Version: 9 (incorporating Linda, Celeste,
Michelle and
This novella previous appeared in Sentry Post #6 in April 2000.
Author’s note:
This is primarily a story based on UPN and
Pet Fly’s ‘The Sentinel’. Characters from another series ‘The Champions’ also
make an appearance. ‘The Champions’ was an adventure/drama series first
televised in the late 1960s. Produced by the Incorporated Television Company
(ITC) [UK] the series centred on the adventures of a trio of agents who
belonged to the international law enforcement agency known as ‘Nemesis’. In the
premier episode the three agents (Craig Stirling, Richard Barrett and Sharron
Mccready) crashed their aeroplane somewhere in the mountains of
The timeline of this story is during the second season of ‘The Sentinel’.
Almost a Sentinel.
by Sealie
Chapter One
"Sandburg."
Detective James Ellison tapped lightly on the doorframe of his friend and partner’s university office. The anthropology student was curled up on the floor pouring over a huge dusty tome under the sunlight shafting through the office’s small window. He was completely oblivious to the detective’s presence and the dust motes playing around his head as he angled the book to better make out the crabbed writing.
"Chief?" The student’s depth of concentration never failed to amaze the detective. Bent over the enormous book, dressed in a t-shirt two sizes too big for his frame and almost-white jeans, the twenty-or-so anthropologist looked like a teenager. Blair turned over a page and nibbled absently on his thumb. Judging by the depths of his concentration, Jim figured that the student was reading about sentinels, the mythic tribal guardians who with the aid of their enhanced senses protected their tribes.
"Blair!"
"Geez!" Blair swore and jumped, almost out of his skin. Grimacing, he ran his fingers through his messy hair and scowled up at Jim. "You made me lose my train of thought, man."
"Sorry," Jim said absently, although he was not in the slightest bit sorry. "You ready to go?"
Blair grimaced. "Give me a minute." He grabbed a piece of paper from the floor and scribbled a note.
"You’ve got ten seconds."
"This journal is really interesting, Jim." Blair shifted the heavy book in his arms. "It tells the story of what’s probably a sentinel in Ancient Babylon--he’s a King and God character and he picks the religious leader of an opposing cult to be his guide... Well, the guide is called his companion but really... actually that’s irrelevant... what is interesting is that the sentinel chose his guide... I mean the guide and sentinel weren’t predestined. It kind of implies that anyone can be a guide."
Jim rubbed the beginning of a headache at his temples.
"*That* I don’t believe," the Sentinel said, as he gingerly entered the room. He picked his way over the journals and papers strewn across the floor towards the person who helped him use his own sentinel abilities. "Put the book down. I’m hungry. Let’s go."
Blair remained cross-legged looking up at him over his glasses. "Why don’t you believe?"
"Believe what?"
"Well, that anyone can be a guide."
Jim snorted. "The man was a religious leader butting heads against a sentinel--he had to have a brain. Then again, going up against a sentinel... he had to be a dork. See? You’re perfectly qualified to be a guide."
"Ha ha," Blair drawled, but he put the book aside and allowed Jim to haul him to his feet. "Where do you want to eat? There’s a new vegetarian and vegan restaurant...."
Jim mock shuddered. "I want, no need, meat. Burger!"
Blair laughed again, but surprisingly didn’t launch into a treatise on the bad points of pre-formed food products. Jim cocked an eyebrow in question.
"Hey, man, I get a craving for spare ribs and barbecue sauce every now and again, you know."
The detective rubbed his hands together. "I know just the place."
Blair snorted and allowed himself to be dragged to the door, carefully stepping around all the piles of paper.
"You seem to be in a great mood. And," the grad student made a show of checking his watch, "you’re early."
"Yeah, the deposition didn’t take as long as I thought it would and there was only paper work waiting for me in the office. You said that you were coming into the precinct tomorrow, right?"
"You don’t need a guide; you just need a secretary," Blair said, but not nastily.
First the legend and now this. What’s on his mind? Jim wondered.
Blair grinned and bounced down the corridor, his jewellery clinking. "I’ve got a craving for spice."
Maybe it was a joke? Yeah, I’m being
over-sensitive. God, did I think that?
The anthropologist was now at the far end of the corridor peering up at the notice board. Jim slowly ambled after him. Blair reached up and ran his finger down one of the lists. The Sentinel could hear him muttering under his breath, discussing something obscure with himself.
"Damn!" Blair swore, and turned to grimace at Jim, his good mood seemingly evaporating. "They changed the schedule of the guest lecturers. Again!"
The Ph.D. student was, Jim noted, as unpredictable as overheating nuclear fuel. One moment he was casually admitting that the requirements for the guide role were non-existent and the next blowing a fuse over the timing of a lecture.
"So have you missed it?"
"Yeah, I missed it. It sounded really interesting: ‘Kutchin Native Death rituals’."
Jim looked over Blair’s head and read the list of mind-numbingly boring lectures. One leaped out at him-- the name of the guest speaker was familiar. The date was today and the time in an hour. Then he flashed back to clandestine tutorials with his fellow covert ops trainees. They had spent hours pouring over the obscure case files and incredibly complex mathematical research papers trying to understand and follow this operative’s and his partners’ methodology.
"Hey, Jim, are you zoning?"
Blair was patting his shoulder and using a carefully modulated tone of voice.
Shaking his head, Jim grinned down at the smaller man. "No, I read about this guy a long time ago." The Sentinel pointed a broad finger at the lecture timetable.
"Professor Richard Barrett ‘Encrypting of non-essential data as a mask: Mathematical Analysis and Interpretation,’" Blair said out loud. "Math?"
