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| Chapter 6: Chataqalan I - Part 1 (1/2) | |||
| By Amanda Wilde (MaybeAmanda) Click here for text only Rating: PG Category: S, A, MSR Disclaiming all: Chris Carter owns M&S; Fox owns The X-Files; I own this story. No infringement intended. Archive: Sure. Thanks to: Amy, Weyo, Joanna, and Euphrosyne for enduring months and months and months and months of whining, Tess for infinite patience, the BTT gang for the inspiration and opportunity. Scully tucked her hand-out under her arm, filled her mug with coffee, took a muffin from under its Plexiglas dome, and scanned the crowd, hoping to find a familiar friendly face or two. Aside from a couple of lab techs she recognized by sight from Quantico and another pathologist - Dodgeson? Dobson? - whom she vaguely recalled working along side during one of her trips to the LA field office, the forty or so people milling around the enormous open-sided tent were strangers. She'd be working up-close and personal with these people over the next six days, she reminded herself, so she should probably meet and mingle, but too little sleep and too early an hour were making her feel less than sociable. Over a decade of steeping in Mulder's paranoia was probably not helping matters, either. "Dana! Over here." Scully turned. "Monica," she said, surprised. She made her way through the rows of folding chairs and knots of colleagues to where Agent Reyes stood. "What are you doing here?" Monica, looking sweaty and exhausted, plunked herself down. "Skinner called me off a case in Seattle, said someone on this one requested my 'unique expertise'." Scully sat. "Oh?" Monica shrugged. "Don't ask me." "You looked beat," Scully said. "Bad flight?" "Bad flights, plural," Monica corrected. "I caught the red eye to Dallas, made the connection to Cancun, ran across a field to catch a puddle jumper from there to Ixtal-" she lifted her foot - "in these heels, and then sat on that alleged bus for an hour and a half. And then the jeep-" She shook her head, then glanced at her watch. "I got in about half an hour ago. Or maybe I haven't arrived yet. The way I feel right now, I can't tell." Scully smiled and offered up her cup. "Coffee?" Monica's eyes lit up as she took the cup. "Oh, Dana, you are the best person on the planet. Maybe in the solar system. Thank you." "No problem. I can get more. And you can pay me back with babysitting." "Deal," Monica agreed, eagerly taking a sip from the cup. "Remember when they used to give you food on planes?" "Vaguely," she said, recalling one mediocre meal after another from the early days of her partnership with Mulder. They'd always been on the road or in the air, back then. Seemed like a lifetime ago. Scully broke off a chunk of her muffin. "They assign you a bed yet?" Monica glanced at the slip of paper in her hand. "Tent 4 Bed B." "My tent," Scully said, pleased. "Oooh!" Monica squealed. "We can do each other's hair and talk about boys!" Scully chuckled. "Something like that." At least she'd be bunking with one person she knew. It wasn't that she'd become anti-social, she told herself, it was just that some days, the old saying was true - the more she knew people, the better she liked her dog. Or, in her case, the better she liked Mulder's fish. Monica, however, was a known quantity. A rather frenetic known quantity at times, but Scully counted her among her friends. Monica outranked the fish any day. We're supposed to get another person in there, probably from the French delegation, but she hasn't shown up yet." She glanced around. "John with you?" Monica shook her head. "He's still in Seattle, dotting the i's and crossing the t's on the Tillotson case." Scully nodded. She'd reviewed the autopsies on that case a week before. "Or, knowing John," she suggested, "crossing the i's and dotting the t's." Monica softly snorted into the cup. "God, I hope not. I need him to get back to DC and FedEx me my hiking boots asap." "Have you been briefed?" Monica shook her head. "Just the CliffsNotes version, and a few pages were missing. Like, all of them, really. You get the rundown back in DC?" Scully nodded. "Not a lot, though, just -" she began. "Ooh," Monica reached out and snagged Scully's necklace. "This is new." Scully's hand went to the locket she now wore next to her cross. "Mother's Day gift," she said as she gently pried open the delicate gold circle. Inside lay a tiny picture of her son. "Mulder claims William picked it out." Monica examined it with more, Scully thought, than a casual eye. Hadn't she mentioned her uncle or cousin being a jeweler? "William has good taste," she concluded. "Expensive, too." Scully cleared her throat, feeling suddenly awkward. She'd known the gift hadn't come from the gumball machine outside the supermarket, as Mulder had insisted, but she hadn't considered the matter beyond that. Mulder had come from money; to him, it was just another means to an end. And while she understood that intellectually, the reality of it was still jarring. "I um-" "What's the significance of the pattern on the front?" Monica asked. "That's - that's the four directions?" "A compass rose." Monica flipped the locket over. A diamond lay embedded at its center. "'North,'" she read. She raised her eyes to Dana's. "What's *that* mean?" she asked with a conspiratorial grin. Scully could feel herself blushing. "He says I give his life direction," she said. "Oh my god!" Monica clutched her hand to her heart. "You're his north star. Dana, that's so romantic! Icky, but romantic!" Scully obligingly rolled her eyes. "Seriously, Dana, it's really beautiful. Excellent quality. European gold, I'd bet, and cust-" Monica started, but she was interrupted by the high pitched squeal of microphone feedback. "If we could all be seated, please," a man at the make-shift podium said, "we can begin." The clusters of personnel broke up and found chairs. "Huh," Monica whispered. "What?" Monica pointed toward the podium with her chin. "Bobby." "Bobby who?" "Later," Monica promised with a wave. "Ladies and gentleman," he continued in what Scully now recognized as a cultured but identifiable West Texas drawl, "good morning and welcome. I've had a chance to meet and speak with many of you, but for those of you I have not had the pleasure of meeting, I'm ASAC Robert Perez and I'm with the San Antonio field office. As you've likely been informed by your various supervisory agents and have no doubt by now read in your hand-outs, the FBI is here at the invitation of the Mexican government and at the request of the United Nations Educational, Scientific, and Cultural Organization, better known by its acronym, UNESCO." Scully nodded to herself. None of that was news. "As you are the best this agency has to offer, there is no need for me to tell you what you are going to have to do. I will, however, remind you, that we are here strictly in support capacity. The Mexican National Police will be handling the investigative side of this operation. You will be collecting and cataloguing data as it relates to this investigation." "I'd like to introduce, on my left, from UNESCO, Dr. Michel DuFour, Under-Secretary for Heritage Affairs, whose secretariat is responsible for the MXVC-817 dig -" A short, solidly built man with steel grey hair and immaculately pressed field khakis took a step forward and nodded. "- and Agent Juan Castillo, who is leading the task force on behalf of the Mexican authorities. I'm sure many of you have questions, and I'm going to ask you to hold them until the end. Right now, let's cut to the chase." Behind Perez, a screen flickered to life, filling Scully with both an eerie sense of deja vu and an unexpected pang of nostalgia. "Sixteen days ago, anthropologists Dr. Stephanie Richards-" click "- Dr. Michael Casselman -" click "-and a team of three local technicians disappeared while surveying MXVC-817 -" click "- about twenty miles north of Tlachichucl, and about forty-five very bumpy minutes up that dirt track that runs past our basecamp here. Doctors Casselman and Richards were part of an advance team that would be heading up a UNESCO archeological dig at the site designated MXVC-817, believed to be a lost Olmec city. As those of you who have tried to phone home from here may have noticed, wireless telecommunications can prove something of a challenge, so no immediate steps were taken. When the team failed to report in after a full week, however, a second, fully armed S&R team was sent out to the site. There they found -" click "- signs that the site had been -" click click click "-recently disturbed. Finding no trace of the missing team, save Casselman's ransacked back pack and a half-empty canteen -" click "- the team contacted the local authorities. The Veracruz State police confirmed signs of recent excavation and, fearing foul play, contacted the federal authorities here in Mexico, who have jurisdiction in such matters. Because Casselmen, Richards and most of the excavation team are American citizens, the Mexican authorities contacted-" click "- the FBI. Upon further investigation, the forensics team located two areas deemed to be of particular interest." click "Because the area in and around Tlachichucl is archeologically significant and has been designated a world heritage site, ground penetrating radar was used to conduct the preliminary survey, which confirmed that there were voids present in the disturbed areas. Consequently, a test excavation was undertaken, revealing-" 'Bodies,' Scully thought, anticipating what she knew was coming. 