Copyright:  Thursday, March 10, 2005 01:38:21 PM         FLORIDA KEYS MID-SUMMER, 2003               "Scully, look out!"           Dana Scully threw herself flat on the swampy ground as a bevy of high-caliber bullets whistled past her windblown auburn hair. Shrill, warbling screams instantly echoed through the moss-draped, gnarled cypress trees. Her partner ejected an empty clip from his gun, and slapped another into place. More explosive staccato shots rang out as he took aim and fired again. And again. And again.           Damp slime oozed between her clutching fingers as she warily crept across the sodden marsh. Mulder was in danger--but she didn’t dare glance back. She had to reach José before those hideous creatures attacked again!           Their young guide was sprawled face-down in the muck, his tanned neck bent at an unnatural angle. Even before she gently rolled him over, she knew that he was dead.           Fox Mulder paused in mid-turn long enough to make his own judgments. An immense set of razor-sharp claws had sliced through the boy’s chest like soft butter, spilling entrails and bone fragments across the soggy ground.           He winced. No one deserved to die like that.           But at least it had been quick--the cheerful teenager had never known what hit him. That was more than he and Scully could expect, unless they managed to escape fast!           "Get him in the boat, Scully!" he yelled, swinging his gun around to cover their hasty retreat. "Hurry!"           Scully didn’t waste breath arguing. Mulder was right--they could never leave the boy here in these endless swamps, to be eaten by those horrible, ravenous things!           More shots echoed through the trees as Mulder fired at another looming monstrosity. Fierce snarls abruptly crescendoed into wailing shrieks of agony. That made three down. Out of how many? Nine? Ten? A thousand?           Scully hadn’t survived eleven years as Mulder’s partner, battling everything from satanic cultists to flesh-eating viruses to bloodthirsty chest-busting aliens, only to be shredded by a tribe of fetid swamp monsters! Taking a deep breath, she hooked both hands beneath José’s lax shoulders, and began tugging him toward their flat-bottomed air boat. Every soggy yard seemed like five miles as she stumbled through a maze of half-submerged roots, fighting to keep her balance.           "Come on, Mulder!" she shouted over her shoulder. "We can’t win this one!"           Just a few more feet...           Her sturdy hiking boots sank deeper as oozing muck gave way to muddy slime. Fallen branches snagged and caught at José’s torn clothing. The boy’s head rolled limply to one side, brushing against her bare arm. She stifled a shudder, and pulled harder.           Almost there...          Without warning, a huge, slimy shape launched through the shadows, its vicious claws extended. Distorted half-human features made its hideous face seem all the more grotesque. An instinctive scream erupted from her throat as she caught a horrifying glimpse of snaggled razor-sharp teeth. Then the howling beast slammed her down into the muck, and her head struck a submerged tree trunk with devastating force. Stars danced before her eyes as it rose over her, baring inch-long talons for a final lethal blow.           Mulder whirled, and the 9mm bucked in his hands once, twice, three times.           "Scully!"           He was already running, heedless of his own danger, before the last bullet thudded into its falling target.           The murky water was stained with blood, and his pounding heart faltered. Then he kicked at the behemoth’s massive, deformed shoulder, and it fell aside with a muted splash. Three jagged bullet holes were bored through its wide chest. Blood seeped through its sparse, slimy pale fur and leaked into the water in sluggish rivulets.           "Scully!" He dropped to his knees and felt for her pulse. It was reassuringly steady beneath his searching fingertips. A heartfelt sigh of relief escaped him, and his tensed muscles briefly relaxed.           Snarls and eerie yowling brought him up short. Turning, he yanked Scully’s gun from its holster, and slowly rose to his feet. Silence fell across the swamp as he aimed her weapon at the nearest slathering monstrosity.           The burly creature froze in its tracks, and seemed to hunch down slightly. Mulder kept the deadly 9mm targeted on its grotesque head.           Even the fitful humid breeze seemed to hesitate as Mulder grimly faced down his snarling adversary. Hateful, venomous glares bridged the fathomless gap between them. Then the hideous quasi-humanoid slowly backed away, and melted into the deepening shadows without a sound. A dozen other dark, misshapen forms moved with him, and were gone.           Mulder realized that he was shaking with reaction. He took a deep calming breath, and bent down beside his partner again. A livid bruise was already darkening her pale forehead. She’d have one helluva headache when she regained consciousness.           But at least they were both still alive.          Grimacing, he shoved her dead assailant aside, then scooped her up and carried her over to José’s swaying airboat. The sooner they left this wretched swamp behind, the better!           