The detective laughed at the incredulous sound in Blair’s voice.
"You say it like it’s a dirty word. I happen to be pretty good at math but going into encryption would have meant no field assignments."
Blair stared at him as if he had grown another head.
"And I might have enjoyed it but I couldn’t do the... I dunno... the intuitive leaps."
"Math?" Blair repeated, sounding distressed.
Exasperated, Jim cuffed the side of his partner’s head. "Yeah, math. That stuff with numbers. I did go to college and between actin’ like a horse’s ass and generally enjoying myself, I did get a degree--how did you think I became an officer?"
"But math? I don’t like math - it was one of the things that drew me to Anthropology--no math or statistics." Blair apparently couldn’t get his mind out of the one way track of the horrors of calculus, differentiation, and blue book exams.
"Come on, kid," Jim took his shocked partner by the elbow pushed him down the corridor. "You know my PIN number, my shoe size... Look at it this way; you’ve found something new about me. Maybe sentinels like mathematics?"
Blair ran his fingers through his hair showing his confusion. "Yeah, I mean it goes with the anal behaviour," he muttered under his breath, "you’ve gotta stick with the rules in mathematics."
Jim rolled his eyes heavenward as he propelled his friend before him.
~*~
They ended up in one of the small eateries on campus where the detective could get his hamburger fix and Blair settled for a chilli con carne. The music was too loud, and the students irritating, but Jim had almost frog-marched him into the noisy cafe. A particularly high pitched laugh made the Sentinel wince and Blair wondered at his friend’s insistence on dining at the blatantly unsuitable cafe. There was no way in hell that the staid, uptight detective could even begin to feel comfortable in the cafe. Jim stuck out like a sore thumb--dressed in his mundane jacket and freshly pressed new chinos--his granite expression when someone shrieked or mentioned the dreaded ‘drug’ word screamed ‘cop’.
"So anyone can go to these lectures?" Jim asked neutrally.
Blair was not fooled for one minute. He idly twirled his spoon in his chilli and a smile played across his expressive face.
"Well, no, you have to be...," his banter trailed off as the muscle in his friend’s jaw twitched. "Yeah, anyone can go. These things are well attended; students have to go, so it’s easy to slip in the back. You really want to go?" Blair couldn’t keep the incredulity out of his voice.
"Yes, Sandburg, I do. Look," the
Sentinel’s voice lowered although no one could overhear their conversation,
"back when I was in... you know... covert ops, we studied the case files
of an organisation called Nemesis. We mainly concentrated on their top agents:
Barrett,
"How do you know this Barrett is the Nemesis Barrett?" Blair asked sensibly.
"Because Barrett solved the Gilded Cage Cipher--he was a mathematician. I just want to see...."
"Want to see if the stories stand up to the man?" Blair supplied.
"I guess I’m curious." The detective raised an eyebrow at the grad student, obviously asking a question he couldn’t verbalise.
Blair felt his stomach clench from incipient boredom. A whole hour spent listening to some old fart waxing lyrical about linear differentiation and other incomprehensible stuff did not appeal to him in the slightest. There was, however, a muted request in his friend’s eyes that bordered on begging, which he could not ignore.
Oh, man, the things I do for you.
There was one thing he could do in the lecture that could be fun and informative.
"Yeah, I’m game," he said easily. "I was thinking the other day of maybe writing a paper on the observed differences in students’ clothes based on their choice of study subject. That lecture hall will be filled with computer nerds and mathematicians doing their thing. You see, I noticed that ecology students go for jeans and hiking boots and lumberjack shirts but Film & Media go for the black urban Ninja look. I see it as a form of protective camouflage--merging with your society or in this case your class."
"So when did you change from Anthropology to Ecology?" Jim gestured with his fork at the grad student.
Blair laughed. "I’m an anthropologist who works in the field thus I wear field-based clothes: functional, warm, and comfortable. I, however, don’t spend a lot of time on my hands and knees fumbling around in the dirt identifying plant species. So as you know, I sometimes wear colourful vests and other stuff that I don’t expect to get covered in mud. Subtle, but important, differences," he concluded. "Interesting isn’t it?"
Jim blinked and then rubbed the bridge of his nose.
"Am I giving you a headache, man?" Blair asked solicitously.
"Always."
~*~
The detective studied the occupants of the lecture theatre. There were a handful of distinguished-looking men, and one woman, sitting in the front row who were probably lecturers. The majority of the audience were, for lack of a better word, the computer nerds--Blair had affectionately labelled them. Dotted here and there were older men, one of whom was sitting next to Blair. The garrulous student had all ready engaged the white haired man in conversation.
Pens were scratching on papers, pencil cases opened, gum was chewed noisily. Aware of the irritating noises, Jim worked to tune the distractions into nothingness. The oak wood panelling of the lecture theatre effectively insulated him from the outside noises but was amplifying a hidden tone. Distantly, he was aware of his companion resting a hand on his shoulder. He couldn’t hear his partner’s voice. The enveloping noise overrode Blair’s words--effectively blocking his guidance. Mechanically, the Sentinel zoned on the one vibrating note that refused to yield to his efforts of control.
~*~
Mentally, Blair recited every swear word that he knew. Then he made up a few for good measure. Jim had sat, automatically scanned the area and then he had immediately zoned out. Soothing tones were, for once, having no effect on the Sentinel.
"Jim, listen to my voice..."
‘It has to work--it *always* works.’
