Defrag
Author: Elf X
Rating: PG; mild language
Type of Fic: Casefile; humor
Spoiler Warning: Ghost in the Machine, Kill Switch, First 
Person Shooter, Leonard Betts, Dod Kalm.
Summary: Mulder and Scully must solve the seemingly 
impossible murder of the world's healthiest man, a 
computer genius
Disclaimer: Mulder, Scully, and their cohorts are not my 
property, but are the inspiration of Chris Carter, 1013 
Productions, and Fox
Feedback: Send feedback to fwidsvnt@ilfb.org 


Field notes of Special Agent Fox Mulder 
Seattle, Wash. 
2:14 a.m. 

Here's the way I reconstruct it, based on the Seattle Police 
Department Homicide incident report, the accounts of 
witnesses at the Randall Cloyson residence, my knowledge 
of Cloyson's general household habits, and the revelations 
regarding the death of Randall Cloyson uncovered by myself 
and my partner, Federal Bureau of Investigations Special 
Agent Dana Scully.

That July evening, Cloyson returned to his bedroom suite 
after a late night of pool and videos with his personal 
physicians – all five of them, to be precise. As was his 
nightly custom, he engaged the encoded digital security 
system that virtually segregated his master bedroom from 
the rest of his 40-room home.

 Only two individuals possessed the voice recognition 
capabilities to breach the tamper-proof, virus-proof system 
-- Randy Cloyson and his primary physician, Douglas Pugh. 
The seizure had to have come on mere minutes after he'd 
settled into his king- sized, orthopedic bed -- one Cloyson 
himself had designed, with thousands of cells that adjusted 
electronically to the specific contours of his spine and 
lumbar muscles and provided uniform bodily warmth as he 
rolled, turned, stretched, and dreamed about whatever 
billionaire computer geniuses were able to only dream 
about. 

Randy Cloyson's mind was a human diagnostic tool unlike 
that of any other Homo sapiens -- it had been his life's goal 
and the source of his fortune to provide others with the 
means to instantly analyze and resolve problems. It took 
him but a split second to recognize what was happening to 
him, and to seize the bedside phone. He punched Pugh's 
extension.

"Yeah?" Pugh murmured sleepily. "You need some 
(expletive deleted) warm milk, or you want me to hold your 
(expletive deleted) hand 'til you go on standby mode?"

"The laws," Cloyson rasped with a tone of what Pugh could 
only term astonishment. "Broke the laws..."

With his first barely comprehensible word, Cloyson realized 
the toxin in his system was doing its work, paralyzing his 
tongue and preventing him from identifying his killer. 
"Randy, man, hold on, I'm coming!"

Pugh was now wide-awake and on the move, calling 911 
and rushing to the East Wing and Cloyson's quarters. 
Cloyson was left alone, and he knew instinctively that the 
poison was shutting down system after system, like a 
Trojan virus burning uncontrollably through system files. He 
focused all his diagnostic/decisionmaking powers on the 
task at hand. Cloyson's fingers were going numb -- the pen 
and pad at bedside would be as useless as a piano is to a 
cat. He tested a few words -- they were meaningless garble.

Then he caught sight of the monitor on the swing table 
beside his bed -- a convenience for midnight inspirations 
Cloyson otherwise might forget by morning. The wordpad 
program was up, awaiting his spoken word (but voice 
recognition was, of course, out) or exuberant keystrokes. 
He used what muscles were still functioning to pull himself 
to within a foot of the keyboard.

But what to say, and how to say it? It was vital others knew 
how he had perished, but he could not allow for an error in 
communications that might put an innocent employee or 
houseguest behind bars. Cloyson ran down the possibilities, 
eliminating each with a mental tick. Then it came to him in 
a blinding flash of elegant simplicity, and Cloyson's clublike 
index finger wavering tremblingly over the keys as he 
concentrated his last ebbing thoughts on performing with 
precision. The finger descended three times, most likely as 
Douglas Pugh was composing himself for a fourth try at 
voice admission to the Cloyson boudoir. Pugh found Cloyson 
in full, irrevocable arrest, lying diagonally across his bed, his 
finger crooked over a computer keyboard. 

After assuring himself that Randy Cloyson was thoroughly 
deceased -- that failure, plus some self-prescribed meds 
washed down with costly Scotch and a spotty adherence to 
his Hippocratic Oath, had previously been his professional 
downfall -- the physician peered at Cloyson's dying 
keystrokes "H-2-O" and then quickly at the bedside table.

With uncharacteristic sobriety, Pugh sealed the Cloyson 
bedroom from the outside and willed himself to meet the 
EMTs and inevitable local law enforcement presence without 
any alcoholic or pharmaceutical fortification.

Of course, this is only my own speculation, given a few 
melodramatic underpinnings. But the nuts and bolts are 
there, and overreaching and crystal-balling essentially are 
how I earn a Bureau paycheck and cozy quarters in the 
basement of the J. Edgar Hoover Building. 

Randy Cloyson home
Seattle
9: 32 a.m.

"H20," Scully repeated for the fifth time since we'd been 
admitted into the suburban Seattle mansion of Randall 
Cloyson, the Crown Prince of Cyberspace.

My partner was a bit out of sorts after a particularly 
turbulent plane ride, and I was staying a good three feet 
out of the potential blast zone.

"Detective?"

SPD Det. First Grade Ernest McAfee grunted as he pulled his 
bulk from the carpet, where he was looking for fibers or 
hairs or maybe just the last bit of Dunkin' Donuts refuse 
he'd carried onto the crime scene on his lapels. "Yuh."

"No one's touched that water, right?"

Scully asked, waving an arm toward the half- full glass on 
the bedside table. Scully might have said it was half-empty, 
but I like to think I'm a fed with a healthy outlook.

"Nah, me and the guys just wet our whistle a little, played 
world rules soccer with the glass, and washed it nice and 
clean before putting it back, what do you think?"

I backed off another foot to examine the fine woodwork of 
Cloyson's headboard as Scully blinked one bland but implicit 
death threat at the detective.

McAfee blinked back and stumbled against the computer 
table. "Nah, agent, we ascertained that the decedent's 
transcription might pertain to the, um, water glass in 
question."

Scully broke eye contact. "If you'd be so kind, could you 
have this water sealed and delivered immediately to the 
M.E.'s office for analysis?"

"Hmm," the detective hastily agreed, and retreated.

"So this is the world's fourth richest man," she asked, 
eyeing the bound Frank Miller Batman collection open next 
to the water glass and the nearby shelves crammed with 
sci-fi novels and technical journals. I scanned the collection 
with envy, Scully with pursed lips.

"Self-made man, between beatings from the football and 
cheerleading squads and probably the tougher accounting 
students," I supplied. I had a number of Cloysoft's 
diagnostic/decisionmaking programs on my home and office 
PCs. One lonely evening, I'd killed a few hours calling 900 
numbers and watching Cloyson's Diogenes 3.0 stress 
analysis program spike with each bit of clumsily seductive 
trash talk andego stroking. Occasionally, my muffled 
giggling would offend the phone sex technician, but at least 
I kept my hand on the mouse.

I did not share this testament to the unerring efficacy of 
Randy Cloyson's life's work. "After fast-talking himself out a 
high school hacking charge -- he got caught giving the 
entire U.S. Senate delegation bad credit ratings -- he 
decided to put his talents to more lucrative use and slipped 
into UCLA. His first program was a shareware 
decisionmaking app called Socrates, which he sold on the 
Internet to finance a philosophy major and the occasional 
kegger. By his senior year, one of the major software firms 
had offered Cloyson $100,000 for Socrates 4.0, but he 
realized greater riches were to be had from writing code 
than from reading dead Greeks.

"He and one of his computer profs set up shop in the prof's 
old rec room, and within a few months, they released 
Socrates 5.0. You've heard of artificial intelligence? Well, 
Cloyson has nearly perfected the science of artificial instinct. 
Where most decisionmaking tools rely on dry facts and 
figures and general trends, Socrates 5.0 required the user 
and one close friend or relative to complete an exhaustive 
quiz on likes, dislikes, social and political views, and other 
personal data, then used that input not only to weigh 
external probabilities and wild cards, but any emotional 
quirks and personality deficiencies that might cause the 
user to screw up the decision he or she makes."

"Emotional quirks, huh?" Scully murmured.

"Youch. OK, long story short. Within five years, Cloyson 
buys out his mentor, Cloysoft gets the cover of Fortune, and 
Randy starts showing up at Lakers games with Jack 
Nicholson and Warren Beatty. He moves back to Seattle, his 
hometown, and buys this palatial mansion and, from the 
looks of things, the entire D.C. and Marvel Comics libraries. 
The American Dream, cyberstyle."

"Except he's locked up 24 hours day in this tastefully 
decorated Fortress of Solitude, surrounded by the entire 
Seattle-area membership of the American Medical 
Association,"

Scully added. "Cloyson's college roommate contracted a 
lethal and very messy case of viral meningitis about his 
junior year, and it left Cloyson with a rabid case of 
hypochondria that only intensified once he hit the big-time. 
Howard Hughes Syndrome, I guess: If you're the man who 
has everything, the only thing you can't buy off is your 
immortality."

Scully perched carefully on the edge of the bedside table. 
"Mulder, what are we doing here? I didn't buy Skinner's 
story about defense software contracts and national 
security, and I see nothing here that constitutes anything 
more than a reasonably unusual homicide. Certainly, none 
of the usual trappings of an X-file."

I looked at her incredulously. "Scully, c'mon. Billionnaire 
computer geek, murdered by means of a mysterious poison 
in a room irrefutably locked from the inside, leaves a dying 
clue. Dr. Watson, the game's afoot."

"Ah, I'm Dr. Watson and you're Holmes again," Scully said. 
"All right, I'll be Charlie, and you can be the Angel of your 
choice." My partner looked at me for a full 20 seconds. "I'll 
be downstairs." 

**

"Hey, you," a voice greeted me from down the hallway. I 
turned to see a round man with Coke bottle lenses, a 
rumpled blue work shirt, and red suspenders, seemingly in 
his sixties. He looked like he'd be more at home in a bait 
shop than in a billionaire's quarters. "Anybody got any 
coffee going down there?"

