Title: Third String Player
Author: SL Wickham
E-mail: S3wick@AOL.com
Rating: Possibly R (I can't keep up with these things
for naughty language and some sexual situations.
Summary: Byers does a little moonlighting and meets
up with Susanne Modeski.
Disclaimers: (any references to things said and done
in past eps bordering on plagiarism, I humbly apologize.
This project was started five minutes after Three of a
Kind ended). Thanks to: friends and co-workers (Trek-
kies, X-philes and non) for their red ink and sug-
gestions; my mother, Judy for her steadfast defense
against disbelieving academia that all written submis-
sions were indeed my own and not gained through illicit
means; my husband, Mark for refusing to think my writing
fanfic is ' weird!'; My son, Bryan who's query, 'What
do you do with it when your finished?' sparked the bold
move to share; Bruce, Tom, Dean, Chris, Vince, Frank and
John (et al) for some fun characters; and Signy Coleman
for playing the damsel in distress.
Deepest apologies to both Steven and Zulieka, as well as
their many fans; thier beloved characters had not yet
graced this genre at this story's original conception.
"Good evening, Mr. Byers," the older man greeted
cordially as he approached the corner table. Taking a
long, slow draw from his cigarette, he held his breath
for several seconds, his steely gray eyes studying the
younger man intently. He then exhaled slowly, allowing
the smoke to encircle them like a hazy shroud before
spiraling upward toward the restaurant's ventilation
system. There was no smoking allowed, yet no one dared
challenge such indiscretion as the man helped himself
to a vacant chair.
His unyielding scrutiny made John Byers nervous,
and he gagged slightly on a mouthful of chicken salad
as he attempted to cover wide-eyed panic with a more
professional, journalistic resolve. Knowing how
dangerous the man was, though by reputation only,
Byers chose subservience over confrontation- -the
thrill of the chase too tempting to ignore.
Wiping mayo from the corners of his mouth and
ruddy mustache, Byers managed smoothly enough, "Do
I know you, sir?"
A thin smile played at the corner of the older
man's lips. "Your attempt at candor is at best . . .
refreshing, Mr. Byers," the clipped voice oozed with
hidden menace. "I find it both admirable and ironic
that you were named for our 35th president, John F.
Kennedy- -entering the world as he left it by means
of a lone gunman. Yet in lieu of maintaining the
very sense of innocence and wonder we've all forsaken
in that tragic wake, you and your cohorts- -Mr. Langly
and Mr. Frohike- -publish an amusing periodical by
the same name. To date you have nearly two thousand
faithful- -or dare I say, fatalistic- -readers through-
out the states and Canada, often assisting special
agents Fox Mulder and Dana Scully in some of their
more 'colorful' cases."
Though he found the other's trivial knowledge
about him and his roommates unnerving, John Fitzgerald
Byers elected to play through rather than call security.
Drawing himself up, he stated defensively in his matter-
of-fact tenor, "Sir, we've simply offered 'certain par-
ties' insight for the price of a credible story source."
The man methodically snuffed out his cigarette on
an empty saucer and lit another, his first drag dropping
ash to the table top.
"Credible you say?" he continued to taunt, casually
brushing the pile of ash to the floor. "I hope you don't
play poker, Mr. Byers. Your ability to outbluff your
opponent leaves much to be desired."
Another point scored! It was time to fold. "I'm
sorry, but I'm due to meet someone," Byers said. "May
I ask where this is leading?"
Again the beguiling smile. He had him! "Indeed.
The very man of whom you speak- -Dr. Benjamin Roberts,
a former classmate of yours- -came to you this morning.
He possessed a mini disk containing the latest install
prototype enabling long range networking of DOD compu-
ters courtesy of today's faster connection speeds and
fiber optic technology."
Byers swallowed hard to squelch the panic still
building in the pit of his stomach. "You have me mis-
taken for someone else, sir," he offered with some
effort. "My colleagues and I are simply here to set
up the latest prototypes for this weekend's activities.
Nothing more."
The congenial expression suddenly took on a more
challenging air. "As I said, Mr. Byers, you are incapable
of bluffing. Might I suggest
you do yourself a favor and forget about that schematic's
existence- -including that very lovely young woman you and
your fellow Gunmen managed to hide away in the WPP last
year? Quite an amazing achievement on your part. Took us
months to find her. But find her we did: bussing tables
in an Iowa diner. A wasteful vocation for a woman of her
talents and intelligence, don't you agree?" The male-
volence deepened as he concluded, "Be forewarned, Mr.
Byers. I know of constituents less prudent in keeping
secondary and third string players as healthy- -and alive
- -as their primary cohorts. Such topics can make for
interesting copy . . ." He paused for effect. "But only
if one is around long enough to write it. " Lighting
yet a third cigarette, the man rose and disappeared into
the crowd.
*****
The cryptic message had come in just before dawn:
"Agents. Byers in psych lock-up at Philly's North Side
General. Charges pending. Need medical pull to spring him."
Special agents Fox Mulder and Dana Scully braved the
beltway's northbound rush hour, arriving at their destination
around 10:00 a.m. They were met by the remaining two-thirds
of the self-proclaimed triad of conspiracy watchdogs known
as the Lone Gunmen: Richard Langly, the rangy long-haired,
thirty something, bespectacled, blond throw back to the
Haight Ashbury crowd of decades past; and the older, unshaven,
dwarfish Melvin Frohike.
Since their first meeting ten years ago, the Gunmen and
Mulder had often proved the other's strongest ally. Whenever
the agents' cases transgressed beyond the "pat solution" of
the norm, the trio often contributed the necessary "techno
edge" to Mulder's more reckless hypothesis in an ever growing
collection of dead-end cases known as the X-files which
covered everything from the eccentricities of the socio-
and psychopathic to the improbabilities of the paranormal.
Scully couldn't imagine any of the Gunmen married.
(Divorced, yes!) Frankly, she suspected this, and many of
their previous covert meetings, was simply a ruse for a
"boys night out".
Even Mulder considered the current situation suspect
- -probably another hacker game gone awry. He thus laid
into the Gunmen with an unprecedented ire. "So what the
hell happen to 'suit-boy'?" he demanded. His harsh tone
clearly rattled the two, which sealed the agents' suspi-
cions that something was up and the three were indeed in
over their heads.
Scully had no desire to get mired in what she knew
would be a lengthy explanation of Byers' situation. She
quickly volunteered to put her medical expertise to better
use by seeing the man's condition for herself.
Mulder, always eager to get to the bottom of things,
immediately turned to Frohike. "From the beginning," he
ordered.
"Said JFB's been here for the past three days after
supposedly breaking into some high brow computer proto-
types," Frohike began contritely. Mulder suspected the
little man's inability to protect himself and his room-
mates during their pursuit of journalistic merit weighed
more heavily on him than the threat of prosecution.
"Both the hotel and the owners of the computers
Byers trashed are pressing charges," Langly interjected.
"We can't get near him. That's why we called you two."
"What the hell's Byers doing in Philly tearing up
computers?" Mulder demanded. "He once told me he worked
for some smaltzy private group of programmers whose main
clientele was little old ladies wanting to surf the 'net
and could pay the big bucks for private lessons- -"
"Yeah, right," the older man chuckled. "Skinny is,
G-man, our boy's never drifted far from his pre-LG roots,
and rumors have a couple of his ex co-workers hiring out
to both private companies and government installations
troubleshooting their cranky hard drives. You know, find
any suspected glitches or viruses before it costs them
any down time. All under the table." Under the agent's
skeptical glare, Frohike waved off any indication he him-
self might be involved.
"We've gotten the go-ahead to buy and renovate the
office space
directly above us," Langly justified, "gaining our cozy
little dungeon hideaway an additional 1200 square feet
of real world. Byers hoped to earn extra working capital
setting up computers for this show- -strictly legit.
This whole theory about some power modification patch is
unrelated." Suddenly realizing he had divulged too much,
the blond damned himself. Tossing his head in frustration
and a whirlwind of blond tangles, he jammed his hands into
the pockets of his jeans and silently retreated to the far
end of the room.
Mulder felt his neck hairs tingle. He quickly dismis-
sed Byers and Frohike as chief suspects and descended on the
third man. "What power modification theory, Langly?" he
pressed.
Caught red-handed, the blond glared contemptuously at
the little man's deception. Then he revealed with a heavy
sigh, "Byers' chums worked that Bal-Tec mess after insurance
companies blamed the head gurus for 'supposedly' manufactur-
ing a defective install disk."
Mulder knew of the story. He'd certainly overheard
enough grumbling by the South Wing's armchair tekkies con-
cerning their own soured home upgrade attempts. (His own
hybrid system still awaited the Gunmen's promised upgrade.)
He allowed Langly to continue anyway.
"Some say the power boost over-powered the majority of
older systems. It not only fried individual units in the
case of both John Q. Public and DOD but, in some instances,
caused secondary shut-downs in electrical systems. It
took weeks to clean out all the bugs in affected areas."
The agent turned back to Frohike, looking for any
signs of support. However, the man was as adamant about
his innocence as Langly's apparent guilt, explaining,
"I've always told Jiminy Cricket he couldn't hack his ass
out of a wet paper bag. Yet he and Pinnochio here . . . "
He nodded in Langly's direction. "Went against my better
judgment and brushed up Byers' 'kung-foo' enough to secure
an invitation into their little 'hack'- -"
Langly jumped in defensively. "Byers claims he was in
touch with some Bal-Tec flunky, an old high school buddy,
who supposedly designed the original install package back
in '81." He locked eyes challengingly with the shorter man.
Frohike held his ground, however, as anxious to see his room-
mate bail himself out as Mulder was. Reluctantly the blond
continued to spill his guts. "Then, like now, - -" he began
to pace. "- -the program lies inert within the system or
systems for which it was specifically designed until a
pre-designated code, initiated at the programmer's will- -
powers up as needed, primarily as a networking or power
amplification option, thus enabling the respective files
to be more readily accessible to either John Q. Public or
DOD- -at a higher rate of speed. In theory, one can easily
abort all without damaging the existing system."
"Unlike a virus," the agent conjectured, confident
enough of his computer savvy.
"Correct, G-man," Frohike chirped, suddenly supportive.
"Whereas a virus stays within the system until it's 'cured'
and removed, it can cause significant or even irreparable
damage to the system. According to these two, the patch
doesn't . . . theoretically."
"A-l-s-o, what if a manufacturer's error- -say a com-
puter glitch- -installed those disks in a random set of
commercial grade computers,such as these prototypes?"
Langly offered haltingly.
"Whoa, boys, I think we did this one," Mulder reined
them in, picking up Frohike's not-so-subtle side glance.
Langly was his man.
"Remember, Wilzcek? Gelman? Killer computers?"
"Nada," the blond argued. "Brad Wilzcek manufactured
an AI into a specific computer originally programed to
provide high tech security. His intent backfired when it
began adopting self-preservation, even revenge, against
the project's higher-ups threatening its termination. With
its very existence in jeopardy, it simply did what any
sentient being might do- -protect itself. Unfortunately,
it did so by murdering other sentient- -and organic- -
beings. Donald Gelman's scenario, on the other hand,
placed one's direct conscious-ness- -or in his case, his
very soul into the computer's core memory, thus becoming
the sentient AI- -and equally defensive if threatened."
Mulder absentmindedly folded his arms, pressing the
tips of opposing fingers into the areas just below his
biceps. Despite Gelman's mind tricks, his arms were
still there and very much his own.
Scrutinizing the agent's every move, Langly suppres-
sed a shudder as he recalled Mulder's description of the
horrifying incident. Then he continued, "As I said, this
time, the software may be redesigning systems from the
inside out - -"
"Instead of the computers booting up to run the
planned program," Mulder surmised. His bland expression
proved a well-versed tactic,gaining him quick access into
the Gunmen's twisted perception of suspected conspiracies
they believed surrounded them at every turn. "You still
haven't told me what caused those blocks-wide power outages."
Langly stuffed his hands back into his pockets.
"Back in the old days, the computer's informational source
came by way of the modem patch through the existing phone
line."
"Now those very modems, or I should say their upgrades,
are subject to a more sophisticated power source with the
introduction of fiber optics," the agent ventured, trying
to ignore the Gunmen's condescending nods.
"N-o-t t-o m-e-n-t-i-o-n both orbital and stationary
satellite links," the blond added.
The incredulous look on Mulder's face was more remini-
scent of his partner. "So you're saying Direct TV might be
responsible for not only offering John Q. a choice of over
200 channels but also reconfiguring his files?! Come on!"
"Byers' words," Frohike reminded them. At the agent's
continued scepticism, he added with a roll of his bespectacled
dark eyes, "Yeah, I know. Pretty wild, even for Mr. Theory,
eh?" Then, suddenly more supportive of his roommate, he noted,
"The boy can write."
No argument there!
"The theories are sound!" Langly defended hotly, staring
down at Frohike through outdated horn rims. The little man
was unflinching as Mulder patiently awaited the coup de grace.
The blond failed to disappoint. His resolve quickly deteri-
orated into the admission they were waiting for. He exhaled.
"Byers and I double-teamed the old man to prove him wrong."
"No matter," Frohike rectified, glaring up at them with
a grunt of satisfaction. "We've got a roomful of busted com-
puters and our boy's in a heap of shit."
All unanimously agreed. Langly said, "Now instead of
securing permits and buying wall board for Frohike's dark-
room, we're up here bailing Byers out."
"And short of someone padding their stats, we're locked
into one hell of a mystery as to how these prototypes got here,"
Mulder mused. "Whether accidentally or purposely."
Whereas the older man embraced the stronger negative,
Langly maintained the weaker pro by stating, "The only way to
do that is to gain access to the computers in question and
find out just what that 'patch' looks like. It could have
been placed in any one of those CPUs and can be right in
front of our noses, or it can be camouflaged by a piece of
inert packing often placed to keep some of the more delicate
hardware from 'rattlin' around' inside the unit. Byers ain't
quite up on tricks."
His conjecture was far too smug, Mulder thought as he
began to pace. He clasped his hands to the sides of his head
as if the gesture might bring a quicker solution to the problem
at hand. It did nothing more than momentarily tame the perpetu-
ally mussed thatch of brown hair that up until now seemed defiant
of all controllable means.
His cell phone rang. It was Scully. Their resulting conver-
sation was short and sweet.
Stuffing his phone back into the pocket of his charcoal gray
topcoat, Mulder flipped his keys to Langly and instructed him to
retrieve his suitcase from the trunk of the Taurus parked at the
hospital's curb.
Now that they were alone, the agent decided to confront the
older man once again. "Frohike, this is crap!" Mulder's voice
quickly softened to a more compassionate tone. "Next time
things are tight, let me know and I'll slip an extra twenty in
with the groceries."
The little man threw his stubby, half-gloved hands up in
mock surrender. "It ain't me," he insisted. "Blondie's had his
knickers in a twist ever since Byers contacted him."
Mulder pursed his lips, deep in thought. He would not
confront Langly further at this point. Upon the younger man's
return, the agent pulled a change of clothes- -jeans, underwear,
sneakers, and a green polo shirt- -from the suitcase. "I'm afraid
Byers will have to dress down from his usual fare," he commented
dryly on the Gunman's fussy preference for tailor-made suits. "I
just brought the one standard FBI issue."
"Oh, the inhumanity," Frohike snorted. "Here. He'll need
these too." He pulled a small case from an inside vest pocket.
Mulder opened it to find a pair of dark-framed, Buddy Holly-styled
horn-rims much like the ones Langly wore. Byers' own, the agent
guessed. He wrinkled his nose disdainfully at such a fashion
travesty, now convinced vanity played a huge role in the man's
fashion sense.
Placing the case into a pocket, Mulder rolled the clothes
into a ball and stuffed them up under his arm. Delivering a
final ultimatum for the Gunmen to hold tight until his return
or risk dire consequences, he turned and jogged down the very
hallway that had led his partner away.
Beyond looks, Dana Scully's no non-sense persona and FBI
badge opened doors aplenty. The two huge orderlies- -one white,
one black- -manning the floor dared not ask the diminutive, cop-
per headed woman for an explanation as she made her request.
With a smug look to his colleague (seniority granting him the
right to escort her personally),the black orderly accompanied
Scully to room 211- -down the hall and to the right.
Unbolting the heavy windowed door, he motioned her inside.
The 6x8 "cell" had all but risen from the faded celluloid of a
vintage psych observation room. Garishly lit to eliminate all
possible shadows, the dank smells of human waste, sweat, and
mildew lodged a major offense on her nostrils. Although she
was used to the smell of death and decay, on top of a rushed
breakfast of half a bagel with low-fat cream cheese and green
tea, the stench made her somewhat queasy. In one corner was a
stainless steel sink and toilet with its flushing mechanism
bolted to prevent operation. Across the room, huddled and
shivering on a bare mattress, was John Byers.
Naked save for his boxers and the muslin wrappings cover-
ing his hands, the bearded Gunman was filthy, bruised, and
covered from head to toe with what looked like "road rash."
His cheeks were slightly flushed, possibly from having caught a
chill due to the lack of clothing and bedding, she quickly deter-
mined. The contrast of reddish-brown, pencil-thin sideburns to
his meticulously sculpted van dyke was nearly lost in a forest
of three days' hair growth. The normally neatly trimmed execu-
tive-styled hair was now an unruly tangle surpassed only by her
partner's. Squinting slate-blue eyes fleetingly acknowledged her
presence before turning back to the thickly padded wall. Embar-
rassment was clearly etched in the brood-ing features as Byers
cursed his ill luck. Of all people to come to his aid, why her?
It was bad enough to have friends see you this way- -but Dana
Scully was a damn good looking woman to boot!
She glared up at the man who had escorted her and demanded,
"What right do you have keeping this man in such conditions?"
"Suicide watch," he justified in a matter-of-fact tone.
"No bedding. No clothes. Unless he makes a necktie out of his
drawers, he's safe. Short of running a temp of about 101 on
admittance, there's been no change." Pointing to the rigged
toilet, he added, "Toxicology's still pending, but if he took
something that whacked him out, we'll know about it. Personal
hygiene's their call, not mine. I ain't had no complaints in
the twelve years I've been here."
This may be your swan song, Scully thought, peeling off her
topcoat. Turning it sideways for a more concealing fit, she wrap-
ped it around Byers' lean shoulders and squeezed in next to him,
determined to conduct her own medical evaluation.
She brushed aside the reddish bangs in a valiant effort to
redeem his usual natty appearance. "C' mon, Byers, talk to me,"
she prodded. He pressed himself all the tighter into the wall
- -defiant.
She was patient, if not persistent as male pride eventually
surrendered to her concern. Under the minute beam of her pen
light, she duly noted red and swollen eyes. It looked as if he
hadn't slept in days. "You know better than to sleep with your
contacts in," she chided lightly. Thankfully, his pupils were
responsive, ruling out head trauma. Prompting further coopera-
tion, she dabbed gently at the deep bruising to his left eye.
Other than the reported fever and his ego taking the brunt of
his humiliation, Byers seemed little worse for wear.
Scully ended her exam by removing the wrappings on his hands
and winced. The ordinarily soft, uncalloused digits were raw as
if scoured with a higher concentration of the same caustic agent
used on the rest of his body. The manicured nails were dirty and
torn to the blood-stained finger-tips. Both wrists and ankles bore
abrasions as if he had fought against restraint- -handcuffs and
shackles she quickly ascertained. "What the hell did they do to
you, Byers?" she whispered.
"May I help you?" came a voice from the doorway.
Scully whirled, her surprise quickly dissolving into nonparti-
san resolve as she eyed the bespectacled, silver-haired man stand-
ing there. He was dressed in a white knee-length smock, and his
name badge identified him as Dr. Joseph Weiles, Chief of Staff,
Philadelphia General Hospital, Psychiatric Ward. He carried a
battered metal flip chart with Byers' name clearly marked on the
front.
"I'd like to see that chart for myself," Scully insisted.
The man hugged the folder tighter as if offering up a chal-
lenge. "I'm afraid that's in violation of my patient's rights,
madam."
She flashed her FBI name badge, instantly grabbing the upper
hand by declaring, "Having already jeopardized a large percentage
yourself, Doctor, hardly puts you in a position to make demands!
As this man's personal physician, I maintain all rights to the
contrary over this badge!"
Dr. Weiles quickly realized there was no recourse against
keeping his medical and personal reputation intact and immediately
surrendered the chart without further argument. Gruffly he dismis-
sed the over-attentive orderly, saying, "Find a more suitable
attire for Mr. Byers."
Scully waved them off. Mulder and the Gunman were roughly
the same size, providing the convenience of lending him something
for the time being. She relayed her request by way of her cell
phone. On ending the transmission, she read through Byers' chart
while intermittently casting a vigilant eye toward Weiles as he
clearly sweated the outcome.
Two pages later, Dana Scully began her interrogation: "Dr.
Weiles,you stated upon your initial examination of my client that
he was found in the hotel's main conference room in his present
condition, some thirty-six hours earlier and that neither you,
your staff, nor hotel security inflicted the wounds he now bears?"
