------------------------------
The Sentinel Project Part 5
by Lianne Burwell
October 2002
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By late afternoon, there was little sign of Suzanne's 
temper tantrum, other than the dents in the wall plaster. 
Electricians had already been in to install new cameras, 
including the one behind the mirror in the bathroom. 
Suzanne hadn't bothered protesting; she knew that it 
wouldn't do any good.

New furniture was set up around the room, just as flimsy as 
before. Now she realized that it had probably been chosen 
because it would break before it could be used as a proper 
weapon, other than those few pieces too large and unwieldy 
to be used. The bastards seemed to think of everything. Now 
she was left waiting, alone. Even Ceto was gone, and she 
found herself missing the company. Suzanne wasn't a very 
solitary person. Even when she'd been living alone in 
Cascade, she'd lived in an apartment building full of life 
and had socialized with her co-workers frequently. She 
wondered, briefly, what they thought of her disappearance. 
Was anyone even looking for her?

Part of her wished that Harrison and the others had never 
contacted her. It had been wonderful to see them all -- 
especially Paul, whom she'd thought dead for so many years 
-- but a small, selfish part of her would have preferred 
not to see any of them, not even her own daughter. She 
could have gone on with her life, never having to face 
another alien invasion, let alone government conspiracies. 
Instead, her second life had been destroyed just as surely 
as the first one had been.

Her anxiety levels were building again, and she started 
pacing. The urge to hit something was back, but she 
restrained herself. It had been made quite clear to her 
that if she made trouble, Debi would stay wherever she was. 
Behave, and her daughter would be returned to her. Simple 
punishment and reward. Crude, but effective.

The light outside was starting to dim when she finally 
heard the sound of voices in the hallway again. Knowing 
what was expected, she moved as far from the door as she 
could get while staying in the room. She had no intention 
of not being there.

The door opened, and two large men brought a gurney in. 
They eyed her suspiciously, then rolled the gurney into 
Debi's bedroom. There, they carefully transferred her 
daughter from the gurney to the bed and set up the IVs. 
Debi was very still, and Suzanne bit into her lower lip. As 
soon as the men left, she moved to sit on the side of the 
bed.

"Oh, sweetie. What have they done to you?" After Ceto's 
cheerful revelation, she'd started reexamining everything 
that had happened since her arrival at this place. Debi had 
been ill most mornings, but she'd complained of an acid 
stomach, so she'd put it down to stress. Perhaps even the 
beginnings of an ulcer. After all, she'd had an acid 
stomach herself. So she'd steered Debi towards foods that 
were easier on an upset stomach, and it had seemed to be 
helping.

Now, she was looking at that in a new light. The men hadn't 
covered Debi when they put her in the bed, and under the 
thin hospital gown, Suzanne could see that Debi's stomach 
was already showing a slight bulge, which disturbed her. 
Somehow, she didn't think that the people here would be 
quite so concerned about Debi if she'd been pregnant before 
her arrival -- and surely Debi would have told her if that 
was the case. That meant that whatever the cause of the 
pregnancy, it was proceeding faster than was normal. For a 
human pregnancy, that is.

"mommy?"

The tiny whisper drew her attention back up to Debi's face. 
Her eyes were open, but they were dazed and confused. She 
looked like she'd been drugged.

"I'm here, sweetie," Suzanne said, brushing the wispy blond 
hair back from her daughter's eyes. Debi hadn't called her 
'mommy' since she was a little girl, but in the last week, 
she'd done it twice, once when Suzanne had arrived, and 
now. That little lapse told her just how scared her 
daughter was.

And truth be told, Suzanne was getting pretty scared 
herself. What were the people in this place doing?

>>>~~~<<<

"Now, I suppose that you are all wondering just why you 
have been brought here." Spender smiled widely, amused by 
the turn of phrase. It was foolish, but one took one's 
pleasures where one could.