Usually, no... always, he had a sense of feedback--as if he was connecting with the Sentinel. But Jim was as distant as the moon, yet close enough to touch. What was the trigger? Blair frantically looked around the room; maybe if he could find the source he could neutralise the overpowering stimulus. He couldn’t see any obvious distraction, but who was he to know what could have entrapped the Sentinel? It could be anything; the click of a cockroach’s pincers on the old wooden floor or the rustle of paper in a student’s notebook. The man looked as if he had been frozen.
"Excuse me, is everything all right?"
A voice interrupted his attempts to retrieve his Sentinel from the sensory zone out.
"Yeah," Blair said, casting a quick glance at the old man sitting next to them in the row.
"Is he an epileptic?" the old man queried, his voice concerned and professional.
"Sorta." Blair dismissed the man--more concerned with his friend.
The Sentinel’s eyes had dilated to their fullest extent, the blue irises only the barest flicker at the edges of the impossibly wide pupils. At the edge of his slack lips a well of clear drool was forming--the droplet of spittle threatening to spill down his chin.
Then, akin to the flick of switch, Jim’s pupils contracted and he returned. The Sentinel sagged. The total lack of muscle control took them both by surprise; Jim flopped forward, his head falling between his knees in the classic recovery position. Blair slipped out of his chair and crouched at his Sentinel’s side, his hand rubbing, comfortingly, between his friend’s shoulder blades.
"Jim, take a deep breath. That was a bad one. Breathe, one, two, three, four, five, six - hold it--release-- six, five, four, three, two, one," Blair ran through the litany again and again zoning out in his own way; oblivious to the concerned students and teachers clustered around them. He didn’t see the old white-haired man beside him signalling the onlookers to return to their seats.
"Windows," Jim muttered, "can’t find the window."
"Okay, that’s a new one." Blair rocked back on his heels and saw for the first time the people watching them with varying degrees of concern and voyeurism. Jim was muttering under his breath, still half-entranced by the window that only a Sentinel could find. One woman looked as if she was going to interfere.
"Show’s over, guys." Blair wriggled under his friend’s elbow and levered him to his feet. Dully, Jim swayed, but bracing his knees, Blair managed to hold the taller man upright. As they attempted their first step, Blair knew that he had made a mistake--holding onto Jim was like holding onto wet clay. The Sentinel began to topple. The old man slipped by the anthropologist and caught the detective’s other arm, effectively stopping Jim’s downward descent. Blair’s automatic protest died on his lips.
"Let’s get him into the fresh air."
The old man was deceptively strong. He seemed to be taking the bulk of the detective’s weight as they angled Jim out of the row and up the aisle. Blair accepted the man’s help; he really didn’t have much choice. Jim was too tall and heavy--Blair couldn’t support his weaving body with his shorter frame. The hall outside was deserted; the old man headed to a wooden bench on the far wall and Blair had no choice but to follow. As if an automaton, Jim allowed himself to be settled on the low bench.
"Thanks for your help, sir. I can take it from here," Blair said easily as he crouched, once again, beside his friend.
"I’m a doctor," the old man said with authority.
‘Shit, shit, shit.’ Blair’s mind ran around in circles.
The man was taking Jim’s pulse with easy professionalism, frowning at the no doubt slow, erratic heartbeat. Jim was not answering any of the doctor’s questions. The man appeared to be only one decision away from calling for paramedics.
"What medication is he on for these fits? Maxodil or Badafin?"
"Excuse me." Deftly, Blair slipped into the doctor’s personal space effectively excluding him from detective. "Jim, tell the nice doctor that you’re on 50 milligrams of Maxodil--two doses a day."
The guide voice, mixed with a little desperation on Blair’s part, reverberated around the quiet corridor. Jim responded like one of Pavlov’s dogs.
"I’m on Maxodil but you told me that it was 100 milligrams?" Jim said, confused.
"See, doc’." Blair turned the full force of his megawatt smile at the doctor. "He just needed a few minutes to get it back together."
They hadn’t needed to use the drug ruse before but the idea had worked. The man backed off--heading towards the lecture theatre doors. Blair breathed a deep, heartfelt sigh of relief.
Jim finally on focused his worried friend. "What the hell happened?"
"I don’t know," Blair hissed quietly. "You tell me."
Jim’s voice lowered so Blair had to strain to hear it. "There was something, but I couldn’t...find it."
"You zoned out on nothing?" Blair asked quickly.
"No," Jim said, sounding frustrated. "I couldn’t reach it or open it or something."
"You said you couldn’t find the window?" Blair said, his mind working overtime.
"Oh, shit I can feel it again...," Jim voice trailed away.
Blair caught Jim’s chiselled face between his hands. "Describe to me what you are feeling. Don’t concentrate on it; tell me what you’re feeling."
"There’s... a rustling in my ears but I can’t hear anything."
"Describe the rustling."
"Like corn moving." Jim’s pupils were slowly dilating.
‘Moving with no sound? Blair thought
frantically. ‘The sensitive hairs in the inner ear moving? He can feel the
hairs moving. Cool.’
"Jim, I think you’re hearing a really low sound. So low that your mind’s not letting you accept that you can hear it. Before, you told me that you couldn’t find the window. The window is there." Blair’s voice wove a complex imagery. "The window is ajar because you can just hear the silent noise. I want you to reach out and throw the window fully open."
Determination flooded Jim’s face then he let out an almost subliminal gasp. "I hear voices," he said, awed.
"What are they saying?" Blair asked logically.
"There are two men talking. They are saying: ‘...outside. Hey, I’ve heard it all before and I didn’t understand it then.’"
"Do you think it’s a radio?" Blair asked.
Jim shook his head in an emphatic negative. "The other one said something--you made me miss it."
"What are they saying now?"