"That is correct, madam," the man stated adamantly. "Accord-
ing to hotel security, Mr. Byers was already in his current state
of undress when they arrived. He was surprisingly calm and coopera-
tive. The abrasions, though there has been no explanation for
their infliction otherwise, were already present at the time of his
arrest- -save for those on his wrists and ankles. His vehement
insistence on our wrapping his hands 'to protect vital clues
against further contaminants, proved the only sign of adversarial
tendencies- -hence the restraints. The source of his fever is a
mystery. The body abrasions may have been a second party's attempt
at covering up trace evidence of a possible crime."
Dana Scully's head snapped up, a sudden chill coursing her
spine. It had been five years since her own mysterious abduction.
At the time, a small, metallic chip was placed in the base of her
neck, and she and countless other women around the country were
stripped clean of all possible clues leading them back to their
captors before being "returned." She was all too familiar with
shady conspiracies.
"The apparent scrubbing Mr Byers received is often relevant
with victims of kidnap, rape, and homicide," the doctor's voice
droned on, snapping Scully out of her reverie. " . . . in the
guilty's attempt to remain anonymous."
In that I concur, the agent thought to herself, returning to
the present. She cleared her throat. "Spotless or not, you have
fully examined Mr. Byers since he's been in your care, correct?"
Dr. Weiles' resolve faltered slightly under the agent's
intense green eyes, and he quickly justified staff incompetence by
stating, "Agent Scully, whereas Mr. Byers was surprisingly coopera-
tive initially, he quickly lapsed into what could only be described
as delusional paranoia. He kept insisting he needed our help in
'diverting them from their main objective before it was too late.'
However, when further questioned as to who 'they' were, Mr. Byers
could not produce a lucid enough response. Most law enforcement
officials, particularly so-called 'rent-a-cops,' are not going to
waste valuable time and man-power catering to such reckless pur-
suits."
Then you'll find my partner a real hoot, Scully thought sar-
donically.
"He destroyed both personal and hotel property," came the
sudden, terse reply. "And he was therefore 'bundled and wrapped'
for shipment here. Other than the bandages and the precinct's
mandatory evaluation, your client has refused all medical treat-
ment."
Scully turned on Byers, who contritely and silently nodded
confirmation.
"Unfortunately, we didn't have the opportunity to fully
assess his case before you arrived."
All justification aside, Dana Scully remained livid over
the Gunman's overall treatment. She tossed the chart onto the
"bed." It hit, bounced, and clattered to the worn linoleum.
Weiles scooped it up and
clutched it protectively.
"Short of having you drummed out of the AMA for derelic-
tion of duty and obstruction of justice for starters, Doctor
. . ." She let the threat hang and took a deep, calming breath.
"Do you have a special crimes lab?" Weiles affirmed they did- -
in fact, the best in the country according to him - -two flights
down in the east wing.
Scully replaced Byers' gauze mitts with large evidence bag-
gies and nodded him toward the door. To the doctor, she ordered,
"Please make the necessary arrangements to have my client released
into my custody."
"Then I assume you're taking full responsibility for this man?"
"Stat!" Scully snapped back. She enunciated her next instruc-
tions to assure clarification. "My partner will be here shortly.
Please see that he's directed to the lab immediately."
Without further argument, the man left to carry out what she
hoped was an honor to her request. Scully and Byers exited the
cell and turned in the opposite direction, catching the first
available elevator down. The transfer was silent, save for the
ping of the floor indicator and what she soon realized was the chat-
ter of Byers' teeth- -more from nerves than the temperature. None-
theless, she secured the great coat up around his shoulders to the
best of the fabric's limitations. On her smaller frame and worn
in its proper manner, it was huge!
Weiles had obviously called ahead. Upon exiting the elevator,
a staff nurse immediately escorted them to room four, but not before
Byers made eye contact with a wheelchair-bound woman being wheeled
out of a room opposite. Clearly acknowledging the other's wounds,
the ever-congenial Byers was the first to turn away, convinced the
woman's injuries were that of domestic abuse. Her own battered eyes
conveyed curiosity over sympathy that he, too, had suffered the same
fate.
Without ceremony, Scully shouldered into one of the lab coats
hanging on a nearby wall rack and ordered Byers to have a seat on
the padded, paper-covered exam table. She swung around a small
instrument tray laden with blood tubes, slides, and other necessi-
ties for delicate cytologies and snapped on a small audio recorder
connected to the overhead lights. A pair of rubber exam gloves
were donned, and she quickly rattled off the man's vital signs- -
including a normal temperature- -into the microphone. "All right,
Byers," she declared with a heavy, non committal sigh. "Other than
keeping you out of county lock-up, we both know there's no justifi-
able reason to keep you here." She wrapped a tourniquet around his
right arm with a snap of the rubber. "So I suggest you tell me what
the hell happened before I personally drag you down to the precinct's
front door." Sometimes you just have to grab them by the balls!
Her brazen efforts, however, gained her only continuing silence.
The brooding Gunman refused eye contact. His bearded chin quivered
ever so slightly as he fought to maintain his composure. The redhead
damned her bluntness and again attempted the more personable touch.
"Please . . ." what the hell's your first name? "John . . . if not
me, Mulder is just down the hall."
The rare use of his given name and the first and only time
she'd ever called him that proved the difference.
Byers exhaled shakily and whispered, "He was there."
"Who was?" Mulder demanded as he entered the room. He tossed a
bundle on the table and clothes spilled everywhere, but he made no
effort to gather them up. Mulder circled the Gunman, eyeing his
injuries for himself.
As with Scully, Byers immediately averted his gaze.
On the third pass, Mulder stopped and stared, intense hazel eyes
penetrating the very root of the man's distress. He reached into his
coat pocket, dug out the eyeglasses case, and handed it to his friend.
Byers pulled out the spectacles and contritely balanced them on
his nose as if unfamiliar with their purpose. With a mild oath, he
blinked rapidly several times to adjust his vision. The increased
clarity unfortunately allowed him to see the more focused brunt of
the agents' scrutiny and he turned away again.
Mulder leaned in and prompted, "Spill it, John-Boy. We both know
you and Jim-Bob have been up to your little techno-tricks again. Who
the hell did this to you?"
Scully glared at her partner for fear his insensitivity would ruin
any hope of further cooperation from the Gunman.
No, Byers had apparently wanted them both present before he made
his revelation. "Cigarette Man."
Intrigued, Fox Mulder whooped, "Go John B!"
Often implicated in the very quest to which Mulder had devoted
his career, the so-called Cigarette Smoking Man hadn't been heard
from in a while. Now the mysterious man had not only sought out
Byers but had risked exposure by attempting to cover up that very
meeting. Why?
"We di-didn't t-talk directly at first," the Gunman stammered in
his high register, nearly jumping off the table as the vacutainer
pierced his vein. Panicked eyes glanced to his arm as Scully filled
two vials with blood, before rolling up in a sweeping arc. For a
moment, the agents fearing he was about to faint. No. Byers' intense
blue eyes continued their thorough search of the room for any possible
signs of eavesdropping. Taking his lead, Mulder pulled an audiotape
from his pocket, switched out the tapes in the overhead recorder,
and re-punched the play button.
Byers sighed gratefully and continued in his precise tenor over
the 'Smashing Pumpkins' rendition of "Geek, USA," "Agents, please
note for the record that neither Langly nor Frohike had anything to
do with this. I simply downloaded the necessary information to Langly's
computer as a fail-safe should . . ." He gesticulated with his hands,
bearing silent witness to his premonition . . . "anything happen."
Scully bade him hold still as she stripped his hands of their
baggies so as to examine and pull residue from his fingertips.
"You've heard of the Bal-Tec incident, correct?" Mulder nodded.
"Ow!" Scully had gotten too close to delicate nerve endings.
"Then you are aware I was attempting to secure a position with former
colleagues investigating that very case?"
Yes, they were.
A side glance to Scully reassured Byers that she was done tortur-
ing him for the moment, and he exhaled as if a great weight had been
lifted from his shoulders. "Three days ago, I was handed a mini-disk
containing the schematics for a reconfiguration or power modification
patch originally designed by a former high school buddy of mine
approximately eighteen years ago." Byers' voice rose and fell in a
precise singsong diction, his gaze still distant. "Then, like now,
it had the ability to either activate or deactivate itself through
a pre-set code. It also had the ability to self-destruct if circum-
stances warranted without causing harm to the unit or the existing
program. Back then, it ran on the existing phone line, linking
several schools through a time-automated system. Roberts tested it
simply by installing it in our school's computer on Senior Prank Day.
It set the bells off five minutes after classes began, flunked the
entire Honor Society . . ."
A mischievous grin spread across Mulder's elfin features. "Set
the fire drill off just as the entire girls' basketball team hit the
showers? Byers, you cad, you!"
The Gunman's resolve quickly fell to the agent's boyish innuendo.
Blushing, he nearly incapacitated himself choking back a laugh- -in
respects to Scully's gender and her genuine efforts to aid his case.
So she could continue her exam, the woman flicked her gaze from
Mulder to the room's water cooler and back again. As if he were an
unruly child on the brink of his mother's tolerance, Mulder silently
obeyed.
Once the cup of water was in hand, Byers sipped from it gingerly
then resumed his tale. "It was all harmless stuff, really- -until we
later learned Roberts had reconfigured all of Sterling County with
that one install, causing havoc city-wide- -malfunctioning traffic
lights, redirection of mail, to name just a few. When the task fini-
shed, the patch merely dissipated without causing harm to the existing
works."
"Sounds like a little fancy networking," Mulder stated, nonplused.
"Indeed!" the bearded man agreed, suspiciously envious. "However,
no one knew how he actually orchestrated it. Trade secrets notwith-
standing, the final project never made it to the grade books. Roberts
claimed someone had vandalized the labs, stealing the entire set-up just
two days before. Hours later, our teacher- -"
Mulder suddenly blinked, incredulous. "You were in the same class?"
Byers nodded. "But we didn't work on the project together. We
weren't permitted to choose our own lab partners. Pairings were pulled
from a hat."
"Very democratic," Scully mused.
Mulder agreed. "That must have put a serious swoop in your bell
curve," he commented dryly despite his partner's hard gaze.
"Yes," Byers grumbled, remembering the injustice. "With a school
full of officer's brats . . ."
A warning look from Scully immediately reminded him she was such.
"And bureaucrats," he hastily amended, "we the academically
inclined often carried the academic challenged."
"So what was your role in the grand scheme?" Scully asked.
Byers was surprisingly smug. "I was in charge of providing Admini-
stration with the necessary cover letter explaining the installation of
the circuit. As our intended foils were still surprisingly naive about
protecting themselves from technical espionage, it made our operation
much easier." He suddenly withdrew again, his voice quieter, less
certain. "Until, of course, someone eventually weighed all the vari-
ables and discovered our little secret. Roberts took the overall blame.
I was legally and academically absolved for my role in the prank, but my
father beat the hell out of me and gave me a six month restriction."
Mulder shot his friend an empathetic look that only a child of
equally strict parents could appreciate. Scully meanwhile maintained
her stoic impartiality.
"According to Roberts," Byers continued, "our teacher was reported-
ly killed days before graduation while attempting to sell the prototype
to the highest bidder, not in the freak accident we had been led to
believe."
Sell it to whom? And why come forward now? Certainly the trig-
gering mechanism had become more refined over the years thus canceling
out all previous claims to the original. Mulder's mind raced as he
paced. He suddenly laughed at the improbabilities, convinced now more
than ever that the Gunmen had plunged them deep into yet another of
their warped expos‚s. "What an incredible story, Byers," he condemned
with biting cynicism. 'How Old Smokey Stole My High School Science
Project' or 'I'm a Thirty-Something Trouble-shooter for Cigarette Man's
Stolen Techno Toys.' Credibility notwithstanding, it's original.
Pulitzer material. How right am I?"
Byers stiffened defensively, his gaze direct for the first time,
and spat, "You're a fine one to patronize!"
"On the contrary." Mulder crossed his arms defiantly, undeterred
by the other's sudden bravado and uncharacteristic precautions. "For
christ's sake, Byers. Less than forty-eight hours ago you were caught
red-handed ripping apart every computer in that conference room!" He
held up the man's mutilated hands for emphasis, allowing the topcoat to
fall. "If this is the real dope, don't sell your friggin' ass out now!
What the hell were you looking for?"
Pulling his hands free, Byers made no attempt to cover himself as
he jumped to his feet in a dismal attempt at confrontation. Mulder's
intense gaze was relentless, and the challenger finally backed down with
a dejected sigh. Collapsing onto the table once again, the Gunman
pleaded, "Please understand, Mulder, I can't! He'll kill her."
Contact!
"Who?"
Byers swallowed hard. "Susanne," he bemoaned in a soft whisper.
So that was it: John Byers wasn't afraid for himself or his
friends but the mysterious Susanne Modeski, an organic chemist
responsible for developing a mind-controlling inhalant prototype a
decade ago. Later stolen, implicating her in the deaths of her own
research team, Dr. Modeski had beguiled the future Gunmen into helping
her expose the government's illicit plans to introduce and test the gas'
effects on an unwitting public. Aided and abetted by his future
roommates, and fueled strongly by Modeski's mysterious abduction days
later, the incident had quickly awakened the trio's desire to denounce
the very government both Frohike and Langly often questioned and Byers
once faithfully heralded. A decade of unanswered questions, primarily
Byers' as to her unknown fate, had sparked a discreet and obsessive
search for her by infiltrating DOD conventions held annually around the
country. Then, while in Las Vegas last year, a suspicious Frohike had
blown the whistle, nearly convincing him of a lost cause. But she was
there! And still playing the gullible patsy. The Gunmen had
elaborately staged Modeski's demise before "losing" her in the vast
techno limbo of the witness protection program.
Clearly frustrated by the turn of events, Mulder stormed out of the
room, Scully at his heels. After a long silence he condoned shakily,
"Damn it, Scully! Short of hormonal overdrive, who was I to think these
guys would ever be involved or threatened in such a manner?"
"Maybe it's because we've run out of players," she sighed, still
neutral. At his pained expression, she reiterated, "Mulder, I can't
believe, for all your off-the-wall theories, that you can't accept the
pos-sibilities the Three Stooges haven't been as 'involved' as any of
us- -you, me, Skinner, our families- -long before there was an X-files
or their little 'rag.' Like any of us, they were 'allowed' to be- -if
only to publish their derogatory, self-indulgent theories against
government conspiracies- -and not simply gunned down along with you
and Dr. Modeski in that Baltimore warehouse ten years ago. Hell, their
initial involvement with her is what got them started in the first place!
It was just a matter of time before they proved a key player in any one of
Cigarette Man's schemes."
Mulder's head lolled back and his hazel eyes half closed in a
pseudo-sexual orgasm. "Oh, damn!" He sighed breath-lessly. "You're
beautiful when you theorize."
Suddenly struck with yet another epiphany, Mulder dove back into
the room- -all business now- -and gripped Byers' head in his hands,
forcing him to look directly at him. "You contacted her, didn't you?"
The Gunman tried to pull away, vehemently denying such accusations.
Mulder tightened his grip. "Don't friggin' lie to me, you
bastard! You're the only one who knows who and where she is now! You
let Cigarette Man out bluff you! He's tricked you into finding her for
him!"
Still clutched in the agent's vise-like grip, Byers lashed out with
a right cross then a left. The combination was clumsy at best and the
other sprang back, easily ducking the ill-fated blows. Peeling off his
own top-coat, Mulder ensnared the Gunman and slammed him to the table
until he became more manageable.
Byers grunted under the agent's weight. Finally he revealed, "He
claimed he already knew where she was!"
"That's part of Smokey's charm, you idiot!" Mulder shot back
angrily, as the other fought to roll out from under him. "He's testing
you! Just like he's tested all of us! He killed my family . . ."
Mulder's voice broke, and he slapped the padded surface just inches from
Byers' left temple. Straightening, he fought to maintain his composure.
The Gunman slid to the floor, his head throbbing.
Cursing himself for losing tact and tainting protocol, an apolo-
getic Mulder knelt down next to his friend. Still choking back
raw emotions, he finished, "Because they had either outlived their
usefulness or threatened the Syndicate's warped, self-ordained
perspective to create a balance between Earth's alien and indigenous
life forms or both. As of yet, we haven't. Neither has Dr. Modeski.
Smokey needs her, and you may have conveniently handed her to him."
"Not directly, Mulder," Byers disclosed, adjusting his glasses as
his voice returned briefly to its usual resolve. "Because of her
so-called notoriety in the research field, I knew she'd prove a hot
commodity. Admittedly, I chose to warn her- -but not before redirecting
our contact fail safe through you. I felt I owed her that much." He
paused briefly, and his next words took on a more dismal tone.
"Unfortunately, she never acknowledged. As far as Roberts' involvement,
it's the same old squeeze play. He received a pricey scholarship to MIT
from an anonymous benefactor, quite possibly in return for his silence.
After graduation, he fell into defense work both here and abroad, before
returning to the states and a cushy job as Bal-Tec's head software
designer contractor. During our brief meeting, he not only disclosed
discovery of placing an upgrade of his 1981 prototype- -this time using
a specially encrypted disk to activate its pre-set coding device- -but
claimed those cards might have been deliberately placed in CPUs we set
up for this show instead of the latest defense computers as originally
designated.
"Whether he had a change of heart or found out the truth, he never
disclosed. Roberts had originally agreed to meet me for dinner before
going over final plans to pull those cards and thus keep those units as
harmless as a Mother Goose rhyme. Admittingly, I was intrigued by the
prospects of securing a juicy scoop for The Lone Gunman, so I continued
as planned, expecting him to meet me later. He never showed. But
Cigarette Man did!" Byers' voice grew less assured and more agitated
with each admission. "Agents, he not only knows who I am, but he knows I
saw and heard things I shouldn't have- -starting with that install disk-
-and he seemed very concerned for my welfare should I continue. I now
suspect those computers were meant for another, more private meeting,
perhaps one . . ."
". . . hosted by old Smokey himself?" Mulder proposed mildly,
though not convinced Dr. Modeski hadn't simply taken Byers' attempts at
contact as a signal to run.
The brooding Gunman nodded. Mulder looked to his partner for her
perspective but drew only noncommital silence from her. She wasn't
quite ready to divulge her hypothesis- -if at all!
The tape player snapped off, startling them.
Silently, Mulder retrieved and pocketed the cassette then paced the
room. Byers rewrapped himself, this time in the more gracious folds of
Mulder's top coat.
Perching himself back on the edge of the exam table, the tortured
man quietly resigned to Scully's continuing examination. The orderly
dismissed earlier by Dr. Weilles returned with a complimentary hygiene
kit and the necessary paperwork to make Byers a free man. With Scully's
blessings and borrowed items in hand, he made use of the lab's shower
facilities.
The hotel doorman did an abrupt double take as a battered '72 VW
micro bus chattered to a stop under the hotel overhang. His momentary
surprise immediately turned to irritation at the driver's audacity to
include such a wreck amongst his more affluent clientele!
The bespectacled, long-haired Langly stepped to the asphalt.
Dressed in faded, blue jeans, well-worn Converse and a Ramones t-shirt,
he reluctantly handed over the keys to the first available valet. The
youth begrudgingly took the wheel amidst his fellows' jeers as another
valet happily snatched up the '97 Taurus pulling in behind the VW. The
Taurus' occupants- -a male with a bad haircut and an impeccably dressed
red-headed female- -contrasted sharply with the van's driver and his
passengers- -an older, smaller man dressed in black, from leather
jacket to combat boots, and a tall, thin, bearded man dressed in baggy
blue jeans and green shirt.
The desk clerk was equally startled by the procession but even more
so in recognizing the bearded man as having been led discreetly out of
the hotel's rear entrance in handcuffs just days earlier. The beard was
different, the clerk noted, praising his astuteness. Yes! The "jowls"
were gone, leaving only the Vandyke. The bandaged fingertips and the
glasses were also new, but it was indeed the same man.
Mulder flashed his FBI badge and insisted on seeing the crime
scene. Surprisingly indifferent, the clerk assigned one of his junior
bell hops to escort them.
"Plans are to strike this mess the minute you're done, agents," the
cocky, pimple-faced bellhop stated as he led them down the hall to the
main conference suite. "We have to make room for about 2,000 Pokemon
master wannabes vying for regional honors this weekend while their
parents hide out at the bars and malls." He sniggered. "Truth is, no
one's looking forward to babysitting."
Much to the Gunmen's delight and his partner's annoyance, Mulder
denounced the youth's insolence by scolding, "What the hell have you got
against Pikachu and Jiggly-Puff?" Caution over curiosity immediately
prompted the bell hop's hasty retreat as Langly began muttering "Jiggly-
Puff, Jiggly-puff," in a hypnotic soft falsetto.
Chuckling, Mulder peeled back the yellow police tape sealing the
double door and led the group inside. True to an ongoing investigation,
nothing had been touched save for the first team's initial gathering of
clues. Fingerprints, undoubtedly Byers', highlighted by the fine, dark
particles of Lingdom powder still clung to the more recognizable
components littering the last of a dozen or so tables. Eight tables
bore the scratches and forgotten cords as if someone had hastily plucked
the CPUs from them. The remaining three tables contained blackened,
melted clumps of plastic and circuitry which the bearded Gunman claimed
had also been computers.
"Damn, Byers," Langly lauded in his chronic nasal as he surveyed
the mess. "Don't ever complain about my workbench again."