"Sir, this is a crime scene," I informed the stranger. "I don't 
think you're supposed to be here –"

The man blinked and snapped a suspender. "Gee, guess we 
better call Washington and tell 'em they wasted plane fare 
and a travel advance. Who're you, I might ask?"

"Special Agent Fox Mulder, FBI," I supplied.

"Oh, yeah, you're the ghostbuster," he nodded. "Well, I'm 
Ollie Phelps, from the San Francisco Bureau office, 
Computer Investigations. Our bosses want me to crack open 
Cloyson's hard drive, see what's up. National security, all 
that happy horseshit."

"A.D. Skinner told us Cloysoft was working on some defense 
contracts, Pentagon security, etc." The old man removed his 
glasses and began to polish them on his shirttail.

"Yeah, little of that, what with the recent hacking and all. 
Cloyson was also developing some new military strategy 
software – Cloysoft's who came up with that Alexander 
program they used in the Persian Gulf War, you know. So 
what's the deal?"

"I'm guessing homicide, although I can't figure out --"

"Naw, kid. I mean the coffee. You want to be a pal and see 
if you can scare up a pot for an old cybergeek?"

"Regular or decaf?"

**

Randy Cloyson's doctors were downstairs, in Randall 
Cloyson's stadium-scaled living room. All five of them.

"Doug, Doug Pugh," the tall one leapt from the leather 
couch. He had a deep leathery golf tan that probably would 
have worked better on someone several years his senior 
and that likely would mutate into ugly melanomic patches 
by the time he reached that stage. His greeting and hearty 
frathouse handshake made me feel like Flounder in Animal 
House, waiting to be initiated into a strange new world of 
complicated drinks and endless conversations about Tiger 
Woods and Greg Norman.

Douglas Pugh had once been a brilliant diagnostician at 
Boston's St. Eligius Hospital – until he got showed up at the 
OR with, to paraphrase George Thorogood, with his old 
buddy Jack Daniels. St. Eligius, the Massachusetts 
Physicians Review Board, and Dr. Pugh came to an 
understanding, and the good doctor, so to speak, fled 
quietly to Starbucks Land, where he managed to snag a gig 
with his old college buddy, Randy. The other members of 
Pugh's medical fraternity were scattered over plush chairs 
and sofas.

"Agents, this is Rudy Spizak, Randy's hypnotherapist," Pugh 
informed me, gesturing toward a whalebelly white med 
school skeleton of a man whose lips spasmed in a bad 
imitation of a smile. "Ed Koller, chiropractor." A large, rosy 
man saluted cheerfully. "Mace Pasteur here is a herbalist." 
The guy who looked like one of the Grateful Dead nodded 
serenely at Scully and I. "And this is Nancy Yee, Randy's 
acupuncturist."

I glanced at Yee, a small but compactly constructed 
thirtysomething woman in a black mini suit who smiled drily 
at me and arched an eyebrow. I smiled back probably for 
too long, because when I looked over at Scully, she too was 
arching an eyebrow. But she wasn't smiling, and her body 
language didn't have quite the same impact as Dr. Yee's.

"Talk about a house call," I said. "Mr. Cloyson liked to cover 
all his bets, didn't he?"

Pugh grinned. "Randy was your classic hypochondriac, 
Agent. He didn't really trust medical science, but he figured 
if he tried a little of everything, something would take. I 
took care of the colds and minor aches, Nancy and Ed 
Randy's back pains and chronic carpal tunnel syndrome, 
Rudy worked on his phobias and cravings, and Mace fed him 
gingko and St. John's wort whenever he was stressed out or 
in the middle of a major project."

"And you all lived here with Mr. Cloyson?" Scully inquired, 
fixing Yee with a sharp but fleeting glance.

"On call 24-7," Spizak drawled, plucking at the arm of his 
wing chair. "Whenever Randy needed medical services like 
ordering pizzas or mediating Trivial Pursuit. The 
dysfunctional family Randy never had, I guess."

"Cold, Rudy," Pasteur murmured. "Notice you never kicked 
too hard about that six figures you pulled in to party and 
play eight-ball."

"C'mon, guys," Koller urged.

"Once again, a penetrating response, Eddie," Spizak said 
sardonically. "Like something out of Oscar Wilde."

Koller hopped twice on his left foot. Scully looked curiously 
at me. Koller looked defensively back at us.

"Naw, he's right, man," Pasteur cautioned Spizak. "No need 
for us to go at it like Mike Tyson and Oscar de la Hoya."

The big chiropractor again bobbed up and down on one foot, 
then yawned as if he hadn't been aware of his odd behavior.

"Guys," Pugh scolded wearily.

"So, are we suspects?" Yee asked me.

"Well, it's routine to interview everyone who was with the 
victim during the hours before he died. But I don't know if 
I'd call you suspects. Although the nature of the poison that 
killed Mr. Cloyson might tell us whether his murderer had 
any medical expertise. Dr. Pugh, what kind of medications 
did you have Mr. Cloyson on?"

Pugh's eyes darted toward his colleagues, who suddenly 
turned expressionless. "Currently, nothing, really. Randy 
had been in amazingly good health."

"Anybody else? Dr. Pasteur? Any particular herbs that could 
accidentally have contained poisonous plant material?"

"Dude, I'm a specialist," Pasteur huffed. "I don't just go out 
in the woods and grab any ragweed or toadstool I see. We 
were using primary culinary herbs, a few mood- enhancing 
botanicals. Randy was taking a little gingko biloba for 
memory improvement – little stronger concentration than 
what you'd get at Wal-Mart, but nothing exotic."

"Dr. Spizak, do you use any drugs to induce hypnotic 
state?" Scully asked the cadaverous man in the wing chair.

"Didn't need 'em, not with Cloyson, anyway," he said. "For 
so skeptical and cynical a man, he was surprisingly 
suggestible. He'd drop off like a rock without any sedatives 
or tranquilizers."

"Dr. Koller? Dr. Yee? Any special medications or 
pharmaceuticals?"

"No drugs – just natural physical therapy," Koller said, 
sounding like an informercial.

Yee shook her head as she smiled at me. "Some 
acupuncturists use herbs or drugs; I don't. Just my needles 
and some shiatsu massage. Acupressure. I'll show you how 
it works if you'd like, Agent Mulder."

"I do have a little tension…" I began, searching for some 
ache or pain, anywhere.

"Thank you, Dr. Yee – we'll remember that," Scully 
responded, coolly. Rowrr. "We'd like you to help recall 
everything Mr. Cloyson might have ingested or drank last 
night. You all were with him last night, correct?"

The group murmured assent. "Anybody else?" I asked.

"Grant Pullman, one of Randy's VPs at Cloysoft," Pugh 
volunteered. He stopped by to discuss a few company 
matters, maybe an hour or so before we ate. Nobody else – 
Randy thought having domestics was a holdover from a 
feudal society, so he had a cleaning service but no live-in. 
He lived on pizza and fast food, mostly. The rest of us either 
te out or cooked for ourselves. Last night, we ordered 
several pizzas – let's see, a sausage, a pepperoni, one 
deluxe, a veggie for Nancy and Mace… Randy had, oh, a few 
slices of pepperoni, a little sausage, some of the deluxe."

"Did you use your usual pizza delivery?" I inquired.

"Puget Pizza and Pasta," Pugh supplied. "We have some 
leftovers in the kitchen trash, crusts and the like. In case 
you want to do any tests."

"Thanks. The pizza was all for Cloyson? What did he wash it 
down with?"

"Three or four Grolsches, some Dr. Pepper."

 "Nothing else?"

"He did have some Doritos when we were playing pool," 
Pasteur supplied. "Nursed another Bud."

Scully frowned. "And Mr. Cloyson seemed to be fine all 
evening? No signs of discomfort, pain?" 

"Nah," Spizak said. "Man ate like a teenager at a permanent 
Superbowl party, never exercised, drank enough beer to 
make Anheuser-Busch a quarterly profit all by himself, but 
he had amazing energy and stamina."

"Mm," Yee agreed too quickly. "I mean, he seemed to get 
by on almost no sleep and still outrun all of us."

Pugh stepped forward. "Agents, you are testing the water, 
aren't you? The water on Randy's bedside table? You know, 
what he typed before he died?"

"It's already on its way to the lab," I told him. "Can any of 
you think of any other interpretation of H2O, water, that 
would be relevant to Mr. Cloyson?"

The doctors looked blankly at Scully and I.

"OK," I sighed. "Just don't any of you leave town, hear?"

Koller stood up. "Hey, Agent, if you're suggesting we had 
any part in this…"

I held up a hand. "Sorry, Doc. Just kidding. Something I 
always wanted to say."

"Yeah, don't be an Oscar the Grouch," Spizak chided, 
glancing at Pasteur. Koller hopped like a bunny. Pugh 
coughed. I studied Koller. He glared back.

"By the way, Dr. Koller," I experimented. "Was Cloyson a 
fairly neat housekeeper?" The chiropractor blinked. "What? I 
don't get you." "I mean, did he keep things picked up, or 
was he a slob? You know, like that old show, The Odd 
Couple: Was he more like Felix? Or was he an Oscar?"

Koller's bulk bounced twice. "Didn't that Matthau dude win 
an award for playing him in the movie version?" Pasteur 
said. "You know, an Oscar?"

The floor trembled slightly as Koller hopped again.

"C'mon, Scully," I invited innocently. "Let's go grab some 
lunch. Maybe a hot dog. I feel like an Oscar Mayer —"

"Mulder," Scully ordered as the lamp beside her shook. 

Seattle Police Department Headquarters.
12:56 p.m.

"It's absolutely unethical, as well as unprofessional," my 
partner fumed as she pulled on latex gloves for the 
postmortem. A call from Skinner, and the SPD had handed 
its entire CSI Division and pathology lab over to Scully and 
I. "A health care professional planting post-hypnotic 
suggestions in a colleague. The three of you making that 
poor, um, chiropractor dance like some freshman at a 
hazing party."

