The Anubus Phylogeny

PROLOGUE

Egypt, Thebes

West Bank of the Nile
Mortuary Temple of King Hatshepsut
Deir el-Bahri, "The Holy of Holies"
1469 B.C.

"Yes, *Mother*," the young, dark man-child sneeringly answered the woman who was standing with her back to him.

He watched expectantly as her back tensed visibly through her gauzy shirt. Her hand slid from its place on the newly inscribed passages on a cool granite wall in the Hall of Annals.

It was, to his dislike, her ever-growing Mortuary Temple, Deir el-Bahri, in the cliffs overlooking the Temple of Amun-Ra.

She turned to look down at her young nephew, stepson and stepbrother, co-regent and lesser Pharaoh. She noted the spark of defiance in his eyes yet again.

Her kohl-darkened eyes widened slightly and blazed in anger at him, as they had done so many times before in his short lifetime.

The boy, Thutmose III, held the gaze defiantly for a moment, then cast his eyes down, in obeisance of his co-regent and "rightfully" crowned Pharaoh.

"You continue to question *MY* right to the Throne?" she hissed quietly, like a deadly spitting cobra; her tone was angry, her eyes never blinking. "*I* am King and Pharaoh of the North and South; the Horus of Gold; Conqueror of All Lands; the Mighty One!"

The woman was dressed in traditional opulent Egyptian Royal regalia with the pharaohnic nemes headdress, which gently draped her feminine shoulders. The entire effect was finished by a pleated kilt, beaded belt and a bull's tail between her legs, all of which were clearly emblems of *male* Egyptian Royalty.

Lapis, carnelian, faience, ebony and other precious gems adorned and glittered from the large, heavy gold collar of honeybees she favored so and stroked with her other hand, as she was wont to do.

Hatshepsut composed herself, took a step toward Thutmose, raised her free hand and laid it gently upon his dark cheek.

"Why do you continue to question, My son?" Hatshepsut asked of the man who would have been King.

Thutmose almost had to bite his tongue to keep from speaking words she would find heretical in the extreme.
When her Father, Thutmose I had journeyed to the Underworld, the Temple priests of Amun-Ra had demanded that she, Hatshepsitu, step aside and allow her half-brother, Thutmose II to rule as Pharaoh.

Hatshepsitu had mightily attempted to discredit her half-brother by announcing that Thutmose II was only the son of Mutnefert, a concubine, and therefore Royal Blood was passed through *only* to her.

She had known that all societies, including Egypt, were matrilineal, meaning any inheritances, including the power of the Throne of Both Lands, was passed through the *female* line.

There was *no* disputing Hatshepsitu's female ancestral line to her Ethiopian grandmother, Queen Nefertari-Aahmes.

However, when faced with either compromise or probable civil war, she chose compromise ... and had agreed, instead, to marry her half-brother, Thutmose II.

Her then husband had let Hatshepsitu handle all the businesses of the Two Lands, and she obviously had grown to crave power.

His aunt/stepmother/step-sister, upon the death 13 years later, of her weak and sickly husband and half-brother, had surprised the Temple priests by her proclamation shortly following.

She had stunned all of Upper and Lower Egypt by announcing that she, Hatshepsitu, had *not*, after all, been the daughter of Thutmose I, but had ascended the throne as Pharaoh.

Thutmose had been a babe, still at his wet nurse's breast, when his Father had begun his own journey to the Underworld. He had, therefore, necessarily grown up under his aunt/stepmother's tutelage ... and gradual deception.

Despite Hatshepsut's exceedingly successful reign, a reign that had brought peace and prosperity to the Two Lands of Upper and Lower Egypt, Thutmose was resentful. The Temple priests of Amun-Ra had gradually fueled the fire of his resentment.

But, Thutmose had not suffered; in fact, he had thrived.

He had been carefully tutored in all the arts of writing, mathematics, painting papyrus scenes, games and strategy, weaponry and war, and even bee keeping, by Royal teachers, scribes, Temple Priests, generals and others who had been appointed to look after him.

When he had come of age, Hatshepsitu should have stepped aside as regent, and Thutmose would have then rightfully ascended the Throne. He was, after all, the direct descendant of his splendid, almighty and powerful Grandfather, Thutmose the First, the Living Horus, who was now, in the Underworld with his Father, ruling as the Great Osiris.

Hatshepsitu, however, had stopped such ascension, declared herself a *man*, by direction and adoration of her Father, Thutmose I and changed her name to its male equivalent, "Hatshepsut".

For all intents and purposes, she had taken away the young man's Throne.

Thutmose knew *he* was the rightful heir, though his aunt/stepmother had "convinced" the Priests otherwise.

As there were no other male heirs, Hatshepsitu had simply and strategically moved into position herself, and when the time came, she took that position.

"You are still young, My son; you do not understand the ways of our Lands; our traditions." Hatshepsut looked him in the eye. "Have you forgotten? I am of virgin birth, the Son of God Amun and My Mother, Ahmose. The great God Amun appeared to My Mother in a flood of light and perfume, and by Immaculate Conception, this great union produced a baby boy ... Myself."

Hatshepsut's hand slipped down to take his and, gently, she lead the all but mute young man further into the as-yet unfinished Hall of Annals in her Mortuary Temple.

"Do you not see the Truth in the words written here, immortalized for all to see? They speak of My greatness and My deeds?" she demanded of him.

Thutmose's eyes were still downcast and she gently ordered him to look to the exquisite inscriptions carved and painted into the walls around them.

"There!" Hatshepsut pointed to a mural, depicting her birth, showing her glorious and Godly conception and birth in intricate and painstaking detail. "Does that not tell the Truth to you, My son? And there!" She pointed to another scene, showing Hatshepsut with her coronation name, "Ma'at-ka-Ra," and the title "King of Upper and Lower Egypt" in Royal cartouches.

"Yes, my ... *King*," Thutmose looked, not for the first time, considering the scenes both blasphemous and obscene. For no woman could be Pharaoh, yet his aunt/stepmother had attained just that Crown.

She had usurped him from his rightful Throne. She never called him by his coronation name, but insisted that even he call her, in public and in private, "King," her coronation name of "Ma'at-ka-Ra", which meant "Truth is the genius of the Sun-God," or "Hatshepsut" ... never Queen Hatshepsitu or God's Wife.

Rarely did she allow him to call her "Mother."

The priests could do nothing about it; the Lands had thrived and grown rich under her rule.

Grain stores were full, cattle and livestock were fat, the Royal hives were heavier than ever with honey, items were exported and imported, and, frankly, taken when needed.

The Pharaoh had also seemed unusually concerned as to the welfare of the slaves under her reign, and, as such, life was easier for all concerned.

Tributes of gold to King Hatshepsut were measured by bushels, not ingots. Silver, an even more precious metal, also came to her in tributes of almost incalculable proportions.

The peoples of Both Lands, Upper and Lower Egypt, and the land of Punt, were happy, well fed and lacked for nothing.

Yes, there had been few campaigns against minor enemies' encroachments, and Hatshepsut herself had lead Egypt's armies as Supreme Lord Horus, Pharaoh Hatshepsut, and had been completely successful.

Yet, Thutmose seethed inwardly, as did many of the Temple priests of Amun-Ra, who could not, in truth, abide a woman as Pharaoh.

Unfortunately, as Hatshepsut had been so crowned, there was no rescinding the Double Crown. It was her title for life and it had become clear that she who was truly his aunt, stepsister and stepmother, would never willingly give up the Throne to him, even though he had been given the title of co-regent or co-Pharaoh.

Thutmose had absolutely no say in matters of state or even of his own future.

Not seeing the anger in Thutmose's eyes, Hatshepshut gazed lovingly at Deir el-Bahri, her splendid Mortuary Temple in the cliffs looking down upon the less colossal Temple of Amun-Ra.

Reading one of the inscriptions, she reminded him, "I am the Living Horus, My son. I am HE. I am Pharaoh." Again, she pointed to a lavishly decorated colonnade and read it to him, not for the first time.

"'One sails upstream on the great green river, starting the journey well to God's land. Putting to land in peace in the land of Punt. By order spoken by the Lord of the Gods, Amun, Lord of the Thrones of the Two Lands, foremost of the temple of Karnak, to bring Him marvels from all foreign lands.' *I* have done these things, My son; none other!"

Hatshepsut continued reading of her own accomplishments to the internal displeasure of Thutmose. Even at his young age, he had begun to learn the arts of deception himself; he pretended to listen to his stepmother, the King/Pharaoh.

Thutmose stood straight, pretending to listen, eyes watchful under the flickering oil lamps.

This was nothing more than another intentional impression upon him of her power over Both Lands, Upper and Lower Egypt, and, more importantly, a reminder of where *he* stood in the scheme of things:

As long as King Hatshepsut lived Thutmose would never ascend the throne, as rightly he should have.

To the boy, the two of them seemed to stand there for a millennia, however, her pointed lessons were finished not soon enough.

Thutmose's expression changed to one of intense interest as he heard her begin reciting, as she had so many times before, how wondrous she, King Hatshepsut, in fact was.

This invariably heralded the end of his lesson, at least for now.

"This is ... the great temple of million of years, the temple of Amun of Djeser-Djeseru at His outstanding place of the first time." Hatshupset turned to look at the boy. "My name is Ma'at-ka-Ra meaning 'Truth is the Life Force of the Sun-God.' I *am* the Living Horus; I *am* the She-Horus of fine gold. *I* am the Sun-God who rules, and that Truth is within Me."
Hatshepsut again stroked the honeybees on her collar with one hand and reached out to stroke his face. "Now, go on. Your tutors await, do they not?"

"Yes, my *King*," Thutmose knelt, bowed his head, and kissed her gold ring with her Royal cartouches on the feminine hand held out to him.

Daringly, he glanced up at her; she smiled faintly then nodded dismissively at him.

Thutmose took to his sandaled feet and hurried out of the Temple.

The boy almost ran down the Avenue of Sphinxes. He could not bear to look at them, for they all bore the image of the false Living God and Pharaoh, Hatshepsut.

He was nearly blinded by the flash of electrum that shone so brightly under the midday sun.

Electrum crowned the pyramidal tops of the two tallest granite obelisks in the Two Lands and the Land of Punt. They were of beautiful rose granite and had been commissioned and dedicated to the Temple of Amun-Ra.

As they were taller than the Temple, the ceiling had to be removed and reshaped to accommodate them.

Anyone looking up at the Temple of Amun-Ra would see the obelisks' glorious righteousness, which pointed directly above them, to the Mortuary Temple of Ma'at-ka-Ra Hatshepsut.

Thutmose hated the obelisks as he hated his aunt. They were a constant reminder of his aunt's usurped power.

He hurried to the boat that would carry him across the Nile to the Royal tent past the reeds on the East bank, where his tutors awaited.

Today he would learn the secrets of *bity*, the Royal honeybees.

The new Chief Priest of the Temple of Amun-Ra was said to have added some magic, perhaps an incantation, but something of great import to the honeybees.

Whatever the magic, it was said to make them infinitely more important than merely for their honey and wax.

The new Chief Priest was also said to know new and secret incantations and terrifying curses and spells learned from one particularly clever alien priest.

The alien priest had been a slave brought to them from somewhere in the Land of Punt. The Chief Priest was said to have absorbed the *ka*, the soul of the alien priest and that the two became one.

Thutmose smiled. Perhaps something of the new honeybees would make him Pharaoh.

Having dismissed her nephew/stepson, Hatshepsut continued to examine the fine work created by her architect.

"The boy is trouble," a familiar, deep voice spoke to Hatshepsut and she turned to see the shadow of her dark, sun-favored architect, Senemut approaching in the flickering light of the oil lamps.

He knelt in front of his Pharaoh, took the hand offered, kissed it and caught the scent of her perfumed dark skin. Glancing up at her, he turned her hand gently and let his tongue taste the skin of her wrist.

Hatshepsut took a deep breath and pulled him to his feet, allowing him to wrap his arms around her.

"He can do nothing; he has no power. I am the Truth. I am the Power."

Senemut buried his face in her neck, enjoying her scent. "I worry for You. I do not trust Thutmose ... nor do I trust many of the priests of Amun-Ra, of which he curries constant favor."

Hatshepsut leaned her head to accommodate his attentions. "You worry needlessly, My Beloved," Hatshepsut kissed him deeply. "He can do nothing."