Byers circled the carnage as if in shock. "I didn't do this!" he
exclaimed, hammering splayed fingers into one of the empty table tops.
He instantly regretted it and clenched his smarting digits into fists.
Through gritted teeth, he said, "As per Roberts' instructions, I simply
opened the drives, traced out the cards and, as prearranged, agreed to
pull the ones in question. Nothing more!" He indicated the blackened
pieces. "And certainly not to this extent."
Looking to a set of 8x10 glossies taken of the crime scene by the
local precinct laid out on one of the empty tables, Mulder began the
cross exami-nation. "Byers, you admitted tracing out the circuit cards
in question- -in all of the hard drives? Including the briquettes?"
The Gunman nodded. "But I did not tear them down this far," he
repeated. "Someone else did this."
"How many cards did you actually pull?" Scully asked, glancing at
the photos for herself.
"None," Byers confessed, his voice shaky with stress. "Given the
configurations, the suspected components did not fit Roberts' descrip-
tions so I left them alone."
"And the missing units?"
Still at a loss, Byers cleared his throat then resumed in a near
normal, though forced voice, "Those were the first ones I hit."
"What about the rest?"
Waving a hand toward the intact drives, Byers stated, "I went
through those next, saving the now destroyed units for last." His voice
regained some strength. "At least what I got to before Cigarette Man's
bully boys broke in and scrubbed off about three layers of skin."
"Byers, your fingers still contained traces of an as yet unidenti-
fiable substance imbedded in the tissue," Scully reminded them.
"Question is, did it come from those hard drives? Or did you place it?"
Suddenly unable to form words in his defense, Byers silently
appealed to his roommates for help. Unfortunately, they were too
engrossed in Mulder's own methodical reconstruction of the scenario to
provide the desired buffer. With a deep, submissive sigh, he, too,
resigned himself to watching the agent tour both the destroyed hard
drives and the scarred tables.
At one point, Mulder looked to a separate set of photos pulled from
an inside pocket. He paced the room once more then placed the photos
with the others. From another pocket, he pulled out a silver multi-
purpose tool and slapped it intermittently against the palm of his hand
- -a hard bitten commandant observing his troops- -as he toured the
carnage a third time. He finally stopped among the intact units and
suddenly, without warning, threw the tool to Byers.
Flinching at the impact, the Gunman bobbled it several times as if
unfamiliar with reflex versus simply protecting injured tissue.
Mulder tsked mild disappointment at his clumsiness and indicated
the closest unit. "Dismantle the rest of this CPU for me," he
instructed, nodding toward the burned out units. "Just like you did
those."
With a baleful look to his roommates, Byers shrugged at the
irrational request and flipped open the tool with liquid familiarity.
At least he knows his way around tools, Scully thought critically.
Locking open the screwdriver blade, Byers ran the instrument up
under the cover.
"No!" Mulder barked, returning to one of the photos and stabbing at
it. The Gunman froze, fearing he'd compromised vital clues.
"Other hand."
Characteristically muttering under his breath, Frohike ventured
closer for a better view.
Byers exhaled. The blue eyes behind the horn rims clearly conveyed
confusion as he hesitantly switched from his right hand to his left.
Working from the side, he again slid the blade between the cover
and front plate. Rocking the tool back and forth as his other hand
helped force the casing apart, the blade suddenly slipped, nearly
impaling the webbing between his thumb and forefinger. With a muffled
expletive, Byers switched hands and finished the task both harmlessly
and successfully.
Under the questioning looks of all present, Mulder retrieved the
last two pictures from the table.
"The hotel's surveillance equipment isn't state of the art so
clarity and chronicle records aren't a plus," he stated to no one in
particular. "However, fingerprints are fingerprints." He paused for
effect, noting the others' bemused expressions as they struggled to keep
up with him.
Spooky Mulder was off and running!
Before continuing, the agent insisted on obtaining fresh and
partial side views of Byers' thumbs.
Knowing better than to object, Scully noted a definite wariness in
the dark, furrowed brows- -as well as those of
his roommates'- -as Byers further complied to her partner's
eccentricities.
"These prints are of the views I've just taken," Mulder continued,
undaunted. "All Byers'." He pointed to one of the intact and melted
CPUs where three swirls were barely visible. "Save for this partial."
He indicated the contorted surface, then the fresh print. They were
unmistakenably different. Loops were clearly defined in the ink but
running opposite of that on the contorted drive.
Directing their attention back to the others, Mulder stated, "Byers
is right-handed, as we all know, making this print." Three pairs of
eyes exchanged questionable concern. He was losing the Gunmen fast,
while Scully maintained her usual impartial resolve until all theories
came to a head.
However, on seeing the evidence for herself, she soon realized, as
had Mulder, that the swirls pulled on the partial fingerprint actually
pointed toward the right, indicating its true direction or handedness.
The distorted plastic had compressed a right-handed thumb print, not a
left. The "print-boys" had apparently taken the compression into
consideration but not the directional difference. At least in the
agents' eyes, Byers' blatant lack of dexterity had cleared him of
tampering with the drive in question.
As if to expedite this matter, Mulder prompted, "Whichever hand was
not holding the implement of choice- -in this case a screwdriver- -was
used as leverage against the casing. In this instance, the drive was
the intended target." He held up the current left-handed print sample,
along with two other photos- -the right handed partial and its twin.
"Like I said," he added with his usual dryness, "our boy's right-handed
and not a switch hitter. But because of the distortion, Byers' loops
became swirls."
"You're thinkin' somebody came in either before Byers or possibly
after?" Frohike's dark eyes narrowed in confusion. "And either added
something to that
drive. . .?"
"Or removed it afterward, making it look like I did it," Byers
concluded, equally incredulous.
"That bunch who 'sanitized' Byers doctored the evidence!" Langly
snapped.
"On the contrary," Mulder countered. "That print we found on the
CPU wasn't doctored but may have been placed deliberately- -perhaps to
mark it in some way. Because that 'mark' was contorted along with the
unit as it melted, it was mistakenly assumed to be just another of
Byers' many prints already lifted from the other drives and not con-
sidered for a positive match because they already had enough evidence
to convict. I think our marker was a southpaw. That's why I had
Byers switch hands to pry off that casing." Though his taunting gaze
suggested to his partner he'd already laid odds, Mulder added, "The
million dollar question is, whose print is it? And why that unit in
particular . . .?"
"Roberts," the bearded Gunman proposed confidently.
Mulder beamed, though his last question still plagued him.
"We were pretty tight in high school," Byers reflected, unheeded.
"He- -was- -left-handed. I'm afraid we often got a little pissy about
it."
As if struck, he suddenly motioned for a pair of Mulder's never-
ending supply of rubber exam gloves and eased his hands into them.
Breaking back into the remaining drives, he systematically poked through
the maze of components before moving onto the next. "Roberts always
wrapped his circuits 'backward' or counterclockwise rather than clock-
wise," he explained as he went into the
"marked" drive. With a grunt of satis-faction, he folded the multitool's
handle back onto itself, exposing a pair of needle nose pliers,and dove
back into the unit.
"No biggie," Frohike suddenly supported, his explanation more for
the agents' benefit. "They'll just twist into a connection better as
everything is done clockwise- -less likely to loosen up and cause
problems later. It's 'a rule of thumb', as it were."
"Not crucial," Byers added, "as much as they were distinctive." He
extracted the remains of a circuit card and held it up for all to see.
Among the minuscule maze of components were several pin-like protru-
sions. Silver wire was wrapped around each about three to four times
in a counter-
clockwise spiral, the bottom of which angled to the next post linking
them.
"He's right, agents," the little man confirmed, eyeballing the
connection. "A lefty wrapped that card."
"But this was not the piece I was after," Byers lamented, waving
the card for emphasis.
Mulder plucked the multi-tool from his hand, careful not to touch
the card still clasped in its jaws. Scrutinizing each and every
connection, he began to pace as he formed his thoughts. "Okay, Byers.
Explain Roberts' theory to me one more time."
Scully braced herself for a continuation of what could only
prove a four man dissertation on abject paranoia.
The bearded Gunman eerily repeated word for word his earlier
explanation in his usual sing-song precision as if reading from a
prepared text. After a brief hesi-tation, he added, "For its maiden
run, that patch was simply implemented as a harmless prank. Now, in a
more modern configuration, we're witnessing an alleged cover-up to
corporate espionage as Bal-Tec's higher-ups scramble to save their butts
by rectifying illicit dealings through an elaborate accident or an act
of God."
He and Mulder were playing to a silent contingent, however. With
an exasperated sigh, the agent was about to attempt yet another, more
simplistic explanation when Byers' sudden sharp inhale snapped his head
around.
"Call it a long shot, Mulder, but I think I know Susanne's role in
this!" Byers whispered. Hold-ing up his injured fingers for emphasis,
he proposed, "What if you're correct and someone is attempting to call
attention to all this?" His tone rose with each syllable, blue eyes
growing wider with each revelation.
Byers indicated the blackened CPUs. "What if that person is
Susanne? Not Roberts. What if she's now infiltrating defense labs
suspect of such covert operations and, in this case, sabotaging their
efforts to cultivate theories into fact?" By now the dark brows had
nearly disap-peared into his hairline, aided and abetted by an almost
sanguine expression in the blue eyes. The Gunman was surprisingly
logical over what could have easily been continuing lust for the woman.
"Mulder, what if Roberts has since perfected the encoding initiate on
those cards and was on the brink of introducing it into computers
slated for covert ops, much like your nemesis CSM is involved in?
Perhaps Susanne sabotaged such efforts and hid the key elements in one
of these units?"
"Not Susanne. It was you, my friend."
The man's jaw dropped.
"Think about it," Mulder pressed. "Only a small percentage of
those hard drives were destroyed. Save for one table, the rest are
missing all together. If those CPUs got mixed up in shipment and
someone tried to cover it up- -say, your left-handed friend? Roberts
knew those 'specialty' units were here but, short of that one table,
couldn't tell from the outside which ones were 'hot.' He somehow
infected you with that initiate and had you go hunting for him. A
primary agent on those cards may have interacted with something either
on your skin or in your bloodstream and was later introduced into those
CPUs."
Byers rolled his eyes, clearly disappointed by his friend's
illogic. "Mulder," he hissed, "remember, there were no cards to
remove."
"But you did go into those units." The agent was equally
persistent. "That may have been the very procedure they needed. They
may simply place the necessary cards to complete their objective at a
later date."
Byers stole a horrified glance toward the destroyed units- -and
particularly the one in question. "Then I did 'infect' those drives,
didn't I?"
"Yes and no, my friend," Mulder stated. "You may have just
provided a decoy for those involved." He pointed to the empty tables.
"And they have what they want." Byers closed his eyes and swore.
"Short of the soap in the men's bathroom, Roberts somehow infected
you. Skin-to-skin contact's a high probability and none too hard to
initialize."
"Save for some mild anomalies, my blood tests were negative
according to Scully," Byers contested, his mouth dry.
"As are Assistant Director Skinner's," Mulder pointed out.
"Despite having a colony of nano critters hibernating in his bloodstream
for the past two years, he's passed every physical exam Scully's laid
out or invented and may continue to do so until Krycek wakes them up.
That chemical may go undetected- -lying just as dormant until mixed
with another. Did Roberts give you anything? A piece of paper . . .?
The other man shook his head. "Just the install- -" At the sudden
realization, Byers collapsed onto the edge of the nearest table. "Oh,
God! It was on the disk he gave me!"
Mulder flagged the others over.
Oblivious, Byers continued to rant. "Now it's in me!"
"Do you still have it?" Frohike pressed. "The disk, I mean?"
Byers shook his head vehemently.
Curiously, the little man instructed him to unwrap the bandages.
Hesitantly, Byers did so. Plucking a multimeter designed to read
electrical currents from a nearby table, Frohike held the two probes
simultaneously against the tips of the man's right and left thumbs.
Incredibly, the indicator needle advanced several 'ticks'! "What the
hell?" he exclaimed. He reset the dial and repeated the test - - first
on Byers' left hand then his right.
Nothing.
Frohike repeated the experiment. "That's weird," he mumbled. "We
all have some basis of electrical charge within us- -that's all sixth
grade science crap- -but it's far too minute to read with this type of
meter. And it would read all ports." He spread his short arms across
his room- mate's body then collapsed his own thick, half-gloved hands to
encapsulate a single hand. "Not just the one in this case. But no
matter. This shouldn't happen."
"There are some recorded instances of people unexplainably
producing a true electrical charge," Mulder disputed.
"Not a big secret," Langly stated flatly. His command of the
English language was often rough in execution, as if garnering little
patience for those outside his higher realm of intelligence.
Frohike nodded. "There's no known explanation, yet some people
can make light bulbs glow simply by holding them. In less severe cases,
one can't wear a wristwatch because the current is just strong enough to
prevent it from working."
The blond plucked a pocket tester from his hip pocket and pitched
it to Byers. Without waiting for an explanation, the bearded man held
the leads, one in each hand, making the tiny bulb glow. He then placed
one lead against his thumb and the other against his pinkie finger.
Like the multimeter, it failed to register.
At a loss to explain it all, Frohike again snapped, "What the
hell's going on?"
Scully immediately reached out and grabbed Byers' hands as if
seeing them for the first time. "Maybe those readings aren't from skin
tissue but what's imbedded in them."
"Dana, you said yourself that you couldn't identify the substance,"
Byers argued.
"Unidentifiable- -but present none-theless," she reminded him
curtly, still refusing to give in to anything less than science fact.
"Frohike, can you give me another reading? This time without touching
the injured tissue?"
Eager to please, the older man com-plied. This time the results
were negative. He let out a slow whistle. "Boy, you not only cooked
those hard drives but damn near yourself. Had you touched anything
vital . . . By the way, where is your watch?"
"Probably in the same hazard waste dumpster as his clothes," Mulder
dead-panned.
Scully pulled four vials containing the Gunman's tissue samples
from the pocket of her great coat and had Frohike repeat his tests.
Alone they read nothing.
Suddenly inspired, Mulder removed his watch and pried off the back
to reveal the inner workings. Immediately grasping his motive, Langly
clipped a jumper wire to one side of the watch and the other separately
into each of the vial's contents.
Again nothing.
Langly then connected four separate leads to a metallic bussing
strip before dipping each lead into its own vial and reconnected the
jumper wire. The timepiece immediately smoked and fused, freezing time
at 3:13. Frohike placed the multi-meter's probes on the site. The
needle pegged to the meter's maximum range! They repeated the same test
with the card pulled from the burned-out CPU and other cards pulled at
random from the intact units.
Only the former prompted the little man's confirmation: "You and
Mulder were right, 'theory boy,' it ain't just the patch. It's whatever
Roberts allegedly introduced into those 'hot' units from
your body or vice versa." He suddenly stared concernedly but said
nothing as Byers spontaneously dabbed at a bead of sweat forming on his
brow.
At Mulder's invitation, Frohike and Langly descended upon the CPUs
like two kids in a candy store. They visually placed each component in
its correct sequence before mapping out schematics on con-vention-issued
post-it notes.
Visibly shaken, Byers retreated to a far table. Seating himself,
he wrapped his arms around his knees as he drew them up to his chin.
Fear of what he might have unleashed gripped him.
Scully turned to her partner and cut her eyes toward the opposite
end of the room- -away from the Gunmen- -before leading the way. Mulder
followed obediently, bracing for the imminent storm.
It hit before he was properly set, and he took an involuntary step
backward when she suddenly whirled on him. "Mulder, in the six years
I've known you, I have followed you and supported you- -though not as
blindly as one might expect
- -but faithfully nonetheless."
"Sounds like a damn good marriage to me," he countered.
Ignoring his attempt at levity, she snapped back," Granted, our
cases have been less than boring. However, baby-sitting the Three
Stooges when I should be holed up my little office cubicle, balanc-ing
my checkbook while seeking credi-bility for said cases before wrapping
it all up in a neat, plausible package for Skin-ner at week's end, is
going above and beyond the call."
"Best hold that thought, Scully," Mulder cautioned, convinced that
their current case was any- thing less than a set deal, "because my
checkbook's a mess."
Scully made no attempt to stifle her exasperation. It was
undoubtedly going to be a long afternoon.
Three hours and a table full of yellow squares laid out in an
almost crossword-like configuration later, the two Gunmen were no
closer to a solution. The components in both the destroyed and
intact units were from standard stock. The card pulled from the
"marked" remains was the only difference they could see as the rest
of the circuitry in the unit was a fused and unidentifiable mess.
Nonetheless, the card was represented by its own set of "stickies"
with equally frustrating results. It was at this point that the
four men arbitrarily agreed to Scully's suggestion of dinner.
Because of the upcoming tourney, there wasn't a decent room to
be found either in the hotel itself or in close proximity. The
hotel's dining hall was filled with loud, spoiled children and their
passive parents, forcing the group by choice, rather than default,
to eat in the conference room.
The meal progressed in reasonable silence until Langly noticed
Byers' overly studious rearrangement of his mashed potatoes. "Dude,"
he declared, "you start carving the Devil's Tower out of those spuds
and I'm headin' the volkster home with all hands, ASAP!"
The sudden condemnation stopped Byers cold. He angrily pushed
his plate away and began pacing the room like a caged animal. His
roommates looked at each other curiously as if uncertain whether an
apology was warranted or how to even execute such a formality. The
two FBI agents immediately noticed the increasing tension in the air.
Any other time, the jest would've barely raised hackles.
Seated to Byers' right, Frohike was the first to recognize the
schematic traced into the potatoes before him. Abruptly inspired, the
little man scribbled the layout on the last of the note pads and slap-
ped it to the table top. Their cornerstone now laid, he and Langly began
adding or tossing out "stickies" like a mad game of gin rummy before
placing them with the first- -each move punctuated with their usual crass
deliberation against the other- -as they "rebuilt" a single mainframe
from the ground up. The bearded man's anger eventually faded to
curiosity as he rejoined them.
While Fox Mulder appeared raptly entertained by the spectacle, Dana
Scully dutifully absorbed the Gunmen's eccentricities through her ever-
present resolve. Curiosity finally got the better of her, however, and
she inquired as to what the large puddle of ketchup on Byers' plate
represented.
"Nothing," Langly said. "It's just ketchup."
"Mind you, a severe culinary faux paux where chicken is concerned,"
added Frohike in a pseudo-Freudian accent. "And one of many faults
we've been trying to unsuccessfully break 'beard boy' of for years."
Such jocularity even gained a rare chuckle from Byers as he began
listing supplies needed.
Eyeing their renewed enthusiasm as she read over Byers' shoulder,
and knowing her partner was not above such tactics, Scully reasoned,
"Why not just confiscate the drives in question and use them for your
control?"
Mulder was quicker with an expla-nation. "Why risk using
potentially tainted material, Scully?"
The others turned to her as one, their own faces a mask of her
partner's as they set for one final appeal. "There's no telling what
other elements may have been placed in those drives . . ."
The woman threw her well manicured hands up in mock surrender.
"Silly me."
*****
The owner of Northside Electronics eyed the top-coated gentleman
and his redheaded lady companion warily through thick coke-bottle
lenses as they entered the store. Such well-dressed clientele usually
meant his merchandise had proven less than
kosher enough to bring the Feds in asking questions.
Not so with the three Gunmen who entered minutes later- -fellow
"eggheads," he determined.
The clerk had a sizeable data base made up of these types. He
enthusiastically catered to their often eccentric electronic needs
and knew what to expect. Perhaps it was simply coincidence or did
these people all seem to know each other? No matter. The man's
guard didn't waver as special agent Fox Mulder approached the count-
er and pulled their "shopping" list from a coat pocket.
"How long will it take you to fill this?" Mulder demanded. The
clerk momentarily tore himself away from scrutinizing his companions- -
particularly the woman- -long enough to look over the paper then back
to the male agent. "About an hour," he stated, his dark eyes magnified
almost double through the thick lenses.
The clerk began to feel a bit uneasy about this group of customers.
He watched via the store's desk-top monitor as the bearded man and his
"hippie" com-panion cruised the aisles with almost pre-planned precision.
They plucked bails of assorted wire, bussing strips, diodes, capacitors,
and other components from shelves and pegboard displays and tossed their
selection into hand-held, green and white courtesy baskets. Two aisles
over, the older man dourly cased the store's selection of oscilloscopes
and experimenters. After several passes and head shaking, he returned
to the agent's side, muttering something about available stock not having
the power capabilities they needed, literally damning himself for not
including their own home-built versions on the trip.
Looking back at the paper, the clerk added thoughtfully, "Maybe
longer. These last items are government issue. Sorry. I can't touch
'em."
Not buying such candor, Mulder flashed his badge.
The younger man quickly back-tracked. "But then again- -I might be
able to get you the board and 'scope you need."
Frohike handed him the phone. "Work your magic, home boy. We need
virgin stuff- -nothing that might have been compromised by Big Brother.
You savvy?"
The younger man did indeed, his eyes all the more owlish as the
thrill of intrigue replaced suspicion. He pulled a worn notebook from
a cubbyhole under the register. Opening it to a specific page, he
snatched the phone from the older man and dialed.