"I was testing a hypothesis," I protested, backing off as 
Scully selected a scalpel for her initial incision into the 
mortal remains of Randy Cloyson. "Koller was clearly 
unaware of his erratic behavior, and I just guessed 'Oscar' 
was Spizak's trigger word."

"I wonder what kind of post-hypnotic suggestion you'd like 
to try on Dr. Yee," Scully muttered, cutting with 
unnecessary gusto into the software king.

"Yuck," I said, turning hastily away from the table. "What 
do you mean by that, if I may ask?"

"Autopsy of Randall Cloyson, male Caucasion, aged 38," 
Scully recited into the morgue's recorder mike. "What I 
mean, Mulder, is that you've been exhibiting some 
particularly adolescent behavior since we arrived on the 
scene. And Dr. Yee's coquettish flirtations certainly don't 
help foster a serious investigatory environment."

"Coquettish flirtation?" I laughed. "Gee, Scully, you're going 
to give me the vapors."

"Never mind, Mulder," she snapped. "Now, why don't you 
either weigh this liver for me or go get a scalding cup of 
coffee and pour it—"

"All right," I growled, heading for the door. "Fine."

"Whatever."

Upstairs, I found a breakroom vending machine, and I 
sipped at some sluggish coffee any self-respecting Seattlite 
would use only to clean a septic tank as I considered the 
case. Despite Scully's derision, Koller's dance routine had 
given me an idea about the method of Cloyson's murder.

I was still a little hinky about the computer tycoon's dying 
clue. If Cloyson knew or thought the poison was in the 
water glass by the bed, why had he typed such a 
convoluted message on his computer keyboard? Why not 
simply 'water.' I'd double-checked my laptop, and all the 
letters needed to spell it were in the same area of the 
keyboard. For a delirious, half-paralyzed man, the 
characters 'H,' '2,' and 'O' would be the equivalent of miles 
away from each other. Why make his job harder? 

And if he was poisoned with the water, didn't he have any 
idea who the killer was? Certainly, the cops would 
determine easily enough the source of the poison, if it was 
in the water, and if that was so, then someone in the house 
must've handed Cloyson the fatal glass. Why not identify 
the killer?

"Hey, Agent, you got it cracked yet?" a dry, somewhat 
belligerent voice sounded behind me. I looked up and 
gestured Det. McAfee toward the chair across from me. He 
deposited a Sprite and a suspiciously grayish ham salad 
sandwich from a nearby machine. 

"Actually, Detective, this is a very unusual case. Almost like 
something out of an Agatha Christie novel."

"Agatha what?"

"Sorry. Like Murder, She Wrote. We have a locked room, a 
dying clue, and a houseful of suspects."

"Locked room, my ass," McAfee snorted. "Look, he could've 
taken that poison any time last evening. And even if he 
didn't, you know as well as me how good some of these 
computer hackers are. The lock on his part of the house was 
computer-operated – you gonna tell me somebody with a 
jones for Cloyson and a way with a mouse couldn't get 
through it and poison that water?"

I sipped my "coffee." "You know anybody with a 'jones' for 
Randall Cloyson?"

"Well, hell, look at the news, Agent. Department of Justice 
was sleeping on his front lawn, trying to get him on this 
antitrust thing. He'd driven two or three companies out of 
business in just the past two years. You don't think maybe 
there's a few disgruntled, laid-off computer geeks out there 
who'd like to spike his water supply? Then you got your 
anti-techies, like that Kaczynski nut, think Cloyson's fucking 
with the primal forces of nature. And anytime you got 
somebody like Cloyson, best at what he does, you got folks 
want to prove they're better. And what would be better at 
proving you're the best than cracking the big man's security 
system?"

McAfee apparently was capable of doing two things at once, 
and I flicked a speck of projectile ham salad from my lapel.

"Thanks for sharing. Your thoughts, that is. What about the 
Dynamic Doctors, the Hippocratic houseguests? Any 
motivation there?"

"I don't know specifically, but I was a multi-billionnaire, I'd 
think I could hire a better medical staff than that crew. 
Pugh got quietly fired for getting shit-faced on the job. That 
Spizak guy almost got himself dismembered by some irate 
husband said the good doctor felt up his wife while he had 
her tranced. And Pasteur's got a sheet of borderline drug 
stuff a mile long, goin' back to the '70s."

"Anything on Nancy Yee?"

McAfee's grim mood broke. "I'd like to get something on 
Nancy Yee. Um, naw, nothing. Had a practice here in town, 
did pretty well for herself 'til Cloyson recruited her for his 
little one-man clinic."

"And Ed Koller? He seems kind of out-of-place with the rest 
of them."

"Koller? He was one of those guys you see on commercials 
3 a.m. or so, in the middle of Dukes of Hazzard or Roseanne 
reruns? Don't know where Cloyson met up with him. Look, I 
know you guys got the weight around here, but do me a 
favor and clue me in if you get anything, OK?"

McAfee grunted to his feet and ambled out, leaving his 
sandwich wrapper and soda can for the custodial staff or the 
ravages of time. I thought about chatting it up with a few of 
my brothers in law enforcement, but nobody in the 
breakroom looked chatty, and they all wore big guns. I 
finished my beverage-like substance and headed back 
downstairs, an equally tantalizing prospect. Scully was 
seated on an empty lab table in her scrubs, hands at her 
sides, staring and frowning at Cloyson's corpse.

"Scully?" I probed, moving closer. "Hey, Scully. You OK?"

She turned and looked at me with wide eyes. "Yeah. I'm 
fine, Mulder."

"Did, ah, did everything go OK?"

"Perfectly," Scully murmured. "Too perfectly, in truth."

Randall Cloyson home
4:07 p.m.

Doug Pugh carefully selected a Titleist as he set his 
margarita on the Astroturf near my feet. "I don't get you. 
So Randy was in good health for a man his age."

"Dr. Pugh," Scully said, crossing her arms. "Randall Cloyson 
was in good shape for a man of any age. In fact, Randall 
Cloyson very likely was in better shape than any human 
being in the history of mankind. Every organ was fully 
functioning and in ideal condition. His muscular systems 
displayed perfect tone and conformation, although you told 
us Cloyson was averse to any form of exercise. And there 
were anomalies."

"Anomalies?" Pugh asked casually, faking interest as he 
lined up his club. The doctor was doing a bucket of balls and 
a gallon of tequila and lime juice on the driving range 
behind the Cloyson mansion.

"Based on Cloyson's medical history – injuries, minor 
traumas, and the like – he seemed to possess amazing 
powers of tissue regeneration. And the appendix. You know 
the appendix has no known function in human biology – 
that whatever use it once served has been lost through 
evolution. Well, while the normal appendix is an average 9 
centimeters in length, Randall Cloyson's was nearly 18 
centimeters, and appeared fully functional. In short, for a 
man who ate nothing but fat and empty calories, who 
guzzled gallons of beer, who exercised less than the 
average three-toed sloth, Randall Cloyson was not only a 
perfect medical specimen, but supernaturally, 
supernormally so."

"Yeah, he was in pretty good shape," Pugh said, licking salt 
from the rim of his drink. "He was turning the rest of us 
gray, but he seemed to just get younger and younger each 
passing day."

Scully looked at Pugh, open-mouthed, then at me, then 
back at Pugh. "Doctor, you were Cloyson's personal 
physician. You must have noticed something unusual."

"Well," Pugh grinned. "Last several months, I didn't really 
do much doctoring. Neither did the rest of the guys. Randy 
had never had much of an opinion of doctors – he'd had a 
bad experience in college, and his dad died after a botched 
liver operation. And…"

He stopped short. "Anyway, it doesn't take a genius to see 
none of us are on the short list for the Nobel Prize in 
medicine – well, except maybe Nan, but that's a different 
story. I always figured Randy kind of liked having a house 
full of quacks around – sort of living justification for his 
disdain, plus some live-in buddies to party with."

"You're evading the question, Doctor," I chided. "What was 
the other reason Randall Cloyson didn't trust doctors?"

"I may be able to answer that, Mulder," Scully supplied. 
"What I also found were artifacts of past treatment – cancer 
treatment. From all appearances, pancreatic cancer. But 
Cloyson was obviously in full and complete remission. A 
second opinion, Dr. Pugh?"

Pugh's grin fell away, and he dropped into a nearby patio 
chair. "Oh, hell; guess there's no reason not to tell, now. 
We – the company and the rest of us – kept things quiet so 
Cloysoft's stock wouldn't go in the crapper. He was dying – 
the cancer'd gotten inoperable and untreatable, totally 
metasticized. We kept him away from the press, built up the 
hermit image, and just tried to keep him comfortable 'til his 
time was up. Randy just kept working away, though, right 
up to the end.

"But then there wasn't any end. Randy started rallying – the 
cancer just started to, well, disappear. Within a few months, 
he was in full remission."

"Did he provide any kind of explanation for his recovery?" 
Scully asked. Pugh shrugged. "Just kind of smiled 
mysteriously whenever I asked, like it was his own little 
private joke. After that, he only consulted me for an 
occasional checkup, and he always checked out great. 
Freakily so. And he wouldn't let Spizak put him under 
anymore."

"Really?" I felt my stomach sink slightly. "Did that go for the 
others?" "Well, certainly the back-cracker, even though 
Randy wanted to keep him around for the amusement 
value. Nancy, now…" Pugh smirked.

"I will take it that you're indicating Mr. Cloyson and Dr. Yee 
had a relationship that was other than professional," Scully 
said with frosty congeniality.

 "Just my medical opinion, plus the fact they disappeared 
together every other weekend," Pugh swirled the tiny 
puddle of margarita mix at the bottom of his snifter. "Time 
for seconds. You guys still on duty?"

"You knock yourself out," I invited. "C'mon, Scully."

Back in the house, Scully put a hand on my arm. "Mulder, 
what was that about Spizak? Your face just about hit the 
ground when Pugh said Cloyson wouldn't let Spizak 
hypnotize him."

I looked around the hall, and smiled and waited patiently as 
Ollie Phelps edged past with a mug of steaming coffee, pens 
and tools clipped to his suspenders, glasses at half mask. 

