My Soul To Keep
by ysone

Now I lay me down to sleep,
I pray the Lord my soul to keep.
If I should die before I wake,
I pray the Lord my soul to take.

~~~

"What is it, sir?"

Branyt noted the open curiosity in the tech's voice and silently echoed it. This was supposed to be a simple salvage job. These lower levels hadn't been operational in decades…not since the ChangeOver. According to their information, this level had been abandoned even before the war. It had once been part of the science division, laboratories and such. With the onset of the war, all scientific research not directly related to weapons technology or defense had been curtailed. After the war…well, the ChangeOver had preoccupied the world. Whatever projects had once been pursued in these depths had never been rekindled.

Or, at least, that's what they'd been told.

What he saw said otherwise.

Branyt raised his flashlight, focusing the beam of light on a long, slender, black cylinder that took up the majority of the room. Surrounding it, unfamiliar equipment flashed and hummed as it busily performed whatever function it was set for. The generators to these levels hadn't been operational in decades. What powered this equipment?

Taking a deep breath, and questioning his sanity, Branyt took a step into the room. He played his flashlight around the various equipment, forming and just as rapidly discarding theories on their function. He finally let the light come to rest on the cylinder. It seemed to be the main focus of the machines. Whatever they were doing directly involved the cylinder.

Branyt glanced over his shoulder. The tech remained in the doorway, his face clearly expressing his uncertainty and apprehension. Branyt looked back at the cylinder and with another bracing breath, moved toward it. The beam of the light danced over the slick, black surface, reflecting back to cast eerie shadows around the room. Branyt reached out as he approached the foot of the tube, sliding his hand along its exterior as he moved forward. It was cold to the touch and slick, like glass.

The black surface appeared seamless until he reached the far end. There it gave way to a transparent covering about two foot square, a window of sorts. Branyt moved the beam of light closer and leaned over the tube, hoping to catch a glimpse of what, if anything, might be inside. His nose almost touched the clear surface.

"Oh, my God!"

He leaped back so suddenly his flashlight went flying, clattering loudly in the small room. A hand on his shoulder nearly sent him into cardiac arrest. He looked up, meeting the concerned eyes of his tech.

"Sir?"

Branyt's eyes darted back to the cylinder.

The tech moved hesitantly past him, slowly raising his flashlight until the contents of the tube fell beneath its beam.

"Sweet Mother Mary…What…Who is it?"

~~~

"The official records say only that it was 'scientific research'. Something to do with chemical weapons technology."

"This is not a chemical weapons lab." It was really the only thing General Arlen Rouse could say for certain at this point. He stepped further into the room, but was blocked from approaching the slender black tube that dominated the room by the score of science and medical personnel surrounding it. He listened to their rapid discourse for a few minutes, then tuned it out when it became apparent it was 'techo-babble'.

The general addressed the man at his side without moving his eyes from the specter before him. "I have a meeting with President Arledge in two hours. He'll be expecting answers." Rouse turned to face the man, letting the frustration he was feeling reach his eyes. "I can't very well give him answers I don't have, can I?"

"No, sir." The colonel swallowed audibly. He slowly shifted his eyes to the enclave in the center of the room. "Doctor Porch has assured me his report will be ready by 0900. I have two teams searching through the available archives, military and civilian, for anything that could be even remotely connected."

Rouse didn't even try to suppress the sigh of frustration which escaped. The archives were a joke. What records had not been destroyed in the conflict itself had been all but eradicated in the ensuing ChangeOver. The few records which had survived were woefully incomplete and disorganized. Frankly, with much of the world preoccupied with survival in the wake of the devastation of the war, rebuilding old archive records had not been a top priority.

But there has to be something! Whatever they had been doing down here prior to the war, they must have kept some kind of record. If this room, this equipment, this…person…had survived, then there was a good chance the records had survived, too.

~~~

"I'm sorry, sir, that's all we have at this time." General Rouse hated apologies, especially when they passed his lips. If you were good, if you did your job, there should be no reason to apologize…ever. He watched the President carefully, trying to gauge the man's reactions.

President Edward Arledge sat unmoving, his back rigid. His sharp gray eyes flicked over the report spread wide on his massive oak desk. The President lifted a small, perfectly manicured hand and moved aside the top few sheets of the report to reveal a photograph. "So this is it."

The photo was upside down to Rouse, but he didn't have to see it to know what it depicted. He saw it every time he closed his eyes. The face haunted even his waking hours. "Yes, sir, that's it…him."

"Him," Arledge repeated. "He really is alive."

It was not a question, but Rouse felt compelled to answer. "Yes, sir. Alive and, as far as Porch can determine, relatively healthy."

"After all these years? It just doesn't seem possible. Even today, we don't have this kind of technology."

"Yes, sir," Rouse agreed, "but a lot of tech--"

"Yes, yes, I know," Arledge interrupted impatiently. "I don't need to be reminded how much technology was lost in the war. But if we had the capability a hundred years ago to…to…" he waved a hand over the photograph, "to do this, then why don't I know about it? Why doesn't anyone know about it?"

"I can't answer that, Mr. President."

"What can you answer, General? We have to know something!"

Rouse forced his jaw to unclench. "We're attempting to find answers, sir. Progress through the archives is difficult at best, as I'm sure you're aware, but I have several teams on it. If there's anything there, we will find it."

"Put more men on it," the President ordered, turning his attention back to the photograph. "He looks very young," he said after a long minute.

"Yes, sir." Rouse didn't tell the president how much younger the man looked in person. How he appeared to be merely sleeping in the coffin-like black tube which had been his bed for almost a hundred years. He refrained from mentioning how looking down on the young, innocent face, you felt as though the eyes would open any minute, piercing you with their intensity. Who was this young man? Why was he so important that he had been preserved in such a manner? Who had locked him away in the bowels of the Pentagon only to be forgotten as the decades rolled silently by above him?

And what color would those eyes be if they did open?

"Can we wake him?"

The President's question startled Rouse from his silent musings. "Excuse me, sir?"

Arledge lifted his eyes, impatience in their depths. "I asked, can we wake him?"

"I don't think it has been determined yet, sir. The technology employed here is frankly beyond anything we've seen before, Mr. President. It will take time to determine exactly what we're dealing with and decide how best to proceed."

"But the young man is alive and healthy. You said as much. He could provide the answers we're seeking."

"It may not be that simple, sir." Rouse paused. He had read over Porch's initial report just minutes ago, but he hesitated to even attempt to translate it for Arledge. "Perhaps it would be best for you to speak to Doctor Porch. I'll send for him immediately."

"No." Arledge dropped his eyes once more to the photograph. "I want to see this scientific impossibility for myself." He dropped the photo back into the file and closed it, then stood. "We'll go to Doctor Porch."

~~~

Doctor Daniel Porch hurried through the busy corridors. He didn't have time for this, and he didn't care if his impatience showed. They wanted answers and they wanted them yesterday, so why couldn't they leave him alone long enough to find those answers?

He brushed past the military guards at the elevator, scarcely acknowledging their presence. Entering the lift, he stabbed impatiently at the button for the bottommost level. The elevator hummed to life around him as his thoughts turned again to the sheaves of notes on his desk, awaiting his scrutiny. At this rate, it would be another hundred years before their 'patient' could be awakened.

The lift deposited him on the lower level, where a soldier awaited.

"He's arrived?" Porch asked, moving swiftly forward.

The soldier fell into step beside him. "Yes, sir. He and General Rouse have been taken directly to the chamber."

Porch frowned. And so it begins.

He entered the room, pausing at the door in deference to the pair before him. The President and General Rouse stood silently beside the cylinder. Behind them stood the requisite retinue of assistants and security. Porch stepped closer and cleared his throat. All eyes turned to face him.

"Good morning, Mr. President, General Rouse. I apologize for not being here to greet you. I was busy elsewhere when I received notice of your arrival."

President Arledge waved a hand dismissively and turned his attention back to the occupant of the tube. "He's very young."

Porch moved to the opposite side of the tube and looked down at the young man, though it was unnecessary; the image was firmly etched in his mind. The young man's upper body, all that could be seen through the small window, was naked. A multitude of leads and tubes were attached to his head and chest. Long, chestnut curls were spread artistically around a face that could almost be described as angelic. Deep in an artificially induced sleep, the young man's face was relaxed, free of even the subtle signs of dreaming. He did, indeed, look very young. Porch had initially estimated his age at no more than seventeen, eighteen tops.

Until an hour ago…

"He's twenty-four," Porch announced, drawing the attention of everyone in the room.

"What?!" General Rouse demanded, startled by the announcement.

"Well, technically, he's one hundred and eighteen, but he was twenty-four when he entered the final stages of the cryogenic sleep.