As promised, the clerk secured their special order in record time
but hit a stale-mate concerning payment. None of the Gunmen carried
credit cards, and Mulder's available balance fell well below their
needs. Scully came up with the ideal solution- -and not without some
old-fashioned flirting, the group noticed- -before agreeing to cover the
regular cost of supplies and two days' rental on both the specialty
equipment and the clerk's workroom on her own Visa card.
At the Gunmen's silent inquisition, Mulder shrugged, unimpressed.
"I could have done it," he attempted in a grandiose attempt to save
face, "if I hadn't paid off my lifetime subscription to Playboy last
week."
"And if only you filled out those centerfolds as well as they did,"
Frohike uttered with a suggestive Groucho Marxian wiggle of his thick
brows.
His eyes still drinking in Scully's slender form, the clerk waved
them toward a small work room off the back of the store- -a smaller
version of the Gunmen's own urban DC apartment. It was dimly lit, with
industrial steel shelving laden with what Langly mockingly referred to
as every electrical device invented by man over the last thirty years.
To their left, the dark walls were covered in peg-board, holding readily
accessible tools. Below this and centered in the room ran an eight foot
work table providing equal access to all sides. Two wooden chairs
provided seating.
At the door, Frohike curtly dismissed the clerk as he brought up
the rear. The younger man was clearly worming his way into their
domain, he determined, quite possibly in order to be closer to Scully
as much as to observe their covert operation. Frohike quickly shut and
locked the door in the younger man's face. A mild oath came from the
other side. "Same to ya, punkass," he grumbled in reply.
Taking in their new surroundings, Scully wrinkled her nose
disdainfully at the putrid smell of sweat, silicon, burnt plastic,
solder, and cheap cologne. Mulder couldn't help commenting softly in
her ear, "All we need now is the lingering aroma of Frohike's corned
beef and cabbage."
In the corner nearest them was a small no-frills bathroom. At the
rear of the room an outside door led to an alley. On the near side of
the door was a sad-looking potted plant all but devoid of foliage due to
inadequate water and sunlight. The corner opposite posed as a sitting
room, complete with a battered futon and a frayed, over-stuffed arm-
chair. Precariously balanced atop a stack of milk crates was an
antiquated portable TV.
After taking inventory of their pur-chases, Langly and Frohike
began laying out the basic circuits for their mock-up. The agents and
Byers watched the process silently from the sitting area.
Soon bored, Mulder turned on the TV and flipped the rotary knob
until he found a local station hosting a sci-fi marathon. The reception
was poor, and one could just make out the squiggly characters through
the electronic snow. On the screen, a woman with a slightly British
accent was in-quiring about the odd collection of smoking vacuum tubes
and wiring spread across the seedy flop-house's twin beds.
"I'm endeavoring, Ma'am, to build a nemonic memory circuit using
stone knives and bearskins," returned the flat intonation on the TV.
Mulder cast an amused glance toward his partner and chuckled openly
at the irony.
*****
"Langly, you're sure that board's working properly?" Byers pressed
for the untold time as he brushed back moist strands of reddish hair.
The shop's air vents had cut off nearly an hour before, making the small
room unbearably stuffy.
Scully could see it in the others' eyes and actions. The lack of
ventilation and Byers' anxieties were only adding to the pressure of
their workload. She herself had already stripped down as discreetly as
she dared, her delicate camisole providing the "Stooges" an eyeful.
Though repect-fully, none dared to address her anywhere but her face
when keeping her apprised of their progress.
"Just don't go runnin' your fingers
through my diodes, boy!" the pony-tailed blond threatened, waving his
roommate back from the table. He wasn't about to take any chances with
his sudden ill luck with open circuitry.
Forgoing the suggestion of opening the back door to the stench and
filth of the alley, a sweat-drenched, t-shirted Frohike tinkered with
the shop's thermostat. He abruptly turned and stabbed a grimy finger in
Byers' face. "Listen, boy!" he snapped back. "Langly and I've checked
everything including both the board and the 'scope. You've gotta hell
of a nerve questioning us after we've busted our collective asses to
save yours! I suggest you just sit back, shut the hell up, and enjoy the
ride!" Condem-nation delivered, he turned back to the thermostat to
make one final adjustment. The vent above them suddenly belched a rush
of cool air. "Ah, contact!"
Mulder had left nearly two hours ago after allowing Frohike access
to his home-bound PC via Scully's lap-top. Through this, they had
learned Dr. Modeski was on the move. Mapping out an elaborate itinerary
of their own, Fox Mulder planned to intercept the woman at one of her
intended "stops," leaving a reluctant Scully to babysit. At Byers'
outburst, she discreetly pulled a vial of sleeping pills from her purse
and slipped three tablets into the bottle of orange juice he'd been
nursing all evening.
Still fuming over Frohike's tongue-lashing, Byers suddenly doubled
back. Scully retreated nonchalantly as he grabbed up the bottle, nearly
spilling it. For several tense seconds she wondered if he were going to
down the drink or throw it at the little man. Finally, Byers gave the
bottle a vigorous swish, drained its con-tents, and pitched it into a
nearby trash can. He continued to pace for several minutes as everyone
turned back to their respective tasks. On his last pass, Byers suddenly
dove on the experimenter in an attempt to pry it out of Langly's hands.
The blond was quicker, however. He tucked it up under himself in an
effort to protect four hours' work over borrowed property. He bucked
the man off and pitched the board toward Frohike.
Before Langly could reposition him-self, the little man attempted a
lateral back in his direction, his height proving a dis-advantage in
this bizarre game of keep away. Byers leaned out and batted the state-
of-the-art experimenter out of Langly's waiting hands as momentum
carried him over the table. Both Gunman and machine hit the wooden
floor simul-taneously. The resulting impact knocked the wind out of him
and cracked the experimenter's housing.
Reeling, Byers tried to roll to his feet but found his body
unwilling to cooperate. As he fell back, his last dimming vision was of
a concerned Scully bending over him. His glasses askew, she plucked
them from his face for safe keeping. He exhaled a defiant "Damn . . ."
against her betrayal before his eyes rolled back under drooping lids.
Frohike kneeled and scooped up the fallen board.
"What's the damage?" demanded the blond then protested loudly as
the little man suddenly stripped off the remains of the covering without
explanation. Frohike ran a quick diagnostic before repairing and re-
running Langly's circuit without a glitch. The blond glared at him
contemptuously over the violation and snatched the strip-ped board back.
"Sorry, buddy," Frohike apologized. "I guess Byers' 'condition'
has me a little off. I had to make sure he didn't . . ." His gaze fell
across their fallen comrade. "Hey, what the hell happened?"
Still bent over the now snoring form, Scully held up the pill vial
and gave it a resounding shake.
"Whoa! Nice shootin', girl frien'," Langly grunted as he helped
Frohike transfer the unconscious man to the futon, placing him face down
as an added pre-caution against choking. As the blond re-turned to his
work, Frohike covered Byers with a tattered throw. "Langly and I should
have thrown your stupid ass into that cab alongside Susanne when we had
the chance," he muttered. He wrapped himself in a second blanket and
took up a vigilant stance nearby.
Failing to understand the reference, Scully thought she heard a
slight catch in his voice. Suddenly sympathetic toward what constituted
paternal concern Frohike-style, she assured, "Don't worry. I mixed it
light, but he'll be out the rest of the eve-ning."
That was fine. The little man leaned
back against the wall to make himself more comfortable and within
minutes he, too, was fast asleep.
"So what magic potion downed our boy, Scully?" Langly pressed,
breaking the silence.
"Don't expect me to give away all my trade secrets, Langly," she
replied with an even gaze, preying on what Mulder refer-red to as the
man's "bent psyche." Clearly unnerved, Langly's characteristic
brashness quickly dissolved as he glance appre-hensively around the
room- -first to the drugged Byers then to his own juice bottle before
resettling uneasy eyes on the agent. "You are on our side, right?" he
asked. When he was sure Scully wasn't looking, he dumped the rest of
his drink into the trash.
Scully settled into the comfort of the armchair, intending to
upgrade her notes for their final report. Instead, she found herself
watching the blond Gunman work with the silent intensity of a manic com-
poser as he arranged and plugged an array of electrical components into
the experi-menter's bridge board then soldered them into a finalized
piece of the overall circuit. It amazed her how the delicacy of his
work paralleled her own medically.
*****
"Heard from Mulder, yet?" came
Langly's voice.
"Hell, no," the older man answered in his gruff tone.
The brief exchange startled Scully into wakefulness. She sat bolt
upright and blinked away fleeting waves of blissful sleep. Focusing
bleary eyes on her watch, she was astonished to find nearly six hours
had passed! The Gunmen had since traded places. Frohike was now at the
helm, put-ting the finishing touches on their home-built works that had
overnight grown from a four-by-four base to cover the entire table and
the two chairs! Her own laptop had since been procured and cannibalized
for its CD port, monitor, and keyboard. Langly was pulling a variety of
condi-ments, croissants, and bagels from two Stop and Shop bags. Three
coffees and a pile of assorted creamers sat next to them in a fiberboard
carrier.
Over her raw objections, Frohike calmly reassured that they would
restore her laptop upon completion of their experiment. The jury-rigged
thermostat had since made the room bearable- -
almost too chilly for her personal taste- -and she huddled deeper into
the great coat now draped over her. The Gunmen, how-ever, seemed to
embrace the cold, accus-tomed as they were to their own basement
apartment's frostier ambiance (an all too necessary element in the
maintenance of
their precious computers). Nonetheless, Frohike readjusted his blanket
up around his shoulders as Langly yanked down the sleeves of the black
and gold windbreaker he now wore.
Byers was still sound asleep, as his snoring attested. After
tucking the blanket up under his chin, Scully procured a crois-sant and
hot coffee with a cinnamon-fla-vored cream for herself and inquired
about his condition.
"Sleeping beauty got up about 3:00 a.m.," Langly reported around a
mouthful of bagel and cream cheese.
"Watered our little friend here," Frohike chimed in, pointing to
the now vacant spot where the plant had been. Scully suppressed a grin
as she fell to their boyish locker room hazing. In his stupor, Byers
had obviously headed instinctively in the direction of the Gunmen's own
bathroom, and the plant had suffered the result.
". . . and went back to bed without so much as a whimper,"
concluded Langly.
The potent convenience store coffee erased more of the fog with
each sip. This time with field notebook and pen in hand, Scully again
resigned herself to the arm-chair and another attempt to catch up on her
report.
Stifling a yawn, Frohike's hand twitched, inadvertently touching
the soldering iron's tip to one of the board's electrical components,
crossing it with another. The night's work suddenly fried in a shower
of sparks.
"Shit!"
The blond swore as well, muttering something about having kept it
all between him and Byers. Frohike uncharacteristical-ly took the
condemnation to heart and stormed out to the alley. Langly, not the
least bit concerned, moved in to try to salvage their work. "He'll be
back," the blond assured Scully.
He was a few minutes later. Frohike was far too competitive to
stay out of contention long.
*****
Baggage Claim 3 had their girl. Mulder flashed his badge and
quickly
gained access to the small security office. The woman they formerly
knew as Dr. Susanne Modeski was seated just inside. Still the sultry
knock-out he remembered from a decade ago, she had traded her straight
golden bob for shorter, darker tresses. A simple t-shirt, faded blue
jeans, and white sneakers had replaced the pert, executive-style dress
and high heels. No matter! He had to admit that for a con-ceptional,
paper-pushing bureaucrat, John Byers had damn good taste in women!
"Tag, you're it!" he dead panned. She whirled, her blue, doe-like
eyes clearly expressing the stress of having spent the last eleven hours
in flight, often just minutes ahead of him as he had dogged her through
every airport and connecting hop from Key West to Seattle. Her alarm
immediately turned to relief upon recog-nizing the agent.
"Where's John?" she asked eagerly, looking past him to the hallway.
"Not to worry. The boys and my partner, Dana Scully, are currently
holed up in a Philadelphia electronic store trying to bail 'lover boy'
out of a jam." He beckoned her to follow. "It seems Byers bought into
a little tryst that's since discovered how to put a new twist on
interactive software."
Retrieving the faded denim shoulder bag from the seat beside her,
Susanne remained silent until they reached the rental for the two hour
drive back to Philly. There she unzipped the duffle and pulled out
several wigs- -blond, brunette, and auburn, all in different lengths and
textures. "So which of 'me' squealed?" she inquired. "John and his
friends did a wonderful job of 'hiding' me, but I didn't get this far by
relying on their cover alone."
"Your talents precede you, Doctor," the agent responded glibly.
"When you didn't acknowledge Byers' attempts to contact you, it sent him
into a funk, making him useless to the cause. But it wasn't so much you
that we tracked but your travel time window." She stared at him
incredulously, and he grinned. "Byers was convinced you were in town- -
for what reason we haven't yet determined- -and we began our
investigation with the out-going flights manifest. From there we calcu-
lated stops, etc., and the length of flight. Knowing you would never
risk a lengthy layover, we ran a list of immediate and connecting
flights at each arrival, eventually tracing you back here. Needless to
say, there was no set pattern other than the set time schedules plus an
additional ten to twenty minutes from any one point of entry needed to
make the connecting flight." Mulder couldn't tell whether the look in
the woman's eyes was one of admiration or confusion. He chuckled. "The
cal-culations alone nearly put our dear Frohike over the edge."
"For that I apologize, Agent Mulder," Susanne attempted, wiping
away tears. "Don't get me
wrong, I've wanted to see . . . be with John ever since our first
meeting. In Vegas, I begged him to come with me, but he refused for
reasons neither of us under-stood."
Mulder grinned, vaguely remembering one hell of a night over drinks
upon the trio's return. He revealed cordially, "And Byers has been
kicking himself ever since."
Her eyes closed briefly, grateful for his kindness. "Agent Mulder,
please understand. I personally felt John and his friends' safety might
be less compromised if I didn't contact him."
"To my knowledge, I don't think he's
ever tried to find you until now, Doctor. Not because he hasn't wanted
to. I was to be your contact from now on. By taking matters into your
own hands, you may have jeopardized everything."
Susanne leaned back against the seat to watch the scenery but
didn't really see it as she struggled with the combined anticipation and
apprehension of seeing John Byers again. "So why am I here?" she
attempted a second time.
"Byers is in deep stuff after tearing up computers thought to be
linked to some 'old friends'." Mulder stated. "We've since concluded
that he may have inadvertently triggered something, though we're still
not certain as to what or how." His tone turned querulous. "You know
my partner's an M. D., with some knowledge of the hard sciences?"
Susanne nodded.
"Some discrepancies in Byers' blood and skin tissues still have her
stumped. In short, certain parties have threatened your life if he
didn't dummy up about what he saw. All bets have you back in the very
research field you'd abandoned and with those who initially betrayed you
ten years ago. Unless you can shed some light, my partner and I are
simply here to put you both under protective custody until this is
resolved."
Still blinking back tears, Susanne finally admitted, "You're right,
Agent Mulder. It's the same old power play. They threatened to kill
John if I didn't cooperate. It seems he and his friends have become too
high profile because of their scathing editorials and theories of late."
She stifled a ragged sigh before regaining some composure. "And to
think I always envied their anonymity."
So, like a manipulative child, "they" were playing both ends
against the middle.
Dandy!
*****
"John?"
The tone was fleeting but all too familiar- -sweet and melodic. He
rolled to his back, fighting to climb up out of the haze. Mom?
A laugh. "No, silly, it's me."
Someone kissed him on the lips and tugged playfully at his bearded
chin. What the hell? Susanne? No, damn it! Byers, get your head out
of your ass for once! Susanne Modeski is dead to all but you, Langly,
Frohike, Mulder, Scully- -and Cigarette Man!
Byers sat up in a panic, his head swimming from the lasting effects
of Scully's cocktail. Retching, he dove blindly for where the ill-fated
plant had once stood before Mulder intercepted and steered him a truer
course toward the shop's bathroom. His timing was exemplary as the
Gunman's last meal became one with the city's sewer system.
Frohike rolled his eyes. "That boy's never going to get his rocks
off doing shit like that."
Dr. Modeski entered the bathroom behind the two men just as Mulder
stuffed Byers' head under a blast of cold water from the sink's high-
arched industrial faucet. She silently pleaded for continued anonymity
and privacy over her beau's sputtering expletives. Mulder graciously
slipped out, closing the door behind him.
Temples pounding, Byers slumped to the floor. He leaned back
against the cabinet and closed his eyes. The numbing cold of the water
dripped down, soaking him to the waist. He shivered.
Someone dabbed his face and hair with a towel as he managed to
mumble "thanks" from the cobwebs of his consciousness.
"Feel better?"
His eyes snapped open then filled with shock as he stared into the
familiar ice blue of her eyes.
The hair was darker and cut to a rakish, boyish trim, but those
eyes- -and that coy smile- -were still as vulnerable and bewitching as
ever! "My god, Susanne," he exclaimed. "What the hell are you doing
here? You're supposed to be in hiding! I only wanted you to be aware
of the situation, not come here!"
Undaunted, she straddled him and kissed him once again- -this time
a full-blown, tongue-in-mouth endeavor far beyond the polite pecks he'd
received from her in the past. Surprisingly, he returned the kiss with
equal relish before surrendering to her lead. Guiding unpretentious
hands to unfasten her jeans, she wriggled free of the fabric. His own
inhibitions quickly waning, Byers damned himself if only for the timing
as she pulled at his waistband. The filthy bathroom cheapened yet
heightened his anticipation of their maiden love-making while his
friends sat just beyond the thin wallboard. All this was shamelessly
forgotten, how-ever, as his own pants and shorts were cast away. Byers
nearly bit down through her lips as well as his own to keep from crying
out as she eased herself on top of him once more and rocked forward.
Eventually and reluctantly they came up for air. "We need to talk,
John," she insisted.
"I know," Byers agreed breathlessly. "But not here." His beard
tickled her bare cleavage as he talked, making her shiver.
"Where then?"
Having just made love to the woman of his dreams in a filthy shop
toilet, John Byers was confident conditions could only improve. He
grinned sheepishly. "I've got about forty dollars," he admitted. "That
might put us one step above this hole plus get us a couple of sandwiches
and sodas at the Stop and Shop."
"It's a date," Susanne responded with a deep sigh. She smoothed
down his hair tenderly. Still straddling him, in no hurry to end
things, she sealed the deal with yet another of her killer "frenchies"
that made his already pounding loins and chest surge to the point of
pain.
There was a sudden sharp rap on the bathroom door. Frohike's
equally forceful announcement came from the other room, "Hey, you
lovebirds, we've got product!"
Snapping themselves out of the heady throes of passion, the two
scrambled for clothes.
Susanne muffled a fit of giggles at his panicked expression. "Relax,
John. It's just your friends out there, not your parents."
They would have been a hell of a lot easier to deal with! Byers
thought. The pair tried to ignore
the others' glowing envy and particularly Mulder's lecherous punch to
Scully's right shoulder as they all settled in to watch the Gunmen put
their improvisation to work.
Langly booted up Scully's laptop, placed one of his home-made D&D CDs
into the ROM drive, and gallantly waved the petite FBI agent to a place of
honor atop the now inverted waste basket in front of the keyboard. She
immediately declined, being neither familiar with nor interested in such
entertainment.
"All the better, Dana," the rumpled Byers insisted, the red in his
cheeks fading. "As a neo-
phyte, you know neither the system nor Langly's program. You're the
perfect control."
With that kind of logic, Dana Scully found it hard to refuse. With a
"thank you" as rueful as the patronizing sentiment, she took up the
challenge- -if only to gain stronger support to the contrary.
All watched the laptop's screen in silence as the blond's alter ego,
Lord Manhammer, battled mischievous Kelvins, fire-breathing dragons, and
dark sorcerers in their quest to overthrow the mythical cyber-kingdom. As
expected, Scully's expertise was not very proficient, prompting the hero's
quick demise. Mulder then had a go, as did Frohike.
Due to vastly different skill levels, the two men each challenged the
computer to a more diffi- cult level than the other. Surprisingly,
Frohike proved the next casualty while Mulder provided the game's best
run. Byers, having procured his much-needed spectacles from Scully's
care, then step-ped in for his turn, but Mulder suggested Langly instead.
All three Gunmen started to object, with Byers loudly lauding the blond's
video expertise as a severe compromise to the outcome. Ignoring them,
Mulder clipped one end of the jumper wires to Byer's hand and held out the
other end to Langly. With some apprehension, the blond seated himself,
placed the other clip across the CD port, and re-booted the game. Despite
every trick available- -and to everyone's astonishment- -his alter ego's
virtual world fell to an apocalyptic demise.
"That can't happen!" Langly whined, devastated by the game's
"death."
Byers silently disconnected himself and drew back from the others.
"It was never part of the existing program!" the blond continued to
wail.
"Then why did it?" Scully challenged.
Langly shook his head, stumped. Mulder had since crossed to the
oscilloscope sitting at the
far end of the table. After a brief silence, he said, "Hey, boys.
Explain the purpose of this device."
Frohike, Langly and Byers exchanged their usual deer-in-the-headlight
amazement as they
absorbed the question then struggled for the easiest explanation possible.
