prolonged boiling 
in the egg, birthing when the water cools, geese that could 
fly at 30,000 feet, spiders that migrated the world encased 
in balls of ice in the upper atmosphere, frogs that 
dehydrated then came back to life with the addition of rain.   
All of these and more came under her scrutiny.

"Tell me about her?" he asked.

Dr. Charles glanced out the window at the rising moon, and 
said, "Another time, David.  It's getting late."

Disappointed, he nodded, and rose to his feet.

"Take some zucchini on your way out," she said.  "I'll see 
you in lab in the morning.  Don't..."

"be late," he finished with her, smiling.  "Good night, Dr. 
Charles," he said, as he handed back the report.

"Good night, David," she said, taking it and returning to her 
desk.

As he left the study, she was already reabsorbed in the book 
she had been reading when he first entered.  He walked slowly 
back to the campus apartment, enjoying the clear, starry 
night, catching the brief arc of light made by one of the 
Gray's satellites.  It didn't occur to him to wonder why 
humanity had none of their own.

-------------------------------------------------------------

David was stuffed, and it wasn't even 8 o'clock in the 
morning.  The size of the breakfast was a sure sign of how 
much Nana had missed him.  At South Eastern University, the 
school "sequence" was close to 18 months, broken into even 
trimesters with breaks midterm and between trimesters.  The 
breaks were typically all too brief, but in the past, he'd 
been able to extend his visits home, or take unscheduled 
leaves, by attending remotely, via the nets.  Dr. Charles's 
insistence on physical attendance, and his later appointment 
as her assistant had put an end to that practice this 
sequence, and it had been six months since he'd last been 
home.

So, in spite of the brevity of second break, David and Jerry 
made the five-hour tube ride back to the small town on the 
Pacific coast, to be with his grandmother, as he had promised 
himself that day in the mountains.  Nana was his father's 
mother, and he and his father had gone to live with her when 
his mother had died.  After the accident that had killed his 
father, Nana had been the only family he had.

They had a close relationship, the extra generation 
alleviating most of the typical conflicts that separate 
parents and children, but diminishing none of the love.  From 
his earliest recollection, Nana had been a straight shooter 
with him, respecting him first as a person, and enjoying him 
as a child secondarily.  She had allowed him the dignity of 
arranging his father's funeral, although he had barely turned 
15, and deftly refocused him on the cycle of living by taking 
him on as a ranch hand that summer.  Together, they had 
nursed a weak ewe through a difficult pregnancy, and the day 
after she lambed, he woke to find much of his grief had 
lifted.  David couldn't imagine life without her.

Nana was strong and spry, in defiance of her advanced age, 
and still ran the small sheep ranch with only a few hired 
hands.  Now, the look in her eye as he leaned back from his 
enormous meal told him the pampering was just about over, and 
the work was about to begin.

"Nana, whatever you've got in mind, I hope we can waddle to 
it, because that's all I'm going to be good for for hours."

She laughed, and kissed the top of his head as she removed 
the plate.  "Good, then I won't have to refuel you for a 
while."  She carried their dishes to the kitchen sink, and 
motioned for David to follow her.  "Did you bring your 
boots?" she asked, pulling a pair of heavy work gloves out of 
a box near the back door.  He nodded.

"Well, go put them on," she said, handing him the gloves.  "I 
thought we'd go up to the north end of the ranch, and mend 
some of the fences on the bluffs.  Last winter's storms were 
pretty hard on them, and a few of the more adventurous rams 
have taken to wandering into Gualala."  She laughed again, 
this time remembering the look of surprise on Mr. Carter's 
wizened old face as the ram she was pursuing had ambled 
purposefully up the wide steps onto his front porch, and 
helped himself to a hanging spider plant.  

They worked into the afternoon, and in spite of Nana's joke 
about refueling, David was ravenous by the time she decided 
they should take a break.  As they climbed gingerly up the 
crumbly bluff, David considered that his love of climbing had 
probably started here.  He often used to sneak down the 
bluffs to explore the creatures in the tide pools, or revel 
in the power of the ocean roaring up through blowholes when 
the tide was in.  It was a wonder he wasn't washed out to sea 
before he was ten, given the prevalence of sleeper waves and 
riptides on this part of the coast.  As a boy, he hadn't 
believed in the danger, and no amount of lecturing could keep 
him away.   Now, he and Nana climbed fully to the top, and 
well away from the edge, before opening the lunch she had 
packed.

They ate for some time in silence, gazing out over the serene 
Pacific.  The thick, muffling fog had finally burned off, and 
it was an uncommonly fine day for this time of the year, 
sunny but cool, with a delightfully salty breeze.  A 
cormorant dived into the ocean in search of a meal, but 
apparently misjudged.  Farther out, the slick form of a sea 
lion could be seen popping his head up from the kelp beds, 
diving and surfacing again and again.  A watercolor of this 
very spot hung in the room he had slept in last night.  Not 
for the first time, David reflected on what a talented artist 
his mother had been, and wished she had lived long enough for 
him to really know her.

"So," Nana broke the reverie, "Jerry tells me he hardly sees 
you anymore.  Says you're spending all your time with some 
young lady."

David saw the glint of mischief in his grandmother's eyes and 
knew he was being ribbed.

"In your dreams, Nana," he said, smiling.  "She's almost as 
old as you."

"Nobody's almost as old as me, sprout," she said.  "They're 
all young from where I sit."

"Well, she's probably as old as Mom would have been.  I don't 
know exactly.  She's pretty gray, but her face is young.  She 
acts as old as you, though.  Older sometimes, I'd say," he 
reflected.  "How much did Jerry tell you?"

He had heard them talking late into the night, still going 
strong when he drifted off to sleep.  The sound of their 
voices, muffled down the hallway, had reminded him of being a 
small child, listening to the comforting murmur of the adults 
after his bedtime.  Jerry had been a family friend for years, 
had been his grandmother's friend even before David had come 
to live with her.  The slight deepening in the timbre of his 
voice told David that Jerry had adopted the older version 
himself that was most familiar to Nana.  They had probably 
gone on for hours.

"He told me that you've dropped your other coursework to 
concentrate on this class, and that you're assisting this 
professor in her lab."

"Studying with her, too.  We've covered a lot of ground."

"What's she like?" Nana pressed.

"She loads me up with vegetables and works me to death," 
David said, glancing sidelong at his grandmother.  "Kind of 
like you.  You'd probably like her."

His remark earned him a playful swat on the back of the head.  
"I can still take you down, sprout, don't you forget it," 
Nana joked.  

"Not a chance," David affirmed.  After a beat, he continued.  
"I don't know.  She's kind of enigmatic."

"How so?"  Nana prompted.

"Well, I've been working with her for a while now, and I 
still don't really know that much about her.  She never talks 
about her family, and the only friend she's ever mentioned 
died a long time ago.  She puts people off, she's cold in 
class, and the freshmen are petrified of her.  But, her house 
is very warm, homey, almost like here.  And sometimes when 
we're working together I catch her looking at me, like..."  
he drifted off.

"Like what?"

"I don't know.  Sometimes I think it's my imagination."  He 
shook his head.  "Anyway, she's brilliant, but she has some 
strange ways, and strange ideas."

Nana pulled a couple of deep red apples from the lunch 
cooler, handing one to David as she bit into the crunchy 
sweet flesh.  She waited patiently for him to go on, knowing 
he would when he had organized his thoughts.

"She plays baseball," he noted.

"That's not so strange.  It's still pretty popular in the 
East."

"Yeah.  But she's really good.  She acts like it's a casual 
thing, but you don't get that good at something you haven't 
spent a lot of time on."  He took another bite of the apple, 
and chewed thoughtfully.  "I think she's religious."

"Well, that is a bit more uncommon, but it's still not 
unheard of," Nana commented.

David's face screwed up in perplexity.  "I don't understand 
why anyone holds to the old religions anymore.  I just don't 
see what they have to offer.  There's no point in maintaining 
the conceit of a divine genesis considering we know of at 
least two other times that life arose in the universe.  And 
science answers the rest, sooner or later."  He took another 
bite.  "And that's part of it, too.  I mean, she's a 
scientist, but she says a prayer at every meal."

"Does that make you uncomfortable?" Nana asked.

"Yeah, a little," David confessed.  He thought a while more.  
"She's got an enormous collection of printed material in her 
house."

"Paper?  Really?  Old stuff or recent printouts?"

"Both I think.  Old mostly.  She's a little bit paranoid 
about the Grays, which I don't understand.  She thinks 
they're somehow responsible for the history gap from the 
wars.  She thinks that history has been getting erased, bit 
by bit, and that nobody's noticing."

"Well, she's right, you know."

David looked in shock at his grandmother.  For a moment, he 
thought she might be teasing him again, but her face held no 
mischief.  He considered this last item the most damaging in 
his profile of Dr. Charles, and was unprepared for the person 
he most trusted to agree with it.

"Oh, I don't know about it being the Gray's fault," Nana 
clarified, "but history from that time has become more sparse 
over the years.  When I was little, I can remember my own 
grandmother telling me tales about that era.  Nothing 
detailed about the battles or anything like that -- those 
would have happened in *her* grandmother's time -- but 
stories she'd been told about how people lived through those 
times from day to day.  How they got by."  She wrapped up the 
core of her apple and tucked it back into the cooler.  "It 
seems to me there have been plenty of opportunities to record 
it, teach it to youngsters, but it never has made it onto the 
nets, or into the curriculum.  Someday, no one will remember 
the wars ever happened, if it goes on this way."

The corner of David's mouth turned down in a grimace, and his 
brow furrowed.  "Nana, now you're just exaggerating.  It 
would be pretty hard to forget considering there are a bunch 
of abandoned cities scattered around the continent."  

"Fewer than there were.  You were in the interior for first 
break, what did you see?"

David recalled the vegetation overtaking the foundations of 
Colorado Springs.  Nana saw the memory pass across his face, 
and pressed her point.  "Why raze the old cities?  I never 
understood it, myself."

"They raze them to give nature the chance to recover," he 
said.  But his tone was doubtful.  "And anyway, the ruins are 
dangerous."

"You think it's for our safety?" Nana asked, pondering.

"They've helped us, Nana," he insisted.  "They've taken 
stewardship of the planet wherever we don't have the 
resources to attend to it."

"Indeed they have," she agreed.  She sighed.  "David, I used 
to be as free of doubt as you.  I revered them because 
they're ancient.  I believed the power and technology they 
command must surely attest to their wisdom.  I was grateful 
for the aid they gave our ancestors, for the way they 
maintain the satellites and the nets, I felt that they'd more 
than repaid humanity for what happened during those wars, and 
never questioned that belief.  But when your father died..." 
Nana pressed her lips together, eyes glittering with pain 
that was still sharp despite its age, "when your father died 
building the transatlantic tube, I wondered where they were 
then.  If they're so concerned about our safety, why didn't 
they lend aid during that terrible accident?  They probably 
have the technology to build a tunnel like that without any 
manual labor at all, but they didn't even take part in the 
rescue mission.  Your father was a brilliant engineer.  And 
now his life's work sits sealed up, miles deep and half 
flooded, with no one courageous enough to finish it."

"Nana," David said softly, "that's our failing, not theirs."

"Maybe so, David," she conceded.  "Sometimes, though, I just 
wonder."  

David shifted closer to his grandmother, put his arm around 
her and pulled her comfortingly into his side.  Resting his 
chin on the top of her head, he gazed back down the coast at 
the distant gray and weathered wood of the home and the barns 
where he grew up.  The Gray's long ago gift of unlimited 
energy meant that no one had to struggle simply to survive.  
The lifting of that one burden had allowed the dawn of an age 
where people with a passion were free to follow it.  Nana 
loved the ocean, loved the sheep, loved to weave.  And 
because she did, she was richly successful, her fine wool and 
cloths finding enthusiasts on both coasts.  But she could 
just as well live on 2 acres as 200, have 10 sheep as 1000, 
and survive.  He weighed that against the life of a father, 
of a son.  And his faith in the benevolence of the Gray's 
felt as strong as ever.  

Years later, he would look back on this moment and recognize 
that the first seeds of doubt had been planted on this day.

-------------------------------------------------------------

The dreams were getting worse.

It was still impossible to remember much that was specific, 
but the sense of foreboding was clear, and remained with her 
long after she awoke, sweaty and shaking, with the urgent 
sense there was something she needed to *do*.  There was a 
vague impression of colorless people, everywhere, oblivious 
to some coming danger.  And a presence urging her to stop it.  
The presence radiated confidence in her, but she didn't know 
what it wanted.

She pressed her forehead against the tile of the shower wall, 
cool in spite of the steaming water pouring over her, 
sluicing away the stench of her fear, draining the cramps out 
of her muscles.  She stayed that way until the water began to 
run cold, little needle pricks against her reddened skin.  

It helped some, but not as much as she would have liked.  Six 
months ago, she relished her solitude.  She had been eager 
for the second break to arrive, a brief respite from the 
chore of maintaining her public face.  But this morning, she 
found herself craving the distraction of the campus routine.  
People, students, faces, questions, bustle, activity.  
Company.  Though she had been alone much of her life, she had 
learned over the years not to be lonely.  But now that skill 
seemed to have abandoned her.  

Wrapped in her heaviest robe, she went to the back door, 
hopeful, but not even the tabby cat was in evidence today.

Perhaps that's all the dreams were.  So many that were dear 
to her had been lost in her life, that disconnecting from 
humanity had become a refuge.  Science was a faithful, 
enduring companion.  And now despite herself, she was coming 
back into the world, inviting the danger of loss, and her 
subconscious was protesting.  She rolled the idea around in 
her mind for a moment, and while it felt somewhat true, it 
didn't feel whole.  There was something more.

She headed into the lab, hoping to forget herself there, but 
was surprised to find her experiments holding less appeal 
without her young assistant present.  David.  The bright 
young man whose naivete was at once exasperating and 
endearing.  She still hadn't adequately explained to herself 
why she found him so compelling.  "Old enough to be his 
grandmother," she had snorted to herself derisively, but that 
wasn't really it.  There was just an odd sense of familiarity 
about his presence, especially on those occasions when he 
dared to argue with her.  She found herself staring, 
sometimes, while he was engrossed in studying, or preparing 
samples for incubation.  She was fairly certain that she'd 
been caught, although he hadn't commented.

With a sigh, she turned her back on the lab.  The house felt 
oppressive, she needed to get out.  There was still one thing 
she could count on to soothe her agitation.  Grabbing a bat, 
she headed out the door and off toward the campus batting 
cage.  She stayed there, hitting and hitting, until her arms 
were leaden and her back ached.  And even then she continued.  
A few of the students who had remained over the break noticed 
her marathon session, her single-minded focus on ball after 
ball.  By the time she at last stepped out of the cage, on 
rubber legs, weak with exhaustion, the whispers had flown to 
all corners of campus.  She would sleep soundly tonight, and 
come Monday, people would be asking David if he knew his 
professor was a little bit cracked.

-------------------------------------------------------------

Dr. Charles wasn't in the lab, as David expected, when he 
arrived at her home early Saturday morning.  

"Hello?" he called out, shutting the back door tightly behind 
him.

They had a lot of work to do, he knew.  Dr. Charles had told 
him during their afternoon sessions that none of the last 
base-pair segments they had assembled had produced a viable 
or stable protein, nothing suitable for functional analysis.  
"Even failure generates data," she had commented amiably, but 
he sensed she was disappointed.

He hung his jacket up on an old fashioned brass hook in the 
anteroom to the lab, and put on the traditional white smock 
Dr. Charles insisted upon.  Not sure what was keeping her, he 
busied himself checking the supply of water and food in the 
several cages where the small white mice were kept.  He 
freshened the bedding in one of the cages, making small 
chittering noises at the occupants as he added the fragrant, 
curled wood-shavings. One of the larger mice stretched 
upright to see what the excitement was about, gazing at David 
with tiny black eyes.  He rewarded the little creature's 
curiosity with a small disc of carrot he had brought just for 
this purpose.  The mouse dropped back down to all fours, 
whiskers and pink nose twitching, then fell to nibbling 
busily on the treat.  David wasn't really sure why Dr. 
Charles kept the mice.  He'd never seen her perform any 
experimentation on them.  Certainly nothing they had worked 
on together even approached the macro-biological level of 
live animal experimentation.  Still, they seemed to fit in 
the atmosphere of the lab, and the child in David 
occasionally enjoyed watching their antics.

That task complete, David was at a loss to explain Dr. 
Charles' continued non-appearance.  Puzzled, he ventured out 
of the lab and into the heart of the house.  "Hello?" he 
called out again, as he wandered in search of her.  He came 
up empty on his first guess, the kitchen, but he knew by the 
stoneware dish and stocky teapot sitting beside the sink that 
she was awake, and had eaten breakfast.  He found her on his 
next guess, in the study at the end of the hall.  He knocked 
quietly on the slightly ajar door, and leaned into the room, 
hanging at the length of his arm from a snug grip on the 
jamb.  "Sorry," he said, when she jumped slightly.

Dr. Charles scrubbed both hands across her face and through 
her hair before waving him into the room.  "Why so early 
today, David?" she asked.

David's eyebrows shot up in surprise.  "Actually, Dr. 
Charles, it's a little late," he pointed out.

Pushing her book slightly aside to read the integrated 
display of her desktop, she let out a soft huff of surprise.  
"Indeed it is," she said, but made no move to get up.  

Following her uncharacteristic lead, David took the final 
steps to the sofa and sat down on the creaky old leather, 
waiting expectantly.   Moving deliberately, Dr. Charles laid 
a wide strip of red satin across the page of the book and 
closed it.  Leaning back in her chair, she closed her eyes 
and raised her arms above her head, stretching until her 
shoulders popped.  Her fatigue was palpable, and David 
imagined he could see faint shadows beneath her eyes.  But 
maybe it was just the dimness of the room.  Lowering her 
arms, she pinched the bridge of her nose, leaning forward on 
her elbow, shuttered and silent.

David found himself agitated by the departure from her 
familiar prompt and precise nature, suddenly realizing the 
comfort he drew from her dependable routines.   Being a 
little tired was a small weakness, but it was the first she 
had allowed him to witness, and he felt a pang of concern.  
The rumors floating around campus suddenly sprang to mind, 
and before he could censor himself he blurted out, "What 
happened to you last weekend?"

Without raising her head from her hand, she opened her eyes 
and looked sideways at him.  If he could see more than her 
profile, he would have noticed one eyebrow raised in 
indulgent challenge.  "Did something happen to me last 
weekend?" she replied, amused.  The campus chatter had not 
escaped her notice.

"Uh..." Desperately wondering where his tact had gotten to, 
David tried to rephrase the question.  "I heard that, um," he 
shook his head, opting for blunt.  "The batting cage thing.  
You were there for hours.  People say you were completely 
compulsive, and you were staggering when you finally 
stopped."  He scratched his chin.  "And you've never been 
late before today," he added as an afterthought.

"Have you ever picked a face you knew you couldn't climb, 
David?  Gotten three quarters of the way up, with your arms 
and legs shaking, and instead of anchoring in and rappelling 
back to safety, you continued to the top?"  She sat up again, 
swiveling her chair to face him.

He nodded, thoughtfully.

"Why did you do it?" she asked pointedly.

David understood.  "Ok," he said, nodding with his whole 
torso.  "So, what's bothering you?" he dared.

She hesitated only briefly.  "Nothing serious.  I've been 
having a little trouble sleeping.  Disturbing dreams, that's 
all.  But they're hard to shake, so I gave myself something 
else to focus on."

"Is that what you were doing this morning, with the book?" he 
asked, encouraged by her openness.

"You could say that," she hedged.

"What are you reading, anyway?"

In answer, she reached to the desk, picked up the heavy 
leather bound volume, and leaned forward, handing it over to 
him.

His hand dropped perceptibly as he took it, not expecting the 
weight of the dense paper.  Two words were embossed in gold 
leaf on the front cover, worn from handling.  "Holy Bible."

He stared at the book longer than necessary, reluctant to 
meet her eyes and reveal his distaste.  Finally, he gave it 
back, looking only at their hands as he made the exchange.  
"I've never read it," he said neutrally.

"Your name comes from the Bible, did you know that?" she 
asked, keeping her tone light in deference to his obvious 
discomfiture.

"No," he answered, shaking his head.  

"David was a great king.  As a youth, he slew a giant that 
was feared by all the men in his country's army.  In his 
reign, he united disparate peoples into a great nation.  He 
was known for overcoming great odds."  She cocked her head to 
the side as she regarded him. "Not a bad namesake."

David shrugged.  "Not a real man, either."

Dr. Charles was surprised.  "Why would you think that?"

"None of it's real.  It's all fable and parable."

"That's a pretty bold assertion considering you've never read 
the book," she remarked.  "Just out of curiosity, how did you 
arrive at that conclusion?"

He squirmed uncomfortably, realizing he'd been caught in a 
position he couldn't support logically.  He couldn't 
empathize with religious beliefs, and had always accepted the 
common wisdom that they were relics of a less enlightened 
time.  But the problem with the whole concept of God was that 
it was just as impossible to disprove as it was to prove.  He 
couldn't even see any real point in engaging in the debate.

"Dr. Charles, you're not going to convince me to believe in 
God."

"Who said anything about God?" Dr. Charles asked.  "I thought 
we were talking about King David.  My point is simply that he 
was most likely a real historical figure, in spite of the 
fact that he's documented in a text that happens to be 
central to the rather unpopular notion of religion."  She 
opened a low drawer in the heavy desk, and set the book 
inside.  Turning back, she pinned him with a solemn regard.  
"David, I would never presume to proselytize to you," she 
said, with utter gravity.  "But I will continue to insist 
that you think precisely.  Do you understand?" 

"You're saying that the Bible may contain historical 
accounts," he grudgingly conceded.

"I'm saying that individual concepts should be considered 
individually, even when they're interrelated.  The Bible, 
God, and religion are three different things."  She sighed, 
reaching down to shut the desk drawer.  "I'm not unaware that 
giving any of them credence comes with a stigma attached.  
What troubles me, though, is how uncomfortable my having 
these beliefs seems to make *you*."

David felt a twinge of shame, recalling that he had all but 
accused her of bigotry just a few months earlier, and now 
realizing that his own behavior was less than tolerant.  
"Your beliefs don't make me uncomfortable, Dr. Charles," he 
insisted.  

"David, you cringe when I say grace," she retorted, but her 
face was amused.  Looking into her eyes he realized that he 
was being teased, and the tension drained out of the 
conversation.  He relaxed back into the sofa chuckling.  
"Yeah, I guess I do," he confessed.  "Sorry about that."

She returned his humor with a warm smile.  "Apology 
accepted."

No longer feeling defensive, David's curiosity emerged.  "As 
long as we're talking about it, Dr. Charles, why *do* you..." 
he waved his hand in the direction of closed drawer.  "You're 
a scientist.  You work with facts.   I don't understand how 
you can reconcile that with a belief in something that's 
ultimately unproveable."  

Dr. Charles nodded thoughtfully.  "Science and faith aren't 
really at odds in my mind.  It's not difficult for me to 
envision the things I've learned through science as being the 
tools of a higher power.  In fact, the longer I study the 
ingeniousness and beauty of life, the harder I find it to 
believe it's all random."

"Ok, I guess I can picture that, but even so, what do you 
gain from it?"

It was hard to distill a simple answer.  "Comfort, mostly, I 
guess.  Hope.  Meaning."

"Meaning?"

"Science teaches me how, David, but not why.  If we're really 
all just random variations on a theme, what difference do our 
lives make?"

David considered her position, but reached a different 
conclusion.  "I don't agree.  I don't mean any disrespect, 
but that seems kind of sad to me.  Our lives make a 
difference to the people who care about us, who we care 
about.  There's meaning inherent in that."

"And what does it mean when those people are all gone?  When 
we're gone?"  She meant it as a rhetorical question, but a 
note of melancholy crept into her voice.

Sensing her mood, but not its reason he continued, "It 
carries on.  Your family, your friend's families, the next 
generations.  What we do affects the connections between 
people that will exist in the future.  Don't you feel that 
way about your family?"

She responded with a wan smile.  "I'm an orphan David, have 
been for a long time.  Look around you.  I live alone and 
work on my science.  I have colleagues, not friends."  He 
looked stricken at his gaff, so she leaned forward and 
touched his arm lightly, reassuringly.  "David, you didn't 
say anything wrong, and I'm not telling you this to garner 
sympathy.  I'm content with my life.  My work is very 
satisfying."

Recovering quickly, he tried to reassure.  "Well, that's it 
then.  Your work.  That will last into the future, just as 
Dr. Luder's work did.  Maybe even more.  What you're doing 
may affect the way we and the alien races relate to each 
other in ways we can't imagine."

She leaned back again, touched by his effort to comfort her, 
reflecting on his assertion.

"Is that why you're here?"

He looked confused.  "What do you mean?"

"Why are you focusing on Xeno science, David?  It's not for 
cosmetic medicine anymore, and I don't think it's to prove 
you can make the grade anymore, is it?"

He reddened slightly, unaware that Dr. Charles had had that 
insight.  It seemed a little shallow in the context of their 
present discussion.

"No," he confirmed.

She echoed his earlier question.  "So what do you gain from 
it?"

It wasn't anything he'd thought through before, just a 
fascination he had followed.  He answered haltingly, as he 
tried to explain the reasoning he was just formulating.

"I guess it's partly because of Jerry.  He's been a friend of 
our family since before I was born, and even though I'd trust 
him with my life, I guess in some ways I don't know anything 
about him.  I don't know how he was born or how long he'll 
live.  I know how to inoculate myself in case he bleeds in my 
presence, but if he were hurt, I wouldn't know how to help 
him.  Not that anything ever seems to hurt him, but there 
must be things that can."

He paused for a moment, working out the rest of it.

"And, I guess it's because I want to know more about the 
Grays, too.  I mean, I look at my life, the world, and it's 
all pretty great.  My grandmother has this terrific ranch 
right on the ocean.  Everybody alive is free to follow their 
muse, more or less.  And then I think, it's all because of 
them, because of what they did for us during the 
reconstruction, and I want to know them.  But they're so 
reclusive, they don't come out, they don't live with us.  So 
this seems like the only way that I can.  Know them, I mean."

Dr. Charles quieted for the moment the voice in her head that 
was unable to forgive the Grays for the death of half of 
humanity, in spite of their reparations.  Of course David 
would feel that way, the modern world was all he knew.

"You know David," she said instead, "there's a bit of the 
mystical in that."

"How so?"

"I know that most of what's taught about religion as an 
archaic economic and political structure focuses on the 
negatives, like how it stood in the way of scientific 
advancement that might undermine its power.  But on the other 
hand, some faithful people used to believe that science was 
the only true path to divine understanding.  So they studied 
the universe, believing it God's creation, in order to know 
the mind of God.  It was analogous to studying an artist's 
work to know the artist.  The way you want to know the Grays 
so badly just resonates with that kind of quest, to me."

David shook his head.  "No.  I don't see the Grays as gods 
Dr. Charles.  That's not it at all."

She nodded agreeably.  "I'm sure you don't.  It's just as 
well, anyway, because we'd be on a dangerous path."

"Why?"

"There's a creation story in the Bible, have you ever heard 
Genesis?"

He shook his head.

"After creating man and woman, God places them in an idyllic 
garden to live, called Eden.  They're happy, but ignorant.  
Then he tells them not to eat from the tree of knowledge.  Of 
course they do, and the punishment is that they're evicted 
from paradise."

She waited while he drew the parallels.  The modern world 
he'd described so glowingly as Eden, a gift from the hands of 
the Grays, who by all observance, had no desire to be known.

Finally, he gave a resigned shrug.  "I guess it's a good 
thing neither one of us believes they're gods then, because I 
don't think I can help myself.  I don't think you can, 
either."  He rose from the couch, the cushions whiffling 
softly with the loss of his weight.  "Come on, Dr. Charles, 
let's go get kicked out of paradise."

She let out a small burst of air that wasn't quite a chuckle, 
and pushed herself to her feet.  "Lead on, David," she 
gestured toward the door.

He studied her for a moment before turning away, feeling 
encouraged that they could come to some common ground on a 
topic where they differed so strongly.  The achievement gave 
him a new sense of confidence with her, and in himself.  He 
started toward the lab, but stopped and turned back when he 
reached the doorway.

"Dr. Charles, what you said earlier, about having colleagues 
but not friends?"  He paused only a beat.  "I'm your friend," 
he offered earnestly.

"Thank you David.  I know," she replied in kind.  He nodded 
once and continued to gaze at her with the unbearably sincere 
regard found only in the young.  Always the teacher, she knew 
it would be best to temper their new rapport.  "Let's not get 
maudlin," she said kindly.

His face relaxed into a quirky little grin, and he gestured 
for her to precede him.  Together they headed into the lab to 
begin the day's work.

-------------------------------------------------------------

He was about thirty minutes into his usual routine of 
preparing the equipment and gathering the raw materials to 
make the solution out of which today's segment of the Gray 
base-pair sequence would be assembled into actual strands of 
DNA, when Dr. Charles interrupted him.

"I think we should do things differently today, David.  Come 
over here."

He joined her at the console where she was working, trying to 
narrow the choice from 4.5 billion base pairs down to a few 
sequences that they could work with this weekend.  A few that 
might yield a stable and comprehensible selection of 
proteins.  The console where she sat was interfaced with some 
of the most potent and efficient computing power available, 
necessary in order to run the complex searching and matching 
algorithms of her research software.  

"I think I'd like you to design the search parameters today.  
My selections haven't been proving fruitful, recently."

"Really?" David asked, then cleared his throat, chagrined 
that his voice had broken like an adolescent on the word.

"Yes, really," she affirmed.  "I think you've got a good 
grasp of the protocol of the search language at this point, 
and you've been observing the way I select my parameters for 
several months.  I'd like to see what results arise from a 
fresh approach."  She held out her hand expectantly, and it 
took David a moment to realize she was waiting to be given 
the container of enzymes that he held.  He released it to 
her, and self-consciously took the seat at the console that 
she vacated.  At first it felt strange to be there, listening 
to the clinks, hums, and swooshes of the jobs he usually 
performed, but as he became engrossed in the problem, the 
feeling gradually abated.

The first choice he would have to make was whether to perform 
a progressive or regressive search today.  A progressive 
search looked for something specific.  The input described 
some understood earthly protein, or a specific gene, not 
necessarily human, and every possible DNA variation that 
could describe it.  Since there were multiple ways the same 
amino acid could be coded by the DNA base pairs, the number 
of variations for a complex protein could be staggering.  
Still, such variations were well understood, and the search 
language accounted for them.  Using that as a starting point, 
the entire Gray genome would be searched, looking for any 
partial matches within a degree of accuracy that he could 
also control.  It had been a series of progressive searches 
using contractile proteins against the Smith genome that had 
eventually led Dr. Charles to an understanding of the Smith 
shape shifting ability.  It was the faster of the two 
searches, but it was very dependent on a good choice of 
input.  If the selection turned out to be for some feature 
that was absent from the Gray physiology, the search was 
likely to return nothing, or even worse, false leads.  And 
that was the rub, since the Gray physiology was unknown.  Dr. 
Charles had gradually been exhausting the obvious avenues, 
comparing against the human gene sets for such things as 
bipedalism, and the transport proteins for processing Earth's 
atmosphere.

A regressive search took longer, and was more random, but 
almost always turned up some result.  With this technique, 
the input was some sequence, any sequence really, of the Gray 
genome that an educated guess indicated might be more than 
just some meaningless intergenic region.  As in a progressive 
search, the input was expanded to account for equivalent 
variations, and then those variations were compared against 
the entire available genomic library, which included the many 
strange and wonderful creatures that had been examined by the 
renowned Dr. Luder.  Because the library was so huge, the 
search was extremely slow, but because it was so diverse, 
near matches occurred with a certain regularity.  If there 
were a sufficiently close match to be compelling, the 
sequence might be a good one to assemble.  If the match were 
extraordinarily close, Dr. Charles would sometimes acquire a 
specimen of the life form for further study.

As effective as the searches were, though, both kinds tended 
to choke when they encountered the still incomprehensible 
fifth and sixth nucleotides scattered throughout the Gray 
genome.

Suddenly, it occurred to David that there might be a faster 
way, a way to largely bypass all this endless searching.  He 
swiveled in his seat.

"Dr. Charles, have you ever just gone ahead and assembled the 
entire Gray genome?"

Dr. Charles stopped her preparations, and considered him with 
a slightly furrowed expression.  "No, I haven't David.  It 
would be extremely time consuming and difficult.  Such long 
strands don't tend to be stable in artificial circumstances. 
Why?"

"I was just thinking...  we could save a lot of time by just 
assembling the whole sequence and trying for a clone."

His suggestion earned him a brief, but leaden silence.

"And how would you gestate such a thing David?" she said, 
finally.  "We have no idea what kind of requirements they 
have in the fetal stage.  Or if they even have a fetal stage 
in the sense we understand, for that matter."

He considered the obstacle for only a moment, then pressed 
on.  "It doesn't really matter, though, does it?  Even if we 
only get through a short phase of somatic development before 
it self arrests, we'd still have cellular material to 
examine.  That would still enable a huge leap forward."

Dr. Charles shook her head.  "And if it doesn't self arrest?  
If through some fluke it gestates into a recognizable life 
form?  What are you going to do with it?  Abort it and 
dissect it?  Deliver it and raise it as a lab specimen, away 
from any of its kind?  This is still an intelligent species 
we're discussing here."

He frowned, puzzled at her vehemence.  "It wouldn't come to 
that," he began, but she continued without noting his 
interruption.

"And what about the Grays themselves?  Would you keep it a 
secret from them?  Would you call them in to consult if it 
became ill?  How do you think our reclusive friends would 
react to discovering that we've circumvented their 
physiological secrecy with an approach like this?  How would 
*you* feel if you discovered they were indiscriminately 
cloning humans for their own experiments?"  She winced 
slightly as she made that point.  "Cloning a Gray could be 
dangerous, David, and it's completely unethical."

The rebuttal he'd been about to make died on his lips, as the 
image of a small child, convinced it was the only of its 
kind, flashed across his mind.  "I didn't think," he said.

"No you didn't," she said without sympathy.  "And that's the 
only reason you're here.  To think.  You've been given the 
opportunity today to show me that you can.  Don't squander 
it."  She gestured to the console, and then turned back to 
the lab preparations.

Chastised, he swiveled to face the console, considering the 
three-dimensional display of the alien double helix that the 
computer had constructed for him.   Regressive search, he 
decided on an impulse.  Taking the console controls, he 
adjusted the display so that he appeared to be zooming along 
the length of the strand, allowing the intuitive part of his 
mind to take over, hoping to recognize familiar patterns in 
the complex, colored image.  Instead, he found himself 
distracted by the occasional clusters of the alien 
nucleotides.  Exasperated, he reset the run to the beginning 
of the strand, and started over.  Again, the occasional dense 
clots of the foreign colors distracted him.  He steeled 
himself to focus harder as he started a third run.  After the 
seventh repetition of the exercise, he decided to change his 
approach.  Clearly, something in his mind was drawn to these 
areas of alien chemistry.  Dr. Charles generally avoided any 
dense groupings since the searches tended to break down 
around them, but he decided to indulge his curiosity for a 
while.  The alien nucleotides were not evenly distributed 
throughout the Gray genome, but tended to occur in clusters.  
David instructed the display to jump every few seconds from 
one cluster to the next.  After a few minutes, he recognized 
something familiar.  Every cluster started with the same 
sequence of base pairs.  The very sequence that had been in 
Dr. Charles's extra credit problem from the beginning of the 
course.  The question had been to explain the significance of 
this repeating sequence.  David grinned.

"Dr. Charles, you passed your research off on the class as 
extra credit."

She looked up from the solution she was preparing, one 
eyebrow raised.  "Your point being?"

"If one of us had solved it, would we have our name on the 
paper?"

"Have one of you solved it?" she retorted, but her voice was 
approving.

He shrugged a little, tipping his head to the side.  "One of 
us *found* it," he said.

"And on your first day driving, too," she remarked.  "Very 
impressive.  Let me know when you figure out what it means."  
She touched a sensor pad on a piece of equipment that 
immediately began to hum quietly.  "I'm just about done here.  
I'm going back to my study for a while.  Come and get me when 
you've selected a sequence and we'll begin the assembly."  
She stifled a yawn as she headed out of the lab.

David knew he needed to concentrate on selecting an input 
sequence.  If he took too long, by the time the computer 
generated the results, there would no longer be adequate time 
left in the day to do the assembly.  But having engaged the 
puzzle, he found he couldn't let it go.  There was something 
about the occurrence of those nucleotides that seemed to 
suggest a pattern.

Over by the cages, David's organizer announced the hour, 
startling the mouse David had fed earlier.  It was so quiet 
that he could hear the little creature skitter and burrow 
deeper into the shavings.  He'd wasted another hour engrossed 
in the patterns.  Doing any serious work today was becoming a 
dicey proposition.

Sighing, he decided to try to make up some lost time.  The 
genomic library was so vast that it was stored in a tightly 
compressed format.  The search would run faster if the 
library was already local and decompressed, instead of having 
to download and decompress as it searched.  It would take up 
a huge quantity of extra storage for a while, but might make 
the difference between a wasted weekend and a productive one.   
Something tickled his brain as he made the link to the 
library and began navigating the commands that would start 
the decompression running in the background.

Decompression.

Decompression?

Decompression!

