Title: Moa a Moana
Author: Martin Ross
Type: Casefile
Rating: R for adult language and innuendo
Synopsis: When a genetically engineered 
"supertuna" may be on a killing spree in 
paradise, Mulder and Scully must net a cold-
blooded killer, human or finned
Spoilers: Host, El Mundo Giro; The Practice -- 
Season Seven 
Disclaimer: The X-Files is the property of 10-13 
Productions, Chris Carter, and Fox. Rebecca 
Washington is the legal creation of David E. 
Kelley


Lahaina, Maui
11:08 p.m.

	Heart no longer racing, breath slowing to a 
normal rhythm, Peter Crowther stared out over 
the darkness of the Pacific, broken only by the 
white froth of the breakers. Under a starless, 
moonless sky like tonight's, water and air 
merged into a uniform black void that stretched 
to the horizon. It was a source of calm for 
Crowther.

	In his years with The Company, it had been 
Peter Crowther's job to penetrate the darkness, 
the veil of secrecy others had built around him, 
and to create a new darkness -- an impenetrable 
veil to hide what the world, including his 
fellow Americans, could not be permitted to see.

	Within that cloak of darkness dwelt 
monsters, Crowther included. The destruction of 
governments and economies, the deaths of men 
evil and noble alike, had been sanctioned and 
executed under cover of that veil. Crowther had 
trafficked with the darkest abominations the 
species had produced, from diplomats with 
unspeakable appetites and urges and assassins 
with dead souls and depthless eyes to that 
smarmy, chain-smoking horror to whom Crowther 
had briefly answered, the one who hinted at some 
role in the events in Dallas back in '63, in 
Memphis in '68.

	That was in the past now, thanks to a new 
veil Crowther had woven of secrets and threats. 
They would leave him alone here in Paradise: He 
was viewed as a burnout case, an old, apathetic 
man with too many secrets to risk erasing. 
Crowther would live out his last two or three 
decades on Maui, unmolested, just him and his 
demons.

	Those demons -- who arrived in the night 
with heart palpitations and distorted half-
memories -- had spurred him to his newest, 
potentially most significant "mission." The one 
that might bring him a measure of absolution, or 
at least solace. Certainly, he could never leave 
the world better off than it had been before he 
and his colleagues had tinkered and meddled with 
it. But he could mitigate some of the damage 
others had done, if he could deal with this new 
crew of undisciplined, emotional "civilians." 
Crowther continued to fume over his encounter 
with the bush leaguer who'd left minutes 
earlier.

	Crowther stared again into the darkness -- 
a darkness with secrets no man could ever 
inveigle or obfuscate. He sighed and pulled off 
his robe.

	The water was cool, bracing but not 
forbidding. Crowther liked to think his 
ritualistic nightly swim was a sort of 
incremental baptism of sorts, gradually washing 
away the film of sin and degradation that had 
clogged his life. He'd even thought of joining a 
church here, but decided ultimately that that 
would be reformatory overkill.

      Even strokes, rhythmic kicks -- Crowther's 
regimental discipline kicked in even in such 
recreational pursuits. Then, something brushed 
his leg. He paused, but did not panic: The 
storms had come only a few days earlier, and 
debris both natural and manmade continued to 
float between the islands and out to sea.
      
      The object collided again with his 
muscular thigh, and he pushed away. The 
mainlanders' superstitions and prejudices aside, 
shark attacks were an infrequent occurrence here 
on Maui, especially this close into shore. 
Probably a large fish, maybe a sea turtle.
      
      Crowther's speculation was interrupted by 
a nearby thrashing and the sensation of knives 
rending the flesh of his calf. He'd been shot 
twice, stabbed once, while with The Company, and 
this wasn't like that. This was like...
      
      The bastards, he thought, as teeth tore 
into his abdomen.  	
      
      
      
J. Edgar Hoover Building
Washington, D.C.
8:32 a.m.

	Dana Scully stared into the flat, 
emotionless eye of the big fish.

	"Thunnus albacares," Mulder explained, 
caressing the remote for his beloved, if 
antiquarian, slide projector. "AKA, the 
Yellowfin Tuna. AKA, El Pollo de la Mar. The 
legendary chicken of the sea, known associates 
mayonnaise, a dash of dill, and a couple slices 
white or rye."

	Mulder pulled the trigger, and a second 
yellowfin gaped out at Special Agent Scully. 
"Dolly the cloned yellowfin," he identified.

	Scully, who had been forced by Mulder's 
lackadaisical bathroom regimen to skip her 
morning half-caff Grande, turned with an 
unspoken sigh.

	"OK, just kidding," Mulder confessed. "But 
not exactly. This is Event T-12, one of seven 
genetically engineered yellowfin tuna being 
studied at Pescorp's Maui R&D facilities. As I'm 
sure you must know," -- Scully crossed her arms 
at Mulder's genial sarcasm -- "animal biotech 
research follows strict USDA, EPA, and FDA 
regulations. Well, we have reason to believe one 
of our T-12s is missing, and our finned friend's 
suspected disappearance has spurred concerns 
about a potential environmental release."

	"Suspected disappearance?" The brow arched 
as Scully rallied.

	"Six nights ago, one of Pescorp's security 
guards called in a break-in at the research 
facility. The Maui County Police Department 
investigated and found one of the perimeter 
surveillance cameras had been expertly disabled 
and the key card scanner at the yellowfin lab 
tampered with. Then Pescorp quickly got the 
investigation shut down, reporting nothing had 
been stolen -- no harm, no fish nor fowl. MCPD 
checked all the T-12 tanks before the company 
execs slammed the door on them, and all tuna 
were accounted for."

	"Animal rightists or industrial espionage?" 
Scully demanded with decaffeinated directness.

	"It looks like the former, given the 
physical evidence left at the scene," Mulder 
offered. "Aquacultural biotechnology has been a 
sore spot for several environmental and consumer 
groups, and the controversy's been exacerbated 
by initial research focusing on salmon species 
that spawn in the Pacific Northwest, in the 
heart of Greenpeace Acres. If you could see this 
photo in full context, and you knew how big a 
yellowfin tuna grows, you'd see that T-12 -- The 
Tunanator (Scully pointedly ignored the 
Schwarzennegarian pun) -- is roughly half the 
size of his conventionally produced counterpart. 
Pescorp hopes this new biotech fish will help 
meet America's growing demand for sushi and hip-
and-happening Asian-fusion entrees."

	"So the green guys were thwarted and the 
U.S. made safe for jumbo tuna," Scully murmured. 
"Where's the X-File? Hell, where's the case?"

	"Ah ha," Mulder proclaimed, clicking up a 
new slide. A palm-lined streambank was littered 
with bloody fish corpses. The agent clicked 
again, and Scully witnessed a similar scene in  
what appeared to be a rocky marine cove. "Two 
fishkills, reported by the U.S. Fish and 
Wildlife Services four and three days ago, 
respectively."

	Scully looked skeptically at her partner. 
"Are you suggesting a yellowfin tuna did this? 
That this biotech fish was released into the 
wild, and this was the result? First of all, 
Mulder, that first slide would appear to be a 
freshwater stream, and a marine species like the 
yellowfin wouldn't survive for an hour in that 
environment."

	"Unless," Mulder suggested in a Holmesian 
tone that never failed to annoy Scully, "Pescorp 
intentionally or accidentally incorporated 
genetic material that would allow this animal to 
live in either environment. Imagine the 
commercial advantages of being able to raise a 
commercial marine species in a freshwater pond 
or tank. It would cut production costs 
significantly."

	"It doesn't work that way, Mulder," she 
protested. "And even if it did, we'd be looking 
at a novel genetic trait neither EPA nor FDA 
would ever approve. And with the public outcry 
over cloning and genetic engineering in animal 
species, I'm not sure you'd get consumers to by 
such a 'new' tuna. From a biological standpoint, 
although I'm no ichthyologist, I don't remember 
the yellowfin being an aggressive predator 
species."

	"Perhaps in tampering with yellowfin growth 
factors, they somehow triggered some new level 
of fish 'testerone' release. We can speculate 
all day, Scully, but the investigating wildlife 
biologist at the scene swears the dental marks 
found on the mutilated fish are clearly 
identifiable as a yellowfin's. The regulatory 
guys suspect Pescorp may be covering up an 
actual T-12 theft, and just wants to avoid the 
publicity. The company's erected a solid wall of 
lawyer pinstripe, and the agencies have had to 
go to court to get a warrant to get into the 
labs."	

	"So where do we come in?" she asked, tired 
of sparring. "Missing Perches?"

	Mulder grinned. "See? The fun's contagious. 
No, the FBI was called in two nights ago." He 
clicked the remote, and the modified yellowfin 
was replaced by a man, bloodied and mauled but 
clearly older, tanned, and tall. "Meet Peter 
Crowthers, Maui. A retiree who moved from the 
mainland five years ago. A beachcomber, wino, 
whatever, found him in the surf behind his 
beachfront condo 20 miles north of Lahaina. His 
jugular and femoral arteries were punctured, and 
again, the local pathologist ID'ed the dental 
marks as being consistent with those made by a 
yellowfin."

	"This is like a bad '50s horror film," 
Scully complained. "So we're supposed to 
investigate a serial fish killing and a man who 
very likely was mauled by a shark or other 
predatory species brought into the wrong cove by 
some oceanic storm."

	Mulder turned the projector off and brought 
up the office lights. "There's one other thing 
the director didn't bother to tell Skinner or 
us. I thought Crowther's name was familiar, and 
I asked Frohike to run it through his shadow 
files. Peter Crowther's gold watch has 'CIA' 
etched on the back of it."

	Scully was silent for a moment. 
"Coincidence."

	"Even so," Mulder began, slyly, "the 
powers-that-be seem to feel our country needs 
us. In Maui. Land of white beaches, potent tiki 
drinks, and erotic sunsets. I don't know about 
you, but if Uncle Sam demands I leave my cozy 
Washington home in the midst of the iciest 
February on record to investigate a threat to 
domestic security in a Hawaiian paradise, well, 
I suck it up and do my duty."

	Scully's frown relaxed, and her eyes began 
to glaze. She shrugged with a suddenly sunny 
smile. "I suppose you may be right, Mulder. The 
bastards."



Kahalui Airport
Kahalui, Maui
11:28 p.m.

	"Agents Mulder and Scully? Aloha, and 
welcome to the island."

	Scully looked up blearily as she wrestled 
her carry-on into the gate area. The shoulder 
strap had snapped when some overweight 
Midwesterner had jerked his tote bag from the 
overhead on the bumpy Washington-to-L.A. leg. A 
liberated Mulder had not offered to assist her, 
and the walk to the LAX terminal had been a 
death march which had ended in a two-hour flight 
delay.

	"Aloha," Mulder greeted, refreshed by the 
near-coma into which he had fallen during his 
trans-Pacific flight.

	The man before them was probably 50, stocky 
with thick gray hair and genial wrinkles framing 
his rich brown Hawaiian eyes. "Jim Kamehana, Lt. 
Jim Kamehana, Maui County CID. You folks are a 
little late -- hope the flight wasn't too much 
of an ordeal."

	"Milk run," Mulder assured him. Kamehana 
gently appropriated Scully's carry-on. 
"Baggage's this way. I appreciate you two coming 
out. I can use a little help on this one."

	"That's a refreshing attitude," Scully 
said. "Sometimes, local law enforcement's not to 
thrilled when the Bureau's called in."

	"Ah," Kamehana shrugged. "I think you'll 
find the department pretty cooperative. It's 
that way on the island -- when you're fortunate 
enough to live 2,000-some miles away from the 
rat race, in the cradle of paradise, all that 
competitive mainland crap seems kinda 
ridiculous. Domestic disturbances, DUIs, and 
cocky teenagers aside, I figure I'm already 
living the dream, you know? E komo mai -- c'mon, 
let's get your bags."

	"Any leads on the Crowther case?" Mulder 
inquired.

	"Not sure yet there is a case -- not for 
homicide, anyway," Kamehana reported. "Though it 
don't make much sense, M.E.'s pretty sure it was 
a yellowfin got Pete. Be pretty hard to fake 
those kinda wounds."

