Copyright August 1995

I owe this one to Amperage, Livengoo, and Youkneek.  For their long hours 
of editing, advice, and hand-holding.  You don't even *want* to know how 
much work Youkneek put in on this!

Disclaimer:  All characters, concepts, whatever are the property of
whoever created them.  This means that Ten-Thirteen Productions,
Chris Carter, Ridley Scott, H. R. Geiger, et cetera are the One
True Owners.  All rights reserved.  All other characters are my
own, as is the plot.  Redistribute at will. 

Send all comments, criticisms to: ez042725@peseta.ucdavis.edu   
I want replies, damnit!  


                Etched
                     by Sean Smith
                     ez042725@peseta.ucdavis.edu


Rating:  R for explicit language and violence . . .  but no sex. :)
     
A round of thanks go to Rodent, Amp, and Goo.  Slavemasters and
Editors were never so wonderful.  Eventually, I'll get an HTML page
up and running so you all can download my three-paged dissertation
on their warm, caring sensitive souls.  No, really!

Fox Mulder and Dana Scully are property of Chris Carter and
Ten-Thirteen Productions.  All other characters are my own, as is
the plot.  Redistribute at will.  

Copyright August 1995

Send all comments, criticisms to: ez042725@peseta.ucdavis.edu   
I want replies, damnit!


                Etched
                     by Sean Smith
                     ez042725@peseta.ucdavis.edu
  
     Bone white against the oranges and purples of the setting sun,
they stood tall, their skeletal fingers reaching skyward.  The wind
whistled through their open latticework, and they hummed in chorus
when they, as one, bent forward to catch the ascending moon.  The
single line of cold radio telescopes continued their methodical
task, the arm-like bowl of their antennae sweeping eastward, away
from the noise source of the sun.
 
     Sarah Greenbough stood outside one of the Quonset huts that
processed the data brought in by the delicate receivers towering
over her.  She pulled her flannel vest around her as the wind tried
to pull it away.  Her long black hair was swept back from her face
by those same cold desert winds.  They came nightly, at sunset, and
she with them.  She knew she should be with the graduate team
inside, but watching the sun fall each evening was her present to
herself.  It was compensation for being trapped, miles from
anywhere.
 
     "Sare!  Hey, Sarah!"  A tall man with course, ruddy features
had stepped out of the hut and onto her plain, calling for her.
 
     "Yeah, Gene?"  She raised her voice over the power of the
wind.
 
     "We got a positive track, descending!  Looks like an eagle is
falling!"  Gene tried to wave a sheet of printout, but the wind
pressed it back against his hand.
 
     Casting a quick look back at the last crescent of sun setting
behind the distant mountains, Sarah ran to join Gene in the Hissing
Room.  
 
     The Hissing Room was an inside joke, really.  The main
processing room for Radio Imagery was filled constantly with the
low hiss of deep space radiation, and only the computers could
decipher the noise.  Besides that, the ventilation system rattled
constantly, a noise everyone learned to ignore.  The common joke,
told to new workers from the University, was that occasionally the
rattlesnakes got in, and everyone had to check to hear what _kind_
of hiss and rattle it was that they heard.
 
     Now there were several people carrying coffee cups surrounding
the monitor that displayed the radio images.  It was easy to tell
who here had tenure; they all carried their own personal coffee
mugs.  The grad students all used University mugs.
 
     "Okay guys, what do you have?"  To Sarah, these neat machines
were only useful as a means to an end, and she hated staring at
CRTs all day.

     "Here and here."  An older man with the beginnings of a paunch
gestured at the screen in front of him.  "It looks like part of a
signal from an object in the high atmosphere.  Track says it's
doing thirty plus."
 
     Sarah raised her dark eyebrows.  The tracking station said it
was traveling well above orbital velocity as it entered the
atmosphere.  That meant it was either a meteorite or a Defense
bird.  Her money was on Defense.
 
     "Can you figure a landing site?"  She grabbed her own mug, and
poured some more coffee into it.
 
     "Yeah, sure.  Looks like Mexico, Florida, or the Gulf.
Somewhere in that area.  Hell,"  he laughed cynically, "maybe the
DOD wants to drop a rock on Castro!"  This elicited a round of
laughs.
 
     "All right, all right. Everybody back to work.  The fun's
over, boys and girls."  As the group dispersed, Sarah snagged the
rough sleeve of Gene's shirt.  "Look, call this one in to
Wright-Patterson.  They may have dropped a satellite, and need to
pick her up."
 
     Gene nodded.  And got the ball rolling.
 
          *         *         *
 
     Dana Scully entered the main office block of the J. Edgar
Hoover Building without her briefcase.  She'd forgotten it in her
haste, and was trying to act like she hadn't forgotten a thing. 
She'd also overslept, and hoped no one noticed if her hair and
makeup didn't seem right this morning. But as she passed the many
Agents in the bullpen trying to look alert despite their red eyes,
she felt a little better.  She guessed this thing just happened
when spring arrived.
 
     She waved to the few people in the building she knew as she
headed for the back corridors of the building.  Descending a flight
of stairs, she wound her way back to the storage closet she and Fox
Mulder called an office.  She paused before the dark brown door,
reading the two names inscribed on plastic plaques there.  Mentally
gathering herself, she stepped inside.
 
     Mulder had all the lights out, and a slide projector set up on
her chair.  He'd managed to remove his folders from his desk, and
had the machine aimed at the space above his wall.  He was
straddling his own chair, facing her from across the room as he bit
into an apple.
 
     "Ooh, a presentation.  And on a Monday.  Mulder, I'm
impressed," Scully said dryly as she poured herself a cup of
coffee.  "Did you wait long for me?"
 
     "Not really."  He took another bite out of the crisp Red
Delicious and mumbled around the mouthful, "Ha' a good weekend?"
 
     Scully flushed in the darkness, surprised that Mulder had
provided her with cover.  "Actually, yes.  I got a lot accomplished
in New York."  Stirring her drink, she headed toward her corner of
the room.  As she walked past him, a small object dropped from her
rumpled suit to the floor.  It could barely be heard over the noise
of the projector, and Dana unknowingly left it behind. 

     He swallowed his bite.  "Sounds like fun.  Wanna tell me about
it?"

     "What's to say.  A bunch of doctors talking about corpses. 
Really fun way to spend a few days."  She hoped she sounded
convincing.
 
     "Too bad.  Your slip is showing."  Without another word, he
spun the chair back to the wall.  A touch to the control wand
advanced the slide machine to the first image.
 
     It was the a series of neon green lines on a dark background.
 
     "Let me guess. . . you taped a game of Pong, right?"  Scully
quipped as she checked her slip.  Sure enough, it was slightly too
long for her skirt.  Quickly she started hiking it up.
      
     "Close.  It's from an E-C3 conducting maneuvers off the coast
of Texas, in the Gulf of Mexico.  And this line,"  he pointed to a
bright track moving from west to east without looking back, "is the
radar plot of an object that splashed down offshore."
      
     Sighing, Dana perched on the edge of her desk, bumping into
something warm.  She looked down, and saw a large white Styrofoam
cup, glowing slightly in the darkness.  She guessed Mulder had left
it on her desk, and sipped at it.  The mocha was made the way she
liked it.
 
     "Scully, this picture's cute, too."  Mulder seemed oblivious
of her movements as he spoke.

     Scully raised her eyebrows in the dark as Fox clicked the next
slide into place.  It was a detailed overhead photo of an orange
and white building in the middle of a sea of blue water.  Next to
it sat a Coast Guard Cutter, dwarfed by the size of the construct.
 
     "This satellite photo was taken as they arrived by a KH
satellite DARPA handed over for USGS use.  It shows Exxon oil rig
number forty three.  Six days ago, the five man team reported
debris in the water, and sent a zodiac raft to check it out.  Five
days ago, they sent a call reporting a crewman ill, and an animal
loose on the rig.  That was their last radio contact.
 
     The Coast Guard cutter, Prometheus, was dispatched at Exxon's
request three days ago.  You can see it alongside the rig."
 
     "So let me guess.  Something happened to the cutter."  Scully
turned quietly under the cover of darkness to pull a lipstick case out
of her drawer, and apply some.  While her back was turned, Mulder
quickly scooped from the floor the item she had dropped.  Then he
smoothly advanced the projector to the next image.
 
     The slide was quickly replaced by a second image.  This one
was from a lower angle, and showed the rig on fire, and no Coast
Guard ship in view.
 
     "A bit more than something I'm afraid."  Mulder kept up his
patter as though he were doing nothing while he identified the item
she dropped.  "This is a little over a day later.  The captain
reported gunfire on the main deck, and that he was being boarded."
 
     "Boarded?  Like pirates?"  Scully drank some more mocha while
Mulder finished off his apple and pitched the core into a trashcan.
 
     "Well, I don't think they had eyepatches, Scully."
 
     "What do you think?" Dana turned about to flick on the lights,
and so wasn't watching Mulder when he pocketed the object.
 
     "I don't know, but we're headed for the Gulf to find out." 
There was childish excitement in his voice as he spoke.
 
     She turned back to look at him incredulously.  Setting down
her cup, she approached him, a line forming between her eyebrows.
      
     "Do I really have to remind you of what happened the last time
you booked us for a boat ride?  Let the military handle this."
     
     "They will.  But they asked for us, this time around."  Fox
smiled at the subtle irony.  "Your specialized knowledge of
'unknown biological hazards,' plus my own experience with
'recovered foreign objects' got us 'requested.'"  Fox used his
hands to shape the quotation marks.  "Besides, if civilian crimes
are committed, the Federal Bureau has jurisdiction."
 
     "Wonderful. Is Big Brother throwing us to the sharks, or do we
get any backup?"  Dana gathered up the files Mulder had been
working on, and tried to make some sense out of them.
 
     "We get back-up, Scully. Tons of back-up."  Mulder grimaced as
he picked up his jacket.  He slid his hand into his pocket,
fingering the foil wrapped condom Scully had dropped when she
walked into the office.  Without another word, Fox walked past
Dana, out the door.
 
     Scully watched him leave, puzzled.

          *         *         *
 
     Blackhawk helicopters are insectile machines, large and
threatening.  The one beating its way across the deep blue waters
of the Gulf of Mexico differed in no essential way.  It was low and
oblate, with a thick tail sticking out well past the rotor.  A pair
of cantilevered wings thrust out over the side doors, each mounting
a single oversized fueltank.  The nose of the craft held a
tremendous spike for mid-air refueling, and a reflective ball for
the night vision sight.  With its tail, hunched shoulders and low,
glittering nose it looked not so much like a machine as a monstrous
insect. 

     Inside, Mulder was smiling like a kid as he watched the water
slide by out one of the side windows.  He turned to his partner,
who barely managed a smile.  Dana was profoundly airsick, but the
sight of Fox peering about the cabin could still rouse her sense of
humor.  Fox was wearing a brilliant yellow life preserver, and a
large green helmet, with bulbous ear protectors.  With the
four-point restraints locking him to the sea gray side of the
helicopter, he was quite a sight.
 
     "It's not fair, Dana!"  Fox yelled over the tremendous noise
from the rotor and engine.
 
     Dana tapped the side of her helmet, pantomiming her hand back
and forth.  Fox shook his head, not understanding.  He gestured
with his hands but Scully didn't see him. She had to close her
eyes, suddenly sick at the sight of Fox's shaking head.
 
     The speakers in her helmet came to life with a crackle, and
Scully heard Mulder's voice, flattened by the electronics.  "Oh. 
The microphone.  Sorry, I forgot."
 
     Dana swallowed, and kept her head back against the padding
behind her. "What is it, Mulder?"
 
     "I was just saying it's not fair.  The military gets all the
cool toys, and we have to take Delta."  His soft voice was almost
swallowed by the sizzle and pop of the connection.
 
     "Mulder, I'd really rather be on a jumbo jet right now."  Dana
continued to breath deeply through her mouth.
 
     "Yeah, well a seven-forty-seven would have a hard time landing
on a cruiser."  He glanced briefly out the window, and then back to
Scully.  "Besides we'll be there in no time.  I can see the
_Elliot_ now."
 
     "Great."  Scully looked faintly green as the Blackhawk dropped
sharply toward the foaming wake of the ship below them.
 
     Dana refused to let go of her seat until after the sailors had
tied down the helicopter to the _Elliot's_ aft deck.  But when she
at last let go, she snapped off her release harness and scrambled
past Mulder.  She pulled the flight helmet off in a quick motion,
and kept her head down until she was past the reach of the rotor
blades.  Once she was clear of the squat helicopter, she stood up,
breathing the salty air deeply through her nose.
 
     A moment later, Dana turned back toward the aft chopper deck,
the wind whipping her hair about her face.  Mulder was standing
next to her, shaking a small green pill into his hand from a
prescription bottle.  He tried to ignore her as he dry swallowed
it.
 
     She remembered full well just how bad his seasickness was, and
hoped that the scopolamine helped.  "Why didn't you take that
before we left shore?"  She pushed her auburn hair away from her
mouth as she spoke.
 
     He didn't look away from the helicopter as he spoke.  "I
wanted to enjoy the chopper as much as you'll enjoy the boat."
 
     She patted his arm sympathetically.  The drugs would only take
away the nausea, not the dizziness.  She decided not to correct his
use of the word 'boat;' from the hard cast to his hazel eyes, he
wasn't in high spirits just now.
 
     Mulder moved a step away from her, away from Dana's touch. 
She started to ask him about it when she was stopped abruptly by a
bo'swain's whistle.  Two officers in tan uniforms came through the
aft causeway toward them, their faces stern.  "Mulder, heads up. 
It's the welcoming party."
 
     The two men stopped at regulation distance from the federal
agents and assumed an 'at ease' stance that looked anything but
relaxed.  The man on the left was perhaps a handspan taller than
Scully, and whipcord thin.  His shortsleeved tan uniform and open
collar exposed skin so dark as to appear blue-black.  The head
under his blue ship's hat was completely bald, and his young face
was stern.
 
     His companion was as tall as Fox, and twice as wide.  His
thick chest and powerful arms seemed too big for his shirt, and his
dark hair and beard were gray along the temples.  But the blue eyes
looking out from a nest of crow's feet were sharp and hard.
 
     Suddenly, the black man's deep set eyes snapped right to focus
on the agents.
 
     "Agents Mulder and Scully, I presume."  He barely waited for
Dana's nod. "Excellent.  I'm Commander Thurmann, the ship's XO. 
This is Lieutenant Dahburg.  My men are stowing your gear forward
with the rest of the team.  If you will follow me."
 
     The large ship rocked fore and aft, with sheets of spray
arcing over the hull as mist.  Despite the motion of the boat and
the confused look on Scully's face, he and his officer turned
about, and headed toward the portal they had come through moments
before.
 
     Fox looked over at Dana, smiling slightly.  "Nice to meet the
entertainment staff for this cruise."
 
          *         *         *
 
     When Mulder thought of a Captain's ready room, he thought of
Star Trek.  Mementos from prior commands, and hardbound books on
shelves in a subdued room.  A large desk and computer, situated in
front of a window, and plush carpeting.
 
     The reality was blindingly disappointing.  Actually, the
ceiling had pipes running across it fore and aft, and made Fox
mildly claustrophobic.  The walls were the same nondescript gray as
the remainder of the ship, and the shelves held spiral-bound
manuals.  The desk was small, but tidy, and a Mr. Coffee was bolted
to the blank wall behind it.

     In place of a dignified Patrick Stewart, or energetic William
Shatner, the Captain was a rotund man with faded brown hair and
large glasses.  The harsh lighting glinted off his bald spot and
frames as they were ushered into the room, but he remained at his
desk writing.  He finished the page, and flipped it to the other
side.
 
     Commander Thurmann announced their arrival to the Captain
before leaving.  The hatch closed behind the two agents, leaving
them standing in the middle of a pitching room out at sea, with a
man who remained hunched over his desk.
 
     Dana looked up at Mulder, hoping he would wait for this man to
talk first.  She knew he got along with the military like oil and
water, but hoped he'd hold it together.  She so much wanted for him
not to make his usual poor first impression.

     The Captain's pen scratched along the page for several more
seconds.  He stood, and looked back and forth between the two
agents.  Despite the Captain's unimpressive appearance, Mulder
looked into his eyes, and felt as though he was being measured.  He
suddenly wished he was in his usual dark suit and tie.  That kind
of uniform would be comforting when faced with such a frank
appraisal.  As was, the man looked him up and down, from his
Timberland boots and jeans, to his cotton shirt and leather jacket.
For a moment, he felt like he was twelve years old, facing his
father once again.
 
     Then his naturally ornery nature got the better of him, and he
stared the man right in the eye.  He'd be damned if some military
_jerk_ was going to keep him waiting, and then try to intimidate
him.  What he wanted was to bug this man.  Badly.  And Fox knew
he'd be expecting some overt display.  And so just to irk him,
Mulder pushed, didn't look away.  He just smiled knowingly.
 
     The Captain smiled back.  "Welcome to the _Elliot_, gentlemen. 
My name is Captain O'Byrn.  I've been expecting you." 

Mulder relaxed somewhat.  "Thank you.  Well, now that we're stuck
out at sea, would you like to tell us what you know?"  Dana let out
her breath.  That wasn't as bad as she'd feared. 

"Son, I'm the one who requested your presence." Mulder hated being
called 'son.' "You already know about the disappearance of the CGC
_Prometheus_, and that contact has been lost with Rig forty-three."


"Yes sir, we know about those incidents,"  Scully politely replied.

"At present we do not know what happened at either location.  Our
search will begin at the rig, and expand outward.  There is the
possibility of terrorist involvement.  As that the incident
occurred within US territorial waters, any criminal activities are
yours to investigate. The Navy is simply aiding in such an
investigation." 

Mulder had to interrupt.  "Does this mean that you think terrorists
are responsible for the object that deorbited near Rig forty
three?"  He was daring the older man to answer. 

O'Byrn leaned over his desk top.  "I do not want you repeating that
aboard my ship, mister.  And I sure as hell _will not_ ask where
you picked up that piece of data.  Am I being heard loud and
clear?" 

"Perfectly," Dana answered for Mulder.  "What my partner was asking
was the reason for our being here.  Other agents would be better
suited for anti-terrorist work." 

O'Byrn sat down, and took off his glasses.  He had brilliant green
eyes, but for a moment, they seemed very tired.  "I'm getting the
run around from my superiors.  My ship was pulled into dock, and
stripped to a skeleton crew before we were sent out on this
assignment.  I placed my call to Director Skinner before the flash
printer cooled.  Agent Mulder, I got a look at the same data you
did.  Only my superiors did not send it to me.  A friend did."
 
     "Somehow, I don't like the sound of this."  Mulder leaned
against the bulkhead next to the hatch.  The ship's motion was
beginning to upset his stomach.
 
     "I don't like the sound of it either.  Hell, when I asked my
C-in-C about it, he said a Soviet communication satellite burned
up.  At the same time, he placed a SEAL team on board, and set us
up with USAMRIID for biowarfare gear."
 
     Scully and Fox exchanged knowing looks.  This conversation had
entered Dana's area of expertise, and so she took over.
 
     "Do you think there is a possible biological contamination in
the area, Captain?"  She blinked slowly as she spoke.
 
     "I have no idea.  But I know you two had some damn good luck
with the USS _Arden_, and have seen more Class 4 biohazards than
any officers I could think of."  He turned away from Mulder, and
smiled at his partner.  "And I am sorry about dragging you into
this, Dana."
 
     Mulder had been watching O'Byrn speak, but at that he swung
around to see Scully blush and smile slightly.  Shocked, he looked
back to see the Captain smile as well.  Then he remembered.  Her
father had been a Navy man.
 
     "That's part of my job, Uncle Kane."  She smiled, and took
Mulder by the arm.  She dragged him out of the office before he had
a chance to shake a comment loose.
 
          *         *         *
 
     The forward hold of the _Elliot_ was a cavernous bay, poorly
lit by bulbs far above the floor.  Perishables and ammo were stored
here in formidable crates lashed to the grating underfoot.  The
whole room smelled of machine oil, and human sweat, and was as hot
as an oven.  The area was intended for a vertical launch missile
system, but budget cutbacks curtailed that idea.  Presently, the
room echoed the sound of the twin diesel turbines aft like a
cathedral to engineering.  Mulder was almost as uncomfortable  as
he would be in a church.  
 
     There was a silent crowd clustered together in the bay, and
Dana and Fox were the only two not in uniform.  Eight men in dark
gray fatigues lounged about on or near the crates.  Some were
sleeping, others stripping automatic rifles.  Two men sat shoulder
to shoulder, talking quietly. Three other officers, in pressed Army
fatigues, sat together around an overturned carton.  They were
quietly examining a sets of drawings.  It was unnerving that the
loudest noise they made was the rustling of their papers.  Last was
a man in the light blue of the Air Force, sitting quietly in the
corner.  Despite the darkness of the room, he continued to wear a
pair of aviator's sunglasses.  Fox pegged him as a spook, or
intelligence officer, immediately.
 
     "Cute.  We're going to go investigating with a strike force." 
Scully's aplomb took Mulder off stride.  He looked down to see her
frankly appraising the people before her.
 
     "I told you we had back-up.  If you don't like 'em, maybe
'Uncle Kane' can get some new ones."  His blank face, turned down
to her, met her eyes.
 
     "Honestly Mulder, I didn't know he'd be here until I read the
ship's name in the file on the way over."  Her blue eyes searched
his empty face.
 
     "Well, I for one am glad that the man with the biggest guns is
a bona fide good guy."  He faked a smile for her.  Mulder's
accustomed way to deal with unpleasant feelings was to dive
headlong into action.
 
     "Thanks."  She was glad he wasn't upset.  He didn't like the
military or surprises, so Uncle Kane was a bit much for him.  She
had thought that perhaps she should have warned Mulder in advance,
but hadn't wanted to.  It was just something she'd rather not go
into.
 
     Fox was, however, quite upset.  His partner and friend had
lied to him about where she'd been, and then casually omitted the
story about her 'Uncle Kane.' He couldn't think of too many reasons
why she would be doing all this.  The one idea that kept coming to
mind was that she didn't care for or trust him.  He shook his head
to clear his thoughts, and picked a target from the room.
 
     Without further ado, Mulder set out across the cargo bay,
making a beeline for the Air Force Officer.  Dana rolled her eyes,
knowing that her partner wanted to go trolling for trouble.  She
felt that he probably didn't even stop to think first.  After all,
being a skinny civilian in a dank hold with a small strike force
put him at no disadvantage, right?

     Dana pushed a wave of her copper hair back behind her ear, and 
quietly wound her way through the hold toward the back.  She wanted
to talk to the men in the back, whom she presumed to be the
USAMRIID team.  Perhaps she would be able to find out what was
planned, and still keep an eye on Mulder. 
 
     Fox, meanwhile, had picked up a small wooden crate labeled
'USN/SPL/1207-A Drd. Frts.' He walked a short distance before
depositing it a few feet in front of the Air Force officer. 
Fighting his nausea in order to smile broadly, Fox sat down on it. 
And despite being at eye level, less than four feet away, the
officer didn't move. 
 
     Mulder leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. "Hi!  My
name's Agent Mulder.  Everybody calls me 'Spooky.' I guess that
makes two of us, huh?" 

     The officer did not move. 

     "I'm here to see the aliens.  When they meet the President, I
mean.  How about you?"  The glint in his eye betrayed some of
Mulder's emotions. 
 
     The officer was completely quiet. 

     "Are you one of the corpses he's returning to them?"  When
Mulder's question wasn't answered, some of the animation drained
from his face. 
 
     Tentatively, he reached for the man's dark sunglasses.  He
hesitated a few inches away, but then resumed reaching for them. 
 
     The man's hand snapped up, clenching tight about Mulder's
wrist.  Fox, Dana, and several onlooking soldiers all jumped at
this. 

     "No, Agent Mulder, I'm not dead."  He remained expressionless
as he spoke. 
 
     "You could have fooled me."  Fox extricated his arm, not
without difficulty. "You seem to know me, but I don't know your
name."  He tried for the most saccharine voice he could, while
still sneering. 
 
     "I'm glad."  Mulder heard a snort behind him. 

     It suddenly dawned on Mulder that the soldiers lounging about
behind him were no longer lounging about behind him.  They were
surreptitiously watching as he made a fool of himself.  And thanks
to his own obnoxious sense of humor, he'd made it very difficult to
extricate himself from the situation.  He blinked, and wondered how
you backed away when you were sitting nose to nose with the
original Mr. Stoneface. 

     Thinking quickly, Fox smiled broadly, and announced in a loud
voice, "Nice to meet you Sergeant Glad!"  Now the spook had to
decide whether he wanted to put up with that, or come up with a
better name and rank. 
 
     "You, Agent Mulder, are in my way."  Glad hardly moved as he
spoke. 
 
     "Gee, I guess that makes me Glad, too."  Mulder heard another
snort behind him. 

     Slowly, Glad turned to face Mulder fully.  "You and me can
play all the games we want.  Later." 

     "Really?  The Reticulans play Three-Card Stud."  Mulder
smiled, enjoying every needle he could stick into the Air Force
Officer. 
 
     Glad lowered his glasses, exposing surprisingly warm brown
eyes.  "Once we hit that rig, stud, you'll be praying for aliens." 
 
     Mulder shared one trait, and one alone with the sociopaths he
excelled at profiling; he simply did not respond to punishment.  If
anything, his lopsided grin got bigger and tighter.  He opened his
mouth to burn Glad for that remark, but was halted by a light touch
on his shoulder.  He didn't need to turn to recognize Dana; it
seemed to Fox that the soft smell of her hair preceded her always. 

     "Mulder,"  she said with false lightness, "I've got some
papers you need to see.  Come take a look."  She stressed the last
ever so slightly. 
 
     Mulder looked up at Dana, her face only a foot away.  She was
wearing a flannel shirt and a red windbreaker over a thick white
tee shirt, though both were open.  Fox could see that she was
wearing her shoulder holster underneath, barely visible past the
curve of her breast.  Quickly he looked back up to meet the urgent
look in her eyes. 
 
     Fox hesitated momentarily as he watched Dana's eyes flicker.
"Yeah, sure Scully." 
 
     He stood up, and wavered slightly as the seasickness overtook
him.  For a second, his right hand opened, instinctively reaching
for Scully's shoulder.  But he would be damned before he did that,
doubly so with the soldiers watching.  Instead he gamely walked
away, fighting his balance and the sensation of hostile eyes
burning his back. 

     For a moment, he paused a few feet away, debating whether or
not Scully would let him fire a parting shot.  Her hand on his arm
tightened briefly, and he gamely followed her to the USAMRIID
encampment. 

===========================================================================

From: ez042725@chip.ucdavis.edu (Sean Smith)
Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
Subject: NEW STORY: ETCHED 2/13
Date: 3 Oct 1995 21:32:05 GMT


Part 2 of 13

Disclaimer in part 1 still applies. 

Copyright August 1995

Send all comments, criticisms to: ez042725@peseta.ucdavis.edu   
I want replies, damnit!

                Etched
                     by Sean Smith
                     ez042725@peseta.ucdavis.edu


     Scully quickly took a seat around the impromptu table with the
other doctors, and pulled on Fox's arm until he sank down as well. 
Before he could bollix a second meeting for the day, Scully decided
to intervene. 
 
     "Mulder, these are Doctors Whitman, Pryce, and Hadat.  They're
from the Army Infectious Disease Center."  She gestured to the
three men in turn. 
 
     Fox shook hands perfunctorily with each.  All had uniformly
dry hands, and the same firm, brief grip he did. 

     "Hi guys.  Bomb any California towns recently?"  Mulder's
smile was beginning to annoy Scully, so she surreptitiously kicked
his shin. 
 
     Three dour faces greeted Mulder's question, but the youngest
man, Whitman, smiled.  "No.  But I'm new to this assignment." 
 
     The oldest man, a short Major with a sad face, nodded in the
direction of Glad.  "Nice to see you want to antagonize the pit
bulls before you take them for a walk.  You have figured out that
he's the local Bad Man, haven't you?"  Scully could hear the
capitalized letters in Pryce's cultured voice. 
 
     "Yeah, I noticed.  I also noticed you guys are bringing
biohazard suits and respirators with your guns.  I guess that makes
you real friendly."  Seasickness had Mulder's stomach rolling, and
he felt like sharing some of the acid.

     "Mulder!"  Scully snapped.  "There's a good chance this is
caused by some biological contaminant, like we found in Alaska."

     Hadat chimed in, with a deep booming voice. "I cleaned up your
mess at that USGS station.  If you'd gone in with clean suits,
there would have been more people walking out."

     "Nice Monday Morning Quarterbacking, Doctor."  Fox kept his
eyes blank.  "But I don't seem to recall seeing you up there at the
time."

     Hadat looked grim.  "I'm here now."
 
     Mulder's jaw worked, though he appeared otherwise impassive.
After a moment, he waved his hand.  "Okay, so what have you got for
us?" 
    
     "These are the deck plans for the rig." Pryce gestured to the
somewhat crumpled blueprints spread out before them.  "The SEALs
are already familiar with this type of design, but we needed some
better information." 
 
     Mulder glanced up.  "How the living room is decorated?" 
 
     "No, just structural stuff.  As you can see, the derrick is a
warren of vents and shafts, used to cool machinery and people. 
Some of it vents air from the oil reserves, some vents from the
drills.  In any case, sealing it off in case there is a toxin or
virus aboard is damn near impossible.  Even if you ignored all the
rust holes and rats."  Major Pryce outlined these systems with a
pen as he spoke. 
 
     "I take it you do have a plan though."  Mulder wasn't asking
a question. 
 
     "Yes.  We go over and check the place out.  Any persistent
toxins get washed, any class 4 viruses, and the team lights the
rig." 
 
     Fox sat back.  "You plan on demolishing a multi-million dollar
oil rig?" 

     Hadat answered him.  "No, we don't.  But if we can't burn a
class 4 contagion out, the structure goes down.  Agent Mulder, if
the Hoover Building got hit by something that lethal, we'd burn it
out with formaldehyde." 
 
     "Now there's a project I can really get behind.  So what about
the possibility of terrorists?"  Now he actually looked curious. 
The intellectual puzzle pulled his attention away from how sick he
felt. 
 
     "The SEAL team will be going with us.  We'd need them in the
event we had to blow the rig, anyway." 
 
     While they were talking, Whitman leaned over Scully's
shoulder.  "Is he always this flip?"  he whispered. 
 
     "No," she hissed.  She didn't know what had gotten into her
partner suddenly. 
 
     Mulder stood up abruptly, "Well, guys.  Sounds like you have
everything planned.  Have fun.  And call me when you get back." 

     Whitman glanced at Pryce before he spoke. "Um, Agent Mulder,
you and Dr. Scully are coming with us.  Right?" 

     "Why?  Sounds like you have everything well in hand."  He
thrust his hands into his jean pockets. 
 
     "Mulder,"  Scully got up to face him, tuning the USAMRIID
people out.  "What is your problem here?" 

     In return, Fox simply eyed her intensely, his jaw working.  He
watched her silently until it became obvious that she was waiting
for him to say something.  Then it was his turn to take her by the
arm, and drag her away.  He pulled her along until they rounded a
large crate, and disappeared into the darkness. 
 
     "Okay Mulder, stop."  She pulled away as he let her go.  She
whispered to him, "Now do you want to tell me what's going on?" 

     "What do you mean, 'tell you what's going on'?"  Mulder
suddenly dropped the veneer of calm which had covered him.  "You've
been listening to these loony-tunes as long as I have." 

     Scully balled her fists.  Everything had to be a conspiracy
with Mulder, she thought.  And now he was mad at her for not being
rank and file in agreement with him from the start.  "I've been
listening to medical doctors outline a plan for the containment of
what may be a Level 4 biohazard.  If that rig has Anthrax, or
something similar, we can't afford to take chances." 
 
     Mulder leaned forward, his face pressing down toward her.
"Scully, I don't care if they've got Ebola over there.  The Navy
has hospital ships that can deal with it.  So does the Coast Guard. 
Hell, the Blackhawk is big enough to have been sent directly from
the mainland." 
 
     "What are you saying?"  She had a chilling idea of what he was
suggesting. 

     "They sent a ship out with _cruise missiles_ on the deck.  The
thing's got a cannon on the foredeck, and a hit team inside.  Why
divert a cruiser, unless you want to use it?" 

     "It could be the nearest ship.  It might need the smallest
crew.  It could be the easiest to seal against contaminants."  Fox
shook his head as she listed possibilities. "You have no reason to
believe this is some grand conspiracy." 
 
     "No?  How about us?  I get those pictures dropped off on my
doorstep.  Then two hours later the Navy wants us out here with
them.  Out with that killer in uniform, Glad!" 
 
     "Whom you've so graciously alienated.  If you honestly thought
he was a problem, why bait him like that?"  She arched an eyebrow,
her full lips pulled back in a grin. 
 
     "I wanted to know if I was right."  His hazel eyes were flat,
clouded. 
 
     "Right about what?  That Air Force officers have no sense of
humor?"  She tried keeping her face as straight as he, but her eyes
danced. 
 
     "No, that this is just meant to get me out on the ocean.
Alone."

     "You're hardly alone.  You've got me, my Uncle, and every
other member of the team here."  She couldn't keep the sarcasm out
of her voice.  She had to admit, this was a ridiculous argument. 

     "That was just what I was worried about."  Fox took a step
away from her. 

     Scully stood up straight at that, her slight smile gone
instantly.  A jumbled montage of Mulder's recent behavior flashed
warningly past her eyes before she spoke. "What does that mean?" 
Even to her own ears, her voice sounded tiny. 

     "You know what I mean, Scully." 

     "He's just my Uncle, Mulder.  For goodness sake, I trust him."

     "I know that.  So do a lot of other people." 

     "Mulder, you can't get rid of a cruiser.  And I trust Uncle
Kane."  She set her jaw, her arms crossed.  "So that means that you
can trust him, since you can trust me." 

     "I can?" 

     Dana stopped breathing.  How could he say something like that,
after all they'd been through.  "You know you can.  I wouldn't lie
to you."  He had her trust, completely.  And she'd always presumed
she had his.  How could they be this close, and still lack that
trust? 

     "Okay, Scully.  Let's try this morning one more time."  With
a smile resembling the grimace he'd assumed for 'Sergeant Glad,'
Fox leaned down again toward Dana.  "How was the weekend?" 

     Light dawned in her eyes, as cold as his.  She flushed red,
then white.  "That's what this is about?  My weekend?" 

     "No.  You lied to me."  His full lips never even paused as he
spoke, never betrayed a feeling. 

     Dana felt something trip high inside her chest, and her head
buzzed slightly with anger.  "Agent Mulder,"  she hissed through
clenched teeth, "Unlike you, I have a private life.  And it is just
that. Private." 

     With that, Dana turned about, and left Fox standing behind a
crate of toilet paper.  She never looked back as she headed to her
berth, furious.  She never saw Mulder's face crumple with grief. 

                              *    *    * 

     That night, the USS _Elliot_ was steaming south at ten knots,
just making headway against an approaching tropical storm.  Her
width and speed kept the deck level enough for a helicopter
takeoff.  But the bulk of the ship was visible only as an eerie
gray mass, for all the lights were out in accordance with wartime
procedures. 

     Dana couldn't tell what had her rattled the most.  Proceeding
into a hazardous area was bad enough, but doing so in a blacked out
military chopper was sickening.  And she was gathered with the rest
of the team in the mess hall just fore of the flight deck.  And
despite the close quarters, no one spoke as they were drilled on
the proper use of their biohazard suits. 

     Mulder was somewhere at the back of the room, out of Scully's
field of vision.  They hadn't seen one another in hours, and hadn't
spoken since she'd left him behind in the cargo hold.  Now it was
beginning to appear that this state of affairs would last a while. 

     She hoped he remembered to take the anti-nausea medications
she'd given him.  Vomiting in a sealed suit was a method of
insuring an ugly death. 

     The team suiting up consisted of sixteen members.  Agents
Mulder and Scully were the first two, and the Air Force officer
came next.  Then the three man USAMRIID team, and the ten Navy
SEALs.  All were clad in glossy olive drab suits that covered them
from head to toe.  They each had goggles and a face mask connected
by two hoses to an airtank on their backs. 

     Once Scully finished sealing the rubberized zipper and side
flap, she could barely hear over her own breathing.  The small
microphone and earpiece she wore were connected to a radio, and
through it she could hear what a microphone outside her suit picked
up.  She could also hear the rest of the team. 

     Her hands were thick and clumsy in the oversized gloves, and
she fumbled with her holster, trying to enlarge it to fit over her
suit.  A similarly gloved hand covered hers, and she looked up,
startled.  She couldn't see the man's face, but he was several
inches shorter than Fox.  He pulled the gun and holster from her,
and removed them from her shoulder rig.  Tossing the rig aside, he
clipped the gun to a web belt, and handed the assembly back to her. 
It fit well, and she wished she could smile at him. 

     "Thanks."  Her voice sounded odd to her own ears, and she
wondered what he heard. 

     "No problem, ma'am.  It's part of the service."  The name on
his suit read 'Peirson.'

     Then there was no more time for talking.  A short man briefed
them on their insertion, and extraction by helicopter.  Captain
O'Byrn wished them good luck and Godspeed.  And two sailors then
led the team out single file to the helicopter.  All through this,
Scully felt as though she were spinning. 

     The Blackhawk looked darker than the night itself as it
crouched on the flight deck.  Its thick rotor blades were already
whirring about over the heads of the team members clambering into
it.  A soldier, faceless behind the black visor of his flight
helmet, strapped Dana to the left side wall of the machine.  She
was wedged between two huge men, and not enjoying the takeoff in
the least. The nose of the craft tilted down suddenly, and with
a sickening leap the helicopter left the _Elliot_.  Dana's hands
were slick against the rubber gloves but there was nothing she
could do about it. 

     Breathing fast from airsickness, Scully began examining each
teammate around her.  She tried to distract herself from her
nausea.  The two men on either side of her were SEALs, she was sure
of that.  They had several pouches for explosives, and carried
CAR-15 assault rifles, like most of the others.  The CAR-15 was a
short, brutish version of the M-16, and designed for close
fighting.  It still remained a fully automatic weapon. 

     She saw the USAMRIID team strapped down across the chopper's
hold from her.  They were loaded down with medical gear, and their
suits had blue stripes across their upper arms.  Scully smiled when
one of those dark shapes waved to her. 

     Up near the nose, was where the rest of the SEAL team crouched
down.  None of these men were strapped down, and most held on to
grips near the open doors.  All these young men carried CAR-15s,
save two.  One held the much longer M-16, with some type of
wide-mouthed barrel slung underneath it.  The second carried a
Steyr AUG, something she'd only seen in movies.  The casing was a
smooth impact-plastic, and it held a monstrously huge clip, oddly
placed behind the pistol grip. 

     Behind her, in the rear two seats, sat Mulder and the officer
who still hadn't given his name. They were easy to tell apart;
Mulder's suit bunched under the shoulder rig he wore for his
pistol, while the other man carried an MP5 over his shoulder.  The
MP5 walked the middleground between sub-machinegun and pistol.  It
was small enough to be fired one-handed, but the kick was
tremendous.  It put out a rate of fire comparable to the squad's
machineguns, and still fit snugly under one arm.  It was an ugly,
terrorist's weapon, and Glad wore it comfortably.  He'd slung the
strap over his head in a way Scully could not have known was made
popular by Israeli commando teams.  The black thing in Glad's hands
made Mulder look fairly naked beside him. 

     Fox never looked once at the man beside him, or at Dana.  His
attention was firmly fixed out the window.  It was if he'd shut her
out completely.   Scully wanted to talk some sense into him, but
the radios were open; if she tried, everyone would hear her. 

     With nothing else to do, Dana stared out the nearest porthole. 
She no longer minded looking out the windows, for the uniform
blackness masked their height.  But the bouncing of the helicopter
itself upon the marine winds still unnerved her. 

     Her microphone came to life with the static-charged voice of
the pilot, "Heads-up people.  Thirty seconds to touchdown." 

There was almost no motion in the cramped hold, but Scully felt the
energy ramping up.  It was as if the approaching landing charged
everyone with the sense of danger.  Dana's heart was thudding like
a triphammer in her chest.  She swallowed tightly, and glanced back
at her partner.  He still looked away. 

     "Nine meters."  Through the windows, Dana saw the scaffolding
of the derrick rise over them like burnt bones. 

     "Three meters."  The helicopter pitched nose up sharply, and
everyone hung on tightly.  The soldier behind Scully steadied her
with a hand below her ribs. 

     "Down and clear."  At the pilot's words, the Blackhawk bounced
down against the steel deckplates. 