'Lots and lots of bodies.' click " -this." Scully grimaced in spite of herself. "As of this morning, fourteen bodies in various early stages of decomposition have been recovered from Site Alpha-" click "and another twelve from Site Beta, none of which, as of this moment, have been positively identified. We are expecting as many as a few dozen more, but that number could be either low or high. Preliminary findings indicate that the victims were shot execution-style in the back of the head or at the base of the skull. The extensive burning you seen on these corpses has been established to have been caused by a combination of combustion and some as yet to be determined caustic agent, most likely an acid." The screen went dark. Perez paused. "Since we don't know exactly who we are dealing with or what their ultimate objective is, armed guards have been posted around the excavation area and here at the base camp. For your safety, we're asking that you not attempt to leave this area without an armed escort, and even then, I'll be honest with you, I don't suggest it. There's not a lot to see around this area but trees, bugs, and political rebels. "You've each been assigned to one of three teams as indicated in your hand-outs." He held up an envelope similar to the one they'd each received. "Breakfast is being served in about five minutes in the mess tent. If you have any questions, please see myself or Dr. DuFour-" "What the-?" Monica said under her breath as she glanced, apparently for the first time, through her papers. "What?" Scully whispered. Monica scowled. "They have me scheduled to do autopsies." Scully blinked. "That's going to be tricky." "Ya think?" Monica flipped through the rest of the pages. "Oh, I see." "Hmm?" "This package was intended for Dr. Maria M. Reyes. She must have picked up my envelop by mistake." Perez continued. "Team One is scheduled to report to Tent One at oh-nine-hundred. Bottled water and snacks will be available all day. There are wild animals around, so do your very best not to leave scraps of food around or you could end up with a snake or a monkey joining you for a bite to eat. We're expecting it to get hotter, so stay hydrated, wear a hat, and use bug repellent and sunscreen. And let me remind you again, please do not leave camp. Are there any questions?" A man two rows ahead of Scully raised his hand. "Yes?" Perez said. The man stood. "Good morning. I'm Dr. Simon Fisher, I'm here with the British contingent." "Dr. Fisher," Perez acknowledged with a nod of his head. "Glad to have you and your compatriots on board." "Yes, thank you, we're glad to be able to help out, especially in light of the horrendous nature of this crime." Fisher said. "Agent Perez, do we have any idea who is responsible for this slaughter?" Agent Castillo, silent until now, stepped forward. "If I may?" Perez stepped aside. "Officially, Dr. Fisher, we have no comment," Castillo said. "Unofficially, we suspect this is the work of Qetual Separatists. These terrorists have been heavily involved in the drug trade in this part of Mexico for decades, using the money from drug sales to further their political and social objectives. They are ruthless individuals, very superstitious, and they have no qualms about using deadly force against anyone who may stand in their way. They are led by a man named Jorge Salinas. He and his groups have been linked to a number of murders in the US and Canada, and as far south as Guatemala." "So these are your prime suspects?" Fisher asked. "Salinas and these Quetal Separatists?" Castillo gave an ironic smile. "Officially, no comment." Perez stepped back in front of the screen. "Anything else pressing?" He glanced around the tent. "No? All right, if anything should come up, please don't hesitate to let me know. I should be easy enough to find. Now, let's go eat." "I have to talk to Bobby," Monica said as she stood. "Figure out where I'm really supposed to be." Scully gathered her papers. "Where do you know Agent Perez from?" "The Academy," Monica answered as they made their way toward the front. "Nice guy. Good agent. We worked a few cases when I was first assigned. Kind of by the book, but not in a bad way. He was always willing to listen to my wild theories before he told me I was full of shit." "Sounds like my kind of agent," Scully said. "I plead The Fifth." "Excuse me." Scully felt a tentative tap on her arm. "You are Dr. Dana Scully, no?" "Yes, I am." She turned. "And you are?" "I am Dr. Irina Vetkova," the tall willowy blonde said, extending her hand. "It is a very great honor to meet you." Scully took the woman's hand. "Nice to meet you, Dr. Vetkova. This is my colleague, Special Agent Monica Reyes." "Dr. Vetkova," Monica acknowledged with a nod. "If you'll both excuse me, I have to speak to Agent Perez. Nice to meet you, doctor." "I have followed for many years your work, Doctor Scully." Scully gave Vetkova a quick, appraising glance. Frankly, she woman didn't look old enough to have studied much of anything for many years. "Really?" "Da. Yes," Vetkova replied. "It has been groundbreaking. Unique." 'Unique' pretty much covered it, Scully thought. As far as she knew she had the only published paper on the physiology of a human-flukeworm hybrid. Or the pathology of a liver eating mutant. Or the first-hand effects of a giant hallucinogenic fungus. "That's very flattering, Doctor. Thank you." "Please," Vetkova said, "please call me Irina." "Then please call me Dana, Irina." "Thank you, Dana. I hope while we are working here we might have a chance to speak, yes? There are many questions about your work I would very much wish to discuss with you." "I think that could probably be arranged, Irina," Scully said. "You're a pathologist?" Vetkova shook her head. "No," she said. "By training, I am immunologist." That was unexpected. "An immunologist? How'd you end up on this project?" "I am volunteer," Vetkova explained. "It is a chance to do a good thing, to help many people. This is very bad, what has happened here. A very bad thing." Scully nodded. "Very." "Also," Vetkova, continued, "it is a chance to also to expand my research, and to meet others in my area of interest. Network, you say? My research has taken me to many parts of the world - Florida, Texas, Antarctica, Siberia, Africa, many times before to Mexico, and to Canada, also." "And what exactly is your area of research?" "Immunology, in general, yes? But my special interest, it is known by many names. Some call it 'black cancer'. I think you know of this, have done research also?" Scully blinked. "Yes," she said. "Yes, but - but it led no where. And that was many years ago." "Perhaps not so many, Dana," Vetkova said. "Tell me, Agent Mulder, he is well now? I have heard he was very sick." "You know-?" Scully began, but was interrupted by Monica's return. "I am sorry to intrude," Reyes said, "but I need to get my gear stowed and find a bunk. Dana, could you point me toward-" "I was just heading there myself," Scully said. Vetkova's words had unnerved her, and she was grateful for the opportunity to get away. "It was very nice to meet you, Doctor Vetkova." "Perhaps we can talk later?" "Perhaps," Scully agreed. "Who was that?" Monica asked as she hoisted her overnight bag and followed Scully down the path. "President of the Dana Scully Fan Club, Vladivostok Chapter?"  "Something like that." Scully shook her head as if to clear away
