Fox Mulder opened one bleary eye and stared at his digital alarm clock.  12:06.  There was no light coming in through the dirty glass over the bedroom window of his tiny apartment, so it must be just after midnight.

          The phone rang again.

          Who the hell was calling?  He briefly considered not answering, but there were very few people who he kept informed as to his current phone number and location.  Buying portable cell phones and discarding them frequently kept him reasonably certain that his calls couldn’t be traced.  Not from his end of the line, anyway.

          Scully was in Canada with William, their son, hiding from whatever remnants of the Consortium, super soldiers or alien beings might be interested in William.  If she was calling, it would be because either she or William was in trouble.

          Skinner was now a Deputy Director with the FBI.  He kept his occasional contact with Mulder quiet.  Technically, the charges against Mulder had been dropped, but they both knew that the FBI was infiltrated by his enemies, and that there was no chance he’d be getting his old job at the Bureau back any time soon.  The Director was convinced that he was some kind of lunatic or traitor, and Mulder had convinced Skinner not to jeopardize his own position by defending his former agent.  Skinner occasionally called and passed him bits of coded information; they both knew Skinner’s phones were all likely to be bugged.

          The Lone Gunmen also had Mulder’s number.  There was small chance that their phone was bugged, but they were also prone to calling for social reasons.  Once Langley had sent him the present of a new phone with 6000 minutes of air time, with the caveat that Mulder was supposed to use it to play D&D that weekend.  Mulder had been at loose ends at that time, and terminally bored, so he had agreed.  It was a mistake; now Langley pestered him incessantly for a repeat performance.

          He tossed off the covers, sat up and reached over to check his cell phone’s caller ID.  Unidentified.  Meant nothing except that it probably wasn’t Skinner.  He pressed the ‘talk’ button.  “It’s me.”

          “Turn on the news.  Channel 8,” a man’s voice said.

          “Who the hell are…”

The call terminated.

          “…you?” Mulder finished, then snapped his phone shut hastily.  He hadn’t recognized the voice.  That wasn’t good.  It meant that someone had found him, or at least his cell phone number.

          Skinner?  Christ, I hope he’s all right.  Had one of the various competing elements of the Project decided the contents of Skinner’s head could lead them to Mulder?  Was he even now in their hands, being tortured or drugged?  If so, he had to gather up his things and get out.

          He was currently parking his meager stock of possessions in a run-down part of an Oregon coastal town called Seaside.  Very touristy, and the food wasn’t bad.  Maybe it was time to go cross country.  To Colorado, or maybe Los Alamos.  He was tired of the incessant rain of the northwest.

          A chill froze his bones; what if they had gotten his number from Scully?  His ex-partner would never have given it out willingly, but if they had threatened William…

          He quickly dialed a number.  After a while, a sleepy voice answered “What?”

          It was Scully.  He hung up the phone, silently apologizing to her for waking her up at what would have been an ungodly hour in her time zone.  No sense in alarming her unnecessarily.  He’d call her back later.

          He dialed Skinner’s number.  No answer.  His heartbeat began to race.

          Don’t panic.  He may be ignoring the phone.  He may be working late…hell, not this late.  It’ll be four in the morning in D.C.

          Mulder flipped on the TV set, turned the dial to 8 and started tossing his meager set of belongings into a battered suitcase.  Something scurried out from one of the pockets and dived beneath the couch.  He hoped it was a mouse; cockroaches didn’t get that big, did they?

          Channel eight was showing commercials.  Mulder grabbed the beef jerky, and the armful of cans of pop-top Campbell’s Chunky Soup.  Damn, he thought.  I miss my TIVO.  He used to have all the days’ newscasts recorded, in case anything interesting had happened, from several different channels to get the various perspectives.

          There wouldn’t have been much point, though.  He was too mobile to keep a service long, and too broke to be able to afford to pay for TIVO service at every stop.  Between the Consortium assassins and subverted government agents, the alien bounty hunters and super-soldiers, he couldn’t afford to weigh himself down with anything he couldn’t climb out a window with.

