Not My Lover: Enigma

Part One

She was afraid of touch.

Afraid to touch, afraid to be touched - it was the same thing. So desperately craving that which she feared. And so alone.

So painfully alone.

It is difficult to think of Marita as she was back then. Even now, when she is beautiful and strong, it hurts to think of her as she was, manipulated and deceived by people who believed in control as a form of love - people who intended her safety, yet held her captive, body and soul. She was an enigma, a child-woman thrust into adulthood before she was ready, yet kept childlike and dependent by those who sought to guide her.

Larissa, Michael, the dark man - all of them had a hand in her paralysing fear of touch. They saw her unguarded beauty, her passionate love for others; and they sought, misguidedly, to suppress it. Rather than teaching her to fear that which was dangerous in others, they taught her to fear the humanity in herself. They were right, in a way; but they were also terribly, terribly wrong.

I can't quite bring myself to hate them, though.

After all, they loved her too.

No story has a single beginning. Mine began in 1967, when Larissa Covarrubias stumbled across a Soviet operation to defeat the Black Cancer. It began in 1971, when she offered her information to the Americans in exchange for power and asylum; when she crawled over the Soviet-Turkish border, Marita on her back. It began in 1984, when my father went into local politics, kick-starting the chain of events that would lead me to the FBI. It began in 1993, when my mother's medical insurance ran dry, and I accepted a standing offer I had long refused. It began even earlier, with Roswell, or Tunguska; and later, with Mulder.

But I will begin with none of those beginnings. I will begin where it all began for me - the moment my life became entwined with hers. That was my beginning.

She was my beginning.

And, God willing, she will be there at my end.

"Family?"

I spoke casually, conversationally, knowing perfectly well that she was. That was why I was here, after all: to find those who might have been sympathetic to the cause of the one who had died; to shed light on the affair which had led to my newest assignment. She was family; but distant enough that she might not be stricken with grief, might not resent my intrusion.

The woman looked up, brushing aside a curtain of brown hair. "Yes," she said mildly, rising awkwardly, one hand clutching the side of her chair, the other at her swollen belly. "He was my husband's uncle."

"I'm sorry." I spoke the words in their conventional tones - mildly somber, yet perfunctory - but I genuinely meant them. Michael Harrington, from all accounts, was a decent man, at least as Consortium men go; and he died protecting another. Not a bad epitaph.

"Thank you, but I didn't really know him. We live overseas." She held out a hand. "Diana Donovan."

It struck me that it was faintly ridiculous to shake hands at a wake. I took it and gave it a slight squeeze, which seemed marginally less idiotic. "Alex Krycek."

Diana nodded by way of belated greeting, letting go. I nodded to the seat, that she should sit again, and she did so with a grateful look. "Did you know Michael, Alex?" she asked, settling back, her hand resting back on her stomach. I guessed she was due any time.

"No," I admitted, a little apologetically. "I'm playing driver to Spender."

Her head jolted up, and her expression darkened. Her eyes flashing, she said in a low voice, "That man has no business being here. He did this. It's insulting."

Privately, I agreed; but I made a noncommittal sound. "Michael stole the EBE. He offered it for ransom for Mulder. I'm sure he had his reasons," I added with a sympathetic undertone - one that was deliberate, but genuine enough - "but the fact remains, he betrayed the group."

Diana watched me coolly, thoughtfulness etched into the lines of her face. I'd expected that - I'd revealed myself as someone who could be persuaded to her point of view. She was pondering whether I could be used, or whether I was worth using. "He betrayed a faction of the group," she corrected, at last. "That's not the same thing."

"You're loyal for someone who didn't know him," I challenged; but my voice was mild. The connection had been made. We were going through the motions now. Anything else would be a bonus, nothing more.

"I was married to the man he saved," she said evenly.

"You were married to Mulder?" I demanded, instantly on the alert. I knew Mulder had been married, but not that his ex-wife had remarried into the group. That changed things, but I wasn't sure how.

"Briefly. Why?"

"I've just been assigned to partner him at the FBI," I revealed. I wasn't sure if Spender wanted that to be general knowledge, but now that my intention to network was out in the open, my position needed clarifying.

"Does the FBI know that?" she said, dryly.

I grinned a little. "They will by this time tomorrow."

She was nodding. "Fox got too close this time. They want you to keep him under control." She said mirthlessly, "You must have impressed someone in Spender's camp."

"Or really pissed someone off," I retorted grimly.

She laughed at that. "So which camp are you, Alex Krycek?"

I shrugged a little. "I haven't decided. Which camp are you?"

"My own," she said, smiling a deliciously intriguing smile. She was a beautiful woman, though not really to my taste - I liked them softer than that - and I liked that she preferred an air of mystery to outright deception. Mysterious people, when they do consent to speak, usually speak the truth.

"Don't be cryptic," I reproved mildly.

She watched me, frowning a little with indecision. Finally, she said conversationally, "Michael was the one who led Fox to the X Files to begin with. Do some digging - find out why. Make up your own mind." She half-turned from me, looking into the distance, signaling the end of her willingness to discuss the matter.

"All right." I nodded my thanks, something she saw from the corner of her eye but chose not to acknowledge. I turned a little to follow her gaze. She was looking at a huddled group of mourners - not people going through the motions, but the genuinely bereaved.

There were five of them. Behind the chaise like a sentry stood a man in his thirties, tall and black. I recognised him as Spender's newly-employed right hand man - the one they called the dark man - and it suddenly occurred to me that he must have been Michael's right hand before that. Perched precariously on the arm of the chaise was a woman in her forties or fifties, her silvery-blonde hair pulled back in a severe knot. Could that one have been Michael's wife, I wondered? She fit the picture, but somehow I didn't think so. She was drawn and haggard, obviously grieving; but something was missing - something I had seen in my mother after my father's death. Some shock, some bewilderment about just how she might go on. Her grief was not that of a spouse, I was sure of it. But who she was and how she might fit into the picture, I couldn't have said.

On the chaise itself sat two men, clearly father and son, both fair, one old and one young. The younger one, I thought, was probably Diana's husband, Michael's nephew. That made the elder Michael's brother, although I guessed he was a good fifteen years older than Michael had been. They flanked a shell-shocked teenager, attentive to her, yet reserved and dignified. They had to be British, I decided.

My attention was drawn to the girl. She was clearly the center of the group - the one closest to Michael. She had the position usually assigned to the wife, but that was surely impossible. She was dressed in black from head to toe. Even her jewellery was black - onyx, I guessed, or maybe polished iron ore. The only thing disturbing her picture-perfect portrait of bereavement was a mass of blonde hair, almost to the waist. It drifted in waves over her shoulders, marring her stark attire.

"Is that the family?" I said conversationally.

"Yeah. Michael's half-brother, Maxwell Donovan - my father-in-law. He's a voting member of the group." Different surnames - they shared a mother, then. That sort of detail probably didn't matter, but mentally filing the information came as naturally as breathing. "The younger one is my husband, Edward."

"Who's the girl? Michael's daughter?"

"Marita Covarrubias." Her tone was affectionate. "His fiancee."

I stared at her in disbelief. "His fiancee? She's what, seventeen?"

"Twenty-three. Her mother is Larissa Covarrubias."

"The Soviet defector?" I queried. That must be the older woman with the silver-blonde hair. I could see the resemblance.

"That's right."

I thought on this. "Arranged marriage?"

Diana shrugged. "I guess so. We were at college together, and they got engaged pretty much as soon as she came home." She said reflectively, "I think he was good to her, though. She's pretty lost."

"Poor kid," I said pityingly.

"Yeah."

A voice intruded - a voice I already despised. It was Spender, his voice smooth and autocratic; and yet, as always, with a smug undertone. "Alex."

I turned. "Yes, Sir."

"I'm ready to leave now."

"Certainly," I said briskly. "My condolences again, Mrs Donovan," I said to Diana with bland insincerity.

"Thank you, Mr Krycek," she said indifferently, taking my cue. "Spender," she said coldly.

"Diana," he nodded. "Come, Alex." My gaze drifted to the blonde fiancee once more.

"Yes, Sir."

The packet arrived five days later.

It was three years before Diana finally admitted to sending it, but I was certain of its origins the moment it arrived. I was not so naive as to think that she trusted me at this stage, but clearly my visit to the funeral had paid off: she had thrown a little information my way in hopes of bringing me over to her side - whatever that was.

The packet contained an unlabelled pass card and a slip of paper printed with a Maryland address. Frowning, I slipped them into my pocket. I skipped out of the Hoover a couple of hours early and drove to Westminster, finding the address easily on a private road. I parked my car among many others, suddenly conscious of its shabbiness, and got out. I followed the pathway, sandstone pebbles crunching agreeably under my feet, immaculately green lawn at either side of me. I came around a neatly manicured hedge, and a house came into view. I came to a sudden halt, staring up at it in disbelief.

Here's an X File, Mulder. How did I get deposited into the middle of the English countryside?

The house - and I use the term loosely - was an old sandstone mansion. Its architecture reminded me vaguely of pictures I'd seen of seventeenth-century English churches. The grounds were immaculately kept; the drapes were heavy burgundy velvet. Feeling slightly surreal, I walked up the steps, crossed the expansive courtyard, and came to a heavy oak door adorned with a gold plaque, marked with the legend, 'Members' Entrance/Guests Use Next Door'. The door had a card swipe, and I took a punt, using the card I'd been sent to gain access.

I drew my weapon and went inside cautiously, uncertain of what I'd find or who would challenge me; but no-one did. People came and went easily, paying me no heed. I walked from room to room, absorbed each room's atmosphere, and I felt my anxiety lessen. This was not a secure facility - it was a social club.

A Consortium social club.

Although most of the guests were older and apparently wealthy, there were also men and women like me - younger sidekicks and errandboys, some with their employers, and some alone. I passed through sitting rooms, lounges and bars with varying dress codes, from casual to formal; and at last, I stopped in one and sat at the bar for a drink. There was no charge, but the waitress asked to swipe my card. A little nervously, I allowed it, and after a few minutes had passed without the ambush of security personnel, my wariness eased.

"You're new, aren't you?" the waitress said conversationally. I looked at her, raising an eyebrow, and she laughed. "You've got that awe-struck look about you. It is very beautiful here."

"It certainly is," I said, draining my drink down in a single gulp. "Who owns this place?" I wondered whether she would be suspicious of the question. I doubted it. This wasn't a Consortium chick. She was just an ordinary waitress who would probably finish her shift and go to a PTA meeting.

She looked at me, a little askance. "Do you know, I'm not really sure. It was Michael Harrington, but he died a couple of weeks ago. Sad thing really - driveby shooting, you know. His executor says everything will continue as normal. Someone in his family will get it, I expect."

I nodded, frowning. Either Maxwell Donovan or Marita Covarrubias, I guessed. I thought of the girl I'd seen at the funeral, and the almost regal way in which she held herself, even in the extremity of grief. I could see her here. She was probably a member already. "Ancestral home?" I asked, mostly because the waitress was clearly waiting for me to say something.

"I think so. It's been The Den for over thirty years, I believe." A man with an empty glass looked at her expectantly, and she excused herself. I nodded absently as she went.

I turned from the bar and watched the room, drinking, taking in the big picture. I let the atmosphere wash over me, let the comings and goings and the scents and sounds settle into a pattern, waiting for impressions to present themselves, as they usually do.

And in time, one did.

What I noticed was that, while some were content to drink alone like me, in general people were pairing up and leaving. The pairings were mostly straight, but by no means all. I didn't see any lesbian pairings - perhaps because there weren't enough women to go around. Or maybe lesbians are too sensible to get involved with the Consortium to start with, I speculated with a grin. Some of the younger partners were prostitutes, I thought, but mostly guests were leaving with one another - and clearly, there was somewhere to go.

I went to the door at the far end of the room, where the couples had gone, and passed through it. I came into a room remarkably similar to a hotel lobby, with a grand staircase winding down the center. I was stopped by a woman asking for my pass card, and I handed it over, this time with less apprehension than before.

"Mr Krycek," she said, swiping it over a barcode reader, looking at the screen. I looked at her, startled, expecting that it would be in someone else's name, but nodded. "You're entitled to the use of a room if one is available. I don't have any fantasy suites free, but I have something on the third floor. Is that all right?"

"Fine," I said absently. "Thank you."

Feeling slightly dazed, I took the key she offered and made my way up the incredible staircase, marvelling at the delicately carved banister. Incredible workmanship. I lingered, touching the wood admiringly. It was not the darkwood I would have expected of its era, but a caramel-coloured palewood. I reached my level, but I looked further up the stairs, running my hand over it, savouring it, puzzling over its origins. And then another of my senses was caught by something equally exquisite.

Marita Covarrubias.