     "Move out.  Two and two."  The squad leader never looked back
as seven of his nine men followed him quietly out of the chopper. 
They were out and against the buildings in less that three seconds.

     With a rush of air and noise, the Blackhawk ripped free of the
landing platform, and dove off the derrick.  Dana's stomach shot
into her throat as the pilot yanked hard on the collective
controls, leveling off a few feet from the wave crests.  Then he
began circling the rig. 

     With a start, Dana realized that the two soldiers next to her
hadn't left with the rest of the team.  She looked up, startled to
find the masked face looking down at her. 

     "We'll be right here, ma'am.  We're going in with you all." It
was Peirson. 

     With that the chopper beat its way into the air again, only to
hold itself over the rig.  Scully's hand shot to her stomach. 

     "Oh, God."  It was that quick, quiet tone used by med students
when they start their first autopsy. 

     "Easy, there.  We'll be down in a few."  Peirson kept a quiet
hand on her arm.  It was . . . familiar. 

     "Nine meters."  Now Dana kept her eyes shut on approach,
missing the look Fox shot her. 

     "Three meters."  Again the helicopter pitched nose up sharply.
Peirson kept a firm hand on Scully, steadying her. 

     Now the helicopter fairly slammed onto the deck, and Scully
heard the whine of the engine die away.  Peirson snapped the
restraints from himself and Scully, and quickly hustled her off the
machine. 

     Still dizzy with airsickness, Dana could hear the pounding of
feet as everybody ran into the nearby shelter.  She was oblivious
to the sound of the Blackhawk taking to the darkened sky behind
her.  It wasn't until the door closed behind her, and she pressed
up against a wall that she felt human again. 

     One of the SEALs chimed in over the radio, "Welcome to the
caverns, everybody."  Dana turned, noting that the square man was
named Soun. 

     Then as her dizziness passed, Scully realized why Soun used
the word 'caverns.' The walls were burnt black and pitted, as if by
fire.  The roof had cracked in several places, through which water
trickled.  But in the center of the floor was a roughly circular
hole six feet across.  As she leaned forward to peer down, she saw
that the metal flooring had melted and run down into the next
level.  And the hole continued down three floors. 

     The entire team was lining the perimeter of the room, eyeing
the hole and the walls warily. 

     The soldier in charge of the SEAL team, Lt. Quiddis spoke up. 
"We've checked out the upper floors, and the gantries.  There's
nobody home here. The second helicopter platform is a complete
loss, and so's the Coastie's chopper." 

     Mulder interrupted quickly.  "So why move us in so soon?" 

     Lt. Quiddis never stopped looking around as he answered.  "I
can't find a serious threat here." 

     "Well, how about whatever made that hole. I'll call that a
threat."  Fox's humor was lost on the soldiers. 

     "Agent Mulder, we have no idea what did that." 

     Peirson spoke up.  "If it was an explosion, the roof'd be
gone.  Same for a fire.  Could be a slow thermite burn through, but
why would you use it?"  He directed his question toward Dana. 

     Major Pryce cut through the tense conversation.  "Okay, so
it's clear up top.  So let's set up our lab in the hanger on
Platform Two, and you guys can clean out the lower levels.  We'll
start speculating once we have some information.  Snap to it
people" 

     With that, nearly everybody started hustling about.  All but
the two Agents, and Glad. 

                              *    *    * 

     The USAMRIID team had co-opted the three people, using them to
help set up a rudimentary laboratory on Platform Two.  It was set
up with a small quarantine box, and material for testing.  If there
was a bacteriological or virological agent on the rig, they could
find and quantify its abilities. 

     While Dr. Scully worked setting up equipment, she ran over the
layout of the facility in her head.  Platform Two was the second of
the four major sections of the rig itself.  Each Platform was some
six levels high, and centered over one of the four pylons that
anchored the rig to the ocean floor.  Down the center of the rig
was the scaffolding that ran downward to the oil piles. 

     Platform Two was mainly for industrial use.  It contained
machine shops, the generators, the hangers, both helicopter pads,
and the dock.  This section was heavily fire damaged above the
third floor, and one of the two helo pads was gone.  Indeed, it was
the fire in this section that she'd seen in Fox's photograph. 

     Platform One was purely living quarters.  It took a lot of men
to keep everything on the derrick running, and they were given
ample room.  There were dormer rooms, and recreational areas.
Weight rooms, and restrooms sat alongside a small television room,
and well-sized kitchen.  Where ever these men were now, they had
left an excellently provisioned rig. 

     Platform Three was administrative.  Offices for bureaucrats,
and a small hospital were set up in this area.  Scully had thought
this would make a better place to set up a lab, but Pryce had said
no.  Their hospital would be the most likely source of any
infectious diseases. 
 
     And Platform Four was mostly machinery.  The desalinization
equipment and water treatment equipment was set up here.  It was
squashed into the rig's corrugated walls next to the oil and
ballast pumps, and the climate control evaporators. 
 
     And a network of corridors, ducts, and pipes connected these
sections, strung along the steel beams of the rig itself. 
 
     Scully finished laying out the chemical agents, and saw that
Mulder was still working.  He and Whitman were bolting together the
plastic panels of the small quarantine container.  Manipulating the
tools in their heavy gloves was difficult, and Fox dropped his
wrench repeatedly.  Presently, he was kneeling inside the lexan
box, attaching the airtight interior seals. 
 
     Dana looked about the blackened hanger, and saw that the rest
of the USAMRIID team was finishing their setup. 

     She walked up behind Mulder, and tapped him on the back.  He
tried to shoot to his feet, only managing to slam the crown of his
head into the plastic. 

     Dana jumped back as Fox swore sharply.  The headset radios
broadcast a few choice imprecations to the other doctors, who
laughed softly to themselves. 

     "Ow.  What is it Scully?"  Fox didn't sound happy as he rolled
into a sitting position.

     Scully winced inside her mask.  This wasn't starting out
right.  "I was wondering if you needed any help." 
 
     "I do now."  Mulder rubbed his head, and held out a hand. 
"Hey, Whitman.  You wanna help an old man up?" 
 
     Dana nearly stepped forward to help him before she realized
that he wasn't talking to her.  It burned her that he would be so
deliberate about shutting her out.  Everybody in the hanger
suddenly became preoccupied with their work. 

     Whitman pulled Mulder to his feet, and then started across the
hanger floor.  "Got work to do.  I'll help finish up in a minute." 
He made a quick escape. 

     "Okay, Mulder.  You want to talk now?"  She set her feet, her
gloved hands folded about her arms. 

     "We've got work to do.  You want to give Pryce a hand while I
finish this?"  His tone was neutral, but Dr. Scully wished she
could see his face through his suit's mask. 

     Instead she took a deep breath.  Mulder's posture was loose,
and he kept facing Scully.  She reached up, and turned off her
radio. 
 
     He paused momentarily, then turned his radio off.  Dana walked
up to him, and the gunbelt settled lower on her hips as she moved. 
She decided to ignore it, concentrating instead on her partner. 
 
     She reached up, and grabbed one of his air hoses, using it to
pull his head down to her level.  For a moment he resisted, before
letting her.  She pressed her masked face up to his, and started
talking. 
 
     "Can you hear me?"
 
     "Barely.  But I don't know why."  His voice was muffled,
strained. 
 
     "Conduction of vibration, Mulder."

     "No.  I mean why all this."  She knew what he'd meant.  Dana
had just chosen to ignore him. 

     "Mulder, just stop this, all right?  We've got to work
together here, and I'm tired of your attitude."  She knew this
wasn't the time or place for this conversation, but there was
little she could do. 
 
     "Just another reason for you to be tired today, huh Scully?"

     Dana stopped cold.  Indeed she hadn't slept much recently, and
now Mulder was pushing her buttons.  She felt genuine affection for
this man, and she'd relished every opportunity she had to summon
his soft smile.  She'd learned to like the double edged humor he
protected himself with.  But now he had turned that against her. 
 
     She pressed her mask against the side of Fox's wounded head. 
"How dare you!  What the hell gives you the right to be involved in
my life?" 
 
     "You're my partner."  Again, he sounded cold and distant as he
spoke. 
 
     "Yes.  And that's it.  No less, no more.  Got it?"  She was
absolutely calm, and rock solid as she spoke.  But she kept her
arms crossed, lest he notice that her hands were shaking inside the
gloves. 
 
     Mulder pulled his head back, and snapped on his radio. 
Standing over her in his suit, Fox was a nameless, faceless body. 
One she didn't even recognize. 

     Dana's lips were pressed tight, fighting against tears she
didn't want to shed.  Momentarily, she was thankful for the
anonymity lent by the layers of rubber. 
 
     Then Mulder spun suddenly, and ran for the door.  Scully was
shocked to see the USAMRIID team and Glad all following suit.  For
a long puzzled moment, she was lost.  Then the obvious occurred to
her, and she flipped her radio back on. 

     It hissed in her ear.  "-again, we found some people.  I
think." 

     The radio continued to crackle as Agent Scully drew her
pistol, and followed the rest of her team. 
 
===========================================================================

From: ez042725@dale.ucdavis.edu (Sean Smith)
Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
Subject: NEW STORY: ETCHED 3/13
Date: 4 Oct 1995 17:37:40 GMT


Part 3 of 13

Disclaimer in part 1 still applies. 

Copyright August 1995

Send all comments, criticisms to: ez042725@peseta.ucdavis.edu   
I want replies, damnit!


                Etched
                     by Sean Smith
                     ez042725@peseta.ucdavis.edu


     The power was out below the fifth level of Platform Two, and
when the USAMRIID team threw open the stairwell door, only a black
pit awaited them.  Scully could see the high power beam from
Mulder's flashlight bounce down the stairs.
 
     "We're on level three, north face.  And bring the bags; it's
rough looking in here."  Scully unclipped her own flashlight, and
continued down after Fox.
 
     Level three was a mess.  Dark metal cabinets hung open on torn
hinges.  The overhead lights and ducting were shattered.  The walls
and floors were burned through in places.  All the walls were
scorched, and smoke still drifted from insulation panels.  Dr .
Scully was glad she was breathing from an air tank.

     "Peirson, pop a flare for illumination."  She heard the
Lieutenant's orders over her radio as she ran down the hall after
everyone.  The radio sizzled momentarily.  Then she heard Whitman's
voice.  "Oh God . . ." 
 
     She nearly ran into him as he stumbled out of a charred
doorway to her left.  Dana grabbed his arm, and pulled him around. 
 
     "You alright?"  She pulled his face down to hers, and tried to
peer through his goggles into his eyes in the dark. 
 
     "Yeah.  Yeah."  He leaned against the wall, sucking in deep
breaths.  As Scully went to walk past him, he tried to grab her
arm.  "No!  Don't go in there." 

     She shrugged him off and entered the room, finding the entire
team transfixed by the sight around them. 
 
     The large, open area was still clogged with smoke, and
Scully's flashlight played off charred ruins.  Sticking up over a
fractured pump was the burnt remains of a human hand, still
clutching a shotgun. 

     The walls were warped from the heat, and the peeling remains
of blood and paint decorated them like unholy lace.  Here and
there, the walls were peppered with small burn marks, and many
puckered bullet holes.  As her flashlight's beam wandered about the
room, it showed smoking arms and legs, torn chest cavities, and
gleaming bone. 
 
     She shut her eyes, and breathed deeply.

     Mulder's voice brought her eyes open.  "Well, anybody want to
take bets on a virus?" 
 
     Strewn about the room were the remains of three dead Coast
Guard sailors.  Only Dr. Scully could tell the number, however.  No
one else in the room had the presence of mind to add up the number
of skulls. 
 
          *         *         *

     The soldiers had the dubious honor of collecting the remains,
and transporting them to the hanger on level six.  The makeshift
litters were made using buckled cabinet doors.  The procession was
armed, and every member looked about, expecting to see armed men
appear from around every corner. 

     The blacked out staircase was a nightmare in the dark.  Scully
led the soldiers upward, her pistol held next to her head.  She had
to adjust her grip at each landing, because the glove prevented her
from easily fitting her finger inside the trigger guard .  But it
was easy to think about her gun, and the narrow swath of stairwell
she carved out with her light. 

     Easier than thinking about anything else.  Like the sundered
bodies behind her.  Or the inky darkness pressing in about her. 
Much better to concentrate on the sound of your own breathing
echoing in your ears, than the idea of viri crawling all over your
suit.  Far better to concentrate on the heavy sounds of the team
ascending the metal stairs, than the confounding partner she was
leaving behind. 
 
     Soon, she had reached the last doorway, and she stopped,
gesturing for the rest of the team to stop.  A suited man with a
rifle quickly pushed his way past everyone else, and joined her at
the doorway.  She brushed her light along his chest, reading the
name Peirson. 

     "Peirson, on three.  Okay?"  She was winded just by the weight
of the suit and tank, and the stress showed in her voice. 

     "On three.  Um, Scully . . . Do you mean the door?"  He
sounded lighthearted, and not in the least fatigued. 
  
     The other soldiers had been as silent as pallbearers for
several minutes.  Now they all bustled with rough humor.  Until the
Lieutenant randomly smacked someone in the head. 

     "Knock it of, all of you!  Peirson, on your own time!"  Scully
flushed behind her mask as the Lieutenant upbraided his men. 
 
     She decided to ignore it.  "One."  She stepped up alongside
the wall. 
 
     "Two" Both spoke in synch as Peirson moved up in front of the
door, his rifle at the ready. 
 
     "Three!"  She spun the latch unlocked as he kicked the door
open.  Then he stepped left, and covered the left side of the
hanger, while Dana spun out into a trapezoidal stance.  She brought
the gun down to her side when she was sure there was no one on her
right. 

     "Hey, El-Tee!  We're clear up here."  Peirson slung his rifle
over one shoulder, and held the door open for the rest of his team.

      A series of remains, each tentatively identified as belonging
to one individual, were then slowly deposited in the makeshift lab
by the SEAL team. 
 
     Scully looked through the open hanger doors at the night sea,
visible only as a gray field.  She wondered just what turned this
place into a killing ground.  It was her job as pathologist to find
out what. 
 
          *         *         *
 
     "Time to go, Mulder."  Pryce was holding a small flashlight as
he stood in the open doorway to the room in which the men had died. 
>From the way he cast the beam back and forth, frequently looking
around the hallway, the charnelhouse bothered him. 
 
     "Hey, Agent Mulder.  We have to get back." 

     Fox had long since ceased to sift through the ashes for shell
casings.  He'd even given up tracing the holes in the walls with
his hand.  Now he stood in the center of the twisted mess, his
evidence baggies gripped tightly in his hand, and both arms wrapped
about his chest. 
 
     Whitman turned from where he'd been taking samples.  "Sir, are
you okay?" 

     Mulder stopped looking around the room, instead intently
peering at the ceiling.  He didn't see Whitman approach him from
behind. 
 
     "Sir-"  Whitman tapped him on the back, and Agent Mulder spun
about, the muzzle of his pistol shaking in the young doctor's face.
Whitman let out a yelp, and fell backward onto the floor. 
 
     "Jesus H. Christ!  What the hell do you think you're doing?" 
Pryce closed in on Fox, his hands in fists.  Fox raised a hand to
his mask, and switched his radio back on. 
 
     "Sorry there."  He holstered his firearm and helped Whitman to
his feet.  Whitman was still shaking. 
 
     "Sorry?  Dammit!  Get a light on Whitman, and I mean now!" 
Pryce started going over the other USAMRIID officer's P3 suit with
his own light.  "Check for punctures.  And I mean NOW!"
 
     "Oh Jesus no.  Not, not . . . like them?"  Whitman's voice had
gone soft and thick. 
 
     Hadat grabbed his hands and pulled Whitman about to face him.
"Not a chance, son.  Just breath deep in there.  Breathe."  While
he spoke, Mulder turned his Bureau Flashlight on the kid's back,
checking him quietly. 

     For two tense minutes, the four men panicked, and prayed. 
Whitman was checked from head to foot, and no punctures could be
found.  But before Whitman could let out his breath, Major Pryce
had rounded on Mulder. 
 
     "Goddamn it.  What were you thinking, turning off your radio?" 
He was furious, and still wasn't calmed down.  "You could have
killed that kid!  Either tearing his suit, or shooting him." 
 
     Mulder picked up his baggies of evidence before answering. 
"You were making too much noise for me to think.  And Whitman
startled me is all.  Besides, the safety is on my pistol." 
 
     "Agent Mulder, if any one of us punctures our suit, we would
be exposed to whatever is on this rig." He grabbed the leather
strap of Fox's shoulder holster, shaking him for emphasis.  "Do you
get it?" 
 
     Mulder pulled away.  "I'm sorry.  But you can relax, there's
no virus here." 
 
     "And now you've got a medical degree too.  I'm not impressed."

     "Well I am.  But you're right about one thing; it's time to
get out of here." 
 
     "We're not through with this one."  Pryce pointed at him
sharply. 
 
     "No, we're not.  Just go prove for yourself there's nothing
here." 
 
     Pryce spun and slammed the door behind him.  A nearby pipe
hissed, its seal undoubtedly broken.  Mulder took Whitman by the
shoulder and helped him out of the room. 
 
     "You okay?"

     "Yeah, I'm fine.  And I know it's not your fault.  The Major
just gets like this."  They quickly started up the stairs. 

     "I guess neither of us is in a good mood."  Mulder swung the
flashlight behind himself at odd intervals.  He thought he heard
something scraping the metal floors. 

     "No problem.  Uh, Mulder . . ."  Whitman paused.  "Just leave
your radio on, though." 

     Reaching the door to the hanger, Mulder stepped through before
locking it.  "No problem." 

          *         *         *
 
     Dr. Scully was already talking to the USAMRIID team by the
time Mulder made his way across the cavernous hanger to her.  The
other doctors were talking to her from across one of the charred
corpses.  Fox stepped up to the foot of the examination table,
chilled by the sight of these rubber-suited doctors calmly talking
over maimed and burned body. 

     Dana interrupted Pryce with a raised hand as Mulder
approached. "Good news or bad first." 
 
     "I'll take the bad first.  Seems appropriate somehow."  He
started to rest his hands on the table, then rethought the idea. 
Although the suit was sealed, he imagined he could smell the body. 
 
     "Well, according to the level and penetrance of tissue damage,
that room was over four-hundred degrees centigrade."  She gestured
toward the remains, its joints flexed and locked by the heat. 
"That was enough to destroy most of the evidence, including any
information on the possible presence of a contaminant." 
 
     "But you've got good news."  Fox managed to keep facing her,
silently glad for the mask that hid her eyes. 
 
     "Yes.  Peirson and I conducted scrapings, based on some
bloodstains he found in the hallway."  Dana reached behind her, and
Peirson handed her several small cases.  Each had a soft waxy
substance lining the bottom. 
 
     "Gee Doctor Scully, you and Peirson seem good at scraping." It
slipped out past gritted teeth before he could stop himself.  She'd
brought his temper up, and it took hold faster than he could think.

     Dana froze for a moment, biting the tip of her tongue.  She
didn't know what to do when her partner and friend undermined her
in front of her colleagues.  If it were anyone else, she thought,
I'd just dismantle them.  Shit. 
 
     Peirson turned on Fox, but said nothing.  He just touched her
back softly through the suit. 
 
     Dana stepped away quickly. She was sure that Peirson meant
well, but he was just throwing gas on the fire.  And she now had
the other doctors' attention, but for the wrong reasons. 
 
     She cleared her throat. "We. . . I inoculated several
varieties of bacterium samples we brought from the _Elliot_.  Over
the last hour and a half, no plaques have formed."  She set the
samples down and turned to Mulder.  "That means no virus has killed
off areas of the bacteria." 
 
     "Well, that fits in with what I found down below."  He
swallowed an acid comment, and tossed his baggies of evidence onto
the metal counter.   They rattled sharply at the twisted foot
remaining on the corpse. 
 
     Dr. Scully waited patiently.  She knew how Mulder liked to
explain his ideas, and knew that he'd simply be more difficult now
that he was angry. 
 
     Hadat wasn't nearly as patient.  "What exactly did you find,
Mr. Mulder."  He purposefully omitted Fox's title. 

     "Aside from a lot of ashes, not too much."  Hadat threw his
hands up.  "But all the shells I collected had expended firing
caps.  They expended all their ammo, and nothing cooked off in the
fire." 
 
     "So they shot one another.  That still doesn't explain why." 
Pryce was interested in this, against his better judgment.  In the
midst of that mausoleum, he'd forgotten to check for shells. 
 
     Surprisingly, it was Dana that answered.  "They didn't shoot
one another.  None of these remains showed any sign of bullet
wounds, though all had compound premortem fractures of the long
bones, and substantial soft tissue damage." 
 
     "Did you find bite marks?"  Mulder found himself talking to
his partner normally again, pulled into their relationship by the
mystery at hand. 
 
     "Not really."  She was uncomfortable with the way he was
dropping into his usual role, as though nothing was wrong. 

     "Not really?"  Inside his heavy mask, Fox's head tilted ever
so slightly at this. "What does that mean?" 
 
      "What? Oh . . ."  Actually, she was having a hard time
keeping her mind on the autopsy results.  Dana was still marveling
at the way Fox could shift gears, both personally and
professionally.  "One victim, an unidentified male, was found to
have a six point five centimeter circular hole in his skull,
located three centimeters above his brow ridge.  The brain was
destroyed, and I found fragments of bone within the soft tissues. 
There was no corresponding exit wound." 
 
     Pryce picked up the folder Dr. Scully had been writing in
earlier.  "That's nice, doctor.  But that sounds like a pistol
wound.  Large caliber, wadcutter round." 

     "That's what I thought at first.  But there are some anomalies
here."   She picked up the severed head and held it out to Major
Pryce.  "As you can see, there are deep grooves in the bone along
the sides of the entrance wound.  Unless someone filed the edges of
a bullet hole after this man was shot . . ." 
 
     "Well, that's not likely."  The doctors turned to look at
Mulder again.  "I found metal shrapnel about the room, stuck in
some furniture in a few places.  It looks like a stray round set
off a kerosene can nearby.  Those men were firing randomly, and one
of them hit the kerosene they'd brought with them.  Then whatever
they were shooting at got to them before the flames did." 
 
     There was a long moment of silence, while four medical doctors
stared at the small pieces of metal lying in the palm of his hand. 
He glared at Scully, knowing she couldn't see him, wanting her to
say something.  The moment was broken by a low, appreciative
whistle over their radios. "Damn.  That's a hell of a
reconstruction there, Slick." 

     Hadat spoke up gruffly, "There's no way you can be certain of
all that, that, . . . conjecture." 
 
     The Lieutenant slowly walked up behind Mulder, and took the
fragments from his hand.  He brought each piece close to his
goggles, and inside his suit he bit his lip. 

     "Well, people, that setup fits these fragments, the shells,
and the bodies.  Sounds like a pretty good call to me."  Quiddis
let the fragments tinkle softly to the examination table.  "So does
this mean you suspect they were killed by a wild animal in the
middle of an ocean?" 

     "I've got lots of ideas.  But we'll need to search this rig
top to bottom for more evidence."  The radio static broke Fox's
smooth voice repeatedly.
 
     Peirson interjected his own thoughts as he stepped up behind
Dr. Scully.  "Evidence?  Like this isn't enough for you?  Some kind
of big dog killed them.  That Soviet satellite was testing
something, it came down, and their pet project killed these
people."  He waved over Dana's shoulder to the shriveled body on
the table.  "It's biowarfare, and it's not our problem.  We scorch
the rig and go home." 

     Major Pryce held up his hand, stopping the young man.  "What's
this about a satellite?"

     A loaded silence descended immediately over the team.  Scully
realized sharply that the entire SEAL team was heavily armed.  From
the quick head movements from the suited USAMRIID team, they too
had the same thought.
 
     And Peirson was just inches behind her.
 
     Her breath caught, adrenaline spreading like a cold snap
through her chest.  Dana was suddenly conscious of just how thin
her P3 suit was.  A drop of sweat slid from her mask's headband and
ran down her temple tremulously.  She stiffly turned away from
Peirson, her ice blue eyes wide behind their goggles.
 
     As she turned, she saw Peirson's whole body tense under the
rubber of his suit.  "I'm sorry.  I shouldn't have-"

     Now Quiddis barked at him, "Secure that mouth, damn it!"
 
     Quiddis slapped futility at his mask, wishing he could scratch
an itch under his jaw.  Behind him, his men rubbed gloved fingers
together, feeling the sweat-soaked rubber between them and their
weapons.  Quiddis looked up in the air, and swore softly. 
 
     He brought his head down, and spoke softly.  "Okay.  I'm going
to pretend you never heard a thing.  So are my men.  Right?" 
 
     Ever so softly, eight men joined in. All sounded embarrassed,
upset.  Peirson watched Scully's stiff frame, and spoke only to
her.  "Of course." 
 
     Fox cleared his throat, and spoke loudly.  Scully nearly
jumped at the noise.  "Well, now that we all know what were not
talking about, an air force jet tracked something reentering the
atmosphere around here." 
 
     "Mulder!"  Scully and Quiddis both cried out, the tones
entirely different. 

     Ignoring Dana, Mulder rounded on Quiddis.  "How much do you
want to die here, Lieutenant?" 
 
     Quiddis unsnapped the embossed leather cover to his sidearm.
"Are you threatening me, Agent Mulder?" 
 
     Impossibly, the temperature in the dark hanger dropped again,
and Dana suddenly found she couldn't hear her own breath in her
ears. 
 
     "No, I'm telling you.  If we don't know exactly what's going
on here, we are going to die."  He leaned forward intently.  "But
not because of me.  Because whatever killed these men will kill us
too."
 
     "I'm talking national security." The Lieutenant's voice went
up.  
 
     "So am I.  What if you drag the next plague home with you? 
What if it goes through sealed suits?"  Mulder paused, knowing that
he had made the claustrophobic confines of everyone's suits feel
like traps. "If the doctors here can't figure out what happened,
that's it.  None of us go back.  Ever." 
 
     Lt. Quiddis turned around slowly, his mask scanning his men. 
No one needed to see his face to understand the shock written on
it. 
 
     "Do you get it?  No one would risk bringing you home until you
can prove you're okay.  And there's a warship out there, waiting
for us.  Now, do you still want to keep secrets Lieutenant?" 
 
     Scully held her breath.  This was a dangerous game he was
playing.  How this man would react was damn near unpredictable, and
she wondered whether Fox would goad him over the edge. 
 
     Quiddis circled back to the USAMRIID team, and rubbed his
gloves together.  "An E-3 picked up a CIS satellite, dedicated to
biowarfare projects.  It dropped into the ocean near here, and we
think the workers spotted it, and brought the capsule onto their
rig.  We're here to find the capsule.  Need anything else?"  His
voice was tired. 
 
     Hadat thought for a moment before speaking.  "What was in it?"
Even he sounded guarded. 
 
     "That's all I was told.  A CIS biowarfare lab in space."  He
grabbed a lab stool and dropped onto it, slapping his thigh with
his hand.  "And Peirson, fuck up like that again, and you'll never
see another mission." 
 
      "Yes, sir."  Neither man looked at one another.
 
      Mulder jumped in. "Okay, so its time we search the rig."
 
     "Mulder,"  The tight note in Scully's voice brought him to
face her. "When did you last see Glad?" 
 
     Mulder didn't answer.  He simply spun sharply, scanning the
hanger for Glad.  He stopped, lost in thought while the SEAL team
tried to contact him over the radio. 
 
     Quiddis jumped to his feet. "The spook isn't answering. Think
he's . . . sick?" 
 
     Fox turned on the soldier.  "No.  He's insurance." 
 
          *         *         *
 
     Colonel Ryan White tore at the fittings to his sealed suit. 
He managed to free himself of its sweaty embrace, and with it the
last vestiges of 'Sergeant Glad.' Gone was the man who had sparred
with Agent Mulder; now, he felt untouchable in his element. 
Ducking, he retrieved his MP5 again. Rising quietly, he kicked the
suit into a dark corner, and slung the submachine gun over his
head.  The small nightvision visor fit about his temples, settling
into the groove worn by the mask.  Now he was ready. 
 
     The rusty hatch that lead out of Platform Two loomed before
him in the pitch darkness.  Through his visor it seemed an unsteady
admixture of deep green shades as he unlatched it and threw it
open. 
 
     Beyond it was a dark gray field, lit up by the stars overhead. 
He could hear the crash of the waves against the pylons below him,
and smell the raw sea air.  But most important, he saw the web-like
shape of the gantry that linked Platforms Two and One.  It bounced
and rattled under him as he crossed, the muzzle of his weapon
searching above him, along the windows of the crew quarters. 

     He found the door into the crew quarters sealed shut.  The
gangway led only back to the hanger, forcing his hand. 
 
     He pulled from a thigh pocket a thin coil of white plastic,
known as Det-cord.  He pressed it into position about the edge of
the doorway, plunging the detonator caps deep into it on either
end.  He ran quickly for cover behind Platform Two's doorway,
before triggering the explosives. 
 
     The small whooshing thump burned a thousand degree hole in the
door, and blasted it inward.  The noise of the metal hatch crashing
to the floor seemed louder than the explosion, for the quick
concussion wave was pitched too low to be heard fully.  Again, Col.
White ran down the gantry, this time ducking into Platform One. 
 
     The suit radio was still tucked to his ear, the microphone
sealed up.  He'd heard the discussions going on, and knew Quiddis
wouldn't do the job. 
 
     Thankfully, he thought, oil burns well. 
      
          *         *         *

     "No, stay with the doctors.  We can't let Glad double back!"
Mulder was shouting unnecessarily into his microphone as he held
the stairwell door open for the SEAL team. 
 
     Scully winced along with the rest of the team as his words
blasted into her right ear, but her gun never wavered.  Instead,
she stopped running for the door, staring at Fox as the last man
passed him. 
 
     Without a word he disappeared through the door, his slick
rubber suit blending with the darkness as he descended into the oil
rig.  Then the heavy metal door closed with a resounding clang. 
 
     She blinked sharply.  Was this the way they always worked? 
She couldn't remember just how normal it was for him to leave her
behind so abruptly.  Could he be doing this solely because of their
personal arguments? 
 
     Before the echo of the closing door had died, Agent Scully was
on the run toward the charred remains.  She brusquely lifted the
body parts from the examination table, and laid them on the floor. 
 
     "Agent Scully, what the hell are you doing?"  Pryce started
out of the daze he'd dropped into, reaching out to stop her. 

     Putting her shoulder into it, she spun the table about, until
the long side faced the door.  Then she heaved it onto its side,
narrowly missing Pryce's foot. 
 
     "There,"  she panted into the microphone, "Now we've got a
blockade." 
 
     She dropped behind the table, and chambered a round into her
pistol smoothly.  Pryce dropped down beside her, while Hadat and
Whitman cleared off another nearby table. 
 
     The other table clanged into the hanger deck, and the USAMRIID
doctors drew pistols of their own.  She looked over, only to find
Major Pryce drawing a small twenty-two caliber pistol from his
holster.  He looked at the weapon he held, and then over at
Scully's large Glock, and then back again.  She could almost see
his thoughts, as though they were louder now that he was encased in
a sealed suit. 
 
     "I can't hit a target with anything bigger."  Pryce then
looked away, and tried to ignore her. 

     Dana turned off the microphone until her giggles went away. 

          *         *         *
 
     In teams of two, the SEAL squad leapfrogged down the darkened
corridors of level two.  Mulder was tagging along with the
Lieutenant, his service pistol out and at his side. 
 
     He remembered to keep his elbows locked, even when the weapon
was down.  And there was one in the chamber and the safety off, in
case he needed to fire. 
 
     Fox only hoped that he wouldn't shoot his own foot.  It seemed
that between his weekend and now, that was the sort of luck he
would get. 
 
     He pushed his thoughts of his partner out of his mind as
Quiddis gestured to him from across the corridor.  They'd come to
another intersection, and again the three men would blossom out
from the corner like a dark flower. 
 
     "Team one, alpha clear."  The first intersection past the
stairwell to the north was empty. 
 
     "Team two, fox-trot clear."  The intersection to the south was
empty. 
 
     "Team three, kilo clear."  West too was empty. 

     The El-Tee shook his fist in the air, and counted down from
three on his fingers.  When he reached zero, Fox swung around the
corner.  His heart stopped when he saw the shadow slip around the
far corner some thirty feet away. 

     "Team Four," Quiddis called out as his partner chambered a
round into his underbarrel grenade launcher.  "Movement at
November.  Prosecuting contact." 

     Mulder started down the corridor, noting that it was partially
illuminated.  A single lit neon light swung by one end from the
shattered fixture above it.  The walls were pocked with bullet
holes, and his thick rubber-soled boots slid about on the spent
brass casings underfoot.  Fox was shaking from the isolation he
felt, the dread at hearing nothing but the rasp of his own
breathing.  The barrel of the rifle that bobbed along just at his
peripheral vision didn't comfort him either. 
 
     "Team two,"  The signal was rough with static. "Golf clear." 
 
     They came to the next intersection, where they had seen
movement.  Intersection Oscar.  An odd feeling came over him, a
sense of deep foreboding.  It made perfect sense to him.  He'd
managed to upset his friendship with Dana, possibly destroy it. 
And now he knew he was going to die alone.  There would be no one
to care about his funeral.  The thought seized him abruptly, and
shook him violently. 
 
     He thought of that for a moment, then dove out into the
intersection alone.  He slammed back first against the far wall,
the air tank knocking the wind from him.  It seemed the only thing
he could do. 
 
     "Mulder," Quiddis whispered.  "Shit."

     Down the hallway, at the far side of the platform, Mulder saw
movement.  He flicked on his large light, and unclipped it from his
belt.  He started down after the shadowy form, while his two
teammates swung around the corner after him. 
 
     They only had time to see his dark shape disappear through a
doorway at the far end. The beam from his flashlight bounced, then
disappeared. 
 
     "Team Two, Fox-trot Clear!" Their radios cracked sharply,
fading in and out. 
 
     As Quiddis and his rifleman ran, clumsy in their environmental
suits, they kept alert.  The Lieutenant just kept his pistol
covering each connecting corridor as they ran through. 
 
     "Team, Mulder's chasing something, we're in pursuit.  ID
first, shoot later!"  He cursed profligately within the confines of
his mind, watching his ordered search and destroy pattern fall
apart. 
 
     They reached the doorway, seeing the blacked out secondary
generators looming inside.  Here and there, they saw Mulder's light
bouncing in the darkness. 
 
     Suddenly, the room lit up with strobing light as the staccato
cracks of gunfire echoed past them.  Squeals erupted from the room.

      Almost simultaneously, there was a low explosion from
Platform One. 
 
     Quiddis dropped to the floor in a crouch, his man alongside
him.  "Teams One and Two to Point Juliet.  Expedite.  Teams Three
and Five recon Platform Two." 
 
     Quiddis didn't wait for the brittle acknowledgments before he
ducked into the generator room, and started sprinting. 
 
===========================================================================

From: ez042725@dale.ucdavis.edu (Sean Smith)
Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
Subject: NEW STORY: ETCHED 4/13
Date: 4 Oct 1995 17:38:17 GMT


Part 4 of 13

Disclaimer in part 1 still applies. 

Copyright August 1995

Send all comments, criticisms to: ez042725@peseta.ucdavis.edu   
I want replies, damnit!


                Etched
                     by Sean Smith
                     ez042725@peseta.ucdavis.edu

     Boredom is a soldier's greatest enemy.  Dana was bored.  Even
lengthy stakeouts don't train you not to be bored.  They train you
to be bored, and still pay attention to details.  Fighting requires
a complete devotion to barely restrained aggression.  The capacity
to remain for long periods in position, one pound of pull away from
firing. 
 
     The entire USAMRIID team, along with Agent Scully, had been
waiting alone for only ten minutes.  But somehow it was enough time
to relax. 

     Scully would never have thought she was relaxing.  The sweat
had soaked through her shirt, and it was now sticking to her rubber
suit, forming uncomfortable wrinkles against her back.  She was
pressed against the underside of the dirty little table, and her
hand burned from the strain of holding it too tightly.  Her arm was
getting tired as well. 
 
     If she'd looked, she would have seen that Whitman had lowered
his gun, and Hadat had the butt of his pistol set against his knee. 
Only Pryce was still ready. 

     So when they heard the soft explosion through the hanger
doors, everyone jerked upright.  Scully realized she'd relaxed
somewhat, for every muscle in her body had clenched at the noise,
forcing a gasp from her throat. 

     Then, muffled under the echo of the blast, she could hear
several pistol-style gunshots from below her.  Only the Lieutenant
and Mulder were carrying pistols.
 
     She shot to her feet, ignoring the creaks in her knees.  She
stopped short when Pryce caught her gun arm, and forced it down. 
He tried to drag her back into cover, but she fought, hitting his
knuckles. 
 
     "Let go of me!"  She sounded very distant, even to her own
ears.  

     "No!  There's a firefight going on down there!"  His growl cut
through the ripping noise of automatic weapon fire. 
 
     "And my partner's in it.  Let go!"  She pulled her arm free,
and for a moment brought her barrel toward him.  It moved only a
fraction, but she was shocked to realized how out of control she
was. 
 
     "Listen to me.  If you go down there now, they will confuse
you with a live target.  You'll be a blue on blue.  You know what
that means, dammit?" 
 
     She sank down, scared for her partner, and her own temper.  "A
victim of friendly fire."  She was quoting newspaper verbatim.  She
could see in her head all too well what horrors could be going on
downstairs.  She knew what Mulder was walking into.  And she was
stymied. 
 
     Whispering, "What can I do?"

     "We wait."
 
          *         *         *

     Mulder's heart leapt as the muzzle of his pistol climbed
skyward.  Each round he fired jerked the gun about in his hands,
and illuminated the dank blackness of the room with the burning
yellow light of a fire fight. 
 
     The flashes of light burned into his eyes, nearly blinding Fox
in the darkness.  His flashlight gripped tightly in his other hand
was being used to brace his firing arm.  But even without seeing
his target, he knew it was there. 
 
     It was screaming. 

     In the darkness of the of the generator room, Fox had caught
sight of its gloss black form gliding lightly over the floor,
soundless.  In the spot of illumination from his flashlight he'd
seen something man-like, but covered in a crenelated black
carapace.  A long, ridged tail sprouted above biped legs, and long
spines or tubes erupted from its back.  And the eyeless, elongated
head it turned upon him had hissed, and bared the tremendous fangs
of its two nested mouths. 
 
     It was dragging a human body across the floor behind it. 
 
     And now as Agent Mulder emptied his clip into it, it screamed.
Not the noises familiar to humans, to mammals, but a high pitched
noise, something in between a squeal and a hum.  It was a
terrifying sound, foreign to his ears.  Alien. 
 
     The gun locked open, its rounds spent.  Fox pressed the lever
that ejected the clip, and nothing happened. His thick gloves slid
off the matte plastic case.  Trembling, Fox watched the shadowy
form across the room crouch down and hiss.  Never looking away from
the thing he managed to release the catch, dropping the empty clip
to the floor. 
 
     It moved silently toward him, faster than a sprinter.  Its
abnormally long legs clutched the deckplates as it ran, and it
pulled itself along the banks of machinery with skeletal arms. 
Although he could not see it, the thing's long tail curved about
it, over it. 

     He stumbled backwards, vaguely aware that he could in no way
outdistance this thing.  All that constituted his world was the
metal on metal noise of its claws, and the rush of his breath in
the confines of his suit.  He fumbled inside his gloves, trying to
slap another clip into his pistol. 
 
     "No!  No, dammit, no!"
 
     The sharp report of a rifle slammed the beast against the
metal housing of a large turbine.  Green fluid sprayed away from it
as it squealed in pain and grabbed at the machinery to pull itself
upright. 
 
     A second burst of rifle fire came from behind one of the
generators, knocking it back down.  In deathly silence, an arc of
its green blood spun through the air, a drop catching Fox's mask. 
He noticed that the floor about the body was smoking and hissing. 
 
     He finally managed to insert the new clip into his gun when he
smelled the acrid, choking fumes of burning plastics.  His eyes
watered, and he realized that a section of his goggles had melted
away, exposing him to the outside air.  But the fumes were blinding
him, choking him. 

     Quiddis and his partner came around the corner housing to find
Mulder silently struggling to tear away his mask and hood.
 
     "No, don't!"  Quiddis tangled himself about Fox's arms,
thinking he was fighting claustrophobia.  Then he caught sight of
the green liquid that was dissolving the agent's mask and he fell
back in shock. 
 
     Fox tossed the mask to the ground, coughing from the smell of
melted plastic.  With his head freed from the hood, Fox smelled the
hold of the rig for the first time.  Oil and metal tang mixed with
charred flesh and a bitter, unfamiliar smell. 
 
     "Eel-tee, look at this!"  The soldier called his officer over
toward the alien body. 
 
