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Copyright:
Tuesday, October 12, 2004 04:41:55 AM
PARADISE VACATIONS CHARTER
SERVICE
MIAMI, FLORIDA
MID-MORNING - DAY 2
Fox Mulder loved to fly.
He couldn't remember a time, even as a young child, when he hadn't liked
traveling in an airplane. There was something wonderfully exhilarating about
soaring through the sky at incredible speeds, about swooping and gliding on
the fluid air currents like a graceful bird. If he was ever
reincarnated--assuming such a thing truly existed, and he made no bets in
either direction--he hoped to come back as an eagle.
By temperament and habit,
he was already a confirmed night-owl. He thought best at night, worked best at
night, and could function efficiently at ungodly hours when his co-workers
were sluggish and barely conscious. Mornings often found him groggy, moody,
desperate for a stimulating cup of strong coffee.
Yet there was
something special, he had to admit, about seeing dawn's first bright rays
stream across the vast shimmering ocean beneath their soaring plane. And the
sky was so calm and crystal-clear this morning! Let Scully wallow in sullen
resentment, if she wanted. He refused to miss a moment of the glorious
display.
His serene pleasure
lasted only until they debarked at Miami’s sprawling terminal. He’d been there
dozens of times, and recognized every waving palm tree and gurgling ornamental
pond. Despite the busy hustle of anxious travelers, and the tinny recorded
messages emerging from myriad overhead speakers, no visible danger lurked
nearby. No suicidal terrorists were skulking in dark corners; no uncontrolled
planes were plummeting through the skies. Yet a sudden wave of cold, nameless
dread enveloped him the moment his feet touched the sloping jetway ramp.
He managed to answer his
partner’s questioning glance with a feigned nonchalant shrug. But he remained
deeply troubled as they hurried outside into the bright, hot sunshine.
A hunch, Scully would
call it. An intuition, an amorphous ‘feeling’ that some horrible unknown
disaster was waiting in the shadows, about to strike. She might have little
faith in such unscientific premonitions, but Mulder had trusted his life to
hunches more times than he could count. And most of the time, he’d been right.
In a rare moment of
decadence yesterday afternoon, he’d booked reservations for them at Bermuda’s
most expensive resort. Heaven only knew when they’d get another chance to
indulge themselves--so he’d prepaid the entire transaction without a qualm.
One of the many perks
involved in their extravagant red-carpet package was a special charter flight
from the mainland directly to the resort. Mulder hailed a cab, and watched
famous landmarks slide by as they sped toward a small private airport on the
city’s outskirts.
Scully’s eyebrows raised
in wondering surprise as their cab was stopped by uniformed guards at a
sumptuous gatehouse, and their identities and flight tickets were verified
before the cab was allowed onto the airport grounds. It was obvious, even
here, that the resort catered to the fabulously wealthy.
Ducks and swans were
scattered around the emerald-green lawn, and sunlight glittered off an ornate
Oriental pagoda beneath gently swaying palm trees. "Mulder, can we afford
this?" she demanded in a worried undertone, as they passed an exquisite marble
statue poised in a wide circular pond.
It was the first time
she’d spoken to him all morning. Relief nibbled at the edges of his growing
uneasiness, allowing him to fake a reassuring smile. "Tourism has been way
down since the World Trade Center disaster," he murmured back. "I got us a
great deal!"
Even their jaded Hispanic
cabbie looked impressed as he pulled up in front of a long, elegant building
made of honey-marbled rough cut stone. Two uniformed porters were waiting on
the wide shady veranda; they immediately snapped to attention, and hurried to
open the cab’s doors. Scully smiled as the younger one offered her his hand,
then insisted on taking her carry-on luggage inside.
Several other people were
waiting inside the cozy sitting room, clustered together in quiet pairs and
trios. Studying each of them for potential threats was so automatic, Mulder
didn’t even consciously realize what he was doing, until he noticed Scully’s
sapphire eyes darting around the room. Then a more genuine smile curved his
lips. Some habits died hard--and some he hoped would never die.
