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A New War #23: Light Show
by Lianne Burwell
November 1999
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Paul drifted in a warm haze, unwilling to move, unwilling to wake up. He 
wasn't sure why he was so unwilling. He just knew instinctively that 
waking was an invitation to pain, and whatever else he might be, Paul 
Ironhorse was *not* a masochist.

But despite his best efforts, the memories asserted themselves, reminding 
him just *why* he was in trouble. His eyes flew open before he could stop 
them, and cringed slightly at the memory of the violent flashing lights. 
But there were none. Instead, the room was dim and soothing to overly 
sensitive eyes.

And he wasn't alone.

Pushing up on one elbow, he found that he was laid out next to Harrison, 
and he breathed a sigh of relief. The cell was identical to the one he'd 
been in before, and they were alone, but least they were together. He 
wondered why, though. What were their captors up to now?

Then he frowned. Harrison didn't look like he was asleep or drugged. He 
was lying there, stiff as a board, and expressionless. If it weren't for 
the slow rise and fall of his chest, Paul would have been worried that he 
was dead. The man was deep into one of those fugue states, zone-outs. How 
long he'd been like that, Paul didn't have a clue.

"Harrison?"

Paul rolled over and pushed up to his knees. He reached down and slapped 
Harrison lightly on the cheek. "Harrison, don't do this. Wake up. Now!" 
he added in his best command voice. There was no response.

Paul wasn't sure how long he kept that up, alternating verbal coaxing and 
physical touching until finally he got a response. A low groan, almost 
too quiet to hear, then Harrison's eyes fluttered open. He stared up in 
confusion, and Paul breathed a deep sigh of relief.

"Back with me?" he asked, wanting -- no, *needing* -- the verbal 
confirmation.

Harrison blinked slowly, looking confused. Then there was a blur of 
motion, and Paul found himself clutched to the larger man's chest. He 
must be losing his edge, he thought to himself. He hadn't even realized 
that Harrison was going to move until it was too late to evade. Of 
course, he didn't *want* to evade, but it was the principle of the matter.

"Paul?"

Paul started to pull away, but the arms around him tightened. He relaxed 
again, letting Harrison keep a hold of him. For several long minutes they 
just enjoyed the physical contact.

Finally, Paul pulled away again, and this time Harrison let him go. They 
both pushed up until they were sitting side by side on the padded floor, 
although they stayed close enough that their shoulders were touching.

"What happened?" Harrison asked, his voice stronger and his eyes more 
alert.

Paul sighed. "Well, they put me in a room full of flashing lights and 
asked me questions about who and what I was. I told them what I knew. I 
didn't think there was any point in trying to lie. Then they stopped 
asking questions, there was a hissing sound and I woke up here. You?"

"I'm... not sure. They put me in here, but I don't remember anything 
else."
"Surely there's something you remember."

Harrison shook his head. "Nothing. It's like a big blank." He sounded 
upset about the gap in his memory, and Paul dropped a soothing hand on 
his forearm. After a moment, Harrison started to relax again.

"So," Paul finally said. "I wonder why they decided to put us in 
together."

"To test a hypothesis."

Both men jumped to their feet at the sound of the voice. Unlike the 
earlier computer-generated voice, this one was human. Paul recognized it 
as the man who Scully had called Spender.

"What hypothesis?" Harrison called out.

To Paul, there was no response. At least none that he could hear. 
However, Harrison went even paler than he'd been before. "What?" he 
hissed.

"The hypothesis is that I'm a Sentinel," Harrison whispered back.

"Thank you for confirming," the voice said, only slightly sarcastic.

"So now what happens?" Paul demanded.

They waited for a minute, but there was no answer. Finally, Harrison 
moved to one of the walls and sat down, beckoning for Paul to join him.

"They've turned off the speakers," he said. "The mics are active, though, 
so I would guess they're recording us."

Paul snorted. "I'm not surprised. How can you tell the mics are on?" he 
asked curiously.

Harrison shrugged. "They give off a hum. I can hear it in the background. 
So now what?"

Paul sighed, and leaned against Harrison's side, wrapping his arms around 
the larger man, even though they were probably being watched. He didn't 
much care what they thought of it. He'd never been a touchy-feely man 
before he met Harrison, but with the large man the instinct to touch was 
instant and constant.

And under the circumstances, he didn't have any interest in fighting the 
instinct. They were trapped and there was nothing they could do about it, 
so he would take comfort where he found it and give it when he could.

* * * * *

Spender smiled at the sight on the monitors. Blackwood was fast asleep, 
tucked in against Ironhorse's side. The Guide had his arm around his 
Sentinel and watching the room, even though there was nothing to see.

"Protective instinct on the part of the Guide. Physical contact needed by 
both. Some evidence of other Guiding instincts. They match with the 
others," the tech said, typing a report on his computer.

"Very good," Spender said. "Keep me informed of any changes."