"You could say that," Blair Sandburg muttered to himself. 
The doctor was the shortest man in the room -- and nearly 
the shortest person -- but the amount of anger the man was 
radiating made him seem much larger than he was. He was a 
smart young man -- much like another young man who'd 
interested Spender for many years -- and he'd probably 
figured out that the only way that the group of people in 
the room could have been targeted was if his research had 
been tapped into. Not only that, but the only place he'd 
actually kept the *names* was on his personal laptop and 
files he kept at home, all carefully encoded and password 
protected, and never connected to the phone line.

"Well, you could say that you have been brought here so 
that you can serve your country," Spender said, holding out 
his hands. Most of the people in the room were staring 
daggers at him.

"And which country would that be?" a woman at the back 
asked. She was tall, with dark brown hair, and a French 
Canadian accent. Marie Beaudaire was a psychiatrist from 
Montreal, so from her, it was a good question.

"The United States, of course, but can you really say that 
what effects us does not affect Canada?"

She didn't answer, but he knew the answer. Many people 
scoffed the American attitude that the world revolved 
around them, but in truth, it wasn't far off the mark. The 
world economy rose and fell with the American economy, and 
since the collapse of the Soviet Union, no other country 
was more powerful militarily. The White House spoke and the 
world jumped, either for or against.

And now, with a pretender in the Oval Office, that had 
become a severe problem. Michaels had always been a 
problem, too eager to act *now* rather than wait. A common 
problem among the young and inexperienced.

"Now, as we all know, the people in this room have 
special... abilities that are valuable to the government. 
For that reason, you have all been invited here." That 
raised a chorus of snorts from around the room. "And it is 
in your best interests to cooperate."

"Why?" another woman said from one side wall. She was 
blonde and powerfully built. The man standing next to her, 
holding her hand, looked almost small next to her, even 
though he was actually quite tall, if slimly built.

"Sergeant Jeffries, I'm sure that you've been watching the 
news lately. Doctor Kahlid, you especially would have 
reason for that considering the paranoia that is sweeping 
the country. Mosques firebombed, anyone even vaguely Arab 
looking targeted. With the latest rumors that the IRA was 
also involved in the assassination, businesses with Irish 
names have been targets of vandalism. This country is 
slowly descending into chaos.

"And the truth is, none of the evidence being touted in the 
press is real. The man behind the assassination and the 
attempt on the President is the man who is currently 
occupying the Oval Office." He paused and waited for the 
inevitable protests to fade. It took several minutes. "No, 
I cannot give you proof that will stand up in a court of 
law. If I could, none of you would be here, and this crisis 
would be over. Instead, it is gaining steam as manufactured 
evidence appears at the right moments to fan the fires even 
higher. In a few more weeks, the US military will be sent 
into the middle east to extract the men supposedly behind 
the attack, despite their very real protests of innocence. 
And in the meantime, there will probably be another attack, 
just to make sure that no one objects. In fact, by that 
time, protesting the government will be considered high 
treason."

Spender walked over to the coffee maker and poured himself 
a cup, then sat down and lit a cigarette. "Right now, 
you've got two choices. You can help stop this. Or you can 
stay here. And believe me, the scientists have all sorts of 
ideas for experiments involving Sentinels and Guides. We 
are *not* nice people, and it is in your best interests to 
work with us."

"Feel free to discuss among yourselves, but each of you 
needs to make a choice before you leave this room. And once 
that choice is made, there is no going back."

>>>~~~<<<

The twelve men and women clustered together in the center 
of the room, around one of the tables. The guards at the 
exits were carefully examined, and it was decided that 
trying to make a break for it was not going to work. That 
left the question of the choice given them by the man 
currently sitting at the edge of the room, casually smoking 
a cigarette.

"So, do we believe him?" a man asked. He was large in every 
sense of the word, but definitely muscle instead of fat. He 
had a healing cut on the side of the head, telling Paul 
that he probably hadn't come quietly.

Paul glanced at Harrison, but it was Ellison that answered. 
"I think we all agree that he was telling the truth," he 
said, and several of the group nodded. Paul assumed that 
they were the Sentinels. "So the question is, was it really 
the truth, or does he just believe it is?"

Paul tapped the table top softly. "We've seen a bit more of 
him than you have," he said, nodding to Harrison. "And 
after the last few weeks, I would believe just about 
anything. The only thing is, what the hell is he talking 
about?"