It couldn't be that simple, could it?  Heart pounding with 
excitement, he switched back to the helix view.  Because 
Jerry was amazing with everything having to do with computers 
and the nets, as were most of the Smiths, David had learned 
the fundamentals of data compression.  Maybe.  Quickly, he 
linked up to the computer science archive at North East U, 
and hunted until he found a pattern analyzer that was 
generalized to work on any computer language.  The analogy of 
DNA to computer code was an old one, taken for granted, but 
never in quite this way.  He had to backtrack several times, 
as his sweaty fingers slid from the selection he was aiming 
to touch, and activated a path he didn't want to follow.  
Digging further, he found a compatible learning program, 
probably heavy with artificial intelligence, and linked the 
two together.  Next, he taught it the language by feeding in 
the lesson material from a middle school homework node, one 
that explained the basics of genetics, describing the 
nucleotides, their meaningful combinations forming amino 
acids, and a baseline set of examples.  When that completed, 
he manually fed in the concept of a fifth and sixth 
nucleotide as unknown quantities.  Finally, he fed in one of 
the puzzling Gray sequences, starting from the uniform 
pattern that began all the strange clusters, until a few 
hundred thousand base pairs beyond the occurrence of the last 
alien nucleotide in that cluster.  Then he sat back and 
waited.

The result arrived astonishingly fast.   It confirmed a 
recognizable data compression pattern.

Barely breathing, he asked the program to compute the 
decompressed form.  A weight began to gather in his gut as 
the time elapsed.  It shouldn't take this long, should it?  
He'd been so excited by the discovery he wasn't sure he could 
stand the disappointment if the first result was an error.  
Closing his eyes, he breathed deeply to calm himself.  In 
through the nose, out through the mouth.  Again.  When he 
opened his eyes, the screen showed him a new file.

Immediately, he directed the console to display the file of 
the decompressed sequence in the helix view, and began to run 
its length.  It was three times longer than it had been 
originally, and all the alien base pairs were gone.  
Scrubbing his face with his hands, he made two decisions.  
First, this was the sequence he would use for today's 
regressive search.  Second, he was going to feed the entire 
genome into the decompressor, and save the results.  It would 
probably have to run all night.

-------------------------------------------------------------

Moments later, after seeking out Dr. Charles to continue the 
day's work, he found himself at a loss.  Dr. Charles was 
asleep on the sofa in her study, soundly so.  He had cleared 
his throat, coughed, knocked, and cleared his throat again, 
loudly, none of which elicited so much as a stir.  There was 
something intimate and intrusive about being with her while 
she slept.  She granted privileges cautiously, and he was 
pretty sure this wasn't one he had earned.  Still, he 
indulged himself in a moment's study.  In repose, she 
appeared much younger than she did while wearing her gruff 
professor's persona.   With her features relaxed, her faced 
smoothed of its few pronounced creases.  In fact, if it 
weren't for the preponderance of gray in her hair, she might 
be mistaken for a woman in her late thirties, instead of the 
mid-fifties he supposed her to be.  

"Dr. Charles?" he called quietly.

Still not even a twitch.  He sighed inwardly.  There was no 
helping it, he was going to have to go over and touch her to 
wake her.  He only hoped she wouldn't feel that he was taking 
license.  Walking the few steps across the creaking floor to 
the old sofa, he tapped her lightly and quickly on the cheek 
with a single finger.

Her eyes snapped open at the touch, and her mouth exhaled a 
breathy "muh".  David involuntarily took a step back, 
retreating from her personal space, watching as the sleepy 
confusion drained from her eyes, and the professor reemerged.

"Uh, I'm sorry if I startled you, Dr. Charles," he 
apologized.  "You weren't having another bad dream, were 
you?"

She sat up slowly, swinging her short legs to the floor and 
dry washing her face with her right hand.  "That's all right 
David, and no, I wasn't having a bad dream.  In fact, it 
was..."

"Was what?" he asked, when the pause had stretched beyond 
comfort.

She shook her head.  "It was so vivid, but it's gone.  How 
strange."  She lifted her shoulder slightly in a shrug.  "I'm 
sure you're not here to talk about my dreams.  Are you ready 
to continue?" she asked.

His pulse quickened again at the excitement of sharing his 
discovery.

"I think I solved that extra credit problem," he deadpanned.

She regarded him from under a single raised eyebrow, cocking 
her head slightly to the side.  "Do tell," she answered 
dryly.

Unable to contain himself any longer, he broke out into an 
unabashed grin.

The second eyebrow joined the first in her hairline, and she 
tilted her head slightly forward, studying his expression.  
"You're not kidding," she finally concluded.

He shook his head like a puppy, his grin widening.

After a moment, she realized he wasn't going to continue on 
his own.  "And...?"

"Come on, I'll show you," he said, with all the enthusiasm of 
a six year old who has just mastered balancing on a two 
wheeler, and wants to show off.

She hauled herself achingly out of the old couch.  He was on 
her heels the instant she turned for the door, exuding 
impatience, and daring to hurry her along with a light press 
to the small of her back.  A quick, cutting glance over her 
shoulder was enough make him back off, but there was 
something unnervingly familiar about the gesture.  It would 
come to her later that the gesture echoed her dreams.  There 
was someone in them that touched her that way, and in the 
dream, the touch carried comfort.

He darted ahead of her when the got to the lab, eager to 
explain the console display.

"This is the strand I want to assemble," he said, gesturing 
to the image.

She reached over and entered a routine command instructing 
the computer to locate the strand's position in the genome.  
When the computer responded that the strand could not be 
found, she gave him a puzzled look.  "Where did this come 
from, David?"

"How much do you know about data compression?" he asked.

"Most computer data is stored in a compressed format," she 
said thoughtfully.   "It saves storage, and it allows fewer 
satellites to handle the transfer of greater quantities of 
data.  I haven't really given it much attention beyond that."

"Ok," he began, "let me give you some fundamentals.  Digital 
data is ultimately binary, zeros and ones, right?"

She nodded patiently.

"Ok.  Now, this is a simplistic example, but what if you had 
a binary file, and there was a long string of zeros, say, 
twenty-two of them.  You could save a lot of space if you 
could somehow use the decimal digits for twenty-two, and just 
a single zero, to indicate that you really have twenty-two 
zeros in the following sequence."

"That makes sense," she agreed, "you'd only need three 
digits, two decimal twos, and one binary zero, instead of 
twenty-two binary zeros."

"Exactly right," he continued.  "Except that you don't have 
the luxury of decimal digits.  Still, the binary 
representation of the value twenty-two is still quite a bit 
less than twenty-two digits long.  It's only 5 digits long: 
one zero one one zero.  So you're still down to six digits, 
instead of twenty-two.  The first five digits represent the 
value twenty-two, and then the zero indicates twenty-two of 
what."

Dr. Charles saw an obvious flaw with that system.  "That's a 
big savings, but in a long binary sequence, how would you 
know that the sequence for twenty-two wasn't just a part of 
the overall series of ones and zeros?  How would you know 
that it represents a value that needs to be reverted to its 
original form of twenty two zeros?" she asked.

"And that's the crux of the matter," he agreed.  "Again, 
remember that this is a simplistic example, but you'd need to 
have some sort of recognizable binary sequence that wouldn't 
occur naturally in the particular data stream that it's a 
part of.  That sequence would trigger the software or the 
hardware to realize that the next thing coming should be 
interpreted as a compressed value, rather than something that 
is part of the ordinary binary sequence of the file."

He took a deep breath before revealing the last piece.  
"That's what the fifth and sixth nucleotides are for in the 
Gray genome.  They form control sequences for a compression 
algorithm."

The concept was astonishing.  "Are you sure?" she challenged.  
"The kind of data compression you're describing is an 
artificial construct engineered by computer scientists.  Not 
something naturally occurring."

"I don't know how it can be," he concurred, "but I think I'm 
right.  People have compared DNA to computer code almost from 
the beginning, right?  Maybe it's even closer than we think.  
Here, look at this."  He pulled up the image of the original 
sequence, before he had fed it into the computers at North 
East.  "This is what I started with.  North East University 
has the best Computer Science research facilities anywhere, 
so I linked in with their systems.  I presented basic genetic 
theory to an analysis program as if it was a computer 
language, and then I gave it this sequence to analyze.  It 
came back and told me it found compression.  This," he 
switched back to the other image, "is what it generated when 
it applied decompression, according to its analysis."

She stared hard at the image, astonished by the implications.  
"What could possibly catalyze such a transformation 
organically?" she wondered aloud.  "In either direction?"

"I don't know," he grinned.

"It would probably take a lot of energy."

"Probably," he agreed.

"Do you think it happens all at once, or in segments?"

"I don't know," he repeated, grinning wider.  "Dr. Charles?"

"David?"

"If we knew what we were doing, it wouldn't be research, 
would it?"

She laughed at the old quote, delighted with its aptness.  
"Let's assemble your strand, Mr. Mitchell.  I think you're on 
your way to getting published."

-------------------------------------------------------------

The sequence was so compelling, in light of David's 
discovery, that they went forward with the assembly without 
even waiting for the regressive search to complete.   The 
computer was still cranking away at decompressing the entire 
genome, and neither of them wanted to steal any speed from 
that process to conduct the search for terrestrial near-
matches.

At the end of the day, the first bacterial colonies that had 
been injected with the alien DNA strand were beginning to 
crank out the bits of protein they would study later.  It was 
a promising sign.  There was nothing to do for a while but 
wait.  Wait for the samples to produce a sufficient quantity 
of the protein for study.  Wait for the computer to complete 
its processing.  In spite of the day's excitement, David 
caught himself stifling a yawn.

"Draining, isn't it?" asked Dr. Charles.

"Hmm.  I'm sorry, I was kind of faded on you.  What?"

"Draining," she repeated.  "After the first rush of 
excitement passes, you can feel surprisingly fatigued."

He nodded in agreement, holding his hand over his mouth as 
another yawn overcame him.  This one was so fierce that his 
eyes watered.

"Go home and get some rest," she suggested.

Part of him wanted to argue, wanted to push on without 
stopping, wanted to ask to borrow the sofa in her study.  
Instead he simply asked "Same time tomorrow?"

"No," she said thoughtfully.  "I think we've earned a break, 
don't you?  An hour later than usual will be fine."

David snorted quietly at Dr. Charles' idea of a break.

"Wear something comfortable tomorrow, David," she added.

"Why?"

"I thought we might celebrate.  Take a day off.  I've got a 
field trip in mind to mark the moment."

"A field trip?  Where?"

She paused to stifle her own yawn.  "Those are contagious, 
David," she commented.  "I think I'll keep it a surprise for 
now.  Just wear something comfortable, and don't be late."

He stood then, stretching until his joints popped, and 
gracefully shedding the white lab smock.  He smiled inwardly 
at the familiar admonition for promptness, and wondered to 
himself at what point he had begun to find it comforting.

"You can show yourself out, can't you?" she asked beneath 
another yawn.  "I'm all in, I'm afraid."

"Sure thing, Dr. Charles," he said to her retreating back.

"There's summer squash in the kitchen," her voice drifted 
back from the hallway.  "Take some with you when you go."

No doubt about it, he thought, retrieving his jacket from the 
anteroom.  Nana would like her.

-------------------------------------------------------------

Although she had set the alarm for an hour later than usual, 
she hadn't expected to actually sleep through until it went 
off.  At first, she was startled by the chiming, and then 
pleasantly surprised to feel herself well rested.  She 
stretched languorously, and burrowed into the warm, nappy 
sheets and dense pillow to enjoy the sensation for an extra 
few minutes.  The sun angling in from her bedroom window had 
moved from the tip of her toes all the way up to her knees 
when she finally threw back the covers.  The room was warmer 
than it was at her usual awakening time in the pre-dawn 
twilight, and the birdsong was merely melodic, not the 
raucous frenzy of daybreak.

No dreams last night, she realized, not a one.

She'd forgotten how buoyant a normal night's sleep could make 
you feel, and was a little surprised to see her reflection 
smiling softly back at her from the bathroom mirror.  A major 
scientific breakthrough was a pretty effective mood enhancer 
as well.  Feeling indulgent, she engaged the house's music 
system, humming along to the melodic, energetic old songs 
she'd chosen.  She edged the volume up while she took a 
shower, and edged it up again while rummaging through a 
rarely used storeroom to find the hat she wanted to wear 
today.  The smell of cedar and camphor floated up from the 
old trunk as she lifted treasured items out one by one.  She 
paused when she came to the threadbare baseball jersey.  As 
carefully as she'd kept it, it was still almost too frayed to 
wear, the black piping lifting away from the gray material 
where it edged the placket.  She ran her hand over the collar 
and yoke, reminiscing for a moment over other times and 
places.  She hadn't planned on wearing this old thing today, 
but she pulled it out anyway, and slipped her arms into the 
sleeves.  They came to her elbows, the tails nearly reached 
her knees, and the same feeling of comfort settled over her 
that always did when she put on the tired old shirt.  "You 
are far too old for a security blanket," she chided herself, 
but she decided to wear it anyway.  It seemed appropriate to 
share today's celebration with the memory of her old friend.  
The hat she'd wanted was right below, along with another more 
recently acquired.  She hesitated only a moment, then pulled 
it out as well.  

"Little darling, the smiles returning to their faces," she 
sang along softly with the music as she carefully repacked 
the case.  "It feels like years since it's been here.  Here 
comes the sun... Here comes the sun..."  

The front door slammed solidly and she heard David call out 
for her.

"Volume.  Down," she instructed the audio system, then called 
out "Back here, David!" She closed the lid on her keepsakes, 
and rose, turning, just as David came into the doorway.

"What?" she said, responding to his pinched expression.

"I guess I should have known you listen to classical music," 
he said, rolling his eyes.

"It's got a lot more heart than that flutey drifting sap you 
youngsters listen to," she retorted, in the age-old dispute 
of the generations.  For her part, she still had trouble 
applying that word to anything that didn't involve a 
symphony. 

"Hold still," she ordered crossing to him, "and bend down a 
bit."  

He complied, and she settled one of the two hats on his head 
adjusting the angle of the bill.  "There," she said with 
satisfaction. He straightened, and immediately pulled it off, 
turning it to look at the insignia on the front.  "New York?" 
he asked

"So you know which team to root for," she said.  She gestured 
with her chin and he put the cap back on.  It suited him, she 
thought, the rolled bill casting a roguish frame over his 
face.  Maybe she'd let him keep it.

"Root for?" he repeated stupidly.

"I told you we were taking a field trip, didn't I?  Yankees 
vs. Red Sox.  The two oldest remaining teams, in the oldest 
remaining pre-war stadium.  A real treat."

"That's a two hour tube trip," he pointed out.

She shrugged.  "It's an afternoon game.  We've got plenty of 
time."  She misinterpreted his discomfitted look.  "Don't 
worry about the credits, David, it's on me."

"Oh, no, it's not that," he began.

"You don't want to go?" she asked, feeling the first twinge 
of disappointment.  She'd really been looking forward to the 
excursion.

"No, wait.  It's just, uh, I don't want to presume, but I 
brought a friend with me today."  She nodded for him to go 
on.  "You said we wouldn't be working today, and he's kind of 
a fan of yours.  I didn't know you had something so 
extravagant in mind, and..."

She actually chuckled then, half at the improbable notion of 
having a fan, and half at the idea that going to a ball game 
was extravagant.  "If he'd like to come with us, he's 
certainly welcome," she offered generously.  "Where is he?" 
she asked, crossing past David and exiting the small 
storeroom into the hallway.  Jerry stood quietly at the other 
end of the hall, just inside the front door.  Dr. Charles 
stopped in her tracks, a flicker of regret at her hasty 
invitation flashing through her, before she reprimanded 
herself for the intolerant impulse.  She was torn between 
wariness that any of the aliens fostered a fascination with 
her intense enough to be described as fandom, and curiosity 
over what gems of knowledge she might be able to coax from 
him over the course of a day.  At any rate, he was David's 
good friend, so she would repress any urge to rush to 
judgement over him.  In reality, her hesitation lasted only a 
moment, and she finished crossing to him, her hand extended.  
"It's a pleasure to meet one of David's friends, Mr. Smith," 
she said sincerely.

He grasped her hand earnestly.  "The pleasure is mine, Dr. 
Charles.  And please call me Jerry." 

When David had reached a point in their private studies where 
his progress was beyond the material being presented in her 
regular lectures, she had relieved him from attending them, 
in favor of his growing duties as her teaching and lab 
assistant.  She had not seen Jerry since David had stopped 
attending, but she remembered his solemn manner.  He 
continued his unwavering regard of her after their hands 
parted, and she found his scrutiny faintly uncomfortable.  
Breaking eye contact, she turned to look over her shoulder at 
David, who had come softly up behind her.  He had pushed the 
hat far back on his head, and she couldn't resist the urge to 
reach up and correct the position.  "I'm sorry I don't have 
another hat, Jerry," she said, while she adjusted it, "but 
would you like to join us for a baseball game today?"

When she turned back, Jerry's face was cracked with an 
awkward but unfeigned grin.  Maybe she could learn to like 
him after all.

-------------------------------------------------------------

She had paid for the roundtrip for all of them, and passed 
out the small, digitally encoded tabs that represented their 
return fares, as they boarded the waiting tube.  It eased 
forward into the first lock, and was closed off from the 
station by powerful doors.  Their ears popped as the car 
pressurized, and the vacuum forming in the tunnel system was 
heralded by a loud, but gradually decreasing, hiss.  Dr. 
Charles opened her mouth wide a few times, working her jaw 
from sided to side, in order to clear her ears.  David 
swallowed and pinched his nose.  Jerry appeared unaffected.  

They traveled some way in silence, the presence of a third 
person unbalancing the fragile camaraderie that had built 
over the previous months.  David was amused to find both 
Jerry and Dr. Charles each studying the other, when they 
thought they were unobserved.  Finally, though, the silence 
began to feel awkward to him.

"My father was an engineer," he offered.  "He built a lot of 
the major tubes."

"Was he?"  Dr. Charles seemed genuinely intrigued by his 
revelation.  "That's a rather unusual profession."

"I suppose.  I never really thought of it that way, though.  
He was just my Dad."

"It seems we have so few hard engineers.  The bio fields have 
undergone amazing advances in the last hundred and fifty 
years, but it seems that hardly anyone builds anything 
anymore."

"It's not like we need all that much new building, though, is 
it?  There are still an awful lot of cities that aren't 
full."  David noticed, not for the first time, the brief look 
of mourning that passed over Dr. Charles' face at any mention 
of the losses from the old wars.  Unrealized by either of 
them, Jerry also noted her response with interest.

"Even so," she continued after a beat, "there are things that 
have been lost.  Airplanes, for instance.  If we had lived 
200 years ago, we would have flown to New York for the day.  
I've often wondered why there are no aircraft anymore."

"Well, I'll admit that it would be very interesting to have 
the experience, but they were terribly inefficient, weren't 
they?  The conversion to tubes is probably just an outcome of 
how efficient they are to run.  That's important when you 
consider how seriously the Earth's resources were depleted 
before the war."

Dr. Charles grimaced a little.  "Flawed reasoning, David.  
Everything was less efficient when it ran on fossil fuels, 
including the underground rail systems of the time, which 
would be the closest analogy to the tubes.  So it stands to 
reason that flight could have been made every bit as 
efficient as the tubes, but it hasn't.  It's been completely 
abandoned."

"Not completely," Jerry interjected.  "The Grays have 
flight."

Dr. Charles' eyes snapped in his direction, slightly 
narrowed.  She hadn't expected Jerry to make her point for 
her.

"Well, yeah," David said, "but they don't really do anything 
with it other than maintain the satellites."

"That we know of," amended Dr. Charles.  "And anyway, that 
just underscores the issue.  Not only has flight been 
abandoned, but so has any attempt at space travel.  There was 
a time when humanity launched and maintained its own 
satellites.  We weren't dependent on anyone for that.  People 
even went to the moon, once, you know.  We've lost an awful 
lot."

David seemed unimpressed.  "There was nothing there," he 
shrugged.  "Not much loss in not going back."

"There's something *somewhere*, though.  The Grays had to 
come from somewhere, and the Smiths, too," she glanced again 
at Jerry.  "Do you know where your home planet is?" she asked 
him.  "Could you describe it?"

Jerry bowed his head in her direction.  "I was born on this 
world," he said.  "I know no other home besides this."

It was something she hadn't considered about him.  She still 
thought of the alien races as newcomers, interlopers.

"Still, think about it.  If engineering and flight had 
advanced the way that biology has advanced, we might have 
discovered other worlds by now.  We might be beginning to 
emigrate humanity out into the universe.  Maybe enough that a 
disaster on a single planet wouldn't endanger the existence 
of the entire species."

The tube emerged into the light, then.  This particular line 
traversed the terrain that had once been the capitol of the 
United States.  The city had never been re-inhabited, but had 
been left as a memorial to lost lives and an earlier time, 
grandeur and destruction married in a surreal and vacant 
landscape.  They fell silent as the progression of broken 
monuments passed by.  It had taken a special feat of 
engineering to create a transparent tube of sufficient 
strength to maintain the vacuum required for the vehicle's 
speed.  Even so, the car dropped to a little more than half 
its previous speed for this segment of the journey.  The 
hushed conversations of passengers ceased entirely, until the 
car finally descended back into darkness, the hypnotic 
regularity of the tunnel lights gradually easing the mood 
back to normalcy.  Unlike the cities in the interior, 
Washington's location in the inhabited east and its 
historical significance meant that it was at least somewhat 
maintained, and had not been overgrown, making the 
destruction appear more stark.  So far, this was one city 
humanity was unwilling to have razed.

"I wouldn't want to leave," David finally offered, when the 
desolation had passed far behind them.  "Even if I could."  
He thought of the damp, salty air at his grandmother's house, 
and of the sharp, crisp skies reflecting off the mountains he 
so loved in the interior.  "I'm happy here.  And I'd miss the 
Earth too much.  I wouldn't go."

Dr. Charles regarded him thoughtfully.  "Do you think most 
people feel that way?" she asked.

"Yeah, I do," he confirmed.  "Most of the people I've ever 
known, anyway."

She shook her head.  "That's strange, too, in a way.  Think 
about the history that you knew from before the wars.  The 
ages of exploration.  People go.  They always go, or at least 
they did.  There have always been people that believed they 
could make a better life somewhere else.  It's not just the 
technology that's been lost, it's the ambition."

"Maybe it's not ambition that's been lost," he disagreed, 
"maybe it's poverty.  You can make a good life wherever you 
want to.  It wasn't always like that.  People have to be 
driven to go, I think."

"You don't think people would go just out of curiosity?"

"Not if they couldn't come back."

"Would you go to the Gray's world if you could?  Even if you 
couldn't come back?  If it meant you could learn everything 
about them that you've ever wanted to?"

David was silent a long time while he weighed the appeal of 
knowledge over place.

"I don't know," he finally answered, honestly.

"You wouldn't like it," Jerry said cryptically.  And though 
they each tried several times before they arrived in New 
York, neither David nor Dr. Charles could extract anything 
further from him on the subject.

-------------------------------------------------------------

The Yankees won, eleven to nine.  It had been tied eight to 
eight going into the top of the ninth inning.  The Sox had 
managed one more run, before a flawlessly executed double 
play had expended their two remaining outs.  The first man up 
for the Yankees managed a triple on an error by a dozing 
right-fielder, and slid furiously into home on a sacrifice 
fly by the second batter.  The next man up managed only a 
single, though he advanced to second while the fourth batter 
was tagged out at first.  With the score tied nine-to-nine, 
one man on and two outs, extra innings had begun to look like 
a real possibility.   The next player on the Yankee's lineup 
had been hitting inconsistently recently, and was down one 
ball and two strikes, when he clobbered the final pitch over 
the fence into the left-field bleachers.  It had been a great 
game, and David was converted.

They had learned more about each other in the relaxed 
atmosphere of the ballpark than they ordinarily did in the 
course of several weeks.  Dr. Charles was slightly sunburned, 
in spite of her hat, and so David learned that she had never 
taken the commonplace genetic therapy that would have altered 
her tannins to prevent that small injury.  He had been 
surprised when she ordered three hot dogs from a roaming 
vendor, having assumed that she was vegetarian.

"I like to be self-sufficient," she had explained when he 
questioned her, "and I have neither the time nor the 
inclination to manage livestock."  But she appeared to relish 
the traditional treat, and when Jerry refused his, David and 
she had split it between them.

She learned for the first time that David, too, was an 
orphan, and that his mother had been a talented artist.  When 
she expressed interest in his mother's work, David lit up, 
and promised to bring a few paintings with him to the lab the 
following weekend.

They learned little about Jerry, except that he knew more 
about the intricacies of the baseball than even Dr. Charles, 
and certainly more than David had ever imagined, especially 
in light of the fact that he had known Jerry since birth.  It 
was Jerry's idea to linger in Monument Park after the game, 
and he seemed mesmerized by the sculpted bronze images of the 
game's great players.  In all of his memory of Jerry, David 
could recall him smiling only occasionally.  For the previous 
several hours, he had hardly stopped.

Things changed between them after that day.  The pace of the 
research exploded in the wake of David's discovery, and he 
began to spend several days each week in the lab, in addition 
to the weekends.  Dr. Charles was still obligated to teach 
her contracted course load, but they began to split the 
responsibility of grading student work, and after the first 
several weeks, she no longer reviewed his markups.  She had a 
second console installed, so that they could work in parallel 
on studying the hugely expanded genome produced by the 
decompression.  The new data meant that they spent a much 
greater amount of time doing pure analysis, and less time 
doing brute-force sequence matching.  Dr. Charles' drilling 
in functional and comparative genomics began to pay off.  The 
computer programs for genetic analysis were only as useful as 
the questions that were posed, and progress was dependant 
upon the ability to form the right questions.

Jerry began to accompany David to the lab from time to time, 
and after a while, found a role managing the manual tasks 
involved in assembling the strands of DNA that had originally 
been David's responsibility.  As he had once done for David 
alone, he gradually took on a protective demeanor toward Dr. 
Charles as well, sometimes having to remind them both to eat.  
David was genuinely enthused when Dr. Charles would suggest a 
short break to play some catch, now, although if Jerry were 
present, he would often drop out of the three way game when 
Jerry and Dr. Charles became competitive.  He watched with 
amusement as they fired fast balls at each other, daring one 
another to endure the sting.  She was far too stubborn to 
back down, even when David knew she'd be running the console 
exclusively with her right hand for the remainder of the day, 
and so he would sometimes interrupt with the suggestion to 
bring out the bats.  With three of them present, there was 
someone to field the hits, and David gradually learned to 
rotate his hips through the motion before following through 
with the bat.  He was mortified the day a solid hit crashed 
through one of Dr. Charles' upstairs windows, until he looked 
her way and saw her grinning so wide her face might split.  
It was breathtaking, and for the briefest of moments he 
wished that she were younger, or he were older.

Occasionally, now, when he had worked late into the night, he 
would steal a few hours sleep on the sofa in the study.  
Another of Dr. Charles impenetrable looks had passed across 
her face the first time he had asked, but she had allowed it, 
and it had become routine.  A few times he had woken to the 
sound of her crying out, carrying from the upstairs bedroom, 
but it was always followed by the sound of footsteps and 
running water, and so he had never felt that his desire to 
offer comfort justifiably outweighed his respect for her 
privacy.  He noticed, though, that her temper seemed just a 
bit shorter on mornings after nightmares, and learned to 
tread softly until the challenge of the day's research 
restored her equilibrium.

Relentlessly, inevitably, the weeks and months passed behind 
them, and when Dr. Charles' next breakthrough occurred, the 
second trimester was nearly ended.

-------------------------------------------------------------

The dream started as it always did.  She was walking along a 
road, the soaring skyline of a city in the distance, the 
ground oddly spongy.  If she didn't keep her pace up, it 
would suck at her shoes, and she would sink in, mired to her 
ankles.  If she stopped, she would surely drown in it.  So 
she walked and walked, the road dissolving behind her.  
Finally, as she approached the city, the ground became firm, 
and she slowed with fatigue and relief.  The colors of the 
city were harsh and edgy, the buildings angular.  A child 
erupted out of the lobby of a nearby building, laughing, 
oblivious to her presence.  She called out, but the child ran 
on without responding, without hesitating.

A woman exited the building next, perhaps the child's mother, 
and this time she strode up to the woman, asked her pointedly 
where she was.  The woman only called after the child, not 
even looking her way.   Her irritation began to rise at the 
rude behavior, and she pressed onward, hailing passersby one 
by one.  None of them responded.  None seemed to even see 
her.  

Gradually, the irritation became replaced by a faint dread.  
She was invisible to these people, and she didn't know why.  
The single child and her mother had grown to a trickle, then 
a stream, then a torrent of people, all pouring out doorways 
and down fire escapes, all heading in the same direction.  In 
spite of being somehow not of them, she was still drawn along 
by their current.  The crowd thickened and surged, and the 
dread was joined by a tinge of claustrophobia.  She had the 
certain sensation that they were all heading for some type of 
danger, but when she tried to turn back, away from their 
destination, she found herself unable to do so.  Where once 
the ground had sucked at her feet, now she was unable to feel 
it at all, the scenery seeming to pass of its own accord 
behind her, rather than her walking forward through it.  The 
speed increased impossibly, buildings and lamplights blurring 
in her peripheral vision, all illusion of control lost.  
Dread began to build toward panic.  Just when she was certain 
she would scream at the terrifying sensation, the world 
jolted to a stop.

She was in a park.

The people were arrayed calmly, passively, sitting cross-
legged on the grass, lined up in rows and columns with 
impossible precision.  Here, even the children were muted, 
and no one sat close enough to touch another.  Only she 
remained standing, walking tentatively among them, between 
them, looking down into their beatific faces and trying to 
recover her nerves.  They seemed expectant, patient, 
unafraid.  As she walked, she came again to the little girl 
she had first seen when she entered the city, and crouched 
down in front of her, peering intently into her face.  
Unexpectedly, the little girl became aware of her, met her 
eyes.  

"Why are we here?" she asked.

In answer the little girl smiled angelically, and pointed 
over her shoulder, into the sky.

She turned, seeing a rapidly growing smudge on the horizon.  
The sky darkened, and a dry wind began to blow.  Her unease 
returned a thousand-fold, and she instinctively picked up the 
child and began running away from the darkness, hurtling 
between the rows of eager faces, arms raising to the sky like 
supplicants.  The darkness fell rapidly, then, but just as 
she stumbled, the sky broke open with harsh, sodium colored 
light.  It washed out the faces of the people, the colors of 
their clothing.  Everything was shades of gray.  

Not everything.  

The healthy apricot tone of her own hand stood out in stark 
contrast against the child's clothing, where she gripped her.  
She looked down.  The grass was still a lush green.  The 
color had washed out of the people, but not out of the world.  
With hideous certainty, she knew it was an omen.  She set the 
child down, still gripping her hand tightly, and began trying 
to rouse the people.

"You have to leave!  Run!  It's going to kill you!"  The 
words started as a scream, but left her throat a strangled 
whisper.  She ran among them, pushing and prodding 
indiscriminately.  "Leave!  Run!"  But for the little girl, 
they all remained oblivious to her, focused on the sky.  
"Please..." she pleaded, "please."  Tragedy and impotence 
raged in her, emerging as terrible sobs.  She again picked up 
the single child, anxious to save even one, and ran as fast 
as her hitching breath would allow, although she no longer 
knew which way was out.  Far down the row, a figure stood, 
silhouetted by the cold yellow light.  She froze, but the 
figure beckoned to her, and she ran to him.  

"Can you see me?" she asked, as she approached.

"Yes," he replied calmly, reaching for the child.  
Inexplicably, she trusted him, and handed the little girl 
away.  She settled on his hip, with her pudgy arm hooked 
around his neck, once again in living color, as was the man.  
She couldn't see his face clearly, but he seemed familiar.  

"Do I know you?" she asked.

"You've always known me.  You've just forgotten," he said, 
shifting the child into a more comfortable position.  He 
smiled at her, then turned back.

"You have to save more than one," he said gravely.  "You have 
to save them all."

"I tried.  I tried, they won't listen to me," she wailed.

"You have to find the key.  You're very close, but you have 
to hurry.  Time is short."

"I don't understand.  You have to help me.  Please, come with 
me, maybe they'll listen to you."

"I'm always with you," he said gently.  With his free hand, 
he gripped her shoulder, and a sense of peace and confidence 
radiated into her from the touch.  "I'm always with you," he 
repeated, "but you have to hurry."  As she stared at him, he 
began to fade from view, wavering into transparency, the 
peace dissolving along with his fingers.  "Hurry," the wind 
seemed to whisper, as he vanished from view.  She stared at 
the place where he had been, and finally turned back to the 
rows of people.  None remained upright, but all lay with dead 
eyes open to the sky, disfigured, bleeding, blemished, 
oozing, broken, sunken, twisted, and ruined in every way that 
a body could be, carpeting the world as far as she could see.

"Noooo!!!!" she cried out, running aimlessly in search of a 
single survivor.  "No, no, no..."  

On the horizon, a flash of light flared blindingly, then 
raced toward her in a searing and smoky wall of orange.  She 
shrieked as the flames engulfed her, shrieked louder when 
hands reached through the fire, shaking her relentlessly at 
the shoulders, calling out "Dr. Charles!  Dr. Charles!"

She snapped awake.

David's concerned and frightened face was inches from her 
own, his fingers digging painfully into her shoulders.  She 
found herself unreasonably furious at his presence.

"You shouldn't have come in here, David," she said coldly.

"I -- I'm sorry.  Usually you wake up, but you've been 
screaming for a while, and --"

"I don't need a nursemaid, David.  Please leave."

"I just..." his brows furrowed as he tried to understand the 
rebuff.

"I'll be downstairs in thirty minutes.  Don't make me ask you 
again."

His wounded expression gradually hardened, and he rose 
stiffly, muttering to himself as he crossed to the bedroom 
door, shutting it behind him.

When he was gone, she was careful to cry quietly.

-------------------------------------------------------------

Thirty minutes later, precisely, Dr. Charles entered the lab, 
crisp and composed.  David, his back turned as he manipulated 
the readouts on his console, did not greet her.  His 
shoulders were set higher than usual, his posture stiff, and 
she knew that he was angry over their earlier exchange.  She 
sighed inwardly.  It was inappropriate.  She was going to 
have to put an end to his staying over.  She briefly 
considered discussing it with him, but another look at his 
rigid back convinced her to just wrap up work earlier today, 
early enough to send him home. 

Resolutely she turned to her own console, determined to make 
productive use of the day, in spite of the images that she 
had not entirely succeeded in banning from her mind.  She 
knew where they came from, knew exactly where she could find 
the photographs that must have inspired them.  And yet she 
couldn't shake the feeling that her dream was about the 
future rather than the past.

Thankfully, the challenge of the research crowded out the 
troubling thoughts, and seemed to act as a balm for David as 
well.  At least, he didn't hesitate when she called him over 
to review her latest finding.

"Based on your studies of comparative genomics, what would 
you expect this to code for?" she asked, showing him a 
collection of sequences she had isolated from the enormous 
genome.  He studied it intently for several minutes and 
concluded, "Something ocular.  Processing visible light.  
Eyes."

She brought up another collection.  "And this?"

"Well...  Eyes again, I think.  Different though."  He 
pointed to a specific section of code.  "I would guess from 
this section here that maybe more of the spectrum would be 
visible using this design.  Infrared, at least.  Maybe 
lower."

She nodded, thoughtfully.  "And this?" she asked, bringing up 
a third collection.  He was quick to spot the similarities 
this time.  "More eyes.  In fact," he studied the third code 
segment carefully, "very similar to the human coding.  What's 
going on?"

"I'm not sure," she confessed, "but I've got an idea that 
what we're looking at is even more complex than we'd 
imagined.  I think this DNA describes three different 
species.  When I began searching for grossly recognizable 
ocular coding, at first I thought the number of matches 
returned was an indication that my search parameters weren't 
sufficiently reduced.  But I've been studying the returned 
sequences, seeing which fit together in reasonable groupings 
for an organ like an eye, and I keep coming up with three 
distinctly different versions."

"But this entire genome has been found in individual Gray 
cells, when they've been available.  In the compressed form, 
anyway.  How could it be for multiple species?"

"We know what the Grays look like David.  Ever seen one with 
six eyes?"

He shook his head.

"I'm beginning to think we might be looking at a species that 
operates somewhat like the Siphonosphores."

"Jellyfish?"

"Not jellyfish.  Like the Portugese Man-of-War. Physalia 
Physalis.  A colonial hydroid species.  The Portugese Man-of-
War isn't actually a single animal.  It's a colony of 
cooperating zooids, each performing a specific function for 
the colony as a whole.  The labor is divided; some capture 
food, some digest, some form the float.  But they're all born 
from a single egg."

"We've never seen any evidence that the Grays operate in that 
kind of symbiosis with another species, though," David 
challenged.  

Dr. Charles pursed her lips slightly, considering the point.  
"That's true."  Her eyes roamed the ceiling above her while 
she thought, as though she might find the answer there.  At 
last she shrugged, dropping her crossed arms back to the 
console.  "Maybe it's vestigial," she theorized.  "It still 
suggests an interesting framework to focus the research."

He considered the implications for a few moments.  "It's kind 
of a leap, though.  Supposing this genome does describe three 
species, they'd all be very complex.  Much more so than the 
kind of zooids you're describing.  How would cooperation be 
achieved?"

"I don't know," she replied, "but it might be helpful if we 
could acquire some specimens of siphonosphore to study."  She 
sighed.  "Not likely, though.  They used to be quite common 
along the shores of the south-east and the gulf coast, but 
the oceanic ecosystems have been too greatly altered by the 
power plants.  We'd need to go to the Australian continent, 
and there's no way to do that without undertaking a 
spectacularly long sea journey.  We'll have to make do with 
whatever documented information we can find."

"It might still be worth trying locally," he suggested.  "The 
oceans have changed, but they're not dead.  In fact," he 
added, offhand, "I'd say most of the planet's ecosystem is a 
lot better off than it used to be.  There were just too many 
people taxing the resources before.  The current population 
is a lot more reasonable."

