Title: A Child's Worth 01/04

Author E-mail: Daydream59@aol.com

Rating: NC-17 for language, graphic violence, and disturbing imagery

Category: SAR - character exploration

Spoilers: none

Keywords: M/Sc/Sk friendship; est MSR

Archive: Yes, please.

Feedback: Yes! Please!

Disclaimer: Mulder, Scully, and Skinner are owned by

Chris Carter, 1013 Productions, Fox Television Network, etc.

They are wonderfully brought to life by David Duchovny,

Gillian Anderson, and Mitch Pileggi. I will make no profit

from this, and neither will Fox if they sue me, for I am poor

and have nothing material they can profit from.

Comments: Check out my web page, Daydreamer's Den, brought

to you by the talented Shirley Smiley, WebMistress Extraordinaire!

Summary: There is another child out there.

Fourth and last story in the "Retrieval" universe. Assumes

knowledge of the others. Stories in order are:

Retrieval

What Cost, Friendship?

The Price of a Soul

A Child's Worth

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A Child's Worth 01/04

Skinner lifted his hand to knock and was startled

when the door opened before his knuckles could

connect. A small, expectant face looked up at him,

one finger pressed firmly against pursed lips.

"Shhhh, Walter," Steven said.

"Steven!" Skinner scolded gently. "You shouldn't

just open the door like that. It's not safe." He paused,

studying the sad-faced boy. "And why do I need to

be quiet?"

"I knew it was you," the boy replied. "I saw you coming

up the walk. And you have to be quiet because Fox and

Dana are sleeping."

Skinner frowned and looked at his watch. "Sleeping?

It's four o'clock in the afternoon."

"I know," Steven said glumly. "Fox was supposed to

take me to the park while Jessie was sleeping. But

Dana fell asleep and he didn't want to leave while she

was sleeping, and then," Steven pouted slightly, his

disappointment evident, "Fox fell asleep, too."

Skinner stepped fully into Scully's apartment, peering

anxiously over Steven's head. His two agents caught

his attention first. Scully sat alone in a wingback chair,

a basket of folded laundry at her feet, and assorted socks

of all sizes in her lap. Her head lolled back, propped

against the side of the chair and a stray wisp of hair

gently lifted and then settled against her cheek with

each breath she took.

Mulder sat on the couch, long legs splayed before him,

head thrown back in abandon, mouth open. In his lap

lay an open Richard Scarry picture book. Skinner smiled,

thinking what a tribute it was to Jess and Steven that he

even recognized the book as a child's picture book, let

alone that he knew its author. As Skinner stared at the

younger man, his chest lifted and a soft snore escaped the

opened lips.

He looked around again, noting the clutter and disarray

in Scully's normally immaculate domain. There were

dirty luncheon dishes still on the table on the far side

of the room. Several pairs of shoes, in several different

sizes -- including, Skinner noted wryly, a pair of size

thirteens -- lay abandoned by door, and couch, and half

under the television. Every available surface was covered

in books or toys or some sort of child's paraphernalia, and

as Skinner moved across the room, he picked up another

Scarry book then added Maurice Sendak's "Where The

Wild Things Are," and the ever popular "Where's Waldo?"

A coloring book joined the pile, "Goodnight, Moon" and

"The Velveteen Rabbit" were next, and Steven bent to

retrieve and then hand him a juvenile version of Twain's

"Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court." This was

a household of readers.

"Mulder give you this?" he asked.

Steven nodded, saying, "Fox did. He said it was his favorite

when he was a kid."

"Sounds like Fox," Skinner agreed, smiling when Steven

nodded. Appropriate book for Mulder to want to

share with his son.

He looked at the pile in his arms, then searched for a place

to deposit it, but there was nothing clear. Things weren't

going to get picked up like this anyway. He headed for the

table, stopping abruptly at the 'crunch' beneath his foot. He

lifted his foot gingerly, gazing down in time to see Steven

pick up a small Lego man, now missing a head and holding

a broken lightsaber.

"Oh, Anakin," the boy mumbled sadly.

"I'm sorry," Skinner said, still looking around. "We'll try

and fix it in a bit." He gazed down at the child holding the

mangled toy, and suppressed a shudder of guilt. "Look, Steven,

where *is* Jess? Is she still sleeping?" He'd been expecting

to see the little girl come tumbling out at him at any moment,

and he was getting a little concerned at her continued absence.

Inexperienced with children he might be, but it hadn't taken

him long to learn that an unwatched, unattended two year

old could get into an incredible amount of trouble in a very

short span of time.

"I don't know," Steven shrugged. "I was playing with my

Pod Racer Lego," he said, looking down at the little figure

in his hand, "and I haven't checked on her in a while. Fox

was reading to her, and then Dana fell asleep, and then

*he* fell asleep, so I took Jessie back and put her in her

bed."

"Why don't we go look and see if she's awake?" Skinner

took Steven's hand and led him back down the small hallway

to the second bedroom he shared with Jessica. He pushed

the door open, then let Steven slip by and pull him into

the room.

Jess was sitting up in her bed with several puzzles scattered

about her. She was trying, unsuccessfully, to insert Snow

White's body into the opening for Big Bird's head, but she

stopped and looked up at their unexpected entrance. She

smiled happily and clapped her hands, crying, "Wa - tah!"

Forgetting her puzzles, she slid out of the youth bed and ran

to Skinner, arms raised in silent request. He obliged by

bending over and lifting her, feeling her small body settle

in the crook of his arm. She kissed him sloppily on the

cheek, then laid her head against his shoulder, and nuzzled

her face against his neck. "Wa - tah," she sighed as

she snuggled there contentedly before looking up and

accusing him, "You go 'way."

He laughed. "Yeah, I had to go out of town, little one."

His eyes scanned the room, lighting on Steven, and he

included the boy in his next remark. "Looks like you two

have been wearing Fox and Dana out."

At Skinner's words, Steven frowned and sank dejectedly

onto his bed. The AD placed the baby on the floor, then

stepped lightly across the room -- it wouldn't do to destroy

another lightsaber -- and joined him. "What's up, big

guy?" he asked quietly.

"It's what you said, Walter. That we're wearing Fox and

Dana out. They do seem awfully tired all the time." Steven

dropped his head, staring at his hands resting in his lap.

There was a long pause as Steven grappled with his feelings

and with putting them into words. Skinner took the time to

remind himself that while this child was only seven, he was

much advanced beyond the average seven year old. And yet,

the older man looked down fondly at the small boy, in many

ways he was just like an average child. He'd been through

far too many traumas for a child his age, and he needed love

and attention and security and time to redevelop a child's

natural trust in the world around him.

The boy's head popped up, and he asked, "What if they

decide they don't want two kids? What if me and Jess

are too much work?" He dropped his voice and leaned

closer, "What if they only want *one* kid? They might

just want a baby -- not a big kid like me."

Jessica had sensed her brother's tension and had moved

across the room to stand by the bed, leaning her head

against Steven's knee. The boy patted her absently, and

Skinner was again reminded of how much this small boy

had been through, how responsible he had been in caring

for the baby, even before he had known she was his sister.

He reached down and lifted her, settling her on his lap

as he reached out and placed an arm around Steven,

pulling him close.

Amazing! Six months ago he couldn't have imagined himself

in this position, and now it was almost second nature. He

thought for a moment, choosing his words carefully.

"That's not going to happen, Steven. You know that

Fox and Dana love you, right? They're not going to

want to get rid of you just because they fell asleep one

Saturday afternoon. When you have a child," he paused

again, thinking, "or when you love someone, you don't

get rid of them if things get tough for a while." He

smiled down at the boy. "You just get through the tough

times together."

Steven was still looking up at him, as if waiting for more.

"Like you did today," he went on. "When you saw that

Fox and Dana were tired, you helped out. You put

Jessie to bed, and you played quietly so that they could

rest."

"Even though I wanted to go to the park."

Skinner laughed softly and ruffled the boy's hair. "Yeah.

Even though you wanted to go to the park." He hugged

the child, then asked gently, "Didn't your mom and dad

get tired sometimes?"

The boy nodded, face serious as he considered this.

"And you weren't worried they wouldn't want you,

were you?"

The boy shook his head, then said in a still concerned

tone, "But they *picked* me. They wanted me. And

Jess." The droop was back as he looked at the floor.

"Fox just found us, and now he and Dana might feel

like they're stuck with us."

"Do you remember what we talked about -- in the

hospital after the fire at the farm? About Fox and how

he was your biological father?"

The boy was nodding now, his head lifting as his

incredible memory called up the details of that moment.

"And dads take care of their kids." He looked up

triumphantly at Skinner, pleased at his recall. "That's

what Fox said."

"Daddy Pox," Jess murmured softly, her hand reaching

out to touch Steven.

"Right. Dads take care of their kids." Skinner repeated

the words, watching as Steven weighed them and then

smiled. Thinking the immediate crisis was averted, Skinner

plopped the baby on the bed next to Steven, then

rose and surveyed the room. "Now," he said, looking

down at his two erstwhile charges, "perhaps we should

do something about this room while Fox and Dana are

sleeping." He scanned the unmade beds, the toys and

clothing strewn haphazardly about, then turned to

study the children. Jessica had her thumb in her mouth

and was staring up at him complacently. Steven had

joined Skinner in taking stock of the room.

The boy frowned, then reached up and grabbed Skinner's

hand, pulling him back down to the bed.

"Walter," he began, "Jess and I like living here at Dana's.

It's got more room than Fox's 'partment, and I don't

mind sharing a room with Jess." He looked around at the

scattered mess, then flushed uncomfortably. "We haven't

been doing a very good job of picking up, though, have

we?"

Skinner shook his head, then asked, "Why do you think

that is?"

"Mom made us pick up every night before bed. We had

to turn the TV off, then pick up, then be in bed by bedtime.

If it was a big mess, the TV had to go off sooner, and if

we dawdled, then we used our story time to clean up."

He shrugged. "I just figured out it was easier to pick up

a little at a time, then I could watch all of my show, and

still have time for a story at night."

"Did you tell Fox and Dana about that plan?"

The boy shook his head. "I didn't want to make them

feel bad 'cause they didn't know how things were supposed

to be."

"I think it's a very good plan, and I think Fox and

Dana would like to hear about it very much." Skinner

started to rise again, but stopped when he realized

Steven was still looking worried. "Is there something

else you want to talk to me about?" he asked gently.

Steven swallowed hard, then nodded. He studied

the floor for a few minutes, then his eyes roved

the room, finally settling on Skinner. "Do you think Dana

is too tired of kids, or -- would she maybe like a baby?"

Skinner blinked, his only outward sign of the shock

and surprise that blindsided him. What the hell made

the boy ask that? Especially after his fears that Fox

and Dana might not even want *him?* He shook

his head slightly, trying to clear his thoughts, then

studied Jess, who had slid down from Steven's bed

and returned to her puzzles. Without looking at Steven,

Skinner asked quietly, "Why do you ask?"