Her hand, grasped in his, lay against the glittering gold collar of honeybees as they kissed.

as they kissed.

West Bank of the Nile

Secret Unknown

Somewhere Near the Valley of the
Kings and the Valley of the Queens
1458 B.C.

The screams continued for sometime from within as Thutmose watched his stonemasons seal the remote and secretive tomb.

Sweat rolled from their bodies in the midst of their hurried toil; fear fueled their work.

They had witnessed their Pharaoh Hatshepsut and *his* consort, Senemut, mummified alive. Their heads, however, had not been wrapped.

They had watched in horror as the Anubis Priest of Amun-Ra, who was said to be an amalgam of a priest alien to Upper and Lower Egypt, strange and frightening with spells and incantations never seen before, had performed an obscene parody of the holy Opening Of The Mouth Ceremony.

They knew their King and "His" consort's *ka*, or soul, would never reach the Underworld, and they would forever be damned.

Wearing the ceremonial black and gold Anubis headdress, God of the Death and the Underworld, he *was* the Anubis.

He had then leaned over the two tightly bound forms and poured, from the Anubis' Own Mouth, unfamiliar black oil onto their faces.

The horror was magnified when an incantation, spoken by the Anubis, caused the oil to take on the form of vermin and then crawl into the Pharaoh's and her Chief Steward's eyes, nose and mouth.
Before the last stone was placed, Thutmose Himself stepped forward with a small mud-lined basket. He removed the lid and placed the top of the basket carefully into the hole, then slapped the basket several times.

All heard the obvious buzzing of angry bees as they flew into the tomb. Thutmose then pushed the entire basket through the hole.

The screaming from within was renewed with an overwhelmingly frightening intensity that caused a chill of overwhelming fear amidst the stonemasons under the hot Egyptian sun.

Thutmose turned and called to the head stonemason.

The man looked into Thutmose's eyes and recoiled in horror as he witnessed the same black, oily film, as had poured forth from the Anubis, swimming madly in the new Pharaoh's eyes.

"Let it be done!" Thutmose exclaimed, and the man looked away, hurriedly instructing his men in placing the final stone.

As it was levered into place, they heard a distinctly female scream of sheer terror, more chilling than anything they had ever before heard. However, they knew they dared not hesitate and so continued with their labors.

When finished to Thutmose's satisfaction, the former Pharaoh and her consort had been hidden for all time.

The sounds within the tomb, masked by solid rock had ceased, and the stonemasons knelt in obeisance to their new Pharaoh, the Living Horus of Gold, Thutmose III.

Their eyes were downcast, as proscribed in the presence of the Living Horus, and so they did not see Thutmose, eyes swirling with the black oil, turn to the Anubis and nod to him, then walk away.

A crunching in the gravel near him made the chief stonemason look up in time to see the Anubis remove from his robe a sparkling wand of electrum.

As the Anubis spake a curse and an incantation, fire like lightning leapt from the wand. One after another of his stonemasons caught fire as easily as incense offerings in the Temple.

Their screams were horrible and terrifying to hear. The chief stonemason took to his feet to escape, but the Anubis was much faster.

The stonemason found himself taken by the throat, hoisted into the air where his feet dangled far from the ground.

The Anubis held him up for a moment, and then carelessly tossed him onto the pyre of burning, writhing and screaming bodies.

To the stonemason's eternal horror, the Anubis leaned over him, removed his ceremonial headdress ... and the stonemason saw honeybees angrily swarming on his face.

The Priest, however, smiled and touched him with his wand of electrum.

A spark of fire and agony shot through his body as first his clothing caught flame and then his skin.

The stonemason's last view, as he writhed and screamed in agony, was that of the Priest's eyes as they filled with the black oil and swirled, as a purely evil and more than alien smile pulled at his face.

"The Truth is in *me*!" he laughed and walked away from the stench of burning flesh.

The Truth is in me!

Grand Prairie, Texas
Interstate 30
East of the South Entrance of D/FW Airport,
Heading Toward Dallas
8:45 a.m., CST
July 8, 2005

"Fucking ass jerkwad airlines." The mumbled invectives had come naturally and often from the mouth of Benjamin F. Cearley, III, J.D.

He'd been an attorney, a fucking card-carrying Dallas and Texas Bar Association Member, and he'd been fucking well entitled to swear all he damned fucking well wanted. Regardless of which fucking judge cited him for stupid jerkass contempt.

He hadn't been called "Benjamin Fucking Cearley" by his peers, clients and opposing counsel for nothing.

As if the flight hadn't been bad enough. God, his fucking law firm had gotten so damned friggin' cheap, they wouldn't let their senior partners -- oh, no! Sorry, *NOW* the "name" jerk-off partners had gone Polically Cor-fucking-rect! The senior SHAREHOLDERS had to fly shitty BUSINESS class instead of First. Hell.

He had been better than Business Class and he'd known it.

"Fucking coach class no ones!" Cearley snarled under his breath, furious at those who'd upgraded to Business. He hadn't been able to finish his damned brief due to all the fucking jerkwad morons around him talking incessantly.

He'd been driving 85 mph, and even faster, in his brand new Onyx Black Lexus, trying to get back to Dallas to get the fucking brief filed with the shithead court clerk before the Fucking Honorable Judge Joseph Kendle had a fucking bench warrant served on him.

Cearley did NOT give a single flying flip if he got pulled over.

*LET* the fucking Texas State Troopers, the jerkbutt Arlington cops, the pansy-ass Grand Prairie "POH-leece" and the totally inept and corrupt crappy Dallas pigs fucking stop him.

He hadn't cared if they'd given him a ticket!

He'd been a litigator for 24 years, by fuck and he'd always gotten out of every ticket.

Enough money and the wheel was greased with shit.

On the damned Delta flight, he'd had the everlasting, overwhelming fucking joy of an annoying asshole of a flight attendant.

Naturally. Cearley barely ever noticed anyone beneath him, unless it was a stacked fuckable secretary -- or a stacked fuckable flight attendant -- upon whom he could make moves.

Let 'em fuckin' sue him. He'd been sued before for sexual harassment. Seven times, in fact. It was always settled out of fucking court by the Firm on his behalf.

Ha!

Cearley had known after the second time he could get away with freakin' hell!

Unfortunately for him, *his* flight attendant wasn't stacked at all. *His* flight attendant was *male.* And a weird-ass looking male at that.

He'd had a fucking insincere, oily smile (which had been unnerving, if Cearley had been honest with himself), fucking Bozo red hair and shocking blue eyes.

And a cute little Delta nametag identifying him as "Charles"; a sure sign to Cearley the guy had been fucking gay.

The guy had creeped Cearley out, the way he'd stared, but he'd also needed his usual booze for the flight, so he'd tipped the jerkshit weirdo heavily to bring him double-malt scotch and stay the hell out of his fucking face.

Besides, he'd known he could bury the hefty tip in some other poor fucking client's "miscellaneous" bills.

At the luggage carousel, naturally, only *his* suitcases had come up missing! He'd nearly burst an aneurysm over that.

Cearley had smiled remembering how he'd raised bloody fucking hell with Delta's Lost and Found. No way was he leaving fucking D/FW without his damned luggage!

So, Cearley had stood around, bellowed at the top of his lungs, repeatedly flashed his bar card and handed out dozens of business cards -- and cheerfully threatened lawsuits up everyone's privates and then some.

The lawyer continued with that until some *big* higher-up fucker from Delta had come to escort him to their cutesy Executive Lounge -- fucking food and drink on the house -- while that *big* someone had gone to sort out the fucking problem.

He'd ordered everything available to eat, hadn't touched it -- intentionally wasting it, but had boozed it up even more. He'd then checked in with and chewed out his fucking secretary's shapely ass until she'd cried.

He'd smiled again thinking of that.

Cearley had taken the redeye so he could be back *in* the fucking office *before* rush hour, but he'd still been in the Executive Lounge three hours later ... outlining on a legal pad, with his Mont Blanc pen, exactly how he'd sue fucking Delta for all his fucking mental distress and his expensive fucking clothing.

He'd smiled his own oily smile at that, then the smile had disappeared when he'd remembered the fucking Delta employee who had appeared out of freakin' nowhere with his bags.

He'd done a double-take because the guy, in a regular Delta employee uniform, had appeared in the shitty Executive Lounge, with an unnerving smile on his face, fucking Bozo red hair, startling blue eyes and "Charlie" emblazoned on his Delta nametag.

Cearley had almost asked the guy if he had a fucking twin brother, but then it had occurred to him, what kind of fucking moron mother would name twin boys "Charles" and "Charlie”-- unless she was a fucking stupid East Texas redneck?

He'd just grabbed his bags and took off, leaving this other also obviously gay Charlie standing there smiling weirdly and eating his fucking dust.

Cearley had blown past the Grand Prairie city limits and into Dallas when it had hit him.

"Oh fucking shit hell!" he screamed at no one and everyone around him.

Cearley had remembered he had to stop at Southern Gas & Oxygen Supply Company, one of his Firm's more lucrative clients, to have papers signed by the owners.

Southern Gas had been planning, for quite a while, to move out of the I-30/I-35 downtown Dallas industrial corridor, where they could expand their business. And Cearley had been working with one of the Firm's younger "baby" dirt lawyers to get all the fucking filings ready for Southern's real estate acquisitions and move.

"Crap! Shit! Fuck! I don't have fucking time for this jerk-off shit!" Cearley had been red-faced by this time and had barely remembered to exit onto I-35 instead of taking I-30 through the Canyon into downtown Dallas, where his Firm, Wenford Segram & Menck P.C., was located.

The green Mercury Sable he'd nearly sideswiped had swerved onto the shoulder, nearly hitting the guard rail, horn blaring all the way, as Cearley had shot the driver a most definitive middle finger.

At the same time, he was thinking about what a dipwad jerkbutt of a laugh Wenford was, what a bizarro Segram was -- always off in Tibet communing with fucking monks -- and Menck, who'd retired to London but kindly *allowed* the Firm to keep his name -- for a hefty fee.

One day, one of those names would be gone and the Firm's name would fucking start with "Cearley."

While thinking about that, he'd watched the road with one eye and dug through the papers in his briefcase in the passenger seat next to him. Cearley had been swerving all over the interstate, alternately barely correcting his driving and shooting the bird to everyone else who'd had the fucking nerve to honk at him.

"Shit! There it is!" Cearley had yelled in satisfaction, grabbing the papers in his right hand as he zipped around in front of and barely missed clipping the front end of a Peterbilt carrying a tanker full of some highly flammable liquid.

He shot the long-hauler the finger when the driver's air horns blasted him, and made his exit.

"Aw fuck!" He'd been ready to pull out what was left of his bad comb-over when he'd hit the red light at the end of the exit ramp.

Cearley had looked both ways, intending to run the light when he heard it: a mechanical-like buzzing that had caused him to stomp on the brakes.

He'd just sat and listened for a moment.

"What the hairy freakin' fuck now?" he cursed, looking at the dashboard of his brand new Lexus, as if it held the key to the mysteries of the universe. It had been a brand new fucking Lexus! Nothing should've been wrong with it!

Like any moron who knew nothing about cars and what makes them run, Cearley had hit the dash -- hard -- with both fists and the buzzing had stopped. Cearley's nasty, lawyerish smile returned.

*Nothing* -- not even a lemon Lexus would stop Benjamin Fucking Cearley, III. He'd already instantly decided to sue the dealership over that using the "Texas Lemon Law" statutes.

The light had turned green, and, without looking either way, Cearley hit the gas and, a few moments later, was pulling into Southern Gas's parking lot, stopping excruciatingly close to a palette of several hundred tanks full of whatever the fuck it was they sold there.

"Sir!" a voice had called to him as he'd gotten out of his Lexus, a handful of legal papers clutched in his right hand.

The lawyer had whirled around to find a guy in a mechanic's jumpsuit, greasy and dirty, approaching him from behind his car. "What the fuck do *you* want, shithead?"

The young man, who couldn't have been more than 18 years old, had stopped momentarily and blinked at the words and the sour face in front of him before stuttering on. "S-sir, y-you're parked too c-close to the p-palettes," he'd motioned to the tanks that had been located less than a foot from where he'd parked his Lexus.

"S-so th-the h-hell wh-what?" Cearley had snarled, clearly making fun of his disability.

