ZENDA (3/?) by Maureen S. O'Brien Rating: Oh, c'mon. It's a Graustarkian swashbuckler. It can't be worse than PG-13, or it loses half the fun.... Disclaimer: Characters and situations from The X-Files belong to Chris Carter and Ten-Thirteen Productions. Ruritania and Queen Flavia belong to Anthony Hope and are based on his books THE PRISONER OF ZENDA and RUPERT OF HENTZAU. Clayton Webb infiltrated this story; he normally belongs to JAG over at CBS and Belisarius Productions. Other characters and situations -- so far -- belong to me, such as they are. ------------------------------------------------------------- Chapter 1: A little country with a little problem. RURITANIAN SUCCESSION WOES: Black Michael's Ghost Still Walks by M. Frohike (LGM) In the small kingdom of Ruritania, people speak in hushed tones as they ask about 'her health'. Everyone knows they refer to their beloved Queen Flavia. Everyone knows she is old and in frail health. And everyone knows that she has named no heir. A Lincoln Town Car with diplomatic plates pulled into a suburban street. It slowed to a crawl as it approached each mailbox in front of each cookie-cutter house, as if carefully noting the numbers. Ruritania, long divided by the Iron Curtain, was traditionally torn by feuds, succession wars, and tension between the people of the prosperous southern valley and the hardscrabble mountains. Valley people were ardent loyalists, while the mountaineers supported their dukes in frequent rebellions. The last, Duke Michael ("Black Michael"), used the playboy excesses of King Rudolf V as a rallying point for his forces, and almost won before Rudolf killed him in a duel. (If only all wars were settled by single combat between their instigators. JFB.) The Lincoln stopped in front of a house. A man dressed in an old-fashioned chauffeur's uniform stepped out, walked around the car, and opened the back door. As he did so, the swing of his jacket betrayed a shoulder holster under it. Flavia changed all that. After Rudolf V, her husband and cousin, was killed in turn by disappointed adherents of the childless Black Michael, she resisted all suggestions of revenge. Instead, she instituted an economic development plan for the mountains, as well as instituting public schools throughout her country. To the people in the mountains, she became known as "our good lady." A tall man stepped out. His white hair gleamed almost as brightly as the red rose medallion around his neck and the medals on his chest. He was followed by a short grey-haired man wearing a tailcoat suit and an orange sash and carrying a leather folder. Flavia kept Ruritania out of the tangle of alliances and imperialism that created WWI, remaining as neutral as Switzerland. She was not so fortunate in WWII. Hitler's armies occupied Ruritania and declared another Anschluss. Flavia fled to Black Michael's old fortress of Zenda, which she had secretly restored and refit with modern communications. Under her leadership, the Ruritanian resistance harassed the Nazis with great success. The two men proceeded up the driveway as the chauffeur waited by the car. They had come a long way for this, and their business was urgent. At the end of the war, the unsuspecting mountainfolk welcomed the Red Army as liberators. Fortunately, one of Patton's tank regiments somehow strayed into the valley, (Strayed? Sure, Patton. RL.) and also claimed Ruritania's liberation. Since the kingdom was overlooked at Yalta and the Soviets refused to leave, American negotiators pushed to divide the country along the shared occupation model used in Germany. The mountains became the People's Republic of Ruritania, and its people got the short end of the stick again. "Naval officer and son of another," said the first. "Heritage of service and duty. Good sign." The second one smiled wryly. "He's married and already has a son. In our situation, that's a better sign." The first man smiled briefly. Then he knocked on the door. Then the Soviet Union fell and the kingdom became one again. But Flavia, long the oldest monarch in the world, is childless. She never remarried and named no heir. Most observers believe that her heir will be a member of one of the royal houses once allied with Ruritania. However, Michael de Mauban, an illegitimate descendant of Black Michael, has begun to gather support from his fellow mountaineers. When Flavia dies, the resulting succession wars will likely last for years. Don't plan any Ruritanian vacations, kids. The door opened, and a red-haired man looked out at them. The sound of a baby's laughter and a woman's coos could be heard behind him. "Commander William R. Scully, Jr.?" the military man asked. The man stiffened and looked wary. "Yes. Can I help you?" The second man handed him the leather folder. Then, much to Bill's Scully's astonishment, both men knelt. "Flavia, by the grace of God Queen of Ruritania, hereby does name and acknowledge you, William Rudolf Scully, Junior, as heir to her Throne. Also she does summon you and your family to her palace in Strelsau with all speed, that she may greet her far kin before she leaves this world for the next. God save the Queen!" ----------------------------------------------------------------- Chapter 2: Red hair apparent. Bill Scully was a proud man -- some would say bullheaded. He was prone to believe that things should go his way or no way. He had been known to challenge his sister Dana on her own ground, ridiculing her senior physics thesis on time, her interpretation