cobwebs. "What did Agent Perez say?" Monica shrugged. "'There's clearly been a mix -up,'" she quoted. "They only promote the smart ones." Scully pulled back the tent flap. "Home sweet home," she said and waved Monica in. "Let's get your gear stored and get to work." Monica waved good night to the departing Norwegians she had been working with all day and made her way toward the buffet table at the far end of the mess tent. The air under was thick with the aroma of chilies and cilantro, smells that normally would have made her mouth water, maybe even given her a little pang of homesickness for her grandmother's apartment in Mexico City. But right now, frankly, she was too tired and too hot to be hungry *or* nostalgic. As homey as the food on the buffet might smell, what she really wanted was a pint of Ben and Jerry's and an A/C unit blowing straight up her nose. "Hey, there you are," Dana said, stepping up behind her. "Hey," Monica responded, picking up a plate. "I looked for you at lunch." Dana picked up a bottle of water, twisted off the lid and took a quick swallow. "I worked through lunch. There was a lot of work waiting for us once we finally got started this morning." "I noticed." Monica lifted her hair off her neck and waited for a breeze. "They've got me cataloguing personal effects. There was a ton of stuff to sort through and label." "I believe it." Dana took another drink. "I worked on eight bodies today. Eight times however many of us there are - that's a lot of bodies." Monica put some salad onto her plate, speared a chunk of fresh pineapple. It wasn't usually a good idea to eat uncooked food when you weren't intimately familiar with the water supply, but she figured the UN was probably fairly particular about feeding its people. At least she hoped so. "Eight? In one day? Isn't that a lot?" "It is." Dana nodded. "Cause of death is pretty obvious, though. A bullet to the back of the head will do it every time. Plus all the bodies so far are extensively burned. There isn't a lot to actually autopsy. Mostly it's about finding enough clues to identify the victims." "That's why I've been cleaning and cataloguing jewelry and fillings and pictures of tattoos?" "That's why," Dana replied. "Glamorous, isn't it? Just like all those TV shows." She stopped and rolled her neck from one side to the other. "God, I am exhausted. And my feet are killing me." "Mine too," Monica said. "I think the last time I wore boots this heavy I was in a mosh pit somewhere in downtown Providence." "Providence?" "Grad school," Monica answered. "During my early Doc Martens period." "Ah." Dana smiled, probably remembering her own Doc Martens days. Monica knew for all the prim-and-proper she showed the world, her friend had a broad if well-concealed wild streak. "They're right about FedEx running the tightest ship in the shipping business, though." Monica settled a scoop of rice and beans on her plate. "Hmm?" "If John got your boots here that fast. Or is he just psychic? Was it precognitive shipping?" she teased. "Unfortunately, neither. Someone's assistant had an extra pair, so Bobby borrowed them for me." Monica lifted a foot for Dana to see. "They're only one size too big. I had to put on three pairs of socks to keep them from sliding all over the place. Pretty lucky, huh?" Dana arched a brow. "Three pairs of socks in this heat sounds pretty sweaty, not pretty lucky." "Ahh, but I just keep thinking about how good it's going to feel when I get to take them off." "Well, there's always that." Dana chuckled. "Oh, what's that dish?" "Fried yucca," Monica said, helping herself to a few slices. "Not fancy, but filling." "Hmm." Dana wrinkled her nose. "I think I'll take your word for it. Were you able to get through to John?" Monica shook her head. "Nope. Couldn't get a signal. This table okay?" Scully nodded, seated herself. "I couldn't get a hold of Mulder, either." Monica dug into her food. She hadn't really been hungry before, but now that she had food in front of her, she was ravenous. "Maybe we'll have better luck after dinner, when the satellites swing back around this way or whatever it is they do." "I hope," Scully said, shaking her head. "To think I used to tease Mulder about being lost without his cell phone." Monica took another bite of yucca. Not as good as her grandmother's, but better than a lot she'd eaten. "You worried?" "About?" Monica grinned. "Mr. Mom." "Not worried," Scully corrected. "More like. . .concerned." Noting the sudden downward turn in Dana's mood, Monica said, "I'm sure they're fine." "Oh, so am I," Dana replied quickly. "Mulder has taken to parenting like a fish takes to tartar sauce. It's just . . .odd." "How so?" Dana half-shrugged. "I lived alone most of my adult life, and I thought I was comfortable on my own. More than comfortable. All my things were where I wanted them, I watched whatever TV shows I wanted to watch, showered when I wanted. But you sure get used to living with other people pretty quickly, you know, having them there all the time, messing stuff up, hogging the remote, leaving the empty orange juice carton in the fridge. Or at least, I did. Have. You know what I mean." Monica nodded. "We're herd animals," she said. "We're happier with the rest of the pack. Or our little share of it, at least. That's likely why solitary confinement is considered harsh. And probably why the neighbors are always saying 'he was such a nice, quiet man, always kept to himself - we had no idea that when he had people for dinner, he really *had* them for dinner'. It probably also explains-" She looked up. Dana was grinning at her, clearly bemused. "Sorry." Monica grinned. "I minored in socio-anthropology. I never know when it's going to sneak out." Dana shrugged back. "I usually cut up bodies five days a week and I live with a man who used to profile," she said. "Add seven years on the X-Files to that and you should hear our dinnertime conversation. Speaking of which, this," she gestured to her plate, "is really good." "Chicken mole," Monica said. "That was one of my favorites growing up. My aunt makes it with pork, and a little spicier. It's so goo-" "Excuse me, Dr. Scully, may we join you and your companion?" Monica looked up from her food. She vaguely remembered Dr. Fisher from the briefing this morning, but she couldn't place the tall, thin, 30-ish Asian man with him. "Of course, Dr. Fisher," Dana responded. "And it's still Dana." "In that case, Dana, it's still Simon." He extended his hand to Monica. "Simon Fisher." "Monica," she responded. "Monica Reyes." "And this," he gestured, "is Andrew Ng." "Just Drew, thanks," he said as he shook her hand. Monica thought she detected an Australian accent. "Simon and Drew are with Scotland Yard," Dana said. "Pathologists?" Monica asked. "Forensic anthropologists," Simon corrected. "Oh?" Monica asked. "Bones, in my case, " Simon said. "Or more correctly, skeletal and contextual evidence, since Drew here is a paleoethnobotanist by training." "Paleo-which ?" "My particular passion is petrified pollen," he explained, popping all the p's. "Drew's the life of the party," Simon stage-whispered, "so long as it's a garden party." "Too right," Drew agreed good naturedly. "This is really good. Do either of you know what it is?" "Chicken mole," Monica said. "The local variation on it, at least." "Reyes, right?" Drew asked. "You from around these parts?" Monica shook her head. "I grew up outside of Mexico City, but I was born in Texas." "Like me, then," Drew said. "A transplant. I was born in Hong Kong, grew up all over Australia. My dad was in mining." Monica nodded. "Both my parents worked for SynTexis oil. But my father's family was originally from Mexico." Monica decided she could leave out the part about both parents being killed by a drunk driver when she was fourteen months old and her subsequent adoption by her paternal grandparents. "So I don't suppose they have you looking at a lot of petrified pollen this time out?" Drew shook his head. "So far, no. I usually do skeletal analysis back at the Yard anyway, so that's what they've got lined up. Spent the day looking at x-rays, mainly. Bet there's some fascinating local flora, though." "'Fascinating' and 'local flora' don't belong in the same sentence, mate," Simon said. "Declares the tooth fairy," Drew countered. In response to Monica's raised brow, Simon explained, "My specialty is odontology, and yes, before you start with the jokes, I assure you I've heard every single one of them." "So, Monica," Drew started, but the way he made it sound like *moniker* made her grin, "what's your thing? Are you a pathologist like Dana?" Monica shook her head, finished off the last of her food. "Law enforcement." "Police?" "FBI, like me," Dana said. "We work together in DC." "Actually," Monica added, "it appears I am here by mistake. They confused me - Monica Maria Reyes - with Dr. Maria Monica Reyes, who apparently works out of the LA office." Drew grinned. "Good to know bureaucracy is bureaucracy the world over." "Dr. DuFour!" someone called from the other side of the tent. "Yes?" a voice said from almost directly behind her. "Ah, Dr. Bhattacharya, good to see you." Monica turned her head. The Undersecretary, with his tray of rice and beans, stood by her chair. The small, square, teak colored man who had called to him came rushing over. She turned discreetly back to her food, pretending not to eavesdrop. "There you are, sir," Bhattacharya said in a voice that was both too loud and too high-pitched for an enclosed space, even if it was one made primarily of canvas. "All day I have searched for you." "No rest, as they say, for the wicked," DuFour replied. "How have you been, old friend?" "Well," Bhattacharya replied. "Very well, save for the ghastly business that brings us all here. " "Ghastly says it well," DuFour said. "Why don't we-" "I wish to make a site visit," Bhattacharya said. "If this is truly Chataqalan, I-" "No no no," DuFour said. "Chataqalan? Who has told you such a thing?" "The location is correct," Bhattacharya said. "If this is the lost city, is would be a find beyond compare." "That is a