E-mail correspondence to the author via the Internet should be addressed to AWE@CIX.Compulink.Co.UK. ZEITGEIST An unauthorised X-Files story Adam Webb Mulder walked down the white marble steps leading from the offices of DBC-TV, a frown of puzzlement creasing his brow. The case was beginning to look like so many others that he'd read about, and one or two of which he had personal experience. Despite the evidence they'd gathered Scully wasn't entirely convinced - when was she ever - but couldn't escape the fact that a man was missing under decidedly suspicious circumstances. Whether it was truly an X-File case remained to be seen, but his gut feeling was that they were onto something, and that something involved the modern incarnation of an urban legend. Seven days ago, a freelance reporter by the name of Nelson Longford had failed to return after keeping a late night appointment with someone who'd claimed to be Major James Starlin of the USAF. According to Melissa, the reporter's distraught wife, Starlin had called at the house on one previous occasion. Her husband routinely met a lot of people, but she remembered Starlin because he'd been dressed from head to toe in black. Not the dark blue uniform she'd expected a serving officer to be wearing. On the night of her husband's disappearance, Melissa Longford recalled him taking a phone call at approximately one AM, and talking about a possible exchange of information concerning whatever it was that had been appearing in the night sky over Dayton, Ohio. Starlin had claimed to have little time, and so Longford had left the house in a hurry, taking his evidence with him. All that was left behind concerning the 'Dayton Disk' were photocopies of a computer printout and one 8" X 10" blow-up of a photograph taken by a competent local witness. The photocopies and impressive print were now in Scully's attach case, the latter awaiting photoclinometrical analysis; the discernment of shape-from-shading. The printout was of data purportedly hacked from the mainframe at Wright-Patterson Air Force Base. The complex information it contained included reference to what was possibly an experimental aircraft. Since the night of his disappearance there'd been no trace of Longford. It was as if he'd vanished off the face of the earth. Questions to Colonel Trendell, at Wright-Patterson AFB, the main USAF facility in Dayton, had resulted in a point blank denial of involvement. The Colonel had refused to confirm or deny the presence of a Major called Starlin, and had rejected outright the accusation that anyone under his jurisdiction had met or spoken with Longford on the date in question. Mulder didn't believe him, but at the same time, he thought it unlikely that the Air Force were directly responsible for the reporter's abduction. Something else was going on, and not for the first time, the USAF knew what it was. The next stop had been DBC-TV, who had commissioned Longford to make a series of five minute news articles called In The Air Tonight, for broadcast in the current affairs show Dayton After Dark. Mulder's FBI badge had enabled him to bypass the ranks of secretaries and get straight to Rudy Schwire, the Senior News Editor at DBC. Schwire had turned out to be an abrasive individual, and had made it abundantly clear that he had no wish to help the Feds. Waving a cigar which looked as if it belonged in the mouth of a much more important man, he'd gone on to say that he had no ideas as to Nelson Longford's whereabouts, and whatever information the reporter had uncovered not the Bureau's business. Mulder had attempted to reason with him, suggesting that although not legally bound to reveal findings which, at least on the face of it, had no bearing on the case, he was morally obliged to help. Shwire had laughed at that, and commented that whatever shady company Longford chose to keep was his own affair. Especially if it got him into trouble. But, when asked if the shady company he referred to was a man of possibly Oriental descent, a man dressed in black, the editor's mood had abruptly altered. After that he'd claimed to be too busy to answer any more questions. Mulder had seized the opportunity to put him under pressure, threatening to have him charged with wilfully obstructing an official investigation, unless he co-operated. Shwire had almost broken then. Almost, but not quite. In the end he'd stuck to his guns, grudgingly offering to make private enquiries about Longford's sources, and report back if he managed to discover anything. "They got to him." Mulder muttered as he slid into the passenger seat of the red Ford parked outside the DBC-TV offices. "What was that?" Scully asked, glancing briefly across the seats. Signalling, she pulled out into the stream of traffic late afternoon traffic. It was Fall, and already the light was starting to fade. "I said they got to him." Mulder smirked knowingly. Half turning, he continued enthusiastically. "It's the MIB, Scully. Men In Black. A mysterious group, usually three men, known for terrorising those who've had a close encounter. Schwire may have been paid a visit." "Maybe he just doesn't trust anyone who represents a government agency. Lots of people don't like authority, Mulder." The flame-haired agent countered. "That's not proof they've fallen victim to the supernatural." Fox shook his head slowly. "No. It's more than that. Shwire claimed that Longford was keeping shady company, and when I gave him a description of the typical MIB profile, he looked as if....." He stopped himself short, unwilling to complete the clinched sentence. "As if he'd seen a ghost." Scully finished for him, taking momentary pleasure in her partner's scowl of discomfort. Turning right, toward the hotel they were booked into, she said. "It's not enough. We have no solid evidence to connect Schwire - or for that matter anyone else - to Longford's disappearance. Until we do, he doesn't have to give us the time of day if he doesn't want to." "I know." Mulder sighed. He opened his mouth to speak again, then snapped it shut. Something in the rear-view mirror had caught his attention. "Don't look now." He said wryly. "But we're being tailed." Scully's eyes immediately flicked to the mirror. Careful to give no sign by her driving that she was aware of possible pursuit, she studied the road behind. Signalling, she took a leisurely right hand turn. "The black caddilac," she said after a few moment's scrutiny, "three cars back, in the left-hand lane." "That's the one." Mulder said, finding himself unable to suppress a Cheshire cat grin. "I don't believe this." Scully's eyes twinkled with mirth. "This is like one of your fantasies." "And what would you know about my fantasies, Dr Scully." Mulder cocked a Spock-like eyebrow. "We could start with the reoccurring one about WIBS; that's women in black stockings." "Okay." Scully cut him off. "I get the picture. Let's see how much your friends really want to follow us." Reaching down with her right hand Scully prepared to change gears. "Woah." Mulder gently pushed his partner's hand away from the stick. "Not yet. First, I want to check out who's behind those smoked windows." Voice taking on a serious tone he added, "Unless they've changed their modus operandi, that isn't the real MIB back there. Let me off at the next junction. We'll see how far they want to take this." Scully nodded agreement. "I'll double back and come up behind them." The Ford had only been out of sight for a few seconds when the long black car accelerated, slowing to walking pace as it drew level with the agent. Mulder glanced casually toward the driver's window as a slight hum announced that its electric motor was winding it down. "Excuse me. Special Agent Mulder." An authoritative voice said, tone low and very confident. "We'd appreciate a few moments of your time, sir." "Who might we be?" Mulder asked. Peering into the Caddilac's interior he saw two other individuals, both dressed identically to the one behind the wheel. As expected, all three wore plain black suits with black shirts, thin black neckties and impenetrable sunglasses. "Could we talk inside the vehicle, sir?" "Not until I know who I'm talking too." Mulder stood his ground, more amused than nervous. Which from the fleeting expression that crossed the driver's face, was not the intended effect. "Very well." Said a voice from the back of the car. "I'm Major James Starlin. My colleagues and I are part of a special investigation unit, currently attached to the USAF." Before there could be any challenge, he added. "I understand you've been asking questions about me, and I have reason to believe that you're becoming involved with a matter of national security." Now his tone became carefully neutral. "We'd like to appraise you of a few facts. In private, if you have no objections?" Leaning to one side he opened the Caddilac's nearside rear door. "United Sates Air Force?" Mulder questioned. "Unless there's been a revolution, those aren't Air Force uniforms." He nodded at the car. "And your vehicle isn't official issue." Emerging into the lemon light of evening, Starlin removed his sunglasses and stood in front of the FBI man. "As I've already advised you, sir, we're a special unit." Hand dipping quickly into an inside pocket he smiled briefly, noticing