of genetics data, and the importance of her job as an FBI agent fighting a dark conspiracy that permeated American society. He had not hesitated to pick a fight with her partner in the middle of a busy hospital corridor. Even when he was dead wrong -- especially then -- he was never at a loss for something to say. Bill Scully stared at the men who knelt at his feet. All he could say was, "There must be some mistake." "No mistake, your highness. Your great-great-grandmother was the Princess Klara, the sister of King Friederich IV. She disappeared and it was given out that she died; but the queen's archivist found a letter in which she told the king that she had married an Irishman and gone to America, and that he could whistle for the rest." The short grey-haired man in the diplomat's finery smiled. "The Elphberg red hair and the Elphberg temper. "The letter itself had many wrinkles on it, as if it had been crushed in someone's hand, and there was a burnmark at the bottom. The Elphberg temper again, you see. And so the archivist went looking among the old old records of our intelligence service, and found reports by those who went to America to watch a certain red-haired, blue-eyed young woman and her husband, Connie -- Mr. and Mrs. Cornelius Scully." "Queen Flavia is dying, Your Highness," the tall old marshal cut in. "You must come quickly. Our people must see you, openly approved by the queen, or our land will be torn apart when she dies." A blond woman holding a baby walked up behind Bill. "What's going on, honey?" She took another look and hissed under her breath, "Why are those men praying on our doorstep? They're not Jehovah's Witnesses, are they?" Bill didn't answer her. He looked, as Cousin Harriet's boyfriend Bud would say, just plain croggled. "If you would permit us to rise, Highnesses?" The diplomat took Bill's absent nod as a yes and the two rose to their feet. "I am Count Peter von Tarlesheim, the Ruritanian ambassador to the United States. This is Marshal Friederich Sapt, who brought the queen's summons to me. He will be responsible for Your Highnesses' safety, both here and in Ruritania." Marshal Sapt clicked his heels together and bowed. "An honor to serve you and young Prince Matthew." "Madam, we have just informed your husband that he is a member of the House of Elphberg and heir to the Ruritanian throne," von Tarlesheim continued. "I believe that he is still in shock." They watched Princess Tara's jaw drop. "Are you serious?" "Quite serious, madam." She grinned for a moment, wide and delighted. She is a beauty after all, Sapt thought, astonished. Then a shadow passed across her face. She hugged Prince Matthew to her, and her eyes grew wary. "You understand that we'll have to verify your story." Von Tarlesheim bowed. "But of course. Your Departments of State and Defense. Take as long as you need, Highnesses. We will wait in the car." "His Highness' commanding officer has already been informed, and His Highness released on indefinite leave," Sapt added. "Pack lightly, madam. You'll need a new wardrobe made up, anyway." Princess Tara looked torn between pleasure and annoyance. "We'll tell you when we're done verifying your story. Sorry we can't invite you in till then." And she closed the door. Through it, they heard, "Earth to Bill Scully. Come in, Bill!" Sapt grinned. "The admiral said Mrs. Scully was domesticated. Nothing but sweet and not too smart." "Have you ever known a woman who was just that?" von Tarlesheim rejoindered. "What an admiral sees at a party and what a husband sees at home are two different matters." "That's why I'm not married." "That's why I am." Tara Scully opened the San Diego phone book to the government section. Under the US section she quickly found the number for State. She dialed it and put the phone in Bill's hand. "Ruritania," she repeated. "Don't forget." "I won't, I won't," Bill said ruefully. "Who are you calling?" "Your sister." "Dana? What on earth for? This doesn't have anything to do with little green men." "It's weird, isn't it? And if those men are up to no good, I think I want her to know about it. I mean, she's in the *FBI*." The three letters were pronounced with Tara's usual reverence for her sister-in- law's employer. Bill rolled his eyes. "You watched way too many Untouchables reruns when you were a kid." "Yes, I did. But that doesn't mean your sister isn't...Hello?" "X-Files Section: highest hospitalization and solve rate in the Bureau since 1992. Scully's not here. What can I do for you, Tara Scully?" "Oh," Tara said, a little shyly. "You might want to get ahold of her, Agent Mulder. We just had two men at the door telling Bill that he's the heir to the throne of Ruritania." Agent Mulder chuckled. "I'll leave Princess Scully a message to call you." "No! Um, Agent Mulder, I'm serious." Silence. "They brought a whole bunch of official-looking documents and he said he was the Ambassador and they told us to call up Defense and State and...." "Okay. Let me call Scully and warn her that something's up. Then I'll call you right back, okay? Keep this line open. And don't let those men in before I call back." "I won't." Her voice fell to a whisper. "I don't want anything happening to Bill or Matthew. Or Dana." "Good. Give me five minutes." The phone went dead. A continent away in Washington DC, Mulder hit the first button on his speed dial as soon as the dialtone came back. Come on, come on, dial...First ring. Pick up, Scully. Pick up the phone. Answer.... "Scully." "It's