The Stray Guide Affair, Part 2, by DarkBeta
"Have him shot. It is kinder."
Illya's fate was to be decided in his absence, behind his back. He was not surprised.
The conference room adjoining Mr. Waverly's office was empty, and uninteresting. Nothing to read, and nothing to see. When he leaned back in one of the chairs, it nearly deposited him on the floor. Sleeping was not possible, unless he lay on the table. Or the floor. Either would be more comfortable than a wooden bunk in the camp. The floor was even carpeted.
The way American sentinels treated their guides, he should become accustomed to the floor. But not yet.
He doubted he would be starved, or frozen. Even dogs and cats were fat in the Americas. Their buildings weren't warm enough, but the winter outside scarcely counted as winter at all. As for the rest, he had seen men without freedom or respect go on living. What mattered more than survival?
The information he sent to UNCLE did. He had known its value, and its cost. Freedom first, and then his life.
He had not expected the team that brought him out of the camp.
Finding out that Mr. Waverly's pet sentinel was unbonded relieved him, in a way. It explained why UNCLE came after him. He had feared interrogation for information he did not have.
He heard whispers. He followed the sound to a telephone with one glinting light. When he turned the volume up he heard voices he knew. He heard Mr. Waverly lie.
". . . he will be unable to bond for some twelve hours, by my estimate. The attempt would be frustrating, on the sentinel's part, and painful, on the guide's."
Was the section chief foolish enough to lie to a sentinel? But Solo did not protest. The agent trusted his superior enough not to listen for falsehoods. Mr. Waverly had to know that, and rely on it. How very familiar.
The lie itself was stupid. When the sentinel's need made him force the bond, he'd know his superior had deceived him. How could a stupid man oversee an organization as efficient as UNCLE? Did he expect the sentinel to forgive him, in post-bonding euphoria?
Perhaps he only meant to pass by Solo's scruples. What was the American saying? 'Forgiveness is easier than permission.' He'd gotten the sentinel's cooperation.
"Yes, sir."
Illya heard a thud, like a chair pushed carelessly against the wall. Mr. Waverly spoke louder, in irritation or alarm.
"Mr. Solo, surely this is overdramatic."
Curiousity was one failing Illya had not overcome. The silence couldn't give him the answers he needed. Carefully he opened his shields.
Solo was a hearth. A country-house oven, with the bed above it. Warmth a man could lean against. Regret and pain and coals dimming in blizzard wind. A thin mad thread of amusement, as if the man's death was a kind of joke.
Illya tried the door back into Waverly's office. A lock wouldn't have stopped him -- he had found the metal shank of a pen to use as a pick -- but to his surprise it opened.
The sentinel was on the floor. He seemed to stare at Illya as the guide came in, but his eyes were blank. A pipe fumed on the section chief's desk.
"Put that out!" Illya commanded. "Is there the fan? The air exchange?"
"Yes."
"On!"
His English was escaping. He needed practice. Much more practice. On his knees (hadn't he known the sentinel would put him here?) he checked the pulse. Good. The heart had beats.
The trace irritant was not all the air. The sentinel needed reminding. Illya blew into his face, knowing he would be doing the same if he meant to initiate bonding. The nostrils widened, and then the sentinel gasped. And moved. He was not restrained. Illya found himself pinned on the floor.
Solo was heavier and longer-limbed than his prisoner, and not so soft as he looked. Illya thought he could break free, but he or the sentinel would suffer broken bones from it.
What would fighting gain him? Let the smoking man see what he played with. Waverly might command his agent, but no-one commanded the sentinel.
Except the guide. Illya felt the lance of old guilt. He turned his head, hiding from Waverly's stare. He hated this. Hated the exposure, feared what the sentinel would do, loathed himself for being afraid.
"Get it over with."
He expected a hoarse growl. Certainly no words more elaborate than, 'Mine!' The sentinel rolled away. He rose to his feet, straightened his suit, brushed a lock of hair back from his forehead.
"You're a brave Russian, giving orders to an UNCLE director in his own office," he said, and added with scrupulous courtesy, "Thank you for your assistance."
His breathing was still fast, but he looked as calm as a magazine photograph. He reached a hand down to Illya, who ignored it and rolled to his feet.
"If you are dissatisfied with your sentinel, have him shot. It is kinder," Illya told Waverly.
Solo put an arm across his shoulders, that was too heavy to be brotherly.
"I guess our Russian is still feeling under the weather. He'll be fine, with some rest. We'll see you tomorrow."
He swept Illya out the door, and added, "As long as we're trying to be kind, let me know the next time you plan to mouth off at the boss, and I'll shoot you."
"What weather? How is it over me, when we're inside?"
Long training suppressed Waverly's smile as he watched them go. His secretary looked about the open door.
"Mr. Waverly, I'm so sorry. Mr. Solo just barged in . . . ."
"I think that went rather well," Mr. Waverly told her, and tamped more tobacco into his pipe.