A weathered tarp was folded neatly in the curving prow. He shook it out, and grimly carried it back to their young guide’s sprawled body. Somehow, even in death, the boy’s youthful face looked merry and carefree.           There’s no justice in this world, he wearily concluded, for perhaps the hundredth time that week.           Sighing, he wrapped José’s limp corpse in the woven tarp, and laid it in the wide, flat prow. Then he clambered aboard, and gripped the tiller tightly in one hand. He’d never piloted an airboat himself, but this was no time to play it safe. Those carnivorous nightmares might return at any moment!           Huge rotors whirred to life behind him, blowing long hanging tendrils of Spanish moss off the nearest shaggy cypress trees. The boat lurched forward under his inexperienced touch. He strangled back a muttered curse, gritted his teeth, and concentrated on steering it out of the swamp, not into another fallen tree trunk.           Scully began to stir as he finally managed to clear the last submerged roots. "Mulder?" Her ragged whisper was hoarse with pain.           He bent down to lay a reassuring hand on her shoulder, stilling her abortive attempt to rise. The boat wobbled one last time, then eased into a narrow moss-draped channel. "Lay still, Dana," he urged, focusing on the treacherous shadows sliding past. "We’ll be home soon." • • • • • • FBI SPECIAL AGENT DANA SCULLY’S APARTMENT GEORGETOWN, MARYLAND THREE WEEKS LATER           A small blur of bright colors swam before Scully’s bleary gaze, gliding sinuously from side to side.           Something was watching her?           Prickles of alarm raced down her spine, forcing her back to full awareness. The bright blur resolved into a vivid inch-long fish swimming just beyond her nose. She blinked a few times, brushed tousled red hair out of her eyes, and painfully lifted her head. Nearly a dozen smaller fish, so tiny that they were almost invisible, were darting back and forth amid the tank’s swaying artificial plants.           "Mulder?" she mumbled, hating the betraying weakness in her low voice. "I think one of the fish had babies."           "Probably." Her partner was sitting across the cozy living room, staring intently at his computer screen. "Sarah warned me that they’d breed like crazy."           Scully pressed slender fingers against her temples, searching for the elusive pressure points to block out another pounding headache. Their new neighbor was a busty, energetic young blonde who wore tight black leather miniskirts and too much makeup. She played her music too loudly, smoked nasty-smelling cigarettes, and flirted outrageously with Mulder whenever possible.           Not surprisingly, the two women despised each other.           Sometimes Scully regretted not taking her mother’s advice, and finding a small private house on the city’s outskirts. But she’d been living in this apartment for years. And despite its increasing flaws--a nosy new landlord who spied unmercifully on his tenants, and trashy hookers flirting with her partner in the narrow hallway--it had come to feel like home. She couldn’t bear to leave it just yet.           Maybe someday she and Mulder would retire from the FBI, and move to his family’s old summer cottage in Martha’s Vineyard. But not yet. They still had work to do, an important mission to fulfill. She’d just have to put up with Sarah Rawlings a little longer. Somehow.           Mulder turned around then, and stretched both arms high over his head in a leisurely yawn. Light from the computer screen threw his handsome, boyish features into sharp relief. A lopsided smile curved his lips, as if he knew quite well how she felt--and found her caustic antipathy amusing. "You aren’t jealous of Sarah, are you, Scully?" he teased.           Only the thudding migraine kept her from vigorously denying his well-aimed taunt. "Sarah who?" she retorted, hating the betraying weakness in her voice.           "Uh huh." Mulder wasn’t fooled by her evasion. He knew that Sarah Rawlings was a slinky little hussy. But like him, she was a newcomer to Scully’s apartment building. And coping with an abusive ex-husband couldn’t have been easy. He’d only recently dealt with his own set of painful life-altering experiences--so he felt a certain kinship with the girl.           Heavy mental doors quickly slammed down over his wandering thoughts, before a barrage of tormenting memories could begin resurfacing. The past was dead, gone forever. Only the future mattered. His future, and Scully’s, and the world of innocent humans they still hoped to save.           And yet...           December 22, 2012.           That date was emblazoned against his mind’s eye like vivid lightning against a thick black sky. The date of the dreaded upcoming alien invasion. The date when their entire world would quite literally go to hell--unless somehow, even now, he and Scully could find some way to prevent it.           He’d spent the last whole year on the run, hiding from genetically engineered supersoldiers...unstoppable hybrid human-alien warriors whose sole purpose was to squash resistance to the upcoming invasion. They’d infiltrated every level of government--most often, with the government’s full knowledge--and their motives were deadly to the human race.           