It was a modern conceit, a widely accepted fact of life, and 
exactly the wrong thing to say on this particular morning.  
Dr. Charles felt a slow, cold fury rising in her.  She 
battled to keep her outward appearance calm.  "Come with me," 
she ordered, heading off to her archives.  He followed her, 
surprised to have to double-step to keep up with her quick, 
clipped pace.

"Who is the most important person in your life?" she asked 
him, as she opened the door to the dusty smelling room.  

"My grandmother," he replied immediately.

"And after that?" she asked.

"Well, Jerry," he answered, puzzled by the direction of her 
questioning.

She entered the room and began shifting boxes of documents 
from one of the higher shelves.  He hung back in the doorway, 
beginning to sense the onset more unpleasantness.

"After that?" she pressed.

"Well, you," he answered softly.

A nice try, she thought, but not enough to make her turn 
aside from the lesson she would teach today.

"How about your students?  In the lab?" she continued.  "You 
feel quite fraternal toward them, don't you?"

"Yeah," he answered cautiously, "I like to help them out."

"And the rest of the University student body?  You at least 
identify with them as a group, don't you?"

"Uh, huh.  What's the point here, Dr. Charles?" he asked, 
beginning to feel exasperated.

"And you still think life in the West makes a lot more sense 
than life here in the East, don't you?  Would you say that 
Westerners are the largest group you feel a kinship with?"

Annoyed now, his response took on a haughty tone.  "The 
largest group I feel a kinship with would be all intelligent 
species," he snapped.  

Wordlessly, she handed the stack of photos she had unearthed 
from one of the oldest looking file boxes in the room.  They 
were fragile, in spite of the care with which they had been 
kept.  She knew that she could as easily have shown him the 
electronic versions she kept in her local data cache, but she 
also knew that the physical act of holding the originals, 
their age and authenticity apparent in the brittle and 
crackling paper, its discolored emulsion lifting from the 
backing, would have a greater impact on him.

"I want you to imagine for a moment who it is that you're 
looking at in these photos," she instructed.  

He lifted the first off the stack, his mind having trouble 
making sense of the unfamiliar imagery in the faded 
photograph.  It was a distant, wide shot, of a city street.  
It was littered with lumps of something, in a hodge-podge of 
colors.  The next photo was closer, and the lumps became 
identifiable as bodies.

"In all the monuments we have to the past," she asked, "why 
is this never seen?  Why is everything that happened reduced 
to a few sterile, empty cities?"

He continued paging through the stack, the photos becoming 
more gruesome and detailed as he went.  He lingered over one 
that was clearly taken in some kind of stadium, the rotting, 
boil-covered crowds hanging face down over the seatbacks, the 
posture of many indicating that they had been trying to climb 
over them.  The one visible stairway was stacked with bodies 
clambering toward an invisible exit.  Standing among them was 
a young girl, perhaps 13 or 14 years old, the horror and 
panic on her screaming face carrying clearly across the 
intervening centuries.

"They look like they've been rotting for weeks, don't they?" 
she said in a hard-edged voice.  "It happened in minutes.  
That girl was one of the few immune, and she got to watch 
about 60,000 people die horribly around her."

There were more pictures, some of them depicting the results 
of clearly bloody combat.  Terrible wounds blown through 
people's bodies by some sort of projectile, gashes from the 
wielding of horrible cutting blades.

David began to feel ill.

"I want you to stop for a minute and imagine what it would be 
like to walk through your hometown, and realize that there 
were only 25 people left alive.  Walk through neighboring 
towns to find spotty survival, and most of those still 
walking in a daze of wounded psyches that will never heal.  
Imagine the panic of not being able to find the people you 
love."

The photos were transitioning to images of individuals now, 
close-ups of faces with blank staring eyes.  Faces that had 
once been someone, not the impossible to comprehend piles of 
bodies.

"Imagine the guilt of surviving when half of the population 
didn't.  Half of all intelligent species," she snorted, 
throwing his words back at him.  "Half of all Westerners," 
she said, more seriously.  "Most of the University."

The faces in the photos were getting younger.  A young man, 
perhaps 19 or 20, with a thin, wispy mustache sat holding the 
hand of a younger woman, a dazed look on his face.  Her body 
was missing from the waist down.

"All of your students," she pressed, her voice beginning to 
quaver.

"And me.  And Jerry."

He reached the bottom of the stack.

"And your grandmother."

When he looked up at her, his eyes were wet.

"The next time you're tempted to consider the elimination of 
half the planet's population some kind of ecological boon," 
she said, her anger returning, "think very, very hard about 
what that kind of loss really means."

She took the photos back from his limp hand, and began 
carefully returning them to their storage.

"Go home, David," she said, without meeting his eyes.

He sat, stunned and unmoving.

"Go *home*," she emphasized.  "We'll get nothing further done 
today.  And I can't really stand to look at you right now," 
she added bitterly.

Slowly, dazed, he stood.  "Dr. Charles," he began, and 
stopped, finding himself speechless.

"Just go," she whispered, unwilling to show him her weakness 
a second time that day, and clinging valiantly the remaining 
shreds of her anger, for the strength they gave her.

Silently, he turned and walked out of the room.  She listened 
to his heavy footfalls echo down the hallway, and the quiet 
snick of the closing front door.  Then she sagged to the 
ground, and did not move again for hours.

-------------------------------------------------------------

David was unconcerned when Dr. Charles didn't show for the 
Monday morning lab session.  She frequently left the teaching 
of the undergraduate labs for him to manage himself.  

He was surprised, though, later that day, to see many of his 
original classmates from the Molecular Xenobiology class 
wandering slowly out of the lecture hall, when class should 
have been well underway.  They seemed pleased by the 
unexpected morning reprieve, heading happily out into the 
cloudless day, but David was startled to hear that she hadn't 
appeared for class, and hadn't forwarded any instructions for 
postponement, or arranged for him to substitute.

He didn't really expect her to show up for their afternoon 
session, and was relieved to be proven right.  He still felt 
angry with her over the events of the day before.  He focused 
on her rebuffing of him early in the day, when all he had 
wanted to do was help.  On that count, his indignation felt 
righteous.  He wasn't yet ready to admit that his real anger 
was based in the fact that she had made him feel ashamed.   
It was 200 years ago!  Why should he have been expected to 
know, or to care, what had happened?  Why did *she* care so 
much?  But the images wouldn't leave him, and in spite of 
himself, he gradually began to feel their weight.

When she was absent again on Tuesday, anger and concern 
warred within him, and although he didn't try to contact her, 
he slept less easily that night.  

By Wednesday, the battle was lost.  After she missed yet 
another lecture, he headed over to her house.   If she were 
hurt, he supposed she would hide it.  And if he pressed the 
issue, he supposed she would reject him again.  Although his 
pace had been brisk enough when he had started walking, it 
slowed now.  He studied the toe of his canvas shoes, and 
found himself identifying with the rock he was kicking as he 
walked.  He would apologize, he decided resolutely.  He still 
wasn't convinced he'd done anything wrong, but his need to 
talk to her was paramount.  He hesitated on her front porch, 
his hands shoved deep within his pockets, summoning the 
courage to breach this wall.

He knocked.

And he waited.

No creak of footsteps inside the house answered his summons.  
No greeting from an upstairs window.  The door remained 
closed.

At first he thought she must be in the garden, but after 
searching for her among the rich green aroma of the corn and 
tomatoes and beans and peas, he returned to the house.  This 
time, he let himself in, calling out to announce his 
presence.  His voice echoed back to him in the stillness.  He 
searched the lab, kitchen, and study readily, places he had 
come to feel he belonged in her home.  More cautiously, he 
let himself into her archives and storerooms, his hesitance 
evident in his light tread.  Reluctantly, at last, he found 
himself at her bedroom, torn between knocking, and just going 
home.  He leaned his forehead against the varnished wood, and 
breathed in the parched smell deeply.

"Dr. Charles?" he called through the closed door.  "Look, I 
know you don't want to see me, or you would have answered me 
by now, but I just need to talk to you for a minute.  I just 
want to make sure you're alright, and then you can kick me 
out again, ok?"

He waited hopefully for the silence to break, shoulders 
sagging when it didn't.

"I'm coming in now," he finally announced, pushing the door 
open slowly.

The room was empty, the bed made.  She was gone, and in spite 
of the year he had spent in her close presence, he hadn't a 
clue where.

------------------------------------------------------------

"When was the last time you saw her?" Jerry asked, trying to 
focus his friend's agitated story.

"Sunday afternoon, I told you.  After that stupid fight.  
After she kicked me out.  I shouldn't have left her, though," 
he went on, guiltily.  "She was upset.  I should have stayed 
with her instead of just running off because she was angry."  
He felt certain that something had befallen her, had the 
irrational sense that it must surely be his fault.

"She's a grown woman, David, and has taken care of herself 
quite admirably prior to having met you," Jerry said.  He 
meant it to be reassuring, but to David it sounded like a 
rebuke.

"Look, just, can you," he sighed and pressed his lips 
together.  "Can you track her?"

Everyone was fitted with a subcutaneous homing device at 
birth.  It was rarely necessary, but if someone became lost, 
particularly in the interior, the authorities could locate 
them using the network of satellites that ringed the planet.  
David had always considered it a safety net, and had never 
before considered the implications on privacy.  He trusted 
those in control of the technology instinctively, could never 
imagine anyone misusing it.  Until now, when he was asking 
Jerry to break into the system and locate Dr. Charles, who 
might very well not want to be found.  Just to soothe his own 
conscience.

"If you want her tracked, you should notify the proper 
authorities," Jerry stated.

"No," David protested.  "That will take too long.  And it 
leaves a record."

"If you're concerned for her safety, what difference does a 
record make?"

David squirmed, struggling to explain.  "Maybe there's 
nothing wrong at all, in which case, she'll be angry at being 
tracked.  She's private."

"Which is why you should leave her alone," Jerry insisted.  
"She'll return when she's ready."

"But what if she's not ok?  And I didn't do anything?  Look, 
Jerry, just jack in, find her, and if her vitals are fine, 
we'll jack right back out, I swear.  If something's wrong, 
though, I promise I'll go straight to the authorities.  
Official channels.  No one has to know we took a peek first, 
right?  You're too good for that.  Please."

His own concern outweighing his good judgement, Jerry 
acquiesced.

"Let's go to her house," he suggested.  "The uplink from her 
lab consoles is more suitable than anything available in the 
student housing complex."  

Jerry had to admonish David to act naturally several times 
during their anxious march across town.  Just knowing they 
were embarking on an unsanctioned path was enough to make him 
glance guiltily around him every few minutes.  Though they 
were friends, Jerry's true age was much greater than David's, 
and while he usually found the younger man's innocence 
endearing, at the moment it was a liability.  It was 
fortunate that the reality of the age held little actual 
danger, even if they were discovered in their small 
subterfuge.  In another time such transparency might have 
proven deadly.

David let them in with his lab key when they arrived, 
striding directly to Dr. Charles's more powerful console, and 
crowding over Jerry's shoulder while he worked.  It took 
several minutes to locate an accessible port to the satellite 
tracking subsystem, a few minutes more to create an 
appropriate disguise for the connection.  At last, though, 
the data began trickling down to the console screen.  Jerry's 
usually implacable expression changed to one of 
consternation.

"What?" David asked, alarmed.  "Is she ok?"

"According to this, she's fine," he replied.  "But she's 
standing right behind you."

David spun, glancing around the vacant lab, the significance 
of the report escaping him.

"I don't understand."

"Her locater data appears to bogus."  Turning the puzzle over 
in his mind, he asked, "can you remember your approximate 
positions in the house on Sunday, and the times?  If I can 
check the recorded data against her known location, I may be 
able to determine a pattern for the variation."

"The data is recorded?" David asked, incredulous.  "I thought 
it was strictly realtime."  His mind strayed to several 
youthful adventures, when he had snuck out of his 
grandmother's house, bent on mischief with his friends.  Some 
of those adventures had left a bit of damage in their wake.  
Nothing serious, some broken fences and a few bruised cows, 
but he would have been horrified as a youngster had he known 
he could be tracked back to that location the next day, home 
in bed and smug with having avoided discovery.

"David," Jerry intoned, bringing him back to the present.  
"I'd like to limit the duration of this connection, if you 
don't mind."

Quickly, he recounted their day, and Jerry began comparing 
David's locater data with Dr. Charles's, and with David's 
memory of the times they had been together and apart.  Unless 
one had been there, there would be no reason to suspect her 
tracking record of being inaccurate, and yet, subtly, it was.  
And now, it appeared she was moving casually around the 
house, when she was clearly not to be found.  Jerry dared 
only a few more minutes in the system, and used them to find 
the source of the false data.  Deep in the subsystem for the 
house, usually an innocuous and unsophisticated piece of 
software, was buried a brilliant routine for forging location 
data.  He jacked out of the satellite system without 
disturbing the connection, but continued to study the code he 
had discovered.  It clearly had a manual override, probably 
allowing her to forward her actual location through the 
connection using some device she kept with her.

The implications were startling.  Using real location data 
most of the time would keep the amount of randomness in her 
patterns of movement sufficient that the times when the 
programmed information was substituted would not be noticed.  
And someone with the foresight to design a system to cover 
that contingency would not have left the same simple 
movements about the house running for three days while she 
was clearly absent, unless something was genuinely wrong.

"We're not going to find her this way," Jerry said.  

"What do you mean?"

"She's not trackable.  We need to take another approach."

"I don't know why," David said, "but I have a strong feeling 
we should do this ourselves.  No reports, no authorities, 
just us."

Jerry merely nodded.

-------------------------------------------------------------

Hours later, Jerry remained at the console puzzling out new 
avenues of inquiry into Dr. Charles' whereabouts.

"David, *please* be still," Jerry asked again.  "Pacing will 
not make this go any more quickly."  

Ducking his head sheepishly, David collapsed into the nearest 
chair and sighed.  "It's so weird, though.  How many people 
have we contacted now?"

Dr. Charles had claimed to be an orphan, and indeed the 
obvious references turned up no living family.  No other 
property appeared in her ownership.  Remembering Jerry's 
earlier research into Dr. Charles's pre-doctoral reports, 
they had hit upon the notion of cross referencing against her 
enrollment records and contacting old classmates and 
teachers, in hopes she might have gone to see one.

"Twenty seven have responded."

"Anyone remember her yet?"

Jerry shook his head.  

"How can that be?" David puzzled.  "She can't have been 
*that* much of an introvert, can she?  It's almost like she 
wasn't even there."  He shoved himself up out of the chair 
and resumed his pacing.  "How can she have gone through nine 
years of university, and not had a memorable interaction with 
anyone?"

Fatigued, Jerry watched the length of the lab elapse behind 
David several times.

"She may have been a remote student for much of that time," 
he theorized.  "Her most meaningful interactions would 
probably have been with Dr. Luder, as yours are with her."

"Dr. Luder's dead though.  Which doesn't give us any useful 
leads."

Jerry shrugged.  "We have nothing to do but wait for 
responses from her remaining classmates.  I can look into Dr. 
Luder's background in the meantime.  If," he stressed, "you 
will please sit down."

He lasted mere seconds in the chair.  "I'll wait in the 
study," he declared, before Jerry could repeat his 
admonition.

In the muted tranquility of the study, the old sofa beckoned 
him.  He collapsed onto the worn leather, and though it had 
been an age since it had last done so, the sofa once again 
cradled the restless and troubled dreams of a man searching 
for this missing woman.

-------------------------------------------------------------

His dreams dissolved and drained utterly away at the first 
sound of Jerry's voice.

"Coming," he hollered, his voice gravelly with sleep.   The 
bright light of the lab as he entered from the hallway hurt 
his eyes, and he squinted painfully, certain he could feel 
his pupils contracting.  "Anything?" he asked, hopefully, 
hand combing his tousled brown hair.

"What I have found is exceedingly strange," Jerry affirmed.  
"Pull up a chair while I try to explain this to you."  He 
waited while David hooked the nearest lab stool with his 
right foot, swinging it underneath him as he sat, in a 
single, deft movement.

"Do you recognize this?" he asked, bringing up the familiar 
directory of Dr. Charles's publications.  Encouraged by 
David's matter of fact nodding, he continued.  "Ultimately, 
all permanently stored data is warehoused in the central 
repository in Africa, within the Gray's main colony.  
Maintaining it is the primary occupation of a large 
institution of my people, under the Gray's direction.  The 
main site has several complete mirrors.  One on each of the 
North American coasts, one in Europe, two in Asia, and a 
failsafe at the southernmost point of South America.  New 
permanent data generally is transferred from its originating 
console to a local mirror, and the mirror uploads to the 
African site.  Periodically, all new data at the African site 
is disseminated back out to the mirrors, and becomes 
generally available, within the confines of an individual's 
access rights."

"We learn about this in elementary school, Jerry," David 
prompted, impatient.  "How does this relate to Dr. Charles?"

Smoothly, Jerry brought a series of indices to the console.  
"There are any number of ways to search through a class of 
records.  By topic.  Alphabetically.  Chronologically.  The 
data itself is not difficult to store, but there is vast 
complexity in the indices maintained which allow us to search 
through that data.  However there is one absolute, and that 
is that nothing is ever deleted from the primary repository." 
As he spoke, he began to align the display of the indices he 
had selected.  "Now compare this," he pointed, "to this."

David studied the readout, but Jerry's discovery remained 
invisible to him.  "I don't understand what I'm looking at," 
he confessed.

"All of the indices for Dr. Charles's papers have been 
connected flawlessly.  If I select her paper for her second 
year Fundamental Principals of Linguistic DNA Abstraction 
coursework, then ask for the next thing published, I get her 
final thesis for that year.  It's correct for all of her 
undergraduate coursework.  Except," he turned back to face 
David, for emphasis, "that if I look at the raw storage 
locations for these works, they're not distributed as they 
should be, they're clustered."

"Is that because they were picked up in a group from the 
originating mirror?" David asked.

"No.  The uploads occur too frequently to cause clustering."

David shook his head, his sleep addled brain still failing to 
comprehend the significance of the discovery.  

"This can't happen by any natural means of data collection," 
Jerry stressed.  "Groups of these records were manually 
inserted at irregular intervals over a period of years, and 
the indices were manipulated to make them appear to have been 
collected over a natural life span.  It explains why no one 
remembers her.  Melissa Charles does not exist.  Someone 
invented her."

"Of course she exists, Jerry.  Whose lab is this we're 
trespassing in if she's a figment of someone's imagination?" 
David protested.

"I didn't say that she wasn't real," Jerry clarified.  "Only 
that we don't know who she is."  David's brows drew down in a 
tight scowl as he struggled to comprehend.  

"I wasn't sure myself," Jerry continued, "so I went back 
further.  Her whole life is a forgery.  The indices she 
attaches to as parents appear to be real people, and they did 
indeed die unnaturally young, but the raw location of the 
birth record for Melissa Charles is stored in a later cluster 
than her parent's death records.  Her entire identity is a 
fabrication."

"Why would anyone bother to do such a thing?  Why pretend to 
be someone you're not?"

In response, Jerry activated an image.  "Who does this look 
like to you?"

The hair was darker and longer, but the stern expression was 
unmistakable.  "That's Dr. Charles," he stated with 
confidence.

"That's Dr. Luder," Jerry corrected.  "And the image is 
nearly fifty years old.  It would appear that Dr. Luder 
invented the persona of her protege, inserted it into the 
record system, and then assumed the identity.  Dr. Luder's 
home was in the extreme Pacific Northwest, so the choice of 
placing Dr. Charles in the Atlantic Southeast was likely a 
practical solution to avoid meeting those who might recognize 
her.  Both personalities were largely reclusive, except for 
several brief teaching contracts.  No doubt Dr. Luder's 
having taken the contracts served to create the framework for 
her to insert her new identity."

Incredulous, David reached for the console, needing the 
weight of the evidence to convince him of his friend's 
astonishing theory.  The records were irrefutable, but still 
the equation appeared flawed.

"If Dr. Charles is really Dr. Luder, and that image is 50 
years old, then Dr. Charles should be a wizened little old 
troll by now, and she's not.  She looks just the same.  Maybe 
Dr. Charles is just her daughter, or some kind of relation," 
he argued.

"Why hide the existence of a daughter?" Jerry asked.

"Why hide the existence of yourself?"  He groaned in 
frustration.  "It doesn't add up, Jerry."

"There's more."

David's eyebrows rose incredulously.

"Once I became aware of the indexing anomaly, I began to 
examine Dr. Luder's life as well."  The next image he brought 
forth was grainy, but still recognizable.  "This is Margaret 
Williams," he stated flatly.  Once more, Dr. Charles's face 
gazed at them from the display.  "The pattern appears to be 
the same, although the patching of the indexing is less 
sophisticated.  Whoever she is, she has grown more proficient 
at covering her tracks over the years.  What she hasn't grown 
is older.  If I were to render an opinion, I would suspect 
her age is the thing she's hiding."

David fell heavily back into his chair, silently 
contemplating the three unmistakably familiar versions of his 
mentor.  "Does it go back any further?" he finally asked.

"Possibly," Jerry affirmed, "although I've been unable to 
reliably access those records.  Any more aggressive intrusion 
into data that old is likely to draw attention."  He 
shrugged.  "The estates of the two earlier identities have 
never been dissolved.  They're held in trust by a historical 
preservation society.  I suspect that organization may 
actually be a front that allows her to keep the properties 
she has accumulated.  At any rate, it gives us a place to 
begin looking."  He paused while the estate locations printed 
out.  

"Why the hardcopy?" David asked.

"This console is extremely secure," he stated.  "Our pads are 
not.  Whatever mystery she may be hiding, I don't believe she 
poses any danger, do you?"

David shook his head.

"So, for now, we'll keep her secret."  He folded the small 
document, and slipped it into his pocket.  "Welcome to the 
wonderful world of high technology."

-------------------------------------------------------------

Margaret Williams had lived in Boston.  It was the closer of 
the two estates, therefore the logical first choice to 
investigate.

David managed to hide his agitation while teaching the 
Thursday morning lab section, then dismissed the students a 
day early for the trimester break.  He used the midmorning to 
locate the trimester exam Dr. Charles had been composing for 
the afternoon lecture, reworked it as a take home exam, 
surprising himself by adding several brutal questions, and 
then likewise dismissed the rest of her students.

Jerry had both their packs already provisioned when he 
returned to their apartment, and they set off without delay 
for the tube station, the sun still well up in the sky.

The muted lighting in the tubes encouraged quiet 
contemplation, the tunnel lights flashing by hypnotically.   
David stared at them endlessly, trying to fill in the missing 
pieces of the puzzle that Dr. Charles had become.  

"If what you say is true," he began hesitantly, "and she's 
had three identities, all isolated and private, why change 
now?  Why would she choose to become so familiar with us?"

"Perhaps it had little to do with choice, and more to do with 
circumstance," Jerry hypothesized.  "Or maybe whatever she 
has needed to hide is passing.  If indeed her secret is a 
remarkable longevity, there would be nothing left to hide if 
it were drawing to a close."

David found himself pained by the thought of Dr. Charles's 
aging and death.  "Then why disappear again?"

"You're arguing the other side now, David," Jerry observed.

"I know," he sighed.  "What if she's not in Boston?" he 
continued, after a beat.

"We learn what we can, and we move on to Seattle," Jerry 
reassured.  "There are sure to be clues."

"And if we don't find her in either place?"

"You know her better than you realize, David.  If she can be 
found, it's likely to be your insight that locates her."

David expelled a harsh breath, a snorting sound indicating 
his limited confidence in Jerry's prediction.  "I don't know 
her at all.  She wouldn't permit it."  A shadow of the 
weekend's anger crossed his face.

"The last time we rode the tube," Jerry offered, in an 
apparent change of subject, "was the day we went to New 
York."

Warm memories of the day at Yankee stadium dispelled the 
brief moment's ire.  Shortly, David understood his point.  
"So what, then?" he asked.  "We scour every stadium in the 
East?"

Jerry bowed his head, in tacit agreement.  "Possibly.  Or 
possibly, in the end, we'll simply have to wait for her to 
return on her own."

David turned back to the window, rejecting that option.  "I'm 
not willing to let her slip away, become somebody else, and 
never know.  She owes me more than that."

"Does she?" Jerry asked.  "She's already given you a great 
deal, evidently at some cost to herself," he continued, in 
mild rebuke.  "Why does she owe you anything more?"

"Because," David grated out, glancing away from the window.  
But he stopped, not speaking again for several long breaths.

"We're not done," he finally sighed.  "We've got so much more 
to do.  I don't just mean the research, although we're on the 
cusp of something, I'm sure of it.  But," he faltered.  
"*I'm* not done.  She's changing me Jerry.  I don't know into 
what, but, it's not finished."  He laughed, an edgy sound 
that lacked humor.  "A year ago, could you have imagined me 
entertaining the notion that someone of her appearance is 
over a hundred years old?" he asked, inflection rising along 
with his eyebrows.  "People don't age that slowly.  I 
wouldn't have given it a second thought.  But now... Now I'm 
just trying to figure out how it happened.  Using herself as 
a test subject in some other branch of her research, or some 
bizarre combination of environmental conditions... I'm 
wracking my brains trying to rationalize it, because I'm no 
longer capable of just dismissing it," he concluded 
emphatically.  "It feels strange to think this way.  
Exhilarating, but frightening too.  It was so much easier 
when I was still certain I knew exactly how the world worked.  
But she -- she thinks this way all the time.  I need her to -
- to help me learn how to live like this.  How to, I don't 
know, maintain a direction when nothing's quite concrete."

His confession spent, he fell silent once again.  The tube 
speed changed, decelerated, indicating their proximity to 
Washington.  When they emerged above ground, the sun had 
lowered in the sky, piercing his eyes with an angled orange 
bite.  He stood, lowering his pack from the overhead racks, 
searching for his goggles to cut the glare.  He found them in 
the third side-pocket he opened.  Something cold and smooth 
brushed against his fingers as he groped in the tight 
compartment to retrieve the goggles, and as he pulled them 
out, he found several small metal tubes pooled in one of the 
eyepieces.  Memories of their trip to the mountains flooded 
back, as he held one of the small tubes up to the window.  He 
had never told Dr. Charles about that adventure.  He polished 
the closed base of the tube absently on his pants leg, while 
he thought about her penchant for ancient documents.  She 
would have liked to know about that place.  When he found 
her, he'd tell her about it, he promised himself.  Pouring 
the rest of the tubes into his hand, he bent to return them 
to the side pocket of his pack, pulling the flap open as wide 
as possible to admit his overfilled hand.  Another souvenir 
from that day glinted at him, and as the tubes tinkled and 
clinked their way to rest in the bottom of the pocket, he 
carefully snaked the tiny cross and chain out of their 
resting place.  

Abruptly, he stuffed the slender necklace into his pocket, 
draped the goggles around his neck, and hoisted his pack.  
"Come on, Jerry," he said, gazing at the battered skyline 
visible outside.  "We're getting off at the next stop."

-------------------------------------------------------------

In the dream, he was back again.  She still couldn't see his 
face clearly, but more of him had emerged each time she 
dreamt, and she now readily recognized his presence.  The 
dream was tranquil, this time.  She was sitting high atop a 
grassy knoll, watching a city laid out in the valley below 
like a living map, when his lanky form appeared, walking 
toward her out of the low sun.  She rose to greet him, 
squinting, wishing he weren't backlit, so that his face would 
not be in shadow.  

He strode to her, embracing her without hesitation.  Somehow, 
it felt natural to return the embrace, to run her hands 
through his thick brown hair.  Brown, she mused to herself.  
She'd never been able to tell, before.

"I've missed you," he declared.

She chuckled.  "I'll try to get more sleep," she promised.

She felt his answering chuckle rumble against her chest, felt 
the petal soft touch of lips as he bent his head to the 
juncture of her neck and shoulder.  She could smell him, too.  
The scent pierced her with its familiarity, cutting her loose 
from time and slamming her backward.

"Oh!" she cried.  "Oh, my God!"

He gripped her tighter, the hand in her hair preventing her 
from raising her eyes to look at him.

"No," he said, when she strained against him.  "Don't look."

"Why?"

"Scent is primitive, instinctive.  But I don't think you 
remember my face yet."  She felt something hot and wet drop 
onto her shoulder, and realized he must be weeping with the 
joy and pain of her imperfect recognition.

"It's been so long," she whispered.  "I've tried to hold onto 
you, but it seems like only the horror remains."  She filled 
her hungry hands with his arms and back, buried her face in 
his chest, letting touch and smell recall what her eyes would 
not.  "Please" she pleaded silently to whoever might be 
listening, "Please don't let me wake up."

The light gradually faded as they rocked together, and when 
she next opened her eyes hardwood slats had replaced the 
grass beneath her feet.  He pulled away, then, and crossed to 
a sofa recessed in the dim apartment they now occupied.  In 
the way of dreams, she didn't question the transition.  She 
was assaulted by the dusty man-smell of a bachelor's home, 
the long absent tang of hydrocarbons all pervasive.

"These were good times," he said from the shadows.  "Better 
than we knew."

"Are you a dream or a vision?" she asked, feeling bereft 
without his touch.

"What's the difference?" he asked.

"Hope," she whispered.  After a few breaths she added, "I'm 
so, so tired."

She followed him to the sofa, reaching for the comfort of his 
hand.  "When does the nightmare start?" she asked.

"You're sleeping in a safe place tonight," he promised.  
"It's why I can tell you."

"Tell me what?"

"From here, I can see the past, I can see the future, I can 
see all the paths laid out.  There's something you have to 
do."

She tensed, afraid of the coming revelation.  He folded her 
hand tighter in his warm palm.  "It didn't end with us.  It 
was only postponed.  But it will end soon.  That's why you 
dream what you dream.  It's a gift of your condition, one 
you've tried to ignore.  But there are too many this time, 
and they've invaded your dreams."

"No," she denied.  "I don't want it."

"You have it.  Don't turn away from the truth now, after all 
this time," he pleaded.  "You already know."

"I can't be around people, knowing.  Seeing death on them, 
waiting for it to come true, anticipating a loss that can't 
be prevented.  I don't want that truth, that life."  Her eyes 
began to sting, and she looked toward the ceiling, willing 
herself not to cry.  "All I want is to follow them.  Follow 
you.  God, I miss you."  

He gathered her into his side, tucking her head under his 
chin.  "It's not certain yet, that's why you don't see it 
when you wake.  You can still save them all."

"How?" she sighed, "How, when I don't know what's coming?"

"It's the same thing that's always been coming.  You have to 
remember.  And you have to keep working.  I don't know 
exactly how you figure it out, I only know that you can.  
That you're close now, very close, but there are still paths 
where you miss the signs.  Promise me you'll pay attention," 
he pleaded.  "Promise me."

"We were a team when we won before," she despaired.  "I'm 
alone now."

"Listen to me," he insisted.  Gently, he leaned against her, 
bending her back onto the sofa, the arm around her shoulders 
supporting her and adjusting her position, the other reaching 
down to hook her knees and raise her legs from the floor.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

"Making sure you remember this dream," he said, rocking 
slightly side to side as he insinuated first one knee, then 
the other, between her legs.  His face was still in shadow, 
but her body quickened to the memory of his weight above her, 
the memory of holding him in the cradle of her hips.  He 
caged her face with his forearms, leaning down to whisper 
directly in her ear.

"Listen to me.  You're not alone.  There's another.  You can 
trust him, he's one of ours.  Show him, teach him, and when 
the crisis is past, he'll take your place."

"Who?"

"You'll know him.  He'll give you what I gave you."

"I don't understand," she began, but he hushed her with a 
finger to her lips.

"There's not much more time, and there's one more thing I 
have to tell you, one more thing you have to remember.  A man 
named Fellig.  He has a message for you.  He says 'you look 
instead.' Promise me you'll remember these three things." He 
risked a few seconds to press a kiss to the sensitive skin 
behind her ear before repeating the litany.  "First, you have 
to save them," he said, punctuating his recital with a grind 
of his hips.  "Say it."

"I have to save them," she repeated breathlessly.

"There's another.  He'll be you ally," he said, grinding 
harder.  "Say it."

"I have an ally," she said, moaning slightly in response to 
his movements.

"Remember Fellig.  Fellig says 'you look instead.'"  She felt 
him trembling as he thrust against her again, and was as 
moved by the evidence of his raw emotion as by the heat 
pooling at her center.  "Say it."

"Fellig says I should look instead," she repeated, turning 
her head to capture his lips in a desperate kiss.  Around 
him, the apartment was beginning to glow, the details of the 
far walls and furnishings washing out in the encroaching 
light.  "No!" she wailed, "Not yet!"

But she felt herself waking, felt the first preconscious 
awareness of footsteps and voices in the room with her.  
Taking his face in her hands she held him in front of her, 
determined to see his face clearly before it was too late.  A 
band of light fell across his eyes as he turned his head, and 
though she hadn't time to see his whole face, she drowned in 
a pair of gold-flecked hazel eyes just before she woke. 

-------------------------------------------------------------

If she could see her own eyes, as David did, she would have 
seen the hard glitter of unshed tears filming over their blue 
depths.

She blinked, slowly, twice, as she woke, and the moisture 
pooled, ran down her cheek.

"You're making a habit of this, David," she said, when she 
recognized his face in the shadowed chapel.

"I'm sorry," he said softly.  "We were worried about you."

She spied Jerry, standing quietly at a respectful distance, 
as she stretched and sat up on the hard pew.

"You're crying," David said quietly, daring to brush one of 
the tears away.  "Were you having another nightmare?"

"No," she sighed.  "Not this time.  This time...  This time I 
didn't want to wake up."

"Oh."  He sat motionless in the heavy silence with her, 
waiting for her to remember to be angry, waiting to be sent 
away.  Instead, she only asked, "How did you find me?"

In answer, he dug deeply into his front pocket, retrieving 
the tiny necklace and letting it dangle between them.  "I've 
had this for a while," he explained.  "I found it in the 
mountains, last year, and I'd forgotten about it.  But when I 
saw it again, I thought of you.  I thought of what you've 
told me about what your belief gives you.  You were so 
troubled the last time I saw you..." he trailed off.  After a 
moment, he continued with a slight shrug.  "It was a hunch.  
This is the only church I actually know about."  

"It's a cathedral, actually," she commented.  "But you have 
good instincts."  She gave him a small smile.  "There are 
congregations with churches thinly scattered everywhere 
there's enough population.  But so few cathedrals remain.  I 
came for the solitude."

Cocking his head slightly to the side, he considered the tiny 
talisman hanging between them.  "Maybe you should have this," 
he said, extending his hand.  

Reaching, she took it from him, gingerly handling the fine 
chain, studying the minute cross.  It couldn't be, and yet it 
was.  Hers.  Lost for so long, and now returned to her in the 
most unexpected way.  "He'll give you what I gave you," her 
dream had told her.  She tried to work the clasp, but found 
her hands trembling.  Not a dream, then, a premonition.  The 
time had long past when she would dismiss such an idea.

"Let me help," David said, taking the chain gently back.  
Acquiescing, she turned her back to him, and lifted her hair 
away from her neck.  "There," he said, dropping his hands 
when he was done.

She turned to face forward again, staring at the distressed 
finish of the crucifix propped in the corner.  The long 
absent feeling of the cross between her thumb and forefinger 
was still familiar, she found, still soothing.  She worried 
the fine ridge at the juncture of the cross-piece while she 
considered the irony.  *This* boy, she had to teach history, 
intrigue, distrust.  Lessons of the past, and all that.  It 
was not an education he would embrace, she felt sure.

"David," she began, resolutely, "there are some things I have 
to tell you."

"I think I already know," he interjected.  "Some of it, 
anyway."

She lifted her eyebrow, curious as to what he thought he 
knew.

"I wasn't part of your plans, when you came to South Eastern, 
was I?  The protege you were looking for wasn't a real 
student.  You were just laying the groundwork to become 
someone else someday.  It's probably awkward for you, having 
me around, when you're going to have to vanish eventually."  
He took a deep breath.  "I just want you to know, I won't 
tell anyone."

"Tell anyone what, David?"

"That you're really Dr. Luder.  And someone named Margaret 
Williams, too."

She nodded once, looking over at Jerry.  He bowed his head 
slightly, acknowledging her suspicion that his skills had 
unearthed her past identities.

"Actually David," she said, "I was looking for you all along.  
I just didn't know it until now."

Unable to tease out the meaning of her remark, he instead 
asked the question that had been plaguing him since Jerry 
first revealed her secret.  "How old are you, anyway?"

"Are you sure you're ready for the truth?" she asked.  "It's 
going to seem implausible.  And I have no science to support 
it."

He nodded gravely.  "Yes, I'm ready.  I want to believe."

She laughed a dry, mirthless chuckle.  "Voices from the 
past," she said cryptically.  "I was born before it all began 
David, in 1964.  I was part of the resistance.  The name I 
was given by my parents was Dana Katherine Scully."  She 
watched him carefully school his astonished expression back 
into one of consideration and acceptance.  "And my being over 
200 years old is the easiest of the things I'm going to have 
to tell you."

-------------------------------------------------------------

They slept on a massive but tattered tapestry until dawn, 
when they emerged from tranquility of the chapel into the 
nave of the great old cathedral.  Their steps disturbed a 
flock of gray-white birds, who rose with a sudden flurry of 
wings and creeling out a gaping hole in the cathedral roof.  
The broken west towers were clearly visible through the 
breach, lavender with the dawn light, jagged with 
destruction.

"Come with me, I want to show you something," she said, 
walking down the length of the nave toward the center.  She 
waited, before a darkened window, for the sun to rise and 
reveal the image.  Slowly, the shades of blue emerged, white 
flecks scattered around darker spheres.  A thin white line 
traced a figure eight around two of the spheres.  Most of the 
windows had been destroyed by the explosions which had carved 
up the west end of the cathedral, leaving only a ring of 
brightly colored teeth in the mouths of their frames, but 
this one was nearly intact.

