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"That you would fight the future."
He fell silent. On the other side of the backseat, Mulder sat stu
The Well-Manicured Man stared at his hands for a long time before replying. "For the sake of my own children. Nothing more, noth-ing less. Once they learn what I've told you, my life will be over."
He raised his head, and Mulder looked up to see the driver staring back at them from the rearview mirror. At their notice he quickly brought his attention back to the road, and Mulder asked, "What happened to Dr. Kurtzweil?"
"His knowledge became too great for his indiscretion. As your father knew, some things need to be sacrificed to the future."
Mulder stared at the other man's impassive face and suddenly realized the truth of it.
"You—you murdered him," Mulder said in shocked disbelief. When the Well-Manicured Man said nothing, Mulder grabbed his door handle. "Let me out. Stop the car."
The Well-Manicured Man gestured at the front seat. "Driver…"
Slowly the limo pulled to a stop. Outside the street was empty, lit only by a single yellow crime light.
There were no houses, no people, only an abandoned gas station flanked by sev-eral rusting Dumpsters.
Mulder jimmied the handle. It was locked. He whirled to challenge his captor, and found himself looking down at a handgun resting carefully, almost casually, on the other man's leg. Its barrel was aimed directly at Mulder's chest.
"The men I work with will stop at nothing to clear the way for what they believe is their stake in the inevitable future," the Well-Manicured Man said as Mulder recoiled. "I was ordered to kill Dr.
Kurtzweil."
Mulder backed against the door as in one fluid motion the other man lifted the gun. "—as I was ordered to kill you." But before Mulder could cry out, the Well-Manicured Man whirled and shot the driver in the head.
Blood spattered the front windshield and Agent Mulder's jacket. He gasped, still trying to comprehend what had just happened, and stared horrified at the man holding the gun beside him. "Trust no one, Mr. Mulder," said the Well-Manicured Man matter-of-factly. Mulder looked at him, expecting to be next. But the Well-Manicured Man only opened the door and stepped from the town car. He stood in the desolate street and held the door open for Mulder, who was still frozen in his seat.
"Get out of the car, Agent Mulder."
"Why? The upholstery is already ruined."
"Get out."
Taking a deep breath, Mulder joined him on the asphalt. He looked down at the felt envelope in his hand. The Well-Manicured Man stared at him with an intensely somber look, still grasping the handgun.
"You have precious little time, Agent Mulder. What I've given you—the alien colonists don't know it exists… yet. You have in your hand the power to end the Project. To take what is most valuable from them."
"I need to know how—" Mulder cried.
"The vaccine you hold is the only defense against the virus. Its introduction into the alien environment may have the power to destroy the delicate plans we've so assiduously protected for the last fifty years."
"May?" Mulder clutched the envelope and shook his head. "What do you mean may?"
"Find Agent Scully. Only then will you realize the scope and grandeur of the Project.
And why you must save her. Because only her science can save you."
Mulder stared at him, waiting for more. But the Well-Manicured Man only pointed down the street.
"Go."
Mulder started to protest, but the other man raised the gun and pointed it at him.
"Go now!"
Mulder did. Walking quickly away from the car, then hastening into a run, looking back over his shoulder as he fled. Behind him the Well-Manicured Man stood watching him for a moment; then turned and got back into the car. He shut the door, and Mulder had the faintest glimpse of movement behind the tinted glass. Seconds later, the car exploded.
Mulder's voice was drowned by the roar of flames shooting up from the vehicle. The impact wave knocked him to the ground. He lost his grip on the precious envelope and it briefly flew from his hand into the darkness. Gasping, he struggled to his feet, and reached out for the little dark-green rectangle, its con-tents spilling onto the street. The light from the blazing car touched what was there: a syringe; small glass ampule, miraculously undamaged; and a tiny piece of paper with numbers meticulously written on it.
BASE 1
south83°00Lat. east 63° 00 Long. 326 feet
Mulder picked up the envelope and its con-tents.
CHAPTER 13
POLE OF INACESSIBILI.TY
ANTARCTICA
48 HOURS LATER
The ice was so vast and colorless that it blended into the sky, so that there was only white: endless, eternal, terrible. White and devastating cold. Inside the cab of the snow tractor, Mulder's breath turned to vapor thick and white as smoke. Ice crystals formed where several days' worth of beard had sprung out upon his face, coating the edges of his mouth and eyes. Even with the heat blasting inside the cabin, he could barely feel his hands inside their heavy gloves, resting awkwardly on the wheel. He hunched over the controls, focusing all of his energy on what lay before him. The tractor crawled on across the harsh frozen land like an insect, leaving parallel lines behind it to mark its tortured journey across the edge of the Ross Ice Shelf.
Hours passed. In that land without night he lost all track of time, and with no land-marks—no buildings, no mountains, nothing but snow and ice—he grew fearful of losing his bearings as well. Finally he maneuvered the tractor to a stop, reached for the handheld Global Positioning Satellite monitor to check his position. He squinted as numbers scrolled across the GPS monitor's screen. They told him that he had reached his coordinates. Glancing at the dashboard, he saw that the gas gauge hovered just above
'E.' Looking out the front window, there was nothing but snow to see, nothing but white all the way to the hori-zon. He checked the GPS device one more time, then reached for the door latch and stepped outside.
Snow crunched underfoot, snow whirled around his head. In this forbidding environ-ment, even with the GPS device in his hand, he might as well be taking a space walk—without the security of a lifeline.
He trudged across the ice. The snow squall abated, and his footprints showed clearly behind him.
When he looked back at the snow tractor it looked very small and insubstantial against the endless vista of white ground and steely sky. He began a long, laboring ascent of a gentle grade, now and then sliding and catch-ing himself by digging hands or heels into the soft new snow. When he reached the top of the incline he dropped to his knees, instinctively ducking his head.
Below, spread out across the plain like some misplaced vision of a space colony, was an ice station surrounded by tractors and Sno-Cats and snowmobiles. Mulder pulled a pair of com-pact high-powered binoculars from his parka and sca
"Bingo," he whispered.
There, jolting over the ice fields, was another snow tractor. It crept across the barren landscape toward the ice station, coming to a halt beside one of the domed buildings. For several minutes the vehicle sat there, and then a door opened on the dome and a man emerged wearing a parka and fur hat.