"And, sir…" Porch paused, looking the President in the eye. "He's a Guide."

~~~

"You didn't see fit to share this information?"

Porch sat back in his chair, calmly watching the general angrily pace the length of the office before turning and heading once again for the opposite wall. In contrast, President Arledge sat very still, his intense gaze fixed on Porch as he awaited an explanation.

"I haven't had the opportunity. We found the files less than an hour ago. Shortly thereafter, I was informed of your impending arrival."

"We should have been notified immediately. You shouldn't have accessed the information until given authority." Rouse stormed the circuit of the room once more, his anger spilling over to his feet.

"It's his medical history, for God's sake!" Porch surged to his feet. "I'm his doctor! What more authority do I need?"

Rouse moved forward to confront the doctor. "Your authority ends with--"

"Gentlemen!" President Arledge's imposing tone cut through the shouts with little trouble. Both men turned to face him. "Sit down! We'll discuss this like the reasonable, responsible adults we profess to be."

Porch heaved a sigh and reclaimed his seat, glancing apologetically at Rouse. "I think we're all a little frustrated."

Rouse nodded in agreement, anger leeching from his expression. "A lot is at stake here."

"So, Doctor Porch, you were saying the files contain the boy's medical history?"

"Yes, Mr. President." He picked up a sheaf of papers from his desk, passing them to Arledge. "This is my copy. I'll have copies made for both of you. I've barely had a chance to glance at it myself."

Arledge flipped slowly through the papers, handing an occasional sheet to Rouse.

"The information appears remarkably detailed," Porch continued, unsure if he had their attention or not. "It covers a multitude of tests and experiments that were run over the course of a seven year time frame."

"How much of this have you read, Doctor?" Arledge asked. "Are the answers we need in here?"

"I haven't gotten that far yet, sir, but I would hazard a guess that at the very least, the reasons behind his preservation would be outlined."

Arledge looked up. "The boy--"

"Sandburg."

"What?"

"His name is Blair Sandburg."

Arledge nodded acknowledgment. "Sandburg. He's a Guide? You're certain of that?"

Porch smiled, acutely aware of the importance of the information. "Yes, sir."

"An honest-to-God Guide!" Rouse exclaimed softly. "No wonder they preserved him."

Porch shook his head. "No. It would explain their interest in him, but why suspend him? Why not pair him with a Sentinel?"

"Maybe he was incompatible," Arledge suggested. It was uncommon, but the records showed it did occasionally happen. Or maybe Guides weren't as rare a hundred years ago as they are today."

"Or maybe there was something wrong with him," Rouse added. "Something which prohibited a connection."

"Whatever the case, I think we'll find our answers in there." Porch indicated the report still in the President's hands.

Arledge stood, dropping the papers on the desk before Porch. "We'll leave you to it, then, Doctor. I want a copy of that report." He glanced at Rouse. "See to it."

"You'll be staying then?" Porch questioned.

Arledge fixed his steely gray gaze on the man. "Doctor, if what you're telling me is true, if this…boy…is a Guide, then there is no greater matter before the world at the moment."

~~~

"Blair Sandburg, approximately twenty-four years of age. He was a citizen of what was then known as Washington, United States of America. He was a student of exceptional intelligence, which is what first brought him to the attention of…" Porch paused, searching for a polite reference for the bastards behind this fiasco -- there wasn't one, "…the government at the age of fourteen. Two years of observation followed, during which it was decided his guide tendencies were strong enough to make him worth further study."

"So, this Sandburg…" Under Secretary Benning said into the tension of the conference room, "…was definitely a Guide?"

"Is," Porch corrected. "He is a Guide. The young man is alive."

"And no Sentinel was ever found for him?"

General Rouse cleared his throat, drawing the attention of the assembled cabinet members to himself. "An extensive search was launched to find a Sentinel for the boy. They were unsuccessful. Apparently, Sentinels were as rare a century ago as Guides are today."

"So they kept the boy," Benning said. "To what end?"

Rouse opened his mouth to reply, but Porch jumped in, overriding him. "To use him. Or more correctly, the Sentinel/Guide pair, should a Sentinel ever be found."

Benning nodded slowly, her short gray hair dancing around her delicately lined face. "I can see the attraction. Such a pair would be invaluable given the world climate at the time." She lifted her eyes, again meeting Porch's. "But there were no Sentinels?"

"No, there weren't," Porch agreed. He leaned back in his chair, letting his hands drop to his lap. "They searched for about a year before concluding that there simply were no Sentinels. It was decided the young man was too valuable to 'waste', so preparations were begun to…preserve…him for future use."

"The cryogenic sleep," Rouse contributed.

"What do we know about the technology employed here?" asked a man at the end of the conference table.

"More than we did yesterday," President Arledge answered. "But not as much as we would have hoped."

"Given time," Rouse assured the assemblage, "we will figure this out. Once the boy is removed from the tube, we'll have greater access to the technology which went into its construction and function."

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves," the President cautioned. "I have a question, Doctor. You gave this man's age as twenty-four. Now, I'll admit, most of this report is beyond me, but I understood that he was placed into suspension two years after his…confiscation, which you are saying happened when he was fifteen."

Porch exhaled loudly, letting it carry the tone of his disgust. "Yes, sir. He was seventeen years old when he was placed into the sleep, but the technology was new, untried. There were…problems."

"What kind of problems?" Benning asked.

"They managed to suspend him, but he didn't react as anticipated. Though technically suspended, he continued to age. It took almost seven years to work out the problems and fix them."

Porch waited a moment to let the implications of the revelation sink in, then continued. "Additional data shows he was monitored for the next twelve years as they continued to search unsuccessfully for a Sentinel. The reports stop abruptly shortly thereafter. I suppose we all know why." He felt it unnecessary to remind them of the onset of the war.

"And he was just…forgotten?" Senator Baris asked, incredulous.

"Very few knew of his existence in the first place," Rouse pointed out. "Between the massive death tolls, the destruction of much of the world, and then the ChangeOver…" He let their imaginations finish the sentence.

"Damn," Benning murmured, voicing the curse for them all.

Arledge cleared his throat softly, bringing their thoughts back to the present. "Can we wake him, Doctor Porch?"

Porch hesitated. He had been expecting the question, but was still unprepared for it. "Possibly…probably," he quickly amended. "But not without complications. This is new territory for me…for us all. With no more information than I have, no more resources than are available, all I can give you are speculations."

"Then speculate for us, Doctor," the President commanded.

"I believe we can successfully remove him from the cylinder. However, it's possible that he will have sustained damage from the procedure. As I said before, the technology was new, untested, and it was never intended for him to remain suspended for almost a century. I can't even begin to guess at what we'll be facing. Muscle damage, certainly. Vision, auditory problems, probably. Cardiovascular, pulmonary, brain damage, possibly. How many of these, if any, will be permanent? I can't say. He could come out of it with only minor difficulties which can be overcome with proper treatment and rehabilitation, or he could be a vegetable. I just can't give you definite answers."

Arledge absorbed the information as though it was what he had expected all along, nodding as the potential problems were named. When Porch finished, he said, "I understand the novelty of this venture, Doctor, believe me. However, the only other option I see is to leave him as we found him."

"Do you realize what you're saying?!" Senator Hawkins demanded, his fist banging loudly on the table. "This boy is a Guide! A Guide, damn it! There hasn't been one confirmed Guide in my lifetime. Think of the possibilities!"

"I wasn't suggesting we leave him, Gary," Arledge stated calmly. "Merely pointing out the limited options. Believe me, I'm well aware of the possibilities."

"With all due respect, Mr. President," Porch interrupted, his temper rising, "that's the thought which led to the current situation. Blair Sandburg is not a commodity. He's a human being! He was kidnapped and held prisoner for over a year! He was treated like a…a… lab rat! He was put into suspension for almost a century! All because someone, somewhere was aware of the possibilities! If -- and that's a damned big 'if' at this point -- we are able to successfully wake him, he's going to have way too much to deal with to be concerned with finding a Sentinel with which to be paired."

Anger flashed in President Arledge's gray eyes as he listened to Porch's ranting, but when he spoke, his tone was calm. "You're jumping to a great many conclusions, Doctor Porch. I'm well aware of the indignities suffered by this young man. I'm well aware, thanks to your report, of the difficulties he will be facing once we are able to awaken him. But I am also aware of the difficulties faced by the roughly one hundred known Sentinels on a daily basis as a direct result of having no Guide. My allusion to 'possibilities' was merely in reference to the possibility of finding him a compatible Sentinel."

Porch swallowed his retort. It may have been the President's intention, though Porch wasn't one hundred percent certain of that, but he had definitely seen the gleam in more than one senator's eye at the mention of the boy's capabilities. He knew how politicians thought, and, after spending the past twenty-four hours reading Sandburg's files, he was very well aware of the temptations of a functioning Sentinel/Guide pair. Keeping these doubts to himself, a terse, "Yes, sir," was his only reply.

Arledge met the gazes of the assembled men and women around the table. "As I see it, our next course of action is twofold: find a way to safely awaken the Guide, and find a suitable Sentinel." He rotated his chair until he faced Porch. "How soon can we make the attempt?"

We? Porch scoffed silently. You mean me. If this fails, if something happens, it'll be my ass in a vise.d Aloud he said, "I'd like to monitor him for a while longer. I need to run additional tests--"

"How much time do you need?" Arledge interrupted impatiently.

"Bare minimum…six weeks."

Arledge nodded. "Perfect."

Porch raised an eyebrow. He had expected an argument. "Excuse me, sir?"