"My mother would have loved this," David mused, watching the 
colors brighten and mature with the rising sun.  He swiveled 
slowly, taking in as much of the vision of the remaining 
windows as possible.  A spill of colored light across the 
floor enticed him toward the crossing in the great old 
building's center.  Turning toward the south he gazed up at 
the huge and intricate rosette, three-fourths complete.  
Toward the east, the walls rose in an immense frieze of 
carved figures, rising several times the height of a tall 
man.  He wandered, fascinated, investigating secluded chapels 
that had seemed ominous last night, by the thin white light 
of their lanterns.  The roof had collapsed in on some, but he 
entered the first that he found whole, surprised to find 
everything within scaled to the size of a small child.  
Everything that was not destroyed was ornate, the detail 
speaking to him of the dedication of the ancient artists.  He 
was solemn when he completed his circuit, returning to the 
blue window.

"I can remember that I didn't see my father as much as I 
wanted to when I was a child," she said when he returned, as 
though continuing an existing conversation.  "He was in the 
Navy, which meant he traveled on long sea voyages, leaving us 
home until he returned.  I always missed him.  He always left 
again too soon."  She pointed to a tiny sliver of white in 
the blue window.  "But on one of his shore leaves, he brought 
my whole family here, to see that.  Do you know what it is?"

David shook his head, unwilling to disturb her expansive mood 
by speaking.

"It's a little bit of the moon.  I was five years old when 
the journey was made.  The window was commissioned to 
commemorate the achievement.  It wasn't about bringing back 
rocks, though, not really."  She finally turned from the view 
and focused on David.  "Everyone felt a connection to the 
journey, a pride in having done something once thought 
impossible.  An optimism about the greater things to come.  
For a while, it unified people in a way that had never 
happened before."  She paused, uncertain how to introduce her 
premonition.    "Something is coming, David.  I don't know 
what, but I think that kind of unity will be needed if we're 
to prevail.  That calls for leadership, charisma, dedication.  
Do you think you're ready?"

"Ready?" he repeated, puzzled.

"To lead," she reiterated.

"I'm just a med student, Dr. Charles," he protested, 
uncertain what he was being asked to do. 

"You're a man of your time, David.  And I -- I am not.  When 
the time comes, it will be your words, not mine, that 
convince people."  She studied his face, searching for an 
indication that he would equal the task, seeing him anew for 
the first time in many months.  "You have his eyes," she 
concluded cryptically.

"Whose?" 

But instead of answering, she inclined her head toward the 
sagging western doors of the cathedral, gesturing that it was 
time to leave.  "We have a trip to take, David.  And then, I 
have a long story to tell you."

-------------------------------------------------------------

Nana greeted the weary travelers in the time honored way of 
grandmothers everywhere.  She parked them at the kitchen 
table, and piled mountains of food in front of them.

They had returned home from Washington only long enough for 
Dr. Charles to prepare properly for an extended absence, and 
were back on the tube west the same day.  She had wanted to 
head directly to Seattle, to the old estate she had kept when 
she was known as Samantha Luder, but in the end, David 
convinced her that the day would be too far spent to get 
anything useful done. Instead, they determined to spend the 
night with David's grandmother.

Now they were sprawled about the rustically furnished living 
room, overstuffed and lethargic.  In spite of the generous 
fire crackling in the stone fireplace that was the heart of 
the room, Scully shivered a little.  "Digesting," she told 
herself, sinking deeper into the massive chair, and wrapping 
her arms tightly around herself.  Something delicate and warm 
brushed against her right arm, and she looked up, surprised 
to find Nana bending over her with a soft woolen throw.  Nana 
smiled at her a little bit shyly, and wrapped the blanket 
around her small form.  

"You shouldn't color your hair, child," she said gently.

David was lying supine in front of the hearth, ankles 
crossed, one arm thrown behind him, bent and pillowing his 
head.  Without opening his weary eyes, he snorted.  "Dr. 
Charles doesn't color her hair, Nana," he asserted.  

"I think I know a little more about fibers and dyes than you, 
sprout," she corrected.  Turning back, she commented, "You'd 
have a lovely shade of red, I think, if you didn't cover it 
with the gray.  Is it so important for professors to look 
severe?"

"Something like that," she concurred, cautiously.

David rolled to his side, propping his head on his fist.  
"You color your hair?" he asked, surprised.

"I'd look about 35 if I didn't, David," she said.  "Hardly a 
convincing appearance for someone with my body of work."

"A blessing, to keep a youthful appearance," Nana insisted, 
gently touching the deep lines in her own soft and aged face.

"A curse to keep it too long," Scully murmured.

Nana stilled, sensing anguish behind the casual words.  
Quietly she offered, "Sometimes it helps to talk about it."

Scully was enticed by the compassionate expression on Nana's 
face, but still uncertain whether it would be safe to take 
yet another person, this one a near total stranger, into her 
confidence.  She looked over toward David, who was trying 
hard to maintain his dispassionate expression, but his eyes 
were flicking rapidly between herself and the other woman, 
clearly broadcasting his hope that she would be taken into 
trust.  It had to begin somewhere.  If he was ordained to be 
her ally, she swiftly decided to trust those closest to him.

"I hardly know where to begin," she started.

David sat up, crossing his legs, turning his back to the 
fire, and his full attention to the forthcoming tale.

"I often find the beginning is a good choice," Nana said 
kindly, settling herself into the matching chair across from 
Scully.

"The beginning," Scully repeated, smiling wanly.  Nana 
nodded, encouraging.  "The beginning is February 23, 1964.  
My birthday."

Nana gasped, astonished by the remarkable claim.

"It's true," David said quietly.

Nana nodded, accepting the claim for now.  She trusted her 
grandson.

They sat patiently, silently, waiting while Scully tried to 
collect and organize her thoughts.  It was a long and 
convoluted tale, and would be difficult to tell in a way that 
would come across as relevant to her modern audience.  She 
was unaware how seamlessly she had readopted her old habit of 
worrying the tiny cross between her thumb and forefinger, 
until David pointed and asked, "Why don't you tell us about 
that?"

"The cross?" she asked, dropping her hand to her lap.

"Yeah.  Do you know about that place in the mountains where 
Jerry and I found it?  What was that word we saw," he asked, 
furrowing his brow to remember.  "NORAD?"

She shuddered slightly, remembering the horror of the end 
days of the wars.  It was as good a place to start as any.

"NORAD.  Originally it was a military installation, built 
deep in the mountain to withstand the possibility of a 
nuclear blast.  Built for a time when we were still fighting 
each other."  She shook her head.  "It would have been 
considered ironic, the diversity of the people who took 
shelter there, in the end.  But it was hidden, and 
defensible, and the core of the resistance dwelled there for 
nearly a year."

"Resistance?" David asked.  "The Grays were fighting each 
other, though.  The human loss was incidental, wasn't it?  
What was there to resist?"

Scully sighed deeply.  "That's what you've always been 
taught, I know, but it's just not accurate.  Remember the 
photos I showed you?"  She paused, while David nodded darkly.  
"What do you think killed all those people?"

"Exposure to an alien pathogen," he replied.  "We studied 
similar historical cases in school, where previously isolated 
populations were brought together, and one lacked an immunity 
to the common pathogens of the other."  He paused to recall 
the details of the lesson.  "Native peoples of Central 
America, when the Europeans first came," he concluded.

"It would be comforting to believe that," she conceded.  "No 
one bears culpability, then.  But the pathogen's spread 
wasn't accidental, it was deliberate.  And it wasn't natural, 
it was engineered."  She sighed.  "We tried so hard to 
prevent it."

"I don't understand," David said, puzzled.  "Who would 
engineer something like that.  And why?"

"The aliens were here at least 50 years before the wars 
began," she explained.  "Maybe longer.  Very few people were 
aware of that fact.  In the entire world population, fewer 
than 100 people were fully informed.  Perhaps 1000 were 
peripherally involved in projects relating to the alien 
presence, but with only limited information.  There were 
others who believed that visitors were among us, but any 
proof was zealously protected.  Most of the believers were 
dismissed as benign lunatics.  Except one.  He was a 
believer, and a brilliant investigator, and singularly 
driven.  Anyone else who came as close to the truth as he did 
would surely have been executed, but he was protected in 
deference to his father, who was among the privileged few 
that knew the truth.  And those few had brokered a deal with 
the aliens."  Her face darkened, the betrayal one memory that 
had remained fresh and sharp through the years.  "They would 
aid them in securing the planet for their own use, developing 
a pathogen and a delivery system that would wipe out most of 
the human population.  In exchange, they and their families 
would be allowed to survive.  And in order to ensure that 
survival, they were willing to undergo a radical form of gene 
therapy, essentially being hybridized with the aliens 
sufficiently to become immune to their pathology, their 
biology...  and rendering them defenseless in every other 
way.  Though they would survive, it would be as a slave race, 
servicing the needs of the Grays.  The deal bought them time.  
The hybridization program required years of research.  
Genetic science was in its infancy, then."

A log, nearly consumed by the fire, settled in the hearth 
with a soft thud, throwing up a brief glowing cloud of 
cinders.  It seemed an apt punctuation to the strange tale.  
David turned and kneeled in front of the opening, adding two 
more heavy logs to the bed of glowing coals.  When he turned 
back, Scully continued her story.

"Circles within circles, though.  Among the conspirators, a 
few believed resistance was possible.  Using the same genetic 
material the Grays had provided for the hybridization 
program, a smaller group secretly began work on a vaccine, 
hoping to save themselves, and depending upon their nobility, 
some greater or lesser portion of the population."  She 
paused, pulling the wool blanket more tightly around her.  
"You can't imagine how it was.  Human subjects were needed 
for the experimentation, and they were taken at will, in any 
number of ways.  Some were simply imprisoned.  Others were 
abducted from their homes, either by human doctors performing 
experiments, or by the aliens, reviewing the progress of the 
program.  For some, attempts were made to wipe their memory 
of the experience, a procedure that was rarely entirely 
successful.  The tests were horrifying.  The memories usually 
broke through in bits and pieces, leaving people suffering 
all manner of psychological trauma, which was worsened by the 
fact that they were rarely believed."  Her knuckles whitened 
where they gripped the blanket.  "I was abducted.  Twice.  
Medical procedures were performed on me that gave me cancer, 
and nearly left me barren.  I was implanted with a device 
that mitigated the disease, but left me susceptible to homing 
signals from the aliens.  The calls were impossible to 
resist.  But in the course of events both Mulder and I were 
exposed to both the alien virus, and the vaccine.  And most 
of the people alive today owe their existence to that fact."

"Who was Mulder?" David asked.

"He was the one who believed, years before the knowledge 
became common.  And he was the heart of the resistance.  
There were events that weren't clear to us then, that I still 
don't understand, even now.  As far as we could tell, the 
alien wars weren't between two groups of Grays, as you've 
always been taught.  They were between the Grays and another 
species.  We're not sure who they were, but they had their 
own defense against infection.  They appeared to us with 
mutilated faces, all the orifices fused and closed.  And they 
began systematically destroying everything that had been 
built in conspiracy with the Grays.  Abductees were gathered 
and killed in terrible conflagrations.  Eventually, many of 
the conspirators were destroyed in the same fashion.  We who 
knew of them didn't know their motivation.  They were clearly 
at odds with the Grays, but it wasn't clear if that made them 
our allies, or not.  What gradually did become clear was that 
the threat was not ended with the Consortium's destruction.  
The mechanism of humanity's elimination remained.  And that 
power to use it was now in the hands of renegade Consortium 
survivors.  So we began to engineer a defense.  It required 
every bit as much secrecy and misdirection as the original 
conspirators had practiced.  Mulder was a man dedicated to 
the truth.  I don't think he ever reconciled himself 
completely to the necessity."

"What did you do?"

"I was a Doctor," she stated, shrugging slightly.  "Mulder 
and I carried an immunity to the alien virus because we had 
each been exposed to the vaccine.  I didn't have the luxury 
of studying the alien genetic material that the conspirators 
had enjoyed, but we studied ourselves.  With the Consortium 
in shambles, some of the surviving members switched 
allegiance, and provided us with enough of the original 
research to allow us to make sense of the mechanism of our 
immunity.  And so we began to engineer delivery systems.  
They were crude, at first.  Initially we used simple virus as 
hosts for the genetic components of the vaccine, but 
delivering them was problematic.  We had a few allies in the 
medical community who were willing to inoculate patients 
without their knowledge, but we were reaching too few people.   
Creating a successful bacteriological vector was a huge leap 
forward.  The bacteria were hardier, and more heavily 
engineered.  What was important was that they could contain 
and protect their payload, and survive for an extended period 
of time in a nutrient solution.  We set to work contaminating 
the fluid supply of the country, as much as we were able.  
Milk, juice, sugary drinks.  We needed agents to act on our 
behalf delivering the bacterial solution.  We found them in 
organizations of abductees.  These people came from all walks 
of life, and over the years they had discovered one another, 
forming loose assemblies to share information and support 
each other.  They became our footsoldiers.  The fluid program 
was more successful in reaching a wider population, but it 
was harder to maintain secrecy.  If the contaminated fluid 
wasn't used reasonably quickly, the bacteria eventually 
caused noticeable spoilage.  Back then, the government had 
agencies dedicated to preserving the public safety by 
regulating food and drugs, and their suspicions were aroused.  
It didn't help that the vaccine was itself fatal to about six 
percent of the people exposed."  Scully frowned, her lips 
thinning, and a deep crease bisecting her brow.  "I know we 
saved more than we killed, but I always felt responsible for 
those deaths.  I had a friend, a woman, who was caught 
introducing the vaccine into milk as it left a pasteurizing 
plant.  She kept the secret, even though she was branded a 
sociopath.  She was killed in prison."  Scully sighed, and 
shifted her position before continuing.  "We were collecting 
a distressing amount of blood on our hands, and we were still 
only reaching North America and western Europe in any great 
proportion.  We still needed a more universal vector.  In the 
end, we followed the lead of our enemies.  They had 
engineered bees to carry the pathogen.  Bees were too complex 
for me then."  

David shook his head, unable to comprehend Dr. Charles, or 
the renowned Dr. Luder, confounded by the genetic structure 
of a bee.

"Mosquitoes were simple enough, though.  We engineered 
mosquitoes to carry the antigen.  And we were beginning to 
make real inroads, globally, when everything went to hell."   

"What happened?" David gasped.

"Someone began releasing the bees.  We never knew who, or by 
what timetable they were working, but survival became a race.  
The attacks were intermittent at first, and began in the less 
industrialized countries.  Unfortunately, that was the very 
place we'd had the least impact upon, and the losses were 
huge.  The media reported, and other countries sent aid, and 
at first, no one panicked.  But Mulder and I knew what we 
were seeing, and we knew we were running out of time.  By the 
time the attacks started in the US, there weren't many 
secrets left anymore.  There were those in government and in 
the military who already had some inkling of the alien 
presence, and the growing incidence of unidentified airships 
hovering over the areas of outbreak left them little doubt.  
They also began to notice when some populations survived the 
bee attacks better than others.  It didn't take them long to 
draw the conclusion that someone had a vaccine, and from then 
it was just a matter of time until Mulder and I were captured 
and detained."

"They arrested you for *curing* people?" David asked, aghast.

"It wasn't that so much as that they wanted to ensure their 
own survival.  We were collected and promised protection, if 
we agreed to inoculate the men of power, their families, and 
their armies.  We agreed, on the condition that they continue 
to support our dissemination efforts.  We finally had an ally 
with some power.  Unfortunately, our military were not the 
only observers of the bees' ineffectiveness.  Once the aliens 
began to notice the inconsistencies in the death toll, the 
war transformed from biological to military.  After a swarm 
left a community, the aliens would arrive, and if too many 
people remained alive, they began shooting.  Those who were 
immune became soldiers, to a man, and the military did its 
best to train them and defend them.  But I don't believe 
their valiance alone saved them.  The aliens were regularly 
beset by attacks from the faceless rebels, and in the end I 
think fighting two races at once was a war they couldn't 
win."

She fingered the cross again.  "This was mine.  It always 
comes back to me," she said, holding it out to catch the 
light.  "The first time I was abducted, Mulder kept it, a 
talisman to ensure my return.  He gave it back to me when I 
awoke from my coma."  She dropped her hands and stared deeply 
into the fire.  "Once, we separated while he went to 
investigate a crashed ship.  I gave it to him to wear, as a 
promise to return.  It was months before he came back to me.  
And although I thought myself barren, I gave birth to his 
daughter while he was missing. Emily Samantha Mulder."  Even 
now the recollection was accompanied by a squeezing, leaden 
weight on her chest, and she stared at the ceiling to stave 
off the prickly sting of tears.  She took a rattling, shaky 
breath and pressed onward.  "But he did come back.  Damaged 
and nearly unrecognizable, but wearing this cross.  And at 
the end of a long, slow recovery, he gave it back to me, 
again."  She smiled, a tight, small twist of lips forced 
through painful remembrance.  "The last time I lost this we 
were at NORAD.  The fighting had become grim, and we 
sheltered there with military and government personnel, and 
their families.  Emily was five years old.  She didn't really 
remember any other world.  She played hide and seek with the 
General's granddaughter in the war room."  The memory made 
her smile, more genuinely this time.  "I had a lab, deep in 
the mountain, where we were raising up mosquitoes as fast as 
we could, every generation a heartier strain than the last.  
We'd cleared the baffles from an airway, and we released 
swarms up the shaft, as often as we had a moonless night.  
One night, I heard a commotion inside the mountain.  
Shouting, and gunfire.  The aliens had finally come for the 
stronghold.  Mulder came running in, with Emily under one 
arm, and two soldiers right behind him.  They were evacuating 
the mountain, but my lab was too deep in the mountain to 
reach any of the escape passageways without passing through 
the fighting.  It was still relatively quiet in the lab, but 
the din was getting closer by the minute.  I'd just released 
the latest swarm, and as they buzzed up the shaft, I realized 
that was our only way out.  Emily was screaming for me, so I 
grabbed her, told her to hold on, and started climbing.  
Mulder came right behind me, and then the two soldiers.  We 
were close to the top when I heard one of the soldiers 
yelling.  I looked back down the shaft, and Mulder yelled at 
us to hurry, climb faster, there was a Gray starting up the 
shaft.  Emily panicked, and started squeezing me around the 
neck so tightly I couldn't breathe to climb.  I had to 
forcibly loosen her grip, and when I did, the cross came 
loose in her hands, and fell down the shaft.  I heard a 
gunshot, and the soldier's scream, and then we were out.  
Above us, there was a ferocious air battle going on, the 
first I had seen in person.  Two enormous round ships 
blackened the sky above the mountain, while about 20 smaller, 
triangular ships darted and retreated around them.  They were 
firing energy weapons of some kind at one another.  The sky 
was lit as bright as day, and the air crackled with ozone, 
like during a lightning storm.  It smelled like summer, and 
like death.  We put our heads down and ran into the forest.  
I don't think we knew where we were going, except away from 
the light.  We made feverish plans that night, hunkered down 
in a tight crevice in the rocks, deep in the woods.  Plans 
about where we would hide, and how we would live, now that 
the end seemed to have come.  But the next day, the fighting 
stopped.  And it didn't start up again that night, or the 
next day, or the next week, or the next month.  We didn't 
trust the respite, and felt driven to keep moving, as though 
we were hunted.  We traveled as far north and west as we 
could go, until we finally reached the Pacific Ocean, and 
were forced to stop.  We lived there for years, as discreetly 
and self-sufficiently as we could.  Finally, though, it was 
Emily's need for peers that drew us back into the population.  
The relocation was beginning, and a few small coastal towns 
were actually somewhat livable.    The adults lived in a daze 
of guilt and loss, for the most part, cleaving together in a 
union of mourning.  But hope and optimism thrive in youth, 
whatever the situation, and we took what joy we could in 
watching them build for the future."

"What happened to your daughter?" Nana asked quietly.

Scully shrugged.  "I'm not sure.  Mulder would tell me I 
hadn't aged a day, and I would tell myself how lucky I was to 
have someone who saw me that way.  But it hurt, surviving 
him.  When Emily began to look older than me, I could no 
longer deny that I'd been changed, somehow.  I watched 
Emily's children, my grandchildren, grow to adulthood, and 
bear their first children, and still I looked thirty-five.  
And then one day, I knew Emily would be passing soon.  I 
don't know how I knew, but I was certain.  And I found I 
couldn't be there to watch it.  So I left.  I wandered for 
years, trying to avoid making any new ties to people I would 
outlive.  Trying to find ways to forget those that I missed.  
Trying so very hard to die."

Nana leaned forward, closing the space between them, 
compassionately clasping her knee with a wizened old hand.

"It took me a very long time to decide to live again.  But 
when I couldn't find a way to die, I concluded my life must 
be some sort of miracle.  And those are not meant to be 
squandered."

"Don't you have *any* idea about the mechanics of your 
longevity, though?" asked David.  "Surely you've studied 
yourself."

She felt a tug of fondness for her empiricist pupil.  "It's 
why I came back to science," she concurred.  "But I found 
nothing that science can explain.  And so I've come to 
believe that there are other planes of existence besides this 
one.  I believe our science explains only this world.  And 
while I have no doubt that another science explains the next 
world, we know nothing of it.  Maybe when those worlds 
intersect, that's when a miracle happens."  Her face 
darkened, slightly.  "We're not meant to live this long, 
though.  Our minds don't have the capacity for multiple 
lifetimes of memories.  It's why I've chosen the names I've 
taken, to help me remember people who were dear to me.  
Margaret Williams.  Margaret was my mother.  My father and my 
older brother were both Williams.  Samantha Luder.  Samantha 
was Mulder's sister that he lost as a child.  Luder was a pen 
name he used to write under.  Melissa Charles.  Melissa was 
my sister.  Charles was my baby brother.  Their names are all 
I remember, though.  I can't recall their faces anymore."

"All those papers you have," David protested.  "You don't 
have a picture of any of them?"

"It's hard to explain," she sighed.  "Have you ever said a 
word so many times that it stopped making sense?" she asked.  
David nodded.  "Looking at the photographs became like that.  
I would stare at the image, but it had become abstract, and 
the struggle to make sense of it became torturous.  I 
remember the idea of Mulder, the things he did, and that I 
loved him, but I don't know what that means anymore.  I come 
closest to remembering when I play baseball."

"Thank you for sharing that with me, Dr. Charles" David said 
solemnly, suddenly realizing the depth of the gift she had 
given him.

"I think I'd like you to call me Scully, when we're alone," 
she said thoughtfully.  "I miss my old name.  And you're 
welcome, David," she added, stifling a jaw cracking yawn.

"We can hear the rest of the story in the morning," Nana 
said, as she rose from her chair, and crossed the room to 
bank the fire.  "David, your guest is tired," she scolded 
gently.  "Go get some more bedding to make up the sofa here, 
and let her get some rest.  Jerry, would you mind terribly 
sharing a room with David tonight?" she asked.  "And don't 
the two of you stay up all night talking," she continued her 
matronly bullying.   For just a moment, Scully marveled that 
she could still feel mothered by someone at least 100 years 
her junior.

-------------------------------------------------------------

It was the night birds that woke her.  Unaccustomed to the 
treble tones in the dark of night, the sharp, repeating 
melody had cut into her sleep.  She stretched languidly under 
the bunched weight of several wool blankets, curling her toes 
against the surprisingly soft nap.  The banked fire cast a 
faint orange luminescence against the rough hewn cedar walls 
of the room.  Drowsily, she watched the play of shadow and 
light, listening peacefully to the avian accompaniment, and 
the steady rhythm of her own breathing.  Her limbs were still 
pleasantly heavy with slumber, requiring several minutes of 
contemplation to determine if adjusting herself to a more 
comfortable position would really be worth the effort.  
Finally, the nagging twinge in her lower back won the debate, 
and gathering the blankets into her neck, she rolled toward 
the glowing embers on the hearth.  A shadowed figure sat 
silent and utterly still, watching her.  She gasped.

"Jerry?" she asked, when the first rush of adrenaline had 
spent itself.

Without preamble, he began speaking in a hushed, spellbinding 
tone.  "I too believe in a world beyond this one," he began.  
"As the world of the spirit has fallen out of favor with your 
people, so has it grown with mine."  He paused, the silence 
lending import to his words.  "There is a prophecy." 

Rising, he crossed to the sofa, and perched himself 
delicately beside her hips.  Scully pressed herself further 
into the back of the sofa, as inconspicuously as she was 
able, but Jerry smiled sadly as he noticed the small 
movement.  His voice lowered further still, barely a whisper.  
Obligingly, the night birds fell silent.

"The prophecy tells of one of your people, one who lives to 
bridge the gap between the end of the old ways, and the start 
of the new.  It tells of one of my people, who betrays the 
old ways at great cost."  In a remarkably human gesture, he 
lifted his eyes skyward seeking strength for his tale, or 
respite from her distrustful gaze.  "I feel we are on a path 
together," he murmured, reaching for her hand.  Sensing the 
motion, she pulled both hands under the blanket.  "Please," 
he implored, his palm up and suppliant.  "I want to give you 
a gift."

Hesitantly, she extracted one hand from the safety of her 
woolen cocoon, and reached for him.  For some reason, she was 
surprised to find his grip warm.  "I am not as old as you, 
but we do have longer natural lives than your people.  Few of 
our capacities are known to you."  Gently, he covered the 
hand he held with his other.  "Our lives are long, but our 
memories are longer.  I share the experiences of my 
ancestors," he explained.  "My grandfather, for want of a 
better term, once met you."  Slowly, so as not to cause 
alarm, Jerry's face morphed from the youthful expression he 
normally maintained, to an older visage.  Narrow faced, 
serious, with close cropped gray hair.  "You knew him as 
Jeremiah.  Your people would say that he 'went native.'"  He 
chuckled faintly.  "My people seem to have a propensity 
toward doing so.  His strongest memory, before he died, was 
of the man you spoke of tonight.  The memory was passed to my 
father, and then to me."  He hesitated once more, needing to 
make the offer, and yet afraid the gesture might be refused.  
"I can show him to you."

Scully sat silent, stunned, not certain how she could bear 
seeing what she could never again have, not certain she could 
bear to forgo the chance.  Her body seemed to make the choice 
for her, while her mind reeled, her head jerking forward 
twice, in hard, quick nods.  "Close your eyes," Jerry 
entreated.  Slowly, she allowed the lids to fall, found 
herself gripping his hands tightly, betraying her anxiety.

A moment passed before long forgotten dulcet tones whispered 
her name.

"Scully.  Scully you can open your eyes now.  Please, Scully, 
look at me."

By an act of will, she hauled her lids up, eagerness and 
apprehension warring within her.  Jerry sat passively before 
her, allowing her to react as she would to his form.  It was 
not the Mulder of her last memories, the old, dear companion 
she had outlived.  It was the Mulder of her youth, and of her 
recent dreams, virile and vibrant and strong.  She raised her 
hand to his face, pulling him forward into the fire's glow.  
Hesitantly, she ran trembling fingertips from his ears, 
across his stubbled cheeks, over his lips.  Her heart 
suddenly pounding in her chest, she stood, and drew him up 
toward the window, needing to see him in the brighter light 
of the full moon.  He followed unresistingly, standing docile 
and passive as she positioned him, waiting while she studied 
the play of shadows off his strong jaw, the glint of milky 
light against his thick, silky hair.  Thoughtfully, Jerry 
bent slightly, bringing his face level with her shorter 
stature, so that she could see him more clearly.   Her mouth 
formed a tiny "oh" at the memories brought flooding back by 
the gesture that Mulder had made so often in their lives.  
Never taking the advantage of his height to subdue her, 
always in their most intense moments dropping to meet her eye 
to eye, reinforcing their equality.  They came fast then, 
memories of joy and terror, determination and tenderness, 
optimism and despair, rage and triumph, overwhelming in their 
volume and intensity.  He caught her as she angled forward, 
returned her fierce embrace as solidly as he dared.

"Mulder," she whispered.

"I'm not he," Jerry answered, regretfully.  He pulled her 
tighter into his embrace, lending her the support she seemed 
to crave.  "But I believe he has never left you."

"I'm so sorry," she whispered, "so sorry I forgot you."

"You can let go of that guilt, now, Scully," he whispered, a 
warm breath in her ear.  "You never forgot.  The memories 
have only been dormant, waiting until they were needed.  If 
you had forgotten, the memories couldn't be returning now.  
It's ok.  I'm sure he knows."

They remained so for countless minutes, swaying in front of 
the moonlit window.  Finally, Scully gave a mighty sniff, and 
pushed herself away.  Her composure restored, she took both 
his hands, and smiled up into the face of her long absent 
lover, her eyes glistening.

"Thank you, Jerry.  Thank you for giving him back to me," she 
said, earnestly.

"He was yours all along," Jerry replied.  Gently, he began 
backing toward the sofa, drawing her with him.  "You should 
probably try to finish sleeping," he suggested.  

As she rearranged herself on the big old sofa, Jerry turned 
to leave.  She laid a hand on his arm, stilling him.  
"Please," she asked, "you've done so much already, but, will 
you stay, like that, until I fall asleep?"

Jerry nodded, and settled himself into one of the chairs by 
the hearth.  Scully settled herself, gazing at the face of 
the man she missed, until the face by the hearth faded into 
the one in her dreams.

-------------------------------------------------------------

The next morning, at first light, David and Scully set out 
for Seattle.  Dr. Luder's estate was far more remote than 
David had expected.  The tube and train rides had been short 
and uneventful, and walking the final leg hadn't seemed like 
an unusual suggestion, until she had led them off the end of 
a quiet cul-de-sac, and began hiking beyond the cluster of 
homes.  The trail head had been clearly marked, and at first 
the trail was wide, obviously a recreational destination for 
the local residents.  But it had narrowed and begun to climb, 
and toward the end, David could only trust in Scully's memory 
and sense of direction, after all the obvious signs of the 
trail vanished.  Now they were deep in a primeval forest, 
threading between enormous redwood trunks and parting broad, 
damp ferns with their knees.  The house, when it appeared, 
took him by surprise.  Built against a steeply rising 
hillside, the dark brown siding and tan tiled roof, moss 
lining the overhanging eaves, blended seamlessly with the 
surrounding terrain.  A shaft of sunlight angled through the 
dense canopy, glinting sharply from one of the few small, 
high windows.  The undergrowth and accumulated redwood 
needles crunched underfoot as they approached the entrance to 
the small cabin.  Though it appeared rustic, the locking 
mechanism was modern and sophisticated.  Scully placed her 
palm in a smooth, molded receptacle, which glowed coolly at 
her touch.  A tiny lancet darted out, releasing a single drop 
of blood from her fingertip, sucking it through minute tubing 
and into the mechanism itself.  A moment passed, then a faint 
hiss could be heard as the seal around the front door 
receded.  Scully reached out, and finished the procedure by 
turning an ordinary doorknob.

"Welcome to my home," she said, ushering David inside.

That the home was built back into the earth was apparent from 
the outside.  It was an unusual architecture, but not unheard 
of, and had compelling advantages for temperature control and 
security.  Even so, David was surprised by the size and 
comfort of the entry room.  Such homes tended to be small, as 
a result of the effort involved in excavating them.  He 
swiveled slowly on his heel, taking in the clean lines of the 
spartan furnishings, and the low profile of a futon through 
an open bedroom door.

Dr. Samantha Luder had been something of a legend in her own 
time, as much for her scientific accomplishments as for her 
eccentricities.  She had a reputation as a recluse that far 
outstripped the one Dr. Charles was gradually creating for 
herself, and while the remoteness of her home supported that, 
David was perplexed how she could have accomplished any sort 
of science here.  He wandered around the room, dragging his 
fingers along the furnishings, pausing to poke his head into 
a small kitchen.

"You come back here fairly often?" he finally asked.

"What makes you ask?" Scully replied.

"No dust," he said, examining his fingertips.  He wiped them 
on his pants leg reflexively, even though they were clean.

"Good eye," she acknowledged approvingly.

"Where's the lab?" he finally asked.  Scully angled her chin 
toward the narrow bedroom door.  Curious, he passed inside, 
briefly noting the antique styling of the bureau and 
freestanding wardrobe, before his eyes fell on another 
doorway beyond them both.  "Through there?" he asked.  Scully 
nodded.  

He felt curiously disappointed at the sight that greeted him.  
The mysterious, reclusive, brilliant Dr. Luder's lab was -- 
ordinary.  Small, clean, organized, the equipment a bit out 
of date, there was nothing about it that suggested the 
prolific discovery it had silently witnessed.

"Have a seat, David," Scully said quietly, reading his 
expression, "and I'll help the walls talk to you."  He 
settled onto a stool while she gathered items from an 
overhead cabinet.  He was puzzled when she returned with a 
small metal tray, a few gleaming instruments and a short 
stack of gauze contained within it.

"What's that for?" he asked.

She reached for him, without answering, matter-of-factly 
sliding open the buttons on his shirt one by one.

David froze to his seat, his eyes wide, not comprehending the 
meaning of her actions.  His mind raced, desperately trying 
to fathom an explanation for her uncharacteristic behavior.  
The backs of her nimble fingers fluttered against his stomach 
just above his waistband as she freed the last button, and he 
was assailed by flood of emotions -- bewilderment, 
embarrassment, shame -- triggered by his completely 
unexpected burst of arousal.  This was Dr. Charles, -- *Dr. 
Charles* -- she couldn't possibly intend...  He felt suddenly 
contemptible for his reaction, made an abortive effort to 
rise and back away that was thwarted when the stool caught up 
against the counter after only a step, causing him to fall 
back onto its seat, hard.    She pinned him with a 
penetrating stare that made it clear he was to sit still, and 
reached out with both hands to ease the shirt from his 
shoulders.  His heart pounded absurdly in his chest, burning 
with the instinct to fight or flee, and to his adrenaline 
addled brain, she positively loomed as she stepped into his 
personal space, and lowered her mouth to his ear.

"Calm down," she whispered

"D- Dr. Charles," he stammered, but stopped when she laid a 
hand across his lips, backing away far enough for him to see 
her shake her head.  Her whisper was barely audible, even 
though she returned her mouth so close to his ear that he 
could feel the humidity of her breath.  "Right now you *must* 
trust me," she stated emphatically.  "Do not make a sound, 
and try to sit very still."  She backed away again, checking 
his face for understanding.  He nodded hesitantly.   She 
leaned in to whisper once more.  "I'm sorry I don't have an 
anesthetic, David.  I'll try to be quick."  His eyes grew 
impossibly wider as he processed her apology, and she gave 
him a sympathetic smile.

Quickly, proficiently, she snapped on a pair of medical 
gloves, and moistened several gauze pads with a sterile 
solution, smearing it liberally onto the left side of David's 
chest, a handspan below his collarbone.  He shivered slightly 
at the sensation of cold produced by the rapidly evaporating 
liquid.  In spite of himself, he couldn't help flinching away 
when she returned with a scalpel in her hand, the edge of the 
counter digging painfully into his back as he struggled to 
keep himself seated.  She raised her free hand to his eyes, 
her fingers warm against his lids through the dusty texture 
of the gloves, encouraging him not to watch.  

He felt the press of her systematically probing fingers, but 
not the initial incision, as the scalpel was sharpened to an 
edge that could be measured in molecules, and was free of 
imperfections.  But moments after he became aware of the warm 
liquid flow of blood down his chest, the wound began to burn.  
He clenched his teeth, sucking air past barely parted lips.  
A heap of gauze was pressed into his palm, and gloved fingers 
positioned his hand just below the opening, where it would 
absorb the flow.  He felt the lips of cut being pulled wide, 
and a sudden, sharp jerk of something being ripped from 
muscle tissue.  He gasped, his head swimming.  

"Almost done," she whispered, "hang on."

He heard the faint tink of metal against glass, then felt the 
edges of the wound being drawn up together, swiped with more 
fluid and salve, and covered and bound with what felt like a 
standard first-aid dermal patch.  Closed and sealed from the 
air, the edge of the pain dulled, and he exhaled the deep 
breath he'd been holding, panting heavily, like a spent 
runner.  He heard the snap of gloves being removed, then felt 
a delicate touch retrieving his shirt from where it remained 
pooled around his rigid wrists, pulling it gently back over 
his shoulders and into position.  He only opened his eyes 
when he felt a light touch across his lips.  Scully stood 
before him, concern etched clearly in her face.  "OK?" she 
mouthed.  He nodded.  "Shh," she mimed, one vertical finger 
in front of her face.   She placed the small glass specimen 
jar into a drawer in the lab bench, along with her watch, 
then heaved at the corner of the heavy furnishing.  After 
overcoming the initial inertia, the bench moved easily aside, 
revealing a locking mechanism in floor, every bit as complex 
as that on the main entrance.  Quietly she repeated the 
identification routine, and this time the hiss was followed 
by the appearance of a narrow stairwell, descending straight 
down into the earth.  She gestured for David to precede her, 
and once in the stairwell herself, reached up hooking her 
hands around grips built into the underside of the lab bench, 
shoved it back into place over the opening.  

They descended for at least a story, the unmistakably cool 
moist air of a cave becoming more apparent with each step.  
When Scully touched the metal plate that engaged the main 
lights in the cavern, David gasped.  The light revealed an 
immense lab, larger, even, than the main facility at 
Southeast University, framed out in aluminum and plexiglass.  