          Ah…here we are.  Some kind of interview…

          “We’re back talking to George Douglass , our NORAD liaison in New Mexico,” a polished looking woman with a TV face was saying.  “We’re talking about the comet which has apparently changed course and is now headed straight for Earth.  George, can you explain to our viewers what’s going on?  What steps are being taken taking to protect us from this threat?”

          “Margaret, this is a threat not only to America, but to the entire world.  As such, all the other nations have joined NORAD in arming nuclear missiles and launching them at this devastating force approaching our atmosphere.  China has launched missiles, as well as France and Russia.  Everyone wants a piece of this trophy,” the man grinned, a sickly attempt at humor.  It was obvious that his joviality was artificial to the point of being ludicrous.  “It’s like a giant duck shoot, with a lot of hunters and only one duck.  Nobody knows who is going to bag it.”

          “How large is the comet?”

          “A little smaller than Haley’s…”

          Jesus.  That’s huge…

          “…traveling at approximately the same speed.  Current working theory is that it was somehow sent off course by a collision with space debris…”

          What utter bull-shit.  Who is this guy, the technical consultant on that dopey movie about the space cowboys who shot down the asteroid?

          “…and it is likely that another explosion equal in energy to the one which originally caused the accident…”
          Suddenly they were gone.  There was a moment of blank screen, then a shifting picture from the inside of a car, hard to make out what was going on, definitely a live broadcast “…this is Jim Belmont live in Washington.  We are racing to the projected landing site for what was at first thought to be a comet, until it shrugged off more than a dozen direct hits by the nuclear missiles from NORAD and France, and then proceeded to change both speed and course.  Current estimation puts it at…” there was some quiet conversation off-camera; Mulder couldn’t make it out, “47 north longitude, 123 west latitude.  That’s somewhere close to Mount Rainier.  As you can see, we’re not the only news vehicle on the road,” the camera tilted and panned out the window, showing a van with “Channel 2 News” on the side.  A kid in his mid-twenties, peering out of the van’s window, gave viewers the bird, and was immediately yanked out of sight.

          “As you can see,” chuckled the commentator, “there’s some degree of competition involved as to who will reach the site first.  It is not known if we will be able to arrive at the site before the object lands, but our driver, Crazy Eddie, is going to give it his best shot.  Gun it, Eddie!  Back to you, Margaret.”

          A ship.  It had to be a ship.  Was it the Greys?  The Rebels?  Or some new species?  Mulder searched frantically for a map, finding it under a pile of moldy pizza boxes.  He spread out a road map of the Northwest, quickly traced a route up the coastal highway to Seattle.  From There, he could take another route to…what had the announcer said…Mt. Rainier?  Hopefully there would be more details as the object got loser.

          Not a moment to lose.  Mulder grabbed up his possessions, tossed them into the cab area behind the seat of his Dodge Ram and set off for the highway.  He’d lose the rest of the month’s rent but it couldn’t be helped.

          It wasn’t until he was approaching the Washington-Oregon border that he found a decent channel carrying life feed from the landing site.

          “…can see representatives from four other stations, as well as the Oregonian, the Seattle Times, the Willamette Weekly and here’s a lady who looks like she means business.  Excuse me, ma’am, could you identify yourself for our listeners?”

          There was a moment of silence.  Then “Diana Scores.  Homeland Security, Seattle office.  If you’ll excuse me…”

          “Ms. Scores…does Homeland Security think there’s the possibility that this is the work of terrorists, disguising their attack as an alien invasion, aimed at striking fear into the heart of America?”

          Mulder could almost hear the sneer in the broadcaster’s voice.  Jolly good career move, dumbfuck.  Piss off Homeland Security.  Your boss is going to have your ass in a sling.  Or maybe not…if the guy was from OPB, or one of the openly liberal Oregon stations which made a living off its anti-everything-but-the-spotted-owl stance.

