If brute force doesn't work, you're not using enough!

This is not a story, but a series of vignettes, with a different slant on the aliens. They are reposted here in chronological order: "Jurisdiction"; "Vigilance Committee"; "Undercover"; "Evidence."

Rating - PG: mild cussing and violence, some medical ick
Category - V,
Spoilers - Piper Maru/Apocrypha, Tunguska/Terma, Patient X/ Red and the Black, the Beginning, S.R.819
Keywords - alternate universe ("Biogenesis" has not happened)
Summary - what are the aliens getting out of it, anyway?
Archive - anywhere, as long as the name stays with it
Feedback - sure
Disclaimer - XF characters belong to CC, 1013 and Fox; _Needle_ and its characters belong to Hal Clement; the Greys appear to be in the public domain, but were first popularised by NBC's TV movie "the UFO Incident," 1975; Kit Mallory, Ironcore, Hunter and Ted are mine.
Email: lburwasser@crs.loc.gov

Put that away, you jerk.

Doc, can you -- give me a hand here? Dislocated. Yeah, ball-and-socket -- same as yours. Assst . . . Ungh! Whew!

Cabinet with the triangle -- bright orange vial. That one -- single dose. White spigot is water. Thanks.

Ssssst!

I really -- shouldn't be -- telling you -- anything, . . . but right now -- I am really -- really pissed. Aaassst. Undercover work sucks, y'know?

Aaach.

Rrrr . . . Not a -- damned thing, Doc. Aaarch . . . When this shit -- finally kicks in -- I'll be OK.

Easy. Right.

Unh. Think of me as -- your counterpart. Except I'm so far -- beyond my jurisdiction -- that I have -- about as much -- official authority -- as a vigilante. We knew the syndicate -- had an off-shore source. We just didn't know -- how *far* off-shore. So -- my bosses -- sent me in. Undercover sucks, . . . or have I said that?

Ah! Whew! O-kay! That is good shit.

Sorry about the language, Doc. I've been undercover too long.

Mm. *Way* off-shore. Not distance; treaty status. We don't approach species or planetary cultures without a strong presence in space. For our protection, not yours. Non-space-flight are more likely to kill us, whether inadvertently, out of ignorance, or deliberately, out of fear.

We do make an exception for species that don't travel, and have a strong *orbital* presence, but you don't qualify on either count. That jury-rigged jalopy in orbit is *not* a presence, and your truck fleet is ground based. Your feet are cursorial, anyway.

Your feet. Evolved for long-distance walking.

None of which would matter, if you weren't dumping noise pollution clear across the electromagnetic spectrum. Over twenty parsecs out, now. You might as well put up a blinking sign.

No presence, no treaty status. No status, no legal standing. As long as their native front men do the actual dirty work, nothing happening here is illegal.

I *know*, Doc! And I'm sorry, if it helps. I'm *damned* sorry. But I'm as hog-tied as you are. The actual crimes were committed by natives -- earthmen, weren't they? And the *immediate* benefit was to earthmen, too, right? So the syndicate isn't preying directly on an unprotected population, which I could do something about. It's investing in native enterprise, which is completely unregulated in the absence of treaties.

Like I say, I'm 'way beyond my jurisdiction. The only thing I'm authorised to do is watch and record. If I do anything else, I can be reprimanded, I can be fired, I can be blacklisted. I can't be charged, for the same reason the syndicate can't be: this place is a legal black hole.

You listening, Doc? Am I on your event horizon?

Vigilante Vignettes -- Vigilance Committee
by Lee Burwasser

"I didn't know you went in for sci-fi, Scully"

"Recommended to me by a mysterious correspondent," said the younger agent, reaching out a hand to banish the screen saver from her computer. Her partner read the e-mail display revealed. The text consisted of a bibliographic citation for Hal Clement's _Needle_, 1949, presumably the book Scully was reading. The sig file was a box made of carats surrounding a quotation:

• "The Resistance is not one hell of an improvement."
  -- Ruskin Dam, Pennsylvania

It was sent from a Hotmail account.

"Why do I get the feeling that the sig is the real message?"

"Maybe because you haven't read the book." At his look, she went on. "The protagonist is an alien policeman chasing a criminal of his own kind. They're sort of intelligent amoebae who live inside people."

"Oh." They contemplated the message in silence for a few moments. "What do you plan to do, Scully?"

"Read the book."

"Not have a go at identifying your mystery correspondent?"

"As yet, there's no reason to."

"Any objections to my amusing myself in that line?"

"Knock yourself out."

A companionable silence ensued. Scully put aside her book for paperwork, and Mulder scowled at his own computer. Afternoon mail delivery brought its normal compliment of business mail and journals (one in a plain brown wrapper) plus a letter without a return address.

"For you," said Mulder, sliding it from the stack he carried to the surface of her worktable without touching it.

Scully snapped on the latex and opened it. Out fell a brochure describing the sculpture garden at the Hirshhorn Museum. Taped to the brochure was a darning needle.

"I think it's your mystery correspondent, Scully. Is there any indication of date or time?"

Scully examined the brochure, then checked inside the envelope and brought out a post-it. "This evening. Six o'clock."

Sculpture Garden
Hirshhorn Museum

"Dana Scully?"

