Part Four

***

Sunday night

***

There was no dust on the floor of the orphanage, but Scully felt as if there
were grit under her feet, making crunching noises to give away her every step.
Moving quickly, she went past the offices and took a few moments to look through
the girls' dormitory.

"Doctor Dana! Doctor Dana!"

A dozen girls leapt up and embraced their favorite, the lady who played softball
with them and bandaged their skinned knees without chastising them. Scully
hugged back and used her proximity to check the upper arms of her charges.

None of the girls, not even the ones in their late teens, bore a vaccination
mark.

"Doctor Dana, will you read to us?" A dark-haired girl came up to her with an
old hardback copy of "The Velveteen Rabbit."

Scully shook her head sadly, pointing first to the rosary she wore at her waist
and then to her closed lips.

"Did Jesus say you couldn't talk?" asked the child with the book.

"No, dummy," an older girl corrected with an exaggerated roll of her eyes.
"She's taken a vow of silence. It's so she can become a Sister. Isn't that
right?"

"It wouldn't hurt you to take a vow of silence, Fern!" cried another girl in a
high, indignant voice, and the group dissolved into giggles and pillow tosses.

Scully got up and gently disentangled herself from the three youngest girls,
then strode out the door and down to where the boys were watching television.
Their attention was rapt as they watched the flickering images, giving Scully
enough time to realize that they were all in long sleeves and that there would
be no way to examine them without being barraged by questions.

Examining the nursery would be pointless, since infants were too young to have
smallpox inoculations.

She came to the tall iron gate that blocked the stairway to the second floor.
Sister Michael had explained that the building was simply too large and that the
upstairs was used only for storage so that they would not have to waste money on
living spaces no one would live in. Scully wrapped her hands around the bars,
staring absently upwards, chewing on her lower lip.

Why this elaborate barricade with no opening? To keep curious children out? A
locked door would suffice, but this heavy obstacle hinted at a more sinister
purpose.

Scully examined the crisscrossed pattern of the bars. Each "V" seemed to be
placed adequately for a foothold, and there was at least a three-foot clearance
at the top. Mouthing a silent prayer of thanksgiving to whoever decided that
postulants could not wear high heels, Scully rested the arch of one foot on a
section of the gate and experimented with the effects of her weight on the
metal. There was only a slight creak, so she proceeded to make the ascent to the
top of the gate.

More than once her skirt caught on a bolt and she had to pause and free herself
before continuing. A fleeting childhood memory slipped across her subconscious:
climbing a tree outside of the Catholic school in San Diego as her siblings
watched. Bill had jeered at her for being "a sissy," so she had thrown her books
to the ground and grabbed hold of the lowest branch, swinging herself upward to
gain a foothold on the massive trunk. Melissa had screamed and Charlie had
cried, begging her to come down, but Bill had egged her on higher and higher
until finally her slick-soled Mary Janes failed her and she had tumbled downward
into a pile of leaves.

She had gotten the wind knocked out of her and a dozen interesting bruises. Bill
had gotten the business end of their father's belt and a two-week stint in the
"brig," the family term for grounding.

In spite of herself, Scully smiled as she took one cautious vertical step after
another. Look at me, Billy, I'm climbing...

She twisted her body and swung her legs over the top of the gate, then began a
wary descent. Once safely on the ground, she walked briskly up the stairs and
began to look around.

She found herself in a corridor almost identical to the one on the first floor,
other than the storeroom that was where the kitchen would have been. The door to
the storeroom had no lock. That fact did not surprise Scully, given the
difficulty of getting upstairs in the first place. She opened the door carefully
and went inside.

Just as her fingers scrabbled over the wall for the light switch, she stopped
herself. Even if there were power on this floor, the sudden appearance of an
overhead light might alert the sisters to a presence in this "unused" part of
the building. Scully took out her flashlight and set the beam on low, aiming it
toward the floor.

The room was full of filing cabinets.

Lots and lots of files, she heard in her memory, and her whole body shook.

She concentrated on the evidence. The drawers were labeled with years, dating
all the way back to 1948. She opened the file marked "1981" and pulled out the
folders. The beam of her flashlight put the short lives of their subjects into a
spotlight.

Matthew Nash, born August 24, 1981 to a CIA agent and his wife who died in a car
accident three months later. Inoculated against smallpox before being brought to
The Little Sisters.

