Doctor Scully and the Invasion of the Quantum Turtles by Adrian. D. Ives (AdrianIves@email.msn.com) Category: Humour, XOver, some UST & MSR Rating: PG (occasional bad language) Disclaimer: See end of file Acknowledgements: Special thanks to Tyler Dion for beta reading and checking/correcting my "American" English. Summary ... OK, I know I *said* that "The Trial of a Time Travelling FBI Agent" would be the last ever Doctor Scully adventure. ... but I lied :-) So she's back, in an all-new six part adventure to open Season Two ... and straight away it's the start of a race against time, to save all of humanity from total and utter extinction, at the hands of a horde of warmongering, hideous, sadistic, villainous, unhygienic, slimy, and thoroughly nasty, extra-dimensional carnivorous turtles from beyond space! With Scully not talking to Mulder, Mulder not talking to Scully, Skinner developing a disturbing predilection towards turtle meat, Cigarette Smoking Man trying to kick the habit, Krycek arrested for impersonating a Russian citizen, Marita Covarrubias arrested for impersonating somebody infinitely more interesting than herself, Agent Pendrell reincarnated as a sex-starved aquatic mammal, The Consortium under investigation by the Actors Guild of America, world leaders in panic ... and the whole future of mankind hanging in the balance; can The Doctor save the planet from imminent and certain armageddon ... and still get back home in time for tea and crumpets? --- TEASER --- : United States Strategic Air Command : 3rd Extra-Terrestrial Threat Rapid Response Wing : Oak Forge Air Force Base : North Dakota "Shit!" Major General John 'Kicker' Trenchard had chewed so hard on the unlit Havana cigar that he'd bitten clean through it; and now it hung limply between his teeth, like the dormant olfactory appendage of a young elephant. Through a totally inappropriate and ill-fitting pair of dark glasses, he continued to study the big Sit Rep panel that spanned the far wall of the control room. Overlaid on a huge computer generated map of the United States, a swarm of very large disc-shaped objects were moving in from the West Coast, crossing the shoreline just over Los Angeles at speeds approaching mach two, and heading inland towards the major military and industrial complexes ... in exactly the way that a friendly visiting delegation from another star system would not. "We're now getting one hundred forty seven distinct traces." Sarah Kent, the senior duty technician, was looking tired and concerned, and her eyes were ringed from the lack of sleep. She tapped icons on the touch sensitive screen, and waited for the graphics to stabilise and form an updated map of the enemy deployment. "The SDI Track Sats show a further twelve hostiles descending into the upper atmosphere." Trenchard opened his mouth to bark another order, what was left of the cigar suddenly dropping to the floor in front of him; but, before he could say anything, another report came bellowing over the loudspeakers. "This is The Non-Terrestrial Threat Detector," the digitally synthesised voice once more announced its identity to everyone in the room, its strangely soothing bass tones gently resonating throughout the vast chamber. Seven hundred kilometres above them, in high geostationary orbit, the sentient satellite had remained reassuringly silent, maintaining its watchful eye on the heavens surrounding the Earth. Since its launch some three years earlier, when the Counter Extra-Terrestrial Threat Organisation had first been created by the major world powers, it had had nothing to say, nothing to report. Now, after that brief period of uneasy silence, during which the peoples of Earth had watched the skies, and waited for that very first contact; it had found the need to give voice to its electronic thoughts for the fourth time in as many hours. In an unhurried, unconcerned, tone, it began its ominous report. "Warning: ... Twelve unidentified orbital craft descending towards the eastern seaboard of the United States ... Entry trajectory: sixty seven point four degrees ... Velocity: Mach eight point three one ... Estimated time to intercept: seventy-nine seconds." "It's a goddamned invasion," Trenchard drawled. "That's what it is!" < Hard cut to effects shot: triple exploding starburst; optical+audio > < Roll title sequence and main theme > --- EPISODE ONE --- : FBI Headquarters : Washington D.C. : 12:35am He always knew when she was angry. Especially when it was deep down inside, when she was determined not to reveal it. For her to show it, to reveal that anger to the outside world, would be a weakening, a dilution of her strength; so she would maintain a quiet calm, an air of tranquillity, a smoke screen. And she was so very, very, good at deploying that screen around herself. But still, he always knew. Mulder watched her cross the office, her walk unhurried and precise. She pulled a chair up to the other side of the desk, and sat down. With a barely audible sigh, she picked up one of the files that she had left neatly stacked there, spreading it open in front of her, and smoothing out the papers with the palms of her hands. Not once did she make eye contact with him. He picked up his pencil and started sucking the end, contemplatively. After a few seconds, he cleared his throat. "Scully -" She looked up, smiled, and inclined her head slightly. "Yes?" "Are you OK?" He stroked his fingers slowly up and down the length of the pencil. Her eyes went to the movement of his hands, and she raised her eyebrows. He felt his face redden, and stopped the motion of his fingertips at once. She smiled again. "I'm fine." Mulder put down the pencil, and leaned towards her. "It's just that -" "Mulder, I'm fine." She turned her attention back to the file. Reluctantly, he went back to his own work, leafing through a rather dry report about the mysterious theft of three litres of frozen turtle semen from the Zoology Department at Baltimore University. After about three minutes, during which time neither of them had spoken, Mulder pushed his chair back from the desk, and interlaced his fingers behind his neck. He reclined slightly and looked up at the ceiling. "I was thinking of trying that new Mexican diner for lunch," he volunteered. "You know the one, over on East Sixtieth." "Pendrell and I already tried it," said Scully, still not taking her gaze off the file. "The service is dreadful." "Pendrell?" He looked at her with disbelief. "What, *you* and Agent Pendrell?" She looked up and met his stare without flinching. "I think that's what I said." "You and Pendrell went there?" "Mulder, is your hearing giving you trouble today?" "Uh, no ... it's just that ..." He drew in a long breath and whistled it out through his teeth. "You and Agent Pendrell, eh?" "Uh-huh." She nodded. "So - uh - was this a date then?" "Mulder, when two colleagues decide to spend some social time together, it doesn't automatically become a date. There is such a thing as team building and establishing emotional bonds." "Team building," Mulder repeated, skeptically. "Establishing emotional bonds. Right." "I happen to think that Agent Pendrell is a valuable asset to the Bureau, and I wanted to invest some time in getting to know him better." "So, did he ask you, or was it the other way around?" Scully looked at her watch, then completely side-stepped the question. "And, talking of eating, I'm about ready for lunch -" Mulder jumped out of his chair, and whipped his jacket off the back of it. He was around to her side of the desk before she could finish her sentence, and stood hovering behind her, like an anxious mother waiting to lift her baby out of its pram. She looked up at him, her mouth still open from the sentence that she had been forced to leave incomplete. "I know just the place." He grinned. "What I was about to say," she explained, with another sigh. "Is that I'd arranged to meet a friend for a bite to eat." "But -" Mulder allowed her to push gently past him, catching just the faintest whiff of her perfume before she was out the door. "See you later, Mulder," she called behind her. Yep. She was really angry this time. He started wondering about possible causes. Thinking back, there *was* the unfortunate incident with the mutant bull elephant and the tub of Double Chocolate ice cream, but that was three weeks ago. And being volunteered to join in a game of strip poker with those three mind-reading shoplifters in Seattle probably hadn't gone down too well, either. Nah, if anything, it would *have* to have been that business with the non-PVC shrink wrap and the two necrophilic dwarves. Yeah, had to be. Then something about the phrases that she'd used came right back at him, and hit him square in the face. "Team building! Establish emotional bonds!" Where had he read that recently? Suddenly, Mulder slapped his forehead with the palm of his hand, and went straight to his desk drawer. Locked. Where was the damn key? Uh, yeah ... filing cabinet, second drawer down, under 'K'. Locating the key, he hurriedly unlocked the drawer and started rummaging around amongst the back issues of 'What UFO?', and the bootleg 'Vivacious Vixens' videos. Finally he found it, and pulled it out triumphantly. A photocopy: Department of Justice Federal Bureau of Investigation Performance Appraisal Peer Feedback Scully, Dana K. He flipped through the pages of designer graphics and multiple choice questions, pausing occasionally to try and distinguish his own appalling handwriting,scrawled within the boundaries of the gaudy comment boxes. Section 5.2 Team Building He read what he'd put there. Read it twice. Three times. Ouch! Section 5.5 Establish Emotional Bonds Mulder had a *really* bad feeling about this one, even before he started reading the comments that he'd made. He wasn't to be disappointed. As the blind panic started to set in, he rushed around to the other side of the desk, found Scully's desk diary, and opened it on today's date: 11:00 Performance Appraisal, AD Skinner's Office. "Shit!" Whoa, hold on, Mulder, any of your comments would be one amongst many. What about all the other people that she'd have nominated to give input into her Performance Appraisal? What with all of that completely *anonymous* feedback, how could she *possibly* know what he had said? He looked across at the photocopied sheet, lying there, accusingly, just across the desk from him. He snatched it up and started reading section 5.2 again. 'Whilst Agent Scully clearly displays the potential to become an effective and insightful leader, she tends to place an over-reliance upon traditional procedural methodologies in situations where a more instinctive approach might be a more effective motivator.' Mulder groaned. What had he been *on* when he wrote that? He turned a couple of pages, found section 5.5 again, and almost couldn't bear to look ... 'I believe that Agent Scully has a tendency towards shielding her true feelings from those around her. Whilst this is to be admired as a highly professional character trait, it can occasionally lead to tensions with colleagues who may find her, at times, a complex person to relate to.' "Shit! Shit! Shit!" He threw the document down, and started pacing back and forth in front of the desk. He *knew* it had been a bad idea to try and be a bit more conscientious about filling in the form this year. Why couldn't he have just stuck to 'An effective team builder', or 'works well with her colleagues'? Wasn't that what everyone else wrote on those stupid forms? After all, it's what everyone wrote on his! He heard a soft cough from behind him, and turned around to see Scully, arms crossed, standing in the doorway. Her face was serious, and her eyebrows were just, ever so slightly, arched into the beginnings of a scowl. She looked at him, the discarded feedback booklet, and then at her open desk diary. "Uh, Scully -" "Mulder?" "- I was just -" "Going through my diary?" She took a step towards him. "Um, well ... say ... weren't you going out to meet a friend for lunch?" "Yes I was." She reached past him and closed the diary. "But I remembered something that I had to do first." "Oh?" She picked up the diary and started searching for a free slot, eventually stopping at the page for Friday. Without looking at him, she picked up the phone and dialled an extension. Nervously, he rocked back and forth on his heels, his hands stuffed into his pockets. "Uh, Scully I haven't, by any chance, done something to upset you, have I?" With the handset resting on her shoulder, her diary in one hand, a pen in the other, she turned back to face him. A very slight grin creased the edges of her mouth, as her eyes strayed onto the open feedback form. Mulder's eyes also came to rest on the same document. "Nothing springs to mind, Mulder ... Oh, hello, Maria, this is Dana. If you're still on for that chat, I can make this Friday ... about two pm? Fine. See you then." She put the phone down. Mulder stood there looking at her, the unspoken question obvious on his face. When it became clear that she had no intention of volunteering any information, he casually said, "Maria? That's Maria D'Enrico, right?" "Uh-huh." Scully nodded, as she scribbled down an entry in the diary. "Over in Practice and Policy?" "Yes, Mulder." Scully sighed, making ready to leave. "Uh, didn't I hear that they were looking for a new Agent in Charge?" "Yes, you did; and, yes, they are." "Scully, you're not - um - thinking of applying are you?" "Well, as you always say, Mulder, it's important to keep your mind open to extreme possibilities." "Yeah, but Practice and Policy? I mean, come on, Scully." "Don't you think I'm capable?" "No, it's not that, but -" "Anyway it's just a chat." She signalled that the conversation was at an end, by taking a step towards the door. "Nothing's been decided. There are plenty of other openings." "Scully!" He hadn't meant it to come out in such a desperate tone, but somehow he felt like he had just got himself caught in a whirlpool, and everything he did just sent him spinning closer towards the centre. "What?" "Um ... Look, if this is about your appraisal -" "Yes?" She raised her eyebrows, and folded her arms again. "I mean the whole point of peer reviews is to be open and - " "And?" "- receptive to ... feedback." Almost as soon as he'd said it, he knew it had been the wrong thing. Totally the wrong thing. "Oh, I almost forgot. This is yours, I believe." She reached into one of her pockets and tossed him the spare key to the top drawer of his desk. "Well, I'll see you later, Mulder." He stared down at the key in the palm of his hand, only barely registering the click of the door closing behind her. --- --- --- : "Oubliez la Nourriture" : Speciality French Cuisine Restaurant : 63211 North Sixty-Eighth Boulevard : Washington D.C. : 1:04 pm Scully studied her wrist watch again, slowly tracing the tip of her index finger around the circumference of the glass. Behind the crystal face, and the hand engraved dial, the complex mechanism of cogs and gears worked unthinkingly to translate the passage of time into the rotational movement of the tiny hands, driven only by the angular momentum imparted by the stored energy in the tightly wound spring. She'd always preferred a mechanical movement to the clinical micro-electronic precision of a digital timepiece. There was something that was so