The partners studied the speaker while Scully flashed her ID and introduced Mulder.

"I'm Kit Mallory," said the tall, rawboned brunette. "Hunter tells me you were at Ruskin Dam and lived to tell about it."

"I don't remember enough to tell, but I survived it."

"My cousin didn't." She took a long breath. "Hunter is looking for its partner. I'm looking for someone who can kick butt. We've agreed to help each other. Hunter thinks we can make the same arrangement with you."

Scully looked down at _Needle_ and back up at Mallory. "Hunter is . . . with you?"

Mallory nodded and gestured to her eyes. They clouded to total black, iris and sclera alike, then returned to brown and white.

"That could be dangerous," said Mulder.

"Hunter says there's an otherwise parallel local species that kills its host. And there can be a radiation hazard; that's why it had to separate from its partner."

"It?"

"Our communication is still limited, but I gather that it reproduces by budding."

Scully brought them back to business. "What exactly do you and Hunter want, and what do you think you can do in return?"

"Hunter figures that with your resources and its knowledge of its partner, you can locate him. He's probably as disgusted with the gang war as Hunter, but if he's still by the book on it, Hunter will try to persuade him to assist you. You keep his location secret; there's a good chance the syndicate thinks he's dead, which is probably as safe as he can get."

"That's Hunter and his -- its partner. What about you?"

"What I want is what you're supposed to be doing anyway. Wherever they're from, this syndicate has been abducting and abusing American citizens for decades. Now they're having this gang war that's killing off bystanders. And the Bureau is doing zilch. Whatever happened to Fidelity, Bravery, Integrity?"

Mulder winced at the FBI motto. Scully looked far away -- or perhaps into herself. "I don't know," she said.

They strolled back toward the access ramp. Scully went on, "We may have met Hunter's partner. A little shorter than I am, dark iron grey, got a mouth on him. Disgusted with the whole situation, including us. He didn't leave a name or forwarding address."

"Hunter isn't too clear on names. Its people don't seem to have them. I call it after Hal Clement's character, and it seems OK with that. Whatever's convenient. Its partner does have a name, or maybe a nickname, that seems to mean something like 'Ironcore'."

After a short pause, she continued: "We have to hope that we find Ironcore before you get called again, but in case we don't, Hunter and I are agreeable to becoming part of whatever safety net you've worked out."

Scully studied Mallory for several moments. "Unfortunately, I'm perfectly capable of responding to stimuli during the call, so it has to be something out of my control. Some friends of ours installed a motion sensor on my apartment door; I set it when I turn in. It can't be unset until six the next morning. If the door opens before then, an alarm blasts Mulder out of bed, or rather, off his couch. He calls. If I've done something stupid, I apologise; if I don't answer, he goes after me."

Mallory nodded. "We're agreed that it's probably a good idea for you to know where to find me, and vice versa. You call me when you have something Hunter should know or respond to, I call you if Hunter has an idea, or has to go elsewhere for any reason."

They handed out cards all around. By the end of the exchange, they had come off the access ramp. They parted ways.

Mulder's apartment
Arlington VA

The noise blasted him off the couch. For a moment he thought it was the smoke alarm, then recognised the motion-sensor. He scrambled for his cell phone and called Scully. It rang, and kept ringing. She wasn't picking up. He flung into his clothes and scrambled for his car.

Once rolling, he called another number. This one answered: "Mallory."

"This is Mulder. The alarm on Agent Scully's door has gone off. She doesn't answer her cell phone."

"Any idea where she's headed?"

"No. I was hoping Hunter might."

"Possibly. Pick us up."

Mallory's apartment
Washington DC

Mallory sprinted out the door as Mulder drove up. She was carrying a small pack and wearing a smaller one on a belt. She piled into the car and pulled something electronic looking out of the bigger pack before tipping it into the back seat.

"They're broadcasting, all right. From the north." As he pealed away from the curb, she said, "This is going to look gross," and settled back against the headrest.

Mulder could guess what was going to happen, and kept his attention on the road. He still caught sight of the black oil flowing from her mouth, nose and eyes to cover her face. She fumbled the electronic-looking whateveritwas over the oil layer, which flowed around the lower portion of it. He swallowed audibly and kept driving north.

I-270 North

After a few hours of keeping his eyes *strictly* on the road, he felt Mallory groping for his arm. He glanced sideways as the oil flowed away from her mouth.

"We're passing it. Go east."

"Have to get off the interstate first."

"OK."

Gambrill State Park
Frederick County, Md

"This road's a parking lot," he muttered to himself. Spotting a figure headed for the car, he said urgently, "Get under cover. Company."

The oil flowed into Mallory's face, releasing the electronic whatever to fall into her waiting hand. She tossed it into the back seat and slid out of the car as he got out on his side.

It was two figures, each with a metal wand and neither with a face. They split up and broke into a run to pin Mulder and Mallory before they could clear the car. Even with adrenaline kicking in from a good idea of what the wands could do, it was all Mulder could do to hold his attacker's weapon away from his body.

Kit Mallory slammed her attacker's wand arm upward, then grabbed it and slammed her attacker into the car. He held onto his weapon, she held onto his arm. She finished pulling an icepick out of her fanny pack, used her teeth to pull off the cork over the end, and slipped it into the exposed neck.