that his sudden motion cased Mulder to stiffen, and produced a laminated card. This he held up for examination, waiting patiently until the agent was done. Scrutinising the details Mulder compared the tiny photo with the man who stood before him. Both were in their late thirties, and had short, swept back dark hair. Starlin and his image were clean-shaven, with angular features and a slightly olive skin tone. The shape of the Major's eyes also betrayed Oriental blood, somewhere way back down the line. In all respects the card's printed details exactly matched what had been said, and if forged was of a sufficiently high standard to fool all but the most stringent analysis. "It seems we have some crossed wires, here." Mulder manufactured a smile. Surreptitiously he glanced around to see if Scully was anywhere in sight. Unfortunately, she wasn't. Nobody on the street seemed aware that anything might be wrong. The good folk of Dayton were going about their business completely oblivious to what might be an abduction in progress. Catching the glances, Starlin said, "If you're looking for your partner, don't bother. There's no need to be concerned, she's not in any danger." He gestured, dismissing Mulder's look of anxiety. "Let's just say that Agent Scully has got a problem with a malfunction." Mulder considered his options, knowing that a fast decision was required. If the three truly were a modern-day incarnation of the MIB, perverse as that seemed, they'd track him down before he'd gone very far. Besides which, if he played the part they were attempting to cast him in, he might be able to learn more about who was really giving the orders. Handing the card back to the man who called himself Major Starlin, he decided to go with the flow. He was still armed, and the men didn't seem inclined toward relieving him of his weapon. Stepping into the waiting Caddilac he couldn't help wondering if Nelson Longford had been the last man to accept an invitation. Starlin, who really was a Major, slid in next to the man he'd taken into protective custody and nodded to his front seat colleagues. On that signal the engine purred into life and within seconds they were weaving their way through the mid- town traffic, once again anonymous behind black glass. It was a calculated risk he was taking, Mulder thought to himself. Dusk was not far away. The men had him alone, and could pull any number of stunts, but the chances were against anything occurring that would be detrimental to his health. If only a small percentage of what he remembered about the plethora of MIB cases in UFO-lore was true, then whatever pressure they tried to apply would not take the form of physical abuse. But this time they wouldn't get away with their head games. Nobody should be unaccountable. Starlin took a micro-cassette recorder from his inside breast pocket and clicked it into record mode. "Let's speak plainly." His tone was crisp, but not hostile. "We are aware of your official interest in the Longford case. As you know, Longford recently made unsubstantiated claims concerning unidentified aircraft in the skies above Dayton. I understand that Mr Longford's wife has also claimed that her husband met with me on the night of his disappearance." For a fleeting moment the major's tone seemed tinged with regret, then the inflection was gone and it was back to business. "It's my job to inform you that none of these claims are true, and that further investigation into the matter is not required." "On whose authority do you speak?" Mulder asked. "Failure to comply with my request may result in the loss of your badge, Agent Mulder." Face and voice becoming a reflection of official policy the Major recited from memory. "Under section 23, subsection 17 of the Pentagon's ruling on matters of national security, interference with matters of..." "I'm not buying this, Major." Mulder interrupted. Sitting up straight he poked a finger at his questioner. "If the military are stupid enough to test-fly a new type of aircraft close to a large town, then they can't complain if the locals get interested. I can see how there may be a case for confiscating evidence. But what possible reason is there for imprisonment without trial? That is what's happen to Nelson Longford, isn't it, Major? America maybe screwed-up, but last time I checked it was still the land of the free." "Freedom, Agent Mulder, is a double edged sword." Starlin replied quickly, voice turned icy-cold. "Those who abuse it sometimes find themselves in too deep. So deep, they drown." "Is that some kind of threat?" Mulder met the major's stare head on, refusing to be intimidated. "Maybe we should take this up with your Commanding Officer. Who did you say he was?" "I didn't." Starlin's gaze didn't waver for an instant. "What I will tell you, is that the United States Air Force has nothing to do with Longford's disappearance, and is not engaged in testing any experimental aircraft over Dayton. Do I make myself clear?" For a moment Mulder said nothing, understanding that Starlin might just have made a veiled admission. "So we're talking genuine unidentifieds." Unable to keep the edge of excitement from his voice he used a military codeword. "Angels. You're talking about Angels." "Drop the case, Mulder." The major ordered tersely. "A little over a week ago, something big, silent and silver was prescribing what can only be described as aerodynamically impossible manoeuvres in the sky between Dayton and Richmond." Mulder responded, now veering toward the belief that the man seated beside him was a member of some covert department, masquerading as MIB for reasons unknown. "Simple misidentification." Starlin said, sounding as if he'd made the speech a thousand times before. Which was almost true. "Like the Loch Ness Monster, or Bigfoot. People see what they want to see. Most of the time it's no more real than Casper." "How about men in black who terrorise and kidnap US citizens." Mulder responded acidly. "Looking at you, Major, I'd say that phenomenon has some basis in reality." "There are reasons." The major stated flatly, refusing to meet the agent's accusing eyes. "How about giving me some of those reasons, Major." Mulder said. "If you aren't holding Nelson Longford, who is?" When no reply was forthcoming, the agent shrugged. "Okay, then I guess we'll have to keep looking. Sooner or later, we'll make a connection." "Christ! I could do without this." Starlin sighed deeply. Voice pitched almost too low to be heard he said, "I'm probably gonna regret telling you this, Mulder. But you're wasting your time, and mine." Suddenly seeming a lot older he turned to face the agent. "You can't find what isn't there. Nelson Longford isn't anywhere that you, or I, could reach." After fifteen minutes of driving around in circles, Dana Scully concluded that her partner had indeed been snatched, while a set of lights to stick on red had held her up for vital minutes. At least she was attributing the problem to mundane electrical failure. Any other explanation and she'd be straying into Mulder's territory. The fact that he'd deliberately placed himself in jeopardy now seemed farcical. Inwardly she was reprimanding herself for having gone along with his wishes. What Mulder had done certainly wasn't by the book, and if she couldn't get him back then they could both kiss goodbye to their careers. But that wasn't going to happen. Forcing herself to remain calm and think logically, she started back toward the hotel. When Mulder was able to make contact, that was where he'd expect her to be. Just a couple of blocks away from the building, she changed her mind. If Mulder's abductors were for real, then they might be watching the hotel, waiting for her to return. There was no point in stepping into a potential trap until she was sure of how she was going to deal with it. Heading East for a few miles, she turned onto the forecourt of the first motel she could find, and booked in under a false name. The ID was one of three she had available for just such emergency situations. Parking the car around the back of a cabin, where it couldn't been seen from the road, locked the door behind her and sat down to think things out. Mulder was unconventional, to say the least, but he wasn't stupid. He'd thought that the men in the black Caddilac were impostors, and that's probably all they were. Therefore, he was unlikely to be in any real danger. Taking him would have been an act of bravado. Unless, that was, he'd gone voluntarily for some reason or other. Mulder had a habit of doing things like that, and it occasionally drove her crazy. Several times during the first few cases on which they'd been paired she'd considered requesting reassignment, but every time she'd decided to give him another chance. Mainly because, underneath the boyish good looks and spooky behaviour, there was something about Fox Mulder that she had seen only rarely in human beings. He was genuinely dedicated to pursuit of truth, no matter where the chase might lead or how dirty it became. In the front of the black Caddilac, lieutenant's Warby and Draeger ignored the at times heated conversation taking place behind them. They'd both heard its like on many previous occasions, and knew the most likely outcome. Not even the FBI had the authority to interfere