"The 'scope allows one to read the voltage fluctuation in a particular
circuit by producing a sine wave," Langly reported. "If anything, we can
pick up any potential problems in any part of the circuit before it
affects the entire loop." To demonstrate, he placed the two leads across
a circuit series in the maze before him. Al-most immediately, a unison
ribbon of green snaked across the screen. Frohike suddenly leaned for-
ward and plucked the leads from Langly's hands. With a tip of his head,
he beckoned an apprehen-sive Byers closer and placed the leads on each of
his thumbs. The calm ribbon suddenly spiked to jagged peaks! Frohike was
the first to begin another wave of disbelief as all three Gunmen shook
their heads.
"This is impossible," Byers whispered, mopping his brow.
The agents looked to the others. "As with the multi-meter,
electrical component properties
can't be measured in this manner," Frohike explained. One step ahead of
Mulder's anticipatory
direction, he "unplugged" Byers and waved him back several feet. The wave
immediately calmed. The blond Gunman quickly re-ran the game and this
time easily beat the scenario.
Mulder looked to his partner for her input and frowned. She was
methodically tracing the sine wave on the small screen, still refusing to
give in to the other's almost reckless theories. Finally she ordered,
"Hook Byers up again." Frohike complied. This time the waves rolled
across the screen then blanked out. The sequence repeated several times
but , unlike the first, each consecutive peak grew sharper as if . . .
"These almost look like ECG waves," Scully muttered. Mulder's eyes
suddenly cut to the side, noticed only by her, and barked, "John!" in the
most formidable command he could muster. As intended, the bearded Gunman
"snapped to" for the briefest moment before realizing the agent's trickery
and relaxed with a sheepish grin. He paled, however, as he saw the two
separate images that Frohike had frozen on the screen. One was of the
initial test, the other taken at Mulder's excla-mation. The peaks on the
second reading were sharper than the first. Pulling out her stethoscope,
Scully placed it over Byers' heart. She listened intently for a few
moments as the thudding rythym diminished to a normal beat before handing
the instrument over to the others. All had a listen, as did Byers.
"I'm not a doctor," Mulder stated. "But I'd say Byers and the boys'
new-fangled contraption
are in sync with each other."
"Then he did have an effect on the game," Scully stated the obvious.
"Because as much as
this 'thing,' " she waved her hand toward the mock-up, "is having an
effect on him, his blood
samples may have had an inadvertent effect on the lab's cytology
equipment. Once I recalibrated, however, the samples ran without a
glitch."
The bearded man nodded, his own emotions barely in check, as he
explained, "No video game, even home made, will ever come out the same- -
it's not designed to, save within the parameters specified. The
individual's moves are continuously subject to the game's 'thought
patterns,' if you
will. Win or lose, that's the challenge within the game. Naturally, as
the game's designer, Langly is not the ideal control due to the potential
for tainting results through any number of pre-designed codes he himself
has incorporated into the mix." He glanced briefly to Susanne, who was
currently conferring with Scully over medical notes, then back to Mulder.
"Whatever I got into- -or whatever got into me- -may have prohibited
that."
Having caught his roommate's roving eye, Frohike realized Byers was
beyond rational thinking. Hell, after a roll with someone as tasty as
Susanne, I'd be pretty damn useless too! he thought, then snapped,
"Rethink your training, buddy! Remember, most of those units were
missing."
"Uh-uh," came Fox Mulder's haunting objection. As one, the others
turned to see his unfocused
hazel eyes resume their natural intensity as he contemplated yet another
twist to the scenario.
"Come on, boys, think!" he prompted, seeing the returning trepidation in
their faces. For all their
scathing mistrust of their world, Mulder was clearly disappointed by their
inability to comprehend. "What with today's technologies and CSM's
connections, those recon patches may have been pur-posely placed in
commercial-grade computers. Inert for now, they're just waiting to be
initiated innocently enough by some eight-year-old wanting to wile away a
Thursday night by blasting little blue aliens to smithereens." His gaze
hung on the laptop's now blank screen. "But through some irreverent twist
of the joystick and a book of gamers' codes, the kid instead winds up
annihilating half the town."
Frohike whirled to confront Langly. "It's not just the patch but a
way to tap increasing power influx through the networked systems. Sweet
Jesus! You knew it too!"
"Just the potential," Langly finally admitted, his skinny shoulders
rising and falling in an apolo-getic shrug toward his bearded roommate.
"But not how it's actually initiated."
Realizing she was again the center of the other Gunmen's suspicions,
and keeping a wary eye on the dour Frohike in particular, Modeski joined
the others. She pointed to Byers' blood printout and
a particular series of enzymes. "John, aside from your hands, did you get
any of that agent on your clothes?"
"Susanne! They stripped me down to nothing !" he hissed, wide-eyed.
"The only saving grace between my self respect and 'none' was that one of
Cigarette Man's more inept cronies left my skiv-vies behind!"
"Do you still have them?"
The Gunman turned crimson, much to his friends' delight. "My und-?
You're ki-kid-ding,
right?" he stammered hoarsely, horrified by her willingness to talk of
such things in mixed company.
"Hey, I'd lend mine if it would help," Langly offered congenially.
"You don't wear any," Frohike muttered from the corner of his mouth.
"Please, John," prompted an impatient Susanne, ignoring the others'
revelry. "Get over your
little infantile hang-ups. Your hands not only contained evidence of that
caustic, but your clothes may hold other relevant clues."
Scully in the meantime had dashed out to where their cars were
parked. From the Taurus'
trunk she snatched up the sealed baggie containing the blue boxers Byers
had been wearing during his incarceration.
On Scully's return, Modeski asked, "Um, as irrelevant as this might
sound, what kind of laundry soap do you guys use?"
"Only the purest with HCI boy," Frohike grumbled, tipping his head
toward Byers. "His thirty-six-year-old ass is more sensitive than a
baby's. Why?"
"Some detergents- -particularly the so-called 'pure' ones- -dye and
perfume-free- -are not what
they claim," she revealed. "Factor or not, I can't tell without more
tests. I'd like samples of every
one's clothing, if I may . . . as a control."
A chastened Mulder looked to the Gunman. "Forget what I said about
using that baby deter-
gent, Byers," he dead panned, sacrificing part of his shirt tail and pants
cuff for Dr. Modeski's test. "Looks like you guys have next week's lead
story wrapped up as well."
The rest of the samples were collected. Langly offered the most
resistance over surrendering his beloved t-shirt to the cause until an
existing hole was simply enlarged by a pair of scissors.
Scully, meanwhile, scrutinized the last of the healing lesions on
Byers' arms. "You may have had an allergic reaction to the scrubbing
compound used," she mused. With a deep sigh, she added, "I guess it's
back to the lab."
With a rumble of Susanne's stomach juices, the subject of lunch
arose. Byers jumped at the
opportunity for both food and, hopefully, a little heart-to-heart talk.
"There's a burger stand a few
blocks from here. Care to go?" he asked Susanne.
Langly reluctantly held out his keys then snatched them back as Byers
reached for them.
"G-e-n-t-l-y with the clutch, o' bearded one," he warned. "And watch the
oil gauge."
Once they'd dropped Scully at the hospital lab, John Byers found the
perfect spot for that little talk- -the back parking lot of the Motel 8
just two blocks away.
Seated together in the van's front seat, Susanne draped her legs over
Byers' lap as she picked at her hamburger in silence. She finally
conceded after only two bites and handed him the rest. He made short work
of it, having disposed of his own in a record six bites. "So- -how have
you been?" he asked her casually between mouthfuls.
"You're getting gray," Susanne observed not unkindly at the streaks
of white in his beard. She
wiped away the remains of some secret sauce lingering there. After
several minutes, she confes-
sed, "Emotionally overwhelmed at times. Otherwise, fine. And you?"
Washing down the last of the burger with a swig of stale Coke, Byers
suddenly laughed in spite of himself. "Chomping at the bit to say the
hell with it, all to share a burger in the front seat of a battered old
van with one of the hottest babes in town after having raw sex with her in
a dirty bath-room while his four best friends sat just a few feet away
trying to ignore it all."
"And you do this often, Mr. Byers?" she teased, kissing him.
There was a long, awkward silence as he gathered enough courage to
admit shyly, "First time." If Susanne was surprised by such a confession,
she was kind enough not to show it.
Changing the subject, she stated, "I know I'm still winning their
trust, but your friends are pretty special."
Byers shrugged. "I handed them a pretty big nut to crack," he said,
himself uncertain of their true intentions. "I can't believe they worked
twelve hours straight on it, though!"
"Quite an attestment to their friendship," she praised.
He waved it off. "I think they're just as curious- -(and afraid!)
as I am."
Suddenly growing tired of the small talk, he looked to his bandaged
fingers and systematically began peeling away the adhesive tape. Splaying
his fingers, palms toward them, he pressed, "What is this?"
The sudden redirection startled her. "Electrical burns . . .?" she
attempted haltingly.
He shot her an incriminating look through the horn rims. "Susanne,
common sense be damned. First rule of electronics- -pull the plug before
working on the planned component. Those drives weren't even hot at the
time. What the hell was that caustic? More importantly, did I place it
or was I infected with it?"
"I don't know," came the nearly inaudible answer. Based on the
haunted look alone, the words seemed genuine enough. "The answer may lie
beyond the samples we took."
If that's all I have to go on for now, he thought, relenting. He
bent forward and kissed her.
His technique was perhaps a little clumsy and rough, but this was not the
time to perfect it. "Trust me?" he queried, dark brows again raised in a
hopeful, unassuming posture.
Without further explanation, he pitched Frohike's cell phone into the
trash along with the bur-
ger wrappings and slid behind the wheel. Cranking the ignition key, he
popped the clutch on his first attempt to overcome the van's
eccentricities and swore. Susanne eased closer, her eyes on him
apprehensively. His second try was more successful. Easing through the
gears, he headed south.
*****
Scully had anticipated the move all along, as had Mulder. What she
hadn't expected was his
apathetic "Let them go for now" when she contacted him. "Call ahead and
let authorities know we have two star-crossed lovers trying to work things
out. No pursuit or apprehension, just tell them to baby-sit. I'm
confident Byers will be back, with or without her."
"Mulder, they're not a couple of immature newlyweds attempting
reconciliation after a damn fight," she argued, incredulous.
"Maybe not in the literal, physical, or emotional sense, but more of
a professional courtesy
- -scientist and journalist respectively feeling out the other's true
intentions here," he defended. "Unpolished, self-righteous investigational
skills notwithstanding, Byers may blow this puppy wide open. That's why I
want them to run. We already know it's not an immediate threat as none of
us- -and particularly Byers- -is feeling any ill effects."
After all these years, Scully knew better than to have anything less
than faith- -for the time
being- -in her partner's off beat theories.
"Mulder, we don't have time to get analytical over this! Dr.
Modeski may have isolated the
very anomaly- -"
The voice on the other end of the phone sounded painfully
condescending in her ears. "You
mean that crap about Brand X? Talk about whacked, Scully! Short of
playing house, it was all
a ruse to isolate Byers. She needs something from him."
"Mulder, in all the years I've stood by you . . ." She dared not
patronize. " . . . you owe me."
From across town she could almost hear him settle in to give her his
undivided attention. "Dr.
Modeski was able to isolate that anomaly before she and Byers
disappeared," she began explaining.
There was an abashed sigh as she contemplated the ludicrousness of her
next words. "The laundry soap the Three Stooges currently use is indeed a
natural product, as Frohike claimed, but one based on animal by-products -
-"
"Banned by all, save for some Third World countries," Mulder
interjected.
"Correct," came his partner's equally blunt, professional reply. "Do
they know which company produced it?"
There was a moment of silence as Mulder relayed her message. "That's
a negative, Scully. But our dear Mr. Langly has just informed me he
'acquired' nearly six months' worth through a liquida-tion outlet three
weeks ago."
Scully felt her gut tighten. "Where?"
Frohike's gruff but contrite voice came over the earpiece.
"Liquidation outlet my a- -. It came off the back of a truck on some
godforsaken street corner! I thought it was too good a deal."
"Somebody was simply looking to dump it. A coincidence? Perhaps.
Nothing more." Mulder retrieved his phone. His next words were dark with
yet another forthcoming proposal. " Modeski and Roberts simply played
Byers for the patsy this turn. As a favor for a friend, he faithfully
agreed to pull circuit cards suspected of being that recon patch. In
truth, Byers became part of that very circuit the instant he came in
contact because they needed a compatible and trusting human host to house
that compound until such a time that they could induct it into the drives.
He just happened to be more accessible."
Again the incredulous tone. "Accessible?"
Her partner didn't falter. "Accessible, Scully. Byers wasn't the
intended target. Someone else
was, hence the 'mark' on that drive. What if one of the other drives
contained the means to infect
Byers with a secondary initiate after he was already infected with
something from that disk? But something in his bloodstream interacted
enough to completely rewrite the proposed theorem. Once
downloaded into a particular drive- -say that 'marked' unit- -all work in
conjecture with, say, the computer screen- -relying on electrical impulses
. . ."
The cell phone crackled with disbelief. "Mulder, the brain absorbs
stimuli- -light, sound, even smells- -then triggers the body to assimilate
and process information." Oh, my God! "Mulder,
you're not suggesting all elements combined are now tricking Byers' brain
into producing that initiate? That's so science fiction!"
"Moot point," her partner said flatly from across town. "Not so much
in the way of reproducing the initiate but the possibilities of a power
induction through the circuits. Remember, Scully, Byers became the
'missing element' for the boys' mock-up. In Langly's D&D program, the
final apocalyptic demise was not a part of the original scenario. It was
revamped only after your laptop's direct con-tact with him."
Mulder paused. "If Roberts is dead, he took his secrets on perfecting
those initiate compounds
with him- -but not before infecting Byers as a failsafe. Dr. Modeski may
be the key in retrieving it. Hence the problem: because of the possible
restructuring that's occurred, the procedure may no longer be routine."
"Routine?" his partner's tone was almost mocking.
"Scully, the initiate could now be reading Byer's biochemical
structure as animal, not human, because of the laundry soap's chemical
base, thus prohibiting all normal efforts to retrieve it."
Still doubting the probabilities, the redhead stated, "Mulder, if
Byers' system does contain that so-called initiate, restructured or not,
he inadvertently gathered a little of the 'goo' from each of those hard
drives. Your watch didn't fry until all materials worked as one."
There was a sharp intake of air. "Proving our earlier suspicions
weren't far off, Scully! Instead of simply destroying the threat based on
the original scenario of Langly's game and one's skills, it
restructured itself, obliterating everything as though it were the real
thing when Byers 'plugged' into it. Those drives are not only sharing
files but drawing increased power off each other in conjunc-tion with the
information available. Now, because of the soap's compounds, they may not
be able to retrieve the initiate from his system, but it can still be a
threat."
Like the proverbial typhoid Mary. Scully's slow exhale was the only
sound through the earpiece.
Mulder concluded, "I think someone's not above getting the jump on
producing the hottest new
toy this Christmas." In a more decisive tone, he added, "We'll meet you
there."
(END PART TWO)
THIRD STRING PLAYER (part III)
by SL Wickham
email: S3wick@AOL.com
Rating: Possibly R (I can't keep up with these things) for naughty
language and some sexual
situations.
Summary: Byers does a little moonlighting and meets up with Susanne
Modeski . . . Hey, I guess this would qualify for the February Fanfic
Challenge, eh???????
Disclaimers (any references to things said and done in past eps, bordering
on plagiarism, I humbly apologize. This project was started five minutes
after Three of a Kind ended . . .). Thanks Joy and Pam for the red ink;
my mother, Judy for her defense against disbelieving academia that all
written submissions were indeed my own and not gained through illicit
means; my husband, Mark for not thinking my writing fanfic is 'too
weird!'; My son, Bryan for the query, 'What do you do with it when your
finished?'; Bruce, Tom, Dean, Chris, Vince, Frank and John (et al) for
some fun charac-ters; and Signy Coleman for playing the damsel in
distress.
*****
Byers tabbed up the access code that immediately "blew" the heavy,
multi-locked reinforced steel door. It swung inward on protesting hinges
to reveal the dimly lit subtunnel of scavenged home- built hi-tech
equipment and industrial steel shelving that the Gunmen called home. He
winced. Stacked from unswept floor to cobwebbed ceiling were cameras of
all makes and models, from general purpose to infrared, still and video,
plus circuit analysis equipment from oscilloscopes to sine wave
generators. Cords and hard lines snaked respectively from their backs as
well as multi banks of computers and an odd assortment of hybrid machines
before disappearing to origins un-known via heavy conduit piping
camouflaged with the same matte black as the cinder block walls. One
entire shelf held an odd collection of cannibalized parts and home-made
contraptions, their so-called casings held together by several turns of
silver duct tape. A small caf‚ style table- -complete with a red-checked
table cloth, dirty place settings for two, and three scarred, mismatched
chairs- -sat just inside the door to their right. Beyond this was a
kitchenette separated by a high counter. Video players were stacked five
high on either side, producing a combination brick and electronic avant
garde archway. Two players suddenly popped on with a whir; several were
already recording. Another ended its program with a metallic "clunk."
Angling off to the left and nearly hidden behind a long work table
was a worn gabardine couch. Its original color had been either orange or
red but now could only be considered ugly.
Throwing caution to the wind, Byers motioned his companion inside
with a vain attempt at recti-fication. "I guess the guys didn't have time
to clean."
"It's quaint," she commented, having known since Vegas that
cleanliness was not the Gunmen's strongest virtue. Nonetheless, Byers
gathered both dirty and clean laundry and, more contritely, his roomies'
porno mags on his direct pass to the single bedroom where he stuffed
everything into a closet. As for the room itself, it passed muster
despite Langly's ghoulish D&D statues mocking from every bit of free space
and two out of three unmade beds.
Not so with the bathroom just through the door opposite. As
expected, it was spider-webbed
with a make-shift clothesline holding curled photos of innocent and
unsuspecting subjects of Fro-hike's camera lens- -from young mothers
breast feeding their infants in the park to couples of all ages and
"associations" engaged in an impassioned moment either through an
apartment window or
under the alley's concrete stairwells. These, too, he stashed away before
offering Susanne an invi-tation to freshen up.
Once showered and changed, the two settled on the sofa to plan their
next move over a shared bottle of malt ale and grilled cheese sandwiches.
Even in one of Langly's ratty t-shirts and Byers' oversized (for her),
white robe, Susanne appeared the ultimate sultry vixen. Byers had since
changed back into his more familiar starched tan dress shirt, brown tweed
trousers, and polished wing tips. He had even taken the time to reshape
his beard and sideburns back to their usual meti-culous fashion and
replaced the horn rims with a spare set of contact lenses.
Modeski traced the outline of Byers' beard approvingly and drew her
mouth over his, pulling at his bottom lip. He was suddenly a million
miles away, however. He brushed her aside and began pacing the cramped
room. They'd been forced to abandon the Gunmen's van just outside the
city limits because of a blown rod. Despite his bereaved, "They're going
to kill me for not getting it towed back here," she knew his true concerns
stemmed much deeper.
"Face it, John." Susanne came up behind him, circled his waist with
her arms, and pressed her head into the space between his shoulders.
"Classic or not, the van is not the true issue here. It's back to the
same old argument we started ten years ago: you can't abandon your true
objective." Her words attempted to rectify and soothe, not criticize.
"Not for me or anyone else."
Still locked into his own indecision, tears brimmed Byers' eyes. He
brushed them away quickly. Hell, he'd let her slip away from him twice.
Superstition be damned, third time's a charm and a chance to amend earlier
wrongs. As if suddenly coming to grips with his choice, he turned and
tightly wrapped his own arms around her for fear she'd suddenly vanish
once again- -this time forever and without the possibility of tracing her
as before. Nuzzling the nape of her neck, he
mumbled, "Susanne, I can contribute articles to the LG from anywhere- -
encrypted if I have to. I can't risk losing you again."
As if suddenly repulsed, she pulled away. "Damn it, John!" she
exclaimed. "Forget about 'us' for the moment! You know they've been in
charge since the day we were born- -and they'll continue to do so until we
die!" She crossed to a metal shelf and began rifling through the
yellowing stacks of LG's filed in neat chronological stacks starting from
their first issue in 1989 to present day. "Your paper conveys that
message in every issue you publish, and more and more people are
listening."
At first, she seemed to pull papers at random, but it took Byers only
seconds to realize otherwise. With eerie precision, she was pulling
specific issues as if to further illustrate her point: Sawbuck Sentinels:
How Your Money Tracks You, April 15, 1992; Bar Codes Track You, October,
1995; ATM's Steal Your DNA, December 3, 1998. "You can't deny them,
John. Now more than ever."
Byers sighed in agreement. Easing Susanne back into his embrace, he
briefly glanced at the headlines in her hand and suppressed a wry grin.
She had pulled last week's issue concerning the controversial debate of
stem cell research. Langly's morbid cartoon depicting caricatures of
high-ranking government officials "harvesting" a row of embryos as if
migrant workers might gather ears of corn emblazoned the first half of the
front page. It aptly illustrated his personal slant that one might simply
"manufacture" the needed crop more efficiently versus using "waste
products" currently available through in vitro and abortion clinics if
guidelines were not immediately set.
"Any true scientist knows you can't create the control to conform to
the test specified," Susanne fumed. "Pro or con, the very results would be
tainted- -you yourselves breached protocol in having Langly run his own
game. You need the random selection that nature itself provides in order
for it to be a viable control."