	"Pete?" Scully asked, working her ravaged 
right shoulder. "Did you know the victim?"

	"Sure, we all knew Pete. He used to be some 
kinda federal cop, though he always played that 
one pretty close to the vest. I figured CIA or 
NSA, either that or he just talked a good game. 
See him at the local watering holes, he always 
wanted to talk shop with the guys. Also had to 
bust him a few times. Pete was a born-again 
'green.' One of those haoles -- foreigners, no 
offense -- who come to the island and start 
thinking they were born here, that they're gonna 
save their island Eden singlehandedly. I don't 
mind 'em particularly, and I agree with a lot of 
what the enviros say, but when they start 
callin' us storm-troopers and Nazis, they start 
wearing out their welcome. At least Pete didn't 
preach -- he'd show up at the protests, but when 
the party was over, he'd put on the cuffs 
peacefully and ask if we wanted to go for beers 
later on."

	"Kind of a coincidence, an environmental 
activist allegedly being attacked by a 
genetically engineered fish," Mulder said. 
"How'd Crowther feel about Pescorp's biotech 
research?"

	"Mostly, he was upset about the development 
on the west side of the island, on the hillsides 
where the sugar cane fields used to be, and 
about the 'biodiversity' of the island. But you 
get a few beers in him, he'd rant about 
'corporate engineering,' us screwin' with Mother 
Nature, that sort of thing."

	"How do you feel about what Pescorp's 
doing?"

	The lieutenant waggled his fist, pinky and 
thumb extended, in a surfer's gesture signaling 
laid-back indifference, and steered his charges 
toward the baggage carousels. "Hard times tend 
to catch up to us a little slower out here, but 
unemployment's starting to creep up, and even 
though the tourist trade's important, the 
average kama aina -- local -- doesn't always 
understand why he has to pay $6 for a cup of 
Kona or a gallon of milk in town just cause to 
soak some rich orthodontist from Ohio. I got a 
kid at the U of H, biology major, and I don't 
buy into all this mad scientist stuff about 
biotechnology. If Pescorp says it can make a few 
more jobs on the island without belching black 
smoke or pouring poison into the water, then far 
as I'm concerned, they can grow all the three-
eyed Simpsons fish they want."

	"Did you investigate the break-in at the 
Pescorp lab?" Scully asked, hobbling along on 
her sensible but escalator-damaged pump.

	"The big fish -- pardon the pun -- took the 
case directly from the responding patrol team, 
before the kahuna at Pescorp shut us down. What 
I understand, though, smells a little like week-
old ahi -- yellowfin. Kenny -- the first uniform 
at the scene -- said the surveillance equipment 
at the company had been acting up. Chuck -- 
Chuck Kinau, the guard on duty that night -- 
told him it was like some kind of TV 
interference, like the signal was being jammed. 
Wanted to check the lab tapes, but Pescorp 
turned us down. Lucky thing Chuck didn't get 
canned -- he's got a big family and his folks to 
look after."

	"You think the company's covering 
something?"

	"We saw the fish -- all seven of them, fat 
and hau'oli, fat and happy. Ah here we are, 
Hawaii Airlines." The carousel already was laden 
with suitcases, golf bags, and totes. Scully 
began to reach for her garment bag, and Lt. 
Kamehana reached in and swung it over a thick 
shoulder.

	"Thanks," she said, nursing her shoulder.

	"A'ole pilikia," the cop responded, then 
shook his head. "Sorry, I meant no problem. My 
youngest's in one of those Hawaiian immersion 
classes, and I just can't help myself."



Peter Crowther residence
Lahaina, Maui
12:46 a.m.

	"This couldn't have waited 'til morning, 
Mulder?" Scully groaned, kicking sand from her 
good pump.

	Mulder eyed the floodlit underbrush 
surrounding the beach behind Crowther's large 
but aged cottage. When Kamehana had offered to 
transport them directly to their beachfront 
lodgings, Scully had been wearily grateful, but 
Mulder was restless and wired. "C'mon, you've 
said it before -- the fresher the scene, the 
closer the solution."

	"Mulder, there is no scene. The evidence -- 
at least, any evidence pertaining directly to 
Crowther's death -- is all out there now," she 
waved into the inky waves of the Pacific. "What 
do you hope to find?"

	"Whatever I find."

	"Great. Lieutenant, you say there was a 
witness?"

	"Not an eyewitness, exactly," Kamehana 
amended, leaning on a nearby coconut palm. 
"Name's Bobby Jameson, old salt been here since 
after the Big War. Lost his wife, then his house 
to the booze, and these days, he sleeps his way 
from park to golf course. Week or so ago, the 
chamber started kickin' about the homeless 
scaring the tourists, and we had to roust Bobby 
out. He probably started sacking out around the 
private beaches. The locals, like Pete, knew he 
was harmless.

	"Anyway, we found Bobby, white as a sheet, 
about a quarter-mile down the beach, oh, about 
11:30 or so. He'd called in about the body 
anonymously, from the Shell station up on 30, 
but we recognized his voice, plus he tends to 
use a lot of colorful adjectives in his speech, 
you know what I mean. He thinks he may have 
heard Crowther arguing with somebody, then 
thrashing around out in the surf. When he came 
out of the thicket over there, he saw the body 
at water's edge."

	"Patio's pretty clean, Lieutenant," Mulder 
observed, peering inside Crowther's house. 
"Almost too clean. From the looks of the tile 
inside, Crowther wasn't the greatest housekeeper 
in the world. Sand all over the place."

	"'Ae, we spotted that," Kamehana nodded. 
"That's what made us a little suspicious about 
the death in the first place. Maybe Pete had a 
visitor the night he died? But Doc's pretty 
certain about those bite marks on Pete's body."

	"I'm a pathologist," Scully informed the 
cop. "You think I could examine the body? In the 
morning?" She glared at Mulder.

	"Sure. And you want me to round up Bobby, 
too?"

	Mulder turned, surprised. "Yeah, if you 
can."

	"Oh, I can. I want you to hear his account 
of things, in his words. Definitely in his 
words."

	Mulder turned to an equally puzzled Scully 
as Kamehana crunched back toward his car.



Ronald Gennari residence
Lahaina, Maui
12:32 a.m.

	Ronald Gennari's great-grandfather and 
grandfather had been New England lobstermen, up 
well ahead of the butt-crack of dawn and out on 
the bay before the first hint of orange touched 
the Atlantic sky. Theodore Gennari, his father, 
had abandoned the sea for the perilous swells of 
the business world in the 1950s, building a 
taste in the Heartland first for frozen cod and 
shrimp, then for fresh perch and blue crab, then 
for mahi-mahi, Chilean sea bass, and other more 
exotic fritti di mare. In the process, he built 
a corporate empire that consistently ranked in 
Fortune's 50 and that rivaled Sara Lee, Tyson, 
Philip Morris/Kraft, and the other titans of the 
food industry.

	But some things are bred in the bone and 
etched irrevocably in the genetic code, and 
Ronald Gennari ("If you knew sushi...: Pescorp's 
Neptune of the New Millennium reigns with market 
savvy," Newsweek, Dec. 18, 2002) remained prey 
to the adaptive curse of his early-rising 
forebears. Pescorp's senior VP for Pacific 
marketing and development survived on five 
hours' sleep a night, prowling his faux 
plantation manse and consuming tireless hours of 
satellite business news and sports. Gentry was 
watching highlights of his hometown Celtics when 
Carl Nahimi, his executive assistant, phoned in 
on the line that opened exclusively into his 
teak-lined home theatre.

	"FBI's on the island -- cat-and-dog team," 
Carl reported. Gennari bit back on a pearl of 
annoyance: Carl loved intrigue and was too fond 
of crime movie jargon. "They went straight to 
Crowther's shack."

	"Son-of-a-bitch," Gennari snapped. "I still 
think that crazy bastard is behind it. Those 
fucking hippies he hangs with probably fed him 
to a shark."

	"He was an ex-spook, you know," Carl noted. 
"You think maybe the Company ordered some kind 
of—"

	"Christ, man, just get me some intelligence 
on those feds, and indulge your fantasies on the 
Internet, on your own fucking time."

	"Sure. How we coming with...you know, the..."

	"Kee-rist! You think they're tapping my 
phone, now? We're on schedule, as long as the 
lawyers can keep those government vultures at 
bay. You don't worry about it, hear? You have 
enough on your plate."

	"Yes, sir," Carl murmured. "I'll--"

	Gennari broke the connection, turning back 
to the 100-inch screen in time to see the Celts 
give up a three-pointer.

	"Bastard," he grumbled, referring not to 
the fumbling center on the satellite feed.



Maui County Police Department Lahaina Annex
Lahaina, Maui
9:05 p.m.

	Mulder watched Bobby Jameson scarf a fourth 
sausage Croissan'wich with mingled horror and 
admiration.

	"God anudda pepshi?" said the rail-thin old 
man, who resembled nothing so much as Popeye on 
a bad day. Lt. Kamehana patted him on the 
shoulder and stepped out of the police interview 
room.

	"Mr. Jameson," Mulder ventured as the 
derelict's Adam's apple twitched with the last 
morsel of ground pork and pastry. "You remember 
the night the man died on the beach? The night 
the big fish attacked him?"

	"Patronizing and leading," Scully murmured. 
Mulder waved her off.

	Jameson squinted up at the agent. "Yeah, 
just cause I'm an old drunk don't give you call 
to talk down to me. 'Big fish, my a--"

	"I'm sorry, sir."

	"Effin' straight." Jameson sucked at his 
sparse teeth and settled back into his folding 
chair. "Wellll, the fucking Nazzies told me I 
couldn't sleep downtown with the nice tourist 
folks, so I was campin' by the feller's house. I 
was grabbin' a little shuteye after supper -- Mo 
down to the Barbecue Shack gived me a whole pan 
of  burnt rib-tips the mainlanders wouldn't 
touch. Anyhow, all of a sudden, I hear these two 
fellas yellin' at each other to beat the band. 
One was the guy what lived there, and the other 
sounded like an islander. Kaui this, Kaui that. 
Maybe that's where the fella was from, like I 
give a flyin'..."

	"Pepsi on deck," Kamehana sang. The old man 
guzzled the soda.

	"So Mr. Crowther and the other man were 
arguing."

	"Yeah, I thought they was gonna mix it up a 
little, so I tried to get up to where's I could 
see. But that's when I saw the menehune."

	A uniform hanging in the doorway snorted. 
Scully glanced up at Kamehana, who shrugged with 
a slight smile.

	"Mene--?" she asked.

	"—hune," Mulder finished, leaning forward 
with interest. "Little people. The menehune are 
like island fairies or gnomes, supposedly 
supernatural beings. You saw one, Mr. Jameson?"

	"Bet your pale haole ass," Jameson said 
proudly. "Was gawkin' at me from behind a tree 
about six or seven feet away. Scared the blue 
lovin' shit outta me, and I kinda lost track of 
what the fellas up to the house was sayin'. Ugly 
little fucker -- I heard stories about them 
menehune, and I didn't want no truck with 'em. 
But then, just when I was lookin' for a stick to 
bash his little fairy brains in, he runs off. 
Second or two later, the fella, one that was 
fightin' with the guy owned the house, I hear 
him rev up his car and spray gravel and shit all 
over the place getting' outta there. I was 
afraid maybe he'd killed that other fella, but a 
couple minutes later, that fella..."

	"Crowther?" Mulder prompted. 

	"The fella what owned the house," Jameson 
snapped, wearying of interruption. "I hear the 
patio door open and him traipsin' out hummin' 
and whistlin', all cocky, like maybe he'd won 
the argument with the other guy. Then I hear him 
goin' down the beach, I guess to take a swim. 
That's when I heard him screamin' -- guess it 
was him, cause I was the onliest one else there. 
He was catterwhaulin' like a little girl with 
her arm caught in an outboard  motor. I'm 
thinkin' shark, but that don't make no sense. 
Then I'm wonderin' if maybe the little menehune 
bastard had got him, 'cept I never heard a' no 
menehune knowin' how to swim. I just got my ass 
outta there quick like. Then I figured maybe I 
oughtta call Jim and the fellers, let 'em know 
maybe they should put out a shark or menehune 
alert."