with Operation Zeitgeist; the most highly classified secret in the history of the United States. Warby, presently the man at the wheel, drove onward heading for an expanse of open land between the communities of Piqua and Springfield. A wide open tract, rented by the USAF. Behind the impassive mask of his face he was smiling. Night was falling fast, and before the breaking of another dawn his long masquerade among the Betas would be at an end. Everything was going according to plan, and Starlin, the last acquisition of his mission, did not have the slightest suspicion that one of those he chased was only feet away. Lieutenant Al Draeger was in a more pensive frame of mind than the man he thought of as a colleague. Two years past he'd volunteered for Zeitgeist, thinking it would be a good career move. It had been entirely his own decision, so he had no one else to blame for his state of unease, but some days the realities of the job gave him the creeps. Zeitgeist ground men had the task of locating witnesses to authentic UFO incidents and convincing them that keeping quiet was in their own best interest. Which, in many was, was the truth. Whenever possible, any potentially verifiable evidence was confiscated. Thus reducing the unfortunate citizen's chances of an encounter with those who would take much more than evidence. Using the same black 'uniform' as true MIB was a ploy leftover from the beginnings of the Operation, when it had been adopted with the intention of spreading confusion. Legend said that the planners had also hoped to encourage mistaken encounters with real Men In Black; the self-styled Alphas. While indisputably successful in their primary aim, the secondary intention had never worked. Real MIB could tell, instantly, when they were in the presence of their own kind. They knew, without the need for words or identification cards. Of the very few face to face encounters between the two groups only four had been concluded successfully for the impostors. Four, in what was fast approaching twenty-five years of covert war. "Let's take a walk." Starlin said as the Caddilac rolled to a halt. Reaching for the door catch he flashed a brief, reassuring smile to the FBI man. "Relax, Mulder. Whatever you may think, we're on the same side." Mulder followed the black-suited major as he set off up the side of a steep, grassy hillside. It was full night, but the light of a three-quarter moon illuminated the countryside well enough. Looking around from the top he was slightly disturbed to find that there were no buildings in sight. Starlin hadn't spoken for more than half an hour, and his silence was fuel enough for the seeds of unpleasant imaginings to begin growing. Over the years several writers, researchers and scientists who'd become involved with the UFO phenomenon had either vanished, or died under mysterious circumstances. "The reason I brought you here," Starlin swept a hand through the air in an all-encompassing gesture, "is because this area is clean. No bugs, nowhere to hide, and no chance of accidental disturbance." "An ideal killing ground, maybe?" Mulder said, preparing to reach for his holstered pistol. "I'm no hitman." Starlin almost laughed. Moving with deliberate slowness he unbuttoned his jacket and held it open for inspection. "See, I don't even have a water-pistol." Letting the jacket's flaps fall together he ambled closer to the agent. "Believe it or not, termination is a last resort. Unnecessary in the majority of cases. Only fools have to die, Mulder, and you're no fool. I don't expect you to agree with our methods, but you will understand when I say that there are certain facts that the American people cannot be told. Facts which, in all honesty, they are not ready to hear." "Alien technology?" Mulder asked. Swallowing hard he wondered if he was about to hear another off the record confession from another undercover operative who knew that Earth was being visited. "No, that's not what I meant." Mulder frowned. "If the Dayton Disk is not extraterrestrial, and not ours, what is it? A foreign aircraft?" "That is a matter of national security." Starlin folded his arms across his chest and stared at the agent. "Longford got too close, and now he's out of reach. That's all you need to know." "It isn't enough." "Back off." The Major enunciated very clearly. "That's the best advice you'll ever get." "Supposing I don't want to take it?" Starlin sighed audibly, and half turning away, said, "Then you will be noticed, Agent Mulder." He held up a warning finger. "Believe me, you wouldn't want that to happen." "Noticed by whom?" "Those I represent." Starlin said, quickly adding, "If you're lucky. They can turn your life upside down. Think no job, zero credit rating. Think stories planted to screw your remaining credibility. By the time they're done, nobody this side of Donald Duck would take you seriously." "Must be a big, dirty secret, you're guarding." Mulder smouldered. "I have friends, Major. Busting me is one thing. Agent Scully is another. If I take a fall for doing my job, she would feel obliged to find out who was responsible, and why they acted in such an overtly criminal manner. You'd have to wreck her life too. Or maybe you could save time and do us both together. Then more people would begin asking questions. So they'd have to be dealt with. Pretty soon you'd have to silence the whole of the FBI. Now, correct me if I'm wrong, Major, but I don't think you or your bosses have that kind of power." "You're a real pain in the ass, Mulder. You know that" Starlin looked away, taking a few moments to think. "I've seen copies of official documentation referring to an aircraft codenamed Zeitgeist 516." Mulder played his ace. "There's radar confirmation of its speed, the distance covered, estimated size of the craft, etc. I'd be willing to bet that no US or foreign aircraft matches those specifications." "It isn't what you think." Starlin insisted. "This isn't like anything you've encountered before." "No? Then tell me who snatched Longford? I don't understand." Running a hand through his hair, Mulder added, "If you guys are on the level, why wear the funeral suits? This isn't just about invasion of US airspace. There's too much here that doesn't make sense, Major." For a long moment the major said nothing. Then, turning to face the agent, he spoke with the conviction of a man who knows that what he's saying is the inviolable truth. "I'd hoped it wouldn't come to this, Mulder. Because when I'm through you'll wish you didn't have the answers. Knowledge means responsibility, whether you want it or not. Like the President, you'll keep your nose out and your mouth shut! You'll think about what you've been told every damn day and night, until your head hurts. But you won't be able to speak about it to anyone. That's the deal. The lid must stay on this thing. Accept it, or you'll leave those who make policy no choice. Believe me, if it's deemed necessary, they will take you and your partner out, no matter how bad the stink gets." Mulder's mind reeled. There were so many unanswered questions, so much that he needed to know. If, as was seeming increasingly likely, Starlin and his crew were covert operatives, the what had been said was not a bluff. He didn't like agreeing to the concealment of truth, but was smart enough to know that sometimes, that was the way it had to be. Finally, the desire to learn the truth was what made his choice. He'd deal with his conscience later. "Okay." Mulder nodded, feeling like Adam in the Garden of Eden. "You've stumbled over the tip of an iceberg." Starlin said enigmatically. "An iceberg in the sky. You see, Agent Mulder, my boys and I aren't the only Men In Black." Taking advantage of Major Starlin's absence, Lieutenant Draeger had returned the car's radio to the frequency of WROK FM, the local soft rock station, and was tapping out the beat of a tune against the dashboard. By perverse coincidence the song being played was Take Me Away, the Blue Oyster Cult's naive plea to the pilots of supposedly extraterrestrial craft. It was a song that Lieutenant Warby knew quite well. He'd heard it on several previous occasions, when Draeger had dialled up WROK. One line in particular always made him smile openly. It was when Eric Bloom sang - 'The men in black, their lips are sealed.' His amusement was for the simple reason that he knew how very true the lyric was. There had been much progress, since the beginning. Under Zeitman's guidance they'd taken what they needed with little challenge. No significant government was willing to publicly admit the existence of a hidden, virtual nation, whose technology was far in advance of anything Western science had produced. Therefore the vast majority of planet Earth's citizens remained blissfully unaware. The few that did uncover the truth were either taken and turned, or left to be discredited and ridiculed by their own governments. Back when it all began, the world's great military powers would've used their atomic weapons, if only they'd known precisely where to hit. But by the time they knew it was Brazil, they were also aware of how high the cost of a nuclear 'accident' in that area would be. They were also frequently reminded by humiliating displays of aerial superiority that the saucers