Mulder's attacker tried to pull away, but the agent went onto the offensive, gripping the weapon arm like an attack dog. Mallory leaped up onto the car hood and down onto the driver's side. Together they immobilised the attacker while Mallory finished him off.

"Like pithing a frog." She fished the cork out of her pocket, re-covered the pick's tip, and handed it to Mulder. "If I call 'Get down!' do it. I'll be relaying from Hunter; it can only protect its host." She blinked against the irritation of the green goo and looked speculatively at the wand of the second attacker, who was already starting to corrode. "I wonder if we can use their weapons?" As she started to kneel beside the body, there was a flash beyond the car. "Guess not," she said, and headed off the way the attackers had come.

Mulder followed. "How much of that was Hunter's doing?"

"Essentially, it's hysterical strength. Now Hunter's catabolising the fatigue toxins so I won't pay for it just yet. I will, tho. Plus a little internal guidance with the icepick." "And the attitude?" he asked quietly.

"They attacked us. They or their fellows killed my cousin, and how many others besides? They look more human than Hunter, or even Ironcore if he's really a Grey, but human is as human does."

"Did you bring more icepicks?"

"Three, of course."

When they got to the edge of the parked cars, Mulder cast about for a trail. Mallory knelt while Hunter flowed out of her face to the ground and spread into an oily sheet. In a moment or so it gathered itself together again, and Mallory knelt again for it to re-enter. Mulder looked away, but when she set off at a jog, he was right behind her.

They passed through a screen of trees to a broad field or meadow. There was a small crowd of people in the middle. Between them and the searchers was a skirmish line of figures with wands at ready. Mallory said, "Get down!" and ran toward them.

Mulder dropped.

As Mallory came up behind the skirmish line, her body emitted a blinding light. The attackers faltered and turned to face her, shielding their heads though they had no eyes to be blinded. When the light died, they stumbled toward her, wands at ready.

Mulder sprinted to join her. He found himself doing the icepick equivalent of throwing a lot of lead to keep the enemy's heads down. They could not surround or effectively outnumber Mallory-Hunter with his threat active.

And while they were not as affected by the light as he remembered the other oilien's opposition being, they were seriously handicapped. Mallory and Hunter took them as they came, pithing them like frogs. Fumes stung their eyes slightly, nothing resembling the retrovirus attack.

Flames and screams erupted from across the field, and the crowd began running in their direction. "Scully!" shouted Mulder. He started toward the crowd, only to bring up short against Mallory's grip.

"That stuff is corrosive," she said, releasing him. "I'm going to call 911."

The 'stuff' corroded through the casing of the wands, setting them off with bright flashes of light. It turned the near edge of the mob back toward the center, causing falls and possibly deaths from trampling. Again Mulder shouted for his partner, desperation in his voice. Behind him, Mallory was talking to a 911 operator:

" . . . some corrosive stuff and what smells like burning . . . . Wait one." She poked Mulder in the arm. "Where are we?"

"Gambrill State Park, just off U.S. 40." He didn't stay to hear her repeat it, but picked his way among the corroding bodies to intercept an eddy going against the human tide.

Scully freed herself from the panicked mob, following Mulder back toward the corroding bodies. As Mallory came up to them, the smaller agent appeared to be checking her partner for fever and arm fractures, yet didn't seem fully awake and functioning herself. "Autopilot," suggested Mallory. She set herself 'upstream' -- or 'up-crowd' -- of the pair while she and Mulder worked on talking, shaking and otherwise stimulating Scully to wakefulness.

By the time Scully was recovered, briefed and armed with an icepick, the faceless skirmish line was halfway across the meadow.

"Can he do the radiation strike again?" asked Mulder.

"Not unless it moves to a new host. Not for several hours."

"The one that had Krycek did it twice in a couple of minutes."

"How much did it care what harm it did its host?"

"The vaccine would make both of us hostile environments," said Mulder.

"What you gave me can't have been a vaccine. That wouldn't work once the parasite was established. Of course, it still could have kicked off antibody reactions . . ."

"Let's go slow, then," said Mallory, gripping Scully by the shoulders. Black oil extruded from mouth, nose and eyes, formed a pseudopod that reached down to Scully's face and entered her open mouth. After a moment, the mass of the symbiont flowed down the pseudopod into its new host. Mallory braced against Scully as it left her.

As soon as her eyes cleared enough to register Mallory's state, Scully supported her. "What's wrong?"

"Metabolic debt. It's OK, just a matter of time. Listen, when Hunter gives you the 'Get down!' signal --"

She paused. Scully jerked, looking startled.

"That means it's going to irradiate. You're protected, we have to get down, so tell us and keep moving away from us."

"Do it again, Hunter," said Scully. This time she made no visible reaction. "Got it." To Mallory: "Can you travel?"

"Yes."

The three moved at a trot to cut the faceless skirmish line off from the victims. Mallory's longer legs made up to some extent for her metabolic debt.

Mulder kept pace with her, letting Scully-Hunter take point, familiarising themselves with each other and their weapon.