very great 'if,' my friend." DuFour said. "If it were the lost city, yes, the find would have been spectacular, but there is no reason to think it is. None at all." "But the dig-?" "And even if it were, anything that was to be found is by now surely compromised," DuFour said. "You cannot have exhumations of modern graves and careful archeology together. Like oil and wine, the two do not mix." "Still," Bhattacharya persisted, "I would very much like to see it for myself." "I am afraid that's not possible," DuFour answered. "It is far too dangerous." "But there are workers on the site, are there not?" "Of course," DuFour said. "Essential personnel only. Heavily armed, at that. But it would be foolish to endanger anyone else by-" DuFour's words dropped away as his arm made brief contact with the back of Monica's head. "I'm so sorry," DuFour said. "Please excuse-" His arm bumped her again, but with more impact. Monica didn't really notice, since the ground itself was so busy shaking beneath her. Her mind flashed back to the quake that had hit Mexico City the year she turned 14. She'd been out shopping after school with Marisol and Anita, her two best friends, when the department store began to sway. They'd run for the street, where thousands of people screamed and panicked around them. She'd never been as terrified before, and, even with the things she'd seen, had rarely been as terrified since. As suddenly as it had begun, it was over. "What the hell?" Simon asked, wide-eyed. "Monica, are-?" Dana began. "TMVB," DuFour said, addressing the table. "This region is part of the Trans-Mexico Volcanic Belt, and we are standing on the buckle." He turned back to Bhattacharya. "Yet another reason to avoid the site. There is a large vent that has been spewing rock and ash these past few months." Bhattacharya looked stricken. "But if there is an eruption all could be lost." "Such is the way of these things," DuFour replied with a slight shrug. "Dr. DuFour," Dana broke into the conversation, "are those carrying out the excavations staying on site?" DuFour turned to her. "Yes, for the moment they are, Miss-?" "Dr. Scully," she replied, "Dana Scully." "For the moment, yes." "Really?" Monica heard her self ask. "Is that wise, Doctor?" "And you are?" "Special Agent Monica Reyes, FBI." "Well, Special Agent Reyes, 'wise' is - how is it said - a loaded word." DuFour smiled, showing a row of perfect teeth. "'Necessary' is perhaps a better one. There is, I am assured by the best geologists on the planet, very little chance of a massive eruption in the area. But the risk of MXVC-817 being destroyed by any number of sudden lava flows is constant. This is why, once the site was identified, the project was given accelerated status. At least, until this latest tragic turn of events. Now it may simply be a race to recover as many bodies as we can before the volcano goddess Chantico casts us out." "But are the excavators safe?" Monica asked. "As safe as they might be," he replied. "As safe as any of us ever is." "Dr. DuFour," a man called from the front of the tent, "there's a call for you, sir. Urgent, they say." "Ah, finally, the satellite gods are smiling upon us." DuFour grinned. "If you'll excuse me, Dr. Scully, Agent Reyes, gentlemen." DuFour nodded once, then headed off with his tray. "Volcanoes, rebellious natives, mass graves, earthquakes." Drew turned to Fisher. "Makes me homesick," he deadpanned. Simon rolled his eyes. "If that's Oz, you can have it." Dana gathered the remnants of her dinner on to her tray. "The phones are apparently back up, so I have go attempt a few calls," she said. "If you'll excuse-" "Hang on," Monica said, rising. She tucked her last chunk of pineapple into her mouth. "I'm done. I'll come with you. " Drew and Simon both stood. "I'm done, as well," Drew said. "Let me take that for you, Dana." Simon said, reaching for her tray. "I wanted to ask you about..." "Monica," Drew said, "would you be up for a walk later on?" "I-" she began, surprised. "Just a walk." He smiled. "Work off some of these starches. I'll hardly mention pollen at all. Promise." Monica quickly considered her options. She could go for a walk with a reasonably attractive man, or she could sit in her tent and -- And what? "Um, sure," she said. "We're in tent four. I have to make a quick call, but give me fifteen or twenty minutes, and I'll be good to go, okay?" "Deal," Drew said. "See you in seventeen and a half minutes." If looks could kill, Scully's phone would be very, very dead. She powered it down, waited the standard ten seconds, powered it up for the fourth time. No signal, it told her again. Obviously, all the time, money and research the Gunmen had put into what they assured her was the best satellite phone money couldn't legally buy, had been wasted. Frustrated, she tossed it on her bunk and started rummaging around in her pack for her regular phone, figuring it couldn't hurt to try. "Hey," Monica said, entering quickly and re-zipping the bug flap. "Any luck?" "Lots," she said as she powered up the phone. "So far, all bad." After a few seconds of staring at the screen, she got the message she'd expected. She sighed. "And my luck holds. No signal." "Let me try." Monica said, retrieving her own phone. She turned it on and waited. "Crap. Dr. DuFour appears to be the only one the telecommunications gods are smiling on at the moment " She threw herself, very dramatically, backward onto her bunk. "Oh god! I'm doomed to wear size 9 steel-toes and three pairs of socks for all eternity! Doomed, I tell you! Doomed!" Scully smiled as Monica's theatrics. "Well, you're off duty for the next eight hours or so. Go crazy. Take off a pair of socks or two." "Can't." Monica sat up and took a long pull from the bottle of water she'd brought back to the tent with her. "Drew invited me for a walk." "A walk?" Scully's brows arched. "Is that what you young people are calling it?" Monica responded by tossing her pillow at her friend. "Oh please," she said. "Me? ME? If I am not mistaken, someone in this tent had a baby with her partner. Her work partner. Her work partner who was actually her superior officer during production of said baby." Scully's brow's rose further. "And what's that got to do with your taking a walk with the very cute, very charming Dr. Ng?"  "Oh, nothing, nothing at all," Monica assured her with a big
smile. "It's just nice to not be the baddest of the bad girls
for a change." Resisting the urge to stick out her tongue three-year-old style, Scully threw Monica's pillow back instead. Monica easily caught it. "He is kinda cute, isn't he?" "If you like them tall, dark, and exotic," Scully said. "You think everyone is tall." "Compared to me, everyone 'is' tall." Scully scowled at the phone and turned it off again. "You're right; you're doomed. Better learn to love those boots." "This isn't bad, really," Monica said, looking around the tent as she squared the tossed pillow neatly away. "I expected something a bit more, I don't know, Girl Scout camp. Or Lord of the Flies." Scully shifted on her own bunk, which was, in reality, a high-end self-inflating airbed on a sturdy, light-weight, collapsible metal frame. The tent itself was made of light waterproof fabric with a sewn-in floor intended to keep the damp and the slithering away. Each of the three solid 'walls' had a zip-down 'window' with mesh that allowed air and light in but kept the bugs and ever-present lizards out. The tent was furnished with three beds, three waterproof storage trunks topped with cushions that doubled as seating and/or bedside tables, and three hand-cranked lanterns that held a charge for quite a while with minimal elbow grease. It wasn't Lord of the Flies, Scully thought, but it wasn't home, either. "It could easily be worse," she said. "Much worse." "It definitely could," Monica agreed. "So," she asked after a moment, "have you ever done this before?" "Which this is that?" "This 'this'," she said, waving her hand in an all-encompassing sort of gesture. "Mass graves, armed guards, piles and piles of bodies - this whole horror show." Scully glared at her useless phone again, then shook her head. "Not on this scale. Mulder and I had to deal with a mass murderer or two, and I worked on a lot of victims of what turned out to be serial killers, but that never involved tents or lizards or this number of bodies. It was mostly lab work." Her expression thoughtful, Monica nodded. "I know the FBI sent experts to Kosovo and Srebrenica. You weren't on those?" Scully shook her head. She'd actually volunteered for the Kosovo expedition, but Skinner had already assigned her and Mulder to an undercover operation and didn't feel he could spare her at the time. Even though she wasn't required or even expected to tackle field work at this point, she'd been willing to take this particular assignment because it was, in many ways, exactly the what she'd joined the FBI to do -- answer questions, solve mysteries, see justice served, bring closure. Years ago, Addy Sparks's father had said