She was on the fourth floor landing with the dark man. She wore a long white dress - something I might not have noticed particularly, but for the sharp contrast with her mane of cornsilk hair, flowing gloriously down her back. They had clearly just come out of a suite, but I didn't believe for one minute that they'd slept together. There was something else going on between them, and I couldn't put my finger on what it was. Her gaze moved over the open area automatically, passed over me without registering my presence, and moved on.

Unsettled, I turned away, and I went to my room. I found without surprise that it was an opulent bedroom, decadently furnished in deep navy and magenta. The pillows were huge and edged with heavy gold tassels. There was a tiled platform in the corner with an elegant cylindrical shower recess. There was a handcarved wooden box on the dresser, which I guessed contained condoms and the like. I opened it and found I was right.

There was a small leather folio in the bedside drawer, which was of interest, but not particularly enlightening. It outlined the exact privileges accorded to each level of membership - mine, based on the colour of my card, gave me complimentary access to most privileges but did not entitle me to bring guests; a lower level of membership required payment for use of suites and sexual services. There were more conventional recreational services, too - a gym, aquatic center, ice rink, and shooting range. There was no casino, and that didn't surprise me: group players gambled with their lives, not with their money. The Den operated twenty-four hours a day and was euphemistically termed a recreational facility.

More useful was a map of the mansion. I noted a private wing, which I presumed had been Michael Harrington's home, and details of the dress codes of the various wings. I had been in the smart casual zone; there were formal and casual zones, and also a zone discreetly named 'minimalist'. I presumed, from its proximity to spas, saunas, and the fantasy suites, that this area was nudist or close to it. There were assurances about daily sweeps for cameras and listening devices. There were rules about smoking and drinking, about the appropriate treatment of staff including courtesans, about which recreational drugs were tolerated and where. There were ground rules for an array of sexual situations, from BDSM to group sex, each marked with the statement, 'These rules are in force unless explicitly agreed otherwise by all parties, INCLUDING TOP TIER MEMBERS AND COURTESANS'. Top tier members were exempt from all rules except this one.

I lay back on the bed, mulling over what I'd read. From a social point of view, it was an amazing place. It was an anthropomorphic wonder - a manufactured haven from the minefield of navigating relationships in the Consortium. Here, the group and their subordinates could not only network, but indulge in almost any recreational or sexual taste - with courtesans or each other - without risk of information leaks or blackmail. Counting back the years, I realised that The Den had sprung up in the 1960s, presumably in response to a string of scandals and breaches arising out of the sexual revolution. The whole thing offended me on a number of levels; but it pleased me, too, with its neatness and its practicality.

I wondered why I had been given membership. Clearly, Diana - or whoever - had thought I might benefit from the access this place would provide; and her interest was probably not in my sex life. She expected me to dig, find out what I wanted to know about the group and its aims, and choose a faction. That was all right: that was my agenda, too. Whether my choice would be her faction or not, I couldn't say; but I was willing to follow her trail of breadcrumbs for a while and see where it led.

At last, I put the folio back in its place and went to the door. And then I stopped short.

There was an envelope stuck to the back of the door with my name on it. I withdrew a note, read it, and smiled broadly.

'Have a good time - but keep your eye on the ball.'

Laughing, I switched off the light, and left.

My FBI assignment was tedious.

I was already treated with some contempt in the Bureau, but that sentiment was magnified by my apparent choice to work with Spooky Mulder. Once a homage to his ability to solve impossible cases, that nickname had taken on less complimentary overtones over the last year; and I was tarnished by association.

Not that my reputation had far to fall, though: I was seen as a glorified errandboy, though my credentials left my contemporaries' for dead. Not even a Harvard education could save me from looking like a schoolboy dressed up as a man. The clean-cut dress code of the Bureau didn't work for me - it never had - and it conspired against me, reducing me to a parody. I didn't care anymore, though: I could see that my days there were necessarily numbered. Once that would have bothered me; but not now.

There was a time when the Bureau had dominated my ambition. No - not just dominated it; defined it. I'd left college with an offer of a position in the British government, and another from Harvard itself lecturing in political philosophy. I turned them both down when I got into Quantico. I had stumbled across criminology and social order during my studies; and, with youthful idealism, I wanted to Make A Difference. My father had shaken his head, no doubt thinking of all the night shifts I'd taken to supplement my scholarship, only to take an entry-level job on entry-level pay; but he only smiled and said, "That's great, son," the way he always did. I'm glad of that, because he was dead within the year.

I hadn't expected much of the Bureau. I was the only agent in my class from a top university, but there were others with something more prized - law enforcement experience. I was no more special than anyone else, and I'd recognised that. But I had hoped that my choice, and my sacrifices in making that choice, might be acknowledged. I had hoped that my background might be taken into account, that I might be placed in some area of the Bureau where my strengths might be used. I didn't mind working up from the bottom, but you've got to be placed there to work your way up. You can't do it from the professional and existential limbo of wiretapping.

But if it had been as simple as that, I would have simply walked. The jobs I had turned down were gone, but there were others. My disenchantment was not the problem. The problem was my mother, stricken with leukaemia within a year of my father's death. And that problem led me, after repeated refusals, to at last accept the approaches of Section Chief Blevins and a mysterious figure named Spender.

The specifics of the work were vague, but I understood that illegality was involved. Spender represented some arm of the US government, and his department, for want of a better term, was affiliated with the CIA and the military. Loose phrases about national security and classified information were used. I was of interest because of my academic background, they said; and while I had no doubt that was true, I was not deceived. Spender's work might well be dedicated to defense, but that didn't necessarily make it in the national interest - any political theorist will tell you that.

So I said no; and I kept on saying no until the money ran dry. And then it was too late to get a more lucrative job: it was almost Christmas, and no-one was willing to hire until New Year, and the Soviet regime had fallen, and my mother was sinking fast, and she wanted to go home to Latvia to die. So I called Spender, and I told him I would work for him after all. My mother died in Daugavpils, and I came home to life as a hired gun, and I hoped that, wherever she was, she was not too disappointed in me.

Monitoring Fox Mulder was a welcome lull in the storm. As companions went, he outclassed thugs like Luis Cardinale by miles; better yet, I was not required to undertake work outside the Bureau during this time, lest Mulder should become aware of it. I had not yet been asked to kill, but I'd injured a few people in the course of my work - something I did not relish. As for killing - that request would come, and then I would have to make a decision. I wouldn't know the answer to that dilemma until I reached it, but right now, I thought I would refuse, and flee. I had a little house in Daugavpils - not much more than a cabin - and that would do for a new beginning. I thought my mother would approve. In the meantime, I sought information - both significant and minute. The most minute of details could be crucial to solving the enigma that was the work.

I learned a great deal at The Den. I learned, through trial and error, the best times to go, and the best people to listen to. I learned a lot about Marita Covarrubias, who was indeed the owner of The Den. She worked as an aide to one of the Special Representatives to the Secretary General of the United Nations, a position apparently normally allocated to people ten years her senior. This meteoric rise was attributed, not to sleeping her way up, but to a gift for analysis that was considered almost eerie. Marita Covarrubias was the Fox Mulder of the United Nations.

I managed to stay out of Senator Matheson's bed, but I led him on for long enough to learn that the leads that resulted in Mulder's discovery of the X Files had been orchestrated by Michael Harrington. Michael and his faction - which I guessed included the Donovan family, Bill Mulder, and possibly Larissa Covarrubias - had wanted someone on the outside, putting pressure on the activities of their opposing faction, which included Spender.

Poor old Mulder was a Consortium operative, and he didn't even know it.

But I was still unclear on the agenda of the Donovan faction: they obviously wanted to prevent the hybridisation of the alien and human races, and I hadn't the ghost of an idea why. The hybrid project, after all, would ensure their survival and that of their loved ones, surrendered to the alien race as hostages in 1973.

While I pondered this problem, I continued to monitor Mulder; and it was then that I made my first kill - not in malice, but in defense of another. I killed Augustus Cole without hesitation, because it was clearly him or Mulder; but the killing - both its finality and the ease with which I did it - the killing disturbed me. I sat in a bar that night, drinking shot after shot of Benedictine, my hands shaking. Mulder found me and took me home, and then he took me to bed.

I loved Mulder. It was not the love I would find with Marita, but it was the greatest love I'd had to date. Our relationship was companionable and, I think, genuinely caring - certainly, I cared for him. For him, I think now, it was more complicated; and it pains me to know that he perceives what I did as a betrayal.

Hell, it was a betrayal. But what I knew left me with little choice.

If I had done nothing, I'd have been worse than them.

"I shouldn't have married her."

I looked up from my mail. "What was that?" I asked, bracing myself. Mulder got introspective after sex. God knew, I didn't begrudge him it; but sometimes I wished he'd just roll over and go to sleep like a normal man.

"Diana," he mused, turning and leaning up on his elbow, watching me. "I shouldn't have married her. I knew I was gay." He picked at his godawful sunflower seeds indifferently. The bowl was perched precariously on the coverlet, and I just knew they were going to wind up littered through my bed.

I set aside a bill and put it on a growing pile on the nightstand. "But did you really, Mulder?" I wondered, looking at him. I ripped open an quarto envelope emblazoned with the Harvard logo. Alumni magazine, I guessed, eyeing it critically. "I mean, it is possible to feel passion for both sexes, and you obviously felt it for her."

"I suppose. But when I was with Matheson, it was different - and that was while we were engaged. I knew better - or I should have. It felt right in a way it didn't with Diana. Do you know what I mean?"

"Not really," I said truthfully. I was flipping through the magazine when a familiar name caught my eye. Marita Covarrubias.

"You still think about women?" he asked with interest.

"I adore women," I said fervently. "They're exquisite."

"And men?" he demanded.

"They're exquisite, too. Humanity is a glorious thing, Mulder, no matter what the sex." I looked back down at the flyer. Our condolences to science alumni Marita Covarrubias (1985-1987). The New York Times reported the death of Michael Harrington on May 7. Marita and Michael were to be married next month...

Marita Covarrubias went to Harvard in 1985? What was she, fourteen?

"So what happens when you meet the woman of your dreams?" he mocked, intruding on my thoughts. "Whatcha gonna do, settle down and be straight?" There was a slight sneer in his voice.

"I'll always be bisexual, Mulder," I said with a withering look, setting the magazine aside. Sexual politics were among his current list of dead horses to flog. I, on the other hand, was indifferent to the whole thing: if I was letting the gay side down by loving women, or vice versa, I didn't give a shit. "Forsaking all others is something we've all got to do sooner or later, whether we like men, women or both. It's always a sacrifice - a discipline - because no one person will ever be everything we want or need."

"You sound like a fucking preacher."

"You asked what I was going to do if I met the woman *or* man of my dreams, and that's what I'm going to do," I countered. "I'm going to forsake all others. If you don't like it, too bad. My sex is not accountable to your politics." I shook my head disgustedly. "You're an arrogant prick sometimes."

"Aw, do you really mean that?" he asked solemnly. "Or are you just saying it?"

I burst out laughing. I couldn't help it. "No, I really mean it." I turned back to the nightstand, picked up my cup, and took a mouthful of coffee.

"Asshole."

I swallowed the mouthful hurriedly to make my comeback. "Prick."

"My prick, your asshole. Not a bad idea." Such fucking wit.

"Don't be vulgar."

He looked at me critically. "You're a prissy little thing, aren't you? First monogamy, and now I have to refer to your molten tunnel of love?"

I choked. "Jesus, Mulder, don't do that when I'm drinking." The bastard was laughing at me. Thinking of his earlier comment, I said, "Where did you meet this wife of yours, anyway?"

"Ex-wife," he corrected. "We were at college together. I'd just come out of a bad relationship with a vamp masquerading as an English rose, and we just sort of fell in together."

"Diana went to Oxford?" I said slowly. Diana had gone to college with Marita Covarrubias, by her own statement; and the magazine at my side said Marita went to Harvard. I wondered who was lying, and why.

"Yeah. She was a year behind me. She followed me home when she graduated."

I put my cup back on the nightstand, frowning a little. "It's funny how you bond with people at college, isn't it?" I observed casually, hoping I didn't sound too idiotic. "There was one guy at school with me - one of those child prodigies," I said deliberately, "you know, the ones who graduate high school at twelve. Fucking brilliant."

He fell for it. He mightn't have normally, but sex made Mulder mellow. "Yeah, we had one of those. Marita Ekaterinberg, her name was." I blinked a little, not quite believing my luck that he remembered her name. I don't think I knew about his eidetic memory at that stage. "I never met her, but Diana took her under her wing a bit. She was totally out of her depth," he added. "See, what people don't understand is that you can be ready academically without being ready emotionally, or socially," he said fiercely. I'd hit his psychology nerve, and he was off and away.

I tuned him out. Marita Covarrubias had attended both Harvard and Oxford at the same time - an impossible feat. One of them was a smokescreen, but which one? And more importantly, why?