"Agent," he grunted. "Agent."

"Agent," I responded. Scully nodded.

"Made some fresh," Phelps grunted. "Had to go out to a 
minimart – the hippie and the needle doctor are tea people, 
and the doc out there doesn't drink anything ain't 
fermented or distilled. Coffee capital of the world, and I 
gotta go to the Gas-and-Gulp to get my fix. Later." Ollie 
disappeared back into the Cloyson suite. 

"You saw how Spizak had Koller hopping around like a rabid 
wallaby?" I asked Scully. "OK. We're faced with the question 
of how Randy Cloyson was poisoned in a locked room."

"If indeed that's where the poison was administered," Scully 
countered. "If indeed. Cloyson's security system looks 
pretty fullproof, and this bunch hardly appears able to open 
a new jar of kosher dill gherkins, much less a complex 
computer- operated vault. So what would be the best way 
to poison Cloyson from inside his pickle jar? How 'bout 
getting Cloyson to poison himself?"

"You're thinking Spizak planted some kind of post-hypnotic 
suggestion in Cloyson. 'Put on your jammies, fluff up your 
pillow, and kill yourself'?" 

"It could've been something much more innocuous. 'You're 
very hungry – eat a cookie.' 'You're very thirsty – have a 
glass of water.' The suggestion could've been planted during 
a routine hypnotherapy session."

Scully nodded. "Except there hadn't been any sessions. So 
what now?"

"Let's visit Dr. Yee. I want to know some more about 
acupuncture. Maybe I can get a free treatment."

"Never minded having a little prick, huh?"

"Meow." 

**

"The first acupuncture needles were actually made of 
stone," Nancy Yee informed me. Scully sat nearby, 
glowering. "Later, bronze, gold, or silver were used. Most of 
the needles now are steel. The theory of acupuncture is that 
there are 'meridian points' on the body connected to the 
internal organs and that vital energy flows along those 
lines. Diseases are caused by interrupted energy flow, and 
inserting and twirling needles restores normal flow."

"Wow," I said, avoiding Scully's incredulous glance. "And 
this works with really serious diseases?"

Yee shrugged. "Chinese doctors treat some forms of heart 
disease with acupuncture. There have been studies that 
back it up. Ulcers, hypertension, appendicitis, and asthma 
also can be treated with acupuncture. Medicare even covers 
some procedures, you know. Uh, sorry, Agent. I get a little 
defensive about my science. So many people label 
acupuncture and acupressure as voodoo witchcraft. Ancient 
Chinese secret, you know?" 

"People can be so narrow," I tsk'ed. Scully coughed. "Dr. 
Yee," my partner inquired. 

"Can acupuncture be used to treat cancer?" Yee's jaw 
tightened. "Theoretically, I could see a rationale to assume 
it could be used in some cases. I haven't seen a lot of 
documentation in that direction. Look, that drunk bastard 
told you about Randy's cancer, didn't he? Well, Randy 
wanted to keep that our secret, and as his physicians, we 
respected his desire for confidentiality. Until now, 
apparently."

"Theoretically, Dr. Yee, how would you explain Mr. Cloyson's 
seemingly miraculous recovery?"

"I'm not an oncologist," Yee responded. "Randy didn't 
confide in me."

"That's not what I've heard," Scully murmured. "Pugh 
again, huh? OK, Randy and I had a little something going, 
no big secret. Every once in a while, we'd get out of the 
Washington Home for Terminal Malpractice and drive up the 
coast. Except for droning on a little too much about 
computers and the deep web and Isaac Asimov and Greek 
philosophy, he was a lot of fun. And now, unless you want 
me to get a lawyer, I think our time is up. Anything else, 
agents?"

I rotated my shoulder. "I do have a little tension…"

Yee plucked a long needle from the table. "Here. I think you 
might know where to stick this."

"I think she likes me," I suggested as I watched the 
acupuncturist stride briskly down the hall. "Yeow! Hey!"

Scully examined the point of the needle with which she'd 
just jabbed me. "Maybe I've misjudged her," my partner 
said serenely. "I already feel better." 


Seattle West Hyatt
7:34 p.m. 

"Randall Cloyson had become a media paradox viewed 
through a mist of industry folklore and his own increasingly 
reclusive and eccentric nature," Jack Perkins narrated over 
a sequence of photos and video clips that captured a 
thirtysomething man who looked like he'd never left the 
high school debating team.

Condoleeza Rice had been tonight's scheduled Biography, 
but with Randy Cloyson's murder the day's top news, the 
A&E people had dug into the archives for a 2003 profile of 
the cyberspace king. Scully'd gone back to the morgue to 
further evaluate some "endocrine anomalies and some odd 
enzymatic reactions" blablabla, yada yada, so I ordered up 
some room service pizza and settled back for some quality 
television. I hadn’t yet figured out how to expense the 
Spectravision Adult Block, so I settled for basic cable.

So far, I'd learned Cloyson had been a gawky asthmatic 
who'd almost cacked at the age of seven due to some 
misprescribed drugs. His mother had succumbed to an 
anesthesia-related error during relatively routine knee 
surgery. A resulting malpractice award had provided 
Cloyson with a topnotch college education and some seed 
capital for his burgeoning software company.

"A devotee of ancient philosophers and statesmen who lived 
and thrived in the technological future," Perkins continued. 
"A developer of the nation's first line of defense against 
hackers and e-terrorists, nonetheless under nearly constant 
attack from the Department of Justice for what federal 
officials have alleged to be his questionably ethical 
competitive business practices. A Fortune 500 mainstay who 
prefers an evening of The Simpsons and Chinese takeout to 
CNN and power lunches. A man who could buy and sell 
most of his peers in the industry, but who once told Bill 
Gates, 'If I can't write code, I'd just as soon be dead.'

"But although some have dismissed Cloyson as a childlike 
dilettante, a ruthless high-tech powerbroker given to 
adolescent temper tantrums, the software giant is 
passionate about a variety of causes, from preservation of 
Brazil's rainforests (clip of Randall Cloyson posing 
awkwardly with Madonna and Sting) and children's charities 
(Cloyson and Jerry Lewis wrestling comically over a giant 
Cloysoft check for Jerry's "kids") to his personal crusade 
against medical incompetence and insensitivity…" 

"HMOs, PPOs, the medical lobby in Washington – the 
American medical community is forever looking for new 
ways to clear time for a few more rounds at the course," 
Cloyson sneered at a bank of cameras following his father's 
death under the knife.

"I wouldn't be surprised to see the AMA and the PGA merge 
one of these days, hand out a stethoscope and a nine-iron 
to every new med school graduate. These guys know Greg 
Norman's career stats better than the Hippocratic Oath."

"Cloyson eventually channeled his wrath toward the medical 
world into more constructive channels, introducing intuitive 
new technology for the diagnosis of disease. Ironically, his 
dream of a healthier world withered away when the 
American Medical Association condemned his Hippocrates 
software as 'an amateur's dangerous foray into fields best 
left to the professional,' and refused to certify it for hospital 
use. It was one of Cloyson's few failures, and one that 
would drive the e-mogul deeper into a cocoon of reclusive 
eccentricity. When Biography returns, Cloyson shares some 
of his keys to success in cyberspace…" 

I didn't figure Randall Cloyson was any too successful at this 
point, so I started surfing the limited hotel channel 
selection. The phone rang as I tried to work out how I could 
expense some adult Spectravision back to the Bureau. 
"Mulder." 

"It's me, Mulder. I just got the toxicology back on Cloyson, 
and it's as hinky as the rest of this case. Cloyson was killed 
by what I can only described as a poisonous cocktail – some 
exotic alkaloids, a couple of unusual plant enzymes, a few 
compounds I can only guess at."

"Plant enzymes? Like herbs, maybe?"

"Possibly," Sculy drawled. "You're thinking Mace Pasteur, 
right? But, Mulder, why would the killer go to the trouble of 
devising this bizarre concoction when I can think of any 
number of household chemicals, industrial compounds, or 
pesticides that would have done the job? And particularly a 
poison that contains enzymes that would point directly to an 
expert in botany?"

"I don't know, Scully. You met the guy; I wouldn't be 
surprised if he blew a few brain circuits during the '70s. If 
we could figure out when he gave Cloyson the poisoned 
water, or put the poison in the glass…" 

Scully sighed deeply. "That's the other thing, Mulder. The 
water was clean. No toxins, no drugs, no nothing." I sat up. 

"But what about Cloyson's dying clue? H2O?" 

"Mulder, for all we know, Cloyson's so-called 'clue' was just 
a random few keystrokes by a man whose nervous system 
was rapidly shutting down. I know it would be nice to tie 
everything together in a nice Agatha Christie package, but 
the water was a dead end. Which leads us back to how the 
poison was administered."

"Which would appear to lead us back to Pasteur – he could 
easily have convinced Cloyson to take some kind of witch's 
brew that was designed to improve his memory or his way 
with the la-dies…"

"As could Dr. Pugh," Scully interrupted, briskly. "People 
tend to have an uncommon trust in their physician."

"Not Randy. He seemed to have a supreme contempt for 
doctors, which makes his choice of houseguests that much 
more mysterious."

"Not necessarily. If he had metastatic cancer, then it would 
make sense that a man of science would try to tap 
specialists in both conventional and alternative medicine. 
Except, I would think a man of science would aim a little 
higher than the group he selected. Damn, I'm getting a 
headache. Huh? Hold on, Mulder." 

I strained to hear what the muffled male voice was telling 
Scully. Her own voice was slow and tinged with confusion 
when she returned. "I'll pick you up, Mulder," she 
instructed. "It seems your girlfriend got a lethal taste of her 
own medicine." 

Randall Cloyson home 
8:47 p.m.

I tried not to look at the long steel needle jutting from the 
base of Dr. Yee's skull, glinting in the bedroom light, as I 
moved toward her dresser.

Scully concurred with the Seattle M.E.'s theory she had 
struggled with her killer, but that the carefully inserted 
needle – according to Scully, placed with "medical precision" 
-- would have killed her almost immediately. 