much closer to the way things actually worked that appealed to her, something about the need to carefully regulate and control the energy in the spring; to tame the fundamental physical forces of nature, and bend them to do one's bidding. She took another sip of still mineral water, and started one more slow visual scan of the restaurant, deserted apart from her and an elderly couple at the table diagonally opposite; and they looked as if they were both about to collapse into two heaps, and quietly crumble away to dust. From out of nowhere, a woman's hand gently reached out and touched her on the sleeve. She spun around. "Hello, Dana. Long time, no see." Doctor Scully beamed an infectious smile at her, as she settled down into the chair opposite. "Uh, Doctor ..." Just like last time, it took Scully a few moments to recover from the shock of suddenly coming face to face with her identical twin. Identical, that is, apart from the fact that Scully wore an all-business dark blue pants suit, while the Doctor was dressed in a flamboyant scarlet Edwardian long coat, bright yellow trousers, and wore a gaudy rainbow coloured scarf around her neck. "You know, it must be all of ... two hundred years," the Time Lord continued, "... as the exo-temporal crow flies, that is." "- Two hundred years?" "Yes, yes," She waved her hand about in front of her. "And a terribly busy couple of centuries it's been too -" "But we only said goodbye to you a few -" Scully could still see the image of the TARDIS console room, littered with bottles, cans, and paper plates; the fallout from the long party that had followed her acquittal on charges of copyright infringement, and, of course, the Doctor's defeat of her arch enemy, the Manipulator. "Days? Weeks? ... Oh, quite possibly. Time is such tricky stuff after all." She clapped her hands together. "Anyway, I don't know about you ... Mais, j'aimerais un verre de vin rouge ... Et pour toi?" The Doctor waved a hand regally above her head, attracting the disapproving glare of the head waiter. "Uh ... Oui, c'est une tres bonne idee." Only after she'd finished the sentence, did Scully realise exactly what she'd said, or rather, in *what* language; and the strangely 'English' tone of her voice, the poorly achieved pronunciation of the 'R' against the roof of her mouth; the very non-Scullyness of it struck her at once. The two women looked at one another for several seconds, before the Doctor tapped her index fingers against her temples and grinned. "Jolly interesting things, space/time- transcending empathic links," she admitted. Scully said nothing, and the Doctor could see that she was deep in thought. The fact that Mulder wasn't present seemed to hint at some trouble between them. The very thought of his name sent a slight tremble through her body, as she involuntarily recalled her somewhat un- Time Lord behaviour, that night in the Time Ship. "I came as soon as I could," said the Doctor. "As soon as I got your message ... So what is it this time? ... Those Mutant Mega-Mice from Mars haven't been making nuisances of themselves again have they?" "No," said Scully, shaking her head slowly. "No, it's much worse than that." --- --- --- : Department of Turtle Behavioural Studies : University of Washington State : 1:11 pm "And, as you can see, this specimen exhibits all of the classic aspects of turtle physiology." With no hint of expression or emphasis in either her body language, or the intonation of her voice, Marita Covarrubias began to bring her lecture to a close. She held up the Australian pygmy turtle for everyone to see. The creature poked its tiny head out of its shell, regarded her with tired eyes, then retracted its head and limbs back under the relative safety of its carapace. Carefully she replaced him in the glass tank, and looked up to face her audience. "Well, thank you all for your time." A hollow, slow, clap came from the back row of the lecture theatre, where Alex Krycek had been sitting patiently, polishing his prosthetic arm with a chamois leather. Cigarette Smoking Man looked back up to him and scowled. The two of them were the only other people in the room besides Marita. "Well?" she asked, shuffling nervously. "Very enlightening." CSM popped another strip of nicotine gum in his mouth and began chewing. "I'm sure that Assistant Director Skinner will be positively enthralled." A loud cough came from the back row, and they both looked at Krycek, who was barely able to contain his disbelief. "Yes, Krycek?" "Use your heads." Krycek stood up, and started making his way to the front of the lecture hall, swinging his artificial arm at his side. "Skinner isn't a fool. He's not going to be taken in by this charade!" "But that's exactly where you're wrong," said CSM, now chewing frantically in an effort to drive the picture of an open packet of Morleys from his mind. "*Because* he isn't a fool, he will immediately know that he is being set up. Therefore, he will play along with our scheme to find out what it is that we are planning, not knowing that we know that he knows." "Jesus!" Krycek exclaimed sarcastically, as he stepped up onto the podium to join Marita. "I bow before your deviousness!" "So you should," said CSM, very seriously. Marita watched Krycek with suspicion, as he reached into the tank and extracted the turtle. "In Moscow," he said, taking a Swiss Army Knife from his pocket, "raw turtle in the shell, is normally washed down with triple grain vodka." Marita looked on, open mouthed, as the synthetic-armed man carefully sliced open the turtle's shell around its circumference. Krycek opened his mouth wide as he brought the struggling creature up to his lips, obviously preparing to consume it whole, just as if he were about to suck at an oyster. --- --- --- : Somewhere over the White House It hovered there. Big didn't even begin to describe it. Huge was better. Immense, massive, enormous; all of those adjectives were in the right ball park, but they still didn't quite convey the sense of scale. Imagine a deep pan pepperoni with double mushrooms and extra olives. Then think of the stone from one of those olives. Think of it sitting alongside the pizza. Got that picture in your mind? OK. Well, that olive stone is really fifteen kilometres long, and it represents the total area occupied by Washington D.C. The deep pan pepperoni? Well, that's a non-terrestrial battle cruiser that's powering up its weapons in readiness to begin the subjugation of the entire human race. --- EPISODE TWO --- The old fashioned teletype punched the words out across the full width of the roll, before the platen spun again, and jerkily fed more paper through, just in time to present some blank space for the next line. In the background, the relentless pounding drum beat of theme music accompanied a series of rapidly cut images, each interspersed with more close-ups of the teletype, as it continued to print ... ... TOP SECRET ... TOP SECRET ... TOP SECRET ... ... 2005 ... ... EARTH UNDER ATTACK BY ALIEN FORCES ... - Cut to: V formation of massive disc-shaped craft descending towards an unidentified US city. - Crowds of people gather in the streets; stare up at the skies in horror. - The White House; viewed from the front lawns: gigantic alien vessel hovers above, dwarfing everything. ... WORLD POWERS MOBILISED TO DEFEND THE PLANET ... - Tanks, Planes, Battleships, troops and other military hardware in action. ... C . E . T . T . O ... - Full-screen logo: Silhouette of man, woman and child, standing side by side in front of the globe. ... COUNTER EXTRA-TERRESTRIAL THREAT ORGANISATION ... ... HEADQUARTERS BENEATH WORLD TRADE CENTRE ... - Distant shot of the twin towers. - Cut to underground control complex: Operatives dressed in tight-fitting pale grey jumpsuits, holding clipboards, and walking from console to console with purposeful and intense expressions. ... EXTRA-TERRESTRIAL THREAT DETECTOR: OPERATIONAL ... - High Earth orbit: impressive looking piece of electronic hardware with radar dishes, antennae, and the CETTO logo on its side. ... MOONBASE: OPERATIONAL ... - Wide angle shot of a sprawling complex on the surface of the moon. - Three space shuttles streak overhead like fighter aircraft. ... SUBMARINES PATROL THE WORLD'S OCEANS ... - Poseidon class strategic nuclear missile submarine threading its way through the murky depths. Close shot: CETTO logo on conning tower. ... STEALTH FIGHTER SQUADRONS IN CONSTANT READINESS ... - Ground level shot of a secret air base: three F117As power up and thunder down the runway; climb high into the sky. - Hard cut: blinding flash; disc-shaped alien vessel over the Golden Gate bridge; Stealth Fighters approach. - Three loud drum beats coinciding with rapidly cut close shots of AMRAAM missiles being fired. - Impact! Impact! Impact! - Blossoming explosion spreads out to fill P.O.V. Doctor Scully reached down into the big paper bag, her fingers frantically seeking out the last fragments of popcorn, bringing the crisp sugar coated confectionery up to her mouth, pressing it hungrily between her lips, all the while unable to take her eyes from the action unfolding in front of her. On Scully's television, the explosion seemed to go on forever; as the entire room vibrated in sympathy with the Dolby Surround Sound audio, fragments of debris cartwheeled towards the viewer in slow motion. Finally, as the last few beats of the stirring theme were hammered out through the speakers, in NICAM stereo, two words flashed up in a stylised font like the letters from a worn typewriter: EARTH SIEGE The remainder of the programme credits rolled slowly over a completely black background, accompanied by an ominous silence ... Starring Bradford L. Reilly as Flt Lt. Tom Travers Becky Paretto as Professor Annabel Constantine and John Green-Franks as Maj Gen. Trenchard This Episode: Planetfall Scully crossed from the kitchen, and set down two glasses of red wine on the table in front of the Doctor. She settled into the other chair, looked briefly at the screen, then back at her Time Lord guest. Dana smiled at the sight of 'her twin', completely absorbed by the programme, her eyes following every scene intently. Suddenly, the Doctor made a loud tut-tutting sound and waved her hands dismissively in the direction of the screen. "Something wrong?" Scully asked, sipping some of her wine. "I *wish* that people would do their research properly!" the Doctor explained, shaking her head with frustration. "I mean, just take a look at that Turtloid pan-dimensional organic star cruiser ..." Scully turned her eyes to the screen, where a huge disc- shaped object, not unlike a large deep pan pepperoni with extra mushrooms, was hanging silently in the skies over Washington. She cast an involuntary glance out of the window, almost expecting to see that a huge shadow had fallen across the ground. "*Everybody* knows that a Class Eight Planet Crusher doesn't have twin diostatic thrust transduction vertices," the Doctor explained, with exasperation. Frustrated, she reached for the remote control and shut the set off with the savage stab of a button. "Uh, it's only a TV show," Scully ventured, tentatively. "*Only* a TV show?" The Doctor jumped to her feet at once, and began pacing back and forth over the length of the lounge; pacing so hard, that Dana was worried about the damage that she might do to her carpet. "*Only* ... Hah! Imagine what would have happened to *me* if the writers hadn't done their research properly? Why, I'd have ended up being cancelled after just twenty six seasons!" She marched across to the window, and peered out through the curtains. Scully drank some more wine. "And then," the Doctor continued, spinning around on the balls of her feet, "They'd have probably brought me back in some dreadful made-for-TV movie that nobody watched! Why, there might never have been a *ninth* Doctor!" She shuddered. "Here." Dana handed her the other glass of wine. "Have a drink and sit down. I want - need - to talk to you." --- --- --- : FBI Headquarters Agent Pendrell had never really expected much from life. After all, life was just ... well, life, really. It began, it happened, it ended. There wasn't all that much else he could say about it. Thinking it through, though, it would be nice to be *noticed* every once in a while; to know that you were a part, even a small part, of somebody else's world, and that you didn't just exist as a fragment of your own imagination. Lately, he'd started to worry about that a lot. He was concerned that, one day, he might actually stop thinking that he was Pendrell altogether - and then, would he simply wink out of existence, like a fused light bulb? On the screen of his PC, he dragged another file to the recycle bin, and watched the little icon of crumpled paper flash briefly, before returning to exactly the same shape that it had been before. He got to thinking that, if the person who had written the software for that trash can had been *really* bothered about what people thought, then he (or she) would have taken a bit more care about appearances. After all, he'd now dragged three files to that recycle bin; so shouldn't that little pile of crumpled paper in the top of it be three times as big? Life. It was never quite what you expected. He was convinced that his approach was the best: expect nothing; get nothing; and never be disappointed. Pendrell found himself thinking about Special Agent Dana Scully again. Sometimes, when she didn't seem to be looking right through him, she did things that filled him with anticipation. Just little things, like inviting him out to lunch, and asking him about his work, and where he saw himself in five years' time. It had been a strange conversation, he considered; almost surreal. In the end, it had been another case of nothing expected, and nothing received. She'd insisted on paying, said a hurried goodbye, and then rushed off to meet Mulder to link up for their next case. Oh, and she'd assured him that, no, her early departure had nothing to do with the embarrassing incident with the jalapeno peppers. He sighed, and dragged another file to the recycle bin. The story of my life, he thought. "Hey, Pendrell. What ya up to?" Mulder was slouching in the doorway, his hands thrust into his pockets, and the tip of a sunflower seed just poking out from between his teeth. How he had managed to form a coherent sentence with one side of his mouth kept closed like that, was an instant source of fascination to Pendrell. "Deleting files," he replied. "Gee, that must be exciting," Mulder remarked, as he stepped into the small office. "Isn't Agent Scully with you today?" Pendrell asked, wishing almost immediately that he hadn't. He felt his face flush, and wondered if Mulder could see the redness in the subdued lighting. Fox cracked the shell of the seed between his teeth. "Nah, she's meeting someone for lunch." He came over and stood behind Pendrell, hovering over his shoulder and studying the screen. "Oh," said Pendrell, at once disappointed and slightly relieved. He felt the skin of his face cool slightly. "I hear that you and her tried that new Mexican place the other week," Mulder remarked, nonchalantly. "What's it like?" "Oh, so so." The younger man shook his head nervously. "Yeah?" Pendrell dragged the mouse pointer over to the Start button in the task bar. "Dana isn't a great fan of spicy