Abbey Maloney, born September 8, 1981, to a doctor whose wife was in the DEA.
The parents died in a house fire when Abbey was only two years old. Inoculated
against smallpox the day before the tragedy. Sent to live at The Little Sisters.

Sharon Loewe, born September 19, 1981.

Sharon, who had brought Scully into this web with her terrified phone call.

Her parents, listed as a FEMA employee and his wife, died almost precisely one
year apart from rare forms of brain cancer. Sharon's disappearances were
cataloged with precise dates. One had a serial number next to it. Sharon was
being placed in the care of her aunt after "an unfortunate incident" at the
convent, but a note in the margin stated that she never arrived in Pennsylvania.

Sharon.

Scully stuffed the folders back in their drawers and went in search of more
recent records. She opened the "1991" drawer and took out the information on
Fern Cavazos: Foundling, left as an infant at The Little Sisters. No information
on her parentage. No inoculation against smallpox.

Stephen Yen, the little boy whose knee she had been bandaging when Mulder came
to see her in the infirmary - foundling, left as an infant at The Little
Sisters. No information on his parentage. No inoculation against smallpox.

Scully frowned. The older children, all of whose parents seemed connected to the
Federal government in some way, were inoculated against smallpox. But the young
ones were mostly unaccounted for, were not inoculated, and had no records of
parents at all. Did the lack of vaccinations really mean anything, given that
smallpox had been declared "eradicated" some years earlier? Scully could not
remember. Her heart was pounding as her mind categorized and organized the
facts, and all she could hear was the blood rushing past her ears.

And a soft thud.

Crouching on her hands and knees, she made her way carefully past the filing
cabinets. She peered into the darkness. A small figure was scarcely visible in
the hallway, shivering.

Scully heard a sob, the cry of a child.

Instantly she got to her feet and strode to the door, flashlight at the ready.
The light made a halo of Casey Allen's blond hair. He looked up at Scully in
terror before she put the light on her own face so that he could recognize her.

"Doctor Dana!" He threw his arms around her and hugged her so tightly that she
sank to her knees to look into his terrified eyes. "She won't wake up! I finally
found her, but she won't wake up!"

Scully reached for her handkerchief and mopped the sticky tears from the little
boy's face. She wondered if he knew about her vow; she wondered if he knew how
grateful she was for that vow, which kept her from having to find words to
comfort him.

"Everyone was watchin' TV, so I snuck away. I climbed up that big gate. You know
the one?" Scully smiled at him. "You climbed it too? Cool..." The tears started
up again and Scully cuddled him until he was calmer.

"I wanted to see Mommy."

Scully wiped his nose as she considered the statement. Most children who were
orphaned that young did not realize that their parents would never return to
them, but Casey was an exceptionally bright boy. Putting her finger to his lips,
Scully stood up and went back into the records room.

Casey had been born on June 10, 1993. The mother of record was a former
postulant, now employed by the Federal Bureau of Investigation...

Scully's flashlight clattered to the floor.

...Amanda Broadman.

***

Sister Joan read the note, her expression suspiciously calm for someone who was
receiving news of this magnitude. Her hands were not as controlled; they
trembled enough to make the thin sheet of paper rattle.

Scully watched Casey as he drank hot chocolate with marshmallows, his earlier
grief allayed by the unexpected treat. Her fingers drummed an impatient rhythm
on the smooth oak table as she waited for a response.

"Dana, I don't know what to say. You're asking me to disobey the Reverend Mother
yet again - and worse, to leave the Abbey grounds without permission. I
just..."

Scully's fist landed on the table with a bang. Her expression was one of fury
and desperation as she snatched the paper and underlined Amanda Broadman's name.

"Yes, I remember her. We grew up here at Little Sisters - I was a couple of
years ahead of her in school, and I'd just taken my final vows when she was
deciding whether to stay in the convent. She took a vow of silence and went away
on a retreat. A lot of us do that before we take our vows, so it didn't seem
odd. I didn't see her for..." Her brown eyes grew wide with horror. "If Casey is
her son...it was when..."

Scully pressed an envelope into Sister Joan's hand, beseeching her.

"If I do this...if your friend comes with a warrant...oh, Dana, I don't know!"
Her voice was strained with indecision and tears. "Serving God is my whole life.
I've never...oh, but if..."

Scully's chair rattled against the floor as she jumped to her feet and grabbed
Sister Joan's hand. Casey sidled up against them and tugged at their skirts. "I
want my Mommy," he said softly, pointing toward the orphanage.

