Another Reason for Illya Not to Like Bats

(As if He Needed More Than One Reason)

By Wendie Z

Author's notes: The conversation in the beginning is taken directly from the second season episode: "The Bat Cave Affair" (acknowledgement to Jerry McNeely for his dialogue and director, Alf Kjellin and the actors for their interpretations). As with my other stories, this is written from a 60's perspective and as historically correct as I can make it. Please, see the postscript for more information. Thanks for reading--wz

Illya Kuryakin was bored. He sat next to his partner, Napoleon Solo, listening to the dulcet voice of Clemency McGill, the so-called clairvoyant whose THRUSH-originated insights had sent him from a bull ring in Madrid, to a pub in Seville, to finally, a castle in Transylvania. Clemency sat directly across from Solo at a table in the UNCLE commissary. She was spooning up the ice cream atop her fourth ice cream soda while the three men had long-ago finished their coffee.

Mr. Waverly, who occupied the seat on the other side of Napoleon, seemed pleased with both the outcome of the mission and Clemency's company and the two dominated the conversation. "Yes, I doubt that Mr. Transom will not be heard from for quite a while."

Clemency half-nodded in agreement. "Well, I surely am grateful for that. I never did like that man." She tilted her head to the side and mused: "Now, of course, if I never met him, none of this would've happened and I would've missed out on a powerful lot of excitement." She grinned.

Illya was less than enthralled. "So would I."

Clemency looked at him apologetically, "Oh, you do forgive me, don't you, Mr. Kuryakin?"

"Well, I'm very tolerant. Why don't we go somewhere tonight and discuss it?" It could be a reasonably enjoyable evening, he decided. If nothing else came of it, he was, at the very least, going to get her to stop mispronouncing his name. That faux pas was becoming less endearing each time she did it.

To his surprise, Mr. Waverly jumped in with his own suggestion. "I was going to suggest Miss McGill go to a concert with me this evening. I'd like her to have the advantage of some of the city's cultural benefits."

Clemency smiled coyly. "Well, I purely am grateful to the both of you, but well, Mr. Solo has been kind enough to ask me out."

Both Illya and Waverly looked at Solo, who had a slightly smug expression. "Oh?" they said, almost in unison.

Before Napoleon could begin to elaborate, Illya turned away. He should have known it would end this way—it nearly always ended this way. Solo was going to show her a night on the town, and he was going to spend the evening typing up the report. Somehow, he always seemed to get the short end of the deal, both with physical injury and getting the girl in the end. Usually, it didn't bother him; this time, he was annoyed.

Mr. Waverly stood up to take his leave. "I hope you two have a pleasant evening. Don't keep Miss McGill out too late, Mr. Solo."

Napoleon smiled. "I wouldn't dream of it, sir."

Illya cringed inwardly. Of course, his partner wouldn't dream of it! He didn't have to—the girl would ask him to stay once he had gallantly escorted her home. He was feeling more than a bit envious and he wasn't even attracted to this one—! He sighed heavily and also stood. "Well, I feel a report coming on. If you'll excuse me." He turned to leave, but his superior's voice stopped him.

"I need a moment of your time, Mr. Kuryakin."

"Certainly, sir."

"In my office, ten minutes." The head of UNCLE, New York, left the trio for the door.

"I wonder what that's about," Solo said, looking up at Illya.

"Well, don't look at me. I haven't the vaguest idea what it's about."

The pair then turned to Clemency, who was staring into her ice cream soda. She looked up. "What are you looking at me for?"

"I thought perhaps you had an idea about Illya's appointment with Mr. Waverly."

"It's probably nothing, Napoleon," Illya said. "Or maybe he'd like my opinion on that cortical stimulator."

"You know something, don't you?" Napoleon said to the honey-brunette.

"I know we won't be going to the Purple Unicorn if I say anything," she said dejectedly.

"Why? Is something wrong?"

"Let it go, Napoleon," Illya said with a small snort of disgust. "Take the lady out dancing. Everything's fine. I'll see you tomorrow." He turned away from the pair and retreated to the door.

"Ok, Clemency. Tell me what's going on, or the only place we'll be going is back to the hotel."

"Well, I don't really know anything," she said carefully. "Mr. Waverly's just going to make Mr. Kuryakin do something he doesn't want to do."

"Like what?"