          “At this time,” the woman’s tones were colorless and clipped, “Homeland Security is not prepared to rule out any possibility, however ridiculous it sounds or how unlikely the source.”  There was a telling pause before she continued.  “I’ll keep your suggestion in mind.  Excuse me.”

          Score one for the lady, Mulder chorkled.  She sounds like Scully when she’s got her fighting Irish up.  Damn, I miss her.

          Scully had offered to share her aunt’s house in Quebec with Mulder, but Mulder had declined.  Babies grossed him out, with everything they produced from their various orifices.  William was a cute kid, as kids went, but he just wasn’t Mulder’s idea of a life goal.  Maybe he never would be.  Scully had understood that when she’d first asked him to be her sperm donor.

          And Scully’s aunt and uncle probably wouldn’t have been all that thrilled with his untidy habits or odd hours or hobbies.

          “Here it is!  Here it comes!  Get your camera up!” Someone yelled excitedly.  There was a crash and the faint sounds of someone cursing.

          “I see it!  Behinds the clouds!  It’s lighting them up.  My God!  It’s huge…”

          Something brighter than moonlight bathed his windshield and dashboard.  Mulder craned his neck for a quick look.  The clouds ahead and above were lit up as if a huge flashlight was shining behind them.

          They’re going to be abducted!  All of them!

          A shudder ran through him as he remembered the bright light, the face of the alien bounty hunter.  The metal prongs biting into his flesh, constant torment, thirst and cold and the unendurable pain of being pierced and violated, over and over, the alien faces staring down without a trace of compassion as he screamed and pleaded for release or death…

          When he’d first awoken in his hospital bed he’s remembered nothing of his experiences.  Hypnosis had helped him recover some of the memories of what had been done to him.  He hadn’t had an untroubled sleep since then.

          I don’t want to be taken.  The urge to jam his foot down on the brake was almost overwhelming.  I don’t want to go back there.  I don’t want them to take me again.

          Maybe by the time I get there it’ll all be over.  Those who they’ve come for will already be gone.  Shame writhed in Mulder’s heart at the thought.  Was this what it had been like for Duane Barry?  Worse, since Duane had been abducted multiple times and apparently remembered them all.

          Knowing what I know now, Mulder thought, I could almost forgive Duane for arranging to have someone else take his place.  Almost.  If it had been anyone other than Scully…  Knowing what it felt like to be in alien hands, over and over…I might have done just about anything to avoid a repeat performance of that torment.

          “…close to the base of Mount Rainier…the ball of light is massive…100…200 feet in diameter…it’s hard to tell…we’re going to get closer…”

          You idiots!  Stay away from it!  Run!  Mulder wanted to scream at the announcer.

          “…I can tell you that this is without a doubt one of the most incredible sights I’ve ever seen…”

          Just one of them?  You must have led a really Indiana Jones life, then…

          There was a booming sound, hollow and almost echoing, and a rushing noise and the sounds of screams and wails of fear.  Mulder could feel the explosion right down to his bones.  It resonated in him, as if he was a bar of metal struck by a hammer.  His ears popped.

          Too late…too late…

          “Jim!  Now…now…what’s going on..?”

          Mulder held his breath.

          “We’re not sure what’s just…just happened…” the TV man’s voice was shaken, but clear.  “The ball of light…it’s gone…”

          Gone?  How could it be gone?  Who had it taken?  Obviously not enough people for anyone to have noticed yet.

          Why were They being so visible, though?  It didn’t follow the pattern of all previous abductions.  In the past, the aliens had gone out of their way not to attract attention to themselves.  They just slipped quietly in, located their “tagged” quarry, and took them.

          He and Scully had found locator chips imbedded in the sinus cavities of all the abductees.  Either that or scar tissue that indicated something had once been present, but had been removed at some point.

