***

Journal entry, Monday night

***

I agreed.

One word: "Yes."

He looked at me with those dusty gray eyes and smiled, content with my answer.
Without even looking at the other women whose fate rested in his
nicotine-stained hands he left the room, saying over his shoulder to Sister
Michael: "Start the injections tomorrow. Make sure she's comfortable - and
secured."

Sister Michael brought me here, to what was once an isolation ward, behind a
locked steel door in a large but windowless room. The walls are solid
concrete.

Oh, yes, I'm secured.

I have no idea where my personal belongings are, whether they're sitting in my
cell in the convent or if Sister Michael has them and is burning my journals
as I write. I found some unused charts and some pencils and stored them under
a mattress several cots away from the bed I'm using. Somehow I must keep track
of what's being done here, to these women - and to me.

The others at the convent were probably told that I was taking a retreat to
pray and meditate on my upcoming vows. No one would be surprised - many
sisters take retreats. Some are even real retreats, not living nightmares like
this.

My family will hear from me at regular intervals, although Sister Michael will
be supervising me when I write. The only time she will not be watching me is
when I'm locked up in here.

My hours of captivity will be the only time I'm free. I'm to help with the
other "patients" starting tomorrow. It's possible that I could be delivering a
baby in the next 24 hours. It's also possible that I could be helping the
doctors implant an embryo into a someone's body.

And my own treatments will begin - hormones to prepare me for an embryo of my
own. With those treatments will come a host of side effects - nausea, mood
swings, all the trappings of hormone therapy. Will they be worth it?

I want a child.

I want my child.

But I want the choice.

This is monstrous. I know I can't trust the smoking man to keep his word, and
he knows that I know it. This may well be my ova he's using, but what about
the rest of the genetic material? Whose body has been violated to give me this
child?

I find myself thinking of the possibility of Mulder's genes mixed with mine.
His height, but not his nose. His eyes, but without the haunted darkness
behind the moss and jade. Is he "here," as well, stolen genes stored in a
glass case to be chosen from like a flavor of ice cream? Are there thirty-two
flavors of Mulder?

If so, can one of them be mine?

I can't think like this, can't allow myself to fall into the trap of being
grateful to my captors. Yes, I've dreamed of motherhood, especially since I
learned that it would be denied to me because of what was done, but this is a
travesty. It's not a gift - it's a violation.

I can't welcome this.

I sink to my knees, getting ready to pray.

Joan, find him. Find him before I let myself be happy with the choice I've
made.

***

Monday night

***

"I've brought your dinner," said Sister Michael as she unlocked the door. The
hinges gave way slowly and with a grudging squeak, providing Scully enough
time to tuck her notepad under the bed and sit back, hands folded demurely
across her abdomen.

"I'm not hungry," Scully said acidly, following the words with a curt, "Thank
you anyway."

Sister Michael came nearer and placed the tray on the nightstand next to
Scully's bed. "It doesn't have to be unpleasant unless you choose to make it
so, Dana."

"I'm surprised that you'd even use the word 'choose' around me."

The women gazed at one another, the silence electric with resentment. The nun
rubbed her hands together in a gesture that reminded Scully of Lady Macbeth.
"I'm going to need some help tomorrow - they're coming to induce labor in two
of the sisters and we'll need every pair of hands we can get."

Scully picked up her fork and idly traced patterns on a pat of butter. "Do you
wake them up for this? Do they know, even for an instant, what's happening to
them?"

"It's not necessary. In fact, it's unwise in the extreme, because it makes the
hypnosis that much harder down the road. They have the ability to deliver
almost any child without surgery and without the...voluntary assistance of the
mother."

"That seems unlikely in the extreme."

"I thought so, too. But they have ways, Dana. You have to trust me."

Choking back her disgust, Scully set the fork down carefully on the edge of
the plate before looking up at her erstwhile sister, her captor. She wanted to
reach the glimmer of reason that she prayed was still present. "I still say
that we can walk out of here and stop this before it goes any further. I
believe that."

"I used to feel that way, Dana. But that was before I saw what they do in
retaliation. If they can't find the person who went against their wishes, they
simply go for the next best thing - someone that person loves. And it might
just be one of the children. I can't allow that to happen."

Scully sighed. "Tell me something. The night Sister Rosario disappeared - what
do you know about that?"

Sister Michael crossed herself with shaking fingers. "That's not 'them.' It's
a miracle."

"I don't understand..." Scully protested, wanting to plead for more
information. She held out her hand to catch Sister Michael before she could
run out of the room, but she moved too late and the nun went through the door
and locked it behind herself.

The room was dark except for the bedside lamp. Scully pushed her cold food
aside, turned off the light, and curled up on the bed.

She was too tired to pray.

***

Journal entry, Tuesday afternoon

***

I spent this morning in a circle of hell that Dante must have thought about
but dismissed as being entirely too cruel.

Early in the morning I was roused from my restless sleep by Sister Michael.
All she said to me was, "They're ready." I had no idea what she meant.

Dear God, I wish I still didn't.

When I got into the delivery room I found the two women's gurneys side by
side. Their tags read only "Sarah," "Mary," and a string of identification
numbers. Their nutrition bags were still in place but ampules were being
emptied into the lines by two men I'd seen before.