foods, so -" "*Dana*, eh?" Mulder pulled up a chair alongside him, and moved closer, leaning towards him in an overtly conspiratorial manner that the other man found quite unsettling. Pendrell looked at him out of the corner of his eye, all the while trying to concentrate on launching his copy of MS Word. Eventually, after they'd both spent almost a full minute staring at the slowly rotating hourglass, he said: "Mulder, can I ask you a question?" "Sure." Mulder pulled a crumpled paper bag out of his pocket, and held it in front of Pendrell's nose. "Seed?" "Uh, no." He pushed the bag away with his hand. "Mulder, it's about Agent Scully." "Yeah?" He pulled the chair a couple of inches closer, and leaned towards him, staring right into his rapidly reddening face. "Is she -" "What?" "I mean, are you and she -" "An item?" "No, I didn't mean it quite like that. It's just that -" "Well, Scully and me, it's kinda difficult to explain." He cracked another seed, and the grin across his face became even more pronounced. "Only, I wondered if you thought she might -" The phone rang. Pendrell snatched up the receiver with such urgency that he almost sent the instrument skidding across the desk. "Agent Pendrell ... Yes, sir, he's here with me now ..." Mulder pushed the chair away from the desk and rocked it backwards on its rear legs, folding his hands behind his neck, and reclining casually. He waited for Pendrell to put the phone down. "Skinner?" Mulder asked. Pendrell nodded. "He wants you in his office. Scully too." "Well, he's gonna be disappointed on that last part." "Do you know where she went?" Pendrell asked, enthusiastically. "If it's important, I could go get her." Mulder stood up, and leaned against the wall, grinning again. After a couple of seconds, he reached into his inside pocket and produced his cellphone. "I don't think that'll be necessary, Agent Pendrell. Remarkable pieces of technology, cellphones." He started to dial but, seeing the expression of disappointment on the younger man's face, he had second thoughts. On the way out of the office he tossed the phone at him, and Pendrell just managed to catch it between his hands. "Speed dial number one," Mulder called back, as he started off towards Skinner's office. Pendrell held up the phone in his shaking hand, and started to feel a slight quivering sensation building in the pit of his stomach. Now keep calm, Pendrell, he told himself. Hesitatingly, his index finger found the speed dial button, just at the exact same moment that the 'Low Battery' warning started flashing on the display. --- --- --- : Dana Scully's apartment Scully stared into the bottom of the empty glass, for a brief moment fascinated by the way the convex shape acted as a distorting lens, bending the rays of light from the electro- luminescent display panel of the video recorder, and enlarging them until they became shapeless and unrecognisable parodies, flickering and twisting as she slowly rotated the glass between her fingertips. The Doctor cleared her throat. "Has this got something to do with Mulder?" she asked, cautiously. "It's got everything to do with Mulder." Scully sighed. She set the glass down in front of her, suddenly seeing the digital time readout on the video clearly, and thinking, distractedly, that she was due back at the Bureau. "Everything and ... nothing." "Well, I'm all ears," said the Doctor, gathering up the folds of her scarf, and forming them into a neat pile in her lap. "It's just that my life lately - well, he *always* seems to feature in it." "Hmmmn. Dreadful," said the Doctor, unconvincingly. "Oh, I don't mean it like that. But, every once in a while, I need some space, some time that I can call my own." "Try swapping places with me," the Time Lord said, drinking all of the wine from her glass in a single gulp. "Believe me, I've got all the time in the Cosmos." "Yes, and you control it," said Scully, a hint of something close to envy in her voice. "You shape your own destiny." "Well, it doesn't happen *quite* like that. For a start, trouble has a bit of a knack of following me around. I mean, take that time I tried to have a vacation on Polsatoria Omisaga. Barely do I set foot outside the Time Ship, than I get arrested for 'going attired in a wholly inappropriate manner liable to cause a serious breach of the peace'!" "Improper dress?" The Doctor's costume was certainly eccentric, but no stranger than any she'd seen in the local Krogers almost every night of the week. "On Polsatoria Omisaga ... that's the ninth planet in the Omis system, by the way ... they don't wear dresses," the Doctor explained, with a mischievous grin. "In fact, they don't wear *any* kind of clothing. Body language is *very* important to them. *All* body language." "Oh." "... And then there was the time when the Mutant Mega- Mice tried to kidnap me, and force me to help them steal a cheese synthesis engine from the Fromagian Empire. Now that *was* a tricky situation, I can tell you -" "Doctor." Scully broke the Doctor's steady flow of dialogue before it became an uncontrollable torrent. "The mental link that was created by this -" "- Quantum shunt." "Whatever. The point is that, after it happened, I found I *knew* things." Dana clasped her hands together and tried to focus her thoughts. "... It was as if I'd been through some kind of speed learning process." A speed learning process that had delivered revelation after revelation; the amazing truth about the real nature of the cosmos, and the way in which the universe was built upon such fragile foundations that its continued existence almost defied belief. "Oh, that's quite normal," said the Doctor. "Close proximity quantum events affect the production and flow of neurones in most carbon-based life forms. It's a bit like ... well, a bit like re-mastering an old record." "Re-mastering? You mean that this knowledge already exists within us?" For a moment Scully had a vision of billions of dormant memories the world over, potentially able to turn anybody into the next Einstein or Hawking, upon receipt of the correct electrochemical stimulus. "In some more than others." The Time Lord shrugged. "It can be a little overwhelming, but, if it's too disturbing, I can help you to forget." "No," Dana shook her head. "Oh, no, Doctor ... I don't want to *forget*. I want to know *more*. In a way, this has helped me to restore my faith. You've shown me that there is a framework, however tenuous ... that something underpins it all ... that the universe really still does make some kind of sense ..." "Well, I wouldn't go quite that far," said the Doctor, smiling. "It's actually pretty chaotic. In fact, I hate to think what might happen if there wasn't someone like *me* going around sorting things out -" "Doctor, I've seen a tiny part of it, but now I want to see it all. I want you to take me with you." --- --- --- : FBI Headquarters Mulder shuffled uneasily in the chair. Had Skinner really taken leave of his senses? Had he and Scully finally driven the man over the edge? "Yes, Agent Mulder, I am serious." He was standing with his back towards him, staring out of the window. "But, sir ... turtle farming!" Mulder didn't think he would be able to find any tactful way of saying what was on his mind, so he just let the words come straight out. "Well, it's a bit of a sudden decision, isn't it?" Skinner turned around and stood, hands on hips, silhouetted in front of the window. "They're the best kind, Agent Mulder. "Anyway, I wanted to tell you and Agent Scully first, so that you didn't hear it from anywhere else. And I wanted you both to know how much I admire and respect the work that the two of you have done. I've been proud to have been associated with the X-Files." Mulder glanced sideways at the empty chair where, so many times before, Scully had sat at his side, while they had explained themselves to a disbelieving Skinner, between them slowly bringing him around. He took another look at the stylish business card that Skinner had given him. A cartoon picture of a bright green turtle winked back at him. Walter Skinner Speciality Turtle Farming Toll Free: 1-800-TURTLES "Well, goodbye, Agent Mulder." Skinner held out his hand. Mulder shook it slowly, with a mounting feeling of disbelief. "And please be sure to give my regards to Agent Scully." On his way out of Skinner's office, Mulder glanced over his shoulder, only to see his former boss now staring dreamily out of the window. Shaking his head, Mulder decided to go and find Pendrell. Something was definitely not right. --- --- --- : United States Strategic Air Command : Oak Ridge AFB : North Dakota : 3:38 pm "Yeah, I did see it." Grant Freeman put his coffee down on the end of the instrument panel, and leant against the console. "They got it *totally* wrong, as always." "Well, I think it's a great show." Cheryl Simmonds was speaking in defence of the previous evening's episode of 'Earth Siege', the one that had actually been filmed right there at Oak Ridge Air Force Base, almost five months earlier. "Yeah, but that guy Travers! I mean, no pilot would get away with behaving like that. And what about the *size* of that alien battle cruiser - how could anything like that even get off the ground, let alone fly?" He sipped some more of his coffee. "As for that woman scientist -" "Now, don't you start about Annabel Constantine again." Cheryl wagged her finger at him. "She's a great character, and Becky Paretto plays her absolutely spot on. There hasn't been such a strong female lead in a TV series since Gillian Ander -" The klaxons cut right across her sentence, causing her to drop the conversation entirely, and to switch her attention to the radar screen. Lieutenant Freeman moved quickly behind her, studying the display over her shoulder. "Three ... no, four." She began frantically tapping commands into the keyboard of her console, "Altitude: fourteen thousand metres, velocity ..." Her voice trailed away. "Sergeant?" He was waiting for her report. She turned around to look at him. "Sir, I read their velocity as mach seven point five!" "7.5? But that's impossible ... check your instruments again." She tapped keys, waited for the display to settle, for the columns of information to line up neatly on the monitor screen, and then she shook her head. "Confirmed, sir. Descending rapidly now - altitude twelve thousand metres." "Could be some form of ballistic missile, I suppose," Freeman's mind rapidly sifted through the alternatives, there seemed to be something strangely familiar about this scenario. Except that, the last time it had happened, it was in the middle of a prime time TV show! "Can you plot their trajectory?" "Coming up now, sir." She pointed to a straight line that the computer had plotted across the screen. They both saw where it ended. "Jeeesus! They're coming right for us!" --- EPISODE THREE --- : Dana Scully's apartment It wasn't often that the Doctor found herself lost for words. She was, after all, one of the most talkative people she knew; especially after consuming more than a safe quantity of red wine. (In fact, it was a moot point exactly what represented a *safe* dose of alcohol for a Time Lord, but that wasn't something she wanted to ponder right now). "I just need to get away from here for a while," said Scully, absently studying the backs of her hands, "travelling with you in the TARDIS, I could take some time out to do some thinking - to *see* some of what's out there for myself -" "Well, it wouldn't exactly be a pleasure cruise." The Doctor stood up and hooked her thumbs behind the lapels of her coat. She crossed to the window again, and peered out through the blinds, down at the street below. "It's not all blue skies, blazing pink suns, rolling green fields, and small fluffy animals you know. Oh, no. The cosmos is a dangerous place." "And Earth isn't?" Dana thought back to the last few years of her hectic life: the bizarre incidents that she and Mulder had investigated through the X Files; mutants, aliens, paranormal phenomena, government conspiracies, even her own abduction and mysterious return. "And there's another thing." The Doctor watched a black Ford pull into the kerb. "How would people tell us apart? I mean, we do bear a somewhat striking resemblance to one another, wouldn't you say?" She saw two men get out of the car, one of whom she recognised at once. "After all, just look at that unsavoury business with the Manipulator ..." "In case you hadn't noticed, Doctor, I can handle myself pretty well." "I had noticed," she replied, suddenly turning around and crossing to the door. "By the way, were you expecting visitors?" Before Scully could answer, the Doctor whipped the door open to reveal Mulder, standing with his hand outstretched ready to grasp the now displaced door knocker. Agent Pendrell was right behind him. "Mulder!" said the Doctor. "Doctor!" said Mulder. "Scully?" Pendrell asked. "Pendrell!" Scully exclaimed. "Well, now that the introductions are out of the way," said the Doctor, anxiously shepherding the two men into the room, "why don't we all sit down and have some more wine?" --- --- --- : A smoke-filled room : Somewhere in the United States Even to the untrained eye, it would have been immediately obvious that the five men were engaged in activities that were unlikely to foster the cause of global amity and the general well-being of mankind. Five men. Nameless, faceless, players in a conspiracy so ancient, so all-encompassing, that they themselves had long forgotten its original aims and intentions, so totally consumed were they by their paranoid obsession. Perhaps inevitably, the end had become secondary to the purpose of protecting the means, and, if any of them thought as much, they were too suspicious of the motives of the others to risk drawing attention their concerns. And so it went on. Conspiracy ad infinitum, perhaps since the dawn of the human race, and certainly with no end in sight. For when they stepped down, when they ceased to be of value, there were other, younger, players, ready and anxious to take their places, to savour deeply the heady scent of power that membership of the Consortium conferred. Cigarette Smoking Man had been in the game for a long time, longer than any of the others. He had been a player since before even Kennedy, and he had seen and done the most terrible things imaginable, but he knew that, ultimately, he would receive his just recognition; he would become the major league player, the big wheel, the architect rather than the builder. It would just take a little more time, that's all. "Frankly I do not see how involving Skinner in this benefits us." Well Manicured Man regarded the turtle farmer's business card with an expression like that of a world weary father chastising one of his errant progeny, before handing it back to CSM. "I would have thought the benefit clear," said CSM, carefully unwrapping yet another stick of 'Puff me Not' nicotine gum. "Firstly, Assistant Director Skinner has the requisite biological attributes that will ensure the successful creation of the first combined animate." One of the others (his name was not important) mumbled something that sounded vaguely affirmative. Well Manicured Man shot him a warning glance, and the man immediately looked down at the toes of his shoes and kept his gaze there. "And, secondly?" the leader of the group