"Okay, okay, the one with an American accent is saying: ‘A post grad student had an epileptic fit. I brought him outside. I think he’s okay, his friend seems to have it under control.’"
As the implications of the Sentinel’s words sank in, Blair’s jaw dropped open. Slowly, he twisted on his heels to look at the old doctor standing beside the lecture hall doors The man was half turned away to give them some privacy. The man’s lips were moving slightly but Blair couldn’t hear anything or see to whom the man was talking.
‘Is the old man a sentinel?’ Blair
wondered. ‘Is he talking to another sentinel?’
Never one to balk at a decision, or for that matter give them much thought, Blair rifled in his pockets until he found the dog whistle he’d carried for many years on the off chance of finding a sentinel. It was his primary tool.
"Jim, turn it down. Way down."
The Sentinel’s eyes widened in horror. Blair raised the whistle to his lips and blew the piercing whistle. The old man jerked as if whipped. Wincing, he clasped ineffectual hands over his ears.
"What are you trying to do!" Jim admonished. The Sentinel finished his exclamation with a swat over the anthropologist’s head.
Blair almost swallowed the whistle.
"Look, man, he’s a sentinel," Blair said eagerly.
"You’re going to give the old guy a heart attack."
Sheepishly, Blair took in the cowed posture of the white-haired old man. He still hadn’t peeled his hands away from his ears. Instantly apologetic, Blair scurried across to the man’s side.
"Oh, sir, man. I’m sorry, I didn’t think." Blair bobbed from foot to foot before the doctor.
There was only a sullen grunt in response to his words. Tentatively, Blair took the old man’s elbow and guided him to another wooden bench. Once settled, Blair held up his index finger directly before his unfortunate victim’s eyes.
"Concentrate on my finger. Follow the movement and take a deep slow breath, now."
Hesitantly, the old man inhaled, easing, immediately, into the rhythm of the Guide’s voice. Blair watched as cloudy, bloodshot brown eyes slowly cleared and the lines of pain around the eyes relaxed. Without any prompting, the doctor lowered his hands. Finally in control, his expression closed and suspicious, the doctor looked down at the young man now crouched before him.
"Oh, sir, I’m sorry...," Blair fumbled, trying to project his abject apologies.
"What my partner is trying to say is that he is an idiot and he’s very sorry," Jim interjected, from behind them.
"What was that?" the old man asked tiredly. "What did you do?"
"High frequency dog whistle."
Blair did not need a sentinel’s sensitivity to feel the thrum of alarm from the old man at his words. He knew that the old doctor instantly understood the repercussions of hearing the dog whistle. Indecision flickered through the doctor’s eyes, walled up behind something secretive and concealed. A secret had been revealed.
‘Mexican stand-off,' Blair thought. Jim was going to kill him if he blithely announced that the detective was a genetic throwback, but he really needed to know if the man was a sentinel and that meant questions and explanations.
The lecture theatre’s doors opened and the flood of students leaving was a welcome interruption. Complaints echoed down the corridor. The guest lecturer had developed a sudden and splitting migraine and the lecture had been cancelled. Blair and Jim looked at each other and then at the doctor.
"Thirty years ago I would have thrown you down the corridor for that stunt," the man said tiredly. There was, however, a hint of steel behind his words. "I’m older now and a lot calmer. Who are you?"
Blair chewed at his bottom lip and cast a nervous glance at his Sentinel. Jim dropped a hand on his shoulder and squeezed tightly--reassuringly.
"My name is Jim and this is my friend Blair," the detective said, deliberately omitting their surnames.
"Craig Stirling."
Dignified, the man offered his hand. Blair lurched forwards and they shook hands.
"Hey, man; I’m really, really sorry. I was just excited about meeting another sentinel."
"Sentinel?"
"I think we need to talk," Jim interjected.
~*~
Jim had decided to take their ‘talk’ to one of quieter student cafes on campus. A dark back booth in the café, partially hiding the occupants from view, had seemed perfect. Craig Stirling’s partner, Richard Barrett, was a heavyset man sporting a salt-and-pepper beard. The threesome had found the guest lecturer sitting hunched over the podium in the theatre nursing an extremely sore head. The dean of the mathematics department had been trying to get the older man to take a couple of Tylenol. Blair had worked his magic and it had taken little effort to persuade the lecturer to join them for a chat. The two old men sat opposite the two younger men.
"Right, so you’re saying these sentinels have been around since time immemorial?" Barrett asked, his plummy English accent making the anthropologist smile.
Jim could tell that Blair was in seventh heaven discussing his favourite topic with another scientist--albeit a scientist of another discipline. However, the anthropologist was answering all the questions and was not getting any answers in return.
Crossing his arms, Jim regarded the two ex-Nemesis agents. Stirling was old and worn--something and Jim did not know what--weighed on the old man. The other man, Barrett, had a kind of classic English reserve but he was obviously a born scientist and he was enjoying talking to Blair. Jim shook his head, imperceptibly; somehow he had expected them to be the young men he had read about years ago: the aloof Englishman and young, brash American. Instead he was sitting next to a stereotypically tweed-suited mathematics professor and expensively dressed paediatrician who was smoking a noxious cigar.
"So, are you sentinels?" Jim asked directly.
Stirling stubbed out his cigar in a deliberately slow movement. "No, we’re not."
Blair deflated. The poor kid had been so sure that they had finally met another, more experienced, guide/sentinel partnership.
Barrett leaned forward, drawing their attention towards him.
"There would appear to be certain similarities. We share the enhanced hearing abilities and the touch sensitivity that you’ve described in James, here. But the whole gamut of sensory enhancement, no."