Perhaps he had
been reckless to invest so much money in a single trip, he conceded as he
settled onto a velvety couch, and accepted a frothy cup of cappuccino from
their smiling hostess. But he’d spent years living like a penniless miser, and
he was tired of it. For the next two weeks, he intended to really enjoy
himself!
It appeared that they
were the last passengers scheduled to arrive. Just as he and Scully were
finishing their coffee, a pretty young stewardess entered the room, and
invited them to board their waiting charter.
Despite their opulent
surroundings, Mulder had still envisioned a fairly standard plane, a DC-10 or
something comparable, with neat rows of blue fabric-covered seats, and a long,
narrow aisle from the cramped cockpit to the compact lavatories. He’d never
been more wrong. The resort’s private-owned Challenger 604 was a modern
miracle of luxury and comfort. Plush leather recliners were scattered
throughout the cabin in small cozy groupings, and a long padded couch invited
weary travelers to stretch out and watch exclusive movies on a nearby color
television.
"Of course you’re welcome
to sit anywhere," the bright-eyed attendant assured them as they all drifted
into the cabin, staring around in wide-eyed wonder. "Once we’ve reached a
cruising altitude, I’ll be happy to serve complimentary drinks from our
full-service bar...and we stock all types of non-alcoholic drinks for our
underage travelers," she added with a teasing wink toward the two teenagers
straggling into the plane. Neither glanced in her direction; they were too
busy glaring at each other.
"We also offer a wide
range of hot and cold meals for your dining pleasure," she continued,
undaunted by their hostile attitudes. "Of course this flight will be fairly
short, but we aim to please--so if you need anything at all, please don’t
hesitate to ask. My name is Holly, and I’ll do anything I can to make your
flight a pleasant one," she finished with a brilliant smile.
Mulder selected a
comfortable aisle seat, leaving the window recliner available for Scully.
Normally they traded positions, and technically it was his turn to sit by the
window--but it seemed a small price to pay for easing her resentment about
this enforced vacation.
The elderly couple
hesitated in the center of the cabin, staring around in awed wonder. They
looked so uncertain that he felt a moment’s sympathy. He knew how it felt to
be displaced. Smiling, he made an inviting gesture toward the opposite seats,
then generously helped the old man stow his bulky camera gear in the overhead
compartment.
People-watching was an
ingrained habit, and over the years he’d gotten quite good at it. His one-time
partner, Diana Fowley, had believed that his uncanny hunches were caused by
verifiable precognitive incidents. True or not, he couldn’t resist making
private bets about each of his fellow passengers. It was the only way he knew
to escape boredom on long, tedious flights.
Maybe, he realized with a
sudden ironic grin, he rarely took vacations because he couldn’t stop
thinking, either!
Three attractive young
women claimed seats close to the cockpit, and huddled close together, laughing
over some private joke. Roommates or co-workers, he guessed, looking for a hot
island romance to spice up their summer vacations. It might be amusing to keep
tabs on them, and see how well they fared with the local island nightlife.
The golden-blonde, tanned
teenagers shared one last malevolent glare, then sullenly moved to opposite
ends of the cabin. Despite their outward similarities, they didn’t appear to
be siblings--yet Mulder impulsively christened them ‘The Bobbsey Twins’
anyway. And made a firm mental note to avoid them at the resort.
And the white-haired
Jewish couple across from him...
This was probably their
first real vacation in years, he decided. An anniversary gift from their kids,
maybe? From the way they were nervously staring around as ground crew
personnel sealed the exit door and slammed the cargo hatch, they probably
didn’t travel much.
He deliberately stretched
his long legs out in a leisurely yawn, and offered them a reassuring smile.
Scully was staring
fixedly out the window. He glanced past her, trying to see what had caught her
attention. Then he saw her lips silently moving, and recognized the intent
look on her face. She was reviewing data again, trying to formulate viable
correlations between the genetic puzzle pieces she’d been studying.
