Walking With Dark Angels

by The Cat's Whiskers

In the future, Sentinels were tailormade for humanity's expansion into space, but Dark Sentinel Jim Ellison is doomed, unless he can find the semimythical only living Dark Guide. AU

3. Chapters 5 & 6

See Disclaimers, etc, in Chapters I-II. NB – the song "Luna City 7" was partially sung by "Dave Lister" (actor Craig Charles) on the BBC sci-fi comedy show Red Dwarf (in astronomy, there is no such thing as a red dwarf star).

Chapter V – Guides Lost… HSSC PD, "Juvie" division level…

Trey managed to not give into the cough that made his throat hurt. Station Sniffle, the colloquial name given to the minor "cold type" infection, was common aboard space stations and those who served long-term aboard A- or B-class ships where the air was largely recycled. Normally it was irritating and easily disposed of with a bottle of medicine, but Trey hurriedly tried to finish his report so he could reasonably leave, his unpredictable reaction to medication, on top of the fact he was injecting double doses of suppressant, making him nervous.

Unfortunately the CoJC – Captain of Juvenile Crimes – was a crony of the CoP - Captain of Police, a political appointee looking for a way up the ladder of success. Like the CoP, he had been a nervous wreck for the past three weeks that Saran Van den Mikhail had been resident, and had thus instigated a flurry of actual efficiency never seen during his incumbency. The problem for Trey was that no sick leave was allowed unless you were dead and could prove it, so a minor case of Station Sniffle had resulted in a direct order to get his butt in and do some work. However, if he could just type these reports, he could legitimately go "out in the field", safely away from any problems his body might start causing him over mixing suppressants with cold medicine.

Finally hitting the last full-stop, Trey saved the report and sent it to all relevant bureaucratic departments, including the CoJC's desktop, then shucked on his jacket with determination. His watch pinged warning and he quickly ducked into the break room. At 11:00am on the dot, the CoJC waddled out of his office, straight down the corridor, spent fifteen minutes in the john, bought the biggest cream cake he could off the donut cart with an extra large mocha, then waddled back to his office where he spent the next hour or so reading the cyber-sports pages, pretending to read police reports. As a figure went past the door, Trey's throat tightened again; aware the scratchiness would not dissipate, Trey fed a few galacs into the vending machine and got a cup of tepid water that was in direct violation of the vending machine's advertised: "ice-cold refreshing spring water". But it eased his throat. He would hang around here until the CoJC went back into his office and then abscond and do something useful instead.

Saran resisted the urge to rub his forehead again as the elevator took them down to the "Juvie" level, aware of Madeley shifting nervously beside him – the man was so taut that if Saran had poured starch over him he could have used him as a fence-post. Despite the nagging discomfort of his sudden headache and that irritating sub-vocal whine that intermittently attacked his ears, Saran felt some amusement. It had not been a good week for Madeley. After a fortnight of Saran roaming unchecked, the Mayor, CoP, Commissioner and Station Manager's nerves were all shot, so at the beginning of the third week they had been able to "spare" an officer, Madeley, to act as Saran's "aide".

(Read, "minder", spy and warning to the lower orders not to deviate from the party line,) Saran knew. Saran had no problems with Madeley, he'd dealt with more practised obstructionists in his cradle. Madeley was another political type, who'd sidled in through the Graduate Recruitment Programme straight at officer level rather than going to the Academy and working his way up from patrolman. He'd spent most of his time as a flunkie in the Commissioner's office and as such was a lamb to the kebab shop when it came to dealing with Saran. The families of the Oligarchy, especially the High Houses, had not held onto and increased their wealth and power by being ineffectual ditherers or being unable to see through those trying to con them.

Cheerfully Saran had had Madeley searching basement files and evidence lock-up, piling his arms high with reports and running him all over the building searching for this, that and the other. Since Madeley couldn't be in a dozen places at once, Saran's "unauthorised" interaction with those who actually did the work continued unfettered. However, this morning had not gotten off to a good start. Saran had woken in the early hours with an aggravating headache and that damn whine that disappeared every time he tried to get a fix on it. On top of that, the vending machines on the top three floors had conked out simultaneously along with half the computers when a workman did something to cable A instead of cable B. Saran shook his head – all the technological wonders available to the space-faring human, and everything still ground to a halt because some twit cut through the wrong wire.

As Madeley fussed with the large, apparently temperamental vending machine just outside the holding area, Saran remembered his personal pledge to visit all the divisions that made the CoP nervous. "Juvie" had been at the top of the list, but he'd never gotten to it. Reluctantly he decided against an inspection with Madeley hanging on his coat tails and scaring the natives, but made a mental note to raise his disapproval of the locale. Juvenile Crimes was certainly far from glamorous, but in Saran's view it should be the best-funded section in any law enforcement agency. Juvenile Crimes should be situated in offices like palaces, able to afford state-of-the-art equipment and have access to unlimited funding with staff paid wages like that of movie stars. This was a sub-basement in all but name, and not a glorified one at that.

Saran eyed the dull, cracked, cream painted walls with disdain, wandering casually along and ignoring where Madeley was locked in a battle of wits with the vending machine, which from the sound of it, the vending machine was winning. What few posters there were tacked up advertising counselling for parents of abused children, or other services that worked hand in hand with JC, such as Youth Justice, Social Services, Foster Care Agency and so forth were all old, curling and in some cases out of date. What PCs, vidlinks, tight-beam and other technology he could glimpse in offices all had the scraped, worn look of hand-me-down equipment. Even the office lighting was subdued, someone obviously deciding to save money by setting the diffusion on "economy", making the place dwell in a perpetual twilight.

About to go back, Saran paused as he smelled something. He sniffed, but it was elusive. He enhanced his olfactory abilities carefully, for some of the stuff around here looked so worn that a frayed wire or fuse could turn it into an inferno, but the smell was not acrid burning. It was elusive, faint, and, like that damned whine, kept fading in and out, but it was strangely pleasant, refreshingly tart, like homemade lemon ice cream. With a shrug, Saran meandered on, ignoring Madeley's slightly panicked, " 'Sir?' " as the man vacillated between following Saran or getting Saran's coffee.

In the 21st Century the link between childhood problems such as abuse, poverty, lack of education, family breakdown and adult crime had been clearly defined. All the other divisions such as Vice and Homicide would have a lot less to investigate if budding criminality could be nipped before it took root in a child. All IFP and Oligarchy worlds had mandatory brain scans for year old infants to detect the sort of "minor" brain abnormalities that, undetectable in the 20th Century, led the infant to grow into a sociopath, psychopath or serial killer. Those children were operated upon to correct the problems, but humans were spreading ever further into the distant reaches of space, and even on the most technologically advanced worlds, there were those who suffered a family breakdown or lived in a low income home. Most terrible of all were the abuse victims because, just as with rape, the victim was 90 more likely to be abused by someone they knew well, a relative or family friend, than some "flashing mac" wearing stranger who opportunistically grabbed them. Those sorts of cases were often more easily dealt with, but in most cases the abuser was a "pillar of the community", an eminently respectable and apparently loving person who gave no indication of their perversion. In all too many instances, the abuser was himself or herself the adult survivor of child abuse, in some ways as much a victim as the child. In such situations, there was no winner, only destroyed families or damaged individuals.

Absently following the scent, but still mainly focussed on the JC bullpen, Saran could easily tell from the desks which officers were "dedicated" and which were just serving their rotation. The former were crammed with the latest information, help line numbers, judicial rulings affecting juvenile crime and other such paraphernalia, plus some things like interactive counselling kits that they had to have purchased at their own expense, for the PD certainly wouldn't fund them whilst under the direction of the current CoP. Saran drifted along, setting his mind to "neutral", looking the place over, vaguely noting that if he concentrated on the smell, the headache receded.

Apparently the vending machine had vanquished Madeley, and hearing a similar hum, Saran headed for another break room, slipping inside, automatically sensory-scanning the man who stood, turned half away from him, sipping water. Just above medium height, very slender, with thick, soot-black hair, but the very pale, pearls and milk white skin that suggested Celtic or Scandinavian ancestry somewhere. He wasn't skinny or wimpy, but nevertheless there was a sense of frailty about him, of vulnerability. The tangy, intermittent smell also appeared to be coming from him.

The other jumped as he realised someone had entered the room and turned, his smile dying as he focussed on the newcomer. Distantly, as if a detached observer watching himself, Saran catalogued the pale honey-brown eyes, the snub nose and the white, slightly crooked teeth in a mouth whose natural state was smiling. A detective shield was attached to the belt of his faded black denim jeans and a simple white shirt rumpled under the mid-thigh length brown jacket, but these were insignificant observations. The youth's eyes widened, and he was a youth, certainly 20 years junior to Saran's forty-five if not more. His heartbeat spiked and his pulse soared, but that only made the tart scent stronger, regular instead of fading in and out. Aware of a distant, irritating buzz in his ears and the approaching footsteps of Madeley only peripherally, Saran somehow found himself gently stroking the younger man's hair, rubbing his thumb across the top of one ear as the youth tilted his head into the caress.

Trey was trapped, gaze locked on a pair of glowing emeralds that seemed to draw him in. The world was suddenly utterly silent, the cup of water making no noise as it slid from his numb fingers, splashing onto the plastic floor. Gazes locked on each other, they were oblivious.

"Sir?" Madeley surged into the room, freezing as he spotted the bizarre tableau in front him. "What…?"

At that point, Saran's eyes suddenly rolled back into his head and he toppled backwards.

Snapping suddenly from his ensorcelled state, Trey sprang and managed to grab him, dropping to his knees as the dead weight inevitably pulled him down. Madeley, gaped open mouthed like a guppy, frozen stupidly. "Get the Medical Officer!" Trey barked furiously.

Within ten minutes Saran, still out cold, was laid in the Precinct's medical bay surrounded by the Police Surgeon, Precinct Medical Officer and whole host of panicking people. The Captain of Police hovered like melodramatic maiden, wringing his hands and sweating, muttering contradictory orders that no one paid any attention to. Easing to the back of the crowd, Trey felt icily cold to his extremities, and as Saran began to twitch, he eased out of the room and hurried back to the Juvie floor, frantic with fear.

The cold medicine must have allowed at least some of his musk to get through, enough to focus Saran's Sentinel senses at least. Spreading the word and letting the commotion distract his colleagues, he slipped out of the building through the parking garage and into the main boulevard of the Promenade shopping mall, manoeuvring his way towards home. He didn't have much time. He'd seen the speculative glances that Madeley was throwing at him as they'd rushed Saran to the Medical Bay, and it didn't take rocket science to factor in Saran's Bondless Sentinel state and come up with the right reason as to why he walked up to a complete stranger and began to fondle his hair!

Nor could Trey expect any help from his fellow officers. He'd avoided having a partner who might guess his secret, and voluntarily remaining in Juvie was guaranteed not to make him a popular choice. While not standoffish, he'd maintained a certain distance between himself and his colleagues, so had not close friends. Besides, even if he had, they couldn't stand up to the LEO Commissioner himself. Saran would get exactly what he wanted

(Not if I can help it!) Terror lent wings to his feet and he abandoned discretion for speed.

Saran came back to consciousness as abruptly as he'd left it, sitting bolt upright. He brushed away the Medical Officer and silenced everyone with a barked command. Glaring around he demanded, "What the hell happened?"

The Captain of Homicide stepped forward. "There's a design flaw in the docking rings, Sir. The holding clamps resonate and gradually work their way loose. They set up a sort of reverberation feedback loop that causes headaches, insomnia, depression, irritability and, in severe cases, blackouts. We have a warning system so we can repair them before they affect people, but as a Sentinel you must have picked up the problem before any one else could." He nodded apologetically, "It's another reason why Sentinels avoid Halfway."

"I'm not surprised." Saran stood upright, wincing as the intermittent whine began again. "It's Outer Ring, Berth Four, the sixth docking clamp from the left. Would you please arrange to shut the thing off!"