There was a long pause, then Steven said, "I saw

some papers -- I didn't mean to be snooping -- they

were just laying there on the desk."

He fell silent again, and Skinner waited patiently,

finally prodding him with, "What did you see?"

"Notes," the boy said. "I didn't understand all of

it. It said I was smart, like Fox." He lowered his

voice and shot a quick glance at his sister. "It said

Jess wasn't so smart." He frowned, lower lip pushing

out obstinately, and added, "But I think that's just

dumb. How can you tell how smart someone is

when they're just a baby?"

"You can't," Skinner responded. "Those notes were

wrong about Jessica. She's very bright, and quick,

and she's a perfectly normal two year old."

"They're not going to ter -- termi -- termate her?"

"Terminate." Skinner turned to meet Steven's eyes.

"No. No one is going to terminate anyone." Except

possibly me, he amended mentally. There are a few

people I wouldn't mind terminating about now. He spoke

again to the child. "No one is ever going to hurt you

or Jessica again."

Steven nodded, but was still frowning. He picked up

a stuffed bear from his pillow and held it tight, burying

his face in the fur.

"What else?" Skinner probed. "What's making you

worry so? And why are you asking about a baby

for Dana?"

"The notes said there were eight of us. Eight 'sperments."

"Experiments," Skinner corrected automatically.

"Yeah. But only me and Jess are here." He looked up at

Skinner, wide-eyed, and asked, "What happened to the

others? Were they termi -- nated?"

Skinner nodded solemnly. "Why, Steven?"

"Are you sure?" His head dropped back to the bear,

face nuzzling the well-worn creature. Steven ignored

Skinner's question for his own.

"Pretty sure. That's what the papers said." Skinner reached

out and tugged the boy's chin up, waiting for him to lift

his gaze and meet his eyes. "Why are you asking, Steven?"

"There was a lady, back at the testing place. You know,

where you and Fox found us at first." He waited for

Skinner's nod, then went on. "She was in a different room,

but I saw her a few times, and I think I heard some people

talking about her. Some of the doctors, you know?"

"What did you hear, Steven?"

"Well, I know she was going to have a baby. I could *see*

that. And the doctors were saying how it was the last one.

Number eight. And that when the baby was born, then the

lady -- the mommy -- she was," he paused, struggling with

the large word, "ex -- exten -- extenble."

"Expendable?"

Steven nodded. "Yeah. That's like the other one, isn't

it? Ter -- termi -- nate?"

Skinner nodded sadly. "Yeah, Steven, I'm afraid it is."

"Well, it made me sad to think about a baby with no

mommy." His hand went up and touched his chest. "It

made me hurt -- here. But then bad things started happening,

and then Fox found us, and then you were there, and it all

sorta -- slipped away from me." He looked up, grief-stricken.

"I forgot about the lady and her baby." His eyes filled up with

tears, and the words suddenly rushed out. "And then I saw

the papers and I was wondering if it was another baby like

me and Jess, and if Fox knew the lady and maybe he made

another baby with her, and then I wondered if Dana would

be mad, or," he paused here, and sniffled, wiping his nose

on his shirt, "maybe me and Jess are enough work for her.

Or maybe she *would* like a little baby." His voice lifted

hopefully on the last words, and he gazed up expectantly at

Skinner as he said, "What do you think?"

***************************************************

"Mr. Skinner," the man nodded as he walked up to the

AD. A wispy trail of smoke followed him, and Skinner

could smell the tobacco scent that clung to the man.

"Do you have it?" Skinner demanded.

"Patience, Mr. Skinner." The man lifted a hand, holding

up one finger. "You really need to work on your diplomacy."

Skinner grunted. "Right now, I'm working on not killing

you. That's the only thing you need to worry about." Steely

brown eyes stared unflinchingly at the other man, even as

his hands convulsed into fists. "You told me -- you assured

me -- that there would be no more work on the Project. And

then I learn about this. I don't have time for diplomacy, not

when there's this much duplicity floating about. Now, do

you have it?"

The man nodded and reached into his inner pocket, pulling

out an envelope. He passed it over, then said, "I kept my

word. When I told you the Project was over, I was under

the impression that all pending experiments were terminated."

He dropped the cigarette to the ground, crushing it even as

he lit another. "No one was more surprised than I to find

that the work had continued."

Skinner grunted again, not caring about the man's excuses.

"It's just the one doctor now?"

"As far as I can determine. The man took all the research and

the infant and fled."

Skinner had opened the paper and was reading. He paused,

then looked up in disbelief. "He left the country?"

The man nodded. "Back to his country of origin."

Skinner scanned the paper again, then looked up. "Japan?"

He shook his head, eyes closing as he fought for control.

"I'll need support then."

"Oh, no," the smoker said sadly. "I'm afraid that is quite

impossible."

Skinner raised an eyebrow, fighting the urge to raise a fist.

"When I terminated the Project, it was completely terminated.

Any renewed activity will only raise interest amongst those

whom you want to ignore Agent Mulder and his offspring."

The man drew a deep breath, then let the smoke out slowly.

"No. No, I'm afraid you'll be on your own this time."

Skinner studied the man for a long moment, then said, "There's

something you're not telling me."

The man shifted his face to a look of indignant surprise and

said, "Me? Hold out on you?" He laughed roughly. "I don't

think so."

Skinner took a quick look around the immediate area, then

reached out swiftly and grabbed the man by his collar, yanking

him forward and nearly off his feet. There was a strangled

yelp, and the cigarette dropped from yellowed fingers, but

otherwise, the man retained his composure. Skinner ground

the butt into the sidewalk, then said softly, "Talk."

"I can hardly talk to you when you have me at such a -- shall

we say? -- disadvantage."

"I can snap your neck in an instant. What else is going on?

Tell me."

"You are not the first person to threaten me with imminent

death. If I was susceptible --" the man paused, overcome by

coughing from his reduced air intake -- "I would never have

achieved the position I have now." He coughed again, and

Skinner released him in disgust, hand drawing back reluctantly.

The man spluttered for a second or two, regaining his breath

and balance, then nonchalantly straightened his tie, and pulled

another cigarette from a crumpled pack.

"What do I have to do to get the support I need to get in

and out of Japan? What is the price this time?"

"Who can say what a child is worth, Mr. Skinner? How can

we speak of 'price' in this context?"

"What would you know of life's value, you black-lunged

son of a bitch?" Skinner snarled. "Don't bore me with

your platitudes. Just tell me what I have to do."

The man cleared his throat discreetly. "Well," he said,

drawing the syllable out, "there was some other research

that disappeared with Dr. Saito ..." The sentence hung,

suspended, between the two men, stretching as a bridge

across a dark chasm.

Skinner stared at the other man, hatred in his eyes. His

hand clenched against his leg, and he was acutely aware of

the texture of his trousers against his skin. A car horn

blared as it sped past, and a bird took flight overhead,

startled by the sudden noise. Seconds spun into minutes

and the two men stood, frozen, the only movement the

steady lift and pull of the cigarette by the smoker, and

the occasional twitch of a muscle in Skinner's arm, or

leg, or jaw.

At length, Skinner forced his body to relax, and he turned

his gaze away. He was being used again. Deep in his

gut, he could feel the surety that this would be bloody.

And yet, once again, he had no choice. Knowing the

child lived, how could he walk away? Whatever the

smoker demanded, it would be a small price to pay for

a child's freedom.

He turned back and nodded once, a short, choppy motion,

then said, "This time, *I'll* tell *you* what I need."

The man nodded slowly. "Whatever you think is best,

Mr. Skinner. This is, after all, *your* operation."

End part 01/04

A Child's Worth 02/04

The big jet-fuel tanker truck, multicolored in red, black, and

gray, slowed for the speed bump sixty yards from where

he crouched, huddled in a drainage ditch. As he watched, it

humped painstakingly, axle by axle by axle by axle, over the

rise in the road and proceeded at a crawl along the electrified

fence to the unmanned gatehouse. It stopped just long

enough for the driver to reach out, insert a key card, and

punch in an access code. Slowly, with clanking and creaking,

the electronically controlled ram barrier that blocked the

way to the ramp closest to his goal, opened.

Skinner took his cue. He rolled smoothly from the culvert,

staying low and hugging the ground, and crabbed his way

under the left side of the truck, using the shadows to stay

invisible to the surveillance cameras. Slipping between the

rear axles, he pulled himself along the sharp, greasy frame

past the trailer hitch, and wedged himself in just behind the

tractor cab.

Hunkered down, he checked his watch. It was 0210 and this

was the third night he'd made this covert trip into the Narita

airport. The smoking man's intelligence had been scanty. He'd

given Skinner information that the child was being moved again,

this time out of Japan and into North Korea. Apparently the

good doctor preferred to be in a place that didn't have friendly

relations with the United States. Skinner snorted. As if

diplomatic status would ever stop the smoker and his band

of merry men from getting what they wanted.

Skinner had been amazed at the assistance his own personal

devil had provided, once he'd agreed to make this retrieval.

He'd flown into Narita four days ago, first class, and was

staying at a luxury hotel in downtown Tokyo -- all his

expenses covered. The suite had been filled to overflowing

with all the Black Ops equipment a good little mercenary

could ask for. Everything state of the art and up to the minute,

no expense spared. A variety of paperwork was also waiting,

including a passport for one Michael Fogarty, who bore a

startling resemblance to the man Skinner saw in the mirror each

morning as he shaved. Birth certificate and American citizenship

papers, duly notarized by the American embassy, for his infant

"son," Walter, were in the packet, along with a death certificate

for his "wife," Jana, who had apparently died in childbirth.

And within an hour of his arrival, a tentative knock on the

door had revealed a docile young woman, hardly more than

a girl, who bowed deeply, and indicated, in hesitant and

broken English, that she was there to serve him. His

stomach had turned at the thought that the smoker had

set something like this up, and it was only after he had

driven the child to tears and forced the manager up to

translate, that he had come to understand she was there

for the baby -- a wet nurse. Skinner sighed. He hadn't

even considered that aspect.

Several profuse apologies later, the girl had left and he

had assured her he would call when his "son" was released.

It had been an impromptu fabrication, and he hoped it

wouldn't come back to haunt him. He disliked having anyone

involved in his activities, least of all civilians who not

only tended to die easily, but often got in the way and

leaked information without realizing it.

Skinner sighed again. He was already deep in what he

thought of as his "lost" persona -- that place where he

tended to divide the world into two categories: targets

and casualties. The girl was definitely a potential casualty.

Skinner glanced at his watch again as the truck bumped

slowly across the tarmac. The smoker had provided place

and time of Saito's anticipated move, even the date - thirty

one hours from now -- but had left finding the specific terminal

and gaining access up to Skinner. Which was why he was

riding the fuel truck into the airport for the third time since

he landed in Japan.