     The body fell through the floor, the metal underneath melted
through.  All around, the spray of the creature's blood had burned
holes through the solid steel machinery, etching the creature's
death into the rig. 
 
     They had found the cause of the holes in the flooring.  They
came not from fire, but acid. 
 
     Mulder pulled a glove off so he could wipe at his tearing
eyes.  For a moment he thought of the instantly lethal virus Scully
had found in the Bounty Hunter's blood.  But he'd been exposed to
it, and knew that this wasn't it.  This was something completely
new. 
 
     The loud noises of running feet pounding on the deck preceded
the rest of the team into the machine room.  All were breathing
hard, and scanning the room with their eyes and weapons. 
 
     Peirson spoke up.  "What the hell was that?"  He gestured
toward the smoking hole next to his commanding officer.
 
     "Yeah, Mulder,"  Lt. Quiddis turned to face Fox, who retrieved
his still functional radio headset.  "You mind explaining that
thing?" 
 
     Still breathing hard, Agent Mulder joined the team at the edge
of the hole, and looked down at the body lying one floor below
them.  He turned his light on it, and was rewarded my muttered
curses from the rest of the team. 
 
     Fox's sweat-soaked hair stuck up in various directions as he
faced the suited SEAL team.  "Well, I guess we found our perp." 
 
     "That thing didn't come off no satellite, man!"  One of the
men pushed his way to the front.  His suit read 'Hall.'
 
     "No, it didn't."  Mulder holstered his gun, glad now that his
gloves and mask were off.  The sea air felt cool on his face, even
down here.  He just hoped Scully could prove the absence of a
virus.  he didn't want any more time in Decontamination. 
 
     "So what is it?"  Hall seemed deeply upset.  Fox could
understand why. 
 
     "Well, off the top of my head I'd tend to say it's a space
monster.   Got a better idea?"  The smell of the smoke brought back
some of Fox's earlier nausea.  He shook his head.  "How do we get
down there?" 

     Lt. Quiddis grabbed his arm and spun him around.  "Get down
there?  Are you nuts?  We're calling in reinforcements.  This is
seriously out of our league." 
 
     "No." Mulder pulled back, aware of the number of military men
about him.  "I'm not letting this one disappear into a military
crate.  This time, we keep the body.  Now that it's dead, we take
it back for the Bureau to examine."  He was tense, rigid. 
 
     "What?  I . . .?" The Lieutenant saw an intensity in Fox's
hazel eyes that hadn't been there before. 

     "Now help me down there, and we can get out-" 

     Mulder's words were interrupted by the sound of an asthmatic
hiss.  The sound rose up from Mulder's side, and was joined by
another nearby. 
 
     Very quietly, Mulder drew his pistol and threw the safety off. 
"I think we have company." 

     "Okay team, back to the stairwell, now!  We're outta this
mission."  The Lieutenant circled his hand in the air, and used
silent gestures to direct his teams to fall back. 
 
     Mulder was absolutely furious.  They had a squad of soldiers,
more than enough to find the remaining aliens.  And they were
pulling out, leaving him behind.  He tucked the remains of his mask
into his belt, and ran after the soldiers. 
 
     The Lieutenant drew a radio from his web belt, and snapped it
on with a crackle of static.  "This is the insertion team, request
immediate evac.  Over." 
 
     He and Mulder kept their eyes open as they ran through the
hallways, half expecting another one of those creatures to await
them around every corner. 
 
     "Roger.  I'll be on station in five minutes. Over." The
pilot's voice was robbed of timbre by the radio. 
 
     "Roger.  Warning, it's a hot LZ."  The Lieutenant had to smile
inside his mask.  This brought a whole new meaning to 'hot.'
 
          *         *         *
 
     Col. White ignored the gunfire shattering the night behind
him.  He didn't care how the SEALs were doing, he just hoped they
were loud enough.  They were his decoy. 
 
     The site doctor had kept a running radio dialogue with a
Coastal Navy Hospital for two days.  In the sickbay nearby were his
notes, and the biological sample he'd kept.  He'd been ordered to
collect the notes and samples, and torch the rig.  The sealed
papers in his vest ordered the _Elliot_ to destroy the rest of the
rig, and carry him directly to shore. 
 
     All he had to do was get in and out quickly. 
 
          *         *         *
 
     Due to the sealed suits the team wore, the SEALs couldn't use
nightvision goggles.  Instead they were reduced to flashlights
taped to the barrels of their weapons.  Mulder had brought his huge
halogen flashlight, and by virtue of sheer candlepower was elected
to take point as the team wound their way back to the stairs. 
 
     "On three!"  Fox stepped to one side, as Peirson took position
directly in front of the steel door. 
 
     "Now!" 

     Fox threw his shoulder into the door, and it slammed against
the inner wall of the night-black stairwell.  When nothing showed
itself, Mulder stepped in front of the soldiers, and swung his
light about the small vestibule at the foot of the stairs. 
 
     He turned, and waved the SEALs through. "Go! It's clear." 
Behind the hiss of the sealed suits, and the tromp of gas masks,
Mulder heard a faint keening sound. 

     Quiddis was the last into the stairwell, and he pushed Mulder
in front of him.  "You too. Get up there now!" 
 
     Behind him a dark, glistening form dropped to the floor, just
beyond the doorway.  Mulder's gun snapped up, seemingly in slow
motion as Quiddis recognized the shock and fear on the agent's
face. 
 
     The muzzle of Mulder's gun had just cleared the lieutenant's
shoulder when he started firing.  There were screams of shock and
outrage from the vaguely insectile apparition, but the bullets
whined off its hard shell. 
 
     Quiddis dove forward, slamming Mulder against the floor and
driving the wind out of him.  Simultaneously, the alien leapt, and
overshot the two men.  It landed with feline grace upon the
stairwell as its skeletal tail coiled about it. 
 
     Lt. Quiddis was up and running, pulling Mulder along by the
collar on his suit.  They were just out the door when flashes of
gunfire lit the darkened stairs in a hellish strobe. 
 
     Fox spun, and fired backwards through the door, still bent on
killing the thing.  But even as his remaining shells bounced
harmlessly off its evil hide, he saw it dance jerkily under the
impact of rifle rounds.  The SEALs poured fire onto it from the
floor above, and managed to pound it back into the ground. 
 
     But the lower level and stairs disappeared under ropey gouts
of its redolent blood.  Thick yellow smoke poured out from the
acid-eaten crater that had been Fox's escape, choking him.  Lt.
Quiddis hefted him as he coughed, and shouldered him even as he
yelled to his troops above them. 
 
     "You get moving!  We'll find another way up!"
 
     "But-"
 
     "Go! That's an order!"  With that, Quiddis pounded down a
service corridor with Mulder slung over one shoulder.  He did not
look back. 
 
     Quiddis' hard shoulder and air tank pounded Mulder's chest and
stomach, hurting worse than the rank smell of burning metal.  Still
coughing through a painfully tight chest, he pounded on the
Lieutenant through his thick suit. 
 
     Stopping briefly, Quiddis turned and planted Mulder hard,
propping him up against the wall.  Fox was still coughing as he
unsnapped the safety catches holding his air tank onto his back. 
With the last one gone, it slid heavily from his shoulders and
landed hard upon the deck plates. 
 
     "You ready to run?"  As the Lieutenant spoke, Mulder found
himself thinking about the slick black shape that had leapt over
them. 
 
     "Damn straight. Where to?"  Mulder still coughed with a deep
bronchial sound. 
 
     In response, the Lieutenant turned and ran, his dark suit
nearly disappearing into the darkness ahead. 
 
     It suddenly occurred to Fox that in the midst of the
confusion, he'd dropped his flashlight somewhere down the corridor. 
Now it was either melted, or in the midst of some hunting creatures
he couldn't kill.  Mentally he chalked up yet another destroyed
light. 
 
     In the darkness, Fox nearly ran into Quiddis' broad back.  The
man was undogging a large hatch on one side of the corridor.  The
door was too small for Agent Mulder to help, so he dropped the
spent clip and loaded a fresh one into his gun.  Useless or not, he
wanted a gun. 
 
     "Okay, this is the loading bay over to Platform One.  Move!"
Quiddis threw the door open, chilled by the abrupt silence about
them. 
 
     Mulder leaped through, his Glock at eye level.  He was nearly
blinded, surprised to find the lights on at this level.  But
through the light, he saw nothing, and gestured for the Lieutenant
to follow. 
 
     Quiddis hopped over the high sill of the hatch, and tried to
swing the door closed behind himself.  But a hand closed over the
door edge, and in the bright light, Mulder got a good look at the
thing. 
 
     There were too many digits on the dripping hand, and the claws
at its tip gleamed more of metal than bone.  The tendons and
cartilage were stretched taut about the surface of the hand, and
its grip nearly snatched the door from the Lieutenant. 
 
     The sweat on Fox's face ran cold, and he yanked the damaged
mask from his belt.  Quickly he shoved the barrel of his short
pistol into the rubber mask, and brought it up to the almost
mechanical hand at the door. 
 
     As he did so, the monstrosity brought its face about the door,
and Quiddis let out a high pitched gasp as he faced a nightmare
from two feet away.  Its glossy carapace extended from a grotesque,
lipless mouth to the crown of a long, slick head.  The sides and
peak of its head were ridged, and again it looked as though the
beast's very tendons were wrapped about its skin.  But horror arose
when it opened a slavering jaw, only to reveal a second set of jaws
inside its mouth. 
 
     Mulder pushed the mask and barrel up against the creature's
hand, and his finger squeezed the trigger over and over.  Both he
and the creature fell away, both squealing.  Fox flung the gun and
mask as far away from himself as he could from where he lay on the
floor, his face a rictus of pain. 
 
     The beast pulled back from the door, giving the Lieutenant a
chance to unclip a grenade, and lob it though the opening.  Then he
dogged the hatch, and ran toward Mulder.  The heavy sounds of the
thing pounding on the door echoed through the room.  Then a blast
shook the room, denting the hatch. 
 
     Quiddis ran over to Mulder, and dragged Fox's hand up toward
his own mask.  Bright red blood poured down his hand from a gouge
along his index finger, but he was otherwise intact.
 
     "It's just a ricochet, Mulder.  Get up now!"  He grabbed Fox's
elbows, and pulled him upright. 
 
     "Where are we going, anyway?"  His husky voice was now rough
and tight from the pain and smoke. 
 
     "Up three decks is a gangway to Platform Two, next to the
infirmary.  We can fix you up there." 
 
     With that, both men started sprinting, Mulder cradling his
hand to the heavy plastic of his suit.  Behind them lay the smoking
ruins of a very fine pistol. 

     Quiddis hoped that this platform was not lit throughout; he
didn't want to see another one of those things clearly, ever again.

 
          *         *         *
 
     Peirson and the SEAL team charged through the doorway to the
hanger as though the very demons from hell were chasing them.  And
for the life of him, Peirson wasn't sure whether they were or not. 
 
     He dropped instinctively to the deck as a small caliber round
whined past his head.  His team dove to the sides, save one man. 
He chambered a round into his grenade launcher, and snapped the
weapon to his shoulder.  The wide barrel fixed immediately on the
overturned tables before them. 

     "Don't shoot, dammit!"  There was no mistaking the woman's
voice for any but Dana Scully. 
 
     Pryce stuck his head over the barricade, his blank mask
bobbing slightly, "Sorry." 
 
     The team didn't even pause, nor did Peirson.  To a man they
charged over the tables and around them as though they ceased to
exist.  And as far as being possible threats, they had indeed
ceased to exist. 
 
     "Quick.  We're evacing right now."  He grabbed the harness
holding Scully's air tank, and pulled her to her feet.  "Let's go."

      Scully spun about, frantic.  "Mulder?  Where's my partner?
Mulder?" 
 
     Still holding his rifle, Peirson grabbed her shoulder to get
her attention.  "He and the El-Tee are stuck, and they're coming up
the other platform.  Now come on." 

     With that the dark shape of a Blackhawk helicopter appeared
over the edge of the landing platform, its low fuselage coming
about. The roar of the engines and high whine of the propeller
blades blocked out nearly all noise as the helicopter settled down
on the deck. 
 
     The SEAL team and USAMRIID doctors surged forward, with Scully
and Peirson caught in the middle of the hanger.  She didn't know
what to do.  She wanted to run for the helicopter, for the
protection the soldiers offered.  But she couldn't just abandon
him, no matter what Peirson said. 
 
     It was in that moment of taut hesitation that chaos descended.

                *         *         *
 
     The loading bay at the base of the oil rig connected all four
platforms together.  The gaping room sported flats of supplies, and
yellow forklifts rusted by the sea air.  Well oiled chains hung in
black loops from pulleys along the roofline.  Condensation and oil
dripped in thin strings to rank black pools on the deck.  One full
side was open to the ocean, with only two sea doors to seal the
space.  It was not enough to let the sea scrub the decay from the
air. 

      The dank hold was illuminated by the light gray of the
impending dawn.  It clawed through the narrow slit left between the
doors, and spilled out over the shattered boxes Mulder and Quiddis
ran around.  If they crossed the hold, and if the power lasted
here, they might be able to ride the cargo lift up to the third
level. 
 
     They would not need to ascend into the warren of hallways
above them. 
 
     Quiddis moved quickly and silently, his heavy boots seeming to
whisper in counterpoint to the hammer falls of Fox's own steps. 
The lieutenant kept his own pistol out and ahead of him, level with
his navel. 
 
     Fox was never more acutely aware of his own defenselessness as
he was then.  The rubber suit retained about him a sticky heat that
left him panting from exertion.  With each step his hand bled out
along the front of the P3 suit, and it burned painfully under the
pressure of his other hand.  His lungs were tight as he bit back
the hoarse coughs that might give their position away.  Instead he
whirled about as they ran, searching all the corners of the room. 
 
     It wasn't until he saw the first of the small, ovoid objects
on the floor ahead that the skin on his arms and shoulders crawled
in alarm.  Uniform in shape, they were leathery, and wet with ooze. 
All were empty, the tops open like fetid petals. 
 
     His eidetic memory prompted him with the image of the alien as
it descended from above, landing behind Quiddis.  He looked up, and
froze.  His heart clenched inside him, and chills washed over him
as he tried to accept what he saw. 
 
     The lieutenant drew up short as he realized Fox was no longer
beside him.  He halted, his gun swinging about for prey.  Inside
his mask, Quiddis' brow furrowed in confusion.  Until he realized
that Agent Mulder was looking up. 
 
     He looked up, and gasped in terror and revulsion. 
 
     The steel beams that comprised the apex of the bay had been
encased in a green-gray resin, sculpted into rounded patterns.  And
as parts of this alien sculpture, the crew of the CGC Prometheus
had been embedded in the matrix.  Their puffy white deathmasks
screamed down at the two men, the silent white eyes too dim to be
seen from the ground.  But their limbs were snapped, bent backward
along their torsos to accommodate their shapes into the alien
pattern.  They had been jammed into the spaces in the roof, and
cemented in place. 
 
     And to a man, all had fist-sized, bloody holes in their
chests.  With a jolt of nausea akin to a physical blow, Quiddis
realized that the liquid falling about him and Mulder was not water
and oil.  It was partially congealed blood and mucus. 
 
     Quddis dropped his pistol, and clutched at his chest as he
drew choking, gasping breaths.  He doubled over, desperately trying
not to vomit as the tears flowed from his eyes.  Suddenly he was
aware of the liquid around his feet, and the sour, salty taste of
his own bile. 

     Fox ran over to Quiddis, and unsnapped the hood from the
lieutenant's head.  His fingers slipped in the blood from his own
wound, which burned like fire as he feverishly worked the air hose
connection.  Mulder's right forefinger refused to close around the
catches, so he pried at them with his left hand.  Finally he
managed to yank the hood from Quiddis, who was still sucking air
in. 
 
     When the stale, putrid air first hit him, he heaved.  Quiddis
grabbed the nearest crate, and emptied his stomach until only acid
burnt its way up his throat.  Then he felt his stomach lunge
painfully into his throat as it tried to clean itself further. 

     Mulder wasted no time in sweeping up Quiddis' gun, and
snapping the safety off.  He couldn't hold the weapon in his right
hand, and so cradled it in his left.  Revolted, Mulder turned in
silent circles, not sure if he was watching for an attack or just
trying to accept what he saw hanging above him.  His head hurt, and
the vertigo that accompanied his seasickness returned along with
the sense that he was no longer connected to his own body. 
 
     Mulder shook the sensation off.  "Quiddis?"  He got no
response. 
 
     "Lieutenant?  You still with me?"  He couldn't afford to
glance at the man for fear of overlooking the stealthy approach of
a glossy shape. 
 
     "Talk to me.  Now."  Mulder didn't look down as he grabbed
Quiddis' mask from the floor, and tucked in into the belt of his
suit. 
 
     Quiddis gasped, "Shit, man.  Oh shit . . . "
 
     Mulder had seen this in the Violent Crimes department, and in
studies of some war veterans.  Sometimes even the most hardened of
people can be shaken to their very core.  For some it is the sight
of a child's broken body, or a face too similar to a loved one. 
Sometimes it's just a thought, a smell.  Sometimes it takes a
nightmare. 
 
     Fox grabbed Quiddis by the arm and pulled him upright.  Mulder
started running across the bay, the lieutenant complying with his
insistent tugs.  But if Fox let slack his grip, Quiddis slowed
down.  Fox pushed Quiddis ahead of him, and leaned in close enough
to the man that he could smell the vomit. 
 
     "If you don't move, we'll die here!  Me, I want to see the sun
again, so move!" 
 
     Perhaps it was the thought of dying in the stinking dark of
that hold, or the thought of sunlight that propelled Quiddis. 
Perhaps it was the armed man waiting for him, bleeding.  Whatever
it was, the lieutenant blinked, and started running. 
 
    "This way!"  Quiddis pointed to a small, open sided elevator
that had been left six feet off the ground. 
 
     They ran across the sticky deck toward the hydraulic lift set
into one wall of the bay.  The lieutenant got there first, and
pulled both his regulation sealed gloves off.  Discarding his air
tank, he chinned himself up to the level of the platform, and
rolled onto it. 
 
     Mulder turned around, looking for motion.  He saw none, and
knew that it did not mean safety.  He thought momentarily before
engaging the safety on the pistol and hurling it to Quiddis.  Then
he grabbed the elevator platform and tried to pull himself up. 
 
     His right hand burned and slipped.  Mulder could feel the red
hot blood roll from his hand toward his elbow, tickling him.  His
full lips locked in a grimace, it was all he could do to try and
drag himself partway up.  Then the lieutenant grabbed his left
elbow, and hauled him onto the platform like a dead weight. 
 
     Mulder dragged himself into a sitting position, and clutched
at his hand futility.  His eyes burned from the effort it had
required not to cry out.  Instead he let his wracking coughs
envelop him, his lungs burning. 

     Quiddis clicked the scratched and dirtied green button, and
the lift jolted into motion upward.  He picked up his pistol, and
tried to ignore the warmth of Mulder's blood on the grips. 

===========================================================================

From: ez042725@boris.ucdavis.edu (Sean Smith)
Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
Subject: NEW STORY: ETCHED 5/13
Date: 4 Oct 1995 23:52:18 GMT


Part 5 of 13

Disclaimer in part 1 still applies. 

Copyright August 1995

Send all comments, criticisms to: ez042725@peseta.ucdavis.edu   
I want replies, damnit!


                Etched
                     by Sean Smith
                     ez042725@peseta.ucdavis.edu

     A dark shape fell from the edge of the hanger doors, and drove
Hadat into the deckplates.  In absolute silence it grabbed the
soldier by the arms, lifting him from the deck.  Its fanged mouth
opened, and the inner teeth sprang out, tearing a hole through the
man's suit and head. 
 
     In a panic, the next man over unleashed a full volley from his
CAR-15 at less than two meters.  The creature dropped the
decapitated body, and was knocked backward in a spray of green
blood. 
 
     The soldier dropped his weapon as he staggered backwards, his
screams echoing through the hanger.  He struggled with the smoking
suit, which bubbled and hissed with the acid.  His companion
dropped his rifle and fought to get the P3 gear off in time. 
 
     The pilot's radio call came in strongly, "What the hell was
that?"   From only meters away, he had seen the thing go down in a
tangle of sinewy legs and tail, its teeth gleaming in the predawn
light. 
 
     Scully dragged Peirson to the ground next to her as she snap
fired her pistol at another creature that fell from the ceiling. 
The thing had dropped down where they had been standing a moment
before, and now the horror towered over them, clear drool sliding
from its fangs. 
 
     Scully's chest closed in on her as she saw for the first time
what had killed the crew here, though it some analytical part of
her mind she recognized the second set of fangs.  Those, she
realized, were what had made the wounds on the bodies.  Still
shocked, she snapped her hand up, and started firing.  When her
first shots merely glanced from its hide in a shower of sparks, she
shot its feet out from under it. 

     Peirson unlimbered his rifle and brought it up as the alien
pulled itself erect.  He rolled over on top of Scully, and jammed
the muzzle of his M-16 into the creature's belly before triggering
a short burst. 
 
     The monstrosity was kicked backwards, sprawling in a heap
nearby.  Its tail lashed briefly as it arched its back.  Then the
floor gave way beneath the onslaught of acid, and it dropped from
sight in a gray-yellow cloud of vapor.  Scully winced at the shrill
squealing and burning sizzle that accompanied the alien's demise,
only to find Peirson choking on top of her. 
 
     "Damn," she whispered as she fought the smoke to pull
Peirson's suit from him. 

     He kicked wildly, his choked cries turning to screams as he
tore the zipper on his suit halfway open.  Dana saw the rubber was
falling apart, and red foam bubbled up past the gleaming white of
bone on his chest.
 
     She tore the tattered remains of his fatigues off, leaving his
still intact mask on.  The spray of acid had eaten partially
through his rib cage, and his shrieks died out as he went into
shock.  Doctor Scully stanched the blood with her gloved hands,
oblivious to the gunfire around her. 

     Several aliens had leapt from concealment in the roofing, and
a pitched battle now raged across the hanger floor.  The things
moved quickly enough to transform themselves into sinister blurs in
the darkness.  All that was seen was their smooth bounding motion,
as long claws stretched out for the SEALs. 
 
     The team had retreated to the lab, and now the creatures had
cut them off from the helicopter.  The ear-numbing rips of
automatic weapon fire cut off most talking, and with Peirson
unconscious, little strategy remained. 

     The small runoff grate next to Agent Scully snapped upward,
and spiraled away across the deck.  Two alien hands, elongate and
clawed, rose up from the hole, and levered an oblate alien head
upward. 
 
     Dana gasped.  It moved through the narrow opening like Eugene
Tooms, flattening itself and pulling.  She grabbed Peirson's rifle,
realizing that the barrel was corroded and smoking. 
 
     She grabbed Peirson by the harness, ignoring the flashes of
gunfire, and pulled him away from the alien.  By the time she'd
moved some fifteen feet, it had emerged from the conduit, and
crouched on the deck.  A razor-tipped tail coiled over its head,
and its claws grasped convulsively at the air. 
 
     The grenade launcher slung under the rifle seemed intact to
Dana.  She pumped a round into the chamber, hoping it worked like
a shotgun. 
 
     The alien pounced as she fired. 
 
          *         *         *

     Col. White used a disposable plastic pen to push the sample
into a plastic bag.  There was no way he would touch the thing that
he'd found on a dissection tray. 
 
     It was a flat, hand-like organism with eight legs, each
resembling elongate fingers.  But where a wrist should be, there
was only a long tail, contorted in death.  The ghastly part was the
'palm' of the creature, a surface covered with vestigial gills, and
ruddy-colored soft organs. 
 
     He had no idea what the damn thing did, and didn't care.  He
simply sealed the biohazard bag like he'd been shown, and clipped
it to his belt.  There it bounced next to similar bags containing
the medical and captain's logs, and a vial of blood. 

     The generator had maintained the lighting in the clinic, but
the discarded bodies had already discolored.  Their blood pooled
like curdled milk about the floor, and the smears along the wall
hardened to a deep brown in the silence. 
 
     For all the slices of hell the Colonel had seen, or been party
to, this small rig was by far the worst.  The rec room he'd past
had looked entirely normal, save for the spray of russet blood
across one white wall.  And the charnel smell was nauseating inside
the claustrophobic enclosure.  But it was the sensation that eyes
followed him from room to room that had retracted his scrotum in
fear. 
 
     As he swept the countertop clear and placed a thermite charge
next to the alcohol containers, some lizard-like portion of his
mind screamed danger.  And he trusted his instincts more than any
man he'd ever worked with. 
 
          *         *         *

    Quiddis stopped the open lift at the second floor, rather than
ascending the last twenty feet.  He just could not bring himself to
pass within feet of the Prometheus crew.  As it stood, they were
hung far too close for comfort. 

     "What are you doing?"  Fox's voice was raspy from the smoke,
and he was too light headed to project much noise. 

     "I'm sure not getting closer to that . . . whatever the hell
it is."  Quiddis gestured toward the collection of bodies. 
 
     "You get out here.  I'll meet you on the next level."  Mulder
didn't look up. 
 
     "No chance.  You're coming with me."  Quiddis cranked open the
door, and examined the shadowed hallway. 
 
     "Nice thought.  You give me a hand up?"  Agent Mulder was
pale, and the blood-wet hand Quiddis grabbed was cold and clammy. 
 
     "Let's go. I'm driving."  Fox tried to chuckle as the
lieutenant hefted him to his feet, but instead he drew a hissing
breath as his wound was pulled open. 
 
     Quiddis dragged Mulder ten feet before the Special Agent
collapsed.  The lieutenant felt his throat, and noticed Fox's hands
shaking.  He was lapsing into shock, and quickly.  On a hunch, the
lieutenant felt the soft plastic that covered Mulder's suit with
the back of his hand.  In the darkness, the blood slick was as
black as night. 
 
     The wound on Mulder's hand was bleeding out, he realized. 
He'd been pouring out his life blood across the suit as he ran. 
And now he couldn't run any farther. 
 
     Quiddis stripped off his own P3 suit, and kicked it across the
hall.  Underneath, he was as lean as Fox, but wearing a thin
camouflage blouse and togs.  He snapped the clasps on the blouse,
tossing it carelessly to the ground. 
 
      "Damn. Damn. Damn, damn, damn!"  He hoped there weren't any
viri on the rig. 
 
     His eyes flickered nervously up and down the hall as he
whipped his undershirt over his head, and wrapped it about Mulder's
hand.  The lieutenant looked more closely as he tied the cotton
shirt about Fox's hand, and saw an exit wound at the base of his
palm.  The agent bit down on his lip, but his eyes were still clear
when he looked up. 
 
     "Done."  Quiddis tossed his open blouse on, and retrieved the
pistol.  "Now get up." 

     "Nice bedside manner.  'Gotta introduce you . . . to my
partner." 

     "Great, save it for later.  We're going back to the elevator,
man" 

          *         *         *

     The M-203 grenade launcher did indeed work like a shotgun.  An
enormous shotgun. 

     Dana gasped as the recoil kicked her to the ground.  The rifle
tried to leap from her grip, but she knew to let it rise only to
her shoulder.  Her stomach hurt from where the rifle butt struck
her, and through the smoke and her tears she could not see where
the alien had gone. 
 
     The wind from the helicopter's rotors swirled aside the cloud
of cordite, revealing a smoking hole in the deck metal.  The blast
had hurtled the creature twenty feet before killing it.  And
despite her intense dislike of hunting, she grinned ferally at the
smoking remains.

     She chambered another round into the launcher with a swift
pump of the grip, and returned to dragging Peirson aside.

     Soun joined her, the Steyer impossibly large even against his
own size.  Each took a shoulder of the downed man's suit, and
started dragging him.  Scully looked up, but could not see Soun's
expression though his darkened mask.  She imagined he was as pale
as she. 

     The team swept the hanger, searching for more creatures on the
prowl. The Blackhawk pilots kept unsteady eyes on the roof of the
hanger.  They could not yet believe what they'd seen. 
 
     Which is why the men in the helicopter never saw the
glistening forms rising from beside them. Two shapes bounded
effortlessly over the railing on the far side of the landing
platform.  The pilot's mercifully short scream echoed with him as
the first one dragged him back over the ledge. 

     The copilot spun in his armored seat, only to find a second
demonic face grinning at him from where the pilot once sat.  In one
hand it clutched the frayed end of the pilot's restraining harness,
while the other splayed six long fingers across the cockpit
instrumentation.  The fanged mouth opened to reveal a second set of
salivating fangs.

     In blind panic, the copilot grabbed the red double loop
between his legs, and yanked hard.  He'd seen the firefight nearby,
and although he had no idea what the hard black thing next to him
was, he knew what it could do.  So he triggered his ejection seat.
 
     The explosive bolts kicked the helicopter propellers free,
sending them tumbling out horizontally.  Soun and Scully flattened
themselves, Dana tossing herself across her patient.  One of the
thirty foot long composite blades slashed through the back wall of
the hanger, tearing the stairwell apart. 
 
     No one had time to determine the course of the other blades,
for the top of the Blackhawk fired up and back in a burning hiss,
and the copilot's seat rocketed into the air on a pillar of white
fire.  His arm and leg restraints had dragged the pilot's limbs in
close to his body, but the force of his arcing departure bounced
his head about on his shoulders, knocking his breathing mask free. 
 
     The graceful curve of the chair was spun off kilter by the
vicious black form drawing itself up to the eyes of the bound and
helpless pilot.  It seemed totally oblivious to the emerging
parachute as it grabbed the copilot's helmet.  Then the two fell
beyond the range of anyone's vision, into the sea. 
 
     Without the helicopter blades to weight the engine, it seized
and locked, its dying whine mixing with the heavy sounds of ball
bearings destroying themselves.  The team was left to stand there,
staring at the denuded chopper, its ejection system sending up a
stream of smoke into the dawning sun. 
 
          *         *         *
 
     White grabbed the examination table to brace himself as
multiple explosions rocked the oil derrick.  There was a
particularly apt Farsi curse he'd learned once, something about
having interesting friends, that flashed though his mind suddenly.

     The SEAL team was far more effective against these creatures
than he'd been led to believe, and now White realized that he was
out of time.

     He abandoned his small detonator charges on the counter top,
his bomb setting plans forgotten.  Now he had to get off the rig
before the Navy strike team brought the roof down upon his head.

     The quickest way down to the moon pool was the small lift that
ran down to the loading bay.  The sample bags bounced against his
hips as he padded quickly toward the corridor.  White banished all
but thoughts of survival as he rejoined the war zone.

     No fear, no remorse, no concerns.  Just his raised weapon, and
the path to the loading bay.

          *         *         *

     Mulder lay still on the dank metal grating of the lift, his
breathing slow and shallow.  His face was sallow, and beaded with
the sweat that wet his dark hair and gathered on his eyebrows. 
Quiddis was locked into a tight shooter's stance over Fox, his
camie blouse open over his thin dark torso and his pistol before
him.  But he took no note of Mulder's condition, for his eyes were
locked with morbid fixation above him.  Where the lift carried them
closer to the remains of the Prometheus' crew.

     A crewman's snapped arm dangled downward at them, its
desiccated fingers caught in a claw of pain.  The gray-white flesh
clung loosely to the thin bones of the hand, reminding Quiddis of
a dozen horror films.
 
     Allah, he prayed, get me out of this, and I promise I will
never watch a John Carpenter film again.  Ever.

     The lift halted with a short screech of metal and a sudden
lurch.   The hand was within arms reach of Quiddis.  And now he was
close enough to see the face in the shadows beyond the body,
partially entombed in the murky resin.  Never had he seen a more
pure expression of mortal terror, for the boy's lips had pulled
back from the teeth, and the eyes had clouded over as the body
screamed eternally in death.  Quiddis shivered, and jumped as the
lift door opened on its own. 
 
     Quiddis whipped about, dropping to one knee near Mulder.  The
figure in the doorway was silhouetted by the light from the
corridor as it snapped a weapon to its shoulder.  Suddenly it
pitched over backwards, cutting lose a brief burst of small arms
fire over the lieutenant's head as it fell. 
 
     Quiddis pounced, his loose blouse flapping as he pinned the
form's wrist with a booted foot.  His weight trapped the man's MP5
uselessly against the ground.  Now visible in the dim light from
the hall, Quiddis saw that it was Glad whom he had trapped under
his gun.  He also noticed that it had been Mulder's left hand
wrapped around Glad's foot that had pulled the man off balance. 
The lieutenant decided to keep his pistol trained on the man he
knew as Glad. 
 
     "Thanks Mulder.  So, dead man,"  Quiddis turned his attention
to Glad again. "Wanna try explaining the warm welcome home?" 
 
     "You surprised me. You going to let me up?"  Col. White
sounded keyed up, and embarrassed.  He sounded flawless. 
 
     "Yeah, next week.  What are you doing here?"  Sweat ran down
the young lieutenant's face. 
 
     "My job.  We don't have time for this now lieutenant.  It's
time to get moving before we get bagged."  In the faltering light
of the medical level, Col. White's eyes were unflaggingly honest,
almost beseeching as he talked. 
 
     "Drop the gun."  The lieutenant's voice was shaken, unsure. 
He adjusted his grip on the gun, conscious of the sticky blood on
the grip.  In reply, the Colonel dropped his machine gun, and
spread his fingers wide. 

     "Happy?  Good, now let's get out of here.  I got a baby girl
I kinda' want to see some more."  White wished he could take his
eyes from the lieutenant in order to check out Mulder.  He knew the
Federal agent wouldn't be this quiet if he wasn't hurt badly.  But
he did not know if it was enough to insure he'd complete his
mission. 
 
     Quiddis felt the chill, wet air of the rig against his skin,
and it suddenly struck him that his back was turned to that hideous
mass of human bodies.  He felt with chilling certainty that eyes
were upon him, watching him.  Looking down, he could tell that
Mulder was unconscious, or nearly so.  As a soldier, Quiddis knew
how limited his options were. 
 
     He stepped to one side, and held out a tanned hand for Glad.
"All right, lets get out of here." 
 
     Col. White stood up slowly, and casually picked up his gun,
holding it nonchalantly to the side.  He smiled warmly at Quiddis,
concern in his eyes.  "What happened to Mulder?" 
 
     "He's lost a lot of blood on the way, sir.  I don't know what
to do."  Quiddis was damn uncomfortable.  He'd just been
interrogating a superior officer at gunpoint, and now he was
reporting to this man, his shirt open, exposing broad tanned
muscles.  He was scared, alone, and wanted his team badly. 
 
     "You're doing a fine job son.  Now, let's get to the catwalk
quickly.  You take Mulder, I'll take point.  Move!"  The Colonel
knew how comforting orders could be in the middle of a crisis, and
he used that fact.  He could not let them realize where he'd been
going, and he couldn't be sure of killing Quiddis without being
wounded himself.  He would have to distract the younger man, and
take him down quickly.  So he set out first, keeping his back
turned to the SEAL.  After all, wasn't he so much more trustworthy
that way? 
 
     Quiddis took one of Fox's arms and one of his legs in hand,
and hefted the agent over his shoulders.  Fox still wore the dark
rubber contamination suit, and its large size made it difficult for
him to hold on to the thin man inside.  He had to holster his
pistol before he could get Mulder up onto one shoulder. 
 
     "I'm ready to go!" he called out to White.
 
     "Yes.  You are."
 
          *         *         *
 
     Scully snapped into motion first, still dragging the limp and
bloodied form of Peirson toward the remainder of the team.  Soun
was right with her, taking the fallen man by the legs, and lifting
him clear of the deck.  In short order, the SEALs had the wounded
and able men gathered together amidst the smoking rubble that had
been a hanger. 
 
     The group of weary men left standing amidst the carnage were
mute with shock, and Dana did not need for them to remove their
masks for her to know what their eyes said.  The sea is a deadly
lover, and all who go to her know that perhaps her embrace will be
the last they know.  And no one becomes a soldier without the
knowledge that their art is one of killing, and it is an art that
demands to be washed in blood.  But even amongst these
sailor-soldiers, what they had seen had stripped away too much
certainty, too much safety.  That they stood alive in the end did
not matter, for the sun rising bloodshot across the sky was now a
distant thing. 
 
     No more a yellow light in the sky, but a red star.  A reminder
that things lived elsewhere.  Things whose knowledge of killing
matched our own.  Things that terrified them. 

     Dana had neither the time nor the inclination to deal with all
of this right now.  Instead, she had to get these people off the
rig, and back to a competent medical facility.  And she had to find
her partner, whom she was still cursing mentally. 
 
     "Will somebody get on the radio and hail the _Elliot_?"  As
one, the seven men left standing turned toward her. 
 
     "That's a great idea, lady.  But it ain't going down."  Soun
adjusted the sling holding his rifle alongside him before unsealing
and removing his mask.  Underneath was a broad, brown face and
glittering black eyes. 
 
     "What?  We need to get Peir- people off this rig."  Scully
could smell herself inside the suit, and the sound of her breathing
was driving her mad. 
 
     "Yeah.  But Lt. Quiddis has the radio, and he still hasn't
joined the party."  Soun stripped himself of his gloves, and tossed
them to the deck.  Behind him the rising red sun lit the men in
blood, and revealed the high clouds to the south. 
 
     Dana blinked under her mask and assessed her situation. 
Mulder and Quiddis were trapped somewhere down in the hold, and
they carried the only radio large enough to reach her uncle's ship. 
Then she counted the men out under her breath.  In a corner, Dr.
Whitman was trying to suture Major Pryce's scalp wound.  Five SEALs
were left standing, and Peirson was their only wounded teammate. 
There was no trace remaining of the other SEALs or Dr. Hadat.
Peirson moaned faintly. 
 
     Dr. Scully ran to the nearest medkit, and carried it back to
the wounded soldier.  Kneeling down, she stanched the flow of
blood, which was small.  The acid had cauterized the wound.  Dana
played fast and loose with the antibiotic shots and gels, as she
wrapped his ravaged chest in yards of gauze.
 
     Inside her slick P3 gloves, Dana could barely wind the gauze.
After a few more passes, she ripped her gloves off and tossed them
across the deck.  Scully didn't have time to hunt through the
wreckage for surgical gloves, so she just prayed that Peirson had
been judicious in his private life.  Working with her bare hands in
the cold dawn air, she managed to hold Peirson together, his blood
hot on her hands.  But she knew what would happen to him without
immediate emergency care. 

     Still kneeling, Scully slumped back until she rested
uncomfortably on her feet.  The heavy boots bit into her backside
through the rubber suit, and her breath had begun to fog up her
goggles.  Additionally, her shoulders were raw from the weight of
her air tank.  At a glance, the gauge on her wrist told her that
she had twenty minutes of air remaining. 

     Dana struggled to pull her air tank off, and then stripped the
mask off with it.  The chill sea air hit her sweating face like a
blow, and she closed her eyes.  She sucked the air in through
parted lips, and the crisp smell cleaned out her lungs.  She wanted
desperately to push the auburn strands of hair from her face, and
take out the tight ponytail from her hair, but the blood on her
hands precluded that.  Mulder, she thought, where the hell are you?

     Opening her eyes, she realized that no one had moved.  All the
ranking officers were wounded or missing, and now all eyes dropped
on her.  She looked down. 
 
     Peirson lay crumpled across the oily hanger floor, his suit
and fatigues in tatters.  Crimson stains spread slowly over the
white bandages wound about his chest.  But his mask and air tank
remained on him.  Dana didn't have the energy to unstrap them.
Besides, the bandages wound over the air tank's straps in several
places. 
 
     Looking back up, Dana again met the gaze of the team.  Slowly,
one by one, they pulled their masks off.  Apparently, they were all
convinced that this was not a viral problem. 
 
     "Okay.  We need to be looking for the Lieutenant and Agent
Mulder."   She locked her gaze with each man briefly, her eyes ice
blue. 
 
     Soun stepped forward. "The Lieutenant ordered us to wait
here." 
     
     Agent Scully let a hint of anger creep into her voice.
"Lieutenant Quiddis didn't anticipate losing the helicopter.  We
need to get out of here before that storm," Dana pointed to the
gathering clouds on the horizon, "hits the rig." 
 
     All the men cursed softly under their breath.  Whitman looked
panicked as he started blinking rapidly at the sky. 
 
     "I take it you have a good idea?"  Soun unlimbered his Steyer
and rested its length against his own square frame. 
 
     "Yes.  Whitman and two others stay up here with the wounded.
Everybody else comes with me to go find the Lieutenant."  And Fox,
she said only within her own mind. 
 
          *         *         *
      
     Mulder tried several times to grab Quiddis' beltloops as the
SEAL ran.  He was hanging upside-down over the soldier's shoulder
like a duffel bag, and as weak as a kitten.  His head was pounding
in time with his racing heart, and his sight wavered in and out as
they moved.  To exacerbate the problem, Quiddis carried Fox through
pools of light and shadow, down shattered corridors the federal
agent hazily remembered. 
 