Ellison blinked, then frowned. "You haven't seen the news?"

Paul sighed. "We've been locked in a variety of small rooms 
since the last time you saw us. No TV or newspapers or 
radios. And no one talks about anything while in earshot of 
either of us. What is going on?"

"Two assassination attempts, simultaneous, done by sleeper 
agents in the secret service. The vice-president is dead, 
and the president is in critical condition in a hidden 
location. Like the man said, evidence has been released to 
the press that proves that middle-eastern terrorists are 
behind this. More recently, the IRA has been implicated as 
well. If he *is* right, then this is one hell of a 
conspiracy."

"Shit," Paul muttered to himself. Unfotunately, as crazy as 
the story sounded, he believed it.

Harrison who snorted. "In that case, it wouldn't surprise 
me at all if this is the work of one of their own people, 
and they want us to clean up their mess," he said 
cynically, making Paul wince. This was the man who had once 
insisted on believing the best in people.

The others, who were all strangers to Paul, were watching 
them suspiciously. "Who are you two anyway?" the woman who 
had been identified as a Sergeant asked. "The rest of us 
have met, but we don't know you. How do we know that you 
aren't plants, since you know so much about these people?"

Paul and Harrison exchanged glances. "My name is Colonel 
Paul Ironhorse, and this is my partner," Paul said the word 
in a way that implied everything that they were to each 
other, "Doctor Harrison Blackwood. We just ran into Ellison 
and Sandburg a few weeks ago, but Ellison knew me back when 
he was in the military, so he should be able to vouch for 
me. And we don't really know *that* much about these 
people. As for what we do know, it's a very long story. Too 
long for right now, since the guards are starting to look 
twitchy."

Twitchy was one way to describe them. Spender looked more 
relaxed, but he wasn't going to give them forever to 
debate.

Sandburg glanced around the group, meeting everyone's eyes 
in turn. "He's right. We need to make a choice fast. Does 
anyone have any comments?"

A slim Arab man spoke up this time. He was hanging onto the 
arm of the man with the head injury, although it looked 
like he was trying more to hold him up rather than looking 
for comfort himself. "I really don't see that we have a 
choice. Whether we believe him or not, it is clear that we 
either cooperate, or else. And I don't know about the rest 
of you, but I have no interest in finding out what that 'or 
else' entails."

"I've experienced some of that 'or else' already, I think, 
and I have no intention of going through it again," 
Harrison said firmly, and under the table, Paul squeezed 
his hand. The experiments that they'd been put through 
before being handed over to Katara had been annoying for 
him, but by the time they'd left Spender's hands, it 
wouldn't have taken much more to send the other man over 
the edge. The only thing that had been letting him hang 
onto his sanity was Paul's constant presence and coaching.

"I vote we cooperate, at least for the time being, as 
well," he said. It got him some more suspicious looks, but 
he ignored them. In their place, he'd be pretty damned 
suspicious too. For that matter, he didn't trust Spender 
any further than he could toss him, but like Harrison and 
the other man had pointed out, they didn't have much 
choice. But eventually...

They went around the table, and the others all agreed, with 
varying degrees of reluctance. Certainly, no one seemed 
thrilled by the idea of cooperating with an organization 
that didn't think twice of kidnapping people, even foreign 
nationals.

Decision made, they turned. Spender stubbed out the remains 
of his cigarette, even though he didn't have an ashtray, 
and stood up again. "Well?"

"If we cooperate, what happens after this crisis is over?" 
Sandburg asked.

Spender's eyebrow went up. "That will be decided when it 
actually *is* over," he said, not bothering to make any 
fancy promises that none of them would believe anyway.

Ellison spoke for them all. "We're in. For now," he added 
ominously, his arms crossed over his chest. He'd changed a 
lot from the arrogant, but at the same time insecure, 
recruit that Paul remembered. He'd matured into a man who 
was a definite leader, and he managed to insert a wealth of 
threat into the four words.

"A wise decision."

"So, now what happens?"

"You go back to your rooms."

With that, Spender turned and left the room, and the guards 
stepped forward, guns held ready. He may have accepted 
their word, but he obviously wasn't going to trust them.