Confused by the sudden change of venue, Byers remained silent and
gently pulled the paper from her fingers. He flipped it over so she might
read his printed perspective. She smiled- -his very words complemented
both hers and the artistic musings of his roommate.
Her insights could put quite a spin on the LG, he thought- -if only
the others were willing to go co-ed. Their demons suppressed for the
moment, the pair suddenly became more responsive to the other's desires.
*****
There was a knock at the door.
Susanne rose from the couch first and gathered her clothes before the
noise disturbed Byers, but he, too, was up at the second loud volley.
"Looks like they found us," he mumbled, wiping the sleep from his eyes.
Not that we made it difficult!
For the sake of modesty, he pulled on his bath robe and motioned her
toward the bedroom to finish dressing. Before unlocking the front door,
he glanced at the twenty year old Sony TV screen that announced all
visitors to their basement hideaway. Langly's and Frohike's images glared
back
at him dourly.
Grinning, he prepared to greet his friends and apologize for changing
the door code. As he re-leased the last deadbolt, however, two men
dressed in black burst inward. The lead man slammed Byers' head into the
door jam with a powerful elbow punch to the right temple.
Through a swirling gray haze, Byers felt himself half-dragged, half
carried into the room. His roommates' now-frozen images on the screen
above him bore silent witness to the attack before erupting into a
digitized fade then disappearing altogether. He watched helplessly as the
first man pulled the now t-shirt-clad Susanne from the bedroom at
gunpoint, while the second man drew down on him.
The slender frame, dark hair, and an all too fair androgynous
complexion that belied the man's thirty-some years . . .
"You're Krycek, aren't you?" Byers attempted shakily, recalling
Mulder's description of Cigarette
Smoking Man's henchman.
Alex Krycek sneered, "Up until now, I didn't think there was anyone
more celibate than Mulder. Byers, isn't it? John Byers?" He traded
places with his co-hort and ran the muzzle of his gun sensu-ously around
Susanne's jawline and down the nape of her neck before tucking it up under
her left breast. Looking back to Byers, Krycek motioned upward toward the
cluster of over-head water pipes running parallel to the great room.
"We've been watching you two all night." They looked up. A small, red
beam was barely visible to the right of the outermost pipe and focused
directly on the very spot he and Susanne . . .
"I don't know what your problem is 'hack boy,'" Krycek mused. He ran
his free hand up under
the woman's shirt tail. Seeing the bearded man bristle ever so slightly,
he grinned maliciously. "But if I had access to this," he continued, "I
wouldn't be too worried about friggin' computers. Or maybe it's boys you
like . . . Isn't that why you've hung around your geek pals for so long?"
He chuckled. "No matter. Your performance was a little sad." He pressed
himself against Susanne as he talked, his words nearly breathless with the
effort. "I'd be willing to give you and your little 'chickie' a quick
lesson. Not that you'll ever get a chance to use it, but you'll always
remember the right way."
Susanne's panicked eyes conveyed her disgust toward Krycek's intense
'attention.' Byers' felt his teeth grind together as he sought a
diversion- -and noted that the second man's eyes were also riveted on
Krycek's activity.
It was now or never.
Byers stepped back and swung his right elbow up, intending to drop
the man with the same
elbow punch Krycek had used on him. Unfortunately, his own fighting technique
hadn't improved
since his altercation with Mulder. With a another vindictive laugh, both men
simultaneously swung
their weapons back at his head. Byers froze immediately- -one arm
upraised in a comedic parody of a kung-fu master, the other at a right
angle behind him. Defeated, he dropped both arms to his sides.
Fearing he had nothing more to lose at this point, Byers demanded.
"What the hell do you want?"
Krycek released Susanne and advanced toward him. Sizing the Gunman
up, he crossed behind and immobilized Byers in a half-nelson. He was
cocky, assured he had the situation well in hand. For the briefest of
moments, Byers almost feared the man would repeat the same seductive moves
on him!
No.
Byers suppressed a shudder. The arm now gripping him, he realized,
was not soft flesh but a prosthetic, the original limb having been lost
years ago during a shaky alliance with Mulder in one of his many quests
for the truth concerning paranormal infiltration.
Krycek tipped Byers' head back and hissed in his ear, "Right now, I
can do anything I want, Red." He let the threat sink in for the moment
then ordered, "Get dressed! You're coming with us. Now that you're full
of that crap, you're too precious a commodity to kill outright."
The four walked out the door to the end of the dank service alley
that cut through a row of stark, grey warehouses. Many were boarded up
against unwanted entry by drug addicts and other transi-ents, providing
further camouflage for the entrance to the Gunmen's lair.
Byers and Modeski locked gazes every few steps as if mediating a plan
of escape.
Krycek closed the gap until he was literally in the bearded man's
back. He made sure Byers
could feel the gun pressing into his spine. "Careful, 'hack boy,'" Krycek
warned icily. "If you want to keep writing your fatalist bullshit and
boning your little 'chickie' here, you'll play by my rules and nobody
else's. Understood?"
The couple was herded into the back seat of a black Ford Explorer
parked behind the abandoned van. Indicating the latter, the unnamed
driver sneered, "As per your 'wishes,' we had it towed here. It'll be
awhile before it's missed." Backing the Explorer into the street with a
roar, he headed out of the city.
"What do you mean by my being full of 'that crap,' Krycek?" Byers
ventured after several miles had passed. "What did Cigarette Man do to
me?"
Looking to Susanne, Krycek responded with a menacing laugh. "Not
Smokey, my friend . . ."
"It was Roberts, John," Susanne finished for him. At Byers' stunned
expression, she explained, "He had you go into those CPUs with the pretext
of disabling the 'inert' units. In truth, he infected you with the
initiate to keep it safe until I was contacted."
Byers head reeled. After all they'd shared these last few days,
Susanne was still playing her games!
As if ashamed, she refused to look at him. The hurt betrayal in his
eyes was all too apparent as he stared at her profile, demanding further
explanation.
"It seems the bastard found out about the little modification Smokey
and his constituents made in his program," Krycek interjected. "In
Philly, he secretly and partially pre-loaded the catalyst into your
bloodstream by simply handing you a computer disk, convincing you it
housed a schematic of the true objective, and then had you go hunting for
him. In truth, he needed you to find the second-ary. Together, the two
substances sublimely trick the brain into producing the full-strength
product. Originally, those CPUs were tagged for Smokey's latest defense
in keeping our asses safe from his and Mulder's little space aliens. At
least a dozen or so got mixed up in shipping. They were never meant for
that Philly show. More units may have been placed in retail stores, and
there's no telling how many eventually ended up in private homes." He
laughed. "Those CPUs are systematically keying up defenses against
friggen' computer games!"
Byers closed his eyes, remembering Langly's D&D scenario. "Mulder was
right," he whispered. "If those computers are reading entertainment war
game software as the real thing . . ."
Krycek snorted. "You'll stay on it till the last, won't you? John
Byers- -voted most determined to chase his damn tail over some proposed
conspiracy theory." At the Gunman's hurt confusion, he added, "True
intent, be damned, I now have the means to renegotiate my own deal."
Eventually it began to get light out, but traffic had not yet picked
up for the morning commute.
Krycek turned in his seat and held out a syringe and a small vial to
Susanne. The Gunman saw her hesitate and feared he was to be the first
casualty.
No.
"First your boyfriend then yourself" was the order.
Byers again gathered up nerve that he was far from feeling. "Krycek,
what did you mean by renegotiating your own deal?"
The man shook his head. "Not yet." He motioned Dr. Modeski to
proceed. "Enjoy your naps." Susanne drew up the calculated dose but
hesitated as if seeking Byers' approval. Although his
trust in her had waned considerably, he surprisingly nodded his consent-
-the lesser of two evils. However, as he braced for the injection, the
doctor suddenly pulled a cunning sleight of hand and jabbed the needle
into the seat cushions. He felt her fingers tap out a hidden count on his
elbow. At five, he obediently rolled his eyes back and slumped in his
seat.
Krycek leaned out and slapped forcefully at the bearded face several
times then delivered a final stinging blow to his left cheek.
Nothing.
"Now you, honey," he instructed.
"That won't be necessary," she shot back, hoping to mask any
indication Byers was playing pos-sum. Gingerly touching the purplish
bruise forming on his cheek, she confirmed, "He's out."
"Have it your way, doll," Krycek grumbled, his gaze on the Gunman.
"Just remember, rules can
be broken, yours included." He leaned back in his seat and told the
driver to pull a U-turn across the
grassy median.
As his mind raced with the probabilities and horrors of what his body
might be harboring and
Susanne's obvious role in it all, Byers fought real sleep over feigning
drug-induced slumber. He
secretly watched for any indication of where they might be. So far, they
were heading west, accord-ing to the interstate signs.
During one of his more lucid moments, he felt Susanne's grip tighten
on his as she informed Krycek, "I'll need to quarantine John the minute we
arrive. It will take nearly six to eight weeks before I can even start
purging those initiate compounds from his system."
"You've got three weeks, doll," the man retorted coldly. "After
that, I'll simply boil his ass alive if I have to."
They drove most of the day and well into the night.
*****
Mulder flashed his badge and pulled three computer-scanned 8x10s from
an inside pocket. One
was of the mystery woman Susanne Modeski. Her '89 image had been quickly
redone from the page- boy blond to that of the shorter, darker cut
courtesy of Langly's Bohemian artistic ability. The other two pictures
were enlargements of John Byers' Maryland driver's license. One had dark
framed glasses inked in, the other without. "Ma'am, have you seen either
of these people?" he asked the woman behind the counter. "Perhaps in the
last twenty-four hours?" In reality, the couple had only been missing for
four.
She got up from her computer, put her hand to the bridge of her nose
as if to better focus the sudden change in depth perception, and leaned
over the counter to peer at the photos. "Nobody lookin' like that came in
here," she assured him. "Not that well dressed anyway. Just kids and
their parents wanting to be close to that silly Poky man stuff. There
ain't a room left."
"Please, ma'am," the agent persisted. "I'm here on both a personal
and official capacity. These people are friends of mine."
The woman looked at the photos again, but remained adamant that she
had not seen either one. She methodically returned to her work.
Disappointed, Mulder started to leave. Then he stopped and stared at
the flow of incoming traffic. Potential patrons had to drive past the
large picture window to the rear of the lot, he noted. If Byers and
Susanne had come here, they would have entered the same way.
He turned back to the clerk. "Ma'am, did you by chance see a run-
down green and white '72 VW van with Maryland plates come in at any time-
-today maybe?"
The woman paused and smiled at the personal recollection. "My
sister's boyfriend had one," she
said. "It was a '70- -and white. I didn't think there were any left. I
didn't see the people in it, though. They may have gone around back to
talk. Availability notwithstanding, many people don't check in at all. I
got busy at the desk so I didn't see them leave."
He could see her point. With a motel to provide rooms for an
unlimited combination of both locals and travelers seeking rooms by the
hour to a more legitimate and extended stay, one would hardly be concerned
with two adults sitting in a vintage van, talking. Nonetheless, Mulder
asked to see the day's registration receipts.
Nothing.
As the clerk stated, they hadn't checked in. Thanking her politely,
Mulder headed out to the waiting Taurus and the remaining Gunmen's vigil
of the parking lot. The guys had adamantly de-cided to remain in the
city, and Mulder had given in- -less out of concern for their safety than
a need to keep tabs on them so they wouldn't run off on their own
investigation.
Their contraption took up most of the trunk and backseat. Even the
diminutive Frohike had to
cram himself into what little space was available in the front seat with
the others.
Still awaiting her latest findings, Scully had elected to return
later on the DC Express.
Mulder's cell phone rang. It was Skinner. "I just received your
report, Agent Mulder, and advise you and your friends to return to the
D.C. area immediately. Philadelphia police have determined this to be a
local matter. Advise no further outside involvement."
"Sir, jurisdiction be damned!" Mulder shot back, maneuvering the
Taurus out of the lot and into downtown traffic. "I thought the Bureau
was omnipotent."
"But your buddies aren't, Mulder. They have no business being
involved in such a capacity, and
neither you nor Scully has the right to endanger their lives any further
at this point."
"Who says? Your old friend, Smokey?"
One hundred and thirty-plus miles to the south, Walter S. Skinner,
Assistant Director for the FBI's Washington, D.C. bureau, exhaled,
fighting the necessity to defend his scruples. True, he had
made deals with the Cigarette Smoking Man in the past, if only to protect
the very man who now berated him. Self-proposed investigative journalists
or not, the Gunmen were private citizens first. He could no longer be
responsible for their safety and would go so far as to return them to D.C.
in hand cuffs and leg irons if need be. He made that declaration very
clear to the agent.
Mulder angrily terminated contact on his end and pitched the cell
phone onto the dash.
The usually glib Langly stole a cautious glance to Frohike- -a silent
pledge not to antagonize the agent further.
"Where are they?" Skinner demanded of the man seated in the darker
recesses of his office as he slammed the receiver down.
The cigarette smoke was already thick as another cloud billowed
upward from a freshly lit Morley. "If you're talking about Mulder's
friend Byers and his girlfriend, I'm afraid I'm at a loss," the
older man said, feigning innocence. He strolled back toward the other's
desk and eased himself into a chair.
"Mulder claims you approached John Byers about a computer schematic
and that you threatened him if it were made public. What the hell is that
about?"
The other chuckled, pulling one last drag from the now finger-width
butt before snuffing it out. The steely gaze was not the least bit
intimidated by the balding and bespectacled, 6' 2", 200 pound ex- 'Nam
gunnery sergeant. "Pure hearsay, Mr. Skinner," he taunted. "You've gotten
a little cocky since your reinstatement. A little too cocky." He lit
another cigarette.
Skinner had lost count of the number the man had already consumed
since his arrival. The ash-tray before him resembled a pincushion
magnified a thousand times. He blanched to think of the nearly
suffocating amount of tar and nicotine build-up the man's lungs must hold
at this point.
"I don't have either of these people at present, but I may hold the
answers as to their whereabouts and the means to return them." In one
flawless and liquid motion, the man stood up, leaned over and extinguished
the last of his cigarette- -on the AD's desk-top. "Take that to heart if
you wish to continue your work, Mr. Skinner." He then turned on his heel
and exited through Skinner's private entrance.
*****
X was dead.
That's what 'they' said. 'They' being the FBI in this case, not the
mysterious few led by the smok-ing man.
He and the other Gunmen were back inside the same Falls Point,
Maryland warehouse where Susanne Modeski had helped launch their maiden
voyage to expose hidden truths behind proposed government conspiracies.
As before, the three were forced to their knees as the dark man
berated their gallant efforts, Byers' defiance again failing to bring any
hesitation on the man's part. However, unlike that fateful day, the man
did not fire a blank round at his back to curb his impudence. Instead,
after some deli-beration, he singled out Frohike and coldly pressed the
barrel of the .38 into the base of his neck- -
- -and fired!
The little man sprawled forward in a spray of blood, brain matter,
and bone and was still. His broken glasses skittered across the cement
floor. No matter. There was no longer a face on which to rest them.
In a vain effort to save himself, Langly leaped to his feet in a cry
of panic and scrambled wildly toward several crate-filled pallets. Beyond
this was a door and freedom.
Frozen and unable to help his new associate, Byers choked on the bile
forming in his throat.
X calmly reloaded the chamber and fired a second time, catching the
blond in mid leap as he sailed over the last obstacle. With a garbled
cry, his gangly limbs splayed outward as the bullet hit him squarely in
the back. He disappeared over the edge of his intended sanctuary and
landed with a sickening thud.
X's shoes echoed on the concrete behind him.
Byers closed his eyes, struggling to remember a prayer- -any prayer!-
-from his boyhood.
Oh- -no- -dear, God!
The man stopped.
Who art in heaven. . .
The room closed in as the hammer clicked back a third time, then
slammed home- -
On an empty chamber!
Byers felt his bowels constrict and he swooned- -
"Not today, sir," X stated, this time yanking the surviving Gunman to
his feet. "You have another appointment." Without further explanation, he
was escorted outside but not before one last look to his fallen friends.
He was forced into the back seat of the same sleek dark Continental that
at another time had disgorged two dark suited men to abduct a terrified
Susanne in front of him and two living brethren, in broad daylight. This
time, his friends were dead and Susanne was already there.
"John?"
The sound of her voice brought him instantly awake. Drenched in
sweat, Byers shivered and groaned as he shielded over-sensitive eyes from
the dim light.
Susanne peeled off his wet scrub top and began wiping him down with a
warm, soapy sponge. The first bath he'd had in . . . How long?
"You were dreaming about the warehouse again, weren't you?"
He nodded. She rinsed him and wrapped a large towel around his head
and shoulders. Hooking
his long bangs over his right ear, she attempted, "You need a trim."
Running a hand over the scrag-gly hairs of a full beard, she attempted to
kiss him.
He pulled away, moving to the far end of the bed. "Don't!" It was
more of a plea than a warning. He noticed the room's door was wide open
today, compromising its quarantine seal. It was over, but he was by no
means free. Betrayed eyes cut back to her. She was wearing a white smock
over a simple white uniform, possibly hospital scrubs like his own instead
of the bio-hazard suit. He didn't inquire as to why but instead demanded,
"What the hell are you doing with him?"
"Who, John?"
"That bastard, Krycek," Byers said through chattering teeth.
She followed and cornered him in an effort to both control and
console him, "You're delusional, John. What you're remembering is Grant
and I . . ." She didn't finish. She didn't have to; the Gun-men had the
video.
Byers rubbed aching eyes, fighting the suggestive words. "Bull!
You're working with him."
"Who?"
"Krycek! You purposely allowed me to hear it all the night he
kidnapped us," he accused. "That's why you didn't sedate me!"
She had found a clean shirt for him. Rather than allow her help, he
ripped it from her hands and shouldered into it.
"I explained that, " she attempted.
"You failed to mention your chummy relationship," he continued,
trying to stand. His legs re-fused to cooperate, however, and he
collapsed back onto the bed.
"Chummy, John?"
He pointed to the refraction off the glass partitions outside his
room. Several people in lab coats or scrubs moved in and out of a hallway
junction, their reflections caught briefly before moving on. Two young
male orderlies- -one blond, another dark-haired, both perhaps in their
twenties- -met at the intersection. The blond quickly looked around to
see it anyone might be watching and planted a quick peck on the other's
stubbled cheek before moving on. As an approving smile played at his
lips, the dark-haired man watched his partner disappear from view, turned,
and continued up the corridor.
Byers nodded toward the display. "Diminished light be damned, it
didn't prevent me from seeing you and Krycek together . . . more than
once."
"The view is a tricky one at best, John." She examined the angle for
herself. From their per-spective, one could see a two to three inch wide
ribbon of the world beyond. Simply moving to one side or the other
totally voided the questionable view. Deprived of any sight-correcting
devices . . . "John, under the circumstances and in your condition . . ."
"I don't need my damn faculties to see what the hell's going on. You
don't understand what
Krycek represents! He seduced you into helping him! Like Ellis did! Like
you did us ten years ago! And me . . . in Philly!"
"It was hardly seduction, John," Susanne amended. Pulling a
wheelchair closer to the bed, she
added, "Rather than attempt an explanation, let me show you."
He hesitated.
"Please, John," she begged. "You've got to trust me. If never again
on a personal level, one last
time under a journalist's perspective."
After some minutes and continued trepidation, Byers swung himself
into the chair.
They took an elevator down five floors and traveled through what
seemed like miles of corri-dors. The decor was less than people-friendly
with its cold industrial air and heat ducts starkly visi-ble against the
stained walls and peeling paint. Along with Byers' heightened anxieties,
the air was stale and getting more so with each twist of the corridor. By
the time they reached a set of double doors, he was having trouble
breathing.
They entered a large bay and stopped. The Gunman immediately turned
away for fear of losing what little breakfast he'd managed to eat that
morning. Lying in rows upon rows of collapsible cots were horribly
scarred men, women, and children, some disfigured to the point of having
no recog-nizable gender or age. Tending them were a half dozen orderlies
and doctors, some bearing burns and scars themselves. Two orderlies
busied themselves carrying what appeared to be covered corp-ses to a large
wooden pallet. One man circled back and plucked a small wrapped bundle
from the embrace of a sobbing woman and placed it atop the dozen or so
others before continuing on. She wailed uncontrollably, her voice echoing
off the thick concrete walls.
"What the hell did you do to these people?" Byers accused,
incredulous that his Susanne could be responsible for the nightmare before
him.
"Not me, John. These people were once inhabitants of a fourteen
square block housing complex less than twenty miles from here. The local
news claimed a faulty gas line. In truth, these people were the initial
victims of Dr. Roberts' prototype."
Lifting himself from the wheelchair, Byers suddenly blanched. "Not
the ones I- -?" He somehow managed the strength to move through the beds.
"Oh, God! Please tell me I didn't do this!" One of the orderlies moved
in to cut him off but was waved back. Clearly distressed by the carnage
before
him, the Gunman pressed his hands over his eyes to make the vision go
away.
Susanne moved in to pull him back but was prevented herself.
Twisting around, she cursed under her breath. Krycek was holding her arm
and a gun at her side, warning her to remain silent. He had that damned
smug look on his face as he played his hole card:
"How do you like holding the key to Armageddon, Gunman?" he intoned.