could, and would if necessary, be used directly against the Houses of Parliament, the Kremlin or the Whitehouse. Over the years the original group of less than two hundred Alphas had expanded almost a hundred fold. Those abducted to form slave labour groups had carved out an entire city, most of which was under the inaccessible heart of the Brazilian rain forest. World-wide, the number of Alpha humans was now in excess of two-hundred-thousand. Warby stole a sideways glance at his wristwatch. It was nearly time. His walk among the dark side of humanity was almost at an end. Turning to face the man who sat next to him he knew that he would not miss him. Like all with his mindset he saw nothing wrong with the systematic rape and plunder which his kind had inflicted upon the planet from the moment they'd gained ascendance. "Goodnight." Warby said quietly. "Huh." Draeger cocked his head to one side. "What was that?" The answer was a lightning swift movement of Warby's right hand, inside which was concealed a small hypodermic needle. Plunging it into the side of Draeger's neck he emptied its contents. "We've waited a long time for an opportunity like this." Warby explained to the drugged man. Casually brushing aside grasping hands he continued, "We'd take you and turn you if we could, Draeger. But we can't, you've already been through the process." Face turning purple and tongue poking out from between his lips Draeger clung to consciousness. Mouth emitting a horrible dry sucking noise he lurched toward the Alpha, clawed fingers seeking eyes. But the required energy was no longer his to command. Eyelids flickering shut he slumped back against the offside door and became still. Altering the frequency of the Caddilac's broadcast radio, Warby picked up the dashboard-mounted microphone. "Cloud 5." He said, knowing that there would be no spoken response. "Commence free fall." Head turning to regard the oblivious Major, he said, "Rendezvous at 18:30 hours." When an hour and a half had passed with no word, Scully decided that the time for waiting was over. Mulder was in trouble, and she had to do something. Flipping open the spring-loaded locks on her tan attach case, she withdrew the plain manila enveloped that contained the evidence collected from Melissa Longford. Spreading out the photocopied data and the single picture on the dressing table, she switched on the anglepoise lamp and directed its beam onto the print. The majestic multi-coloured disk was centre top, with what seemed to be open ground beneath. The tops of some trees were visible in the distance, and at the bottom of the picture, at the extreme right edge, half of a sign was just visible. Mounted on a white-painted stake it was partially blurred due to the angle at which the photograph had been taken. There was part of an emblem, but not enough to make it recognisable. Scully turned the picture every which way, but couldn't make out any more detail. Reaching for her address book Scully found Melissa Longford's number and dialled. "Hello. Mrs Longford? This is Special Agent Dana Scully. I'm sorry to bother you, but if you could spare me a few more minutes of your time, there's something I'd like to show you. Yes, it is rather urgent. Okay, I'll be with you in approximately ten minutes." At first the reporter's wife claimed not to know anything about the specific area over which the Dayton disk had been photographed, or about the blurred sign. But Scully knew she was lying on both counts. The lie was evident in every nuance of her body language, and her avoidance of eye to eye contact. "There may not be much time, Melissa." Scully tried the woman to woman approach. "So if you can tell me anything, anything at all, it has to be now. Agent Mulder went missing, while trying to discover the truth about what happened to your husband." Scully held the photograph before Melissa Longford's eyes, forcing her to look again. "I think they may both be somewhere in this area. Now, can you tell me where it is?" Melissa bit down on her lower lip, caught between the desire to help and loyalty to her husband. Nelson had told her that the precise location of the sightings was to stay secret. Nobody, especially not anyone official, was to be told unless he gave the okay. The problem was, Nelson wasn't around to make that decision. And if she refused to help, he might never be around. "It's about two miles East of the town." Melissa confided, again finding herself on the verge of tears. "That signpost," she touched the photograph, "is one of a dozen, planted all along the perimeter." Closing the car door, Scully buckled up and drove away from the Longford home. The sign, warning trespassers to keep out, was one of several marking the perimeter of land rented - but not actively used - by the USAF. Assuming that the same people had taken both Nelson Longford and Mulder, it was possible, even likely, that they were hidden somewhere on the site. Thumb dialling numbers on her mobile phone as the drove, Scully left an urgent message for Colonel Trendell at Wright-Patterson AFB, and checking that no one was following, headed out of town. What she'd set into motion wasn't, strictly speaking, proper procedure. But then, neither was what she and Mulder had become involved with. Giving Colonel Trendell the benefit of the doubt she'd placed him in a position where he virtually had to take action. And by so doing create a situation for which he would be accountable. "The craft seen over Dayton was manufactured right here on Earth." Starlin asserted. "It's one of the Cloud series, which were based on designs for something called the Kugelblitz, or ball lightning fighter. Plans captured from Nazi Germany at the end of Word War Two." "Captured by the US?" Mulder asked. "Partly. The technology under development was spread out between several widely scattered projects. Roughly two-thirds of what was left intact ended up in US hands. The rest went to the British and the Soviets. All three nations put their top people to work on perfecting what the Nazi's had started, with varying degrees of success. We came closest, Mulder." The Major said with just a hint of pride. "Before Gilbert Zeitman, our chief avionics designer, went missing." "Zeitman Zeitgeist." The agent thought aloud. "Right." Starlin nodded. "It's German for time ghost, which is a cryptic description of what we're facing. Anyway, the official line on Zeitman was that he died in an auto accident. Hell, there's even supposed to be a matching body in his coffin." The major offered an insincere smile. "It was the biggest snow-job since Chappaquiddick." "And Zeitgeist 516?" Mulder prompted. "One of Gilbert's Zeitman's newest models." The Major supplied. Pausing to reflect for a moment, he continued. "The guys who got Longford, the other men in black, are the same people who fly Zeitman designed saucers." "Who are they?" "The first were American. But now they come from all parts of the world. It started in 1963, with a consultant neurologist attached to NASA. He found a way to enable selected individuals to perform mental tasks up to seventy percent more efficiently." "Seventy!" Mulder let out a hiss of astonishment. "What was it, some kind of mind expanding drug?" "You're thinking astronauts on acid, right?" Starlin smiled, this time in genuine amusement. "No, it was nothing chemical. What he discovered was that pulsed light, of a particular intensity and alternating wavelength, could be used to trigger a massive reaction within the human brain." He paused, searching for an appropriate analogy. "I suppose you could describe it as being like an epileptic seizure in reverse. Instead of shutting down, the brains of some test subjects seemed to open up, radically increasing their short term memory and speed of thought. And if that sounds like the dawning of a new age, that's because it was. Only not quite the way we figured. The main problem was that the length of time to which an individual remained super efficient was unpredictable." Starlin massaged the bridge of his nose with forefinger and thumb. "By using boosted scientists to work on the problem, it was solved in under a year. Or so it was thought. Those treated with the refined light process had a few hours or days up at seventy percent, then dropped down by around ten percent, with no subsequent deterioration." The Major flashed a humourless smile. "Still sounds good, huh." Trying to make the connections for himself, Mulder nodded. "So how widespread was this?" "By the late 60's, roughly one fifth of all NASA personnel, and a handful of high rollers in the military and political machines had been treated. There seemed to be entirely beneficial effects; quicker reactions, near photographic memory, vastly increased learning capacity." Starlin held up a finger. "Don't get it wrong, Mulder, the process did not turn a smart guy into a genius. It just made him a lot better at what he could already do." "But it was tried on a genius, wasn't it, Major." Mulder said, feeling as if an icicle had slipped into his mind. "Gilbert Zeitman." Starlin nodded, then looked idly to the dark sky. "What we didn't know a God-damned thing about, at the time, was what came to known as the Zeitgeist effect." He tapped his forehead with an extended index finger. "Some say that