"Yessir!" Bobbing his head like a dancing rabbit, the Captain of Police waved his hands at the general crowd, and the Captain of Homicide obediently left.

"There was a man in the break room…" Saran frowned as he remembered the elusive scent and the youth. Suddenly it became very, very necessary for him to know about that man. "Who is he?"

"Detective Trey Logan, Juvenile Crimes!" Madeley blurted. "He's….."

Heads turned as it became apparent that Detective Logan was not present.

"He brought me here?" Saran noted that the whine abruptly terminated.

Madeley gulped, looking terrified. "Uh, yes, Sir….I mean…uh…"

"What else?"

"You seemed to know him, Sir?"

Saran pinned Madeley to the spot with one cold glare. "Know him? Why would you think that?"

Madeley went grey, but managed to stammer out, "Y-y-y-ou….you were s-s-stroking his hairrr!"

Saran blinked. For a moment no one breathed. Something raw and atavistic inside Saran, finally finding itself being taken note of at long last, began jumping up and down and yelling.

"I want him." Saran's voice was an arctic whisper that sliced through the room.

There was a mad scramble to get out the room and obey.

Hyperion, excavated temple of the aliens, underground chamber…

Race walked through the wide, arched underground tunnel to the main chamber, nodding to people as he went past. Unadulterated glee had been the only way to describe Gage's attitude. That the aliens had religion had caused yet another fierce academic debate, for theology had been something that was believed – no pun intended – to be solely the province of humans. The aliens' apparent acceptance of the existence of the Divine had caused all sorts of furore.

Unfortunately, other than the fact that the aliens had a religion, nothing else was known. The excavated temple had areas where objects had obviously once been stood, but the removal of them was just one more boost to Gage's theory of deliberate abandonment as opposed to the gradual extinction. Assuming they had left voluntarily in a mass, organised exodus, the aliens would certainly have taken any important objects of veneration with them.

Frowning, Race realised that Gage was not in the main chamber and his eyes narrowed purposefully. Unlike the smaller examples, this temple had been discovered to stretch for many acres, each newly uncovered wall and passageway presenting yet more unique inscriptions hitherto unknown. Gage had shown a disturbing tendency to wander off down these new exploration avenues with blithe disregard for the dangers of cave in, booby traps or other nastiness, despite Race's firm injunction that he was to go nowhere alone.

Venturing further in down a side tunnel, Race picked up his Guide's solitary heartbeat in a part of the temple no one else was in. The tunnel here was particularly rich in bright coloured inscriptions, seemingly almost as important as the main tunnel and the main chamber, presumably leading somewhere nearly if not just as important. Turning a sharp right-angle corner, he walked out into a large, high domed chamber that appeared at quick glance to resemble an Egyptian pyramid, covered in brilliantly coloured pictographic inscriptions that Gage was peering at with wonderment, utterly, completely oblivious to anything going on around him.

Torn between admiration and a desire put Butler over his knee and administer chastisement, Race entered the chamber. The floor was highly polished white marble with golden streaks. Instead of a pharoah's sarcophagus, there was a rectangular pool of crystal clear water in the centre, slightly rippling, indicating that it was fed by some underground stream that kept the water freshly circulating and not stagnated. To the right of the pool was a horizontal, rectangular obsidian slab, supported by four "legs" and resembling a large stone table, devoid of any markings.

"Guide."

Jerked from his reverie, Gage turned to see his Sentinel standing with folded arms looking at him sternly. "Hi!"

"I told you to go nowhere alone." Race tamped down firmly on the bit of him that went mushy when his Guide gave him that innocent look.

"I only came in for quick look, honest." Gage appeased.

"Uh-uh." Realising he couldn't keep the stern act up, Race turned his attention to the carvings. "Any revelations?"

"Nope." Gage shook his head cheerfully. "They're unique to this site and...that's it." He shrugged, "The funny thing is that somehow you get the impression that if you just looked at them long enough, you'd start to understand."

Absently, Gage began to peer at the markings again, before looking up at Race's chuckle. He recognised the glint in Race's eyes. "No, Race."

"No what?" Race's expression was innocent but he was somehow much closer than he had been.

"We can't bond here!"

"Why?"

"We- w-w-we'll contaminate the site," Gage whispered, but Race could see the anticipation, the wanting, in him.

"Come here, Guide." Reaching out a hand, Race cupped the back of his Guide's neck, parting his own lips slightly to drink in the taste of his scent as he drew Gage firmly to him.

Wrapping his arms tight around Gage, Race closed his eyes in contentment as Gage mirrored the gesture, burying his face in Race's neck, allowing the Sentinel to breathe in his musk. For a long moment they stood together, hands making gently circling motions, basking in the union of their minds. Out of the corner of his eye, the Sentinel saw dancing dust motes waft in the breeze, coalescing together, seeming to make diaphanous shapes that encroached. He growled a low warning and sent the psychic retort: MINE!, and the ghostly outlines seemed to retreat. Tightening his clasp, he suddenly pushed his Guide against the stone table, no longer content with the gentle bonding but wanting to emphasise his possession. Pinning his Guide down he bit his throat, hearing the gasp of pleasure/pain, then pushed aside the irritating cloth to mark his chest and torso with his teeth, sharp little bites that branded what was his.

Gage gasped as he was crushed against the marble slab by the full weight of his Sentinel, his barriers completely down, uncertain why the Sentinel had switched from a passive bonding to an aggressive one. Allowing his Sentinel's enhanced senses of touch and taste full access to his torso, even as his mind allowed his Sentinel to meld with him fully, Gage began to make soothing noises and send reassuring emotions to his Sentinel. There was no danger here, no threat, no Bondless one wanting to steal what belonged to Race. As he telepathed Keegan's personal name, the Sentinel paused, slightly less aggressive, his fierce grip lessening and his empathic force against Gage's own mind lessening. (Yes, that's the way). He continued to soothe mentally with empathic reassurance and physically by gently stroking his Sentinel's face with his fingertips, rubbing his thumb across Race's cheek. Gage belonged only to Race, no one else, ever. There was no challenger to Race's claiming of his Guide, it was all right, it was safe, there was no threat.

Race slowly came back from the void of the bonding, tilting his head to one side carefully. He considered continuing the bond, it would only take a moment to strip his Guide so he could be mapped, nuzzled, tasted properly, but there were others too near who might intrude, ones who had no right to see his Guide so vulnerable. Gage lay still, submissive, waiting for his decision. He would not object if Race decided to continue, but Race knew that the stone under Gage must be uncomfortable, and he himself was no lightweight to be squishing him against unyielding stone. Besides, there was the reason he'd come to find Gage in the first place. Reluctantly he slid off the stone slab, hauling Gage to his feet with an arm around his waist, unwilling to relinquish contact just yet. Gage buttoned his shirt back up, knowing he would have bruising bite marks from his throat to waist by the night, before placing one hand on Race's arm and rubbing it gently.

Race pulled Gage close again. "I'm sorry."

Gage blinked. Had Race thought he'd hurt him?" Hey, shush, it's okay. I'm fine."

"No, we're on the next shuttle off-world."

"What!"

Race easily held him close as the archaeologist's body jerked in shock and he tried to pull away. Race would not allow Gage to pull away, in any sense, ever. "GAGE!"

Mutinously silent, Gage glared up from the cage of Race's arms. "What?"

"It's Dark Angel stuff. We've got to go to Halfway to see a friend of mine who's also a DA. I promise, Gage, I promise it's only a few days, a week maximum." He titled Gage's chin up with a thumb. "Gage, the temple's been here for thousands of years, and you're already going to be legendary for discovering it. It'll still be here next week. I promise, no more than seven days."

Gage sighed, scuffing a booted toe in the dirt like a bored schoolboy. "Okay, okay, I know. All right, when do we go?"

"Now." Race said apologetically.

Throwing an arm round his Guide's shoulder, the two men walked back to the main entrance of the temple, not noticing the strangely regular pattern of the dust motes drifting together into ghostly shapes, nor the way the pictographs had glowed with a strange brightness as Race and Gage had begun to bond.

HSSC PD Precinct, Juvenile Crimes Division floor, a.k.a Panic Central…

Within thirty minutes, Saran had everything on Detective Trey Logan. Ignoring the bleating sheep that ran around him, he concentrated on the youth's file, for any clue to where he might have fled to that would help Saran locate him. Logically, the wild empath would attempt to leave Halfway, a plan that was a lot easier to carry out in practice than theory claimed. All permanently inhabited space stations, Halfway more than most, had "Down Below", sub-levels off the main station areas where, like flotsam caught in an eddy of water and washed ashore, the "shadow people" resided: criminals, vagrants, homeless, the poverty-stricken, debtors, the dispossessed, those who did not wish to be found, adventurers, mercenaries, assassins, hitmen, cutthroats and whores. In Down Below, assuming you had the galacs, anything or anyone could be bought, sold, procured, obtained, provided or undertaken.

The first space station ever to be constructed, the initial superstructure of Halfway had been added to and altered over the centuries from it's first days as storage depot and layover for the first human colonists on Mars, through it's emergence as an independent "state" in it's own right, to it's joining the Oligarchy as a commercial concern before being bought outright by one of the High House families, Taisuke.High House Taisuke sold it to High House Ellison, the current owners, who ran it as a very profitable trading post and tourist attraction, "see the beginning of Humanity's Journey Into Space", burbled the high-priced holiday brochures.

The point being that any remotely accurate architectural blueprint of the place resembled nothing so much as a plate of spaghetti that had been thrown against a wall. There were so many lines delineating original construction, then old, supposedly vanished areas under once newer, now also old supposedly vanished areas and "current" inhabitation that making any sense of the thing was nigh on impossible. Which was where theory fell in defeat to practice. In theory, a person entering or leaving Halfway had to pass through one of the passport controls upon disembarking prior to entry, or before entering the airlocks to board whatever shuttle or ship they intended to leave on. In practice, assuming the person desiring to be unnoticed managed to survive a venture to "Down Below" without being mugged and tossed out an airlock without a space suit, he or she could easily vacate Halfway with no one being any the wiser.

It was now 0130 hours plus since Saran's blackout and Trey Logan's disappearance. Less than fifteen minutes after that event, while Saran was coming around, all Trey's bank accounts and credit accounts had been maxed out. By the time the Captain of Police's stooges got to his extremely low rent apartment, it was as empty as Madeley's mind. Trey's weapons, however, had disappeared with him, and Saran had honestly thought the Captain of Police and Station Manger were going to have twin heart attacks at the thought of an armed wild empath "running loose" on Halfway. Saran scowled unconsciously at the image – they acted as if Logan were some rabid dog or mutated freak to be gotten rid of post haste, when he was just a scared young man who had recently, supposedly at any rate, been one of them, a "brother in blue".

Saran swivelled gently in Logan's desk chair. As he had guessed, Trey's desk was one of those belonging to the "dedicated" police officers. Logan's PC carried the tell-tale tight beam that had periodically sent those messages to Saran's comconsole. A tiny secret drawer that Saran's Sentinel touch detected was empty but carried traces of suppressant and was just big enough to contain "emergency" phials of the chemicals. Flicking out his tongue to his forefinger tip, Saran ignored the CoP's look of distaste and identified Rezadrin X, one of the most powerful suppressants available and made illegal two years previously.

The mandatory "Empathy Certificate" was easily to hand in a top drawer and Saran snorted derisively at the rating: 7. Race Keegan's Guide – Gage Butler, the archaeologist, that was it – had also been listed as 7 when he was at least 15, if not more. For all his submission as a Bonded Guide however, Butler had flatly refused to reveal his source of illegal suppressants or phoney Empathy Certificate, and Race had refused to allow any interrogation that might further alienate his reluctant Guide and shatter the strained relationship between the two men – it was the main reason why Race had whisked his Guide away to Hyperion, away from amiable-but-somehow-unpleasant Leo Kessler's persistent suggestions of hypnosis and truth drugs.