"W-well, sir," the young man had tried again, "th-those are acet-acetylene t-tanks ... and th-they're highly fl-flammable. It w-would b-be b-better if you'd m-move your c-car f-further b-back."

Cearley had then smiled threateningly and approached the kid like Santa Anna's troops on the Alamo. "I'm *not* moving my fucking Lexus for fucking *anyone*! Sure the hell *NOT* the fuck *you*! And if there's a fucking mark on it when I come back," he'd stopped to notice the kid's name patch--”Bob”-- clearly sewn on his uniform, "'Bubba,' there'll be fucking hell to pay!"

The boy had taken a few steps back from him as he'd slammed the papers onto the trunk of the expensive, fully equipped black Lexus, and Cearley's attention had then been instantly drawn away from the annoying employee and back to his vehicular status symbol.
That mechanical buzzing had come back -- but the fucking ignition had been turned off!

"Oh what the fucking hell now?!" he screamed, grabbed the papers and had used his remote to open the trunk.

Cearley had leaned in to look around, as if he'd known what the hell he was looking for, and had been surprised when something flew into his face.

He'd jerked back from the open trunk as another few things flew out at him.

"FUCKING BEES?" He'd yelled in disbelief. He'd already automatically started deciding about billable hours in suing shitty Delta *and* fucking D/FW Airport for this when he'd seen the first bee.

Thomas & Kitt represented Delta and he'd been turned down for his first job there. Benjamin Fucking Cearley, III, J.D. *always* remembered a grudge, and he'd recognized this as his chance.

Unfortunately for Benjamin Fucking Cearley, one of those bees had chosen that exact moment to fly up his nose, and another into his mouth. Hundreds of others had suddenly swarmed out of his trunk and onto him.

Cearley had dropped the papers, which had scattered with the wind, and he had been twisting and turning, batting madly at the furry little fucking things that were invading his clothing and bodily orifices, and began stinging him in a mad flurry.

"FUCKING HELP ME, YOU ASSHOLE!" he'd managed to get out, one eye still barely clear enough to see that "Bubba," wide-eyed, had run away at the exact moment that Cearley had fallen to the side, knocking a large, fully-charged acetylene tank into another.

The domino effect had been instantaneous, but Cearley hadn't noticed. He'd been too involved in smashing bees and hurling invectives into the hot Texas July morning.

Bubba had run directly for the gas company's office when he saw the spark of tank hitting tank and, moments later, a loud speaker on the lot came to life, a voice loudly and stringently advising *everyone* to evacuate the premises *immediately*.

Cearley, however, hadn't heard *that* over the buzzing that had been, quite literally, in his ears. He wouldn't have been able to evacuate anywhere anyway, other than in his pants, which he had.

He'd been caught up in his own fucking drama and had fallen on top of some large but squat acetylene tanks that had been fully-charged only hours before and were on the burning and exploding palette.

Blood, bees and stingers clogging his throat, he had been skyrocketed in a ball of flame, gas and black smoke over a thousand feet into the blue skies of Dallas, Texas by several dozen acetylene tanks which had exploded all at once, taking his brand new Onyx Black Lexus with them.

The final thoughts that had gone through Benjamin Fucking Cearley, III's fucking disbelieving mind as he and his brand new Armani suit, his bad comb-over and flesh caught fire and burned, was figuring out to which fucking client/matter number he'd fucking charge and fucking pad his fucking jerkwad billable hours for this fucking shit-ass disaster.

Delta Flight 1013

In Route to JFK International Airport

March 6, 2006

Two vaporous streams followed in the wake of the mighty white Boeing 767 as it soared thirty-five thousand feet above land through the bluer than blue sky. A thing of beauty, it was mankind's answer to the birds in the sky, and statistically the safest mode of transport. Having flown her life's maximum mileage quota, this was Delta flight 1013's final trip before being retired.

All she had to do was make it the final few miles to JFK International Airport in good ol' rainy New York City.

Of course the two hundred and ten passengers inside the fuselage of the metallic bird had no way of appreciating its splendor, even if they'd cared enough to be remotely interested.

However, one person in particular, sat alone in silence at the back of the plane, and was even less enthralled than everyone else...

In fact, her constant fidgeting and nervous glances toward the "underfloor" cargo bay door were enough to give away the apprehension and unhappiness she felt at being on this flight at all.

*Just breathe, Glynder -- nothing's gonna happen. Besides, this is your last one with them, remember!*

The air stewardess closed her eyes as the mantra repeated itself over and over in her mind, and then reached a hand up to comb through her curly hair.

Just as it was 1013's retiring journey, this was Glynder Innamo's last day working for Delta.

She'd been trying to get a transfer to a different airline for months due to the grueling hours she was expected to work and her general dissatisfaction at the unsanitary (if not unsafe) conditions of a majority of the airplanes, but no available vacancies had been offered in her direction.

And then the large unmarked, undocumented crates had started to appear several weeks ago, which in turn had become her sole responsibility to keep guard over; crates that no one except the pilot and herself should know of, nor should any living soul ask questions about.

Innamo had kept watch of more than a dozen of the mysterious cargo boxes in that time, but there was something about this particular one that made her more agitated than normal.

Then again, the encounter with the red-haired man before boarding had commenced probably hadn't helped put her mind at ease.

"Today's 'package' is a *very* special one, Mrs. Innamo," the man she knew only as 'The Client' had huffed out, handing over the white envelope that customarily contained her under-the-counter payment (though usually delivered by the Captain).
She'd been divorced for four years this Christmas, but she hadn't dared to correct the guy as he'd cast a cautious glance over his shoulder and then turned back, pushing his sunglasses back up onto the bridge of his nose.

"You *must* protect it at all costs -- no one can get near it or disturb it," he'd continued in a much firmer tone. "I don't think I need to elaborate on how imperative it is that it reaches its destination, do I, Mrs. Innamo?"

She snapped out of her thoughts with an involuntary shudder as the image of the holstered Glock he'd gestured toward underneath the left side flap of his jacket remained in her memory.

*One more and then they can stick their crates up in an even darker and smaller crevice than the cargo bay,* Glynder muttered to herself, pulling the envelope from her uniform pocket and reading the paper that had been inside instead of a bundle of fifty-dollar bills.

Transfer papers for guaranteed employment with American Airlines.

"One more."

A hum, deep and low, charged the air with an incomprehensible electrical pulse as it increased in intensity and slowly neared the aircraft.

A hum deep and low.

Slowly closed in on its target.

"Michael! Stop bouncing about in your seat!" one of the flight-fearing passengers scolded, checking for the billionth time that her seatbelt was secured before turning to grab her young son's arm.

"But I wanna watch the black cloud, Mommy -- it's dancing!" came the whined response.

"'Black cloud'? Honestly, how many times do I have to tell you to stop telling such tall tales? Now sit still and be quiet until we land."

The bespectacled six year old stared longingly at the small window for a moment longer before bucking the courage up to try convince his mother that he wasn't lying. "There is a black cloud though, Mommy..." he sniffed, tugging at her arm. "It keeps gettin' bigger an' bigger an' swaying left and right...I think it wants us to watch it cos it's coming up to us..."

Flustered and desperate for the landing gear to hit tarmac as soon as humanly possible, the woman shook her head and leaned over her son's lap to look out through the porthole. "Honestly, when your father hears what's been coming out of your..." Her voice died in her throat as her mouth fell agape. "What in hell..."

"Jim, we're picking up some strange activity on our radar."

Lifting his gaze from the control panel, Captain James Koombs glanced at the flashing green blip the co-pilot was pointing to. "How far away?"

"Two hundred feet directly below us and climbing."

Koombs frowned in confusion and concentration briefly before shifting back in his seat and adjusting his headset.

Something dark deep down in his gut knew exactly what that was, but he was fighting desperately not to imagine it or let the fear take him over. "JFK Tower, this is Delta-1013. We're reading an abnormal object in very close proximity to us. Can you please confirm? Over."

There was silence and then a long burst of static, but no voices of air traffic controllers replying to the request.

Several switches were flipped and then Koombs tried again, "JFK, this is Delta Airlines flight ten-thirteen. Do you read?"

More static.

Before either man had chance to speak, the cockpit began to resonate with a low hum, just barely audible above the noise of the plane's engines.

The co-pilot, Nathan White, searched the instruments in front of him for any indication of what the disturbance might be, while his friend in the pilot's seat fumbled with the radio.

"This is Delta 10--"

Suddenly, something hit against the windshield. Koombs looked up sharply and then slowly rose to his feet to closely examine the small black mark splattered on the glass.

"Oh God..." he choked to himself, wiping a hand across his suddenly dry mouth. "They're ... They're here to save their queen and brothers..."

As the deep noise grew in volume, Glynder Innamo frowned and quickly stood up. She'd never heard anything like this before, and the way her seat had started to furiously vibrate was a little unnerving (well, maybe just a tad arousing as well, but now really wasn't the time to be feeling that, and that fact alone added to her nervousness).

After shooting a brief, cursory glance at the cargo hold door yet again, the stewardess turned to face the small window on her left. When she looked out, all she could see was a thick, waving sea of black rising toward the underside of the plane and, more importantly, the wing-mounted engines.

And then Innamo remembered that she actually *had* heard something like this sound, oscillating the thick atmosphere on one of those shows about swarms of killer bees attacking people that they kept repeating on the Discovery Channel.

Like an arm of a drowning person breaking the surface and reaching for the heavens, a long chain of bees shot out from the tide and up toward the window -- completely blanketing it to obstruct her view.

Innamo quickly backed away in sheer terror, but the plane violently tilted to one side at the same time, and she lost her footing, hitting her head against the seat behind her on the way down.

As her world faded to black, the sound of panicking fellow crew members in the galley and screaming passengers further down the plane echoed in her ears, only slightly superseded by that of thousands of bee stingers frantically chipping away at the window.

As her world faded to black

Co-Pilot White struggled, hands shaking, to buckle his safety belt as the aircraft rolled from side to side and back again.

Despite the fact that there was something outside trying to force them down, he couldn't stop thinking about Koombs's cryptic comment and if it meant the Captain had any involvement in the events that were now unfurling.

"Sir, what--"

"I don't..." Koombs paused momentarily to consider the depths and complexity of the lie he was weaving. Clearing his throat, hoping that would be enough to mask the slight tremor in his voice, he quickly finished, "I don't know.

"All I *do* know is that there's something flying far too close for comfort to our engines and ... and either we get out of its path or it fucks off ... otherwise I don't think we're gonna be able to keep this bird in the sky."

As if on cue, one of the large turbine engines sputtered to a stop for ninety seconds, jerking the aircraft with a knee-jarring jolt before rendering it completely out of control.

In the cargo hold, the mounting desperation of the entrapped insects in the unmarked crate (which had reached fever pitch by now) had been enough to rattle the box free from the straps securing it in place.

But, the tailspin the plane had suddenly pitched downward and nose-dived into caused it and a dozen other freight cases to slam against each other and release their contents in an explosion of clothes, countless unimportant accessories ... and at least a thousand angry bees -- the latter of which immediately headed for the ventilation ducts.

The fight to control the plane was futile as the pilot and co-pilot tried frantically to regain command of the nearly-tumbling aircraft, until the dead engine inexplicably choked back to life, waging its own war against the bugs that were insistent on clogging the compressor's fan blades.

"Tower, dammit, answer! May day! May day! We're going down! I repeat, we're going down!"

Mocking static echoed over the radio.

About one hundred lights flashed and alarms beeped to indicate that they were in trouble, just in case they weren't aware already.

Meanwhile, at the rear of the jet, Innamo was regaining consciousness as the second engine kicked in, sending the craft spinning in the opposite direction. Unable to grasp her bearings, she instinctively crawled on her stomach to the seat behind her.

She was about to hoist herself up onto it when she heard the tapping at the window.

Her head turned and she paused in mid-rise.
She snatched in a breath.

Time slowed almost to a halt.

The cracks in the double plexiglass panes grew longer, snaking purposefully toward all sides of the frame under the pressure of the bees' relentless attack.

A droplet of blood from Innamo's head injury plopped onto the upholstery of the chair.

And before even a split second had passed, the window gave way, sucking shattered plexiglass and anything else not secured throughout the entire cabin into the blue wilderness....

Including the air stewardess.

Long, varnished nails clawed hopelessly at the cushion and armrests as time spiraled back at break-neck speed to normal with a sonic boom.