Because Mulder’s genetic code had been changed somehow by exposure to the alien ‘black oil’ virus and radioactive fragments from an ancient alien spaceship, the supersoldiers considered him a threat to their nefarious plans. Something in his altered DNA--or perhaps the quasi-telepathic ability he’d gained during his agonizing ordeals--made it possible for him alone, of all humanity, to defeat them. Or so they seemed to believe.           Personally, he thought their fears were overrated. He couldn’t even control his sporadic ‘talent’ most of the time. It came without warning, usually at the most inopportune moments, flooding his mind with a raucous barrage of mental noise...           And then it would vanish again, leaving him reeling and disoriented.           Some savior he was, when he couldn’t even use such a potentially useful ability to his benefit. How was he supposed to save humanity when he had no idea where to begin?           A year ago, he’d been forced to leave Scully and their newborn son, William, in hopes that the supersoldiers would pursue him, and leave them in relative safety. Gibson Praise, a precocious teenager who’d been born with telepathic abilities, had offered him refuge in the remote New Mexico desert. Together they’d managed to evade and outwit the treacherous hybrid soldiers, until Mulder had been caught breaking into a maximum-security facility searching for incriminating information to use against them.           During his subsequent brutal imprisonment and trial, he’d finally been reunited with Scully. But his relief and joy had been cut short when he learned how a group of religious fanatics had threatened William’s life, believing that the innocent baby would someday lead the alien invasion. His own hated half-brother, Jeffrey, had apparently agreed. Without Scully’s knowledge, he’d injected William with a high dose of magnetite, the only substance capable of destroying the hybrid supersoldiers.           Though the rare mineral had eradicated William’s innate telekinetic abilities, Scully had realized that her precious son was still in danger. The decision to give him up for adoption had been difficult, and Mulder knew she still grieved. But now William was safely anonymous with loving foster parents.           Somewhere out there, ten or a thousand miles away, his son was learning to walk, was babbling his first words. And perhaps, if his awesome mental abilities ever resurfaced, their paths might cross again. In the meantime, Mulder would do anything to ensure that William remained safe and happy. No price was too high to protect his son’s precious life.           Inevitably his agile mind swung back around, pondering the dreaded upcoming invasion. December 22, 2012. He and Scully needed to find a solution, a way to drive the aliens away for good. And time was running out fast.           Once he could have used his enigmatic X-Files Project as a cover for deeper investigations. But the X-Files had been shut down again...and this time, the closure seemed permanent.           Fortunately A.D. Skinner had found a way to blackmail the highest powers into reinstating them, or Scully and he would be camping at the unemployment office right now--and Agents Doggett and Reyes would be sharing the adjoining tent. For that matter, Skinner himself would probably be searching for a new job.           The weeks following his escape from jail had been long and stressful for everyone. Gibson had joined Skinner and his four weary agents in New Mexico shortly after government agents destroyed the ancient Anasazi ruins--one of the last remaining places where magnetite had been available in large quantities.           Gibson’s remote desert hideaway was no longer a safe refuge, but Albert Hosteen’s young nephew, Eric, had welcomed them with open arms, and offered them sanctuary. There they’d spent countless hours playing Monopoly on a battered old game board, and discussing myriad theories for returning home safely.           Had they been playing for real money, each of them would owe Doggett their full salaries for the next six years. The former Marine was a cunning player, capturing and exploiting properties without a trace of remorse. Mulder had made a mental note to avoid playing poker with him, lest he lost more than handfuls of celluloid play-money.           Skinner and Eric Hosteen had finally devised a feasible plan. In the ancient Navajo oral tradition, Eric had carefully memorized the agents’ long report about recent alien activities, and everything Mulder had learned inside the top-secret Mount Weather Complex. Then he had imparted that information to twenty men he trusted implicitly. Those men, in turn, had recited the story to twenty men they each trusted--and so the story had spread swiftly from tribe to tribe.           It was a grim tale that had left even the wise Navajo elders pale and shaken.           Next, a carefully-worded letter had been passed through two dozen Navajo tribes to conceal its origin, before it was finally mailed to an innocuous office in Washington, D.C.           And then they’d all waited.           The ploy had worked once before, when Skinner and old Albert Hosteen had outfaced the treacherous Cigarette-Smoking Man. But Mulder’s ‘military trial’ charade had left them all feeling particularly vulnerable to the FBI’s bureaucratic whims. Skinner had no idea whether their luck would hold this time.           