enquired. "Secondly," replied CSM, popping the stick of purple chewing gum into his mouth, "with him out of the way, the only support for Mulder's work within the bureau has been removed. So, as you can see, our plans are doubly benefited." "It remains a risk," the Well Manicured Man insisted. "Skinner is no more predictable than Mulder. We cannot be sure that he will do as expected." "Like all of us," said CSM, "he will react according to stimuli. In this case, the charms of Miss Covarrubias." "Really?" Well Manicured Man looked surprised. "I understood that she and Krycek were ... involved." "They were." CSM picked up the telephone, and handed the receiver to the other man. "However, Miss Covarrubias has developed, shall we say, a - dislike - of Mr. Krycek's dietary habits." "Very well, I will report that you have the operation in hand." Cigarette Smoking Man allowed just the briefest trace of satisfaction to show on his face. "And that you," Well Manicured man continued, as he dialled, "accept full responsibility for the outcome." All of the other men in the room noticed how CSM's face seemed to lose a little of its colour at that point. --- --- --- : Dana Scully's Apartment "Pendrell, what exactly are you doing over there?" Scully looked over Mulder's shoulder to where Agent Pendrell was fiddling with the television set. "Uh, sorry, Dana." Pendrell looked like a little boy who had been caught with his fingers in the sweet jar. The Doctor was reminded of that young rascal, Billy Mulder, Fox's father, who had travelled with her, as a boy, a long time ago. The physical resemblance was non-existent, of course, but the expression, the air of child-like guilt, bore an uncanny similarity. "It's just that I've been thinking of getting a wide screen set myself ..." he continued. "Yeah, well, there's a Circuit City three blocks that way," said Mulder, jerking his thumb over his shoulder. Scully scowled at him, and so did the Doctor. Mulder felt himself shrinking back into the sofa. "Here." Dana threw him the remote control, and he made a big thing about catching it between both hands, as if he were some major league baseball player. "Scully, what about Skinner?" Mulder had seen them exchanging grins, and he wasn't exactly sure that he liked it. "If turtle farming is what turns him on -" Scully shrugged, and drained the last of the wine from her glass. It was evident to Mulder that she had no intention of returning to the office that afternoon. "Skinner?" He shook his head. "Nah, something's not right." The Doctor nodded, thoughtfully. "I agree with Mulder," she said, "from what you've both told me about him, he's behaving totally out of character." As Pendrell found the correct button on the incredibly complex remote control, the Sony Wide Screen HiPro Dolby THX CinemaTech MegaRumble CXR 4108HR-E burst into life, flooding Scully's lounge with the crisp tones of a CNN anchor man: "This just in ... North Dakota. Amidst scenes which bear a startling similarity to recent episodes of the hugely popular science fiction series 'Earth Siege', and which some observers are hailing as humanity's first contact with extra- terrestrials, Oak Ridge Air Force Base is at the centre of a major military and security blackout this afternoon." In a flurry of over indulgent video effects, the clean cut middle-aged man, with the artificial smile and the digitally enhanced suit, was replaced with a view from the air, of a sprawling military airfield. Scully, the Doctor, and Mulder all turned their attention to the screen. "Events started unfolding around 3:50 pm, central time, when long range radar detected a number of unidentified craft descending from the upper atmosphere at incredible speeds." A stylised computer-generated graphic replaced the aerial view of the Oak Ridge base, and four disc shaped objects, each bearing more than a passing resemblance to deep pan pizzas, travelled slowly from the top left hand corner of the screen, down a 45 degree path, towards a highly detailed side elevation of an airport control tower. At no time was the CNN logo in the bottom right hand corner of the graphic obscured in any way. "Tad Meadows is our man on the scene," continued the anchor man, in perfect US Newscaster American English. "Tad, what can you tell us? The picture changed again, this time to a younger man dressed in a smart blue suit, blue tie, and crisp white shirt. An earpiece was just visible behind his left ear lobe, and the CNN microphone remained at a discrete distance from his chest, never once obscuring the view of his clean cut face. Some distance behind him, a military blockade had been assembled, and armed marines were forming a human barrier across the highway. "Well, Bob," he smiled, revealing two rows of completely unblemished teeth, "it's important to know that the base is currently under a full news and media blackout, so any information that we have is still a little sketchy. The Department of Defense *have* imposed a ten mile wide exclusion zone, and US Marines have been flown in to police it." He turned slightly, and indicated the mounting military presence behind him. "Nobody, but *nobody*, is getting in or out." "Tad, I understand that your cameras there are getting some pretty amazing footage." "Yeah, well, *amazing* is certainly the word for it, Bob. You know, I'm not sure if the viewers are going to believe this -" The reporter touched his fingers to his earpiece, as the studio broke in. "Tad, if I can just cut in there," said the anchor man, his picture replacing that of the reporter on the screen, "we're now getting a live video feed from our camera up on Chetoa Peak, 12 miles outside the Oak Ridge Air Force Base." "What *is* it about this planet?" said the Doctor, suddenly jumping to her feet, crossing to the television set, and peering right at the screen. "I mean, here you are, millions of light years from anything even remotely interesting -" She took out a small tape measure from her pocket, extended it across the screen, mumbled something under her breath, and then took a step backwards. "- But if I leave you alone for just five minutes ..." "This is some kind of joke, right?" Said Pendrell, grinning all over his face. "I mean, you're an actress, or something, and this is all a setup ... Mulder, Dana, look I've got to hand it to you guys -" "What in the cosmos are you babbling about, man?" The Doctor looked at him as if he were in the grip of some serious delusional state. "It's, uh, no joke, Pendrell," said Mulder, getting up off the sofa and coming to the Doctor's side to examine the huge space craft that was hanging in the skies just above the air base. "Certainly not," the Doctor added. "And neither is that!" She stabbed her finger at the screen. "What kind of vessel is it, Doctor?" Dana asked, fairly certain that the one thing it wasn't, was what it seemed to be; i.e. a very large deep pan pizza. Deep pan pizzas were (a) not normally several kilometres in diameter, and (b) distinctly *not* capable of hovering in mid air with no obvious form of propulsion. "That?" she tapped the tips of her fingertips together, "is a Planet Crushing Organic Mega Dreadnought of the Imperial Turtloid Oligarchy." "Shit!" said Pendrell, his mouth hanging open. "Yes," agreed the Doctor, with a tired sigh, "they're not exactly what you'd call house trained." "It looks just like the alien ships from that television show," remarked Pendrell. "You know ..." he scratched his head, finally remembering, "... 'Earth Siege'." "Yes, it does." She hooked her thumbs into the lapels of her coat and looked up at the ceiling thoughtfully. "In fact, it bears a *startling* resemblance ... do you know what? I think it's time I went along and had a little chat with these chappies. What do you think, Mulder?" Mulder was staring at the screen, which was now showing an excerpt from the night before's episode of Earth Siege; the cliffhanger scene, where the ridiculously large battle cruiser had just cast a shadow over a significant portion of the North Eastern United States. "Well, I don't know, Doctor." Mulder managed to force one of his schoolboy grins, but it didn't look altogether convincing. "My mom always told me never to accept a ride from a strange woman." "I'm not strange," said the Doctor, feigning offence, "well, not at the moment anyway. Of course, there *is* a full moon coming up ..." "Well, while you two are off enjoying yourselves," Scully sighed, reluctantly, "I'll go with Pendrell and check out Skinner and this turtle farming business." Mulder saw the younger agent's eyes light up at the prospect, and felt just a tiny pang of jealousy. "Well, hurry along, Mulder." The Doctor had already crossed to the door, and was holding it open. She had her pocket watch in her other hand, and was studying the dial. "I haven't got the time to spend dithering about here all day. There's a world to be saved -" "Be right with you, Doctor." --- --- --- The TARDIS was 'parked' out in the street, just in front of Scully's apartment building. Mulder found it hard to believe that nobody had questioned the presence of a passport photograph booth, standing slap bang in the middle of a suburban sidewalk. "Didn't you change this to a police box?" he asked, pushing aside the curtain, and peering inside. "Oh, did I?" she gave him a gentle shove from behind, and they crossed the 'real space' threshold together, stepping into the vast control room. "Well, that's the way my former selves liked to have it," she crossed to the octagonal central console and started flipping switches and pushing buttons, "but me, I'm an altogether different kind of Doctor." She grinned at him. Mulder felt his body temperature rise a few degrees, and his heart quicken. He stepped closer to her. The Doctor tut-tutted playfully, and waved him aside. "Not now, Mulder." She punched a series of co-ordinates into the navigation system and pulled down on the dematerialisation lever. Almost at once, the Time Ship started making all kinds of strange sucking and wheezing sounds. "... There'll be time for that later. "Right now this planet is facing imminent annihilation from an immensely powerful race of indestructible alien invaders. Most likely they'll be green and slimy, they'll smell bad, and they'll spend the majority of their time ranting and raving about conquering the entire universe with one eye stalk retracted, and their left flippers tied behind their backs. "Oh, and you can be certain that they won't have a word in their vocabulary for negotiation; which is a bit of a shame really, because all of your weapons will, of course, prove to be totally and utterly ineffectual against them ... *and* they probably won't have very good table manners, either!" She leaned towards him, and winked. "Aren't you glad that I just happened to be passing?" --- --- --- : The Walter S. Skinner Turtle Farm : Damascus, Maryland Scully let Pendrell take the lead. She knew that he wanted to feel a little bit heroic, that he needed that ego boost, and she found it hard to believe that there was any real danger to be found in a turtle farm. The facility was situated about four miles outside of Damascus, and, apart from the colourful pictures of turtles that adorned the main gate, there was little indication that this was a place where aquatic reptiles were being bred. But bred for what? thought Scully. I mean, what do you *do* with a turtle? She searched her memories for some long forgotten fragments of her school education. Were they great delicacies? Aphrodisiacs, perhaps? Maybe they had other medicinal properties? She seemed to remember turtle soup from somewhere, but couldn't be sure if she'd ever tried any. "Dana, what exactly do they breed turtles *for*?" asked Pendrell, as he pushed at the door which was marked 'Strictly No Admittance.' "Great minds ..." Dana muttered under her breath. "What did you say?" "I said, try picking the lock." "But, we don't have a warrant, Dana," he complained, "we can't do that! It's against the constitution!" Scully gently pushed past him, reaching into her pocket for a small leather wallet. "Get real, Pendrell," she said, as she unzipped the pouch to reveal a set of shiny lock picks. "Dana?" "Pendrell?" "You're ... amazing." She stared back at him, finally shaking her head and turning her attention back to the lock. "Yeah, well that's what I keep telling Mulder." After a few seconds of careful manipulation of the tumblers, Scully had the door open. "Et voila!" she said, with a wave of her hand. "Apres toi, mon petit agent." "Wha -" "After you, Pendrell," she translated. The narrow corridor continued for about twenty feet before branching to the left and to the right. Pendrell pointed out the yellow and black signs that were stuck to the wall at regular intervals. "Bio Hazard," said Scully, tapping her index finger on the familiar logo. "Can you think of anything particularly hazardous about turtles?" "Look!" He pointed his gun towards the door at the end of the right hand branch in the corridor. It was constructed from solid steel, had a sophisticated digital combination lock set into the centre of it, and was covered in all manner of warning labels. Dana moved past him, and started examining the keypad of the lock mechanism. "I don't think the lock picks will help with this," she said. "Any ideas, Pendrell?" He shook his head. "I'm afraid I left my National Security Agency Code Book at home today." "Oh, please," Scully groaned, "don't tell me that you've enrolled in after-work Mulder-talk classes." "Sorry." He blushed, and looked suitably admonished. "That's OK." Feeling a bit guilty, she gently touched his arm, and he brightened up immediately. "Of course, it might not be locked," he ventured. "Pendrell, that is the most ridicu -" Dana stopped herself. She took hold of the big chrome handle, twisted it down, and gave the door a gentle push. It swung silently inwards. They looked at one another for a moment, before Scully drew her weapon and moved cautiously inside. He followed close behind, checking over his shoulder as they stepped into the chamber. The room was about forty feet in diameter, although most of that was taken up by the pool of still water in the centre. A narrow strip of tiled floor, not more than three feet wide, ran around the circumference of the pool. Dim lights, set into the ceiling, gave off a dull orange glow that was reflected back off the surface of the water, which itself seemed to be oscillating slightly from the vibrations given off by some nearby piece of machinery. From the muted hum, Scully guessed that there was a generator running somewhere fairly close by. Carefully, they began to circle the pool. Pendrell stepped up to the edge and peered over. "Dana, there's something in here," he said. She came over to his side and looked down at where he was pointing. Sure enough, there appeared to be something quite large in the bottom of the pool. As they watched, it began to move, and the two agents both took a step backwards. Pendrell raised his Sig between both hands, and slipped off the safety catch. Scully brought her own weapon up as well. Seconds later, the surface of the water broke, and a head appeared. "Sir!" Scully and Pendrell exclaimed in unison. The agents stared in disbelief at the head of former FBI Assistant Director Walter S. Skinner, which was staring right back at them with