Doors of Perception 2: The Doors of Their Assemblies
Author: Mice and Lady Jaguar
Email: just_us_mice@yahoo.com, latigre@cielo.org
Category: LGM/XF/The Sentinel crossover, Doggett/Byers pre-
slash, Jim/Blair, Byers/Blair UST 
Warnings: m/m, non-con but no rape, h/c, violence, angst, 
drama, humor.
Sequel to: DoP1: In Light Revealed
Rating: NC-17
Summary: When Sentinels collide... well, let's just say that 
two Guideless Sentinels are not happy company. Byers and 
Blair -- in trouble again, for the first time. Featuring 
technology, funky poaching, Feds, smut, cops, County 
Mounties, and K-9 unit Ralph the Wonder Dog. Oh, and happy 
endings. Must not forget happy endings. We're suckers for 
that happy ending thing. And smut. Did we mention socially 
unredeeming smut?
Archive: Basement, Lone Slasher, XFMU, LGM Fanfic Bunker, 
Glass Onion, FHSA, WWOMB, 852 Prospect, TSStoryfinders, all 
others ask.
Feedback: Feed me, Seymour!
Website: Mice's Hole in the Wall -- 
https://www.squidge.org/mice/
Mirror: Mice's Hole in the Wall -- http://mice.inkpress.org/
Disclaimer: These yummy guys are actually owned by Fox and 
1013, and by Pet Fly. If we owned them, they'd be having a 
hell of a lot more fun, and probably a lot more angst, too. 
Not to mention that thing about The Sentinel, XF, and the 
Lone Gunmen being cancelled. Can you say denial? We knew you 
could.
Author notes: Thanks to raven for Sentinel beta, CaroDee for 
godlike everything, SallyH for Gunmen beta, and the Usual 
Suspects in #LGM for running commentary through the whole 
thing.

HOOVER BUILDING
A.D. WALTER SKINNER'S CONFERENCE ROOM
WASHINGTON, DC
MONDAY, 1:40 P.M.

Someone was kicking his ankle.

Doggett blinked back to awareness and refocused his eyes on 
the gun in front of him. Someone was speaking and it took a 
few seconds to realize that his name was being called.

"Agent Doggett?" A.D. Skinner sounded annoyed.

He shook his head to clear it. "Yes, sir?"

"If you're finished with the evidence, pass it back."

"Yes, sir." He sheepishly passed it to Scully, who favored 
him with a glare that could have crisped concrete at fifty 
paces. Judging from the scowls from the other agents in the 
room, he had been holding onto the gun for several minutes. 
Another one of those damned things Blair Sandburg called a 
'zone-out.'

"Doggett, what's been going on here?" Skinner's hands were 
clasped on the table before him. He looked as annoyed as he 
sounded.

"Sorry, sir," he said. "I've been tired lately." He rubbed 
his face with one hand and looked back at Skinner.

"He's had a hard time getting over that virus," Scully added 
loyally.

"I'm fine, Scully. Just tired."

She shook her head. "You were hospitalized," she said 
quietly.

"Later," he said.

They both turned their attention back to the meeting. He'd 
deal with it later.

HOOVER BUILDING
X-FILES OFFICE
3:00 P.M.

"...and that's the *third* episode you've had *today.*" 
Scully was doing her Doctor Scully, Medicine Woman impression 
again. Doggett listened as patiently as he could manage under 
the circumstances. "John Doggett, epilepsy is not some sort 
of crime, but those petit mal seizures you're having--"

He held up a hand. "It's not epilepsy. And I've already seen 
a doctor. I know what it is."

"Well?" She folded her arms and stared at him.

"I've got an appointment with Dr. Sandburg on Friday." It was 
a lie, but as soon as he got a little private time, he was 
going to call the anthropologist and arrange a meeting for 
the weekend. He would have preferred something earlier, but 
the government's leave policies were neither liberal nor 
generous and right now he had a bare nine days of "personal 
time" left.

"And what's his diagnosis?" Scully wasn't going to let this 
one go easily.

"Well, I don't really know the medical name for this." It was 
a weak half-truth, but if he'd mentioned any diagnosis, 
Scully would have been pinning him down about the details. 
"It's some sort of thing that affects the senses and 
concentration. It's just temporary. I'll get him to write it 
down so I can show it to you, okay? In the meantime, he said 
I needed to just take aspirin and be sure I get lots of 
sleep."

She nodded, not quite satisfied, and picked up the folder of 
case files. "I'll run these over to Records," she offered. 
"It's close to quitting time, anyway. Why don't you pack it 
in a little early and talk to that doctor. See if you can 
move the appointment up a bit."

"Thanks, Scully. Will do." She stared at him for a moment and 
then left. He listened to her as she walked down the 
corridor, entered the elevator, rode to the second floor, and 
walked down the hall towards Records. It was an effort to 
stop listening, but he forced himself. Sandburg had warned 
him that as the Sentinel senses got stronger, zone-outs 
became more of a problem. He pulled a set of earplugs from 
his pocket and put them in his ears, then put on his 
sunglasses. Maybe he could make it home without getting into 
a traffic accident.

By the time he got back home to Falls Church, he'd found 
himself the target of some guy's road rage because he'd zoned 
on the scent of coffee from a street-side cafe, and came out 
of it just in time to avoid a collision. The earplugs had 
helped with the sound but they didn't keep him from fixating 
on a blinking light, leaving him sitting at a stoplight for 
he had no idea how long.

Thank God he'd made it home in one piece. He was a road 
hazard. Damn this Sentinel shit anyway.

He spent a few minutes collecting himself, then pulled 
Sandburg's card from his wallet. With a sigh, he picked up 
the phone and dialed.

"Detective Sandburg." 

Doggett swore at himself. These zone-outs were also making 
him forgetful. Cascade was on the west coast, and it was the 
middle of the day there. Sandburg would be sitting at his 
desk in Major Crimes, working on cases.

"Hey, Sandburg, it's John Doggett."

"Good to hear from you! Any new developments?" The response 
was smooth and friendly and gave away nothing. If there were 
listeners, they might have assumed that Sandburg was talking 
to a colleague or an informant.

Doggett took a breath before starting. "I need to come talk 
to you and Ellison. Some issues have come up, and I need some 
guidance."

There was a long pause. "Guidance issues, huh?" Sandburg's 
tone said that he knew exactly what was going on. Doggett 
squirmed.

 "Uh... our schedules aren't really working out." Okay, that 
was a blatant lie. He'd hardly even spoken to Byers since 
they'd been back from that fiasco of a visit to Cascade. 
"It's been a couple weeks at least, I think." The admission 
embarrassed him. "Scully's been noticing the zone-outs. Well, 
the worst of 'em, anyway. There were three today while I was 
at work that she mentioned. I had a couple more on the way 
home. Deputy Director Kersh is on my division just looking 
for an excuse to shut us down, so screwing up like this isn't 
an option. I... I need some help with this."

"Yes, you do." The anthropologist had obviously mastered the 
art of Instant Guilt. He heard him whisper, "Jim, he's not 
working with Byers like we told him to. He wants to come 
out."

Ellison's voice responded quietly. "I told you he'd be 
stubborn about it. When does he want to come?"

"When can you get here?" Sandburg asked, speaking into the 
phone again.

"How's Friday sound? I can't get out of here any sooner. I 
don't have much leave time, so I need to do this on the 
weekend. I'm gonna try to get Friday off."

"Sure, that's fine. Jim and I have to testify on Friday, but 
it's okay. We'll work around it. Just let us know when we 
need to be at the airport, okay?"

Doggett nodded to no one in particular. "Yeah, I'll call you 
as soon as I've got the flight booked. Thanks, guys. I 
appreciate it."

"No problem. But John?"

"Yeah?"

There was annoyance in Sandburg's voice. "You and Byers 
*both* have to come. And don't give me that schedule shit. I 
know you're lying."

Damned Guides -- you couldn't put anything over on them. 
Doggett sighed and hung up. The rest of the week was going to 
be hell.

He took a few minutes to breathe before he called to make the 
flight arrangements. It had been a while since he'd flown on 
his own nickel, and the price of a ticket so close to the 
flight date made him want to wheeze. He ended up with a red-
eye that put him in Cascade by 5:00 A.M. Friday morning. His 
wallet would be feeling that blow for a couple of months.

OFFICES OF THE LONE GUNMEN
TAKOMA PARK, MARYLAND
7:12 P.M.

"He hasn't returned any of my calls since we got back," Byers 
said into the phone, anger getting the better of him. "Why 
should I bother? He doesn't care, why should I?"

"I'm serious, John," Blair said. "This is critical. When he 
called, he reported that he'd zoned like three times today, 
just at work, and a couple more on the way home. He's going 
to get himself killed. God knows, he may not last the week at 
this rate."

Byers sighed and ran a hand through his hair. His stomach 
hurt. "I've offered, Blair, but I can't just show up on his 
doorstep and demand that he let me help him. Besides, I have 
a life. I have work to do; a newspaper to run. I don't have 
time for whatever game he's playing." He was finding it hard 
to control the exasperation in his voice.

Langly entered the living space from the stairs to the 
office. "What's up?"

Byers looked over at him. "It's Blair. Agent Doggett's going 
to Cascade, and Blair wants me to go out there too."

"You have to," Blair said.

Langly's eyes lit up and he grinned. "Cascade! Cool! I'll get 
packed up, and email Marconi--"

"We are *not* going to Cascade!" Byers snapped, as much at 
Blair as at Langly. "Doggett decided he wants to do this 
without my help, and I can't force it on him."

"He wouldn't be calling me if he didn't need you," Blair 
insisted. He sounded almost reasonable. 

Langly tilted his head and looked at Byers. "Dude, you *know* 
what he was like in the hospital out there. I know he's been 
jerkin' you around, but, like, you can't just ignore this."

Byers waved one hand at Langly, trying to shoo him away. "I 
can't listen to both of you at once! Just shut up, Langly."

Blair played his trump card. "I'm going to make a reasonable 
guess, here, John. I'm going to guess you've been missing a 
lot of sleep recently, that you've gotten increasingly 
absentminded, to the point of wondering if you're coming down 
with early onset Alzheimer's, that you're jittery, and you've 
had at least two full-blown panic attacks. You've probably 
also had a couple of flashbacks to the time when Doggett was 
in the hospital -- and you don't know why."

"I don't want to talk about that." Having Blair lay it out 
like that made it even more evident how much trouble he'd 
been having lately. And then there were the nightmares. It 
had been a week since he'd gotten any decent sleep.

Langly was watching him, eyes glittering intently.

"And that's the next symptom: avoidance. Those, my man, are 
the classic signs of post-traumatic stress disorder, and 
unless you guys get your act together it's going to get a 
*lot* worse for you. This is why it's so bad when the 
Sentinel and the Guide don't bond, or at least don't work 
together. Now, he's coming in Friday and that's enough time 
for you to get here, even if you have to drive. See you 
then." There was a soft click as Blair hung up.

Byers thumped the phone back into the recharger. 

"Sandburg read you the riot act, huh?"

Byers turned away from him. "Leave me alone."

Langly's strong, thin hands were on his shoulders, pulling 
Byers back around to face him. "Have you looked at yourself 
in the mirror lately, John? If you haven't, you should, 'cuz 
you look like shit. That, and you're makin' me insane. 
Nobody's seen you sleep in days and you're forgetting simple 
stuff. You asked me three times this morning if I'd done the 
column on the Pentagon Weather War technology, and three 
times I told you it was done and edited and sitting right 
there in the layout in front of you. It's a damned good thing 
nobody's sent you out to do any errands. You'd have wrapped 
the van around a phone pole or something."

"Bullshit."

Langly snorted. "You want me to get Fro and Jimmy for the 
'tell me three times and it's true'? Dude, you're creeping us 
out. Somebody mentions Dogbert, you snap. Every time you left 
a phone call for him, you'd freak. It was like you flipped on 
his voice on the answering machine or something."

He heard the door locks opening. Jimmy and Frohike were back 
and it was time to get over this nonsense and back to the 
business of publishing. "There's too much to do. We have too 
much to--"

Langly waved away the protest. "That's bullshit! We've worked 
from the road before, remember? The stories on the tango-
dancing smuggler, that grizzly poacher out in Vancouver, 
B.C.? Hey, the joys of modern technology mean never having to 
say you're stuck in the office."

"Look--"

Langly growled and leaned forward until their noses were 
almost touching. "No arguments, man. We're dragging your 
skinny narc ass to Cascade, if it takes tying you up and 
living on ramen noodles for six weeks, so shut up already."

"Cascade?" Jimmy's voice echoed from the stairwell. "Oh, 
cool! I wonder if we can get Jags tickets for the weekend?"

"Oh please," Frohike protested as he and Jimmy entered the 
warehouse's main room. "If we're going, I want some photos of 
the experimental borg tech at Rainier."