me. I know you're talking to Skinner, but your sister-in-law just called and there's something weird going on." "Something to do with Ruritania?" "Telepathy turns me on, Scully. But I assume this means it's on the level?" "State thinks so. I'd like to get your take on it." "Smells like smoke?" "A little. Oh, and my mother's here, so you don't need to call her." "I'll be right up." He raced toward the door, then remembered. Not looking happy, he flipped through Scully's Rolodex, called Tara back, and told her it looked legit but to be careful. Then he hit a different speed dial number. "Lone Gunmen." "It's Mulder. Stop the tape, Langly." "But of course, G-Man," Langly replied. Of course I won't.... "We've got a situation. Looks like Scully's third in line to the Ruritanian throne." Langly laughed. "Hey, that's a good one! Let me tell Frohike! Hey, Fro-" "No, really. We've got State up in Skinner's office, with Scully's mom in tow." "Whoa." "Yes." "The Ruritanian situation is extremely unstable," Frohike suddenly chimed in. "Even our beautiful and deadly doctor may be out of her depth. Under no circumstances should you let her go to Ruritania without you." "Perhaps this is why the Scully family has been a target of so much malice," Byers mused. "It's a pity that you are on such poor terms with Bill Scully. Ruritanian monarchs retain a great deal of political power, and there's much that could be done with an entire country's resources." "I dunno, guys. I don't think I was cut out to play Victor von Doom... though the cape would be cool. Gotta go. Scully's with Skinner, and I should be." Byers, Langly, and Frohike looked at each other. Byers shook his head. "And Agent Scully thinks our lives are improbable." --------------------------------------------------------------------- Chapter 3: Dark words and looks. When Margaret Scully was first married, her husband used to joke that if she stuck with him, she'd get to see the world. And she had. Italy, Japan, California...but when Bill Sr. retired, she'd been more than happy to stay put in their little house in Alexandria. He'd been dead for several years now, but it seemed that he was about to get them all transferred again. The plane to Ruritania was waiting, and her children and their children would be getting on it soon. "It wasn't even on the map, Dana," she said quietly. "'True places never are,'" Scully quoted, and took her mother's hand. "It's up in the mountains by Germany. Not very big, but very pretty. I've seen pictures." "I won't even be able to understand what they say, Dana. They speak German there." Even in her worry, she noticed Trent and Rob slip away from Charlie and his wife Sue while they were talking. She and Dana looked at each other, nodded, and pretended not to see the boys careening toward them. "Almost everybody learns English in school, though. Don't worry, Mom. Nobody can make you stick around. And if Bill doesn't like it, all he has to do is abdicate." Dana's hand shot out and caught her nephew. Margaret stepped into Rob's way and blocked his run. "Gotcha," she said quietly, and picked him up and tickled him while the child giggled, until Sue came to retrieve her erring boys. "Your brother has his faults," she sighed, "but quitting is not one of them." Skinner faded away from the Director, the OPR head, the Ruritanian diplomats, the guys from State, and that guy Webb who said he was State but smelled like Agency. Somebody should keep Scully and her mother company while their future was being decided for them. And what was keeping Mulder? "Are you sure you don't want to quit, Agent Scully? It would save the OPR a few ulcers...not that that's ever been a goal in your section." Scully straightened and looked Skinner in the eye. "Quite sure. As an agent, I'm doing important work. As a princess, I can't imagine that they'll have more for me to do than wave." She smiled artificially and demonstrated the cupped-hand parade-wave, then rolled her eyes. "I'm not cut out for that, sir." The door opened, and reflexively everyone looked toward it as a man entered. The Ruritanian diplomats gasped, and their head, Terezia Holf, turned white with anger. "What are you doing here, traitor?" she said with gritted teeth. "Shouldn't you be back in Zenda, plotting?" Scully stepped to his side, closely followed by Skinner. "Excuse me, Ms. Holf, but I think I misheard you." "He is a traitor, Highness." "He's my partner." "What!" "Now I've been called Spooky," the man mused, "a lunatic, a loose cannon, a loser, and even a sorry sonuvabitch." Bill Scully had the grace to look embarrassed. "But I don't think I've ever been called a traitor before, especially by a person to whom I have not been introduced. Special Agent Fox Mulder, FBI. And you are?" *Rude,* Scully answered silently. "I...I apologize. But truly, the resemblance...." Holf turned to her fellows. "Show them a picture." The youngest diplomat rummaged through her briefing folders, fished out a photo, and handed it to Holf, who held it up. It showed a tall lanky man with brown hair haranguing a crowd. He looked just like Mulder. "Michael de Mauban, descended from Black Michael's child by his Parisian lover, Antoinette de Mauban. Now that I look at you more closely, Agent Mulder, I do see a few differences in your face. But not many. You two could be twins." Skinner turned his head. Sure enough, that man Webb looked awfully happy. And so did one of the Ruritanian diplomats. "Whatever they ask you to do, Agent