Ordering the computer to bring up Logan's case files, Saran read each one with increased approval. Juvenile Crimes' 60 success rate had been shakily maintained since the current administration began on Halfway and initiated the "downsizing" and budget cuts that had so vitiated the Police Department, but Trey Logan had maintained an unprecedented 80 clear-up rate. Many experts were pointing out how Guide-strength empaths tended to have certain talents, an "affinity" for some thing, like Michelangelo with art or Mozart with music. Gage Butler, for example, had been noted to have a "knack" for locating alien ruins in the most unlikely places, viz., Hyperion. One doctor had tested the theory on a couple of supposedly Empathy Rating 2 students who had a "knack" for certain medical procedures and both wild empaths were caught and bonded. The procedure was far from fool-proof as many "normal" people had equally strong talents, but it was a big hint.

One that Trey Logan's superiors had been blind to, Saran realised with each new snippet he read, such as exemplified by his personnel file. Logan's past was full of gaps and holes, which meant either he'd spent several years at a time sitting in a closet doing nothing or the "police check" on his background had consisted of some bureaucrat rubber-stamping everything that came across his desk without bothering to check a word of it.

The only child of now deceased parents, Trey "appeared" at Rainier University for two years – (and I'll bet Simon Banks' Underground Railroad was involved in that up to their eyebrows) - then vanished before "appearing" again on Halfway as a patrolman with the HSS PD, rising rapidly to detective when his affinity for solving always-unpleasant child-related crimes was noted, a big "wild empath" signal that would have been picked up on had anyone had their wits about them. Even children who had been severely abused by adult males approached Trey Logan as if he were as harmless as a teddy bear; the detective kept in touch with children whose abusers he had put away, and did a lot of voluntary work for counselling organisations.

One file was red-flagged by Logan, and Saran quickly pulled it up to discover a new, more dangerous fly in the ointment of his plan to simply get the PD to run Logan to ground. A vicious paedophile named Grokk had escaped custody en route to Styx and was believed to be either on his way back or already arrived on Halfway with the intent to kill the arresting officer – Logan. Worst-case scenario, Grokk was already here, in which case he probably had the PD under surveillance and the flat-footed Captain of Police's goons could blithely lead him right to Logan. Grokk was the most dangerous of all bad guys: one with nothing to lose. Sharply, Saran vetoed the order for teams of two to scour the station to flush Logan out and checked for other clues to find him.

Frowning, Saran pulled up Logan's financial records, finding yet more clues that didn't add up. What the PD thought he paid for his apartment was double the actual rent verified by the startled and too-scared-to-lie landlord when brought face to face with the LEO Commissioner twenty minutes ago. For someone who was single, childless, with no dependents, mortgage or expensive hobbies, thus having relatively low outgoings, Trey withdrew a considerable amount of his pay each month in cash, which "disappeared" into the ether. Some of it was spent on the expensive interactive counselling kits such as the one perched on the edge of his abandoned desk, but, and Saran ground his teeth, anyone with the slightest common sense would have cottoned on to the possibility of a wild empath "flight fund", the secret store of ready cash that all wild empaths had to hand in case hasty departure from their vicinity was required.

Saran quickly recalculated based on the amounts Logan had been withdrawing, and, added to what he had withdrawn today when he maxed out his accounts, he had access to triple the galacs initially estimated. Saran clicked his tongue – not enough to buy a fake ID and more salubrious escape, but enough to bribe some freighter captain to hide him in the hold, engine room or waste section of the ship? Yes, definitely yes. Decisively, he replaced the flimsies on the desk. If he was going to catch Logan before the younger man was halfway across the galaxy, got himself killed in Down Below for the large amount of cash he must be carrying or was whacked by a vengeful Grokk, he had better take charge of the situation personally. Bribed freighter captain was the most likely bet, for they occupied the cheapest docking berths on the lowest outer rings, squeezed in amongst the cargo bays and engineering sections that were usually devoid of anything bar work robots. Now all he had to do was narrow it down to which one…

Motel Halfway, Room 16, Outer Habitat Ring Seven, at about the same time…

Room 16 was a glorified cupboard with the most cramped shower, washbasin and toilet Blair had ever seen. It cheapness came from several factors: it was on the lowest level outer Habitat Ring, meaning that it was most vulnerable to unpleasant things like an outer hull puncture that would spill people into space and implode them like bursting tomatoes; each room was crammed together like sardines, with minimal to non-existent "facilities", maximising profit and minimising overheads; most "guests" just like Blair, did not want to be found and so could be safely dumped upon from a great height without fear of reprisals; the walls were tissue-paper thin sheets of metal that actually amplified sound rather than muffling it.

Whoever was in the room to his right was either a prostitute or a couple with stupendous sexual stamina. The room to his left apparently contained a gentleman in debt to a short-tempered bookie or loan shark considering the amount of pleading com calls made with promises to get the cash "soon". In tandem, Left made another whining call pleading for more time, while Right started the sexual gymnastics again. Jury rigging the lock to ensure he'd have plenty of warning if anyone tried to come in, Blair popped two sleeping pills and lay down, clutching his backpack securely. By now the Dark Sentinel would probably have reached Luna City Seven and if only of basic intelligence would still have made the leap to "Halfway Station". He had tight-beamed Trey and Gage with warning of his escape, but had heard nothing from Trey. Tomorrow he would go to his friend's apartment and they could brainstorm an escape plan…

His eyes fluttered closed, only to jerk open as Alex Barnes' furious face flashed in front of them. Wincing, Blair realised that Right's carnal adventures were bringing unpleasant memories to the surface. He shook his head, still unable to believe how close he'd been to surrendering to the Dark Sentinel – another second and the pair of them would have been rolling around on the grimy blacktop in Bonding Heat. The Dark Guide was still sulking in his lair, protesting that this Dark Sentinel was nothing like Alex. Sandburg didn't care (fool me once, shame on you, fool me twice, shame on me). Dark Sentinels were psychotically possessive, homicidally aggressive control-freaks completely unable to grasp the concepts of "mellow" and "chilling out". No, thank you.

Besides, Blair found himself surprised that the DS had so obviously wanted him. Surely the guy must have made the connection between the "Dark Guide" and Alex Barnes' slave? Sure, the IFP bigwigs had "classified" the Barnes case, but anyone with reasonable hacking skills could access the unsavoury details. As far as the DS was concerned, surely Sandburg was at the very least "damaged goods", and could have all manner of hang-ups….Okay, so he did have all manner of hang-ups – (but I survived mostly sane!).

Pulling the pillow over his ears to shut out Left and Right, Blair glared at nothing. Oh yes, at first it had been hell. Going back to Rainier as if nothing were wrong. It had taken several days before his carefully hidden injuries had healed, before he could sit down comfortably after the last rape session, before he stopped waking up screaming and expecting to still see Alex's blood and brains all over his hands. The temptation of mind-numbing alcohol and the oblivion of drugs had called to him, but too many drinks just made him nauseous and drugs made him sleepy, and when he slept, nightmares came. He had eaten breakfast, lunch and dinner stoically every day until the morning came when he could finally keep food down without bringing it back.

Shutting down all feelings, he had concentrated on surviving each day one plodding step at a time. He had woken one morning to realise that it was the end of the semester and he wasn't a junkie or suicide statistic, moreover he had been able to act with such normalcy that no one had any idea anything untoward had occurred. Still, each day had been and sometimes still was a struggle. The first time he'd had PA – post Alex – sex, he'd almost blown it. The woman's enthusiastic groping at him made his flesh creep and he'd been soaked in the sweat of terror, not arousal. Realising he had to do something fast, he'd concentrated on pleasuring her in a variety of enterprising ways with hands and mouth so she didn't twig that he was as limp as last week's lettuce or realise till morning that they'd not actually copulated.

They'd actually had a fling for four months, she never realising that Blair often had to force himself to touch her and that most of the time he was terrified of her. Nor was his trauma confined to carnal contact. His Teaching Fellow friend Georgie had come up behind him one day and given him one of his trademark bear-hugs, which had frozen Blair in sheer, mind-numbing terror, though he'd been able to obfuscate his fugue state away. It had taken six months before he no longer had the urge to flinch when a friend slapped him on the back or put their arm around his shoulder, before he stopped wanting to cringe away when someone offered their hand to shake.

Nevertheless, the mirror each morning reflected a clear-eyed face unravaged by booze and drugs. Okay, he had problems – yes, he had panic attacks, but that was his normal state of existence since being in diapers, and Alex had only exacerbated the tendency not caused it, so that didn't really count. Yes, okay, he did have a minor drug problem, his dependency on sleeping medication for nightmares, but he wasn't in a gutter somewhere injecting trash into his veins and raving about purple people eaters or the verminous knids. Yes, okay, he did have a problem with the fact that sometimes he was driven to self-mutilate himself, as the thin white lines on his lower arms testified, but, but, but – compared to what he could have ended up like had he let the horrors Alex perpetrated crush him, he was reasonably proud of himself.

And no Dark Sentinel, even one who qualified to be a living saint, was going to get anywhere near him, ever, ever again……

Approaching Halfway Station, B-class Transport Columbus…

Gage packed his holdall, making a mental note to buy some new clothes when they arrived on Halfway, his wardrobe having been routed in the Sentinel vs. Clothing battle. Not quite as opulently sybaritic as the Byzantium, Columbus managed to be very luxurious anyway, certainly if his and Race' stateroom had been anything to go by. Not that Gage had managed to see much of the ship. Their hasty shuttle flight from Hyperion up to dock with the orbiting Columbus had all gone very smoothly until the instant they stepped through the airlock and Race picked up a Bondless Sentinel aboard. A very weak Sentinel, barely more than a "Sentinel Sensitive" – someone with five enhanced senses but not the empathic ability of a Sentinel – but enough to trigger Keegan's territorial imperative. Gage had barely got inside the stateroom before he was pushed to the carpet, ruthlessly stripped and sucked into an emotional maelstrom of intense bonding by the roiling fury of his Sentinel's aggression. The bites and scratches as if he'd been mauled by a miffed kitten he could cope with, but the carpet burns on his ass had been hell and his favourite shirt had had to go into waste disposal.

Race had apologised sheepishly but hadn't changed his behaviour. Gage was not allowed anywhere without Race hovering behind him, even though the other Bondless Sentinel was utterly cowed by the ferocious glowers Race cast at him and wouldn't have dared approach Gage if his life had depended on it. Realising even his sweatpants would be a wasted effort, Gage had gone to bed commando as Race had jealously initiated Bonding nightly to emphasise his possession, wanting his Guide bathed in his own scent. The only privacy Gage had had was in the bathroom of the stateroom; using the toilet flush or shower to cover the noise, he had managed to check his mini comconsole.

Blair's grim message that he had been discovered by a Dark Sentinel and was fleeing to Halfway had been a hell of a bad shock, but Gage immediately tight-beamed back that he would be there and available to render any assistance. Then Gage tight-beamed Trey to warn him of his impending arrival and that under no circumstances must the young detective acknowledge him in any way, before erasing the messages as best he could, for knowing what Trey must be imagining worried the archaeologist the most.

Gage and Trey had forged a strong friendship. When Gage, Blair and Simon had discovered that "The Man" had arranged to sell some empathic sex slaves on to new buyers who could not afford "pure" merchandise, they had decided to raid the meeting. "The Man" had been and gone, but the buyers were there, with the slaves. They had expected no help from the drugged, broken slaves, but as Gage had been attacked by one thug, one of the slaves had suddenly come to life, killing three buyers and two gorilla bodyguards before anyone knew what was happening. With the other slaves also beginning to struggle, the Underground Railroad people had killed all present and rescued the slaves. Gage had taken the one who had saved his life. Trey rarely spoke about his experiences, except to explain his allergies to narcotics, and had been pathetically grateful when Simon spotted his deductive flair and wangled him a place at the Police Academy on Federation. Tight-beaming Trey when Race had Bonded Gage to him had been the hardest thing he'd ever done, and he'd sent reassurances that the Sentinel was a "good man", but knowing Trey he would be imagining the worst.