"Like Helton would let us through the door," Langly griped.

Jimmy hurried off toward his room. "I've gotta pack. When are 
we going?"

"Soon as we get our shit together," Langly said. "Byers an' 
Dogboy're gonna get this Sentinel thing worked out so we 
don't have to deal with 'em both acting like Zombies from 
Mars."

"Langly--!" Byers growled.

"About time!" Frohike started disconnecting his workstation 
laptop. "Cascade. I hear it's wet, but not bad this time of 
year. But we need to do the mailing first."

"Oh, we can do that in the van. I've got it all figured out 
already."

Frohike grinned. "Occasionally, you manage to justify your 
existence, Hairboy."

Langly stuck his tongue out at the scruffy older man. 
"Doohickey."

Frohike trotted to his room, chuckling. "High tech heaven, 
here I come."

"But--" Byers protested.

"Go pack something," Langly said, pushing Byers toward his 
bedroom door. "We can't take you anywhere dressed like that."

"But--"

Langly picked up the phone and waved a dismissive hand at 
Byers. "Move your ass! I got a phone call to make."

"Langly!"

Langly dialed quickly and waited. "Oh hey, Blair -- dude!" He 
paused and Byers watched Langly's end of the conversation 
helplessly. "Yeah, it's Ringo... Right, yeah... No... No... 
Well, yeah. Friday, probably." Langly nodded. "Sometime late 
morning, maybe early afternoon. If we drive straight through, 
we might get there earlier." 

Byers glared at Langly, but was soundly ignored.

"Yeah, same place. Yeah... Great. If you guys got the room, 
that would like totally be awesome... One room, four beds, 
yeah. Tyee Teepee... 'Cuz it's cheap! Jeez. You think we 
actually *got* any filthy lucre?" Langly laughed. "Yeah, and 
fuck you, too."

Byers took a step toward Langly. "If you don't stop this 
insanity right now--"

"Hey, no problem, dude." Langly stopped Byers' advance with 
one flat palm in the center of his chest. "Yeah, yeah, I'll 
tell him... Later, man! Say hi to the big guy for me. Bye!"

Langly looked at him. "Blair says it's about fuckin' time."

"Langly, I'm going to kill you." Byers gave the idea some 
actual thought as he watched his friend. "Strangulation 
sounds about right." He wiggled his fingers experimentally 
and gave Langly a menacing glower.

"Come on, Byers, I know you've been itching to get more info 
on that new government-lookin' compound we found the 
satellite photos of, up in the Cascades near the Canadian 
border. Look at it as an opportunity to check out the story, 
see if there's anything to the rumors." Langly grinned. 
"Could be a great story for next issue..."

Byers crossed his arms and rolled his eyes with a sigh. He 
pinned a glare on Langly. "If we don't get the subscriptions 
mailed out in time because of this, I'm personally making you 
lick every last stamp we put on each one of those things when 
we finally do post them."

Langly bounced and rubbed his hands together. "I'm gonna go 
email Marconi!"

CASCADE INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT
CASCADE, WASHINGTON
FRIDAY, 5:20 A.M.

Cascade International Airport was just as noisy as he'd 
remembered. This time, at least, Doggett didn't have a 
migraine. Sandburg and Ellison were waiting for him at the 
baggage claim.

"Hey, John!" Sandburg waved and grinned as they approached.

"Sandburg," Doggett said, waving back without any real 
enthusiasm. "Ellison."

Ellison nodded and offered his hand. "Doggett. How are you?"

Doggett shook it and grabbed his bag from the carrousel as it 
came around. "Could be better," he grumbled. The truth was, 
he still felt lousy.

"So I heard." Ellison gestured toward the other end of the 
baggage claim area. "Truck's parked down that way."

"Did they feed you anything on the plane?" Sandburg asked.

"You've gotta be kidding." Doggett shouldered his bag. "These 
days all you get is a Coke and a smile in the cattle car."

"Let's get some breakfast then," Ellison said. "Blair and I 
have to be at the courthouse at seven to testify. There won't 
be enough time to drop you anywhere first. Do you mind?"

"Nah. Sounds okay to me," Doggett said. "Could use some sleep 
afterwards, though. Can't seem to relax on a plane lately."

"I know what you mean." Ellison led the way toward the exit. 
"All that noise and vibration, it's hard to tune out when 
Blair's not around."

"I don't want to talk about Byers," Doggett snapped. The last 
thing he wanted was another lecture from Jim 'Macho Cop' 
Ellison about cooperating with his Guide. 

"Hey, hey, easy, man," Sandburg said.

"Sorry. I'm just feelin' a little edgy lately. I don't want 
to deal with that right now, okay? So, what's the case you 
guys are testifying on?"

"Criminal trespass," Ellison said.

"How'd that make the Major Crimes roster?" Doggett asked, 
surprised.

"And possession," Ellison added.

Doggett shook his head. "That makes more sense."

Sandburg chuckled. "The trespassers were part of a militia 
group. They were trying to drug one of the city reservoirs. 
LSD, if you can believe it. God, I mean, it's like something 
out of 'Reefer Madness.'"

"Who the hell would come up with a hare-brained scheme like 
that?" Doggett raised an eyebrow.

"They call themselves the Huxleyans," Ellison said. "Real 
weirdoes." He shrugged as he pulled the truck keys from his 
jacket pocket and opened the passenger door. "Toss your bag 
behind the seat."

Doggett slid his bag in and let Sandburg climb in before him. 
The guy was short enough; sitting in the middle wouldn't 
bother him much. "Huxleyans, eh? Mulder's mentioned them a 
couple of times, but I've never actually run into 'em. 
Apparently they've got a high weirdness factor. Somethin' 
about aliens. Mulder can't stay away from that crap." He 
shook his head. He'd seen some pretty strange stuff since he 
started with the X Files, but he still couldn't buy the whole 
alien thing that Mulder and Scully seemed so enamored of.

Ellison laughed. "Yeah, right. Aliens."

"Well, their little green buddies obviously can't protect 
them. Jim tracked the militia guys down like a bloodhound," 
Sandburg said, pride and excitement in his voice.

"Give it a rest, Chief. You know we can't tell that to the 
judge." Ellison started up the truck and put it into gear.

"Well, no, but it's still a great story." Sandburg launched 
into his tale as Ellison drove them toward downtown Cascade.

CASCADE COURTHOUSE
DOWNTOWN CASCADE
8:45 A.M. 

"Thank you, Detective Ellison. You may step down. Next 
witness, please," the judge said.

Ellison stepped from the box and headed back to join Doggett 
and Sandburg in the gallery. "Let's get out of here," he 
said. "We're done with this for the day."

Sandburg, who had testified just prior to Ellison, nodded. 
Doggett stood with him and they exited the courtroom.

"Did you hear any of what the Huxleyans in the gallery were 
saying?" Ellison asked. He gestured toward several people in 
different kinds of uniforms, all wearing a winged eye 
insignia on their shoulders. "I was too busy testifying to 
listen, but I heard snippets that made me a little uneasy."

"They were too quiet," Sandburg said. "I didn't catch 
anything." He looked over at Doggett.

"I heard them mention Ellison's name a few times, but I 
didn't catch much of it. I wasn't able to focus too well. I 
didn't care for their tone of voice, though, from what I did 
hear. You're not exactly their favorite person right now." 
Doggett indicated a couple of Huxleyans that were following 
them toward the elevators. "In fact, I'd suggest you keep an 
eye on them."

Ellison nodded. "It's hard for an un-Guided Sentinel to get 
enough focus to follow a conversation through a lot of noise. 
Too complex, and you can get lost trying to pick stuff out."

"Can we please not go there," Doggett snapped.

"You came out here for help," Sandburg said, "and we'll help. 
You just may not like it very much."

"Wouldn't be the first time," Doggett muttered.

They entered the first elevator headed down, and Ellison's 
frigid glare kept their Huxleyan tail from entering with 
them. 

Doggett leaned back against the cool wall of the elevator and 
closed his eyes, feeling its rumble through his body, and for 
the first time in weeks allowed himself to relax. He was in 
Cascade. There was a solution to his problem. He took a deep 
breath and let it out. Maybe Ellison was right -- maybe there 
was something soothing about being around Blair Sandburg. He 
glanced over at the smaller man, who stood staring intently 
at the door, bouncing impatiently. Then again, maybe not. The 
guy didn't seem that soothing.

When they stepped out into the street, he saw Byers and the 
other Gunmen on the steps of the courthouse, working their 
way through a crowd of pedestrians, and for a moment all he 
could do was focus on the slender, bearded man. Part of him 
welcomed the meeting; part of him dreaded it.

"Jeez, Sandburg," Doggett muttered. "You coulda warned me." 
His feet carried him across the crowded stairway toward his 
Guide. Byers spotted him and began hurrying in his direction 
as well, an uneasy look on his face, as though he wasn't sure 
how Doggett would react. And then they were standing 
together. 

"Hello, John," Doggett said softly, and smiled.

Byers smiled, a little tentatively. "Hello."

A shout broke his focus, and he turned, startled. A crowd of 
protesters was standing on the sidewalk and steps, shouting 
and waving leaflets, wearing badges and uniforms and caps 
with the winged eye logo of the Huxleyans. They were an oddly 
dressed group; some in camo, others in khaki, some in black, 
and there were even a few in old-style Star Trek uniforms. 
Most passers-by glanced quickly and hurried away as though to 
avoid contact with them, but a few had stopped to listen and 
read the leaflets.

Above the traffic and the crowd noise, one of the Huxleyans 
shouted, "Alien patsy! Traitor!" and pointed at Ellison. A 
shout rose from the other militiamen and, for a moment, 
Doggett was sure the crowd was going to turn ugly. 

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Ellison said. 

Doggett frowned. It sounded as though the Huxleyans suspected 
that Ellison was a SuperSoldier; a human engineered to the 
point of invincibility by extraterrestrial technology. He and 
Scully had never been able to crack the organization behind 
them, though they knew that someone -- not necessarily human 
-- was busy building a very destructive little army for 
unknown purposes.

He turned and glared at them, getting a harsh whiff of 
adrenaline, anger, and fear from the group. Ellison turned to 
them as well, Sandburg by his side, one hand on Ellison's arm 
in a protective gesture. Then he felt Byers' hand gently 
touch his back, providing a center for his enhanced senses. 
He focused on the Huxleyans.

The militiamen fell silent.

In less than a second, the eerie silence snapped, and the 
Huxleyans clumped, whispering urgently together. Doggett 
could see Ellison listening in, and he stared at the group, 
focusing his attention more tightly until he could catch 
snippets of the conversation above the noise.

"...Ellison, man, he's one of them..."

"...SuperSoldier, Sentinel, does it make a difference? 
They're just two names for the same governmentally overseen 
alien project..."

"...see? ...can't believe... Lone Gunmen are... sold out?..."

"... other guy, the one with Sandburg and Ellison ... he's 
one too..."

"...Guides, without them..."

"...move ...watching," one said, and the group turned to 
stare at the two Sentinels. Then the pack turned abruptly and 
scattered. He could feel Byers' hand on his shoulder again, 
then slowly took a deep breath and blinked back to ordinary 
awareness.

Byers, alert to the change in his posture, gently squeezed 
his shoulder. "Are you all right, John?" 

"Yeah, I'm fine, thanks. I just caught part of it. Sounded 
pretty strange."

Ellison shook his head. "They're so far off in left field 
nobody would pay attention to them. I've got no idea what 
they're talking about with that alien thing they keep going 
on about, though."

"I do," Doggett said. He exchanged glances with Byers, then 
looked back at Ellison. "I'll explain later. It touches on a 
lot of the cases I work, and yeah, it's just as weird as this 
Sentinel stuff. Weirder, really." Shapeshifters. Black Oil. 
Nanocytes. Definitely weirder.

"Weird seems to be a way of life with you guys," Sandburg 
said, as the other Gunmen joined them.

"Weird doesn't even begin to cover it," Byers said, stepping 
away and letting his hand drop. Doggett felt his focus 
drifting again as sounds and smells became more intense. The 
feel of his shirt against his skin was irritating and he ran 
through the "dialing down" exercise. It worked much better 
standing next to Byers than it had when he was alone.

"I used to think the Sandburg Zone was out there, but I'm 
starting to think you guys have got him beat," Ellison said. 
He snorted and shook his head, a rueful grin on his face.

"Hey Blair, dude," Langly said, sticking a hand out at 
Sandburg. The two grinned and shook hands.

"Ringo!" Sandburg grinned and introduced Ellison to Frohike 
and Jimmy. 

He shook hands with them warily. "Heard a lot about you," 
Ellison said carefully.

"All lies," Frohike said.

"Hey, it's great to meet the rest of the crew!" Sandburg 
smiled. "Okay, logistics here. We need to get started on this 
as soon as possible. Eight people at the loft would be too 
many. Way too much zone potential. Total over-stimulation. 
Let's get you checked in over at the motel. You guys and Jim 
can talk. Agent Doggett and I," he gave a meaningful look to 
Doggett, "will talk for a while and we'll get Byers later."