"What else? What made you the premier agents of the 1960’s?" Jim asked.
Stirling snorted. "You’re not much on subtlety are you, detective?"
"Takes too much time," Jim said neutrally.
"We’re all agents."
Blair shook his head. Jim could tell that the anthropologist was missing the sub-text of the conversation. Oh, Sandburg would figure it out eventually, but it probably would be later in the night.
Barrett spoke. "What made us Nemesis’s best agents? We weren’t superheroes; we couldn’t leap buildings in a single bound. We could find within us the abilities to get the job done. It all boiled down to a bond. We were linked--a team--a trust, we knew when each other was in trouble and then we could always do something about it."
Jim could almost see the gears working in Blair’s mind.
"The telepathy helped," Barrett added
"Telepathy?" Blair asked, eagerly.
"It’s not telepathy," Stirling contradicted. "It’s being able to hear sound frequencies that other people can’t hear. A sensitivity which you exploited very well, young man."
Blair spread his hands. "How many times do I have to apologise?"
The kid was projecting his innocent enthusiasm--something even a jaded agent couldn’t withstand. Were Barrett and Stirling the good guys? Could they be trusted with the Sentinel’s secrets? Jim knew that the two ex-Nemesis agents were asking themselves the same questions.
"So have you always had these... abilities?" Blair asked. "How did you train yourselves? It must have been disconcerting when you found that you had these gifts. How did you cope?"
Stirling raised an eyebrow at the tumbling questions.
"Instinct," Barrett answered succinctly.
Blair was not happy with that response. Jim could see him latching onto a secret with the tenacity of a dog with a bone.
"Purely instinct? Jim’s control isn’t instinctive. It requires training and guidance."
"Why do you persist in seeing us as sentinels?" Stirling asked.
"Well, you were agents...," Blair’s voice trailed away.
‘You’ve learnt that being a governmental
agent means that they’re not necessarily the good guys-- haven’t you, Blair?’ Jim
thought with a hidden, sad smile. ‘Good guy equals protector equals
sentinel. But what are they?’
Jim extended his senses. The familiar organic scent of perspiration, exhaled breath, semen and mucous had a faint metallic scent--the odour of silver and titanium.
‘They’re not Sentinels; they’re something
alien and artificial.’
"You’re not human!" Jim blurted out, surprised.
Both men looked quite offended by the detective’s words.
"Aliens!" Blair said enthusiastically. "You’re kidding!"
The student couldn’t sit; he bounced up and down on his seat. Jim snaked a deliberate hand around his younger partner’s shoulder and clapped it over his mouth. Stirling mashed another cigar into nothingness and Barrett’s expression appeared introspective. Jim searched for the right words, a task he normally left to Sandburg. His senses were clamouring at him.
Barrett finally leaned forwards. "What do you sense, Sentinel?" he made the term an honorific.
"I can... smell the metal that... permeates your bodies," Jim said slowly.
"We had surgery--metallic implants--that accounts for the smell," Barrett said deliberately.
Something warm and wet snaked against the palm of his hand. Jim released Blair instantly, and unobtrusively wiped his hand on his trousers. Blair shot him a cocky smile.
"Does that account for your abilities?" the student asked.
"Yes," Stirling said, from between clenched teeth.
"Cool," Blair breathed. "How? Who? I mean who gave you the implants? How did they give you the senses and the other stuff that you’re not telling us about?"
Stirling gripped the edge of the wooden bench clearly fighting for control. Jim relaxed his posture, shifting slightly to feel the comforting solidity of his gun sitting in its holster. The old man might be in his sixties but Jim knew with a foreboding instinct that he was dangerous. Blair leaned across the table, almost in Barrett’s lap, grinning widely. Jim resisted the temptation to pull him back. A familiar light gleamed in Blair’s eyes. The grad student was hunting in his own inimitable way; he wanted answers and was determined to charm them out of his audience.
"I’m going to tell you a story, Blair." Barrett settled back in his booth. "Once upon a time there were three agents: Craig, Richard and Sharron, who were deep in evil Red China ‘acquiring’ a secret. The mission went wrong but the agents managed to escape in an aeroplane that subsequently crashed somewhere in the mountains of Tibet. The three agents were mortally injured. They were dying. They were a thousand miles from western civilisation. The story gets vague at this point--the agents don’t know how, but a very old mystic, perhaps a priest, came and healed them. Then we were, as we are now--superheroes." Barrett smiled a corpse’s smile.
"So who was this old mystic? Did you speak to him? Did he teach you?"
Jim had closely monitored Barrett’s heartbeat throughout his fairy story but the man’s heart rhythm had remained steady. That, he realised, meant absolutely nothing if Barrett had been modified. Maybe he could lie with impunity? But at Blair’s question there was a tell tale little skip that heralded a lie.
"Craig remembers the old man just before the surgery, but they never spoke."
‘Not a lie, Jim noted, ‘a
misdirection.’
"I’ve researched the myths and legends of the Tibet," Barrett continued. "Ancient legend speaks of a paradise known as Shamballa. In the West, Shamballa became known as Shangri-La. You’re probably familiar with Shangri-La through the book and the films?"
Both detective and observer nodded.
"Well, our abilities are evidence that some civilisation exists and that they are highly advanced."
"Where?" Blair asked breathlessly.
‘No!’ Jim growled inwardly. ‘How
dare you tempt my Guide.’
Barrett gazed levelly at the Sentinel as if reading his mind. Stirling’s fingers finally went through the table he was clutching so tightly. Blair cast a glance at Stirling hearing the splintering of wood, but actively watching Barrett he had missed display of superhuman strength. The skin on the back of Jim’s neck crawled; these men were beyond human.