missing was worse than dead because you never knew what happened, and Scully agreed. If she could give even one family incontrovertible proof of a loved one's fate, it was worth being away from Mulder and William for a few days. "It was probably just like this, only the weather was worse." "Probably." "They probably did more on-site, too," Scully added. "Closer to the raw material, so to speak." "You know, I've been wondering about that." Monica's voice lowered. "Does this set-up make sense to you?" "Honestly? No," Scully said. "The farther they have to transport the bodies, the more people who have to handle them, the longer the chain of custody - cross-contamination is bound to occur, evidence is bound to be lost, mistakes are bound to be made. So no, that part of it doesn't make sense." "That's what I keep thinking." Monica frowned. "I was on a couple of digs in college - archeological, not exhumations - and even when we were scattered around at a couple of different related sites, we all slept and ate in a common spot. So why are they doing it this way?" Scully didn't know, and was about to say as much, when Monica continued. "I mean, if they don't want everyone at the site because it's unsafe or geologically unstable, fine, I can see that. But they must have had to set up cooking and washing and sleeping areas over there, too, run power, et cetera. Wouldn't it make more sense to at least have those workers sleep and eat here? You'd need fewer guards, there'd be less waste, less duplication, so if nothing else, it would keep those costs down. And as you said, less messing with the evidence, so less chance of contamination and mistakes." Scully nodded. She could tell Monica had given this more than casual consideration. In truth, she'd thought it odd - and more than odd - herself. Part of her wondered if it was just years of Mulder-brand paranoia; the rest wondered if her investigative skills were just not a sharp as they had once been. "And it's strange they won't let any one visit the site," Monica added. "Some of these people really are the top experts in their fields. You'd think they'd want them to check the site out. Especially if it might be Chataqalan." "Which is?" "A legendary lost city, said to be the seat of great power." Scully quirked a brow. "Ley lines and harmonic energies and stuff." Scully blinked once. "And Mulder's never mentioned it?" Monica shrugged. "He can't know everything." "Tell 'him' that," Scully muttered. She thought for a moment. "Maybe the danger is even greater than they've let on." "How do you mean?" Monica asked. "Maybe these Qetual separatists are a serious threat. What do you know about them?" "That's another weird thing," Monica replied. "I've never heard of them. Ever." "Neither have I," Scully said. "If, as Agent Castillo said this morning, this man Salinas and this group have been implicated in murders in the US and Canada as well as Mexico, and they've been in the drug trade for decades, the name should have come up, and come up regularly, back at the Bureau, wouldn't you think?" "Exactly." Monica agreed. "I suppose it's possible they're known by another name or two, but usually our intel is not this far off, especially not on things so close to home. People serious enough about politics and/or drugs to murder dozens, maybe hundreds, of people don't fly below the radar very long." Scully knew there'd been a few notable exceptions to that rule, but for the most part, it was true. "No," she said, "they don't. So either we're missing a big piece of this puzzle, or-" "Or?" "Or," Scully concluded, "there isn't a puzzle, and we both really, really need a hobby." Monica chuckled. "Seriously, Dana. You've got good instincts when it comes to this stuff. Great instincts. So what's your Spidey-sense telling you?" Scully tucked her useless back-up phone in her day pack and considered the question. What *was* it telling her? She'd been uneasy with the set-up of this entire enterprise from the start, and confused by some of the convoluted, seemingly pointless protocols she'd been instructed to follow. Then again, she'd never been part of a multinational operation of this scale before, and perhaps she was just out of step - maybe her Spidey- sense was telling her nothing more than that she was currently well and truly out of her depth. "At the moment, it seems to be telling me to reserve judgment. But it's also telling me to keep my eyes peeled." She paused. "Or maybe it's telling me I should take up macrame - it's not one hundred percent clear." "Sounds good to me," Monica said, snugly retying her borrowed boots. "I'm good at tangling things in knots -- macrame should come naturally. And really, you can't have too many hanging plant holders." v "No, you really ca--"v "Knock knock," came Drew's voice from beyond the tent flap. "Monica, you ready?" Scully, closer to the door, unzipped it. "Come in, Dr. Ng." Drew entered. "I thought we decided on Dana and Drew. Did I miss a memo?" Scully shook her head. "Force of habit, Drew. Sorry." "Don't be," he said, removing his hat. "Love what you've done with the place. Decor is very chic." "Thanks." Monica rose and fished her sunglasses out of her bag. "We like to think of it as Martha Stewart meets MASH." She tucked her phone into an outside pocket. "Had any luck with the phones?" Drew wondered. "I couldn't get a signal." "Me neither," Monica replied. "Neither could Dana." "Bring your phone along," Drew suggested. "Maybe we'll find a spot more conducive to communication." "Speaking of which. . ." Scully said. Monica turned. "Yes?" she challenged. "We're going after ferns," Drew said.v "We are?" Monica asked. "You said no pollen. I distinctly remember you said no pollen." "No pollen," he said, raising his hand as if taking an oath. "Ferns have spores." "He's got you there," Scully said. "Don't you two crazy kids be out too late, now. I hear there are jaguars and psychos with chainsaws and men with hooks for hands lurking out there in the jungle." Monica obligingly rolled her eyes. "Yes, Mom." "And no-" Scully began, but she was interrupted by the sounds of her satellite phone buzzing on her bunk. All three turned to it and stared. "Huh," Monica said, retrieving her own phone. She powered it up, then frowned. "I've still got no signal." Drew retrieved his own phone. "Same." "Scully."v "Scully, it's me." Scully felt herself smile at the sound of Mulder's familiar greeting and wondered vaguely when she'd turned into such a sap. "Hi, um, just a minute." She put her hand over the mouthpiece and turned to Drew and Monica. "I'll go outside and-" "No no." Monica waved her off. "We'll get going. Ferns, apparently, await. Oh!" She turned back. "Ask Mulder to get John to send my boots. They're in the front hall closet. Probably. Maybe." "Sure." "And ask him to water the aloe, but not too much." "Okay." "And to bring in the mail." Drew grabbed Monica by the wrist. "We're leaving now, Dana. Ta." "Yes, ta," Monica agreed with a good-natured shrug and a little wave as she followed Drew out. "Who was that?" Mulder asked. "Monica." "Reyes? What's she doing there?" "No one is quite sure," Scully said, settling herself on the bunk. "Least of all her." There was a brief pause. "Excuse me?" "She asked if you could call John about her boots." Another pause, this one a little longer. "I'm supposed to make a booty-call to John Doggett? Scully, you haven't been gone two whole days yet - I've got a long way to go before I'm that desperate." "Oh ha ha, you're so funny," she deadpanned. "William, whomp daddy for me." "I am safe from whomping," Mulder answered. "William is at your mom's." "Oh?" Scully said. A million thoughts raced through her mind -- everything from her mother stomping in and demanding that Mulder unhand that poor, filthy, malnourished baby, to Mulder needing to clear the place out before the strippers arrived. All of which thoughts were idiotic, Scully knew, but - "Why is he at my mom's? " "I had some stuff to do this afternoon, and it was easier for her if I took him over there." "Stuff?" Scully asked. "Stuff," Mulder replied. "You know, things. Junk. Crap." She was not going to panic. She was not going to let her imagination get the better of her. No, she most definitely was not. "Oh, I see." Mulder waited before continuing. "Stuff I might not want to discuss over an open line, for example," Mulder said pointedly. "'That' kind of stuff." "Ah," Scully said. "Of course." Mulder sighed. "Scully. . ." "No," she began, "it's fine, it's - I was trying to call you for almost half an hour, but I couldn't get a signal," she said at last. "Did you have much trouble getting through?" "That's weird," Mulder answered. "I got it on the first try." "That is weird," she agreed. "Everyone's been having trouble getting through from what I've seen." "That's very helpful when you're in the middle of nowhere." Very," she agreed. "It's been a pain not being able to get online. It would make some of this work a lot easier." "You little techno-slave, you," he teased. "So