	Jameson guzzled more Pepsi, a thin thread 
of cola meandering through the stubble on the 
old salt's chin.

	"Mr. Jameson," Scully began tactfully, 
"You'll have to pardon me for asking, but, ah, 
the night that man was attacked, did you, were 
you, um..."

	"Crocked?" Mulder supplied. Scully slumped 
back in her chair, and the uniform fled the 
scene. Jameson's can stopped in mid-arc, and the 
old man's eyes narrowed. Then Jameson grinned, 
and he crooked a finger at the agent. Mulder 
looked at him quizzically, then leaned in.

      Jameson whispered into his ear at length, 
finally leaning back with a single cackle. 
Mulder had turned a lighter shade of beige as 
Jameson talked, and he nodded soberly as he 
regarded his partner and the Maui detective.
      
	"Mr. Jameson is rather firm in his 
conviction that he was not inebriated the night 
of Crowther's death," he announced. "And thanks 
for the advice, Mr. Jameson, although I'm fairly 
certain I lack the agility to accomplish it."


Maui County Police Department Morgue
10:16 a.m.

	Scully pulled her latex glove free with a 
sharp snap and tossed it into the biowaste bin 
next to the steel exam table where Peter 
Crowther's corps lie. "I'd have to concur with 
Dr. Pukui -- Mr. Crowther seemingly died as a 
result of an encounter with a fish."

      She sighed, and avoided eye contact with 
Mulder. "A big fish. I identified at least 25 
individual bite marks, the fatal wounds likely 
being those to Mr. Crowther's carotid artery. 
While the bite pattern is consistent with 
Thunnus albacares, Dr. Pukui assures me this 
sort of...piscine vehemence...is wholly atypical of 
the species, and the size of the wounds is 
roughly twice the size of a large yellowfin 
bite." 
      
      "Tuna, ahoy!" Mulder crowed. Kamehana 
frowned.
      
      "You saying one of Pescorp's fish may have 
done this?" the cop drawled.
      
      Scully pulled off her scrub blouse. "I am 
merely confirming that a marine fish of 
prodigious size and mandibular strength was 
responsible for Peter Crowther's death."
      
      "The polysyllabic backpedaling and 
academic profundity you hear is the sound of 
Special Agent Dana Scully once again flying into 
the face of the facts," Mulder smirked. "Maybe 
this'll at least convince the court to issue 
that warrant for the Pescorp lab."
      
      Scully frowned. "I don't know, Mulder. 
There are a number of inconsistencies here. I 
don't want to jump to the conclusion we're 
looking at a yellowfin attack -- given the 
abundance of comparative samples on the island, 
I've requested a DNA test of the tissues 
surrounding Crowther's wounds. Biotech test 
specimens also usually bear a special marker 
gene to identify them, and that also should show 
up in any DNA screen.
      
      "Plus, there was no missing flesh, no 
tearing -- no sign that whatever attacked 
Crowther attempted to consume him. And the USFWS 
reports of the two earlier fishkills indicated a 
similar pattern -- a frenzied attack, but no 
signs the predator fed on any of the vict--, ah, 
fish."
      
      "Maybe it was just, well, crazed," Mulder 
protested.
      
      Scully gave her partner what only could be 
deemed the fisheye. "Attack of the Giant Crazed 
Killer Tuna. Why don't you put that on a triple 
bill with Night of the Chupacabra and Revenge of 
the Flukeman? I know Skinner would buy a ticket 
for that."


Colonial Maui Tropical Plantation
12:37 a.m.

	"Don't you want to stop at the gift shop, 
Scully?" Mulder asked as the pair followed the 
plantation tour route past a wild-looking plot 
of sugar cane and a stand of pineapple trees. "I 
was assuming from your demeanor this morning you 
might like a good lei."

	"You keep this up, it may be the only kind 
you get this trip," Scully responded, kicking a 
rock out of her shoe. "You are literally on a 
fishing expedition, Mulder, and I'm not sure the 
evidence bears out your wild speculations. God 
knows what kind of predatory species may be out 
here, forced to find a new habitat by shifts in 
the oceanic food chain, pollution, maybe even 
fishing activity. And why is this Makule 
important?"

	"According to the lieutenant, Crowther's 
been seen or arrested at several MKA 
demonstrations. Vincent Makule's the closest 
thing to a Maui chapter president. I still think 
that if there was an attempted break-in -- or a 
successful one -- at Pescorp, some activist 
group is behind it, and MKA's been particularly 
outspoken on biotechnology. Left at the guava? 
Is this guava?"

	"Macadamia," Scully sighed, pointing to the 
tour sign at Mulder's elbow. "And it's right at 
the plumeria patch. I can hear the tour ahead, 
and it sounds like they're talking coconut."

	"To the grove, Watson," Mulder declared.

	"Yeah, fine, whatever."

	As the three-car Colonial Maui Tropical 
Plantation tram trundled off toward a shack 
displaying birds-of-paradise and garlands of 
hibiscus, Vince Makule tossed shards of coconut 
husk into a white plastic pail next to a 
primitive wood bench in a clearing adjoining the 
trail. Affixed to the bench was a long, broad, 
fierce-looking knife.

	Makule, in a sun-yellow aloha shirt and 
oyster white jams, looked up, smiling, as the 
agents approached.  "Aloha! You two get lost? 
They don't like folks just wandering around 
alone, especially they don't have tickets. 
Tram's just up ahead; tickets are available at 
the general store."

	"Vincent Makule?" Mulder asked, unsheathing 
his ID. "Special Agents Fox Mulder and Dana 
Scully, FBI."

	"Wow, FBI," the young man enthused. "Just 
like on TV?"

	"Wow, yeah," Mulder grinned. "Just like 
that break-in at Pescorp about a week ago."

	Makule smirked and resumed cleaning up the 
debris of his 12:30 p.m. show. "You guys are 
kinda late to the luau, aren't you? I already 
talked to the county cops and the state cops, 
even some joker from Homeland Security, I think, 
after the break-in. Then I went through it all 
again after that dude in Lahaina got eaten."

	"He wasn't eaten," Scully noted, weakly.

	"Tell you what I told them. Malama Ka Aina 
is a peaceful organization that exercises its 
lawful First Amendment rights and sometimes 
practices non-violent civil disobedience when 
the environment and biodiversity of the islands 
are threatened."

	"Was that swarm of toads someone planted at 
that new subdivision up north last April lawful 
exercise or civil disobedience?" Mulder 
inquired.

	Makule shrugged. "You never know when new 
construction might bring some of the indigenous 
wildlife out of the hills. 'Sides, I never heard 
of frogs killing a couple of hundred fish or a 
man before, not like that superfish of 
Pescorps'."

	"You're really up on the local news, Mr. 
Makule. And didn't you know that man, Peter 
Crowther? According to the county cops, you and 
Crowther shared a cell with you a few times."

	"Yeah, OK, I hung with Pete some. One of 
those guilty burn-out types out to save his 
soul. I'm sure you know he was a spy for Nixon, 
Reagan, Dubya's daddy -- probably overthrew a 
couple of Third World countries, offed a few 
guys in his time. But he was loyal to the cause, 
understood how to piss off the bureaucracy. And 
he knew what Uncle Sam and the corporate machine 
were willing to unleash on the planet for a few 
bucks. Like Moby Dick out there, eating its way 
through the island fish population. Ah, well, 
maybe it'll take out a few of those fat tourist 
chicks, too."

	"Do you honestly believe that man was 
killed by Pescorp's yellowfin?" Scully asked.

	"Lemme show you something, lady," Makule 
said, searching up a plump green coconut and 
straddling the bench. He lifted the fruit above 
his head and brought it down just off-center. A 
large slice of husk came away. "We been growing 
and selling these things more than a half-
century here, and this is just about as state-
of-the-art as coconut 'processing' gets. Know a 
guy on the big island can strip one of these 
down to the nut in three seconds flat, a lady 
here on Maui can take off the husk in two 
minutes. But nobody's been able to come up with 
some computerized machine that can do it. Each 
coconut's different; you can't predict what's 
inside. Those suits down at Pescorp think they 
can build a better fish than Nature can, but 
they don't know the half of what they're messing 
with, or what that supertuna sandwich is gonna 
do to your grandkids." He held up the semi-
shucked coconut. "Goin' on break -- wanna share, 
FBI?"

	"Wonder how long he's rehearsed that 
routine," Scully pondered a few minutes later, 
as she and Mulder ascended the hill approaching 
the plantation gift shop/tour center. Her 
partner paused at a small zoo near the center, 
where a group of largely Hawaiian elementary 
students listened to a plantation employee's 
hourly recitation.

	"While there are no monkeys native to 
Hawaii, the plantation support the Pacific 
Primate Rescue Program, which finds new homes 
for displaced, abused, or neglected monkeys like 
Dakota here. Dakota's a capuchin..."

	"Probably pretends the bathroom mirror's 
Diane Sawyer," Mulder suggested, embroiled in a 
staring contest with a boldly colored parrot. 
"I'm not buying Makule's Gandhi act. There've 
been at least a half-dozen acts of sabotage, 
trespassing, and vandalism around the islands in 
the last six months that've been linked to MKA, 
but not enough evidence to bring charges. I 
think somehow Makule and Crowther were in on the 
break-in together, or maybe Crowther the ex-fed 
was pissed off about the way Makule exercised 
his civil disobedience. Maybe Crowther was 
keeping the T-12 for Makule and the gang, and it 
got out of control."

	"Where would he have held it, Mulder?" 
Scully challenged. "There were no tanks or 
enclosure nets at his house. You think he was 
taking his tuna for a midnight stroll when it 
turned on him?"

	The parrot looked away, and Mulder turned 
triumphantly. "It just seems too pat, too 
deliciously ironic, that Crowther would be 
killed by the creature whose existence he was 
protesting. I feel like Makule is involved in 
Crowther's death, somehow."

	Scully flopped onto a huge rock next to a 
tankful of geckos. "Well, I got a look at 
Makule's teeth, and if he mauled Crowther, he 
must have been wearing dentures."	
Lahaina, Maui
2:37 p.m.

	"Gaze upon paradise," Phillip Lutz invited, 
his leathery hand sweeping across the ocean's 
near-turquoise perfection, the seamless, 
cloudless robin's egg blue of the morning sky 
abutting it, and the velvet jade of the nearby 
hills towering above the bay.

	Lutz had chosen pointedly not to entertain 
Mulder and Scully in the confines of a cluttered 
university extension office that served him 
largely as an academic storage closet and an 
emotional torture chamber for stupid and 
indolent students. Instead, the middle-aged 
molecular biologist, who more closely resembled 
some surfer-gone-to-beachcomber, invited them to 
a picnic lunch of smoked kalua -- pork -- and 
macaroni salad on his catamaran, in a cove just 
south of Lahaina.

      A collection of mixed-vintage but largely 
salt-pitted cars lined the sandy berm next to 
Highway 30 above the bay, their owners 
worshipping The Big Wave, several true believers 
wielding the solid wood boards demanded by the 
legendary surf god Huey. A hundred or so yards 
offshore, a goofy foot -- a surfer riding his 
board right foot in front of the left -- 
executed as perfect a cutback as one was likely 
to see outside the North Shore.
      
      "Ironic that this Eden, this outpost of 
natural wonder, may be a gateway to man's 
greatest achievements in food production and 
prolonged life," Lutz continued, once his guests 
had absorbed his home paradise. "At least, 
that's the horseshit they put on the Biosciences 
Department Web Page. But there's a great deal of 
truth to the defensive hyperbole we toss around 
regarding genetic engineering.
      