>>>~~~<<<

The trip to Chicago took longer than it normally would 
have, thanks to curfews and periodic roadblocks. 
Thankfully, the fake Ids they were carrying stood up to 
casual examination by bored local cops, but they knew 
better than to go near airports or anywhere else where 
there would be security cameras hooked up to computers with 
facial recognition software. Mulder had seen the software 
in operation often enough to know that while it wasn't 
foolproof, it would probably pick them out of a crowd, even 
if they were wearing disguises. No, better to stick to the 
roads.

Mulder leaned against one of the parked bikes while he 
waited for Krycek to check them into the motel. The place 
was pretty skuzzy looking, but Krycek said that he'd used 
it in the past, and the owners weren't going to ask any 
questions unless they got loud enough that someone called 
the police. It would be their base of operations for as 
long as they were actually in Chicago. This was where they 
would hunt down the first of Krycek's contacts.

Krycek left the small bungalow that was the motel's office, 
tossing a key up, then snatching it out of the air. "127," 
he said, tossing Mulder the key. "Right at the end of the 
row, backing out onto the open fields behind this place. 
It's almost dark, so you go get our stuff inside. I'll go 
grab some food. Any preferences?"

Mulder's stomach growled on cue. "Pizza," he said after a 
moment's thought. "That way, we've got something for 
breakfast too." It had been a while since he'd had cold 
pizza for breakfast, but it had also been a while since 
he'd eaten breakfast regularly.

Krycek nodded. "Pizza it is. Meat-lover's good with you?" 
Mulder nodded. "All right, see you in a few."

Krycek unhooked his saddlebags and set them on the ground, 
then climbed onto his bike and headed off. Mulder wanted to 
ask the man just how he planned to carry a pizza on a 
motorcycle, but Krycek was already out of earshot. Shaking 
his head, Mulder picked up Krycek's bags, then got onto his 
own bike. Balancing his burden was a little awkward, but he 
got the bike down to the end of the long, two-story 
building, and after a moment's thought, parked it around 
the end, where it wouldn't be visible from the street.

He unlocked the door carefully and eased it open, listening 
for any evidence that someone was waiting for him inside. 
There was nothing. Moving confidently, he dropped the bags 
on one of the two beds, then checked the rest of the room. 
The main room was standard for all hotels. There were two 
beds that were laughably called queen sized -- their feet 
would be hanging over the end, yet again. The TV sat on top 
of the low chest of drawers. He turned it on and flipped 
channels until he found a news station. CNN, MSNBC, Fox 
News. It didn't matter which it was, these days, they were 
all saying the same politically correct things.

There was also a small table in the corner with two 
uncomfortable looking straight back chairs. The phone was 
on the bedside table sitting between the two beds. It had a 
jack for customers to plug their laptop modem into, but 
Mulder had no intention of using it. It was too easy to 
monitor.

The bathroom was equally ordinary, other than the fact that 
there was a window in the shower, overlooking the field 
behind the motel. It did lock from the inside, though, and 
Mulder made sure it was. It was also large enough for an 
adult male to fit through, Mulder noted, so if there *was* 
trouble, they had a back way out. Nice.

As satisfied as he was going to get, Mulder kicked off his 
shoes and sat down on one of the beds, pulling over his 
laptop bag. He pulled out the computer and connected it to 
his cell phone. It wasn't perfect security, but there were 
no records that could tie it to him, or anyone associated 
with him.

Mulder sighed as he logged onto the net. He'd never been 
the most trusting of people -- his motto was 'trust no 
one', after all -- and the list of people he actually did 
trust numbered two. But, on the other hand, he'd never been 
quite as paranoid as he'd become in the last few weeks. Of 
course, the entire world was becoming paranoid, but that 
didn't comfort him. He wanted things to go back to normal, 
and soon. He wanted to be back in his basement office, 
going off to investigate werewolves and vampires, with 
Scully debunking all of his theories. The only change he 
wanted was a hot and ready Alex waiting for him at home.

With that pleasant thought, he went back to checking the 
boards for messages.

TO BE CONTINUED