Doggett cringed mentally. Sandburg's 'talk' had an ominous 
ring to it.

"I don't know about that," Frohike started.

"Yeah, this is supposed to be about Dogbert and the Narc 
getting things straightened out. Shouldn't you be, like, 
working with both of 'em?" Langly ducked out of the way as 
Doggett swatted at his arm.

"Can you just lose the 'Dogbert' thing, Langly? It's 
annoying."

Frohike snorted. "His specialty."

"I thought that was electronic alarm noises," Ellison said, 
deadpan.

Doggett had come to Cascade hoping for time with Sandburg and 
Ellison together, lecture-free. It didn't look like that was 
going to happen.

"Look, guys, daylight's burning and we've got stuff to do 
before dinner," Sandburg announced, and gestured Doggett 
toward his classic Volvo.

Ellison whacked him on the shoulder. "Suck it up, soldier. 
You'll love it."

Yeah, right.

ELLISON-SANDBURG RESIDENCE
852 PROSPECT #307
5:10 P.M.

The evening sky was filled with purple, fuchsia, and salmon-
colored clouds and the sun was a faint sliver of burnished 
gold on the horizon. The two Guides stood at the broad 
windows of the loft that opened onto the balcony and watched 
Doggett's rental car fade down the street into the twilight. 

"Well, it's progress of some sort." Blair said quietly.

"You said we'd meet him in an hour." Byers glanced at his 
watch. "Are you sure an hour's long enough to let him 
unwind?"

"Not really. He probably needs a longer break from the 
bonding exercises. I don't think I've ever had another pair 
that took so long just getting comfortable with sitting close 
to each other. But Doggett did try. And you did well."

Byers shook his head. "I can't tell. I don't know what this 
is supposed to feel like."

"You did just fine. We're raised with such strict cultural 
taboos about touching. It's hard to get beyond it, but it's 
the only sensory input that can get through to a Sentinel 
who's in the deepest zones."

"That zone-out John had during the training unnerved me."

"It does the first few times you see it. But you handled it 
well, and like I said, it's something that takes practice. 
We'll do three sets tomorrow with longer breaks and then 
another two long ones on Sunday. By the time he catches his 
flight out, you should both be comfortable with each other 
and able to work as a bonded pair."

Byers stared at the sun. Only a tiny glimmer of gold was 
left. "I'm worried about how we'll work together when we get 
home. It's not like I'll be around him most of the time."

"Tomorrow will take care of itself," Blair said, rubbing his 
hands across his face. "By the way, I'm taking Monday off as 
well. I need to go over some shamanism stuff with you."

Byers made a face. The sun winked at them and vanished beyond 
the horizon. "I'm not dressing up like an Indian and banging 
on a drum."

Blair chuckled. "I'd really rather you didn't," he insisted 
with a tired grin. "It makes the bottom fall out of the local 
real estate market when there's some neoShaman wandering 
around and whacking on a drum at all hours of the night. This 
is the more practical stuff. But it can wait till Monday. 
Would you like some tea? We can watch something mind-
bendingly dull on TV for awhile and take a break."

"Sounds good." Across the street there were shadows. He'd 
been watching them, trying to make out what they were. They 
moved and blended with the landscape, somehow both real and 
unreal. Blair puttered behind him, chattering away; he really 
didn't hear it. He made a noncommittal noise and watched 
carefully. The shadows faded.

Imagination, he told himself.

Blair touched his hand, handed him a mug of tea. "You see 
them?" he asked Byers.

"Huh?"

"Eh, maybe it's just me," Blair sighed. "I think there's a 
graffiti crew hanging around, looking to lay down some words. 
We cracked down on it recently, and after that there was a 
lot of protest paint showing up near the station and in the 
neighborhoods of anyone involved with the busts. Man, that 
was a total pain."

"How so?"

"The anthropologist side of me wanted to study them, the cop 
side of me wanted to bust them."

"And the cop side won," Byers guessed, sipping his tea.

"Yeah. So much for 'cultural relativism.'" Blair took a huge 
gulp of the tea. "The cop wins out a lot. Sometimes it 
bothers me."

"How so?

"Ethics. The 'do not interfere' versus the 'protect and 
serve.' I don't want to get into it." He sighed, swished the 
tea around in his mug and took another gulp. "Tell you what. 
Let's go make a beer run, then head over to the motel. A few 
brews'll do a lot to lighten everybody's mood and help get 
everyone, including that granite-headed Sentinel of yours, to 
relax." He took Byers' mug and ambled back to the kitchen.

Byers paused as a movement across the street caught his eye. 
The ghostly shadows were back, watching, waiting. He told 
himself it was fantasy and turned back into the apartment.

TYEE TEEPEE MOTEL
ROOM 208
7:04 P.M. 

"*Damn it, Sandburg, pick up the phone!*"

Jim was angry and tense. He'd called Blair's *and* Byers' 
cell phones and neither had answered once since they'd called 
over an hour ago to say they were on their way. They still 
hadn't arrived. His lover could be unpredictable at times, 
but when it involved beer and eating at Harry's, he was 
usually on time.

"You think they might be stuck behind some traffic accident?" 
Doggett asked. He'd been pacing the room uneasily for the 
last ten minutes.

"They'd better not be," Jim growled. That was the last thing 
he needed. He and Doggett were getting on each other's 
nerves. It wasn't really anyone's fault, but Doggett's out-
of-control vibe was unsettling. The man really needed Byers 
there with him, whether he wanted to accept it or not. 

"Will you guys just *shut up*?" Both Sentinels winced at the 
bellow from Frohike. "There's something on the news about a 
kidnapping."

"Kidnapping?" Langly turned to the TV. "Damn, looks like a 
messy accident."

Jimmy nodded. "Oh, wow. That car's really wrecked. I hope 
nobody got hurt too bad."

Before Jim could check out the screen, his cell phone rang. 
"That had better be you, Sandburg, or--"

"Jim." Captain Banks' voice was strained.

"Simon? What's up?"

"I think you'd better get over to the impound yard. 
Sandburg's Volvo was one of the vehicles involved in a hit 
and run at 5th and Marion about an hour ago. He and some other 
guy were kidnapped."

"*What?*"

Everyone in the room turned to him.

Jim's heart skipped a beat, and Doggett was by his side in 
the space of that silence. 

"They were the kidnapping victims?" Doggett asked, his voice 
tight.

"We'll be right there," Jim said. His anger blazed and it was 
getting hard to focus past the red haze of rage that was 
building inside him. Who the hell had kidnapped his partner 
this time? And why did they grab Byers with him?

"We're on top of it already, Jim," Banks said. "We've got a 
forensics team going over things right now. I knew you'd want 
to check it out too."

"When I find out who did this, I'm gonna rip their arms off." 
Jim snapped his cell phone closed and looked around at the 
motley group. "Okay, boys, we have to hit the road."

SOMEWHERE EAST OF CASCADE, WASHINGTON
7:30 PM

Blair moaned and struggled awake, his head pounding and his 
stomach lurching. There was noise around him, and a vague 
memory of something bad happening. He couldn't move.

Something fell across his mouth and nose, something with a 
strong medical smell. He tried to move away from it, but the 
fumes were too strong. As blackness overtook him, his last 
thought was, 'Chloroform.'

CASCADE POLICE DEPARTMENT
IMPOUND YARD
8:11 P.M.

A cold drizzle drifted across the rows of cars in the police 
impound yard. Jim turned up the collar of his jacket and 
returned his focus to the door handle of Blair's ancient 
Volvo. But it didn't matter how many times he or Forensics 
examined the car -- the kidnappers had left no real traces on 
it.

Doggett, with the help of Langly and Jimmy, was checking the 
kidnappers' car, which had been stolen from the long-term 
parking area at the airport. The owners of this vehicle were 
on a vacation cruise, and there'd be hell to pay at the 
airport when they found out their nice Crown Victoria was 
taken out of the parking garage for a joyride and needed a 
lot of expensive repairs.

Captain Simon Banks stood beside the Volvo, the cigar in his 
mouth chewed to shreds. The big black man tossed the soggy 
butt into a nearby garbage can. "Anything, Jim?"

Jim shook his head. "Not much more, no. Forensics did a good 
job." He leaned his head against the roof of Blair's sadly 
mangled Volvo and sighed. "Spraying the interior with 
insecticide pretty much destroyed any scent clues, too."

"They knew what you could do," Banks said.

"More than that, they knew how to stop him," Frohike said 
quietly. "That means they know a lot about Sentinels."

Jim's head snapped up. "Actually, they were saying something 
about SuperSoldiers. Doggett..." he looked toward the other 
car.

"He didn't tell you about them?"

"No, Frohike, he didn't. So why don't you fill us in."

Frohike wiped his glasses and shook his head. "It's better if 
Doggett does. We know a bit about them, but he's actually had 
a few run-ins with them." He started walking toward the other 
group, not looking to see if Banks and Jim were following.

NORTH CASCADES COMPOUND
CASCADE MOUNTAINS
WASHINGTON STATE
11 P.M.

It was drizzling, dark and cold, with a wind sweeping from 
the mountain ridges to snarl and tangle the trees that lined 
the high wire fence. The snap in the air hinted at snow to 
come. Byers stumbled, half-blinded and aching. He and Blair 
had been bruised in the car wreck, and his stomach was still 
queasy from the chemicals that had been used to knock them 
out. He wasn't sure how late it was, or how long they'd been 
traveling, but it had to have been a couple of hours, at 
least.

They had five captors; classic thug-types that Byers had 
mentally dubbed Goons One through Five, who treated them as 
though they were professional escape artists rather than a 
weedy-looking journalist and a short and somewhat eccentric 
professor. They had been thoroughly -- and rudely -- 
searched, and their wrists were strapped with plastic riot 
cuff strips.

Blair staggered along beside him, off-balance, fighting for 
his footing as the guard's hand hauled him forward by his 
shirt collar. There was still a broad, dark smear of dried 
blood on his pale face from the collision earlier in the 
evening, and his hair was wild and tangled.

They hadn't been allowed to speak at all. His one protest at 
Blair's rough treatment had earned both of them slaps and a 
hard kick. He kept his mouth shut and his head down, trying 
to keep his footing as they were force-marched onto a gravel 
path and then hauled bodily into a large Quonset hut. Tinny, 
percussive music blared from speakers as they entered. They 
were jerked to a halt in front of a dais surrounded by people 
holding torches, who were chanting in a language Byers didn't 
recognize. They were dressed, incongruously, in old-style 
Star Trek uniforms bearing a winged eye on each shoulder. At 
least it was warm inside.

"I've got a bad feeling about this, Skippy," Blair muttered. 

Goon Two shook him hard. "Shut up."

The wheezy music creaked into silence and a door behind the 
throne opened. A tall, muscular, red-haired man, strangely 
attired in a gaudy white robe decorated with marks that might 
have been foreign letters, strode into the room, followed by 
several attendants who were also in Trek uniforms -- 
Redshirts. He was huge -- perhaps 6'5" tall, Byers thought, 
measuring him against the men who stood behind him. But it 
wasn't just the height and the robe that made him look so 
formidable. The man's shoulders were broad and he had the 
well-muscled physique of someone who worked out regularly 
with weights.

The red-haired man waved imperiously at his attendants and 
they scattered back into the crowd as he seated himself on 
the throne. He stared intently at Blair and Byers for a 
moment and then said something in a language that sounded 
similar to the ritual chanting. The music began again.

One of the people with the torches replied in the same 
language, then Byers and Blair were half-carried to the base 
of the dais. The red-haired man leaned forward, apparently 
sniffing the air. A moment passed, then he said something in 
the same language again, and looked Byers in the eyes.

Goon Two hauled Blair back a step or two as Goon Three shoved 
Byers to his knees in front of the man with the robe. Up 
close, he looked even larger.

"T'hy'la, thou hast come." He stood and gestured to the goon 
holding Byers.

Byers blinked. T'hy'la? Why on earth did that sound familiar? 
Goon Three suddenly grabbed his hair, forcing him to look 
into the muscle-bound man's face. Red-hair gestured, and a 
bleach-blond woman in a gold command shirt stepped forward.

She offered the man a sash. He looked down at Byers. 
"T'hy'la, give me your hands."

Byers stared angrily at him, determined to not play whatever 
game the man had going. Goon Three dug his fingers into 
Byers' shoulder, but he remained still. A kick to his lower 
back, however, convinced him that cooperation was probably 
the best option. He hesitantly raised his bound hands. The 
man grabbed them both in a single hand and looped the sash 
around Byers' wrists and his own.

Goldshirt chanted something incomprehensible over them, then 
sprinkled water on them both. Looking at each of them 
solemnly, she declared, "The bond has begun."