Mulder, don't say yes. It's bound to be illegal in both countries," Skinner opined. "Not to mention immoral and fattening," Mulder added unhappily. "People are supposed to want to use me for my brain, not my looks." Scully snorted. "If I can get used for my ancestry, G-Man, you can get used for your looks." "If you're going to be like that, Scully, I get to call you 'Princess'." "No. Absolutely not." "How about 'Kitten'?" The diplomats and spies were deep in discussion, and Mulder and Scully were speaking quietly. But it just so happened that a pause occurred in all the conversations simultaneously, just as Scully said, "Just remember who's bringing the scalpels." All the men cringed. Mulder, being Mulder, decided that he should take advantage of it. "If anyone happened to be planning some sort of substitution of me for Michael de Mauban," he said loudly, "I'm sure the Ruritanian news media would be interested in the remarkable likeness shared between her highness' ..." Scully glared. "... partner and the primary alternate claimant to the throne." "Oh, I'm sure they would be, Fox," Margaret chimed in. "It's such an ironic and fascinating coincidence. I know you have plenty of contacts in the media; perhaps someone could call in the story to...what is the capital called, Dana?" "Strelsau, Mom." "Strelsau, yes. Or at least set up an interview or two for you. I think you should, Fox. It would be fun." Webb frowned. "I thought FBI agents didn't usually do interviews." "On job-related matters," Skinner explained. "But this is more of a personal friendship angle. Wouldn't you agree, Director?" He did. So did the OPR head. But then, the FBI is traditionally not fond of the intelligence agencies. Mulder, Scully and Skinner were gracious enough to keep a straight face. Mrs. Scully wasn't; she shot Webb the Look. Webb didn't care. He just turned to his opposite number from the Ruritanian Embassy. "You'd better warn your security, Bauer. Agent Mulder may be able to keep us from using him against de Mauban; but who's keeping de Mauban from using Mulder against us?" "Security is duly warned," said Marshal Sapt, coming up just then. "But the problem is bigger than you think." He nodded with his chin, and Webb and Bauer followed his gaze. A large man wearing the uniform of a Marine general and the face and hair of Bill Scully had just entered. "General Joseph Albanese," Webb murmured to his colleague. "In charge of Quantico." He slapped backs with the prince, and soon everyone in the room was murmuring. Except for the Scullys. They seemed used to the strong resemblance. "The sister of our prince's father married a Marine," Sapt said. "The general is somewhat older than the prince, but comparisons of their ranks and Services are apparently a family joke." "The general's certainly outranked now," Webb noted. Bauer counted on his fingers. "So Albanese is seventh in line for the throne?" "Fifth," said Sapt, "unless the laws are changed to recognize Charles' wife's children as members of the line -- from a previous marriage, you see," he explained to Bauer. "The father died, she found out she was pregnant, Charles gave her his assistance, they fell in love and married just before the children were born...." Webb and Bauer just looked at him. Sapt drew upon his dignity. "A very romantic story, which the Princess Tara was kind enough to share with me. At any rate, the children would have to be formally adopted and a precedent set for adopted children in the succession. At present, they are out of the line, although I'm certain they will be given some sort of title." "But there's another security problem," Webb said quietly. "Like Albanese, she's staying in the US, but I thought you should know. And here she comes." A babyfaced young man in a naval uniform walked in, accompanied by a woman also wearing naval uniform. She wore Tara Scully's face, and made a beeline for the princess to hug her happily. "Ensign Harriet Beaumont-Sims Roberts," Webb announced. "Princess Tara's maiden name was Beaumont," said Sapt. "The Beaumonts also have a strong family type," Webb commented. "I met Tara at Harriet's wedding. They're extremely close -- call each other 'sister' or 'twin' instead of 'cousin'. But there were a whole crop of blondes there, all as alike as peas in a pod." He snorted. "And I thought my family was inbred." Sapt and Bauer looked at each other unhappily. Sapt sighed. "Maybe Mr. Mulder's interview was not such a bad idea after all." ---------------------------------------------------------------- Chapter 4: At the speed of flight. The world is smaller now, they say. Wires cross the world and carry a voice with them, or an encyclopedia. Airplanes arc above it, carrying wingless bipeds who always wanted to go farther up than the trees -- or not, in the case of HRH Dana Katherine. But even the Concorde followed by a direct flight to Ruritania was not quick enough for Marshal Friederich Sapt, for he knew that the queen he served could slip out of Ruritania and the world far faster than any plane could fly. All hope for peace in his country would follow her. Ambassador von Tarlesheim tapped him on the shoulder and gestured at the speed indicator ahead of them in the Concorde's narrow cabin. "No matter how hard your eyes push, it won't go any faster, Fritz. Relax." "I'm in charge of security. I'm not supposed to relax." "If you can't trust your people to guard Their Highnesses, you shouldn't be in charge of security. So. Sit back. Try to get some