"I mean, just think of the psychosexual implications. A child going through puberty, surrounded by bonking teenagers, with no adult role models..."

She probably went to Oxford under the false name. Mulder remembered her name, and Diana reported knowing her personally. That made sense. She had befriended Diana and presumably introduced her to Edward Donovan at some point, whom Diana would eventually marry. Maybe Marita spent her holiday breaks with the Donovans, arranged by either her mother or by Michael. Maybe she had invited Diana along.

But if Marita went to Oxford, who went to Harvard?

"...then there's the relational context. How does a teenager learn to relate as an adult if she is deprived of nurturing adult contact..."

If Marita had applied to Oxford, she'd probably applied to Harvard and Yale, too. She had accepted the offer at Oxford, but someone else accepted her Harvard offer and went in her place, with or without her knowledge - but almost certainly with the blessing of Larissa Covarrubias.

"...not appropriate, when they're that young, to leave them without role modelling..."

A false history at Harvard gave Marita an alibi - a reason for being away, as well as a diversion from her real location. But why would a fourteen-year-old prodigy need to go into hiding? Could she have done something, and been at risk of retaliation?

"Alex?"

"Sorry - I was just thinking," I said hurriedly. "What do you think are the long-term developmental implications of something like that?"

"You know, I've been thinking about that, and I keep coming back to Freudian principles..."

I was an idiot. Marita hadn't done anything. Larissa had done something, and she had smuggled her daughter off to England, with the help of Michael Harrington and the Donovan family. That combination alone suggested that whatever she had done was factional - and just might shed some light on the Donovan agenda. She had falsified the Harvard academic record to suggest that Marita was still in America at the time.

But would a non-existent student - a mere name - rate a mention in an alumni magazine?

Mulder had stopped speaking. He was watching me expectantly. "I never thought of it like that," I said ingeniously.

Who went to Harvard in Marita's stead? And did it matter? It might not...but it might. My blood was pumping, alive with purpose. If I could find out what Larissa Covarrubias had done, I might know enough to do something useful. I might find whatever Diana Donovan hoped to lead me to - whatever it was that had led her to abandon her work with Mulder. And if I could do that, maybe I could make a difference after all.

"Mulder," I said wide-eyed, "you took the words right out of my mouth."

I'd pushed the false sincerity too far, and he knew I was humouring him; but then I was touching him, and he didn't care anymore. And when we were done and he was asleep, I crept out of my bed, and I left him there.

I went to Mulder's.

I put a cross on his window in masking tape as I had seen him do, and I left a note on the floor. I waited there in the shadows, drowsing, my watch alarm set for five a.m. I had to be home before Mulder woke.

His informant arrived in the early hours of the morning, knocking, then nervously opening the door. In the dim light from the corridor, I recognised him as the dark man - Spender's right hand. That made sense, I reflected - he'd been Michael's man before that. His weapon drawn, he opened the door fully to the wall, and positioned himself with his back to it. He bent carefully and picked up the note, then rose, reading it. He looked anxiously around the apartment, and fled.

The note was an e-mail address and password - not one of mine, but one for him. It was a way for me to contact him that didn't involve the window or face-to-face contact - something Mulder would have arranged himself if he hadn't been so in love with the idea of being a shadowy crime fighter meeting with mysterious informants. As far as the dark man was concerned, his correspondent was Mulder - a deception that would not last long, but might last long enough for me to find out about Larissa Covarrubias.

I waited a while to be sure he was gone, and then I went home to Mulder. I let myself into the apartment and undressed as quietly as I could. Mulder was sprawled out over the bed, the sheets twisted around him; and, yes, the sunflower seeds were scattered everywhere. Smiling wistfully, I swept what I could onto the floor, and lay down beside him, curling my body against his; but my good humour faded. I felt the lines of my face settle into something hard and hurtful.

Never before had I used him for my own purposes.

And that made this the beginning of the end.

Whatever my future held - whether the Consortium or Daugavpils or death or some other alternative not yet known - Mulder, necessarily, would not be part of it. Not like this. I'd never really thought Mulder and I would be forever, but that didn't dull my pain at the fact.

I forced myself into a fitful sleep, but I was troubled in mind.

"I didn't know where else to go."

I stared at Mulder for a long, long moment, not sure what I could say that wasn't trite. At last, I reached out to him, took his hand, and drew him to me. I hugged him, not so much as a lover as a friend.

Some friend.

"It was on the radio," I said at last. "Duane Barry, known psychopath, takes hostage. They didn't give her name, but I recognised her description."

His voice was muffled against me. "Fucking son-of-a-bitch. I should have killed him when I had the chance."

Wordlessly, I nodded, kicking the door closed with my foot. "I know," I whispered. I held him tighter.

"I can't lose her," he rasped, his voice harsh with pain.

"You're not gonna lose her," I said in a low voice, right next to his ear. "Scully's coming home to you. I don't know how, but I know." I knew because I'd bring her home myself if I had to. To see him like this was more than I could bear.

"Yeah?" he said, pulling back to look at me, his face hopeful. His hands gripped my shoulders painfully, but I couldn't bring myself to pull away.

"Yeah."

He kissed me then, hard, his hands searching clumsily for me. "Mulder," I protested. He ignored me, groping blindly under my jacket, drawing my shirt out of my jeans and snaking up my back. A little stunned, I let him for a moment; but then I pushed him away. "Mulder!" I said, not unkindly, "This isn't about me."

He stared at me in childlike bewilderment for a long moment, but then he nodded. "No," he admitted. "I suppose it isn't." Then, hesitantly, "Do you mind?"

Frowning, I watched him for a long moment; but at last, I shook my head. "No, I don't," I relented. I could give him that much, I supposed; and it would probably be the last time I could give him anything.

And then his mouth was on mine, devouring, taking from me, and I allowed it because I loved him. He whispered the words that turned him on and turned me off, and for once I didn't mind. He fucked me hard, and I hated it hard, but I allowed that too. And I came in spite of it all, in spite of his fumbling, grieving clumsiness, in spite of my aching ass, in spite of my guilt and my sorrow. Because I loved him.

When it was over, and he was sleeping fitfully, I rose. I felt dirty and I wasn't quite sure why. Puzzling over it was stupid, I decided, when I could just fix it; so I ran a shower. I stepped in when steam began to form, the water coursing over me in a rush, and I gave myself up to the heady warmth of it gratefully.

Standing there, not bothering with soap, just relishing the cleansing heat, I was struck by random thoughts, none of them really connected. I remembered my first time with a man, and how it tortured me, how I thought I was losing the joy of loving women, and how long it was before I understood that it was possible to love both. I remembered a college friend - a woman - complaining about her boyfriend's penchant for rear-entry sex. It made her feel like he wanted to be with someone else. I'd made comforting noises, but I hadn't really understood. But I thought I understood now. Because Mulder hadn't wanted me back there.

He'd wanted Dana Scully.

I didn't think he was in love with her - I didn't think he was capable of that kind of love for a woman, even her - but I knew he loved her above all else, in a way that transcended his sexual boundaries, if anything ever could. She dominated his passions, and in his grief over her loss, she dominated even the desire he normally reserved for me. I wasn't jealous, or resentful, or even hurt - not in the circumstances.

But I still felt dirty.

So I stood there in the steaming hot water until my skin was red, and then I wrapped myself in my robe and went out onto the balcony. It was a puny balcony, for a puny apartment, and I rarely went out there - not since my mother died - but I went out there now.

We'd sat out here a lot, she and I. I'd sold the house after her medical insurance ran dry, and she'd spent the last year of her life living here with me. We got on each other's nerves in such cramped quarters - and I in particular had been on a hair-trigger, without even a bedroom of my own - but sitting on the balcony had alleviated that strain. Every time I thought I'd go nuts if I had to sleep one more night on that damn couch, she would invite me out here with a steaming cup of tea, and we would talk until it was close to dawn. And the irritation of raw nerves abrading against one another would dissipate.

I wondered what she would think of me now. She'd known about the men, I think, but we'd never discussed it. Tatiana Krycek didn't discuss sex - not directly - and I think that conservatism had a lot to do with my own. But she'd have had a lot to say about me working for Spender. It was that which I wished I could hear now. Home truths, perhaps uncomfortable ones, but truths that would guide me. The dilemma I had been anticipating was upon me, and I still had no idea of how to proceed.

I wasn't privy to precisely where Dana Scully had been taken, or where she would be taken when the exchange was made, but I had been instructed to prevent Mulder from catching up with Duane Barry. I was to leave no witnesses to my handiwork; and I was to kill Duane before he could be interrogated. I didn't think Scully would be killed, but I had heard sufficient rumours about the hybrid experiments to know that the fate that awaited her was a bad one. I was prepared to kill Duane Barry if I had to - the guy was a walking timebomb and a danger to everyone he came in contact with - but I still didn't know if I was willing to be a part of what was to happen to Dana Scully.

But if I chose Mulder and his work - if I ran, and if first I told him what I knew - I still didn't know enough for him to prevent it. And if I did as I had been told to do, I might get enough information to get her back.

But I wasn't sure that was reason enough. I didn't have enough information to do the things I wanted to do in the group, and possibly I never would. That made the price of a man's life - even Duane Barry's, and especially so soon after taking down Augustus Cole - it made that price hard to reconcile.

Either way, though, my time here was coming to a close. Soon, I would run, one way or another - either fleeing the group, or fleeing the law. If the former, I would return to Latvia; if the latter, I would go to my suite at The Den until I could work something out. I had a ticket booked for Riga, just in case. Right now I thought I would use it.

Sighing, I rose, and went to the sliding door. I paused there, looking wistfully at my mother's empty armchair, weathered and threadbare. It would be in storage the following evening, like everything else. I wondered if I would ever see it again. And I would, years later in Tangier; but right now I doubted it.

I closed the door.

There is something cliche about the last-minute intervention.

It is a sign of a poor writer, it is said, to contrive a direction-altering coincidence at the crucial moment. If so, God is a poor author indeed, because they happen in real life all the time. And that's what happened to me.

What happened was that I received a packet I'd ordered from Harvard. It was among the mail I retrieved from my maildrop at lunchtime, in anticipation of leaving for Latvia. I opened it hurriedly, and withdrew an academic transcript issued in the name of Marita Covarrubias. I scanned it, frowning. Lots of biotechnology and genetic subjects. Even the arts subjects had a definite slant, one I didn't like: 'WWII, Hitler, and Eugenics: A Historio-Ethical Analysis'. 'Medical Ethics For The Twenty First Century'. 'The Use And Abuse Of Genetics'.

There were yearbooks in the package, too - something I had not been able to afford in my own time there. I put the transcript to the bottom of the pile and opened the yearbook, flipping pages hurriedly. I passed over the formal portraits, which might have been faked, and skipped to the Science Club pages. There, in a group photo, I found a picture of the girl who had posed as Marita Covarrubias. I put my hand to my mouth in disbelief; and, belatedly, stifled a sound of shock. And in that moment, my choice was made.

I chose Marita.

That sounds melodramatic, when you consider that at this point I had not met her; but looking back on that time in my life, I believe now that I was in a holding pattern while I put all the pieces together - pieces that would lead me to her. I was, not loving her, but waiting to love her. Perhaps I'd been waiting for that all my life. Perhaps we were souls together. I am not a religious man, nor a particularly sentimental one, but I know no other way to explain why it happened the way it did.

Whatever the case - God, fate, or blind luck - I was presented with a choice. Choose Mulder and his search for Scully, save Duane Barry, and lose my access; or choose the work, with a chance now of blowing it wide open, and lose Mulder. I chose the work.

I chose Marita.

That night, as I took refuge in my suite at The Den, the blood of two men on my hands, I thought again of that yearbook. I thought of the girl who went to Harvard as Marita Covarrubias, while the girl at the funeral was at Oxford as Marita Ekaterinberg. That Marita was the Marita Diana knew, the one who had studied a melting pot of anthropology, philosophy, and politics, and who used it in her work at the United Nations. The other, the elusive scientist, of whom I was more and more sure Marita knew nothing - she haunted me. It was impossible, but there was proof.

It was another Marita.

And Marita was the only one who could lead me to her.

Part Two

This instalment is Marita's version of the events of Erlenmeyer Flask to Ascension.

Love will keep me alive.

There's a reason that philosophies like this one are not to be found in religious texts, or in the apocrypha of the ages. They're created by the modern mind as a panacea for the self-absorption of the modern age. Conventional sentiment, devoid of meaning.

In other words, they're self-deluding crap.

But I keep coming back to the words. They have become my mantra, my survival anthem. I hate them, and I despise the song from which they came, but they will not leave me. I puzzle over them contemplatively, as though a tenet of my oh-so-meagre faith. And that is in spite of the fact that their fabled love is just that - a fable. I have never loved - not like that - and sometimes I believe I never will. I feel out of time and place, a twenty- three year old woman with childish dreams and the exhaustion of a crone. For me, there can only be protection - a pathetic kind of love, perhaps, but perhaps that's all there is.