     The only thing that kept Fox conscious at all was the
certainty that Glad was nearby, and that Quiddis trusted him.  For
Mulder, it was one thing to trust the SEAL team.  They were
soldiers, first and foremost.  For them, the duty was to protect
their country from foreign invaders.  But Glad. . . Undoubtedly he
felt he served his country.  But Fox wondered just who Glad thought
the enemy was. 
 
     The waves of nausea and vertigo that washed over Mulder held
him in check.  Weak from his loss of blood, Fox couldn't summon the
energy to make a commotion.  And the Lieutenant was too focused
upon his objective to take notice of Fox's soft motions.  The SEAL
was entirely oblivious to the danger he was carrying them both
into. 

     As Fox watched yet more gray hallway blur before his eyes, he
resolved that he'd wait.  He'd outlast Glad, and beat him at his
own game.  Agent Mulder swiftly lost consciousness. 
 
          *         *         *
 
     Agent Scully had the dark gray gunbelt Peirson had handed her
settled about her waist before the sun had cleared the horizon. 
She'd discarded the bulky P3 suit, and instead was down to a smelly
pair of jeans and short shirt.  In the face of the chill sea wind,
she regretted not having more to wear, but many of the needed
supplies had been stowed in the lab boxes that had been destroyed
in the battle. She'd let her ragged and wild auburn hair down from
the tie which had bound it under her mask.  She hoped that maybe
the comfort would help.  Peirson's grenade launcher had been
salvaged from his rifle, and attached to the weapon of Petty
Officer Connley.  Dana in turn had picked up the rifle of a dead
man in a rubber suit.  She didn't want to look at the name on the
front of his togs. 
 
     For years, Dana's older brothers had taught her to hunt game,
and use rifles and shotguns.  She'd learned to hate killing
defenseless creatures.   Then she had joined the FBI, and they
showed her how to use a pistol, and even her own hands.  And Fox
Mulder showed her that there was still some game that needed to be
hunted.  Dana swallowed sharply, and hoped she kept all those
lessons inside her still. 
 
     Soun, Connley, and one other soldier were going to lead the
way.  Dana was going with them in case the lieutenant or Mulder was
hurt.  Privately, Dana knew her partner was hurt.  He always stood
in the path of danger.  She was only worried as to the extent of
his injuries. 
 
     Two SEAL team members were staying to watch after the wounded.
And Whitman should be able to take care of both Pryce and Peirson. 
But the hands that kneaded the rubber grips on her rifle were
stained russet under the nails, and Scully couldn't help but worry
about the charge she left with an inexperienced doctor. 

     The top of the stairwell was rent, and opened to the red
morning sky. Long shards of helicopter blade had disintegrated upon
impact, leaving carbon fibers and char embedded in the rig's
structure.  But the light filtering through the blast damage
illuminated the route Dana and the soldiers were forced to use when
looking for Mulder and Quiddis. 
 
     Dr. Scully watched the three men before her descend the debris
covered steps.  Their green fatigues glowed a dull gray under the
red sky, and the dark barrels of their weapons gleamed.  Then she
followed quickly behind them, not wanting to be any great distance
from the amassed firepower they represented. 

     The staircase quickly swallowed any light as the four
descended, and just as quickly it consumed all noise.  Dana was all
too conscious of the heavy pounding made by the soldiers feet, out
of rhythm to the sounds of her heart in her ears. 
 
     Dana pivoted sharply at each landing, and brought her rifle to
her shoulder.  She remembered the Bust House at the Academy in
Quantico all too well.  But if she forgot to check the corners
here, it might well be her last mistake. 
 
     "All right, level three here."  Soun called out in a whisper
over Scully's earpiece.  "We go through on three, and it's a
straight two-by-two advance to the far end.  Doc, you're with me." 
 
     Dana nodded to the square Asian man as she brought her rifle
up.  She then realized that the entire team was pointing weapons at
the one door.  Dr. Scully bit her lip, then swung the light rifle
upwards, to cover the stairway she'd just descended. 
 
     There was no need to take chances.
 
     She found herself holding her breath as Soun kicked open the
hatch. 
 
===========================================================================

From: ez042725@boris.ucdavis.edu (Sean Smith)
Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
Subject: NEW STORY: ETCHED 6/13
Date: 4 Oct 1995 23:52:44 GMT


Part 6 of 13

Disclaimer in part 1 still applies. 

Copyright August 1995

Send all comments, criticisms to: ez042725@peseta.ucdavis.edu   
I want replies, damnit!


                Etched
                     by Sean Smith
                     ez042725@peseta.ucdavis.edu

     Quiddis kept his bare forearm behind Mulder's knees, and his
shoulder planted firmly in the agent's stomach.  With Fox tossed
over his shoulder in a fireman's carry, the lieutenant was able to
keep up with the pace Glad set. 
 
     Colonel White didn't mind being called Glad.  He'd been called
a lot of things.  None of them bothered him anymore.  Not in a day
and age where he was called un-American for defending his country. 
Actually, he rather liked the name Sergeant Glad. 

     White continued to lead the two men toward the catwalk
connecting Platforms One and Two.  It was a narrow walkway with
high railings. He knew the lieutenant would have a difficult time
turning around on such a catwalk now that he was carrying a
deadweight.  And once the Colonel had shot both men, the sea below
would consume the evidence. 
 
     Now all he had to do was get there.
 
          *         *         *
 
     Seamen Meyers and PO 2nd Connelly were the first through the
hatch and into the third floor.  In dead quiet, they ran to the
next intersection before throwing themselves against the
deckplating.  Meanwhile, Scully and Soun were pressed back to back,
covering the soldiers and the stairs. 
 
     Then Dana was running with Soun, her head ringing as they
passed the soldiers, and dove for the next intersection.  She had
barely hit the floor before the first two men bounced to their feet
and ran past in a crouch. 
 
     Dr. Scully remembered that she was supposed to provide
covering fire for them.  She had to keep her focus on any threats. 
 
     In the space of a few feet, she'd gone from a firefight into
a warrior's mentality.  Despite all her precious acumen, she was
forced to close off all thought beyond these three men, and the
remaining feet to the outside hatch. 
 
     She scrambled into a low crouch, the shrouded bulk of Soun and
his squad support weapon beside her.  He used hand gestures to
speak, and she picked up with him and his men quickly. 
 
     Almost before she could think about it, Dana found her back
thrown up against the outside wall next to the gangplank door.  The
metal, like the air, chilled the sweat on her skin.  She didn't
want to drag her left hand from the rifle stock just to sweep back
her errant red bangs, so she shook her head back against the gray
steel wall. 
 
     It felt damn good.
 
     And not just the chill metal, but the blood in her ears, in
her face.  The way her teammates seemed to move in slow motion
about her.  The tight, cold, liquid feeling inside her chest.  For
a moment, she knew why these men had chosen this life. 

     "Okay, the gangway.  One at a time, and keep sharp."  Soun
whispered in her ear, and there was no sensuality to it.  Just
intensity. 
 
     She breathed deeply, and barreled through the open door, into
the light. 

          *         *         *
 
     Glad slid effortlessly along the darkened hallway like a
wraith.  The taut strap held his gun low, and his rolling gait
barely moved the barrel.  He was economy of movement, with only the
flickering of a single fluorescent distantly lighting his features
to give him animation. 
 
     Quiddis was stunned as he watched, the skill displayed before
him almost washing aside his grubbier concerns.  Then his eye
caught upon the gently swaying bags at Sergeant Glad's waist, and
he was returned to his own thoughts. 
 
     Mulder's weight was no grave distraction for the Lieutenant,
and instead served to focus him upon the situation at hand.  In any
other place, Quiddis would have followed Glad with the trust
implicit in the chain of command.  Now he was carrying a trusted
civilian and federal agent over his shoulder in a dead retreat from
demonic creatures his mother would have sermonized about.  And
rather than run in blind fear, he gave himself something to think
about, to light the darkness pressing in with chill fingers about
him. 

     He knew from his experience with his men how people worked on
an instinctive level.  He knew Fox Mulder did not trust Glad.  And
it made him think. 
 
     He'd done too many dark deeds at the bidding of his government
not to know that Glad had been sent with a separate agenda.  The
ripstop nylon and Teflon bags at his waist merely confirmed this. 
 
     Glad disappeared around a corner.  Moments later, a uniformed
hand curved back into view, beckoning Quiddis on.  He paused to
feel Fox's thready pulse before jogging onward.  On a hunch, he
stopped momentarily to draw his weapon, and remove the safety. 
Then he held it pinned against his chest, hidden by the bulk of
Mulder's thighs. 
 
     It wasn't actually distrust of Glad, he believed.  Just an
active sense of caution. 
 
     Around the corner, Glad halted Quiddis with an abrupt wave of
his hand.  Quiddis nearly drew his weapon, his shoulders tight. 
Then he realized that Glad was staring into the gathering light at
the end of the corridor, and stopped. 
 
     "Okay, here we go. I lead up to the door,"  Glad gestured to
the shattered remains of the hatch he'd demolished to enter the
Platform.  "And then you go through first. I'll cover you." 
 
     "Your work?"  Quiddis nodded in the semi-darkness toward the
smoking hatch.  The smell of composite explosives still scarred the
air. 

     "Yeah.  You like?"  He smiled.
 
     "Yeah."  Quiddis grinned in return.  He was confused by the
dual vision of the affable companion he saw before him, and the
viper he'd seen reflected in Mulder's eyes. 
 
     "My favorite part of the job."  Glad patted the Lieutenant on
the shoulder, scant inches from the hidden gun.  Then Glad darted
down the corridor, trading stealth for speed. 
 
     He tossed himself against the wall near the doorway, and
gestured to Quiddis to join him.  The bright light through the door
nearly blotted out all sight of Glad. 
 
     Quiddis knew he had to be illuminated perfectly to Glad.  He
thought of the gun he had hidden, and burned with shame.  What the
hell was he thinking, he wondered. 
 
     With a burst of speed, Quiddis slammed his right shoulder
painfully hard into the wall.  He had to do so in order to save
Mulder from the pounding. 
 
     Glad checked his weapon surreptitiously.  "Go, quick!" 
 
     Quiddis bit his lip, and ran out onto the planking between
platforms One and Two. 
 
          *         *         *

     Scully charged onto the planking just as Quiddis burst through
from the other side.  Both stopped abruptly, starring at one
another across thirty feet of rusted white grating. 

     For a moment even the freezing wind seemed to stop, and the
ruddy light of daybreak painted Agent Scully in the rich hues of
the Impressionists.  It seemed her flaming hair billowed about her
umber shirt, and Quiddis was transformed into a chiseled statue,
his blouse snapping away from his bare torso. 
 
     Then Dana's blue eyes caught the Lieutenant, and saw through
him.  She swung a rifle to her shoulder in a motion seemingly too
slow for words.  But Quiddis couldn't seem to think of why this
beauty before him was trying to kill him. 
 
     His hand twitched on his pistol, and his heart leapt.
     
          *         *         *
 
     Colonel White was damn sorry to kill Quiddis.  The young man
seemed genuinely nice.  And he was a patriot.  It didn't matter
that he'd die in service to his country.  Men like that, he felt,
could do so much more for America than die meaninglessly.  But his
orders were clear. 
 
     He was sorry Mulder was unconscious.  An insufferably smug
traitor like that should see what came his way.  And he didn't
deserve to fall amidst heroes like Lt. Quiddis. 
 
     White reminded himself that none of this was personal before
swinging into the doorway.  He brought his gun up, and had it
pointed at the Lieutenant's back before he realized the younger man
was stopped in his tracks. 
 
     Glad remembered another back, frozen in his mind.  The last
time he'd seen a soldier freeze like that was before the blast in
an ambush. It was that same, useless premonition of death that had
cost White a point man. 
 
     Then Quiddis fell to the ground, the Special Agent a boneless
rubber-suited mass atop him.  The narrow steel railings kept them
from dropping to less than knee height, but it was enough. 

     Enough to reveal Dana Scully leveling a loaded CAR-15 at Glad.

      White let his small weapon yammer out a burst at Scully as
she dropped to the deck.  The rounds knocked the man behind her
down, his rifle firing mindlessly into the clean sky. 

     For a moment, White realized that Dana's small form was out of
sight behind the bodies of the two men he'd tried to kill.  Then he
realized he could simply fire through the three at this range, and
dropped his sights down onto Fox Mulder's unconscious back .

     And the low gray plastic shape of a Steyer Squad Support
Weapon led Soun about the far door.  The enraged SEAL triggered off
a rolling burst on full automatic before he'd acquired a target. 
 
     He didn't care.  He had fifty rounds of NATO standard heavy
that promised him no man would shoot at his team.  And what could
a gun do to him, next to the aliens he'd just seen? 
 
     The thunder of the Steyer rolled over the wind and seasong. 
Its star-shaped blasts swung across Col. White, who'd abandoned all
hope of winning out. 

     One of the high powered rounds kicked a spray of blood from
White as he threw himself off the gantry.  It was the worst dive
he'd ever made in his life, and the last. 

          *         *         *

     Scully hadn't realized she'd fired until half of her
thirty-round magazine was gone.  The whine of bullets still echoed
in her ears as she swept the sea she'd fired into. 
 
     Her mouth went dry.  She realized she had just fired into the
ocean, praying that she would hit Sergeant Glad. 
 
     The moans from around her on the slippery gangplank snapped
the impending tears from her eyes.  She turned, and saw the Petty
Officer, Connley sprawled across the small plank, one arm sticking
out into empty air. 
 
     Dana tossed her rifle over one shoulder, and crawled over to
him.  She didn't trust her legs to carry her unassisted.  The boy
had three crimson holes in the canvas of his blouse, and she tore
the large buttons apart to get to the wounds. 

     Three bullet holes clustered between his nipples, and hissed
as he breathed.  He was mercifully unconscious, but Dr. Scully
watched the thin ropes of blood fall into the water far below. 

     Dana looked up at Soun, who fitfully trained his gun on the
sea beneath them.  Their eyes met for a moment, and Dana shook her
head softly.  Then he returned to his watch, and she to her
patient. 

     "Meyers, take Connley."  Soun's soft voice was tightened,
thickened. 

     "Soun!  This man cannot be moved." Dana tried using blood-wet
cloth to seal the holes in his chest, fighting the steady collapse
of his lungs. 
 
     "And we can't stay on this bridge.  Not with more of those
things running around." Soun pulled Scully to her feet with one
thick hand. 

     "Both of you, stand down!" Quiddis stood up, laying Mulder at
his feet.  The two jumped from where they stood toe to toe.  "We've
got wounded, and the hospital is on this level.  We'll just do a
little recon in force.  Soun get me Connley's rifle." 

     Quiddis shouldered Mulder again, and Meyers dragged Connley
along toward the rig hospital.  Scully couldn't do much to carry,
so she instead kept furious watch down the dark corridors. And Soun
hefted his Steyer as though he wanted something to shoot. 
 
     The Lieutenant felt as though he were lost, and making up the
rules as he ran.  He was jogging back down darkened corridors,
retracing his steps.  He'd had no time to ask about the shooting on
the bridge.  One moment he'd seen Scully, the next Glad had opened
fire.  He was fairly certain the first shots he'd heard had come
from behind him. 
 
     Dr. Scully was fairly burning with righteous anger.  A soldier
had just tried to kill her, and instead fatally wounded the man
being dragged behind her.  Her partner, Fox, was dangling in front
of her, blood covering his sealed suit, and she couldn't do a
thing.  Just wait until she reached the hospital.  It felt as
though everyone about her conspired to keep her from saving these
men. 

     She knew Fox would smile thoughtfully at her dreaming of
conspiracies.  Then she saw the pale face and bloody hand swing
from Quiddis' shoulder, and blinked back tears. 

     "Move faster, dammit." She hardly recognized her own voice
inside the gruff words. 

     Soun's retort was swallowed by a sickening squealing from
behind her.  She snapped her head back, and saw Soun firing down a
connecting corridor.  Then she found her back pressed against his,
the violence of his rifle shaking her.  Dana kept her eye on
Quiddis and Mulder ahead of her, covering them.  Soun and Meyers
could take the rear. 

     Still back to back, Soun and Dana advanced sideways down the
suddenly quiet corridor.  Meyers pranced backwards, searching the
hallways with wild eyes.  There was no sign of Connley's body.  One
moment Meyers had been dragging his teammate, the next he'd been
torn away.  Into the darkness.

     Before her, Quiddis jogged forward with Mulder over one
shoulder.  He hadn't even turned as the gunfire erupted.  Somewhere
inside Scully, this touched an animal instinct, and scared her down
to the colds of her feet. 

     "Lieutenant." Dana hissed at his broad back, so like Mulder's.
"Lieutenant!" 
 
     "Soon.  We'll be there soon."  His voice wavered unsteadily. 
 
     Before Scully could formulate a reply, he'd slid Mulder to the
ground, and tossed open a door quickly.  He wordlessly slid into
the lighted hospital, unlimbering his assault rifle. 

     Scully ran to Mulder, while Soun took up a firing position
near the battered metal door.  He waved Meyers through the doorway
in pursuit of their wayward Lieutenant. 

     The hospital was lit, and the open doorway spilled some
ghastly illumination across Mulder's waxen face.  Dr. Scully
dropped to her knees beside her partner, and quickly ran her
fingers along his throat and forehead.  He was cold, and his pulse
was thready.  She hesitated to remove the blood-soaked bandage from
his hand. 
 
     Instead she silently felt along his sparse frame.  She could
find no other injuries, no broken bones.  The rubber suit needed to
come off, but not now.  Not until she had him warmed up.  From the
gray cast to his lips, she guessed that he'd lost a large quantity
of blood. 
 
     Again.

     The SEALs called out that the hospital was clear, and then
Meyer was dragging Mulder inside.  No sooner did his boots clear
the doorway than Soun slammed and locked the heavy metal door.  Now
it was Dana's turn to take charge. 

     The room reeked of alcohol, and the floor was a mess of papers
and broken glass, but Dana ignored them.  The outer room was a
simple examination room, and Scully felt that it would do.  She
didn't want to waste the time trying to find a better location. 
 
     She pulled a board out from the end of the padded exam table
for Mulder's legs, and turned to Meyers and Soun. 

     "Lift him up here.  Lieutenant, can you find the
refrigerator?"  When no answer was forthcoming, Soun moved off to
look for the cooler. 
 
     Scully snapped on a pair of the disposable latex gloves that
were in a cardboard box nearby.  She was sweating from the stress
of getting here, and had no time to sweep her hair back.  But she
tried to push these things from her mind, along with the image of
Connley's blood pouring out of him.  Along with a lot of things. 

     Unwinding the bloody shirt from Mulder's right hand revealed
a marginal entrance wound between his thumb and second digit.  The
hole was ragged, indicating that it was not a simple gunshot. 
Turning his hand over, she spotted a matching exit wound near his
wrist, along his palm.  This was the point he'd bled out from.  She
guessed that the projectile had fractured some of the carpal bones
in his hand, and possibly compromised one of the major veins along
the wrist. 
 
     That meant surgery, and immediately.
 
     "You," Scully nodded toward the remaining soldiers as she
applied pressure to Fox's hand.  "What's your name?" 

     "Meyers, ma'am."  He was quiet as he watched her. 

     "Okay Meyers.  I need you to apply pressure here while I get
set up. Got it?"  She hoped first aid was a regular course for
these guys. 

     "Yes ma'am."  Meyers hoped to the task with the speed of a
duty nurse.  Scully was impressed. 
 
     Soun returned with four liters of Type O whole blood.  "These
work?" 
 
     Scully didn't answer.  She simply tagged the tubing into the
bottom of the first liter, and started an IV, leaving the bag at
Fox's side.  Then she felt for his pulse, and began squeezing the
bag in time with his heart.  He'd lost enough blood that he
couldn't wait for it to simply flow into him. 

     "Good.  Soun, you go find the drug cabinet, and smack it open.
Should be a part of the refrigerator."  Soun nodded.  Scully
couldn't see it though; she was dragging up a rolling cart loaded
with shining steel implements.  "Get a couple of small bottles,
labeled morphine." 

     "Shit."  Soun muttered it under his breath as he headed out. 
If she wanted the man down completely before she got to work, then
it wasn't good. 
  
     By the time he'd returned, she'd started a second IV into
Mulder's other arm, and was tying a surgical mask around Meyer's
head.  Her own hung about her neck, at odds with the sway of her
hair.  Soun scattered the ampules of morphine on the surgical tray
next to Doctor Scully. 
 
     She pushed Meyers aside, started cleaning out Fox's wounds. 
For the moment, his bloodstained rubber suit was a blessing,
because it gave her a surface to place Mulder's hand on. 

     "Soun, you know how to start an IV drip?"  Scully's voice was
almost relaxed, like a soldiers as she spoke.  Cool, but not cold. 
 
     "No.  Meyers, you run it.."  Soun stepped back out of the way
momentarily. 
 
     "Good.  Hang it for twenty mils an hour."  She reached across
Mulder's prone form to grab a clamp from the tray.  She snapped it
on a slashed vein, and set to work sewing Fox Mulder back together.

          *         *         *

     Soun found his lieutenant standing in the doorway of the
doctor's office.  His rifle lay amongst the broken glass and
crumpled papers on the floor.  Quiddis himself was slumped in upon
himself, staring into the room Soun could not see. 

     Soun called out to the taller man from a distance.  "El-tee.
watcha' got?"  He was glad that this team was lax about protocol. 
It gave him a chance to talk with his officer. 

     "You take a look around here?"  Quiddis' normally rich voice
had died.  It was almost a whisper. 

     "It's trashed, like the rest of the rig."  Soun still held the
Steyer by his side.  He knew he had to talk with the Lieutenant
about calling in a second chopper, but he was too worried to bring
it up now. 

     "Soun, it's nothing like the rest of the rig."  He turned
slowly, and Soun jerked at the anger burning in his Lieutenant's
dark eyes.  With his combat shirt open, and his gear gone, Quiddis
no longer looked like a military officer.  He just looked
dangerous. 

     Soun was debating what tact to take with Quiddis when the
lieutenant tossed a small gray shape at him.  Reflexively, Soun
caught it with his free left hand as it hit the sweaty cloth on his
broad chest. 

     "What the . . . ?"  He turned it over one handed, familiar
with the feel of US-issue anti-personnel firebomb. 

     "Smell the alcohol in here?  That little fuck, Glad, was going
to torch us all!"  Quiddis slammed a swarthy hand into the wall
next to him. 

     "But-"

     "Look around. All the paper everywhere, alcohol shattered.  I
found a propane tank for the emergency generator back here.  And
the Doc's records have been ransacked."  Quiddis had cooled down
almost instantly, his face now a mask of impassive calm. 

     Soun blinked rapidly before his expression mirrored Quiddis.
"We've been set up.  As decoys."  His mouth ran dry at the thought
of not getting off the rig. 

     Quiddis left his rifle, and wandered through the office before
turning back to Soun.  "Listen, how's the lady Doc doing with
Mulder?" 

     Soun tossed a glance over his shoulder, where Scully's voice
could almost be heard ordering Meyers about.  "I don't know.  He
looked bad off, but she's pretty good." 

     "That guy's the only one who figured out this was a setup.  I
need him."  Quiddis rubbed his eyes, remembering their run through
the bowels of this beast.  "Not that I'm not happy or anything, but
why didn't you evac like I told you?"  Quiddis was too tired to
muster any anger at his soldier. 
 
    Soun leaned up against the wall, his adrenaline high dropping
fast.  "Chopper blew."  What else to say, he wondered. 
 
     Quiddis just shook his head.  With a smile, he ran his hand
over his buzzed black hair.  "Figures.  Think it's safe to call for
backup?" 
 
     Soun realized that his lieutenant didn't trust any of their
superiors now.  "I don't know, boss.  Maybe."  He raised a thin
eyebrow.  "But you think we can get away with not calling?" 
 
     "Hmph.  Where's the rest of the team?" 

     "Back at the hanger.  Whoever's left.  Peirson's down, and
only one of the Army pukes is still up and running."  Soun held
himself tensely, worried at the Lieutenant's response. 
 
     "Damn.  I'll call them first.  Once Scully and Meyers get
through in there, we'll huddle, and pick out a plan of attack." 
 
          *         *         *
     
     The winds froze his fingers, and he barely felt the icy metal
rungs he held onto.  His attempt to climb up a workman's ladder on
the outside of Platform Four was nearly freezing Colonel White to
death.  But if he didn't get out of the water quickly, he'd simply
be choosing which avenue he took to die. 

     He'd lost the little machine pistol during the fall, and at
least one of his parcels.  He couldn't remember right now.  It was
all he could do to push numb limbs further up the rusted hull of
Rig 43.  Harder still with the gunshot wound in one arm. 
 
     Colonel White just waited to lose himself in the pain.  He
always did.  When he thought it could get no worse, the hurting
always did.  And then it went away, and he kept walking. 

     He could always keep walking.  They'd given him awards and
positions because he always kept walking. 

     The voice of his drill Sergeant back in Missouri floated to
him from inside.  <Left.  Left.  Left, right, Left!  Pick 'em up
and put 'em down!  What don't you know how to walk?  Keep it up!>
Keepin' it up here, Sarge, he thought. 
 
     Resting his sweating forehead against the icy side of the rig,
White paused to watch the storm massing along the horizon. 

     I'll get out of this.  I'll get out real soon.  Then I can
really be Glad.  The thought made him smile, despite the burning
cold in his fingers. 

===========================================================================

From: ez042725@boris.ucdavis.edu (Sean Smith)
Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
Subject: NEW STORY: ETCHED 7/13
Date: 5 Oct 1995 17:41:17 GMT


Part 7 of 13

Disclaimer in part 1 still applies. 

Copyright August 1995

Send all comments, criticisms to: ez042725@peseta.ucdavis.edu   
I want replies, damnit!


                Etched
                     by Sean Smith
                     ez042725@peseta.ucdavis.edu

     Dana needed Meyers to help her lift and roll Mulder about on
the table.  She needed his Kabar to cut the thick rubber of his P3
suit away, and his muscle to lift the unconscious agent enough to
strip him of his suit. Despite the difficulty, Scully worked around
his shoulder holster.  He'd probably feel better with it in place. 

     Dr. Scully had also left her gloves on when she removed Fox's
environmental suit.  Dana trusted Mulder implicitly, but she still
would never handle a patient without gloves. Almost never. 

     His suit had kept most of the blood from staining Mulder, and
though his clothes smelled from his prolonged encasement, he looked
fairly normal.  White bandages and splints encased his slightly
swollen right hand, and he still seemed wan, but he no longer
hovered at death's door.  Scully did not know whether to smile at
him or hit him. 

     It would be a while until he came around, so she could
postpone her decision until then.  Morphine was a serious narcotic.

      She'd been running constantly all day, and couldn't think
about what to do next.  Her body chose that moment to prompt her,
and she brushed quickly past Meyers to the head.  She found that
though the water no longer ran, the toilet itself was thankfully
chemical. 
 
     Her business done, Dana looked around the tiny bathroom.  She
slumped against the wall, fighting tears.  Dana felt an
overwhelming urge to stay in there, locked away where everything
seemed normal.  No more blood, no pain, no monsters.  She wasn't
part of the Files, and could once again grab hold of her normal
life.  Someplace where she wasn't firing a machine gun, for God's
sake. 
 
     Someplace without Fox Mulder.  Sighing with fatigue, she let
the door rattle on the wall as she left. 

     She was almost out on her feet when she followed Meyers into
the Doctor's office.  There she used a small metal basin to wash up
briefly, ignoring the SEALs standing around her.  Once her hands
were clean, she drew a length of gauze from a pocket, and tied her
hair back.  She was too tired to care about the way she looked or
smelled or felt just then.  After all, no one within one hundred
miles was any better off. 
 
     Once done, she finally mustered the energy to look around her.
The office was a small, messy cubbyhole with several bookcases
occupying most of the valuable floorspace.  The one light still
working shone down onto the desk, and reflected light underlit
everyone there. 
 
     Meyers was leaning up against the bookcase, and Quiddis sat in
the doctor's rolling chair. Soun had pushed himself into the back,
and pulled the only other chair up in front of him.  Surgery had
her tired enough not to argue, and she gratefully sank into the
padded seat. 

     Only the Lieutenant's heavy voice kept her eyes open.  "I
checked in with Whitman.  Everybody's still breathing up there." 
 
     "Thank God."  Meyers let it slip out, and caught Dana looking
at him with understanding. 
 
     "That's the good news.  Bad news is a storm's coming.  A new
chopper is flying out to the _Elliot_ now.  It'll get there in nine
hours." 

     "Nine hours?  What's taking nine hours?"  This brought Dana
forward in her seat, alert. 

     "Buffalo Tag."  Quiddis shared a look of amusement with Soun
over Dana's head. 

     "Excuse me?"  She couldn't believe she'd heard the Lieutenant
correctly. 

     "It's a joint exercise across Oklahoma.  They've pulled a
division and all available air support out of duty posts along this
region.  We've got no military lifters available to us." 
 
     Dana frowned.  For a brief moment, she considered hiring a
civilian helicopter, but quickly dismissed the idea.  There was no
way she could justify dragging anyone else into this. 

     "Okay, so we wait nine hours.  I think that's feasible"

     "Try sixteen."  Soun already knew, but Meyers hung his head at
this.  Scully just paled. 

     "Sixteen."  She pictured Peirson, Pryce, and Mulder all
awaiting treatment until it was too late. 

     "The chopper comes on station after nightfall, in a rainstorm,
on the open ocean.  They can't land on the _Elliot's_ deck in that. 
And they need her as a midpoint to get out here."  Quiddis settled
back, a sardonic grin on his face.  "The cruiser may be a Spruance
hull, but she'll be rocking too hard for the fly-babies." 

     "Let's call the _Elliot_ in here now.  We'll just swim over." 
Meyers was a SEAL, first and foremost.  His first interjection said
a lot about him, no matter how high his voice was. 

     "Yeah, good idea.  And when those things sink our ride home,
just like the Prometheus, we can swim all the way to Texas."  Soun
shook his head, wondering how this kid got into a SEAL team this
fast. 
 
     Dana rubbed her eyes. "It doesn't matter.  We couldn't move
the wounded like that anyway."  She turned a drawn face toward the
Lieutenant.  "I take it you have a good idea already." 

     "No.  Nobody could come up with a good idea about this
cluster-fuck.  But I think I can save our hides for another day." 

     He looked from face to face momentarily, gathering steam for
a moment.  "We don't know how many of those things are still
crawling all over us now.  We don't even know if there are any
more.  But we have to presume we'll be under attack." 

     Everyone nodded in agreement.  Dana ignored the dull pain
between her shoulder blades in order to lean forward and listen
closely. 
 
     "This hospital was designed to be sealed off from the rest of
the rig.  Only two ways in, and we have solid steel fire doors and
bulkheads on all sides.  Besides, we need the facilities badly." 
He closed his eyes.  "So we wall ourselves up in here until help
arrives." 

     Dana nodded, but Meyers looked shocked. "What about basic
tactics.  'Never let a mobile enemy pin you down.' They can hit us
at leisure."  There was a note of panic in his voice. 
 
     "Yeah.  But you've seen them in motion.  You think we can go
hunting?  Or fight a moving battle?  Sure.  Mulder and I were lucky
they let us run."  There was disgust in his voice.  Quiddis still
hadn't buttoned up his uniform, and he looked more like a fighter,
and less like a soldier. 

     Dana was a step ahead of Meyers, blinking tired eyes as she
tried to think. "What about the wounded in the hanger?" 
 
     "Soun and I go up, and cover them while my two men up there
help Whitman bring them down.  You and Meyers watch Mulder, and
keep the place safe for us." 

     "Oh no.  Hold on."  Dana shook her head emphatically. "Peirson
is in no condition to be moved, let alone up and down stairs. 
You'll kill him." 

     "He'll die if we don't move him."

     "You don't know that.  They might be nocturnal, or-"
 
     "You willing to bet five men's lives on that?  Are you?" 
Scully watched him in impotent silence.  "Me neither." 

     Quiddis pulled himself straight, shaking out his opened shirt.
"How's Mulder?" 

     This brought Dr. Scully to a position she knew well.  "Better.
You overlooked the exit wound along his palm, and he managed to
damage a vein.  It was just a matter of time before he bled out. 
He's going to be weak and cold, and very likely will come down with
opportunistic infections, but he'll make it.  You want to tell me
what happened to him?" 
 
     Quiddis looked at the floor as he recalled the night's events
in a monotone.  "I was about to be killed by one of those things. 
Mulder stuck his pistol in its face, and blew it off me." 

     Everyone in the room looked shocked at this.  Soun whistled
softly. "Spooky damn FBI agent." 

     "Enough talk."  Startled for a second time, all turned toward
Dana. "If you're going, do it now.  Before anything else happens,
or Peirson weakens.  I'll get you med supplies to take with you." 

     She rubbed her aching fingers on the bloodstained jeans
covering her legs, and stood up.  She rubbed the back of her neck
as she headed out to find her gear.  Her voice floated in from the
other room.  "And I'll need you to move Mulder now, before you
leave.  Can't keep him out there by the door." 

     Soun and Quiddis traded a look.

     "Soun, she like that all the time?"  The lieutenant looked
worried. 

     "Yeah.  Real hard-core jarhead, with an MD and tits."  Soun
smiled openly.  "She'd be a good SEAL." 
 
          *         *         *
 
     Soun stared into Dana's eyes from inches away.  "You ready?" 

     She nodded, and tensed her shoulders.  "On three."  Before she
could count, Quiddis laughed softly from the other side of Soun's
bulk. 

     Dana stepped back from her position near the door.  Bringing
her rifle up and away, she looked at the lieutenant sharply.  He'd
finally had to remove his shirt, using it as a sling to carry the
medical supplies with.  They were wrapped in a blanket, and tied
about his neck with his own shirt.  All in all, he did look fairly
comical. 

     Quiddis returned Scully's look, seeing a very tired woman in
bloodstained jeans, with spots of deep red up her white shirt and
onto her face.  "Sorry.  I didn't know you Feds did stuff like
that.  'On three!' It just sounded like a movie with Mel Gibson ,
or something." 
 
     He pantomimed hefting his rifle, his jaw thrust forward
darkly.  Dana was too tired to laugh, but she gave in to a lazy
smile. 
 
     "Okay.  So what do you do?"  She brushed her gaze across all
three soldiers, and noticed that hers weren't the only pair of old
eyes, ringed with bruises. 
 
     Soun answered for his Lieutenant.  "We just say 'Go.' We're
always ready, Ma'am." 

     Scully closed her eyes, her lips pressed in a thin line.  She
halfway expected as much.  Drawing a deep breath, she brought her
rifle up until it pointed at the door.  Incidentally, it was very
close to the soldiers.  She opened her eyes. 

     "Still ready?"  There was enough humor in her voice for the
two older men to smile.  Meyers stepped back slightly. 

     Quiddis nodded to her.

     "Go!"  Dana flipped the safety off on the rifle as Meyers
swung the door open. 

     Seeing that the door was clear, Soun and Quiddis bolted out
into the hallway, shoulder to shoulder.  Each swept their eyes and
barrel along the hallway at their side.  Seeing nothing, Soun
snapped around, and covered his lieutenant. 

     Dana stepped into the doorway, and covered the two men with
her rifle, until they rounded a darkened corner.  Then she pulled
back into the hospital, and let Meyers close and bolt the door. 
She almost forgot to snap the safety back on before setting her
rifle down. 

     Meyers watched as she reset her weapon, and rested it near the
door.   Scully scrubbed at her eyes with the relatively clean back
of her hand. 

     "Go to sleep."  Dana's gaze flashed up as Meyer's squeaky
voice cut into her. 

     "What?  I've got-"

     "To sleep.  You're about to fall over."  Meyer picked up the
rifle she had discarded, and slung it over his shoulder.  She could
see he'd tried to smooth out his sweat-stiffened hair, and left it
as badly of as Fox's. 

     "And you're much better?"  Even this tired, she managed to put
some spark into her voice, and into her eyes.  She had to.  She was
a doctor. 

     "No. But it only takes one to guard the door."  He patted the
slick metal. 

     "So-"  Dana's head tilted.  This was familiar ground at least.

     "So they'll need you when they get everyone back here. 
Awake."  Meyers tried to look at her from under his brow.  With his
youthful face, and gawky manner, it failed miserably. 

     But Dr. Scully still remembered her residency.  All the
precious minutes when she could catch her sleep on the thin sofa in
the Doctor's Lounge.  Sixteen hour shifts were the norm, and coffee
turned itself into her best friend.  She sighed, shaking her head.
 
      "All right, but you wake me when they get back."
 
      "No arguments there, ma'am."  He smiled, his tension barely
expressed in the pull of his eyes.
 
      "Meyers.  Cut out the ma'am.  I feel like I'm your teacher or
something."  She padded across the floor toward the recovery room. 
"Call me Scully.  Or Dana.  Or something."  She barely remembered
to take her pistol with her as she left.
 
      "Dana."  Meyers worked his narrow shoulders as he watched the
door.  "You can call me Kevin."
 
           *         *         *
 
      Only six thin wool blankets had been folded into a scratchy
stack when the SEALs entered the hospital.  Three were now layered
thinly upon Mulder's sleeping form.  Fully half the flickering
overhead lights were turned off to save power, and keep Mulder
comfortable.  Hard to do in a chilly, chalky room whose main
attractions were linoleum and acoustical tiles.
 
      Scully shivered as she picked up one of the dull Army surplus
blankets, choosing the bed next to Mulder to sack out in.  Suddenly
deciding to check on her partner first, she tossed the blanket
aside.  It didn't make a comfortable noise when it hit the thin
mattress of the next bed over.
 
      Dana wrapped her flannel shirt tighter about her as she felt
Mulder's forehead.  Cold.  Running her hands along his form under
the blankets, his chest and hands were also still chilled.

      Damn, she thought, lost too much blood to warm up well.  If
his core temperature isn't up there, he'll be too sick to stand. 
And that little generator isn't putting out enough power to warm
this place up any time soon.
 
      Dr. Scully found herself rubbing her eyes with the ball of
her thumb, thinking about the flood of soldiers seemingly rising
about them.  She thought about all the ways that her idea might
look to them, and whomever they reported to.
 
      Screw 'em, was the best she could manage.  She still felt a
thick buzzing in her ears, and her arms were getting heavier as she
watched Mulder's eyes flicker beneath his lids.
 
      Dana grabbed the extra blanket from the bed she'd left it on,
and drew the plastic curtain halfway shut.  Separating Fox's bed
from half the room also cut off what little light there was.
 
      She walked around his bed, moving toward his uninjured left
side, and pushed aside the covers.  There was no way she was going
to slide Mulder around in the bed like the orderlies back at
Bethesda, so she resigned herself to having a lumpy federal agent
as a mattress.
 
      The state of Mulder's clothes brought a smile to Dr. Scully's
face.  Somehow, she'd forgotten to tell Meyers to remove his
shoulder holster, and it was still strapped about him.  It didn't
look very comfortable.  She decided not to bother Meyers, but
instead pulled the holster off of the rig under Mulder's arm.  She
wondered what happened to her partner's gun.
 
      Oh yeah, she remembered dimly.  Monster got it.  She giggled
wearily as she dragged herself onto the bed, and halfway on top of
her partner.
 
      She reached down to pull the covers about them, and realized
she'd left the gun in her right hand.  She blinked, and realized
just how tired she was.  Sighing, she tucked it into Mulder's empty
holster, and then clipped it to her belt.  Then she tried again,
and managed to drag the ugly hospital covers over herself and her
partner.
 
      Shifting softly about, she at last rested her head on his
shoulder, one hip grazing the bed.  She still needed her far arm
and leg thrown across him to stay in place, but she rationalized
that he'd be warmer that way.
 
      The blunt mass of the lieutenant's pistol pressed into
Scully's stomach, and she presumed into Mulder's as well.  Just
like Lancelot and Guinivere, she thought.  Only I got the gun. 
Then she faded into sleep.
 
      Once, Dana heard far away voices.  But she grabbed a handful
of cloth, and heard only deep heartbeats.
 
           *         *         *
 
      "Dr. Scully."  A low voice called.  "Hey, Agent Scully."
 
      Still partially asleep, Dana came fully awake when a hand
closed upon her shoulder.  She rolled to her left, and spun off the
narrow hospital bed in a mass of covers.
 
      Soun hopped back, finding Scully holding a gun on him from
her undignified position on the dirty linoleum.  For a moment, he
saw fear and anger in her blue eyes, and he froze completely.  Then
her gaze was washed with recognition, and she relaxed her
two-handed hold on the pistol.
 