On top of that, a large part of him felt uncomfortable about deceiving Race. Keegan had never shown him anything but consideration as his Sentinel and Gage felt a lot better mentally and emotionally without having to remain doped up on suppressants all the time. More than that, Gage felt…cherished.

But it wasn't enough; Race the individual might be okay, but Race the Sentinel and Race the Dark Angel would only see the bigger picture, the advantages that could be gained if two very powerful wild empaths like Trey and Blair were bonded to appropriate Sentinels like Race's Dark Angel friend, Jim Ellison, the reason they were currently en route to Halfway. After what Blair had suffered with Alex Barnes and the hell Trey Logan had gone through courtesy of "The Man" simply because of genetic quirks over which they had no control, Gage would never willingly let Race know about them, much as he trusted Keegan on a personal level….

Luna City Seven, The Moon, Earth…

Jim Ellison waited patiently in line for the next transport that would take him to Halfway Space Station, the cosmetic neck skin that had hidden his tattoo for James Ellis still in place, otherwise he would be surrounded by obsequiously fawning flunkies eager to help him queue jump. He remembered as a young child, before his parents' divorce, how his father used to disguise himself and go out like an ordinary person, around the hypermarkets and shops, waiting in queues, catching airbuses and the like. When Jim had asked his father why he did it, William Ellison had replied that it was because each time taught him something valuable.

"What dad?" Jim's five-year old face had screwed up in confusion.

"Humility, son."

He hadn't understood, and soon after his parents' fraught relationship had imploded, his father becoming the distant, disciplinarian martinet who had driven his sons away, but it was one of the few conversations he remembered he and his father having that wasn't tainted by anger, frustration or resentment. Now he smiled at William Ellison's wisdom. Vast wealth and power tended to insulate people from reality, surrounded by sycophants and hangers-on, they fell into the trap of believing in their own hype; Jim now understood what his father had realised: a sharp dose of reality helped re-focus the mind on what was really important in life.

Jim sighed regretfully; he had already decided to return to Cascade once he was Bonded with Blair – he liked being a Major Crime detective and it was almost a tailor made cover for a Dark Angel. Besides, Blair had remained a Teaching Fellow at Rainier, despite the obstructionism of the previous Dean, Marcia Edwards, for years longer than any place in his peripatetic life, so obviously had a strong attachment to it. The young Dark Guide had known only fear and pain from a Sentinel, as his instinctive Guide sense to help and care had been turned against him, and it was important to Jim that the youth learn that a true Sentinel cherished and guarded his Guide, letting him grow and progress as a person, not trying to hold him back or push him down. Unfortunately, Jim had known there was no time to explain to Major Crime or persuade them of his good intentions, and he winced now as he imagined what horrors Rafe was feeding them, recalling the events at the university.

He'd managed to be there at 8:00am, charming a caretaker into directing him to Sandburg's "office", a glorified storage room, the first thing that was going to change, Jim vowed. The place was crammed full of books and artefacts: African warrior shields, South American tribal masks, Aboriginal art, monkey skulls and other weird things that Jim didn't investigate too closely. Most of all, Blair's scent filled the place. Jim had dallied for an hour, running his fingers along books that Blair must have touched, imagining the young man working away at his desk, spectacles slipping down his nose. Blair had been a natural baby, like Hunter, not designed, so the defect of needing reading glasses had not been expunged from the chromosomes. Jim thought it made him look cute; as he'd breathed in the atmosphere of the small room, he didn't care about the goofy grin he knew had to be plastered all over his face. Once he'd shaken off the spell of Blair's enticing musk, it had taken him all of ten seconds to find a rent cheque made out for a warehouse. His photographic memory had supplied a map of the city and he'd realised with chagrin that Blair's "home" was only fifteen minutes walk – or five minutes panicked run – away from where Blair had been attacked by the four now dead muggers.

Leaving Sandburg's office, Jim had been walking back to his truck when he heard a familiar voice call his name. Bryn Rafe, here for a class, had spotted him. While trying to ease away from the young detective, the situation had gone pear-shaped. In the chill weather, Jim had been wearing a scarf that hid his neck, so when Dean Hammond approached the two of them, she could not see that his tattoo had "gone".

In her working life, the Dean had rapidly learned the importance of remembering the "right people", even after only one meeting. Thus, despite it being ten years in the past on another planet, she recalled James Joseph Ellison, the estranged – but still Body Heir – son of William. Before Jim could interject, she'd greeted him in surprise, by name.

Under any other circumstances, Rafe's gradually appearing expression of stunned shock would have been funny as he made the connection between "Jim Ellis" and the grim Dark Angel who'd scared him half to death on Search.

"Everything will be alright, Rafe." Jim had tried to reassure the young detective. "I'll be back, and everything will be okay, I promise."

Turning on his heel, he had walked away from the stunned pair, getting in the truck and driving towards the spaceport. He disregarded any ideas of going to the warehouse, as Blair would have been long gone. Besides, time was now of the essence and not just if he wanted to catch his Dark Guide. Rafe was probably already frantically contacting Major Crime to inform them of the "disaster". Jim had no doubt that Blair was a co-conspirator with Banks and Major Crime personnel in the Underground Railroad, and he needed to get off world before Simon thought up some delaying tactic, or worse, panicked and tried something stupid, like permanently "getting rid" of the threat.

Luna City 1, 2 and so forth, had changed their names to things like Copernicus and Hawking, but Luna City 7 had kept it's name after the famous song about it topped the intergalactic charts, even though there were now no Luna Cities 1-6. Upon arrival, Jim hadn't bothered to disembark the shuttle. The song had made LC7 a popular tourist spot, and at first glance Jim knew he could have wasted several days trying to track Blair amongst the ever-changing crowds, but sometimes you just had to go with your gut, and his gut was firmly saying: Halfway. It made sense, since Halfway wasn't called the Gateway to the Universe for nothing. From Halfway you could literally make it anywhere. So he'd remained on the shuttle transport, feeling the anticipation build now as he stared through one of the shuttle's windows and watched Halfway grow from a speck of light to a mass of contoured metal. Soon….

Back on Halfway Space Station…

Saran spread out the blueprints of the appropriate docking berths on the outer rings, pleased that everyone seemed to be paying attention and able to grasp the fundamentals. The Captain of Police had surveillance at Logan's apartment, but Saran knew the youth would not return, however it kept a few of the Keystone Cops out of his way. He had dismissed all those pilots or ships that were due to leave within the next 12 to 24 hours, as Logan would know these would all be searched. After the third or fourth day however, assuming Logan could stay lost until then, the ship operators would get restive, the police officers more slack in their searching, and he would have greater opportunities to slip through. There were fifteen ships scheduled to leave in the next 3 or 4 days, so Saran had decided to monitor them all. It was inefficient but the only way. It was now "mid-afternoon" and Saran wanted Logan in custody by "nightfall" -

Irritably he came back to the present as the "officers" were none-too-quietly arguing over how to cover the areas. Now his problem was that the arriviste Captain of Police's equally self-serving, ineffectual "political" cops were all he had to depend on. The previously friendly "real" officers had subtly withdrawn from him when it became known what he was doing. Trey wasn't "popular", but he was widely respected for his extreme dedication to a terribly traumatic job and his record in convicting several dozen abhorred child abusers, such as the now escaped Grokk, endeared him to the "proper" police officers if not the political timeservers. Saran felt a pang of regret, but he was a man who made his decisions with eyes wide open and fully accepting the consequences. Trey Logan would be his Bonded Guide, willingly or not. As LEO Commissioner he had to operate at peak efficiency at all times, and he had no time or intention of pandering to wild empath histrionics. Logan would submit to the bond or he would take him.

About to call the bickerers to order, a patch of aquamarine caught his eye. He glanced closer; it was a damn silly colour to stick on any map, especially ones as packed with detail as these flimsies, because the pale bluish-green colour faded into the background compared to the garish reds and oranges. The large oblong patch seemed to cover part of the cargo bays and service bays in the lowest outer Docking Ring, used by only the cheapest skinflint ship captains who would not pay any higher charges, or those who wished to remain anonymous. In short, it was ideally placed for Logan to lurk.

"What's this?" He tapped the map peremptorily.

"Sir?" Madeley looked him.

"This, here." Saran indicated the area.

"Oh, those are the Condemned Bays." Madeley identified disinterestedly, turning back to the heated "discussion".

Saran took a controlling breath. "Madeley."

"Sir?"

"The batteries in my crystal ball have gone flat, Madeley. What, precisely, if you please, are the Condemned Bays?"

"Ummm…."

The Station Manger hitched forward like an eager rabbit, fawning with servile eagerness to please. "There was a major leakage of improperly stored toxic chemicals in two Cargo Bays and an Engineering Sub-Service Bay, Sir. They had to be sealed off completely due to the contamination."

Saran rubbed his fingers across his chin as he pondered the situation. "Contaminated" did not necessarily equal "lethal". If Logan had taken or managed to obtain some sort of protective suit or perhaps only needed a breathing mask, the area might be safe to occupy for a few days. It was a distinct possibility, and a far better bet than spreading his teams, such as they were, over a dozen different Docking Berths in the hope that the team in question would be alert enough to apprehend Logan if he tried to sneak through. "What's the Risk Level?"

Blank expressions.

How did these people ever manage to catch any crooks? It was like watching circus clowns! "What grade of protective suit will we need to go into the Condemned Bays. Grade 5? Grade 1?" He tried again, 5 being the lowest for weak contamination and 1 for the sort of major bio-hazard that had sensible people cowering under their beds.

"Umm, I'm not sure." The Station Manager confessed, exchanging a helpless look with the others.

(Do I have to lead them by the hand? Apparently I do.) Saran, in what he considered a remarkably tranquil tone, asked, "Well, when did the spill happen? How long ago the chemicals were spilled will tell us how dangerous the area still is." (There, is that simple enough for you?)

"Oh, yes!" Face clearing magically, the CoP waved a flunkie/aide/secretary/hanger-on to the nearest computer, where the skinny blond geek, who didn't look old enough to shave, imperiously demanded the date of the spillage, the effect ruined by his squeaky voice.

The computer promptly answered: 5th July 2534.

Saran went very, very still, not sure if he'd heard right. "Excuse me?"

The computer, misunderstanding, promptly repeated the date.

Saran put his head in his hands. "Oh. My. God!"

"Sir!" The baffled and alarmed chorus was grating cacophony to his ears.

Saran raised his head and glared at them all with such ferocity that the entire room took an involuntarily step back. Coldly, precisely, spacing out the words, Saran unleashed. "You. Idiots. Are. Unbelievable. Ladies and gentlemen, NO CHEMICAL agent that has been produced legally, illegally or accidentally whipped up by the local mad chemist, in the last THREE HUNDRED YEARS, will contaminate a site of spillage for longer than TWENTY YEARS."

Terrified silence, until Madeley let out a tiny, whimpering, interrogative squeak.

Saran took a deep breath, letting it out slowly as he resisted the urge to start throwing things. "The 5th of July 2534 was FIFTY YEARS and two months ago today! What I am trying to convey to your TINY LITTLE MINDS is the fact that the "Condemned Bays" have been perfectly safe to enter for the past three decades!" He threw his arms out wide in an extravagant gesture of frustration. "This space station has had a security blind spot the size of a small moon, for the past thirty years, which nobody has ever noticed, for the simple reason that some desk-warming, bootlicking, pen-pushing Jobsworth designated the area as contaminated way back when and NOBODY REMEMBERED TO REMOVE IT from the maps!"

Aware that if started to rant he probably wouldn't stop, Saran gave snarled orders for all teams to simply follow him, and marched down to the parking garage vibrating with anger. Who knew what contraband came through the "Contaminated Bays" daily? Drugs, illegal immigrants, slaves – escaping wild empaths! For the sake of a little blue-green patch on a map, Trey Logan would have waltzed off the station as free as bird while Saran and Co., kicked their heels futilely at the Docking Rings!