Fortunately, in the end, reason and self-preservation had prevailed. Certain government entities had a vested interest in keeping the upcoming invasion a secret. So after nearly six interminably long weeks, while the restless agents fretted and paced in their cramped little sanctuary, an answer returned through the same circuitous route.           A single word had been typed on the nondescript sheet of white paper:  Agreed.           That single word had ensured their future safety. Skinner had returned to his office and a huge mound of overdue paperwork. Agents Doggett and Reyes had been reassigned to the Violent Crimes Division, where their special talents would be effectively used until Skinner could persuade his skeptical superiors to reopen the X-Files Project.           Scully had resumed her coroner’s post at Quantico, teaching fresh-faced young interns how to autopsy murder victims. Gibson, whose powerful telepathic abilities made him a danger to the alien supersoldiers, had warily returned to his small home in New Mexico.           And Mulder...he was back in the dreaded phone rooms, eavesdropping on a thousand boring, innocuous conversations every day. Petulant teenagers, cheating spouses, quasi-obscene calls between separated lovers...he heard it all. And hated every moment of it.           But, for now, at least he was back in the Bureau’s good graces. And under Skinner’s nominal supervision, he and Scully could occasionally follow up on potential X-File rumors that trickled down from a few trusted friends.           They had to schedule their trips on the weekends now, and pay their own expenses. No more requisitioning of costly Bureau supplies, or submitting reimbursement reports.           Still, there were distinct advantages to their new routine. No one could tell them which cases to accept or ignore. They were free to make their own choices, pursue each case their own way. And there were no more skeptical supervisors breathing down their necks, mocking the unorthodox conclusions in their detailed reports--because they were no longer required to file reports on each case.           That was how they’d ended up in the Florida Keys three weeks ago. Several tourists had recently vanished without a trace. The local officials had suspected foul play--until one battered survivor had staggered back to civilization, half-mad from dehydration and pain, his left arm broken in two places, deep gashes chiseled into his right thigh. His wild tale about man-eating monsters had been passed along to the FBI for routine investigation--and from there, after traveling through several different departments, the report was eventually slipped into Mulder’s barren locker.           This time, though, their clandestine weekend trip had nearly proved disastrous. Scully had been lucky to escape with a broken collarbone and a pinched nerve in her neck. Their young guide hadn’t been as fortunate; he’d been killed instantly when the creatures had attacked from the shadows.           Fortunately Scully was a fast healer, because immobility of any kind drove her crazy. She’d grimly tolerated using a sling for two long weeks; then she’d thrown it in the trash and vowed to ignore the pain.           But a pinched nerve was harder to ignore. Despite the muscle relaxants and painkillers her doctor had prescribed, she still suffered from horrendous migraines nearly every day.           She flinched as another sharp burst of pain exploded behind her dilated eyes. Why did she have to be hurt now, of all times?           Like everything, teaching forensics at Quantico had its good and bad points. She did miss the excitement of traveling afield with Mulder--but imparting her considerable knowledge to eager young interns was rewarding in its own quiet way. Equally importantly, she had access to Quantico’s extensive scientific laboratory when her daily teaching shifts were done.           She was primarily a forensic pathologist, not a geneticist--but over the past year, she’d carefully cultivated friendships with several military scientists who studied DNA replication. The knowledge she’d gained from them was invaluable to her own clandestine research for a viable antidote to the alien ‘black oil’ virus.           Her long association with Mulder’s bizarre X-Files Project was well known, so none of the other scientists questioned her work too closely. They probably thought she was trying to create antimatter or something equally impossible...and that suited her just fine. Only Skinner, Doggett, Reyes, and Mulder himself knew the full extent of her intricate work.           During one late-night brainstorming session, Monica Reyes had facetiously nicknamed their infamous quintet ‘The X-Team.’ Certainly they’d shared experiences that no other human could imagine--experiences that had created a deep, intimate bond among the five of them. No one else understood how critical her research was, or how she hated being incapacitated when a solution was so tantalizingly close!           Scully no longer doubted that humans shared an ancient genetic link with the aliens who now threatened their very existence. Perhaps, as Mulder believed, all life in the universe really had begun from one miraculous genetic anomaly.           