      Rubbing her back with one hand, Dana let the flood of
adrenaline push her awake.  "You're back.  Let me get myself
together and I'll be out to the wounded in-"
 
      "Uh-uh, Doc."  In the half-light at Mulder's bedside, Soun's
face was blank, save for the darkness of his eyes.
 
      "What?"  She looked around, and saw the chair the blankets
had been stacked upon.  It was empty.  Dana pulled in a long
breath.  "How long have you been here?"
 
      "We got back about two hours ago.  Meyers and Whitman are
sacked out right now too.  El-tee can't sleep, and I thought you
might want to take your turn at watch now, before everybody wakes
up."  Soun's mask broke for a moment, and he stared at the floor as
he slowly turned away.
 
      "Wait!"  Dana quickly lowered her voice as she struggled to
free herself from the blankets.  "If Whitman's asleep, who's
watching the wounded?  Damnit Soun, talk to me!"  She grabbed his
arm, turning the broad-shouldered man about.
 
      He took one of her small hands, but refused to meet her eyes.
"I'm sorry ma'am.  He didn't make it."  Then Soun let her hand go,
and left the room quietly.
 
      Dr. Scully blinked, and pushed the remains of her ponytail
out of her face.  She pinched the sleep from her eyes, drawing a
sweating hand over her face.  The pistol was heavy in her other
palm, but for the moment she did not know what to do with it. 
Looking up and down the row of small beds, only one had its curtain
fully closed.  Scully approached it with a sense of foreboding.
 
      She stopped at the plastic sheet, one hand idly touching the
hanging drapes.  She didn't know why she was doing this, because
she knew what was back there.  Just the same, she licked her lips,
and entered the chamber made by the translucent plastic.
 
      Inside, the body on the bed was covered in a simple sheet,
the blankets stripped and used by the living.  Blood had soaked
through the fabric in several places, and had subsequently dried
into stiff russet circles.  Next to the bed lay an airtank, mask,
and strips of stained gauze.  The drip racks and chart holder were
empty, and the bed railings were down.
 
      Scully stood at the foot of the bed, and tried to puzzle out
her feelings.  She'd seen countless bodies, and autopsied many of
them.  Why now was she chewing her lip?  She took a step forward,
and stopped, her arms still at her sides.  Did she want to pull
back the sheet?
 
      She tried to remember which of the faces she'd seen in the
_Elliot's_ hold was Peirson's.  She couldn't remember a single one. 
She'd only really seen him as a large, friendly shape in plastic. 
Dana only remembered his voice in her ear, his hand on her back.
 
      Dana Katherine Scully, don't do this to yourself.
 
      But why not, she argued against herself.  Why shouldn't I do
this to myself?  This is all my life is now, isn't it?  Might as
well enjoy what I have.  And I've got a lot don't I?  Don't I?  A
damn fool partner who disappears on me.  Family I can't talk to
about my work.  An empty, cold apartment that reminds me of killers
I've seen.  A three month hole in my memory, and nightmares I can't
shake.
 
      I even have the occasional lover I don't want to spend much
time with, and petty conversation that's not as much fun.  Yeah,
then I get a great drive back to downtown DC, where my beloved
partner gets to poke holes in my life.  Like he's supposed to be
all I need, or something.  Yeah, it's a wonderful life.
 
      Then I meet a nice man, a sweet one.  Didn't blow his top, or
get scared off by my job.  He was even a Navy man.  But I don't
even know his face.  Not once.
 
      Dana blinked impending tears from her eyes, and moved to the
head of the bed.  She swallowed sharply, for she could smell him. 
That mix she'd first known in med school, that concoction of sweat
and blood, and finally death.  It occurred to her that her jaw
hurt, that she'd been clenching it for a while now.
 
      Dr. Scully reached out for the sheet, drawing a shuddering
breath.
 
      "Don't."
 
      Dana pulled back quickly and spun to face Lt. Quiddis. 
Blinking rapidly, she tried to gather her composure.
 
      "You startled me."  It bought her time to pace her breathing,
and smooth her rumpled flannel overshirt.
 
      "Don't, Agent Scully.  It doesn't get any better that way. 
Just walk out, and get it together later."  Quiddis tried to catch
her eyes, but she found herself staring at the tiny black bars on
the collar of his shirt.  He'd put it back on, but it still wasn't
buttoned.
 
      "I just had to know.  He was my patient."  The muscles moving
under the Lieutenant's flat stomach were much easier for her to
focus on than his compassionate eyes.  Was that the way her eyes
seemed to Mulder?

 
      "And he was my man.  And he was somebody's boyfriend, and
somebody's son.  But we all just get used to it."
 
      He was starting to upset Scully.  Not just because he was
right, but because she doled this speech out to the agents at the
Academy.  She hated losing people.  That was what had driven her
into forensic medicine.  Never having to watch her patients die.
 
      "Right.  Let me check on everybody."  Dana brushed past
Quiddis, who wisely left her alone.  For a moment, he too stood at
the foot of the bed, staring at the body under the sheet. Then he
slowly drew the curtain, and walked away.  He left the room, noting
that the Doctor was simply standing at Fox's bedside.
 
      She waited at Mulder's bedside, looking down at him.  God,
she'd become so familiar with this sight of him.  Sadly, only when
wounded did she see that peaceful look upon him with any
regularity.  And judging by his life, she knew why.  Every waking
moment, and all his sleep, never to forget.  Until he was hurt
beyond belief, and drugged beyond the reach of his dreams.
 
      That thought drained some of Scully's anger from her.  She
wanted to blame the thin, boyish face in front of her.  But she
couldn't, not without remembering why he had to be here.  And she'd
volunteered, following Fox every step of the way.
 
      She set the gun down by his head, and started tossing the
blankets back over his lanky body.  She was amazed at how easily
the nurses always seemed to make that look.  One flick of the
wrist, and they settled on a bed, all sides straight and tight. 
She managed to tug them into place across Mulder with some effort.
 
      But didn't most things take a little effort with Mulder?
 
      She wet her lips, and decided to avoid that subject.  Even
within the confines of her own head, she didn't want to air some
subjects now.  So she felt quickly at his head, convincing herself
he was warm enough.  Then she picked up her pistol, and started to
make her rounds of the ward.  Very like her residency, if she
ignored the weight of the pistol, or how the rifle had beaten the
muscles in her arms and back.
 
      She looked in on Pryce first.  The sutures sealing his scalp
wound looked second-rate, but he probably wouldn't complain anytime
soon.  The Major was curled up about a rifle, the lines of his face
carved more deeply by the dim light.  The collar of his uniform was
stiff and stained with his own blood, and his heavy boots protruded
from the bottom of his covers.  Dr. Scully found it much easier not
to think now, immersed in the routine of her profession.
 
      Whitman lay in the next bed over, his arm hanging off the
edge and into space.  A pistol lay on the ground beside him, and
some sheet was haphazardly tangled across his legs.  Scully smiled
when she realized no one had wanted to hand the kid a rifle.
 
      One of the other soldiers, a heavily muscled man with an ugly
brown mustache was sitting upright and asleep in the corner. 
Scully had never learned his name before she left him with Whitman
in the hanger.  Even in his sleep he cradled his rifle in his arms
like a lover, and Dana decided not to get close enough to read the
name off his uniform.
 
      There was no sign of the other soldier she'd left above. 
Just thinking about that dawning light made her cringe.  It seemed
too much a part of the scene there.
 
      She'd reached the doorway into the main part of the tiny
hospital when the gun in her hand started bothering her palm.  She
stopped, and shifted it to her left hand, still looking about her. 
She brought her right hand up to scratch it against her jeans when
she stopped and looked at it.  It was covered in dark black
particles, each as small as a snowflake.
 
      Her eyebrows crept close to one another as she looked at the
pistol in her left hand.  It was a military standard issue weapon,
the metal darkened at the factory to a dull black finish.  It
smelled still of phosphorus and sulfur, for it hadn't been cleaned
since it had been fired.  But the grips on the gun were lighter
colored, and in the grooves something dark had dried.  Blood.
 
      Dana turned, and saw the drapes that hid her partner from
view.  His gun was gone, and his hand had been injured severely. 
And Quiddis' weapon had blood on it.  The obvious conclusion was
that Mulder had been carrying the Lieutenant's weapon while the two
men tried to escape the bottom of the rig.
 
      But they'd only had the two pistols.  Why then would Quiddis
have been unarmed down there?  She closed her eyes, picturing every
possible scenario.  And Fox wasn't conscious to confirm or deny any
of them.
 
      Dana heard voices in the Office, and quickly thrust the
pistol into Mulder's holster about her waist.  She didn't want to
be seen staring at it in the middle of the doorway.  She pulled her
flannel shirt about her, letting the hem cover the gun ever so
subtly.  Then she headed into the office.
 
      On the way in, she passed Meyers.  He was sacked out on a
couch, curled up in a ball underneath a heat register.  She shook
her head and sighed.  Dana hadn't been able to rest near a heating
duct in over a year.
 
      In the office, Scully found Soun wrapped in a blanket in the
doctor's chair, his massive Steyer on the desk close at hand. 
Quiddis had been talking to him, but turned at the noise.  Soun
shot her a sympathetic look the moment his officer's back turned,
and nodded slightly.
 
      "Agent Scully, you're up."  Quiddis ran a hand along his dark
hair and smiled, the white of his teeth a marked contrast to the
bags under his eyes.
 
      "I'm taking the watch now.  Soun's resting."  She tried to
gauge what went on in the Lieutenant's head, tried to look behind
his dark eyes.
 
      Quiddis grinned, and looked back toward Soun.  "I win.  And
you owe me."
 
      "Take it offa your tab."  Soun turned an easy grin toward a
scowling Federal Agent.  "El-Tee bet me that you'd wake up and go
straight to work.  At this rate, he's going to work off those cases
he owes me."  Soun winked at her.
 
      "Huh?"  Quiddis turned on Soun, missing the confusion on
Dana's face.  "You owe me.  Or are you forgetting Malta?"
 
      "I won at Malta."  Soun closed his eyes and leaned back,
mimicking sleep.
 
      "What?  Pendahocosa!  I beat you every time."

      Realization dawned in Dana's eyes as she watched the two men
banter sharply.  At first, she'd been confused.  Soun had asked her
specifically to wake up and take the watch, and she hadn't been
able to understand why he'd bet against himself.
 
      Then she realized.  He wanted his lieutenant to win.  After
all the setbacks he'd faced, he needed something positive to
believe in.  It wasn't much, but it had him smiling.
 
      And he'd managed to get Scully up and about.  He'd broken the
news, and got her going too.  And he'd done it so she'd have some
time to herself before the others got up.  She decided to interrupt
the two from their play.
 
      "'Night, Soun."  Softly, and with a smile in her eyes she
watched him.
 
      "'Night, Doc."  He didn't look up, but she heard him.
 
      Dana light-footed out of the office, and back into the main
room.  Her rifle was leaning to one side, away from where she'd set
it in her hurry.  Picking it up, Scully noted the fresh gun oil,
and signs of cleaning.  Somebody had been bored, or thorough, or
both.
 
      Dana leaned up against the table she'd used to save Fox, and
stared at the bolted door.  It was a few seconds before she
realized that Soun had done something else.
 
      He'd distracted her from wondering why Fox was carrying the
Lieutenant's gun.  Or why Quiddis was carrying Fox out onto the
catwalk with Glad in the first place.
 
      Dana had a lot to think about as she watched the wall.
 
===========================================================================

From: ez042725@boris.ucdavis.edu (Sean Smith)
Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
Subject: NEW STORY: ETCHED 8/13
Date: 5 Oct 1995 17:41:44 GMT


Part 8 of 13

Disclaimer in part 1 still applies. 

Copyright August 1995

Send all comments, criticisms to: ez042725@peseta.ucdavis.edu   
I want replies, damnit!


                Etched
                     by Sean Smith
                     ez042725@peseta.ucdavis.edu

      There are few constants in the universe.  Few things that can
be counted on to occur in all places and at all times.  Modern
physics would like the public to believe that these constants are
within their realm.  But in all honesty, few people are ever in a
position to observe these invariants.  For all intents and
purposes, they are easily ignored by most of us.
 
      In Mulder's life, one of the few constants was the off-white
blandness of a drop ceiling.  The speckled, dusty panels and their
slightly gray partitions. The one piece that has cracked, revealing
the gray pressboard beneath the paint.  And their inevitable
concentric circles of brown water stains.
 
      He stared at them for a few moments, trying desperately to
recall how he'd arrived here.  He could recognize the hospital bed
and drapes; he'd seen enough for them to be more familiar than his
own bedroom.  But he was covered in layers of blankets, and the air
about him was cold.  What was more, there was the faint bite of
smoke in the air, and under it the smell of decay.
 
      He had not gotten off the rig, he guessed.
 
      And from the low pounding in his head, he was in poor shape
as well.  Not entirely surprising, he admitted.  The surprise had
been Glad, really.  The last thing he recalled was Glad and Quiddis
carrying him through the halls to safety.  Apparently, they had
succeeded.  But Fox was surprised Glad had let them live.
 
      He smiled slowly.  At least the helicopter would have pulled
the rest of the team off of this nightmare derrick.  And no matter
how hot her temper, the SEALs would have dragged Dana with them.
 
      Now Mulder just had to figure a way off the rig for himself. 
He guessed that his benefactors probably had more on their minds
than checking in on him.  He probably would have to go call on
them.  And that meant standing up.
 
      This was always the part of hospital stays he'd hated.  The
nurses with pinched faces telling him to stand up, and walk back
and forth across a cold, medicinal room.  That sick, leaden feeling
that accompanied illness, and the lightheaded nausea of surgery. 
And the inevitable pain of dragging yourself into a sitting
position.
 
      Fox tried to pull the covers back, and couldn't.  After a
curious look, he realized that his right hand was bandaged and
splinted ferociously.  He also couldn't feel his arm below his
elbow.  This bothered him, and he tried to dismiss it.
 
      Instead, he used his left hand to toss back the covers.  The
chill air hit his sweating body, and he felt frozen.  The headache
felt a little worse.  He noticed that he was out of that horrible
P3 suit, but still in his clothes.  Thankfully, Quiddis had not
decided to do the whole hospital number on him.  Mulder hated those
damn backless gowns nurses shoved patients into.  And it was a rare
nurse who was worth all the trouble, too.
 
      Mulder took a deep breath and swung his legs over the edge of
the bed.  When his head came up, his vision faded out momentarily. 
He blinked rapidly, and soon saw his own shoes.  He was folded in
half at the edge of his bed, with every limb prickling with
thousands of needles.
 
      Blood loss.  I nearly died of blood loss, Mulder thought.  I
remember feeling like this after I was shot in the leg.  It was
like my legs had been asleep, and I was dizzy and blanked out like
that.
 
      He looked down at his gauze wrapped hand.  As his eyes fired
up and began working again, he noticed smears from blood stained
fingers on the cloth.  He poked at his hand, and was rewarded by a
deep, numb ache.  Mulder grimaced, knowing how it would feel once
the painkillers wore off.
 
      Cautiously, he slid off the bed.  If he was about to lose
feeling in his legs, he didn't want to make too much noise as he
fell.  But he surprised himself when he managed to remain on his
unsteady feet, even after he released the bedsheets.
 
      Wobbling slightly, Mulder used his awkward left hand to draw
a rough blanket about his shoulder.  It took some time to pin it
about one shoulder, and then work it over the other.  At last he
was done, and could hold the fabric in place with his bandaged
hand. Grinning palely at his own small accomplishment, he managed
to leave the small enclosure.
 
      Despite the dim light, Mulder saw that several other beds
were also in use, their curtains drawn.  He poked his head through
one, and saw Whitworth, still asleep.  He was stunned; Whitworth
should have been on the helicopter out of here already.  The last
curtained divider hid another sleeping soldier, one Mulder wasn't
familiar with.  Through his confusion, it occurred to Fox that
perhaps the helicopter never arrived.  Or perhaps it never left.
 
      Still dizzy, he slammed into the edge of the door on the way
out.  He pushed off, fighting for the balance he needed to make it
through the small hospital facility.  He stumbled and fell against
someone, felt arms grab him about the waist.
 
      "Mulder, you shouldn't be up."  Dana had dropped her rifle
and leapt to her feet when she'd seen her partner stumble blindly
into the darkened main room.
 
      "Scully?  You okay?"  He was out of breath as she pushed him
back against a desk, forcing him to sit down atop it.
 
      "A lot better than you're doing."
 
      Mulder bent over, holding himself up with his left hand on
his knees.  He spoke to the floor.  "I thought you were getting out
on the helicopter."
 
      "So did I."  She pressed her fingers against his carotid
artery, and checked his forehead before examining his bandages. 
"You've got a fever.  I-"
 
      "They never showed?"  He wearily brought his head up, and
took in her wild hair, bloodstained clothes, and smell of smoke.
 
      "They showed.  But those things destroyed the helicopter and
killed the pilots.  Mulder, what are they?"  He managed to hold her
eye, and was shocked by the stiff, hard look there.
 
      "You know my usual list of suspects."  She steadied him with
a hand, but didn't smile at his joke.  "You notice those things had
green blood, same as that bounty hunter."
 
      "Only it's a corrosive acid."
 
      Mulder leaned further back, resting his head against the wall
behind him.  He decided to keep his eyes closed.  "Right.  So what
did I miss?"
 
      Once he propped himself against the wall, Dana took her hand
away.  Now she didn't know what to say to him.  What had he missed? 
There was too much to say, and too few words for her to use.  She
ran a hand through her hair, pushing it away from her face.
 
      "That good, huh?"  Dana still said nothing, and Fox couldn't
bring himself to open his eyes to her.  He could hear her rattling
about with some pills for him to take, and it upset him that she
wouldn't talk to him.  He wanted her to say something to him, now. 
He wanted a chance to apologize to her.
 
      Maybe they could just talk.  "You and that soldier still
getting along?"  He kept his eyes closed, his head pounding.
 
      Scully's jaw dropped and her eyes narrowed.  After all that
had happened here, he had the audacity to play mind games.  He
still wanted to hurt her, pry where he wasn't wanted.  She fought
an urge to slap him.  Instead she drew a shaky breath, and tried to
conjure something suitably scathing to say.  She couldn't think of
a thing.  Not one word came to her, not a witticism or a single
remark. 
     
     "Scully?"  She closed her eyes, rather than see Mulder's now
open eyes trying to read her expression.  She'd have turned away,
but she didn't think she could. 

     "Scully?  What's wrong?"  Mulder took her elbow clumsily in
his left hand, and pulled on her slightly as he tried to sit
upright. 

     "Nothing."  Scully mumbled something further to him as she
shook free of his hand and turned away.  She couldn't continue
talking like this.  She wanted to get back to her seat, and keep
watch, alone. 

     "Wait, Scu-,"  He tried to push off from the desk to follow
her, but collapsed to the floor when his legs gave out on him. 
"Ah-Ohgodohgodohgodogod. . ."  He rolled away from the side he'd
landed upon, cradling his hand. 

     "Damnit Mulder, can't you do anything right?"  When he looked
up again through the pain, Scully was kneeling down beside him,
bent over his bloody bandages.  Her hair hung down, obscuring her
face as she started unwinding the gauze about his hand. 

     "You pull out more damn stitches than I put in, you know
that?"  She fumbled with the bandages, her voice thick. 

     "Yeah, I do it just to spite you."  His face was pinched as
she pulled back the bandages.  He didn't want to look. 

     "I figured.  Well, congratulations; the stitches held.  You
just hit some of the broken bones in your hand."  She started
rewrapping his wounds, her hair still hanging across her face. 

     "Broken bones?"  Mulder watched his partner, unsure what he'd
triggered accidentally. 

     "When that fragment hit your hand, it shattered a couple of
bones in your hand before coming out your wrist."  She tied the
bandages viciously enough to elicit a grunt from Fox.  "You're real
lucky to be alive." 

     Dana threw Mulder's arm across her shoulder, and
unceremoniously drew him to his feet.  She didn't want to face him,
her mouth dry from the mix of anger and guilt she suddenly felt. 
Instead, she wrapped her arm about him, keeping her head down. 
Suddenly his height would be to her advantage, for he wouldn't be
able to see her face. 

     "Let's get you back to bed."  Now her voice was softer, less
distinct.  But she managed to get him moving toward the door. 

     Despite Scully's arm about his ribs, Mulder reeled.  He used
his bandaged hand to tilt her chin toward him, and she didn't
resist.  Instead, they both stopped just at the door to the sick
room.  Fox stood still, watching the dim light play across his
partner's face and hands.  He could swear it looked like she was
crying silently. 

     "Scully, I-"  She twisted her face away, and pressed him into
motion again. 

     "It's not you, Mulder.  So just shut up and walk."  There was
too much forced humor in her voice, but she managed to hustle him
into the hall along the beds. 

     "Who then?  Peirson?  That guy from this weekend? What?"  His
head hurt, and she was just helping it reach new levels.  Mulder
took his hand from about her shoulder, and squeezed the bridge of
his nose. 

     Scully pushed away from Mulder, digging into her shirt pocket
as she looked away.  "I forgot.  Here, take two of these. . ." 

     She pulled his hand from his face, and pressed several small
capsules into his hand.  Fox stared through the darkness at the
pills before he tossed them aside.  They scattered loudly across
the metal decking. 

     "I don't want any damn pills, Scully!"  His intense whisper
came out as a hiss, and his eyes were blacker than the darkness
around them.  "I want answers.  You've been dodging me or lying to
me since you came back from this weekend, and I want to know why." 

     Dana stared at Fox a moment before answering.  "No, Mulder. 
This is dodging you."  She turned and walked back toward the door,
leaving Mulder standing a few feet from his bed. 

     "Scully . . ."  Fox knew he'd said the wrong thing, but he
couldn't believe that his snipes at her earlier were still cutting
this deeply. 

     "No more, Mulder.  No more."  She took up her chair, hefting
the big rifle across her lap.  Dana cast a glance down the hallway,
where he still leaned against the metal bulkhead. 

     Agent Mulder knew from her tone that his words weren't going
to change her mind in the least.  If anything, he was likely to
worsen the situation, and that he did not want.  The ward echoed
more quietly than ever as he walked past the remaining beds toward
his own.  As he reached the foot of his bed, he realized he'd left
his blanket back on the desk behind him.  He only paused
momentarily, not wishing to confront Dana just then.  It took
little thought for him to abandon it. 

     His head was pounding as Mulder limped to the side of his own
bed.  It was hospital standard uncomfortable, but he ached enough
to look forward to it.  But just as he walked alongside the mussed
bed, his brow wrinkled.  A passing thought had wandered through his
mind when he awoke, forgotten until now. 

     He picked at the flat pillow, searching in the darkness with
his fingers.  He couldn't find any hair without light to see, and
he cursed himself for dropping the flashlight.  Instead he smelled
the pillow, and the rumpled covers alongside the bed.  Despite the
chill air, and the rank smell of the room, Fox could still smell
it.  Dana's hair was one thing he'd recognize anywhere. 

     Mulder found himself leaning on the cold bed, fighting his
headache to think.  He knew that something wasn't adding up, and
now the one person he could trust didn't want him in the room with
her.  He'd said and done exactly the wrong things, and at exactly
the wrong times, as he always did. 

     Sometimes, when he woke in a sweat on his sofa, he wondered
just how much of his life's troubles were of his own making.  A
father who hated him, a mother he never talked to cropped up first. 
A love life that lasted until Monday at best, and an empty home
flashed by.  And Dana, he thought.  And Dana. 

     Rubbing at burning eyes, Fox forced his thoughts away from his
self absorbed ramblings.  He was supposed to be the FBI's best
profiler, able to think just like his target.  He could understand
people's motives, and know their moves before they did.  Even in a
game of chess with no rules, he was ten jumps ahead. 

     Why couldn't he understand Dana then?  Her smiles and frowns
were still pleasant surprises to him, and he still tightened at the
prospect of her reaction to his constant teasing.  Certainly he
knew her every professional response, and saw the orderly working
of her intellect.  Mulder trusted her as a partner because they
moved side by side without misstep, like dancers in their
movements.  Until now.  He realized that for all their time
together, and for all the facets of her person he'd seen, she was
still something of a mystery to him.  And this was a mystery he
might lose. 

     He wanted to lie down and go to sleep, give in to the cold
lassitude that weighted his arms.  He wanted to let his thoughts
continue to blur in and out of focus, his memories giving way to
dreams.  Once there everything would again be clear and painless. 

     No, he reminded himself.  Concentrate on the situation.  First
he played all the relevant facts through his head.  Then he thought
about anything small, any detail he would never have counted
important.  The obvious conclusion was that he'd been an ass.  A
royal, four flushed wanker was the name that sprang to him from his
days in Oxford.  He wondered if this was this sort of thing that
he'd done to earn his treatment at Phoebe Greene's hands. 

     He shook away the memory, as the chill air slowly sapped his
remaining vigor.  His actions would explain her anger, but not all
that had just transpired.  So he reversed all the names in his
mind, tried pretending that Dana had treated him the way he'd
treated her.  What had she experienced that he hadn't?  And he saw
a pattern. 

     Her family was large, and she was used to them, comfortable
and happy as Fox had never known.  Now her brothers are away, and
she moves out and into the FBI.  Her father dies shortly
thereafter, and her mother would be busy dealing with that.  She's
never really made many friends in Washington, and her half-mad
partner is lost in a world of his own.  To top it off, her job
alienates just about everyone in her profession.  She was lonely. 

     She disappears for a weekend fling, much as Fox was accustomed
to doing.  Only she returns to a partner who throws a tantrum,
intrudes in her private life, and does everything but say he's
jealous.  It had to remind her of the distance they kept, just the
opposite of what he'd tried to say.  The irony involved was one of
the things that made Fox lay his head on the cold bedcovers. 

     He'd have yelled at Dana long before now.  But not her, not
Doctor Scully.  Fox knew that it was his emotions that kept him
going, that anger and guilt pushed him past the rough spots.  But
she was ruled more by her ambition, honesty, and intelligence. 
Something more was needed to make his partner, his friend snap at
him now, and under these circumstances. 

     His head throbbed, and he wished he hadn't thrown away those
pills she'd proffered.  Whatever was in them had to be preferable
to the steady pain that echoed his heartbeat. 

     He fought it to recall the words he'd said each time, the ones
that triggered her responses.  Think like the professional you're
supposed to be, he pressed.  'What have I missed.' Then 'Peirson.'
Then I accused her of lying to me.  Oh shit.  No, not that, not
now. 

     The dank smell sharing the hold with him suddenly intruded on
Mulder.  He spun upright, ignoring the blackness spinning just past
the edge of his vision.  It moved in time with his headache, and
made him desperately want to fall over.  Instead, he walked to the
drapes.  Toward the one bed farther from the door than his. 

     Pushing it open, he remembered suddenly why it was he had been
afraid of the dark.  Under the plain white cover was a blood
stained body.  Mulder couldn't bring himself to look at the face,
and he knew it wouldn't help him much anyway. 

     Instead he pulled at the right boot one-handed, struggling
with it as quietly as he could.  It pulled away with a sucking
noise, and revealed an army boot inside.  Mulder gingerly set the
P3 boot down, then set about removing the next boot.  He couldn't
manage to get his numb fingers to pull apart the nylon lacings of
the boot, though.  And his goal, a shiny piece of metal, could be
seen peeking through the many laces. 

     Instead, he forced himself to pull back the sheet, revealing
the head and chest of the body.  Most of the dark rubber suit had
been eaten away, but the name 'Peirson', was just legible.  Fox
knew how she had to be feeling, sitting alone in the dark.  He
pulled the sheet up, barely over the head of the body, before
turning about.  He wanted to be there with his partner. 

          Mulder managed to stagger out to her, using the wall to
push against as he walked.  He was pretty sure it wasn't medically
sound for him to be legging it out like this, but there was no
chance he'd leave her alone just then.  As he passed the desk, he
gathered his forgotten Army surplus blanket into his arms. 

     It scratched his one bare forearm as he walked alongside Dana.
She didn't look up at him, instead focusing on the sealed hatch
before her.  Fox grabbed the back of her chair for support
momentarily before dropping the blanket over her shoulders. 

     Mulder easily remembered how he'd felt when his partner had
died, and how she'd taken the loss of her father.  He didn't move
to touch her, and only spoke briefly, under his breath. 

     "I'm sorry. . . Dana" 

     Scully looked up, her face an unreadable tangle of emotions.
"Mulder, it's you. . ." 

     Mulder's sleepy eyes hid a frown.  Despite the Exxon sized
headache working its way across his temples, he wondered who she'd
expected. 

     "You've got to stay in bed, you're about ready to fall over." 
Dr. Scully pushed herself to her feet, letting the blanket slide to
the floor and leaving her rifle on the chair.  No matter how she
felt, she couldn't very well leave her partner swaying in the
middle of a room. 

     Dana once again took hold of her partner, and helped him back
to his bed.  This time, however, he held his tongue until she'd
helped him sit on the bed. 

     "Scully, I'm sorry."  He almost mumbled it, like a tired
child. 

     "You've said that before.  And it's all right."  She lifted
his legs up and onto the bed before looking over her shoulder.  The
drapes leading to Peirson's body were pulled back, and the shroud
disturbed.  Dana pursed her lips, and pulled the drapes closed with
a soft sound. 

     When Scully turned back, her charge was out cold, the blankets
still pinned beneath his legs.  As she reached for the blankets,
Dana was thinking about the ways in which her partner needed help. 
Then her hand brushed against his leg, and she was struck still by
how cold it was.

     Running her hands along his arms and neck, she found his skin
sallow and cold.  But his forehead and cheek still burned with a
mild fever.  After all the blood loss, Mulder's body couldn't keep
its temperature up.  In this environment, that invited illness and
worse, hypothermia.  It was then she found the pulse along the
inside of his thigh, rapid and shallow. 

     "Whitman."  Scully called out in the dark to the USAMRIID
doctor. 

     "Yes, here."  The thin man moved quickly from his cubicle,
rotating his shoulders to work the kinks out. 

     "Start heating up some plasma; Mulder needs another
transfusion immediately.  I'll get the antibiotics while you set up
the IV stand."  She pushed her flannel sleeves up to her elbows as
she barreled down the darkened corridor. 

     "Got it."  Whitman was at her heels, buttoning the sleeves on
his uniform shirt.  "He sounded groggy.  Um, we'll need to keep him
warm, while checking him for signs of fever." 

     Scully yanked several small ampules from a miniature
refrigerator, hoping they had been kept cold enough. "Too late. 
He's already showing.  Now we need to control it, and break it." 

     Whitman disappeared into the walk in refrigerator large
samples were stored in, and came out with several bags of yellowish
blood plasma under his arms.  He rubbed one frantically, trying to
bring its temperature up.  Then he noticed Agent Scully staring at
him. 

     "You were listening, weren't you?"  Her eyes were tightened
imperceptibly, the lines at her mouth a trifle deeper. 

     Whitman blinked rapidly before speaking, a weak grin on his
face.  "Sounded like doctor-client confidentiality to me, sir." 

     With that he fled down the corridor toward Mulder's bedside. 
Dana searched the drawers for chemical heat packs before joining
him. 
     
     *         *         *
     
     White was about as unhappy as he could be.  The plentiful oil
and grease he'd found in the mining pump provided fuel to keep him
warm, but it was a poor solution at best.  The toolcase he was
using as a firepit kept the burning oil contained, and even
shielded him from the boiling grease the fire kicked upward.  But
it let out the most horrific black smoke, thick enough to choke and
noxious enough to hold him far from the warmth. 

     He wanted to use a crowbar with grease on the end as a torch,
but he knew full well that the oil would simply liquefy, and run
down onto his hands.  And he was himself smeared with diesel, oil,
and grease; he couldn't afford even a single mistake handling the
fire. 

     His bleeding arm severely limited his movements.  Stallone
movies notwithstanding, there was no way White was going to use
fire to cauterize a bullet wound.  Strips torn from the hem of his
undershirt were going to have to do it. 

     He exercised as best he could with his wounded arm, counting
on his body heat to keep him healthy, and dry his clothes.  When
the fire warmed and dried White as much as he could hope, he set
out. 

     Now the hard part began.  Unarmed, wounded, and in the dark,
he had to find a way off the rig with what remained of the samples
he'd been sent to collect.  The tool box was one way to carry the
fire with him, but it made the handle hot enough that he needed to
hunt for an insulated wrench to hold the handle. 

     There was no avoiding the paralyzing fear he felt for those
monsters roaming the derrick.  But he'd dealt with fear often
enough.  Anyone who doesn't feel it is a lunatic, and anyone who
doesn't handle it is a coward.  It was a motto that had followed
him from his earliest days training insurgents.  Now was just a
very practical test. 

     Over to his right, a shuttered opening to an electrical
conduit was partially concealed behind hanging chains.  The
flickering firelight cast indistinct shadows along dancing walls,
and in every corner White could almost see the gleaming carapaces
of his enemy.  Shaking his grizzled head, he ducked around the
chains, and moved to the shutters.  With his combat jumpsuit
crammed with tools from the rig, he had little trouble removing the
bolts that held it in place.  He had far more trouble lowering the
shutters to the floor in silence. 

     Once the heavy covering was gone, the firelight revealed an
empty conduit, whose curved walls and ceiling were lined with
bundles of wires, each as thick as his wrist.  It was big enough
for him to stand up in, but just barely.  And he wasn't a tall man.

      And the shallow pools of stagnant water that reflected the
bare metal above them only added to the tight feeling of the
passageway.  It didn't help that this was Col. White's best chance
to leave Rig Forty-Three. 

     His footfalls echoed heavily in his ears as he moved down the
conduit. 

          *         *         *
     
     Whitman cautiously set up the IV in Agent Mulder's left arm. 
According to Scully, the man tended to slip IVs right out of the
vein in his left arm three times out of five.  Ordinarily, she'd
use his right, but the injury there prevented it.  Whitman
swallowed, trying to picture a job where somebody would be on IVs
that often. 

     His reverie was broken by Dr. Scully's tense voice again.
"What's his bee-pee?" He slipped the blood pressure cuff over Fox's
limp left hand, and started inflating it even before it was in
position. 

     "Eighty over seventy."  He felt under Fox's jaw and counted
off heartbeats on his watch.  Doing some quick multiplication, he
continued.  "Heart rate's an even one-forty." 

     Scully pulled the syringe out of the dangling IV tube,
finished with the Amoxicilin injection.  Dull blue eyes flashed a
worried look at him over Mulder's chest. "He's going to go
arrhythmic like that.  Find some Verapimil, and start a slow drip."

     Whitman started around the bed, following Dana into the main
area of the hospital.  "What about Dobutamine?"  He turned away
from her to the medical chest. 

     "Uh-uh.  We'll need him up and around when the weather clears. 
You start that, I'll get more thermal packs and a glucose drip." 
She ignored the hair falling in her eyes as she methodically
overturned every drawer of every cabinet set into the wall.  All
the neatly stacked items bounced around her feet as she tossed them
down, searching for equipment. 

     Finding what she was looking for, she lifted the hem of her
shirt and dumped several items into it.  Then she rushed down the
hall, back to Fox's bedside. 

     "What's his heart rate now?"  She kept her eyes on Agent
Mulder's face as she snapped the chemical heat packs, and thrust
them under the blanket. 

     "Down to ninety and slowing.  Seems okay for now."  Dr.
Whitman reached across to grab the glucose drip bag, and hang it
alongside the plasma container. 

     Scully picked up the electric thermometer she'd grabbed, and
stuck it in Mulder's ear.  The small LCD display read '96.5,' and
she frowned at it. 

     "Well, his temperature is still too low, and his face is
flushed.  You stay with him, while I get the main room in order." 

     Whitman barely managed to beat her to the foot of the bed. 
"Nope, no can do." 

     Dana pushed aside the arm he'd extended toward her.  "And why
not?" 

     "I'm not the one prescribing drugs for him, Doctor." He pulled
himself upright, adding an inch to his height advantage. "I'm just
helping out.  He's all yours."  With a brief smile, he quickly
moved away. 

     Scully was flatfooted.  She knew he'd heard Mulder arguing
with her.  It wasn't much of a leap to see that he wanted to 'help
her out,' by giving her some time with her unconscious partner. 

     Well, she didn't want time.  She didn't want any more nosy
damn men in her life.  She didn't want all this care and concern. 
Damnit, she was a forensic pathologist, and a trained Federal
Special Agent.  It galled her to have an absolute stranger doing
the same things that irked her in her partner.  And Mulder could
raise her blood pressure better than anyone. 

     Still thinking of him, she sat awkwardly on the high bed,
almost atop Mulder's thigh.  Under the layers of blankets, she
could feel one of the chemical hotpacks burn brightly into her
thigh.  There was no place for her to sit here, and she'd rather
burn than go out and pick up a chair to bring back here.  There was
no way she wanted to face Whitman just then.  God only knew what
she'd say to him. 

     Sitting as she did provided no support.  Dana found herself
shifting fitfully, almost disturbing her partner's rest.  Then a
thought occurred to her;  Whitman awoke to the noise of her
conversation with Fox, and he was just a doctor like her.  For all
the soldiers resting on edge, they must have been very loud indeed.

     She couldn't help running over in her head what these men had
seen.  First I crawled into bed with my partner, my _partner_ for
God's sake!  Then I get into what could easily be misconstrued as
a lover's quarrel, right in front of the whole of the US military. 
And when he gets sick, I hurl objects left and right like some love
sick- 

     Dana stopped when she realized her nails were biting into her
thighs through the denim.  She took a deep breath and released it. 
Then she turned to see her partner's ashen profile in the half
light.  She smiled, and pushed the stiffened hair back from his
forehead.  It took a moment or two, but her temper cooled as it
always did.  I am scared of those animals out there, and worried
about my partner, she thought.  It is not Whitman's fault, and it's
not Mulder's. 

     Dana rubbed her eyes and laughed soundlessly.  The stress was
starting to get to her.  And she was halfway to punching a coworker
who was helping save Mulder's life.  This was one side to
soldiering she hadn't thought of, something she suddenly hated. 
The waiting that could burn nerves short, and set tempers off. 

     She thought about the men resting all about her, still holding
their guns in their sleep.  Doubtless each and every one knew what
she was going through.  Certainly they faced the loss of a partner
as well.  They'd understand.  Soun would, she was sure. And if they
didn't . . . fuck it.  She knew what rumors ran around the
labyrinthine corridors of the Bureau.  She'd laughed at a few of
them.  Because she knew she couldn't let that rule her life, any
more than she could let her temper get the better of her. 

     She hopped off the bed, knowing she didn't want to spend
another minute lost in thought.  Dana straightened her shirt, and
swept her hair back behind her ears.  Then she walked out and into
the main room, passing Whitman as he knelt to clean up the mess
she'd made in her haste.  Without a word, she retrieved her rifle
before tapping Whitman on the shoulder.  He nodded at the mix of
emotions on her face, and she mouthed the words 'thank you' to him. 
Then she padded softly to Fox's bedside. 

     Back in the relative safety of Mulder's area, she used the
rifle's strap to hang it from the bedpost.  Pulling aside the
covers, Scully crawled in next to her partner.  He needed the
warmth, and she needed the rest.  With her eyes closed, she was
almost comfortable.  She laughed, picturing the SEAL faces.  After
she awoke, one of them would have to curl up with Mulder to keep
him warm.  And within a few minutes, she was asleep. 

===========================================================================

From: ez042725@boris.ucdavis.edu (Sean Smith)
Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
Subject: NEW STORY: ETCHED 9/13
Date: 5 Oct 1995 17:42:15 GMT


Part 9 of 13

Disclaimer in part 1 still applies. 

Copyright August 1995

Send all comments, criticisms to: ez042725@peseta.ucdavis.edu   
I want replies, damnit!


                Etched
                     by Sean Smith
                     ez042725@peseta.ucdavis.edu

      Scully had her rifle in her hands before her eyes were open. 
The sound of her feet hitting the linoleum was lost under the
heavy, repeating booms that echoed through the very walls.  She
used the rifle barrel to push aside the curtains, trying to rub
sleep out of her eyes as she moved.
 
      "Scully..."  Dana never heard him as she raced down the
hallway toward the source of the noise.
 
      "Soun!  What's going on!"  She was yelling for him over the
slamming noises.  Very obviously, the main hatchway into the
hospital was vibrating loudly as it was struck with violent force
from the other side.  Around her, Whitman and Meyer were hauling
medical supplies back toward the rear of the medical area, while
Quiddis and Pryce wired curved pieces of plastic to the doorway.
 
      "Scully, they're coming!"  Soun grabbed her, and spun her
around.  He danced back as she flicked the safety off and swung the
barrel at his face before pointing it away.
 