hollow and totally dark eyes. Shocked, Dana started to move closer, so that she could try and get him out of the water; but Pendrell caught her by the arm, and stopped her. At the same moment, the rest of Skinner's body rose up above the surface. The body of an eight foot turtle! --- EPISODE FOUR --- Playfully, she pushed his head back under the water again, holding her outstretched palm over his smooth crown until both it, and her fingers, were totally immersed. Seconds later, a furious fountain of bubbles erupted through the pinkish foam, as Skinner struggled to get back up for air, flailing his arms about on either side of him. Finally, his hands found her wrists and he managed to gain enough leverage to free himself from her grip. Marita Covarrubias shook her arms free, and sat staring at him from the other end of the black marble bath. She reached out with her right foot and stroked his left forearm gently with her toes. "It's real," she murmured, her whole body trembling with anticipation. "The last time I looked," Skinner replied, dryly. "I never could resist a man with all his limbs intact," she cooed, launching herself towards him across the narrow expanse of bath foam. --- --- --- : The Doctor's Time Ship : Outside of Einsteinian space/time "No, Mulder," the Doctor shook her head adamantly, "I am *not* taking you back in time one week, just so that you can change your comments on Dana's performance appraisal!" He looked at her with the pathetic expression of a family pet waiting by the dinner table to be fed. Avoiding his gaze, she busied herself with piloting the Time Ship towards its destination; not that it needed any piloting, because it knew exactly where it was going, and precisely how to get there. Time Ships really are quite remarkable machines, as any Time Lord will tell you. "She's really pissed at me," he said, gloomily, his hands thrust deep into his pockets, and his head bowed miserably. The Doctor examined several of the control panel readouts, and made a few minor adjustments to some dials and switches, none of which had the slightest effect on the operation of the ship (other than to hurt its feelings). "I doubt it," she sighed. "What? You think she's OK with what I said?" His voice took on a more hopeful tone. She tut-tutted, and pushed carefully past him to reach the controls on the other side of the console. "Well frankly, Mulder, if I were her, which I'm not incidentally, despite what some people might think - I'd be just a *tad* peeved. Well, actually, I'd want to bury you up to your armpits in a trench filled with Oosothgian Buttock Leeches that hadn't had a good meal for six weeks - but that's just me." Her wicked grin did nothing to dispel Mulder's fear that she'd actually meant what she'd said. "Still, I know how you humans get so upset about all this interpersonal relationship business, so if it makes you feel any better, I don't think she's really *that* upset by it." She tapped a large red button, and nothing whatsoever happened. "... No, Dana has got *other* things on her mind at the moment," she concluded. He looked at her, quizzically. "She's a woman, Mulder, in case you hadn't noticed," the Doctor shook her head again, this time despairingly. "Like me ... um, well, perhaps not quite like me ... after all, there's only one *me* ... at least there's only one *me* me ... the other eight don't really count -" "And your point is?" "Oh, really, Mulder," the Doctor took a deep breath, stepped back from the console, and clasped her hands patiently behind her back, "how can you be a human being, and know so little about being a human? Isn't it obvious? She wants a chance to *be* that woman for a while, and -" she sighed deeply, and turned to look up at the scanner, "Look, Mulder, I'm a Time Lord, not a behavioural scientist, you'll just have to talk to her about it." The Time Ship lurched forwards suddenly, causing both Mulder and the Doctor to lose their balance. She just managed to grab the edge of the console and, in doing so, prevented herself from crashing into the old wooden hat stand - which was probably just as well, because the hat stand had a notoriously bad temper. Mulder would have tumbled right past her, and then probably bashed his head against the far wall, if she hadn't reached out with her free hand, and caught him by the forearm. Just as suddenly, the ship righted itself again, and she let go of his arm. "Yes, well ... she's not quite as smooth as she once was," explained the Doctor, patting the control panel affectionately, "but then what can you expect, with more than a thousand years on the clock?" "Thirty percent trade-up allowance against a new model?" Mulder ventured. "A new model?" she gasped. "A new model?!" She tapped her fingertips together, agitatedly. "This is my TARDIS, Mulder, not some rust bucket family runabout that you just *trade up* when you fancy some different coloured floor mats!" "Uh, well, I only thought -" "How can you even suggest such a thing?" "But -" "Do I tell you how to fill out performance appraisals?" "No, but -" "Do I go around saying 'Federal Agent' to everything that moves?" "Uh -" "Of course I don't!" The Doctor clapped her hands together, right in front of his face, so that he was forced to jerk his head back to avoid getting his nose squashed between them. "- So I'll thank you not to cast aspersions about my TARDIS!" She dusted off her palms and, with her fingertips, gently polished a strip of chrome bordering one of the control panels, occasionally puffing a few breaths on it to help bring up the shine. Mulder looked on with complete bewilderment. Finally, he worked up enough courage to ask: "Was it something I said?" "You might think that," she grinned, mischievously, "but I couldn't possibly comment." Suddenly she threw the door control lever, hurled the ends of her scarf over her shoulder, and marched off towards the exit at a dizzying pace. "Come along, Mulder," she called behind her, "time is the enemy." He muttered something profane under his breath, as he set off after her; but the thing that was really bugging him was why the hell he seemed to have developed such an incredible hard-on. --- --- --- : Oak Ridge Air Force Base : North Dakota "- So she said: I'll have everything on it, except the mushrooms!" Lieutenant Ken Stiles delivered the punch line with the timing and finesse that his captain had come to expect of him, i.e. exactly none whatsoever. Shaking his head with undisguised despair, Captain Mike Freeth pushed through the doors of the base cafeteria, leaving the younger man standing out in the hall; the anticipation draining quickly from his face, to be replaced by outright disappointment. "Doncha get it, Captain?" Realising that Freeth had no intention of delivering even the slightest grin in recognition of his attempts at humour, Stiles was left with no option other than to follow his commanding officer to the coffee. Sometimes Freeth could be a real pain, he decided. Entering the cafeteria, he glanced around, saw that it was almost deserted, shrugged, and picked up a tray from the stack at the end of the counter. Freeth had already collected a huge Danish pastry and filled a jumbo-sized cup from the coffee urn, before Stiles had even started to think about what would quiet his own rumbling stomach. They'd been on standby continuously for the last six hours; four of them spent sitting in their aircraft, the other two getting into, or out of, the F16s. He was hungry, and he was tired, and he wanted to know what the fuck a gigantic deep pan pepperoni pizza, four point nine kilometres in diameter, was doing hanging right over their heads. After a moment's indecision, he selected a large slice of cream pie, a Hershey Symphony bar, and, like his captain, filled a large cup with steaming hot coffee. He caught up with Freeth at the register, where the man was debating the price of the pastry with the girl serving. "You've got to be kidding!" the captain had just finished saying. The girl just held out her hand, chewed some more on the gum in her mouth, and made a face. Stiles handed her a ten-dollar bill. "Here, I'll get it." As they walked across the room, towards a table near the window, Stiles noticed that there was a new addition to the normally spartan cafeteria. "Hey, Freeth, you and Jackie still taking that holiday in Europe this year?" Freeth looked back at him, puzzled. "Over there!" Stiles pointed to the passport photograph booth, located between the cigarette machine and the door to the men's room. "You said you needed to renew your passport." The lieutenant immediately swerved over to investigate the machine. "This is great," he said, enthusiastically, "I wanted to send Becky my photo, but I didn't have anything recent -" "Stiles," Freeth shook his head, "stop it already, with this Becky Paretto business. I already told you, there's no way I'm buyin' it." Stiles set his tray down on a nearby table and started sifting through his pockets for some coins. "I'm tellin' ya, we've been exchanging letters, and she's been sayin' all the right things." He groaned. "Come off it, Stiles, she's the leading lady from the top rated US TV show. She must be on a hundred thou an episode, at least. *And* she's one hell of a hot little chick. So, why the fuck would she be interested in -" Stiles found that he had nearly five dollars in change, surely enough to get a couple of passport photographs taken? He dismissed his captain's comments with a wave of the hand, and started eagerly reading the instructions. After a moment, he stepped back, and scratched his head in confusion. "What's this, for crying out loud -" "What is it?" With a tired sigh, Freeth realised that he was unlikely to get the chance to enjoy his coffee while it was still hot. He put his tray down next to the lieutenant's, and went over to join him. "The damnedest thing," Stiles muttered, and started reading from the instructions: "Choice of one portrait, or four passport-sized prints. "Two pounds fifty!" "Ah, they must have imported the thing from England," said Freeth, as he started to pull back the curtain, "probably forgot to change the instructions, that's all." Just as he was about to pull the black curtain aside, a red- haired woman stepped out and pushed straight past him. When she realised that she'd almost knocked him over, she spun around on her heels and offered up her hand. "Terribly sorry," she said, with an amicable smile. "How do you do? I'm the Doctor, and this is my friend Mulder -" Mulder stepped through the curtain, leaving Freeth to wonder: a) how the hell the two of them had fitted in there, and b) *what* had they been up to in such a confined space that could possibly be legal in the state of North Dakota? With a sweeping motion of his right hand, Fox reached inside his jacket and pulled out his badge, opening it and holding it under the captain's nose just long enough for him to see that it looked vaguely official. "Federal Agent," he said. "Really?" said Freeth, skeptically. Stiles cleared his throat, and the Doctor turned around to face him. "Lieutenant Stiles, ma'am," he saluted. A look of confusion came over the Doctor's face for a fraction of a second, before she gave a smart salute in return. Mulder was about to make another pass with his ID, but she reached out and stopped his hand in mid-air. "Very pleased to meet you, lieutenant," she said. "And that's Captain Freeth," Stiles volunteered, only to find himself on the receiving end of a reproachful look from his senior officer. "Jolly good." The Doctor started marching away from them at a brisk pace, and, for some reason, they all followed her. "Now then, if you could just take me to see the base commander." Stiles caught up with her, pushing in front of Mulder. "Uh, that'll be Major General Ditton." She came to a sudden halt, turned to the table where the two officers had left their trays, and picked up Freeth's Danish pastry between the thumb and forefinger of her left hand. She held it up and regarded it with disgust. "Ugh. What a revolting example of human over- indulgence," she concluded. "Over-priced, too," Freeth muttered under his breath. "Well, there you are then." She dropped the cake back onto the tray, and started walking towards the door. "Ditton, you say? That wouldn't be Charles Edgar Ditton, would it?" "As a matter of fact, yes," said Stiles, reaching the door just ahead of her, and politely holding it open. "Do you know the Major?" "Not yet," she winked. "But we did have tea in the White House together, when he was Head of the Joint Chiefs of Staff." "But -" "Well, come along, man," she started off down the corridor, "can't spend all day standing around reminiscing about the future, you know." --- --- --- : The Command Deck : Imperial Turtloid Battle Dreadnought: "Behemoth" Krooth, being a fine specimen of Turtloid maleness, and endowed with significantly greater physical strength and unnatural sexual urges than his nearest rivals, had taken command of the mission. Success had demanded nothing less. And so, on a balmy evening, on the outskirts of one of the ship's thirty-eight synthetic deserts, each of which served as gigantic basking zones, Krooth had quietly throttled his predecessor; and brought a fragment of the dead Turtloid's shattered carapace to the command deck, as proof of his new position as leader of the mission. Krooth had known that no one would dare challenge him then, not at such a critical juncture. The Organic Mega Dreadnought was just preparing to dimension jump; an operation that would have been doomed to failure without the precise psi control of a Z3 graded Turtloid officer, and Krooth was now the only Z3 on board! (Primarily because he had surreptitiously disposed of the other five candidates whenever an opportune moment had presented itself). Since then, the mission had gone exceptionally well. If things continued to go as planned, he would be looking at a very handsome bounty from the Oligarchy's war chest; almost certainly a Dukedom over the Earth, and, oh, at least eight wives. Maybe more. He sauntered up to the edge of his command platform, strutting his elegantly manicured flippers, and slowly moving his head from side to side in the manner of a true leader. His dark shell, freshly cleaned and polished, shone majestically beneath the off-green lights of the command deck. When he had completed his slow crawl to the edge of the platform, he looked out over the massive semi-circular chamber, and surveyed his crew. As far as his genetically augmented eyes could see, Turtloids manned their positions, their shells glistening from the steady shower of nutrient mist that continuously seeded the atmosphere of the command deck, and their heads bobbing back and forth, as they monitored their banks of sophisticated instruments. Directly ahead of him, the five-dimensional main view screen, ninety metres across, gave a crystal clear view of the human's military complex, now completely eclipsed by the vast bulk of the Organic Mega Dreadnought. Krooth looked over at the wall clock. Half past ninety two. "Excellent", he simpered. In just four basking periods, the next transmission would begin ... and the entire human race would bow before the might of the Turtloid Empire! And, of course, one Fagor Krooth, of the eightieth hatching of the family Proxlar Krooth, would become a very