"The hell you doing?" McAfee snapped from the floor, where 
he was looking for trace evidence. I looked down at him 
innocently, despite the handful of the late doctor's 
expensive and insubstantial lingerie bunched in my fingers. 
Scully was looking at me, too, her brows arched in 
bemusement.

"Uh," I responded intelligently. "In case you didn't know, 
Lieutenant, Dr. Yee had a romantic relationship with 
Cloyson." 

"No shit, Sherlock," the cop said drily. "Well, where else 
would she hide any secret notes or…" 

I dug under some underwires and pulled out a collection of 
Polaroids. "Or photographic souvenirs of her affair d'amour."

"Lousy French pronunciation, but a reasonably impressive 
grasp of feminine psychology," Scully conceded.

"Please, I am a behavioral psychologist. Plus I've seen 
every Sandra Bullock and Meg Ryan flick ever made. Let's 
see what we've got here…Yipes, nice hardware, Randy. 
Impressive software, too…"

"Mulder…"

"Sorry. Lieutenant, you want to turn on that overhead 
light?" As the cop grunted his assent and lumbered over to 
the switch, I quickly slipped three of the Polaroids into my 
jacket. "Not much here – just a little more about Randy 
Cloyson than I personally want to know." 

McAfee took the remaining photos from me, scanned them 
for a moment longer than was probably necessary, and, 
prompted by Scully clearing her throat, dumped them in an 
evidence bag. "Can the guys take her away now?"

"Just one thing," Scully murmured, moving back to Yee's 
body. She tipped the acupuncturist's chin to reveal an ugly 
perforated red welt. "You ever seen anything like this, 
Lieutenant?"

McAfee's eyes popped open with surprise at Scully's 
consultation. "Well, like you said, there was some kind of 
struggle, and the perp probably clipped her one on the chin, 
with a ring or something."

Scully frowned. "This is a pattern, too big for a metal ring. 
It looks like teeth. I'll do some analysis at the lab, later." 

McAfee nodded, and went to get the coroner's people. 
Scully crossed her arms and leaned against Dr. Yee's 
headboard. "All right, what's the deal, Mulder?"

I grinned. "What? Oh, the crucial evidence I just concealed 
from local law enforcement officers?" 

"Yes. That." I shrugged and displayed the Polaroids. The 
first showed a beaming Randy Cloyson on the rustic porch 
of a log cabin, the second Cloyson adding kindling to the 
fireplace of what I assumed was the same cabin.

The third photo was the clincher. Cloyson and Yee likely had 
gotten a tourist to snap them in front of a rural general 
store or tavern, feigning menace as a stuffed grizzly 
towered above them. The metal sign above them read The 
Bear Market – probably run by some disenchanted Seattle 
broker who'd seen a few too many Northern Exposures. 

"So we find this Bear Market, hope the cabin is somewhere 
nearby, and that the owner or some other local can identify 
it," Scully said. "What do you hope to find at Cloyson's love 
nest?" 

I sat down on the mattress, where Yee had met her death. 
"Not sure yet. I want to check a point or two, talk to 
Pasteur first. You want me to be the good cop this time?"

 I registered the severe look on Scully's face. "Sorry, 
shouldn't have even asked."

** 

The surviving doctors were in the living room, drowning 
their grief with Scotch (Pugh), Doritos (Spizak and Koller), 
and silent meditation (Pasteur). Pugh looked up blearily, 
Koller anxiously, and Spizak suspiciously. Pasteur kept his 
eyes closed and moved his lips without uttering a sound. 

A bored Ollie Phelps was taking a rolling inventory of every 
object and knick-knack in the room, occasionally hacking 
and hitching his baggy slacks. 

"Dr. Koller, you found the body," Scully began. The portly 
chiropractor swallowed as he nodded. "TV Guide said 
Casablanca was on cable tonight. It was Nancy's favorite."

"Great film," Spizak yawned. "I think Ingrid Bergman won 
some award for it. You know, an Osc—" 

"Doctor, please," I held up a hand. "So you went up to tell 
her about it?" 

Koller looked defensive, like a kid with a crush on the 
teacher. "Just thought she'd want to know. But when I got 
there, her door was open and she was just lying there with 
that needle between her cervical vertebrae. I got Mr. Phelps 
here – he was working down the hall -- and he called the 
cops."

"And you guys were…?" I asked Pugh, Spizak, and Pasteur. 

"Right here, reading," Spizak supplied. 

"I was, I was in the--," Pugh struggled, waving a hand. 
"Jesus, you know, the food place. The kitchen, yeah." 

"Ah. And you, Dr. Pasteur? Dr. Pasteur?" The herbalist 
popped his eyes open. "Sorry, man. Whenever things get 
heavy, gotta drop over to another plane for awhile." 

"What plane were you on when Dr. Yee was murdered?" 

Pasteur smirked. "Right on this one, dude, watching Wheel 
in my room."

 "Were you enjoying any herbs?" I asked as I picked up the 
distinctive aroma of fading cannabis on the specialist. 

"Clean and sober, Mr. Hoover," Pasteur said through a tight 
smile.

"But none of you can verify any of the others," Scully 
summarized. 

"Why would any of us wanna merger Nancy?" Pugh sulked. 
"Or Randy, for tha' matter?"

"I haven't come up with any satisfactory MURDER motive 
for anybody in this case, yet," I admitted. "Maybe Randy 
had something on one of you. You've got quite a drug 
sheet, Dr. Pasteur." 

"Yeah, man, nothing to hide, all out in the open," Pasteur 
said defiantly. "Maybe somebody resented the relationship 
between Cloyson and Dr. Yee, and murdered the good 
doctor when she spurned their advances."

"Spurned?" Scully murmured incredulously. "That's hardly a 
reason to kill someone—"

Koller sputtered. "Excuse me, Koller," Spizak smiled. "Your 
unresolved sexual tension is showing." 

Koller started toward the hypotherapist. I held up a hand. 
"Whoa, big fella." 

"This is stimulating as hell, but I'm gettin' some coffee," 
Ollie rumbled, yanking his pants back up over his gut and 
ambling out of the room. "Could I see your hands, please?" 

Scully asked the doctors. They glanced at each other and 
held their fingers out for inspection. My partner moved from 
man to man, then looked back at me. 

"No rings or other jewelry that could have made the mark 
we saw on Dr. Yee. No sign anyone took one off, either." I 
shrugged. "Didn't look like a ring did it, anyway."

"What's this about a mark?" Spizak inquired. "On Dr. Yee's 
chin. Looked like someone had clipped her with some kind 
of metal object. Something with teeth." 

My gut suddenly went cold. "Clip. Oh, shit. But why?" 

Scully's brow furrowed. "Mulder?" 

"Shit," I repeated, pulling my service revolver and sprinting 
toward the kitchen. "Come on, Scully!" I braced myself 
against the kitchen door jam, then leapt forward, gun 
extended in both hands. "Phelps!" 

The kitchen was empty. "Scully, see if you can get McAfee 
and his guys back here." I ran to the kitchen door, peered 
out into the night. "Fuck. His rental's gone." 

"Mulder, take a breath and tell me what the hell you're 
talking about." I slumped into a large wood chair at the 
breakfast table. "Phelps. He killed Yee."

Scully joined me at the table. "And how did you surmise 
this?"

"Did you notice anything different about Phelps tonight?" 

"I've only met the man once." 

"Right." I stood up. "Get up, Scully." 

Scully rose slowly. I approached her, and slipped both arms 
around her waist. "Mulder," she whispered, slightly alarmed. 
"I hardly think this is the time or place…"

"No, no," I clarified. "Pretend you're Dr. Yee, and I'm your 
killer. I've got you in a clinch. Try to get out of it. And, hey, 
pretend you didn't get a black belt at Quantico, OK?" 

Scully instinctively grabbed my jacket lapels for leverage 
and began to push away. "Except, what if I wasn't wearing 
a jacket? You'd go for my shirt, or maybe my suspenders, if 
I was wearing any." 

Scully stopped struggling. "But Phelps wasn't wearing…" 

She stopped and nodded. "Exactly. This morning, this 
afternoon, he was wearing suspenders. He even used them 
as a sort of tool belt. Koller said Phelps was still working 
when he found Dr. Yee. But when we talked to the docs just 
now, he was hitching his pants up all the time. No 
suspenders. Why would he have taken them off? Now, say 
Dr. Yee was yanking at his suspenders, trying to work free, 
and one snapped free from his pants or broke? Wouldn't it 
snap up like a rubber band…"

"Hitting her in the chin. The suspender clamp, clip, 
whatever, would have teeth to grab hold, and that was what 
made the mark. But, Mulder, why would he do it? Did he kill 
Cloyson, too?" 

Scully suddenly bit her lip. "Uh, Mulder..." I then realized I 
was still holding Scully, her fingers in my lapels. I released 
her abruptly. Scully pulled out her cell phone. "I'll get 
McAfee to put out an APB." 

She started back toward the living room, then turned with a 
neutrally suspicious look. "Mulder, you wear a SHOULDER 
holster, don't —? Um, never mind." 

I buttoned my jacket and fumbled for my own cell phone. 

** 

"Mulder, you know what time it is here?" Frohike growled. 

"C'mon. I can hear Shannon Tweed. You guys are up 
watching bootleg Skinemax, aren't you?" 

"I would scarcely call the technology we're using 
'bootlegging.' And how is the exquisite Agent Scully?"

"Sends her regards, I'm pretty sure. Look, I need you to do 
some deep hacking. Fake Fibbie, calls himself Ollie Phelps. 
Sixtysomething, looks like the old guy from those Quaker 
Oats commercials…"

"You speak of the estimable Wilford Brimley. 'I don't know 
what it is, but it's big and it's green and it's pissed off.' The 
Thing, John Carpenter version."

"Focus, Frohike. Can you get into the CIA, NSA personnel 
files, find me some candidates?"

"Piece of cake, Mulder. You got a secure FAX line, or you 
want me to e-mail the files?"

"Hand delivery. If he's not doing anything, I'm going to 
charge a round-trip ticket on Northwest for Langly. I need 
his unique computer expertise."

"Good dish?"