Bond? Oh, God. This was probably some perverted take on the 
Sentinel/Guide thing. Byers looked back at Blair, alarmed, 
but his head was pulled back to face the red-haired man. Red 
unwrapped the sash from his own hands, leaving it around 
Byers' wrists, then touched Byers' face.

At first, it was almost a caress, and it raised goosebumps 
all over Byers' body. He hated the intrusive, unwelcome 
touch, and gave the man a cold glare. Then the long fingers 
splayed across his face in a mockery of a Vulcan Mind Meld 
gesture. It was like Byers had stepped into some truly 
twisted science fiction convention.

"My mind to your mind. My thoughts to your thoughts," the man 
intoned, and the words and gestures triggered memory. T'hy'la 
was what Spock had said to Kirk in one of those Trek movies 
Langly was so into. Langly'd said it was proof that Kirk and 
Spock were "so doin' it," because it meant something like 
'friend-brother-lover.' Cold apprehension crawled down Byers' 
spine.

The tinny music continued as the staring match dragged on. 
Several minutes later, the man's expression changed, and he 
looked out upon the assembly. "The bond is established," he 
announced. Byers hadn't felt a thing, unless he counted 
nausea, and disgust; emotions that weren't present in the 
bond he supposedly shared with Doggett. 

Red took his hands from Byers' face and stepped back, looking 
at Goon Three, then back at Byers. "You are *mine* now, 
T'hy'la," he said, and then gestured at the Goon Squad. "Show 
them to their quarters."

With that, Byers was hauled to his feet and he and Blair were 
quick-marched through the compound toward a trap door. Narrow 
stairs descended to a maze of anonymous corridors, painted in 
the bland shade of beige the military seemed to prefer, 
decorated with doors painted in gunmetal gray. Their squad 
stopped in front of a door with a small viewing window and a 
slot at the bottom. The riot cuffs were cut from their wrists 
and they were escorted into the room. The squad left, locking 
the door behind them.

"Alone at last," Blair muttered.

"How's your head?" Byers asked, concerned.

"Only a flesh wound. But that was just... bizarre." 

Byers leaned against a wall and took a deep breath. "Yeah. 
The last thing I would have expected is a Trek-style ceremony 
at a militia compound."

"No kidding. Beam me up, Scotty, there's no intelligent life 
down here. What a way to run a militia."

Byers rubbed his chafed wrists, scowling sourly. "You said 
it. The whole Vulcan Mind Meld thing, and a weird version of 
that ceremony they did on an episode where Spock got married, 
or didn't get married -- very creepy. I didn't pay much 
attention to the original series, but that guy probably has 
it memorized. Picard was more my style."

"Picard? He's just old," Blair grinned. "And stodgy. Now 
Chakotay..."

Byers laughed and stepped away from the wall, tucking his 
shirt neatly into his pants and straightening his tie as he 
glanced around the room. Their new quarters was a small room 
with a single bed and a tiny bathroom that had no door, 
painted in the same depressing beige as the corridor outside. 
The blankets looked used; faded markings showed they were 
military surplus. It wasn't really that different from any 
number of jail cells he'd inhabited for a night or two after 
particularly unfortunate funky poaching exercises.

"It's not exactly the Cascade Hilton, is it?" Blair said as 
he examined the blankets. "No fleas or lice, at least."

"Well, that's something," Byers said. "The Tyee Teepee is 
beginning to look positively palatial."

"That's the trouble with this whole kidnapping bit," Blair 
replied. "Nobody ever wants to hold you hostage in, say, the 
Presidential Suite at the Four Seasons in New York. I think I 
could stand to be held in the marble bathroom there for a 
couple of weeks. Oh yeah. Torture me with room service, 
baby!"

Byers chuckled softly despite his aches and rising bruises, 
then began assessing the situation. Solid-sounding metal door 
-- check. Hinges on the outside where he couldn't reach them 
-- check. There was a door handle inside, but it was welded 
solid to the door itself, and immobile. Check. Electronic 
access panel outside that would unlock the door only if you 
had the right kind of card to swipe -- check and checkmate. 
For now. 

They were most likely being watched, as well. He didn't have 
time to begin a surveillance inventory before the sound of 
running water started behind him. He turned and saw Blair at 
the sink, stark naked, casually rinsing out his tee-shirt and 
underwear. "Um... what are you doing?"

"Just being practical," Blair replied. "I've been in this 
kind of situation before, and I hate waking up in the same 
dirty clothes for three days straight. I figured I'd do 
laundry while I had the chance."

"Laundry?"

"Well, the door's locked and nothing short of a bulldozer or 
a round of C-4 will get us out right now. I don't see dinner, 
and there's nothing on TV, even if we had one. So I figured 
I'd do the laundry." He twisted the tee-shirt, wringing the 
water out of it, and draped it over the edge of the basin to 
dry.

Byers told himself he wouldn't stare... and found himself 
staring anyway at the strong curve of the man's thighs, the 
arch of his buttocks, the shadowy outline of his testicles 
and penis as Blair lifted one leg to step into his jeans. 
Ellison was one lucky man. Oh yes. And Byers' libido was 
going to be badly out of control in about two seconds.

He turned hastily toward the door and began studying the 
corridor. Shadows were advancing and he could hear the 
distant echo of footsteps and voices. "Company," he said 
softly.

"Right on time. The bad guys never miss a cue."

TYEE TEEPEE MOTEL
ROOM 208
11:40 P.M.

"We have to do something," Jimmy insisted. "There must be 
some kind of Hucksee thing we can investigate."

"Huxley," Langly sighed. "But I agree. I think it's time for 
a funky poach."

"Great idea, but there's just one tiny problem with it -- 
where do we go first?" Frohike responded.

"Watch and be amazed, Weedhopper," Langly said, grinning. He 
flipped his laptop open and typed furiously. "Doggett and 
Ellison said that the Huxleyans knew us by sight -- remember? 
Warned us to watch our backs? Well, I got to thinking that 
this meant they'd be subscribers to our paper. So I ran a 
check on our subscriber database and checked for ads from 
those subscribers."

Frohike looked suitably impressed. "And?"

"I got thirty possibles in the area."

Frohike rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "We don't have the 
manpower or equipment to monitor all of them."

"We don't need it." Langly looked smug. "Over the past year, 
five of the subscribers sent in ads for meetings. They gave 
GPS locations for 'em. I just grabbed those issues and looked 
at the meeting locations. They're all on private property, 
way out in the sticks. If you were gonna run a secret militia 
operation, you would run it from there, not from Chez de la 
Roach Motel here in the middle of Cascade."

"Shay what?" Jimmy's brow wrinkled.

"It was a joke, Gargantua," Langly deadpanned.

"Which one do we start with?" Frohike asked.

"Well, we got a place in the Hoh rainforest, and one way up 
north and one near the dam, one near the Oregon border, and 
the Hanford Resistance Compound base that's southwest of 
here. I figure the HRC is the one to try" Langly said. 
"They're the farthest away, but they had the most recent ad 
about a meeting next week. I double-checked the GPS 
coordinates and the Teraserver maps for that one and there's 
something big out there."

"Well, let's get started!" Jimmy started grabbing equipment.

"Can't yet," Frohike said. "Ellison and Doggett are due here 
any minute. They were about to kill each other over dinner. 
We've gotta at least try to do something to calm them down."

Langly nodded. "Yeah. Blair was teaching me to be this, like, 
backup Guide. He said it wouldn't be as good as a real Guide, 
but if we can get those two to sleep, we can get this taken 
care of. Maybe we can find the guys."

"We'll have to keep Ellison and Doggett out of the loop. The 
minute they find out that we have Huxleyans on our subscriber 
database, they'll be all over our private records. We can't 
betray our readers like that," Frohike said.

Jimmy nodded. "I'm worried about Blair and John. What if the 
Hucksees hurt them?"

"We'll just hope that, for now, they haven't. But it looks 
like we've got a plan," Frohike said, pulling the equipment 
from Jimmy's hands and putting it back on the table, "and we 
all need to sit tight and look innocent for the next hour. "

NORTH CASCADES COMPOUND
SATURDAY, 12:30 A.M.

Blair turned as the red-haired man in the white robe swept 
into the room, followed by a pair of heavily armed, muscle-
bound Redshirts and a woman in a medical/science Blueshirt. 
It looked like casting call for a low budget Star Trek 
ripoff. A tall black woman in camos entered with them, 
accompanied by a young caucasian man wearing a studded 
leather collar.

Red snapped a command in Vulcan and another set of Redshirts 
entered with food and towels. Blueshirt started checking 
Byers' injuries, smoothing ointment over the scratches. Red 
studied them for a moment and then took a rather theatrical 
pose in the middle of the cell. 

"My name is Sentinel Shal-lan Walter Woodrow Wilson," he 
announced.

"What's that all about?" Blair scowled, pitching his tone 
like a professor critiquing a badly written student paper.

Wilson stared at him, pointing a finger like a weapon. "*You* 
will only speak when spoken to, Guide, or I'll have you 
gagged. Your Sentinel will soon teach you manners." Then he 
wheeled abruptly and stalked over to Byers, splaying his 
long-fingered hands against the bearded man's face. Byers, 
startled, backed up. Wilson pressed forward, maneuvering him 
against the wall.

"You, T'hy'la, may call me 'Adun.' It means life partner," he 
said, his voice low and intimate. "We have no word describing 
the sacred bonds between Sentinel and Guide, so I have chosen 
'adun' to symbolize all that we are and all that we shall be 
to each other." He bent closer to Byers and murmured, 
"Whether or not we shall become aishaplakai remains to be 
seen, but for now you are my T'hy'la and I am thy Adun."

Blair stepped closer. "Look, we're not what you think -- 
whatever it is you think."

Wilson spun on his heel and slapped him. "Speak only when 
you're spoken to, Guide!" One of the Redshirts pointed a 
rifle at Blair, and he held up his hands. Getting shot wasn't 
going to solve anything.

"Wilson, tone it down or I'll withdraw my support," the woman 
said suddenly. "You're starting to cross the line. Nobody's 
supposed to rough up the Guides."

"Let me remind you, Tamara, that my methods worked on *your* 
Guide." The collared man flinched. There was a brief staring 
match between Tamara and Wilson, and he suddenly seemed to 
decide that it was bad policy to annoy her. "I stood up for 
you and got you a Guide of your own. We all agreed that the 
next one was for me."

"Judge Hammer has the final say," she replied.

Wilson gave her a cold little smile. "He does, until General 
Harmon says otherwise." He turned back to Byers, smiling. 
Byers stood frozen while Wilson's hands moved to cover his 
face in that Vulcan Mind Meld thing again. "My mind to your 
mind, T'hy'la. My thoughts to your thoughts... we are 
merging... we are becoming one."

Blair doubted that very much.

After a moment, Wilson stepped back and nodded toward Tamara. 
"The bond is strengthening," he declared, patting Byers' 
cheek. "My Guide and I will escort this one to Muster 
tomorrow, where he'll be assigned to his own Sentinel." He 
smiled fondly at Byers. "Soon, my T'hy'la, you'll learn what 
it is to be a True Guide to a True and Free Sentinel."

Tamara shook her head. "Jesus, Wilson, why can't you just 
speak English, like everybody else?"

He snorted at her and marched out, his robe flapping behind 
him. The woman followed, pausing to glance pityingly at the 
two Guides. The Starfleet guards were the last to leave, 
slamming the door behind them.

Byers looked thoroughly creeped out by the experience. Blair 
touched Byers' shoulder. "You okay?"

Byers nodded. "Yeah. I'm fine." Blair looked into his eyes 
and Byers smiled slightly. "Really. It takes more than a few 
role-playing games to bother me."

"Most role-playing games don't involve live ammo and 
bruises," Blair said, touching one of the bruises on Byers' 
face. "I'll admit I'm still not sure where he thinks he's 
going with this."

"I'm not entirely sure, either. I recognized T'hy'la -- 
Langly says it means something like friend, brother, lover, 
life-mate in Vulcan." He grimaced. "I don't know what 
aishaplakai means, but I don't like the implications at all."

"I wonder if anyone but his own group knows." Blair handed 
Byers one of the plates.

"Probably the Vulcan Language Institute." Byers poked at the 
food. "I'm not sure I can eat right now."

"You should try anyway. We don't know when breakfast is 
served around here." There was a chance that their captors 
were going to use hunger against them as well, but there was 
no point worrying Byers. Blair picked up his own plate and 
started into the meal, and Byers followed suit. There was no 
place in the cell to put trash, so they shoved their plates 
through a flap under the door into the hallway when they were 
done, and washed their hands in the sink.

"C'mon. Sit down." Blair looked up at him and patted the bed. 
"I'm really exhausted, and I hurt everywhere. I know you 
must, too."

Byers sighed, then nodded and sat. "What do you think he'll 
do with us?" he asked.