Trey hunched deeper in his coat, his chill partly psychosomatic as well as literal. There was a coldness in his bones that had nothing to do with low temperatures and everything to do with a bleeding soul. Occasional shadowy shapes drifted past and he tensed, but his on-the-edge aura must have warned them away.

At least Old Dimitri was here, the grizzled deep space trader who claimed to be from Russia and looked like every stereotypical "old sea dog" ever invented in literature. Whatever Dimitri was, he honoured a deal, not selling you out for a higher price. Dimitri would shove him in the garbage recycling section of his battered old space scow and a few days into space, the old ship would shudder to a halt with engine trouble just in time for the USS Nimitz to come by and offer assistance. Once "repaired" Dimitri would carry on, and Trey would be a scullion aboard the Nimitz. The Navy would be astounded at the way Daric Slater's crew expanded by a few people here and there after leaving space dock, only to contract again to the officially designated number upon return. Trey intended to work his way to some far flung frontier world and spent the rest of his life being very, very invisible – what was that?

His eyes darted about nervously, these places were infested with vermin, but the soft scraping seemed a little too regular. Quickly darting behind some large plastic drums, Trey crouched low, hidden in the semi gloom. His mouth went bone dry as he saw looming figures and saw the flash of police shields. His disruptor was in his hand but he was shaking from head to foot, terror clawing at him, urging him to run, run now, but his legs seemed to be paralysed –

Saran winced as he heard Logan's heartbeat skyrocket to jackhammer frantically against the youth's ribs. Damn, the CoP and his team must have shown themselves too soon. Saran had had his "team" spread out in a rough semi circle that gradually "tightened" in, his whispered order not to allow Logan to slip through given in a tone that promised instant and painful death should that happen. Consequently everyone was very, very alert and very, very scared.

"Detective!" The CoP's voice cracked in the middle of the word, sweat trickling down his back. He was a Captain of Police, he should be meeting the mayor in his office over brandy and cigars, discussing policy, not stood in the middle of some dank, gloomy bay that was far too resembling of a giant metal coffin, trying to entice out a mind-freak with a gun!

The CoP bit his lip hard to muffle a scream as a small, dark lump against the greater gloom seemed to move. He tried to make his voice soothing, but it was nigh on impossible as all he wanted to do was scream an order to shoot and hit the deck. Van den Mikhail had warned that Logan must be unharmed in a voice that had made the CoP nearly urinate in his pants from fear, which was why they were armed with stun guns while Logan had a fully charged disruptor and an antique but fully functional Beretta that fired just as lethal lead bullets!

Saran hugged the deeply shadowed wall of the bay, grateful for the sneak 'n' peek lessons he'd taken from his Dark Angel friends Ellison and Keegan. He had pinpointed his Guide's position, and now manoeuvred so he could signal one of the snipers, but the younger man was currently still hidden behind shipping crates and drums.

Trey tried not to hyperventilate. If he could work his way to one of the air ducts, he could crawl through the vent system and be free and clear. Carefully he edged forward, but there were more shapes. Lips drawn back in a rictus of terror-induced rage, he pointed his disruptor straight at the CoP. "GET BACK!"

With a whimper of terror, the CoP jumped out of his skin, and everyone instinctively froze, giving Trey the opportunity to edge closer to escape.

Saran swore under his breath. The CoP was supposed to keep Trey talking and distracted enough for the young detective's disruptor to waver out of alignment, but the dummy had failed. There was no way he was losing Logan in the vent system now! He would have to risk it. Unseen in the shadows bar for the snipers whose attention was focussed on him, Saran made the hand signal. High on the catwalk above, one with a clear line-of-sight touched his finger lightly on the trigger of his rifle.

The tranquilliser hit Trey's jugular vein dead on and pumped powerful sedative into him before the sharp prick of the needle entering his flesh allowed Logan to register that he'd been hit. Lunging forward, Saran closed the distance between them, catching Logan as he began to topple. To the Sentinel's amazement, he watched as the rapidly fading young man, using all his strength, reactivated the safety on the disruptor and lowered it to his side, instead of dropping it where it might discharge wildly. Before the detective's eyes fluttered closed, they locked with Saran's own, and for a sober instant, utter despair flared before he slumped unconscious in Saran's grip.

Trey licked his lips distastefully as he tried to moisturize his dry mouth. He groaned as he read the time on wall screen of his home computer – 10:00am! The Captain of Juvie would throw a thousand fits when he walked in three hours late for his shift. Sitting up, he looked down in puzzlement at his fully dressed state, then felt something snag round his right ankle. What…?

The events of the previous night came crashing down on him with full force as he saw the feather-light but unbreakable Black Widow Spider Silk binding secured around his ankle like a cuff and the long, coiled "rope" of the same material that led to a tiny, brand-new-not-there-the-day-before bracket on the wall. His mind automatically calculated that he had enough rope to reach his bedroom's en suite bathroom, and that was it. Before he had more than a second to assimilate this, his bedroom door opened and he jerked around, fearfully edging back till his back touched his bedroom wall.

Saran felt a surge of exasperation as the young detective looked at him like a terrified doe – his face nothing but a huge pair of panicked eyes – and flinched away from him. He didn't have time for any nonsense. "Drink this, it'll take away the dryness."

Responding to the sharp command, Trey obediently took the restorative and downed it with a gulp. "Let me go." He appealed.

"Don't be ridiculous -" Saran began, intending to squash what he thought would be an outburst of hysterics, blubbering and general dramatics.

"Commissioner, it's public knowledge that you've never wanted a Guide!" Trey interrupted nervously but calmly, at least as calmly as he could when he was shaking with fear. "And I don't want to be a Guide! So why not give us what be both want?"

"Because I don't have a choice!" Saran snapped. "For whatever reason, I began, albeit only partially, to empathically bond with you. That means, unless we complete the Bonding, I will spend the rest of my life in the early stages of Bonding Heat, and will have to permanently remain on suppressants, because the instant I no longer take them, for whatever reason, instinct will force me to find you and claim you."

Trey opened his mouth, obviously intending to make some protestation, but Saran silenced him with a sharp slicing hand movement. "I have no intention of spending the rest of my life ingesting narcotics, however legal and "non side-effect causing" they may be. Being LEO Commissioner and Viceroy of Alban are only two of my many responsibilities and I don't have time to be messing about with any protracted Sentinel and Guide rubbish. In five days I am leaving Halfway for the LEO Commission Palace on Federation, at which time you will be my Bonded Guide. I'll give you two days to get over your snit and soothe your inner moppet, then Detective Logan we'll get this Bonding out of the way so maybe I'll be able to get some work done again! Your lunch will be served at noon," Saran allowed his tone to become icier, "and you will eat it."

Removing the cup from Trey's hand, he turned and left, closing the door behind him and nodding to the officer stationed on duty in the kitchen, at the end of the hallway, not that Logan would wiggle out of or cut through Black Widow Spider Silk. Logan's apartment was the most secure place to keep the empath without making both he and Saran a spectacle for prurient voyeurs, so Saran had decided to commute to and from his temporary base at the precinct daily.

Saran was completely unaware that his brisk, bracing attitude, designed to be sensibly practical about the whole situation, had come over as mercilessly harsh and icily ruthless. He would have been genuinely confused had he been able to see the young detective curl up in foetal ball, quiet tears of fear and total despair running down his face as he used his own pillow to muffle hopeless sobs.

Chapter VI – Guides Found

Two days later, across from Trey's apartment…

Blair frowned anxiously, his inner alarm klaxon going oougah-oougah!

His intent to come straight to Trey's had been foiled by Right, who did indeed turn out to be a lady of the night. "Dawn's early light" had been shattered by outraged shrieks and yells that brought motel security – big muscles, small brains – hotfoot to the room, where it transpired that the latest customer had decided not to pay and had got "physical" when the lady was having none of it.

The situation had gotten ugly and loud just in time to attract the attention of passing Station Security Officers from the nearest police precinct, and the boys in blue had arrived to make enquiries and admire the déshabillé of the lady in question. Blair had gone from fuzzy somnolence to wide-awake terror in seconds. Within two minutes he was scrambling into and crawling through the ventilation shaft from his room as fast as he could in any direction that seemed away, and as a result found himself to be hopelessly lost. By the time he'd got back to the Promenade it was the middle of the night, so he managed to squeeze into another vent to spend the night. It was now mid-morning and he was sat, ostensibly drinking coffee, surreptitiously watching Trey's apartment block that was situated on the next level "down" from his position and directly opposite him.

Unfortunately so were several other people.

A self-consciously inconspicuous middle-aged man in a suit was seated on a sidewalk bench reading a paper, the page of which he hadn't turned in over twenty minutes. Down the cutting between Trey's building and the next another two were ostensibly repairing a drainpipe, except that they had done nothing but pick up different tools from their workbag, none of which they'd used. There were others, all putting Blair's danger radar on red alert. Yet, he recognised at least one as a cop he'd met briefly during a previous vacation to see Trey. But Trey was a cop, so why did his colleagues have his place under surveillance?

He watched a bit longer, it slowly beginning to dawn on him that the cops (?) were not ideally placed for surveillance – they seemed to have no one monitoring Trey's apartment to see if he came home for example, nor anyone placed at much more discreet surveillance positions, such as a table outside the café where Blair himself was sat, which gave a panoramic view over the "sidewalk" safety rail of the whole area. They were, however, in close proximity to all the building's exits, as if watching to make sure that someone in the building did not leave.

Or escape?

Ancient instincts that had once warned about hungry sabre-toothed tigers and perilously close woolly rhinos were now giving urgent warning that something was very, very wrong. Casually finishing his coffee, Blair left the café, walked to the nearest library, on a block away, randomly pulled a book of the shelf and sat down, staring blindly at it while doing some frantic cogitation.

Trey, or another resident, was obviously in the building and presumably desirous of escape. Blair's gut and extremely healthy sense of paranoia were insisting that person was Trey himself, presumably confined to his apartment? If so, why? If Trey had committed some sort of crime, his fellow officers would have been legally obligated to incarcerate him in the holding cells they already had available at the precinct, never mind how much more difficult it was trying to ensure he didn't escape from his apartment – yet they had gone to just that trouble. If Trey hadn't committed a felony, why were his fellow police officers guarding the place to ensure he couldn't escape?

Replacing the book and leaving the library, Blair returned to the thoroughfare where the café was, meandering along and looking in shop windows. Carefully, he removed the miniature magnifier he usually used to enlarge crabbed handwriting on old manuscripts, and held it in front of his spectacles, looking at the apartment's blocks enhanced reflection in the shop windows – specifically the roof. He held his breath, hoping against hope that they'd missed it –

Yes!

Softly whistling the tune from the classic move, The Great Escape, Blair turned and melted into the crowds of shoppers, away from the apartment.

Meanwhile…

Jim winced and dialled down the noise. Halfway always made him feel as if someone had placed a gigantic metal bucket over his body and was banging the outside of it with a spoon. He'd guessed that the place to start would be the sleaziest motels and after greasing several already grimy palms with galacs he'd found what he was looking for on the lowest Outer Habitat Ring. Two patrolmen had been called to a disturbance involving a hooker and non-paying client. Deciding to check with the occupants either side, they found that the room to the lady prostitute's left was occupied by a "gentleman of the night" who was entertaining two male and one female Mandarins Junior Grade and was therefore a bit too busy to take note of what was going on outside his room. Hastily deciding on discretion over valour, they left the quartet to their sexual Olympiad, only to find that the room to her right was mysteriously unoccupied, though the motel manager swore no one could leave without him seeing them, a deliberate design to the motel layout for those who "forgot" to pay for any extras they'd had while occupying the rooms. Promotion opportunities suggested that discretion would be wise, so the two officers had ensured the client paid for service rendered and escorted him off the premises. When Jim arrived and made enquiries, the motel manager's memory was suddenly restored with a 100 galacs, and he promptly identified the vanished occupant of Room 35 as the curly haired young man "floating" just above the miniature holograph generator that Jim had set up from Sandburg's personnel file.