No struggle could win against the vacuum created by the different air pressure, though, and Innamo's body flew at the hole where the window had been.

Her head and slender shoulders went through with ease, but her stomach stopped her from going any further.

Icier than arctic cold wind tore at her skin. Tiny shards of sharp plexiglass burrowed into her abdomen. Legs kicked desperately for only a handful of heartbeats, and then before the barrage of bee stings had time to register or her silent scream was able to catch up with the plummeting plane, Glynder Innamo lost consciousness again, but this time forever, as air had been sucked from her lungs.

Without a real understanding as to what was happening behind them, passengers screamed as papers, iPods and other objects flew past and impacted them, frantically fumbled with their safety belts and clung tightly to whoever was in the seat next to them -- whether they knew that person or not.

Overhead compartments randomly popped open, spewing out their contents and causing numerous bags to strike some of the panicking passengers.

The sudden change in cabin pressure caused the automatic release of the oxygen masks, and corybantic hands reached to put them on -- some not noticing the insects concealed inside the airlines until it was too late.

It didn't take long for the bees outside to break through more of the failing windows along both sides of the fuselage.

And just four minutes after the anomaly had appeared on 1013's radar, the plane impacted with the ground eleven miles short of its destination, instantly killing anyone who hadn't already died slowly and painfully at the mercy of the Africanized bees.

ACT I

Ada, Iowa
October 1, 2007
1:32 p.m.

Todd Grossbeck took a deep breath, and suddenly was transported 15 years into the past, into the Wisconsin countryside. The day was hot, humid, dusty, and sweat dripped from Todd's long, narrow nose. He was in heaven.

He rose to his feet beside the shoulder-high corn, corking the seemingly empty vial as he surveyed the ridged waves of green extending nearly to the horizon.

The Ada elevators rose from the emerald sea like a trio of steel ships. This was Todd's element -- he'd been confined in Washington more and more since 9/11 and the "takeover," as he thought of it.

He'd leapt at the opportunity to return to the Heartland, to a life lived slower, among straightforward people.

Even so, Todd had been in public service long enough to know no place, no Eden, was safe from the darkness. He'd kept his suspicions to himself, perhaps out of reluctance to tarnish this Eden. Besides, Dr. Berenbaum had been through enough without being dragged into his thus far ungrounded theorizing.

Todd was uncertain what his next step would be. His research at the Extension office had intensified his conviction that what had been happening was no natural occurrence. But the only solid evidence he had were some slight chemical anomalies and some Internet printouts.

The insistent buzzing prompted the scientist to scan first the azure skies and then the gravel ribbon of road bordering the fields. The buzzing intensified, and he felt a slight breeze as a dark shape orbited his ear lobe.

"What the--?" Todd mumbled. Then he felt a sharp pain at the juncture of his neck and collarbone, and he slapped at the source of his torment.

It was all wrong -- the sound, the feel. He dropped to his knee, rubbing his inflamed skin. He found the body a few feet away, but as he carefully plucked it from the grass and examined it, his eyes widened.

Then his throat slammed shut and he rolled onto the grass, gasping for oxygen. Todd knew the symptoms of anaphylaxis only too well, but this was impossible. As his eyes blurred with tears, he heard the crunch of gravel that hopefully signaled salvation. Stat, Shelley, Todd willed.

From the blocky silhouette against the Iowa sky, Todd knew instantly it wasn't his assistant. His fingers stretched toward the man, but the stranger ignored him, instead inspecting the ground around him.

Todd emitted an animal plea as the man bent, retrieved the object he'd been studying only a minute earlier, and marched briskly back to his vehicle.

The sound of flying gravel was the last thing Todd heard as the Darkness descended...

"Hold on, Todd," Shelley Bluth begged as the ambulance sped past farmhouses and equipment dealerships. She was covered in her colleague's blood -- after the epinephrine kicked in, she'd been forced to perform a field tracheotomy with a Bic pen. The EMTs showed up moments later, and the regional hospital was 20 minutes away.

The USDA technician jumped as iron fingers grasped her wrists. "Oh, God, Todd, just lay back," she whimpered.

The hole in Todd's windpipe bubbled as he gurgled. "Catsssss..."

"Please, Todd, please..."

His nails dug in. Shelley yelped.

"Catssssoooooo..."

"I can't..."

Todd's eyes suddenly lost focus, and he fell back on the gurney. The med tech set to work on him, ignoring Shelley's anguished sobs.

Superior Court
Fairfax County, Virginia
October 1, 2007
2:42 a.m.

F.B.I. Special Agent Dana Scully took her seat in the second row, right behind the defense counsel's table. Assistant Director Walter Skinner glanced over at her and nodded.

Her partner, Special Agent Fox Mulder must have heard her shoes on the highly polished wooden floor, or smelled her perfume because he turned just enough to flash her a smile from his seat next to his attorney,

Her only thought was of a bumper sticker she'd recently seen on a beat up antique VW Beetle -- 'Where are we going and why are we in this hand basket?'

They had been working quietly through the afternoon just two days previous when a call came down from Skinner's assistant, requesting their immediate presence.

They'd arrived at their superior's office to find the Fairfax County Sheriff's Deputy with a subpoena, which he promptly handed to Mulder before tipping his hat and leaving the room.

Mulder was being sued. Not only sued, but was facing possible criminal charges resulting from his high speed chase of Agent Mark Giltner through the streets of Georgetown and on both the I-395 and I-95 expressways.

His court appearance was set for two days hence because it was to be determined if Agent Mulder was a danger to himself and others.

Mulder had joked about it at home that night. He even suggested that this time she could save them the trouble and just tie him to their bed, but she had seen the haunted look in his eyes.

Mulder wasn't much for proving his sanity on his best days and he'd just come off a pretty horrendous case. They'd managed to sort out the hurt feelings between them, but he was still slightly raw around the edges and she hated to see him saddled with more stress he didn't need.

Besides, it was his turn to write up the quarterly reports and she was not going to let him use the 'locked up in an insane asylum' excuse again. He'd used up his one time pass several years ago.

The hearing -- at least Scully was pleased to see it was not being called an "arraignment”-- was to determine what, if anything, the court should do to ensure the safety of the citizens of Fairfax County around and in dealings with Agent Fox Mulder.

Among the witnesses was Mrs. Helen Wertmer, the owner of the BMW that Mulder cut off as he pursued Giltner onto the on ramp of the I-395. Her car ended up 't-boning' another vehicle resulting in minor injuries to herself and the other driver.

Mr. Clarence 'Bud' Gaston, the owner/operator of the Yellow Freight truck maintained that his rig sustained damage when Mulder's car forced him off the road and into the cement barriers along the side of the expressway.

There were three Fairfax County Deputies also present who had pursued Agents Mulder and Giltner for their approximately 20 mile chase, at speeds far exceeding the posted 65 miles per hour.

When all the witnesses had testified, the judge, an imposing white haired woman with a look of pure steel, called upon Mulder.

"Mr. Mulder, what do you have to say for yourself?" Judge Crowder asked sternly.

At a nod from his attorney, Mulder rose from his chair. "Your Honor, I was merely performing my duties as a sworn officer with the U.S. Department of Justice," he said evenly.

Judge Crowder peered at him from over her wire rimmed glasses. "Mr. Mulder, according to the deposition taken of your superior, Assistant Director Walter S. Skinner, you were officially suspended from you duties at the time the chase took place."

Mulder drew in a breath. "Your Honor, I was under suspension at the time. But the suspect--”

"That would be Agent Giltner?" Crowder interrupted.

"Yes, ma'am, Giltner, the suspect had just been seen leaving my place of residence and I believe he was directly related to the death of a Georgetown University student--”

"Yes, I see by your initial statement that you believe Mr. Giltner played some part in the 'suicide by police' of a hostage taker and possible bomber, a young man named Jason Arman."

"He was not a bomber," Mulder growled. "He was a young man with information about a possible conspiracy--”

"Would that be the global conspiracy that you refer to repeatedly in your statement, Mr. Mulder? Something about health food additives and murder?" the Judge asked.

"Look, I know it sounds crazy, but there was a conspiracy to poison health food products. It goes back to a church, the Church of the Red Museum--”

"Mr. Mulder," the Judge tapped her gavel to get his attention. "We are not here to listen to conspiracy theories about granola bars and power water. We are here to determine if you are fit to carry a loaded weapon and interact with society. And from what I've just heard, I believe I need outside expertise to help me make my decision.

"I am hereby remanding you over for psychiatric evaluation. I further order that you be placed on administrative leave from your position with the Federal Bureau of Investigation until such time as I have made a final determination of your fitness for duty."

"You can't do that!" Mulder shouted, slamming his fist on the table.

"I can, Mr. Mulder, and I just did," Crowder hissed, her face a stone mask. "You will report to Dr. Wallace Manville tomorrow for your initial assessment. I expect Dr. Manville's evaluation to take no more than two weeks time--”

"Two weeks!" Mulder howled, all the while his attorney was pulling on his arm to get him to settle down. "That's the stupidest thing I've ever--”

"Two weeks!" Crowder shouted over Mulder's tirade, pounding her gavel again. "And Counselor, I suggest you subdue your client before I order in-patient involuntary evaluation!"

Scully pushed past Mulder's attorney to stand by his side. "Mulder, don't make it worse," she pleaded, her hand on his arm. He deflated like a spent balloon and fell back, landing in his chair.

"Two weeks, Scully. What the hell am I going to do for two weeks?" he whispered, anguish looming in his eyes.

"Prove that you're as sane as any of us," she said softly. "But you'll have to do that from home."

"This hearing is adjourned," the Judge called out, slamming her gavel once.

Denver International Airport
Denver, Colorado
October 1, 2007
3:54 p.m.

Spender could've killed for a smoke.

The Russian mother on the aisle (Spender has romantically dubbed her Natasha) had stolidly studied her Cyrillic romance novel for the entire trip from Los Angeles as her tyke babbled in some bolshevik dialect and periodically craned across Spender for a view of the cumulus cloud cover.

Spender hadn't killed a Russian for more than 22 years -- that had taken nearly nine months, and Yuri Andropov's death had gone down publicly as renal failure -- and he'd calmly pretended to watch "The Office" on the overhead monitor as he savored the memory.

As Spender headed for the connecting gate, buffeted by tourists and businessmen making love to their Blackberries, he caressed the half-empty pack of Morleys in his jacket pocket.

The corners of his lips twitched into a beatific Giaconda smile as he spotted the glass enclosure beyond McDonald's. He and his nicotine "addicted" ilk had been relegated to these airtight cells, like anachronistic exhibits for the scornful passing masses.

He was amused by their disdain -- his true sins would keep an entire monastery of confessors busy until the end of recorded time.

"OUT OF ORDER." Spender stared blankly at the placard.

"Air system." Spender turned. A huge, cueball-bald security guard shrugged. "Sorry, Chief," the sentry rasped. "Air system went down a couple days ago, and the guy hasn't been out yet to service it.

The Cigarette-Smoking Man forced a mournful smile. "That's all right. I have plenty of time. There's one on Concourse F, right?"

"Whole freakin' system's down. I'm dyin' for a Morley myself, you know." The guard peered around for someone to take it out on, then wandered off.

Spender sighed, then spotted the airport bar across the way. "Cheers”-- the breezy retro script beckoned. Where everybody knew your name.

The irony was irresistible, and he negotiated a group of Japanese sightseers and an obese mother haranguing her offspring. Good old Yankee capitalist guilt mongering -- no wonder Communism crumbled, given the likes of Natasha and her babbling babushka.

Spender's irritation began to subside as he settled three stools away from a fiberglass simulacron of Norm Peterson, frozen perpetually in his request for a fresh head on his beer.

Two seats away, a rumpled businessman meditated over a clean, no-bullshit highball half-filled with amber liquid. On the monitors above the rectangular bar, Ted Danson bantered inaudibly with an incredulous Shelly Long.

Spender had seen the franchised watering hole many times coming through numerous terminals, silently lamenting a society that was rapidly deteriorating into a pop culture amusement park.

Then, one long Sunday night at The Watergate, as he waited for a particularly crucial call from a compatriot at the UN, he ordered up a New York strip, stretched out, and, for lack of alternative entertainment, channel-surfed his way up the dial.

Spender bypassed CNN and MSNBC -- fairy tales concocted to mask global machinations that would loosen the bowels of most common men.