Blair scooted over and leaned against him, smiling winsomely. 
"I don't know about you, but I could sure use a hug," he said 
and tucked his head against Byers' chest, whispering, "Play 
along, okay? I spotted a camera lens in the shower area 
already. I'm not sure what other devices they've got in this 
room, but if we pretend we're... uh... intimate, I think we 
can get away with a little plotting."

Byers hesitated for a second and smiled. "Yeah. A hug would 
help," he said, then slid his arms around Blair and pulled 
him gently onto the hard mattress of the bed. His eyes were 
solemn.

Blair reached up a hand to stroke his beard. "I don't mean to 
make you nervous," he whispered. "Nothing's going to happen. 
I'm just going to pretend to chew on your ear for a bit."

"Uh... it's okay, I don't mind."

The slender hands felt warm against his back, and there was 
none of the awkwardness of a first-timer. Somewhere, 
sometime, Byers had been with a male lover. It was an 
intriguing thought, that this shy and scholarly man had 
allowed someone into his personal space. He smiled, sliding 
his cheek against the crisp brush of Byers' beard, and 
whispered softly, "I don't know what Wilson's up to, but some 
of the phrases he was using make me think he's seen a copy of 
my Masters' thesis on Burton at some point."

Byers pulled back a little and frowned. "I thought that was 
destroyed?"

"No. All the copies of my Ph.D. dissertation were destroyed 
except for the one you saw. But my Masters' thesis in 
Sociocultural Anthro compared Burton's material on tribal 
societies with Steward's work on the same groups and their 
concepts of shamanic warriors. That led to the research on 
Sentinels."

"Oh." Byers nuzzled his hair. "Do you think he's the real 
thing -- a Sentinel?"

"No way," Blair whispered. "He had no idea about your 
emotional state, didn't catch things that Jim would have 
gotten in half a second, like your heartbeat and scent. He 
had to stand close to you to smell you, among other things. 
Believe me, this one's a loony. We'd both be in deep shit if 
he was a real Sentinel. Not that we aren't in deep shit 
anyway."

"And that woman? He said she had a Guide. The guy in the 
collar reacted when Wilson mentioned it."

"I'm not sure," Blair replied. "I didn't notice anything that 
would convince me either way. I doubt it though." He ran a 
gentle hand along Byers' side and felt his own body respond. 
He was stressed and tired, and a little creature comfort 
would have felt good about now. It would be so easy to let 
his hand drift lower, to explore the warmth of Byers' body. 
It would be wrong, but it would be... so simple. So sweet. 
His fingers twitched slightly.

"The loony thing is going to pose a few problems," Byers 
mused.

Blair forced himself to concentrate on the business at hand 
and not on his sudden impulse to start removing Byers' brown 
tie with his teeth. "Yeah. I don't like the way he was 
looking at either of us, or the sound of some of what he was 
saying. We have to get out of here soon -- wherever 'here' 
is."

"I'm fresh out of ideas right now, Kemosabe." Byers sighed. 

"Yeah, Tonto, and the setup here isn't much help. Each of the 
Huxleyan compounds has its own rules. No telling what kind of 
government Weird-ass Wilson has set up, or how many people he 
has around him. His Star Trek thing, though -- maybe we can 
keep him talking about that, instead of trying stuff on us. 
You up on your Trek trivia?"

"Not really." Byers chuckled softly. "This should have 
happened to Langly. He lives and breathes Trek trivia."

"That's the trouble with the bad guys -- always kidnapping 
the wrong people. So, anyway, have you guys heard of this 
group before? Anyone in your subscribers, maybe?"

Byers straightened his tie with one hand and looked a little 
indignant. "Our subscribers have some unusual ideas, but 
they're not psychotic and delusional. Uh -- not usually, 
anyway. Not to an extreme degree." He paused. "Most of them, 
that is."

Blair grinned to himself. Byers was fun when he was 
backpedaling. "Most, huh?"

"Right. These guys are more your type anyway. So what do you 
know about them?"

"Well, they're not your average millennialist, Biblical gun-
nut cult. They're a Leary and McKenna and Lilly and all that 
jazz gun-nut cult. They're into the whole 'cleansing the 
doors of perception' mystique. A strange combination of Blake 
and Lopophora williamsii and a bunch of Castaneda and Harner-
derived pseudo-shamanism. Apparently they've got some 
fixation on the Space Brothers, too, but that's about all 
anyone knows about them." 

"They think drugs expand the mind so you can detect aliens?" 

"That seems to be about the size of it," Blair said. "McKenna 
would go on for hours about the machine elves in the 
mushrooms, man. But that's the twenty-five cent version."

"Sounds like something they'd skewer on MST3K. So they're a 
psychedelic saucer cult?"

"Not exactly," Blair said. "More like an anti-saucer cult. 
They believe the little green men exist, but they think the 
aliens are hell-bent on taking over the planet."

"Well, they've got that part right, at least," Byers 
muttered.

"What? Don't tell me *you* believe in space aliens."

"All right. I won't." Those gentle hands traced little 
circles on his shoulder blades and Blair began fantasizing 
that they were circling much lower. He hoped Byers wasn't 
aware of what this was doing to him.

"What kind of a world do you come from, John Byers?" he 
whispered teasingly.

"Believe me, you don't want to know. This Sentinel stuff? 
Nowhere near as weird as my life gets."

Blair chuckled and gave in to his baser impulses. He snared 
Byers' tie with his teeth and began worrying it loose. "Weird 
is as weird does, I suppose," he whispered.

"Hey!" Byers reached up to defend his clothing.

"It's okay," Blair whispered. "I'm just making it look good 
for the cameras. But I think you should know that you're 
currently holding the number one spot on my 'Guys Other Than 
Jim I Want to be Tied Up and Kidnapped With' list."

Byers laughed, and kissed him; a soft, chaste brush of lips 
on lips. "Feeling's mutual," he said. 

Damn, that was nice. Byers had the most amazing eyes. Down, 
boy. "Camera."

"Mmm?"

"I spotted another one."

Byers didn't look. He nodded and placed a gentle kiss on 
Blair's cheek. "Okay."

Blair yawned. "And don't worry -- they'll find us. Sentinels 
are like that. Jim always comes for me, even if I've managed 
to rescue myself by the time he arrives."

"The guys are that way, too."

"With such good friends, how can we fail?" He yawned again. 
"Try to get some sleep. We both need some rest if we're going 
to stay sharp to deal with this. I need to meditate anyway, 
and see if I can do a spirit walk. Somebody out there must 
have some ideas on how to help us."

"Uh, right." Byers looked puzzled as he pulled a blanket up 
around them.

"But John?"

"Hmm?"

"You'll be a hell of a lot more comfortable sleeping if you 
take off the damned tie and your jacket. Brown, by the way, 
is *so* not your color."

A quiet chuckle, and Byers shed the coat and tie, then pulled 
the suit coat over their heads to block the overhead light. 
"Now, why didn't I think of that before?" Blair laughed 
softly.

The answer was a grin and a warm, enfolding hug. "Because I 
don't think they'll let us get away with this for long."

TYEE TEEPEE MOTEL
ROOM 208
1 A.M.

"...just listen to my voice, now. Try to relax and turn those 
dials down..." Langly intoned nasally.

Jim sighed to himself. Langly was trying hard to help him and 
Doggett get their senses under control. His intentions were 
honorable -- the twitchy hacker pointed out that a half-
assed, half-trained assistant Guide was better than no Guide 
at all -- but it just wasn't working. 

He could hear Doggett's heartbeat hammering in cadence with 
his own and smell the adrenaline rush from both of them. 
Apparently, a pair of Sentinels -- even friendly ones -- 
could manage to enhance each other's stress simply by being 
near each other. He'd have to tell Blair, when they found 
him. Something for the field notes.

A bonded Sentinel/Guide pair could stand to be away from each 
other for a couple of weeks; perhaps even a couple of months 
under normal circumstances, unless there was a high stress 
situation. But the sad truth was Sentinels didn't handle 
stress well. Combine overloaded senses with adrenaline-fueled 
fight responses and high stress hormones and you could cause 
a collapse within a matter of days. He'd seen it happen 
before.

His hearing was starting to get out of control again. He 
heard the scrape of stubble on skin as Frohike rubbed his 
chin irritably, and the soft brush of cloth as Jimmy shifted 
in his chair. 

"Breathe," Langly was saying, and he tried focusing on that 
instead.

His eardrums were shattered by a bad electronic version of 
"Lucy in the Sky." He lunged upward as Langly said cheerily, 
"Oh, hey -- Marconi!" into his cell phone.

Doggett was sitting on the edge of one of the other beds 
half-zoned, weaving a little and looking homicidal. Langly 
was chattering away obliviously. "Uh huh... Oh yeah... You 
*know* it, babe! Uh huh..."

Jim lurched forward, snatched the phone out of Langly's hands 
and said sweetly into the mouthpiece, "I'm so sorry, but 
Langly's been called away on an emergency. He'll get back 
with you tomorrow." He turned the phone off and stuffed it 
into his pocket. Langly looked like a deer caught in the 
headlights of an oncoming train. Jim gave him a hard stare.

Langly gulped. "Uh. So. Where were we?" he asked weakly.

Only a Sentinel could hear Frohike mutter, "In deep shit."

NORTH CASCADES COMPOUND
MAIN QUONSET HUT
6 A.M.

An ethnologist's best survival trait was the ability to blend 
in with the people and the culture being studied -- even at 
six A.M. in the middle of a drafty Quonset hut. Blair focused 
on that thought as he was escorted into the large hangar-like 
building in the center of the compound. His captors 
undoubtedly knew he was a police profiler, but he needed them 
to think of him as a harmless academic and not the kind of 
man who would pose a threat to anyone. Fortunately his mild-
mannered scholar image was accessorized by the pair of 
muscular athletes who marched on either side of him -- that 
and the handcuffs on his wrists. Wilson and his goons weren't 
taking any chances.

To his right was Byers, similarly escorted. Trailing them was 
a man armed with a modified assault rifle, who waved it 
around like an extra in a Rambo movie; the sort of weapons-
happy testosterone junkie who didn't have the words 'safety 
catch' anywhere in his vocabulary. As they reached the 
building, Rambo scuttled around in front of the group and 
opened the door, waving them through with his weapon.

The "throne room" was crowded with a lineup of individuals 
who looked like they were playing a weekend warrior fantasy 
game. Camouflage uniforms and face paint seemed to be the 
uniform of the day for most of them, but the weaponry was 
disturbingly real. 

In front of them was the same throne from last night, but a 
heavy oak table had been dragged in front of it. Seated on 
the throne was a man who wore a judge's robe and a hooded 
hangman's mask. He was flanked by a pair of heavyset women 
who carried assault rifles and eyed the crowd with the cold 
detachment of professional executioners. They looked like 
they knew what a safety catch was for -- and how to turn said 
safety catch off.

A group to the right appeared to be playing a paramilitary 
Master/slave bondage game, featuring straps and rings and 
leashes and collars, with hand grenades as accessories. The 
woman, Tamara, was standing in front of the group, dressed in 
camos. Beside her stood a leashed and collared caucasian man, 
the one who'd been with her last night, who seemed to be both 
her pet and her Guide. Judging from their position near the 
"throne," the weapons, and their body language, this group 
had a higher status in the Huxleyan pecking order than 
Wilson's group.

He glanced around discreetly. There were others in the crowd 
who were dressed like Tamara's pet, and after a moment Blair 
realized that all the collared people were leashed to 
someone. Body language said that the one holding the leash 
was the dominant one and that the pairs were being regarded 
with some deference. So among the groups, these "Sentinels" 
and "Guides" had a lot of status... but there was no equality 
between the partners.

This was not good news. It implied some sort of "breaking" or 
"brainwashing program" -- and Byers, with his occasionally 
paranoid outlook, would be easier prey than a police 
profiler. Blair cursed silently. If the bonding had gone 
better between Doggett and Byers, then the new Guide would 
already have had some of the basic training in Shamanism that 
would make the him much less vulnerable. Now he was going to 
have to come up with a Great Idea, and at the same time, try 
to make sure that Byers didn't take any lasting psychological 
damage.

Next time, Blair decided, he was going to try an easier 
challenge... like bringing peace to the Middle East.

The judge rapped his gavel and the murmur of voices fell 
silent. A door opened and Wilson stalked in wearing his 
ceremonial robes, followed by a group of men dressed in 
jungle camo. Following Wilson and the Camo Commandos was a 
rather ordinary-looking man in a navy blue jogging suit who 
looked like a psychiatrist going for his morning 
constitutional. As they fell into place, the judge rapped 
again.

"Proceedings for custody of the Guides will begin," he 
announced. "Colonel Prather, you may speak first."

A man in desert camo stepped forward and stood before the 
judge. "I claim the Guides for the Taos Compound," he 
announced loudly.

The judge banged his gavel. "Proceed."