Maybe Skinner was
right--maybe she really was becoming too obsessed with her research!
How on earth was he
supposed to keep her preoccupied at the resort? Skinner was expecting a
miracle!
Suddenly she pulled a
cocktail napkin and pencil from her purse, and began sketching a series of
bizarre shapes. The pencil made short, delicate strokes under her skilled
fingers. He watched in silent fascination as she worked, pausing only now and
then to evaluate her progress.
Dana Scully’s wide range
of abilities had never failed to amaze him. She was an endless repository of
knowledge. And, despite his initial reservations several years ago, her expert
help had proved invaluable countless times.
Tremors suddenly swept
down his long spine as his earlier premonitions returned full-force, cascading
over him like icy rain, chilling his blood. He’d almost left his FBI badge and
gun at home that morning, but he’d felt oddly naked without his familiar
accouterments. Scully must have felt the same way, because he’d glimpsed her
badge clipped to an inside pocket of her stylish dark blue jacket as she’d
strapped on her compact holster.
He’d grudgingly pulled a
battered leather jacket from the closet to hide his own 9mm and badge from
casual sight. And he had to admit that he did feel better, especially now that
goose bumps were rippling up and down his arms like a million silent warning
screams.
Maybe he should have
strapped on his ankle holster, too, for good measure. But how could he have
suspected that danger might follow them even here, on a well-deserved
vacation?
Small TV screens suddenly
dropped down from the textured ceiling, and a short infomercial began playing.
Normally he never paid attention to the flight attendant’s patient recital; he
knew the FAA’s familiar, timeworn emergency instructions by heart. But he had
to admit that the film was nicely done, combining good graphics with an
interesting narrative. Despite himself, he even glanced down at the plush
carpeting to identify the tastefully camouflaged emergency lighting strips
running the plane’s length.
The problem was, despite
Hollywood’s penchant for dramatic adventure movies, water landings were nearly
always fatal to everyone aboard. When an airplane fragmented into millions of
tiny pieces on impact, how could mere frail humans hope to survive?
The inflatable life rafts
stowed in the Challenger’s galley were mainly for psychological reassurance.
He couldn’t remember the last time one had actually been used. But the elderly
couple looked so nervous--hadn’t they ever been on an airplane
before?--that he refrained from making any sarcastic wisecracks.
Scully suddenly shoved
the napkin at him. "Mulder, look at this!" she exclaimed, her low voice
ringing with excitement. "I think I’m onto something here!"
He dutifully examined her
intricate sketches. Now that she was finished, he recognized the distinctive
double-helix spirals of several DNA strands, in varying stages of development.
All but the first one displayed increasingly bizarre aberrations. "Is this
what you were working on?" he demanded, mock-disappointment suffusing his
voice. "Damn! I thought you’d developed a sudden passion for modern art! I was
hoping you could design a nice big Escher drawing for my office!"
Wry embarrassment colored
Scully’s pale cheeks. "It does look a little like one, doesn’t it?" she
conceded with a faint smile.
Then her eyes began to
gleam with excitement. "Anyway, look at this, Mulder!" she urged. "You
understand the basics of DNA sequencing--95 percent of all the nucleotides in
any given gene sequence are considered ‘junk DNA’ because they don’t appear to
serve any real function. Geneticists are only beginning to understand how they
help activate the gene to carry out its primary function."
Scully’s dry, pedantic
explanations often reminded Mulder of a fusty old librarian he’d known in
grade school. He had the highest respect for her medical knowledge--but he
always wanted to laugh when she fell into that prosaic ‘instructor mode.’ Of
course, she probably felt the same about him, judging by her reaction to his
more exuberant paranormal discourses...
He hid a mocking grin,
and forced himself to pay close attention. Amusing or not, her expertise was
always vital and pertinent to their unusual assignments.
"The remaining five
percent control every other function of the human body, from conception to
death," she was elaborating, an intent frown creasing her forehead. "It always
amazes me how the human body can function when such a huge percentage of its
nucleotides seem totally inert and useless!"