sleep. God knows we won't get much in the next few days, even if everything does go well." The Kingdom of Ruritania had been one of the United States' staunchest allies during the Cold War. Queen Flavia had been forced into partitioning her country, so she had been determined not to allow the Soviets to have the rest. Therefore, the US Air Force had been granted a small base at Strakencz and the US Army one at Lauengram to supplement Ruritania's small but well-trained military. But the American Navy planes in which they had flown back to Washington with their royal charges had been a new sight to the Marshal, as had been the navy whites the prince wore. That might come in handy, he thought. No old grudges to overcome. "Say that again." Prince William's voice was tense, concentrated. His sister said it again, a string of German syllables. Sapt looked fondly on his new prince. Once he had gotten over his shock, Prince William had done well, devouring the briefing material they had brought him. He had spent a great deal of time at the airport with his sister, trying hard to remember his German from high school so that he could speak to his 'new command'. The Russian he had taken at the US Naval Academy was far fresher in his mind. Unfortunately, Princess Tara had taken French and so had Prince Charles. Not that it mattered. American language instruction, except perhaps in the military, did not seem to aim at fitting the student for communication so much as for passing tests. Well, they would learn. He watched them all studying so earnestly, even Prince Charles with his dress sword propped against his knee for lack of space in the overhead compartment. All they needed -- all Ruritania needed -- was time. He was determined to give it to them. The princess got up and went back to her seat, letting Princess Tara and young Matthew return to their seat. Prince William smiled, turned to the child, and began repeating his phrases to his son. The child babbled back to him while Tara smiled at their silliness. Agent Mulder had not been bluffing. He had indeed called his contacts at the various Washington network news bureaus. They had been delighted to cover the story of an American family that suddenly found itself to be royalty, and they planned to cover every angle. "It's safer that way," Princess Dana had argued to her older brother. "Nobody can kill us and bury the truth, so it should discourage them from trying it." Prince William had eventually, reluctantly, agreed. Sapt hoped she was right. One stewardess came down the aisle with her little drinks cart. Following protocol, she approached the prince first. "What can I get for you, your highness?" "Just a Coke." She frowned and dug around under her cart. "I'm sorry. We have Pepsi, Diet Pepsi, Dr. Pepper...oh, and this." An Uzi, pointed straight at the prince, his wife and child. Sapt cursed, knowing his own sidearm would do no good. A glance showed him that the other stewardesses (one at the rear of the plane, another up by the cockpit) were similarly armed. They knew who his security men were, and were covering them. His people were powerless. There is still Charles Scully, the princess, and a few Scully cousins, he thought bleakly. Though what Charles will do with half his family dead.... Her Highness looked her captor in the eye. "What sort of demands are you making?" she asked matter-of-factly. "Pardon?" The woman looked startled. "You know. A helicopter, a trip to Maui, a million dollars in unmarked bills...that sort of thing." "We are soldiers of the Free Mountains, in a legitimate military operation. We are not thieves!" "I understand that," Her Highness answered. "But you must have some immediate military objective in taking over the plane, and I assumed you intended to make some sort of demand or announcement." She shrugged, the barrel of the Uzi unwavering. "The Countess will do that." "The Countess?" "Countess Maria von Stadlitz," said another stewardess, coming down the aisle. She was tall and dark, held an Uzi, and had that damned trademark sword of hers on her belt. Sapt groaned inwardly. The only question left was whether she'd bribed the security sweepers or threatened their families. "I do not use the title as a rule, but for this occasion I thought I might make an exception." She stopped in front of the seat. "You two -- three -- will come forward with me, while my colleagues will keep an eye on the rest of you." The 'stewardesses' at the front and back of the cabin showed their presence and their Uzis. "If nobody resists, nobody gets hurt. Come." Maria von Stadlitz did not use her title, but all of her people did. She was an extremely dangerous woman with charisma to match the queen herself, and her followers did everything but worship her. If she had stopped fighting Michael de Mauban's faction and thrown her support to him, the situation was worse than he'd feared. The stewardesses watched the passengers. The Countess dropped back a little to let Bill, Tara and Matthew get out of the way, and the first 'stewardess' moved herself and the drinks cart further back still. And so it happened that for a moment there was a drinks cart between that 'stewardess' and the Countess. Mulder almost lunged for the opening, but Charles Scully acted first. His dress sword slipped from its scabbard with the speed of a striking snake and rested its edge against the Countess' throat. She stopped in her tracks. "Drop your weapon, Countess," said Charles. "Tell your people to do the