ELLISON-SANDBURG RESIDENCE
852 PROSPECT STREET #307
10 A.M.

Doggett leaned heavily against the kitchen counter. He could 
feel himself shaking, heart beating way too fast, and he 
hated it. "We need to do something, and we need to do it 
now," he insisted. Byers' kidnapping had affected him far 
more deeply than he'd ever thought it could. This was more 
than just a friend in trouble. It gnawed at his gut like 
something rabid.

Langly folded his arms and leaned against the refrigerator. 
"You heard Ellison. He said to wait here until he got back."

"Ellison and Banks can't do a thing about that compound out 
in the middle of wherever it is," Doggett snarled. "It's 
nowhere near their jurisdiction, and it'll be a week or more 
before they can get the County, State and Federal governments 
and the legal system to decide who goes to investigate and 
how they can do it. We don't have weeks. They could be *dead* 
by then." Byers, dead. That was a thought he didn't want to 
be having. It bothered him in ways he couldn't explain and 
didn't want to examine.

Frohike stood and stretched. "Doggett, you need to go lie 
down *now* and be sound asleep when Ellison comes back."

"Give me one good reason."

"Because," Frohike said pointedly, "you need an alibi. You 
need an alibi so lily white and pure that butter wouldn't 
melt in your mouth."

"What are you talking about?"

"There's ethics and then there's ethics, Agent Doggett," 
Frohike replied. "You, as a law enforcement agent, have to 
follow a lot of rules to make sure no laws are violated and 
no rights are trampled during your investigations. Now, 
journalists," he gestured at himself and the other Gunmen, 
"simply have an obligation to snoop, and some rights can be, 
um... circumvented if it's for the good of society."

"What are you suggesting?"

"I'm saying that you want to be here asleep like the good 
little agent you are while Langly and Jimmy and I do a little 
investigative reporting using methods you don't want to know 
about and equipment you don't want to hear about. And you 
need to be here, right by that phone, in case there's a quick 
tip from a certain informant of yours who needs to remain 
anonymous."

"I'm going with you," Doggett snapped, stalking forward.

Jimmy grinned and spread his hands. "Hey, there's nothing 
going on. We're just off hunting Bigfoot. You know how 
effusive that guy is. You might find him just about 
anywhere."

"Yeah," Langly grinned. "Like, I hear he's into all sorts of 
unusual places."

NORTH CASCADES COMPOUND
MAIN QUONSET HUT
NOON

Byers stifled a yawn. The hearing had been going on for hours 
and all that had been established was that twelve of the 
twenty Huxleyan compounds in the West had 
SuperSoldier/Sentinel development and training programs -- 
they didn't seem to realize there was a difference -- and 
they all demanded Guides; particularly Guides with 
experience. 

So far, the strongest arguments seemed to be Colonel/Shal-lan 
Wilson's "Finders Keepers" and Colonel Jogging Man's "I'm The 
Head Honcho's Favorite Sidekick."

Meanwhile, he and Blair had been stripped and poked and 
prodded and discussed as though they were bulls at a 4-H 
competition. It was only after Blair's shivering had become 
uncontrollable that they were allowed to dress again. He 
still looked cold. Byers wondered if he looked as exhausted 
and miserable as his friend did.

The gavel thundered, startling him. "Lunch recess," the judge 
announced. "We'll convene again at 3 P.M. local time."

Wilson started forward, but the women with the machine guns 
stepped in front of him, weapons ready. "They need to be 
fed," he protested.

"Yes, they do," the judge replied as he rose.

"I have food prepared for my Guide."

"Then you should feed your Guide," the judge said, his eyes 
glittering. "But neither of these men has been assigned to 
you as a Guide. They eat with me."

"But..."

"Yes, I had reports that you tried to pre-bond with the 
bearded Guide."

Wilson's face flushed angrily. "We acquired eighteen new 
Guides this quarter -- and all of them went to other 
compounds. I'm tired of seeing my unit short-changed by 
staff. We need Guides for our Sentinels!"

The room grew deathly silent. The judge said quietly, "As I 
recall, you have four Sentinels and you *did* have four 
Guides. Now I see just two Guides. What happened to your 
personal Guide, Wilson?"

"She transferred." The explanation was flat. Wilson stared at 
the judge, as if daring the man to challenge him.

"Really?"

The stillness in the room was the silence of a predator 
preparing an attack. 

Wilson crossed his massive arms. "We had sixteen sightings 
near this facility in the past month. Without Sentinels, we 
don't know who those are and *if* they're a threat. We're 
near a major hub, and *everyone* relies on our accurate 
reports!"

"I'll take it under consideration. Meanwhile, you're 
dismissed. You and the rest can go eat whatever your cooks 
have prepared."

Wilson stiffened and glowered. The judge simply turned and 
marched out the door behind the dais. The two female guards 
pushed the Guides forward and they followed the black-robed 
figure down a long hallway and downstairs into another 
underground section of the compound.

Some of the hallways appeared to connect buildings. They were 
led past several intersections and into an area painted with 
a faded bile green color. The judge opened a door and led 
them into a large room with tables and chairs. The rest of 
the squad took seats; Byers, Blair and their guards joined 
the judge at the head table.

The judge removed his hood, and at that gesture, white-
aproned servers appeared from the kitchen, carrying plates of 
food and silverware. The meal looked good, and Byers began to 
feel a small surge of hope -- until the moment that the 
waiters placed bowls of a sort of thick, cream-colored stew 
in front of the Guides and handed them spoons.

Byers glanced at his guard's meal; a plate of sliced beef 
with potatoes and corn. He prodded at his own stew, and a 
greenish object sank tiredly into the depths of the bowl. He 
hoped it was a vegetable.

He watched Blair, who was eating with quiet determination. 
Maybe fieldwork in Borneo or wherever gave you the ability to 
eat grubs, MREs, and whatever was put on the plate in front 
of you. He scooped his spoon into the stew and took a bite. 
The first mouthful was annoyingly bland.

"May I have the salt?" he asked the woman next to him.

That earned him a flat, cold stare. "No." Her tone implied 
that if he was wise, he would shut up and eat what was given 
to him. He blinked, looked down, and very quietly began 
eating his meal.

ELLISON AND SANDBURG'S LOFT
852 PROSPECT #307
12:35 PM

"Ellison? Jim?"

Someone was shaking his shoulder. Jim blinked. Doggett. 
Doggett was shaking his shoulder. He was lying on the couch, 
staring at the ceiling. "Did I zone?"

"Yeah." The FBI agent looked grim. "I thought you pulled out 
of it a couple of minutes ago, but you went back under. What 
happened? You've been staring at the front door for the past 
ten minutes."

He jerked his head around, looking toward the front door. 
"Yeah. I saw Jaguar. He was... flickering in and out like a 
bad TV picture."

"Jaguar?"

"Yeah. Jaguar."

"So, who's this Jaguar guy?" Doggett asked, his tone very 
carefully neutral.

Jim sighed heavily. "Let me guess. Blair didn't get to 
shamanism and totems with you yet, right?"

"You're makin' no sense here, Ellison. You wanna give it to 
me from the top?"

"God. Blair's so much better at this. Okay, for some reason -
- and we don't know why -- Sentinels and Guides have some 
sort of spirit helpers."

"There is *no way* I'm going to buy into that."

"Just shut up, John, and let me finish, okay?" he growled. 
"They're these animal spirits, and they give you warnings and 
show you important things. My totem is a black jaguar. 
Blair's is a wolf. Different people get different spirits. We 
don't know why. Blair thinks it has something to do with a 
person's personality or natural talents."

Doggett's mouth was set in a hard line. "Go on."

"I look up and see Jaguar there, trying to show me something. 
Then he starts flickering in and out like a bad TV picture 
and I try to see what he's doing and that's when the zone-out 
hit." He glowered at Doggett. "And don't try to tell me it's 
my imagination. You'll see your own spirit soon enough. 
They're real. Sometimes they're more real than the rest of 
the world."

"So can you see mine?"

"No. Not really. Just sort of a shadow of the power. None of 
us will really see it until after you get stabilized." He 
froze. Jaguar was back, standing there beside the door. 
Beside him was the barest ghostly outline of Wolf. He charged 
toward the images as Jaguar pawed worriedly at the fading 
shape of Wolf, trying to scoop up the ghost image with one 
large, inky paw. He dimly heard Doggett asking what was wrong 
as he reached out to touch the spirit.

Wolf's eyes stared into his, pleading, asking something. 
"Blair," he whispered to it and reached into it, unnerved at 
the thought of what the tenuous shape might mean, trying to 
bring the spirit closer. "Blair."

It shimmered again and then faded. He grabbed at it and his 
fingers slammed against the door. Then it was gone, and 
Jaguar was gone as well.

"ELLISON!"

He flinched at the shout. Doggett's hands were on his 
shoulders and he was... on his knees in front of the door. 
"Blair.... " Cold knots of dread twisted his stomach.

"What's goin' on?" Doggett's voice was urgent.

"I don't know," he whispered. "I don't know."

NORTH CASCADES COMPOUND
MAIN QUONSET HUT
12:35 PM

Blair was exhausted. They'd had very little sleep since they 
were brought to the compound, they'd been fed goo that had 
the consistency and flavor of library paste, and now they 
were being made to stand as a group of some dozen teenagers 
was led in. He blinked, trying to clear the dizziness and fog 
from his mind. A shape flickered in front of him that could 
have been Jaguar, but it faded almost as soon as it appeared.

The judge stood behind a lectern decorated with the winged 
eye of the Huxleyans and addressed the crowd. "Today we shall 
confirm the new Guides and their Sentinels," he said, his 
voice broad and strong as he gestured toward the teenagers. 
Were they the kids of the older Huxleyans? It was hard to 
tell. They were anonymous, dressed in identical khaki 
uniforms, hair clipped in military buzz cuts. One appeared to 
be female, but other than differences in height and skin 
color, it was hard to tell one from another.

"Today you are called to be True Guides, and we call upon you 
to meditate on what it means to be a Guide. Sit and be still 
and think about the obligations of being a Guide. Being a 
Guide is a serious obligation; one not to be taken lightly."

Blair stifled a yawn as he listened. It wasn't a technique he 
used in training new Guides, but asking people to think about 
their responsibilities and listing them for the new trainee 
wasn't a bad idea. The judge was droning on, his voice 
powerful and compelling, speaking of social injustices and 
the need to protect people, mixing it in with patriotism and 
religion. The kids were listening, open-mouthed.

He looked around. Byers was listening, apparently fascinated. 
Blair frowned at him. If you stopped to analyze the 
sentences, the speech was trite and the words were overly-
ponderous. So why did it sound so compelling -- and why was 
Byers mesmerized by it?

There was something very wrong with the situation. He focused 
his attention inward and let the words flow over him. Maybe 
he could do a minor spirit walk and touch Wolf. Once he could 
touch the spirit, then he could... could...

His heart hammered against his ribs. He couldn't remember 
what it was that he could do!

Shocked, he snapped his head up to stare at the judge and 
felt dizziness envelop him. Drugs: he and Byers had been 
drugged by something in the food or water. The judge had 
delayed this little farce of a ceremony just long enough for 
the drugs to start affecting them.

He took a deep breath and stared at the floor. A shadowy 
shape like a jaguar blinked at him with Jim's blue eyes and 
then vanished. He tried to recapture the image in his mind, 
but he kept losing focus. Meditation would help clear 
influence of the drugs, but he couldn't meditate. Maybe... 
breathing exercises? He took a slow, deep breath. Another 
wave of dizziness washed over him.

A LITTLE DIRT ROAD
SOMEWHERE IN WASHINGTON
5:00 P.M.

"Oh, Jesus. Another teeny road in the middle of nowhere," 
Langly whined. He raised his hands heavenward. "Why couldn't 
it be just off I-5? Or close to something edible? Why do we 
get another bugtrack in the middle of Bumfuck, Nowhere?"

"Look, this is the coast. It's a rainforest," Frohike 
snarled. "You don't get twenty lane highways in the middle of 
a rainforest."

"And why *not*?"

"Langly, just shut *up*! I'm tired of your whining."

"Frohike, we haven't slept in eighteen hours and we've seen 
every goddamned jerkwater rabbit trail in the whole state. 
Yes, I'm whining. I have a goddamn good *reason* to whine!"

"Look, fuckwit--"

Jimmy stuck his head between them. "Hey, guys.  I'm sorry the 
other compounds didn't check out.  Hey -- I know! The GPS map 
says we'll be near a campground in about six minutes and I 
can do a quick can of chili once we get stopped. Then we can 
call Agent Doggett and let him know where we are."

"Great.  Right.  Tell him we're lost in Outer Bugfuck 
Washington.  Oh yeah."

"Well, it'll keep him from looking for us. I mean, those guys 
worry, and they're awfully twitchy.  If he thinks we're safe, 
then we can go out and have a look at where the house of that 
Hucksee in Cascade is, and he won't worry about us."