Now all he had to do was find him before he managed to get away from Halfway. Which was why he stood discreetly in a little alcove off the main shopping promenade as he gave Race Keegan a scarf he'd found in Sandburg's office that still smelled strongly of him. Race was the closest Bonded Sentinel Dark Angel not currently on a mission; together they could search the station in double the time with more accuracy than most search robots, and Jim didn't have to worry about Race trying to claim Blair as his own. "Where's your Guide?" Jim asked after they divided up their search areas, surprised that the archaeologist wasn't with his Sentinel.

"Shopping." Keegan grinned sheepishly. "There was a Bondless Sentinel – empathically as weak as old lettuce, to be honest – on the Columbus as we came here, but bondless is bondless and the ol' territorial imperative kicked in. Gage's wardrobe took a bit of a battering."

Wisely making no facetious comments, since he intended to spend the rest of his life inflicting similar damage to Blair Sandburg's clothing, Jim simply nodded and they split up, moving carefully but speedily through the crowds. Without Guides, there was always a danger of zone out, but the only up side of Halfway Station was there was always too much distraction and sheer racket for a Sentinel to slip into any void.

Blair moved with exquisite care as he climbed down the very old, rusting metal wall-ladder, ruefully realising that the always cheapskate administration of Halfway would use cheap metal instead of the more expensive but durable plastic or polymer materials, thankful that Trey, taking to heart the "always have multiple escape routes" credo Gage, Blair and Simon instilled him, had shown him this secret shaft when he'd come before.

Like so much of Halfway, Apartment Block Gemini C was far different from its original, much smaller construction. Back then a single elevator had trundled up and down through the centre of the building, but when they'd expanded the block two hundred and twenty years ago, they'd taken out the old elevator and moved the position, putting more in for the new construction. Again to save money, instead of filling in the old shaft, they'd simply bricked up the doorways on each floor, leaving the shaft and the metal ladder for servicing and repairs to rot. Trey, carefully checking all the blueprints as far back as they still existed, promptly found the central shaft that had been missed off every architectural plan for the last two centuries. Of most use, however, was the fact that the shaft started in the basement and came out on the roof, though it had all been bricked up and plastered over. Crawling into the shaft from the basement and making his way up to his floor, Trey had shown Blair how he'd cut a large square section of brick and plaster through to his own floor. The shaft side had two metal handles on it so someone on the ladder could simply pull it out, plus a sturdy chain at the bottom, deeply embedded in the shaft wall.

On the corridor side, the wall was disguised by being at the end of a side corridor with large, artificial shrubs in front of it. If he needed to, Trey could in theory step behind the shielding shrubs, push the section out, climb onto the ladder, retrieve the section as it dangled on the length of chain, and re-insert it into the wall, making good his getaway while everyone tried to figure out how he'd done it.

Taking a deep breath, Blair sent a silent prayer that the corridor was still deserted, then reached and gripped the handles firmly, pulling sharply back. The section slid smoothly and he teetered on the ladder, frantically peering through to ensure nobody was standing the other side watching him. The much more brightly lit main hallway was a good fifteen yards away. Carefully lowering the section so it didn't bang against the brick, Blair wriggled into the small space behind the potted shrubs with their shielding plastic foliage. Pulling a pressurised, three-pronged hook out of his pocket, he pulled the section of wall up by the chain and inserted the hook into the painted plasterwork. Holding the handle with both hands he eased the section back into place, carefully brushing the edges after he'd done so to ensure that the joins were not too visible. Withdrawing the hook, he winced as he saw the deep holes in the plaster, but he could only hope nobody noticed them and became curious. Now, to find Trey. He had to assume that the Dark Sentinel might have been able to put out some sort of APB on him, so he scooped up his hair under a cap, pulling it down over his eyes so there was less chance of someone recognised his long brown curls.

Fortunately, there were no apartments in the side corridor, which had originally been designed only to let people access the now the gone elevator, so Blair had no fear of anyone coming up behind him unless they "beamed down" – something that, to the chagrin of scientists, remained very much in the sci-fi fantasy realm of Star Trek. Creeping to the end of the side corridor, he took out a mirror out of his backpack and, leaning against the wall, carefully slid it out into the main hallway, so he could see in it's reflection what was in that end of the corridor. Trey's apartment was the same side of the building as the side corridor, number 207. The hallway was entirely deserted, except for, just outside Trey's apartment, a man in a chain-store suit sat on a chair.

His arms were folded, his head was down, and the rise and fall of his chest was deep and regular. Blair checked his watch – it was early afternoon, when 99 of the building's residents would be at work, and when a man guarding something would find it hard to stay awake in a very quiet place after a hearty lunch. Blair grinned – modern day scanners could detect even a dissembled disruptor buried in several inches of lead, but they'd passed over completely a long, thin section of wood that he now removed from his backpack after replacing the mirror. The South American blowpipe was over 1,000 years old, but the dart in it carried a pressurised capsule of very modern sedative. With a last sneak either way to make sure the hallway was otherwise deserted, Blair began to walk casually down the corridor, holding one hand with the "back" of it facing the sleeping guard, so that the end of the blowpipe resting on his palm and the remainder of it up his sleeve were hidden from view. He deliberately did not look at the man as he approached at a normal walking pace, since many people had a "sixth sense" if they were stared at or the focus of too close attention.

The guard slumped from sleep into unconsciousness without a sound as Blair casually blew the dart into him from ten feet away, not even feeling the slight sting. Removing the spent dart from the guard's neck and placing it in the man's pocket so any medic knew what it was, Blair took the next one out and slid it into the pipe as he carefully lowered the unconscious man to the floor and placed him in the standard First Aid Recovery Position. During his flight from Cascade he had dared not risk taking any weapons that might be detected and cause him to be detained long enough for the Dark Sentinel to catch up, and all that his warehouse had had that would get through the scanners were his vibra knife and the ancient blowpipe. Once on Halfway, he'd only been able to afford two extortionately expensive mini darts and capsules of sedative from the trader in Down Below, (So I really, really hope that there is preferably none or only one more guard inside). Taking a deep breath, Blair glanced around and moved to kneel beside the unconscious man in the manner of someone administering first aid, directly in front of the apartment door, blowpipe at the ready. He needed to be loud enough for any guard inside to hear, but not so loud as to attract the attention of anyone else. Carefully pitching his voice, he exclaimed loudly, "HEY, are you alright? Sir? Mister, CAN YOU HEAR ME?"

Instantly there were approaching footsteps and 207's door opened sharply. The interior guard didn't even register the faint sting in his neck as his gaze took in his fallen colleague apparently unconscious with a young man kneeling next to him. In the few seconds it took his brain to assimilate the fact that the youth had a long piece of wood pressed to his lips that was aimed at him, he was crumpling unconscious to the floor.

Leaping to his feet, Blair heaved the considerable dead weight of the cop back onto the chair, positioning him so he appeared to be asleep, something which might provide a few valuable minutes of getaway time. Panting heavily, he entered Trey's apartment and shut the door after heaving the second guard into the lounge, before sagging for a moment to get his breath. In the movies, the hero tossed unconscious baddies, injured buddies and swooned maidens around like feathers, but in real life an unconscious person was virtually unmanageable dead weight that just flopped around and slipped through the fingers like Jell-O. The kitchen, lounge and, through the open door he could see, the second bedroom were empty. The master bedroom had an en suite, ideal for giving a prisoner access to "facilities" without having to risk escorting him to the bathroom and having him trying to scramble out the window. Abandoning stealth, he hurried to that room, throwing open the door and going in, his breathing catching as he saw a familiar figure laying on the bed with his back to him. "What say we blow this pop stand?"

Trey Logan's head flashed around so fast he nearly got whiplash, his jaw dropping in the manner of cartoon animals as he took in Blair Sandburg.

"Ta-da!" Blair did a fancy little jig and bowed extravagantly.

Sheer, unadulterated joy suffused Trey's face, tears springing to his eyes as his friend came close enough to be fiercely hugged and pounded on the back.

"The ribs, man, the ribs!" Blair managed to gasp out, half laughing, half crying. "I love you too. Now, does the king want to leave the building?"

Trey leaned back, "Blair, you've got to get out of here!" He jerked his leg helplessly. "This stuff is Black Widow Spider Silk – we can't burn it, cut it or manipulate my foot out of it!"

"I know." Blair paused just for a microsecond to savour smugness, then took his vibra knife and neatly cut through the plaster surrounding the bracket on the wall above Trey's bed. "I always said shoving your bed into a corner was bad for the chi, man," he commented as he gouged out the lump of wall with the bracket embedded in it. "You want to take care of this?"

Cackling, Trey jumped off the bed. Taking the coiled rope of BWSS, he pulled it up so it rested against the lighter blackness of his jeans then wound it around his waist repeatedly until he got the last bit, shoving it and the attached bracket into his pocket, before pulling his shirt over it. "Elevator shaft?"

"Got it in one. Now let us away!"

"Lead on, MacDuff."

The money Trey had withdrawn was still on his kitchen counter top, but his police sidearm, disruptor and antique Beretta were all missing. However, since their only desire was to put maximum distance between themselves and Halfway in minimum time, Trey just crushed the money into his jacket pocket and sealed it. Together, they sneaked out of the apartment, closing the door behind them. Twenty hair-raising minutes later – the rusting ladder did not like the weight of two full grown men on it and several rungs and side bits had snapped off – they were crawling out of the basement access hole that Sandburg had punched through the crumbling bricks. Dusting themselves off, they sneaked the end of the alleyway that separated their block from the next one and peeked cautiously into the main boulevard. Spotting the external guards was easy, but after nearly two days of nil resistance from their former "brother in blue", most of the guards were doing something more interesting, like window shop or eye up passing possible romantic talent. A gaggle of twenty-something youths came strolling along, laughing. With grins, Blair and Trey discreetly attached themselves to the rear end of the group, walking along until they reached the intersection where they quietly cleaved off in another direction. Intent on being as inconspicuous as possible, neither noticed the crazed, hate filled eyes from the apartment building's new watcher, that latched onto Trey with venom as their owner began to follow the escapees.

HSS Central Precinct…

His Sentinel radar suddenly pinging, Saran turned sharply. For an instant the two Sentinels faced each other, each recognising in the other a Sentinel tracking a Guide, therefore a possible rival to his own claim.

"Blair Sandburg." Jim Ellison finally said.

"Trey Logan." Saran returned.

Hostility dissipated at the reassurances that while each was tracking a Guide, neither was tracking the same Guide. A dint appeared between Saran's eyes as memory tugged. "Sandburg, why is that familiar?"

"He's a Teaching Fellow of Anthropology & Earth History at Rainier University in Cascade." Jim supplied.

"Really? Now isn't that a surprise," Saran murmured dryly, "Detective Trey Logan studied Earth History at Rainier." He scowled. "I think I can safely say that the LEO Commissioner is going to take a great deal more interest in Captain Simon Banks and his Cascade PD."

Jim made a snap decision. "Sandburg skipped – headed here like a guided – no pun intended – missile. Your Guide is wild empath working incognito on Halfway, a place my Guide makes a beeline for. Would you allow me to ask him if he knows anything?"

"Logan tried to scarper too." Saran plucked his jacket from the back of his chair. "Let's go now - I've got him under confinement at his apartment. If he knows anything, he'll tell you." Saran promised grimly.

Hearing a sudden commotion outside, Saran turned toward it, missing the startled expression on Ellison's face. Jim risked a quick sensory scan of the LEO Commissioner. Saran was only just in the very early stages of Bonding Heat, he wouldn't be in full heat for several more days, which was probably why he could still speak with such emotional detachment about Detective Logan and so casually agree to force his Guide to co-operate with another Sentinel.

"SIR!I" Looking very much like the mouse chosen to bell the cat, one of the Police Commissioner's flunkies stumbled into the room.

"What is it?" Rapped out Saran impatiently.

"H-h-he's g-g-gone!"

Jim and Saran exchanged baffled glances. "Who?" Saran asked.