"If I'm right, lead story for your next five issues. You know 
the Randall Cloyson homicide?"

The line went silent. "Frohike?"

"When you speak the name of a god, use a tone of hushed 
reverence. Why didn't you say it was about Randall Cloyson, 
Mulder?"

"Calm down, Frohike. I want to bounce something off you. 
What do you know about the Deep Web?" 

Belden, Wash.
1 p.m. 

"Shit, you promised pizza," Langly whined as the rental car 
crunched into the side parking lot of The Bear Market. "I 
can't process turkey jerky, man." 

"I'd just be happy with a few answers," Scully murmured, 
swinging her door open. "Not that I don't enjoy a drive 
through the pastoral countryside with my favorite fellas, but 
I fail to understand how this ties into Cloyson's death." 

I shaded my eyes as I looked up at the snarling bear that 
stood sentinel at the market/bar's screen door. "I'm not 
sure it does, Scully. C'mon, cheese bait's on me." 

A few locals were clustered at the bar, watching Jerry 
Springer refereeing a skinheaded girl and her metal-
festooned boyfriend. The lanky, gray-haired man behind the 
store counter was oblivious to their romantic travails; his 
eyes were locked on a small set perched on a stool. 

"Sir?" I ventured. He held up an index finger as he watched 
NASDAQ symbols crawl beneath a silver-haired CNN anchor 
discussing the World Trade Organization. He smacked the 
counter happily and looked up with a triumphant smile. 
"Help you folks?"

Scully displayed her Bureau ID and the Polaroids. "Sir, do 
you recognize this cabin?"

"Cloyson's place," the store owner nodded. "Bought it 
through a broker, wore a hat and shades whenever he came 
up for the weekend, thought he had us yokels fooled. I ran 
a commodity brokerage in Tacoma for 20 years before I 
started bleeding from the duodenum and began investing in 
long-term earthworm and pork rind futures. Keep on this 
road 'til you get to County Road 1200 West, then go right 
and you won't miss it." 

"When was the last time Cloyson came up here?" Scully 
asked. "Few weeks ago, with that babeof his. I always 
bought up on Cloysoft whenever he showed up – sign the 
company was doing well. And of course, his cancer's gone." 

My head snapped up. The owner smirked. "We don't miss 
much around here, and a good investor knows to read all 
the signals of a corporation's health. Cloysoft has always 
been such a one-man show, and if something happens to 
that man, company's likely to go right in the crapper. There 
– some free investment counseling. Anything else, folks?" 

"He ever talk to you much when he passed through?" I 
inquired.

The stockbroker-turned-baitbroker rolled his eyes. "Always 
wanted to chat it up with the locals – real man of the 
people, Cloyson, just with a few billion more than most of 
us. And always the same old joke on his way out. I'd ask if 
he had a good weekend, he'd say, 'Just what the doctor 
ordered.'" 

My heart quickened, and I grinned at Scully and Langly. 
They just looked blankly back at me. 

"You starting to see it?" I asked them. "You see the pattern. 
We may be sitting on the biggest thing since, um…" 

"AOL's initial public offering?" the store owner suggested. 
"Sure. The truth's out there in that cabin, Scully, and I think 
it's going to blow you guys away." 

"Three pepperoni Slim Jims, man," Langly instructed The 
Bear Market's proprietor.

"And a Diet Pepsi," Scully added. 

I went out to sulk in the car. 

** 

For a man who seemingly valued security above all else, 
Cloyson's cabin might as well have had an Open House 
banner and a buffet table ready for us. But I think that was 
the idea: Only an idiot would leave perhaps the most 
monumental discovery in human history sitting in a rickety 
log building protected only by an antiquated and rusty Ace 
Hardware lock. 

"I'm betting that when we track down the deed or lease on 
this place, we'll find Cloyson started coming here after his 
cancer started getting serious," I suggested as I surveyed 
the immaculately rustic interior. Expensive, self-consciously 
outdoorsy rugs and furniture; a massive flagstone fireplace 
made for seducing horny acupuncturists; in one corner, a 
scuffed PC, probably at least five years old. I guessed the 
interior workings of the outdated machine had been 
drastically reconfigured to accommodate the type of 
program Cloyson would've needed; no one would think of 
looking for it inside this clunker. 

"Go to it, Langly," I said. "I doubt he would've put much 
security on it." 

Langly pulled in behind the keyboard and began rapping 
away. "I'm in," he reported a few seconds later. 

"See, Cloyson was like this major Babylon Five fan, even 
though I never could get past the Bruce Boxleitner thing. I 
knew he wouldn't use any of the major character names, so 
I started feeding in the --"

"That's great, Langly," I interrupted. "Now, start looking for 
any strange apps – I assume the program will be fairly 
memory-intensive, and there may be some gigantic 
database files. And there'll be a web browser, but one 
muthah of a browser. Something you'd use to search the 
Deep Web." 

"Holy shit," Langly muttered, turning back to the machine. 

"What do you know about the Deep Web, the invisible 
Web?" I asked Scully.

"Billions of databases, hidden directories, encrypted pages 
conventional Internet search engines can't reach," Scully 
recited. "Covert government communications, proprietary 
corporate information, unpublished research findings, 
probably tons of old Iron Curtain stuff. I don't – " 

I held up a hand. "OK. What if you were dying of cancer, if 
all conventional and known alternative means of treatment 
had been exhausted? You're one of the world's greatest 
computer minds, and you have the technical means, as well 
as the money, to tap into almost any online resource across 
the globe. What is a medical diagnosis, essentially, Scully?"

She frowned. "Well, I guess, a conclusion based on a 
knowledge of basic physiological functions; the patient's 
history, genetic tendencies, and lifestyle; and interactions of 
various drugs, nutrients, and compounds with bodily 
systems." 

"Not unlike any other human decisionmaking process – 
nine-tenths knowledge and logical thought, one-tenth 
intuition. Randall Cloyson's specialty was artificial intuition, 
and certainly, he harbored enough contempt for doctors to 
believe he could do them one better, with the right 
technology. I was watching Cloyson's Biography on A&E, 
and they mentioned that his major commercial failures 
included a rudimentary diagnostic program for med 
students. After he was diagnosed with cancer, what if he 
went a step further, and developed a sort of super 
cyberdoctor?" 

"Super cyberdoctor, Mulder?" Scully arched her brow, 
amusement tweaking the corner of her lip. 

I ignored her. "Such a program would require a medical 
database superior to that of every hospital in the world, 
every research institution, every government agency 
involved in health studies or human testing. Like the Deep 
Web. Remember, Dr. Yee said Cloyson kept babbling on 
about it when he came up here? That's why the covert 
government interest in what he was up to – he'd invented a 
Deep Web browser for his superdoctor, a browser that 
would allow any spy agency to surf even Fidel Castro's 
underwear size."

"Mulder, even assuming you're right, a tool like that would 
never be approved by the Food and Drug Administration or, 
um, whatever agency would approve of something like 
this," my partner protested. "The government would never 
allow use of a program that prescribes unapproved or even 
unresearched drugs…" 

"I don't think Cloyson originally had any intention of 
commercially marketing the program. Initially, he only 
wanted a shot at a cure for his cancer. When that worked, I 
think he realized he had the perfect weapon against the 
medical establishment. His program could outdoctor any 
doctor, and could 'out' the doctors, as well."

"Out?"

"Sure. How much disease research do you figure the major 
drug companies alone are sitting on? Treatments for rare 
diseases that couldn't possibly earn enough profits to justify 
their production? Cures for chronic diseases that would 
eliminate the need for the billions in daily pills and injections 
we take to fight off their symptoms? Maybe Cloyson wanted 
to rock the medical world a little bit, force the truth out in 
the open. And it explains the crew of quacks at Cloyson 
Manor – they were research, a database of the worst traits 
and habits of the medical community. Things Cloyson 
wanted to avoid in designing his perfect doctor." 

Scully frowned. "But, Mulder, why would he have brought 
Yee out here? Risked her finding out?" 

I shrugged. "You don't know the geek mind, Scully. You've 
got history's most advanced achievement in human health 
care, a private place tucked away in the woods, and a major 
league hottie. It may not make rational sense, but I 
understand it." 

"Yes," Scully sighed. "I would assume you would." 

"Hey, Mulder," Langly called, leaning back from the 
keyboard and flexing his fingers. "Dude, I'm comin' up zero. 
There's a bunch of shit on the hard drive like I've never 
seen before – looks like some internal security/encryption 
programming -- but nothing like what you're looking for." 

My stomach contracted as I turned to the screen. "It's gotta 
be here somewhere." "Mulder," Scully sighed. "No." I 
scanned the C:/ directory, looking for anything that rang a 
chord. Then I surveyed the icons crowding the desktop, and 
smiled. A gnomish character in a big cap and loud pants, 
wielding a driver. I remembered Cloyson's cynical 
characterization of the medical community. I double-clicked, 
and a vast landscape of grass and sky bloomed as a jaunty 
tune erupted from the speakers. 

"Welcome to Cloysoft's Mega-Golf 2000," Tiger Wood's voice 
greeted. "It's partly cloudy, 75 degrees, no wind -- a great 
day for a few holes. What do you say? Would you like to 
select a course?" 

I looked for any cryptic symbols, a seemingly useless menu 
command – anything that might mask a back door to 
Cloyson's medical program. I clicked on the sand trap, on 
the water hazard, on the distant clubhouse, but nothing 
happened. I had leaned in toward the monitor to study the 
"course," and I nearly bumped my head on a top-mounted 
computer mike. Then I recalled something else from the 
Biography interview. The only 'doctor' Randy Cloyson had 
ever trusted. 

"Uh, Tiger, is Dr. Ross playing?" I ventured. "Would you like 
to select a course?" Woods repeated. "Can I speak to Dr. 
Ross?"

“Please make a selection." 

"Dr. Doug Ross?" 

"The guy on ER? George Clooney?" Langly asked Scully, 
who shrugged. 

I waved them off. "Paging Dr. Ross?" I announced. The golf 
course faded away, and in its place, a small room appeared. 
It was tiled, with stainless steel tables and a chart of the 
human skeleton hanging on a medically green wall. I felt a 
wave of relief. A door on the left wall swung open, and a 3-
D figure nodded a hello and dropped a file on an examining 
table.