"That will give us just about enough time to find him a compatible Sentinel."

~~~

Lieutenant James Ellison pulled off his flak jacket and tossed it across his desk with a weary sigh. Across the squad room, other officers were doing the same thing. It had been a hard mission, ending badly. Two civilian hostages had been killed, four wounded…one Planet Security officer dead. That was three deaths too many in Jim's estimation.

Jim dropped heavily into his chair, enviously eying the coffee pot across the room. Even with his Sentinel senses dampened to slightly below normal levels, he could detect the subtle aroma. He would give a year's wages at this moment for just one cup of the stuff. He watched longingly as Joel Taggart lifted the pot and sloshed a generous amount of the dark, steaming liquid into his mug. Joel caught Jim's gaze across the distance and smiled apologetically.

"Sorry, Jim," the large, black man mouthed silently.

Jim smiled back and shrugged. Coffee was one of the things he missed most, but it was also near the top of the "prohibited list" for suppressed Sentinels. Stimulants and suppressants were definitely not a good mix. Jim could understand the logic of it, but damned if he had to like it. The thought of never having another cup of coffee was just too depressing to think about.

"Damn," Jim swore under his breath with a wistful sigh. Depression was another of the damned drug's side effects. Depression, mood swings, short temper…There were days when he wondered if it was all worth it, but then he'd remember the day his senses had come online for the first time, leaving him spinning hopelessly out of control. The indescribable agony of those few short hours of sensory overload were enough to convince him it was worth each and every one of the cursed "side-effects" of the Pycnogycine. He didn't think he could go through that again and come out of it sane. If being short tempered and tired were the price he had to pay for sanity, then so be it. Jim forced the depressing thoughts away, refusing to allow himself the luxury of self pity. He could count his blessings, even if they were few and far between these days. He'd seen the films of what happened to Sentinels born before Pycnogycine had been developed. They had invariably lost themselves to the onslaught of sensory stimulation, living a life of almost total sedation, many times in mental hospitals. Jim might curse the drugs, but he couldn't lose sight of where he'd be without them.

After all, it wasn't like there was a choice.

With a familiar sigh of resignation, Jim turned his attention to the mission they had just completed. The commissioner would be wanting their reports as soon as possible, so the heads could start trying to figure out how to spin their story for the media.

A flashing yellow light on Jim's computer caught his attention. Yellow…a personal message. With a frown, he pushed a button, displaying the communication in text across the small screen. His frown deepened as he read the message.

It had been only week since his last Pycnogycine renewal, and the doctor had scarcely given him a second look during the mandatory physical before okaying the injections. There had been no indication of a problem. Why was he being summoned back to the Sentinel Treatment Center now?

~~~

Jim forced himself to sit still, not an easy feat. Anxious, his feet demanded action, but there was little room to pace in the small area where he had been directed to wait. It was a part of the center he was unfamiliar with. Newly discovered Sentinels were tested at the Sentinel Treatment Center for drug compatibility before being started on a lifetime of dependence on the "miracle" medicine. The Sentinel physicals were dispensed in one small area of the center, and there had never been a reason for Jim to delve deeper into the place since the day he had been brought in, deep in sensory overload. Thankfully, he remembered little of that day.

"Mr. Ellison?"

The flat female voice called Jim back to the present. "It's 'Lieutenant'," he corrected automatically.

Ignoring him, the woman-- nurse? receptionist? glorified flunky? -- gestured through the door. "If you'll follow me, they're ready for you, now."

She led him down a narrow hallway, toward a set of large double doors at the end. As they approached, one of the doors opened and a man stepped out. His eyes locked with Jim's as the two men passed one another, and in an instant they sized one another up. As tall as Jim, the other man was bulkier in the torso, but still in prime physical condition. Where Jim's hair was short and light brown, the other man's was darker and long, almost to his collar. He wore it slicked back, which emphasized a hard face, devoid of expression.

Jim glanced over his shoulder as the man passed, watching until he had disappeared around the corner. An unexplained irritation crawled up the back of his neck, confusing Jim. They had not exchanged a word, yet Jim felt a deep, inexplicable animosity toward the man.

"Mr. Ellison?"

Jim turned to find the woman standing impatiently beside the double doors, her arms crossed over her chest in thinly veiled annoyance.

"The Directors are waiting for you, Mr. Ellison."

"It's Lieutenant," he growled, pushing past her as she swung open the door. He hid a pleased smile as the woman jumped back in surprise at the angry snarl.

Jim entered the room, taking quick stock of his surroundings before heading for the table before him and the chair obviously meant for him. On the far side of the table sat three men -- the Board of Directors for the STC. The men varied in age and description, but all wore the distinctive air of self-importance he had come to associate with this place.

"Welcome, Lieutenant Ellison," the older of the men said. "I'm Doctor Watts, Chief Administrator of the Northwestern Sentinel Testing Center. My apologies for the abruptness of our summons. We certainly appreciate your prompt response." He indicated the chair across from him. "Have a seat."

Jim hesitated only briefly. Once he was settled, the man picked up a folder from the table and opened it.

"James Joseph Ellison," Watts read aloud. "Planet Security Forces. Lieutenant, second grade. Age: thirty-one. Online for six years." The man glanced up at Jim. "You were twenty-five when you came online. That's rather old, isn't it?"

Watt's tone raised Jim's hackles. "That would be your area of expertise."

A slight frown marred the man's otherwise neutral expression. "Yes, I suppose it would. Twenty-five is rather old, Lieutenant Ellison, though not unheard of. It seems, however, the late development did little to weaken your abilities." He glanced again at the open report before him. "You were rated in the upper brackets for all five of your senses."

"Interesting," Jim retorted sarcastically. He honestly didn't see what difference it made in the long run. His senses were unusable. Absently, he reached up and scratched at the back of his neck, where the irritating itch remained.

"Yes, very interesting," the man mumbled absently as he continued to read the file.

Showing no sign of his growing discomfort, Jim let his gaze stray to the remaining two men at the table. Both were studying him in a way that made him feel like a bug under a microscope. He returned the stares, one at a time, inwardly pleased when both surrendered the contest first.

"Look," Jim finally broke the silence with an annoyed snarl, "someone want to tell me what's going on here? I'm sure you had ample time to read my file before I got here."

Watts looked up, an eyebrow raised questioningly. For a moment, he appeared to have his own sharp retort prepared. If so, he changed his mind. He closed the folder and leaned back in his chair. "You're right, of course, Lieutenant. It's an interesting file, I must say. You've had an exemplary career, twice publicly decorated for outstanding bravery, plus multiple commendations from all of your superior officers, and all of this despite the suppression drugs and their side effects. I'm sure you're aware that very few suppressed Sentinels are able to lead a "normal" life, much less one so distinguished?"

It was common knowledge, so Jim took the question as rhetorical and waited for the man to reach his point.

Realizing Jim didn't intend to answer the question, Watts continued, "Before I proceed, Lieutenant Ellison, let me ask you a question. Are you always this…disagreeable?"

"Only when I feel my time is being wasted," Jim shot back. The belligerence of the answer surprised Jim. He had no idea where his hostility for the men across the table was coming from. There was a deep irritability gnawing at him which he couldn't understand or seem to control. He glanced up, meeting the eyes of the director, and was surprised to see only a calm curiosity, not the annoyance he would expect under the circumstances.

Watts smiled complacently at Jim. "I suspect you're as surprised by your attitude as we are, Lieutenant. Why is that?"

"Why don't you tell me," Jim snarled back. He was fast running out of patience.

The three men exchanged knowing looks, seeming to reach some sort of conclusion.

"All right, Lieutenant Ellison, I will tell you, though I suspect you might have already reached the correct conclusion on your own. You are, after all, a perceptive individual. The man who left here ahead of you…you passed him on your way in, did you not?"

Jim nodded. "The Sentinel?"

A pleased look crossed the man's face. "Do you know Mikal Yagudin?" At Jim's negative response, he continued. "How is it, then, that you know he's a Sentinel?"

Jim opened his mouth, then shut it, unsure exactly how to answer the question. He had no idea how he knew, but he was certain he was correct.

"You felt it, didn't you, Lieutenant? An irritating itch on the back of the neck, perhaps? Or maybe nothing more than a growing discomfort in the pit of your stomach? Unsuppressed sentinels would feel this…alert…when encountering a fellow Sentinel. Perhaps you didn't know that? Suppressed Sentinels, however, do not." He flipped open Jim's file once more, scanning quickly through it. "According to your records, you received your injections only a week ago." He looked to Jim for conformation.

Jim nodded absently, mulling over this new bit of information. He had run into probably a half dozen or so Sentinels since coming online, on the job and here at the center, but this was the first time he'd experienced this feeling. Why now? Jim's unease grew. "Why don't you just cut to the chase, Director?" he snapped, not wanting to dwell too much on the implications.

The man closed the file, pinning Jim with a look that was two parts irritation, one part arrogance. "My point, Lieutenant, is that you should not have felt the warning, and although you haven't said as much, I think it's safe to assume from your reactions that you did, which indicates to us you're either becoming immune to the suppression drugs or you're a stronger Sentinel than any of us, yourself included, suspected. In light of the fact that you are not writhing in the floor in the midst of sensory overload, I think it's safe to conclude it's not the former."

Jim silently worked his jaw, considering the words. The drugs were working; he had no doubts about that. His very thoughts and reactions were tainted by the damn things, sluggish and languid. It was a curse he had learned to live with, even compensate for, but one which he still recognized as existing.

Which left the director's second suggestion. Jim considered it only momentarily. It made no difference that he could see. Level one or level ten, his senses were useless. God had given him a gift, or so he had been told, yet He had neglected to provide him a way to use the gift. In Jim's estimation, God was a bit short sighted.