      "Sorry."  The pounding was out of time with the blood in her
ears, and she still couldn't shake the vague dreams of Duane Barry.
 
      "We're falling back, back to the next set of rooms.  Past the
office, there's a lounge, and an exit into hallway Two-Four A, get
it?"  Soun turned, his eye on the dents forming in the metal of the
bulkhead.  "We fall back, and seal the room, then fight room by
room on the way out.  You get Mulder up and running, we handle the
big guns."
 
      Scully saw that the door hinges were tearing, and the paint
was flaking from the plated steel as the metal itself warped from
the impact.  She ran at full speed down to Mulder's bedside.  There
she found him sitting up, trying to pull the IV needles from his
arm with his teeth.
 
      "No time.  Just drag the rack around."  Scull was terse as
she checked his color.  The lights were low, but she thought he
looked damn pale.  The pounding increased in tempo, and she
wondered who wouldn't.
 
      He grabbed her shoulder as she approached, and pulled himself
up.  Then he slid halfway down her body before catching ahold of
her gun arm with his left hand.  "Oh, God. I can't walk."
 
      "Just the medicine.  Don't worry."  She held him tightly,
until he could pull his legs underneath and wobble to his feet.
 
      "That was fun."  Dana grimaced at the joke, wondering that he
could laugh at a time like this.
 
      Suddenly, the main door snapped inward with a scream of
tortured steel.  There was a flash of motion, and then a series of
scorching explosions.  Gouts of flame tore from the small charges
placed about the door, and through the dark mass of bodies.
 
      The Claymore charges were directional, and their payload of
ball bearings gutted the packed hallway.  Then Soun and Quiddis
opened fire relentlessly, the inhuman shrieks of their targets
burning their ears.  The blasts of gunfire in the enclosed area
quickly deafened all.
 
       The lights suddenly died, leaving only the flickering yellow
light of the muzzle blasts to illuminate the dark forms pouring
through the smoking and rent doorway.  Men screamed back and forth,
but their rising voices made no sense to Dana.  She only heard the
basso roars of Soun's weapon, and the sense of barely contained
panic.
 
      Quiddis made it through the next doorway as Dana managed to
drag Mulder forward.  He kicked a grenade from the launcher under
his rifle, and the blast nearly batted him to the floor with a
flash of light.
 
      Meyer leaped up, and managed to slam the doorway closed.  In
a heartbeat Pryce and Whitman were alongside him, fastening the
many catches around the door. They leaped back as this door too
began to ring with repeated blows.
 
      Now, though, the screams from the other side of the door
could be heard over the impacts.  The man Scully couldn't name
stepped forward, and wedged a grenade into the door handle,
wrapping wire about its pin.  Somebody took Mulder's other arm, and
started moving him along, through another door.  She nearly tripped
in the small space of the doctor's office, but then they were on
the other side of the next door, and the pounding again grew
impatient.
 
      The SEALs raced along behind them, setting up at each
doorway. They'd set up a staggered defense, and the creatures
seemed determined to slog through each and every level of it.
 
      The next door was torn free from its moorings, and the
grenade detonated under the clawed feet of a dark shape.  Scully
heard screaming, both human and alien.  Again the flashes of white
gunfire reached out into the smoke, and the hissing grew.
 
      Beneath it was a subtle groaning noise.  A nearly subsonic
vibration, deeper than the blasts echoing about them.  A lone black
shape dropped suddenly over a crouching SEAL, and Scully fired her
rifle at it.
 
      She didn't aim, or use her second hand.  She let the vicious
recoil walk the gun up her target, kicking back in a spray of green
blood.  The glossy black skeletal figure fell, as the soldier
jumped to his feet screaming.
 
      Then the deep vibration rose to a thundering pitch, and all
standing were knocked from their feet.
 
           *         *         *
 
      White was almost to the end of the tunnel.  He could hear a
horrific gunbattle echo through the dripping conduit, and he
stopped splashing along long enough to listen to the unearthly
cries of the aliens.  Several explosions thundered through the air,
and shook the tunnel through which he ran.
 
      He was running out of time, but he hoped the SEALs managed to
kill off some aliens before dying.
 
      It was that hesitation that saved his life.  With a boiling
hiss, a sea of acid burned through the conduit before Col. White. 
He fell backward in shock, as an entire section of the oil rig
seemed to dissolve before his very eyes. With a roar of
destruction, he saw a half-molten section of floor drop through the
space in front of him, before he covered his head.
 
      There was a blast of cold air, and a wave of noxious smoke. 
Then water hit his face.  Water rinsing the sour tang of the acid
burn from his nose.  It the distance, he heard a further roaring,
and then the rig began to sway wildly.  At last, it stopped, and
White released his breath.
 
      Col. White blinked his eyes open.  Shocked, he rose on
unsteady feet to stare about himself.  His injured hand curled in
toward his stomach, and his fire burned forgotten on the floor
behind him. 
 
      Where once the rest of the pylon had stood, with six meters
of tunnel, now there was empty air.  Several floors of the rig had
disappeared into the ocean, victim of the fight raging above.  And
past the smoking and twisted edges of metal, White saw the foaming
sea and the burnished gray masses of the impending storm.
 
           *         *         *
 
      Soun struggled to his feet.  Something wrapped itself about
his arm, and he staggered sideways into a tilted metal panel. 
Never letting go of his rifle, the SEAL wiped smoke from his eyes,
and found a flimsy metal pushcart entangled about him. He shook it
off, and cast about the darkened room.
 
      In short order, Soun realized that the tilted metal panel he
leaned against was the wall.  The floor itself was canted at an
obscene angle, and the entire team was fetched up against the
downward wall.  From the torn metal, it looked as though the
flooring had torn free along the northern face, and dropped down
into the rooms below along that side.
 
      The battered door leading toward the alien menace hung askew,
and through it rain poured in buckets.  Soun clambered over the
upended furniture of the lounge, and looked through the doorway. 
Empty air for sixty feet greeted him, and the sea below was now
calm.  There was no sign of the missing section of the rig. 
 
      A low groan attracted his attention, and Soun returned to his
companions.  Lt. Quiddis stirred, bleeding from a small cut over
his eye.  He waved off help, using a torn divan to right himself. 
Tossing aside a broken mini-fridge, Soun pulled himself toward the
two Federal Agents.  Mulder was pulled across Dana's lap, her rifle
discarded near one hand.
 
      "Hey, you okay?  C'mon, nap over, time to come to."  Soun
shook her shoulder until Scully moaned and opened her eyes. 
"Scully.  You hurt?"
 
      She dropped her head back against the broken chair under her.
"Everywhere.  Where are those. . . things.?"
 
      "The ocean, it looks like."  Scully's brow knitted, and Soun
explained as he started checking Mulder for injuries.  "I guess all
the acid tore through the rig.  Dumped a couple of rooms into the
Gulf, aliens and all.  How's that for handy?"  He grinned.
 
      Dr. Scully didn't answer as she felt Mulder's throat and
arms.  He seemed fine, although he sported a number of small cuts,
as did his partner.  After convincing herself nothing new was
broken, Dana answered Soun.  "Lovely.  Once I'm out of traction, we
can throw a party."
 
      By the time she could focus her eyes on the rest of the room,
Scully saw piles of debris shifting enough to reveal the rest of
the team.  The haze of smoke shrouded the room, but the water
sluicing through the demolished ceiling was beginning to wash that
away.  No longer was the haze enough to conceal the paucity of
moving shapes.
 
      "Soun, do a walk around."  From the strain in his voice,
Quiddis was thinking along similar lines as the Special Agent. 
"Okay people, call out, now!"
 
      One by one, Whitman, Scully, Meyer, Soun, and Quiddis coughed
out a reasonable facsimile of their names.  Mulder waved his
bandaged hand weakly, but didn't stir from his position in Dana's
lap.  Soun quickly found one person, the man with the mustache
whose name Scully hadn't learned.  Only Pryce was unaccounted for.
 
      Whitman scrambled over broken chairs and end tables toward
the wounded man.  While he poked and prodded, Soun started tossing
furniture aside, looking for the few precious boxes of medicine
they'd managed to toss into the back rooms.
 
      Quiddis slid down an upended sofa near Scully, his wet hair
plastered to his forehead.  He propped his smoking rifle against
one soaked knee, and leaned over toward her.  "Hey there Doc. 
How's Mulder?"
 
      Mulder looked up at the young Lieutenant.  "Good enough to be
addressed directly, thank you very much."
 
      "Hey, it speaks too!" Quiddis grinned, and tagged him
playfully on his wet shoulder.  He sobered suddenly, and looked
downcast.  "About your hand, I-"
 
      "Didn't know any better than I did."  Scully held her tongue
while the two talked around her.  They needed to hash this out
themselves, she felt.  "Lieutenant, I've nearly bled to death
before.  If anyone should have noticed, it would be me.  I was
just.  . . distracted."
 
      At that, the two men shared a grin, and a certain tired look.
"I guess we were both a little distracted."
 
      "Are you two done with the male bonding, or should I wait a
moment?"  Despite shivering in her wet clothes, Dana managed to
raise her eyebrow archly.
 
      "Yes, mom."  Mulder smiled wearily, then sneezed abruptly.
 
      "Quiddis, we're all soaked here, but with Mulder . . ."
 
      "I get it.  Well, we're in the worker's part of the rig, so
we'll raid their closets while we're here.  Then just wait until
the chopper gets on station."
 
      Mulder wrapped his arms about himself, not noticing as his
hand pressed tightly over Scully's.  "We need a place to bunker
down from those things."
 
      Scully looked down at him, pushing the damp hair back from
his eyes.  "Why, Mulder?  They all dropped into the ocean.  Case
closed."
 
      "Maybe, maybe not."  Mulder sneezed again, as Quiddis and
Scully shared a brief glance.  "I'm freezing."
 
      Quiddis stood up, wiping water out of his hair as he hefted
the CAR-15.  "Whitman, is Paddy mobile?"
 
      Whitman looked up from the arm he was working on.  "Sure,
with some help, sir.  Everything's pretty much cauterized, so he
should be okay."
 
      "Love your bedside manner.  Intern in a VA hospital?"  Paddy
flinched as he looked up at the young doctor.
 
      Quiddis overlooked the snipe, and spoke aloud to everyone.
"Alright people.  Good fallback action there.  Way to stick it to
them.  But we'll proceed on the assumption there're more of those
animals out there.  We head for the worker's quarters on this
level, down to the left."
 
      Soun started in immediately after Quiddis finished.  It
looked as though the two had planned their words.  "Whitman, you
help Paddy.  Meyer, you and Scully get Mulder.  The boss covers the
rear, and I'm gonna get there first.  Any questions?"
 
      Meyer chirped up.  "Yeah, you want me to take point instead?"

      "Uh-uh.  I get dibbs on the new clothes."  Meyer and Whitman
managed a short laugh at that.  Soun didn't wait to listen; he
clambered through the disrupted room to his lieutenant quickly.
 
      "Problem?"  Quiddis knew there had to be one.
 
      "Not really.  We're just about out of ammo, though.  And I'm
starving."
 
      "I noticed that.  Collect magazines from Whitman and Paddy,
and give them to Meyers and me.  That'll stretch them a ways.  So
let's get to it."
 
           *         *         *
 
      White was running back down the length of the tunnel, trying
to retrace a way across the missing section of the rig.  As was, he
was again sopping wet, and feeling more than a little like he was
trapped in _The Poseidon Adventure_.   He'd laughed when the movie
came out, but now all he needed was to climb up a Christmas Tree to
complete the mental image.
 
      No one would believe him at the debriefing.  They never did,
he thought.  They just nodded whenever he described the
coincidences he regularly ran across in his work.  White presumed
they'd stopped listening after he described being hit by lightning
and left for dead in Ontario.  Actually, they'd started listening
then.
 
      Shaking all these extraneous thoughts out of his head, White
picked up his pace through the oily puddles.  He knew he was tired,
and the fatigue was sapping his attention.  Just then, he'd have
killed for two Tylenol and dry feet.
 
      He was shivering so badly in the dark, damp cold of the rig
interior, that White knew he'd have to hole up, and dry off again. 
He was really starting to dislike that SEAL team.  They were
positively ruining his whole day.
 
           *         *         *
 
      "Out.  Out right now."
 
      "Sure, you're gonna do a fistful of buttons by yourself. 
With your left hand."
 
      "Yes, now leave."
 
      "I'm impressed.  I want to see how this is done.  Hell, the
El-tee would want to see this."
 
      "Now wait-"
 
      "Hey, Quiddis!  Scully!  Mulder can do all those buttons one
handed!  Come take a look!"  Soun looked back at Agent Mulder, half
naked on the bed, and still shivering.  Soun remembered his Basic
Training, and remembered quite well how many ways there were to
make somebody do what they didn't want.
 
      "There are countries where they shoot people for this, you
know."  Mulder tried pushing his arms through the sleeves of a
raspy denim shirt, and succeeded only in tangling and hurting his
right hand.  "Ow.  Damnit."
 
      "Very classy Mulder.  Was it Doctor Blockhead that showed you
this trick, or did you learn it all on your own?"  Mulder stopped
flailing with his shirt looking up to the source of the voice
floating through the door.
 
      "No, I learned how to get tied up by a friend a long time
ago.  And I love the wardrobe choice, Scully."
 
      Dana was wearing a pair of dirty gray overalls, cinched up as
high as they would go, with the cuffs rolled up to shorten the
length.  Under that was a tee shirt and a forest green wool shirt
whose arms hung about her.  Her hair was now pulled back, and
tucked into a SF Giant's cap, and no longer hid her flush as she
thought of the mess her partner was.
 
      "Well, I've always considered it very chic to be tangled up
in your own clothing.  Soun, I'll get him dressed."  She shooed the
SEAL out, and closed the wooden door.
 
      Dana untangled the denim shirt, and pulled it off him gently. 
She wanted him wearing layered clothing, and so helped him struggle
into a tee shirt.  Only then did she pull the work shirt about him. 
She could see from the set to his jaw that he was truly unhappy
doing this, but he said nothing.

      With more than a little bit of assistance, Mulder managed to
get the long sleeved shirt buttoned about him.  She insisted on
buttoning  it all the way up over the tee shirt she'd already
managed to tug in place.  They managed to strip off his wet denim
pants, and Dr. Scully pointedly avoided making any jokes about the
ridiculous boxers he insisted on wearing.  The problem came when he
reached for his dry pants, and she pulled them back out of his
reach.
 
      "Scully, I feel silly sitting here.  Would you give me my
pants?"
 
      "There's no way you're putting them on over wet boxers;
you'll catch a cold."  She settled her hands on her hips, a comical
posture since her clothes made her look like a little girl.
 
      "I've already got a cold."
 
      "You'll make it worse."
 
      Long pause.  "All right, but you leave the room first."
 
      "And leave you to play with a men's button fly using your
left hand?  Sure."  She forestalled whatever he was going to say
with a raised hand.  "Your choice is me or Soun.  Whitman's working
on Paddy, Quiddis is getting set up, and Meyers is pulling guard
duty."
 
      Mulder had to choose, and was damn glad Dana hadn't said
anything along the lines of 'It's nothing I haven't seen before.'
That was all he would need to burst his fragile good humor.  It
would be another chance to rekindle their personal little war.
 
      Apparently he was taking too much time thinking.  "Mulder. .
. it's nothing I haven't-"
 
      "Don't even."  He tried glaring at her, and she tried staring
him down.  They both tried.  Instead he sat on the bed wearing wet
boxers, and she stood wearing enormously outsized clothes, and they
both collapsed laughing.
 
      "Oh hell, would you help me out of these things before I get
diaper rash or something."  Mulder punctuated his feigned annoyance
with a sneeze.
 
      She helped him, out of his shorts, and into the pants.  But
the buttons were substantially more intimate than either wanted to
be with one another.  Both cast about for safe topics as rain began
pelting the porthole on the far wall.
 
      "Um, why does Quiddis keep calling that soldier Paddy?  He
doesn't look Irish."  Mulder kept his eyes locked on the one
remaining light in the room.
 
      "I asked the same question."  Dana missed the second button
for the third time, inexperienced at doing this from the wrong
direction.  "He, um, he got the name in SEAL training.  Apparently,
he kept diving into a rice paddy just before they got hit by mock
ambushes.  Now everyone on the team calls him that."
 
      Fox heard the exasperation in her voice.  "What's wrong?"
 
      "Damn.  Are you sure these pants are your size?"
 
      Whatever he was thinking, he knew he absolutely could not
meet her gaze.  He looked at her in the twilight of the room, her
face flushed, slightly breathless.  Fox looked away, finding the
sight of the approaching storm utterly fascinating.
 
      "They're my size.  Listen, why don't you go get Soun to do
this.  The buttons are all backward to you."
 
      "No, you don't need everyone parading through your shorts." 
Just me, she thought, and winced.  "Listen, how about if I get it
from behind you?"
 
      "What?"
 
      "I stand behind you.  That way, the buttons are facing the
right direction."
 
      "Okay, sounds like a plan and a half."  Both were thinking
the same thing; and I won't have to see your face.
 
      Mulder quickly found that having his partner pressed against
him from behind scarcely helped at all.  Much to his relief, she
had something to talk about.
 
      "Do you remember any of what happened with Glad?"  Her low
voice was guarded, for many reasons.
 
      "You mean after I got hit?"  He felt her nod against his back
as she did up another button.  "Yes.  Quiddis bought that jerk's
story hook line and sinker.  I was too weak to do anything, and if
I had tried to warn the lieutenant, Glad might have spotted me."
 
      Dana finished her work, and backed off rapidly, the room too
hot for her.  "What about the catwalk?"  Fox turned, and looked at
her askance.  "The catwalk, where we caught up to you?"  Mulder
shook his head, and sat down on the low bed.  "The three of you
were coming across a catwalk toward us when Glad opened fire. 
Obviously he was trying to kill us, but do you think-"
 
      "Quiddis?  No way.  He's on our side"  Mulder rubbed at his
nose fitfully.
 
      "Are you sure of that?"
 
      "As sure as you are of your uncle."  He leaned back against
the low headboard, obviously tired.  With his rumpled shirt and
worn jeans, he almost looked normal again.
 
      "How did you end up with his gun?"  Finally she had a chance
to ask a question that had been bothering her for a while.
 
      Mulder's slited eyes opened briefly, two wedges of hematite
in the dark.  Then he closed his eyes and sighed. "He freaked.  We
found . . . bodies, Scully.  All of them, I think.  Anyway, we were
walking through blood, and gunk, and he just locked up for a
moment."
 
      There was a long silence as Dana tried to think of a suitable
reply.  She'd seen her partner freeze under pressure before, and
understood why it was a normal response.  But how could she express
her worry about Quiddis without implicitly suggesting Mulder was
'less than stable?'
 
      Fox knew his partner too well to overlook her hesitation. 
"He's fine.  He was just startled by something he wasn't prepared
for.  It happens to everyone, even us."
 
      Dana sat on the bed by Mulder's feet and pursed her lips
before diving into a difficult topic.  "I know.  And I'm sorry if
the . . . idea, of my social life startled you."  Scully felt that
it did much more than startle him, but couldn't very well say that
to him.  "I know we don't talk much about our private lives.''
 
      Mulder pulled himself upright at this.  "Scully."  He sounded
dreadfully tired as he sighed.  "I shouldn't have sniped at you the
way I did.  It was childish and stupid.  But it had nothing to do
with your weekend."
 
      Scully's eyes asked her question without words.  It was hard
to read expressions in the near dark of the small room, but he was
so familiar with her face that no light was needed.  Suddenly Fox
wondered whether or not he'd told the truth when he'd said that her
weekend out had not bothered him.  He kept his eyes blank in the
darkness, and tried to answer her silent question as though he
hadn't doubted himself.
 
      "It wasn't that you went out on the town.  But you left your
phone behind, didn't say a word about it-"
 
      "Like you do?"  Dana felt she had to at least say something,
the way her cheeks were burning.
 
      "And you lied to me about everything.  If you didn't want to
talk about it, tell me to shut up and go away.  But I'm not Wilson,
or Skinner, or one of the newbie agents for you to brush off at the
water cooler."  His chest was tight, and Fox tried to pretend it
was only the cold that he felt. "Don't you trust me enough not to
lie?"
 
      For a moment, the two watched one another in the dark, each
trying desperately to read the mind of the other.  Mulder broke
first.  "I trust you.  You know I do."  The harsh planes of his
face clashed incongruously with his wavering voice.  It was the
voice of a scared child, a sound that reminded Dana of the anger
she'd read in Bill Mulder's face.  God, she wondered, what had
broken his trust so badly, scarred him so deeply?
 
      She closed her eyes against her tears and Fox's eyes. If he
saw a trace of pity now, he'd bite back.  He was hurt and tired,
and this was a pain as old as she was.  His caustic words were his
only defense, as they'd always been.  And that pain, accidentally
displayed as it was, should still be private.  Until the time he
wanted for her to see it.
 
      She couldn't touch him.  She didn't know what she'd do if she
did, nor did she want to know how Fox would respond.  "I have
always trusted you.  You know that."  Dana found herself fingering
her crucifix, and stilled her hands in her lap.
 
      Fox watched the bit of gold flicker at her throat, and willed
himself not to cringe.  When she'd vanished, that was all he had
left of her.  Even now, it reminded Mulder that he had failed her,
that he always did.  And how could he sit here and accuse her, hurt
her?  She tolerated him, all the problems he caused.  These were
his files, his job that ruined her private life, nearly killed her.
 
      He sucked in a ragged breath.  "I seem to be stuck
apologizing today, huh Scully?"  He tried desperately to conceal
his feelings behind a light tone, and hoped she would let him.
 
    "I understand."  I guess I understand a lot, she thought.  More
than you want, less than I should.  Wouldn't it be nice to one day
say all these things to one another?  In the dark, in the midst of
long stakeouts next to Agent Mulder, she smiled sometimes when she
thought about him.  For her partner, the only truths he really
wanted to examine were out there, safely away from his private
self. Sometimes that thought didn't make her smile. 

     A long time passed in silence, as Scully worked through
thoughts she rarely permitted herself.  Mulder merely watched the
shifting lines of his partner's face, and mentally flagellated
himself for having ever said a word to her. 

     Dana stood up, and moved to the door.  "You rest for now,
okay?  I'm taking a watch, and Soun's coming in to sack out." 

     Mulder knew there was nothing for him to say.  He would betray
himself, or hurt her, or do something wrong.  After a lifetime of
errors, he'd learned much about the unwitting damage he seemed to
wreak about himself.  So he grinned blankly and nodded, an
expression he had faked for as long as he could remember.  He'd had
to learn young. 
 
     With a melancholy smile on her lips, Dana left the room. And
Mulder lay in the dark, and tried not to sleep. 
 
===========================================================================

From: ez042725@boris.ucdavis.edu (Sean Smith)
Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
Subject: NEW STORY: ETCHED 10/13
Date: 6 Oct 1995 00:30:53 GMT


Part 10 of 13

Disclaimer in part 1 still applies. 

Copyright August 1995

Send all comments, criticisms to: ez042725@peseta.ucdavis.edu   
I want replies, damnit!


                Etched
                     by Sean Smith
                     ez042725@peseta.ucdavis.edu

     The steadily increasing din of the falling rain became a
counterpoint to the mounting pain in his hand.  Lying still didn't
stop the ache.  He'd tried performing multiplication tables in his
head, composing choice imprecations to hurl at Defense Department
officials, even reciting English poetry.  None of them had helped. 
Mulder's wounded hand seemed to throb, and burn, and it certainly
broke what little of his concentration remained.  But it kept Fox
awake, and thinking, so he didn't complain.  Besides, it seemed
fitting to him that he suffer a little bit in the dark. 
 
     Fox was still lying awake when the door to his room opened and
a man slid in.  He was short and square and, silhouetted by the
light from the hallway, his black crew-cut shone with red
highlights.  Soun, it had to be. 
 
     "Yo, Mulder, you awake?"  Soun whispered in the darkness.
 
     So, Mulder thought, they don't need me right now.  If they
did, Soun wouldn't take his time.  Fox decided to simply ignore the
big SEAL. 
 
     Not hearing a reply, Soun shuffled up to the bed and slid in. 
He tucked the covers around Fox and himself, not bothering to
remove his boots.  Dr. Scully had been explicit in her
instructions; try to get him to take his pain medication if he's
still awake.  And no matter what, keep him warm.  And so Agent
Mulder now found a large Asian marine with a crew cut draped
heavily across his chest. 
 
     The room was quiet for several seconds.

     "Corporal Soun, nice to meet you.  I don't think we've been
formally introduced."  Fox held out his bandaged right hand before
Soun's face. 
 
     Soun pushed himself upright and smacked Mulder on his chest,
laughing.  "Sorry I woke you.  Now go back to sleep." 
 
     "I don't sleep much.  And I don't usually take Navy men to bed
with me, so I don't think I'll be napping just now." 
 
     "Yeah, well Feds aren't my first pick either, man."  Soun
chuckled, but Mulder wondered if that were true.  After all, Scully
had been surprised that it was Mulder who had showed up last night. 
He shook aside his thoughts as Soun continued. 
 
     "Anyway, your partner wants to drug you up.  For your hand." 
Soun dug into the pocket of his new, dry shirt and produced two
small white tablets. 
 
     "She has the drugs, I have the problem."  Fox made no move to
take the medication.  "But that still doesn't explain why you're in
my bed."   His enunciation was clear and distinct as he spoke. 
 
     "Well, the rig is freezing, and apparently you're Number One
on the hypothermia hit parade.  Someone's got to sleep in here to
keep you warm, and I'm the man." 
 
     "Lucky me."  Fox rubbed a sore spot on his ribs, trying to
figure out if this instant punishment meant that there had to be a
god to mete it out. 
 
     "Yup.  So, you want your pills?"  Soun shook them in his hand
like he was rolling craps. 
 
     Mulder paused a moment before answering sardonically.  "You
seem to be having fun with them, you keep 'em.  I'll just stay here
and rest up, alone." 
 
     Soun's good humor was being depleted rapidly.  "Sorry my
friend, but if I go back without having given you your meds,
Scully'll work me over.  It's you or me,"  Soun took Mulder's limp
left hand and pressed the tablets into his palm.  "and I choose
you." 
 
     "You're all heart."  Fox lifted his hand to his mouth, and
dropped both pills down his sleeve.  The darkness covered his
deceit, and Mulder compounded it by feigning to swallow.  "Okay,
you can face Scully safely now." 
 
     "Nu-uh Mulder.  Now we catch some sleep."  Soun lay back on
the hard and narrow mattress, hoping Mulder would be too tired and
drugged to fight this out. 
 
     "We can."  Mulder wasn't subtle in emphasizing the 'we' as he
spoke.  "Separately." 
 
     "You need the warmth."  And Soun needed the sleep.

     "I need a blanket."  Fox considered the Chief to be a
baby-sitter, a situation he found intolerable. 
 
     "You need a warm body, 'cause you don't have one of your own."
Ain't that the truth!  "Now if I'm not good enough, I can pull
Scully offa guard duty, and she can sleep with you.  Would that be
better?" 

     Mulder blanched.  Soun would most certainly make good on his
threat, and in doing so sink any chance Fox had of remaining in
Dana's good graces.  Saying anything to Soun now would only dig Fox
in deeper.  Wisely, he kept his peace. 

     The dark room returned to its silence, and to the stillness of
two men trying not to move. 

     Soun found himself listening to the older man's breathing,
trying to gauge his sleeping patterns.  Mulder hadn't seemed all
that surprised to find someone in bed with him.  Nor did he behave
like a man just waking up.  It was a genuine possibility he was
indeed not sleeping when Soun entered the room, just playing
possum.  Now Fox's breathing was long and deep, as rhythmic as a
pendulum.  And it was very likely it was just as false as before.
 
     Soun wanted to understand; after suffering blood loss and
shock, what could keep agent Mulder awake?  Well, he'd nodded off
last night so he probably wasn't running on hundred milligram Happy
Pills.  Soun would understand if Mulder stopped sleeping once they
got back to the mainland; he'd seen things here that should scare
men to death.  But in training they said that out here, troops
still slept.  They were wired too high not to flake out at night. 

     Could it be the pain, he wondered.  Too much to sleep, not
enough to knock him out.  But if that were the case, how could he
lie there so calmly, pretending to be asleep?  And why would he
fight against taking pain medication?  Soun had broken several ribs
in a dive accident, and knew how bad cracked bone could feel. 
Nothing could have kept him away from the Tylenol and codeine he'd
been taking.  After all, machismo only went so far before masochism
took over. 
 
     Why was he awake all night?  Could it be this guy's 'spooky'
mind that kept him awake?  Quiddis had hinted that this man often
knew what you were thinking before you did yourself.  Maybe he
stayed up all night ruminating, thinking about what happened around
him. 
 
     If so, what was he thinking about right now?

     Agent Scully was Soun's best bet.  He'd heard the fighting,
and he'd heard the silence too.  It was almost funny; they were
fighting for their lives in the middle of an ocean but they'd still
make time to bicker.  He tried to picture himself with his
girlfriend, both toting rifles into combat.  He couldn't believe
for a moment that his mind would be on the objective.  Oh no, he'd
be focused entirely on her safety.  And she was a half-Tongan
nurse, no wilting daisy.  Maybe that was how Mulder made it;
Dana was a lot of things, but wilting wasn't one of them.  Maybe he
wasn't distracted because she was so damn competent.  Of course,
Mulder did get himself shot, so maybe he got distracted after all. 
 
     And what would it be like, sex with a firebrand like that? 
He'd heard stories about redheads. . . 
 
     Soun wanted to know if Mulder was still faking sleep despite
the drugs and the injury.  And he wanted to get his mind off other
things, too.  "Hey feddie . . ." 
 
     "Yes, I'm awake.  No, I don't know what my partner's like in
the sack.  And yes, this is what I do when I can't sleep." 
Actually, he usually liked to listen to inane television shows that
kept his mind from running like this.  But in the absence of
anything to relieve his insomnia, toying with the locals would have
to suffice.  Who knew, maybe it would get the young soldier to shut
up and leave him alone. 
 
     Soun turned to stare at Mulder's clean, hard profile.  Even
after the gunbattles and explosions, he still looked as though he
arose hale and hearty from a fashion magazine.  "You don't have too
many friends, do you?" 
 
     Mulder blinked.  "You always ask questions like that in bed?" 
He easily managed his cool and aloof tone, despite the fact that
the unanticipated question hit him from left field. 
 
     "About as often as you answer questions I haven't asked." 
Mulder parted his generous lips for a retort, but Soun cut him off.
"And you're dodging the question.  Do you have many friends?  Apart
from Dana." 
 
     "So it's 'Dana' now?  You two seem to have hit it off quick."
Mulder tried to keep his eyes closed, his breathing light, and his
words neutral.  But he almost reflexively sneered the words,
surprised at the vehemence fatigue drew from him. 
 
     "Yes.  Is that a problem for you?"  Bingo, Soun thought.  He's
got a green monster on his back.  I wonder what's really up between
him and his partner? 
 
     "No.  It's none of my business."  Neither man believed this,
but both let the matter rest.  "Now do you mind if we get some
sleep?" 

     Whoa, hell of a turn around, the Corporal thought.  He must
really not want to talk about his partner.  "Yeah, we'll need our
rest while we can get it."  Soun had no illusions; he was sure
Mulder would lie awake for hours more, listening to the pain in his
hand.  But Soun couldn't permit him to indulge in
self-flagellation.  If Fox didn't rest, he'd slow the team down on
the way to the extraction point a few floors above them.  And time
was a luxury they wouldn't have. 
 
     Both men jostled briefly in the bed, conscious of the cold,
their animosity, and Fox's bullet wound.  Soun lay still, and tried
to think of something to say that would put Mulder's mind at ease. 
It seemed insurmountable, trying to reach a man who worked so hard
to push everyone away. 
 
     As Soun planned a strategy, Mulder's breathing lapsed back
into the steady rhythm that was very much a lie.  Soun waited and
watched, despairing of his chances to find some verbal trick that
would coax Mulder out of this shell and into much needed rest. 
 
     Several minutes passed, and Soun was fighting off his own
lethargy. There was no doubt in his mind that Fox was shamming,
however.  He just couldn't think of how the man could do so after
he'd taken all those drugs. 
 
     Or had he?
 
     The Federal Agent hadn't wanted to take the medications in the
first place; he'd only done so to quiet Soun.  It was conceivable
he had pocketed the pills.  It made too much sense to Soun. 
 
     The longer Soun thought about Mulder's demonstrable tendencies
toward self-destruction, the more he convinced himself that Fox had
not taken those pills.  It would perfectly match the foolhardy
bravado Fox displayed when he ran off alone through the rig.  And
it disturbed Soun on many levels.  Courage was one thing, but this
was something completely different.  Both Mulder and he were
needed, and all this was merely subtracting from their total
downtime. 

     After several minutes, the Corporal leaned in close toward his
bunkmate.  "Mulder," Soun whispered.  "Yo, Mulder.  I know you're
faking again, and I want you asleep." 

     He received no answer.  Not a twitch in the darkened room.
 
     "The team needs you up and running when we evac.  So take
those damn pills and go to sleep."  Soun's hissed words drew no
response.  "Damnit, Fox, she needs you up and running!" 

     Mulder's given name spun him around like a slap.  "Don't call
me Fox."  Soun opened his mouth to laugh off the outburst when
Mulder cut him off.  "Ever." 
 
     Soun licked his lips before replying to that rough growl, so
unlike the silky smooth voice he'd become accustomed to hearing. 
"Okay.  You wanna-" 
 
     "No.  I don't want to talk about resting. I don't want to talk
about me taking a handful of fucking pills.  I don't want to talk
about my private life, and,"  his voice dropped to a whisper as he
pushed himself nose to nose with the square-jawed SEAL, "I will
never talk to you about Dana or my sister.  Understand?" 
 
     Soun had trained for and fenced with every conceivable
battlefield weapon used by man.  It occurred to him that somewhere
along the line, he'd tripped a landmine.  And it was a Bouncing
Betty; the sort of nastiness that leapt up to look you in the eye
before it detonated.  He didn't like the hole he'd dug for himself,
and he didn't understand why Quiddis felt that this guy was worth
the trouble.  But he knew it was his duty to get one shit-crazy
Feddie back up to flank speed, and fast. 
 
     While Soun's thoughts whirred about fitfully, Mulder's anger
deflated with a sigh, and he rubbed his eyes with his good hand.
"I'm sorry.  I never really liked my name, I guess.  And what with
everything here-"   Soun felt the bed bounce abruptly as the older
man coughed.  There was something hidden in the way Fox's fatigue
had brought up his sister, and Soun wondered at it more than the
signs of impending illness.  The SEAL recognized the explanation
offered for Mulder's outburst for the lie it was.  But he also
recognized that whatever pain was buried there should remain
untouched. 
 
     "S'okay Mulder.  I'm just pushing you 'cause the team needs
you.  Not everyone works that way, I guess." 
 
     "No." Mulder dropped heavily back onto the bed, shifting away
from Soun.  "I've never been much of a team player." 

     "I wasn't either, at first.  But you kind of get pressed into
it, when your team needs help badly." 
 
     "I don't get pressed much.  Impressed or repressed."  Mulder
stared at the ceiling of clouds through the darkened porthole and
sniffled. 

     "No, just depressed."  Soun regretted the words as soon as
they were uttered.  Much to his surprise and relief, Mulder laughed
softly. 

     "I guess that's what it looks like to everyone else.  That's
why I'm not much of a team player." 
 
     Soun thought momentarily before replying.  "Not quite.  You
impressed the hell out of the El-tee.  And your partner really does
need you."

     Mulder glanced sideways briefly.  "Soun, you know where all my
training came from?" 
 
     "Quantico.  Feds share a base with the Marines." 
 
     "But before that, I did my work in psychology.  This gung ho
crap is wearing thin."  He ruffled his hair absently.  "Seriously,
just drop it.  Okay?" 
 
     Soun paused again, this time only briefly.  "What's wrong with
working together a little bit?" 

     "Jesus!  You're like some mindless drone.  Don't you ever give
it a rest?"  Mulder was seriously considering taking the covers and
retreating across the room at this point, but another cough stopped
him. 
 
     Soun smiled. "We don't rest.  We just get reinforcements." 
Fox didn't reply, and instead stared blankly at the far wall. 
"Hel-lo?  Mulder?  I say something wrong?" 
 
     "No."  Fox's voice was soft and thoughtful.  "Oh, no. 
Absolutely not.  You're a genius." 
 
     With that enigmatic reply still hanging in the cold air,
Mulder tossed off the covers and pushed himself to his feet.  The
room was almost freezing, and the rush of blood in Fox's head was
dizzying enough to slow him, but he made his way to the door.  Soun
was a pace behind him. 

     "Yo, Mulder!  What's going on?"  He caught up with the reedy
Federal Agent in the midst of the common area.  Puzzled, Quiddis
looked back and forth between the two men. Scully merely wrinkled
her brows at Fox. 
 
     "We're in trouble."  Paddy rolled his eyes, Meyers laughed,
and behind Mulder, Soun coughed.  Mulder paid no attention to the
results his comment received. 
 
     Scully raised her eyebrows.  As much as she wanted to join in
the general humor at such a statement, she knew Mulder was on to
something.  "What is it?" 
 
     Mulder dropped into a chair across from Quiddis and Scully. 
"Why are these things trying to kill us?" 
 
     Scully blinked, and narrowed her eyes.  What had the
creature's behavior told Mulder that it hadn't told her?  "Food? 
Territoriality?" 
 
     "Um, how 'bout 'who cares'?"  Paddy tossed his thoughts in
from across the room, but was ignored. 
 
     Fox coughed into his bandage before speaking.  "No, Scully. 
Think about our arrival.  If they wanted us out of their territory,
why hold off until we walked into the center of the rig." 
 
     She continued his thought.  "Until we walked into a trap."

     "Exactly.  They wanted us in here."  Dana nodded in time with
Mulder's words. 
 
     Quiddis interrupted.  "That's nice for them, but so what?  So
they don't want to scare us, just eat us.  I'm thrilled." 
 
     Agent Mulder turned his intense gaze on the lieutenant.  In
the flickering half-light of the ruined lounge, his pale face and
black eyes became nearly spectral.  "Remember all the bodies we
found?  Pinned to the roof of the bay?" 
 
     Quiddis managed to nod in reply.  He had no doubts that he
would remember that sight until the day he died.  Fortunately,
Mulder didn't wait for him to say a word. 
 
     "If they were food, why weren't they eaten?  The bodies were
rotten, not consumed.  All the meat was intact, nothing pulled off. 
And there were so many bodies, there couldn't have been many
missing.  And the cause of death appeared to be those holes in
their chests." 
 
     Scully sat back, pale.  "Wasps," she whispered to herself.
 
     Mulder's elation at figuring the situation out dimmed at the
revulsion in his partner's face.  Tight lipped, he could only nod
at her. 
 
     "WASPs?"  Quiddis shook his head.  "I'm no Protestant, and
Soun ain't white.  Does that mean we can go?" 
 
     That elicited something akin to a laugh from Scully. "Not
WASP.  Wasps.  As in the little bugs that sting you."  Dana
shivered, and continued.  "Some wasps use their venom to paralyze
their prey.  They leave it catatonic, and lay eggs in it.  That way
their young have a living incubator.  Until they hatch." 
 
     The dingy room was that much more cold and silent when she
finished.  No one knew what to say, leaving all present to remember
the lashing black monstrosities they fought.  Someone coughed into
his hand, not wanting to make a noise.

     It was Soun who spoke first into the chill silence.  "So, do
you have a reason for telling us all this?  Aside from keeping us
from falling asleep."  Meyers and Whitman laughed nervously at
this. 

     Mulder stood up shakily.  "If they were attacking us for most
any reason, we'd have taught them a lesson by now.  Like any
animal.  They attack, we kill some.  They attack again, we kill
more.  Eventually they'd stay away." 
 
     Scully gazed at the assembled soldiers as she picked up.  "But
if they rely on us for. . . reproduction, every loss we inflict
increases their need to catch us.  It starts with the reproductive
drive.  After we beat them off, they needed to replace their
numbers.  By now, the need for more . . . members . . . must be
critical" 
 
     Quiddis closed his eyes against the looks of shock his
soldiers were exchanging.  He needed a moment to think coldly,
rationally.  He needed to anticipate his adversaries, and act to
counter their moves.  Just like before all this happened. 
 
     "Okay, people!  We've got work to do."  All eyes turned to
face the lieutenant.  He'd cleaned himself off, and now wore a dull
workman's shirt and bomber jacket over a muscle shirt and his
combat web gear.  "This suite of rooms is one pressure compartment.
Half inch steel and reinforced welding.  That and the locked
pressure doors will slow them down.  But we need to cut off all the
ways in while leaving routes to escape.  Options?"
 