what happens is a sort of schizophrenia; an alternate personality dormant in all people. The other main school of thought is that we're dealing with a separate, symbiotic life form. Something which has always been a part of mankind. Whatever, the fact is that all of those who were subjected to the refined process eventually suffered a total change of psychological profile." "Can it be reversed?" The agent asked, horrified. "Not without turning the subject into a vegetable. The keyboard junkies who go for the symbiote angle came up with the name Zeitgeist, suggesting that whatever took over might be the psychological remnant of Neanderthal man. A literal time-ghost. Only those who turned are about as far removed from Fred Flintstone as the Cray computer is from an abacus! The thing is, Mulder, despite the changes they appeared to be just the same. Even the husbands and wives of those boosted didn't think anything was wrong. Only later was it discovered that the Alphas, as they call themselves, had been working together, planning in secret toward the day that Zeitman was boosted. They stole Zeitman's prototype saucer, with the man and all his work aboard. The craft's own anti- radar technology - early stealth - prevented us from getting an accurate fix on their course." "When was all this?" Mulder asked, fascinated by what he was hearing, and wishing that Scully was there to hear it too. "The third of August 1971. Each year since then the Alphas have grown in strength, and in numbers. They snatch people from all over the globe, sometimes because they've seen something they shouldn't, mostly because they're in the wrong place at the wrong time." "My God." "We're fighting back as best we can, but they're geographically based in a place where military strikes are not a realistic option. All we can do is wait and hope we can catch up in time. We got people working on the aeronautics, boosted up to seventy percent using the temporary process. But with them, in addition to the time factor, we have the problem that the process only works once on the same individual. There are only so many suitable personnel" Starlin gave a shrug of resignation. "Until we can compete in the air, they've got the drop on us." He paused, as if the statement he was about to make was physically painful. "You see, Mulder, the Alphas claim that this world originally belonged to their kind of human, and they have no intention of sharing it indefinitely." "That is correct, Major." Lieutenant Warby agreed. Foot down hard on the accelerator, Scully arrowed in pursuit of the light in the sky. She'd noticed it while approaching the western edge of the restricted zone, and realised at once that what she was seeing was not any kind of conventional aircraft. What she was seeing was the Dayton Disk. At first it had appeared as a silvery white blob of light, darting at incredible speed from one part of the sky to another, stopping dead each time it reached new co-ordinates. Scully had been willing to write it off as some sort of unknown natural phenomenon, until it had begun to descend. Cloaked in a shimmering haze of pale blue, strobe-bright light, the craft was oval shaped and, she guesstimated, slightly bigger than a 747 airliner. Coming straight down between the clouds, it cast a stark circle of brilliance onto the ground below, illuminating two or possibly three figures. Scully couldn't tell if any of them was Mulder. Approaching the site from the opposite side Scully could see the flashing lights of what she knew were military vehicles. The message she'd left for Colonel Trendell had stated that unidentified, possibly hostile intruders were on restricted land. At the time she'd made the call she hadn't known that for certain, but it had seemed like a reasonable bet. Plus it was a way to ensure that if she needed back up, it wouldn't be too far away. Descending in eerie, absolute silence, the incredible craft had no protuberances, control surfaces or windows that Mulder could make out. But then, it was hard to make out anything against the blinding glare. "Run, Mulder!" Major Starlin bellowed. "It's me they're after. Take the car and get away, now." The agent didn't hesitate. There were times for heroics, and this wasn't one of them. Leaving the two black- clad figures circling each other, he darted toward the Caddilac. Hand on the door catch he paused, unable to resist a backward glance at the craft designated Zeitgeist 516. A narrow circle of intense blue-white illuminated Starlin and his subordinate, causing the Major to stop in his tracks as if frozen in place. The beam emanated from the dark underbelly of the craft, which looked like a miniaturised black hole. Heart thumping against his ribcage Mulder decided that he'd seen enough. Jerking open the door he dived behind the wheel, knowing that there was no time to concern himself with the condition of the unconscious figure occupying the passenger seat. Not until they were safe. It was then that he discovered the ignition key was missing. "No!" Mulder struck the steering wheel with the flat of his hand. Putting the car between himself and the saucer, Mulder drew his pistol and aimed over the roof. He knew that the weapon would probably be about as effective as a pea- shooter, but it was better than nothing. Or at least it would be, if he could stop shaking for long enough to shoot straight. A hundred yards away Starlin stood before the other MIB - the real MIB - as if paralysed. With the saucer hovering silently no more than twenty feet above them, the victor turned and held up something for Mulder to see. It took a few seconds for him to realise that he was being shown the missing car keys. "When we want you, Agent Mulder, we know where to find you." Warby said ominously, allowing the keys to fall glittering to the ground. Before Mulder could even think to react, the centre of the craft seemed to grow darker still, and the blue beam was abruptly discontinued. Replacing it were five pencil-thin rays of green laser light, defining a pentagonal area around the two men. A second later they were lifted clear of the ground, and like passengers on an invisible elevator, rose up into the belly of the saucer. Once they were inside something slid shut with a barely audible hiss of compressed air. Without warning the craft shot straight up, fast as a high velocity bullet, and in seconds had climbed thousands of feet into the sky. As it got further away, nearer to the thin layers of atmosphere, its motion seemed to slow, and its colour dull. At the last it was indistinguishable from the other stars. Still shaking a minute or two later when Scully screeched to a halt, Mulder was at first unable to speak. The things he'd been told, the things he'd seen, were not what he'd expected. Starlin had been right. The Zeitman saucer's were a matter of national security. He should have known when to back off. Now he had to be very careful what he said, and to whom. "What was that thing?" Scully asked. Indicating the fast approaching military contingent she added, "Better get your story straight, Mulder. Here comes the cavalry." "I don't know." Mulder lied, poker-faced. "They dosed me with some kind of hallucinogen." Manufacturing a look of haziness, he added, "I guess it was something I just wasn't meant to see." "Then we'll have to report it as unidentified." Scully said, her tone a mixture of relief and, strangely, disappointment. "Right." Mulder forced himself to grin. "Or maybe one of those amazing weather balloons." CONSPIRACIES Adam Webb An X-Files story. Second season. Category - thriller. Rating PG. This story is copywrite 1994 Adam Webb. The characters Fox Mulder, Dana Scully and the name X-Files are copywrite Fox Network Programming & Ten Thirteen Productions. E-mail correspondence to the author via the Internet should be addressed to AWE@CIX.Compulink.Co.UK. *Note. This story continues the events begun in my earlier work ZEITGEIST. While it can be read as a stand-alone piece, certain references and events will make a lot more sense if you are familiar with the first story. *************************************************************** Memorial Park, Washington D.C. Day One, 7:12am It was shaping up to be a fine summers day. Those already taking advantage of it included a handful of joggers, one bleary-eyed Romeo only just making his way home, and two casually dressed men out for a brisk, early morning walk in the park. One of these men had a face that was a familiar sight to anyone who regularly watched any of the national television news programs. Although now sheathed in the veneer which came with success and power, his rugged frame and alert manner spoke of tougher times, when he'd lived by his wits. Leaving the park by the Beaker Street entrance, the older man brought his companion to a halt with an out-swung arm. Senator Peter Van Thewsen, Chairman of the Senate Committee for Defence Systems Development, inhaled deeply. Almost immediately his craggy features wrinkled in disgust. "This is Washington D.C. The very heart of government." Van Thewsen rumbled like a rusty tank, lecturing his aide as if the man had no idea what city he was in. "And the air smells like a God-damned Cuban whorehouse!" "Yes, sir." The Senator's assistant replied doubtfully. Never having