Mulder recognized that
avid note in her voice. How often had he sounded so intense, so passionate,
when he’d stood on the brink of some incredible breakthrough? "And you
think you’ve solved the mystery?" he prompted, his jade eyes echoing her
enthusiasm.
Scully quickly shook her
head. "That’ll take years, even with the world’s finest geneticists all
working together. I’ve only been concentrating on the Gibson gene remnant,"
she reminded him. "But I think I may be getting closer to the answer we need!"
Mulder winced at the name
she’d chosen for their aberrant genetic quarry. Yet it was singularly
appropriate, since young Gibson Praise’s unique genetic pattern held the key
to identifying--and hopefully disabling--that lethal ‘black oil’ virus.
Gibson, who had offered
him sanctuary when he’d been hiding from the deadly hybrid supersoldiers, was
a powerful young telepath. A detailed comparison of his unique genetic code,
which was identical to the alien ‘black oil,’ had given Scully’s research its
crucial starting point. From there, she’d been able to develop detailed
computer simulations showing how the potent virus produced instantaneous,
cataclysmic changes in every cell of a host’s body. Irrevocable damage
occurred in less than three hours, unless the host was placed in immediate
cryogenic hibernation. And she no longer doubted that uncontrolled mutation
would cause the formation of a deadly EBE.
"These are
representations of five different DNA samples," she continued without a pause,
tapping the napkin with her eraser. "Skinner’s--since his DNA hasn’t undergone
the incredible changes that ours have--Gibson’s, mine, yours, and that
eviscerated corpse we investigated in Arizona a few years ago."
He studied her sketches
with increased interest. The first appeared perfectly normal, as one might
expect from their autocratic Assistant Director. Gibson’s, however, showed
marked changes all up and down its spiraling double-helix. Scully’s was
similar to the young telepath’s, and his showed more variations. But the last
was so wildly different that it hardly even seemed human. Not surprising, as
Scully had taken that sample after the sharp-clawed EBE had already exploded
from the corpse’s chest cavity.
Mulder slanted a curious
glance at his partner’s delicate profile. "When did you take a sample from
me?" he demanded.
Scully grinned up at him.
"Fingernail clippings," she teased, her good humor restored. "Though I could
have used a strand of your hair just as easily. The Gibson remnant is constant
throughout every cell in your body."
He blinked a few times in
surprise. "Sneaky!" he finally exclaimed.
"Not Spooky?" she
retorted with a sly grin.
How he hated that old
Academy nickname! Mulder made a face at her, and heard her softly chuckle.
The old couple paled and
clasped each other’s hands as the Challenger began taxiing down the runway,
then gathered speed and surged upward with a muted roar. Mulder leaned forward
to reassure them. "Takeoff is always the worst part," he promised. "The rest
is easy."
Scully seemed oblivious
to her surroundings as the plane banked into a sharp turn, then leveled and
gained altitude. "The key to developing a viable vaccine," she continued
without even glancing out the window, "involves deactivating the Gibson
remnant completely. Unless, of course, we can stimulate a totally different
reaction, one that blocks the virus without causing secondary symptoms.
"But genomics is such a
huge new field! We still don’t understand nearly enough about cellular
proteins and nucleotides, or how the genetic remnants actually function!" she
admitted with a frustrated sigh. "For instance, I’ve already eliminated all
the common enzyme inhibitors like angiotensin, and the normal G-protein and
serotonin receptors. But from there, it’s like searching for the proverbial
needle in a haystack.
"And I can’t experiment
on mice," she scowled, "because while most of their DNA codes are identical to
human sequences, they don’t have a comparable Gibson remnant incorporated in
their genetic structure. Actually, no other animal does."
"Which supports my theory
that humans were genetically bio-engineered, untold eons ago, to serve as host
bodies for the coming invasion," Mulder softly remarked.