"Get down!" called Scully, and broke into a run. When she was several strides away, her body emitted the blazing light that Mallory's had. Again, the faceless killers were less affected than the victims of the other oilien but noticeably slowed. Unlike the previous skirmish line, they were facing Hunter and its host to begin with.

Mulder hugged ground until Hunter "did the radiation strike" again, then ran flat-out to join the melee. Mallory, not yet recovered from metabolic debt, could not quite keep up. She hit the end of the skirmish line just as it was curling around Mulder, pithing the end man nearly without hindrance. After that it was chaos, with irritating fumes from unsuccessful strikes as complication. Again, it was Hunter and its host that were most effective, yanking individual killers off-balance with superhuman strength and pithing them before they could bring their wands to bear. Again, the non-hosts mostly made it too dangerous for the killers to surround Hunter and host.

One of the faceless got a clear strike at Mallory, igniting her clothes in nothing flat. She flung herself to the ground and rolled. Mulder pithed the killer. Scully and Hunter shifted from pithing to striking and tripping the killers, giving Mulder time to yank off his trenchcoat and beat at the flames one-handed while trying to present a deterring threat with the other.

As the killers re-grouped, a distant mutter became a snarl and grew to the roar of helicopter blades. The killers fell back, and back again. When the choppers started circling, they fled to the cover of the trees.

Scully held her ground long enough to be sure they really were bugging out, then ran to help beat out the flames on Mallory. When the last was smothered, she was alive, breathing unaided, and covered by mostly second-degree burns. Scully braced herself on both hands, her head even with the other woman's. Hunter flowed between them; the metabolic debt hit, but she managed not to fall on her -- their? -- patient.

Mallory took a long breath, opened her eyes and let it out. "I think Hunter's blocking the pain."

"Internal symbiont," Scully mused aloud. Then, "Hunter, you have to preserve her fluids. That and oxygen have priority. If you can do anything to prevent infection or keep out the fumes, do it, but fluids and oxygen come first." She found intact skin to touch for a pulse check. "Are you keeping her heart going? Never mind, go on doing whatever you're doing." She looked up at the landing choppers. "Hunter! Can you hide from the medics and still protect her?"

Mallory looked introspective, then said, "Yes, it can."

Scully nodded and relaxed -- sagged -- losing the last of the adrenaline rush.

Mulder looked from Scully to Mallory and back. He wore a wry grin, but only said, "Human experimenters versus mass murderers. My enemy's enemy is not my friend."

===== =====

AUTHOR's NOTES: I know better than to call Hal Clement's work "sci-fi," but I'm betting Mulder doesn't.

Gambrill State Park is indeed just off U.S. 40, half a dozen miles NW of Frederick, MD, but I've never been inside it. Internet copy mentions fishing, hiking trails and campgrounds.

===== =====

Vigilante Vignettes -- Undercover
by Lee Burwasser

Were it a healer, Hunter might have attacked more aggressively, perhaps even plucked the obscenity from its self-eroded niche in her skull. (Not that a Pink, or even a Grey, could have seen or felt the erosion; to Hunter's near-microscopic senses, it was a gaping wound.) Field first aid, however, did not cover tumors. It was supposed to tell its host's healer or physician about them. But the Pink physicians were defeated, and there didn't seem to be any Pink healers. Which left Hunter, an undercover cop on a run of rotten luck.

Now it trailed pseudopods into her blood vessels and searched her lymph nodes. No trace of metasticising cells. Perhaps it could step up its catabolism after all. Or perhaps that would be pushing it.

Kit's burns had been so much simpler. Despite the differences between Pink and Grey, first aid for Ironcore applied equally to Kit: preserve fluids, preserve oxygen intake, jam out the pain. With the additional job of hiding from her physicians; no great trouble. And when her healing was far enough along that she could do as well without Hunter as with, it had transferred to Dana, and its next showdown.

It returned its attention to the bath. Dana was making little pleasure-noises and humming now and then to the music, too low for anyone else to hear. Except Hunter, who had followed the standard practice in sliding a pseudopod into each middle ear, just barely touching the tiny sound-conducting bones.

Steeping in her pleasure, it let its thoughts drift to its Pink hosts. It liked Kit Mallory, but now that her burns were healing, it would not partner her again except in emergency. Dana and Mulder were unanimous that Kit was a civilian, and thus not to be put at risk. Hunter had no clear idea of the concept "civilian," but Ironcore was adamant that civilians must be protected, and the Pink agents were reacting much as Ironcore did when a civilian got hurt on his watch.

Dana was a good host. She took care of her body, and had an interesting job.

At home, it would be seriously considering offering to bud her a Partner of her own . . .

Except that at home, she would have a Partner already. The Lineages would have vied for her while she was in training, and no doubt she would have taken one of her teachers' or one of her parents' -- or quite possibly a hetero bud.

*Why am I thinking about budding?* It wasn't nearly old enough to be a danger to its host, and had budded its share already, including a hetero. If that hadn't been the case, the Powers That Be would never have sent them into deep cover.

*If I don't find Ironcore, I'm exiled here for life.* Until it fled its host to die rather than kill. *If I don't find Ironcore, I have to lead the natives against the syndicate . . . Stop that!* Dana was trying to soothe away her own stress toxins; she didn't need Hunter's.