          So the aliens have been and gone.  Mulder eased back on the gas and let the speedometer drop back to just above the speed limit.  Not much point in risking a speeding ticket now.

          The aliens wanted to be seen.  They’re going public.  Why?  Mulder had a momentary flashback to the TV dramatization that he had seen of Orson Wells’ War of the Worlds.  He imagined three legged tripods rising up out of the lake.

          “…there’s something in the mist.  Something coming out of the mist…people…I see people…”

          Shit!  Mulder jammed the gas and the truck leaped forward.

          “…so many of them.  There must be hundreds of people.  They all look confused and lost, as if they don’t know where they are, or why.  Jesus Christ, look at them!  Some are dressed in oddly dated clothing…I see what looks like different nationalities…many ethnic varieties…look…there’s a little girl…”

          Samantha!  Shock screamed across Mulder’s nerves.  His vision blurred and darkened and he fought to concentrate on driving.

          “…with the moonlight shining down on her hair she looks like a ghost in the mist…her hair is very light, almost white and she’s dressed in an outfit that looks like it’s from back in the post-war or depression era…”

          Disappointment flooded him and Mulder found his hands trembling on the wheel.  Not Samantha.  Ghosts?  Or something else?

          I won’t know until I get there.

          By the time Mulder reached the outer edge of the site, the place teemed with people and chaos.  There was a perimeter guard set up, just local cops, fortunately.  Feds or Homeland would be harder to bluff.  He parked the truck just outside the perimeter and strode purposefully toward the throng.  One of the cops tried to stop him but he flashed his badge, hoping they wouldn’t be paranoid enough to call in his badge number.

          He deftly avoided the TV teams and the obvious “suits” and slipped in among the multitudinous assortment of people, feeling as if he was in a surreal dream of sorts.  The mist was still quite thick, and people kept slipping in and out of it, some speaking in foreign tongues, many not speaking at all.

          There was an elderly black woman with sagging breasts and a simple African skirt, huddled against another black woman, this one in a business suit.  As he watched, the second woman removed her jacket and drew it over the older woman’s shoulders.

          There were two men arguing in German, and a thin faced man cursing in French.

          A woman with short-cropped blonde hair approached him hesitantly.  “Excuse me.  Do you know what’s going on?”

          “No.  I don’t.  Not much, anyway.  You all appear to have been brought here by a giant ball of light.”

          She gave him a dubious look.

          “No, really.  I’m Fox Mulder, with the F.B.I.”  He showed her his badge.  “What do you remember?”

          “Nothing.  I was hurrying home after shopping…it was about four o’clock.  What time…what day is it?”

          Mulder told her.  She gave a little cry and shrank back from him.  “2004?  No…it can’t be.  My little girl…Heidi…oh, no…”

          “I’m sorry.  What year was it when you…” but the woman turned away from him and fled back into the crowd.  Mulder pressed deeper into the throng of people, hoping to see a familiar face.  Was it possible?  Were these abductees who were being returned?  If so…

          He strode through the ranks of jostling people, scanning each face intently.

          Eventually, he found himself standing on the edge of the lake.  A man stood alone, a short distance from him.  Short cropped, dark hair, slimly athletic, dressed in dark clothing.  The man’s face was turned away from him, gazing out over the lake, but as Mulder watched him he felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise.  There was something familiar about the man.  Something that screamed danger.

          As he watched, a young girl separated from the crowd and walked toward the man.  She hesitated for a moment, giving Mulder a long, solemn look before continuing on.  Her pale hair shone in the moonlight.

          That must be the “ghost girl” the guy on the radio was talking about.  Her clothing seemed to be from around the WWII era, and she looked to be about eight or nine.  Mulder watched as she approached the man from behind.  Either she was making no sound or the man was ignoring her, because he didn’t turn around.

          She raised her hand, paused for a long moment, and then slapped the man, hard, on the leg.