"I can see you have reached a similar conclusion, Lieutenant Ellison. As fascinating as all of this is, however, it is not the purpose of this meeting." The director paused, clearing his throat before continuing. "We have a…well, not exactly a "proposition"…more of an offer. As one of the foremost Sentinel Testing Centers in the resettled world, we are well aware of the trials and disadvantages faced by suppressed Sentinels in today's society and have been searching for alternatives that would allow them to function to their full capacity…to use their God-given abilities as they were intended to be used. We are initiating a trial program for one such possible solution, and according to your records, Lieutenant, we feel you would be an ideal candidate."

"You want me to volunteer to be a lab rat for one of your experiments?" Jim let the disgust he felt color his tone. "Do the words 'hell no' mean anything to you?"

"Perhaps I'm not explaining myself well, Lieutenant. We aren't looking for 'lab rats' for an experiment. This program does not involve alternative drug treatments."

"Just what in the hell are you trying to say?" Jim was getting fed up with the director's stuttering attempts to beat around the proverbial bush.

The director seemed to sense Jim was reaching the limits of his patience. The man leaned across the table, resting his weight on his forearms. "It's believed that we have found a guide substitute, Lieutenant Ellison. One which would render the drugs unnecessary. This program has, however, room for only one applicant. After extensive research, we've narrowed the list to five possible candidates, of which you are one. If, of course, you're interested." He leaned back in his chair again, letting the words hang between them.

Jim was silent for a long moment, absorbing the man's words. "No more drugs?"

"If this program is successful, there would be no more need for drugs."

Jim chewed the inside of his cheek as he mulled that thought over. "What kind of substitute?"

"If you decide you're interested, you'll be sent to the Sentinel Research Center in New Paris and given all the necessary facts at that time. I feel I must remind you, however, the program has need for only one applicant. There are no guarantees you'll be chosen."

"The Sentinel who just left…Yagudin…he's a candidate?"

The director nodded. "One of them, yes."

"What would I have to do?"

"As I said, you'd be sent to New Paris for further evaluation--"

"What kind of evaluation?" Jim pressed.

"Psychological studies, medical test…they want to be certain they choose the candidate with the highest possibility of success, of course."

No more drugs. The phrase repeated itself in Jim's head, overriding all other thoughts. As far as he was concerned, it didn't really matter what else it involved. If there was the slightest chance he could forever wean himself from the suppression drugs, he was damned sure going to take it, consequences be hanged.

"Make the arrangements."

~~~

Simon Banks set his beer can on the low table in front of the sofa, wishing once again for a "real" beer, alcohol and all, rather than one of the bland substitutes deemed acceptable for suppressed Sentinels. Simon had long ago decided, in deference to his friend, he would grin and bear the things. He had thought he would eventually grow accustomed to them. Unfortunately, it had yet to happen. He wondered how Jim could drink the vile liquid on a regular basis. Maybe it had something to do with his senses being dampened. Simon leaned back, relaxing into the soft cushions of the couch.

"All right, Jim, you've fed me, I've got beer -- such as it is," he added under his breath, "when are you going to get to the point?" He'd known from the moment Jim had issued the dinner invitation something was up. As close as the two men had grown over the past few years they had worked together, Jim seldom entertained in his loft. It was his personal space, and he shared it with few. Simon could count on one hand the number of times he had been here in the past year. The fact Jim had invited him here tonight, coupled with the fact that Simon knew of the summons to the STC this morning…well, Simon could put two and two together.

Jim took a long swig of his own beer before answering. "I need a leave of absence, Simon."

Concerned now, Simon sat forward. "Something wrong? You're not sick are you?" Simon didn't know a lot about what went on at the STC, but he did know that Jim, as did all Sentinels, went in once a month for his suppression injections, and he knew that as a matter of routine, the Sentinels were given a physical and blood work before getting the injections. Jim had gone in just a week ago. Maybe they had found something--

"No, it's nothing like that," Jim interrupted Simon's thoughts. "It's good news, actually. Or at least it has the potential to be…I think…"

Simon narrowed his eyes, studying his friend. Jim wasn't normally hesitant about anything. The man was very self-assured. A bit of a loner, and almost what you'd call anti-social, but confident and sure. "This has to do with this morning, your going in to the center, I'm guessing."

Jim nodded, taking another swig of his drink. "They wanted to discuss a proposition with me." Jim leaned forward, setting his bottle down on the table and resting his elbows on his knees, imparting to Simon with his body language the seriousness of his comments. "No one said as much, Simon -- not in so many words -- but I don't think I'm supposed to discuss this with anyone."

"You're starting to worry me here, Jim," Simon said, only half joking.

"I have to tell someone, and…well…you're really my only friend, the only one I can trust with this, at any rate."

Jim leaned back into his chair, only to sit forward again after a few minutes. Simon had never seen the usually imperturbable James Ellison so restless…almost…nervous.

Another few minutes of fidgeting, and Jim seemed to find the words he was searching for. "They've found what they think may be a substitute for the Pycs. They weren't really very forthcoming with the details, but they did assure me it did not involve drugs."

"You said they "think" they've found a substitute…that means it's something experimental, right? You're thinking of volunteering as a guinea pig? That doesn't sound like you, Jim."

Jim allowed a small smile. "That was my first reaction, too. The director's actual words were "a guide substitute", which implies to me that it won't simply suppress the senses. Think about it, Simon. If they've got something that will allow Sentinels to use their senses, rather than spend their lives drugged into a half stupor, I want in on it. I don't care how experimental it is. I can't live my life like this, Simon. I can't…I'll take whatever chance I have to, but I won't live like this for the rest of my life."

It was the first time Simon had heard Jim discuss his feelings about the drugs. He knew the man hated the side effects and restrictions the drugs imposed on him, that much went without saying, but Simon had never heard the despair he was hearing now.

Hiding his reservations, Simon asked, "How much do you know?"

"Not a lot. They were pretty vague. Said I'd be filled in when I get to the SRC in New Paris. I got the impression they don't know a lot themselves. What they did say was there is room in the program for only one Sentinel, and they've narrowed the field down to five. I'll have to undergo some testing."

"One? That seems a little odd, doesn't it?"

Jim nodded, chewing his bottom lip for a minute. "I think they're looking for the 'candidate who is most compatible'."

"Compatible with what?" Simon wasn't sure he liked the sound of that.

"I don't know, Simon, but whatever it is, I want in on it."

Simon studied his friend for a few moments. Jim no longer looked unsure or nervous. He wore a look Simon was much more accustomed to seeing on him, one of steely determination. It was the look that made him one of Simon's top men, the one that said he would get the job done no matter what it took. Failure was simply not an option.

Making a decision, though he had a feeling it was already out of his hands, Simon nodded. "All right, Jim. Take however much time you need, but I want you to stay in touch with me." He held up his hand to stay Jim's protest. "I know, I know. This is the government we're talking about here. I know you won't be able to really tell me anything. Just let me know you're okay from time to time."

"Thanks, Simon." Jim smiled, a genuine smile that lit up his eyes and made Simon question how the man had managed to stay single so long.

It did nothing, however, to lift the feeling of foreboding which was beginning to settle over Simon.

~~~

"Do you really think it's possible?"

Doctor Daniel Porch looked up from the monitor he was studying to find his assistant staring intently at their "patient". The tube had been transferred to the New Paris center several weeks ago, and in that time, Daniel had consulted some of the top medical and scientific minds in the resettled world. They were making progress, but it was slow, and Daniel sometimes felt overwhelmed by the amount of knowledge still lacking. He would be the first to admit they were way out of their depth on this one. "What?" he asked, momentarily losing track of the question.

Myra Damaron looked up and met the doctor's gaze. "Do you really believe we'll succeed? In awakening him, I mean?" The question wasn't prompted by professional interest. As Daniel's chief assistant, Myra had full access to his notes and files. She knew the possibilities almost as well as he did. She was asking for more than a rundown of the odds. She wanted his honest opinion.

Daniel took a deep breath, then exhaled loudly. "Yes…"

"But…?" Myra prodded.

Daniel allowed a small smile. The older woman knew him well. The smile faded, however, as he considered his answer. "What will we have when we do? The physical challenges alone will undoubtedly be numerous and far reaching. We can make our best guess, but we're on uncharted ground here. We have no way of knowing, much less being prepared for what we may actually have to deal with."