same." "If I die, the cause goes on," she said flatly. But Sapt noticed that the other stewardesses did not share this opinion. "Mexican standoff," said Prince Charles. "If your people open fire, there'll be unnecessary bloodshed. Not to mention the chance of the cabin getting depressurized by a stray bullet." "Which would put us all in danger," the Countess agreed. "Clearly, something must be done. But if I let you all go without a fight, I lose face and my people lose credibility. Something must be done to save our honor. I have heard of you. Don't you fight saber?" Prince Charles blinked at the apparent non sequitur. "Yes." "Did you bring one with you? A real one, not one of those blunted things?" "As it happens, yes." "Then I propose a duel. No outside interference, no firearms. Just you and me. No matter the outcome, my people leave the airplane alive and so do yours." "We'll have to clear out the cabin," Charles pointed out. "Your people go in the back, all of ours stand up front." "If Sapt will swear to the terms on his honor." The Countess smiled. "I know Sapt's reputation." Sapt felt like a great big idiot at the moment, and the only greater one was that chivalrous fool, Prince Charles. But Prince William was nodding at him, and it was the best chance they all had to get out alive. The safety of the royal family was far more important than letting a few terrorists go, and if one prince was determined to risk his life, he could hardly stop the man. "Fine. You have my word if I have yours. I know your reputation as well." Meaning that she was a chivalrous young fool. Ruritanians had a strong sense of honor, and the Countess prided herself on hers as much as any other Ruritanian would. "You have my word," said the Countess, pointing the muzzle of her Uzi down at the floor. "Let us duel." ------------------------------------------------------------- Chapter 5 -- Flashing Steel A few minutes later, Sapt stood by Prince William's side, watching Prince Charles hand his uniform coat to his wife while the Countess practiced her footwork and bladehandling in the cramped aisle. "Why are none of you protesting this?" Sapt asked Prince William. "What does he think he is doing?" "Charlie was on the Academy fencing team for four years. He was almost picked for the Olympics." "Maria von Stadlitz was in the Olympics before she went up in the hills." "In foil, Charlie said." He shrugged. "No offense, but Ruritania's a lot smaller pool to draw from. Charlie's got the reach on her, and he's stronger." "That may not help much in here. Foil would be better." "You know about fencing?" "Most Ruritanians do. It's a very popular sport, and competition is very fierce." "Oh." Silence. "I'm sure Charlie knows about that. Anyway, women just started fighting saber a few years back." "Competitively. Maria's father taught saber at our officer academy for many years. He taught her, too." "Oh." Silence. "Charlie knows that, though. He always knows that stuff." Charles Scully did know those things. He had left the competition world behind a long time ago, but he was the sort of person that people liked to talk to. He knew all the gossip. He knew how Maria von Stadlitz had been one of the prime movers behind women's saber becoming an official competition in the fencing world and soon, an Olympic demonstration sport. Just before the hour of her triumph, she had retired to pursue other interests...in this case, a bit of revolution. He could remember things he'd heard about her style: the way she was prone to lose her temper on occasion, but other times, laughed her way through matches. Strong for a woman, very quick, plenty of finesse. A difficult opponent, but probably not given enough opportunity to practice her art. She wore an antique cavalry saber by her side, and she knew how to use it. He knew about himself, too. He was skinnier than his brother, but had put on a little weight the last few years. He knew he was in practice for a hobbyist but not nearly ready for this level of competition. Still, his body would do what he told it to do. The most important thing was his strategy. He did not know if he could outthink Maria von Stadlitz, but he had to. He had to. Von Stadlitz had put his wife and children in danger, and that was not to be tolerated. Sue understood. She didn't like it, but she knew he didn't have a lot of choice. He had put away his dress sword and dug out not the saber he used for practice, but the one his father had given him. He drew it, tested its feel in his hand. It felt right, as it always had. It was an antique cutlass, issued to some Navy man back in the days of the Barbary pirates. It was made for business, for cutting and slashing the enemy, not leaving fashionable scars in gentlemen's duels. It was made to stand "between our loved homes and the war's desolation". He looked at von Stadlitz. She was smiling happily. He was not. He loved the feel of a blade in his hand as much as anyone, but he did not love fighting per se. Which was why he intended to defeat this enemy, no matter what it took. She came forward. "Are you ready?" "Yes. What are the rules?" "No rules." She shrugged. "What good are rules of right-of-way when we are fighting with sharp edges? We are not here to impress the judges." "To first blood?" "Of course not," she said impatiently. "To the death...or surrender, I suppose. Or unconsciousness. I could not kill an unconscious man." "There's a comment I could make." Her lips twitched. "This should be fun." They