"This is where we came," she began without preamble, "when we 
stopped running."  David's jaw hung slightly slack at the 
enormity of the cavern, and Scully smiled a bit to herself at 
his expression.  "We found it accidentally, and at first we 
lived here, off of rations of preserved foods that we would 
gather from uninhabited towns, on scavenging expeditions.  
But it wasn't really a viable way to live -- it wasn't like 
being underground at NORAD.  It was dark, and damp, and Emily 
hated it.  It wasn't long before we realized we needed to 
establish ourselves above ground, but we weren't ready to 
join the relocation that was just beginning.  There aren't 
any roads up here, and with the climb, almost no one ever 
even passed by."  She chuckled with an unanticipated memory.  
"I think the only thing even more unexpected than discovering 
the reality of alien life was the notion of Mulder and I 
becoming farmers.  But that's what we did.  About another 
five miles north northeast from here we found a remote ranch, 
abandoned, and with arable land.  I planted my first garden 
up on this mountain."  She paused, surprised at the clarity 
with which old memories were returning.  "Come on," she said, 
changing the subject, "you wanted to see the lab."

"How did you get all this down here?" he asked, his head 
swiveling to take in the long bench, the racks of specimens, 
the old equipment.  "And why?"

"We always kept this place a secret, right from the start.  
You have to understand, we didn't know if it was really over.  
We scavenged and hoarded whatever we could, documented as 
much of my research as we were able.  We thought we might 
have to start again, and that this might be the new 
stronghold."

"You built this lab after the wars?" he asked, astonished.

"Oh my, no.  After the wars we were too busy surviving to 
build -- we just collected.  And we couldn't generate nearly 
this much power at the time."

"I didn't think the grid came out to places this remote," he 
commented.

"It doesn't," she confirmed.  "This is geothermal.  Mulder 
actually tapped the first well himself.  Farther back in the 
east arm of the cavern we found hot springs.  Extremely hot.  
There was a lot more abandoned technology just lying around 
in those days, and he had a lot of time to teach himself.  We 
helped ourselves to a small turbine from an abandoned power 
plant, diesel drilling equipment, and started poking holes 
until we hit a steam vent.  It was crude, and prone to 
failures, but it worked.  It wasn't until years later...  I 
told you how I'd wandered after I started outliving my 
family.  I found myself back here, eventually.  It was here, 
among all the things we'd gathered that I realized that the 
knowledge we'd accumulated needed to be reclaimed, and 
gradually decided to rejoin the living."

"I don't think I've ever seen off-grid power this stable," 
David observed, "except maybe in Denver."

It was one of the hardships of living inland, in the 
mountains.  Besides the snow, the terrain, the climate, those 
who chose to live away from the coasts had to deal with 
generating all their own power.  It tended to keep the inland 
population small.

Scully nodded at the observation.  "The inlanders are a 
reclusive, independent lot, aren't they?" she commented 
admiringly.  "As a matter of fact that's where I went, to 
find the expertise, and the discretion, I needed to power 
this place, without a lot of questions.  I built the first 
house right after the crew left, to disguise the opening, and 
no one besides me has been down here since that day, until 
now."  She glanced at his chest apologetically.  "That's part 
of the reason I removed your tracker.  I'm not willing to 
broadcast the existence of this cavern.  I'm sorry to have 
had to make the experience so abrupt."

He had momentarily forgotten the impromptu surgery in the 
wonder of the cavern, but now his attention returned fully to 
the dressed wound on his chest.  "You extracted my tracker?" 
he gasped, indignant.  "How could you do that without even 
asking me first?"

"I'm sorry," she repeated.  "Some of them capture audio.  I 
couldn't know which kind you had, and I couldn't really 
discuss it with you without possibly revealing that you were 
about to become untrackable to the tracking system itself."

"We're not *supposed* to be untrackable!" he exclaimed, 
beginning to pace.  "I can't believe you did that and didn't 
even give me a choice!"

"You can still carry it with you, David.  I can install it 
into a ring, or a watch, with standard medical dermal 
electrodes, and it will still broadcast your vitals every bit 
as accurately as it did when it was embedded.  But you'll be 
able to leave it behind when you want to, which you could 
never do before.  A *choice*," she emphasized the word, "is 
exactly what I've given you.  One you've never had before."

"But..." he protested weakly.

"You might ask yourself, David, why it is that you feel that 
way.  About not being untrackable.  Do you feel like you're 
being disobedient?  Like you're going to get in trouble?  
Does that really make sense?  What kind of conditioning led 
you to that attitude?  What does that imply?"

She waited while his mouth worked silently for a moment.

"Well, while you're thinking about it," she said finally, "we 
should do what we came for."

"What is that, exactly?"

"I need to retrieve the data on the vaccine from the 
computers here, for one thing."

"You couldn't have done that over the nets?"

"These computers aren't on the nets, David.  Anything 
connected is vulnerable, by definition.  And we don't control 
the nets.  Keeping this information confidential 200 years 
ago saved our race.  Even now, broadcasting it to the 
population it defeated would seem foolhardy."

David shook his head, and sank back against the counter.

"I also need to verify your level of immunity.  I'm not sure 
how well the treatment has persisted over the years.  
Immunities to infectious agents can be lost after several 
generations without exposure, and we've been isolated from 
the Gray population for a very long time."  She produced a 
lancet and handed it to him.  "This time I only need a few 
drops of blood.  And I'll let you do it yourself, when you 
feel ready."

He held the lancet up in front of his face, considering.  
"What if I'm not immune?" he asked.  

"I can synthesize enough of the injectable version of the 
vaccine to treat you before we leave."

"What are you getting me into?" he breathed, apprehension 
settling heavily in his stomach.

She considered him sympathetically for a moment.  "I don't 
know yet, David.  I just want to be prepared."  She opened a 
cabinet, revealing an old-fashioned safe, and quickly wheeled 
in a five-digit combination.  The interior revealed a cache 
of ancient firearms, which she ignored, opting to retrieve 
two small, chrome-colored cylindrical items.

"Hold it away from you, like this," she demonstrated, handing 
him one of the cylinders.  "Do you feel the notch?"  He 
rubbed the cool metal quizzically with his thumb, was 
startled when his motion caused a long, dangerous looking 
spike to emerge.  He looked between the spike, and Scully, 
questioning.

"It's the only way to kill them," she said gravely.  Reaching 
around him, she touched the notch above the large vertebrae 
at the base of his neck, the touch light but deliberate.  "It 
has to be inserted right here," she said quietly, "or it's 
ineffective."

"Kill who?  I don't want to kill anyone."

"I hope you won't have to David," she told him solemnly, 
retrieving her hand.  "But just in case.  It's how you can 
kill the aliens.  It works on Smiths and Grays both, but you 
won't get close enough to a Gray to use it.  They hear you 
coming.  You know they're telepathic, don't you?"

"Can we hear them?" he asked, feeling surreal.

"If they want you to," she shrugged.  "But only then.  We 
have the DNA for telepathy, but it's dormant."

"We don't," he objected automatically.

"We do," she insisted.  "David I know you think human 
genomics is a completely mature science, but how much 
attention has ever been paid to the intergenic regions?  The 
'junk' DNA, really?  The understanding of the active regions 
*is* very mature, but anything that doesn't have an 
observable effect on life or disease really has been largely 
ignored."

He looked again at the device in his hand, manipulated it 
until it closed again.  It was heavier than it seemed it 
should be, and despite being held in his overwarm hand for 
several minutes, the metal still felt cool against his palm.

"We didn't make this, did we?" he concluded.

"No," Scully confirmed.  "It's an alien weapon."

David's brows knit tightly for a moment while he considered 
the circumstances under which the device had probably been 
acquired.  Combat, possibly hand to hand.  Taken from the 
body of a dead...  He expelled his stale breath in an 
explosive sigh.

"I don't know if I can do this, Dr. Charles," he said.  "You 
keep asking me to trust you, but..." he gestured with the 
device.  "Jerry's a Smith," he said helplessly.

 "I need you to trust my experience, David.  But I need you 
to recognize the trust I've given you, as well.  No one in 
the world knows of this place but you.  No one in the world 
had known the truth about me for over a hundred years, until 
you.  No one else on the planet holds what you hold.  I trust 
you to do the right thing with all of this when the time 
comes.  You have to trust yourself.  We have to trust each 
other," she emphasized, her voice low.

Their eyes locked for interminable minutes, while he weighed 
her words.  Finally, he broke the gaze, looking once more at 
the weapon he held, before slipping it into his pocket.  With 
his empty hand, he retrieved the lancet from the counter 
where he had set it.  "I guess we'd better get started," he 
said.

-------------------------------------------------------------

David's immunity had not been just weak, it was nearly 
absent.  The discovery troubled Scully more than she wanted 
to acknowledge.  She'd been brisk and matter of fact about 
synthesizing a batch of the vaccine from raw materials 
carefully preserved in the underground lab, inoculating 
David, and sending him upstairs for a nap.  The initial 
effects tended to be draining.

While he slept, she reviewed her old research, wishing just 
this once for the gift of eidetic memory.  As far as she 
knew, this was the only truly disconnected computer system on 
the planet, and she wasn't willing to expose this science by 
transferring it to her pad, or to the computer systems back 
at her lab in the southeast.  And yet, she both needed to 
return there, and needed to continue working with her old 
data.  In the end she compromised, downloading the 
information into an ancient laptop computer, incompatible 
with everything modern.  She hoped it would be safe enough.  
That done, she tested her own immunity, but was unsurprised 
to find it unchanged.  Whatever mechanism caused her 
longevity also seemed to keep her in a sort of biological 
stasis.  It wasn't just that her wounds healed quickly, every 
biological change seemed to reverse itself, restoring her to 
the condition she presumably was in at the time she became 
immortal.  Not that she could remember the circumstances.  
But although she'd given David a terse lie about her disdain 
for non-medical bioengineering, the truth was, she'd tried 
several times to take the relatively innocuous genetic 
therapy to remove her predilection for sunburning, and it 
simply hadn't taken.  She spent a few more hours synthesizing 
a compound that would react with the antigen, and imbued a 
few dozen medical testing strips with the reagent.  It was 
crude, but it would function as a low tech field test.  She 
put the strips in a small, cylindrical, airtight container, 
and added it to the bag with the laptop, along with a lancing 
device.  Finally she returned to the equipment that had 
synthesized the small dose of inoculant for David, and 
feeling grateful for the advances in modern biochemical 
automation, retrieved the vial which now contained several 
dozen more doses.  She put the vial in a protective casing, 
and added it, along with several syringes, to the bag.  
Carefully, methodically, she circumnavigated the lab, 
shutting down and putting away the slightly aged equipment, 
turning off lights.  At last, she returned to where the bag 
sat, and paused, hand on the zipper, considering the 
contents.  It seemed so inadequate.  She didn't know what was 
coming, but if it was like last time, and if everyone's 
immunity had deteriorated as thoroughly as David's had, she 
doubted in her ability to forestall disaster.  Last time 
she'd had information, as piecemeal as it had been, and 
allies.  And Mulder.  Now she had only a dark premonition, 
David, and a population every bit as disbelieving as there 
had been 200 years earlier.  Not disbelieving in the alien 
existence, this time, but certainly disbelieving in any 
threat.  If she couldn't put the pieces together, she stood a 
very real chance of being the last human standing, for all 
eternity.  She sighed, pulling the zipper shut and the bag 
onto her shoulder.  It was far too light a package to do any 
real good, she feared, and yet it was the heaviest of 
burdens.

David was sleeping fitfully when she returned aboveground, 
sweating lightly with a slight fever.  The inoculant caused 
flu-like symptoms for a few days, she remembered, and so she 
left him alone, while she returned to the public, above-
ground lab, and set to work on his tracker.  The work was 
delicate, microscopic, but in a few hours, she had modified 
an expensive bio-sensing wristwatch, the kind used by serious 
athletes, to feed its data into the tracking chip.  She 
returned the modified wafer to the casing, making certain not 
to damage the new tracings, and snapped it closed.  It was a 
unisex design, but it was small, something she'd originally 
intended for her own use.  She hoped he would like it, 
anyway, then found herself startled to have considered that.  
It was a necessity, really, not a gift.  She hoped the 
absence of biodata being transmitted by the locater hadn't 
persisted long enough to be flagged, and she slipped it onto 
his wrist while he still slept.

It was late when they finally returned to his grandmother's 
house.  David had been groggy and quiet on the hike back to 
the train station, following her lead in a steady, automatic 
way, and he had fallen back to sleep as soon as they were 
seated in the tube.  Once home, he'd given Nana a perfunctory 
kiss on the cheek, rejected, with a bit of a green tinge, her 
offer of a late dinner, and retired directly to bed.  Scully 
herself was famished, and accepted a plate of warm mutton 
stew and two thick sliced of bread.  "Where's Jerry?" she 
asked, when the hard edge of her hunger had abated.

"He went off somewhere today," Nana answered.  "I don't know, 
really.  He does that from time to time.  He always comes 
back."

Scully processed that information.  She really was becoming 
torn about the shape-shifting alien.  In all the time she'd 
known him, he'd been nothing but respectful and deferential, 
as he was this morning when she explained that she needed to 
make this particular journey with David alone.  But she 
suspected he'd been unhappy about it, possibly thinking that 
last night's gift had changed things between them.  She 
sighed.  She couldn't entirely let go of her distrust of the 
any of the aliens, no matter how innocuous and courteous 
their behavior.  After 200 years practicing secrecy and 
distrust, that kind of studied respect set off her alarms.  
Still, his behavior the night before had seemed sincere, not 
manipulative.  She sighed.  Not that she believed her 
feelings alone were an accurate barometer of anything... she 
was so out of touch with using them.  It was still true that 
Jerry kept everything he knew about his people, and about the 
Grays, secret.  Trust was a two way street, and though his 
behavior had always been irreproachable, he offered her 
nothing on which to pin any trust she might have for him.  At 
least, on a matter as serious as this.  And now he was gone, 
no explanation, and evidently this was something he did with 
some regularity.  And he knew who she really was.

She pushed her plate away, her appetite gone.

"I wondered if we might talk for a while," Nana said, taking 
the offending dish away.

Scully was tired, but felt it would be rude to deny her 
hostess' request.  She nodded, forcing out a weary smile.

"I hardly know where to start," Nana offered.

"I find the beginning is often a good choice," Scully said, 
echoing Nana's words from the night before.

Nana smiled, recognizing the reference.  "Indeed it is, 
child," she agreed.   Rather than speaking, though, she rose 
from the kitchen table and began busying herself making tea.  
It was always easier to talk while she was busy, she'd found, 
and while she hadn't wanted to disturb Scully's dinner, she 
always preferred talking over food.  "I lay awake quite some 
time last night, thinking over the story you told us," she 
began, filling the tea kettle with water.  "It must have been 
a horrible time... I'm sure I can't imagine."  She turned a 
dial, and a ceramic disc in the counter began to glow.  "I do 
know about losing a child though," she continued, placing the 
kettle on the orange ring, "my son, David's father, died 
building the transatlantic tube."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Scully said.

"Yes well, it was a long time ago," Nana answered casually, 
although her voice sounded thick.  "But what you said about 
your daughter, Emily, it touched me because of that.  And it 
got me to thinking, too, because we have a few Emilys in the 
family.  I had a great aunt named Emily, and a second 
cousin."  She pulled a few small, fragrant boxes out of a 
cabinet near the stove.  "Orange Pekoe or Earl Gray?"

"Earl Gray, please," Scully said.

"Yes well, from there I got to thinking about the rest of 
your family, all the names you've taken over the years.  And 
I know they're common names, but I realized that every one of 
them has been in my family.  My mother was named Margaret.  
Honey or cream?"

"Both please."

"We didn't have a 'Mulder' though," she frowned.  "Was that 
your husband's given name?"

Scully smiled at the term.  Husband.  They'd never been 
married in any official capacity.  Before the wars, there 
hadn't ever really been time, and afterward, there was no 
ceremony that could offer any meaning above the bonds they 
had already forged through disaster, and through survival.  
They were married in their hearts, though, and it was enough.

"His given name was Fox," she answered.

"Oh.  Well, maybe I'm wrong then.  We don't have one of those 
either."

Something tickled at the back of Scully's head.

"What are you getting at?"

The tea kettle barely began to whistle, a low, hollow 
sounding moan, and Nana picked it up and poured it over the 
loose leaves in the bottom of each mug, carrying them 
carefully to the table.

"My grandmother doted on me when I was a little girl.  She 
used to tell me all kinds of stories from when she was young.  
Stories about rebuilding the coastal cities, and all the 
adventures they had trying to get things from here to there.  
Watching the first major tubes be built.  You never hear that 
talked about anymore, have you noticed?"  She blew on the 
tea.  "She told stories about our family, too.  Stories about 
her own beautiful and sad grandma, with the coppery hair."

Scully suddenly knew where Nana was going, and for some 
reason resisted the knowledge.  She didn't know why, but she 
didn't want it to be true.

"I thought perhaps we might be related," Nana said, quietly.  
"We have all the other names, but we don't have a Fox."

Scully mentally conceded the possibility, not understanding 
the cold dismay the thought gave her.

"He hated his given name.  He never used it.  He never passed 
it on," she said tonelessly.

"Well, then, maybe it is true."  She blew on her tea, waiting 
for a reaction, but Scully seemed far away.  "David tells me 
you favor antique books," she said, in an apparent non-
sequitor.   "I have a few myself.  Nothing feels quite the 
same as paper and ink, does it?"

She left the kitchen for a few minutes.  Scully sipped her 
tea, setting it back down when Nana returned.  "This is a 
wonderful story," Nana said.  "We've been passing this book 
down from eldest daughter to eldest daughter for generations.  
Although I suppose I'll have to give it David now.  He's all 
I've got."  She flipped the book open to the endpages, just 
inside the worn hardbound back cover.  "It's not complete, 
but there are parts of a family tree penned in here.  I've 
added as much as I know, but I don't think anyone tried 
keeping records until my grandmother started."

Scully stared at the branches, tiny notations indicating 
names and birthdates, marriages and children.  "And there's 
something else, inside the front cover," Nana added quietly, 
handing the book over.

Scully flipped to the front, the title page with its bold 48 
point text leaping up at her.  Moby Dick.  And in a neat 
tight hand in the upper right hand corner of the page, the 
initials:  D.K.S.

-------------------------------------------------------------

"And I only am escaped alone to tell thee."

She laid awake long into the night considering the aptness of 
that phrase to her life.  Her father's pet name had been 
wrong, in the end.  She tossed uncomfortably on the big sofa, 
remembering him.  Remembering!  So much was flooding back to 
her.  She wondered what he would think about her strange 
reluctance to embrace her rediscovered family.  Family had 
been the most important thing once, sacrosanct.  And in spite 
of the pain of survival she had always blamed for her need to 
leave, ultimately she had left them voluntarily, by her own 
will.  She should have been stronger.  Ahab would have been 
disappointed.

Time had washed over her interminably, wearing away the rough 
edges of the loss, and then the erasing the loss of the loss, 
until her emotions were as smooth and featureless as a river 
stone.  For two lifetimes she had contented herself with 
science, and reacquainted herself with God, if only because 
he was the only companion she could conjure older than 
herself.

But over the last year it had all begun coming undone.  The 
fear and loss returning first, with the advent of her 
nightmares, the memories reemerging, haltingly, but with the 
relentlessness of the tides.  And now, the responsibility.  
She had a family.  David was her four times great grandson.  
She was of them.  

"And I alone have survived to tell thee," she murmured.  She 
desperately hoped it wasn't prophetic.  Who would be left to 
tell, if her nightmares came true? 

From the room at the end of the hall, she could hear the 
throaty braying of David coughing, a side effect of the 
changes his body was undergoing as the vaccine took effect, 
selectively reprogramming isolated sequences of his genetic 
makeup.  Only the necessity of it abated her guilt, now, as 
it had then.  In a small but real sense he would no longer be 
who he had been before.  Such techniques were a staple of 
modern medicine, which had long ago discarded any ethical 
dilemma about using them in pursuing the cure of disease, but 
the changes they wrought were so primal, so fundamental, that 
she felt the shadow of hubris in her heart when she herself 
applied them.  She was changing who he was.  And who he 
was... who he was, was Mulder's grandson.  Looking back, she 
realized she must have known on that first day when he had 
come skidding into class, late and flustered.  It was clear 
now, with the reawakened memory of her dreams and Jerry's 
gift, the resemblance.  Powerful stuff, the Mulder lineage.  
The thought made her smile, if only briefly.  She wished he 
were still alive to meet this boy.  They would have relished 
each other, challenged one another's intellect.  David would 
have made Mulder proud.  The thought eased her somewhat, 
reframed Nana and David, and who knew how many cousins by 
now, as *their* family, not just hers.  That night, she 
dreamed they sat together on a mountainside, looking over a 
broad valley town, filled with their progeny.  He kissed her 
tenderly, brushing his lips against her temple, and the image 
faded away into a deep, dreamless sleep.

-------------------------------------------------------------

It happened the first time about a month after their return.  
Scully awoke from one of her more harrowing nightmares, to 
hear an echoing scream dying away downstairs.  Since their 
return from the west, she had dropped all pretense of 
maintaining a strictly professorial relationship with the 
boy, and he had all but moved in.  She had even gone so far 
as to offer him one of the guest rooms as his own, but he 
showed a marked preference for the sofa in her study.  It was 
from there that the scream had come.  She hurried down the 
stairs in the predawn darkness, calling out breathlessly for 
the lights as she went.

He was sitting up when she arrived, holding his head in his 
hands and breathing heavily, covered with a fine sheen of 
sweat.  He started when she touched his shoulder, then 
recognizing her, fell back heavily against the sofa, his eyes 
closed.

"I'm sorry I woke you," he apologized.  "It was just a 
dream."

"Do you want to talk about it?" she asked, sympathetically.

He cracked his eyes slightly, peering at her from under the 
lids.  "I think maybe we've talked about it too much already.  
It was a lot like the dreams you've described to me.  I think 
maybe I'm not old enough for scary bedtime stories," he 
cracked.

Smiling slightly at his attempt at levity, she encouraged, 
"Tell me anyway."

So he did, and as his tale progressed, Scully's expression 
grew tighter and more guarded.

"And then, everybody that was with us started to, I don't 
know, dissolve.  There was a gas, it stung my eyes and I 
couldn't breathe.  I reached for you, but there was a man, 
he'd already gotten to you, and I couldn't move because of 
the gas.  He took your hand, and you both stood up and turned 
toward me.  You were fine, the gas didn't seem to be 
affecting you anymore, and you came over to me, and he looked 
down and said, 'You're part of this, you can stop it.  Don't 
fail her, son.'"  

Scully breathed the word with him.  Son.

"And then he reached down to me, too, and suddenly I could 
breathe again, but just as I got my breath something came 
behind you both, a thick black ooze, not even light reflected 
from it and it enveloped you and all I could do with the 
breath was scream."  He sank deeper into the sofa, spent with 
the telling of the tale.  

They sat that way, still and quiet, for long moments, while 
Scully debated with herself whether to address the most 
astonishing aspect of his dream.  At last he broke her 
reverie asking, "It means something, doesn't it?  What aren't 
you telling me?"

Since she had come to recognize the echo of Mulder in his 
hazel eyes, she had stopped being able to keep any truth from 
him.  "I don't know what it means, David, any more this dream 
than the ones before it.  But I know one thing, and that is 
that it wasn't your dream.  It was mine."  She paused, 
letting the revelation sink in.  "Image for image, event for 
event, you described the dream that woke me, just in time to 
hear your scream."

"Weird," finally, was all he said.

-------------------------------------------------------------

The research had continued apace when they had returned.  
Scully was distracted by her efforts to determine the overall 
level of immunity of the population, and spent hours each day 
mining the huge database of genetic data that existed on the 
population, gathered routinely as part of almost any medical 
procedure.  While the benefits to medical research of such 
information gathering were indisputable, to Scully, the 
practice seemed nearly as invasive as the trackers.  And yet 
she had no better recourse than to deny her own sense of 
ethics for what she believed was a greater good.  It seemed 
it had always been this way.  If she were to be denied death, 
she wished at least for a life where she no longer had to 
make these choices.

Outright immunity to the virus was indeed at an all time low, 
but there were unmistakable genetic changes in the population 
at large that could clearly be traced to modifications 
introduced by the original vaccine.  They were subtle 
changes, nothing likely to be recognized without 
foreknowledge of what had been done.  At the time, they 
hadn't expected the treatment to prove particularly 
heritable, although they had expected it to affect fetuses in 
utero at the time of the inoculation.  She was frustrated by 
the scale of the task in front of her.  There wasn't anywhere 
near the kind of time available, if her ever present sense of 
foreboding was to be trusted, to isolate family lineages, 
trace the changes, and try to understand them.  It wasn't 
even clear if the changes were meaningful, or merely a 
remnant, since they tended to be found on intergenic regions 
that weren't well studied.

She kept David focused entirely on their continuing research 
of the expanded Gray DNA, sensing instinctively, and 
reinforced by vivid dreaming, that gaining a fundamental 
understanding of their essential nature would be critical to 
withstand whatever was coming.

Tiring, for the moment, of her own investigations, she 
decided to join David at his console to check his progress.

"I'm almost done," he said, sensing her attention.

"You know, that's getting a little creepy," she commented, 
"the way you always seem to know when I'm about to check on 
you."

He shrugged.  "We've been in this lab together for a year, 
now.  I'm just getting to know your habits."  He pinched the 
bridge of his nose and stretched while she crossed the room 
to join him.

"Another headache?" she asked, concerned.  He'd been 
complaining of them steadily since the night they had shared 
her dream.  He was working too hard, they both were.  "Maybe 
you should take a break.  You haven't gone for a run in a 
long time.  It might make you feel better."

He shook his head.  "No, but thanks for offering.  Actually, 
it's usually better here.  It seems to get worse when I'm out 
in a crowd.  The noise, all the chatter, really seems to get 
to me.  It's quieter here."  Dropping the subject he turned 
back to his console.  "Look here, it's not quite complete, 
but it's very revealing."

Together, they looked over the findings.  Based on the 
strange triumvirate of major systems they had discovered the 
previous trimester, and the fact that in most cases, at least 
one of the three bore a striking resemblance to the human 
genome, David had been attempting to discover if a complete 
human-like genome could be isolated out of the expanded Gray 
DNA.   It was eighty five percent complete, and the results 
were surprising.

"Look at what I've found here," he said, bringing up a long 
section of code related to blood chemistry.  "This," he 
pointed, "looks incompatible with our blood chemistry.  
Toxic, even."  He shook his head.  "I wish I knew what this 
meant.  This genome describes something that is so nearly 
humanoid, and yet the differences are so perplexing.  I keep 
worrying that I've accidentally pulled in data from one of 
the other two apparent species."

"Well, it's possible, but I think you've been as thorough and 
careful as possible.  I think your feel for differentiating 
between the three has surpassed my own, at this point, so I 
won't second guess you."  Reaching around him, she touched 
the controls that brought up the overview of the recognizable 
biological systems he had mapped.  "Still nothing on 
reproduction?" she asked, surprised.

"Not much," he confirmed.  "What little I've found all seems 
to correlate loosely to what we'd consider male.  Mechanisms 
for donating genetic material, but nothing for gestating it."  
He shrugged.  "It could simply be that the original sample 
we're working from is some sort of male.  Or it could be that 
the female information is in the parts I haven't mapped yet.  
Or..." he drifted off, considering.  "We don't yet have an 
understanding of why this DNA describes three species, unless 
it *is* some sort of colonial, like you originally suggested.  
So maybe the gestational aspect is in one of the other two 
species."

Scully was impressed by the theoretical leaps he was willing 
to consider, the growth he had shown since that long ago 
evening when he'd flatly denied the possibility of a shape 
shifting man with a tail.  She began a compliment, the words 
forming on the tip of her tongue, when she was interrupted by 
growling complaint of her stomach.

"I don't know," David said absently, already reabsorbed in 
the console display.

"Don't know what?" Scully asked.

"Where Jerry is.  You just asked."

Scully shook her head.  Had she said that aloud?  She didn't 
think so, although she had certainly thought it.  Jerry 
usually fixed dinner when he was around.  "I'll be in the 
kitchen," she said thoughtfully.

-------------------------------------------------------------

It went from weird, to uncanny, to undeniable.  He sensed her 
thoughts.  They came painlessly now, and with clarity, and he 
did his best to learn how not to eavesdrop.  The price of 
knowing her thoughts included knowing exactly how 
uncomfortable that knowledge made her.

In public it was harder.  A large group presented a 
resounding din in his head.  Here, the headaches were 
everpresent.  Focusing down to a single voice, or filtering 
the noise from his head altogether, exhausted him.  He 
learned by necessity, now more than ever keeping up the 
appearance of normalcy at the university seemed paramount, 
but his lab sections depleted him, and Scully went back to 
handling most of the lectures.

She'd told him of her long past but rare experiences with 
human telepathy.  The child, Gibson Praise, who had been born 
with the ability and seemed to bear it with no ill-effect 
other than the melancholy of knowing hypocrisy at far too 
young an age.  Mulder's transformation, which had almost 
killed him before an un-consented to operation removed both 
the threat and the potential.  He knew she was concerned lest 
his own transformation prove life-threatening, and she 
monitored his progress closely, watching for signs of brain 
damage and trying to understand the catalyst to the changes.  
They suspected some interaction between his modern 
physiology, bearing the genetic remnants of the original 
vaccine, and his recent direct re-exposure, but had little 
time to seek proof.

Generally, Scully's house was a sufficiently quiet retreat to 
let him rest, but thoughts accompanied by strong emotion 
carried loudly, and the school's heavily attended athletic 
events always kept him awake.  Gradually, he learned that he 
could hear a familiar 'voice', even at a distance, if he 
concentrated.  

He missed Jerry's soothing presence.  Jerry's mind didn't 
intrude onto his own, and he found it relaxing to have a 
conversation in the strictly verbal sense.  He wasn't sure 
why it was so, but assumed that their different species must 
be at the heart the matter.  Perhaps it was like broadcasting 
on a frequency that David couldn't tune to.  

Jerry's absences seemed to last longer and longer, and he 
never accepted Scully's invitations to her home anymore.  The 
last time David had seen Jerry had been a week ago, when he'd 
gone back to his campus housing to collect some clean clothes 
and water his one frail but tenacious jade plant.  David was 
surprised to feel an unfamiliar buzzing in his head, and 
complained about the new voice.  Jerry hadn't reacted, other 
than to say he was going west for a few weeks, to help Nana 
with some work on the ranch.  Such visits were unremarkable, 
there was always something to be done on a ranch, except that 
this time of year was the quiet time, and it hardly seemed 
necessary.  He fretted for a while that Jerry and Scully 
harbored some discord of which he'd been kept ignorant, and 
later fretted that he'd done something himself to offend his 
friend.  Neither explanation seemed likely, though, and he 
finally convinced himself that Jerry just missed Nana, that 
was all.

As he became accustomed to his new talent, he found it had 
benefits, as well.  He'd long since come to relish his duties 
as a teaching assistant.  He connected well with his students 
in the lab, and had a flair for breaking down difficult and 
obscure concepts, presenting them in clear, manageable chunks 
that allowed most of his students the sense of accomplishment 
that comes from drawing the correct conclusion.  Now, a 
furrowed brow in the third row conveyed more than the fact 
that a student was struggling to make the connection.  A 
quick peek was all it took understand the precise source of 
the confusion, and address it.  At first he worried whether 
it was ethical to peek in their minds without their 
knowledge, but he rationalized that he was only intruding on 
thoughts whose topic was a matter of public record, as 
demonstrated by their being in the class.  And it helped 
everyone.  His students would pass their term exams well out 
in front of the average, while he honed his control at 
listening, and filtering.  And if he couldn't help but 
overhear the romantic daydreams of Amy, the slight, brown-
haired girl in the second row with the secretive smile, well, 
that was kind of his business too, since they were centered 
on him.  For the first time in close to a year, he chafed at 
his responsibilities to Dr. Charles', Scully's, research.  He 
wasn't old and he wasn't dead.  He'd ask the girl out if he 
weren't so busy.

That feeling always abated when he was absorbed in his 
research.  He had begun trying to isolate out the other two 
species from one another, and was particularly interested in 
trying to discover what reproductive interactivity there 
might be between the three.  He never did find time to ask 
Amy out, but though he felt guilty about it, when he fell 
into bed each night, spent from his hours at the console, he 
would seek out her mind, and eavesdrop on the ridiculously 
flattering fantasies of himself that she sent herself to 
sleep with.

-------------------------------------------------------------

Scully awoke from dreaming with the most profound sense of 
dread she had yet experienced.  Odd, because nothing had 
happened in the dream to speak of.  There were no grisly 
plagues, no holocausts, no teeming masses hurrying to their 
deaths.  Just Mulder, floating in a brilliant white light, 
and three words.  "It has begun."

She arrived at her office that morning to find an urgent 
message from the dean regarding one of the school's students.  

Faculty:  

Please assist local authorities as needed in determining the 
last known whereabouts of a South Eastern University student.  
She has been reported missing by her parents, with whom she 
resides locally.  According to her parents, she has failed to 
return home for two nights, without advising them of her 
whereabouts, which is a departure from her usual behavior.  
Concern for her safety has arisen, as a routine tracking 
request appears to have uncovered that the girl carries a 
malfunctioning tracker unit, placing her last known position 
in Africa, and failing to return any biodata.  Your 
cooperation is appreciated.

The message ended with an image of the girl and her vital 
statistics, and had been sent to every professor with whom 
she had a course.  

David arrived while she was checking attendance records, 
trying to recall if she had actually seen the girl at her 
last lecture.  "Do you know Amy Richardson?" she asked.

"Not really," he answered, too quickly.  "I mean, yeah, she's 
in the Wednesday lab, but, uh, y'know," he fidgeted, "I don't 
really *know her* know her, she's just a student."

Scully gazed up at him, her lips lightly pursed, puzzled by 
his stammering performance.  "I never said she wasn't.  Can 
you remember the last time you had contact with her?" she 
asked.

"Contact?" he repeated, "How do you mean?"

She cocked her head at the non-sequitur response.   "Did she 
attend your last lab?  Come for extra help to office hours?" 
she gave as examples, eyebrows raised.  "How else would I 
mean?"  Misreading his blush, she jumped to the obvious 
conclusion, and sat back with an indulgent smile.  "Have you 
been seeing her, David?  How ever did you find the time?"

"No!" he exclaimed.  Then, more calmly,  "No, I mean, I'd 
like to, but I've been too busy."

A crush, then, maybe, Scully thought.  Except that he was 
behaving awfully adolescently about it.

"Why are you asking about her?  She hasn't complained, or 
something, has she?"  

"No, she's missing.  What would she have to complain about, 
David?"

He grimaced, realizing his tactical error.  The question had 
been too revealing.  As nonchalantly as possible, he seated 
himself before answering, "Nothing that I can think of.  How 
long has she been gone?"

"Two days."  She paused, wondering if he would volunteer any 
information, but he simply nodded, schooling his expression 
to one of superficial concern.  She pressed him.  "David, 
you're acting bizarre.  What do you know about this girl?"

"Nothing!  Really.  I don't know where she is.  Why aren't 
they just tracking her?"

"Because her tracker reports her in Africa, David.  It's 
malfunctioning.  She could be in real danger, and her family 
is worried."  She watched his expression while the news sunk 
in.  He furrowed his brows, and stared intently at his hands.  
He'd asked if she had made a complaint.  Perhaps he'd made an 
advance and was rebuked?  She tried another tack.  "David, I 
sense you're embarrassed about something having to do with 
this girl.  I'm not going to pry if it's a personal matter, 
but if there's anything you can do to aid in her location, 
you need to set that aside."

"I might be able to help," he conceded, still looking at his 
hands.

"You know where she might have gone?"  Scully asked.

"No."  He took a breath.  "But, I might be able to hear her.  
I, uh, have some particular experience focusing on her 
'voice'."  His eyes flicked to hers and away again.  Scully 
got the picture.  "She likes you?" she asked.

"You said you weren't going to pry," he confirmed.

She sighed.  It was unconscionably invasive behavior, but 
there were more serious matters at hand.  "David, you're 
fully grown and you don't need me to tell you what's right in 
this matter."  But she did, anyway.  "It's not the subject 
matter that's at issue, it's the willful violation.  You know 
it's wrong to listen in on her private thoughts.  If you like 
her, you should talk to her when she gets back, and if you 
get to know each other well enough to let her understand what 
you do, you can ask her permission.  Otherwise, this needs to 
be the last time you do this.  I won't mention it again, but 
I don't think your conscience will let you off as easily."  
He nodded, abashed.

"Alright, then.  Is it quiet enough here, or should we go 
back to the house?"

"No, it's ok.  I can do it here."  He closed his eyes, and 
worked first on filtering out the disapproval he could still 
feel radiating from Scully.  It was becoming second nature to 
ignore the background noise of the campus, but he filtered 
that as well, working on clearing his mind to a perfect 
silence.  Then, slowly, methodically, he began to search for 
one voice among the static of the world.  He couldn't have 
explained exactly how he did it, how he could find one voice 
he was looking for, but he knew what he had to do.

It seemed to take a very long time, with David sitting 
silently, a look of deep concentration on his face.  The 
office door opened on the heels of a quick, soft knock, and 
Jerry let himself in.  "Dr. Charles, I'm loo..." She shushed 
him quickly, and waved him inside, motioning toward David's 
still form with her head.  He padded softly to table by the 
window, and seated himself in the chair there.

"She's really far away," David finally spoke.  "And she's...  
afraid."  He pressed his lips together, and squeezed his eyes 
more tightly shut.  "I don't know where she is because she 
doesn't know where she is.  She doesn't remember how she got 
there."  He cocked his head to the side as if listening.  
"Oh.  Oh, she's *terrified*."  His breathing quickened as he 
focused down on the girl's thoughts, trying to understand 
what was happening through the muddling veil of her fear.  
"She hears someone coming, now, coming into the room where 
she is."  He felt his heartbeat quicken in sympathy with the 
girl as he concentrated on what she saw, hoping a visual clue 
would give away her location.  "The door is opening and 
they're coming in."  He gasped.  "They're -- AAAAAHH!" David 
flung himself violently forward from the chair, shocking 
Scully from her rapt attention to his performance.  He fell 
to the floor, pulling his knees up to his chest and grasping 
his head.  "Stop, stop, stop!!" he screamed.  "They're so 
loud!  They're in her head and they're so LOUD!"