"I don't know what. He just isn't going to want to do it, that's all."

"You're sure—"

She nodded.

"All right, then. I'll take you back to the hotel for you to get changed and pick you up at six." He smiled. "I think you'll find something in your closet perfect for the occasion."

Clemency looked up at the handsome man standing over her and smiled sweetly.

Illya stepped through the doorway and stood before his superior. "You wanted to see me, sir?

Waverly stood at the window of his office, actually the only real window in the entire headquarters complex, looking out over the darkening sky. "It's not so much that I want to see you, Mr. Kuryakin, but that Medical would like to see you. I understand that you managed to evade them at the Budapest office."

Illya answered stiffly, "I didn't see any purpose for it, sir."

"That seems to be your standard answer, Mr. Kuryakin. As a matter of fact, the only time we do not go loggerheads over this point is when you are unable to come in under your own power."

"I believe you'll find that I am not the only one who questions Medical's need to unnecessarily poke and prod us after each assignment. Sir." Kuryakin's tone of voice was becoming noticeably more resistant.

"I want you to report down to medical, Mr. Kuryakin. That's an order."

"I will as soon as I finish the report."

"Now, Mr. Kuryakin."

Illya stared at his superior for a moment, wondering why Waverly was being so extreme about a regulation that nearly one hundred percent of the Section Two agents bent until it resembled a pretzel. "Sir, I don't understand the urgency. My injuries were minimal."

"Would you rather have a Section Three escort?"

The blond-haired agent sighed in defeat. "No, sir. I am quite capable of delivering myself."

Waverly pulled his pipe from a jacket pocket. "See that you do, Mr. Kuryakin. I will be verifying that you arrived."

Utterly confused, Illya turned towards the doorway and walked slowly out of the office.

As the steel door closed, Alexander Waverly murmured. "Sorry, son."

Kuryakin was in no hurry to catch the elevator to the sublevels and the medical division. Like most Section Two agents, he hated the indignity, the libations and the forced inactivity a trip to medical usually meant. And right now, he was not too fond of the man who ordered him there.

As he stood, waiting for the elevator, he heard his name from behind him. The doors opened, but he did not enter. "What are you doing here, Napoleon?" he said quietly. "I expected you and Miss McGill to be planning out your evening."

"She's somewhat put out with me at the moment. I asked Wanda if she would take her to her hotel while I looked into something that was niggling at the back of my mind."

"And what would that be?"

"Something Clemency said after you left. She said Mr. Waverly was going to make you do something you didn't want to do." He had his confirmation in his partner's raised eyebrows.

"And I thought to myself, what would the Old Man make you do that you wouldn't want to do? The answer wasn't that hard. You're going down to medical, aren't you?"

The answer was terse and clipped. "Yes." And he stepped into the elevator.

Solo slid in before the doors closed. "Why?"

"I was given a direct order to report." Illya sighed, clenching his jaw. "And he will be verifying my arrival."

"Did he tell you why he wanted you to go to medical?"

Another sigh of anger and frustration. "'Ours is not to reason why—'" he said, quoting from Tennyson's Charge of the Light Brigade.

"Surely, you must have some idea. Do you feel okay?"

Illya looked up at his partner. "No, I feel singled-out, under duress, and very, very put-upon." The doors opened onto the medical floor. "Now, if you will excuse me, I'm going to go swallow my dignity and drop my trousers. Have a fun evening with Miss McGill." He strode through the opening and towards a white-jacketed doctor holding a clipboard.

Solo hadn't seen his partner this angry for a long time. If he didn't administer some gentle restraint, the Russian was liable to take off a head or two, perhaps quite literally. He followed Illya and took a stance two steps to his friend's right and out of arm's length. The blond agent looked over, glaring, but said nothing.

"Thank you for coming, Mr. Kuryakin. And quite punctual, too."

The glare was transferred to the doctor. "You may tell Mr. Waverly that I have arrived, Dr. Webster."

"He already has been, Mr. Kuryakin." Dr. Webster turned his attention to Solo. "I wasn't expecting to see you, Mr. Solo."

"Ah, yes," Napoleon said, and tilted his head towards his partner. "I'm here to see that Mr. Kuryakin doesn't burn a hole through your chest with his gentle stare."