Contemporary sports left Spender cold, reality programming made him despair for the future of the planet, and Tony Soprano was a sentimentalized amateur who wouldn't have lasted five minutes in any efficient criminal operation.

He was on the verge of opting for brooding silence when raucous canned laughter erupted from the set. It was a "Cheers" marathon, and although Spender'd always viewed this kind of sitcom drivel as one of the lower achievements of his species, it seemed a tolerable enough alternative to the hum of the air conditioning.

By the time he'd reduced his meal to a potato husk and a pool of blood and broth (Spender fancied a special circle of Hell for those who left their fat for the busboy and calibrated their carbs by an atomic clock), he had been sucked into Sam and Diane's universe of proletarian camaraderie and Dostoyevskian tomfoolery.

It made no difference that this was fiction, played out on a soundstage by performers who likely would never deign to dive into a bowl of picked-over peanuts in some congested Beantown bar. Spender had been touched by something fundamental, something that flickered within the dead coals of his soul, something revelatory and bracing and poignant.

The mailman Cliff's incessantly ludicrous trivia, the waitress Carla's razor-honed jibes at her friends and patrons, innkeeper Sam's lunkheadedly loving counsel to all who entered his bar -- such things had no place in the cold, faithless vacuum of Spender's universe.

And for the first time, Spender suspected his existence was all the more empty for the absence of banal chatter and wasted moments of trivial reflection. He had decades ago cast his lot, and left his life's path littered with bodies and ashes.

There was no returning to a world where other tired souls might trumpet his name as he entered the room or inquire after his daily trials and tribulations.

But Spender's spirit lightened slightly when the call came and he was informed his mission had temporarily been scrubbed (he found the high-profile pyrotechnics of the princess' later Parisian "accident" garish and excessive). And he soon thereafter bought the entire "Cheers" oeuvre on VHS -- and subsequently, on DVD.

Spender ordered a Scotch. As the alcohol burned pleasantly down his ravaged esophagus, his fingers closed around his Morleys and the cool metal of his lighter.

"Whoa, don't even think about it."

The cigarette stopped an inch from Spender's lips, and he turned to the rumpled man two stools away.

"Not that I care," the middle-aged traveler grinned, waving toward the "Thanks For Not Smoking" sign bolted to a post behind the bar. "Gave 'em up myself a year ago -- wife forced the issue. But sometimes when I'm on the road like this, I find some little bar near the tracks and just soak up all the secondhand fumes I can get.

"Joints like that are getting tougher to find, though, with all these smoking ordinances and statutes and everything, I mean, New York City Council's outlawed trans fats, for God's sake. Chicago, it's illegal to serve goose liver pate." The stranger held up his glass. "Next thing you know, they'll be coming after this. Damned Nazis."

Spender laughed harshly, and the man regarded him strangely. "I'm sorry," Spender smiled. "It's just, well..." He displayed the lighter, and his fellow traveler gasped. Engraved on the silver case was an eagle, wings spread, roosting atop a wreath of oak leaves. The wreath encircled a familiar, insidious symbol. A broken cross, its arms bent at right angles.

Is that thing real?

"Jesus," the rumpled man whispered. "That thing real?"

Spender turned the lighter.

"'Zum Herr Wolff -- Mein mutiger adler. Liebe, Eva,'" the man stumbled.

"'To Herr Wolff -- My courageous eagle. Love, Eva,'" Spender supplied. "An inside joke. He often used the alias Herr Wolff in the '20s for security reasons, and she adopted it as a term of endearment."

"Who--? Oh, shit, Eva. Eva Braun? That thing didn't belong to--?"

Spender smiled. Until a few months ago, he'd kept this little icebreaker at the cabin, in a lockbox with other souvenirs of his travels. But some impulse -- perhaps the recklessness that came with age and resignation, perhaps pride in the deed that had led to its acquisition, perhaps a mere reminder of the influence he once had yielded -- had led him to keep the lighter close to him.

This was, however, the first time he'd shared its existence with others.

It had been nearly 30 years ago.

The Frenchman himself had dispatched Spender to the old monster's compound in Paraguay. The Austrian had been a paranoid madman in the '40s; the intervening decades and enforced idleness reportedly had loosened his tongue, and the Consortium's members feared what might roll from it in a weak moment.

The Austrian's mind may have been fading, but his memory was long, and the old Nazi had never entirely trusted the disfigured ex-Resistance fighter. But he seemed inexplicably fond of Spender, to the Cigarette Smoking Man's well-concealed horror.

True to Internet legend, the former chancellor was a vegetarian, a virtual teetotaler, and an avid non-smoker -- he had launched a fervent anti-tobacco campaign across Germany, and had awarded gold watches to several associates who had quit.

After an evening sans meat, liquor, and nicotine and replete with demented ramblings about the Jew Conspiracy and the prospective Fourth Reich's impending role in purging "the mongrels from the stars," Spender was all too happy to carry out his assignment.

As he prepared to flee The Austrian's compound for a local tavern and a pack of Morleys, Spender as an afterthought returned to the parlor where the Nazi lay dead of an apparent embolism and helped himself to the silver lighter the clean-living old swine had kept solely out of love for his wartime mistress.

"Where in the hell did you get this thing?"

The rumpled man's voice was tinged with disgust and, Spender thought, a tinge of fear. He was amused by the man's reaction to this inanimate object, this curiously useless keepsake of a genocidal beast, but he'd already overindulged his dark sense of humor, at potentially significant risk.

"Ebay," Spender murmured. "May I buy you another drink, friend?"

Lambert-St. Louis International Airport
St. Louis, Missouri
6:31 p.m.

"No, no, no," the cabbie, a stout African, insisted. "This is a smoking-free environment. You cannot do this in here."

Spender nodded as the Arch came into view, and, again, pocketed Hitler's lighter. The cigarette, he left between his lips. Angry eyes flashed in the rearview mirror, and the cabbie goosed the gas.

Adam's Mark Hotel
20 Minutes Later

The downtown Adam's Mark was teeming with suits and polo shirts emblazoned with the names of pharmaceutical firms, agricultural conglomerates, and government agencies.

Spender caught snatches of English, French, German, Japanese, Chinese, and a dozen Arabic and African dialects as he wove through the lobby.

He glanced at the banner hung behind the registration desk--”BIO/07: The Structure of Tomorrow”-- and wondered why The Frenchman had selected such a mob scene for their meeting.

The wait at the elevator bank was interminable, and on the way to 23, Spender endured an animated dialogue between two biotech lawyers about "proof of concept" and FDA approvals. Again, he massaged the crumpled pack in his jacket.

The door to 2318 opened before Spender could rap a second time. Krycek smirked.

"They've been waiting for you," the younger man murmured. "I need a drink."

Spender took a breath as Krycek receded down the hall and quietly closed the door behind him.

The Frenchman nodded, smiling dryly as he warmed his omnipresent brandy with both hands. A bespectacled Asian rose from an armchair next to the Scarred Man, eyeing Spender anxiously and, the Cigarette Smoking Man noted, with apparent disappointment.

"Hello, my friend," The Frenchman called warmly. "Mr. Arai, this is our friend, Mr. Spender."

Arai's head bobbed quickly, and Spender bowed slightly. The man clearly was nervous, perhaps desperate. Spender looked to The Frenchman.

"Please help yourself to some palinka, Mr. Spender. It's a bracing Romanian plum brandy -- I was delighted to find it available here in, how do they say, the Heartland?"

"I'm fine," Spender murmured.

The Scarred Man shrugged. "Mr. Arai is the senior vice president of agricultural products with Katsuhiru. He is attending the biotechnology conference downstairs, in fact is delivering a key address on some subject of acute scientific interest, I am sure."

Spender dropped onto the couch at the mention of the corporate dynasty. Arai stared unbelievingly at the seemingly serene Frenchman. The Scarred Man glanced at his pensive guests and sighed.

"Yes," he breathed. "Well. My friend, we once again require your inestimable services. I will allow Mr. Arai to apprise you of the unpleasantries that have arisen."

Spender looked up at the Japanese executive.

"It is bad," Arai announced. "It is very bad."

Spender leaned back into the cushions, his hand seeking the comfort of the cool vintage lighter and his Morleys.

"Please sir," Arai grunted apologetically. "I would appreciate it if you didn't."

Spender hesitated, his eyes never leaving Arai. After a minute, he left the pack of Morleys in his pocket, let his hand drop and leaned back in an intentionally casual attitude, waiting to hear the "very bad" news.

ACT II

Office of Homeland Security
Washington, D.C.
October 2, 2007
10:25 a.m.

The creature was roughly the size of a border collie, its thorax was covered with downy bristles, its abdomen encircled by ebony stripes, its wings incongruously delicate and veined. Two out-sized compound eyes shone with an inky intensity. The agent stared into the alien orbs with something akin to affection.

"Apis mellifera," the Fed announced, lingering a second over the image projected onto the wall of the basement office. "The Western honeybee. Subspecies have emerged across the globe, and they are perhaps the world's most economically crucial organisms."

The insect disappeared, to be replaced with rolling fields of corn. In quick succession, the agent displayed slides of Midwest wheat fields, Chinese apple orchards, French rapeseed plots, and Colombian coffee plantations.

The agent's eyes glinted with the passion of science -- a passion that had pushed colleagues away, which had led to this virtual exile to the hinterlands of the agency.

"The Western honeybee is essential to pollination -- an important step in the reproduction of seed plants. The insect transfers pollen grains -- the plant's male gametes -- to the plant carpel, the structure that contains the ovule -- the female gamete."

"Whew, and you haven't even bought me dinner yet," Agent Mulder murmured before his host could continue. Agent Berenbaum tapped the projector remote against her chin with a faintly disapproving smile.

"The bottom line," the former USDA entomologist sighed, "Is that the Western honeybee is key to global agriculture and food production. New York's apple crop alone requires roughly 30,000 hives of bees for pollination per year; Maine's blueberry crop uses nearly 50,000 hives.

"Bees are also brought to commercial plantings of cucumbers, squash, melons, strawberries, and many other crops. Close to a million bees are trucked to California's almond orchards every season. Altogether, bee pollination is important to at least 90 flowering crops.

"And, as I'm sure you've read, Fox, something is killing Apis mellifera. Tens of thousands of colonies have been lost in 35 states -- it's a very real threat to commercial U.S. beekeepers and fruit, grain, and oilseed producers."

Mulder leaned back in Dr. Berenbaum's chair, appraising the scientist/investigator. "And why, if I may ask, does this concern Homeland Security?"

He'd met Bambi Berenbaum more than a decade ago, during the investigation of an inexplicable -- and to date, unexplained -- cockroach infestation in Massachusetts. Mulder had instantly been mesmerized by Bambi's physical charms and her unflappable intellectual curiosity (well, maybe a bit more by the former than the latter).

But it wasn't to be: At the conclusion of the case, Bambi wound up with, and eventually wed, internationally renowned roboticist Alexander Ivanov.

Then 9/11 happened. Dr. Berenbaum was shipped off with most of her colleagues at Animal and Plant Health Inspection Services to Homeland Security. The APHIS folk suddenly found themselves in some fairly intense company, but while most simply retreated into the lab, Bambi attacked her new duties with a renewed zeal and an iron will.

That zeal produced a 435-page guidance document on the potential use of invasive invertebrate species by terrorist factions bent on bringing down a major U.S. economic/trade sector.

Bambi asked some hard questions about several recent incidents such as the Asian longhorn beetle's Midwest bingefest and the varroa mite's intensified assault on the Western honeybee population.

While she drove home the point that her theories about infestation as a terrorist weapon were strictly speculative, a Washington Post writer having a slow news day fell onto a copy of her treatise and published selected excerpts under the banner "Bush's war on terror gone buggy?"

Dr. Berenbaum consequently became the Jerry McGuire of DHS, albeit in classic D.C. fashion: She was shipped downstairs to larger quarters with a promotion that would virtually guarantee her future invisibility.

Once again, Bambi adapted like a predatory diving beetle to her lucrative "setback," and when the economic dynamics of "colony collapse disorder" began to sink in, her bosses sent her back into the field to solve the mystery of the imperiled pollinators.

Bambi sighed. "The department publicly minimized my paper on invasive agroterrorism, but some of the black helicopter types -- no offense, Fox."

"None taken," Mulder grinned weakly.