     Scully chimed in first.  "Air ducts.  I saw one come up
through the air ducts."  She shot a knowing look and hidden smile
at her partner.  This almost seemed familiar.
 
     Paddy winced as he shifted and began thinking out loud.  "Air
ducts?"  That means plumbing, electrical, and ventilation are
compromised.  They're wired through the floor and ceiling . . ."
 
     Suddenly the team was a flurry of activity, watching the very
floor beneath their feet or the ceiling above them.  Under Quiddis'
direction, they ripped the drop ceiling apart, and began tracing
all the tubes back to their sources in the watertight steel walls. 
The internal walls were metal frames and sheetrock, nothing sturdy
enough to bother with.
 
     The number and variety of 'special equipment' the soldiers
were carrying was shocking, and all of it was put to use.  Pipes
were cut using diamond-studded wire loops as saws.  Venting ducts
were torn down, and crumpled up to bar access through the open
holes in the walls.  Shattered porcelain from the remains of the
dismantled bathroom was scattered down each of the electrical and
air ducts.  A dumbwaiter Mulder found hidden in one corner
underneath a Grateful Dead poster was the hardest to seal. 
Instead, it was trapped with the last of the grenades, each
duct-taped to the inside walls on the level above and below this
one.  The nest of tripwires was well nigh impassable.
 
     "Okay."  Soun leaned against a debris-strewn divan.  "That
won't stop 'em, but we'll know which direction they're coming
from."
 
     Mulder eyed the one porthole in this room nervously.  It only
opened from the inside, and the exterior was a sheer wall that
dropped one hundred and fifty feet to the ocean below.  Failing all
else, it was the last route left out of the makeshift bunker.  The
chances of swimming through the freezing water in the middle of a
storm on the open sea weren't good.  But they  were still
preferable to capture. 
 
     Scully drifted over and touched Mulder on the shoulder gently. 
He acknowledged her presence without removing his gaze from the
wall upon which it was fixed.
 
     "Don't you think it's time you got some rest?"  Scully's eyes
slid over his handsome features and the cold set of his hazel eyes
as she spoke.  She couldn't think of how she could convince him to
recuperate, but she had to try.
 
     "Scully, rest won't help us much if I can't anticipate their
next attack."  His good hand absently picked at the seam of his
Jeans.  They were a little loose in the hips, and didn't feel
right.
 
     Dana walked around him, coming to stand between him and the
wall.  She caught his troubled eyes, matching his intensity with
her own determined, piercing gaze.  "You are too tired to walk
straight, let alone psychoanalyze those . . . things."
 
     This brought a worn grin to his face, and he at last focused
upon his disheveled partner's alabaster features.  "What?  You're
still not convinced those 'things' are of extraterrestrial origin?"
 
     His small grin was infectious, and spread rapidly.  "We need
more evidence.  For all I know, they're deep sea crabs with an
attitude."
 
     Still smiling, Fox started to lean forward, his eyes drifting
closed.  "Okay, Mulder.  Time to go to bed.  Soun and Meyer can
take watch.  I'm off too."
 
     She was thankful Mulder didn't put up too much resistance as
she led him back to the bunks, and tucked him in like a child.  She
nestled in next to him, above the covers, and lay her rifle down
across them.  Some hours later, he covered her hand with his own.
 
           *         *         *
 
     Every footfall slammed out another booming percussion as Glad
ran.   When the SEAL team demolished a full wing of the rig, they
had also inadvertently cut him off from his route of escape.  Now
he was fleeing through an empty oil processing tank, using the
inspection doors along the bottom for access.  The tar-like muck
that lined the bottom of these towering shells impeded his
progress, but that was to be expected.  Besides, he hadn't
encountered a single alien as he ran, and he was thanking
providence with each panting breath.

     As he ran through the second tank, he considered the burning
pain in his shoulder and his ill fortune at Mulder's hands.  When
he had encountered Mulder and Quiddis back at the elevator, he was
mere yards away from freedom.  Now he was running for his life and
almost defenseless.

     He was ten or twelve feet from the next doorway when he
realized he was not alone at the bottom of the tank.

          *         *         *

     Fox crept stealthily toward the chair in the corner of the
room.  Sliding out of bed and away from Scully had been no
particular problem.  She was dead to the world, and the bed had so
little bounce that he couldn't possibly have roused her as he
rolled away.  And now he moved to occupy a dingy gray recliner off
in one corner of the room.

       Behind him was the yawning maw of the dumbwaiter, and across
the room was the solitary porthole for escape.  Somewhere, midway
between, his partner lay dozing, giving him leave to think in
peace. And the oil-stained indoor-outdoor carpeting muffled his
footsteps well as he retreated past the wreckage of a ping-pong
table toward a comfortable chair.  There was no chance he'd disturb
her sleep.

     The SEALs had nodded to him briefly when he'd awoken, but let
him be.  Mulder guessed this was Quiddis' doing.  At least the
soldiers were now giving him some breathing room, even if they
hadn't handed him a rifle.  He understood why; with his hand torn
and bandaged, there was little chance he could handle the recoil of
an assault rifle.  The team was low on weapons and ammo anyway, and
couldn't spare one.  Besides, Mulder had never handled a rifle
before, even in the Violent Crimes Division; he doubted he could
load and chamber a round in the brutish matte black weapons they
were using.

     Fox wrapped his arms around himself for warmth, and thought
about his partner.  He knew full well he'd been thinking about the
team's weapons purely as a means of avoiding all consideration of
Dana.  Much easier to focus on a problem he had some vague chance
of successfully solving, Mulder thought.

     He remembered waking up next to Dana, smelling her hair, her
sweat.  It was uncomfortable enough to drive him out of the warm
bed and into the room proper.  His thoughts were interrupted by his
muffled sneeze.

     Damn cold, he thought.  No way am I ending up in a hospital
after this.  This is all outpatient stuff.  I'm just taking over my
couch with one of Scully's afghans, and sleeping for a week.

     Mulder chewed his lip, and thought of her and Soun both piling
into bed to keep him warm.  Doubtless, they'd been doing the same
thing while he'd been unconscious.  It would explain the sore ribs;
Dana rolled in her sleep.  He wasn't actively upset with Soun and
Dana anymore.  Everyone here just had different ways of doing
things.  And Dana just worked better with Soun than with him. 
There was no way either of those two could know that he couldn't
sleep with someone else next to him.

     It was just the idea of lying there unconscious next to
someone that bothered him.  He couldn't relax, sometimes couldn't
close his eyes.  It was a peculiarity that had doomed more than one
relationship, some on their first night.  Waking up to find your
lover sleeping out on the couch didn't promote intimacy too well. 
Neither did waking to find him dressing and heading out the door at
two in the morning.

     It was so sadly classic that it almost made Fox smile.  As a 
psychologist, he knew exactly where this aversion came from. 
Another manifestation of-

     Mulder's thoughts were cut off as he felt the short cropped
hairs across the back of his neck rise in unison.  He'd heard a
soft thump from Scully.  And with the sole exception of her nightly
tossing, she never made soft thumping noises.  And Fox didn't see
her move.

     Thump-thump.

     Fox squinted hard, and realized the noise was coming from the
floor next to the bed.  There, three large brass bolts were rolling
about on the mildewed floor.  As his eyes widened in the dark, a
fourth bolt unscrewed itself from the fitting surrounding the
porthole, and fell next to its companions.

     Fox jumped to his feet as the porthole was pulled out, and
twelve long, insecticidal fingers wrapped about the rim of the open
hole.  His yell died in his throat as the creature pulled itself
inside soundlessly, and perched upon the wall above Dana's sleeping
form.

===========================================================================

From: ez042725@boris.ucdavis.edu (Sean Smith)
Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
Subject: NEW STORY: ETCHED 11/13
Date: 6 Oct 1995 00:32:00 GMT


Part 11 of 13

Disclaimer in part 1 still applies. 

Copyright August 1995

Send all comments, criticisms to: ez042725@peseta.ucdavis.edu   
I want replies, damnit!


                Etched
                     by Sean Smith
                     ez042725@peseta.ucdavis.edu

     Glad clawed at the tattered shreds of his jacket as he
sprinted across the soiled floor of the oil processing tank.  The
raw pain from his wounded arm screamed in his ears almost as loudly
as the nightmare beast that dropped to the floor behind him.

     Glad kept his tearing eyes firmly affixed to the half open
door in front of him, never tossing a futile glance over his
shoulder.  And so he missed the sight of the three grotesques that
paused to crouch a moment amidst the sticky residue upon the floor.
The leader parted its thin lips and bared crystalline teeth in an
unholy smile as saliva dropped to the floor, smoking faintly.  Its
long, wickedly sharp tail flickered momentarily about its shoulders
before it leapt into motion.

     All four of its ghoulish limbs kicked into action, four sets
of claws digging through the goo to find purchase on the floor
below.  Each bound brought it a yard closer to its frantic, panting
target.  One of the others leapt ten feet to the curving wall
above, climbing with inhuman agility toward Glad's head.

     Glad was two steps from the door when his hand caught upon its
target.  As he struggled to free the simple red cylinder from his
pocket, doubled sets of claws reached about his face and dragged
him to an immediate stop.

     And in a panic born of utter desperation, Glad snapped the
marker flare alight and cast it into the oil behind him.

     The magnesium fire set torch to the thick industrial sludge as
easily as if it were kerosene.  Claws tore into the side of Glad's
face as the beast tumbled backwards in a whirlwind of flailing
limbs.  The hissing was incredible, as was the sudden rush of
heat that enveloped Glad.

     Blinded by a sudden rush of fumes and blood, Glad sprinted
forward once more.  The air was cooler suddenly, but he could feel
the fire on the outside of his fatigues.  From the torturous pain
he felt, some distant part of his mind guessed that the Nomex
wouldn't help for very much longer.  Without warning, he ran
headfirst into a cool metal wall, fear blinding him to the pain of
the sudden impact.  Frantic with his fear, Glad stumbled left, then
right before hitting an obstruction just below waist level. His
yelp of pain cut short, Glad tumbled forward and down.
     
          *         *         *

     Agent Mulder eyed the alien in absolute stillness.  For its
part, the creature moved so silently that Fox couldn't even hear
it.  Mulder was hard pressed to keep himself from gasping for air
as the monster lowered itself onto the floor next to his partner. 
He tried to swallow around a dry throat as his mind whirred.

     There was only one of those...things in the room, and no
others were visible through the open porthole.  And this one merely
swung its eyeless muzzle about, as if scanning the room.  Half
panicked and half amazed, Mulder had to wonder why the creature
hadn't killed him or Dana yet.

     Still locked in her dream world, Dana mumbled under her
breath.  Quickly the thing's head snapped about, its raspy breath
dribbling viscous saliva on the already stained carpet.  It opened
its nightmare mouth and hissed as it stepped toward the bedside.

     Mulder gasped, and the creature's head snapped about, the
tendons taut over its glossy shell.  With epiphanic speed Mulder
realized that this thing must hunt by sound or motion.  Neither he
nor Scully had been harmed because both were quiet and still.  How
long that safety lasted was entirely up for debate.

     The options as Fox saw them were grim indeed.  He would have
to get past that thing to reach Dana's rifle, a damningly poor
prospect even were he in the best of condition.  There would be no
time for Scully to do anything herself; indeed if she so much as
moved again, the creature hovering about her hissing was likely to
kill her.  The SEALs might be able to rush in and save them both. 
Perhaps.  But Mulder knew full well that he was standing in the
line of fire, and Dana was well within the area likely to be bathed
in the thing's blood.

     One of the SEALs in the other room laughed out loud, and the
faint noise of the alien's breathing disappeared entirely.  With
precise slowness, it placed one hand on the bed.  Then, moments
later, the next.  With bloodcurdling deliberateness it started to
stalk towards the door, moving soundlessly over Scully herself.

     Mulder was washed with cold as he saw the ribs and tendons
stretch and flex with every motion the monstrosity made.  He paled
as he watched it place one septadactyl hand along Dana's fair face. 
Then he saw the shadow of an approaching SEAL in the doorway.

     "No!"  Fox stepped away from the wall, waving his hands in
front of him.  He couldn't raise his voice for fear of rousing his
partner.  "Here! Here."

     With a fluid motion, the creature fled the bed, instead
dangling from the bare pipes over head.  Hanging down, its spiked
back cleared Dana by less than two feet.  It hissed loudly, and
turned toward Mulder.

     Quiddis cleared the doorway, and in Fox's stark terror it
seemed as though he moved in slow motion.  Over the shoulder of the
gruesome apparition, Mulder saw pure amazement sketched on the
lieutenant's suddenly pale features.  The SEAL struggled to loose
his rifle from its strap around one shoulder as the alien came to
life in a bundle of uncontained kinetic energy.

     It dropped to the ground, spinning onto its feet like a
panther.  No sooner was it down than its powerful legs uncoiled to
drive it toward Fox, its salivating jaws parted to reveal its inner
mouth.  There was no mistaking its banshee cry as it rushed the
wounded agent.

     Fox had only one option left, one he was forced to take
without thinking.  Trusting that the strength of his swimmer's legs
hadn't drained away with his blood, Fox threw himself backwards
into the small opening for the dumbwaiter.  Behind him, the beast
slammed one claw into the floor where he had stood, gouging out a
great section of carpeting.  Dana awoke just in time to see
Mulder's feet disappear down the shaft.

     She screamed as the enraged fiend leapt down the shaft after
him.

               *         *         *

     Glad's uncontrolled fall was halted in a rush of water.  The
stinging slap of contact robbed him of what little air he had left
in his lungs, and left him choking as he fought back toward the
surface of the dark water.  Gasping, he broke free of the
suffocating water, only to find himself gagging on the stench in
the air that he had so pitifully fought for.

     He barely managed to find the ladder on the side of the tank
he had fallen into.  The darkness obscured all details, and his
eyes were still stinging from the smoke.  The blood flowing freely
from the cuts on his face mingled with the tainted water and worked
to further blind him.

     The ladder itself was a difficult chore.  Between the gunshot
and the fire, he had only one limb still fully functional.

     At the top, he finally found the reason for the God-awful
stench.  He'd stumbled into Waste Water Treatment Vat #2.

     And he was several yards and many profanities along before it
occurred to him to be grateful for his good fortune.

               *         *         *

     The trip wire wrapped itself about Mulder as he fell, and held
tight as he passed the explosives.  They remained anchored to the
wall as he accelerated away at thirty-two feet per second squared.

     His pursuer had barely descended past the lip of the opening
into the shaft before the explosives package fired with a dull
whump.  There was only a brief orange glow before the shock wave
tore the fanged hunter apart, sending its ravaged carcass tumbling
after Fox.

     Mulder hit the laundry bags two floors down and started
rolling, clenching his jaw to ignore the grinding in his shoulder. 
No sooner had he fetched up against a pile of moldering dishrags
than the dead creature fell to the floor behind him.

     He had hardly enough time to register the shattered harlequin
grin, locked in an obscene rictus.  Then its burning green blood
sent up a foul cloud of sulphurous smoke, and the broken body
dropped through the now molten floor.  Fox's eyes were locked on
the smoking hole the monster left in its stead, thinking just how
close death had come.

     Shaking away a sudden attack of mortality, Fox tried to come
to his feet.  He fell over suddenly when he tried to apply pressure
to his right arm.  From the nauseating pain burning across his
collar, he guessed something had broken.  It hadn't hurt this much
when he'd dislocated his shoulder in high school.  In the end, he
sweated it out and pulled himself to his feet using his left hand. 
It took him several moments to begin to untangle the mess of wire
that had wound itself about him in the course of his brief fall.

     Skirting the charred hole in the floor, Agent Mulder edged his
way over toward the shaft he'd leapt down.  Pieces of blackened
aluminum twisted into pure curves by the blast littered the ground,
making his steps doubly treacherous.  Added to the ringing he heard
in his ears, it made passage difficult.  Upon closing the distance,
he painfully craned his neck about in order to glance back up the
shaft.  Steel beams blocked the way, and nothing but darkness was
cast down toward him where he stood at the bottom.

          *         *         *

     Doctor Scully popped the clip loose from her rifle, and
checked the slit down the left side of the stiffened box.  She saw
dull gleams from the sides of six rounds.  That meant she had
eleven rounds left.  Grimly she swatted the clip back into place
and reset the CAR-15 to single fire.

     Quiddis finished resealing the battered porthole, and turned
to face her.  He spoke softly. "We just got word from the _Elliot_.
Blackhawk's en route, ETA twelve minutes."

     Dana found Quiddis' pistol, and thrust it into one of the
gaping pockets of her overalls. "That's just enough time." 

     She sprinted over to the open hole in the wall, waving aside
the black smoke rising up into the still air.  "Mulder!  Mulder,
can you hear me?"  The smoke burned the back of her throat and deep
in her nose, but she listened for a reply that wasn't forthcoming.

     She turned to see the remaining members of the team gathered
quietly near the bed.  "Where does this shaft empty out?"

     Soun didn't meet her eyes as the Lieutenant spoke.  "We've got
to evacuate.  Now."

     Her eyes flashed as she advanced on Quiddis.  "We will."  She
emphasized this subtly.  "All of us."

     "Doc."  Soun spoke without looking up.  "That's a two story
drop, a two pack concussion, and one of those things on his tail. 
He's ..."

     "He's probably hurt and needs help."  Dana pulled the chamber
bolt back on the left side of her weapon, chambering a round.  "Now
we're wasting time-"

     Her sharp words were silenced by the sound of breaking glass.
Shards careened through the room, forcing Dana to shield her eyes
with her arm.  The envenomed tail that had burst through the
porthole withdrew sharply, leaving space for the creature to crawl
in.

     Agent Scully fired from the hip, the large rifle jerking out
of control. But her single round hit the skeletally gaunt figure
under the chin, just above Meyer's three rounds.

     The abrupt sounds of a man screaming startled Agent Scully,
whipping her around with an almost physical force.  Whitman was
screaming in blind panic as he was dragged backward into one of the
electrical conduits.  But before Dana could move to help, she
caught sight of a chattering black form bounding across the floor
to her left.

     She threw herself away from the onrushing alien, the edge of
her bed catching her across the small of the back.  Her first two
shots flew high, barely missing Soun as he unlatched one of the
main doorways.  With a crackling shriek, the alien leapt into the
air, claws outstretched towards Scully.  Her finger managed to snap
the selector switch over the trigger, and a rolling burst from her
weapon battered the monstrosity from the air. 

     The body slammed against a wall, eating through quickly.  But
several droplets of its yellow ichor fell upon Soun's leg, quickly
sizzling through his jeans.  He groaned tightly as his leg folded
underneath him, dropping him next to the open door.

     The unlatched metal hatch swung open, revealing a dark,
glistening form in the empty portal.  Light from the broken
porthole glinted off its smooth carapace as it crouched low over
the felled SEAL.  Dana brought her muzzle to bear on the fiendish
apparition, and squeezed the trigger.  Nothing happened. A quick
glance at her carbine confirmed the obvious; she was out of
ammunition.

     As one of the thing's bony claws reached out for Soun, a flash
of muzzle-fire licked out to blast the figure backwards.  The walls
of the room shielded Soun from its blood as Quiddis lowered his
weapon and ran forward to gather Soun into his arms.

     "You still with us?"  Quiddis never looked down, his rifle
pointed out the doorway.

     "Yeah. Keep moving," was all he could squeeze out between
gritted teeth.

     Agent Scully picked herself up off the floor.  Letting her
rifle clatter impotently to the floor, she retrieved Soun's weapon,
and checked the clip.  Not a pretty sight, but better off than
she'd been a moment before. Probably the same could be said of
Soun.

     Quiddis gestured his men forward with his rifle, and PO Meyer
started forward with Paddy.  Meyer caught her eye on the way out,
his mouth set in an uncharacteristically grim line.  Quiddis
dragged the Chief afterward, Soun's arm thrown across the
Lieutenant's shoulders.  Dana looked around for Whitman, motioning
for him to go next.

     Then she remembered the screaming.  Whitman wasn't leaving the
rig.

          *         *         *

     Fox figured out immediately that there would be no search
party.  There was no way Quiddis would use his dwindling resources
to come after one man who may or may not be dead.  He'd stay holed
up and wait for the chopper.  Hopefully, Soun would manage to sit
on Dana, and let Mulder fight this one on his own. If he was to
climb out of this wrecked level, it would be alone.

     He had to find a way up, a route back to the SEAL team and
Scully.  The elevators were dead without power, and the stairwell
was settling into the mud on the seafloor by now.  His battered
mind vaguely recalled the layout of the rig from his cursory
examination of the map.  Those precious few seconds back aboard the
_Elliot_ seemed a lifetime away.

     Trying to ignore the pain that wrenched his every breath into
a shallow gasp, Agent Mulder tried to think of a way up this pylon
besides the ladder.  There were airducts, but even if he could
somehow manage to climb them in his condition, there were 
doubtlessly any number of horrors shuttling along inside them.  Fox
simply couldn't remember the map at all;  he'd been too busy
sniping at Scully to concentrate on business at hand.

     Last time that ever happens, he thought.  One way or another.

     Fox leaned his intact left side against one of the filthy
countertops, and let his breath whistle between his teeth.  Once,
he'd have been through this all on his own, and he'd never have
thought twice about it.  Now he found himself relying on Dana more
and more, and she had come through time and again for him.  There
was a certain poetic justice, he reflected, in trapping myself here
because I turned my back on my . . . partner.

     He blinked.  An image of Dana formed in his head, dressed in
the outsized overalls and workshirt she was in now, her gorgeous
copper hair over one blue eye as she faced him in the bedroom.  His
back had still been warm from where she'd pressed against him,
touched him.  And she'd asked about a catwalk.

     Mulder smiled easily.  She'd run into Glad and Quiddis on a
catwalk between the two pylons, and had wondered why they were
there.  He had to admit, Glad's motive was pretty damn irrelevant
now, but that crucial bit of information was vital. It was Mulder's
escape route.  He and Quiddis had only been on this floor, the
lowest floor, when they ran for their escape.  That meant that the
loading bay was on this level.  If he made it there, he could take
that cargo elevator up to floor three of the other pylon, the one
they had run from.  Then it was simply a matter of crossing that
catwalk Scully had mentioned, and rejoining her and the team in
their little shelter.

     In a burst of high spirits, necessary to stave off the
grinding in his shoulder, Fox nearly jogged out of the compartment.
He swung the sealed hatch shut behind him and headed left, trusting
his memory to guide him back to that rancid hold.

     Had he stayed seconds longer, he would have heard the dull
echoes of Dana's fire fight two floors above.

          *         *         *

     The rusted bulk of the exterior hatch slammed against the
outside wall of Pylon Three like a gong.  Storm winds were dying
down now as night fell quickly over the ocean, but enough power was
left in the sky to blow stray water droplets into Glad's face as he
stepped out onto one of the rig's gantries.  He was cold, tired and
alone, and half his precious cargo had not survived the fire and
flood.  He didn't care any more.

     Glad, also known as Colonel White, ran across the gangplank at
breakneck speed, hoping no creatures were around to stop him. 
Below him, he could see the maimed remains of the hatch he'd
destroyed yesterday, the walkway he'd very nearly hurled the
lieutenant and special agent over.  Now he had to make his way down
there again, and again try to reach the hold.

     Glad threw himself at the hatch with a fervor, sweat deforming
his face as he stressed his wounded shoulder.  Opening it, he let
it bounce wide open as he ran into the side access tunnel. 
Somewhere nearby was a cramped ladder heading down.  All he had to
do was find it.

     Pulling aside a wet and burned sleeve revealed Glad's scarred
stainless steel watch.  He'd pulled it from a dead officer's hand,
and had worn it every day of the last ten years.  It still worked,
even after all the trials he'd been through.  According to the
softly moving hands underneath its metal shield, he was running out
of time.

          *         *         *

     Scully watched the four men ahead of her run through the dank
hallways of the battered rig.  Frigid air formed great puffs of
white from their breath, and Dana felt her own breathing fall into
time with their syncopated footsteps.  Somehow, Quiddis managed to
keep the rifle steady in his left hand while he supported Soun with
his right.  And more frightening was the way the Chief clenched his
lieutenant's pistol in one white-knuckled fist.  She couldn't see
their faces, but she could imagine the grim, bloody determination
set there.

     Small fragments bounced across the hallway as the four screw
heads on a panel overhead were torn from their threads.  The
venting shaft exploded downwards as a writhing mass of limbs and
tail descended between Dana and the rest of the party.  If she
fired, she'd sign the death certificates for the SEAL team.

     Agent Scully threw herself to one side, careening through an
open doorway and into a wooden desk.  She tried to spin about, but
the flash suppressor on her rifle caught on the desk leg.  She was
certain the alien must be silently bearing down on her from behind,
and closed her eyes.  But instead of a low hiss, she heard the
contained roar of an assault rifle.

     Dana managed to get to her feet, blood from a cut on her head
trickling into one pale eyebrow.  The creature's corpse had already
disappeared into a smoking hole in the deckplates, leaving rank
metallic smoke in the air.

     Meyer's thin, smoke stained face peered around the doorjamb at
Scully.  "C'mon, we gotta book!"

     Scully could almost hear the word 'babe' appended to his
words.  She had a sudden feeling she knew from where the Navy had
recruited him.  Instead of sighing as she wanted to, she ended up
hanging from his arm as she navigated the smoking crater left by
the creature's death.  It was a harrowing leap over the pit, but
she was done shortly, and running down the corridor to help Paddy
to his feet.

     She needed the motion, wanted the rush of blood and fear in
her chest.  As long as survival was paramount, she could dismiss
the image of Mulder tumbling down that shaft.  All alone in the
night.

          *         *         *

     The loading dock and moon pool were only a few feet ahead of
Mulder when he slowed down, out of breath.  The pain in his collar
was getting worse, and he could no longer even make a pretense of
moving his right arm.  But what stopped him was the foreknowledge 
of where he was heading.

     The empty storage bay ahead was tantamount to the center of
the alien hive.  It was a combination egg chamber and birthing
lair.  And with the need for new members as acute as it was now,
Mulder knew he would have been better off walking into the dragon's
den.  But there was no other way available for him to return to the
team and Scully.

     Fox refused to enter that room empty-handed, and started
searching through the dark chambers nearby.  Uniformly, they seemed
to be storage closets and repair shops.  Mulder grinned, his hazel
eyes dancing with pure malice in the dark.

     For twenty years, he'd lain awake at night, never able to
sleep.  For most of those dark hours, Mulder had stared blankly at
the flicker of a television screen.  Sometimes, he had wandered in
and out of half empty movie houses, his chiseled profile blank as
he watched the midnight matinees.  Later, those same worthless
second rate horror films would pass bluely before him when he lay
on his patched couch in the apartment. After several years, he'd
learned all the familiar, worn plot devices well.

     He'd learned better than the film makers or script writers
ever had. Because he'd had years working in Violent Crimes, and
years profiling madmen in Behavioral.  He'd learned new and
exciting means of murder that even Hollywood hadn't the temerity to
broadcast in Dolby Surround Sound.

     And so he opened the doors on the work room grinning.  Because
despite the bone chilling cold, and the pain that ran like lead
through his side, he had a chance here.

          *         *         *

     The gantry bounced and clanged under the SEALs boots as they
boiled out of the rig pylon and into the chill salty air.  Meyer
and Quiddis had to turn sideways as they ran in order to fit Paddy
and Soun onto the narrow planking.  The faint rain slicked the cold
metal railings, and dulled vision in the twilight just enough to be
a distraction.  It was not something they needed.

     Dana stayed behind, silhouetted in the doorway they'd just
left.  The dim gray light of fleeing day cast her shadow out long
before her, blanketing the shattered hallway with darkness.  The
darkness disappeared in a wash of yellow as her rifle kicked out
another three rounds.  In the silence following the gunfire, Scully
could hear the brass shell casings rattle about the metal floor
underfoot.

     There was no more sign of their pursuers.  Dana skittered
backwards through the portal, and shuffled blindly across the
gantry.  She didn't dare remove a hand from her CAR-15 long enough
to take hold of the railing.  And there was no chance she'd turn
her back on that gaping doorway.

     If only Glad hadn't blown the door off, she thought, I could
at least close the damn thing.  The cold air burned her nose, but
she was still burning up inside her thick overalls from exertion. 
Her shoulders hurt as she shifted, trying to scratch away the beads
of sweat trickling down to the small of her back.

     Dana looked up.  Another gantry a level above criss-crossed
between the other two pylons. And the door to one had been left
open.  The dark interior stood out against the pale glow of the rig
wall, and it called out to her.

     These creatures didn't seem to use doorways, and that door had
been closed the last time Scully had passed this way.  Which meant
that someone had passed through here since then.  Mulder might
still be alive!

     Dana turned to yell out to her companions.

     With a sudden hiss, dark hands reached out through the
swirling mist for her.  Gasping in sudden fear, she thrust the
blunt weapon forward and triggered another burst.  This one fell
short by one round, locking open upon an empty clip.

     But the two shots she did squeeze off shattered the beast's
ghastly carapace, and drove it shaking to the bottom of the gantry.

It twitched briefly before its blood disintegrated the metal
beneath it, letting it fall screaming like a gryphon into the sea.

     Scully was happy for a moment, blinking with relief.  Then the
walkway groaned, and buckled.  Dana grabbed hold of one of the
chain railings before the far end of the catwalk snapped free from
the pylon, and dropped toward the water with the boom of sheared
metal.

     Dana felt as though her arm would be pulled from its socket,
and she was vaguely aware of the plastic and metal rifle clattering
away from her.  The world pivoted sharply about her, and she
screamed.

     Somehow, she found herself dangling from the middle of the
broken catwalk.  Some ten feet above her, the one connected end of
the shattered bridge terminated at the door to the pylon.  And
Quiddis was hanging halfway out the portal, holding out his hand to
Agent Scully.

     Dana tried to block out the hammering of her heart in her
chest, or the tight pain in her arms that told her she'd sprained
muscles she'd never really thought about. Instead, she tried to
remember her training at the FBI Academy in Quantico.  She'd hated
climbing ropes then, and climbing a chain here didn't seem like
much improvement to her, as the links started biting savagely into
her hands.

     Dr. Scully began pulling herself up, one arm at a time. Pull,
pause.  Then wrap her booted feet about the chain beneath her, and
use them to lever herself upward another six inches.  Before she'd
reached Quiddis' hand, she was panting, and her hands were slippery
with the strain.

     "Go on.  I'll follow you."  Scully would have waved the SEAL
away, but she didn't think she could let go of the burning cold
chain.

     "Like hell!"  Quiddis slithered forward, until he was dangling
out the doorway well past his hips.  Dana looked at him dumbly, too
tired to do more than wonder how in the hell he could support
himself like that.

     The Lieutenant took a deep breath before stretching out one
hand as far as it would go, his stiff and straining fingers grazing
the rusted chain inches above hers.  He could see the red and white
of her clenched fingers, and worried that she'd slip before she
reached his hand.

     Scully was worried about just the same thing, and the cold
rain numbed her hands effectively enough that she knew she couldn't
hold on indefinitely.  Dana pulled herself up the chain slowly, her
face burning red as she clenched her muscles too tightly to even
breathe.  Soon her eyes were burning, and she had to squint them
shut as she dragged herself upward, trying to block out the tears. 
She thought her head was about to explode when a chill hand closed
about her wrist.

     Snapping open her eyes with a sudden gasp of fear, Dana very
nearly let go of the chain altogether.  As was, the hand holding
her forearm in an iron grip was supporting most of her weight.  For
an instant, Scully was certain that one of her adversaries had a
hold on her.  Then her eyes cleared as cold air rushed into her
lungs, and she could see the Lieutenant turning red from the strain
of holding her, one handed.

     His long frame was bent over the door sill, stretched as far
as it would go. And only one hand could reach her; he couldn't
bring the other shoulder far enough down to grab Dana securely. 
And while he couldn't pull her up to him, Dana knew she hadn't the
strength to climb up his length either.

     Her wet wrist started to slide out of Quiddis' grasp, and his
fingers crackled down about her like steel in a losing war to keep
hold of her. All he could see were her eyes, the same deep blue as
the tossing waves beneath her.  Somewhere in the distance, both
heard the pulse of gunfire against the beating of their hearts.

     "Oh Jesus, we're going to fall."  Dana kicked furtively at the
gangplank beneath her, scrabbling for a toehold that wasn't there.

     Then both Quiddis and Dana began sliding into the doorway, an
inch at a time.  Scully felt the bones in her hand shifting as the
lieutenant fought to hold on, his teeth bared in a feral grimace. 
And up they went, racing against his weakening grip for the doorway
only a yard from Dana's grasp.

     The lieutenant's bare stomach scraped across the door sill,
and he found the purchase to grab her wrist in both his hands.
Flexing mightily, he managed to lift her upwards toward him. Rain
and sweat ran through his dark hair and dropped onto her upturned
face as she was slowly drawn toward him.

     Then she was close enough, and grabbed hold of his arm with
her free hand.  Straining, she managed to climb across his back,
clutching the waist of his workpants as she pulled herself into the
rig.  Dana crawled inside, and let herself remain panting on the
deck for a moment, eyes closed.  Then the blackness behind her lids
shook her, and she snapped her eyes open in time to see Quiddis
pull himself inside as well.

     It had been Soun, holding his Lieutenant by the legs, lowering
him down to Scully.  His one good leg was braced against the
doorway, and his broad face was white and covered with a sheen of
sweat.  This had drained a lot of whatever reserve of strength he'd
been running on.  Standing over her, Meyer was reloading one of the
rifles, and from the spent brass cooking underneath her and the
sharp smell of cordite in the hall, he'd been the one firing just
a moment before.

     Scully snapped her gaze about the deserted hallway for a
moment, taking in the etched pits in the walls and floor, and the
fractured metal paneling.  "Where's Paddy?"

     One look at the pain burned into Meyer's young face confirmed
Scully's worst fears.  "Damn."  For a moment the four were silent,
watching one another.  Then Quiddis drew himself up, and pulled the
Chief up with him

     "Okay people, we move.  Meyer,"  his rough tone softened on
the man's name, "how many clips?"

     Meyer didn't look up from his rifle.  "Two.  Half empty."

     "Quiddis looked nonplused.  "No problem.  Dana, hand me your
pistol.  You and Meyer get the big guns. I'll just carry this
mutt."

     Soun wheezed as he spoke. "This mutt'll kick your ass back on
the _Elliot_."

     "Uh-huh.  Just start walkin'."

===========================================================================

From: ez042725@boris.ucdavis.edu (Sean Smith)
Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
Subject: NEW STORY: ETCHED 12/13
Date: 6 Oct 1995 00:32:57 GMT


Part 12 of 13

Disclaimer in part 1 still applies. 

Copyright August 1995

Send all comments, criticisms to: ez042725@peseta.ucdavis.edu   
I want replies, damnit!


                Etched
                     by Sean Smith
                     ez042725@peseta.ucdavis.edu

     The second ladder was slick, and nearly tumbled Glad as he
slid down one handed.  But he made it to the bottom, and crouched
in the low access way next to one of the water mains.  His head was
spinning from the blood loss, and he figured he had only a few
minutes left before he lost it altogether.  Less, once he hit the
water.

     Glad took hold of the large valve wheel on the main, and
braced himself while he kicked out the access panel next to him. 
A few straight kicks, and it snapped away, clattering to the deck
below.  Moments later, Glad followed, dropping into a crouch on the
deck.

     He mentally reviewed his plan in his mind, piecing together
all the steps before he launched himself down the hall.  Speed was
his best defense, and he had every intention of using it.

          *         *         *

     In the blue darkness of the hold, the machine shop door swung
open half way, and Agent Mulder slid into the hall soundlessly.  He
was moving as slowly as he could, for he knew that stealth
outweighed speed for now.  Besides which, the battered toolbox
slung over his creaking left shoulder slowed him tremendously. 
Even the pockets of his shirt and pants bulged with his accumulated
goods.  Fox sweated with the effort it took to carry such heavy
weights, and the pain in his side grew worse with each step.

     But if he was right, he wouldn't need it many more steps.

     Ahead was the battered hatch he and Quiddis had fought to
close.  It was no longer latched shut, but was instead hanging
askew by one remaining hinge.  The lights in the main bay were
still off, but the dim twilight pouring through the open bay doors
allowed Mulder to see the outlines of the boxes and eggs scattered
about the bay floor.  Fox squinted against the light, fighting to
peer more deeply into the loading platform's cavernous interior.

     He stepped inside, glancing quickly along the walls and
ceiling for the nesting places of these things.  He couldn't see
any, but Fox didn't let that fool him into believing that none were
present.  Just because he couldn't see the danger did not mean that
it wasn't there.

     Fox threaded his way between the boxes and the empty eggs,
casting furtive glances at the elevator along the wall. It still
remained parked at a higher level, and Mulder swore silently.  He
would have to wait for it to descend to pick him up, and he had no
illusions about the risks involved in his mere presence down here
below decks.

     Mulder slipped around a large wooden crate, and froze when he
saw the beast.  It froze too, hunched over the large leathery egg
it cradled against its slick exoskeleton.  Man and alien stood
separated by less than ten feet, each clutching furtively at their
respective packages.

     The thing was smaller than those Mulder had seen before, and
its long curved skull was not crenelated with obscure bony
protrusions.  Instead, it was slick and clean, darkening into black
from the dead white near its fanged mouth.  Mulder didn't know if
that meant it might be some form of worker, or a juvenile, or if
this was simple sexual dimorphism.

     He almost found it funny that he considered all this as he
worked the small lever on the box he carried.  A few more quick
pumps, and he figured he'd have enough of a charge to start it up.

     Much to his surprise, the alien set down the egg, and backed
away slowly.  It moved on all fours, and its tail wove a slow
pattern like that of a cat's.  Fox couldn't understand why it had
suddenly dropped its precious cargo.  Then the egg split open into
four hemispheres, blossoming in the dark like some rotted flower.

     Inside, something moved.  A shape twitched briefly, and
several legs appeared over the lip of the egg.  Mulder then
understood.  Like the corpses surrounding him, this creature wanted
him to witness first hand how it reproduced.  It wanted to kill
him, and use him.

     He flicked the power switch on the box, and the compressor
motor started with a shrieking whir.  The little engine rumbled
roughly under the compressor's whine, and the alien before him
echoed the screech in double voiced counterpoint.

     The little obscenity arose from the egg, and perched briefly
upon one of the petals.  It bore a striking resemblance to a
severed human hand, down to the pasty flesh of a cadaver.  But it
possessed far too many fingers, and where a wrist should have been,
a powerful tail coiled and uncoiled.

     Mulder lifted the tool from the box, and balanced it awkwardly
in his left hand.  The thing moved as he did, and Fox used the
compressed air gun to blast rivets into the squirming thing just as
fast as it could fire them.  The red hot little nails hissed as
they pinned the twitching shape to its birth-egg, and its caustic
blood carved wild patterns into the floor beneath it.

     The alien that had carried the egg flicked its tail, and cast
its head back in apoplectic fury.  It shrieked in concert with
itself, and pounced at the Federal Agent.   Mulder dropped to the
floor, and the thing landed behind him, its powerful right hand
crashing through the wooden box behind him.

     Fox didn't waste time rising to his feet.  He simply fired his
small rivet gun into the alien's hips and the base of its tail. 
The monster cried out as its legs were cut out from beneath it. 
Only its powerful claw held it upright, as it sagged against the
wooden crate it had so recently torn asunder.

     Not hesitating, Mulder fired again and again.  He drove
burning steel into the base of its neck, its back, its head.  He
fired until the ghastly obscenity stopped flailing about, and the
shrieking had subsided to dull moans.

     Then he spun about, looking above him.  Somewhere, he thought,
somewhere more of these things are waiting for me.  But I'm going
to prove one damn thing to these aliens; humans can kill far better
than they can.

     Fox spun about again before he saw a subtle movement in one
corner.  He squeezed the trigger on the rivet gun, his left hand
launching another glowing fleck into the darkness.
     
          *         *         *

     An olive green navy Blackhawk was already circling the landing
platform high above when the four people left in the team staggered
out onto the wide open space.  Quiddis popped a flare free from his
clothes, and tossed it off to one side where it burned with an
eerie green light.


     The helicopter dove steeply toward the landing platform, and
pulled up hard to land.  Its huge wheels slammed into the metal
deck hard enough to ring the structure, and its hydraulics bounced
as it slammed down.  The wind from its rotors nearly flattened the
four struggling people.  Dana fought as hair and debris blew in her
eyes.

     Men strapped into the open doorways of the helicopter pivoted
ungainly guns about, and shattered all the nearby structures with
rolling bursts of gunfire.  The pilot lit up his craft with running
lights and spotlight, picking out all the dark corners of the
hanger for his gunners.  The three men methodically poured a hail
of tracers into every corner and grating, firing all about the
huddled SEALs.