It turned its conscious attention to the uncells it had infiltrated into her middle ear and nasal cavity. Her scent arrangement was bland but pleasant; the music was not jarring. (Ironcore had barbaric taste in music.) Firmly, it put everything else out of its nonexistent head.

Next morning Dana went to the Hoover Building as usual, but stayed just long enough to dig a small notepad and mechanical pencil out of her workspace and write Mulder a note: I'm taking Hunter to meet the guys. He grabbed his coat and followed her out.

She did some twisting and dodging on the way to find and shake any tail that might be on them. She also stopped to buy a large enameled basin. With that, the pad and pencil in her pocket, and a cloth and some soft cheese that she'd tossed into the car before she left, they descended on a strangely familiar hideout -- evidently Pinks had paranoid technophiles, too.

The inhabitants were also familiar. What did the Pinks call them? Techno-dweebs, that was it. One of them would have fit in at the Hoover Building; the other two would not.

The shortest cleared a place for Dana to put the basin, and all watched in silence as she put the notepad into the basin and the pencil and cheese next to it. She soaked the cloth, wrung it out lightly and brought it back. She asked, "Do any of you read classic science fiction?" and bent her head over the basin. Hunter took its cue and poured out of her face.

They couldn't complain of the audience. The techno-dweebs all shouted at once. The only thing that could be made out was "NO!" Then all were deathly silent, until the tall one said, "Oh, my God," in a flat, shocked voice.

The basin was a snug fit, but there was just room for Hunter to relax. Dana covered it with the wet cloth. A few moments later, she lifted the cloth to crumble the cheese onto its upper surface. A few moments after that she lifted it again to let the lead of the mechanical pencil sink through its mass.

"Kit suggested I read Hal Clement's _Needle_, 1949. That's where the idea of the cheese and the pencil lead comes from. Clement's alien is too weak to use a mechanical typewriter." It could not hear as well without its connection to her middle ear, but she was taking care to speak extra clearly and distinctly. "Hunter and Kit worked out a way to communicate using a computer keyboard, but until you've satisfied yourselves as to its nature, facilitated communication would be more than suspect."

She had told it about the "facilitated communication" debacle. Now, it knew, she was stepping back, literally, to let the three do their own communicating, without interpreters. She gave them final advice: "Speak up. Without our middle-ear bones, it's hard of hearing."

It wrote on the pad: Kit was my first Pink host; she read me parts of NEEDLE; she calls me Hunter. It partly tore and partly catabolised the sheet free of the glue and streamed it through its mass to the edge of the bowl, where Dana had left a slot between cloth and metal rim.

Someone lifted the sheet away. Someone, it thought the long-haired one, said, "Pink!?"

Not knowing quite what to make of that, it wrote: Not all Greys are grey, either. It sent this sheet the way of the first.

One of them said, "Settle down, guys, we have to do this right . . ."

Long and busy hours later, Dana spoke again. "Hunter's used up the cheese, it needs to get back into a host. You agree it's intelligent?"

"Oh . . . oh, yes," said one of the techno-dweebs.

Dana pulled away the cloth she'd been keeping moist during the exchange and bent over the basin for Hunter to return. Even before it completely settled back in, it sent pseudopods to her middle ears, to lose as little as possible of the discussion.

Mulder was holding forth: " . . . for going on six years she's been denying that there *are* extra-terrestrials, now she's bullying that . . . that *oilien* . . . the way she does us."

"What you mean, *us*, G-Man?" That sounded like the short one.

"Mulder, setting a Grey's dislocated shoulder is pretty solid evidence," said Dana.

"Better than a stampede?"

"In a dark mineshaft, yes. By the time I recovered my flashlight, they were gone. In retrospect, the likelihood that they were Greys is now higher than I would have put it at the time, but I still couldn't swear to it."

Hunter pulled on Dana's tendons to curve her fingers as though about to use a keyboard.

"Do you have a keyboard with a very light touch?" she asked the three. "Hunter has something to say. Or ask."

"This has the lightest touch," said the tall one, going over to a keyboard and doodling on it for a bit. Then he stood and gestured, saying, "Go ahead."

Dana sat and positioned her fingers over the keys. Hunter could not tug hard enough at her tendons to strike the keys itself, but enough for her to follow its lead. Between them they typed: Are these civilians?

"Mm . . ." said Dana. "Civilian specialists. They're the only ones who do what they do as well as they do it that we can trust, so we can't avoid putting them at some risk."

"It's our fight, too," said the long-haired one.

Dana explained, "Hunter doesn't understand 'civilian,' except 'someone to be protected.' Since Ironcore isn't here to tell it who's a civilian and who isn't, it has to take our word for it." They had mentioned and discussed Ironcore in the course of the testing.

Hunter pulled her tendons again for attention, then guided her to type: Who is protecting Kit now?

"Since all the accounts agree there was an attack, the hospital has all the burn cases in a single ward, with hospital security and the local police cooperating on guarding it. The Bureau has a resident agency in Frederick, which is keeping Violent Crimes updated, since this is the third state involved."

Hunter typed: Is there a resident agent you trust?

"Trust no one," said Mulder. "Where do you suppose Cancerman gets his Men in Black?"