Daniel turned his gaze to the young man in the chamber. Merely sleeping…if only. Daniel sighed deeply. "To answer your question, yes, I can wake him. The real question is, can I keep him alive?" Daniel shook his head sadly. "I wish I could answer that one."

~~~

As she had every morning for the past ten days, the nurse drew a blood sample and left the room. Jim was beginning to feel like a pin cushion. He wondered if he would eventually run out of blood, absurd as the thought was.

Jim paced absently around the small examination room. It was fast becoming a second home for him. He started out each and every day here. They would draw blood, then one of the many doctors at the center would come give him a brief physical. Why this had to be done daily was beyond Jim. It wasn't like he was going to change overnight. That finished, someone would come and take him down to one of the many labs on the lower levels, where he would undergo another full day of testing. He wondered what it would be today. He honestly couldn't think of one test they hadn't already run, physical or psychological. Frankly, it was getting old fast.

The door opened, and Jim looked up, expecting to see one of the self-titled 'Sentinel experts' come to administer his daily physical. He was surprised when Doctor Seth Gilliam, the Director of the Center, entered the room, followed closely by another man.

Jim took quick note of the man's military uniform, and pieces of the puzzle began to slowly fall into place. He had smelled "government involvement" from the beginning. The military's presence confirmed his suspicions.

Doctor Gilliam stepped to the side, and the military man -- a general, Jim noted by the stars on his sleeve -- moved forward a step.

"General Arlen Rouse," the man identified himself as extended his hand. "It's a pleasure to finally meet you, Lieutenant Ellison, though I will admit, I've been watching you -- from a distance -- since your arrival."

Jim returned the handshake warily.

"Have a seat, Lieutenant," Rouse said, claiming one of the chairs in the room for himself. He waited until Jim was settled before continuing. "Let me confirm what I'm certain you've now concluded. The government has an interest in this project. In fact, the President, himself, is following it's progress very closely. I'm sure this conclusion has probably started a lot of nasty suspicions racing through your head, and I assure you, none of them are true. You have questions, no doubt. I'm here to answer them if I can, but first, let me say how pleased we are with your test results. You're one of the strongest Sentinels we've has seen in quite some time...at least as far as we can tell with the influence of the Pycnogycine."

"I take it this is what you were looking for." It wasn't a question.

The general nodded. "That, a positive psychological profile, and overall good physical health. The problem we are facing now is that we can't get an accurate baseline for your senses with them suppressed as they currently are."

Jim's eyes narrowed as the direction of the general's comments became evident. "You want to discontinue the Pycs." Again, it wasn't a question.

"It'll be necessary, before we can continue. I'm assuming, of course, you want to continue."

Jim stood, pacing away a few steps, then turned back to face the pair. "I'm not sure if you're aware of what you're asking me to do." Brief flashes of memory flared to remind Jim of exactly the hell they were proposing. "Oh, I'm sure you've got documented studies of exactly what goes on in a sensory overload…from medical and physiological standpoints, but you have no idea the hell and the misery involved from a personal standpoint. If you want me to trust that it's necessary, then you're going to have to give me something in return. You going to have to tell me exactly what the potential payoff is."

To Jim's surprise, neither Rouse nor Gilliam seemed surprised by his demand. In fact, Rouse actually smiled.

"Sit down, Lieutenant," the general said.

Jim hesitated a minute, then did as he was instructed.

"What I'm about to tell you will not leave this room."

Jim recognized the tone immediately as one that would brook no argument. He nodded, though he was sure his acknowledgement was not being called for.

The general clasped his hands on the table before him. "What would you say if I told you we have a Guide?"

"Respectfully, sir…I'd call you a liar."

The general raised an eyebrow, but didn't comment.

"There are no Guides," Jim stated. "There haven't been since before The Changeover." He paused, pinning the general with an icy look. "Or so the public has been told."

"That's entirely true, Lieutenant. However, we do have a Guide. How he came to our attention is not pertinent to this discussion. The point is, we do have one, and we are searching for a compatible Sentinel to pair him with."

Jim sat silently, absorbing the words and their meaning as it pertained to him. "One Guide…and a world full of Sentinels," he mused aloud.

"Which is why this knowledge must be kept secure," Rouse said. "Can you imagine the chaos if this were to become common knowledge?"

Jim nodded almost absently. "It explains a lot of things."

"Our problem to this point has been choosing a Sentinel for our Guide. We were able to narrow it down to a handful of potential candidates fairly easy. Known Sentinels in the resettled world are, of course, registered due to the medical considerations, so eliminating those who were too old, too young, too unstable, too weak, or in poor health was relatively easy. The difficulty has been narrowing the field further."

Jim's attention returned to the two men before him. "I can assume, then, because you're telling me all this, I've made the final cut?"

One corner of Rouse's mouth quirked upward briefly. He nodded, affirming Jim's conclusion.

"I hope you can see the necessity of weaning you from the Pycnogycine," Doctor Gilliam stated. "We have no way of accurately measuring your abilities while it is present in your system. What we propose to do is decrease the amount of the drug in your system over a prolonged period of time, approximately three weeks, to diminish the side effects and withdrawal symptoms. You would be closely monitored, of course, and given appropriate medical treatment as your senses begin to manifest. There will be…discomfort, I'm sure, as you begin to experience your senses again, but you will gradually adjust."

"And if all goes well," Rouse added, "you will have the benefit of a Guide to help with the final adjustments."

Their words were thrilling…and terrifying. Jim closed his eyes, concentrating on his decision. It was a lot to ask. Sensory spikes, overloads, zones…but if it was temporary…could he do it? For the chance for a Guide? And what would that entail? He had no idea how the Sentinel/Guide thing worked. What exactly did a Guide do to help a Sentinel with his senses?

Too many questions overwhelmed Jim's thoughts. There were too many unknowns, but Jim had never been afraid of the unknown. He didn't intend to start now, with so much at stake.

Opening his eyes, he pinned the general with a look. "How many made the final cut?"

Rouse appeared to have been expecting the question. "Yourself and one other. Mikal Yagudin."

"And if he…" Jim struggled with an appropriate word, then gave up, using the first one that came to mind, "wins…I'm just up shit-creek."

"That's one way of putting it," Rouse replied. "You'd essentially be out nothing. You would resume the injections and be no worse off for the experience."

Jim snorted. "Easy for you to say. You aren't the one who would have to deal with the spikes and zone outs. You won't have to go back to a life of drugs and their side effects, knowing someone else got 'the prize'."

"True enough," Rouse admitted. "You'll have to decide if it's worth the risk, but I'll need your answer soon. We need to move forward with this as quickly as possible."

"How do you know I won't spill the beans? If I lose, I mean. What's to say I won't walk out the front door and call a press conference?"

Rouse shifted forward in this chair. "Frankly, Lieutenant, if we thought that was something you would do, you wouldn't have made it this far." He smiled, then leaned back again. "Think about what I've said. Don't make this decision lightly. No matter what the final outcome, your life will never be quite the same. But we do need a decision by the end of the day--"

"I don't need any more time," Jim interrupted. His decision was made. "I've come this far. I'll see it through."

~~~

It had been three days since they had begun decreasing his Pycs, and clinically speaking, Gilliam knew Ellison must be feeling the first stirring of his heightened senses. The man was stoically calm, however, presenting an exterior which betrayed none of the symptoms one might expect in the early stages of withdrawal. Gilliam had a feeling the Sentinel was not being totally honest in his evaluation of the degree of sensitivity he was experiencing. Not that he thought Ellison would deliberately deceive them, but Gilliam had a feeling this man was unused to voicing what he perceived as minor inconveniences to his health or well being.

Under the pretense of making notes in Ellison's chart, Gilliam covertly observed the man from the corner of his eye. A nurse was preparing to draw blood. Ellison sat still, his back rigid and his gaze fixed on the far wall, as he waited for her to finish. His only reaction was a tightening around his eyes as she inserted the needle. If Gilliam's calculations were correct, with the increasing sensitivity of Ellison's tactile senses, that simple needle prick probably felt more like a root canal.

The nurse finished, packed up her newly drawn vials, and left the room. Gilliam set the chart on the closest counter top and moved to stand before Ellison. "Any problems I should know about?" he queried, knowing, even as he asked, the man would not admit it if there were.

True to predictions, Ellison shook his head, his gaze remaining locked on the far wall.

Gilliam shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his lab jacket. "You know, this would be a hell of a lot easier if you were a little more forthcoming, Lieutenant."

Ellison's gaze finally shifted, locking briefly with the doctor's, before sliding away again. "I don't know what you mean."

"Unfortunately, I'm sure you don't," Gilliam sighed. "Comparing your latest test results against the base line we took upon your arrival, we're seeing minor, but significant differences. My job is to monitor and document those differences, which is a little difficult when all I have to go by are the subtlest of clues in body language."

The Sentinel closed his eyes, but remained silent.

Exasperated, Gilliam paced away a few steps. "Okay. For starters, why don't you tell me about that headache. Must be a doozy, huh?" At Ellison's startled look, he chuckled. "It's my job to notice these things." His smile faded. "It would make that job easier if you would just talk to me. Look, Ellison, I'm sure you're not trying to be deliberately obtuse…hell, I'm not sure you're even aware of what's going on with your senses. You've probably tuned these minor differences out, to a degree. Turned up your tolerance levels, so to speak. What I need you to do is turn those tolerance levels back down, at least long enough to tell me what you're feeling. How else can I help you? Which is what I'm trying to do."

Ellison's expression remained veiled for several silent moments while Gilliam waited, hoping the man had at least heard him. Finally, he spoke, "I do have a headache."

Gilliam bit back a triumphant smile. This, he had already determined, but it was a start. "Okay, let's start with that. On a scale of one to ten, where would you rate it?"

"Twelve."

The doctor winced in sympathy. "I'll get you something for it." He made a notation on Ellison's chart. "What else? What about your hearing?"

"I've had a few…spikes," Ellison admitted. He reached up and tugged at his left earlobe. Gilliam didn't think the man was even aware of the telling action. "Nothing consistent, just the occasional surge in background noise."

"Have you made any attempts to focus on the noises?"

