Notes: This is the first time I've made it clear in my U.N.C.L.E. stories (aside from a long crossover story that introduced Lucius elsewhere) that the setting is the present day. I used to think it had to be a period piece, but when I actually saw the show, it looked to me like it could fit any modern time from the sixties on up.

#30 - Computer

Illya was usually such a wizard with all types of technology, from the simple to the complicated. That was something Napoleon was used to and relied upon. And Illya's aloof patience was almost legendary. When Napoleon heard a frustrated smack coming from the computer lounge, he hurried in, filled with disbelief.

"Illya, what on Earth . . ." he started to greet his partner and friend. Illya's hand was still hovering in the air above a computer tower.

"It's this blasted machine!" Illya cried. "I can't do a thing with it!"

"Now, now, Illya, we mustn't hit the computer as though that will help," Napoleon intoned, adopting a falsely scolding inflection. On the monitor, it looked as though every single icon and program was zipping past in rapid succession. The hard drive was making equally rapid noises, as if every process in its system was active at once and pushing to win some sort of computers' race.

"Nothing helps," Illya snarled. "As soon as I signed in for today, intending to check my email, it began doing this!"

"Then just get up and try a different computer," Napoleon said, still unruffled and rather secretly amused at the plight.

"I will conquer this one," Illya vowed. He turned back to the keyboard, desperately typing in more commands. If anything, the speed at which the programs were flying past only increased.

Napoleon covered his mouth to hide his smile.

"What's going on here?"

The crunch of food made both agents look up. Lucius was limping into the room, one hand on a cane and the other on a golden apple.

"Are you sure you should be up?" Napoleon greeted him, his attitude shifting to cautious standoffishness. He was still not sure what to make of Mr. Waverly's decision to bring a character like this into the fold. On the one hand, he had faith in Mr. Waverly's ideas. On the other, Lucius had been a career criminal, a hired gun. It was difficult to forget that.

Lucius shrugged. "I was bored." He glanced to Illya, who seemed to barely notice his presence. "What's wrong with the machine?"

"That is what I would like to know!" Illya cried. "I will have to notify Mr. Waverly that this computer is beyond repair."

"Is it now?" Lucius limped closer, curious. "It almost looks like someone's hacked into it."

"Our computers are supposed to have the utmost security," Illya said in annoyance. "There has never been a hack into U.N.C.L.E. HQ in the past."

"Yeah, but this isn't the past," Lucius said calmly. "I'd say that whoever's behind this is on the other end right now, doing everything they can to drive you up the wall."

"And they are succeeding," Illya growled.

Serious now, Napoleon looked Lucius up and down. "How good are you with computers?" he queried.

"Not bad." Lucius bit into the apple again. "But they're not my specialty."

"Do you know them well enough to cause something like this?" Napoleon gestured at the monitor, which was still going bonkers.

"No," Lucius frowned. "And I don't pull practical jokes. They're pointless, inconvenient, and generally rude."

"Ah. And just what would you call gunning someone down in the street?" Napoleon returned.

"A job," Lucius said flatly. "Don't forget, Mr. Solo, that Mr. Waverly brought me in to do pretty much the same thing here. There's no need for your high and mighty act."

Napoleon nodded. "I suppose I wonder how long you plan to stay with us," he said. "Only until a better offer comes along, I imagine."

Lucius shrugged. "I don't expect there could be a better offer. No prosecution, good pay, and . . ." He chomped into the remainder of the apple. "As many of these as I can handle."

"Yes, you've certainly been cleaning out the kitchen," Napoleon remarked. "I've heard rumors that the cafeteria has to order apples more than once a week."

"I'm not the only one eating them," Lucius said.

"No, but you're consuming the greatest number of them," Napoleon countered.

"You may not like me, Mr. Solo—and it's completely obvious that you don't—but I think you'll find that I'm efficient and reliable. I'll be a good agent in the field."

"I have little doubt of that," Napoleon said. "I imagine you won't be plagued by those pesky emotions that creep up on the rest of us."

"I'm trained not to be," said Lucius. "As far as I know, so are you."

Napoleon inclined his head slightly, conceding to that truth.

"There!" Illya exclaimed.

Both Napoleon and Lucius turned to look. The Desktop screen had settled down, with all of the icons in their proper places. The hard drive was no longer making frantic noises.

"Congratulations, Illya," Napoleon declared, in mock solemnity. "You have conquered the computer."

But no sooner had he spoke than a word processor suddenly popped onto the screen. Napoleon looked to the mouse. Illya's hand was not on it.

"They're still there!" Illya cried in fury. "How?!"

A strange message began to type itself into the pure white of the program. The three agents crowded around, staring at it in varying shades of disbelief.

Yes, Mr. Kuryakin, my congratulations! I can hear everything you're saying.

Oh, but don't worry—I can only hear whatever is said on this particular computer

station, and I'm sure that U.N.C.L.E. will have me locked out again before long.

Is that Pinto I hear in the room with you? Pinto, an U.N.C.L.E. agent? I can hardly

believe what my ears are telling me!

Lucius had gone stiff. "Who are you?" he demanded. "How do you know my codename? Do you work for Blackburn?"

No, not at all. And don't worry, Pinto, I won't be telling him about this. I'm not one of the "bad guys" any more than you are right now.

Mr. Kuryakin and Mr. Solo, Pinto isn't the only one of you I've met before. We also

met, very briefly. But I don't imagine either of you remember that.

"Give us your name and perhaps we will," Illya said coldly.

I don't think so. But I will tell you, Mr. Kuryakin, that I have the feeling you would

be gutted if you knew.

I'll sign out for now and you can get your precious computer back to normal. Goodbye!

And the word processor closed before the strange typing could be saved.

For a long moment, the trio stayed staring, silent, still trying to process exactly what had happened.

Napoleon was the first to speak. "Should I go tell Mr. Waverly now, Illya?"

Illya scribbled something on a piece of paper. "Let's all go," he said. "It seems as though all three of us have something to be concerned about now."

He placed the paper on the keyboard, leaning it against the monitor.

Out of order.

"I couldn't have said it better myself," Napoleon remarked.