Had Hunter possessed teeth, it would have gritted them. If Dana and Mulder thought the two of them -- or the five of them -- could bring an entire criminal syndicate to book . . . Well, one of three grim alternatives: either these professional investigators did not know how to set up an investigation; or they were too paranoid to network within their own Bureau; or their Bureau really did consist of the opposition and the unreliable.

It tried to think through the backchat about "oiliens" when a ringing phone interrupted everyone. It turned out to be Dana's.

"Scully."

"Agent Scully," said a familiar voice, "this is Kit Mallory."

"How are you doing?"

"We all become outpatients tomorrow. All of us that are left. Hey, there was a chap visiting one of my wardmates who turns out to be a classic-SF fan. We talked about the Golden Age -- DeCamp, Clement -- and we got onto _Needle_, and how the aliens aren't angels or devils, or even one each, just a goodguy and a badguy . . . Anyway, he's going to see me to the municipal airport and onto a puddlejumper headed for College Park."

"When do they release you? What time?"

"Well, they say ten a.m., which with all the paperwork probably means noonish."

"We'll talk then, OK?"

"Right. So long."

Dial tone. Dana put the phone away. Mulder grabbed their coats even before she said, "Kit's to be released tomorrow morning. Someone's chatty friend has offered to take her to the airport."

"Didn't know the place had one," said Mulder. "You figure it's the Resistance?"

"How would they target her?" asked the tall one.

"She was the worst burned of the survivors. Without Hunter she wouldn't have survived; with its help, she doesn't even need grafts. She made a point of telling me that this chap discussed _Needle_ with her. He could be either Resistance or a contact from Ironcore, recognising -- what did you call it? -- 'oilien' work. Or he might be a classic SF fan."

As the rental car barreled out of the Frederick Municipal Airport, Dana snarled, "Driving the Interstate would have been faster." Hunter now knew what Kit meant by a "puddlejumper," and was beginning to understand the Pink cult of "Murphy." With a deadline to meet and the length of the state to cross, they met every imaginable delay and difficulty. Now they headed for the hospital at barely legal speed.

As they turned into the hospital's drive-through, Dana rolled down the window on her side, muttering, "Good thing she's another beanpole." At the hospital's entryway, a tall brunette was about to enter a car. Hunter could not have testified to more than that, but Dana clearly recognised her. "Kit!" she cried. "Kit Mallory!"

Kit turned her head, and just as clearly recognised Dana. She waved, and turned the wave into a 'come on' gesture that ended pointing at the car.

She got in on the passenger side, and the car drove off.

"Well, she trusts him," said Dana as the agents took off in pursuit. The other car didn't try to loose them, but headed directly out of town -- and not in the direction of the airport.

At an isolated building, the other car pulled in and stopped. The driver was out the door and had them covered in about three seconds. Kit got out and cried "It's all right, Ted!" as she circled the car to put a hand on the driver's forearm.

By this time, Dana (and presumably Mulder, though she didn't look at him) was out of the car but still sheltered by the open door. She had her weapon drawn, but Kit was too close to the target.

Kit called again, "I told you, Ted. They were with me at Gambrill. They helped me."

"We'll talk," said the driver, presumably 'Ted,' "but not while they're armed." He called louder, "One in front of their car."

A weapon fired from the building. It sounded bigger than a handweapon. Dana glanced at the building and back, too quickly for Hunter to see anything. The strategically positioned uncells against her retina and optic disc were best at detecting close-range motion.

"Just a hunting rifle," called Ted, "but it does the job. Either get back in the car and get gone, or put your weapons in the car, close the doors, and step clear."

Dana obeyed, keeping her eyes on Ted and Kit. The slam of the other car door indicated that Mulder also followed orders. They moved clear of their car. Ted gestured them to enter the building.

Inside the door was a flight of stairs and a passage running to the back of the building. Directed by their captor, they walked up the stairs, doubled back toward the front of the house, and entered the second-floor front room. Here they found the man with the rifle.

"Ironcore, I presume?"

===== =====

AUTHOR's NOTE: Yes, the Baltimore Field Office of the FBI has a resident agency in Frederick MD. (Hunter doesn't quite know what to call the agents there.) There is also a Frederick Municipal Airport and a Frederick Memorial Hospital.

BTW: College Park MD has an historically significant airport, about the size of a cow pasture.

===== =====

Vigilante Vignettes -- Evidence
by Lee Burwasser

At last she closed the hood. Mulder popped the trunk for her, and she walked around to the back of the car. After another wait, she closed the trunk and got into the back seat. Mulder drove.

Walter Skinner considered his situation. He wasn't really afraid, but he would be remiss not to be cautious. He was armed, but Scully was behind him. All his experience told him that the pair was more concerned with being overheard than with any hostile designs on him. They were checking for a tail, now. Walter settled back to see how they did.

They did quite well. After driving around various good places for flushing and shaking tails, Mulder pulled up beside a minivan and set the parking brake. Out of the van came three strange yet too familiar figures; Mulder's pet paranoids. Each carried a slightly bigger toolbox than the one Scully had used on the car. Turning, he saw Scully toss the box onto the vacated front seat before climbing out and crossing to the van. This time she drove, Walter again in the passenger seat, Mulder behind.