Yet for all my dreams; for all my intuitive, blind grasping for something better, my grief for Michael remains. He had protected me, and I had loved him; and when I cradled his body in the car that night, that dreadful song assaulted my senses, etching itself indelibly into my memory. The Dark Man kept the radio volume high - though just whose sobs he was trying to muffle, I couldn't have said. And after the funeral, when I endured the meaningless gestures of people who had had a hand in his death, I kept telling myself:

Love will keep me alive.

Keep saying it, Marita, and one day it might come true.

"Marita?"

The sound should have surprised me, coming as it did in an empty apartment; but it didn't. I looked around from the window, and saw the Dark Man behind me. "Hello," I said absently, and turned back to the window, tracing the course of a drop of rain with my fingertip.

"You should be more careful," he said reproachfully. "The door was off its chain. I used my key and walked straight in." I saw him remove his coat, dimly reflected in the glass, and lay it over the couch.

"You shouldn't have a key," I said dully. Was that strange, colourless voice really mine?

"I'm Michael's executor," he pointed out, coming around me to sit on the windowsill. We were five storeys up - the visual of him leaning casually against a thin layer of glass was surreal. But then, most things were surreal in that first awful month after Michael died, starting with watching him being shot to death a hundred feet away. "I'm supposed to have a key until the estate is wound up. You're not even supposed to be here yet."

"Are you going to enforce that?" I demanded in a low voice.

He shot me a withering look. "Of course not. But you should be more careful. If you can't protect yourself then you should go home to Larissa."

Suddenly, abruptly, I felt physically ill. With Michael gone, without his gentleness to cushion my anger, I felt as I had felt early on in our relationship: as though I had been sold. "Mother is the last person I want right now," I said bitterly.

The Dark Man's brow flickered, but he didn't comment; and at last, I asked incuriously, "Do you really think they'll come after me?"

He shook his head, relenting. "Unlikely. They've taken their revenge. I doubt they even know we were there that night."

I frowned, still tracing raindrops on the window, teasing delicate trails through the condensation. "Wouldn't it have been in Dana Scully's report?"

He shook his head. "She ends her report with her account of his shooting and her retrieval of Mulder."

"I wasn't kind to her that night," I said sadly. "When I told her to take Mulder and go, she looked like she'd been slapped." I hung my head. "Michael would have expected better of me."

"Marita, you were barely coherent. I doubt she blames you, and anyway, it doesn't matter. What matters is your safety. It doesn't pay to be careless."

"I suppose not." I met his gaze properly for the first time. "Was Michael careless? Is that why he died?"

The Dark Man regarded me intently, frowning; then shook his head. "Michael made a deal, knowing that he would probably die for it. He stole something - something they needed - and gave it back in exchange for Mulder's release."

"The thing he got from Scully that night," I said. "He told me that much. What did he steal?"

He held my gaze for a long, long moment - and the Dark Man was not one to use body language for emphasis. At last, he said in a low voice, "The alien genome."

My eyes widened in absolute stupefaction. I stared at him in disbelief. "Oh, my God," I said in slow horror. "No wonder they killed him."

"He died for a greater cause." His voice was kind.

"Mulder's life? What kind of a greater cause is that?" I demanded angrily.

A look of chagrin passed over his features. He said dryly, "Kill Mulder, and you risk-"

"-turning one man's quest into a crusade," I finished irritably. "I know the company line, and I know it's crap. Tell me why he's so important." The Dark Man looked nervous, and I persisted, "Michael and I were to be married. I have a right to know."

He watched me steadily, as though in indecision; at last, he asked grimly, "How much do you know about colonisation? I mean really?"

"Enough to get me killed, I would think," I hazarded. He shot me an interested look, and I shrugged helplessly. "Diana graduated a year before I did. I was lonely...spent all my time online. That was when I started hacking. First it was just stupid stuff - putting caricatures in place of photos on the faculty website, that sort of thing." His mouth twitched, and he struggled manfully to keep his solemn demeanour in place. I reminded myself to ask him one day whether it hurt to be so perpetually, intentionally dour. "But when it occurred to me to try to find out exactly what my mother had done that meant I had to go into hiding, I knew the right names and places to look."

He looked at me with new respect. "You hacked into the CIA?" I shook my head. "DOD?" I gave a mock-modest shrug at the latter, and he shook his head. "You were lucky you weren't caught."

"Not lucky," I corrected. "Smart. I did it at Maxwell Donovan's mansion while I was on holidays there. As far as Defense was concerned, I was him. I got into Project Enigma and found this database called Majestic Twelve-"

The Dark Man went visibly pale - well, as pale as he got, anyway. "You got into the MJ-12 files?"

I nodded. "Is that bad?"

"More like a fucking miracle," he said, and it occurred to me fleetingly that I'd never heard him swear before. "Go on."

I watched him curiously, wondering what he was thinking, but I complied. "I imagine it's encrypted, but since I was logged in as Max, it let me view it. It was all copy-protected, of course - to save it, I had to do screen captures, page by page. Very laborious."

"You couldn't have done the whole database that way."

"Hell, no. And Max didn't have a tape drive. I only managed to fill five floppies before he got home." I looked out the window once more, my mind drifting, as it so often did these days. The brief spark of interest he had aroused in me was flickering, dying; my hold on the present was growing gossamer- thin. I said absently, "But since I'd searched for my mother's name and Michael's, they were filled with the right kind of data." It had stopped raining, I noted thoughtfully. Michael had loved the rain.

"So what did you find out?" he demanded. I just shook my head dully, teasing fingerprints in the condensation on the glass, not really hearing him. I pressed the side of my fist to the glass and saw that it looked rather like a baby's footprint. I filled in the toes with my fingertips, pleased with myself. And by the way, was I losing my mind? And did it matter?

"Marita!" he said insistently, intruding on what passed for my thoughts.

"What?" I sighed, my tone petulant, like a child.

"Stay with me. You're stronger than this."

I was seized by a sudden, perverse impulse to start humming and rocking just to piss him off; but that in itself was a return of spirit, and I channeled it. I thought hard, struggling to remember what he'd asked me. What I'd found out, that was it. "Well, nothing about whatever my mother did that put me in danger, anyway," I conceded. "You were Michael's right hand - do you know about it?"

He shook his head. "I was in Tunisia checking up on Strughold in 1983. I know something went down, but Michael never told me about it." He went on, "If it wasn't in MJ-12, then it must have been factional."

"I agree, but I didn't know about the factional split at that stage," I explained. "All I knew was that there was a certain group which had the power to vote on and enact certain issues, and that that group included Max, Michael, Mother, Bill Mulder, and that asshole Spender. I knew that we had a deal to create an alien-human hybrid, to ensure human survival. I didn't know about the planned colonisation then."

"What on earth did you think hybridisation was for, then?" he demanded incredulously.

I gave wry shrug. "It was the eighties. Everyone was afraid of nuclear war, and MJ-12 documented the radioactive qualities of the alien race. I thought they were a benign force, giving us information so that we could survive a nuclear holocaust."

"Oh, I see. Yes, that makes sense."

"Mother let me keep on believing that when I came home and confronted her. It wasn't until Diana started making connections between Mulder's work and odd comments from Edward that I started to wonder. She made contact with me after she quit the X Files and started asking questions. Pretty soon I was asking them, too."

"Asking who?" he asked curiously.

"Well, Michael, mostly," I said, and he nodded pensively. "He fobbed me off, of course; but he came home upset on Christmas Eve in ninety-one. He'd had to kill an EBE under Security Council Resolution 1013." I frowned, remembering that awful night. Michael had never killed before, to my knowledge; and he'd had nightmares for months after.

The Dark Man's voice intruded on my thoughts. "That was when you realised they weren't such a benign force after all?"

I shook my head; said easily, "Oh, I'd suspected that for a while. I don't trust Mother," I admitted, and that was a painful thing to say, even now, "and the hybridisation program was accelerating even though the nuclear threat was easing. That explanation didn't make sense anymore." Michael's cat leaped up on the windowsill between us, and I lifted her onto my lap, still talking. "The existence of that resolution pretty much confirmed my suspicions. I knew then that hybridisation had to represent a compromise, and the invasion threat was the logical conclusion to that train of thought." The cat licked my hand affectionately. That struck me as odd - I'd always thought only dogs did that. "Michael pretty much confirmed it, and he told me about the factions - how one side, our side, wanted to delay hybridisation for as long as possible." The Dark Man was nodding. "So where does Mulder fit into all this?"

The Dark Man reached out and scratched behind the cat's ears with some affection. He was rather like a cat himself, come to think of it. It shouldn't have surprised me that he had an affinity with them. "For some time, Michael has been placing people, both within Strughold and Spender's hybrid operation and in positions of power elsewhere, in the hope of exerting pressure on the project and delaying its success. You're one of those, of course."

"Of course," I echoed.

"Mulder is another. But Mulder got a lot more important two years ago. That was when Michael decided - against all good sense, I might add - that it was worth the risk to make himself known to Mulder as an informant."

"That was when Samantha Mulder died," I said reflectively.

"That's right. We thought at that time that Spender would recruit him as his successor in Miss Mulder's place, but that didn't eventuate. He felt Mulder was too much of a loose canon." The cat stretched, shrugging off my hand, and walked elegantly onto the windowsill without a backward glance. With some amusement, I watched her position herself regally at the Dark Man's side, like a consort. "He started looking outside the operation instead - started recruiting people out of the FBI and CIA, hoping to groom someone. We believe that Alexei Krycek, who I pointed out to you at the funeral, is one of them." I made a sound of comprehension. "In some ways that outcome is better, because Mulder can put more pressure on the operation from outside. We believe Spender would kill Mulder if he had to - he's not above infanticide - but he'll protect him for as long as he can."

I nodded slowly, thoughtfully. At last, I queried softly, "Was it worth Michael's life?"

He held my gaze steadily. "He thought so."

We sat there in silence for a long moment; me staring out the window once more, him petting the cat absently. It was a companionable silence, because I genuinely liked the Dark Man, and I believe he liked me, as much as he could be said to like anyone. With the Dark Man, I always knew where I stood. That was a rare gift in my world.

He was watching me curiously. "Are you all right, Marita?"

I shot him a look, but then I slumped a little, sighing heavily. "I feel like a fraud," I said bitterly. "I wasn't in love with him."

"He knew that."

"But I did love him."

"He knew that, too." He reached out, cautiously, as one who is unused to reaching out, and squeezed my shoulder gently. I shot him a wan little smile, and he withdrew. "Michael wasn't a fool, Marita. He knew that an eighteen-year-old girl doesn't accept a proposal of marriage from a fifty- five-year-old man for romance. She does it for money, or if she has money, then she does it to be safe. And if you're really lucky, she loves you for protecting her from whatever she's running from." I wondered whether he was speaking from experience.

"My mother thought he would keep me safe," I mused. Then, morosely, "What I thought didn't come into it."

He said sharply, "Did you resent Michael, Marita?"

I stared at him. "No," I said, thunderstruck. "He took care of me."

"Then stop acting like a fucking penitent," he said impatiently. "You were a kid railroaded into an adult relationship, and you made him happy anyway."

I held his gaze for a long moment, but then I sighed, nodding, accepting this. I said wearily, "What do I do now?"

"You've got two choices, Marita. Go back to playing fetch for the Consortium, or pursue Michael's cause. See if you want to make it your own. If you want to do something for him, make it something a little more constructive than sitting in his apartment staring out a window."

"How?" I demanded. "I don't have access."

"I can get you access. Your placement in the United Nations is intended as a mere pressure point - leverage if ever the need arises. But you don't have to stay at that level. With the right mentor and the right patron, you could become a player. Make a difference."

"Who?" I said sharply, turning to face him fully.

"Me as mentor, Spender as patron. You could switch allegiances later if you wished - Donovan is one to keep in mind - but start with Spender."

"Why Spender?" I queried. "He is an odious man."

"They're all odious men, Marita. Some just wear better cologne." I laughed at that - a weak laugh, but a laugh just the same. He unbent a little, smiling at me indulgently. "He controls our placed operatives in the FBI. That means he has leverage over Mulder."

"Not to mention putting me only two rungs down from the voting circle."

The Dark Man nodded approvingly. "That's right." He shifted uncomfortably. "There's something else I need to tell you - something that may make a difference to how you proceed."

"Go on," I said apprehensively.

"Have you ever heard of The Den?"

I shrugged. "Sure. It's a Consortium social club down Westminster way. If the rumours are to believed, it does double duty as a sex club."

"That's correct." He said conversationally, "It belonged to Michael, you know."