Ellison appeared startled by the question. "I was under the impression that was a bad idea."

Gilliam shook his head. Of course Ellison would think that. Any Sentinel would. They were taught from birth to fear zone outs, avoid their senses as though they were a sickness. He should have realized Ellison would be harboring those ingrained fears. He set the chart down and focused his full attention on the man sitting on the exam bed before him. "Without the Pycs, your senses are going to become more and more of an issue. What you're feeling now is just the beginning. Your senses will become stronger, and as you adjust to their presence, the spikes are going to escalate in intensity. The only way to make it stop is to resume the Pycs. That's an open option, Lieutenant. If, at any time, you feel it's too much, all you have to do is ask for the Pycs, and they're yours. No strings, no admonishments from anyone. I'll see to that."

The doctor snagged a rolling stool and slid it close to where Ellison sat silently regarding him. He settled his frame onto the seat and returned Ellison's frank regard. "I'm going to let you in on something. It's not really a secret, but I don't make it a habit to tell people." Gilliam paused briefly, choosing his words carefully. "I'm a borderline Sentinel." He had Ellison's full attention now. "Very weak, really. I have only the occasional spike, and I've never had a zone. For the most part, my senses are content to remain at or near normal levels, which gives me the luxury of being able to choose to take the Pycnogycine or not. I chose not to so I could continue my work. I think of my…episodes…much as one would a migraine -- agonizing, but temporary.

"I'm telling you this, Lieutenant, because I want you to know I do understand what you're going through. What you're dealing with now is most likely very similar to my episodes: agonizing, but temporary. No matter how this turns out, this will be temporary. You'll either resume the medication…or you'll have a Guide.

Gilliam pushed back, letting the stool roll away a couple of feet. "Now, I know it's been ingrained in you to avoid your senses. What I'm asking is contradictory to everything you've been taught. When they spike, I need you to attempt to focus them. Not a lot -- without a Guide I don't think you could -- but enough so that you can feel what they're actually doing. You will eventually get a feel for them, be able to recognize a spike before it occurs, which will give you time to take appropriate action."

"Won't I zone if I try to focus on any one senses?"

Gilliam was aware of how much Ellison was admitting by asking the question and the effort it took. This was a man frightened by the prospects of losing control of himself. It was a valid fear, and Gilliam couldn't bring himself to sugar coat it. Ellison would be much more appreciative of honesty and candor in the long run, and Gilliam had a feeling if he lied to the man there would never be any trust between them.

"Yes, zones are a risk, increasingly so as your senses become more active, but we'll take every precaution we can. You'll be monitored closely. We have several experts in the care and treatment of sensory spikes and zones available at all times. We've spent years studying this phenomenon, and we feel comfortable dealing with it. That said, know that we'll be moving into uncharted territory. There's much we don't yet know, but you won't be left in a zone to 'vegetate', Lieutenant. That I can promise you."

Gilliam studied Ellison's face for a reaction, but was given little. He tried to put himself in the man's place, imagine how he would feel under these circumstances, but found he was unable to do so. There was too much speculation required. He sighed deeply, running out of words to reassure his patient. "We'll do our best, Lieutenant. That's the most I can offer. We've thought this through as well as we can given the number of unknowns we're dealing with. We're as prepared as we can be. Trust us."

Ellison was at least considering it carefully, if his expression was any indication. Gilliam found himself holding his breath, awaiting the decision. Finally, the man gave a short nod. "I'm not backing out now," he assured the doctor. "I'll see this through to the end, whichever way it goes."

Gilliam released his breath, feeling most of his tension leaving with the stale air. He even smiled. "You won't regret it, Lieutenant, I promise."

"Jim."

Gilliam raised his eyebrows in surprise.

"My name is Jim," the Sentinel stated matter-of-factly. "You can call me that."

~~~ "Essentially, he's in hibernation. There's been a physiological modification of sleep which has allowed the physiological temperature range to be stretched to include temperatures that were previously fatal. We've determined there was some type of pre-conditioning -- though we don't yet know exactly how it was managed -- which essentially caused manufacturing proteins and sugars to allow the cytoplasm to turn into a substance similar to glass at temperatures about 30 to 40 degrees centigrade below zero. Once the cells vitrified, they were immune to low-temperature excursion. There is also evidence of an elaboration of natural cryoprotective agents, such as glucose and glycerol, plus a plethora of less-significant agents. These allowed the major organs to deposit the ice externally, rather than inside, where permanent damage would occur."

Arledge frowned. "Do you have children, Doctor Porch?"

Porch blinked at the non sequitur. "Uh…no, sir. I have a nephew, though, eight years old."

"Good enough," Arledge replied. "Pretend you're explaining this to him, and start over."

Porch caught his smile before it escaped. "Yes, sir. Okay…" He considered briefly which tact to take. "Basically…the patient is asleep, but frozen. His body chemistry was altered in a way that allowed it to withstand sub-freezing temperatures, theoretically, without the permanent damage you would normally encounter at such temperatures. We can speculate about those alterations, but we're unable to confirm them…at this time. I think I can safely say, sir, this puzzle will keep us busy for a lifetime."

Arledge leaned back in his chair, taking the report with him. He silently skimmed over it for a moment. "Good work," he finally said, raising his eyes to meet the doctor's. He set the report on the desk before him. "How close are you to waking our young Guide?"

Porch frowned. He'd known the question was coming, but he didn't like the way it was phrased. It make the young man sound like the government's personal property. He brushed aside his irritation to answer the question. "We're almost ready, sir. I'm assembling a medical team now--"

"How much longer?" Arledge asked bluntly. "Give me something tangible."

Porch hesitated. He hated being held to specifics, especially when they were dealing with so many unknowns. "Three to five days." At the President's unhappy look, he added, "I'm sorry, sir, that's the best I can do. There are too many variables. Once the team is assembled, and everyone has had a chance to examine our findings first hand, we can be more specific."

Arledge nodded. "All right, Doctor, gather your team. Let them examine our boy. But give me a twelve hour notice before you do anything. I want to be there when you wake him."

~~~

"I don't like this, Jim," Simon Banks argued. "There's too much you're not telling me."

Jim massaged the area between his eyes, trying to push away the persistent ache there. "Captain…Simon…trust me on this. There's not a lot I can say." It was logical to assume the call was being monitored, but more importantly, Jim had given his word he wouldn't discuss the specifics of what was going on when he had asked to make the call. Frankly, he was surprised they had allowed it at all, given the sensitive nature of this whole project. "But I have a…reasonable confidence in these people."

"A reasonable confidence? What in the hell is that supposed to mean?"

Jim sighed, regretting his choice of words. "I can't say more, Simon, I'm sorry. Look, I'll be finished here in another couple of weeks, I think." One way or another, he mentally added.

"Can you just tell me this, Jim…is this going to be successful? Is this going to pay off for you?"

Jim closed his eyes with a sigh. "God willing, Simon."

Simon answered with a sigh of his own. "Okay, Jim. Whatever it is you're doing, you have my support. Just…be careful, all right? Watch yourself."

"Always, Simon. Always."

~~~

Porch did one last quick survey of the now crowded room, mentally listing each team member and his/her respective responsibility. The survey served a dual purpose: to make sure he hadn't forgotten anyone or anything, not that it would do any good at this point; and to make certain each person in the room had a reason to be there. Once they began, there would be no room or time for "onlookers" underfoot. Porch tried to ignore the small observation window on the wall beside the door. He knew there was a small audience -- the President and a few others with interest in the success of this venture -- gathered in the room beyond. For the moment, it was knowledge best forgotten.

Letting his eyes find and meet each of his team members', Porch scanned the room.

Barton Fielding: foremost authority in pulmonary medicine in the resettled world. Porch had worked with Fielding twice before and had every confidence he was the only choice for this spot on the team. The short, balding man met Porch's silent query with a small nod. He was ready.

Tatia Murano: cardiovascular specialist. She was unknown to Porch by anything other than her reputation. Said reputation, however, was impeccable, and based on that alone, Porch had become a fervent believer in her ability to perform miracles. Hopefully, one would not be required here. In answer to Daniel's raised eyebrows, the elderly, dark skinned woman gave a small smile and a nod. She was ready.

Alan Honeycutt: neurologist. Again, a sterling reputation. Porch had met the man on one prior occasion, at the New Asian medical conference a few years ago. The large man had struck Daniel as arrogant and smug. Well, actually, Daniels initial reaction had been less…virtuous -- he'd found the man to be a pain in the ass. But Honeycutt was, without doubt, the best man for this job. Despite his personal dislike for the man, Daniel didn't question his choice for the team. At Porch's silent inquiry, Honeycutt effected a look that easily read, I'm here, therefore I'm ready.

Porch let his gaze likewise find and question each remaining team member, from the specialists to the technicians to his own assistant, Myra. Each met his gaze and query with a confident nod.

This was it.

A sudden herd of butterflies stampeded through Porch's stomach. No more conjectures, suppositions, or hypotheses. No more stalling. For better or worse, success or failure, it was time.

Porch cleared his throat, tamping down on the uncharacteristic nervousness, and moved into position to the left of the black cylinder which dominated the room. He looked at the boy…Sandburg…briefly, then turned so he could address his team. "Okay, then." He cleared his throat again. "I'm sure I don't need to remind any of you to remain focused solely on your given responsibility. You wouldn't be here if I felt a reminder was necessary. However, given the novelty of this venture, and the…well, frankly, the excitement of it, I daresay total focus will be difficult." A small smile found its way to the surface. "I also know there's no need to remind you of the historical and medical significance of what we're about to do. I want everything you encounter recorded, no matter how insignificant it may seem. What we're about to do will be scrutinized and studied and dissected for lifetimes to come. Let's give 'em enough to keep them busy."

He paused, returning his gaze to his patient. "Mr. Sandburg has waited a very long time to meet us. Let's do our best to see he gets the chance." He glanced up, once more letting his eyes make a full circuit of the room. "If everyone is ready…" Porch raised his breathing mask into place, signaling the initiation of the process. "All right, first step, I'll be opening the tube." He let his gaze fall on the technician sitting at the head of the chamber. "I want temperature readings in centigrade every thirty seconds or five degrees, whichever comes first." At the man's nod, Daniel reached for the control which would begin the process. As he turned it, the silence of the room was filled with a soft hiss of escaping gasses.

Porch looked to the tech. "Baseline and holding, sir," the man reported.

There was a click, loud and unexpected in the silence of the room, and from the corner of his eye, Porch noticed several people jump at the sound. The clear covering of the chamber jerked with the click and began to move, sliding slowly into a recessed slot on the right side. Daniel leaned forward, scarcely noticing the chill of escaping, century-old air against the exposed skin of his forehead and neck. He caught his breath and held it unconsciously.