Morphers.

These did not have their eyes and mouth sewn shut like the ones on the bridge
that horrible night. Rather, they were like the one who tried to kill me on
the bank of a river while Mulder fled with Jeremiah Smith. The one who
disguised himself as Mulder and took me hostage in exchange for Samantha.

A version of Samantha. I shudder to think of it now.

They showed no signs of recognition but simply looked at me as if at a piece
of inanimate equipment. I strained to see a word on the vials they were
emptying but none were there.

"What is it?" I whispered to Sister Michael. "Pitocin?"

"It's not necessary for you to know that," said one of the Morphers, his tone
even and professional. "You are to monitor their progress. No mistakes, no
attempts to convince us that the subjects were stillborn."

Subjects. Merely subjects.

"I can scarcely be expected to supervise them when I don't know what
medications they were given," I said, surprised at the even, professional tone
in my voice.

Whether they were surprised, I could not tell. One of them looked up from his
task and said, "It's to stimulate labor and to hasten its progression. Usually
the donors give birth within a few hours."

"Is there an operating theater? What if we need to perform..."

He cut me off. "That will not be necessary. Our methods are effective and
quick." Before he even finished the sentence, he turned to Sister Michael. "We
will perform the tests on the subjects tomorrow. Make sure she has had her
first treatment by then. We will want to test her progress, as well."

He never looked at me while he pronounced my sentence, to be injected with
hormones and tested for "suitability" to carry a child. My palms stung as I
dug my fingernails deeply into the flesh. After making a cursory check of the
IV lines, both men - monsters, both - left.

"What happens now?" I asked.

"Nothing will happen for a while, maybe an hour or two. In the meantime,
you're scheduled for your first injection."

Her voice sounded regretful and she walked slowly, as if the weight of her
sins were dragging her nearer and nearer to the earth. From a cabinet in the
corner she produced an ampule and a hypodermic. I watched as she filled the
syringe, her fingers quick and capable.

"It's intramuscular, Dana. This may hurt a bit."

I wanted to ask her if she thought bearing a child against my will wouldn't
hurt, either, but decided against it.

She set her lips into a tight, bloodless line. I closed my eyes and willed
myself not to flinch when the needle invaded my body.

We waited for an hour before the women's labor became pronounced, faster than
I could imagine, nothing like I'd seen in the limited time I'd spent in my
ob/gyn rotation. Neither woman awoke nor showed any signs of distress as their
bodies worked in an impossibly hyperfast version of the ancient rhythms
designed by God. I remembered myself as a young girl, thinking how unjust this
punishment was for the descendants of Eve, as I assisted at these curious
births, virgin births in their own way, the painless, mindless traces to be
eradicated at a later date.

The first baby, a boy, was born less than three hours after the injections
were given. The second baby, also a boy, arrived ten minutes later. Sister
Michael weighed and measured the squalling newborns and turned them over to me
for APGAR scoring, which were quite high for each - an 8 and a 9. Under normal
conditions, they'd be cause for rejoicing, the healthiest babies in any
conventional nursery.Despite their mothers' conditions, the babies showed no
signs of sedation or other ill effects from anesthesia. The scientist in me
was alive with curiosity as to how this came about. The "test subject" in me
did not want to know.

We did not speak to one another as we bathed and dressed these children and
placed them in heated bassinets far away from the women who still slept
peacefully, ignorant of the wrong that had been done to them.

I am writing these notes in haste while Sister Michael is in her office,
writing into the charts her own version of today's events. My best hope is to
keep my writings secret, tucked away in my room where I can find them and
review them later. I just hope that

(journal entry ends)

***
Immediately following

***

"Dana, you should clean up. It's time to go back to your room."

Scully rose and went to the sink to scrub herself clean, then Sister Michael
led her back toward her room without another word. Scully stood outside the
door , exhausted and quiet, trying not to look at the sleeping figures all
around her. The scraping of the old brass key in the lock made her wince and
she flinched. Out of the corner of her eye she saw a stirring in the farthest
corner of the room.

A pale hand against the pale sheet, trembling.

"Sister!" she shouted, turning fully away to find herself looking into the
wide-open, frightened eyes of Amanda Broadman.

Amanda was sitting up in the bed, staring at her in utter disbelief and
terror. Her mouth worked, but her voice had been silent for so long no words
would come out. Sister Michael ran to the little refrigerator and scooped ice
into a cup, then started giving Amanda the tiniest chips of it while Scully
checked her vital signs.

Her pulse was rapid but strong and her breathing seemed normal. After a few
hard swallows, Amanda tried again to speak. Her voice was tinny, almost
inaudible.

"What happened?"

"I'm not sure," Sister Michael said in a surprisingly gentle voice. "You
disappeared from the convent over a week ago. Just two days ago I came in and
found you here, on this bed, with the IV lines in place. I have no idea how
you got here - I've just been feeding and hydrating you, the same way whoever
returned you to us had done."

"Neck's sore," Amanda muttered.