I stared at him, thunderstruck. "What?" He said nothing; only held my gaze steadily. I sat back in utter disbelief. I said in a low, fierce voice, "Michael was not that kind of a man."

"No, he wasn't," he said mildly.

"But - why would he do such a thing?" I demanded incredulously.

He shifted again. "I'm telling this second hand - I didn't join the group until 1978 - but I presume you're aware of the Teena Mulder scandal in 1960?"

I nodded. "Teena and Spender wanted to marry. Bill Mulder was distraught - he was ready to expose the work in revenge. Everyone was taking sides. Somehow that got resolved - I'm not sure how -"

"Strughold uncovered abuses of the pathogen by a certain dictator in the Gaza Strip," he supplied. "The group realised that personal agendas were not luxuries they could afford. Bill Mulder agreed to turn a blind eye to the affair. Spender agreed not to seek to marry Teena. The men eventually became friends again, and Bill raised their children as his, as you know."

I nodded reflectively. "Story as old as time. What's that got to do with Michael?"

"The sexual revolution was dawning. Michael was worried about leaks...blackmail. The Teena Mulder affair consolidated his fears. He built The Den as a response to that problem. He viewed it as the lesser of two evils - and to be fair, he appears to have been right. There has never been a sexual scandal with that magnitude of danger since." I nodded, understanding. He said more gently, "It's yours now, Marita. You inherit that along with everything else."

I stared at him, aghast. "No...no, I don't want it."

He leaned back, crossing his arms across his chest. He didn't seem surprised by my reaction. "Why not?"

I thought hard, trying to put the mess of thoughts running through my head into some sort of order. In the end, it all came down to one thing. "I find it offensive."

He nodded thoughtfully. "All right. Let's try this for offensive. The Den employs seventy-one courtesans. Most of them are runaways whom Michael was putting through university and trying to get out of the sex industry. Thousands, over the years. People who might have died otherwise; people who went on to have productive lives. Cassandra Malloy was one of those."

"Spender's wife?" I said in astonishment.

He nodded. "Of the seventy-one there now, fifty-four are female, and thirty-two have children. If you abdicate responsibility for those people because it offends your sensibilities, who's going to take care of them? Are you going to hire a social worker to run your brothel for you?" His voice was lightly mocking.

"Can't I pay them off? Shut it down? Money is hardly a problem."

He shook his head. "You own The Den only in name, Marita. It's viewed as a Consortium asset. You are expected to keep it open. The implications of refusal are grave."

"Then why can't they run it?" I demanded angrily.

He shrugged. "They can. That's what will happen if you wash your hands of it. But are you going to leave those people in Strughold's hands? Spender's?" I shuddered. "I thought not."

"You seem to have it all figured out," I said coldly.

"Don't do that, Marita. I'm not trying to manipulate you into anything. I'm just telling it as I see it. If you tell me to, I will find someone to run it, and I will do my best for those people. But I think you'd be letting yourself down - and Michael." At my reproachful look, he conceded, "All right, perhaps I am trying to manipulate you. But can you look at me and tell me I'm wrong?" I was silent, ashamed.

He watched me for a long moment, then reached into his pocket. He handed me an anonymous pass card and a business card. "That's the address and your access card. You should see Connie Francis as soon as you can - she's the business manager. She'll make sure you know everything you need to know."

I took them reluctantly. "All right," I said in a low voice.

We were silent for a long moment. At last, the Dark Man said thoughtfully, "You know, Marita, I think you're underestimating the value of The Den. It puts you in a unique position to obtain the information you seek."

"If you're implying what I think you're implying, I don't think you should say any more," I said warningly.

"What do you think I'm implying?"

"You're implying that I should sleep my way to the truth," I said angrily.

"On the contrary. You don't have to have sex to use it to your advantage, Marita. Sometimes the greatest power lies in being unavailable."

"You're talking about teasing," I said, but I wasn't sure that was it at all. I was out of my depth on a lot of levels. I had only ever been with Michael; and for me, sex was something very simple and companionable. The complexity, the layers of interaction and manipulation the Dark Man alluded to were foreign to me.

He shook his head. "No. When you tease, the other person owns a little piece of you - even if it's only in their own mind. I'm talking about absolute control. I'm talking about owning yourself. I'm talking about being desired precisely because you belong to no-one but yourself."

My brow creased. "Are you talking about B&D?"

"Nearly. D&S - domination and submission." I thought on this. "I don't know if I can do that," I said hesitantly. "I don't know if I'm even - equipped to do it." I said haltingly, "Michael and I were - well, pretty vanilla." I flushed a little. I hadn't been brought up to speak of such things. I struggled on, "I liked it that way. There was honesty in it. I don't have a seductress in me just waiting to break out. I don't know how to do the things you're talking about."

"It's a skill, nothing more. It can be learned like any other. I can teach you, Marita - if you'll trust me."

"I do," I said unhesitatingly. "But - this? I just don't know."

He nodded slowly in acceptance of this. "Just think about it, Marita. You know where to find me."

I nodded pensively. "All right."

He rose and walked to the armchair. In the reflection I could see him putting on his coat. I turned in my chair to look at him. "Why are you doing this?" I demanded.

He looked at me with some indecision, but finally, he said, "Fifteen years ago, Michael entrusted me with a traumatised young girl. I hid her in a disused wing of The Den. She was fourteen," he said grimly. "Whatever guidance she needed to put what had happened to her to use without destroying herself, she didn't get it. She was a courtesan by sixteen, a double agent by eighteen, and dead by her own hand at twenty-seven."

"Samantha Mulder," I said softly.

He inclined his head. "I never taught her how to protect herself. Never even understood the need until it was too late." He shrugged. "I'd like to do better by you."

He turned from me then, and went to the door. I called him by name, and he turned.

I shot him a smile. "You already have."

He nodded thoughtfully, and then he left me.

"I think he's wrong."

I stroked the cheek of the infant in my arms, and looked up. Diana was watching us pensively. "Go on," I prompted.

"I think he was wrong to suggest it," she elaborated. She shifted on the bed, sitting up, leaning over to the remains of lunch on the room service trolley. She chewed on a celery stick thoughtfully. "Marita, you're very young."

"You were married at my age," I pointed out; but my voice was mild, because part of me agreed with her. At the sound of my voice, Elizabeth opened her eyes and stared at me unblinkingly. I smiled down at her warmly. She was going to be beautiful.

"I'm not talking about years. You've been with one man - and an undemanding one at that." I flushed. "It's not my wish to make you uncomfortable, Marita, but let's be frank - you're inexperienced. You don't know how to handle yourself with the kind of men you'll meet at The Den - and really, I hope you never do. I think of you like a sister, you know?" I shot her a faint smile, and she returned it. "And I wouldn't want my sister in that place."

"Well, it appears that I have no choice - at least on the admin side of things," I said wryly. "As for the rest, I just don't know." I carefully extricated a lock of my hair from the baby's curled fingers.

Diana frowned, picking at the salad bowl absently. She conceded, "It might be worth it, *maybe*, if you had something firm - some concrete goal, and that was the fastest way to achieve it." She sat back on the bed. She looked tired, and not for the first time, I wondered about the wisdom of discharging her so soon. "But just to get more of a foot in the door - no. There are better ways in, and you should wait for them to present themselves."

I nodded slowly. "It might all be a moot point, anyway. I don't think I'm even cut out for it. He says it's a skill that can be learned - that he can teach me to protect myself - but I just don't know."

Diana shrugged. "Oh, if it came down to that, he's right. He taught Edward and I," she revealed. At my look of surprise, she said, a little sheepishly, "Yeah. Max doesn't know - he'd hit the roof. But we had a concrete goal, and Michael and the Dark Man helped us." Her good humour faded, and she said softly, "It's not an easy thing to do, Marita. I haven't killed anyone, but Edward has, and he says it's a little bit the same. It's something you do because you have to do it, and it isn't the devastating thing that people think it is - but it does take something of yourself. Something you never get back."

I nodded, frowning. At last, I said softly, "Is it worth it?" I didn't just mean The Den.

Diana drew her knees up to her chest morosely. "I don't know, Marita. If we can find a way out of this mess, a way to make a real future for her -" she nodded to the baby "- and for Shane, then yeah. But more and more I think that's just a pipedream." She was suddenly very pale. "I don't know if these children are going to grow up, Rita, and that scares the hell out of me."

"They will," I said - and however stupidly glib the words seemed, I meant them. My hold on Elizabeth tightened instinctively. "I swear, Diana, they will, even if I have to make a goddamn vaccine myself." She reacted visibly, and I said, "What?"

"Nothing. It's just - you reminded me of someone. Someone I used to know." I watched her, perplexed, and at last, she said, "Samantha Mulder."

"You still think about her?" I said softly. I knew she did, but this was the first time in over a year that she'd alluded to it directly.

She said with difficulty, "I was with her in Tunis that day when she found out how close Strughold was to a successful hybrid." She shook her head, her lips drawn tight together. "I should have seen how upset she was."

I regarded her with genuine warmth. "You couldn't have stopped it, Diana," I said, not really sure whether that was true; but it probably was. "It's not like she jumped off the nearest building. She went home, put her affairs in order, and threw herself into the Grand Canyon. It was planned - probably long before Tunis. That was just the last straw."

Diana sighed, brushing her hair back from her face. "Maybe."

We stayed there in silence for a long moment, but then Elizabeth began to fuss, and Diana held out her arms. "I'll take her," she said in a more normal voice. "Shh," she hummed as I handed her over.

"I should go," I said reluctantly. "I have to go down to The Den and attend to whatever Connie Francis lays on me. And you should rest."

"Could you do me a favour?"

"Shoot." Discreetly, she began to nurse, still talking. "Get her to make out a new membership and courier me the card. Silver level. Alex Krycek." The infant moulded herself to her with a contented sigh.

"That's the second time I've heard that name today," I said mildly.

"I've got a feeling you'll hear it a lot more," she said, settling back. "He's one of Spender's boys, but he's not your usual Consortium thug. Academic background. Nice respectable young man."

"What's he doing with us, then?" I demanded.

"Paying his mom's medical bills," she smirked.

"You're joking, right?"

"Nope." She shot me a look. "He's been putting the feelers out. I get the feeling that his loyalty to Spender is, shall we say, on a trial basis."

"Really? That's very interesting," I said. "According to the Dark Man, Krycek's on the short list for possible successors to Spender - assuming he lives that long and doesn't piss anyone off." Diana laughed. I rose, stretching a little. I put my chair back by the window, where I'd found it, gazing out fleetingly at the city, thirty floors below. Damn Edward; couldn't he spring for a room with a balcony? She must be going crazy in here. Men just didn't think. "I'll get the card for you. And think again about staying with me, okay? You don't have to be stuck in a hotel room by yourself."

Diana laughed. "Will do. Thanks," she added.

"No problem. And Diana?" She looked at me expectantly. I said:

"Thanks for hearing me out."

She shot me a smile, then went back to cooing over Elizabeth.

I shut the door.

"How are you holding up?"

I looked at the woman in genuine surprise. Simple concern was an alien thing to me, it sometimes seemed. Though I was loved by many, that love was a complicated tangle of protectiveness and paternalism. There were few who just wanted to know where I was - how I was - and I felt my eyes sting with sudden tears at the woman's genuine warmth. I blinked them back in irritation. I was tired of weeping, and more tired of weeping in front of others.

"I'm - getting there," I said at last. "Thanks."

"We were all very sad to hear about Michael. He was very devoted to you. And I have to say, the circumstances distressed us all. Drive-bys are pretty much par for the course here in New York, but Maryland - you don't expect it there. Such a Catholic heartland, too."

"Even Catholic families have black sheep," I said grimly. Black sheep like Spender, I amended mentally.

"Very painful for you to have witnessed it. Have you been referred for trauma counselling? Father Donnelly isn't here at the moment, but I know he was wondering if we could help."

I shook my head. "No, Sister, but thank you. I don't think it would help. Some things just have to be endured."

"Try to be gentle with yourself for the next year or two, Marita. Others will expect you to recover before you really do. They can be very unrealistic sometimes - especially your mother," the older woman added tentatively.

"That's my mom. Champion of the stiff upper lip." I shook my head irritably. "Thank you - I'll keep it in mind."

"What can we do for you today, anyway, Marita?"

"I just wanted to see if you needed anything from me about cancelling the wedding. I was too shocked last week to even think about it."

Sister shook her head. "It's all taken care of. We've cancelled the booking, and the prenuptial enquiries with your baptismal parishes were already done. We spoke to your mother the other day, and she's handled the flowers and the reception. You don't need to worry."

"Typical," I said irritably. She looked at me sharply, and I said, "I'm sorry. That sounded ungracious. It's just - she does this, you know? Takes things out of my hands. Those things were my responsibility, and I think they might have been good for me."