Scully shuddered with
revulsion. "It’s our responsibility to make sure that never happens," she
vowed, cautiously lowering her voice. "Because when they do return in force,
the fatality rate will be devastating. Imagine six billion zombies frozen in
their tracks, being eaten alive from the inside."
Mulder sympathetically
touched her hand. "No wonder you have so many nightmares," he murmured.
Suddenly she turned to
face him, and her crystal-blue eyes were haunted. "Mulder, I can’t
leave now," she insisted, "no matter what Skinner says! I know I’m
close to the answer! If I can duplicate these drawings in my simulator, and
devise a safe way to reverse the mutation..."
Mulder hesitated for a
long moment. The less she knew about the Joint Council’s ruling, the better.
Besides, they’d nearly been dismissed from the Bureau on several other
occasions, and only his valuable connections in Congress had saved them then.
This time, with Scully’s health--and the world’s safety--in the balance, he
couldn’t afford to risk official censure or a tribunal’s interminable delay.
"The moment you walk back
into the Hoover Building, Skinner will know about it," he finally temporized.
"Then you’ll really be in trouble, for breaking written orders--and if he
kicks you out of the Bureau, you’ll never be able to finish your
research!"
Scully spun away, and
glared impotently out the window. "You’re as bad as he is," she fumed.
Mulder sighed, and raked
a weary hand through his short dark hair. He understood her impatience and
frustration, but you simply didn’t ignore the Joint Council’s direct commands.
Not unless you were frothing to enter a new line of work.
The elderly fellow rolled
his eyes, and offered Mulder a knowing wink. He looked just like Judd Hersch
in Independence Day, Mulder suddenly realized. "Your wife can’t
wait to get home again, either, eh?" he chuckled, confidentially leaning
closer. "I’ve been trying for years to get mine out of the kitchen!"
Mulder blinked in
surprise. He and Scully did their best to maintain a totally professional
relationship when they were in public. Was their new private affinity really
that visible to outside eyes? "Fox Mulder," he quickly introduced himself,
reaching across to shake the old man’s bony hand. "And this is my business
partner, Dana Scully."
"So!" The friendly
retiree accepted his uneasy correction with a philosophical shrug. "Reuben
Schaumberg, and this is my wife Esther." He seemed to be relaxing now that the
plane had reached a steady altitude. "You’ve been to Bermuda before?"
If only you knew,
Mulder reflected with a wry grin. "No," he confessed aloud, "I’ve never made
it quite all the way there. You?"
Reuben vigorously shook
his graying head. "This is our first time, too. Long time we’ve been waiting
for this trip!"
"Let me guess," Mulder
smiled. "It’s an anniversary present from your children."
Reuben beamed with
pleasure. "Forty years this week!" he confirmed. "High time to take a
vacation. And Bermuda is such a lovely place!
"But Esther!" He rolled
his eyes in mock-exasperation. "It’s so much money, she says. It’s so
far away--and on an airplane yet! She’s never been on an
airplane before," he confided in a loud whisper. "I tell her, it’s a safe
way to travel! You wait and see!"
Beside him, the old woman
was rolling her own dark eyes, facetiously pantomiming her garrulous husband’s
every word and expression. Mulder barely managed to keep from laughing as
Reuben spun around to peer suspiciously at her, and she instantly assumed an
angelic smile. Even Scully managed a wan smile when Esther winked
ever-so-slightly at her.
"You’re a scientist,
aren’t you?" Rueben urged, turning to beam at Scully. "My older son, Joshua,
he’s a doctor. Medicine’s all he can talk about, too. It’s an
obsession with him, finding cures for people!"
Mulder winced at the old
man’s innocent choice of words. Obsession. Something he’d been fighting
for years--and now Scully was falling into the same insidious trap. Or so that
wretched Joint Council believed!
It wasn’t true! he fumed.
Scully was still mentally and emotionally stable!
Well, they’d just have to
be patient. The next two weeks would pass quickly, especially in such a
beautiful, relaxing place.
He just hoped that
humanity could afford the delay.
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