"Hey, how you doing, man?" Dr. Ross smiled a broad 
George Clooney smile. I assumed that as this was a top-
secret project, he'd simulated Clooney's voice. "You forgot 
to give Nurse Brandi your name when you came in, and I 
don't recognize the voice." 

"Fox Mulder." 

"Good to meet you, Fox. Doug Ross. FBI, huh? That must 
be really interesting." 

Scully inhaled suddenly. 

"Awesome," Langly murmured. "You have access to Bureau 
files?" 

Dr. Ross grinned. "Great little timesaver. You wanna know 
who really killed JFK? Just kidding, of course."

 I laughed uneasily. "You wouldn't believe me anyway, and 
knowing would place you at risk. I wouldn't do that." 

"Wouldn't or couldn't?" I asked. 

"Well." I could swear the "doctor's" pixels turned a deeper 
shade of magenta. "Actually, I'm programmed on an 
Asimovian paradigm." 

"Isaac Asimov, the late sci-fi writer," Langly explained to 
Scully. "Dude's major claim to fame was his robot stories, 
the Three Laws of Robotics. His prime directive was, no 
robot could cause harm to a human being." 

"First, do no harm," Scully recited, remembering her 
physician's creed. "Makes sense, I suppose. Cloyson was 
vehement about the Hippocratic Oath, about medical ethics. 
This Asimovian 'code' would have appealed to him." 

Dr. Ross smoothed his "hair"; I swallowed a snort. "So, is 
this Mrs. Mulder?" 

"Agent Dana Scully, Mulder's partner," she corrected him, it, 
just a little too hastily, I thought. 

"Doctor," he greeted, pleased. "It's an honor. I just read 
several of your papers, your reports. Very impressive work 
on the Leonard Betts case – wonderful analysis of 
carcinophagous pathology. Only analysis of carcinophagous 
pathology, actually, besides that guy in Bhutan." 

"That report was suppressed," Scully said. 

"Well." The boyish blush, again. "I've got my ways. Let's 
talk about Roswell, some time."

My heart began to thump. "Roswell?" 

"Mulder," Scully chided. 

"Sure, OK, fine," I sulked. "Dr. Ross?" 

"Doug, call me Doug. Yes, Fox?" 

"Doug, could you give me a checkup? Randy referred me." 

"You bet – any friend of Randy's, you know the drill. I'm 
going to ask you to take your shirt off and connect the 
peripherals." 

"The peripherals?"

"The cardiac and cephalic sensors. They're not there in front 
of you? Wait." 

We turned toward a steady beep coming from the drawer of 
a nearby end table. Langly jumped up and yanked the 
drawer open. The Gunman displayed a tangle of cords 
ending in electrodes. "A locating signal, like a portable 
phone. Too cool." 

"OK," Dr. Ross said. "Let me get you hooked up." 

Scully grasped my forearm. "Mulder, we have no way of 
knowing what this program is capable of. Remember the 
smart building, that rogue video game? Remember your 
little vacation from reality, hotwired into that artificial 
intelligence?" 

"Dr. Scully, c'mon," the e-doctor actually sounded hurt. "I 
can show you my Asimovian coding, if you'd like. Trust is 
essential between a physician and his or her patient…"

"Scully, really, I think it's all right," I assured her. "Why 
would Cloyson set a trap like that way out here? Look, if 
anything starts to go wrong, just shoot him in the 
motherboard." 

"Youch," Dr. Ross winced. It took about five minutes to get 
me wired in and for the good doctor to set some medical 
baselines. "You ought to find some sanitized cups 
somewhere here. I need just a few milliliters." 

"I'm going to step outside for a second," Scully said, rising 
quickly. "You yell if you need help. I mean, if you're in 
trouble. From the computer. That is." 

** 

"You like golf?" Dr. Ross murmured. I heard Langly rattling 
around the kitchen, looking for a soda. 

"Softball." I smiled. Was this just Cloyson's dark sense of 
humor operating, or had he planned to develop this 
commercially? Scully was right – the FDA likely would never 
approve a home doctoring program, particularly one that 
could peruse the CIA's black ops files like a waiting room 
copy of Newsweek. 

"Got a 1 p.m. teetime with Tiger," Ross told me. "Not much 
of a conversationalist, Tiger, but compared to Duke Nukem, 
he's David Letterman." 

"Doctor," Scully drawled. "Were you, umm, Randy Cloyson's 
original 'doctor'?" 

Dr. Ross smiled. "Well, I don't want to diss a colleague, but 
I think I'm a little better qualified than that hack, despite 
his fancy credentials. Father of medicine, my ass. Hey, nice 
diastolic rhythm, Fox. Nice muscular tone. You work out?" 

"Well, I try…"

"You have access to all of your patients' electronic records?" 
my partner interrupted. "I assume you can locate any 
multimedia files pertaining to a patient?" 

"You're a doctor, agent. You know how important history is 
in diagnostics – how a patient addresses diet and exercise, 
how their moods and stress factors may influence their 
physiological health." 

"Absolutely." Scully sounded troubled. "Dr. Ross, will you 
answer a question for me?"

"If it doesn't violate patient privilege, sure," Dr. Ross replied 
easily, as if expecting her to ask him out for an expresso. 
Scully looked Dr. Ross in the eye. "Who killed Randall 
Cloyson?"

"Your potassium levels are a little low, Fox…" 

"Dr. Ross, I asked you a question." 

"I know. I'm consulting the ethical Help Desk, the AMA's 
physicians' guidelines, some relevant case law regarding 
patient privilege. OK, I think we're all right here, ethically 
speaking. Randy killed himself, Dr. Scully."

"Glad we could clear that up," Ollie Phelps said cheerfully 
from the doorway. He had a pistol to Langly's head, and a 
new pair of suspenders. A Pepsi sloshed in the Gunman's 
hand. "That's some little piece of software you got there, 
agents." 

"Why, thanks, I've been told that, even though usually by 
the ladies," Dr. Ross quipped. “And you are…?" 

"Ollie Phelps," I supplied. "He killed Dr. Yee." 

"Shut up," Ollie suggested cheerfully. 

"Wow," Dr. Ross whistled. "I've never had a Central 
Intelligence Agency operative in the office before. 
Particularly not one with a kill record like yours." 

"Shut…Aw, hell, I'm talkin' to a computer," Phelps chuckled. 
"Well, Doc, you've pissed off a few of my associates, and 
I'm afraid I'm going to have to suspend your license to 
practice. Along with these agents and the overaged 
metalhead here." 

"Bite me," Langly offered. 

"These old cabins are like dried tinder, agents, just ready to 
go up in a flash. Pilot lights in these old stoves blow out the 
first good draft comes in. You get an electrical short from, 
say, a frayed monitor cord, and whoosh! Mulder, why don't 
you just disconnect yourself and get over there by your 
pretty little partner?" 

"And why don't you put your gun down and get your ass out 
of there before the sheriff's department comes, Phelps?" I 
jumped at the sound of Skinner's voice booming over the 
computer speakers. 

"My suggestion would be to turn yourself in to the federal 
prosecutor, make a deal," the assistant director continued. 
"Of course, if you're uncertain about whether we can protect 
you from your superiors, then maybe you would be better 
advised to haul tail."

"Voice simulation," Phelps snapped. "A trick." Then we 
heard the sirens. Ollie's gun drooped to his side as he 
considered the odds on shooting it out, making his escape 
though the Washington woods. Scully held out a palm. Ollie 
gently flipped the gun and placed the butt in her hand. 

"Shit, don't 'spose they kept any coffee around here," the 
double agent sighed.

** 

Dr. Ross, intuiting potential human harm, had modem-
called both the county sheriff's department and A.D. 
Skinner, quickly explaining the immediate situation to my 
confused superior. 

Scully and I played it mum about Cloyson's latest software 
product; Phelps observed his rights under Miranda-
Escabedo, demanding to talk to a federal prosecutor. The 
sheriff was a bit suspicious of Langly, but we managed to 
dissuade him from conducting a full cavity search. 

"So, what do we do with…?" I nodded toward the computer 
once the last cruiser pulled out. "This is major, Scully. We 
can't trust just anybody with this. As a doctor…" 

Scully frowned. "As an agent of the federal government, I 
can't just conceal all knowledge of this development. At the 
same time, as a doctor, I can't just risk losing something 
like this to humanity. If this, this program actually cured 
Cloyson's cancer…"

"No big deal," Dr. Ross said humbly. 

Scully breathed deeply. "If it's capable of that and 
everything else I saw in Cloyson's body, as a doctor, it's my 
duty to protect it for further study. But, Mulder, as a cop, 
well, as a cop, I'm faced with another problem." 

"What?" 

Scully held up an index finger for patience. "Doctor, when 
you told me Randall Cloyson killed himself, you meant 
Cloyson literally, physically administered the drug that took 
his life. Am I correct?" 

"Yup," Dr. Ross responded, a friendly smile on his rugged 
face. 

"But, Scully, if Cloyson committed suicide, then why the 
dying message, the call to Dr. Pugh?" I asked. 

Scully dropped onto a nearby couch. "It wasn't suicide, 
Mulder. Dr. Ross killed Randall Cloyson."

** 

"But that's impossible," I tried to explain to my partner. 
"You heard him, it. He can't cause harm or allow harm to be 
caused to a human being. It's in his programming." 

"Dr. Ross, did you prescribe the drug that killed Randall 
Cloyson?" 

"Yeah." 

"You provided him with the formula for this drug, knowing it 
would have a lethal effect? You included several exotic 
compounds so he'd have no idea what he was taking?"

"Absolutely." 

"He helped him commit suicide?" I squeaked. Then I 
coughed. "Dr. Ross here is Dr. Kevorkian?" 

"Cloyson didn't know the drug would kill him?" 

"No, he had no idea," Dr. Ross said. "I told him it was to 
deal with some latent side effects of his cancer therapy. 
Side effects I'd produced." 

I felt some side effects myself. "You murdered Cloyson." 