"Where?" Blair asked again, directing his attention back to the mathematics professor.
"I don’t know where, Blair," Barrett said, commiseration in his voice. "I’ve been back to the general area several times but found nothing."
"Where? Near Mount Everest? Further north? Further east?"
"I *don’t* know, Blair."
"They made you sentinels," Blair said, his eyes incandescent. The student began to rifle in his backpack as he muttered under his breath. He pulled out his notebook and slapped it down on the tabletop. He held his pen at ready. "Had you ever experienced any hypersensory input prior to the surgical intervention by the inhabitants of Shangri-La?"
Before Blair could start writing, Jim enveloped the grad student’s hand in his larger hand. Perplexed, he looked up at the Sentinel.
"Don’t take this where it is going, Chief," Jim said quietly.
Blair’s brow furrowed. "But, Jim, these people could explain so much!"
"Make you a sentinel?"
The pen fell from the numbed fingers clenched beneath his hand, but Blair did not pull his hand away and Jim refused to relinquish his Guide to this sudden Fool’s quest.
"I don’t want to be a sentinel!" Blair said emphatically. "I just want to know more!"
Blair blinked slowly. Jim watched the hunger rising in his eyes. Knowing that his thoughts were being read, as if he was broadcasting them on national radio, Blair dropped his gaze to the litter-covered floor. Blair craved knowledge like a drug. The two old agents were watching them like hawks. Deliberately, Stirling brushed the wooden splinters, he had torn off the bench from his lap. Barrett occupied himself filling his pipe. Sandburg shifted uncomfortably and Jim allowed the grad student to yank his hand free. After a rapid intake of air, Blair shifted back into study mode, if he had indeed left his basic mode of existence. Blair focused on Barrett, leaning over the table, his body literally humming with tension as he tried to define and ask his questions.
"You must have found something? Did you speak with the locals? Locals are always a fount of information if you ask the right questions."
Mirroring the anthropologist’s body language, Barrett leaned forwards--his heart rate quickening with anticipation. Jim knew with a heart-stopping surety that the man was a step away from tempting his Guide to follow him on weird and wonderful quests to foreign lands. Barrett reached forwards and Jim reacted, his left hand darted across the table and gripped the old man’s wrist before he could clasp the grad student. Stirling erupted into action. Galvanised and already poised, Jim drew his gun in a smooth motion. He aimed it directly at Stirling’s throat.
They all froze.
"Jim, man; calm down," the calming guide-tone fractured a little.
Stirling’s eyes were flat, reflective pools, emitting no emotion. His sturdy frame was coiled and tense, waiting for his moment.
"Jim, someone’s gonna notice and call the police," Blair said levelly.
"I’m sorry," Barrett began softly, "in twenty years of actively searching, you are the first people that we have come across who are capable of understanding who we are. I just wanted someone to finally understand and believe. It’s a heady drug when you finally meet them. You can put the gun away, James."
Understanding flared between old man and Sentinel. The teaching assistant watched the tableau before him with wide blue eyes. Jim could almost feel him searching for a pain-free solution to the problem before him. Before the student could drop a beer in his pants or something, Jim lowered his Sig Sauer, placing it back in his holster at the ready... but not before taking Stirling’s measure.
"Blair. Jim," Barrett offered, "we’ve looked for the--what did you call them? We’ve searched for the inhabitants of Shangri-La off and on for twenty years and never come close. We’ve looked with all the gifts that they bestowed and we’ve finally stopped looking. And then we got on with our lives."
Jim relaxed infinitesimally and released his death grip on Barrett’s wrist.
"You guys want another coffee?" A waitress interrupted them.
All four men jumped back in their seats earning themselves a knowing grin from the young woman.
"No, thank you." Barrett shifted sideways, effectively pushing his partner off the bench. "We’re leaving now."
"Okay, we’re leaving." Stirling’s eyes widened momentarily at Barrett’s abrupt manner. The American stood up and helped Barrett to his feet.
Seeing his prey about to leave, Blair started to move. The anthropologist was one step from vaulting over the Sentinel in pursuit of his goal. Jim leaned into Blair, effectively pinning him to the wall.
"Miss," Barrett addressed the waitress, "if you would be so kind as to get my two young friends a couple of your café lattey thingies." Barrett smiled and passed the waitress a handful of notes. Order and bills in hand, the woman beetled away.
"It was a pleasure meeting you, James," Barrett nodded. "Blair."
"I’m glad to have met you," Jim gritted out.
"Can we have another talk?" Blair asked politely.
"I’m sorry, son, but I’m heading down south to continue my lecture tour tomorrow."
"We have to catch an early plane," Stirling finished deliberately.
"Oh, okay," Blair said, his enthusiasm shot down in flames.
"Enjoy the rest of your tour," Jim said nicely.
Then the two Nemesis agents nodded, and without another word, they turned and walked away.
Blair mentally shook himself... and then he made a sudden break for the door--clambering onto the table. Jim caught him by the seat of the pants and hauled him back onto the bench.
"Oh, man, let me go. I’ve got to talk to them." Blair twisted in his grasp.
"Listen to me, Blair Sandburg."
The use of the grad student’s full name stopped him dead.
"You missed so much of that conversation. Stirling was this close," Jim held his fingers a hairsbreadth apart, "from killing us where we sat. The only reason that we’re alive is that I think that he doesn’t care anymore. And the fact that we shared secrets. Secrets which in the wrong hands would sign our death warrants."
Blair’s brow furrowed.