Scully launched herself from behind the desk and came to her 
knees on the floor beside David.  Grabbing his face in both 
hands she struggled to make him focus.  "David!  David, let 
go!  Filter her out, David, close your mind!  You know how to 
do this, David, focus!"

"Can't," he wailed, "can't.  'Snot her anymore, I hear them 
all and they're so LOUD!"  He wrenched himself out of her 
grip, rolling to his knees, his face to the floor like a 
Muslim in prayer, hands still clasped at his ears.  "Stop, 
stop, stop," he chanted, howling.  Tears squeezed from 
between his clenched lids, and the howl changed to a whimper.  
"Stop, please, stop."  Scully saw with alarm the gush of 
blood from David's nose, just before he collapsed into 
unconsciousness.  Strong arms lifted him from the floor -- 
she had forgotten Jerry's presence in the drama of the 
moment.  Now she addressed him in an authoritative voice.  
"We have to get him to a hospital."

"No," Jerry stated, already halfway out the door.

"No?!" Scully repeated, incredulous.  She half ran to keep up 
with his fast, long strides.  "He's having some sort of 
seizure!  There could be serious brain damage!  We need a 
hospital immediately!"  Jerry's pace increased, and now she 
was actually forced to jog beside him.  "Where are you taking 
him?" she demanded.  "He needs care!  Are you going to just 
let him die?  I thought you were his friend!"

Jerry stopped abruptly, and turned to face her.  "A hospital 
can't help him.  I can.  But not here.  There's no time for 
this."  He resumed his pace, still talking.  "He's safe 
enough while he remains unconscious.  Come with us.  Your 
presence can only help him recover.  But don't stand in my 
way."

Her decision was instant, and inevitable.  "Where?" she 
asked, jogging alongside.

-------------------------------------------------------------

She had found the journey torturous, sick with worry as she 
was for David's condition.  Jerry had simply pushed onward 
with the quiet focus and determination that was his way.  The 
tubes were the fastest way to get anywhere, and they'd 
garnered a few strange looks when Jerry hauled his friend 
aboard, slung over his shoulder.  He managed an affable grin 
at a staring passenger, mumbled something about a party, and 
propped David up in a seat.  The rest of the passengers on 
the sparsely filled mid-morning tube gradually went back to 
their own business.  

They had taken a northeast line that dead-ended in the 
Appalachian mountains in just under an hour, and Scully was 
surprised to find that Jerry had an overland transport 
waiting there.  They drove another hour through the mountains 
into a river valley, and from there Jerry carried David 
toward a conical hill.  It seemed strangely out of place, the 
diameter stretching at least 150 feet, and the summit rising 
perhaps 35 feet, on an otherwise level valley floor.  When he 
led the way to a concealed opening in the side of the hill, 
Scully realized the mound was artificial, and ancient.  They 
crept inside, to a cramped vault in the interior, and there 
he lay David on the floor, lighting two solar torches out of 
a bag of supplies he had brought with him from the transport.

"Where are we?"  Scully asked.

"Your people once recognized the places of power on your 
planet.  They didn't understand their significance, but to 
them they were sacred places.  Such people built this place, 
to take advantage of the power.  There is a special peace, 
here, and recognizing it, they laid their dead to rest in 
this spot."  

Scully shook her head, exasperated.  "That doesn't tell me 
anything."

"It tells you the only thing that is meaningful.  What name 
do you want?  The name before the war?  I don't know it.  
What difference would it make?"

He turned back toward David.

"I have the ability to heal, if I'm free to concentrate.  You 
must be quiet now."  He laid his hands over David's face, his 
face relaxing into an expression of profound meditation.  
Scully crawled to David's opposite side, and sitting beside 
him, comforted herself by holding his hand, fingers wrapped 
loosely around the strong pulse in his wrist.

-------------------------------------------------------------

"Thirsty."

David's raspy voice startled Scully from her light doze.  

"David?" she asked, hopeful.

"Thirsty," he repeated.  Jerry handed a bottle of water to 
her out of a pack that he had brought in from the transport.  
She held David's head up and tipped the bottle to his lips, 
watching with satisfaction as he drank a deep draught.  
Thirst slackened, he sagged back onto the ground.

"Quiet here," he said, his voice looser for the water.

"We're under about 50,000 tons of dirt, David," she said, 
gesturing to the roof of the vault.  "In the hill," she 
explained.

He shook his head at her explanation.  "No.  Quiet *here*," 
he emphasized, pointing to his temple.

She looked at Jerry.  "The 'special peace' of this place?" 

He nodded.  "Voices don't carry, here, into the mind.  He can 
hear us, but no one outside.  He will need the silence to 
heal."

"Jerry, what happened to me?" David asked.

"You heard the Grays.  You weren't prepared.  Their telepathy 
is very strong."

"Why haven't I heard them before?"

"At first your skill was not sufficient, and they were too 
far away.  But now that you know the sound you will always 
know it.  They will not go back to being silent for you."

"I don't think I can stand to hear them again," he moaned, 
his voice hitching slightly with the vivid memory of recent 
pain.

"I'll teach you to control it," Jerry assured him.

"How can you do that?" David responded, dismissively.  "You 
don't know what it's like, having all these voices in your 
head all the time."

"Of course I do, David," Jerry insisted.

"Then why don't I ever hear you?  I hear everyone else..."  
He stopped, the obvious conclusion coming only slowly to his 
muddled thoughts.  "Somehow, you block me?"  He asked.

"I have, until now.  You're getting much stronger, though.  
You were beginning to sense me.  I left because I was afraid 
you might break through when I wasn't controlling myself.  I 
was afraid I might harm you.  Listen to me now, David."

David pulled himself up to a seated position, leaning his 
back against the rough, cool wall of the chamber.  He gazed 
steadily at his friend, unsure what to make of the fact that 
he'd hidden himself and his thoughts, and that he was 
offering them now.

Jerry unshielded the uppermost layer of his consciousness to 
his friend, thoughts of confidence and reassurance uppermost 
in his mind.  The tickle of a voice in his head was familiar, 
but David's touch felt different than any he had experienced 
before.  It was to be expected, he supposed.  David was 
another species.  He had never communed with a human in this 
way before.  David's face registered the unfamiliarity of 
Jerry's touch.  He was used to being only an eavesdropper, 
suddenly it was a two way communication, both parties 
observably aware of the connection of the other.  After a 
moment, he grinned.

It wasn't exactly like a conversation.  There weren't words, 
and turns to take.  David wondered if the Smiths were all 
telepathic, and then suddenly the answer was in his head, as 
though he'd always known it.  He knew all at once the 
experience of the Smiths, that they could not hear a Gray 
that did not want to be heard, nor ignore one who did.  That 
they could rarely hear humans because they were so faint, but 
felt a comfort and a kinship in the web of their own voices, 
always available with the reaching out of a thought.   And 
then Jerry closed himself off, slowly, so that David felt the 
experience as is he were doing it himself.  He emulated the 
sensation, awkwardly attempting the new skill.

"Good," Jerry said aloud.  "You're much fainter now."

David had been leaning forward in concentration, now he 
sagged back against the wall.  "That was tiring," he said, 
surprised.  "Usually voices just pour into my head, and the 
only work is just in ignoring them."

"There are many facets to this ability you have yet to 
explore.  You've learned a fair amount through your own 
efforts about filtering voices you do not want to hear, and 
seeking those you do, but those skills need refinement.  And 
there is more to learn, about broadcasting what you want 
known, and shielding what you don't.  It is instinctual for 
the Grays, as it is for my people.  These lessons in 
improving control are what would be taught to the young."

"Hmm..." David nodded, his eyes slipping shut.

Jerry touched him once more, focusing David on his fatigue, 
encouraging him to surrender to the pull of drowsiness.  
David yawned hugely, once, and lay back down.

To Scully, the events had been surreal.  David had awoken, 
thirsty and agitated, and after a moment's conversation he 
and Jerry had sat motionless for nearly 30 minutes, staring 
at one another, with only the occasional facial twitch for 
her to interpret.  A few more words, and David was once again 
snoring softly.  She felt superfluous, and strangely 
vulnerable. 

"You should go back," Jerry said.

"What, now?" Scully asked, incredulous.

"In the morning," Jerry said, shrugging slightly.  "Your 
absence will be noticed."

"What about David?" she asked.

"He will stay with me."

"No."

"You can't take him out of here yet.  He is weak."

"I'm not leaving without him."

Jerry turned on her, snapping with the closest thing she had 
ever seen to anger.  "What does it take for you to trust?" he 
demanded.

Her own anger flared.  "The truth.  Everything you know that 
you're holding back."

"The truth is that he is your last, best, hope.  As he is 
ours.  And your absence threatens him."

"Why?  Why does my absence threaten him?  Who is watching me?  
No one knows who am I, beside you.  Are you sure it's not you 
that I threaten?" she hissed.  "What aren't you telling me?"

"It is not who you are, but what you do that is watched.  
There are those that are eager for you to finish your 
research.  If you vanish again they may look for you this 
time, and if you are here they will find David.  And in his 
case, it is not what he does, but what he is, that matters."  
He looked over at the sleeping form.  "Trust must come before 
truth.  The truth is useless if you lack the trust to believe 
it."

"What does my research have to do with this?  Who's watching 
it?  For what purpose?" she demanded.

"You already have your own suspicions," Jerry replied.  "They 
are what you will believe, regardless of what I tell you."

"The Grays are watching, aren't they?  But why?  What do they 
want?"

"They want what they wanted before," he answered cryptically.

She thought back, peeling through layers of reconstituted 
memories, to the days of the resistance.  "They still want a 
hybrid?  But why?"  And then, the swift connection between 
her abbreviated nightmare and the faculty memo.  "That girl.  
Her tracker placed her in Africa.  They abducted her, didn't 
they?"  Finally, the awful realization.  "Oh my God.  They're 
using my research to mutilate her, aren't they?"  She jumped 
up, moving as quickly as she could under the low ceiling of 
the chamber toward the tunnel that led outside.  "I have to 
get back.  I have to destroy it."

"It's too late for that," Jerry rejected, reaching her easily 
with an outstretched arm.  He pulled gently.  "Your research 
data has already been archived, you know that.  No matter how 
deeply you purge the system, you will not succeed in 
reclaiming the information from them.  That's not the 
answer."

She allowed him to lead her back to the bright circle of the 
lanterns, sinking slowly back to the floor.  "My God," she 
repeated, "that's what they wanted all along, isn't it?  I've 
felt for years that we've been subtly manipulated, some 
sciences reinforced while others were encouraged to atrophy.  
But," she stopped confused.  "I'm working from their own 
information.  I got their genome from their own archives.  If 
they want a hybrid, why haven't they just..." she trailed 
off.

"It all becomes clear suddenly, doesn't it?" Jerry asked, 
sadly.

"Because they can't for some reason, can they?" Scully asked.  
"They don't know how.  All those years ago, those men were 
convinced they were buying time, and saving their families, 
when really they'd been manipulated into offering exactly the 
thing the Grays most wanted.  All that technology, but--"

"But ancient.  Failures are extraordinarily rare.  Their 
technology maintains itself.  They're inarguably adept at 
utilizing it, but they've had no need to innovate in 
millenia."

"They're technicians, then, not scientists.  But now they're 
learning again, aren't they?  By watching us?  I've always 
wondered what they got out of the reconstruction.  You only 
herd animals that you can exploit," she concluded bitterly.

"They are learning, but in this you are still their master.  
Your vaccine came as a surprise to them, 200 years ago.  It 
was a surprise to all of us."

"All of you?" she asked.

In response, his face gradually morphed, his features 
becoming indistinct then solidifying, absent the 
distinguishing elements of eyes, ears, nose, mouth.  

Her breath sucked in with a harsh gasp.

Just as gradually, he returned to himself.

"It's a difficult posture to maintain, voluntarily," he 
explained, "although it can be made a permanent condition.  
And ultimately, a fatal one."

"The faceless rebels," she asked, "the ones responsible for 
the burnings, before the wars, they were you?"

He nodded.  "They were martyrs.  As were your victims.  We 
regretted the loss.  It was necessary to destroy the 
hybridization program, to prevent the initiation of 
colonization."

She was surprised by her reaction to the admission.  She had 
expected a resurgence of the horror that sight had once 
brought, expected to feel anger when finally presented with a 
face to blame.  Instead, she felt resignation, acceptance.  
Her own efforts during the resistance had caused as many 
deaths.  

"It didn't prevent it, though.  It only postponed it."

"It gave you the opportunity to prepare."

"To spread the vaccine," she realized.  "But wait, you said 
our vaccine was a surprise, to all of you."  Her precise mind 
processed the inconsistency.  "You couldn't have been buying 
us time to do something you had no awareness of.  If the 
hybridization program was destroyed, then why was the virus 
released, in the end?"

Jerry refused to meet her eyes, gazing at his feet with 
something remarkably like shame.

"Because you still had a hybrid," was her whispered 
conclusion.  "Cassandra didn't die that day, did she?  You 
took her.  And they found out."  Where her anger had been 
absent before, it flared now.  "Why?  Why didn't you destroy 
her?  Why martyr your people and ours, and then save the one 
life whose end would have prevented it all?"

"Do you know *why* we underwent such mutilations?" he 
demanded, with the indignity of the unjustly accused.

"To prevent infection by the black oil," she stated flatly.

"To prevent *re*-infection by the black oil," he corrected, 
leaning forward into her space, staring intently into her 
eyes.

She stared back at him, defiant, and then she saw it.  A thin 
black film coursing across the surface of his eyes.  She 
gasped, retreating backward, crablike, across the floor, as 
quickly as possible out of his reach.  As she watched, the 
film once again vanished.

"The black oil is part of us.  We can't live without it.  And 
yet it enslaves us.  It is their will, and when they call 
upon it, it is agony to resist, and ecstasy to comply.  When 
we are close to death, the oil leaves us at last.  Our 
martyrs were brought to the edge, their faces sealed when the 
oil escaped, and revived -- to live a short and painful life.  
You can't know what it's like, to live always with the 
possibility that your will may one day no longer be your own, 
the only assurance of your true independence carrying with it 
an implicit death sentence."

Scully's hand crept to the back of her neck, where a scar 
still covered the spot where the chip had once been that had 
staved off her cancer, but had also drawn her to one of the 
burnings.  "I think maybe I understand," she conceded, but 
she didn't move any closer.  The chip was long gone.  At one 
time her loneliness had convinced her that even a slow and 
agonizing death by cancer was preferable to her interminable 
life, and she had removed it.  There had been no effect.

"Humans live without the oil," he continued.   "And when they 
control you through the oil, it never stays in you for long.  
We always believed it was because it can't.  That somehow 
you're toxic to them.  They wanted a hybrid, to make you more 
like us, able to be enslaved.  We wanted a hybrid so that we 
could learn the opposite lesson.  To become more like you.  
Free.  That's why we kept Cassandra."  He dropped his voice.  
"When they discovered we had her, they launched a war against 
us to recover her, and released the virus.  We destroyed her, 
in the end, when it became clear it was the only way to halt 
both offensives.  We destroyed their plans, forcing them to 
start from scratch.  We destroyed our own as well."

"And now it's all beginning again," Scully said.  She had far 
too many lifetimes of fatigue for this battle.

"Your salvation came from the same source as your 
destruction, last time.  It will again," he said with 
assurance.  

"The Gray's genome," Scully said.

Jerry nodded.  "Whatever they have learned from you, you are 
still the more adept at science, at insight.  You mustn't 
stop now.  It is a race."

David sighed in his sleep, and rolled toward the wall, 
presenting them with his back.

"What about him?" Scully asked.  "Where does he fit in?"

"His telepathy is unlike any others," Jerry explained.  "He 
hears, without being heard."

"I don't understand," Scully complained.  "What does that 
mean?"

Jerry shifted, trying to conjure a way to explain.  How do 
you explain color to someone without sight?

"Our telepathy is such that you can't really listen to 
another without the other being aware of it, on some level.  
Even when we're not actively listening, we're aware of the 
web of minds touching ours.  We can't," he searched for the 
word, "we can't eavesdrop.  David can.  And he hears with 
great strength and at great distance.  To use a metaphor, in 
a world of radios, he is Arecibo."

"Is it dangerous for him?" she asked.  "Mulder almost died 
from something like this."

"Mulder also stood to develop an astonishing telepathy.  He 
could have been taught to control it, if he'd been brought 
someplace like this, in time.  It was out of the question, 
though.  The times were treacherous, and too many were aware 
of him.  We couldn't go to him.  David, though, has not been 
noticed.  I can stay here safely, and teach him.  When the 
time is right, he will hear them, and know what to do."

"What about the oil in you?  Will it infect him?"

"I am vanished to my masters while we are in the mound.  They 
cannot hear or control me if I stay inside.  He is safe.  
Besides, you vaccinated him yourself, didn't you?"

She nodded, no longer surprised by anything Jerry might have 
guessed.

"I can never leave this place again," Jerry added.  "You will 
be in each other's hands exclusively once he leaves here."

"Why can't you leave?"

"Those of us who have been allowed some freedom to live among 
you, as we wish, do so at a cost of keeping our enslavement a 
secret.  I have forfeit my freedom by telling you these 
truths.  If I were to leave, my knowledge of my transgression 
would endanger you, and my knowledge of David's condition 
would endanger him."  He smiled sadly.  "I still prefer a 
prison of my own making."

"If your knowledge is a danger to David, isn't mine as well?  
You said the Grays are watching me, watching my research.  
Are they listening to me, too?"

"They may be."

"Then I can't go back either."

"You can't stay here.  If they want to find you eventually 
they will.  Even without a tracker."

"Then we have a problem, don't we."

"There is another solution," Jerry offered.

"What?"

"Have I told you enough now, to earn your trust?" he asked.

She didn't answer immediately.  Jerry had been surprisingly 
insightful when he said that trust necessarily had to come 
before truth.  He'd told her an enormous amount, filled in 
gaps in her understanding of the wars, and the Grays' 
subsequent behavior that had bothered her for years.  And 
yet, he offered no proof beyond his word.  She and Mulder had 
been in this situation too many times to count.  They had 
both made mistakes about when to trust a source and believe 
his information.  Such mistakes had often cost them dearly.  
So the question wasn't really whether Jerry had told her 
enough to earn her trust, but whether he had earned her trust 
enough for her to believe him.  Melissa would have told her 
to listen to her gut.  She considered his gift to her, that 
night at David's grandmother's house.  She considered his 
self-elected exile, if it were to be believed.  She recalled 
their interactions over the previous year, the games of 
baseball in the backyard, the quiet way he had watched out 
for herself and David.  Everything he had done, every 
advantage he hadn't taken could be construed as a 
manipulation, calculated to earn an undeserved trust.  Or she 
could reject the paranoia and take his actions at face value.  
'Missy,' she thought, 'what would you do?'

The silence stretched on.  At last, just as Jerry's face 
began to fall in defeat she whispered, "Yes."

"Then trust me now," he pleaded.  "In the morning, before you 
leave, I'll take these memories away from you.  I can make 
you forget, about what I told you, about the full nature of 
David's skill.  I'll give you different memories of tonight 
instead.  Safe ones.  You'll be no threat to him then, or to 
yourself."

She felt a thrill of dread at allowing such an intrusion.  
"How can I be any use to him, either, without the things 
you've told me tonight?"

"The Grays' part in the girl's disappearance you realized 
yourself.  You will again, because your experience can lead 
you to no other conclusion.  The rest of it, David will know 
himself.  But he'll have the capacity to shield his thoughts, 
I'll teach him.  He'll learn what you need to do, and he'll 
be the one to guide you."

She considered her options, concluded that she had none.

"Ok.  But before you make me forget, I want to hear you tell 
David what you told me.  And I want him to watch while you do 
this, to know what you're doing.  Then I'll go back."

Jerry nodded, accepting the conditions.

They waited out the night together, but only David slept.

-------------------------------------------------------------

The lighting in the tube station was a harsh white that made 
everyone look pale.  

As she watched the washed out reflections of travelers in the 
polished steel of a support post, Scully mused to herself how 
long it had been since she'd taken herself to wait for 
someone, anyone, coming home from a journey.  But David had 
been gone three weeks now, and she was anxious to see him 
again.

It had been a frustrating time.  There was so much work to be 
done, and suddenly she found herself not only without David's 
input on the research, but without his help on the classes.  
Her own time in the lab had been severely curtailed in his 
absence, and he'd been gone so long that the midterm break of 
the third trimester was almost upon them.

Well, it's not as if it could have been helped, she thought, 
resigned.  When David's attempt to locate the missing girl 
suggested she'd gone camping in the Appalachians and gotten 
herself lost, the logical course of action had been to go 
look for her.  None of them had anticipated the urgent 
message David had gotten from his grandmother on his pad just 
before nightfall.  After the day's searching, they'd planned 
on taking shelter in a small, abandoned mountain town, but 
David had been so agitated about the crisis at the ranch that 
she'd given him her solar torch and assured him she'd be able 
to hike out alone in the morning.

The girl had reappeared a few days later, dirty, and sporting 
a variety of abrasions and contusions.  She had no clear 
memory of the time she'd been missing, but her doctors had 
attributed that to the concussion and were unconcerned.  In 
class, the girl had smiled shyly from under wispy brown bangs 
at classmates who fussed and clucked over her adventure, 
warming gradually to the unusual attention.  Scully had 
followed suit, inviting Amy to her office, ostensibly to help 
her catch up on missed work, but prying consistently and 
gently into her memories of the abduction.

For that's what it had been, Scully was certain.  It fit the 
pattern she had learned 200 years earlier, as well as the 
premonition of her most recent dream.  Mulder's terse 
warning, "It has begun."  It amazed her that she hadn't 
correlated the African tracking data with the Grays 
immediately.

She and David had shared a few brief correspondences over the 
nets in his absence, but she'd been unwilling to expose her 
suspicions where they might be observed.  So she'd had to 
wait for his return.

A faint vibration in the station floor alerted her to the 
tube's imminent arrival.  Minutes later, she heard the hiss 
of pressurization in the enormous lock, and then the great 
doors slid open and the train of cars glided smoothly into 
view.  She waited for the spill of people pouring out the six 
equidistant doors to thin, and stood when she spied David's 
loping stride crossing the platform toward her.  He smiled 
broadly when he saw her, and surprised her by stooping to 
engulf her in an unabashed hug.

'This is nice,' she thought to herself, aware for a moment of 
the ongoing thawing of her heart.

"Missed you, Grams," he whispered in her ear.

She pinched his ribs to make him let go, and rolled her eyes.

"Ugh. Don't call me that," she admonished him.

"Can't call you Nana," he grinned.  "Hmm.  Bubbe, maybe?"

"Dr. Charles will do in public," she exhorted him, but she 
was smiling faintly at his playful mood.  "What's gotten into 
you?"

"Just glad to see you," he shrugged.  "Come on," he jerked 
his head toward the stairwell, "let's get going."

As they walked, Scully filled him in on her suspicions about 
Amy.

"So, she really was in Africa." David commented.

"That's what I suspect," Scully replied.  "I'm not sure what 
made you think she was in the Appalachians."

David ducked his head.  "I guess I was off a bit.  I'm not 
really very adept except with people I'm especially close 
to," he inveigled.

"How's it been?" she pressed.  "Any more headaches?"

"No.  Actually, I seem to be hearing a lot less than three 
weeks ago."

"The ability is fading?" she asked.

He merely nodded.  Jerry had carefully muted Scully's 
perception of David's skill while David watched and listened.  
He understood the importance of maintaining that perception, 
but already he found lying to her difficult.  He hoped it 
wouldn't be necessary for long.  

"I wish I could get a current blood sample from Amy," Scully 
remarked, returning to her train of thought.  "I need to know 
what they did to her, what they're trying to accomplish."

David hummed against his teeth for a second.  "I might be 
able to help with that, if you can spare me for an evening."

"You just got back," Scully complained.

"I think I could persuade her if I could spend some time with 
her.  I'll tell her it's for an independent research project 
I'm working on.  It's not entirely untrue.  And anyway," he 
nudged her gently with an elbow, "I haven't been on a date 
since I started working with you.  People are talking," he 
joked.

Scully wondered at the change in David, this new quietly 
confident and lighthearted face he was showing her.  

Despite his relaxed demeanor, inwardly David's mind was 
occupied with the next step of his immediate project.  He had 
to bring Scully back to the level of understanding she'd had 
that night in the mound, without, for the moment, confessing 
his ability to hear the Grays.  Amy's disappearance had 
something to do with hybridization, she had said, and of the 
two of them, Scully was the one experienced with the 
implications of that.  Jerry's telepathic tutelage had been 
thorough, and David was able to open his mind lightly now, 
and seek out a Gray voice to listen to.  But it wasn't like 
the entire race spent all day every day thinking about their 
plans for humanity any more than he spent his entire day 
thinking about his big left toe.  It could very well be some 
time before he pieced together anything that made sense, and 
in the meantime, they needed Scully's experience focused in 
the right direction.

The walk had carried them more than halfway home, and the 
bright afternoon sun was beginning to angle toward the 
horizon.  David prodded her gently.  "Even without a blood 
sample," he began, "you must have a guess about what happened 
to Amy.  Based on what happened before, I mean.  What did 
they do to people they abducted?"

"Different things, to different people," she replied.  
"Medical tests.  Harvesting ova.  People rarely remembered 
anything specific besides the pain, and even if they did, few 
would have had a sophisticated enough scientific background 
to even begin to guess the purpose of it all."

"But there was a purpose ultimately, wasn't there?"

Scully thought back, remembering the days before the 
resistance.  "At least some of the research was toward trying 
to create a hybrid.  I told you about that, that night at 
your grandmother's house, didn't I?  How is she, by the way?"

"She's fine," he answered absently, steering the conversation 
back on course.  "What was the point of a hybrid?"

"It was a deal with the devil.  The syndicate bargained with 
the Grays to postpone colonization until they could produce a 
hybrid.  They offered themselves, their families, as hybrid 
slaves to the colonists in return for survival.  It was a 
nasty business."

"Do you think that's what they were doing with Amy?"

Scully pursed her lips, and squinted.  After a few steps she 
answered.  "I don't see why.  They didn't get their hybrid 
200 years ago, and they started a war anyway.  They've got 
their colony and half the planet.  It can't have been all 
that important to them."

David sighed, frustrated by the different conclusions Scully 
was drawn toward, lacking the key bits of information that he 
couldn't tell her.  He kept trying.

"But what if that is what they're trying to do?  Would it 
mean anything?  Would you be able to tell?"

"Ok, for the sake of argument, suppose they were trying to 
hybridize Amy.  Why now, after all this time?  And why was 
she returned?  Why isn't she still in Africa, bleeding 
green?"

David shrugged as casually as he was able, but he was tense 
with excitement.  She was getting close.  "I don't know," he 
said, "maybe she didn't work out."

"David, with all their technology, if they wanted to 
hybridize Amy don't you think they'd just..." she trailed 
off.

"What?" he prompted.

"Unless they couldn't, for some reason.  Unless their science 
wasn't..."  Suddenly, she shivered violently.

"Are you ok?"  David asked, concerned.

Scully rubbed her arms, nodding reassuringly.  "I just had 
the strangest sense of deja vu," she said.

"What were you going to say?" David pressed.  "About their 
science?"

Scully continued, excited now by her theory.  "What if they 
didn't -- don't -- have the science?  If what they wanted all 
along was a hybrid, then that would mean that they 
manipulated those men into offering them exactly what they 
wanted.  That would explain why they were willing to wait.  
That never made sense to me before, but it would fit, 
wouldn't it?"

David drove toward the final realization.  "But if their 
science is so lacking, then what were they doing with Amy?"

Scully deflated visibly, and David mentally berated himself 
for the phrasing.  He hadn't meant to make her doubt her 
previous perception.  He tried again.  "Well, maybe they've 
been studying," he offered.

She smiled at him, thinking he was joking, but her face grew 
suddenly serious.  "That's it, David.  That's why biology is 
the most pursued science on the planet, they've been 
influencing us in that direction so that they could learn 
from us."

They had reached the old house, and were starting up the 
steps to the front porch.  She stopped, with her hand on the 
doorknob.  Her expression darkened from serious to graven.  
"Oh, my God.  What if it's our research, David?  What if they 
took that girl because of us?"

"Then we'd better figure out what it all means before they 
do," he asserted, "because it's too late to take it back."

She nodded, stepping inside, but she put her hand on David's 
chest, stopping him from following her.  "You've got the 
night off, David.  Go get me that blood sample."

-------------------------------------------------------------

In spite of a twinge of guilt over the false pretenses of the 
date, by the end of the evening David found himself having a 
good time.  Amy was bright, which he had known, and possessed 
a biting wit, which he hadn't.  She was painfully shy in 
large groups like her classes, hiding her sense of humor 
along with the rest of her personality in a bid to avoid too 
much notice.  David found he enjoyed drawing her out, found 
some of her pointed barbs against a few of her more conceited 
classmates hilariously fitting.  At the end of the night he 
kissed her, because he knew she wanted him to, but declined 
her invitation to come inside, because he was afraid he would 
disappoint her.

Scully was napping in the study when he returned, but she had 
already hacked the data from Amy's most recent medical 
appointment prior to her abduction, so David left her there, 
and retreated to the lab.  He wouldn't need her for the 
initial work.  It was simple, something any second sequence 
medical student could do.  Compare two blood samples looking 
for the telltale traces that would pinpoint interference with 
the genetic structure, and then study the changes.  It was 
the sort of thing that was standard procedure for checking on 
the progress of any course of genetic treatment.  The trick 
would be in reverse engineering the intent of the changes.  
He would wake Scully for that, when he was ready.

Of course, this all presumed that whatever had been done to 
her was genetically based.  If it weren't, they'd have to 
talk her into allowing a physical exam, somehow, without 
frightening her.  He grinned foolishly to himself for a 
moment, considering the possibility that he'd passed up one 
opportunity to give her a physical already tonight.  He shook 
his head at the adolescent way the thought had presented 
itself.  Something about her made him feel fourteen and 
giddy.  He looked forward to seeing her again, for a real 
date, without any subterfuge.  Almost without realizing it, 
he reached out lightly with his mind, just for the comfort of 
checking on her sleep.  Had it not been for Jerry's training, 
what he found might have left him weeping in pain.  Instead, 
it left him weeping in remorse.  They had her again.

He spied on them all that night, sensing the way they 
immobilized her telepathically.  Shielding himself from her 
terror, and concentrating on the procedures he saw through 
the eyes of the Grays attending her.  Dancing delicately 
around their thoughts and straining to perceive their goals 
through the confusion of their alien thought forms.  And as 
it became gradually clearer, his faith shattered off him in 
shards and sheets, like the icy face of a glacier.  For he 
felt nothing of compassion from them, felt even less regard 
from them for Amy than he himself had for Scully's little 
white mice.  By dawn he knew what they were trying to do.  
What he still didn't know, was why.

-------------------------------------------------------------

Scully woke early, stiff from having dozed the night on the 
couch.  She'd only meant to nap until David came home, but 
now the soft pink light of early morning cut across the 
study, casting long shadows across the floor and desk.  

She stretched slowly, rising out of the sofa and shuffling 
toward the doorway.  She was surprised that David hadn't come 
to her yet, and wondered briefly if he had spent the night 
with Amy.  Scully realized that she liked the girl, and 
thought she might be a good match for David, but she and 
Mulder both had experienced the anguish of loving an 
abductee, never knowing for certain when they'd be taken, and 
she couldn't wish that for David.  

Lost in thought and early morning lethargy, she didn't see 
David sitting in the shadows by the cages in the lab until he 
moved.

"Oh!" she exclaimed, clutching her chest.  "David, you 
startled me."

"Sorry," he whispered.  He didn't look up at her, focusing 
steadily on something in his hands.  Finally, he held the 
little creature up to his face, considering it nose to nose, 
before rising and setting it terribly gently back down in its 
tiny home.  "Have you ever thought of setting them free?" he 
asked.

"The mice?" Scully responded, puzzled.  "They wouldn't 
survive, David.  They're bred for the lab."

"That's wrong, you know?" he said, his back still toward her, 
fixing the lid of the cage.  "Breeding life for captivity, I 
mean.  Making it dependent."  Finished with the clasps, he 
turned around.  "And anyway, they might.  They might adapt."

Scully was shocked by the deep circles revealed under David's 
eyes as he turned to face her.  He seemed to have aged since 
he left her last night.  "David, how long have you been 
here?" she asked.

"All night," he answered.  

The flat affect of his tone worried her further.  She crossed 
to him, leading him gently into the light, and to a seat.  
"David, what's happened?" she asked quietly.

"I know what they're doing to her," he said.  "You were 
right.  It *is* our research.  Or at least, it's mine."  He 
shook his head, sliding his arms forward onto the lab bench, 
sinking slowly until his face was pillowed in crook of his 
forearm.  "What's the first thing every kid learns about 
comparative genomics?" he asked.  His voice was muffled by 
the fabric of his sleeve.

"David," she responded nonsensically, rubbing his back with 
soothing strokes.

"Less than three percent separates humans from apes," he 
answered himself.  "Those statistics aren't too far off from 
the separation of humans and the third species we've isolated 
from the Gray genome."

"I thought you had fifteen percent still incomplete," Scully 
said.  "Did you finish?"

"No, and it's a good damn thing, too," he remarked bitterly 
into his sleeve.  "Or I doubt we'd be seeing Amy again."  He 
pushed himself upward and took a deep ragged breath, 
suspiciously like a sniffle.

"I know what they're trying to do to her, and it's not a 
hybrid they want.  It probably never was."

"What then," Scully asked, concerned.  Whatever David had 
found, it had upset him deeply.

"Come and look," he said, scooting his chair over to his 
console.  He brought up the display, showing the telltale 
signs of genetic tampering from Amy's blood sample.  "I've 
isolated the locations on Amy's genes that they were 
concentrating on.  Look here, and here," he pointed.  "These 
areas, which show the most abuse, line up here, and here," he 
flipped the display, "and here."  Scully looked at the 
readout.  They had wondered often over the past months about 
this third species that seemed to be so close a cousin.  The 
Grays had clearly been manipulating several areas that where 
the human genome differed markedly.  Taken individually, it 
would have been incomprehensible, but against the pattern of 
the other species, there was only one possible conclusion.

"Whatever that is, that's what they want," David said.  "And 
I don't think they much care how they do it."  

Scully leaned forward, touching the display with light 
fingertips.

"There's more," he said.  "I got to thinking it was kind of a 
weird coincidence that it just happened to be someone from 
South Eastern that they took, someone so close to us that 
we'd take note of it.  So out of curiosity, I ran a search on 
recent tracker requests.  I read the report summaries on 
them, and there are about two dozen that I found that are 
remarkably similar to Amy's situation."  He put the list up 
on the screen.  The locations were quite dispersed.  Enough 
so that it was unlikely that anyone involved in one of the 
incidents would be likely to hear of another.  "I think it's 
like the story you told us that night at my grandmother's 
house.  They're taking human subjects for experimentation."

Scully sank onto a nearby stool, her breath whistling slowly 
out between her teeth.  "Well, we've got some time," she 
concluded.

"Time for what?"

"They're obviously trying to keep a low profile, based on the 
scattered pattern of the abductions.  So they can't be very 
far along in their experimentation, or they'd be bolder," she 
reasoned.  "We've got to focus our attention on *why* they 
want to create that species."

"What difference does why make?" David exploded.  "This is 
wrong!  It needs to be stopped!  We have to tell people the 
truth about what's happening!"

She felt the memory of Mulder in David's conviction, 
remembered that once her role had been to contain that 
energy, help him to channel it so that it had the chance to 
do some good.

"We can't yet, David."

"Yes, we can," he insisted.

"No, we can't," she repeated earnestly.  "David, no one will 
believe us."

"But we have proof!" he gestured at the display.

"The facts are meaningless to people who don't want to 
believe, David.  It didn't take me even one lifetime to learn 
that."  She tempered her voice, working to convince him.  
"Very few people outside this room have the capacity to 
understand what seems obvious to you.  All that is obvious to 
them is that the Grays are the benevolent providers.  Not 
long ago you were trying to convince me of that yourself," 
she reminded him.  "The only way to widely disperse such 
information would be over the nets, and all that would 
accomplish is to tip our hand.  We don't control the nets."

"We don't control anything," he muttered, rubbing his hand 
over the long healed scar left when Scully had extracted his 
tracker.  "We're tagged and monitored like zoo animals.  Lab 
rats."  His tone was rancorous.  "How could they?" he ground 
out, and this time she recognized the bright, sharp edge of 
his sense of betrayal.  There were few things harder to 
control than the zealotry of a new convert.  It worried her.  
It would make him rash.

"David, listen to me.  *Why* they want this is the most 
important thing we can learn right now."  He started to 
interrupt but she silenced him.  "Two hundred years ago we 
hinged our survival on immunity.  It was the wrong answer to 
the wrong question because it only postponed the disaster, it 
didn't end it.  They're -- still -- here."  She enunciated 
each word.  "The right question is why do they want this?  
And the right answer is to eliminate the benefit they expect 
from having it.  Because as long as there's something for 
them to gain by turning us into that, we're just too valuable 
raw material to ever be left alone.  Three percent," she 
reminded him, "versus starting from scratch."

The fury receded from his eyes, replaced by grim 
determination.  "So how do we do that?" he asked.

"By finishing the research," she said.

"We can't do that.  Anything we do just facilitates their 
progress.  They're obviously observing the work."

"Then we don't do it here.  You'll use the lab in Seattle.  
We'll leave as soon as the break starts and get things set up 
so that you can go back as often as possible.  The rest of 
the time you'll be here, working slowly, and toward the wrong 
conclusions.  You understand?"