raised their swords, saluted each other, and began. A saber is not a foil, and a fight between sabreurs possesses a certain reality that some fencing lacks. There is no prohibition against cutting at the head, for example. But neither Charles nor Maria had ever fought in an airplane aisle, so they began cautiously. Neither of them had any intention of blunting their blades on an overhead compartment, or slashing a seat cover instead of their opponent. They were both fast learners and soon had accustomed themselves to this bizarre new arena. But neither of them had fought seriously with an edged weapon before, either, and their inexperience told. First blood went to Maria, when Charles failed to guard his line quickly enough when she feinted for his head and slashed at his flank instead. It barely hurt at first, but when she danced back, it began to hurt like fire. But she had assumed he would stop to deal with the pain and blood. Instead, the pain made him angry. His arm flashed out, his wrist turned the blade to cut, and suddenly she had a cut on her cheek. Her free hand floated up to that cheek while her other hand continued mechanically to thrust and parry. Her face was blank. Charles tried harder to push through her defense, but got nowhere. Her hand dropped back to her side, her eyes came back to reality, and Charles found himself in deep trouble. He had expected the speed and the skill, but not the sheer mechanical relentlessness with which she now began to battle him. She was always ahead of him, testing his guard, forcing him to react instead of acting. It was wearing him down and making him keep retreating down the carpet. He had to break free of her pattern of attacks and make her react to his. Riposte. Counter-riposte. A feint, a slash, a parry. Damn it. He hated to open his guard on purpose. It was his least favorite tactic, but he was going to have to do it. Carefully, he began to slow his response to her attacks. It looked realistic, he decided. It felt too darned close to reality for his tastes, that was for sure. She made a careful probe. He parried laboriously, leaving an opening by his imperfect technique. She tested him again, and he let her push him even further out of line. Her blade flashed toward the opening she had made...and his blade parried hers, slipped past, and slashed her arm before she could step back. Now he could feel her tiring as well, but still she fought on. Back and forth, lunge and step and balestra jump, always seeking for the weakness and never betraying her own. Charles acquired a few more slashes, one over his eye. He wiped the blood out of his vision and went on. Again she was testing him. She was building toward something, and suddenly he recognized what it was. He answered her spiraling movement by slipping inside it, and took her blade from her grasp though she'd planned to take his. He snatched it up in one hand and used the other to put a blade to her throat for the second time that day. "Do you yield?" She shrugged. "I yield. I trust you will hold by the terms of our agreement?" "Of course." "Of course." She looked at him speculatively. "You were never that good in competition. People said you didn't have the smarts to be a technician or the fierceness to be a true warrior. Today you were different." "Today you gave me a reason." She nodded, then gave him an unexpectedly joyous smile. "Thank you. We must do this again sometime." "We'll leave first," Sapt told the Countess. "As far as we're concerned, you and yours are real stewardesses and can leave that way." "Thank you." "We'll keep the Uzis, though, if you don't mind." "Fine." She shrugged. "We have others." "I'm sure you do." His tone was grim. "If I hadn't given my word...." "But you did." She smiled. "And really, isn't a duel much more entertaining for both of us than a car bomb or a hijacking?" "Entertaining? No. Easier on innocent bystanders? Yes." "Then we are of one mind. May I have my sword back?" "That is for the prince to decide. He won it fairly." "Very well." She turned to Prince Charles. "My blade, Highness?" He picked it up and pondered it as he sat in his airplane seat. "Nineteenth century cavalry saber." "Yes. My greatgrandfather carried it." "For Ruritania?" "Of course for Ruritania." "But not for her royal family?" Her eyes fell. "If you are." "You called me Highness yourself." "Royalty is outmoded. We should be a democracy, with all people equal. You know I don't use my title." "Everyone else does," he pointed out. "If you really want pure democracy, why aren't you running for parliament instead of running around with a rifle?" She was silent. He pondered the blade again. "Look, Countess. I didn't ask to be any kind of prince, but now I am one. The way I see it, I'm responsible for the safety of Ruritania now. The only way a prince ought to be giving somebody a blade is if he's sure the person he gives it to won't be sticking it in his country's back." "I would never stab someone in the back, literally or figuratively!" "As a private person, I believe you. But this is a matter of public duty." "What do you want, then?" He shrugged. "Swearing fealty to the throne of Ruritania would do nicely." "You know I can't do that." "Then I can't give you the saber. Sorry." She turned and started to walk back to her people. Then she stopped and turned back around. "Very well. I will give you a chance if you give me a chance." "What do you mean?" "If your family manages to stay on the throne for...oh, say a month, and