how bad is it? The work, I mean." Scully gave a weary sigh as she curled her shoulders forward and stretched her spine. "Bad enough. But at least the facilities are good, considering we're in a clearing in the jungle. All the people are top-notch. Food's good. Everyone's been friendly-" "But not too friendly, I hope." "Oh, really, Mulder, it's shocking. Would-be suitors are all but breaking down my door." "Oh really?" "Oh really." She leaned down and began trying, one-handedly, to loosen the lace on her work boot. "Or they would be, if I had a door." She paused. "I guess they're breaking down my bug-flap." "That sounds vaguely obscene, Scully." "Only vaguely? I guess I'm not trying hard enough." "Oooh," Mulder said, his voice suddenly low and liquid, "you said 'hard.'" He wasn't there to appreciate the gesture, but Scully rolled her eyes just the same. "Has anyone told you that you are a sick, sick man lately, Mulder?" "Define 'lately'." Scully was about to when the line filled with hissing and popping. She and Mulder went through half a minute or so of the usual 'Hello-hello-canyouhearme-areyoustillthere' routine they'd perfected over much of the previous decade before the line cleared. "I see what you mean about the connection." "Yeah," she said. "Before we get cut off, can you please call Doggett and ask him to FedEx Monica's hiking boots asap? She thinks they're in the front hall closet. He can get the details of where to ship them from the Bureau." "Sure," Mulder agreed. "So who do they think is behind this?" Scully massaged first one foot, then the other. She wiggled her toes, savoring the unequaled joy of socklessness. "Officially, no suspects; unofficially, they're blaming Qetual Separatists, who may or may not be in the drug trade." "Who?" "That was my question. Monica's never heard of them either. And I can't get online-" "I can have a look around, see what I can come up with for you." "Mulder, you don't have-" "I know I don't," he said. "But you'd do it for me, wouldn't you?" "All that," she assured him in her flirtiest tone, "and so very, very much more." "Yes!" Mulder exclaimed. "Finally, the phone sex part of this phone call. So tell me, Scully, what 'are' you wearing?" She looked down and did a quick inventory: bare feet, hiking shorts, tank top, necklace. Not sexy. "Bug repellent, mostly." "Awww, Scully," Mulder whined, "way to ruin the mood." "Sorry, Mulder, but this call has been rated G for your listening pleasure." "Pleasure? Ha. You're no fun," Mulder said. "None," she agreed. "Mulder, what do you know about Chataqalan?" "Gesundheit." "Ha." "Chataqalan," he repeated. "Lost Olmec city, supposedly a seat of ancient power and protection. Ancient capital of the Eastern Olmec alliance. Or not, depending on your sources." Geez, Scully thought, maybe he did know everything. "Where is it?" "Well, it's 'lost', see-" "Ha again," she said. "Is it supposed to be around here?" "Generally, yeah. Why?" "I overheard someone at dinner asking the Under-Secretary if the kill site was really Chataqalan." "Huh. Why would he think it was?" Scully shrugged. "I don't know. They won't let anyone near the site, anyway. Safety concerns." "So how are you-?" "They bring the bodies in by truck," she explained. "Doesn't sound very efficient," he said. "So how do you spell Qetual?" "With a Q," she answered. "After that, you're on your own." "Gracias. I'll see what I can find." "Hopefully they'll work the connectivity problems out before too long." "But if they don't, I'll be your able and eager research assistant. Oh, and you can be the naughty professor, see, and I'll be-" "Mulder," she warned. "Yeah yeah, G-rating. Got it," he said. "Anything else I can research for you?" "I'm good," she answered. She paused a millisecond. "I miss you guys."  "I miss you, too, Scully. We both miss you. Will doesn't like
the way I cut up bananas. And he was so unamused to discover I
was the one on lullaby duty last night. Imagine someone
preferring your singing voice to mine." "Imagine," she answered. In truth, it was like preferring nails on a chalkboard to the whir of a dentist's drill. If William ended up being able to do more than carry a tune in a bucket, it was no thanks to either of them. "You'll be pulling that duty tonight, too?" "Soon as I get off the phone, I'm heading to your mom's. She's asked me to -" His words were lost in a burst of static. Scully frowned, wondering if they'd been cut off for good this time, but after a few more seconds the line cleared. "Still there?" Mulder said. "Still here," she replied. "But we better wrap this up before we lose the signal altogether. Oh, Mulder, before I forget, do you know a Doctor Irina Vetkova?" "Irina Vetkova?" Mulder repeated. "Doesn't sound famil- oh. Oh. Okay, I know a Doctor Viktor Vetkov, sort of. They could be related. His wife, maybe." "Daughter, maybe. She's young," Scully answered. "Tall, ash blonde, pale blue eyes. Legs up to her earlobes. What do you mean you know him sort of?" "Viktor and I had adjoining suites at that conference I attended with our friend Alex a few years back." "What?" she asked, thoroughly confused. "Alex found it a disarming experience, you'll recall." "Oh." A chill ran through her. Tunguska. Another half-opened can of oily black worms she'd be just as happy to shut the lid on. "Why do you ask?" "She knows a lot about - about a lot," she said finally, not wanting to give too much away if, in fact, the call was being closely monitored, but wanting him to get the point. "And she asked after your health. Hoped you were well." "Did she now?" "Yes she did," Scully answered. "I bet her work is fascinating." "Given Viktor's interests, I bet it is," he answered. "I'll try to call about the same time tom-" Static filled the line again. Scully waited, then waited some more, but the hiss and pop persisted, then turned into a low, flat hum. Scully powered the unit down, then up again, but got the familiar 'no signal' for her trouble. Clearly, this was the universe's way of telling her to head for the showers. She sighed as she dug through her pack, looking for soap, shampoo, flip-flops and towels. 'Disrupted phone lines, mysterious suspects, shifty associates, personnel mix-ups, earth tremors, and sore feet,' she thought as she made her way across the compound. She was almost afraid to wonder what she'd get hit with next. If she had had any doubts, they were soon laid to rest: when Drew said he wanted to look for ferns, he actually 'meant' that he wanted to look for ferns. Well, Monica mentally amended as they ducked into yet another lush, overgrown, prickly thicket, he wanted to look for ferns and more-or-less obsessively play with his cell phone. She wasn't sure if she was glad for this excursion's lack of subtext or not. "What sort of ferns are we looking for?" Monica asked after an hour of investigating the camp's perimeter. v "Dryopteris pseudo-filix-mas," Drew responded, aiming his phone at yet another frond. "A.K.A. the Mexican Male Fern. They're tiny this time of year, and tend to be difficult to find, especially at this altitude." "I see," she said, just to have something to say. "The site where they're conducting the exhumations," he said, "is more suitable for their growth, so I'd love to get up there and have a look. I may have to sneak out. Finding one around these parts would be quite the coup." "No doubt." She paused, trying to think of something either charming or brilliant to say. All she came up with was, "And the phone helps how?" Drew straightened. "Excuse me?" "The phone," she said. "You keep waving your phone at the plants." "Oh, this," he said. He flipped the phone open again. "Camera phone. See?" Monica blinked. On the tiny screen was a tiny but very clear black and white LCD picture of the plant Drew had just been harassing. "Cool," she said. She didn't know a lot about electronics, but she'd never seen anything like it outside of a spy movie. "So who are you, James Bond?" Drew chuckled. "Nah, just a guy with a childless uncle in the Hong Kong electronics trade. I get all the new toys before the other kids." "That's quite a toy." "It is. It'd cost a packet retail," Drew said, heading for the next patch of undergrowth. "This is about one step away from a prototype. My uncle's been in the business forever. He says they'll be common as dirt in five year's time. One-fifth the price, twice the resolution, probably take and store dozens, maybe hundreds, of color photos, too." He took another shot, squinted at it, hit a button to make it go away. "The technology's not quite there yet." Monica nodded, mostly to herself. "So what do you do with the pictures once you've taken them?" "If the uplink was working, I could send them, via satellite, directly to my home computer. As it is, I can only take a few at a time and erase them to make room for more. Or save them and download them to my laptop later, which is a complete pain in the arse," he explained. "Here, have a look at this shot." Monica obliged. "Nice. Is that the dry-psuedo