     Shortly, the barrage ebbed, and Quiddis looked into the heart
of the maelstrom to see the door gunner unstrap himself and gesture
the four people forward.  He grabbed Soun and ran, pulling Meyer
and Dana with him.  It wasn't until Dana's back was pressed up
against the warm side of the helicopter that she felt this was
real.

     The gunner wore a bulbous helmet, and with the silvered blast
shield down, he looked as insectile as his helicopter. He hunched
over to help Soun and Meyer aboard, while the other two gunners
sporadically fired into the rubble about the chopper.

     "Wait!"  Scully shouted into Quiddis' ear.  "I saw a door!  On
the rig!"

     "What?"

     "It's Mulder!  He's alive!"  Dana pulled the pistol out of the
lieutenant's pocket, jamming it into her belt again.

     "I believe you!  But we gotta go!  Now!"  Quiddis cupped his
hands about his mouth to be heard over the roar of the twin
turbines.

     "No! Not without Fox!"  Dana stepped away from the helicopter.

     Quiddis moved to grab her, but Dana saw the telltale flicker
of movement.  She danced backward, swinging her rifle in line with
the black shape crawling underneath the helicopter, dragging itself
from a broken hatch in the deck.

     The door gunner only saw her wild expression, her red hair
wreathing her face in flames as she drew a bead on his only ride
home.  Trained to within an inch of his life, the terrified man
slew his oversized pintle-mounted weapon to bear at the incredibly
close range. 

     Quiddis had seen the horrors of blue on blue fire from the
last rounds of desert fighting, and threw himself on the barrel of
the chopper's gun.   He couldn't pin down why, but he trusted
Scully's instincts.

     The machinegunner fired anyway, pushing Quiddis to one side. 
The shots bounced and kicked off the metal decking at the
lieutenant's feet, and he doubled over quickly.  Scully fired under
the chopper, ducking to one side of the door gunner's arc of fire.
 
     But her target was gone, the black shape of the hole in the
ground its only trace.  The doorgunner's volley of fire stopped
abruptly, giving Dana and Quiddis the chance to raise their heads. 
The gunner was slumped over his weapon, still strapped to the door.
But from the cracked stock of Meyer's rifle and the dent in the
man's helmet, it was fairly certain what knocked him out.

     Dr. Scully rushed over to Quiddis, who still hadn't risen. His
ankles and shins were flecked with blood, and the canvas pants
he'd worn lay in stained tatters.  The shells the gunner had fired
had shattered on the ground, and their broken, spinning fragments
had carved thin lines through the man's legs.

     "Medic!"  Scully tore through the pants examining the cuts.
"Get him into the chopper now!"

     She was shocked when Meyer ran over to lift Quiddis into the
chopper.  She carried his legs as they slid him into the chopper
next to the unconscious gunner.  "The corpsman?"

     Meyer shook his head in the rush of air from the helicopter's
blades.  "None!"

     "Take care of Quiddis.  I'll be back in ten!"  Dana held up
her hands, pantomiming to Meyer as she stripped his rifle of its
clip.

     "Wait!  You can't go back!"  Meyer was yelling, but didn't
stop her as she gathered a satchel and items from the cramped
helicopter.  A stowage compartment revealed two full clips, and she
stuffed both into her oversized jumper.

     "Wait for us."  Dana grabbed Soun's arm, and caught his bleary
dark eyes with hers.

     "We ain't going anywhere."  He nearly pushed her out the door,
his words of encouragement almost blotted out by the scouring wind
and roar of the chopper.

     Dana ran for the stairwell, intent upon her one goal
remaining.  She was nearly there when the gunfire started again. 
The Lieutenant's rifle in hand, Scully wheeled about to see the
door gunner awake and sweeping his gun about.  As his barrels came
in line with her, he opened fire.  Dana dropped to the deck in a
huddle as hundreds of rounds hammered into the ground behind her.

     Vaguely, she heard a single scream.  Then the torrent of fire
stopped, and she looked around.  Behind her, the dismembered
remains of the sole alien were burning their way through the deck. 
Agent Scully watched a single outstretched claw vanish in the heavy
smoke, and then pushed herself to her feet.

     Her hands were raw and burning, and she hurt everywhere
possible.  But her partner was just four floors away.

          *         *         *

     The rivet gun snapped and hissed blindly in Mulder's hand.  He
held it up before his gleaming eyes in the darkness, and depressed
the scratched and pitted trigger again.  No glowing rivet emerged. 
Fox checked the hopper, and found it empty.  He was almost glad to
discard the heavy weight of the gun and compressor, save for the
loss of such an effective weapon.

     He snapped the compressor off, and its chuffling little motor
died with a wheeze.  The box thudded dully to the floor as Mulder
used his awkward left hand to draw a cylinder from his pocket. 
Twisting the valve on the L-shaped tube protruding from it, Fox was
rewarded by the smell of gas.  Pinning the cylinder under his arm,
he pulled a small zippo from his pocket, and lit the acetylene
torch. 

     The steady stream of gas ignited with a hiss, and its blue
flame bathed Mulder's little world in cold fire.  His breathing was
shaky now; even were he not pyrophobic, his next moves would scare
anyone still sane.  But Agent Mulder needed something to keep these
creatures at bay, and Fox had seen more than a few effective ways
of accomplishing just that.

     Working quickly, he pinned the little torch against his chest
with his right arm.  The broken bones in his collar ground and
burned in protest, but Fox bit back his cries.  Instead he pulled
a bottle out of his left pocket and upended it, letting the
kerosene inside soak the oil rag he'd stuffed into the mouth.  Then
he set off toward the elevator, holding the Molotov cocktail near
the fire of his torch. 

     Mulder heard a faint hissing behind him, and he spun, lighting
the bottle.  The rag seemed to roar as bright yellow light wrapped
itself about the stained cloth.  In the brilliant light of the
snapping kerosene, Agent Mulder saw a dark form charging him,
bounding across the tops of the crates.  Fox's hand shook as he
pitched the bottle at the nearest crate just as the alien leapt for
it. 

     The bottle shattered, and liquid fire leapt across the crates,
the roaring now more insistent.  Both alien and crate tumbled to
the ground.  The thing's tail whipped about as it flailed and cried
out from the inferno that had become its funeral pyre.  For a
moment, it stumbled toward Mulder, and the special agent fell to
the ground, scrambling backward through the muck and blood.  It
seemed he couldn't move fast enough to escape what appeared to be
a flickering creature of living flame.  It leapt for him, only to
fall short by inches as its wailing died away.

     Fox slapped at the smoldering hem of his pants, shivering
despite the heat.  The crates scattered about the loading bay
fairly exploded into flames, sending billows of dense black smoke
into the mass of bodies along the roof of the cavernous hold.  It
was a blood lit scene fit for Dante, painted by Goya.  Mulder's
hand found the hot bulk of his torch and he gathered it to himself
as he stood.  Tucking it again under his injured arm, Fox shook as
he watched the fire gather upon itself. 

     He managed to shy away from the spreading flames, and work
free a second bottle.  He ran to the elevator, and slapped the call
button repeatedly.  "Come on!  Come on!" 

     The hot air burned his throat, and he began to wonder if dying
by fire would be any better than letting those creatures get to
him.  He was slumped against the wall when he spotted one of the
aliens sidling along one panel. 

     Trapped in its crushing embrace, it held Paddy tight against
its slick and bony chest. The SEAL struggled and fought, but
couldn't free himself. 

     Mulder looked down at the bottle in his hand, and then over at
the two struggling figures.  He knew it had to be heading for the
eggs.  Fox bit his lip for a moment, and looked up at the slowly
descending elevator.  The terrible fire reflected in his stormy
eyes for a moment, and he thought of his partner, waiting for him
above. 

     He blinked, and divested himself of torch and bottle, leaving
both next to the elevator platform.  Mulder searched his bulging
pockets for the right tools he'd hidden there. 

     Clutching them in his good hand, Fox ran as fast as he could
toward the receding alien, slick and cold with the fear of the fire
he'd started.  He wished that amongst all his beliefs, there was a
god he could pray to. 

                    *         *         *

     The gangplank bounced as Agent Scully ran out onto it.  Ahead
of her was the doorway toward the pylon, but she was stuck.  Did
Mulder head back for the room the team had fled, or would he now be
following their path back to the chopper?  She thought for a
moment.  Knowing him, he'd have abandoned all sane goals, and be
trudging through the deepest, darkest pit he could find. 

     The thought brought a much needed smile to her face, and she
hefted her rifle.  Her best bet was to simply follow every open
doorway down, and see if a pattern developed.  It wasn't clever,
but it was good detective work. 

     Dana was about to leave the gantry when the Blackhawk circled
about her.  She threw a hand over her eyes, shielding them from the
vortexes it generated as it hovered to one side.  Through its open
side doors, she could see Meyer waving to her, and she wrinkled her
brow.  She couldn't imagine what he thought he was doing,
gesticulating wildly. 

     Then she realized.  He was pointing down, toward the base
where the pylons crashed into the ocean waves.  The helicopter
swung its powerful spotlight onto the water there, and Scully's
breath caught in her throat. 

     Oh God, don't let his body be down there, her mind cried. 
Instead, she saw thick black smoke boiling out of the open bay
doors at the base of the pylon.  For a moment she was confused;
what did that mean?  Then she remembered that this was the way he
and Quiddis had escaped to the surface before. 

     But the smoke still scared her.  It meant that Fox was down
there with two nightmares.  The aliens, and the fire that petrified
him. 

     Scully leapt through the doorway, out of the cold night and
into the oily depth of the rig.  Silently, she dared anything to
stop her. 
     
          *         *         *

     Mulder slunk along one side of the bay, shadowing the beast
that held Paddy in its iron claws.  It moved slowly, cautiously
away from the fire, into the depth of the shadows at the far end of
the hanger. 

     Fox came about one of the boxes, and saw the thing pressing a
struggling shape against the ground, holding him pinned before a
dark egg.  Delicate, clawed hands molded resins tight about the
struggling soldier, binding him to the floor. It hissed softly, and
stretched more rank plastics about Paddy, gluing him to the hold
floor.  As Mulder moved into position, he turned so that the fire
illuminated the nightmare scene, casting flickering lights over his
shoulder.  The notion of turning his back on the fire made Mulder's
balls shrink up and his skin crawl, but he had no choice as he
stepped out of cover to circle the alien. 

     He had to move into place, so the creature was not between him
and Paddy.  If it were, then its vile blood would spray the
helpless man and surely kill him. 

     Almost, almost he was there.  But his foot caught on a
slippery rope, dropping him to his knees in a morass of stinking
goo.  He clawed to his feet as the alien turned on him, enraged. 
Fox was determined not to look at the noxious mass he'd slipped in,
but instead set the CO2 cartridge into the steel pipe. 

     The alien stopped its work and moved in on Mulder.  Don't look
up, he thought, just fit the rod in over the cartridge.  The
scratch of claws on the deck, and the heat of the fire at his back
nearly drove him mad, but he arranged the spike and hammer as best
he could. 

     Fox looked up, and saw the thing only feet away.  Gasping, he
tumbled backward, and drove the hammer into the spike.  The spike
shattered the compressed air cartridge, and blasted the steel tube
out and into the chest of the onrushing beast.  It dropped to the
floor cackling and spitting, clutching the shattered exoskeleton
over its inhuman heart. 

     Mulder pushed himself to his feet, as did the wraith-like
alien warrior.  Fox wiped a trace of blood from his mouth, and
watched the slime drip from the alien.  Its cracked chestplate
dripped acid onto the gore-encrusted floor, and its spiked tail
quivered over one narrow shoulder.  One hand was pressed tight over
the wound, in gruesome imitation of Fox's own wounded hand. 

     Mulder reached into his shirt pocket, and withdrew his little
Zippo lighter.  He was taking an awful risk, but he couldn't think
of any other option.  He carried a little metal awl in another
pocket, and its carbide tip was diamond studded.  But using it
would mean diving inside the monster's reach.  It meant facing that
terrible acidic blood, and near certain death.  Instead, Fox lit
the Zippo with his left hand, and resolved to play mindgames with
a demon. 

     Agent Mulder spun the little dial under the Zippo's flame
guard, letting its fire rise six inches into the air.  Then he
waved the little lighter at the creature, trying to mimic the
movements of his Molotov Cocktails. 

     The thing hunched backwards, shying away from both the roaring
inferno and Mulder's puny flames.  Mulder grinned ferally even as
his short bangs were plastered against his head by the heat.  None
of the creatures that faced the SEALs had survived.  Yet somehow,
the remainder learned to fear the guns.  Looking at Paddy, Mulder
realized that they had instead learned to attack the weakest,
unarmed people. 

     If they learned fear, and did so without speech, they might
instead react to the fear and pain transmitted telepathically. 
This would explain their elegantly timed attacks.  It was a wild
leap of deduction on his part, but it was perhaps possible.  And if
so, he was betting that this thing would remain at bay, fearing
that he could burn more of them.  It all hinged upon the premise
that these aliens were smart enough to recognize weapons without
actually understanding them. 

     Suddenly, the tight fear in Fox's chest cut loose, and he
found himself stalking the wounded warrior, circling inward toward
where Paddy lay on the floor.  The warrior hissed and spit, its
twin jaws snapping furiously.  But each time it feinted in, Mulder
waved the flame, and it withdrew.  Somewhere inside Agent Mulder,
a deep and ancient part of him loved the deadly game, the dance. 
He saw the tendons shift in the creature's legs, watched the
rolling orange flames flicker and play off its slick black armor. 
He liked it. 

     Then Fox noticed the grotesque's outstretched hands.  One hand
was missing several of its elongate digits.  And its head was
scarred, as if by a bullet.  Mulder thought quickly; there was a
definite chance that Mulder had saved Quiddis from this very alien. 
The thought that this was a second encounter made him grin; so much
the better. 

     Mulder moved alongside Paddy, and found him glued face up to
the floor with strands of resin.  As much as he struggled, the
soldier couldn't move. 

     "On my belt.  The service pistol."  Paddy jerked his head at
the small black leather holster, hooked securely to his belt, out
of reach of his pinned arm. 

     Mulder licked his lips, nervously shifting the Zippo to his
right hand.  He could barely close his swollen and aching fingers
about the small chrome casing.  Whatever infection was burning its
way through him, it had already seriously compromised his hand for
certain. 

     He crouched low, tentatively reaching for the big .45 caliber
Paddy wore.  It took time for him to work it free, and leaning over
was twisting his broken shoulder horribly.  It took all his
concentration not to throw up at the building pain.  Frustrated and
desperate, Mulder yanked viciously at the gun, tearing it out of
the holster.  In the process, he fell over backwards, jarring the
small lighter out of his weakened hand. 

     With an almost human glee in its metallic cry, the alien
swarmed forward, capitalizing upon the situation.  It moved on
three limbs, one hand clutching its shattered chest as it bounded
at the felled Agent.

     Mulder fumbled with the gun two handed; the older weapon
didn't have a safety for use with the left hand.  He struggled,
snapping the safety off one handed.  Then he grunted, using his
stiff right hand to force the slide back, and fire.  No aiming now,
just pulling the trigger again and again and again. 

     After five or six rounds, Fox realized that no sharp claws had
grabbed him.  He looked ahead, and saw the crumpled dark shape
flickering in the roaring reddish-orange firelight. It breathed
still, deep rumbles that shook its lanky frame.  Small dribbles of
green blood slipped from the bullet hole in its shattered chest,
burning holes in the steel beneath it. 

     Both man and alien pushed themselves to their feet, wobbling
unsteadily.  Mulder tried to brace his weakening left hand with his
right, but could no longer even bring his wounded arm up to chest
height.  His shoulder wouldn't move for all the pain he felt, and
his hand was entirely numb. 

     His opponent looked no better; the creature's arm hung limply
at its side, and the wound in its chest was flowing freely over its
cracked exoskeleton.  Nonetheless it crouched into a fighting
posture, hissing in pain and anger.  The barbed tail still moved
threateningly over its head, weaving back and forth hypnotically. 

     The two figures, human and alien, faced off amidst the burning
boxes and across the prone form of the SEAL.  The roaring fire
assaulted Fox's ears, and drove all sound and thought from the
room.  Amidst the heat and sharp glow, Mulder watched the thing
gather itself for a renewed assault.  Mulder fired as the alien
leapt.  He was shocked to realize that the creature had not leapt
at him, but to one side.  It landed hard, the broken armor
crunching painfully with each step.  But it was anticipating him,
evading him. 

     Mulder fired again and again, his weakening left hand wobbling
erratically.  But try as he might, Fox couldn't get a clear shot. 
The air wavered with the heat, and darkened with smoke.  In a
minute, the hot smoke would descend to head level, choking and
blinding Fox.  Worse, he felt the shaking and chills of infection,
and his hand weakened by the second.  If he didn't win this fight
soon, he would never win it at all. 

     Sweat running down his face, Fox decided that it was time the
tables were turned.  He sucked in a deep breath, and charged the
alien.  If he were close enough, he couldn't possibly miss.  And
what would be less expected, he wondered. 

     The alien drove forward to meet him, its one working arm
outstretched like some twisted pike.  Neither figure showed signs
of stopping their suicidal plunge at one another, both screaming
with rage.  Fox fired sharply as he ran, tucking his head along
side his faltering gun arm.  The huge soft-nosed rounds snapped the
glistening creature's charge, driving it to its knees.  The impacts
shattered the cracked exoskeleton over the thing's still beating
heart, and a spray of its fatal blood nearly hit Mulder as he
stopped short. 

     Panting from the effort, Fox brought the pistol into line with
the alien, and backed away.  It looked up at him briefly, and he
shot it through the chest.  It crumpled, and lay still on the
floor.  Mulder looked down at the .45, its slide locked back into
the empty receiver.  With a sigh, he dropped it on the blood-soaked
deck, and turned to free Paddy. 

     The sticky resin that pinned Paddy to the floor had hardened
into strands of darkening plastic, nearly impossible to snap.  Fox
had to beat at each strand repeatedly in an attempt to break them
one by one.  But the fire was closing in, and Mulder was frantic as
he pummeled the tough, sticky cables. 

     He spun at some half recognized sound, barely audible over the
crackle and snap of the flames.  He saw a figure step off the
elevator, and jog nearer. 

     "Scully?"  Through the heat and the light, Fox couldn't see
clearly.  It occurred to him that even without the raging fire, he
probably wouldn't be able to see any clearer. 

     "Agent Mulder.  This is a surprise."  Mulder's head drooped
momentarily onto his heaving chest, but he brought his gaze back up
in challenge as Sergeant Glad stepped closer. 

===========================================================================

From: ez042725@boris.ucdavis.edu (Sean Smith)
Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
Subject: NEW STORY: ETCHED 13/13
Date: 6 Oct 1995 00:33:31 GMT


Part 13 of 13

Disclaimer in part 1 still applies. 

Copyright August 1995

Send all comments, criticisms to: ez042725@peseta.ucdavis.edu   
I want replies, damnit!


                Etched
                     by Sean Smith
                     ez042725@peseta.ucdavis.edu

     Glad was soiled and torn, blackened from the muck he'd waded
through.  A puckered cut across his face had swollen one eye shut.
Mulder was shocked; he thought no one could be worse off than he
was. 

     "I figured you'd be cold and gray by now, Mulder."

     Mulder kept his eyes on Glad's hands; he was holding Fox's
last Molotov cocktail, and the acetylene torch.  "You don't look
too good either." 

     "Well,"  Glad smiled as he looked at the conflagration
climbing the east wall of the warehouse as his growling voice rose
again.  "I think I have you and your 'team' to thank for that, now
don't I?." 

     Mulder tried to push himself up from his knees and failed.
Instead, he pinned Glad with a withering stare as his mobile
features contorted into pure hatred.  The red glow of the fire
painted him a devil.  "You knew what was here all along, didn't
you?  You just gave everyone here up." 

     "We always know.  As for your little team . . .  Everyone gets
expended sooner or later.  And we've got more people than you do." 

     Paddy shook, fighting to free himself from the floor.  "You
bastard.  Get me up.  I'll fuckin' cook you!" 

     "Sorry to upset you.  But I do like the idea."  Glad smiled as
he used the torch to light the greasy rag stoppering the bottle. 
He pulled back his arm to throw when a sharp crack rang out through
the fire.  The bottle slipped from nerveless fingers to shatter
across the floor at Glad's feet. 

     Glad clutched at the spreading stain over his shoulder, then
staggered backwards as the flames wreathing him reached up and
along his legs.  Soundlessly, he stumbled away into the descending
smoke as a second rifle shot snapped out into the bay. 

     Mulder was coughing, trying unsuccessfully to pull his
sweat-soaked shirt up about his face.  Between that and his fight
to free Paddy, he almost missed Dana's arrival. 

     She fell to the ground next to him, noting the fact that his
right arm hung limply at his side.  She used the buttstock to
shatter some of the tightly bound resin surrounding the SEAL, but
her eyes were on her partner. 

     "Nice timing Scully.  You waiting for a dramatic moment?"  He
worked quickly on the resin, trying to hide his rising fear of
fire. 

     "Always.  Hard to get you to pay for lunch if you don't owe
me." 

     Some of Mulder's native fear showed through the mask he wore,
lighting his eyes as he looked up at his taut partner.  "I'll take
you out anytime.  Just keep shooting the kooks off me, okay?" 

     They shared a nervous smile as they dragged Paddy across the
floor, trailing bits of the cocoon that had entrapped him.  All
three had to crouch down to avoid the smoke, and Scully thought
Mulder looked ready to pass out.  She gnawed a lip trying to think
of some way to drag them both to safety. 

     "Mulder!  The chopper's here, and we've got six minutes to get
there." 

     Fox returned her intense gaze.  "Where?"

     "On the top of the rig, but they're circling for now."  She
saw a gleam in his eyes, flickering in the fire-light.  There was
a moment's question bound up in the creasing of her forehead before
comprehension struck her. 

     "No."  Dana shook her head vehemently, the copper strands of
her hair escaping their bonds to stick to her face wildly.  "You
try jumping in that water, you'll sink like a brick." 

     "You're okay, and Paddy's trained for this.  I'm a good
swimmer too."  Fox tried using his intense voice, his eyes, every
trick he could think of to sway Scully.  "It's better than the
fire." 

     Dana stammered an argument about human endurance when a heavy
hand dropped onto her shoulder.  Paddy spoke up from the floor.  "I
don't see a whole lot of options, Doc."  He pointed toward the
elevator Scully had descended.  It was ablaze, yellow fire roaring
through the lubrication.  As they watched, the seals on the
hydraulics gave way, plunging the platform to the bottom of the
work pit. 

     Scully turned back to see the stark fear in Mulder's eyes,
reflecting the fire surrounding him.  Her heart went out to him;
staying here, fighting the panic, must be the most terrifying thing
imaginable. 

     "All right.  Where's the water?"  Mulder almost smiled, and
motioned toward the moon pool with a fractional nod of his head. 
Together, the three people crawled through the smoke and fire,
slipping in the blood and ooze. 

     Dana halted the two men with a gesture, her words useless
against the roaring flames.  Working quickly, she fought to untie
Paddy's combat boots.  First one, then the other was discarded. 
The heat on her back grew as she struggled with Fox's Timberland
boots.  Then Dr. Scully stripped herself of the armor she'd
carried, and her own boots.  The metal deck was hot from the fire,
and the slick wetness poured through her socks.

     Scully dragged Paddy to the lip of the pool, and pushed him
in.  He surfaced, flailing wildly.  Dana leapt in after him, trying
to hold him up despite the weight of her clothes.  The dark, frigid
water shocked her completely, and sucked the air from her.  Dr.
Scully fought numbed hands as she tried to dog-paddle with some
success.  Then she heard a splash, and Mulder quickly pressed
against her.  She couldn't hear him for the noise of fire and
water, but she could see him shivering by firelight. 

     Scully dragged Mulder onto her stomach, and held onto Paddy's
combat webbing with her left hand.  She started kicking, pushing
them out of and away from the burning rig.  Repeatedly, she kicked
Mulder's lanky legs or Paddy's feet.  They too were thrashing,
trying to get the three of them out before the whole rig collapsed.


     Paddy gasped in her ear, as small water droplets flicked her
face and the Gulf waters threatened to drown her.  "Oil . . . in
the water.  If . . . the rig . . . goes up . . . it burns."  Fox
had seen pictures of oil rig disasters, and this scared him to
death.  Once a spill was lit, the rig often melted completely.  A
rig in the Baltic had burned so furiously that the wreckage was
never recovered; it fell completely apart. 

     Fox pushed harder, putting renewed strength into his kicks.
Despite Dana's best efforts, he kept sliding under water for
progressively longer periods.  They hadn't moved more than fifty
yards, and already he was gasping, his limbs drifting
unresponsively. 

     Scully figured they were clear enough of the smoke plume, and
pulled her trump card.  Much of what she'd carried had been lost
one way or another during her wild run down the rig.  But in one
pocket, she found one of the magnesium flares she'd stolen from the
helicopter.  Snapping the plastic cap off, it ignited and cut a
blinding green light into their retinas. 

     Now the trick was staying afloat while waving the flare
overhead.  The wind and chill water slapping the breath from her
wasn't helping.  God only knew what Mulder and Paddy were feeling. 

     Paddy was like a weight about her neck, and Mulder no longer
held on to her.  Now, he only barely managed to float on his back. 
Scully could only wish she were larger.  She had always been
buoyant, but now she needed to be tall enough to hold both sinking
men. 

     The helicopter swung into view around the dark, burning hulk
of the oil derrick.  Its huge blades swept the thick petrochemical
smoke into wild curves and drove it back down upon the three weary
people in the water.  It was choking and foul, but far better than
the water. 

     The water itself was lifted and hurled at them by the
helicopter's blades, knifing into them and blinding one and all. 
But the weight of the air pushing down drove them under water. 
Dana kicked and pushed, but couldn't hold all three above water for
long. 

     When the mass of people resurfaced, Scully realized why they
were battered so forcefully.  The pilots had negotiated their huge
machine down until its broad green belly was mere feet above the
water.  They had no diver's hook, and so Meyer was stretched out
flat along the door track.  One hand held onto the wheel's axle,
the other trailed downward.  Only Quiddis held him from inside the
helicopter.  The doorguards fired nervously into the firelit bay. 

     The right wheel wobbled and dipped into the water as the pilot
tried to swing Meyer closer to the stragglers in the water.  Dana
pushed Paddy off and away, toward Meyer.  His weight drove her
under, and the burning seawater choked her as she gasped for air. 
But Meyer took hold of Paddy, and dragged him upward. Soun leaned
out the door, and grabbed his soldier by the scruff of his shirt. 
Between the two, they manhandled the wayward SEAL into the chopper.

     Dana's hands were full with Mulder.  She'd divested herself of
the heavy satchel and clips before diving into the Gulf, but she
still couldn't kick hard enough to keep both Agents above water for
long.  Fox tried to yell to her, but the rotor wash crushed his
words before they reached her ears. 

     Then the Blackhawk swept back in, nosing in toward the two
partners still battling the waters.  Dana clutched at Mulder,
trying to propel him towards Meyer's waiting hand.  But instead he
slipped beneath her arms, using his swimmers legs to stiffly push
her upwards. 

     Mulder yelled something at her, but was driven under as he
pushed her upward.  She felt an arm about her waist, pressing her
toward the air.  Still, he kept kicking until Meyer had a hold of
her by one short arm.  She was raging and yelling for them to let
her go, but Meyer simply started dragging her into the helicopter. 

     Many hands were on her, pulling her.  She was disoriented,
still in shock, as one of the gunners wrapped her in a rough
blanket.  She shouted at Meyer, gesturing for the SEAL to grab
Mulder.  Nothing was forthcoming, so she dived across the pitching
helicopter for the door.  The door gunner pinned her arms, holding
her back from the open portal.  The wind cut into her, freezing her
to the core.  But it was nothing to the chill she felt looking at
the black, frothing waters. 

     "Damnit!  Mulder!" Dana called out, shouting into the ocean
from her bucking vantage point aboard the Blackhawk.  "Mulder!" 

     Meyer squirmed from where he lay along the door jamb, shaking
off Quiddis angrily.  Without further word, he leaned backwards out
the door and slid into the water, leaving no splash. 

     The SEAL dove, kicking himself deep into the cold water.  The
salt water would burn his eyes, so he kept them closed.  It was
purely a matter of touch now, and he hoped Mulder hadn't drifted
sideways underwater. 

     His lungs screamed at him, and he fought an urge to inhale.
Instead, he kept breathing out as he descended.  From the weight
squeezing in on his head and chest, he knew he'd reached his
limits, and he turned himself about.  Kicking for the sky, he
erupted out of the water halfway and choked as he sucked in air

     Without pause, he hyperventilated and dove again.  This time
he angled away from the helicopter, kicking closer to the oil rig. 
The idea that those dark things might indeed swim scared him
endlessly, but he couldn't leave a team mate behind.  Mulder may
not be military, but Meyers knew that the one promise America made
was that you'd come home.  Dead or alive, we bring ours home. 

     Meyers kicked, and kicked again, using his arms to steer. One
outstretched hand hit something soft, and closed about some cloth. 
Meyer pulled the form to him, and kicked upward.  The limp mass he
dragged slowed him, and he wondered if he'd make it to the air
again. 

     His chest cried out, and the pounding in his head started to
fade.  No, he thought.  If I blackout, we're both dead in the
water.  Literally.  Meyer stopped kicking, letting buoyancy drag
him to the surface.  He had to conserve whatever air he had left. 

     He felt as though he were accelerating through darkness, when
suddenly the air and wind bit him like a lover.  Gagging and
choking, Meyer floated there for a moment, spitting up bile.  Meyer
thanked God, and started driving for the rig. 

     He held Mulder face up, his hand under the Agent's chin.  This
wasn't the most powerful stoke he could think of, but maybe Mulder
was still alive . . .  Meyer reached the helicopter, crying as the
hands reached down to drag Fox into the freezing air.  Then it was
Meyer's turn, and he had not thought it could get any colder. 

     The helicopter swept up and away from the lonely, dark water
and clawed for altitude with its wide blades.  The jet engine
hummed and sang and pushed Meyer fully awake.  The water chilled
him so deeply, he wanted to slip into sleep immediately. 

     Instead he focused on Dr. Scully, hunched over her partner on
the helicopter's deck.  He was starting to get used to the sight by
now. 

     Dana pumped the last of the water out of Mulder, working his
back and chest.  Meyers flinched as he heard Fox's shoulder grind
and pop under her hands.  The SEALs rolled Mulder over onto his
back, and Dana waved a shaking, wet hand at Quiddis.  "Start a
cardiac massage!" 

     Scully bent over him, and tilted his head back.  She opened
his mouth and moved his limp tongue to one side, pinching his cold
nose shut, she started breathing in time with the Lieutenant's
pressure on Mulder's chest. 

     Trying to force air into Mulder's huge lungs sucked all the
wind from Dana's sails, and she started seeing spots as she gasped
for air between puffs into his slack mouth.  Quiddis pounded on
Mulder's chest, and Scully covered Fox's mouth with her own again. 

     A pause, and she stopped to listen to Mulder's chest.  His
heart was beating again, the pacemaker reset by the rhythmic
pounding.  But he still wasn't breathing, and had gone cyanotic. 

     "Breathe damn you!  Just one breath, Fox!"  She resumed CPR,
losing all track of time as she fought for him.  Just forcing air
past his cold lips, and panting for air herself.  Let Quiddis force
the air out, she had only to breathe. 

     Dana pulled back sharply, and slapped Mulder hard. Then again,
wishing her hand left a red mark on his cold blue face.  When it
didn't, she returned to breathing for him.  She blew again into his
mouth, feeling his chest rise under her. 

     Then he gasped into her mouth, choking.  Dana pulled back,
cradling his head.  Fox choked, and coughed up more salty seawater. 
He tried to reach out blindly, but couldn't move his freezing arms
and legs. 

     Dana turned her face down toward her partner, holding him
tightly while Quiddis wrapped blankets about him.  Mulder shivered
against her, and the beads of water dripping from her hair fell
onto his lined face.  After a few moments, Mulder glanced weakly up
at Dana. 

     In the darkness, only the red light from the cockpit touched
her, and he couldn't see the tear tracks for the water on her face.
"Guess I'm back."  He managed to croak it out through a throat so
rough it clenched up at his words. 

     "You're back Mulder.  And so am I."  The SEALs turned aside,
knowing that this was part of the team they were not privy to. 

     Mulder glanced up at Dana, fighting for words.  He couldn't
say a fraction of what he wished to, and it tore at him.  As it
always did.  "Can't avoid a hospital this time, huh?" 

     "No."  Scully had to smile, despite the keen pain.  It was
like him, to worry about that kind of triviality.  "And I'm glad
too." 

     
               Etched:  Epilogue

          *         *         *

     Dana Scully crossed the open courtyard in front of the Hoover
Building, forgoing her attache case for several hot brown paper
bags.  She nodded her thanks to the door guard who helped her
navigate the heavy-framed doors without spilling coffee and eclairs
on her teal suit. 

     The building's hallways were a pale maze, constructed at odd
one-hundred and twenty degree angles.  Half the time, you could see
down two corridors long before you reached them, and half the time,
you were guaranteed to run into someone coming around the sharp
corners.  This problem was true for even the veterans of the
Building who had already learned not to lose themselves in the mess
of labyrinthine corridors. 

     And so Agent Scully found herself swinging from side to side,
ducking much taller Agents as she negotiated the corridors.
Sometimes, it bothered her that she had to sidestep shortsighted
people with alarming regularity.  Sometimes, she was the one
marching through the halls with her nose in a file, and she never
noticed.  But now it seemed almost fun, dancing left and right
around obstructions like a football receiver.  Or a SEAL. 

     The bullpen of junior agents was in good form today, but
Scully didn't notice.  She had an entirely different set of
concerns on her mind this morning.  She hustled down the dim
stairwell toward the basement, almost certain of what she'd find
there. 

     It took her long seconds of fumbling with the doorknob and her
bags before Scully managed to open the dark door to Mulder's
basement office.  And sure enough, Fox was seated behind his desk
looking up at the door, nonplussed.  Dana knew she'd been
scrabbling at the door long enough for him to have helped her had
he been well.  Slightly out of breath, Scully wore a tolerant grin
as she glanced sideways at Fox's pale, drawn face. 

     "Decided to come in to work today."  She couldn't quite manage
to make a question out of it. 

     "No.  I was abducted and forced to watch daytime soaps for
weeks.  The Grays just set me down here."  Mulder smiled back, but
settled into his leather armchair, repositioning his sling. 

     Scully dropped the bags on Mulder's desk, and started pulling
out coffee cups and breakfast danishes.  "I dropped by your
apartment on the way here.  Figured you didn't need to make your
own breakfast one handed every day while you're out." 

     Mulder raised his eyebrows while he sipped his coffee.  "Toast
and eggs don't take a lot of work." 

     "Eat that eclair before I get to it."  Scully dropped a
croissant and a danish on her desk, avoiding the custard-filled
pastry.  She draped her jacket over the back of the seat, and
settled in with her breakfast. 

     Mulder studied Dana while she was eating, noting that she
wasn't leaning back in her chair.  He took another drink, and tried
to sound casual.  "So, when's that military debriefing scheduled
for." 

     Dana set down her croissant and cleared her throat, buying
time.  "Last week." 

     Dana and Fox met one another's eyes across the office.  Scully
flushed lightly, and tried to read her partner's dark expression. 
Mulder looked aside for a moment, then down at his stiff and bound
arm.  He looked up at Scully, and grinned sadly. 

     "Well then, how did it go?"  Dana thought that was a loaded
question if ever she had heard one. 

     She sighed, and carried her coffee back over to his desk.
Obviously he wanted to plow into work, and she perched alongside
his desk to eye him better.  He wouldn't like the news. 

     "Officially, we're getting commended for our work stopping a
viral epidemic."  Scully's clear blue eyes looked up from her light
coffee into Mulder's face. 

     "What?  A virus?  Who are they kidding, Scully?"  Mulder
started to push himself out of his chair with his good arm, but
dropped back into the seat immediately.  "We've got a dozen
witnesses of every rank in the military . . ." 

     Mulder slowed when he saw the look in Dana's face.  He blinked
slowly, then pushed his half eaten eclair across the desk toward a
tottering pile of folders.  "I haven't seen Quiddis or Meyer in a
week." 

     "They've been reassigned.  Paddy's in a VA hospital on Kuai.
Recovering well, I'm told.  Soun's doing a tour as an attache to
the embassy in Switzerland, and Meyer is on detached duty with the
UN." 

     "Quiddis?"  Fox's mouth drew up into a long, thin line, his
eyes tight. 

     "I can't even find a reference to him anywhere.  His
Commanding Officer sent him to Wood's Hole for training. The base
commander there says he never showed up.  According to payroll,
he's drawing a check from Fort Bragg, if you can believe it.  But
no one has seen or head from him in ten days.  It's almost as if-" 

     "He disappeared."

     "Or was reassigned, doing classified work."  Dana set down her
coffee, not wanting to sit there holding it dumbly. 

     "And everything corroborates whatever story the Navy has
concocted.  Damn!"  Mulder leaned back in his chair and blew out an
exasperated breath. He used his left hand to rub the raw skin over
his healing right shoulder. 

     Dana saw him working the sore bones and muscles, and opened
her mouth to say something.  But she stopped, watching Fox stare
darkly at his files.  Instead she pursed her lips, and waited. 

     "We were right there.  We were right there."  He tried to drum
up the anger to pound his fist on the desktop, but dropped it
limply instead.  He deflated for a moment before catching his
breath and turning to Dana. 

     "There's no reason for me to be here today. I'm going home."

     Dr. Scully reached out, and laid a manicured hand on Mulder's
long forearm.  For a moment, it felt odd; the tailored cotton shirt
was so much thinner than the rough workshirt he'd been wearing. 

     "Uh uh, Mulder.  I need to start files on all the people
involved here.  And I have no idea where to start in all this."
Dana waved at the file cabinets with her off hand, not removing the
one from Fox's arm.  "You start in on that, I'll do the report for
Skinner." 

     Mulder nodded, and smiled.  His hazel eyes smiled as well, and
shared a knowing look with his partner.  He picked up the eclair,
and bit messily through it.  Dragging an empty folder out of his
desk, he licked away some of the custard from his lip. 

     Dana returned to her seat, and tapped her computer to life. 
While it started humming, winding up to speed, she looked back at
Fox.  He was already tearing through a yellow sheaf of notepaper,
not in the least slowed by the necessity of writing left-hand.  His
brow was drawn up, and from the way he chewed his lip, she guessed
he was deeply engrossed in his work already. 

     "What do you say we knock off to Michael's for lunch?"  Fox's
head snapped up, and it took a moment for him to drag the confusion
from his face.  "If I have to eat any more cafeteria food I'll die
of Jello poisoning." 

     "Sure.  It'll be a good break from the basement.  Right?" 
Mulder smiled, his eyes a little apprehensive. 

     "Definitely. Nice to get a change of scenery."  Dana made a
pretense of logging in and entering her password.  Surreptitiously,
she watched Mulder bend himself to his papers. 

     He didn't seem nearly as intent as before. 

          *         *         *

     The sand dunes rose darkly out of the water, the seagrasses
blending them in with the surf and the night sky.  The rolling gulf
waters and the grasses blended together in the still night air to
create a soft night music that was almost hypnotic.  The pale sands
were wet and darkened, and uncrossed by any tracks. 

     In this part of the world, the water is both god and devil. 
It pours out, spilling tons of soil and sand into the gulf.  It
builds bars, and flats, and all manner of land.  But it also rolls
in, and rips them apart.  Year after year, sections of shoreline
come and go, whipped by wind and water. 

     A tumbler rolled in out of the dark night, depositing its load
of flotsam on the beach.  A dark green bag spilled ashore, half
buried by the flowing sands.  The letters 'USN' were still visible
above the sand. 

     As the next wave rolled in, a slick, gleaming figure staggered
out of the water.  Swaying slightly, it dropped to its knees, and
pushed its bundle further up the sand. 

     In the dull glow of moonlight, a thin rivulet of blood
trickled down its shattered chest, and burned the sand into glass
where it struck.  Its long, slick black head rolled back on hard
narrow shoulders to scan the endless expanse of rolling dunes with
an eyeless face.  It hissed, saliva clinging to its long teeth. 

     It reached out a hand, the fingers cracked and broken. 
Pushing hard, it started to slide the egg up the beach.  It hissed
loudly as blood flowed from the wound across its featureless head. 
Despite the pain, it continued to push. 

     It only had to go so far. 


The End.