wealthy, and very privileged, Turtloid indeed. He could hardly wait. --- --- --- : The Walter S. Skinner Turtle Farm : Damascus, Maryland For some reason Pendrell wanted to be heroic. He had placed himself between the Skinner-headed turtle and Scully, and was now carefully training his pistol on the bizarre human/reptile amalgam, as it heaved itself out of the water with its two gigantic front flippers. "Careful, Pendrell," said Scully, keeping her Sig steady between both hands. "I'm being careful," he said, nervously taking a half-step backwards. The creature slipped and slithered on the edge of the pool, finally managing to get a purchase on the smooth tiles and hauling its bulk out of the water completely. It waited for a moment, its expressionless dark eyes flitting between Pendrell and Scully as if it were unsure what to do next. She noticed that, although the head was identical in both shape and size to that of her former boss, its skin was too smooth to be of human flesh, unlined and unformed, looking almost like molten wax where it caught the light. A long rubbery neck joined the head to the body, thickening where it projected out from under the creature's carapace. It started moving ponderously towards them. The two agents stepped back a pace, Scully checking behind them to see that the door was still clear. The turtle moved closer still. It was now making some very strange sounds indeed with its Skinner-mouth; gurgling and clucking, like a chicken finding out that it couldn't swim. "It, um, doesn't seem to be dangerous," said Pendrell. "Really, Pendrell?" Scully sounded dubious. "You don't think the fact that it's being kept in a heavily secured room, with more locks on the door than Fort Knox, and Bio Hazard warning signs as far as the eye can see, might possibly be cause for concern, then?" He looked back over his shoulder at her and grinned, keeping the gun trained on the turtle. "How do you think it got a head like that?" She shrugged with exasperation. "Craniums R Us? How the hell should I know?" "Well, could it be some sort of genetic experiment?" The Skinner-turtle had stopped moving, and Pendrell wondered whether it was exhausted from the effort of extricating itself from the pool. "Yeah, or maybe Doctor Moreau just stores his rejects here." Scully had seen the creature's apparent exhaustion too, and she stepped up to Pendrell's side to take a closer look. The other agent lowered his weapon and moved just slightly to his left, in order to keep a discrete distance from her. "Doctor Moreau?" he asked. "It's from a film," Scully sighed. "Remember 'The Island of Doctor Moreau'?" "Oh, yeah, right. Got it!" Pendrell slapped his forehead as he recalled the memory of the mad scientist experimenting with human/animal hybrids. "Say, Dana, would you do me a favour?" She had started to approach the huge turtle, but now she paused and inclined her head towards him, her eyebrows raised in suspicious anticipation. "OK, Pendrell, what is it?" "Would you call me Brian?" he asked, sheepishly. "It's just that 'Pendrell this' and 'Pendrell that' ... well, it sort of makes it sound like I've always done something wrong." She faked a look of total astonishment. "Haven't you?" "Dana!" He was about to defend himself, but she waved him quiet. "Just kidding, Brian." She turned her attention back to the mutant turtle, which was regarding both of them with a totally non-Skinner look of confusion and inquisitiveness. The drowning chicken sounds had given way to a rasping and grating at the back of its throat, although they were equally as unintelligible. Scully knelt down beside it, and stared into its eyes, searching for some consciousness or sentience, or perhaps even recognition. After all, this might now be all that now remained of Assistant Director Walter S. Skinner. "Sir?" She passed her hand slowly back and forth in front of its face. "Agent Scully!" The voice had come from across the other side of the room, clear and crisp, and with a very obviously faked Russian accent. Dana spun around and raised her weapon, supporting her elbow on her bended knee to take aim at the source. "Krycek!" said Pendrell. "How's it going, Pendrell?" The rogue agent casually waved his Uzi in their direction, and smiled with gut- wrenching insincerity. "I thought you'd been shot?" Krycek's comment caught him off guard, unbalancing him, leaving him unable to react for the vital fractions of a second that might have made all the difference. "Krycek, No!" Scully saw what was coming, and she started moving to put herself between the two men, "Brian!" "My mistake," Krycek continued, "I must have been thinking of some other poor sucker. Still, I guess we can soon fix that!" He squeezed the trigger, and kept it depressed. --- EPISODE FIVE --- : Oak Ridge Air Force Base : North Dakota "Are you out of your mind?" Ditton appeared to be on the verge of apoplexy, and the cigar between his teeth came close to being sliced clean in two as he ground his jaws together with rage. The Doctor had her back to him. She was staring out of the window of his third floor office, studying the squadron of missile laden F16s that were lining up on the tarmac. Her expression was one of concern and disapproval. "No, Major, I am not," she said, turning to him, "but *you* must be, if you really think that this attack can succeed." "Now wait just one goddamned minute, Doctor!" Ditton was a large man, his bulging stomach the inevitable result of numerous officer's club dinners, and far too many years of deskbound inactivity, but when he moved, he was surprisingly swift. Once out from behind his desk, he marched over to the window and stood alongside her. "Those aircraft down there are the most sophisticated airborne fighting machines in the world. The pilots that fly them are our very best young Americans, trained to the absolute peak of physical and intellectual perfection. I can assure you that they're ready and able to take on any threat, from anywhere on the planet, or beyond!" "Major General Ditton," the Doctor sighed patiently, "the vessel currently hovering above this base is an Organic Mega Dreadnought of the Imperial Turtloid Oligarchy. Not only is it unfeasibly big, but it is in a constant state of quantum meta-dimensional flux. Have you any idea what that means?" Ditton stared at her, open-mouthed. It was obvious that he didn't. "I think what the Doctor is saying," said Mulder, looking to her for confirmation, "is that your weapons will be about as effective as a blow pipe against an Abrams Main Battle Tank!" "That's *exactly* what I mean," the Doctor agreed, ominously, "The Turtloids are polyectodimensional megamorphs. They exist in an alternative dimensional plane that occupies roughly the same physical space as this universe, but displaced at a quantum level; hence the fact that they are commonly known as 'Quantum Turtles'. Normally, the loathsome little tortoises can't pass through the dimension barrier, but, if the conditions are right ..." Ditton's shoulders sagged with resignation. He plucked the crumpled cigar from his mouth, and tossed it into the waste bin. "All right, Doctor, supposing I go along with all this technobabble bullshit, what exactly *can* we do?" "Exactly?" She tapped her fingertips together, and studied the ceiling for a few seconds. "Exactly nothing, Brigadier." His eyebrows went up with surprise. "Uh, sorry, *Major*," she apologised quickly. "A little slip of the regeneration there." "So, let me get this clear in my mind," Ditton stepped around to the front of his desk, picked up the Doctor Strangelove commemorative cigar box; the one that his wife had given him on their twentieth wedding anniversary; and carefully took out another Havana. He popped it into his mouth, but didn't light it. "While the planet is on the verge of being invaded by a swarm of goddamned extra- dimensional turtles, who are totally impervious to our weapons, we're just supposed to sit around here with our hands stuck underneath our goddamned asses? That about it?" "Well, not quite," she grinned, "after all, *I'm* here; and saving entire civilisations from domination by evil power- mad psychopaths with bad dress sense is all in a day's work for me." Ditton looked over at Mulder. "What's the Bureau's position on this, Agent Mulder?" "I don't believe the Bureau has an official position on alien invasion," said Mulder. "Guess you could try the CIA." "OK, fine." He lit his cigar with a lighter cunningly disguised as a replica of a B52 bomber. "I have a responsibility to protect these United States of America ... and the entire free world, if it comes to it. The president has given me full authority to use such forces and facilities as are at my disposal in order to achieve that end." He looked at the Doctor. She hooked her thumbs behind the lapels of her Edwardian long coat and grinned back at him. "Heaven help us all, Doctor, but I'm gonna listen to your proposal." "Oh, jolly good," she beamed. "It's such a refreshing change to meet a military person who can think for himself. Isn't it, Mulder?" Mulder grimaced, but otherwise declined to comment. Ditton went back behind his desk and settled in the big leather recliner. He indicated the two chairs in front of him, and waited for the Doctor and Mulder to sit down in them. When they did, he leant forward, puffing the occasional cloud of cigar smoke in their direction. "So what's your plan, Doctor?" he growled. She looked at Mulder; Mulder looked back at her; They both looked at Ditton; Ditton looked exasperated. "You *do* have a plan, right?" "Oh, a *plan*," she said, suddenly. "As in a course of action?" He nodded slowly. "As in a sequence of clearly defined tasks that must be followed in order to achieve a stated objective?" Ditton leant closer to the Doctor, puffing more cigar smoke towards her. "As in the best laid -" "Yes, Doctor!" said Ditton, clearly running out of patience. "As in all of those things!" "Well," she started tapping her fingertips together again, "now that you come to mention it ..." Mulder felt a general sense of foreboding gaining hold on him, and he really dreaded what he thought was coming next. "Of course I have a plan," she said, much to Mulder's relief. "The easiest way to stop an incursion by an extra- dimensional invading force is to remove the conditions that enable them to cross the dimension barrier." "I'm listening," said Ditton, still puffing on his cigar. "What kind of conditions are we talking about here?" Mulder asked. He thought he'd better ask something, and he hoped that it least sounded sensible and relevant. "Well, frankly, the nanofractional uniphase triactor array from a Time Ship is always handy, *if* you know how to recalibrate the nanoconfluic pentode stack at the sub octron level." "Really?" said Mulder, fascinated. "But wouldn't that require the use of a triple theta-transmutronic ion dichronatron operating in inverse nanophased varaction mode?" The Doctor looked at him suspiciously. "Hmmmn, you haven't been reading the TARDIS Technical Manual again have you, Mulder?" "Look, guys," Ditton spread his hands out over the desk, "I tell you what, how does this sound? I give the go to launch a squadron of F16s. They close to within four hundred metres, and then they shoot the *fuck* out of it, with a combined strike of Sidewinders and nuclear-tipped AMRAAMs!" Mulder and the Doctor looked at one another, and began slowly shaking their heads in unison. "Really, Brigadier -" the Doctor began to respond. "Major," Mulder corrected her. "Really, Major, that is such a *basic* approach to problem solving," she scolded him, "and, as I've already said, it won't work. Your missiles will explode in this universe - *not* theirs. The only damage done will be to this base, which, I imagine, will be totally and utterly obliterated, and won't prove to be a very popular move with the American taxpayer." "So," Mulder continued, "if it's not part of a TARDIS -" "It's not. I'd have picked it up on the instruments," she said, sucking her lower lip thoughtfully. "- What else could they be using?" The Doctor thought carefully for a few moments, trying to ignore the look of blatant impatience on the base commander's face. "Major Ditton, when I was at my friend Dana's apartment, I saw a TV show that bore a remarkable similarity to the events that have transpired in the last few hours." "Yeah. 'Earth Siege.' My kids watch it, and I know what you mean, it's uncanny how close the design of that alien ship was to this goddamned Turtloid thing." She snapped her fingers, and jumped up out of the chair, pausing only to sling the folds of her scarf over her shoulder, before starting towards the door. "Come along, Mulder." "But, where -" She stopped at the door. "I want to go and see where that the show is made." "Then you want Wolverine Studios," said Ditton, "but that's in Los Angeles. How the hell will you get there?" "Not a problem," Mulder winked at the major, before getting up to join her, "I'll take the Doctor's Time Ship against a Greyhound any day." "Be back in five minutes," said the Doctor, pulling open the door. After they were gone, Ditton lit himself another cigar. "The whole goddamned world is off its goddamned rocker," he muttered. --- --- --- : The Walter S. Skinner Turtle Farm : Damascus, Maryland Sadly, Scully stepped away from the bloodied corpse of the turtle/human amalgam, and went over to see how Pendrell was doing. After Krycek had emptied almost the entire clip of his weapon into the strange creature, he had stepped forward and pistol whipped the young agent into near unconsciousness. She knelt down beside him, resting her hand on his shoulder, while Krycek looked on, waving the Uzi threateningly. "I'm OK, Dana," he managed to say, weakly. "No, you're not, Brian," she examined the lump on the back of his head, "and you might be in line for a nasty spot of concussion." "All right, enough of the caring partner crap," growled Krycek, once more brandishing his weapon as if it made up for the fact that he only had one good arm, "let's get moving." "Moving where?" Pendrell asked. "Oh, not far," Krycek grinned sadistically, "just into the lab." "Why did you have to kill that - thing?" Scully glanced back at the dead turtle. "Because it was a useless reject," Krycek shrugged, but then felt that he needed to qualify his statement. "Let's just say that it didn't quite turn out the way the blueprints said it should. Seems that just using Skinner's DNA wasn't enough." He waved the gun at them again. Reluctantly, Scully helped Pendrell to his feet. Krycek waited for the two agents to go out through the door, before following them at what he considered to be a safe distance. "Now we'll have to try something else," he said ominously. Scully glanced back over her shoulder. "What do you mean?" "Direct grafting," he elaborated with another grin. "Ya know what, Agent Scully? Much as I think you've got a fabulous body, I do believe your head's gonna look rather fetching on top of a matching shell and flippers." --- --- --- : Studio One : Wolverine Productions, L.A. The passport photograph booth blended in reasonably well with the old London telephone box, a pile of Victorian tea chests, and several old grey filing cabinets. The Doctor poked her head outside the curtain, satisfied herself that their arrival had not been observed, and stepped