"Logan." The flunkie whispered, wide-eyed.

"What!"

Saran led Jim on the way to the parking garage, his thunderous expression scattering everybody in his wake, the accompanying officers, hurrying to keep up, providing a situation report. Both guard police officers had been discovered unconscious by their relief, the paramedics had identified the agent as an illegal, powerful but basically harmless sedative. Unable to break BWSS, Logan had apparently simply dug a hole in the plasterwork around the securing bracket and taken the whole ensemble with him.

As they got into the waiting air skiff, Jim activated his wristcom. "Race Keegan is here – I'll give him a sit-rep."

Contacting the Dark Angel Sentinel, Jim filled him in on events, but Keegan elected to remain searching in the hope of striking lucky, there being no point in his coming all the way to Logan's apartment block with two fully functional Sentinels already in situ. Deactivating the link, Jim braced one arm against the skiff door as their police escort tried to get them there in minimum time.

Promenade Shopping Malls, Halfway Space Station…

Pulling his shirt sleeve over his wristcom, Race began to move deeper into the central shopping area, casting out a mental "sensory net" again, but this time for his oblivious Guide. Two Sentinels searching for one runaway wild empath, even a potential Dark Guide was one thing, but now that there were two desperate, probably armed wild empaths trying to get out of the way of a large number of undoubtedly nervous police officers, Race wanted Gage safely with him. The rotunda soared upwards, each level of shops and eateries overlooking the central area at the bottom with it's fountain and potted plants, giving it an irritating echo effect when he tried to use his enhanced senses, but the problem wasn't enough to hurt or seriously interfere with his Sentinel abilities, so Race ignored it, empathically seeking out that familiar heartbeat and thought patterns.

Apartment Block Gemini C, Apartment 207, Halfway Space Station…

"It's Sandburg!"

Saran paused at Jim's exclamation as they stood in the apartment's central hallway. "Sandburg?"

Ellison nodded. "He was here, within the last few hours, I can smell him. Focus your smell… see?"

Carefully, Saran drew in air through his nostrils and parted his lips slightly so his taste buds could also come into play. Undetectable to anyone bar a Sentinel, the scent was clearly there. A totally unfamiliar individual's body scent, carrying the "musk" of an empath; Saran tasted something else, interwoven irrevocably with the musk – the molasses-thick sweetness of an empath in full-blown bonding heat. Intensely aware of James Ellison's acute attention, Saran met the other man's eyes squarely. Upon scenting that, any Bondless Sentinel genetically compatible with Sandburg would have begun to experience the same hunger, becoming a rival to Ellison. The fact that Saran could taste that essence and display nothing more than intellectual interest meant that he had already started to bond with Trey Logan. If that scent had belonged to Logan…Saran felt his pulse quicken with atavistic thrill, but quashed it. He was far too busy to have to spend his time running around after errant Guides, a fact he intended to impress firmly upon Logan once the youth was back where he belonged.

Now, however, Jim was scowling. Walking out of the apartment back the way they'd come up the main hallway, he glared about him. "It's not here."

"Sandburg's scent?" Saran guessed.

"Yeah." Coming back, Jim frowned. "It is directly outside the apartment, and it's inside, but there's not a trace of it in the main foyer, the elevator, or the corridor up to this point."

"So he didn't simply walk through the main entrance." Saran deduced, with a sharp look at the surrounding officers, who shuffled their feet sheepishly.

Careful not to extend his enhanced smell too much for fear of zone out – this would be a hundred times easier with a Guide – Jim followed Sandburg's rich aroma along the hallway and round a corner to a side corridor. He and Saran exchanged glances. There were no apartment doors or other exits here, only a few dusty plastic potted plants at the far end in front of a blank wall. Jim folded his arms and glared at the offending few metres of carpeted corridor. "Why is this here?"

The officer nearest jumped at the demand. "S-S-Sentinel?"

Jim waved a hand disdainfully up and down. "What is the point of this corridor? It goes nowhere and leads to nothing, so what was the point of putting it here?" Not waiting for a reply, Jim and Saran followed Blair's musk, pulling aside the potted plants. "Heeelloooo, and what do we have here?" Jim reached out and ran his fingers over the three large holes in the plasterwork where something had been inserted then removed. "Fresh, in the last few hours," he told Saran.

The LEO Commissioner meanwhile ran his fingers around grooved edges in the plasterwork, finding a square. "Shall we?"

Placing both their hands on the square of wall, Saran and Jim pushed firmly, and with a slight pop of displaced air, the section fell in, falling to bang against the brick wall of the shaft as it's chain held it. Sticking his head through the hole, Jim turned his face upwards and sniffed, then repeated the action while facing downwards. The sweet, delicious trail was as clear to his nose as if a visible scarlet thread. "Basement."

The small hole at the base of the service shaft was hidden behind a pile of old boxes, and they tracked it to the alleyway, where it became clear that Sandburg and Logan had simply walked away…

Abandoned Outer Habitat Ring 6, approaching the Condemned Bays…

"You okay?" Asked Trey as Blair paused and leaned against a wall.

Blair nodded, wiping his forehead with his sleeve, feeling the unnaturally high temperature of his face. The emotional upheavals of the past few days, combined with almost continuous space travel across innumerable time zones and differing planetary gravities had left him susceptible to whatever bug was obviously having it's fun with him now – at least the fever was low level and not debilitating.

Trey activated his comlink, since they were too near the outside of the station for any trackers to get an easy fix. "I'll try and contact Dimitri, tell him there are two of us –"

Seeing Trey's eyes widen with hope, Blair asked, "What is it?"

Trey looked up. "Gage is here!"

"Are you sure?"

Trey held out the link so Blair could read the message. They looked at each other and shrugged. "It's worth a try, he might be able to help?" Blair suggested.

Trey nodded, activating the comlink, closing his eyes in nostalgic pain as Gage's familiar voice came over the link. Breathlessly he filled the archaeologist in on the situation and their current position. Gage promptly vowed to come to them, and see what they could do get Blair and Trey off the station a.s.a.p.

Promenade Shopping Mall Rotunda, Halfway Space Station…

Race winced as a pair of toddler twins suddenly set up a howling duet at being refused candy. Unwilling to dial down his hearing, he carefully imagined the multitude of sounds in his head as individual strands, like hair, then separated out the sound of the infantile caterwauling and deleted it from his hearing range, walking slowly onward.

(Next level up, about five hundred yards ahead…).

"Oh yes, sir," the sales assistant enthused, "absolutely dernier cri, sir."

Gage eyed the outfit he was wearing in the full-length mirror. It was stylishly, well cut and discreetly expensive. Unfortunately it had too many small, hard to manipulate buttons. Race's Sentinel patience would never make it beyond the first two and the tunic would end up a cleaning rag. Ruefully he shook his head, "I'm a Bonded Guide."

The sales assistant inclined his head in equally rueful understanding as he took the outfit from Gage and replaced it while Butler redressed. Smiling, Gage exited the store and meandered along. Problematically for him, the "uniformed" look was trendy this year, and while many items of clothing looked quite good when worn, they all tended towards lots of buttons, toggles, tassles and other finicky, fiddly fastenings that a Sentinel wanting to bond would get exasperated with in about two seconds flat. He needed T-shirts and sweatpants, clothing that could be easily shucked, able to take a little careless discarding and still bounce back.

Abruptly his personal comlink, not the Dark Angel wristcom Race had issued him, beeped urgently. Moving to the safety rail overlooking the lower levels out of the flow of traffic, Gage answered.

Race's insipient headache disappeared as he simultaneously spotted Gage and his hearing locked onto the Guide's vital signs and voice. He began to move forward urgently as Butler's heartbeat accelerated, the Guide's – to Race – clearly heard voice agitated. "What…? Trey…!"

Keegan froze at the name he'd only heard for the first time a few minutes before from Saran, dialling his hearing up high.

"Blair…no…yes…yes…Look, where are you? Right, I'm on my way!" Snapping the comlink shut and shoving it into his jeans pocket, Gage ran a distracted hand through his hair as he tried to work out the quickest route, barely able to believe that both his best friends were not only here but hunted! With a sudden tingling at the base of his skull, some instinct made him glance downwards.

For a frozen moment, Sentinel and Guide stared at each other amidst the buffeting bedlam of several thousand shoppers, then, for the first time in his life, Gage panicked – and bolted.

The instinct to chase that which flees is almost irresistible, and Race Keegan didn't even try. As he sprinted, Race held it together long enough to activate his wristcom. When he heard Saran's voice, he barked out the location of Logan and Sandburg that he'd just overheard, terminating the link before the startled LEO Commissioner could begin to ask how he knew. Dropping his arm to his side, Race Keegan was happy to be swamped by the furious Sentinel whose Guide had dared to run from him, speeding up his pace.

Outer Habitat Ring 6, Halfway Space Station…

Trey favoured moving slightly deeper into the abandoned section. Blair wasn't so sure. As they debated the issue at an intersection, Blair uttered a sudden cry of pain as fire skimmed his shoulder, followed an instant later by the unmistakable hiss of a discharging laser pistol. The next shot hit the wall near their heads so they reversed direction, Blair's hand coming up to press against the stinging pain in his shoulder where the first shot had skimmed off a layer of skin. A huge shape loomed in front of them, laser pistol clenched in one meaty hand.

Trey blanched as he and Blair separated, each one edging apart to stand next to opposite walls on the corridor so the hulking figure could not cover both of them with the pistol. "Grokk!"

"Who?" Blair looked at the huge monstrosity blocking their way. Well over six feet tall, massive bloated head completely bald, with a pockmarked beetroot face and small, close set eyes, the man looked as if he'd been hewed out of a convenient mountain side. Those tiny, mean eyes were fixed on Trey with a hatred that was tangible.

"He's a paedophile." Trey explained with open contempt. "He's responsible for the rape and murder of over two dozen children from here to the Horsehead Nebula. I thought he was rotting on Styx until he apparently escaped."

Grokk vented a short, coarse laugh. "I popped their necks like kindling," he sneered,"just like I'm gonna do yours. Told you I'd come for you."

As an empath, Blair was fully aware of Trey's extreme fear, but the young detective's voice was rock-steady and cool as he taunted. "You didn't do so well last time, did you, Grokky? There were plenty of things you were going to do me, you told me all about them, didn't you? Pity you couldn't get it on, Grokky, you couldn't get it up because I wasn't a little boy, could you Grokky, or should I say Wilberforce?" He laughed, saying in a loud, taunting aside, "That's Grokk's name, isn't it, Wiiiilberrrrforcee!"

Grokk's face contorted with insane fury. "SHUT UP!" He screamed, the words echoing eerily. His voice shook as he pointed the laser pistol squarely at Trey, spittle gathering in the corners of his mouth as he ranted vile expletives without pausing for breath for nearly a minute before winding down, "You're gonna be on your belly, begging me to kill you, begging –"

Trey laughed loudly, cutting through the crazed tirade. "We've been there, Wilberforce, and you couldn't get that on either. Trouble with Wilberforce, here, is that he's very limited in scope. He hasn't really got the imagination to be a good torturer –"

Grokk's eyes bulged in lunatic hysteria, gasping in his rage. "NOW, you die right now –"

"Oh, I DON'T think so!"

They all jumped at the laconic voice that echoed in cultured tones from behind Grokk's position. As the behemoth turned to face him, Saran pressed the button on the small six-inch long metal tube he held in his left hand, and the webbing shot out, enveloping Grokk in it's tangling strands. More BWSS - based on the Spiderman comics, the slightly sticky webbing was an ideal, non-lethal way to safely secure a thrashing, jerking individual without getting near enough to be injured. The thick, main cord leading from the web back into the tube remained firmly in Saran's hand. As Grokk's berserk flailing caused the web to tighten till he was trussed like a turkey, Saran moved his hand slightly and the webbing followed the directional touches till the escaped convict was standing upright, still trying to get free, eyes rolling and flecks of foam appearing at the edges of his mouth.