He nodded.  "We can't stop, because that might draw their 
attention.  So we mislead."

"Right.  I need you to finish the separation, David.  You're 
more adept at it than I am, but I've got far more experience 
in comparative genomics.  The answer is in there, I'm sure of 
it, but I need to see the complete picture."

"What about Amy?" he finally asked.

She shook her head.  "There's nothing we can do for her right 
now.  I'm sorry, you can't imagine how much."

"Later, though," he promised himself, "later there will be."  

-------------------------------------------------------------

David felt the pressure of a deadline far beyond anything he 
had experienced preparing for an exam or a paper.  Sometimes 
he found it hard to believe he had ever measured stress in 
terms so mundane.

Working in the underground facility was less efficient than 
in Scully's South Eastern labs.  The computers were older, 
and without the nets, he couldn't simply demand extra 
processing power when he needed it.  He spent the long waits 
listening to the Grays for clues, and hardly slept.  Bit by 
bit, he separated out the final fifteen percent, at last 
yielding the genomes for three complete species.  It was a 
fascinating mosaic.  Each species was largely unique, but 
he'd been forced to conclude that some segments of the 
original genome were duplicated in each, the traits shared.  
By the time he was ready to show the work to Scully, tracker 
reports had begun to show occasional small groups of people 
going missing, not just individuals.  It was a race.

Scully had made her excuses to the dean, and taken a week's 
leave to journey with David on his latest trip to the Pacific 
Northwest.  She worried at the tiny cross, offering up a 
prayer that she'd be able to make sense of the third species, 
of its importance to the Grays.  In her dream, Mulder had 
said there were paths where she missed the signs.  There were 
limits to what she could understand of a species based on its 
DNA alone.  That's why she had started her research, so long 
ago, it seemed now, with the tedious steps of building and 
studying proteins.  She had an advantage in that the third 
species was so nearly human.  It meant that there was a great 
deal she already understood.  

For his part, David fed her clues he had learned from 
eavesdropping on the Grays, disguised as flashes of 
intuition.  He hoped that they focused her in the right 
direction.  It was hard for him to judge what might be 
significant.

"I found your old friend Eddie in the second species," he 
quipped.

"What old friend?" she asked.

Shaking his head, he said "Not really.  My old ambition, 
remember?  From the Smith's shape shifting abilities?  Look 
here.  The third species is closely human.  The second 
species appears to be closely Smith.  I didn't notice it 
before because I wasn't looking for it."  With the separation 
complete, it was easier to examine traits of the different 
species, and he pointed out the familiar segments.

Scully pondered that for a moment.  "It certainly makes it 
seem not a coincidence that our two species of otherworld 
visitors are what they are, doesn't it?"

David nodded, agreeing.  "Have you ever wondered why every 
place where the Gray genome is documented, that it's this 
*exact* sequence?" he added.

"Not really.  Puzzling out the one sequence was such a huge 
undertaking, I never sought out variations."

"Still," he continued, "when you read any kind of 
documentation on the human genome, there are always 
annotations remarking on variations of the different genes.  
Different reference works use different baseline examples.  
How else would you understand the significance of our genetic 
diversities?"

Scully felt the tingle of a theory forming.  In spite of the 
grim circumstances, the prospect of discovery was, as always, 
accompanied by excitement.  "What if there's only one example 
because their genetic diversity has been severely curtailed, 
in some way?"

"A reproductive problem?" David hypothesized.

Scully stood and began a slow pacing of the lab.  "Maybe.  
Maybe a very old one.  Except..." she trailed off.

"Except what?" David asked.

"We've still got no understanding of why there are three 
species described here.  If we assume genetic stagnation, 
would we have to assume it for all three?"

It was a good question, one worth investigating.  "Maybe you 
should concentrate on that," David suggested.  "See if you 
can discover how this species' DNA ought to be recombining 
under normal circumstances."  David had come to appreciate 
the frustration of reverse engineering from such basic 
information.  His tone held a note of exasperation.  "I wish 
we knew something, anything, about their gestation," he 
lamented.  It was a long shot, but he asked anyway.  "Can you 
remember anything from before?  I mean, you saw them 
occasionally during the fighting.  Did any of them ever 
appear pregnant?"

A memory tickled at the back of Scully's mind, and she 
stopped her pacing to try to draw it out.  It was a body, she 
remembered.  Ravaged, gelatinous, a gaping wound in the 
chest.  Mulder had been convinced that it had something to do 
with the alien virus.  He'd described in terrible detail the 
rows and rows of cryopods he'd found when he rescued her from 
Antarctica.  He'd said some had been filled with human 
beings, but that others housed horrifying, hard-shelled 
creatures.  Scully had still been clinging to another 
reality, then.  She couldn't deny waking up at the bottom of 
the world, but she stubbornly resisted Mulder's account, 
attributing his theory to seeing the movie 'Alien' too many 
times.   In retrospect, the irony was too stark to be 
amusing.

"Maybe.  Maybe there is something I remember," she mused.

For several days, then, the conversation stopped.  Scully 
descended into her work with an intensity beyond anything 
David had yet witnessed.  When she resurfaced, it was with a 
theory beyond anything he could have imagined.

"I have only shreds to support this," she began.  "Proving it 
with any kind of certainty could be a lifetime's research on 
its own.  But nothing I've found so far contradicts it."

David was relieved to hear a voice again, besides those in 
his head.  "Tell me."

"Remember some time ago, you mentioned that you had only 
found mechanisms for donating genetic material, but not for 
gestating it?"  David nodded, and she continued.  "You were 
looking at the first species when you noted that.  The Gray 
genome contains three species in compression, but I think the 
Gray life form as we know it is described by that first 
species you extracted.  The second is Smith, or Smith-like, 
and the third is humanoid."  She took a deep breath, 
struggling to explain clearly what she was barely coming to 
understand.

"I think this is what happens.  In order to create the full 
genome, the compressed combination of three species, the 
process begins by donating genetic material describing the 
first species, as you observed.  But, in order to collect the 
genetic material describing the other two species, the 
gestation has to occur in the bodies of each of the other two 
species in turn.  As gestation takes places, the body is 
consumed, and genetic information from the host is folded 
into the new life.  The compression of the DNA sequence 
probably takes places as a function of maturation."  She 
shrugged slightly at that.  "I'm not really clear on that 
part."

David took the next logical step.  "So, they need to create 
this species in order to procreate?" he asked.

"I think it's more complex than that," Scully said.  "The 
other two species do seem to have coding that would indicate 
an ability for non-destructive gestation, but only of their 
own kind.  Gestating a Gray seems to be destructive no matter 
what.  I'm getting beyond myself into pure speculation now," 
she warned.  

David nodded, accepting the caveat.

"If the essence of this life is colonial, perhaps the Gray is 
the dominant force in the colony.  Still, it needs the other 
parts of the colony to survive and thrive, so it would have 
to be able to create them.  I think that a mature Gray could 
generate as many Smiths and Humans," Scully simplified her 
phrasing, exposing her suspicions, "as it needs for its 
colony, by impregnating existing colony members with the 
appropriate subset of its genetic material.  The original 
hosts might be donated or captured from another colony.  But 
to create another Gray, it needs to consume a Human and a 
Smith.  And to ensure genetic diversity of the offspring 
Gray, it has to gestate in a Human and Smith from a different 
Gray's colony.  Not from its own."   

David let out a low whistle.  "Unbelievable."

"It's a reach," Scully agreed.

"And you think somewhere along the way, they lost one leg of 
this trinity?"

"Possibly.  I don't know how, or when, or why.  Disease, 
maybe.  War?  What if the Human element was the defensive arm 
of the colony?"

"Expendable, you mean."

Scully nodded.

"Maybe that explains why we're so similar," David suggested.  
"Maybe they've been here, to Earth, long before, and left 
some of the third species behind.  If they were considered 
expendable, it might have been like leaving behind..." he 
gazed at the ceiling, searching for an analogy.  "Like 
leaving fingernail clippings," he concluded.  "Only maybe 
some of them adapted, found a way to breed with the life on 
this planet, and became us."

The missing link, Scully thought.  One of the great mysteries 
of evolution, the outcome of another species' biological 
midden heap.

"I saw a ship of theirs, once, before the wars, buried in the 
surf, in Africa.  It was covered with symbols," she 
recounted, "symbols that appeared to be DNA sequences.  I 
remember being so excited at the time.  The original human 
genome project had years to go before completion, and I 
thought I had the answers right in front of me.  So many 
years to discover the truth..." she trailed off.

"I'm not interested in being devolved, Scully," David said.  

Scully shook her head.  "Nor I."

"What do we do next?"

"We come up with an alternative.  Make them not need us 
anymore.  Find a way for them restore their genetic diversity 
that doesn't involve humanoid hosts."  David was shaking his 
head.  Scully misunderstood his objection.  "I know it's a 
huge undertaking, David, but maybe this is the work I'm meant 
for.  Maybe this is why I can't die.  Maybe I'll take them to 
their next stage of evolution."

"That's too many maybes, Scully.  You don't know that their 
motivation is that simple.  They could want the restoration 
of their colonies above all."  He countered with his own 
suggestion.  "If they're really suffering from a long history 
of genetic stagnation, then there's very likely a biological 
weakness we can exploit, and eliminate the threat entirely."

It seemed to Scully an astonishing stance for David to take.  
"David, when you first came to me, the Grays were your 
heroes.  You would exterminate them?" she asked.

"What about you?" David demanded, equally baffled.  "They 
wiped out everyone you cared about, and now you want to help 
them?"

"I want to be left alone, David.  I want people to survive.  
But if I'm willing to engineer the Gray's extinction for 
that, then I'm no better than they are.  This is still an 
intelligent species we're discussing."  If there was a 
peaceful solution, after all the blood spilled, she felt 
compelled to attempt it.

David found her compassion misplaced.  Angry, he said, "You 
go ahead and work on the carrot, then.  But I'm working on 
the stick.  I hear they're most persuasive when used 
together."

-------------------------------------------------------------

Back at South Eastern, Scully had gone to bed angry.  For 
weeks, she and David had been taking turns, alternating 
between maintaining appearances at the University, doctoring 
the carefully incorrect research, and spending time in 
Seattle, working on their solutions to the accelerating Gray 
incursions.  They argued often, trying to persuade one 
another to focus on each other's approach.  And now David was 
a day late returning.  She had only a brief, cryptic net 
message that he was safe, but delayed.  

She tossed fitfully under the bedclothes, which tangled 
around her feet until she kicked them off.  She fumed at the 
impedance to her own research, fumed at David's intractable 
attitude.  Somewhere along the way she had suddenly lost her 
ability to convince, coerce, or control him.  She had taught 
him everything she knew, and he was taking it and running 
with it in a direction she couldn't condone.

The pillows suffered from her irritable state next, coughing 
out a plume of down as she tried to thump them a comfortable 
shape.  It was no use.  The bedroom was too hot, and she was 
too agitated.  She stood, and grabbing a light blanket, 
stalked down the stairs and out onto the back veranda, 
sinking onto a lounge chair that faced out toward the corn 
patch.  It was cooler outside, and the light blanket felt 
comforting, instead of stifling.  Gazing up at the crescent 
moon, she willed herself to relax, concentrating on timing 
her breathing to the singsong of the crickets.

"Everyone's going to lose, Scully, if you two continue 
working at cross purposes."

Scully turned her head, strangely unsurprised to see Mulder 
sitting on the chair beside her.  She studied his moonlit 
profile for a moment before responding.

"He won't listen to me anymore," she sighed.

"He's not the problem," Mulder said, turning to face her 
directly, "You are."

She stiffened at his assertion, and he reached out to take 
her hand.  The touch felt insubstantial, tingling.  

"Scully, it would take lifetimes enough to make your own seem 
fleeting to accomplish what you have in mind.  There just 
isn't time for your approach.  The answer lies with David. If 
you ignore him, you'll miss the signs."  

"I won't be a party to genocide," she insisted, "Not even of 
the Grays."

"And what about of Humanity?" he asked, his tone intense.  "A 
sin of omission is still a sin.  You're strong enough to 
weigh the options, find the balance.  You've done it before."  
The tingle moved up her arm, and down again.  She found the 
ghostly caress soothing.

Apprehensive, she asked, "What do you want me to do?"

"Work with him, Scully, not against him.  Don't cut him off.  
If you're his partner in this, he'll come back from the edge 
for you.  I always did, didn't I?"  

She had never been able to resist him when he focused all the 
intensity of his soul on persuading her.  She found the 
penetrating look in his eyes familiar, in spite of its long 
absence.  

"There is a third option, Scully," he murmured, "One you can 
live with.  One you could die with.  But you have to give up 
this plan of yours, and let David lead you to it.  This is 
not the time for stubbornness."  

She searched his eyes in the darkness, vaguely aware that she 
could see the stars behind him shining faintly through the 
hazel.  "Please, Scully," he pleaded.

She sank back into thin cushion of the lounger, letting her 
eyes fall shut.  "Okay," she whispered.

The tingling sensation surrounded her, comforting and deep.  
She opened her eyes to see him kneeling beside her, leaning 
back as he released her from an embrace.  "He's brought you 
what you need.  The last piece.  You need to leave as soon as 
you wake up."

"Mulder, I'm awake now," she reminded him.

"It always seems that way, doesn't it?" he said, with a 
gentle smile.  "Close your eyes," he instructed.  She 
hesitated, drinking in one more long draught of his beloved 
features before she complied.  The tingling sensation settled 
into her lips, and when the long rays of dawn sunlight woke 
her, she could still feel it.

-------------------------------------------------------------

"Jesus, David, where did you get that?"

Nothing could have prepared Scully for the shock that awaited 
her when she descended into her underground lab.  The main 
bench had been cleared completely of equipment, and a 
desiccated Gray corpse lay rigid under the bright central 
light.

David's posture was nearly as stiff as the corpse, tight and 
defensive.  "I wasn't expecting you back yet," he said.

Wary, he watched her approach the cadaver, expecting a 
lecture at best, a repeat of their last, furious argument at 
worst.  Instead, she pulled a pair of disposable gloves from 
a drawer in the bench, and snapped them on.  He watched her 
as she moved around the body, delicately prodding the dry 
flesh, examining the ancient neck wound.  When she looked at 
him again, he found himself at a loss.  The moment he had 
determined to collect the body he had begun steeling himself 
to withstand her outrage.  Now, it appeared that it would not 
materialize, and he was unsure how to react.

"How did you get it here, David?" Scully finally broke the 
silence.

Cautious, he answered, "I stowed away with it on a cargo 
tube."  He was interrupted by the need to sneeze.  The cold 
he'd been fighting for the past week had made his excursion 
into the mountains particularly unpleasant.  "It was wrapped, 
of course," he added, when he had cleared his head.

"Of course," she repeated.  Breaking eye contact, she 
returned to her inspection of the body.  "Where did you find 
it?"

"Norad," he answered.  "The place where I found your cross."

Scully laughed, a harsh, humorless bark.  "Well, then, I 
guess we've met."

He waited for her to say more, and at last offered, "I 
thought it was too valuable a resource to ignore.  The 
opportunity to examine tissue samples will accelerate the 
research."  He paused, then added, "Yours too, not just 
mine."

Scully ceased her survey of the dead Gray and stripped off 
the gloves.  "No, David," she said, "Ours.  I think you're 
right, we have to concentrate on finding a weakness to 
exploit.  The human population is at risk, and we haven't the 
means or the time to protect them while I pursue my 
solution."  

"What changed your mind?" David asked, astonished.

"An old friend," Scully said.  "Never mind.  We'll learn what 
we can from the body.  But David, exploiting a weakness does 
not have to mean extermination.  We'll work together, but 
toward a goal that stops short of that.  Can you at least 
meet me halfway on this?"

He replied with a grave nod.  He was relieved to have her 
cooperation again, relieved to have an end to their 
increasingly hostile interactions.  Later, he would realize 
that he was also relieved to be in pursuit of a less 
bloodthirsty solution.  He was still poisoned by the Grays' 
betrayal, but in his soul, David was not a murderer.

"Come over here, David," Scully said.  

David complied, crossing around the bench to stand in front 
of her under the bright lights.  She reached for his face, 
pulling the soft skin beneath his eyes downward with the pads 
of her fingers.  "Look into the light," she instructed.

David crouched slightly, to give her better access.  "What 
are you looking for?" he asked, rolling his eyes toward the 
ceiling.

"Did you see anything that looked like a black oil where you 
found the body?" Scully asked.

"Yes," he said.  Scully let go of the first eye, and repeated 
the inspection on the other side.  

"Did it touch you?" she asked.

"No.  It moved toward me, but then it stopped, and moved away 
again."

Scully released him, satisfied.  "It must have sensed the 
vaccine," she said.

"What was it?" David asked.

"We were never completely sure.  It's a biological component 
of the Grays, and it seems to be able to live on even when 
the body dies."  

"I should have collected a sample, then," David said.

Scully shuddered.  "No, it's better that you didn't.  It's 
nearly impossible to contain.  I think you brought back quite 
enough."  She looked again at the small, pale body.  "Come 
on," she beckoned him, "I need you to help me get some old 
equipment out of the deeper storage."

He followed her out of the lab enclosure, frowning as the 
damper air of the cave irritated his sinuses.  Back in a dim 
corner, Scully gestured toward a six-foot slab of stainless 
steel that still gleamed dully in spite of its long residence 
in the moist cave.  The collapsible stand had not fared quite 
as well, the bearings groaning as she wheeled it back to the 
lab, the joints resisting being raised and locked into 
position.

Together they set up the autopsy table in the lab and 
transferred the ancient corpse onto it.  The gray body seemed 
dwarfed, almost childlike, on the tray.  

David had thought he was prepared to take the step from the 
sterile world of microbiology to the reality of invading a 
body, but his thinking had been much too limited.  Needle 
biopsies, collecting small samples of tissues and cells to 
incubate and examine, had been as far as his imagination had 
taken him.  He wasn't ready for the rack of tools Scully 
pulled out.  The array of scalpels was only mildly 
disconcerting, but the bone cutters and saws unnerved him.  
They looked barbaric, sitting mute on the tray.  When they 
came to life in Scully's hands, tearing into the Gray's 
cranium with a protesting whine and the scent of smoke, David 
tasted the unmistakable flavor of bile in the back of his 
throat.

"No zipper," Scully cracked, succumbing to a moment of 
gallows humor.  She held up the bowl of bone to show David, 
and noticed his blanched and sweaty face behind the curved 
plastic of his face shield.  "You're not going to faint, are 
you?" she asked.

He shook his head, and resolutely raised the small digital 
video camera he was holding.  "I'm fine," he insisted, 
although it was an obvious lie.  Sometimes, Scully saw so 
much of both herself and Mulder in David that she wondered 
how she could ever have missed the fact that they were kin.

The body was in surprisingly good condition, in spite of its 
long entombment.  It was dehydrated, but there was very 
little decay.  Scully kept up an unrelenting monologue as she 
worked.  Some of the organs were mysterious, but others were 
reassuringly familiar.  The lungs were obvious.  So was the 
stomach.  There seemed to be a circulatory system of some 
kind, but she couldn't identify anything like a heart.  
Instead, the artery walls themselves appeared muscular, the 
pumping mechanism fully distributed.

For the second time since they had met, the nature of 
Scully's research underwent a fundamental shift.  The once 
painful and tedious reverse engineering from an endless and 
unannotated sequence of base pairs had become the task of 
separating the jumble into the most likely combinations for 
three separate species.  Now, with a complete specimen 
available to them, aged though it was, the task was to match 
the systems to their genetic coding.  And having spent a 
lifetime as Dr. Luder, Compartive Genomics virtuoso, this was 
a process at which she excelled.

-------------------------------------------------------------

Only a few days had passed when Scully reached a startling 
conclusion about their new roommate.

"David, look at this tissue."  Scully turned the microscope's 
monitor toward him.  

David indulged in a mighty sniffle before crossing over to 
see what she was showing him.  "Is that from the lungs?" he 
asked.

"Yes.  Look here.  This type of cellular damage is what we've 
been seeing throughout the body, probably from the aging and 
dehydration."  She pointed to another spot.  "But this is 
different.  It's almost appears to be a sort of cellular 
scarring."

"Is that an alveoli?" he asked.  Wherever the Gray's system 
approximated known physiology, they used the familiar terms.  
They had determined this tiny air sac to be central to the 
exchange of gasses into the circulatory system, just as in 
most mammals.

"Yes, it is.  I think this Gray was very ill.  The neck wound 
is the obvious cause of death, but I don't think it can have 
had a very easy time breathing.  Maybe that's why it failed 
to overcome the soldiers in the air shaft at Norad."

David leaned in close and peered again at the scarring on the 
monitor.  "Do you think this represents an existing illness 
at the time of death or something it had already recovered--" 
His sentence came to an abrupt stop making way for an 
unexpected, forceful sneeze.  "Sorry," he apologized, as 
Scully reached for a disposable wipe to clean her face.

"You know David, I wish you'd cover your mouth when you do 
that," she frowned.  "I may be immortal but I'm not immune 
to..."  She trailed off, overcome with an idea.

"That's it!"

"That's what?" David asked, wiping his nose.

"The answer.  The middle ground.  How we're going to get the 
Grays to leave Earth, once and for all."

David shook his head, not following.

Scully went on, warming to the plan forming in her head.  
"Look at the pieces we have.  Evidence that they're 
susceptible to respiratory trauma, disease.  An adversary 
that didn't evolve it's immunity in the viral and bacterial 
background noise of this planet.  We've been thinking in 
terms of tailoring a solution that attacks an alien 
physiology we only partly understand.  Instead, we should be 
thinking about the biological arsenal this planet already 
has, that we already understand.  That's our target."  She 
thrust an index finger into her palm for emphasis.  "We need 
to compromise their immunity so that every little bug causes 
a severe reaction.  Every time they step outside they'll be 
inviting their equivalent of pneumonia or asthma.  We're 
going to give them a savage, inescapable allergy to Earth.  
If they want to save themselves, they'll have to leave."

David nodded.  The plan had merit.  "Immunity is one of the 
best studied sub-fields.  We'd be working to our strengths," 
he concurred.

"Delivery will be a problem, though," Scully remarked.  "Even 
when I was Dr. Luder, I never came across any transoceanic 
mosquitoes with a taste for Grays."  She flashed a thin smile 
at her joke, and became serious again.  "It's the wrong time 
of year for an ocean crossing, but assuming we could get one, 
that's close to two weeks to Europe at the very least.  And 
then would it be better to cross into Africa from Spain, or 
tube around the Mediterranean?" she mused.  "African travel 
would be overland, unless we could hire a boat on the Nile."  
Her head swam with the logistics involved in getting to the 
Grays' settlement.  She couldn't see any good way to get 
there unnoticed, and with their payload intact. She shook her 
head.  "I wish we still had aircraft."

"No," David said, realizing with sudden clarity the only 
viable approach.  "We don't go to them.  We let them to come 
to us."

Scully waited, unsure what he had in mind.

"This immuno-suppressive agent we're going to develop has to 
be a virus," he said.  "As contagious as possible.  And then 
we have to infect abductees."  He delivered the last sentence 
in a rush, certain she would hate the idea.

"A Trojan horse?" she asked.

He nodded, remembering the old fable.

"Risky," she finally concluded.  "If we design it to survive 
in a human host, we risk a pandemic in the human population."

"We'll design it so that humans are just carriers."

"Just carriers until it mutates.  Once you set something like 
this loose in the wild, there's no taking it back."

David's expression was troubled, but determined.  "You're 
right, there is that risk.  But there's always the risk of 
new disease, and at least we'll be taking every precaution."  
He thought of Amy, how he would feel infecting her, and then 
considered the alternative.  "I don't like the idea of human 
hosts any better than you do," he confessed, "but I think the 
stakes are high enough that we have to chance it."

Scully nodded her concession.  She was proud of David for 
learning how to weigh such heavy options without being 
paralyzed by the consequences.  She was also deeply sorrowful 
that he should have to.

-------------------------------------------------------------
David counted the Grays' arrogance as a small piece of luck.  
Fully engaged in their own program of experimentation, he and 
Scully seemed to have fallen off their radar.  Ever since he 
had uploaded the final, incorrect separation of species to 
the net, David had felt no further probing from the minds of 
the Grays who had occasionally watched them.

The Grays had stopped watching Scully before her change of 
heart regarding the approach resistance should take, and he 
had guarded his own thoughts carefully.  They were unaware of 
any viable threat.

And after several weeks of work, the threat *was* viable.  
Sequestered as they were, only David's telepathy gave him any 
insight into the progression of the abductions.  The largest 
groups had numbered around thirty.  Even without an 
understanding of the cause, the disappearances should have 
generated a stir on the news nets, but as far as David could 
tell, knowledge of the events was only spreading by word of 
mouth.  Most minds he touched remained content, and unaware.

But the minds of abductees were tortured, tormented by an 
unidentifiable fear.  Sounds, shapes, lights and smells, any 
of these could trigger panic that could not be explained.  
Until the next time they were abducted, and the reality of 
being aboard the Gray ship shattered the memory block.  
Scully had given him a peculiar look when he had suggested 
adding a sedative to the formula they were developing, but 
had acquiesced without argument.

They had prepared four multiple-dose injectors with enough 
serum to treat approximately sixty adults, delivering the 
vaccine, the virus, and a few hours peace in a single shot.  
For several days now, they had merely been waiting for their 
moment.  

David could feel the proximity of the Grays as they 
approached and receded, picking up subjects from different 
parts of the continent.  Tonight, he felt them near, near 
enough to make their move.  He rolled out of bed, collecting 
the two small parcels containing the injectors and the alien 
weapons, and went to wake Scully.

"David, what is it?" she asked, groggy with sleep.

"It's time.  We have to go.  They're heading for a site here, 
just outside Seattle.  We can make it if we hurry."  He 
handed her one of the packages.

"How do you know?" she asked, never the less grabbing her 
shoes and a parka as she came awake.

"I just know," he answered.  "Trust me."

She nodded without hesitation.  It was time to let him lead.

They hiked through the deceptively peaceful night, speaking 
little, lost in the tension of their mission.  Scully was 
surprised when they encountered the first of the abductees.  
He was barefoot, and dressed in bedclothes, hurrying along 
the path in front of them.  He gave them a blank, puzzled 
look when they caught up to him.  "I think I'm late," he 
murmured, but didn't explain to what.

They trailed him at a discreet distance.

"Oh, my God," Scully exhaled when they reached the edge of 
the woods.  The belly of a Gray ship hung heavily, 
expectantly, above the meadow clearing.  Beneath it, people 
milled about, staring upward, gradually seating themselves in 
perfect columns and rows.

"There's one more thing," David said, turning to face her.

"What?"

"You're too loud, Scully.  Mentally.  Your tension and 
anticipation -- if they turn their minds toward us, you're 
going to give us away."

"What do you want me to do, David?  Think about pink 
elephants?" she asked, frustrated.

"No, I don't think you have enough control," he answered, 
ignoring her sarcasm.  "You can't go any closer, you're like 
a beacon right now."

"And you're not?" she retorted.  "I'm not letting you go 
alone, David.  I'm less vulnerable than you, and you need 
someone to watch your back."

"I know," he conceded, reaching for her hand.  "I'm sorry."

"Sorry for what?" she asked, then felt the sharp sting of an 
injection along her wrist.  "What did you do?" she began, but 
her eyes rolled back in her head, and he caught her as she 
slumped.

"It's only for a little while," he promised her unconscious 
form.  Gently, he hoisted her to his shoulder, and emerged 
into the clearing.

-------------------------------------------------------------

When Scully awoke, it was to the sensation of a cold, 
metallic surface under her cheek, and the sound of a deep, 
inescapable thrumming.  She sat up with a gasp.  David's face 
swam into focus, his breath escaping in a long sigh of 
relief.  

"How long?" she asked.

"About fifteen minutes.  Are you okay?"

Scully scrubbed her hand over her face, and blinked twice.  
Surprised, she realized there was no residual fuzziness from 
the sedative.  David must have chosen one that metabolized 
quickly.  "Fine."  She looked at him.  "We're even for that 
business with your tracker now, right?"

He grinned in return, wired with adrenaline.  "Maybe."

"We're on the ship?"

"Yeah," he nodded.  "Africa bound.  With the rest of the 
cargo."  

Scully's eyes adjusted to the dim lighting, and she leaned 
sideways to see past David into the space beyond.   It was 
remarkable in its lack of features.  The walls, floor and 
ceiling were a dull, flat metal that failed to reflect any of 
the dim light glowing from a band ringing the room at the top 
of walls.  Only the light it emitted distinguished the band 
from the wall that contained it.  The surface and material 
was otherwise homogenous.  There were no sharp corners.  At 
the floor and ceiling, the walls bent in a gentle curve.  It 
was like being inside a brushed aluminum egg.  Gradually, she 
recognized the shadowed forms as other passengers, huddled in 
small groups, clinging together in fear.

"Thirty three, including us," David answered her unspoken 
question.  "They listened in on everyone as they brought them 
aboard, but they're done with us for now."

Scully's brows furrowed as she processed his assured 
recitation about the Grays' attention.  "David, can you hear 
them?" she asked.

"Yes.  I've heard them for a while," he confessed.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"You knew, at first.  Jerry made you forget."  Her eyes 
widened with his admission.  "You agreed to it.  It was to 
protect me.  Look," he deflected, knowing she wanted to hear 
more, "We don't have time to get into this now, but you'll 
start to remember soon, I promise."  He pulled an injector 
out of his inside pocket.  "It's a short trip.  We need to 
get started.  Are you ready?"

Scully nodded, following as David crept toward the nearest 
forms she could see.  

"Hi," he said to the young man he approached.  "Okay if I sit 
here?"

The man shrugged, the dim light glinting off the whites of 
his eyes.  He said nothing, but gripped the woman he held, 
her face buried in his chest, a little tighter.

"My name is David," he offered gently.  The man seemed to 
emerge slightly from his fugue, focusing clearly for the 
first time on David's face.  After a moment he looked at 
Scully.

"Who are you?"

"I'm Dana," she said, surprising herself with the old name.  
She shrugged mentally.  Back in the heart of this ancient 
battle, who else would she be?

"I'm John," he answered. "And this is Lainie," he gestured to 
the woman in his arms.  She was shaking visibly.  

"What's wrong with her?" Scully asked.

"She's scared," John answered.  "This is the fifth time for 
her.  I try to comfort her but," he bit his lip, hard, a 
single anguished tear breaking free, "I'm scared too."  His 
voice thinned to a helpless squeak, and he began to rock 
slowly back and forth.

"John," David said, "I can help."  

The young man continued rocking, his stare glassy.  

David leaned forward and took his shoulder, stilling him.  
"John," he repeated, his voice rich with compassion, "Let me 
help."

"How?" he whispered, meeting his eyes once again.

"I'm a doctor, John," David said.  It was nearly true.  He 
could have graduated this week.   "I have something that can 
take the fear away."  Slowly, so as not to startle, he 
revealed the injector.  "Do you want it?"

John looked from David's eyes, to his hands, and back to his 
eyes again.  "Yes," he whispered.

"Okay, good," David soothed.  "I'm going to put this on the 
side of your neck, here," he demonstrated on himself, "and 
then you'll feel a little sting.  That's all.  In a few 
minutes, you'll feel better.  Are you ready?"  

When John nodded, David leaned forward and administered the 
preparation, never breaking eye contact.  The effect of the 
sedative was dramatic, tension draining visibly from John's 
body, and sanity returning to his gaze.  

"Thank you," he said, "Thank you."  He relaxed back against 
the wall, pulling the woman into his lap, stroking her hair.  
"Could you help her, too?" he asked.

"Of course," David answered.  "I'm going to help everyone."

-------------------------------------------------------------

As David moved throughout the stark hold, the timbre of 
voices changed gradually from stifled moaning and gulped-back 
tears, to muted conversation.  

After treating several more passengers as a team, David and 
Scully had split up, circumnavigating the room in opposite 
directions, dividing the effort so that they could treat the 
abductees as quickly as possible.  Although Scully treated 
nearly as many as David, their eyes tended to follow only him 
as he made his way around the chamber, talking and 
reassuring.  He was reaching them in a way she wasn't.  
Whether it was because of his gift, or because after all, he 
was their contemporary, and she was not, Scully couldn't 
know.  But it felt strangely right that they should turn 
their hopes to him.  She remembered her presentiment that day 
in the Cathedral, that he would be the one to lead this 
struggle.

"This is Anna," David said, as he and Scully met again at the 
place where they had begun.  A small, blond girl of perhaps 
five or six years clung to his neck, regarding him with 
obvious adoration.  She was by far the youngest of the 
abductees.  "Anna, this is my friend Scully."  

Anna flicked her eyes away from David long enough to give 
Scully a cursory inspection, but said nothing.

"Come on, Anna, let's sit down, okay?" David said, moving 
toward a vacant spot against the wall.  Cupping both hands 
carefully around the shell of his ear, Anna whispered a 
question.  He smiled and nodded, rearranging her carefully so 
that as he sank to the cold floor, Anna came to rest centered 
on his lap.  Trusting, she laid her head against his chest 
and closed her eyes.  

The ever-present thrumming changed pitch abruptly just as 
Scully sat down beside them.  

"Almost there," David said.

"Do you know what happens when we land?" Scully asked.

David shook his head.  "Not exactly."

"They'll move us."  The woman, Lainie, one of the first they 
had treated scooted over, closing the few feet of space that 
separated them.  "They'll keep us in the zoo until they're 
done with us, then they take us back."

"The zoo?" David repeated.

"There's an encampment, with a high, charged fence," she 
explained.  "In the middle there's a building, a place you 
can get away from the heat, but the walls are mostly glass, 
or something.  You can't hide anywhere.  They're watching you 
all the time."  She shrugged.  "Like a zoo."

"How do we get from the ship to there?" Scully asked.

"We walk," Lainie answered.  "They send in a troop of Smiths, 
mostly the tall, bulky ones, you know them?  Anyway, they all 
have weapons, long metal sticks with some kind of charge 
emitter on the end.  If they touch you it's agonizing."  She 
shuddered and fell silent with the memory.

"Lainie," David prodded her from her reverie.  "How far is 
the walk?  How many guards?"  

"You can't escape, if that's what you're thinking," she said.  

"What happens after we get to the zoo?" Scully interjected.  
"How long do we stay?  What happens while we're there?"

Lainie studied Scully carefully for a moment, then looked 
back to David.

"What are you two doing here?" she finally asked.

"What do you mean?" David said, as innocently as he could 
manage.  "We're here the same as you."

"No," Lainie intoned, "not the same.  I've been here five 
times.  You're not the same at all."

"I don't know what would make you think that," David said, 
wondering what he and Scully might have done to have blown 
their cover.

In his lap, Anna opened her eyes and pushed her tiny hands 
against David's chest, so she could look him in the face.  
"Because," she said, "you're not asking *why*."

"Shh," David said, smoothing the child's hair and urging her 
to relax into him as she had done before.  

"Out of the mouths of babes," Lainie said, when David 
returned his attention to her.  She reached forward, slipping 
the empty injector from his pocket.  "You knew to bring 
this," she held the device up between them, "and you're not 
afraid.  You're more than you seem.  Was this more than it 
seems, too?"

David reached out, and gently slid the injector from her 
loose grasp, returning it to his pocket.  "It's just a 
coincidence," he said.

"It's because they get inside our heads, isn't it?" she 
asked.  "That's why you won't talk about it."

Out of excuses, David only stared in response, his face 
bland.

The thrumming abruptly raised in pitch and intensity, before 
falling silent altogether.  There was a slight bump as the 
ship settled to the ground, then the band of lights dimmed 
and went out.  David felt a swift, unexpected pressure 
against his lips.

"Thank you for trying," Lainie's voice whispered against his 
ear.

A crack of daylight, harsh after the weak light in the 
chamber, broke and widened at the far end of the room.  David 
squinted, his eyes slow to adjust, the guards appearing in 
silhouette against the backdrop of the widening doorway.

Slowly, people began rising to their feet, preparing for the 
short march to the holding facility.  The guards entered the 
chamber, herding them into a tight group and surrounding 
them.  People shuffled and moved, finding their position 
within the press, and as if by some unspoken agreement, the 
abductees shifted and jostled David and Scully to the very 
center, expressions of protectiveness and determination plain 
on their faces.   

-------------------------------------------------------------

From their vantage point in the "zoo" David and Scully had an 
unprecedented view of life in the Grays' colony.  To the 
north, what appeared to be several huge ships seemed to have 
been permanently embedded in the African plains, rising 
dozens of stories out of the ground, and obviously 
functioning as the heart of the settlement.  Around these, a 
small city had grown up, the buildings constructed of native 
materials and evidently homes to the attendant Smiths.  
Aliens of both species could be regularly observed moving 
about the compound.

To the west, a fleet of small, nimble ships was moored.  
Several of these left and returned during their first day.  
One collected and took away the previous group of abductees, 
but the purpose of the other flights was unclear.

The "zoo" itself was aptly named.  There was little to eat.  
Bins of fruit were piled unceremoniously at the far end of 
the yard, near a trough running with fresh water.  There were 
no facilities for elimination, and no privacy.  The opposite 
corner of the yard was used when the need could no longer be 
postponed, with people doing their best to cover the stinking 
mess with handfuls of the hardscrabble dirt.

Every few hours, a Gray arrived with four Smiths, and 
selected several subjects to be taken from the compound.  
Lainie had been among the first group taken after their 
arrival, and still defiant with the remains of the drug, and 
the glimmer of hope, she had spit in the Gray's eye.  David 
had been pleased with her temerity.  Mucous membranes were an 
excellent conduit for transmitting infectious agents.

The sun was setting on their second day in captivity, when 
Scully abandoned her observations and crossed the compound to 
join David, in the relative comfort of the squat, cooled 
building.