outside. Mulder followed close behind. "This way," she whispered. They made their way across the crowded prop room, climbing through piles of old costumes, stuffed animals, suits of armour, and several scale models of the Starship Enterprise, in various states of disrepair, before finally reaching the door. "So, let me get this straight," said Mulder, standing behind her while she rummaged through her pockets for something, "you think this 'Earth Siege' show is planting images in people's subconscious minds, and that those images are awakening the latent telepathic abilities in all humans." She pulled out volume six of the Encyclopedia Infinica, tossing it at once over her shoulder. "Dreadful book," she muttered, "if they wanted to write a piece about the nineteen headed sentient slime postules of Beta Arianus Nine, why didn't they take the time to talk to someone who's actually seen them?" "So, the telepathic energy released is somehow rupturing the dimension barrier?" Mulder continued. "What? Oh, yes." She waved one hand dismissively at him, while she withdrew a bright red hover mower from her pocket with the other. "Grrr - now where was *that* when I had to tidy up the Time Ship's lawns?" Finally, she found the polymorphic pliers, and Mulder breathed a sigh of relief. At least when *they* came out, things normally started getting better. She pointed the pliers at the lock of the door, tapped a few control studs on the handles of the instrument, and the door swung open as if by magic. "Tiens, Mulder! C'est simple, quand nous avons les outils adequats." "Uh, shouldn't that have been nous aurions?" he said, trying his very best to get the accent right. "I mean, isn't it normal to use a conditional verb in -" "Mulder." "What?" "Do you speak fluent French?" "Well no, but -" She jabbed him in the centre of the chest with her index finger. "A bit of advice, Mulder. You stick to playing the part of the obsessive federal agent with the boyish good looks, and I'll do all the irascible, eccentric, and unpredictable Time Lord stuff. How does that sound?" Meekly, he nodded. She sighed, and pushed through the door, stepping out into the large sound stage beyond. He followed her, bending awkwardly at the waist in an attempt to conceal his involuntary erection. --- --- --- : Skinner's apartment Marita Covarrubias had just switched off her cellphone, and returned it to her handbag when Skinner came up behind her and hooked his right arm around her neck. "Uh, Walter, this is unexpected." She tried to remain calm, but the force that he was exerting sent a feeling of panic through her. She knew at once that he must have discovered her scheme. "I'll bet," said Skinner, dragging her across the lounge to the sofa, where he threw her down and immediately trained a .25 calibre automatic pistol at her head. "Who was that on the phone?" "An associate," she said. "Cancer Man?" "An associate," she repeated, her eyes frantically scanning the apartment in search of some means of distracting him. He jabbed the gun into her cheek. "And what about all this turtle farming crap? It's all been a setup, hasn't it?" She smiled provocatively, and shifted her legs to reveal the tops of her thighs beneath the short black skirt, hoping that would be enough to divert his eyes for the fraction of a second that she needed. It wasn't, and Skinner just pressed the barrel of the gun harder against her cheek. "You're under arrest, Ms. Covarrubias," he said, with obvious satisfaction. "On what charge?" "Attempting to seduce a Federal Agent." "But that's preposterous!" she objected. "Besides, what do you mean, *attempting*?" "All right then, how does espionage, activities against the interests of the American people, and impersonating a United Nations official strike you?" "Where's your evidence?" She shook her head defiantly, and tried to get up from the sofa. "Haven't you ever heard of a simple, honest to goodness frame up?" Skinner grinned. "Now, unless you want to grow old behind bars, I strongly suggest that you co- operate." She only had to think about it for a few seconds. "OK, what do you want?" "Well, for a start," he pushed the pistol into his belt, "I'd like to go see this turtle farm I'm supposed to own." --- --- --- : Studio One : Wolverine Productions, L.A. Professor Annabel Constantine (Becky Paretto) threw down the thick wad of printout, aiming it perfectly, so that it landed right in the centre of Major General John Trenchard's (John Green-Franks') desk. He looked up, and grunted an acknowledgement. "I suppose it would be too much to expect some good news?" he ventured. "Today is Monday," the Professor replied, brushing a thick lock of wheat-blonde hair away from her eyes. "No good news on Mondays." Trenchard grimaced, and picked up the report. He scanned the first sheet quickly. "My God, these numbers can't be right!" Annabel sighed tiredly, and settled down in the chair opposite him. "I'm afraid so, sir. The Tuttleoids have now - " "CUT!!!!" Becky hissed a curse through her clenched teeth, and slapped her knees. "Shit!" "That's Turtloids, Becky," called Henry V. Frybungler, from his position in the director's chair, across the set. "Turtloids. Turtloids. Turtloids. Try saying it over and over, there's a doll." "All right, all right." She waved him quiet. "It's a damned stupid name, anyway!" Franks was grinning at her, knowing that when Becky got worked up like this, by far the best thing to do was to sit back and watch the fireworks fly. It usually led to an entertaining break, if nothing else. "Hey, did I write the freaking script?" Frybungler defended himself. Before Becky could give voice to the sarcastic rejoinder that had been taking shape in her mind, a man and a woman strolled casually onto the set. The man was tall, slim, hazel-haired, and quite dishy, she thought. The woman, on the other hand, a short redhead, looked as if she had a severe case of costume dyslexia "Hello, there," said the redhead, proffering her hand towards Becky, "I'm the Doctor." "Uh, hello -" Not sure what else to do, she shook the woman's hand. Mulder flashed his badge in every direction. "Federal Agent," he said, confidently. "Jeeezuss Keriste!!!" wailed Frybungler, stepping up to the set. "What is this, a freaking social function? I've got an episode to make here, people, and the clock's against us!" "Like I always say," said the Doctor, grinning in a way that made Becky smile as well, "time is the enemy." "And who the freaking hell are you, Lady?" She held out her hand. "I'm the Doctor," she said, regally, "a Time Lord from the planet Gallifrey, in the constellation of Kasterborous. I travel through time and space, in a passport photograph booth that's bigger on the inside than it is on the outside, righting wrongs, helping the underdog, standing up for truth, justice, and the humanoid way, and generally saving the cosmos from the constant threat of total and utter annihilation." Frybungler stood there, his mouth hanging open. She leant forward, and gently pushed his jaw back into place. "And this," she indicated her travelling companion, "is my friend Mulder. He's a -" "Federal Agent," said Mulder, whipping out his badge. The Doctor snatched the ID from his hand and threw it angrily across the set. "Mulder, will you *please* stop doing that!" He looked across the room to where the leather wallet had landed, just beside the waste bin; and was about to go and retrieve it, when he found himself on the receiving end of a really dark frown from the Time Lord. Thinking again, he just made a mental note of its location, and resolved to pick it up before they left. "Now then," said the Doctor, feeling all the better for having vented some of her frustration, "in case you haven't been watching the news, the Earth is under attack from hostile alien forces. Nasty things, actually. Turtloids, affectionately known throughout the forty-two universes as Quantum Turtles!" "Yeah, of course," said Franks, getting up from the desk, and walking around to join them, "that's what this show is all about." "No, no." She shook her head. "I'm afraid you don't quite understand. These Turtloids are *real* Turtloids. The Earth really *is* under attack." "You're kidding!" exclaimed Becky. "She's not," said Mulder, "just switch on the TV, and take a look." "I don't have much time," the Doctor continued, "but I believe that the Turtloids have been able to cross over into this universe as a result of the TV show that you're making." "'Earth Siege'?" Frybungler was astonished. "But how?" "Mass suggestion leading to a triggering of latent telepathic powers that have led to a rupture in the dimension barrier that separates universes." She tapped her temples and raised her eyebrows. "I imagine that you'll want to talk to me about that," said a voice from the shadows. They all turned around, to where Cigarette Smoking Man had appeared from behind one of the stage lights. Mulder noticed at once that the ever-present cigarette was missing, and that the man was vigorously chewing on some gum. "Yeah, why?" Fox asked, instinctively moving his right hand to his holstered weapon. CSM held up a neatly bound script for them all to see. "Because *I* am the writer behind the most successful science fiction show since 'The X Files'." --- EPISODE SIX --- : The Walter S. Skinner Turtle Farm : Damascus, Maryland As long as Krycek had the Uzi, Scully knew that their chances of overpowering him were close to zero. The fact that Pendrell was also suffering from the effects of a mild concussion, and could hardly keep himself on his feet, effectively nullified their only other advantage, that of numerical superiority. Also, Scully was not feeling at her best; not since Krycek had made that comment about transplanting her head onto the body of a turtle. It wasn't, she decided, a prospect that particularly appealed to her. No, she didn't like the sound of that one little bit, even though she knew full well that such a thing was a medical impossibility - at least within the constraints of current human biological technology. The lab was situated at the other end of the corridor, and she had to support Pendrell's weight the whole distance, as he kept drifting in and out of consciousness. Krycek walked just behind them, repeatedly prodding Scully in the small of the back with the barrel of the Uzi. "There's no need to keep pushing!" she snapped at him. "Can't you see that he's injured?" Krycek just gave her a sadistic leer, and prodded her again. "Sure I can," he sneered, "I just don't care." When they came to the door to the lab, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small black plastic card, which he gave to Scully. "Open it," he said, indicating the card reader slot mounted on the wall next to the door. Dana swiped the card through the slot. The reader bleeped softly, and then a green light came on. Supporting Pendrell on her shoulder, she took hold of the handle and turned it ninety degrees. A hiss of air escaped from within, as the door opened a few millimetres. Krycek prodded her in the back again. "Now take him inside," he ordered, "and make yourselves comfortable." Just as she started to help Brian through the doorway, Krycek snapped his fingers, and she turned around to see him indicating the card that she was still holding. "Yeah, I'll take that," said the ex-agent. "Oh, and if you and lover boy there have got anything you wanna say to one another, or maybe you'd just like to get up close and personal, well now would be a good time - Seeing as how these'll be your last few hours in those bodies!" He ran his lusty gaze over her pant-suited body, and licked his top lip before laughing horribly. In anyone else, she would have placed a sexual interpretation on his expression, but Krycek played by a completely different set of rules, and who knew what was really going through his mind? Scully stared back at him with total contempt. She knew then that, if the opportunity arose, this time she would kill him - and the world would be a better place for it. "Talking of lover boys," said Krycek, still gloating, "where's Mulder? You and him haven't fallen out have you?" She ignored the dig, turning instead to help Pendrell into one of the chairs in the corner of the room. "What, he couldn't get it up, or something?" he continued, tauntingly. Her shoulders stiffened. "You do know, of course, that if I don't kill you, he will," she said, without even bothering to look in his direction Krycek gave a nervous laugh, before pulling shut the door. "Have fun, comrades!" --- --- --- : Wolverine Productions, L.A. Cigarette Smoking Man strolled across to where the group were gathered on the set of Major General Trenchard's office, and made himself comfortable in one of the chairs. He laid the script across his lap, and took out a packet of nicotine gum from his inside jacket pocket. Becky looked over at John Green-Franks, one of her co- stars, and her fictional boss, in the show 'Earth Siege'. He returned her worried expression with one of equal concern. Mulder was the first to speak, as he sauntered across to where CSM had sat down. "Trying to kick the habit?" he enquired, indicating the packet of 'Puff Me Not' with his eyes. CSM chewed on the piece of gum in his mouth for a few seconds, before replying. "I think of it more as a test of character," he admitted, congenially. "Yeah? Like betraying the lives of every man, woman, and child on the face of the planet? That a test of character too?" The older man shook his head. "It's not a betrayal to seek an alliance with those who can bring greatness to the peoples of Earth." "Hah! Just listen to yourself. Did you have to get a chemical toilet surgically implanted in your throat, to be able to sanitise and regurgitate the lies so effectively?" CSM was hurt by that comment, childish as it was, but he controlled his emotions and didn't allow even a trace of his rage to surface. "Your problem, Agent Mulder, has always been that you are constrained by your own paradigm." "And your problem is that you're an untrustworthy, traitorous, sonofabitch!" By now, the Doctor had crossed to Mulder's side and, she too, was staring at the man with total incomprehension. "Why, Agent Scully, I see that you've learned to unwind a little," he said, in response to her strange outfit. "Good. I find that it's so important to be able to relax." She glared at him. "Sorry, old chap, but I'm afraid you've got me mixed up with my friend. *I* am the Doctor ... and who exactly are you?" "My name is not important," replied CSM, with a shake of the head. "Oh well, if you're not important ..." She turned her back on him and started to walk away. Mulder caught her by the arm, and she turned around. "We know him as Cancer Man," he said, not taking his eyes off CSM. "He's involved with a group called the Consortium ... some influential conspirators who've been trying to shut us down for years. Oh yeah, and he's a *specialist* in the dirty tricks department." "Yes, it all sounds dreadfully familiar, and very tiresome," sighed the Doctor, wearily. "I expect he'd probably get on rather well with an old enemy of mine, don't you think?" Mulder could also see the similarity between CSM and the Manipulator; although, from what he had seen of the renegade Time Lord so far, Cancer Man ranked streets ahead of him in terms of sheer deviousness. "Look, excuse