          Reacting with the reflexes of a cat, the man whipped around and jumped back from her.  At that precise instant, there was a high pitched whine as a bullet whipped by right where the man’s head had been, narrowly missing Mulder.

          Sniper!

          Mulder charged forward, grabbing the girl and dragging her back toward the crowd of people.

          The bullet had been silenced; likely very few would even have heard it, and fewer still would recognize its significance.

          The girl didn’t struggle or cry out, and when Mulder set her down she smoothed out her skirt and stared up solemnly at him.  “It’s all right,” she said with a strangely adult self-possession.  “They weren’t shooting at either of us.  They won’t try again.  He’s hiding now.”

          “Who?  Who’s hiding?”

          “You’ll see him again.  You should be nicer to him, though.  He knows where all of us are.  He won’t find her if you keep being mean to him.”

          “Who?”

          “Samantha.”

          “Samantha?  You know where she is?” He barely restrained himself from grabbing her frail looking shoulders.  “Where is she?”

          “You’ll see her again.”

          “When?”

          She shrugged.  “I don’t know.  Sometime.  Excuse me.  I have to go.”

          By this time, more vehicles had arrived and people were being rounded up and herded into a series of black vans.  He wanted to pursue the little girl but sheered off when she seemed to be heading toward a crisp looking woman talking on a cell phone and arguing with a man who looked vaguely familiar.

          Another man, who seemed to be heading directly into the crowd, was stopped by a fatigue-clad man with a gun.  “Identify yourself, sir.”

          “Robert Chandler.  I’m with the Oregonian.”  The man waved an ID card in the soldier’s face.  “I’d like to get the names…”

          “You’ll have to stand over there, sir, behind the line.”  A long, thin rope stretched out of the darkness, shadowed by the evergreens.  A number of people stood behind the rope, none of them looking particularly pleased.  Several of them had cameras and camcorders.

          “But I need to talk to these people…”

          “Over there, sir.”  There was an edge of threat to the voice.

          Mulder backed away and headed for the lake, hiding his ID in the inside pocket of his coat.  Then he let himself drift back toward the military sorters.

          “Identify yourself, sir.”

          “I’m…Charles Rothwell.”  He slipped into the clipped accents of his favorite English teacher at Oxford.  “What on earth is going on here?  Who are all you people?  How did I get here?  Where am I?”

          The man signaled and two more men hurried up to herd Mulder toward one of the black vans.  “What is going on here?” he protested.  “I’m a citizen of the British Empire…”

          “Everything will be explained to you in a short while, sir,” one of his loaders intoned in a voice that sounded more bored than reassuring.  “Please take a seat.  We’re taking you someplace safer and more comfortable.”

          Sure you are…

          He was guessing this was a Homeland Security operation.  F.B.I. wouldn’t have been on it so quickly.  I wonder if they knew this thing was coming?

          Take a seat?  The back of the van they’d loaded him into was bare and empty except for him, a young girl with a broad Asian face, wearing a shabby, oversized shirt and a shapeless pair of trousers.  She was barefoot.  Soon, they were joined by a steadily growing crowd of people, and a uniformed man with a gun-bulge beneath his arm.

          With any luck, he’d have a chance to get a good look at all of his fellow “inmates”, and maybe talk to that odd little girl again, before they took his fingerprints and found out who he was.  Damn, maybe this wasn’t the brightest route to take.  He’d have to hope they’d let him go before the Consortium got wind of his presence.  Maybe Skinner could help.

          No, dammit, it’s not fair to endanger Skinner by putting him back on the Consortium’s radar.  I got into this mess and I need to be the one to get me back out again.  I’m not calling either of them.

          He watched as people were herded into the van, pressing against the walls and each other.  Their expressions ranged from terrified to angry to bewildered.  Some of these people may have met Samantha during their captivity.  Any one of them might be able to tell me if she’s here somewhere.  Should he start questioning them now, before they got separated and grilled by Homeland Security?  Or should he try to lay low and not draw attention to himself?