      "I don't suppose you two have had the 
opportunity to visit any of the big plantations 
on the island? If you can get away from your 
investigation for a few hours, I think you might 
find it educational, perhaps even for your 
investigation. It's one of the first real 
socioeconomic success stories for biotech 
research and development. You know the Hawaiian 
sugar industry is losing ground fast to Brazil -
- South American production costs, improved 
inland transportation infrastructure, all that 
good ag economics stuff? Well, we still maintain 
a competitive edge in papaya production, but we 
almost lost the entire crop a few years back, to 
ringspot -- a fungal disease. It was decimating 
the plantations. Even if we'd had effective 
chemical treatments for the rust, EPA's 
continuing to whittle away at the few potent 
fungicides we have left, and nobody likes to 
think their tropical fruit salad has been 
marinated in methyl bromide. Long story short, 
Agent Mulder?"
      
      "Sorry," Mulder grinned, coming out of a 
deepening slump. "I was about ready to sacrifice 
myself to the nearest passing mano."
      
      Lutz, accustomed to worshipful sophomores 
and calculating post-grads, beamed at his 
passenger's refreshing candor. "Occupational 
hazard -- I frequently lapse into lecture hall 
mode when I get into this subject. Why I 
windsurf and immerse myself in The Simpsons on 
the weekends. And very nice pronunciation, 
Agent, although nothing sticks out like a sore 
haole like a mainlander peppering his speech 
with island lingo."
      
"Mahalo."

"You're quite welcome."

      "The papayas?" Scully prompted tonelessly, 
brushing another red lock from her sunburnt 
face. Mulder waggled his fist, thumb and pinky 
extended, in a surfer "chill out" gesture. She 
surreptitiously started to offer an alternative 
gesture, but thought better of it, and nibbled 
at the sweet Hawaiian roll that enveloped her 
pit-cooked pork .
      
      "Long story short, before your partner 
surrenders to the sharks" the professor 
repeated. "Biotechnology comes to the rescue -- 
I should say molecular biology, because biotech 
goes back thousands of years to when the native 
Meso-Americans manipulated maize into its 
current harvestable ear state. In this case, my 
university colleagues were able to build 
biological rust resistance into indigenous 
papaya varieties without changing either the 
content, the natural function, or the 
environmental impact of the plant. Didn't sit 
too well with some of the organic folks, but you 
can't have an organic market without a product 
to sell. GMO papayas very likely saved Hawaii's 
economy. Oops, more defensive hyperbole.
      
      "But my point is, despite the politicized 
rumblings of the European trade community and 
the capitalistic fear-mongering of some 'non-
GMO' food companies, we have in our hands the 
tools to meet the food and agricultural needs of 
a global population that could grow to six 
billion within the next 50 years. Imagine rice 
engineered to provide a child the vitamin A 
necessary to stave off blindness or disease. 
Drought-resistant cassava that could survive in 
the shadows of the Nigerian hunger relief camps. 
We have the tropical climate, the relative 
isolation from major cross-pollinating farm 
crops, the international scientific support for 
finding biotechnological answers. China knows 
it, India knows it, sub-Saharan Africa knows it, 
though it doesn't yet have the means to fully 
exploit it. It's the mall-shopping yuppie 
housewife we still have to convince."
      
      Scully tucked her Laura Ashley-shorn feet 
under her, spitting hair. "At the same time, 
Professor, hasn't Hawaii been somewhat notorious 
for biotech problems over the last few years?"
      
      Lutz nodded, as if Scully had scored a 
glancing blow in a classroom sparring match. "I 
assume you're referring to the recent federal 
sanctions against Monsanto and the others for 
failing to follow proper field test protocols. 
Yes, I'll admit there are certain pitfalls when 
you transfer technology from the university lab 
to the bottomliners at some multinational 
biosciences outfit. The Prodigene incidents in 
Iowa and Nebraska back in Iowa demonstrated that 
-- the company's error set pharmaceutical crops 
research and God knows what Third World medical 
advances back at least five years.
      
      "You can't hire some kid who was making 
gorditas at the Taco Bell last week to dispose 
of GMO crop wastes or fudge a foot or two on 
EPA-prescribed test plot buffers. I'm adamant 
with my colleagues and students that we must 
jump through all the federal hoops if we hope to 
be a credible force for the world. But I can 
assure you, there was no imminent threat of 
environmental contamination in the cases you're 
citing."
      
      "What about animal biotechnology?" Mulder 
challenged. "There's a big difference between 
goosing up a soybean or papaya plant and 
genetically tinkering with some fish or mammal 
whose natural tendency's going to be to tango 
with whatever fish or mammal strikes its fancy."
      
      Scully's sunglasses slipped to the tip of 
her nose as she gaped at her partner's flippant 
-- not to mention simplistically anthromorphic -
- characterization of mammalian and 
icthyological reproductive processes. Dr. Lutz 
cackled.
      
      "Sorry, just watched Finding Nemo last 
night, and the picture of ahi or bonito 
tangoing..." the biologist said. "Of course, 
animal biotechnology is an entirely different, 
ah, animal, than plant biotech. Not only in 
purely molecular and physiological terms, but 
also in a sociological context. When the Scots 
successfully cloned cells from a sheep, the 
public began to conjure images of genetically 
engineered armies of slave monkeys produced to 
perform sub-minimum wage duties for the 
corporate machine."
      
      "Might improve the service at Burger 
King," Mulder suggested. Scully's loud sigh was 
lost in the crashing tides.
      
      "And then 60 Minutes came out with its 
'analysis' of biotech salmon a couple of years 
ago, and anyone who'd ever seen a bad '70s 
horror film became convinced we were going to be 
setting hordes of mutant coho loose in the 
Columbia to swim upstream and converge on 
Seattle."
      
      "I see Bruce Willis, lots of screaming 
Starbucks drinkers."
      
      "Precisely. But what you really would like 
to know is whether whatever is responsible for 
these recent fishkills and that poor 
unfortunate's death is some genetically mutated, 
homicidal yellowfin tuna that has developed an 
appetite for human flesh."
      
      "Ask any geneticist you happen to see..." 
Mulder sang.
      
      "Sorry, Charlie," Lutz responded dryly. "I 
served on a National Institutes of Health panel 
that examined Pescorp's research protocols for 
Event T-12 -- the modified yellowfin. Are you 
familiar with diploid and triploid development 
in catfish, salmon, and other aquacultural 
species, Dr. Scully?" Scully nodded in 
consultation. "Agent Mul--?" Lutz smiled 
indulgently, and Mulder looked at a now-smiling 
Scully in indignation. "Let's just say modified 
aquatic species are, in effect, built to be 
sterile. They do not have the capacity to 
reproduce, by design. T-12 was modified in this 
manner, so first of all, if a specimen was to be 
released into the wild, it could not possibly 
procreate, or tango, as you put it, Agent 
Mulder.
      
      "Secondly, as a precaution against 
liability or environmental damage, all test 
specimens of T-12 were engineered with a gene 
conferring extreme nutrient deficiencies. The 
GMO yellowfin are kept in a medium with 
abnormally high levels of manganese, potassium, 
and other nutrients present. If one were 
introduced into an environment without this 
signature cocktail of nutrients, it would die 
within a day or so, if that much. I've seen all 
the documentation -- it's a foolproof safeguard.
      
      "And finally, the idea that the particular 
growth promotant genes incorporated into T-12 
could turn it into some kind of hyper-
testosterone killing machine, well, that's a 
Bruce Willis movie. If you want the full 
scientific explanation, Agent Mulder, ..."
      
      Scully snorted.
      
      "No, I'll take your word for it -- at 
least for now," Mulder nodded, ignoring her. 
"You said you've reviewed Pescorp's research 
protocols. Did that include the company's 
security systems? How difficult would it have 
been to steal one of the T-12s?"
      
      "I'm no security specialist, but I would 
think extremely difficult," the scientist 
considered. "Beyond federal regulatory 
expectations, I should think Pescorp has 
considerable capital invested in those tuna. 
They have the resources to protect their 
investment to the maximum extent possible. And I 
truly can't believe they'd attempt to cover up 
the disappearance of a specimen."
      
      "Truly, Prof. Lutz?" Mulder posed, raising 
a Scullian eyebrow. "Is nicotine truly 
addictive, Doctor? You have any stock in Enron?"
      
      Lutz chuckled. "Your somewhat paranoid 
point is well taken, Agent. But, again, how 
could anyone get beyond Pescorp's security? 
Unless..."
      
      "It was an inside job," Scully supplied.
      
      
Royal Aha'aina Luau
6:23 p.m.

	"Nah, the guys at Pescorp are all as 
straight as the day is long," Kamehana assured 
Mulder as he forked a pile of cold octopus onto 
his plate. He'd used his law enforcement 
connections to snag a couple of tickets to 
purportedly Maui's finest luau, and after an 
introductory Lava Flow, even Scully's jet-lagged 
disposition had improved considerably. "I've 
known Chuck Kinau's family since I was a kid. 
His dad and granddad were fishermen here 'til 
they had a few years' run of bad luck. Chuck 
worked patrol until Pescorp offered him and a 
few of the guys more money."

	"His family lived off the sea," Mulder 
noted, eyeing a dish of mahi-mahi in macadamia 
cream sauce. "Could he have become sympathetic 
with MKA's cause, maybe decided to use his 
access to help them?"

	Kamehana shook his head curtly. "Chuck pees 
red, white, and blue -- he was Marines in the 
Gulf, worked for the Bush side the last 
election. Never had any use for the enviros or 
the animal rightists. Calls 'em 'haoles in 
sheep's clothing.'"

	"Just in case, maybe you want to check his 
whereabou--"

	"Time-punched in at Pescorp, third shift, 
when Crowther was killed. Helluva a lot more 
definitive than trying to nail down Vince Makule 
killing a six-pack with his buddies on the North 
Shore. McGarrett's got nothing on the Maui PD, 
brother."

	Mulder took a breath, glancing over at 
Scully, who was engaged in conversation with a 
pasty older couple in garish aloha togs. "What 
did you make of Jameson's story?"

	"Sounds like a falling-out between 
comrades," Kamehana theorized. "I'm checking out 
any Kaui connections for Pete, even though he 
stuck pretty much to himself."

	"Which for ex-CIA could in itself be 
suspicious behavior. No, I meant the menehune 
part. Tell me about the menehune."

	The lieutenant sought any sign Mulder was 
kidding, and shook his shaggy head in bemusement 
when he found none. "Holy crap, you're serious. 
Well, legend goes that when the Polynesians 
first settled out here, they found heiaus -- 
temples -- dams, and fish ponds. Some of the 
first real aquaculture was practiced here, you 
know -- long before Pescorp started tinkering 
with tuna. Anyway, the Polynesians thought all 
of this was built by the little people, the 
menehune, who lived in caves on the islands.

	"A menehune's kinda like a leprechaun, 
except with bipolar. Each one has its own 
personality, but a menehune can be mean and 
dangerous one day and harmless the next. They 
have a leprechaun's cunning, and they say you 
oughtta stay clear of them."

	"And what do they look like?" Mulder asked.

	Kamehana laughed as he dished up some 
kahuna pork. "Subject's six inches to two feet 
in height, naked, long straight hair. You want 
me to put out an APB?"

	Mulder grinned. "Just speculating. Jameson 
may be one mai-tai short of a luau, but I think 
he saw something relevant out there. I just have 
to make a few connections. Ah, I see my 
partner's managed to shake off Ma and Pa Kettle. 
Hey, Scully, over here."

	Before the redheaded agent could reply, a 
stereo warbling rang through the buffet tent. 
Mulder and Kamehana reached simultaneously for 
their cell phones.

	"Aloha," Mulder greeted.

	"Yeah," Kamehana rapped out.

	"Mekaleka heinie ho, Mulder," Frohike 
grunted. "How goes it in the land of lethal UV 
rays and bootie-licious wahines?"

	"Answers now, whacking later, OK?" Mulder 
said. "What'd you find out about Crowther?"

	"Peter Crowther, AKA Pieter Krause, AKA 
Pedro Cruz, was not your usual spook. 
Apparently, he was recruited out of NASA, where 
he did some of early lunar rover research, 
satellite robotics, and the like. My guy at the 
Company says he did a lot of high-tech, black 
budget project work. During the '80s and '90s, 
Crowther moved around a lot between Central 
China, Brazil, India, and, for some reason, 
Oregon. His cover was he was some kind of 
environmental engineering consultant."