The big man looked down and ran a quick check. The

cargo pockets of his black ripstop BDU -- Battle Dress

Uniform, thoughtfully provided by the smoker -- held wire

snips for cutting through fences and surgical tape and plastic

restraints for muzzling hostages. Skinner was hoping to

avoid bloodshed this time out, but wasn't willing to bet

the homestead on it. Or the baby's life.

His jacket held a dozen different picklocks, two boxes of

waterproof matches, fifty feet of slow burning fuse, and five

timer/detonators, dry inside knotted prophylactics. It was

the only practical use he had at the moment for the courtesy

supply he'd found in his room's medicine cabinet. In a

small knapsack, he carried half a dozen IEDs -- Improvised

Explosive Devices -- bombs that would attract attention

without doing any permanent damage. Useful for directing

attention elsewhere when required. There was also a change

of clothes, so he could look like any other civilian whenever

he decided to, and a carrier for the baby, another gift of the

smoker. It was called a Snugli, and Skinner had spent more

time trying to figure out how to put the damn thing on than

he had on any other phase of the whole operation.

His left black Gore-Tex and leather boot held a small

dagger, secured in its scabbard. It was one of half a dozen

Skinner had secreted about his person. It was part of his

makeup now, part of who he was. He liked knives, and he

never went into a new operation without at least four. His

right boot held a leather sap, glossy shell surrounding

buckshot, useful in case he had to reach out and touch

someone. His face was blacked out with dark cammy

grease, and he wore a watch cap to cover his bald expanse

of head -- the dark wool long enough to roll down into a

balaclava if need be.

He was wet and he was cold and his joints were as stiff as

an old man's. Which is what he was fast becoming. Too

damned old to be out here doing this shit. This was a

young man's game. He'd been down in the damn culvert

for over three hours, monitoring vehicle flow, watching

as the pair of television cameras atop tall poles swept

the gate and barrier area, noting the regular rhythm of the

blue and white security cars as they passed by. He shifted

his weight where he crouched behind the truck's cab, and felt

a stab of pain at his wrist. Looking down, he could see that

he'd caught his wrist on something sharp between the culvert

and the truck and opened a two inch gash. Fuck! Not a good

omen for night three. He wrapped the wound with one of the

dark handkerchiefs he carried in his cargo pocket.

He was tired, and he was wet, and he was cold, and he was

dirty, and now he was injured, and he didn't like any of it.

But most of all, he was furious. Filled with rage at the men

who had manipulated Mulder. Consumed with a fiery fervor

that threatened his concentration each time his mind slipped

into that area. Forced to play "go fetch" for the smoking

bastard, he vowed again to never play in this game. It was

too hard, too painful. It brought up too many memories and

stirred too many emotions. He closed his eyes and swallowed,

and then forced himself to admit -- not all of those emotions

were unpleasant, thought he knew they should be. The hunt,

the chase, the kill -- it was too *exciting,* too *addictive,*

and he had to stay away from it or it would steal what was

left of his soul.

It was the thrill of this covert entrance into the airport

that seduced. Too easy to just join the throngs of tourists

and move among the terminals, Skinner had opted for the

swift and silent surveillance of his old search and destroy

training. Dr. Saito had co-opted a private hangar, speaking

volumes of the doctor's connections and funding, and it was

very nearly inaccessible. It had taken Skinner the past three

nights to track it down. Three nights of endorphin-producing,

adrenaline-charged, heart-pumping reconnaissance, that had

resulted in the location of Saito's private plane, but not the

necessary level of secure access and egress that he required.

Tonight was the night to find his way in, and make plans for

getting out.

The truck turned right, moving southwest onto a well-lit

roadway that paralleled the taxiway, heading toward

one of the satellite buildings, this one protruding off the

south wing of the main terminal. As it slowed past the

terminal and rolled through a huge shadow created by a

pair of docked, darkened MD-80s, he let himself slide back

through the frame, lowered himself between the wheels,

and let the truck run over him.

He was holding himself off the ground by sheer upper body

strength, the tanker sliding smoothly by above his face, when,

as he released his hold, all of a sudden the knapsack strap

fouled in an air brake line. There was a sharp tug,

Skinner listed to the side and felt his coccyx connect hard with

the concrete as he tried to straighten himself out, and his

head snapped back and bounced off the apron a couple of

times.

Shit -- that hurt.

He groaned softly, then rolled to his left as the

truck moved past him. Holding his aching head, he

scrambled to his feet and hustled into the shadows

between the ramps. He crouched in the shadows,

waiting, watching and decided a potential diversion

might be useful. Making his way under the fuselage,

he climbed into the nosewheel well of the first plane.

A red plastic streamer was attached to one of the struts,

a reminder to the mechanics to check for hydraulic leaks.

Skinner attached an IED -- a red smoke bomb with an

ear-splitting whistle screamer -- to the strut and then

pulled a detonator from his pocket and set the timer.

That little job accomplished, Skinner was ready to move on

when something caught his attention. He froze, listening. The

steady hum and throb of planes landing and taking off, the

whine of engines starting, and the buzz of electric carts shuttling

baggage and cargo filled the air. But there was something

else. He had started to lower himself back to the tarmac when

the sound reconciled itself, standing out against the background

noise. Footfalls. Somebody was coming. He squeezed up

into the wheel well and tried to make himself invisible.

The first thing he saw was the back of a head, followed by a

wooden shaft. It was a broom man. In Japan, they actually

swept the tarmac to keep it clean. That work ethic and

value system accounted for the fact that Tokyo was one

of the largest, most densely populated cities in the world,

but also one of the cleanest.

Skinner watched as the man worked his assigned area, the

broom moving back and forth in a hypnotizing rhythm. It was

soothing in a way, and when the man suddenly stopped, Skinner

almost fell from his hidey-hole, he was so startled. The sweeper

bent and peered at something on the ground. Skinner's breath

caught as he realized what the man was looking at. It was blood.

His blood. Shit! He glanced down at the wound on his

wrist and saw that the handkerchief was, indeed, soaked through.

He returned his attention to the small man on the pavement.

Obviously, he thought he'd found an oil leak. As Skinner

watched, he took a rag out of his pocket and wiped the

droplets off the concrete, then looked to see where the drip

was coming from. He looked straight up at the big AD, his

large frame wedged into the wheel well. The broom clattered to

the apron.

The man's mouth flew open in astonishment. But before any

sound could escape, Skinner had dropped on top of him.

"Murrf --" mumbled the little man.

"I will not kill," chanted Skinner in his mind.

He cupped a hand over the smaller man's lips, wrapped an

arm around his neck, and began to apply a sleeper hold.

At first, it seemed to be working, as the man relaxed and

grew heavy in Skinner's arms. But then, the son of a bitch

twisted, elbow ramming backward into Skinner's mid-section.

Skinner let out an "Ooomph," as he lost his air, and then

the man dropped, turned, and Skinner was flying over his

shoulder. He bounced off the concrete, head impacting in

what felt like exactly the same spot as it had earlier.

This was Japan. The fucker knew judo, or karate, or some

other martial art.

"Shit!" Skinner's expletive broke the frozen silence, and

the man turned to run away and sound the alarm. Rising, he

tackled the broom man from behind, knocking his legs out

from under him. First instinct was to reach for the knife, and

Skinner had it halfway out of the scabbard before reason

reasserted itself. Instead, he reached into the other boot and

pulled the sap. Then, still murmuring his "I will not kill,"

chant, he tapped his prisoner firmly behind the ear.

The man went still. Skinner rolled him over and dragged

him and his broom under the plane, thinking they were even

now. At least this bastard's head was gonna hurt as much

as his own. He bound his hands and feet with nylon restraints,

gagged him with tape, then tied him into the nosewheel of

the plane. Last was the application of a sticker, one of

the items he had "requisitioned" from the smoker prior to

boarding his own flight to Japan. It read, in Japanese

and English, "Security exercise." Useful cover.

It was time to move on to the building he'd identified

and see if he could get in. This was his last night for

preliminaries; if the smoker's intelligence was correct,

it was do or die tomorrow.

It was amazing what was hidden below ground here

in the Narita airport. Only about one third of the

complex was visible and available to the tourists

who thronged the buildings day and night. Most

of the huge facility was below ground -- a not uncommon

adaptation for land-starved Japan.

There were three subterranean floors filled with acres

of cargo bays, miles of roadways and baggage conveyor

belts, endless conduits filled with electrical wiring, air

conditioning ducts, and fuel lines. And Skinner felt he

had examined every inch of it in the past three nights. One

potential weak spot had yet to be explored.

All the airline food was prepared at ground level, but

stored two levels down in huge drive-through refrigerators.

Drive-through refrigerators that had their own accessways

to every outlying building, as well as sloping ramps up to

the airport's apron, where the meals could then be trucked

out to the planes. All the baggage was shuffled, shifted,

and transshipped below ground as well. And freight, too,

moved by a series of underground shuttle trains to one of

the five huge cargo warehouses that sat directly north of the

main terminal area.

He moved under the nose of the plane, walked ten yards, and

stared down a long ramp. It was from there the baggage

handling carts, service vehicles, and catering trucks drove up

onto the apron. The path was clear. He shifted the knapsack,

wrapped the kerchief around his hand again so he wouldn't

leave a bloody trail for anyone to follow, and started his

descent.

Two and a half hours and an outrageously expensive cab

ride later, he was back in the suite on the top floor of the Okura

Hotel, soaking in the huge Japanese tub. He had his way

in.

*********************************************

The next night it was same Bat-Time, same Bat-Channel,

as Skinner once again crouched in the culvert, cold and wet,

watching and waiting.

He slid the Glock from his pocket and dry-fired it a few times,

checking trigger pressure. It wasn't his brand -- he normally

carried a Sig -- but this had been provided in the room and he

figured better safe than sorry. Another minute to check

the magazine, then a long pause as he debated before

giving in and chambering a round. He still hadn't actually

fired the gun, but it was in perfect shape, and, God willing,

perhaps it would remain unused.

This time it was a Coca-Cola delivery truck that drove him

in. He jumped for the rear bumper while the driver punched

in his access code, then held on for dear life as Mario Andretti

jounced over the speed bumps as if testing new shocks. In far

less time than the fuel truck had taken, he was going down

the ramp to the subterranean passageways.

Mario parked near the concourse elevators, letting Skinner slip

off his perch right under the main terminal area. He wandered

along a series of hundred foot deep, six foot high concrete bays

where drivers parked and recharged electric delivery vehicles

that shuttled baggage and packages up and down the miles

of underground highway. Tempting as it was to commandeer

one of the little carts, he passed on, moving along the walls

from bay to bay, using the shadows cast by the crates, containers,

and vehicles to his advantage. It took time to move the thousand

or so yards down the subterranean road, examining each bay for

signs of occupation as he worked his way through the dimly-lit

passageway.

It was two a.m. as he slipped up an interior ramp and eased into

the hangar that held his goal. He took one quick look around, then

stopped short. Departure was supposedly scheduled for nine a.m.,

but there was activity in the area already. Flashlights shone at the

far end and he could hear the scraping of wood on concrete.