~~~

In the back of Ellison's mind, he was very much aware he was slipping into a zone. Even armed with the knowledge, however, there was nothing he could do to prevent it. The tangible world twisted sickeningly before sliding away as he began his descent, falling deeper and deeper into a lifeless, gray void.

~~~

"Temperature beginning to rise…minus 40…39…"

Daniel allowed a few minutes to pass, letting the air stabilize somewhat, before reaching for the first of the leads connecting the boy to his lifeline. He let his gloved hand brush lightly across the boy's cheek. His mind had only a few seconds to marvel that his was the first human contact the young man had had in almost a century. Even through the layer of latex, Daniel could feel the stiff chill of the skin and had to fight the reflex to pull away. It was like touching death itself. He couldn't stop the shiver which worked its way up his spine.

Shaking away the morbid thoughts, while praying they were not a portent of things to come, Daniel returned to the task at hand. They would have to move slowly now, shutting off each of the lifelines in turn and gauging the responses. Though they had spent untold days studying and speculating as to each one's intended purpose, it was just that -- speculation. Now would come the test of their collective geniuses.

Disconnecting the first lead, Daniel released the breath he'd been holding and drew in another. And waited.

"Minus 35…"

When there was no noticeable response, Daniel disconnected another.

"Minus 30…"

Temperature was rising rapidly. Daniel had expected this. It would most likely slow as it approached more normal levels. As the temperature headed steadily upward and Daniel disconnected more leads, there was a noticeable change. The patient's bare chest shuddered once, then again. As one, the occupants of the room held their breath. Fielding moved into position, attaching an O2 monitor to the patient's finger. Sandburg's chest shuddered violently as rusty lungs struggled to remember their job. The gasp for air to expand those lungs was audible, and served to kick start the race.

"Minus 14…"

Each specialist began attaching their own monitors in place of the ones Daniel was removing. The temperature continued their rapid rise. Technicians moved into place, preparing to move the patient from the tube to the awaiting bed the moment the word was given. Daniel finally disconnected the last of the leads, though it was difficult to tell with the new, more familiar ones which had taken their place.

"Minus 10…"

He was approaching freezing point, Porch noted. If their computer simulations held true, that's when the real race would begin. The organs would begin to thaw and, God willing, resume their functions.

"Minus 8…"

"Raise the room temperature ten degrees." Porch signaled the technicians. "Let's do it."

The doctors moved back a bit, giving the techs room to work. Removing the young man from the chamber which had been his bed for the better part of a century was a complicated job, made more difficult by the many wires and probes now tethering him to the various machinery around the perimeter of the room, but it was done with an efficiency which satisfied even Porch.

"Minus six…minus four…"

Porch watched silently as the assorted doctors skillfully performed their tasks. A catheter was inserted and a towel draped across the naked young man's lower body. I.V. ports were attached at both wrists, awaiting medication which would certainly be ordered shortly.

"Three degrees…"

Daniel's eyes flickered to the various monitors around him. Still nothing discernable on the electrocardiogram. The lungs were obviously trying to function, but they'd expected that to be the first sign of returning life. Fielding looked up, meeting Daniel's gaze.

"The instant there is thawing of the tissues, I want to intubate. His lungs are trying, but I want to ease the struggle. He's going to need to expend that energy elsewhere, I'm afraid."

"Six degrees…"

Daniel nodded his approval, not that Fielding really needed it. These specialists had carte blanche. Keeping this young man alive was the only mandate. No ego, no power struggle could be, would be tolerated. Their only concern, by necessity, was their patient.

"Eight degrees…"

"I've got something," Murano announced suddenly. "It's virtually negligible, but there is cardiac activity."

"Ten degrees…"

The patient was noticeably struggling to fill long-unused lungs. A tinge of blue appeared around his lips and fingertips.

"Twelve degrees…"

"Go," Daniel gave the word to Fielding. The pneumologist wasted no time. Within seconds the patient was intubated, a ventilator easing the strain on his lungs. "Fifteen degrees…"

"Any brain activity?"

Honeycutt didn't look up from the machine he was practically wrapped around. "Nothing."

That worried Daniel a bit, but he refused to panic. Though he had thought to see limited neurological activity by now, it was early still.

"Eighteen degrees…"

"Give him 20ccs of Adidrel," Daniel ordered over the hum of activity filling the room.

"Twenty-one degrees…"

"He's established a rhythm," Murano announced with a smile in her rich voice, "and I'm getting a weak blood pressure -- circulation has resumed."

"Twenty-four degrees…"

"I've got activity," Honeycutt proclaimed loudly.

Daniel breathed a sigh of relief.

"Pulse rate is 22. Blood pressure…48 over 25…"

"Twenty-six degrees…"

"Where's that blood gas?"

"…increase Aminophylline to 30…"

"Twenty-eight degrees…"

"Pulse is at 46…"

"Arterial pH is 6.85."

"Start tromethamine…let me know when it reaches 7.15."

"Blood pressure 62/40."

"Creatinine levels elevated…12 units…"

"Damn!"

"Thirty degrees…"

"Bring the room temperature up another five..."

"Give him fifteen units of insulin in 60 Gm glucose, 50 percent dilution."

"Blood pressure is dropping!"

"SGOT is at 180 units…SLDH is 350."

"He's going into shock!"

"Shit! 4 ml 0.8 mg Cedilanid!"

"Thirty-two degrees…"

"Pulse is down to 24…Sinus bradycardia!"

"Thirty-five degrees…"

"100 mg heparin! 1 mg atropine sublingually-- watch for tachyrhythmias!""

"He's seizing!"

Daniel grimaced in barely noticed sympathy as Sandburg's reawakening body jerked in protest to the loss of its artificial life support. Honeycutt, much calmer than he had any right to be, barked orders to various team members, trying to bring the situation back under control. To his left, Murano worked to do the same, fighting to stabilize the struggling heart and blood flow.

Organs that hadn't functioned in nearly a century struggled to remember their purpose. Medication after medication was administered in an effort to assist them. It was a battle, but one each team member was dedicated to winning. And, by damn, win they would!

~~~

There was an absence of sound. It was Jim's first thought, even before he opened his eyes. Nothing. Absolute, total silence. Not the questionable silence of the "soundproof" room to which he had been recently moved. Even there, safely ensconced from outside stimulation of any kind, there was a constant hum of the ventilation system, the murmur of voices, ever present in the distance…audible sounds of "silence" all about him. Now…there was nothing.

And it was deafening.

Opening his eyes, Jim took a moment to orient himself to what he found. Instantly, he knew something wasn't right. The world around him had taken on a eerie bluish tint, reminiscent of a bad movie effect. He was also laying on the ground. Overhead, Jim saw thick foliage.

Foliage…?

Stunned and confused, Jim pushed himself to a seated position. Foliage…all around him…trees, vines…

It was a dream, it had to be -- but Jim knew he wasn't asleep. The last thing he remembered was…he paused in mid-thought, trying to recall exactly what he did remember last. He had met with Gilliam for more damned test. The doctor was testing Jim's vision, urging him to push his limits. Jim had been resisting, fearing a zone out. Another zone out. He had experienced almost a dozen zones in the past week, each deeper than the one before, and while Gilliam had successfully drawn him back each time, Jim was frankly terrified of going so deep no one could pull him out of it.

With a stab of fear, Jim realized that was exactly what had happened. He had given in to Gilliam's demands, and he remembered the familiar feeling of graying out as he fell into an abyss. He had zoned.