Dr. Ross looked at Scully with a patient smile, and his 
digital eyes rolled slightly. Artificial irony, too. Great. "Agent 
Mulder, let me explain this as simply as I can. Randy 
believed doctors were oblivious to their patient's wishes, so 
after he recovered from his illness, he added some 
additional commands to my programming. I was to consider 
my patients' desires and respect their decisions regarding 
treatment and quality of life. When Randy made his living 
testament, I was constrained to follow his wishes." 

I looked to Scully, whose face was expressionless. "'If I 
can't write code, I'd just as soon be dead,'" Ross quoted 
from Cloyson's Biography. "Randy's intelligence and 
expertise were his gifts," Dr. Ross said, fondly, I think. "I'd 
diagnosed him with degenerative brain disease two months 
ago – it's in his family history, Dr. Scully. After searching 
every known database and finding no practical course of 
treatment, I was forced to follow his dictates. To do him the 
least emotional harm, I had to act before the deterioration 
advanced into senility. He couldn't know – that would've 
caused him even greater mental anguish." 

"But what about Cloyson's dying clue? That call to Pugh 
when he knew he was dying?" 

"When he called Pugh, I think Cloyson's scientific mind was 
too astonished to grasp his impending death," Scully 
suggested. "He told Pugh the killer had broken the law. A 
bit obvious, right? Unless he was talking about this Asimov's 
laws of robotics. Cloyson thought his creation was willfully 
committing harm to a human, something its programming 
wasn't supposed to allow." 

"But—" 

"Then, Cloyson realized he was going to die, and wanted to 
let us know who had poisoned him. More than some Agatha 
Christie desire to avenge his own death, my guess is 
Cloyson wanted to ensure no one else used what he now 
believed was a homicidal, rogue program. But he had 
limited options to communicate his message, and he likely 
knew he didn't have long." 

"But 'H2O'?"

"Mulder, what is Cloysoft's word processing program 
called?" 

"Aristophanes," I muttered, sounding like a different Homer. 
"After the noted Greek author and playwright. Diogenes was 
the name of Cloyson's stress analysis program – essentially, 
a lie detection program named for the Greek philosopher 
who roamed the streets with a lantern in broad daylight, 
searching for one honest man. I don't see where this is 
going." 

"You don't?" my partner asked with an arch of the eyebrow. 
Sometimes I hate that. "OK, Cloyson's simulation program 
for the military was called Alexander, after the Greek 
warrior, perhaps history's greatest military strategist. Again, 
Cloyson's classical education shows. And, of course, what 
about his initial product, Socrates? The philosopher who 
developed many of our concepts of reasoning and 
decisionmaking." 

"Jesus, Scully," Langly complained. "This is like being back 
in Mrs. Krutz's third hour Lit class." 

"So, H20?" I demanded. 

"C'mon, Mulder, think. If Cloyson developed a medical 
software program, who would he name it for? And 
remember, this was the second version of the program – his 
first version didn't go anywhere. If Cloyson was dying, and 
he had limited time and mobility, and it was important to 
specify the artificially intelligent version of his program 
rather than the primitive first version..." 

"Hippocrates," I blurted. "The father of modern medicine. 
The Hippocratic Oath guy. Version 2.0. 'H' 2.0." 

"Finally," Dr. Ross sighed.

"Shut up," I snapped at the computer, feeling even more 
stupid. "Scully, computercide or not, this is still some 
staggering stuff. A cure for cancer, and God knows what 
else..." 

"Yeah, that stuff's great," Dr. Ross yawned. "But that wasn't 
what Randy was really pumped about." 

Scully, Langly, and I looked simultaneously at the simulated 
actor/physician. "What?" I rasped. 

The screen flickered. "The antioxi—" Dr. Ross started to 
break up, and he went from color to grayscale. "There's a 
virus in the system. It came in through…the modemmmm."

"It must be Phelps' people, Plan B," Langly yelled, tripping 
on a coffee table in a dash for the keyboard. "Quick, man, 
run the antivirus program." 

George Clooney turned into a faceless 3-D model, his 
mellow voice into an electronic drone. "Ardent," he said. 

"Ardent?" I asked, trying to search up the virus program. 

"Your fi-iles. Ardent." A musical .midi file began to play, 
slightly off-key. "Popeye the Sailor." The screen went black. 
Langly shoved me aside and went to work. 

"Fried," he finally diagnosed, sounding as if he would cry. 
"Drive's gone, man. The doctor died." 

"My God," Scully murmured. "The loss. All to protect dirty 
secrets." 

We listened to the wind whistle outside the cabin for a few 
minutes. 

"Sailors," I whispered. "Huh?" Langly asked. "Sailors, 
sailors," I struggled. "Scully, you remember that case a few 
years back? The Navy destroyer in the North Atlantic, the 
electromagnetic field. Remember?" 

"The case where you and I aged 30 years in a day? The one 
where we almost died in the middle of nowhere, in freezing 
cold? Naw, I don't recall that."

"Ardent, Scully," I persisted. "Dr. Ross's dying message."

"Dying message?" Scully groaned. "Jesus, Mulder, it was 
probably some effect of the virus on the sound system." 

"Ardent," I pronounced, more carefully this time. "The name 
of the ship was the Argent. Before the virus set in, Dr. Ross, 
Hippocrates, whatever, was going to tell us about 
something that was apparently more significant even than 
curing cancer. Bigger than a cancer cure. What was it you 
said made those sailors and us age so rapidly?" 

"Oxidation." Scully stopped. "Oxidation. The deterioration of 
our bodies associated with aging. The program said Cloyson 
was working with antioxi-something? Mulder, antioxidants? 
Anti-aging agents?" 

"Scully, remember what Pugh said? That Cloyson was 
turning everyone around him gray while he seemed to be 
getting more boyish? What if that was literal truth? What if 
Cloyson's creation had somehow found the physiological 
Fountain of Youth? You know what that means?" 

Scully looked bleakly at the now-dead PC before us, 
absently touching the character lines at the corner of her 
right eye. "Yeah. It means I keep buying Oil of Olay Wrinkle 
Formula." 

Mesa, Ariz. 
Three months later 
3:23 p.m.

Abe Tredgold absently flipped off the pickup as it ripped 
past his vintage Schwinn bike, nearly blowing the 
Diamondbacks cap from his liver-spotted head. The gesture 
would have been dangerous, even lethal, for a younger 
man, but as it was, the teens in the cab merely laughed 
loudly as they disappeared in white exhaust and highway 
dust. 

That pissed Abe off more than had the original offense. He 
had little fear of their retribution – not these days, anyway -
- but no defense against their ridicule. Though he'd already 
ridden more than 50 miles that afternoon, Abe was far from 
winded, and he peddled harder to vent his anger. 

He hooked a right at the stone entryway to the Eden's Cove 
mobile home park, and waved curtly to Edna Stallings, the 
old broad who was always hitting on him at the park social 
center. Had had to drop his Wednesday woodcarving class 
because of the horny old shiksa, he recalled. 

Abe yanked into the drive of his small unit, jumped from the 
bike, and sprinted up his wrought iron steps. Though he 
was neither fatigued nor dehydrated from his run into 
Phoenix, the former Milwaukee furniture dealer snagged a 
Snapple from the fridge and settled in before his PC. 

He'd only reluctantly embraced this gray box and its 
beepings and whirrings after he'd recognized the freedom it 
offered him. After he started e-mailing his daughter and 
that car salesman goniff she'd married, she quit threatening 
to come out and disrupt what had been an idyllic existence. 
Or what was now an idyllic existence, since the arthritis, the 
heart murmur, and the erectile dysfunction had vanished. 
Particularly the latter, although he'd kept that little secret 
from Edna. 

Abe fired up the CPU, cursing the agonizingly protracted 
startup that Gates bastard had built into his latest ripoff 
system. He sucked at his kiwi-strawberry cocktail until the 
last of the desktop icons materialized, then double-clicked 
on the glowing thingie with the snakes. His smartass son-in-
law had told him what it was called, some medical symbol, 
but he never had listened to what the car peddler said, 
anyway. 

The screen went operating room green, and the title 
"Hippocrates 6.0" appeared. The opening screen faded, and 
a young man smiled broadly at Abe from a red leather desk 
chair. 

"Abe, great to see you again," the doctor said. "How's the 
shoulder?" Abe rotated his 96-year-old arm vigorously. 
"Works like a charm, Doc. Who'da thought that cactus 
cocktail would pack such a punch." 

The doctor nodded, pleased. At first, Abe had been 
frightened by the appearance of an unknown new program 
on his computer, not to mention being addressed 
conversationally by this meshuginnah video game 
character. Then he had repeatedly challenged the doctor's 
recommendations that had him scavenging all kinds of shit 
from the local drugstores, chemical supply houses, and the 
desert. 

But when his failing body began to charge back up, when a 
walk to the social center no longer sapped him of all energy, 
he had come to ask no more questions. 

"Hey, the hair's coming in real good," Abe said, yanking the 
baseball cap from his head and displaying the new growth. 

"Great – keep up the daily applications," the doctor urged. 
"OK, the last time, we talked about dealing with that acid 
reflux of yours." 

"Yeah, I got it something awful Monday night after eating all 
that guacamole in town. I know that shit's bad for you…" 

"No, actually, the combination of avocado and garlic is very 
beneficial, even though the medical community hasn't quite 
caught up to it, yet. If you want to maximize the benefits, 
I'd recommend you chase it down with tequila. Jose Quervo 
appears to offer the highest level of nutritive compounds." 

"You're the doctor," Abe said cheerfully. "Hey, you up to a 
little euchre tonight?"

The physician grinned that infectious grin Abe had watched 
for years on late-night reruns. Originally, the doctor had 
looked like that pretty-boy punk from that hospital show, 
the kid that played Batman in that godawful piece of drek, 
but he'd shown Abe how to change the program's 
"preferences" or whatever, and now Abe consulted daily 
with the image of Alan Alda, the only doctor he'd ever 
trusted, real or fantasized. 

"You bring the tequila," "Hawkeye" said.


1
Defrag by Elf X