Scully checked her nape and peered under the bandage. "You've had an implant,
Amanda. The same place mine was - and I suspect of the same type. Even though
you've been unconscious for some time, your color is much better and you've
put some weight back on. You look like I did after I had the second chip
implanted. I'd say that if we ran some tests, we'd find that your cancer's
gone into remission."

Sister Michael gaped at her.

"Oh, my God." Amanda slumped back onto the bed, her hand over her eyes. Scully
saw a tear trickling down her cheek, then another.

As she dabbed at the wet trails with the edge of the sheet, Scully asked
again if she had any recollection of what had happened to her. "What's the
last thing you remember, Amanda?"

"You were there. I gave you the book." She looked at Scully for confirmation
and she nodded. "I was hiding, hoping. Waiting. There were lights."

Sister Michael covered her with the blanket that had been folded at the foot
of the bed. Amanda clutched it. "Amanda, can you tell us anything else?
Anything at all?"

She took a sip of water, her hands trembling so that she needed Scully's help
to hold the cup steady. "I went away. I was with them."

"Who, Amanda?" The anxiety in Sister Michael's voice was palpable.

"Alike. The men were alike, and their faces were..." She broke off and looked
at Scully with a little smile. "Their faces were like yours. Like they were
your brothers. I asked their names. They said they didn't really have any, but
I could call them Kurt."

"Dana?" Sister Michael put her hand on Scully's arm and only then did she
realize that she was swaying on her feet. She took a seat on the edge of
Amanda's bed, trembling with the recollection of a face so very like hers that
he might have been her son. Was her son, in a sense. Mulder had told her that
he saw others the night he found the fertility clinic.

"I'm okay, I'm okay." She took a piece of the blanket between her thumb and
forefinger, grounding herself in the nubby fabric as it scraped against her
skin. "I met one of them, once. My partner met several."

"They're saving us, Dana." Amanda's voice gained strength as her memory
returned. "They're finding us and giving us a second chance, like the one you
had. A new implant."

"Were there other people there?" Sister Michael asked with a tremor in her
voice.

"It was hard to tell, but I heard other voices and saw some other faces. Oh!"
She sat up, smiling. "There was a nun there. I've seen her before...what was
her name?"

Sister Michael sank to her knees, her trembling hands clutching at her rosary
as her lips moved in prayer.

"Was it Sister Rosario?" Scully asked, watching Sister Michael carefully.

"Yes! That was her name. She was sick, as sick as I was, but they gave her an
implant and said that she'd come back here when she was better."

Sobs shook Sister Michael's whole body and she toppled over onto the floor,
weeping. "She said they'd come, she said they'd save her...I didn't believe
it, but then they CAME, you saw it, Dana, you saw it..."

Scully scarcely had time to help her up and comfort her before she was crying,
too. She remembered the evening Mulder had talked to her about Survivor Guilt,
the inability to appreciate the miracle of her salvation because of the
torment of the women who had died.

But now there were two survivors, and who knew how many more?

"Amanda, the men you saw - they are clones, part of the hybridization project
between aliens and humans. I was there when you and Sister Rosario were taken,
and I can't believe they're so technically advanced. How did they do it?"

Amanda shrugged. "I don't think that they were responsible for how I got
there, just for the treatment I received. They were more like doctors." She
scrubbed her eyes with the heels of her hands as tears started to form. "I
told them what I'd done - that I killed Teena Mulder to get a new implant
because I was so scared. But they said...they said..." Her thin frame shook
with sobs and Scully wrapped her arms around her, patting her back. "They said
it wasn't for them to judge, that they'd save any of us who had been used."

"It's all right, it's all right," Scully murmured, looking over Amanda's
shoulder to catch Sister Michael's glance. After Scully mouthed the word
"water" to her, the Sister filled the cup and handed it back to Scully. Their
fingers brushed and they looked at one another, aware of a turning in the
relationship between captive and her unwilling captor.

After Amanda took a few sips, the hysteria subsided as quickly as it had
started and she was calm, if somewhat shaken. Scully waited for a few moments,
gathering her courage, then asked her one more question. "Amanda, do you know
where you were taken?"

With shimmering eyes she pointed toward the window. "Out. Up." She turned back
to them with a soft, mysterious smile. "It wasn't a place on Earth, Agent
Scully."

Scully's whole body quivered, the words vibrating through her as if she were
their medium rather than the cool, sterile air.

Not on Earth.

Out.

Up.

Even with her eyes closed she saw the drill hovering closer to her forehead,
like Poe's pendulum swinging downward, ever downward to cover its stainless
steel with the stains of her blood.

Painful light.

Someone's arms around her, comforting her. Someone now a ghost.

Her eyes taped shut, her lungs pumping foreign, forced air.

Limbs heavy and leaden.

Taken out.

Up.

"He saved me, Agent Scully. He's coming to save all of us. Look."

She realized that she'd rested her head on Amanda's pillow, and that the
surface was damp with her tears. She felt a small, soothing hand in her hair.
Scully turned her head, half-blinded with tears, and found herself scant
inches away from soft brown eyes almost hidden behind lenses that twinkled
slightly in the fading light from the window.

"Don't cry," said Gibson Praise.

***

To part 3