He headed back upstairs, considering the possibilities as he went. It 
would be interesting to see what difference it made having a soldier as 
the Sentinel's Guide instead of an academic. Blair Sandburg was an 
anthropologist. Of the other four Sentinel-Guide pairs that they were 
observing, two of the Guides were psychiatrists that the Sentinels had 
gone to, thinking that their enhanced senses were a sign of some sort of 
dementia. A third Sentinel was being Guided by her husband, a grade 
school teacher. Teaching, medicine and history seemed to be fields that 
could-be Guides were drawn to, almost instinctively.

The last Sentinel was bonded to a Chicago policeman, but he was very 
different from Ironhorse. The policeman had a history of personal 
problems and a reputation for being unstable. His partnership with the 
Canadian had strengthened his personality, but agents set to watch them 
said that he still showed signs of being insecure about their 
relationship and his role in it.

But Ironhorse... The Colonel had a reputation for tactical brilliance. He 
was quick, intelligent and ruthless when he needed to be. It was an 
interesting contrast, Blackwood and Harrison to the other Sentinel-Guide 
pairs they had. Their studies had shown Sentinels to be drawn mainly to 
law-enforcement or the military, while Guides weren't. And yet this pair 
seemed to have reversed the roles. They would need to be tested to see 
how this affected them.

Spender entered his study and waved for the guards to leave. They locked 
the doors behind them on the way out. Spender stubbed out his cigarette 
and settled into his comfortable desk chair. "Do pardon the delay," he 
said, smiling insincerely at the young man opposite him.

Agent Mulder was wearing a mulish expression. Pity. It spoiled his fine 
features. He was rather like his partner in that. "Where *are* they?" he 
asked, not for the first time since he'd arrived at the estate.

"Dear boy, you really should learn to cultivate some patience. You 
wouldn't get yourself into as much trouble as you do if you just 
controlled yourself. Now, if you're a good boy, I just might take you to 
see your partner."

Mulder twitched, but he did manage to keep quiet, Spender was pleased to 
note. Despite the trouble he caused, Mulder *was* trainable. You just 
needed the right incentive. With any luck, Scully would be the right 
incentive for him to do as he was told for once.

But Mulder was impatient. He was already squirming in his seat like an 
errant schoolboy, eager to get away from class at the end of the day. As 
the squirming increased, Spender sighed.

"Fine. We shall go see your partner, since I doubt you will listen to 
reason until you're sure she's safe."

Almost immediately, Mulder relaxed. Spender got to his feet and gestured 
for Mulder to follow him. A guard fell into step behind Mulder as they 
retraced his steps from earlier.

During the elevator ride down, Mulder's eyes examined every square inch 
of the small room, as if he expected to find some important answer hidden 
in the wall panels or ceiling tiles. After years of studying the young 
man, Spender knew that he was full of questions, but too stubborn to ask 
them. It was those questions that were their best chance of bringing 
Mulder into line. Once he understood that they were his only source of 
real answers, he would have no choice but to join them.

Mulder had been part of their greatest and riskiest experiment. They'd 
started experimenting with hybrids. The initial attempts had been human-
animal hybrids, an experiment that was still ongoing as they tried to 
create the perfect soldier. Once they'd been successful, they'd moved to 
creating human-alien hybrids, using genetic material from captured shape-
shifters, with an eye to infiltrating their erstwhile allies. The results 
had been mixed. There were also objections that even if they were able to 
drive off the aliens, they were creating a potential non-human master 
race that they couldn't control.

So the next outgrowth of the human-alien hybrid project were techniques 
for enhancing human genetics. Members of the council had provided the 
fetuses for the experiments. Jeffrey, Jarod, Fox Mulder and his sister 
Samantha were among the children that had resulted. The children had 
shown early signs of high intelligence and robust physical make-ups. None 
of them suffered from the same sort of illnesses that normal children 
did, and they healed faster than the normal.

The only drawback was that they also tended to be intensely focused and 
unstable. In many ways, Fox Mulder was a prime example of all the best 
qualities of the resulting children and the worst. For years they had 
worked to channel his focus in the direction they wanted, but had only 
been marginally successful. Perhaps now they had the leverage to force 
him in the direction they wanted.

The elevator doors slid open silently, and Mulder's eyes went wide at the 
sight of the control room, manned by nearly a dozen technicians. Spender 
led him over to one of the workstations and gestured towards the 
monitors. They showed Agent Scully from several angles, sitting jammed 
into a corner of her cell, facing towards the door.

"I want to talk to her," Mulder said stubbornly, sounding like the 
spoiled little boy that Spender considered him to be. Instead of 
answering, he reached down and pressed the intercom button, then stepped 
back.

"Scully?"

On the screen, Scully's head came up, looking for the source of the 
sound. "Mulder?"

"Are you all right?"

"Where are you?" she said, standing up, a frown on her face.

"Uh... I'm not sure."

"Damnit, Mulder, tell me you didn't give yourself up!"

Spender's lips twitched at the guilty look on Mulder's face. "There 
wasn't much alternative," the young man said defensively.

Scully threw up her hands and started pacing. "Did you even try to think 
of possible alternatives first? I swear, you have a *death* wish!"

Spender reached down and turned off the intercom. On the screen, they 
could still see Scully pacing and ranting. He wondered how long it would 
take before she realized that no one was listening, or if she would even 
care.