          Thirty years.  It had been over thirty years since he’d witnessed Samantha’s abduction; she’d be a grown woman now and not a child of eight.  What if I walked right by her tonight and didn’t recognize her?

          No.  That’s not possible.  I’d know her.  I’d know Sam.

          Then something clicked in his brain and he wanted to slap himself for his stupidity.  That little girl…the one dressed in decades old clothing.  She was still a little girl.  She hadn’t aged.  Maybe none of them had.

          “How long are you people going to be keeping us here?”  A conservatively dressed man in his late forties was grumbling.  “I want to call my wife.  You can’t keep us here like this.  We’ve done nothing wrong.  At least, I haven’t,” he amended, eying his fellow inmates with suspicion.  “Who do you people work for?  CIA?  FBI?”

          “Homeland Security,” Mulder volunteered.

          The man turned his ire on Mulder.  “What the hell is Homeland Security?  Some kind of secret service?”

          “Something like that,” Mulder agreed.  “When were you abducted, sir?”  The cut of the man’s clothing was dreadfully outdated, but there was such an air of arrogant privilege about him Mulder was certain he must be some kind of CEO or company officer.  He gave what was meant to be a friendly smile, but all it seemed to do is irritate the man more.

          “What the hell do you mean abducted?  Are we being kidnapped?  Is that what this is about?”

          “I don’t think so, sir.”  Mulder gritted his teeth and tried to calm the man, even though what he really wanted to do was choke the bastard into unconsciousness.  Scully would be proud of me.  I’m being diplomatic.  “Can you tell me what year it is?”

          “What the hell kind of question is that?  It’s 1979.  There’s nothing wrong with my mind, don’t you try to…”

          “1979?” a young woman exclaimed in a panicky voice.  “No…that can’t be true.  I’ve gone back in time?”

          “Back?  No,” objected a thick-set man with a German accent.  “It is forward.  It is 1952.”

          Many other voices chimed in, some awed, some frightened, some angry.

          “Let’s ask him,” Mulder shouted over the din, pointing to one of the pair of uniformed men who stood quietly on either side of the van.  “I bet he knows what year it is.”

          Predictably, the man refused to give a definitive answer, telling them only that “all of your questions will be answered when we’ve had time to sort things out.”

          “Will we be given access to phones?” The angry businessman scowled at the guard.  “My name is Orson Bailey. I’m the CEO of Bailey and Kensington.  I need to call my wife and my office…” he demanded.  Then, suddenly, all the color seemed to drain from his face.  “What year is it?  Tell me, damn you!  How long has it been?!”

          Pain throbbed in Mulder’s head.  The noise and possibly the exhaust fumes were giving him a doozy of a headache.  He saw several others clutching at their heads as well, and Bailey seemed to have sprung a nosebleed.

          Mulder caught the man’s attention and pantomimed, pointing to his own upper lip.  Bailey brushed at his lip, then stared in bewilderment at the smear of blood.  The young woman who thought she had gone back in time was quietly weeping into her drawn-up knees.

          Jesus…I wonder how long we’re going to be in here?  Mulder leaned his head back and tried to breathe through his mouth.  Where are they taking us?  No point in asking them.  He glanced at the guards, one of whom had removed his jacket and was wrapping it around the shoulders of the weeping girl.

          She thanked him tearfully and they spoke together in quiet tones, and when the man returned to his previous position the girl seemed much calmer.

          She’s probably one of the lucky ones, Mulder thought.  One of the ones coming back to a world she’ll still recognize and belong in.  Her form fitting stretch jeans and pierced nostril proclaimed her a product of a fairly modern time.  She’ll be able to pick up the threads of her life where she left off.  I wonder how many of these people will be able to do the same?