She was nodding. "For closure. I understand, and I thought the same thing. But it wasn't my place to say so."

"Of course not." I sighed. "Is there anything else?"

"Only the application for dispensation from impediment to marriage - I was going to call the archdiocese today and put a halt on that."

"What's that about?" I asked curiously.

She looked at me blankly, and then her expression cleared. "That's right, you couldn't be there that day," she said in apparent recollection. I felt my eyes widen just a fraction, and I braced myself, knowing perfectly well that I had attended every parish appointment about which I had been told. I held myself very still, preparing myself not to react to whatever bombshell was about to drop. "As you know, your immigration documents identify Michael as your father." I nodded noncommittally, though I knew no such thing. I knew without doubt that Michael was not my father - he would not have committed incest - and so I concentrated on keeping my expression blandly curious as I waited for it all to fall into place. Eventually it would, I was sure of it.

"He and your mother were quite upfront about it all," Sister continued. "They explained about lying to the authorities to get you and your mother into the country, and they produced documentation showing that Michael was in Hanoi when you were conceived. We knew from our dealings with your family that he had never had any kind of adoptive relationship with you, so from our perspective, there was no problem of consanguinity or affinity. But because those documents exist, we had to get a ruling from the archbishop for you to marry, and say that we were satisfied that those documents didn't reflect a genuine issue of blood or adoptive relationship."

"I see," I said mildly. "That makes sense." I smiled winningly, my mind racing. The story held together, but I couldn't imagine why my mother and Michael had kept this from me. Thinking quickly, I said with as much shy reluctance as I could muster, "Sister, would you mind cancelling that while I'm here? That way, I know it's all done and over with. I think it would help, somehow." I hoped I didn't sound too bucolic. What I hoped was that she would have to get out the file in order to do it. Surely she would have to quote a reference number of some kind.

"Sure. I can do that." Her voice was kind. She rose and went to the filing cabinet. She withdrew a thick folder and came back to the desk. She sat down and, picking up the telephone receiver, hit a speed dial key. I tilted my head sideways to read the legend, *Covarrubias/Harrington*, and drew it towards me with a questioning look at the older woman. I worked to keep my expression mildly curious. She hesitated a moment, her brow furrowing; and I backed off, shrugging carelessly, even though my heart was pounding.

She shrugged too, then, waving a hand. I could almost hear the unspoken, 'Ah, what the hell.' I smiled again, pulling it towards me, breathing out shakily. "Thanks," I said softly.

"It's your own file, Marita. There's no harm in- Alicia!" She turned her attention back to the phone. "It's Sister Deirdre at Staten Island...oh, I'm great now that Easter's over. Father's away 'til Pentecost, so I have the run of the parish..."

I tuned her out, the dulcet tones of small- parish gossip washing over me. That would buy me a little time, but not much. I flipped through the pages quickly, passing over affidavits by my mother and Michael. Nothing written now would shed any light on what had gone before - they were too smart for that. It was original documents that were the key - documents they had gone to some lengths to conceal from me. Immigration papers...my mother's statement of defection...travel records from the CIA and United Nations for Michael from 1969 to 1971...more sworn statements (one from Maxwell Donovan, I noted idly)...a photocopy of the baptismal register from - I read the header - St Mary Magdalene parish in New York...Marks, Jeffries, Panethos, Covarrubias, Covarrubias-

I doubled back. Covarrubias, Marita Elena. Covarrubias, Elena Ekaterina. Both born April 19, 1971 in Ateni, Georgia; both baptised June 21. That meant-

I flipped back to the immigration papers. There was a photocopy of handwritten case notes from the US Consulate in Istanbul. They were in Arabic; but there was a certified translation stapled to it.

--April 23, 1971. Covarrubias, Larissa Krisztyna, and Girl 1, and Girl 2 escorted to embassy by Conrad Strughold. Mrs Covarrubias travelled over the Soviet-Turkish border on foot on April 22 w/newborn infants. Mrs Covarrubias states she is KGB operative, had previously contacted Michael Harrington (UN/CIA) re: defection, and that Harrington is en route to Istanbul, ETA 0830 Apr 24. Awaiting Pentagon confirmation. Strughold known to Consul as a mining entrepreneur based in Tunisia. Some mining interests in Virginia, USA. His involvement with Covarrubias and/or KGB is uncertain, but bears watching. Covarrubias case tentatively classified top security clearance. Entry ends.

--April 24, 1971. Asylum granted. Michael Harrington confirmed Covarrubias story. States he has been in contact with Covarrubias since a tour of duty with the United Nations in Zhezqazghan in 1968. Covarrubias formerly based in a top-secret KGB installation in Norylsk (Siberia). (Undecipherable sentence). No further questioning permitted. Covarrubias and daughters to be escorted to Washington, DC (depart Consul Friday 0630). Medical exam shows Mrs Covarrubias in poor health. Dr. speculates Mrs C. gave birth unaided; some postpartum hemorrhaging, no complications. Girl 1, Marita Elena, within normal limits. Girl 2, Elena Ekaterina, small for gestational age, seriously ill (upper respiratory tract infection). Mrs C. requests Catholic priest for baptism. Negated by CIA on security grounds. Mrs C. identifies twins' father as Michael Harrington; Harrington confirms. Inconsistent with Harrington's movements: left Zhezqazghan January 1970, has been in Hanoi ever since. Mrs C. may be attempting to portray herself as a fleeing adulteress to protect husband from KGB interrogation. Pentagon instructs our investigation be dropped. Entry ends.

"Marita?"

I stared up at her, a little disoriented. "I'm - I'm sorry, Sister. What was that?"

She was watching me curiously. "I said, you're shaking."

I closed the file. "Someone walked over my grave, I guess. It's done?" Don't react, Marita. Don't even think. Just get the hell out of there.

"Yes, it's done. Are you okay?"

I could feel my control slipping. The rigid lines of my face were hurting. They burned, like too- cold ice cracking in sudden heat. "Yeah," I managed. "I appreciate this, Sister."

She rested a hand on my shoulder. "Be kind to yourself, Marita. I'll pray for you."

I reached up and patted it absently. "Thanks," I forced out. I went on with foreboding:

"I think I'm going to need it."

"Mother!"

I threw my handbag down on the polished table, and it slid across and hit the fruit bowl with a clatter. My car keys followed, landing ungraciously at its side. I fumbled helplessly in my pocket for the brand-new pack of smokes and the cheap plastic Bic I'd bought at a truckstop. I ripped open the cigarettes and, pulling one out, threw the pack down, too. I flicked at the lighter uselessly, trying to light up. I yelled in frustration, "Mother! Where the hell are you, god damn you!"

My hands were shaking.

I finally got the cigarette lit, and drew on it gratefully. I pulled out a chair from the table with a clatter, and sank down into it. I sat there with my head in my hands, smoking. My head was pounding.

I heard a door close in the lower floor, and then the rapid, rhythmic beat of footsteps on the stairs. I looked up wearily.

"Marita! I thought I heard a car drive up."

"Mother," I said hoarsely. It was a whisper.

"Maxwell is outside having tea. Do join us."

I breathed out shakily, tendrils of smoke drifting up towards the ceiling fan, twirling merrily overhead. "Mother."

"Oh, dear, you're smoking again," she said reproachfully. "Have a peppermint before you come out. I think there's some in the kitchen."

Sudden fury gathered in me, starting in my stomach and rising to my chest like bile. There was something surreal about it all. My mother had hidden the existence of a twin from me, and she was bitching about smoker's breath? I had the feeling that the natural order of the world had been blown to pieces, free floating in weird prismic formations I'd never seen before.

I tried again. It wasn't just my hands shaking anymore - it was my whole body. "Mother."

She kept prattling. Not for the first time in my life, I wondered if she ever really saw me at all. "I have to get back to Maxwell. We'll see you when you've finished your cigarette then?"

I slumped in my chair, my head bowed in exhausted disbelief. I waved my hand at her helplessly without looking at her; and she obviously took that as acquiescence, because her footsteps receded. I stubbed out the cigarette on the underside of her beautiful table in what I knew was a maliciously infantile gesture, and buried my head in my folded arms. I don't know if I was laughing or crying. I think it might have been both.

At last, I rose, and composed myself. I went to the bathroom and washed my face and straightened my hair. I powdered my cheeks and touched up my lipstick. And all the while, I tried to convince myself to think kindly of her - at least while Maxwell was here. Elena had been small...sick. Maybe she had died very young. Maybe she never really recovered from being smuggled over the border, or from whatever my mother went through as she fled her home on foot in advanced pregnancy. In those days, didn't they sometimes hide the death of a child? Didn't they sometimes seek to protect the subsequent children? Maybe Mother genuinely thought she'd done the right thing. It helped to think so.

Yet when had my mother ever protected me from the harsher realities of life? Not for her, the "Scruffy has gone to live in a beautiful garden." Not for her, the "Uncle Anthony died in his sleep." No, Scruffy was run over by a car. Anthony was shot to death in front of his children. The kind-hearted lies and myths of childhood were alien to my mother. She was a harsh woman, and in an odd way she believed her harshness helped me to grow strong. And maybe that was true.

No, my mother would not have lied to comfort me. She only ever lied to conceal the truth. But what truth was she concealing now? What truth was so important that she and Michael had conspired to continue in its concealment more than twenty years on?

Sighing, I finished in the bathroom and went downstairs. Breathing deeply, I stepped out the door into the courtyard. "Hello, Maxwell," I said airily; and if that seemed a little forced, he would simply put it down to bereavement. Maxwell himself had aged visibly in the last couple of weeks. He and Michael had been close.

"Oh, hello, Marita," he said kindly, rising as I took my seat. "How are you?"

"Holding up," I said grimly. "Mother," I added with a nod of greeting. If she was aware of the coldness in my voice, she didn't show it; but only nodded in return and poured my tea, setting it down in front of me.

"Well," my mother said after a long moment, "I have things to do, so if you'll excuse me, I'll leave you two alone." She rose, sending us a wide, manufactured smile, and left us.

I stared after her. "That was weird," I mused, my expression doubtful. I turned to Maxwell, and then I pulled back visibly. He was furious.

His face was very pink, his mouth pulled into a tight little grimace. I thought he was on the verge of apoplexy. It was actually pretty funny, and I smothered waves of hysterical laughter that suddenly threatened. He burst out indignantly, "Dear God! Michael's body's not even cold!"

My humour faded in an instant. I stared at him in stunned bewilderment. "She *wasn't* trying to-"

"I'm forty six years older than you!" I shot him a sudden, wry grin. "You don't look it."

We both broke out into horrified laughter - thank goodness! After so much stress, it was a relief to be able to do so. I laughed 'til I ached, and by then, Maxwell was leaned back in his chair, smoking his pipe, watching me amiably.

At last, I got control of myself. "I'm so sorry, Maxwell," I said ruefully. "My mother has the sensitivity of-"

"A bull in a china shop," he finished sympathetically.

The expression aroused an unexpected pang of nostalgia. "I miss England," I said suddenly. He said nothing, only waited. I elaborated finally, "Life was simpler then."

He watched me, his brow puckered with concern; and at last, he shook his head. "You only thought it was, Marita," he said mildly. "You've been part of this since the day your mother crawled into Turkey with you on her back."

"And my sister," I said quietly.

That shocked him. He shot me a look; one of surprise, melding quickly into worried nervousness. "Don't pursue that. You'll only put yourself in danger - and her." I nodded noncommittally - I had expected a warning. He leaned forward, his expression grave. "Especially if your mother finds out you know." At that, I opened my eyes very wide; because clearly, the other woman I would endanger was not my mother. And that only left-

"Elena's alive?" I demanded breathlessly, my cheeks hot with excitement.

Maxwell grimaced. Clearly, he'd thought I knew more than I really did - which made me wonder just how much more there was. He said in a low, warning tone, "Leave it alone, Marita."

I persisted. "Is my sister alive?"

Perhaps seeing that I wouldn't let him go without giving me something - but more likely believing I had a right to know - he conceded quietly, "Yes." He glanced at my mother, watching us from the kitchen window, and he went on in an undertone:

"But if you want her to stay that way, you'll leave it alone."

"Marita?"

The Dark Man stood aside, silent permission to enter. I entered his suite and slammed the door behind me. I was shaking.

"Marita, what's the matter?"

I stared at him stupidly for a moment, then turned and went to the basin on the elevated dais. I splashed water over my face, then looked up at my reflection. There were pink spots high on my cheeks, and the lines of my face seemed suddenly haggard. I breathed out shakily.

The Dark Man was watching.

I leaned over the basin, breathing deeply, waiting for some semblance of composure to form. He was still looking at me with that worried expression, but he went to the bar, and busied himself pouring drinks. And when I came down the steps at last, he handed me mine without editorial comment. I took it, and sat on the elaborate bed, drinking gratefully.