"It's a pity our high security institutions are heavily editing all
incoming and outgoing mail. This might be just the ticket to spice up
that little rag of yours."
Susanne tried pulling out of his grip, but Krychek's prosthetic hand
had her locked tight. After several minutes, though, he reconsidered and
released her. She ran to Byers' side.
"You didn't do this, John," she attempted reassurance.
"How can you say that?" Byers whispered hoarsely, his emotions
barely in check. "Look at these people, Susanne!" His high tenor had again
risen considerably. "They're dying! Mulder was wrong, I did arm those
systems back at the hotel! Don't expect me to believe otherwise!" He
backed toward the door they had entered. "God, I should have listened to
Frohike and Langly. You can't be trust-ed!" The words obviously pained
him. "As many times as you've played the victim, you used the crap out of
me for your personal gain- -"
Before he could finish his vindication, a young boy had reached out
to him from the nearest bed and gripped his hand. Staring perplexedly at
the man's scarred fingers, the boy whispered, "Why?" before collapsing
into unconsciousness.
With a cry of dismay, Byers fell back, not wanting to see any more.
Scrambling to his feet, he bolted from the room and half-ran, half-
staggered blindly down the corridor. Finally, when he was too breathless
to continue, he sank to the floor. Nearly hysterical from grief and fear,
he balled himself up and pressed tightly into a small servicing alcove,
fighting to control his trembling body as he sought absolution against the
hell surrounding him.
Meanwhile, Susanne Modeski confronted Krycek. "You bastard! You
know it wasn't him! That explosion was a week before Philly. The very
reason we went searching for those units in the first place- -and to
prevent another incident."
"Why tell the truth when he can be so easily persuaded otherwise?
But then your job isn't to
think past finding a way to locate and countermand that triggering
compound before Smokey plays Hitler and we're the next ones fried."
"I only agreed to help Dr. Roberts because I believed his cause in
preventing those altered units
from ever seeing service!" Susanne fumed. "John and his friends were
never meant to be involved!"
"On the contrary, doll," Krycek sneered. "Mulder's geek pals are the
perfect foil, just as he's
been all these years. Only now he's overstayed his welcome. Despite
credibility as shameless as the Enquirer, the Lone Gunman has teased the
fatalistic since its inaugural issue- -thanks to you." He laughed
maliciously. "Now everyday America has embraced their crap. As Smokey's
fond of say-ing, what better way to protect oneself than to allow a few
trade secrets to leak out once in awhile?" He pulled her around and ran
his right hand- -true flesh and blood- -over the obvious "pooch" of her
stomach. "Have you told him yet?"
Silently, she broke free and ran up the corridor to find Byers.
It wasn't difficult.
The acoustics amplified even minute sounds tenfold. Byers' whispered
novena reverberated off the walls to her right.
"Roberts needed someone to keep his initiate safe, John," she
attempted, kneeling down next to him.
He turned away, his words biting. "So you automatically volunteered
me, Susanne?" He ven-
tured from his safe place and straightened to a kneeling position, the
best his shaky legs would allow. "John Fitzgerald Byers, the underdogs'
friggin' patriot to the end! So much for random selec-tion!"
"It was not my call this time, John. Regrettably, you were not
selected randomly. Nor was it intended for you to get the full product,
only the primary. All I knew was Ben had found someone. I was to house
the secondary. Foremost, my orders were to go into hiding if I hadn't
heard from him by a certain time. I did just that. That's why he placed
both agents in you. There was no time to
research the pros and cons. I had no idea you were his- -"
"Damned patsy?"
"Friend," she corrected strongly. "We first thought it was simply a
snatch-and- grab for profit over opposition to unsanctioned
experimentation that both Ben and I were trying to prevent our-selves.
Instead, we quickly discovered your friends at Bal-Tec were part of an
undercover sting operation."
"Set up by Bal-Tec's insurance company," he conjectured faintly.
She shook her head. "By Dr. Roberts and myself to blow off
suspicion by all parties. We didn't realize it at the time, but we were
initially playing against each other and getting nowhere. Ben saw his
chance at the show and used you against them. He first passed the primary
to you by way of a computer disk. Once you opened the suspected drives,
the secondary would be triggered by the pri-mary and pass itself into your
bloodstream as well. But other factors . . . contaminants . . . proved
an unconsidered obstacle."
He stared at her wide-eyed, shock and curiosity momentarily
overriding mistrust. "Contami-nants? What contaminants?"
"John, I wasn't kidding when I said some brands of laundry detergent
residue might somehow affect the initiate. Most laundry products now use a
chemical base to substitute that of animal by- products. Yours doesn't.
At first, I thought Dr. Roberts had arranged that as well- -by prepping
your body in some way to better receive those compounds."
Byers' thoughts suddenly returned to that day in their apartment and
her vehement concerns re-garding 'random selection'.
"But like I said, that wasn't the case. Your acquiring that product
was just an unfortunate hap-penstance."
"But . . . I never suffered the effects until now," he argued.
She indicated the lingering scars on his hands. "On the contrary.
You started rejecting those compounds the minute your skin came in contact
with it, just not in the usual allergic fashion. But, because of the soap
residue, it also kept you from suffering the same fate as the people you
just saw. Thus the quarantine. We had to find out whether it indeed had
any bearing on the problem at hand and, if so, which of those compounds
your body was rejecting or being redirected to do so."
Byers now hung suspiciously on her every word.
"Once those suspected contaminants were purged from your system, we
could isolate the trig-gering initiate, remove it, and destroy it."
He started to object, but Susanne silenced him with a far bleaker
alternative. "If not me, John, they'd have found someone who could.
Problem is, they 're not as concerned with keeping you alive.
That's why I didn't sedate you that night Krycek kidnapped us. Not
knowing what that vial actually contained, I didn't want to risk killing
you or adding yet another chemical to your system."
Increasingly shattered by the turn of events, Byers bowed his head.
"So, after a couple of rolls in
the hay, I'm expected to gallantly volunteer my stupid ass one more time
and wind up fried to a crisp
like those people back there?"
"Only if you had downloaded that disk into a certain hard drive,
John."
The Gunman's head snapped up, his face even paler now as he
remembered the convention suite's melted computers. "There was one CPU
they thought I had already pulled apart because of a partial thumbprint
they suspected as mine. But I never touched it until we returned days
later with Mulder and Scully. I then removed a circuit card. I never
downloaded any files into it!"
"That may be why your friend's game was affected but we weren't."
"Affected?"
Susanne remained passive- -no coy body language this time- -patiently
waiting for him to draw his own conclusions.
Distress suddenly replaced Byers' questioning glare. "The
reconfiguration patch . . . That CPU was marked so you wouldn't download
that schematic into it, wasn't it?" She nodded. "Once all ingredients
are at hand, you can harness increased power from networked PCs, can't
you?"
She nodded. "That little boy who grabbed your hand was one of three
families who bought com-puters that same week- -complete with an
introductory CD-Rom game called Suburban Holocaust."
He didn't want to hear any more. His eyes closed briefly against the
harsh realization of Krycek's words and the horror of becoming the
unwitting pawn in such a vision.
Susanne pulled him closer and kissed him as chastely as the first day
they'd met.
(END PART III)
THIRD STRING PLAYER (part IV)
by SL Wickham
email: S3wick@AOL.com
Rating: Possibly R (I can't keep up with these things) for naughty
language and some sexual
situations.
Summary: Byers does a little moonlighting and meets up with Susanne
Modeski . . . Hey, I guess this would qualify for the February Fanfic
Challenge, eh???????
Disclaimers (any references to things said and done in past eps, bordering
on plagiarism, I humbly apologize. This project was started five minutes
after Three of a Kind ended . . .). Thanks Joy and Pam for the red ink;
my mother, Judy for her defense against disbelieving academia that all
written submissions were indeed my own and not gained through illicit
means; my husband, Mark for not thinking my writing fanfic is 'too
weird!'; My son, Bryan for the query, 'What do you do with it when your
finished?'; Bruce, Tom, Dean, Chris, Vince, Frank and John (et al) for
some fun charac-ters; and Signy Coleman for playing the damsel in
distress.
*****
Three weeks later
Byers heard the tumblers click. He hurriedly stuffed the piece of
blue surgical drape he'd been
meticulously adding to with each free moment back into its secret place
under a piece of loose moulding. He had all but gotten it secured and
dropped back onto the mattress to feign a deep sleep when the door swung
inward.
It was Susanne. Ignoring him, she moved toward the computer bank and
typed something on the keyboard. The last command initiated was via a
Shift/Alt maneuver, Byers noted, watching the way her hands moved.
However, as to what key was depressed to do so, he couldn't tell from his
per-spective. With her back to him, Susanne was unaware he was now
watching her every move.
Rather than physically confront her, he simply rolled to a seated
position, causing the springs to squeak. She whirled, her face pale.
His suspicions immediately gave way to concern. "What is it?" he
demanded.
"The compound's on fire!" she shouted back, her blue eyes wide with
panic. "I just shut down the main block to keep Krycek and his cronies
busy while we exit through the south entrance."
She grabbed him by the arm and pulled him toward the door.
Byers resisted, if only for a moment. "What about those people in
bay 4?" he shouted incredu-lously. "They're still alive!"
The words were direct, and her face even paler. "No, they're not,
John. That's where the fire started."
"God, Susanne!" John Byers looked as though he were going to be sick,
but Modeski wasn't willing to waste time on sentiment.
With hands clasped tightly around the other's for fear they'd become
separated, the two dashed off in the direction the woman claimed as
safety.
*****
One week later:
Six years of law enforcement proved little preparation for "the phone
call"- -a hard realization Dana Scully was quick to learn as she spent the
rainy Sunday afternoon preparing the overdue re-ports AD Skinner had
pressured her all week to complete. Surprisingly, the voice on the other
end
was from the Saskatchewan Royal Canadian Mounted Police.
"Dana Scully, please."
"Speaking."
"Forgive the intrusion, ma'am. A local Boy Scout troop pulled some
Yank out of Arsenault
Lake, not far from the Cold Lake Air Weapons Range two nights ago," stated
the clipped voice. "We currently have him in custody for his own safety
after an anonymous tip fingered him as the Cold Lake arsonist last month.
Instead of a lawyer, he insisted we contact you. Do you have access to a
computer?"
She tabbed the "save" button and popped in the phone jack to accept
the direct feed. Her efforts
were lackadaisical at best. This was probably just one more of at least a
dozen dead-end leads con-cerning John Byers' whereabouts that they'd
received over the last two months.
"He's also been linked to an explosion that destroyed a subdivision
twenty miles from the plant. He claims his only defense, other than
yourself, is an Agent Fox Mulder and a woman named Susanne Modeski. Any
insight on that, ma'am?"
Oh, my, God!
Scully cursed herself for not following up Langly's offer to upgrade
her system during its re-build. The grainy picture, courtesy of a digital
camera, came in with excruciating slowness.
The man's hairline was in.
However, if it was indeed John Byers, the hair was too short
reminding her of the ragged crew cuts her brothers had given themselves
her fifth summer. It was also too red, almost cinnamon like her own.
Nor did she believe the mild-mannered Gunman could be responsible for such
carnage. Nevertheless, she paced as the picture continued to slowly
download, line by line. It was the thick brows that made her hold her
spot- -perpetually arched in an almost apprehensive perplexity as life
continuously threw him its complex curve.
She was riveted to the tiny screen as equally unassuming slate blue
eyes clinched John Byers' identity. "Can I talk to him?" Her query sounded
strangely distant.
"Is this your man?"
"Yes, damn it!" Her voice echoed throughout the apartment. "Please
let me talk to him!"
"Hello, Dana?" John Byers' tenor greeted shakily, the voice as
distant as the miles themselves.
As exasperating and socially inept as he and his fellow Gunmen often
proved, they were willing to take the risk of both prosecution and
persecution in pursuit of their vision and had become as much a part of
Scully's life as her partner. She couldn't help but feel both a
professional and per-sonal compassion toward them.
Scully stared at the final downloaded image. The missing man was
gaunt and pale, the smartly trimmed Vandyke replaced by day old stubble.
Another day and time, he might have looked ten years younger. At present,
he seemed to have aged that and more.
Taking a moment to compose herself, she transfered Byers' picture and
case information to Mul-der's fax machine. "I hate to say it, Byers," she
managed in a strained voice, "but I think the guys rented out your room.
It's been awhile."
"Almost three months, they tell me." The usually crisp, precise
tenor was disjointed, and Dana Scully feared he'd been drugged. She
sighed, wanting to delay her next question indefinitely. "John
- -what about Susanne?"
There was a long silence before he continued haltingly, "There was a
fire . . ."
"Yes, it made the local news."
"Then you know a lot of people are missing." The voice constricted
slightly with each syllable,
and she realized the slower diction was caused not by a drugged stupor but
by one holding fleetingly to an ever-collapsing resolve.
She knew about the missing people. Dazed and injured survivors had
been found up to ten miles
from the site in question.
"Susanne's missing, Dana."
That she didn't know.
The man's composure continued to deteriorate. "Th- -ey said we were
re-sponsi-ble."
"The authorities are blaming the survivors for the fire?" Scully
asked in disbelief.
There was a raspy exhale. "No." The tenor dropped to a mere whisper,
and the receiver inter-mittently crackled with short, ragged breaths.
"The sur-vi-vors," the voice attempted, "are bla-a-ming us- -Susanne and
my-self. But we di-didn't do it, Da-na. Not- -"
The FBI agent braced herself.
"- -in-in-ten-tionally."
There was a long silence and Dana Scully feared the transmission had
been lost. No. Byers was
still there continuing to maintain his composure. "John," she managed with
a calm she was far from
feeling, "Mulder and I will be on the next plane out. For God's- -your- -
sake, don't say another word or do anything until we get there."
But she knew it was too late. For the record, John Byers had already
incriminated himself, and,
paranoia not withstanding, she prayed the Mounties were as scrupulous as
they claimed.
Mulder was more than six hours behind her and AD Skinner as he
elected to hop a commercial flight rather than fight Bureau protocol
forbidding civilians- -in this case, Langly and Frohike- - access to
government transports.
He flashed his badge for the benefit of the admissions nurse and,
along with his best "song and dance," gained them admittance to
observation room six. Scully was already there, and the four silently
watched Walter Skinner, in fine ass-reaming form, put John Byers through
the proverbial wringer with his bone-chilling interrogation.
The agents sat riveted to their chairs. Only occasionally did they
react to the man's words by stealing a speculative glance toward each
other or a concerned look toward the other Gunmen as they paced
periodically or, in Langly's case, left the room altogether. This was not
Byers' usual warped twist on probabilities but a first-hand account of the
truth. Skinner seemed affected as well.
He had insisted on being present for fear the agents' and Byers' personal
relationship might prompt
a conflict of interest, blowing the case either way. Not surprisingly,
his questions gradually became fewer and fewer, allowing Byers to fill
audiotape after audiotape with his precise and articulate sing- song as he
chronicled his weeks of captivity:
"Dr. Modeski was convinced Roberts had hidden both a primary and a
secondary initiate within me during the Philly show," came Byers' tinny
voice over the room speaker. His audience returned their attentions to
the one-way mirror, surprised by the revelation, as was Skinner.
"There were two separate compounds?" he cross-examined.
The Gunman nodded. "According to Dr. Modeski, she was to house the
secondary. However,
because of a delay or possibilities of discovery- -I'm not sure which- -
she failed to arrive at the allot-ted time, and I received both agents.
Theoretically, there should have been little trouble in retriev-ing these
compounds. However, Dr. Modeski feared outside contaminants prevented
this without causing harm to the compounds or myself and thus imposed a
quarantine. For weeks I was not allowed outside stimuli- -light, sound,
etc. All food and liquids were both controlled and organic.
It was only then that she felt confident enough to attempt the procedure."
"Attempt?" Skinner pressed. "Then it was successful?"
Byers' eyes rolled upward toward the ceiling- -though more out of
concentration than annoyance
- -as he dictated almost bitterly, "I don't know. She may have simply
stalled for time as she initiated her escape."
"She was trying to get you both out of the compound?"
The Gunman looked as though he were about to defend the woman then
did an abrupt about- face, his gaze direct for the first time. "Mr.
Skinner, Susanne is remarkably computer-savvy , and, along the same lines
of Roberts' prototype, she hoped to keep the computer busy long enough to
accomplish this . . ."
"Then you weren't initially part of her escape plans?"
"No." The words again sounded bitter as he stumbled over the words,
"I- -saw her at the com-puter just minutes before."
"Doing what, John?"
Byers swallowed hard. "Initiating a possible command. By the
position of her hands, I could tell she had depressed both the Shift and
Alt keys. Unfortunately, as to what that command was, I don't know. When
I confronted her, she claimed a fire was already engulfing part of a
structure housing several survivors of the subdivision explosion. She was
attempting to shut it down to keep it con-tained.
"Two men I had known since '83- -years before meeting Langly and
Frohike- -had initially approached me with the recon theorem, days before
the Philly show. They needed proof of its cre-dibility. Langly gave me
that edge. At the time, I was unaware they had simply stolen a placebo in
place of the real initiate in hopes of exposing both his and Dr. Modeski's
plans to shut down the very
facility we are now accused of destroying. Ben- -Dr. Roberts- -and
Susanne had tracked these men
east where they had hoped to hide all incrimination within the show
itself, after which they would simply pack everything away and move on."
From the other side of the observation window, Langly whirled mid-
pace and stabbed the air
with a bony finger. "That bastard! Why didn't he tell me that?"
"Expos'e notwithstanding, he didn't want you implicated in case
things went as sour as they
did," Mulder reasoned dryly, "thus making our dear Frohike single once
again."
"Trust me. Such status is looking favorable," the little man
grumbled with a contemptuous
look both to the blond and through the one-way to Byers.
"Did you have any contact with the compound's computers?" came
Skinner's voice over the speaker.
The Gunman involuntarily shook his head then suddenly remembered the
audio pick-up. "No, sir."
"At least not consciously, John," Skinner's baritone determined
without faltering. "That fire was deliberately set, and all evidence
points back to you and Dr. Modeski."
Byers closed his eyes and bowed his head.
No!
"Please understand, Mr. Skinner, Susanne wanted to 'disappear.' I
can't fault her for that. But whether or not I was to be included . . .?"
He boldly reiterated, "It was supposed to be a simple
diversion. Nothing more! She did not intend to hurt those people!"
The AD leaned down until he was nose to nose with the Gunman. He
maintained his intimidat-ing position until the other's composure began to
falter. Byers' hands alternately balled into fists then dug into the
lightly padded arms of the chair to which his wrists were shackled.
Unflappable, at least in the set of his features, Skinner continued,
"Some ruse, Mister. For the past ten years, you and your buddies have
complacently hidden behind that omnipotent, self-right-eous little rag of
yours. Now, after sitting on the bench, you're suddenly first string and
you've got the ball. You and your girlfriend are currently on the FBI's
Ten Most Wanted list because of that damned fire, making you responsible
for at least twelve deaths. Don't add perjury to that list!"- -The least
of your damn problems! "Did you or Dr. Modeski set that fire?"
His head still bowed, Byers made one last meek appeal through the
tears that now flowed un-ashamedly. Had Susanne succeeded in retrieving
those compounds from his body before destroying all evidence in the fire?
"I respectfully plead the fifth, sir." Because of the restraints, he was
unable to wipe away the tears and mucus that drenched his lap from eyes,
nose, and mouth. He was making quite a mess of himself.
After several minutes, the AD snapped from his hard-hearted tangent
and pleaded for the pri-soner's hand-cuffs to be removed and for a new set
of prison-issued orange coveralls. The young Mountie standing guard at
the door eventually complied. As Byers changed, Skinner stuffed a
handkerchief into a pitcher filled with ice water, wrung it out, and
handed it to the younger man. Skinner then paced the room several times
until they were both composed enough to continue.
The Gunman reseated himself. He lowered his head slightly and stared
at nothing. The re-straints were waved momentarily.
Skinner's voice seemed less vindictive now, almost sympathetic, as he
directed his words at the bowed head. "John, you are aware that your MO
also links you to an explosion that destroyed a Canadian subdivision,
determining you may have inadvertently armed CPUs strategically placed
throughout that neighborhood? It wasn't a gas leak."
Silence.
Without explanation, the AD picked up a remote and aimed it toward
the ceiling-mounted TV/VCR combo. Unseen by prisoner and interrogator,
Frohike, Langly, Mulder, and Scully slipped into the room to maintain
their silent vigil.
The video clearly showed Byers and Susanne Modeski in the midst of a
crowd of nearly two dozen people escaping from what authorities had
identified as the south end of Building 131. All watched in stunned
silence as the chemist appeared to purposely move away from the others un-
noticed and head back toward the building and out of camera range.
Seconds later, the entrance was filled with a deadly back flash that sent
the group diving for cover.
Based solely on her trajectory, Byers was convinced that Suzanne had
indeed re-entered the
building. He collapsed to the floor with a mournful wail, literally
pitching off his less-than-brawny
roommates as they attempted to restrain him. Mulder and Skinner proved
more successful, keeping
him still long enough for Scully to procure and inject a mild sedative to
his left hip.