if you can beat me in another duel, then I'll swear fealty and take the saber from your hands as a sign. Otherwise...." "Otherwise, you figure you'll get it back the other way?" Charles smiled slightly. "It's a deal." ------------------------------------------------------------------ Chapter 6 -- Welcome to Strelsau They had flown into Ruritania just as the sun was rising, and landed at Strelsau International Airport shortly thereafter. Noone had gotten much rest, and Charles' wounds pained him despite his sister's careful tending and some Tylenol. Bill Scully had decided that he'd been a fool to say yes to this and was looking for a way to throw in the towel, while Mulder and Scully were both sure it was somehow the doing of the Consortium and therefore their fault. Tara Scully was scared stiff for her husband and her son, while Margaret and Susan Scully were both having sharp words with God and the Virgin Mother. Sapt was afraid of what Queen Flavia would say. Von Tarlesheim was afraid that the old Queen would be beyond saying anything. Poor Bauer was desperately trying to remember court protocol, since he had never expected to step this far out of the shadows, while the pilot and copilot prayed nothing else would happen to disrupt the journey. Meanwhile, Trent and Robert Scully were having a great time, and had become convinced that their dad was the coolest dad in the history of the world. He kicked butt! Maria von Stadlitz offered to open the hatch as part of her stewardess duties. Sapt politely turned her down and had one of the bodyguards open the door and test the sturdiness of the stairs. Once he was down and gave the signal, Prince William, Princess Tara and Prince Matthew descended the stairs to the tune of the Ruritanian national anthem, as played by a Ruritanian army band. Von Tarlesheim breathed a sigh of relief. Another tune was played to welcome the monarch. The Queen still lived. The band played on solemnly as one by one the Scullys left the plane. For the most part they ignored the television cameras trained on them; whether the cause was natural dignity or exhaustion, von Tarlesheim could not tell. Trent and Rob were the only ones who waved at the crowd. Then the music stopped, and there was silence. Von Tarlesheim sighed. He had hoped for applause. He turned to Prince William. "Your highness, it would be appropriate for you to say something at this time." "Like what?" "Something nice. And short," he added. "We present a good target." "You guys really know how to inspire a speaker," he heard Mulder murmur. "And I thought I was the expert on paranoia." Prince William's lips twitched, and he walked toward the microphone. "Guten morgen," he said with a fairly decent accent. "Thank you for coming here to welcome us. I know we come at a sad time. I know we are strangers. But this is strange to us, too. We did not even know we were Ruritanian. "We are not Americans now," he said, and his voice trembled a little. "I am Ruritanian. My wife is Ruritanian. Our son is Ruritanian. We will learn what that means from you. "Danke schoen," he added, and stepped back from the microphone. Von Tarlesheim waited. And then, someone in the crowd began to clap. Someone else joined in. Before long they were all clapping in unison, with a sound like marching feet. Prince William looked uncertainly at von Tarlesheim. "Is that the way it's supposed to sound?" "Yes, Your Highness," he said proudly. "Oh, yes indeed." Limousines took them into Strelsau. They swept down the highway, along the broad boulevards of the new city, and into the crooked lanes of the old. Everyone else took the time to ooh and ah at the sights. Dana Scully got to listen to her partner continuing his romance with the telephone. A speakerphone in the limousine? Oh frabjous day! She rolled her eyes. "Frohike, turn off the tape!" "Mulder? Where are you calling from, the bottom of a well?" "The back of a car in Strelsau. Listen, Frohike, I've got two words for you. Morganatic marriage." "What?" "Michael de Mauban. His ancestry wasn't illegitimate, Frohike. Morganatic marriage." "Ooops. How'd you find out?" "Well, luckily it wasn't by letting Michael de Mauban know I thought he was descended from a bastard. I don't know where you got your info, but the books von Tarlesheim gave us to study said different." Langly cut in. "Believing everything you read on the Internet again?" "We'll be sure to print a retraction," Byers assured him. "How was your flight?" "Oh, my little brother got to duel with a terrorist," Scully announced. "What?" "We need a background check on her: Maria von Stadlitz. She's a Ruritanian countess, revolutionary and ex-Olympic fencer. I have a feeling we'll be running into her again." "Will do, o redheaded semi-sovereign." Frohike, of course. "Speaking of reunions," Langly declared, "guess which ex-FBI agent recently had his credit cards traced to Ruritania?" "That rat bastard," Mulder groaned. "I should have known he'd be around here somewhere." "I'm surprised, myself," Byers said. "After all, he's much more likely to run into his former Russian colleagues that close to their sphere. They want him worse than we do." "I'll keep that in mind in case we need help with the pest control. Anything else?" "Nope. And try to get a landline next time. Carphones aren't exactly secure," Frohike lectured. They hung up. Scully shook her head. "See? They know better than to call me 'Princess'." "How about 'Your Worshipfulness'?" "Well, it worked for Han Solo."