Looking around him again, taking in the startling setting, Jim gave into his confusion. A zone couldn't explain this. It certainly didn't explain what he was seeing. Unless…

A hallucination? No one had ever mentioned hallucinations with regards to zones, but it could be possible, couldn't it? If so, then he was in a zone right now, locked somewhere in his mind. This could be nothing more than a memory, a moment from his past he was reliving while waiting for Gilliam to bring him out of the zone. Only Jim had no real memories of the jungle. There were few true jungles remaining since the ChangeOver. Vast areas of the unsettled world had reverted to their natural states in the past century, but these areas were dangerous, havens for those who could not or would not take part in the ChangeOver. For the most part these hold outs consisted of those affected by the fallout of the war, or criminals seeking refuge in a world they knew the Planet Security Forces wouldn't pursue. Jim had only ventured into the jungles one time, and that had been part of a disaster so great, it had led to the revamping of current laws allowing pursuit into unsettled regions.

Jim shook off the depressing thoughts and returned his attention to his surroundings. His one trek into the jungles had been nothing like this. This was…surreal…and unnaturally silent. Then, the jungle had seemed almost a living thing. There had been a constant din of creatures filling the air. Now, there was nothing, no birds, no small animals, not even wind through the trees.

Jim pushed against the ground beneath him, rising to his feet. Even his movements were wrong. They were jerky, slow…like moving through water…or a slow-motion film. He stood still for several moments trying to adjust. The out-of-sync movements were nauseatingly disorienting.

A small sound drifted to him on still air…a whimper, scarcely a sigh of sound, but in the absolute silence surrounding Jim it was all but a shout. Jim's head whipped around, trying to pinpoint its source. The whimper sounded again, both desperate and compelling at the same time. He felt an irrational need to find the source of that noise. It drew him like a magnet.

Jim closed his eyes and listened with his heart. When the noise came a third time, he was ready. The direction identified, his eyes snapped open, and he took off toward its source. The mystifying slow-motion movements hampered him only slightly. The noise became louder as he ran, affirming his choice of direction.

Time lost its tangibility. It could have been hours later, or mere seconds, but eventually Jim erupted through the thick tangle of foliage into a small clearing. Bright sunlight illuminated the ground in small circles. In one of the spotlights lay a creature, appalling in appearance. Though pristine, its fur was dull, and stretched tightly over the painfully obvious skeleton. The creature appeared dead, and had Jim not heard its mournful cry with his own ears, he would have believed it so. A step forward revealed the animal's face. Jim didn't immediately recognize it. It resembled a dog, but was larger and rangier in appearance. There was a quiet beauty in the animal's face, despite it's ragged appearance.

Jim moved slowly toward the creature, fearful due to ignorance of its potential. At the same time, he was compelled to its side. As the distance closed, he could see the animal was drawing in abrasive breaths through its muzzle. It shivered visibly, and its limbs jerked spasmodically every few seconds. The animal was in clear distress.

Jim dropped to his knees, doing a visual search of the creature, but no obvious wounds were apparent. Another whimper filled the air, laden with misery and tearing at Jim's heart. On impulse, Jim reached out a hesitant hand, laying it on the animal's chest, over its heart. He could feel the staccato beat, unsteady and weak, and knew in his soul the animal was dying.

"No!" Jim shouted, or thought he did. He heard the sound of his denial, but it was as though from a distance, echoing through the jungle from all directions at once. It was imperative this creature live. Jim didn't question the certainty of his belief.

"Come on," he implored the animal. Jim's hand tightened, closing around a fistful of the fur. "Come on…" His other hand reached out, stopping just a fraction of an inch away from the creature's forehead. He could feel the warmth of life radiating from the animal, but it was faint, much like the heart which struggled to beat beneath his fistful of fur.

"Don't do this, fella. Come on…I don't know what's wrong with you, but you don't look hurt. If you were, I'd know what to do… Just…just don't give up, okay? You'll be all right. You just have to fight, okay?"

There was a stirring beneath his hand, and Jim felt the heartbeat quicken, stutter, then regain its rhythm, slightly stronger this time. Encouraged, Jim continued talking to the animal, not really paying attention to his words, only his tone. The heartbeat continued to strengthen, and eventually the shivering subsided. The animal's breathing began to ease and, to Jim's delight, its eyes opened. Deep blue, the color of the ocean in a storm, the animal's eyes met and held Jim's own. There was a message in the depths of those sapphire orbs. Something of great importance, but Jim was at a loss to capture its meaning. Jim leaned closer, as though the diminished distance would make the message clearer, louder somehow. Something imperative…something he needed to know…something--

A hard shake snapped his head back, and Jim jerked, opening his eyes to find Doctor Gilliam's worried face only inches away. He took a deep breath, filling lungs that seemed starved for oxygen.

"Thank God!" Gilliam sighed wearily.

Disoriented, Jim pulled away from the doctor, regaining his personal space. He looked around, assuring himself he was back in the examination room. Back…from where?

"I zoned," Jim stated. Though it wasn't a question, he was nonetheless reassured when Gilliam acknowledged it.

"Yes, and it was the deepest one yet," the man admitted. "I've been trying for almost half an hour to get you back."

Half an hour? That seemed about right. The hallucination had happened in real time. "Why didn't you tell me about the hallucinations?"

~~~

"We've got a rhythm!"

Porch closed his eyes in a brief prayer of thanks at Murano's announcement. It had been close. Too damn close. And for a long few moments, it looked as if there was nothing any of them could do to prevent it. Then, suddenly, everything had just…started back up, as though someone, somewhere had flipped an "on" switch. Miracle? Maybe. Porch wasn't above admitting they existed. Maybe it was their persistence, their refusal to admit defeat with this patient. Or maybe the patient had decided he wanted to live. Ultimately, it didn't matter one whit. They had him back, and from the looks of things, he was stabilizing.

It took the better part of two more hours before that thought was verified. Pulse, blood pressure, temperature, brain waves, all indicators were within acceptable ranges. All major organs were functioning at partial capacity or better. As tired techs and exhausted doctors, their duties accomplished for the moment, took a break from the hours long battle, the room began to empty.

The battle was not over, but they had a reprieve, at least for the moment. Porch ran a final check of the most critical monitors, then pulled a stool closer to his patient and parked himself on it. He knew he should grab a quick break while he could. Eventually, he would have to report to the President, but for now, he couldn't bring himself to leave.

The patient -- Blair Sandburg, Porch reminded himself -- despite his very important change in sleeping arrangements, looked much the same. Though their purpose was different, he was still tethered to multiple machines by lines and wires and tubes. The one notable difference was the presence of the ventilator, taking the burden of breathing for the weakened lungs. Porch had hope it wouldn't be necessary for long. Most of the major organs seemed to be picking right up where they had left off nearly a century ago. Operation was sluggish in a few cases, but there were indications it would improve.

Daniel was so intent on his thoughts, he missed the slight movement of the patient until Myra pointed it out to him. Sandburg's head rolled ever so slightly to the side. Daniel jumped to his feet, leaning over the young man with baited breath. He watched carefully, trying to determine if the motion might have been involuntary, or perhaps precipitous of something more. It hadn't been much of a movement, but it was the first overt sign of life Sandburg had shown.

For long minutes there was nothing. On impulse, Porch reached out, laying a careful hand on the young man's forehead. Daniel took a second to marvel at how different the skin felt compared to the first time he had touched his patient. Though still cooler than the doctor would have liked, there was a gentle warmth beneath his hand.

Perhaps it was coincidence, or it may have been in response to the touch, but the young man's eyes fluttered, moving beneath their darkened lids. A few seconds later, they blinked opened.

Blue, was Daniel's first thought, a deep, ocean blue. The color was quite striking. Porch could easily imagine those eyes sparkling with humor and life and joy. Right now, though, they were dull, unfocused.

"Welcome back, Mr. Sandburg," Daniel said, as gently as he could.

The young man blinked slowly a few times in Porch's direction, attempting to focus.

Porch turned to Myra, prepared to ask for moisturizing drops, only to find his assistant has anticipated his request. He smiled his thanks and turned back to his patient. "I'm going to put some drops in your eyes. They'll help with the dryness you're experiencing." Daniel kept his movements slow and deliberate as he placed the drops. Sandburg closed his eyes, letting the liquid spread. After a few seconds, he reopened them.

"Better?"

The young man shifted his head in the direction of Porch's voice, and Daniel felt a small thrill of excitement flash through him. The magnitude of the moment was not lost on the doctor.

The eyes seemed to focus this time, and Porch smiled gently. "Hello, Mr. Sandburg," he greeted his patient again. "I've waited a long time to say that…though not as long as you have, I suppose." He winced mentally at the lame joke, reminding himself the boy was most likely confused, at best -- uncomprehending, at worse. "I imagine you're feeling rather weak, at the moment, Blair. You're on a ventilator to assist your lungs while you recuperate and get your strength back."

The blue eyes clouded with what Daniel guessed to be confusion. "Do you understand me, Blair?"

The eyes blinked slowly, but Daniel couldn't tell if it was an answer or a reflex. He tried again, leaning in closer to the young man. "Blair…are you in any pain?"

There was no reaction this time. The blue eyes seemed to be losing their focus, and after a few minutes, the blinking became slower, until finally, they did not open again.

Daniel lifted his gaze and ran a quick sweep of the monitors, assuring himself all was well. Sandburg was merely sleeping. Merely sleeping…this time it was true, he reminded himself. And a well deserved rest it was, too.

The doctor straightened, letting his gaze linger on the miracle below him for a moment, then turned for the door. There were reports to file, and Arledge would be waiting.

~~~ Part two...