"Why?" Byers moaned, repeating the single word over and over as the
drug took effect. Frohike
could not be a bystander to such pain. He walked over and knelt by the
three men.
Mulder immediately surrendered his position without argument. Not so
with Skinner; who was less sure of the drug's immediate effects. Laying a
hand on the AD's shoulder, the little man's eyes conveyed a silent
request. Skinner finally relinquished his hold. Frohike immediately
gathered his friend in a sheltering embrace.
Langly, who had retreated to the doorway, slumped to the floor and
buried his head in a heap
of gangly limbs and blond hair. His shoulders heaved with sobs as he
descended into an agony as
profound as Byers' but waved off Scully's immediate concerns.
Byers, on the other hand, eventually calmed, responding more to
Frohike's reassuring presence
than the sedative itself.
As the volatility of the situation eased somewhat, the agents and
their boss moved to a far cor-
ner to confer.
Scully seemed almost apologetic in her summation. "Sir, whereas we
have little or no proof that the same theory was initiated here as in
Philadelphia, Dr. Modeski did inform us that possible con-taminants- -in
this case, a particular brand of laundry soap the Gunmen used at the time-
-may have contributed. Agent Mulder believes that the initial compounds
placed in Byers' bloodstream trig-gered electrical circuits in the systems
themselves- -thus linking all agents and components. The survivors
interviewed claimed to have bought their systems just days before Byers
attended that Philadelphia convention and as long as six months earlier.
Some had documented proof. Individual store records were found in the
ruins."
Holding on to an almost fleeting impartiality, Skinner realized, "My,
God! You're telling me that any one of those individuals- -better yet, a
combination of them- -could have initiated that explosion?!"
"But not Byers," Mulder stated. "Remember, sir, we believe he was set
up by both sides."
Their superior surprisingly concurred. However . . ."He may be off
the hook as far as our pri-mary mystery is concerned but not the fire.
Sorry, agents." Skinner was adamant. "With Byers' knowledge of computers
and his infatuation with this Modeski woman, you can't convince me other-
wise."
Neither Mulder nor Scully seemed surprised by the conviction.
There was a knock on the observation room's door. A young woman
entered and handed Scully
a sheet of paper. The print-out had come off an antiquated dot matrix
printer. Though the infor-mation was barely legible, Scully could just
make out an all too normal blood panel. She looked at the patient ID at
the top of the page for confirmation.
Byers, John F.
"I'll be damned," she muttered. "Just a few months ago it read off
the scale."
"Caused by . . .?" Skinner queried.
Scully swallowed her pride. "Quite possibly everything we've
discussed thus far, but suddenly I have nothing more than conjecture to
work with."
Mulder snatched the paper from her. Not being all that familiar with
the read-outs, he asked, "This is a normal blood panel?"
She pointed out several numbers to the contrary, amending, "It's not
quite textbook. Under the circumstances, Byers is a little dehydrated and
his cholesterol's a little high. Considering his age and what he's been
through, though, that's not surprising."
Skinner shook his head, not certain how to ascertain this latest news
in light of the Gunmen's reputations, both as individuals and as a whole.
"Byers could have doctored it all. How can we be certain he didn't . . .
for Dr. Modeski's sake?"
"We can't, sir," Mulder admitted. "But then we still haven't
explained the nano-critters in your own bloodstream. Maybe the same
theory can be tied to Byers' anomalies- -turned 'on' or 'off' as needed."
Scully decided to check on the Gunmen again. Langly once more
refused her attentions so she
knelt down next to the other two.
Normally the most proficient at expressing lewd thoughts towards her,
Frohike seemed the least affected by her presence as he gently rocked the
man in his arms as if comforting a small child.
Scully took no offense and discreetly wiped away a tear.
Byers' arm suddenly shot upward, cuffing Frohike across the left
cheek. The little man swore,
readjusted his glasses, and ducked as it swung back. He grasped the limb
firmly to avoid a second
blow, trying to reassure Byers- -almost forcibly as he fought for control-
-that all was well. It wasn't. Byers was mouthing something.
Venturing nearer, Langly was the first to understand- -
Left side.
"Holy shit!" The blond headed out the door in the direction of the
elevators at a dead run with
Mulder and Skinner at his heels. Langly ran a finger down the floor
directory, found what he want-ed, and slammed the "down" button for the
first available car. The other men grabbed the next ele-vator down and
caught up with him at the morgue's front desk. Mulder waved the young
duty officer aside, allowing Langly to slip behind the desk. Immediately
familiar with the system, he pounded maniacally at the keyboard.
"Access denied" screamed silently at him from the screen.
Realizing their intent, the lance corporal maneuvered around Mulder
and immediately threaten-ed their expulsion if they didn't vacate the
premises at once.
Unheeded, the blond demanded, "What's the password, Dudley?"
The other refused and upped the ante by threatening to call his
superior.
Mulder and Skinner, however, called his bluff by pulling their
badges. "Best do it home," the younger man stated. "Our boy can breech
this system before the echo dies."
The officer finally relented and logged in the needed password just
as Frohike joined them. Langly glanced up at him. "Where's our prodigal
roommate?" he asked.
"Our dear Ms. Scully and two of these red-coated dandies escorted him
back to his room," Fro-hike huffed, catching his breath. "So what the
hell have you got?"
"Remember your history concerning the fair Susanne, little man?" the
blond responded smugly. "She has no lower left molar."
"Hot damn!" The other caught his reasoning; explaining more for the
others' benefit. "She yanked it out the first day we met after
discovering her dentist had replaced the real tooth with a surveillance
implant!"
Langly scrolled up through the dental records of the known female
victims.
"If she went back inside . . ." Skinner surmised.
Two of the eight women Langly keyed up had missing teeth but not the
one in question. The blond went through the men's and children's records
as well, theorizing gender and age might not be apparent in the more
extreme cases. It was a good try, several hits came up but were those of
pre-adolescents. Two other victims produced a right partial and two
crowns.
Spooky Mulder was on a roll; something about this was not quite
right. "Have Scully begin
searching available autopsy reports for any blood anomalies consistent
with Byers'. In the mean-time, I'm going out there." Looking to the
Gunmen, he offered," You boys up to a little field trip?"
They were, and Skinner, surprisingly, agreed to their inclusion.
*****
The AD and the Canadian investigation team watched in silence as Fox
Mulder got his "feel" for
the room. The blackened box springs groaned under his weight as he
plopped to a seated position on the bed. He then shifted to lie down,
first one way then the other. From both positions, he look-ed out to the
side yard from what had been the only window, according to compound
blueprints. A blackened desk and what may have been a computer sat under
it. He rolled to his stomach to view the room from yet another angle.
Someone sniggered from the back of the queue, "This must be part of
the Yank's home study course on criminal investigation."
Skinner's hard gaze swept the group around him, silencing all- -
including the still anonymous offender. "Try top of his class. Oxford and
Quantico, '83 through '88," he stated flatly.
No one dared to further challenge such disclosure.
Still oblivious, Mulder turned and faced the wall. Running his
fingers along the melted flooring, he picked at the moulding until he
exposed a three-finger-width hole. Probing fingers found and pulled what
appeared to be a piece of light blue fabric from its depths. Sharp
creases indicated it had been carefully folded previously but on its last
pass apparently was hastily wadded and stuffed back into its hiding place.
The roughly 2x3 foot rectangle of blue was covered with drawings and
meticulous notes in a precise engineer's script- -all in a bluish felt
tip- -save for a few chemical symbols in the bottom right corner and some
added, and, perhaps separate components to the draw-ing made in black
ink. "Surgical drape. Written with an indelible marker . . . except for
this last part," the agent commented to no one in particular. His long
association with Scully and her medi-cal environment often came in handy.
"Written and drawn by whom?" Skinner demanded as he approached.
Mulder said nothing as he pulled a business card from his wallet and
appeared to compare some-thing on its back to the blue musings on the
drape. Still mulling over his theories, he returned to the trailer that
housed operations, the AD in tow.
The Gunmen had been denied access to the investigation site.
However, the Mounties had em-
braced their techno-skills and put them to work playing and replaying the
fire video. Surrounded by stacks of videos depicting a chronological
record of compound life, Mulder quietly watched seven replays before
interrupting.
"That's Byers' handwriting," Frohike confirmed as Mulder tossed the
drawing onto the table in front of them and, with a magician's flourish,
whipped out the business card for Skinner to see. On the back was a short
note to Mulder- -signed by John Byers. The handwriting impeccably matched
the blue writing but not the black additions.
Pointing to one of the added diagrams, the agent asked the Gunmen,
"Isn't this a circuit sche-matic of some kind?"
But the two had already picked up on it.
"Holy shit!" Langly shouted as he pulled the drape in front of him.
Pointing to each of the dia-grams separately, he explained, "This is an
electrical schematic of a main trunk line . . ."
". . . their main electrical, telephone, etc.," Frohike added
unnecessarily.
"Where the circuits are continuous, each can be used separately and-
- Jeez, will you look at that layout!" Langly gushed as he retraced Byers'
original schematic; carrying through the black addi-tions. "That's just
what they did here!" He stabbed at the other. "And this is a schematic
for a satel-
lite dish!"
The Gunmen's heads snapped up and their gazes locked on each other.
"That's how they're con-
necting everything!" They exclaimed in unison.
"It's got to be several up from Roberts' prototype," Frohike
continued running his own stubby
finger over the drawing to confirm. "Using what Byers initially gave us,
we never came close to duplicating its true potential!"
Remembering the agents' initial report, Skinner darkly reminded them,
"If you had, you wouldn't be here now."
"At least not in our present state," added Mulder before exiting the
trailer with his copy of the compound's blueprints in hand. The
investigation team had since called it quits, confident they had enough
evidence to try John Byers for murder.
The agent looked at the notes he'd jotted down while viewing the
tapes and back at the blue- prints. According to the latter, building 128
was in front of them. Behind them and to the left had been another
building. Mounted to its rooftop had been a camera. At this trajectory,
he saw the building in which John Byers had lived for the past several
months. He crossed to and "through" the now nonexistent walls to take in
the room once more. From where the window and possible com-puter had
been, he looked back to the rooftop; in its regular slow pan, the camera
could have easily picked up any and all activity here.
Mulder immediately headed back toward the trailer at an easy trot as
he pulled out his cell phone. "Frohike. I need you and Langly to start
digging through those tapes," he directed into the mouthpiece. "Find me
everything dated the day that fire started and back three months."
Five hours later, they had what they wanted. Returning to the city,
Skinner pulled more bureau-cratic strings, granting all, including the
Gunmen, access to police labs and photo/video enhancing equipment. With
this, Frohike, the true lens man of the group, was able to treat them to
nearly forty minutes of footage not clearly seen in the initial videos.
However, for all Byers' decade-long lusting over Modeski, the results
proved disappointingly chaste. "That stuff we pulled from that Vegas air
duct was hotter than this," the little man muttered, referring to a covert
surveillance video Modeski and her fianc‚'s former employer had filmed of
them.
"Not to mention the electronic store bathroom in Philly," Mulder
commented dryly. Nonetheless, they stuck it out until their patience
was rewarded. The last three minutes treated
them to a near-frantic Dr. Modeski entering the room and crossing to what
had been the desk. Re-ferring back to the blueprints, Mulder traced out a
wiring schematic which confirmed his suspi-cions: the melted clump of
plastic had indeed been a computer! He had Frohike replay this section of
tape several times, before freezing it. In all, he clearly noted her
pulling something from the drive, pocketing it, then minutes later exiting
through another door to the compound.
On the frozen image, Mulder silently pointed to the right hand corner
of the screen. A satellite
dish was reflected in the window glass.
"She's alive," Skinner stated the obvious.
"And free to possibly sabotage the next black ops facility down the
road," Mulder stated grimly,
remembering Byers' earlier dark perspective.
The Gunmen nodded, equally reflective, prompting some concern on
Skinner's part that he was
about to witness a Lone Gunman exclusive. He looked around, fearing
prying eyes and over-atten-tive ears. "Off the record, boys, I never
believed Byers doctored those tapes, that it was Dr. Mode-ski's ironic
attempt to keep him and other secrets safe for now."
Mulder's cell phone rang from the depths of coat pocket.
It was Scully: "Mulder, the lab results are in."
He settled back against a table to listen.
"Forty percent of the subdivision's homeowners worked at the
petroleum plant. Another fifteen worked at Province-Tech, a sister
company to Bal-Tec. Two samples- -and different blood types than Byers' A
negative- -popped with the positive enzyme." Mulder grinned proudly and
mouthed "my girl" for the benefit of his male companions.
"However, the positives were pulled from the respective sons of these
employees- -"
The agent looked stunned for a moment, not expecting such a twist,
then queried, "What about the employees themselves?"
"That was a dead end," Scully continued. "The boys were Bryce
Whittier and Alex Marks, both thirteen and avid computer/video
enthusiasts."
Still taken aback by the news, Mulder dead panned, "Looks like I'm
not the only kid who sneak-
ed into his father's sock drawer seeking otherwise 'verboten' treasures."
At Skinner's inquiry, the agent filled the others in.
"Looks like Whittier and Marks both brought their work home nights,"
the AD concluded. Mulder shook his head and held up an index
finger, respectfully halting all conversation until
the transmission ended. He then snapped off the connection and pocketed
the phone before stating, "Scully also mentioned the CD-rom in question
not only contained partial prints from both Whittier and his son but Alex
Marks as well."
"You think this Bryce kid 'borrowed' it out of his dad's drawer. .
.," Frohike ventured in dawning
horror.
". . . and shared a phat new game with his best bud," Langly
finished, equally repulsed.
Skinner drove the final nail into the coffin. "Thus frying their
neighborhood. . . and them-selves."
"If their underground electricals are- -were- -run in the same manner
of that refinery . . ." Mulder proposed. "Dr. Modeski may have managed to
pull enough of those compounds from Byers' system before she ran.
According to Scully, police reports came up with no serial numbers,
proving those PCs may have come from a private source and not a
conventional one. Also, about three percent of
those households had satellite dishes- -including the families in
question.
"A coincidence?" Skinner seemed to be pulling at straws.
Mulder looked to the Gunmen.
"The dishes in question have to be individually positioned to draw
the best possible signal,"
Langly ventured tonelessly.
The agent added to the supposition, "the houses in question weren't
even in consecutive order but blocks apart and, at opposite ends of their
respective blocks- -one north, the other south. Once those CDs were
placed, however, there may have been enough residue from those boys'
respective fingerprints to connect all necessary links once a primary
signal glanced off those individual dishes by any degree- -and . . ." he
spread his arms in a grand arc and mouthed "BOOM." In the meantime, such
prophecy prompted a tortured decision for all:
Do we tell Byers the truth?
All present voted no.
*****
Eight months later.
The check-out line was taking even longer than usual. A sudden
gurgle and squeak of pleasure came from behind the elderly woman at about
knee level, and she gave in to maternal curiosity. She
turned and peered down through her spectacles at the infant in the
stroller.
"Little boy or little girl?" she asked, glancing back up at the young
mother.
Her face nearly obscured by the dark glasses she wore, the redhead
replied simply but cordially, "Little boy."
"How old?"
"Two months." And in anticipation of the next question added, "His
name's John."
"He's a doll," the old woman tsked. "Had three myself. And one
girl. Lord, if she wasn't the hardest to raise." She eyed the young
mother speculatively. "You're not from around here are you? Sound more
like a Yank, if you don't mind my saying."
The redhead smiled with a tinge of trepidation and explained, "We
just moved here. My . . . husband's in . . . publishing."
Curiosity piqued, the old woman pressed, "Anything I might know? I
love a good horror novel,
especially by that one author- -oh, damn, what's his name? He got run
over a few months back . . ."
The check-out line moved slightly and the young woman began placing
her items on the con-veyor belt behind those of her "interrogator." "I'm
afraid my husband's more the 'independent thinker,'" she said elusively.
The old woman rolled her eyes, clearly unimpressed by such "free
thinkers" since the Vietnam War's influx of conscientious objectors into
her country. She silently paid for her items and moved on.
At her turn, the redhead paid for her items in cash. A bag boy
promptly loaded her purchases into the stroller's carry basket then tipped
his hat, revealing slate blue eyes and auburn hair. The
woman's breath caught slightly. Concerned, the young man asked, "You all
right, ma'am?" With a curt smile, she assured him that she was and
quickly exited the store.
She walked toward a small "head shop" sharing the same far corner of
the strip mall. One of
the proprietors was taking advantage of the unusually warm spring day by
manning an outdoor dis-
play of various items not otherwise considered "obscene or influential" by
the local authorities. Among them were stacks of both current and back
issues of 'underground newspapers' wrapped in plain brown covers. She
made her request, and he pulled it from the stack. "You know your Gun-
man," he stated with an approving smile, whispering for fear of waking the
now-sleeping baby. "Though I can't believe you'd waste money on a rag
like this."
"I'm just a sucker for a good read," she justified and shrugged.
The man winked and cocked his index finger gun-like in her direction.
"It's a guarantee."
She paid for the paper and moved on.
The baby was still sleeping soundly enough to allow her to cut
through a small commons area. She took full advantage of a vacant park
bench and stripped the paper of its cover. The issue was dated nearly six
months earlier. Smiling wanly at Frohike's opening statement which
profusely apologized for their tardiness as they battled countless red
tape to procure the necessary permits to expand their offices, she focused
on Byers' front page editorial:
"Just imagine- -three unsuspecting eight-year-olds simultaneously
place an ordinary CD into the ROM ports of their respective computers,
download, and, with the added ammunition of a pre-set code courtesy of a
gamer's handbook, innocently prepare to do battle against multi-colored
space aliens. They have no idea that such a premise once proved the
catalyst for a pre-bell discussion among the high school students of Mr.
Benson's 3rd period electronics class that fateful June day in 1981.
While most concerns leaned toward summer jobs, the prom, final exams,
and graduation, it was
here a hypothesis was formed: What if one could design and build a
computer reconfiguration relay, or patch if you will, that alone proves
harmless and inert within the single mainframe or that of a
networked series until it's triggered by an outside source- -in their day,
a simple, pre-arranged phone call received through the computer modem- -
since upgraded over the years by using primary and secondary coding
initiates, one quite possibly placed in the drive at the time of
manufacture. Once activated, the patch in question not only allows the
unit to share the necessary information but draw constant and ever-
increasing power from like units, thus becoming a formidable defensive
weapon.
Or is it capable of a worse scenario? By chance, could this very
patch inadvertently confuse its defense ideal with that of a harmless
game- -say, a general use or civilian computer- -before the incriminating
piece self destructs to avoid detection?
For those in Mr. Benson's class, it was the basis to harmlessly
confuse a fledgling city-wide computer base during Sterling Prep's Senior
Prank Day. Nearly twenty years after its prototype mysteriously vanished
from this very classroom, its install disk and circuit schematic became
the hardware base for a series of 'sophisticated' defense computers
'accidentally' shipped to a civilian computer show in Philadelphia last
year. Safe for now, these same eight year olds could one day hold the
fate of the world in their hands the next time they boot up to do battle
against imaginary monsters, as did their counterparts in one Canadian town
. . ."
She finished the paper, folded it neatly, and placed it in the
stroller's carry basket. She walked
to a nearby pay phone, dialed a number, and spoke four words into the
receiver:
"It's a boy, John."
And hung up.
*****
Frohike entered the dimly lit room and plopped the bag of groceries
on the nearest work table.
"Yo, Byers!" he shouted into the clutter of the LG offices.
"Congratulations are in order. New store. In and out in under an hour and
under budget. Beat that!"
Silence.
"Byers?" He launched himself up the concrete stairwell to the spit-
and-polish of their new loft apartment then peeked into the former eight
by ten office cubicle now serving as the bearded man's bedroom. "Where the
hell are you, boy?" He looked in the other two cubicles.
Nothing- -even Langly's precious D & D statues were missing from
their familiar precipice above the door of the last "cube." Well, at
least I know where you are!
Frohike was almost in a panic now. He pounded on the bathroom door
across the hall. Still nothing. "Byers!"
"Down here," came the familiar voice from somewhere deep in the
bowels of the original apart-ment.
Frohike headed back downstairs. Breathing a sigh of relief, the
little man chuckled not unkind-ly at the sight before him. A robe-clad
John Byers was sitting in the middle of a twelve-inch high mound of
tangled audiotape, attempting to manually rewind it onto the take-up reel.
"The gears are stripped again," he stated the obvious.
Frohike snorted. "Not surprising. That damn player's older than you
are."
"I'm hoping we can salvage some of this."
Frohike offered a silent prayer of thanks for his friend's sudden
diligence and focus after all these months. The younger man had finally
showered for the day, he noted with pleasure. The red-
dish-brown hair and beard were actually freshly trimmed and fussed back to
their original short, meticulous fashion! Elated, he did nothing to deter
Byers' latest efforts and turned back toward the upstairs kitchen.
"I thought I heard Susanne's voice."
Shit!
Caught flat-footed, the little man waved him off and changed the
subject. "Langly's working the
late shift at the arcade tonight. You hungry?"
"A little."
"Stew okay?"
Byers didn't slow in his efforts to rewind the tape. "Yeah, sure."
Damned if it wasn't a start.
(FINI)
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