"Some of my colleagues on the investigative side believe there's something more to colony collapse than some new viral strain, varroa mite gone wild, or some kind of environmental mutagen. I guess I'm beginning to think there may be some basis for their concerns."

Mulder studied her wordlessly. Bambi misinterpreted his silent appraisal as an invitation to amplify her suspicions.

"One of my team, an environmental scientist named Todd Grossbeck, has been analyzing soil, water, and air quality across the Western Corn Belt, looking at possible environmental factors affecting native mellifera populations. A week ago, Todd told me he'd detected what he called 'a nearly insignificant anomaly' in a couple of the ambient air samples. He'd wouldn't go into any details -- said he wanted to do a little more testing and research first."

"Research? He give you any hints?"

Bambi's expression darkened. "Nothing. He was very tightlipped, very adamant. As if he didn't want to put his neck out until he knew he was on solid ground. These DHS types don't exactly worship us pure science types, and he saw what happened to me."

"You think he may be onto something. But what do you want me to do? Lean on him, threaten him with a long weekend at Guantanamo if he doesn't spill?"

"He's dead."

Mulder sat up, Bambi's stricken expression now registering fully.

"Todd and his crew were in Eastern Iowa, sampling some soybean plots. One of the technicians ran into town to buy fresh batteries for some of his gear. When she came back, she found Todd seizing. He was flushed, and there was a puddle of vomitus nearby, so Shelley -- the tech -- guessed anaphylaxis. She had an epi pen, and she administered it while she called 911. But it was too late -- he coded in the ambulance before they could get him to the closest regional hospital. They found what appears to be a small sting wound on his forearm."

"What appears to be--”

"That's why I called you. They're shipping Todd's body back in a day or two, and I want a full, detailed autopsy. Not the superficial P.M. the local coroner did."

Then it dawned. "Scully."

"And you," Bambi emphasized. "There may be some elements to this that require your unorthodox perspective."

"Ah. I knew crazy would pay off someday." Mulder grew serious. "Look, Bambi, I'm happy to help any way I can, but, really, this is a stretch even for me. Anaphylactic shock, in a field probably chock full of hymenoptera? Not exactly an exotic Malaysian blowgun dart tipped with curare."

Bambi nodded calmly, then moved around her desk, slipped the top drawer open, and pulled out what appeared to be a portrait-sized photo. "Todd was a former student of mine, a Minnesota farm kid with a fascination for bugs. When he was nine, in fact, he went exploring on a neighbor's farm. The neighbor was a custom pollinator, couple hundred hives on his place.

"Well, Todd got a little overexuberant in his explorations and knocked over a colony. He told me he sustained at least three dozen stings and came out with 'a red face and a redder ass after his dad got done with him.' This is Todd -- it was his favorite photo."

The thin, auburn-haired boy was grinning from ear to ear. In fact, the grin was nearly all that could be seen on Todd Grossbeck's face. The rest was covered with a thick, yellow-and-black swarm of what Mulder could only surmise to be Western honeybees.

FBI Headquarters
Basement Office
X-Files Division

Scully strode into the office to find her partner rifling through the file drawers. "Mulder? What are you doing here?"

Mulder turned abruptly at the sound of her voice, pulling the file he'd been looking for from the drawer and slamming it shut. "Research," was the only word he could come up with as he faced her.

Her radar indicated he was up to something, "Research on what?" she asked him hesitantly.

"Bees," he told her as he stepped over to the desk and picked up a folder, handing it to her.

Scully gave him another skeptical look and flipped open the folder wincing immediately at the autopsy photo of Todd's face.

"That's Todd Grossbeck, environmental scientist, he worked for Homeland Security," Mulder told her.

She glanced through the preliminary findings attached to the photo and then looked up at her partner. "Says here he died from anaphylactic shock. That's not uncommon, Mulder. What's your interest in this?"

"Just something a friend asked me to look into."

Always wary of Mulder's 'friends,' she questioned him, "A friend?"

"An entomologist, Dr. Berenbaum..."

Scully ran the name through her memory, "Bambi?" she exclaimed before he could utter another word.

Mulder gave her a sheepish grin. He'd been quite taken by the attractive brunette back then. Bambi, on the other hand evidently didn't feel the same way. "She married Ivanov by the way," he admitted.

"Her loss," she replied straight-faced. Mulder chuckled.

"Todd had no allergy," Mulder told her, growing serious again. "Grossbeck headed a team investigating this "colony collapse" in the honeybee population. They were working fields out in Iowa when he was 'attacked'. He never made it to the hospital.

"In her last conversation with him, Bambi said he thought he might be on to something but wouldn't give her the details until he was certain."

"She thinks someone killed him?" Scully surmised.

Mulder studied his partner, "She thinks, and I quote, 'There may be some elements to this that require my unorthodox perspective.'"

"And you, of course, agree."

Mulder handed her the X-File he had extracted from the drawer and motioned for her to sit down. "That is a case I investigated back in 1997," he started to tell her as she flipped open the folder. "It started out as an investigation in the death of a postal worker, one Jane Brody who was stung to death by a swarm of bees in an employee bathroom and whose body later disappeared from the morgue.

"It turned into what I believe was a cover-up of some sort of experiment gone wrong. You can add the death of an entomologist, a teacher, and several children at J.F.K. Elementary School in Payson, South Carolina who were also attacked by bees to the list as well as the murder of a Desmond, Virginia detective," he finished. He wasn't about to add the part about Skinner's involvement and his own debauchery in covering that up.

"Where was...? She started to ask why she had no recollection of the case until the date on the folder caught her eye. Dying from cancer, she answered for herself. Mulder watched the recognition spread across her face but said nothing. "You think this might be related?" she finally ascertained.

"It has the same buzz to it, yes," he concurred watching the subtle grin spread across his partner's lips. "But I'm washing my hands of it. Bambi's having Todd's body sent down here. She asked if you would do a full, detailed autopsy -- and go from there."

Scully was puzzled by his about-face, "You sound like you're passing the buck, Mulder."

"I have the feeling this is gonna require some field work," Mulder made a motion like his arm was chained to the desk. "I desperately want to get back in the field and if that doesn't happen soon I'm gonna gnaw my arm off. So for now I need to be a good dog. You don't need me to work this case, Scully. Do the preliminary, Skinner will okay the 302."

Office of Wallace Manville, Ph.D.
Avenue W.
Washington, D.C.
11:00 a.m.

"Agent Mulder?"

Mulder looked up at the towering psychologist poised in the inner office doorway, tossing the Architectural Digest onto the doctor's otherwise immaculate reception room table. "Thank God. Your magazine selection sucks. I'd think neurotics and narcissists would like People."

Dr. Manville nodded soberly. "Less Bauhaus, more Brangelina. Duly noted. Please, come in, Agent."

Manville's office was spare. A selection of psychological texts and journals lined the wall behind an outsized mahogany desk clear of either work or personal paraphernalia.

A pair of caramel leather club chairs were centered with mathematical precision in the center of a mirror-buffed hardwood floor, and a quartet of framed degrees were the only adornments on the doctor's matte burgundy walls.

A pair of caramel leather club chairs

"Have a seat," Manville invited.

Mulder smirked, glanced at both chairs, and settled into the soft leather. Manville lowered himself gracefully, positioning a yellow legal pad in his lap. The doctor's mineral eyes nearly matched his close-cropped gray hair and mustache, and his lips were molded into a superficially pleasant smile.

"Did I choose correctly?" Mulder asked dryly.

Manville's smile expanded a micrometer, and he nodded curtly. "I suppose. That is my customary chair, as I assume you've deduced. There is only one clock in the office, and it can be seen only from my chair -- clockwatching tends to inhibit the therapeutic process."

Mulder arched an eyebrow in an acquired gesture. "And here I always thought it was a post-doctoral control trip. Yeah, I saw the clock, but I also see you're a southpaw -- the right arm of the chair is more worn than the left, because you're constantly jotting perceptive little observations and Freudian scribbles on your Pad of Secrets. Plus, I think I spot some sweat stains on the other chair there."

Manville's colorless eyes narrowed even as his smile held. "You sound almost like... well, no matter." The therapist settled back in the patient chair. "I was told you work in Behavioral Sciences -- you're what, a profiler, they call it on TV? Oxford, I understand. Very facile deductive and intuitive sense. I met one of your colleagues years ago -- same agile facilities. I also understand you have some strong issues with authority. So, yes, I suppose you made the correct choice."

Mulder feigned a pained expression. "Want me to let you know when our fifty minutes is up?"

"Thirty -- this is merely an intake session. And thanks, but I'll manage." Manville nodded to a point behind Mulder. The agent grinned questioningly and craned around the back of the chair. A stylish clock face was reflected in the glass encasing Manville's Stanford doctoral diploma.

Mulder's grin widened, then vanished as he turned back to the psychologist. Manville shrugged. "I can't very well label the 'shrink's throne,' can I? And, as you know, I field many Bureau referrals, so I'm certainly used to relinquishing my chair on occasion."

"Touche'. So I'm not even a particularly special prick."

Manville's smile ratcheted back to its default setting. "I cited your authority issues. Possessing a strong force of will, a critical worldview -- that doesn't define one as a prick. The exercise of that will, the extent to which cynicism obscures that worldview -- I think you'll find that that's what separates the pricks from the pack. And, actually, I believe we've established your particularly specialized pedigree and abilities."

Mulder crossed his leg. "Everybody's special, so, therefore, nobody's special."

"We keep this up," Manville mused, "and we won't have time for perceptive observations and Freudian jottings. I assume you've had a few personal encounters with the psychiatric profession."

Mulder's grin froze. "You've got my dossier, right? Spooky Mulder? Babbles on about extraterrestrial abductions, global conspiracies, boogeymen under every bed and monsters among us? Obsessed with resurrecting his 'dead' baby sister?

"I've been having close encounters with your compatriots since I was 12 -- survivor's guilt because Samantha was taken and I wasn't; repressed memories about the night she was taken; traumatic delusions about the true nature of my sister's disappearance.

"One guy kept asking me about my 'relationship' with Samantha: What kind of 'games' did we play? Did my Mom or Dad ever 'interact' with me in an 'appropriate' manner? Luckily, I had a solid alibi, and Dad quickly shipped me off to another shaman.

"I've been hypnotized, had disco lights flashed in my face, been shot up with ketamine, and even had one guy try to drain some demons from my brain with an electric drill."

"Charlie Goldstein," Manville murmured. "I read his papers on regression therapy. Posthumously, of course. Goldstein had some fascinating, if flawed, theories."

"He actually wasn't such a bad guy. I liked him a lot better than the one who kept telling me I needed a cathartic cry." Mulder responded. "In short, don't expect many Judd Hirsch-Timothy Hutton moments from our time together. I'm sure there are folks out there who need to be fucked up far worse than me, so why don't we just make a new hole in your schedule?"

"If it aids at all in our therapeutic relationship," Manville told him coolly, "I might remind you your director insists I sign off on your emotional and mental soundness if you're to remain on active Bureau duty."

Mulder was silent for a moment. "Perceptive observation. Remind me later to draw a little Freudian jotting for you. By the way, who was the profiler? The other disturbed fibbie? Guess that's probably classified, right?"

"Not at all," Manville smiled. "She wasn't a patient. I was, ah, consulted, in the investigation of a former associate. But no matter. For your own amusement, why don't you tell me a little about your work. What do you do with the Bureau?"

Mulder glanced at the clock behind Manville's head. "Sorry, Doc, but I believe our time's about up."

ACT III

Katsuhiru Inc.
Yokohama, Japan
1951

Humility was a concept foreign to Shindo Katsuhiru. He had captained one of the most feared and respected of Japan's Zaibatsu -- the huge family conglomerates that had virtually controlled the nation's economy until the Occupation. Shindo was as a god to his underlings and a demon to those who dared challenge his dominance.

After the Zaibatsu were dismantled, Katsuhiru was one of the first of the major public corporations to emerge amid Japan's "economic miracle" of the post-Occupation era.

Shindo and his oldest son Endo -- a prewar Oxford graduate who had embraced the Western business model -- had recognized in the devastation of Hiroshima and Nagasaki the raw power science offered, and acquired with ruthless efficiency new holdings in pharmaceuticals, electronics, agriculture, and electrical generation.

Shindo Katsuhiru bowed only with his hips, his peers and enemies alike said (outside Shindo's presence). Humility was anathema -- a despised weakness, a superfluous emotion.