me all to freaking hell and back," said Frybungler, conscious of how much shooting time had already been lost by the interruptions. "But if you guys wanna remake 'Nixon' or something, could ya please go and do it over in studio two? I've got a freaking episode to get in the can here." The Doctor reached across and snatched the script out of CSM's lap. "Thank you so much," she said, casually. CSM started to get up, intent on retrieving the document, but he came face to face with the barrel of Mulder's automatic. "I'm looking real hard for a reason not to put a hole through the middle of your head," said the FBI agent, casually, "but so far, I haven't come up with one." He pulled back the hammer and cocked the weapon. CSM slumped back down in the chair. The Doctor held the script in one hand, and flicked the pages rapidly with her thumb, her eyes flickering as the paper flipped past at a breathtaking speed. After a few seconds, she'd finished reading it, and she tossed it carelessly into CSM's lap. "Pretty amateurish stuff," she said, "but I suppose it has a certain 'je ne sais quoi' to it ... if you like complete and utter twaddle, that is." CSM looked very hurt. "Now then, Frybungler, old chap," she turned to the agitated and overweight director, and grinned. "What was that you said about getting another episode in the can?" "It's the season cliffhanger," he muttered anxiously, glancing again at his wristwatch. "We're already a day behind schedule, and the post production takes almost two weeks -" She waved him quiet. "Yes, yes, that's all very interesting. Now, let's get onto something *really* important." She stepped off the set, put an arm around Frybungler's shoulder, and escorted him over to a quiet corner. "How would you like to go down in history as the television director who saved the entire world from an alien invasion?" --- --- --- : The Walter S. Skinner Turtle Farm Krycek crossed the yard towards the waiting Jeep Grand Cherokee, swinging his detached prosthetic arm like a golf club, and whistling the Russian national anthem. Just as he reached the door, and leant his arm against the front tyre, while he searched his pockets for the key, two men dressed in black nylon anoraks, with the letters 'INS' emblazoned across their backs, came up behind him. "Alex Krycek?" the first of them asked, in an officious tone of voice. Krycek spun around, his hand going for the pistol in his belt. Two ID cards were immediately thrust into his face. "Immigration and Naturalisation Service!" the two men said, as if they were practising to join a chorus line. "What the fuck is this?" "Say, is that a Russian accent you got there?" the first man grinned and turned to his partner. "Sure sounds Russian to me," the shorter man replied. "Yep," said the first, "definitely Russian. Let's see your visa, pal." Krycek started to pull the pistol, but the shorter man produced a Wiley .577 calibre elephant gun and shoved it hard into his gut. "Yeah, and I wouldn't be doing anything unfriendly like that, if I were you," he grinned, casually flicking off the safety catch. The taller man reached around and relieved Krycek of his weapon. "So, no visa, carrying an offensive weapon, resisting arrest, and being an all round nasty little sonofabitch." He took the opportunity to practise one of his Dirty Harry style evil smiles. "Guess what. We're taking you in, Krycek. You'll be heading back to Siberia on the first Aeroflot in the morning!" As the two INS agents escorted a protesting Krycek towards the waiting van, Skinner and Marita Covarrubias stepped out from behind a tree. "That has made me one very happy Assistant Director," said Skinner. "What will they do to him?" she asked, with concern. "Oh, probably kick the shit out of him for a few hours." He took hold of her arm and guided her across the yard towards the front door of the main farm building. On the way, they passed Krycek's abandoned jeep, and Marita cast a sad glance at the prosthetic arm, still leaning up against the tire where Krycek had left it. "Afterwards," Skinner continued, "I might head over to where they're holding him, and then I'll probably kick the shit out of him too." "Oh," she said. "Could I come and watch?" --- --- --- : Wolverine Productions, L.A. "I can't film this crap!" Frybungler protested, tossing the Doctor's script on the floor. "The studio would have my ass for cattle feed!" The Doctor tapped her fingers together with mounting agitation. She waited for his torrent of invective to subside, before spinning around and clapping her hands together. "Pay attention, everybody," she began, her voice full of authority. Becky Paretto and John Green-Franks both looked up, and the floor crew stopped their idle chatter. Even Mulder turned away from the search for his missing ID card. "By the authority vested in me by the High Council of Gallifrey, I am hereby assuming total creative control over the production of this television show." They waited to hear what she had to say next. The whole situation was so totally bizarre that nothing else really seemed appropriate. "Using the mind-bogglingly sophisticated video and sound studio facilities in my Time Ship," she explained, "we are about to shoot the exciting grand finale to the series." She turned around, and started walking briskly towards the prop room. "Well, come along, people. We haven't got all day. After all, this is show business! --- --- --- : The Command Deck : Imperial Turtloid Battle Dreadnought: "Behemoth" Krooth, surrounded by his senior Turtloid hero- worshippers, hauled himself up into the great synthi- marble throne that he had ordered erected on his command platform. He cleared his throat, and looked from side to side at the assembled Turtloids all around him. "Friends, Turtloids, and countrymen," he began in a suitably regal voice. From somewhere in the background, a fanfare began playing. He waited for the rousing drum rolls to subside, before continuing. "Unaccustomed as I am to public speaking," he continued, "I would like to say a few words before the final conquest of Earth begins. "My fellow Turtloids, we are gathered here today, in the sight of the Great White Quantum Turtle, mother of all Turtloids," he looked towards the gigantic statue that stood magnificently at the far end of the command deck, "to begin the greatest chapter in the history of our immensely vast and justifiably rich and powerful empire." The Turtloids all around him looked on with awe. Never had they witnessed such eloquence, such majesty. Such greatness. He was truly a great and wise leader. "'Tis a far better thing that I do today," Krooth continued, totally lost in the meaningless drivel that he was reciting, "A far better battleground that I go to. A far better inferior species that I bring to its knees ..." ... And so on. One of his subordinates cleared his throat and tapped his left foreflipper on the deck. "Yes, what is it, Kvool?" Krooth asked, irritatedly. "The humans are about to transmit the last episode of their TV show," said the younger Turtloid. "Excellent," Krooth crooned. "Have it piped to the main screen. Fellow Turtloids, gather round, and watch the human race inadvertently open the door to their total and utter annihilation!" Cheers and shouts of "Success!" came from all around the command deck, as the assembled Turtloids stamped their flippers in unison. "Bow before us, Earthlings," Krooth continued, his voice rising in volume with each word. "Humble yourselves before the invincible might of the Turtloid war machine! Prepare to meet your END!" --- --- --- Accompanied by the staccato drum beat of the opening theme, the old fashioned teletype punched the words out across the full width of the roll ... ... TOP SECRET ... TOP SECRET ... TOP SECRET ... ... 2005 ... ... EARTH UNDER ATTACK BY ALIEN FORCES ... This Episode: So long, and thanks for all the escargots By "The Doctor" Lieutenant Tom Travers banked his F117A hard to the left, pulling the stealth fighter into a breathtakingly tight vertical dive that stretched the airframe of his craft far beyond its design tolerances. He plunged straight down towards the alien mother ship, flanked either side by two more of the wedge-shaped matt black aircraft. "Travers to CETTO Control," he spoke calmly into his headset, "approaching alien mother ship. Distance: eight thousand metres. Arming quantum missiles ..." --- --- --- On the command deck of the Behemoth, Krooth, who had been preening himself with satisfaction, suddenly looked up in surprise. "*What* did he say?" "He said, 'Arming quantum missiles'," replied Kvool, not taking his eyes off the riveting action that was unfolding before them on the massive screen. --- --- --- "Range: one thousand metres," Travers continued reporting the readings from his instruments. "Firing missiles in five ... four ... three ..." --- --- --- "But they can't do that," Krooth moaned. "That's not in the script!" Kvool, anxious to please his leader, waddled off to get the shooting script that had been supplied to them by their Earth agent. He came back with it between his toothless jaws, and laid it down on the floor before his leader. With his foreflipper he turned the pages until he reached the final battle scene, set over the skies of New York. Krooth lowered his head to read what was printed there. "You see," he wailed, "they're supposed to use nuclear- tipped air to air missiles. This is not fair. Somebody's been cheating!" If Kvool hadn't known that the leader was strong and resilient and manly and incredibly virile, he would have sworn that the older Turtloid was shedding a tear. But Turtloids didn't cry. Not unless they were *really* upset. --- --- --- "Missiles away!" shouted Travers, triumphantly. The stealth fighters sheered away from the lumbering deep pan pepperoni with extra mushrooms, and streaked off towards the horizon at speeds touching mach two. Seconds later, three missiles, each armed with dimensionally transcendental quantum flux induction warheads, detonated just millimetres from the surface of the alien vessel; and the heavens over the Earth were bathed in the light of a new sun. As millions of viewers right across the United States rejoiced at the sight of their military strength defeating the evil alien aggressor, a flood of overpowering positive telepathic energy swamped the interdimensional void. The last thing that Krooth said, just before his successor drew the serrated edge of a very big, and very sharp, blade slowly across his neck, was something very uncomplimentary about a human who had recently given up smoking. And then he ceased to be a Turtloid at all. Three nanoseconds later, the Behemoth was literally ejected out through the fabric of the universe; flung through the dimension barrier by unimaginably powerful forces beyond human comprehension, and sent hurtling back towards the Turtloid home world. Nobody on Earth was sorry to see it go. --- --- --- : Dana Scully's apartment Pendrell almost choked on his shrimp and cucumber sandwich, but Scully, seeing an impending life-threatening medical crisis looming, immediately slapped him on the back, perhaps just a little harder than necessary, and he was saved from harm. "So, you weren't keen on becoming a turtle then?" Mulder enquired. They were gathered together in the lounge: Scully, Pendrell, Mulder, Skinner, and the Doctor, who had produced a really fantastic spread of culinary delights from somewhere deep within the Time Ship. Dana finished her second vodka and orange and handed the empty glass to Pendrell, who, for a moment, didn't realise that she had assigned him as acting barman. "No, Mulder," she grinned, "I thought it might be taking 'Establishing Emotional Bonds' just a little too far." Skinner, meanwhile, was trying to get the Doctor to explain exactly what the hell had been going on. He'd just about followed the main thread: Changing the final episode of 'Earth Siege' so that, instead of a cliffhanger, where the entire world was starting a new day under Turtloid occupation, the season ended on an upbeat note. The positive telepathic energy, the Doctor had explained, had closed the interdimensional rift, and sent the Turtloids scurrying back from whence they'd came. "But what about all this business with the turtle farm?" he asked. "Yes, it is just a tad bizarre," she admitted. "I believe the Consortium planned to create a human/Turtloid hybrid. They had already struck a deal with the Turtloid Empire, presumably in return for ensuring them a position in the new order." "And the price for that new position would have been to become like them?" She nodded. "Exactly. The one thing that our Turtloid friends cannot stand is anything even remotely different. You see, they are an unbelievably xenophobic bunch. For a human to survive in Turtloid society, they would have to almost totally adopt their form." "That's dreadful," said Pendrell, pouring another drink and handing it to Dana. "Yes," said the Doctor, pulling out her pocket watch and flipping open the lid, "well, there are some pretty dreadful species out there." She snapped the watch closed and jumped to her feet. "Going somewhere, Doctor?" Skinner asked. "Afraid so, old chap. You know how it is. Places to go. People to see ... Worlds to save." She looked across to Scully. "Dana?" Scully hesitated. She looked across at Mulder, and something, an almost imperceptible exchange of eye contact, passed briefly between them. Finally, she shook her head. "Thanks all the same, Doctor, but I think there's still a lot to be seen down here on Earth." "Jolly good show ... Well, as always, it's been fun -" The Doctor smiled contentedly, and stepped over to the passport photograph booth that had been sitting unobtrusively in the corner of Dana's lounge. Mulder suddenly jumped to his feet. "But, Doctor -" "Oh, don't panic, Mulder," she winked at him. "I'll be around the cosmos for a while yet. And don't be surprised if I don't pop in and say hello from time to time. After all, I've grown quite fond of this planet. "Au revoir, mon cheri." Feeling just a little bit mischievous, she decided to blow him a kiss. Before he could say anything more, she had slipped through the curtain and was gone. Seconds later, a sucking and groaning sound filled the room, and the passport photograph booth slipped away into the vortex, tumbling through the endless reaches of time and space. --- END --- The rest of the Doctor Scully adventures can be found at:- http://members.aol.com/ADIves02/index.html Feedback: It's *always* appreciated (and answered) at AdrianIves@email.msn.com --- --- --- DISCLAIMER "Doctor Who" and the TARDIS device are copyright BBC Television. "UFO" is the creation of Gerry Anderson and is copyright ITC. "The X Files," Mulder and Scully are the intellectual property of Chris Carter, Ten Thirteen Productions and Fox Television. All other copyrights are acknowledged. This story is fan fiction and has not been produced to profit from the copyright owners, nor to deprive them of revenue. No copyright or trademark infringement is intended. This story is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any persons living or dead is entirely unintentional. This story may be archived provided that this disclaimer is included, the author is clearly identified, and the story is not altered in any way. This story may not be distributed for profit.