"I couldn’t not ask them," Blair defended himself. "I mean it was obvious that they were special like you. I had to find out. Burton’s papers miss out so much stuff. Oh, I’ve found other references but to actually meet another Sentinel and Guide...."
"I know, I know." Jim patted Blair’s shoulder. "I know that you were excited and I don't think any more will come of it. Just try to ‘contain it’ if it happens again."
"Okay, okay; I was a bit over-excited." Blair gazed into middle space, then turned his smoky-blue eyes back on the detective. "It’s not every day that you meet guys like those two. I mean it’s unreal."
"Yeah," Jim drawled, "very unreal."
~*~
Backpack bouncing on his back, Blair jogged along the corridor to his office. Despite his disappointment at not finagling more details from the pair of Nemesis agents, he now had a new avenue of research--and that always made him glow. Although, he admitted to himself, he needed another research project like he needed a hole in the head.
His office was open and the radiators were blasting heat into the dusty little room. Typically for a University that continually complained about funding cuts, student grants, and maintenance fees; they had the heating on full regardless of the weather. Blair was not complaining. He dumped his backpack in one corner and divested himself of a couple of his outside layers en route to his desk. A quick scan of his desk yielded no messages. Blair retrieved his ancient Babylonian text and curled up on the floor beside the radiator.
~*~
"Blair?"
A neutral English accent interrupted his reading. Momentarily lost in the adventures of Gilgamesh and Enkidu, Blair did not recognise the voice.
"Professor Barrett!" Blair smiled widely as he looked up and recognised the figure blocking out the light from the doorway.
"I wish that my students were as engrossed in their studies." The thick-set man stayed by the door, viewing the clutter on the floor.
‘Spooky, that’s exactly what Jim did
yesterday.’
"Can I have a moment of your time, Blair?"
"Ah, wow. I’m so glad you stopped by. Yeah, sure." Blair set his book aside. "I thought that you said that you had an early flight?"
"No. Craig said that."
Blair nodded wisely. Then realising that the elderly academic was far too old to stand for prolonged periods, he scrambled to his feet and cleaned several months of accumulated papers, journals and dust off a chair.
"Can I get you a cup of coffee? Or tea? Or something?"
"I don't actually have time for a cup." Barrett leaned forwards, focusing on the teaching assistant. "I’ve come to ask you a favour."
Blair came to a dead stop. His mind was a whirl. On one hand he was intrigued by the twosome, on the other he thought that they were a bit threatening. That Jim had major reservations about Stirling was definitely sobering. Barrett was waiting patiently for him to continue the conversation.
"Yeah, sure; if I can do it," Blair said leadingly.
"I think that you are perfectly suited."
"Flattery will get you everywhere." Blair laughed.
Barrett’s eyes crinkled with amusement. "I was tempted to ask you this last night but your rather large friend would have completely misinterpreted the request."
Blair looked perplexed for a moment and then said. "He’s like that, you know, protective. And he definitely doesn’t trust your friend."
"My psychology studies are somewhat outdated but I think they are what academics would call ‘alpha males.’"
"Tell me about it. I tried to explain the concept of the path of least resistance to Jim once and he just rail roaded the conversation. But you’re the same as Dr Stirling?" Blair questioned tentatively.
Barrett shrugged modestly. "Craig and I had a ‘heated’ discussion once and after we’d healed we decided that we were equals. But if you’re asking about the differences in our abilities?"
Blair nodded vigorously. The more information the better, he thought.
"There are subtle differences: Craig is stronger; my hearing is more sensitive. But we both have the same resistance to pain and hypnosis."
Blair’s brow furrowed. He hadn’t had any problem using his pain-controlling techniques after the dog whistle incident.
"You tranced pretty easily last night."
"Yes." Barrett chewed introspectively on his lip. "That’s actually one of the reasons that I agreed to go to the bar after the lecture. I’m not exaggerating when I say that no one has managed to hypnotise myself or Craig or Sharron. You intrigued me."
"You make me sound like Sevengali." Blair wiggled his fingers dramatically. "I was just helping you control your pain. It wasn’t as if I was trying to hypnotise you into committing mass murder. Which is quite frankly impossible."
"Still," Barrett mused, "it’s interesting. However it is completely irrelevant to the reason why I am here."
"Go on," Blair encouraged.
"I would like you to hunt up any references you can find regarding lost civilisations in Tibet. I’d like a fresh viewpoint. Maybe you can find something that I have missed? As you could no doubt tell, Craig and I are planning on returning to the area one final time. We need to scatter a dear friend’s ashes. And we need some time away from the screaming masses of humanity."
Blair looked long and hard at the man before him. The aged professor looked bone weary and sick. He could read between the lines; the agents were not planning on coming back. How would Jim feel in thirty years living with hyper-senses in an increasingly loud and more frenetic world? Would the Sentinel want to escape to the place that birthed him? Blair knew that he was going to hunt up old legends of the Tibetan culture anyway. Now he could justify the time spent to the faculty, as he was helping a visiting lecturer. And, he thought with no false modesty, he was good at researching obscure myths, so he might be able to help the agents.
"Yeah, sure, course I will," Blair said, his face lighting up further at Barrett’s obvious pleasure at his agreement. "I was going to wander over to the library today and see if I could find out anything about Tibetan myths."
"I will of course pay you for your time and expertise," Barrett said easily
"Pay?"
"Consider it a consultancy."
"A consultancy?" Blair asked, awed. That usually meant money with a capital ‘m’.
"Yes, I don’t know the going rate. How does thirty dollars an hour grab you?"
"In a very warm and happy place."