whatever?" "Nah," Drew said as he hit a button and the image disappeared. "That's just an Athyris filix-femina. They're all over the place." "So - what? You just keep taking pictures of what you aren't looking for and then erasing them?" she asked. Drew stopped walking. "Keenly observant, Agent Reyes. I can see why the FBI hired you." He grinned. "Actually, why did the FBI hire you?" "Excuse me?" "Or more to the point," he said, snapping another picture, scowling, erasing it, and snapping another, "why did you hire on at the FBI?" Monica gave a little shrug. Some days she wondered that herself, and this was rapidly turning into one of them. "Recruiter came to my school, said they were looking for a few good men who were women. Genetically, I fit the bill. The rest is history." Drew raised a skeptical brow. "I sincerely doubt you were an affirmative action hire, Agent Reyes." Another shrug. "Well, the 3.95 GPA probably helped." "I'll take your word on that," Drew said, "since I've no idea what you're talking about." He took another picture of a small fern that looked, to Monica's untrained eye, like all the ones they'd already seen. "Do you like it, then? The FBI, I mean." "Most days, I love it," she answered. "Some, not so much. Drew-" "You work with Dana?" "Not directly, no," she explained. "Drew-" "Really? You seem to get on well. I would have thought you were partners. Would you please hold this?" He handed her a small zip- lock bag as he slid down into another gully and snapped more fern photos. "You've known her a while?" "Um," Monica began. No one had ever asked her, oddly enough, and she'd never thought about how she'd go about telling such an unusual story. Where to begin? "Well, my current partner was her partner for about a year. That was while her former partner of about like, seven years, was, well, underground, let's say. Her new partner and I had worked on some cases before he was her partner and her old partner and I worked a case and then her new partner, who is now her old partner and her old old partner - " Drew blinked at her. "What?" She stopped. "I first met her the day I delivered her baby." "What?!" "It's a long story-" "It would bloody have to be, wouldn't it?" he replied. "Oh, look at that!" He pointed deep into the forest, where daylight barely breached the canopy. "I bet that's-" Drew disappeared into the greenery, mumbling to himself. Something about fungi, she thought. Reminded her of an old joke - Why does Mr. Mushroom get invited to all the best parties? Because he's such a fun guy! She wondered how many parties of the non-garden variety Mr. Tall, Dark, and Obsessed with Plants got invited to. "Beauty," he said when he emerged moments later. He held up the view screen to her. "Look at this." "Is that-" "Nah, that's another Athyris." "Drew, why do you keep taking pictures of the same ferns over and over and erasing them?" "What?" he asked, climbing back onto the path and leveling a heart-stopping grin her way. "You've never had a new toy?" Monica blinked, momentarily dazzled. "Um, not lately, no." "Oh really?" Drew took a step closer. "Well, maybe we can fix that." Well, well, Monica thought as she moved forward herself. . "Excuse me," a sonorous voice came from behind her, nearly startling her out of her skin. "The area is restricted. Please return to the camp." "Crikey!" Drew jumped, landing hard on Monica's foot. "You scared the crap out of me, mate. Monica, sorry. You okay?" "Yeah, fine," she replied, her heart racing. Thank god for steel toes, she thought as she turned. The guard, who stood not a foot behind her, looked more like a camouflage-covered side of beef than a man. A heavily armed side of beef, at that, in the blue beret of the UN peacekeepers. Judging by his size and demeanor, Monica thought he was probably better suited to raising hell than keeping any sort of peace. "We're just out enjoying the evening air, collecting fern spores," Drew explained as he held up an empty baggie. The guard squinted at the proffered bag. "That bag is empty." "Well, we haven't had much luck yet." Drew tucked the bag back into his hip pocket. "You wouldn't happen to know if there are any Dryopteris pseudo-filix-mas laying about?" The guard's stony expression did not change. "It is not safe for civilians to be this far from the camp. I will escort you back -" "S'all right," Drew replied. "We just want to look around a bit more-" "I cannot allow that," the guard replied. Drew slung an arm around Monica's shoulders, surprising her as much with the strength and insistence of this grip as the action itself. He tugged her close. "The camp's a bit cramped," he said as if sharing a great confidence. "We just wanted to get some fresh air, right, get far away from the madding crowd, eh, Monica?" "Um, right," she said, mostly confused. "I cannot allow-" "I promise, mate," Drew interrupted, turning his gaze on Monica, "I'll have her in by ten, good as new, chrome polished, fenders shiny." He winked at the guard. "What'dya say?" The guard tightened his grip on his machine gun. "Please follow me back to the camp." Drew gave a resigned shrug. "Bloke with the biggest gun wins, I reckon. Sorry," he said pulling her into a hug. "Rain check?" Monica was trying to decide if she should knee Drew, deliver a quick shot to his solar plexis, or call for the men with the butterfly nets and the closed-sleeved jackets to come haul him off to the Loony Botanists' Bin. Before she could decide, Drew whispered "shhh" in her ear. She blinked up at him in surprise as he pulled back. He was gazing down at her, silently asking for her trust. He was asking her to co-operate, to go along with his plan. Until that moment, she hadn't even realized there 'was' a plan. She glanced at the guard, an unsmiling wall of muscle and menace. She glanced back at Drew. She could be wrong - god knew she'd been wrong about men before. But something niggled at her brain, telling her Drew could be trusted. Should be trusted. She nodded. "Sure." "There's my girl." He winked at her. "Alright, sir, we'll - Oh, hang on a tick. I left my calipers back there." He jerked his thumb over his shoulder and, before anyone could object, took off into the thicket again. "Sir-" the guard began. "He needs that," Monica said, stepping into the space between the guard and Drew's disappearing back. "Those, I mean. His calipers. They're essential to his work." "I cannot allow-" "He'll be right back," Monica assured him, using the flirty tone she'd added to her arsenal over the years. "It'll only take him second." The guard's stony expression held. Monica wondered if she'd lost her touch. "Got 'em," Drew said as he emerged from the undergrowth. He made a show of tucking the instrument into his back pocket, then very deliberately took Monica's hand. "Oh good," Monica said, trying to appear unfazed by Drew's sudden inexplicable displays of affection. She turned to the guard again. "A man should never be without his tool, should he?" The guard blinked at her, once, twice. "No, he should not," he said flatly. "Please move forward." The trip back to the camp was shorter than the trip out had been, and tenser by far. Drew tried to draw the guard out with questions and quips, but the guard wasn't biting. "Please stay within the perimeter of the camp," the guard said when they reached the mess tent. "It is neither safe nor wise to wander away from this area without an escort." "How do we get an escort, then?" Drew asked. The guard simply nodded. "Good evening." "Well, that was different," Monica offered. "Feel free to start explaining." "Explaining?" Drew asked, feigning innocence. "Explaining what?" "Oh, any of what just went on." Monica kept her voice low and even, her tone casual and conversational, but it was all she could do not to grab him by the lapels and shake a few answers loose. "We looked for ferns. I showed you my phone. I dropped my calipers." Drew said. "Then you saved my arse." She smiled as if he'd just said something incredibly witty. "Is there something going on I should know about?" Drew shrugged. "Did you notice his insignia?" Drew asked. She shook her head. "Tunisia. He look or sound Tunisian to you?" Again, she shook her head. "Not especially. And he had no sense of humor at all." "And he didn't respond to your flirting in the slightest." Monica considered protesting that no, she hadn't flirted at all, but hell, she thought, what was the point? "No, he didn't." "And yet, he doesn't look dead." Drew grinned. "And he'd sure as hell have to be not to appreciate you." Monica hoped she wasn't blushing. "Drew, what's going on?" "I don't know," he answered. "And frankly, I have no desire whatsoever to find out." "What?" she said, taken aback. "Whatever it is, I don't want any part of it," he said decisively. "But-" "No buts about it, Monica," he said. "I wasn't kidding. First thing I learned was that the bloke with the biggest gun usually does win. Whatever it is, I'm staying out of it. And I suggest you do the same."  Monica opened her mouth to say something, but she had no idea