	"Environmental engineering," Mulder 
murmured. "CIA, he'd know where the bodies -- or 
the toxic waste -- was buried. Any word of why 
he left the agency?"

	"I looked into your eco-angle. My 
Greenpeace guy never heard of him, and he hasn't 
been laid in years. If Crowther's a tree-hugger, 
he must just be cuckoo for coconuts."

	"You paint a dark and disturbing picture, 
my diminutive friend," Mulder moaned. "Mahalo, 
Frohike."

	"De nada, Mulder," the Gunman returned. 
"Save a whale for me, and if you happen to get 
any Polaroids of the pulchritudinous Agent 
Scully basking on the beach, save one of those 
for me, too."

	"You're a sick little menehune," Mulder 
said affectionately, ending the call. Kamehana 
was pocketing his phone, a plateful of meat and 
fruit balanced in his other hand. "Got some 
curious background on your victim. What do 
China, India, Brazil, and the Pacific Northwest 
have in common?"

	"Probably all got Starbucks every other 
corner by now," Kamehana guessed. "That was my 
buddy at the federal courthouse. We finally got 
our warrant for the Pescorp lab. Go in tomorrow 
morning, if that's soon enough for you."

	"Gotta meet my three mai-tai limit," Mulder 
assured him, heading for the table. "Scully's 
designated driver."

      His partner had shed herself of the AARP 
carders but was being assailed by a pudgy 
spectacled man and his well-fed wife. Scully 
smiled forcefully as Mulder set his groaning 
plate on the long communal table.
      
      "Mulder, this is Clark and Carol," Scully 
said. Clark beamed sharkishly, as if eyeing new 
conversational prey.
      
      "The little woman bending your ear?" 
Mulder asked, reaching across to grasp a pink 
sea cucumber of a hand.
      
      "This is your husband, Dana?" Carol 
purred.
      
      "No," Mulder replied, avoiding Scully's 
glare. "What's your 20, Clark?"
      
	"Columbus, Ohio," their tablemate 
announced. "I teach social studies at one of the 
high schools. That's part of why I'm here. We 
were thinking Branson this year, but I told 
Carol, 'You know, we're living in a global 
village now. Why don't we see how the other half 
lives, expose ourselves to another culture."

	"Clark's something of an amateur linguist," 
Scully said, rising. "Why don't you tell him 
about that while I hit the little girl's, ah, 
the lady's room."

	"I'll go with you, dear," Carol volunteered 
as she struggled to her feet, and Mulder shot 
Scully a retaliatory smirk.

	"I'm not really a professional linguist, 
uh..." Clark began. "Mulder your last name or your 
Christian name?"

	"Call me Fox," Mulder invited, drawing a 
perplexed look. 

	"Yeah, Fox...I'm really fascinated by 
regional dialects -- the different words they 
call things and why, the way how folks live 
affects how they talk. Like you take the 
Hawaiian language, for instance. They got three 
different sets of first-person possessive 
pronouns. It has to do with the relationship 
between the possessor and the possessee. 
Possessee?"

	"I get your meaning," Mulder smiled, mouth 
going rapidly dry.

	"See, if you're talking about something 
like a body part or a relative like a father or 
a sister, something you can't control having or 
that's like an extension of yourself, then you 
say 'ko'u' -- ko'u po'o would be 'my head.'"

	"My head," Mulder agreed, rubbing his 
temple.

	"But if it's something you just own, like a 
cup or a plate, or your kids, who you 
consciously chose to have, then you say 'ka'u.' 
But, then, if you want to avoid having to choose 
between ko and ka, you can say ku. Then you get 
into some of the cultural nuances -- well, I 
could go on forever."

	"I bet." Jim Kamehana approached, looking 
to Mulder like a knight with a meat-laden 
shield. "Hey, Clark, this is Jim -- he's a cop 
on the island, and something of an expert on the 
language and the culture. Maybe he can tell you 
more about possessive pronouns."

	Clark's eyes lit up. "Hey, Jimmy, maybe you 
could explain the differences in Hawaiian and 
Tahitian consonant use..."

	"Not to mention the Maoris," Kamehana 
added, launching into a lengthy and academic 
discourse that had Clark initially spellbound 
but ultimately dazed. When Scully returned, 
Carol having peeled off to watch a pair of half-
naked luau performers carve volcano gods, Mulder 
cornered her.

	"OK, what do China, India, Brazil, and 
Oregon have in common?" he posed.

	"Except for Oregon, a tendency to over-
spice their entrees," Scully guessed. "Mulder, 
if you want to play Scattergories, we can do 
that later at the hotel. I may even know an 
interesting new adult variation."

	"I'm just trying to figure out what Peter 
Crowther was up to during his CIA years, and 
whether it may have some relevance to the case 
at hand. I mean, maybe this whole tuna thing is 
a red herring. Who's better at 'staging' an 
accident or a suicide than our friends with The 
Company? Maybe Crowther knew something his ex-
coworkers wanted hushed up."

	"First of all, we have no evidence Crowther 
was murdered," Scully countered. "And if the CIA 
wanted to stage a fatal accident for Crowther, 
don't you think they'd have come up with 
something a little more, oh, ordinary? Like a 
car crash or a drowning? A tuna mauling isn't 
exactly an inconspicuous way to kill someone."

	Mulder frowned, and played absently with 
his octopus. "OK, Crowther was a gadget guy with 
NASA before he signed on as a professional 
spook. That tell you anything?"

	"It tells me he'd probably have got on 
famously with Clark," Scully sulked. "When are 
they bringing on the guys with the loin cloths? 
And don't give me that look, Mulder -- not after 
you asked me to model that ridiculous coconut 
shell bra. If I like the talent tonight, maybe 
I'll rethink my position."

	Mulder grabbed a passing waitress. "Excuse 
me. When's the show start?"

	A cell phone sounded. Mulder and Kamehana 
went for their pockets, but Scully held up a 
finger and reached into her handbag. "Dana 
Scully. Yes. No, it's fine. What did you come up 
with?...What?...How's that possible? There must 
be some trace...No, I'm sure they did, but maybe 
you could ask them to double-check...OK, thanks."

	Scully held the phone for a moment longer, 
frowning, before she closed it.

	"What?" Mulder asked.

	She looked up. "That was the M.E. -- the 
DNA tests on Crowther and those fish came back." 
Scully turned to Kamehana. "Any time an animal 
violently attacks a person, there are almost 
always traces of saliva, blood, other remnants 
of genetic material left as they maul the 
victim."

	Carol's fork dropped.

	"Given the depth of the wounds particularly 
in Crowther's case, even the sea water he was in 
shouldn't have washed away all traces of DNA or 
tissue. But they couldn't find any foreign DNA 
in either the fish or Crowther. Not merely 
unusable or contaminated samples, but no 
samples."

	"My," Clark breathed.

Lahaina, Maui
1 a.m.

	The bartender at The Kahuna Schooner 
watched with a vague sense of concern as Bobby 
Jameson stumbled out of the establishment. The 
young guy at the bar had taken pity on the old 
souse and bought him a few rounds, even listened 
to Jameson's probably fictional tales of the 
merchant marines and his postwar conquest of the 
local wahines. Finally, the old guy had worn 
himself out and decided to set out in search of 
a nesting place for the night.

	Jameson made it nearly to the door before 
he collided with the jukebox. He let loose with 
a stream of profanity.

	The young guy glanced at the bartender, who 
shrugged, and sighed as he hopped off his stool. 
"C'mon, ka'u makua kane, let me help you."

	The bartender shook his head at the young 
samaritan, and turned to the cute not-so-young 
thing at the end of the bar. The young guy 
guided the old man out the door, and the sound 
of crashing waves momentarily eclipsed Jimi 
Hendrix from the bruised box.

	"Nice night out, Pop," the younger man 
noted. "At least you got some good weather to 
sleep under the stars."

	"Fuckin' Chamber of Commies," Jameson 
burbled, grabbing his new friend's sleeve as he 
trudged through the sand beyond The Schooner. 
"Public beach -- gotta right to use it just as 
mucha those tourist ass-haoles. 'S a violation 
of my constipational rights."

	"It's OK, Pop," the young man said, 
steering Jameson toward the water's edge. "You 
oughtta be able to crash in the pilings under 
the Seafood Shack without nobody bothering you. 
Hey, look, what is that?"

	"Whattya lookin'?" Jameson mumbled, 
following the man's gaze out toward the black 
ocean. He squinted.

	"Looks like some kinda box or something," 
the young guy drawled, pulling free of the old 
man. "Maybe fell off one of the freighters or 
something. Loot from the sea."

	"I don't see nothin'..."

	"Out there, right before the breakers, out 
Lanai direction."

	Jameson leaned forward, then began to nod 
slowly. "Yeah, yeah, I see it. You think there 
may be somethin' in there? Somethin' worth 
somethin'?"

	"Dunno. Hey, where you goin', Pop. You 
better not go out there -- you been tying it on 
pretty good."

	Just as he'd predicted, Jameson's combined 
greed and pride drew him toward the sea, toward 
the parcel the younger man firmly moored about 
30 yards out before he'd begun to pour beer down 
the old guy's gullet. Jameson stumbled through 
the sand, kicking off his ragged boat shoes as 
he eyed the potential fortune bobbing on the 
nearby waves. "Watch them shoes, boy. I'll cut 
you in."

	The young man smiled grimly as the derelict 
treaded into the water, toward his treasure. He 
reached into his pocket, withdrew the device 
he'd been supplied, and sent the signal.

	Jameson was nearly out-of-breath by the 
time he swam the last ten yards to the floating 
crate, but booze, a life of hard living and 
survival, and avarice empowered him. He hoped 
that whatever the crate might contain wouldn't 
have been damaged by the corrosive sea salt. If 
it was packaged food, at least it would provide 
a few days' nourishment. If it was something 
more valuable, he could maybe sell it for 
something more appetizing.

	Finally, he bumped into the crate, cursing. 
It was large, but not unwieldy, and Jameson 
figured the young fella could help him back to 
shore with it. In the pale light of the moon, he 
could make out stenciling on the side of the 
box.

	COLA? Wasn't Bobby's drink of choice, but... 
No, it was longer. C-O-L-O-N-I-A-L. MAUI. 
TROPICAL. P-L-A-N-T-A—

	A pair of hands suddenly appeared at the 
edge of the crate, and a face materialized. Wet 
hair, angry eyes, a mouth full of sharp teeth.

	"Menehune," Jameson tried to whisper before 
it struck.

Lahaina, Maui
7:05 a.m.

	"Poor old Bobby," Kamehana eulogized, 
patting the corpse's shoulder. The morning tide 
had washed Jameson against a small dune, and 
he'd been found by a local seeking tourist booty 
with his metal detector. A trio of uniformed 
officers were scouring the beach for clues, and 
a cluster of tourists had gathered on the bank 
above.

	"At least a dozen sets of bite marks, 
consistent with Crowther's," Scully observed, 
crouching beside the dead witness. "And here's 
something else...See that scar on his face?"

	"Probably when he washed ashore," Mulder 
suggested above her.

	"I don't think so," she frowned. "I can see 
traces of dried blood, and if he was dead before 
the tide brought him in, as I'm assuming, he 
wouldn't have bled. Look closely -- there's two 
lighter scratches alongside. Almost as if 
someone had raked their fingernails across his 
face."

	"Think smaller, Scully," Mulder said. 
"Those marks are too close together to be 
human."

	His partner looked up, skeptically. "What 
are you suggesting, Mulder? That this man was 
attacked by one of those little people? Those 
mene-whosis?"

	"Menehune," Kamehune corrected. He looked 
warily at Mulder. "Tell me that isn't what 
you're thinking, Mulder."

	"You might want to get that APB out," the 
agent advised.


Pescorp Commercial Marine Research and 
Development Center
Kehei, Maui
11:02 a.m.

	Ronald Gennari was as cordial as any man 
could be surrounded by representatives of four 
government agencies and looking down the barrel 
of a federal warrant.