"Thank you, Little Mary Sunshine. When I write the book about 
this gnarly road trip to every whacko compound in Washington, 
I'll be *sure* to mention your cheerful running commentary, 
your awesome culinary talents, and your amazingly helpful 
suggestions," Langly said sarcastically. He folded his long 
arms and sulked as Frohike downshifted the van and eased it 
over a tiger-trap sized rut in the road.

There was a rustle of cellophane and Jimmy played his trump 
card. "Hey, I got some ding-dongs here..." he smiled and held 
up a double package of chocolate cupcakes. "Want some?"

Langly lunged for them. "Oh, God! You're a *lifesaver*!" He 
ripped off the cellophane and began chewing enthusiastically 
with happy little moans.

Frohike turned to look at Jimmy. The jock winked, and handed 
him a chocolate cupcake. "Works every time," he whispered.

NORTH CASCADES COMPOUND
MAIN QUONSET HUT
6 PM

The judge's gavel pounded on the oak table, startling Byers 
from his fantasy about a good pasta dinner at Napoli's in 
Boston. The room fell silent and the assembled units came to 
attention.

"As of this date, the Guide known as Blair Sandburg will be 
remanded to Colonel Phoenix's care," the judge announced. 
There were some half-hearted cheers as the man in the jogging 
suit walked forward, smiling, to stand in front of the judge. 
Byers held his breath.

The gavel rapped again. "The Guide known as John Byers will 
be remanded to Colonel Wilson's care for retraining." There 
were shouts and cheering from the Trek crowd as Wilson, a 
leer on his face, came forward. Byers' stomach curdled.

The judge gaveled them into silence. "They will be given 
their additional inoculations and medical review and you may 
pick them up tomorrow morning, gentlemen. But I remind you, 
if you damage them permanently, they will be given to other 
compounds and your units will be censured and fined."

The judge's female guards nudged the two Guides and directed 
them out of the building. As the door closed behind them, 
Byers heard the judge say, "The general convocation of 
Western Group 18 will come to order."

ELLISON-SANDBURG RESIDENCE
852 PROSPECT #307
SUNDAY, 1 A.M.

"Am I keeping you awake?" It was a whisper, barely more than 
the sound of breath.

Jim sat up in bed with a sigh. "No. I can't sleep." He pulled 
on a tee-shirt and boxers and padded downstairs. Doggett was 
a shape by the window, tall and solid in the darkness. "It's 
hard to sleep without Blair." That was a minimalist 
understatement. The truth was, the whole world seemed empty 
without the sound of his lover's voice, without his vibrant 
energy, without the pad of his footsteps or the soft thudding 
of his heart. His scent still hung in the rooms, but somehow 
that just made their home feel lonelier and emptier than 
ever. He sat on the couch, staring at the darkness, feeling 
alone and defeated.

Doggett scrubbed his face with a hand. "I'm so tired. And..." 
he paused, gesturing.

"Lonely."

Doggett stared at him, nodded. "...lonely."

"It's... this ache," Jim said. "That's the connection; the 
bond. You don't notice it and then suddenly he goes out of 
your life and it's like there's this big hole there that you 
never knew about and it catches you unaware."

"Yeah. It's like that," Doggett whispered harshly.

"We'd call each other every night if we had to be apart. I... 
I miss his voice."

"I'd... listen to the messages he left," Doggett confessed 
after a long moment. "Just the sound of his voice... I didn't 
want him around but I had this compulsion to listen. And 
now... how do you *miss* someone you never even knew you 
wanted in your life?" He sat heavily on the other end of the 
couch, staring forlornly at the floor.

After a moment, Jim got up and returned with a pair of 
sleeping bags and a quilt from upstairs. Doggett looked at 
him curiously.

"I think we might manage a little rest if we camp out here in 
the living room," he said as he threw the quilt on the floor 
and spread the sleeping bags out on top of it. Maybe the 
touch of another body sleeping next to him, the close sounds 
and scents of another, might ease his stress -- or Doggett's. 
One or both of them might even manage a few hours of sleep.

The FBI agent quirked an eyebrow at him.

"Well, I'm not letting you sleep on Blair's side of the bed, 
and if you think I'm going to let you sleep on *mine,* you're 
crazy," he snapped, gesturing to the man. "Now lie down, will 
ya?"

He could see the pale flash of Doggett's teeth as he grinned 
in the darkness.

NORTH CASCADES COMPOUND
4:30 A.M.

Byers was startled out of his sleep by the creak of their 
cell door opening. Blair struggled upward, sleepily groping 
for his glasses, and was pinned against the wall by a fast-
moving Redshirt. Byers was hauled upward by a rough hand on 
his collar and force marched out of the cell. Wilson was 
waiting in the hall, arms folded, a satisfied smirk on his 
face.

"Where are you taking me?" Byers asked.

"To my quarters, T'hy'la."

Byers wondered sourly what Wilson's idea of a morning routine 
for Guides was. With any luck, it would be something along 
the lines of memorizing a page of Vulcan. He doubted it.

Wilson's quarters were about the size of a room at the Tyee 
Teepee. Not bad for a barracks room, but not exactly the 
height of luxury. The place was set up like a little studio 
apartment, and there was a good deal of Trek memorabilia 
around. A bed was curtained off from the rest of the room, 
and covered with thick covers and pillows in dark colors. In 
one corner, a chin-up bar was hanging from the ceiling, 
bolted in.

The Redshirts parked themselves around the room, vaguely at 
attention, amused expressions on their faces.

"Now, T'hy'la," Wilson said, "we're going to work on our 
bond. I felt the crisis rising in me, and it was necessary 
that I bring you here. What the Sentinel needs, the Guide 
must provide."

"Crisis?" Byers edged away.

"I received the warning today," Wilson said, looking up 
toward the ceiling. "In my meditations I received the vision 
and knew it to be true, but there is more that needs to be 
learned and understood. The bond must be strengthened so that 
we may serve, T'hy'la. Fear not." Wilson moved suddenly, 
shoving Byers back into the wall near the chin-up bar.

He took a swing at the redhead, but Wilson was faster. His 
wrist was grabbed and twisted sharply in a complicated 
martial arts maneuver and he found himself on the floor, arm 
locked at an awkward, painful angle. Wilson twisted his head 
and spoke a few words in Vulcan to the Redshirts. Two of them 
set their beers aside and walked over to grab Byers. Another 
positioned himself near the door.

Byers was hauled to his feet and the guards released his 
arms, but there was no time to bolt. Wilson's fist bunched 
the fabric of his collar and he was lifted upward, off his 
feet, to dangle before the huge man. Wilson let him hang for 
a moment, suspended helplessly, nose-to-nose with his captor, 
then slammed him into the wall. "*Never* refuse me," he 
hissed. "You are a Guide. It's your duty to obey your 
Sentinel, your duty to *serve* your Adun."

Byers staggered, dazed, and Wilson grabbed his collar again. 
"I need to familiarize myself with your psychic signature," 
he said, and leaned in, sniffing at his neck. Byers pushed 
against him and had his head slammed back into the wall 
again. "You *will* be still, T'hy'la," the man said. Wilson 
released him then and his hands moved lower, brushing Byers' 
abdomen, then his hips.

Byers jerked away. "No!"

"Yes." Another command in Vulcan and the Redshirts were back, 
raising Byers' arms over his head. Wilson produced a pair of 
thick leather restraints from a pouch at his waist and locked 
them tightly around Byers' wrists, then secured them to the 
ends of the chin-up bar. The third man used a set of straps 
to secure Byers' ankles to recessed eyebolts in the floor. 
"Obedience is the key to control. Control is the key to all," 
Wilson intoned as he pulled a black leather collar from the 
same pouch and padlocked it around Byers' neck.

"You won't get away with this," Byers said, with more 
confidence than he felt. "They'll find us, you know."

Wilson stroked Byers' face, then suddenly grabbed his jaw, 
yanking hard. "You mean that Sentinel you were working with? 
I don't think so." He grinned and leaned in to kiss Byers. 
"By all reports, the FBI agent hasn't got control of his 
senses yet. You haven't bonded, and you can't with him. His 
katra is fouled. But you'll bond with me."

Byers jerked his head back, turning away. "I won't. Not with 
you."

Fingers stroked his face, trailed down his chest to his 
nipples. "You can't win, T'hy'la. Kro'el -- the Way -- is 
power. Kro'el is beauty. Kro'el is justice." He smiled coldly 
and pulled out a slim switchblade knife. "It's a harsh way, 
but in the end it's best." His fingers pressed and the 
slender blade shot upward with a snick.

"No." Byers' throat was tight. He could feel sweat starting 
to trickle from his armpits.

Wilson began methodically slicing Byers' shirt. His eyes were 
hooded, his expression almost ecstatic. Byers had seen that 
same expression once before, on the face of a serial killer 
as he described how he had killed his victims. "You *will* 
learn to serve me, T'hy'la, and you *will* take pleasure in 
it." 

"No." It was the barest whisper of sound.

Wilson's mouth was on his neck, sucking. Byers' entire body 
clenched. "You'll bear my mark, and the world will know you 
belong to me." The knife kept moving, stripping cloth from 
his body. It wasn't long before he was naked in front of 
them, his clothing in shreds around him. He'd never felt so 
humiliated and outraged in his life.

"You will be my aishaplakai, or you will be my slave, Guide. 
Either way, you'll serve me." The words were a cold hiss in 
his ear. "To be my lover would be much, much more pleasant."

Cold with shock and anger, Byers could only stare, teeth 
bared. Wilson's hands moved steadily over his body now, 
touching his sides, his back, his ass with casual 
possessiveness as the man circled him. They moved between his 
legs, caressing his penis and testicles, and Byers' stomach 
heaved. He tried jerking his leg up to knee Wilson, but the 
bonds held firm and the disgusting intimacy continued.

"When you're ready, T'hy'la, I'll take you to my bed. We must 
be physically joined." The blade of the knife slid, cold, 
along Byers' throat and he suppressed a shudder. "As the bond 
strengthens, it becomes more sexual, more sensual. You'll be 
unable to refuse it." Wilson was nearly purring in his ear as 
he pressed the length of his body along Byers' back. "You'll 
want me. You'll beg for me. You'll take me into your body and 
cry my name in your pleasure. It will complete our bond, but 
we must be linked in our minds before that happens."

"Nggg..." Byers struggled against his touch, tasting bile.

"But to help me establish this link, I must mark you." Wilson 
smiled softly and flashed the switchblade up, then back.

Byers gritted his teeth against his scream as Wilson carved 
the design into the back of his shoulder.

ALLEYWAY
3600 BLOCK, BRANDON STREET
CASCADE, WASHINGTON
5 A.M.

Ellison braked smoothly, bringing his truck to a quick stop. 
"How many times have they started riots in your neck of the 
woods?" he asked Doggett.

The FBI agent shook his head. "There are times when I think a 
little therapeutic kneecapping might help." He looked toward 
the tableau at the wooden fence.

Langly, Bond, and Frohike were standing, hands raised, pinned 
by the searchlights of two squad cars. They were looking 
unusually cooperative, but this was due in part to the 
presence of Officer Will Hamilton and his K-9 companion, 
Ralph. The stocky German Shepherd was growling softly at 
Langly, eyeing the blond hacker with an expression that 
plainly said he was very suspicious of the man. Langly seemed 
to be holding his breath.

Next to them was a stocky man in a wife-beater tee-shirt, who 
was ranting at one of the other police officers and pointing 
to a Pit Bull. The dog lay on the ground, moaning piteously, 
pawing at its mouth and drooling.

Hamilton snapped an order to Ralph, who stared more intently 
at Langly's crotch. Langly tried to blend into the fence as 
Hamilton strolled over to the truck. "They say they belong to 
you," he said conversationally.

"Yeah," Ellison scowled. "What did they do?"

"Homeowner hears a noise near the garbage cans, thinks it's a 
raccoon. He and his dog go out to have a look, they find 
these three bozos. Homeowner says 'sic' and the dog charges 
and Blondie, there, sprays the dog with something that gives 
it fits. Blondie swears it's 'Nuit de Or' perfume. Homeowner 
-- who just conveniently happens to have a pistol -- takes 
potshots at them, and the big guy, Bond, tackles him. The 
wife calls us and runs out to defend her man and her dog. 
Blondie gives *her* a face full of that perfume, which needs 
to be on the controlled substances list or something. We got 
called in on it, and here we are."

"I... see."

"Assault by dog; assault by gawdawful cheap perfume. Blondie, 
there, swears the perfume was for a girlfriend. Mr. Trigger 
Happy swears the perfume is actually a secret weapon designed 
by the Federal government." Hamilton was trying hard not to 
laugh.

Frohike was looking toward the truck. He opened his mouth as 
though to say something and Ralph wheeled and snarled, 
displaying a long mouth full of very large, very white fangs. 
Frohike did his best to imitate a fencepost.