But she still found the implications profoundly disturbing.           In most people, the alien DNA fragments residing in their genetic codes remained inert, dormant, throughout their lives. Scientists considered those fragments ‘junk DNA’--useless, leftover tidbits of genetic primordial soup.           Extraordinary circumstances, such as exposure to the ‘black oil’ virus, could trigger the alien fragments into frenetic activity. Spontaneous systemic mutation, the technical term for a radical and complete genetic alteration, resulted in an EBE, or Extraterrestrial Biological Entity. Mulder called them ‘chest-busters,’ because the alien creatures matured inside a human’s body cavity, then eviscerated the host’s flesh while hatching.           Even more intriguing changes resulted from exposure to cosmic galactic radiation. The hazardous energy that was normally only found outside Earth’s solar system seemed to trigger unusual paranormal abilities in people already infected with the ‘black oil’ virus.           Mulder himself had been exposed to CG radiation a few years ago. His brain’s electrical impulses had promptly undergone an abrupt, dramatic acceleration. Heightened telepathic abilities had driven him to the brink of madness, and the resulting trauma had nearly killed him.           Fortunately, though his genetic makeup had been permanently altered, his unnerving mind-reading abilities had faded away (or so he claimed...and she preferred to believe him) after the Cigarette-Smoking Man had kidnapped him, and callously removed altered cerebral fluid from his hyperactive brain.           But now, as if being eaten alive by maturing chest-busters wasn’t bad enough, scientists had perfected the development of hybrid humans with superhuman capabilities. Only exposure to magnetite could destroy the so-called supersoldiers. They were impervious to heat, cold, and physical damage--and identifiable only by a series of enlarged bony spinal ridges just below their skull’s occipital bones.           After transmitting Mulder’s report about the upcoming alien apocalypse, Eric Hosteen had journeyed to the once-magnificent Anasazi ruins, where supersoldier Knowle Rohrer had recently been killed. Chunks of magnetite were scattered amid the rubble, so he’d loaded his pickup truck with every piece he could find. Then his tribe’s most skilled jewelers had spent weeks polishing each veined reddish-brown stone, and fashioning hundreds of silver-chased belt buckles, pendants, and bracelets. Every Navajo tribe member throughout the country had received one.           Gibson, Skinner, and the four FBI agents had also been given protective stones before they’d returned to their respective homes. Monica Reyes had chosen a large rust-colored pendant; Scully had selected a stone-studded silver bracelet. Mulder and Doggett kept burnished stone disks in their pockets, and frequently used them as worry stones.           The small amulets might be useless against a living supersoldier, but Scully felt obscurely safer wearing her new bracelet. And polished magnetite was rather attractive, in an understated way.           Yet she knew that magnetite was an insufficient solution. Only a viable widespread vaccine could protect humanity from the lethal alien virus.           The brilliant scientist she’d known only as ‘Cobra’ had tried entrusting her with groundbreaking research that might have yielded a clue. But the deceitful Cigarette-Smoking Man had murdered him, and stolen that research. Now that their longtime enemy was finally dead--destroyed with the ancient Anasazi ruins--that research could never be recovered.           Somehow she must find a way to replicate Cobra’s visionary research! His tragic death, and the needless loss of his life’s crucial work, demanded reparation.           Sometimes she felt that she was just a hair’s breath away from solving the entire puzzle--for puzzle it was, and she held only fragments of the complete picture. It even seemed, when her mind was reeling from fatigue, that Cobra’s research and Mulder’s vaccine must be flip-sides of the same coin. If she could decipher one, she would have both answers.           Yet the harder she struggled to focus on those solutions, the more elusively they slipped away from her weary mind.           Her colleagues might think her foolish, deranged, even obsessed as she cross-correlated every scrap of data she could find. Scully ignored their sidelong glances and whispered comments. Let them think and say what they wanted! She was on the verge of an incredible breakthrough--if she could just keep going a little longer!           But now, when she was so close to finding a solution, these agonizing migraines were interfering with her work. It just wasn’t fair!           Normally Mulder didn’t interfere with her busy schedule, unless some truly horrific emergency occurred. But today, without warning, he’d left the Bureau early, imperiously canceled her morning class, and forced her to swallow the powerful painkillers she despised. Then he’d stubbornly hustled her out to the car. She’d fallen asleep fifteen minutes later--and woken on the couch in their apartment, face to face with a startled guppy.           Mulder’s keen eyes narrowed as he peered at her pale face. Damn, she should have known he’d see her wince. He never missed anything.           