	"Let's get this the hell over with," the 
Pescorp VP rumbled, slapping the warrant into 
his lead attorney's palm. He scanned the throng 
gathered about him. "This is the most ludicrous 
waste of both my company's and the taxpayers' 
time I've ever witnessed. C'mon."

	As the EPA, USFWS, and USDA bureaucrats 
sorted out the niceties with Gennari's legal 
crew, Mulder examined the tubular ceiling-to-
floor tanks that lined the Pescorp Research 
lobby. A trio of yellowfin tuna glided through 
the tube closest to the terse group.

	"FBI, huh?" a spectacled, immaculately put-
together man ventured at Scully's shoulder. 
"Carl Nahimi, Mr. Gennari's executive 
assistant."

	"Special Agent Dana Scully," she said 
uncertainly. "Yes. We are. FBI, I mean."

	"Let me ask you," Nahimi lowered his voice, 
moving further into Scully's personal space. "Do 
you really believe one of our T-12s could've 
killed a man? The very notion's absurd."

	She caught Mulder's eye. He waggled his 
eyebrows, and a spark of annoyance ignited in 
her gut. "Any more absurd than attempting to 
engineer a jumbo colossal megatuna?"

	Surprisingly, Scully hadn't antagonized 
Nahimi. "How much do you know about the 
commercial fisheries industry, Agent?"

	"A little..."

	"The world's annual yellowfin catch is 
rapidly surpassing 300,000 metric tons per 
year," he explained with a smile. "While Pescorp 
adheres strictly to best industry practices -- 
we're 100 percent dolphin-safe -- the commercial 
industry is coming under a lot of heat from the 
environmental movement. Believe me, dead 
dolphins and sea turtles do not make good 
advertising copy."

	Gennari set off with the feds and lawyers 
in tow, and Nahimi gently took Scully's elbow. 
She heard Mulder snicker behind them. "The 
yellowfin was an ideal focus for our pilot 
genetic enhancement program. It's a prolific 
breeder with a relatively rapid maturation. 
We've enhanced those traits, along with 
promoting increased size and meat yield and a 
greater ability to predict sex and maturity. 
That should help improve managed production and 
reduce the need for wild catch. And to top it 
off, we've tweaked the T-12 to produce greater 
concentrations of the essential fish oils 
nutritionists have linked to improved cardiac 
health.

      "What we hope to accomplish with the T-12 
project is not just increased productivity and a 
higher profit margin for one of our fastest-
growing product lines, but a new level of 
industry stewardship and community 
responsibility. It's basically the same 
philosophy the crop biotech firms have adopted: 
Getting more production out of fewer acres. More 
captive production, less risk to innocent marine 
wildlife and less overfishing of the species. 
And our plan is to contract yellowfin tank 
production throughout the islands, much like 
Tyson and Smithfield contract poultry and hog 
production on the mainland. That should create 
new economic opportunities for farmers and 
laborers at our planned new ahi processing 
plant. It's a win-win. Um, a win-win-win."
      
      "But you still have to clear FDA," Mulder 
asked, drawing an annoyed backwards glance from 
Gennari's assistant. "And it would appear you 
have some strong activist opposition to the idea 
of genetically engineered fish."
      
      "We're trying to steer clear of that 
term," Nahimi said, somewhat peevishly. "We 
prefer to say 'genetically enhanced.' In fact, 
we plan to use that in our advertising/marketing 
program: 'Nature made it good; we've made it 
great.'"
      
      "How about 'Good to the last bite?'" 
Mulder suggested.
      
      "Excuse me," Nahimi said frostily, 
releasing Scully's arm and moving to Gennari's 
side by the card-scan console that provided 
access to the yellowfin research lab.
      
      "Great mother of Mrs. Paul's!" Mulder 
breathed as he scanned the outsized tanks 
throughout the room. The three regulatory agency 
reps glared at the agent; Gennari regarded him 
as if he were a new species of bony, bitter-
tasting bottomfeeder, and Nahimi's jaw hung 
open. Scully created distance from Mulder.
      
      The seven T-12s were identical in 
appearance to the tuna in the lobby tanks, but 
were larger than a trophy swordfish. Gennari's 
eyes flickered quickly to one of the T-12s.
      
      "Somebody get me a harpoon and a tub of 
cocktail sauce," Mulder marveled.
      
      "The warrant," the EPA representative 
announced, too loudly, "specifies that we're to 
draw tissue samples from each of the modified 
Thunnus albacares, for purposes of genetic 
verification. I'm to be present during all 
phases of sampling and testing."
      
      "You think we pulled a switch or 
something?" Gennari blustered incredulously, 
glancing again at the T-12. "You think we just 
pulled a jumbo tuna out of our, ah, hat?"
      
      "We're mandated to ensure no environmental 
release of a yet-unapproved organism has 
occurred," EPA droned. "Verified reassurance no 
such event has occurred is as much for your 
company's benefit as it is for the public's. We 
just want to confirm that each of these seven 
specimens carries the marker gene that 
identifies it as the event T-12."
      
      "This guy must be a real hoot at a luau," 
Mulder whispered to Scully, who swatted at him. 
"Hey, you notice Mr. Big Fish keeps looking at 
that tuna?"
      
      "Yeahhh?" Scully murmured. "So what?"
      
      "The same tuna. Like he's anxious or 
nervous. Why?"
      
      "I don't know," she hissed.
      
      "Who's going to conduct the sampling?" EPA 
asked.
      
      "Excuse me," Mulder said after studying 
Gennari eyeing the T-12. The three wise feds, 
Gennari, the lawyers, and Nahimi turned as one.
      
      "Oh, God," Scully sighed.
      
      "Sorry to interrupt, but your DNA test? 
Can it be used to match samples as well as 
identify a marker gene?"
      
      EPA examined the agent silently for a 
moment. "What do you mean? What samples are you 
suggesting we compare?"
      
      "That fish there," Mulder said, pointing 
to the focus of Gennari's ill-hidden attention, 
"with each of the other six specimens."
      
      "This man's FBI, isn't he?" one of the 
Pescorp attorneys, a short young woman with a 
close-cropped Afro, protested. "By what 
authority...?"
      
      Gennari just stared at Mulder, his eyes 
wide and unblinking.
      
      "You cloned that yellowfin from one of the 
others, didn't you?" the agent challenged.
      
      "What are you suggesting?" the lawyer 
demanded.
      
      As Scully tried to shrink into the 
background, Mulder looked directly at a 
dumbstruck Gennari.
      
      "Gentlemen," he proclaimed, "I believe one 
of our tuna is missing."
      
**

      Why did I ever leave Boston?, Rebecca 
Washington pondered as she sat beside a sweating 
Ronald Gennari, amid a sea of feds. A 
taxidermied tarpon -- a recent catch by the 
senior VP -- looked accusingly down at the 
conference table and his killer.
      
      Washington had left, well, not a lucrative 
but at least a meaningful practice in 
Massachusetts, after her mentor and senior 
partner Bobby Donnell had bailed out. A few 
months of floundering on her own, accepting 
personal injury and drug cases, had made the 
offer from Pescorp's home office extremely 
attractive. They'd watched her impressive 
performance in a few well-publicized 
litigations, and read about the persuasive Mass 
Supreme Court appeal that had led to the 
acquittal of convicted murderer Lindsay Dole, 
one of Washington's partners.
      
      When Pescorp offered a six-figure salary 
and the post in Maui, Washington recovered from 
her daze long enough to pack up her winter 
wardrobe for the Salvation Army. Now, one 
antitrust and two price-fixing cases later, the 
attorney longed for subzero temps and ankle-deep 
slush.
      
      "A voluntary consultation process is a 
voluntary consultation process," Washington 
protested, grasping for the one legal point that 
wasn't too slippery or full of sharp spines. 
"The cloned progeny of this test animal is not a 
product intended for any commercial release. It 
is merely a basic research specimen. As such, 
consultation requirements do not app—"
      
      "Your employers manufactured this creature 
just for, what, the educational value?" the FDA 
man challenged dryly. "You people produce fish, 
for commercial sale. Even though biotech 
consultation is voluntary, there is an 
expectation..."
      
      "Let's set that aside for a moment," the 
EPA representative said before Washington could 
respond with an albeit shaky point. "Where is 
the T-12, the real one? Do you know its 
whereabouts?"
      
      "Ron," Washington warned as her employer 
turned salmon red and leaned forward.
      
      "Why aren't you--?" the VP growled.
      
      "Ronald," Washington flared, as if she 
were disciplining a child. "You do not talk 
here. I talk for you."
      
      "Why are you busting my balls--?"
      
      "Shut up!" Washington shouted, slamming 
her palm on the table repeatedly. The three 
bureaucrats and the redhead fed stared in 
stunned silence. The odd one, the one who'd 
leveled the cloning accusation, was suppressing 
a giggle.
      
      "—when you oughtta be out there looking 
for those tree-hugging cocksuckers who stole our 
fish?!" Gennari roared.
      
      Washington inhaled, let it slowly go, and 
planted her palms on the conference table. She 
swept her notes into her briefcase and rose.
      
      "The hell are you going?" Gennari snapped.
      
	"Back to the arctic wasteland, Baby," 
Washington said as the hall door shushed close 
behind her. The room fell silent.

	"And we still haven't been offered so much 
as a cup of coffee," Mulder observed.


Lahaina, Maui
4:46 p.m.

	"And this is...?" Scully inquired, her 
sunglasses sliding down her sunblocked nose.

	"This is the Lava Flow," Mulder said, 
depositing the slushy, fruity concoction on the 
towel next to her chaise. "Guaranteed to chase 
away cloned supertunas, killer menehunes, and 
deceased CIA agents."

	She glanced down into the drink. "And 
perhaps loosen my inhibitions?"

	"There is that." Mulder, bedecked in a 
Roswell T-shirt and cargo shorts, took the 
lounge chair next to Scully's.

	"OK, let's hear it," she sighed, laying 
back.

	"What?"

	"You know. The T-12 was stolen from 
Pescorp, and the company was covering it up. I 
was just up in the room, and it's already made 
CNN."

	"Sooo?"

	"Just get it out of your system. I was 
wrong, and you had a valid theory."

	"Yow, don't humble yourself too much," 
Mulder said. "Look, Scully, it doesn't matter 
who reached the proper conclusion -- we've found 
a big piece of the puzzle. And one more 
important thing: Ya-ya-ya, I nailed it!"

	"Good," Scully muttered. "Where are we 
eating?"

	"$12.95 lobster. Six-ish?"

	"Fine. And, oh, by the way: Extensive river 
infrastructure."

	"What?"

	"China, India, Brazil, and Oregon. All have 
major rivers -- the Yangtze, the Ganges, the 
Amazon, and the Columbia. Whatever that tells 
you."

	Mulder stared out at the dark shape of 
Lanai on the horizon. "Rivers. CIA."

	"Are we playing Catchphrase now?"

	"Something's resonating, but I can't quite 
grasp it."

	"It'll come to you," Scully assured him 
drowsily, closing her eyes and turning her face 
to the setting sun. A cool shadow fell across 
her, and her eyes blinked open. Mulder was 
standing before her, a digital camera in his 
hands.

	"What are you doing?"

	Mulder lined up a shot. "I promised 
Frohike."

	"The drink stays..." Scully began.

**

	"YES!"

	Scully jumped at Mulder's exclamation. "Are 
you starting again without me?" she mumbled as 
her cardiac rate slowed and her eyes adjusted to 
the darkness. Mulder came into focus, his face 
and torso illuminated in the glow of his laptop 
as he pecked away at the hotel room work table.

	"Actually," Mulder said, "your somewhat 
over-analytical comments the first time dampened 
my ardor. The good news is, you're about to get 
even in the points."

	"What do you mean?" Scully yawned, crawling 
out of bed and padding over.

	"Just that I think you may have been right 
all along about the T-12."

	"Mulder, help me here..."

	"I don't think the missing T-12 was 
responsible for the fishkills or either of the 
murders," Mulder said, jerking his head toward 
the web page displayed on his Thinkpad. Scully 
leaned in.