been in a Cuban whorehouse, or for that matter any other kind, he didn't feel qualified to comment further. Besides which, word had it that contradicting the Senator one to many times was what had cost his predecessor a promising career. "Yes sir." Van Thewsen mocked. "Is that all you can say, Revenau. Doesn't it make you sick to your stomach? No, don't bother answering," he warded off another automatic agreement with a scowl. "Today, Revenau, we're going to do something to redress the imbalance. Today, we're going to say no to those warmongering four-star sons-of-bitches!" Clapping the younger man on the back he continued, "Then, when the hullabaloo has died down, we'll take a few million of those tax payers hard-earned dollars and use them to make this a better place." Revenau nodded enthusiastically. Although he agreed with the Senator one hundred percent, he was smart enough to be very careful about who knew it. Van Thewsen was a powerful figure, but then so were some of those who opposed his anti-armament stance. Joining the Senator for his early morning constitutional was about as much of a public statement as it was prudent for someone in his position to make. "Come on, Revenau." The Senator said, smoothing back thick strands of iron-grey hair. "Time for breakfast. We've got work to do, and the world won't wait." Only recently had he discovered how very true his favourite saying was. The truth had been revealed during an unexpected meeting with a man dressed in black. A man who had, quite literally, changed his mind. He knew now that the world was about to alter dramatically, as the balance of power tipped further in the Alpha's favour. The two men stepped off the kerb and began to cross Beaker Street, taking a slalom-like course between the many potholes which marred the tarmac's once smooth surface. Being a good twenty-five years younger than the Senator, Revenau heard the noise a second or two before his boss. He turned quickly, and was shocked to see a sports car bearing down on them, its driver making no attempt to stop. The was no time to shot a warning, no time to do anything except try to stay alive. Survival instincts kicking-in, Revenau flung himself backwards, a hand grabbing for the Senator's jacket collar. He caught the material, but felt it ripped from his grasp, as the Van Thewsen hesitated a fraction too long. With a sickening thud the blue Mustang ploughed into Senator Van Thewsen, shattering his legs on impact and hurling him several feet into the air. The driver touched the brakes, and in that split second the body tumbled landing hard and sliding to a stop on the road in front of his vehicle. Anxious to complete his job, the driver's foot came down hard on the accelerator, sending the Mustang racing forward. Van Thewsen barely had time to raise a warding arm before the car was on top of him. Revenau heard a sickening pop, as the tyres bounced over the Senator's body, then the car was speeding away. Forcing himself to look, Revenau saw that the old man's head had been crushed like an over-ripe melon, leaving a red and grey tyre track which stained the road for several yards. Fighting down the urge to vomit, Revenau tried to collect his sense. The Police would want him to be very clear as to what had happened. The grating noise of an explosive collision from further down the road snapped him back to alertness. Scrambling to his feet the aide looked in that direction and saw a pall of thick black smoke rising from the overturned wreck of the blue Mustang. The maniac had crashed! "Jesus!" Revenau said, suddenly feeling dizzy. Lowering himself to the ground he sat on the edge of the kerb. In the distance he could hear the sound of a siren. FBI Headquarters, Washington D.C. Day Two, 8:00am In a nondescript briefing room on the first floor of the imposing J. Edgar Hoover Building, eight Special Agents were seated behind bare, functional tables arranged in a U-shape. Director Skinner stood at the apex of the formation, reading from notes attached to a clipboard which he held like a shield. The pages were summarised evidence pertaining to the suspicious death of Senator Peter Van Thewsen, which the FBI had been ordered to investigate as a possible conspiracy. At the present time, nobody knew if Van Thewsen's death was a lone event, or part of a larger plot against the Senate Committee which he'd chaired. Dana Scully was paying careful attention to everything that was said, hoping to spot something that had previously been missed. Being chosen for the task force was the first really interesting job she'd been given since the closing of the X-Files. Someone was giving her a break, and that made her all the more determined to shine. "Kremmer and Schultz," the Director nodded at the pairing, "I want you to cover the medical angle. According to forensics, our mystery man's fingerprints were surgically removed. Very recently and expertly." Skinner informed. "I want to know who did the job." Pausing momentarily he glanced at his notes. "He hasn't had any facial alterations, as far as the lab can tell. At least not in the last five years. So the chances are that this guy's mug is in someone's files." Focusing on the two agents seated the farthest from him, he said, "Now. Scully and Drake." To the left of his new partner, Special Agent Nick Drake was leaning forward, elbows on the table top and cigarette wedged in the corner of his mouth. He'd already got the case pretty much worked out, but knew better than to come right out and say so. In almost twenty-five years with the FBI he'd learned that each type of case had its own predetermined length; an amount of time that was considered appropriate for a full and professional examination of the facts. Even if the solution was the most obvious thing in the God-damned world, that time could not be screwed around with. Smart guys knew it, and went with the flow. "Your assignment is to take a fine tooth-comb, and use it on Van Thewsen's past. There may be something there that can help us determine the killer's true ID." Skinner said. Great, Scully thought, another indoors job with the chain-smoking Nick Drake. Another day that would end with her clothes and hair reeking of stale nicotine. Eyes flickering briefly to the face of the man standing in the corner of the room Scully saw that, as if picking up on her discomfort, he too was lighting up another cigarette. The smoking man had made no comment and taken no active part in the briefing. Scully still didn't know who he really was, and didn't want to know. Knowing too much was the reason she'd been reassigned. "Okay, let's go." Drake said as if issuing an order. Hauling himself out the seat he crushed the remains of his smoke into an ashtray and immediately delved into his jacket pocket for another cigarette. "Hey," he shook the packet, "I'm nearly out. Mind if we stop at the machine on our way down to the computer room?" "Not at all." Dana smiled icily. "In fact you can stop there just as long as you like." FBI Building, NYC. Day Two, 2:10pm In a windowless corner of the open-plan general office, Fox Mulder sat behind a desk busily annotating a report. The desktop was littered with stacks of paperwork. A small computer workstation was perched on the edge of the desk, its monitor black and dead. Ever since the closure of the X-Files, Mulder didn't trust electronic data systems. Contrary to official policy, he rarely made use of his terminal. "Hey Mulder, I got big news." Special Agent Carrabelli said, almost succeeding at him attempt to sound sincere. When his new partner looked up, Johnny quoted from the newspaper held open between his hand. "Says here that 22% of Americans believe Elvis was right to shoot TV sets!" Grinning in delight he twisted around in his chair to see Mulder's face. "How about that, Spooky. You think we should maybe start a file." "No." Mulder said impassively. Features deadpan he added, "I already have a file on Elvis." The bleeping of Mulder's telephone mercifully interrupted Agent Carrabelli's retort. Taking care that his expression gave nothing away, Mulder scribbled down a note, then replaced the handset in its cradle. "Gotta go." "Hey, wait up." Carrabelli started to rise. "Sorry." Mulder smirked darkly. "You're not invited. My informant is easily 'spooked.' " Without giving his partner the chance to think of an argument, Mulder snatched up his trenchcoat and headed for the exit to the street. He'd walk for a few blocks before hailing a cab. That way he could be reasonably sure that no one was following. These days he watched every shadow. There was little in the way of real evidence, but he was convinced that he was under surveillance. Whether by FBI agents, or those loyal to the Alphas, he had no way of knowing. The call had been a coded message requesting a meeting. By using the phrase *bad weather* the caller had revealed that the information came from the Lone Gunman investigative group, and was urgent. Mulder didn't know the caller's name, and intended to keep it that way. Since his unnerving encounter with the MIB in Dayton, and the fiasco of the Ehrlenmeyer Flask, he preferred to keep all information on a need to know basis. What he didn't know, he could not be forced to reveal. The minute that Mulder was out of sight, Agent Carrabelli