He crossed the room in three long strides, and perched beside her on the low couch. "How’s your headache?" he murmured. "Still pretty bad?"           Scully risked a faint nod. Even that slight movement was agonizing, when her skull felt ready to split apart at the seams. Damn it, she hated being sick!           Mulder brushed her trembling fingers aside, and began stroking her forehead in steady circular patterns. "You’ve been working too hard again," he chided. "I know how important your research is, Dana, but you really do need to take a break."           Feigned eagerness suddenly infused his rich voice, as if a wonderful idea had just occurred to him. "Look, we both have plenty of vacation time saved up. Why don’t we take a real holiday? God knows we deserve it! Someplace warm and sunny, nothing to do all day but relax and have fun..."           She tried to scowl up at him. The pain was beginning to fade, but her eyes still wouldn’t quite focus. Sighing, she gave up and relaxed under his expert ministrations. "I don’t have time for a vacation," she argued. "Too much work to do!"           "Not anymore!" Smug satisfaction lit his lean face as his hands traveled down, easing the tightened muscles in her slender neck. "Skinner’s ordered us to take a mandatory two-week leave of absence, effective tomorrow morning."           "What?" Stunned, she jolted upright and stared at him in bleary-eyed outrage. "He can’t do that! I’ve got experiments underway that need constant monitoring..."           Privately Mulder agreed with his fuming partner. Skinner’s imperious decision to send them away like unruly schoolchildren was infuriating. And especially right now, when Scully’s intricate work was progressing so well.           But Deputy Director Kersh was still openly bitter about being forced to reinstate them, especially after Mulder’s ludicrous ‘military trial.’ They were still skating on perilously thin ice with the Bureau--so they had to comply, or they’d both face some very unpleasant consequences.           "It’s a fait accompli," Mulder informed her with a rueful shrug. "I received our orders this morning--in writing. That’s why I left work early, and drove all the way out to Quantico. Dammit, Dana, Skinner’s worried about you!" he exclaimed, before she could draw breath for another indignant protest. "Is that such a crime?"           The stubborn set of her jaw made him stifle a frustrated groan. "You know he doesn’t object to your work in the lab," he added, forcing a coaxing note into his voice. "Look how many times he’s defended you, and kept those pigheaded administrators off your back!"           "Then why..." she interjected, fury sparkling in her wide blue eyes.           Damn Skinner for forcing him to play Devil’s Advocate! He was part of the X-Team! He knew, better than anyone else, how vital her research really was. "You can’t expect to teach or perform efficiently when you’re falling apart, physically and mentally," Mulder temporized, appealing to Scully’s consummate scientific temperament. "Inefficiency on your part will reflect directly on Skinner."           She made a rude noise under her breath.           Despite himself, he almost laughed. Scully wasn’t buying his careful rationale--and to be honest, he couldn’t really blame her. Stick to the truth, Spooky, he berated himself. She can spot a lie a mile away!           "Skinner really is worried about you," he repeated, stroking the nape of her neck. "He cares a lot more than he’ll admit. And he doesn’t like seeing you sick or hurting. He just wants you healthy again, Dana. You have been in a lot of pain lately, you know."           Scully’s answering glare was full of bitterness. "Oh, so now you’re practicing medicine?" she retorted. "Where’d you get your degree, Mulder? In a Cracker Jack box?"           This time he did softly laugh. "I can hardly deny the evidence in front of my own eyes," he teased, mocking the many times she’d used that same phrase on him. "Anyway, it’s all settled. Early tomorrow morning, we’re boarding a plane for Bermuda." He brushed a lock of hair off her pale forehead. "No autopsy labs, no phone rooms, no stress at all for the next two weeks."           Scully’s eyes widened again, and she stared up at him in shock. "Bermuda! Mulder, are you crazy? After what happened to you last time?"           Mulder winced. The last time he’d ventured into those mysterious waters, he’d nearly gotten stranded forty-odd years in the past, on the missing luxury liner Queen Anne. Only quick thinking and incredible luck had saved his life, and allowed him to return to the present. Scully had never let him forget just how closely he’d escaped a watery death.           He offered her an embarrassed smile. "Nothing will happen this time."           Her skeptical grimace made him chuckle. Then he sobered again. "We do need a break, Dana," he urged in a low, persuasive voice. "We’ve certainly earned it. And we’ll both think better once we’ve had the chance to rest and relax for a few weeks."           Scully sat motionless on the couch, staring blindly across their small living room.           Two weeks in scenic Bermuda.           Sunny beaches, exotic night clubs, warm tropical breezes.           No stress whatsoever.           It was a surefire recipe for disaster.