what. She felt like she'd just spent an hour or so riding the
BizarroWorld roller coaster and she wasn't sure which station
she'd been let out at. "Drew, I-""I'm hellaciously jet lagged," he said. "I'm gonna hit my bunk. Night." Monica stood staring after him. "Night," she finally managed long after he was gone. Monica's bed had been slept in, which Scully found both reassuring and disconcerting: reassuring because that meant Monica hadn't been devoured by a jaguar or attacked by a hook- handed weirdo while out on her fern-walk, and disconcerting because that meant Scully had fallen asleep before nine o'clock and then slept like an exhausted, deaf rock. She'd needed the sleep, she supposed. If she were honest about it, she hadn't had a decent night's sleep since William was born; if she were brutally honest about it, she hadn't had a decent night's sleep since she'd met Mulder. That was okay though, she thought as she brushed her hair and pulled it back in a low pony tail in preparation for another day of slicing and dicing, some of those sleepless nights, especially lately, had been a lot of fun. She spotted Monica in the mess tent, already seated, laughing and chatting in Spanish with a group she sort of recognized from the Argentinean delegation. To join them or not to join them, Scully wondered as she joined the long food line. Her Spanish was lousy and- "Good morning, Dr. Scully." Recognizing the voice and thick accent, Scully turned. "Dr. Vetkova," she said. "Good morning." "You are sleeping well, yes?" Vetkova asked. After yesterday's conversation, Scully wasn't at all sure what to make of Vetkova. Experience had led her to divide the world into friends and foes, leaving very little middle ground. At the moment, she couldn't say for sure which category Vetkova fell into. As she frequently reminded Mulder, though, it was never a bad idea to play nicely with the other children on the playground. At least until they tried to stomp on your sand castle or shoot you. "Very well, thank you." Vetkova nodded. "You are lucky. All night I hear tick tick tick. You hear this?" Scully shook her head. "No." "This sound comes from inside my tent, but I look and look and see nothing. I am wondering what this could be." Scully took up a package of wrapped cutlery and a tray. "Maybe it was an insect." "Yes," Vetkova agreed. "I think perhaps it is an insect. A bug, you say, yes? A small bug." "Probably," Scully agreed. "There's no shortage of exotic wildlife around here." "You have these bugs in your tent?" Scully shook her head. "Not that I've noticed." "Perhaps you should look," Vetkova suggested. "Perhaps I will, after my shift," Scully conceded. She filled her travel mug with coffee and checked out the day's offerings. "I have a small baby at home," Vetkova said. "Nadya." Scully waited for Vetkova to continue. When she didn't, Scully, said, "I have a son, too. William." Vetkova nodded, giving the impression that Scully had finally remembered and delivered her line. "Nadya is seven months old and she does not like to sleep, so I do not get to sleep. So I do not enjoy all night this bug." Vetkova turned to Scully. "The trucks make noise, too." "Trucks?" Scully stirred in cream and sugar. "The trucks that come last night." Vetkova stirred her own coffee. "Bringing more bodies." "Oh," Scully answered. The bodies she'd worked on yesterday had come out of a refrigerated shipping container that was serving as their morgue. She hadn't thought about how or when they'd arrived. "I didn't hear them. How many trucks?" "Two I saw. Many bodies and many soldiers with many guns. They are afraid the bodies will escape, no?" "I don't think those bodies are going anywhere," Scully replied grimly. "The burning, it is massive." Scully nodded. "Toast please, and scrambled," she said to the woman behind the food table. "Very extensive, yes." "I was before working in the field like this when many people were burned." "Oh?" Scully asked. "In Kazakhstan. 1998." The fine hairs on the back of Scully's neck bristled at Vetkova's mention of the Kazakhstan massacre. Her own horrifying brush with death at Ruskin Dam had taken place just days after that. Scully accepted her plate of toast with a nod and an automatic 'thank you' and waited for her eggs. "The burning was different then," Vetkova said, selecting a container of yogurt. "These - ah, this time, these are a combination of regular burns and chemical burns," Scully answered. She'd found traces of at least two different acids in skin samples she'd collected, residue from some lye-like substance, too. "I think maybe this time it is different also." "Morning, Dana," Simon said as he joined the line, effectively placing himself between Scully and the other woman. He turned to Vetkova with a tight little smile. "Irina. Fancy meeting you here." "Dr. Fisher," Vetkova acknowledged with a tight little smile of her own. "So what looks good this morning, Dana?" Simon asked, turning his back on Vetkova. "Dana," Vetkova said, "I would still like to talk later, if possible." Simon turned on her. "Talk about what, Irina?" Vetkova bristled. "Excuse me," she said as she cut around Fisher and Scully. "I hope to see you later, Dana." Scully frowned. "Dr. Fisher-" she began, prepared to tell Simon to mind his own damned business. "You know her?" Simon said. "I mean, from back in the real world?" "No," Scully answered, "but-" "She's nuts," Simon said bluntly. She blinked at him. "Excuse me?" "Nuts," he repeated, then said something to the cook in oddly-accented Spanish. "Her father is rumored to be Russian Mafia. Her mother's a doctor by trade but she's way up in the World Health Organization - probably bought her way in. Irina's a dilettante of sorts; she just shows up at all these unnatural disasters, scalpel in hand, gleam in her eye. If there's a mass grave, you can bet she's been knee-deep in it. Then she publishes a load of questionable papers filled with a load of questionable data in a load of questionable journals." "She told me she was trained as an immunologist," Scully said. Simon's brows rose. "Did she? That's a new one." He took a plate of sliced fruit and set it on his tray. "Her credentials are suspect at best. She's in a big hurry to make a name for herself, though, and in one respect, she's succeeded." "Oh?" "Yeah," Simon said, accepting his plate of eggs. "They call her 'The Vulture.' Fitting, don't you think?" "Dana!" She turned at the sound of her name. Monica was standing by the door. "See you at the briefing?" Scully opened her mouth to reply, but she was caught off guard by another tremor passing through the ground. This quake, less intense than the one the day before, merely made her sway, but brought sudden eerie silence to the tent as each diner looked to his left and right, wondering if everyone else had felt what he or she had. Then nervous laughter erupted, as everyone returned to their meal. "Christ," Simon grumbled as he took note of the coffee now mixed liberally with his scrambled egg, "I'll be bloody glad when we're out of here." Scully did not disagree. The briefing had gone as Dana expected - yes, there were more bodies than expected, yes, they were making progress nevertheless, no, there was no new information as to the what and the why. ASAC Perez related that as least three caustic chemical substances had been found on the victims, and more results were expected from the lab in Mexico City within a day or two. And, sorry, telecommunications were still not what they should be, but at any moment now, they expected that to change. "How was the date?" Dana had whispered to Monica as Perez droned on about the need for everyone to stay within the perimeter of the camp and to be on the lookout for anyone not associated with their group. Monica had seemed to consider the question carefully. "Weird," she finally whispered back. It was not the answer Scully had expected. But then, she reflected as she made her way to the work tent, her last real date had involved talking tattoos, ergot poisoning, and several murders, so who was she to judge? "Morning Dana," Drew said as she entered the make-shift autopsy tent. "Morning," she replied as she slipped into her gown. "You're here bright and early. I didn't see you at the briefing." Drew shrugged. "I keep thinking the sooner we get started, the sooner we'll be finished, which, of course, is not the case, but hope springs eternal. Did they say anything shocking or unexpected?" Dana gave a rueful grin. "Do they ever?" She donned her surgical mask. "Simon not with us today?" "Nope," Drew replied. "They asked him to help one of the other teams. Seems a bunch of the Swedes came down with whatever the politically correct term for Montezuma's Revenge is." "Lucky them." She tugged on one glove, then the other. "So it's just you and me?" Drew nodded. "Just you, me, and Joe Doe #01-07554," he said as he handed Scully a clip board. "Shall we?" Go to Page 2 of 2 Top of Page |
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