	"'CIA gadgets: Robot 'bugs,' pigeon camera, 
jungle microphones,'" she read. "What is this, a 
wire story?"

	"Associated Press, from about three or four 
months ago," Mulder reported. "I thought I 
remembered reading about how The Company had 
been involved with building these goofy, 'Get 
Smart'-style surveillance/infiltration devices, 
from robotic dragonflies they could use to plant 
window bugs to mock tiger dung that can conceal 
a radio transmitter in a jungle war zone."

	"This is what you woke me up for?" Scully 
complained. "A bunch of covert dweebs inventing 
toys to justify their black budgets?"

	"Wait a minute. Scroll down -- right 
there."

	"'Besides the jungle transmitter, the 
exhibits include a robotic catfish, a remote-
controlled dragonfly, and a camera strapped to 
the chests of pigeons and released over enemy 
targets in the 1970s,'" Scully glanced at her 
partner. "Robotic catfish?"

	"Yup. In 2000, the CIA built a catfish 
named Charlie, quote, 'a remarkably realistic 
swimming robot.' The Agency won't say anything 
about how it was used, but some experts think it 
may have been designed to collect water samples 
near suspected chemical or nuclear plants. 
Problem is, the catfish robot, uh, robot 
catfish, was so realistic that it could be eaten 
by predators while on a mission. So sorry, 
Charlie. Scully, what if we're dealing with a 
robotic tuna? What if this was what Crowther was 
working on all those years on the Yangtze, on 
the Amazon?"

	Scully plopped onto the edge of the bed, 
silently meditating. "You know, as ridiculous as 
it sounds, it would explain why we were unable 
to find any foreign DNA in Crowther or those 
dead fish. But, Mulder, the bite marks were a 
precise match for a yellowfin. Realistic fins 
and scales, realistic movements -- those would 
be essential to pass a...robot fish...off as the 
real thing, at least from a reasonable distance. 
But why realistic teeth?"

	"Maybe this tuna was designed to kill," 
Mulder suggested. "Specifically designed to 
replace the T-12 -- the one that was stolen. 
Crowther wouldn't be the first sociopathic spy 
to be born again: Maybe he applied his knowledge 
to help Makule and his buddies make a point 
about biotechnology. The giant mutant tuna 
disappears from the lab, and the next thing you 
know, fish are dying all over the island. 
Jameson said Crowther and the other man arguing 
with him kept yelling about Kaui. What if he 
misheard it, in his inebriated state? What if 
Crowther's friend was yelling, 'Ko'u ahi.' 'My 
yellowfin.' Granted, it ain't Shakespeare. But 
why would these two environmentalists -- avowed 
enemies -- be claiming a genetically engineered 
fish as their own? I think the two of them -- 
Crowther and Makule -- fell into a power 
struggle over their robotic tuna. Maybe Makule 
wanted to make a real point, set the thing loose 
on a few fat tourists. Like I think he did with 
Crowther and Jameson."

	Scully exhaled as she took it in. "But, 
Mulder, wouldn't something like this bionic tuna 
cost tens of thousands, maybe more, to produce? 
How would Crowther or Makule come up with the 
funds or resources to build this thing? And why 
were you so coy with Kamehana today about the 
menewhosises?"

	Mulder turned, his arm drooping over the 
chairback. "Menehune. I think I found the answer 
to that, too." He clicked up his bookmarks and 
punched a key, looking to Scully in triumph. His 
partner examined the image on the screen.

	"Ah huh..." she replied.

	"Yoicks," Mulder yelped.

	Scully patted him on the shoulder. "I'll 
issue a warrant for Ms. Hilton in the morning."


Colonial Maui Tropical Plantation
9:07 a.m.

	"Like so many young idealists in search of 
a divine cause, Vincent Makule made his rounds 
of the activist community," Mulder explained to 
Kamehana as the tall palms of the Tropical 
Plantation came into view. "I Googled him last 
night: He came up in a news story about 
Greenpeace fighting recreational boaters they 
blamed for injuring a humpback whale, an item 
about a PETA demonstration at a Waikiki 
boutique, and, right before he came to work 
here, an outdated news release about his work 
with the Pacific Primate Rescue Program. They 
save monkeys, chimps, and the like from small 
zoos, animal test labs, and the like, and 
relocate them in the islands."

	Mulder pulled into the plantation parking 
lot, where a shuttleful of seniors was 
debarking. Scully and Kamehana trailed him 
through the crowded welcome center and out 
toward the tram loading station. "Makule's 
specialty was animal relocation. When he left 
the rescue program, under what I understand were 
less than amicable circumstances, Makule took 
one of the monkeys with him -- a capuchin. He 
came to Maui and landed this job at the 
plantation, but apparently his landlord had a 
no-apes policy.

      "I called the owner of the plantation this 
morning, and he told me the monkey, AKA Dakota, 
came as a package deal with Makule. Although 
Dakota is prone to biting anyone but Makule and 
occasionally flinging his own feces at loud or 
obnoxious tourists, the management seems to feel 
the monkey was the better part of the deal."
      
      "While I'm never averse to getting out of 
the office," Lt. Kamehana said, "can I ask how 
this is relevant?"
      
      Mulder turned to Scully. "My God, you've 
begun to rub off on the natives. Right up there, 
Lieutenant," the agent instructed, waving toward 
the plantation zoo. "See, I don't think Bobby 
Jameson's delusions about the menehune lurking 
about Peter Crowther's house were really 
delusions at all. I think Makule was the man 
Crowther was arguing with the night he was 
killed, and Dakota was along either for the ride 
or maybe even to manage the robotic tuna, 
somehow. Even some of the lower primates have an 
amazing ability to learn complex series of 
commands."
      
      "The robotic tuna?" Kamehana pondered.
      
      "Later," Scully urged.
      
      "Scully sent off a new DNA sample from 
that scratch we found on Jameson. If we can get 
some hair or whatever from Dakota, I'll bet we 
come up with a match. We may even be able to 
find some trace evidence from Crowther's house 
or yard in the monkey's habita—"
      
      Mulder had arrived at the capuchin's 
large, wire-enclosed frame habitat. The 
enclosure was empty. The agent corralled one of 
the plantation staff, who was feeding a small 
rodent.
      
      "Excuse me," he asked, flashing his Bureau 
credentials. "Where's the monkey?"
      
      "One of the guys -- Vince -- had a yelling 
match with the boss yesterday," she informed. 
"It got kinda ugly, and the boss thinks he took 
Dakota along with some cash and a couple cases 
of bananas last night."
      
      "I'll get somebody over to Makule's 
apartment," Kamehana volunteered. "And we'll get 
a tech crew to go over this cage."
      
      "I'm guessing you won't find Makule 
watching Springer," Mulder lamented. "He's 
probably gone underground."
      
      "Small island," Kamehana noted calmly. 
"We'll get out word at the airports and the 
docks, 'case he tries to get out by boat. You 
want to go back to town?"
      
      Mulder scratched his neck in distracted 
irritation. "Yeah, thanks. I want to check up on 
something."
      
      "I'll check on the results of the DNA 
test," Scully said.
      
      Her partner stared at the empty habitat. 
"Damned dirty ape," Mulder muttered.
      
Hawaii State University Maui Marine Sciences 
Center
Kahalui, Maui
3:21 p.m.

	Dark shapes glided along the perimeter of 
the tank below Philip Lutz. The geneticist 
studied the impassive grace of the mako sharks, 
sleek and quiet but filled with some of the most 
mindlessly lethal potential in either the 
vertebrate or invertebrate worlds.

	Though Dr. Lutz' world existed largely at 
the cellular and molecular levels -- he'd 
accumulated no wife, no children, few real 
friends among the focused egos of the academic 
universe -- he spent hours at the mako tank. 
Their silent but deadly presence was a lesson -- 
and a model -- for the researcher.

      He'd grown disenchanted of late with the 
frustrations and deprivations of the academic 
life, and had begun swimming with sharks.
      
	"Professor?"

	Lutz turned from his sharks. "Ah, Agent 
Mulder. Back for more droning revelations about 
the world of biotechnology?"

	"Actually," Mulder said, "I'd like to talk 
to you about robotics."

	Lutz paused before descending the metal 
steps next to the mako tank. "You want the 
university's engineering department. I'm afraid 
my expertise is limited to the mechanics of 
chromosomal modification and adaptation."

	The agent smiled. "Don't be modest, 
Professor. I'm sure a PhD and Nobel nominee such 
as yourself is a fast study. Peter Crowther may 
have been the engineering mind in your little 
'project,' but I think you provided the 
zoological know-how to help him build a perfect 
T-12. Plus, my guess is you provided the capital 
for Crowther and Makule. I talked to your 
department head at the main campus, and he told 
me you're currently managing close to $12 
million in federal grants. Cutting a few corners 
here and there, it wouldn't be too tough to skim 
off $50,000 or $60,000 or $100,000."

	"Agent Mulder," Lutz sighed, "I'm afraid 
I'm too disoriented by your accusations to be 
outraged. But I believe you're suggesting I have 
some involvement in that man's murder."

	"Oh, I think Vincent Makule's the homicidal 
maniac on this project. You and Crowther simply 
wanted to throw a monkey wrench in Pescorp's 
biotech program, kill a few fish and create a 
little public panic, right? How'd you three ever 
get together? A hotheaded environmentalist, an 
ex-CIA gadget guy, and a distinguished 
scientist. Your whole professional life has been 
devoted to unlocking the secrets of genetics. 
Why suddenly throw in with the anti-biotech 
faction?

	"Or did you have a different agenda?" 
Mulder posed. "I came across some research 
abstracts on the web this morning. Genetic 
Expression of Enhanced Reproductive Traits in 
the Genus Thunnus. That ring a bell? Most of 
your work since you came to Hawaii has been 
directed at helping build disease resistance and 
reproductive capacity in overfished species. 
Basic, meat-and-potatoes research."

	"Basic research for the benefit of the 
planet," Lutz spat. "Not to sell tuna."

	Mulder leaned against a lab table. "You 
said it yesterday. The 'pitfalls' that occur 
'when you transfer technology from the 
university lab to the bottomliners at some 
multinational biosciences outfit.' Or when one 
of your pet grad student jumps ship to sell his 
soul to the corporate machine, right, Professor? 
A C. Nahimi was listed next to your name on the 
tuna research abstract. Did Carl barter some of 
your work for a cushy research post at Pescorp? 
Highly unethical, but probably difficult to 
prove, especially against a deep-pocket, Fortune 
500 company. When Carl dumped science altogether 
to become the head honcho's chief yes-man, that 
must've been the last straw. Crowther and Makule 
thought you'd begun to rethink your life's work, 
when really all this was about was bringing 
Pescorp down. I am curious, though. How did you 
manage to get the T-12 out of the Pescorp lab?"

	Lutz smiled. "A man of your whimsy will 
appreciate the irony. Crowther had the basic 
schematics for our aquatic animatron, and, as 
you pointed out, I had the creative bookkeeping 
skills to help Crowther and that volatile cretin 
Makule realize their ham-headed plan. Makule was 
assembling a crew to break into the Pescorp lab 
and 'liberate' the Thunnus. Some gang of 
delusionary, deconstructionist thugs. But then 
someone beat us to the punch."

	Mulder blinked. "What?"

	"Yes. An island like this is almost like a 
small town: Everyone eventually knows everyone 
else's business. The break-in at Pescorp and the 
company's attempted coverup quickly made the 
island grapevine, and we simply took advantage 
of it."

	Lutz was suddenly being very forthcoming -- 
too forthcoming. Those hoary last-act 
confessions in every bad detective show 
notwithstanding, Mulder had seldom been given so 
much data based on so little solid evidence. His 
hand slipped into his slacks pocket.

	His finger had barely made contact with the 
pre-programmed button when something unwieldy 
made contact with the back of his skull.

	Vincent Makule grinned down at the crumpled 
Mulder, and up at his academic partner-in-crime.