Before Blair and Trey could do more than stare in astonishment, Blair was abruptly pulled back against something big, solid and warm, a large hand clamped around his neck over his mouth, another arm snaking around his mid-section. He felt his feet leave the floor as the Dark Sentinel simply hitched him up and began to walk backwards out of the way with Blair securely held. Trey's eyes flitted between the threat of Saran and the rapidly departing Sentinel who'd snatched his friend, torn between conflicting needs.

Saran dismissed Blair and Ellison as the Dark Sentinel manhandled his wild empath away, sure the big Dark Angel could handle his problem. "You have a choice!" He focussed Logan on him.

Trey blinked uncertainly. "Uh….?"

"You can submit as my Guide, or you can run, in which case I release Grokk." Saran said with flat, chilling indifference.

Trey swallowed, his wide eyes flicking from Saran, standing idly, one eyebrow raised, to the now confined monster. He'd rather be anywhere than near Saran, but to let Grokk loose was unacceptable. He nodded slowly.

"I can't hear you." Saran challenged, determined to crush any rebellion.

"I'll be your Guide." Trey whispered so quietly that only Sentinel ears could hear.

Half of Saran was ruthlessly satisfied at Logan's soft capitulation, the other half horrified that Trey genuinely believed he would really let a monster like Grokk loose. Reaching into his pocket, Saran drew out a temporary, flexible Guide collar that was worn until the Sentinel's chosen body artist created the identifying tattoo around the Guide's neck, and tossed it to the young man. "Put it on."

His fingers trembling as they had not when he'd just faced down Grokk, Trey licked dry lips but obediently placed the thin collar around his neck and fastened it as he would a necklace. Despite it's large size, the collar seemed to press against his windpipe and jugular, something he dimly realised through the roaring in his ears was psychosomatic.

"Follow me." Saran ordered harshly, using the thick cord to steer the struggling Grokk easily through the corridors towards the Condemned Bays.

Trey bit his lip, fear gripping him, but he managed to get out, "You said you wouldn't release him?"

His tone was unconsciously pleading; Saran tamped down the part of him that softened. "I'm not going to." He still couldn't resist being reassuring. They came to a huge, heavy metal hatch door, six feet high by three feet wide. Saran had no intention of being lumbered with Grokk while he tried to get the child abuser more securely transported back to Styx. Saran had no qualms over what he was about to do. He viewed it with the clinical detachment of the vet destroying a rabid dog. His only concern today was bringing his Guide fully to heel.

Hitting the control his side of the hatch, Saran and a baffled Trey watched as the door slid back. Pushing the bound creature through, Saran released his grasp on the tube and with a firm boot, sent the entangled Grokk rolling down the wide passage until he was stopped by the bodies of the people in the dimly lit space up ahead. A spreading pool of silence was formed as those shadowy figures looked up at the source of the sudden obstruction. These were watchful, empty eyed people with scruffy clothing and grimy features. Trey swallowed again as he realised the hatch led straight into the depths of Down Below.

"That is Grokk!" Saran's carefully modulated tones resounded clearly to the most distant speaker. "He is not a nice man. His favourite hobby is the rape, torture and murder of children, preferably under six years of age. Twenty-three victims is his total, including Yeishan, who was too weak to run because he had leukaemia, and Hermie, who was his parents' only child after scrimping to pay for fertility treatment. Enjoy."

Saran hit the hatch control, which slid closed with slight clank sound just as the first scream began, making Trey jump. Reaching out a hand, the LEO Commissioner took his Guide by the collar and began to walk him rapidly back to the inhabited rings, blithely ignoring the fading shrieks and sickening thuds behind them. Trey knew that not enough of Grokk would be found to fill a thimble. The denizens of Down Below were stone cold killers down to the least babe in its cradle, but there were Certain Things that they took a very, very dim view of.

Unfortunately, now all his mind had to focus on was what about to happen to him.

Two blocks from the Excelsior Hotel, Halfway Station…

Gage leaned against a support pillar, drawing in calming breaths and ignoring the sidelong looks from the more salubrious guests that frequented the up market hotels such as the Excelsior, where Race had got one of the penthouse suites. Frantic thoughts whirled kaleidoscopically in his head, as panic-induced adrenaline finally subsided. The urge to keep running was battling with the urge to find the safety of his Sentinel. What should he do? Where should he go? Where could he go? What about Trey and Blair? How long –

He was sent flying forward to hit the floor, gasping anew as the wind was knocked out of him. His arms were wrenched behind his back and he felt the cool plastic of restraints before he was yanked unceremoniously to his feet to come face to face with his very pissed off Sentinel. Make that very, very angry Sentinel. There was nothing of Race Keegan in those eyes, only the pure Sentinel.

Two patrol officers started forward, only to stop as Race yanked down his shirt collar and they saw the tattoo around Gage's throat. No one with sanity ever interfered with a Sentinel and his or her Guide, even if, as now, the Sentinel's intent seemed obviously homicidal. Twisting his hand in Gage's collar, Race almost dragged him along to the Excelsior, people cleaving a path before him magically. The doorman opened the golden doors of the plush Excelsior and the bellhops backed off as Race set his Guide staggering into the lift, his ferocious expression cowing everyone.

Gage flinched as the computer announced their floor and he was unceremoniously removed from the elevator and marched to their suite. Gage tried to fight down his fear at the thunderous expression on his sentinel's face. Slamming and locking the door, Keegan bundled him forward and threw him onto the bed. Gage bounced as he was unable to break his fall with his hands secured behind him. He licked his lips, trying to find appeasing words, but Race loomed over him. Yanking off Gage's boots, the Sentinel ruthlessly stripped him, savagely ripping the cuffs of his shirt to get them around the restraints, hurling the clothing aside, before gripping his naked Guide and flipping him face down on the bedspread. With his hands cuffed behind him, Gage could barely move. There was a sharp, slithering hiss and raising his head slightly to catch sight of Keegan's reflection in a mirror, he briefly glimpsed Race begin to unbuckle the wide leather belt of his pants before the Sentinel moved out of view….Gage's breathing seemed to freeze solid in his chest…no! No, Race wouldn't, he wouldn't….but the truth was that for all the theoretical rights of a Bonded Guide, the Sentinel in practice could do pretty much what they wanted, deliver any punishment they deemed appropriate with impunity. If Race decided to punish his Guide by raping him, no one would care a galac's worth. Hearing the Sentinel approach but unable to see him, he trembled in dread of what was about to happen…

Gage yelled in shocked pain as the belt came down across his buttocks, involuntary tears springing to his eyes at the agonising blow. Again the belt came down, cracking across his backside and he jerked, crying out. The third one whistled slightly, Gage clenching his teeth against the agony, tears of pain coursing freely down his cheeks. A fourth time the belt came down on his unprotected backside, then again….

After the tenth one, Gage dimly heard Race move through the roaring in his head, but his backside throbbed and he could feel the heat coming off as if his skin were on fire. The belt was placed in his line of vision atop the left bedside table and he heard Race walk away. Trying to calm his breathing, despite the pain, Gage knew it could have been much worse. Not a single blow of the belt had cut his body or drawn blood, and, despite the fact that his throbbing butt was undoubtedly red raw from the thrashing, Race had carefully measured each blow so that there would probably not even be any bruises tomorrow. His sentinel's footsteps returned, then the restraints on his wrists were pulled away and he was flipped onto his back, the bed's soft, silken quilt providing some refreshingly cool cushioning for his tender posterior. Before Gage could gather himself, Race lay down next to and partially atop him, one leg thrown over his to pin him down. Race's own torso pressured his and he found himself face to face with his still extremely pissed off Sentinel.

"How long have you been with the underground railroad?"

Gage hesitated.

"Do you want another ten?" Race enquired harshly.

Mutely Gage shook his head. "Since I was in my teens."

"How did you get involved?"

"I met Blair Sandburg – he's an anthropologist – on a dig in Africa, he and Simon Banks needed some help, so…"

"Sandburg was the other kid in the tree with the rhino." Race surmised, then added coldly, "You're still with them."

It was a statement, not a question, so Gage didn't answer.

"You would have helped them escape, even from me."

Race's tone was harsh, but Gage could hear the hidden hurt beneath, understanding that the Sentinel perceived it as rejection. "Their Sentinels…aren't you."

Race's face remained uncomprehending, but he was listening. Gage risked raising his hand and placing it on Race's shoulder, stroking down to the elbow in gentle, repetitive, motions, relief flooding him when Race tensed but did not deny him the contact. "Race, you've never shown me anything but consideration as your Guide. You've been thoughtful, good humoured and gentle. I feel…safe…whenever I'm with you." Gage took a deep breath, then went on passionately, "But we both know that the laws protecting empaths, especially Bonded Guide empaths, as just normal citizens aren't worth the paper they're written on. You chased me, tied me up, and dragged me several hundred metres, with clearly violent intent, in front of nearly a hundred people, not one of whom bothered to interfere from the instant they spotted my tattoo. That belt you've got is genuine cured Kenya Rhino hide and it can flay the skin off a man. If you wanted to you could beat me to a bloody pulp then repeatedly rape me and not only will nobody in this hotel try and stop you, they won't even care!"

Race made a sound of distress. "I wouldn't hurt you like that –"

Gage growled. "Race, that is my point. You wouldn't, but what about everyone else? Blair Sandburg was kidnapped and enslaved by Alex Barnes for nearly three months – tortured and raped repeatedly. She didn't retreat to some mountaintop in the middle of nowhere, where no one could see - she had an apartment in a city. Her neighbours and the building staff must have known at least some of what she was doing to Blair, but she acted as if he were her Guide, so nobody bothered. These people, day after day, saw Blair when it was obvious he had been beaten and brutalised, yet didn't lift a finger to help him because they thought he was Alex Barnes' Guide. If she'd killed Blair and not the other way around, not a single person would have batted an eyelid!"

Consciously calming his strident tone, Gage went on, "I know things are a lot different from the early days when Sentinels didn't know what they were doing and abused their Guides from ignorance, but as far as I am concerned, even one Sentinel with Barnes-like tendencies is one Sentinel too much. So yes, Race I am part of the Underground Railroad and I will do everything I can to help them so you'll just have to keep punishing me, I guess."

Race captured Gage's chin with his hand and met his eyes. "I didn't beat you because you're part of the Underground Railroad. I did it because you ran from me." He corrected bluntly. "Don't ever do that again. Everything else, we work around."

Gage nodded his head submissively. "I hated keeping it a secret from you," he confessed, "having to hide in the john to check my comlink messages and worrying about not wiping them well enough in case they were traced. I'm not one of those people who think Sentinels are monsters disguised as men," he reassured Race, "but my empathic abilities started when I was just old enough to understand what a problem they could be," Gage explained. "For many empaths, it just isn't worth the hassle because the disadvantages far outweigh the advantages. I'm a good archaeologist, respected and in demand, but if you wanted to you, could stop my career dead in the water, so I'd have to run." Gage ignored the way his Sentinel's hands tightened warningly, Race's fingers pressing into the 4 parallel grooved scars that marked the leopard's claw marks. "Blair is an anthropologist and a very good one, Trey has the highest clear up rate of cases in the HSS PD. They're not mediocre people who've got nothing to lose by bonding."

"I get it." Race growled. "I'm not thrilled, but I get it. As much as possible, I'll try to turn a blind eye to what you need to do to help your friends, but," he locked eyes with his Guide, "I want to know everything, and I do mean everything, that goes on - names, dates, times, people, places. No more sneaking off into the john for clandestine com calls."

Gage smiled weakly. "No problem, it lacked a certain…je ne sais qoi."

Satisfied with his Guide's compliance, the Sentinel decided he had waited long enough and growled out, "We bond, now."

It was an order. Gage relaxed and tilted his head back, allowing complete access to his throat. He had run from his Sentinel; Race needed to dominate him, to have the total submission of his Guide. With a growl, Race bit down, his Guide would be thoroughly claimed…

To be continued…

© 2002 C D Stewart