He left me there for a few minutes, turning off his laptop and tidying a sheaf of papers on the dresser. "What's wrong?" he asked at last, sitting at my side. Briefly, I told him what had occurred.

"Did you know?" I asked finally.

The Dark Man shook his head. "I didn't come aboard until you were seven. You remember," he added with a sudden grin.

I laughed at that - a little weakly, but a laugh just the same. "I said that you were the first black man I'd ever met. Mother was mortified."

He laughed a little. "I was furious - not with you," he added hurriedly, "with her. I was pretty political back then." His smile faded. "That was 1978, so whatever happened to Elena, it must have happened before that."

"Earlier. Before I could remember anything myself," I chimed in. "Say before 1974." I felt better now - more controlled. It felt good to be proactive.

"Maybe she was surrendered to the colonists as a hostage," he hazarded. "The timeframe works. I always assumed your mother gave up your father, but I admit that was only a guess. I never thought to check one way or another." A new thought occurred to him, and he asked, "Who did you think she surrendered, anyway?"

"I didn't think she surrendered anyone," I said, bewildered.

"But they all gave up someone," he protested, his brow creasing.

"Michael didn't," I pointed out. "Neither did Max or Bill Mulder. And Spender surrendered two. I assumed it was done by ballot."

The Dark Man shook his head. "Max gave up his wife. She went willingly - she was terminally ill. She died a month later in colonist custody. That's why she's never spoken of as missing." I nodded, comprehending. "Samantha was Bill's hostage, not Spender's. If the colonists had learned Bill wasn't the children's father, they'd have demanded Teena - that was why Spender went along with it." A flicker of compassion went through me - something I'd never thought I'd feel for Spender. "Michael was the only one who truly gave up no-one, because he had no-one to give up. His only living relative was Maxwell."

"Maybe he did, though," I said thoughtfully. "If Spender and Bill Mulder lied, why not Michael and my mother? They'd already lied that he was our father once before. Maybe she said Elena was his to settle his debt along with hers."

The Dark Man frowned; nodded slowly. "That makes sense," he conceded. "And it would account for his protectiveness of you growing up."

I crossed my arms, my brow furrowed, thinking hard. "Max said she was alive," I said slowly. "He said that investigating could put both of us in danger. He implied that the danger was from within - not from the colonists." I said curiously, "Could she be here?"

He shrugged uneasily. "I don't see how. I know Cassandra and Samantha were recovered, but Spender and Teena bartered for them. They handed over a group of rebels for them. As far as I know, no-one else ever came back."

"Could my mother have bartered for Elena?"

"I don't see what she could have bartered with. And she certainly couldn't have done it without my knowledge."

"Unless she did it in 1983, when you were in Tunisia," I pointed out. "And she sent me away right after that."

"Possible," he conceded. "But this is pure conjecture, Marita. We don't even know if she's here."

We fell silent, dwelling on this; but at last, I said with awe, "I have a sister." He said nothing, but only looked at me. His expression was kind. "How could I not know that? I mean in myself?"

"Maybe you did," he mused, almost to himself. "Maybe that's what's been holding you back the last few years."

"Holding me back?" I echoed stupidly.

He shrugged a little, warming to his theme. "You've been relying on these people to keep you safe - your mother, Diana, Michael - instead of working to do whatever it is you have to do. Maybe you needed to find out about Elena before you could break free of them."

"You think I'm weak," I realised - and in an unwelcome flash of insight, I realised that it was true.

"You have been weak," he said kindly, "but you're very young. Now it's time to get strong."

"You think badly of me," I said bitterly. It wasn't a question.

"On the contrary," he asserted with real warmth. "I think very highly of you, Marita. But you're still becoming the person you were born to be."

Tears stung my eyes. "I don't -" I faltered; went on finally, "I don't know what to do."

"What do you want to do?" he said quietly.

I glanced at him, wondering what the answer really was; but in the end, there was only one thing I knew for sure just then. "I want to find my sister."

"You might regret it."

"I know that," I said mildly.

"Max is a sound man," he warned. "If he says it's unwise, he's probably right."

I turned to face him fully. "Does that mean you won't help me?"

He smiled faintly; shook his head. "No. I'll help you, Marita."

I touched his hand; gave it a companionable squeeze before withdrawing. "Thank you, my friend."

We were silent for a long moment, but then a cellphone rang. We each checked our pockets; the culprit was his. He answered it, with an apologetic look at me. He rang off.

"That was Connie Francis. I have to go talk to her."

I nodded my understanding, and rose. "I have to see her, too. I'll walk with you." I scanned the opulent room appraisingly. It was lovely, I had to admit. I still had mixed feelings about The Den, but I understood its appeal. The Dark Man reached for the door, but I stayed his hand.

"What we talked about before - about this place. I'll do it."

He shot me a look. "Are you sure?"

"No," I admitted. I bowed my head. "But you were right. I've been too safe for too long. I know too much to let it stay that way." I met his gaze once more. "I have to make a stand, and rise or fall by it."

"Can you handle it?" he said piercingly. He opened the door, and motioned for me to go ahead of him.

"I guess I'll have to."

He turned back to the door and locked it. "Don't look now, but there's Alex Krycek. Nine o'clock," he added.

I turned to the void over the huge circular staircase, passing my eyes idly over the room without meeting Krycek's gaze. He was on the stairs the next level down, looking up at me. So he knew who I was - I thought he might. I said noncommittally, "So he is."

He turned and began to walk, me at his side. On the next floor down, Krycek frowned and went in the direction of the suites. "Wonder what he's doing here. Spender didn't give him membership."

"No," I agreed. "Diana did."

The Dark Man nodded approvingly. "Good. He's worth getting on side. He's low in the chain of command, but Spender's plans for him make him an asset."

"Assuming he plays along with Spender," I said mildly.

"You don't think he will?" His expression was curious.

I shook my head. "No." I thought back to Diana's words. "He's not an ignorant thug like Cardinale. That's why Spender wants him. And that's why he'll never own him."

He nodded approvingly. "You're probably right."

"What's his profile?" I asked with interest.

"He's an interesting one. Bisexual, but otherwise very conservative. Very motivated by family and community. Patriotically American, vehemently anti-Soviet-"

"He'd get along with my mother," I said grimly.

"- but very loyal to the post-Soviet Russian states. He's written in the academic political journals about Latvia and Estonia and Chechnya and all that."

"Anything about Georgia?" I queried, interested.

"Not a lot," he shrugged. "The north-western states are more his line. He's Latvian, hence the interest." I nodded, understanding. "Mind you, I'm sure your Russian heritage could be a common denominator."

"That's true," I said casually, though in truth my interest had little to do with his possible cultivation as an ally. He interested me. He was good-looking, but then, good-looking men were not uncommon in my world. But there was something else...something I couldn't identify. He reminded me of someone, or something. I wondered what it was. And then I realised.

He was somehow different from the others in our world.

Like me.

"Anyway," the Dark Man said, "enough of that. I need to show you something before we go downstairs." He used his keys to open a door marked, 'Private Wing/No Admittance'.

"Michael's rooms," I said dully.

He shook his head in negation of this. "Not at all. He never lived here after it became The Den. I don't think he liked it here after that. No, these rooms were Samantha's."

"Samantha lived here?" I said in surprise. "I mean, later?" He knew what I meant - after she'd been a prostitute here. Courtesan, I mentally corrected. The euphemism didn't come easily, but I was their employer now. If I couldn't show some respect in my own mind, it would show in my dealings with them.

He nodded, motioning for me to enter. I complied. "She lived wherever was most expedient, but she kept rooms here all her life. Michael allowed it. He felt quite kindly towards her."

I smiled faintly, and realised wistfully that Michael already seemed like something very distant - someone I'd known a lifetime ago. I said at last, "That sounds like Michael."

"She has diaries," he was saying. "She was here in 1983. If you can find them - and there's no guarantee that you will - they might shed some light on things."

"You haven't looked for them?" I queried.

"I couldn't," he said evenly. His voice was very mild. Too mild. I wondered then if he'd been in love with her, but I didn't ask. Instead, I nodded, looking over the sitting room before me. Lovely prints on the wall; masses of cushions in all kinds of textured fabrics. It was a very feminine room. It made me sad - I'd never known Samantha, but by all accounts, she'd been a decent woman. And ultimately, of course, a martyr to the resistance. Shaking my head a little to clear it of these musings, I said at last:

"If they're here, I'll find them."

The next couple of months passed without incident. I lived at The Den, mostly for convenience. Companionship, too, I suppose; for Diana stayed in Maxwell's suite - all the voting members had suites reserved for their exclusive use, and I convinced Edward that The Den was a nicer environment than their hotel. I might not have done that if Elizabeth had been older; but I thought - hoped - than an infant wouldn't pick up on the strange dynamics of the place.

I gradually searched Samantha Mulder's suite, but so far I'd come up empty. I saw to the administrative needs of the facility. I found reasons not to see my mother. I took care of the courtesans, put them through school, and was always glad when one left for a better life. I didn't employ any more.

The Dark Man trained me, and he connected me with a handful of undemanding submissives. There was Senator Matheson, who liked to masturbate while I demanded details of his escapades with his toyboys. That was a tough one for me; I felt fiercely protective of Diana, and Matheson had had a hand in her divorce from Mulder. There was an assassin named Fordham, who would answer any question as long as he was allowed to play with my hair; and Senator McKay, who had a foot fetish. An up-and-coming FBI executive named Kersh. And Edward Donovan, who played my favourite in public, and played Scrabble with me behind closed doors. He was the only one allowed to touch me, kiss me - invade my space in any way. That was all right, because I trusted him. More than that, I trusted his unwavering devotion to Diana and their children.

So I was chaste...untouched.

But after a while, it hardly mattered.

As much as the idea of being groped by those men repulses me, there is something about their very presence that affects me almost as badly. They don't touch me, but they still get under my skin. And so does the awful, tantalising, breathless wantonness of the place. I want to be - oh, God, it's hard to write this - I want to be pushed against a wall and fucked. I want to be taken and used and I want it over and over again, hot and hard and fast, and I don't care who by. The words offend me as I write them, affront me, confront me; and yet even now, some dark part of myself throws back her head and moans. I am surrounded by flesh, by sex stripped of meaning, and the incredible power of that arouses all my darkest instincts. It infects me like a drug.

It's insidious.

And it would be so easy to give in to it - to embrace the emptiness.

But that would be giving up on everything I believe and everything I dream of. To reduce lovemaking to sex - no, I can't do that. I can't surrender my dreams of something more.

Because right now, dreams are all I have.

He touches me.

Just a single touch, and I feel my body respond. His hands on my shoulders, his breath on my neck as he pushes aside my hair. I gasp, half pressing myself to him, half pulling away, right on the knife-edge of indecision. "Marita," he breathes, his lips brushing my ear, "beautiful Marita."

At the endearment I feel my resistance melt away. With a gasp of aching longing, I whirl around, pressing myself against him with a low sigh of need. "Oh - oh, God-" I blurt incoherently.

"Marita," he rasps again, his breath hot on me. His hands are on me, moulded to me, seeking me, knowing me. He holds me close, possessively, and I give myself up to it willingly, crying out his name.

I kiss him, hard; press my mouth to his and devour his taste and his scent ravenously. The only man I've ever wanted. The only one who brings those faint embers of instinctive need and sets them alight. How could I have ever thought those embers were desire? They are nothing to this. His hands cradle my face, his lips adore me, cherish me, take me and make me his. My legs buckle, and he pushes me to the wall, pressing me there, sinking to his knees, sliding warm, firm palms under my skirt, over my thighs, drawing my panties down, leaving my stockings and garter intact; and now I know I'm dreaming, because I've never worn a garter in my life; but, God, I don't care, do it, please - please -

So warm.

His mouth, so moist, so warm, kissing me, loving me, taking my most secret places, laying them open, treating them as something precious. I cradle his head with my hands, leaning over, curling my body to reach him, to kiss him tenderly. He takes one of my hands and lays it against his cheek, and he says my name and makes it sound like love. And I'm shaking, shuddering against him, his mouth still moving over me, still giving, still loving, and then I sink to my knees before him and kiss him once more. I want his mouth between my thighs, I want his warmth inside me; but more than anything I want to kiss him, want to hold him close and make him mine. With the miracle of dreams, he's naked, we both are, and he's so warm against me, his torso so effortlessly cradled to mine, fitting to me perfectly. I lay on my back, my legs twined around him, his body held close to mine, his arms holding me close; he seeks not to enter or to plunder, but to caress and embrace; and he slides into me almost as an afterthought, his eyes never leaving mine. His presence within me is nothing, it's insignificant, it means nothing in the face of what's within that shared gaze; and yet it's everything, binding us, joining us, making us one, making us whole. And as he moves, it seems to me as though he's been there all my life, waiting. At last, I hold him tight against me with my legs, pressing him into me as far as he can go, holding him tight within me, cleaving to him with my whole being. And then I'm shuddering, the blood in my veins ice-cold and white- hot all at once, and I can feel him spilling within me, emptying himself into me, giving me as much of himself as one person can to another. His seed is warm; it finds its way within me, seeking to join, seeking to grow, seeking to become more than it is now, to become something new, a new creation. And then I realise that the miracle of life is not conception, but unity; and whatever else becomes of that seed, it has made me his. And as we fall against one another, as we come to rest, still shuddering, still gasping, still clutching one another, I cry out his name.