          Some of the others…imagine coming back to discover that everyone you knew had aged twenty years, or even thirty or forty.  Finding out that you have children older than you are.  That your wife now looks like somebody’s grandmother.

          That German from 1952…and there must be some even older.  What stories they would all have to tell…remembering bygone days as if they were yesterday, suddenly finding themselves in a frightening and bizarre time.

          I’m guessing we’ll see a veritable flood of books coming out in the next year or so, Mulder thought wryly.  Hey, and I’m in on the ground floor, so to speak.  He scuffed at the bare metal floor, wishing he had access to pen and paper.  Or, better yet, a laptop.  It would be best if he could write down his impressions of his surroundings while they were still fresh.

          Who was that man, he found himself wondering.  The one somebody shot at?

          Somebody must have known we’d be here.  Unless they were just shooting at random?  There had been something very familiar about the man, something that raised the hairs on the back of his neck.  I know him.  But…that’s not possible.  He’s dead.

          He had to find the girl again, the one that seemed to know things.  That means I’ve got to keep up the pretense that I’m one of the abductees.  How long before I’m recognized?

          If they took him back to the main office in Seattle, he might have days.  If he pretended to be from a time when they didn’t have fingerprinting, or at least widespread identification, he wouldn’t have to give out any ID numbers.  Maybe I could just claim general amnesia.

          “You need to leave.”

Mulder turned to see the girl’s pale face peering over the back of a truck.  “I need to talk to you.”

“If you don’t go now, something very bad will happen.  They’re watching us.  They know you.  They’ve been looking for you, and if they find you they’ll stop you from helping him.  If you don’t help him, he can’t find her, and she won’t be able to help us.”

“Stop talking in mysteries.  I’ll go with you, then you can tell me what to do.”

“There are other things that I have to do.  You have to go.  Now,” the girl told him, her face tense with desperation.  “It’s almost too late.”

A whiff of smoke drifted past his nose.  Morley.  Mulder slipped out of the back of the truck and crouched.

“Not like that.  Don’t look suspicious.  Just walk out.  Go to him…he’s waiting.  Look under the broken car.”

I must be crazy, Mulder thought.  Oh, well.  Wouldn’t be the first time.  He straightened, and, with a brisk walk, projecting what he hoped was an air of authority.  Twice, he had to flash his ID and steamroll his way through the crowd of official people.  Dammit.  Somebody will have written down my name.  I’ve got to get out of here.  He headed for the forest, trying to identify to the area where his mysterious target had disappeared.  It was too dark to look for footprints or broken branches, so he just set off through the thick undergrowth, trusting to his intuition.

Brambles tore at his legs.  In short order, he was soaked to the waist from the soggy undergrowth.  His shoes squished when he walked.  I’d forgotten how much I hate forests in the northwest, he thought.

Then moonlight flashed on something half hidden in the trees.  As he approached, he saw that it was an ancient convertible, hemmed in by the encroaching berry bushes.  He got down on his hands and knees, cursing as his hand was pierced by a thorn.  “It someone under there?” he whispered.

There was no answer.

“I’m here to help you,” Mulder said in a quiet voice.  “A little girl sent me.  The one who saved your life a moment ago.  She said I was supposed to help you, and then you’d find my sister so she can help them.  Does any of this make sense to you?”  He peered under the car, trying to make out if anything was moving.

There was a rustle from behind him  “Only you, Mulder...”

He jumped up and spun around.  “Krycek,” he breathed.  “I knew it was you.”

“Sure you did, Mulder.” The man waited, his face wrapped in shadow.

Mulder took a step closer, trying to get a look at the man’s forehead.

“Yeah,” said Krycek.  “There’s a scar.”

“Skinner shot you.”

          “Yeah.  Bet he was pissed off when he couldn’t find the body.  Probably wanted to have me stuffed and mounted.”

          “What did you expect?  You were trying to get him to kill me.  What was up with that, anyway?”