"Well, Agent Mulder? You've seen your partner."

"Where is she?"

Spender smiled. "I don't think you really need to know that. All you need 
to know is that we have her and she is unharmed. And she will stay that 
way as long as you follow orders."

"So what happens now?"

"Now you take a little drive. And then you do what you are told. That is 
all. Is that understood?"

Mulder looked stubborn, but Spender could wait. He held all the cards.

"Yes," Mulder said, grudgingly. "I understand."

"Very good."

Very good indeed. Things were definitely looking up, Spender thought, 
lighting a fresh cigarette. It might even be time to dispose of that 
troublesome AD. With Scully in a cell and Mulder under their thumb, 
Skinner was not very useful anymore. Except as an example.

* * * * *

Kincaid was carrying a thick folder as he headed for the base gym, still 
followed by his shadow. Hammond had finally had to open the base, 
although he'd been carefully vague in reporting to his superiors about 
*why* he'd sealed the base. As far as command was concerned, a soldier 
had been affected by an extra-terrestrial virus that had caused him to go 
berserk. Hammond had sealed the base until Doctor Fraiser had found a 
treatment. The soldier was still in isolation until they were sure that 
he was fully recovered and no longer a danger. Or so Hammond told them. 
Thankfully, there hadn't been any challenges to that story.

Hopefully the story would continue to hold until they were safely on 
their way.

Hammond had also been very generous about allowing them use of all 
facilities in their preparations for the attack on Spender's estate in 
Delaware. Wolfling was already moving a small force of Hunter bikers into 
Delaware, with weapons and surveillance gear. They'd already reported 
heightened activity at the estate, which they had people watching around 
the clock. Kincaid got the feeling that Wolfling and his people were 
looking forward to the assault. Wolfling sounded almost gleeful when they 
talked over the scrambled phone lines.

Meanwhile, Krycek had been supplying plans of the interior of the estate 
based on his one trip there. Kincaid was amazed at the wealth of detail 
that the man had provided. Krycek had a well-trained memory -- a 
necessity to someone working in the shadows -- and an eye for detail, 
especially when it came to security systems. Again, a necessity.

And getting the details out of him had kept him in bed for most of a day. 
He'd grumbled about it, but he couldn't deny that it was important. What 
he remembered could make the difference between life and death.

After that, they'd moved onto creating a variety of battle-plans. They 
wouldn't be able to finalize those plans until they reached Delaware and 
got a better idea of who they'd be working with and what equipment they 
would have, but they could have some options sketched out ahead of time.

While Hammond couldn't actually help them -- and they hadn't expected him 
to -- his people had seemed to almost enjoy helping them set up different 
scenarios. It had started with the lovely Captain Carter, but her entire 
team had gotten involved, then other teams and before they knew it, there 
were more than twenty soldiers in a conference room brainstorming 
different ideas. Some were just plain silly, but they had some very good 
possibilities. The best, had come from Teal'c, a black man with a gold 
plaque on his forehead and apparently extra-terrestrial origins. A very 
intriguing man and one that Kincaid wouldn't have minded knowing better 
if he weren't already keeping company with Sam.

But Krycek was starting to get antsy. He was up and moving, not too 
badly. He'd been very lucky with the gunshot. Kincaid wouldn't have 
believed that someone could be gut-shot without more than nicking any 
internal organs. Krycek had been unbelievably lucky.

But now that he was well on the road to recovery, he was chomping at the 
bit, wanting to get moving, and Kincaid knew they'd have to head for the 
East Coast soon, before the man did something stupid.

Kincaid entered the gym and stopped, pausing to admire the sight in front 
of him. Krycek, in a cotton gi, was running through an advanced kata. He 
moved so smoothly and easily that you almost didn't notice that the left 
sleeve was pinned up. There were no checks in his balance or flow. 
Kincaid waited until Krycek glided to a stop, then whistled admiringly.

Krycek headed over to the bench and grabbed a towel to mop the fine sheen 
of sweat from his forehead. Kincaid wondered how long he'd actually been 
working.

"So, *mother*," Krycek finally asked. "Do I pass muster?"

"I didn't know you did martial arts."

Krycek snorted, but let himself be diverted for the moment. "I'm more of 
a brawler, but after I lost my arm, I found a sensei who didn't blink 
when faced with a one-armed student who disappeared on a regular basis. I 
haven't actually trained in any style or tested for any belts, though. It 
was just the best way I could think of to relearn balance and fighting 
skills after losing an arm. So?"

Kincaid shrugged. "I guess that makes sense. Martial arts *does* focus a 
lot on balance." Krycek took a step forward, fist up warningly, and 
Kincaid backed up, a grin on his face. "We fly out tonight. Wolfling has 
a friend who flies cargoes -- not always legal ones, mind you. He'll be 
here in a couple hours. We'll be in Delaware by morning."

Krycek broke into a wolfish grin that sent shivers along Kincaid's spine. 
"Good. And tomorrow night, the fun begins."

Adrenaline started pumping, and Kincaid felt his own grin turn dangerous. 
Spender was going to learn that he'd made a *big* mistake.


TO BE CONTINUED