"Man, Ellison, you gotta get yourself a better class of 
skels," Hamilton grinned. "So who are those loons, anyway?"

"Informants," Ellison admitted. "Cuff 'em and get Green to 
haul them to the station in his squad car. Tell him we'll 
meet him there and take the Three Stooges off his hands. 
That'll give you time to cool the situation off and see if 
Mr. Trigger-Happy has a permit for his cute little pistol."

Hamilton nodded and waved cheerily as Ellison backed the 
truck up. Doggett was scowling at him.

"What's your beef, Doggett?"

"Just... wondering what's going on."

"Did you notice the homeowner?"

"Yeah."

"He was at the demonstration Friday morning, dressed in one 
of the camo uniforms with the winged eye on it. Care to 
speculate about what those clowns were doing, prowling around 
this particular back yard at this hour of the night?"

"I think," Doggett growled, "they were funky poaching. And I 
think they got lots of explainin' to do."

NORTH CASCADES COMPOUND
SANDBURG AND BYERS' CELL
5 A.M.

The door slid open. Byers, collared, bleeding, naked, and 
barely coherent, was escorted in and left on the bed. Blair, 
frozen in shock, barely heard the door shut and lock.

"Oh, God! *John*!" His stomach lurched. For a moment he 
dithered, then grabbed his tee-shirt from the sink where he'd 
left it drying. Soaking it with water, he began gently 
dabbing at his friend's bloodied form, trying to clean Byers 
up and see just how badly the man had been hurt.

A spasm shook Byers' body. "Blair?" he whispered, opening one 
eye briefly.

"Shh. You're safe." That, Blair knew, was a lie. At any 
second that brutal, psychotic sadist could come back for 
them, and Blair had no way of protecting his friend; his 
student. "Do you have enough strength to tell me what 
happened?"

"Star Trek... Bonding thing... Uh... pain and... 
something..." Byers mumbled as Blair pulled the thin blanket 
around him. Raw red marks on his wrists and ankles showed how 
he'd fought the restraints. On the back of one shoulder, 
Blair found an Enterprise insignia carved into his flesh. He 
swallowed, trying not to vomit. God -- he needed to find out 
if Byers had been raped, without further traumatizing his 
friend.

Blair lunged toward the door and pounded on it. The sound 
boomed down the hall. "*MEDIC*!" he bellowed. "*Somebody get 
a medic in here*!" He wheeled and snarled at the cameras and 
pointed vehemently toward the bed. He had a few other 
gestures he wanted to add, but that wouldn't bring help any 
faster.

There was a soft whimper from the bed and Blair turned his 
attention back to Byers. Was this the way they were training 
the teenaged Guides as well? He knelt by the bed and gently 
stroked the sweat-streaked hair.

There was a sound behind him and he turned as the door was 
unlocked. Two guards in khaki marched forward and grabbed his 
arms as Wilson's blue-shirted medic came in, carrying a 
medical kit. The guards pulled him out into the hall and he 
strained to see what was going on in the cell behind him.

"Don't worry about your friend," one guard said in a bored 
tone. "He'll be fine. Wilson's medic is top notch and we've 
never lost one yet."

Blair stared at him, open-mouthed.

The other guard nudged him forward. "Let's go, Guide. It's 
your turn for training."

Blair's stomach heaved.

ELLISON-SANDBURG RESIDENCE
852 PROSPECT STREET #307
11:30 A.M.

"...and if you goons *ever* try anything like that again," 
Jim snarled, "I'll *personally* see to it that you get locked 
up in some loony bin for the rest of your lives!"

The three Lone Gunmen blinked at him, looking innocent. 

"Wagner's dog is fine, man," Langly whined. "So's his old 
lady. And he didn't have a permit for that gun."

"And all we did before that was make sure they weren't hiding 
Bigfoot in the compound," Jimmy said, sounding for all the 
world like he'd just been out for a walk in the park, 
officer.

"And you confiscated our cameras and the film with the 
pictures of some of the vehicles leaving the compound," 
Frohike added. "I assume you ran the license plates and 
checked for traffic tickets. So what happened?"

"Yeah, we got two of them on warrants. They lawyered up. 
Doggett and I questioned them both, but all we can tell is 
that they're lying about everything, that both of them know 
where other compounds are here in Washington, and one of them 
knows something about special training programs. But, short 
of injecting them with pentathol or using electroshock on 
them, that's all we've been able to get. And there was 
nothing useful in their cars," Jim admitted. It was back to 
square one, and he was too tired to figure out where square 
two was.

Frohike looked at his watch. "A shame. Well, it's been nice, 
Ellison, but we have to go back to the motel and check on 
Doggett. He's been gettin' a nap the past couple hours."

Jim stared, focusing on the man. Frohike was damned good at 
hiding his emotions; the sort who could fool a lie detector -
- or a Sentinel. Langly and Jimmy, on the other hand, were 
open books, and the heart rate spikes and musk of adrenaline 
told him enough to know they had something more in mind than 
checking on the FBI agent. They'd used some pretty 
sophisticated listening equipment to check out the compound. 
What if they'd left some equally sophisticated recording 
equipment behind in another location? What if they'd managed 
to bug Wagner's house?

He took a deep breath and gambled on his intuition. "I want 
to know *everything* you hear on those recordings!" he 
snapped. "And I mean *everything*!"

Bingo! Frohike's heart rate spiked, and the others' 
heartbeats went into overdrive. Jim bared his teeth at them 
in an evil grin. "I expect my anonymous informants to be 
absolutely thorough. And if you get going now, you should be 
able to give me a report within four hours, right?"

He noted the trio of stunned nods.

"Then get going. I'm going to get my beauty rest."

NORTH CASCADES COMPOUND
ISOLATION ROOM
3 :00 P.M.

The door lock clanked loudly in the silence and booted feet 
marched away. Blair sat, tired, on the floor of the bare cell

His new Sentinel, Colonel "Jogging Man" Phoenix, apparently 
wasn't into psycho-torture, though he was into isolation and 
bland meals and forced marches and recordings of 
inspirational lectures by the judge. There was a low rumble 
of drums from the speaker -- some sort of military snare and 
bass drum marching cadence.

"Don't you guys have anything by some of the Senegal 
drummers? Babatunde Olatunji?" he said to no one in 
particular. "I really like Famoudou Konate, man. Some good 
djembe, or maybe tribal recordings. This stuff, it doesn't 
hold a candle to world fusion or tribal drumming." That was 
the trouble with society today: limited notions of cultural 
diversity. He sighed and stared at the door.

His eyes wouldn't focus. He squinted and shook his head 
violently.

Something was wrong with him, and it wasn't physical 
exhaustion. He reached out to touch the wall nearest him. The 
paint looked oddly pixilated, as though someone had taken a 
snapshot through a bad digital camera, blown the image to 
larger than life-sized and plastered it on the paint. His 
fingers looked odd against the background and when he stared 
at his hand, he could see the blood pulsing in the arteries 
across the back of it.

More drugs. They'd fed him psychoactive drugs. He wondered, 
briefly, what they'd given him.

The drum music had changed from military cadences to a more 
primitive tribal sound. The low thrum of the djembe echoed in 
the room, and he found himself tapping his feet to the beat, 
but it seemed off somehow.

Ah. That was it. There seemed to be words mixed in with the 
drumming. He resisted the pull, trying to hear the human 
voices that were blended with the Talking Drums.

"The old bond is shattered. The new bond is forming."

No. He curled into a ball, resisting the pull of the beat, 
but the drugs dragged him further into the trippy mental 
state. For the shaman, drums were more than just music -- 
drums were the shaman's horse; a trance technique shamans 
used to get to the deepest layer of the Spirit Road. The 
voices of these drums kept gently urging him to ride their 
voices forward, believe the evil untruth: "The old bond is 
shattered. The new bond is forming."

No.

The door opened and he looked up, seeing shapes that flowed 
and rippled. Ah. People. The man in the jogging suit entered. 
"I am your Sentinel." 

Phoenix held out a glass of water and it sparkled like 
diamonds. "Drink this. It's good for you." There was a shadow 
wrapped around the man like a ghostly aura.

"No," Blair said. The drums fell silent.

"Yes," said the man, and auras streamed and flowed from him, 
electric white and blue and the shadow within him glowed 
gold. "The old bond was evil. It enslaved you. I am your new 
Sentinel, come to set you free. Together we will rise from 
the ashes of slavery." He smiled gently and held out his 
hand, but his eyes were dark and filled with hunger and there 
was no spirit animal standing beside him.

"No," Blair said, and the drums began whispering again , but 
the embedded human voices were gone. Now there was just the 
pure thunder of the true Talking Drum, singing "Come away. 
Come away."

Phoenix knelt beside him. "Poor Guide. My poor Guide." His 
voice was sweet as music and raw as pain. "You have been 
wounded. I will heal you."

Blair looked deep into the eyes of that beautiful, horrible 
face and that evil, shadowing soul. He knew it for the thing 
that wanted him, Blair Sandburg; wanted him in a pure way, a 
sweet way, a terrible way -- wanted him in an all-devouring 
way.

No.

"No. Nono. Nonono." He made it a chant; a warrior song that 
he sang to himself. The rhythm of his denial matched the 
pulse of the drum. 

The man touched his face, whispering "Yes."

Blair turned his face away and reached deep inside himself, 
pushing past the voices to reach for the shaman's horse, the 
galloping hoofbeats of everything and nothing, and let the 
thunder of the drums carry him away from consciousness. As he 
faded, he heard a single angry shout behind him.

"No!"

Yes.

SOMEWHERE IN THE WILDS OF WASHINGTON STATE
10 P.M.

The coffee was bad, but at least it wasn't heavy with one of 
those awful artificial flavors. Doggett sipped slowly, 
letting the warmth seep into him as the Gunmen's ancient 
microbus wheezed its way toward the Grand Coulee Dam. Ellison 
had apparently acquired a taste for the crap they served at 
the burger joint; he drank it without any qualms.

The interrogation of the Huxleyans proved to be a bust, and 
all anyone got from them was their made-up names, made-up 
ranks, and made-up serial numbers. It got tiresome to listen 
to them repeat the phrases like robots, claiming they were 
prisoners of war. Doggett remembered Beirut. Those yahoos 
wouldn't have lasted a minute in the real military.

The Gunmen had, indeed, left recording devices at the house 
on Brandon Street. The man who rented the house, Ervin 
Wagner, was particularly talkative. Among the tidbits the 
Gunmen gathered was the location of a Huxleyan unit called 
the Cave Compound, and the news that there was to be a 
"District 18 discussion meeting" there tonight. When the 
Gunmen gathered their snooping gear and announced they were 
going funky poaching, he and Ellison bullied their way into 
the expedition.

Now, they found themselves lurching through the Cascades in 
the pitch dark, along a road that was little more than a 
suggestion in that darkness, headed toward a series of GPS 
coordinates that Langly swore was the location of the 
mysterious Cave Compound.

Watching Ellison over the past couple of days, Doggett was 
starting to rethink his whole attitude about Guides. Ellison, 
despite all his training and experience, had zoned several 
times and it had been hard to bring him back. Very hard. 

Doggett had not only been zoning on a regular basis, he'd 
been unable to feel anything at all for well over an hour 
yesterday -- his entire body had gone completely numb. That 
had frightened him. Ellison said he'd had the same thing 
happen to him before, had even gone deaf at one point from 
trying to reject his abilities. Ellison also told him that he 
had to stay calm and relaxed as best he could in order to get 
sensation back. It had been... difficult.

They passed a muddy logging road. Frohike eased the van into 
the scrub nearby and cut the engine. Langly climbed over them 
and slapped a yellow and red "abandoned vehicle" tag on the 
rear window. It wasn't much of a disguise, Doggett thought to 
himself, but it would serve for a few hours. He downed the 
rest of his coffee, shouldered the backpack Jimmy handed him, 
and stepped out into the night. Langly and Frohike were 
putting on night vision goggles.

"Car. Coming up behind us." That was Jimmy, keeping watch 
with the infrared field glasses. They scrambled into the 
trees and held their breath as the other vehicle rumbled out 
of the dark and swept past the van, headlights flaring 
briefly as it passed. Its headlights winked from the hillside 
a few moments later.

Ellison handed him a pair of night vision goggles as the 
drizzle started again. Doggett stared at them in disgust. 
"We're Sentinels. We don't need this. We can see in the 
dark."

"Correction, Grasshopper," Ellison said. "We're Sentinels 
without Guides in the middle of the woods. You turn your 
night vision up and what happens when a bright light gets 
turned on?"

"Oh," was all he could think of in response.

"We're Sentinels, but we don't have to be stupid Sentinels. 
Or dead ones." Ellison donned his own night vision goggles, 
tugged his jacket closed, and headed toward the logging road.

End section 1 of 2