The hairs on the back of his neck erected. His whole body

tingled with a delicious mixture of fear, anticipation, and

tension. It was the edginess of that first patrol in Viet Nam, the

butterflies from the first leap from thirty thousand feet, the

sheer excitement of drawing first blood, the wired hype of the

first kill. It was an indescribable, magical sense of apprehension

coupled with the exhilaration of finally getting to the job at

hand. At last, it was time to go to work.

Skinner moved forward inch by inch, to see what was going

on, easing his way around a pile of six foot containers, working

slowly toward the lights and the noise.

It was dark in the hangar, shadows clung deep against the

walls and over the floor. Dim lights hung far above on metal

supports, the low wattage already tired before it reached the

floor. Listening to the noises, Skinner decided that whoever

was on the other side of the plane was manhandling crates.

Large wooden crates from the sound of it. It took a minute

to determine that they weren't using the idle forklifts he'd

passed because they didn't want to attract attention. Which

was fine with him. He didn't want to attract attention either.

He crept closer until he could see them clearly -- six men,

jabbering at each other as four pushed and shifted a large

crate while one worked on a different box, hammering

it shut with the flat end of a crowbar. The sixth was an

older man, off to the side by himself, not participating,

just watching, and Skinner suspected he was guarding

something as his eyes kept traveling to the floor at his feet.

He worked his way closer, watching carefully and listening

intently, and all of a sudden the rhythm and cadences of

their chattering became clear. Not Japanese -- Korean.

They were Koreans. He narrowed his eyes and looked again.

No way to tell by looking, but ten to one they were *North*

Korean, lackeys of the good Doctor Saito's new allies.

Skinner dropped and scuttled across the floor, still trying

to get closer. But his silent scuttle became a booming

clang as his foot hooked a hand-truck, toppling it in the

dark with a loud "Kerrrang!" It hit the hard concrete

with a ring that echoed in the cavernous space.

Oh, fuck!

The Koreans turned toward Skinner, four of them producing

weapons in moves too smooth to follow. But Skinner had the

Glock out, raising it and sighting even as he rolled to the side

and made for cover. As the first of them charged him, the

AD fired, dropping him with a double tap. New gun,

first shoot. Skinner eyed the fallen man critically. It looked

like a belly shot in the lower left quadrant, then a pull up

and over for a second hit in the neck. Squeeze and heel -- a

rookie error, but Skinner didn't care. The SOB was down.

Heart racing a hundred miles an hour, blood roaring in his

ears, he rolled right to draw fire and get a line on the others.

It worked. A piece of wood splintered somewhere above

his head and he saw a muzzle blast at his ten o'clock.

Surprise, you motherfucker.

He rolled again and came up on one knee, the knife flashing

silver as it passed through the sliver of light and buried

itself in the ten o'clock man's neck. A look of surprise

registered on the Asian's face and then he was collapsing

almost gracefully onto the concrete and Skinner was moving

again, the night sights on the Glock now three even red dots

in the semidarkness.

The third man was in the sight picture a mere six feet away,

his round face amazed that this tall, black-faced stranger

had him and he was about to meet his ancestors. Skinner

stared into the man's eyes for a moment, both of them

frozen in time, Skinner fighting for control, calling up the

forgotten chant, "I will not kill." He was silently urging

the man to run when the Korean's gun-hand moved and

broke the deadlock between them.

Blood lust crashed over Skinner and he muttered, "Fuck you,"

as he pulled the trigger three times and the man rocked

back, a triangle of holes in his chest.

Skinner rolled again, shoulder smashing into concrete as

he scrambled for cover, firing wildly down the bay while he

shifted. A ricochet came too close and he could feel wetness

on his cheek. No time to check how bad it was, just move, roll,

and fire. Move, roll, and fire.

And then -- the mag ran dry. He dug frantically for the

backup in his pocket. Where the hell was it? He fumbled

around, cursing.

With three of their number taken out so quickly, the

pause while Skinner worked to change magazine must

have given the remaining men a thirst for success because,

magazine still in hand, hand still in pocket, he heard a big

scrambling of feet, and then, one of them was on top of him,

followed closely by a second. He could see the whites of

the first man's eyes as he rounded the crate at full gallop,

his hand wrapped around a big knife. The gun was still

empty, but Skinner smiled anyway, a feral, animal grin,

his white teeth gleaming in his blackened face.

Knives. He liked knives.

A second blade appeared in his hand as if by magic,

and without word, or even thought, launched itself at

the man and was swallowed in his chest in an explosion

of technicolor red. The man was still moving forward

as he slid to the ground, and there was no time, no time,

as the other one was right behind him.

Eyes fastened on the man bearing down on him, the AD

willed his hands to cooperate. 'Do not be a fucking

fumble fingers, Skinner.' New chant, old words. 'Take

the fucking magazine. Now put it in the fucking gun,

release the fucking slide and shoot the fucking bastard who

is trying to kill you. Do not screw up. Do not screw this

up. Shoot the son of a bitch, Skinner. Shoot him!'

It felt like it took a week, but finally his fingers closed

around the magazine, pulled it out of his pocket, slammed

it home, dropped the slide, and he shot the bastard -- all

in the space of about a second and a half, or maybe ten years,

depending on your point of view. And it was not a moment

too soon either. By the time he'd loaded and locked, the fifth

man was on top of him, charging like a bull, face ratcheted

in anger or fear or both, knives in both hands coming straight

for his eyes, a scream in his throat. Skinner never even had

a chance to raise the weapon. It was all he could do to fire from

his crouched position and send up a silent prayer that he'd

drop like a stone.

The three pound trigger pulled so soft, so easy, he put five

rounds in him before he could stop, mentally berating himself

for wasting ammo when he had no idea as to what was still

ahead. What if they had reinforcements outside? His silent

foray had turned into a ground-shaking sortie. Who knew what

was waiting outside these walls?

The fifth man went down, but his forward momentum

carried him into Skinner. He ducked the blade -- he was

getting pretty good at ducking blades -- and hit him in

the face with the side of the gun to knock him away. The

Korean stopped moving. Skinner rolled him over, then shot

him in the head at close range to make sure he was dead.

It was a little late for delicacy at this point. He confiscated

the knives to replace the two he'd given to the man's compatriots,

and swiftly tucked them away. A last glance at the

dead man showed he'd walked the rounds from his

left thigh through his groin to his heart and then shoulder.

Not his best, but he was working with the handicap of an

unfamiliar gun. It had been reflex firing -- and lots of luck.

By his count, there was one man left -- the old man. There

was movement off to Skinner's left, and then the man was

scrambling for the main corridor, about fifteen yards away.

He tried to get him in the gun's sights, but he was so pumped

up, he was shaking. Leaning forward, he braced his forearm

on top of a nearby crate, acquired front-sight picture, and

squeezed off a controlled, three round burst as the Korean

was silhouetted against the passageway light. Skinner grunted.

Controlled burst -- like hell. Only one of them hit, but the

man still pitched forward. It was enough.

The big man collapsed, sweaty, bleeding, and shaking with

that mixture of excitement, exhilaration, and disgust that

always overtook him after battle. He lay on the cold concrete,

waiting for the shakes to end, the fire in his blood to ease,

and his heart to still, wondering if it was worth it all.

And he listened. Attuned to the slightest nuance, he

listened to the pounding in his head, and the roaring

in his ears, and the minute trickle of blood that dripped

from his cheek. He listened to his teeth grind, one

against another, and listened to his stomach churn,

as he thought of the carnage he'd just created in his

glee-filled blood-craze. Then he listened to the

air as it moved slowly through the immense space,

and the hum of the ground beneath him as machinery

toiled and vehicles moved. He listened to his

conscience tell him he was a stone-cold killer, not

fit to be with civilized men. Not fit to walk with

humans who lived and loved and valued life. Not

fit to love or be loved, to care or be cared for, to

hurt, or have his hurts tended. Not fit to be.

He sighed, then stiffened as there was an answering

sound. An almost echo of his own slight sound,

tiny and incomplete. It drifted on the chill breeze

that blew through the drafty hangar, and dangled,

tantalizingly, just beyond his auditory reach. He

drew a breath, holding it, and waited in total stillness.

And it came again. A tiny mewl of complaint, a small,

barely-voiced sound that echoed in his ears.

He was on his feet and moving, homing in on the sound,

shifting the huge crates without thought of silence or

safety. Everything had narrowed to the one objective.

Find the source of this tiny noise.

A crate tipped, shoved by a strong, rough arm, and a

small basket was revealed. Two bright chameleon eyes

stared up at him, shifting gray to green to brown as he

watched, and a tiny hand waved jerkily, as if operating

separate from the rest of the wee body.

He dropped beside the basket, eyes locked with the

little one's, and paused to regain his breath.

"You're here," he whispered, one hand reaching out

to gently capture the small hand that still waved.

"It's all right, now. It's going to be all right."

Skinner released the tiny hand, then gave a short, soft

chuckle as it probed the air, grasping his own pinky

finger, and closed, trapping him. He rolled again,

still half out of breath as he lay on his back in the

cavernous hangar, pulse racing in his ears, and took

a silent inventory. It was an old ritual, time tested and

honorable, this counting of new scars and wondering

if it was really worth it.

Tonight, for the first time, he could answer that question

unequivocally.

Tonight, he had been alone. No backup. No friends,

allies, or fellow operatives.

And tonight, he'd found his answer.

He pulled himself up, sitting cross-legged on the concrete

and reached into the basket to lift the infant from its nest

of blankets. He cradled the baby carefully, searching

his memory for some long ago bit of lore that reminded

him to support the head, and hold the child close. He

snugged the baby tight to his chest, then looked down

and smiled as the little one cooed up at him.

Oh yes, it was really worth it.

End part 02/04

A Child's Worth 03/04

Skinner sighed and rolled over, gently freeing his

finger from the infant's small grasp, and returning it

to the basket. He pushed himself up, fighting muscles

that were already trying to stiffen, and rose to his feet.

Looking around the hangar, at the boxes and boxes of

equipment and materials that were there, he wondered

how the smoker had ever expected him to secure the

specific research materials that had been stolen. His

mind mulled over the problem as he hurriedly removed

the bodies and stowed them out of sight, harking back

to old lessons to leave as little evidence of your presence

visible as possible. Two empty crates served as

perfect storage lockers, and the dead Koreans were

quickly gone from view. Blood stains were harder

to erase, but he did what he could, then paused to

survey the scene. He nodded once. It would do.

He went back to the basket, looking down at the

baby. It was sleeping now, one fist stuffed

against its mouth, and the tiny jaw worked up and

down as if suckling. It was smaller than he had

expected -- and incredibly fragile. He'd been able to

feel every bone through the velvet skin when he held it.

Moving the baby was going to be more difficult than

moving the crates.