          “It was the only thing I could think of to say.  We were being watched.  I didn’t expect…I thought he’d put me in cuffs and drag me along.  Guess I overdid it.”

          “I guess.” Surprisingly, he didn’t feel any urge to grab the man standing before him, to pummel or shoot him.  So many things had happened since he’d walked away from Alex Krycek’s corpse, bleeding from a headshot in the garage of the F.BI. building.

          Rain dripped down from the trees, muting the sounds of their voices.  He couldn’t hear anything from the crowd back at the lake.  Maybe they had all gone, maybe they were just too far away.

          “You got a car, Mulder?  Are you here with anyone?”

          “Yes, and no,” Mulder said cautiously.

          There was another long moment of silence.  Krycek’s head tilted back, exposing more of the man’s face.  “So, what happens next, Mulder?  They’re looking for me.  Are you going to try and stop me?”

          “It’s 2004.” Mulder said.  “You’ve been gone five years.”

          “Is that all?” Krycek let out a breath that hung like a misty ghost, then disappeared.  “It seems like longer.”

          “You can stay with me.  I want answers, though.  And you have to help me find Samantha.”

          “If I can, Mulder.  I’ll tell you what I know.  I’m only just figuring things out myself.” Krycek took a step forward, extending his hand out toward the lake.  “I can feel them, Mulder.  Hundreds of them.  Thousands.  Like little fireflies, dancing in the dark.  All different colors.” Krycek’s voice was thick with wonder.  “I never knew there were so many different colors before.”

          “Can you tell which one is my sister?”

          “No.  Sorry.  I think if I meet someone I can identify them.  There’s that girl.  Maya.  She’s near the girl with the short blonde hair.  They’re the only ones I met.”

          “Guess we’ll have to go through the whole lot of them, one by one, then,” Mulder said grimly.  “Come on.  Let’s get out of here.”

          “Yeah.  Sure.”  Krycek seemed almost dazed as Mulder led him through the undergrowth, back along the path he had taken.  Twice, he had to pull Krycek behind a tree as someone walked by.  They had almost reached Mulder’s car when a man walked up to them.

          “Fox Mulder?  Is that you?”

          Shit.  He tried to sound official and in a hurry.  “That’s right.  Who are y…Tom?  Tom Baldwin?”  Oh, shit.  He’s F.B.I.  He’ll know about me.  Mulder took a tighter grip on Krycek’s arm and felt for the outline of his Sig, hoping he wouldn’t have to pull it.  “Sorry I don’t have time to talk.  Ever since that blast of light my partner has been having dizzy spells.  I need to get him to a doctor.”

          Tom frowned at him. “I didn’t know the bureau had sent anyone down.  Does Homeland know about you being here?”

          Mulder shrugged.  “The A.D. said to get our asses down here right away.  Said this had priority over the counterfeit operation we were investigating.  I have no idea who he talked to.”

          “Well, okay.  I’m going to be talking to my boss about this, though.”

          “Okay by me.  If you’ll excuse us…”

          Tom waved his hand in front of Krycek’s face.  “Hey, buddy, you okay?”

          “Sparks of light…everywhere.  Not you.  You’re not a spark.  Hell, I’m fucked up.  Where’s Mulder?”

          “Your partner is right here,” Tom told him in a reassuring voice, and helped Mulder fold him into the passenger side.  “Can you find your way to a hospital?  Maybe you should stay with us, they’re bringing in specialists.”

          “We’ll be okay.  I think it was just the bright light…he’s seeing sparks.  And I think he’s hypoglycemic.”

          “Get him something to eat, then.  Let us know if the docs find anything unusual.”

          “Sure thing, Tom.” Fat chance.  Mulder slid behind the wheel and peeled out of the grassy field.  He didn’t relax until they were back on the highway, headed for the coast.

          “Hey, Mulder,” said Krycek.

          “What?”

          Krycek sighed.  “You have no idea how good it is to be home.”