propelled his swivel-chair over to his partner's desk. Retrieving the notepad he squinted at the spidery scrawl that was Agent Mulder's handwriting. The message read; ELVIS LIVES! NYC, Lower East side. Day two, 3:00pm. In the lounge of a borrowed fifth floor apartment, Mulder took the go-between's invitation to sit. The worn sofa faced a large TV set which was on, but with the sound turned down. The CBS News broadcast was showing more pictures of Senator Peter Van Thewsen. On the journey, his contact had said almost nothing. But it was clear that he was scared by whatever had prompted the meeting. Whether that fear resulted from the information itself, or the possible consequences of possessing it, was not yet clear. "Okay." Mulder offered a friendly smile. "You want to tell me why I'm here?" "Sure." The young man nodded, causing his long fair hair to fall over part of his face. Sweeping it back in an often used gesture he knelt before the TV, and pressed a button on the video player housed below it. "They told me to say this was taken just over a week ago. The place is a few miles outside of Harrisonburg. That's about eighty miles south west of Washington D.C, as the crow flies." When the screen flickered into life, Mulder felt a chill of dread. The video, apparently shot at night in open country, showed an image that had been branded into his mind. In a moonlit, star-filled sky there was an object which should not have been there. It hung in the air like a Christmas bauble, seemingly spinning about its own axis. Exactly as he remembered, the craft which had been codenamed Zeitgeist 516 dropped at speed and hovered motionlessly above a dense grouping of pine trees. The intense white glare which had surrounded the craft winked out, leaving a large black shape which was difficult to see against the sky. Moments passed during which nothing appeared to be happening. Then, just as Mulder was about to ask a question, five pencil-thin rays of green laser light lanced groundward from the bottom of the craft. "Here it comes." The go-between warned. "Keep your eyes on the left of the screen, down at ground level." "What exactly am I looking for?" Mulder probed, eyes unblinking as he tried to extract as much data as possible. The cameraman seemed to know what he was doing, and the equipment was good. Though almost inevitably the picture was not as sharp as he would have liked. "Just keep watching." The young man said nervously. "You'll see soon enough." A shadowy shape appeared for a fleeting instant within the area defined by the lasers. Mulder had time to see only that whatever or whoever it was definitely travelled in a downward direction, then the guide beams were gone. There was the impression of movement from the unlit UFO, and the camera tilted abruptly upward, recording a brilliant white light shooting straight up at incredible speed. "Now." The young man said, drawing Mulder's attention back to earth even as the camera was hastily refocussed on what appeared to be two figures, emerging from between the trees. Mulder let out an involuntary gasp. One of the men was dressed in black. The other wore casual attire, but there was something familiar about him. Possibilities tumbled like dice inside Mulder's mind for the seconds it took the cameraman to zoom in for a brief close-up. As the famous face came into clear focus, the lensman was heard to mutter, *Holy shit. It's him!* The video finished without warning, leaving Mulder to presume that the Lone Gunman team had done what *he* would have done at that point, and gotten the hell out. Rendered temporarily speechless, Mulder found himself wishing desperately that Scully was there to confide in. Then, regaining control over his emotions, he was glad that she wasn't. He wanted Scully nowhere near this. Taking a deep breath he looked at the young man. His steady gaze was returned by one of apprehension, as if the go-between feared that he'd be arrested on the spot. "They were right." Mulder confirmed. "It was Van Thewsen." Saying the name out loud seemed to break the almost palpable tension which had invaded the room. "Now, you're obviously quite a smart guy." Mulder continued. "Smart enough to know how dangerous this information is. Correct?" The young man nodded once. "Its okay, you're not in trouble. Just as long as you listen to me and do exactly what I tell you. Is that absolutely clear?" Speaking quickly but calmly, Mulder told the go-between to record over the tape, and when that was done, pass on a verbal message to the Lone Gunman group. They were to be informed that the safest course would be to destroy any remaining copies, and to forget what they'd seen. If asked for a reason, they were to be told that what they'd stumbled upon was something that was classified above top secret. Something they were simply not equipped to handle. As Mulder shut the door of the apartment behind him, he found that he was shaking. He didn't know whether the Lone Gunmen would take his advice, but was certain that if they didn't, some of them would end up dead. Since discovering the truth about Zeitgeist, he'd thought about little else. Making discrete enquiries on his own time had revealed little, other than the frightening fact that the Men In Black had a very long reach. But what might happen to the Lone Gunman group wasn't the reason that he had the shakes. That had to do with his ex-partner. He'd heard through the grapevine that Dana Scully had been assigned to the Van Thewsen case, and been pleased for her. Until he'd seen the evidence captured on video. Whether the Senator had been one of the so-called Alphas, or merely a high level messenger, was the burning question. It was something he now had to find the answer to, before Scully got wind of the high level conspiracy. Exiting the building, Mulder automatically checked for signs that he was being watched. He'd taken about a dozen steps when he spotted Johnny Carrabelli. His partner was standing on the opposite side of the road, grinning like a hob-goblin. Carrabelli said something into his mobile phone, and the next thing Mulder heard was the unmistakable sound of breaking glass. Realising that it was coming from somewhere behind and above him, he turned on his heel and looked up. The go-between fell screaming like a fire engine, and struck the sidewalk head first. Shards of shattered glass landed all around him; deadly rain peppering the flagstones. Mulder didn't need a doctor to tell him that the young man hadn't survived the imapct. Pulling his gun from its holster, Mulder wheeled around, orienting on Carrabelli's position. But his murderous new partner had vanished. Putting the weapon away Mulder turned and ran full pelt. He had no idea where he was going, only that he had to get away. The day that he dreaded had finally arrived. MIB were closing in on him. Computer Room, FBI HQ. Day two. 3:46pm Fingers gliding smoothly over the plastic keys, Scully coaxed information from her terminal. She was currently linked via modem to a secure database maintained by NASA. Stored in its electronic files were the details of everyone who had ever worked for the organisation, including one Peter Van Thewsen; a civilian analyst who'd worked on attachment to NASA's lunar information collation programme between January 1972 and February 1973. Van Thewsen had a string of glowing testimonials from his former employers, and during his second month had taken a battery of physical and mental test, which all personnel were required to take on a yearly basis. The tests included an IQ assessment, in which Van Thewsen had achieved the staggering score of 195. A person only required an IQ of 135 to join Mensa; the society for anyone considered to be a genius. The strange thing was that the results of the same tests, administered just twelve months later, showed an IQ that was only slightly above average. "I guess this must be an error." Scully thought aloud. "All other records show the Senator as normal." "Sure." Drake agreed, exhaling a cloud of dirty grey smoke. "What else could it be. Now, you've got that bee out of your bonnet, maybe we can get back to some real work. Huh?" "Real work is what I'm attempting to do, Agent Drake." Scully's eyes flashed fire. "We were taught to be thorough at Qunatico. If you can remember that far back." "You prissy little bitch -" Special Agent Drake's coming diatribe was interrupted by the unexpected entry of Johnny Carrabelli. Dana twisted away from the monitor as her name was called. Even if Carrabelli's body language hadn't given it away, the tone of his voice would have been enough to warn of trouble. "Hey, Scully. You're wanted in Skinner's office. Right now." "Is something wrong?" "Uh-huh." Carrabelli responded. "I've been temporarily reassigned to take your place on the Van Thewsen case. The bossman thinks you'll be more useful on, a new line of enquiry." Scully was confused. "What's going on here?" She asked, trying to catch Carrabelli's eyes. "Come on, Johnny. This sounds like it's serious. Tell me what's happened? "It's your crazy ex-partner, red." Carrabelli lied flawlessly. "He just murdered a man in cold blood. Threw him right out of an apartment window." Carrabelli gestured with his hand. "The poor sap did five floors in as many seconds." "Mulder murdered