"I'm not seeing any effect yet," she said, by way of 
greeting.

"Incubation will take time," he answered.  "I'm still 
confident."

Scully licked her lips, chapped from two days under the dry, 
African sun.  Her face was well burned, her arms only 
slightly less so.  "Have you been able to hear anything about 
our return trip?"

He shook his head.  "Not specifically.  But they've treated 
two thirds of our group.  If the pattern holds, I think we'll 
be returned tomorrow."

"And us?" Scully asked.  The question had hung unspoken for 
two days.  David must have known her concern, but since he 
hadn't addressed it, she pressed him by asking aloud.

"We're not actually on the inventory.  I doubt we'll be 
tested.  We're just two lab rats among dozens here, and not 
the ones they're looking for."

"And where does that leave us when they pack up the 
experiment?"

"I can get us on the ship, Scully, don't worry."

But she did worry.  They had discussed the risks of 
infiltrating the Grays' colony during the weeks of refining 
the virus.  Being taken for tests was one horrific 
possibility, but they reassured themselves with the knowledge 
that ultimately they would survive the experience.  For 
Scully, living for eternity in this damn zoo was becoming the 
more unpleasant prospect.

"There," David pointed.

Scully squinted against the glare of the low sun on the glass 
of the building, in the direction David indicated.  Another 
collection party was heading for the compound, but something 
appeared wrong with the Gray.  It stumbled, then collapsed to 
its knees.  One of the attendant Smiths caught it by the 
elbow, supported it while an explosive shudder wracked its 
body.  The Smiths consulted tensely with one another, then 
hoisted the Gray to its feet, supporting it under the arms.  
The Gray's head tilted back, revealing its face to David and 
Scully for an instant before the Smiths swung him around, and 
headed back toward the largest of the seated ships.  A thick, 
green-brown viscous substance was oozing from its tiny 
nostrils.

"Hypothesize, experiment, observe the results," David 
intoned.  

Scully allowed herself a small moment of relief.  They 
wouldn't have to make another of these excursions with a 
modified formulation of the virus.  Two hundred years ago the 
resistance had been a bloody, worldwide affair.  This time it 
was small, focused, surgical, and would be a success.  It was 
almost over.  All that was left was to get home.  She was 
suddenly exhausted.

"You sleep, I'll watch," David said, reading her.  He offered 
her a brief smile.  "You think too much, anyway."  

-------------------------------------------------------------

It was Anna's shrieking that woke Scully from the fitful doze 
she had fallen into.  Several Smiths were in the room.  The 
bulkiest had one of David's arms twisted painfully up behind 
his back, and was shoving him none too gently out of the 
building.  Anna was hanging from his free arm, knees locked 
and heels digging for purchase, screaming bloody murder.  
Scully jumped to her feet, and grabbed the hulking Smith by 
the shoulder.  

"Hey!" she demanded.  "What do you think you're doing!"

The Smith turned to look at her, shaking her hand free as 
carelessly as brushing off a fly.  

"Shut up, Scully," David warned.  "I've got this.  Just go 
back."

"The hell you've got this," she retorted.  The Smiths who had 
come for him were not part of the standard collection parties 
they had learned to recognize.  "Where are you taking him?" 
She demanded.  "Tell me!"

"Scully, just watch Anna for me, will you?"  The child had 
not ceased her wailing, and a crowd of abductees was 
beginning to converge around the commotion.  "Anna, honey, 
stay here with Scully, please?" he asked with as much 
reassurance as he could muster, given the Smith's painful 
grip on his arm.  If possible, the child wailed even louder 
at the prospect of letting go of her hero.

The Smith made a snap decision.  "Take them all."

They were marched to the great ship, down a vast central 
corridor decorated with surprising beauty for a species so 
lacking in compassion.  A vast door at the end of the 
corridor appeared to depress slightly, before sliding 
silently sideways, vanishing into the wall.  Beyond it, the 
room was filled with more Grays than Scully had ever seen in 
a single location, even during the wars.

The Smiths brought them forward, forcing them to their knees, 
eye level with the smallest of the Grays, who approached them 
with its peculiar, swinging gait.

David projected the ignorant fear the Grays would be 
accustomed to from ordinary abductees.  The slight creature 
stared at him, membranes contracting and dilating visibly 
beneath the huge, liquid eyes.  It turned its attention to 
Scully, who stared back, defiant.

"The test subjects have been contaminated," she felt, rather 
than heard, deep inside her head.

"Then they are no use to you," she answered.  "Let them go."

"There is no need to speak," the voice in her head responded.  
"We hear your thoughts as we wish."

"I choose to speak," Scully answered, defiant.

"Then speak to this."  Scully's mind was filled with an image 
that could only be interpreted as an infirmary, several Grays 
lying supine on form-fitting receptacles, a variety of 
strange patches on their skin, and unfamiliar instruments 
surrounding them.  Their breathing was clearly labored.  
Scully felt a brief surge of triumph, followed by a sharp, 
punishing slice of pain.

The Gray stared at David again, then returned his regard to 
Scully.  "The others pictured this one when interrogated," 
the voice continued, "but he appears ignorant."  At a glance 
from the Gray, the Smith holding David shoved him prone onto 
the ground, pressing one knee into the small of his back.  

Furious as a lion cub, Anna bit her captor hard enough that 
he dropped her, and she scrambled to David's side, kicking 
the enormous Smith resoundingly in the shin.  The Smith 
laughed, and Scully felt a slight cessation of the pressure 
in her head, as the Gray's attention was momentarily 
diverted.

Anna's own guard moved to retrieve her, but the Gray 
gestured, and he desisted, allowing the child to settle 
protectively beside David.  In a moment, it returned its 
attention to Scully.

"I can sense you know the cause of this," the Gray continued.  
"You will reverse it."

"I won't," Scully said.  "I can't.  It's too late."

She felt the equivalent of a shrug in her mind.  Cold 
indifference.  "They are expendable.  The contaminated 
subjects will be destroyed."

"That won't help," Scully said.  "There is only one thing 
that will ensure your safety."  She felt the Gray probing her 
mind, and pictured them leaving, visualized the nature of the 
threat posed by every native microbe.

"Unacceptable."  The pressure in her head grew sharp and 
painful.

"Wait," Scully cried.  "I can give you something better, I 
can give you what you really want."

The pressure eased.

"Genetic stagnation is your problem, isn't it?" she asked.  
The pressure eased further.  "Your reproductive processes 
have deteriorated beyond recovery.  I can fix that."

The pressure returned.  "We are fixing it ourselves."

"You can't stay here any more," Scully reiterated.  "But if 
you release the test subjects and leave now, I'll go with 
you.  I'm a scientist.  I can help you evolve a new way to 
reproduce.  I'll work on it for as long as it takes."  She 
concentrated intensely on the opportunity she was offering, 
the last ditch sacrifice she was willing to make on nothing 
more than good faith, and on her confidence that she could 
succeed with their cooperation.  The offer hung balanced in 
the air, the possibility of lasting peace a brief reality.

"Unacceptable," said the voice in her head.

"No!  *You* are unacceptable!"  The mental roar far surpassed 
the uncomfortable pressure of the Gray's intrusion.  Scully 
clutched at her temples, felt the familiar trickle of blood 
from her nose.  When she was able to open her eyes against 
the pain, she discovered the room of Grays in similar poses 
of distress.

"We are not your creatures anymore!"  The psychic shout came 
from David, rising to his full stature, the incapacitated 
Smith intent only on the pain in his head.  "We have evolved 
to more than we once were, and you have been offered a chance 
to do the same.  You have chosen your fate."

With the power of David's telepathic exclamation, the memory 
of the day in the cave returned, the block shattered by the 
touch of his mind.  He was magnificent in his conviction, the 
force of his fury coolly controlled and aimed at his own 
personal Goliath, in the form of the roomful of cowering 
Grays.

One Gray, not the one who had interrogated Scully, but in 
close proximity, found the strength to rise and face David.  
Their mental grappling was too loud to escape.

"You are nothing more than scrap," the creature fairly 
sneered.

"We are more than you can hope to become.  And I am more than 
you can resist."  Scully closed her eyes again, the energy 
spilling out of their conflict too painful to bear.  Slowly, 
the Gray succumbed to David's power, sinking to the ground, 
its mental voice weakening, then winking out altogether.

With the death of this Gray, a sense of fear and confusion 
began to saturate the room from the others.  They were 
unaccustomed to being bested.  The experience left them 
bewildered and suggestible.

"You will release the test subjects and leave this world 
today," David commanded.  "You will not return.  If you do, 
you will sicken like the others.  Am I understood?"

Without waiting for an answer from the stricken Grays, David 
turned, and yanked the Smith who had guarded him to his feet.  
Scully saw the weapon she had given to David all those months 
ago held confidently in his hand, the point just in contact 
with the base of the Smith's neck.  The Smith appeared meek, 
ready to respond to David's order, even without the threat.  

"You okay, Scully?" David asked.

Rising, Scully nodded, falling in behind him.

David held his free hand out to Anna, who ran to him, 
triumphant.  As their small party left the Grays' great hall, 
the little girl gave one final look back, and stuck out her 
tongue.

-------------------------------------------------------------

There were moments of chaos and confusion when David and 
Scully, guiding the hulking Smith in front of them, came back 
to the zoo to gather the abductees and make their escape.  A 
few of those they had befriended, particularly the woman 
Lainie, and her companion, John, understood what was needed, 
and quickly fell to organizing the large group for a fast 
march back toward the ships.

"You'll fly us back to the abduction site," David instructed 
the Smith, not having to ask whether he knew how.  

The return trip was tense, but uneventful.  Scully took over 
guarding the Smith, although the concentration he was 
expending on piloting the ship made her attention seem hardly 
necessary.  David's concentration was focused on the Smith 
himself.  Scully didn't know what David was seeking, but she 
thought it best not to distract him.

This time, Scully mused, the Grays' memory blocks wouldn't 
bury the truth.  The abductees would return home with their 
memories, of the experience and of each other, intact.  They 
would need the support.  Their tale would be unpopular.  A 
population convinced of the Grays' benevolence would be as 
likely to turn on their own as believe the truth.

The changing pitch of the ship's propulsion system 
interrupted Scully from her thoughts.  She refocused on the 
task of guarding the Smith while he landed the ship, and 
worked the controls to open big doors on the cargo bays.  A 
view screen gave them a clear view of the passengers 
disembarking, and she knew that David was counting each one 
that emerged, just as she was.

At last, David turned to the big Smith.  "I'm offering you a 
choice.  You can end your slavery to the Grays, and stay 
here.  Join us.  It would be useful to have a trained pilot."

The Smith answered without hesitation.  "No.  My service to 
the Grays is not slavery, it is my life.  I've returned you, 
as you asked.  Now go, so that I may return to Africa.  I 
must be with them when they leave."

David tried again.  "I know that many of your kind have 
struggled for the freedom that we have.  Don't be too quick 
to turn down this opportunity."

"They were faithless and mislead.  I want no part of their 
treachery.  I will be leaving with the rest of my kind."

David acquiesced with a quick nod of his head.  "You're free 
to go," he said, gesturing toward the door.

The Smith regarded him with a blank stare.

"I'm keeping the ship," David stated flatly.  

"Absurd," the Smith said, starting to rise.  Scully touched 
the stiletto she held to the Smith's neck, pressing hard 
enough to get his attention.  He sank slowly back into his 
seat.  "You don't even know how to fly it."

David shrugged.  "I've got the rudiments.  You're very 
focused when you fly."

Scully cut her eyes at David for an instant.  So that was 
what he'd been listening to.

"Last chance," David offered.

For an instant, David saw a black film wash across the 
Smith's eyes, and then, as quickly as the thought was audible 
in the Smith's head, the Smith had lunged at him, 
overpowering him with sheer physical mass.  The warning was 
inadequate in the close quarters of the ship's control room, 
and David struggled to breathe against the strong hand 
constricting his windpipe.  In another instant, the pressure 
eased, and the Smith fell away, crumpled to the floor.  David 
watched with grim disgust as a green substance bubbled and 
oozed from the back of the Smith's neck, where Scully's 
stiletto protruded.  

"He had to have known it would come to that," Scully said, 
meeting David's eyes.

David rubbed his neck, gingerly testing the limits of the 
pain left by the Smith's grip.  "It wasn't his choice," David 
said.

He stared a moment longer at the Smith's body, already 
starting to dissolve, shaking his head at the waste, then 
stepped over it.  "You might want to sit down, Scully, it 
could be a rough ride."

Getting airborne was indeed a bit more exciting than either 
of them would have liked, but David's new skill seemed 
adequate to keep them cruising gently once underway.

"Thanks," David said, glancing down at the remains of the 
Smith, now little more than a puddle of green goo.

"I'm sorry it had to go that way," Scully responded.

"I know."  He made a few small corrections to the ship's 
course, then continued.  "You were great back there with the 
Grays, too, Scully.  It wouldn't have worked without you."

"What wouldn't have worked?"

"I had to know which one was the leader, focus on him.  He 
was the only one whose defeat would matter.  When you offered 
to go with them, it was perfect.  Only one Gray could have 
made that decision."

"Oh."  Scully said.  "How did you know I would do that?  Are 
you reading futures as well as minds, now?  I didn't even 
know until the words were out of my mouth.  I just wanted to 
end it as cleanly as possible."

"That's how I knew," David said.  "Nothing extra sensory.  
Just your nature."  He smiled at her.

They flew on in silence for several minutes.

"Where are we going, David?" Scully asked, at length.

"To get Jerry.  And then back to South Eastern.  I'm going to 
hide the ship in your corn patch," he joked.

"Why did you want it?"

"Because you were right, all along.  We *have* lost too much 
technology.  I don't know how things are going to be once 
they go, or how long they'll stay away.  We need whatever we 
can get to jumpstart relearning everything we've lost."  He 
made a few corrections to the controls, and the ship slowed.  
"We're almost there," he said, ending the conversation for 
the moment.

Landing was even rougher than taking off had been, and Scully 
had her doubts as to whether the ship, no matter how advanced 
the technology, would stand up to much of this kind of 
treatment.  They put down in a narrow clearing in the valley 
of the mound where Jerry taken refuge, a few hundred yards 
away from it.

David exited the ship and dashed ahead, gleeful and shouting.  
"Jerry!  Jerry!  C'mon out!  It's over!"  His voice faded as 
he vanished into the mound.  Scully followed more slowly, not 
wanting to intrude upon their moment of reunion.  She was 
surprised to see him reemerge only seconds later.

"Scully!  Hurry, there's something wrong with Jerry!"

Scully ran to catch up, scrabbled down the claustrophobic 
corridor only inches behind David.  A barely functioning 
solar torch in the inner chamber sensed their motion and 
flickered on, filling the cramped room with dim light.  
Scully gasped at the form slumped against the far wall.  
Jerry's eyes stared sightlessly out of a face devoid of any 
recognizable features.  His head was smooth and hairless, his 
face shiny and tight, appearing almost poreless.  His nose 
was an indeterminate lump, his mouth, a characterless slit.  
Whatever minimal concentration a Smith needed to maintain his 
appearance, Jerry was unable to muster it.

An instinct from lifetimes ago prompted Scully to kneel 
beside Jerry and reach for the familiar pulse points.  Her 
frustration at the physiological secrecy the aliens had 
maintained surged when she failed to find any evidence of a 
pulse, although his skin was warm.

"Can you hear him?" she asked David.

He shook his head.  "He's just a jumble.  Static.  Like he's 
not even there anymore."

"Well, we can't do anything for him in here.  I can't see a 
damn thing.  Help me get him outside."

Together, they struggled to lift Jerry and remove him from 
the mound.  It was an awkward trek down the low-ceilinged 
corridor to the outside.  Jerry's deadweight sagged and 
swayed between them, and they stumbled more than once, 
scraping shoulders and hips against the cool, rough walls.

They laid him gently on the ground, and Scully kneeled over 
him, turning her face to place her cheek close to Jerry's 
open mouth.  She held that position for several minutes, then 
announced, "I feel breathing."

David expelled a relieved sigh.

"I don't know what to do for him, David," Scully warned.  
"He's alive, but I don't know for how long.  I don't know 
what his condition means."

David listened again, struggling to find an echo of Jerry in 
the chaos of his mind, while Scully continued her visual 
examination, unsure what she might be looking for.  Something 
crinkled in a pocket as she ran her hands over his chest.  
Curious, she fished a crumpled wad of paper out of his breast 
pocket, and smoothed it.  She read the first few lines, her 
heart sinking.  "David," she said, touching his arm gently to 
break his concentration.  "I think this is meant for you."  
She held out the wrinkled sheet, concern and compassion 
written on her face.

"What?  What is it?"

"It's from Jerry.  I think you need to read it."  She 
extended her arm again, urging him to take the letter.

Sensing Scully's apprehension, he reached for the letter with 
dread.

My Dearest David,

If you are reading this letter rather than sharing my 
thoughts, then I am as good as dead.

Let me apologize first for what grief this may cause you.  I 
knew the risks of my exile.  I could not have let you know of 
them, or you would have refused to allow me to remain, and 
the path you are destined for is of far greater importance 
than the sanity of a single individual.

You must not blame yourself.  The provisions you gathered 
before you left were more than sufficient to meet my physical 
needs, and I did harbor some small hope that your mission 
might end in time.  

David, in our weeks together here, I shared many truths with 
you, but others I kept private.  You are a man of your time, 
a disciple of science and still closed to the mystical 
realms.  In recent centuries, my people have undergone a 
spiritual reawakening.  There is a prophecy that foretells a 
moment in time when the old ways end, and a new order begins.  
It foretells one of your people who lives to bridge the gap, 
and one of mine who lends aid, at great personal cost.  I 
spoke of it once to Scully, because I believed it might be 
she.  I now realize it is you.  And as the weeks of silence 
bear down on me, I realize the nature of the cost.

To be in the mound with one other is intimate.  To be in the 
mound alone is soothing, meditative, for a short while.  But 
for us, exile from the web of voices leads inevitably to 
madness, and I feel myself shredding more rapidly each day.

David, I have one final request that I can ask only of you.  
If you have found me, and read this letter, you must 
understand that I do not wish for the shell of my body to 
live on once my mind has gone.  I know that you know what to 
do.  Put aside any guilt you might feel toward such an act, 
for I am already gone, except from your memory.

Go and fulfill your destiny, knowing all is unfolding as it 
should.  Do not mourn for me.

I remain yours in deepest affection and brotherhood.

Love,
Jerry

David raised his damp eyes to Scully, wordlessly handing back 
the letter.  While Scully read Jerry's final words, David 
concentrated, desperately seeking even the faintest echo of 
his friend in the bland-faced body lying before him.

Quiet, Scully asked, "What are you going to do?"

David fingered the stiletto in his pocket for long moments 
before answering.  He knew what Jerry wanted, but he couldn't 
bring himself to it.  Couldn't bring himself to accept that 
there might not still be hope.

"We'll take him with us," David decided.  "Back to South 
Eastern.  As long as he's alive, there's a chance we can help 
him."  He didn't wait for a response, but heaved on his 
friend's slack arm, hauling him up into a fireman's carry.  
He answered Scully's thoughts of concern as though Jerry's 
weight, and not his wishes, were the only thing at issue.  "I 
can manage him a short way out here, as long as I can stand 
all the way up."

Back on the ship, David lowered Jerry to the deck with a 
grunt of relief.  "Hang on, buddy," he murmured.  "I don't 
believe you're not in there.  We'll find a way to get you 
out."
-------------------------------------------------------------

In the ship, the trip from the mound back to South Eastern 
lasted only minutes.  And yet, in the span of the brief 
journey, the Grays, defeated but far from capitulating, were 
executing their final, spiteful act.

The great, heavy-bellied starships had risen out of the 
African plains, and glided to points off the populated 
coasts, waiting for the crowds that would inevitably gather 
to witness the sky-filling sight.  Then, as the throngs 
watched, the great oceanic generators lifted silently out of 
the seas, toward the waiting maws of the ships.  A sudden 
flash of light seared away the encrustations of sea life, and 
then the generators disappeared inside.  In an instant, the 
great ships sped from view.  The arc of satellites burning up 
in the atmosphere quickly followed, and then an eerie 
silence, wholly unfamiliar to a technological civilization 
accustomed to unlimited power.  On every pad and console 
worldwide still running from their batteries, the same image 
appeared.  David's face, and beside it Scully's.  A caption 
repeated, in text and voice synthesis: "In an act of 
unprovoked terrorism, these two specieist humans have 
irreparably poisoned the Gray colony.  We do not presume they 
speak for all.  Your justice is your own."

They did not broadcast on the frequency of the hijacked ship.

David set down directly behind Scully's house, more gently 
this time than before.  He was preoccupied with Jerry's 
condition, blocking out the ever-present background noise in 
his mind, so that he could concentrate on flying, and on 
helping Jerry.  Otherwise, he might have noticed the swell of 
rage that was forming not far away.

"We'll leave him here until we're sure where to take him," 
David said, rising to leave the ship.

Scully nodded consent, and followed him to the house.

"Power's out," she commented, when the interior lights failed 
to come on with the open door.  "That's unusual."

"Damn," David swore.  "I need the console to reserve 
facilities for Jerry at the hospital."  The thin, gray light 
that poured through the curtained windows of Scully's house 
provided just enough illumination to avoid barked shins and 
stubbed toes.  "You got a pad around here, somewhere?"

They were startled by the sound of thudding footsteps 
mounting the front porch, and frantic pounding at the door.

"I'll go see," David said.  "Find me a pad, okay?"

Without waiting for a response, David started toward the 
front of the house, reaching out to sense who was pounding 
with such urgency.  "Amy?" he asked, throwing open the door.  

"Oh, David!" she cried.  "It's not true, is it?  Tell me it's 
not true!"  

"Calm down," David said, drawing her into the house.  Her 
mind was a jumble of turmoil.  "What is it?  What's not 
true?"

"I think I have an idea," said Scully, coming down the 
hallway.  She handed him the pad she had found, the image and 
message still playing.

He read it in an instant, the implications obvious.  "How 
long ago do you think was sent?" he asked.

Amy looked back and forth between the two, measuring their 
grim expressions, and their lack of surprise.  "It *is* 
true?" she asked, incredulous.  "Why?  Why would you do that, 
David?"

David handed the pad back to Scully, and turning to Amy took 
her firmly by the shoulders.  "It's true that we made them 
leave, yes, Amy.  But it's not like they're making it sound."  
He bent down to look her directly in the eyes.  "Do you 
remember anything about the time you were missing?" he asked.

Amy shook her head.

"Well, I do.  You were taken by the Grays, and they were 
experimenting on you.  Without your consent."

Shaking her head, Amy resisted the revelation.  "No, I was 
just lost."

"You weren't lost, Amy, and you weren't the only one.  You'll 
meet others, soon.  They were experimenting on humans, and if 
they had succeeded, they would have destroyed most of us."

"It can't be true," she denied, looking at the floor.  

David lifted her chin with a finger, forcing her to meet his 
eyes.  "It is true, Amy.  You know me.  Would I have done 
this for any less reason?"  

At length, she shook her head.  "No, I don't think so."

"Then trust me now, at least for a little while."

She went on, distressed.  "David, they've taken everything.  
The generators are gone, they wrecked the satellites..." 

"We'll get by," David reassured.  "It will take time, but 
we'll learn."

When she nodded, David released her, his eyes unfocusing as 
he gazed off in the general direction of the town, gauging 
the reaction of the population.

"David, we may have a more immediate problem, here," Scully 
warned.

"I know," David said.  "I'm sensing mostly confusion and 
chaos right now, but there's a groundswell of anger."

"I don't need to be telepathic to know where that anger is 
going to focus once it gets organized," Scully said.  "We 
need to leave."

"Telepathic?" Amy asked.

"We can't run," David said.  "Running will just make it look 
like that's all true."  He gestured to the pad.

"Oh, good lord," Scully said, exasperated.  "David, listen to 
me.  Mobs are not rational.  This is not the time to stand 
our ground and try to explain things.  Later, when the 
initial shock is past.  Not now.  Listen to them!"

David looked again in the direction of the town.

"Telepathic?" Amy repeated.

David's expression darkened.  "Okay, you're right," he 
conceded.  "We need to save what we can, though.  Because I 
think they're going to burn this place to the ground."

"Would someone please tell me what's going on?" Amy demanded.

David swung back toward her, as though he'd momentarily 
forgotten her presence.  "I will, soon, Amy, but right now we 
need help, and fast."

The three of them raced between the house and the ship's 
cargo hold, hauling everything valuable and irreplaceable, 
especially Scully's painstakingly unearthed and carefully 
preserved documents.  Somehow, David knew that having their 
history back would be important for the Earth's return to 
independence.

"Last trip, Scully," David warned, as they filled their arms 
with another load.  "They're getting close."

Scully nodded, hurrying from the room with all that she could 
carry.  David chose another stack of papers at random, and 
piled them into Amy's outstretched hands.  "Go," he said.

He gave the storeroom a final long look, wondering how to 
choose the one thing that could still be saved from the vast 
collection.  On a sentimental impulse, he threw open the old 
cedar trunk, and shrugged into Scully's old baseball jersey.  
She'd lost so much.  It was just a shirt, but he knew how she 
valued it.  He was just reaching for a box of ancient 
photographs when Amy's scream from outside shattered his 
thoughts.  He raced to the back door, astonished at the scene 
before him.

"Jerry, no!" he cried.

His lifelong friend had Scully on the ground, crushing her 
windpipe.  Scully's hands pressed at Jerry's face, struggling 
to dislodge him, but Jerry's strength came from the 
approaching mob.  His identity and will lost over the long 
weeks in the mound, Jerry was now an empty vessel, a psychic 
receiver echoing the strong hatred and murderous intent 
rolling toward them in waves.  Scully's face was turning 
purple from lack of air.

With a sob, David fell on him, saving Scully the only way he 
knew how.  He pulled the stiletto from his pocket, and 
plunged it into the back of Jerry's neck.

Jerry stiffened, then sagged and rolled to the side.  David 
released him, watching the green, alien blood bubble out of 
Jerry's neck with a kind of numb horror.  He stood, 
transfixed, as Jerry's body decomposed in the rapid, melting 
way he now understood as a Smith's death.   "Oh, shit, Jerry, 
I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he cried, sinking to his knees beside 
the viscous mess.  He felt the sudden need to vomit, and fell 
forward on all fours, heaving.  He barely registered Scully's 
hoarse warning, Amy's shout, or the masculine roar 
approaching from behind, but suddenly, he felt a slice of 
pure fire raking into his lower back.  Through the haze of 
red suddenly swimming before his eyes, he was aware of Scully 
launching herself at his attacker, and then Scully and Amy 
were at his sides, hauling him to his feet by his arms, and 
hustling him into the ship.

With the ship's doors sealed, they were safe for the moment 
from the growing mob.

The blackness gradually lifted, and David became aware of 
Scully's face very near to his own.  "David, can you hear me?  
Come on, David, come back to us."

"I'm okay," he gritted out, then hissed when something 
pressed hard directly on the wound in his back.

"No, you're not.  You have a deep stab wound to the lower 
back.  Possibly an injured kidney.  Amy's behind you jury 
rigging a bandage."  He saw her small hands deftly cross a 
strip of ripped cloth around his torso from behind, and felt 
her pull it tight and tie it off over the wound, where the 
knot would add pressure to the wad of fabric staunching the 
blood flow.  "David, I know a lot has happened and you're in 
a lot of pain, but we need to get away from here, and you're 
the only one who can pilot the ship."  Gradually, David 
became aware that the insistent pounding was not in his head, 
but was the crowd banging on the outside of the ship.  "Help 
me to the controls," he hissed.

The ground fell away with a few deft movements of David's 
hands.  "Seattle?" he asked.

"No, we need to get you real medical attention.  We need a 
hospital, not my lab."

"Don't know if you've noticed, Scully," he groaned, "but 
they're trying to kill us.  I'd rather take my chances with 
you."

"Colorado," she said.  "The inlanders have their own power, 
and they don't believe everything they read on the nets.  
They'll give us the benefit of the doubt.  Can you make it 
that far?"

He nodded, teeth clenched, and set to working the controls.  

Scully watched him from the copilot's seat, frustrated and 
worried.  The knife had compromised a major renal vein.  For 
now, the tight pressure of Amy's bandage was helping, but he 
had lost a great deal of blood, and really shouldn't be 
sitting up.  And it was such a waste!  Jerry wouldn't have 
killed her.  Nothing in over 200 years had managed that 
trick.  She sent up a quick prayer that they would make it to 
Denver in time.

The flight was turbulent.  David was distracted from his 
piloting by the pain of his injury, and every error that 
jostled the ship aggravated the insult.  He struggled to 
remain lucid.  When the first peaks of the Rocky Mountains 
began to appear over the far curve of the horizon, he allowed 
himself to hope.  They were beautiful.  Sparkling, rugged, 
majestic.  He always loved the mountains.  The image of his 
last visit, the hikes in the high mountain meadows with Jerry 
came to mind, and he let them play, smiling faintly at the 
sweet memory.  Scully's voice shouting out to him seemed 
very, very far away.  "Amy, hold on, we're going to crash!"  
And then, he didn't hear her at all.

The crash was spectacular.  The ship plowed a mile long 
trough into the high mountain plains.  A granite boulder 
shattered when the ship made contact, but not without 
crushing part of the hull, and flipping the ship back into 
the air.  From there, it cartwheeled another 1500 feet, 
coming to rest in a searing heap.  The locals noticed the 
descent, and the column of smoke, and sent out a party to 
investigate.

Inside the ship, Scully came to, amazed to find herself still 
seated in the copilot's chair.  She looked over at David.  He 
was unconscious, but still breathing.  Low, orange sunlight 
spilled in through the damaged hull of the ship, glinting off 
the restraints that held him in his seat.  The ship must have 
an automatic safety mechanism, she realized.  She looked down 
at her own chair, saw the same metallic arms curved around 
her own body.  There was something else, though.  She raised 
her head, trying to make sense of the jumble of metal, but 
the contraction of her abdominal muscles caused a searing 
pain.  It wasn't the safety harness that kept her seated, she 
was skewered to the chair by a twisted length of metal, 
sheared off the bulkhead in the crash.  Damn.  This would 
hurt like hell while it healed.  She dropped her head back 
onto the seat.

"Dr. Charles, are you -- oh, no..."  Amy had discovered the 
release mechanism from her own chair, and crouched in the 
wreckage, horrified by Scully's injury.  "I can't bear to 
look," she said.

"Don't look," Scully wheezed, "I'll look instead.  You check 
on David."

She heard the girl make her way delicately over the wreckage 
to the other chair, calling David's name.  'I'll look 
instead.'  Why did that phrase ring in her head?  "How is 
he?" she called out.

"He's breathing," Amy answered, "but shallow.  I don't know 
if he'll make it."

Something darted in the corner of Scully's vision.  Probably 
a hallucination brought on by the pain.  'I'll look instead.'  
She closed her eyes, trying to will away the pain, trying to 
concentrate.  Something thudded.  "Amy?" she called.

"I fell.  It's okay."

'I fell.  It's okay.  I'll look instead.  I fell.  It's okay. 
I'll look instead.'  The words tumbled nonsensically in 
Scully's mind.  She heard David's moan, and Amy's excited 
exclamation.  "He's waking up!  He's opening his eyes!"

And then it came rushing back.  The third warning of her 
dream.  "Fellig says, 'You look instead.'"  And the memory, 
if it was to be believed, of how she came to be this way.  
Fellig took her place.  Pierced through the gut with a bullet 
that day, just as she was pierced through with the shrapnel 
of the ship now.  And he had taken her hand and told her not 
to look.

"Amy, give me David's hand," she said, holding her own out 
towards him.  It was a heavy burden she would lay on him, but 
his talent, and his experiences, had to live beyond this day.  

"Here, Dr. Charles."  Amy's quiet voice.  A warm weight in 
her outstretched palm.  She closed her fingers around his.

"David, can you hear me?" she asked.

"Mmmhmm," his barely audible reply.

"Keep your eyes closed, David, don't look."

"Mmmhmm."

Scully hauled her eyes open, searching for the form that 
flittered around her peripheral vision.  "You watch out for 
him, Amy," she murmured.  "He's going to need someone he can 
count on."

"Dr. Charles, don't talk like that.  I can see people coming.  
You're going to make it."

Scully didn't bother to correct her.  "He's a little sweet on 
you, you know."  There was a smile in her voice.

The figure was getting bolder, coming into the center of her 
vision, the figure of a man, walking toward her from a great 
distance.

"Mulder?" she whispered.

It would be a long time before David recovered enough to tell 
Amy the meaning of Scully's last word.

"Come on, take my hand, Scully.  It's time to go."

-------------------------------------------------------------

EPILOGUE:

They sat, shoulder to shoulder, on the other side, looking 
back.

"It's a harsh burden," Scully said, watching him.  

"He'll handle it," Mulder reassured.  "He won't be alone.  
Look, even now."

And time jumped, fast forwarding to another scene.  John and 
Lainie struggling cross country to find him, guided by the 
echoes they heard in their minds.

"The war isn't over," Mulder continued, and Scully was 
surprised to learn she could still feel dread, even here in 
this place.  "But he'll win the final battle."

"I don't understand," she said.

"Each time, we fought the enemy we could defeat.  You and I 
fought the virus.  You and he fought the Grays.  But he'll 
fight the real enemy.  Secrecy and lies."

"The truth is out there?" she asked, gentle, teasing.

"The truth is in him.  It's in all of them.  Look."  He held 
out his hand.  A tiny, insubstantial silver thread floated 
above it, snaking high into the fathomless darkness above 
them.  "Know what this is?" he asked.

She shook her head.  "No."

"Look closer."  The strand swelled, its diameter increasing, 
until the twisted ladder was obvious and clear.  "This is 
me," he said.  As she watched, most of the strand faded away, 
a few short segments breaking apart from the others, coming 
to float above his hand in a tiny, magical dance.

"Remember?" he asked.

"The vaccine," she confirmed.  "I can't believe how many 
times you let me stick you before I narrowed down the nature 
of your immunity."

"But you know more, now, don't you?"  He stretched out his 
hand, holding the quivering strands closer.

She nodded, understanding.  "This is more than we needed.  
The immunity came from here."  She reached out, touching two 
strands.  They brightened, glowing fiercely white before 
fading from view.  "The rest are superfluous."

Mulder nodded, flicking his forefinger at the strands one by 
one.  As they flew from his palm, they vanished.  Finally a 
single strand remained.  "And this?" he asked.

She stared at the final strand, considering.  "Your 
telepathy," she concluded, based on her intervening lifetimes 
of study.  "Though it was dormant at the time." 

"Remember Gibson?" he asked.

The scene shifted, and she saw the faint echo of themselves, 
long ago, in a darkened room, in a trying time.  A young, 
earnest Scully struggling to hold the trust of a young, 
bitter Mulder, wounded by recent defeat.

    "Mulder, these are the results.  DNA from the claw nail 
we found -- matching exactly the DNA in the virus you believe 
is extraterrestrial--"

    "That's the connection," the young Mulder said softly, 
rising.

    "--which matches exactly the DNA I found in Gibson 
Praise."

    "Wait a minute.  I don't know what you're saying.  You're 
saying that Gibson Praise is infected with the virus?"

    "No.  It's a part of his DNA.  In fact, it's part of all 
our DNA.  It's called a genetic remnant.  Inactive junk DNA.  
Except in Gibson it's turned on."

    "So if that were true, it would mean the boy is in some 
part extraterrestrial."

    "It would mean," the young Scully clarified, "that all of 
us are."

The Mulder beside her echoed her words.  "It would mean that 
all of us are."  

"I know," Scully said.

"But we're more than that," he said.  The scene shifted once 
more, and she saw a more recent moment.  Her lab, David 
puzzling out the alien DNA, herself looking for lingering 
traces of immunity in the population, struggling to 
understand which effects of the vaccine had been passed 
through the generations.

Mulder held out the strand once more.  "It would mean that 
all of us are," he repeated.  "But this," a few balls of 
light on the strand glowed brightly, "was different."

"A mutation," Scully said.

"A mutation," Mulder confirmed, "that you passed on to 
everyone, Scully.  It's the final step.  This mutation allows 
for a telepathy that surpasses the Grays'.  You turned it on 
in David, and they couldn't resist him.  You turned it on in 
a handful of others, too.  He'll realize the implications, in 
time."  He closed his hand around the final strand, and it 
too, vanished.  The scene shifted back to a distant view of 
the present.  Mulder draped his arm around Scully's shoulder 
as they watched David struggle with his ostracization.

"Secrets, Scully.  Secrets and lies are the last enemy.  The 
truth is the only weapon that matters."

She nodded, understanding.  "The next step in our evolution.  
A world where the truth is never hidden."

"He'll bring it about.  He'll flip that final switch to turn 
it on for everyone.  It will be a hard transition for some, 
but already, those who can hear are seeking him out.  He's 
all grown up, and he's beginning to grow wise.  He'll lead 
them through it, and the next time the Grays return, there 
will be no one left that they can deceive."

They sat in comfortable silence in the strange emptiness, 
watching as David fought against the trials of the moment.  
At length, Scully asked, "What about us?"

Mulder laughed.  "You just got here, Scully.  Bored already?"

"No," she said, snuggling closer into his side.

"We can go back," he offered, "whenever you want.  We can 
live again."

She contemplated the possibility.  Maybe this time they could 
lead a normal, happy life.

"Would we remember?" she asked.

"Not much," he said.

"You?"

"Yes," he promised.  "I find you in every lifetime.  Or you 
find me."

She nodded again.  "Maybe later," she concluded.  "For now, 
let's just be."  She looked up into his face, and found him 
smiling at her choice.  They stayed that way for long 
moments, basking in the sureness of each other.  Then they 
turned back, and watched the world unfold.