Again they wandered about good places for flushing tails; Scully's technique was as good as Mulder's. For the first time since they met in the garage, she spoke. "They'll take your car to a garage and give it a more thorough going-over for bugs and homing devices. They'll leave it there and take another car to rendezvous with us. Afterward, we'll take that car to the garage and you take your own car home."

He nodded. There seemed no reason to speak.

The rendezvous was not the traditional abandoned warehouse, but a small office building. Before leaving the van, the agents for the first time checked their weapons. Walter followed suit. They took the stairs to the second floor, where Mulder let them into a door marked "Argus Projects." It led to an empty receptionist's office; not even a desk, just another door in the opposite wall.

Scully gestured Walter to open the door. They walked through, and into a room where someone was camping. The someone stepped clear of the shadows, and Walter stopped short. This was not happening.

Short, spindly frame; dark iron-grey skin; large head; huge eyes.

He looked back at Scully. "What *is* this?"

"Evidence," she said. "Hard evidence at last. This is Ironcore and his partner. The partners don't have names, but we call this one Hunter, and it's agreeable." She turned to the grey creature. "Ironcore, Hunter, this is the man we told you about, AD Walter Skinner."

The grey humanoid nodded.

She turned back to him. "We're gambling that it's the nanomachines that have made you roll over and play dead."

He flinched at the bitterness. Dana Scully was "Semper Fidelis" incarnate, and Walter Skinner was living proof that there was such a thing as an ex-Marine. He couldn't meet her eyes. To cover, he glowered at the grey creature. "Which are you, and where's the other?"

Mulder said, "Ironcore is a Grey. Hunter is what Scully calls an internal symbiont."

Scully picked up again. "Another of Hunter's species was an internal parasite. There's a local species that seems entirely parasitic; we don't know if it's related to the Partners or a case of parallel evolution."

"Related?"

Ironcore found a seat. The agents put their weapons away; Walter followed their example. Mulder set his (highly illegal) backup gun on the table next to the Grey and also sat. Scully gestured Walter to do the same, then sat down herself. Scully said, "We're going to have a three-ring circus sorting all this out, but right now we have the Consortium, the Colonists and the Resistance holding a gang war on American soil. You've been an uncertain ally, sir, but . . . I believed you, back in the hospital. I believe that if we can eliminate the nanomachines, you can be -- as much of an ally as before."

God, he was still 'Sir'! He wished she would chew him out; this sadness, regret for what was lost, twisted the knife. He growled, "They can do it?"

"They're not healers, and they haven't any equipment, but by its very nature, Hunter knows physiology and biochemistry. When it was separated from Ironcore, it lived with Kit Mallory, who was burned stopping a Resistance massacre. For about a month, it lived with me, snacking on my cancer -- which was quite accessible to an internal symbiont -- while we studied each other."

"Was. It cured you?"

"We won't know for sure for another few months, but there's no taste or smell of it that Hunter can locate. It's willing to do an exploratory on you. If those nanomachines are Earth-made, they're probably coarse enough for it to locate."

"Who are you, and what have you done with Agent Scully?"

"Evidence," she said again. "Hard evidence."

"-- and those two are as bad as she is," Mulder added.

The Grey made a preliminary sound and said, "We are not such incompetent pilots, or engineers, as your crash stories make us out. And for the few of us here to be responsible for all the abduction stories, we would all have to work twelve-hour shifts. We really do have better things to do than play tag with your air force." He could easily have passed for an Earthman over the phone.

"Will you permit the exploratory?" Scully persisted.

"Do I have a choice?" Scully only looked at him. "OK. Do it."

The Grey -- Ironcore, that was his name -- rose and stood over Walter. Oil poured from his eyes, nose and mouth into Walter's face. He fought not to panic.

Ironcore moved away. Scully asked, "Do you touch-type, sir?"

"What!?"

"Do you touch-type?"

"Yes, why?"

"When Hunter wants to communicate, it will pull the tendons on one hand to put your fingers into typing position." As she spoke, his hand moved of itself, as though poised over an invisible keyboard. "You should learn quickly to follow its lead. It's a good touch-typist itself."

This was not happening. He heard himself ask, "What kind of name is 'Ironcore'?"

The Grey shrugged. "Shorter than 'Incipient Supernova'."

Scully stared and said, "Of course!"

"Huh?" asked Mulder.

"Stars burn hydrogen into helium. When the hydrogen runs low, they burn the helium into carbon, and then burn the carbon, and . . . Well, a star just before it goes supernova has layers like an onion: hydrogen, helium, carbon--" she snapped her fingers in exasperation "--neon, that's next. Neon, oxygen, silicon, and the iron core. That's the end of the line. Iron won't burn."

"What does it do?"

"Collapses and rebounds, blowing off the outer layers. They mix with the dust and gas clouds, and later-generation stars have more heavy elements when they start up."

So much for that topic. They each tried a conversational gambit or two while Hunter did its thing, but it was sporadic at best. All heard the fumbling at the door. The Earthmen re-drew their weapons and faced the sound. Ironcore picked up Mulder's backup gun and watched to the rear.