someone!" Scully responded, unable to keep an element of shock out of her voice. "There must be some mistake. He wouldn't do anything like that." "We got him on tape entering the building taking the elevator to the victim's floor." Johnny said. "Next thing we see is a guy crashing through a pane of glass. Mulder leaves the building about a minute later. When he sees me, he pulls his gun. Right about now there's a warrant being issued for his arrest. He's considered A & D." "Wait a minute." Scully frowned. "Back up a little. You said this incident was recorded on tape." She hesitated, almost afraid to ask the obvious question. "Does that mean Mulder was under Bureau surveillance?" "Hey, don't give me a hard time." Carrabelli shrugged. "I was just doin' my job." "Why was he being watched?" Scully demanded, already halfway sure that she knew the answer. If Mulder was being watched, it was the result of what he'd discovered during their last X-File case. All that she knew about the contents of the Ehrlenmeyer flask was considered hearsay. But Mulder had actually seen with his own eyes the results of what might have been alien gene manipulation. Perhaps he'd seen more than even he realised. "You know better than to ask that." Drake chipped-in. "Give the guy a break, for Christ's sake. Anyone would think you had somethin' goin' with old Spooky." "Oh, we did." Dana said, coldly furious. Rounding on her obnoxious partner she added, "It's called friendship. Something that you wouldn't know much about, Drake." Carrabelli coughed politely into his hand. "Skinner's waiting." Nodding curtly in response, Dana stood and walked out of the room. No matter what the evidence might seem to be, she knew Fox Mulder. Under certain circumstances he might kill. As would any FBI Agent. But he would never deliberately hurl an unarmed man to his death. Something was going on, and it smelled very much like a set-up. Fullman's Warehouse, Hoboken. Day three. 11:37pm Crouched down behind a large packing crate, Mulder was ready. He'd chosen the warehouse because it offered a lot of cover and three possible routes of escape. Both advantages might be required if Johnny Carrabelli brought company. The meeting had been set via a call made from a public phone booth to Agent Carrabelli's home number. Mulder knew that his 'partner' had an answering machine hooked-up, and that he wouldn't be able to resist an opportunity to continue what he'd started. The real problem was in deciding how deep the conspiracy against him went. For some reason, Carrabelli and at least one other accomplice had set out to frame him. Alone in the darkness, Mulder sighed. The only thing in his favour was that the Alphas didn't seem to want him dead. What had happened was probably as a test, conducted to see what he'd do under such dire circumstances. Or more specifically, who hed turn to for help. That was the only answer which made any kind of sense. The truth of the matter was that he hadnt told anyone about Operation Zeitgeist or the Alphas incredible plot. But they couldnt know that. Someone was obviously concerned enough to take drastic action. A loud metallic grating noise brought Mulder fully alert. Someone was entering the building via the side door, and they obviously didnt care who heard them. "Agent Mulder." An unfamiliar voice called out. "You can come out now. Im not armed." Mulder peered around the edge of the crate and saw a man standing in the beam of an overhead fluorescent tube. The man was holding open the flaps of his jacket, which like his trousers and tie, was coloured black. Memories ran like a slideshow inside Mulders mind, flickering past until he came to the one he wanted. "I know your face. You were with Major Starlin, in Dayton." The man grinned lopsidedly. "I was told you had a photographic memory. We were never formally introduced, but youre right. My name's Draeger. Al, to my friends. I was one of Major Starlin's aides. You'll remember the other one." Gun aimed at Draeger's heart, Mulder stepped from behind his cover and walked slowly toward him. The sequence of event had taken yet another unexpected turn. "How do I know whose side you're on now?" "I guess you don't." Draeger admitted. "Maybe it'll help if I tell you that by this time tomorrow, you'll no longer be wanted by the FBI. We've been watching Agent Carrabelli for some time." "Carrabelli." Mulder repeated. "Where is he?" "Right at this minute, he's at home sitting in his favourite armchair. Unfortunately," the Lieutenant smiled, "Johnny has an extra hole in his head, and a gun in his hand." "So how does that clear my name?" Mulder asked. "It doesn't." Draeger smirked. "But, when your former colleagues check Johnny's pockets, they'll find certain damning evidence. No one will doubt that he planned the hit on Van Thewsen, on behalf of a political extremist group. Other evidence will point to him setting you up because you were close to discovering his duplicity." "But he didn't plan Van Thewsen's death." Mulder stated, seeing something in Draeger's eyes. "Of course not. We arranged that." "Because Van Thewsen was an Alpha?" "No." Draeger shook his head. "The Senator had to be taken out because he was about to cast the deciding vote as Chairman of the Senate Committee for Defence Systems Development. That vote would have severely limited funding for a new missile project. The missile is a cover for a black program, developing a device that can interfere with the automatic guidance systems of Zeitgeist craft." "Jesus." Uncocking his weapon, Mulder returned it to its holster. "So what am I supposed to now. Go back to work?" "Not for the FBI." The Lieutenant winked. "Your still a wanted man, Mulder. Wanted by Operation Zeitgeist." Reaching into his jacket pocket Draeger produced a folded sheet of paper. "Take a look at this list. These are individuals we've identified as Alphas. I believe you'll be familiar with some of the names." Mulder quickly scanned the list, and as predicted recognised about a third of the people. One name in particular caught his attention. It was another reason why he could never go back. FBI Headquarters, Washington D.C. Day four. 10:00am. The phone on Dana Scully's desk began to ring. Answering, she found herself talking to Fox Mulder, who hurriedly explained that he wouldn't be coming back to work. "Why not?" Scully asked. "You're in the clear." "Yeah, I know, Dana. It's not that." Mulder said, evidently uncomfortable with the situation. "I have a new job, and that's all I can really say. You know how it is." "I know that we used to trust each other." Scully said, hurt to discover how things had changed. "Dana, please believe me." Mulder begged. "I do trust you. It's just that there are some things I'm not allowed to discuss. Even my new job title, stupid as that probably sounds. God, I don't believe I'm saying this, but it's for your own good. Things are going to happen, Scully, and no one is invulner-able. I won't risk your life because someone may think you have privileged information. All I can tell you is that what I'm doing now might make a difference." "Okay." Scully said, caught between emotions. "I won't pretend to be happy about it, but I guess I can understand. Maybe we could meet for lunch, some time?" At the other end of the line, Mulder sighed deeply. "No, that wouldn't be a good idea." For a long moment he was silent. When he spoke again it was with genuine regret. "If there was another way, I'd take it. I'll miss you, Dana." "Me too.'' Scully admitted, choking up despite her efforts to stay detached. "Hey, Mulder. Send me a post card, okay. That can't be against the rules." Mulder chuckled. "I will." Pausing for a second, he added. "Trust no one." The line went dead. Director's office FBI HQ, Washington D.C. Day four. 10:03am The small speaker of the telecommunications monitoring system on Walter Skinner's desk announced the end of former Special Agent Mulder's conversation with his ex-partner. "Do you think she knows anything?" Skinner asked the man who sat perched on the corner of the desk. "Agent Scully knows a great deal." Drawing in smoke through the filter-tipped cigarette which protruded between his fingers, the man held it for a second, then exhaled a grey-blue cloud. "Though nothing of significance where you are concerned." "For now." Skinner said humorlessly. "Although she does suspect me of aiding and abetting those who would obscure the truth. At some point, our clever agent will have to be dealt with." "Terminated?" The smoking man asked. "Turned." Skinner replied with a quick shake of his head. "Someone with Dana Scully's qualities has much potential. She is clearly wasted among the Betas." This story is (c) 1994 Adam Webb. The characters Fox Mulder, Dana Scully and the name X-Files are (c) Fox Network Programming & Ten Thirteen Productions. E-mail correspondence to the author via the Internet should be addressed to AWE@CIX.Compulink.UK. The Gossamer Project Author - Title - Date - Spoilers - Crossovers - X-Files - Adventures - Stories - Vignettes Download Other stories by Webb, Adam /Please let us know if the site is not working properly. Set story display preferences . Do not archive stories elsewhere without permission from the author(s). See the Gossamer policies for more information. /