"Alex -"

I woke up.

I stared at the ceiling, very still, unsure of where fantasy ended and reality began. My hands were fists, clutching bright handfuls of blue velvet cushion, and I was stretched out over crumpled sheets of satin. Tentatively, I reached down to touch myself, and then I drew back with a hiss: I was excruciatingly aroused, acutely painful to the touch. I was warm and slick there, but unnaturally cold everywhere else. And I was shaking.

"Jesus," I whispered.

I threw aside the covers and rose; ran to the basin on the elevated dais and splashed my face with water. I stared at my reflection, breathing heavily, disturbed by the harsh spots of colour on my face. I'd never seen myself like this. I'd never *been* like this. I hung my head in my hands, leaning there against the basin, breathing shakily. "Oh, God."

There was a knock at the door.

"Whatever it is, Connie, it can wait," I called absently.

"It's not Connie. It's Diana."

I was nearly weeping. "God, Diana, please, can it wait?"

She sounded concerned. "Let me in, Marita."

Pulling on a robe, I stalked to the door and wrenched it open. "What?" I demanded harshly.

A look of worry flitted over her features. "Rita? Are you all right?"

I tried to fake it, but the smile just wouldn't form. Finally, I said, "No, I don't think I am." I opened the door and let her enter. She did so, and I shut it gratefully.

She took her time, putting her cellphone on the dresser and dropping down into the overstuffed armchair by the bed. I started to pour myself a scotch, then reconsidered, remembering that Diana was nursing. I poured us both an orange juice. Probably a better idea for that time of the morning, dreams or not.

I handed Diana her drink, and sat on the bed; my composure slowly making a comeback. She said quietly, "Now, are you going to tell me what's wrong?"

"Diana, I can't," I said miserably. The very thought of finding the words I'd have to use chilled me.

"It will help," she said kindly. "Really, Marita. It will all seem a lot smaller once you get it off your chest."

I stared at her. "You know," I said with vague uncertainty.

"I have a fair idea," she said gently. "I've been where you are, Marita. I've seen what this place does to people."

I nodded slowly, accepting the truth of this. I wasn't the first to be screwed up by this place - male or female. I thought Diana was probably thinking of Samantha.

"I've been having dreams," I said hesitantly, at last. "Intimate dreams." I frowned. "They - they bother me. They - frighten me."

Diana sat back, shrugging a little. "Sex is a powerful instinct," she said easily. "And you're surrounded by it. All the aches and the loneliness of being suddenly single are magnified. It's really not surprising that it's getting to you. Marita, you wouldn't be normal if it didn't affect you."

"It's insidious," I blurted. "The more I stay here, the more warped my grip on what I need is getting. I - I feel like I'm splintering." I buried my face in my hands for a long moment. "Oh, God."

"You were at the right psychological moment for this, Marita. That's all. If you can ride it out without doing anything you'll hate yourself for, you'll be fine."

"I know." I sighed wearily. "The Dark Man said that if I was unavailable, I'd be safe - but he was wrong. It's no better than the alternative, and sometimes I think it might be worse."

Diana's expression was kind - and troubled. She rose and came over to me, and drew me close. She was warm and soft against me, and it was comforting. I leant my face against her shoulder. "Not everyone wants something from you, Rita," she said gently. "Some of us just love you." She stroked my hair tenderly, and I thought fleetingly that she must be a very good mother. "And there will be others."

She held me that way for a while; but at last, I pulled away. I stared down at my hands, opening and closing them compulsively. I said morosely, "You knew this would happen, didn't you?"

"I had a pretty good idea," she said softly. "It isn't worth it, Marita. Whatever you're trying to find, whatever ideology is driving you, it's okay to walk away. There are other soldiers. You've lost so much-"

"I had a sister," I burst out.

Diana looked at me, sitting very still. "What did you say?" Her face was suddenly ashen, confirming something I had already suspected: that she had already known.

I watched her steadily, but didn't repeat it.

"How the hell did you find out about that?" she demanded at last.

"So you did know," I said coolly. "I wondered."

She had the good grace to look shamefaced; but she remained resolute. "Let it alone, Marita."

"Oh, that's rich," I said in a low voice. "This, from a woman who kept the fact that I had a sister from me. A friend," I added scathingly.

She flushed, but she didn't back down. "Did you ever stop to wonder why?" she demanded in frustration. "Why your mother and Michael and I and the others kept it from you? Marita, I know how much you think you need to know, but I promise you, some things are best left alone. Some things can turn your world upside down, with no net gain."

"I think your view is coloured by what happened in your marriage," I said pointedly. She winced, but she didn't look angry, as I would have. In a way, that angered me even more. "I'm not Fox. And I have a sister I never even knew, whose very existence was systematically hidden from me."

Diana bowed her head. She said in a low voice, "Don't do this, Marita. Please."

I held her gaze, resolute. "I have to. Don't you see that?"

"I see it - that doesn't I think you're right."

"So does that mean you're against me?" I demanded.

She hung her head in her hands for a long moment. Looking up at me with a sigh, she said with genuine warmth, "I will always be on your side, Marita. But I will not help you do this."

I looked away. I said bitterly, "I think you should leave."

"Marita-"

"Please."

From the corner of my eye, I saw her nod. She rose; said finally, "Marita, please don't hate me."

I turned to face her, and I felt my features soften a little. "I don't," I admitted, reaching out to take her hand. And I didn't. We'd been through too much together. "But right now I need you to go."

She nodded reluctantly, and then she did as I said.

"How did the meeting go?"

The Dark Man stirred his coffee thoughtfully. "Pretty much as expected. Edward got Michael's place in the voting circle." He looked tired.

"So we still have a majority?" I speculated hopefully.

He shook his head morosely. "No. A lot of our votes were in exchange for CIA favours from Michael. We got some of them back with favours from you, as you know; but our faction is a minority now, I'm afraid."

I made a sound of disgust. "Dammit!"

"There's more bad news - not catastrophic, but inconvenient," he added at my look of alarm. "Edward has to go back to Tunisia in a couple of weeks. I believe Diana and the baby are staying for a little longer, but we have to find you a new squeeze." I made a sound of annoyance.

"All right," I said wearily. A passing courtesan waved in greeting, and I shot her a quick nod and smile. "Who did you have in mind?" I asked, putting my teacup to my lips.

"I'm not really sure," he said quietly, taking a long drink from his cup. "I'm thinking about Krycek, though."

I sputtered. "What? He's not even on the inside!" Not to mention the fact that I'd never met the man, never even heard his voice; and yet I'd heard him say my name in my dreams a thousand times over.

"He's further in than you think," the Dark Man said. Then, in an undertone, "He knows something about Larissa."

I was instantly on the alert, dreams forgotten. "How so?" I demanded eagerly.

"He's been asking questions about her whereabouts in 1971 and 1983."

I watched him, my brow furrowing thoughtfully. "I didn't realise you and he were on those terms."

"We're not," the Dark Man said dryly. "We're communicating by email. He thinks I think he's Mulder."

I looked at him with some admiration. "How do you know that?"

"He left me a note at Mulder's apartment one night. I already knew from my surveillance that Mulder was at Krycek's," he added. "Young Alex's car was a couple of blocks away. It wasn't a tough call."

I snorted. "You Consortium types obviously aren't training him too well, now," I teased.

"Subterfuge of that kind is not required of him at this stage," he said evenly.

"Just as well," I snickered, ignoring his reproving look. No sense of humour. "So what are you doing about it?"

"Feeding him scraps. He's worth having on side."

"What do you think he knows?" I wondered.

The Dark Man sat back, spreading his hands expansively. "I'm not sure. But I think you could find out."

I frowned. Diana was right, I supposed; he'd just happened to enter my landscape at the right psychological moment. The dreams didn't mean anything. They could be handled. Just because dream-Alex left me breathless, didn't mean it would translate into real life. He was probably a total jerk.

I asked finally, "Do you think he can be trusted?"

The Dark Man laughed mirthlessly. "Trust no- one, as Michael used to say. But I think he's willing to use and be used."

I nodded slowly at this. "I'll think about it."

"There's something else," he said quietly. I signalled a passing waiter for another pot of tea.

I looked at him curiously. "Go on."

He watched me for a long moment. "Your name was mooted as Michael's successor last night."

I looked at him in genuine disbelief. "Me?"

He shook his head in a clear, you're-missing-the-point gesture. "Oh - it wouldn't have eventuated. You're too young, too new. The nomination was a gesture of respect to Michael, that's all." I nodded in understanding, and waited. "Your being voted down was no surprise. What was a surprise was the vehemence of your most vocal opponent."

"Who was it?" I demanded quietly.

"Your mother." He watched me closely. "Marita, I'm beginning to think that you're right about Elena. I think that maybe she's the key to something bigger. She could be the key to everything."

The waiter came then, with my tea, and we broke apart from our huddled stance. I nodded, frowning, as the waiter moved on to the table behind me. "Would you like a refill, Mr Krycek?"

My eyes widened, and I worked not to turn around. Now that I really looked, I could see him dimly reflected in the glass partition at the end of the room. "He's here a lot lately," I said in a low voice.

"He's staying here for the moment," the Dark Man said calmly.

"Krycek is living here?" I demanded.

"He was involved in the Dana Scully abduction. He had to go on the run. I gather he doesn't have anywhere much to go."

"So he's a bit lost?" I asked, instantly on the alert.

He looked at me strangely. "I wouldn't put it quite like that."

I waved a hand in negation. "No, I mean - he's short on allies. He's ripe to commit to us - to take a role in our work. No conflicting loyalties."

The Dark Man shrugged. "Well, he's still on Spender's payroll, but Spender is only using him as a hired gun. There can't be a lot of job satisfaction there. I don't think Krycek would feel particularly bound to him. And after all, he knows I'm Mulder's informant and has never turned me in."

"That's a point." I met the Dark Man's gaze with a sudden sense of purpose. "All right - introduce me." I caught Krycek's reflection in the glass once more.

"It's time we reeled him in."

"Where are you up to?"

I look away from the laptop, up at Mare; and as always, her smile invites one of my own. "Just finished transcribing the blue journal." Then, more hesitantly, "The one just after Michael died."

Her smile falters a little. "Oh," she says in a husky voice. I hold out my hand, and she takes it, squeezing tightly. "Thank you for doing that - especially with your hands," she adds, looking not at my hand, but at the hand that is not. "I couldn't have done it. Not yet." I only nod and draw her down across my lap. We sit there for long, pensive moments, her eyes scanning the monitor. Part of me wants to close it, but I won't do that to her. Not when so many people have treated her like a child already.

At last, I say lightly, "So...just the right psychological moment, huh?"

She laughs a little, and it eases my mind to hear it. "Oh, Alexi," she sighs, "I got so many things wrong back then. And I nearly drove you away," she adds remorsefully.

"You didn't," I say quietly. "You won't."

She kisses me then, just once, and I hold her tightly. There's something clinical about writing in retrospect - everything becomes small and manageable. But reading her account as she lived it makes me love her, who she was and who she has become, so much more. I never thought it was possible to love one person more than I loved her, but apparently it is.

Because I love her more every day.

"You know," she says, pulling away with a knowing smile, "Gibson and the children are in Ksar el Kabir for the day."

"I knew that," I say mildly, teasing my hand over her leg, sliding it up under her skirt - just a little. God knows, I love making love to her; but in some ways, this languid, companionable touching is just as good.

"We could fool around a little," she tells me, stroking my cheek idly; then amends thoughtfully, "or a lot."

I begin weakly, "I should-" and then my resistance dies as her lips meet mine. When she presses herself against me, I slide my hand up her back, holding her there. We have lost too many precious moments over the years to let any slip away now.

I can write tomorrow.

Part Three

This instalment is Alex's version of the events after Ascension to just before Colony.

Dedication: This chapter dedicated to the late Lee Burwasser, with whom I engaged in many spirited exchanges. Lee, your wit and fire will be missed.

No love story is complete without the first meeting.

That's what Mare says, anyway; and it has been a source of good-natured bickering for several days now. For myself, I remember our first meeting as a mildly amusing charade, in which we each gave a reasonable performance of knowing little about the other. There was curiosity, maybe a li