Barrett laughed. "I realise that this request is somewhat out of the blue and I realise that your time is limited -- helping James and your Ph.D. research -- but unfortunately I have to catch a plane in a couple of hours. So if you’ve got any questions you’ll have to ask them now." Barrett consulted his watch. "We have one hour."
Blair rubbed his hands together.
~*~
Prowl mode. The Sentinel lifted his head and sniffed the night air. The university quad was deathly still. Not even the leaves were moving on the trees lining the rectangular grass lawn in the centre of the quadrangle. The night was cloudless with a crisp, sharp bite. All in all, it was the perfect night for a sentinel in search of prey or a lost guide. Jim growled silently in the back of his throat as he looked through the window that was opposite the stacks of anthropology textbooks. Head bobbing between a pad of paper and an encyclopaedia sized book, Blair was hunched over a table as he scribbled notes.
Apart from one uncharacteristically terse message on the answering machine two days ago, Jim had heard nothing from his observer. That Sandburg was busy was obvious. That he had managed to obtain special dispensation to work in the library after hours meant that the work was important to someone high up in the University bureaucracy. But that did not mean that he had to run himself ragged. It didn’t look as if the grad student had slept for three days.
The main library door yielded to the detective’s lock picks. The kid hadn’t even set the alarm. Cat-soft, Jim slipped noiselessly across the wooden floors. By the time Jim reached the study tables Blair had returned to the stacks. Jim debated the wisdom of catching up with the grad student in the maze of books and frightening the wits out of him against waiting for Blair to return to the desk. Then he saw the table. An eclectic series of books sprawled across the table, from mythology to maps, physics primers to dry anthropology textbooks, language guides and dictionaries. The map, carefully weighted down on another desk, drew the sentinel’s attention. It was a map of Tibet.
‘Fuck...,’ Jim swore inwardly.
There were a series of pencil lines drawn on the map with aeronautical references. An old leather-back journal beside the map held some of the same calculations that Blair had used to draw the lines. One of the lines was drawn incorrectly. With a quick look at the stacks, Jim flipped the journal over, there were no identifying marks on the cover. Inside the front cover, fragmentary script marked the book as belonging to Richard Barrett.
The sound of grating teeth filled his ears. It took a moment for the Sentinel to realise that he was responsible for the noise. The evidence was before him; his Guide was heading off on the Fool’s Quest. A flight schedule, holding down one corner of the map, was the final nail in the coffin.
"Hey, Jim. What are you doing here?"
The Sentinel spun on his heel. The grad student had yet another pile of books clasped in his arms. Blair’s genuine smile flashed, welcoming and warming. A hop, skip and a jump and the Guide was where he should be -- at the Sentinel’s side.
"Sorry I haven’t been at home or at the precinct but I’ve been busy."
"I can see," Jim said flatly.
Blair shot him a curious look, picking up on the catch in Jim’s voice.
"You okay, man?" Blair set his books down and devoted the whole of his attention to the Sentinel.
"No, I’m not," Jim said bluntly.
"Have you had a problem with your senses? Did you zone at work?"
Jim ignored his companion’s distressed questions. "When were you going to tell me?"
Stopped mid-fluster, Blair blinked. "Tell you what?"
"That you were leaving!" Jim picked up a book and let it fall from his fingers.
Blair shut his mouth with an audible snap.
"Jim, I..."
"Don’t you know how stupid this is? You haven’t got a hope in hell!"
"Jim, I..."
"So you gonna take yourself to the Himalayas looking for Shangri-la-la-land?"
Blair looked up at him mutely, with an unfamiliar expression on his face. His eyes were wide and, for some unknown reason, hurt. That sadness brought the Sentinel’s anger to a screaming halt.
"Chief?" Jim asked tentatively.
"I think that I’m angry with you, but I can’t tell. Where in the hell did this come from?"
Jim gestured aimlessly at the table. "You were so interested in the bar -- you couldn’t sit still."
"You’re still confusing me. Why do you think I’m going off to Shangri-La?"
Anger was beginning to stir in those expressive eyes.
"Well," Jim hedged. "Because."
"That’s a good answer," Blair snorted. "Okay, yeah; maybe in my dreams."
Jim’s heart plummeted.
"Sheesh, you’re arrogant. I’m doing this for Professor Barrett. I’m helping them. He and Stirling are going to make one last ditch effort in an attempt to go Home, instead of living around people who they can’t talk to, who think too slowly and move like lumbering elephants. Barrett and Stirling can’t connect with people. In thirty plus years we are the *first* people they have told about their gifts. Thirty whole years of not trusting people. I guess you can empathise with that."
‘I think I’ve been insulted but I don’t
care.’
"Jim?" Blair said quietly and waited for a response.
The Sentinel licked his lips once. "Yes, Chief?" he offered the endearment as an apology.
"What were you planning on doing -- if I was going?"
The question brought Jim up short. He over-reacted since the first meeting with the Nemesis agents, moving into Blessed Protector mode to protect his Guide from what was, he knew, ultimately a mistake. That Blair was not tempted, he had not considered. But what would he have done to stop Blair if he had decided to go to Tibet?
"Locked you up in the loft until you came to your senses and realised that you hadn’t thought it through." Jim looked at his feet.
Blair laughed, a warm, enveloping laugh. "You do know, though, that that is probably the best way to make me leave."
Alarm, once again, thrummed through that Sentinel’s soul. He could leave; maybe not today, but maybe tomorrow. Blair was, as ever, intuitive to his thoughts.
"This has really got you worried, hasn’t it? What can I say to convince you that I’m not going to run off to Never Never Land?"
Jim shrugged. He really didn’t like this feeling of chaos; he liked his life ordered. Coffee in the coffee can