He lifted the basket carefully, and took it to the opposite

side of the hangar, creating a hidden alcove behind the

crates he'd stowed the Koreans in. He stood a moment

longer, studying the small face. Even this small, even

this new and unformed, he could see the stamp of Mulder's

genes in this baby. The dark hair, surprisingly thick for one

so new. The slightly oversized nose; the long, almost

elegant fingers. And, of course, those hypnotic, changeable

eyes, deep and piercing already, and shifting from gray

to green to brown with tiny flecks of gold throughout, closed

in sleep now, but the memory of them was etched in his

mind forever.

He smiled, then shook himself, and slipped out of the knapsack.

Shipping labels, safe inside a plastic bag, tumbled into his

searching hands, and he was soon relabeling and redirecting

every container in the hangar. That task complete, he was

stalled. He needed to get them moved and inserted into

the airport's standard freight flow, but he wasn't going to

leave the baby. And a man his size already stood out amongst

the smaller Japanese. Posing as a worker would never fly

if he had a baby with him. He furrowed his brow, considering

the problem, then dug back into the pack and produced the

baby carrier. Antiseptic packets were used to scrub the grease

from his face, and he stripped down, quickly changing from

battle dress to mufti in seconds. Bare-chested, he strapped

the Snugli around himself, fingers fumbling over still

unfamiliar loops and catches. The baby still slept, not even

waking as Skinner lifted it and slid it into the carrier.

He stared down at the small head, feeling the soft hair

against his chest, and was tempted to toss the whole mission

and take flight immediately.

Only the knowledge that there would be no safety for any

of them if he didn't produce the desired results kept him

rooted to the spot.

He pulled the shirt on, deliberately big and loose, and

adjusted the carrier, so the baby hung low on his chest,

simulating a pot belly. Or so he hoped.

He turned and moved cautiously down the passageway,

back to the forklifts. A purloined key, a clipped chain,

and he was riding back to the private hangar. It took

over an hour to ferry the boxes out to the public freight

areas and insert them in the processing stream. Preprinted

manifests were attached, indicating contents and origin,

as well as fees paid, and destination. Customs labels

were in place; if all went well the crates would flow

smoothly out of Japan and into a freight handling service

he'd hired in California, to be stored for his eventual

retrieval. Before he turned any of this over to the smoker,

he planned to take a long, hard look at it himself.

He looked at his watch. Almost four, and beneath the

blowsy shirt, he could feel the baby beginning to stir.

It would be hungry, and probably wet. Or worse. He

wrinkled his nose at the thought, then headed back to

the hangar. If they were moving the baby, they had to

have supplies.

On the plane were diapers and wipes, cans of powdered

formula and bottles. He looked for food but couldn't

find any, and assumed it was still too young for anything

but milk. Then he mentally corrected himself.

Gotta stop calling it an it.

He took a deep breath, smelling something pungent,

and realized he'd be finding out the infant's gender

soon enough.

The baby was squirming harder now, and beginning to

make noise, and Skinner figured it was time for a

tactical retreat. Out of the shirt. Out of the carrier.

Into something that fit better. Back into the carrier.

Milk, bottles, diapers, and wipes into the knapsack.

The baby's noises were growing louder, and there was

no way to explain to one this young that noise was not

a good idea when you were trying to covertly steal the

entire contents of an airplane, especially when you had

just killed six men. He pulled the baby out of the carrier

and tucked it into his arm, then headed -- fast -- for the

ramp up to the main terminal. He might be able to

pass for a tourist up there. Down here, a squalling infant

would only bring trouble.

He made it back to the main concourse just as the infant's

mews of discomfort turned into full-fledged cries of adamant

displeasure. He entered the terminal, trying to look as if he

belonged, and made a beeline for the first men's room he

could find. He looked around for a place to put the baby

while he made up a bottle, but there was nothing.

He was holding the baby with one hand, trying to open

the formula can with the other, and making ridiculous

cooing sounds at the decidedly red-faced noise machine

in his arms when a hand tapped him on the shoulder and

a polite voice asked, "May I help you?" in carefully

enunciated English. He turned to look down into the

smiling face of a young man, a small boy at his side.

"I hold baby. You fix bottle," he offered.

Skinner paused, his paranoia rising. He couldn't let

go of the baby, not even to this apparently innocuous

stranger who only wanted to help. Instead, he shook

his head, smiling, and asked, "Could you fix the

bottle? I'm still real new at this."

There was a moment of confusion and Skinner wondered

if the man understood, but when he pushed the bottle in

his direction, the man smiled, nodded, made a little half-bow,

and quickly dumped formula into the bottle, ran water to warm

it, then filled the bottle, shook it, and passed it back to

him. Skinner took the bottle and stood staring at it

for a moment, the baby's wails growing louder each second

he delayed. The man gently nudged him, and he looked

down, embarrassed as he stuck the nipple between the opened

lips and the multi-decibel noise suddenly ceased. The

baby sucked hard several times, then settled into a steady

rhythm, periodically punctuated with little grunts and

throaty sounds of contentment as the bottle slowly began

to drain.

"Thank you," Skinner said, offering his own half-bow,

hindered as he was by the feeding infant.

"Of course," the man said. "It is hard to be father and

travel with child." He looked down at his own son, still

standing soberly beside him. "Good luck to you." The

man nodded once more and he and the child disappeared.

Skinner sighed and raised the baby up in his arms until

he could tuck the end of the bottle under his chin. He stood

there, feeling extremely conspicuous, and found it took a

surprisingly long time to feed a baby. And you really couldn't

do anything else when they were eating. There was nothing

to do but stare at it, watch the little mouth work, the little

hands wave in the air, the little feet kick and then draw up.

Listen to the contended grunts and snuffles that accompanied

feeding, the gurgles and coos that came after. Lift it up and

tuck in into your shoulder, snug in the hollow of your neck

and smell the fresh baby scent beneath your nose. There was

nothing to do but fall in love.

He took another breath, nose wrinkling, and realized the

problem he had detected at the plane hadn't magically

vanished after all. And despite the baby's full stomach,

it was squirming and beginning to mew in complaint.

He grabbed a handful of paper towels and wiped the

counter by the sink, then lay a fresh covering down.

It was a tight fit, but he could make it work. The baby

went down next, the gown went up, and the diaper came

off.

"A boy!" Skinner froze, then looked around guiltily,

thinking how odd it would appear that the "father" of the

baby was surprised at its gender. But the restroom was

empty.

"A boy," he whispered to the little one. "So you're a

boy." He cleaned the child quickly, rediapered him

and then stuffed all the escaped paraphernalia back

into the knapsack, slung it over one shoulder, and went

to find a cab back to the hotel.

**********************************************

He walked into the hotel lobby, the baby asleep again

against his chest. Amazing something so small and

perfect-looking could make so much noise when it wanted

to. He was standing just inside the door, off to the side and

out of traffic's way, behind a large potted plant, staring

down at the small creature that was nestled against him,

oblivious to the world at large and the dangers that lurked

there. Staring down at that small face, he was once

again filled with that feeling, that knowledge, that no

effort, no sacrifice would be too big to bring this child

home and unite him with his parents. He smiled, ready

to move on up and into his room, when he heard his

"name."

Fogarty.

It was buried in a spate of Japanese, and the only other

word he could make out was "visa."

Panic gripped him. He peered around the bush, seeing

police at the lobby desk, and listening uselessly to the

rapid-fire conversation that was going on. With no further

thought, he abandoned the room right then, forgetting the

papers and other supplies, and ducked back out into the

night.

He couldn't be certain, but he was willing to bet that

someone had betrayed him. His visa had been canceled.

He was trapped on Japan with no identification and no

way home.

He needed money, he needed supplies, and he needed

to get off this island.

He needed a plan.

He checked his watch. It was close to dawn. He weighed

his options. Japan was a friendly nation, he might be able

to get help here. But if the Japanese officials had already

been turned against him, it could be a long and arduous

process to sort things out, and he would surely lose the

baby.

Without papers, standard transport off the island was

impossible. He needed something private, something

secret, and as the thought crossed his mind, an idea

began to form.

He lifted his hand, flagging down a cab, and went back

to the airport. He'd blend in better in the airport than

he would wandering around Tokyo with an infant in his

arms. A car stopped, he crawled in, barked "Narita,"

then sank back into the cushions and closed his eyes.

It had been a long night. A long night following three

other long nights that had followed a long plane ride.

He was exhausted. His back ached and his head hurt,

and his muscles were protesting every move he made.

He was feeling his age.

And the crazy plan he'd just hatched didn't bode well

for rest and relaxation any time in the near future.

He reached Narita, parted with a chunk of yen -- gods,

things were expensive here! -- and walked slowly into

the terminal. He moved through the people, a steady

forward motion, ever cognizant of the weaponry he

carried, and the airport officials who seemed to stare

at him as he passed. He hoped it was only his size,

and the incongruity of a man with a baby, that was

attracting the attention, and not something else.

He wandered through the terminal, buying two or

three bottles of water at each food stall he passed.

He stowed them in the backpack until he could fit

no more in. He would need the water to make the

milk to feed the baby. That task completed, he

eased back toward the baggage retrieval area.

He slipped into one of the ubiquitous gift shops,

snooped around a bit, then bought a clipboard,

pad and pen. From there he went back to a men's

room, and used a stall to conceal himself as he

stripped down again, strapped the sleeping baby

to his chest, and redressed in the oversized shirt,

covering the baby completely.

Knapsack over one shoulder, clipboard in hand,

he moved along the side walls of the terminal,

searching for his objective. He paused by a

door marked in Japanese, French, English, and

Russian.

Employees Only.

Skinner stood there a moment, acting as if he was

making notes, and from beneath his hooded

lids, he watched the people, seeing if anyone was

watching him. When he felt secure, he moved slightly

till he stood before the door, then reached behind

himself, pushed, and slipped through.

He immediately turned and began to trot, making

for baggage handling and the access to the underground.

He moved swiftly now, operating under the principle

that if you seem to know what you are doing and

where you are going, people are hesitant to question

you. His eyes were scanning, scanning, seeking out

that one worker who was alone, away from anyone

else, and eventually he found him. A young man, off

by himself in a semi-darkened alcove, a skin magazine

in his hands. He was avoiding his assigned duties, and

Skinner smiled.

It made what he was going to do a bit easier, knowing

that the kid was a slacker.

He walked over to the young man, bowed politely,

then asked, "Do you always read girlie magazines when

you're supposed to be working?"

The kid looked up, startled at the big man's presence,

and confused by the unfamiliar language. He started to

smile, and point back toward the terminal, but Skinner

was reaching out, grabbing him in a choke hold, and

praying this one didn't know judo, or karate, or some

other shit as well. He could hardly afford to go flying

with the baby strapped to his chest.

But the boy only stiffened, plucked uselessly at Skinner's

arm, and then collapsed as Skinner slowly lowered him to

the ground. He stripped the ID badge from around the

boy's neck, put it on his own, and headed back out to the

main passageway.