The blue eyes turned again in Solo's direction accompanied this time by utterances in Russian that raised the senior agent's eyebrows. "Careful, Illya. I may have to ask the good doctor to wash your mouth out with soap."

Kuryakin took the admonishment to heart and sighed heavily. "All right, let's get this humiliation over-with. Where do you want me?"

"For today, in that room," he pointed, "and for about ten minutes. Tomorrow, the decision will be yours."

"I don't understand."

"Let's go in the exam room where it's a little more private. We have some things to discuss. Mr. Solo, you come, too."

The three men went to the nearby room and the doctor closed the door. "Take off your jacket and sit up on the table if you would, please, Mr. Kuryakin."

Reluctantly, the Russian agent obliged. If the doctor was menaced by the shoulder holster and gun now revealed, he didn't show it.

"Unbutton your cuffs and roll them back."

The uncovered forearms revealed dozens of red scratches.

"Remove your shoes and socks, and roll up your pants legs."

The red scratches were half-way up the calves.

"That's a nice collection of scratches you've acquired. From some time spent in a cage with bats, I believe?"

"Count Zark has a rather peculiar sense of humor. I was not amused." Illya replied stiffly.

"What do you know about bats, Mr. Kuryakin?"

"You mean besides their endearing appearance? More than I care to."

"Did the bats seem normal?"

"They weren't normal. Zark had altered their vocal cords so their echo-location would interfere with man-made radar."

"That's not what I mean."

"Why don't you say what you mean, doctor?"

"Mr. Kuryakin, bats are known repositories for rabies."

Illya did not change expression, except for a slight widening of his eyes, but blanched to the point where Napoleon thought he might pass out. "R-rabies?" he stammered softly.

"How many bats were there in the cave?"

"I don't know—hundreds maybe. Surely, you don't believe—"

"The incidence is fairly low, about half a percent for free-flying bats in nature. There are no figures for confined animals as in this case. Did you see any dead bats?"

"I wasn't exactly looking for dead bats, doctor. I was trying to keep them off of me. They were South American vampire bats and they thought I was dinner."

"You have a difficult decision to make. There are scratches and bites on your ankles and forearms. There are also a significant number on you face and neck. If it was just your ankles, I'd advise you that your risk is low. The forearms increase your risk a little more. The neck bites worry me."

"You want me to consider the vaccine."

"Yes, Mr. Kuryakin. If you're infected and don't take the vaccine, you will die from the disease. I've never seen a case of human rabies, but from what I've read, it's a horrible way to die. The incubation can be as short as one-to-two months, or it could be years, but once the symptoms begin, there is nothing we can do."

Solo was stunned. "What about the vaccine?"

Illya responded as if he was reading from a textbook. "The series is fourteen to twenty-one injections, one per day, given subcutaneously, usually in the umbilical area."

"The stomach," Solo said anxiously.

"Yes," Dr. Webster said and looked up at Illya. "Are you allergic to eggs? Particularly, duck eggs?"

"I don't think so."

"That's good, but you may still have a reaction to the vaccine. Most patients have some kind of reaction."

"Such as—?"

"Allergic reaction at the injection site is most common. More serious is anaphylaxis or allergic encephalitis. We can manage both of them."

"How long do I have to consider my options?"

Napoleon spoke before the doctor could open his mouth. "There are no options, Illya. You have to take the vaccine."

Kuryakin looked up at his partner and friend. "Are you pulling rank and ordering me to submit to this, Napoleon?"

"If I have to, I will. I can't believe you'd consider any other alternative."

"Mr. Solo, you need to understand something here. This is a painful, potentially dangerous treatment."

"That may not be effective or even be necessary," Illya finished. "I know what my choices are."

Solo stared at the doctor in disbelief. "Is he right?"

"I'm afraid he is. He may not have an immune response even after twenty-one injections." He handed the blond agent his coat. "I want to know your decision within three days, whatever you decide."

Kuryakin nodded respectfully. "I will give it to you in the morning. Thank you." He put on his coat and opened the door.

After his partner had left the room, it was Napoleon's turn to glare at the doctor. "Call Mr. Waverly and have him order Illya to take the treatment."

"I can't do that, Mr. Solo. He has the right to decide for himself. If Mr. Waverly took that away from him, he'd be no better than the Soviets from where Mr. Kuryakin came. Your partner knows exactly what he is facing whichever way he decides."