	"'Volatile cretin,' huh?' the 
environmentalist sneered. "Your insults weren't 
so freaking pompous, I'd take a few whacks at 
you, too."


Maui County Police Department
Lahaina, Maui
3:36 p.m.

	"Definitely primate DNA," Scully announced 
as she cradled Kamehana's phone. "They're still 
trying to fix species, but I'd say, under the 
circumstances, we've got a hit."

	The cop swigged his Pepsi. "Now all we 
gotta do is find Dakota's daddy. Got both 
airports covered and the word going out down the 
coast. But you know, even with the Coast Guard's 
radar out, it won't be too tough for Makule to 
get to one of the other islands."

	Scully rubbed her temple. "Should be a 
little tougher if he's packing a robotic 
yellowfin tuna the size of Shamu the Whale."

	"There's that."

	Scully's cell phone warbled. "Agent 
Scully...Hello?" She glanced at the phone's 
readout. "Mulder? Mulder...?"

**

	The impact with the water shocked Mulder 
back to consciousness. The breath control 
exercises he'd mastered with the Oxford swim 
team instinctively kicked in, and he used his 
legs to stabilize himself as he drifted toward 
what appeared to be a tiled floor.

	Mulder's wrists had been cuffed behind him, 
and he kicked back toward the blue sky 
shimmering above him. Then he heard the muffled 
sound of someone diving into the semi-cloudy 
water, and turned to see a murky figure sinking 
perhaps 15 feet away. The large, long object 
suddenly arced, and what he now could identify 
as fins began to twitch. Adrenalin pumped into 
his brain and throughout his body, and Mulder 
shot up toward the surface of the pool or tank 
or whatever he now shared with the animatronic 
T-12.

	The "tuna" jerked to life, and Makule or 
Lutz guided it at breakneck speed toward the FBI 
agent. Mulder used his upper body strength in 
the low-gravity environment to whirl out of the 
robot's path, and he spun as the plastic-skinned 
metal shell of the "fish" collided with his hip. 
The "tuna" banked, and Mulder, lungs beginning 
to burn, kicked frantically toward the light.

	The agent's head broke the surface, and he 
sucked in a welcome gallon of air as he quickly 
scanned what he now recognized to be the 
swimming pool of some abandoned hotel or 
apartment house. Mulder caught a glimpse of 
Makule and Lutz, some small device in Makule's 
hand, before he re-emerged to escape the rapidly 
approaching robot. It was roughly five feet away 
and closing, and Mulder rocketed down past it 
and came around to see it circling back. Was the 
thing guided in part by body heat? Had that been 
the CIA's original purpose for Charlie the 
Catfish and his mechanical cousins? Aquatic 
killing machines?

	Mulder again lurched to the side, but this 
time, the mock "T-12" seized his pants leg and 
ripped away a long ribbon of fabric. The agent 
paddled away, and could practically feel the 
piscine missile again bearing down on him.

	A second missile broke the water cloaked in 
froth and bubbles, and Mulder watched the 
speeding object, transfixed, as the robotic 
killer shot toward him. The dead-eyed "fish" was 
mere feet from Mulder's face, jaws deployed, 
when the second missile connected. The tuna 
jerked and convulsed as a metal shaft sunk into 
its synthetic "skin" and a barbed point ripped 
through its underbelly. The "T-12" convulsed, 
and Mulder could see sparks ignite in the black 
void beyond its razor "teeth." Then the fins 
jerked to a stop, and the giant faux fish 
drifted to "clunk" onto the pool floor.

	A splash sounded behind Mulder, and he 
whipped around. Did they have two robots? An 
army of them, ready to converge on Honolulu, Los 
Angeles, Miami? He nearly sighed in sheer, 
blood-draining relief before remembering he was 
underwater. The redheaded siren glided the 
through the murk, clutched his arm, and dragged 
him upward.

	As Mulder and Scully's heads broke the 
membrane between water and oxygen, Mulder saw 
Kamehana, speargun tucked under his arm, 
standing above the prostrate figures of Vincent 
Makule and Philip Lutz. The conspirators, their 
hands cuffed behind them, wriggled ineffectually 
like a pair of mackerels.

      Scully tugged him to the side, and the cop 
helped yank him from the dirty water.
      
	"Good thinking with the cell phone," his 
partner puffed as she climbed out of the pool, 
dripping, and -- to Mulder's amusement -- 
stooped to recover her good pumps. "Phone 
company tracked the signal almost right to the 
lobby."

	"Yeah, well, I hope Skinner will 
requisition me a new one," Mulder said as 
Kamehana unlocked his cuffs. He withdrew his now 
defunct Nokia, which bleed dirty water onto the 
pool deck. "Hey, nice shootin', Sheriff Ahab."

	"Normally don't kill what I don't eat," 
Kamehana murmured, hefting the spear gun and 
glancing at the colossal dark shape at the 
bottom of the pool. 

	Mulder kneeled beside Lutz and Makule. "You 
know what, guys? The tuna here SUCKS." He looked 
to Scully with his best Jack Lord scowl. "Book 
'em, Dana."

	"I should have thrown you back," she 
reflected.



Lahaina, Maui
2 p.m.

	Scully absently thumped her skull against 
the headboard, glumly watching the palm trees 
outside the lanai window groan and the Pacific 
roil under 60-mile-per-hour winds and driving, 
nearly horizontal rains.

      Pleased with the resolution of the 
Crowther and Jameson murders and exposure of the 
fraudulent yellowfin, Skinner had given his 
agents an extra few days in Maui to "clean up 
some details and liaise with local law 
enforcement." The island's worst tropical storm 
of the year had commenced just as Scully had 
completed packing her case notes and unpacking 
her sun block.
      
      "You wanna play another game of 
Scattergories?" Mulder suggested, surfing 
through the channels for the tenth time that 
hour. "You know, that special version?"
      
      "Only if you make the 'clues' a little 
harder," Scully muttered sourly. "What do you 
think happened to the T-12, the real one? I 
mean, that's why we came here, right?"
      
      Mulder clicked off the set and flopped 
back at her feet. "I dunno. None of the activist 
groups ever came forward to claim the credit. I 
wondered for a while if maybe one of Pescorp's 
competitors might've made off with the T-12 
either to steal the technology or discredit the 
industry's big fish, but wouldn't you think 
they'd have covered their tracks by trying to 
frame the anti-biotech people?
      
      "Lutz said Pescorp probably encoded 
safeguards into those tuna -- severe nutrient 
deficiencies, terminator genes to prevent 
reproduction. Maybe outside its controlled 
laboratory environment, the T-12 simply couldn't 
survive. Maybe our enviro-burglars got home to 
discover their prize catch had turned into a few 
hundred pounds of rotting sushi. Or maybe one 
day, Pescorp found one of its futuristic fishies 
floating at the top of the tank and flushed it 
down the toilet. Maybe the only thing worse than 
creating a Frankenstein is doing a botch job of 
it. Whatever the case, I doubt our megatuna will 
ever turn up alive or pose a threat to the 
environment. The enviros wouldn't let it loose, 
and the corporate sharks wouldn't let it go. So 
let's order up a couple mai-tais and some room 
service and toast our absent friend."
      
      Scully peered dully at the smudged sky and 
sighed audibly. "Anything but ahi."
      
      "That's the Aloha spirit," Mulder said 
brightly.
      
Molokai, Hawaii
Ten months later

	Chuck Kinau grunted as he hoisted two bags 
of high-protein, floating soy pellets over his 
beefy shoulder and headed down to the inlet. His 
stomach full of leftover ku'lolo -- taro/coconut 
cream pudding -- and the setting sun casting 
warm orange tones on his small house and the 
recently constructed fabricated steel processing 
shack, he smiled unconsciously. It was something 
he'd seldom done when he was punching a clock at 
Pescorp.

	Chuck had bailed out of Pescorp soon after 
the stories about missing mutant fish and 
cloning experiments hit CNN and Fox. After the 
home office had announced it was moving its 
Pacific division offshore to Thailand -- which 
was courting biotech firms with a Viagra-like 
fervor -- the security guard had a plausible 
out. The Pescorp management, emphasizing its 
gratitude in advance for Chuck's discretion 
regarding the T-12 project, offered him the most 
gracious golden parachute ever extended to 
anyone of his job grade.

	The company's severance check provided his 
family the seed money and Pescorp's departure 
from the islands the opening it needed to 
relocate to Molokai and take out a state-backed, 
low-interest venture capital loan. With that 
loan, the family was able to secure two almost-
new fishing boats and some processing and flash-
freezing equipment purchased at a fire sale from 
a retooling Pescorp. 

	The consumer backlash against Pescorp, 
seized upon by Greenpeace as an opportunity to 
grab a Dateline segment on corporate 
overfishing, proved a boon for the smaller 
seafood companies. The Kinau clan's Moana Gold 
brand hit pay dirt with a somewhat vacuous 
"Family-Fished" label that appealed to suburban 
and metro mainlanders willing to pay for the 
notion that they were simultaneously eating 
healthier, sticking it to the Big Guys, and 
probably saving dolphins and maybe even whales. 
That thought amused Chuck, whose grand scheme 
had been motivated by dreams of sticking it to 

	Chuck's nephew Kyle, the HSU electronics 
grad who'd helped circumvent Pescorp's 
computerized security system, had devised the 
new company's advertising and marketing strategy 
and developed Moana Gold's increasingly familiar 
"Aaaaah-hi!" radio and TV campaign. Cousin 
Mickey, who'd helped liberate the T-12 from its 
tank and re-liberate it from Pescorp's low-
security maintenance plant after the cops had 
investigated the lab "break-in," had proven a 
master at keeping seafood shipping costs in 
line. And Tina, Chuck's girl, who had taken a 
few junior genetics courses from Dr. Philip Lutz 
before earning her own masters in molecular 
biology, headed research and development for the 
family business.

	R&D focused largely on improved methods of 
packaging, extending shelf-life without losing 
flavor or mouth-feel, and testing flavors for a 
planned line of Hawaiian-style yellowfin entrees 
(Wolfgang Puck in a Los Angeles Times Sunday 
interview had predicted Luau would be 2005's 
Next Big Cuisine, and Kyle had storyboarded a 
national TV spot urging up-scaled consumers to 
"Get Tuna-ed In"). Tina also was charged with 
Moana Gold's special "breeding" project, which 
was based in the fenced inlet into which Chuck 
now hauled his high-protein rations.

	As general manager of production for Moana 
Gold, Chuck had studied up on joint 
Chinese/American Soybean Association feeding 
trials for both freshwater and marine fish 
species. The floating pellets he fed "Tina's 
Tuna" improved feed efficiency and individual 
rate of gain and, at least to Chuck's belief, 
enhanced the taste of the ahi. He ripped climbed 
onto one of the catwalks that extended across 
the inlet and ripped open the bags. Pellets 
rained into the turquoise water and floated on 
the surface like so many tiny islands.

	Chuck loved this part, and he leaned on the 
catwalk railing with an anticipatory grin. Soon, 
a school of huge-but-graceful creatures 
converged on the islets, their distinctive, 
slender pectoral fins parting the warm waters of 
the gated cove. A round head the size of a 
killer whale's broke the water and gobbled a 
dozen pellets with one sweep. More heads emerged 
to greedily inhale the soy rations.

	Chuck Kinau shook his head. The big brains 
at Pescorp were so confident in their science, 
in their "diploid" or dipwad or whatever 
technology they'd called it, that they'd missed 
a major hitch in their project. Chuck's people 
had been raised with the sea in their blood, 
with the lovely stench of fresh catch in their 
nostrils, and he knew just by looking at the 
original T-12 that its genetically guaranteed 
"sterility" was no more than a fish tale 
perpetrated upon those who thought to second-
guess God and the genetic code.

	"E komo mai!"

	Chuck turned to see his brother Kevin 
waving to him from the rock above the inlet.

	"Come on!" the stocky young man repeated in 
impatient English. "Mom wants us to come for 
supper tonight. She got some T-bones down at the 
market, or there's still plenty of that aku Jack 
caught the other day."

	"Steak, man," Chuck shouted emphatically. 
"You know I hate fish."