It was an almost direct line to the private hangar from

there. No one stopped him. No one asked what he

was doing. The few people who glanced his way,

quickly averted their eyes when he looked at them and

pretended to make a note on the clipboard. The fear

of being reported crossed international boundaries,

and the workers here just didn't want to draw any

attention to themselves, or their job performance.

Very quickly, Skinner was through the underground

labyrinth, and easing up the ramp into the hangar, and

then he was slipping through a maintenance hatch,

and crawling through the belly of the plane. He tunneled

far in, behind wires and conduits, and even managed

to remove a baffle that covered an air condenser, and

crawl in, pulling the plate back in place. It was dark

and cramped, and it would be loud and cold, but it

should be a short flight, and he could keep the baby

warm, and the engines' drone would drown out any

cries the child might make. And when they landed,

they would be in North Korea, but at least there he

wouldn't be wanted by the police, and he should be

able to get to a phone and mobilize some help.

******************************************

"When is Walter coming back?" Steven looked up from

his book and waited as Scully and Mulder exchanged

looks. Skinner's absence seemed to have become the

focus of Steven's life these past few days.

Scully stood, lifting Jessie and went down the hall to

start the baby's bath, leaving Mulder to answer Steven's

question, again.

"How long did he tell you he would be gone?" Mulder

asked patiently.

"A week."

"And how long has he been gone?"

Steven thought then said, "Four days?"

Mulder nodded. "So when should he be back?"

"That's the part I don't understand, Fox," Steven said.

"I know he said a week. I remember. And a week is

seven days. I know. But sometimes you and Dana talk

about a week at work, and that's only five days, and I

get confused."

Mulder nodded again. That made sense. Of course,

Steven wouldn't understand the concept of a work week, but

he was aware of it. "Well, Steven, his conference is supposed

to be over tomorrow, so he should either be back tomorrow

night or the next morning. OK?"

"So, either one or two more days?"

"Right. One or two more days." Mulder smiled, then reached

out and tugged gently on the boy's hair. "Hey, how come you're

so interested in Walter's trip, short stuff? You gettin' bored

with me?"

Steven laughed, then flashed a cryptic smile.

"Walter promised to bring me something this time."

********************************************

Skinner had risked putting the baby down. The diapers

and blankets, his own BDU, and other spare bits of cotton

and nylon formed a nest, and he settled the infant in place,

hoping he was doing the right thing. He eased back

himself, cramped as he was, and tried to find a comfortable

position for the flight. There were still several hours until

the plane was scheduled to depart, and he was hoping he

could catch a few winks between now and then. The way

he'd rigged the entry to the cargo bay would alert him when

someone was trying to enter the plane.

His eyes drifted shut and he was soon nodding, chin

dropping down to his chest. He held the Glock in one

hand, fully loaded and with a round chambered, and his

throwing stars were out and by his side, ready for use if

need be. He was in that fuzzy place, somewhere between

sleep and waking, when he heard it.

A muttered curse in Japanese. The good doctor had arrived

and found his cargo, and crew, were missing. Skinner jerked

himself awake, then looked at the baby. Until they were

airborne, it wouldn't do to have the little one cry. He

pulled one of the bottles of water, the formula, and the

baby bottle from the pack and quickly made up the child's

next meal. He was working on the one quick glimpse he'd

had as the young father had made the bottle in the bathroom.

He couldn't read the Japanese instructions on the can, and

had no idea if he used too much or too little of the powder,

but he really didn't have an option. He had to hope it

was right, and that the baby would take it and be quiet

when it woke up.

There was another curse from outside, louder, and then

someone began to yell. Probably Saito. Skinner smiled

grimly. Good. Let the little prick worry. He couldn't

report theft of material he wasn't supposed to have, and

he couldn't very well search for workers who probably

shouldn't even be in the country. Skinner could hear

movement outside the plane, the wooden scrunch of the

crates on concrete, and the shocked exclamation as the

bodies of the Koreans were found. Another hurried

conversation and he heard hammering. Saito and his

gang were recovering the crates, probably going to leave

the bodies where they found them.

More time passed, and the baby woke and fed, and

Skinner changed it. Time with Jessica had paid off -- he

was almost a pro at this diaper business now. Though

it was harder with one so little. He was almost afraid to

pull on the little legs to lift them up -- they seemed so

fragile he wondered if he would inadvertently break one.

Disposing of the used diaper was a problem, but he shoved

it further into the bowels of the plane, hoping it wouldn't

begin to stink too badly until they were gone.

It was well past eleven now, and Skinner had begun to worry

that he hadn't plotted things quite as well as he thought,

when Saito reappeared. The plane was boarded in short

order, and within minutes they were rolling onto the

runway and had clearance for take-off.

Skinner waited an hour -- time to clear the strait of Korea,

and then he made his move. He swaddled the baby more

tightly, and rigged a makeshift strap that would hold it

in place, even if the plane began to pitch. Then he removed

the baffle that concealed them, and crept silently out into

the undercarriage of the plane. A few yards up and there was

the access hatch into the body of the plane.

Skinner paused and took a silent inventory. Stars? Check.

Knives? Check. Glock? Check -- with refills. The leather

sap that had lain in his boot had been replaced by one of

the Korean's large knives. No good for throwing as his

delicately balanced toys were, but it would do a hell of

a number on someone if he got close enough. His lips

pulled back over his teeth, and a carnivorous growl

escaped him. He'd always liked knives.

He made a silent count -- one, two, three -- and he was up,

popping the hatch and sailing into the passenger area of

the small private plane. A man in the mini-kitchen area

dropped, never realizing what hit him, and then Skinner

was moving down the aisle. Two men sat on the left,

a third on the right. Big for Asians, broad and muscular,

and two of them were moving on him.

He froze letting the first man advance, bent low, arms

extended, the big knife in one fist. The gun was still tucked

securely in his pants -- he hated shooting on airplanes. There

was too much potential for disaster. The sumo wrestler

in front of him charged, and Skinner bent further, nailing

the guy with his shoulder then he dropped back in a

controlled roll, and the man was on him, the knife

rising, sinking deep in the rolling belly. A warm, wet,

sticky gush of red flowed over his hands and onto his

chest and Skinner continued rolling back, and the flow

moved upward, thick and viscous as it ran onto his neck

and then his face and finally his head. Then the man

was behind him, laying face down and unmoving,

and Skinner was rising again.

The other two were standing still, surprise rooting

them to their places, and Skinner let fly with two of

the deadly little stars. The first one caught the man

on the right in the throat. He gurgled once, a strangled

sound that could have been a cry for help or a plea

for mercy, and then he dropped, folding slowly down

into the seat behind him, eyes wide and staring in disbelief,

until, he slid from the seat and vanished from Skinner's

sight.

The second star missed. The man on the left had moved,

rolling back and popping up from behind another luxuriously

padded seat in the plane. Skinner saw a gun and dove, just

as the muzzle flashed and the bullet whizzed by, winging

him in the upper arm. The nerves in his bicep exploded,

and soon the blood of the first warrior was mixing with

the red of Skinner's life. He hissed through his teeth,

scuttled sideways again, and moved further back into

the plane, using the widely spaced, thickly padded seats

for cover.

The gun fired again, and then there was a sound from

behind him, and Skinner whipped around to see that a

fourth man had appeared from nowhere and was almost

upon him. He rose, gave a mighty yell, and charged

the new intruder, taking him down with a knife to the

chest. He twisted in place, dancing with the corpse,

and used it as a shield as he raced forward to the last

man's position. He staggered twice as he felt slugs

rock the body, then tossed it aside as he reached the last

man, and forcibly yanked him up.

The gun skittered away, and the man came up swinging.

Skinner took a blow to the face, causing his eyes to water,

and his nose to bleed, and for a moment his vision blurred,

but he gripped the man tighter and squeezed, arms like

steel cords wrapped around fragile ribs, tightening, tightening,

until he heard the first crack, followed by another then

another, and the man moaned. Skinner looked down.

The man's face was contorted in agony, his lips were turning

blue, and as Skinner watched, his face went gray, his eyes

rolled back into his head, and his body relaxed into death.

Skinner dropped him without thought, then turned to survey

the cabin interior. Seeing no one else, he made for the

controls, wanting to see if he could "convince" the pilot

that he did speak English, and he wanted to set down in

Seoul, not P'yongyang. But the cabin was empty, the plane

on autopilot, and it was then that Skinner realized where

the fourth man had come from.

Aw, fuck! He couldn't fly -- it was one of the few skills he

hadn't mastered. He groaned, then looked out the cockpit

window, seeing only clouds. They were up pretty high.

He'd have to bring it down if he was going to figure out

what to do. He couldn't very well ditch -- not with the baby.

He was going to have to land this motherfucker himself.

He collapsed into the pilot's seat, the adrenaline of the

battle wearing off, and suffered through the shakes that

always followed. He was bloody, in more ways than one.

He'd killed again, and again, and again. In cold-blood,

and without remorse, and now he wore the enemies' blood

like a battle souvenir. He shuddered, disgusted, and

rose. He needed to get the baby, but he had to get the

blood off first.

Twenty minutes later, dressed in nothing more than his

skivvies and boots, the only clothing he'd salvaged from the

sea of blood, he was clambering back into the hold, and

hauling infant and supplies up into the cabin. The landing

was going to be bumpy at best, and a disaster at worst, and

he needed a way to protect and cradle the little one. He

eyed the lush chairs of the passenger area, got out his knife

and set to work. Within another twenty minutes, the seats

were metal skeletons, and Skinner had earned his name.

With one of his ever-present knives, he'd skinned the

cushions from their braces, and fashioned a padded cradle,

molded around the infant and several feet thick on all sides.

A fourth piece of foam rubber was ready to enclose the

cradle, when the time came.

He carried the baby and its safety contraption up to the

cockpit, then used straps and tie-downs from the plane's

utility bin to tether the thing in place. The task accomplished,

he turned to the sea of unfamiliar gauges, buttons, and

levers, and began to work. Ten minutes, and two panic

attacks later, the plane was off autopilot and erratically

losing altitude. He dropped through clouds, probably way

too fast for safety, then yanked the nose up when he saw

mountains before his face.

He managed to pull up, clear the ridge, and then he was

gazing down at farmland. A good sign for it meant that

he was over the agricultural basin, and there would be

people down there. People meant transportation,

transportation meant communication, and communication

was his way out of Asia and back to the World.

He pushed the autopilot again, then sealed the baby

in its cocoon. There was a mew of protest, but he tuned

it out, offering mental apology and promises to never

do this again -- if they lived through it the first time.

He played with switches again, until he felt the plane

begin to slow, the flaps coming down and dragging

against the lift of the wing. He throttled down, watching

the airspeed drop, and the ground race up to meet him.