The door eased open, and the three from the van entered. Two carried plastic bags; the one in the suit locked the door behind them. Longhair said, "A bug and a homer. Both now sitting disassembled in a dumpster a few miles away. We came here via the scenic route. How's it going?"

Scully said, "Hunter's still doing the exploratory." She glanced from the three to Walter. "I know you've met, but how well are you acquainted?"

Walter pointed to the suit and said, "Byers;" to the longhair, "Langley;" to the troll, "Frohike." Each nodded in turn. He glanced briefly at Ironcore, who had started to put the gun back on the table, then changed his mind as the three put their bags there and set out food containers. The Grey put the gun on a nearby shelf and helped.

*This is not happening.* He was not, he could not be, having an indoor picnic with two of his agents, three off-the-wall pamphleteers, and a couple of aliens. Two different species of alien.

Walter's hand moved again into typing position. Evidently, Hunter had waited for him to finish his meal. He glanced at Scully, who set out her laptop for him.

Three screens of gibberish later, he started to get the knack of following Hunter's lead. He cleared the screen and concentrated on the tugging in his fingers.

The screen read:
maybe
hard shock
water salt iv

Scully studied it and said. "You're not sure you can succeed, but there's a chance."

Hunter had Walter put a "y" on the screen.

"Whether it succeeds or not, it's going to be hard on the patient. Could send him into shock."

"y"

"He'll need fluids and electrolytes, and if he blacks out we have to be prepared to administer them intravenously."

"y"

Slowly, they worked it out. Hunter was not only not a doctor, it experienced its hosts by touch and taste/smell rather than sight. Early on, it transferred back to Ironcore, with whom it had of course set up communications back when they first worked together.

Finally, Scully was satisfied and began drawing up lists of things to do. "Hunter is certain it can ambush the nanomachines one at a time without alerting the rest. It can get them out of your capillaries, and when it has as many as it can subdue, it can get them into your duodenum--"

"Try English," Skinner interrupted. He flushed at having betrayed his nerves, but didn't apologise.

"Ah. . ." said Scully. "Well . . . Your intestines are designed to be permeable, that's their function. Selectively permeable. Hunter's cells, or what it uses for cells, are small enough that it can go in the exit gate, or out through the entrance would be more accurate, and carry a number of nanomachines with it. A small enough number, though, that it's going to have to make a lot of trips. OK so far?"

Skinner nodded.

"And since it can't herd nanomachines very well in an organic slurry, you can't eat during the procedure. If it goes on too long, we'll have to feed you intraveinously, which I'd like to avoid if possible. We'll set up for it, just in case, but we won't have a hospital's resources. So we can't do the obvious, purge you and let Hunter herd them out your rectum.

"Instead, Hunter will wait until your duodenum -- the first section of your intestines, just downstream of your stomach -- is clear of your latest meal, and then use it for a staging area. It's going to get its entire mass into that volume before it goes through your stomach, so it will spend as little time as possible cosying up to your stomach acids--"

"You mean it's going to get burned on every pass?"

"We hope not. One reason for starting before your last meal is fully digested is so your stomach won't be trying to digest itself, as my kid brother used to say. With any luck, it won't produce much in the way of acid until later."

"But it's going to be rough on both of us."

"Yes." She left it at that and continued the briefing. "If there's any stray chyme in the staging area , it will catabolise it beforehand, so there should be no reflux into your stomach except maybe some bile, which is unpleasant but not unusual. It will trigger vomiting, which is going to cost you fluids and electrolytes, which you will have to replace right away."

"I barf the things out and it goes back for the next batch."

"Yes. It will ensure that all the nanomachines are ejected, then return to your bloodstream via your nasal cavity, to keep trips through your stomach to a miminum.

"Now: It will inflict as little stress on your system as it can, but there is an irreducible minimum, and it's going to continue all during the procedure. It may send you into shock. We have to be ready to intubate and give you saline IV if that happens. We want oxygen on hand too, just in case."

"How often can the pitcher go to the well?"

"Exactly. That's why it can't guarantee success. There is a remote but real chance that it may set off the remainder of the nanomachines. In that case we get you to a hospital and pray for another miracle."

Which they wouldn't get. If Krycek was even in the country, he wasn't in D.C. "And speaking of venue, where do you think you can do all this without attracting attention?"

Byers spoke up. "We can arrange another safe house and stock it with sports drink plus whatever medical supplies Agent Scully gets to us."

Scully continued. "On the day, we smuggle Hunter to you. You give us leave. Next day, Hunter gives you symptoms to send you home. No one will question them, they'll be quite real. For that reason, they won't stop right away, so you may have to be driven home. They won't be bad enough to need nursing, so as soon as your ride leaves, we take you to the safe house." For a few moments, she watched him in grave silence. "If you agree to it."

Another chance at life . . . honor . . . pride . . . Or death. He met and held her eyes. "Let's get on with it."

===== =====

AUTHOR's NOTE: Feeders-back on the whole just weren't about to assume that an oilien has any chance of herding the nannies safely. So I've put in the icky bits. Background mostly from "The Pyloric Sphincteric Cylinder in Health and Disease," by AD Keet [http://med.plig.org/index.html].

===== =====

Lee Burwasser

*working stiff--don't blame me for policy*