But today, Shindo was humble in the presence of his diminutive, seemingly unassuming guest. The man bowed gravely to Shindo and his son, and Shindo dipped deeply, eyes momentarily closed.

This modest, bespectacled man, like Shindo, was a survivor, a modern ronin who looked only forward. After the war, the Americans sought to try him as a war criminal, but MacArthur intervened on his behalf, understanding he was an essential symbol of Japan's cohesion and continuity.

Further, Shindo's guest was a man of science. In his special laboratory in Tokyo, he continued to indulge his love of marine biology and, in fact, had described dozens of species of jellyfish previously unknown to zoologists.

He had published numerous scholarly papers under his personal name -- a name only a select few used in his presence.

"Hirohito-san, you honor us," Shindo murmured, ushering the Emperor into a lush office that could have belonged to a Madison Avenue executive if not for his sumi-e paintings and Kotaro Takamura sculptures. This had been Endo's influence -- the younger man had wisely understood commercial dominance would be Japan's ultimate victory over the West.

"My good friend," Hirohito smiled, "you honor me with your indulgence."

"We are your servants, my son and I," Shindo nodded. "Please, sit. I ordered a lovely plum wine for your visit. Would you join me?"

"It would be my pleasure." Endo nodded to his father and stepped into the hallway. Shindo nodded to his son who bowed and stepped into the hallway.

"He is a reflection of his father," Hirohito noted. "Katsuhiru is a major force in restoring our global power, and that is what brings me here. The fate of Japan, perhaps of this world, may rest in your hands."

Shindo's brows rose. His friend was not given to melodrama.

"Please," the corporate magnate entreated. "Tell me how I may be of service to you, to my country."

Emperor Hirohito placed his hands on his knees and sighed. "My friend, you may think I am a madman by the time I have completed my tale."

Once plum brandy had been served, with all the traditional Japanese customs observed, Hirohito began.

Sometime later, Shindo and his son glanced at each other as Hirohito concluded his fantastic account.

"We have documentation, tissue samples -- you are to have access to all, if, of course, you agree to assist us."

Endo began to speak. This arcane tale of Nazis, otherworldly creatures, and Hitler's bizarre experimentation...

His father's hand stayed his skepticism. "There is no question of our loyalty, Hirohito-san," Shindo said. "But how can Katsuhiru assist you?"

The Emperor templed his fingers. "Adolph Hitler was an insane monster, and his efforts to deal with this threat were equally insane and monstrous. Sound science is the key to safeguarding our planet.

"Our new American 'friends' agree -- they are working with some of Hitler's more, shall we say, rational scientists? Meanwhile, I am placing my faith in Katsuhiru's considerable scientific acumen. I have been authorized to provide you with virtually unlimited resources."

"To what?" Endo inquired, suppressing the incredulity in his voice. "To develop a weapon?"

Hirohito smiled gravely. "Ah, yes. In a manner."

Adam's Mark Hotel
St. Louis, Missouri
Present Day

Mr. Arai drained his brandy thirstily. "They named it 'Project Anubis,'" he whispered.

"The Egyptian God of the Dead," Spender murmured. The Japanese scientist turned to him, eyes wide. "Anubis was, more precisely, the guardian of the dead, before Osiris, in the Old Kingdom, who was the Conductor of Souls in the Underworld and protected them on their journey to the Afterlife in the West."

"I am told it was their joke," Mr. Arai nodded. "They meant to guide ... them, all of them ... to the underworld, to hell. And because the Egyptians were masters of apiculture."

"Bees?"

Mr. Arai jumped at Spender's inquiry. "Bees, yes, Mr. Spender."

The Cigarette Smoking Man's brow rose. "What's happening now, the disappearance of the bees. This is your doing?"
Mr. Arai looked to the silent, immobile Frenchman, who nodded once. He poured himself another healthy dose of palinka. "The Emperor asked Mr. Katsuhiru to devise a weapon. More specifically, to make the Earth itself a weapon. To make it an inhospitable environment for ... for them."

Spender hooked an arm over the back of the hotel couch, and his lined face suddenly broke into a broad, grim smile that might have chilled the marrow of the jackal-headed Anubis.

It all came home now -- Strughold and his massive colonies along the Nile, the smallpox incident nearly a decade ago, the dead bee he had delivered to the Elders.

He laughed -- a nicotine-scarred rasp. "Brilliant. Your honorable predecessor fell upon the perfect Trojan horse, the ideal vehicle for his biological weapon."

"Yes, yes." Mr. Arai's dark expression brightened. The irony in Spender's voice was totally lost on him. "Subspecies of the Western honeybee have developed on nearly every continent. They are virtually omnipresent. Originally, they were to be bred with Africanized species to bring out their aggressive tendencies, and genetically modified with a DNA-specific virus fatal only to ... the others."

"But that would be merely the start," the Frenchman spoke up. "The magnificent minds at Katsuhiru postulated a virus that could be incorporated into and alter the genetic structure of any organism, flora or fauna. These bees were to be the 'Anubites' -- the servants of Anubis, the emissaries of death."

"Through pollination, they would inoculate the planet's crops, the world's vegetation. Meat, eggs, milk -- all would become deadly. Earth would become a virtual Rappaccini's garden of death."

Spender finally sipped his brandy. "Very ambitious. And you've perfected this virus?"

"We believe so," Mr. Arai said. "We've worked for decades, eliminated hundreds of possibilities. The transgenics team finished years ago -- Katsuhiru actually completed mapping the bee genome 10 years before the Honey Bee Genome Sequencing Consortium was formed in 2001. Of course, we were unable to seek the Nobel Prize." The scientist laughed nervously.

The Frenchman smiled indulgently; Spender peered curiously over his brandy.

"Yes, well," Mr. Arai continued, "We have successfully bred several generations of transgenic carrier bees, and our field tests of inoculated corn, orchard fruit, and almonds have been highly gratifying."

"I assume, of course," Spender drawled, "that you have anticipated the possibility of viral mutation, of foodborne allergies within the general populace. We wouldn't want any collateral deaths, would we?"

The Frenchman sighed, shaking his broad, bald head with amusement. Mr. Arai glanced at the carpet, guilt etched into every facial feature.

"We have developed a vaccine," he mumbled. "And an antidote."

Spender smiled darkly, his faith in humanity intact. "As a gift to the world, of course."

The Frenchman spared Mr. Arai. "Please, continue, my friend."

"Yes. We are, of course, several generations, perhaps a few years, away from producing a 'manageable' population of the 'Anubites,' as you call them," Arai continued. "Until this time comes, we are replicating strictly sterile bees with a self-terminating gene. The average worker bee lives one to four months. Our Anubites have a lifespan of less than 20 days, to minimize potential damage in the inconceivable event of an accidental environmental release."

"Owing to the urgency with which I was summoned, I assume the inconceivable has occurred ?" Spender mused.

Mr. Arai was silent for a moment. "Several colonies disappeared seven months ago. They were being transported by truck from our labs near Nagano to the port at Yokohama, for shipment to Africa, per Mr. Strughold's orders. The truck -- which was camouflaged as an electronic supply vehicle -- was ambushed and the driver and our

three-man security crew murdered. The colonies -- several hundred thousand bees -- simply vanished."

"An insider," Spender grunted.

"It would seem so, but every member of the Anubis team has been thoroughly investigated and exonerated. We began to hope that perhaps the theft was merely a coincidence -- a brutal hijacking -- and that the hijackers would destroy the bees as worthless. At the worst, we were hopeful the Anubites would terminate before they could do any true harm. But then, two very disturbing developments emerged," Arai stated grimly.

"The first was the outbreak in Kentucky, five months ago. We had an agent within your CDC. The symptomology, it was identical to that of the strain we had incorporated into the stolen Anubites. The outbreak appeared to be isolated, but it was clear that at least some of the bees had survived despite their genetic reprogramming."

"Clearly," Spender sighed. "And this second development?"

Mr. Arai looked at this moment as though he would gladly have taken the honorable exit preferred by many of his Japanese ancestors. "Despite this ... setback, we had continued our research. But then, a few weeks ago, one of our scientists discovered ... something in one of the colonies."

"Allow me to venture a guess," Spender requested pleasantly. "The innate biological imperative to survive kicked in, overriding your technology. The will of nature, the obstinacy of life, whatever you wish to call it. You found eggs."

Somewhere, far below, an angry cab horn sounded, breaking the silence that descended on the plush hotel room. Mr. Arai snapped back to Earth as he heard a metallic snap, like a shell dropping into a chamber.

Spender fired Hitler's lighter, and applied the flame to the Morley between his withered lips. The lines about his eyes and mouth relaxed as he took in the first foul, lethal fumes that always served to reassure of him of some measure of free will.

Office of Wallace Manville, Ph.D.
Avenue W.
Washington, D.C.
11:00 a.m.

Manville eased into the guest chair without acknowledging the inverted clock superimposed over his Stanford credentials.

Mulder dropped into Manville's chair without spilling a drop of the Grande Caramel Macchiato that had made him a fashionable -- and premeditative -- five minutes late. If the therapist had noted his tardiness, he failed to acknowledge it, as well.

"Being as it's our first full session, why don't you begin?" Manville invited. "Maybe you can offer me some insight into what you'd like to get out of all this. Plus, I'm fairly certain it'll prove infinitely more fascinating."

Mulder nodded, squinting at the vaulted ceiling. "Hmm, so you want to know what? What's eating me?"

Manville waited, pen hand at ease over his pad.

"Where to start..." Mulder murmured. "My relationship with Dad? Little clichéd, right? Mom? Little too Freudian, huh? How about my strong issues with authority? Whoops, sorry -- now I'm just cannibalizing you."

"Ah." The psychiatrist's eyes smiled. "Obviously, you've seen my 'dossier,' as well. While I'm frankly curious to plumb the depths of your anthropophagic wordplay, we're not here to amuse me. That's merely a fortunate byproduct. If I may ask, when did you start the background check? After our first session? Or before?"

"Let's say I narrowed the parameters after our initial discussion. I already knew you were a honcho in the trade -- top of your class, a half-dozen reasonably scholarly books to your credit. Of course, the few of your tight, uh, mouthed colleagues I could talk to wouldn't say much about you. Professional curtseying. Sorry, courtesy."

Manville's mustache crimped at the corners, not out of vanity but in the fortunate byproduct of amusement.

Mulder nestled into supple leather. "But when you told me you'd worked with another BSU agent on a case involving a professional cohort, it rang a bell. I found out you'd done a psych residency in Baltimore back in the '80s."

"And that I was on staff with the estimable Dr. Hannibal Lecter, thus the subtle references to cannibalism."

"Braise and snarf a coworker's liver, you kinda get labeled for life. The tip off is when you mentioned the investigating agent was a 'she.'" Mulder smiled disingenuously. "Glass ceiling's a little higher today, but back when Buffalo Bill was grinnin' and skinnin' and Hannibal the Cannibal was chewing up the scenery, there weren't too many equal opportunity profilers.

"The Buffalo Bill case put Special Agent Clarice Starling on the map, and when she disappeared a few years ago, nobody was sure whether Lecter sliced and diced her or whether she and Hannibal the Cannibal had registered at Bloomingdale's. What do you think?"
Manville shrugged casually. "I talked to her for a half-hour two decades ago. I recall she was driven, intense, definitely a Type A. I remember detecting a distinctly southern patois and a blue-collar sensibility and servility. Agent Starling was intent on inspecting the seams of that glass ceiling until she found an entry point.

"At least that was my impression. At the same time, I could sense her empathy with Dr. Lecter's alleged victims as well as a grudging admiration for the doctor's intelligence and intuition."

"But you don't remember anything much about her, huh? And 'alleged'? Sounds almost like you're a member of the Lecter Fan Club, yourself." Mulder deadpanned.

"He was a brilliant man with brilliant insights. From what I remember, of course. Baltimore General was a huge institution, and Dr. Lecter and I were part of a huge psych staff. We interacted, of course," Manville shrugged imperceptibly, "but no more than any other doctor and resident.

"I recall he was charming, tactful when the situation warranted, reverting to near savagery when someone screwed up. But I really spent very little time in his personal company. I told Agent Starling as much. But I'm assuming you already know that. You share many traits with Agent Starling."