He was coming in too fast, too sharply, but he was

committed now, and then he realized he hadn't put the

landing gear down and he began to frantically push at

buttons, wipers coming on, bells going off, one engine

shutting down completely. He liked that idea, and he

shut down the other, then grinned as the wheels came

creaking down from the hold. God bless the techie who

came up with GUIs for the technologically challenged.

He couldn't read Japanese, but even he could recognize

a picture of a set of wheels unfolding.

And then it was time, and the ground was before him, a

blanket of multi-colored greens and browns, stretching

out like a carpet. And the wheels were down and locked,

and the flaps were up all the way, and the engines were

off, and the plane was coasting, coasting, still too fast,

still too steep, but he was pulling up, pulling up, and

some long ago instruction, left over from his training

in Viet Nam, rang in his ears. "Keep the nose up, up,

nose up, you shithead, or you'll tip the whole fucker

over." And he pulled and pulled and could feel the

heavy front end begin to nudge upward, and they were

coming in, too fast, too fast, but it was too late, and there

was a bump, and a crunch, and another bump, and it

was 'nose up, nose up, pull you bastard, Skinner, pull!

Don't you dare kill Mulder's kid! Pull you sonofabitch!'

And he pulled and they hit again, bouncing harder,

then hit one more time and stayed down and Skinner

flew from the seat, feeling a wheel collapse and the

plane list and he crashed into the bulkhead, and then

rolled back across the floor, bouncing, bouncing

with every move of the plane until he, and it, rolled

to a stop, and remained there, unmoving.

End part 03/04

A Child's Worth 04/04

Steven came dancing into the bedroom, leaping happily

onto the bed and crawling up between Scully and Mulder.

He rolled on his side, letting Scully lift an arm and place

it around him, his head coming to rest in the hollow of

her shoulder. Behind him, Mulder rolled over and extended

a long arm to embrace them both.

"What's up, Steven?" Scully asked around a yawn.

"It's today, Dana, today!"

"What's today?"

"Walter's coming back!"

Mulder chuckled and Scully drew back so she could look

the little boy in the eye, and said, "Must be some surprise

he's got for you. You're pretty excited."

Steven pulled out of her embrace, slipping up onto his

knees and beginning to bounce. "It is! It's the best

surprise!"

Mulder and Scully both laughed. It was wonderful to

see the child so happy, and so -- childlike. He was

far too serious, far too much of the time.

He leaned over and planted a long kiss on Scully's

cheek. "And it's not just a surprise for me," he

said breathlessly. "It's for *all* of us!"

"All of us?" Mulder asked, still laughing. "That'll

be the first time my boss has ever brought me a surprise

from one of his trips."

"Maybe he's just getting even for all the little 'surprises'

you tend to bring him," Scully teased.

But Steven had turned and taken Mulder's face in his

hands, forcing the man to look at him. "Not your

boss, Fox. Not now. This is Walter. And it's a surprise

for all of us. You and me and Dana and Jessie." He tilted

his head for a moment, as if considering a serious question,

then added. "And Walter." He waved one arm around in

an all-encompassing circle.

"It's a surprise for our fambly."

************************************************

Something was making noise. Loud noise. Skinner lay

still for a moment, listening. Very loud noise. His head

hurt terribly, and he wished whatever it was that was making

that awful sound would please be quiet or he might have

to shoot it.

His eyes shot open and he yanked himself up. The plane lay

on its side -- one wing must have broken off -- and the improvised

security cradle that held the baby was still strapped to the

floor, only now it was at about a forty-five degree angle.

He scrambled across the floor and undid the fasteners, then

pulled the covering padding off and stared down into a

tiny ball of fury -- red-faced, mouth open, and lungs working

overtime. He made a cursory exam and decided the infant

was unhurt, though the way it was screaming would lead

one to believe it was being tortured to death. He hurried

to pick it up, and murmured soothing words to it, but this

was definitely Mulder's child and it was having nothing

of it. He'd been shoved in a crate, tossed about, and then

ignored for who knew how long -- Skinner looked at his

watch: broken -- and this child was not going to be pacified

with a few soft words. Skinner sighed and put the baby

back down, made up another bottle, and shoved the nipple

in the open mouth. Within seconds, the shrill shrieks ceased

and were replaced by contented grunts as the formula drained

from the bottle.

Skinner used the respite from the noise to take inventory

of himself. His head hurt -- badly. He was bloody again;

it ran from his head, and arm, and there was a particularly

long and deep gash that ran from his upper thigh to his

knee. It probably needed stitches, but that was impossible

now. He needed to get to the city. He needed help.

The baby was done eating again, and he changed it

and placed it back in the foam cradle. It settled down

quietly, the large hazel eyes watching him seriously

for a moment as he whispered nonsense. And when

he said, "Sleep, now," the child appeared to understand

for it closed its eyes and pulled the little fist back up

to its mouth, and was soon slumbering, oblivious to

Skinner, the wrecked plane, or the fact that they

were somewhere unknown in Korea with no money,

passports, or connections. The baby smiled as if

to say "Those are big people's concerns," and Skinner

chuckled, then rose to prepare for the trek into the

nearest city.

He gathered the stock of baby things, noting they would,

once again, take up the majority of the pack. He bandaged

his leg, and cleaned himself, and found clothing that almost

fit. He cleaned and restored his weapons, adding the Asian's

gun to his arsenal.

And then he caught a break. There, in the back of the cabin,

in an alcove by the lavatory, was a semi-charged, functional

air phone. Skinner closed his eyes, sure it was a mirage,

but when he opened them again, it was still there, and

he lifted it, punched in a familiar number, and pressed

"send." He could hear the relays clicking, and the

connections connecting, and then a voice said, "Mulder,"

and Skinner thought he would cry.

"Urgh," he said, most articulately into the phone, and he

could *hear* Mulder's frown.

"Who is this?" the younger man demanded.

"Me," Skinner said hoarsely. "It's me. I need your help."

Mulder's tone changed instantly. "Where are you, Sir?

What do you need?"

"Listen carefully, and don't argue, I don't know how much

time I have. I need a passport in another name -- something

I can remember. Get it to the airport in Seoul."

"Seoul? Korea?" Mulder asked incredulously.

"Yeah. And money. And a ticket. A ticket to Hawaii."

"What's going on?"

"Use John Smith. I should be able to remember that. And

then you and Scully get on a plane and meet me in Hawaii."

The connection was breaking up. Skinner could hear it crackling

with static now, drowning Mulder out as he asked something.

"When?"

"I don't know. It'll have to be something I can redeem for the

next available flight. You may have to wait for me."

"What the fuck is going on?"

Skinner sighed. The connection was nearly gone. "I'll tell

you when I see you," he said, and the line went dead.

************************************************

"Fuck, fuck, fuck!" Mulder exploded as he slammed the

phone down. Steven backed away, wide-eyed, and Jess

ran to Scully, whimpering. Mulder's shoulders drooped

immediately, and he dropped to his knees saying, "I'm

sorry, guys. I'm not mad at you."

"What's the matter, Fox?" Steven was still saucer-eyed,

staring at the man on the floor by the phone. "What

happened?"

Scully surveyed the situation, then said, "I think Mulder

just got a bad phone call, Steven. Could you take Jess

and go play in your room while he and I talk about it?"

The boy nodded and walked over to take the baby's hand,

pulling her slowly down the hall, even as he looked back

over his shoulder, staring at Mulder.

Scully waited until the door to the children's room closed,

then said, "What was that all about?"

Mulder's face was buried in his hands, and she went

over and placed an arm around him, pulling him up and

leading him to the couch. She rubbed his shoulder for

a moment, and they sat quietly until he suddenly leapt

up, another "Oh, fuck!" escaping and ripped the phone

from its cradle. He dialed, then spoke.

"It's me and I don't give a shit about your tape, but I

need something and I need it yesterday." There was

a pause, then, "No. Not over the phone. Meet me.

You know where."

He turned. "It was Skinner. I don't know what the hell

is going on, but he needs a new identity shipped to him

in Seoul."

"Korea?" It was Scully's turn to be astonished. "What's

he doing in Korea?"

"I have no idea. I'm gonna go meet the guys, get them

going on the ID. Get an 'on-call' reservation for him,

pay whatever it costs to make sure he gets on the first

flight he asks for, from Seoul to Hawaii."

"Name?"

"John Smith. Better wire some money to him as well. If he

needs a name, he's probably broke. And get us a flight out

too. As soon as possible."

"The kids?"

Mulder paused, thinking. "With your mom out of town, there's

no one I'm comfortable leaving them with. They're gonna

have to come with us."

He turned to leave, then halted when a small voice said,

"Fox?"

Mulder took a deep breath, then turned back to say, "Yes,

Steven?"

"I'm sorry I got Walter in trouble."

Mulder and Scully looked at one another over the child's

head.

Scully reached out and took the boy's hand, gently

tugging him to the couch. "Maybe you better tell us

what's going on."

**************************************************

On the first day, he met no one, which surprised him

considering he'd just set a plane down in the middle of

someone's field. But no one approached, no one appeared,

no one seemed to be around. He walked from the time

of the crash until dark, stopping only to feed and change

the baby, and to fashion a hat for his head, to protect

him from the too bright sun.

He slept that night, cliche as it seemed, in a haystack,

in yet another field in what seemed to be an endless row

of fields. The baby woke him three times, demanding

milk and cleanliness, and when the sun rose, he felt

as if he hadn't slept at all. He estimated that he made

about fifteen miles the first day.

The second day, he walked until noon, then stopped and

drank some of the baby's precious water, the heavy

weight of multiple bottles growing far too light, far

too quickly for his liking. But he was growing faint,

and even he could recognize the danger in dehydration.

In the mid afternoon, he met two men, walking on the

dirt road he followed. He was heading west, toward the

Yellow Sea, and Seoul. They were heading east. He

bowed and asked, "English?" but was met by vacant

and confused looks. He bowed again and said, "Seoul?"

and this time there were smiles and answering bows,

and the men turned and pointed back the way they

had come. It was the first indication he had that

he was on the right track, or even in the right country.

In the evening, he felt the first twinges of something new

in the gash on his leg, and peeled back the bandage to

look at the wound. Despite his efforts to clean and dress

it the first day, it was now dirty, and he used some more

of the precious water to wash it and then tore the bottom

from his shirt, and the sleeves, and fashioned a semi-clean

bandage.

He slept that night in a storage barn, resting on fresh

hay, and with the little one nestled on his chest. Once

again, the baby woke three times, and three times he

made bottles and changed diapers, and when the sun

rose, he still felt as if he hadn't slept at all.

He estimated that he might have made twenty miles

the second day.

On the third day, the leg was hot, and it hurt to walk,

but he pushed on. The sun blazed down and he could

feel his exposed arms burning in its harsh light. He

walked steadily, stopping only to care for the baby, who

was amazingly good and apparently enjoyed the sensation

of being walked, for he slept much of the time.