The three of them made their way back to the gate. Scully and Casey helped
Sister Joan make the climb, then the women followed the little boy who longed
for his mother.

He led them calmly and quietly, only a little sniffle escaping now and again on
the journey. They passed the storeroom and turned another corridor, coming at
last to what looked like a hospital ward. Scully focused her light on the door,
which bore no identifying words, then turned the beam inward to sweep the room.

Dozens of women lay on gurneys. IV lines ran like spider's webs up and over
them, glistening liquid pouring through the long tendrils into bodies that
waited in silence. Scully turned the flashlight on a bag hanging from an IV
pole.

Lupron. Synthetic hormone to prepare a woman's uterus to receive an embryo.

Gulping down the bile that rose in her throat, she inspected some of the other
bags, finding feeding and hydration substances in addition to the drugs. Some of
the women were obviously pregnant, the names of the "donors" typed on their
wristbands. Scully felt the backs of their necks, finding the familiar lump in
exactly the same location on every woman. Scully took a quick look at the charts
and discovered, to her surprise, that the names of donors and recipients
matched.

These women were having their "own" fertilized ova implanted into their bodies.

But why?

One corner of her mind registered Sister Joan's whisper as she told Casey to get
back to bed and not tell "a living soul" where he had been, and was relieved to
hear his pattering footfall receding. The rest of her mind was whirling, trying
to assimilate what she was seeing while searching for the woman Casey had called
"Mommy."

Finally, at the very end of the room, Scully found the patient she sought.
Amanda Broadman's treatment seemed to consist of nutritional support and
secobarbital. Scully stared at the labels for a moment, then brushed the hair
away from the back of Amanda's neck.

A fresh butterfly bandage covered a tiny red scar. Scully turned away and opened
the chart, on which was printed both a bar code and a serial number.

A new implant, a new chance for life.

She started as the door crashed open loudly enough to rattle the windows.
Praying silently that Sister Joan was quick enough to hide herself, Scully made
her way toward the source of the noise. Out of reflex she reached for the weapon
that was no longer at her side, wincing when her hand came up empty.

There had been a time when she could have pulled out her gun and identified
herself as a Federal agent.

Now all she could do was hope for a gust of wind rather than a human intruder,
but someone had put these women here and someone would be coming by to check on
them.

With the snap of current flowing through wires came the bright, fluorescent
light of a hospital ward. Scully winced as her eyes adjusted to the brilliant
intrusion, then turned when she heard a familiar voice.

"We expect obedience for a reason, Dana."

Sister Michael stood in front of her. She stared down at Scully, her eyes hard
and bitter. "You've done a very foolish thing. You know that, don't you?"

Scully's fingers clasped the beads of her rosary. She nodded, trying to scan the
room for Sister Joan, relieved when she saw her friend silently rising several
feet behind Sister Michael. Sister Joan's eyes were huge and her mouth open as
she took in the scene before her. The nun was clearly and painfully torn, but
she made up her mind when she read the intent in Scully's eyes.

Run.

Run.

Sister Joan slipped out of the door, unnoticed.

Sister Michael took Scully by the wrist and yanked her toward a huge steel
freezer. "Do you know what's in here? Do you?" Not waiting for an answer, she
opened the door and pointed toward a small drawer. "We're all here, all of us
who were taken. There's even one for you. See?" She pointed a thin finger at a
label and read the words aloud. "Scully, Dana Katherine."

A shudder of horror wracked Scully's body as the implications became clear.
Mulder had held one of these in his hand the night she had left Scanlon's
clinic. She knew they existed, even believed in them after the horror of Emily's
death, but seeing her very essence contained in a glass vial, subject to the
whims of nefarious, nameless men, made her want to scream.

Scully tried to break free of the grasp, but Sister Michael's hand was as strong
as death. The older woman stared at her for a moment, then shoved her violently
away. Scully lost her balance, falling to the floor and hitting her head
squarely against the steel door jamb.

Through ringing ears she heard the echoing words:

"Perhaps it's time for you to go on your retreat."

Then there was silence.

***
End

Notes: Eternal thanks, more than I could ever express, to the patient and amazing beta team of
jordan and Barbara D. If you could see what I send them and compare it to the finished version,
you'd know as well as I that they are pearls beyond price.

To the next part, Victory.
Feedback is adored at marguerite@swbell.net.