Mulder frowned, glanced at the clock behind Manville's head. In fact, he had sought out Starling's field report, only to find it had been sealed along with most of her subsequent casefiles after she'd dropped off the face of the earth. He couldn't very well have pushed Skinner for access under the current circumstances. But for some reason, Manville had practically waved Lecter in front of his nose.

"Any further inquiries?" Manville smiled solicitously, glancing at his Stanford diploma. He nodded at Mulder's silence. "Lecter's a fascinating character. Sorry I couldn't provide you with any intriguing insights.

"Let's talk about you for awhile, Agent Mulder. I understand you and your partner -- Agent Scully? -– share a very unusual bond. For the Bureau, that is. How would you say that dynamic affects your professional rapport?"

Mulder froze. The paper cup in his fingers crimped slightly -- the sole giveaway that Manville had hit a nerve. His fingers relaxed, and he smiled tightly.

"This ain't about Scully," the agent drawled in his best 'Dr. Phil.' Manville smiled back, indulgently, and Mulder flushed. "Look, Doc, any perceived quirks in my recent behavior aren't the product of sexual tension or romantic angst."

"Interesting, though, that you'd raise the topic. You are experiencing some? Angst?"

"Agent Scully does not figure into this." Mulder's eyes were pure, unblinking steel. "You wanna get into my fucked-up childhood or my latent UFOria or whatever demented delusions they've told you I suffer from, knock yourself out. Leave Scully out of it."

Manville didn't break eye contact, but he shifted deliberately into a more laconic pose in his chair, one side of his mustache quirking into a bit of a smirk. The condescending reaction hit its mark, as intended -- Mulder's hand was now shaking slightly as he reigned in his growing temper.

"If there are issues in your relationship with Agent Scully -- and, given your history, your recent violence, your past, your sister and your parents' lack of support and love, I suspect there is -- then a certain, ah, lack of function wouldn't be out of the realm," Manville suggested in a perfectly even voice, nodding meaningfully at Mulder's lap. "I could prescribe something to help, well, allay any symptoms that may distract us from addressing root issues. Something potent, something blue?"

"WHAT?" Mulder roared, his macchiato dropping to the hardwood, his other hand white-knuckling the arm of the chair. Manville appeared not to notice the mocha tributary trickling toward his loafered foot.

"If you don't care for the pharmaceutical approach, I often recommend that clients whose needs aren't being met interpersonally by their partners to take matters into their own hands, if you catch my drift. Self-pleasure could help take the edge off, or at least take it down a few notches. Or, even better, I could recommend some manual exercises for Agent Scully..."

Mulder, red-faced and miles beyond furious, exploded from his chair, splattering his spilled latte onto Manville's cuff.

The doctor looked up dispassionately as Mulder thundered across the few feet between them. His critical composure stopped Mulder short inches away. The agent blinked, struggling to control his rage, then slumped back into Manville's chair.

"Well," Manville murmured. "We can come back to this later. Meanwhile, could you tell me who you believe to be discussing your 'demented delusions' with me? This 'they' you mentioned...?"

Avenue W.
Washington, D.C.
12:10 p.m.

Ironically, after swabbing Mulder's spilled macchiato -- he'd allowed it to pool like a moat between himself and his patient for the remainder of the session -- Manville quickly polished his notes, checked his office e-mail, locked up, and set out for his own Grande Macchiato.

The day outside his brownstone advertised everything that was great about living in D.C., or at least in Northwest. A gentle Mid-Atlantic breeze swept unseasonably warm currents about him as he negotiated joggers, browsers, tourists, and suits momentarily suspending their pursuit of dollars and power.

The cherry trees lining the avenue left a colorful fall dandruff on the narrow sidewalks. Somewhere down the way, Manville could hear the sounds of cool jazz wafting from a bistro or boutique.

Manville had his choice of three neighborhood Starbucks; like flukes, they appeared to proliferate wherever the environment was suitable. His associate had specified the one wedged between a feminist bookshop and a Moroccan café. A half-block up, he could see him at a curbside table, consulting his watch. A smile played at Manville's lips.

"Evan," Manville murmured, lightly touching his "friend"'s shoulder. Evan Pym looked up before the psychologist's fingers reached the lightweight gabardine; a lifetime of stealth and suspicion had honed his senses and reflexes.

"Wally. You're looking good."

"As do you," Manville mused. "Be right back."

"No worries," Evan smiled tightly, nodding toward a cup of steaming night-black expresso. "Two sugars, I recalled."

Manville sighed, and pulled out a chair. "I was thinking of being a bit more adventurous today, but no matter. How is Rachael?"

"As obstreperous as ever. Jen?"

"She's well," Manville said, sipping his robust brew as he maintained eye contact over the rim.

Evan laughed, shaking his head. "So much for the small-talk, eh? All right, then." He swished his own half-cup. "Productive morning?"

"Reasonably."

"Good," Pym said. "How is our boy Mulder?"

Mulder likely couldn't have explained, even to himself, why he'd abruptly made the decision to stalk his counselor. He'd left the session angry and disoriented, and he'd stopped into a nearby comic book shop to cool off over some Spidey and Ghost Rider. He emerged to see Wallace Manville strolling in the opposite direction.

Manville's past relationship with the ravenous Dr. Lecter had intrigued Mulder's interest, but as the agent considered his fencing match with the therapist, a more fascinating picture began to form. He found himself profiling his counselor before he realized it.

Glib and superficially charming, manipulative, grandiose. A lack of shame or empathy. Classic sociopathy. Control was an essential cover for the sociopath's pathological lies and repressed rage. That rage had been Lecter's initial undoing, until he regained the upper hand.

Mulder followed, until, three blocks later, the doctor turned into one of D.C.'s ubiquitous Starbucks. The dapper man seated on the sidewalk obviously was waiting for Manville -- a steaming cup awaited the sociopathic shrink.

The man turned as Manville placed a hand on his shoulder, and Mulder froze.

"Shit," Mulder whispered.

J. Edgar Hoover F.B.I. Building
Washington, D.C.
2:14 p.m.

Skinner glanced at the clock on his militarily ordered desk.

"It's been roughly 72 hours," the assistant director informed Mulder. "I commend you for hanging in."

"This guy's seriously twisted," Mulder insisted. "Manville's practically a textbook sociopath -- he studied under Hannibal Lecter, for God's sake. He was morbidly interested in my sex life. Or Scully's sex life. Well, I guess, our sex life. He actually suggested I should, Scully should, you know..."

Skinner grimaced at Mulder's attempted gesture. "Agent Mulder, I understand counseling isn't a pleasant experience. No one enjoys plumbing their psyche with a stranger. I'd suggest you suck it up, expose your soft underbelly, and put this behind you. Or, in the alternative, use this as constructive opportunity."

"C'mon, this is horseshit, and you know it!" Mulder snapped.

Skinner's fist came down on the blotter, and his eyes suddenly blazed. The deputy director then blinked, took a deep breath, and leaned back in his leather chair. He patted a sheaf of folders on the corner of his desk.

"Since last year's little 'episode' in Egypt, you've nearly gotten yourself sliced and diced trying to single-handedly apprehend a serial killer while on disability leave. Without consulting the NYPD detective you were supposed to be working with, you chased an armed suspect through a busy tourist area and almost got your head blown off. And then you assaulted a fellow agent and walked off the job. If it hasn't yet penetrated, Agent, we have a problem here."

"I'm fine," Mulder muttered. "You don't need to worry about me."

"You assume it's you I'm worried about," Skinner sighed. "Look, bottom line, Agent Mulder: If you ever want back in the field -- and I mean *ever* -- you're going to have to poke around in whatever dark holes Dr. Manville digs for you. Forget about the court -- I'm not putting Scully and everyone else in your orbit in jeopardy. Pull it together, Agent. That's all."

Mulder's mouth moved, then closed.

"That's all," Skinner repeated.

Mulder stumbled out of the office, slumping against the hallway wall. He'd effed it up royally -- Manville was universally revered among his colleagues and without access to Starling's files, there was little chance of Mulder confirming his suspicions about his true relationship with Lecter.

But if those suspicions were valid, where did Evan Pym fit in? Mulder had withheld that tidbit from Skinner for the deputy director's own protection.

At least until he could figure out how Manville was connected to the National Security Agency's head of covert operations...

Mulder and Scully's Townhouse
Georgetown

The darkened house at first gave her pause until she noticed the lamp glow coming from the study upstairs that in the end was where she found her partner.

He was seated at the desk, glaring viciously at the screen of his laptop. Two beer bottles sat in a pool of perspiration on the top of the desk off to his right. Aside from the flash of a glance when she entered the room he gave no acknowledgement to her presence. His body language told her everything. It had not been a pleasant day.

Scully slipped out of her shoes and walked silently behind her partner. Leaning over him, she hefted the lager that still glistened with sweat and took a healthy swallow somewhat enjoying the beer's bitter taste and allowing the cold liquid to recharge her.

"You could have gotten your own," Mulder commented, not taking his eyes off the screen of the laptop.

Scully set the beer back down and put her hands on his shoulders. She could feel the tension radiate off him. His shoulder muscles were as tight as knots.

He wasn't handling the suspension well, he wasn't handling the court mandated therapy well and most of all, he wasn't handling what he perceived was the opinion of everyone around him that all this was for his own good. She started to knead his tight muscles gently and leaned down to give him a gentle kiss on the cheek. "Bad day?"

"You have no fucking idea..."

"Mulder, whether you approve of it or not," she tried to console him, continuing to massage his shoulders. "If you want to keep your job, you have to give Manville a chance."

He started to relax into her ministrations. "Your hands are wasted on dead people, Scully. God, that feels good."

Scully continued to work at the tension radiating from her partner. He tilted his head from side to side as her slender fingers eased up his neck.

"You know, I'd really like to know who recommended this crackpot," he told her, clicking enter as Scully watched a site for the infamous Hannibal Lecter materialize on the screen. "Would you believe Manville was on the staff with Lecter? And they think *I* need therapy. I followed him after our session, Scully."

"Mulder..."

"The man met Evan Pym for coffee, there's something seriously twisted in that relationship."

"Mulder, he was recommended by the Bureau," she replied despite the chill that information he just mentioned gave her. She worked her hands up his neck as he bent his head forward to allow her access. "I don't think at this point you have much choice."

"Of course I have no choice. Don't you get it? I've never had a choice. I feel like I've regressed a decade. Nothing's really changed."

"They're still out to get you," Scully surmised. "What happened today?"

Mulder pulled away from her and swiveled the chair around to face his partner. "My shrink had the audacity to suggest that my violent tendencies could be due to some 'sexual tension'. That there could be some unresolved issues between us that are resulting in my inability to get it up.

"He even suggested a little Viagra and if that didn't help, maybe I should take matters into my own hands..." Mulder reached over and slammed the lid down on the laptop. "He has no idea that in my 'younger days' I was a pro at that."

Scully bit her lip. She could understand her partner's irritation at the question of his manhood, but it was really, really hard for her to keep a straight face as he rambled on. It didn't take Mulder long to catch on.

"What?"

"I'm sorry..." she told him, covering her smirk with the fingers of her right hand.

"You think it's funny?" Mulder asked, starting to smirk along with her.

"I just think you're blowing it out of proportion," she answered, not realizing what she had said until the grin spread across her partner's face.

"You want me to answer that or not?"

"I don't think so, no."

"You know, Manville also said he could recommend some 'techniques' for you to try..." he then told her with a suggestive wiggle of eyebrows.

"Mulder, stop," Scully stepped toward her partner and squatted down as the grin faded from his face. She took his hands into hers and looked up at him. "There's nothing wrong with your manhood," she reassured him. "But I do think there's some truth in what you just said, about feeling like you've regressed a decade.

"You're beginning to remind me of that impulsive, reckless, somewhat paranoid man I worked with back then. And it frightens me because I don't understand why you feel you need to resort to those tactics again. Skinner's worried about you, I'm worried about you. You're not alone in this Mulder, not anymore," she finished with a squeeze of his hand.

Mulder did know what was causing his rash behavior of late. An urgency he couldn't explain was growing within him, gnawing away at his sanity. It was more than a hunch; the incident on the plane, Todd Grossbeck's death, both brought back memories of something he'd seen before.

Was this the beginnings of a new threat or the end of something that had been playing out since then?

For now he'd keep it to himself.

"I'm okay, Scully," Mulder reassured her, pulling his hand from hers and gently reaching out to tuck her hair behind h