Shortly after the sun passed its zenith, he came upon

a man riding in an ox-drawn cart. He pushed himself

a bit more, and came aside the rough, wooden wagon,

startling the driver. Once again, he bowed and asked,

"English?" and this time the driver shook his head and

said, "No." He held up two fingers, pinching them together

and added, "Small."

Skinner nodded, then asked, "Seoul?" and the driver

nodded. Skinner held the baby up, then nodded at the

cart, and the man waved indicating he should climb

aboard. Skinner bowed again, then pulled himself into

the back of the cart, pushing aside cartons of vegetables,

and two crates of chickens to make room to sit. As

soon as he was in position, the cart began to move,

and Skinner sighed. Maybe things were looking up.

He rode until dark, when the man stopped and fed the

ox from the hay in the cart. He fixed a cold dinner from

the produce in the cart, offering some to Skinner who

declined. His leg was hot now, and swollen, and when he

had peeled back the bandage, ugly red streaks shot out

from all sides of the wound. He was feverish, and sick

to his stomach, and wanted nothing more than water,

water and more water. But he denied himself. The water

had to be saved for the baby. The man ate, then made a

rough bed on the side of the road and fell asleep. Unsure

of whether he should stay or go, Skinner fell asleep before

he could decide. The baby woke three times that night,

and Skinner rose and fed and changed it, moving like

a sleepwalker. And when the morning came, he couldn't

even remember if he had slept at all.

He estimated he had made closer to thirty miles on the

third day.

On the fourth day, he was sick. The leg was not just

hot and swollen, it was beginning to ooze a nasty green

fluid, and when he bent his head to look more closely,

a foul odor wafted up. His fever was high, his thinking

was foggy, and he had but one goal: to get to Seoul and

get on the plane to Hawaii.

He rode in the cart until they came to the outskirts of

the city. There was a teeming farmer's market, and

that was the man's destination. As he stopped, and

indicated he was staying, Skinner gingerly let himself

down from the rear of the cart. He stood for a moment,

testing the leg and his balance, then turned and bowed

his thanks. Baby still strapped to his chest, secure in

the ever-useful Snugli, Skinner turned and stumbled off

into the city, following the planes he could see overhead.

It took him hours to cross the city and reach the airport.

He walked right by the American embassy, and was

sorely tempted to turn in and seek help, but fear of

what he would find kept him out. He staggered on,

ignoring the looks he received, ignoring the comments

that were made in a language he did not speak, and finally,

finally, reached the airport.

He moved dazedly in, the air conditioning a shock

to his too warm body that now alternately shook with

fever or shivered with chills. He was pleased to see that

English was plentiful here, at least on the signs, and

quickly found the right ticket counter. The baby was

squalling again, but he couldn't take time to tend to

it this second. He took it from the carrier and propped

it on his shoulder, beginning an unconscious jiggle

that must have come from some deeply ingrained instinct,

passed without knowing from one generation to the next,

on how to care for the young. He by-passed the line,

calling, "English? English?" and was ridiculously

pleased when a young man answered, "Here, sir."

He stumbled over to the window, ignoring the look of

distrust that his dirty clothing and odor earned, and said,

"John Smith. Do you have a packet for me? And a ticket?"

"One moment, sir." The man went behind a partition,

and Skinner had a moment of absolute panic, near hysteria,

as he realized how vulnerable he was. Not only was he

carrying guns, knives, and other assorted deadly hardware,

he was sick, and feverish, and too ill to use any of it

should it be necessary. All that need happen now was

for officials to come upon him and place him in custody.

He would be helpless to defend himself. Or to protect

the baby. Who was still crying, though not as loudly,

nor as determinedly, but apparently wanted to be sure

Skinner didn't forget he was there, and hungry.

The young man came back, smiling, with a large envelope

in his hand. "So sorry you had such troubles, sir. The

bandits are very bad in the mountains. Your passport,

travel money, and other identification is inside. And

an on-demand ticket. When would you like to leave, sir?"

Money! Mulder had thought to send money! Skinner

would have kissed the man if he was there. "When's the

next flight?"

"Seven thirty this evening. Should I confirm your seat?"

Skinner nodded, then asked, "Is there somewhere I can

go to get cleaned up? And a place I can get some clean

clothes?"

"Our VIP facility, sir. It should have everything you

need."

Skinner nodded, and accepted the young man's directions,

then turned to leave. He stopped, looked back over his

head and asked, "What time is it?"

"Two thirty, sir."

"Thank you," he croaked, and moved off to find a place

to rest.

*********************************************

"He's not on this one either, Mulder."

The plane was empty now, all passengers had left, and

and yet Mulder was reluctant to leave. It was the fourth

plane they'd met, their fourth day in Hawaii. One plane

from Seoul each day, nine thirty in the morning.

"Wa - tah?" Jessie asked unhappily.

"Not today, Jess," Mulder replied. Then, looking at Scully,

he said, "You're right, we should go."

They had turned to leave, Mulder carrying Jessica, and

Scully holding Steven's hand, when through the open door

they heard a baby cry. It was pure instinct to look back,

and there he was, moving slowly, every step an obviously

painful maneuver, but he was advancing, coming up

the passageway, and holding in his arms, something

small, and something red-faced, and something growing

progressively louder.

Steven gave a loud, "Whoop!" and broke from Scully,

racing down the passage crying, "Walter! Walter!"

Scully and Mulder were frozen for the moment, but

then they, too, were racing to catch Steven, and to

greet the missing AD.

He looked terrible. Scully could see immediately

that he was sick. His face and head were bruised,

and there were several small lacerations on cheeks

and brow. He was terribly sunburned, and as he

bent to speak to Steven, she could see that his bald

head had blistered in places. She could see the faint

outline of a bandage on his bicep, and he walked

with a decided limp. And his eyes were fever-bright,

his face flushed, exhaustion seeped from his pores.

And despite the new clothes he wore, and the care

she could tell he had taken to clean himself, there

was an odor that clung to him. Infection.

And yet, he was smiling, and nodding at the children,

and then, he was speaking to Mulder. No, he was

speaking to her, and she thought she must be in

shock, because she heard him say, "And so, this is

the last one. Mulder, Scully, may I present your son?"

And there was a tiny baby, squalling in protest being

thrust into her arms, and she was crying, and Mulder

was crying, and then Skinner was collapsing, falling

in slow motion to the carpet, and the airport was calling

for an ambulance, and it was all too much for her.

***************************************

When he woke, she was sitting there, the baby in her

arms, and to Skinner it was the most beautiful sight in

the world. He watched her for a moment, rocking the

little one, holding him tight to her breast even as

she held the bottle to his lips. She was humming,

terribly off-key and almost under her breath, and she

stopped self-consciously when she realized he was

awake.

"Hi," she said, almost shyly.

"Hi."

"How do you feel?"

He thought about it for a moment, taking inventory,

then said, "A lot better, thanks."

Her eyes filled with tears then, and she rose and came to the

bed. She lowered the rail and sat beside him, turning to

face him, shamelessly showing him her tears. "No, it's

we who should be thanking you. What you did ..."

Her words trailed away, and she leaned down, hugging

him awkwardly, the baby still tucked in one arm.

He patted her back and held her for a moment, placing

a quick kiss on the top of her head. She'd been through

so much. They'd all been through so much. And there

was so much he wanted to tell them, but he was tired

again, and his eyes were slipping shut.

She seemed to sense this, because suddenly Dr. Scully

was back, and she pulled away, telling him in a crisp,

clear voice, "You should rest."

He nodded, eyes closed, and was soon fast asleep.

When he woke the next time, Mulder was in the chair,

sans baby.

"Where's the little guy?" he asked.

"Scully doesn't seem to want to share," he said.

Skinner laughed. "And to think, Steven was worried she

wouldn't want a baby."

Mulder rose and walked to the window, his back to the

man in the bed. "You should have told me. You should

have let me come."

"Why?"

"He's my child. I should have been the one ..."

"The one to what, Mulder? Do you really want to know what

happened? Do you remember the island? Remember the things

I did? Remember how you felt? Do you really think you would

want to have to live with more of that?"

Mulder turned. "It was bad?"

"It was bad."

There was a pause, as the younger man considered this. "Are

you OK with this?"

Now it was Skinner's turn to pause. He shook his head, then

said, "I will be, though." He cut his eyes to the door and asked,

"Where's everybody?"

"Scully took them to the cafeteria to get something to eat.

They'll be back any minute."

There was a noise at the door and it pushed open, one small

head peeking around the corner, followed quickly by a second.

And then the air was split with cries of "Walter! Walter!"

and echoes of "Wa-tah!" and before Mulder could warn them

to be careful, Steven and Jess had scaled the bed rails

and were settling in with the big man.

"You found him!" Steven cried, and then in a quieter more

serious tone, added, "He's really little and he makes a *lot*

of noise."

"Baby cwy," Jess agreed, shaking her head vehemently.

"I couldn't have found him if you hadn't told me, Steven,"

Skinner said. "You should be very proud that you remembered

and that you were brave enough to tell me about it."

Steven nodded, then said, "So, do you think he's gonna

get quieter when he gets bigger?"

There was a general round of laughter, everyone amused by

Steven's perception of his new brother.

"We're working on getting his paperwork," Mulder said.

"He's got to have a birth certificate. I don't want to risk

any problems now. We may 'expedite' Steven and Jessie's

this way, too. Just to minimize exposure, you know?"

Skinner nodded and Scully said, "But he needs a name.

We can't just keep calling him 'the baby.'"

Skinner laughed. "That's better than what I did. I kept

calling him 'it.'" He grinned sheepishly. "It, uh, I mean

he was just so -- foreign -- to me."

Scully snuggled the little one closer, then tentatively held

him out, waiting for Skinner to reach up and take him.

He settled the baby on his chest, thinking the child should

feel right at home there, and gently stroked the small

back.

"We were thinking of calling him, uh, Walter," Scully

said.

Skinner groaned. "God, no! I appreciate the gesture,

really I do, but please don't do that to him. Give him

a normal name, something like Jason, or Daniel, or

Andrew. Something that won't get him teased his whole

life."

"Andrew?" Scully looked up at Mulder. "I like Andrew."

"Then Andrew it is," Mulder said.

Scully came around the bed to stand beside Mulder, and

he put an arm around her, drawing her close. Steven had

snuggled in next to Skinner, his head resting on one

shoulder, while Jessie claimed the other. The baby

slept peacefully, looking very small against the broad

expanse of chest.

Mulder looked down at his children, nestled trustingly

against Skinner. He looked at Skinner, almost asleep, and

yet still holding the children so carefully, so protectively.

He looked at Scully and smiled. She was so happy, it

gave her a radiance, a joy, that shone from her eyes and

warmed him by its presence.

"Mrrrmmph," Skinner mumbled, his eyes beginning to

close again.

"What's that?" Mulder asked.

"It was worth it."

The End of it All.

So ends the "Retrieval" universe. Thanks to the loyal readers

who have loved and enjoyed Commando!Skinner as much

as I have.